



A STUDY IN SCARLET

By A. Conan Doyle




CONTENTS

 A STUDY IN SCARLET.

 PART I.
 CHAPTER I. MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES.
 CHAPTER II. THE SCIENCE OF DEDUCTION.
 CHAPTER III. THE LAURISTON GARDENS MYSTERY
 CHAPTER IV. WHAT JOHN RANCE HAD TO TELL.
 CHAPTER V. OUR ADVERTISEMENT BRINGS A VISITOR.
 CHAPTER VI. TOBIAS GREGSON SHOWS WHAT HE CAN DO.
 CHAPTER VII. LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS.

 PART II. THE COUNTRY OF THE SAINTS
 CHAPTER I. ON THE GREAT ALKALI PLAIN.
 CHAPTER II. THE FLOWER OF UTAH.
 CHAPTER III. JOHN FERRIER TALKS WITH THE PROPHET.
 CHAPTER IV. A FLIGHT FOR LIFE.
 CHAPTER V. THE AVENGING ANGELS.
 CHAPTER VI. A CONTINUATION OF THE REMINISCENCES OF JOHN WATSON, M.D.
 CHAPTER VII. THE CONCLUSION.




A STUDY IN SCARLET.




PART I.


(_Being a reprint from the Reminiscences of_ JOHN H. WATSON, M.D.,
_Late of the Army Medical Department._)




CHAPTER I.
MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES.


In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the
University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course
prescribed for surgeons in the army. Having completed my studies there,
I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as Assistant
Surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before I
could join it, the second Afghan war had broken out. On landing at
Bombay, I learned that my corps had advanced through the passes, and
was already deep in the enemy’s country. I followed, however, with many
other officers who were in the same situation as myself, and succeeded
in reaching Candahar in safety, where I found my regiment, and at once
entered upon my new duties.

The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had
nothing but misfortune and disaster. I was removed from my brigade and
attached to the Berkshires, with whom I served at the fatal battle of
Maiwand. There I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which
shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I should have
fallen into the hands of the murderous Ghazis had it not been for the
devotion and courage shown by Murray, my orderly, who threw me across a
pack-horse, and succeeded in bringing me safely to the British lines.

Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships which I had
undergone, I was removed, with a great train of wounded sufferers, to
the base hospital at Peshawar. Here I rallied, and had already improved
so far as to be able to walk about the wards, and even to bask a little
upon the verandah, when I was struck down by enteric fever, that curse
of our Indian possessions. For months my life was despaired of, and
when at last I came to myself and became convalescent, I was so weak
and emaciated that a medical board determined that not a day should be
lost in sending me back to England. I was dispatched, accordingly, in
the troopship “Orontes,” and landed a month later on Portsmouth jetty,
with my health irretrievably ruined, but with permission from a
paternal government to spend the next nine months in attempting to
improve it.

I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free as
air—or as free as an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a day will
permit a man to be. Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to
London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of
the Empire are irresistibly drained. There I stayed for some time at a
private hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless, meaningless
existence, and spending such money as I had, considerably more freely
than I ought. So alarming did the state of my finances become, that I
soon realized that I must either leave the metropolis and rusticate
somewhere in the country, or that I must make a complete alteration in
my style of living. Choosing the latter alternative, I began by making
up my mind to leave the hotel, and to take up my quarters in some less
pretentious and less expensive domicile.

On the very day that I had come to this conclusion, I was standing at
the Criterion Bar, when some one tapped me on the shoulder, and turning
round I recognized young Stamford, who had been a dresser under me at
Barts. The sight of a friendly face in the great wilderness of London
is a pleasant thing indeed to a lonely man. In old days Stamford had
never been a particular crony of mine, but now I hailed him with
enthusiasm, and he, in his turn, appeared to be delighted to see me. In
the exuberance of my joy, I asked him to lunch with me at the Holborn,
and we started off together in a hansom.

“Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?” he asked in
undisguised wonder, as we rattled through the crowded London streets.
“You are as thin as a lath and as brown as a nut.”

I gave him a short sketch of my adventures, and had hardly concluded it
by the time that we reached our destination.

“Poor devil!” he said, commiseratingly, after he had listened to my
misfortunes. “What are you up to now?”

“Looking for lodgings,” I answered. “Trying to solve the problem as to
whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable price.”

“That’s a strange thing,” remarked my companion; “you are the second
man to-day that has used that expression to me.”

“And who was the first?” I asked.

“A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the hospital.
He was bemoaning himself this morning because he could not get someone
to go halves with him in some nice rooms which he had found, and which
were too much for his purse.”

“By Jove!” I cried, “if he really wants someone to share the rooms and
the expense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a
partner to being alone.”

Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wine-glass. “You
don’t know Sherlock Holmes yet,” he said; “perhaps you would not care
for him as a constant companion.”

“Why, what is there against him?”

“Oh, I didn’t say there was anything against him. He is a little queer
in his ideas—an enthusiast in some branches of science. As far as I
know he is a decent fellow enough.”

“A medical student, I suppose?” said I.

“No—I have no idea what he intends to go in for. I believe he is
well up in anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist; but, as far as
I know, he has never taken out any systematic medical classes. His
studies are very desultory and eccentric, but he has amassed a lot of
out-of-the-way knowledge which would astonish his professors.”

“Did you never ask him what he was going in for?” I asked.

“No; he is not a man that it is easy to draw out, though he can be
communicative enough when the fancy seizes him.”

“I should like to meet him,” I said. “If I am to lodge with anyone, I
should prefer a man of studious and quiet habits. I am not strong
enough yet to stand much noise or excitement. I had enough of both in
Afghanistan to last me for the remainder of my natural existence. How
could I meet this friend of yours?”

“He is sure to be at the laboratory,” returned my companion. “He either
avoids the place for weeks, or else he works there from morning to
night. If you like, we shall drive round together after luncheon.”

“Certainly,” I answered, and the conversation drifted away into other
channels.

As we made our way to the hospital after leaving the Holborn, Stamford
gave me a few more particulars about the gentleman whom I proposed to
take as a fellow-lodger.

“You mustn’t blame me if you don’t get on with him,” he said; “I know
nothing more of him than I have learned from meeting him occasionally
in the laboratory. You proposed this arrangement, so you must not hold
me responsible.”

“If we don’t get on it will be easy to part company,” I answered. “It
seems to me, Stamford,” I added, looking hard at my companion, “that
you have some reason for washing your hands of the matter. Is this
fellow’s temper so formidable, or what is it? Don’t be mealy-mouthed
about it.”

“It is not easy to express the inexpressible,” he answered with a
laugh. “Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes—it approaches
to cold-bloodedness. I could imagine his giving a friend a little pinch
of the latest vegetable alkaloid, not out of malevolence, you
understand, but simply out of a spirit of inquiry in order to have an
accurate idea of the effects. To do him justice, I think that he would
take it himself with the same readiness. He appears to have a passion
for definite and exact knowledge.”

“Very right too.”

“Yes, but it may be pushed to excess. When it comes to beating the
subjects in the dissecting-rooms with a stick, it is certainly taking
rather a bizarre shape.”

“Beating the subjects!”

“Yes, to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. I saw him
at it with my own eyes.”

“And yet you say he is not a medical student?”

“No. Heaven knows what the objects of his studies are. But here we are,
and you must form your own impressions about him.” As he spoke, we
turned down a narrow lane and passed through a small side-door, which
opened into a wing of the great hospital. It was familiar ground to me,
and I needed no guiding as we ascended the bleak stone staircase and
made our way down the long corridor with its vista of whitewashed wall
and dun-coloured doors. Near the further end a low arched passage
branched away from it and led to the chemical laboratory.

This was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless bottles.
Broad, low tables were scattered about, which bristled with retorts,
test-tubes, and little Bunsen lamps, with their blue flickering flames.
There was only one student in the room, who was bending over a distant
table absorbed in his work. At the sound of our steps he glanced round
and sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure. “I’ve found it! I’ve
found it,” he shouted to my companion, running towards us with a
test-tube in his hand. “I have found a re-agent which is precipitated
by hæmoglobin, and by nothing else.” Had he discovered a gold mine,
greater delight could not have shone upon his features.

“Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Stamford, introducing us.

“How are you?” he said cordially, gripping my hand with a strength for
which I should hardly have given him credit. “You have been in
Afghanistan, I perceive.”

“How on earth did you know that?” I asked in astonishment.

“Never mind,” said he, chuckling to himself. “The question now is about
hæmoglobin. No doubt you see the significance of this discovery of
mine?”

“It is interesting, chemically, no doubt,” I answered, “but
practically——”

“Why, man, it is the most practical medico-legal discovery for years.
Don’t you see that it gives us an infallible test for blood stains.
Come over here now!” He seized me by the coat-sleeve in his eagerness,
and drew me over to the table at which he had been working. “Let us
have some fresh blood,” he said, digging a long bodkin into his finger,
and drawing off the resulting drop of blood in a chemical pipette.
“Now, I add this small quantity of blood to a litre of water. You
perceive that the resulting mixture has the appearance of pure water.
The proportion of blood cannot be more than one in a million. I have no
doubt, however, that we shall be able to obtain the characteristic
reaction.” As he spoke, he threw into the vessel a few white crystals,
and then added some drops of a transparent fluid. In an instant the
contents assumed a dull mahogany colour, and a brownish dust was
precipitated to the bottom of the glass jar.

“Ha! ha!” he cried, clapping his hands, and looking as delighted as a
child with a new toy. “What do you think of that?”

“It seems to be a very delicate test,” I remarked.

“Beautiful! beautiful! The old Guiacum test was very clumsy and
uncertain. So is the microscopic examination for blood corpuscles. The
latter is valueless if the stains are a few hours old. Now, this
appears to act as well whether the blood is old or new. Had this test
been invented, there are hundreds of men now walking the earth who
would long ago have paid the penalty of their crimes.”

“Indeed!” I murmured.

“Criminal cases are continually hinging upon that one point. A man is
suspected of a crime months perhaps after it has been committed. His
linen or clothes are examined, and brownish stains discovered upon
them. Are they blood stains, or mud stains, or rust stains, or fruit
stains, or what are they? That is a question which has puzzled many an
expert, and why? Because there was no reliable test. Now we have the
Sherlock Holmes’ test, and there will no longer be any difficulty.”

His eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he put his hand over his
heart and bowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by his
imagination.

“You are to be congratulated,” I remarked, considerably surprised at
his enthusiasm.

“There was the case of Von Bischoff at Frankfort last year. He would
certainly have been hung had this test been in existence. Then there
was Mason of Bradford, and the notorious Muller, and Lefevre of
Montpellier, and Samson of New Orleans. I could name a score of cases
in which it would have been decisive.”

“You seem to be a walking calendar of crime,” said Stamford with a
laugh. “You might start a paper on those lines. Call it the ‘Police
News of the Past.’”

“Very interesting reading it might be made, too,” remarked Sherlock
Holmes, sticking a small piece of plaster over the prick on his finger.
“I have to be careful,” he continued, turning to me with a smile, “for
I dabble with poisons a good deal.” He held out his hand as he spoke,
and I noticed that it was all mottled over with similar pieces of
plaster, and discoloured with strong acids.

“We came here on business,” said Stamford, sitting down on a high
three-legged stool, and pushing another one in my direction with his
foot. “My friend here wants to take diggings, and as you were
complaining that you could get no one to go halves with you, I thought
that I had better bring you together.”

Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his rooms with
me. “I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street,” he said, “which would
suit us down to the ground. You don’t mind the smell of strong tobacco,
I hope?”

“I always smoke ‘ship’s’ myself,” I answered.

“That’s good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally
do experiments. Would that annoy you?”

“By no means.”

“Let me see—what are my other shortcomings. I get in the dumps at
times, and don’t open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am
sulky when I do that. Just let me alone, and I’ll soon be right. What
have you to confess now? It’s just as well for two fellows to know the
worst of one another before they begin to live together.”

I laughed at this cross-examination. “I keep a bull pup,” I said, “and
I object to rows because my nerves are shaken, and I get up at all
sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of
vices when I’m well, but those are the principal ones at present.”

“Do you include violin-playing in your category of rows?” he asked,
anxiously.

“It depends on the player,” I answered. “A well-played violin is a
treat for the gods—a badly-played one——”

“Oh, that’s all right,” he cried, with a merry laugh. “I think we may
consider the thing as settled—that is, if the rooms are agreeable to
you.”

“When shall we see them?”

“Call for me here at noon to-morrow, and we’ll go together and settle
everything,” he answered.

“All right—noon exactly,” said I, shaking his hand.

We left him working among his chemicals, and we walked together towards
my hotel.

“By the way,” I asked suddenly, stopping and turning upon Stamford,
“how the deuce did he know that I had come from Afghanistan?”

My companion smiled an enigmatical smile. “That’s just his little
peculiarity,” he said. “A good many people have wanted to know how he
finds things out.”

“Oh! a mystery is it?” I cried, rubbing my hands. “This is very
piquant. I am much obliged to you for bringing us together. ‘The proper
study of mankind is man,’ you know.”

“You must study him, then,” Stamford said, as he bade me good-bye.
“You’ll find him a knotty problem, though. I’ll wager he learns more
about you than you about him. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” I answered, and strolled on to my hotel, considerably
interested in my new acquaintance.




CHAPTER II.
THE SCIENCE OF DEDUCTION.


We met next day as he had arranged, and inspected the rooms at No.
221B, Baker Street, of which he had spoken at our meeting. They
consisted of a couple of comfortable bed-rooms and a single large airy
sitting-room, cheerfully furnished, and illuminated by two broad
windows. So desirable in every way were the apartments, and so moderate
did the terms seem when divided between us, that the bargain was
concluded upon the spot, and we at once entered into possession. That
very evening I moved my things round from the hotel, and on the
following morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and
portmanteaus. For a day or two we were busily employed in unpacking and
laying out our property to the best advantage. That done, we gradually
began to settle down and to accommodate ourselves to our new
surroundings.

Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with. He was quiet in
his ways, and his habits were regular. It was rare for him to be up
after ten at night, and he had invariably breakfasted and gone out
before I rose in the morning. Sometimes he spent his day at the
chemical laboratory, sometimes in the dissecting-rooms, and
occasionally in long walks, which appeared to take him into the lowest
portions of the City. Nothing could exceed his energy when the working
fit was upon him; but now and again a reaction would seize him, and for
days on end he would lie upon the sofa in the sitting-room, hardly
uttering a word or moving a muscle from morning to night. On these
occasions I have noticed such a dreamy, vacant expression in his eyes,
that I might have suspected him of being addicted to the use of some
narcotic, had not the temperance and cleanliness of his whole life
forbidden such a notion.

As the weeks went by, my interest in him and my curiosity as to his
aims in life, gradually deepened and increased. His very person and
appearance were such as to strike the attention of the most casual
observer. In height he was rather over six feet, and so excessively
lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp and
piercing, save during those intervals of torpor to which I have
alluded; and his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an air
of alertness and decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and
squareness which mark the man of determination. His hands were
invariably blotted with ink and stained with chemicals, yet he was
possessed of extraordinary delicacy of touch, as I frequently had
occasion to observe when I watched him manipulating his fragile
philosophical instruments.

The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody, when I confess how
much this man stimulated my curiosity, and how often I endeavoured to
break through the reticence which he showed on all that concerned
himself. Before pronouncing judgment, however, be it remembered, how
objectless was my life, and how little there was to engage my
attention. My health forbade me from venturing out unless the weather
was exceptionally genial, and I had no friends who would call upon me
and break the monotony of my daily existence. Under these
circumstances, I eagerly hailed the little mystery which hung around my
companion, and spent much of my time in endeavouring to unravel it.

He was not studying medicine. He had himself, in reply to a question,
confirmed Stamford’s opinion upon that point. Neither did he appear to
have pursued any course of reading which might fit him for a degree in
science or any other recognized portal which would give him an entrance
into the learned world. Yet his zeal for certain studies was
remarkable, and within eccentric limits his knowledge was so
extraordinarily ample and minute that his observations have fairly
astounded me. Surely no man would work so hard or attain such precise
information unless he had some definite end in view. Desultory readers
are seldom remarkable for the exactness of their learning. No man
burdens his mind with small matters unless he has some very good reason
for doing so.

His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of contemporary
literature, philosophy and politics he appeared to know next to
nothing. Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired in the naivest way
who he might be and what he had done. My surprise reached a climax,
however, when I found incidentally that he was ignorant of the
Copernican Theory and of the composition of the Solar System. That any
civilized human being in this nineteenth century should not be aware
that the earth travelled round the sun appeared to be to me such an
extraordinary fact that I could hardly realize it.

“You appear to be astonished,” he said, smiling at my expression of
surprise. “Now that I do know it I shall do my best to forget it.”

“To forget it!”

“You see,” he explained, “I consider that a man’s brain originally is
like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture
as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he
comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to him gets
crowded out, or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things so
that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. Now the skilful
workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes into his
brain-attic. He will have nothing but the tools which may help him in
doing his work, but of these he has a large assortment, and all in the
most perfect order. It is a mistake to think that that little room has
elastic walls and can distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes
a time when for every addition of knowledge you forget something that
you knew before. It is of the highest importance, therefore, not to
have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones.”

“But the Solar System!” I protested.

“What the deuce is it to me?” he interrupted impatiently; “you say that
we go round the sun. If we went round the moon it would not make a
pennyworth of difference to me or to my work.”

I was on the point of asking him what that work might be, but something
in his manner showed me that the question would be an unwelcome one. I
pondered over our short conversation, however, and endeavoured to draw
my deductions from it. He said that he would acquire no knowledge which
did not bear upon his object. Therefore all the knowledge which he
possessed was such as would be useful to him. I enumerated in my own
mind all the various points upon which he had shown me that he was
exceptionally well-informed. I even took a pencil and jotted them down.
I could not help smiling at the document when I had completed it. It
ran in this way—


SHERLOCK HOLMES—his limits.


1. Knowledge of Literature.—Nil.
2. Philosophy.—Nil.
3. Astronomy.—Nil.
4. Politics.—Feeble.
5. Botany.—Variable. Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons
generally. Knows nothing of practical gardening.
6. Geology.—Practical, but limited. Tells at a glance different soils
from each other. After walks has shown me splashes upon his trousers,
and told me by their colour and consistence in what part of London he
had received them.
7. Chemistry.—Profound.
8. Anatomy.—Accurate, but unsystematic.
9. Sensational Literature.—Immense. He appears to know every detail of
every horror perpetrated in the century.
10. Plays the violin well.
11. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman.
12. Has a good practical knowledge of British law.


When I had got so far in my list I threw it into the fire in despair.
“If I can only find what the fellow is driving at by reconciling all
these accomplishments, and discovering a calling which needs them all,”
I said to myself, “I may as well give up the attempt at once.”

I see that I have alluded above to his powers upon the violin. These
were very remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other
accomplishments. That he could play pieces, and difficult pieces, I
knew well, because at my request he has played me some of Mendelssohn’s
Lieder, and other favourites. When left to himself, however, he would
seldom produce any music or attempt any recognized air. Leaning back in
his arm-chair of an evening, he would close his eyes and scrape
carelessly at the fiddle which was thrown across his knee. Sometimes
the chords were sonorous and melancholy. Occasionally they were
fantastic and cheerful. Clearly they reflected the thoughts which
possessed him, but whether the music aided those thoughts, or whether
the playing was simply the result of a whim or fancy was more than I
could determine. I might have rebelled against these exasperating solos
had it not been that he usually terminated them by playing in quick
succession a whole series of my favourite airs as a slight compensation
for the trial upon my patience.

During the first week or so we had no callers, and I had begun to think
that my companion was as friendless a man as I was myself. Presently,
however, I found that he had many acquaintances, and those in the most
different classes of society. There was one little sallow rat-faced,
dark-eyed fellow who was introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade, and who came
three or four times in a single week. One morning a young girl called,
fashionably dressed, and stayed for half an hour or more. The same
afternoon brought a grey-headed, seedy visitor, looking like a Jew
pedlar, who appeared to me to be much excited, and who was closely
followed by a slip-shod elderly woman. On another occasion an old
white-haired gentleman had an interview with my companion; and on
another a railway porter in his velveteen uniform. When any of these
nondescript individuals put in an appearance, Sherlock Holmes used to
beg for the use of the sitting-room, and I would retire to my bed-room.
He always apologized to me for putting me to this inconvenience. “I
have to use this room as a place of business,” he said, “and these
people are my clients.” Again I had an opportunity of asking him a
point blank question, and again my delicacy prevented me from forcing
another man to confide in me. I imagined at the time that he had some
strong reason for not alluding to it, but he soon dispelled the idea by
coming round to the subject of his own accord.

It was upon the 4th of March, as I have good reason to remember, that I
rose somewhat earlier than usual, and found that Sherlock Holmes had
not yet finished his breakfast. The landlady had become so accustomed
to my late habits that my place had not been laid nor my coffee
prepared. With the unreasonable petulance of mankind I rang the bell
and gave a curt intimation that I was ready. Then I picked up a
magazine from the table and attempted to while away the time with it,
while my companion munched silently at his toast. One of the articles
had a pencil mark at the heading, and I naturally began to run my eye
through it.

Its somewhat ambitious title was “The Book of Life,” and it attempted
to show how much an observant man might learn by an accurate and
systematic examination of all that came in his way. It struck me as
being a remarkable mixture of shrewdness and of absurdity. The
reasoning was close and intense, but the deductions appeared to me to
be far-fetched and exaggerated. The writer claimed by a momentary
expression, a twitch of a muscle or a glance of an eye, to fathom a
man’s inmost thoughts. Deceit, according to him, was an impossibility
in the case of one trained to observation and analysis. His conclusions
were as infallible as so many propositions of Euclid. So startling
would his results appear to the uninitiated that until they learned the
processes by which he had arrived at them they might well consider him
as a necromancer.

“From a drop of water,” said the writer, “a logician could infer the
possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard of
one or the other. So all life is a great chain, the nature of which is
known whenever we are shown a single link of it. Like all other arts,
the Science of Deduction and Analysis is one which can only be acquired
by long and patient study nor, is life long enough to allow any mortal
to attain the highest possible perfection in it. Before turning to
those moral and mental aspects of the matter which present the greatest
difficulties, let the enquirer begin by mastering more elementary
problems. Let him, on meeting a fellow-mortal, learn at a glance to
distinguish the history of the man, and the trade or profession to
which he belongs. Puerile as such an exercise may seem, it sharpens the
faculties of observation, and teaches one where to look and what to
look for. By a man’s finger nails, by his coat-sleeve, by his boot, by
his trouser knees, by the callosities of his forefinger and thumb, by
his expression, by his shirt cuffs—by each of these things a man’s
calling is plainly revealed. That all united should fail to enlighten
the competent enquirer in any case is almost inconceivable.”

“What ineffable twaddle!” I cried, slapping the magazine down on the
table, “I never read such rubbish in my life.”

“What is it?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

“Why, this article,” I said, pointing at it with my egg spoon as I sat
down to my breakfast. “I see that you have read it since you have
marked it. I don’t deny that it is smartly written. It irritates me
though. It is evidently the theory of some arm-chair lounger who
evolves all these neat little paradoxes in the seclusion of his own
study. It is not practical. I should like to see him clapped down in a
third class carriage on the Underground, and asked to give the trades
of all his fellow-travellers. I would lay a thousand to one against
him.”

“You would lose your money,” Sherlock Holmes remarked calmly. “As for
the article, I wrote it myself.”

“You!”

“Yes, I have a turn both for observation and for deduction. The
theories which I have expressed there, and which appear to you to be so
chimerical are really extremely practical—so practical that I depend
upon them for my bread and cheese.”

“And how?” I asked involuntarily.

“Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only one in the
world. I’m a consulting detective, if you can understand what that is.
Here in London we have lots of Government detectives and lots of
private ones. When these fellows are at fault they come to me, and I
manage to put them on the right scent. They lay all the evidence before
me, and I am generally able, by the help of my knowledge of the history
of crime, to set them straight. There is a strong family resemblance
about misdeeds, and if you have all the details of a thousand at your
finger ends, it is odd if you can’t unravel the thousand and first.
Lestrade is a well-known detective. He got himself into a fog recently
over a forgery case, and that was what brought him here.”

“And these other people?”

“They are mostly sent on by private inquiry agencies. They are all
people who are in trouble about something, and want a little
enlightening. I listen to their story, they listen to my comments, and
then I pocket my fee.”

“But do you mean to say,” I said, “that without leaving your room you
can unravel some knot which other men can make nothing of, although
they have seen every detail for themselves?”

“Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way. Now and again a case
turns up which is a little more complex. Then I have to bustle about
and see things with my own eyes. You see I have a lot of special
knowledge which I apply to the problem, and which facilitates matters
wonderfully. Those rules of deduction laid down in that article which
aroused your scorn, are invaluable to me in practical work. Observation
with me is second nature. You appeared to be surprised when I told you,
on our first meeting, that you had come from Afghanistan.”

“You were told, no doubt.”

“Nothing of the sort. I _knew_ you came from Afghanistan. From long
habit the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind, that I
arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of intermediate
steps. There were such steps, however. The train of reasoning ran,
‘Here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a military
man. Clearly an army doctor, then. He has just come from the tropics,
for his face is dark, and that is not the natural tint of his skin, for
his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship and sickness, as his
haggard face says clearly. His left arm has been injured. He holds it
in a stiff and unnatural manner. Where in the tropics could an English
army doctor have seen much hardship and got his arm wounded? Clearly in
Afghanistan.’ The whole train of thought did not occupy a second. I
then remarked that you came from Afghanistan, and you were astonished.”

“It is simple enough as you explain it,” I said, smiling. “You remind
me of Edgar Allen Poe’s Dupin. I had no idea that such individuals did
exist outside of stories.”

Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. “No doubt you think that you are
complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin,” he observed. “Now, in my
opinion, Dupin was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his of
breaking in on his friends’ thoughts with an apropos remark after a
quarter of an hour’s silence is really very showy and superficial. He
had some analytical genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a
phenomenon as Poe appeared to imagine.”

“Have you read Gaboriau’s works?” I asked. “Does Lecoq come up to your
idea of a detective?”

Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. “Lecoq was a miserable bungler,”
he said, in an angry voice; “he had only one thing to recommend him,
and that was his energy. That book made me positively ill. The question
was how to identify an unknown prisoner. I could have done it in
twenty-four hours. Lecoq took six months or so. It might be made a
text-book for detectives to teach them what to avoid.”

I felt rather indignant at having two characters whom I had admired
treated in this cavalier style. I walked over to the window, and stood
looking out into the busy street. “This fellow may be very clever,” I
said to myself, “but he is certainly very conceited.”

“There are no crimes and no criminals in these days,” he said,
querulously. “What is the use of having brains in our profession. I
know well that I have it in me to make my name famous. No man lives or
has ever lived who has brought the same amount of study and of natural
talent to the detection of crime which I have done. And what is the
result? There is no crime to detect, or, at most, some bungling
villainy with a motive so transparent that even a Scotland Yard
official can see through it.”

I was still annoyed at his bumptious style of conversation. I thought
it best to change the topic.

“I wonder what that fellow is looking for?” I asked, pointing to a
stalwart, plainly-dressed individual who was walking slowly down the
other side of the street, looking anxiously at the numbers. He had a
large blue envelope in his hand, and was evidently the bearer of a
message.

“You mean the retired sergeant of Marines,” said Sherlock Holmes.

“Brag and bounce!” thought I to myself. “He knows that I cannot verify
his guess.”

The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man whom we were
watching caught sight of the number on our door, and ran rapidly across
the roadway. We heard a loud knock, a deep voice below, and heavy steps
ascending the stair.

“For Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said, stepping into the room and handing
my friend the letter.

Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit out of him. He little
thought of this when he made that random shot. “May I ask, my lad,” I
said, in the blandest voice, “what your trade may be?”

“Commissionaire, sir,” he said, gruffly. “Uniform away for repairs.”

“And you were?” I asked, with a slightly malicious glance at my
companion.

“A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry, sir. No answer? Right,
sir.”

He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in a salute, and was
gone.




CHAPTER III.
THE LAURISTON GARDENS MYSTERY


I confess that I was considerably startled by this fresh proof of the
practical nature of my companion’s theories. My respect for his powers
of analysis increased wondrously. There still remained some lurking
suspicion in my mind, however, that the whole thing was a pre-arranged
episode, intended to dazzle me, though what earthly object he could
have in taking me in was past my comprehension. When I looked at him he
had finished reading the note, and his eyes had assumed the vacant,
lack-lustre expression which showed mental abstraction.

“How in the world did you deduce that?” I asked.

“Deduce what?” said he, petulantly.

“Why, that he was a retired sergeant of Marines.”

“I have no time for trifles,” he answered, brusquely; then with a
smile, “Excuse my rudeness. You broke the thread of my thoughts; but
perhaps it is as well. So you actually were not able to see that that
man was a sergeant of Marines?”

“No, indeed.”

“It was easier to know it than to explain why I knew it. If you were
asked to prove that two and two made four, you might find some
difficulty, and yet you are quite sure of the fact. Even across the
street I could see a great blue anchor tattooed on the back of the
fellow’s hand. That smacked of the sea. He had a military carriage,
however, and regulation side whiskers. There we have the marine. He was
a man with some amount of self-importance and a certain air of command.
You must have observed the way in which he held his head and swung his
cane. A steady, respectable, middle-aged man, too, on the face of
him—all facts which led me to believe that he had been a sergeant.”

“Wonderful!” I ejaculated.

“Commonplace,” said Holmes, though I thought from his expression that
he was pleased at my evident surprise and admiration. “I said just now
that there were no criminals. It appears that I am wrong—look at this!”
He threw me over the note which the commissionaire had brought.

“Why,” I cried, as I cast my eye over it, “this is terrible!”

“It does seem to be a little out of the common,” he remarked, calmly.
“Would you mind reading it to me aloud?”

This is the letter which I read to him—

“MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,—

“There has been a bad business during the night at 3, Lauriston
Gardens, off the Brixton Road. Our man on the beat saw a light there
about two in the morning, and as the house was an empty one, suspected
that something was amiss. He found the door open, and in the front
room, which is bare of furniture, discovered the body of a gentleman,
well dressed, and having cards in his pocket bearing the name of ‘Enoch
J. Drebber, Cleveland, Ohio, U.S.A.’ There had been no robbery, nor is
there any evidence as to how the man met his death. There are marks of
blood in the room, but there is no wound upon his person. We are at a
loss as to how he came into the empty house; indeed, the whole affair
is a puzzler. If you can come round to the house any time before
twelve, you will find me there. I have left everything _in statu quo_
until I hear from you. If you are unable to come I shall give you
fuller details, and would esteem it a great kindness if you would
favour me with your opinion.

              Yours faithfully,
                  “TOBIAS GREGSON.”

“Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders,” my friend remarked;
“he and Lestrade are the pick of a bad lot. They are both quick and
energetic, but conventional—shockingly so. They have their knives into
one another, too. They are as jealous as a pair of professional
beauties. There will be some fun over this case if they are both put
upon the scent.”

I was amazed at the calm way in which he rippled on. “Surely there is
not a moment to be lost,” I cried, “shall I go and order you a cab?”

“I’m not sure about whether I shall go. I am the most incurably lazy
devil that ever stood in shoe leather—that is, when the fit is on me,
for I can be spry enough at times.”

“Why, it is just such a chance as you have been longing for.”

“My dear fellow, what does it matter to me. Supposing I unravel the
whole matter, you may be sure that Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. will
pocket all the credit. That comes of being an unofficial personage.”

“But he begs you to help him.”

“Yes. He knows that I am his superior, and acknowledges it to me; but
he would cut his tongue out before he would own it to any third person.
However, we may as well go and have a look. I shall work it out on my
own hook. I may have a laugh at them if I have nothing else. Come on!”

He hustled on his overcoat, and bustled about in a way that showed that
an energetic fit had superseded the apathetic one.

“Get your hat,” he said.

“You wish me to come?”

“Yes, if you have nothing better to do.” A minute later we were both in
a hansom, driving furiously for the Brixton Road.

It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a dun-coloured veil hung over the
house-tops, looking like the reflection of the mud-coloured streets
beneath. My companion was in the best of spirits, and prattled away
about Cremona fiddles, and the difference between a Stradivarius and an
Amati. As for myself, I was silent, for the dull weather and the
melancholy business upon which we were engaged, depressed my spirits.

“You don’t seem to give much thought to the matter in hand,” I said at
last, interrupting Holmes’ musical disquisition.

“No data yet,” he answered. “It is a capital mistake to theorize before
you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment.”

“You will have your data soon,” I remarked, pointing with my finger;
“this is the Brixton Road, and that is the house, if I am not very much
mistaken.”

“So it is. Stop, driver, stop!” We were still a hundred yards or so
from it, but he insisted upon our alighting, and we finished our
journey upon foot.

Number 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and minatory look. It
was one of four which stood back some little way from the street, two
being occupied and two empty. The latter looked out with three tiers of
vacant melancholy windows, which were blank and dreary, save that here
and there a “To Let” card had developed like a cataract upon the
bleared panes. A small garden sprinkled over with a scattered eruption
of sickly plants separated each of these houses from the street, and
was traversed by a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour, and consisting
apparently of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place was very
sloppy from the rain which had fallen through the night. The garden was
bounded by a three-foot brick wall with a fringe of wood rails upon the
top, and against this wall was leaning a stalwart police constable,
surrounded by a small knot of loafers, who craned their necks and
strained their eyes in the vain hope of catching some glimpse of the
proceedings within.

I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have hurried into the
house and plunged into a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared to be
further from his intention. With an air of nonchalance which, under the
circumstances, seemed to me to border upon affectation, he lounged up
and down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky, the
opposite houses and the line of railings. Having finished his scrutiny,
he proceeded slowly down the path, or rather down the fringe of grass
which flanked the path, keeping his eyes riveted upon the ground. Twice
he stopped, and once I saw him smile, and heard him utter an
exclamation of satisfaction. There were many marks of footsteps upon
the wet clayey soil, but since the police had been coming and going
over it, I was unable to see how my companion could hope to learn
anything from it. Still I had had such extraordinary evidence of the
quickness of his perceptive faculties, that I had no doubt that he
could see a great deal which was hidden from me.

At the door of the house we were met by a tall, white-faced,
flaxen-haired man, with a notebook in his hand, who rushed forward and
wrung my companion’s hand with effusion. “It is indeed kind of you to
come,” he said, “I have had everything left untouched.”

“Except that!” my friend answered, pointing at the pathway. “If a herd
of buffaloes had passed along there could not be a greater mess. No
doubt, however, you had drawn your own conclusions, Gregson, before you
permitted this.”

“I have had so much to do inside the house,” the detective said
evasively. “My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here. I had relied upon him
to look after this.”

Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically. “With two
such men as yourself and Lestrade upon the ground, there will not be
much for a third party to find out,” he said.

Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. “I think we have done
all that can be done,” he answered; “it’s a queer case though, and I
knew your taste for such things.”

“You did not come here in a cab?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

“No, sir.”

“Nor Lestrade?”

“No, sir.”

“Then let us go and look at the room.” With which inconsequent remark
he strode on into the house, followed by Gregson, whose features
expressed his astonishment.

A short passage, bare planked and dusty, led to the kitchen and
offices. Two doors opened out of it to the left and to the right. One
of these had obviously been closed for many weeks. The other belonged
to the dining-room, which was the apartment in which the mysterious
affair had occurred. Holmes walked in, and I followed him with that
subdued feeling at my heart which the presence of death inspires.

It was a large square room, looking all the larger from the absence of
all furniture. A vulgar flaring paper adorned the walls, but it was
blotched in places with mildew, and here and there great strips had
become detached and hung down, exposing the yellow plaster beneath.
Opposite the door was a showy fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece of
imitation white marble. On one corner of this was stuck the stump of a
red wax candle. The solitary window was so dirty that the light was
hazy and uncertain, giving a dull grey tinge to everything, which was
intensified by the thick layer of dust which coated the whole
apartment.

All these details I observed afterwards. At present my attention was
centred upon the single grim motionless figure which lay stretched upon
the boards, with vacant sightless eyes staring up at the discoloured
ceiling. It was that of a man about forty-three or forty-four years of
age, middle-sized, broad shouldered, with crisp curling black hair, and
a short stubbly beard. He was dressed in a heavy broadcloth frock coat
and waistcoat, with light-coloured trousers, and immaculate collar and
cuffs. A top hat, well brushed and trim, was placed upon the floor
beside him. His hands were clenched and his arms thrown abroad, while
his lower limbs were interlocked as though his death struggle had been
a grievous one. On his rigid face there stood an expression of horror,
and as it seemed to me, of hatred, such as I have never seen upon human
features. This malignant and terrible contortion, combined with the low
forehead, blunt nose, and prognathous jaw gave the dead man a
singularly simious and ape-like appearance, which was increased by his
writhing, unnatural posture. I have seen death in many forms, but never
has it appeared to me in a more fearsome aspect than in that dark grimy
apartment, which looked out upon one of the main arteries of suburban
London.

Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by the doorway,
and greeted my companion and myself.

“This case will make a stir, sir,” he remarked. “It beats anything I
have seen, and I am no chicken.”

“There is no clue?” said Gregson.

“None at all,” chimed in Lestrade.

Sherlock Holmes approached the body, and, kneeling down, examined it
intently. “You are sure that there is no wound?” he asked, pointing to
numerous gouts and splashes of blood which lay all round.

“Positive!” cried both detectives.

“Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second individual—presumably
the murderer, if murder has been committed. It reminds me of the
circumstances attendant on the death of Van Jansen, in Utrecht, in the
year ‘34. Do you remember the case, Gregson?”

“No, sir.”

“Read it up—you really should. There is nothing new under the sun. It
has all been done before.”

As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and
everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while his eyes
wore the same far-away expression which I have already remarked upon.
So swiftly was the examination made, that one would hardly have guessed
the minuteness with which it was conducted. Finally, he sniffed the
dead man’s lips, and then glanced at the soles of his patent leather
boots.

“He has not been moved at all?” he asked.

“No more than was necessary for the purposes of our examination.”

“You can take him to the mortuary now,” he said. “There is nothing more
to be learned.”

Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand. At his call they entered
the room, and the stranger was lifted and carried out. As they raised
him, a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor. Lestrade grabbed
it up and stared at it with mystified eyes.

“There’s been a woman here,” he cried. “It’s a woman’s wedding-ring.”

He held it out, as he spoke, upon the palm of his hand. We all gathered
round him and gazed at it. There could be no doubt that that circlet of
plain gold had once adorned the finger of a bride.

“This complicates matters,” said Gregson. “Heaven knows, they were
complicated enough before.”

“You’re sure it doesn’t simplify them?” observed Holmes. “There’s
nothing to be learned by staring at it. What did you find in his
pockets?”

“We have it all here,” said Gregson, pointing to a litter of objects
upon one of the bottom steps of the stairs. “A gold watch, No. 97163,
by Barraud, of London. Gold Albert chain, very heavy and solid. Gold
ring, with masonic device. Gold pin—bull-dog’s head, with rubies as
eyes. Russian leather card-case, with cards of Enoch J. Drebber of
Cleveland, corresponding with the E. J. D. upon the linen. No purse,
but loose money to the extent of seven pounds thirteen. Pocket edition
of Boccaccio’s _Decameron_, with name of Joseph Stangerson upon the
fly-leaf. Two letters—one addressed to E. J. Drebber and one to Joseph
Stangerson.”

“At what address?”

“American Exchange, Strand—to be left till called for. They are both
from the Guion Steamship Company, and refer to the sailing of their
boats from Liverpool. It is clear that this unfortunate man was about
to return to New York.”

“Have you made any inquiries as to this man, Stangerson?”

“I did it at once, sir,” said Gregson. “I have had advertisements sent
to all the newspapers, and one of my men has gone to the American
Exchange, but he has not returned yet.”

“Have you sent to Cleveland?”

“We telegraphed this morning.”

“How did you word your inquiries?”

“We simply detailed the circumstances, and said that we should be glad
of any information which could help us.”

“You did not ask for particulars on any point which appeared to you to
be crucial?”

“I asked about Stangerson.”

“Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which this whole case
appears to hinge? Will you not telegraph again?”

“I have said all I have to say,” said Gregson, in an offended voice.

Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared to be about to make
some remark, when Lestrade, who had been in the front room while we
were holding this conversation in the hall, reappeared upon the scene,
rubbing his hands in a pompous and self-satisfied manner.

“Mr. Gregson,” he said, “I have just made a discovery of the highest
importance, and one which would have been overlooked had I not made a
careful examination of the walls.”

The little man’s eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was evidently in a
state of suppressed exultation at having scored a point against his
colleague.

“Come here,” he said, bustling back into the room, the atmosphere of
which felt clearer since the removal of its ghastly inmate. “Now, stand
there!”

He struck a match on his boot and held it up against the wall.

“Look at that!” he said, triumphantly.

I have remarked that the paper had fallen away in parts. In this
particular corner of the room a large piece had peeled off, leaving a
yellow square of coarse plastering. Across this bare space there was
scrawled in blood-red letters a single word—


RACHE.


“What do you think of that?” cried the detective, with the air of a
showman exhibiting his show. “This was overlooked because it was in the
darkest corner of the room, and no one thought of looking there. The
murderer has written it with his or her own blood. See this smear where
it has trickled down the wall! That disposes of the idea of suicide
anyhow. Why was that corner chosen to write it on? I will tell you. See
that candle on the mantelpiece. It was lit at the time, and if it was
lit this corner would be the brightest instead of the darkest portion
of the wall.”

“And what does it mean now that you _have_ found it?” asked Gregson in
a depreciatory voice.

“Mean? Why, it means that the writer was going to put the female name
Rachel, but was disturbed before he or she had time to finish. You mark
my words, when this case comes to be cleared up you will find that a
woman named Rachel has something to do with it. It’s all very well for
you to laugh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You may be very smart and clever,
but the old hound is the best, when all is said and done.”

“I really beg your pardon!” said my companion, who had ruffled the
little man’s temper by bursting into an explosion of laughter. “You
certainly have the credit of being the first of us to find this out,
and, as you say, it bears every mark of having been written by the
other participant in last night’s mystery. I have not had time to
examine this room yet, but with your permission I shall do so now.”

As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round magnifying
glass from his pocket. With these two implements he trotted noiselessly
about the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally kneeling, and once
lying flat upon his face. So engrossed was he with his occupation that
he appeared to have forgotten our presence, for he chattered away to
himself under his breath the whole time, keeping up a running fire of
exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive of
encouragement and of hope. As I watched him I was irresistibly reminded
of a pure-blooded well-trained foxhound as it dashes backwards and
forwards through the covert, whining in its eagerness, until it comes
across the lost scent. For twenty minutes or more he continued his
researches, measuring with the most exact care the distance between
marks which were entirely invisible to me, and occasionally applying
his tape to the walls in an equally incomprehensible manner. In one
place he gathered up very carefully a little pile of grey dust from the
floor, and packed it away in an envelope. Finally, he examined with his
glass the word upon the wall, going over every letter of it with the
most minute exactness. This done, he appeared to be satisfied, for he
replaced his tape and his glass in his pocket.

“They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains,” he
remarked with a smile. “It’s a very bad definition, but it does apply
to detective work.”

Gregson and Lestrade had watched the manœuvres of their amateur
companion with considerable curiosity and some contempt. They evidently
failed to appreciate the fact, which I had begun to realize, that
Sherlock Holmes’ smallest actions were all directed towards some
definite and practical end.

“What do you think of it, sir?” they both asked.

“It would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I was to presume
to help you,” remarked my friend. “You are doing so well now that it
would be a pity for anyone to interfere.” There was a world of sarcasm
in his voice as he spoke. “If you will let me know how your
investigations go,” he continued, “I shall be happy to give you any
help I can. In the meantime I should like to speak to the constable who
found the body. Can you give me his name and address?”

Lestrade glanced at his note-book. “John Rance,” he said. “He is off
duty now. You will find him at 46, Audley Court, Kennington Park Gate.”

Holmes took a note of the address.

“Come along, Doctor,” he said; “we shall go and look him up. I’ll tell
you one thing which may help you in the case,” he continued, turning to
the two detectives. “There has been murder done, and the murderer was a
man. He was more than six feet high, was in the prime of life, had
small feet for his height, wore coarse, square-toed boots and smoked a
Trichinopoly cigar. He came here with his victim in a four-wheeled cab,
which was drawn by a horse with three old shoes and one new one on his
off fore leg. In all probability the murderer had a florid face, and
the finger-nails of his right hand were remarkably long. These are only
a few indications, but they may assist you.”

Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with an incredulous smile.

“If this man was murdered, how was it done?” asked the former.

“Poison,” said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode off. “One other
thing, Lestrade,” he added, turning round at the door: “‘Rache,’ is the
German for ‘revenge’; so don’t lose your time looking for Miss Rachel.”

With which Parthian shot he walked away, leaving the two rivals
open-mouthed behind him.




CHAPTER IV.
WHAT JOHN RANCE HAD TO TELL.


It was one o’clock when we left No. 3, Lauriston Gardens. Sherlock
Holmes led me to the nearest telegraph office, whence he dispatched a
long telegram. He then hailed a cab, and ordered the driver to take us
to the address given us by Lestrade.

“There is nothing like first hand evidence,” he remarked; “as a matter
of fact, my mind is entirely made up upon the case, but still we may as
well learn all that is to be learned.”

“You amaze me, Holmes,” said I. “Surely you are not as sure as you
pretend to be of all those particulars which you gave.”

“There’s no room for a mistake,” he answered. “The very first thing
which I observed on arriving there was that a cab had made two ruts
with its wheels close to the curb. Now, up to last night, we have had
no rain for a week, so that those wheels which left such a deep
impression must have been there during the night. There were the marks
of the horse’s hoofs, too, the outline of one of which was far more
clearly cut than that of the other three, showing that that was a new
shoe. Since the cab was there after the rain began, and was not there
at any time during the morning—I have Gregson’s word for that—it
follows that it must have been there during the night, and, therefore,
that it brought those two individuals to the house.”

“That seems simple enough,” said I; “but how about the other man’s
height?”

“Why, the height of a man, in nine cases out of ten, can be told from
the length of his stride. It is a simple calculation enough, though
there is no use my boring you with figures. I had this fellow’s stride
both on the clay outside and on the dust within. Then I had a way of
checking my calculation. When a man writes on a wall, his instinct
leads him to write about the level of his own eyes. Now that writing
was just over six feet from the ground. It was child’s play.”

“And his age?” I asked.

“Well, if a man can stride four and a-half feet without the smallest
effort, he can’t be quite in the sere and yellow. That was the breadth
of a puddle on the garden walk which he had evidently walked across.
Patent-leather boots had gone round, and Square-toes had hopped over.
There is no mystery about it at all. I am simply applying to ordinary
life a few of those precepts of observation and deduction which I
advocated in that article. Is there anything else that puzzles you?”

“The finger nails and the Trichinopoly,” I suggested.

“The writing on the wall was done with a man’s forefinger dipped in
blood. My glass allowed me to observe that the plaster was slightly
scratched in doing it, which would not have been the case if the man’s
nail had been trimmed. I gathered up some scattered ash from the floor.
It was dark in colour and flakey—such an ash as is only made by a
Trichinopoly. I have made a special study of cigar ashes—in fact, I
have written a monograph upon the subject. I flatter myself that I can
distinguish at a glance the ash of any known brand, either of cigar or
of tobacco. It is just in such details that the skilled detective
differs from the Gregson and Lestrade type.”

“And the florid face?” I asked.

“Ah, that was a more daring shot, though I have no doubt that I was
right. You must not ask me that at the present state of the affair.”

I passed my hand over my brow. “My head is in a whirl,” I remarked;
“the more one thinks of it the more mysterious it grows. How came these
two men—if there were two men—into an empty house? What has become of
the cabman who drove them? How could one man compel another to take
poison? Where did the blood come from? What was the object of the
murderer, since robbery had no part in it? How came the woman’s ring
there? Above all, why should the second man write up the German word
RACHE before decamping? I confess that I cannot see any possible way of
reconciling all these facts.”

My companion smiled approvingly.

“You sum up the difficulties of the situation succinctly and well,” he
said. “There is much that is still obscure, though I have quite made up
my mind on the main facts. As to poor Lestrade’s discovery it was
simply a blind intended to put the police upon a wrong track, by
suggesting Socialism and secret societies. It was not done by a German.
The A, if you noticed, was printed somewhat after the German fashion.
Now, a real German invariably prints in the Latin character, so that we
may safely say that this was not written by one, but by a clumsy
imitator who overdid his part. It was simply a ruse to divert inquiry
into a wrong channel. I’m not going to tell you much more of the case,
Doctor. You know a conjuror gets no credit when once he has explained
his trick, and if I show you too much of my method of working, you will
come to the conclusion that I am a very ordinary individual after all.”

“I shall never do that,” I answered; “you have brought detection as
near an exact science as it ever will be brought in this world.”

My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the earnest way
in which I uttered them. I had already observed that he was as
sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of
her beauty.

“I’ll tell you one other thing,” he said. “Patent-leathers and
Square-toes came in the same cab, and they walked down the pathway
together as friendly as possible—arm-in-arm, in all probability. When
they got inside they walked up and down the room—or rather,
Patent-leathers stood still while Square-toes walked up and down. I
could read all that in the dust; and I could read that as he walked he
grew more and more excited. That is shown by the increased length of
his strides. He was talking all the while, and working himself up, no
doubt, into a fury. Then the tragedy occurred. I’ve told you all I know
myself now, for the rest is mere surmise and conjecture. We have a good
working basis, however, on which to start. We must hurry up, for I want
to go to Halle’s concert to hear Norman Neruda this afternoon.”

This conversation had occurred while our cab had been threading its way
through a long succession of dingy streets and dreary by-ways. In the
dingiest and dreariest of them our driver suddenly came to a stand.
“That’s Audley Court in there,” he said, pointing to a narrow slit in
the line of dead-coloured brick. “You’ll find me here when you come
back.”

Audley Court was not an attractive locality. The narrow passage led us
into a quadrangle paved with flags and lined by sordid dwellings. We
picked our way among groups of dirty children, and through lines of
discoloured linen, until we came to Number 46, the door of which was
decorated with a small slip of brass on which the name Rance was
engraved. On enquiry we found that the constable was in bed, and we
were shown into a little front parlour to await his coming.

He appeared presently, looking a little irritable at being disturbed in
his slumbers. “I made my report at the office,” he said.

Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and played with it
pensively. “We thought that we should like to hear it all from your own
lips,” he said.

“I shall be most happy to tell you anything I can,” the constable
answered with his eyes upon the little golden disk.

“Just let us hear it all in your own way as it occurred.”

Rance sat down on the horsehair sofa, and knitted his brows as though
determined not to omit anything in his narrative.

“I’ll tell it ye from the beginning,” he said. “My time is from ten at
night to six in the morning. At eleven there was a fight at the ‘White
Hart’; but bar that all was quiet enough on the beat. At one o’clock it
began to rain, and I met Harry Murcher—him who has the Holland Grove
beat—and we stood together at the corner of Henrietta Street a-talkin’.
Presently—maybe about two or a little after—I thought I would take a
look round and see that all was right down the Brixton Road. It was
precious dirty and lonely. Not a soul did I meet all the way down,
though a cab or two went past me. I was a strollin’ down, thinkin’
between ourselves how uncommon handy a four of gin hot would be, when
suddenly the glint of a light caught my eye in the window of that same
house. Now, I knew that them two houses in Lauriston Gardens was empty
on account of him that owns them who won’t have the drains seen to,
though the very last tenant what lived in one of them died o’ typhoid
fever. I was knocked all in a heap therefore at seeing a light in the
window, and I suspected as something was wrong. When I got to the
door——”

“You stopped, and then walked back to the garden gate,” my companion
interrupted. “What did you do that for?”

Rance gave a violent jump, and stared at Sherlock Holmes with the
utmost amazement upon his features.

“Why, that’s true, sir,” he said; “though how you come to know it,
Heaven only knows. Ye see, when I got up to the door it was so still
and so lonesome, that I thought I’d be none the worse for some one with
me. I ain’t afeared of anything on this side o’ the grave; but I
thought that maybe it was him that died o’ the typhoid inspecting the
drains what killed him. The thought gave me a kind o’ turn, and I
walked back to the gate to see if I could see Murcher’s lantern, but
there wasn’t no sign of him nor of anyone else.”

“There was no one in the street?”

“Not a livin’ soul, sir, nor as much as a dog. Then I pulled myself
together and went back and pushed the door open. All was quiet inside,
so I went into the room where the light was a-burnin’. There was a
candle flickerin’ on the mantelpiece—a red wax one—and by its light I
saw——”

“Yes, I know all that you saw. You walked round the room several times,
and you knelt down by the body, and then you walked through and tried
the kitchen door, and then——”

John Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened face and suspicion in
his eyes. “Where was you hid to see all that?” he cried. “It seems to
me that you knows a deal more than you should.”

Holmes laughed and threw his card across the table to the constable.
“Don’t get arresting me for the murder,” he said. “I am one of the
hounds and not the wolf; Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestrade will answer for
that. Go on, though. What did you do next?”

Rance resumed his seat, without however losing his mystified
expression. “I went back to the gate and sounded my whistle. That
brought Murcher and two more to the spot.”

“Was the street empty then?”

“Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good goes.”

“What do you mean?”

The constable’s features broadened into a grin. “I’ve seen many a drunk
chap in my time,” he said, “but never anyone so cryin’ drunk as that
cove. He was at the gate when I came out, a-leanin’ up agin the
railings, and a-singin’ at the pitch o’ his lungs about Columbine’s
New-fangled Banner, or some such stuff. He couldn’t stand, far less
help.”

“What sort of a man was he?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

John Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated at this digression. “He
was an uncommon drunk sort o’ man,” he said. “He’d ha’ found hisself in
the station if we hadn’t been so took up.”

“His face—his dress—didn’t you notice them?” Holmes broke in
impatiently.

“I should think I did notice them, seeing that I had to prop him up—me
and Murcher between us. He was a long chap, with a red face, the lower
part muffled round——”

“That will do,” cried Holmes. “What became of him?”

“We’d enough to do without lookin’ after him,” the policeman said, in
an aggrieved voice. “I’ll wager he found his way home all right.”

“How was he dressed?”

“A brown overcoat.”

“Had he a whip in his hand?”

“A whip—no.”

“He must have left it behind,” muttered my companion. “You didn’t
happen to see or hear a cab after that?”

“No.”

“There’s a half-sovereign for you,” my companion said, standing up and
taking his hat. “I am afraid, Rance, that you will never rise in the
force. That head of yours should be for use as well as ornament. You
might have gained your sergeant’s stripes last night. The man whom you
held in your hands is the man who holds the clue of this mystery, and
whom we are seeking. There is no use of arguing about it now; I tell
you that it is so. Come along, Doctor.”

We started off for the cab together, leaving our informant incredulous,
but obviously uncomfortable.

“The blundering fool,” Holmes said, bitterly, as we drove back to our
lodgings. “Just to think of his having such an incomparable bit of good
luck, and not taking advantage of it.”

“I am rather in the dark still. It is true that the description of this
man tallies with your idea of the second party in this mystery. But why
should he come back to the house after leaving it? That is not the way
of criminals.”

“The ring, man, the ring: that was what he came back for. If we have no
other way of catching him, we can always bait our line with the ring. I
shall have him, Doctor—I’ll lay you two to one that I have him. I must
thank you for it all. I might not have gone but for you, and so have
missed the finest study I ever came across: a study in scarlet, eh? Why
shouldn’t we use a little art jargon. There’s the scarlet thread of
murder running through the colourless skein of life, and our duty is to
unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every inch of it. And now for
lunch, and then for Norman Neruda. Her attack and her bowing are
splendid. What’s that little thing of Chopin’s she plays so
magnificently: Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay.”

Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound carolled away like a
lark while I meditated upon the many-sidedness of the human mind.




CHAPTER V.
OUR ADVERTISEMENT BRINGS A VISITOR.


Our morning’s exertions had been too much for my weak health, and I was
tired out in the afternoon. After Holmes’ departure for the concert, I
lay down upon the sofa and endeavoured to get a couple of hours’ sleep.
It was a useless attempt. My mind had been too much excited by all that
had occurred, and the strangest fancies and surmises crowded into it.
Every time that I closed my eyes I saw before me the distorted
baboon-like countenance of the murdered man. So sinister was the
impression which that face had produced upon me that I found it
difficult to feel anything but gratitude for him who had removed its
owner from the world. If ever human features bespoke vice of the most
malignant type, they were certainly those of Enoch J. Drebber, of
Cleveland. Still I recognized that justice must be done, and that the
depravity of the victim was no condonement in the eyes of the law.

The more I thought of it the more extraordinary did my companion’s
hypothesis, that the man had been poisoned, appear. I remembered how he
had sniffed his lips, and had no doubt that he had detected something
which had given rise to the idea. Then, again, if not poison, what had
caused the man’s death, since there was neither wound nor marks of
strangulation? But, on the other hand, whose blood was that which lay
so thickly upon the floor? There were no signs of a struggle, nor had
the victim any weapon with which he might have wounded an antagonist.
As long as all these questions were unsolved, I felt that sleep would
be no easy matter, either for Holmes or myself. His quiet
self-confident manner convinced me that he had already formed a theory
which explained all the facts, though what it was I could not for an
instant conjecture.

He was very late in returning—so late, that I knew that the concert
could not have detained him all the time. Dinner was on the table
before he appeared.

“It was magnificent,” he said, as he took his seat. “Do you remember
what Darwin says about music? He claims that the power of producing and
appreciating it existed among the human race long before the power of
speech was arrived at. Perhaps that is why we are so subtly influenced
by it. There are vague memories in our souls of those misty centuries
when the world was in its childhood.”

“That’s rather a broad idea,” I remarked.

“One’s ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are to interpret
Nature,” he answered. “What’s the matter? You’re not looking quite
yourself. This Brixton Road affair has upset you.”

“To tell the truth, it has,” I said. “I ought to be more case-hardened
after my Afghan experiences. I saw my own comrades hacked to pieces at
Maiwand without losing my nerve.”

“I can understand. There is a mystery about this which stimulates the
imagination; where there is no imagination there is no horror. Have you
seen the evening paper?”

“No.”

“It gives a fairly good account of the affair. It does not mention the
fact that when the man was raised up, a woman’s wedding ring fell upon
the floor. It is just as well it does not.”

“Why?”

“Look at this advertisement,” he answered. “I had one sent to every
paper this morning immediately after the affair.”

He threw the paper across to me and I glanced at the place indicated.
It was the first announcement in the “Found” column. “In Brixton Road,
this morning,” it ran, “a plain gold wedding ring, found in the roadway
between the ‘White Hart’ Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Dr. Watson,
221B, Baker Street, between eight and nine this evening.”

“Excuse my using your name,” he said. “If I used my own some of these
dunderheads would recognize it, and want to meddle in the affair.”

“That is all right,” I answered. “But supposing anyone applies, I have
no ring.”

“Oh yes, you have,” said he, handing me one. “This will do very well.
It is almost a facsimile.”

“And who do you expect will answer this advertisement.”

“Why, the man in the brown coat—our florid friend with the square toes.
If he does not come himself he will send an accomplice.”

“Would he not consider it as too dangerous?”

“Not at all. If my view of the case is correct, and I have every reason
to believe that it is, this man would rather risk anything than lose
the ring. According to my notion he dropped it while stooping over
Drebber’s body, and did not miss it at the time. After leaving the
house he discovered his loss and hurried back, but found the police
already in possession, owing to his own folly in leaving the candle
burning. He had to pretend to be drunk in order to allay the suspicions
which might have been aroused by his appearance at the gate. Now put
yourself in that man’s place. On thinking the matter over, it must have
occurred to him that it was possible that he had lost the ring in the
road after leaving the house. What would he do, then? He would eagerly
look out for the evening papers in the hope of seeing it among the
articles found. His eye, of course, would light upon this. He would be
overjoyed. Why should he fear a trap? There would be no reason in his
eyes why the finding of the ring should be connected with the murder.
He would come. He will come. You shall see him within an hour?”

“And then?” I asked.

“Oh, you can leave me to deal with him then. Have you any arms?”

“I have my old service revolver and a few cartridges.”

“You had better clean it and load it. He will be a desperate man, and
though I shall take him unawares, it is as well to be ready for
anything.”

I went to my bedroom and followed his advice. When I returned with the
pistol the table had been cleared, and Holmes was engaged in his
favourite occupation of scraping upon his violin.

“The plot thickens,” he said, as I entered; “I have just had an answer
to my American telegram. My view of the case is the correct one.”

“And that is?” I asked eagerly.

“My fiddle would be the better for new strings,” he remarked. “Put your
pistol in your pocket. When the fellow comes speak to him in an
ordinary way. Leave the rest to me. Don’t frighten him by looking at
him too hard.”

“It is eight o’clock now,” I said, glancing at my watch.

“Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes. Open the door
slightly. That will do. Now put the key on the inside. Thank you! This
is a queer old book I picked up at a stall yesterday—‘De Jure inter
Gentes’—published in Latin at Liege in the Lowlands, in 1642. Charles’
head was still firm on his shoulders when this little brown-backed
volume was struck off.”

“Who is the printer?”

“Philippe de Croy, whoever he may have been. On the fly-leaf, in very
faded ink, is written ‘Ex libris Guliolmi Whyte.’ I wonder who William
Whyte was. Some pragmatical seventeenth century lawyer, I suppose. His
writing has a legal twist about it. Here comes our man, I think.”

As he spoke there was a sharp ring at the bell. Sherlock Holmes rose
softly and moved his chair in the direction of the door. We heard the
servant pass along the hall, and the sharp click of the latch as she
opened it.

“Does Dr. Watson live here?” asked a clear but rather harsh voice. We
could not hear the servant’s reply, but the door closed, and some one
began to ascend the stairs. The footfall was an uncertain and shuffling
one. A look of surprise passed over the face of my companion as he
listened to it. It came slowly along the passage, and there was a
feeble tap at the door.

“Come in,” I cried.

At my summons, instead of the man of violence whom we expected, a very
old and wrinkled woman hobbled into the apartment. She appeared to be
dazzled by the sudden blaze of light, and after dropping a curtsey, she
stood blinking at us with her bleared eyes and fumbling in her pocket
with nervous, shaky fingers. I glanced at my companion, and his face
had assumed such a disconsolate expression that it was all I could do
to keep my countenance.

The old crone drew out an evening paper, and pointed at our
advertisement. “It’s this as has brought me, good gentlemen,” she said,
dropping another curtsey; “a gold wedding ring in the Brixton Road. It
belongs to my girl Sally, as was married only this time twelvemonth,
which her husband is steward aboard a Union boat, and what he’d say if
he come ‘ome and found her without her ring is more than I can think,
he being short enough at the best o’ times, but more especially when he
has the drink. If it please you, she went to the circus last night
along with——”

“Is that her ring?” I asked.

“The Lord be thanked!” cried the old woman; “Sally will be a glad woman
this night. That’s the ring.”

“And what may your address be?” I inquired, taking up a pencil.

“13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch. A weary way from here.”

“The Brixton Road does not lie between any circus and Houndsditch,”
said Sherlock Holmes sharply.

The old woman faced round and looked keenly at him from her little
red-rimmed eyes. “The gentleman asked me for _my_ address,” she said.
“Sally lives in lodgings at 3, Mayfield Place, Peckham.”

“And your name is——?”

“My name is Sawyer—hers is Dennis, which Tom Dennis married her—and a
smart, clean lad, too, as long as he’s at sea, and no steward in the
company more thought of; but when on shore, what with the women and
what with liquor shops——”

“Here is your ring, Mrs. Sawyer,” I interrupted, in obedience to a sign
from my companion; “it clearly belongs to your daughter, and I am glad
to be able to restore it to the rightful owner.”

With many mumbled blessings and protestations of gratitude the old
crone packed it away in her pocket, and shuffled off down the stairs.
Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet the moment that she was gone and
rushed into his room. He returned in a few seconds enveloped in an
ulster and a cravat. “I’ll follow her,” he said, hurriedly; “she must
be an accomplice, and will lead me to him. Wait up for me.” The hall
door had hardly slammed behind our visitor before Holmes had descended
the stair. Looking through the window I could see her walking feebly
along the other side, while her pursuer dogged her some little distance
behind. “Either his whole theory is incorrect,” I thought to myself,
“or else he will be led now to the heart of the mystery.” There was no
need for him to ask me to wait up for him, for I felt that sleep was
impossible until I heard the result of his adventure.

It was close upon nine when he set out. I had no idea how long he might
be, but I sat stolidly puffing at my pipe and skipping over the pages
of Henri Murger’s “Vie de Bohème.” Ten o’clock passed, and I heard the
footsteps of the maid as they pattered off to bed. Eleven, and the more
stately tread of the landlady passed my door, bound for the same
destination. It was close upon twelve before I heard the sharp sound of
his latch-key. The instant he entered I saw by his face that he had not
been successful. Amusement and chagrin seemed to be struggling for the
mastery, until the former suddenly carried the day, and he burst into a
hearty laugh.

“I wouldn’t have the Scotland Yarders know it for the world,” he cried,
dropping into his chair; “I have chaffed them so much that they would
never have let me hear the end of it. I can afford to laugh, because I
know that I will be even with them in the long run.”

“What is it then?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t mind telling a story against myself. That creature had
gone a little way when she began to limp and show every sign of being
foot-sore. Presently she came to a halt, and hailed a four-wheeler
which was passing. I managed to be close to her so as to hear the
address, but I need not have been so anxious, for she sang it out loud
enough to be heard at the other side of the street, ‘Drive to 13,
Duncan Street, Houndsditch,’ she cried. This begins to look genuine, I
thought, and having seen her safely inside, I perched myself behind.
That’s an art which every detective should be an expert at. Well, away
we rattled, and never drew rein until we reached the street in
question. I hopped off before we came to the door, and strolled down
the street in an easy, lounging way. I saw the cab pull up. The driver
jumped down, and I saw him open the door and stand expectantly. Nothing
came out though. When I reached him he was groping about frantically in
the empty cab, and giving vent to the finest assorted collection of
oaths that ever I listened to. There was no sign or trace of his
passenger, and I fear it will be some time before he gets his fare. On
inquiring at Number 13 we found that the house belonged to a
respectable paperhanger, named Keswick, and that no one of the name
either of Sawyer or Dennis had ever been heard of there.”

“You don’t mean to say,” I cried, in amazement, “that that tottering,
feeble old woman was able to get out of the cab while it was in motion,
without either you or the driver seeing her?”

“Old woman be damned!” said Sherlock Holmes, sharply. “We were the old
women to be so taken in. It must have been a young man, and an active
one, too, besides being an incomparable actor. The get-up was
inimitable. He saw that he was followed, no doubt, and used this means
of giving me the slip. It shows that the man we are after is not as
lonely as I imagined he was, but has friends who are ready to risk
something for him. Now, Doctor, you are looking done-up. Take my advice
and turn in.”

I was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed his injunction. I left
Holmes seated in front of the smouldering fire, and long into the
watches of the night I heard the low, melancholy wailings of his
violin, and knew that he was still pondering over the strange problem
which he had set himself to unravel.




CHAPTER VI.
TOBIAS GREGSON SHOWS WHAT HE CAN DO.


The papers next day were full of the “Brixton Mystery,” as they termed
it. Each had a long account of the affair, and some had leaders upon it
in addition. There was some information in them which was new to me. I
still retain in my scrap-book numerous clippings and extracts bearing
upon the case. Here is a condensation of a few of them:—

The _Daily Telegraph_ remarked that in the history of crime there had
seldom been a tragedy which presented stranger features. The German
name of the victim, the absence of all other motive, and the sinister
inscription on the wall, all pointed to its perpetration by political
refugees and revolutionists. The Socialists had many branches in
America, and the deceased had, no doubt, infringed their unwritten
laws, and been tracked down by them. After alluding airily to the
Vehmgericht, aqua tofana, Carbonari, the Marchioness de Brinvilliers,
the Darwinian theory, the principles of Malthus, and the Ratcliff
Highway murders, the article concluded by admonishing the Government
and advocating a closer watch over foreigners in England.

The _Standard_ commented upon the fact that lawless outrages of the
sort usually occurred under a Liberal Administration. They arose from
the unsettling of the minds of the masses, and the consequent weakening
of all authority. The deceased was an American gentleman who had been
residing for some weeks in the Metropolis. He had stayed at the
boarding-house of Madame Charpentier, in Torquay Terrace, Camberwell.
He was accompanied in his travels by his private secretary, Mr. Joseph
Stangerson. The two bade adieu to their landlady upon Tuesday, the 4th
inst., and departed to Euston Station with the avowed intention of
catching the Liverpool express. They were afterwards seen together upon
the platform. Nothing more is known of them until Mr. Drebber’s body
was, as recorded, discovered in an empty house in the Brixton Road,
many miles from Euston. How he came there, or how he met his fate, are
questions which are still involved in mystery. Nothing is known of the
whereabouts of Stangerson. We are glad to learn that Mr. Lestrade and
Mr. Gregson, of Scotland Yard, are both engaged upon the case, and it
is confidently anticipated that these well-known officers will speedily
throw light upon the matter.

The _Daily News_ observed that there was no doubt as to the crime being
a political one. The despotism and hatred of Liberalism which animated
the Continental Governments had had the effect of driving to our shores
a number of men who might have made excellent citizens were they not
soured by the recollection of all that they had undergone. Among these
men there was a stringent code of honour, any infringement of which was
punished by death. Every effort should be made to find the secretary,
Stangerson, and to ascertain some particulars of the habits of the
deceased. A great step had been gained by the discovery of the address
of the house at which he had boarded—a result which was entirely due to
the acuteness and energy of Mr. Gregson of Scotland Yard.

Sherlock Holmes and I read these notices over together at breakfast,
and they appeared to afford him considerable amusement.

“I told you that, whatever happened, Lestrade and Gregson would be sure
to score.”

“That depends on how it turns out.”

“Oh, bless you, it doesn’t matter in the least. If the man is caught,
it will be _on account_ of their exertions; if he escapes, it will be
_in spite_ of their exertions. It’s heads I win and tails you lose.
Whatever they do, they will have followers. ‘Un sot trouve toujours un
plus sot qui l’admire.’”

“What on earth is this?” I cried, for at this moment there came the
pattering of many steps in the hall and on the stairs, accompanied by
audible expressions of disgust upon the part of our landlady.

“It’s the Baker Street division of the detective police force,” said my
companion, gravely; and as he spoke there rushed into the room half a
dozen of the dirtiest and most ragged street Arabs that ever I clapped
eyes on.

“‘Tention!” cried Holmes, in a sharp tone, and the six dirty little
scoundrels stood in a line like so many disreputable statuettes. “In
future you shall send up Wiggins alone to report, and the rest of you
must wait in the street. Have you found it, Wiggins?”

“No, sir, we hain’t,” said one of the youths.

“I hardly expected you would. You must keep on until you do. Here are
your wages.” He handed each of them a shilling.

“Now, off you go, and come back with a better report next time.”

He waved his hand, and they scampered away downstairs like so many
rats, and we heard their shrill voices next moment in the street.

“There’s more work to be got out of one of those little beggars than
out of a dozen of the force,” Holmes remarked. “The mere sight of an
official-looking person seals men’s lips. These youngsters, however, go
everywhere and hear everything. They are as sharp as needles, too; all
they want is organisation.”

“Is it on this Brixton case that you are employing them?” I asked.

“Yes; there is a point which I wish to ascertain. It is merely a matter
of time. Hullo! we are going to hear some news now with a vengeance!
Here is Gregson coming down the road with beatitude written upon every
feature of his face. Bound for us, I know. Yes, he is stopping. There
he is!”

There was a violent peal at the bell, and in a few seconds the
fair-haired detective came up the stairs, three steps at a time, and
burst into our sitting-room.

“My dear fellow,” he cried, wringing Holmes’ unresponsive hand,
“congratulate me! I have made the whole thing as clear as day.”

A shade of anxiety seemed to me to cross my companion’s expressive
face.

“Do you mean that you are on the right track?” he asked.

“The right track! Why, sir, we have the man under lock and key.”

“And his name is?”

“Arthur Charpentier, sub-lieutenant in Her Majesty’s navy,” cried
Gregson, pompously, rubbing his fat hands and inflating his chest.

Sherlock Holmes gave a sigh of relief, and relaxed into a smile.

“Take a seat, and try one of these cigars,” he said. “We are anxious to
know how you managed it. Will you have some whiskey and water?”

“I don’t mind if I do,” the detective answered. “The tremendous
exertions which I have gone through during the last day or two have
worn me out. Not so much bodily exertion, you understand, as the strain
upon the mind. You will appreciate that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for we
are both brain-workers.”

“You do me too much honour,” said Holmes, gravely. “Let us hear how you
arrived at this most gratifying result.”

The detective seated himself in the arm-chair, and puffed complacently
at his cigar. Then suddenly he slapped his thigh in a paroxysm of
amusement.

“The fun of it is,” he cried, “that that fool Lestrade, who thinks
himself so smart, has gone off upon the wrong track altogether. He is
after the secretary Stangerson, who had no more to do with the crime
than the babe unborn. I have no doubt that he has caught him by this
time.”

The idea tickled Gregson so much that he laughed until he choked.

“And how did you get your clue?”

“Ah, I’ll tell you all about it. Of course, Doctor Watson, this is
strictly between ourselves. The first difficulty which we had to
contend with was the finding of this American’s antecedents. Some
people would have waited until their advertisements were answered, or
until parties came forward and volunteered information. That is not
Tobias Gregson’s way of going to work. You remember the hat beside the
dead man?”

“Yes,” said Holmes; “by John Underwood and Sons, 129, Camberwell Road.”

Gregson looked quite crest-fallen.

“I had no idea that you noticed that,” he said. “Have you been there?”

“No.”

“Ha!” cried Gregson, in a relieved voice; “you should never neglect a
chance, however small it may seem.”

“To a great mind, nothing is little,” remarked Holmes, sententiously.

“Well, I went to Underwood, and asked him if he had sold a hat of that
size and description. He looked over his books, and came on it at once.
He had sent the hat to a Mr. Drebber, residing at Charpentier’s
Boarding Establishment, Torquay Terrace. Thus I got at his address.”

“Smart—very smart!” murmured Sherlock Holmes.

“I next called upon Madame Charpentier,” continued the detective. “I
found her very pale and distressed. Her daughter was in the room,
too—an uncommonly fine girl she is, too; she was looking red about the
eyes and her lips trembled as I spoke to her. That didn’t escape my
notice. I began to smell a rat. You know the feeling, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, when you come upon the right scent—a kind of thrill in your
nerves. ‘Have you heard of the mysterious death of your late boarder
Mr. Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland?’ I asked.

“The mother nodded. She didn’t seem able to get out a word. The
daughter burst into tears. I felt more than ever that these people knew
something of the matter.

“‘At what o’clock did Mr. Drebber leave your house for the train?’ I
asked.

“‘At eight o’clock,’ she said, gulping in her throat to keep down her
agitation. ‘His secretary, Mr. Stangerson, said that there were two
trains—one at 9.15 and one at 11. He was to catch the first.’

“‘And was that the last which you saw of him?’

“A terrible change came over the woman’s face as I asked the question.
Her features turned perfectly livid. It was some seconds before she
could get out the single word ‘Yes’—and when it did come it was in a
husky unnatural tone.

“There was silence for a moment, and then the daughter spoke in a calm
clear voice.

“‘No good can ever come of falsehood, mother,’ she said. ‘Let us be
frank with this gentleman. We _did_ see Mr. Drebber again.’

“‘God forgive you!’ cried Madame Charpentier, throwing up her hands and
sinking back in her chair. ‘You have murdered your brother.’

“‘Arthur would rather that we spoke the truth,’ the girl answered
firmly.

“‘You had best tell me all about it now,’ I said. ‘Half-confidences are
worse than none. Besides, you do not know how much we know of it.’

“‘On your head be it, Alice!’ cried her mother; and then, turning to
me, ‘I will tell you all, sir. Do not imagine that my agitation on
behalf of my son arises from any fear lest he should have had a hand in
this terrible affair. He is utterly innocent of it. My dread is,
however, that in your eyes and in the eyes of others he may appear to
be compromised. That however is surely impossible. His high character,
his profession, his antecedents would all forbid it.’

“‘Your best way is to make a clean breast of the facts,’ I answered.
‘Depend upon it, if your son is innocent he will be none the worse.’

“‘Perhaps, Alice, you had better leave us together,’ she said, and her
daughter withdrew. ‘Now, sir,’ she continued, ‘I had no intention of
telling you all this, but since my poor daughter has disclosed it I
have no alternative. Having once decided to speak, I will tell you all
without omitting any particular.’

“‘It is your wisest course,’ said I.

“‘Mr. Drebber has been with us nearly three weeks. He and his
secretary, Mr. Stangerson, had been travelling on the Continent. I
noticed a “Copenhagen” label upon each of their trunks, showing that
that had been their last stopping place. Stangerson was a quiet
reserved man, but his employer, I am sorry to say, was far otherwise.
He was coarse in his habits and brutish in his ways. The very night of
his arrival he became very much the worse for drink, and, indeed, after
twelve o’clock in the day he could hardly ever be said to be sober. His
manners towards the maid-servants were disgustingly free and familiar.
Worst of all, he speedily assumed the same attitude towards my
daughter, Alice, and spoke to her more than once in a way which,
fortunately, she is too innocent to understand. On one occasion he
actually seized her in his arms and embraced her—an outrage which
caused his own secretary to reproach him for his unmanly conduct.’

“‘But why did you stand all this?’ I asked. ‘I suppose that you can get
rid of your boarders when you wish.’

“Mrs. Charpentier blushed at my pertinent question. ‘Would to God that
I had given him notice on the very day that he came,’ she said. ‘But it
was a sore temptation. They were paying a pound a day each—fourteen
pounds a week, and this is the slack season. I am a widow, and my boy
in the Navy has cost me much. I grudged to lose the money. I acted for
the best. This last was too much, however, and I gave him notice to
leave on account of it. That was the reason of his going.’

“‘Well?’

“‘My heart grew light when I saw him drive away. My son is on leave
just now, but I did not tell him anything of all this, for his temper
is violent, and he is passionately fond of his sister. When I closed
the door behind them a load seemed to be lifted from my mind. Alas, in
less than an hour there was a ring at the bell, and I learned that Mr.
Drebber had returned. He was much excited, and evidently the worse for
drink. He forced his way into the room, where I was sitting with my
daughter, and made some incoherent remark about having missed his
train. He then turned to Alice, and before my very face, proposed to
her that she should fly with him. “You are of age,” he said, “and there
is no law to stop you. I have money enough and to spare. Never mind the
old girl here, but come along with me now straight away. You shall live
like a princess.” Poor Alice was so frightened that she shrunk away
from him, but he caught her by the wrist and endeavoured to draw her
towards the door. I screamed, and at that moment my son Arthur came
into the room. What happened then I do not know. I heard oaths and the
confused sounds of a scuffle. I was too terrified to raise my head.
When I did look up I saw Arthur standing in the doorway laughing, with
a stick in his hand. “I don’t think that fine fellow will trouble us
again,” he said. “I will just go after him and see what he does with
himself.” With those words he took his hat and started off down the
street. The next morning we heard of Mr. Drebber’s mysterious death.’

“This statement came from Mrs. Charpentier’s lips with many gasps and
pauses. At times she spoke so low that I could hardly catch the words.
I made shorthand notes of all that she said, however, so that there
should be no possibility of a mistake.”

“It’s quite exciting,” said Sherlock Holmes, with a yawn. “What
happened next?”

“When Mrs. Charpentier paused,” the detective continued, “I saw that
the whole case hung upon one point. Fixing her with my eye in a way
which I always found effective with women, I asked her at what hour her
son returned.

“‘I do not know,’ she answered.

“‘Not know?’

“‘No; he has a latch-key, and he let himself in.’

“‘After you went to bed?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘When did you go to bed?’

“‘About eleven.’

“‘So your son was gone at least two hours?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘Possibly four or five?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘What was he doing during that time?’

“‘I do not know,’ she answered, turning white to her very lips.

“Of course after that there was nothing more to be done. I found out
where Lieutenant Charpentier was, took two officers with me, and
arrested him. When I touched him on the shoulder and warned him to come
quietly with us, he answered us as bold as brass, ‘I suppose you are
arresting me for being concerned in the death of that scoundrel
Drebber,’ he said. We had said nothing to him about it, so that his
alluding to it had a most suspicious aspect.”

“Very,” said Holmes.

“He still carried the heavy stick which the mother described him as
having with him when he followed Drebber. It was a stout oak cudgel.”

“What is your theory, then?”

“Well, my theory is that he followed Drebber as far as the Brixton
Road. When there, a fresh altercation arose between them, in the course
of which Drebber received a blow from the stick, in the pit of the
stomach, perhaps, which killed him without leaving any mark. The night
was so wet that no one was about, so Charpentier dragged the body of
his victim into the empty house. As to the candle, and the blood, and
the writing on the wall, and the ring, they may all be so many tricks
to throw the police on to the wrong scent.”

“Well done!” said Holmes in an encouraging voice. “Really, Gregson, you
are getting along. We shall make something of you yet.”

“I flatter myself that I have managed it rather neatly,” the detective
answered proudly. “The young man volunteered a statement, in which he
said that after following Drebber some time, the latter perceived him,
and took a cab in order to get away from him. On his way home he met an
old shipmate, and took a long walk with him. On being asked where this
old shipmate lived, he was unable to give any satisfactory reply. I
think the whole case fits together uncommonly well. What amuses me is
to think of Lestrade, who had started off upon the wrong scent. I am
afraid he won’t make much of it. Why, by Jove, here’s the very man
himself!”

It was indeed Lestrade, who had ascended the stairs while we were
talking, and who now entered the room. The assurance and jauntiness
which generally marked his demeanour and dress were, however, wanting.
His face was disturbed and troubled, while his clothes were disarranged
and untidy. He had evidently come with the intention of consulting with
Sherlock Holmes, for on perceiving his colleague he appeared to be
embarrassed and put out. He stood in the centre of the room, fumbling
nervously with his hat and uncertain what to do. “This is a most
extraordinary case,” he said at last—“a most incomprehensible affair.”

“Ah, you find it so, Mr. Lestrade!” cried Gregson, triumphantly. “I
thought you would come to that conclusion. Have you managed to find the
Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson?”

“The Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson,” said Lestrade gravely, “was
murdered at Halliday’s Private Hotel about six o’clock this morning.”




CHAPTER VII.
LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS.


The intelligence with which Lestrade greeted us was so momentous and so
unexpected, that we were all three fairly dumfoundered. Gregson sprang
out of his chair and upset the remainder of his whiskey and water. I
stared in silence at Sherlock Holmes, whose lips were compressed and
his brows drawn down over his eyes.

“Stangerson too!” he muttered. “The plot thickens.”

“It was quite thick enough before,” grumbled Lestrade, taking a chair.
“I seem to have dropped into a sort of council of war.”

“Are you—are you sure of this piece of intelligence?” stammered
Gregson.

“I have just come from his room,” said Lestrade. “I was the first to
discover what had occurred.”

“We have been hearing Gregson’s view of the matter,” Holmes observed.
“Would you mind letting us know what you have seen and done?”

“I have no objection,” Lestrade answered, seating himself. “I freely
confess that I was of the opinion that Stangerson was concerned in the
death of Drebber. This fresh development has shown me that I was
completely mistaken. Full of the one idea, I set myself to find out
what had become of the Secretary. They had been seen together at Euston
Station about half-past eight on the evening of the third. At two in
the morning Drebber had been found in the Brixton Road. The question
which confronted me was to find out how Stangerson had been employed
between 8.30 and the time of the crime, and what had become of him
afterwards. I telegraphed to Liverpool, giving a description of the
man, and warning them to keep a watch upon the American boats. I then
set to work calling upon all the hotels and lodging-houses in the
vicinity of Euston. You see, I argued that if Drebber and his companion
had become separated, the natural course for the latter would be to put
up somewhere in the vicinity for the night, and then to hang about the
station again next morning.”

“They would be likely to agree on some meeting-place beforehand,”
remarked Holmes.

“So it proved. I spent the whole of yesterday evening in making
enquiries entirely without avail. This morning I began very early, and
at eight o’clock I reached Halliday’s Private Hotel, in Little George
Street. On my enquiry as to whether a Mr. Stangerson was living there,
they at once answered me in the affirmative.

“‘No doubt you are the gentleman whom he was expecting,’ they said. ‘He
has been waiting for a gentleman for two days.’

“‘Where is he now?’ I asked.

“‘He is upstairs in bed. He wished to be called at nine.’

“‘I will go up and see him at once,’ I said.

“It seemed to me that my sudden appearance might shake his nerves and
lead him to say something unguarded. The Boots volunteered to show me
the room: it was on the second floor, and there was a small corridor
leading up to it. The Boots pointed out the door to me, and was about
to go downstairs again when I saw something that made me feel sickish,
in spite of my twenty years’ experience. From under the door there
curled a little red ribbon of blood, which had meandered across the
passage and formed a little pool along the skirting at the other side.
I gave a cry, which brought the Boots back. He nearly fainted when he
saw it. The door was locked on the inside, but we put our shoulders to
it, and knocked it in. The window of the room was open, and beside the
window, all huddled up, lay the body of a man in his nightdress. He was
quite dead, and had been for some time, for his limbs were rigid and
cold. When we turned him over, the Boots recognized him at once as
being the same gentleman who had engaged the room under the name of
Joseph Stangerson. The cause of death was a deep stab in the left side,
which must have penetrated the heart. And now comes the strangest part
of the affair. What do you suppose was above the murdered man?”

I felt a creeping of the flesh, and a presentiment of coming horror,
even before Sherlock Holmes answered.

“The word RACHE, written in letters of blood,” he said.

“That was it,” said Lestrade, in an awe-struck voice; and we were all
silent for a while.

There was something so methodical and so incomprehensible about the
deeds of this unknown assassin, that it imparted a fresh ghastliness to
his crimes. My nerves, which were steady enough on the field of battle
tingled as I thought of it.

“The man was seen,” continued Lestrade. “A milk boy, passing on his way
to the dairy, happened to walk down the lane which leads from the mews
at the back of the hotel. He noticed that a ladder, which usually lay
there, was raised against one of the windows of the second floor, which
was wide open. After passing, he looked back and saw a man descend the
ladder. He came down so quietly and openly that the boy imagined him to
be some carpenter or joiner at work in the hotel. He took no particular
notice of him, beyond thinking in his own mind that it was early for
him to be at work. He has an impression that the man was tall, had a
reddish face, and was dressed in a long, brownish coat. He must have
stayed in the room some little time after the murder, for we found
blood-stained water in the basin, where he had washed his hands, and
marks on the sheets where he had deliberately wiped his knife.”

I glanced at Holmes on hearing the description of the murderer, which
tallied so exactly with his own. There was, however, no trace of
exultation or satisfaction upon his face.

“Did you find nothing in the room which could furnish a clue to the
murderer?” he asked.

“Nothing. Stangerson had Drebber’s purse in his pocket, but it seems
that this was usual, as he did all the paying. There was eighty odd
pounds in it, but nothing had been taken. Whatever the motives of these
extraordinary crimes, robbery is certainly not one of them. There were
no papers or memoranda in the murdered man’s pocket, except a single
telegram, dated from Cleveland about a month ago, and containing the
words, ‘J. H. is in Europe.’ There was no name appended to this
message.”

“And there was nothing else?” Holmes asked.

“Nothing of any importance. The man’s novel, with which he had read
himself to sleep was lying upon the bed, and his pipe was on a chair
beside him. There was a glass of water on the table, and on the
window-sill a small chip ointment box containing a couple of pills.”

Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with an exclamation of delight.

“The last link,” he cried, exultantly. “My case is complete.”

The two detectives stared at him in amazement.

“I have now in my hands,” my companion said, confidently, “all the
threads which have formed such a tangle. There are, of course, details
to be filled in, but I am as certain of all the main facts, from the
time that Drebber parted from Stangerson at the station, up to the
discovery of the body of the latter, as if I had seen them with my own
eyes. I will give you a proof of my knowledge. Could you lay your hand
upon those pills?”

“I have them,” said Lestrade, producing a small white box; “I took them
and the purse and the telegram, intending to have them put in a place
of safety at the Police Station. It was the merest chance my taking
these pills, for I am bound to say that I do not attach any importance
to them.”

“Give them here,” said Holmes. “Now, Doctor,” turning to me, “are those
ordinary pills?”

They certainly were not. They were of a pearly grey colour, small,
round, and almost transparent against the light. “From their lightness
and transparency, I should imagine that they are soluble in water,” I
remarked.

“Precisely so,” answered Holmes. “Now would you mind going down and
fetching that poor little devil of a terrier which has been bad so
long, and which the landlady wanted you to put out of its pain
yesterday.”

I went downstairs and carried the dog upstairs in my arms. Its laboured
breathing and glazing eye showed that it was not far from its end.
Indeed, its snow-white muzzle proclaimed that it had already exceeded
the usual term of canine existence. I placed it upon a cushion on the
rug.

“I will now cut one of these pills in two,” said Holmes, and drawing
his penknife he suited the action to the word. “One half we return into
the box for future purposes. The other half I will place in this wine
glass, in which is a teaspoonful of water. You perceive that our
friend, the Doctor, is right, and that it readily dissolves.”

“This may be very interesting,” said Lestrade, in the injured tone of
one who suspects that he is being laughed at, “I cannot see, however,
what it has to do with the death of Mr. Joseph Stangerson.”

“Patience, my friend, patience! You will find in time that it has
everything to do with it. I shall now add a little milk to make the
mixture palatable, and on presenting it to the dog we find that he laps
it up readily enough.”

As he spoke he turned the contents of the wine glass into a saucer and
placed it in front of the terrier, who speedily licked it dry. Sherlock
Holmes’ earnest demeanour had so far convinced us that we all sat in
silence, watching the animal intently, and expecting some startling
effect. None such appeared, however. The dog continued to lie stretched
upon the cushion, breathing in a laboured way, but apparently neither
the better nor the worse for its draught.

Holmes had taken out his watch, and as minute followed minute without
result, an expression of the utmost chagrin and disappointment appeared
upon his features. He gnawed his lip, drummed his fingers upon the
table, and showed every other symptom of acute impatience. So great was
his emotion, that I felt sincerely sorry for him, while the two
detectives smiled derisively, by no means displeased at this check
which he had met.

“It can’t be a coincidence,” he cried, at last springing from his chair
and pacing wildly up and down the room; “it is impossible that it
should be a mere coincidence. The very pills which I suspected in the
case of Drebber are actually found after the death of Stangerson. And
yet they are inert. What can it mean? Surely my whole chain of
reasoning cannot have been false. It is impossible! And yet this
wretched dog is none the worse. Ah, I have it! I have it!” With a
perfect shriek of delight he rushed to the box, cut the other pill in
two, dissolved it, added milk, and presented it to the terrier. The
unfortunate creature’s tongue seemed hardly to have been moistened in
it before it gave a convulsive shiver in every limb, and lay as rigid
and lifeless as if it had been struck by lightning.

Sherlock Holmes drew a long breath, and wiped the perspiration from his
forehead. “I should have more faith,” he said; “I ought to know by this
time that when a fact appears to be opposed to a long train of
deductions, it invariably proves to be capable of bearing some other
interpretation. Of the two pills in that box one was of the most deadly
poison, and the other was entirely harmless. I ought to have known that
before ever I saw the box at all.”

This last statement appeared to me to be so startling, that I could
hardly believe that he was in his sober senses. There was the dead dog,
however, to prove that his conjecture had been correct. It seemed to me
that the mists in my own mind were gradually clearing away, and I began
to have a dim, vague perception of the truth.

“All this seems strange to you,” continued Holmes, “because you failed
at the beginning of the inquiry to grasp the importance of the single
real clue which was presented to you. I had the good fortune to seize
upon that, and everything which has occurred since then has served to
confirm my original supposition, and, indeed, was the logical sequence
of it. Hence things which have perplexed you and made the case more
obscure, have served to enlighten me and to strengthen my conclusions.
It is a mistake to confound strangeness with mystery. The most
commonplace crime is often the most mysterious because it presents no
new or special features from which deductions may be drawn. This murder
would have been infinitely more difficult to unravel had the body of
the victim been simply found lying in the roadway without any of those
_outré_ and sensational accompaniments which have rendered it
remarkable. These strange details, far from making the case more
difficult, have really had the effect of making it less so.”

Mr. Gregson, who had listened to this address with considerable
impatience, could contain himself no longer. “Look here, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes,” he said, “we are all ready to acknowledge that you are a smart
man, and that you have your own methods of working. We want something
more than mere theory and preaching now, though. It is a case of taking
the man. I have made my case out, and it seems I was wrong. Young
Charpentier could not have been engaged in this second affair. Lestrade
went after his man, Stangerson, and it appears that he was wrong too.
You have thrown out hints here, and hints there, and seem to know more
than we do, but the time has come when we feel that we have a right to
ask you straight how much you do know of the business. Can you name the
man who did it?”

“I cannot help feeling that Gregson is right, sir,” remarked Lestrade.
“We have both tried, and we have both failed. You have remarked more
than once since I have been in the room that you had all the evidence
which you require. Surely you will not withhold it any longer.”

“Any delay in arresting the assassin,” I observed, “might give him time
to perpetrate some fresh atrocity.”

Thus pressed by us all, Holmes showed signs of irresolution. He
continued to walk up and down the room with his head sunk on his chest
and his brows drawn down, as was his habit when lost in thought.

“There will be no more murders,” he said at last, stopping abruptly and
facing us. “You can put that consideration out of the question. You
have asked me if I know the name of the assassin. I do. The mere
knowing of his name is a small thing, however, compared with the power
of laying our hands upon him. This I expect very shortly to do. I have
good hopes of managing it through my own arrangements; but it is a
thing which needs delicate handling, for we have a shrewd and desperate
man to deal with, who is supported, as I have had occasion to prove, by
another who is as clever as himself. As long as this man has no idea
that anyone can have a clue there is some chance of securing him; but
if he had the slightest suspicion, he would change his name, and vanish
in an instant among the four million inhabitants of this great city.
Without meaning to hurt either of your feelings, I am bound to say that
I consider these men to be more than a match for the official force,
and that is why I have not asked your assistance. If I fail I shall, of
course, incur all the blame due to this omission; but that I am
prepared for. At present I am ready to promise that the instant that I
can communicate with you without endangering my own combinations, I
shall do so.”

Gregson and Lestrade seemed to be far from satisfied by this assurance,
or by the depreciating allusion to the detective police. The former had
flushed up to the roots of his flaxen hair, while the other’s beady
eyes glistened with curiosity and resentment. Neither of them had time
to speak, however, before there was a tap at the door, and the
spokesman of the street Arabs, young Wiggins, introduced his
insignificant and unsavoury person.

“Please, sir,” he said, touching his forelock, “I have the cab
downstairs.”

“Good boy,” said Holmes, blandly. “Why don’t you introduce this pattern
at Scotland Yard?” he continued, taking a pair of steel handcuffs from
a drawer. “See how beautifully the spring works. They fasten in an
instant.”

“The old pattern is good enough,” remarked Lestrade, “if we can only
find the man to put them on.”

“Very good, very good,” said Holmes, smiling. “The cabman may as well
help me with my boxes. Just ask him to step up, Wiggins.”

I was surprised to find my companion speaking as though he were about
to set out on a journey, since he had not said anything to me about it.
There was a small portmanteau in the room, and this he pulled out and
began to strap. He was busily engaged at it when the cabman entered the
room.

“Just give me a help with this buckle, cabman,” he said, kneeling over
his task, and never turning his head.

The fellow came forward with a somewhat sullen, defiant air, and put
down his hands to assist. At that instant there was a sharp click, the
jangling of metal, and Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet again.

“Gentlemen,” he cried, with flashing eyes, “let me introduce you to Mr.
Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber and of Joseph
Stangerson.”

The whole thing occurred in a moment—so quickly that I had no time to
realize it. I have a vivid recollection of that instant, of Holmes’
triumphant expression and the ring of his voice, of the cabman’s dazed,
savage face, as he glared at the glittering handcuffs, which had
appeared as if by magic upon his wrists. For a second or two we might
have been a group of statues. Then, with an inarticulate roar of fury,
the prisoner wrenched himself free from Holmes’s grasp, and hurled
himself through the window. Woodwork and glass gave way before him; but
before he got quite through, Gregson, Lestrade, and Holmes sprang upon
him like so many staghounds. He was dragged back into the room, and
then commenced a terrific conflict. So powerful and so fierce was he,
that the four of us were shaken off again and again. He appeared to
have the convulsive strength of a man in an epileptic fit. His face and
hands were terribly mangled by his passage through the glass, but loss
of blood had no effect in diminishing his resistance. It was not until
Lestrade succeeded in getting his hand inside his neckcloth and
half-strangling him that we made him realize that his struggles were of
no avail; and even then we felt no security until we had pinioned his
feet as well as his hands. That done, we rose to our feet breathless
and panting.

“We have his cab,” said Sherlock Holmes. “It will serve to take him to
Scotland Yard. And now, gentlemen,” he continued, with a pleasant
smile, “we have reached the end of our little mystery. You are very
welcome to put any questions that you like to me now, and there is no
danger that I will refuse to answer them.”




PART II.
_The Country of the Saints._




CHAPTER I.
ON THE GREAT ALKALI PLAIN.


In the central portion of the great North American Continent there lies
an arid and repulsive desert, which for many a long year served as a
barrier against the advance of civilisation. From the Sierra Nevada to
Nebraska, and from the Yellowstone River in the north to the Colorado
upon the south, is a region of desolation and silence. Nor is Nature
always in one mood throughout this grim district. It comprises
snow-capped and lofty mountains, and dark and gloomy valleys. There are
swift-flowing rivers which dash through jagged cañons; and there are
enormous plains, which in winter are white with snow, and in summer are
grey with the saline alkali dust. They all preserve, however, the
common characteristics of barrenness, inhospitality, and misery.

There are no inhabitants of this land of despair. A band of Pawnees or
of Blackfeet may occasionally traverse it in order to reach other
hunting-grounds, but the hardiest of the braves are glad to lose sight
of those awesome plains, and to find themselves once more upon their
prairies. The coyote skulks among the scrub, the buzzard flaps heavily
through the air, and the clumsy grizzly bear lumbers through the dark
ravines, and picks up such sustenance as it can amongst the rocks.
These are the sole dwellers in the wilderness.

In the whole world there can be no more dreary view than that from the
northern slope of the Sierra Blanco. As far as the eye can reach
stretches the great flat plain-land, all dusted over with patches of
alkali, and intersected by clumps of the dwarfish chaparral bushes. On
the extreme verge of the horizon lie a long chain of mountain peaks,
with their rugged summits flecked with snow. In this great stretch of
country there is no sign of life, nor of anything appertaining to life.
There is no bird in the steel-blue heaven, no movement upon the dull,
grey earth—above all, there is absolute silence. Listen as one may,
there is no shadow of a sound in all that mighty wilderness; nothing
but silence—complete and heart-subduing silence.

It has been said there is nothing appertaining to life upon the broad
plain. That is hardly true. Looking down from the Sierra Blanco, one
sees a pathway traced out across the desert, which winds away and is
lost in the extreme distance. It is rutted with wheels and trodden down
by the feet of many adventurers. Here and there there are scattered
white objects which glisten in the sun, and stand out against the dull
deposit of alkali. Approach, and examine them! They are bones: some
large and coarse, others smaller and more delicate. The former have
belonged to oxen, and the latter to men. For fifteen hundred miles one
may trace this ghastly caravan route by these scattered remains of
those who had fallen by the wayside.

Looking down on this very scene, there stood upon the fourth of May,
eighteen hundred and forty-seven, a solitary traveller. His appearance
was such that he might have been the very genius or demon of the
region. An observer would have found it difficult to say whether he was
nearer to forty or to sixty. His face was lean and haggard, and the
brown parchment-like skin was drawn tightly over the projecting bones;
his long, brown hair and beard were all flecked and dashed with white;
his eyes were sunken in his head, and burned with an unnatural lustre;
while the hand which grasped his rifle was hardly more fleshy than that
of a skeleton. As he stood, he leaned upon his weapon for support, and
yet his tall figure and the massive framework of his bones suggested a
wiry and vigorous constitution. His gaunt face, however, and his
clothes, which hung so baggily over his shrivelled limbs, proclaimed
what it was that gave him that senile and decrepit appearance. The man
was dying—dying from hunger and from thirst.

He had toiled painfully down the ravine, and on to this little
elevation, in the vain hope of seeing some signs of water. Now the
great salt plain stretched before his eyes, and the distant belt of
savage mountains, without a sign anywhere of plant or tree, which might
indicate the presence of moisture. In all that broad landscape there
was no gleam of hope. North, and east, and west he looked with wild
questioning eyes, and then he realised that his wanderings had come to
an end, and that there, on that barren crag, he was about to die. “Why
not here, as well as in a feather bed, twenty years hence,” he
muttered, as he seated himself in the shelter of a boulder.

Before sitting down, he had deposited upon the ground his useless
rifle, and also a large bundle tied up in a grey shawl, which he had
carried slung over his right shoulder. It appeared to be somewhat too
heavy for his strength, for in lowering it, it came down on the ground
with some little violence. Instantly there broke from the grey parcel a
little moaning cry, and from it there protruded a small, scared face,
with very bright brown eyes, and two little speckled, dimpled fists.

“You’ve hurt me!” said a childish voice reproachfully.

“Have I though,” the man answered penitently, “I didn’t go for to do
it.” As he spoke he unwrapped the grey shawl and extricated a pretty
little girl of about five years of age, whose dainty shoes and smart
pink frock with its little linen apron all bespoke a mother’s care. The
child was pale and wan, but her healthy arms and legs showed that she
had suffered less than her companion.

“How is it now?” he answered anxiously, for she was still rubbing the
towsy golden curls which covered the back of her head.

“Kiss it and make it well,” she said, with perfect gravity, showing the
injured part up to him. “That’s what mother used to do. Where’s
mother?”

“Mother’s gone. I guess you’ll see her before long.”

“Gone, eh!” said the little girl. “Funny, she didn’t say good-bye; she
‘most always did if she was just goin’ over to Auntie’s for tea, and
now she’s been away three days. Say, it’s awful dry, ain’t it? Ain’t
there no water, nor nothing to eat?”

“No, there ain’t nothing, dearie. You’ll just need to be patient
awhile, and then you’ll be all right. Put your head up agin me like
that, and then you’ll feel bullier. It ain’t easy to talk when your
lips is like leather, but I guess I’d best let you know how the cards
lie. What’s that you’ve got?”

“Pretty things! fine things!” cried the little girl enthusiastically,
holding up two glittering fragments of mica. “When we goes back to home
I’ll give them to brother Bob.”

“You’ll see prettier things than them soon,” said the man confidently.
“You just wait a bit. I was going to tell you though—you remember when
we left the river?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, we reckoned we’d strike another river soon, d’ye see. But there
was somethin’ wrong; compasses, or map, or somethin’, and it didn’t
turn up. Water ran out. Just except a little drop for the likes of you
and—and——”

“And you couldn’t wash yourself,” interrupted his companion gravely,
staring up at his grimy visage.

“No, nor drink. And Mr. Bender, he was the fust to go, and then Indian
Pete, and then Mrs. McGregor, and then Johnny Hones, and then, dearie,
your mother.”

“Then mother’s a deader too,” cried the little girl dropping her face
in her pinafore and sobbing bitterly.

“Yes, they all went except you and me. Then I thought there was some
chance of water in this direction, so I heaved you over my shoulder and
we tramped it together. It don’t seem as though we’ve improved matters.
There’s an almighty small chance for us now!”

“Do you mean that we are going to die too?” asked the child, checking
her sobs, and raising her tear-stained face.

“I guess that’s about the size of it.”

“Why didn’t you say so before?” she said, laughing gleefully. “You gave
me such a fright. Why, of course, now as long as we die we’ll be with
mother again.”

“Yes, you will, dearie.”

“And you too. I’ll tell her how awful good you’ve been. I’ll bet she
meets us at the door of Heaven with a big pitcher of water, and a lot
of buckwheat cakes, hot, and toasted on both sides, like Bob and me was
fond of. How long will it be first?”

“I don’t know—not very long.” The man’s eyes were fixed upon the
northern horizon. In the blue vault of the heaven there had appeared
three little specks which increased in size every moment, so rapidly
did they approach. They speedily resolved themselves into three large
brown birds, which circled over the heads of the two wanderers, and
then settled upon some rocks which overlooked them. They were buzzards,
the vultures of the west, whose coming is the forerunner of death.

“Cocks and hens,” cried the little girl gleefully, pointing at their
ill-omened forms, and clapping her hands to make them rise. “Say, did
God make this country?”

“In course He did,” said her companion, rather startled by this
unexpected question.

“He made the country down in Illinois, and He made the Missouri,” the
little girl continued. “I guess somebody else made the country in these
parts. It’s not nearly so well done. They forgot the water and the
trees.”

“What would ye think of offering up prayer?” the man asked diffidently.

“It ain’t night yet,” she answered.

“It don’t matter. It ain’t quite regular, but He won’t mind that, you
bet. You say over them ones that you used to say every night in the
waggon when we was on the Plains.”

“Why don’t you say some yourself?” the child asked, with wondering
eyes.

“I disremember them,” he answered. “I hain’t said none since I was half
the height o’ that gun. I guess it’s never too late. You say them out,
and I’ll stand by and come in on the choruses.”

“Then you’ll need to kneel down, and me too,” she said, laying the
shawl out for that purpose. “You’ve got to put your hands up like this.
It makes you feel kind o’ good.”

It was a strange sight had there been anything but the buzzards to see
it. Side by side on the narrow shawl knelt the two wanderers, the
little prattling child and the reckless, hardened adventurer. Her
chubby face, and his haggard, angular visage were both turned up to the
cloudless heaven in heartfelt entreaty to that dread being with whom
they were face to face, while the two voices—the one thin and clear,
the other deep and harsh—united in the entreaty for mercy and
forgiveness. The prayer finished, they resumed their seat in the shadow
of the boulder until the child fell asleep, nestling upon the broad
breast of her protector. He watched over her slumber for some time, but
Nature proved to be too strong for him. For three days and three nights
he had allowed himself neither rest nor repose. Slowly the eyelids
drooped over the tired eyes, and the head sunk lower and lower upon the
breast, until the man’s grizzled beard was mixed with the gold tresses
of his companion, and both slept the same deep and dreamless slumber.

Had the wanderer remained awake for another half hour a strange sight
would have met his eyes. Far away on the extreme verge of the alkali
plain there rose up a little spray of dust, very slight at first, and
hardly to be distinguished from the mists of the distance, but
gradually growing higher and broader until it formed a solid,
well-defined cloud. This cloud continued to increase in size until it
became evident that it could only be raised by a great multitude of
moving creatures. In more fertile spots the observer would have come to
the conclusion that one of those great herds of bisons which graze upon
the prairie land was approaching him. This was obviously impossible in
these arid wilds. As the whirl of dust drew nearer to the solitary
bluff upon which the two castaways were reposing, the canvas-covered
tilts of waggons and the figures of armed horsemen began to show up
through the haze, and the apparition revealed itself as being a great
caravan upon its journey for the West. But what a caravan! When the
head of it had reached the base of the mountains, the rear was not yet
visible on the horizon. Right across the enormous plain stretched the
straggling array, waggons and carts, men on horseback, and men on foot.
Innumerable women who staggered along under burdens, and children who
toddled beside the waggons or peeped out from under the white
coverings. This was evidently no ordinary party of immigrants, but
rather some nomad people who had been compelled from stress of
circumstances to seek themselves a new country. There rose through the
clear air a confused clattering and rumbling from this great mass of
humanity, with the creaking of wheels and the neighing of horses. Loud
as it was, it was not sufficient to rouse the two tired wayfarers above
them.

At the head of the column there rode a score or more of grave ironfaced
men, clad in sombre homespun garments and armed with rifles. On
reaching the base of the bluff they halted, and held a short council
among themselves.

“The wells are to the right, my brothers,” said one, a hard-lipped,
clean-shaven man with grizzly hair.

“To the right of the Sierra Blanco—so we shall reach the Rio Grande,”
said another.

“Fear not for water,” cried a third. “He who could draw it from the
rocks will not now abandon His own chosen people.”

“Amen! Amen!” responded the whole party.

They were about to resume their journey when one of the youngest and
keenest-eyed uttered an exclamation and pointed up at the rugged crag
above them. From its summit there fluttered a little wisp of pink,
showing up hard and bright against the grey rocks behind. At the sight
there was a general reining up of horses and unslinging of guns, while
fresh horsemen came galloping up to reinforce the vanguard. The word
“Redskins” was on every lip.

“There can’t be any number of Injuns here,” said the elderly man who
appeared to be in command. “We have passed the Pawnees, and there are
no other tribes until we cross the great mountains.”

“Shall I go forward and see, Brother Stangerson,” asked one of the
band.

“And I,” “and I,” cried a dozen voices.

“Leave your horses below and we will await you here,” the Elder
answered. In a moment the young fellows had dismounted, fastened their
horses, and were ascending the precipitous slope which led up to the
object which had excited their curiosity. They advanced rapidly and
noiselessly, with the confidence and dexterity of practised scouts. The
watchers from the plain below could see them flit from rock to rock
until their figures stood out against the skyline. The young man who
had first given the alarm was leading them. Suddenly his followers saw
him throw up his hands, as though overcome with astonishment, and on
joining him they were affected in the same way by the sight which met
their eyes.

On the little plateau which crowned the barren hill there stood a
single giant boulder, and against this boulder there lay a tall man,
long-bearded and hard-featured, but of an excessive thinness. His
placid face and regular breathing showed that he was fast asleep.
Beside him lay a little child, with her round white arms encircling his
brown sinewy neck, and her golden haired head resting upon the breast
of his velveteen tunic. Her rosy lips were parted, showing the regular
line of snow-white teeth within, and a playful smile played over her
infantile features. Her plump little white legs terminating in white
socks and neat shoes with shining buckles, offered a strange contrast
to the long shrivelled members of her companion. On the ledge of rock
above this strange couple there stood three solemn buzzards, who, at
the sight of the new comers uttered raucous screams of disappointment
and flapped sullenly away.

The cries of the foul birds awoke the two sleepers who stared about
them in bewilderment. The man staggered to his feet and looked down
upon the plain which had been so desolate when sleep had overtaken him,
and which was now traversed by this enormous body of men and of beasts.
His face assumed an expression of incredulity as he gazed, and he
passed his boney hand over his eyes. “This is what they call delirium,
I guess,” he muttered. The child stood beside him, holding on to the
skirt of his coat, and said nothing but looked all round her with the
wondering questioning gaze of childhood.

The rescuing party were speedily able to convince the two castaways
that their appearance was no delusion. One of them seized the little
girl, and hoisted her upon his shoulder, while two others supported her
gaunt companion, and assisted him towards the waggons.

“My name is John Ferrier,” the wanderer explained; “me and that little
un are all that’s left o’ twenty-one people. The rest is all dead o’
thirst and hunger away down in the south.”

“Is she your child?” asked someone.

“I guess she is now,” the other cried, defiantly; “she’s mine ’cause I
saved her. No man will take her from me. She’s Lucy Ferrier from this
day on. Who are you, though?” he continued, glancing with curiosity at
his stalwart, sunburned rescuers; “there seems to be a powerful lot of
ye.”

“Nigh upon ten thousand,” said one of the young men; “we are the
persecuted children of God—the chosen of the Angel Merona.”

“I never heard tell on him,” said the wanderer. “He appears to have
chosen a fair crowd of ye.”

“Do not jest at that which is sacred,” said the other sternly. “We are
of those who believe in those sacred writings, drawn in Egyptian
letters on plates of beaten gold, which were handed unto the holy
Joseph Smith at Palmyra. We have come from Nauvoo, in the State of
Illinois, where we had founded our temple. We have come to seek a
refuge from the violent man and from the godless, even though it be the
heart of the desert.”

The name of Nauvoo evidently recalled recollections to John Ferrier. “I
see,” he said, “you are the Mormons.”

“We are the Mormons,” answered his companions with one voice.

“And where are you going?”

“We do not know. The hand of God is leading us under the person of our
Prophet. You must come before him. He shall say what is to be done with
you.”

They had reached the base of the hill by this time, and were surrounded
by crowds of the pilgrims—pale-faced meek-looking women, strong
laughing children, and anxious earnest-eyed men. Many were the cries of
astonishment and of commiseration which arose from them when they
perceived the youth of one of the strangers and the destitution of the
other. Their escort did not halt, however, but pushed on, followed by a
great crowd of Mormons, until they reached a waggon, which was
conspicuous for its great size and for the gaudiness and smartness of
its appearance. Six horses were yoked to it, whereas the others were
furnished with two, or, at most, four a-piece. Beside the driver there
sat a man who could not have been more than thirty years of age, but
whose massive head and resolute expression marked him as a leader. He
was reading a brown-backed volume, but as the crowd approached he laid
it aside, and listened attentively to an account of the episode. Then
he turned to the two castaways.

“If we take you with us,” he said, in solemn words, “it can only be as
believers in our own creed. We shall have no wolves in our fold. Better
far that your bones should bleach in this wilderness than that you
should prove to be that little speck of decay which in time corrupts
the whole fruit. Will you come with us on these terms?”

“Guess I’ll come with you on any terms,” said Ferrier, with such
emphasis that the grave Elders could not restrain a smile. The leader
alone retained his stern, impressive expression.

“Take him, Brother Stangerson,” he said, “give him food and drink, and
the child likewise. Let it be your task also to teach him our holy
creed. We have delayed long enough. Forward! On, on to Zion!”

“On, on to Zion!” cried the crowd of Mormons, and the words rippled
down the long caravan, passing from mouth to mouth until they died away
in a dull murmur in the far distance. With a cracking of whips and a
creaking of wheels the great waggons got into motion, and soon the
whole caravan was winding along once more. The Elder to whose care the
two waifs had been committed, led them to his waggon, where a meal was
already awaiting them.

“You shall remain here,” he said. “In a few days you will have
recovered from your fatigues. In the meantime, remember that now and
for ever you are of our religion. Brigham Young has said it, and he has
spoken with the voice of Joseph Smith, which is the voice of God.”




CHAPTER II.
THE FLOWER OF UTAH.


This is not the place to commemorate the trials and privations endured
by the immigrant Mormons before they came to their final haven. From
the shores of the Mississippi to the western slopes of the Rocky
Mountains they had struggled on with a constancy almost unparalleled in
history. The savage man, and the savage beast, hunger, thirst, fatigue,
and disease—every impediment which Nature could place in the way, had
all been overcome with Anglo-Saxon tenacity. Yet the long journey and
the accumulated terrors had shaken the hearts of the stoutest among
them. There was not one who did not sink upon his knees in heartfelt
prayer when they saw the broad valley of Utah bathed in the sunlight
beneath them, and learned from the lips of their leader that this was
the promised land, and that these virgin acres were to be theirs for
evermore.

Young speedily proved himself to be a skilful administrator as well as
a resolute chief. Maps were drawn and charts prepared, in which the
future city was sketched out. All around farms were apportioned and
allotted in proportion to the standing of each individual. The
tradesman was put to his trade and the artisan to his calling. In the
town streets and squares sprang up, as if by magic. In the country
there was draining and hedging, planting and clearing, until the next
summer saw the whole country golden with the wheat crop. Everything
prospered in the strange settlement. Above all, the great temple which
they had erected in the centre of the city grew ever taller and larger.
From the first blush of dawn until the closing of the twilight, the
clatter of the hammer and the rasp of the saw was never absent from the
monument which the immigrants erected to Him who had led them safe
through many dangers.

The two castaways, John Ferrier and the little girl who had shared his
fortunes and had been adopted as his daughter, accompanied the Mormons
to the end of their great pilgrimage. Little Lucy Ferrier was borne
along pleasantly enough in Elder Stangerson’s waggon, a retreat which
she shared with the Mormon’s three wives and with his son, a headstrong
forward boy of twelve. Having rallied, with the elasticity of
childhood, from the shock caused by her mother’s death, she soon became
a pet with the women, and reconciled herself to this new life in her
moving canvas-covered home. In the meantime Ferrier having recovered
from his privations, distinguished himself as a useful guide and an
indefatigable hunter. So rapidly did he gain the esteem of his new
companions, that when they reached the end of their wanderings, it was
unanimously agreed that he should be provided with as large and as
fertile a tract of land as any of the settlers, with the exception of
Young himself, and of Stangerson, Kemball, Johnston, and Drebber, who
were the four principal Elders.

On the farm thus acquired John Ferrier built himself a substantial
log-house, which received so many additions in succeeding years that it
grew into a roomy villa. He was a man of a practical turn of mind, keen
in his dealings and skilful with his hands. His iron constitution
enabled him to work morning and evening at improving and tilling his
lands. Hence it came about that his farm and all that belonged to him
prospered exceedingly. In three years he was better off than his
neighbours, in six he was well-to-do, in nine he was rich, and in
twelve there were not half a dozen men in the whole of Salt Lake City
who could compare with him. From the great inland sea to the distant
Wahsatch Mountains there was no name better known than that of John
Ferrier.

There was one way and only one in which he offended the
susceptibilities of his co-religionists. No argument or persuasion
could ever induce him to set up a female establishment after the manner
of his companions. He never gave reasons for this persistent refusal,
but contented himself by resolutely and inflexibly adhering to his
determination. There were some who accused him of lukewarmness in his
adopted religion, and others who put it down to greed of wealth and
reluctance to incur expense. Others, again, spoke of some early love
affair, and of a fair-haired girl who had pined away on the shores of
the Atlantic. Whatever the reason, Ferrier remained strictly celibate.
In every other respect he conformed to the religion of the young
settlement, and gained the name of being an orthodox and
straight-walking man.

Lucy Ferrier grew up within the log-house, and assisted her adopted
father in all his undertakings. The keen air of the mountains and the
balsamic odour of the pine trees took the place of nurse and mother to
the young girl. As year succeeded to year she grew taller and stronger,
her cheek more ruddy, and her step more elastic. Many a wayfarer upon
the high road which ran by Ferrier’s farm felt long-forgotten thoughts
revive in their mind as they watched her lithe girlish figure tripping
through the wheatfields, or met her mounted upon her father’s mustang,
and managing it with all the ease and grace of a true child of the
West. So the bud blossomed into a flower, and the year which saw her
father the richest of the farmers left her as fair a specimen of
American girlhood as could be found in the whole Pacific slope.

It was not the father, however, who first discovered that the child had
developed into the woman. It seldom is in such cases. That mysterious
change is too subtle and too gradual to be measured by dates. Least of
all does the maiden herself know it until the tone of a voice or the
touch of a hand sets her heart thrilling within her, and she learns,
with a mixture of pride and of fear, that a new and a larger nature has
awoken within her. There are few who cannot recall that day and
remember the one little incident which heralded the dawn of a new life.
In the case of Lucy Ferrier the occasion was serious enough in itself,
apart from its future influence on her destiny and that of many
besides.

It was a warm June morning, and the Latter Day Saints were as busy as
the bees whose hive they have chosen for their emblem. In the fields
and in the streets rose the same hum of human industry. Down the dusty
high roads defiled long streams of heavily-laden mules, all heading to
the west, for the gold fever had broken out in California, and the
Overland Route lay through the City of the Elect. There, too, were
droves of sheep and bullocks coming in from the outlying pasture lands,
and trains of tired immigrants, men and horses equally weary of their
interminable journey. Through all this motley assemblage, threading her
way with the skill of an accomplished rider, there galloped Lucy
Ferrier, her fair face flushed with the exercise and her long chestnut
hair floating out behind her. She had a commission from her father in
the City, and was dashing in as she had done many a time before, with
all the fearlessness of youth, thinking only of her task and how it was
to be performed. The travel-stained adventurers gazed after her in
astonishment, and even the unemotional Indians, journeying in with
their pelties, relaxed their accustomed stoicism as they marvelled at
the beauty of the pale-faced maiden.

She had reached the outskirts of the city when she found the road
blocked by a great drove of cattle, driven by a half-dozen wild-looking
herdsmen from the plains. In her impatience she endeavoured to pass
this obstacle by pushing her horse into what appeared to be a gap.
Scarcely had she got fairly into it, however, before the beasts closed
in behind her, and she found herself completely imbedded in the moving
stream of fierce-eyed, long-horned bullocks. Accustomed as she was to
deal with cattle, she was not alarmed at her situation, but took
advantage of every opportunity to urge her horse on in the hopes of
pushing her way through the cavalcade. Unfortunately the horns of one
of the creatures, either by accident or design, came in violent contact
with the flank of the mustang, and excited it to madness. In an instant
it reared up upon its hind legs with a snort of rage, and pranced and
tossed in a way that would have unseated any but a most skilful rider.
The situation was full of peril. Every plunge of the excited horse
brought it against the horns again, and goaded it to fresh madness. It
was all that the girl could do to keep herself in the saddle, yet a
slip would mean a terrible death under the hoofs of the unwieldy and
terrified animals. Unaccustomed to sudden emergencies, her head began
to swim, and her grip upon the bridle to relax. Choked by the rising
cloud of dust and by the steam from the struggling creatures, she might
have abandoned her efforts in despair, but for a kindly voice at her
elbow which assured her of assistance. At the same moment a sinewy
brown hand caught the frightened horse by the curb, and forcing a way
through the drove, soon brought her to the outskirts.

“You’re not hurt, I hope, miss,” said her preserver, respectfully.

She looked up at his dark, fierce face, and laughed saucily. “I’m awful
frightened,” she said, naively; “whoever would have thought that Poncho
would have been so scared by a lot of cows?”

“Thank God you kept your seat,” the other said earnestly. He was a
tall, savage-looking young fellow, mounted on a powerful roan horse,
and clad in the rough dress of a hunter, with a long rifle slung over
his shoulders. “I guess you are the daughter of John Ferrier,” he
remarked, “I saw you ride down from his house. When you see him, ask
him if he remembers the Jefferson Hopes of St. Louis. If he’s the same
Ferrier, my father and he were pretty thick.”

“Hadn’t you better come and ask yourself?” she asked, demurely.

The young fellow seemed pleased at the suggestion, and his dark eyes
sparkled with pleasure. “I’ll do so,” he said, “we’ve been in the
mountains for two months, and are not over and above in visiting
condition. He must take us as he finds us.”

“He has a good deal to thank you for, and so have I,” she answered,
“he’s awful fond of me. If those cows had jumped on me he’d have never
got over it.”

“Neither would I,” said her companion.

“You! Well, I don’t see that it would make much matter to you, anyhow.
You ain’t even a friend of ours.”

The young hunter’s dark face grew so gloomy over this remark that Lucy
Ferrier laughed aloud.

“There, I didn’t mean that,” she said; “of course, you are a friend
now. You must come and see us. Now I must push along, or father won’t
trust me with his business any more. Good-bye!”

“Good-bye,” he answered, raising his broad sombrero, and bending over
her little hand. She wheeled her mustang round, gave it a cut with her
riding-whip, and darted away down the broad road in a rolling cloud of
dust.

Young Jefferson Hope rode on with his companions, gloomy and taciturn.
He and they had been among the Nevada Mountains prospecting for silver,
and were returning to Salt Lake City in the hope of raising capital
enough to work some lodes which they had discovered. He had been as
keen as any of them upon the business until this sudden incident had
drawn his thoughts into another channel. The sight of the fair young
girl, as frank and wholesome as the Sierra breezes, had stirred his
volcanic, untamed heart to its very depths. When she had vanished from
his sight, he realized that a crisis had come in his life, and that
neither silver speculations nor any other questions could ever be of
such importance to him as this new and all-absorbing one. The love
which had sprung up in his heart was not the sudden, changeable fancy
of a boy, but rather the wild, fierce passion of a man of strong will
and imperious temper. He had been accustomed to succeed in all that he
undertook. He swore in his heart that he would not fail in this if
human effort and human perseverance could render him successful.

He called on John Ferrier that night, and many times again, until his
face was a familiar one at the farm-house. John, cooped up in the
valley, and absorbed in his work, had had little chance of learning the
news of the outside world during the last twelve years. All this
Jefferson Hope was able to tell him, and in a style which interested
Lucy as well as her father. He had been a pioneer in California, and
could narrate many a strange tale of fortunes made and fortunes lost in
those wild, halcyon days. He had been a scout too, and a trapper, a
silver explorer, and a ranchman. Wherever stirring adventures were to
be had, Jefferson Hope had been there in search of them. He soon became
a favourite with the old farmer, who spoke eloquently of his virtues.
On such occasions, Lucy was silent, but her blushing cheek and her
bright, happy eyes, showed only too clearly that her young heart was no
longer her own. Her honest father may not have observed these symptoms,
but they were assuredly not thrown away upon the man who had won her
affections.

It was a summer evening when he came galloping down the road and pulled
up at the gate. She was at the doorway, and came down to meet him. He
threw the bridle over the fence and strode up the pathway.

“I am off, Lucy,” he said, taking her two hands in his, and gazing
tenderly down into her face; “I won’t ask you to come with me now, but
will you be ready to come when I am here again?”

“And when will that be?” she asked, blushing and laughing.

“A couple of months at the outside. I will come and claim you then, my
darling. There’s no one who can stand between us.”

“And how about father?” she asked.

“He has given his consent, provided we get these mines working all
right. I have no fear on that head.”

“Oh, well; of course, if you and father have arranged it all, there’s
no more to be said,” she whispered, with her cheek against his broad
breast.

“Thank God!” he said, hoarsely, stooping and kissing her. “It is
settled, then. The longer I stay, the harder it will be to go. They are
waiting for me at the cañon. Good-bye, my own darling—good-bye. In two
months you shall see me.”

He tore himself from her as he spoke, and, flinging himself upon his
horse, galloped furiously away, never even looking round, as though
afraid that his resolution might fail him if he took one glance at what
he was leaving. She stood at the gate, gazing after him until he
vanished from her sight. Then she walked back into the house, the
happiest girl in all Utah.




CHAPTER III.
JOHN FERRIER TALKS WITH THE PROPHET.


Three weeks had passed since Jefferson Hope and his comrades had
departed from Salt Lake City. John Ferrier’s heart was sore within him
when he thought of the young man’s return, and of the impending loss of
his adopted child. Yet her bright and happy face reconciled him to the
arrangement more than any argument could have done. He had always
determined, deep down in his resolute heart, that nothing would ever
induce him to allow his daughter to wed a Mormon. Such a marriage he
regarded as no marriage at all, but as a shame and a disgrace. Whatever
he might think of the Mormon doctrines, upon that one point he was
inflexible. He had to seal his mouth on the subject, however, for to
express an unorthodox opinion was a dangerous matter in those days in
the Land of the Saints.

Yes, a dangerous matter—so dangerous that even the most saintly dared
only whisper their religious opinions with bated breath, lest something
which fell from their lips might be misconstrued, and bring down a
swift retribution upon them. The victims of persecution had now turned
persecutors on their own account, and persecutors of the most terrible
description. Not the Inquisition of Seville, nor the German
Vehmgericht, nor the Secret Societies of Italy, were ever able to put
a more formidable machinery in motion than that which cast a cloud over
the State of Utah.

Its invisibility, and the mystery which was attached to it, made this
organization doubly terrible. It appeared to be omniscient and
omnipotent, and yet was neither seen nor heard. The man who held out
against the Church vanished away, and none knew whither he had gone or
what had befallen him. His wife and his children awaited him at home,
but no father ever returned to tell them how he had fared at the hands
of his secret judges. A rash word or a hasty act was followed by
annihilation, and yet none knew what the nature might be of this
terrible power which was suspended over them. No wonder that men went
about in fear and trembling, and that even in the heart of the
wilderness they dared not whisper the doubts which oppressed them.

