October 12, 2006
One day before the release of The End
To My Dear Editor,
Our partnership is nearly ended. The thirteenth book "The End" has just hit the shelves, a phrase which here means "guarenteed to make us both more money and bring a tear to many a fan's heart." But even still, I cannot help myself from writing more. There is a deeper pain in my heart that I had never expressed. A stinging regret that only comes with hiding one's self away for so long. I have kept my secret locked away for all thirteen publications, but perhaps if I tell you, my dear editor, the weight off of my shoulders may be lessened somewhat.
I have spent these long years researching the lives of the Baudelaire orphans. But the truth is, I was never that far away from them. I was always in the city, or in the country, or in the grotto with them. I could have reached out to them so many times. I had an infinite number of chances to save them. But I didn't. I was afraid of being killed like everyone else who tried. I was afraid of the fires. I was afraid of the prospect of witnessing more grief.
The truth is, I was their godfather. Beatrice and Bertrand Baudelaire trusted me more than any man on earth. After all, I was one of the few uncorrupted members of VFD. I was present at Violet's, Klaus's, and Sunny's births. For reasons of safety they never knew me, but I always kept a close eye on them. I was the guardian the orphans should have gone to after their parents' deaths. I was the one who would have stepped in each and every time. I had thirteen chances to. I failed.
I am the reason why they suffered such abuse. I am the cause of their series of unfortunate events. And I live with that guilt every day. It stalks me like a ghost. It smothers me in my sleep. It mocks me in my work. It keeps me in this clock tower, locked away from the world. Writing books is all that I am good for. It is all that I have ever been good for. I am a coward.
I am a coward. I make no attempt to hide this. In each of my publications, I make a point of saying how brave the Baudelaires are, especially in comparison to me. I wish I had one ounce of their gumption. Their inventiveness. Their optimism. I might be something more than a well-worn recluse.
I am the last of the Snickets. Kit and Jacques are dead. If we had known what terrors would have befallen us, we would have never joined VFD. I would have never taken an apprenticeship at Stain'd By the Sea. But what's done is done, a phrase which here mean "I am all alone in the wide terrible world, and have been for time than I care to remember."
My parents are dead to, taken by fires. They had no siblings. So I truly am alone. No family at all, except one person. Recently I have discovered the existence of Kit's only daughter: Beatrice Snicket. Violet, Klaus, and Sunny do not know it, but she is the sugar bowl. The last member of the VFD dynasty. She is the future of our ancient clan. She will decides what direction it will go. Whether she will be the one to put fires out or be the one to start them will be her own decision.
Is not free will a rare and terrible gift indeed?
I wish I could see her. Touch her cheeks. Caress her hair. Tell her I love her. Tell her I will never abandon her. Tell her I will be the greatest uncle she could ever wish for. But I cannot. I do not deserve her.
It is not for lack of knowledge. I know where she now lives: With the Baudelaires on the other side of the city. She is three years old now. She has curly red hair, a pixie smile, a perky demeanor, and the three greatest parents any child ever had. I have walked by her house often on my errands. Every glimpse I get of her is both a stab to my heart and a joy. A contradiction, I know.
The Baudelaires do not know I am there. They are busy with their inventing and researching and cooking. They have no idea of the lonely old man who betrayed them in their youth. Many times I have been tempted to walk up those cobblestone steps and knock on their door. Why don't I? It is shame.
Shame, my dear editor. I am more evil than Olaf. He was evil by design. I was evil by choice. I am more neglectful than Mr. Poe. He was neglectful by ignorance. I was in full knowledge.
My hand grows sore. I will drop my pen for this night.
I remain your most faithful writer,
Lemony Snicket