At first this vague and terrible power was exercised only upon the
recalcitrants who, having embraced the Mormon faith, wished afterwards
to pervert or to abandon it. Soon, however, it took a wider range. The
supply of adult women was running short, and polygamy without a female
population on which to draw was a barren doctrine indeed. Strange
rumours began to be bandied about—rumours of murdered immigrants and
rifled camps in regions where Indians had never been seen. Fresh women
appeared in the harems of the Elders—women who pined and wept, and bore
upon their faces the traces of an unextinguishable horror. Belated
wanderers upon the mountains spoke of gangs of armed men, masked,
stealthy, and noiseless, who flitted by them in the darkness. These
tales and rumours took substance and shape, and were corroborated and
re-corroborated, until they resolved themselves into a definite name.
To this day, in the lonely ranches of the West, the name of the Danite
Band, or the Avenging Angels, is a sinister and an ill-omened one.

Fuller knowledge of the organization which produced such terrible
results served to increase rather than to lessen the horror which it
inspired in the minds of men. None knew who belonged to this ruthless
society. The names of the participators in the deeds of blood and
violence done under the name of religion were kept profoundly secret.
The very friend to whom you communicated your misgivings as to the
Prophet and his mission, might be one of those who would come forth at
night with fire and sword to exact a terrible reparation. Hence every
man feared his neighbour, and none spoke of the things which were
nearest his heart.

One fine morning, John Ferrier was about to set out to his wheatfields,
when he heard the click of the latch, and, looking through the window,
saw a stout, sandy-haired, middle-aged man coming up the pathway. His
heart leapt to his mouth, for this was none other than the great
Brigham Young himself. Full of trepidation—for he knew that such a
visit boded him little good—Ferrier ran to the door to greet the Mormon
chief. The latter, however, received his salutations coldly, and
followed him with a stern face into the sitting-room.

“Brother Ferrier,” he said, taking a seat, and eyeing the farmer keenly
from under his light-coloured eyelashes, “the true believers have been
good friends to you. We picked you up when you were starving in the
desert, we shared our food with you, led you safe to the Chosen Valley,
gave you a goodly share of land, and allowed you to wax rich under our
protection. Is not this so?”

“It is so,” answered John Ferrier.

“In return for all this we asked but one condition: that was, that you
should embrace the true faith, and conform in every way to its usages.
This you promised to do, and this, if common report says truly, you
have neglected.”

“And how have I neglected it?” asked Ferrier, throwing out his hands in
expostulation. “Have I not given to the common fund? Have I not
attended at the Temple? Have I not——?”

“Where are your wives?” asked Young, looking round him. “Call them in,
that I may greet them.”

“It is true that I have not married,” Ferrier answered. “But women were
few, and there were many who had better claims than I. I was not a
lonely man: I had my daughter to attend to my wants.”

“It is of that daughter that I would speak to you,” said the leader of
the Mormons. “She has grown to be the flower of Utah, and has found
favour in the eyes of many who are high in the land.”

John Ferrier groaned internally.

“There are stories of her which I would fain disbelieve—stories that
she is sealed to some Gentile. This must be the gossip of idle tongues.
What is the thirteenth rule in the code of the sainted Joseph Smith?
‘Let every maiden of the true faith marry one of the elect; for if she
wed a Gentile, she commits a grievous sin.’ This being so, it is
impossible that you, who profess the holy creed, should suffer your
daughter to violate it.”

John Ferrier made no answer, but he played nervously with his
riding-whip.

“Upon this one point your whole faith shall be tested—so it has been
decided in the Sacred Council of Four. The girl is young, and we would
not have her wed grey hairs, neither would we deprive her of all
choice. We Elders have many heifers,[1] but our children must also be
provided. Stangerson has a son, and Drebber has a son, and either of
them would gladly welcome your daughter to their house. Let her choose
between them. They are young and rich, and of the true faith. What say
you to that?”

    [1] Heber C. Kemball, in one of his sermons, alludes to his hundred
    wives under this endearing epithet.

Ferrier remained silent for some little time with his brows knitted.

“You will give us time,” he said at last. “My daughter is very
young—she is scarce of an age to marry.”

“She shall have a month to choose,” said Young, rising from his seat.
“At the end of that time she shall give her answer.”

He was passing through the door, when he turned, with flushed face and
flashing eyes. “It were better for you, John Ferrier,” he thundered,
“that you and she were now lying blanched skeletons upon the Sierra
Blanco, than that you should put your weak wills against the orders of
the Holy Four!”

With a threatening gesture of his hand, he turned from the door, and
Ferrier heard his heavy step scrunching along the shingly path.

He was still sitting with his elbows upon his knees, considering how he
should broach the matter to his daughter when a soft hand was laid upon
his, and looking up, he saw her standing beside him. One glance at her
pale, frightened face showed him that she had heard what had passed.

“I could not help it,” she said, in answer to his look. “His voice rang
through the house. Oh, father, father, what shall we do?”

“Don’t you scare yourself,” he answered, drawing her to him, and
passing his broad, rough hand caressingly over her chestnut hair.
“We’ll fix it up somehow or another. You don’t find your fancy kind o’
lessening for this chap, do you?”

A sob and a squeeze of his hand was her only answer.

“No; of course not. I shouldn’t care to hear you say you did. He’s a
likely lad, and he’s a Christian, which is more than these folk here,
in spite o’ all their praying and preaching. There’s a party starting
for Nevada to-morrow, and I’ll manage to send him a message letting him
know the hole we are in. If I know anything o’ that young man, he’ll be
back here with a speed that would whip electro-telegraphs.”

Lucy laughed through her tears at her father’s description.

“When he comes, he will advise us for the best. But it is for you that
I am frightened, dear. One hears—one hears such dreadful stories about
those who oppose the Prophet: something terrible always happens to
them.”

“But we haven’t opposed him yet,” her father answered. “It will be time
to look out for squalls when we do. We have a clear month before us; at
the end of that, I guess we had best shin out of Utah.”

“Leave Utah!”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“But the farm?”

“We will raise as much as we can in money, and let the rest go. To tell
the truth, Lucy, it isn’t the first time I have thought of doing it. I
don’t care about knuckling under to any man, as these folk do to their
darned prophet. I’m a free-born American, and it’s all new to me. Guess
I’m too old to learn. If he comes browsing about this farm, he might
chance to run up against a charge of buckshot travelling in the
opposite direction.”

“But they won’t let us leave,” his daughter objected.

“Wait till Jefferson comes, and we’ll soon manage that. In the
meantime, don’t you fret yourself, my dearie, and don’t get your eyes
swelled up, else he’ll be walking into me when he sees you. There’s
nothing to be afeared about, and there’s no danger at all.”

John Ferrier uttered these consoling remarks in a very confident tone,
but she could not help observing that he paid unusual care to the
fastening of the doors that night, and that he carefully cleaned and
loaded the rusty old shotgun which hung upon the wall of his bedroom.




CHAPTER IV.
A FLIGHT FOR LIFE.


On the morning which followed his interview with the Mormon Prophet,
John Ferrier went in to Salt Lake City, and having found his
acquaintance, who was bound for the Nevada Mountains, he entrusted him
with his message to Jefferson Hope. In it he told the young man of the
imminent danger which threatened them, and how necessary it was that he
should return. Having done thus he felt easier in his mind, and
returned home with a lighter heart.

As he approached his farm, he was surprised to see a horse hitched to
each of the posts of the gate. Still more surprised was he on entering
to find two young men in possession of his sitting-room. One, with a
long pale face, was leaning back in the rocking-chair, with his feet
cocked up upon the stove. The other, a bull-necked youth with coarse
bloated features, was standing in front of the window with his hands in
his pocket, whistling a popular hymn. Both of them nodded to Ferrier as
he entered, and the one in the rocking-chair commenced the
conversation.

“Maybe you don’t know us,” he said. “This here is the son of Elder
Drebber, and I’m Joseph Stangerson, who travelled with you in the
desert when the Lord stretched out His hand and gathered you into the
true fold.”

“As He will all the nations in His own good time,” said the other in a
nasal voice; “He grindeth slowly but exceeding small.”

John Ferrier bowed coldly. He had guessed who his visitors were.

“We have come,” continued Stangerson, “at the advice of our fathers to
solicit the hand of your daughter for whichever of us may seem good to
you and to her. As I have but four wives and Brother Drebber here has
seven, it appears to me that my claim is the stronger one.”

“Nay, nay, Brother Stangerson,” cried the other; “the question is not
how many wives we have, but how many we can keep. My father has now
given over his mills to me, and I am the richer man.”

“But my prospects are better,” said the other, warmly. “When the Lord
removes my father, I shall have his tanning yard and his leather
factory. Then I am your elder, and am higher in the Church.”

“It will be for the maiden to decide,” rejoined young Drebber, smirking
at his own reflection in the glass. “We will leave it all to her
decision.”

During this dialogue, John Ferrier had stood fuming in the doorway,
hardly able to keep his riding-whip from the backs of his two visitors.

“Look here,” he said at last, striding up to them, “when my daughter
summons you, you can come, but until then I don’t want to see your
faces again.”

The two young Mormons stared at him in amazement. In their eyes this
competition between them for the maiden’s hand was the highest of
honours both to her and her father.

“There are two ways out of the room,” cried Ferrier; “there is the
door, and there is the window. Which do you care to use?”

His brown face looked so savage, and his gaunt hands so threatening,
that his visitors sprang to their feet and beat a hurried retreat. The
old farmer followed them to the door.

“Let me know when you have settled which it is to be,” he said,
sardonically.

“You shall smart for this!” Stangerson cried, white with rage. “You
have defied the Prophet and the Council of Four. You shall rue it to
the end of your days.”

“The hand of the Lord shall be heavy upon you,” cried young Drebber;
“He will arise and smite you!”

“Then I’ll start the smiting,” exclaimed Ferrier furiously, and would
have rushed upstairs for his gun had not Lucy seized him by the arm and
restrained him. Before he could escape from her, the clatter of horses’
hoofs told him that they were beyond his reach.

“The young canting rascals!” he exclaimed, wiping the perspiration from
his forehead; “I would sooner see you in your grave, my girl, than the
wife of either of them.”

“And so should I, father,” she answered, with spirit; “but Jefferson
will soon be here.”

“Yes. It will not be long before he comes. The sooner the better, for
we do not know what their next move may be.”

It was, indeed, high time that someone capable of giving advice and
help should come to the aid of the sturdy old farmer and his adopted
daughter. In the whole history of the settlement there had never been
such a case of rank disobedience to the authority of the Elders. If
minor errors were punished so sternly, what would be the fate of this
arch rebel. Ferrier knew that his wealth and position would be of no
avail to him. Others as well known and as rich as himself had been
spirited away before now, and their goods given over to the Church. He
was a brave man, but he trembled at the vague, shadowy terrors which
hung over him. Any known danger he could face with a firm lip, but this
suspense was unnerving. He concealed his fears from his daughter,
however, and affected to make light of the whole matter, though she,
with the keen eye of love, saw plainly that he was ill at ease.

He expected that he would receive some message or remonstrance from
Young as to his conduct, and he was not mistaken, though it came in an
unlooked-for manner. Upon rising next morning he found, to his
surprise, a small square of paper pinned on to the coverlet of his bed
just over his chest. On it was printed, in bold straggling letters:—

“Twenty-nine days are given you for amendment, and then——”

The dash was more fear-inspiring than any threat could have been. How
this warning came into his room puzzled John Ferrier sorely, for his
servants slept in an outhouse, and the doors and windows had all been
secured. He crumpled the paper up and said nothing to his daughter, but
the incident struck a chill into his heart. The twenty-nine days were
evidently the balance of the month which Young had promised. What
strength or courage could avail against an enemy armed with such
mysterious powers? The hand which fastened that pin might have struck
him to the heart, and he could never have known who had slain him.

Still more shaken was he next morning. They had sat down to their
breakfast when Lucy with a cry of surprise pointed upwards. In the
centre of the ceiling was scrawled, with a burned stick apparently, the
number 28. To his daughter it was unintelligible, and he did not
enlighten her. That night he sat up with his gun and kept watch and
ward. He saw and he heard nothing, and yet in the morning a great 27
had been painted upon the outside of his door.

Thus day followed day; and as sure as morning came he found that his
unseen enemies had kept their register, and had marked up in some
conspicuous position how many days were still left to him out of the
month of grace. Sometimes the fatal numbers appeared upon the walls,
sometimes upon the floors, occasionally they were on small placards
stuck upon the garden gate or the railings. With all his vigilance John
Ferrier could not discover whence these daily warnings proceeded. A
horror which was almost superstitious came upon him at the sight of
them. He became haggard and restless, and his eyes had the troubled
look of some hunted creature. He had but one hope in life now, and that
was for the arrival of the young hunter from Nevada.

Twenty had changed to fifteen and fifteen to ten, but there was no news
of the absentee. One by one the numbers dwindled down, and still there
came no sign of him. Whenever a horseman clattered down the road, or a
driver shouted at his team, the old farmer hurried to the gate thinking
that help had arrived at last. At last, when he saw five give way to
four and that again to three, he lost heart, and abandoned all hope of
escape. Single-handed, and with his limited knowledge of the mountains
which surrounded the settlement, he knew that he was powerless. The
more-frequented roads were strictly watched and guarded, and none could
pass along them without an order from the Council. Turn which way he
would, there appeared to be no avoiding the blow which hung over him.
Yet the old man never wavered in his resolution to part with life
itself before he consented to what he regarded as his daughter’s
dishonour.

He was sitting alone one evening pondering deeply over his troubles,
and searching vainly for some way out of them. That morning had shown
the figure 2 upon the wall of his house, and the next day would be the
last of the allotted time. What was to happen then? All manner of vague
and terrible fancies filled his imagination. And his daughter—what was
to become of her after he was gone? Was there no escape from the
invisible network which was drawn all round them. He sank his head upon
the table and sobbed at the thought of his own impotence.

What was that? In the silence he heard a gentle scratching sound—low,
but very distinct in the quiet of the night. It came from the door of
the house. Ferrier crept into the hall and listened intently. There was
a pause for a few moments, and then the low insidious sound was
repeated. Someone was evidently tapping very gently upon one of the
panels of the door. Was it some midnight assassin who had come to carry
out the murderous orders of the secret tribunal? Or was it some agent
who was marking up that the last day of grace had arrived. John Ferrier
felt that instant death would be better than the suspense which shook
his nerves and chilled his heart. Springing forward he drew the bolt
and threw the door open.

Outside all was calm and quiet. The night was fine, and the stars were
twinkling brightly overhead. The little front garden lay before the
farmer’s eyes bounded by the fence and gate, but neither there nor on
the road was any human being to be seen. With a sigh of relief, Ferrier
looked to right and to left, until happening to glance straight down at
his own feet he saw to his astonishment a man lying flat upon his face
upon the ground, with arms and legs all asprawl.

So unnerved was he at the sight that he leaned up against the wall with
his hand to his throat to stifle his inclination to call out. His first
thought was that the prostrate figure was that of some wounded or dying
man, but as he watched it he saw it writhe along the ground and into
the hall with the rapidity and noiselessness of a serpent. Once within
the house the man sprang to his feet, closed the door, and revealed to
the astonished farmer the fierce face and resolute expression of
Jefferson Hope.

“Good God!” gasped John Ferrier. “How you scared me! Whatever made you
come in like that.”

“Give me food,” the other said, hoarsely. “I have had no time for bite
or sup for eight-and-forty hours.” He flung himself upon the cold meat
and bread which were still lying upon the table from his host’s supper,
and devoured it voraciously. “Does Lucy bear up well?” he asked, when
he had satisfied his hunger.

“Yes. She does not know the danger,” her father answered.

“That is well. The house is watched on every side. That is why I
crawled my way up to it. They may be darned sharp, but they’re not
quite sharp enough to catch a Washoe hunter.”

John Ferrier felt a different man now that he realized that he had a
devoted ally. He seized the young man’s leathery hand and wrung it
cordially. “You’re a man to be proud of,” he said. “There are not many
who would come to share our danger and our troubles.”

“You’ve hit it there, pard,” the young hunter answered. “I have a
respect for you, but if you were alone in this business I’d think twice
before I put my head into such a hornet’s nest. It’s Lucy that brings
me here, and before harm comes on her I guess there will be one less o’
the Hope family in Utah.”

“What are we to do?”

“To-morrow is your last day, and unless you act to-night you are lost.
I have a mule and two horses waiting in the Eagle Ravine. How much
money have you?”

“Two thousand dollars in gold, and five in notes.”

“That will do. I have as much more to add to it. We must push for
Carson City through the mountains. You had best wake Lucy. It is as
well that the servants do not sleep in the house.”

While Ferrier was absent, preparing his daughter for the approaching
journey, Jefferson Hope packed all the eatables that he could find into
a small parcel, and filled a stoneware jar with water, for he knew by
experience that the mountain wells were few and far between. He had
hardly completed his arrangements before the farmer returned with his
daughter all dressed and ready for a start. The greeting between the
lovers was warm, but brief, for minutes were precious, and there was
much to be done.

“We must make our start at once,” said Jefferson Hope, speaking in a
low but resolute voice, like one who realizes the greatness of the
peril, but has steeled his heart to meet it. “The front and back
entrances are watched, but with caution we may get away through the
side window and across the fields. Once on the road we are only two
miles from the Ravine where the horses are waiting. By daybreak we
should be half-way through the mountains.”

“What if we are stopped,” asked Ferrier.

Hope slapped the revolver butt which protruded from the front of his
tunic. “If they are too many for us we shall take two or three of them
with us,” he said with a sinister smile.

The lights inside the house had all been extinguished, and from the
darkened window Ferrier peered over the fields which had been his own,
and which he was now about to abandon for ever. He had long nerved
himself to the sacrifice, however, and the thought of the honour and
happiness of his daughter outweighed any regret at his ruined fortunes.
All looked so peaceful and happy, the rustling trees and the broad
silent stretch of grain-land, that it was difficult to realize that the
spirit of murder lurked through it all. Yet the white face and set
expression of the young hunter showed that in his approach to the house
he had seen enough to satisfy him upon that head.

Ferrier carried the bag of gold and notes, Jefferson Hope had the
scanty provisions and water, while Lucy had a small bundle containing a
few of her more valued possessions. Opening the window very slowly and
carefully, they waited until a dark cloud had somewhat obscured the
night, and then one by one passed through into the little garden. With
bated breath and crouching figures they stumbled across it, and gained
the shelter of the hedge, which they skirted until they came to the gap
which opened into the cornfields. They had just reached this point when
the young man seized his two companions and dragged them down into the
shadow, where they lay silent and trembling.

It was as well that his prairie training had given Jefferson Hope the
ears of a lynx. He and his friends had hardly crouched down before the
melancholy hooting of a mountain owl was heard within a few yards of
them, which was immediately answered by another hoot at a small
distance. At the same moment a vague shadowy figure emerged from the
gap for which they had been making, and uttered the plaintive signal
cry again, on which a second man appeared out of the obscurity.

“To-morrow at midnight,” said the first who appeared to be in
authority. “When the Whip-poor-Will calls three times.”

“It is well,” returned the other. “Shall I tell Brother Drebber?”

“Pass it on to him, and from him to the others. Nine to seven!”

“Seven to five!” repeated the other, and the two figures flitted away
in different directions. Their concluding words had evidently been some
form of sign and countersign. The instant that their footsteps had died
away in the distance, Jefferson Hope sprang to his feet, and helping
his companions through the gap, led the way across the fields at the
top of his speed, supporting and half-carrying the girl when her
strength appeared to fail her.

“Hurry on! hurry on!” he gasped from time to time. “We are through the
line of sentinels. Everything depends on speed. Hurry on!”

Once on the high road they made rapid progress. Only once did they meet
anyone, and then they managed to slip into a field, and so avoid
recognition. Before reaching the town the hunter branched away into a
rugged and narrow footpath which led to the mountains. Two dark jagged
peaks loomed above them through the darkness, and the defile which led
between them was the Eagle Cañon in which the horses were awaiting
them. With unerring instinct Jefferson Hope picked his way among the
great boulders and along the bed of a dried-up watercourse, until he
came to the retired corner, screened with rocks, where the faithful
animals had been picketed. The girl was placed upon the mule, and old
Ferrier upon one of the horses, with his money-bag, while Jefferson
Hope led the other along the precipitous and dangerous path.

It was a bewildering route for anyone who was not accustomed to face
Nature in her wildest moods. On the one side a great crag towered up a
thousand feet or more, black, stern, and menacing, with long basaltic
columns upon its rugged surface like the ribs of some petrified
monster. On the other hand a wild chaos of boulders and debris made all
advance impossible. Between the two ran the irregular track, so narrow
in places that they had to travel in Indian file, and so rough that
only practised riders could have traversed it at all. Yet in spite of
all dangers and difficulties, the hearts of the fugitives were light
within them, for every step increased the distance between them and the
terrible despotism from which they were flying.

They soon had a proof, however, that they were still within the
jurisdiction of the Saints. They had reached the very wildest and most
desolate portion of the pass when the girl gave a startled cry, and
pointed upwards. On a rock which overlooked the track, showing out dark
and plain against the sky, there stood a solitary sentinel. He saw them
as soon as they perceived him, and his military challenge of “Who goes
there?” rang through the silent ravine.

“Travellers for Nevada,” said Jefferson Hope, with his hand upon the
rifle which hung by his saddle.

They could see the lonely watcher fingering his gun, and peering down
at them as if dissatisfied at their reply.

“By whose permission?” he asked.

“The Holy Four,” answered Ferrier. His Mormon experiences had taught
him that that was the highest authority to which he could refer.

“Nine from seven,” cried the sentinel.

“Seven from five,” returned Jefferson Hope promptly, remembering the
countersign which he had heard in the garden.

“Pass, and the Lord go with you,” said the voice from above. Beyond his
post the path broadened out, and the horses were able to break into a
trot. Looking back, they could see the solitary watcher leaning upon
his gun, and knew that they had passed the outlying post of the chosen
people, and that freedom lay before them.




CHAPTER V.
THE AVENGING ANGELS.


All night their course lay through intricate defiles and over irregular
and rock-strewn paths. More than once they lost their way, but Hope’s
intimate knowledge of the mountains enabled them to regain the track
once more. When morning broke, a scene of marvellous though savage
beauty lay before them. In every direction the great snow-capped peaks
hemmed them in, peeping over each other’s shoulders to the far horizon.
So steep were the rocky banks on either side of them, that the larch
and the pine seemed to be suspended over their heads, and to need only
a gust of wind to come hurtling down upon them. Nor was the fear
entirely an illusion, for the barren valley was thickly strewn with
trees and boulders which had fallen in a similar manner. Even as they
passed, a great rock came thundering down with a hoarse rattle which
woke the echoes in the silent gorges, and startled the weary horses
into a gallop.

As the sun rose slowly above the eastern horizon, the caps of the great
mountains lit up one after the other, like lamps at a festival, until
they were all ruddy and glowing. The magnificent spectacle cheered the
hearts of the three fugitives and gave them fresh energy. At a wild
torrent which swept out of a ravine they called a halt and watered
their horses, while they partook of a hasty breakfast. Lucy and her
father would fain have rested longer, but Jefferson Hope was
inexorable. “They will be upon our track by this time,” he said.
“Everything depends upon our speed. Once safe in Carson we may rest for
the remainder of our lives.”

During the whole of that day they struggled on through the defiles, and
by evening they calculated that they were more than thirty miles from
their enemies. At night-time they chose the base of a beetling crag,
where the rocks offered some protection from the chill wind, and there
huddled together for warmth, they enjoyed a few hours’ sleep. Before
daybreak, however, they were up and on their way once more. They had
seen no signs of any pursuers, and Jefferson Hope began to think that
they were fairly out of the reach of the terrible organization whose
enmity they had incurred. He little knew how far that iron grasp could
reach, or how soon it was to close upon them and crush them.

About the middle of the second day of their flight their scanty store
of provisions began to run out. This gave the hunter little uneasiness,
however, for there was game to be had among the mountains, and he had
frequently before had to depend upon his rifle for the needs of life.
Choosing a sheltered nook, he piled together a few dried branches and
made a blazing fire, at which his companions might warm themselves, for
they were now nearly five thousand feet above the sea level, and the
air was bitter and keen. Having tethered the horses, and bade Lucy
adieu, he threw his gun over his shoulder, and set out in search of
whatever chance might throw in his way. Looking back he saw the old man
and the young girl crouching over the blazing fire, while the three
animals stood motionless in the back-ground. Then the intervening rocks
hid them from his view.

He walked for a couple of miles through one ravine after another
without success, though from the marks upon the bark of the trees, and
other indications, he judged that there were numerous bears in the
vicinity. At last, after two or three hours’ fruitless search, he was
thinking of turning back in despair, when casting his eyes upwards he
saw a sight which sent a thrill of pleasure through his heart. On the
edge of a jutting pinnacle, three or four hundred feet above him, there
stood a creature somewhat resembling a sheep in appearance, but armed
with a pair of gigantic horns. The big-horn—for so it is called—was
acting, probably, as a guardian over a flock which were invisible to
the hunter; but fortunately it was heading in the opposite direction,
and had not perceived him. Lying on his face, he rested his rifle upon
a rock, and took a long and steady aim before drawing the trigger. The
animal sprang into the air, tottered for a moment upon the edge of the
precipice, and then came crashing down into the valley beneath.

The creature was too unwieldy to lift, so the hunter contented himself
with cutting away one haunch and part of the flank. With this trophy
over his shoulder, he hastened to retrace his steps, for the evening
was already drawing in. He had hardly started, however, before he
realized the difficulty which faced him. In his eagerness he had
wandered far past the ravines which were known to him, and it was no
easy matter to pick out the path which he had taken. The valley in
which he found himself divided and sub-divided into many gorges, which
were so like each other that it was impossible to distinguish one from
the other. He followed one for a mile or more until he came to a
mountain torrent which he was sure that he had never seen before.
Convinced that he had taken the wrong turn, he tried another, but with
the same result. Night was coming on rapidly, and it was almost dark
before he at last found himself in a defile which was familiar to him.
Even then it was no easy matter to keep to the right track, for the
moon had not yet risen, and the high cliffs on either side made the
obscurity more profound. Weighed down with his burden, and weary from
his exertions, he stumbled along, keeping up his heart by the
reflection that every step brought him nearer to Lucy, and that he
carried with him enough to ensure them food for the remainder of their
journey.

He had now come to the mouth of the very defile in which he had left
them. Even in the darkness he could recognize the outline of the cliffs
which bounded it. They must, he reflected, be awaiting him anxiously,
for he had been absent nearly five hours. In the gladness of his heart
he put his hands to his mouth and made the glen re-echo to a loud
halloo as a signal that he was coming. He paused and listened for an
answer. None came save his own cry, which clattered up the dreary
silent ravines, and was borne back to his ears in countless
repetitions. Again he shouted, even louder than before, and again no
whisper came back from the friends whom he had left such a short time
ago. A vague, nameless dread came over him, and he hurried onwards
frantically, dropping the precious food in his agitation.

When he turned the corner, he came full in sight of the spot where the
fire had been lit. There was still a glowing pile of wood ashes there,
but it had evidently not been tended since his departure. The same dead
silence still reigned all round. With his fears all changed to
convictions, he hurried on. There was no living creature near the
remains of the fire: animals, man, maiden, all were gone. It was only
too clear that some sudden and terrible disaster had occurred during
his absence—a disaster which had embraced them all, and yet had left no
traces behind it.

Bewildered and stunned by this blow, Jefferson Hope felt his head spin
round, and had to lean upon his rifle to save himself from falling. He
was essentially a man of action, however, and speedily recovered from
his temporary impotence. Seizing a half-consumed piece of wood from the
smouldering fire, he blew it into a flame, and proceeded with its help
to examine the little camp. The ground was all stamped down by the feet
of horses, showing that a large party of mounted men had overtaken the
fugitives, and the direction of their tracks proved that they had
afterwards turned back to Salt Lake City. Had they carried back both of
his companions with them? Jefferson Hope had almost persuaded himself
that they must have done so, when his eye fell upon an object which
made every nerve of his body tingle within him. A little way on one
side of the camp was a low-lying heap of reddish soil, which had
assuredly not been there before. There was no mistaking it for anything
but a newly-dug grave. As the young hunter approached it, he perceived
that a stick had been planted on it, with a sheet of paper stuck in the
cleft fork of it. The inscription upon the paper was brief, but to the
point:


JOHN FERRIER,
FORMERLY OF SALT LAKE CITY,
Died August 4th, 1860.


The sturdy old man, whom he had left so short a time before, was gone,
then, and this was all his epitaph. Jefferson Hope looked wildly round
to see if there was a second grave, but there was no sign of one. Lucy
had been carried back by their terrible pursuers to fulfil her original
destiny, by becoming one of the harem of the Elder’s son. As the young
fellow realized the certainty of her fate, and his own powerlessness to
prevent it, he wished that he, too, was lying with the old farmer in
his last silent resting-place.

Again, however, his active spirit shook off the lethargy which springs
from despair. If there was nothing else left to him, he could at least
devote his life to revenge. With indomitable patience and perseverance,
Jefferson Hope possessed also a power of sustained vindictiveness,
which he may have learned from the Indians amongst whom he had lived.
As he stood by the desolate fire, he felt that the only one thing which
could assuage his grief would be thorough and complete retribution,
brought by his own hand upon his enemies. His strong will and untiring
energy should, he determined, be devoted to that one end. With a grim,
white face, he retraced his steps to where he had dropped the food, and
having stirred up the smouldering fire, he cooked enough to last him
for a few days. This he made up into a bundle, and, tired as he was, he
set himself to walk back through the mountains upon the track of the
avenging angels.

For five days he toiled footsore and weary through the defiles which he
had already traversed on horseback. At night he flung himself down
among the rocks, and snatched a few hours of sleep; but before daybreak
he was always well on his way. On the sixth day, he reached the Eagle
Cañon, from which they had commenced their ill-fated flight. Thence he
could look down upon the home of the saints. Worn and exhausted, he
leaned upon his rifle and shook his gaunt hand fiercely at the silent
widespread city beneath him. As he looked at it, he observed that there
were flags in some of the principal streets, and other signs of
festivity. He was still speculating as to what this might mean when he
heard the clatter of horse’s hoofs, and saw a mounted man riding
towards him. As he approached, he recognized him as a Mormon named
Cowper, to whom he had rendered services at different times. He
therefore accosted him when he got up to him, with the object of
finding out what Lucy Ferrier’s fate had been.

“I am Jefferson Hope,” he said. “You remember me.”

The Mormon looked at him with undisguised astonishment—indeed, it was
difficult to recognize in this tattered, unkempt wanderer, with ghastly
white face and fierce, wild eyes, the spruce young hunter of former
days. Having, however, at last, satisfied himself as to his identity,
the man’s surprise changed to consternation.

“You are mad to come here,” he cried. “It is as much as my own life is
worth to be seen talking with you. There is a warrant against you from
the Holy Four for assisting the Ferriers away.”

“I don’t fear them, or their warrant,” Hope said, earnestly. “You must
know something of this matter, Cowper. I conjure you by everything you
hold dear to answer a few questions. We have always been friends. For
God’s sake, don’t refuse to answer me.”

“What is it?” the Mormon asked uneasily. “Be quick. The very rocks have
ears and the trees eyes.”

“What has become of Lucy Ferrier?”

“She was married yesterday to young Drebber. Hold up, man, hold up, you
have no life left in you.”

“Don’t mind me,” said Hope faintly. He was white to the very lips, and
had sunk down on the stone against which he had been leaning. “Married,
you say?”

“Married yesterday—that’s what those flags are for on the Endowment
House. There was some words between young Drebber and young Stangerson
as to which was to have her. They’d both been in the party that
followed them, and Stangerson had shot her father, which seemed to give
him the best claim; but when they argued it out in council, Drebber’s
party was the stronger, so the Prophet gave her over to him. No one
won’t have her very long though, for I saw death in her face yesterday.
She is more like a ghost than a woman. Are you off, then?”

“Yes, I am off,” said Jefferson Hope, who had risen from his seat. His
face might have been chiselled out of marble, so hard and set was its
expression, while its eyes glowed with a baleful light.

“Where are you going?”

“Never mind,” he answered; and, slinging his weapon over his shoulder,
strode off down the gorge and so away into the heart of the mountains
to the haunts of the wild beasts. Amongst them all there was none so
fierce and so dangerous as himself.

The prediction of the Mormon was only too well fulfilled. Whether it
was the terrible death of her father or the effects of the hateful
marriage into which she had been forced, poor Lucy never held up her
head again, but pined away and died within a month. Her sottish
husband, who had married her principally for the sake of John Ferrier’s
property, did not affect any great grief at his bereavement; but his
other wives mourned over her, and sat up with her the night before the
burial, as is the Mormon custom. They were grouped round the bier in
the early hours of the morning, when, to their inexpressible fear and
astonishment, the door was flung open, and a savage-looking,
weather-beaten man in tattered garments strode into the room. Without a
glance or a word to the cowering women, he walked up to the white
silent figure which had once contained the pure soul of Lucy Ferrier.
Stooping over her, he pressed his lips reverently to her cold forehead,
and then, snatching up her hand, he took the wedding-ring from her
finger. “She shall not be buried in that,” he cried with a fierce
snarl, and before an alarm could be raised sprang down the stairs and
was gone. So strange and so brief was the episode, that the watchers
might have found it hard to believe it themselves or persuade other
people of it, had it not been for the undeniable fact that the circlet
of gold which marked her as having been a bride had disappeared.

For some months Jefferson Hope lingered among the mountains, leading a
strange wild life, and nursing in his heart the fierce desire for
vengeance which possessed him. Tales were told in the City of the weird
figure which was seen prowling about the suburbs, and which haunted the
lonely mountain gorges. Once a bullet whistled through Stangerson’s
window and flattened itself upon the wall within a foot of him. On
another occasion, as Drebber passed under a cliff a great boulder
crashed down on him, and he only escaped a terrible death by throwing
himself upon his face. The two young Mormons were not long in
discovering the reason of these attempts upon their lives, and led
repeated expeditions into the mountains in the hope of capturing or
killing their enemy, but always without success. Then they adopted the
precaution of never going out alone or after nightfall, and of having
their houses guarded. After a time they were able to relax these
measures, for nothing was either heard or seen of their opponent, and
they hoped that time had cooled his vindictiveness.

Far from doing so, it had, if anything, augmented it. The hunter’s mind
was of a hard, unyielding nature, and the predominant idea of revenge
had taken such complete possession of it that there was no room for any
other emotion. He was, however, above all things practical. He soon
realized that even his iron constitution could not stand the incessant
strain which he was putting upon it. Exposure and want of wholesome
food were wearing him out. If he died like a dog among the mountains,
what was to become of his revenge then? And yet such a death was sure
to overtake him if he persisted. He felt that that was to play his
enemy’s game, so he reluctantly returned to the old Nevada mines, there
to recruit his health and to amass money enough to allow him to pursue
his object without privation.

His intention had been to be absent a year at the most, but a
combination of unforeseen circumstances prevented his leaving the mines
for nearly five. At the end of that time, however, his memory of his
wrongs and his craving for revenge were quite as keen as on that
memorable night when he had stood by John Ferrier’s grave. Disguised,
and under an assumed name, he returned to Salt Lake City, careless what
became of his own life, as long as he obtained what he knew to be
justice. There he found evil tidings awaiting him. There had been a
schism among the Chosen People a few months before, some of the younger
members of the Church having rebelled against the authority of the
Elders, and the result had been the secession of a certain number of
the malcontents, who had left Utah and become Gentiles. Among these had
been Drebber and Stangerson; and no one knew whither they had gone.
Rumour reported that Drebber had managed to convert a large part of his
property into money, and that he had departed a wealthy man, while his
companion, Stangerson, was comparatively poor. There was no clue at
all, however, as to their whereabouts.

Many a man, however vindictive, would have abandoned all thought of
revenge in the face of such a difficulty, but Jefferson Hope never
faltered for a moment. With the small competence he possessed, eked out
by such employment as he could pick up, he travelled from town to town
through the United States in quest of his enemies. Year passed into
year, his black hair turned grizzled, but still he wandered on, a human
bloodhound, with his mind wholly set upon the one object upon which he
had devoted his life. At last his perseverance was rewarded. It was but
a glance of a face in a window, but that one glance told him that
Cleveland in Ohio possessed the men whom he was in pursuit of. He
returned to his miserable lodgings with his plan of vengeance all
arranged. It chanced, however, that Drebber, looking from his window,
had recognized the vagrant in the street, and had read murder in his
eyes. He hurried before a justice of the peace, accompanied by
Stangerson, who had become his private secretary, and represented to
him that they were in danger of their lives from the jealousy and
hatred of an old rival. That evening Jefferson Hope was taken into
custody, and not being able to find sureties, was detained for some
weeks. When at last he was liberated, it was only to find that
Drebber’s house was deserted, and that he and his secretary had
departed for Europe.

Again the avenger had been foiled, and again his concentrated hatred
urged him to continue the pursuit. Funds were wanting, however, and for
some time he had to return to work, saving every dollar for his
approaching journey. At last, having collected enough to keep life in
him, he departed for Europe, and tracked his enemies from city to city,
working his way in any menial capacity, but never overtaking the
fugitives. When he reached St. Petersburg they had departed for Paris;
and when he followed them there he learned that they had just set off
for Copenhagen. At the Danish capital he was again a few days late, for
they had journeyed on to London, where he at last succeeded in running
them to earth. As to what occurred there, we cannot do better than
quote the old hunter’s own account, as duly recorded in Dr. Watson’s
Journal, to which we are already under such obligations.




CHAPTER VI.
A CONTINUATION OF THE REMINISCENCES OF JOHN WATSON, M.D.


Our prisoner’s furious resistance did not apparently indicate any
ferocity in his disposition towards ourselves, for on finding himself
powerless, he smiled in an affable manner, and expressed his hopes that
he had not hurt any of us in the scuffle. “I guess you’re going to take
me to the police-station,” he remarked to Sherlock Holmes. “My cab’s at
the door. If you’ll loose my legs I’ll walk down to it. I’m not so
light to lift as I used to be.”

Gregson and Lestrade exchanged glances as if they thought this
proposition rather a bold one; but Holmes at once took the prisoner at
his word, and loosened the towel which we had bound round his ankles.
He rose and stretched his legs, as though to assure himself that they
were free once more. I remember that I thought to myself, as I eyed
him, that I had seldom seen a more powerfully built man; and his dark
sunburned face bore an expression of determination and energy which was
as formidable as his personal strength.

“If there’s a vacant place for a chief of the police, I reckon you are
the man for it,” he said, gazing with undisguised admiration at my
fellow-lodger. “The way you kept on my trail was a caution.”

“You had better come with me,” said Holmes to the two detectives.

“I can drive you,” said Lestrade.

“Good! and Gregson can come inside with me. You too, Doctor, you have
taken an interest in the case and may as well stick to us.”

I assented gladly, and we all descended together. Our prisoner made no
attempt at escape, but stepped calmly into the cab which had been his,
and we followed him. Lestrade mounted the box, whipped up the horse,
and brought us in a very short time to our destination. We were ushered
into a small chamber where a police Inspector noted down our prisoner’s
name and the names of the men with whose murder he had been charged.
The official was a white-faced unemotional man, who went through his
duties in a dull mechanical way. “The prisoner will be put before the
magistrates in the course of the week,” he said; “in the mean time, Mr.
Jefferson Hope, have you anything that you wish to say? I must warn you
that your words will be taken down, and may be used against you.”

“I’ve got a good deal to say,” our prisoner said slowly. “I want to
tell you gentlemen all about it.”

“Hadn’t you better reserve that for your trial?” asked the Inspector.

“I may never be tried,” he answered. “You needn’t look startled. It
isn’t suicide I am thinking of. Are you a Doctor?” He turned his fierce
dark eyes upon me as he asked this last question.

“Yes; I am,” I answered.

“Then put your hand here,” he said, with a smile, motioning with his
manacled wrists towards his chest.

I did so; and became at once conscious of an extraordinary throbbing
and commotion which was going on inside. The walls of his chest seemed
to thrill and quiver as a frail building would do inside when some
powerful engine was at work. In the silence of the room I could hear a
dull humming and buzzing noise which proceeded from the same source.

“Why,” I cried, “you have an aortic aneurism!”

“That’s what they call it,” he said, placidly. “I went to a doctor last
week about it, and he told me that it is bound to burst before many
days passed. It has been getting worse for years. I got it from
over-exposure and under-feeding among the Salt Lake Mountains. I’ve
done my work now, and I don’t care how soon I go, but I should like to
leave some account of the business behind me. I don’t want to be
remembered as a common cut-throat.”

The Inspector and the two detectives had a hurried discussion as to the
advisability of allowing him to tell his story.

“Do you consider, Doctor, that there is immediate danger?” the former
asked.

“Most certainly there is,” I answered.

“In that case it is clearly our duty, in the interests of justice, to
take his statement,” said the Inspector. “You are at liberty, sir, to
give your account, which I again warn you will be taken down.”

“I’ll sit down, with your leave,” the prisoner said, suiting the action
to the word. “This aneurism of mine makes me easily tired, and the
tussle we had half an hour ago has not mended matters. I’m on the brink
of the grave, and I am not likely to lie to you. Every word I say is
the absolute truth, and how you use it is a matter of no consequence to
me.”

With these words, Jefferson Hope leaned back in his chair and began the
following remarkable statement. He spoke in a calm and methodical
manner, as though the events which he narrated were commonplace enough.
I can vouch for the accuracy of the subjoined account, for I have had
access to Lestrade’s note-book, in which the prisoner’s words were
taken down exactly as they were uttered.

“It don’t much matter to you why I hated these men,” he said; “it’s
enough that they were guilty of the death of two human beings—a father
and a daughter—and that they had, therefore, forfeited their own lives.
After the lapse of time that has passed since their crime, it was
impossible for me to secure a conviction against them in any court. I
knew of their guilt though, and I determined that I should be judge,
jury, and executioner all rolled into one. You’d have done the same, if
you have any manhood in you, if you had been in my place.

“That girl that I spoke of was to have married me twenty years ago. She
was forced into marrying that same Drebber, and broke her heart over
it. I took the marriage ring from her dead finger, and I vowed that his
dying eyes should rest upon that very ring, and that his last thoughts
should be of the crime for which he was punished. I have carried it
about with me, and have followed him and his accomplice over two
continents until I caught them. They thought to tire me out, but they
could not do it. If I die to-morrow, as is likely enough, I die knowing
that my work in this world is done, and well done. They have perished,
and by my hand. There is nothing left for me to hope for, or to desire.

“They were rich and I was poor, so that it was no easy matter for me to
follow them. When I got to London my pocket was about empty, and I
found that I must turn my hand to something for my living. Driving and
riding are as natural to me as walking, so I applied at a cabowner’s
office, and soon got employment. I was to bring a certain sum a week to
the owner, and whatever was over that I might keep for myself. There
was seldom much over, but I managed to scrape along somehow. The
hardest job was to learn my way about, for I reckon that of all the
mazes that ever were contrived, this city is the most confusing. I had
a map beside me though, and when once I had spotted the principal
hotels and stations, I got on pretty well.

“It was some time before I found out where my two gentlemen were
living; but I inquired and inquired until at last I dropped across
them. They were at a boarding-house at Camberwell, over on the other
side of the river. When once I found them out I knew that I had them at
my mercy. I had grown my beard, and there was no chance of their
recognizing me. I would dog them and follow them until I saw my
opportunity. I was determined that they should not escape me again.

“They were very near doing it for all that. Go where they would about
London, I was always at their heels. Sometimes I followed them on my
cab, and sometimes on foot, but the former was the best, for then they
could not get away from me. It was only early in the morning or late at
night that I could earn anything, so that I began to get behindhand
with my employer. I did not mind that, however, as long as I could lay
my hand upon the men I wanted.

“They were very cunning, though. They must have thought that there was
some chance of their being followed, for they would never go out alone,
and never after nightfall. During two weeks I drove behind them every
day, and never once saw them separate. Drebber himself was drunk half
the time, but Stangerson was not to be caught napping. I watched them
late and early, but never saw the ghost of a chance; but I was not
discouraged, for something told me that the hour had almost come. My
only fear was that this thing in my chest might burst a little too soon
and leave my work undone.

“At last, one evening I was driving up and down Torquay Terrace, as the
street was called in which they boarded, when I saw a cab drive up to
their door. Presently some luggage was brought out, and after a time
Drebber and Stangerson followed it, and drove off. I whipped up my
horse and kept within sight of them, feeling very ill at ease, for I
feared that they were going to shift their quarters. At Euston Station
they got out, and I left a boy to hold my horse, and followed them on
to the platform. I heard them ask for the Liverpool train, and the
guard answer that one had just gone and there would not be another for
some hours. Stangerson seemed to be put out at that, but Drebber was
rather pleased than otherwise. I got so close to them in the bustle
that I could hear every word that passed between them. Drebber said
that he had a little business of his own to do, and that if the other
would wait for him he would soon rejoin him. His companion remonstrated
with him, and reminded him that they had resolved to stick together.
Drebber answered that the matter was a delicate one, and that he must
go alone. I could not catch what Stangerson said to that, but the other
burst out swearing, and reminded him that he was nothing more than his
paid servant, and that he must not presume to dictate to him. On that
the Secretary gave it up as a bad job, and simply bargained with him
that if he missed the last train he should rejoin him at Halliday’s
Private Hotel; to which Drebber answered that he would be back on the
platform before eleven, and made his way out of the station.

“The moment for which I had waited so long had at last come. I had my
enemies within my power. Together they could protect each other, but
singly they were at my mercy. I did not act, however, with undue
precipitation. My plans were already formed. There is no satisfaction
in vengeance unless the offender has time to realize who it is that
strikes him, and why retribution has come upon him. I had my plans
arranged by which I should have the opportunity of making the man who
had wronged me understand that his old sin had found him out. It
chanced that some days before a gentleman who had been engaged in
looking over some houses in the Brixton Road had dropped the key of one
of them in my carriage. It was claimed that same evening, and returned;
but in the interval I had taken a moulding of it, and had a duplicate
constructed. By means of this I had access to at least one spot in this
great city where I could rely upon being free from interruption. How to
get Drebber to that house was the difficult problem which I had now to
solve.

“He walked down the road and went into one or two liquor shops, staying
for nearly half-an-hour in the last of them. When he came out he
staggered in his walk, and was evidently pretty well on. There was a
hansom just in front of me, and he hailed it. I followed it so close
that the nose of my horse was within a yard of his driver the whole
way. We rattled across Waterloo Bridge and through miles of streets,
until, to my astonishment, we found ourselves back in the Terrace in
which he had boarded. I could not imagine what his intention was in
returning there; but I went on and pulled up my cab a hundred yards or
so from the house. He entered it, and his hansom drove away. Give me a
glass of water, if you please. My mouth gets dry with the talking.”

I handed him the glass, and he drank it down.

“That’s better,” he said. “Well, I waited for a quarter of an hour, or
more, when suddenly there came a noise like people struggling inside
the house. Next moment the door was flung open and two men appeared,
one of whom was Drebber, and the other was a young chap whom I had
never seen before. This fellow had Drebber by the collar, and when they
came to the head of the steps he gave him a shove and a kick which sent
him half across the road. ‘You hound,’ he cried, shaking his stick at
him; ‘I’ll teach you to insult an honest girl!’ He was so hot that I
think he would have thrashed Drebber with his cudgel, only that the cur
staggered away down the road as fast as his legs would carry him. He
ran as far as the corner, and then, seeing my cab, he hailed me and
jumped in. ‘Drive me to Halliday’s Private Hotel,’ said he.

“When I had him fairly inside my cab, my heart jumped so with joy that
I feared lest at this last moment my aneurism might go wrong. I drove
along slowly, weighing in my own mind what it was best to do. I might
take him right out into the country, and there in some deserted lane
have my last interview with him. I had almost decided upon this, when
he solved the problem for me. The craze for drink had seized him again,
and he ordered me to pull up outside a gin palace. He went in, leaving
word that I should wait for him. There he remained until closing time,
and when he came out he was so far gone that I knew the game was in my
own hands.

“Don’t imagine that I intended to kill him in cold blood. It would only
have been rigid justice if I had done so, but I could not bring myself
to do it. I had long determined that he should have a show for his life
if he chose to take advantage of it. Among the many billets which I
have filled in America during my wandering life, I was once janitor and
sweeper out of the laboratory at York College. One day the professor
was lecturing on poisons, and he showed his students some alkaloid, as
he called it, which he had extracted from some South American arrow
poison, and which was so powerful that the least grain meant instant
death. I spotted the bottle in which this preparation was kept, and
when they were all gone, I helped myself to a little of it. I was a
fairly good dispenser, so I worked this alkaloid into small, soluble
pills, and each pill I put in a box with a similar pill made without
the poison. I determined at the time that when I had my chance, my
gentlemen should each have a draw out of one of these boxes, while I
ate the pill that remained. It would be quite as deadly, and a good
deal less noisy than firing across a handkerchief. From that day I had
always my pill boxes about with me, and the time had now come when I
was to use them.

“It was nearer one than twelve, and a wild, bleak night, blowing hard
and raining in torrents. Dismal as it was outside, I was glad within—so
glad that I could have shouted out from pure exultation. If any of you
gentlemen have ever pined for a thing, and longed for it during twenty
long years, and then suddenly found it within your reach, you would
understand my feelings. I lit a cigar, and puffed at it to steady my
nerves, but my hands were trembling, and my temples throbbing with
excitement. As I drove, I could see old John Ferrier and sweet Lucy
looking at me out of the darkness and smiling at me, just as plain as I
see you all in this room. All the way they were ahead of me, one on
each side of the horse until I pulled up at the house in the Brixton
Road.

“There was not a soul to be seen, nor a sound to be heard, except the
dripping of the rain. When I looked in at the window, I found Drebber
all huddled together in a drunken sleep. I shook him by the arm, ‘It’s
time to get out,’ I said.

“‘All right, cabby,’ said he.

“I suppose he thought we had come to the hotel that he had mentioned,
for he got out without another word, and followed me down the garden. I
had to walk beside him to keep him steady, for he was still a little
top-heavy. When we came to the door, I opened it, and led him into the
front room. I give you my word that all the way, the father and the
daughter were walking in front of us.

“‘It’s infernally dark,’ said he, stamping about.

“‘We’ll soon have a light,’ I said, striking a match and putting it to
a wax candle which I had brought with me. ‘Now, Enoch Drebber,’ I
continued, turning to him, and holding the light to my own face, ‘who
am I?’

“He gazed at me with bleared, drunken eyes for a moment, and then I saw
a horror spring up in them, and convulse his whole features, which
showed me that he knew me. He staggered back with a livid face, and I
saw the perspiration break out upon his brow, while his teeth chattered
in his head. At the sight, I leaned my back against the door and
laughed loud and long. I had always known that vengeance would be
sweet, but I had never hoped for the contentment of soul which now
possessed me.

“‘You dog!’ I said; ‘I have hunted you from Salt Lake City to St.
Petersburg, and you have always escaped me. Now, at last your
wanderings have come to an end, for either you or I shall never see
to-morrow’s sun rise.’ He shrunk still further away as I spoke, and I
could see on his face that he thought I was mad. So I was for the time.
The pulses in my temples beat like sledge-hammers, and I believe I
would have had a fit of some sort if the blood had not gushed from my
nose and relieved me.

“‘What do you think of Lucy Ferrier now?’ I cried, locking the door,
and shaking the key in his face. ‘Punishment has been slow in coming,
but it has overtaken you at last.’ I saw his coward lips tremble as I
spoke. He would have begged for his life, but he knew well that it was
useless.

“‘Would you murder me?’ he stammered.

“‘There is no murder,’ I answered. ‘Who talks of murdering a mad dog?
What mercy had you upon my poor darling, when you dragged her from her
slaughtered father, and bore her away to your accursed and shameless
harem.’

“‘It was not I who killed her father,’ he cried.

“‘But it was you who broke her innocent heart,’ I shrieked, thrusting
the box before him. ‘Let the high God judge between us. Choose and eat.
There is death in one and life in the other. I shall take what you
leave. Let us see if there is justice upon the earth, or if we are
ruled by chance.’

“He cowered away with wild cries and prayers for mercy, but I drew my
knife and held it to his throat until he had obeyed me. Then I
swallowed the other, and we stood facing one another in silence for a
minute or more, waiting to see which was to live and which was to die.
Shall I ever forget the look which came over his face when the first
warning pangs told him that the poison was in his system? I laughed as
I saw it, and held Lucy’s marriage ring in front of his eyes. It was
but for a moment, for the action of the alkaloid is rapid. A spasm of
pain contorted his features; he threw his hands out in front of him,
staggered, and then, with a hoarse cry, fell heavily upon the floor. I
turned him over with my foot, and placed my hand upon his heart. There
was no movement. He was dead!

“The blood had been streaming from my nose, but I had taken no notice
of it. I don’t know what it was that put it into my head to write upon
the wall with it. Perhaps it was some mischievous idea of setting the
police upon a wrong track, for I felt light-hearted and cheerful. I
remembered a German being found in New York with RACHE written up above
him, and it was argued at the time in the newspapers that the secret
societies must have done it. I guessed that what puzzled the New
Yorkers would puzzle the Londoners, so I dipped my finger in my own
blood and printed it on a convenient place on the wall. Then I walked
down to my cab and found that there was nobody about, and that the
night was still very wild. I had driven some distance when I put my
hand into the pocket in which I usually kept Lucy’s ring, and found
that it was not there. I was thunderstruck at this, for it was the only
memento that I had of her. Thinking that I might have dropped it when I
stooped over Drebber’s body, I drove back, and leaving my cab in a side
street, I went boldly up to the house—for I was ready to dare anything
rather than lose the ring. When I arrived there, I walked right into
the arms of a police-officer who was coming out, and only managed to
disarm his suspicions by pretending to be hopelessly drunk.

“That was how Enoch Drebber came to his end. All I had to do then was
to do as much for Stangerson, and so pay off John Ferrier’s debt. I
knew that he was staying at Halliday’s Private Hotel, and I hung about
all day, but he never came out. I fancy that he suspected something
when Drebber failed to put in an appearance. He was cunning, was
Stangerson, and always on his guard. If he thought he could keep me off
by staying indoors he was very much mistaken. I soon found out which
was the window of his bedroom, and early next morning I took advantage
of some ladders which were lying in the lane behind the hotel, and so
made my way into his room in the grey of the dawn. I woke him up and
told him that the hour had come when he was to answer for the life he
had taken so long before. I described Drebber’s death to him, and I
gave him the same choice of the poisoned pills. Instead of grasping at
the chance of safety which that offered him, he sprang from his bed and
flew at my throat. In self-defence I stabbed him to the heart. It would
have been the same in any case, for Providence would never have allowed
his guilty hand to pick out anything but the poison.

“I have little more to say, and it’s as well, for I am about done up. I
went on cabbing it for a day or so, intending to keep at it until I
could save enough to take me back to America. I was standing in the
yard when a ragged youngster asked if there was a cabby there called
Jefferson Hope, and said that his cab was wanted by a gentleman at
221B, Baker Street. I went round, suspecting no harm, and the next
thing I knew, this young man here had the bracelets on my wrists, and
as neatly shackled as ever I saw in my life. That’s the whole of my
story, gentlemen. You may consider me to be a murderer; but I hold that
I am just as much an officer of justice as you are.”

So thrilling had the man’s narrative been, and his manner was so
impressive that we had sat silent and absorbed. Even the professional
detectives, _blasé_ as they were in every detail of crime, appeared to
be keenly interested in the man’s story. When he finished we sat for
some minutes in a stillness which was only broken by the scratching of
Lestrade’s pencil as he gave the finishing touches to his shorthand
account.

“There is only one point on which I should like a little more
information,” Sherlock Holmes said at last. “Who was your accomplice
who came for the ring which I advertised?”

The prisoner winked at my friend jocosely. “I can tell my own secrets,”
he said, “but I don’t get other people into trouble. I saw your
advertisement, and I thought it might be a plant, or it might be the
ring which I wanted. My friend volunteered to go and see. I think
you’ll own he did it smartly.”

“Not a doubt of that,” said Holmes heartily.

“Now, gentlemen,” the Inspector remarked gravely, “the forms of the law
must be complied with. On Thursday the prisoner will be brought before
the magistrates, and your attendance will be required. Until then I
will be responsible for him.” He rang the bell as he spoke, and
Jefferson Hope was led off by a couple of warders, while my friend and
I made our way out of the Station and took a cab back to Baker Street.




CHAPTER VII.
THE CONCLUSION.


We had all been warned to appear before the magistrates upon the
Thursday; but when the Thursday came there was no occasion for our
testimony. A higher Judge had taken the matter in hand, and Jefferson
Hope had been summoned before a tribunal where strict justice would be
meted out to him. On the very night after his capture the aneurism
burst, and he was found in the morning stretched upon the floor of the
cell, with a placid smile upon his face, as though he had been able in
his dying moments to look back upon a useful life, and on work well
done.

“Gregson and Lestrade will be wild about his death,” Holmes remarked,
as we chatted it over next evening. “Where will their grand
advertisement be now?”

“I don’t see that they had very much to do with his capture,” I
answered.

“What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence,” returned my
companion, bitterly. “The question is, what can you make people believe
that you have done. Never mind,” he continued, more brightly, after a
pause. “I would not have missed the investigation for anything. There
has been no better case within my recollection. Simple as it was, there
were several most instructive points about it.”

“Simple!” I ejaculated.

“Well, really, it can hardly be described as otherwise,” said Sherlock
Holmes, smiling at my surprise. “The proof of its intrinsic simplicity
is, that without any help save a few very ordinary deductions I was
able to lay my hand upon the criminal within three days.”

“That is true,” said I.

“I have already explained to you that what is out of the common is
usually a guide rather than a hindrance. In solving a problem of this
sort, the grand thing is to be able to reason backwards. That is a very
useful accomplishment, and a very easy one, but people do not practise
it much. In the every-day affairs of life it is more useful to reason
forwards, and so the other comes to be neglected. There are fifty who
can reason synthetically for one who can reason analytically.”

“I confess,” said I, “that I do not quite follow you.”

“I hardly expected that you would. Let me see if I can make it clearer.
Most people, if you describe a train of events to them, will tell you
what the result would be. They can put those events together in their
minds, and argue from them that something will come to pass. There are
few people, however, who, if you told them a result, would be able to
evolve from their own inner consciousness what the steps were which led
up to that result. This power is what I mean when I talk of reasoning
backwards, or analytically.”

“I understand,” said I.

“Now this was a case in which you were given the result and had to find
everything else for yourself. Now let me endeavour to show you the
different steps in my reasoning. To begin at the beginning. I
approached the house, as you know, on foot, and with my mind entirely
free from all impressions. I naturally began by examining the roadway,
and there, as I have already explained to you, I saw clearly the marks
of a cab, which, I ascertained by inquiry, must have been there during
the night. I satisfied myself that it was a cab and not a private
carriage by the narrow gauge of the wheels. The ordinary London growler
is considerably less wide than a gentleman’s brougham.

“This was the first point gained. I then walked slowly down the garden
path, which happened to be composed of a clay soil, peculiarly suitable
for taking impressions. No doubt it appeared to you to be a mere
trampled line of slush, but to my trained eyes every mark upon its
surface had a meaning. There is no branch of detective science which is
so important and so much neglected as the art of tracing footsteps.
Happily, I have always laid great stress upon it, and much practice has
made it second nature to me. I saw the heavy footmarks of the
constables, but I saw also the track of the two men who had first
passed through the garden. It was easy to tell that they had been
before the others, because in places their marks had been entirely
obliterated by the others coming upon the top of them. In this way my
second link was formed, which told me that the nocturnal visitors were
two in number, one remarkable for his height (as I calculated from the
length of his stride), and the other fashionably dressed, to judge from
the small and elegant impression left by his boots.

“On entering the house this last inference was confirmed. My
well-booted man lay before me. The tall one, then, had done the murder,
if murder there was. There was no wound upon the dead man’s person, but
the agitated expression upon his face assured me that he had foreseen
his fate before it came upon him. Men who die from heart disease, or
any sudden natural cause, never by any chance exhibit agitation upon
their features. Having sniffed the dead man’s lips I detected a
slightly sour smell, and I came to the conclusion that he had had
poison forced upon him. Again, I argued that it had been forced upon
him from the hatred and fear expressed upon his face. By the method of
exclusion, I had arrived at this result, for no other hypothesis would
meet the facts. Do not imagine that it was a very unheard of idea. The
forcible administration of poison is by no means a new thing in
criminal annals. The cases of Dolsky in Odessa, and of Leturier in
Montpellier, will occur at once to any toxicologist.

“And now came the great question as to the reason why. Robbery had not
been the object of the murder, for nothing was taken. Was it politics,
then, or was it a woman? That was the question which confronted me. I
was inclined from the first to the latter supposition. Political
assassins are only too glad to do their work and to fly. This murder
had, on the contrary, been done most deliberately, and the perpetrator
had left his tracks all over the room, showing that he had been there
all the time. It must have been a private wrong, and not a political
one, which called for such a methodical revenge. When the inscription
was discovered upon the wall I was more inclined than ever to my
opinion. The thing was too evidently a blind. When the ring was found,
however, it settled the question. Clearly the murderer had used it to
remind his victim of some dead or absent woman. It was at this point
that I asked Gregson whether he had enquired in his telegram to
Cleveland as to any particular point in Mr. Drebber’s former career. He
answered, you remember, in the negative.

“I then proceeded to make a careful examination of the room, which
confirmed me in my opinion as to the murderer’s height, and furnished
me with the additional details as to the Trichinopoly cigar and the
length of his nails. I had already come to the conclusion, since there
were no signs of a struggle, that the blood which covered the floor had
burst from the murderer’s nose in his excitement. I could perceive that
the track of blood coincided with the track of his feet. It is seldom
that any man, unless he is very full-blooded, breaks out in this way
through emotion, so I hazarded the opinion that the criminal was
probably a robust and ruddy-faced man. Events proved that I had judged
correctly.

“Having left the house, I proceeded to do what Gregson had neglected. I
telegraphed to the head of the police at Cleveland, limiting my enquiry
to the circumstances connected with the marriage of Enoch Drebber. The
answer was conclusive. It told me that Drebber had already applied for
the protection of the law against an old rival in love, named Jefferson
Hope, and that this same Hope was at present in Europe. I knew now that
I held the clue to the mystery in my hand, and all that remained was to
secure the murderer.

“I had already determined in my own mind that the man who had walked
into the house with Drebber, was none other than the man who had driven
the cab. The marks in the road showed me that the horse had wandered on
in a way which would have been impossible had there been anyone in
charge of it. Where, then, could the driver be, unless he were inside
the house? Again, it is absurd to suppose that any sane man would carry
out a deliberate crime under the very eyes, as it were, of a third
person, who was sure to betray him. Lastly, supposing one man wished to
dog another through London, what better means could he adopt than to
turn cabdriver. All these considerations led me to the irresistible
conclusion that Jefferson Hope was to be found among the jarveys of the
Metropolis.

“If he had been one there was no reason to believe that he had ceased
to be. On the contrary, from his point of view, any sudden change would
be likely to draw attention to himself. He would, probably, for a time
at least, continue to perform his duties. There was no reason to
suppose that he was going under an assumed name. Why should he change
his name in a country where no one knew his original one? I therefore
organized my Street Arab detective corps, and sent them systematically
to every cab proprietor in London until they ferreted out the man that
I wanted. How well they succeeded, and how quickly I took advantage of
it, are still fresh in your recollection. The murder of Stangerson was
an incident which was entirely unexpected, but which could hardly in
any case have been prevented. Through it, as you know, I came into
possession of the pills, the existence of which I had already surmised.
You see the whole thing is a chain of logical sequences without a break
or flaw.”

“It is wonderful!” I cried. “Your merits should be publicly recognized.
You should publish an account of the case. If you won’t, I will for
you.”

“You may do what you like, Doctor,” he answered. “See here!” he
continued, handing a paper over to me, “look at this!”

It was the _Echo_ for the day, and the paragraph to which he pointed
was devoted to the case in question.

“The public,” it said, “have lost a sensational treat through the
sudden death of the man Hope, who was suspected of the murder of Mr.
Enoch Drebber and of Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The details of the case
will probably be never known now, though we are informed upon good
authority that the crime was the result of an old standing and romantic
feud, in which love and Mormonism bore a part. It seems that both the
victims belonged, in their younger days, to the Latter Day Saints, and
Hope, the deceased prisoner, hails also from Salt Lake City. If the
case has had no other effect, it, at least, brings out in the most
striking manner the efficiency of our detective police force, and will
serve as a lesson to all foreigners that they will do wisely to settle
their feuds at home, and not to carry them on to British soil. It is an
open secret that the credit of this smart capture belongs entirely to
the well-known Scotland Yard officials, Messrs. Lestrade and Gregson.
The man was apprehended, it appears, in the rooms of a certain Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, who has himself, as an amateur, shown some talent in
the detective line, and who, with such instructors, may hope in time to
attain to some degree of their skill. It is expected that a testimonial
of some sort will be presented to the two officers as a fitting
recognition of their services.”

“Didn’t I tell you so when we started?” cried Sherlock Holmes with a
laugh. “That’s the result of all our Study in Scarlet: to get them a
testimonial!”

“Never mind,” I answered, “I have all the facts in my journal, and the
public shall know them. In the meantime you must make yourself
contented by the consciousness of success, like the Roman miser—


“‘Populus me sibilat, at mihi plaudo
Ipse domi simul ac nummos contemplor in arca.’”








THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES

Another Adventure of Sherlock Holmes


by A. Conan Doyle




My dear Robinson,


    It was to your account of a West-Country legend that this tale owes its
inception. For this and for your help in the details all thanks.



Yours most truly,        

A. Conan Doyle.    



Hindhead,

    Haslemere.



Contents


 Chapter 1  Mr. Sherlock Holmes
 Chapter 2  The Curse of the Baskervilles
 Chapter 3  The Problem
 Chapter 4  Sir Henry Baskerville
 Chapter 5  Three Broken Threads
 Chapter 6  Baskerville Hall
 Chapter 7  The Stapletons of Merripit House
 Chapter 8  First Report of Dr. Watson
 Chapter 9  The Light upon the Moor [Second Report of Dr. Watson]
 Chapter 10 Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson
 Chapter 11 The Man on the Tor
 Chapter 12 Death on the Moor
 Chapter 13 Fixing the Nets
 Chapter 14 The Hound of the Baskervilles
 Chapter 15 A Retrospection




Chapter 1.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes


      Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings,
      save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all
      night, was seated at the breakfast table. I stood upon the
      hearth-rug and picked up the stick which our visitor had left
      behind him the night before. It was a fine, thick piece of wood,
      bulbous-headed, of the sort which is known as a “Penang lawyer.”
      Just under the head was a broad silver band nearly an inch
      across. “To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the
      C.C.H.,” was engraved upon it, with the date “1884.” It was just
      such a stick as the old-fashioned family practitioner used to
      carry—dignified, solid, and reassuring.

      “Well, Watson, what do you make of it?”

      Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no
      sign of my occupation.

      “How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in
      the back of your head.”

      “I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in
      front of me,” said he. “But, tell me, Watson, what do you make of
      our visitor’s stick? Since we have been so unfortunate as to miss
      him and have no notion of his errand, this accidental souvenir
      becomes of importance. Let me hear you reconstruct the man by an
      examination of it.”

      “I think,” said I, following as far as I could the methods of my
      companion, “that Dr. Mortimer is a successful, elderly medical
      man, well-esteemed since those who know him give him this mark of
      their appreciation.”

      “Good!” said Holmes. “Excellent!”

      “I think also that the probability is in favour of his being a
      country practitioner who does a great deal of his visiting on
      foot.”

      “Why so?”

      “Because this stick, though originally a very handsome one has
      been so knocked about that I can hardly imagine a town
      practitioner carrying it. The thick-iron ferrule is worn down, so
      it is evident that he has done a great amount of walking with
      it.”

      “Perfectly sound!” said Holmes.

      “And then again, there is the ‘friends of the C.C.H.’ I should
      guess that to be the Something Hunt, the local hunt to whose
      members he has possibly given some surgical assistance, and which
      has made him a small presentation in return.”

      “Really, Watson, you excel yourself,” said Holmes, pushing back
      his chair and lighting a cigarette. “I am bound to say that in
      all the accounts which you have been so good as to give of my own
      small achievements you have habitually underrated your own
      abilities. It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you
      are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius
      have a remarkable power of stimulating it. I confess, my dear
      fellow, that I am very much in your debt.”

      He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words
      gave me keen pleasure, for I had often been piqued by his
      indifference to my admiration and to the attempts which I had
      made to give publicity to his methods. I was proud, too, to think
      that I had so far mastered his system as to apply it in a way
      which earned his approval. He now took the stick from my hands
      and examined it for a few minutes with his naked eyes. Then with
      an expression of interest he laid down his cigarette, and
      carrying the cane to the window, he looked over it again with a
      convex lens.

      “Interesting, though elementary,” said he as he returned to his
      favourite corner of the settee. “There are certainly one or two
      indications upon the stick. It gives us the basis for several
      deductions.”

      “Has anything escaped me?” I asked with some self-importance. “I
      trust that there is nothing of consequence which I have
      overlooked?”

      “I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions were
      erroneous. When I said that you stimulated me I meant, to be
      frank, that in noting your fallacies I was occasionally guided
      towards the truth. Not that you are entirely wrong in this
      instance. The man is certainly a country practitioner. And he
      walks a good deal.”

      “Then I was right.”

      “To that extent.”

      “But that was all.”

      “No, no, my dear Watson, not all—by no means all. I would
      suggest, for example, that a presentation to a doctor is more
      likely to come from a hospital than from a hunt, and that when
      the initials ‘C.C.’ are placed before that hospital the words
      ‘Charing Cross’ very naturally suggest themselves.”

      “You may be right.”

      “The probability lies in that direction. And if we take this as a
      working hypothesis we have a fresh basis from which to start our
      construction of this unknown visitor.”

      “Well, then, supposing that ‘C.C.H.’ does stand for ‘Charing
      Cross Hospital,’ what further inferences may we draw?”

      “Do none suggest themselves? You know my methods. Apply them!”

      “I can only think of the obvious conclusion that the man has
      practised in town before going to the country.”

      “I think that we might venture a little farther than this. Look
      at it in this light. On what occasion would it be most probable
      that such a presentation would be made? When would his friends
      unite to give him a pledge of their good will? Obviously at the
      moment when Dr. Mortimer withdrew from the service of the
      hospital in order to start a practice for himself. We know there
      has been a presentation. We believe there has been a change from
      a town hospital to a country practice. Is it, then, stretching
      our inference too far to say that the presentation was on the
      occasion of the change?”

      “It certainly seems probable.”

      “Now, you will observe that he could not have been on the _staff_
      of the hospital, since only a man well-established in a London
      practice could hold such a position, and such a one would not
      drift into the country. What was he, then? If he was in the
      hospital and yet not on the staff he could only have been a
      house-surgeon or a house-physician—little more than a senior
      student. And he left five years ago—the date is on the stick. So
      your grave, middle-aged family practitioner vanishes into thin
      air, my dear Watson, and there emerges a young fellow under
      thirty, amiable, unambitious, absent-minded, and the possessor of
      a favourite dog, which I should describe roughly as being larger
      than a terrier and smaller than a mastiff.”

      I laughed incredulously as Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his
      settee and blew little wavering rings of smoke up to the ceiling.

      “As to the latter part, I have no means of checking you,” said I,
      “but at least it is not difficult to find out a few particulars
      about the man’s age and professional career.” From my small
      medical shelf I took down the Medical Directory and turned up the
      name. There were several Mortimers, but only one who could be our
      visitor. I read his record aloud.

        “Mortimer, James, M.R.C.S., 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon.
        House-surgeon, from 1882 to 1884, at Charing Cross Hospital.
        Winner of the Jackson prize for Comparative Pathology, with
        essay entitled ‘Is Disease a Reversion?’  Corresponding member
        of the Swedish Pathological Society.  Author of ‘Some Freaks of
        Atavism’ (_Lancet_ 1882).  ‘Do We Progress?’ (_Journal of
        Psychology_, March, 1883). Medical Officer for the parishes of
        Grimpen, Thorsley, and High Barrow.”

      “No mention of that local hunt, Watson,” said Holmes with a
      mischievous smile, “but a country doctor, as you very astutely
      observed. I think that I am fairly justified in my inferences. As
      to the adjectives, I said, if I remember right, amiable,
      unambitious, and absent-minded. It is my experience that it is
      only an amiable man in this world who receives testimonials, only
      an unambitious one who abandons a London career for the country,
      and only an absent-minded one who leaves his stick and not his
      visiting-card after waiting an hour in your room.”

      “And the dog?”

      “Has been in the habit of carrying this stick behind his master.
      Being a heavy stick the dog has held it tightly by the middle,
      and the marks of his teeth are very plainly visible. The dog’s
      jaw, as shown in the space between these marks, is too broad in
      my opinion for a terrier and not broad enough for a mastiff. It
      may have been—yes, by Jove, it _is_ a curly-haired spaniel.”

      He had risen and paced the room as he spoke. Now he halted in the
      recess of the window. There was such a ring of conviction in his
      voice that I glanced up in surprise.

      “My dear fellow, how can you possibly be so sure of that?”

      “For the very simple reason that I see the dog himself on our
      very door-step, and there is the ring of its owner. Don’t move, I
      beg you, Watson. He is a professional brother of yours, and your
      presence may be of assistance to me. Now is the dramatic moment
      of fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the stair which is
      walking into your life, and you know not whether for good or ill.
      What does Dr. James Mortimer, the man of science, ask of Sherlock
      Holmes, the specialist in crime? Come in!”

      The appearance of our visitor was a surprise to me, since I had
      expected a typical country practitioner. He was a very tall, thin
      man, with a long nose like a beak, which jutted out between two
      keen, grey eyes, set closely together and sparkling brightly from
      behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He was clad in a
      professional but rather slovenly fashion, for his frock-coat was
      dingy and his trousers frayed. Though young, his long back was
      already bowed, and he walked with a forward thrust of his head
      and a general air of peering benevolence. As he entered his eyes
      fell upon the stick in Holmes’s hand, and he ran towards it with
      an exclamation of joy. “I am so very glad,” said he. “I was not
      sure whether I had left it here or in the Shipping Office. I
      would not lose that stick for the world.”

      “A presentation, I see,” said Holmes.

      “Yes, sir.”

      “From Charing Cross Hospital?”

      “From one or two friends there on the occasion of my marriage.”

      “Dear, dear, that’s bad!” said Holmes, shaking his head.

      Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in mild astonishment.
      “Why was it bad?”

      “Only that you have disarranged our little deductions. Your
      marriage, you say?”

      “Yes, sir. I married, and so left the hospital, and with it all
      hopes of a consulting practice. It was necessary to make a home
      of my own.”

      “Come, come, we are not so far wrong, after all,” said Holmes.
      “And now, Dr. James Mortimer—”

      “Mister, sir, Mister—a humble M.R.C.S.”

      “And a man of precise mind, evidently.”

      “A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up of shells on the
      shores of the great unknown ocean. I presume that it is Mr.
      Sherlock Holmes whom I am addressing and not—”

      “No, this is my friend Dr. Watson.”

      “Glad to meet you, sir. I have heard your name mentioned in
      connection with that of your friend. You interest me very much,
      Mr. Holmes. I had hardly expected so dolichocephalic a skull or
      such well-marked supra-orbital development. Would you have any
      objection to my running my finger along your parietal fissure? A
      cast of your skull, sir, until the original is available, would
      be an ornament to any anthropological museum. It is not my
      intention to be fulsome, but I confess that I covet your skull.”

      Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair. “You are
      an enthusiast in your line of thought, I perceive, sir, as I am
      in mine,” said he. “I observe from your forefinger that you make
      your own cigarettes. Have no hesitation in lighting one.”

      The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in the
      other with surprising dexterity. He had long, quivering fingers
      as agile and restless as the antennæ of an insect.

      Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances showed me the
      interest which he took in our curious companion. “I presume,
      sir,” said he at last, “that it was not merely for the purpose of
      examining my skull that you have done me the honour to call here
      last night and again today?”

      “No, sir, no; though I am happy to have had the opportunity of
      doing that as well. I came to you, Mr. Holmes, because I
      recognized that I am myself an unpractical man and because I am
      suddenly confronted with a most serious and extraordinary
      problem. Recognizing, as I do, that you are the second highest
      expert in Europe—”

      “Indeed, sir! May I inquire who has the honour to be the first?”
      asked Holmes with some asperity.

      “To the man of precisely scientific mind the work of Monsieur
      Bertillon must always appeal strongly.”

      “Then had you not better consult him?”

      “I said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind. But as a
      practical man of affairs it is acknowledged that you stand alone.
      I trust, sir, that I have not inadvertently—”

      “Just a little,” said Holmes. “I think, Dr. Mortimer, you would
      do wisely if without more ado you would kindly tell me plainly
      what the exact nature of the problem is in which you demand my
      assistance.”




Chapter 2.
The Curse of the Baskervilles


      “I have in my pocket a manuscript,” said Dr. James Mortimer.

      “I observed it as you entered the room,” said Holmes.

      “It is an old manuscript.”

      “Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery.”

      “How can you say that, sir?”

      “You have presented an inch or two of it to my examination all
      the time that you have been talking. It would be a poor expert
      who could not give the date of a document within a decade or so.
      You may possibly have read my little monograph upon the subject.
      I put that at 1730.”

      “The exact date is 1742.” Dr. Mortimer drew it from his
      breast-pocket. “This family paper was committed to my care by Sir
      Charles Baskerville, whose sudden and tragic death some three
      months ago created so much excitement in Devonshire. I may say
      that I was his personal friend as well as his medical attendant.
      He was a strong-minded man, sir, shrewd, practical, and as
      unimaginative as I am myself. Yet he took this document very
      seriously, and his mind was prepared for just such an end as did
      eventually overtake him.”

      Holmes stretched out his hand for the manuscript and flattened it
      upon his knee. “You will observe, Watson, the alternative use of
      the long _s_ and the short. It is one of several indications
      which enabled me to fix the date.”

      I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded
      script. At the head was written: “Baskerville Hall,” and below in
      large, scrawling figures: “1742.”

      “It appears to be a statement of some sort.”

      “Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in the
      Baskerville family.”

      “But I understand that it is something more modern and practical
      upon which you wish to consult me?”

      “Most modern. A most practical, pressing matter, which must be
      decided within twenty-four hours. But the manuscript is short and
      is intimately connected with the affair. With your permission I
      will read it to you.”

      Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips together,
      and closed his eyes, with an air of resignation. Dr. Mortimer
      turned the manuscript to the light and read in a high, cracking
      voice the following curious, old-world narrative:

        “Of the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles there have been
        many statements, yet as I come in a direct line from Hugo
        Baskerville, and as I had the story from my father, who also
        had it from his, I have set it down with all belief that it
        occurred even as is here set forth. And I would have you
        believe, my sons, that the same Justice which punishes sin may
        also most graciously forgive it, and that no ban is so heavy
        but that by prayer and repentance it may be removed.  Learn
        then from this story not to fear the fruits of the past, but
        rather to be circumspect in the future, that those foul
        passions whereby our family has suffered so grievously may not
        again be loosed to our undoing.

            “Know then that in the time of the Great Rebellion (the
            history of which by the learned Lord Clarendon I most
            earnestly commend to your attention) this Manor of
            Baskerville was held by Hugo of that name, nor can it be
            gainsaid that he was a most wild, profane, and godless man.
             This, in truth, his neighbours might have pardoned, seeing
            that saints have never flourished in those parts, but there
            was in him a certain wanton and cruel humour which made his
            name a by-word through the West.  It chanced that this Hugo
            came to love (if, indeed, so dark a passion may be known
            under so bright a name) the daughter of a yeoman who held
            lands near the Baskerville estate. But the young maiden,
            being discreet and of good repute, would ever avoid him,
            for she feared his evil name.  So it came to pass that one
            Michaelmas this Hugo, with five or six of his idle and
            wicked companions, stole down upon the farm and carried off
            the maiden, her father and brothers being from home, as he
            well knew.  When they had brought her to the Hall the
            maiden was placed in an upper chamber, while Hugo and his
            friends sat down to a long carouse, as was their nightly
            custom.  Now, the poor lass upstairs was like to have her
            wits turned at the singing and shouting and terrible oaths
            which came up to her from below, for they say that the
            words used by Hugo Baskerville, when he was in wine, were
            such as might blast the man who said them.  At last in the
            stress of her fear she did that which might have daunted
            the bravest or most active man, for by the aid of the
            growth of ivy which covered (and still covers) the south
            wall she came down from under the eaves, and so homeward
            across the moor, there being three leagues betwixt the Hall
            and her father’s farm.

            “It chanced that some little time later Hugo left his
            guests to carry food and drink—with other worse things,
            perchance—to his captive, and so found the cage empty and
            the bird escaped.  Then, as it would seem, he became as one
            that hath a devil, for, rushing down the stairs into the
            dining-hall, he sprang upon the great table, flagons and
            trenchers flying before him, and he cried aloud before all
            the company that he would that very night render his body
            and soul to the Powers of Evil if he might but overtake the
            wench.  And while the revellers stood aghast at the fury of
            the man, one more wicked or, it may be, more drunken than
            the rest, cried out that they should put the hounds upon
            her.  Whereat Hugo ran from the house, crying to his grooms
            that they should saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and
            giving the hounds a kerchief of the maid’s, he swung them
            to the line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the
            moor.

            “Now, for some space the revellers stood agape, unable to
            understand all that had been done in such haste.  But anon
            their bemused wits awoke to the nature of the deed which
            was like to be done upon the moorlands.  Everything was now
            in an uproar, some calling for their pistols, some for
            their horses, and some for another flask of wine.  But at
            length some sense came back to their crazed minds, and the
            whole of them, thirteen in number, took horse and started
            in pursuit.  The moon shone clear above them, and they rode
            swiftly abreast, taking that course which the maid must
            needs have taken if she were to reach her own home.

            “They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the
            night shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to him
            to know if he had seen the hunt.  And the man, as the story
            goes, was so crazed with fear that he could scarce speak,
            but at last he said that he had indeed seen the unhappy
            maiden, with the hounds upon her track.  ‘But I have seen
            more than that,’ said he, ‘for Hugo Baskerville passed me
            upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind him such a
            hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at my heels.’ 
            So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd and rode onward.
             But soon their skins turned cold, for there came a
            galloping across the moor, and the black mare, dabbled with
            white froth, went past with trailing bridle and empty
            saddle.  Then the revellers rode close together, for a
            great fear was on them, but they still followed over the
            moor, though each, had he been alone, would have been right
            glad to have turned his horse’s head.  Riding slowly in
            this fashion they came at last upon the hounds.  These,
            though known for their valour and their breed, were
            whimpering in a cluster at the head of a deep dip or goyal,
            as we call it, upon the moor, some slinking away and some,
            with starting hackles and staring eyes, gazing down the
            narrow valley before them.

            “The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you may
            guess, than when they started.  The most of them would by
            no means advance, but three of them, the boldest, or it may
            be the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal. Now, it
            opened into a broad space in which stood two of those great
            stones, still to be seen there, which were set by certain
            forgotten peoples in the days of old. The moon was shining
            bright upon the clearing, and there in the centre lay the
            unhappy maid where she had fallen, dead of fear and of
            fatigue.  But it was not the sight of her body, nor yet was
            it that of the body of Hugo Baskerville lying near her,
            which raised the hair upon the heads of these three
            dare-devil roysterers, but it was that, standing over Hugo,
            and plucking at his throat, there stood a foul thing, a
            great, black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than
            any hound that ever mortal eye has rested upon.  And even
            as they looked the thing tore the throat out of Hugo
            Baskerville, on which, as it turned its blazing eyes and
            dripping jaws upon them, the three shrieked with fear and
            rode for dear life, still screaming, across the moor.  One,
            it is said, died that very night of what he had seen, and
            the other twain were but broken men for the rest of their
            days.

            “Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound
            which is said to have plagued the family so sorely ever
            since.  If I have set it down it is because that which is
            clearly known hath less terror than that which is but
            hinted at and guessed.  Nor can it be denied that many of
            the family have been unhappy in their deaths, which have
            been sudden, bloody, and mysterious.  Yet may we shelter
            ourselves in the infinite goodness of Providence, which
            would not forever punish the innocent beyond that third or
            fourth generation which is threatened in Holy Writ.  To
            that Providence, my sons, I hereby commend you, and I
            counsel you by way of caution to forbear from crossing the
            moor in those dark hours when the powers of evil are
            exalted.

            “[This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John,
            with instructions that they say nothing thereof to their
            sister Elizabeth.]”

      When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narrative he
      pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and stared across at Mr.
      Sherlock Holmes. The latter yawned and tossed the end of his
      cigarette into the fire.

      “Well?” said he.

      “Do you not find it interesting?”

      “To a collector of fairy tales.”

      Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of his pocket.

      “Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something a little more
      recent. This is the _Devon County Chronicle_ of May 14th of this
      year. It is a short account of the facts elicited at the death of
      Sir Charles Baskerville which occurred a few days before that
      date.”

      My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became
      intent. Our visitor readjusted his glasses and began:

        “The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whose name
        has been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidate for
        Mid-Devon at the next election, has cast a gloom over the
        county.  Though Sir Charles had resided at Baskerville Hall for
        a comparatively short period his amiability of character and
        extreme generosity had won the affection and respect of all who
        had been brought into contact with him.  In these days of
        _nouveaux riches_ it is refreshing to find a case where the
        scion of an old county family which has fallen upon evil days
        is able to make his own fortune and to bring it back with him
        to restore the fallen grandeur of his line.  Sir Charles, as is
        well known, made large sums of money in South African
        speculation. More wise than those who go on until the wheel
        turns against them, he realised his gains and returned to
        England with them.  It is only two years since he took up his
        residence at Baskerville Hall, and it is common talk how large
        were those schemes of reconstruction and improvement which have
        been interrupted by his death.  Being himself childless, it was
        his openly expressed desire that the whole countryside should,
        within his own lifetime, profit by his good fortune, and many
        will have personal reasons for bewailing his untimely end.  His
        generous donations to local and county charities have been
        frequently chronicled in these columns.

            “The circumstances connected with the death of Sir Charles
            cannot be said to have been entirely cleared up by the
            inquest, but at least enough has been done to dispose of
            those rumours to which local superstition has given rise.
            There is no reason whatever to suspect foul play, or to
            imagine that death could be from any but natural causes.
            Sir Charles was a widower, and a man who may be said to
            have been in some ways of an eccentric habit of mind. In
            spite of his considerable wealth he was simple in his
            personal tastes, and his indoor servants at Baskerville
            Hall consisted of a married couple named Barrymore, the
            husband acting as butler and the wife as housekeeper. Their
            evidence, corroborated by that of several friends, tends to
            show that Sir Charles’s health has for some time been
            impaired, and points especially to some affection of the
            heart, manifesting itself in changes of colour,
            breathlessness, and acute attacks of nervous depression.
            Dr. James Mortimer, the friend and medical attendant of the
            deceased, has given evidence to the same effect.

            “The facts of the case are simple.  Sir Charles Baskerville
            was in the habit every night before going to bed of walking
            down the famous yew alley of Baskerville Hall.  The
            evidence of the Barrymores shows that this had been his
            custom. On the fourth of May Sir Charles had declared his
            intention of starting next day for London, and had ordered
            Barrymore to prepare his luggage.  That night he went out
            as usual for his nocturnal walk, in the course of which he
            was in the habit of smoking a cigar.  He never returned. 
            At twelve o’clock Barrymore, finding the hall door still
            open, became alarmed, and, lighting a lantern, went in
            search of his master.  The day had been wet, and Sir
            Charles’s footmarks were easily traced down the alley. 
            Halfway down this walk there is a gate which leads out on
            to the moor. There were indications that Sir Charles had
            stood for some little time here.  He then proceeded down
            the alley, and it was at the far end of it that his body
            was discovered. One fact which has not been explained is
            the statement of Barrymore that his master’s footprints
            altered their character from the time that he passed the
            moor-gate, and that he appeared from thence onward to have
            been walking upon his toes.  One Murphy, a gipsy
            horse-dealer, was on the moor at no great distance at the
            time, but he appears by his own confession to have been the
            worse for drink. He declares that he heard cries but is
            unable to state from what direction they came.  No signs of
            violence were to be discovered upon Sir Charles’s person,
            and though the doctor’s evidence pointed to an almost
            incredible facial distortion—so great that Dr. Mortimer
            refused at first to believe that it was indeed his friend
            and patient who lay before him—it was explained that that
            is a symptom which is not unusual in cases of dyspnœa and
            death from cardiac exhaustion.  This explanation was borne
            out by the post-mortem examination, which showed
            long-standing organic disease, and the coroner’s jury
            returned a verdict in accordance with the medical evidence.
             It is well that this is so, for it is obviously of the
            utmost importance that Sir Charles’s heir should settle at
            the Hall and continue the good work which has been so sadly
            interrupted.  Had the prosaic finding of the coroner not
            finally put an end to the romantic stories which have been
            whispered in connection with the affair, it might have been
            difficult to find a tenant for Baskerville Hall.  It is
            understood that the next of kin is Mr. Henry Baskerville,
            if he be still alive, the son of Sir Charles Baskerville’s
            younger brother.  The young man when last heard of was in
            America, and inquiries are being instituted with a view to
            informing him of his good fortune.”

      Dr. Mortimer refolded his paper and replaced it in his pocket.
      “Those are the public facts, Mr. Holmes, in connection with the
      death of Sir Charles Baskerville.”

      “I must thank you,” said Sherlock Holmes, “for calling my
      attention to a case which certainly presents some features of
      interest. I had observed some newspaper comment at the time, but
      I was exceedingly preoccupied by that little affair of the
      Vatican cameos, and in my anxiety to oblige the Pope I lost touch
      with several interesting English cases. This article, you say,
      contains all the public facts?”

      “It does.”

      “Then let me have the private ones.” He leaned back, put his
      finger-tips together, and assumed his most impassive and judicial
      expression.

      “In doing so,” said Dr. Mortimer, who had begun to show signs of
      some strong emotion, “I am telling that which I have not confided
      to anyone. My motive for withholding it from the coroner’s
      inquiry is that a man of science shrinks from placing himself in
      the public position of seeming to indorse a popular superstition.
      I had the further motive that Baskerville Hall, as the paper
      says, would certainly remain untenanted if anything were done to
      increase its already rather grim reputation. For both these
      reasons I thought that I was justified in telling rather less
      than I knew, since no practical good could result from it, but
      with you there is no reason why I should not be perfectly frank.

      “The moor is very sparsely inhabited, and those who live near
      each other are thrown very much together. For this reason I saw a
      good deal of Sir Charles Baskerville. With the exception of Mr.
      Frankland, of Lafter Hall, and Mr. Stapleton, the naturalist,
      there are no other men of education within many miles. Sir
      Charles was a retiring man, but the chance of his illness brought
      us together, and a community of interests in science kept us so.
      He had brought back much scientific information from South
      Africa, and many a charming evening we have spent together
      discussing the comparative anatomy of the Bushman and the
      Hottentot.

      “Within the last few months it became increasingly plain to me
      that Sir Charles’s nervous system was strained to the breaking
      point. He had taken this legend which I have read you exceedingly
      to heart—so much so that, although he would walk in his own
      grounds, nothing would induce him to go out upon the moor at
      night. Incredible as it may appear to you, Mr. Holmes, he was
      honestly convinced that a dreadful fate overhung his family, and
      certainly the records which he was able to give of his ancestors
      were not encouraging. The idea of some ghastly presence
      constantly haunted him, and on more than one occasion he has
      asked me whether I had on my medical journeys at night ever seen
      any strange creature or heard the baying of a hound. The latter
      question he put to me several times, and always with a voice
      which vibrated with excitement.

      “I can well remember driving up to his house in the evening some
      three weeks before the fatal event. He chanced to be at his hall
      door. I had descended from my gig and was standing in front of
      him, when I saw his eyes fix themselves over my shoulder and
      stare past me with an expression of the most dreadful horror. I
      whisked round and had just time to catch a glimpse of something
      which I took to be a large black calf passing at the head of the
      drive. So excited and alarmed was he that I was compelled to go
      down to the spot where the animal had been and look around for
      it. It was gone, however, and the incident appeared to make the
      worst impression upon his mind. I stayed with him all the
      evening, and it was on that occasion, to explain the emotion
      which he had shown, that he confided to my keeping that narrative
      which I read to you when first I came. I mention this small
      episode because it assumes some importance in view of the tragedy
      which followed, but I was convinced at the time that the matter
      was entirely trivial and that his excitement had no
      justification.

      “It was at my advice that Sir Charles was about to go to London.
      His heart was, I knew, affected, and the constant anxiety in
      which he lived, however chimerical the cause of it might be, was
      evidently having a serious effect upon his health. I thought that
      a few months among the distractions of town would send him back a
      new man. Mr. Stapleton, a mutual friend who was much concerned at
      his state of health, was of the same opinion. At the last instant
      came this terrible catastrophe.

      “On the night of Sir Charles’s death Barrymore the butler, who
      made the discovery, sent Perkins the groom on horseback to me,
      and as I was sitting up late I was able to reach Baskerville Hall
      within an hour of the event. I checked and corroborated all the
      facts which were mentioned at the inquest. I followed the
      footsteps down the yew alley, I saw the spot at the moor-gate
      where he seemed to have waited, I remarked the change in the
      shape of the prints after that point, I noted that there were no
      other footsteps save those of Barrymore on the soft gravel, and
      finally I carefully examined the body, which had not been touched
      until my arrival. Sir Charles lay on his face, his arms out, his
      fingers dug into the ground, and his features convulsed with some
      strong emotion to such an extent that I could hardly have sworn
      to his identity. There was certainly no physical injury of any
      kind. But one false statement was made by Barrymore at the
      inquest. He said that there were no traces upon the ground round
      the body. He did not observe any. But I did—some little distance
      off, but fresh and clear.”

      “Footprints?”

      “Footprints.”

      “A man’s or a woman’s?”

      Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice
      sank almost to a whisper as he answered.

      “Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!”




Chapter 3.
The Problem


      I confess at these words a shudder passed through me. There was a
      thrill in the doctor’s voice which showed that he was himself
      deeply moved by that which he told us. Holmes leaned forward in
      his excitement and his eyes had the hard, dry glitter which shot
      from them when he was keenly interested.

      “You saw this?”

      “As clearly as I see you.”

      “And you said nothing?”

      “What was the use?”

      “How was it that no one else saw it?”

      “The marks were some twenty yards from the body and no one gave
      them a thought. I don’t suppose I should have done so had I not
      known this legend.”

      “There are many sheep-dogs on the moor?”

      “No doubt, but this was no sheep-dog.”

      “You say it was large?”

      “Enormous.”

      “But it had not approached the body?”

      “No.”

      “What sort of night was it?”

      “Damp and raw.”

      “But not actually raining?”

      “No.”

      “What is the alley like?”

      “There are two lines of old yew hedge, twelve feet high and
      impenetrable. The walk in the centre is about eight feet across.”

      “Is there anything between the hedges and the walk?”

      “Yes, there is a strip of grass about six feet broad on either
      side.”

      “I understand that the yew hedge is penetrated at one point by a
      gate?”

      “Yes, the wicket-gate which leads on to the moor.”

      “Is there any other opening?”

      “None.”

      “So that to reach the yew alley one either has to come down it
      from the house or else to enter it by the moor-gate?”

      “There is an exit through a summer-house at the far end.”

      “Had Sir Charles reached this?”

      “No; he lay about fifty yards from it.”

      “Now, tell me, Dr. Mortimer—and this is important—the marks which
      you saw were on the path and not on the grass?”

      “No marks could show on the grass.”

      “Were they on the same side of the path as the moor-gate?”

      “Yes; they were on the edge of the path on the same side as the
      moor-gate.”

      “You interest me exceedingly. Another point. Was the wicket-gate
      closed?”

      “Closed and padlocked.”

      “How high was it?”

      “About four feet high.”

      “Then anyone could have got over it?”

      “Yes.”

      “And what marks did you see by the wicket-gate?”

      “None in particular.”

      “Good heaven! Did no one examine?”

      “Yes, I examined, myself.”

      “And found nothing?”

      “It was all very confused. Sir Charles had evidently stood there
      for five or ten minutes.”

      “How do you know that?”

      “Because the ash had twice dropped from his cigar.”

      “Excellent! This is a colleague, Watson, after our own heart. But
      the marks?”

      “He had left his own marks all over that small patch of gravel. I
      could discern no others.”

      Sherlock Holmes struck his hand against his knee with an
      impatient gesture.

      “If I had only been there!” he cried. “It is evidently a case of
      extraordinary interest, and one which presented immense
      opportunities to the scientific expert. That gravel page upon
      which I might have read so much has been long ere this smudged by
      the rain and defaced by the clogs of curious peasants. Oh, Dr.
      Mortimer, Dr. Mortimer, to think that you should not have called
      me in! You have indeed much to answer for.”

      “I could not call you in, Mr. Holmes, without disclosing these
      facts to the world, and I have already given my reasons for not
      wishing to do so. Besides, besides—”

      “Why do you hesitate?”

      “There is a realm in which the most acute and most experienced of
      detectives is helpless.”

      “You mean that the thing is supernatural?”

      “I did not positively say so.”

      “No, but you evidently think it.”

      “Since the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, there have come to my ears
      several incidents which are hard to reconcile with the settled
      order of Nature.”

      “For example?”

      “I find that before the terrible event occurred several people
      had seen a creature upon the moor which corresponds with this
      Baskerville demon, and which could not possibly be any animal
      known to science. They all agreed that it was a huge creature,
      luminous, ghastly, and spectral. I have cross-examined these men,
      one of them a hard-headed countryman, one a farrier, and one a
      moorland farmer, who all tell the same story of this dreadful
      apparition, exactly corresponding to the hell-hound of the
      legend. I assure you that there is a reign of terror in the
      district, and that it is a hardy man who will cross the moor at
      night.”

      “And you, a trained man of science, believe it to be
      supernatural?”

      “I do not know what to believe.”

      Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “I have hitherto confined my
      investigations to this world,” said he. “In a modest way I have
      combated evil, but to take on the Father of Evil himself would,
      perhaps, be too ambitious a task. Yet you must admit that the
      footmark is material.”

      “The original hound was material enough to tug a man’s throat
      out, and yet he was diabolical as well.”

      “I see that you have quite gone over to the supernaturalists. But
      now, Dr. Mortimer, tell me this. If you hold these views, why
      have you come to consult me at all? You tell me in the same
      breath that it is useless to investigate Sir Charles’s death, and
      that you desire me to do it.”

      “I did not say that I desired you to do it.”

      “Then, how can I assist you?”

      “By advising me as to what I should do with Sir Henry
      Baskerville, who arrives at Waterloo Station”—Dr. Mortimer looked
      at his watch—“in exactly one hour and a quarter.”

      “He being the heir?”

      “Yes. On the death of Sir Charles we inquired for this young
      gentleman and found that he had been farming in Canada. From the
      accounts which have reached us he is an excellent fellow in every
      way. I speak now not as a medical man but as a trustee and
      executor of Sir Charles’s will.”

      “There is no other claimant, I presume?”

      “None. The only other kinsman whom we have been able to trace was
      Rodger Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers of whom poor
      Sir Charles was the elder. The second brother, who died young, is
      the father of this lad Henry. The third, Rodger, was the black
      sheep of the family. He came of the old masterful Baskerville
      strain and was the very image, they tell me, of the family
      picture of old Hugo. He made England too hot to hold him, fled to
      Central America, and died there in 1876 of yellow fever. Henry is
      the last of the Baskervilles. In one hour and five minutes I meet
      him at Waterloo Station. I have had a wire that he arrived at
      Southampton this morning. Now, Mr. Holmes, what would you advise
      me to do with him?”

      “Why should he not go to the home of his fathers?”

      “It seems natural, does it not? And yet, consider that every
      Baskerville who goes there meets with an evil fate. I feel sure
      that if Sir Charles could have spoken with me before his death he
      would have warned me against bringing this, the last of the old
      race, and the heir to great wealth, to that deadly place. And yet
      it cannot be denied that the prosperity of the whole poor, bleak
      countryside depends upon his presence. All the good work which
      has been done by Sir Charles will crash to the ground if there is
      no tenant of the Hall. I fear lest I should be swayed too much by
      my own obvious interest in the matter, and that is why I bring
      the case before you and ask for your advice.”

      Holmes considered for a little time.

      “Put into plain words, the matter is this,” said he. “In your
      opinion there is a diabolical agency which makes Dartmoor an
      unsafe abode for a Baskerville—that is your opinion?”

      “At least I might go the length of saying that there is some
      evidence that this may be so.”

      “Exactly. But surely, if your supernatural theory be correct, it
      could work the young man evil in London as easily as in
      Devonshire. A devil with merely local powers like a parish vestry
      would be too inconceivable a thing.”

      “You put the matter more flippantly, Mr. Holmes, than you would
      probably do if you were brought into personal contact with these
      things. Your advice, then, as I understand it, is that the young
      man will be as safe in Devonshire as in London. He comes in fifty
      minutes. What would you recommend?”

      “I recommend, sir, that you take a cab, call off your spaniel who
      is scratching at my front door, and proceed to Waterloo to meet
      Sir Henry Baskerville.”

      “And then?”

      “And then you will say nothing to him at all until I have made up
      my mind about the matter.”

      “How long will it take you to make up your mind?”

      “Twenty-four hours. At ten o’clock tomorrow, Dr. Mortimer, I will
      be much obliged to you if you will call upon me here, and it will
      be of help to me in my plans for the future if you will bring Sir
      Henry Baskerville with you.”

      “I will do so, Mr. Holmes.” He scribbled the appointment on his
      shirt-cuff and hurried off in his strange, peering, absent-minded
      fashion. Holmes stopped him at the head of the stair.

      “Only one more question, Dr. Mortimer. You say that before Sir
      Charles Baskerville’s death several people saw this apparition
      upon the moor?”

      “Three people did.”

      “Did any see it after?”

      “I have not heard of any.”

      “Thank you. Good-morning.”

      Holmes returned to his seat with that quiet look of inward
      satisfaction which meant that he had a congenial task before him.

      “Going out, Watson?”

      “Unless I can help you.”

      “No, my dear fellow, it is at the hour of action that I turn to
      you for aid. But this is splendid, really unique from some points
      of view. When you pass Bradley’s, would you ask him to send up a
      pound of the strongest shag tobacco? Thank you. It would be as
      well if you could make it convenient not to return before
      evening. Then I should be very glad to compare impressions as to
      this most interesting problem which has been submitted to us this
      morning.”

      I knew that seclusion and solitude were very necessary for my
      friend in those hours of intense mental concentration during
      which he weighed every particle of evidence, constructed
      alternative theories, balanced one against the other, and made up
      his mind as to which points were essential and which immaterial.
      I therefore spent the day at my club and did not return to Baker
      Street until evening. It was nearly nine o’clock when I found
      myself in the sitting-room once more.

      My first impression as I opened the door was that a fire had
      broken out, for the room was so filled with smoke that the light
      of the lamp upon the table was blurred by it. As I entered,
      however, my fears were set at rest, for it was the acrid fumes of
      strong coarse tobacco which took me by the throat and set me
      coughing. Through the haze I had a vague vision of Holmes in his
      dressing-gown coiled up in an armchair with his black clay pipe
      between his lips. Several rolls of paper lay around him.

      “Caught cold, Watson?” said he.

      “No, it’s this poisonous atmosphere.”

      “I suppose it _is_ pretty thick, now that you mention it.”

      “Thick! It is intolerable.”

      “Open the window, then! You have been at your club all day, I
      perceive.”

      “My dear Holmes!”

      “Am I right?”

      “Certainly, but how?”

      He laughed at my bewildered expression. “There is a delightful
      freshness about you, Watson, which makes it a pleasure to
      exercise any small powers which I possess at your expense. A
      gentleman goes forth on a showery and miry day. He returns
      immaculate in the evening with the gloss still on his hat and his
      boots. He has been a fixture therefore all day. He is not a man
      with intimate friends. Where, then, could he have been? Is it not
      obvious?”

      “Well, it is rather obvious.”

      “The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance
      ever observes. Where do you think that I have been?”

      “A fixture also.”

      “On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire.”

      “In spirit?”

      “Exactly. My body has remained in this armchair and has, I regret
      to observe, consumed in my absence two large pots of coffee and
      an incredible amount of tobacco. After you left I sent down to
      Stamford’s for the Ordnance map of this portion of the moor, and
      my spirit has hovered over it all day. I flatter myself that I
      could find my way about.”

      “A large-scale map, I presume?”

      “Very large.”

      He unrolled one section and held it over his knee. “Here you have
      the particular district which concerns us. That is Baskerville
      Hall in the middle.”

      “With a wood round it?”

      “Exactly. I fancy the yew alley, though not marked under that
      name, must stretch along this line, with the moor, as you
      perceive, upon the right of it. This small clump of buildings
      here is the hamlet of Grimpen, where our friend Dr. Mortimer has
      his headquarters. Within a radius of five miles there are, as you
      see, only a very few scattered dwellings. Here is Lafter Hall,
      which was mentioned in the narrative. There is a house indicated
      here which may be the residence of the naturalist—Stapleton, if I
      remember right, was his name. Here are two moorland farmhouses,
      High Tor and Foulmire. Then fourteen miles away the great convict
      prison of Princetown. Between and around these scattered points
      extends the desolate, lifeless moor. This, then, is the stage
      upon which tragedy has been played, and upon which we may help to
      play it again.”

      “It must be a wild place.”

      “Yes, the setting is a worthy one. If the devil did desire to
      have a hand in the affairs of men—”

      “Then you are yourself inclining to the supernatural
      explanation.”

      “The devil’s agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not?
      There are two questions waiting for us at the outset. The one is
      whether any crime has been committed at all; the second is, what
      is the crime and how was it committed? Of course, if Dr.
      Mortimer’s surmise should be correct, and we are dealing with
      forces outside the ordinary laws of Nature, there is an end of
      our investigation. But we are bound to exhaust all other
      hypotheses before falling back upon this one. I think we’ll shut
      that window again, if you don’t mind. It is a singular thing, but
      I find that a concentrated atmosphere helps a concentration of
      thought. I have not pushed it to the length of getting into a box
      to think, but that is the logical outcome of my convictions. Have
      you turned the case over in your mind?”

      “Yes, I have thought a good deal of it in the course of the day.”

      “What do you make of it?”

      “It is very bewildering.”

      “It has certainly a character of its own. There are points of
      distinction about it. That change in the footprints, for example.
      What do you make of that?”

      “Mortimer said that the man had walked on tiptoe down that
      portion of the alley.”

      “He only repeated what some fool had said at the inquest. Why
      should a man walk on tiptoe down the alley?”

      “What then?”

      “He was running, Watson—running desperately, running for his
      life, running until he burst his heart—and fell dead upon his
      face.”

      “Running from what?”

      “There lies our problem. There are indications that the man was
      crazed with fear before ever he began to run.”

      “How can you say that?”

      “I am presuming that the cause of his fears came to him across
      the moor. If that were so, and it seems most probable, only a man
      who had lost his wits would have run _from_ the house instead of
      towards it. If the gipsy’s evidence may be taken as true, he ran
      with cries for help in the direction where help was least likely
      to be. Then, again, whom was he waiting for that night, and why
      was he waiting for him in the yew alley rather than in his own
      house?”

      “You think that he was waiting for someone?”

      “The man was elderly and infirm. We can understand his taking an
      evening stroll, but the ground was damp and the night inclement.
      Is it natural that he should stand for five or ten minutes, as
      Dr. Mortimer, with more practical sense than I should have given
      him credit for, deduced from the cigar ash?”

      “But he went out every evening.”

      “I think it unlikely that he waited at the moor-gate every
      evening. On the contrary, the evidence is that he avoided the
      moor. That night he waited there. It was the night before he made
      his departure for London. The thing takes shape, Watson. It
      becomes coherent. Might I ask you to hand me my violin, and we
      will postpone all further thought upon this business until we
      have had the advantage of meeting Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry
      Baskerville in the morning.”




Chapter 4.
Sir Henry Baskerville


      Our breakfast table was cleared early, and Holmes waited in his
      dressing-gown for the promised interview. Our clients were
      punctual to their appointment, for the clock had just struck ten
      when Dr. Mortimer was shown up, followed by the young baronet.
      The latter was a small, alert, dark-eyed man about thirty years
      of age, very sturdily built, with thick black eyebrows and a
      strong, pugnacious face. He wore a ruddy-tinted tweed suit and
      had the weather-beaten appearance of one who has spent most of
      his time in the open air, and yet there was something in his
      steady eye and the quiet assurance of his bearing which indicated
      the gentleman.

      “This is Sir Henry Baskerville,” said Dr. Mortimer.

      “Why, yes,” said he, “and the strange thing is, Mr. Sherlock
      Holmes, that if my friend here had not proposed coming round to
      you this morning I should have come on my own account. I
      understand that you think out little puzzles, and I’ve had one
      this morning which wants more thinking out than I am able to give
      it.”

      “Pray take a seat, Sir Henry. Do I understand you to say that you
      have yourself had some remarkable experience since you arrived in
      London?”

      “Nothing of much importance, Mr. Holmes. Only a joke, as like as
      not. It was this letter, if you can call it a letter, which
      reached me this morning.”

      He laid an envelope upon the table, and we all bent over it. It
      was of common quality, greyish in colour. The address, “Sir Henry
      Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel,” was printed in rough
      characters; the post-mark “Charing Cross,” and the date of
      posting the preceding evening.

      “Who knew that you were going to the Northumberland Hotel?” asked
      Holmes, glancing keenly across at our visitor.

      “No one could have known. We only decided after I met Dr.
      Mortimer.”

      “But Dr. Mortimer was no doubt already stopping there?”

      “No, I had been staying with a friend,” said the doctor.

      “There was no possible indication that we intended to go to this
      hotel.”

      “Hum! Someone seems to be very deeply interested in your
      movements.” Out of the envelope he took a half-sheet of foolscap
      paper folded into four. This he opened and spread flat upon the
      table. Across the middle of it a single sentence had been formed
      by the expedient of pasting printed words upon it. It ran:

        As you value your life or your reason keep away from the moor.

      The word “moor” only was printed in ink.

      “Now,” said Sir Henry Baskerville, “perhaps you will tell me, Mr.
      Holmes, what in thunder is the meaning of that, and who it is
      that takes so much interest in my affairs?”

      “What do you make of it, Dr. Mortimer? You must allow that there
      is nothing supernatural about this, at any rate?”

      “No, sir, but it might very well come from someone who was
      convinced that the business is supernatural.”

      “What business?” asked Sir Henry sharply. “It seems to me that
      all you gentlemen know a great deal more than I do about my own
      affairs.”

      “You shall share our knowledge before you leave this room, Sir
      Henry. I promise you that,” said Sherlock Holmes. “We will
      confine ourselves for the present with your permission to this
      very interesting document, which must have been put together and
      posted yesterday evening. Have you yesterday’s _Times_, Watson?”

      “It is here in the corner.”

      “Might I trouble you for it—the inside page, please, with the
      leading articles?” He glanced swiftly over it, running his eyes
      up and down the columns. “Capital article this on free trade.
      Permit me to give you an extract from it.

     ‘You may be cajoled into imagining that your own special trade or
     your own industry will be encouraged by a protective tariff, but
     it stands to reason that such legislation must in the long run
     keep away wealth from the country, diminish the value of our
     imports, and lower the general conditions of life in this island.’

      “What do you think of that, Watson?” cried Holmes in high glee,
      rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. “Don’t you think
      that is an admirable sentiment?”

      Dr. Mortimer looked at Holmes with an air of professional
      interest, and Sir Henry Baskerville turned a pair of puzzled dark
      eyes upon me.

      “I don’t know much about the tariff and things of that kind,”
      said he, “but it seems to me we’ve got a bit off the trail so far
      as that note is concerned.”

      “On the contrary, I think we are particularly hot upon the trail,
      Sir Henry. Watson here knows more about my methods than you do,
      but I fear that even he has not quite grasped the significance of
      this sentence.”

      “No, I confess that I see no connection.”

      “And yet, my dear Watson, there is so very close a connection
      that the one is extracted out of the other. ‘You,’ ‘your,’
      ‘your,’ ‘life,’ ‘reason,’ ‘value,’ ‘keep away,’ ‘from the.’ Don’t
      you see now whence these words have been taken?”

      “By thunder, you’re right! Well, if that isn’t smart!” cried Sir
      Henry.

      “If any possible doubt remained it is settled by the fact that
      ‘keep away’ and ‘from the’ are cut out in one piece.”

      “Well, now—so it is!”

      “Really, Mr. Holmes, this exceeds anything which I could have
      imagined,” said Dr. Mortimer, gazing at my friend in amazement.
      “I could understand anyone saying that the words were from a
      newspaper; but that you should name which, and add that it came
      from the leading article, is really one of the most remarkable
      things which I have ever known. How did you do it?”

      “I presume, Doctor, that you could tell the skull of a negro from
      that of an Esquimau?”

      “Most certainly.”

      “But how?”

      “Because that is my special hobby. The differences are obvious.
      The supra-orbital crest, the facial angle, the maxillary curve,
      the—”

      “But this is my special hobby, and the differences are equally
      obvious. There is as much difference to my eyes between the
      leaded bourgeois type of a _Times_ article and the slovenly print
      of an evening half-penny paper as there could be between your
      negro and your Esquimau. The detection of types is one of the
      most elementary branches of knowledge to the special expert in
      crime, though I confess that once when I was very young I
      confused the _Leeds Mercury_ with the _Western Morning News_. But
      a _Times_ leader is entirely distinctive, and these words could
      have been taken from nothing else. As it was done yesterday the
      strong probability was that we should find the words in
      yesterday’s issue.”

      “So far as I can follow you, then, Mr. Holmes,” said Sir Henry
      Baskerville, “someone cut out this message with a scissors—”

      “Nail-scissors,” said Holmes. “You can see that it was a very
      short-bladed scissors, since the cutter had to take two snips
      over ‘keep away.’”

      “That is so. Someone, then, cut out the message with a pair of
      short-bladed scissors, pasted it with paste—”

      “Gum,” said Holmes.

      “With gum on to the paper. But I want to know why the word ‘moor’
      should have been written?”

      “Because he could not find it in print. The other words were all
      simple and might be found in any issue, but ‘moor’ would be less
      common.”

      “Why, of course, that would explain it. Have you read anything
      else in this message, Mr. Holmes?”

      “There are one or two indications, and yet the utmost pains have
      been taken to remove all clues. The address, you observe is
      printed in rough characters. But the _Times_ is a paper which is
      seldom found in any hands but those of the highly educated. We
      may take it, therefore, that the letter was composed by an
      educated man who wished to pose as an uneducated one, and his
      effort to conceal his own writing suggests that that writing
      might be known, or come to be known, by you. Again, you will
      observe that the words are not gummed on in an accurate line, but
      that some are much higher than others. ‘Life,’ for example is
      quite out of its proper place. That may point to carelessness or
      it may point to agitation and hurry upon the part of the cutter.
      On the whole I incline to the latter view, since the matter was
      evidently important, and it is unlikely that the composer of such
      a letter would be careless. If he were in a hurry it opens up the
      interesting question why he should be in a hurry, since any
      letter posted up to early morning would reach Sir Henry before he
      would leave his hotel. Did the composer fear an interruption—and
      from whom?”

      “We are coming now rather into the region of guesswork,” said Dr.
      Mortimer.

      “Say, rather, into the region where we balance probabilities and
      choose the most likely. It is the scientific use of the
      imagination, but we have always some material basis on which to
      start our speculation. Now, you would call it a guess, no doubt,
      but I am almost certain that this address has been written in a
      hotel.”

      “How in the world can you say that?”

      “If you examine it carefully you will see that both the pen and
      the ink have given the writer trouble. The pen has spluttered
      twice in a single word and has run dry three times in a short
      address, showing that there was very little ink in the bottle.
      Now, a private pen or ink-bottle is seldom allowed to be in such
      a state, and the combination of the two must be quite rare. But
      you know the hotel ink and the hotel pen, where it is rare to get
      anything else. Yes, I have very little hesitation in saying that
      could we examine the waste-paper baskets of the hotels around
      Charing Cross until we found the remains of the mutilated _Times_
      leader we could lay our hands straight upon the person who sent
      this singular message. Halloa! Halloa! What’s this?”

      He was carefully examining the foolscap, upon which the words
      were pasted, holding it only an inch or two from his eyes.

      “Well?”

      “Nothing,” said he, throwing it down. “It is a blank half-sheet
      of paper, without even a water-mark upon it. I think we have
      drawn as much as we can from this curious letter; and now, Sir
      Henry, has anything else of interest happened to you since you
      have been in London?”

      “Why, no, Mr. Holmes. I think not.”

      “You have not observed anyone follow or watch you?”

      “I seem to have walked right into the thick of a dime novel,”
      said our visitor. “Why in thunder should anyone follow or watch
      me?”

      “We are coming to that. You have nothing else to report to us
      before we go into this matter?”

      “Well, it depends upon what you think worth reporting.”

      “I think anything out of the ordinary routine of life well worth
      reporting.”

      Sir Henry smiled. “I don’t know much of British life yet, for I
      have spent nearly all my time in the States and in Canada. But I
      hope that to lose one of your boots is not part of the ordinary
      routine of life over here.”

      “You have lost one of your boots?”

      “My dear sir,” cried Dr. Mortimer, “it is only mislaid. You will
      find it when you return to the hotel. What is the use of
      troubling Mr. Holmes with trifles of this kind?”

      “Well, he asked me for anything outside the ordinary routine.”

      “Exactly,” said Holmes, “however foolish the incident may seem.
      You have lost one of your boots, you say?”

      “Well, mislaid it, anyhow. I put them both outside my door last
      night, and there was only one in the morning. I could get no
      sense out of the chap who cleans them. The worst of it is that I
      only bought the pair last night in the Strand, and I have never
      had them on.”

      “If you have never worn them, why did you put them out to be
      cleaned?”

      “They were tan boots and had never been varnished. That was why I
      put them out.”

      “Then I understand that on your arrival in London yesterday you
      went out at once and bought a pair of boots?”

      “I did a good deal of shopping. Dr. Mortimer here went round with
      me. You see, if I am to be squire down there I must dress the
      part, and it may be that I have got a little careless in my ways
      out West. Among other things I bought these brown boots—gave six
      dollars for them—and had one stolen before ever I had them on my
      feet.”

      “It seems a singularly useless thing to steal,” said Sherlock
      Holmes. “I confess that I share Dr. Mortimer’s belief that it
      will not be long before the missing boot is found.”

      “And, now, gentlemen,” said the baronet with decision, “it seems
      to me that I have spoken quite enough about the little that I
      know. It is time that you kept your promise and gave me a full
      account of what we are all driving at.”

      “Your request is a very reasonable one,” Holmes answered. “Dr.
      Mortimer, I think you could not do better than to tell your story
      as you told it to us.”

      Thus encouraged, our scientific friend drew his papers from his
      pocket and presented the whole case as he had done upon the
      morning before. Sir Henry Baskerville listened with the deepest
      attention and with an occasional exclamation of surprise.

      “Well, I seem to have come into an inheritance with a vengeance,”
      said he when the long narrative was finished. “Of course, I’ve
      heard of the hound ever since I was in the nursery. It’s the pet
      story of the family, though I never thought of taking it
      seriously before. But as to my uncle’s death—well, it all seems
      boiling up in my head, and I can’t get it clear yet. You don’t
      seem quite to have made up your mind whether it’s a case for a
      policeman or a clergyman.”

      “Precisely.”

      “And now there’s this affair of the letter to me at the hotel. I
      suppose that fits into its place.”

      “It seems to show that someone knows more than we do about what
      goes on upon the moor,” said Dr. Mortimer.

      “And also,” said Holmes, “that someone is not ill-disposed
      towards you, since they warn you of danger.”

      “Or it may be that they wish, for their own purposes, to scare me
      away.”

      “Well, of course, that is possible also. I am very much indebted
      to you, Dr. Mortimer, for introducing me to a problem which
      presents several interesting alternatives. But the practical
      point which we now have to decide, Sir Henry, is whether it is or
      is not advisable for you to go to Baskerville Hall.”

      “Why should I not go?”

      “There seems to be danger.”

      “Do you mean danger from this family fiend or do you mean danger
      from human beings?”

      “Well, that is what we have to find out.”

      “Whichever it is, my answer is fixed. There is no devil in hell,
      Mr. Holmes, and there is no man upon earth who can prevent me
      from going to the home of my own people, and you may take that to
      be my final answer.” His dark brows knitted and his face flushed
      to a dusky red as he spoke. It was evident that the fiery temper
      of the Baskervilles was not extinct in this their last
      representative. “Meanwhile,” said he, “I have hardly had time to
      think over all that you have told me. It’s a big thing for a man
      to have to understand and to decide at one sitting. I should like
      to have a quiet hour by myself to make up my mind. Now, look
      here, Mr. Holmes, it’s half-past eleven now and I am going back
      right away to my hotel. Suppose you and your friend, Dr. Watson,
      come round and lunch with us at two. I’ll be able to tell you
      more clearly then how this thing strikes me.”

      “Is that convenient to you, Watson?”

      “Perfectly.”

      “Then you may expect us. Shall I have a cab called?”

      “I’d prefer to walk, for this affair has flurried me rather.”

      “I’ll join you in a walk, with pleasure,” said his companion.

      “Then we meet again at two o’clock. Au revoir, and good-morning!”

      We heard the steps of our visitors descend the stair and the bang
      of the front door. In an instant Holmes had changed from the
      languid dreamer to the man of action.

      “Your hat and boots, Watson, quick! Not a moment to lose!” He
      rushed into his room in his dressing-gown and was back again in a
      few seconds in a frock-coat. We hurried together down the stairs
      and into the street. Dr. Mortimer and Baskerville were still
      visible about two hundred yards ahead of us in the direction of
      Oxford Street.

      “Shall I run on and stop them?”

      “Not for the world, my dear Watson. I am perfectly satisfied with
      your company if you will tolerate mine. Our friends are wise, for
      it is certainly a very fine morning for a walk.”

      He quickened his pace until we had decreased the distance which
      divided us by about half. Then, still keeping a hundred yards
      behind, we followed into Oxford Street and so down Regent Street.
      Once our friends stopped and stared into a shop window, upon
      which Holmes did the same. An instant afterwards he gave a little
      cry of satisfaction, and, following the direction of his eager
      eyes, I saw that a hansom cab with a man inside which had halted
      on the other side of the street was now proceeding slowly onward
      again.

      “There’s our man, Watson! Come along! We’ll have a good look at
      him, if we can do no more.”

      At that instant I was aware of a bushy black beard and a pair of
      piercing eyes turned upon us through the side window of the cab.
      Instantly the trapdoor at the top flew up, something was screamed
      to the driver, and the cab flew madly off down Regent Street.
      Holmes looked eagerly round for another, but no empty one was in
      sight. Then he dashed in wild pursuit amid the stream of the
      traffic, but the start was too great, and already the cab was out
      of sight.

      “There now!” said Holmes bitterly as he emerged panting and white
      with vexation from the tide of vehicles. “Was ever such bad luck
      and such bad management, too? Watson, Watson, if you are an
      honest man you will record this also and set it against my
      successes!”

      “Who was the man?”

      “I have not an idea.”

      “A spy?”

      “Well, it was evident from what we have heard that Baskerville
      has been very closely shadowed by someone since he has been in
      town. How else could it be known so quickly that it was the
      Northumberland Hotel which he had chosen? If they had followed
      him the first day I argued that they would follow him also the
      second. You may have observed that I twice strolled over to the
      window while Dr. Mortimer was reading his legend.”

      “Yes, I remember.”

      “I was looking out for loiterers in the street, but I saw none.
      We are dealing with a clever man, Watson. This matter cuts very
      deep, and though I have not finally made up my mind whether it is
      a benevolent or a malevolent agency which is in touch with us, I
      am conscious always of power and design. When our friends left I
      at once followed them in the hopes of marking down their
      invisible attendant. So wily was he that he had not trusted
      himself upon foot, but he had availed himself of a cab so that he
      could loiter behind or dash past them and so escape their notice.
      His method had the additional advantage that if they were to take
      a cab he was all ready to follow them. It has, however, one
      obvious disadvantage.”

      “It puts him in the power of the cabman.”

      “Exactly.”

      “What a pity we did not get the number!”

      “My dear Watson, clumsy as I have been, you surely do not
      seriously imagine that I neglected to get the number? No. 2704 is
      our man. But that is no use to us for the moment.”

      “I fail to see how you could have done more.”

      “On observing the cab I should have instantly turned and walked
      in the other direction. I should then at my leisure have hired a
      second cab and followed the first at a respectful distance, or,
      better still, have driven to the Northumberland Hotel and waited
      there. When our unknown had followed Baskerville home we should
      have had the opportunity of playing his own game upon himself and
      seeing where he made for. As it is, by an indiscreet eagerness,
      which was taken advantage of with extraordinary quickness and
      energy by our opponent, we have betrayed ourselves and lost our
      man.”

      We had been sauntering slowly down Regent Street during this
      conversation, and Dr. Mortimer, with his companion, had long
      vanished in front of us.

      “There is no object in our following them,” said Holmes. “The
      shadow has departed and will not return. We must see what further
      cards we have in our hands and play them with decision. Could you
      swear to that man’s face within the cab?”

      “I could swear only to the beard.”

      “And so could I—from which I gather that in all probability it
      was a false one. A clever man upon so delicate an errand has no
      use for a beard save to conceal his features. Come in here,
      Watson!”

      He turned into one of the district messenger offices, where he
      was warmly greeted by the manager.

      “Ah, Wilson, I see you have not forgotten the little case in
      which I had the good fortune to help you?”

      “No, sir, indeed I have not. You saved my good name, and perhaps
      my life.”

      “My dear fellow, you exaggerate. I have some recollection,
      Wilson, that you had among your boys a lad named Cartwright, who
      showed some ability during the investigation.”

      “Yes, sir, he is still with us.”

      “Could you ring him up?—thank you! And I should be glad to have
      change of this five-pound note.”

      A lad of fourteen, with a bright, keen face, had obeyed the
      summons of the manager. He stood now gazing with great reverence
      at the famous detective.

      “Let me have the Hotel Directory,” said Holmes. “Thank you! Now,
      Cartwright, there are the names of twenty-three hotels here, all
      in the immediate neighbourhood of Charing Cross. Do you see?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “You will visit each of these in turn.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “You will begin in each case by giving the outside porter one
      shilling. Here are twenty-three shillings.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “You will tell him that you want to see the waste-paper of
      yesterday. You will say that an important telegram has miscarried
      and that you are looking for it. You understand?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “But what you are really looking for is the centre page of the
      _Times_ with some holes cut in it with scissors. Here is a copy
      of the _Times_. It is this page. You could easily recognize it,
      could you not?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “In each case the outside porter will send for the hall porter,
      to whom also you will give a shilling. Here are twenty-three
      shillings. You will then learn in possibly twenty cases out of
      the twenty-three that the waste of the day before has been burned
      or removed. In the three other cases you will be shown a heap of
      paper and you will look for this page of the _Times_ among it.
      The odds are enormously against your finding it. There are ten
      shillings over in case of emergencies. Let me have a report by
      wire at Baker Street before evening. And now, Watson, it only
      remains for us to find out by wire the identity of the cabman,
      No. 2704, and then we will drop into one of the Bond Street
      picture galleries and fill in the time until we are due at the
      hotel.”




Chapter 5.
Three Broken Threads


      Sherlock Holmes had, in a very remarkable degree, the power of
      detaching his mind at will. For two hours the strange business in
      which we had been involved appeared to be forgotten, and he was
      entirely absorbed in the pictures of the modern Belgian masters.
      He would talk of nothing but art, of which he had the crudest
      ideas, from our leaving the gallery until we found ourselves at
      the Northumberland Hotel.

      “Sir Henry Baskerville is upstairs expecting you,” said the
      clerk. “He asked me to show you up at once when you came.”

      “Have you any objection to my looking at your register?” said
      Holmes.

      “Not in the least.”

      The book showed that two names had been added after that of
      Baskerville. One was Theophilus Johnson and family, of Newcastle;
      the other Mrs. Oldmore and maid, of High Lodge, Alton.

      “Surely that must be the same Johnson whom I used to know,” said
      Holmes to the porter. “A lawyer, is he not, grey-headed, and
      walks with a limp?”

      “No, sir, this is Mr. Johnson, the coal-owner, a very active
      gentleman, not older than yourself.”

      “Surely you are mistaken about his trade?”

      “No, sir! he has used this hotel for many years, and he is very
      well known to us.”

      “Ah, that settles it. Mrs. Oldmore, too; I seem to remember the
      name. Excuse my curiosity, but often in calling upon one friend
      one finds another.”

      “She is an invalid lady, sir. Her husband was once mayor of
      Gloucester. She always comes to us when she is in town.”

      “Thank you; I am afraid I cannot claim her acquaintance. We have
      established a most important fact by these questions, Watson,” he
      continued in a low voice as we went upstairs together. “We know
      now that the people who are so interested in our friend have not
      settled down in his own hotel. That means that while they are, as
      we have seen, very anxious to watch him, they are equally anxious
      that he should not see them. Now, this is a most suggestive
      fact.”

      “What does it suggest?”

      “It suggests—halloa, my dear fellow, what on earth is the
      matter?”

      As we came round the top of the stairs we had run up against Sir
      Henry Baskerville himself. His face was flushed with anger, and
      he held an old and dusty boot in one of his hands. So furious was
      he that he was hardly articulate, and when he did speak it was in
      a much broader and more Western dialect than any which we had
      heard from him in the morning.

      “Seems to me they are playing me for a sucker in this hotel,” he
      cried. “They’ll find they’ve started in to monkey with the wrong
      man unless they are careful. By thunder, if that chap can’t find
      my missing boot there will be trouble. I can take a joke with the
      best, Mr. Holmes, but they’ve got a bit over the mark this time.”

      “Still looking for your boot?”

      “Yes, sir, and mean to find it.”

      “But, surely, you said that it was a new brown boot?”

      “So it was, sir. And now it’s an old black one.”

      “What! you don’t mean to say—?”

      “That’s just what I do mean to say. I only had three pairs in the
      world—the new brown, the old black, and the patent leathers,
      which I am wearing. Last night they took one of my brown ones,
      and today they have sneaked one of the black. Well, have you got
      it? Speak out, man, and don’t stand staring!”

      An agitated German waiter had appeared upon the scene.

      “No, sir; I have made inquiry all over the hotel, but I can hear
      no word of it.”

      “Well, either that boot comes back before sundown or I’ll see the
      manager and tell him that I go right straight out of this hotel.”

      “It shall be found, sir—I promise you that if you will have a
      little patience it will be found.”

      “Mind it is, for it’s the last thing of mine that I’ll lose in
      this den of thieves. Well, well, Mr. Holmes, you’ll excuse my
      troubling you about such a trifle—”

      “I think it’s well worth troubling about.”

      “Why, you look very serious over it.”

      “How do you explain it?”

      “I just don’t attempt to explain it. It seems the very maddest,
      queerest thing that ever happened to me.”

      “The queerest perhaps—” said Holmes thoughtfully.

      “What do you make of it yourself?”

      “Well, I don’t profess to understand it yet. This case of yours
      is very complex, Sir Henry. When taken in conjunction with your
      uncle’s death I am not sure that of all the five hundred cases of
      capital importance which I have handled there is one which cuts
      so deep. But we hold several threads in our hands, and the odds
      are that one or other of them guides us to the truth. We may
      waste time in following the wrong one, but sooner or later we
      must come upon the right.”

      We had a pleasant luncheon in which little was said of the
      business which had brought us together. It was in the private
      sitting-room to which we afterwards repaired that Holmes asked
      Baskerville what were his intentions.

      “To go to Baskerville Hall.”

      “And when?”

      “At the end of the week.”

      “On the whole,” said Holmes, “I think that your decision is a
      wise one. I have ample evidence that you are being dogged in
      London, and amid the millions of this great city it is difficult
      to discover who these people are or what their object can be. If
      their intentions are evil they might do you a mischief, and we
      should be powerless to prevent it. You did not know, Dr.
      Mortimer, that you were followed this morning from my house?”

      Dr. Mortimer started violently. “Followed! By whom?”

      “That, unfortunately, is what I cannot tell you. Have you among
      your neighbours or acquaintances on Dartmoor any man with a
      black, full beard?”

      “No—or, let me see—why, yes. Barrymore, Sir Charles’s butler, is
      a man with a full, black beard.”

      “Ha! Where is Barrymore?”

      “He is in charge of the Hall.”

      “We had best ascertain if he is really there, or if by any
      possibility he might be in London.”

      “How can you do that?”

      “Give me a telegraph form. ‘Is all ready for Sir Henry?’ That
      will do. Address to Mr. Barrymore, Baskerville Hall. What is the
      nearest telegraph-office? Grimpen. Very good, we will send a
      second wire to the postmaster, Grimpen: ‘Telegram to Mr.
      Barrymore to be delivered into his own hand. If absent, please
      return wire to Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel.’ That
      should let us know before evening whether Barrymore is at his
      post in Devonshire or not.”

      “That’s so,” said Baskerville. “By the way, Dr. Mortimer, who is
      this Barrymore, anyhow?”

      “He is the son of the old caretaker, who is dead. They have
      looked after the Hall for four generations now. So far as I know,
      he and his wife are as respectable a couple as any in the
      county.”

      “At the same time,” said Baskerville, “it’s clear enough that so
      long as there are none of the family at the Hall these people
      have a mighty fine home and nothing to do.”

      “That is true.”

      “Did Barrymore profit at all by Sir Charles’s will?” asked
      Holmes.

      “He and his wife had five hundred pounds each.”

      “Ha! Did they know that they would receive this?”

      “Yes; Sir Charles was very fond of talking about the provisions
      of his will.”

      “That is very interesting.”

      “I hope,” said Dr. Mortimer, “that you do not look with
      suspicious eyes upon everyone who received a legacy from Sir
      Charles, for I also had a thousand pounds left to me.”

      “Indeed! And anyone else?”

      “There were many insignificant sums to individuals, and a large
      number of public charities. The residue all went to Sir Henry.”

      “And how much was the residue?”

      “Seven hundred and forty thousand pounds.”

      Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I had no idea that so
      gigantic a sum was involved,” said he.

      “Sir Charles had the reputation of being rich, but we did not
      know how very rich he was until we came to examine his
      securities. The total value of the estate was close on to a
      million.”

      “Dear me! It is a stake for which a man might well play a
      desperate game. And one more question, Dr. Mortimer. Supposing
      that anything happened to our young friend here—you will forgive
      the unpleasant hypothesis!—who would inherit the estate?”

      “Since Rodger Baskerville, Sir Charles’s younger brother died
      unmarried, the estate would descend to the Desmonds, who are
      distant cousins. James Desmond is an elderly clergyman in
      Westmoreland.”

      “Thank you. These details are all of great interest. Have you met
      Mr. James Desmond?”

      “Yes; he once came down to visit Sir Charles. He is a man of
      venerable appearance and of saintly life. I remember that he
      refused to accept any settlement from Sir Charles, though he
      pressed it upon him.”

      “And this man of simple tastes would be the heir to Sir Charles’s
      thousands.”

      “He would be the heir to the estate because that is entailed. He
      would also be the heir to the money unless it were willed
      otherwise by the present owner, who can, of course, do what he
      likes with it.”

      “And have you made your will, Sir Henry?”

      “No, Mr. Holmes, I have not. I’ve had no time, for it was only
      yesterday that I learned how matters stood. But in any case I
      feel that the money should go with the title and estate. That was
      my poor uncle’s idea. How is the owner going to restore the
      glories of the Baskervilles if he has not money enough to keep up
      the property? House, land, and dollars must go together.”

      “Quite so. Well, Sir Henry, I am of one mind with you as to the
      advisability of your going down to Devonshire without delay.
      There is only one provision which I must make. You certainly must
      not go alone.”

      “Dr. Mortimer returns with me.”

      “But Dr. Mortimer has his practice to attend to, and his house is
      miles away from yours. With all the goodwill in the world he may
      be unable to help you. No, Sir Henry, you must take with you
      someone, a trusty man, who will be always by your side.”

      “Is it possible that you could come yourself, Mr. Holmes?”

      “If matters came to a crisis I should endeavour to be present in
      person; but you can understand that, with my extensive consulting
      practice and with the constant appeals which reach me from many
      quarters, it is impossible for me to be absent from London for an
      indefinite time. At the present instant one of the most revered
      names in England is being besmirched by a blackmailer, and only I
      can stop a disastrous scandal. You will see how impossible it is
      for me to go to Dartmoor.”

      “Whom would you recommend, then?”

      Holmes laid his hand upon my arm. “If my friend would undertake
      it there is no man who is better worth having at your side when
      you are in a tight place. No one can say so more confidently than
      I.”

      The proposition took me completely by surprise, but before I had
      time to answer, Baskerville seized me by the hand and wrung it
      heartily.

      “Well, now, that is real kind of you, Dr. Watson,” said he. “You
      see how it is with me, and you know just as much about the matter
      as I do. If you will come down to Baskerville Hall and see me
      through I’ll never forget it.”

      The promise of adventure had always a fascination for me, and I
      was complimented by the words of Holmes and by the eagerness with
      which the baronet hailed me as a companion.

      “I will come, with pleasure,” said I. “I do not know how I could
      employ my time better.”

      “And you will report very carefully to me,” said Holmes. “When a
      crisis comes, as it will do, I will direct how you shall act. I
      suppose that by Saturday all might be ready?”

      “Would that suit Dr. Watson?”

      “Perfectly.”

      “Then on Saturday, unless you hear to the contrary, we shall meet
      at the ten-thirty train from Paddington.”

      We had risen to depart when Baskerville gave a cry of triumph,
      and diving into one of the corners of the room he drew a brown
      boot from under a cabinet.

      “My missing boot!” he cried.

      “May all our difficulties vanish as easily!” said Sherlock
      Holmes.

      “But it is a very singular thing,” Dr. Mortimer remarked. “I
      searched this room carefully before lunch.”

      “And so did I,” said Baskerville. “Every inch of it.”

      “There was certainly no boot in it then.”

      “In that case the waiter must have placed it there while we were
      lunching.”

      The German was sent for but professed to know nothing of the
      matter, nor could any inquiry clear it up. Another item had been
      added to that constant and apparently purposeless series of small
      mysteries which had succeeded each other so rapidly. Setting
      aside the whole grim story of Sir Charles’s death, we had a line
      of inexplicable incidents all within the limits of two days,
      which included the receipt of the printed letter, the
      black-bearded spy in the hansom, the loss of the new brown boot,
      the loss of the old black boot, and now the return of the new
      brown boot. Holmes sat in silence in the cab as we drove back to
      Baker Street, and I knew from his drawn brows and keen face that
      his mind, like my own, was busy in endeavouring to frame some
      scheme into which all these strange and apparently disconnected
      episodes could be fitted. All afternoon and late into the evening
      he sat lost in tobacco and thought.

      Just before dinner two telegrams were handed in. The first ran:

      Have just heard that Barrymore is at the Hall. BASKERVILLE.

      The second:

      Visited twenty-three hotels as directed, but sorry to report
      unable to trace cut sheet of _Times_. CARTWRIGHT.

      “There go two of my threads, Watson. There is nothing more
      stimulating than a case where everything goes against you. We
      must cast round for another scent.”

      “We have still the cabman who drove the spy.”

      “Exactly. I have wired to get his name and address from the
      Official Registry. I should not be surprised if this were an
      answer to my question.”

      The ring at the bell proved to be something even more
      satisfactory than an answer, however, for the door opened and a
      rough-looking fellow entered who was evidently the man himself.

      “I got a message from the head office that a gent at this address
      had been inquiring for No. 2704,” said he. “I’ve driven my cab
      this seven years and never a word of complaint. I came here
      straight from the Yard to ask you to your face what you had
      against me.”

      “I have nothing in the world against you, my good man,” said
      Holmes. “On the contrary, I have half a sovereign for you if you
      will give me a clear answer to my questions.”

      “Well, I’ve had a good day and no mistake,” said the cabman with
      a grin. “What was it you wanted to ask, sir?”

      “First of all your name and address, in case I want you again.”

      “John Clayton, 3 Turpey Street, the Borough. My cab is out of
      Shipley’s Yard, near Waterloo Station.”

      Sherlock Holmes made a note of it.

      “Now, Clayton, tell me all about the fare who came and watched
      this house at ten o’clock this morning and afterwards followed
      the two gentlemen down Regent Street.”

      The man looked surprised and a little embarrassed. “Why, there’s
      no good my telling you things, for you seem to know as much as I
      do already,” said he. “The truth is that the gentleman told me
      that he was a detective and that I was to say nothing about him
      to anyone.”

      “My good fellow; this is a very serious business, and you may
      find yourself in a pretty bad position if you try to hide
      anything from me. You say that your fare told you that he was a
      detective?”

      “Yes, he did.”

      “When did he say this?”

      “When he left me.”

      “Did he say anything more?”

      “He mentioned his name.”

      Holmes cast a swift glance of triumph at me. “Oh, he mentioned
      his name, did he? That was imprudent. What was the name that he
      mentioned?”

      “His name,” said the cabman, “was Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

      Never have I seen my friend more completely taken aback than by
      the cabman’s reply. For an instant he sat in silent amazement.
      Then he burst into a hearty laugh.

      “A touch, Watson—an undeniable touch!” said he. “I feel a foil as
      quick and supple as my own. He got home upon me very prettily
      that time. So his name was Sherlock Holmes, was it?”

      “Yes, sir, that was the gentleman’s name.”

      “Excellent! Tell me where you picked him up and all that
      occurred.”

      “He hailed me at half-past nine in Trafalgar Square. He said that
      he was a detective, and he offered me two guineas if I would do
      exactly what he wanted all day and ask no questions. I was glad
      enough to agree. First we drove down to the Northumberland Hotel
      and waited there until two gentlemen came out and took a cab from
      the rank. We followed their cab until it pulled up somewhere near
      here.”

      “This very door,” said Holmes.

      “Well, I couldn’t be sure of that, but I dare say my fare knew
      all about it. We pulled up halfway down the street and waited an
      hour and a half. Then the two gentlemen passed us, walking, and
      we followed down Baker Street and along—”

      “I know,” said Holmes.

      “Until we got three-quarters down Regent Street. Then my
      gentleman threw up the trap, and he cried that I should drive
      right away to Waterloo Station as hard as I could go. I whipped
      up the mare and we were there under the ten minutes. Then he paid
      up his two guineas, like a good one, and away he went into the
      station. Only just as he was leaving he turned round and he said:
      ‘It might interest you to know that you have been driving Mr.
      Sherlock Holmes.’ That’s how I come to know the name.”

      “I see. And you saw no more of him?”

      “Not after he went into the station.”

      “And how would you describe Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

      The cabman scratched his head. “Well, he wasn’t altogether such
      an easy gentleman to describe. I’d put him at forty years of age,
      and he was of a middle height, two or three inches shorter than
      you, sir. He was dressed like a toff, and he had a black beard,
      cut square at the end, and a pale face. I don’t know as I could
      say more than that.”

      “Colour of his eyes?”

      “No, I can’t say that.”

      “Nothing more that you can remember?”

      “No, sir; nothing.”

      “Well, then, here is your half-sovereign. There’s another one
      waiting for you if you can bring any more information.
      Good-night!”

      “Good-night, sir, and thank you!”

      John Clayton departed chuckling, and Holmes turned to me with a
      shrug of his shoulders and a rueful smile.

      “Snap goes our third thread, and we end where we began,” said he.
      “The cunning rascal! He knew our number, knew that Sir Henry
      Baskerville had consulted me, spotted who I was in Regent Street,
      conjectured that I had got the number of the cab and would lay my
      hands on the driver, and so sent back this audacious message. I
      tell you, Watson, this time we have got a foeman who is worthy of
      our steel. I’ve been checkmated in London. I can only wish you
      better luck in Devonshire. But I’m not easy in my mind about it.”

      “About what?”

      “About sending you. It’s an ugly business, Watson, an ugly
      dangerous business, and the more I see of it the less I like it.
      Yes, my dear fellow, you may laugh, but I give you my word that I
      shall be very glad to have you back safe and sound in Baker
      Street once more.”




Chapter 6.
Baskerville Hall


      Sir Henry Baskerville and Dr. Mortimer were ready upon the
      appointed day, and we started as arranged for Devonshire. Mr.
      Sherlock Holmes drove with me to the station and gave me his last
      parting injunctions and advice.

      “I will not bias your mind by suggesting theories or suspicions,
      Watson,” said he; “I wish you simply to report facts in the
      fullest possible manner to me, and you can leave me to do the
      theorizing.”

      “What sort of facts?” I asked.

      “Anything which may seem to have a bearing however indirect upon
      the case, and especially the relations between young Baskerville
      and his neighbours or any fresh particulars concerning the death
      of Sir Charles. I have made some inquiries myself in the last few
      days, but the results have, I fear, been negative. One thing only
      appears to be certain, and that is that Mr. James Desmond, who is
      the next heir, is an elderly gentleman of a very amiable
      disposition, so that this persecution does not arise from him. I
      really think that we may eliminate him entirely from our
      calculations. There remain the people who will actually surround
      Sir Henry Baskerville upon the moor.”

      “Would it not be well in the first place to get rid of this
      Barrymore couple?”

      “By no means. You could not make a greater mistake. If they are
      innocent it would be a cruel injustice, and if they are guilty we
      should be giving up all chance of bringing it home to them. No,
      no, we will preserve them upon our list of suspects. Then there
      is a groom at the Hall, if I remember right. There are two
      moorland farmers. There is our friend Dr. Mortimer, whom I
      believe to be entirely honest, and there is his wife, of whom we
      know nothing. There is this naturalist, Stapleton, and there is
      his sister, who is said to be a young lady of attractions. There
      is Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who is also an unknown factor,
      and there are one or two other neighbours. These are the folk who
      must be your very special study.”

      “I will do my best.”

      “You have arms, I suppose?”

      “Yes, I thought it as well to take them.”

      “Most certainly. Keep your revolver near you night and day, and
      never relax your precautions.”

      Our friends had already secured a first-class carriage and were
      waiting for us upon the platform.

      “No, we have no news of any kind,” said Dr. Mortimer in answer to
      my friend’s questions. “I can swear to one thing, and that is
      that we have not been shadowed during the last two days. We have
      never gone out without keeping a sharp watch, and no one could
      have escaped our notice.”

      “You have always kept together, I presume?”

      “Except yesterday afternoon. I usually give up one day to pure
      amusement when I come to town, so I spent it at the Museum of the
      College of Surgeons.”

      “And I went to look at the folk in the park,” said Baskerville.

      “But we had no trouble of any kind.”

      “It was imprudent, all the same,” said Holmes, shaking his head
      and looking very grave. “I beg, Sir Henry, that you will not go
      about alone. Some great misfortune will befall you if you do. Did
      you get your other boot?”

      “No, sir, it is gone forever.”

      “Indeed. That is very interesting. Well, good-bye,” he added as
      the train began to glide down the platform. “Bear in mind, Sir
      Henry, one of the phrases in that queer old legend which Dr.
      Mortimer has read to us, and avoid the moor in those hours of
      darkness when the powers of evil are exalted.”

      I looked back at the platform when we had left it far behind and
      saw the tall, austere figure of Holmes standing motionless and
      gazing after us.

      The journey was a swift and pleasant one, and I spent it in
      making the more intimate acquaintance of my two companions and in
      playing with Dr. Mortimer’s spaniel. In a very few hours the
      brown earth had become ruddy, the brick had changed to granite,
      and red cows grazed in well-hedged fields where the lush grasses
      and more luxuriant vegetation spoke of a richer, if a damper,
      climate. Young Baskerville stared eagerly out of the window and
      cried aloud with delight as he recognized the familiar features
      of the Devon scenery.

      “I’ve been over a good part of the world since I left it, Dr.
      Watson,” said he; “but I have never seen a place to compare with
      it.”

      “I never saw a Devonshire man who did not swear by his county,” I
      remarked.

      “It depends upon the breed of men quite as much as on the
      county,” said Dr. Mortimer. “A glance at our friend here reveals
      the rounded head of the Celt, which carries inside it the Celtic
      enthusiasm and power of attachment. Poor Sir Charles’s head was
      of a very rare type, half Gaelic, half Ivernian in its
      characteristics. But you were very young when you last saw
      Baskerville Hall, were you not?”

      “I was a boy in my teens at the time of my father’s death and had
      never seen the Hall, for he lived in a little cottage on the
      South Coast. Thence I went straight to a friend in America. I
      tell you it is all as new to me as it is to Dr. Watson, and I’m
      as keen as possible to see the moor.”

      “Are you? Then your wish is easily granted, for there is your
      first sight of the moor,” said Dr. Mortimer, pointing out of the
      carriage window.

      Over the green squares of the fields and the low curve of a wood
      there rose in the distance a grey, melancholy hill, with a
      strange jagged summit, dim and vague in the distance, like some
      fantastic landscape in a dream. Baskerville sat for a long time,
      his eyes fixed upon it, and I read upon his eager face how much
      it meant to him, this first sight of that strange spot where the
      men of his blood had held sway so long and left their mark so
      deep. There he sat, with his tweed suit and his American accent,
      in the corner of a prosaic railway-carriage, and yet as I looked
      at his dark and expressive face I felt more than ever how true a
      descendant he was of that long line of high-blooded, fiery, and
      masterful men. There were pride, valour, and strength in his
      thick brows, his sensitive nostrils, and his large hazel eyes. If
      on that forbidding moor a difficult and dangerous quest should
      lie before us, this was at least a comrade for whom one might
      venture to take a risk with the certainty that he would bravely
      share it.

      The train pulled up at a small wayside station and we all
      descended. Outside, beyond the low, white fence, a wagonette with
      a pair of cobs was waiting. Our coming was evidently a great
      event, for station-master and porters clustered round us to carry
      out our luggage. It was a sweet, simple country spot, but I was
      surprised to observe that by the gate there stood two soldierly
      men in dark uniforms who leaned upon their short rifles and
      glanced keenly at us as we passed. The coachman, a hard-faced,
      gnarled little fellow, saluted Sir Henry Baskerville, and in a
      few minutes we were flying swiftly down the broad, white road.
      Rolling pasture lands curved upward on either side of us, and old
      gabled houses peeped out from amid the thick green foliage, but
      behind the peaceful and sunlit countryside there rose ever, dark
      against the evening sky, the long, gloomy curve of the moor,
      broken by the jagged and sinister hills.

      The wagonette swung round into a side road, and we curved upward
      through deep lanes worn by centuries of wheels, high banks on
      either side, heavy with dripping moss and fleshy hart’s-tongue
      ferns. Bronzing bracken and mottled bramble gleamed in the light
      of the sinking sun. Still steadily rising, we passed over a
      narrow granite bridge and skirted a noisy stream which gushed
      swiftly down, foaming and roaring amid the grey boulders. Both
      road and stream wound up through a valley dense with scrub oak
      and fir. At every turn Baskerville gave an exclamation of
      delight, looking eagerly about him and asking countless
      questions. To his eyes all seemed beautiful, but to me a tinge of
      melancholy lay upon the countryside, which bore so clearly the
      mark of the waning year. Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes and
      fluttered down upon us as we passed. The rattle of our wheels
      died away as we drove through drifts of rotting vegetation—sad
      gifts, as it seemed to me, for Nature to throw before the
      carriage of the returning heir of the Baskervilles.

      “Halloa!” cried Dr. Mortimer, “what is this?”

      A steep curve of heath-clad land, an outlying spur of the moor,
      lay in front of us. On the summit, hard and clear like an
      equestrian statue upon its pedestal, was a mounted soldier, dark
      and stern, his rifle poised ready over his forearm. He was
      watching the road along which we travelled.

      “What is this, Perkins?” asked Dr. Mortimer.

      Our driver half turned in his seat. “There’s a convict escaped
      from Princetown, sir. He’s been out three days now, and the
      warders watch every road and every station, but they’ve had no
      sight of him yet. The farmers about here don’t like it, sir, and
      that’s a fact.”

      “Well, I understand that they get five pounds if they can give
      information.”

      “Yes, sir, but the chance of five pounds is but a poor thing
      compared to the chance of having your throat cut. You see, it
      isn’t like any ordinary convict. This is a man that would stick
      at nothing.”

      “Who is he, then?”

      “It is Selden, the Notting Hill murderer.”

      I remembered the case well, for it was one in which Holmes had
      taken an interest on account of the peculiar ferocity of the
      crime and the wanton brutality which had marked all the actions
      of the assassin. The commutation of his death sentence had been
      due to some doubts as to his complete sanity, so atrocious was
      his conduct. Our wagonette had topped a rise and in front of us
      rose the huge expanse of the moor, mottled with gnarled and
      craggy cairns and tors. A cold wind swept down from it and set us
      shivering. Somewhere there, on that desolate plain, was lurking
      this fiendish man, hiding in a burrow like a wild beast, his
      heart full of malignancy against the whole race which had cast
      him out. It needed but this to complete the grim suggestiveness
      of the barren waste, the chilling wind, and the darkling sky.
      Even Baskerville fell silent and pulled his overcoat more closely
      around him.

      We had left the fertile country behind and beneath us. We looked
      back on it now, the slanting rays of a low sun turning the
      streams to threads of gold and glowing on the red earth new
      turned by the plough and the broad tangle of the woodlands. The
      road in front of us grew bleaker and wilder over huge russet and
      olive slopes, sprinkled with giant boulders. Now and then we
      passed a moorland cottage, walled and roofed with stone, with no
      creeper to break its harsh outline. Suddenly we looked down into
      a cuplike depression, patched with stunted oaks and firs which
      had been twisted and bent by the fury of years of storm. Two
      high, narrow towers rose over the trees. The driver pointed with
      his whip.

      “Baskerville Hall,” said he.

      Its master had risen and was staring with flushed cheeks and
      shining eyes. A few minutes later we had reached the lodge-gates,
      a maze of fantastic tracery in wrought iron, with weather-bitten
      pillars on either side, blotched with lichens, and surmounted by
      the boars’ heads of the Baskervilles. The lodge was a ruin of
      black granite and bared ribs of rafters, but facing it was a new
      building, half constructed, the first fruit of Sir Charles’s
      South African gold.

      Through the gateway we passed into the avenue, where the wheels
      were again hushed amid the leaves, and the old trees shot their
      branches in a sombre tunnel over our heads. Baskerville shuddered
      as he looked up the long, dark drive to where the house glimmered
      like a ghost at the farther end.

      “Was it here?” he asked in a low voice.

      “No, no, the yew alley is on the other side.”

      The young heir glanced round with a gloomy face.

      “It’s no wonder my uncle felt as if trouble were coming on him in
      such a place as this,” said he. “It’s enough to scare any man.
      I’ll have a row of electric lamps up here inside of six months,
      and you won’t know it again, with a thousand candle-power Swan
      and Edison right here in front of the hall door.”

      The avenue opened into a broad expanse of turf, and the house lay
      before us. In the fading light I could see that the centre was a
      heavy block of building from which a porch projected. The whole
      front was draped in ivy, with a patch clipped bare here and there
      where a window or a coat of arms broke through the dark veil.
      From this central block rose the twin towers, ancient,
      crenelated, and pierced with many loopholes. To right and left of
      the turrets were more modern wings of black granite. A dull light
      shone through heavy mullioned windows, and from the high chimneys
      which rose from the steep, high-angled roof there sprang a single
      black column of smoke.

      “Welcome, Sir Henry! Welcome to Baskerville Hall!”

      A tall man had stepped from the shadow of the porch to open the
      door of the wagonette. The figure of a woman was silhouetted
      against the yellow light of the hall. She came out and helped the
      man to hand down our bags.

      “You don’t mind my driving straight home, Sir Henry?” said Dr.
      Mortimer. “My wife is expecting me.”

      “Surely you will stay and have some dinner?”

      “No, I must go. I shall probably find some work awaiting me. I
      would stay to show you over the house, but Barrymore will be a
      better guide than I. Good-bye, and never hesitate night or day to
      send for me if I can be of service.”

      The wheels died away down the drive while Sir Henry and I turned
      into the hall, and the door clanged heavily behind us. It was a
      fine apartment in which we found ourselves, large, lofty, and
      heavily raftered with huge baulks of age-blackened oak. In the
      great old-fashioned fireplace behind the high iron dogs a
      log-fire crackled and snapped. Sir Henry and I held out our hands
      to it, for we were numb from our long drive. Then we gazed round
      us at the high, thin window of old stained glass, the oak
      panelling, the stags’ heads, the coats of arms upon the walls,
      all dim and sombre in the subdued light of the central lamp.

      “It’s just as I imagined it,” said Sir Henry. “Is it not the very
      picture of an old family home? To think that this should be the
      same hall in which for five hundred years my people have lived.
      It strikes me solemn to think of it.”

      I saw his dark face lit up with a boyish enthusiasm as he gazed
      about him. The light beat upon him where he stood, but long
      shadows trailed down the walls and hung like a black canopy above
      him. Barrymore had returned from taking our luggage to our rooms.
      He stood in front of us now with the subdued manner of a
      well-trained servant. He was a remarkable-looking man, tall,
      handsome, with a square black beard and pale, distinguished
      features.

      “Would you wish dinner to be served at once, sir?”

      “Is it ready?”

      “In a very few minutes, sir. You will find hot water in your
      rooms. My wife and I will be happy, Sir Henry, to stay with you
      until you have made your fresh arrangements, but you will
      understand that under the new conditions this house will require
      a considerable staff.”

      “What new conditions?”

      “I only meant, sir, that Sir Charles led a very retired life, and
      we were able to look after his wants. You would, naturally, wish
      to have more company, and so you will need changes in your
      household.”

      “Do you mean that your wife and you wish to leave?”

      “Only when it is quite convenient to you, sir.”

      “But your family have been with us for several generations, have
      they not? I should be sorry to begin my life here by breaking an
      old family connection.”

      I seemed to discern some signs of emotion upon the butler’s white
      face.

      “I feel that also, sir, and so does my wife. But to tell the
      truth, sir, we were both very much attached to Sir Charles, and
      his death gave us a shock and made these surroundings very
      painful to us. I fear that we shall never again be easy in our
      minds at Baskerville Hall.”

      “But what do you intend to do?”

      “I have no doubt, sir, that we shall succeed in establishing
      ourselves in some business. Sir Charles’s generosity has given us
      the means to do so. And now, sir, perhaps I had best show you to
      your rooms.”

      A square balustraded gallery ran round the top of the old hall,
      approached by a double stair. From this central point two long
      corridors extended the whole length of the building, from which
      all the bedrooms opened. My own was in the same wing as
      Baskerville’s and almost next door to it. These rooms appeared to
      be much more modern than the central part of the house, and the
      bright paper and numerous candles did something to remove the
      sombre impression which our arrival had left upon my mind.

      But the dining-room which opened out of the hall was a place of
      shadow and gloom. It was a long chamber with a step separating
      the daïs where the family sat from the lower portion reserved for
      their dependents. At one end a minstrel’s gallery overlooked it.
      Black beams shot across above our heads, with a smoke-darkened
      ceiling beyond them. With rows of flaring torches to light it up,
      and the colour and rude hilarity of an old-time banquet, it might
      have softened; but now, when two black-clothed gentlemen sat in
      the little circle of light thrown by a shaded lamp, one’s voice
      became hushed and one’s spirit subdued. A dim line of ancestors,
      in every variety of dress, from the Elizabethan knight to the
      buck of the Regency, stared down upon us and daunted us by their
      silent company. We talked little, and I for one was glad when the
      meal was over and we were able to retire into the modern
      billiard-room and smoke a cigarette.

      “My word, it isn’t a very cheerful place,” said Sir Henry. “I
      suppose one can tone down to it, but I feel a bit out of the
      picture at present. I don’t wonder that my uncle got a little
      jumpy if he lived all alone in such a house as this. However, if
      it suits you, we will retire early tonight, and perhaps things
      may seem more cheerful in the morning.”

      I drew aside my curtains before I went to bed and looked out from
      my window. It opened upon the grassy space which lay in front of
      the hall door. Beyond, two copses of trees moaned and swung in a
      rising wind. A half moon broke through the rifts of racing
      clouds. In its cold light I saw beyond the trees a broken fringe
      of rocks, and the long, low curve of the melancholy moor. I
      closed the curtain, feeling that my last impression was in
      keeping with the rest.

      And yet it was not quite the last. I found myself weary and yet
      wakeful, tossing restlessly from side to side, seeking for the
      sleep which would not come. Far away a chiming clock struck out
      the quarters of the hours, but otherwise a deathly silence lay
      upon the old house. And then suddenly, in the very dead of the
      night, there came a sound to my ears, clear, resonant, and
      unmistakable. It was the sob of a woman, the muffled, strangling
      gasp of one who is torn by an uncontrollable sorrow. I sat up in
      bed and listened intently. The noise could not have been far away
      and was certainly in the house. For half an hour I waited with
      every nerve on the alert, but there came no other sound save the
      chiming clock and the rustle of the ivy on the wall.




Chapter 7.
The Stapletons of Merripit House


      The fresh beauty of the following morning did something to efface
      from our minds the grim and grey impression which had been left
      upon both of us by our first experience of Baskerville Hall. As
      Sir Henry and I sat at breakfast the sunlight flooded in through
      the high mullioned windows, throwing watery patches of colour
      from the coats of arms which covered them. The dark panelling
      glowed like bronze in the golden rays, and it was hard to realise
      that this was indeed the chamber which had struck such a gloom
      into our souls upon the evening before.

      “I guess it is ourselves and not the house that we have to
      blame!” said the baronet. “We were tired with our journey and
      chilled by our drive, so we took a grey view of the place. Now we
      are fresh and well, so it is all cheerful once more.”

      “And yet it was not entirely a question of imagination,” I
      answered. “Did you, for example, happen to hear someone, a woman
      I think, sobbing in the night?”

      “That is curious, for I did when I was half asleep fancy that I
      heard something of the sort. I waited quite a time, but there was
      no more of it, so I concluded that it was all a dream.”

      “I heard it distinctly, and I am sure that it was really the sob
      of a woman.”

      “We must ask about this right away.” He rang the bell and asked
      Barrymore whether he could account for our experience. It seemed
      to me that the pallid features of the butler turned a shade paler
      still as he listened to his master’s question.

      “There are only two women in the house, Sir Henry,” he answered.
      “One is the scullery-maid, who sleeps in the other wing. The
      other is my wife, and I can answer for it that the sound could
      not have come from her.”

      And yet he lied as he said it, for it chanced that after
      breakfast I met Mrs. Barrymore in the long corridor with the sun
      full upon her face. She was a large, impassive, heavy-featured
      woman with a stern set expression of mouth. But her telltale eyes
      were red and glanced at me from between swollen lids. It was she,
      then, who wept in the night, and if she did so her husband must
      know it. Yet he had taken the obvious risk of discovery in
      declaring that it was not so. Why had he done this? And why did
      she weep so bitterly? Already round this pale-faced, handsome,
      black-bearded man there was gathering an atmosphere of mystery
      and of gloom. It was he who had been the first to discover the
      body of Sir Charles, and we had only his word for all the
      circumstances which led up to the old man’s death. Was it
      possible that it was Barrymore, after all, whom we had seen in
      the cab in Regent Street? The beard might well have been the
      same. The cabman had described a somewhat shorter man, but such
      an impression might easily have been erroneous. How could I
      settle the point forever? Obviously the first thing to do was to
      see the Grimpen postmaster and find whether the test telegram had
      really been placed in Barrymore’s own hands. Be the answer what
      it might, I should at least have something to report to Sherlock
      Holmes.

      Sir Henry had numerous papers to examine after breakfast, so that
      the time was propitious for my excursion. It was a pleasant walk
      of four miles along the edge of the moor, leading me at last to a
      small grey hamlet, in which two larger buildings, which proved to
      be the inn and the house of Dr. Mortimer, stood high above the
      rest. The postmaster, who was also the village grocer, had a
      clear recollection of the telegram.

      “Certainly, sir,” said he, “I had the telegram delivered to Mr.
      Barrymore exactly as directed.”

      “Who delivered it?”

      “My boy here. James, you delivered that telegram to Mr. Barrymore
      at the Hall last week, did you not?”

      “Yes, father, I delivered it.”

      “Into his own hands?” I asked.

      “Well, he was up in the loft at the time, so that I could not put
      it into his own hands, but I gave it into Mrs. Barrymore’s hands,
      and she promised to deliver it at once.”

      “Did you see Mr. Barrymore?”

      “No, sir; I tell you he was in the loft.”

      “If you didn’t see him, how do you know he was in the loft?”

      “Well, surely his own wife ought to know where he is,” said the
      postmaster testily. “Didn’t he get the telegram? If there is any
      mistake it is for Mr. Barrymore himself to complain.”

      It seemed hopeless to pursue the inquiry any farther, but it was
      clear that in spite of Holmes’s ruse we had no proof that
      Barrymore had not been in London all the time. Suppose that it
      were so—suppose that the same man had been the last who had seen
      Sir Charles alive, and the first to dog the new heir when he
      returned to England. What then? Was he the agent of others or had
      he some sinister design of his own? What interest could he have
      in persecuting the Baskerville family? I thought of the strange
      warning clipped out of the leading article of the _Times_. Was
      that his work or was it possibly the doing of someone who was
      bent upon counteracting his schemes? The only conceivable motive
      was that which had been suggested by Sir Henry, that if the
      family could be scared away a comfortable and permanent home
      would be secured for the Barrymores. But surely such an
      explanation as that would be quite inadequate to account for the
      deep and subtle scheming which seemed to be weaving an invisible
      net round the young baronet. Holmes himself had said that no more
      complex case had come to him in all the long series of his
      sensational investigations. I prayed, as I walked back along the
      grey, lonely road, that my friend might soon be freed from his
      preoccupations and able to come down to take this heavy burden of
      responsibility from my shoulders.

      Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running
      feet behind me and by a voice which called me by name. I turned,
      expecting to see Dr. Mortimer, but to my surprise it was a
      stranger who was pursuing me. He was a small, slim, clean-shaven,
      prim-faced man, flaxen-haired and lean-jawed, between thirty and
      forty years of age, dressed in a grey suit and wearing a straw
      hat. A tin box for botanical specimens hung over his shoulder and
      he carried a green butterfly-net in one of his hands.

      “You will, I am sure, excuse my presumption, Dr. Watson,” said he
      as he came panting up to where I stood. “Here on the moor we are
      homely folk and do not wait for formal introductions. You may
      possibly have heard my name from our mutual friend, Mortimer. I
      am Stapleton, of Merripit House.”

      “Your net and box would have told me as much,” said I, “for I
      knew that Mr. Stapleton was a naturalist. But how did you know
      me?”

      “I have been calling on Mortimer, and he pointed you out to me
      from the window of his surgery as you passed. As our road lay the
      same way I thought that I would overtake you and introduce
      myself. I trust that Sir Henry is none the worse for his
      journey?”

      “He is very well, thank you.”

      “We were all rather afraid that after the sad death of Sir
      Charles the new baronet might refuse to live here. It is asking
      much of a wealthy man to come down and bury himself in a place of
      this kind, but I need not tell you that it means a very great
      deal to the countryside. Sir Henry has, I suppose, no
      superstitious fears in the matter?”

      “I do not think that it is likely.”

      “Of course you know the legend of the fiend dog which haunts the
      family?”

      “I have heard it.”

      “It is extraordinary how credulous the peasants are about here!
      Any number of them are ready to swear that they have seen such a
      creature upon the moor.” He spoke with a smile, but I seemed to
      read in his eyes that he took the matter more seriously. “The
      story took a great hold upon the imagination of Sir Charles, and
      I have no doubt that it led to his tragic end.”

      “But how?”

      “His nerves were so worked up that the appearance of any dog
      might have had a fatal effect upon his diseased heart. I fancy
      that he really did see something of the kind upon that last night
      in the yew alley. I feared that some disaster might occur, for I
      was very fond of the old man, and I knew that his heart was
      weak.”

      “How did you know that?”

      “My friend Mortimer told me.”

      “You think, then, that some dog pursued Sir Charles, and that he
      died of fright in consequence?”

      “Have you any better explanation?”

      “I have not come to any conclusion.”

      “Has Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

      The words took away my breath for an instant but a glance at the
      placid face and steadfast eyes of my companion showed that no
      surprise was intended.

      “It is useless for us to pretend that we do not know you, Dr.
      Watson,” said he. “The records of your detective have reached us
      here, and you could not celebrate him without being known
      yourself. When Mortimer told me your name he could not deny your
      identity. If you are here, then it follows that Mr. Sherlock
      Holmes is interesting himself in the matter, and I am naturally
      curious to know what view he may take.”

      “I am afraid that I cannot answer that question.”

      “May I ask if he is going to honour us with a visit himself?”

      “He cannot leave town at present. He has other cases which engage
      his attention.”

      “What a pity! He might throw some light on that which is so dark
      to us. But as to your own researches, if there is any possible
      way in which I can be of service to you I trust that you will
      command me. If I had any indication of the nature of your
      suspicions or how you propose to investigate the case, I might
      perhaps even now give you some aid or advice.”

      “I assure you that I am simply here upon a visit to my friend,
      Sir Henry, and that I need no help of any kind.”

      “Excellent!” said Stapleton. “You are perfectly right to be wary
      and discreet. I am justly reproved for what I feel was an
      unjustifiable intrusion, and I promise you that I will not
      mention the matter again.”

      We had come to a point where a narrow grassy path struck off from
      the road and wound away across the moor. A steep,
      boulder-sprinkled hill lay upon the right which had in bygone
      days been cut into a granite quarry. The face which was turned
      towards us formed a dark cliff, with ferns and brambles growing
      in its niches. From over a distant rise there floated a grey
      plume of smoke.

      “A moderate walk along this moor-path brings us to Merripit
      House,” said he. “Perhaps you will spare an hour that I may have
      the pleasure of introducing you to my sister.”

      My first thought was that I should be by Sir Henry’s side. But
      then I remembered the pile of papers and bills with which his
      study table was littered. It was certain that I could not help
      with those. And Holmes had expressly said that I should study the
      neighbours upon the moor. I accepted Stapleton’s invitation, and
      we turned together down the path.

      “It is a wonderful place, the moor,” said he, looking round over
      the undulating downs, long green rollers, with crests of jagged
      granite foaming up into fantastic surges. “You never tire of the
      moor. You cannot think the wonderful secrets which it contains.
      It is so vast, and so barren, and so mysterious.”

      “You know it well, then?”

      “I have only been here two years. The residents would call me a
      newcomer. We came shortly after Sir Charles settled. But my
      tastes led me to explore every part of the country round, and I
      should think that there are few men who know it better than I
      do.”

      “Is it hard to know?”

      “Very hard. You see, for example, this great plain to the north
      here with the queer hills breaking out of it. Do you observe
      anything remarkable about that?”

      “It would be a rare place for a gallop.”

      “You would naturally think so and the thought has cost several
      their lives before now. You notice those bright green spots
      scattered thickly over it?”

      “Yes, they seem more fertile than the rest.”

      Stapleton laughed. “That is the great Grimpen Mire,” said he. “A
      false step yonder means death to man or beast. Only yesterday I
      saw one of the moor ponies wander into it. He never came out. I
      saw his head for quite a long time craning out of the bog-hole,
      but it sucked him down at last. Even in dry seasons it is a
      danger to cross it, but after these autumn rains it is an awful
      place. And yet I can find my way to the very heart of it and
      return alive. By George, there is another of those miserable
      ponies!”

      Something brown was rolling and tossing among the green sedges.
      Then a long, agonised, writhing neck shot upward and a dreadful
      cry echoed over the moor. It turned me cold with horror, but my
      companion’s nerves seemed to be stronger than mine.

      “It’s gone!” said he. “The mire has him. Two in two days, and
      many more, perhaps, for they get in the way of going there in the
      dry weather and never know the difference until the mire has them
      in its clutches. It’s a bad place, the great Grimpen Mire.”

      “And you say you can penetrate it?”

      “Yes, there are one or two paths which a very active man can
      take. I have found them out.”

      “But why should you wish to go into so horrible a place?”

      “Well, you see the hills beyond? They are really islands cut off
      on all sides by the impassable mire, which has crawled round them
      in the course of years. That is where the rare plants and the
      butterflies are, if you have the wit to reach them.”

      “I shall try my luck some day.”

      He looked at me with a surprised face. “For God’s sake put such
      an idea out of your mind,” said he. “Your blood would be upon my
      head. I assure you that there would not be the least chance of
      your coming back alive. It is only by remembering certain complex
      landmarks that I am able to do it.”

      “Halloa!” I cried. “What is that?”

      A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept over the moor. It
      filled the whole air, and yet it was impossible to say whence it
      came. From a dull murmur it swelled into a deep roar, and then
      sank back into a melancholy, throbbing murmur once again.
      Stapleton looked at me with a curious expression in his face.

      “Queer place, the moor!” said he.

      “But what is it?”

      “The peasants say it is the Hound of the Baskervilles calling for
      its prey. I’ve heard it once or twice before, but never quite so
      loud.”

      I looked round, with a chill of fear in my heart, at the huge
      swelling plain, mottled with the green patches of rushes. Nothing
      stirred over the vast expanse save a pair of ravens, which
      croaked loudly from a tor behind us.

      “You are an educated man. You don’t believe such nonsense as
      that?” said I. “What do you think is the cause of so strange a
      sound?”

      “Bogs make queer noises sometimes. It’s the mud settling, or the
      water rising, or something.”

      “No, no, that was a living voice.”

      “Well, perhaps it was. Did you ever hear a bittern booming?”

      “No, I never did.”

      “It’s a very rare bird—practically extinct—in England now, but
      all things are possible upon the moor. Yes, I should not be
      surprised to learn that what we have heard is the cry of the last
      of the bitterns.”

      “It’s the weirdest, strangest thing that ever I heard in my
      life.”

      “Yes, it’s rather an uncanny place altogether. Look at the
      hillside yonder. What do you make of those?”

      The whole steep slope was covered with grey circular rings of
      stone, a score of them at least.

      “What are they? Sheep-pens?”

      “No, they are the homes of our worthy ancestors. Prehistoric man
      lived thickly on the moor, and as no one in particular has lived
      there since, we find all his little arrangements exactly as he
      left them. These are his wigwams with the roofs off. You can even
      see his hearth and his couch if you have the curiosity to go
      inside.”

      “But it is quite a town. When was it inhabited?”

      “Neolithic man—no date.”

      “What did he do?”

      “He grazed his cattle on these slopes, and he learned to dig for
      tin when the bronze sword began to supersede the stone axe. Look
      at the great trench in the opposite hill. That is his mark. Yes,
      you will find some very singular points about the moor, Dr.
      Watson. Oh, excuse me an instant! It is surely Cyclopides.”

      A small fly or moth had fluttered across our path, and in an
      instant Stapleton was rushing with extraordinary energy and speed
      in pursuit of it. To my dismay the creature flew straight for the
      great mire, and my acquaintance never paused for an instant,
      bounding from tuft to tuft behind it, his green net waving in the
      air. His grey clothes and jerky, zigzag, irregular progress made
      him not unlike some huge moth himself. I was standing watching
      his pursuit with a mixture of admiration for his extraordinary
      activity and fear lest he should lose his footing in the
      treacherous mire, when I heard the sound of steps and, turning
      round, found a woman near me upon the path. She had come from the
      direction in which the plume of smoke indicated the position of
      Merripit House, but the dip of the moor had hid her until she was
      quite close.

      I could not doubt that this was the Miss Stapleton of whom I had
      been told, since ladies of any sort must be few upon the moor,
      and I remembered that I had heard someone describe her as being a
      beauty. The woman who approached me was certainly that, and of a
      most uncommon type. There could not have been a greater contrast
      between brother and sister, for Stapleton was neutral tinted,
      with light hair and grey eyes, while she was darker than any
      brunette whom I have seen in England—slim, elegant, and tall. She
      had a proud, finely cut face, so regular that it might have
      seemed impassive were it not for the sensitive mouth and the
      beautiful dark, eager eyes. With her perfect figure and elegant
      dress she was, indeed, a strange apparition upon a lonely
      moorland path. Her eyes were on her brother as I turned, and then
      she quickened her pace towards me. I had raised my hat and was
      about to make some explanatory remark when her own words turned
      all my thoughts into a new channel.

      “Go back!” she said. “Go straight back to London, instantly.”

      I could only stare at her in stupid surprise. Her eyes blazed at
      me, and she tapped the ground impatiently with her foot.

      “Why should I go back?” I asked.

      “I cannot explain.” She spoke in a low, eager voice, with a
      curious lisp in her utterance. “But for God’s sake do what I ask
      you. Go back and never set foot upon the moor again.”

      “But I have only just come.”

      “Man, man!” she cried. “Can you not tell when a warning is for
      your own good? Go back to London! Start tonight! Get away from
      this place at all costs! Hush, my brother is coming! Not a word
      of what I have said. Would you mind getting that orchid for me
      among the mare’s-tails yonder? We are very rich in orchids on the
      moor, though, of course, you are rather late to see the beauties
      of the place.”

      Stapleton had abandoned the chase and came back to us breathing
      hard and flushed with his exertions.

      “Halloa, Beryl!” said he, and it seemed to me that the tone of
      his greeting was not altogether a cordial one.

      “Well, Jack, you are very hot.”

      “Yes, I was chasing a Cyclopides. He is very rare and seldom
      found in the late autumn. What a pity that I should have missed
      him!” He spoke unconcernedly, but his small light eyes glanced
      incessantly from the girl to me.

      “You have introduced yourselves, I can see.”

      “Yes. I was telling Sir Henry that it was rather late for him to
      see the true beauties of the moor.”

      “Why, who do you think this is?”

      “I imagine that it must be Sir Henry Baskerville.”

      “No, no,” said I. “Only a humble commoner, but his friend. My
      name is Dr. Watson.”

      A flush of vexation passed over her expressive face. “We have
      been talking at cross purposes,” said she.

      “Why, you had not very much time for talk,” her brother remarked
      with the same questioning eyes.

      “I talked as if Dr. Watson were a resident instead of being
      merely a visitor,” said she. “It cannot much matter to him
      whether it is early or late for the orchids. But you will come
      on, will you not, and see Merripit House?”

      A short walk brought us to it, a bleak moorland house, once the
      farm of some grazier in the old prosperous days, but now put into
      repair and turned into a modern dwelling. An orchard surrounded
      it, but the trees, as is usual upon the moor, were stunted and
      nipped, and the effect of the whole place was mean and
      melancholy. We were admitted by a strange, wizened, rusty-coated
      old manservant, who seemed in keeping with the house. Inside,
      however, there were large rooms furnished with an elegance in
      which I seemed to recognize the taste of the lady. As I looked
      from their windows at the interminable granite-flecked moor
      rolling unbroken to the farthest horizon I could not but marvel
      at what could have brought this highly educated man and this
      beautiful woman to live in such a place.

      “Queer spot to choose, is it not?” said he as if in answer to my
      thought. “And yet we manage to make ourselves fairly happy, do we
      not, Beryl?”

      “Quite happy,” said she, but there was no ring of conviction in
      her words.

      “I had a school,” said Stapleton. “It was in the north country.
      The work to a man of my temperament was mechanical and
      uninteresting, but the privilege of living with youth, of helping
      to mould those young minds, and of impressing them with one’s own
      character and ideals was very dear to me. However, the fates were
      against us. A serious epidemic broke out in the school and three
      of the boys died. It never recovered from the blow, and much of
      my capital was irretrievably swallowed up. And yet, if it were
      not for the loss of the charming companionship of the boys, I
      could rejoice over my own misfortune, for, with my strong tastes
      for botany and zoology, I find an unlimited field of work here,
      and my sister is as devoted to Nature as I am. All this, Dr.
      Watson, has been brought upon your head by your expression as you
      surveyed the moor out of our window.”

      “It certainly did cross my mind that it might be a little
      dull—less for you, perhaps, than for your sister.”

      “No, no, I am never dull,” said she quickly.

      “We have books, we have our studies, and we have interesting
      neighbours. Dr. Mortimer is a most learned man in his own line.
      Poor Sir Charles was also an admirable companion. We knew him
      well and miss him more than I can tell. Do you think that I
      should intrude if I were to call this afternoon and make the
      acquaintance of Sir Henry?”

      “I am sure that he would be delighted.”

      “Then perhaps you would mention that I propose to do so. We may
      in our humble way do something to make things more easy for him
      until he becomes accustomed to his new surroundings. Will you
      come upstairs, Dr. Watson, and inspect my collection of
      Lepidoptera? I think it is the most complete one in the
      south-west of England. By the time that you have looked through
      them lunch will be almost ready.”

      But I was eager to get back to my charge. The melancholy of the
      moor, the death of the unfortunate pony, the weird sound which
      had been associated with the grim legend of the Baskervilles, all
      these things tinged my thoughts with sadness. Then on the top of
      these more or less vague impressions there had come the definite
      and distinct warning of Miss Stapleton, delivered with such
      intense earnestness that I could not doubt that some grave and
      deep reason lay behind it. I resisted all pressure to stay for
      lunch, and I set off at once upon my return journey, taking the
      grass-grown path by which we had come.

      It seems, however, that there must have been some short cut for
      those who knew it, for before I had reached the road I was
      astounded to see Miss Stapleton sitting upon a rock by the side
      of the track. Her face was beautifully flushed with her exertions
      and she held her hand to her side.

      “I have run all the way in order to cut you off, Dr. Watson,”
      said she. “I had not even time to put on my hat. I must not stop,
      or my brother may miss me. I wanted to say to you how sorry I am
      about the stupid mistake I made in thinking that you were Sir
      Henry. Please forget the words I said, which have no application
      whatever to you.”

      “But I can’t forget them, Miss Stapleton,” said I. “I am Sir
      Henry’s friend, and his welfare is a very close concern of mine.
      Tell me why it was that you were so eager that Sir Henry should
      return to London.”

      “A woman’s whim, Dr. Watson. When you know me better you will
      understand that I cannot always give reasons for what I say or
      do.”

      “No, no. I remember the thrill in your voice. I remember the look
      in your eyes. Please, please, be frank with me, Miss Stapleton,
      for ever since I have been here I have been conscious of shadows
      all round me. Life has become like that great Grimpen Mire, with
      little green patches everywhere into which one may sink and with
      no guide to point the track. Tell me then what it was that you
      meant, and I will promise to convey your warning to Sir Henry.”

      An expression of irresolution passed for an instant over her
      face, but her eyes had hardened again when she answered me.

      “You make too much of it, Dr. Watson,” said she. “My brother and
      I were very much shocked by the death of Sir Charles. We knew him
      very intimately, for his favourite walk was over the moor to our
      house. He was deeply impressed with the curse which hung over the
      family, and when this tragedy came I naturally felt that there
      must be some grounds for the fears which he had expressed. I was
      distressed therefore when another member of the family came down
      to live here, and I felt that he should be warned of the danger
      which he will run. That was all which I intended to convey.”

      “But what is the danger?”

      “You know the story of the hound?”

      “I do not believe in such nonsense.”

      “But I do. If you have any influence with Sir Henry, take him
      away from a place which has always been fatal to his family. The
      world is wide. Why should he wish to live at the place of
      danger?”

      “Because it _is_ the place of danger. That is Sir Henry’s nature.
      I fear that unless you can give me some more definite information
      than this it would be impossible to get him to move.”

      “I cannot say anything definite, for I do not know anything
      definite.”

      “I would ask you one more question, Miss Stapleton. If you meant
      no more than this when you first spoke to me, why should you not
      wish your brother to overhear what you said? There is nothing to
      which he, or anyone else, could object.”

      “My brother is very anxious to have the Hall inhabited, for he
      thinks it is for the good of the poor folk upon the moor. He
      would be very angry if he knew that I have said anything which
      might induce Sir Henry to go away. But I have done my duty now
      and I will say no more. I must go back, or he will miss me and
      suspect that I have seen you. Good-bye!” She turned and had
      disappeared in a few minutes among the scattered boulders, while
      I, with my soul full of vague fears, pursued my way to
      Baskerville Hall.




Chapter 8.
First Report of Dr. Watson


      From this point onward I will follow the course of events by
      transcribing my own letters to Mr. Sherlock Holmes which lie
      before me on the table. One page is missing, but otherwise they
      are exactly as written and show my feelings and suspicions of the
      moment more accurately than my memory, clear as it is upon these
      tragic events, can possibly do.

      Baskerville Hall, October 13th.

      MY DEAR HOLMES,

      My previous letters and telegrams have kept you pretty well up to
      date as to all that has occurred in this most God-forsaken corner
      of the world. The longer one stays here the more does the spirit
      of the moor sink into one’s soul, its vastness, and also its grim
      charm. When you are once out upon its bosom you have left all
      traces of modern England behind you, but, on the other hand, you
      are conscious everywhere of the homes and the work of the
      prehistoric people. On all sides of you as you walk are the
      houses of these forgotten folk, with their graves and the huge
      monoliths which are supposed to have marked their temples. As you
      look at their grey stone huts against the scarred hillsides you
      leave your own age behind you, and if you were to see a
      skin-clad, hairy man crawl out from the low door fitting a
      flint-tipped arrow on to the string of his bow, you would feel
      that his presence there was more natural than your own. The
      strange thing is that they should have lived so thickly on what
      must always have been most unfruitful soil. I am no antiquarian,
      but I could imagine that they were some unwarlike and harried
      race who were forced to accept that which none other would
      occupy.

      All this, however, is foreign to the mission on which you sent me
      and will probably be very uninteresting to your severely
      practical mind. I can still remember your complete indifference
      as to whether the sun moved round the earth or the earth round
      the sun. Let me, therefore, return to the facts concerning Sir
      Henry Baskerville.

      If you have not had any report within the last few days it is
      because up to today there was nothing of importance to relate.
      Then a very surprising circumstance occurred, which I shall tell
      you in due course. But, first of all, I must keep you in touch
      with some of the other factors in the situation.

      One of these, concerning which I have said little, is the escaped
      convict upon the moor. There is strong reason now to believe that
      he has got right away, which is a considerable relief to the
      lonely householders of this district. A fortnight has passed
      since his flight, during which he has not been seen and nothing
      has been heard of him. It is surely inconceivable that he could
      have held out upon the moor during all that time. Of course, so
      far as his concealment goes there is no difficulty at all. Any
      one of these stone huts would give him a hiding-place. But there
      is nothing to eat unless he were to catch and slaughter one of
      the moor sheep. We think, therefore, that he has gone, and the
      outlying farmers sleep the better in consequence.

      We are four able-bodied men in this household, so that we could
      take good care of ourselves, but I confess that I have had uneasy
      moments when I have thought of the Stapletons. They live miles
      from any help. There are one maid, an old manservant, the sister,
      and the brother, the latter not a very strong man. They would be
      helpless in the hands of a desperate fellow like this Notting
      Hill criminal if he could once effect an entrance. Both Sir Henry
      and I were concerned at their situation, and it was suggested
      that Perkins the groom should go over to sleep there, but
      Stapleton would not hear of it.

      The fact is that our friend, the baronet, begins to display a
      considerable interest in our fair neighbour. It is not to be
      wondered at, for time hangs heavily in this lonely spot to an
      active man like him, and she is a very fascinating and beautiful
      woman. There is something tropical and exotic about her which
      forms a singular contrast to her cool and unemotional brother.
      Yet he also gives the idea of hidden fires. He has certainly a
      very marked influence over her, for I have seen her continually
      glance at him as she talked as if seeking approbation for what
      she said. I trust that he is kind to her. There is a dry glitter
      in his eyes and a firm set of his thin lips, which goes with a
      positive and possibly a harsh nature. You would find him an
      interesting study.

      He came over to call upon Baskerville on that first day, and the
      very next morning he took us both to show us the spot where the
      legend of the wicked Hugo is supposed to have had its origin. It
      was an excursion of some miles across the moor to a place which
      is so dismal that it might have suggested the story. We found a
      short valley between rugged tors which led to an open, grassy
      space flecked over with the white cotton grass. In the middle of
      it rose two great stones, worn and sharpened at the upper end
      until they looked like the huge corroding fangs of some monstrous
      beast. In every way it corresponded with the scene of the old
      tragedy. Sir Henry was much interested and asked Stapleton more
      than once whether he did really believe in the possibility of the
      interference of the supernatural in the affairs of men. He spoke
      lightly, but it was evident that he was very much in earnest.
      Stapleton was guarded in his replies, but it was easy to see that
      he said less than he might, and that he would not express his
      whole opinion out of consideration for the feelings of the
      baronet. He told us of similar cases, where families had suffered
      from some evil influence, and he left us with the impression that
      he shared the popular view upon the matter.

      On our way back we stayed for lunch at Merripit House, and it was
      there that Sir Henry made the acquaintance of Miss Stapleton.
      From the first moment that he saw her he appeared to be strongly
      attracted by her, and I am much mistaken if the feeling was not
      mutual. He referred to her again and again on our walk home, and
      since then hardly a day has passed that we have not seen
      something of the brother and sister. They dine here tonight, and
      there is some talk of our going to them next week. One would
      imagine that such a match would be very welcome to Stapleton, and
      yet I have more than once caught a look of the strongest
      disapprobation in his face when Sir Henry has been paying some
      attention to his sister. He is much attached to her, no doubt,
      and would lead a lonely life without her, but it would seem the
      height of selfishness if he were to stand in the way of her
      making so brilliant a marriage. Yet I am certain that he does not
      wish their intimacy to ripen into love, and I have several times
      observed that he has taken pains to prevent them from being
      _tête-à-tête_. By the way, your instructions to me never to allow
      Sir Henry to go out alone will become very much more onerous if a
      love affair were to be added to our other difficulties. My
      popularity would soon suffer if I were to carry out your orders
      to the letter.

      The other day—Thursday, to be more exact—Dr. Mortimer lunched
      with us. He has been excavating a barrow at Long Down and has got
      a prehistoric skull which fills him with great joy. Never was
      there such a single-minded enthusiast as he! The Stapletons came
      in afterwards, and the good doctor took us all to the yew alley
      at Sir Henry’s request to show us exactly how everything occurred
      upon that fatal night. It is a long, dismal walk, the yew alley,
      between two high walls of clipped hedge, with a narrow band of
      grass upon either side. At the far end is an old tumble-down
      summer-house. Halfway down is the moor-gate, where the old
      gentleman left his cigar-ash. It is a white wooden gate with a
      latch. Beyond it lies the wide moor. I remembered your theory of
      the affair and tried to picture all that had occurred. As the old
      man stood there he saw something coming across the moor,
      something which terrified him so that he lost his wits and ran
      and ran until he died of sheer horror and exhaustion. There was
      the long, gloomy tunnel down which he fled. And from what? A
      sheep-dog of the moor? Or a spectral hound, black, silent, and
      monstrous? Was there a human agency in the matter? Did the pale,
      watchful Barrymore know more than he cared to say? It was all dim
      and vague, but always there is the dark shadow of crime behind
      it.

      One other neighbour I have met since I wrote last. This is Mr.
      Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who lives some four miles to the south
      of us. He is an elderly man, red-faced, white-haired, and
      choleric. His passion is for the British law, and he has spent a
      large fortune in litigation. He fights for the mere pleasure of
      fighting and is equally ready to take up either side of a
      question, so that it is no wonder that he has found it a costly
      amusement. Sometimes he will shut up a right of way and defy the
      parish to make him open it. At others he will with his own hands
      tear down some other man’s gate and declare that a path has
      existed there from time immemorial, defying the owner to
      prosecute him for trespass. He is learned in old manorial and
      communal rights, and he applies his knowledge sometimes in favour
      of the villagers of Fernworthy and sometimes against them, so
      that he is periodically either carried in triumph down the
      village street or else burned in effigy, according to his latest
      exploit. He is said to have about seven lawsuits upon his hands
      at present, which will probably swallow up the remainder of his
      fortune and so draw his sting and leave him harmless for the
      future. Apart from the law he seems a kindly, good-natured
      person, and I only mention him because you were particular that I
      should send some description of the people who surround us. He is
      curiously employed at present, for, being an amateur astronomer,
      he has an excellent telescope, with which he lies upon the roof
      of his own house and sweeps the moor all day in the hope of
      catching a glimpse of the escaped convict. If he would confine
      his energies to this all would be well, but there are rumours
      that he intends to prosecute Dr. Mortimer for opening a grave
      without the consent of the next of kin because he dug up the
      Neolithic skull in the barrow on Long Down. He helps to keep our
      lives from being monotonous and gives a little comic relief where
      it is badly needed.

      And now, having brought you up to date in the escaped convict,
      the Stapletons, Dr. Mortimer, and Frankland, of Lafter Hall, let
      me end on that which is most important and tell you more about
      the Barrymores, and especially about the surprising development
      of last night.

      First of all about the test telegram, which you sent from London
      in order to make sure that Barrymore was really here. I have
      already explained that the testimony of the postmaster shows that
      the test was worthless and that we have no proof one way or the
      other. I told Sir Henry how the matter stood, and he at once, in
      his downright fashion, had Barrymore up and asked him whether he
      had received the telegram himself. Barrymore said that he had.

      “Did the boy deliver it into your own hands?” asked Sir Henry.

      Barrymore looked surprised, and considered for a little time.

      “No,” said he, “I was in the box-room at the time, and my wife
      brought it up to me.”

      “Did you answer it yourself?”

      “No; I told my wife what to answer and she went down to write
      it.”

      In the evening he recurred to the subject of his own accord.

      “I could not quite understand the object of your questions this
      morning, Sir Henry,” said he. “I trust that they do not mean that
      I have done anything to forfeit your confidence?”

      Sir Henry had to assure him that it was not so and pacify him by
      giving him a considerable part of his old wardrobe, the London
      outfit having now all arrived.

      Mrs. Barrymore is of interest to me. She is a heavy, solid
      person, very limited, intensely respectable, and inclined to be
      puritanical. You could hardly conceive a less emotional subject.
      Yet I have told you how, on the first night here, I heard her
      sobbing bitterly, and since then I have more than once observed
      traces of tears upon her face. Some deep sorrow gnaws ever at her
      heart. Sometimes I wonder if she has a guilty memory which haunts
      her, and sometimes I suspect Barrymore of being a domestic
      tyrant. I have always felt that there was something singular and
      questionable in this man’s character, but the adventure of last
      night brings all my suspicions to a head.

      And yet it may seem a small matter in itself. You are aware that
      I am not a very sound sleeper, and since I have been on guard in
      this house my slumbers have been lighter than ever. Last night,
      about two in the morning, I was aroused by a stealthy step
      passing my room. I rose, opened my door, and peeped out. A long
      black shadow was trailing down the corridor. It was thrown by a
      man who walked softly down the passage with a candle held in his
      hand. He was in shirt and trousers, with no covering to his feet.
      I could merely see the outline, but his height told me that it
      was Barrymore. He walked very slowly and circumspectly, and there
      was something indescribably guilty and furtive in his whole
      appearance.

      I have told you that the corridor is broken by the balcony which
      runs round the hall, but that it is resumed upon the farther
      side. I waited until he had passed out of sight and then I
      followed him. When I came round the balcony he had reached the
      end of the farther corridor, and I could see from the glimmer of
      light through an open door that he had entered one of the rooms.
      Now, all these rooms are unfurnished and unoccupied so that his
      expedition became more mysterious than ever. The light shone
      steadily as if he were standing motionless. I crept down the
      passage as noiselessly as I could and peeped round the corner of
      the door.

      Barrymore was crouching at the window with the candle held
      against the glass. His profile was half turned towards me, and
      his face seemed to be rigid with expectation as he stared out
      into the blackness of the moor. For some minutes he stood
      watching intently. Then he gave a deep groan and with an
      impatient gesture he put out the light. Instantly I made my way
      back to my room, and very shortly came the stealthy steps passing
      once more upon their return journey. Long afterwards when I had
      fallen into a light sleep I heard a key turn somewhere in a lock,
      but I could not tell whence the sound came. What it all means I
      cannot guess, but there is some secret business going on in this
      house of gloom which sooner or later we shall get to the bottom
      of. I do not trouble you with my theories, for you asked me to
      furnish you only with facts. I have had a long talk with Sir
      Henry this morning, and we have made a plan of campaign founded
      upon my observations of last night. I will not speak about it
      just now, but it should make my next report interesting reading.




Chapter 9.
The Light upon the Moor [Second Report of Dr. Watson]


      Baskerville Hall, Oct. 15th.

      MY DEAR HOLMES,

      If I was compelled to leave you without much news during the
      early days of my mission you must acknowledge that I am making up
      for lost time, and that events are now crowding thick and fast
      upon us. In my last report I ended upon my top note with
      Barrymore at the window, and now I have quite a budget already
      which will, unless I am much mistaken, considerably surprise you.
      Things have taken a turn which I could not have anticipated. In
      some ways they have within the last forty-eight hours become much
      clearer and in some ways they have become more complicated. But I
      will tell you all and you shall judge for yourself.

      Before breakfast on the morning following my adventure I went
      down the corridor and examined the room in which Barrymore had
      been on the night before. The western window through which he had
      stared so intently has, I noticed, one peculiarity above all
      other windows in the house—it commands the nearest outlook on to
      the moor. There is an opening between two trees which enables one
      from this point of view to look right down upon it, while from
      all the other windows it is only a distant glimpse which can be
      obtained. It follows, therefore, that Barrymore, since only this
      window would serve the purpose, must have been looking out for
      something or somebody upon the moor. The night was very dark, so
      that I can hardly imagine how he could have hoped to see anyone.
      It had struck me that it was possible that some love intrigue was
      on foot. That would have accounted for his stealthy movements and
      also for the uneasiness of his wife. The man is a
      striking-looking fellow, very well equipped to steal the heart of
      a country girl, so that this theory seemed to have something to
      support it. That opening of the door which I had heard after I
      had returned to my room might mean that he had gone out to keep
      some clandestine appointment. So I reasoned with myself in the
      morning, and I tell you the direction of my suspicions, however
      much the result may have shown that they were unfounded.

      But whatever the true explanation of Barrymore’s movements might
      be, I felt that the responsibility of keeping them to myself
      until I could explain them was more than I could bear. I had an
      interview with the baronet in his study after breakfast, and I
      told him all that I had seen. He was less surprised than I had
      expected.

      “I knew that Barrymore walked about nights, and I had a mind to
      speak to him about it,” said he. “Two or three times I have heard
      his steps in the passage, coming and going, just about the hour
      you name.”

      “Perhaps then he pays a visit every night to that particular
      window,” I suggested.

      “Perhaps he does. If so, we should be able to shadow him and see
      what it is that he is after. I wonder what your friend Holmes
      would do if he were here.”

      “I believe that he would do exactly what you now suggest,” said
      I. “He would follow Barrymore and see what he did.”

      “Then we shall do it together.”

      “But surely he would hear us.”

      “The man is rather deaf, and in any case we must take our chance
      of that. We’ll sit up in my room tonight and wait until he
      passes.” Sir Henry rubbed his hands with pleasure, and it was
      evident that he hailed the adventure as a relief to his somewhat
      quiet life upon the moor.

      The baronet has been in communication with the architect who
      prepared the plans for Sir Charles, and with a contractor from
      London, so that we may expect great changes to begin here soon.
      There have been decorators and furnishers up from Plymouth, and
      it is evident that our friend has large ideas and means to spare
      no pains or expense to restore the grandeur of his family. When
      the house is renovated and refurnished, all that he will need
      will be a wife to make it complete. Between ourselves there are
      pretty clear signs that this will not be wanting if the lady is
      willing, for I have seldom seen a man more infatuated with a
      woman than he is with our beautiful neighbour, Miss Stapleton.
      And yet the course of true love does not run quite as smoothly as
      one would under the circumstances expect. Today, for example, its
      surface was broken by a very unexpected ripple, which has caused
      our friend considerable perplexity and annoyance.

      After the conversation which I have quoted about Barrymore, Sir
      Henry put on his hat and prepared to go out. As a matter of
      course I did the same.

      “What, are _you_ coming, Watson?” he asked, looking at me in a
      curious way.

      “That depends on whether you are going on the moor,” said I.

      “Yes, I am.”

      “Well, you know what my instructions are. I am sorry to intrude,
      but you heard how earnestly Holmes insisted that I should not
      leave you, and especially that you should not go alone upon the
      moor.”

      Sir Henry put his hand upon my shoulder with a pleasant smile.

      “My dear fellow,” said he, “Holmes, with all his wisdom, did not
      foresee some things which have happened since I have been on the
      moor. You understand me? I am sure that you are the last man in
      the world who would wish to be a spoil-sport. I must go out
      alone.”

      It put me in a most awkward position. I was at a loss what to say
      or what to do, and before I had made up my mind he picked up his
      cane and was gone.

      But when I came to think the matter over my conscience reproached
      me bitterly for having on any pretext allowed him to go out of my
      sight. I imagined what my feelings would be if I had to return to
      you and to confess that some misfortune had occurred through my
      disregard for your instructions. I assure you my cheeks flushed
      at the very thought. It might not even now be too late to
      overtake him, so I set off at once in the direction of Merripit
      House.

      I hurried along the road at the top of my speed without seeing
      anything of Sir Henry, until I came to the point where the moor
      path branches off. There, fearing that perhaps I had come in the
      wrong direction after all, I mounted a hill from which I could
      command a view—the same hill which is cut into the dark quarry.
      Thence I saw him at once. He was on the moor path about a quarter
      of a mile off, and a lady was by his side who could only be Miss
      Stapleton. It was clear that there was already an understanding
      between them and that they had met by appointment. They were
      walking slowly along in deep conversation, and I saw her making
      quick little movements of her hands as if she were very earnest
      in what she was saying, while he listened intently, and once or
      twice shook his head in strong dissent. I stood among the rocks
      watching them, very much puzzled as to what I should do next. To
      follow them and break into their intimate conversation seemed to
      be an outrage, and yet my clear duty was never for an instant to
      let him out of my sight. To act the spy upon a friend was a
      hateful task. Still, I could see no better course than to observe
      him from the hill, and to clear my conscience by confessing to
      him afterwards what I had done. It is true that if any sudden
      danger had threatened him I was too far away to be of use, and
      yet I am sure that you will agree with me that the position was
      very difficult, and that there was nothing more which I could do.

      Our friend, Sir Henry, and the lady had halted on the path and
      were standing deeply absorbed in their conversation, when I was
      suddenly aware that I was not the only witness of their
      interview. A wisp of green floating in the air caught my eye, and
      another glance showed me that it was carried on a stick by a man
      who was moving among the broken ground. It was Stapleton with his
      butterfly-net. He was very much closer to the pair than I was,
      and he appeared to be moving in their direction. At this instant
      Sir Henry suddenly drew Miss Stapleton to his side. His arm was
      round her, but it seemed to me that she was straining away from
      him with her face averted. He stooped his head to hers, and she
      raised one hand as if in protest. Next moment I saw them spring
      apart and turn hurriedly round. Stapleton was the cause of the
      interruption. He was running wildly towards them, his absurd net
      dangling behind him. He gesticulated and almost danced with
      excitement in front of the lovers. What the scene meant I could
      not imagine, but it seemed to me that Stapleton was abusing Sir
      Henry, who offered explanations, which became more angry as the
      other refused to accept them. The lady stood by in haughty
      silence. Finally Stapleton turned upon his heel and beckoned in a
      peremptory way to his sister, who, after an irresolute glance at
      Sir Henry, walked off by the side of her brother. The
      naturalist’s angry gestures showed that the lady was included in
      his displeasure. The baronet stood for a minute looking after
      them, and then he walked slowly back the way that he had come,
      his head hanging, the very picture of dejection.

      What all this meant I could not imagine, but I was deeply ashamed
      to have witnessed so intimate a scene without my friend’s
      knowledge. I ran down the hill therefore and met the baronet at
      the bottom. His face was flushed with anger and his brows were
      wrinkled, like one who is at his wit’s ends what to do.

      “Halloa, Watson! Where have you dropped from?” said he. “You
      don’t mean to say that you came after me in spite of all?”

      I explained everything to him: how I had found it impossible to
      remain behind, how I had followed him, and how I had witnessed
      all that had occurred. For an instant his eyes blazed at me, but
      my frankness disarmed his anger, and he broke at last into a
      rather rueful laugh.

      “You would have thought the middle of that prairie a fairly safe
      place for a man to be private,” said he, “but, by thunder, the
      whole countryside seems to have been out to see me do my
      wooing—and a mighty poor wooing at that! Where had you engaged a
      seat?”

      “I was on that hill.”

      “Quite in the back row, eh? But her brother was well up to the
      front. Did you see him come out on us?”

      “Yes, I did.”

      “Did he ever strike you as being crazy—this brother of hers?”

      “I can’t say that he ever did.”

      “I dare say not. I always thought him sane enough until today,
      but you can take it from me that either he or I ought to be in a
      straitjacket. What’s the matter with me, anyhow? You’ve lived
      near me for some weeks, Watson. Tell me straight, now! Is there
      anything that would prevent me from making a good husband to a
      woman that I loved?”

      “I should say not.”

      “He can’t object to my worldly position, so it must be myself
      that he has this down on. What has he against me? I never hurt
      man or woman in my life that I know of. And yet he would not so
      much as let me touch the tips of her fingers.”

      “Did he say so?”

      “That, and a deal more. I tell you, Watson, I’ve only known her
      these few weeks, but from the first I just felt that she was made
      for me, and she, too—she was happy when she was with me, and that
      I’ll swear. There’s a light in a woman’s eyes that speaks louder
      than words. But he has never let us get together and it was only
      today for the first time that I saw a chance of having a few
      words with her alone. She was glad to meet me, but when she did
      it was not love that she would talk about, and she wouldn’t have
      let me talk about it either if she could have stopped it. She
      kept coming back to it that this was a place of danger, and that
      she would never be happy until I had left it. I told her that
      since I had seen her I was in no hurry to leave it, and that if
      she really wanted me to go, the only way to work it was for her
      to arrange to go with me. With that I offered in as many words to
      marry her, but before she could answer, down came this brother of
      hers, running at us with a face on him like a madman. He was just
      white with rage, and those light eyes of his were blazing with
      fury. What was I doing with the lady? How dared I offer her
      attentions which were distasteful to her? Did I think that
      because I was a baronet I could do what I liked? If he had not
      been her brother I should have known better how to answer him. As
      it was I told him that my feelings towards his sister were such
      as I was not ashamed of, and that I hoped that she might honour
      me by becoming my wife. That seemed to make the matter no better,
      so then I lost my temper too, and I answered him rather more
      hotly than I should perhaps, considering that she was standing
      by. So it ended by his going off with her, as you saw, and here
      am I as badly puzzled a man as any in this county. Just tell me
      what it all means, Watson, and I’ll owe you more than ever I can
      hope to pay.”

      I tried one or two explanations, but, indeed, I was completely
      puzzled myself. Our friend’s title, his fortune, his age, his
      character, and his appearance are all in his favour, and I know
      nothing against him unless it be this dark fate which runs in his
      family. That his advances should be rejected so brusquely without
      any reference to the lady’s own wishes and that the lady should
      accept the situation without protest is very amazing. However,
      our conjectures were set at rest by a visit from Stapleton
      himself that very afternoon. He had come to offer apologies for
      his rudeness of the morning, and after a long private interview
      with Sir Henry in his study the upshot of their conversation was
      that the breach is quite healed, and that we are to dine at
      Merripit House next Friday as a sign of it.

      “I don’t say now that he isn’t a crazy man,” said Sir Henry; “I
      can’t forget the look in his eyes when he ran at me this morning,
      but I must allow that no man could make a more handsome apology
      than he has done.”

      “Did he give any explanation of his conduct?”

      “His sister is everything in his life, he says. That is natural
      enough, and I am glad that he should understand her value. They
      have always been together, and according to his account he has
      been a very lonely man with only her as a companion, so that the
      thought of losing her was really terrible to him. He had not
      understood, he said, that I was becoming attached to her, but
      when he saw with his own eyes that it was really so, and that she
      might be taken away from him, it gave him such a shock that for a
      time he was not responsible for what he said or did. He was very
      sorry for all that had passed, and he recognized how foolish and
      how selfish it was that he should imagine that he could hold a
      beautiful woman like his sister to himself for her whole life. If
      she had to leave him he had rather it was to a neighbour like
      myself than to anyone else. But in any case it was a blow to him
      and it would take him some time before he could prepare himself
      to meet it. He would withdraw all opposition upon his part if I
      would promise for three months to let the matter rest and to be
      content with cultivating the lady’s friendship during that time
      without claiming her love. This I promised, and so the matter
      rests.”

      So there is one of our small mysteries cleared up. It is
      something to have touched bottom anywhere in this bog in which we
      are floundering. We know now why Stapleton looked with disfavour
      upon his sister’s suitor—even when that suitor was so eligible a
      one as Sir Henry. And now I pass on to another thread which I
      have extricated out of the tangled skein, the mystery of the sobs
      in the night, of the tear-stained face of Mrs. Barrymore, of the
      secret journey of the butler to the western lattice window.
      Congratulate me, my dear Holmes, and tell me that I have not
      disappointed you as an agent—that you do not regret the
      confidence which you showed in me when you sent me down. All
      these things have by one night’s work been thoroughly cleared.

      I have said “by one night’s work,” but, in truth, it was by two
      nights’ work, for on the first we drew entirely blank. I sat up
      with Sir Henry in his rooms until nearly three o’clock in the
      morning, but no sound of any sort did we hear except the chiming
      clock upon the stairs. It was a most melancholy vigil and ended
      by each of us falling asleep in our chairs. Fortunately we were
      not discouraged, and we determined to try again. The next night
      we lowered the lamp and sat smoking cigarettes without making the
      least sound. It was incredible how slowly the hours crawled by,
      and yet we were helped through it by the same sort of patient
      interest which the hunter must feel as he watches the trap into
      which he hopes the game may wander. One struck, and two, and we
      had almost for the second time given it up in despair when in an
      instant we both sat bolt upright in our chairs with all our weary
      senses keenly on the alert once more. We had heard the creak of a
      step in the passage.

      Very stealthily we heard it pass along until it died away in the
      distance. Then the baronet gently opened his door and we set out
      in pursuit. Already our man had gone round the gallery and the
      corridor was all in darkness. Softly we stole along until we had
      come into the other wing. We were just in time to catch a glimpse
      of the tall, black-bearded figure, his shoulders rounded as he
      tiptoed down the passage. Then he passed through the same door as
      before, and the light of the candle framed it in the darkness and
      shot one single yellow beam across the gloom of the corridor. We
      shuffled cautiously towards it, trying every plank before we
      dared to put our whole weight upon it. We had taken the
      precaution of leaving our boots behind us, but, even so, the old
      boards snapped and creaked beneath our tread. Sometimes it seemed
      impossible that he should fail to hear our approach. However, the
      man is fortunately rather deaf, and he was entirely preoccupied
      in that which he was doing. When at last we reached the door and
      peeped through we found him crouching at the window, candle in
      hand, his white, intent face pressed against the pane, exactly as
      I had seen him two nights before.

      We had arranged no plan of campaign, but the baronet is a man to
      whom the most direct way is always the most natural. He walked
      into the room, and as he did so Barrymore sprang up from the
      window with a sharp hiss of his breath and stood, livid and
      trembling, before us. His dark eyes, glaring out of the white
      mask of his face, were full of horror and astonishment as he
      gazed from Sir Henry to me.

      “What are you doing here, Barrymore?”

      “Nothing, sir.” His agitation was so great that he could hardly
      speak, and the shadows sprang up and down from the shaking of his
      candle. “It was the window, sir. I go round at night to see that
      they are fastened.”

      “On the second floor?”

      “Yes, sir, all the windows.”

      “Look here, Barrymore,” said Sir Henry sternly, “we have made up
      our minds to have the truth out of you, so it will save you
      trouble to tell it sooner rather than later. Come, now! No lies!
      What were you doing at that window?”

      The fellow looked at us in a helpless way, and he wrung his hands
      together like one who is in the last extremity of doubt and
      misery.

      “I was doing no harm, sir. I was holding a candle to the window.”

      “And why were you holding a candle to the window?”

      “Don’t ask me, Sir Henry—don’t ask me! I give you my word, sir,
      that it is not my secret, and that I cannot tell it. If it
      concerned no one but myself I would not try to keep it from you.”

      A sudden idea occurred to me, and I took the candle from the
      trembling hand of the butler.

      “He must have been holding it as a signal,” said I. “Let us see
      if there is any answer.” I held it as he had done, and stared out
      into the darkness of the night. Vaguely I could discern the black
      bank of the trees and the lighter expanse of the moor, for the
      moon was behind the clouds. And then I gave a cry of exultation,
      for a tiny pinpoint of yellow light had suddenly transfixed the
      dark veil, and glowed steadily in the centre of the black square
      framed by the window.

      “There it is!” I cried.

      “No, no, sir, it is nothing—nothing at all!” the butler broke in;
      “I assure you, sir—”

      “Move your light across the window, Watson!” cried the baronet.
      “See, the other moves also! Now, you rascal, do you deny that it
      is a signal? Come, speak up! Who is your confederate out yonder,
      and what is this conspiracy that is going on?”

      The man’s face became openly defiant. “It is my business, and not
      yours. I will not tell.”

      “Then you leave my employment right away.”

      “Very good, sir. If I must I must.”

      “And you go in disgrace. By thunder, you may well be ashamed of
      yourself. Your family has lived with mine for over a hundred
      years under this roof, and here I find you deep in some dark plot
      against me.”

      “No, no, sir; no, not against you!” It was a woman’s voice, and
      Mrs. Barrymore, paler and more horror-struck than her husband,
      was standing at the door. Her bulky figure in a shawl and skirt
      might have been comic were it not for the intensity of feeling
      upon her face.

      “We have to go, Eliza. This is the end of it. You can pack our
      things,” said the butler.

      “Oh, John, John, have I brought you to this? It is my doing, Sir
      Henry—all mine. He has done nothing except for my sake and
      because I asked him.”

      “Speak out, then! What does it mean?”

      “My unhappy brother is starving on the moor. We cannot let him
      perish at our very gates. The light is a signal to him that food
      is ready for him, and his light out yonder is to show the spot to
      which to bring it.”

      “Then your brother is—”

      “The escaped convict, sir—Selden, the criminal.”

      “That’s the truth, sir,” said Barrymore. “I said that it was not
      my secret and that I could not tell it to you. But now you have
      heard it, and you will see that if there was a plot it was not
      against you.”

      This, then, was the explanation of the stealthy expeditions at
      night and the light at the window. Sir Henry and I both stared at
      the woman in amazement. Was it possible that this stolidly
      respectable person was of the same blood as one of the most
      notorious criminals in the country?

      “Yes, sir, my name was Selden, and he is my younger brother. We
      humoured him too much when he was a lad and gave him his own way
      in everything until he came to think that the world was made for
      his pleasure, and that he could do what he liked in it. Then as
      he grew older he met wicked companions, and the devil entered
      into him until he broke my mother’s heart and dragged our name in
      the dirt. From crime to crime he sank lower and lower until it is
      only the mercy of God which has snatched him from the scaffold;
      but to me, sir, he was always the little curly-headed boy that I
      had nursed and played with as an elder sister would. That was why
      he broke prison, sir. He knew that I was here and that we could
      not refuse to help him. When he dragged himself here one night,
      weary and starving, with the warders hard at his heels, what
      could we do? We took him in and fed him and cared for him. Then
      you returned, sir, and my brother thought he would be safer on
      the moor than anywhere else until the hue and cry was over, so he
      lay in hiding there. But every second night we made sure if he
      was still there by putting a light in the window, and if there
      was an answer my husband took out some bread and meat to him.
      Every day we hoped that he was gone, but as long as he was there
      we could not desert him. That is the whole truth, as I am an
      honest Christian woman and you will see that if there is blame in
      the matter it does not lie with my husband but with me, for whose
      sake he has done all that he has.”

      The woman’s words came with an intense earnestness which carried
      conviction with them.

      “Is this true, Barrymore?”

      “Yes, Sir Henry. Every word of it.”

      “Well, I cannot blame you for standing by your own wife. Forget
      what I have said. Go to your room, you two, and we shall talk
      further about this matter in the morning.”

      When they were gone we looked out of the window again. Sir Henry
      had flung it open, and the cold night wind beat in upon our
      faces. Far away in the black distance there still glowed that one
      tiny point of yellow light.

      “I wonder he dares,” said Sir Henry.

      “It may be so placed as to be only visible from here.”

      “Very likely. How far do you think it is?”

      “Out by the Cleft Tor, I think.”

      “Not more than a mile or two off.”

      “Hardly that.”

      “Well, it cannot be far if Barrymore had to carry out the food to
      it. And he is waiting, this villain, beside that candle. By
      thunder, Watson, I am going out to take that man!”

      The same thought had crossed my own mind. It was not as if the
      Barrymores had taken us into their confidence. Their secret had
      been forced from them. The man was a danger to the community, an
      unmitigated scoundrel for whom there was neither pity nor excuse.
      We were only doing our duty in taking this chance of putting him
      back where he could do no harm. With his brutal and violent
      nature, others would have to pay the price if we held our hands.
      Any night, for example, our neighbours the Stapletons might be
      attacked by him, and it may have been the thought of this which
      made Sir Henry so keen upon the adventure.

      “I will come,” said I.

      “Then get your revolver and put on your boots. The sooner we
      start the better, as the fellow may put out his light and be
      off.”

      In five minutes we were outside the door, starting upon our
      expedition. We hurried through the dark shrubbery, amid the dull
      moaning of the autumn wind and the rustle of the falling leaves.
      The night air was heavy with the smell of damp and decay. Now and
      again the moon peeped out for an instant, but clouds were driving
      over the face of the sky, and just as we came out on the moor a
      thin rain began to fall. The light still burned steadily in
      front.

      “Are you armed?” I asked.

      “I have a hunting-crop.”

      “We must close in on him rapidly, for he is said to be a
      desperate fellow. We shall take him by surprise and have him at
      our mercy before he can resist.”

      “I say, Watson,” said the baronet, “what would Holmes say to
      this? How about that hour of darkness in which the power of evil
      is exalted?”

      As if in answer to his words there rose suddenly out of the vast
      gloom of the moor that strange cry which I had already heard upon
      the borders of the great Grimpen Mire. It came with the wind
      through the silence of the night, a long, deep mutter, then a
      rising howl, and then the sad moan in which it died away. Again
      and again it sounded, the whole air throbbing with it, strident,
      wild, and menacing. The baronet caught my sleeve and his face
      glimmered white through the darkness.

      “My God, what’s that, Watson?”

      “I don’t know. It’s a sound they have on the moor. I heard it
      once before.”

      It died away, and an absolute silence closed in upon us. We stood
      straining our ears, but nothing came.

      “Watson,” said the baronet, “it was the cry of a hound.”

      My blood ran cold in my veins, for there was a break in his voice
      which told of the sudden horror which had seized him.

      “What do they call this sound?” he asked.

      “Who?”

      “The folk on the countryside.”

      “Oh, they are ignorant people. Why should you mind what they call
      it?”

      “Tell me, Watson. What do they say of it?”

      I hesitated but could not escape the question.

      “They say it is the cry of the Hound of the Baskervilles.”

      He groaned and was silent for a few moments.

      “A hound it was,” he said at last, “but it seemed to come from
      miles away, over yonder, I think.”

      “It was hard to say whence it came.”

      “It rose and fell with the wind. Isn’t that the direction of the
      great Grimpen Mire?”

      “Yes, it is.”

      “Well, it was up there. Come now, Watson, didn’t you think
      yourself that it was the cry of a hound? I am not a child. You
      need not fear to speak the truth.”

      “Stapleton was with me when I heard it last. He said that it
      might be the calling of a strange bird.”

      “No, no, it was a hound. My God, can there be some truth in all
      these stories? Is it possible that I am really in danger from so
      dark a cause? You don’t believe it, do you, Watson?”

      “No, no.”

      “And yet it was one thing to laugh about it in London, and it is
      another to stand out here in the darkness of the moor and to hear
      such a cry as that. And my uncle! There was the footprint of the
      hound beside him as he lay. It all fits together. I don’t think
      that I am a coward, Watson, but that sound seemed to freeze my
      very blood. Feel my hand!”

      It was as cold as a block of marble.

      “You’ll be all right tomorrow.”

      “I don’t think I’ll get that cry out of my head. What do you
      advise that we do now?”

      “Shall we turn back?”

      “No, by thunder; we have come out to get our man, and we will do
      it. We after the convict, and a hell-hound, as likely as not,
      after us. Come on! We’ll see it through if all the fiends of the
      pit were loose upon the moor.”

      We stumbled slowly along in the darkness, with the black loom of
      the craggy hills around us, and the yellow speck of light burning
      steadily in front. There is nothing so deceptive as the distance
      of a light upon a pitch-dark night, and sometimes the glimmer
      seemed to be far away upon the horizon and sometimes it might
      have been within a few yards of us. But at last we could see
      whence it came, and then we knew that we were indeed very close.
      A guttering candle was stuck in a crevice of the rocks which
      flanked it on each side so as to keep the wind from it and also
      to prevent it from being visible, save in the direction of
      Baskerville Hall. A boulder of granite concealed our approach,
      and crouching behind it we gazed over it at the signal light. It
      was strange to see this single candle burning there in the middle
      of the moor, with no sign of life near it—just the one straight
      yellow flame and the gleam of the rock on each side of it.

      “What shall we do now?” whispered Sir Henry.

      “Wait here. He must be near his light. Let us see if we can get a
      glimpse of him.”

      The words were hardly out of my mouth when we both saw him. Over
      the rocks, in the crevice of which the candle burned, there was
      thrust out an evil yellow face, a terrible animal face, all
      seamed and scored with vile passions. Foul with mire, with a
      bristling beard, and hung with matted hair, it might well have
      belonged to one of those old savages who dwelt in the burrows on
      the hillsides. The light beneath him was reflected in his small,
      cunning eyes which peered fiercely to right and left through the
      darkness like a crafty and savage animal who has heard the steps
      of the hunters.

      Something had evidently aroused his suspicions. It may have been
      that Barrymore had some private signal which we had neglected to
      give, or the fellow may have had some other reason for thinking
      that all was not well, but I could read his fears upon his wicked
      face. Any instant he might dash out the light and vanish in the
      darkness. I sprang forward therefore, and Sir Henry did the same.
      At the same moment the convict screamed out a curse at us and
      hurled a rock which splintered up against the boulder which had
      sheltered us. I caught one glimpse of his short, squat, strongly
      built figure as he sprang to his feet and turned to run. At the
      same moment by a lucky chance the moon broke through the clouds.
      We rushed over the brow of the hill, and there was our man
      running with great speed down the other side, springing over the
      stones in his way with the activity of a mountain goat. A lucky
      long shot of my revolver might have crippled him, but I had
      brought it only to defend myself if attacked and not to shoot an
      unarmed man who was running away.

      We were both swift runners and in fairly good training, but we
      soon found that we had no chance of overtaking him. We saw him
      for a long time in the moonlight until he was only a small speck
      moving swiftly among the boulders upon the side of a distant
      hill. We ran and ran until we were completely blown, but the
      space between us grew ever wider. Finally we stopped and sat
      panting on two rocks, while we watched him disappearing in the
      distance.

      And it was at this moment that there occurred a most strange and
      unexpected thing. We had risen from our rocks and were turning to
      go home, having abandoned the hopeless chase. The moon was low
      upon the right, and the jagged pinnacle of a granite tor stood up
      against the lower curve of its silver disc. There, outlined as
      black as an ebony statue on that shining background, I saw the
      figure of a man upon the tor. Do not think that it was a
      delusion, Holmes. I assure you that I have never in my life seen
      anything more clearly. As far as I could judge, the figure was
      that of a tall, thin man. He stood with his legs a little
      separated, his arms folded, his head bowed, as if he were
      brooding over that enormous wilderness of peat and granite which
      lay before him. He might have been the very spirit of that
      terrible place. It was not the convict. This man was far from the
      place where the latter had disappeared. Besides, he was a much
      taller man. With a cry of surprise I pointed him out to the
      baronet, but in the instant during which I had turned to grasp
      his arm the man was gone. There was the sharp pinnacle of granite
      still cutting the lower edge of the moon, but its peak bore no
      trace of that silent and motionless figure.

      I wished to go in that direction and to search the tor, but it
      was some distance away. The baronet’s nerves were still quivering
      from that cry, which recalled the dark story of his family, and
      he was not in the mood for fresh adventures. He had not seen this
      lonely man upon the tor and could not feel the thrill which his
      strange presence and his commanding attitude had given to me. “A
      warder, no doubt,” said he. “The moor has been thick with them
      since this fellow escaped.” Well, perhaps his explanation may be
      the right one, but I should like to have some further proof of
      it. Today we mean to communicate to the Princetown people where
      they should look for their missing man, but it is hard lines that
      we have not actually had the triumph of bringing him back as our
      own prisoner. Such are the adventures of last night, and you must
      acknowledge, my dear Holmes, that I have done you very well in
      the matter of a report. Much of what I tell you is no doubt quite
      irrelevant, but still I feel that it is best that I should let
      you have all the facts and leave you to select for yourself those
      which will be of most service to you in helping you to your
      conclusions. We are certainly making some progress. So far as the
      Barrymores go we have found the motive of their actions, and that
      has cleared up the situation very much. But the moor with its
      mysteries and its strange inhabitants remains as inscrutable as
      ever. Perhaps in my next I may be able to throw some light upon
      this also. Best of all would it be if you could come down to us.
      In any case you will hear from me again in the course of the next
      few days.




Chapter 10.
Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson


      So far I have been able to quote from the reports which I have
      forwarded during these early days to Sherlock Holmes. Now,
      however, I have arrived at a point in my narrative where I am
      compelled to abandon this method and to trust once more to my
      recollections, aided by the diary which I kept at the time. A few
      extracts from the latter will carry me on to those scenes which
      are indelibly fixed in every detail upon my memory. I proceed,
      then, from the morning which followed our abortive chase of the
      convict and our other strange experiences upon the moor.

      _October_ 16_th_.—A dull and foggy day with a drizzle of rain.
      The house is banked in with rolling clouds, which rise now and
      then to show the dreary curves of the moor, with thin, silver
      veins upon the sides of the hills, and the distant boulders
      gleaming where the light strikes upon their wet faces. It is
      melancholy outside and in. The baronet is in a black reaction
      after the excitements of the night. I am conscious myself of a
      weight at my heart and a feeling of impending danger—ever present
      danger, which is the more terrible because I am unable to define
      it.

      And have I not cause for such a feeling? Consider the long
      sequence of incidents which have all pointed to some sinister
      influence which is at work around us. There is the death of the
      last occupant of the Hall, fulfilling so exactly the conditions
      of the family legend, and there are the repeated reports from
      peasants of the appearance of a strange creature upon the moor.
      Twice I have with my own ears heard the sound which resembled the
      distant baying of a hound. It is incredible, impossible, that it
      should really be outside the ordinary laws of nature. A spectral
      hound which leaves material footmarks and fills the air with its
      howling is surely not to be thought of. Stapleton may fall in
      with such a superstition, and Mortimer also, but if I have one
      quality upon earth it is common sense, and nothing will persuade
      me to believe in such a thing. To do so would be to descend to
      the level of these poor peasants, who are not content with a mere
      fiend dog but must needs describe him with hell-fire shooting
      from his mouth and eyes. Holmes would not listen to such fancies,
      and I am his agent. But facts are facts, and I have twice heard
      this crying upon the moor. Suppose that there were really some
      huge hound loose upon it; that would go far to explain
      everything. But where could such a hound lie concealed, where did
      it get its food, where did it come from, how was it that no one
      saw it by day? It must be confessed that the natural explanation
      offers almost as many difficulties as the other. And always,
      apart from the hound, there is the fact of the human agency in
      London, the man in the cab, and the letter which warned Sir Henry
      against the moor. This at least was real, but it might have been
      the work of a protecting friend as easily as of an enemy. Where
      is that friend or enemy now? Has he remained in London, or has he
      followed us down here? Could he—could he be the stranger whom I
      saw upon the tor?

      It is true that I have had only the one glance at him, and yet
      there are some things to which I am ready to swear. He is no one
      whom I have seen down here, and I have now met all the
      neighbours. The figure was far taller than that of Stapleton, far
      thinner than that of Frankland. Barrymore it might possibly have
      been, but we had left him behind us, and I am certain that he
      could not have followed us. A stranger then is still dogging us,
      just as a stranger dogged us in London. We have never shaken him
      off. If I could lay my hands upon that man, then at last we might
      find ourselves at the end of all our difficulties. To this one
      purpose I must now devote all my energies.

      My first impulse was to tell Sir Henry all my plans. My second
      and wisest one is to play my own game and speak as little as
      possible to anyone. He is silent and distrait. His nerves have
      been strangely shaken by that sound upon the moor. I will say
      nothing to add to his anxieties, but I will take my own steps to
      attain my own end.

      We had a small scene this morning after breakfast. Barrymore
      asked leave to speak with Sir Henry, and they were closeted in
      his study some little time. Sitting in the billiard-room I more
      than once heard the sound of voices raised, and I had a pretty
      good idea what the point was which was under discussion. After a
      time the baronet opened his door and called for me. “Barrymore
      considers that he has a grievance,” he said. “He thinks that it
      was unfair on our part to hunt his brother-in-law down when he,
      of his own free will, had told us the secret.”

      The butler was standing very pale but very collected before us.

      “I may have spoken too warmly, sir,” said he, “and if I have, I
      am sure that I beg your pardon. At the same time, I was very much
      surprised when I heard you two gentlemen come back this morning
      and learned that you had been chasing Selden. The poor fellow has
      enough to fight against without my putting more upon his track.”

      “If you had told us of your own free will it would have been a
      different thing,” said the baronet, “you only told us, or rather
      your wife only told us, when it was forced from you and you could
      not help yourself.”

      “I didn’t think you would have taken advantage of it, Sir
      Henry—indeed I didn’t.”

      “The man is a public danger. There are lonely houses scattered
      over the moor, and he is a fellow who would stick at nothing. You
      only want to get a glimpse of his face to see that. Look at Mr.
      Stapleton’s house, for example, with no one but himself to defend
      it. There’s no safety for anyone until he is under lock and key.”

      “He’ll break into no house, sir. I give you my solemn word upon
      that. But he will never trouble anyone in this country again. I
      assure you, Sir Henry, that in a very few days the necessary
      arrangements will have been made and he will be on his way to
      South America. For God’s sake, sir, I beg of you not to let the
      police know that he is still on the moor. They have given up the
      chase there, and he can lie quiet until the ship is ready for
      him. You can’t tell on him without getting my wife and me into
      trouble. I beg you, sir, to say nothing to the police.”

      “What do you say, Watson?”

      I shrugged my shoulders. “If he were safely out of the country it
      would relieve the tax-payer of a burden.”

      “But how about the chance of his holding someone up before he
      goes?”

      “He would not do anything so mad, sir. We have provided him with
      all that he can want. To commit a crime would be to show where he
      was hiding.”

      “That is true,” said Sir Henry. “Well, Barrymore—”

      “God bless you, sir, and thank you from my heart! It would have
      killed my poor wife had he been taken again.”

      “I guess we are aiding and abetting a felony, Watson? But, after
      what we have heard I don’t feel as if I could give the man up, so
      there is an end of it. All right, Barrymore, you can go.”

      With a few broken words of gratitude the man turned, but he
      hesitated and then came back.

      “You’ve been so kind to us, sir, that I should like to do the
      best I can for you in return. I know something, Sir Henry, and
      perhaps I should have said it before, but it was long after the
      inquest that I found it out. I’ve never breathed a word about it
      yet to mortal man. It’s about poor Sir Charles’s death.”

      The baronet and I were both upon our feet. “Do you know how he
      died?”

      “No, sir, I don’t know that.”

      “What then?”

      “I know why he was at the gate at that hour. It was to meet a
      woman.”

      “To meet a woman! He?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “And the woman’s name?”

      “I can’t give you the name, sir, but I can give you the initials.
      Her initials were L. L.”

      “How do you know this, Barrymore?”

      “Well, Sir Henry, your uncle had a letter that morning. He had
      usually a great many letters, for he was a public man and well
      known for his kind heart, so that everyone who was in trouble was
      glad to turn to him. But that morning, as it chanced, there was
      only this one letter, so I took the more notice of it. It was
      from Coombe Tracey, and it was addressed in a woman’s hand.”

      “Well?”

      “Well, sir, I thought no more of the matter, and never would have
      done had it not been for my wife. Only a few weeks ago she was
      cleaning out Sir Charles’s study—it had never been touched since
      his death—and she found the ashes of a burned letter in the back
      of the grate. The greater part of it was charred to pieces, but
      one little slip, the end of a page, hung together, and the
      writing could still be read, though it was grey on a black
      ground. It seemed to us to be a postscript at the end of the
      letter and it said: ‘Please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn
      this letter, and be at the gate by ten o clock. Beneath it were
      signed the initials L. L.”

      “Have you got that slip?”

      “No, sir, it crumbled all to bits after we moved it.”

      “Had Sir Charles received any other letters in the same writing?”

      “Well, sir, I took no particular notice of his letters. I should
      not have noticed this one, only it happened to come alone.”

      “And you have no idea who L. L. is?”

      “No, sir. No more than you have. But I expect if we could lay our
      hands upon that lady we should know more about Sir Charles’s
      death.”

      “I cannot understand, Barrymore, how you came to conceal this
      important information.”

      “Well, sir, it was immediately after that our own trouble came to
      us. And then again, sir, we were both of us very fond of Sir
      Charles, as we well might be considering all that he has done for
      us. To rake this up couldn’t help our poor master, and it’s well
      to go carefully when there’s a lady in the case. Even the best of
      us—”

      “You thought it might injure his reputation?”

      “Well, sir, I thought no good could come of it. But now you have
      been kind to us, and I feel as if it would be treating you
      unfairly not to tell you all that I know about the matter.”

      “Very good, Barrymore; you can go.” When the butler had left us
      Sir Henry turned to me. “Well, Watson, what do you think of this
      new light?”

      “It seems to leave the darkness rather blacker than before.”

      “So I think. But if we can only trace L. L. it should clear up
      the whole business. We have gained that much. We know that there
      is someone who has the facts if we can only find her. What do you
      think we should do?”

      “Let Holmes know all about it at once. It will give him the clue
      for which he has been seeking. I am much mistaken if it does not
      bring him down.”

      I went at once to my room and drew up my report of the morning’s
      conversation for Holmes. It was evident to me that he had been
      very busy of late, for the notes which I had from Baker Street
      were few and short, with no comments upon the information which I
      had supplied and hardly any reference to my mission. No doubt his
      blackmailing case is absorbing all his faculties. And yet this
      new factor must surely arrest his attention and renew his
      interest. I wish that he were here.

      _October_ 17_th_.—All day today the rain poured down, rustling on
      the ivy and dripping from the eaves. I thought of the convict out
      upon the bleak, cold, shelterless moor. Poor devil! Whatever his
      crimes, he has suffered something to atone for them. And then I
      thought of that other one—the face in the cab, the figure against
      the moon. Was he also out in that deluge—the unseen watcher, the
      man of darkness? In the evening I put on my waterproof and I
      walked far upon the sodden moor, full of dark imaginings, the
      rain beating upon my face and the wind whistling about my ears.
      God help those who wander into the great mire now, for even the
      firm uplands are becoming a morass. I found the black tor upon
      which I had seen the solitary watcher, and from its craggy summit
      I looked out myself across the melancholy downs. Rain squalls
      drifted across their russet face, and the heavy, slate-coloured
      clouds hung low over the landscape, trailing in grey wreaths down
      the sides of the fantastic hills. In the distant hollow on the
      left, half hidden by the mist, the two thin towers of Baskerville
      Hall rose above the trees. They were the only signs of human life
      which I could see, save only those prehistoric huts which lay
      thickly upon the slopes of the hills. Nowhere was there any trace
      of that lonely man whom I had seen on the same spot two nights
      before.

      As I walked back I was overtaken by Dr. Mortimer driving in his
      dog-cart over a rough moorland track which led from the outlying
      farmhouse of Foulmire. He has been very attentive to us, and
      hardly a day has passed that he has not called at the Hall to see
      how we were getting on. He insisted upon my climbing into his
      dog-cart, and he gave me a lift homeward. I found him much
      troubled over the disappearance of his little spaniel. It had
      wandered on to the moor and had never come back. I gave him such
      consolation as I might, but I thought of the pony on the Grimpen
      Mire, and I do not fancy that he will see his little dog again.

      “By the way, Mortimer,” said I as we jolted along the rough road,
      “I suppose there are few people living within driving distance of
      this whom you do not know?”

      “Hardly any, I think.”

      “Can you, then, tell me the name of any woman whose initials are
      L. L.?”

      He thought for a few minutes.

      “No,” said he. “There are a few gipsies and labouring folk for
      whom I can’t answer, but among the farmers or gentry there is no
      one whose initials are those. Wait a bit though,” he added after
      a pause. “There is Laura Lyons—her initials are L. L.—but she
      lives in Coombe Tracey.”

      “Who is she?” I asked.

      “She is Frankland’s daughter.”

      “What! Old Frankland the crank?”

      “Exactly. She married an artist named Lyons, who came sketching
      on the moor. He proved to be a blackguard and deserted her. The
      fault from what I hear may not have been entirely on one side.
      Her father refused to have anything to do with her because she
      had married without his consent and perhaps for one or two other
      reasons as well. So, between the old sinner and the young one the
      girl has had a pretty bad time.”

      “How does she live?”

      “I fancy old Frankland allows her a pittance, but it cannot be
      more, for his own affairs are considerably involved. Whatever she
      may have deserved one could not allow her to go hopelessly to the
      bad. Her story got about, and several of the people here did
      something to enable her to earn an honest living. Stapleton did
      for one, and Sir Charles for another. I gave a trifle myself. It
      was to set her up in a typewriting business.”

      He wanted to know the object of my inquiries, but I managed to
      satisfy his curiosity without telling him too much, for there is
      no reason why we should take anyone into our confidence. Tomorrow
      morning I shall find my way to Coombe Tracey, and if I can see
      this Mrs. Laura Lyons, of equivocal reputation, a long step will
      have been made towards clearing one incident in this chain of
      mysteries. I am certainly developing the wisdom of the serpent,
      for when Mortimer pressed his questions to an inconvenient extent
      I asked him casually to what type Frankland’s skull belonged, and
      so heard nothing but craniology for the rest of our drive. I have
      not lived for years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing.

      I have only one other incident to record upon this tempestuous
      and melancholy day. This was my conversation with Barrymore just
      now, which gives me one more strong card which I can play in due
      time.

      Mortimer had stayed to dinner, and he and the baronet played
      écarté afterwards. The butler brought me my coffee into the
      library, and I took the chance to ask him a few questions.

      “Well,” said I, “has this precious relation of yours departed, or
      is he still lurking out yonder?”

      “I don’t know, sir. I hope to heaven that he has gone, for he has
      brought nothing but trouble here! I’ve not heard of him since I
      left out food for him last, and that was three days ago.”

      “Did you see him then?”

      “No, sir, but the food was gone when next I went that way.”

      “Then he was certainly there?”

      “So you would think, sir, unless it was the other man who took
      it.”

      I sat with my coffee-cup halfway to my lips and stared at
      Barrymore.

      “You know that there is another man then?”

      “Yes, sir; there is another man upon the moor.”

      “Have you seen him?”

      “No, sir.”

      “How do you know of him then?”

      “Selden told me of him, sir, a week ago or more. He’s in hiding,
      too, but he’s not a convict as far as I can make out. I don’t
      like it, Dr. Watson—I tell you straight, sir, that I don’t like
      it.” He spoke with a sudden passion of earnestness.

      “Now, listen to me, Barrymore! I have no interest in this matter
      but that of your master. I have come here with no object except
      to help him. Tell me, frankly, what it is that you don’t like.”

      Barrymore hesitated for a moment, as if he regretted his outburst
      or found it difficult to express his own feelings in words.

      “It’s all these goings-on, sir,” he cried at last, waving his
      hand towards the rain-lashed window which faced the moor.
      “There’s foul play somewhere, and there’s black villainy brewing,
      to that I’ll swear! Very glad I should be, sir, to see Sir Henry
      on his way back to London again!”

      “But what is it that alarms you?”

      “Look at Sir Charles’s death! That was bad enough, for all that
      the coroner said. Look at the noises on the moor at night.
      There’s not a man would cross it after sundown if he was paid for
      it. Look at this stranger hiding out yonder, and watching and
      waiting! What’s he waiting for? What does it mean? It means no
      good to anyone of the name of Baskerville, and very glad I shall
      be to be quit of it all on the day that Sir Henry’s new servants
      are ready to take over the Hall.”

      “But about this stranger,” said I. “Can you tell me anything
      about him? What did Selden say? Did he find out where he hid, or
      what he was doing?”

      “He saw him once or twice, but he is a deep one and gives nothing
      away. At first he thought that he was the police, but soon he
      found that he had some lay of his own. A kind of gentleman he
      was, as far as he could see, but what he was doing he could not
      make out.”

      “And where did he say that he lived?”

      “Among the old houses on the hillside—the stone huts where the
      old folk used to live.”

      “But how about his food?”

      “Selden found out that he has got a lad who works for him and
      brings all he needs. I dare say he goes to Coombe Tracey for what
      he wants.”

      “Very good, Barrymore. We may talk further of this some other
      time.” When the butler had gone I walked over to the black
      window, and I looked through a blurred pane at the driving clouds
      and at the tossing outline of the wind-swept trees. It is a wild
      night indoors, and what must it be in a stone hut upon the moor.
      What passion of hatred can it be which leads a man to lurk in
      such a place at such a time! And what deep and earnest purpose
      can he have which calls for such a trial! There, in that hut upon
      the moor, seems to lie the very centre of that problem which has
      vexed me so sorely. I swear that another day shall not have
      passed before I have done all that man can do to reach the heart
      of the mystery.




Chapter 11.
The Man on the Tor


      The extract from my private diary which forms the last chapter
      has brought my narrative up to the eighteenth of October, a time
      when these strange events began to move swiftly towards their
      terrible conclusion. The incidents of the next few days are
      indelibly graven upon my recollection, and I can tell them
      without reference to the notes made at the time. I start them
      from the day which succeeded that upon which I had established
      two facts of great importance, the one that Mrs. Laura Lyons of
      Coombe Tracey had written to Sir Charles Baskerville and made an
      appointment with him at the very place and hour that he met his
      death, the other that the lurking man upon the moor was to be
      found among the stone huts upon the hillside. With these two
      facts in my possession I felt that either my intelligence or my
      courage must be deficient if I could not throw some further light
      upon these dark places.

      I had no opportunity to tell the baronet what I had learned about
      Mrs. Lyons upon the evening before, for Dr. Mortimer remained
      with him at cards until it was very late. At breakfast, however,
      I informed him about my discovery and asked him whether he would
      care to accompany me to Coombe Tracey. At first he was very eager
      to come, but on second thoughts it seemed to both of us that if I
      went alone the results might be better. The more formal we made
      the visit the less information we might obtain. I left Sir Henry
      behind, therefore, not without some prickings of conscience, and
      drove off upon my new quest.

      When I reached Coombe Tracey I told Perkins to put up the horses,
      and I made inquiries for the lady whom I had come to interrogate.
      I had no difficulty in finding her rooms, which were central and
      well appointed. A maid showed me in without ceremony, and as I
      entered the sitting-room a lady, who was sitting before a
      Remington typewriter, sprang up with a pleasant smile of welcome.
      Her face fell, however, when she saw that I was a stranger, and
      she sat down again and asked me the object of my visit.

      The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons was one of extreme
      beauty. Her eyes and hair were of the same rich hazel colour, and
      her cheeks, though considerably freckled, were flushed with the
      exquisite bloom of the brunette, the dainty pink which lurks at
      the heart of the sulphur rose. Admiration was, I repeat, the
      first impression. But the second was criticism. There was
      something subtly wrong with the face, some coarseness of
      expression, some hardness, perhaps, of eye, some looseness of lip
      which marred its perfect beauty. But these, of course, are
      afterthoughts. At the moment I was simply conscious that I was in
      the presence of a very handsome woman, and that she was asking me
      the reasons for my visit. I had not quite understood until that
      instant how delicate my mission was.

      “I have the pleasure,” said I, “of knowing your father.”

      It was a clumsy introduction, and the lady made me feel it.
      “There is nothing in common between my father and me,” she said.
      “I owe him nothing, and his friends are not mine. If it were not
      for the late Sir Charles Baskerville and some other kind hearts I
      might have starved for all that my father cared.”

      “It was about the late Sir Charles Baskerville that I have come
      here to see you.”

      The freckles started out on the lady’s face.

      “What can I tell you about him?” she asked, and her fingers
      played nervously over the stops of her typewriter.

      “You knew him, did you not?”

      “I have already said that I owe a great deal to his kindness. If
      I am able to support myself it is largely due to the interest
      which he took in my unhappy situation.”

      “Did you correspond with him?”

      The lady looked quickly up with an angry gleam in her hazel eyes.

      “What is the object of these questions?” she asked sharply.

      “The object is to avoid a public scandal. It is better that I
      should ask them here than that the matter should pass outside our
      control.”

      She was silent and her face was still very pale. At last she
      looked up with something reckless and defiant in her manner.

      “Well, I’ll answer,” she said. “What are your questions?”

      “Did you correspond with Sir Charles?”

      “I certainly wrote to him once or twice to acknowledge his
      delicacy and his generosity.”

      “Have you the dates of those letters?”

      “No.”

      “Have you ever met him?”

      “Yes, once or twice, when he came into Coombe Tracey. He was a
      very retiring man, and he preferred to do good by stealth.”

      “But if you saw him so seldom and wrote so seldom, how did he
      know enough about your affairs to be able to help you, as you say
      that he has done?”

      She met my difficulty with the utmost readiness.

      “There were several gentlemen who knew my sad history and united
      to help me. One was Mr. Stapleton, a neighbour and intimate
      friend of Sir Charles’s. He was exceedingly kind, and it was
      through him that Sir Charles learned about my affairs.”

      I knew already that Sir Charles Baskerville had made Stapleton
      his almoner upon several occasions, so the lady’s statement bore
      the impress of truth upon it.

      “Did you ever write to Sir Charles asking him to meet you?” I
      continued.

      Mrs. Lyons flushed with anger again. “Really, sir, this is a very
      extraordinary question.”

      “I am sorry, madam, but I must repeat it.”

      “Then I answer, certainly not.”

      “Not on the very day of Sir Charles’s death?”

      The flush had faded in an instant, and a deathly face was before
      me. Her dry lips could not speak the “No” which I saw rather than
      heard.

      “Surely your memory deceives you,” said I. “I could even quote a
      passage of your letter. It ran ‘Please, please, as you are a
      gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten o’clock.’”

      I thought that she had fainted, but she recovered herself by a
      supreme effort.

      “Is there no such thing as a gentleman?” she gasped.

      “You do Sir Charles an injustice. He _did_ burn the letter. But
      sometimes a letter may be legible even when burned. You
      acknowledge now that you wrote it?”

      “Yes, I did write it,” she cried, pouring out her soul in a
      torrent of words. “I did write it. Why should I deny it? I have
      no reason to be ashamed of it. I wished him to help me. I
      believed that if I had an interview I could gain his help, so I
      asked him to meet me.”

      “But why at such an hour?”

      “Because I had only just learned that he was going to London next
      day and might be away for months. There were reasons why I could
      not get there earlier.”

      “But why a rendezvous in the garden instead of a visit to the
      house?”

      “Do you think a woman could go alone at that hour to a bachelor’s
      house?”

      “Well, what happened when you did get there?”

      “I never went.”

      “Mrs. Lyons!”

      “No, I swear it to you on all I hold sacred. I never went.
      Something intervened to prevent my going.”

      “What was that?”

      “That is a private matter. I cannot tell it.”

      “You acknowledge then that you made an appointment with Sir
      Charles at the very hour and place at which he met his death, but
      you deny that you kept the appointment.”

      “That is the truth.”

      Again and again I cross-questioned her, but I could never get
      past that point.

      “Mrs. Lyons,” said I as I rose from this long and inconclusive
      interview, “you are taking a very great responsibility and
      putting yourself in a very false position by not making an
      absolutely clean breast of all that you know. If I have to call
      in the aid of the police you will find how seriously you are
      compromised. If your position is innocent, why did you in the
      first instance deny having written to Sir Charles upon that
      date?”

      “Because I feared that some false conclusion might be drawn from
      it and that I might find myself involved in a scandal.”

      “And why were you so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy
      your letter?”

      “If you have read the letter you will know.”

      “I did not say that I had read all the letter.”

      “You quoted some of it.”

      “I quoted the postscript. The letter had, as I said, been burned
      and it was not all legible. I ask you once again why it was that
      you were so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy this letter
      which he received on the day of his death.”

      “The matter is a very private one.”

      “The more reason why you should avoid a public investigation.”

      “I will tell you, then. If you have heard anything of my unhappy
      history you will know that I made a rash marriage and had reason
      to regret it.”

      “I have heard so much.”

      “My life has been one incessant persecution from a husband whom I
      abhor. The law is upon his side, and every day I am faced by the
      possibility that he may force me to live with him. At the time
      that I wrote this letter to Sir Charles I had learned that there
      was a prospect of my regaining my freedom if certain expenses
      could be met. It meant everything to me—peace of mind, happiness,
      self-respect—everything. I knew Sir Charles’s generosity, and I
      thought that if he heard the story from my own lips he would help
      me.”

      “Then how is it that you did not go?”

      “Because I received help in the interval from another source.”

      “Why then, did you not write to Sir Charles and explain this?”

      “So I should have done had I not seen his death in the paper next
      morning.”

      The woman’s story hung coherently together, and all my questions
      were unable to shake it. I could only check it by finding if she
      had, indeed, instituted divorce proceedings against her husband
      at or about the time of the tragedy.

      It was unlikely that she would dare to say that she had not been
      to Baskerville Hall if she really had been, for a trap would be
      necessary to take her there, and could not have returned to
      Coombe Tracey until the early hours of the morning. Such an
      excursion could not be kept secret. The probability was,
      therefore, that she was telling the truth, or, at least, a part
      of the truth. I came away baffled and disheartened. Once again I
      had reached that dead wall which seemed to be built across every
      path by which I tried to get at the object of my mission. And yet
      the more I thought of the lady’s face and of her manner the more
      I felt that something was being held back from me. Why should she
      turn so pale? Why should she fight against every admission until
      it was forced from her? Why should she have been so reticent at
      the time of the tragedy? Surely the explanation of all this could
      not be as innocent as she would have me believe. For the moment I
      could proceed no farther in that direction, but must turn back to
      that other clue which was to be sought for among the stone huts
      upon the moor.

      And that was a most vague direction. I realised it as I drove
      back and noted how hill after hill showed traces of the ancient
      people. Barrymore’s only indication had been that the stranger
      lived in one of these abandoned huts, and many hundreds of them
      are scattered throughout the length and breadth of the moor. But
      I had my own experience for a guide since it had shown me the man
      himself standing upon the summit of the Black Tor. That, then,
      should be the centre of my search. From there I should explore
      every hut upon the moor until I lighted upon the right one. If
      this man were inside it I should find out from his own lips, at
      the point of my revolver if necessary, who he was and why he had
      dogged us so long. He might slip away from us in the crowd of
      Regent Street, but it would puzzle him to do so upon the lonely
      moor. On the other hand, if I should find the hut and its tenant
      should not be within it I must remain there, however long the
      vigil, until he returned. Holmes had missed him in London. It
      would indeed be a triumph for me if I could run him to earth
      where my master had failed.

      Luck had been against us again and again in this inquiry, but now
      at last it came to my aid. And the messenger of good fortune was
      none other than Mr. Frankland, who was standing, grey-whiskered
      and red-faced, outside the gate of his garden, which opened on to
      the highroad along which I travelled.

      “Good-day, Dr. Watson,” cried he with unwonted good humour, “you
      must really give your horses a rest and come in to have a glass
      of wine and to congratulate me.”

      My feelings towards him were very far from being friendly after
      what I had heard of his treatment of his daughter, but I was
      anxious to send Perkins and the wagonette home, and the
      opportunity was a good one. I alighted and sent a message to Sir
      Henry that I should walk over in time for dinner. Then I followed
      Frankland into his dining-room.

      “It is a great day for me, sir—one of the red-letter days of my
      life,” he cried with many chuckles. “I have brought off a double
      event. I mean to teach them in these parts that law is law, and
      that there is a man here who does not fear to invoke it. I have
      established a right of way through the centre of old Middleton’s
      park, slap across it, sir, within a hundred yards of his own
      front door. What do you think of that? We’ll teach these magnates
      that they cannot ride roughshod over the rights of the commoners,
      confound them! And I’ve closed the wood where the Fernworthy folk
      used to picnic. These infernal people seem to think that there
      are no rights of property, and that they can swarm where they
      like with their papers and their bottles. Both cases decided, Dr.
      Watson, and both in my favour. I haven’t had such a day since I
      had Sir John Morland for trespass because he shot in his own
      warren.”

      “How on earth did you do that?”

      “Look it up in the books, sir. It will repay reading—Frankland
      _v_. Morland, Court of Queen’s Bench. It cost me £200, but I got
      my verdict.”

      “Did it do you any good?”

      “None, sir, none. I am proud to say that I had no interest in the
      matter. I act entirely from a sense of public duty. I have no
      doubt, for example, that the Fernworthy people will burn me in
      effigy tonight. I told the police last time they did it that they
      should stop these disgraceful exhibitions. The County
      Constabulary is in a scandalous state, sir, and it has not
      afforded me the protection to which I am entitled. The case of
      Frankland _v_. Regina will bring the matter before the attention
      of the public. I told them that they would have occasion to
      regret their treatment of me, and already my words have come
      true.”

      “How so?” I asked.

      The old man put on a very knowing expression. “Because I could
      tell them what they are dying to know; but nothing would induce
      me to help the rascals in any way.”

      I had been casting round for some excuse by which I could get
      away from his gossip, but now I began to wish to hear more of it.
      I had seen enough of the contrary nature of the old sinner to
      understand that any strong sign of interest would be the surest
      way to stop his confidences.

      “Some poaching case, no doubt?” said I with an indifferent
      manner.

      “Ha, ha, my boy, a very much more important matter than that!
      What about the convict on the moor?”

      I stared. “You don’t mean that you know where he is?” said I.

      “I may not know exactly where he is, but I am quite sure that I
      could help the police to lay their hands on him. Has it never
      struck you that the way to catch that man was to find out where
      he got his food and so trace it to him?”

      He certainly seemed to be getting uncomfortably near the truth.
      “No doubt,” said I; “but how do you know that he is anywhere upon
      the moor?”

      “I know it because I have seen with my own eyes the messenger who
      takes him his food.”

      My heart sank for Barrymore. It was a serious thing to be in the
      power of this spiteful old busybody. But his next remark took a
      weight from my mind.

      “You’ll be surprised to hear that his food is taken to him by a
      child. I see him every day through my telescope upon the roof. He
      passes along the same path at the same hour, and to whom should
      he be going except to the convict?”

      Here was luck indeed! And yet I suppressed all appearance of
      interest. A child! Barrymore had said that our unknown was
      supplied by a boy. It was on his track, and not upon the
      convict’s, that Frankland had stumbled. If I could get his
      knowledge it might save me a long and weary hunt. But incredulity
      and indifference were evidently my strongest cards.

      “I should say that it was much more likely that it was the son of
      one of the moorland shepherds taking out his father’s dinner.”

      The least appearance of opposition struck fire out of the old
      autocrat. His eyes looked malignantly at me, and his grey
      whiskers bristled like those of an angry cat.

      “Indeed, sir!” said he, pointing out over the wide-stretching
      moor. “Do you see that Black Tor over yonder? Well, do you see
      the low hill beyond with the thornbush upon it? It is the
      stoniest part of the whole moor. Is that a place where a shepherd
      would be likely to take his station? Your suggestion, sir, is a
      most absurd one.”

      I meekly answered that I had spoken without knowing all the
      facts. My submission pleased him and led him to further
      confidences.

      “You may be sure, sir, that I have very good grounds before I
      come to an opinion. I have seen the boy again and again with his
      bundle. Every day, and sometimes twice a day, I have been
      able—but wait a moment, Dr. Watson. Do my eyes deceive me, or is
      there at the present moment something moving upon that hillside?”

      It was several miles off, but I could distinctly see a small dark
      dot against the dull green and grey.

      “Come, sir, come!” cried Frankland, rushing upstairs. “You will
      see with your own eyes and judge for yourself.”

      The telescope, a formidable instrument mounted upon a tripod,
      stood upon the flat leads of the house. Frankland clapped his eye
      to it and gave a cry of satisfaction.

      “Quick, Dr. Watson, quick, before he passes over the hill!”

      There he was, sure enough, a small urchin with a little bundle
      upon his shoulder, toiling slowly up the hill. When he reached
      the crest I saw the ragged uncouth figure outlined for an instant
      against the cold blue sky. He looked round him with a furtive and
      stealthy air, as one who dreads pursuit. Then he vanished over
      the hill.

      “Well! Am I right?”

      “Certainly, there is a boy who seems to have some secret errand.”

      “And what the errand is even a county constable could guess. But
      not one word shall they have from me, and I bind you to secrecy
      also, Dr. Watson. Not a word! You understand!”

      “Just as you wish.”

      “They have treated me shamefully—shamefully. When the facts come
      out in Frankland _v_. Regina I venture to think that a thrill of
      indignation will run through the country. Nothing would induce me
      to help the police in any way. For all they cared it might have
      been me, instead of my effigy, which these rascals burned at the
      stake. Surely you are not going! You will help me to empty the
      decanter in honour of this great occasion!”

      But I resisted all his solicitations and succeeded in dissuading
      him from his announced intention of walking home with me. I kept
      the road as long as his eye was on me, and then I struck off
      across the moor and made for the stony hill over which the boy
      had disappeared. Everything was working in my favour, and I swore
      that it should not be through lack of energy or perseverance that
      I should miss the chance which fortune had thrown in my way.

      The sun was already sinking when I reached the summit of the
      hill, and the long slopes beneath me were all golden-green on one
      side and grey shadow on the other. A haze lay low upon the
      farthest sky-line, out of which jutted the fantastic shapes of
      Belliver and Vixen Tor. Over the wide expanse there was no sound
      and no movement. One great grey bird, a gull or curlew, soared
      aloft in the blue heaven. He and I seemed to be the only living
      things between the huge arch of the sky and the desert beneath
      it. The barren scene, the sense of loneliness, and the mystery
      and urgency of my task all struck a chill into my heart. The boy
      was nowhere to be seen. But down beneath me in a cleft of the
      hills there was a circle of the old stone huts, and in the middle
      of them there was one which retained sufficient roof to act as a
      screen against the weather. My heart leaped within me as I saw
      it. This must be the burrow where the stranger lurked. At last my
      foot was on the threshold of his hiding place—his secret was
      within my grasp.

      As I approached the hut, walking as warily as Stapleton would do
      when with poised net he drew near the settled butterfly, I
      satisfied myself that the place had indeed been used as a
      habitation. A vague pathway among the boulders led to the
      dilapidated opening which served as a door. All was silent
      within. The unknown might be lurking there, or he might be
      prowling on the moor. My nerves tingled with the sense of
      adventure. Throwing aside my cigarette, I closed my hand upon the
      butt of my revolver and, walking swiftly up to the door, I looked
      in. The place was empty.

      But there were ample signs that I had not come upon a false
      scent. This was certainly where the man lived. Some blankets
      rolled in a waterproof lay upon that very stone slab upon which
      Neolithic man had once slumbered. The ashes of a fire were heaped
      in a rude grate. Beside it lay some cooking utensils and a bucket
      half-full of water. A litter of empty tins showed that the place
      had been occupied for some time, and I saw, as my eyes became
      accustomed to the checkered light, a pannikin and a half-full
      bottle of spirits standing in the corner. In the middle of the
      hut a flat stone served the purpose of a table, and upon this
      stood a small cloth bundle—the same, no doubt, which I had seen
      through the telescope upon the shoulder of the boy. It contained
      a loaf of bread, a tinned tongue, and two tins of preserved
      peaches. As I set it down again, after having examined it, my
      heart leaped to see that beneath it there lay a sheet of paper
      with writing upon it. I raised it, and this was what I read,
      roughly scrawled in pencil: “Dr. Watson has gone to Coombe
      Tracey.”

      For a minute I stood there with the paper in my hands thinking
      out the meaning of this curt message. It was I, then, and not Sir
      Henry, who was being dogged by this secret man. He had not
      followed me himself, but he had set an agent—the boy,
      perhaps—upon my track, and this was his report. Possibly I had
      taken no step since I had been upon the moor which had not been
      observed and reported. Always there was this feeling of an unseen
      force, a fine net drawn round us with infinite skill and
      delicacy, holding us so lightly that it was only at some supreme
      moment that one realised that one was indeed entangled in its
      meshes.

      If there was one report there might be others, so I looked round
      the hut in search of them. There was no trace, however, of
      anything of the kind, nor could I discover any sign which might
      indicate the character or intentions of the man who lived in this
      singular place, save that he must be of Spartan habits and cared
      little for the comforts of life. When I thought of the heavy
      rains and looked at the gaping roof I understood how strong and
      immutable must be the purpose which had kept him in that
      inhospitable abode. Was he our malignant enemy, or was he by
      chance our guardian angel? I swore that I would not leave the hut
      until I knew.

      Outside the sun was sinking low and the west was blazing with
      scarlet and gold. Its reflection was shot back in ruddy patches
      by the distant pools which lay amid the great Grimpen Mire. There
      were the two towers of Baskerville Hall, and there a distant blur
      of smoke which marked the village of Grimpen. Between the two,
      behind the hill, was the house of the Stapletons. All was sweet
      and mellow and peaceful in the golden evening light, and yet as I
      looked at them my soul shared none of the peace of Nature but
      quivered at the vagueness and the terror of that interview which
      every instant was bringing nearer. With tingling nerves but a
      fixed purpose, I sat in the dark recess of the hut and waited
      with sombre patience for the coming of its tenant.

      And then at last I heard him. Far away came the sharp clink of a
      boot striking upon a stone. Then another and yet another, coming
      nearer and nearer. I shrank back into the darkest corner and
      cocked the pistol in my pocket, determined not to discover myself
      until I had an opportunity of seeing something of the stranger.
      There was a long pause which showed that he had stopped. Then
      once more the footsteps approached and a shadow fell across the
      opening of the hut.

      “It is a lovely evening, my dear Watson,” said a well-known
      voice. “I really think that you will be more comfortable outside
      than in.”




Chapter 12.
Death on the Moor


      For a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe my
      ears. Then my senses and my voice came back to me, while a
      crushing weight of responsibility seemed in an instant to be
      lifted from my soul. That cold, incisive, ironical voice could
      belong to but one man in all the world.

      “Holmes!” I cried—“Holmes!”

      “Come out,” said he, “and please be careful with the revolver.”

      I stooped under the rude lintel, and there he sat upon a stone
      outside, his grey eyes dancing with amusement as they fell upon
      my astonished features. He was thin and worn, but clear and
      alert, his keen face bronzed by the sun and roughened by the
      wind. In his tweed suit and cloth cap he looked like any other
      tourist upon the moor, and he had contrived, with that catlike
      love of personal cleanliness which was one of his
      characteristics, that his chin should be as smooth and his linen
      as perfect as if he were in Baker Street.

      “I never was more glad to see anyone in my life,” said I as I
      wrung him by the hand.

      “Or more astonished, eh?”

      “Well, I must confess to it.”

      “The surprise was not all on one side, I assure you. I had no
      idea that you had found my occasional retreat, still less that
      you were inside it, until I was within twenty paces of the door.”

      “My footprint, I presume?”

      “No, Watson, I fear that I could not undertake to recognize your
      footprint amid all the footprints of the world. If you seriously
      desire to deceive me you must change your tobacconist; for when I
      see the stub of a cigarette marked Bradley, Oxford Street, I know
      that my friend Watson is in the neighbourhood. You will see it
      there beside the path. You threw it down, no doubt, at that
      supreme moment when you charged into the empty hut.”

      “Exactly.”

      “I thought as much—and knowing your admirable tenacity I was
      convinced that you were sitting in ambush, a weapon within reach,
      waiting for the tenant to return. So you actually thought that I
      was the criminal?”

      “I did not know who you were, but I was determined to find out.”

      “Excellent, Watson! And how did you localise me? You saw me,
      perhaps, on the night of the convict hunt, when I was so
      imprudent as to allow the moon to rise behind me?”

      “Yes, I saw you then.”

      “And have no doubt searched all the huts until you came to this
      one?”

      “No, your boy had been observed, and that gave me a guide where
      to look.”

      “The old gentleman with the telescope, no doubt. I could not make
      it out when first I saw the light flashing upon the lens.” He
      rose and peeped into the hut. “Ha, I see that Cartwright has
      brought up some supplies. What’s this paper? So you have been to
      Coombe Tracey, have you?”

      “Yes.”

      “To see Mrs. Laura Lyons?”

      “Exactly.”

      “Well done! Our researches have evidently been running on
      parallel lines, and when we unite our results I expect we shall
      have a fairly full knowledge of the case.”

      “Well, I am glad from my heart that you are here, for indeed the
      responsibility and the mystery were both becoming too much for my
      nerves. But how in the name of wonder did you come here, and what
      have you been doing? I thought that you were in Baker Street
      working out that case of blackmailing.”

      “That was what I wished you to think.”

      “Then you use me, and yet do not trust me!” I cried with some
      bitterness. “I think that I have deserved better at your hands,
      Holmes.”

      “My dear fellow, you have been invaluable to me in this as in
      many other cases, and I beg that you will forgive me if I have
      seemed to play a trick upon you. In truth, it was partly for your
      own sake that I did it, and it was my appreciation of the danger
      which you ran which led me to come down and examine the matter
      for myself. Had I been with Sir Henry and you it is confident
      that my point of view would have been the same as yours, and my
      presence would have warned our very formidable opponents to be on
      their guard. As it is, I have been able to get about as I could
      not possibly have done had I been living in the Hall, and I
      remain an unknown factor in the business, ready to throw in all
      my weight at a critical moment.”

      “But why keep me in the dark?”

      “For you to know could not have helped us and might possibly have
      led to my discovery. You would have wished to tell me something,
      or in your kindness you would have brought me out some comfort or
      other, and so an unnecessary risk would be run. I brought
      Cartwright down with me—you remember the little chap at the
      express office—and he has seen after my simple wants: a loaf of
      bread and a clean collar. What does man want more? He has given
      me an extra pair of eyes upon a very active pair of feet, and
      both have been invaluable.”

      “Then my reports have all been wasted!”—My voice trembled as I
      recalled the pains and the pride with which I had composed them.

      Holmes took a bundle of papers from his pocket.

      “Here are your reports, my dear fellow, and very well thumbed, I
      assure you. I made excellent arrangements, and they are only
      delayed one day upon their way. I must compliment you exceedingly
      upon the zeal and the intelligence which you have shown over an
      extraordinarily difficult case.”

      I was still rather raw over the deception which had been
      practised upon me, but the warmth of Holmes’s praise drove my
      anger from my mind. I felt also in my heart that he was right in
      what he said and that it was really best for our purpose that I
      should not have known that he was upon the moor.

      “That’s better,” said he, seeing the shadow rise from my face.
      “And now tell me the result of your visit to Mrs. Laura Lyons—it
      was not difficult for me to guess that it was to see her that you
      had gone, for I am already aware that she is the one person in
      Coombe Tracey who might be of service to us in the matter. In
      fact, if you had not gone today it is exceedingly probable that I
      should have gone tomorrow.”

      The sun had set and dusk was settling over the moor. The air had
      turned chill and we withdrew into the hut for warmth. There,
      sitting together in the twilight, I told Holmes of my
      conversation with the lady. So interested was he that I had to
      repeat some of it twice before he was satisfied.

      “This is most important,” said he when I had concluded. “It fills
      up a gap which I had been unable to bridge in this most complex
      affair. You are aware, perhaps, that a close intimacy exists
      between this lady and the man Stapleton?”

      “I did not know of a close intimacy.”

      “There can be no doubt about the matter. They meet, they write,
      there is a complete understanding between them. Now, this puts a
      very powerful weapon into our hands. If I could only use it to
      detach his wife—”

      “His wife?”

      “I am giving you some information now, in return for all that you
      have given me. The lady who has passed here as Miss Stapleton is
      in reality his wife.”

      “Good heavens, Holmes! Are you sure of what you say? How could he
      have permitted Sir Henry to fall in love with her?”

      “Sir Henry’s falling in love could do no harm to anyone except
      Sir Henry. He took particular care that Sir Henry did not make
      love to her, as you have yourself observed. I repeat that the
      lady is his wife and not his sister.”

      “But why this elaborate deception?”

      “Because he foresaw that she would be very much more useful to
      him in the character of a free woman.”

      All my unspoken instincts, my vague suspicions, suddenly took
      shape and centred upon the naturalist. In that impassive
      colourless man, with his straw hat and his butterfly-net, I
      seemed to see something terrible—a creature of infinite patience
      and craft, with a smiling face and a murderous heart.

      “It is he, then, who is our enemy—it is he who dogged us in
      London?”

      “So I read the riddle.”

      “And the warning—it must have come from her!”

      “Exactly.”

      The shape of some monstrous villainy, half seen, half guessed,
      loomed through the darkness which had girt me so long.

      “But are you sure of this, Holmes? How do you know that the woman
      is his wife?”

      “Because he so far forgot himself as to tell you a true piece of
      autobiography upon the occasion when he first met you, and I dare
      say he has many a time regretted it since. He was once a
      schoolmaster in the north of England. Now, there is no one more
      easy to trace than a schoolmaster. There are scholastic agencies
      by which one may identify any man who has been in the profession.
      A little investigation showed me that a school had come to grief
      under atrocious circumstances, and that the man who had owned
      it—the name was different—had disappeared with his wife. The
      descriptions agreed. When I learned that the missing man was
      devoted to entomology the identification was complete.”

      The darkness was rising, but much was still hidden by the
      shadows.

      “If this woman is in truth his wife, where does Mrs. Laura Lyons
      come in?” I asked.

      “That is one of the points upon which your own researches have
      shed a light. Your interview with the lady has cleared the
      situation very much. I did not know about a projected divorce
      between herself and her husband. In that case, regarding
      Stapleton as an unmarried man, she counted no doubt upon becoming
      his wife.”

      “And when she is undeceived?”

      “Why, then we may find the lady of service. It must be our first
      duty to see her—both of us—tomorrow. Don’t you think, Watson,
      that you are away from your charge rather long? Your place should
      be at Baskerville Hall.”

      The last red streaks had faded away in the west and night had
      settled upon the moor. A few faint stars were gleaming in a
      violet sky.

      “One last question, Holmes,” I said as I rose. “Surely there is
      no need of secrecy between you and me. What is the meaning of it
      all? What is he after?”

      Holmes’s voice sank as he answered:

      “It is murder, Watson—refined, cold-blooded, deliberate murder.
      Do not ask me for particulars. My nets are closing upon him, even
      as his are upon Sir Henry, and with your help he is already
      almost at my mercy. There is but one danger which can threaten
      us. It is that he should strike before we are ready to do so.
      Another day—two at the most—and I have my case complete, but
      until then guard your charge as closely as ever a fond mother
      watched her ailing child. Your mission today has justified
      itself, and yet I could almost wish that you had not left his
      side. Hark!”

      A terrible scream—a prolonged yell of horror and anguish—burst
      out of the silence of the moor. That frightful cry turned the
      blood to ice in my veins.

      “Oh, my God!” I gasped. “What is it? What does it mean?”

      Holmes had sprung to his feet, and I saw his dark, athletic
      outline at the door of the hut, his shoulders stooping, his head
      thrust forward, his face peering into the darkness.

      “Hush!” he whispered. “Hush!”

      The cry had been loud on account of its vehemence, but it had
      pealed out from somewhere far off on the shadowy plain. Now it
      burst upon our ears, nearer, louder, more urgent than before.

      “Where is it?” Holmes whispered; and I knew from the thrill of
      his voice that he, the man of iron, was shaken to the soul.
      “Where is it, Watson?”

      “There, I think.” I pointed into the darkness.

      “No, there!”

      Again the agonised cry swept through the silent night, louder and
      much nearer than ever. And a new sound mingled with it, a deep,
      muttered rumble, musical and yet menacing, rising and falling
      like the low, constant murmur of the sea.

      “The hound!” cried Holmes. “Come, Watson, come! Great heavens, if
      we are too late!”

      He had started running swiftly over the moor, and I had followed
      at his heels. But now from somewhere among the broken ground
      immediately in front of us there came one last despairing yell,
      and then a dull, heavy thud. We halted and listened. Not another
      sound broke the heavy silence of the windless night.

      I saw Holmes put his hand to his forehead like a man distracted.
      He stamped his feet upon the ground.

      “He has beaten us, Watson. We are too late.”

      “No, no, surely not!”

      “Fool that I was to hold my hand. And you, Watson, see what comes
      of abandoning your charge! But, by Heaven, if the worst has
      happened we’ll avenge him!”

      Blindly we ran through the gloom, blundering against boulders,
      forcing our way through gorse bushes, panting up hills and
      rushing down slopes, heading always in the direction whence those
      dreadful sounds had come. At every rise Holmes looked eagerly
      round him, but the shadows were thick upon the moor, and nothing
      moved upon its dreary face.

      “Can you see anything?”

      “Nothing.”

      “But, hark, what is that?”

      A low moan had fallen upon our ears. There it was again upon our
      left! On that side a ridge of rocks ended in a sheer cliff which
      overlooked a stone-strewn slope. On its jagged face was
      spread-eagled some dark, irregular object. As we ran towards it
      the vague outline hardened into a definite shape. It was a
      prostrate man face downward upon the ground, the head doubled
      under him at a horrible angle, the shoulders rounded and the body
      hunched together as if in the act of throwing a somersault. So
      grotesque was the attitude that I could not for the instant
      realise that that moan had been the passing of his soul. Not a
      whisper, not a rustle, rose now from the dark figure over which
      we stooped. Holmes laid his hand upon him and held it up again
      with an exclamation of horror. The gleam of the match which he
      struck shone upon his clotted fingers and upon the ghastly pool
      which widened slowly from the crushed skull of the victim. And it
      shone upon something else which turned our hearts sick and faint
      within us—the body of Sir Henry Baskerville!

      There was no chance of either of us forgetting that peculiar
      ruddy tweed suit—the very one which he had worn on the first
      morning that we had seen him in Baker Street. We caught the one
      clear glimpse of it, and then the match flickered and went out,
      even as the hope had gone out of our souls. Holmes groaned, and
      his face glimmered white through the darkness.

      “The brute! The brute!” I cried with clenched hands. “Oh Holmes,
      I shall never forgive myself for having left him to his fate.”

      “I am more to blame than you, Watson. In order to have my case
      well rounded and complete, I have thrown away the life of my
      client. It is the greatest blow which has befallen me in my
      career. But how could I know—how _could_ I know—that he would
      risk his life alone upon the moor in the face of all my
      warnings?”

      “That we should have heard his screams—my God, those screams!—and
      yet have been unable to save him! Where is this brute of a hound
      which drove him to his death? It may be lurking among these rocks
      at this instant. And Stapleton, where is he? He shall answer for
      this deed.”

      “He shall. I will see to that. Uncle and nephew have been
      murdered—the one frightened to death by the very sight of a beast
      which he thought to be supernatural, the other driven to his end
      in his wild flight to escape from it. But now we have to prove
      the connection between the man and the beast. Save from what we
      heard, we cannot even swear to the existence of the latter, since
      Sir Henry has evidently died from the fall. But, by heavens,
      cunning as he is, the fellow shall be in my power before another
      day is past!”

      We stood with bitter hearts on either side of the mangled body,
      overwhelmed by this sudden and irrevocable disaster which had
      brought all our long and weary labours to so piteous an end. Then
      as the moon rose we climbed to the top of the rocks over which
      our poor friend had fallen, and from the summit we gazed out over
      the shadowy moor, half silver and half gloom. Far away, miles
      off, in the direction of Grimpen, a single steady yellow light
      was shining. It could only come from the lonely abode of the
      Stapletons. With a bitter curse I shook my fist at it as I gazed.

      “Why should we not seize him at once?”

      “Our case is not complete. The fellow is wary and cunning to the
      last degree. It is not what we know, but what we can prove. If we
      make one false move the villain may escape us yet.”

      “What can we do?”

      “There will be plenty for us to do tomorrow. Tonight we can only
      perform the last offices to our poor friend.”

      Together we made our way down the precipitous slope and
      approached the body, black and clear against the silvered stones.
      The agony of those contorted limbs struck me with a spasm of pain
      and blurred my eyes with tears.

      “We must send for help, Holmes! We cannot carry him all the way
      to the Hall. Good heavens, are you mad?”

      He had uttered a cry and bent over the body. Now he was dancing
      and laughing and wringing my hand. Could this be my stern,
      self-contained friend? These were hidden fires, indeed!

      “A beard! A beard! The man has a beard!”

      “A beard?”

      “It is not the baronet—it is—why, it is my neighbour, the
      convict!”

      With feverish haste we had turned the body over, and that
      dripping beard was pointing up to the cold, clear moon. There
      could be no doubt about the beetling forehead, the sunken animal
      eyes. It was indeed the same face which had glared upon me in the
      light of the candle from over the rock—the face of Selden, the
      criminal.

      Then in an instant it was all clear to me. I remembered how the
      baronet had told me that he had handed his old wardrobe to
      Barrymore. Barrymore had passed it on in order to help Selden in
      his escape. Boots, shirt, cap—it was all Sir Henry’s. The tragedy
      was still black enough, but this man had at least deserved death
      by the laws of his country. I told Holmes how the matter stood,
      my heart bubbling over with thankfulness and joy.

      “Then the clothes have been the poor devil’s death,” said he. “It
      is clear enough that the hound has been laid on from some article
      of Sir Henry’s—the boot which was abstracted in the hotel, in all
      probability—and so ran this man down. There is one very singular
      thing, however: How came Selden, in the darkness, to know that
      the hound was on his trail?”

      “He heard him.”

      “To hear a hound upon the moor would not work a hard man like
      this convict into such a paroxysm of terror that he would risk
      recapture by screaming wildly for help. By his cries he must have
      run a long way after he knew the animal was on his track. How did
      he know?”

      “A greater mystery to me is why this hound, presuming that all
      our conjectures are correct—”

      “I presume nothing.”

      “Well, then, why this hound should be loose tonight. I suppose
      that it does not always run loose upon the moor. Stapleton would
      not let it go unless he had reason to think that Sir Henry would
      be there.”

      “My difficulty is the more formidable of the two, for I think
      that we shall very shortly get an explanation of yours, while
      mine may remain forever a mystery. The question now is, what
      shall we do with this poor wretch’s body? We cannot leave it here
      to the foxes and the ravens.”

      “I suggest that we put it in one of the huts until we can
      communicate with the police.”

      “Exactly. I have no doubt that you and I could carry it so far.
      Halloa, Watson, what’s this? It’s the man himself, by all that’s
      wonderful and audacious! Not a word to show your suspicions—not a
      word, or my plans crumble to the ground.”

      A figure was approaching us over the moor, and I saw the dull red
      glow of a cigar. The moon shone upon him, and I could distinguish
      the dapper shape and jaunty walk of the naturalist. He stopped
      when he saw us, and then came on again.

      “Why, Dr. Watson, that’s not you, is it? You are the last man
      that I should have expected to see out on the moor at this time
      of night. But, dear me, what’s this? Somebody hurt? Not—don’t
      tell me that it is our friend Sir Henry!” He hurried past me and
      stooped over the dead man. I heard a sharp intake of his breath
      and the cigar fell from his fingers.

      “Who—who’s this?” he stammered.

      “It is Selden, the man who escaped from Princetown.”

      Stapleton turned a ghastly face upon us, but by a supreme effort
      he had overcome his amazement and his disappointment. He looked
      sharply from Holmes to me. “Dear me! What a very shocking affair!
      How did he die?”

      “He appears to have broken his neck by falling over these rocks.
      My friend and I were strolling on the moor when we heard a cry.”

      “I heard a cry also. That was what brought me out. I was uneasy
      about Sir Henry.”

      “Why about Sir Henry in particular?” I could not help asking.

      “Because I had suggested that he should come over. When he did
      not come I was surprised, and I naturally became alarmed for his
      safety when I heard cries upon the moor. By the way”—his eyes
      darted again from my face to Holmes’s—“did you hear anything else
      besides a cry?”

      “No,” said Holmes; “did you?”

      “No.”

      “What do you mean, then?”

      “Oh, you know the stories that the peasants tell about a phantom
      hound, and so on. It is said to be heard at night upon the moor.
      I was wondering if there were any evidence of such a sound
      tonight.”

      “We heard nothing of the kind,” said I.

      “And what is your theory of this poor fellow’s death?”

      “I have no doubt that anxiety and exposure have driven him off
      his head. He has rushed about the moor in a crazy state and
      eventually fallen over here and broken his neck.”

      “That seems the most reasonable theory,” said Stapleton, and he
      gave a sigh which I took to indicate his relief. “What do you
      think about it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

      My friend bowed his compliments. “You are quick at
      identification,” said he.

      “We have been expecting you in these parts since Dr. Watson came
      down. You are in time to see a tragedy.”

      “Yes, indeed. I have no doubt that my friend’s explanation will
      cover the facts. I will take an unpleasant remembrance back to
      London with me tomorrow.”

      “Oh, you return tomorrow?”

      “That is my intention.”

      “I hope your visit has cast some light upon those occurrences
      which have puzzled us?”

      Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

      “One cannot always have the success for which one hopes. An
      investigator needs facts and not legends or rumours. It has not
      been a satisfactory case.”

      My friend spoke in his frankest and most unconcerned manner.
      Stapleton still looked hard at him. Then he turned to me.

      “I would suggest carrying this poor fellow to my house, but it
      would give my sister such a fright that I do not feel justified
      in doing it. I think that if we put something over his face he
      will be safe until morning.”

      And so it was arranged. Resisting Stapleton’s offer of
      hospitality, Holmes and I set off to Baskerville Hall, leaving
      the naturalist to return alone. Looking back we saw the figure
      moving slowly away over the broad moor, and behind him that one
      black smudge on the silvered slope which showed where the man was
      lying who had come so horribly to his end.

      “We’re at close grips at last,” said Holmes as we walked together
      across the moor. “What a nerve the fellow has! How he pulled
      himself together in the face of what must have been a paralyzing
      shock when he found that the wrong man had fallen a victim to his
      plot. I told you in London, Watson, and I tell you now again,
      that we have never had a foeman more worthy of our steel.”

      “I am sorry that he has seen you.”

      “And so was I at first. But there was no getting out of it.”

      “What effect do you think it will have upon his plans now that he
      knows you are here?”

      “It may cause him to be more cautious, or it may drive him to
      desperate measures at once. Like most clever criminals, he may be
      too confident in his own cleverness and imagine that he has
      completely deceived us.”

      “Why should we not arrest him at once?”

      “My dear Watson, you were born to be a man of action. Your
      instinct is always to do something energetic. But supposing, for
      argument’s sake, that we had him arrested tonight, what on earth
      the better off should we be for that? We could prove nothing
      against him. There’s the devilish cunning of it! If he were
      acting through a human agent we could get some evidence, but if
      we were to drag this great dog to the light of day it would not
      help us in putting a rope round the neck of its master.”

      “Surely we have a case.”

      “Not a shadow of one—only surmise and conjecture. We should be
      laughed out of court if we came with such a story and such
      evidence.”

      “There is Sir Charles’s death.”

      “Found dead without a mark upon him. You and I know that he died
      of sheer fright, and we know also what frightened him, but how
      are we to get twelve stolid jurymen to know it? What signs are
      there of a hound? Where are the marks of its fangs? Of course we
      know that a hound does not bite a dead body and that Sir Charles
      was dead before ever the brute overtook him. But we have to prove
      all this, and we are not in a position to do it.”

      “Well, then, tonight?”

      “We are not much better off tonight. Again, there was no direct
      connection between the hound and the man’s death. We never saw
      the hound. We heard it, but we could not prove that it was
      running upon this man’s trail. There is a complete absence of
      motive. No, my dear fellow; we must reconcile ourselves to the
      fact that we have no case at present, and that it is worth our
      while to run any risk in order to establish one.”

      “And how do you propose to do so?”

      “I have great hopes of what Mrs. Laura Lyons may do for us when
      the position of affairs is made clear to her. And I have my own
      plan as well. Sufficient for tomorrow is the evil thereof; but I
      hope before the day is past to have the upper hand at last.”

      I could draw nothing further from him, and he walked, lost in
      thought, as far as the Baskerville gates.

      “Are you coming up?”

      “Yes; I see no reason for further concealment. But one last word,
      Watson. Say nothing of the hound to Sir Henry. Let him think that
      Selden’s death was as Stapleton would have us believe. He will
      have a better nerve for the ordeal which he will have to undergo
      tomorrow, when he is engaged, if I remember your report aright,
      to dine with these people.”

      “And so am I.”

      “Then you must excuse yourself and he must go alone. That will be
      easily arranged. And now, if we are too late for dinner, I think
      that we are both ready for our suppers.”




Chapter 13.
Fixing the Nets


      Sir Henry was more pleased than surprised to see Sherlock Holmes,
      for he had for some days been expecting that recent events would
      bring him down from London. He did raise his eyebrows, however,
      when he found that my friend had neither any luggage nor any
      explanations for its absence. Between us we soon supplied his
      wants, and then over a belated supper we explained to the baronet
      as much of our experience as it seemed desirable that he should
      know. But first I had the unpleasant duty of breaking the news to
      Barrymore and his wife. To him it may have been an unmitigated
      relief, but she wept bitterly in her apron. To all the world he
      was the man of violence, half animal and half demon; but to her
      he always remained the little wilful boy of her own girlhood, the
      child who had clung to her hand. Evil indeed is the man who has
      not one woman to mourn him.

      “I’ve been moping in the house all day since Watson went off in
      the morning,” said the baronet. “I guess I should have some
      credit, for I have kept my promise. If I hadn’t sworn not to go
      about alone I might have had a more lively evening, for I had a
      message from Stapleton asking me over there.”

      “I have no doubt that you would have had a more lively evening,”
      said Holmes drily. “By the way, I don’t suppose you appreciate
      that we have been mourning over you as having broken your neck?”

      Sir Henry opened his eyes. “How was that?”

      “This poor wretch was dressed in your clothes. I fear your
      servant who gave them to him may get into trouble with the
      police.”

      “That is unlikely. There was no mark on any of them, as far as I
      know.”

      “That’s lucky for him—in fact, it’s lucky for all of you, since
      you are all on the wrong side of the law in this matter. I am not
      sure that as a conscientious detective my first duty is not to
      arrest the whole household. Watson’s reports are most
      incriminating documents.”

      “But how about the case?” asked the baronet. “Have you made
      anything out of the tangle? I don’t know that Watson and I are
      much the wiser since we came down.”

      “I think that I shall be in a position to make the situation
      rather more clear to you before long. It has been an exceedingly
      difficult and most complicated business. There are several points
      upon which we still want light—but it is coming all the same.”

      “We’ve had one experience, as Watson has no doubt told you. We
      heard the hound on the moor, so I can swear that it is not all
      empty superstition. I had something to do with dogs when I was
      out West, and I know one when I hear one. If you can muzzle that
      one and put him on a chain I’ll be ready to swear you are the
      greatest detective of all time.”

      “I think I will muzzle him and chain him all right if you will
      give me your help.”

      “Whatever you tell me to do I will do.”

      “Very good; and I will ask you also to do it blindly, without
      always asking the reason.”

      “Just as you like.”

      “If you will do this I think the chances are that our little
      problem will soon be solved. I have no doubt—”

      He stopped suddenly and stared fixedly up over my head into the
      air. The lamp beat upon his face, and so intent was it and so
      still that it might have been that of a clear-cut classical
      statue, a personification of alertness and expectation.

      “What is it?” we both cried.

      I could see as he looked down that he was repressing some
      internal emotion. His features were still composed, but his eyes
      shone with amused exultation.

      “Excuse the admiration of a connoisseur,” said he as he waved his
      hand towards the line of portraits which covered the opposite
      wall. “Watson won’t allow that I know anything of art but that is
      mere jealousy because our views upon the subject differ. Now,
      these are a really very fine series of portraits.”

      “Well, I’m glad to hear you say so,” said Sir Henry, glancing
      with some surprise at my friend. “I don’t pretend to know much
      about these things, and I’d be a better judge of a horse or a
      steer than of a picture. I didn’t know that you found time for
      such things.”

      “I know what is good when I see it, and I see it now. That’s a
      Kneller, I’ll swear, that lady in the blue silk over yonder, and
      the stout gentleman with the wig ought to be a Reynolds. They are
      all family portraits, I presume?”

      “Every one.”

      “Do you know the names?”

      “Barrymore has been coaching me in them, and I think I can say my
      lessons fairly well.”

      “Who is the gentleman with the telescope?”

      “That is Rear-Admiral Baskerville, who served under Rodney in the
      West Indies. The man with the blue coat and the roll of paper is
      Sir William Baskerville, who was Chairman of Committees of the
      House of Commons under Pitt.”

      “And this Cavalier opposite to me—the one with the black velvet
      and the lace?”

      “Ah, you have a right to know about him. That is the cause of all
      the mischief, the wicked Hugo, who started the Hound of the
      Baskervilles. We’re not likely to forget him.”

      I gazed with interest and some surprise upon the portrait.

      “Dear me!” said Holmes, “he seems a quiet, meek-mannered man
      enough, but I dare say that there was a lurking devil in his
      eyes. I had pictured him as a more robust and ruffianly person.”

      “There’s no doubt about the authenticity, for the name and the
      date, 1647, are on the back of the canvas.”

      Holmes said little more, but the picture of the old roysterer
      seemed to have a fascination for him, and his eyes were
      continually fixed upon it during supper. It was not until later,
      when Sir Henry had gone to his room, that I was able to follow
      the trend of his thoughts. He led me back into the
      banqueting-hall, his bedroom candle in his hand, and he held it
      up against the time-stained portrait on the wall.

      “Do you see anything there?”

      I looked at the broad plumed hat, the curling love-locks, the
      white lace collar, and the straight, severe face which was framed
      between them. It was not a brutal countenance, but it was prim,
      hard, and stern, with a firm-set, thin-lipped mouth, and a coldly
      intolerant eye.

      “Is it like anyone you know?”

      “There is something of Sir Henry about the jaw.”

      “Just a suggestion, perhaps. But wait an instant!” He stood upon
      a chair, and, holding up the light in his left hand, he curved
      his right arm over the broad hat and round the long ringlets.

      “Good heavens!” I cried in amazement.

      The face of Stapleton had sprung out of the canvas.

      “Ha, you see it now. My eyes have been trained to examine faces
      and not their trimmings. It is the first quality of a criminal
      investigator that he should see through a disguise.”

      “But this is marvellous. It might be his portrait.”

      “Yes, it is an interesting instance of a throwback, which appears
      to be both physical and spiritual. A study of family portraits is
      enough to convert a man to the doctrine of reincarnation. The
      fellow is a Baskerville—that is evident.”

      “With designs upon the succession.”

      “Exactly. This chance of the picture has supplied us with one of
      our most obvious missing links. We have him, Watson, we have him,
      and I dare swear that before tomorrow night he will be fluttering
      in our net as helpless as one of his own butterflies. A pin, a
      cork, and a card, and we add him to the Baker Street collection!”
      He burst into one of his rare fits of laughter as he turned away
      from the picture. I have not heard him laugh often, and it has
      always boded ill to somebody.

      I was up betimes in the morning, but Holmes was afoot earlier
      still, for I saw him as I dressed, coming up the drive.

      “Yes, we should have a full day today,” he remarked, and he
      rubbed his hands with the joy of action. “The nets are all in
      place, and the drag is about to begin. We’ll know before the day
      is out whether we have caught our big, lean-jawed pike, or
      whether he has got through the meshes.”

      “Have you been on the moor already?”

      “I have sent a report from Grimpen to Princetown as to the death
      of Selden. I think I can promise that none of you will be
      troubled in the matter. And I have also communicated with my
      faithful Cartwright, who would certainly have pined away at the
      door of my hut, as a dog does at his master’s grave, if I had not
      set his mind at rest about my safety.”

      “What is the next move?”

      “To see Sir Henry. Ah, here he is!”

      “Good-morning, Holmes,” said the baronet. “You look like a
      general who is planning a battle with his chief of the staff.”

      “That is the exact situation. Watson was asking for orders.”

      “And so do I.”

      “Very good. You are engaged, as I understand, to dine with our
      friends the Stapletons tonight.”

      “I hope that you will come also. They are very hospitable people,
      and I am sure that they would be very glad to see you.”

      “I fear that Watson and I must go to London.”

      “To London?”

      “Yes, I think that we should be more useful there at the present
      juncture.”

      The baronet’s face perceptibly lengthened.

      “I hoped that you were going to see me through this business. The
      Hall and the moor are not very pleasant places when one is
      alone.”

      “My dear fellow, you must trust me implicitly and do exactly what
      I tell you. You can tell your friends that we should have been
      happy to have come with you, but that urgent business required us
      to be in town. We hope very soon to return to Devonshire. Will
      you remember to give them that message?”

      “If you insist upon it.”

      “There is no alternative, I assure you.”

      I saw by the baronet’s clouded brow that he was deeply hurt by
      what he regarded as our desertion.

      “When do you desire to go?” he asked coldly.

      “Immediately after breakfast. We will drive in to Coombe Tracey,
      but Watson will leave his things as a pledge that he will come
      back to you. Watson, you will send a note to Stapleton to tell
      him that you regret that you cannot come.”

      “I have a good mind to go to London with you,” said the baronet.
      “Why should I stay here alone?”

      “Because it is your post of duty. Because you gave me your word
      that you would do as you were told, and I tell you to stay.”

      “All right, then, I’ll stay.”

      “One more direction! I wish you to drive to Merripit House. Send
      back your trap, however, and let them know that you intend to
      walk home.”

      “To walk across the moor?”

      “Yes.”

      “But that is the very thing which you have so often cautioned me
      not to do.”

      “This time you may do it with safety. If I had not every
      confidence in your nerve and courage I would not suggest it, but
      it is essential that you should do it.”

      “Then I will do it.”

      “And as you value your life do not go across the moor in any
      direction save along the straight path which leads from Merripit
      House to the Grimpen Road, and is your natural way home.”

      “I will do just what you say.”

      “Very good. I should be glad to get away as soon after breakfast
      as possible, so as to reach London in the afternoon.”

      I was much astounded by this programme, though I remembered that
      Holmes had said to Stapleton on the night before that his visit
      would terminate next day. It had not crossed my mind however,
      that he would wish me to go with him, nor could I understand how
      we could both be absent at a moment which he himself declared to
      be critical. There was nothing for it, however, but implicit
      obedience; so we bade good-bye to our rueful friend, and a couple
      of hours afterwards we were at the station of Coombe Tracey and
      had dispatched the trap upon its return journey. A small boy was
      waiting upon the platform.

      “Any orders, sir?”

      “You will take this train to town, Cartwright. The moment you
      arrive you will send a wire to Sir Henry Baskerville, in my name,
      to say that if he finds the pocketbook which I have dropped he is
      to send it by registered post to Baker Street.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “And ask at the station office if there is a message for me.”

      The boy returned with a telegram, which Holmes handed to me. It
      ran:

      Wire received. Coming down with unsigned warrant. Arrive
      five-forty. Lestrade.

      “That is in answer to mine of this morning. He is the best of the
      professionals, I think, and we may need his assistance. Now,
      Watson, I think that we cannot employ our time better than by
      calling upon your acquaintance, Mrs. Laura Lyons.”

      His plan of campaign was beginning to be evident. He would use
      the baronet in order to convince the Stapletons that we were
      really gone, while we should actually return at the instant when
      we were likely to be needed. That telegram from London, if
      mentioned by Sir Henry to the Stapletons, must remove the last
      suspicions from their minds. Already I seemed to see our nets
      drawing closer around that lean-jawed pike.

      Mrs. Laura Lyons was in her office, and Sherlock Holmes opened
      his interview with a frankness and directness which considerably
      amazed her.

      “I am investigating the circumstances which attended the death of
      the late Sir Charles Baskerville,” said he. “My friend here, Dr.
      Watson, has informed me of what you have communicated, and also
      of what you have withheld in connection with that matter.”

      “What have I withheld?” she asked defiantly.

      “You have confessed that you asked Sir Charles to be at the gate
      at ten o’clock. We know that that was the place and hour of his
      death. You have withheld what the connection is between these
      events.”

      “There is no connection.”

      “In that case the coincidence must indeed be an extraordinary
      one. But I think that we shall succeed in establishing a
      connection, after all. I wish to be perfectly frank with you,
      Mrs. Lyons. We regard this case as one of murder, and the
      evidence may implicate not only your friend Mr. Stapleton but his
      wife as well.”

      The lady sprang from her chair.

      “His wife!” she cried.

      “The fact is no longer a secret. The person who has passed for
      his sister is really his wife.”

      Mrs. Lyons had resumed her seat. Her hands were grasping the arms
      of her chair, and I saw that the pink nails had turned white with
      the pressure of her grip.

      “His wife!” she said again. “His wife! He is not a married man.”

      Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

      “Prove it to me! Prove it to me! And if you can do so—!”

      The fierce flash of her eyes said more than any words.

      “I have come prepared to do so,” said Holmes, drawing several
      papers from his pocket. “Here is a photograph of the couple taken
      in York four years ago. It is indorsed ‘Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur,’
      but you will have no difficulty in recognizing him, and her also,
      if you know her by sight. Here are three written descriptions by
      trustworthy witnesses of Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur, who at that time
      kept St. Oliver’s private school. Read them and see if you can
      doubt the identity of these people.”

      She glanced at them, and then looked up at us with the set, rigid
      face of a desperate woman.

      “Mr. Holmes,” she said, “this man had offered me marriage on
      condition that I could get a divorce from my husband. He has lied
      to me, the villain, in every conceivable way. Not one word of
      truth has he ever told me. And why—why? I imagined that all was
      for my own sake. But now I see that I was never anything but a
      tool in his hands. Why should I preserve faith with him who never
      kept any with me? Why should I try to shield him from the
      consequences of his own wicked acts? Ask me what you like, and
      there is nothing which I shall hold back. One thing I swear to
      you, and that is that when I wrote the letter I never dreamed of
      any harm to the old gentleman, who had been my kindest friend.”

      “I entirely believe you, madam,” said Sherlock Holmes. “The
      recital of these events must be very painful to you, and perhaps
      it will make it easier if I tell you what occurred, and you can
      check me if I make any material mistake. The sending of this
      letter was suggested to you by Stapleton?”

      “He dictated it.”

      “I presume that the reason he gave was that you would receive
      help from Sir Charles for the legal expenses connected with your
      divorce?”

      “Exactly.”

      “And then after you had sent the letter he dissuaded you from
      keeping the appointment?”

      “He told me that it would hurt his self-respect that any other
      man should find the money for such an object, and that though he
      was a poor man himself he would devote his last penny to removing
      the obstacles which divided us.”

      “He appears to be a very consistent character. And then you heard
      nothing until you read the reports of the death in the paper?”

      “No.”

      “And he made you swear to say nothing about your appointment with
      Sir Charles?”

      “He did. He said that the death was a very mysterious one, and
      that I should certainly be suspected if the facts came out. He
      frightened me into remaining silent.”

      “Quite so. But you had your suspicions?”

      She hesitated and looked down.

      “I knew him,” she said. “But if he had kept faith with me I
      should always have done so with him.”

      “I think that on the whole you have had a fortunate escape,” said
      Sherlock Holmes. “You have had him in your power and he knew it,
      and yet you are alive. You have been walking for some months very
      near to the edge of a precipice. We must wish you good-morning
      now, Mrs. Lyons, and it is probable that you will very shortly
      hear from us again.”

      “Our case becomes rounded off, and difficulty after difficulty
      thins away in front of us,” said Holmes as we stood waiting for
      the arrival of the express from town. “I shall soon be in the
      position of being able to put into a single connected narrative
      one of the most singular and sensational crimes of modern times.
      Students of criminology will remember the analogous incidents in
      Godno, in Little Russia, in the year ’66, and of course there are
      the Anderson murders in North Carolina, but this case possesses
      some features which are entirely its own. Even now we have no
      clear case against this very wily man. But I shall be very much
      surprised if it is not clear enough before we go to bed this
      night.”

      The London express came roaring into the station, and a small,
      wiry bulldog of a man had sprung from a first-class carriage. We
      all three shook hands, and I saw at once from the reverential way
      in which Lestrade gazed at my companion that he had learned a
      good deal since the days when they had first worked together. I
      could well remember the scorn which the theories of the reasoner
      used then to excite in the practical man.

      “Anything good?” he asked.

      “The biggest thing for years,” said Holmes. “We have two hours
      before we need think of starting. I think we might employ it in
      getting some dinner and then, Lestrade, we will take the London
      fog out of your throat by giving you a breath of the pure night
      air of Dartmoor. Never been there? Ah, well, I don’t suppose you
      will forget your first visit.”




Chapter 14.
The Hound of the Baskervilles


      One of Sherlock Holmes’s defects—if, indeed, one may call it a
      defect—was that he was exceedingly loath to communicate his full
      plans to any other person until the instant of their fulfilment.
      Partly it came no doubt from his own masterful nature, which
      loved to dominate and surprise those who were around him. Partly
      also from his professional caution, which urged him never to take
      any chances. The result, however, was very trying for those who
      were acting as his agents and assistants. I had often suffered
      under it, but never more so than during that long drive in the
      darkness. The great ordeal was in front of us; at last we were
      about to make our final effort, and yet Holmes had said nothing,
      and I could only surmise what his course of action would be. My
      nerves thrilled with anticipation when at last the cold wind upon
      our faces and the dark, void spaces on either side of the narrow
      road told me that we were back upon the moor once again. Every
      stride of the horses and every turn of the wheels was taking us
      nearer to our supreme adventure.

      Our conversation was hampered by the presence of the driver of
      the hired wagonette, so that we were forced to talk of trivial
      matters when our nerves were tense with emotion and anticipation.
      It was a relief to me, after that unnatural restraint, when we at
      last passed Frankland’s house and knew that we were drawing near
      to the Hall and to the scene of action. We did not drive up to
      the door but got down near the gate of the avenue. The wagonette
      was paid off and ordered to return to Coombe Tracey forthwith,
      while we started to walk to Merripit House.

      “Are you armed, Lestrade?”

      The little detective smiled. “As long as I have my trousers I
      have a hip-pocket, and as long as I have my hip-pocket I have
      something in it.”

      “Good! My friend and I are also ready for emergencies.”

      “You’re mighty close about this affair, Mr. Holmes. What’s the
      game now?”

      “A waiting game.”

      “My word, it does not seem a very cheerful place,” said the
      detective with a shiver, glancing round him at the gloomy slopes
      of the hill and at the huge lake of fog which lay over the
      Grimpen Mire. “I see the lights of a house ahead of us.”

      “That is Merripit House and the end of our journey. I must
      request you to walk on tiptoe and not to talk above a whisper.”

      We moved cautiously along the track as if we were bound for the
      house, but Holmes halted us when we were about two hundred yards
      from it.

      “This will do,” said he. “These rocks upon the right make an
      admirable screen.”

      “We are to wait here?”

      “Yes, we shall make our little ambush here. Get into this hollow,
      Lestrade. You have been inside the house, have you not, Watson?
      Can you tell the position of the rooms? What are those latticed
      windows at this end?”

      “I think they are the kitchen windows.”

      “And the one beyond, which shines so brightly?”

      “That is certainly the dining-room.”

      “The blinds are up. You know the lie of the land best. Creep
      forward quietly and see what they are doing—but for heaven’s sake
      don’t let them know that they are watched!”

      I tiptoed down the path and stooped behind the low wall which
      surrounded the stunted orchard. Creeping in its shadow I reached
      a point whence I could look straight through the uncurtained
      window.

      There were only two men in the room, Sir Henry and Stapleton.
      They sat with their profiles towards me on either side of the
      round table. Both of them were smoking cigars, and coffee and
      wine were in front of them. Stapleton was talking with animation,
      but the baronet looked pale and distrait. Perhaps the thought of
      that lonely walk across the ill-omened moor was weighing heavily
      upon his mind.

      As I watched them Stapleton rose and left the room, while Sir
      Henry filled his glass again and leaned back in his chair,
      puffing at his cigar. I heard the creak of a door and the crisp
      sound of boots upon gravel. The steps passed along the path on
      the other side of the wall under which I crouched. Looking over,
      I saw the naturalist pause at the door of an out-house in the
      corner of the orchard. A key turned in a lock, and as he passed
      in there was a curious scuffling noise from within. He was only a
      minute or so inside, and then I heard the key turn once more and
      he passed me and reentered the house. I saw him rejoin his guest,
      and I crept quietly back to where my companions were waiting to
      tell them what I had seen.

      “You say, Watson, that the lady is not there?” Holmes asked when
      I had finished my report.

      “No.”

      “Where can she be, then, since there is no light in any other
      room except the kitchen?”

      “I cannot think where she is.”

      I have said that over the great Grimpen Mire there hung a dense,
      white fog. It was drifting slowly in our direction and banked
      itself up like a wall on that side of us, low but thick and well
      defined. The moon shone on it, and it looked like a great
      shimmering ice-field, with the heads of the distant tors as rocks
      borne upon its surface. Holmes’s face was turned towards it, and
      he muttered impatiently as he watched its sluggish drift.

      “It’s moving towards us, Watson.”

      “Is that serious?”

      “Very serious, indeed—the one thing upon earth which could have
      disarranged my plans. He can’t be very long, now. It is already
      ten o’clock. Our success and even his life may depend upon his
      coming out before the fog is over the path.”

      The night was clear and fine above us. The stars shone cold and
      bright, while a half-moon bathed the whole scene in a soft,
      uncertain light. Before us lay the dark bulk of the house, its
      serrated roof and bristling chimneys hard outlined against the
      silver-spangled sky. Broad bars of golden light from the lower
      windows stretched across the orchard and the moor. One of them
      was suddenly shut off. The servants had left the kitchen. There
      only remained the lamp in the dining-room where the two men, the
      murderous host and the unconscious guest, still chatted over
      their cigars.

      Every minute that white woolly plain which covered one-half of
      the moor was drifting closer and closer to the house. Already the
      first thin wisps of it were curling across the golden square of
      the lighted window. The farther wall of the orchard was already
      invisible, and the trees were standing out of a swirl of white
      vapour. As we watched it the fog-wreaths came crawling round both
      corners of the house and rolled slowly into one dense bank on
      which the upper floor and the roof floated like a strange ship
      upon a shadowy sea. Holmes struck his hand passionately upon the
      rock in front of us and stamped his feet in his impatience.

      “If he isn’t out in a quarter of an hour the path will be
      covered. In half an hour we won’t be able to see our hands in
      front of us.”

      “Shall we move farther back upon higher ground?”

      “Yes, I think it would be as well.”

      So as the fog-bank flowed onward we fell back before it until we
      were half a mile from the house, and still that dense white sea,
      with the moon silvering its upper edge, swept slowly and
      inexorably on.

      “We are going too far,” said Holmes. “We dare not take the chance
      of his being overtaken before he can reach us. At all costs we
      must hold our ground where we are.” He dropped on his knees and
      clapped his ear to the ground. “Thank God, I think that I hear
      him coming.”

      A sound of quick steps broke the silence of the moor. Crouching
      among the stones we stared intently at the silver-tipped bank in
      front of us. The steps grew louder, and through the fog, as
      through a curtain, there stepped the man whom we were awaiting.
      He looked round him in surprise as he emerged into the clear,
      starlit night. Then he came swiftly along the path, passed close
      to where we lay, and went on up the long slope behind us. As he
      walked he glanced continually over either shoulder, like a man
      who is ill at ease.

      “Hist!” cried Holmes, and I heard the sharp click of a cocking
      pistol. “Look out! It’s coming!”

      There was a thin, crisp, continuous patter from somewhere in the
      heart of that crawling bank. The cloud was within fifty yards of
      where we lay, and we glared at it, all three, uncertain what
      horror was about to break from the heart of it. I was at Holmes’s
      elbow, and I glanced for an instant at his face. It was pale and
      exultant, his eyes shining brightly in the moonlight. But
      suddenly they started forward in a rigid, fixed stare, and his
      lips parted in amazement. At the same instant Lestrade gave a
      yell of terror and threw himself face downward upon the ground. I
      sprang to my feet, my inert hand grasping my pistol, my mind
      paralyzed by the dreadful shape which had sprung out upon us from
      the shadows of the fog. A hound it was, an enormous coal-black
      hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen. Fire
      burst from its open mouth, its eyes glowed with a smouldering
      glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap were outlined in
      flickering flame. Never in the delirious dream of a disordered
      brain could anything more savage, more appalling, more hellish be
      conceived than that dark form and savage face which broke upon us
      out of the wall of fog.

      With long bounds the huge black creature was leaping down the
      track, following hard upon the footsteps of our friend. So
      paralyzed were we by the apparition that we allowed him to pass
      before we had recovered our nerve. Then Holmes and I both fired
      together, and the creature gave a hideous howl, which showed that
      one at least had hit him. He did not pause, however, but bounded
      onward. Far away on the path we saw Sir Henry looking back, his
      face white in the moonlight, his hands raised in horror, glaring
      helplessly at the frightful thing which was hunting him down. But
      that cry of pain from the hound had blown all our fears to the
      winds. If he was vulnerable he was mortal, and if we could wound
      him we could kill him. Never have I seen a man run as Holmes ran
      that night. I am reckoned fleet of foot, but he outpaced me as
      much as I outpaced the little professional. In front of us as we
      flew up the track we heard scream after scream from Sir Henry and
      the deep roar of the hound. I was in time to see the beast spring
      upon its victim, hurl him to the ground, and worry at his throat.
      But the next instant Holmes had emptied five barrels of his
      revolver into the creature’s flank. With a last howl of agony and
      a vicious snap in the air, it rolled upon its back, four feet
      pawing furiously, and then fell limp upon its side. I stooped,
      panting, and pressed my pistol to the dreadful, shimmering head,
      but it was useless to press the trigger. The giant hound was
      dead.

      Sir Henry lay insensible where he had fallen. We tore away his
      collar, and Holmes breathed a prayer of gratitude when we saw
      that there was no sign of a wound and that the rescue had been in
      time. Already our friend’s eyelids shivered and he made a feeble
      effort to move. Lestrade thrust his brandy-flask between the
      baronet’s teeth, and two frightened eyes were looking up at us.

      “My God!” he whispered. “What was it? What, in heaven’s name, was
      it?”

      “It’s dead, whatever it is,” said Holmes. “We’ve laid the family
      ghost once and forever.”

      In mere size and strength it was a terrible creature which was
      lying stretched before us. It was not a pure bloodhound and it
      was not a pure mastiff; but it appeared to be a combination of
      the two—gaunt, savage, and as large as a small lioness. Even now
      in the stillness of death, the huge jaws seemed to be dripping
      with a bluish flame and the small, deep-set, cruel eyes were
      ringed with fire. I placed my hand upon the glowing muzzle, and
      as I held them up my own fingers smouldered and gleamed in the
      darkness.

      “Phosphorus,” I said.

      “A cunning preparation of it,” said Holmes, sniffing at the dead
      animal. “There is no smell which might have interfered with his
      power of scent. We owe you a deep apology, Sir Henry, for having
      exposed you to this fright. I was prepared for a hound, but not
      for such a creature as this. And the fog gave us little time to
      receive him.”

      “You have saved my life.”

      “Having first endangered it. Are you strong enough to stand?”

      “Give me another mouthful of that brandy and I shall be ready for
      anything. So! Now, if you will help me up. What do you propose to
      do?”

      “To leave you here. You are not fit for further adventures
      tonight. If you will wait, one or other of us will go back with
      you to the Hall.”

      He tried to stagger to his feet; but he was still ghastly pale
      and trembling in every limb. We helped him to a rock, where he
      sat shivering with his face buried in his hands.

      “We must leave you now,” said Holmes. “The rest of our work must
      be done, and every moment is of importance. We have our case, and
      now we only want our man.

      “It’s a thousand to one against our finding him at the house,” he
      continued as we retraced our steps swiftly down the path. “Those
      shots must have told him that the game was up.”

      “We were some distance off, and this fog may have deadened them.”

      “He followed the hound to call him off—of that you may be
      certain. No, no, he’s gone by this time! But we’ll search the
      house and make sure.”

      The front door was open, so we rushed in and hurried from room to
      room to the amazement of a doddering old manservant, who met us
      in the passage. There was no light save in the dining-room, but
      Holmes caught up the lamp and left no corner of the house
      unexplored. No sign could we see of the man whom we were chasing.
      On the upper floor, however, one of the bedroom doors was locked.

      “There’s someone in here,” cried Lestrade. “I can hear a
      movement. Open this door!”

      A faint moaning and rustling came from within. Holmes struck the
      door just over the lock with the flat of his foot and it flew
      open. Pistol in hand, we all three rushed into the room.

      But there was no sign within it of that desperate and defiant
      villain whom we expected to see. Instead we were faced by an
      object so strange and so unexpected that we stood for a moment
      staring at it in amazement.

      The room had been fashioned into a small museum, and the walls
      were lined by a number of glass-topped cases full of that
      collection of butterflies and moths the formation of which had
      been the relaxation of this complex and dangerous man. In the
      centre of this room there was an upright beam, which had been
      placed at some period as a support for the old worm-eaten baulk
      of timber which spanned the roof. To this post a figure was tied,
      so swathed and muffled in the sheets which had been used to
      secure it that one could not for the moment tell whether it was
      that of a man or a woman. One towel passed round the throat and
      was secured at the back of the pillar. Another covered the lower
      part of the face, and over it two dark eyes—eyes full of grief
      and shame and a dreadful questioning—stared back at us. In a
      minute we had torn off the gag, unswathed the bonds, and Mrs.
      Stapleton sank upon the floor in front of us. As her beautiful
      head fell upon her chest I saw the clear red weal of a whiplash
      across her neck.

      “The brute!” cried Holmes. “Here, Lestrade, your brandy-bottle!
      Put her in the chair! She has fainted from ill-usage and
      exhaustion.”

      She opened her eyes again.

      “Is he safe?” she asked. “Has he escaped?”

      “He cannot escape us, madam.”

      “No, no, I did not mean my husband. Sir Henry? Is he safe?”

      “Yes.”

      “And the hound?”

      “It is dead.”

      She gave a long sigh of satisfaction.

      “Thank God! Thank God! Oh, this villain! See how he has treated
      me!” She shot her arms out from her sleeves, and we saw with
      horror that they were all mottled with bruises. “But this is
      nothing—nothing! It is my mind and soul that he has tortured and
      defiled. I could endure it all, ill-usage, solitude, a life of
      deception, everything, as long as I could still cling to the hope
      that I had his love, but now I know that in this also I have been
      his dupe and his tool.” She broke into passionate sobbing as she
      spoke.

      “You bear him no good will, madam,” said Holmes. “Tell us then
      where we shall find him. If you have ever aided him in evil, help
      us now and so atone.”

      “There is but one place where he can have fled,” she answered.
      “There is an old tin mine on an island in the heart of the mire.
      It was there that he kept his hound and there also he had made
      preparations so that he might have a refuge. That is where he
      would fly.”

      The fog-bank lay like white wool against the window. Holmes held
      the lamp towards it.

      “See,” said he. “No one could find his way into the Grimpen Mire
      tonight.”

      She laughed and clapped her hands. Her eyes and teeth gleamed
      with fierce merriment.

      “He may find his way in, but never out,” she cried. “How can he
      see the guiding wands tonight? We planted them together, he and
      I, to mark the pathway through the mire. Oh, if I could only have
      plucked them out today. Then indeed you would have had him at
      your mercy!”

      It was evident to us that all pursuit was in vain until the fog
      had lifted. Meanwhile we left Lestrade in possession of the house
      while Holmes and I went back with the baronet to Baskerville
      Hall. The story of the Stapletons could no longer be withheld
      from him, but he took the blow bravely when he learned the truth
      about the woman whom he had loved. But the shock of the night’s
      adventures had shattered his nerves, and before morning he lay
      delirious in a high fever under the care of Dr. Mortimer. The two
      of them were destined to travel together round the world before
      Sir Henry had become once more the hale, hearty man that he had
      been before he became master of that ill-omened estate.

      And now I come rapidly to the conclusion of this singular
      narrative, in which I have tried to make the reader share those
      dark fears and vague surmises which clouded our lives so long and
      ended in so tragic a manner. On the morning after the death of
      the hound the fog had lifted and we were guided by Mrs. Stapleton
      to the point where they had found a pathway through the bog. It
      helped us to realise the horror of this woman’s life when we saw
      the eagerness and joy with which she laid us on her husband’s
      track. We left her standing upon the thin peninsula of firm,
      peaty soil which tapered out into the widespread bog. From the
      end of it a small wand planted here and there showed where the
      path zigzagged from tuft to tuft of rushes among those
      green-scummed pits and foul quagmires which barred the way to the
      stranger. Rank reeds and lush, slimy water-plants sent an odour
      of decay and a heavy miasmatic vapour onto our faces, while a
      false step plunged us more than once thigh-deep into the dark,
      quivering mire, which shook for yards in soft undulations around
      our feet. Its tenacious grip plucked at our heels as we walked,
      and when we sank into it it was as if some malignant hand was
      tugging us down into those obscene depths, so grim and purposeful
      was the clutch in which it held us. Once only we saw a trace that
      someone had passed that perilous way before us. From amid a tuft
      of cotton grass which bore it up out of the slime some dark thing
      was projecting. Holmes sank to his waist as he stepped from the
      path to seize it, and had we not been there to drag him out he
      could never have set his foot upon firm land again. He held an
      old black boot in the air. “Meyers, Toronto,” was printed on the
      leather inside.

      “It is worth a mud bath,” said he. “It is our friend Sir Henry’s
      missing boot.”

      “Thrown there by Stapleton in his flight.”

      “Exactly. He retained it in his hand after using it to set the
      hound upon the track. He fled when he knew the game was up, still
      clutching it. And he hurled it away at this point of his flight.
      We know at least that he came so far in safety.”

      But more than that we were never destined to know, though there
      was much which we might surmise. There was no chance of finding
      footsteps in the mire, for the rising mud oozed swiftly in upon
      them, but as we at last reached firmer ground beyond the morass
      we all looked eagerly for them. But no slightest sign of them
      ever met our eyes. If the earth told a true story, then Stapleton
      never reached that island of refuge towards which he struggled
      through the fog upon that last night. Somewhere in the heart of
      the great Grimpen Mire, down in the foul slime of the huge morass
      which had sucked him in, this cold and cruel-hearted man is
      forever buried.

      Many traces we found of him in the bog-girt island where he had
      hid his savage ally. A huge driving-wheel and a shaft half-filled
      with rubbish showed the position of an abandoned mine. Beside it
      were the crumbling remains of the cottages of the miners, driven
      away no doubt by the foul reek of the surrounding swamp. In one
      of these a staple and chain with a quantity of gnawed bones
      showed where the animal had been confined. A skeleton with a
      tangle of brown hair adhering to it lay among the _débris_.

      “A dog!” said Holmes. “By Jove, a curly-haired spaniel. Poor
      Mortimer will never see his pet again. Well, I do not know that
      this place contains any secret which we have not already
      fathomed. He could hide his hound, but he could not hush its
      voice, and hence came those cries which even in daylight were not
      pleasant to hear. On an emergency he could keep the hound in the
      out-house at Merripit, but it was always a risk, and it was only
      on the supreme day, which he regarded as the end of all his
      efforts, that he dared do it. This paste in the tin is no doubt
      the luminous mixture with which the creature was daubed. It was
      suggested, of course, by the story of the family hell-hound, and
      by the desire to frighten old Sir Charles to death. No wonder the
      poor devil of a convict ran and screamed, even as our friend did,
      and as we ourselves might have done, when he saw such a creature
      bounding through the darkness of the moor upon his track. It was
      a cunning device, for, apart from the chance of driving your
      victim to his death, what peasant would venture to inquire too
      closely into such a creature should he get sight of it, as many
      have done, upon the moor? I said it in London, Watson, and I say
      it again now, that never yet have we helped to hunt down a more
      dangerous man than he who is lying yonder”—he swept his long arm
      towards the huge mottled expanse of green-splotched bog which
      stretched away until it merged into the russet slopes of the
      moor.




Chapter 15.
A Retrospection


      It was the end of November, and Holmes and I sat, upon a raw and
      foggy night, on either side of a blazing fire in our sitting-room
      in Baker Street. Since the tragic upshot of our visit to
      Devonshire he had been engaged in two affairs of the utmost
      importance, in the first of which he had exposed the atrocious
      conduct of Colonel Upwood in connection with the famous card
      scandal of the Nonpareil Club, while in the second he had
      defended the unfortunate Mme. Montpensier from the charge of
      murder which hung over her in connection with the death of her
      step-daughter, Mlle. Carére, the young lady who, as it will be
      remembered, was found six months later alive and married in New
      York. My friend was in excellent spirits over the success which
      had attended a succession of difficult and important cases, so
      that I was able to induce him to discuss the details of the
      Baskerville mystery. I had waited patiently for the opportunity
      for I was aware that he would never permit cases to overlap, and
      that his clear and logical mind would not be drawn from its
      present work to dwell upon memories of the past. Sir Henry and
      Dr. Mortimer were, however, in London, on their way to that long
      voyage which had been recommended for the restoration of his
      shattered nerves. They had called upon us that very afternoon, so
      that it was natural that the subject should come up for
      discussion.

      “The whole course of events,” said Holmes, “from the point of
      view of the man who called himself Stapleton was simple and
      direct, although to us, who had no means in the beginning of
      knowing the motives of his actions and could only learn part of
      the facts, it all appeared exceedingly complex. I have had the
      advantage of two conversations with Mrs. Stapleton, and the case
      has now been so entirely cleared up that I am not aware that
      there is anything which has remained a secret to us. You will
      find a few notes upon the matter under the heading B in my
      indexed list of cases.”

      “Perhaps you would kindly give me a sketch of the course of
      events from memory.”

      “Certainly, though I cannot guarantee that I carry all the facts
      in my mind. Intense mental concentration has a curious way of
      blotting out what has passed. The barrister who has his case at
      his fingers’ ends and is able to argue with an expert upon his
      own subject finds that a week or two of the courts will drive it
      all out of his head once more. So each of my cases displaces the
      last, and Mlle. Carére has blurred my recollection of Baskerville
      Hall. Tomorrow some other little problem may be submitted to my
      notice which will in turn dispossess the fair French lady and the
      infamous Upwood. So far as the case of the hound goes, however, I
      will give you the course of events as nearly as I can, and you
      will suggest anything which I may have forgotten.

      “My inquiries show beyond all question that the family portrait
      did not lie, and that this fellow was indeed a Baskerville. He
      was a son of that Rodger Baskerville, the younger brother of Sir
      Charles, who fled with a sinister reputation to South America,
      where he was said to have died unmarried. He did, as a matter of
      fact, marry, and had one child, this fellow, whose real name is
      the same as his father’s. He married Beryl Garcia, one of the
      beauties of Costa Rica, and, having purloined a considerable sum
      of public money, he changed his name to Vandeleur and fled to
      England, where he established a school in the east of Yorkshire.
      His reason for attempting this special line of business was that
      he had struck up an acquaintance with a consumptive tutor upon
      the voyage home, and that he had used this man’s ability to make
      the undertaking a success. Fraser, the tutor, died however, and
      the school which had begun well sank from disrepute into infamy.
      The Vandeleurs found it convenient to change their name to
      Stapleton, and he brought the remains of his fortune, his schemes
      for the future, and his taste for entomology to the south of
      England. I learned at the British Museum that he was a recognized
      authority upon the subject, and that the name of Vandeleur has
      been permanently attached to a certain moth which he had, in his
      Yorkshire days, been the first to describe.

      “We now come to that portion of his life which has proved to be
      of such intense interest to us. The fellow had evidently made
      inquiry and found that only two lives intervened between him and
      a valuable estate. When he went to Devonshire his plans were, I
      believe, exceedingly hazy, but that he meant mischief from the
      first is evident from the way in which he took his wife with him
      in the character of his sister. The idea of using her as a decoy
      was clearly already in his mind, though he may not have been
      certain how the details of his plot were to be arranged. He meant
      in the end to have the estate, and he was ready to use any tool
      or run any risk for that end. His first act was to establish
      himself as near to his ancestral home as he could, and his second
      was to cultivate a friendship with Sir Charles Baskerville and
      with the neighbours.

      “The baronet himself told him about the family hound, and so
      prepared the way for his own death. Stapleton, as I will continue
      to call him, knew that the old man’s heart was weak and that a
      shock would kill him. So much he had learned from Dr. Mortimer.
      He had heard also that Sir Charles was superstitious and had
      taken this grim legend very seriously. His ingenious mind
      instantly suggested a way by which the baronet could be done to
      death, and yet it would be hardly possible to bring home the
      guilt to the real murderer.

      “Having conceived the idea he proceeded to carry it out with
      considerable finesse. An ordinary schemer would have been content
      to work with a savage hound. The use of artificial means to make
      the creature diabolical was a flash of genius upon his part. The
      dog he bought in London from Ross and Mangles, the dealers in
      Fulham Road. It was the strongest and most savage in their
      possession. He brought it down by the North Devon line and walked
      a great distance over the moor so as to get it home without
      exciting any remarks. He had already on his insect hunts learned
      to penetrate the Grimpen Mire, and so had found a safe
      hiding-place for the creature. Here he kennelled it and waited
      his chance.

      “But it was some time coming. The old gentleman could not be
      decoyed outside of his grounds at night. Several times Stapleton
      lurked about with his hound, but without avail. It was during
      these fruitless quests that he, or rather his ally, was seen by
      peasants, and that the legend of the demon dog received a new
      confirmation. He had hoped that his wife might lure Sir Charles
      to his ruin, but here she proved unexpectedly independent. She
      would not endeavour to entangle the old gentleman in a
      sentimental attachment which might deliver him over to his enemy.
      Threats and even, I am sorry to say, blows refused to move her.
      She would have nothing to do with it, and for a time Stapleton
      was at a deadlock.

      “He found a way out of his difficulties through the chance that
      Sir Charles, who had conceived a friendship for him, made him the
      minister of his charity in the case of this unfortunate woman,
      Mrs. Laura Lyons. By representing himself as a single man he
      acquired complete influence over her, and he gave her to
      understand that in the event of her obtaining a divorce from her
      husband he would marry her. His plans were suddenly brought to a
      head by his knowledge that Sir Charles was about to leave the
      Hall on the advice of Dr. Mortimer, with whose opinion he himself
      pretended to coincide. He must act at once, or his victim might
      get beyond his power. He therefore put pressure upon Mrs. Lyons
      to write this letter, imploring the old man to give her an
      interview on the evening before his departure for London. He
      then, by a specious argument, prevented her from going, and so
      had the chance for which he had waited.

      “Driving back in the evening from Coombe Tracey he was in time to
      get his hound, to treat it with his infernal paint, and to bring
      the beast round to the gate at which he had reason to expect that
      he would find the old gentleman waiting. The dog, incited by its
      master, sprang over the wicket-gate and pursued the unfortunate
      baronet, who fled screaming down the yew alley. In that gloomy
      tunnel it must indeed have been a dreadful sight to see that huge
      black creature, with its flaming jaws and blazing eyes, bounding
      after its victim. He fell dead at the end of the alley from heart
      disease and terror. The hound had kept upon the grassy border
      while the baronet had run down the path, so that no track but the
      man’s was visible. On seeing him lying still the creature had
      probably approached to sniff at him, but finding him dead had
      turned away again. It was then that it left the print which was
      actually observed by Dr. Mortimer. The hound was called off and
      hurried away to its lair in the Grimpen Mire, and a mystery was
      left which puzzled the authorities, alarmed the countryside, and
      finally brought the case within the scope of our observation.

      “So much for the death of Sir Charles Baskerville. You perceive
      the devilish cunning of it, for really it would be almost
      impossible to make a case against the real murderer. His only
      accomplice was one who could never give him away, and the
      grotesque, inconceivable nature of the device only served to make
      it more effective. Both of the women concerned in the case, Mrs.
      Stapleton and Mrs. Laura Lyons, were left with a strong suspicion
      against Stapleton. Mrs. Stapleton knew that he had designs upon
      the old man, and also of the existence of the hound. Mrs. Lyons
      knew neither of these things, but had been impressed by the death
      occurring at the time of an uncancelled appointment which was
      only known to him. However, both of them were under his
      influence, and he had nothing to fear from them. The first half
      of his task was successfully accomplished but the more difficult
      still remained.

      “It is possible that Stapleton did not know of the existence of
      an heir in Canada. In any case he would very soon learn it from
      his friend Dr. Mortimer, and he was told by the latter all
      details about the arrival of Henry Baskerville. Stapleton’s first
      idea was that this young stranger from Canada might possibly be
      done to death in London without coming down to Devonshire at all.
      He distrusted his wife ever since she had refused to help him in
      laying a trap for the old man, and he dared not leave her long
      out of his sight for fear he should lose his influence over her.
      It was for this reason that he took her to London with him. They
      lodged, I find, at the Mexborough Private Hotel, in Craven
      Street, which was actually one of those called upon by my agent
      in search of evidence. Here he kept his wife imprisoned in her
      room while he, disguised in a beard, followed Dr. Mortimer to
      Baker Street and afterwards to the station and to the
      Northumberland Hotel. His wife had some inkling of his plans; but
      she had such a fear of her husband—a fear founded upon brutal
      ill-treatment—that she dare not write to warn the man whom she
      knew to be in danger. If the letter should fall into Stapleton’s
      hands her own life would not be safe. Eventually, as we know, she
      adopted the expedient of cutting out the words which would form
      the message, and addressing the letter in a disguised hand. It
      reached the baronet, and gave him the first warning of his
      danger.

      “It was very essential for Stapleton to get some article of Sir
      Henry’s attire so that, in case he was driven to use the dog, he
      might always have the means of setting him upon his track. With
      characteristic promptness and audacity he set about this at once,
      and we cannot doubt that the boots or chamber-maid of the hotel
      was well bribed to help him in his design. By chance, however,
      the first boot which was procured for him was a new one and,
      therefore, useless for his purpose. He then had it returned and
      obtained another—a most instructive incident, since it proved
      conclusively to my mind that we were dealing with a real hound,
      as no other supposition could explain this anxiety to obtain an
      old boot and this indifference to a new one. The more _outré_ and
      grotesque an incident is the more carefully it deserves to be
      examined, and the very point which appears to complicate a case
      is, when duly considered and scientifically handled, the one
      which is most likely to elucidate it.

      “Then we had the visit from our friends next morning, shadowed
      always by Stapleton in the cab. From his knowledge of our rooms
      and of my appearance, as well as from his general conduct, I am
      inclined to think that Stapleton’s career of crime has been by no
      means limited to this single Baskerville affair. It is suggestive
      that during the last three years there have been four
      considerable burglaries in the west country, for none of which
      was any criminal ever arrested. The last of these, at Folkestone
      Court, in May, was remarkable for the cold-blooded pistolling of
      the page, who surprised the masked and solitary burglar. I cannot
      doubt that Stapleton recruited his waning resources in this
      fashion, and that for years he has been a desperate and dangerous
      man.

      “We had an example of his readiness of resource that morning when
      he got away from us so successfully, and also of his audacity in
      sending back my own name to me through the cabman. From that
      moment he understood that I had taken over the case in London,
      and that therefore there was no chance for him there. He returned
      to Dartmoor and awaited the arrival of the baronet.”

      “One moment!” said I. “You have, no doubt, described the sequence
      of events correctly, but there is one point which you have left
      unexplained. What became of the hound when its master was in
      London?”

      “I have given some attention to this matter and it is undoubtedly
      of importance. There can be no question that Stapleton had a
      confidant, though it is unlikely that he ever placed himself in
      his power by sharing all his plans with him. There was an old
      manservant at Merripit House, whose name was Anthony. His
      connection with the Stapletons can be traced for several years,
      as far back as the school-mastering days, so that he must have
      been aware that his master and mistress were really husband and
      wife. This man has disappeared and has escaped from the country.
      It is suggestive that Anthony is not a common name in England,
      while Antonio is so in all Spanish or Spanish-American countries.
      The man, like Mrs. Stapleton herself, spoke good English, but
      with a curious lisping accent. I have myself seen this old man
      cross the Grimpen Mire by the path which Stapleton had marked
      out. It is very probable, therefore, that in the absence of his
      master it was he who cared for the hound, though he may never
      have known the purpose for which the beast was used.

      “The Stapletons then went down to Devonshire, whither they were
      soon followed by Sir Henry and you. One word now as to how I
      stood myself at that time. It may possibly recur to your memory
      that when I examined the paper upon which the printed words were
      fastened I made a close inspection for the water-mark. In doing
      so I held it within a few inches of my eyes, and was conscious of
      a faint smell of the scent known as white jessamine. There are
      seventy-five perfumes, which it is very necessary that a criminal
      expert should be able to distinguish from each other, and cases
      have more than once within my own experience depended upon their
      prompt recognition. The scent suggested the presence of a lady,
      and already my thoughts began to turn towards the Stapletons.
      Thus I had made certain of the hound, and had guessed at the
      criminal before ever we went to the west country.

      “It was my game to watch Stapleton. It was evident, however, that
      I could not do this if I were with you, since he would be keenly
      on his guard. I deceived everybody, therefore, yourself included,
      and I came down secretly when I was supposed to be in London. My
      hardships were not so great as you imagined, though such trifling
      details must never interfere with the investigation of a case. I
      stayed for the most part at Coombe Tracey, and only used the hut
      upon the moor when it was necessary to be near the scene of
      action. Cartwright had come down with me, and in his disguise as
      a country boy he was of great assistance to me. I was dependent
      upon him for food and clean linen. When I was watching Stapleton,
      Cartwright was frequently watching you, so that I was able to
      keep my hand upon all the strings.

      “I have already told you that your reports reached me rapidly,
      being forwarded instantly from Baker Street to Coombe Tracey.
      They were of great service to me, and especially that one
      incidentally truthful piece of biography of Stapleton’s. I was
      able to establish the identity of the man and the woman and knew
      at last exactly how I stood. The case had been considerably
      complicated through the incident of the escaped convict and the
      relations between him and the Barrymores. This also you cleared
      up in a very effective way, though I had already come to the same
      conclusions from my own observations.

      “By the time that you discovered me upon the moor I had a
      complete knowledge of the whole business, but I had not a case
      which could go to a jury. Even Stapleton’s attempt upon Sir Henry
      that night which ended in the death of the unfortunate convict
      did not help us much in proving murder against our man. There
      seemed to be no alternative but to catch him red-handed, and to
      do so we had to use Sir Henry, alone and apparently unprotected,
      as a bait. We did so, and at the cost of a severe shock to our
      client we succeeded in completing our case and driving Stapleton
      to his destruction. That Sir Henry should have been exposed to
      this is, I must confess, a reproach to my management of the case,
      but we had no means of foreseeing the terrible and paralyzing
      spectacle which the beast presented, nor could we predict the fog
      which enabled him to burst upon us at such short notice. We
      succeeded in our object at a cost which both the specialist and
      Dr. Mortimer assure me will be a temporary one. A long journey
      may enable our friend to recover not only from his shattered
      nerves but also from his wounded feelings. His love for the lady
      was deep and sincere, and to him the saddest part of all this
      black business was that he should have been deceived by her.

      “It only remains to indicate the part which she had played
      throughout. There can be no doubt that Stapleton exercised an
      influence over her which may have been love or may have been
      fear, or very possibly both, since they are by no means
      incompatible emotions. It was, at least, absolutely effective. At
      his command she consented to pass as his sister, though he found
      the limits of his power over her when he endeavoured to make her
      the direct accessory to murder. She was ready to warn Sir Henry
      so far as she could without implicating her husband, and again
      and again she tried to do so. Stapleton himself seems to have
      been capable of jealousy, and when he saw the baronet paying
      court to the lady, even though it was part of his own plan, still
      he could not help interrupting with a passionate outburst which
      revealed the fiery soul which his self-contained manner so
      cleverly concealed. By encouraging the intimacy he made it
      certain that Sir Henry would frequently come to Merripit House
      and that he would sooner or later get the opportunity which he
      desired. On the day of the crisis, however, his wife turned
      suddenly against him. She had learned something of the death of
      the convict, and she knew that the hound was being kept in the
      outhouse on the evening that Sir Henry was coming to dinner. She
      taxed her husband with his intended crime, and a furious scene
      followed in which he showed her for the first time that she had a
      rival in his love. Her fidelity turned in an instant to bitter
      hatred, and he saw that she would betray him. He tied her up,
      therefore, that she might have no chance of warning Sir Henry,
      and he hoped, no doubt, that when the whole countryside put down
      the baronet’s death to the curse of his family, as they certainly
      would do, he could win his wife back to accept an accomplished
      fact and to keep silent upon what she knew. In this I fancy that
      in any case he made a miscalculation, and that, if we had not
      been there, his doom would none the less have been sealed. A
      woman of Spanish blood does not condone such an injury so
      lightly. And now, my dear Watson, without referring to my notes,
      I cannot give you a more detailed account of this curious case. I
      do not know that anything essential has been left unexplained.”

      “He could not hope to frighten Sir Henry to death as he had done
      the old uncle with his bogie hound.”

      “The beast was savage and half-starved. If its appearance did not
      frighten its victim to death, at least it would paralyze the
      resistance which might be offered.”

      “No doubt. There only remains one difficulty. If Stapleton came
      into the succession, how could he explain the fact that he, the
      heir, had been living unannounced under another name so close to
      the property? How could he claim it without causing suspicion and
      inquiry?”

      “It is a formidable difficulty, and I fear that you ask too much
      when you expect me to solve it. The past and the present are
      within the field of my inquiry, but what a man may do in the
      future is a hard question to answer. Mrs. Stapleton has heard her
      husband discuss the problem on several occasions. There were
      three possible courses. He might claim the property from South
      America, establish his identity before the British authorities
      there and so obtain the fortune without ever coming to England at
      all, or he might adopt an elaborate disguise during the short
      time that he need be in London; or, again, he might furnish an
      accomplice with the proofs and papers, putting him in as heir,
      and retaining a claim upon some proportion of his income. We
      cannot doubt from what we know of him that he would have found
      some way out of the difficulty. And now, my dear Watson, we have
      had some weeks of severe work, and for one evening, I think, we
      may turn our thoughts into more pleasant channels. I have a box
      for _Les Huguenots_. Have you heard the De Reszkes? Might I
      trouble you then to be ready in half an hour, and we can stop at
      Marcini’s for a little dinner on the way?”


THE END







The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

by Arthur Conan Doyle


Contents

   I.     A Scandal in Bohemia
   II.    The Red-Headed League
   III.   A Case of Identity
   IV.    The Boscombe Valley Mystery
   V.     The Five Orange Pips
   VI.    The Man with the Twisted Lip
   VII.   The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
   VIII.  The Adventure of the Speckled Band
   IX.    The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb
   X.     The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
   XI.    The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet
   XII.   The Adventure of the Copper Beeches




I. A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA


I.

To Sherlock Holmes she is always _the_ woman. I have seldom heard him
mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and
predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion
akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly,
were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He
was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that
the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a
false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe
and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer—excellent for
drawing the veil from men’s motives and actions. But for the trained
reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely
adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might
throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive
instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not
be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And
yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene
Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.

I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away
from each other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centred
interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master
of his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention,
while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian
soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old
books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition,
the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen
nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime,
and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers of
observation in following out those clues, and clearing up those
mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police.
From time to time I heard some vague account of his doings: of his
summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up
of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, and
finally of the mission which he had accomplished so delicately and
successfully for the reigning family of Holland. Beyond these signs of
his activity, however, which I merely shared with all the readers of
the daily press, I knew little of my former friend and companion.

One night—it was on the twentieth of March, 1888—I was returning from a
journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil practice), when
my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the well-remembered
door, which must always be associated in my mind with my wooing, and
with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a
keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how he was employing his
extraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as I
looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette
against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his
head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. To me, who
knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their own
story. He was at work again. He had risen out of his drug-created
dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new problem. I rang the bell
and was shown up to the chamber which had formerly been in part my own.

His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad, I think,
to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye, he waved
me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and indicated a
spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he stood before the fire
and looked me over in his singular introspective fashion.

“Wedlock suits you,” he remarked. “I think, Watson, that you have put
on seven and a half pounds since I saw you.”

“Seven!” I answered.

“Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more, I
fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did not tell me
that you intended to go into harness.”

“Then, how do you know?”

“I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting
yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and careless
servant girl?”

“My dear Holmes,” said I, “this is too much. You would certainly have
been burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true that I had a
country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess, but as I
have changed my clothes I can’t imagine how you deduce it. As to Mary
Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her notice, but there,
again, I fail to see how you work it out.”

He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands together.

“It is simplicity itself,” said he; “my eyes tell me that on the inside
of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it, the leather is
scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they have been caused by
someone who has very carelessly scraped round the edges of the sole in
order to remove crusted mud from it. Hence, you see, my double
deduction that you had been out in vile weather, and that you had a
particularly malignant boot-slitting specimen of the London slavey. As
to your practice, if a gentleman walks into my rooms smelling of
iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate of silver upon his right
forefinger, and a bulge on the right side of his top-hat to show where
he has secreted his stethoscope, I must be dull, indeed, if I do not
pronounce him to be an active member of the medical profession.”

I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained his
process of deduction. “When I hear you give your reasons,” I remarked,
“the thing always appears to me to be so ridiculously simple that I
could easily do it myself, though at each successive instance of your
reasoning I am baffled until you explain your process. And yet I
believe that my eyes are as good as yours.”

“Quite so,” he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing himself
down into an armchair. “You see, but you do not observe. The
distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the steps
which lead up from the hall to this room.”

“Frequently.”

“How often?”

“Well, some hundreds of times.”

“Then how many are there?”

“How many? I don’t know.”

“Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That is just
my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps, because I have
both seen and observed. By the way, since you are interested in these
little problems, and since you are good enough to chronicle one or two
of my trifling experiences, you may be interested in this.” He threw
over a sheet of thick, pink-tinted notepaper which had been lying open
upon the table. “It came by the last post,” said he. “Read it aloud.”

The note was undated, and without either signature or address.

“There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight o’clock,” it
said, “a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter of the very
deepest moment. Your recent services to one of the royal houses of
Europe have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted with
matters which are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated.
This account of you we have from all quarters received. Be in your
chamber then at that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor
wear a mask.”

“This is indeed a mystery,” I remarked. “What do you imagine that it
means?”

“I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorise before one has
data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of
theories to suit facts. But the note itself. What do you deduce from
it?”

I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was
written.

“The man who wrote it was presumably well to do,” I remarked,
endeavouring to imitate my companion’s processes. “Such paper could not
be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong and
stiff.”

“Peculiar—that is the very word,” said Holmes. “It is not an English
paper at all. Hold it up to the light.”

I did so, and saw a large “E” with a small “g,” a “P,” and a large “G”
with a small “t” woven into the texture of the paper.

“What do you make of that?” asked Holmes.

“The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather.”

“Not at all. The ‘G’ with the small ‘t’ stands for ‘Gesellschaft,’
which is the German for ‘Company.’ It is a customary contraction like
our ‘Co.’ ‘P,’ of course, stands for ‘Papier.’ Now for the ‘Eg.’ Let us
glance at our Continental Gazetteer.” He took down a heavy brown volume
from his shelves. “Eglow, Eglonitz—here we are, Egria. It is in a
German-speaking country—in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. ‘Remarkable
as being the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous
glass-factories and paper-mills.’ Ha, ha, my boy, what do you make of
that?” His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue triumphant cloud
from his cigarette.

“The paper was made in Bohemia,” I said.

“Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you note the
peculiar construction of the sentence—‘This account of you we have from
all quarters received.’ A Frenchman or Russian could not have written
that. It is the German who is so uncourteous to his verbs. It only
remains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by this German who
writes upon Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to showing his
face. And here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve all our
doubts.”

As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses’ hoofs and grating
wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes
whistled.

“A pair, by the sound,” said he. “Yes,” he continued, glancing out of
the window. “A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties. A hundred
and fifty guineas apiece. There’s money in this case, Watson, if there
is nothing else.”

“I think that I had better go, Holmes.”

“Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell.
And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it.”

“But your client—”

“Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes.
Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention.”

A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in the
passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a loud and
authoritative tap.

“Come in!” said Holmes.

A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six inches
in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress was rich
with a richness which would, in England, be looked upon as akin to bad
taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and
fronts of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue cloak which was
thrown over his shoulders was lined with flame-coloured silk and
secured at the neck with a brooch which consisted of a single flaming
beryl. Boots which extended halfway up his calves, and which were
trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur, completed the impression of
barbaric opulence which was suggested by his whole appearance. He
carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore across the upper
part of his face, extending down past the cheekbones, a black vizard
mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand
was still raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of the face
he appeared to be a man of strong character, with a thick, hanging lip,
and a long, straight chin suggestive of resolution pushed to the length
of obstinacy.

“You had my note?” he asked with a deep harsh voice and a strongly
marked German accent. “I told you that I would call.” He looked from
one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to address.

“Pray take a seat,” said Holmes. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr.
Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases. Whom
have I the honour to address?”

“You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I
understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour and
discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme
importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you
alone.”

I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into
my chair. “It is both, or none,” said he. “You may say before this
gentleman anything which you may say to me.”

The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then I must begin,” said he,
“by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of
that time the matter will be of no importance. At present it is not too
much to say that it is of such weight it may have an influence upon
European history.”

“I promise,” said Holmes.

“And I.”

“You will excuse this mask,” continued our strange visitor. “The august
person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you, and I may
confess at once that the title by which I have just called myself is
not exactly my own.”

“I was aware of it,” said Holmes dryly.

“The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to
be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal and
seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To speak
plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein, hereditary
kings of Bohemia.”

“I was also aware of that,” murmured Holmes, settling himself down in
his armchair and closing his eyes.

Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid,
lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him as the
most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes
slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic client.

“If your Majesty would condescend to state your case,” he remarked, “I
should be better able to advise you.”

The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in
uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore
the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. “You are right,”
he cried; “I am the King. Why should I attempt to conceal it?”

“Why, indeed?” murmured Holmes. “Your Majesty had not spoken before I
was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von
Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of
Bohemia.”

“But you can understand,” said our strange visitor, sitting down once
more and passing his hand over his high white forehead, “you can
understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own
person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to
an agent without putting myself in his power. I have come _incognito_
from Prague for the purpose of consulting you.”

“Then, pray consult,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.

“The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy
visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known adventuress,
Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you.”

“Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor,” murmured Holmes without
opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system of docketing
all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was difficult to
name a subject or a person on which he could not at once furnish
information. In this case I found her biography sandwiched in between
that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff-commander who had written a
monograph upon the deep-sea fishes.

“Let me see!” said Holmes. “Hum! Born in New Jersey in the year 1858.
Contralto—hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw—yes!
Retired from operatic stage—ha! Living in London—quite so! Your
Majesty, as I understand, became entangled with this young person,
wrote her some compromising letters, and is now desirous of getting
those letters back.”

“Precisely so. But how—”

“Was there a secret marriage?”

“None.”

“No legal papers or certificates?”

“None.”

“Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young person should
produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to
prove their authenticity?”

“There is the writing.”

“Pooh, pooh! Forgery.”

“My private note-paper.”

“Stolen.”

“My own seal.”

“Imitated.”

“My photograph.”

“Bought.”

“We were both in the photograph.”

“Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed committed an
indiscretion.”

“I was mad—insane.”

“You have compromised yourself seriously.”

“I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am but thirty now.”

“It must be recovered.”

“We have tried and failed.”

“Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought.”

“She will not sell.”

“Stolen, then.”

“Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked her
house. Once we diverted her luggage when she travelled. Twice she has
been waylaid. There has been no result.”

“No sign of it?”

“Absolutely none.”

Holmes laughed. “It is quite a pretty little problem,” said he.

“But a very serious one to me,” returned the King reproachfully.

“Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the photograph?”

“To ruin me.”

“But how?”

“I am about to be married.”

“So I have heard.”

“To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of the King of
Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles of her family. She is
herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a doubt as to my conduct
would bring the matter to an end.”

“And Irene Adler?”

“Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I know that
she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a soul of steel. She
has the face of the most beautiful of women, and the mind of the most
resolute of men. Rather than I should marry another woman, there are no
lengths to which she would not go—none.”

“You are sure that she has not sent it yet?”

“I am sure.”

“And why?”

“Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the
betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next Monday.”

“Oh, then we have three days yet,” said Holmes with a yawn. “That is
very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance to look into
just at present. Your Majesty will, of course, stay in London for the
present?”

“Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under the name of the Count
Von Kramm.”

“Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress.”

“Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety.”

“Then, as to money?”

“You have _carte blanche_.”

“Absolutely?”

“I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom to
have that photograph.”

“And for present expenses?”

The King took a heavy chamois leather bag from under his cloak and laid
it on the table.

“There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in notes,” he
said.

Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his note-book and handed it
to him.

“And Mademoiselle’s address?” he asked.

“Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John’s Wood.”

Holmes took a note of it. “One other question,” said he. “Was the
photograph a cabinet?”

“It was.”

“Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust that we shall soon have
some good news for you. And good-night, Watson,” he added, as the
wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street. “If you will be
good enough to call to-morrow afternoon at three o’clock I should like
to chat this little matter over with you.”


II.

At three o’clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had not
yet returned. The landlady informed me that he had left the house
shortly after eight o’clock in the morning. I sat down beside the fire,
however, with the intention of awaiting him, however long he might be.
I was already deeply interested in his inquiry, for, though it was
surrounded by none of the grim and strange features which were
associated with the two crimes which I have already recorded, still,
the nature of the case and the exalted station of his client gave it a
character of its own. Indeed, apart from the nature of the
investigation which my friend had on hand, there was something in his
masterly grasp of a situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning, which
made it a pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to follow the
quick, subtle methods by which he disentangled the most inextricable
mysteries. So accustomed was I to his invariable success that the very
possibility of his failing had ceased to enter into my head.

It was close upon four before the door opened, and a drunken-looking
groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and
disreputable clothes, walked into the room. Accustomed as I was to my
friend’s amazing powers in the use of disguises, I had to look three
times before I was certain that it was indeed he. With a nod he
vanished into the bedroom, whence he emerged in five minutes
tweed-suited and respectable, as of old. Putting his hands into his
pockets, he stretched out his legs in front of the fire and laughed
heartily for some minutes.

“Well, really!” he cried, and then he choked and laughed again until he
was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the chair.

“What is it?”

“It’s quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess how I employed
my morning, or what I ended by doing.”

“I can’t imagine. I suppose that you have been watching the habits, and
perhaps the house, of Miss Irene Adler.”

“Quite so; but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell you, however.
I left the house a little after eight o’clock this morning in the
character of a groom out of work. There is a wonderful sympathy and
freemasonry among horsey men. Be one of them, and you will know all
that there is to know. I soon found Briony Lodge. It is a _bijou_
villa, with a garden at the back, but built out in front right up to
the road, two stories. Chubb lock to the door. Large sitting-room on
the right side, well furnished, with long windows almost to the floor,
and those preposterous English window fasteners which a child could
open. Behind there was nothing remarkable, save that the passage window
could be reached from the top of the coach-house. I walked round it and
examined it closely from every point of view, but without noting
anything else of interest.

“I then lounged down the street and found, as I expected, that there
was a mews in a lane which runs down by one wall of the garden. I lent
the ostlers a hand in rubbing down their horses, and received in
exchange twopence, a glass of half-and-half, two fills of shag tobacco,
and as much information as I could desire about Miss Adler, to say
nothing of half a dozen other people in the neighbourhood in whom I was
not in the least interested, but whose biographies I was compelled to
listen to.”

“And what of Irene Adler?” I asked.

“Oh, she has turned all the men’s heads down in that part. She is the
daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet. So say the
Serpentine-mews, to a man. She lives quietly, sings at concerts, drives
out at five every day, and returns at seven sharp for dinner. Seldom
goes out at other times, except when she sings. Has only one male
visitor, but a good deal of him. He is dark, handsome, and dashing,
never calls less than once a day, and often twice. He is a Mr. Godfrey
Norton, of the Inner Temple. See the advantages of a cabman as a
confidant. They had driven him home a dozen times from Serpentine-mews,
and knew all about him. When I had listened to all they had to tell, I
began to walk up and down near Briony Lodge once more, and to think
over my plan of campaign.

“This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the matter.
He was a lawyer. That sounded ominous. What was the relation between
them, and what the object of his repeated visits? Was she his client,
his friend, or his mistress? If the former, she had probably
transferred the photograph to his keeping. If the latter, it was less
likely. On the issue of this question depended whether I should
continue my work at Briony Lodge, or turn my attention to the
gentleman’s chambers in the Temple. It was a delicate point, and it
widened the field of my inquiry. I fear that I bore you with these
details, but I have to let you see my little difficulties, if you are
to understand the situation.”

“I am following you closely,” I answered.

“I was still balancing the matter in my mind when a hansom cab drove up
to Briony Lodge, and a gentleman sprang out. He was a remarkably
handsome man, dark, aquiline, and moustached—evidently the man of whom
I had heard. He appeared to be in a great hurry, shouted to the cabman
to wait, and brushed past the maid who opened the door with the air of
a man who was thoroughly at home.

“He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch glimpses of
him in the windows of the sitting-room, pacing up and down, talking
excitedly, and waving his arms. Of her I could see nothing. Presently
he emerged, looking even more flurried than before. As he stepped up to
the cab, he pulled a gold watch from his pocket and looked at it
earnestly, ‘Drive like the devil,’ he shouted, ‘first to Gross &
Hankey’s in Regent Street, and then to the Church of St. Monica in the
Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if you do it in twenty minutes!’

“Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should not do well
to follow them when up the lane came a neat little landau, the coachman
with his coat only half-buttoned, and his tie under his ear, while all
the tags of his harness were sticking out of the buckles. It hadn’t
pulled up before she shot out of the hall door and into it. I only
caught a glimpse of her at the moment, but she was a lovely woman, with
a face that a man might die for.

“‘The Church of St. Monica, John,’ she cried, ‘and half a sovereign if
you reach it in twenty minutes.’

“This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just balancing whether
I should run for it, or whether I should perch behind her landau when a
cab came through the street. The driver looked twice at such a shabby
fare, but I jumped in before he could object. ‘The Church of St.
Monica,’ said I, ‘and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty
minutes.’ It was twenty-five minutes to twelve, and of course it was
clear enough what was in the wind.

“My cabby drove fast. I don’t think I ever drove faster, but the others
were there before us. The cab and the landau with their steaming horses
were in front of the door when I arrived. I paid the man and hurried
into the church. There was not a soul there save the two whom I had
followed and a surpliced clergyman, who seemed to be expostulating with
them. They were all three standing in a knot in front of the altar. I
lounged up the side aisle like any other idler who has dropped into a
church. Suddenly, to my surprise, the three at the altar faced round to
me, and Godfrey Norton came running as hard as he could towards me.

“‘Thank God,’ he cried. ‘You’ll do. Come! Come!’

“‘What then?’ I asked.

“‘Come, man, come, only three minutes, or it won’t be legal.’

“I was half-dragged up to the altar, and before I knew where I was I
found myself mumbling responses which were whispered in my ear, and
vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and generally assisting in
the secure tying up of Irene Adler, spinster, to Godfrey Norton,
bachelor. It was all done in an instant, and there was the gentleman
thanking me on the one side and the lady on the other, while the
clergyman beamed on me in front. It was the most preposterous position
in which I ever found myself in my life, and it was the thought of it
that started me laughing just now. It seems that there had been some
informality about their license, that the clergyman absolutely refused
to marry them without a witness of some sort, and that my lucky
appearance saved the bridegroom from having to sally out into the
streets in search of a best man. The bride gave me a sovereign, and I
mean to wear it on my watch chain in memory of the occasion.”

“This is a very unexpected turn of affairs,” said I; “and what then?”

“Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced. It looked as if the
pair might take an immediate departure, and so necessitate very prompt
and energetic measures on my part. At the church door, however, they
separated, he driving back to the Temple, and she to her own house. ‘I
shall drive out in the park at five as usual,’ she said as she left
him. I heard no more. They drove away in different directions, and I
went off to make my own arrangements.”

“Which are?”

“Some cold beef and a glass of beer,” he answered, ringing the bell. “I
have been too busy to think of food, and I am likely to be busier still
this evening. By the way, Doctor, I shall want your co-operation.”

“I shall be delighted.”

“You don’t mind breaking the law?”

“Not in the least.”

“Nor running a chance of arrest?”

“Not in a good cause.”

“Oh, the cause is excellent!”

“Then I am your man.”

“I was sure that I might rely on you.”

“But what is it you wish?”

“When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will make it clear to you.
Now,” he said as he turned hungrily on the simple fare that our
landlady had provided, “I must discuss it while I eat, for I have not
much time. It is nearly five now. In two hours we must be on the scene
of action. Miss Irene, or Madame, rather, returns from her drive at
seven. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet her.”

“And what then?”

“You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is to occur.
There is only one point on which I must insist. You must not interfere,
come what may. You understand?”

“I am to be neutral?”

“To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some small
unpleasantness. Do not join in it. It will end in my being conveyed
into the house. Four or five minutes afterwards the sitting-room window
will open. You are to station yourself close to that open window.”

“Yes.”

“You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you.”

“Yes.”

“And when I raise my hand—so—you will throw into the room what I give
you to throw, and will, at the same time, raise the cry of fire. You
quite follow me?”

“Entirely.”

“It is nothing very formidable,” he said, taking a long cigar-shaped
roll from his pocket. “It is an ordinary plumber’s smoke-rocket, fitted
with a cap at either end to make it self-lighting. Your task is
confined to that. When you raise your cry of fire, it will be taken up
by quite a number of people. You may then walk to the end of the
street, and I will rejoin you in ten minutes. I hope that I have made
myself clear?”

“I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to watch you, and at
the signal to throw in this object, then to raise the cry of fire, and
to wait you at the corner of the street.”

“Precisely.”

“Then you may entirely rely on me.”

“That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost time that I prepare
for the new role I have to play.”

He disappeared into his bedroom and returned in a few minutes in the
character of an amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist clergyman. His
broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white tie, his sympathetic
smile, and general look of peering and benevolent curiosity were such
as Mr. John Hare alone could have equalled. It was not merely that
Holmes changed his costume. His expression, his manner, his very soul
seemed to vary with every fresh part that he assumed. The stage lost a
fine actor, even as science lost an acute reasoner, when he became a
specialist in crime.

It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and it still
wanted ten minutes to the hour when we found ourselves in Serpentine
Avenue. It was already dusk, and the lamps were just being lighted as
we paced up and down in front of Briony Lodge, waiting for the coming
of its occupant. The house was just such as I had pictured it from
Sherlock Holmes’ succinct description, but the locality appeared to be
less private than I expected. On the contrary, for a small street in a
quiet neighbourhood, it was remarkably animated. There was a group of
shabbily dressed men smoking and laughing in a corner, a
scissors-grinder with his wheel, two guardsmen who were flirting with a
nurse-girl, and several well-dressed young men who were lounging up and
down with cigars in their mouths.

“You see,” remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in front of the
house, “this marriage rather simplifies matters. The photograph becomes
a double-edged weapon now. The chances are that she would be as averse
to its being seen by Mr. Godfrey Norton, as our client is to its coming
to the eyes of his princess. Now the question is, Where are we to find
the photograph?”

“Where, indeed?”

“It is most unlikely that she carries it about with her. It is cabinet
size. Too large for easy concealment about a woman’s dress. She knows
that the King is capable of having her waylaid and searched. Two
attempts of the sort have already been made. We may take it, then, that
she does not carry it about with her.”

“Where, then?”

“Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double possibility. But I am
inclined to think neither. Women are naturally secretive, and they like
to do their own secreting. Why should she hand it over to anyone else?
She could trust her own guardianship, but she could not tell what
indirect or political influence might be brought to bear upon a
business man. Besides, remember that she had resolved to use it within
a few days. It must be where she can lay her hands upon it. It must be
in her own house.”

“But it has twice been burgled.”

“Pshaw! They did not know how to look.”

“But how will you look?”

“I will not look.”

“What then?”

“I will get her to show me.”

“But she will refuse.”

“She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble of wheels. It is her
carriage. Now carry out my orders to the letter.”

As he spoke the gleam of the sidelights of a carriage came round the
curve of the avenue. It was a smart little landau which rattled up to
the door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled up, one of the loafing men at
the corner dashed forward to open the door in the hope of earning a
copper, but was elbowed away by another loafer, who had rushed up with
the same intention. A fierce quarrel broke out, which was increased by
the two guardsmen, who took sides with one of the loungers, and by the
scissors-grinder, who was equally hot upon the other side. A blow was
struck, and in an instant the lady, who had stepped from her carriage,
was the centre of a little knot of flushed and struggling men, who
struck savagely at each other with their fists and sticks. Holmes
dashed into the crowd to protect the lady; but, just as he reached her,
he gave a cry and dropped to the ground, with the blood running freely
down his face. At his fall the guardsmen took to their heels in one
direction and the loungers in the other, while a number of better
dressed people, who had watched the scuffle without taking part in it,
crowded in to help the lady and to attend to the injured man. Irene
Adler, as I will still call her, had hurried up the steps; but she
stood at the top with her superb figure outlined against the lights of
the hall, looking back into the street.

“Is the poor gentleman much hurt?” she asked.

“He is dead,” cried several voices.

“No, no, there’s life in him!” shouted another. “But he’ll be gone
before you can get him to hospital.”

“He’s a brave fellow,” said a woman. “They would have had the lady’s
purse and watch if it hadn’t been for him. They were a gang, and a
rough one, too. Ah, he’s breathing now.”

“He can’t lie in the street. May we bring him in, marm?”

“Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a comfortable sofa.
This way, please!”

Slowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony Lodge and laid out in the
principal room, while I still observed the proceedings from my post by
the window. The lamps had been lit, but the blinds had not been drawn,
so that I could see Holmes as he lay upon the couch. I do not know
whether he was seized with compunction at that moment for the part he
was playing, but I know that I never felt more heartily ashamed of
myself in my life than when I saw the beautiful creature against whom I
was conspiring, or the grace and kindliness with which she waited upon
the injured man. And yet it would be the blackest treachery to Holmes
to draw back now from the part which he had intrusted to me. I hardened
my heart, and took the smoke-rocket from under my ulster. After all, I
thought, we are not injuring her. We are but preventing her from
injuring another.

Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a man who
is in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw open the window. At
the same instant I saw him raise his hand and at the signal I tossed my
rocket into the room with a cry of “Fire!” The word was no sooner out
of my mouth than the whole crowd of spectators, well dressed and
ill—gentlemen, ostlers, and servant maids—joined in a general shriek of
“Fire!” Thick clouds of smoke curled through the room and out at the
open window. I caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and a moment later
the voice of Holmes from within assuring them that it was a false
alarm. Slipping through the shouting crowd I made my way to the corner
of the street, and in ten minutes was rejoiced to find my friend’s arm
in mine, and to get away from the scene of uproar. He walked swiftly
and in silence for some few minutes until we had turned down one of the
quiet streets which lead towards the Edgeware Road.

“You did it very nicely, Doctor,” he remarked. “Nothing could have been
better. It is all right.”

“You have the photograph?”

“I know where it is.”

“And how did you find out?”

“She showed me, as I told you she would.”

“I am still in the dark.”

“I do not wish to make a mystery,” said he, laughing. “The matter was
perfectly simple. You, of course, saw that everyone in the street was
an accomplice. They were all engaged for the evening.”

“I guessed as much.”

“Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint in the
palm of my hand. I rushed forward, fell down, clapped my hand to my
face, and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old trick.”

“That also I could fathom.”

“Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me in. What else could
she do? And into her sitting-room, which was the very room which I
suspected. It lay between that and her bedroom, and I was determined to
see which. They laid me on a couch, I motioned for air, they were
compelled to open the window, and you had your chance.”

“How did that help you?”

“It was all-important. When a woman thinks that her house is on fire,
her instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she values most. It
is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more than once taken
advantage of it. In the case of the Darlington Substitution Scandal it
was of use to me, and also in the Arnsworth Castle business. A married
woman grabs at her baby; an unmarried one reaches for her jewel-box.
Now it was clear to me that our lady of to-day had nothing in the house
more precious to her than what we are in quest of. She would rush to
secure it. The alarm of fire was admirably done. The smoke and shouting
were enough to shake nerves of steel. She responded beautifully. The
photograph is in a recess behind a sliding panel just above the right
bell-pull. She was there in an instant, and I caught a glimpse of it as
she half drew it out. When I cried out that it was a false alarm, she
replaced it, glanced at the rocket, rushed from the room, and I have
not seen her since. I rose, and, making my excuses, escaped from the
house. I hesitated whether to attempt to secure the photograph at once;
but the coachman had come in, and as he was watching me narrowly, it
seemed safer to wait. A little over-precipitance may ruin all.”

“And now?” I asked.

“Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the King
to-morrow, and with you, if you care to come with us. We will be shown
into the sitting-room to wait for the lady, but it is probable that
when she comes she may find neither us nor the photograph. It might be
a satisfaction to his Majesty to regain it with his own hands.”

“And when will you call?”

“At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we shall have a
clear field. Besides, we must be prompt, for this marriage may mean a
complete change in her life and habits. I must wire to the King without
delay.”

We had reached Baker Street and had stopped at the door. He was
searching his pockets for the key when someone passing said:

“Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes.”

There were several people on the pavement at the time, but the greeting
appeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who had hurried by.

“I’ve heard that voice before,” said Holmes, staring down the dimly lit
street. “Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have been.”


III.

I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our toast
and coffee in the morning when the King of Bohemia rushed into the
room.

“You have really got it!” he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by either
shoulder and looking eagerly into his face.

“Not yet.”

“But you have hopes?”

“I have hopes.”

“Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone.”

“We must have a cab.”

“No, my brougham is waiting.”

“Then that will simplify matters.” We descended and started off once
more for Briony Lodge.

“Irene Adler is married,” remarked Holmes.

“Married! When?”

“Yesterday.”

“But to whom?”

“To an English lawyer named Norton.”

“But she could not love him.”

“I am in hopes that she does.”

“And why in hopes?”

“Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future annoyance. If
the lady loves her husband, she does not love your Majesty. If she does
not love your Majesty, there is no reason why she should interfere with
your Majesty’s plan.”

“It is true. And yet—! Well! I wish she had been of my own station!
What a queen she would have made!” He relapsed into a moody silence,
which was not broken until we drew up in Serpentine Avenue.

The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood upon the
steps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the
brougham.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?” said she.

“I am Mr. Holmes,” answered my companion, looking at her with a
questioning and rather startled gaze.

“Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call. She left
this morning with her husband by the 5:15 train from Charing Cross for
the Continent.”

“What!” Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin and
surprise. “Do you mean that she has left England?”

“Never to return.”

“And the papers?” asked the King hoarsely. “All is lost.”

“We shall see.” He pushed past the servant and rushed into the
drawing-room, followed by the King and myself. The furniture was
scattered about in every direction, with dismantled shelves and open
drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them before her flight.
Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small sliding shutter, and,
plunging in his hand, pulled out a photograph and a letter. The
photograph was of Irene Adler herself in evening dress, the letter was
superscribed to “Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till called for.” My
friend tore it open, and we all three read it together. It was dated at
midnight of the preceding night and ran in this way:

    “MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,—You really did it very well. You took
    me in completely. Until after the alarm of fire, I had not a
    suspicion. But then, when I found how I had betrayed myself, I
    began to think. I had been warned against you months ago. I had
    been told that, if the King employed an agent, it would certainly
    be you. And your address had been given me. Yet, with all this, you
    made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I became
    suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind old
    clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained as an actress myself.
    Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take advantage of the
    freedom which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to watch you,
    ran upstairs, got into my walking clothes, as I call them, and came
    down just as you departed.

    “Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure that I was
    really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
    Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good-night, and started for
    the Temple to see my husband.

    “We both thought the best resource was flight, when pursued by so
    formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when you
    call to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest in
    peace. I love and am loved by a better man than he. The King may do
    what he will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly
    wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a
    weapon which will always secure me from any steps which he might
    take in the future. I leave a photograph which he might care to
    possess; and I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,


    “Very truly yours,

    “IRENE NORTON, _née_ ADLER.”


“What a woman—oh, what a woman!” cried the King of Bohemia, when we had
all three read this epistle. “Did I not tell you how quick and resolute
she was? Would she not have made an admirable queen? Is it not a pity
that she was not on my level?”

“From what I have seen of the lady, she seems, indeed, to be on a very
different level to your Majesty,” said Holmes coldly. “I am sorry that
I have not been able to bring your Majesty’s business to a more
successful conclusion.”

“On the contrary, my dear sir,” cried the King; “nothing could be more
successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The photograph is now as
safe as if it were in the fire.”

“I am glad to hear your Majesty say so.”

“I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can reward
you. This ring—” He slipped an emerald snake ring from his finger and
held it out upon the palm of his hand.

“Your Majesty has something which I should value even more highly,”
said Holmes.

“You have but to name it.”

“This photograph!”

The King stared at him in amazement.

“Irene’s photograph!” he cried. “Certainly, if you wish it.”

“I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the matter.
I have the honour to wish you a very good morning.” He bowed, and,
turning away without observing the hand which the King had stretched
out to him, he set off in my company for his chambers.

And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of
Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by a
woman’s wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I
have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or
when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honourable
title of _the_ woman.




II. THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE


 I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the
 autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very
 stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an
 apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled
 me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me.

“You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,” he
said cordially.

“I was afraid that you were engaged.”

“So I am. Very much so.”

“Then I can wait in the next room.”

“Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper
in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will
be of the utmost use to me in yours also.”

The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of
greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small
fat-encircled eyes.

“Try the settee,” said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting
his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. “I
know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and
outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have
shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to
chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish
so many of my own little adventures.”

“Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,” I
observed.

“You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went
into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that
for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life
itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the
imagination.”

“A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting.”

“You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view, for
otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your
reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now, Mr.
Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this morning,
and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the most singular
which I have listened to for some time. You have heard me remark that
the strangest and most unique things are very often connected not with
the larger but with the smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where
there is room for doubt whether any positive crime has been committed.
As far as I have heard, it is impossible for me to say whether the
present case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events
is certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to.
Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to recommence
your narrative. I ask you not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has
not heard the opening part but also because the peculiar nature of the
story makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips. As
a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course of
events, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar
cases which occur to my memory. In the present instance I am forced to
admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief, unique.”

The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some
little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside
pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement column,
with his head thrust forward and the paper flattened out upon his knee,
I took a good look at the man and endeavoured, after the fashion of my
companion, to read the indications which might be presented by his
dress or appearance.

I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore
every mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman, obese,
pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey shepherd’s check trousers,
a not over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab
waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of
metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown
overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him.
Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about the man
save his blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and
discontent upon his features.

Sherlock Holmes’ quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his head
with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances. “Beyond the obvious
facts that he has at some time done manual labour, that he takes snuff,
that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, and that he has done
a considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else.”

Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon the
paper, but his eyes upon my companion.

“How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?”
he asked. “How did you know, for example, that I did manual labour.
It’s as true as gospel, for I began as a ship’s carpenter.”

“Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger than
your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more
developed.”

“Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?”

“I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that,
especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you use
an arc-and-compass breastpin.”

“Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?”

“What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five
inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the elbow where you
rest it upon the desk?”

“Well, but China?”

“The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist
could only have been done in China. I have made a small study of tattoo
marks and have even contributed to the literature of the subject. That
trick of staining the fishes’ scales of a delicate pink is quite
peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from
your watch-chain, the matter becomes even more simple.”

Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. “Well, I never!” said he. “I thought
at first that you had done something clever, but I see that there was
nothing in it after all.”

“I begin to think, Watson,” said Holmes, “that I make a mistake in
explaining. ‘_Omne ignotum pro magnifico_,’ you know, and my poor
little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so
candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?”

“Yes, I have got it now,” he answered with his thick red finger planted
halfway down the column. “Here it is. This is what began it all. You
just read it for yourself, sir.”

I took the paper from him and read as follows:

“TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the bequest of the late
Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U.S.A., there is now another
vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a salary of £ 4 a
week for purely nominal services. All red-headed men who are sound in
body and mind and above the age of twenty-one years, are eligible.
Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o’clock, to Duncan Ross, at the
offices of the League, 7 Pope’s Court, Fleet Street.”


“What on earth does this mean?” I ejaculated after I had twice read
over the extraordinary announcement.

Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when in
high spirits. “It is a little off the beaten track, isn’t it?” said he.
“And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us all about
yourself, your household, and the effect which this advertisement had
upon your fortunes. You will first make a note, Doctor, of the paper
and the date.”

“It is _The Morning Chronicle_ of April 27, 1890. Just two months ago.”

“Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?”

“Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,”
said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; “I have a small pawnbroker’s
business at Coburg Square, near the City. It’s not a very large affair,
and of late years it has not done more than just give me a living. I
used to be able to keep two assistants, but now I only keep one; and I
would have a job to pay him but that he is willing to come for half
wages so as to learn the business.”

“What is the name of this obliging youth?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

“His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he’s not such a youth, either. It’s
hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes;
and I know very well that he could better himself and earn twice what I
am able to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied, why should I
put ideas in his head?”

“Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an _employé_ who comes
under the full market price. It is not a common experience among
employers in this age. I don’t know that your assistant is not as
remarkable as your advertisement.”

“Oh, he has his faults, too,” said Mr. Wilson. “Never was such a fellow
for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought to be
improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like a rabbit
into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his main fault, but on
the whole he’s a good worker. There’s no vice in him.”

“He is still with you, I presume?”

“Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple cooking
and keeps the place clean—that’s all I have in the house, for I am a
widower and never had any family. We live very quietly, sir, the three
of us; and we keep a roof over our heads and pay our debts, if we do
nothing more.

“The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding, he
came down into the office just this day eight weeks, with this very
paper in his hand, and he says:

“‘I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.’

“‘Why that?’ I asks.

“‘Why,’ says he, ‘here’s another vacancy on the League of the
Red-headed Men. It’s worth quite a little fortune to any man who gets
it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there are men,
so that the trustees are at their wits’ end what to do with the money.
If my hair would only change colour, here’s a nice little crib all
ready for me to step into.’

“‘Why, what is it, then?’ I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a very
stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of my having to
go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot over the
door-mat. In that way I didn’t know much of what was going on outside,
and I was always glad of a bit of news.

“‘Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?’ he asked
with his eyes open.

“‘Never.’

“‘Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one of the
vacancies.’

“‘And what are they worth?’ I asked.

“‘Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight, and it
need not interfere very much with one’s other occupations.’

“Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears, for the
business has not been over good for some years, and an extra couple of
hundred would have been very handy.

“‘Tell me all about it,’ said I.

“‘Well,’ said he, showing me the advertisement, ‘you can see for
yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address where
you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the League
was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very
peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had a great
sympathy for all red-headed men; so, when he died, it was found that he
had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with
instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to
men whose hair is of that colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay
and very little to do.’

“‘But,’ said I, ‘there would be millions of red-headed men who would
apply.’

“‘Not so many as you might think,’ he answered. ‘You see it is really
confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had started from
London when he was young, and he wanted to do the old town a good turn.
Then, again, I have heard it is no use your applying if your hair is
light red, or dark red, or anything but real bright, blazing, fiery
red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk in;
but perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put yourself out of
the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.’

“Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my
hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if
there was to be any competition in the matter I stood as good a chance
as any man that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to know so
much about it that I thought he might prove useful, so I just ordered
him to put up the shutters for the day and to come right away with me.
He was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut the business up and
started off for the address that was given us in the advertisement.

“I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From
north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in his
hair had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement. Fleet
Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope’s Court looked like a
coster’s orange barrow. I should not have thought there were so many in
the whole country as were brought together by that single
advertisement. Every shade of colour they were—straw, lemon, orange,
brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were
not many who had the real vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how
many were waiting, I would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding
would not hear of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed
and pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and right up
to the steps which led to the office. There was a double stream upon
the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back dejected; but we
wedged in as well as we could and soon found ourselves in the office.”

“Your experience has been a most entertaining one,” remarked Holmes as
his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of snuff.
“Pray continue your very interesting statement.”

“There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a
deal table, behind which sat a small man with a head that was even
redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate as he came up,
and then he always managed to find some fault in them which would
disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy
matter, after all. However, when our turn came the little man was much
more favourable to me than to any of the others, and he closed the door
as we entered, so that he might have a private word with us.

“‘This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,’ said my assistant, ‘and he is willing to
fill a vacancy in the League.’

“‘And he is admirably suited for it,’ the other answered. ‘He has every
requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so fine.’ He
took a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and gazed at my hair
until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he plunged forward, wrung my
hand, and congratulated me warmly on my success.

“‘It would be injustice to hesitate,’ said he. ‘You will, however, I am
sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.’ With that he seized
my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I yelled with the pain.
‘There is water in your eyes,’ said he as he released me. ‘I perceive
that all is as it should be. But we have to be careful, for we have
twice been deceived by wigs and once by paint. I could tell you tales
of cobbler’s wax which would disgust you with human nature.’ He stepped
over to the window and shouted through it at the top of his voice that
the vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up from below,
and the folk all trooped away in different directions until there was
not a red-head to be seen except my own and that of the manager.

“‘My name,’ said he, ‘is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of the
pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are you a
married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?’

“I answered that I had not.

“His face fell immediately.

“‘Dear me!’ he said gravely, ‘that is very serious indeed! I am sorry
to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the propagation and
spread of the red-heads as well as for their maintenance. It is
exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a bachelor.’

“My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was not
to have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it over for a few
minutes he said that it would be all right.

“‘In the case of another,’ said he, ‘the objection might be fatal, but
we must stretch a point in favour of a man with such a head of hair as
yours. When shall you be able to enter upon your new duties?’

“‘Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,’ said I.

“‘Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!’ said Vincent Spaulding. ‘I
should be able to look after that for you.’

“‘What would be the hours?’ I asked.

“‘Ten to two.’

“Now a pawnbroker’s business is mostly done of an evening, Mr. Holmes,
especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just before pay-day;
so it would suit me very well to earn a little in the mornings.
Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man, and that he would see
to anything that turned up.

“‘That would suit me very well,’ said I. ‘And the pay?’

“‘Is £ 4 a week.’

“‘And the work?’

“‘Is purely nominal.’

“‘What do you call purely nominal?’

“‘Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building, the
whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole position forever. The
will is very clear upon that point. You don’t comply with the
conditions if you budge from the office during that time.’

“‘It’s only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,’ said
I.

“‘No excuse will avail,’ said Mr. Duncan Ross; ‘neither sickness nor
business nor anything else. There you must stay, or you lose your
billet.’

“‘And the work?’

“‘Is to copy out the _Encyclopædia Britannica_. There is the first
volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink, pens, and
blotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair. Will you be ready
to-morrow?’

“‘Certainly,’ I answered.

“‘Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you once
more on the important position which you have been fortunate enough to
gain.’ He bowed me out of the room and I went home with my assistant,
hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased at my own good
fortune.

“Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in low
spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the whole affair
must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its object might be I
could not imagine. It seemed altogether past belief that anyone could
make such a will, or that they would pay such a sum for doing anything
so simple as copying out the _Encyclopædia Britannica_. Vincent
Spaulding did what he could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I had
reasoned myself out of the whole thing. However, in the morning I
determined to have a look at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of
ink, and with a quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I
started off for Pope’s Court.

“Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as possible.
The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to
see that I got fairly to work. He started me off upon the letter A, and
then he left me; but he would drop in from time to time to see that all
was right with me. At two o’clock he bade me good-day, complimented me
upon the amount that I had written, and locked the door of the office
after me.

“This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager
came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my week’s work. It
was the same next week, and the same the week after. Every morning I
was there at ten, and every afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr.
Duncan Ross took to coming in only once of a morning, and then, after a
time, he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never dared to
leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come,
and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I would
not risk the loss of it.

“Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots and
Archery and Armour and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with
diligence that I might get on to the B’s before very long. It cost me
something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with my
writings. And then suddenly the whole business came to an end.”

“To an end?”

“Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as usual
at ten o’clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a little square
of cardboard hammered on to the middle of the panel with a tack. Here
it is, and you can read for yourself.”

He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet of
note-paper. It read in this fashion:

“THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE IS DISSOLVED. October 9, 1890.”


Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful
face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so completely
overtopped every other consideration that we both burst out into a roar
of laughter.

“I cannot see that there is anything very funny,” cried our client,
flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. “If you can do nothing
better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere.”

“No, no,” cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he
had half risen. “I really wouldn’t miss your case for the world. It is
most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my saying
so, something just a little funny about it. Pray what steps did you
take when you found the card upon the door?”

“I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at the
offices round, but none of them seemed to know anything about it.
Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the
ground floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had become of
the Red-headed League. He said that he had never heard of any such
body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the
name was new to him.

“‘Well,’ said I, ‘the gentleman at No. 4.’

“‘What, the red-headed man?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘Oh,’ said he, ‘his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor and
was using my room as a temporary convenience until his new premises
were ready. He moved out yesterday.’

“‘Where could I find him?’

“‘Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King
Edward Street, near St. Paul’s.’

“I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a
manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard of
either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross.”

“And what did you do then?” asked Holmes.

“I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my
assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only say that
if I waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite good enough,
Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place without a struggle, so,
as I had heard that you were good enough to give advice to poor folk
who were in need of it, I came right away to you.”

“And you did very wisely,” said Holmes. “Your case is an exceedingly
remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you
have told me I think that it is possible that graver issues hang from
it than might at first sight appear.”

“Grave enough!” said Mr. Jabez Wilson. “Why, I have lost four pound a
week.”

“As far as you are personally concerned,” remarked Holmes, “I do not
see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On
the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some £ 30, to say
nothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained on every subject
which comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by them.”

“No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and what
their object was in playing this prank—if it was a prank—upon me. It
was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two and thirty
pounds.”

“We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you. And, first, one
or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first called
your attention to the advertisement—how long had he been with you?”

“About a month then.”

“How did he come?”

“In answer to an advertisement.”

“Was he the only applicant?”

“No, I had a dozen.”

“Why did you pick him?”

“Because he was handy and would come cheap.”

“At half wages, in fact.”

“Yes.”

“What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?”

“Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face,
though he’s not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his
forehead.”

Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. “I thought as
much,” said he. “Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for
earrings?”

“Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him when he was a
lad.”

“Hum!” said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. “He is still with
you?”

“Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him.”

“And has your business been attended to in your absence?”

“Nothing to complain of, sir. There’s never very much to do of a
morning.”

“That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon
the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday, and I
hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion.”

“Well, Watson,” said Holmes when our visitor had left us, “what do you
make of it all?”

“I make nothing of it,” I answered frankly. “It is a most mysterious
business.”

“As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more bizarre a thing is the less
mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes
which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most
difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter.”

“What are you going to do, then?” I asked.

“To smoke,” he answered. “It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg
that you won’t speak to me for fifty minutes.” He curled himself up in
his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and
there he sat with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe thrusting out
like the bill of some strange bird. I had come to the conclusion that
he had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly
sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his
mind and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.

“Sarasate plays at the St. James’s Hall this afternoon,” he remarked.
“What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few
hours?”

“I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very absorbing.”

“Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City first, and
we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good deal
of German music on the programme, which is rather more to my taste than
Italian or French. It is introspective, and I want to introspect. Come
along!”

We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short walk
took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story which we
had listened to in the morning. It was a poky, little, shabby-genteel
place, where four lines of dingy two-storied brick houses looked out
into a small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few
clumps of faded laurel bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden
and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown board with
“JABEZ WILSON” in white letters, upon a corner house, announced the
place where our red-headed client carried on his business. Sherlock
Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side and looked it
all over, with his eyes shining brightly between puckered lids. Then he
walked slowly up the street, and then down again to the corner, still
looking keenly at the houses. Finally he returned to the pawnbroker’s,
and, having thumped vigorously upon the pavement with his stick two or
three times, he went up to the door and knocked. It was instantly
opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to
step in.

“Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished to ask you how you would go
from here to the Strand.”

“Third right, fourth left,” answered the assistant promptly, closing
the door.

“Smart fellow, that,” observed Holmes as we walked away. “He is, in my
judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring I am not
sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known something of him
before.”

“Evidently,” said I, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant counts for a good deal in
this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you inquired your
way merely in order that you might see him.”

“Not him.”

“What then?”

“The knees of his trousers.”

“And what did you see?”

“What I expected to see.”

“Why did you beat the pavement?”

“My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are
spies in an enemy’s country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square.
Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it.”

The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner from
the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to it as
the front of a picture does to the back. It was one of the main
arteries which conveyed the traffic of the City to the north and west.
The roadway was blocked with the immense stream of commerce flowing in
a double tide inward and outward, while the footpaths were black with
the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to realise as we
looked at the line of fine shops and stately business premises that
they really abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant
square which we had just quitted.

“Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along
the line, “I should like just to remember the order of the houses here.
It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London. There is
Mortimer’s, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg
branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and
McFarlane’s carriage-building depot. That carries us right on to the
other block. And now, Doctor, we’ve done our work, so it’s time we had
some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land,
where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no
red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums.”

My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very
capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit. All the
afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness,
gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, while his
gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those
of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted,
ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In his
singular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and his
extreme exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often thought,
the reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which
occasionally predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from
extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was never
so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been lounging in
his armchair amid his improvisations and his black-letter editions.
Then it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly come upon him,
and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the level of
intuition, until those who were unacquainted with his methods would
look askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not that of other
mortals. When I saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at St.
James’s Hall I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom
he had set himself to hunt down.

“You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor,” he remarked as we emerged.

“Yes, it would be as well.”

“And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This
business at Coburg Square is serious.”

“Why serious?”

“A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to
believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday
rather complicates matters. I shall want your help to-night.”

“At what time?”

“Ten will be early enough.”

“I shall be at Baker Street at ten.”

“Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger, so
kindly put your army revolver in your pocket.” He waved his hand,
turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd.

I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was always
oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock
Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I had seen what he had
seen, and yet from his words it was evident that he saw clearly not
only what had happened but what was about to happen, while to me the
whole business was still confused and grotesque. As I drove home to my
house in Kensington I thought over it all, from the extraordinary story
of the red-headed copier of the _Encyclopædia_ down to the visit to
Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with which he had parted from
me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed?
Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes
that this smooth-faced pawnbroker’s assistant was a formidable man—a
man who might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it
up in despair and set the matter aside until night should bring an
explanation.

It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way
across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two
hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered the passage I heard
the sound of voices from above. On entering his room, I found Holmes in
animated conversation with two men, one of whom I recognised as Peter
Jones, the official police agent, while the other was a long, thin,
sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable
frock-coat.

“Ha! Our party is complete,” said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket
and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack. “Watson, I think you
know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr.
Merryweather, who is to be our companion in to-night’s adventure.”

“We’re hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see,” said Jones in his
consequential way. “Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a
chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down.”

“I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,”
observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.

“You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,” said the
police agent loftily. “He has his own little methods, which are, if he
won’t mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic,
but he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not too much to say
that once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and the
Agra treasure, he has been more nearly correct than the official
force.”

“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,” said the stranger with
deference. “Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the first
Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my
rubber.”

“I think you will find,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that you will play for
a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the play
will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be
some £ 30,000; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you
wish to lay your hands.”

“John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He’s a young man,
Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would
rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London. He’s a
remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke,
and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as
his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never
know where to find the man himself. He’ll crack a crib in Scotland one
week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next.
I’ve been on his track for years and have never set eyes on him yet.”

“I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night. I’ve
had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with
you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten, however,
and quite time that we started. If you two will take the first hansom,
Watson and I will follow in the second.”

Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and
lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the
afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets
until we emerged into Farrington Street.

“We are close there now,” my friend remarked. “This fellow Merryweather
is a bank director, and personally interested in the matter. I thought
it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though
an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one positive virtue. He
is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his
claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they are waiting for us.”

We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found
ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the
guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and
through a side door, which he opened for us. Within there was a small
corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was
opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated
at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a
lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and
so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was
piled all round with crates and massive boxes.

“You are not very vulnerable from above,” Holmes remarked as he held up
the lantern and gazed about him.

“Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the
flags which lined the floor. “Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!” he
remarked, looking up in surprise.

“I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!” said Holmes
severely. “You have already imperilled the whole success of our
expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down
upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?”

The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very
injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon
the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to examine
minutely the cracks between the stones. A few seconds sufficed to
satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put his glass in his
pocket.

“We have at least an hour before us,” he remarked, “for they can hardly
take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they
will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work the longer
time they will have for their escape. We are at present, Doctor—as no
doubt you have divined—in the cellar of the City branch of one of the
principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of directors,
and he will explain to you that there are reasons why the more daring
criminals of London should take a considerable interest in this cellar
at present.”

“It is our French gold,” whispered the director. “We have had several
warnings that an attempt might be made upon it.”

“Your French gold?”

“Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources and
borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France. It
has become known that we have never had occasion to unpack the money,
and that it is still lying in our cellar. The crate upon which I sit
contains 2,000 napoleons packed between layers of lead foil. Our
reserve of bullion is much larger at present than is usually kept in a
single branch office, and the directors have had misgivings upon the
subject.”

“Which were very well justified,” observed Holmes. “And now it is time
that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour matters
will come to a head. In the meantime Mr. Merryweather, we must put the
screen over that dark lantern.”

“And sit in the dark?”

“I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I
thought that, as we were a _partie carrée_, you might have your rubber
after all. But I see that the enemy’s preparations have gone so far
that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first of all, we must
choose our positions. These are daring men, and though we shall take
them at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are careful.
I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal yourselves behind
those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close in swiftly. If they
fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down.”

I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind
which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front of his lantern
and left us in pitch darkness—such an absolute darkness as I have never
before experienced. The smell of hot metal remained to assure us that
the light was still there, ready to flash out at a moment’s notice. To
me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of expectancy, there was
something depressing and subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold
dank air of the vault.

“They have but one retreat,” whispered Holmes. “That is back through
the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I
asked you, Jones?”

“I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door.”

“Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and
wait.”

What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an
hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must have
almost gone, and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were weary and
stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my nerves were worked up
to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was so acute that I
could not only hear the gentle breathing of my companions, but I could
distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the
thin, sighing note of the bank director. From my position I could look
over the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught
the glint of a light.

At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it
lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any
warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared, a white,
almost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre of the little area
of light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing fingers,
protruded out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it
appeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid spark which
marked a chink between the stones.

Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending, tearing
sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon its side and
left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed the light of a
lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face, which
looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand on either side of the
aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until one knee
rested upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side of the
hole and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like
himself, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair.

“It’s all clear,” he whispered. “Have you the chisel and the bags?
Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I’ll swing for it!”

Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar.
The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth
as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed upon the barrel of a
revolver, but Holmes’ hunting crop came down on the man’s wrist, and
the pistol clinked upon the stone floor.

“It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes blandly. “You have no chance at
all.”

“So I see,” the other answered with the utmost coolness. “I fancy that
my pal is all right, though I see you have got his coat-tails.”

“There are three men waiting for him at the door,” said Holmes.

“Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must
compliment you.”

“And I you,” Holmes answered. “Your red-headed idea was very new and
effective.”

“You’ll see your pal again presently,” said Jones. “He’s quicker at
climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the derbies.”

“I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,” remarked our
prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. “You may not be
aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness, also,
when you address me always to say ‘sir’ and ‘please.’”

“All right,” said Jones with a stare and a snigger. “Well, would you
please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry your
Highness to the police-station?”

“That is better,” said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow to
the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of the detective.

“Really, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them from
the cellar, “I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you.
There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most
complete manner one of the most determined attempts at bank robbery
that have ever come within my experience.”

“I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr. John
Clay,” said Holmes. “I have been at some small expense over this
matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am
amply repaid by having had an experience which is in many ways unique,
and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of the Red-headed League.”

“You see, Watson,” he explained in the early hours of the morning as we
sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, “it was perfectly
obvious from the first that the only possible object of this rather
fantastic business of the advertisement of the League, and the copying
of the _Encyclopædia_, must be to get this not over-bright pawnbroker
out of the way for a number of hours every day. It was a curious way of
managing it, but, really, it would be difficult to suggest a better.
The method was no doubt suggested to Clay’s ingenious mind by the
colour of his accomplice’s hair. The £ 4 a week was a lure which must
draw him, and what was it to them, who were playing for thousands? They
put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary office, the other
rogue incites the man to apply for it, and together they manage to
secure his absence every morning in the week. From the time that I
heard of the assistant having come for half wages, it was obvious to me
that he had some strong motive for securing the situation.”

“But how could you guess what the motive was?”

“Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere
vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The man’s
business was a small one, and there was nothing in his house which
could account for such elaborate preparations, and such an expenditure
as they were at. It must, then, be something out of the house. What
could it be? I thought of the assistant’s fondness for photography, and
his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar! There was the end
of this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious
assistant and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest and most
daring criminals in London. He was doing something in the
cellar—something which took many hours a day for months on end. What
could it be, once more? I could think of nothing save that he was
running a tunnel to some other building.

“So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I
surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was
ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind. It
was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the assistant
answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had never set eyes
upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. His knees were
what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how worn,
wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of
burrowing. The only remaining point was what they were burrowing for. I
walked round the corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted on our
friend’s premises, and felt that I had solved my problem. When you
drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard and upon the
chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you have seen.”

“And how could you tell that they would make their attempt to-night?” I
asked.

“Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that they
cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson’s presence—in other words, that
they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential that they should
use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the bullion might be
removed. Saturday would suit them better than any other day, as it
would give them two days for their escape. For all these reasons I
expected them to come to-night.”

“You reasoned it out beautifully,” I exclaimed in unfeigned admiration.
“It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true.”

“It saved me from ennui,” he answered, yawning. “Alas! I already feel
it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape
from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to do
so.”

“And you are a benefactor of the race,” said I.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some
little use,” he remarked. “‘_L’homme c’est rien—l’œuvre c’est tout_,’
as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand.”




III. A CASE OF IDENTITY


“My dear fellow,” said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of the
fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, “life is infinitely stranger than
anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to
conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence. If
we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great
city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which
are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the
cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through
generations, and leading to the most _outré_ results, it would make all
fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale
and unprofitable.”

“And yet I am not convinced of it,” I answered. “The cases which come
to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and vulgar enough.
We have in our police reports realism pushed to its extreme limits, and
yet the result is, it must be confessed, neither fascinating nor
artistic.”

“A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a
realistic effect,” remarked Holmes. “This is wanting in the police
report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the platitudes of the
magistrate than upon the details, which to an observer contain the
vital essence of the whole matter. Depend upon it, there is nothing so
unnatural as the commonplace.”

I smiled and shook my head. “I can quite understand your thinking so,”
I said. “Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser and helper
to everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout three continents,
you are brought in contact with all that is strange and bizarre. But
here”—I picked up the morning paper from the ground—“let us put it to a
practical test. Here is the first heading upon which I come. ‘A
husband’s cruelty to his wife.’ There is half a column of print, but I
know without reading it that it is all perfectly familiar to me. There
is, of course, the other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the
bruise, the sympathetic sister or landlady. The crudest of writers
could invent nothing more crude.”

“Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument,” said
Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it. “This is the
Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged in clearing
up some small points in connection with it. The husband was a
teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the conduct complained of was
that he had drifted into the habit of winding up every meal by taking
out his false teeth and hurling them at his wife, which, you will
allow, is not an action likely to occur to the imagination of the
average story-teller. Take a pinch of snuff, Doctor, and acknowledge
that I have scored over you in your example.”

He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in the
centre of the lid. Its splendour was in such contrast to his homely
ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon it.

“Ah,” said he, “I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks. It is
a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return for my assistance
in the case of the Irene Adler papers.”

“And the ring?” I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which
sparkled upon his finger.

“It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in which
I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it even to
you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two of my little
problems.”

“And have you any on hand just now?” I asked with interest.

“Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of interest.
They are important, you understand, without being interesting. Indeed,
I have found that it is usually in unimportant matters that there is a
field for the observation, and for the quick analysis of cause and
effect which gives the charm to an investigation. The larger crimes are
apt to be the simpler, for the bigger the crime the more obvious, as a
rule, is the motive. In these cases, save for one rather intricate
matter which has been referred to me from Marseilles, there is nothing
which presents any features of interest. It is possible, however, that
I may have something better before very many minutes are over, for this
is one of my clients, or I am much mistaken.”

He had risen from his chair and was standing between the parted blinds
gazing down into the dull neutral-tinted London street. Looking over
his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite there stood a large
woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck, and a large curling red
feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was tilted in a coquettish Duchess
of Devonshire fashion over her ear. From under this great panoply she
peeped up in a nervous, hesitating fashion at our windows, while her
body oscillated backward and forward, and her fingers fidgeted with her
glove buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the swimmer who leaves
the bank, she hurried across the road, and we heard the sharp clang of
the bell.

“I have seen those symptoms before,” said Holmes, throwing his
cigarette into the fire. “Oscillation upon the pavement always means an
_affaire de cœur_. She would like advice, but is not sure that the
matter is not too delicate for communication. And yet even here we may
discriminate. When a woman has been seriously wronged by a man she no
longer oscillates, and the usual symptom is a broken bell wire. Here we
may take it that there is a love matter, but that the maiden is not so
much angry as perplexed, or grieved. But here she comes in person to
resolve our doubts.”

As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons entered
to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself loomed behind
his small black figure like a full-sailed merchant-man behind a tiny
pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed her with the easy courtesy for
which he was remarkable, and, having closed the door and bowed her into
an armchair, he looked her over in the minute and yet abstracted
fashion which was peculiar to him.

“Do you not find,” he said, “that with your short sight it is a little
trying to do so much typewriting?”

“I did at first,” she answered, “but now I know where the letters are
without looking.” Then, suddenly realising the full purport of his
words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear and
astonishment upon her broad, good-humoured face. “You’ve heard about
me, Mr. Holmes,” she cried, “else how could you know all that?”

“Never mind,” said Holmes, laughing; “it is my business to know things.
Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others overlook. If not, why
should you come to consult me?”

“I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. Etherege, whose
husband you found so easy when the police and everyone had given him up
for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as much for me. I’m not
rich, but still I have a hundred a year in my own right, besides the
little that I make by the machine, and I would give it all to know what
has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel.”

“Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?” asked Sherlock
Holmes, with his finger-tips together and his eyes to the ceiling.

Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss Mary
Sutherland. “Yes, I did bang out of the house,” she said, “for it made
me angry to see the easy way in which Mr. Windibank—that is, my
father—took it all. He would not go to the police, and he would not go
to you, and so at last, as he would do nothing and kept on saying that
there was no harm done, it made me mad, and I just on with my things
and came right away to you.”

“Your father,” said Holmes, “your stepfather, surely, since the name is
different.”

“Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds funny, too,
for he is only five years and two months older than myself.”

“And your mother is alive?”

“Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn’t best pleased, Mr. Holmes,
when she married again so soon after father’s death, and a man who was
nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father was a plumber in the
Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy business behind him, which
mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the foreman; but when Mr. Windibank
came he made her sell the business, for he was very superior, being a
traveller in wines. They got £ 4700 for the goodwill and interest,
which wasn’t near as much as father could have got if he had been
alive.”

I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this rambling and
inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary, he had listened with
the greatest concentration of attention.

“Your own little income,” he asked, “does it come out of the business?”

“Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left me by my uncle Ned in
Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying 4½ per cent. Two thousand
five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can only touch the interest.”

“You interest me extremely,” said Holmes. “And since you draw so large
a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into the bargain, you no
doubt travel a little and indulge yourself in every way. I believe that
a single lady can get on very nicely upon an income of about £ 60.”

“I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you understand
that as long as I live at home I don’t wish to be a burden to them, and
so they have the use of the money just while I am staying with them. Of
course, that is only just for the time. Mr. Windibank draws my interest
every quarter and pays it over to mother, and I find that I can do
pretty well with what I earn at typewriting. It brings me twopence a
sheet, and I can often do from fifteen to twenty sheets in a day.”

“You have made your position very clear to me,” said Holmes. “This is
my friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before
myself. Kindly tell us now all about your connection with Mr. Hosmer
Angel.”

A flush stole over Miss Sutherland’s face, and she picked nervously at
the fringe of her jacket. “I met him first at the gasfitters’ ball,”
she said. “They used to send father tickets when he was alive, and then
afterwards they remembered us, and sent them to mother. Mr. Windibank
did not wish us to go. He never did wish us to go anywhere. He would
get quite mad if I wanted so much as to join a Sunday-school treat. But
this time I was set on going, and I would go; for what right had he to
prevent? He said the folk were not fit for us to know, when all
father’s friends were to be there. And he said that I had nothing fit
to wear, when I had my purple plush that I had never so much as taken
out of the drawer. At last, when nothing else would do, he went off to
France upon the business of the firm, but we went, mother and I, with
Mr. Hardy, who used to be our foreman, and it was there I met Mr.
Hosmer Angel.”

“I suppose,” said Holmes, “that when Mr. Windibank came back from
France he was very annoyed at your having gone to the ball.”

“Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember, and
shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying anything to a
woman, for she would have her way.”

“I see. Then at the gasfitters’ ball you met, as I understand, a
gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel.”

“Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask if we
had got home all safe, and after that we met him—that is to say, Mr.
Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that father came back
again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house any more.”

“No?”

“Well, you know father didn’t like anything of the sort. He wouldn’t
have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to say that a woman
should be happy in her own family circle. But then, as I used to say to
mother, a woman wants her own circle to begin with, and I had not got
mine yet.”

“But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to see you?”

“Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and Hosmer wrote
and said that it would be safer and better not to see each other until
he had gone. We could write in the meantime, and he used to write every
day. I took the letters in in the morning, so there was no need for
father to know.”

“Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first walk that we
took. Hosmer—Mr. Angel—was a cashier in an office in Leadenhall
Street—and—”

“What office?”

“That’s the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, I don’t know.”

“Where did he live, then?”

“He slept on the premises.”

“And you don’t know his address?”

“No—except that it was Leadenhall Street.”

“Where did you address your letters, then?”

“To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left till called for. He
said that if they were sent to the office he would be chaffed by all
the other clerks about having letters from a lady, so I offered to
typewrite them, like he did his, but he wouldn’t have that, for he said
that when I wrote them they seemed to come from me, but when they were
typewritten he always felt that the machine had come between us. That
will just show you how fond he was of me, Mr. Holmes, and the little
things that he would think of.”

“It was most suggestive,” said Holmes. “It has long been an axiom of
mine that the little things are infinitely the most important. Can you
remember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel?”

“He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk with me in the
evening than in the daylight, for he said that he hated to be
conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even his voice was
gentle. He’d had the quinsy and swollen glands when he was young, he
told me, and it had left him with a weak throat, and a hesitating,
whispering fashion of speech. He was always well dressed, very neat and
plain, but his eyes were weak, just as mine are, and he wore tinted
glasses against the glare.”

“Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your stepfather, returned
to France?”

“Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again and proposed that we should
marry before father came back. He was in dreadful earnest and made me
swear, with my hands on the Testament, that whatever happened I would
always be true to him. Mother said he was quite right to make me swear,
and that it was a sign of his passion. Mother was all in his favour
from the first and was even fonder of him than I was. Then, when they
talked of marrying within the week, I began to ask about father; but
they both said never to mind about father, but just to tell him
afterwards, and mother said she would make it all right with him. I
didn’t quite like that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny that I should ask
his leave, as he was only a few years older than me; but I didn’t want
to do anything on the sly, so I wrote to father at Bordeaux, where the
company has its French offices, but the letter came back to me on the
very morning of the wedding.”

“It missed him, then?”

“Yes, sir; for he had started to England just before it arrived.”

“Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged, then, for the
Friday. Was it to be in church?”

“Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour’s, near King’s
Cross, and we were to have breakfast afterwards at the St. Pancras
Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a hansom, but as there were two of us he
put us both into it and stepped himself into a four-wheeler, which
happened to be the only other cab in the street. We got to the church
first, and when the four-wheeler drove up we waited for him to step
out, but he never did, and when the cabman got down from the box and
looked there was no one there! The cabman said that he could not
imagine what had become of him, for he had seen him get in with his own
eyes. That was last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or heard
anything since then to throw any light upon what became of him.”

“It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated,” said
Holmes.

“Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why, all the
morning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I was to be true;
and that even if something quite unforeseen occurred to separate us, I
was always to remember that I was pledged to him, and that he would
claim his pledge sooner or later. It seemed strange talk for a
wedding-morning, but what has happened since gives a meaning to it.”

“Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that some
unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?”

“Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he would not
have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw happened.”

“But you have no notion as to what it could have been?”

“None.”

“One more question. How did your mother take the matter?”

“She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the matter
again.”

“And your father? Did you tell him?”

“Yes; and he seemed to think, with me, that something had happened, and
that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said, what interest could
anyone have in bringing me to the doors of the church, and then leaving
me? Now, if he had borrowed my money, or if he had married me and got
my money settled on him, there might be some reason, but Hosmer was
very independent about money and never would look at a shilling of
mine. And yet, what could have happened? And why could he not write?
Oh, it drives me half-mad to think of it, and I can’t sleep a wink at
night.” She pulled a little handkerchief out of her muff and began to
sob heavily into it.

“I shall glance into the case for you,” said Holmes, rising, “and I
have no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let the weight
of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind dwell upon it
further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel vanish from your
memory, as he has done from your life.”

“Then you don’t think I’ll see him again?”

“I fear not.”

“Then what has happened to him?”

“You will leave that question in my hands. I should like an accurate
description of him and any letters of his which you can spare.”

“I advertised for him in last Saturday’s _Chronicle_,” said she. “Here
is the slip and here are four letters from him.”

“Thank you. And your address?”

“No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell.”

“Mr. Angel’s address you never had, I understand. Where is your
father’s place of business?”

“He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret importers of
Fenchurch Street.”

“Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You will leave
the papers here, and remember the advice which I have given you. Let
the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it to affect your
life.”

“You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be true
to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back.”

For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was something
noble in the simple faith of our visitor which compelled our respect.
She laid her little bundle of papers upon the table and went her way,
with a promise to come again whenever she might be summoned.

Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his fingertips still
pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and his gaze
directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down from the rack the old
and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a counsellor, and, having lit
it, he leaned back in his chair, with the thick blue cloud-wreaths
spinning up from him, and a look of infinite languor in his face.

“Quite an interesting study, that maiden,” he observed. “I found her
more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way, is rather
a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you consult my index, in
Andover in ’77, and there was something of the sort at The Hague last
year. Old as is the idea, however, there were one or two details which
were new to me. But the maiden herself was most instructive.”

“You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite invisible to
me,” I remarked.

“Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to look,
and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring you to
realise the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb-nails,
or the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace. Now, what did you
gather from that woman’s appearance? Describe it.”

“Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a
feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads sewn
upon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments. Her dress was
brown, rather darker than coffee colour, with a little purple plush at
the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were greyish and were worn through at
the right forefinger. Her boots I didn’t observe. She had small round,
hanging gold earrings, and a general air of being fairly well-to-do in
a vulgar, comfortable, easy-going way.”

Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.

“’Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You have
really done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed
everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and you
have a quick eye for colour. Never trust to general impressions, my
boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. My first glance is always
at a woman’s sleeve. In a man it is perhaps better first to take the
knee of the trouser. As you observe, this woman had plush upon her
sleeves, which is a most useful material for showing traces. The double
line a little above the wrist, where the typewritist presses against
the table, was beautifully defined. The sewing-machine, of the hand
type, leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and on the side
of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right across the
broadest part, as this was. I then glanced at her face, and, observing
the dint of a pince-nez at either side of her nose, I ventured a remark
upon short sight and typewriting, which seemed to surprise her.”

“It surprised me.”

“But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and interested
on glancing down to observe that, though the boots which she was
wearing were not unlike each other, they were really odd ones; the one
having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other a plain one. One was
buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of five, and the other at
the first, third, and fifth. Now, when you see that a young lady,
otherwise neatly dressed, has come away from home with odd boots,
half-buttoned, it is no great deduction to say that she came away in a
hurry.”

“And what else?” I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by my
friend’s incisive reasoning.

“I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving home
but after being fully dressed. You observed that her right glove was
torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see that both glove
and finger were stained with violet ink. She had written in a hurry and
dipped her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, or the mark
would not remain clear upon the finger. All this is amusing, though
rather elementary, but I must go back to business, Watson. Would you
mind reading me the advertised description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?”

I held the little printed slip to the light. “Missing,” it said, “on
the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman named Hosmer Angel. About
five ft. seven in. in height; strongly built, sallow complexion, black
hair, a little bald in the centre, bushy, black side-whiskers and
moustache; tinted glasses, slight infirmity of speech. Was dressed,
when last seen, in black frock-coat faced with silk, black waistcoat,
gold Albert chain, and grey Harris tweed trousers, with brown gaiters
over elastic-sided boots. Known to have been employed in an office in
Leadenhall Street. Anybody bringing,” &c, &c.

“That will do,” said Holmes. “As to the letters,” he continued,
glancing over them, “they are very commonplace. Absolutely no clue in
them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There is one
remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike you.”

“They are typewritten,” I remarked.

“Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the neat
little ‘Hosmer Angel’ at the bottom. There is a date, you see, but no
superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is rather vague. The
point about the signature is very suggestive—in fact, we may call it
conclusive.”

“Of what?”

“My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly it bears
upon the case?”

“I cannot say that I do unless it were that he wished to be able to
deny his signature if an action for breach of promise were instituted.”

“No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two letters, which
should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the City, the other is to
the young lady’s stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking him whether he could
meet us here at six o’clock to-morrow evening. It is just as well that
we should do business with the male relatives. And now, Doctor, we can
do nothing until the answers to those letters come, so we may put our
little problem upon the shelf for the interim.”

I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend’s subtle powers of
reasoning and extraordinary energy in action that I felt that he must
have some solid grounds for the assured and easy demeanour with which
he treated the singular mystery which he had been called upon to
fathom. Once only had I known him to fail, in the case of the King of
Bohemia and of the Irene Adler photograph; but when I looked back to
the weird business of the Sign of Four, and the extraordinary
circumstances connected with the Study in Scarlet, I felt that it would
be a strange tangle indeed which he could not unravel.

I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with the
conviction that when I came again on the next evening I would find that
he held in his hands all the clues which would lead up to the identity
of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland.

A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own attention at
the time, and the whole of next day I was busy at the bedside of the
sufferer. It was not until close upon six o’clock that I found myself
free and was able to spring into a hansom and drive to Baker Street,
half afraid that I might be too late to assist at the _dénouement_ of
the little mystery. I found Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half
asleep, with his long, thin form curled up in the recesses of his
armchair. A formidable array of bottles and test-tubes, with the
pungent cleanly smell of hydrochloric acid, told me that he had spent
his day in the chemical work which was so dear to him.

“Well, have you solved it?” I asked as I entered.

“Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta.”

“No, no, the mystery!” I cried.

“Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon. There
was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said yesterday, some
of the details are of interest. The only drawback is that there is no
law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel.”

“Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting Miss
Sutherland?”

The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet opened
his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall in the passage and a
tap at the door.

“This is the girl’s stepfather, Mr. James Windibank,” said Holmes. “He
has written to me to say that he would be here at six. Come in!”

The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some thirty
years of age, clean-shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a bland,
insinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and penetrating
grey eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of us, placed his shiny
top-hat upon the sideboard, and with a slight bow sidled down into the
nearest chair.

“Good-evening, Mr. James Windibank,” said Holmes. “I think that this
typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an appointment with
me for six o’clock?”

“Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not quite my
own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has troubled you
about this little matter, for I think it is far better not to wash
linen of the sort in public. It was quite against my wishes that she
came, but she is a very excitable, impulsive girl, as you may have
noticed, and she is not easily controlled when she has made up her mind
on a point. Of course, I did not mind you so much, as you are not
connected with the official police, but it is not pleasant to have a
family misfortune like this noised abroad. Besides, it is a useless
expense, for how could you possibly find this Hosmer Angel?”

“On the contrary,” said Holmes quietly; “I have every reason to believe
that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel.”

Mr. Windibank gave a violent start and dropped his gloves. “I am
delighted to hear it,” he said.

“It is a curious thing,” remarked Holmes, “that a typewriter has really
quite as much individuality as a man’s handwriting. Unless they are
quite new, no two of them write exactly alike. Some letters get more
worn than others, and some wear only on one side. Now, you remark in
this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in every case there is some
little slurring over of the ‘e,’ and a slight defect in the tail of the
‘r.’ There are fourteen other characteristics, but those are the more
obvious.”

“We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office, and no
doubt it is a little worn,” our visitor answered, glancing keenly at
Holmes with his bright little eyes.

“And now I will show you what is really a very interesting study, Mr.
Windibank,” Holmes continued. “I think of writing another little
monograph some of these days on the typewriter and its relation to
crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted some little attention. I
have here four letters which purport to come from the missing man. They
are all typewritten. In each case, not only are the ‘e’s’ slurred and
the ‘r’s’ tailless, but you will observe, if you care to use my
magnifying lens, that the fourteen other characteristics to which I
have alluded are there as well.”

Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair and picked up his hat. “I cannot
waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “If
you can catch the man, catch him, and let me know when you have done
it.”

“Certainly,” said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in the
door. “I let you know, then, that I have caught him!”

“What! where?” shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his lips and
glancing about him like a rat in a trap.

“Oh, it won’t do—really it won’t,” said Holmes suavely. “There is no
possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite too transparent,
and it was a very bad compliment when you said that it was impossible
for me to solve so simple a question. That’s right! Sit down and let us
talk it over.”

Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face and a glitter
of moisture on his brow. “It—it’s not actionable,” he stammered.

“I am very much afraid that it is not. But between ourselves,
Windibank, it was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in a petty
way as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over the course of
events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong.”

The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his
breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up on
the corner of the mantelpiece and, leaning back with his hands in his
pockets, began talking, rather to himself, as it seemed, than to us.

“The man married a woman very much older than himself for her money,”
said he, “and he enjoyed the use of the money of the daughter as long
as she lived with them. It was a considerable sum, for people in their
position, and the loss of it would have made a serious difference. It
was worth an effort to preserve it. The daughter was of a good, amiable
disposition, but affectionate and warm-hearted in her ways, so that it
was evident that with her fair personal advantages, and her little
income, she would not be allowed to remain single long. Now her
marriage would mean, of course, the loss of a hundred a year, so what
does her stepfather do to prevent it? He takes the obvious course of
keeping her at home and forbidding her to seek the company of people of
her own age. But soon he found that that would not answer forever. She
became restive, insisted upon her rights, and finally announced her
positive intention of going to a certain ball. What does her clever
stepfather do then? He conceives an idea more creditable to his head
than to his heart. With the connivance and assistance of his wife he
disguised himself, covered those keen eyes with tinted glasses, masked
the face with a moustache and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear
voice into an insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on account of the
girl’s short sight, he appears as Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other
lovers by making love himself.”

“It was only a joke at first,” groaned our visitor. “We never thought
that she would have been so carried away.”

“Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was very
decidedly carried away, and, having quite made up her mind that her
stepfather was in France, the suspicion of treachery never for an
instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the gentleman’s
attentions, and the effect was increased by the loudly expressed
admiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it was
obvious that the matter should be pushed as far as it would go if a
real effect were to be produced. There were meetings, and an
engagement, which would finally secure the girl’s affections from
turning towards anyone else. But the deception could not be kept up
forever. These pretended journeys to France were rather cumbrous. The
thing to do was clearly to bring the business to an end in such a
dramatic manner that it would leave a permanent impression upon the
young lady’s mind and prevent her from looking upon any other suitor
for some time to come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon a
Testament, and hence also the allusions to a possibility of something
happening on the very morning of the wedding. James Windibank wished
Miss Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer Angel, and so uncertain as to
his fate, that for ten years to come, at any rate, she would not listen
to another man. As far as the church door he brought her, and then, as
he could go no farther, he conveniently vanished away by the old trick
of stepping in at one door of a four-wheeler and out at the other. I
think that was the chain of events, Mr. Windibank!”

Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance while Holmes had
been talking, and he rose from his chair now with a cold sneer upon his
pale face.

“It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “but if you are so
very sharp you ought to be sharp enough to know that it is you who are
breaking the law now, and not me. I have done nothing actionable from
the first, but as long as you keep that door locked you lay yourself
open to an action for assault and illegal constraint.”

“The law cannot, as you say, touch you,” said Holmes, unlocking and
throwing open the door, “yet there never was a man who deserved
punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend, he ought
to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!” he continued, flushing
up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon the man’s face, “it is not
part of my duties to my client, but here’s a hunting crop handy, and I
think I shall just treat myself to—” He took two swift steps to the
whip, but before he could grasp it there was a wild clatter of steps
upon the stairs, the heavy hall door banged, and from the window we
could see Mr. James Windibank running at the top of his speed down the
road.

“There’s a cold-blooded scoundrel!” said Holmes, laughing, as he threw
himself down into his chair once more. “That fellow will rise from
crime to crime until he does something very bad, and ends on a gallows.
The case has, in some respects, been not entirely devoid of interest.”

“I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your reasoning,” I
remarked.

“Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this Mr. Hosmer
Angel must have some strong object for his curious conduct, and it was
equally clear that the only man who really profited by the incident, as
far as we could see, was the stepfather. Then the fact that the two men
were never together, but that the one always appeared when the other
was away, was suggestive. So were the tinted spectacles and the curious
voice, which both hinted at a disguise, as did the bushy whiskers. My
suspicions were all confirmed by his peculiar action in typewriting his
signature, which, of course, inferred that his handwriting was so
familiar to her that she would recognise even the smallest sample of
it. You see all these isolated facts, together with many minor ones,
all pointed in the same direction.”

“And how did you verify them?”

“Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration. I knew
the firm for which this man worked. Having taken the printed
description. I eliminated everything from it which could be the result
of a disguise—the whiskers, the glasses, the voice, and I sent it to
the firm, with a request that they would inform me whether it answered
to the description of any of their travellers. I had already noticed
the peculiarities of the typewriter, and I wrote to the man himself at
his business address asking him if he would come here. As I expected,
his reply was typewritten and revealed the same trivial but
characteristic defects. The same post brought me a letter from
Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street, to say that the description
tallied in every respect with that of their employé, James Windibank.
_Voilà tout_!”

“And Miss Sutherland?”

“If I tell her she will not believe me. You may remember the old
Persian saying, ‘There is danger for him who taketh the tiger cub, and
danger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a woman.’ There is as
much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much knowledge of the world.”




IV. THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY


We were seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the maid
brought in a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes and ran in this way:

“Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from the
west of England in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy. Shall be
glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect. Leave
Paddington by the 11:15.”

“What do you say, dear?” said my wife, looking across at me. “Will you
go?”

“I really don’t know what to say. I have a fairly long list at
present.”

“Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have been looking a
little pale lately. I think that the change would do you good, and you
are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes’ cases.”

“I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained through one
of them,” I answered. “But if I am to go, I must pack at once, for I
have only half an hour.”

My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the effect
of making me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants were few and
simple, so that in less than the time stated I was in a cab with my
valise, rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock Holmes was pacing
up and down the platform, his tall, gaunt figure made even gaunter and
taller by his long grey travelling-cloak and close-fitting cloth cap.

“It is really very good of you to come, Watson,” said he. “It makes a
considerable difference to me, having someone with me on whom I can
thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless or else biassed.
If you will keep the two corner seats I shall get the tickets.”

We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of papers
which Holmes had brought with him. Among these he rummaged and read,
with intervals of note-taking and of meditation, until we were past
Reading. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a gigantic ball and
tossed them up onto the rack.

“Have you heard anything of the case?” he asked.

“Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days.”

“The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just been
looking through all the recent papers in order to master the
particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those simple
cases which are so extremely difficult.”

“That sounds a little paradoxical.”

“But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a clue.
The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult it
is to bring it home. In this case, however, they have established a
very serious case against the son of the murdered man.”

“It is a murder, then?”

“Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for granted
until I have the opportunity of looking personally into it. I will
explain the state of things to you, as far as I have been able to
understand it, in a very few words.

“Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross, in
Herefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a Mr. John
Turner, who made his money in Australia and returned some years ago to
the old country. One of the farms which he held, that of Hatherley, was
let to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was also an ex-Australian. The men had
known each other in the colonies, so that it was not unnatural that
when they came to settle down they should do so as near each other as
possible. Turner was apparently the richer man, so McCarthy became his
tenant but still remained, it seems, upon terms of perfect equality, as
they were frequently together. McCarthy had one son, a lad of eighteen,
and Turner had an only daughter of the same age, but neither of them
had wives living. They appear to have avoided the society of the
neighbouring English families and to have led retired lives, though
both the McCarthys were fond of sport and were frequently seen at the
race-meetings of the neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants—a man
and a girl. Turner had a considerable household, some half-dozen at the
least. That is as much as I have been able to gather about the
families. Now for the facts.

“On June 3rd, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house at
Hatherley about three in the afternoon and walked down to the Boscombe
Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out of the stream
which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been out with his
serving-man in the morning at Ross, and he had told the man that he
must hurry, as he had an appointment of importance to keep at three.
From that appointment he never came back alive.

“From Hatherley Farmhouse to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a mile,
and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One was an old
woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other was William Crowder,
a game-keeper in the employ of Mr. Turner. Both these witnesses depose
that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The game-keeper adds that within a
few minutes of his seeing Mr. McCarthy pass he had seen his son, Mr.
James McCarthy, going the same way with a gun under his arm. To the
best of his belief, the father was actually in sight at the time, and
the son was following him. He thought no more of the matter until he
heard in the evening of the tragedy that had occurred.

“The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder, the
game-keeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly wooded
round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds round the edge. A girl
of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of the lodge-keeper of
the Boscombe Valley estate, was in one of the woods picking flowers.
She states that while she was there she saw, at the border of the wood
and close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy and his son, and that they appeared
to be having a violent quarrel. She heard Mr. McCarthy the elder using
very strong language to his son, and she saw the latter raise up his
hand as if to strike his father. She was so frightened by their
violence that she ran away and told her mother when she reached home
that she had left the two McCarthys quarrelling near Boscombe Pool, and
that she was afraid that they were going to fight. She had hardly said
the words when young Mr. McCarthy came running up to the lodge to say
that he had found his father dead in the wood, and to ask for the help
of the lodge-keeper. He was much excited, without either his gun or his
hat, and his right hand and sleeve were observed to be stained with
fresh blood. On following him they found the dead body stretched out
upon the grass beside the pool. The head had been beaten in by repeated
blows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were such as might
very well have been inflicted by the butt-end of his son’s gun, which
was found lying on the grass within a few paces of the body. Under
these circumstances the young man was instantly arrested, and a verdict
of ‘wilful murder’ having been returned at the inquest on Tuesday, he
was on Wednesday brought before the magistrates at Ross, who have
referred the case to the next Assizes. Those are the main facts of the
case as they came out before the coroner and the police-court.”

“I could hardly imagine a more damning case,” I remarked. “If ever
circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal it does so here.”

“Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing,” answered Holmes
thoughtfully. “It may seem to point very straight to one thing, but if
you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it pointing in
an equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different. It
must be confessed, however, that the case looks exceedingly grave
against the young man, and it is very possible that he is indeed the
culprit. There are several people in the neighbourhood, however, and
among them Miss Turner, the daughter of the neighbouring landowner, who
believe in his innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom you may
recollect in connection with the Study in Scarlet, to work out the case
in his interest. Lestrade, being rather puzzled, has referred the case
to me, and hence it is that two middle-aged gentlemen are flying
westward at fifty miles an hour instead of quietly digesting their
breakfasts at home.”

“I am afraid,” said I, “that the facts are so obvious that you will
find little credit to be gained out of this case.”

“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,” he answered,
laughing. “Besides, we may chance to hit upon some other obvious facts
which may have been by no means obvious to Mr. Lestrade. You know me
too well to think that I am boasting when I say that I shall either
confirm or destroy his theory by means which he is quite incapable of
employing, or even of understanding. To take the first example to hand,
I very clearly perceive that in your bedroom the window is upon the
right-hand side, and yet I question whether Mr. Lestrade would have
noted even so self-evident a thing as that.”

“How on earth—”

“My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness which
characterises you. You shave every morning, and in this season you
shave by the sunlight; but since your shaving is less and less complete
as we get farther back on the left side, until it becomes positively
slovenly as we get round the angle of the jaw, it is surely very clear
that that side is less illuminated than the other. I could not imagine
a man of your habits looking at himself in an equal light and being
satisfied with such a result. I only quote this as a trivial example of
observation and inference. Therein lies my _métier_, and it is just
possible that it may be of some service in the investigation which lies
before us. There are one or two minor points which were brought out in
the inquest, and which are worth considering.”

“What are they?”

“It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after the
return to Hatherley Farm. On the inspector of constabulary informing
him that he was a prisoner, he remarked that he was not surprised to
hear it, and that it was no more than his deserts. This observation of
his had the natural effect of removing any traces of doubt which might
have remained in the minds of the coroner’s jury.”

“It was a confession,” I ejaculated.

“No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence.”

“Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was at least
a most suspicious remark.”

“On the contrary,” said Holmes, “it is the brightest rift which I can
at present see in the clouds. However innocent he might be, he could
not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see that the circumstances
were very black against him. Had he appeared surprised at his own
arrest, or feigned indignation at it, I should have looked upon it as
highly suspicious, because such surprise or anger would not be natural
under the circumstances, and yet might appear to be the best policy to
a scheming man. His frank acceptance of the situation marks him as
either an innocent man, or else as a man of considerable self-restraint
and firmness. As to his remark about his deserts, it was also not
unnatural if you consider that he stood beside the dead body of his
father, and that there is no doubt that he had that very day so far
forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words with him, and even,
according to the little girl whose evidence is so important, to raise
his hand as if to strike him. The self-reproach and contrition which
are displayed in his remark appear to me to be the signs of a healthy
mind rather than of a guilty one.”

I shook my head. “Many men have been hanged on far slighter evidence,”
I remarked.

“So they have. And many men have been wrongfully hanged.”

“What is the young man’s own account of the matter?”

“It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters, though
there are one or two points in it which are suggestive. You will find
it here, and may read it for yourself.”

He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local Herefordshire paper,
and having turned down the sheet he pointed out the paragraph in which
the unfortunate young man had given his own statement of what had
occurred. I settled myself down in the corner of the carriage and read
it very carefully. It ran in this way:

“Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then called and
gave evidence as follows: ‘I had been away from home for three days at
Bristol, and had only just returned upon the morning of last Monday,
the 3rd. My father was absent from home at the time of my arrival, and
I was informed by the maid that he had driven over to Ross with John
Cobb, the groom. Shortly after my return I heard the wheels of his trap
in the yard, and, looking out of my window, I saw him get out and walk
rapidly out of the yard, though I was not aware in which direction he
was going. I then took my gun and strolled out in the direction of the
Boscombe Pool, with the intention of visiting the rabbit warren which
is upon the other side. On my way I saw William Crowder, the
game-keeper, as he had stated in his evidence; but he is mistaken in
thinking that I was following my father. I had no idea that he was in
front of me. When about a hundred yards from the pool I heard a cry of
“Cooee!” which was a usual signal between my father and myself. I then
hurried forward, and found him standing by the pool. He appeared to be
much surprised at seeing me and asked me rather roughly what I was
doing there. A conversation ensued which led to high words and almost
to blows, for my father was a man of a very violent temper. Seeing that
his passion was becoming ungovernable, I left him and returned towards
Hatherley Farm. I had not gone more than 150 yards, however, when I
heard a hideous outcry behind me, which caused me to run back again. I
found my father expiring upon the ground, with his head terribly
injured. I dropped my gun and held him in my arms, but he almost
instantly expired. I knelt beside him for some minutes, and then made
my way to Mr. Turner’s lodge-keeper, his house being the nearest, to
ask for assistance. I saw no one near my father when I returned, and I
have no idea how he came by his injuries. He was not a popular man,
being somewhat cold and forbidding in his manners, but he had, as far
as I know, no active enemies. I know nothing further of the matter.’

“The Coroner: Did your father make any statement to you before he died?

“Witness: He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch some allusion
to a rat.

“The Coroner: What did you understand by that?

“Witness: It conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that he was
delirious.

“The Coroner: What was the point upon which you and your father had
this final quarrel?

“Witness: I should prefer not to answer.

“The Coroner: I am afraid that I must press it.

“Witness: It is really impossible for me to tell you. I can assure you
that it has nothing to do with the sad tragedy which followed.

“The Coroner: That is for the court to decide. I need not point out to
you that your refusal to answer will prejudice your case considerably
in any future proceedings which may arise.

“Witness: I must still refuse.

“The Coroner: I understand that the cry of ‘Cooee’ was a common signal
between you and your father?

“Witness: It was.

“The Coroner: How was it, then, that he uttered it before he saw you,
and before he even knew that you had returned from Bristol?

“Witness (with considerable confusion): I do not know.

“A Juryman: Did you see nothing which aroused your suspicions when you
returned on hearing the cry and found your father fatally injured?

“Witness: Nothing definite.

“The Coroner: What do you mean?

“Witness: I was so disturbed and excited as I rushed out into the open,
that I could think of nothing except of my father. Yet I have a vague
impression that as I ran forward something lay upon the ground to the
left of me. It seemed to me to be something grey in colour, a coat of
some sort, or a plaid perhaps. When I rose from my father I looked
round for it, but it was gone.

“‘Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for help?’

“‘Yes, it was gone.’

“‘You cannot say what it was?’

“‘No, I had a feeling something was there.’

“‘How far from the body?’

“‘A dozen yards or so.’

“‘And how far from the edge of the wood?’

“‘About the same.’

“‘Then if it was removed it was while you were within a dozen yards of
it?’

“‘Yes, but with my back towards it.’

“This concluded the examination of the witness.”

“I see,” said I as I glanced down the column, “that the coroner in his
concluding remarks was rather severe upon young McCarthy. He calls
attention, and with reason, to the discrepancy about his father having
signalled to him before seeing him, also to his refusal to give details
of his conversation with his father, and his singular account of his
father’s dying words. They are all, as he remarks, very much against
the son.”

Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched himself out upon the
cushioned seat. “Both you and the coroner have been at some pains,”
said he, “to single out the very strongest points in the young man’s
favour. Don’t you see that you alternately give him credit for having
too much imagination and too little? Too little, if he could not invent
a cause of quarrel which would give him the sympathy of the jury; too
much, if he evolved from his own inner consciousness anything so
_outré_ as a dying reference to a rat, and the incident of the
vanishing cloth. No, sir, I shall approach this case from the point of
view that what this young man says is true, and we shall see whither
that hypothesis will lead us. And now here is my pocket Petrarch, and
not another word shall I say of this case until we are on the scene of
action. We lunch at Swindon, and I see that we shall be there in twenty
minutes.”

It was nearly four o’clock when we at last, after passing through the
beautiful Stroud Valley, and over the broad gleaming Severn, found
ourselves at the pretty little country-town of Ross. A lean,
ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for us upon the
platform. In spite of the light brown dustcoat and leather-leggings
which he wore in deference to his rustic surroundings, I had no
difficulty in recognising Lestrade, of Scotland Yard. With him we drove
to the Hereford Arms where a room had already been engaged for us.

“I have ordered a carriage,” said Lestrade as we sat over a cup of tea.
“I knew your energetic nature, and that you would not be happy until
you had been on the scene of the crime.”

“It was very nice and complimentary of you,” Holmes answered. “It is
entirely a question of barometric pressure.”

Lestrade looked startled. “I do not quite follow,” he said.

“How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind, and not a cloud in the
sky. I have a caseful of cigarettes here which need smoking, and the
sofa is very much superior to the usual country hotel abomination. I do
not think that it is probable that I shall use the carriage to-night.”

Lestrade laughed indulgently. “You have, no doubt, already formed your
conclusions from the newspapers,” he said. “The case is as plain as a
pikestaff, and the more one goes into it the plainer it becomes. Still,
of course, one can’t refuse a lady, and such a very positive one, too.
She has heard of you, and would have your opinion, though I repeatedly
told her that there was nothing which you could do which I had not
already done. Why, bless my soul! here is her carriage at the door.”

He had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of the most
lovely young women that I have ever seen in my life. Her violet eyes
shining, her lips parted, a pink flush upon her cheeks, all thought of
her natural reserve lost in her overpowering excitement and concern.

“Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” she cried, glancing from one to the other of
us, and finally, with a woman’s quick intuition, fastening upon my
companion, “I am so glad that you have come. I have driven down to tell
you so. I know that James didn’t do it. I know it, and I want you to
start upon your work knowing it, too. Never let yourself doubt upon
that point. We have known each other since we were little children, and
I know his faults as no one else does; but he is too tender-hearted to
hurt a fly. Such a charge is absurd to anyone who really knows him.”

“I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner,” said Sherlock Holmes. “You may
rely upon my doing all that I can.”

“But you have read the evidence. You have formed some conclusion? Do
you not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself think that he
is innocent?”

“I think that it is very probable.”

“There, now!” she cried, throwing back her head and looking defiantly
at Lestrade. “You hear! He gives me hopes.”

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “I am afraid that my colleague has
been a little quick in forming his conclusions,” he said.

“But he is right. Oh! I know that he is right. James never did it. And
about his quarrel with his father, I am sure that the reason why he
would not speak about it to the coroner was because I was concerned in
it.”

“In what way?” asked Holmes.

“It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father had many
disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that there should
be a marriage between us. James and I have always loved each other as
brother and sister; but of course he is young and has seen very little
of life yet, and—and—well, he naturally did not wish to do anything
like that yet. So there were quarrels, and this, I am sure, was one of
them.”

“And your father?” asked Holmes. “Was he in favour of such a union?”

“No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy was in favour of
it.” A quick blush passed over her fresh young face as Holmes shot one
of his keen, questioning glances at her.

“Thank you for this information,” said he. “May I see your father if I
call to-morrow?”

“I am afraid the doctor won’t allow it.”

“The doctor?”

“Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has never been strong for years
back, but this has broken him down completely. He has taken to his bed,
and Dr. Willows says that he is a wreck and that his nervous system is
shattered. Mr. McCarthy was the only man alive who had known dad in the
old days in Victoria.”

“Ha! In Victoria! That is important.”

“Yes, at the mines.”

“Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I understand, Mr. Turner made
his money.”

“Yes, certainly.”

“Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material assistance to me.”

“You will tell me if you have any news to-morrow. No doubt you will go
to the prison to see James. Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do tell him that
I know him to be innocent.”

“I will, Miss Turner.”

“I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and he misses me so if I
leave him. Good-bye, and God help you in your undertaking.” She hurried
from the room as impulsively as she had entered, and we heard the
wheels of her carriage rattle off down the street.

“I am ashamed of you, Holmes,” said Lestrade with dignity after a few
minutes’ silence. “Why should you raise up hopes which you are bound to
disappoint? I am not over-tender of heart, but I call it cruel.”

“I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy,” said Holmes.
“Have you an order to see him in prison?”

“Yes, but only for you and me.”

“Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have still
time to take a train to Hereford and see him to-night?”

“Ample.”

“Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very slow, but
I shall only be away a couple of hours.”

I walked down to the station with them, and then wandered through the
streets of the little town, finally returning to the hotel, where I lay
upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a yellow-backed novel.
The puny plot of the story was so thin, however, when compared to the
deep mystery through which we were groping, and I found my attention
wander so continually from the action to the fact, that I at last flung
it across the room and gave myself up entirely to a consideration of
the events of the day. Supposing that this unhappy young man’s story
were absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what absolutely
unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred between the
time when he parted from his father, and the moment when, drawn back by
his screams, he rushed into the glade? It was something terrible and
deadly. What could it be? Might not the nature of the injuries reveal
something to my medical instincts? I rang the bell and called for the
weekly county paper, which contained a verbatim account of the inquest.
In the surgeon’s deposition it was stated that the posterior third of
the left parietal bone and the left half of the occipital bone had been
shattered by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon. I marked the spot upon
my own head. Clearly such a blow must have been struck from behind.
That was to some extent in favour of the accused, as when seen
quarrelling he was face to face with his father. Still, it did not go
for very much, for the older man might have turned his back before the
blow fell. Still, it might be worth while to call Holmes’ attention to
it. Then there was the peculiar dying reference to a rat. What could
that mean? It could not be delirium. A man dying from a sudden blow
does not commonly become delirious. No, it was more likely to be an
attempt to explain how he met his fate. But what could it indicate? I
cudgelled my brains to find some possible explanation. And then the
incident of the grey cloth seen by young McCarthy. If that were true
the murderer must have dropped some part of his dress, presumably his
overcoat, in his flight, and must have had the hardihood to return and
to carry it away at the instant when the son was kneeling with his back
turned not a dozen paces off. What a tissue of mysteries and
improbabilities the whole thing was! I did not wonder at Lestrade’s
opinion, and yet I had so much faith in Sherlock Holmes’ insight that I
could not lose hope as long as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen
his conviction of young McCarthy’s innocence.

It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone, for
Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town.

“The glass still keeps very high,” he remarked as he sat down. “It is
of importance that it should not rain before we are able to go over the
ground. On the other hand, a man should be at his very best and keenest
for such nice work as that, and I did not wish to do it when fagged by
a long journey. I have seen young McCarthy.”

“And what did you learn from him?”

“Nothing.”

“Could he throw no light?”

“None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew who had
done it and was screening him or her, but I am convinced now that he is
as puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very quick-witted youth,
though comely to look at and, I should think, sound at heart.”

“I cannot admire his taste,” I remarked, “if it is indeed a fact that
he was averse to a marriage with so charming a young lady as this Miss
Turner.”

“Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly,
insanely, in love with her, but some two years ago, when he was only a
lad, and before he really knew her, for she had been away five years at
a boarding-school, what does the idiot do but get into the clutches of
a barmaid in Bristol and marry her at a registry office? No one knows a
word of the matter, but you can imagine how maddening it must be to him
to be upbraided for not doing what he would give his very eyes to do,
but what he knows to be absolutely impossible. It was sheer frenzy of
this sort which made him throw his hands up into the air when his
father, at their last interview, was goading him on to propose to Miss
Turner. On the other hand, he had no means of supporting himself, and
his father, who was by all accounts a very hard man, would have thrown
him over utterly had he known the truth. It was with his barmaid wife
that he had spent the last three days in Bristol, and his father did
not know where he was. Mark that point. It is of importance. Good has
come out of evil, however, for the barmaid, finding from the papers
that he is in serious trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown him
over utterly and has written to him to say that she has a husband
already in the Bermuda Dockyard, so that there is really no tie between
them. I think that that bit of news has consoled young McCarthy for all
that he has suffered.”

“But if he is innocent, who has done it?”

“Ah! who? I would call your attention very particularly to two points.
One is that the murdered man had an appointment with someone at the
pool, and that the someone could not have been his son, for his son was
away, and he did not know when he would return. The second is that the
murdered man was heard to cry ‘Cooee!’ before he knew that his son had
returned. Those are the crucial points upon which the case depends. And
now let us talk about George Meredith, if you please, and we shall
leave all minor matters until to-morrow.”

There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke bright
and cloudless. At nine o’clock Lestrade called for us with the
carriage, and we set off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe Pool.

“There is serious news this morning,” Lestrade observed. “It is said
that Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is despaired of.”

“An elderly man, I presume?” said Holmes.

“About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his life
abroad, and he has been in failing health for some time. This business
has had a very bad effect upon him. He was an old friend of McCarthy’s,
and, I may add, a great benefactor to him, for I have learned that he
gave him Hatherley Farm rent free.”

“Indeed! That is interesting,” said Holmes.

“Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has helped him. Everybody about
here speaks of his kindness to him.”

“Really! Does it not strike you as a little singular that this
McCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to have been
under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of marrying his son
to Turner’s daughter, who is, presumably, heiress to the estate, and
that in such a very cocksure manner, as if it were merely a case of a
proposal and all else would follow? It is the more strange, since we
know that Turner himself was averse to the idea. The daughter told us
as much. Do you not deduce something from that?”

“We have got to the deductions and the inferences,” said Lestrade,
winking at me. “I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without
flying away after theories and fancies.”

“You are right,” said Holmes demurely; “you do find it very hard to
tackle the facts.”

“Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it difficult to
get hold of,” replied Lestrade with some warmth.

“And that is—”

“That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and that all
theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine.”

“Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog,” said Holmes, laughing.
“But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley Farm upon the
left.”

“Yes, that is it.” It was a widespread, comfortable-looking building,
two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches of lichen upon
the grey walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless chimneys, however,
gave it a stricken look, as though the weight of this horror still lay
heavy upon it. We called at the door, when the maid, at Holmes’
request, showed us the boots which her master wore at the time of his
death, and also a pair of the son’s, though not the pair which he had
then had. Having measured these very carefully from seven or eight
different points, Holmes desired to be led to the court-yard, from
which we all followed the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.

Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as
this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker
Street would have failed to recognise him. His face flushed and
darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his
eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was
bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the veins
stood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed
to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his mind was so
absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a question or
remark fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only provoked a
quick, impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he made his way
along the track which ran through the meadows, and so by way of the
woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as is all that
district, and there were marks of many feet, both upon the path and
amid the short grass which bounded it on either side. Sometimes Holmes
would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he made quite a little
detour into the meadow. Lestrade and I walked behind him, the detective
indifferent and contemptuous, while I watched my friend with the
interest which sprang from the conviction that every one of his actions
was directed towards a definite end.

The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water some
fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the Hatherley
Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above the woods
which lined it upon the farther side we could see the red, jutting
pinnacles which marked the site of the rich landowner’s dwelling. On
the Hatherley side of the pool the woods grew very thick, and there was
a narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces across between the edge of
the trees and the reeds which lined the lake. Lestrade showed us the
exact spot at which the body had been found, and, indeed, so moist was
the ground, that I could plainly see the traces which had been left by
the fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see by his eager
face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read upon the
trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking up a scent, and
then turned upon my companion.

“What did you go into the pool for?” he asked.

“I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or
other trace. But how on earth—”

“Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its inward
twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and there it
vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been had I
been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed all over
it. Here is where the party with the lodge-keeper came, and they have
covered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body. But here are
three separate tracks of the same feet.” He drew out a lens and lay
down upon his waterproof to have a better view, talking all the time
rather to himself than to us. “These are young McCarthy’s feet. Twice
he was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the soles are deeply
marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his story. He ran
when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are the father’s feet
as he paced up and down. What is this, then? It is the butt-end of the
gun as the son stood listening. And this? Ha, ha! What have we here?
Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too, quite unusual boots! They come, they go,
they come again—of course that was for the cloak. Now where did they
come from?” He ran up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the
track until we were well within the edge of the wood and under the
shadow of a great beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes
traced his way to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon
his face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he remained
there, turning over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what
seemed to me to be dust into an envelope and examining with his lens
not only the ground but even the bark of the tree as far as he could
reach. A jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he
carefully examined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the
wood until he came to the high road, where all traces were lost.

“It has been a case of considerable interest,” he remarked, returning
to his natural manner. “I fancy that this grey house on the right must
be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a word with Moran, and
perhaps write a little note. Having done that, we may drive back to our
luncheon. You may walk to the cab, and I shall be with you presently.”

It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove back into
Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he had picked up
in the wood.

“This may interest you, Lestrade,” he remarked, holding it out. “The
murder was done with it.”

“I see no marks.”

“There are none.”

“How do you know, then?”

“The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few days.
There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It corresponds
with the injuries. There is no sign of any other weapon.”

“And the murderer?”

“Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears
thick-soled shooting-boots and a grey cloak, smokes Indian cigars, uses
a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his pocket. There are
several other indications, but these may be enough to aid us in our
search.”

Lestrade laughed. “I am afraid that I am still a sceptic,” he said.
“Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a hard-headed
British jury.”

“_Nous verrons_,” answered Holmes calmly. “You work your own method,
and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon, and shall
probably return to London by the evening train.”

“And leave your case unfinished?”

“No, finished.”

“But the mystery?”

“It is solved.”

“Who was the criminal, then?”

“The gentleman I describe.”

“But who is he?”

“Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a
populous neighbourhood.”

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “I am a practical man,” he said, “and
I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking for a
left-handed gentleman with a game leg. I should become the
laughing-stock of Scotland Yard.”

“All right,” said Holmes quietly. “I have given you the chance. Here
are your lodgings. Good-bye. I shall drop you a line before I leave.”

Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel, where we
found lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried in thought
with a pained expression upon his face, as one who finds himself in a
perplexing position.

“Look here, Watson,” he said when the cloth was cleared “just sit down
in this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I don’t know quite
what to do, and I should value your advice. Light a cigar and let me
expound.”

 “Pray do so.”

“Well, now, in considering this case there are two points about young
McCarthy’s narrative which struck us both instantly, although they
impressed me in his favour and you against him. One was the fact that
his father should, according to his account, cry ‘Cooee!’ before seeing
him. The other was his singular dying reference to a rat. He mumbled
several words, you understand, but that was all that caught the son’s
ear. Now from this double point our research must commence, and we will
begin it by presuming that what the lad says is absolutely true.”

“What of this ‘Cooee!’ then?”

“Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. The son, as
far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that he was within
earshot. The ‘Cooee!’ was meant to attract the attention of whoever it
was that he had the appointment with. But ‘Cooee’ is a distinctly
Australian cry, and one which is used between Australians. There is a
strong presumption that the person whom McCarthy expected to meet him
at Boscombe Pool was someone who had been in Australia.”

“What of the rat, then?”

Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened it
out on the table. “This is a map of the Colony of Victoria,” he said.
“I wired to Bristol for it last night.” He put his hand over part of
the map. “What do you read?”

“ARAT,” I read.

“And now?” He raised his hand.

“BALLARAT.”

“Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his son only
caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter the name of his
murderer. So and so, of Ballarat.”

“It is wonderful!” I exclaimed.

“It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down
considerably. The possession of a grey garment was a third point which,
granting the son’s statement to be correct, was a certainty. We have
come now out of mere vagueness to the definite conception of an
Australian from Ballarat with a grey cloak.”

“Certainly.”

“And one who was at home in the district, for the pool can only be
approached by the farm or by the estate, where strangers could hardly
wander.”

“Quite so.”

“Then comes our expedition of to-day. By an examination of the ground I
gained the trifling details which I gave to that imbecile Lestrade, as
to the personality of the criminal.”

“But how did you gain them?”

“You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles.”

“His height I know that you might roughly judge from the length of his
stride. His boots, too, might be told from their traces.”

“Yes, they were peculiar boots.”

“But his lameness?”

“The impression of his right foot was always less distinct than his
left. He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he limped—he was lame.”

“But his left-handedness.”

“You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury as recorded by
the surgeon at the inquest. The blow was struck from immediately
behind, and yet was upon the left side. Now, how can that be unless it
were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind that tree during the
interview between the father and son. He had even smoked there. I found
the ash of a cigar, which my special knowledge of tobacco ashes enables
me to pronounce as an Indian cigar. I have, as you know, devoted some
attention to this, and written a little monograph on the ashes of 140
different varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette tobacco. Having found
the ash, I then looked round and discovered the stump among the moss
where he had tossed it. It was an Indian cigar, of the variety which
are rolled in Rotterdam.”

“And the cigar-holder?”

“I could see that the end had not been in his mouth. Therefore he used
a holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten off, but the cut was not
a clean one, so I deduced a blunt pen-knife.”

“Holmes,” I said, “you have drawn a net round this man from which he
cannot escape, and you have saved an innocent human life as truly as if
you had cut the cord which was hanging him. I see the direction in
which all this points. The culprit is—”

“Mr. John Turner,” cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of our
sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.

The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His slow,
limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude,
and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and his enormous limbs
showed that he was possessed of unusual strength of body and of
character. His tangled beard, grizzled hair, and outstanding, drooping
eyebrows combined to give an air of dignity and power to his
appearance, but his face was of an ashen white, while his lips and the
corners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. It was clear
to me at a glance that he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic
disease.

“Pray sit down on the sofa,” said Holmes gently. “You had my note?”

“Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you wished to see
me here to avoid scandal.”

“I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall.”

“And why did you wish to see me?” He looked across at my companion with
despair in his weary eyes, as though his question was already answered.

“Yes,” said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. “It is
so. I know all about McCarthy.”

The old man sank his face in his hands. “God help me!” he cried. “But I
would not have let the young man come to harm. I give you my word that
I would have spoken out if it went against him at the Assizes.”

“I am glad to hear you say so,” said Holmes gravely.

“I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl. It would
break her heart—it will break her heart when she hears that I am
arrested.”

“It may not come to that,” said Holmes.

“What?”

“I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter who
required my presence here, and I am acting in her interests. Young
McCarthy must be got off, however.”

“I am a dying man,” said old Turner. “I have had diabetes for years. My
doctor says it is a question whether I shall live a month. Yet I would
rather die under my own roof than in a gaol.”

Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand and a
bundle of paper before him. “Just tell us the truth,” he said. “I shall
jot down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson here can witness it.
Then I could produce your confession at the last extremity to save
young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall not use it unless it is
absolutely needed.”

“It’s as well,” said the old man; “it’s a question whether I shall live
to the Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I should wish to spare
Alice the shock. And now I will make the thing clear to you; it has
been a long time in the acting, but will not take me long to tell.

“You didn’t know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil incarnate. I
tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of such a man as he.
His grip has been upon me these twenty years, and he has blasted my
life. I’ll tell you first how I came to be in his power.

“It was in the early ’60’s at the diggings. I was a young chap then,
hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at anything; I got
among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck with my claim, took to
the bush, and in a word became what you would call over here a highway
robber. There were six of us, and we had a wild, free life of it,
sticking up a station from time to time, or stopping the wagons on the
road to the diggings. Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I went under,
and our party is still remembered in the colony as the Ballarat Gang.

“One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne, and we lay
in wait for it and attacked it. There were six troopers and six of us,
so it was a close thing, but we emptied four of their saddles at the
first volley. Three of our boys were killed, however, before we got the
swag. I put my pistol to the head of the wagon-driver, who was this
very man McCarthy. I wish to the Lord that I had shot him then, but I
spared him, though I saw his wicked little eyes fixed on my face, as
though to remember every feature. We got away with the gold, became
wealthy men, and made our way over to England without being suspected.
There I parted from my old pals and determined to settle down to a
quiet and respectable life. I bought this estate, which chanced to be
in the market, and I set myself to do a little good with my money, to
make up for the way in which I had earned it. I married, too, and
though my wife died young she left me my dear little Alice. Even when
she was just a baby her wee hand seemed to lead me down the right path
as nothing else had ever done. In a word, I turned over a new leaf and
did my best to make up for the past. All was going well when McCarthy
laid his grip upon me.

“I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in Regent
Street with hardly a coat to his back or a boot to his foot.

“‘Here we are, Jack,’ says he, touching me on the arm; ‘we’ll be as
good as a family to you. There’s two of us, me and my son, and you can
have the keeping of us. If you don’t—it’s a fine, law-abiding country
is England, and there’s always a policeman within hail.’

“Well, down they came to the west country, there was no shaking them
off, and there they have lived rent free on my best land ever since.
There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness; turn where I
would, there was his cunning, grinning face at my elbow. It grew worse
as Alice grew up, for he soon saw I was more afraid of her knowing my
past than of the police. Whatever he wanted he must have, and whatever
it was I gave him without question, land, money, houses, until at last
he asked a thing which I could not give. He asked for Alice.

“His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl, and as I was known
to be in weak health, it seemed a fine stroke to him that his lad
should step into the whole property. But there I was firm. I would not
have his cursed stock mixed with mine; not that I had any dislike to
the lad, but his blood was in him, and that was enough. I stood firm.
McCarthy threatened. I braved him to do his worst. We were to meet at
the pool midway between our houses to talk it over.

“When I went down there I found him talking with his son, so I smoked a
cigar and waited behind a tree until he should be alone. But as I
listened to his talk all that was black and bitter in me seemed to come
uppermost. He was urging his son to marry my daughter with as little
regard for what she might think as if she were a slut from off the
streets. It drove me mad to think that I and all that I held most dear
should be in the power of such a man as this. Could I not snap the
bond? I was already a dying and a desperate man. Though clear of mind
and fairly strong of limb, I knew that my own fate was sealed. But my
memory and my girl! Both could be saved if I could but silence that
foul tongue. I did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply as I
have sinned, I have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But that
my girl should be entangled in the same meshes which held me was more
than I could suffer. I struck him down with no more compunction than if
he had been some foul and venomous beast. His cry brought back his son;
but I had gained the cover of the wood, though I was forced to go back
to fetch the cloak which I had dropped in my flight. That is the true
story, gentlemen, of all that occurred.”

“Well, it is not for me to judge you,” said Holmes as the old man
signed the statement which had been drawn out. “I pray that we may
never be exposed to such a temptation.”

“I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do?”

“In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you will
soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the Assizes. I
will keep your confession, and if McCarthy is condemned I shall be
forced to use it. If not, it shall never be seen by mortal eye; and
your secret, whether you be alive or dead, shall be safe with us.”

“Farewell, then,” said the old man solemnly. “Your own deathbeds, when
they come, will be the easier for the thought of the peace which you
have given to mine.” Tottering and shaking in all his giant frame, he
stumbled slowly from the room.

“God help us!” said Holmes after a long silence. “Why does fate play
such tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such a case as
this that I do not think of Baxter’s words, and say, ‘There, but for
the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes.’”

James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes on the strength of a number
of objections which had been drawn out by Holmes and submitted to the
defending counsel. Old Turner lived for seven months after our
interview, but he is now dead; and there is every prospect that the son
and daughter may come to live happily together in ignorance of the
black cloud which rests upon their past.




V. THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS


When I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes cases
between the years ’82 and ’90, I am faced by so many which present
strange and interesting features that it is no easy matter to know
which to choose and which to leave. Some, however, have already gained
publicity through the papers, and others have not offered a field for
those peculiar qualities which my friend possessed in so high a degree,
and which it is the object of these papers to illustrate. Some, too,
have baffled his analytical skill, and would be, as narratives,
beginnings without an ending, while others have been but partially
cleared up, and have their explanations founded rather upon conjecture
and surmise than on that absolute logical proof which was so dear to
him. There is, however, one of these last which was so remarkable in
its details and so startling in its results that I am tempted to give
some account of it in spite of the fact that there are points in
connection with it which never have been, and probably never will be,
entirely cleared up.

The year ’87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater or
less interest, of which I retain the records. Among my headings under
this one twelve months I find an account of the adventure of the
Paradol Chamber, of the Amateur Mendicant Society, who held a luxurious
club in the lower vault of a furniture warehouse, of the facts
connected with the loss of the British barque _Sophy Anderson_, of the
singular adventures of the Grice Patersons in the island of Uffa, and
finally of the Camberwell poisoning case. In the latter, as may be
remembered, Sherlock Holmes was able, by winding up the dead man’s
watch, to prove that it had been wound up two hours before, and that
therefore the deceased had gone to bed within that time—a deduction
which was of the greatest importance in clearing up the case. All these
I may sketch out at some future date, but none of them present such
singular features as the strange train of circumstances which I have
now taken up my pen to describe.

It was in the latter days of September, and the equinoctial gales had
set in with exceptional violence. All day the wind had screamed and the
rain had beaten against the windows, so that even here in the heart of
great, hand-made London we were forced to raise our minds for the
instant from the routine of life and to recognise the presence of those
great elemental forces which shriek at mankind through the bars of his
civilisation, like untamed beasts in a cage. As evening drew in, the
storm grew higher and louder, and the wind cried and sobbed like a
child in the chimney. Sherlock Holmes sat moodily at one side of the
fireplace cross-indexing his records of crime, while I at the other was
deep in one of Clark Russell’s fine sea-stories until the howl of the
gale from without seemed to blend with the text, and the splash of the
rain to lengthen out into the long swash of the sea waves. My wife was
on a visit to her mother’s, and for a few days I was a dweller once
more in my old quarters at Baker Street.

“Why,” said I, glancing up at my companion, “that was surely the bell.
Who could come to-night? Some friend of yours, perhaps?”

“Except yourself I have none,” he answered. “I do not encourage
visitors.”

“A client, then?”

“If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring a man out on
such a day and at such an hour. But I take it that it is more likely to
be some crony of the landlady’s.”

Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however, for there came a
step in the passage and a tapping at the door. He stretched out his
long arm to turn the lamp away from himself and towards the vacant
chair upon which a newcomer must sit.

“Come in!” said he.

The man who entered was young, some two-and-twenty at the outside,
well-groomed and trimly clad, with something of refinement and delicacy
in his bearing. The streaming umbrella which he held in his hand, and
his long shining waterproof told of the fierce weather through which he
had come. He looked about him anxiously in the glare of the lamp, and I
could see that his face was pale and his eyes heavy, like those of a
man who is weighed down with some great anxiety.

“I owe you an apology,” he said, raising his golden pince-nez to his
eyes. “I trust that I am not intruding. I fear that I have brought some
traces of the storm and rain into your snug chamber.”

“Give me your coat and umbrella,” said Holmes. “They may rest here on
the hook and will be dry presently. You have come up from the
south-west, I see.”

“Yes, from Horsham.”

“That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon your toe caps is quite
distinctive.”

“I have come for advice.”

“That is easily got.”

“And help.”

“That is not always so easy.”

“I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major Prendergast how
you saved him in the Tankerville Club scandal.”

“Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at cards.”

“He said that you could solve anything.”

“He said too much.”

“That you are never beaten.”

“I have been beaten four times—three times by men, and once by a
woman.”

“But what is that compared with the number of your successes?”

“It is true that I have been generally successful.”

“Then you may be so with me.”

“I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire and favour me with
some details as to your case.”

“It is no ordinary one.”

“None of those which come to me are. I am the last court of appeal.”

“And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your experience, you have
ever listened to a more mysterious and inexplicable chain of events
than those which have happened in my own family.”

“You fill me with interest,” said Holmes. “Pray give us the essential
facts from the commencement, and I can afterwards question you as to
those details which seem to me to be most important.”

The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out towards
the blaze.

“My name,” said he, “is John Openshaw, but my own affairs have, as far
as I can understand, little to do with this awful business. It is a
hereditary matter; so in order to give you an idea of the facts, I must
go back to the commencement of the affair.

“You must know that my grandfather had two sons—my uncle Elias and my
father Joseph. My father had a small factory at Coventry, which he
enlarged at the time of the invention of bicycling. He was a patentee
of the Openshaw unbreakable tire, and his business met with such
success that he was able to sell it and to retire upon a handsome
competence.

“My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he was a young man and became
a planter in Florida, where he was reported to have done very well. At
the time of the war he fought in Jackson’s army, and afterwards under
Hood, where he rose to be a colonel. When Lee laid down his arms my
uncle returned to his plantation, where he remained for three or four
years. About 1869 or 1870 he came back to Europe and took a small
estate in Sussex, near Horsham. He had made a very considerable fortune
in the States, and his reason for leaving them was his aversion to the
negroes, and his dislike of the Republican policy in extending the
franchise to them. He was a singular man, fierce and quick-tempered,
very foul-mouthed when he was angry, and of a most retiring
disposition. During all the years that he lived at Horsham, I doubt if
ever he set foot in the town. He had a garden and two or three fields
round his house, and there he would take his exercise, though very
often for weeks on end he would never leave his room. He drank a great
deal of brandy and smoked very heavily, but he would see no society and
did not want any friends, not even his own brother.

“He didn’t mind me; in fact, he took a fancy to me, for at the time
when he saw me first I was a youngster of twelve or so. This would be
in the year 1878, after he had been eight or nine years in England. He
begged my father to let me live with him and he was very kind to me in
his way. When he was sober he used to be fond of playing backgammon and
draughts with me, and he would make me his representative both with the
servants and with the tradespeople, so that by the time that I was
sixteen I was quite master of the house. I kept all the keys and could
go where I liked and do what I liked, so long as I did not disturb him
in his privacy. There was one singular exception, however, for he had a
single room, a lumber-room up among the attics, which was invariably
locked, and which he would never permit either me or anyone else to
enter. With a boy’s curiosity I have peeped through the keyhole, but I
was never able to see more than such a collection of old trunks and
bundles as would be expected in such a room.

“One day—it was in March, 1883—a letter with a foreign stamp lay upon
the table in front of the colonel’s plate. It was not a common thing
for him to receive letters, for his bills were all paid in ready money,
and he had no friends of any sort. ‘From India!’ said he as he took it
up, ‘Pondicherry postmark! What can this be?’ Opening it hurriedly, out
there jumped five little dried orange pips, which pattered down upon
his plate. I began to laugh at this, but the laugh was struck from my
lips at the sight of his face. His lip had fallen, his eyes were
protruding, his skin the colour of putty, and he glared at the envelope
which he still held in his trembling hand, ‘K. K. K.!’ he shrieked, and
then, ‘My God, my God, my sins have overtaken me!’

“‘What is it, uncle?’ I cried.

“‘Death,’ said he, and rising from the table he retired to his room,
leaving me palpitating with horror. I took up the envelope and saw
scrawled in red ink upon the inner flap, just above the gum, the letter
K three times repeated. There was nothing else save the five dried
pips. What could be the reason of his overpowering terror? I left the
breakfast-table, and as I ascended the stair I met him coming down with
an old rusty key, which must have belonged to the attic, in one hand,
and a small brass box, like a cashbox, in the other.

“‘They may do what they like, but I’ll checkmate them still,’ said he
with an oath. ‘Tell Mary that I shall want a fire in my room to-day,
and send down to Fordham, the Horsham lawyer.’

“I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer arrived I was asked to step
up to the room. The fire was burning brightly, and in the grate there
was a mass of black, fluffy ashes, as of burned paper, while the brass
box stood open and empty beside it. As I glanced at the box I noticed,
with a start, that upon the lid was printed the treble K which I had
read in the morning upon the envelope.

“‘I wish you, John,’ said my uncle, ‘to witness my will. I leave my
estate, with all its advantages and all its disadvantages, to my
brother, your father, whence it will, no doubt, descend to you. If you
can enjoy it in peace, well and good! If you find you cannot, take my
advice, my boy, and leave it to your deadliest enemy. I am sorry to
give you such a two-edged thing, but I can’t say what turn things are
going to take. Kindly sign the paper where Mr. Fordham shows you.’

“I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it away with him.
The singular incident made, as you may think, the deepest impression
upon me, and I pondered over it and turned it every way in my mind
without being able to make anything of it. Yet I could not shake off
the vague feeling of dread which it left behind, though the sensation
grew less keen as the weeks passed and nothing happened to disturb the
usual routine of our lives. I could see a change in my uncle, however.
He drank more than ever, and he was less inclined for any sort of
society. Most of his time he would spend in his room, with the door
locked upon the inside, but sometimes he would emerge in a sort of
drunken frenzy and would burst out of the house and tear about the
garden with a revolver in his hand, screaming out that he was afraid of
no man, and that he was not to be cooped up, like a sheep in a pen, by
man or devil. When these hot fits were over, however, he would rush
tumultuously in at the door and lock and bar it behind him, like a man
who can brazen it out no longer against the terror which lies at the
roots of his soul. At such times I have seen his face, even on a cold
day, glisten with moisture, as though it were new raised from a basin.

“Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and not to abuse
your patience, there came a night when he made one of those drunken
sallies from which he never came back. We found him, when we went to
search for him, face downward in a little green-scummed pool, which lay
at the foot of the garden. There was no sign of any violence, and the
water was but two feet deep, so that the jury, having regard to his
known eccentricity, brought in a verdict of ‘suicide.’ But I, who knew
how he winced from the very thought of death, had much ado to persuade
myself that he had gone out of his way to meet it. The matter passed,
however, and my father entered into possession of the estate, and of
some £ 14,000, which lay to his credit at the bank.”

“One moment,” Holmes interposed, “your statement is, I foresee, one of
the most remarkable to which I have ever listened. Let me have the date
of the reception by your uncle of the letter, and the date of his
supposed suicide.”

“The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death was seven weeks later,
upon the night of May 2nd.”

“Thank you. Pray proceed.”

“When my father took over the Horsham property, he, at my request, made
a careful examination of the attic, which had been always locked up. We
found the brass box there, although its contents had been destroyed. On
the inside of the cover was a paper label, with the initials of K. K.
K. repeated upon it, and ‘Letters, memoranda, receipts, and a register’
written beneath. These, we presume, indicated the nature of the papers
which had been destroyed by Colonel Openshaw. For the rest, there was
nothing of much importance in the attic save a great many scattered
papers and note-books bearing upon my uncle’s life in America. Some of
them were of the war time and showed that he had done his duty well and
had borne the repute of a brave soldier. Others were of a date during
the reconstruction of the Southern states, and were mostly concerned
with politics, for he had evidently taken a strong part in opposing the
carpet-bag politicians who had been sent down from the North.

“Well, it was the beginning of ’84 when my father came to live at
Horsham, and all went as well as possible with us until the January of
’85. On the fourth day after the new year I heard my father give a
sharp cry of surprise as we sat together at the breakfast-table. There
he was, sitting with a newly opened envelope in one hand and five dried
orange pips in the outstretched palm of the other one. He had always
laughed at what he called my cock-and-bull story about the colonel, but
he looked very scared and puzzled now that the same thing had come upon
himself.

“‘Why, what on earth does this mean, John?’ he stammered.

“My heart had turned to lead. ‘It is K. K. K.,’ said I.

“He looked inside the envelope. ‘So it is,’ he cried. ‘Here are the
very letters. But what is this written above them?’

“‘Put the papers on the sundial,’ I read, peeping over his shoulder.

“‘What papers? What sundial?’ he asked.

“‘The sundial in the garden. There is no other,’ said I; ‘but the
papers must be those that are destroyed.’

“‘Pooh!’ said he, gripping hard at his courage. ‘We are in a civilised
land here, and we can’t have tomfoolery of this kind. Where does the
thing come from?’

“‘From Dundee,’ I answered, glancing at the postmark.

“‘Some preposterous practical joke,’ said he. ‘What have I to do with
sundials and papers? I shall take no notice of such nonsense.’

“‘I should certainly speak to the police,’ I said.

“‘And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the sort.’

“‘Then let me do so?’

“‘No, I forbid you. I won’t have a fuss made about such nonsense.’

“It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very obstinate man. I
went about, however, with a heart which was full of forebodings.

“On the third day after the coming of the letter my father went from
home to visit an old friend of his, Major Freebody, who is in command
of one of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad that he should go,
for it seemed to me that he was farther from danger when he was away
from home. In that, however, I was in error. Upon the second day of his
absence I received a telegram from the major, imploring me to come at
once. My father had fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits which abound
in the neighbourhood, and was lying senseless, with a shattered skull.
I hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever recovered his
consciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning from Fareham in
the twilight, and as the country was unknown to him, and the chalk-pit
unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in bringing in a verdict of ‘death
from accidental causes.’ Carefully as I examined every fact connected
with his death, I was unable to find anything which could suggest the
idea of murder. There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no
robbery, no record of strangers having been seen upon the roads. And
yet I need not tell you that my mind was far from at ease, and that I
was well-nigh certain that some foul plot had been woven round him.

“In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me why I
did not dispose of it? I answer, because I was well convinced that our
troubles were in some way dependent upon an incident in my uncle’s
life, and that the danger would be as pressing in one house as in
another.

“It was in January, ’85, that my poor father met his end, and two years
and eight months have elapsed since then. During that time I have lived
happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that this curse had passed
away from the family, and that it had ended with the last generation. I
had begun to take comfort too soon, however; yesterday morning the blow
fell in the very shape in which it had come upon my father.”

The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and turning
to the table he shook out upon it five little dried orange pips.

“This is the envelope,” he continued. “The postmark is London—eastern
division. Within are the very words which were upon my father’s last
message: ‘K. K. K.’; and then ‘Put the papers on the sundial.’”

“What have you done?” asked Holmes.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“To tell the truth”—he sank his face into his thin, white hands—“I have
felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor rabbits when the
snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of some
resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight and no precautions can
guard against.”

“Tut! tut!” cried Sherlock Holmes. “You must act, man, or you are lost.
Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for despair.”

“I have seen the police.”

“Ah!”

“But they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced that the
inspector has formed the opinion that the letters are all practical
jokes, and that the deaths of my relations were really accidents, as
the jury stated, and were not to be connected with the warnings.”

Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. “Incredible imbecility!” he
cried.

“They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may remain in the
house with me.”

“Has he come with you to-night?”

“No. His orders were to stay in the house.”

Again Holmes raved in the air.

“Why did you come to me?” he said, “and, above all, why did you not
come at once?”

“I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke to Major Prendergast
about my troubles and was advised by him to come to you.”

“It is really two days since you had the letter. We should have acted
before this. You have no further evidence, I suppose, than that which
you have placed before us—no suggestive detail which might help us?”

“There is one thing,” said John Openshaw. He rummaged in his coat
pocket, and, drawing out a piece of discoloured, blue-tinted paper, he
laid it out upon the table. “I have some remembrance,” said he, “that
on the day when my uncle burned the papers I observed that the small,
unburned margins which lay amid the ashes were of this particular
colour. I found this single sheet upon the floor of his room, and I am
inclined to think that it may be one of the papers which has, perhaps,
fluttered out from among the others, and in that way has escaped
destruction. Beyond the mention of pips, I do not see that it helps us
much. I think myself that it is a page from some private diary. The
writing is undoubtedly my uncle’s.”

Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of paper, which
showed by its ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from a book. It
was headed, “March, 1869,” and beneath were the following enigmatical
notices:

“4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.

“7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and John Swain of St.
Augustine.

“9th. McCauley cleared.

“10th. John Swain cleared.

“12th. Visited Paramore. All well.”

“Thank you!” said Holmes, folding up the paper and returning it to our
visitor. “And now you must on no account lose another instant. We
cannot spare time even to discuss what you have told me. You must get
home instantly and act.”

“What shall I do?”

“There is but one thing to do. It must be done at once. You must put
this piece of paper which you have shown us into the brass box which
you have described. You must also put in a note to say that all the
other papers were burned by your uncle, and that this is the only one
which remains. You must assert that in such words as will carry
conviction with them. Having done this, you must at once put the box
out upon the sundial, as directed. Do you understand?”

“Entirely.”

“Do not think of revenge, or anything of the sort, at present. I think
that we may gain that by means of the law; but we have our web to
weave, while theirs is already woven. The first consideration is to
remove the pressing danger which threatens you. The second is to clear
up the mystery and to punish the guilty parties.”

“I thank you,” said the young man, rising and pulling on his overcoat.
“You have given me fresh life and hope. I shall certainly do as you
advise.”

“Do not lose an instant. And, above all, take care of yourself in the
meanwhile, for I do not think that there can be a doubt that you are
threatened by a very real and imminent danger. How do you go back?”

“By train from Waterloo.”

“It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I trust that you
may be in safety. And yet you cannot guard yourself too closely.”

“I am armed.”

“That is well. To-morrow I shall set to work upon your case.”

“I shall see you at Horsham, then?”

“No, your secret lies in London. It is there that I shall seek it.”

“Then I shall call upon you in a day, or in two days, with news as to
the box and the papers. I shall take your advice in every particular.”
He shook hands with us and took his leave. Outside the wind still
screamed and the rain splashed and pattered against the windows. This
strange, wild story seemed to have come to us from amid the mad
elements—blown in upon us like a sheet of sea-weed in a gale—and now to
have been reabsorbed by them once more.

Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, with his head sunk
forward and his eyes bent upon the red glow of the fire. Then he lit
his pipe, and leaning back in his chair he watched the blue smoke-rings
as they chased each other up to the ceiling.

“I think, Watson,” he remarked at last, “that of all our cases we have
had none more fantastic than this.”

“Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four.”

“Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that. And yet this John Openshaw seems to me
to be walking amid even greater perils than did the Sholtos.”

“But have you,” I asked, “formed any definite conception as to what
these perils are?”

“There can be no question as to their nature,” he answered.

“Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and why does he pursue this
unhappy family?”

Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his elbows upon the arms of
his chair, with his finger-tips together. “The ideal reasoner,” he
remarked, “would, when he had once been shown a single fact in all its
bearings, deduce from it not only all the chain of events which led up
to it but also all the results which would follow from it. As Cuvier
could correctly describe a whole animal by the contemplation of a
single bone, so the observer who has thoroughly understood one link in
a series of incidents should be able to accurately state all the other
ones, both before and after. We have not yet grasped the results which
the reason alone can attain to. Problems may be solved in the study
which have baffled all those who have sought a solution by the aid of
their senses. To carry the art, however, to its highest pitch, it is
necessary that the reasoner should be able to utilise all the facts
which have come to his knowledge; and this in itself implies, as you
will readily see, a possession of all knowledge, which, even in these
days of free education and encyclopædias, is a somewhat rare
accomplishment. It is not so impossible, however, that a man should
possess all knowledge which is likely to be useful to him in his work,
and this I have endeavoured in my case to do. If I remember rightly,
you on one occasion, in the early days of our friendship, defined my
limits in a very precise fashion.”

“Yes,” I answered, laughing. “It was a singular document. Philosophy,
astronomy, and politics were marked at zero, I remember. Botany
variable, geology profound as regards the mud-stains from any region
within fifty miles of town, chemistry eccentric, anatomy unsystematic,
sensational literature and crime records unique, violin-player, boxer,
swordsman, lawyer, and self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco. Those, I
think, were the main points of my analysis.”

Holmes grinned at the last item. “Well,” he said, “I say now, as I said
then, that a man should keep his little brain-attic stocked with all
the furniture that he is likely to use, and the rest he can put away in
the lumber-room of his library, where he can get it if he wants it.
Now, for such a case as the one which has been submitted to us
to-night, we need certainly to muster all our resources. Kindly hand me
down the letter K of the _American Encyclopædia_ which stands upon the
shelf beside you. Thank you. Now let us consider the situation and see
what may be deduced from it. In the first place, we may start with a
strong presumption that Colonel Openshaw had some very strong reason
for leaving America. Men at his time of life do not change all their
habits and exchange willingly the charming climate of Florida for the
lonely life of an English provincial town. His extreme love of solitude
in England suggests the idea that he was in fear of someone or
something, so we may assume as a working hypothesis that it was fear of
someone or something which drove him from America. As to what it was he
feared, we can only deduce that by considering the formidable letters
which were received by himself and his successors. Did you remark the
postmarks of those letters?”

“The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the third
from London.”

“From East London. What do you deduce from that?”

“They are all seaports. That the writer was on board of a ship.”

“Excellent. We have already a clue. There can be no doubt that the
probability—the strong probability—is that the writer was on board of a
ship. And now let us consider another point. In the case of
Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat and its fulfilment,
in Dundee it was only some three or four days. Does that suggest
anything?”

“A greater distance to travel.”

“But the letter had also a greater distance to come.”

“Then I do not see the point.”

“There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man or
men are is a sailing-ship. It looks as if they always send their
singular warning or token before them when starting upon their mission.
You see how quickly the deed followed the sign when it came from
Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a steamer they would have
arrived almost as soon as their letter. But, as a matter of fact, seven
weeks elapsed. I think that those seven weeks represented the
difference between the mail-boat which brought the letter and the
sailing vessel which brought the writer.”

“It is possible.”

“More than that. It is probable. And now you see the deadly urgency of
this new case, and why I urged young Openshaw to caution. The blow has
always fallen at the end of the time which it would take the senders to
travel the distance. But this one comes from London, and therefore we
cannot count upon delay.”

“Good God!” I cried. “What can it mean, this relentless persecution?”

“The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital importance to
the person or persons in the sailing-ship. I think that it is quite
clear that there must be more than one of them. A single man could not
have carried out two deaths in such a way as to deceive a coroner’s
jury. There must have been several in it, and they must have been men
of resource and determination. Their papers they mean to have, be the
holder of them who it may. In this way you see K. K. K. ceases to be
the initials of an individual and becomes the badge of a society.”

“But of what society?”

“Have you never—” said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and sinking his
voice—“have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?”

“I never have.”

Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee. “Here it is,”
said he presently:

“‘Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the fanciful resemblance to the
sound produced by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret society was
formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the Southern states after the
Civil War, and it rapidly formed local branches in different parts of
the country, notably in Tennessee, Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia,
and Florida. Its power was used for political purposes, principally for
the terrorising of the negro voters and the murdering and driving from
the country of those who were opposed to its views. Its outrages were
usually preceded by a warning sent to the marked man in some fantastic
but generally recognised shape—a sprig of oak-leaves in some parts,
melon seeds or orange pips in others. On receiving this the victim
might either openly abjure his former ways, or might fly from the
country. If he braved the matter out, death would unfailingly come upon
him, and usually in some strange and unforeseen manner. So perfect was
the organisation of the society, and so systematic its methods, that
there is hardly a case upon record where any man succeeded in braving
it with impunity, or in which any of its outrages were traced home to
the perpetrators. For some years the organisation flourished in spite
of the efforts of the United States government and of the better
classes of the community in the South. Eventually, in the year 1869,
the movement rather suddenly collapsed, although there have been
sporadic outbreaks of the same sort since that date.’

“You will observe,” said Holmes, laying down the volume, “that the
sudden breaking up of the society was coincident with the disappearance
of Openshaw from America with their papers. It may well have been cause
and effect. It is no wonder that he and his family have some of the
more implacable spirits upon their track. You can understand that this
register and diary may implicate some of the first men in the South,
and that there may be many who will not sleep easy at night until it is
recovered.”

“Then the page we have seen—”

“Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right, ‘sent the
pips to A, B, and C’—that is, sent the society’s warning to them. Then
there are successive entries that A and B cleared, or left the country,
and finally that C was visited, with, I fear, a sinister result for C.
Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let some light into this dark place,
and I believe that the only chance young Openshaw has in the meantime
is to do what I have told him. There is nothing more to be said or to
be done to-night, so hand me over my violin and let us try to forget
for half an hour the miserable weather and the still more miserable
ways of our fellow men.”

It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a subdued
brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the great city.
Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came down.

“You will excuse me for not waiting for you,” said he; “I have, I
foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of young
Openshaw’s.”

“What steps will you take?” I asked.

“It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries. I may
have to go down to Horsham, after all.”

“You will not go there first?”

“No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the maid
will bring up your coffee.”

As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and glanced
my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a chill to my
heart.

“Holmes,” I cried, “you are too late.”

“Ah!” said he, laying down his cup, “I feared as much. How was it
done?” He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.

“My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading ‘Tragedy Near
Waterloo Bridge.’ Here is the account:

“‘Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H
Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and a
splash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and stormy,
so that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it was quite
impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was given, and, by
the aid of the water-police, the body was eventually recovered. It
proved to be that of a young gentleman whose name, as it appears from
an envelope which was found in his pocket, was John Openshaw, and whose
residence is near Horsham. It is conjectured that he may have been
hurrying down to catch the last train from Waterloo Station, and that
in his haste and the extreme darkness he missed his path and walked
over the edge of one of the small landing-places for river steamboats.
The body exhibited no traces of violence, and there can be no doubt
that the deceased had been the victim of an unfortunate accident, which
should have the effect of calling the attention of the authorities to
the condition of the riverside landing-stages.’”

We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and shaken
than I had ever seen him.

“That hurts my pride, Watson,” he said at last. “It is a petty feeling,
no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal matter with me
now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my hand upon this gang.
That he should come to me for help, and that I should send him away to
his death—!” He sprang from his chair and paced about the room in
uncontrollable agitation, with a flush upon his sallow cheeks and a
nervous clasping and unclasping of his long thin hands.

“They must be cunning devils,” he exclaimed at last. “How could they
have decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on the direct line
to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too crowded, even on such a
night, for their purpose. Well, Watson, we shall see who will win in
the long run. I am going out now!”

“To the police?”

“No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may take
the flies, but not before.”

All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in the
evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not come
back yet. It was nearly ten o’clock before he entered, looking pale and
worn. He walked up to the sideboard, and tearing a piece from the loaf
he devoured it voraciously, washing it down with a long draught of
water.

“You are hungry,” I remarked.

“Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since
breakfast.”

“Nothing?”

“Not a bite. I had no time to think of it.”

“And how have you succeeded?”

“Well.”

“You have a clue?”

“I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not long
remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish trade-mark
upon them. It is well thought of!”

“What do you mean?”

He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he
squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and thrust
them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote “S. H. for J.
O.” Then he sealed it and addressed it to “Captain James Calhoun,
Barque _Lone Star_, Savannah, Georgia.”

“That will await him when he enters port,” said he, chuckling. “It may
give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a precursor of his
fate as Openshaw did before him.”

“And who is this Captain Calhoun?”

“The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first.”

“How did you trace it, then?”

He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with dates
and names.

“I have spent the whole day,” said he, “over Lloyd’s registers and
files of the old papers, following the future career of every vessel
which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in ’83. There were
thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were reported there during those
months. Of these, one, the _Lone Star_, instantly attracted my
attention, since, although it was reported as having cleared from
London, the name is that which is given to one of the states of the
Union.”

“Texas, I think.”

“I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must have an
American origin.”

“What then?”

“I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque _Lone
Star_ was there in January, ’85, my suspicion became a certainty. I
then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present in the port of
London.”

“Yes?”

“The _Lone Star_ had arrived here last week. I went down to the Albert
Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by the early tide
this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to Gravesend and
learned that she had passed some time ago, and as the wind is easterly
I have no doubt that she is now past the Goodwins and not very far from
the Isle of Wight.”

“What will you do, then?”

“Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are as I learn, the
only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are Finns and
Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away from the ship last
night. I had it from the stevedore who has been loading their cargo. By
the time that their sailing-ship reaches Savannah the mail-boat will
have carried this letter, and the cable will have informed the police
of Savannah that these three gentlemen are badly wanted here upon a
charge of murder.”

There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans, and the
murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the orange pips which
would show them that another, as cunning and as resolute as themselves,
was upon their track. Very long and very severe were the equinoctial
gales that year. We waited long for news of the _Lone Star_ of
Savannah, but none ever reached us. We did at last hear that somewhere
far out in the Atlantic a shattered stern-post of a boat was seen
swinging in the trough of a wave, with the letters “L. S.” carved upon
it, and that is all which we shall ever know of the fate of the _Lone
Star_.




VI. THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP


Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the
Theological College of St. George’s, was much addicted to opium. The
habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak when he
was at college; for having read De Quincey’s description of his dreams
and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt
to produce the same effects. He found, as so many more have done, that
the practice is easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many years
he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror and
pity to his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with yellow,
pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all huddled in a
chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.

One night—it was in June, ’89—there came a ring to my bell, about the
hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I sat up
in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap and made
a little face of disappointment.

“A patient!” said she. “You’ll have to go out.”

I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.

We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon
the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some
dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.

“You will excuse my calling so late,” she began, and then, suddenly
losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my
wife’s neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. “Oh, I’m in such trouble!”
she cried; “I do so want a little help.”

“Why,” said my wife, pulling up her veil, “it is Kate Whitney. How you
startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came in.”

“I didn’t know what to do, so I came straight to you.” That was always
the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to a
lighthouse.

“It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and
water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should you
rather that I sent James off to bed?”

“Oh, no, no! I want the doctor’s advice and help, too. It’s about Isa.
He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about him!”

It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband’s
trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school
companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could find.
Did she know where her husband was? Was it possible that we could bring
him back to her?

It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late he
had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the farthest
east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been confined to one
day, and he had come back, twitching and shattered, in the evening. But
now the spell had been upon him eight-and-forty hours, and he lay
there, doubtless among the dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison
or sleeping off the effects. There he was to be found, she was sure of
it, at the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do?
How could she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a place
and pluck her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him?

There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it.
Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second thought,
why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney’s medical adviser, and as
such I had influence over him. I could manage it better if I were
alone. I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab
within two hours if he were indeed at the address which she had given
me. And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery
sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a
strange errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future only
could show how strange it was to be.

But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure.
Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves
which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge.
Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of
steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found the
den of which I was in search. Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down
the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken
feet; and by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found
the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with
the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the
forecastle of an emigrant ship.

Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in
strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown
back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark,
lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadows
there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as
the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes. The
most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others talked
together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming
in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling
out his own thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his
neighbour. At the farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal,
beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old
man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows upon his
knees, staring into the fire.

As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for
me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.

“Thank you. I have not come to stay,” said I. “There is a friend of
mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him.”

There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering
through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring
out at me.

“My God! It’s Watson,” said he. He was in a pitiable state of reaction,
with every nerve in a twitter. “I say, Watson, what o’clock is it?”

“Nearly eleven.”

“Of what day?”

“Of Friday, June 19th.”

“Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What d’you
want to frighten a chap for?” He sank his face onto his arms and began
to sob in a high treble key.

“I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this two
days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!”

“So I am. But you’ve got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a few
hours, three pipes, four pipes—I forget how many. But I’ll go home with
you. I wouldn’t frighten Kate—poor little Kate. Give me your hand! Have
you a cab?”

“Yes, I have one waiting.”

“Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe,
Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself.”

I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers,
holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug,
and looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat by
the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice
whispered, “Walk past me, and then look back at me.” The words fell
quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have come
from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever,
very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down
from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude
from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all
my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of
astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see him but I.
His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had
regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and grinning at my
surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He made a slight motion
to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned his face half round
to the company once more, subsided into a doddering, loose-lipped
senility.

“Holmes!” I whispered, “what on earth are you doing in this den?”

“As low as you can,” he answered; “I have excellent ears. If you would
have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of yours I
should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you.”

“I have a cab outside.”

“Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he
appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should recommend you
also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to say that you have
thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I shall be with
you in five minutes.”

It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes’ requests, for they
were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet
air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was once confined in
the cab my mission was practically accomplished; and for the rest, I
could not wish anything better than to be associated with my friend in
one of those singular adventures which were the normal condition of his
existence. In a few minutes I had written my note, paid Whitney’s bill,
led him out to the cab, and seen him driven through the darkness. In a
very short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den, and I
was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For two streets he
shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot. Then, glancing
quickly round, he straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit
of laughter.

“I suppose, Watson,” said he, “that you imagine that I have added
opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little
weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical views.”

“I was certainly surprised to find you there.”

“But not more so than I to find you.”

“I came to find a friend.”

“And I to find an enemy.”

“An enemy?”

“Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey.
Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and I
have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these sots, as
I have done before now. Had I been recognised in that den my life would
not have been worth an hour’s purchase; for I have used it before now
for my own purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it has sworn to
have vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back of that
building, near the corner of Paul’s Wharf, which could tell some
strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless nights.”

“What! You do not mean bodies?”

“Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had £ 1000 for every
poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest
murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St. Clair
has entered it never to leave it more. But our trap should be here.” He
put his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly—a signal
which was answered by a similar whistle from the distance, followed
shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of horses’ hoofs.

“Now, Watson,” said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through the
gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side
lanterns. “You’ll come with me, won’t you?”

“If I can be of use.”

“Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still more so.
My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one.”

“The Cedars?”

“Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair’s house. I am staying there while I conduct
the inquiry.”

“Where is it, then?”

“Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us.”

“But I am all in the dark.”

“Of course you are. You’ll know all about it presently. Jump up here.
All right, John; we shall not need you. Here’s half a crown. Look out
for me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her head. So long, then!”

He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through the
endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which widened
gradually, until we were flying across a broad balustraded bridge, with
the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another dull
wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy,
regular footfall of the policeman, or the songs and shouts of some
belated party of revellers. A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the
sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts
of the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his
breast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought, while I sat beside
him, curious to learn what this new quest might be which seemed to tax
his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break in upon the current of
his thoughts. We had driven several miles, and were beginning to get to
the fringe of the belt of suburban villas, when he shook himself,
shrugged his shoulders, and lit up his pipe with the air of a man who
has satisfied himself that he is acting for the best.

“You have a grand gift of silence, Watson,” said he. “It makes you
quite invaluable as a companion. ’Pon my word, it is a great thing for
me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are not
over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear little
woman to-night when she meets me at the door.”

“You forget that I know nothing about it.”

“I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we get
to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can get nothing to
go upon. There’s plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can’t get the end of
it into my hand. Now, I’ll state the case clearly and concisely to you,
Watson, and maybe you can see a spark where all is dark to me.”

“Proceed, then.”

“Some years ago—to be definite, in May, 1884—there came to Lee a
gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of
money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely, and
lived generally in good style. By degrees he made friends in the
neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local brewer,
by whom he now has two children. He had no occupation, but was
interested in several companies and went into town as a rule in the
morning, returning by the 5:14 from Cannon Street every night. Mr. St.
Clair is now thirty-seven years of age, is a man of temperate habits, a
good husband, a very affectionate father, and a man who is popular with
all who know him. I may add that his whole debts at the present moment,
as far as we have been able to ascertain, amount to £ 88 10_s_., while
he has £ 220 standing to his credit in the Capital and Counties Bank.
There is no reason, therefore, to think that money troubles have been
weighing upon his mind.

“Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier than
usual, remarking before he started that he had two important
commissions to perform, and that he would bring his little boy home a
box of bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his wife received a telegram
upon this same Monday, very shortly after his departure, to the effect
that a small parcel of considerable value which she had been expecting
was waiting for her at the offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company.
Now, if you are well up in your London, you will know that the office
of the company is in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandam
Lane, where you found me to-night. Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch,
started for the City, did some shopping, proceeded to the company’s
office, got her packet, and found herself at exactly 4:35 walking
through Swandam Lane on her way back to the station. Have you followed
me so far?”

“It is very clear.”

“If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. St. Clair
walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab, as she did
not like the neighbourhood in which she found herself. While she was
walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenly heard an
ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her husband looking down
at her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning to her from a second-floor
window. The window was open, and she distinctly saw his face, which she
describes as being terribly agitated. He waved his hands frantically to
her, and then vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to
her that he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from
behind. One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye was that
although he wore some dark coat, such as he had started to town in, he
had on neither collar nor necktie.

“Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the
steps—for the house was none other than the opium den in which you
found me to-night—and running through the front room she attempted to
ascend the stairs which led to the first floor. At the foot of the
stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel of whom I have spoken,
who thrust her back and, aided by a Dane, who acts as assistant there,
pushed her out into the street. Filled with the most maddening doubts
and fears, she rushed down the lane and, by rare good-fortune, met in
Fresno Street a number of constables with an inspector, all on their
way to their beat. The inspector and two men accompanied her back, and
in spite of the continued resistance of the proprietor, they made their
way to the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been seen. There was no
sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that floor there was no one
to be found save a crippled wretch of hideous aspect, who, it seems,
made his home there. Both he and the Lascar stoutly swore that no one
else had been in the front room during the afternoon. So determined was
their denial that the inspector was staggered, and had almost come to
believe that Mrs. St. Clair had been deluded when, with a cry, she
sprang at a small deal box which lay upon the table and tore the lid
from it. Out there fell a cascade of children’s bricks. It was the toy
which he had promised to bring home.

“This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple showed,
made the inspector realise that the matter was serious. The rooms were
carefully examined, and results all pointed to an abominable crime. The
front room was plainly furnished as a sitting-room and led into a small
bedroom, which looked out upon the back of one of the wharves. Between
the wharf and the bedroom window is a narrow strip, which is dry at low
tide but is covered at high tide with at least four and a half feet of
water. The bedroom window was a broad one and opened from below. On
examination traces of blood were to be seen upon the windowsill, and
several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of the
bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room were all the
clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the exception of his coat. His
boots, his socks, his hat, and his watch—all were there. There were no
signs of violence upon any of these garments, and there were no other
traces of Mr. Neville St. Clair. Out of the window he must apparently
have gone for no other exit could be discovered, and the ominous
bloodstains upon the sill gave little promise that he could save
himself by swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the moment
of the tragedy.

“And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately implicated in
the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the vilest antecedents,
but as, by Mrs. St. Clair’s story, he was known to have been at the
foot of the stair within a very few seconds of her husband’s appearance
at the window, he could hardly have been more than an accessory to the
crime. His defence was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that
he had no knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and
that he could not account in any way for the presence of the missing
gentleman’s clothes.

“So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who lives
upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was certainly the last
human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St. Clair. His name is Hugh
Boone, and his hideous face is one which is familiar to every man who
goes much to the City. He is a professional beggar, though in order to
avoid the police regulations he pretends to a small trade in wax
vestas. Some little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the
left-hand side, there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in
the wall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat,
cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he is a
piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the greasy
leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. I have watched the
fellow more than once before ever I thought of making his professional
acquaintance, and I have been surprised at the harvest which he has
reaped in a short time. His appearance, you see, is so remarkable that
no one can pass him without observing him. A shock of orange hair, a
pale face disfigured by a horrible scar, which, by its contraction, has
turned up the outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair
of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular contrast to the
colour of his hair, all mark him out from amid the common crowd of
mendicants and so, too, does his wit, for he is ever ready with a reply
to any piece of chaff which may be thrown at him by the passers-by.
This is the man whom we now learn to have been the lodger at the opium
den, and to have been the last man to see the gentleman of whom we are
in quest.”

“But a cripple!” said I. “What could he have done single-handed against
a man in the prime of life?”

“He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but in other
respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man. Surely your
medical experience would tell you, Watson, that weakness in one limb is
often compensated for by exceptional strength in the others.”

“Pray continue your narrative.”

“Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the window,
and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her presence could
be of no help to them in their investigations. Inspector Barton, who
had charge of the case, made a very careful examination of the
premises, but without finding anything which threw any light upon the
matter. One mistake had been made in not arresting Boone instantly, as
he was allowed some few minutes during which he might have communicated
with his friend the Lascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and he
was seized and searched, without anything being found which could
incriminate him. There were, it is true, some blood-stains upon his
right shirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his ring-finger, which had been
cut near the nail, and explained that the bleeding came from there,
adding that he had been to the window not long before, and that the
stains which had been observed there came doubtless from the same
source. He denied strenuously having ever seen Mr. Neville St. Clair
and swore that the presence of the clothes in his room was as much a
mystery to him as to the police. As to Mrs. St. Clair’s assertion that
she had actually seen her husband at the window, he declared that she
must have been either mad or dreaming. He was removed, loudly
protesting, to the police-station, while the inspector remained upon
the premises in the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh
clue.

“And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank what they had
feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair’s coat, and not Neville St.
Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded. And what do you think
they found in the pockets?”

“I cannot imagine.”

“No, I don’t think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed with pennies
and half-pennies—421 pennies and 270 half-pennies. It was no wonder
that it had not been swept away by the tide. But a human body is a
different matter. There is a fierce eddy between the wharf and the
house. It seemed likely enough that the weighted coat had remained when
the stripped body had been sucked away into the river.”

“But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the room.
Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?”

“No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose that
this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the window, there
is no human eye which could have seen the deed. What would he do then?
It would of course instantly strike him that he must get rid of the
tell-tale garments. He would seize the coat, then, and be in the act of
throwing it out, when it would occur to him that it would swim and not
sink. He has little time, for he has heard the scuffle downstairs when
the wife tried to force her way up, and perhaps he has already heard
from his Lascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the street.
There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes to some secret hoard,
where he has accumulated the fruits of his beggary, and he stuffs all
the coins upon which he can lay his hands into the pockets to make sure
of the coat’s sinking. He throws it out, and would have done the same
with the other garments had not he heard the rush of steps below, and
only just had time to close the window when the police appeared.”

“It certainly sounds feasible.”

“Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a better.
Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the station, but
it could not be shown that there had ever before been anything against
him. He had for years been known as a professional beggar, but his life
appeared to have been a very quiet and innocent one. There the matter
stands at present, and the questions which have to be solved—what
Neville St. Clair was doing in the opium den, what happened to him when
there, where is he now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his
disappearance—are all as far from a solution as ever. I confess that I
cannot recall any case within my experience which looked at the first
glance so simple and yet which presented such difficulties.”

While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series of
events, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the great town
until the last straggling houses had been left behind, and we rattled
along with a country hedge upon either side of us. Just as he finished,
however, we drove through two scattered villages, where a few lights
still glimmered in the windows.

“We are on the outskirts of Lee,” said my companion. “We have touched
on three English counties in our short drive, starting in Middlesex,
passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent. See that light
among the trees? That is The Cedars, and beside that lamp sits a woman
whose anxious ears have already, I have little doubt, caught the clink
of our horse’s feet.”

“But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?” I asked.

“Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here. Mrs. St.
Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal, and you may rest
assured that she will have nothing but a welcome for my friend and
colleague. I hate to meet her, Watson, when I have no news of her
husband. Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa!”

We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within its own
grounds. A stable-boy had run out to the horse’s head, and springing
down, I followed Holmes up the small, winding gravel-drive which led to
the house. As we approached, the door flew open, and a little blonde
woman stood in the opening, clad in some sort of light mousseline de
soie, with a touch of fluffy pink chiffon at her neck and wrists. She
stood with her figure outlined against the flood of light, one hand
upon the door, one half-raised in her eagerness, her body slightly
bent, her head and face protruded, with eager eyes and parted lips, a
standing question.

“Well?” she cried, “well?” And then, seeing that there were two of us,
she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she saw that my
companion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

“No good news?”

“None.”

“No bad?”

“No.”

“Thank God for that. But come in. You must be weary, for you have had a
long day.”

“This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use to me in
several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it possible for me to
bring him out and associate him with this investigation.”

“I am delighted to see you,” said she, pressing my hand warmly. “You
will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in our
arrangements, when you consider the blow which has come so suddenly
upon us.”

“My dear madam,” said I, “I am an old campaigner, and if I were not I
can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can be of any
assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall be indeed
happy.”

“Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said the lady as we entered a well-lit
dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had been laid out,
“I should very much like to ask you one or two plain questions, to
which I beg that you will give a plain answer.”

“Certainly, madam.”

“Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor given to
fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion.”

“Upon what point?”

“In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?”

Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question. “Frankly,
now!” she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking keenly down at
him as he leaned back in a basket-chair.

“Frankly, then, madam, I do not.”

“You think that he is dead?”

“I do.”

“Murdered?”

“I don’t say that. Perhaps.”

“And on what day did he meet his death?”

“On Monday.”

“Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how it is
that I have received a letter from him to-day.”

Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been galvanised.

“What!” he roared.

“Yes, to-day.” She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of paper in
the air.

“May I see it?”

“Certainly.”

He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out upon the
table he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I had left my
chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The envelope was a very
coarse one and was stamped with the Gravesend postmark and with the
date of that very day, or rather of the day before, for it was
considerably after midnight.

“Coarse writing,” murmured Holmes. “Surely this is not your husband’s
writing, madam.”

“No, but the enclosure is.”

“I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go and
inquire as to the address.”

“How can you tell that?”

“The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried itself.
The rest is of the greyish colour, which shows that blotting-paper has
been used. If it had been written straight off, and then blotted, none
would be of a deep black shade. This man has written the name, and
there has then been a pause before he wrote the address, which can only
mean that he was not familiar with it. It is, of course, a trifle, but
there is nothing so important as trifles. Let us now see the letter.
Ha! there has been an enclosure here!”

“Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring.”

“And you are sure that this is your husband’s hand?”

“One of his hands.”

“One?”

“His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual writing,
and yet I know it well.”

“‘Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a huge
error which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in
patience.—NEVILLE.’ Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book,
octavo size, no water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man
with a dirty thumb. Ha! And the flap has been gummed, if I am not very
much in error, by a person who had been chewing tobacco. And you have
no doubt that it is your husband’s hand, madam?”

“None. Neville wrote those words.”

“And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair, the
clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that the danger is
over.”

“But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes.”

“Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent. The
ring, after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from him.”

“No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!”

“Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and only
posted to-day.”

“That is possible.”

“If so, much may have happened between.”

“Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all is well
with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that I should know if
evil came upon him. On the very day that I saw him last he cut himself
in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room rushed upstairs instantly
with the utmost certainty that something had happened. Do you think
that I would respond to such a trifle and yet be ignorant of his
death?”

“I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may be
more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner. And in
this letter you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence to
corroborate your view. But if your husband is alive and able to write
letters, why should he remain away from you?”

“I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable.”

“And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?”

“No.”

“And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?”

“Very much so.”

“Was the window open?”

“Yes.”

“Then he might have called to you?”

“He might.”

“He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?”

“Yes.”

“A call for help, you thought?”

“Yes. He waved his hands.”

“But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at the
unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands?”

“It is possible.”

“And you thought he was pulled back?”

“He disappeared so suddenly.”

“He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in the room?”

“No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and the
Lascar was at the foot of the stairs.”

“Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinary
clothes on?”

“But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare throat.”

“Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?”

“Never.”

“Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?”

“Never.”

“Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points about which
I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little supper and
then retire, for we may have a very busy day to-morrow.”

A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our
disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after
my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when he
had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for days, and even for
a week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking
at it from every point of view until he had either fathomed it or
convinced himself that his data were insufficient. It was soon evident
to me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He took off
his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then
wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed and cushions
from the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a sort of
Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged, with an
ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front of him. In
the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, an old briar pipe
between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner of the
ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent, motionless, with
the light shining upon his strong-set aquiline features. So he sat as I
dropped off to sleep, and so he sat when a sudden ejaculation caused me
to wake up, and I found the summer sun shining into the apartment. The
pipe was still between his lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the
room was full of a dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of the heap
of shag which I had seen upon the previous night.

“Awake, Watson?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Game for a morning drive?”

“Certainly.”

“Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stable-boy
sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out.” He chuckled to himself as
he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the
sombre thinker of the previous night.

As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one was
stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly finished
when Holmes returned with the news that the boy was putting in the
horse.

“I want to test a little theory of mine,” said he, pulling on his
boots. “I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of
one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from
here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the key of the affair now.”

“And where is it?” I asked, smiling.

“In the bathroom,” he answered. “Oh, yes, I am not joking,” he
continued, seeing my look of incredulity. “I have just been there, and
I have taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag. Come on,
my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock.”

We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into the
bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and trap, with the
half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in, and away
we dashed down the London Road. A few country carts were stirring,
bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines of villas on
either side were as silent and lifeless as some city in a dream.

“It has been in some points a singular case,” said Holmes, flicking the
horse on into a gallop. “I confess that I have been as blind as a mole,
but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all.”

In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from
their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side.
Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river, and
dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the right and found
ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force,
and the two constables at the door saluted him. One of them held the
horse’s head while the other led us in.

“Who is on duty?” asked Holmes.

“Inspector Bradstreet, sir.”

“Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?” A tall, stout official had come down the
stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged jacket. “I wish to
have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet.”

“Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Step into my room here.”

It was a small, office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the table,
and a telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector sat down at his
desk.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”

“I called about that beggarman, Boone—the one who was charged with
being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee.”

“Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries.”

“So I heard. You have him here?”

“In the cells.”

“Is he quiet?”

“Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel.”

“Dirty?”

“Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is
as black as a tinker’s. Well, when once his case has been settled, he
will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if you saw him, you would
agree with me that he needed it.”

“I should like to see him very much.”

“Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can leave your
bag.”

“No, I think that I’ll take it.”

“Very good. Come this way, if you please.” He led us down a passage,
opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and brought us to a
whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each side.

“The third on the right is his,” said the inspector. “Here it is!” He
quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door and glanced
through.

“He is asleep,” said he. “You can see him very well.”

We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his face
towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He was
a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his calling, with a
coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his tattered coat. He
was, as the inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which
covered his face could not conceal its repulsive ugliness. A broad
wheal from an old scar ran right across it from eye to chin, and by its
contraction had turned up one side of the upper lip, so that three
teeth were exposed in a perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright red
hair grew low over his eyes and forehead.

“He’s a beauty, isn’t he?” said the inspector.

“He certainly needs a wash,” remarked Holmes. “I had an idea that he
might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me.” He opened
the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my astonishment, a very
large bath-sponge.

“He! he! You are a funny one,” chuckled the inspector.

“Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door very
quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectable figure.”

“Well, I don’t know why not,” said the inspector. “He doesn’t look a
credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?” He slipped his key into the
lock, and we all very quietly entered the cell. The sleeper half
turned, and then settled down once more into a deep slumber. Holmes
stooped to the water-jug, moistened his sponge, and then rubbed it
twice vigorously across and down the prisoner’s face.

“Let me introduce you,” he shouted, “to Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee,
in the county of Kent.”

Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man’s face peeled off
under the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was the coarse brown
tint! Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had seamed it across, and
the twisted lip which had given the repulsive sneer to the face! A
twitch brought away the tangled red hair, and there, sitting up in his
bed, was a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and
smooth-skinned, rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy
bewilderment. Then suddenly realising the exposure, he broke into a
scream and threw himself down with his face to the pillow.

“Great heavens!” cried the inspector, “it is, indeed, the missing man.
I know him from the photograph.”

The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandons himself
to his destiny. “Be it so,” said he. “And pray what am I charged with?”

“With making away with Mr. Neville St.— Oh, come, you can’t be charged
with that unless they make a case of attempted suicide of it,” said the
inspector with a grin. “Well, I have been twenty-seven years in the
force, but this really takes the cake.”

“If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime has
been committed, and that, therefore, I am illegally detained.”

“No crime, but a very great error has been committed,” said Holmes.
“You would have done better to have trusted your wife.”

“It was not the wife; it was the children,” groaned the prisoner. “God
help me, I would not have them ashamed of their father. My God! What an
exposure! What can I do?”

Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him kindly
on the shoulder.

“If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up,” said he,
“of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you
convince the police authorities that there is no possible case against
you, I do not know that there is any reason that the details should
find their way into the papers. Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure,
make notes upon anything which you might tell us and submit it to the
proper authorities. The case would then never go into court at all.”

“God bless you!” cried the prisoner passionately. “I would have endured
imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have left my miserable
secret as a family blot to my children.

“You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was a
schoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent education.
I travelled in my youth, took to the stage, and finally became a
reporter on an evening paper in London. One day my editor wished to
have a series of articles upon begging in the metropolis, and I
volunteered to supply them. There was the point from which all my
adventures started. It was only by trying begging as an amateur that I
could get the facts upon which to base my articles. When an actor I
had, of course, learned all the secrets of making up, and had been
famous in the green-room for my skill. I took advantage now of my
attainments. I painted my face, and to make myself as pitiable as
possible I made a good scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist by
the aid of a small slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red head
of hair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the business
part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as a beggar.
For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned home in the
evening I found to my surprise that I had received no less than 26_s_.
4_d_.

“I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until, some
time later, I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ served upon me
for £ 25. I was at my wit’s end where to get the money, but a sudden
idea came to me. I begged a fortnight’s grace from the creditor, asked
for a holiday from my employers, and spent the time in begging in the
City under my disguise. In ten days I had the money and had paid the
debt.

“Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduous work
at £ 2 a week when I knew that I could earn as much in a day by
smearing my face with a little paint, laying my cap on the ground, and
sitting still. It was a long fight between my pride and the money, but
the dollars won at last, and I threw up reporting and sat day after day
in the corner which I had first chosen, inspiring pity by my ghastly
face and filling my pockets with coppers. Only one man knew my secret.
He was the keeper of a low den in which I used to lodge in Swandam
Lane, where I could every morning emerge as a squalid beggar and in the
evenings transform myself into a well-dressed man about town. This
fellow, a Lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms, so that I knew
that my secret was safe in his possession.

“Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums of money.
I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London could earn £ 700
a year—which is less than my average takings—but I had exceptional
advantages in my power of making up, and also in a facility of
repartee, which improved by practice and made me quite a recognised
character in the City. All day a stream of pennies, varied by silver,
poured in upon me, and it was a very bad day in which I failed to take
£ 2.

“As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the country,
and eventually married, without anyone having a suspicion as to my real
occupation. My dear wife knew that I had business in the City. She
little knew what.

“Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my room
above the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw, to my
horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in the street, with
her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of surprise, threw up my arms
to cover my face, and, rushing to my confidant, the Lascar, entreated
him to prevent anyone from coming up to me. I heard her voice
downstairs, but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly I threw off
my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my pigments and
wig. Even a wife’s eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But
then it occurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and
that the clothes might betray me. I threw open the window, reopening by
my violence a small cut which I had inflicted upon myself in the
bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which was weighted by the
coppers which I had just transferred to it from the leather bag in
which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of the window, and it
disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes would have followed, but
at that moment there was a rush of constables up the stair, and a few
minutes after I found, rather, I confess, to my relief, that instead of
being identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair, I was arrested as his
murderer.

“I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I was
determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and hence my
preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would be terribly
anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the Lascar at a
moment when no constable was watching me, together with a hurried
scrawl, telling her that she had no cause to fear.”

“That note only reached her yesterday,” said Holmes.

“Good God! What a week she must have spent!”

“The police have watched this Lascar,” said Inspector Bradstreet, “and
I can quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a letter
unobserved. Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of his, who
forgot all about it for some days.”

“That was it,” said Holmes, nodding approvingly; “I have no doubt of
it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging?”

“Many times; but what was a fine to me?”

“It must stop here, however,” said Bradstreet. “If the police are to
hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone.”

“I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take.”

“In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps may be
taken. But if you are found again, then all must come out. I am sure,
Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for having cleared
the matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your results.”

“I reached this one,” said my friend, “by sitting upon five pillows and
consuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if we drive to Baker
Street we shall just be in time for breakfast.”




VII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE


I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning
after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of
the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown, a
pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled
morning papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand. Beside the couch
was a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a very seedy and
disreputable hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and cracked in
several places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the chair
suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner for the
purpose of examination.

“You are engaged,” said I; “perhaps I interrupt you.”

“Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my
results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one”—he jerked his thumb in
the direction of the old hat—“but there are points in connection with
it which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of instruction.”

I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his
crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows were
thick with the ice crystals. “I suppose,” I remarked, “that, homely as
it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to it—that it is
the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery and the
punishment of some crime.”

“No, no. No crime,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “Only one of those
whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have four million
human beings all jostling each other within the space of a few square
miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a swarm of humanity,
every possible combination of events may be expected to take place, and
many a little problem will be presented which may be striking and
bizarre without being criminal. We have already had experience of
such.”

“So much so,” I remarked, “that of the last six cases which I have
added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any legal crime.”

“Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler papers,
to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the adventure of
the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that this small
matter will fall into the same innocent category. You know Peterson,
the commissionaire?”

“Yes.”

“It is to him that this trophy belongs.”

“It is his hat.”

“No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look
upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem.
And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas morning,
in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt, roasting
at this moment in front of Peterson’s fire. The facts are these: about
four o’clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a
very honest fellow, was returning from some small jollification and was
making his way homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he
saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger, and
carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the
corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between this stranger and a
little knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the man’s hat, on
which he raised his stick to defend himself and, swinging it over his
head, smashed the shop window behind him. Peterson had rushed forward
to protect the stranger from his assailants; but the man, shocked at
having broken the window, and seeing an official-looking person in
uniform rushing towards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and
vanished amid the labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of
Tottenham Court Road. The roughs had also fled at the appearance of
Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of battle, and
also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this battered hat and a
most unimpeachable Christmas goose.”

“Which surely he restored to their owner?”

“My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that ‘For Mrs.
Henry Baker’ was printed upon a small card which was tied to the bird’s
left leg, and it is also true that the initials ‘H. B.’ are legible
upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some thousands of Bakers,
and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it is not easy
to restore lost property to any one of them.”

“What, then, did Peterson do?”

“He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning,
knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The
goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that, in
spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten
without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore, to
fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain the
hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner.”

“Did he not advertise?”

“No.”

“Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?”

“Only as much as we can deduce.”

“From his hat?”

“Precisely.”

“But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered felt?”

“Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself as
to the individuality of the man who has worn this article?”

I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather
ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape,
hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of red silk, but
was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker’s name; but, as Holmes
had remarked, the initials “H. B.” were scrawled upon one side. It was
pierced in the brim for a hat-securer, but the elastic was missing. For
the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and spotted in several
places, although there seemed to have been some attempt to hide the
discoloured patches by smearing them with ink.

“I can see nothing,” said I, handing it back to my friend.

“On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however, to
reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your
inferences.”

“Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?”

He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion
which was characteristic of him. “It is perhaps less suggestive than it
might have been,” he remarked, “and yet there are a few inferences
which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a
strong balance of probability. That the man was highly intellectual is
of course obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly
well-to-do within the last three years, although he has now fallen upon
evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly, pointing
to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline of his
fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably drink, at
work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact that his wife
has ceased to love him.”

“My dear Holmes!”

“He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect,” he continued,
disregarding my remonstrance. “He is a man who leads a sedentary life,
goes out little, is out of training entirely, is middle-aged, has
grizzled hair which he has had cut within the last few days, and which
he anoints with lime-cream. These are the more patent facts which are
to be deduced from his hat. Also, by the way, that it is extremely
improbable that he has gas laid on in his house.”

“You are certainly joking, Holmes.”

“Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you these
results, you are unable to see how they are attained?”

“I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I am
unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that this man was
intellectual?”

For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right over the
forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. “It is a question of
cubic capacity,” said he; “a man with so large a brain must have
something in it.”

“The decline of his fortunes, then?”

“This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge came
in then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the band of
ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to buy
so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since, then he
has assuredly gone down in the world.”

“Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the foresight and
the moral retrogression?”

Sherlock Holmes laughed. “Here is the foresight,” said he putting his
finger upon the little disc and loop of the hat-securer. “They are
never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a sign of a
certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take this
precaution against the wind. But since we see that he has broken the
elastic and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious that he has
less foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a
weakening nature. On the other hand, he has endeavoured to conceal some
of these stains upon the felt by daubing them with ink, which is a sign
that he has not entirely lost his self-respect.”

“Your reasoning is certainly plausible.”

“The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is grizzled,
that it has been recently cut, and that he uses lime-cream, are all to
be gathered from a close examination of the lower part of the lining.
The lens discloses a large number of hair-ends, clean cut by the
scissors of the barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and there is a
distinct odour of lime-cream. This dust, you will observe, is not the
gritty, grey dust of the street but the fluffy brown dust of the house,
showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the time, while the
marks of moisture upon the inside are proof positive that the wearer
perspired very freely, and could therefore, hardly be in the best of
training.”

“But his wife—you said that she had ceased to love him.”

“This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear
Watson, with a week’s accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when your
wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you also
have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife’s affection.”

“But he might be a bachelor.”

“Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his wife.
Remember the card upon the bird’s leg.”

“You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce that
the gas is not laid on in his house?”

“One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when I see no
less than five, I think that there can be little doubt that the
individual must be brought into frequent contact with burning
tallow—walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in one hand and a
guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains from
a gas-jet. Are you satisfied?”

“Well, it is very ingenious,” said I, laughing; “but since, as you said
just now, there has been no crime committed, and no harm done save the
loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste of energy.”

Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew open,
and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment with
flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with astonishment.

“The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!” he gasped.

“Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off through
the kitchen window?” Holmes twisted himself round upon the sofa to get
a fairer view of the man’s excited face.

“See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!” He held out his
hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm a brilliantly
scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of
such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in the
dark hollow of his hand.

Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. “By Jove, Peterson!” said he,
“this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you have got?”

“A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though it were
putty.”

“It’s more than a precious stone. It is _the_ precious stone.”

“Not the Countess of Morcar’s blue carbuncle!” I ejaculated.

“Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I have
read the advertisement about it in _The Times_ every day lately. It is
absolutely unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the
reward offered of £ 1000 is certainly not within a twentieth part of
the market price.”

“A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!” The commissionaire plumped
down into a chair and stared from one to the other of us.

“That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are
sentimental considerations in the background which would induce the
Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but recover the
gem.”

“It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan,” I
remarked.

“Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days ago. John Horner, a
plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady’s
jewel-case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case has
been referred to the Assizes. I have some account of the matter here, I
believe.” He rummaged amid his newspapers, glancing over the dates,
until at last he smoothed one out, doubled it over, and read the
following paragraph:

“Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26, plumber, was
brought up upon the charge of having upon the 22nd inst., abstracted
from the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the valuable gem known as
the blue carbuncle. James Ryder, upper-attendant at the hotel, gave his
evidence to the effect that he had shown Horner up to the dressing-room
of the Countess of Morcar upon the day of the robbery in order that he
might solder the second bar of the grate, which was loose. He had
remained with Horner some little time, but had finally been called
away. On returning, he found that Horner had disappeared, that the
bureau had been forced open, and that the small morocco casket in
which, as it afterwards transpired, the Countess was accustomed to keep
her jewel, was lying empty upon the dressing-table. Ryder instantly
gave the alarm, and Horner was arrested the same evening; but the stone
could not be found either upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine
Cusack, maid to the Countess, deposed to having heard Ryder’s cry of
dismay on discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into the room,
where she found matters as described by the last witness. Inspector
Bradstreet, B division, gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, who
struggled frantically, and protested his innocence in the strongest
terms. Evidence of a previous conviction for robbery having been given
against the prisoner, the magistrate refused to deal summarily with the
offence, but referred it to the Assizes. Horner, who had shown signs of
intense emotion during the proceedings, fainted away at the conclusion
and was carried out of court.”

“Hum! So much for the police-court,” said Holmes thoughtfully, tossing
aside the paper. “The question for us now to solve is the sequence of
events leading from a rifled jewel-case at one end to the crop of a
goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You see, Watson, our little
deductions have suddenly assumed a much more important and less
innocent aspect. Here is the stone; the stone came from the goose, and
the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the gentleman with the bad hat and
all the other characteristics with which I have bored you. So now we
must set ourselves very seriously to finding this gentleman and
ascertaining what part he has played in this little mystery. To do
this, we must try the simplest means first, and these lie undoubtedly
in an advertisement in all the evening papers. If this fail, I shall
have recourse to other methods.”

“What will you say?”

“Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, then: ‘Found at the
corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry Baker
can have the same by applying at 6:30 this evening at 221B, Baker
Street.’ That is clear and concise.”

“Very. But will he see it?”

“Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a poor man,
the loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his mischance in
breaking the window and by the approach of Peterson that he thought of
nothing but flight, but since then he must have bitterly regretted the
impulse which caused him to drop his bird. Then, again, the
introduction of his name will cause him to see it, for everyone who
knows him will direct his attention to it. Here you are, Peterson, run
down to the advertising agency and have this put in the evening
papers.”

“In which, sir?”

“Oh, in the _Globe_, _Star_, _Pall Mall_, _St. James’s Gazette_,
_Evening News_, _Standard_, _Echo_, and any others that occur to you.”

“Very well, sir. And this stone?”

“Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And, I say, Peterson, just
buy a goose on your way back and leave it here with me, for we must
have one to give to this gentleman in place of the one which your
family is now devouring.”

When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and held it
against the light. “It’s a bonny thing,” said he. “Just see how it
glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime.
Every good stone is. They are the devil’s pet baits. In the larger and
older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone is not
yet twenty years old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy River in
southern China and is remarkable in having every characteristic of the
carbuncle, save that it is blue in shade instead of ruby red. In spite
of its youth, it has already a sinister history. There have been two
murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought
about for the sake of this forty-grain weight of crystallised charcoal.
Who would think that so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the gallows
and the prison? I’ll lock it up in my strong box now and drop a line to
the Countess to say that we have it.”

“Do you think that this man Horner is innocent?”

“I cannot tell.”

“Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker, had
anything to do with the matter?”

“It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an absolutely
innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he was carrying was
of considerably more value than if it were made of solid gold. That,
however, I shall determine by a very simple test if we have an answer
to our advertisement.”

“And you can do nothing until then?”

“Nothing.”

“In that case I shall continue my professional round. But I shall come
back in the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for I should like
to see the solution of so tangled a business.”

“Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I believe.
By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I ought to ask Mrs.
Hudson to examine its crop.”

I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half-past six
when I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I approached the
house I saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a coat which was
buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the bright semicircle which
was thrown from the fanlight. Just as I arrived the door was opened,
and we were shown up together to Holmes’ room.

“Mr. Henry Baker, I believe,” said he, rising from his armchair and
greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality which he could so
readily assume. “Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. It is a
cold night, and I observe that your circulation is more adapted for
summer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right
time. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?”

“Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat.”

He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a broad,
intelligent face, sloping down to a pointed beard of grizzled brown. A
touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight tremor of his extended
hand, recalled Holmes’ surmise as to his habits. His rusty black
frock-coat was buttoned right up in front, with the collar turned up,
and his lank wrists protruded from his sleeves without a sign of cuff
or shirt. He spoke in a slow staccato fashion, choosing his words with
care, and gave the impression generally of a man of learning and
letters who had had ill-usage at the hands of fortune.

“We have retained these things for some days,” said Holmes, “because we
expected to see an advertisement from you giving your address. I am at
a loss to know now why you did not advertise.”

Our visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh. “Shillings have not been so
plentiful with me as they once were,” he remarked. “I had no doubt that
the gang of roughs who assaulted me had carried off both my hat and the
bird. I did not care to spend more money in a hopeless attempt at
recovering them.”

“Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we were compelled to eat
it.”

“To eat it!” Our visitor half rose from his chair in his excitement.

“Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not done so. But I
presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which is about the
same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally
well?”

“Oh, certainly, certainly,” answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of relief.

“Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your
own bird, so if you wish—”

The man burst into a hearty laugh. “They might be useful to me as
relics of my adventure,” said he, “but beyond that I can hardly see
what use the _disjecta membra_ of my late acquaintance are going to be
to me. No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I will confine my
attentions to the excellent bird which I perceive upon the sideboard.”

Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug of his
shoulders.

“There is your hat, then, and there your bird,” said he. “By the way,
would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one from? I am
somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a better grown
goose.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly gained
property under his arm. “There are a few of us who frequent the Alpha
Inn, near the Museum—we are to be found in the Museum itself during the
day, you understand. This year our good host, Windigate by name,
instituted a goose club, by which, on consideration of some few pence
every week, we were each to receive a bird at Christmas. My pence were
duly paid, and the rest is familiar to you. I am much indebted to you,
sir, for a Scotch bonnet is fitted neither to my years nor my gravity.”
With a comical pomposity of manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and
strode off upon his way.

“So much for Mr. Henry Baker,” said Holmes when he had closed the door
behind him. “It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever about
the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and follow up
this clue while it is still hot.”

“By all means.”

It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped cravats
about our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly in a
cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into smoke
like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly as
we swung through the doctors’ quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley Street,
and so through Wigmore Street into Oxford Street. In a quarter of an
hour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which is a small
public-house at the corner of one of the streets which runs down into
Holborn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar and ordered two
glasses of beer from the ruddy-faced, white-aproned landlord.

“Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese,” said
he.

“My geese!” The man seemed surprised.

“Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who was
a member of your goose club.”

“Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them’s not _our_ geese.”

“Indeed! Whose, then?”

“Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden.”

“Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?”

“Breckinridge is his name.”

“Ah! I don’t know him. Well, here’s your good health landlord, and
prosperity to your house. Good-night.”

“Now for Mr. Breckinridge,” he continued, buttoning up his coat as we
came out into the frosty air. “Remember, Watson that though we have so
homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at the
other a man who will certainly get seven years’ penal servitude unless
we can establish his innocence. It is possible that our inquiry may but
confirm his guilt; but, in any case, we have a line of investigation
which has been missed by the police, and which a singular chance has
placed in our hands. Let us follow it out to the bitter end. Faces to
the south, then, and quick march!”

We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a zigzag
of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls bore the
name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor a horsey-looking man,
with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers was helping a boy to put up
the shutters.

“Good-evening. It’s a cold night,” said Holmes.

The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my companion.

“Sold out of geese, I see,” continued Holmes, pointing at the bare
slabs of marble.

“Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning.”

“That’s no good.”

“Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare.”

“Ah, but I was recommended to you.”

“Who by?”

“The landlord of the Alpha.”

“Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen.”

“Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?”

To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the
salesman.

“Now, then, mister,” said he, with his head cocked and his arms akimbo,
“what are you driving at? Let’s have it straight, now.”

“It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese
which you supplied to the Alpha.”

“Well then, I shan’t tell you. So now!”

“Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don’t know why you should
be so warm over such a trifle.”

“Warm! You’d be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am. When I
pay good money for a good article there should be an end of the
business; but it’s ‘Where are the geese?’ and ‘Who did you sell the
geese to?’ and ‘What will you take for the geese?’ One would think they
were the only geese in the world, to hear the fuss that is made over
them.”

“Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been making
inquiries,” said Holmes carelessly. “If you won’t tell us the bet is
off, that is all. But I’m always ready to back my opinion on a matter
of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is country
bred.”

“Well, then, you’ve lost your fiver, for it’s town bred,” snapped the
salesman.

“It’s nothing of the kind.”

“I say it is.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“D’you think you know more about fowls than I, who have handled them
ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that went to the
Alpha were town bred.”

“You’ll never persuade me to believe that.”

“Will you bet, then?”

“It’s merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But I’ll
have a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be obstinate.”

The salesman chuckled grimly. “Bring me the books, Bill,” said he.

The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great
greasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging lamp.

“Now then, Mr. Cocksure,” said the salesman, “I thought that I was out
of geese, but before I finish you’ll find that there is still one left
in my shop. You see this little book?”

“Well?”

“That’s the list of the folk from whom I buy. D’you see? Well, then,
here on this page are the country folk, and the numbers after their
names are where their accounts are in the big ledger. Now, then! You
see this other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of my town
suppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just read it out to me.”

“Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road—249,” read Holmes.

“Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger.”

Holmes turned to the page indicated. “Here you are, ‘Mrs. Oakshott,
117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.’”

“Now, then, what’s the last entry?”

“‘December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7_s_. 6_d_.’”

“Quite so. There you are. And underneath?”

“‘Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12_s_.’”

“What have you to say now?”

Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his
pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of a
man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off he stopped
under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion which
was peculiar to him.

“When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the ‘Pink ’un’
protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet,” said
he. “I daresay that if I had put £ 100 down in front of him, that man
would not have given me such complete information as was drawn from him
by the idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well, Watson, we are, I
fancy, nearing the end of our quest, and the only point which remains
to be determined is whether we should go on to this Mrs. Oakshott
to-night, or whether we should reserve it for to-morrow. It is clear
from what that surly fellow said that there are others besides
ourselves who are anxious about the matter, and I should—”

His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke out
from the stall which we had just left. Turning round we saw a little
rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle of yellow light
which was thrown by the swinging lamp, while Breckinridge, the
salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was shaking his fists
fiercely at the cringing figure.

“I’ve had enough of you and your geese,” he shouted. “I wish you were
all at the devil together. If you come pestering me any more with your
silly talk I’ll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oakshott here and
I’ll answer her, but what have you to do with it? Did I buy the geese
off you?”

“No; but one of them was mine all the same,” whined the little man.

“Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it.”

“She told me to ask you.”

“Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care. I’ve had enough
of it. Get out of this!” He rushed fiercely forward, and the inquirer
flitted away into the darkness.

“Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road,” whispered Holmes. “Come
with me, and we will see what is to be made of this fellow.” Striding
through the scattered knots of people who lounged round the flaring
stalls, my companion speedily overtook the little man and touched him
upon the shoulder. He sprang round, and I could see in the gas-light
that every vestige of colour had been driven from his face.

“Who are you, then? What do you want?” he asked in a quavering voice.

“You will excuse me,” said Holmes blandly, “but I could not help
overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now. I
think that I could be of assistance to you.”

“You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other
people don’t know.”

“But you can know nothing of this?”

“Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to trace some
geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a salesman
named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate, of the Alpha, and
by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Baker is a member.”

“Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet,” cried the
little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering fingers. “I can
hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter.”

Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. “In that case
we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this wind-swept
market-place,” said he. “But pray tell me, before we go farther, who it
is that I have the pleasure of assisting.”

The man hesitated for an instant. “My name is John Robinson,” he
answered with a sidelong glance.

“No, no; the real name,” said Holmes sweetly. “It is always awkward
doing business with an alias.”

A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. “Well then,” said
he, “my real name is James Ryder.”

“Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step into
the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which you
would wish to know.”

The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with
half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether he
is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he stepped into
the cab, and in half an hour we were back in the sitting-room at Baker
Street. Nothing had been said during our drive, but the high, thin
breathing of our new companion, and the claspings and unclaspings of
his hands, spoke of the nervous tension within him.

“Here we are!” said Holmes cheerily as we filed into the room. “The
fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look cold, Mr. Ryder.
Pray take the basket-chair. I will just put on my slippers before we
settle this little matter of yours. Now, then! You want to know what
became of those geese?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine in which
you were interested—white, with a black bar across the tail.”

Ryder quivered with emotion. “Oh, sir,” he cried, “can you tell me
where it went to?”

“It came here.”

“Here?”

“Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don’t wonder that you
should take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was dead—the
bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. I have it here
in my museum.”

Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece with his
right hand. Holmes unlocked his strong-box and held up the blue
carbuncle, which shone out like a star, with a cold, brilliant,
many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a drawn face, uncertain
whether to claim or to disown it.

“The game’s up, Ryder,” said Holmes quietly. “Hold up, man, or you’ll
be into the fire! Give him an arm back into his chair, Watson. He’s not
got blood enough to go in for felony with impunity. Give him a dash of
brandy. So! Now he looks a little more human. What a shrimp it is, to
be sure!”

For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the brandy brought
a tinge of colour into his cheeks, and he sat staring with frightened
eyes at his accuser.

“I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs which I could
possibly need, so there is little which you need tell me. Still, that
little may as well be cleared up to make the case complete. You had
heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the Countess of Morcar’s?”

“It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it,” said he in a crackling
voice.

“I see—her ladyship’s waiting-maid. Well, the temptation of sudden
wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has been for
better men before you; but you were not very scrupulous in the means
you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the making of a very
pretty villain in you. You knew that this man Horner, the plumber, had
been concerned in some such matter before, and that suspicion would
rest the more readily upon him. What did you do, then? You made some
small job in my lady’s room—you and your confederate Cusack—and you
managed that he should be the man sent for. Then, when he had left, you
rifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and had this unfortunate man
arrested. You then—”

Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at my
companion’s knees. “For God’s sake, have mercy!” he shrieked. “Think of
my father! Of my mother! It would break their hearts. I never went
wrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I’ll swear it on a Bible.
Oh, don’t bring it into court! For Christ’s sake, don’t!”

“Get back into your chair!” said Holmes sternly. “It is very well to
cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this poor Horner
in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing.”

“I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the charge
against him will break down.”

“Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account of
the next act. How came the stone into the goose, and how came the goose
into the open market? Tell us the truth, for there lies your only hope
of safety.”

Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. “I will tell you it just
as it happened, sir,” said he. “When Horner had been arrested, it
seemed to me that it would be best for me to get away with the stone at
once, for I did not know at what moment the police might not take it
into their heads to search me and my room. There was no place about the
hotel where it would be safe. I went out, as if on some commission, and
I made for my sister’s house. She had married a man named Oakshott, and
lived in Brixton Road, where she fattened fowls for the market. All the
way there every man I met seemed to me to be a policeman or a
detective; and, for all that it was a cold night, the sweat was pouring
down my face before I came to the Brixton Road. My sister asked me what
was the matter, and why I was so pale; but I told her that I had been
upset by the jewel robbery at the hotel. Then I went into the back yard
and smoked a pipe and wondered what it would be best to do.

“I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and has just
been serving his time in Pentonville. One day he had met me, and fell
into talk about the ways of thieves, and how they could get rid of what
they stole. I knew that he would be true to me, for I knew one or two
things about him; so I made up my mind to go right on to Kilburn, where
he lived, and take him into my confidence. He would show me how to turn
the stone into money. But how to get to him in safety? I thought of the
agonies I had gone through in coming from the hotel. I might at any
moment be seized and searched, and there would be the stone in my
waistcoat pocket. I was leaning against the wall at the time and
looking at the geese which were waddling about round my feet, and
suddenly an idea came into my head which showed me how I could beat the
best detective that ever lived.

“My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the pick of
her geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that she was always as
good as her word. I would take my goose now, and in it I would carry my
stone to Kilburn. There was a little shed in the yard, and behind this
I drove one of the birds—a fine big one, white, with a barred tail. I
caught it, and prying its bill open, I thrust the stone down its throat
as far as my finger could reach. The bird gave a gulp, and I felt the
stone pass along its gullet and down into its crop. But the creature
flapped and struggled, and out came my sister to know what was the
matter. As I turned to speak to her the brute broke loose and fluttered
off among the others.

“‘Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?’ says she.

“‘Well,’ said I, ‘you said you’d give me one for Christmas, and I was
feeling which was the fattest.’

“‘Oh,’ says she, ‘we’ve set yours aside for you—Jem’s bird, we call it.
It’s the big white one over yonder. There’s twenty-six of them, which
makes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen for the market.’

“‘Thank you, Maggie,’ says I; ‘but if it is all the same to you, I’d
rather have that one I was handling just now.’

“‘The other is a good three pound heavier,’ said she, ‘and we fattened
it expressly for you.’

“‘Never mind. I’ll have the other, and I’ll take it now,’ said I.

“‘Oh, just as you like,’ said she, a little huffed. ‘Which is it you
want, then?’

“‘That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the
flock.’

“‘Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.’

“Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird all the
way to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was a man that it
was easy to tell a thing like that to. He laughed until he choked, and
we got a knife and opened the goose. My heart turned to water, for
there was no sign of the stone, and I knew that some terrible mistake
had occurred. I left the bird, rushed back to my sister’s, and hurried
into the back yard. There was not a bird to be seen there.

“‘Where are they all, Maggie?’ I cried.

“‘Gone to the dealer’s, Jem.’

“‘Which dealer’s?’

“‘Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.’

“‘But was there another with a barred tail?’ I asked, ‘the same as the
one I chose?’

“‘Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never tell
them apart.’

“Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my feet
would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the lot at
once, and not one word would he tell me as to where they had gone. You
heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always answered me like
that. My sister thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes I think that I am
myself. And now—and now I am myself a branded thief, without ever
having touched the wealth for which I sold my character. God help me!
God help me!” He burst into convulsive sobbing, with his face buried in
his hands.

There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing and by the
measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes’ finger-tips upon the edge of the
table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door.

“Get out!” said he.

“What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!”

“No more words. Get out!”

And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon the
stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running footfalls
from the street.

“After all, Watson,” said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay
pipe, “I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies. If
Horner were in danger it would be another thing; but this fellow will
not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose that I am
commuting a felony, but it is just possible that I am saving a soul.
This fellow will not go wrong again; he is too terribly frightened.
Send him to gaol now, and you make him a gaol-bird for life. Besides,
it is the season of forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a most
singular and whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward. If
you will have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin
another investigation, in which, also a bird will be the chief
feature.”




VIII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND


On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I have
during the last eight years studied the methods of my friend Sherlock
Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large number merely strange,
but none commonplace; for, working as he did rather for the love of his
art than for the acquirement of wealth, he refused to associate himself
with any investigation which did not tend towards the unusual, and even
the fantastic. Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any
which presented more singular features than that which was associated
with the well-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. The
events in question occurred in the early days of my association with
Holmes, when we were sharing rooms as bachelors in Baker Street. It is
possible that I might have placed them upon record before, but a
promise of secrecy was made at the time, from which I have only been
freed during the last month by the untimely death of the lady to whom
the pledge was given. It is perhaps as well that the facts should now
come to light, for I have reasons to know that there are widespread
rumours as to the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make the
matter even more terrible than the truth.

It was early in April in the year ’83 that I woke one morning to find
Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He was
a late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on the mantelpiece showed me
that it was only a quarter-past seven, I blinked up at him in some
surprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for I was myself
regular in my habits.

“Very sorry to knock you up, Watson,” said he, “but it’s the common lot
this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she retorted upon me,
and I on you.”

“What is it, then—a fire?”

“No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a considerable
state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She is waiting now in
the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies wander about the metropolis at
this hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people up out of their beds,
I presume that it is something very pressing which they have to
communicate. Should it prove to be an interesting case, you would, I am
sure, wish to follow it from the outset. I thought, at any rate, that I
should call you and give you the chance.”

“My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything.”

I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional
investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as
intuitions, and yet always founded on a logical basis with which he
unravelled the problems which were submitted to him. I rapidly threw on
my clothes and was ready in a few minutes to accompany my friend down
to the sitting-room. A lady dressed in black and heavily veiled, who
had been sitting in the window, rose as we entered.

“Good-morning, madam,” said Holmes cheerily. “My name is Sherlock
Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before
whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad to see
that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray draw up
to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I observe that
you are shivering.”

“It is not cold which makes me shiver,” said the woman in a low voice,
changing her seat as requested.

“What, then?”

“It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror.” She raised her veil as she
spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state of
agitation, her face all drawn and grey, with restless frightened eyes,
like those of some hunted animal. Her features and figure were those of
a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with premature grey, and her
expression was weary and haggard. Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one
of his quick, all-comprehensive glances.

“You must not fear,” said he soothingly, bending forward and patting
her forearm. “We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt. You
have come in by train this morning, I see.”

“You know me, then?”

“No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of
your left glove. You must have started early, and yet you had a good
drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached the
station.”

The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my
companion.

“There is no mystery, my dear madam,” said he, smiling. “The left arm
of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places. The
marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart which
throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the left-hand
side of the driver.”

“Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct,” said she. “I
started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past, and
came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can stand this strain no
longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to turn to—none,
save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can be of little
aid. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs.
Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore need. It was from
her that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you could
help me, too, and at least throw a little light through the dense
darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out of my power to reward
you for your services, but in a month or six weeks I shall be married,
with the control of my own income, and then at least you shall not find
me ungrateful.”

Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small
case-book, which he consulted.

“Farintosh,” said he. “Ah yes, I recall the case; it was concerned with
an opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson. I can only say,
madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to your case as I
did to that of your friend. As to reward, my profession is its own
reward; but you are at liberty to defray whatever expenses I may be put
to, at the time which suits you best. And now I beg that you will lay
before us everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the
matter.”

“Alas!” replied our visitor, “the very horror of my situation lies in
the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions depend so
entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to another, that
even he to whom of all others I have a right to look for help and
advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as the fancies of a
nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his soothing
answers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can
see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart. You may
advise me how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me.”

“I am all attention, madam.”

“My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who is
the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the
Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey.”

Holmes nodded his head. “The name is familiar to me,” said he.

“The family was at one time among the richest in England, and the
estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north, and
Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four successive
heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family ruin
was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the Regency.
Nothing was left save a few acres of ground, and the
two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under a heavy
mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, living the
horrible life of an aristocratic pauper; but his only son, my
stepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to the new conditions,
obtained an advance from a relative, which enabled him to take a
medical degree and went out to Calcutta, where, by his professional
skill and his force of character, he established a large practice. In a
fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had been
perpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler to death and
narrowly escaped a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a long term
of imprisonment and afterwards returned to England a morose and
disappointed man.

“When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the
young widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My sister
Julia and I were twins, and we were only two years old at the time of
my mother’s re-marriage. She had a considerable sum of money—not less
than £ 1000 a year—and this she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely
while we resided with him, with a provision that a certain annual sum
should be allowed to each of us in the event of our marriage. Shortly
after our return to England my mother died—she was killed eight years
ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then abandoned his
attempts to establish himself in practice in London and took us to live
with him in the old ancestral house at Stoke Moran. The money which my
mother had left was enough for all our wants, and there seemed to be no
obstacle to our happiness.

“But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this time.
Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbours,
who had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back in
the old family seat, he shut himself up in his house and seldom came
out save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever might cross his
path. Violence of temper approaching to mania has been hereditary in
the men of the family, and in my stepfather’s case it had, I believe,
been intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A series of
disgraceful brawls took place, two of which ended in the police-court,
until at last he became the terror of the village, and the folks would
fly at his approach, for he is a man of immense strength, and
absolutely uncontrollable in his anger.

“Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into a stream,
and it was only by paying over all the money which I could gather
together that I was able to avert another public exposure. He had no
friends at all save the wandering gipsies, and he would give these
vagabonds leave to encamp upon the few acres of bramble-covered land
which represent the family estate, and would accept in return the
hospitality of their tents, wandering away with them sometimes for
weeks on end. He has a passion also for Indian animals, which are sent
over to him by a correspondent, and he has at this moment a cheetah and
a baboon, which wander freely over his grounds and are feared by the
villagers almost as much as their master.

“You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I had no
great pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with us, and for a
long time we did all the work of the house. She was but thirty at the
time of her death, and yet her hair had already begun to whiten, even
as mine has.”

“Your sister is dead, then?”

“She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish to
speak to you. You can understand that, living the life which I have
described, we were little likely to see anyone of our own age and
position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother’s maiden sister, Miss
Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we were occasionally
allowed to pay short visits at this lady’s house. Julia went there at
Christmas two years ago, and met there a half-pay major of marines, to
whom she became engaged. My stepfather learned of the engagement when
my sister returned and offered no objection to the marriage; but within
a fortnight of the day which had been fixed for the wedding, the
terrible event occurred which has deprived me of my only companion.”

Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed
and his head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened his lids now and
glanced across at his visitor.

“Pray be precise as to details,” said he.

“It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful time is
seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have already said, very
old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this wing are
on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the central block of
the buildings. Of these bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott’s, the second
my sister’s, and the third my own. There is no communication between
them, but they all open out into the same corridor. Do I make myself
plain?”

“Perfectly so.”

“The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That fatal
night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we knew that he
had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of the
strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke. She left her
room, therefore, and came into mine, where she sat for some time,
chatting about her approaching wedding. At eleven o’clock she rose to
leave me, but she paused at the door and looked back.

“‘Tell me, Helen,’ said she, ‘have you ever heard anyone whistle in the
dead of the night?’

“‘Never,’ said I.

“‘I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in your
sleep?’

“‘Certainly not. But why?’

“‘Because during the last few nights I have always, about three in the
morning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light sleeper, and it has
awakened me. I cannot tell where it came from—perhaps from the next
room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would just ask you
whether you had heard it.’

“‘No, I have not. It must be those wretched gipsies in the plantation.’

“‘Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder that you did
not hear it also.’

“‘Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.’

“‘Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate.’ She smiled back at
me, closed my door, and a few moments later I heard her key turn in the
lock.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes. “Was it your custom always to lock yourselves in
at night?”

“Always.”

“And why?”

“I think that I mentioned to you that the Doctor kept a cheetah and a
baboon. We had no feeling of security unless our doors were locked.”

“Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement.”

“I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of impending misfortune
impressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect, were twins, and you
know how subtle are the links which bind two souls which are so closely
allied. It was a wild night. The wind was howling outside, and the rain
was beating and splashing against the windows. Suddenly, amid all the
hubbub of the gale, there burst forth the wild scream of a terrified
woman. I knew that it was my sister’s voice. I sprang from my bed,
wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed into the corridor. As I opened my
door I seemed to hear a low whistle, such as my sister described, and a
few moments later a clanging sound, as if a mass of metal had fallen.
As I ran down the passage, my sister’s door was unlocked, and revolved
slowly upon its hinges. I stared at it horror-stricken, not knowing
what was about to issue from it. By the light of the corridor-lamp I
saw my sister appear at the opening, her face blanched with terror, her
hands groping for help, her whole figure swaying to and fro like that
of a drunkard. I ran to her and threw my arms round her, but at that
moment her knees seemed to give way and she fell to the ground. She
writhed as one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs were dreadfully
convulsed. At first I thought that she had not recognised me, but as I
bent over her she suddenly shrieked out in a voice which I shall never
forget, ‘Oh, my God! Helen! It was the band! The speckled band!’ There
was something else which she would fain have said, and she stabbed with
her finger into the air in the direction of the Doctor’s room, but a
fresh convulsion seized her and choked her words. I rushed out, calling
loudly for my stepfather, and I met him hastening from his room in his
dressing-gown. When he reached my sister’s side she was unconscious,
and though he poured brandy down her throat and sent for medical aid
from the village, all efforts were in vain, for she slowly sank and
died without having recovered her consciousness. Such was the dreadful
end of my beloved sister.”

“One moment,” said Holmes, “are you sure about this whistle and
metallic sound? Could you swear to it?”

“That was what the county coroner asked me at the inquiry. It is my
strong impression that I heard it, and yet, among the crash of the gale
and the creaking of an old house, I may possibly have been deceived.”

“Was your sister dressed?”

“No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand was found the
charred stump of a match, and in her left a match-box.”

“Showing that she had struck a light and looked about her when the
alarm took place. That is important. And what conclusions did the
coroner come to?”

“He investigated the case with great care, for Dr. Roylott’s conduct
had long been notorious in the county, but he was unable to find any
satisfactory cause of death. My evidence showed that the door had been
fastened upon the inner side, and the windows were blocked by
old-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars, which were secured every
night. The walls were carefully sounded, and were shown to be quite
solid all round, and the flooring was also thoroughly examined, with
the same result. The chimney is wide, but is barred up by four large
staples. It is certain, therefore, that my sister was quite alone when
she met her end. Besides, there were no marks of any violence upon
her.”

“How about poison?”

“The doctors examined her for it, but without success.”

“What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then?”

“It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock, though
what it was that frightened her I cannot imagine.”

“Were there gipsies in the plantation at the time?”

“Yes, there are nearly always some there.”

“Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion to a band—a speckled
band?”

“Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the wild talk of delirium,
sometimes that it may have referred to some band of people, perhaps to
these very gipsies in the plantation. I do not know whether the spotted
handkerchiefs which so many of them wear over their heads might have
suggested the strange adjective which she used.”

Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from being satisfied.

“These are very deep waters,” said he; “pray go on with your
narrative.”

“Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until lately
lonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend, whom I have
known for many years, has done me the honour to ask my hand in
marriage. His name is Armitage—Percy Armitage—the second son of Mr.
Armitage, of Crane Water, near Reading. My stepfather has offered no
opposition to the match, and we are to be married in the course of the
spring. Two days ago some repairs were started in the west wing of the
building, and my bedroom wall has been pierced, so that I have had to
move into the chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep in the very
bed in which she slept. Imagine, then, my thrill of terror when last
night, as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I suddenly
heard in the silence of the night the low whistle which had been the
herald of her own death. I sprang up and lit the lamp, but nothing was
to be seen in the room. I was too shaken to go to bed again, however,
so I dressed, and as soon as it was daylight I slipped down, got a
dog-cart at the Crown Inn, which is opposite, and drove to Leatherhead,
from whence I have come on this morning with the one object of seeing
you and asking your advice.”

“You have done wisely,” said my friend. “But have you told me all?”

“Yes, all.”

“Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your stepfather.”

“Why, what do you mean?”

For answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace which fringed the
hand that lay upon our visitor’s knee. Five little livid spots, the
marks of four fingers and a thumb, were printed upon the white wrist.

“You have been cruelly used,” said Holmes.

The lady coloured deeply and covered over her injured wrist. “He is a
hard man,” she said, “and perhaps he hardly knows his own strength.”

There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned his chin upon his
hands and stared into the crackling fire.

“This is a very deep business,” he said at last. “There are a thousand
details which I should desire to know before I decide upon our course
of action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If we were to come to
Stoke Moran to-day, would it be possible for us to see over these rooms
without the knowledge of your stepfather?”

“As it happens, he spoke of coming into town to-day upon some most
important business. It is probable that he will be away all day, and
that there would be nothing to disturb you. We have a housekeeper now,
but she is old and foolish, and I could easily get her out of the way.”

“Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?”

“By no means.”

“Then we shall both come. What are you going to do yourself?”

“I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I am in
town. But I shall return by the twelve o’clock train, so as to be there
in time for your coming.”

“And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have myself some small
business matters to attend to. Will you not wait and breakfast?”

“No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I have confided my
trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you again this
afternoon.” She dropped her thick black veil over her face and glided
from the room.

“And what do you think of it all, Watson?” asked Sherlock Holmes,
leaning back in his chair.

“It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business.”

“Dark enough and sinister enough.”

“Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls are
sound, and that the door, window, and chimney are impassable, then her
sister must have been undoubtedly alone when she met her mysterious
end.”

“What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the very
peculiar words of the dying woman?”

“I cannot think.”

“When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the presence of a
band of gipsies who are on intimate terms with this old doctor, the
fact that we have every reason to believe that the doctor has an
interest in preventing his stepdaughter’s marriage, the dying allusion
to a band, and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner heard a
metallic clang, which might have been caused by one of those metal bars
that secured the shutters falling back into its place, I think that
there is good ground to think that the mystery may be cleared along
those lines.”

“But what, then, did the gipsies do?”

“I cannot imagine.”

“I see many objections to any such theory.”

“And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going to
Stoke Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are fatal,
or if they may be explained away. But what in the name of the devil!”

The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that our
door had been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge man had framed
himself in the aperture. His costume was a peculiar mixture of the
professional and of the agricultural, having a black top-hat, a long
frock-coat, and a pair of high gaiters, with a hunting-crop swinging in
his hand. So tall was he that his hat actually brushed the cross bar of
the doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it across from side to
side. A large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with
the sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned from one to the
other of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and his high, thin,
fleshless nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to a fierce old bird
of prey.

“Which of you is Holmes?” asked this apparition.

“My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me,” said my companion
quietly.

“I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran.”

“Indeed, Doctor,” said Holmes blandly. “Pray take a seat.”

“I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I have
traced her. What has she been saying to you?”

“It is a little cold for the time of the year,” said Holmes.

“What has she been saying to you?” screamed the old man furiously.

“But I have heard that the crocuses promise well,” continued my
companion imperturbably.

“Ha! You put me off, do you?” said our new visitor, taking a step
forward and shaking his hunting-crop. “I know you, you scoundrel! I
have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler.”

My friend smiled.

“Holmes, the busybody!”

His smile broadened.

“Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!”

Holmes chuckled heartily. “Your conversation is most entertaining,”
said he. “When you go out close the door, for there is a decided
draught.”

“I will go when I have had my say. Don’t you dare to meddle with my
affairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I traced her! I am a
dangerous man to fall foul of! See here.” He stepped swiftly forward,
seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with his huge brown hands.

“See that you keep yourself out of my grip,” he snarled, and hurling
the twisted poker into the fireplace he strode out of the room.

“He seems a very amiable person,” said Holmes, laughing. “I am not
quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him that my
grip was not much more feeble than his own.” As he spoke he picked up
the steel poker and, with a sudden effort, straightened it out again.

“Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the official
detective force! This incident gives zest to our investigation,
however, and I only trust that our little friend will not suffer from
her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her. And now, Watson, we
shall order breakfast, and afterwards I shall walk down to Doctors’
Commons, where I hope to get some data which may help us in this
matter.”

It was nearly one o’clock when Sherlock Holmes returned from his
excursion. He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, scrawled over
with notes and figures.

“I have seen the will of the deceased wife,” said he. “To determine its
exact meaning I have been obliged to work out the present prices of the
investments with which it is concerned. The total income, which at the
time of the wife’s death was little short of £ 1,100, is now, through
the fall in agricultural prices, not more than £ 750. Each daughter can
claim an income of £ 250, in case of marriage. It is evident,
therefore, that if both girls had married, this beauty would have had a
mere pittance, while even one of them would cripple him to a very
serious extent. My morning’s work has not been wasted, since it has
proved that he has the very strongest motives for standing in the way
of anything of the sort. And now, Watson, this is too serious for
dawdling, especially as the old man is aware that we are interesting
ourselves in his affairs; so if you are ready, we shall call a cab and
drive to Waterloo. I should be very much obliged if you would slip your
revolver into your pocket. An Eley’s No. 2 is an excellent argument
with gentlemen who can twist steel pokers into knots. That and a
tooth-brush are, I think, all that we need.”

At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train for Leatherhead,
where we hired a trap at the station inn and drove for four or five
miles through the lovely Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day, with a
bright sun and a few fleecy clouds in the heavens. The trees and
wayside hedges were just throwing out their first green shoots, and the
air was full of the pleasant smell of the moist earth. To me at least
there was a strange contrast between the sweet promise of the spring
and this sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My companion sat in
the front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat pulled down over his
eyes, and his chin sunk upon his breast, buried in the deepest thought.
Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed
over the meadows.

“Look there!” said he.

A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope, thickening into
a grove at the highest point. From amid the branches there jutted out
the grey gables and high roof-tree of a very old mansion.

“Stoke Moran?” said he.

“Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott,” remarked the
driver.

“There is some building going on there,” said Holmes; “that is where we
are going.”

“There’s the village,” said the driver, pointing to a cluster of roofs
some distance to the left; “but if you want to get to the house, you’ll
find it shorter to get over this stile, and so by the footpath over the
fields. There it is, where the lady is walking.”

“And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner,” observed Holmes, shading his
eyes. “Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest.”

We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on its way to
Leatherhead.

“I thought it as well,” said Holmes as we climbed the stile, “that this
fellow should think we had come here as architects, or on some definite
business. It may stop his gossip. Good-afternoon, Miss Stoner. You see
that we have been as good as our word.”

Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet us with a face
which spoke her joy. “I have been waiting so eagerly for you,” she
cried, shaking hands with us warmly. “All has turned out splendidly.
Dr. Roylott has gone to town, and it is unlikely that he will be back
before evening.”

“We have had the pleasure of making the Doctor’s acquaintance,” said
Holmes, and in a few words he sketched out what had occurred. Miss
Stoner turned white to the lips as she listened.

“Good heavens!” she cried, “he has followed me, then.”

“So it appears.”

“He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from him. What will
he say when he returns?”

“He must guard himself, for he may find that there is someone more
cunning than himself upon his track. You must lock yourself up from him
to-night. If he is violent, we shall take you away to your aunt’s at
Harrow. Now, we must make the best use of our time, so kindly take us
at once to the rooms which we are to examine.”

The building was of grey, lichen-blotched stone, with a high central
portion and two curving wings, like the claws of a crab, thrown out on
each side. In one of these wings the windows were broken and blocked
with wooden boards, while the roof was partly caved in, a picture of
ruin. The central portion was in little better repair, but the
right-hand block was comparatively modern, and the blinds in the
windows, with the blue smoke curling up from the chimneys, showed that
this was where the family resided. Some scaffolding had been erected
against the end wall, and the stone-work had been broken into, but
there were no signs of any workmen at the moment of our visit. Holmes
walked slowly up and down the ill-trimmed lawn and examined with deep
attention the outsides of the windows.

“This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you used to sleep, the
centre one to your sister’s, and the one next to the main building to
Dr. Roylott’s chamber?”

“Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle one.”

“Pending the alterations, as I understand. By the way, there does not
seem to be any very pressing need for repairs at that end wall.”

“There were none. I believe that it was an excuse to move me from my
room.”

“Ah! that is suggestive. Now, on the other side of this narrow wing
runs the corridor from which these three rooms open. There are windows
in it, of course?”

“Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow for anyone to pass through.”

“As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms were unapproachable
from that side. Now, would you have the kindness to go into your room
and bar your shutters?”

Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a careful examination through the
open window, endeavoured in every way to force the shutter open, but
without success. There was no slit through which a knife could be
passed to raise the bar. Then with his lens he tested the hinges, but
they were of solid iron, built firmly into the massive masonry. “Hum!”
said he, scratching his chin in some perplexity, “my theory certainly
presents some difficulties. No one could pass these shutters if they
were bolted. Well, we shall see if the inside throws any light upon the
matter.”

A small side door led into the whitewashed corridor from which the
three bedrooms opened. Holmes refused to examine the third chamber, so
we passed at once to the second, that in which Miss Stoner was now
sleeping, and in which her sister had met with her fate. It was a
homely little room, with a low ceiling and a gaping fireplace, after
the fashion of old country-houses. A brown chest of drawers stood in
one corner, a narrow white-counterpaned bed in another, and a
dressing-table on the left-hand side of the window. These articles,
with two small wicker-work chairs, made up all the furniture in the
room save for a square of Wilton carpet in the centre. The boards round
and the panelling of the walls were of brown, worm-eaten oak, so old
and discoloured that it may have dated from the original building of
the house. Holmes drew one of the chairs into a corner and sat silent,
while his eyes travelled round and round and up and down, taking in
every detail of the apartment.

“Where does that bell communicate with?” he asked at last pointing to a
thick bell-rope which hung down beside the bed, the tassel actually
lying upon the pillow.

“It goes to the housekeeper’s room.”

“It looks newer than the other things?”

“Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago.”

“Your sister asked for it, I suppose?”

“No, I never heard of her using it. We used always to get what we
wanted for ourselves.”

“Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a bell-pull there. You
will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself as to this
floor.” He threw himself down upon his face with his lens in his hand
and crawled swiftly backward and forward, examining minutely the cracks
between the boards. Then he did the same with the wood-work with which
the chamber was panelled. Finally he walked over to the bed and spent
some time in staring at it and in running his eye up and down the wall.
Finally he took the bell-rope in his hand and gave it a brisk tug.

“Why, it’s a dummy,” said he.

“Won’t it ring?”

“No, it is not even attached to a wire. This is very interesting. You
can see now that it is fastened to a hook just above where the little
opening for the ventilator is.”

“How very absurd! I never noticed that before.”

“Very strange!” muttered Holmes, pulling at the rope. “There are one or
two very singular points about this room. For example, what a fool a
builder must be to open a ventilator into another room, when, with the
same trouble, he might have communicated with the outside air!”

“That is also quite modern,” said the lady.

“Done about the same time as the bell-rope?” remarked Holmes.

“Yes, there were several little changes carried out about that time.”

“They seem to have been of a most interesting character—dummy
bell-ropes, and ventilators which do not ventilate. With your
permission, Miss Stoner, we shall now carry our researches into the
inner apartment.”

Dr. Grimesby Roylott’s chamber was larger than that of his
step-daughter, but was as plainly furnished. A camp-bed, a small wooden
shelf full of books, mostly of a technical character, an armchair
beside the bed, a plain wooden chair against the wall, a round table,
and a large iron safe were the principal things which met the eye.
Holmes walked slowly round and examined each and all of them with the
keenest interest.

“What’s in here?” he asked, tapping the safe.

“My stepfather’s business papers.”

“Oh! you have seen inside, then?”

“Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of papers.”

“There isn’t a cat in it, for example?”

“No. What a strange idea!”

“Well, look at this!” He took up a small saucer of milk which stood on
the top of it.

“No; we don’t keep a cat. But there is a cheetah and a baboon.”

“Ah, yes, of course! Well, a cheetah is just a big cat, and yet a
saucer of milk does not go very far in satisfying its wants, I daresay.
There is one point which I should wish to determine.” He squatted down
in front of the wooden chair and examined the seat of it with the
greatest attention.

“Thank you. That is quite settled,” said he, rising and putting his
lens in his pocket. “Hullo! Here is something interesting!”

The object which had caught his eye was a small dog lash hung on one
corner of the bed. The lash, however, was curled upon itself and tied
so as to make a loop of whipcord.

“What do you make of that, Watson?”

“It’s a common enough lash. But I don’t know why it should be tied.”

“That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me! it’s a wicked world, and
when a clever man turns his brains to crime it is the worst of all. I
think that I have seen enough now, Miss Stoner, and with your
permission we shall walk out upon the lawn.”

I had never seen my friend’s face so grim or his brow so dark as it was
when we turned from the scene of this investigation. We had walked
several times up and down the lawn, neither Miss Stoner nor myself
liking to break in upon his thoughts before he roused himself from his
reverie.

“It is very essential, Miss Stoner,” said he, “that you should
absolutely follow my advice in every respect.”

“I shall most certainly do so.”

“The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may depend
upon your compliance.”

“I assure you that I am in your hands.”

“In the first place, both my friend and I must spend the night in your
room.”

Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment.

“Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that that is the village
inn over there?”

“Yes, that is the Crown.”

“Very good. Your windows would be visible from there?”

“Certainly.”

“You must confine yourself to your room, on pretence of a headache,
when your stepfather comes back. Then when you hear him retire for the
night, you must open the shutters of your window, undo the hasp, put
your lamp there as a signal to us, and then withdraw quietly with
everything which you are likely to want into the room which you used to
occupy. I have no doubt that, in spite of the repairs, you could manage
there for one night.”

“Oh, yes, easily.”

“The rest you will leave in our hands.”

“But what will you do?”

“We shall spend the night in your room, and we shall investigate the
cause of this noise which has disturbed you.”

“I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made up your mind,” said
Miss Stoner, laying her hand upon my companion’s sleeve.

“Perhaps I have.”

“Then, for pity’s sake, tell me what was the cause of my sister’s
death.”

“I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak.”

“You can at least tell me whether my own thought is correct, and if she
died from some sudden fright.”

“No, I do not think so. I think that there was probably some more
tangible cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you for if Dr.
Roylott returned and saw us our journey would be in vain. Good-bye, and
be brave, for if you will do what I have told you, you may rest assured
that we shall soon drive away the dangers that threaten you.”

Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and
sitting-room at the Crown Inn. They were on the upper floor, and from
our window we could command a view of the avenue gate, and of the
inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House. At dusk we saw Dr. Grimesby
Roylott drive past, his huge form looming up beside the little figure
of the lad who drove him. The boy had some slight difficulty in undoing
the heavy iron gates, and we heard the hoarse roar of the Doctor’s
voice and saw the fury with which he shook his clinched fists at him.
The trap drove on, and a few minutes later we saw a sudden light spring
up among the trees as the lamp was lit in one of the sitting-rooms.

“Do you know, Watson,” said Holmes as we sat together in the gathering
darkness, “I have really some scruples as to taking you to-night. There
is a distinct element of danger.”

“Can I be of assistance?”

“Your presence might be invaluable.”

“Then I shall certainly come.”

“It is very kind of you.”

“You speak of danger. You have evidently seen more in these rooms than
was visible to me.”

“No, but I fancy that I may have deduced a little more. I imagine that
you saw all that I did.”

“I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and what purpose that
could answer I confess is more than I can imagine.”

“You saw the ventilator, too?”

“Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual thing to have a
small opening between two rooms. It was so small that a rat could
hardly pass through.”

“I knew that we should find a ventilator before ever we came to Stoke
Moran.”

“My dear Holmes!”

“Oh, yes, I did. You remember in her statement she said that her sister
could smell Dr. Roylott’s cigar. Now, of course that suggested at once
that there must be a communication between the two rooms. It could only
be a small one, or it would have been remarked upon at the coroner’s
inquiry. I deduced a ventilator.”

“But what harm can there be in that?”

“Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. A ventilator
is made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the bed dies. Does
not that strike you?”

“I cannot as yet see any connection.”

“Did you observe anything very peculiar about that bed?”

“No.”

“It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed fastened like that
before?”

“I cannot say that I have.”

“The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the same
relative position to the ventilator and to the rope—or so we may call
it, since it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull.”

“Holmes,” I cried, “I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at. We are
only just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible crime.”

“Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does go wrong he is
the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge. Palmer and
Pritchard were among the heads of their profession. This man strikes
even deeper, but I think, Watson, that we shall be able to strike
deeper still. But we shall have horrors enough before the night is
over; for goodness’ sake let us have a quiet pipe and turn our minds
for a few hours to something more cheerful.”

About nine o’clock the light among the trees was extinguished, and all
was dark in the direction of the Manor House. Two hours passed slowly
away, and then, suddenly, just at the stroke of eleven, a single bright
light shone out right in front of us.

“That is our signal,” said Holmes, springing to his feet; “it comes
from the middle window.”

As we passed out he exchanged a few words with the landlord, explaining
that we were going on a late visit to an acquaintance, and that it was
possible that we might spend the night there. A moment later we were
out on the dark road, a chill wind blowing in our faces, and one yellow
light twinkling in front of us through the gloom to guide us on our
sombre errand.

There was little difficulty in entering the grounds, for unrepaired
breaches gaped in the old park wall. Making our way among the trees, we
reached the lawn, crossed it, and were about to enter through the
window when out from a clump of laurel bushes there darted what seemed
to be a hideous and distorted child, who threw itself upon the grass
with writhing limbs and then ran swiftly across the lawn into the
darkness.

“My God!” I whispered; “did you see it?”

Holmes was for the moment as startled as I. His hand closed like a vice
upon my wrist in his agitation. Then he broke into a low laugh and put
his lips to my ear.

“It is a nice household,” he murmured. “That is the baboon.”

I had forgotten the strange pets which the Doctor affected. There was a
cheetah, too; perhaps we might find it upon our shoulders at any
moment. I confess that I felt easier in my mind when, after following
Holmes’ example and slipping off my shoes, I found myself inside the
bedroom. My companion noiselessly closed the shutters, moved the lamp
onto the table, and cast his eyes round the room. All was as we had
seen it in the daytime. Then creeping up to me and making a trumpet of
his hand, he whispered into my ear again so gently that it was all that
I could do to distinguish the words:

“The least sound would be fatal to our plans.”

I nodded to show that I had heard.

“We must sit without light. He would see it through the ventilator.”

I nodded again.

“Do not go asleep; your very life may depend upon it. Have your pistol
ready in case we should need it. I will sit on the side of the bed, and
you in that chair.”

I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of the table.

Holmes had brought up a long thin cane, and this he placed upon the bed
beside him. By it he laid the box of matches and the stump of a candle.
Then he turned down the lamp, and we were left in darkness.

How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could not hear a sound,
not even the drawing of a breath, and yet I knew that my companion sat
open-eyed, within a few feet of me, in the same state of nervous
tension in which I was myself. The shutters cut off the least ray of
light, and we waited in absolute darkness.

From outside came the occasional cry of a night-bird, and once at our
very window a long drawn catlike whine, which told us that the cheetah
was indeed at liberty. Far away we could hear the deep tones of the
parish clock, which boomed out every quarter of an hour. How long they
seemed, those quarters! Twelve struck, and one and two and three, and
still we sat waiting silently for whatever might befall.

Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light up in the direction
of the ventilator, which vanished immediately, but was succeeded by a
strong smell of burning oil and heated metal. Someone in the next room
had lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle sound of movement, and then
all was silent once more, though the smell grew stronger. For half an
hour I sat with straining ears. Then suddenly another sound became
audible—a very gentle, soothing sound, like that of a small jet of
steam escaping continually from a kettle. The instant that we heard it,
Holmes sprang from the bed, struck a match, and lashed furiously with
his cane at the bell-pull.

“You see it, Watson?” he yelled. “You see it?”

But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the light I heard a
low, clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing into my weary eyes
made it impossible for me to tell what it was at which my friend lashed
so savagely. I could, however, see that his face was deadly pale and
filled with horror and loathing. He had ceased to strike and was gazing
up at the ventilator when suddenly there broke from the silence of the
night the most horrible cry to which I have ever listened. It swelled
up louder and louder, a hoarse yell of pain and fear and anger all
mingled in the one dreadful shriek. They say that away down in the
village, and even in the distant parsonage, that cry raised the
sleepers from their beds. It struck cold to our hearts, and I stood
gazing at Holmes, and he at me, until the last echoes of it had died
away into the silence from which it rose.

“What can it mean?” I gasped.

“It means that it is all over,” Holmes answered. “And perhaps, after
all, it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will enter Dr.
Roylott’s room.”

With a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way down the corridor.
Twice he struck at the chamber door without any reply from within. Then
he turned the handle and entered, I at his heels, with the cocked
pistol in my hand.

It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the table stood a
dark-lantern with the shutter half open, throwing a brilliant beam of
light upon the iron safe, the door of which was ajar. Beside this
table, on the wooden chair, sat Dr. Grimesby Roylott clad in a long
grey dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding beneath, and his feet
thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers. Across his lap lay the short
stock with the long lash which we had noticed during the day. His chin
was cocked upward and his eyes were fixed in a dreadful, rigid stare at
the corner of the ceiling. Round his brow he had a peculiar yellow
band, with brownish speckles, which seemed to be bound tightly round
his head. As we entered he made neither sound nor motion.

“The band! the speckled band!” whispered Holmes.

I took a step forward. In an instant his strange headgear began to
move, and there reared itself from among his hair the squat
diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a loathsome serpent.

“It is a swamp adder!” cried Holmes; “the deadliest snake in India. He
has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence does, in truth,
recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he
digs for another. Let us thrust this creature back into its den, and we
can then remove Miss Stoner to some place of shelter and let the county
police know what has happened.”

As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the dead man’s lap, and
throwing the noose round the reptile’s neck he drew it from its horrid
perch and, carrying it at arm’s length, threw it into the iron safe,
which he closed upon it.

Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke
Moran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a narrative which has
already run to too great a length by telling how we broke the sad news
to the terrified girl, how we conveyed her by the morning train to the
care of her good aunt at Harrow, of how the slow process of official
inquiry came to the conclusion that the doctor met his fate while
indiscreetly playing with a dangerous pet. The little which I had yet
to learn of the case was told me by Sherlock Holmes as we travelled
back next day.

“I had,” said he, “come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which
shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from
insufficient data. The presence of the gipsies, and the use of the word
‘band,’ which was used by the poor girl, no doubt, to explain the
appearance which she had caught a hurried glimpse of by the light of
her match, were sufficient to put me upon an entirely wrong scent. I
can only claim the merit that I instantly reconsidered my position
when, however, it became clear to me that whatever danger threatened an
occupant of the room could not come either from the window or the door.
My attention was speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to you, to
this ventilator, and to the bell-rope which hung down to the bed. The
discovery that this was a dummy, and that the bed was clamped to the
floor, instantly gave rise to the suspicion that the rope was there as
a bridge for something passing through the hole and coming to the bed.
The idea of a snake instantly occurred to me, and when I coupled it
with my knowledge that the doctor was furnished with a supply of
creatures from India, I felt that I was probably on the right track.
The idea of using a form of poison which could not possibly be
discovered by any chemical test was just such a one as would occur to a
clever and ruthless man who had had an Eastern training. The rapidity
with which such a poison would take effect would also, from his point
of view, be an advantage. It would be a sharp-eyed coroner, indeed, who
could distinguish the two little dark punctures which would show where
the poison fangs had done their work. Then I thought of the whistle. Of
course he must recall the snake before the morning light revealed it to
the victim. He had trained it, probably by the use of the milk which we
saw, to return to him when summoned. He would put it through this
ventilator at the hour that he thought best, with the certainty that it
would crawl down the rope and land on the bed. It might or might not
bite the occupant, perhaps she might escape every night for a week, but
sooner or later she must fall a victim.

“I had come to these conclusions before ever I had entered his room. An
inspection of his chair showed me that he had been in the habit of
standing on it, which of course would be necessary in order that he
should reach the ventilator. The sight of the safe, the saucer of milk,
and the loop of whipcord were enough to finally dispel any doubts which
may have remained. The metallic clang heard by Miss Stoner was
obviously caused by her stepfather hastily closing the door of his safe
upon its terrible occupant. Having once made up my mind, you know the
steps which I took in order to put the matter to the proof. I heard the
creature hiss as I have no doubt that you did also, and I instantly lit
the light and attacked it.”

“With the result of driving it through the ventilator.”

“And also with the result of causing it to turn upon its master at the
other side. Some of the blows of my cane came home and roused its
snakish temper, so that it flew upon the first person it saw. In this
way I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Grimesby Roylott’s
death, and I cannot say that it is likely to weigh very heavily upon my
conscience.”




IX. THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGINEER’S THUMB


Of all the problems which have been submitted to my friend, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, for solution during the years of our intimacy, there
were only two which I was the means of introducing to his notice—that
of Mr. Hatherley’s thumb, and that of Colonel Warburton’s madness. Of
these the latter may have afforded a finer field for an acute and
original observer, but the other was so strange in its inception and so
dramatic in its details that it may be the more worthy of being placed
upon record, even if it gave my friend fewer openings for those
deductive methods of reasoning by which he achieved such remarkable
results. The story has, I believe, been told more than once in the
newspapers, but, like all such narratives, its effect is much less
striking when set forth _en bloc_ in a single half-column of print than
when the facts slowly evolve before your own eyes, and the mystery
clears gradually away as each new discovery furnishes a step which
leads on to the complete truth. At the time the circumstances made a
deep impression upon me, and the lapse of two years has hardly served
to weaken the effect.

It was in the summer of ’89, not long after my marriage, that the
events occurred which I am now about to summarise. I had returned to
civil practice and had finally abandoned Holmes in his Baker Street
rooms, although I continually visited him and occasionally even
persuaded him to forgo his Bohemian habits so far as to come and visit
us. My practice had steadily increased, and as I happened to live at no
very great distance from Paddington Station, I got a few patients from
among the officials. One of these, whom I had cured of a painful and
lingering disease, was never weary of advertising my virtues and of
endeavouring to send me on every sufferer over whom he might have any
influence.

One morning, at a little before seven o’clock, I was awakened by the
maid tapping at the door to announce that two men had come from
Paddington and were waiting in the consulting-room. I dressed
hurriedly, for I knew by experience that railway cases were seldom
trivial, and hastened downstairs. As I descended, my old ally, the
guard, came out of the room and closed the door tightly behind him.

“I’ve got him here,” he whispered, jerking his thumb over his shoulder;
“he’s all right.”

“What is it, then?” I asked, for his manner suggested that it was some
strange creature which he had caged up in my room.

“It’s a new patient,” he whispered. “I thought I’d bring him round
myself; then he couldn’t slip away. There he is, all safe and sound. I
must go now, Doctor; I have my dooties, just the same as you.” And off
he went, this trusty tout, without even giving me time to thank him.

I entered my consulting-room and found a gentleman seated by the table.
He was quietly dressed in a suit of heather tweed with a soft cloth cap
which he had laid down upon my books. Round one of his hands he had a
handkerchief wrapped, which was mottled all over with bloodstains. He
was young, not more than five-and-twenty, I should say, with a strong,
masculine face; but he was exceedingly pale and gave me the impression
of a man who was suffering from some strong agitation, which it took
all his strength of mind to control.

“I am sorry to knock you up so early, Doctor,” said he, “but I have had
a very serious accident during the night. I came in by train this
morning, and on inquiring at Paddington as to where I might find a
doctor, a worthy fellow very kindly escorted me here. I gave the maid a
card, but I see that she has left it upon the side-table.”

I took it up and glanced at it. “Mr. Victor Hatherley, hydraulic
engineer, 16A, Victoria Street (3rd floor).” That was the name, style,
and abode of my morning visitor. “I regret that I have kept you
waiting,” said I, sitting down in my library-chair. “You are fresh from
a night journey, I understand, which is in itself a monotonous
occupation.”

“Oh, my night could not be called monotonous,” said he, and laughed. He
laughed very heartily, with a high, ringing note, leaning back in his
chair and shaking his sides. All my medical instincts rose up against
that laugh.

“Stop it!” I cried; “pull yourself together!” and I poured out some
water from a caraffe.

It was useless, however. He was off in one of those hysterical
outbursts which come upon a strong nature when some great crisis is
over and gone. Presently he came to himself once more, very weary and
pale-looking.

“I have been making a fool of myself,” he gasped.

“Not at all. Drink this.” I dashed some brandy into the water, and the
colour began to come back to his bloodless cheeks.

“That’s better!” said he. “And now, Doctor, perhaps you would kindly
attend to my thumb, or rather to the place where my thumb used to be.”

He unwound the handkerchief and held out his hand. It gave even my
hardened nerves a shudder to look at it. There were four protruding
fingers and a horrid red, spongy surface where the thumb should have
been. It had been hacked or torn right out from the roots.

“Good heavens!” I cried, “this is a terrible injury. It must have bled
considerably.”

“Yes, it did. I fainted when it was done, and I think that I must have
been senseless for a long time. When I came to I found that it was
still bleeding, so I tied one end of my handkerchief very tightly round
the wrist and braced it up with a twig.”

“Excellent! You should have been a surgeon.”

“It is a question of hydraulics, you see, and came within my own
province.”

“This has been done,” said I, examining the wound, “by a very heavy and
sharp instrument.”

“A thing like a cleaver,” said he.

“An accident, I presume?”

“By no means.”

“What! a murderous attack?”

“Very murderous indeed.”

“You horrify me.”

I sponged the wound, cleaned it, dressed it, and finally covered it
over with cotton wadding and carbolised bandages. He lay back without
wincing, though he bit his lip from time to time.

“How is that?” I asked when I had finished.

“Capital! Between your brandy and your bandage, I feel a new man. I was
very weak, but I have had a good deal to go through.”

“Perhaps you had better not speak of the matter. It is evidently trying
to your nerves.”

“Oh, no, not now. I shall have to tell my tale to the police; but,
between ourselves, if it were not for the convincing evidence of this
wound of mine, I should be surprised if they believed my statement, for
it is a very extraordinary one, and I have not much in the way of proof
with which to back it up; and, even if they believe me, the clues which
I can give them are so vague that it is a question whether justice will
be done.”

“Ha!” cried I, “if it is anything in the nature of a problem which you
desire to see solved, I should strongly recommend you to come to my
friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, before you go to the official police.”

“Oh, I have heard of that fellow,” answered my visitor, “and I should
be very glad if he would take the matter up, though of course I must
use the official police as well. Would you give me an introduction to
him?”

“I’ll do better. I’ll take you round to him myself.”

“I should be immensely obliged to you.”

“We’ll call a cab and go together. We shall just be in time to have a
little breakfast with him. Do you feel equal to it?”

“Yes; I shall not feel easy until I have told my story.”

“Then my servant will call a cab, and I shall be with you in an
instant.” I rushed upstairs, explained the matter shortly to my wife,
and in five minutes was inside a hansom, driving with my new
acquaintance to Baker Street.

Sherlock Holmes was, as I expected, lounging about his sitting-room in
his dressing-gown, reading the agony column of _The Times_ and smoking
his before-breakfast pipe, which was composed of all the plugs and
dottles left from his smokes of the day before, all carefully dried and
collected on the corner of the mantelpiece. He received us in his
quietly genial fashion, ordered fresh rashers and eggs, and joined us
in a hearty meal. When it was concluded he settled our new acquaintance
upon the sofa, placed a pillow beneath his head, and laid a glass of
brandy and water within his reach.

“It is easy to see that your experience has been no common one, Mr.
Hatherley,” said he. “Pray, lie down there and make yourself absolutely
at home. Tell us what you can, but stop when you are tired and keep up
your strength with a little stimulant.”

“Thank you,” said my patient, “but I have felt another man since the
doctor bandaged me, and I think that your breakfast has completed the
cure. I shall take up as little of your valuable time as possible, so I
shall start at once upon my peculiar experiences.”

Holmes sat in his big armchair with the weary, heavy-lidded expression
which veiled his keen and eager nature, while I sat opposite to him,
and we listened in silence to the strange story which our visitor
detailed to us.

“You must know,” said he, “that I am an orphan and a bachelor, residing
alone in lodgings in London. By profession I am a hydraulic engineer,
and I have had considerable experience of my work during the seven
years that I was apprenticed to Venner & Matheson, the well-known firm,
of Greenwich. Two years ago, having served my time, and having also
come into a fair sum of money through my poor father’s death, I
determined to start in business for myself and took professional
chambers in Victoria Street.

“I suppose that everyone finds his first independent start in business
a dreary experience. To me it has been exceptionally so. During two
years I have had three consultations and one small job, and that is
absolutely all that my profession has brought me. My gross takings
amount to £ 27 10_s_. Every day, from nine in the morning until four in
the afternoon, I waited in my little den, until at last my heart began
to sink, and I came to believe that I should never have any practice at
all.

“Yesterday, however, just as I was thinking of leaving the office, my
clerk entered to say there was a gentleman waiting who wished to see me
upon business. He brought up a card, too, with the name of ‘Colonel
Lysander Stark’ engraved upon it. Close at his heels came the colonel
himself, a man rather over the middle size, but of an exceeding
thinness. I do not think that I have ever seen so thin a man. His whole
face sharpened away into nose and chin, and the skin of his cheeks was
drawn quite tense over his outstanding bones. Yet this emaciation
seemed to be his natural habit, and due to no disease, for his eye was
bright, his step brisk, and his bearing assured. He was plainly but
neatly dressed, and his age, I should judge, would be nearer forty than
thirty.

“‘Mr. Hatherley?’ said he, with something of a German accent. ‘You have
been recommended to me, Mr. Hatherley, as being a man who is not only
proficient in his profession but is also discreet and capable of
preserving a secret.’

“I bowed, feeling as flattered as any young man would at such an
address. ‘May I ask who it was who gave me so good a character?’

“‘Well, perhaps it is better that I should not tell you that just at
this moment. I have it from the same source that you are both an orphan
and a bachelor and are residing alone in London.’

“‘That is quite correct,’ I answered; ‘but you will excuse me if I say
that I cannot see how all this bears upon my professional
qualifications. I understand that it was on a professional matter that
you wished to speak to me?’

“‘Undoubtedly so. But you will find that all I say is really to the
point. I have a professional commission for you, but absolute secrecy
is quite essential—absolute secrecy, you understand, and of course we
may expect that more from a man who is alone than from one who lives in
the bosom of his family.’

“‘If I promise to keep a secret,’ said I, ‘you may absolutely depend
upon my doing so.’

“He looked very hard at me as I spoke, and it seemed to me that I had
never seen so suspicious and questioning an eye.

“‘Do you promise, then?’ said he at last.

“‘Yes, I promise.’

“‘Absolute and complete silence before, during, and after? No reference
to the matter at all, either in word or writing?’

“‘I have already given you my word.’

“‘Very good.’ He suddenly sprang up, and darting like lightning across
the room he flung open the door. The passage outside was empty.

“‘That’s all right,’ said he, coming back. ‘I know that clerks are
sometimes curious as to their master’s affairs. Now we can talk in
safety.’ He drew up his chair very close to mine and began to stare at
me again with the same questioning and thoughtful look.

“A feeling of repulsion, and of something akin to fear had begun to
rise within me at the strange antics of this fleshless man. Even my
dread of losing a client could not restrain me from showing my
impatience.

“‘I beg that you will state your business, sir,’ said I; ‘my time is of
value.’ Heaven forgive me for that last sentence, but the words came to
my lips.

“‘How would fifty guineas for a night’s work suit you?’ he asked.

“‘Most admirably.’

“‘I say a night’s work, but an hour’s would be nearer the mark. I
simply want your opinion about a hydraulic stamping machine which has
got out of gear. If you show us what is wrong we shall soon set it
right ourselves. What do you think of such a commission as that?’

“‘The work appears to be light and the pay munificent.’

“‘Precisely so. We shall want you to come to-night by the last train.’

“‘Where to?’

“‘To Eyford, in Berkshire. It is a little place near the borders of
Oxfordshire, and within seven miles of Reading. There is a train from
Paddington which would bring you there at about 11:15.’

“‘Very good.’

“‘I shall come down in a carriage to meet you.’

“‘There is a drive, then?’

“‘Yes, our little place is quite out in the country. It is a good seven
miles from Eyford Station.’

“‘Then we can hardly get there before midnight. I suppose there would
be no chance of a train back. I should be compelled to stop the night.’

“‘Yes, we could easily give you a shake-down.’

“‘That is very awkward. Could I not come at some more convenient hour?’

“‘We have judged it best that you should come late. It is to recompense
you for any inconvenience that we are paying to you, a young and
unknown man, a fee which would buy an opinion from the very heads of
your profession. Still, of course, if you would like to draw out of the
business, there is plenty of time to do so.’

“I thought of the fifty guineas, and of how very useful they would be
to me. ‘Not at all,’ said I, ‘I shall be very happy to accommodate
myself to your wishes. I should like, however, to understand a little
more clearly what it is that you wish me to do.’

“‘Quite so. It is very natural that the pledge of secrecy which we have
exacted from you should have aroused your curiosity. I have no wish to
commit you to anything without your having it all laid before you. I
suppose that we are absolutely safe from eavesdroppers?’

“‘Entirely.’

“‘Then the matter stands thus. You are probably aware that
fuller’s-earth is a valuable product, and that it is only found in one
or two places in England?’

“‘I have heard so.’

“‘Some little time ago I bought a small place—a very small place—within
ten miles of Reading. I was fortunate enough to discover that there was
a deposit of fuller’s-earth in one of my fields. On examining it,
however, I found that this deposit was a comparatively small one, and
that it formed a link between two very much larger ones upon the right
and left—both of them, however, in the grounds of my neighbours. These
good people were absolutely ignorant that their land contained that
which was quite as valuable as a gold-mine. Naturally, it was to my
interest to buy their land before they discovered its true value, but
unfortunately I had no capital by which I could do this. I took a few
of my friends into the secret, however, and they suggested that we
should quietly and secretly work our own little deposit and that in
this way we should earn the money which would enable us to buy the
neighbouring fields. This we have now been doing for some time, and in
order to help us in our operations we erected a hydraulic press. This
press, as I have already explained, has got out of order, and we wish
your advice upon the subject. We guard our secret very jealously,
however, and if it once became known that we had hydraulic engineers
coming to our little house, it would soon rouse inquiry, and then, if
the facts came out, it would be good-bye to any chance of getting these
fields and carrying out our plans. That is why I have made you promise
me that you will not tell a human being that you are going to Eyford
to-night. I hope that I make it all plain?’

“‘I quite follow you,’ said I. ‘The only point which I could not quite
understand was what use you could make of a hydraulic press in
excavating fuller’s-earth, which, as I understand, is dug out like
gravel from a pit.’

“‘Ah!’ said he carelessly, ‘we have our own process. We compress the
earth into bricks, so as to remove them without revealing what they
are. But that is a mere detail. I have taken you fully into my
confidence now, Mr. Hatherley, and I have shown you how I trust you.’
He rose as he spoke. ‘I shall expect you, then, at Eyford at 11:15.’

“‘I shall certainly be there.’

“‘And not a word to a soul.’ He looked at me with a last long,
questioning gaze, and then, pressing my hand in a cold, dank grasp, he
hurried from the room.

“Well, when I came to think it all over in cool blood I was very much
astonished, as you may both think, at this sudden commission which had
been intrusted to me. On the one hand, of course, I was glad, for the
fee was at least tenfold what I should have asked had I set a price
upon my own services, and it was possible that this order might lead to
other ones. On the other hand, the face and manner of my patron had
made an unpleasant impression upon me, and I could not think that his
explanation of the fuller’s-earth was sufficient to explain the
necessity for my coming at midnight, and his extreme anxiety lest I
should tell anyone of my errand. However, I threw all fears to the
winds, ate a hearty supper, drove to Paddington, and started off,
having obeyed to the letter the injunction as to holding my tongue.

“At Reading I had to change not only my carriage but my station.
However, I was in time for the last train to Eyford, and I reached the
little dim-lit station after eleven o’clock. I was the only passenger
who got out there, and there was no one upon the platform save a single
sleepy porter with a lantern. As I passed out through the wicket gate,
however, I found my acquaintance of the morning waiting in the shadow
upon the other side. Without a word he grasped my arm and hurried me
into a carriage, the door of which was standing open. He drew up the
windows on either side, tapped on the wood-work, and away we went as
fast as the horse could go.”

“One horse?” interjected Holmes.

“Yes, only one.”

“Did you observe the colour?”

“Yes, I saw it by the side-lights when I was stepping into the
carriage. It was a chestnut.”

“Tired-looking or fresh?”

“Oh, fresh and glossy.”

“Thank you. I am sorry to have interrupted you. Pray continue your most
interesting statement.”

“Away we went then, and we drove for at least an hour. Colonel Lysander
Stark had said that it was only seven miles, but I should think, from
the rate that we seemed to go, and from the time that we took, that it
must have been nearer twelve. He sat at my side in silence all the
time, and I was aware, more than once when I glanced in his direction,
that he was looking at me with great intensity. The country roads seem
to be not very good in that part of the world, for we lurched and
jolted terribly. I tried to look out of the windows to see something of
where we were, but they were made of frosted glass, and I could make
out nothing save the occasional bright blur of a passing light. Now and
then I hazarded some remark to break the monotony of the journey, but
the colonel answered only in monosyllables, and the conversation soon
flagged. At last, however, the bumping of the road was exchanged for
the crisp smoothness of a gravel-drive, and the carriage came to a
stand. Colonel Lysander Stark sprang out, and, as I followed after him,
pulled me swiftly into a porch which gaped in front of us. We stepped,
as it were, right out of the carriage and into the hall, so that I
failed to catch the most fleeting glance of the front of the house. The
instant that I had crossed the threshold the door slammed heavily
behind us, and I heard faintly the rattle of the wheels as the carriage
drove away.

“It was pitch dark inside the house, and the colonel fumbled about
looking for matches and muttering under his breath. Suddenly a door
opened at the other end of the passage, and a long, golden bar of light
shot out in our direction. It grew broader, and a woman appeared with a
lamp in her hand, which she held above her head, pushing her face
forward and peering at us. I could see that she was pretty, and from
the gloss with which the light shone upon her dark dress I knew that it
was a rich material. She spoke a few words in a foreign tongue in a
tone as though asking a question, and when my companion answered in a
gruff monosyllable she gave such a start that the lamp nearly fell from
her hand. Colonel Stark went up to her, whispered something in her ear,
and then, pushing her back into the room from whence she had come, he
walked towards me again with the lamp in his hand.

“‘Perhaps you will have the kindness to wait in this room for a few
minutes,’ said he, throwing open another door. It was a quiet, little,
plainly furnished room, with a round table in the centre, on which
several German books were scattered. Colonel Stark laid down the lamp
on the top of a harmonium beside the door. ‘I shall not keep you
waiting an instant,’ said he, and vanished into the darkness.

“I glanced at the books upon the table, and in spite of my ignorance of
German I could see that two of them were treatises on science, the
others being volumes of poetry. Then I walked across to the window,
hoping that I might catch some glimpse of the country-side, but an oak
shutter, heavily barred, was folded across it. It was a wonderfully
silent house. There was an old clock ticking loudly somewhere in the
passage, but otherwise everything was deadly still. A vague feeling of
uneasiness began to steal over me. Who were these German people, and
what were they doing living in this strange, out-of-the-way place? And
where was the place? I was ten miles or so from Eyford, that was all I
knew, but whether north, south, east, or west I had no idea. For that
matter, Reading, and possibly other large towns, were within that
radius, so the place might not be so secluded, after all. Yet it was
quite certain, from the absolute stillness, that we were in the
country. I paced up and down the room, humming a tune under my breath
to keep up my spirits and feeling that I was thoroughly earning my
fifty-guinea fee.

“Suddenly, without any preliminary sound in the midst of the utter
stillness, the door of my room swung slowly open. The woman was
standing in the aperture, the darkness of the hall behind her, the
yellow light from my lamp beating upon her eager and beautiful face. I
could see at a glance that she was sick with fear, and the sight sent a
chill to my own heart. She held up one shaking finger to warn me to be
silent, and she shot a few whispered words of broken English at me, her
eyes glancing back, like those of a frightened horse, into the gloom
behind her.

“‘I would go,’ said she, trying hard, as it seemed to me, to speak
calmly; ‘I would go. I should not stay here. There is no good for you
to do.’

“‘But, madam,’ said I, ‘I have not yet done what I came for. I cannot
possibly leave until I have seen the machine.’

“‘It is not worth your while to wait,’ she went on. ‘You can pass
through the door; no one hinders.’ And then, seeing that I smiled and
shook my head, she suddenly threw aside her constraint and made a step
forward, with her hands wrung together. ‘For the love of Heaven!’ she
whispered, ‘get away from here before it is too late!’

“But I am somewhat headstrong by nature, and the more ready to engage
in an affair when there is some obstacle in the way. I thought of my
fifty-guinea fee, of my wearisome journey, and of the unpleasant night
which seemed to be before me. Was it all to go for nothing? Why should
I slink away without having carried out my commission, and without the
payment which was my due? This woman might, for all I knew, be a
monomaniac. With a stout bearing, therefore, though her manner had
shaken me more than I cared to confess, I still shook my head and
declared my intention of remaining where I was. She was about to renew
her entreaties when a door slammed overhead, and the sound of several
footsteps was heard upon the stairs. She listened for an instant, threw
up her hands with a despairing gesture, and vanished as suddenly and as
noiselessly as she had come.

“The newcomers were Colonel Lysander Stark and a short thick man with a
chinchilla beard growing out of the creases of his double chin, who was
introduced to me as Mr. Ferguson.

“‘This is my secretary and manager,’ said the colonel. ‘By the way, I
was under the impression that I left this door shut just now. I fear
that you have felt the draught.’

“‘On the contrary,’ said I, ‘I opened the door myself because I felt
the room to be a little close.’

“He shot one of his suspicious looks at me. ‘Perhaps we had better
proceed to business, then,’ said he. ‘Mr. Ferguson and I will take you
up to see the machine.’

“‘I had better put my hat on, I suppose.’

“‘Oh, no, it is in the house.’

“‘What, you dig fuller’s-earth in the house?’

“‘No, no. This is only where we compress it. But never mind that. All
we wish you to do is to examine the machine and to let us know what is
wrong with it.’

“We went upstairs together, the colonel first with the lamp, the fat
manager and I behind him. It was a labyrinth of an old house, with
corridors, passages, narrow winding staircases, and little low doors,
the thresholds of which were hollowed out by the generations who had
crossed them. There were no carpets and no signs of any furniture above
the ground floor, while the plaster was peeling off the walls, and the
damp was breaking through in green, unhealthy blotches. I tried to put
on as unconcerned an air as possible, but I had not forgotten the
warnings of the lady, even though I disregarded them, and I kept a keen
eye upon my two companions. Ferguson appeared to be a morose and silent
man, but I could see from the little that he said that he was at least
a fellow-countryman.

“Colonel Lysander Stark stopped at last before a low door, which he
unlocked. Within was a small, square room, in which the three of us
could hardly get at one time. Ferguson remained outside, and the
colonel ushered me in.

“‘We are now,’ said he, ‘actually within the hydraulic press, and it
would be a particularly unpleasant thing for us if anyone were to turn
it on. The ceiling of this small chamber is really the end of the
descending piston, and it comes down with the force of many tons upon
this metal floor. There are small lateral columns of water outside
which receive the force, and which transmit and multiply it in the
manner which is familiar to you. The machine goes readily enough, but
there is some stiffness in the working of it, and it has lost a little
of its force. Perhaps you will have the goodness to look it over and to
show us how we can set it right.’

“I took the lamp from him, and I examined the machine very thoroughly.
It was indeed a gigantic one, and capable of exercising enormous
pressure. When I passed outside, however, and pressed down the levers
which controlled it, I knew at once by the whishing sound that there
was a slight leakage, which allowed a regurgitation of water through
one of the side cylinders. An examination showed that one of the
india-rubber bands which was round the head of a driving-rod had shrunk
so as not quite to fill the socket along which it worked. This was
clearly the cause of the loss of power, and I pointed it out to my
companions, who followed my remarks very carefully and asked several
practical questions as to how they should proceed to set it right. When
I had made it clear to them, I returned to the main chamber of the
machine and took a good look at it to satisfy my own curiosity. It was
obvious at a glance that the story of the fuller’s-earth was the merest
fabrication, for it would be absurd to suppose that so powerful an
engine could be designed for so inadequate a purpose. The walls were of
wood, but the floor consisted of a large iron trough, and when I came
to examine it I could see a crust of metallic deposit all over it. I
had stooped and was scraping at this to see exactly what it was when I
heard a muttered exclamation in German and saw the cadaverous face of
the colonel looking down at me.

“‘What are you doing there?’ he asked.

“I felt angry at having been tricked by so elaborate a story as that
which he had told me. ‘I was admiring your fuller’s-earth,’ said I; ‘I
think that I should be better able to advise you as to your machine if
I knew what the exact purpose was for which it was used.’

“The instant that I uttered the words I regretted the rashness of my
speech. His face set hard, and a baleful light sprang up in his grey
eyes.

“‘Very well,’ said he, ‘you shall know all about the machine.’ He took
a step backward, slammed the little door, and turned the key in the
lock. I rushed towards it and pulled at the handle, but it was quite
secure, and did not give in the least to my kicks and shoves. ‘Hullo!’
I yelled. ‘Hullo! Colonel! Let me out!’

“And then suddenly in the silence I heard a sound which sent my heart
into my mouth. It was the clank of the levers and the swish of the
leaking cylinder. He had set the engine at work. The lamp still stood
upon the floor where I had placed it when examining the trough. By its
light I saw that the black ceiling was coming down upon me, slowly,
jerkily, but, as none knew better than myself, with a force which must
within a minute grind me to a shapeless pulp. I threw myself,
screaming, against the door, and dragged with my nails at the lock. I
implored the colonel to let me out, but the remorseless clanking of the
levers drowned my cries. The ceiling was only a foot or two above my
head, and with my hand upraised I could feel its hard, rough surface.
Then it flashed through my mind that the pain of my death would depend
very much upon the position in which I met it. If I lay on my face the
weight would come upon my spine, and I shuddered to think of that
dreadful snap. Easier the other way, perhaps; and yet, had I the nerve
to lie and look up at that deadly black shadow wavering down upon me?
Already I was unable to stand erect, when my eye caught something which
brought a gush of hope back to my heart.

“I have said that though the floor and ceiling were of iron, the walls
were of wood. As I gave a last hurried glance around, I saw a thin line
of yellow light between two of the boards, which broadened and
broadened as a small panel was pushed backward. For an instant I could
hardly believe that here was indeed a door which led away from death.
The next instant I threw myself through, and lay half-fainting upon the
other side. The panel had closed again behind me, but the crash of the
lamp, and a few moments afterwards the clang of the two slabs of metal,
told me how narrow had been my escape.

“I was recalled to myself by a frantic plucking at my wrist, and I
found myself lying upon the stone floor of a narrow corridor, while a
woman bent over me and tugged at me with her left hand, while she held
a candle in her right. It was the same good friend whose warning I had
so foolishly rejected.

“‘Come! come!’ she cried breathlessly. ‘They will be here in a moment.
They will see that you are not there. Oh, do not waste the so-precious
time, but come!’

“This time, at least, I did not scorn her advice. I staggered to my
feet and ran with her along the corridor and down a winding stair. The
latter led to another broad passage, and just as we reached it we heard
the sound of running feet and the shouting of two voices, one answering
the other from the floor on which  we were and from the one beneath. My
guide stopped and looked about her like one  who is at her wit’s end.
Then she threw open a door which led into a bedroom, through the window
of which the moon was shining brightly.

“‘It is your only chance,’ said she. ‘It is high, but it may be that
you can jump it.’

“As she spoke a light sprang into view at the further end of the
passage, and I saw the lean figure of Colonel Lysander Stark rushing
forward with a lantern in one hand and a weapon like a butcher’s
cleaver in the other. I rushed across the bedroom, flung open the
window, and looked out. How quiet and sweet and wholesome the garden
looked in the moonlight, and it could not be more than thirty feet
down. I clambered out upon the sill, but I hesitated to jump until I
should have heard what passed between my saviour and the ruffian who
pursued me. If she were ill-used, then at any risks I was determined to
go back to her assistance. The thought had hardly flashed through my
mind before he was at the door, pushing his way past her; but she threw
her arms round him and tried to hold him back.

“‘Fritz! Fritz!’ she cried in English, ‘remember your promise after the
last time. You said it should not be again. He will be silent! Oh, he
will be silent!’

“‘You are mad, Elise!’ he shouted, struggling to break away from her.
‘You will be the ruin of us. He has seen too much. Let me pass, I say!’
He dashed her to one side, and, rushing to the window, cut at me with
his heavy weapon. I had let myself go, and was hanging by the hands to
the sill, when his blow fell. I was conscious of a dull pain, my grip
loosened, and I fell into the garden below.

“I was shaken but not hurt by the fall; so I picked myself up and
rushed off among the bushes as hard as I could run, for I understood
that I was far from being out of danger yet. Suddenly, however, as I
ran, a deadly dizziness and sickness came over me. I glanced down at my
hand, which was throbbing painfully, and then, for the first time, saw
that my thumb had been cut off and that the blood was pouring from my
wound. I endeavoured to tie my handkerchief round it, but there came a
sudden buzzing in my ears, and next moment I fell in a dead faint among
the rose-bushes.

“How long I remained unconscious I cannot tell. It must have been a
very long time, for the moon had sunk, and a bright morning was
breaking when I came to myself. My clothes were all sodden with dew,
and my coat-sleeve was drenched with blood from my wounded thumb. The
smarting of it recalled in an instant all the particulars of my night’s
adventure, and I sprang to my feet with the feeling that I might hardly
yet be safe from my pursuers. But to my astonishment, when I came to
look round me, neither house nor garden were to be seen. I had been
lying in an angle of the hedge close by the high road, and just a little
lower down was a long building, which proved, upon my approaching it,
to be the very station at which I had arrived upon the previous night.
Were it not for the ugly wound upon my hand, all that had passed during
those dreadful hours might have been an evil dream.

“Half dazed, I went into the station and asked about the morning train.
There would be one to Reading in less than an hour. The same porter was
on duty, I found, as had been there when I arrived. I inquired of him
whether he had ever heard of Colonel Lysander Stark. The name was
strange to him. Had he observed a carriage the night before waiting for
me? No, he had not. Was there a police-station anywhere near? There was
one about three miles off.

“It was too far for me to go, weak and ill as I was. I determined to
wait until I got back to town before telling my story to the police. It
was a little past six when I arrived, so I went first to have my wound
dressed, and then the doctor was kind enough to bring me along here. I
put the case into your hands and shall do exactly what you advise.”

We both sat in silence for some little time after listening to this
extraordinary narrative. Then Sherlock Holmes pulled down from the
shelf one of the ponderous commonplace books in which he placed his
cuttings.

“Here is an advertisement which will interest you,” said he. “It
appeared in all the papers about a year ago. Listen to this: ‘Lost, on
the 9th inst., Mr. Jeremiah Hayling, aged twenty-six, a hydraulic
engineer. Left his lodgings at ten o’clock at night, and has not been
heard of since. Was dressed in,’ etc., etc. Ha! That represents the
last time that the colonel needed to have his machine overhauled, I
fancy.”

“Good heavens!” cried my patient. “Then that explains what the girl
said.”

“Undoubtedly. It is quite clear that the colonel was a cool and
desperate man, who was absolutely determined that nothing should stand
in the way of his little game, like those out-and-out pirates who will
leave no survivor from a captured ship. Well, every moment now is
precious, so if you feel equal to it we shall go down to Scotland Yard
at once as a preliminary to starting for Eyford.”

Some three hours or so afterwards we were all in the train together,
bound from Reading to the little Berkshire village. There were Sherlock
Holmes, the hydraulic engineer, Inspector Bradstreet, of Scotland Yard,
a plain-clothes man, and myself. Bradstreet had spread an ordnance map
of the county out upon the seat and was busy with his compasses drawing
a circle with Eyford for its centre.

“There you are,” said he. “That circle is drawn at a radius of ten
miles from the village. The place we want must be somewhere near that
line. You said ten miles, I think, sir.”

“It was an hour’s good drive.”

“And you think that they brought you back all that way when you were
unconscious?”

“They must have done so. I have a confused memory, too, of having been
lifted and conveyed somewhere.”

“What I cannot understand,” said I, “is why they should have spared you
when they found you lying fainting in the garden. Perhaps the villain
was softened by the woman’s entreaties.”

“I hardly think that likely. I never saw a more inexorable face in my
life.”

“Oh, we shall soon clear up all that,” said Bradstreet. “Well, I have
drawn my circle, and I only wish I knew at what point upon it the folk
that we are in search of are to be found.”

“I think I could lay my finger on it,” said Holmes quietly.

“Really, now!” cried the inspector, “you have formed your opinion!
Come, now, we shall see who agrees with you. I say it is south, for the
country is more deserted there.”

“And I say east,” said my patient.

“I am for west,” remarked the plain-clothes man. “There are several
quiet little villages up there.”

“And I am for north,” said I, “because there are no hills there, and
our friend says that he did not notice the carriage go up any.”

“Come,” cried the inspector, laughing; “it’s a very pretty diversity of
opinion. We have boxed the compass among us. Who do you give your
casting vote to?”

“You are all wrong.”

“But we can’t all be.”

“Oh, yes, you can. This is my point.” He placed his finger in the
centre of the circle. “This is where we shall find them.”

“But the twelve-mile drive?” gasped Hatherley.

“Six out and six back. Nothing simpler. You say yourself that the horse
was fresh and glossy when you got in. How could it be that if it had
gone twelve miles over heavy roads?”

“Indeed, it is a likely ruse enough,” observed Bradstreet thoughtfully.
“Of course there can be no doubt as to the nature of this gang.”

“None at all,” said Holmes. “They are coiners on a large scale, and
have used the machine to form the amalgam which has taken the place of
silver.”

“We have known for some time that a clever gang was at work,” said the
inspector. “They have been turning out half-crowns by the thousand. We
even traced them as far as Reading, but could get no farther, for they
had covered their traces in a way that showed that they were very old
hands. But now, thanks to this lucky chance, I think that we have got
them right enough.”

But the inspector was mistaken, for those criminals were not destined
to fall into the hands of justice. As we rolled into Eyford Station we
saw a gigantic column of smoke which streamed up from behind a small
clump of trees in the neighbourhood and hung like an immense ostrich
feather over the landscape.

“A house on fire?” asked Bradstreet as the train steamed off again on
its way.

“Yes, sir!” said the station-master.

“When did it break out?”

“I hear that it was during the night, sir, but it has got worse, and
the whole place is in a blaze.”

“Whose house is it?”

“Dr. Becher’s.”

“Tell me,” broke in the engineer, “is Dr. Becher a German, very thin,
with a long, sharp nose?”

The station-master laughed heartily. “No, sir, Dr. Becher is an
Englishman, and there isn’t a man in the parish who has a better-lined
waistcoat. But he has a gentleman staying with him, a patient, as I
understand, who is a foreigner, and he looks as if a little good
Berkshire beef would do him no harm.”

The station-master had not finished his speech before we were all
hastening in the direction of the fire. The road topped a low hill, and
there was a great widespread whitewashed building in front of us,
spouting fire at every chink and window, while in the garden in front
three fire-engines were vainly striving to keep the flames under.

“That’s it!” cried Hatherley, in intense excitement. “There is the
gravel-drive, and there are the rose-bushes where I lay. That second
window is the one that I jumped from.”

“Well, at least,” said Holmes, “you have had your revenge upon them.
There can be no question that it was your oil-lamp which, when it was
crushed in the press, set fire to the wooden walls, though no doubt
they were too excited in the chase after you to observe it at the time.
Now keep your eyes open in this crowd for your friends of last night,
though I very much fear that they are a good hundred miles off by now.”

And Holmes’ fears came to be realised, for from that day to this no
word has ever been heard either of the beautiful woman, the sinister
German, or the morose Englishman. Early that morning a peasant had met
a cart containing several people and some very bulky boxes driving
rapidly in the direction of Reading, but there all traces of the
fugitives disappeared, and even Holmes’ ingenuity failed ever to
discover the least clue as to their whereabouts.

The firemen had been much perturbed at the strange arrangements which
they had found within, and still more so by discovering a newly severed
human thumb upon a window-sill of the second floor. About sunset,
however, their efforts were at last successful, and they subdued the
flames, but not before the roof had fallen in, and the whole place been
reduced to such absolute ruin that, save some twisted cylinders and
iron piping, not a trace remained of the machinery which had cost our
unfortunate acquaintance so dearly. Large masses of nickel and of tin
were discovered stored in an out-house, but no coins were to be found,
which may have explained the presence of those bulky boxes which have
been already referred to.

How our hydraulic engineer had been conveyed from the garden to the
spot where he recovered his senses might have remained forever a
mystery were it not for the soft mould, which told us a very plain
tale. He had evidently been carried down by two persons, one of whom
had remarkably small feet and the other unusually large ones. On the
whole, it was most probable that the silent Englishman, being less bold
or less murderous than his companion, had assisted the woman to bear
the unconscious man out of the way of danger.

“Well,” said our engineer ruefully as we took our seats to return once
more to London, “it has been a pretty business for me! I have lost my
thumb and I have lost a fifty-guinea fee, and what have I gained?”

“Experience,” said Holmes, laughing. “Indirectly it may be of value,
you know; you have only to put it into words to gain the reputation of
being excellent company for the remainder of your existence.”




X. THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE BACHELOR


The Lord St. Simon marriage, and its curious termination, have long
ceased to be a subject of interest in those exalted circles in which
the unfortunate bridegroom moves. Fresh scandals have eclipsed it, and
their more piquant details have drawn the gossips away from this
four-year-old drama. As I have reason to believe, however, that the
full facts have never been revealed to the general public, and as my
friend Sherlock Holmes had a considerable share in clearing the matter
up, I feel that no memoir of him would be complete without some little
sketch of this remarkable episode.

It was a few weeks before my own marriage, during the days when I was
still sharing rooms with Holmes in Baker Street, that he came home from
an afternoon stroll to find a letter on the table waiting for him. I
had remained indoors all day, for the weather had taken a sudden turn
to rain, with high autumnal winds, and the jezail bullet which I had
brought back in one of my limbs as a relic of my Afghan campaign
throbbed with dull persistence. With my body in one easy-chair and my
legs upon another, I had surrounded myself with a cloud of newspapers
until at last, saturated with the news of the day, I tossed them all
aside and lay listless, watching the huge crest and monogram upon the
envelope upon the table and wondering lazily who my friend’s noble
correspondent could be.

“Here is a very fashionable epistle,” I remarked as he entered. “Your
morning letters, if I remember right, were from a fish-monger and a
tide-waiter.”

“Yes, my correspondence has certainly the charm of variety,” he
answered, smiling, “and the humbler are usually the more interesting.
This looks like one of those unwelcome social summonses which call upon
a man either to be bored or to lie.”

He broke the seal and glanced over the contents.

“Oh, come, it may prove to be something of interest, after all.”

“Not social, then?”

“No, distinctly professional.”

“And from a noble client?”

“One of the highest in England.”

“My dear fellow, I congratulate you.”

“I assure you, Watson, without affectation, that the status of my
client is a matter of less moment to me than the interest of his case.
It is just possible, however, that that also may not be wanting in this
new investigation. You have been reading the papers diligently of late,
have you not?”

“It looks like it,” said I ruefully, pointing to a huge bundle in the
corner. “I have had nothing else to do.”

“It is fortunate, for you will perhaps be able to post me up. I read
nothing except the criminal news and the agony column. The latter is
always instructive. But if you have followed recent events so closely
you must have read about Lord St. Simon and his wedding?”

“Oh, yes, with the deepest interest.”

“That is well. The letter which I hold in my hand is from Lord St.
Simon. I will read it to you, and in return you must turn over these
papers and let me have whatever bears upon the matter. This is what he
says:

    “‘MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,—Lord Backwater tells me that I may
    place implicit reliance upon your judgment and discretion. I have
    determined, therefore, to call upon you and to consult you in
    reference to the very painful event which has occurred in
    connection with my wedding. Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, is
    acting already in the matter, but he assures me that he sees no
    objection to your co-operation, and that he even thinks that it
    might be of some assistance. I will call at four o’clock in the
    afternoon, and, should you have any other engagement at that time,
    I hope that you will postpone it, as this matter is of paramount
    importance. Yours faithfully,


    “‘ROBERT ST. SIMON.’


“It is dated from Grosvenor Mansions, written with a quill pen, and the
noble lord has had the misfortune to get a smear of ink upon the outer
side of his right little finger,” remarked Holmes as he folded up the
epistle.

“He says four o’clock. It is three now. He will be here in an hour.”

“Then I have just time, with your assistance, to get clear upon the
subject. Turn over those papers and arrange the extracts in their order
of time, while I take a glance as to who our client is.” He picked a
red-covered volume from a line of books of reference beside the
mantelpiece. “Here he is,” said he, sitting down and flattening it out
upon his knee. “‘Lord Robert Walsingham de Vere St. Simon, second son
of the Duke of Balmoral.’ Hum! ‘Arms: Azure, three caltrops in chief
over a fess sable. Born in 1846.’ He’s forty-one years of age, which is
mature for marriage. Was Under-Secretary for the colonies in a late
administration. The Duke, his father, was at one time Secretary for
Foreign Affairs. They inherit Plantagenet blood by direct descent, and
Tudor on the distaff side. Ha! Well, there is nothing very instructive
in all this. I think that I must turn to you Watson, for something more
solid.”

“I have very little difficulty in finding what I want,” said I, “for
the facts are quite recent, and the matter struck me as remarkable. I
feared to refer them to you, however, as I knew that you had an inquiry
on hand and that you disliked the intrusion of other matters.”

“Oh, you mean the little problem of the Grosvenor Square furniture van.
That is quite cleared up now—though, indeed, it was obvious from the
first. Pray give me the results of your newspaper selections.”

“Here is the first notice which I can find. It is in the personal
column of the _Morning Post_, and dates, as you see, some weeks back:
‘A marriage has been arranged,’ it says, ‘and will, if rumour is
correct, very shortly take place, between Lord Robert St. Simon, second
son of the Duke of Balmoral, and Miss Hatty Doran, the only daughter of
Aloysius Doran. Esq., of San Francisco, Cal., U.S.A.’ That is all.”

“Terse and to the point,” remarked Holmes, stretching his long, thin
legs towards the fire.

“There was a paragraph amplifying this in one of the society papers of
the same week. Ah, here it is: ‘There will soon be a call for
protection in the marriage  market, for the present free-trade
principle appears to tell heavily against our home product. One by one
the management of the noble houses of Great Britain is passing into the
hands of our fair cousins from across the Atlantic. An important
addition has been made during the last week to the list of the prizes
which have been borne away by these charming invaders. Lord St. Simon,
who has shown himself for over twenty years proof against the little
god’s arrows, has now definitely announced his approaching marriage
with Miss Hatty Doran, the fascinating daughter of a California
millionaire. Miss Doran, whose graceful figure and striking face
attracted much attention at the Westbury House festivities, is an only
child, and it is currently reported that her dowry will run to
considerably over the six figures, with expectancies for the future. As
it is an open secret that the Duke of Balmoral has been compelled to
sell his pictures within the last few years, and as Lord St. Simon has
no property of his own save the small estate of Birchmoor, it is
obvious that the Californian heiress is not the only gainer by an
alliance which will enable her to make the easy and common transition
from a Republican lady to a British peeress.’”

“Anything else?” asked Holmes, yawning.

“Oh, yes; plenty. Then there is another note in the _Morning Post_ to
say that the marriage would be an absolutely quiet one, that it would
be at St. George’s, Hanover Square, that only half a dozen intimate
friends would be invited, and that the party would return to the
furnished house at Lancaster Gate which has been taken by Mr. Aloysius
Doran. Two days later—that is, on Wednesday last—there is a curt
announcement that the wedding had taken place, and that the honeymoon
would be passed at Lord Backwater’s place, near Petersfield. Those are
all the notices which appeared before the disappearance of the bride.”

“Before the what?” asked Holmes with a start.

“The vanishing of the lady.”

“When did she vanish, then?”

“At the wedding breakfast.”

“Indeed. This is more interesting than it promised to be; quite
dramatic, in fact.”

“Yes; it struck me as being a little out of the common.”

“They often vanish before the ceremony, and occasionally during the
honeymoon; but I cannot call to mind anything quite so prompt as this.
Pray let me have the details.”

“I warn you that they are very incomplete.”

“Perhaps we may make them less so.”

“Such as they are, they are set forth in a single article of a morning
paper of yesterday, which I will read to you. It is headed, ‘Singular
Occurrence at a Fashionable Wedding’:

“‘The family of Lord Robert St. Simon has been thrown into the greatest
consternation by the strange and painful episodes which have taken
place in connection with his wedding. The ceremony, as shortly
announced in the papers of yesterday, occurred on the previous morning;
but it is only now that it has been possible to confirm the strange
rumours which have been so persistently floating about. In spite of the
attempts of the friends to hush the matter up, so much public attention
has now been drawn to it that no good purpose can be served by
affecting to disregard what is a common subject for conversation.

“‘The ceremony, which was performed at St. George’s, Hanover Square,
was a very quiet one, no one being present save the father of the
bride, Mr. Aloysius Doran, the Duchess of Balmoral, Lord Backwater,
Lord Eustace and Lady Clara St. Simon (the younger brother and sister
of the bridegroom), and Lady Alicia Whittington. The whole party
proceeded afterwards to the house of Mr. Aloysius Doran, at Lancaster
Gate, where breakfast had been prepared. It appears that some little
trouble was caused by a woman, whose name has not been ascertained, who
endeavoured to force her way into the house after the bridal party,
alleging that she had some claim upon Lord St. Simon. It was only after
a painful and prolonged scene that she was ejected by the butler and
the footman. The bride, who had fortunately entered the house before
this unpleasant interruption, had sat down to breakfast with the rest,
when she complained of a sudden indisposition and retired to her room.
Her prolonged absence having caused some comment, her father followed
her, but learned from her maid that she had only come up to her chamber
for an instant, caught up an ulster and bonnet, and hurried down to the
passage. One of the footmen declared that he had seen a lady leave the
house thus apparelled, but had refused to credit that it was his
mistress, believing her to be with the company. On ascertaining that
his daughter had disappeared, Mr. Aloysius Doran, in conjunction with
the bridegroom, instantly put themselves in communication with the
police, and very energetic inquiries are being made, which will
probably result in a speedy clearing up of this very singular business.
Up to a late hour last night, however, nothing had transpired as to the
whereabouts of the missing lady. There are rumours of foul play in the
matter, and it is said that the police have caused the arrest of the
woman who had caused the original disturbance, in the belief that, from
jealousy or some other motive, she may have been concerned in the
strange disappearance of the bride.’”

“And is that all?”

“Only one little item in another of the morning papers, but it is a
suggestive one.”

“And it is—”

“That Miss Flora Millar, the lady who had caused the disturbance, has
actually been arrested. It appears that she was formerly a _danseuse_
at the Allegro, and that she has known the bridegroom for some years.
There are no further particulars, and the whole case is in your hands
now—so far as it has been set forth in the public press.”

“And an exceedingly interesting case it appears to be. I would not have
missed it for worlds. But there is a ring at the bell, Watson, and as
the clock makes it a few minutes after four, I have no doubt that this
will prove to be our noble client. Do not dream of going, Watson, for I
very much prefer having a witness, if only as a check to my own
memory.”

“Lord Robert St. Simon,” announced our page-boy, throwing open the
door. A gentleman entered, with a pleasant, cultured face, high-nosed
and pale, with something perhaps of petulance about the mouth, and with
the steady, well-opened eye of a man whose pleasant lot it had ever
been to command and to be obeyed. His manner was brisk, and yet his
general appearance gave an undue impression of age, for he had a slight
forward stoop and a little bend of the knees as he walked. His hair,
too, as he swept off his very curly-brimmed hat, was grizzled round the
edges and thin upon the top. As to his dress, it was careful to the
verge of foppishness, with high collar, black frock-coat, white
waistcoat, yellow gloves, patent-leather shoes, and light-coloured
gaiters. He advanced slowly into the room, turning his head from left
to right, and swinging in his right hand the cord which held his golden
eyeglasses.

“Good-day, Lord St. Simon,” said Holmes, rising and bowing. “Pray take
the basket-chair. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. Draw up
a little to the fire, and we will talk this matter over.”

“A most painful matter to me, as you can most readily imagine, Mr.
Holmes. I have been cut to the quick. I understand that you have
already managed several delicate cases of this sort, sir, though I
presume that they were hardly from the same class of society.”

“No, I am descending.”

“I beg pardon.”

“My last client of the sort was a king.”

“Oh, really! I had no idea. And which king?”

“The King of Scandinavia.”

“What! Had he lost his wife?”

“You can understand,” said Holmes suavely, “that I extend to the
affairs of my other clients the same secrecy which I promise to you in
yours.”

“Of course! Very right! very right! I’m sure I beg pardon. As to my own
case, I am ready to give you any information which may assist you in
forming an opinion.”

“Thank you. I have already learned all that is in the public prints,
nothing more. I presume that I may take it as correct—this article, for
example, as to the disappearance of the bride.”

Lord St. Simon glanced over it. “Yes, it is correct, as far as it
goes.”

“But it needs a great deal of supplementing before anyone could offer
an opinion. I think that I may arrive at my facts most directly by
questioning you.”

“Pray do so.”

“When did you first meet Miss Hatty Doran?”

“In San Francisco, a year ago.”

“You were travelling in the States?”

“Yes.”

“Did you become engaged then?”

“No.”

“But you were on a friendly footing?”

“I was amused by her society, and she could see that I was amused.”

“Her father is very rich?”

“He is said to be the richest man on the Pacific slope.”

“And how did he make his money?”

“In mining. He had nothing a few years ago. Then he struck gold,
invested it, and came up by leaps and bounds.”

“Now, what is your own impression as to the young lady’s—your wife’s
character?”

The nobleman swung his glasses a little faster and stared down into the
fire. “You see, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “my wife was twenty before her
father became a rich man. During that time she ran free in a mining
camp and wandered through woods or mountains, so that her education has
come from Nature rather than from the schoolmaster. She is what we call
in England a tomboy, with a strong nature, wild and free, unfettered by
any sort of traditions. She is impetuous—volcanic, I was about to say.
She is swift in making up her mind and fearless in carrying out her
resolutions. On the other hand, I would not have given her the name
which I have the honour to bear”—he gave a little stately cough—“had I
not thought her to be at bottom a noble woman. I believe that she is
capable of heroic self-sacrifice and that anything dishonourable would
be repugnant to her.”

“Have you her photograph?”

“I brought this with me.” He opened a locket and showed us the full
face of a very lovely woman. It was not a photograph but an ivory
miniature, and the artist had brought out the full effect of the
lustrous black hair, the large dark eyes, and the exquisite mouth.
Holmes gazed long and earnestly at it. Then he closed the locket and
handed it back to Lord St. Simon.

“The young lady came to London, then, and you renewed your
acquaintance?”

“Yes, her father brought her over for this last London season. I met
her several times, became engaged to her, and have now married her.”

“She brought, I understand, a considerable dowry?”

“A fair dowry. Not more than is usual in my family.”

“And this, of course, remains to you, since the marriage is a _fait
accompli_?”

“I really have made no inquiries on the subject.”

“Very naturally not. Did you see Miss Doran on the day before the
wedding?”

“Yes.”

“Was she in good spirits?”

“Never better. She kept talking of what we should do in our future
lives.”

“Indeed! That is very interesting. And on the morning of the wedding?”

“She was as bright as possible—at least until after the ceremony.”

“And did you observe any change in her then?”

“Well, to tell the truth, I saw then the first signs that I had ever
seen that her temper was just a little sharp. The incident however, was
too trivial to relate and can have no possible bearing upon the case.”

“Pray let us have it, for all that.”

“Oh, it is childish. She dropped her bouquet as we went towards the
vestry. She was passing the front pew at the time, and it fell over
into the pew. There was a moment’s delay, but the gentleman in the pew
handed it up to her again, and it did not appear to be the worse for
the fall. Yet when I spoke to her of the matter, she answered me
abruptly; and in the carriage, on our way home, she seemed absurdly
agitated over this trifling cause.”

“Indeed! You say that there was a gentleman in the pew. Some of the
general public were present, then?”

“Oh, yes. It is impossible to exclude them when the church is open.”

“This gentleman was not one of your wife’s friends?”

“No, no; I call him a gentleman by courtesy, but he was quite a
common-looking person. I hardly noticed his appearance. But really I
think that we are wandering rather far from the point.”

“Lady St. Simon, then, returned from the wedding in a less cheerful
frame of mind than she had gone to it. What did she do on re-entering
her father’s house?”

“I saw her in conversation with her maid.”

“And who is her maid?”

“Alice is her name. She is an American and came from California with
her.”

“A confidential servant?”

“A little too much so. It seemed to me that her mistress allowed her to
take great liberties. Still, of course, in America they look upon these
things in a different way.”

“How long did she speak to this Alice?”

“Oh, a few minutes. I had something else to think of.”

“You did not overhear what they said?”

“Lady St. Simon said something about ‘jumping a claim.’ She was
accustomed to use slang of the kind. I have no idea what she meant.”

“American slang is very expressive sometimes. And what did your wife do
when she finished speaking to her maid?”

“She walked into the breakfast-room.”

“On your arm?”

“No, alone. She was very independent in little matters like that. Then,
after we had sat down for ten minutes or so, she rose hurriedly,
muttered some words of apology, and left the room. She never came
back.”

“But this maid, Alice, as I understand, deposes that she went to her
room, covered her bride’s dress with a long ulster, put on a bonnet,
and went out.”

“Quite so. And she was afterwards seen walking into Hyde Park in
company with Flora Millar, a woman who is now in custody, and who had
already made a disturbance at Mr. Doran’s house that morning.”

“Ah, yes. I should like a few particulars as to this young lady, and
your relations to her.”

Lord St. Simon shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. “We have
been on a friendly footing for some years—I may say on a _very_
friendly footing. She used to be at the Allegro. I have not treated her
ungenerously, and she had no just cause of complaint against me, but
you know what women are, Mr. Holmes. Flora was a dear little thing, but
exceedingly hot-headed and devotedly attached to me. She wrote me
dreadful letters when she heard that I was about to be married, and, to
tell the truth, the reason why I had the marriage celebrated so quietly
was that I feared lest there might be a scandal in the church. She came
to Mr. Doran’s door just after we returned, and she endeavoured to push
her way in, uttering very abusive expressions towards my wife, and even
threatening her, but I had foreseen the possibility of something of the
sort, and I had two police fellows there in private clothes, who soon
pushed her out again. She was quiet when she saw that there was no good
in making a row.”

“Did your wife hear all this?”

“No, thank goodness, she did not.”

“And she was seen walking with this very woman afterwards?”

“Yes. That is what Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, looks upon as so
serious. It is thought that Flora decoyed my wife out and laid some
terrible trap for her.”

“Well, it is a possible supposition.”

“You think so, too?”

“I did not say a probable one. But you do not yourself look upon this
as likely?”

“I do not think Flora would hurt a fly.”

“Still, jealousy is a strange transformer of characters. Pray what is
your own theory as to what took place?”

“Well, really, I came to seek a theory, not to propound one. I have
given you all the facts. Since you ask me, however, I may say that it
has occurred to me as possible that the excitement of this affair, the
consciousness that she had made so immense a social stride, had the
effect of causing some little nervous disturbance in my wife.”

“In short, that she had become suddenly deranged?”

“Well, really, when I consider that she has turned her back—I will not
say upon me, but upon so much that many have aspired to without
success—I can hardly explain it in any other fashion.”

“Well, certainly that is also a conceivable hypothesis,” said Holmes,
smiling. “And now, Lord St. Simon, I think that I have nearly all my
data. May I ask whether you were seated at the breakfast-table so that
you could see out of the window?”

“We could see the other side of the road and the Park.”

“Quite so. Then I do not think that I need to detain you longer. I
shall communicate with you.”

“Should you be fortunate enough to solve this problem,” said our
client, rising.

“I have solved it.”

“Eh? What was that?”

“I say that I have solved it.”

“Where, then, is my wife?”

“That is a detail which I shall speedily supply.”

Lord St. Simon shook his head. “I am afraid that it will take wiser
heads than yours or mine,” he remarked, and bowing in a stately,
old-fashioned manner he departed.

“It is very good of Lord St. Simon to honour my head by putting it on a
level with his own,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “I think that I
shall have a whisky and soda and a cigar after all this
cross-questioning. I had formed my conclusions as to the case before
our client came into the room.”

“My dear Holmes!”

“I have notes of several similar cases, though none, as I remarked
before, which were quite as prompt. My whole examination served to turn
my conjecture into a certainty. Circumstantial evidence is occasionally
very convincing, as when you find a trout in the milk, to quote
Thoreau’s example.”

“But I have heard all that you have heard.”

“Without, however, the knowledge of pre-existing cases which serves me
so well. There was a parallel instance in Aberdeen some years back, and
something on very much the same lines at Munich the year after the
Franco-Prussian War. It is one of these cases—but, hullo, here is
Lestrade! Good-afternoon, Lestrade! You will find an extra tumbler upon
the sideboard, and there are cigars in the box.”

The official detective was attired in a pea-jacket and cravat, which
gave him a decidedly nautical appearance, and he carried a black canvas
bag in his hand. With a short greeting he seated himself and lit the
cigar which had been offered to him.

“What’s up, then?” asked Holmes with a twinkle in his eye. “You look
dissatisfied.”

“And I feel dissatisfied. It is this infernal St. Simon marriage case.
I can make neither head nor tail of the business.”

“Really! You surprise me.”

“Who ever heard of such a mixed affair? Every clue seems to slip
through my fingers. I have been at work upon it all day.”

“And very wet it seems to have made you,” said Holmes laying his hand
upon the arm of the pea-jacket.

“Yes, I have been dragging the Serpentine.”

“In Heaven’s name, what for?”

“In search of the body of Lady St. Simon.”

Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.

“Have you dragged the basin of Trafalgar Square fountain?” he asked.

“Why? What do you mean?”

“Because you have just as good a chance of finding this lady in the one
as in the other.”

Lestrade shot an angry glance at my companion. “I suppose you know all
about it,” he snarled.

“Well, I have only just heard the facts, but my mind is made up.”

“Oh, indeed! Then you think that the Serpentine plays no part in the
matter?”

“I think it very unlikely.”

“Then perhaps you will kindly explain how it is that we found this in
it?” He opened his bag as he spoke, and tumbled onto the floor a
wedding-dress of watered silk, a pair of white satin shoes and a
bride’s wreath and veil, all discoloured and soaked in water. “There,”
said he, putting a new wedding-ring upon the top of the pile. “There is
a little nut for you to crack, Master Holmes.”

“Oh, indeed!” said my friend, blowing blue rings into the air. “You
dragged them from the Serpentine?”

“No. They were found floating near the margin by a park-keeper. They
have been identified as her clothes, and it seemed to me that if the
clothes were there the body would not be far off.”

“By the same brilliant reasoning, every man’s body is to be found in
the neighbourhood of his wardrobe. And pray what did you hope to arrive
at through this?”

“At some evidence implicating Flora Millar in the disappearance.”

“I am afraid that you will find it difficult.”

“Are you, indeed, now?” cried Lestrade with some bitterness. “I am
afraid, Holmes, that you are not very practical with your deductions
and your inferences. You have made two blunders in as many minutes.
This dress does implicate Miss Flora Millar.”

“And how?”

“In the dress is a pocket. In the pocket is a card-case. In the
card-case is a note. And here is the very note.” He slapped it down
upon the table in front of him. “Listen to this: ‘You will see me when
all is ready. Come at once. F. H. M.’ Now my theory all along has been
that Lady St. Simon was decoyed away by Flora Millar, and that she,
with confederates, no doubt, was responsible for her disappearance.
Here, signed with her initials, is the very note which was no doubt
quietly slipped into her hand at the door and which lured her within
their reach.”

“Very good, Lestrade,” said Holmes, laughing. “You really are very fine
indeed. Let me see it.” He took up the paper in a listless way, but his
attention instantly became riveted, and he gave a little cry of
satisfaction. “This is indeed important,” said he.

“Ha! you find it so?”

“Extremely so. I congratulate you warmly.”

Lestrade rose in his triumph and bent his head to look. “Why,” he
shrieked, “you’re looking at the wrong side!”

“On the contrary, this is the right side.”

“The right side? You’re mad! Here is the note written in pencil over
here.”

“And over here is what appears to be the fragment of a hotel bill,
which interests me deeply.”

“There’s nothing in it. I looked at it before,” said Lestrade. “‘Oct.
4th, rooms 8_s_., breakfast 2_s_. 6_d_., cocktail 1_s_., lunch 2_s_.
6_d_., glass sherry, 8_d_.’ I see nothing in that.”

“Very likely not. It is most important, all the same. As to the note,
it is important also, or at least the initials are, so I congratulate
you again.”

“I’ve wasted time enough,” said Lestrade, rising. “I believe in hard
work and not in sitting by the fire spinning fine theories. Good-day,
Mr. Holmes, and we shall see which gets to the bottom of the matter
first.” He gathered up the garments, thrust them into the bag, and made
for the door.

“Just one hint to you, Lestrade,” drawled Holmes before his rival
vanished; “I will tell you the true solution of the matter. Lady St.
Simon is a myth. There is not, and there never has been, any such
person.”

Lestrade looked sadly at my companion. Then he turned to me, tapped his
forehead three times, shook his head solemnly, and hurried away.

He had hardly shut the door behind him when Holmes rose to put on his
overcoat. “There is something in what the fellow says about outdoor
work,” he remarked, “so I think, Watson, that I must leave you to your
papers for a little.”

It was after five o’clock when Sherlock Holmes left me, but I had no
time to be lonely, for within an hour there arrived a confectioner’s
man with a very large flat box. This he unpacked with the help of a
youth whom he had brought with him, and presently, to my very great
astonishment, a quite epicurean little cold supper began to be laid out
upon our humble lodging-house mahogany. There were a couple of brace of
cold woodcock, a pheasant, a _pâté de foie gras_ pie with a group of
ancient and cobwebby bottles. Having laid out all these luxuries, my
two visitors vanished away, like the genii of the Arabian Nights, with
no explanation save that the things had been paid for and were ordered
to this address.

Just before nine o’clock Sherlock Holmes stepped briskly into the room.
His features were gravely set, but there was a light in his eye which
made me think that he had not been disappointed in his conclusions.

“They have laid the supper, then,” he said, rubbing his hands.

“You seem to expect company. They have laid for five.”

“Yes, I fancy we may have some company dropping in,” said he. “I am
surprised that Lord St. Simon has not already arrived. Ha! I fancy that
I hear his step now upon the stairs.”

It was indeed our visitor of the afternoon who came bustling in,
dangling his glasses more vigorously than ever, and with a very
perturbed expression upon his aristocratic features.

“My messenger reached you, then?” asked Holmes.

“Yes, and I confess that the contents startled me beyond measure. Have
you good authority for what you say?”

“The best possible.”

Lord St. Simon sank into a chair and passed his hand over his forehead.

“What will the Duke say,” he murmured, “when he hears that one of the
family has been subjected to such humiliation?”

“It is the purest accident. I cannot allow that there is any
humiliation.”

“Ah, you look on these things from another standpoint.”

“I fail to see that anyone is to blame. I can hardly see how the lady
could have acted otherwise, though her abrupt method of doing it was
undoubtedly to be regretted. Having no mother, she had no one to advise
her at such a crisis.”

“It was a slight, sir, a public slight,” said Lord St. Simon, tapping
his fingers upon the table.

“You must make allowance for this poor girl, placed in so unprecedented
a position.”

“I will make no allowance. I am very angry indeed, and I have been
shamefully used.”

“I think that I heard a ring,” said Holmes. “Yes, there are steps on
the landing. If I cannot persuade you to take a lenient view of the
matter, Lord St. Simon, I have brought an advocate here who may be more
successful.” He opened the door and ushered in a lady and gentleman.
“Lord St. Simon,” said he “allow me to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs.
Francis Hay Moulton. The lady, I think, you have already met.”

At the sight of these newcomers our client had sprung from his seat and
stood very erect, with his eyes cast down and his hand thrust into the
breast of his frock-coat, a picture of offended dignity. The lady had
taken a quick step forward and had held out her hand to him, but he
still refused to raise his eyes. It was as well for his resolution,
perhaps, for her pleading face was one which it was hard to resist.

“You’re angry, Robert,” said she. “Well, I guess you have every cause
to be.”

“Pray make no apology to me,” said Lord St. Simon bitterly.

“Oh, yes, I know that I have treated you real bad and that I should
have spoken to you before I went; but I was kind of rattled, and from
the time when I saw Frank here again I just didn’t know what I was
doing or saying. I only wonder I didn’t fall down and do a faint right
there before the altar.”

“Perhaps, Mrs. Moulton, you would like my friend and me to leave the
room while you explain this matter?”

“If I may give an opinion,” remarked the strange gentleman, “we’ve had
just a little too much secrecy over this business already. For my part,
I should like all Europe and America to hear the rights of it.” He was
a small, wiry, sunburnt man, clean-shaven, with a sharp face and alert
manner.

“Then I’ll tell our story right away,” said the lady. “Frank here and I
met in ’84, in McQuire’s camp, near the Rockies, where Pa was working a
claim. We were engaged to each other, Frank and I; but then one day
father struck a rich pocket and made a pile, while poor Frank here had
a claim that petered out and came to nothing. The richer Pa grew the
poorer was Frank; so at last Pa wouldn’t hear of our engagement lasting
any longer, and he took me away to ’Frisco. Frank wouldn’t throw up his
hand, though; so he followed me there, and he saw me without Pa knowing
anything about it. It would only have made him mad to know, so we just
fixed it all up for ourselves. Frank said that he would go and make his
pile, too, and never come back to claim me until he had as much as Pa.
So then I promised to wait for him to the end of time and pledged
myself not to marry anyone else while he lived. ‘Why shouldn’t we be
married right away, then,’ said he, ‘and then I will feel sure of you;
and I won’t claim to be your husband until I come back?’ Well, we
talked it over, and he had fixed it all up so nicely, with a clergyman
all ready in waiting, that we just did it right there; and then Frank
went off to seek his fortune, and I went back to Pa.

“The next I heard of Frank was that he was in Montana, and then he went
prospecting in Arizona, and then I heard of him from New Mexico. After
that came a long newspaper story about how a miners’ camp had been
attacked by Apache Indians, and there was my Frank’s name among the
killed. I fainted dead away, and I was very sick for months after. Pa
thought I had a decline and took me to half the doctors in ’Frisco. Not
a word of news came for a year and more, so that I never doubted that
Frank was really dead. Then Lord St. Simon came to ’Frisco, and we came
to London, and a marriage was arranged, and Pa was very pleased, but I
felt all the time that no man on this earth would ever take the place
in my heart that had been given to my poor Frank.

“Still, if I had married Lord St. Simon, of course I’d have done my
duty by him. We can’t command our love, but we can our actions. I went
to the altar with him with the intention to make him just as good a
wife as it was in me to be. But you may imagine what I felt when, just
as I came to the altar rails, I glanced back and saw Frank standing and
looking at me out of the first pew. I thought it was his ghost at
first; but when I looked again there he was still, with a kind of
question in his eyes, as if to ask me whether I were glad or sorry to
see him. I wonder I didn’t drop. I know that everything was turning
round, and the words of the clergyman were just like the buzz of a bee
in my ear. I didn’t know what to do. Should I stop the service and make
a scene in the church? I glanced at him again, and he seemed to know
what I was thinking, for he raised his finger to his lips to tell me to
be still. Then I saw him scribble on a piece of paper, and I knew that
he was writing me a note. As I passed his pew on the way out I dropped
my bouquet over to him, and he slipped the note into my hand when he
returned me the flowers. It was only a line asking me to join him when
he made the sign to me to do so. Of course I never doubted for a moment
that my first duty was now to him, and I determined to do just whatever
he might direct.

“When I got back I told my maid, who had known him in California, and
had always been his friend. I ordered her to say nothing, but to get a
few things packed and my ulster ready. I know I ought to have spoken to
Lord St. Simon, but it was dreadful hard before his mother and all
those great people. I just made up my mind to run away and explain
afterwards. I hadn’t been at the table ten minutes before I saw Frank
out of the window at the other side of the road. He beckoned to me and
then began walking into the Park. I slipped out, put on my things, and
followed him. Some woman came talking something or other about Lord St.
Simon to me—seemed to me from the little I heard as if he had a little
secret of his own before marriage also—but I managed to get away from
her and soon overtook Frank. We got into a cab together, and away we
drove to some lodgings he had taken in Gordon Square, and that was my
true wedding after all those years of waiting. Frank had been a
prisoner among the Apaches, had escaped, came on to ’Frisco, found that
I had given him up for dead and had gone to England, followed me there,
and had come upon me at last on the very morning of my second wedding.”

“I saw it in a paper,” explained the American. “It gave the name and
the church but not where the lady lived.”

“Then we had a talk as to what we should do, and Frank was all for
openness, but I was so ashamed of it all that I felt as if I should
like to vanish away and never see any of them again—just sending a line
to Pa, perhaps, to show him that I was alive. It was awful to me to
think of all those lords and ladies sitting round that breakfast-table
and waiting for me to come back. So Frank took my wedding-clothes and
things and made a bundle of them, so that I should not be traced, and
dropped them away somewhere where no one could find them. It is likely
that we should have gone on to Paris to-morrow, only that this good
gentleman, Mr. Holmes, came round to us this evening, though how he
found us is more than I can think, and he showed us very clearly and
kindly that I was wrong and that Frank was right, and that we should be
putting ourselves in the wrong if we were so secret. Then he offered to
give us a chance of talking to Lord St. Simon alone, and so we came
right away round to his rooms at once. Now, Robert, you have heard it
all, and I am very sorry if I have given you pain, and I hope that you
do not think very meanly of me.”

Lord St. Simon had by no means relaxed his rigid attitude, but had
listened with a frowning brow and a compressed lip to this long
narrative.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but it is not my custom to discuss my most
intimate personal affairs in this public manner.”

“Then you won’t forgive me? You won’t shake hands before I go?”

“Oh, certainly, if it would give you any pleasure.” He put out his hand
and coldly grasped that which she extended to him.

“I had hoped,” suggested Holmes, “that you would have joined us in a
friendly supper.”

“I think that there you ask a little too much,” responded his Lordship.
“I may be forced to acquiesce in these recent developments, but I can
hardly be expected to make merry over them. I think that with your
permission I will now wish you all a very good-night.” He included us
all in a sweeping bow and stalked out of the room.

“Then I trust that you at least will honour me with your company,” said
Sherlock Holmes. “It is always a joy to meet an American, Mr. Moulton,
for I am one of those who believe that the folly of a monarch and the
blundering of a minister in far-gone years will not prevent our
children from being some day citizens of the same world-wide country
under a flag which shall be a quartering of the Union Jack with the
Stars and Stripes.”

“The case has been an interesting one,” remarked Holmes when our
visitors had left us, “because it serves to show very clearly how
simple the explanation may be of an affair which at first sight seems
to be almost inexplicable. Nothing could be more natural than the
sequence of events as narrated by this lady, and nothing stranger than
the result when viewed, for instance, by Mr. Lestrade of Scotland
Yard.”

“You were not yourself at fault at all, then?”

“From the first, two facts were very obvious to me, the one that the
lady had been quite willing to undergo the wedding ceremony, the other
that she had repented of it within a few minutes of returning home.
Obviously something had occurred during the morning, then, to cause her
to change her mind. What could that something be? She could not have
spoken to anyone when she was out, for she had been in the company of
the bridegroom. Had she seen someone, then? If she had, it must be
someone from America because she had spent so short a time in this
country that she could hardly have allowed anyone to acquire so deep an
influence over her that the mere sight of him would induce her to
change her plans so completely. You see we have already arrived, by a
process of exclusion, at the idea that she might have seen an American.
Then who could this American be, and why should he possess so much
influence over her? It might be a lover; it might be a husband. Her
young womanhood had, I knew, been spent in rough scenes and under
strange conditions. So far I had got before I ever heard Lord St.
Simon’s narrative. When he told us of a man in a pew, of the change in
the bride’s manner, of so transparent a device for obtaining a note as
the dropping of a bouquet, of her resort to her confidential maid, and
of her very significant allusion to claim-jumping—which in miners’
parlance means taking possession of that which another person has a
prior claim to—the whole situation became absolutely clear. She had
gone off with a man, and the man was either a lover or was a previous
husband—the chances being in favour of the latter.”

“And how in the world did you find them?”

“It might have been difficult, but friend Lestrade held information in
his hands the value of which he did not himself know. The initials
were, of course, of the highest importance, but more valuable still was
it to know that within a week he had settled his bill at one of the
most select London hotels.”

“How did you deduce the select?”

“By the select prices. Eight shillings for a bed and eightpence for a
glass of sherry pointed to one of the most expensive hotels. There are
not many in London which charge at that rate. In the second one which I
visited in Northumberland Avenue, I learned by an inspection of the
book that Francis H. Moulton, an American gentleman, had left only the
day before, and on looking over the entries against him, I came upon
the very items which I had seen in the duplicate bill. His letters were
to be forwarded to 226 Gordon Square; so thither I travelled, and being
fortunate enough to find the loving couple at home, I ventured to give
them some paternal advice and to point out to them that it would be
better in every way that they should make their position a little
clearer both to the general public and to Lord St. Simon in particular.
I invited them to meet him here, and, as you see, I made him keep the
appointment.”

“But with no very good result,” I remarked. “His conduct was certainly
not very gracious.”

“Ah, Watson,” said Holmes, smiling, “perhaps you would not be very
gracious either, if, after all the trouble of wooing and wedding, you
found yourself deprived in an instant of wife and of fortune. I think
that we may judge Lord St. Simon very mercifully and thank our stars
that we are never likely to find ourselves in the same position. Draw
your chair up and hand me my violin, for the only problem we have still
to solve is how to while away these bleak autumnal evenings.”




XI. THE ADVENTURE OF THE BERYL CORONET


“Holmes,” said I as I stood one morning in our bow-window looking down
the street, “here is a madman coming along. It seems rather sad that
his relatives should allow him to come out alone.”

My friend rose lazily from his armchair and stood with his hands in the
pockets of his dressing-gown, looking over my shoulder. It was a
bright, crisp February morning, and the snow of the day before still
lay deep upon the ground, shimmering brightly in the wintry sun. Down
the centre of Baker Street it had been ploughed into a brown crumbly
band by the traffic, but at either side and on the heaped-up edges of
the footpaths it still lay as white as when it fell. The grey pavement
had been cleaned and scraped, but was still dangerously slippery, so
that there were fewer passengers than usual. Indeed, from the direction
of the Metropolitan Station no one was coming save the single gentleman
whose eccentric conduct had drawn my attention.

He was a man of about fifty, tall, portly, and imposing, with a
massive, strongly marked face and a commanding figure. He was dressed
in a sombre yet rich style, in black frock-coat, shining hat, neat
brown gaiters, and well-cut pearl-grey trousers. Yet his actions were
in absurd contrast to the dignity of his dress and features, for he was
running hard, with occasional little springs, such as a weary man gives
who is little accustomed to set any tax upon his legs. As he ran he
jerked his hands up and down, waggled his head, and writhed his face
into the most extraordinary contortions.

“What on earth can be the matter with him?” I asked. “He is looking up
at the numbers of the houses.”

“I believe that he is coming here,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands.

“Here?”

“Yes; I rather think he is coming to consult me professionally. I think
that I recognise the symptoms. Ha! did I not tell you?” As he spoke,
the man, puffing and blowing, rushed at our door and pulled at our bell
until the whole house resounded with the clanging.

A few moments later he was in our room, still puffing, still
gesticulating, but with so fixed a look of grief and despair in his
eyes that our smiles were turned in an instant to horror and pity. For
a while he could not get his words out, but swayed his body and plucked
at his hair like one who has been driven to the extreme limits of his
reason. Then, suddenly springing to his feet, he beat his head against
the wall with such force that we both rushed upon him and tore him away
to the centre of the room. Sherlock Holmes pushed him down into the
easy-chair and, sitting beside him, patted his hand and chatted with
him in the easy, soothing tones which he knew so well how to employ.

“You have come to me to tell your story, have you not?” said he. “You
are fatigued with your haste. Pray wait until you have recovered
yourself, and then I shall be most happy to look into any little
problem which you may submit to me.”

The man sat for a minute or more with a heaving chest, fighting against
his emotion. Then he passed his handkerchief over his brow, set his
lips tight, and turned his face towards us.

“No doubt you think me mad?” said he.

“I see that you have had some great trouble,” responded Holmes.

“God knows I have!—a trouble which is enough to unseat my reason, so
sudden and so terrible is it. Public disgrace I might have faced,
although I am a man whose character has never yet borne a stain.
Private affliction also is the lot of every man; but the two coming
together, and in so frightful a form, have been enough to shake my very
soul. Besides, it is not I alone. The very noblest in the land may
suffer unless some way be found out of this horrible affair.”

“Pray compose yourself, sir,” said Holmes, “and let me have a clear
account of who you are and what it is that has befallen you.”

“My name,” answered our visitor, “is probably familiar to your ears. I
am Alexander Holder, of the banking firm of Holder & Stevenson, of
Threadneedle Street.”

The name was indeed well known to us as belonging to the senior partner
in the second largest private banking concern in the City of London.
What could have happened, then, to bring one of the foremost citizens
of London to this most pitiable pass? We waited, all curiosity, until
with another effort he braced himself to tell his story.

“I feel that time is of value,” said he; “that is why I hastened here
when the police inspector suggested that I should secure your
co-operation. I came to Baker Street by the Underground and hurried
from there on foot, for the cabs go slowly through this snow. That is
why I was so out of breath, for I am a man who takes very little
exercise. I feel better now, and I will put the facts before you as
shortly and yet as clearly as I can.

“It is, of course, well known to you that in a successful banking
business as much depends upon our being able to find remunerative
investments for our funds as upon our increasing our connection and the
number of our depositors. One of our most lucrative means of laying out
money is in the shape of loans, where the security is unimpeachable. We
have done a good deal in this direction during the last few years, and
there are many noble families to whom we have advanced large sums upon
the security of their pictures, libraries, or plate.

“Yesterday morning I was seated in my office at the bank when a card
was brought in to me by one of the clerks. I started when I saw the
name, for it was that of none other than—well, perhaps even to you I
had better say no more than that it was a name which is a household
word all over the earth—one of the highest, noblest, most exalted names
in England. I was overwhelmed by the honour and attempted, when he
entered, to say so, but he plunged at once into business with the air
of a man who wishes to hurry quickly through a disagreeable task.

“‘Mr. Holder,’ said he, ‘I have been informed that you are in the habit
of advancing money.’

“‘The firm does so when the security is good.’ I answered.

“‘It is absolutely essential to me,’ said he, ‘that I should have £
50,000 at once. I could, of course, borrow so trifling a sum ten times
over from my friends, but I much prefer to make it a matter of business
and to carry out that business myself. In my position you can readily
understand that it is unwise to place one’s self under obligations.’

“‘For how long, may I ask, do you want this sum?’ I asked.

“‘Next Monday I have a large sum due to me, and I shall then most
certainly repay what you advance, with whatever interest you think it
right to charge. But it is very essential to me that the money should
be paid at once.’

“‘I should be happy to advance it without further parley from my own
private purse,’ said I, ‘were it not that the strain would be rather
more than it could bear. If, on the other hand, I am to do it in the
name of the firm, then in justice to my partner I must insist that,
even in your case, every businesslike precaution should be taken.’

“‘I should much prefer to have it so,’ said he, raising up a square,
black morocco case which he had laid beside his chair. ‘You have
doubtless heard of the Beryl Coronet?’

“‘One of the most precious public possessions of the empire,’ said I.

“‘Precisely.’ He opened the case, and there, imbedded in soft,
flesh-coloured velvet, lay the magnificent piece of jewellery which he
had named. ‘There are thirty-nine enormous beryls,’ said he, ‘and the
price of the gold chasing is incalculable. The lowest estimate would
put the worth of the coronet at double the sum which I have asked. I am
prepared to leave it with you as my security.’

“I took the precious case into my hands and looked in some perplexity
from it to my illustrious client.

“‘You doubt its value?’ he asked.

“‘Not at all. I only doubt—’

“‘The propriety of my leaving it. You may set your mind at rest about
that. I should not dream of doing so were it not absolutely certain
that I should be able in four days to reclaim it. It is a pure matter
of form. Is the security sufficient?’

“‘Ample.’

“‘You understand, Mr. Holder, that I am giving you a strong proof of
the confidence which I have in you, founded upon all that I have heard
of you. I rely upon you not only to be discreet and to refrain from all
gossip upon the matter but, above all, to preserve this coronet with
every possible precaution because I need not say that a great public
scandal would be caused if any harm were to befall it. Any injury to it
would be almost as serious as its complete loss, for there are no
beryls in the world to match these, and it would be impossible to
replace them. I leave it with you, however, with every confidence, and
I shall call for it in person on Monday morning.’

“Seeing that my client was anxious to leave, I said no more but,
calling for my cashier, I ordered him to pay over fifty £ 1000 notes.
When I was alone once more, however, with the precious case lying upon
the table in front of me, I could not but think with some misgivings of
the immense responsibility which it entailed upon me. There could be no
doubt that, as it was a national possession, a horrible scandal would
ensue if any misfortune should occur to it. I already regretted having
ever consented to take charge of it. However, it was too late to alter
the matter now, so I locked it up in my private safe and turned once
more to my work.

“When evening came I felt that it would be an imprudence to leave so
precious a thing in the office behind me. Bankers’ safes had been
forced before now, and why should not mine be? If so, how terrible
would be the position in which I should find myself! I determined,
therefore, that for the next few days I would always carry the case
backward and forward with me, so that it might never be really out of
my reach. With this intention, I called a cab and drove out to my house
at Streatham, carrying the jewel with me. I did not breathe freely
until I had taken it upstairs and locked it in the bureau of my
dressing-room.

“And now a word as to my household, Mr. Holmes, for I wish you to
thoroughly understand the situation. My groom and my page sleep out of
the house, and may be set aside altogether. I have three maid-servants
who have been with me a number of years and whose absolute reliability
is quite above suspicion. Another, Lucy Parr, the second waiting-maid,
has only been in my service a few months. She came with an excellent
character, however, and has always given me satisfaction. She is a very
pretty girl and has attracted admirers who have occasionally hung about
the place. That is the only drawback which we have found to her, but we
believe her to be a thoroughly good girl in every way.

“So much for the servants. My family itself is so small that it will
not take me long to describe it. I am a widower and have an only son,
Arthur. He has been a disappointment to me, Mr. Holmes—a grievous
disappointment. I have no doubt that I am myself to blame. People tell
me that I have spoiled him. Very likely I have. When my dear wife died
I felt that he was all I had to love. I could not bear to see the smile
fade even for a moment from his face. I have never denied him a wish.
Perhaps it would have been better for both of us had I been sterner,
but I meant it for the best.

“It was naturally my intention that he should succeed me in my
business, but he was not of a business turn. He was wild, wayward, and,
to speak the truth, I could not trust him in the handling of large sums
of money. When he was young he became a member of an aristocratic club,
and there, having charming manners, he was soon the intimate of a
number of men with long purses and expensive habits. He learned to play
heavily at cards and to squander money on the turf, until he had again
and again to come to me and implore me to give him an advance upon his
allowance, that he might settle his debts of honour. He tried more than
once to break away from the dangerous company which he was keeping, but
each time the influence of his friend, Sir George Burnwell, was enough
to draw him back again.

“And, indeed, I could not wonder that such a man as Sir George Burnwell
should gain an influence over him, for he has frequently brought him to
my house, and I have found myself that I could hardly resist the
fascination of his manner. He is older than Arthur, a man of the world
to his finger-tips, one who had been everywhere, seen everything, a
brilliant talker, and a man of great personal beauty. Yet when I think
of him in cold blood, far away from the glamour of his presence, I am
convinced from his cynical speech and the look which I have caught in
his eyes that he is one who should be deeply distrusted. So I think,
and so, too, thinks my little Mary, who has a woman’s quick insight
into character.

“And now there is only she to be described. She is my niece; but when
my brother died five years ago and left her alone in the world I
adopted her, and have looked upon her ever since as my daughter. She is
a sunbeam in my house—sweet, loving, beautiful, a wonderful manager and
housekeeper, yet as tender and quiet and gentle as a woman could be.
She is my right hand. I do not know what I could do without her. In
only one matter has she ever gone against my wishes. Twice my boy has
asked her to marry him, for he loves her devotedly, but each time she
has refused him. I think that if anyone could have drawn him into the
right path it would have been she, and that his marriage might have
changed his whole life; but now, alas! it is too late—forever too late!

“Now, Mr. Holmes, you know the people who live under my roof, and I
shall continue with my miserable story.

“When we were taking coffee in the drawing-room that night after
dinner, I told Arthur and Mary my experience, and of the precious
treasure which we had under our roof, suppressing only the name of my
client. Lucy Parr, who had brought in the coffee, had, I am sure, left
the room; but I cannot swear that the door was closed. Mary and Arthur
were much interested and wished to see the famous coronet, but I
thought it better not to disturb it.

“‘Where have you put it?’ asked Arthur.

“‘In my own bureau.’

“‘Well, I hope to goodness the house won’t be burgled during the
night.’ said he.

“‘It is locked up,’ I answered.

“‘Oh, any old key will fit that bureau. When I was a youngster I have
opened it myself with the key of the box-room cupboard.’

“He often had a wild way of talking, so that I thought little of what
he said. He followed me to my room, however, that night with a very
grave face.

“‘Look here, dad,’ said he with his eyes cast down, ‘can you let me
have £ 200?’

“‘No, I cannot!’ I answered sharply. ‘I have been far too generous with
you in money matters.’

“‘You have been very kind,’ said he, ‘but I must have this money, or
else I can never show my face inside the club again.’

“‘And a very good thing, too!’ I cried.

“‘Yes, but you would not have me leave it a dishonoured man,’ said he.
‘I could not bear the disgrace. I must raise the money in some way, and
if you will not let me have it, then I must try other means.’

“I was very angry, for this was the third demand during the month. ‘You
shall not have a farthing from me,’ I cried, on which he bowed and left
the room without another word.

“When he was gone I unlocked my bureau, made sure that my treasure was
safe, and locked it again. Then I started to go round the house to see
that all was secure—a duty which I usually leave to Mary but which I
thought it well to perform myself that night. As I came down the stairs
I saw Mary herself at the side window of the hall, which she closed and
fastened as I approached.

“‘Tell me, dad,’ said she, looking, I thought, a little disturbed, ‘did
you give Lucy, the maid, leave to go out to-night?’

“‘Certainly not.’

“‘She came in just now by the back door. I have no doubt that she has
only been to the side gate to see someone, but I think that it is
hardly safe and should be stopped.’

“‘You must speak to her in the morning, or I will if you prefer it. Are
you sure that everything is fastened?’

“‘Quite sure, dad.’

“‘Then, good-night.’ I kissed her and went up to my bedroom again,
where I was soon asleep.

“I am endeavouring to tell you everything, Mr. Holmes, which may have
any bearing upon the case, but I beg that you will question me upon any
point which I do not make clear.”

“On the contrary, your statement is singularly lucid.”

“I come to a part of my story now in which I should wish to be
particularly so. I am not a very heavy sleeper, and the anxiety in my
mind tended, no doubt, to make me even less so than usual. About two in
the morning, then, I was awakened by some sound in the house. It had
ceased ere I was wide awake, but it had left an impression behind it as
though a window had gently closed somewhere. I lay listening with all
my ears. Suddenly, to my horror, there was a distinct sound of
footsteps moving softly in the next room. I slipped out of bed, all
palpitating with fear, and peeped round the corner of my dressing-room
door.

“‘Arthur!’ I screamed, ‘you villain! you thief! How dare you touch that
coronet?’

“The gas was half up, as I had left it, and my unhappy boy, dressed
only in his shirt and trousers, was standing beside the light, holding
the coronet in his hands. He appeared to be wrenching at it, or bending
it with all his strength. At my cry he dropped it from his grasp and
turned as pale as death. I snatched it up and examined it. One of the
gold corners, with three of the beryls in it, was missing.

“‘You blackguard!’ I shouted, beside myself with rage. ‘You have
destroyed it! You have dishonoured me forever! Where are the jewels
which you have stolen?’

“‘Stolen!’ he cried.

“‘Yes, thief!’ I roared, shaking him by the shoulder.

“‘There are none missing. There cannot be any missing,’ said he.

“‘There are three missing. And you know where they are. Must I call you
a liar as well as a thief? Did I not see you trying to tear off another
piece?’

“‘You have called me names enough,’ said he, ‘I will not stand it any
longer. I shall not say another word about this business, since you
have chosen to insult me. I will leave your house in the morning and
make my own way in the world.’

“‘You shall leave it in the hands of the police!’ I cried half-mad with
grief and rage. ‘I shall have this matter probed to the bottom.’

“‘You shall learn nothing from me,’ said he with a passion such as I
should not have thought was in his nature. ‘If you choose to call the
police, let the police find what they can.’

“By this time the whole house was astir, for I had raised my voice in
my anger. Mary was the first to rush into my room, and, at the sight of
the coronet and of Arthur’s face, she read the whole story and, with a
scream, fell down senseless on the ground. I sent the housemaid for the
police and put the investigation into their hands at once. When the
inspector and a constable entered the house, Arthur, who had stood
sullenly with his arms folded, asked me whether it was my intention to
charge him with theft. I answered that it had ceased to be a private
matter, but had become a public one, since the ruined coronet was
national property. I was determined that the law should have its way in
everything.

“‘At least,’ said he, ‘you will not have me arrested at once. It would
be to your advantage as well as mine if I might leave the house for
five minutes.’

“‘That you may get away, or perhaps that you may conceal what you have
stolen,’ said I. And then, realising the dreadful position in which I
was placed, I implored him to remember that not only my honour but that
of one who was far greater than I was at stake; and that he threatened
to raise a scandal which would convulse the nation. He might avert it
all if he would but tell me what he had done with the three missing
stones.

“‘You may as well face the matter,’ said I; ‘you have been caught in
the act, and no confession could make your guilt more heinous. If you
but make such reparation as is in your power, by telling us where the
beryls are, all shall be forgiven and forgotten.’

“‘Keep your forgiveness for those who ask for it,’ he answered, turning
away from me with a sneer. I saw that he was too hardened for any words
of mine to influence him. There was but one way for it. I called in the
inspector and gave him into custody. A search was made at once not only
of his person but of his room and of every portion of the house where
he could possibly have concealed the gems; but no trace of them could
be found, nor would the wretched boy open his mouth for all our
persuasions and our threats. This morning he was removed to a cell, and
I, after going through all the police formalities, have hurried round
to you to implore you to use your skill in unravelling the matter. The
police have openly confessed that they can at present make nothing of
it. You may go to any expense which you think necessary. I have already
offered a reward of £ 1000. My God, what shall I do! I have lost my
honour, my gems, and my son in one night. Oh, what shall I do!”

He put a hand on either side of his head and rocked himself to and fro,
droning to himself like a child whose grief has got beyond words.

Sherlock Holmes sat silent for some few minutes, with his brows knitted
and his eyes fixed upon the fire.

“Do you receive much company?” he asked.

“None save my partner with his family and an occasional friend of
Arthur’s. Sir George Burnwell has been several times lately. No one
else, I think.”

“Do you go out much in society?”

“Arthur does. Mary and I stay at home. We neither of us care for it.”

“That is unusual in a young girl.”

“She is of a quiet nature. Besides, she is not so very young. She is
four-and-twenty.”

“This matter, from what you say, seems to have been a shock to her
also.”

“Terrible! She is even more affected than I.”

“You have neither of you any doubt as to your son’s guilt?”

“How can we have when I saw him with my own eyes with the coronet in
his hands.”

“I hardly consider that a conclusive proof. Was the remainder of the
coronet at all injured?”

“Yes, it was twisted.”

“Do you not think, then, that he might have been trying to straighten
it?”

“God bless you! You are doing what you can for him and for me. But it
is too heavy a task. What was he doing there at all? If his purpose
were innocent, why did he not say so?”

“Precisely. And if it were guilty, why did he not invent a lie? His
silence appears to me to cut both ways. There are several singular
points about the case. What did the police think of the noise which
awoke you from your sleep?”

“They considered that it might be caused by Arthur’s closing his
bedroom door.”

“A likely story! As if a man bent on felony would slam his door so as
to wake a household. What did they say, then, of the disappearance of
these gems?”

“They are still sounding the planking and probing the furniture in the
hope of finding them.”

“Have they thought of looking outside the house?”

“Yes, they have shown extraordinary energy. The whole garden has
already been minutely examined.”

“Now, my dear sir,” said Holmes, “is it not obvious to you now that
this matter really strikes very much deeper than either you or the
police were at first inclined to think? It appeared to you to be a
simple case; to me it seems exceedingly complex. Consider what is
involved by your theory. You suppose that your son came down from his
bed, went, at great risk, to your dressing-room, opened your bureau,
took out your coronet, broke off by main force a small portion of it,
went off to some other place, concealed three gems out of the
thirty-nine, with such skill that nobody can find them, and then
returned with the other thirty-six into the room in which he exposed
himself to the greatest danger of being discovered. I ask you now, is
such a theory tenable?”

“But what other is there?” cried the banker with a gesture of despair.
“If his motives were innocent, why does he not explain them?”

“It is our task to find that out,” replied Holmes; “so now, if you
please, Mr. Holder, we will set off for Streatham together, and devote
an hour to glancing a little more closely into details.”

My friend insisted upon my accompanying them in their expedition, which
I was eager enough to do, for my curiosity and sympathy were deeply
stirred by the story to which we had listened. I confess that the guilt
of the banker’s son appeared to me to be as obvious as it did to his
unhappy father, but still I had such faith in Holmes’ judgment that I
felt that there must be some grounds for hope as long as he was
dissatisfied with the accepted explanation. He hardly spoke a word the
whole way out to the southern suburb, but sat with his chin upon his
breast and his hat drawn over his eyes, sunk in the deepest thought.
Our client appeared to have taken fresh heart at the little glimpse of
hope which had been presented to him, and he even broke into a
desultory chat with me over his business affairs. A short railway
journey and a shorter walk brought us to Fairbank, the modest residence
of the great financier.

Fairbank was a good-sized square house of white stone, standing back a
little from the road. A double carriage-sweep, with a snow-clad lawn,
stretched down in front to two large iron gates which closed the
entrance. On the right side was a small wooden thicket, which led into
a narrow path between two neat hedges stretching from the road to the
kitchen door, and forming the tradesmen’s entrance. On the left ran a
lane which led to the stables, and was not itself within the grounds at
all, being a public, though little used, thoroughfare. Holmes left us
standing at the door and walked slowly all round the house, across the
front, down the tradesmen’s path, and so round by the garden behind
into the stable lane. So long was he that Mr. Holder and I went into
the dining-room and waited by the fire until he should return. We were
sitting there in silence when the door opened and a young lady came in.
She was rather above the middle height, slim, with dark hair and eyes,
which seemed the darker against the absolute pallor of her skin. I do
not think that I have ever seen such deadly paleness in a woman’s face.
Her lips, too, were bloodless, but her eyes were flushed with crying.
As she swept silently into the room she impressed me with a greater
sense of grief than the banker had done in the morning, and it was the
more striking in her as she was evidently a woman of strong character,
with immense capacity for self-restraint. Disregarding my presence, she
went straight to her uncle and passed her hand over his head with a
sweet womanly caress.

“You have given orders that Arthur should be liberated, have you not,
dad?” she asked.

“No, no, my girl, the matter must be probed to the bottom.”

“But I am so sure that he is innocent. You know what woman’s instincts
are. I know that he has done no harm and that you will be sorry for
having acted so harshly.”

“Why is he silent, then, if he is innocent?”

“Who knows? Perhaps because he was so angry that you should suspect
him.”

“How could I help suspecting him, when I actually saw him with the
coronet in his hand?”

“Oh, but he had only picked it up to look at it. Oh, do, do take my
word for it that he is innocent. Let the matter drop and say no more.
It is so dreadful to think of our dear Arthur in prison!”

“I shall never let it drop until the gems are found—never, Mary! Your
affection for Arthur blinds you as to the awful consequences to me. Far
from hushing the thing up, I have brought a gentleman down from London
to inquire more deeply into it.”

“This gentleman?” she asked, facing round to me.

“No, his friend. He wished us to leave him alone. He is round in the
stable lane now.”

“The stable lane?” She raised her dark eyebrows. “What can he hope to
find there? Ah! this, I suppose, is he. I trust, sir, that you will
succeed in proving, what I feel sure is the truth, that my cousin
Arthur is innocent of this crime.”

“I fully share your opinion, and I trust, with you, that we may prove
it,” returned Holmes, going back to the mat to knock the snow from his
shoes. “I believe I have the honour of addressing Miss Mary Holder.
Might I ask you a question or two?”

“Pray do, sir, if it may help to clear this horrible affair up.”

“You heard nothing yourself last night?”

“Nothing, until my uncle here began to speak loudly. I heard that, and
I came down.”

“You shut up the windows and doors the night before. Did you fasten all
the windows?”

“Yes.”

“Were they all fastened this morning?”

“Yes.”

“You have a maid who has a sweetheart? I think that you remarked to
your uncle last night that she had been out to see him?”

“Yes, and she was the girl who waited in the drawing-room, and who may
have heard uncle’s remarks about the coronet.”

“I see. You infer that she may have gone out to tell her sweetheart,
and that the two may have planned the robbery.”

“But what is the good of all these vague theories,” cried the banker
impatiently, “when I have told you that I saw Arthur with the coronet
in his hands?”

“Wait a little, Mr. Holder. We must come back to that. About this girl,
Miss Holder. You saw her return by the kitchen door, I presume?”

“Yes; when I went to see if the door was fastened for the night I met
her slipping in. I saw the man, too, in the gloom.”

“Do you know him?”

“Oh, yes! he is the greengrocer who brings our vegetables round. His
name is Francis Prosper.”

“He stood,” said Holmes, “to the left of the door—that is to say,
farther up the path than is necessary to reach the door?”

“Yes, he did.”

“And he is a man with a wooden leg?”

Something like fear sprang up in the young lady’s expressive black
eyes. “Why, you are like a magician,” said she. “How do you know that?”
She smiled, but there was no answering smile in Holmes’ thin, eager
face.

“I should be very glad now to go upstairs,” said he. “I shall probably
wish to go over the outside of the house again. Perhaps I had better
take a look at the lower windows before I go up.”

He walked swiftly round from one to the other, pausing only at the
large one which looked from the hall onto the stable lane. This he
opened and made a very careful examination of the sill with his
powerful magnifying lens. “Now we shall go upstairs,” said he at last.

The banker’s dressing-room was a plainly furnished little chamber, with
a grey carpet, a large bureau, and a long mirror. Holmes went to the
bureau first and looked hard at the lock.

“Which key was used to open it?” he asked.

“That which my son himself indicated—that of the cupboard of the
lumber-room.”

“Have you it here?”

“That is it on the dressing-table.”

Sherlock Holmes took it up and opened the bureau.

“It is a noiseless lock,” said he. “It is no wonder that it did not
wake you. This case, I presume, contains the coronet. We must have a
look at it.” He opened the case, and taking out the diadem he laid it
upon the table. It was a magnificent specimen of the jeweller’s art,
and the thirty-six stones were the finest that I have ever seen. At one
side of the coronet was a cracked edge, where a corner holding three
gems had been torn away.

“Now, Mr. Holder,” said Holmes, “here is the corner which corresponds
to that which has been so unfortunately lost. Might I beg that you will
break it off.”

The banker recoiled in horror. “I should not dream of trying,” said he.

“Then I will.” Holmes suddenly bent his strength upon it, but without
result. “I feel it give a little,” said he; “but, though I am
exceptionally strong in the fingers, it would take me all my time to
break it. An ordinary man could not do it. Now, what do you think would
happen if I did break it, Mr. Holder? There would be a noise like a
pistol shot. Do you tell me that all this happened within a few yards
of your bed and that you heard nothing of it?”

“I do not know what to think. It is all dark to me.”

“But perhaps it may grow lighter as we go. What do you think, Miss
Holder?”

“I confess that I still share my uncle’s perplexity.”

“Your son had no shoes or slippers on when you saw him?”

“He had nothing on save only his trousers and shirt.”

“Thank you. We have certainly been favoured with extraordinary luck
during this inquiry, and it will be entirely our own fault if we do not
succeed in clearing the matter up. With your permission, Mr. Holder, I
shall now continue my investigations outside.”

He went alone, at his own request, for he explained that any
unnecessary footmarks might make his task more difficult. For an hour
or more he was at work, returning at last with his feet heavy with snow
and his features as inscrutable as ever.

“I think that I have seen now all that there is to see, Mr. Holder,”
said he; “I can serve you best by returning to my rooms.”

“But the gems, Mr. Holmes. Where are they?”

“I cannot tell.”

The banker wrung his hands. “I shall never see them again!” he cried.
“And my son? You give me hopes?”

“My opinion is in no way altered.”

“Then, for God’s sake, what was this dark business which was acted in
my house last night?”

“If you can call upon me at my Baker Street rooms to-morrow morning
between nine and ten I shall be happy to do what I can to make it
clearer. I understand that you give me _carte blanche_ to act for you,
provided only that I get back the gems, and that you place no limit on
the sum I may draw.”

“I would give my fortune to have them back.”

“Very good. I shall look into the matter between this and then.
Good-bye; it is just possible that I may have to come over here again
before evening.”

It was obvious to me that my companion’s mind was now made up about the
case, although what his conclusions were was more than I could even
dimly imagine. Several times during our homeward journey I endeavoured
to sound him upon the point, but he always glided away to some other
topic, until at last I gave it over in despair. It was not yet three
when we found ourselves in our rooms once more. He hurried to his
chamber and was down again in a few minutes dressed as a common loafer.
With his collar turned up, his shiny, seedy coat, his red cravat, and
his worn boots, he was a perfect sample of the class.

“I think that this should do,” said he, glancing into the glass above
the fireplace. “I only wish that you could come with me, Watson, but I
fear that it won’t do. I may be on the trail in this matter, or I may
be following a will-o’-the-wisp, but I shall soon know which it is. I
hope that I may be back in a few hours.” He cut a slice of beef from
the joint upon the sideboard, sandwiched it between two rounds of
bread, and thrusting this rude meal into his pocket he started off upon
his expedition.

I had just finished my tea when he returned, evidently in excellent
spirits, swinging an old elastic-sided boot in his hand. He chucked it
down into a corner and helped himself to a cup of tea.

“I only looked in as I passed,” said he. “I am going right on.”

“Where to?”

“Oh, to the other side of the West End. It may be some time before I
get back. Don’t wait up for me in case I should be late.”

“How are you getting on?”

“Oh, so so. Nothing to complain of. I have been out to Streatham since
I saw you last, but I did not call at the house. It is a very sweet
little problem, and I would not have missed it for a good deal.
However, I must not sit gossiping here, but must get these disreputable
clothes off and return to my highly respectable self.”

I could see by his manner that he had stronger reasons for satisfaction
than his words alone would imply. His eyes twinkled, and there was even
a touch of colour upon his sallow cheeks. He hastened upstairs, and a
few minutes later I heard the slam of the hall door, which told me that
he was off once more upon his congenial hunt.

I waited until midnight, but there was no sign of his return, so I
retired to my room. It was no uncommon thing for him to be away for
days and nights on end when he was hot upon a scent, so that his
lateness caused me no surprise. I do not know at what hour he came in,
but when I came down to breakfast in the morning there he was with a
cup of coffee in one hand and the paper in the other, as fresh and trim
as possible.

“You will excuse my beginning without you, Watson,” said he, “but you
remember that our client has rather an early appointment this morning.”

“Why, it is after nine now,” I answered. “I should not be surprised if
that were he. I thought I heard a ring.”

It was, indeed, our friend the financier. I was shocked by the change
which had come over him, for his face which was naturally of a broad
and massive mould, was now pinched and fallen in, while his hair seemed
to me at least a shade whiter. He entered with a weariness and lethargy
which was even more painful than his violence of the morning before,
and he dropped heavily into the armchair which I pushed forward for
him.

“I do not know what I have done to be so severely tried,” said he.
“Only two days ago I was a happy and prosperous man, without a care in
the world. Now I am left to a lonely and dishonoured age. One sorrow
comes close upon the heels of another. My niece, Mary, has deserted
me.”

“Deserted you?”

“Yes. Her bed this morning had not been slept in, her room was empty,
and a note for me lay upon the hall table. I had said to her last
night, in sorrow and not in anger, that if she had married my boy all
might have been well with him. Perhaps it was thoughtless of me to say
so. It is to that remark that she refers in this note:

    “‘MY DEAREST UNCLE,—I feel that I have brought trouble upon you,
    and that if I had acted differently this terrible misfortune might
    never have occurred. I cannot, with this thought in my mind, ever
    again be happy under your roof, and I feel that I must leave you
    forever. Do not worry about my future, for that is provided for;
    and, above all, do not search for me, for it will be fruitless
    labour and an ill-service to me. In life or in death, I am ever
    your loving,


    “‘MARY.’


“What could she mean by that note, Mr. Holmes? Do you think it points
to suicide?”

“No, no, nothing of the kind. It is perhaps the best possible solution.
I trust, Mr. Holder, that you are nearing the end of your troubles.”

“Ha! You say so! You have heard something, Mr. Holmes; you have learned
something! Where are the gems?”

“You would not think £ 1000 apiece an excessive sum for them?”

“I would pay ten.”

“That would be unnecessary. Three thousand will cover the matter. And
there is a little reward, I fancy. Have you your cheque-book? Here is a
pen. Better make it out for £ 4000.”

With a dazed face the banker made out the required check. Holmes walked
over to his desk, took out a little triangular piece of gold with three
gems in it, and threw it down upon the table.

With a shriek of joy our client clutched it up.

“You have it!” he gasped. “I am saved! I am saved!”

The reaction of joy was as passionate as his grief had been, and he
hugged his recovered gems to his bosom.

“There is one other thing you owe, Mr. Holder,” said Sherlock Holmes
rather sternly.

“Owe!” He caught up a pen. “Name the sum, and I will pay it.”

“No, the debt is not to me. You owe a very humble apology to that noble
lad, your son, who has carried himself in this matter as I should be
proud to see my own son do, should I ever chance to have one.”

“Then it was not Arthur who took them?”

“I told you yesterday, and I repeat to-day, that it was not.”

“You are sure of it! Then let us hurry to him at once to let him know
that the truth is known.”

“He knows it already. When I had cleared it all up I had an interview
with him, and finding that he would not tell me the story, I told it to
him, on which he had to confess that I was right and to add the very
few details which were not yet quite clear to me. Your news of this
morning, however, may open his lips.”

“For Heaven’s sake, tell me, then, what is this extraordinary mystery!”

“I will do so, and I will show you the steps by which I reached it. And
let me say to you, first, that which it is hardest for me to say and
for you to hear: there has been an understanding between Sir George
Burnwell and your niece Mary. They have now fled together.”

“My Mary? Impossible!”

“It is unfortunately more than possible; it is certain. Neither you nor
your son knew the true character of this man when you admitted him into
your family circle. He is one of the most dangerous men in England—a
ruined gambler, an absolutely desperate villain, a man without heart or
conscience. Your niece knew nothing of such men. When he breathed his
vows to her, as he had done to a hundred before her, she flattered
herself that she alone had touched his heart. The devil knows best what
he said, but at least she became his tool and was in the habit of
seeing him nearly every evening.”

“I cannot, and I will not, believe it!” cried the banker with an ashen
face.

“I will tell you, then, what occurred in your house last night. Your
niece, when you had, as she thought, gone to your room, slipped down
and talked to her lover through the window which leads into the stable
lane. His footmarks had pressed right through the snow, so long had he
stood there. She told him of the coronet. His wicked lust for gold
kindled at the news, and he bent her to his will. I have no doubt that
she loved you, but there are women in whom the love of a lover
extinguishes all other loves, and I think that she must have been one.
She had hardly listened to his instructions when she saw you coming
downstairs, on which she closed the window rapidly and told you about
one of the servants’ escapade with her wooden-legged lover, which was
all perfectly true.

“Your boy, Arthur, went to bed after his interview with you but he
slept badly on account of his uneasiness about his club debts. In the
middle of the night he heard a soft tread pass his door, so he rose
and, looking out, was surprised to see his cousin walking very
stealthily along the passage until she disappeared into your
dressing-room. Petrified with astonishment, the lad slipped on some
clothes and waited there in the dark to see what would come of this
strange affair. Presently she emerged from the room again, and in the
light of the passage-lamp your son saw that she carried the precious
coronet in her hands. She passed down the stairs, and he, thrilling
with horror, ran along and slipped behind the curtain near your door,
whence he could see what passed in the hall beneath. He saw her
stealthily open the window, hand out the coronet to someone in the
gloom, and then closing it once more hurry back to her room, passing
quite close to where he stood hid behind the curtain.

“As long as she was on the scene he could not take any action without a
horrible exposure of the woman whom he loved. But the instant that she
was gone he realised how crushing a misfortune this would be for you,
and how all-important it was to set it right. He rushed down, just as
he was, in his bare feet, opened the window, sprang out into the snow,
and ran down the lane, where he could see a dark figure in the
moonlight. Sir George Burnwell tried to get away, but Arthur caught
him, and there was a struggle between them, your lad tugging at one
side of the coronet, and his opponent at the other. In the scuffle,
your son struck Sir George and cut him over the eye. Then something
suddenly snapped, and your son, finding that he had the coronet in his
hands, rushed back, closed the window, ascended to your room, and had
just observed that the coronet had been twisted in the struggle and was
endeavouring to straighten it when you appeared upon the scene.”

“Is it possible?” gasped the banker.

“You then roused his anger by calling him names at a moment when he
felt that he had deserved your warmest thanks. He could not explain the
true state of affairs without betraying one who certainly deserved
little enough consideration at his hands. He took the more chivalrous
view, however, and preserved her secret.”

“And that was why she shrieked and fainted when she saw the coronet,”
cried Mr. Holder. “Oh, my God! what a blind fool I have been! And his
asking to be allowed to go out for five minutes! The dear fellow wanted
to see if the missing piece were at the scene of the struggle. How
cruelly I have misjudged him!”

“When I arrived at the house,” continued Holmes, “I at once went very
carefully round it to observe if there were any traces in the snow
which might help me. I knew that none had fallen since the evening
before, and also that there had been a strong frost to preserve
impressions. I passed along the tradesmen’s path, but found it all
trampled down and indistinguishable. Just beyond it, however, at the
far side of the kitchen door, a woman had stood and talked with a man,
whose round impressions on one side showed that he had a wooden leg. I
could even tell that they had been disturbed, for the woman had run
back swiftly to the door, as was shown by the deep toe and light heel
marks, while Wooden-leg had waited a little, and then had gone away. I
thought at the time that this might be the maid and her sweetheart, of
whom you had already spoken to me, and inquiry showed it was so. I
passed round the garden without seeing anything more than random
tracks, which I took to be the police; but when I got into the stable
lane a very long and complex story was written in the snow in front of
me.

“There was a double line of tracks of a booted man, and a second double
line which I saw with delight belonged to a man with naked feet. I was
at once convinced from what you had told me that the latter was your
son. The first had walked both ways, but the other had run swiftly, and
as his tread was marked in places over the depression of the boot, it
was obvious that he had passed after the other. I followed them up and
found they led to the hall window, where Boots had worn all the snow
away while waiting. Then I walked to the other end, which was a hundred
yards or more down the lane. I saw where Boots had faced round, where
the snow was cut up as though there had been a struggle, and, finally,
where a few drops of blood had fallen, to show me that I was not
mistaken. Boots had then run down the lane, and another little smudge
of blood showed that it was he who had been hurt. When he came to the
high road at the other end, I found that the pavement had been cleared,
so there was an end to that clue.

“On entering the house, however, I examined, as you remember, the sill
and framework of the hall window with my lens, and I could at once see
that someone had passed out. I could distinguish the outline of an
instep where the wet foot had been placed in coming in. I was then
beginning to be able to form an opinion as to what had occurred. A man
had waited outside the window; someone had brought the gems; the deed
had been overseen by your son; he had pursued the thief; had struggled
with him; they had each tugged at the coronet, their united strength
causing injuries which neither alone could have effected. He had
returned with the prize, but had left a fragment in the grasp of his
opponent. So far I was clear. The question now was, who was the man, and
who was it brought him the coronet?

“It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the impossible,
whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Now, I knew
that it was not you who had brought it down, so there only remained
your niece and the maids. But if it were the maids, why should your son
allow himself to be accused in their place? There could be no possible
reason. As he loved his cousin, however, there was an excellent
explanation why he should retain her secret—the more so as the secret
was a disgraceful one. When I remembered that you had seen her at that
window, and how she had fainted on seeing the coronet again, my
conjecture became a certainty.

“And who could it be who was her confederate? A lover evidently, for
who else could outweigh the love and gratitude which she must feel to
you? I knew that you went out little, and that your circle of friends
was a very limited one. But among them was Sir George Burnwell. I had
heard of him before as being a man of evil reputation among women. It
must have been he who wore those boots and retained the missing gems.
Even though he knew that Arthur had discovered him, he might still
flatter himself that he was safe, for the lad could not say a word
without compromising his own family.

“Well, your own good sense will suggest what measures I took next. I
went in the shape of a loafer to Sir George’s house, managed to pick up
an acquaintance with his valet, learned that his master had cut his
head the night before, and, finally, at the expense of six shillings,
made all sure by buying a pair of his cast-off shoes. With these I
journeyed down to Streatham and saw that they exactly fitted the
tracks.”

“I saw an ill-dressed vagabond in the lane yesterday evening,” said Mr.
Holder.

“Precisely. It was I. I found that I had my man, so I came home and
changed my clothes. It was a delicate part which I had to play then,
for I saw that a prosecution must be avoided to avert scandal, and I
knew that so astute a villain would see that our hands were tied in the
matter. I went and saw him. At first, of course, he denied everything.
But when I gave him every particular that had occurred, he tried to
bluster and took down a life-preserver from the wall. I knew my man,
however, and I clapped a pistol to his head before he could strike.
Then he became a little more reasonable. I told him that we would give
him a price for the stones he held—£ 1000 apiece. That brought out the
first signs of grief that he had shown. ‘Why, dash it all!’ said he,
‘I’ve let them go at six hundred for the three!’ I soon managed to get
the address of the receiver who had them, on promising him that there
would be no prosecution. Off I set to him, and after much chaffering I
got our stones at £ 1000 apiece. Then I looked in upon your son, told
him that all was right, and eventually got to my bed about two o’clock,
after what I may call a really hard day’s work.”

“A day which has saved England from a great public scandal,” said the
banker, rising. “Sir, I cannot find words to thank you, but you shall
not find me ungrateful for what you have done. Your skill has indeed
exceeded all that I have heard of it. And now I must fly to my dear boy
to apologise to him for the wrong which I have done him. As to what you
tell me of poor Mary, it goes to my very heart. Not even your skill can
inform me where she is now.”

“I think that we may safely say,” returned Holmes, “that she is
wherever Sir George Burnwell is. It is equally certain, too, that
whatever her sins are, they will soon receive a more than sufficient
punishment.”




XII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER BEECHES


“To the man who loves art for its own sake,” remarked Sherlock Holmes,
tossing aside the advertisement sheet of _The Daily Telegraph_, “it is
frequently in its least important and lowliest manifestations that the
keenest pleasure is to be derived. It is pleasant to me to observe,
Watson, that you have so far grasped this truth that in these little
records of our cases which you have been good enough to draw up, and, I
am bound to say, occasionally to embellish, you have given prominence
not so much to the many _causes célèbres_ and sensational trials in
which I have figured but rather to those incidents which may have been
trivial in themselves, but which have given room for those faculties of
deduction and of logical synthesis which I have made my special
province.”

“And yet,” said I, smiling, “I cannot quite hold myself absolved from
the charge of sensationalism which has been urged against my records.”

“You have erred, perhaps,” he observed, taking up a glowing cinder with
the tongs and lighting with it the long cherry-wood pipe which was wont
to replace his clay when he was in a disputatious rather than a
meditative mood—“you have erred perhaps in attempting to put colour and
life into each of your statements instead of confining yourself to the
task of placing upon record that severe reasoning from cause to effect
which is really the only notable feature about the thing.”

“It seems to me that I have done you full justice in the matter,” I
remarked with some coldness, for I was repelled by the egotism which I
had more than once observed to be a strong factor in my friend’s
singular character.

“No, it is not selfishness or conceit,” said he, answering, as was his
wont, my thoughts rather than my words. “If I claim full justice for my
art, it is because it is an impersonal thing—a thing beyond myself.
Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it is upon the logic rather
than upon the crime that you should dwell. You have degraded what
should have been a course of lectures into a series of tales.”

It was a cold morning of the early spring, and we sat after breakfast
on either side of a cheery fire in the old room at Baker Street. A
thick fog rolled down between the lines of dun-coloured houses, and the
opposing windows loomed like dark, shapeless blurs through the heavy
yellow wreaths. Our gas was lit and shone on the white cloth and
glimmer of china and metal, for the table had not been cleared yet.
Sherlock Holmes had been silent all the morning, dipping continuously
into the advertisement columns of a succession of papers until at last,
having apparently given up his search, he had emerged in no very sweet
temper to lecture me upon my literary shortcomings.

“At the same time,” he remarked after a pause, during which he had sat
puffing at his long pipe and gazing down into the fire, “you can hardly
be open to a charge of sensationalism, for out of these cases which you
have been so kind as to interest yourself in, a fair proportion do not
treat of crime, in its legal sense, at all. The small matter in which I
endeavoured to help the King of Bohemia, the singular experience of
Miss Mary Sutherland, the problem connected with the man with the
twisted lip, and the incident of the noble bachelor, were all matters
which are outside the pale of the law. But in avoiding the sensational,
I fear that you may have bordered on the trivial.”

“The end may have been so,” I answered, “but the methods I hold to have
been novel and of interest.”

“Pshaw, my dear fellow, what do the public, the great unobservant
public, who could hardly tell a weaver by his tooth or a compositor by
his left thumb, care about the finer shades of analysis and deduction!
But, indeed, if you are trivial, I cannot blame you, for the days of
the great cases are past. Man, or at least criminal man, has lost all
enterprise and originality. As to my own little practice, it seems to
be degenerating into an agency for recovering lost lead pencils and
giving advice to young ladies from boarding-schools. I think that I
have touched bottom at last, however. This note I had this morning
marks my zero-point, I fancy. Read it!” He tossed a crumpled letter
across to me.

It was dated from Montague Place upon the preceding evening, and ran
thus:

    “DEAR MR. HOLMES,—I am very anxious to consult you as to whether I
    should or should not accept a situation which has been offered to
    me as governess. I shall call at half-past ten to-morrow if I do
    not inconvenience you. Yours faithfully,


    “VIOLET HUNTER.”


“Do you know the young lady?” I asked.

“Not I.”

“It is half-past ten now.”

“Yes, and I have no doubt that is her ring.”

“It may turn out to be of more interest than you think. You remember
that the affair of the blue carbuncle, which appeared to be a mere whim
at first, developed into a serious investigation. It may be so in this
case, also.”

“Well, let us hope so. But our doubts will very soon be solved, for
here, unless I am much mistaken, is the person in question.”

As he spoke the door opened and a young lady entered the room. She was
plainly but neatly dressed, with a bright, quick face, freckled like a
plover’s egg, and with the brisk manner of a woman who has had her own
way to make in the world.

“You will excuse my troubling you, I am sure,” said she, as my
companion rose to greet her, “but I have had a very strange experience,
and as I have no parents or relations of any sort from whom I could ask
advice, I thought that perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me what
I should do.”

“Pray take a seat, Miss Hunter. I shall be happy to do anything that I
can to serve you.”

I could see that Holmes was favourably impressed by the manner and
speech of his new client. He looked her over in his searching fashion,
and then composed himself, with his lids drooping and his finger-tips
together, to listen to her story.

“I have been a governess for five years,” said she, “in the family of
Colonel Spence Munro, but two months ago the colonel received an
appointment at Halifax, in Nova Scotia, and took his children over to
America with him, so that I found myself without a situation. I
advertised, and I answered advertisements, but without success. At last
the little money which I had saved began to run short, and I was at my
wit’s end as to what I should do.

“There is a well-known agency for governesses in the West End called
Westaway’s, and there I used to call about once a week in order to see
whether anything had turned up which might suit me. Westaway was the
name of the founder of the business, but it is really managed by Miss
Stoper. She sits in her own little office, and the ladies who are
seeking employment wait in an anteroom, and are then shown in one by
one, when she consults her ledgers and sees whether she has anything
which would suit them.

“Well, when I called last week I was shown into the little office as
usual, but I found that Miss Stoper was not alone. A prodigiously stout
man with a very smiling face and a great heavy chin which rolled down
in fold upon fold over his throat sat at her elbow with a pair of
glasses on his nose, looking very earnestly at the ladies who entered.
As I came in he gave quite a jump in his chair and turned quickly to
Miss Stoper.

“‘That will do,’ said he; ‘I could not ask for anything better.
Capital! capital!’ He seemed quite enthusiastic and rubbed his hands
together in the most genial fashion. He was such a comfortable-looking
man that it was quite a pleasure to look at him.

“‘You are looking for a situation, miss?’ he asked.

“‘Yes, sir.’

“‘As governess?’

“‘Yes, sir.’

“‘And what salary do you ask?’

“‘I had £ 4 a month in my last place with Colonel Spence Munro.’

“‘Oh, tut, tut! sweating—rank sweating!’ he cried, throwing his fat
hands out into the air like a man who is in a boiling passion. ‘How
could anyone offer so pitiful a sum to a lady with such attractions and
accomplishments?’

“‘My accomplishments, sir, may be less than you imagine,’ said I. ‘A
little French, a little German, music, and drawing—’

“‘Tut, tut!’ he cried. ‘This is all quite beside the question. The
point is, have you or have you not the bearing and deportment of a
lady? There it is in a nutshell. If you have not, you are not fitted
for the rearing of a child who may some day play a considerable part in
the history of the country. But if you have, why, then, how could any
gentleman ask you to condescend to accept anything under the three
figures? Your salary with me, madam, would commence at £ 100 a year.’

“You may imagine, Mr. Holmes, that to me, destitute as I was, such an
offer seemed almost too good to be true. The gentleman, however, seeing
perhaps the look of incredulity upon my face, opened a pocket-book and
took out a note.

“‘It is also my custom,’ said he, smiling in the most pleasant fashion
until his eyes were just two little shining slits amid the white
creases of his face, ‘to advance to my young ladies half their salary
beforehand, so that they may meet any little expenses of their journey
and their wardrobe.’

“It seemed to me that I had never met so fascinating and so thoughtful
a man. As I was already in debt to my tradesmen, the advance was a
great convenience, and yet there was something unnatural about the
whole transaction which made me wish to know a little more before I
quite committed myself.

“‘May I ask where you live, sir?’ said I.

“‘Hampshire. Charming rural place. The Copper Beeches, five miles on
the far side of Winchester. It is the most lovely country, my dear
young lady, and the dearest old country-house.’

“‘And my duties, sir? I should be glad to know what they would be.’

“‘One child—one dear little romper just six years old. Oh, if you could
see him killing cockroaches with a slipper! Smack! smack! smack! Three
gone before you could wink!’ He leaned back in his chair and laughed
his eyes into his head again.

“I was a little startled at the nature of the child’s amusement, but
the father’s laughter made me think that perhaps he was joking.

“‘My sole duties, then,’ I asked, ‘are to take charge of a single
child?’

“‘No, no, not the sole, not the sole, my dear young lady,’ he cried.
‘Your duty would be, as I am sure your good sense would suggest, to
obey any little commands my wife might give, provided always that they
were such commands as a lady might with propriety obey. You see no
difficulty, heh?’

“‘I should be happy to make myself useful.’

“‘Quite so. In dress now, for example. We are faddy people, you
know—faddy but kind-hearted. If you were asked to wear any dress which
we might give you, you would not object to our little whim. Heh?’

“‘No,’ said I, considerably astonished at his words.

“‘Or to sit here, or sit there, that would not be offensive to you?’

“‘Oh, no.’

“‘Or to cut your hair quite short before you come to us?’

“I could hardly believe my ears. As you may observe, Mr. Holmes, my
hair is somewhat luxuriant, and of a rather peculiar tint of chestnut.
It has been considered artistic. I could not dream of sacrificing it in
this offhand fashion.

“‘I am afraid that that is quite impossible,’ said I. He had been
watching me eagerly out of his small eyes, and I could see a shadow
pass over his face as I spoke.

“‘I am afraid that it is quite essential,’ said he. ‘It is a little
fancy of my wife’s, and ladies’ fancies, you know, madam, ladies’
fancies must be consulted. And so you won’t cut your hair?’

“‘No, sir, I really could not,’ I answered firmly.

“‘Ah, very well; then that quite settles the matter. It is a pity,
because in other respects you would really have done very nicely. In
that case, Miss Stoper, I had best inspect a few more of your young
ladies.’

“The manageress had sat all this while busy with her papers without a
word to either of us, but she glanced at me now with so much annoyance
upon her face that I could not help suspecting that she had lost a
handsome commission through my refusal.

“‘Do you desire your name to be kept upon the books?’ she asked.

“‘If you please, Miss Stoper.’

“‘Well, really, it seems rather useless, since you refuse the most
excellent offers in this fashion,’ said she sharply. ‘You can hardly
expect us to exert ourselves to find another such opening for you.
Good-day to you, Miss Hunter.’ She struck a gong upon the table, and I
was shown out by the page.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, when I got back to my lodgings and found little
enough in the cupboard, and two or three bills upon the table, I began
to ask myself whether I had not done a very foolish thing. After all,
if these people had strange fads and expected obedience on the most
extraordinary matters, they were at least ready to pay for their
eccentricity. Very few governesses in England are getting £ 100 a year.
Besides, what use was my hair to me? Many people are improved by
wearing it short and perhaps I should be among the number. Next day I
was inclined to think that I had made a mistake, and by the day after I
was sure of it. I had almost overcome my pride so far as to go back to
the agency and inquire whether the place was still open when I received
this letter from the gentleman himself. I have it here and I will read
it to you:

“‘The Copper Beeches, near Winchester.

    “‘DEAR MISS HUNTER,—Miss Stoper has very kindly given me your
    address, and I write from here to ask you whether you have
    reconsidered your decision. My wife is very anxious that you should
    come, for she has been much attracted by my description of you. We
    are willing to give £ 30 a quarter, or £ 120 a year, so as to
    recompense you for any little inconvenience which our fads may
    cause you. They are not very exacting, after all. My wife is fond
    of a particular shade of electric blue and would like you to wear
    such a dress indoors in the morning. You need not, however, go to
    the expense of purchasing one, as we have one belonging to my dear
    daughter Alice (now in Philadelphia), which would, I should think,
    fit you very well. Then, as to sitting here or there, or amusing
    yourself in any manner indicated, that need cause you no
    inconvenience. As regards your hair, it is no doubt a pity,
    especially as I could not help remarking its beauty during our
    short interview, but I am afraid that I must remain firm upon this
    point, and I only hope that the increased salary may recompense you
    for the loss. Your duties, as far as the child is concerned, are
    very light. Now do try to come, and I shall meet you with the
    dog-cart at Winchester. Let me know your train. Yours faithfully,


    “‘JEPHRO RUCASTLE.’


“That is the letter which I have just received, Mr. Holmes, and my mind
is made up that I will accept it. I thought, however, that before
taking the final step I should like to submit the whole matter to your
consideration.”

“Well, Miss Hunter, if your mind is made up, that settles the
question,” said Holmes, smiling.

“But you would not advise me to refuse?”

“I confess that it is not the situation which I should like to see a
sister of mine apply for.”

“What is the meaning of it all, Mr. Holmes?”

“Ah, I have no data. I cannot tell. Perhaps you have yourself formed
some opinion?”

“Well, there seems to me to be only one possible solution. Mr. Rucastle
seemed to be a very kind, good-natured man. Is it not possible that his
wife is a lunatic, that he desires to keep the matter quiet for fear
she should be taken to an asylum, and that he humours her fancies in
every way in order to prevent an outbreak?”

“That is a possible solution—in fact, as matters stand, it is the most
probable one. But in any case it does not seem to be a nice household
for a young lady.”

“But the money, Mr. Holmes, the money!”

“Well, yes, of course the pay is good—too good. That is what makes me
uneasy. Why should they give you £ 120 a year, when they could have
their pick for £ 40? There must be some strong reason behind.”

“I thought that if I told you the circumstances you would understand
afterwards if I wanted your help. I should feel so much stronger if I
felt that you were at the back of me.”

“Oh, you may carry that feeling away with you. I assure you that your
little problem promises to be the most interesting which has come my
way for some months. There is something distinctly novel about some of
the features. If you should find yourself in doubt or in danger—”

“Danger! What danger do you foresee?”

Holmes shook his head gravely. “It would cease to be a danger if we
could define it,” said he. “But at any time, day or night, a telegram
would bring me down to your help.”

“That is enough.” She rose briskly from her chair with the anxiety all
swept from her face. “I shall go down to Hampshire quite easy in my
mind now. I shall write to Mr. Rucastle at once, sacrifice my poor hair
to-night, and start for Winchester to-morrow.” With a few grateful
words to Holmes she bade us both good-night and bustled off upon her
way.

“At least,” said I as we heard her quick, firm steps descending the
stairs, “she seems to be a young lady who is very well able to take
care of herself.”

“And she would need to be,” said Holmes gravely. “I am much mistaken if
we do not hear from her before many days are past.”

It was not very long before my friend’s prediction was fulfilled. A
fortnight went by, during which I frequently found my thoughts turning
in her direction and wondering what strange side-alley of human
experience this lonely woman had strayed into. The unusual salary, the
curious conditions, the light duties, all pointed to something
abnormal, though whether a fad or a plot, or whether the man were a
philanthropist or a villain, it was quite beyond my powers to
determine. As to Holmes, I observed that he sat frequently for half an
hour on end, with knitted brows and an abstracted air, but he swept the
matter away with a wave of his hand when I mentioned it. “Data! data!
data!” he cried impatiently. “I can’t make bricks without clay.” And
yet he would always wind up by muttering that no sister of his should
ever have accepted such a situation.

The telegram which we eventually received came late one night just as I
was thinking of turning in and Holmes was settling down to one of those
all-night chemical researches which he frequently indulged in, when I
would leave him stooping over a retort and a test-tube at night and
find him in the same position when I came down to breakfast in the
morning. He opened the yellow envelope, and then, glancing at the
message, threw it across to me.

“Just look up the trains in Bradshaw,” said he, and turned back to his
chemical studies.

The summons was a brief and urgent one.

“Please be at the Black Swan Hotel at Winchester at midday to-morrow,”
it said. “Do come! I am at my wit’s end.


“HUNTER.”


“Will you come with me?” asked Holmes, glancing up.

“I should wish to.”

“Just look it up, then.”

“There is a train at half-past nine,” said I, glancing over my
Bradshaw. “It is due at Winchester at 11:30.”

“That will do very nicely. Then perhaps I had better postpone my
analysis of the acetones, as we may need to be at our best in the
morning.”

By eleven o’clock the next day we were well upon our way to the old
English capital. Holmes had been buried in the morning papers all the
way down, but after we had passed the Hampshire border he threw them
down and began to admire the scenery. It was an ideal spring day, a
light blue sky, flecked with little fleecy white clouds drifting across
from west to east. The sun was shining very brightly, and yet there was
an exhilarating nip in the air, which set an edge to a man’s energy.
All over the countryside, away to the rolling hills around Aldershot,
the little red and grey roofs of the farm-steadings peeped out from
amid the light green of the new foliage.

“Are they not fresh and beautiful?” I cried with all the enthusiasm of
a man fresh from the fogs of Baker Street.

But Holmes shook his head gravely.

“Do you know, Watson,” said he, “that it is one of the curses of a mind
with a turn like mine that I must look at everything with reference to
my own special subject. You look at these scattered houses, and you are
impressed by their beauty. I look at them, and the only thought which
comes to me is a feeling of their isolation and of the impunity with
which crime may be committed there.”

“Good heavens!” I cried. “Who would associate crime with these dear old
homesteads?”

“They always fill me with a certain horror. It is my belief, Watson,
founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London
do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and
beautiful countryside.”

“You horrify me!”

“But the reason is very obvious. The pressure of public opinion can do
in the town what the law cannot accomplish. There is no lane so vile
that the scream of a tortured child, or the thud of a drunkard’s blow,
does not beget sympathy and indignation among the neighbours, and then
the whole machinery of justice is ever so close that a word of
complaint can set it going, and there is but a step between the crime
and the dock. But look at these lonely houses, each in its own fields,
filled for the most part with poor ignorant folk who know little of the
law. Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which
may go on, year in, year out, in such places, and none the wiser. Had
this lady who appeals to us for help gone to live in Winchester, I
should never have had a fear for her. It is the five miles of country
which makes the danger. Still, it is clear that she is not personally
threatened.”

“No. If she can come to Winchester to meet us she can get away.”

“Quite so. She has her freedom.”

“What _can_ be the matter, then? Can you suggest no explanation?”

“I have devised seven separate explanations, each of which would cover
the facts as far as we know them. But which of these is correct can
only be determined by the fresh information which we shall no doubt
find waiting for us. Well, there is the tower of the cathedral, and we
shall soon learn all that Miss Hunter has to tell.”

The Black Swan is an inn of repute in the High Street, at no distance
from the station, and there we found the young lady waiting for us. She
had engaged a sitting-room, and our lunch awaited us upon the table.

“I am so delighted that you have come,” she said earnestly. “It is so
very kind of you both; but indeed I do not know what I should do. Your
advice will be altogether invaluable to me.”

“Pray tell us what has happened to you.”

“I will do so, and I must be quick, for I have promised Mr. Rucastle to
be back before three. I got his leave to come into town this morning,
though he little knew for what purpose.”

“Let us have everything in its due order.” Holmes thrust his long thin
legs out towards the fire and composed himself to listen.

“In the first place, I may say that I have met, on the whole, with no
actual ill-treatment from Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle. It is only fair to
them to say that. But I cannot understand them, and I am not easy in my
mind about them.”

“What can you not understand?”

“Their reasons for their conduct. But you shall have it all just as it
occurred. When I came down, Mr. Rucastle met me here and drove me in
his dog-cart to the Copper Beeches. It is, as he said, beautifully
situated, but it is not beautiful in itself, for it is a large square
block of a house, whitewashed, but all stained and streaked with damp
and bad weather. There are grounds round it, woods on three sides, and
on the fourth a field which slopes down to the Southampton high road,
which curves past about a hundred yards from the front door. This
ground in front belongs to the house, but the woods all round are part
of Lord Southerton’s preserves. A clump of copper beeches immediately
in front of the hall door has given its name to the place.

“I was driven over by my employer, who was as amiable as ever, and was
introduced by him that evening to his wife and the child. There was no
truth, Mr. Holmes, in the conjecture which seemed to us to be probable
in your rooms at Baker Street. Mrs. Rucastle is not mad. I found her to
be a silent, pale-faced woman, much younger than her husband, not more
than thirty, I should think, while he can hardly be less than
forty-five. From their conversation I have gathered that they have been
married about seven years, that he was a widower, and that his only
child by the first wife was the daughter who has gone to Philadelphia.
Mr. Rucastle told me in private that the reason why she had left them
was that she had an unreasoning aversion to her stepmother. As the
daughter could not have been less than twenty, I can quite imagine that
her position must have been uncomfortable with her father’s young wife.

“Mrs. Rucastle seemed to me to be colourless in mind as well as in
feature. She impressed me neither favourably nor the reverse. She was a
nonentity. It was easy to see that she was passionately devoted both to
her husband and to her little son. Her light grey eyes wandered
continually from one to the other, noting every little want and
forestalling it if possible. He was kind to her also in his bluff,
boisterous fashion, and on the whole they seemed to be a happy couple.
And yet she had some secret sorrow, this woman. She would often be lost
in deep thought, with the saddest look upon her face. More than once I
have surprised her in tears. I have thought sometimes that it was the
disposition of her child which weighed upon her mind, for I have never
met so utterly spoiled and so ill-natured a little creature. He is
small for his age, with a head which is quite disproportionately large.
His whole life appears to be spent in an alternation between savage
fits of passion and gloomy intervals of sulking. Giving pain to any
creature weaker than himself seems to be his one idea of amusement, and
he shows quite remarkable talent in planning the capture of mice,
little birds, and insects. But I would rather not talk about the
creature, Mr. Holmes, and, indeed, he has little to do with my story.”

“I am glad of all details,” remarked my friend, “whether they seem to
you to be relevant or not.”

“I shall try not to miss anything of importance. The one unpleasant
thing about the house, which struck me at once, was the appearance and
conduct of the servants. There are only two, a man and his wife.
Toller, for that is his name, is a rough, uncouth man, with grizzled
hair and whiskers, and a perpetual smell of drink. Twice since I have
been with them he has been quite drunk, and yet Mr. Rucastle seemed to
take no notice of it. His wife is a very tall and strong woman with a
sour face, as silent as Mrs. Rucastle and much less amiable. They are a
most unpleasant couple, but fortunately I spend most of my time in the
nursery and my own room, which are next to each other in one corner of
the building.

“For two days after my arrival at the Copper Beeches my life was very
quiet; on the third, Mrs. Rucastle came down just after breakfast and
whispered something to her husband.

“‘Oh, yes,’ said he, turning to me, ‘we are very much obliged to you,
Miss Hunter, for falling in with our whims so far as to cut your hair.
I assure you that it has not detracted in the tiniest iota from your
appearance. We shall now see how the electric-blue dress will become
you. You will find it laid out upon the bed in your room, and if you
would be so good as to put it on we should both be extremely obliged.’

“The dress which I found waiting for me was of a peculiar shade of
blue. It was of excellent material, a sort of beige, but it bore
unmistakable signs of having been worn before. It could not have been a
better fit if I had been measured for it. Both Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle
expressed a delight at the look of it, which seemed quite exaggerated
in its vehemence. They were waiting for me in the drawing-room, which
is a very large room, stretching along the entire front of the house,
with three long windows reaching down to the floor. A chair had been
placed close to the central window, with its back turned towards it. In
this I was asked to sit, and then Mr. Rucastle, walking up and down on
the other side of the room, began to tell me a series of the funniest
stories that I have ever listened to. You cannot imagine how comical he
was, and I laughed until I was quite weary. Mrs. Rucastle, however, who
has evidently no sense of humour, never so much as smiled, but sat with
her hands in her lap, and a sad, anxious look upon her face. After an
hour or so, Mr. Rucastle suddenly remarked that it was time to commence
the duties of the day, and that I might change my dress and go to
little Edward in the nursery.

“Two days later this same performance was gone through under exactly
similar circumstances. Again I changed my dress, again I sat in the
window, and again I laughed very heartily at the funny stories of which
my employer had an immense _répertoire_, and which he told inimitably.
Then he handed me a yellow-backed novel, and moving my chair a little
sideways, that my own shadow might not fall upon the page, he begged me
to read aloud to him. I read for about ten minutes, beginning in the
heart of a chapter, and then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, he
ordered me to cease and to change my dress.

“You can easily imagine, Mr. Holmes, how curious I became as to what
the meaning of this extraordinary performance could possibly be. They
were always very careful, I observed, to turn my face away from the
window, so that I became consumed with the desire to see what was going
on behind my back. At first it seemed to be impossible, but I soon
devised a means. My hand-mirror had been broken, so a happy thought
seized me, and I concealed a piece of the glass in my handkerchief. On
the next occasion, in the midst of my laughter, I put my handkerchief
up to my eyes, and was able with a little management to see all that
there was behind me. I confess that I was disappointed. There was
nothing. At least that was my first impression. At the second glance,
however, I perceived that there was a man standing in the Southampton
Road, a small bearded man in a grey suit, who seemed to be looking in
my direction. The road is an important highway, and there are usually
people there. This man, however, was leaning against the railings which
bordered our field and was looking earnestly up. I lowered my
handkerchief and glanced at Mrs. Rucastle to find her eyes fixed upon
me with a most searching gaze. She said nothing, but I am convinced
that she had divined that I had a mirror in my hand and had seen what
was behind me. She rose at once.

“‘Jephro,’ said she, ‘there is an impertinent fellow upon the road
there who stares up at Miss Hunter.’

“‘No friend of yours, Miss Hunter?’ he asked.

“‘No, I know no one in these parts.’

“‘Dear me! How very impertinent! Kindly turn round and motion to him to
go away.’

“‘Surely it would be better to take no notice.’

“‘No, no, we should have him loitering here always. Kindly turn round
and wave him away like that.’

“I did as I was told, and at the same instant Mrs. Rucastle drew down
the blind. That was a week ago, and from that time I have not sat again
in the window, nor have I worn the blue dress, nor seen the man in the
road.”

“Pray continue,” said Holmes. “Your narrative promises to be a most
interesting one.”

“You will find it rather disconnected, I fear, and there may prove to
be little relation between the different incidents of which I speak. On
the very first day that I was at the Copper Beeches, Mr. Rucastle took
me to a small outhouse which stands near the kitchen door. As we
approached it I heard the sharp rattling of a chain, and the sound as
of a large animal moving about.

“‘Look in here!’ said Mr. Rucastle, showing me a slit between two
planks. ‘Is he not a beauty?’

“I looked through and was conscious of two glowing eyes, and of a vague
figure huddled up in the darkness.

“‘Don’t be frightened,’ said my employer, laughing at the start which I
had given. ‘It’s only Carlo, my mastiff. I call him mine, but really
old Toller, my groom, is the only man who can do anything with him. We
feed him once a day, and not too much then, so that he is always as
keen as mustard. Toller lets him loose every night, and God help the
trespasser whom he lays his fangs upon. For goodness’ sake don’t you
ever on any pretext set your foot over the threshold at night, for it’s
as much as your life is worth.’

“The warning was no idle one, for two nights later I happened to look
out of my bedroom window about two o’clock in the morning. It was a
beautiful moonlight night, and the lawn in front of the house was
silvered over and almost as bright as day. I was standing, rapt in the
peaceful beauty of the scene, when I was aware that something was
moving under the shadow of the copper beeches. As it emerged into the
moonshine I saw what it was. It was a giant dog, as large as a calf,
tawny tinted, with hanging jowl, black muzzle, and huge projecting
bones. It walked slowly across the lawn and vanished into the shadow
upon the other side. That dreadful sentinel sent a chill to my heart
which I do not think that any burglar could have done.

“And now I have a very strange experience to tell you. I had, as you
know, cut off my hair in London, and I had placed it in a great coil at
the bottom of my trunk. One evening, after the child was in bed, I
began to amuse myself by examining the furniture of my room and by
rearranging my own little things. There was an old chest of drawers in
the room, the two upper ones empty and open, the lower one locked. I
had filled the first two with my linen, and as I had still much to pack
away I was naturally annoyed at not having the use of the third drawer.
It struck me that it might have been fastened by a mere oversight, so I
took out my bunch of keys and tried to open it. The very first key
fitted to perfection, and I drew the drawer open. There was only one
thing in it, but I am sure that you would never guess what it was. It
was my coil of hair.

“I took it up and examined it. It was of the same peculiar tint, and
the same thickness. But then the impossibility of the thing obtruded
itself upon me. How could my hair have been locked in the drawer? With
trembling hands I undid my trunk, turned out the contents, and drew
from the bottom my own hair. I laid the two tresses together, and I
assure you that they were identical. Was it not extraordinary? Puzzle
as I would, I could make nothing at all of what it meant. I returned
the strange hair to the drawer, and I said nothing of the matter to the
Rucastles as I felt that I had put myself in the wrong by opening a
drawer which they had locked.

“I am naturally observant, as you may have remarked, Mr. Holmes, and I
soon had a pretty good plan of the whole house in my head. There was
one wing, however, which appeared not to be inhabited at all. A door
which faced that which led into the quarters of the Tollers opened into
this suite, but it was invariably locked. One day, however, as I
ascended the stair, I met Mr. Rucastle coming out through this door,
his keys in his hand, and a look on his face which made him a very
different person to the round, jovial man to whom I was accustomed. His
cheeks were red, his brow was all crinkled with anger, and the veins
stood out at his temples with passion. He locked the door and hurried
past me without a word or a look.

“This aroused my curiosity, so when I went out for a walk in the
grounds with my charge, I strolled round to the side from which I could
see the windows of this part of the house. There were four of them in a
row, three of which were simply dirty, while the fourth was shuttered
up. They were evidently all deserted. As I strolled up and down,
glancing at them occasionally, Mr. Rucastle came out to me, looking as
merry and jovial as ever.

“‘Ah!’ said he, ‘you must not think me rude if I passed you without a
word, my dear young lady. I was preoccupied with business matters.’

“I assured him that I was not offended. ‘By the way,’ said I, ‘you seem
to have quite a suite of spare rooms up there, and one of them has the
shutters up.’

“He looked surprised and, as it seemed to me, a little startled at my
remark.

“‘Photography is one of my hobbies,’ said he. ‘I have made my dark room
up there. But, dear me! what an observant young lady we have come upon.
Who would have believed it? Who would have ever believed it?’ He spoke
in a jesting tone, but there was no jest in his eyes as he looked at
me. I read suspicion there and annoyance, but no jest.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, from the moment that I understood that there was
something about that suite of rooms which I was not to know, I was all
on fire to go over them. It was not mere curiosity, though I have my
share of that. It was more a feeling of duty—a feeling that some good
might come from my penetrating to this place. They talk of woman’s
instinct; perhaps it was woman’s instinct which gave me that feeling.
At any rate, it was there, and I was keenly on the lookout for any
chance to pass the forbidden door.

“It was only yesterday that the chance came. I may tell you that,
besides Mr. Rucastle, both Toller and his wife find something to do in
these deserted rooms, and I once saw him carrying a large black linen
bag with him through the door. Recently he has been drinking hard, and
yesterday evening he was very drunk; and when I came upstairs there was
the key in the door. I have no doubt at all that he had left it there.
Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle were both downstairs, and the child was with
them, so that I had an admirable opportunity. I turned the key gently
in the lock, opened the door, and slipped through.

“There was a little passage in front of me, unpapered and uncarpeted,
which turned at a right angle at the farther end. Round this corner
were three doors in a line, the first and third of which were open.
They each led into an empty room, dusty and cheerless, with two windows
in the one and one in the other, so thick with dirt that the evening
light glimmered dimly through them. The centre door was closed, and
across the outside of it had been fastened one of the broad bars of an
iron bed, padlocked at one end to a ring in the wall, and fastened at
the other with stout cord. The door itself was locked as well, and the
key was not there. This barricaded door corresponded clearly with the
shuttered window outside, and yet I could see by the glimmer from
beneath it that the room was not in darkness. Evidently there was a
skylight which let in light from above. As I stood in the passage
gazing at the sinister door and wondering what secret it might veil, I
suddenly heard the sound of steps within the room and saw a shadow pass
backward and forward against the little slit of dim light which shone
out from under the door. A mad, unreasoning terror rose up in me at the
sight, Mr. Holmes. My overstrung nerves failed me suddenly, and I
turned and ran—ran as though some dreadful hand were behind me
clutching at the skirt of my dress. I rushed down the passage, through
the door, and straight into the arms of Mr. Rucastle, who was waiting
outside.

“‘So,’ said he, smiling, ‘it was you, then. I thought that it must be
when I saw the door open.’

“‘Oh, I am so frightened!’ I panted.

“‘My dear young lady! my dear young lady!’—you cannot think how
caressing and soothing his manner was—‘and what has frightened you, my
dear young lady?’

“But his voice was just a little too coaxing. He overdid it. I was
keenly on my guard against him.

“‘I was foolish enough to go into the empty wing,’ I answered. ‘But it
is so lonely and eerie in this dim light that I was frightened and ran
out again. Oh, it is so dreadfully still in there!’

“‘Only that?’ said he, looking at me keenly.

“‘Why, what did you think?’ I asked.

“‘Why do you think that I lock this door?’

“‘I am sure that I do not know.’

“‘It is to keep people out who have no business there. Do you see?’ He
was still smiling in the most amiable manner.

“‘I am sure if I had known—’

“‘Well, then, you know now. And if you ever put your foot over that
threshold again’—here in an instant the smile hardened into a grin of
rage, and he glared down at me with the face of a demon—‘I’ll throw you
to the mastiff.’

“I was so terrified that I do not know what I did. I suppose that I
must have rushed past him into my room. I remember nothing until I
found myself lying on my bed trembling all over. Then I thought of you,
Mr. Holmes. I could not live there longer without some advice. I was
frightened of the house, of the man, of the woman, of the servants,
even of the child. They were all horrible to me. If I could only bring
you down all would be well. Of course I might have fled from the house,
but my curiosity was almost as strong as my fears. My mind was soon
made up. I would send you a wire. I put on my hat and cloak, went down
to the office, which is about half a mile from the house, and then
returned, feeling very much easier. A horrible doubt came into my mind
as I approached the door lest the dog might be loose, but I remembered
that Toller had drunk himself into a state of insensibility that
evening, and I knew that he was the only one in the household who had
any influence with the savage creature, or who would venture to set him
free. I slipped in in safety and lay awake half the night in my joy at
the thought of seeing you. I had no difficulty in getting leave to come
into Winchester this morning, but I must be back before three o’clock,
for Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle are going on a visit, and will be away all
the evening, so that I must look after the child. Now I have told you
all my adventures, Mr. Holmes, and I should be very glad if you could
tell me what it all means, and, above all, what I should do.”

Holmes and I had listened spellbound to this extraordinary story. My
friend rose now and paced up and down the room, his hands in his
pockets, and an expression of the most profound gravity upon his face.

“Is Toller still drunk?” he asked.

“Yes. I heard his wife tell Mrs. Rucastle that she could do nothing
with him.”

“That is well. And the Rucastles go out to-night?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a cellar with a good strong lock?”

“Yes, the wine-cellar.”

“You seem to me to have acted all through this matter like a very brave
and sensible girl, Miss Hunter. Do you think that you could perform one
more feat? I should not ask it of you if I did not think you a quite
exceptional woman.”

“I will try. What is it?”

“We shall be at the Copper Beeches by seven o’clock, my friend and I.
The Rucastles will be gone by that time, and Toller will, we hope, be
incapable. There only remains Mrs. Toller, who might give the alarm. If
you could send her into the cellar on some errand, and then turn the
key upon her, you would facilitate matters immensely.”

“I will do it.”

“Excellent! We shall then look thoroughly into the affair. Of course
there is only one feasible explanation. You have been brought there to
personate someone, and the real person is imprisoned in this chamber.
That is obvious. As to who this prisoner is, I have no doubt that it is
the daughter, Miss Alice Rucastle, if I remember right, who was said to
have gone to America. You were chosen, doubtless, as resembling her in
height, figure, and the colour of your hair. Hers had been cut off,
very possibly in some illness through which she has passed, and so, of
course, yours had to be sacrificed also. By a curious chance you came
upon her tresses. The man in the road was undoubtedly some friend of
hers—possibly her _fiancé_—and no doubt, as you wore the girl’s dress
and were so like her, he was convinced from your laughter, whenever he
saw you, and afterwards from your gesture, that Miss Rucastle was
perfectly happy, and that she no longer desired his attentions. The dog
is let loose at night to prevent him from endeavouring to communicate
with her. So much is fairly clear. The most serious point in the case
is the disposition of the child.”

“What on earth has that to do with it?” I ejaculated.

“My dear Watson, you as a medical man are continually gaining light as
to the tendencies of a child by the study of the parents. Don’t you see
that the converse is equally valid. I have frequently gained my first
real insight into the character of parents by studying their children.
This child’s disposition is abnormally cruel, merely for cruelty’s
sake, and whether he derives this from his smiling father, as I should
suspect, or from his mother, it bodes evil for the poor girl who is in
their power.”

“I am sure that you are right, Mr. Holmes,” cried our client. “A
thousand things come back to me which make me certain that you have hit
it. Oh, let us lose not an instant in bringing help to this poor
creature.”

“We must be circumspect, for we are dealing with a very cunning man. We
can do nothing until seven o’clock. At that hour we shall be with you,
and it will not be long before we solve the mystery.”

We were as good as our word, for it was just seven when we reached the
Copper Beeches, having put up our trap at a wayside public-house. The
group of trees, with their dark leaves shining like burnished metal in
the light of the setting sun, were sufficient to mark the house even
had Miss Hunter not been standing smiling on the door-step.

“Have you managed it?” asked Holmes.

A loud thudding noise came from somewhere downstairs. “That is Mrs.
Toller in the cellar,” said she. “Her husband lies snoring on the
kitchen rug. Here are his keys, which are the duplicates of Mr.
Rucastle’s.”

“You have done well indeed!” cried Holmes with enthusiasm. “Now lead
the way, and we shall soon see the end of this black business.”

We passed up the stair, unlocked the door, followed on down a passage,
and found ourselves in front of the barricade which Miss Hunter had
described. Holmes cut the cord and removed the transverse bar. Then he
tried the various keys in the lock, but without success. No sound came
from within, and at the silence Holmes’ face clouded over.

“I trust that we are not too late,” said he. “I think, Miss Hunter,
that we had better go in without you. Now, Watson, put your shoulder to
it, and we shall see whether we cannot make our way in.”

It was an old rickety door and gave at once before our united strength.
Together we rushed into the room. It was empty. There was no furniture
save a little pallet bed, a small table, and a basketful of linen. The
skylight above was open, and the prisoner gone.

“There has been some villainy here,” said Holmes; “this beauty has
guessed Miss Hunter’s intentions and has carried his victim off.”

“But how?”

“Through the skylight. We shall soon see how he managed it.” He swung
himself up onto the roof. “Ah, yes,” he cried, “here’s the end of a
long light ladder against the eaves. That is how he did it.”

“But it is impossible,” said Miss Hunter; “the ladder was not there
when the Rucastles went away.”

“He has come back and done it. I tell you that he is a clever and
dangerous man. I should not be very much surprised if this were he
whose step I hear now upon the stair. I think, Watson, that it would be
as well for you to have your pistol ready.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth before a man appeared at the
door of the room, a very fat and burly man, with a heavy stick in his
hand. Miss Hunter screamed and shrunk against the wall at the sight of
him, but Sherlock Holmes sprang forward and confronted him.

“You villain!” said he, “where’s your daughter?”

The fat man cast his eyes round, and then up at the open skylight.

“It is for me to ask you that,” he shrieked, “you thieves! Spies and
thieves! I have caught you, have I? You are in my power. I’ll serve
you!” He turned and clattered down the stairs as hard as he could go.

“He’s gone for the dog!” cried Miss Hunter.

“I have my revolver,” said I.

“Better close the front door,” cried Holmes, and we all rushed down the
stairs together. We had hardly reached the hall when we heard the
baying of a hound, and then a scream of agony, with a horrible worrying
sound which it was dreadful to listen to. An elderly man with a red
face and shaking limbs came staggering out at a side door.

“My God!” he cried. “Someone has loosed the dog. It’s not been fed for
two days. Quick, quick, or it’ll be too late!”

Holmes and I rushed out and round the angle of the house, with Toller
hurrying behind us. There was the huge famished brute, its black muzzle
buried in Rucastle’s throat, while he writhed and screamed upon the
ground. Running up, I blew its brains out, and it fell over with its
keen white teeth still meeting in the great creases of his neck. With
much labour we separated them and carried him, living but horribly
mangled, into the house. We laid him upon the drawing-room sofa, and
having dispatched the sobered Toller to bear the news to his wife, I
did what I could to relieve his pain. We were all assembled round him
when the door opened, and a tall, gaunt woman entered the room.

“Mrs. Toller!” cried Miss Hunter.

“Yes, miss. Mr. Rucastle let me out when he came back before he went up
to you. Ah, miss, it is a pity you didn’t let me know what you were
planning, for I would have told you that your pains were wasted.”

“Ha!” said Holmes, looking keenly at her. “It is clear that Mrs. Toller
knows more about this matter than anyone else.”

“Yes, sir, I do, and I am ready enough to tell what I know.”

“Then, pray, sit down, and let us hear it for there are several points
on which I must confess that I am still in the dark.”

“I will soon make it clear to you,” said she; “and I’d have done so
before now if I could ha’ got out from the cellar. If there’s
police-court business over this, you’ll remember that I was the one
that stood your friend, and that I was Miss Alice’s friend too.

“She was never happy at home, Miss Alice wasn’t, from the time that her
father married again. She was slighted like and had no say in anything,
but it never really became bad for her until after she met Mr. Fowler
at a friend’s house. As well as I could learn, Miss Alice had rights of
her own by will, but she was so quiet and patient, she was, that she
never said a word about them but just left everything in Mr. Rucastle’s
hands. He knew he was safe with her; but when there was a chance of a
husband coming forward, who would ask for all that the law would give
him, then her father thought it time to put a stop on it. He wanted her
to sign a paper, so that whether she married or not, he could use her
money. When she wouldn’t do it, he kept on worrying her until she got
brain-fever, and for six weeks was at death’s door. Then she got better
at last, all worn to a shadow, and with her beautiful hair cut off; but
that didn’t make no change in her young man, and he stuck to her as
true as man could be.”

“Ah,” said Holmes, “I think that what you have been good enough to tell
us makes the matter fairly clear, and that I can deduce all that
remains. Mr. Rucastle then, I presume, took to this system of
imprisonment?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And brought Miss Hunter down from London in order to get rid of the
disagreeable persistence of Mr. Fowler.”

“That was it, sir.”

“But Mr. Fowler being a persevering man, as a good seaman should be,
blockaded the house, and having met you succeeded by certain arguments,
metallic or otherwise, in convincing you that your interests were the
same as his.”

“Mr. Fowler was a very kind-spoken, free-handed gentleman,” said Mrs.
Toller serenely.

“And in this way he managed that your good man should have no want of
drink, and that a ladder should be ready at the moment when your master
had gone out.”

“You have it, sir, just as it happened.”

“I am sure we owe you an apology, Mrs. Toller,” said Holmes, “for you
have certainly cleared up everything which puzzled us. And here comes
the country surgeon and Mrs. Rucastle, so I think, Watson, that we had
best escort Miss Hunter back to Winchester, as it seems to me that our
_locus standi_ now is rather a questionable one.”

And thus was solved the mystery of the sinister house with the copper
beeches in front of the door. Mr. Rucastle survived, but was always a
broken man, kept alive solely through the care of his devoted wife.
They still live with their old servants, who probably know so much of
Rucastle’s past life that he finds it difficult to part from them. Mr.
Fowler and Miss Rucastle were married, by special license, in
Southampton the day after their flight, and he is now the holder of a
government appointment in the island of Mauritius. As to Miss Violet
Hunter, my friend Holmes, rather to my disappointment, manifested no
further interest in her when once she had ceased to be the centre of
one of his problems, and she is now the head of a private school at
Walsall, where I believe that she has met with considerable success.










                                DRACULA

                                  _by_

                              Bram Stoker

                        [Illustration: colophon]

                                NEW YORK

                            GROSSET & DUNLAP

                              _Publishers_

      Copyright, 1897, in the United States of America, according
                   to Act of Congress, by Bram Stoker

                        [_All rights reserved._]

                      PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
                                   AT
               THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N.Y.




                                   TO

                             MY DEAR FRIEND

                               HOMMY-BEG




Contents

CHAPTER I. Jonathan Harker’s Journal
CHAPTER II. Jonathan Harker’s Journal
CHAPTER III. Jonathan Harker’s Journal
CHAPTER IV. Jonathan Harker’s Journal
CHAPTER V. Letters—Lucy and Mina
CHAPTER VI. Mina Murray’s Journal
CHAPTER VII. Cutting from “The Dailygraph,” 8 August
CHAPTER VIII. Mina Murray’s Journal
CHAPTER IX. Mina Murray’s Journal
CHAPTER X. Mina Murray’s Journal
CHAPTER XI. Lucy Westenra’s Diary
CHAPTER XII. Dr. Seward’s Diary
CHAPTER XIII. Dr. Seward’s Diary
CHAPTER XIV. Mina Harker’s Journal
CHAPTER XV. Dr. Seward’s Diary
CHAPTER XVI. Dr. Seward’s Diary
CHAPTER XVII. Dr. Seward’s Diary
CHAPTER XVIII. Dr. Seward’s Diary
CHAPTER XIX. Jonathan Harker’s Journal
CHAPTER XX. Jonathan Harker’s Journal
CHAPTER XXI. Dr. Seward’s Diary
CHAPTER XXII. Jonathan Harker’s Journal
CHAPTER XXIII. Dr. Seward’s Diary
CHAPTER XXIV. Dr. Seward’s Phonograph Diary, spoken by Van Helsing
CHAPTER XXV. Dr. Seward’s Diary
CHAPTER XXVI. Dr. Seward’s Diary
CHAPTER XXVII. Mina Harker’s Journal




How these papers have been placed in sequence will be made manifest in
the reading of them. All needless matters have been eliminated, so that
a history almost at variance with the possibilities of later-day belief
may stand forth as simple fact. There is throughout no statement of
past things wherein memory may err, for all the records chosen are
exactly contemporary, given from the standpoints and within the range
of knowledge of those who made them.




DRACULA




CHAPTER I

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

(_Kept in shorthand._)


_3 May. Bistritz._--Left Munich at 8:35 P. M., on 1st May, arriving at
Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an
hour late. Buda-Pesth seems a wonderful place, from the glimpse which I
got of it from the train and the little I could walk through the
streets. I feared to go very far from the station, as we had arrived
late and would start as near the correct time as possible. The
impression I had was that we were leaving the West and entering the
East; the most western of splendid bridges over the Danube, which is
here of noble width and depth, took us among the traditions of Turkish
rule.

We left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to Klausenburgh.
Here I stopped for the night at the Hotel Royale. I had for dinner, or
rather supper, a chicken done up some way with red pepper, which was
very good but thirsty. (_Mem._, get recipe for Mina.) I asked the
waiter, and he said it was called “paprika hendl,” and that, as it was a
national dish, I should be able to get it anywhere along the
Carpathians. I found my smattering of German very useful here; indeed, I
don’t know how I should be able to get on without it.

Having had some time at my disposal when in London, I had visited the
British Museum, and made search among the books and maps in the library
regarding Transylvania; it had struck me that some foreknowledge of the
country could hardly fail to have some importance in dealing with a
nobleman of that country. I find that the district he named is in the
extreme east of the country, just on the borders of three states,
Transylvania, Moldavia and Bukovina, in the midst of the Carpathian
mountains; one of the wildest and least known portions of Europe. I was
not able to light on any map or work giving the exact locality of the
Castle Dracula, as there are no maps of this country as yet to compare
with our own Ordnance Survey maps; but I found that Bistritz, the post
town named by Count Dracula, is a fairly well-known place. I shall enter
here some of my notes, as they may refresh my memory when I talk over my
travels with Mina.

In the population of Transylvania there are four distinct nationalities:
Saxons in the South, and mixed with them the Wallachs, who are the
descendants of the Dacians; Magyars in the West, and Szekelys in the
East and North. I am going among the latter, who claim to be descended
from Attila and the Huns. This may be so, for when the Magyars conquered
the country in the eleventh century they found the Huns settled in it. I
read that every known superstition in the world is gathered into the
horseshoe of the Carpathians, as if it were the centre of some sort of
imaginative whirlpool; if so my stay may be very interesting. (_Mem._, I
must ask the Count all about them.)

I did not sleep well, though my bed was comfortable enough, for I had
all sorts of queer dreams. There was a dog howling all night under my
window, which may have had something to do with it; or it may have been
the paprika, for I had to drink up all the water in my carafe, and was
still thirsty. Towards morning I slept and was wakened by the continuous
knocking at my door, so I guess I must have been sleeping soundly then.
I had for breakfast more paprika, and a sort of porridge of maize flour
which they said was “mamaliga,” and egg-plant stuffed with forcemeat, a
very excellent dish, which they call “impletata.” (_Mem._, get recipe
for this also.) I had to hurry breakfast, for the train started a little
before eight, or rather it ought to have done so, for after rushing to
the station at 7:30 I had to sit in the carriage for more than an hour
before we began to move. It seems to me that the further east you go the
more unpunctual are the trains. What ought they to be in China?

All day long we seemed to dawdle through a country which was full of
beauty of every kind. Sometimes we saw little towns or castles on the
top of steep hills such as we see in old missals; sometimes we ran by
rivers and streams which seemed from the wide stony margin on each side
of them to be subject to great floods. It takes a lot of water, and
running strong, to sweep the outside edge of a river clear. At every
station there were groups of people, sometimes crowds, and in all sorts
of attire. Some of them were just like the peasants at home or those I
saw coming through France and Germany, with short jackets and round hats
and home-made trousers; but others were very picturesque. The women
looked pretty, except when you got near them, but they were very clumsy
about the waist. They had all full white sleeves of some kind or other,
and most of them had big belts with a lot of strips of something
fluttering from them like the dresses in a ballet, but of course there
were petticoats under them. The strangest figures we saw were the
Slovaks, who were more barbarian than the rest, with their big cow-boy
hats, great baggy dirty-white trousers, white linen shirts, and enormous
heavy leather belts, nearly a foot wide, all studded over with brass
nails. They wore high boots, with their trousers tucked into them, and
had long black hair and heavy black moustaches. They are very
picturesque, but do not look prepossessing. On the stage they would be
set down at once as some old Oriental band of brigands. They are,
however, I am told, very harmless and rather wanting in natural
self-assertion.

It was on the dark side of twilight when we got to Bistritz, which is a
very interesting old place. Being practically on the frontier--for the
Borgo Pass leads from it into Bukovina--it has had a very stormy
existence, and it certainly shows marks of it. Fifty years ago a series
of great fires took place, which made terrible havoc on five separate
occasions. At the very beginning of the seventeenth century it underwent
a siege of three weeks and lost 13,000 people, the casualties of war
proper being assisted by famine and disease.

Count Dracula had directed me to go to the Golden Krone Hotel, which I
found, to my great delight, to be thoroughly old-fashioned, for of
course I wanted to see all I could of the ways of the country. I was
evidently expected, for when I got near the door I faced a
cheery-looking elderly woman in the usual peasant dress--white
undergarment with long double apron, front, and back, of coloured stuff
fitting almost too tight for modesty. When I came close she bowed and
said, “The Herr Englishman?” “Yes,” I said, “Jonathan Harker.” She
smiled, and gave some message to an elderly man in white shirt-sleeves,
who had followed her to the door. He went, but immediately returned with
a letter:--

     “My Friend.--Welcome to the Carpathians. I am anxiously expecting
     you. Sleep well to-night. At three to-morrow the diligence will
     start for Bukovina; a place on it is kept for you. At the Borgo
     Pass my carriage will await you and will bring you to me. I trust
     that your journey from London has been a happy one, and that you
     will enjoy your stay in my beautiful land.

“Your friend,

“DRACULA.”


_4 May._--I found that my landlord had got a letter from the Count,
directing him to secure the best place on the coach for me; but on
making inquiries as to details he seemed somewhat reticent, and
pretended that he could not understand my German. This could not be
true, because up to then he had understood it perfectly; at least, he
answered my questions exactly as if he did. He and his wife, the old
lady who had received me, looked at each other in a frightened sort of
way. He mumbled out that the money had been sent in a letter, and that
was all he knew. When I asked him if he knew Count Dracula, and could
tell me anything of his castle, both he and his wife crossed themselves,
and, saying that they knew nothing at all, simply refused to speak
further. It was so near the time of starting that I had no time to ask
any one else, for it was all very mysterious and not by any means
comforting.

Just before I was leaving, the old lady came up to my room and said in a
very hysterical way:

“Must you go? Oh! young Herr, must you go?” She was in such an excited
state that she seemed to have lost her grip of what German she knew, and
mixed it all up with some other language which I did not know at all. I
was just able to follow her by asking many questions. When I told her
that I must go at once, and that I was engaged on important business,
she asked again:

“Do you know what day it is?” I answered that it was the fourth of May.
She shook her head as she said again:

“Oh, yes! I know that! I know that, but do you know what day it is?” On
my saying that I did not understand, she went on:

“It is the eve of St. George’s Day. Do you not know that to-night, when
the clock strikes midnight, all the evil things in the world will have
full sway? Do you know where you are going, and what you are going to?”
She was in such evident distress that I tried to comfort her, but
without effect. Finally she went down on her knees and implored me not
to go; at least to wait a day or two before starting. It was all very
ridiculous but I did not feel comfortable. However, there was business
to be done, and I could allow nothing to interfere with it. I therefore
tried to raise her up, and said, as gravely as I could, that I thanked
her, but my duty was imperative, and that I must go. She then rose and
dried her eyes, and taking a crucifix from her neck offered it to me. I
did not know what to do, for, as an English Churchman, I have been
taught to regard such things as in some measure idolatrous, and yet it
seemed so ungracious to refuse an old lady meaning so well and in such a
state of mind. She saw, I suppose, the doubt in my face, for she put the
rosary round my neck, and said, “For your mother’s sake,” and went out
of the room. I am writing up this part of the diary whilst I am waiting
for the coach, which is, of course, late; and the crucifix is still
round my neck. Whether it is the old lady’s fear, or the many ghostly
traditions of this place, or the crucifix itself, I do not know, but I
am not feeling nearly as easy in my mind as usual. If this book should
ever reach Mina before I do, let it bring my good-bye. Here comes the
coach!

       *       *       *       *       *

_5 May. The Castle._--The grey of the morning has passed, and the sun is
high over the distant horizon, which seems jagged, whether with trees or
hills I know not, for it is so far off that big things and little are
mixed. I am not sleepy, and, as I am not to be called till I awake,
naturally I write till sleep comes. There are many odd things to put
down, and, lest who reads them may fancy that I dined too well before I
left Bistritz, let me put down my dinner exactly. I dined on what they
called “robber steak”--bits of bacon, onion, and beef, seasoned with red
pepper, and strung on sticks and roasted over the fire, in the simple
style of the London cat’s meat! The wine was Golden Mediasch, which
produces a queer sting on the tongue, which is, however, not
disagreeable. I had only a couple of glasses of this, and nothing else.

When I got on the coach the driver had not taken his seat, and I saw him
talking with the landlady. They were evidently talking of me, for every
now and then they looked at me, and some of the people who were sitting
on the bench outside the door--which they call by a name meaning
“word-bearer”--came and listened, and then looked at me, most of them
pityingly. I could hear a lot of words often repeated, queer words, for
there were many nationalities in the crowd; so I quietly got my polyglot
dictionary from my bag and looked them out. I must say they were not
cheering to me, for amongst them were “Ordog”--Satan, “pokol”--hell,
“stregoica”--witch, “vrolok” and “vlkoslak”--both of which mean the same
thing, one being Slovak and the other Servian for something that is
either were-wolf or vampire. (_Mem._, I must ask the Count about these
superstitions)

When we started, the crowd round the inn door, which had by this time
swelled to a considerable size, all made the sign of the cross and
pointed two fingers towards me. With some difficulty I got a
fellow-passenger to tell me what they meant; he would not answer at
first, but on learning that I was English, he explained that it was a
charm or guard against the evil eye. This was not very pleasant for me,
just starting for an unknown place to meet an unknown man; but every one
seemed so kind-hearted, and so sorrowful, and so sympathetic that I
could not but be touched. I shall never forget the last glimpse which I
had of the inn-yard and its crowd of picturesque figures, all crossing
themselves, as they stood round the wide archway, with its background of
rich foliage of oleander and orange trees in green tubs clustered in the
centre of the yard. Then our driver, whose wide linen drawers covered
the whole front of the box-seat--“gotza” they call them--cracked his big
whip over his four small horses, which ran abreast, and we set off on
our journey.

I soon lost sight and recollection of ghostly fears in the beauty of the
scene as we drove along, although had I known the language, or rather
languages, which my fellow-passengers were speaking, I might not have
been able to throw them off so easily. Before us lay a green sloping
land full of forests and woods, with here and there steep hills, crowned
with clumps of trees or with farmhouses, the blank gable end to the
road. There was everywhere a bewildering mass of fruit blossom--apple,
plum, pear, cherry; and as we drove by I could see the green grass under
the trees spangled with the fallen petals. In and out amongst these
green hills of what they call here the “Mittel Land” ran the road,
losing itself as it swept round the grassy curve, or was shut out by the
straggling ends of pine woods, which here and there ran down the
hillsides like tongues of flame. The road was rugged, but still we
seemed to fly over it with a feverish haste. I could not understand then
what the haste meant, but the driver was evidently bent on losing no
time in reaching Borgo Prund. I was told that this road is in summertime
excellent, but that it had not yet been put in order after the winter
snows. In this respect it is different from the general run of roads in
the Carpathians, for it is an old tradition that they are not to be kept
in too good order. Of old the Hospadars would not repair them, lest the
Turk should think that they were preparing to bring in foreign troops,
and so hasten the war which was always really at loading point.

Beyond the green swelling hills of the Mittel Land rose mighty slopes
of forest up to the lofty steeps of the Carpathians themselves. Right
and left of us they towered, with the afternoon sun falling full upon
them and bringing out all the glorious colours of this beautiful range,
deep blue and purple in the shadows of the peaks, green and brown where
grass and rock mingled, and an endless perspective of jagged rock and
pointed crags, till these were themselves lost in the distance, where
the snowy peaks rose grandly. Here and there seemed mighty rifts in the
mountains, through which, as the sun began to sink, we saw now and again
the white gleam of falling water. One of my companions touched my arm as
we swept round the base of a hill and opened up the lofty, snow-covered
peak of a mountain, which seemed, as we wound on our serpentine way, to
be right before us:--

“Look! Isten szek!”--“God’s seat!”--and he crossed himself reverently.

As we wound on our endless way, and the sun sank lower and lower behind
us, the shadows of the evening began to creep round us. This was
emphasised by the fact that the snowy mountain-top still held the
sunset, and seemed to glow out with a delicate cool pink. Here and there
we passed Cszeks and Slovaks, all in picturesque attire, but I noticed
that goitre was painfully prevalent. By the roadside were many crosses,
and as we swept by, my companions all crossed themselves. Here and there
was a peasant man or woman kneeling before a shrine, who did not even
turn round as we approached, but seemed in the self-surrender of
devotion to have neither eyes nor ears for the outer world. There were
many things new to me: for instance, hay-ricks in the trees, and here
and there very beautiful masses of weeping birch, their white stems
shining like silver through the delicate green of the leaves. Now and
again we passed a leiter-wagon--the ordinary peasant’s cart--with its
long, snake-like vertebra, calculated to suit the inequalities of the
road. On this were sure to be seated quite a group of home-coming
peasants, the Cszeks with their white, and the Slovaks with their
coloured, sheepskins, the latter carrying lance-fashion their long
staves, with axe at end. As the evening fell it began to get very cold,
and the growing twilight seemed to merge into one dark mistiness the
gloom of the trees, oak, beech, and pine, though in the valleys which
ran deep between the spurs of the hills, as we ascended through the
Pass, the dark firs stood out here and there against the background of
late-lying snow. Sometimes, as the road was cut through the pine woods
that seemed in the darkness to be closing down upon us, great masses of
greyness, which here and there bestrewed the trees, produced a
peculiarly weird and solemn effect, which carried on the thoughts and
grim fancies engendered earlier in the evening, when the falling sunset
threw into strange relief the ghost-like clouds which amongst the
Carpathians seem to wind ceaselessly through the valleys. Sometimes the
hills were so steep that, despite our driver’s haste, the horses could
only go slowly. I wished to get down and walk up them, as we do at home,
but the driver would not hear of it. “No, no,” he said; “you must not
walk here; the dogs are too fierce”; and then he added, with what he
evidently meant for grim pleasantry--for he looked round to catch the
approving smile of the rest--“and you may have enough of such matters
before you go to sleep.” The only stop he would make was a moment’s
pause to light his lamps.

When it grew dark there seemed to be some excitement amongst the
passengers, and they kept speaking to him, one after the other, as
though urging him to further speed. He lashed the horses unmercifully
with his long whip, and with wild cries of encouragement urged them on
to further exertions. Then through the darkness I could see a sort of
patch of grey light ahead of us, as though there were a cleft in the
hills. The excitement of the passengers grew greater; the crazy coach
rocked on its great leather springs, and swayed like a boat tossed on a
stormy sea. I had to hold on. The road grew more level, and we appeared
to fly along. Then the mountains seemed to come nearer to us on each
side and to frown down upon us; we were entering on the Borgo Pass. One
by one several of the passengers offered me gifts, which they pressed
upon me with an earnestness which would take no denial; these were
certainly of an odd and varied kind, but each was given in simple good
faith, with a kindly word, and a blessing, and that strange mixture of
fear-meaning movements which I had seen outside the hotel at
Bistritz--the sign of the cross and the guard against the evil eye.
Then, as we flew along, the driver leaned forward, and on each side the
passengers, craning over the edge of the coach, peered eagerly into the
darkness. It was evident that something very exciting was either
happening or expected, but though I asked each passenger, no one would
give me the slightest explanation. This state of excitement kept on for
some little time; and at last we saw before us the Pass opening out on
the eastern side. There were dark, rolling clouds overhead, and in the
air the heavy, oppressive sense of thunder. It seemed as though the
mountain range had separated two atmospheres, and that now we had got
into the thunderous one. I was now myself looking out for the conveyance
which was to take me to the Count. Each moment I expected to see the
glare of lamps through the blackness; but all was dark. The only light
was the flickering rays of our own lamps, in which the steam from our
hard-driven horses rose in a white cloud. We could see now the sandy
road lying white before us, but there was on it no sign of a vehicle.
The passengers drew back with a sigh of gladness, which seemed to mock
my own disappointment. I was already thinking what I had best do, when
the driver, looking at his watch, said to the others something which I
could hardly hear, it was spoken so quietly and in so low a tone; I
thought it was “An hour less than the time.” Then turning to me, he said
in German worse than my own:--

“There is no carriage here. The Herr is not expected after all. He will
now come on to Bukovina, and return to-morrow or the next day; better
the next day.” Whilst he was speaking the horses began to neigh and
snort and plunge wildly, so that the driver had to hold them up. Then,
amongst a chorus of screams from the peasants and a universal crossing
of themselves, a calèche, with four horses, drove up behind us, overtook
us, and drew up beside the coach. I could see from the flash of our
lamps, as the rays fell on them, that the horses were coal-black and
splendid animals. They were driven by a tall man, with a long brown
beard and a great black hat, which seemed to hide his face from us. I
could only see the gleam of a pair of very bright eyes, which seemed red
in the lamplight, as he turned to us. He said to the driver:--

“You are early to-night, my friend.” The man stammered in reply:--

“The English Herr was in a hurry,” to which the stranger replied:--

“That is why, I suppose, you wished him to go on to Bukovina. You cannot
deceive me, my friend; I know too much, and my horses are swift.” As he
spoke he smiled, and the lamplight fell on a hard-looking mouth, with
very red lips and sharp-looking teeth, as white as ivory. One of my
companions whispered to another the line from Burger’s “Lenore”:--

    “Denn die Todten reiten schnell”--
    (“For the dead travel fast.”)

The strange driver evidently heard the words, for he looked up with a
gleaming smile. The passenger turned his face away, at the same time
putting out his two fingers and crossing himself. “Give me the Herr’s
luggage,” said the driver; and with exceeding alacrity my bags were
handed out and put in the calèche. Then I descended from the side of the
coach, as the calèche was close alongside, the driver helping me with a
hand which caught my arm in a grip of steel; his strength must have been
prodigious. Without a word he shook his reins, the horses turned, and we
swept into the darkness of the Pass. As I looked back I saw the steam
from the horses of the coach by the light of the lamps, and projected
against it the figures of my late companions crossing themselves. Then
the driver cracked his whip and called to his horses, and off they swept
on their way to Bukovina. As they sank into the darkness I felt a
strange chill, and a lonely feeling came over me; but a cloak was thrown
over my shoulders, and a rug across my knees, and the driver said in
excellent German:--

“The night is chill, mein Herr, and my master the Count bade me take all
care of you. There is a flask of slivovitz (the plum brandy of the
country) underneath the seat, if you should require it.” I did not take
any, but it was a comfort to know it was there all the same. I felt a
little strangely, and not a little frightened. I think had there been
any alternative I should have taken it, instead of prosecuting that
unknown night journey. The carriage went at a hard pace straight along,
then we made a complete turn and went along another straight road. It
seemed to me that we were simply going over and over the same ground
again; and so I took note of some salient point, and found that this was
so. I would have liked to have asked the driver what this all meant, but
I really feared to do so, for I thought that, placed as I was, any
protest would have had no effect in case there had been an intention to
delay. By-and-by, however, as I was curious to know how time was
passing, I struck a match, and by its flame looked at my watch; it was
within a few minutes of midnight. This gave me a sort of shock, for I
suppose the general superstition about midnight was increased by my
recent experiences. I waited with a sick feeling of suspense.

Then a dog began to howl somewhere in a farmhouse far down the road--a
long, agonised wailing, as if from fear. The sound was taken up by
another dog, and then another and another, till, borne on the wind which
now sighed softly through the Pass, a wild howling began, which seemed
to come from all over the country, as far as the imagination could grasp
it through the gloom of the night. At the first howl the horses began to
strain and rear, but the driver spoke to them soothingly, and they
quieted down, but shivered and sweated as though after a runaway from
sudden fright. Then, far off in the distance, from the mountains on each
side of us began a louder and a sharper howling--that of wolves--which
affected both the horses and myself in the same way--for I was minded to
jump from the calèche and run, whilst they reared again and plunged
madly, so that the driver had to use all his great strength to keep them
from bolting. In a few minutes, however, my own ears got accustomed to
the sound, and the horses so far became quiet that the driver was able
to descend and to stand before them. He petted and soothed them, and
whispered something in their ears, as I have heard of horse-tamers
doing, and with extraordinary effect, for under his caresses they became
quite manageable again, though they still trembled. The driver again
took his seat, and shaking his reins, started off at a great pace. This
time, after going to the far side of the Pass, he suddenly turned down a
narrow roadway which ran sharply to the right.

Soon we were hemmed in with trees, which in places arched right over the
roadway till we passed as through a tunnel; and again great frowning
rocks guarded us boldly on either side. Though we were in shelter, we
could hear the rising wind, for it moaned and whistled through the
rocks, and the branches of the trees crashed together as we swept along.
It grew colder and colder still, and fine, powdery snow began to fall,
so that soon we and all around us were covered with a white blanket. The
keen wind still carried the howling of the dogs, though this grew
fainter as we went on our way. The baying of the wolves sounded nearer
and nearer, as though they were closing round on us from every side. I
grew dreadfully afraid, and the horses shared my fear. The driver,
however, was not in the least disturbed; he kept turning his head to
left and right, but I could not see anything through the darkness.

Suddenly, away on our left, I saw a faint flickering blue flame. The
driver saw it at the same moment; he at once checked the horses, and,
jumping to the ground, disappeared into the darkness. I did not know
what to do, the less as the howling of the wolves grew closer; but while
I wondered the driver suddenly appeared again, and without a word took
his seat, and we resumed our journey. I think I must have fallen asleep
and kept dreaming of the incident, for it seemed to be repeated
endlessly, and now looking back, it is like a sort of awful nightmare.
Once the flame appeared so near the road, that even in the darkness
around us I could watch the driver’s motions. He went rapidly to where
the blue flame arose--it must have been very faint, for it did not seem
to illumine the place around it at all--and gathering a few stones,
formed them into some device. Once there appeared a strange optical
effect: when he stood between me and the flame he did not obstruct it,
for I could see its ghostly flicker all the same. This startled me, but
as the effect was only momentary, I took it that my eyes deceived me
straining through the darkness. Then for a time there were no blue
flames, and we sped onwards through the gloom, with the howling of the
wolves around us, as though they were following in a moving circle.

At last there came a time when the driver went further afield than he
had yet gone, and during his absence, the horses began to tremble worse
than ever and to snort and scream with fright. I could not see any cause
for it, for the howling of the wolves had ceased altogether; but just
then the moon, sailing through the black clouds, appeared behind the
jagged crest of a beetling, pine-clad rock, and by its light I saw
around us a ring of wolves, with white teeth and lolling red tongues,
with long, sinewy limbs and shaggy hair. They were a hundred times more
terrible in the grim silence which held them than even when they howled.
For myself, I felt a sort of paralysis of fear. It is only when a man
feels himself face to face with such horrors that he can understand
their true import.

All at once the wolves began to howl as though the moonlight had had
some peculiar effect on them. The horses jumped about and reared, and
looked helplessly round with eyes that rolled in a way painful to see;
but the living ring of terror encompassed them on every side; and they
had perforce to remain within it. I called to the coachman to come, for
it seemed to me that our only chance was to try to break out through the
ring and to aid his approach. I shouted and beat the side of the
calèche, hoping by the noise to scare the wolves from that side, so as
to give him a chance of reaching the trap. How he came there, I know
not, but I heard his voice raised in a tone of imperious command, and
looking towards the sound, saw him stand in the roadway. As he swept his
long arms, as though brushing aside some impalpable obstacle, the wolves
fell back and back further still. Just then a heavy cloud passed across
the face of the moon, so that we were again in darkness.

When I could see again the driver was climbing into the calèche, and the
wolves had disappeared. This was all so strange and uncanny that a
dreadful fear came upon me, and I was afraid to speak or move. The time
seemed interminable as we swept on our way, now in almost complete
darkness, for the rolling clouds obscured the moon. We kept on
ascending, with occasional periods of quick descent, but in the main
always ascending. Suddenly, I became conscious of the fact that the
driver was in the act of pulling up the horses in the courtyard of a
vast ruined castle, from whose tall black windows came no ray of light,
and whose broken battlements showed a jagged line against the moonlit
sky.




CHAPTER II

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL--_continued_


_5 May._--I must have been asleep, for certainly if I had been fully
awake I must have noticed the approach of such a remarkable place. In
the gloom the courtyard looked of considerable size, and as several dark
ways led from it under great round arches, it perhaps seemed bigger than
it really is. I have not yet been able to see it by daylight.

When the calèche stopped, the driver jumped down and held out his hand
to assist me to alight. Again I could not but notice his prodigious
strength. His hand actually seemed like a steel vice that could have
crushed mine if he had chosen. Then he took out my traps, and placed
them on the ground beside me as I stood close to a great door, old and
studded with large iron nails, and set in a projecting doorway of
massive stone. I could see even in the dim light that the stone was
massively carved, but that the carving had been much worn by time and
weather. As I stood, the driver jumped again into his seat and shook the
reins; the horses started forward, and trap and all disappeared down one
of the dark openings.

I stood in silence where I was, for I did not know what to do. Of bell
or knocker there was no sign; through these frowning walls and dark
window openings it was not likely that my voice could penetrate. The
time I waited seemed endless, and I felt doubts and fears crowding upon
me. What sort of place had I come to, and among what kind of people?
What sort of grim adventure was it on which I had embarked? Was this a
customary incident in the life of a solicitor’s clerk sent out to
explain the purchase of a London estate to a foreigner? Solicitor’s
clerk! Mina would not like that. Solicitor--for just before leaving
London I got word that my examination was successful; and I am now a
full-blown solicitor! I began to rub my eyes and pinch myself to see if
I were awake. It all seemed like a horrible nightmare to me, and I
expected that I should suddenly awake, and find myself at home, with
the dawn struggling in through the windows, as I had now and again felt
in the morning after a day of overwork. But my flesh answered the
pinching test, and my eyes were not to be deceived. I was indeed awake
and among the Carpathians. All I could do now was to be patient, and to
wait the coming of the morning.

Just as I had come to this conclusion I heard a heavy step approaching
behind the great door, and saw through the chinks the gleam of a coming
light. Then there was the sound of rattling chains and the clanking of
massive bolts drawn back. A key was turned with the loud grating noise
of long disuse, and the great door swung back.

Within, stood a tall old man, clean shaven save for a long white
moustache, and clad in black from head to foot, without a single speck
of colour about him anywhere. He held in his hand an antique silver
lamp, in which the flame burned without chimney or globe of any kind,
throwing long quivering shadows as it flickered in the draught of the
open door. The old man motioned me in with his right hand with a courtly
gesture, saying in excellent English, but with a strange intonation:--

“Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own will!” He made no
motion of stepping to meet me, but stood like a statue, as though his
gesture of welcome had fixed him into stone. The instant, however, that
I had stepped over the threshold, he moved impulsively forward, and
holding out his hand grasped mine with a strength which made me wince,
an effect which was not lessened by the fact that it seemed as cold as
ice--more like the hand of a dead than a living man. Again he said:--

“Welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the
happiness you bring!” The strength of the handshake was so much akin to
that which I had noticed in the driver, whose face I had not seen, that
for a moment I doubted if it were not the same person to whom I was
speaking; so to make sure, I said interrogatively:--

“Count Dracula?” He bowed in a courtly way as he replied:--

“I am Dracula; and I bid you welcome, Mr. Harker, to my house. Come in;
the night air is chill, and you must need to eat and rest.” As he was
speaking, he put the lamp on a bracket on the wall, and stepping out,
took my luggage; he had carried it in before I could forestall him. I
protested but he insisted:--

“Nay, sir, you are my guest. It is late, and my people are not
available. Let me see to your comfort myself.” He insisted on carrying
my traps along the passage, and then up a great winding stair, and
along another great passage, on whose stone floor our steps rang
heavily. At the end of this he threw open a heavy door, and I rejoiced
to see within a well-lit room in which a table was spread for supper,
and on whose mighty hearth a great fire of logs, freshly replenished,
flamed and flared.

The Count halted, putting down my bags, closed the door, and crossing
the room, opened another door, which led into a small octagonal room lit
by a single lamp, and seemingly without a window of any sort. Passing
through this, he opened another door, and motioned me to enter. It was a
welcome sight; for here was a great bedroom well lighted and warmed with
another log fire,--also added to but lately, for the top logs were
fresh--which sent a hollow roar up the wide chimney. The Count himself
left my luggage inside and withdrew, saying, before he closed the
door:--

“You will need, after your journey, to refresh yourself by making your
toilet. I trust you will find all you wish. When you are ready, come
into the other room, where you will find your supper prepared.”

The light and warmth and the Count’s courteous welcome seemed to have
dissipated all my doubts and fears. Having then reached my normal state,
I discovered that I was half famished with hunger; so making a hasty
toilet, I went into the other room.

I found supper already laid out. My host, who stood on one side of the
great fireplace, leaning against the stonework, made a graceful wave of
his hand to the table, and said:--

“I pray you, be seated and sup how you please. You will, I trust, excuse
me that I do not join you; but I have dined already, and I do not sup.”

I handed to him the sealed letter which Mr. Hawkins had entrusted to me.
He opened it and read it gravely; then, with a charming smile, he handed
it to me to read. One passage of it, at least, gave me a thrill of
pleasure.

“I must regret that an attack of gout, from which malady I am a constant
sufferer, forbids absolutely any travelling on my part for some time to
come; but I am happy to say I can send a sufficient substitute, one in
whom I have every possible confidence. He is a young man, full of energy
and talent in his own way, and of a very faithful disposition. He is
discreet and silent, and has grown into manhood in my service. He shall
be ready to attend on you when you will during his stay, and shall take
your instructions in all matters.”

The Count himself came forward and took off the cover of a dish, and I
fell to at once on an excellent roast chicken. This, with some cheese
and a salad and a bottle of old Tokay, of which I had two glasses, was
my supper. During the time I was eating it the Count asked me many
questions as to my journey, and I told him by degrees all I had
experienced.

By this time I had finished my supper, and by my host’s desire had drawn
up a chair by the fire and begun to smoke a cigar which he offered me,
at the same time excusing himself that he did not smoke. I had now an
opportunity of observing him, and found him of a very marked
physiognomy.

His face was a strong--a very strong--aquiline, with high bridge of the
thin nose and peculiarly arched nostrils; with lofty domed forehead, and
hair growing scantily round the temples but profusely elsewhere. His
eyebrows were very massive, almost meeting over the nose, and with bushy
hair that seemed to curl in its own profusion. The mouth, so far as I
could see it under the heavy moustache, was fixed and rather
cruel-looking, with peculiarly sharp white teeth; these protruded over
the lips, whose remarkable ruddiness showed astonishing vitality in a
man of his years. For the rest, his ears were pale, and at the tops
extremely pointed; the chin was broad and strong, and the cheeks firm
though thin. The general effect was one of extraordinary pallor.

Hitherto I had noticed the backs of his hands as they lay on his knees
in the firelight, and they had seemed rather white and fine; but seeing
them now close to me, I could not but notice that they were rather
coarse--broad, with squat fingers. Strange to say, there were hairs in
the centre of the palm. The nails were long and fine, and cut to a sharp
point. As the Count leaned over me and his hands touched me, I could not
repress a shudder. It may have been that his breath was rank, but a
horrible feeling of nausea came over me, which, do what I would, I could
not conceal. The Count, evidently noticing it, drew back; and with a
grim sort of smile, which showed more than he had yet done his
protuberant teeth, sat himself down again on his own side of the
fireplace. We were both silent for a while; and as I looked towards the
window I saw the first dim streak of the coming dawn. There seemed a
strange stillness over everything; but as I listened I heard as if from
down below in the valley the howling of many wolves. The Count’s eyes
gleamed, and he said:--

“Listen to them--the children of the night. What music they make!”
Seeing, I suppose, some expression in my face strange to him, he
added:--

“Ah, sir, you dwellers in the city cannot enter into the feelings of the
hunter.” Then he rose and said:--

“But you must be tired. Your bedroom is all ready, and to-morrow you
shall sleep as late as you will. I have to be away till the afternoon;
so sleep well and dream well!” With a courteous bow, he opened for me
himself the door to the octagonal room, and I entered my bedroom....

I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt; I fear; I think strange things,
which I dare not confess to my own soul. God keep me, if only for the
sake of those dear to me!

       *       *       *       *       *

_7 May._--It is again early morning, but I have rested and enjoyed the
last twenty-four hours. I slept till late in the day, and awoke of my
own accord. When I had dressed myself I went into the room where we had
supped, and found a cold breakfast laid out, with coffee kept hot by the
pot being placed on the hearth. There was a card on the table, on which
was written:--

“I have to be absent for a while. Do not wait for me.--D.” I set to and
enjoyed a hearty meal. When I had done, I looked for a bell, so that I
might let the servants know I had finished; but I could not find one.
There are certainly odd deficiencies in the house, considering the
extraordinary evidences of wealth which are round me. The table service
is of gold, and so beautifully wrought that it must be of immense value.
The curtains and upholstery of the chairs and sofas and the hangings of
my bed are of the costliest and most beautiful fabrics, and must have
been of fabulous value when they were made, for they are centuries old,
though in excellent order. I saw something like them in Hampton Court,
but there they were worn and frayed and moth-eaten. But still in none of
the rooms is there a mirror. There is not even a toilet glass on my
table, and I had to get the little shaving glass from my bag before I
could either shave or brush my hair. I have not yet seen a servant
anywhere, or heard a sound near the castle except the howling of wolves.
Some time after I had finished my meal--I do not know whether to call it
breakfast or dinner, for it was between five and six o’clock when I had
it--I looked about for something to read, for I did not like to go about
the castle until I had asked the Count’s permission. There was
absolutely nothing in the room, book, newspaper, or even writing
materials; so I opened another door in the room and found a sort of
library. The door opposite mine I tried, but found it locked.

In the library I found, to my great delight, a vast number of English
books, whole shelves full of them, and bound volumes of magazines and
newspapers. A table in the centre was littered with English magazines
and newspapers, though none of them were of very recent date. The books
were of the most varied kind--history, geography, politics, political
economy, botany, geology, law--all relating to England and English life
and customs and manners. There were even such books of reference as the
London Directory, the “Red” and “Blue” books, Whitaker’s Almanac, the
Army and Navy Lists, and--it somehow gladdened my heart to see it--the
Law List.

Whilst I was looking at the books, the door opened, and the Count
entered. He saluted me in a hearty way, and hoped that I had had a good
night’s rest. Then he went on:--

“I am glad you found your way in here, for I am sure there is much that
will interest you. These companions”--and he laid his hand on some of
the books--“have been good friends to me, and for some years past, ever
since I had the idea of going to London, have given me many, many hours
of pleasure. Through them I have come to know your great England; and to
know her is to love her. I long to go through the crowded streets of
your mighty London, to be in the midst of the whirl and rush of
humanity, to share its life, its change, its death, and all that makes
it what it is. But alas! as yet I only know your tongue through books.
To you, my friend, I look that I know it to speak.”

“But, Count,” I said, “you know and speak English thoroughly!” He bowed
gravely.

“I thank you, my friend, for your all too-flattering estimate, but yet I
fear that I am but a little way on the road I would travel. True, I know
the grammar and the words, but yet I know not how to speak them.”

“Indeed,” I said, “you speak excellently.”

“Not so,” he answered. “Well, I know that, did I move and speak in your
London, none there are who would not know me for a stranger. That is not
enough for me. Here I am noble; I am _boyar_; the common people know me,
and I am master. But a stranger in a strange land, he is no one; men
know him not--and to know not is to care not for. I am content if I am
like the rest, so that no man stops if he see me, or pause in his
speaking if he hear my words, ‘Ha, ha! a stranger!’ I have been so long
master that I would be master still--or at least that none other should
be master of me. You come to me not alone as agent of my friend Peter
Hawkins, of Exeter, to tell me all about my new estate in London. You
shall, I trust, rest here with me awhile, so that by our talking I may
learn the English intonation; and I would that you tell me when I make
error, even of the smallest, in my speaking. I am sorry that I had to be
away so long to-day; but you will, I know, forgive one who has so many
important affairs in hand.”

Of course I said all I could about being willing, and asked if I might
come into that room when I chose. He answered: “Yes, certainly,” and
added:--

“You may go anywhere you wish in the castle, except where the doors are
locked, where of course you will not wish to go. There is reason that
all things are as they are, and did you see with my eyes and know with
my knowledge, you would perhaps better understand.” I said I was sure of
this, and then he went on:--

“We are in Transylvania; and Transylvania is not England. Our ways are
not your ways, and there shall be to you many strange things. Nay, from
what you have told me of your experiences already, you know something of
what strange things there may be.”

This led to much conversation; and as it was evident that he wanted to
talk, if only for talking’s sake, I asked him many questions regarding
things that had already happened to me or come within my notice.
Sometimes he sheered off the subject, or turned the conversation by
pretending not to understand; but generally he answered all I asked most
frankly. Then as time went on, and I had got somewhat bolder, I asked
him of some of the strange things of the preceding night, as, for
instance, why the coachman went to the places where he had seen the blue
flames. He then explained to me that it was commonly believed that on a
certain night of the year--last night, in fact, when all evil spirits
are supposed to have unchecked sway--a blue flame is seen over any place
where treasure has been concealed. “That treasure has been hidden,” he
went on, “in the region through which you came last night, there can be
but little doubt; for it was the ground fought over for centuries by the
Wallachian, the Saxon, and the Turk. Why, there is hardly a foot of soil
in all this region that has not been enriched by the blood of men,
patriots or invaders. In old days there were stirring times, when the
Austrian and the Hungarian came up in hordes, and the patriots went out
to meet them--men and women, the aged and the children too--and waited
their coming on the rocks above the passes, that they might sweep
destruction on them with their artificial avalanches. When the invader
was triumphant he found but little, for whatever there was had been
sheltered in the friendly soil.”

“But how,” said I, “can it have remained so long undiscovered, when
there is a sure index to it if men will but take the trouble to look?”
The Count smiled, and as his lips ran back over his gums, the long,
sharp, canine teeth showed out strangely; he answered:--

“Because your peasant is at heart a coward and a fool! Those flames only
appear on one night; and on that night no man of this land will, if he
can help it, stir without his doors. And, dear sir, even if he did he
would not know what to do. Why, even the peasant that you tell me of who
marked the place of the flame would not know where to look in daylight
even for his own work. Even you would not, I dare be sworn, be able to
find these places again?”

“There you are right,” I said. “I know no more than the dead where even
to look for them.” Then we drifted into other matters.

“Come,” he said at last, “tell me of London and of the house which you
have procured for me.” With an apology for my remissness, I went into my
own room to get the papers from my bag. Whilst I was placing them in
order I heard a rattling of china and silver in the next room, and as I
passed through, noticed that the table had been cleared and the lamp
lit, for it was by this time deep into the dark. The lamps were also lit
in the study or library, and I found the Count lying on the sofa,
reading, of all things in the world, an English Bradshaw’s Guide. When I
came in he cleared the books and papers from the table; and with him I
went into plans and deeds and figures of all sorts. He was interested in
everything, and asked me a myriad questions about the place and its
surroundings. He clearly had studied beforehand all he could get on the
subject of the neighbourhood, for he evidently at the end knew very much
more than I did. When I remarked this, he answered:--

“Well, but, my friend, is it not needful that I should? When I go there
I shall be all alone, and my friend Harker Jonathan--nay, pardon me, I
fall into my country’s habit of putting your patronymic first--my friend
Jonathan Harker will not be by my side to correct and aid me. He will be
in Exeter, miles away, probably working at papers of the law with my
other friend, Peter Hawkins. So!”

We went thoroughly into the business of the purchase of the estate at
Purfleet. When I had told him the facts and got his signature to the
necessary papers, and had written a letter with them ready to post to
Mr. Hawkins, he began to ask me how I had come across so suitable a
place. I read to him the notes which I had made at the time, and which I
inscribe here:--

“At Purfleet, on a by-road, I came across just such a place as seemed to
be required, and where was displayed a dilapidated notice that the place
was for sale. It is surrounded by a high wall, of ancient structure,
built of heavy stones, and has not been repaired for a large number of
years. The closed gates are of heavy old oak and iron, all eaten with
rust.

“The estate is called Carfax, no doubt a corruption of the old _Quatre
Face_, as the house is four-sided, agreeing with the cardinal points of
the compass. It contains in all some twenty acres, quite surrounded by
the solid stone wall above mentioned. There are many trees on it, which
make it in places gloomy, and there is a deep, dark-looking pond or
small lake, evidently fed by some springs, as the water is clear and
flows away in a fair-sized stream. The house is very large and of all
periods back, I should say, to mediæval times, for one part is of stone
immensely thick, with only a few windows high up and heavily barred with
iron. It looks like part of a keep, and is close to an old chapel or
church. I could not enter it, as I had not the key of the door leading
to it from the house, but I have taken with my kodak views of it from
various points. The house has been added to, but in a very straggling
way, and I can only guess at the amount of ground it covers, which must
be very great. There are but few houses close at hand, one being a very
large house only recently added to and formed into a private lunatic
asylum. It is not, however, visible from the grounds.”

When I had finished, he said:--

“I am glad that it is old and big. I myself am of an old family, and to
live in a new house would kill me. A house cannot be made habitable in a
day; and, after all, how few days go to make up a century. I rejoice
also that there is a chapel of old times. We Transylvanian nobles love
not to think that our bones may lie amongst the common dead. I seek not
gaiety nor mirth, not the bright voluptuousness of much sunshine and
sparkling waters which please the young and gay. I am no longer young;
and my heart, through weary years of mourning over the dead, is not
attuned to mirth. Moreover, the walls of my castle are broken; the
shadows are many, and the wind breathes cold through the broken
battlements and casements. I love the shade and the shadow, and would
be alone with my thoughts when I may.” Somehow his words and his look
did not seem to accord, or else it was that his cast of face made his
smile look malignant and saturnine.

Presently, with an excuse, he left me, asking me to put all my papers
together. He was some little time away, and I began to look at some of
the books around me. One was an atlas, which I found opened naturally at
England, as if that map had been much used. On looking at it I found in
certain places little rings marked, and on examining these I noticed
that one was near London on the east side, manifestly where his new
estate was situated; the other two were Exeter, and Whitby on the
Yorkshire coast.

It was the better part of an hour when the Count returned. “Aha!” he
said; “still at your books? Good! But you must not work always. Come; I
am informed that your supper is ready.” He took my arm, and we went into
the next room, where I found an excellent supper ready on the table. The
Count again excused himself, as he had dined out on his being away from
home. But he sat as on the previous night, and chatted whilst I ate.
After supper I smoked, as on the last evening, and the Count stayed with
me, chatting and asking questions on every conceivable subject, hour
after hour. I felt that it was getting very late indeed, but I did not
say anything, for I felt under obligation to meet my host’s wishes in
every way. I was not sleepy, as the long sleep yesterday had fortified
me; but I could not help experiencing that chill which comes over one at
the coming of the dawn, which is like, in its way, the turn of the tide.
They say that people who are near death die generally at the change to
the dawn or at the turn of the tide; any one who has when tired, and
tied as it were to his post, experienced this change in the atmosphere
can well believe it. All at once we heard the crow of a cock coming up
with preternatural shrillness through the clear morning air; Count
Dracula, jumping to his feet, said:--

“Why, there is the morning again! How remiss I am to let you stay up so
long. You must make your conversation regarding my dear new country of
England less interesting, so that I may not forget how time flies by
us,” and, with a courtly bow, he quickly left me.

I went into my own room and drew the curtains, but there was little to
notice; my window opened into the courtyard, all I could see was the
warm grey of quickening sky. So I pulled the curtains again, and have
written of this day.

       *       *       *       *       *

_8 May._--I began to fear as I wrote in this book that I was getting too
diffuse; but now I am glad that I went into detail from the first, for
there is something so strange about this place and all in it that I
cannot but feel uneasy. I wish I were safe out of it, or that I had
never come. It may be that this strange night-existence is telling on
me; but would that that were all! If there were any one to talk to I
could bear it, but there is no one. I have only the Count to speak with,
and he!--I fear I am myself the only living soul within the place. Let
me be prosaic so far as facts can be; it will help me to bear up, and
imagination must not run riot with me. If it does I am lost. Let me say
at once how I stand--or seem to.

I only slept a few hours when I went to bed, and feeling that I could
not sleep any more, got up. I had hung my shaving glass by the window,
and was just beginning to shave. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder,
and heard the Count’s voice saying to me, “Good-morning.” I started, for
it amazed me that I had not seen him, since the reflection of the glass
covered the whole room behind me. In starting I had cut myself slightly,
but did not notice it at the moment. Having answered the Count’s
salutation, I turned to the glass again to see how I had been mistaken.
This time there could be no error, for the man was close to me, and I
could see him over my shoulder. But there was no reflection of him in
the mirror! The whole room behind me was displayed; but there was no
sign of a man in it, except myself. This was startling, and, coming on
the top of so many strange things, was beginning to increase that vague
feeling of uneasiness which I always have when the Count is near; but at
the instant I saw that the cut had bled a little, and the blood was
trickling over my chin. I laid down the razor, turning as I did so half
round to look for some sticking plaster. When the Count saw my face, his
eyes blazed with a sort of demoniac fury, and he suddenly made a grab at
my throat. I drew away, and his hand touched the string of beads which
held the crucifix. It made an instant change in him, for the fury passed
so quickly that I could hardly believe that it was ever there.

“Take care,” he said, “take care how you cut yourself. It is more
dangerous than you think in this country.” Then seizing the shaving
glass, he went on: “And this is the wretched thing that has done the
mischief. It is a foul bauble of man’s vanity. Away with it!” and
opening the heavy window with one wrench of his terrible hand, he flung
out the glass, which was shattered into a thousand pieces on the stones
of the courtyard far below. Then he withdrew without a word. It is very
annoying, for I do not see how I am to shave, unless in my watch-case or
the bottom of the shaving-pot, which is fortunately of metal.

When I went into the dining-room, breakfast was prepared; but I could
not find the Count anywhere. So I breakfasted alone. It is strange that
as yet I have not seen the Count eat or drink. He must be a very
peculiar man! After breakfast I did a little exploring in the castle. I
went out on the stairs, and found a room looking towards the South. The
view was magnificent, and from where I stood there was every opportunity
of seeing it. The castle is on the very edge of a terrible precipice. A
stone falling from the window would fall a thousand feet without
touching anything! As far as the eye can reach is a sea of green tree
tops, with occasionally a deep rift where there is a chasm. Here and
there are silver threads where the rivers wind in deep gorges through
the forests.

But I am not in heart to describe beauty, for when I had seen the view I
explored further; doors, doors, doors everywhere, and all locked and
bolted. In no place save from the windows in the castle walls is there
an available exit.

The castle is a veritable prison, and I am a prisoner!




CHAPTER III

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL--_continued_


When I found that I was a prisoner a sort of wild feeling came over me.
I rushed up and down the stairs, trying every door and peering out of
every window I could find; but after a little the conviction of my
helplessness overpowered all other feelings. When I look back after a
few hours I think I must have been mad for the time, for I behaved much
as a rat does in a trap. When, however, the conviction had come to me
that I was helpless I sat down quietly--as quietly as I have ever done
anything in my life--and began to think over what was best to be done. I
am thinking still, and as yet have come to no definite conclusion. Of
one thing only am I certain; that it is no use making my ideas known to
the Count. He knows well that I am imprisoned; and as he has done it
himself, and has doubtless his own motives for it, he would only deceive
me if I trusted him fully with the facts. So far as I can see, my only
plan will be to keep my knowledge and my fears to myself, and my eyes
open. I am, I know, either being deceived, like a baby, by my own fears,
or else I am in desperate straits; and if the latter be so, I need, and
shall need, all my brains to get through.

I had hardly come to this conclusion when I heard the great door below
shut, and knew that the Count had returned. He did not come at once into
the library, so I went cautiously to my own room and found him making
the bed. This was odd, but only confirmed what I had all along
thought--that there were no servants in the house. When later I saw him
through the chink of the hinges of the door laying the table in the
dining-room, I was assured of it; for if he does himself all these
menial offices, surely it is proof that there is no one else to do them.
This gave me a fright, for if there is no one else in the castle, it
must have been the Count himself who was the driver of the coach that
brought me here. This is a terrible thought; for if so, what does it
mean that he could control the wolves, as he did, by only holding up his
hand in silence. How was it that all the people at Bistritz and on the
coach had some terrible fear for me? What meant the giving of the
crucifix, of the garlic, of the wild rose, of the mountain ash? Bless
that good, good woman who hung the crucifix round my neck! for it is a
comfort and a strength to me whenever I touch it. It is odd that a thing
which I have been taught to regard with disfavour and as idolatrous
should in a time of loneliness and trouble be of help. Is it that there
is something in the essence of the thing itself, or that it is a medium,
a tangible help, in conveying memories of sympathy and comfort? Some
time, if it may be, I must examine this matter and try to make up my
mind about it. In the meantime I must find out all I can about Count
Dracula, as it may help me to understand. To-night he may talk of
himself, if I turn the conversation that way. I must be very careful,
however, not to awake his suspicion.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Midnight._--I have had a long talk with the Count. I asked him a few
questions on Transylvania history, and he warmed up to the subject
wonderfully. In his speaking of things and people, and especially of
battles, he spoke as if he had been present at them all. This he
afterwards explained by saying that to a _boyar_ the pride of his house
and name is his own pride, that their glory is his glory, that their
fate is his fate. Whenever he spoke of his house he always said “we,”
and spoke almost in the plural, like a king speaking. I wish I could put
down all he said exactly as he said it, for to me it was most
fascinating. It seemed to have in it a whole history of the country. He
grew excited as he spoke, and walked about the room pulling his great
white moustache and grasping anything on which he laid his hands as
though he would crush it by main strength. One thing he said which I
shall put down as nearly as I can; for it tells in its way the story of
his race:--

“We Szekelys have a right to be proud, for in our veins flows the blood
of many brave races who fought as the lion fights, for lordship. Here,
in the whirlpool of European races, the Ugric tribe bore down from
Iceland the fighting spirit which Thor and Wodin gave them, which their
Berserkers displayed to such fell intent on the seaboards of Europe, ay,
and of Asia and Africa too, till the peoples thought that the
were-wolves themselves had come. Here, too, when they came, they found
the Huns, whose warlike fury had swept the earth like a living flame,
till the dying peoples held that in their veins ran the blood of those
old witches, who, expelled from Scythia had mated with the devils in the
desert. Fools, fools! What devil or what witch was ever so great as
Attila, whose blood is in these veins?” He held up his arms. “Is it a
wonder that we were a conquering race; that we were proud; that when the
Magyar, the Lombard, the Avar, the Bulgar, or the Turk poured his
thousands on our frontiers, we drove them back? Is it strange that when
Arpad and his legions swept through the Hungarian fatherland he found us
here when he reached the frontier; that the Honfoglalas was completed
there? And when the Hungarian flood swept eastward, the Szekelys were
claimed as kindred by the victorious Magyars, and to us for centuries
was trusted the guarding of the frontier of Turkey-land; ay, and more
than that, endless duty of the frontier guard, for, as the Turks say,
‘water sleeps, and enemy is sleepless.’ Who more gladly than we
throughout the Four Nations received the ‘bloody sword,’ or at its
warlike call flocked quicker to the standard of the King? When was
redeemed that great shame of my nation, the shame of Cassova, when the
flags of the Wallach and the Magyar went down beneath the Crescent? Who
was it but one of my own race who as Voivode crossed the Danube and beat
the Turk on his own ground? This was a Dracula indeed! Woe was it that
his own unworthy brother, when he had fallen, sold his people to the
Turk and brought the shame of slavery on them! Was it not this Dracula,
indeed, who inspired that other of his race who in a later age again and
again brought his forces over the great river into Turkey-land; who,
when he was beaten back, came again, and again, and again, though he had
to come alone from the bloody field where his troops were being
slaughtered, since he knew that he alone could ultimately triumph! They
said that he thought only of himself. Bah! what good are peasants
without a leader? Where ends the war without a brain and heart to
conduct it? Again, when, after the battle of Mohács, we threw off the
Hungarian yoke, we of the Dracula blood were amongst their leaders, for
our spirit would not brook that we were not free. Ah, young sir, the
Szekelys--and the Dracula as their heart’s blood, their brains, and
their swords--can boast a record that mushroom growths like the
Hapsburgs and the Romanoffs can never reach. The warlike days are over.
Blood is too precious a thing in these days of dishonourable peace; and
the glories of the great races are as a tale that is told.”

It was by this time close on morning, and we went to bed. (_Mem._, this
diary seems horribly like the beginning of the “Arabian Nights,” for
everything has to break off at cockcrow--or like the ghost of Hamlet’s
father.)

       *       *       *       *       *

_12 May._--Let me begin with facts--bare, meagre facts, verified by
books and figures, and of which there can be no doubt. I must not
confuse them with experiences which will have to rest on my own
observation, or my memory of them. Last evening when the Count came from
his room he began by asking me questions on legal matters and on the
doing of certain kinds of business. I had spent the day wearily over
books, and, simply to keep my mind occupied, went over some of the
matters I had been examining at Lincoln’s Inn. There was a certain
method in the Count’s inquiries, so I shall try to put them down in
sequence; the knowledge may somehow or some time be useful to me.

First, he asked if a man in England might have two solicitors or more. I
told him he might have a dozen if he wished, but that it would not be
wise to have more than one solicitor engaged in one transaction, as only
one could act at a time, and that to change would be certain to militate
against his interest. He seemed thoroughly to understand, and went on to
ask if there would be any practical difficulty in having one man to
attend, say, to banking, and another to look after shipping, in case
local help were needed in a place far from the home of the banking
solicitor. I asked him to explain more fully, so that I might not by any
chance mislead him, so he said:--

“I shall illustrate. Your friend and mine, Mr. Peter Hawkins, from under
the shadow of your beautiful cathedral at Exeter, which is far from
London, buys for me through your good self my place at London. Good! Now
here let me say frankly, lest you should think it strange that I have
sought the services of one so far off from London instead of some one
resident there, that my motive was that no local interest might be
served save my wish only; and as one of London residence might, perhaps,
have some purpose of himself or friend to serve, I went thus afield to
seek my agent, whose labours should be only to my interest. Now, suppose
I, who have much of affairs, wish to ship goods, say, to Newcastle, or
Durham, or Harwich, or Dover, might it not be that it could with more
ease be done by consigning to one in these ports?” I answered that
certainly it would be most easy, but that we solicitors had a system of
agency one for the other, so that local work could be done locally on
instruction from any solicitor, so that the client, simply placing
himself in the hands of one man, could have his wishes carried out by
him without further trouble.

“But,” said he, “I could be at liberty to direct myself. Is it not so?”

“Of course,” I replied; and “such is often done by men of business, who
do not like the whole of their affairs to be known by any one person.”

“Good!” he said, and then went on to ask about the means of making
consignments and the forms to be gone through, and of all sorts of
difficulties which might arise, but by forethought could be guarded
against. I explained all these things to him to the best of my ability,
and he certainly left me under the impression that he would have made a
wonderful solicitor, for there was nothing that he did not think of or
foresee. For a man who was never in the country, and who did not
evidently do much in the way of business, his knowledge and acumen were
wonderful. When he had satisfied himself on these points of which he had
spoken, and I had verified all as well as I could by the books
available, he suddenly stood up and said:--

“Have you written since your first letter to our friend Mr. Peter
Hawkins, or to any other?” It was with some bitterness in my heart that
I answered that I had not, that as yet I had not seen any opportunity of
sending letters to anybody.

“Then write now, my young friend,” he said, laying a heavy hand on my
shoulder: “write to our friend and to any other; and say, if it will
please you, that you shall stay with me until a month from now.”

“Do you wish me to stay so long?” I asked, for my heart grew cold at the
thought.

“I desire it much; nay, I will take no refusal. When your master,
employer, what you will, engaged that someone should come on his behalf,
it was understood that my needs only were to be consulted. I have not
stinted. Is it not so?”

What could I do but bow acceptance? It was Mr. Hawkins’s interest, not
mine, and I had to think of him, not myself; and besides, while Count
Dracula was speaking, there was that in his eyes and in his bearing
which made me remember that I was a prisoner, and that if I wished it I
could have no choice. The Count saw his victory in my bow, and his
mastery in the trouble of my face, for he began at once to use them, but
in his own smooth, resistless way:--

“I pray you, my good young friend, that you will not discourse of things
other than business in your letters. It will doubtless please your
friends to know that you are well, and that you look forward to getting
home to them. Is it not so?” As he spoke he handed me three sheets of
note-paper and three envelopes. They were all of the thinnest foreign
post, and looking at them, then at him, and noticing his quiet smile,
with the sharp, canine teeth lying over the red underlip, I understood
as well as if he had spoken that I should be careful what I wrote, for
he would be able to read it. So I determined to write only formal notes
now, but to write fully to Mr. Hawkins in secret, and also to Mina, for
to her I could write in shorthand, which would puzzle the Count, if he
did see it. When I had written my two letters I sat quiet, reading a
book whilst the Count wrote several notes, referring as he wrote them to
some books on his table. Then he took up my two and placed them with his
own, and put by his writing materials, after which, the instant the door
had closed behind him, I leaned over and looked at the letters, which
were face down on the table. I felt no compunction in doing so, for
under the circumstances I felt that I should protect myself in every way
I could.

One of the letters was directed to Samuel F. Billington, No. 7, The
Crescent, Whitby, another to Herr Leutner, Varna; the third was to
Coutts & Co., London, and the fourth to Herren Klopstock & Billreuth,
bankers, Buda-Pesth. The second and fourth were unsealed. I was just
about to look at them when I saw the door-handle move. I sank back in my
seat, having just had time to replace the letters as they had been and
to resume my book before the Count, holding still another letter in his
hand, entered the room. He took up the letters on the table and stamped
them carefully, and then turning to me, said:--

“I trust you will forgive me, but I have much work to do in private this
evening. You will, I hope, find all things as you wish.” At the door he
turned, and after a moment’s pause said:--

“Let me advise you, my dear young friend--nay, let me warn you with all
seriousness, that should you leave these rooms you will not by any
chance go to sleep in any other part of the castle. It is old, and has
many memories, and there are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely. Be
warned! Should sleep now or ever overcome you, or be like to do, then
haste to your own chamber or to these rooms, for your rest will then be
safe. But if you be not careful in this respect, then”--He finished his
speech in a gruesome way, for he motioned with his hands as if he were
washing them. I quite understood; my only doubt was as to whether any
dream could be more terrible than the unnatural, horrible net of gloom
and mystery which seemed closing around me.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--I endorse the last words written, but this time there is no
doubt in question. I shall not fear to sleep in any place where he is
not. I have placed the crucifix over the head of my bed--I imagine that
my rest is thus freer from dreams; and there it shall remain.

When he left me I went to my room. After a little while, not hearing any
sound, I came out and went up the stone stair to where I could look out
towards the South. There was some sense of freedom in the vast expanse,
inaccessible though it was to me, as compared with the narrow darkness
of the courtyard. Looking out on this, I felt that I was indeed in
prison, and I seemed to want a breath of fresh air, though it were of
the night. I am beginning to feel this nocturnal existence tell on me.
It is destroying my nerve. I start at my own shadow, and am full of all
sorts of horrible imaginings. God knows that there is ground for my
terrible fear in this accursed place! I looked out over the beautiful
expanse, bathed in soft yellow moonlight till it was almost as light as
day. In the soft light the distant hills became melted, and the shadows
in the valleys and gorges of velvety blackness. The mere beauty seemed
to cheer me; there was peace and comfort in every breath I drew. As I
leaned from the window my eye was caught by something moving a storey
below me, and somewhat to my left, where I imagined, from the order of
the rooms, that the windows of the Count’s own room would look out. The
window at which I stood was tall and deep, stone-mullioned, and though
weatherworn, was still complete; but it was evidently many a day since
the case had been there. I drew back behind the stonework, and looked
carefully out.

What I saw was the Count’s head coming out from the window. I did not
see the face, but I knew the man by the neck and the movement of his
back and arms. In any case I could not mistake the hands which I had had
so many opportunities of studying. I was at first interested and
somewhat amused, for it is wonderful how small a matter will interest
and amuse a man when he is a prisoner. But my very feelings changed to
repulsion and terror when I saw the whole man slowly emerge from the
window and begin to crawl down the castle wall over that dreadful abyss,
_face down_ with his cloak spreading out around him like great wings. At
first I could not believe my eyes. I thought it was some trick of the
moonlight, some weird effect of shadow; but I kept looking, and it could
be no delusion. I saw the fingers and toes grasp the corners of the
stones, worn clear of the mortar by the stress of years, and by thus
using every projection and inequality move downwards with considerable
speed, just as a lizard moves along a wall.

What manner of man is this, or what manner of creature is it in the
semblance of man? I feel the dread of this horrible place overpowering
me; I am in fear--in awful fear--and there is no escape for me; I am
encompassed about with terrors that I dare not think of....

       *       *       *       *       *

_15 May._--Once more have I seen the Count go out in his lizard fashion.
He moved downwards in a sidelong way, some hundred feet down, and a good
deal to the left. He vanished into some hole or window. When his head
had disappeared, I leaned out to try and see more, but without
avail--the distance was too great to allow a proper angle of sight. I
knew he had left the castle now, and thought to use the opportunity to
explore more than I had dared to do as yet. I went back to the room, and
taking a lamp, tried all the doors. They were all locked, as I had
expected, and the locks were comparatively new; but I went down the
stone stairs to the hall where I had entered originally. I found I could
pull back the bolts easily enough and unhook the great chains; but the
door was locked, and the key was gone! That key must be in the Count’s
room; I must watch should his door be unlocked, so that I may get it and
escape. I went on to make a thorough examination of the various stairs
and passages, and to try the doors that opened from them. One or two
small rooms near the hall were open, but there was nothing to see in
them except old furniture, dusty with age and moth-eaten. At last,
however, I found one door at the top of the stairway which, though it
seemed to be locked, gave a little under pressure. I tried it harder,
and found that it was not really locked, but that the resistance came
from the fact that the hinges had fallen somewhat, and the heavy door
rested on the floor. Here was an opportunity which I might not have
again, so I exerted myself, and with many efforts forced it back so that
I could enter. I was now in a wing of the castle further to the right
than the rooms I knew and a storey lower down. From the windows I could
see that the suite of rooms lay along to the south of the castle, the
windows of the end room looking out both west and south. On the latter
side, as well as to the former, there was a great precipice. The castle
was built on the corner of a great rock, so that on three sides it was
quite impregnable, and great windows were placed here where sling, or
bow, or culverin could not reach, and consequently light and comfort,
impossible to a position which had to be guarded, were secured. To the
west was a great valley, and then, rising far away, great jagged
mountain fastnesses, rising peak on peak, the sheer rock studded with
mountain ash and thorn, whose roots clung in cracks and crevices and
crannies of the stone. This was evidently the portion of the castle
occupied by the ladies in bygone days, for the furniture had more air of
comfort than any I had seen. The windows were curtainless, and the
yellow moonlight, flooding in through the diamond panes, enabled one to
see even colours, whilst it softened the wealth of dust which lay over
all and disguised in some measure the ravages of time and the moth. My
lamp seemed to be of little effect in the brilliant moonlight, but I was
glad to have it with me, for there was a dread loneliness in the place
which chilled my heart and made my nerves tremble. Still, it was better
than living alone in the rooms which I had come to hate from the
presence of the Count, and after trying a little to school my nerves, I
found a soft quietude come over me. Here I am, sitting at a little oak
table where in old times possibly some fair lady sat to pen, with much
thought and many blushes, her ill-spelt love-letter, and writing in my
diary in shorthand all that has happened since I closed it last. It is
nineteenth century up-to-date with a vengeance. And yet, unless my
senses deceive me, the old centuries had, and have, powers of their own
which mere “modernity” cannot kill.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later: the Morning of 16 May._--God preserve my sanity, for to this I
am reduced. Safety and the assurance of safety are things of the past.
Whilst I live on here there is but one thing to hope for, that I may not
go mad, if, indeed, I be not mad already. If I be sane, then surely it
is maddening to think that of all the foul things that lurk in this
hateful place the Count is the least dreadful to me; that to him alone I
can look for safety, even though this be only whilst I can serve his
purpose. Great God! merciful God! Let me be calm, for out of that way
lies madness indeed. I begin to get new lights on certain things which
have puzzled me. Up to now I never quite knew what Shakespeare meant
when he made Hamlet say:--

    “My tablets! quick, my tablets!
    ’Tis meet that I put it down,” etc.,

for now, feeling as though my own brain were unhinged or as if the shock
had come which must end in its undoing, I turn to my diary for repose.
The habit of entering accurately must help to soothe me.

The Count’s mysterious warning frightened me at the time; it frightens
me more now when I think of it, for in future he has a fearful hold upon
me. I shall fear to doubt what he may say!

When I had written in my diary and had fortunately replaced the book and
pen in my pocket I felt sleepy. The Count’s warning came into my mind,
but I took a pleasure in disobeying it. The sense of sleep was upon me,
and with it the obstinacy which sleep brings as outrider. The soft
moonlight soothed, and the wide expanse without gave a sense of freedom
which refreshed me. I determined not to return to-night to the
gloom-haunted rooms, but to sleep here, where, of old, ladies had sat
and sung and lived sweet lives whilst their gentle breasts were sad for
their menfolk away in the midst of remorseless wars. I drew a great
couch out of its place near the corner, so that as I lay, I could look
at the lovely view to east and south, and unthinking of and uncaring for
the dust, composed myself for sleep. I suppose I must have fallen
asleep; I hope so, but I fear, for all that followed was startlingly
real--so real that now sitting here in the broad, full sunlight of the
morning, I cannot in the least believe that it was all sleep.

I was not alone. The room was the same, unchanged in any way since I
came into it; I could see along the floor, in the brilliant moonlight,
my own footsteps marked where I had disturbed the long accumulation of
dust. In the moonlight opposite me were three young women, ladies by
their dress and manner. I thought at the time that I must be dreaming
when I saw them, for, though the moonlight was behind them, they threw
no shadow on the floor. They came close to me, and looked at me for some
time, and then whispered together. Two were dark, and had high aquiline
noses, like the Count, and great dark, piercing eyes that seemed to be
almost red when contrasted with the pale yellow moon. The other was
fair, as fair as can be, with great wavy masses of golden hair and eyes
like pale sapphires. I seemed somehow to know her face, and to know it
in connection with some dreamy fear, but I could not recollect at the
moment how or where. All three had brilliant white teeth that shone like
pearls against the ruby of their voluptuous lips. There was something
about them that made me uneasy, some longing and at the same time some
deadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire that they would
kiss me with those red lips. It is not good to note this down, lest some
day it should meet Mina’s eyes and cause her pain; but it is the truth.
They whispered together, and then they all three laughed--such a
silvery, musical laugh, but as hard as though the sound never could have
come through the softness of human lips. It was like the intolerable,
tingling sweetness of water-glasses when played on by a cunning hand.
The fair girl shook her head coquettishly, and the other two urged her
on. One said:--

“Go on! You are first, and we shall follow; yours is the right to
begin.” The other added:--

“He is young and strong; there are kisses for us all.” I lay quiet,
looking out under my eyelashes in an agony of delightful anticipation.
The fair girl advanced and bent over me till I could feel the movement
of her breath upon me. Sweet it was in one sense, honey-sweet, and sent
the same tingling through the nerves as her voice, but with a bitter
underlying the sweet, a bitter offensiveness, as one smells in blood.

I was afraid to raise my eyelids, but looked out and saw perfectly under
the lashes. The girl went on her knees, and bent over me, simply
gloating. There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling
and repulsive, and as she arched her neck she actually licked her lips
like an animal, till I could see in the moonlight the moisture shining
on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it lapped the white sharp
teeth. Lower and lower went her head as the lips went below the range of
my mouth and chin and seemed about to fasten on my throat. Then she
paused, and I could hear the churning sound of her tongue as it licked
her teeth and lips, and could feel the hot breath on my neck. Then the
skin of my throat began to tingle as one’s flesh does when the hand that
is to tickle it approaches nearer--nearer. I could feel the soft,
shivering touch of the lips on the super-sensitive skin of my throat,
and the hard dents of two sharp teeth, just touching and pausing there.
I closed my eyes in a languorous ecstasy and waited--waited with beating
heart.

But at that instant, another sensation swept through me as quick as
lightning. I was conscious of the presence of the Count, and of his
being as if lapped in a storm of fury. As my eyes opened involuntarily I
saw his strong hand grasp the slender neck of the fair woman and with
giant’s power draw it back, the blue eyes transformed with fury, the
white teeth champing with rage, and the fair cheeks blazing red with
passion. But the Count! Never did I imagine such wrath and fury, even to
the demons of the pit. His eyes were positively blazing. The red light
in them was lurid, as if the flames of hell-fire blazed behind them. His
face was deathly pale, and the lines of it were hard like drawn wires;
the thick eyebrows that met over the nose now seemed like a heaving bar
of white-hot metal. With a fierce sweep of his arm, he hurled the woman
from him, and then motioned to the others, as though he were beating
them back; it was the same imperious gesture that I had seen used to the
wolves. In a voice which, though low and almost in a whisper seemed to
cut through the air and then ring round the room he said:--

“How dare you touch him, any of you? How dare you cast eyes on him when
I had forbidden it? Back, I tell you all! This man belongs to me! Beware
how you meddle with him, or you’ll have to deal with me.” The fair girl,
with a laugh of ribald coquetry, turned to answer him:--

“You yourself never loved; you never love!” On this the other women
joined, and such a mirthless, hard, soulless laughter rang through the
room that it almost made me faint to hear; it seemed like the pleasure
of fiends. Then the Count turned, after looking at my face attentively,
and said in a soft whisper:--

“Yes, I too can love; you yourselves can tell it from the past. Is it
not so? Well, now I promise you that when I am done with him you shall
kiss him at your will. Now go! go! I must awaken him, for there is work
to be done.”

“Are we to have nothing to-night?” said one of them, with a low laugh,
as she pointed to the bag which he had thrown upon the floor, and which
moved as though there were some living thing within it. For answer he
nodded his head. One of the women jumped forward and opened it. If my
ears did not deceive me there was a gasp and a low wail, as of a
half-smothered child. The women closed round, whilst I was aghast with
horror; but as I looked they disappeared, and with them the dreadful
bag. There was no door near them, and they could not have passed me
without my noticing. They simply seemed to fade into the rays of the
moonlight and pass out through the window, for I could see outside the
dim, shadowy forms for a moment before they entirely faded away.

Then the horror overcame me, and I sank down unconscious.




CHAPTER IV

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL--_continued_


I awoke in my own bed. If it be that I had not dreamt, the Count must
have carried me here. I tried to satisfy myself on the subject, but
could not arrive at any unquestionable result. To be sure, there were
certain small evidences, such as that my clothes were folded and laid by
in a manner which was not my habit. My watch was still unwound, and I am
rigorously accustomed to wind it the last thing before going to bed, and
many such details. But these things are no proof, for they may have been
evidences that my mind was not as usual, and, from some cause or
another, I had certainly been much upset. I must watch for proof. Of one
thing I am glad: if it was that the Count carried me here and undressed
me, he must have been hurried in his task, for my pockets are intact. I
am sure this diary would have been a mystery to him which he would not
have brooked. He would have taken or destroyed it. As I look round this
room, although it has been to me so full of fear, it is now a sort of
sanctuary, for nothing can be more dreadful than those awful women, who
were--who _are_--waiting to suck my blood.

       *       *       *       *       *

_18 May._--I have been down to look at that room again in daylight, for
I _must_ know the truth. When I got to the doorway at the top of the
stairs I found it closed. It had been so forcibly driven against the
jamb that part of the woodwork was splintered. I could see that the bolt
of the lock had not been shot, but the door is fastened from the inside.
I fear it was no dream, and must act on this surmise.

       *       *       *       *       *

_19 May._--I am surely in the toils. Last night the Count asked me in
the suavest tones to write three letters, one saying that my work here
was nearly done, and that I should start for home within a few days,
another that I was starting on the next morning from the time of the
letter, and the third that I had left the castle and arrived at
Bistritz. I would fain have rebelled, but felt that in the present state
of things it would be madness to quarrel openly with the Count whilst I
am so absolutely in his power; and to refuse would be to excite his
suspicion and to arouse his anger. He knows that I know too much, and
that I must not live, lest I be dangerous to him; my only chance is to
prolong my opportunities. Something may occur which will give me a
chance to escape. I saw in his eyes something of that gathering wrath
which was manifest when he hurled that fair woman from him. He explained
to me that posts were few and uncertain, and that my writing now would
ensure ease of mind to my friends; and he assured me with so much
impressiveness that he would countermand the later letters, which would
be held over at Bistritz until due time in case chance would admit of my
prolonging my stay, that to oppose him would have been to create new
suspicion. I therefore pretended to fall in with his views, and asked
him what dates I should put on the letters. He calculated a minute, and
then said:--

“The first should be June 12, the second June 19, and the third June
29.”

I know now the span of my life. God help me!

       *       *       *       *       *

_28 May._--There is a chance of escape, or at any rate of being able to
send word home. A band of Szgany have come to the castle, and are
encamped in the courtyard. These Szgany are gipsies; I have notes of
them in my book. They are peculiar to this part of the world, though
allied to the ordinary gipsies all the world over. There are thousands
of them in Hungary and Transylvania, who are almost outside all law.
They attach themselves as a rule to some great noble or _boyar_, and
call themselves by his name. They are fearless and without religion,
save superstition, and they talk only their own varieties of the Romany
tongue.

I shall write some letters home, and shall try to get them to have them
posted. I have already spoken them through my window to begin
acquaintanceship. They took their hats off and made obeisance and many
signs, which, however, I could not understand any more than I could
their spoken language....

       *       *       *       *       *

I have written the letters. Mina’s is in shorthand, and I simply ask Mr.
Hawkins to communicate with her. To her I have explained my situation,
but without the horrors which I may only surmise. It would shock and
frighten her to death were I to expose my heart to her. Should the
letters not carry, then the Count shall not yet know my secret or the
extent of my knowledge....

       *       *       *       *       *

I have given the letters; I threw them through the bars of my window
with a gold piece, and made what signs I could to have them posted. The
man who took them pressed them to his heart and bowed, and then put them
in his cap. I could do no more. I stole back to the study, and began to
read. As the Count did not come in, I have written here....

       *       *       *       *       *

The Count has come. He sat down beside me, and said in his smoothest
voice as he opened two letters:--

“The Szgany has given me these, of which, though I know not whence they
come, I shall, of course, take care. See!”--he must have looked at
it--“one is from you, and to my friend Peter Hawkins; the other”--here
he caught sight of the strange symbols as he opened the envelope, and
the dark look came into his face, and his eyes blazed wickedly--“the
other is a vile thing, an outrage upon friendship and hospitality! It is
not signed. Well! so it cannot matter to us.” And he calmly held letter
and envelope in the flame of the lamp till they were consumed. Then he
went on:--

“The letter to Hawkins--that I shall, of course, send on, since it is
yours. Your letters are sacred to me. Your pardon, my friend, that
unknowingly I did break the seal. Will you not cover it again?” He held
out the letter to me, and with a courteous bow handed me a clean
envelope. I could only redirect it and hand it to him in silence. When
he went out of the room I could hear the key turn softly. A minute later
I went over and tried it, and the door was locked.

When, an hour or two after, the Count came quietly into the room, his
coming awakened me, for I had gone to sleep on the sofa. He was very
courteous and very cheery in his manner, and seeing that I had been
sleeping, he said:--

“So, my friend, you are tired? Get to bed. There is the surest rest. I
may not have the pleasure to talk to-night, since there are many labours
to me; but you will sleep, I pray.” I passed to my room and went to bed,
and, strange to say, slept without dreaming. Despair has its own calms.

       *       *       *       *       *

_31 May._--This morning when I woke I thought I would provide myself
with some paper and envelopes from my bag and keep them in my pocket, so
that I might write in case I should get an opportunity, but again a
surprise, again a shock!

Every scrap of paper was gone, and with it all my notes, my memoranda,
relating to railways and travel, my letter of credit, in fact all that
might be useful to me were I once outside the castle. I sat and pondered
awhile, and then some thought occurred to me, and I made search of my
portmanteau and in the wardrobe where I had placed my clothes.

The suit in which I had travelled was gone, and also my overcoat and
rug; I could find no trace of them anywhere. This looked like some new
scheme of villainy....

       *       *       *       *       *

_17 June._--This morning, as I was sitting on the edge of my bed
cudgelling my brains, I heard without a cracking of whips and pounding
and scraping of horses’ feet up the rocky path beyond the courtyard.
With joy I hurried to the window, and saw drive into the yard two great
leiter-wagons, each drawn by eight sturdy horses, and at the head of
each pair a Slovak, with his wide hat, great nail-studded belt, dirty
sheepskin, and high boots. They had also their long staves in hand. I
ran to the door, intending to descend and try and join them through the
main hall, as I thought that way might be opened for them. Again a
shock: my door was fastened on the outside.

Then I ran to the window and cried to them. They looked up at me
stupidly and pointed, but just then the “hetman” of the Szgany came out,
and seeing them pointing to my window, said something, at which they
laughed. Henceforth no effort of mine, no piteous cry or agonised
entreaty, would make them even look at me. They resolutely turned away.
The leiter-wagons contained great, square boxes, with handles of thick
rope; these were evidently empty by the ease with which the Slovaks
handled them, and by their resonance as they were roughly moved. When
they were all unloaded and packed in a great heap in one corner of the
yard, the Slovaks were given some money by the Szgany, and spitting on
it for luck, lazily went each to his horse’s head. Shortly afterwards, I
heard the cracking of their whips die away in the distance.

       *       *       *       *       *

_24 June, before morning._--Last night the Count left me early, and
locked himself into his own room. As soon as I dared I ran up the
winding stair, and looked out of the window, which opened south. I
thought I would watch for the Count, for there is something going on.
The Szgany are quartered somewhere in the castle and are doing work of
some kind. I know it, for now and then I hear a far-away muffled sound
as of mattock and spade, and, whatever it is, it must be the end of some
ruthless villainy.

I had been at the window somewhat less than half an hour, when I saw
something coming out of the Count’s window. I drew back and watched
carefully, and saw the whole man emerge. It was a new shock to me to
find that he had on the suit of clothes which I had worn whilst
travelling here, and slung over his shoulder the terrible bag which I
had seen the women take away. There could be no doubt as to his quest,
and in my garb, too! This, then, is his new scheme of evil: that he will
allow others to see me, as they think, so that he may both leave
evidence that I have been seen in the towns or villages posting my own
letters, and that any wickedness which he may do shall by the local
people be attributed to me.

It makes me rage to think that this can go on, and whilst I am shut up
here, a veritable prisoner, but without that protection of the law which
is even a criminal’s right and consolation.

I thought I would watch for the Count’s return, and for a long time sat
doggedly at the window. Then I began to notice that there were some
quaint little specks floating in the rays of the moonlight. They were
like the tiniest grains of dust, and they whirled round and gathered in
clusters in a nebulous sort of way. I watched them with a sense of
soothing, and a sort of calm stole over me. I leaned back in the
embrasure in a more comfortable position, so that I could enjoy more
fully the aërial gambolling.

Something made me start up, a low, piteous howling of dogs somewhere far
below in the valley, which was hidden from my sight. Louder it seemed to
ring in my ears, and the floating motes of dust to take new shapes to
the sound as they danced in the moonlight. I felt myself struggling to
awake to some call of my instincts; nay, my very soul was struggling,
and my half-remembered sensibilities were striving to answer the call. I
was becoming hypnotised! Quicker and quicker danced the dust; the
moonbeams seemed to quiver as they went by me into the mass of gloom
beyond. More and more they gathered till they seemed to take dim phantom
shapes. And then I started, broad awake and in full possession of my
senses, and ran screaming from the place. The phantom shapes, which were
becoming gradually materialised from the moonbeams, were those of the
three ghostly women to whom I was doomed. I fled, and felt somewhat
safer in my own room, where there was no moonlight and where the lamp
was burning brightly.

When a couple of hours had passed I heard something stirring in the
Count’s room, something like a sharp wail quickly suppressed; and then
there was silence, deep, awful silence, which chilled me. With a
beating heart, I tried the door; but I was locked in my prison, and
could do nothing. I sat down and simply cried.

As I sat I heard a sound in the courtyard without--the agonised cry of a
woman. I rushed to the window, and throwing it up, peered out between
the bars. There, indeed, was a woman with dishevelled hair, holding her
hands over her heart as one distressed with running. She was leaning
against a corner of the gateway. When she saw my face at the window she
threw herself forward, and shouted in a voice laden with menace:--

“Monster, give me my child!”

She threw herself on her knees, and raising up her hands, cried the same
words in tones which wrung my heart. Then she tore her hair and beat her
breast, and abandoned herself to all the violences of extravagant
emotion. Finally, she threw herself forward, and, though I could not see
her, I could hear the beating of her naked hands against the door.

Somewhere high overhead, probably on the tower, I heard the voice of the
Count calling in his harsh, metallic whisper. His call seemed to be
answered from far and wide by the howling of wolves. Before many minutes
had passed a pack of them poured, like a pent-up dam when liberated,
through the wide entrance into the courtyard.

There was no cry from the woman, and the howling of the wolves was but
short. Before long they streamed away singly, licking their lips.

I could not pity her, for I knew now what had become of her child, and
she was better dead.

What shall I do? what can I do? How can I escape from this dreadful
thing of night and gloom and fear?

       *       *       *       *       *

_25 June, morning._--No man knows till he has suffered from the night
how sweet and how dear to his heart and eye the morning can be. When the
sun grew so high this morning that it struck the top of the great
gateway opposite my window, the high spot which it touched seemed to me
as if the dove from the ark had lighted there. My fear fell from me as
if it had been a vaporous garment which dissolved in the warmth. I must
take action of some sort whilst the courage of the day is upon me. Last
night one of my post-dated letters went to post, the first of that fatal
series which is to blot out the very traces of my existence from the
earth.

Let me not think of it. Action!

It has always been at night-time that I have been molested or
threatened, or in some way in danger or in fear. I have not yet seen the
Count in the daylight. Can it be that he sleeps when others wake, that
he may be awake whilst they sleep? If I could only get into his room!
But there is no possible way. The door is always locked, no way for me.

Yes, there is a way, if one dares to take it. Where his body has gone
why may not another body go? I have seen him myself crawl from his
window. Why should not I imitate him, and go in by his window? The
chances are desperate, but my need is more desperate still. I shall risk
it. At the worst it can only be death; and a man’s death is not a
calf’s, and the dreaded Hereafter may still be open to me. God help me
in my task! Good-bye, Mina, if I fail; good-bye, my faithful friend and
second father; good-bye, all, and last of all Mina!

       *       *       *       *       *

_Same day, later._--I have made the effort, and God, helping me, have
come safely back to this room. I must put down every detail in order. I
went whilst my courage was fresh straight to the window on the south
side, and at once got outside on the narrow ledge of stone which runs
around the building on this side. The stones are big and roughly cut,
and the mortar has by process of time been washed away between them. I
took off my boots, and ventured out on the desperate way. I looked down
once, so as to make sure that a sudden glimpse of the awful depth would
not overcome me, but after that kept my eyes away from it. I knew pretty
well the direction and distance of the Count’s window, and made for it
as well as I could, having regard to the opportunities available. I did
not feel dizzy--I suppose I was too excited--and the time seemed
ridiculously short till I found myself standing on the window-sill and
trying to raise up the sash. I was filled with agitation, however, when
I bent down and slid feet foremost in through the window. Then I looked
around for the Count, but, with surprise and gladness, made a discovery.
The room was empty! It was barely furnished with odd things, which
seemed to have never been used; the furniture was something the same
style as that in the south rooms, and was covered with dust. I looked
for the key, but it was not in the lock, and I could not find it
anywhere. The only thing I found was a great heap of gold in one
corner--gold of all kinds, Roman, and British, and Austrian, and
Hungarian, and Greek and Turkish money, covered with a film of dust, as
though it had lain long in the ground. None of it that I noticed was
less than three hundred years old. There were also chains and ornaments,
some jewelled, but all of them old and stained.

At one corner of the room was a heavy door. I tried it, for, since I
could not find the key of the room or the key of the outer door, which
was the main object of my search, I must make further examination, or
all my efforts would be in vain. It was open, and led through a stone
passage to a circular stairway, which went steeply down. I descended,
minding carefully where I went, for the stairs were dark, being only lit
by loopholes in the heavy masonry. At the bottom there was a dark,
tunnel-like passage, through which came a deathly, sickly odour, the
odour of old earth newly turned. As I went through the passage the smell
grew closer and heavier. At last I pulled open a heavy door which stood
ajar, and found myself in an old, ruined chapel, which had evidently
been used as a graveyard. The roof was broken, and in two places were
steps leading to vaults, but the ground had recently been dug over, and
the earth placed in great wooden boxes, manifestly those which had been
brought by the Slovaks. There was nobody about, and I made search for
any further outlet, but there was none. Then I went over every inch of
the ground, so as not to lose a chance. I went down even into the
vaults, where the dim light struggled, although to do so was a dread to
my very soul. Into two of these I went, but saw nothing except fragments
of old coffins and piles of dust; in the third, however, I made a
discovery.

There, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty in all, on a
pile of newly dug earth, lay the Count! He was either dead or asleep, I
could not say which--for the eyes were open and stony, but without the
glassiness of death--and the cheeks had the warmth of life through all
their pallor; the lips were as red as ever. But there was no sign of
movement, no pulse, no breath, no beating of the heart. I bent over him,
and tried to find any sign of life, but in vain. He could not have lain
there long, for the earthy smell would have passed away in a few hours.
By the side of the box was its cover, pierced with holes here and there.
I thought he might have the keys on him, but when I went to search I saw
the dead eyes, and in them, dead though they were, such a look of hate,
though unconscious of me or my presence, that I fled from the place, and
leaving the Count’s room by the window, crawled again up the castle
wall. Regaining my room, I threw myself panting upon the bed and tried
to think....

       *       *       *       *       *

_29 June._--To-day is the date of my last letter, and the Count has
taken steps to prove that it was genuine, for again I saw him leave the
castle by the same window, and in my clothes. As he went down the wall,
lizard fashion, I wished I had a gun or some lethal weapon, that I might
destroy him; but I fear that no weapon wrought alone by man’s hand would
have any effect on him. I dared not wait to see him return, for I feared
to see those weird sisters. I came back to the library, and read there
till I fell asleep.

I was awakened by the Count, who looked at me as grimly as a man can
look as he said:--

“To-morrow, my friend, we must part. You return to your beautiful
England, I to some work which may have such an end that we may never
meet. Your letter home has been despatched; to-morrow I shall not be
here, but all shall be ready for your journey. In the morning come the
Szgany, who have some labours of their own here, and also come some
Slovaks. When they have gone, my carriage shall come for you, and shall
bear you to the Borgo Pass to meet the diligence from Bukovina to
Bistritz. But I am in hopes that I shall see more of you at Castle
Dracula.” I suspected him, and determined to test his sincerity.
Sincerity! It seems like a profanation of the word to write it in
connection with such a monster, so asked him point-blank:--

“Why may I not go to-night?”

“Because, dear sir, my coachman and horses are away on a mission.”

“But I would walk with pleasure. I want to get away at once.” He smiled,
such a soft, smooth, diabolical smile that I knew there was some trick
behind his smoothness. He said:--

“And your baggage?”

“I do not care about it. I can send for it some other time.”

The Count stood up, and said, with a sweet courtesy which made me rub my
eyes, it seemed so real:--

“You English have a saying which is close to my heart, for its spirit is
that which rules our _boyars_: ‘Welcome the coming; speed the parting
guest.’ Come with me, my dear young friend. Not an hour shall you wait
in my house against your will, though sad am I at your going, and that
you so suddenly desire it. Come!” With a stately gravity, he, with the
lamp, preceded me down the stairs and along the hall. Suddenly he
stopped.

“Hark!”

Close at hand came the howling of many wolves. It was almost as if the
sound sprang up at the rising of his hand, just as the music of a great
orchestra seems to leap under the bâton of the conductor. After a pause
of a moment, he proceeded, in his stately way, to the door, drew back
the ponderous bolts, unhooked the heavy chains, and began to draw it
open.

To my intense astonishment I saw that it was unlocked. Suspiciously, I
looked all round, but could see no key of any kind.

As the door began to open, the howling of the wolves without grew louder
and angrier; their red jaws, with champing teeth, and their blunt-clawed
feet as they leaped, came in through the opening door. I knew then that
to struggle at the moment against the Count was useless. With such
allies as these at his command, I could do nothing. But still the door
continued slowly to open, and only the Count’s body stood in the gap.
Suddenly it struck me that this might be the moment and means of my
doom; I was to be given to the wolves, and at my own instigation. There
was a diabolical wickedness in the idea great enough for the Count, and
as a last chance I cried out:--

“Shut the door; I shall wait till morning!” and covered my face with my
hands to hide my tears of bitter disappointment. With one sweep of his
powerful arm, the Count threw the door shut, and the great bolts clanged
and echoed through the hall as they shot back into their places.

In silence we returned to the library, and after a minute or two I went
to my own room. The last I saw of Count Dracula was his kissing his hand
to me; with a red light of triumph in his eyes, and with a smile that
Judas in hell might be proud of.

When I was in my room and about to lie down, I thought I heard a
whispering at my door. I went to it softly and listened. Unless my ears
deceived me, I heard the voice of the Count:--

“Back, back, to your own place! Your time is not yet come. Wait! Have
patience! To-night is mine. To-morrow night is yours!” There was a low,
sweet ripple of laughter, and in a rage I threw open the door, and saw
without the three terrible women licking their lips. As I appeared they
all joined in a horrible laugh, and ran away.

I came back to my room and threw myself on my knees. It is then so near
the end? To-morrow! to-morrow! Lord, help me, and those to whom I am
dear!

       *       *       *       *       *

_30 June, morning._--These may be the last words I ever write in this
diary. I slept till just before the dawn, and when I woke threw myself
on my knees, for I determined that if Death came he should find me
ready.

At last I felt that subtle change in the air, and knew that the morning
had come. Then came the welcome cock-crow, and I felt that I was safe.
With a glad heart, I opened my door and ran down to the hall. I had seen
that the door was unlocked, and now escape was before me. With hands
that trembled with eagerness, I unhooked the chains and drew back the
massive bolts.

But the door would not move. Despair seized me. I pulled, and pulled, at
the door, and shook it till, massive as it was, it rattled in its
casement. I could see the bolt shot. It had been locked after I left the
Count.

Then a wild desire took me to obtain that key at any risk, and I
determined then and there to scale the wall again and gain the Count’s
room. He might kill me, but death now seemed the happier choice of
evils. Without a pause I rushed up to the east window, and scrambled
down the wall, as before, into the Count’s room. It was empty, but that
was as I expected. I could not see a key anywhere, but the heap of gold
remained. I went through the door in the corner and down the winding
stair and along the dark passage to the old chapel. I knew now well
enough where to find the monster I sought.

The great box was in the same place, close against the wall, but the lid
was laid on it, not fastened down, but with the nails ready in their
places to be hammered home. I knew I must reach the body for the key, so
I raised the lid, and laid it back against the wall; and then I saw
something which filled my very soul with horror. There lay the Count,
but looking as if his youth had been half renewed, for the white hair
and moustache were changed to dark iron-grey; the cheeks were fuller,
and the white skin seemed ruby-red underneath; the mouth was redder than
ever, for on the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which trickled from the
corners of the mouth and ran over the chin and neck. Even the deep,
burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches
underneath were bloated. It seemed as if the whole awful creature were
simply gorged with blood. He lay like a filthy leech, exhausted with his
repletion. I shuddered as I bent over to touch him, and every sense in
me revolted at the contact; but I had to search, or I was lost. The
coming night might see my own body a banquet in a similar way to those
horrid three. I felt all over the body, but no sign could I find of the
key. Then I stopped and looked at the Count. There was a mocking smile
on the bloated face which seemed to drive me mad. This was the being I
was helping to transfer to London, where, perhaps, for centuries to come
he might, amongst its teeming millions, satiate his lust for blood, and
create a new and ever-widening circle of semi-demons to batten on the
helpless. The very thought drove me mad. A terrible desire came upon me
to rid the world of such a monster. There was no lethal weapon at hand,
but I seized a shovel which the workmen had been using to fill the
cases, and lifting it high, struck, with the edge downward, at the
hateful face. But as I did so the head turned, and the eyes fell full
upon me, with all their blaze of basilisk horror. The sight seemed to
paralyse me, and the shovel turned in my hand and glanced from the face,
merely making a deep gash above the forehead. The shovel fell from my
hand across the box, and as I pulled it away the flange of the blade
caught the edge of the lid which fell over again, and hid the horrid
thing from my sight. The last glimpse I had was of the bloated face,
blood-stained and fixed with a grin of malice which would have held its
own in the nethermost hell.

I thought and thought what should be my next move, but my brain seemed
on fire, and I waited with a despairing feeling growing over me. As I
waited I heard in the distance a gipsy song sung by merry voices coming
closer, and through their song the rolling of heavy wheels and the
cracking of whips; the Szgany and the Slovaks of whom the Count had
spoken were coming. With a last look around and at the box which
contained the vile body, I ran from the place and gained the Count’s
room, determined to rush out at the moment the door should be opened.
With strained ears, I listened, and heard downstairs the grinding of the
key in the great lock and the falling back of the heavy door. There must
have been some other means of entry, or some one had a key for one of
the locked doors. Then there came the sound of many feet tramping and
dying away in some passage which sent up a clanging echo. I turned to
run down again towards the vault, where I might find the new entrance;
but at the moment there seemed to come a violent puff of wind, and the
door to the winding stair blew to with a shock that set the dust from
the lintels flying. When I ran to push it open, I found that it was
hopelessly fast. I was again a prisoner, and the net of doom was closing
round me more closely.

As I write there is in the passage below a sound of many tramping feet
and the crash of weights being set down heavily, doubtless the boxes,
with their freight of earth. There is a sound of hammering; it is the
box being nailed down. Now I can hear the heavy feet tramping again
along the hall, with many other idle feet coming behind them.

The door is shut, and the chains rattle; there is a grinding of the key
in the lock; I can hear the key withdraw: then another door opens and
shuts; I hear the creaking of lock and bolt.

Hark! in the courtyard and down the rocky way the roll of heavy wheels,
the crack of whips, and the chorus of the Szgany as they pass into the
distance.

I am alone in the castle with those awful women. Faugh! Mina is a woman,
and there is nought in common. They are devils of the Pit!

I shall not remain alone with them; I shall try to scale the castle wall
farther than I have yet attempted. I shall take some of the gold with
me, lest I want it later. I may find a way from this dreadful place.

And then away for home! away to the quickest and nearest train! away
from this cursed spot, from this cursed land, where the devil and his
children still walk with earthly feet!

At least God’s mercy is better than that of these monsters, and the
precipice is steep and high. At its foot a man may sleep--as a man.
Good-bye, all! Mina!




CHAPTER V

_Letter from Miss Mina Murray to Miss Lucy Westenra._


“_9 May._

“My dearest Lucy,--

“Forgive my long delay in writing, but I have been simply overwhelmed
with work. The life of an assistant schoolmistress is sometimes trying.
I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together
freely and build our castles in the air. I have been working very hard
lately, because I want to keep up with Jonathan’s studies, and I have
been practising shorthand very assiduously. When we are married I shall
be able to be useful to Jonathan, and if I can stenograph well enough I
can take down what he wants to say in this way and write it out for
him on the typewriter, at which also I am practising very hard. He
and I sometimes write letters in shorthand, and he is keeping a
stenographic journal of his travels abroad. When I am with you I
shall keep a diary in the same way. I don’t mean one of those
two-pages-to-the-week-with-Sunday-squeezed-in-a-corner diaries, but a
sort of journal which I can write in whenever I feel inclined. I do not
suppose there will be much of interest to other people; but it is not
intended for them. I may show it to Jonathan some day if there is in it
anything worth sharing, but it is really an exercise book. I shall try
to do what I see lady journalists do: interviewing and writing
descriptions and trying to remember conversations. I am told that, with
a little practice, one can remember all that goes on or that one hears
said during a day. However, we shall see. I will tell you of my little
plans when we meet. I have just had a few hurried lines from Jonathan
from Transylvania. He is well, and will be returning in about a week. I
am longing to hear all his news. It must be so nice to see strange
countries. I wonder if we--I mean Jonathan and I--shall ever see them
together. There is the ten o’clock bell ringing. Good-bye.

“Your loving

“MINA.

“Tell me all the news when you write. You have not told me anything for
a long time. I hear rumours, and especially of a tall, handsome,
curly-haired man???”


_Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray_.

“_17, Chatham Street_,

“_Wednesday_.

“My dearest Mina,--

“I must say you tax me _very_ unfairly with being a bad correspondent. I
wrote to you _twice_ since we parted, and your last letter was only your
_second_. Besides, I have nothing to tell you. There is really nothing
to interest you. Town is very pleasant just now, and we go a good deal
to picture-galleries and for walks and rides in the park. As to the
tall, curly-haired man, I suppose it was the one who was with me at the
last Pop. Some one has evidently been telling tales. That was Mr.
Holmwood. He often comes to see us, and he and mamma get on very well
together; they have so many things to talk about in common. We met some
time ago a man that would just _do for you_, if you were not already
engaged to Jonathan. He is an excellent _parti_, being handsome, well
off, and of good birth. He is a doctor and really clever. Just fancy! He
is only nine-and-twenty, and he has an immense lunatic asylum all under
his own care. Mr. Holmwood introduced him to me, and he called here to
see us, and often comes now. I think he is one of the most resolute men
I ever saw, and yet the most calm. He seems absolutely imperturbable. I
can fancy what a wonderful power he must have over his patients. He has
a curious habit of looking one straight in the face, as if trying to
read one’s thoughts. He tries this on very much with me, but I flatter
myself he has got a tough nut to crack. I know that from my glass. Do
you ever try to read your own face? _I do_, and I can tell you it is not
a bad study, and gives you more trouble than you can well fancy if you
have never tried it. He says that I afford him a curious psychological
study, and I humbly think I do. I do not, as you know, take sufficient
interest in dress to be able to describe the new fashions. Dress is a
bore. That is slang again, but never mind; Arthur says that every day.
There, it is all out. Mina, we have told all our secrets to each other
since we were _children_; we have slept together and eaten together, and
laughed and cried together; and now, though I have spoken, I would like
to speak more. Oh, Mina, couldn’t you guess? I love him. I am blushing
as I write, for although I _think_ he loves me, he has not told me so in
words. But oh, Mina, I love him; I love him; I love him! There, that
does me good. I wish I were with you, dear, sitting by the fire
undressing, as we used to sit; and I would try to tell you what I feel.
I do not know how I am writing this even to you. I am afraid to stop,
or I should tear up the letter, and I don’t want to stop, for I _do_ so
want to tell you all. Let me hear from you _at once_, and tell me all
that you think about it. Mina, I must stop. Good-night. Bless me in your
prayers; and, Mina, pray for my happiness.

“LUCY.

“P.S.--I need not tell you this is a secret. Good-night again.

“L.”

_Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray_.

“_24 May_.

“My dearest Mina,--

“Thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for your sweet letter. It was so
nice to be able to tell you and to have your sympathy.

“My dear, it never rains but it pours. How true the old proverbs are.
Here am I, who shall be twenty in September, and yet I never had a
proposal till to-day, not a real proposal, and to-day I have had three.
Just fancy! THREE proposals in one day! Isn’t it awful! I feel sorry,
really and truly sorry, for two of the poor fellows. Oh, Mina, I am so
happy that I don’t know what to do with myself. And three proposals!
But, for goodness’ sake, don’t tell any of the girls, or they would be
getting all sorts of extravagant ideas and imagining themselves injured
and slighted if in their very first day at home they did not get six at
least. Some girls are so vain! You and I, Mina dear, who are engaged and
are going to settle down soon soberly into old married women, can
despise vanity. Well, I must tell you about the three, but you must keep
it a secret, dear, from _every one_, except, of course, Jonathan. You
will tell him, because I would, if I were in your place, certainly tell
Arthur. A woman ought to tell her husband everything--don’t you think
so, dear?--and I must be fair. Men like women, certainly their wives, to
be quite as fair as they are; and women, I am afraid, are not always
quite as fair as they should be. Well, my dear, number One came just
before lunch. I told you of him, Dr. John Seward, the lunatic-asylum
man, with the strong jaw and the good forehead. He was very cool
outwardly, but was nervous all the same. He had evidently been schooling
himself as to all sorts of little things, and remembered them; but he
almost managed to sit down on his silk hat, which men don’t generally do
when they are cool, and then when he wanted to appear at ease he kept
playing with a lancet in a way that made me nearly scream. He spoke to
me, Mina, very straightforwardly. He told me how dear I was to him,
though he had known me so little, and what his life would be with me to
help and cheer him. He was going to tell me how unhappy he would be if I
did not care for him, but when he saw me cry he said that he was a brute
and would not add to my present trouble. Then he broke off and asked if
I could love him in time; and when I shook my head his hands trembled,
and then with some hesitation he asked me if I cared already for any one
else. He put it very nicely, saying that he did not want to wring my
confidence from me, but only to know, because if a woman’s heart was
free a man might have hope. And then, Mina, I felt a sort of duty to
tell him that there was some one. I only told him that much, and then he
stood up, and he looked very strong and very grave as he took both my
hands in his and said he hoped I would be happy, and that if I ever
wanted a friend I must count him one of my best. Oh, Mina dear, I can’t
help crying: and you must excuse this letter being all blotted. Being
proposed to is all very nice and all that sort of thing, but it isn’t at
all a happy thing when you have to see a poor fellow, whom you know
loves you honestly, going away and looking all broken-hearted, and to
know that, no matter what he may say at the moment, you are passing
quite out of his life. My dear, I must stop here at present, I feel so
miserable, though I am so happy.

“_Evening._

“Arthur has just gone, and I feel in better spirits than when I left
off, so I can go on telling you about the day. Well, my dear, number Two
came after lunch. He is such a nice fellow, an American from Texas, and
he looks so young and so fresh that it seems almost impossible that he
has been to so many places and has had such adventures. I sympathise
with poor Desdemona when she had such a dangerous stream poured in her
ear, even by a black man. I suppose that we women are such cowards that
we think a man will save us from fears, and we marry him. I know now
what I would do if I were a man and wanted to make a girl love me. No, I
don’t, for there was Mr. Morris telling us his stories, and Arthur never
told any, and yet---- My dear, I am somewhat previous. Mr. Quincey P.
Morris found me alone. It seems that a man always does find a girl
alone. No, he doesn’t, for Arthur tried twice to _make_ a chance, and I
helping him all I could; I am not ashamed to say it now. I must tell you
beforehand that Mr. Morris doesn’t always speak slang--that is to say,
he never does so to strangers or before them, for he is really well
educated and has exquisite manners--but he found out that it amused me
to hear him talk American slang, and whenever I was present, and there
was no one to be shocked, he said such funny things. I am afraid, my
dear, he has to invent it all, for it fits exactly into whatever else he
has to say. But this is a way slang has. I do not know myself if I shall
ever speak slang; I do not know if Arthur likes it, as I have never
heard him use any as yet. Well, Mr. Morris sat down beside me and looked
as happy and jolly as he could, but I could see all the same that he was
very nervous. He took my hand in his, and said ever so sweetly:--

“‘Miss Lucy, I know I ain’t good enough to regulate the fixin’s of your
little shoes, but I guess if you wait till you find a man that is you
will go join them seven young women with the lamps when you quit. Won’t
you just hitch up alongside of me and let us go down the long road
together, driving in double harness?’

“Well, he did look so good-humoured and so jolly that it didn’t seem
half so hard to refuse him as it did poor Dr. Seward; so I said, as
lightly as I could, that I did not know anything of hitching, and that I
wasn’t broken to harness at all yet. Then he said that he had spoken in
a light manner, and he hoped that if he had made a mistake in doing so
on so grave, so momentous, an occasion for him, I would forgive him. He
really did look serious when he was saying it, and I couldn’t help
feeling a bit serious too--I know, Mina, you will think me a horrid
flirt--though I couldn’t help feeling a sort of exultation that he was
number two in one day. And then, my dear, before I could say a word he
began pouring out a perfect torrent of love-making, laying his very
heart and soul at my feet. He looked so earnest over it that I shall
never again think that a man must be playful always, and never earnest,
because he is merry at times. I suppose he saw something in my face
which checked him, for he suddenly stopped, and said with a sort of
manly fervour that I could have loved him for if I had been free:--

“‘Lucy, you are an honest-hearted girl, I know. I should not be here
speaking to you as I am now if I did not believe you clean grit, right
through to the very depths of your soul. Tell me, like one good fellow
to another, is there any one else that you care for? And if there is
I’ll never trouble you a hair’s breadth again, but will be, if you will
let me, a very faithful friend.’

“My dear Mina, why are men so noble when we women are so little worthy
of them? Here was I almost making fun of this great-hearted, true
gentleman. I burst into tears--I am afraid, my dear, you will think
this a very sloppy letter in more ways than one--and I really felt very
badly. Why can’t they let a girl marry three men, or as many as want
her, and save all this trouble? But this is heresy, and I must not say
it. I am glad to say that, though I was crying, I was able to look into
Mr. Morris’s brave eyes, and I told him out straight:--

“‘Yes, there is some one I love, though he has not told me yet that he
even loves me.’ I was right to speak to him so frankly, for quite a
light came into his face, and he put out both his hands and took mine--I
think I put them into his--and said in a hearty way:--

“‘That’s my brave girl. It’s better worth being late for a chance of
winning you than being in time for any other girl in the world. Don’t
cry, my dear. If it’s for me, I’m a hard nut to crack; and I take it
standing up. If that other fellow doesn’t know his happiness, well, he’d
better look for it soon, or he’ll have to deal with me. Little girl,
your honesty and pluck have made me a friend, and that’s rarer than a
lover; it’s more unselfish anyhow. My dear, I’m going to have a pretty
lonely walk between this and Kingdom Come. Won’t you give me one kiss?
It’ll be something to keep off the darkness now and then. You can, you
know, if you like, for that other good fellow--he must be a good fellow,
my dear, and a fine fellow, or you could not love him--hasn’t spoken
yet.’ That quite won me, Mina, for it _was_ brave and sweet of him, and
noble, too, to a rival--wasn’t it?--and he so sad; so I leant over and
kissed him. He stood up with my two hands in his, and as he looked down
into my face--I am afraid I was blushing very much--he said:--

“‘Little girl, I hold your hand, and you’ve kissed me, and if these
things don’t make us friends nothing ever will. Thank you for your sweet
honesty to me, and good-bye.’ He wrung my hand, and taking up his hat,
went straight out of the room without looking back, without a tear or a
quiver or a pause; and I am crying like a baby. Oh, why must a man like
that be made unhappy when there are lots of girls about who would
worship the very ground he trod on? I know I would if I were free--only
I don’t want to be free. My dear, this quite upset me, and I feel I
cannot write of happiness just at once, after telling you of it; and I
don’t wish to tell of the number three until it can be all happy.

“Ever your loving

“LUCY.

“P.S.--Oh, about number Three--I needn’t tell you of number Three, need
I? Besides, it was all so confused; it seemed only a moment from his
coming into the room till both his arms were round me, and he was
kissing me. I am very, very happy, and I don’t know what I have done to
deserve it. I must only try in the future to show that I am not
ungrateful to God for all His goodness to me in sending to me such a
lover, such a husband, and such a friend.

“Good-bye.”


_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

(Kept in phonograph)

_25 May._--Ebb tide in appetite to-day. Cannot eat, cannot rest, so
diary instead. Since my rebuff of yesterday I have a sort of empty
feeling; nothing in the world seems of sufficient importance to be worth
the doing.... As I knew that the only cure for this sort of thing was
work, I went down amongst the patients. I picked out one who has
afforded me a study of much interest. He is so quaint that I am
determined to understand him as well as I can. To-day I seemed to get
nearer than ever before to the heart of his mystery.

I questioned him more fully than I had ever done, with a view to making
myself master of the facts of his hallucination. In my manner of doing
it there was, I now see, something of cruelty. I seemed to wish to keep
him to the point of his madness--a thing which I avoid with the patients
as I would the mouth of hell.

(_Mem._, under what circumstances would I _not_ avoid the pit of hell?)
_Omnia Romæ venalia sunt._ Hell has its price! _verb. sap._ If there be
anything behind this instinct it will be valuable to trace it afterwards
_accurately_, so I had better commence to do so, therefore--

R. M. Renfield, ætat 59.--Sanguine temperament; great physical strength;
morbidly excitable; periods of gloom, ending in some fixed idea which I
cannot make out. I presume that the sanguine temperament itself and the
disturbing influence end in a mentally-accomplished finish; a possibly
dangerous man, probably dangerous if unselfish. In selfish men caution
is as secure an armour for their foes as for themselves. What I think of
on this point is, when self is the fixed point the centripetal force is
balanced with the centrifugal; when duty, a cause, etc., is the fixed
point, the latter force is paramount, and only accident or a series of
accidents can balance it.


_Letter, Quincey P. Morris to Hon. Arthur Holmwood._

“_25 May._

“My dear Art,--

“We’ve told yarns by the camp-fire in the prairies; and dressed one
another’s wounds after trying a landing at the Marquesas; and drunk
healths on the shore of Titicaca. There are more yarns to be told, and
other wounds to be healed, and another health to be drunk. Won’t you let
this be at my camp-fire to-morrow night? I have no hesitation in asking
you, as I know a certain lady is engaged to a certain dinner-party, and
that you are free. There will only be one other, our old pal at the
Korea, Jack Seward. He’s coming, too, and we both want to mingle our
weeps over the wine-cup, and to drink a health with all our hearts to
the happiest man in all the wide world, who has won the noblest heart
that God has made and the best worth winning. We promise you a hearty
welcome, and a loving greeting, and a health as true as your own right
hand. We shall both swear to leave you at home if you drink too deep to
a certain pair of eyes. Come!

“Yours, as ever and always,

“QUINCEY P. MORRIS.”


_Telegram from Arthur Holmwood to Quincey P. Morris._

“_26 May._

“Count me in every time. I bear messages which will make both your ears
tingle.

“ART.”




CHAPTER VI

MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL


_24 July. Whitby._--Lucy met me at the station, looking sweeter and
lovelier than ever, and we drove up to the house at the Crescent in
which they have rooms. This is a lovely place. The little river, the
Esk, runs through a deep valley, which broadens out as it comes near the
harbour. A great viaduct runs across, with high piers, through which the
view seems somehow further away than it really is. The valley is
beautifully green, and it is so steep that when you are on the high land
on either side you look right across it, unless you are near enough to
see down. The houses of the old town--the side away from us--are all
red-roofed, and seem piled up one over the other anyhow, like the
pictures we see of Nuremberg. Right over the town is the ruin of Whitby
Abbey, which was sacked by the Danes, and which is the scene of part of
“Marmion,” where the girl was built up in the wall. It is a most noble
ruin, of immense size, and full of beautiful and romantic bits; there is
a legend that a white lady is seen in one of the windows. Between it and
the town there is another church, the parish one, round which is a big
graveyard, all full of tombstones. This is to my mind the nicest spot in
Whitby, for it lies right over the town, and has a full view of the
harbour and all up the bay to where the headland called Kettleness
stretches out into the sea. It descends so steeply over the harbour that
part of the bank has fallen away, and some of the graves have been
destroyed. In one place part of the stonework of the graves stretches
out over the sandy pathway far below. There are walks, with seats beside
them, through the churchyard; and people go and sit there all day long
looking at the beautiful view and enjoying the breeze. I shall come and
sit here very often myself and work. Indeed, I am writing now, with my
book on my knee, and listening to the talk of three old men who are
sitting beside me. They seem to do nothing all day but sit up here and
talk.

The harbour lies below me, with, on the far side, one long granite wall
stretching out into the sea, with a curve outwards at the end of it, in
the middle of which is a lighthouse. A heavy sea-wall runs along outside
of it. On the near side, the sea-wall makes an elbow crooked inversely,
and its end too has a lighthouse. Between the two piers there is a
narrow opening into the harbour, which then suddenly widens.

It is nice at high water; but when the tide is out it shoals away to
nothing, and there is merely the stream of the Esk, running between
banks of sand, with rocks here and there. Outside the harbour on this
side there rises for about half a mile a great reef, the sharp edge of
which runs straight out from behind the south lighthouse. At the end of
it is a buoy with a bell, which swings in bad weather, and sends in a
mournful sound on the wind. They have a legend here that when a ship is
lost bells are heard out at sea. I must ask the old man about this; he
is coming this way....

He is a funny old man. He must be awfully old, for his face is all
gnarled and twisted like the bark of a tree. He tells me that he is
nearly a hundred, and that he was a sailor in the Greenland fishing
fleet when Waterloo was fought. He is, I am afraid, a very sceptical
person, for when I asked him about the bells at sea and the White Lady
at the abbey he said very brusquely:--

“I wouldn’t fash masel’ about them, miss. Them things be all wore out.
Mind, I don’t say that they never was, but I do say that they wasn’t in
my time. They be all very well for comers and trippers, an’ the like,
but not for a nice young lady like you. Them feet-folks from York and
Leeds that be always eatin’ cured herrin’s an’ drinkin’ tea an’ lookin’
out to buy cheap jet would creed aught. I wonder masel’ who’d be
bothered tellin’ lies to them--even the newspapers, which is full of
fool-talk.” I thought he would be a good person to learn interesting
things from, so I asked him if he would mind telling me something about
the whale-fishing in the old days. He was just settling himself to begin
when the clock struck six, whereupon he laboured to get up, and said:--

“I must gang ageeanwards home now, miss. My grand-daughter doesn’t like
to be kept waitin’ when the tea is ready, for it takes me time to
crammle aboon the grees, for there be a many of ’em; an’, miss, I lack
belly-timber sairly by the clock.”

He hobbled away, and I could see him hurrying, as well as he could, down
the steps. The steps are a great feature on the place. They lead from
the town up to the church, there are hundreds of them--I do not know how
many--and they wind up in a delicate curve; the slope is so gentle that
a horse could easily walk up and down them. I think they must originally
have had something to do with the abbey. I shall go home too. Lucy went
out visiting with her mother, and as they were only duty calls, I did
not go. They will be home by this.

       *       *       *       *       *

_1 August._--I came up here an hour ago with Lucy, and we had a most
interesting talk with my old friend and the two others who always come
and join him. He is evidently the Sir Oracle of them, and I should think
must have been in his time a most dictatorial person. He will not admit
anything, and downfaces everybody. If he can’t out-argue them he bullies
them, and then takes their silence for agreement with his views. Lucy
was looking sweetly pretty in her white lawn frock; she has got a
beautiful colour since she has been here. I noticed that the old men did
not lose any time in coming up and sitting near her when we sat down.
She is so sweet with old people; I think they all fell in love with her
on the spot. Even my old man succumbed and did not contradict her, but
gave me double share instead. I got him on the subject of the legends,
and he went off at once into a sort of sermon. I must try to remember it
and put it down:--

“It be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel; that’s what it be, an’
nowt else. These bans an’ wafts an’ boh-ghosts an’ barguests an’ bogles
an’ all anent them is only fit to set bairns an’ dizzy women
a-belderin’. They be nowt but air-blebs. They, an’ all grims an’ signs
an’ warnin’s, be all invented by parsons an’ illsome beuk-bodies an’
railway touters to skeer an’ scunner hafflin’s, an’ to get folks to do
somethin’ that they don’t other incline to. It makes me ireful to think
o’ them. Why, it’s them that, not content with printin’ lies on paper
an’ preachin’ them out of pulpits, does want to be cuttin’ them on the
tombstones. Look here all around you in what airt ye will; all them
steans, holdin’ up their heads as well as they can out of their pride,
is acant--simply tumblin’ down with the weight o’ the lies wrote on
them, ‘Here lies the body’ or ‘Sacred to the memory’ wrote on all of
them, an’ yet in nigh half of them there bean’t no bodies at all; an’
the memories of them bean’t cared a pinch of snuff about, much less
sacred. Lies all of them, nothin’ but lies of one kind or another! My
gog, but it’ll be a quare scowderment at the Day of Judgment when they
come tumblin’ up in their death-sarks, all jouped together an’ tryin’ to
drag their tombsteans with them to prove how good they was; some of them
trimmlin’ and ditherin’, with their hands that dozzened an’ slippy from
lyin’ in the sea that they can’t even keep their grup o’ them.”

I could see from the old fellow’s self-satisfied air and the way in
which he looked round for the approval of his cronies that he was
“showing off,” so I put in a word to keep him going:--

“Oh, Mr. Swales, you can’t be serious. Surely these tombstones are not
all wrong?”

“Yabblins! There may be a poorish few not wrong, savin’ where they make
out the people too good; for there be folk that do think a balm-bowl be
like the sea, if only it be their own. The whole thing be only lies. Now
look you here; you come here a stranger, an’ you see this kirk-garth.” I
nodded, for I thought it better to assent, though I did not quite
understand his dialect. I knew it had something to do with the church.
He went on: “And you consate that all these steans be aboon folk that be
happed here, snod an’ snog?” I assented again. “Then that be just where
the lie comes in. Why, there be scores of these lay-beds that be toom as
old Dun’s ’bacca-box on Friday night.” He nudged one of his companions,
and they all laughed. “And my gog! how could they be otherwise? Look at
that one, the aftest abaft the bier-bank: read it!” I went over and
read:--

“Edward Spencelagh, master mariner, murdered by pirates off the coast of
Andres, April, 1854, æt. 30.” When I came back Mr. Swales went on:--

“Who brought him home, I wonder, to hap him here? Murdered off the coast
of Andres! an’ you consated his body lay under! Why, I could name ye a
dozen whose bones lie in the Greenland seas above”--he pointed
northwards--“or where the currents may have drifted them. There be the
steans around ye. Ye can, with your young eyes, read the small-print of
the lies from here. This Braithwaite Lowrey--I knew his father, lost in
the _Lively_ off Greenland in ’20; or Andrew Woodhouse, drowned in the
same seas in 1777; or John Paxton, drowned off Cape Farewell a year
later; or old John Rawlings, whose grandfather sailed with me, drowned
in the Gulf of Finland in ’50. Do ye think that all these men will have
to make a rush to Whitby when the trumpet sounds? I have me antherums
aboot it! I tell ye that when they got here they’d be jommlin’ an’
jostlin’ one another that way that it ’ud be like a fight up on the ice
in the old days, when we’d be at one another from daylight to dark, an’
tryin’ to tie up our cuts by the light of the aurora borealis.” This was
evidently local pleasantry, for the old man cackled over it, and his
cronies joined in with gusto.

“But,” I said, “surely you are not quite correct, for you start on the
assumption that all the poor people, or their spirits, will have to
take their tombstones with them on the Day of Judgment. Do you think
that will be really necessary?”

“Well, what else be they tombstones for? Answer me that, miss!”

“To please their relatives, I suppose.”

“To please their relatives, you suppose!” This he said with intense
scorn. “How will it pleasure their relatives to know that lies is wrote
over them, and that everybody in the place knows that they be lies?” He
pointed to a stone at our feet which had been laid down as a slab, on
which the seat was rested, close to the edge of the cliff. “Read the
lies on that thruff-stean,” he said. The letters were upside down to me
from where I sat, but Lucy was more opposite to them, so she leant over
and read:--

“Sacred to the memory of George Canon, who died, in the hope of a
glorious resurrection, on July, 29, 1873, falling from the rocks at
Kettleness. This tomb was erected by his sorrowing mother to her dearly
beloved son. ‘He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.’
Really, Mr. Swales, I don’t see anything very funny in that!” She spoke
her comment very gravely and somewhat severely.

“Ye don’t see aught funny! Ha! ha! But that’s because ye don’t gawm the
sorrowin’ mother was a hell-cat that hated him because he was
acrewk’d--a regular lamiter he was--an’ he hated her so that he
committed suicide in order that she mightn’t get an insurance she put on
his life. He blew nigh the top of his head off with an old musket that
they had for scarin’ the crows with. ’Twarn’t for crows then, for it
brought the clegs and the dowps to him. That’s the way he fell off the
rocks. And, as to hopes of a glorious resurrection, I’ve often heard him
say masel’ that he hoped he’d go to hell, for his mother was so pious
that she’d be sure to go to heaven, an’ he didn’t want to addle where
she was. Now isn’t that stean at any rate”--he hammered it with his
stick as he spoke--“a pack of lies? and won’t it make Gabriel keckle
when Geordie comes pantin’ up the grees with the tombstean balanced on
his hump, and asks it to be took as evidence!”

I did not know what to say, but Lucy turned the conversation as she
said, rising up:--

“Oh, why did you tell us of this? It is my favourite seat, and I cannot
leave it; and now I find I must go on sitting over the grave of a
suicide.”

“That won’t harm ye, my pretty; an’ it may make poor Geordie gladsome to
have so trim a lass sittin’ on his lap. That won’t hurt ye. Why, I’ve
sat here off an’ on for nigh twenty years past, an’ it hasn’t done me
no harm. Don’t ye fash about them as lies under ye, or that doesn’ lie
there either! It’ll be time for ye to be getting scart when ye see the
tombsteans all run away with, and the place as bare as a stubble-field.
There’s the clock, an’ I must gang. My service to ye, ladies!” And off
he hobbled.

Lucy and I sat awhile, and it was all so beautiful before us that we
took hands as we sat; and she told me all over again about Arthur and
their coming marriage. That made me just a little heart-sick, for I
haven’t heard from Jonathan for a whole month.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The same day._ I came up here alone, for I am very sad. There was no
letter for me. I hope there cannot be anything the matter with Jonathan.
The clock has just struck nine. I see the lights scattered all over the
town, sometimes in rows where the streets are, and sometimes singly;
they run right up the Esk and die away in the curve of the valley. To my
left the view is cut off by a black line of roof of the old house next
the abbey. The sheep and lambs are bleating in the fields away behind
me, and there is a clatter of a donkey’s hoofs up the paved road below.
The band on the pier is playing a harsh waltz in good time, and further
along the quay there is a Salvation Army meeting in a back street.
Neither of the bands hears the other, but up here I hear and see them
both. I wonder where Jonathan is and if he is thinking of me! I wish he
were here.


_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

_5 June._--The case of Renfield grows more interesting the more I get to
understand the man. He has certain qualities very largely developed;
selfishness, secrecy, and purpose. I wish I could get at what is the
object of the latter. He seems to have some settled scheme of his own,
but what it is I do not yet know. His redeeming quality is a love of
animals, though, indeed, he has such curious turns in it that I
sometimes imagine he is only abnormally cruel. His pets are of odd
sorts. Just now his hobby is catching flies. He has at present such a
quantity that I have had myself to expostulate. To my astonishment, he
did not break out into a fury, as I expected, but took the matter in
simple seriousness. He thought for a moment, and then said: “May I have
three days? I shall clear them away.” Of course, I said that would do. I
must watch him.

       *       *       *       *       *

_18 June._--He has turned his mind now to spiders, and has got several
very big fellows in a box. He keeps feeding them with his flies, and
the number of the latter is becoming sensibly diminished, although he
has used half his food in attracting more flies from outside to his
room.

       *       *       *       *       *

_1 July._--His spiders are now becoming as great a nuisance as his
flies, and to-day I told him that he must get rid of them. He looked
very sad at this, so I said that he must clear out some of them, at all
events. He cheerfully acquiesced in this, and I gave him the same time
as before for reduction. He disgusted me much while with him, for when a
horrid blow-fly, bloated with some carrion food, buzzed into the room,
he caught it, held it exultantly for a few moments between his finger
and thumb, and, before I knew what he was going to do, put it in his
mouth and ate it. I scolded him for it, but he argued quietly that it
was very good and very wholesome; that it was life, strong life, and
gave life to him. This gave me an idea, or the rudiment of one. I must
watch how he gets rid of his spiders. He has evidently some deep problem
in his mind, for he keeps a little note-book in which he is always
jotting down something. Whole pages of it are filled with masses of
figures, generally single numbers added up in batches, and then the
totals added in batches again, as though he were “focussing” some
account, as the auditors put it.

       *       *       *       *       *

_8 July._--There is a method in his madness, and the rudimentary idea in
my mind is growing. It will be a whole idea soon, and then, oh,
unconscious cerebration! you will have to give the wall to your
conscious brother. I kept away from my friend for a few days, so that I
might notice if there were any change. Things remain as they were except
that he has parted with some of his pets and got a new one. He has
managed to get a sparrow, and has already partially tamed it. His means
of taming is simple, for already the spiders have diminished. Those that
do remain, however, are well fed, for he still brings in the flies by
tempting them with his food.

       *       *       *       *       *

_19 July._--We are progressing. My friend has now a whole colony of
sparrows, and his flies and spiders are almost obliterated. When I came
in he ran to me and said he wanted to ask me a great favour--a very,
very great favour; and as he spoke he fawned on me like a dog. I asked
him what it was, and he said, with a sort of rapture in his voice and
bearing:--

“A kitten, a nice little, sleek playful kitten, that I can play with,
and teach, and feed--and feed--and feed!” I was not unprepared for this
request, for I had noticed how his pets went on increasing in size and
vivacity, but I did not care that his pretty family of tame sparrows
should be wiped out in the same manner as the flies and the spiders; so
I said I would see about it, and asked him if he would not rather have a
cat than a kitten. His eagerness betrayed him as he answered:--

“Oh, yes, I would like a cat! I only asked for a kitten lest you should
refuse me a cat. No one would refuse me a kitten, would they?” I shook
my head, and said that at present I feared it would not be possible, but
that I would see about it. His face fell, and I could see a warning of
danger in it, for there was a sudden fierce, sidelong look which meant
killing. The man is an undeveloped homicidal maniac. I shall test him
with his present craving and see how it will work out; then I shall know
more.

       *       *       *       *       *

_10 p. m._--I have visited him again and found him sitting in a corner
brooding. When I came in he threw himself on his knees before me and
implored me to let him have a cat; that his salvation depended upon it.
I was firm, however, and told him that he could not have it, whereupon
he went without a word, and sat down, gnawing his fingers, in the corner
where I had found him. I shall see him in the morning early.

       *       *       *       *       *

_20 July._--Visited Renfield very early, before the attendant went his
rounds. Found him up and humming a tune. He was spreading out his sugar,
which he had saved, in the window, and was manifestly beginning his
fly-catching again; and beginning it cheerfully and with a good grace. I
looked around for his birds, and not seeing them, asked him where they
were. He replied, without turning round, that they had all flown away.
There were a few feathers about the room and on his pillow a drop of
blood. I said nothing, but went and told the keeper to report to me if
there were anything odd about him during the day.

       *       *       *       *       *

_11 a. m._--The attendant has just been to me to say that Renfield has
been very sick and has disgorged a whole lot of feathers. “My belief is,
doctor,” he said, “that he has eaten his birds, and that he just took
and ate them raw!”

       *       *       *       *       *

_11 p. m._--I gave Renfield a strong opiate to-night, enough to make
even him sleep, and took away his pocket-book to look at it. The thought
that has been buzzing about my brain lately is complete, and the theory
proved. My homicidal maniac is of a peculiar kind. I shall have to
invent a new classification for him, and call him a zoöphagous
(life-eating) maniac; what he desires is to absorb as many lives as he
can, and he has laid himself out to achieve it in a cumulative way. He
gave many flies to one spider and many spiders to one bird, and then
wanted a cat to eat the many birds. What would have been his later
steps? It would almost be worth while to complete the experiment. It
might be done if there were only a sufficient cause. Men sneered at
vivisection, and yet look at its results to-day! Why not advance science
in its most difficult and vital aspect--the knowledge of the brain? Had
I even the secret of one such mind--did I hold the key to the fancy of
even one lunatic--I might advance my own branch of science to a pitch
compared with which Burdon-Sanderson’s physiology or Ferrier’s
brain-knowledge would be as nothing. If only there were a sufficient
cause! I must not think too much of this, or I may be tempted; a good
cause might turn the scale with me, for may not I too be of an
exceptional brain, congenitally?

How well the man reasoned; lunatics always do within their own scope. I
wonder at how many lives he values a man, or if at only one. He has
closed the account most accurately, and to-day begun a new record. How
many of us begin a new record with each day of our lives?

To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with my new hope,
and that truly I began a new record. So it will be until the Great
Recorder sums me up and closes my ledger account with a balance to
profit or loss. Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot be angry with you, nor can I be
angry with my friend whose happiness is yours; but I must only wait on
hopeless and work. Work! work!

If I only could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend there--a
good, unselfish cause to make me work--that would be indeed happiness.


_Mina Murray’s Journal._

_26 July._--I am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself here; it
is like whispering to one’s self and listening at the same time. And
there is also something about the shorthand symbols that makes it
different from writing. I am unhappy about Lucy and about Jonathan. I
had not heard from Jonathan for some time, and was very concerned; but
yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins, who is always so kind, sent me a letter from
him. I had written asking him if he had heard, and he said the enclosed
had just been received. It is only a line dated from Castle Dracula,
and says that he is just starting for home. That is not like Jonathan;
I do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy. Then, too, Lucy,
although she is so well, has lately taken to her old habit of walking in
her sleep. Her mother has spoken to me about it, and we have decided
that I am to lock the door of our room every night. Mrs. Westenra has
got an idea that sleep-walkers always go out on roofs of houses and
along the edges of cliffs and then get suddenly wakened and fall over
with a despairing cry that echoes all over the place. Poor dear, she is
naturally anxious about Lucy, and she tells me that her husband, Lucy’s
father, had the same habit; that he would get up in the night and dress
himself and go out, if he were not stopped. Lucy is to be married in the
autumn, and she is already planning out her dresses and how her house is
to be arranged. I sympathise with her, for I do the same, only Jonathan
and I will start in life in a very simple way, and shall have to try to
make both ends meet. Mr. Holmwood--he is the Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only
son of Lord Godalming--is coming up here very shortly--as soon as he can
leave town, for his father is not very well, and I think dear Lucy is
counting the moments till he comes. She wants to take him up to the seat
on the churchyard cliff and show him the beauty of Whitby. I daresay it
is the waiting which disturbs her; she will be all right when he
arrives.

       *       *       *       *       *

_27 July._--No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy about him,
though why I should I do not know; but I do wish that he would write, if
it were only a single line. Lucy walks more than ever, and each night I
am awakened by her moving about the room. Fortunately, the weather is so
hot that she cannot get cold; but still the anxiety and the perpetually
being wakened is beginning to tell on me, and I am getting nervous and
wakeful myself. Thank God, Lucy’s health keeps up. Mr. Holmwood has been
suddenly called to Ring to see his father, who has been taken seriously
ill. Lucy frets at the postponement of seeing him, but it does not touch
her looks; she is a trifle stouter, and her cheeks are a lovely
rose-pink. She has lost that anæmic look which she had. I pray it will
all last.

       *       *       *       *       *

_3 August._--Another week gone, and no news from Jonathan, not even to
Mr. Hawkins, from whom I have heard. Oh, I do hope he is not ill. He
surely would have written. I look at that last letter of his, but
somehow it does not satisfy me. It does not read like him, and yet it is
his writing. There is no mistake of that. Lucy has not walked much in
her sleep the last week, but there is an odd concentration about her
which I do not understand; even in her sleep she seems to be watching
me. She tries the door, and finding it locked, goes about the room
searching for the key.

_6 August._--Another three days, and no news. This suspense is getting
dreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where to go to, I should
feel easier; but no one has heard a word of Jonathan since that last
letter. I must only pray to God for patience. Lucy is more excitable
than ever, but is otherwise well. Last night was very threatening, and
the fishermen say that we are in for a storm. I must try to watch it and
learn the weather signs. To-day is a grey day, and the sun as I write is
hidden in thick clouds, high over Kettleness. Everything is grey--except
the green grass, which seems like emerald amongst it; grey earthy rock;
grey clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the
grey sea, into which the sand-points stretch like grey fingers. The sea
is tumbling in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar,
muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost in a grey
mist. All is vastness; the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and
there is a “brool” over the sea that sounds like some presage of doom.
Dark figures are on the beach here and there, sometimes half shrouded in
the mist, and seem “men like trees walking.” The fishing-boats are
racing for home, and rise and dip in the ground swell as they sweep into
the harbour, bending to the scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales. He is
making straight for me, and I can see, by the way he lifts his hat, that
he wants to talk....

I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man. When he sat
down beside me, he said in a very gentle way:--

“I want to say something to you, miss.” I could see he was not at ease,
so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in mine and asked him to speak
fully; so he said, leaving his hand in mine:--

“I’m afraid, my deary, that I must have shocked you by all the wicked
things I’ve been sayin’ about the dead, and such like, for weeks past;
but I didn’t mean them, and I want ye to remember that when I’m gone. We
aud folks that be daffled, and with one foot abaft the krok-hooal, don’t
altogether like to think of it, and we don’t want to feel scart of it;
an’ that’s why I’ve took to makin’ light of it, so that I’d cheer up my
own heart a bit. But, Lord love ye, miss, I ain’t afraid of dyin’, not a
bit; only I don’t want to die if I can help it. My time must be nigh at
hand now, for I be aud, and a hundred years is too much for any man to
expect; and I’m so nigh it that the Aud Man is already whettin’ his
scythe. Ye see, I can’t get out o’ the habit of caffin’ about it all at
once; the chafts will wag as they be used to. Some day soon the Angel of
Death will sound his trumpet for me. But don’t ye dooal an’ greet, my
deary!”--for he saw that I was crying--“if he should come this very
night I’d not refuse to answer his call. For life be, after all, only a
waitin’ for somethin’ else than what we’re doin’; and death be all that
we can rightly depend on. But I’m content, for it’s comin’ to me, my
deary, and comin’ quick. It may be comin’ while we be lookin’ and
wonderin’. Maybe it’s in that wind out over the sea that’s bringin’ with
it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts. Look! look!” he
cried suddenly. “There’s something in that wind and in the hoast beyont
that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death. It’s in the
air; I feel it comin’. Lord, make me answer cheerful when my call
comes!” He held up his arms devoutly, and raised his hat. His mouth
moved as though he were praying. After a few minutes’ silence, he got
up, shook hands with me, and blessed me, and said good-bye, and hobbled
off. It all touched me, and upset me very much.

I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spy-glass under his
arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but all the time
kept looking at a strange ship.

“I can’t make her out,” he said; “she’s a Russian, by the look of her;
but she’s knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn’t know her mind
a bit; she seems to see the storm coming, but can’t decide whether to
run up north in the open, or to put in here. Look there again! She is
steered mighty strangely, for she doesn’t mind the hand on the wheel;
changes about with every puff of wind. We’ll hear more of her before
this time to-morrow.”




CHAPTER VII

CUTTING FROM “THE DAILYGRAPH,” 8 AUGUST


(_Pasted in Mina Murray’s Journal._)

From a Correspondent.

_Whitby_.

One of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been
experienced here, with results both strange and unique. The weather had
been somewhat sultry, but not to any degree uncommon in the month of
August. Saturday evening was as fine as was ever known, and the great
body of holiday-makers laid out yesterday for visits to Mulgrave Woods,
Robin Hood’s Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes, and the various trips in
the neighbourhood of Whitby. The steamers _Emma_ and _Scarborough_ made
trips up and down the coast, and there was an unusual amount of
“tripping” both to and from Whitby. The day was unusually fine till the
afternoon, when some of the gossips who frequent the East Cliff
churchyard, and from that commanding eminence watch the wide sweep of
sea visible to the north and east, called attention to a sudden show of
“mares’-tails” high in the sky to the north-west. The wind was then
blowing from the south-west in the mild degree which in barometrical
language is ranked “No. 2: light breeze.” The coastguard on duty at once
made report, and one old fisherman, who for more than half a century has
kept watch on weather signs from the East Cliff, foretold in an emphatic
manner the coming of a sudden storm. The approach of sunset was so very
beautiful, so grand in its masses of splendidly-coloured clouds, that
there was quite an assemblage on the walk along the cliff in the old
churchyard to enjoy the beauty. Before the sun dipped below the black
mass of Kettleness, standing boldly athwart the western sky, its
downward way was marked by myriad clouds of every sunset-colour--flame,
purple, pink, green, violet, and all the tints of gold; with here and
there masses not large, but of seemingly absolute blackness, in all
sorts of shapes, as well outlined as colossal silhouettes. The
experience was not lost on the painters, and doubtless some of the
sketches of the “Prelude to the Great Storm” will grace the R. A. and R.
I. walls in May next. More than one captain made up his mind then and
there that his “cobble” or his “mule,” as they term the different
classes of boats, would remain in the harbour till the storm had passed.
The wind fell away entirely during the evening, and at midnight there
was a dead calm, a sultry heat, and that prevailing intensity which, on
the approach of thunder, affects persons of a sensitive nature. There
were but few lights in sight at sea, for even the coasting steamers,
which usually “hug” the shore so closely, kept well to seaward, and but
few fishing-boats were in sight. The only sail noticeable was a foreign
schooner with all sails set, which was seemingly going westwards. The
foolhardiness or ignorance of her officers was a prolific theme for
comment whilst she remained in sight, and efforts were made to signal
her to reduce sail in face of her danger. Before the night shut down she
was seen with sails idly flapping as she gently rolled on the undulating
swell of the sea,

    “As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.”

Shortly before ten o’clock the stillness of the air grew quite
oppressive, and the silence was so marked that the bleating of a sheep
inland or the barking of a dog in the town was distinctly heard, and the
band on the pier, with its lively French air, was like a discord in the
great harmony of nature’s silence. A little after midnight came a
strange sound from over the sea, and high overhead the air began to
carry a strange, faint, hollow booming.

Then without warning the tempest broke. With a rapidity which, at the
time, seemed incredible, and even afterwards is impossible to realize,
the whole aspect of nature at once became convulsed. The waves rose in
growing fury, each overtopping its fellow, till in a very few minutes
the lately glassy sea was like a roaring and devouring monster.
White-crested waves beat madly on the level sands and rushed up the
shelving cliffs; others broke over the piers, and with their spume swept
the lanthorns of the lighthouses which rise from the end of either pier
of Whitby Harbour. The wind roared like thunder, and blew with such
force that it was with difficulty that even strong men kept their feet,
or clung with grim clasp to the iron stanchions. It was found necessary
to clear the entire piers from the mass of onlookers, or else the
fatalities of the night would have been increased manifold. To add to
the difficulties and dangers of the time, masses of sea-fog came
drifting inland--white, wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly fashion,
so dank and damp and cold that it needed but little effort of
imagination to think that the spirits of those lost at sea were
touching their living brethren with the clammy hands of death, and many
a one shuddered as the wreaths of sea-mist swept by. At times the mist
cleared, and the sea for some distance could be seen in the glare of the
lightning, which now came thick and fast, followed by such sudden peals
of thunder that the whole sky overhead seemed trembling under the shock
of the footsteps of the storm.

Some of the scenes thus revealed were of immeasurable grandeur and of
absorbing interest--the sea, running mountains high, threw skywards with
each wave mighty masses of white foam, which the tempest seemed to
snatch at and whirl away into space; here and there a fishing-boat, with
a rag of sail, running madly for shelter before the blast; now and again
the white wings of a storm-tossed sea-bird. On the summit of the East
Cliff the new searchlight was ready for experiment, but had not yet been
tried. The officers in charge of it got it into working order, and in
the pauses of the inrushing mist swept with it the surface of the sea.
Once or twice its service was most effective, as when a fishing-boat,
with gunwale under water, rushed into the harbour, able, by the guidance
of the sheltering light, to avoid the danger of dashing against the
piers. As each boat achieved the safety of the port there was a shout of
joy from the mass of people on shore, a shout which for a moment seemed
to cleave the gale and was then swept away in its rush.

Before long the searchlight discovered some distance away a schooner
with all sails set, apparently the same vessel which had been noticed
earlier in the evening. The wind had by this time backed to the east,
and there was a shudder amongst the watchers on the cliff as they
realized the terrible danger in which she now was. Between her and the
port lay the great flat reef on which so many good ships have from time
to time suffered, and, with the wind blowing from its present quarter,
it would be quite impossible that she should fetch the entrance of the
harbour. It was now nearly the hour of high tide, but the waves were so
great that in their troughs the shallows of the shore were almost
visible, and the schooner, with all sails set, was rushing with such
speed that, in the words of one old salt, “she must fetch up somewhere,
if it was only in hell.” Then came another rush of sea-fog, greater than
any hitherto--a mass of dank mist, which seemed to close on all things
like a grey pall, and left available to men only the organ of hearing,
for the roar of the tempest, and the crash of the thunder, and the
booming of the mighty billows came through the damp oblivion even louder
than before. The rays of the searchlight were kept fixed on the harbour
mouth across the East Pier, where the shock was expected, and men waited
breathless. The wind suddenly shifted to the north-east, and the remnant
of the sea-fog melted in the blast; and then, _mirabile dictu_, between
the piers, leaping from wave to wave as it rushed at headlong speed,
swept the strange schooner before the blast, with all sail set, and
gained the safety of the harbour. The searchlight followed her, and a
shudder ran through all who saw her, for lashed to the helm was a
corpse, with drooping head, which swung horribly to and fro at each
motion of the ship. No other form could be seen on deck at all. A great
awe came on all as they realised that the ship, as if by a miracle, had
found the harbour, unsteered save by the hand of a dead man! However,
all took place more quickly than it takes to write these words. The
schooner paused not, but rushing across the harbour, pitched herself on
that accumulation of sand and gravel washed by many tides and many
storms into the south-east corner of the pier jutting under the East
Cliff, known locally as Tate Hill Pier.

There was of course a considerable concussion as the vessel drove up on
the sand heap. Every spar, rope, and stay was strained, and some of the
“top-hammer” came crashing down. But, strangest of all, the very instant
the shore was touched, an immense dog sprang up on deck from below, as
if shot up by the concussion, and running forward, jumped from the bow
on the sand. Making straight for the steep cliff, where the churchyard
hangs over the laneway to the East Pier so steeply that some of the flat
tombstones--“thruff-steans” or “through-stones,” as they call them in
the Whitby vernacular--actually project over where the sustaining cliff
has fallen away, it disappeared in the darkness, which seemed
intensified just beyond the focus of the searchlight.

It so happened that there was no one at the moment on Tate Hill Pier, as
all those whose houses are in close proximity were either in bed or were
out on the heights above. Thus the coastguard on duty on the eastern
side of the harbour, who at once ran down to the little pier, was the
first to climb on board. The men working the searchlight, after scouring
the entrance of the harbour without seeing anything, then turned the
light on the derelict and kept it there. The coastguard ran aft, and
when he came beside the wheel, bent over to examine it, and recoiled at
once as though under some sudden emotion. This seemed to pique general
curiosity, and quite a number of people began to run. It is a good way
round from the West Cliff by the Drawbridge to Tate Hill Pier, but your
correspondent is a fairly good runner, and came well ahead of the crowd.
When I arrived, however, I found already assembled on the pier a crowd,
whom the coastguard and police refused to allow to come on board. By the
courtesy of the chief boatman, I was, as your correspondent, permitted
to climb on deck, and was one of a small group who saw the dead seaman
whilst actually lashed to the wheel.

It was no wonder that the coastguard was surprised, or even awed, for
not often can such a sight have been seen. The man was simply fastened
by his hands, tied one over the other, to a spoke of the wheel. Between
the inner hand and the wood was a crucifix, the set of beads on which it
was fastened being around both wrists and wheel, and all kept fast by
the binding cords. The poor fellow may have been seated at one time, but
the flapping and buffeting of the sails had worked through the rudder of
the wheel and dragged him to and fro, so that the cords with which he
was tied had cut the flesh to the bone. Accurate note was made of the
state of things, and a doctor--Surgeon J. M. Caffyn, of 33, East Elliot
Place--who came immediately after me, declared, after making
examination, that the man must have been dead for quite two days. In his
pocket was a bottle, carefully corked, empty save for a little roll of
paper, which proved to be the addendum to the log. The coastguard said
the man must have tied up his own hands, fastening the knots with his
teeth. The fact that a coastguard was the first on board may save some
complications, later on, in the Admiralty Court; for coastguards cannot
claim the salvage which is the right of the first civilian entering on a
derelict. Already, however, the legal tongues are wagging, and one young
law student is loudly asserting that the rights of the owner are already
completely sacrificed, his property being held in contravention of the
statutes of mortmain, since the tiller, as emblemship, if not proof, of
delegated possession, is held in a _dead hand_. It is needless to say
that the dead steersman has been reverently removed from the place where
he held his honourable watch and ward till death--a steadfastness as
noble as that of the young Casabianca--and placed in the mortuary to
await inquest.

Already the sudden storm is passing, and its fierceness is abating;
crowds are scattering homeward, and the sky is beginning to redden over
the Yorkshire wolds. I shall send, in time for your next issue, further
details of the derelict ship which found her way so miraculously into
harbour in the storm.

_Whitby_

_9 August._--The sequel to the strange arrival of the derelict in the
storm last night is almost more startling than the thing itself. It
turns out that the schooner is a Russian from Varna, and is called the
_Demeter_. She is almost entirely in ballast of silver sand, with only a
small amount of cargo--a number of great wooden boxes filled with mould.
This cargo was consigned to a Whitby solicitor, Mr. S. F. Billington, of
7, The Crescent, who this morning went aboard and formally took
possession of the goods consigned to him. The Russian consul, too,
acting for the charter-party, took formal possession of the ship, and
paid all harbour dues, etc. Nothing is talked about here to-day except
the strange coincidence; the officials of the Board of Trade have been
most exacting in seeing that every compliance has been made with
existing regulations. As the matter is to be a “nine days’ wonder,” they
are evidently determined that there shall be no cause of after
complaint. A good deal of interest was abroad concerning the dog which
landed when the ship struck, and more than a few of the members of the
S. P. C. A., which is very strong in Whitby, have tried to befriend the
animal. To the general disappointment, however, it was not to be found;
it seems to have disappeared entirely from the town. It may be that it
was frightened and made its way on to the moors, where it is still
hiding in terror. There are some who look with dread on such a
possibility, lest later on it should in itself become a danger, for it
is evidently a fierce brute. Early this morning a large dog, a half-bred
mastiff belonging to a coal merchant close to Tate Hill Pier, was found
dead in the roadway opposite to its master’s yard. It had been fighting,
and manifestly had had a savage opponent, for its throat was torn away,
and its belly was slit open as if with a savage claw.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--By the kindness of the Board of Trade inspector, I have been
permitted to look over the log-book of the _Demeter_, which was in order
up to within three days, but contained nothing of special interest
except as to facts of missing men. The greatest interest, however, is
with regard to the paper found in the bottle, which was to-day produced
at the inquest; and a more strange narrative than the two between them
unfold it has not been my lot to come across. As there is no motive for
concealment, I am permitted to use them, and accordingly send you a
rescript, simply omitting technical details of seamanship and
supercargo. It almost seems as though the captain had been seized with
some kind of mania before he had got well into blue water, and that
this had developed persistently throughout the voyage. Of course my
statement must be taken _cum grano_, since I am writing from the
dictation of a clerk of the Russian consul, who kindly translated for
me, time being short.

                         LOG OF THE “DEMETER.”


_Varna to Whitby._

_Written 18 July, things so strange happening, that I shall keep
accurate note henceforth till we land._

       *       *       *       *       *

On 6 July we finished taking in cargo, silver sand and boxes of earth.
At noon set sail. East wind, fresh. Crew, five hands ... two mates,
cook, and myself (captain).

       *       *       *       *       *

On 11 July at dawn entered Bosphorus. Boarded by Turkish Customs
officers. Backsheesh. All correct. Under way at 4 p. m.

       *       *       *       *       *

On 12 July through Dardanelles. More Customs officers and flagboat of
guarding squadron. Backsheesh again. Work of officers thorough, but
quick. Want us off soon. At dark passed into Archipelago.

       *       *       *       *       *

On 13 July passed Cape Matapan. Crew dissatisfied about something.
Seemed scared, but would not speak out.

       *       *       *       *       *

On 14 July was somewhat anxious about crew. Men all steady fellows, who
sailed with me before. Mate could not make out what was wrong; they only
told him there was _something_, and crossed themselves. Mate lost temper
with one of them that day and struck him. Expected fierce quarrel, but
all was quiet.

       *       *       *       *       *

On 16 July mate reported in the morning that one of crew, Petrofsky, was
missing. Could not account for it. Took larboard watch eight bells last
night; was relieved by Abramoff, but did not go to bunk. Men more
downcast than ever. All said they expected something of the kind, but
would not say more than there was _something_ aboard. Mate getting very
impatient with them; feared some trouble ahead.

       *       *       *       *       *

On 17 July, yesterday, one of the men, Olgaren, came to my cabin, and in
an awestruck way confided to me that he thought there was a strange man
aboard the ship. He said that in his watch he had been sheltering
behind the deck-house, as there was a rain-storm, when he saw a tall,
thin man, who was not like any of the crew, come up the companion-way,
and go along the deck forward, and disappear. He followed cautiously,
but when he got to bows found no one, and the hatchways were all closed.
He was in a panic of superstitious fear, and I am afraid the panic may
spread. To allay it, I shall to-day search entire ship carefully from
stem to stern.

       *       *       *       *       *

Later in the day I got together the whole crew, and told them, as they
evidently thought there was some one in the ship, we would search from
stem to stern. First mate angry; said it was folly, and to yield to such
foolish ideas would demoralise the men; said he would engage to keep
them out of trouble with a handspike. I let him take the helm, while the
rest began thorough search, all keeping abreast, with lanterns: we left
no corner unsearched. As there were only the big wooden boxes, there
were no odd corners where a man could hide. Men much relieved when
search over, and went back to work cheerfully. First mate scowled, but
said nothing.

       *       *       *       *       *

_22 July_.--Rough weather last three days, and all hands busy with
sails--no time to be frightened. Men seem to have forgotten their dread.
Mate cheerful again, and all on good terms. Praised men for work in bad
weather. Passed Gibralter and out through Straits. All well.

       *       *       *       *       *

_24 July_.--There seems some doom over this ship. Already a hand short,
and entering on the Bay of Biscay with wild weather ahead, and yet last
night another man lost--disappeared. Like the first, he came off his
watch and was not seen again. Men all in a panic of fear; sent a round
robin, asking to have double watch, as they fear to be alone. Mate
angry. Fear there will be some trouble, as either he or the men will do
some violence.

       *       *       *       *       *

_28 July_.--Four days in hell, knocking about in a sort of maelstrom,
and the wind a tempest. No sleep for any one. Men all worn out. Hardly
know how to set a watch, since no one fit to go on. Second mate
volunteered to steer and watch, and let men snatch a few hours’ sleep.
Wind abating; seas still terrific, but feel them less, as ship is
steadier.

       *       *       *       *       *

_29 July_.--Another tragedy. Had single watch to-night, as crew too
tired to double. When morning watch came on deck could find no one
except steersman. Raised outcry, and all came on deck. Thorough search,
but no one found. Are now without second mate, and crew in a panic. Mate
and I agreed to go armed henceforth and wait for any sign of cause.

       *       *       *       *       *

_30 July_.--Last night. Rejoiced we are nearing England. Weather fine,
all sails set. Retired worn out; slept soundly; awaked by mate telling
me that both man of watch and steersman missing. Only self and mate and
two hands left to work ship.

       *       *       *       *       *

_1 August_.--Two days of fog, and not a sail sighted. Had hoped when in
the English Channel to be able to signal for help or get in somewhere.
Not having power to work sails, have to run before wind. Dare not lower,
as could not raise them again. We seem to be drifting to some terrible
doom. Mate now more demoralised than either of men. His stronger nature
seems to have worked inwardly against himself. Men are beyond fear,
working stolidly and patiently, with minds made up to worst. They are
Russian, he Roumanian.

       *       *       *       *       *

_2 August, midnight_.--Woke up from few minutes’ sleep by hearing a cry,
seemingly outside my port. Could see nothing in fog. Rushed on deck, and
ran against mate. Tells me heard cry and ran, but no sign of man on
watch. One more gone. Lord, help us! Mate says we must be past Straits
of Dover, as in a moment of fog lifting he saw North Foreland, just as
he heard the man cry out. If so we are now off in the North Sea, and
only God can guide us in the fog, which seems to move with us; and God
seems to have deserted us.

       *       *       *       *       *

_3 August_.--At midnight I went to relieve the man at the wheel, and
when I got to it found no one there. The wind was steady, and as we ran
before it there was no yawing. I dared not leave it, so shouted for the
mate. After a few seconds he rushed up on deck in his flannels. He
looked wild-eyed and haggard, and I greatly fear his reason has given
way. He came close to me and whispered hoarsely, with his mouth to my
ear, as though fearing the very air might hear: “_It_ is here; I know
it, now. On the watch last night I saw It, like a man, tall and thin,
and ghastly pale. It was in the bows, and looking out. I crept behind
It, and gave It my knife; but the knife went through It, empty as the
air.” And as he spoke he took his knife and drove it savagely into
space. Then he went on: “But It is here, and I’ll find It. It is in the
hold, perhaps in one of those boxes. I’ll unscrew them one by one and
see. You work the helm.” And, with a warning look and his finger on his
lip, he went below. There was springing up a choppy wind, and I could
not leave the helm. I saw him come out on deck again with a tool-chest
and a lantern, and go down the forward hatchway. He is mad, stark,
raving mad, and it’s no use my trying to stop him. He can’t hurt those
big boxes: they are invoiced as “clay,” and to pull them about is as
harmless a thing as he can do. So here I stay, and mind the helm, and
write these notes. I can only trust in God and wait till the fog clears.
Then, if I can’t steer to any harbour with the wind that is, I shall cut
down sails and lie by, and signal for help....

       *       *       *       *       *

It is nearly all over now. Just as I was beginning to hope that the mate
would come out calmer--for I heard him knocking away at something in the
hold, and work is good for him--there came up the hatchway a sudden,
startled scream, which made my blood run cold, and up on the deck he
came as if shot from a gun--a raging madman, with his eyes rolling and
his face convulsed with fear. “Save me! save me!” he cried, and then
looked round on the blanket of fog. His horror turned to despair, and in
a steady voice he said: “You had better come too, captain, before it is
too late. _He_ is there. I know the secret now. The sea will save me
from Him, and it is all that is left!” Before I could say a word, or
move forward to seize him, he sprang on the bulwark and deliberately
threw himself into the sea. I suppose I know the secret too, now. It was
this madman who had got rid of the men one by one, and now he has
followed them himself. God help me! How am I to account for all these
horrors when I get to port? _When_ I get to port! Will that ever be?

       *       *       *       *       *

_4 August._--Still fog, which the sunrise cannot pierce. I know there is
sunrise because I am a sailor, why else I know not. I dared not go
below, I dared not leave the helm; so here all night I stayed, and in
the dimness of the night I saw It--Him! God forgive me, but the mate was
right to jump overboard. It was better to die like a man; to die like a
sailor in blue water no man can object. But I am captain, and I must not
leave my ship. But I shall baffle this fiend or monster, for I shall tie
my hands to the wheel when my strength begins to fail, and along with
them I shall tie that which He--It!--dare not touch; and then, come good
wind or foul, I shall save my soul, and my honour as a captain. I am
growing weaker, and the night is coming on. If He can look me in the
face again, I may not have time to act.... If we are wrecked, mayhap
this bottle may be found, and those who find it may understand; if not,
... well, then all men shall know that I have been true to my trust. God
and the Blessed Virgin and the saints help a poor ignorant soul trying
to do his duty....

       *       *       *       *       *

Of course the verdict was an open one. There is no evidence to adduce;
and whether or not the man himself committed the murders there is now
none to say. The folk here hold almost universally that the captain is
simply a hero, and he is to be given a public funeral. Already it is
arranged that his body is to be taken with a train of boats up the Esk
for a piece and then brought back to Tate Hill Pier and up the abbey
steps; for he is to be buried in the churchyard on the cliff. The owners
of more than a hundred boats have already given in their names as
wishing to follow him to the grave.

No trace has ever been found of the great dog; at which there is much
mourning, for, with public opinion in its present state, he would, I
believe, be adopted by the town. To-morrow will see the funeral; and so
will end this one more “mystery of the sea.”


_Mina Murray’s Journal._

_8 August._--Lucy was very restless all night, and I, too, could not
sleep. The storm was fearful, and as it boomed loudly among the
chimney-pots, it made me shudder. When a sharp puff came it seemed to be
like a distant gun. Strangely enough, Lucy did not wake; but she got up
twice and dressed herself. Fortunately, each time I awoke in time and
managed to undress her without waking her, and got her back to bed. It
is a very strange thing, this sleep-walking, for as soon as her will is
thwarted in any physical way, her intention, if there be any,
disappears, and she yields herself almost exactly to the routine of her
life.

Early in the morning we both got up and went down to the harbour to see
if anything had happened in the night. There were very few people about,
and though the sun was bright, and the air clear and fresh, the big,
grim-looking waves, that seemed dark themselves because the foam that
topped them was like snow, forced themselves in through the narrow mouth
of the harbour--like a bullying man going through a crowd. Somehow I
felt glad that Jonathan was not on the sea last night, but on land. But,
oh, is he on land or sea? Where is he, and how? I am getting fearfully
anxious about him. If I only knew what to do, and could do anything!

       *       *       *       *       *

_10 August._--The funeral of the poor sea-captain to-day was most
touching. Every boat in the harbour seemed to be there, and the coffin
was carried by captains all the way from Tate Hill Pier up to the
churchyard. Lucy came with me, and we went early to our old seat, whilst
the cortège of boats went up the river to the Viaduct and came down
again. We had a lovely view, and saw the procession nearly all the way.
The poor fellow was laid to rest quite near our seat so that we stood on
it when the time came and saw everything. Poor Lucy seemed much upset.
She was restless and uneasy all the time, and I cannot but think that
her dreaming at night is telling on her. She is quite odd in one thing:
she will not admit to me that there is any cause for restlessness; or if
there be, she does not understand it herself. There is an additional
cause in that poor old Mr. Swales was found dead this morning on our
seat, his neck being broken. He had evidently, as the doctor said,
fallen back in the seat in some sort of fright, for there was a look of
fear and horror on his face that the men said made them shudder. Poor
dear old man! Perhaps he had seen Death with his dying eyes! Lucy is so
sweet and sensitive that she feels influences more acutely than other
people do. Just now she was quite upset by a little thing which I did
not much heed, though I am myself very fond of animals. One of the men
who came up here often to look for the boats was followed by his dog.
The dog is always with him. They are both quiet persons, and I never saw
the man angry, nor heard the dog bark. During the service the dog would
not come to its master, who was on the seat with us, but kept a few
yards off, barking and howling. Its master spoke to it gently, and then
harshly, and then angrily; but it would neither come nor cease to make a
noise. It was in a sort of fury, with its eyes savage, and all its hairs
bristling out like a cat’s tail when puss is on the war-path. Finally
the man, too, got angry, and jumped down and kicked the dog, and then
took it by the scruff of the neck and half dragged and half threw it on
the tombstone on which the seat is fixed. The moment it touched the
stone the poor thing became quiet and fell all into a tremble. It did
not try to get away, but crouched down, quivering and cowering, and was
in such a pitiable state of terror that I tried, though without effect,
to comfort it. Lucy was full of pity, too, but she did not attempt to
touch the dog, but looked at it in an agonised sort of way. I greatly
fear that she is of too super-sensitive a nature to go through the world
without trouble. She will be dreaming of this to-night, I am sure. The
whole agglomeration of things--the ship steered into port by a dead
man; his attitude, tied to the wheel with a crucifix and beads; the
touching funeral; the dog, now furious and now in terror--will all
afford material for her dreams.

I think it will be best for her to go to bed tired out physically, so I
shall take her for a long walk by the cliffs to Robin Hood’s Bay and
back. She ought not to have much inclination for sleep-walking then.




CHAPTER VIII

MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL


_Same day, 11 o’clock p. m._--Oh, but I am tired! If it were not that I
had made my diary a duty I should not open it to-night. We had a lovely
walk. Lucy, after a while, was in gay spirits, owing, I think, to some
dear cows who came nosing towards us in a field close to the lighthouse,
and frightened the wits out of us. I believe we forgot everything
except, of course, personal fear, and it seemed to wipe the slate clean
and give us a fresh start. We had a capital “severe tea” at Robin Hood’s
Bay in a sweet little old-fashioned inn, with a bow-window right over
the seaweed-covered rocks of the strand. I believe we should have
shocked the “New Woman” with our appetites. Men are more tolerant, bless
them! Then we walked home with some, or rather many, stoppages to rest,
and with our hearts full of a constant dread of wild bulls. Lucy was
really tired, and we intended to creep off to bed as soon as we could.
The young curate came in, however, and Mrs. Westenra asked him to stay
for supper. Lucy and I had both a fight for it with the dusty miller; I
know it was a hard fight on my part, and I am quite heroic. I think that
some day the bishops must get together and see about breeding up a new
class of curates, who don’t take supper, no matter how they may be
pressed to, and who will know when girls are tired. Lucy is asleep and
breathing softly. She has more colour in her cheeks than usual, and
looks, oh, so sweet. If Mr. Holmwood fell in love with her seeing her
only in the drawing-room, I wonder what he would say if he saw her now.
Some of the “New Women” writers will some day start an idea that men and
women should be allowed to see each other asleep before proposing or
accepting. But I suppose the New Woman won’t condescend in future to
accept; she will do the proposing herself. And a nice job she will make
of it, too! There’s some consolation in that. I am so happy to-night,
because dear Lucy seems better. I really believe she has turned the
corner, and that we are over her troubles with dreaming. I should be
quite happy if I only knew if Jonathan.... God bless and keep him.

       *       *       *       *       *

_11 August, 3 a. m._--Diary again. No sleep now, so I may as well write.
I am too agitated to sleep. We have had such an adventure, such an
agonising experience. I fell asleep as soon as I had closed my diary....
Suddenly I became broad awake, and sat up, with a horrible sense of fear
upon me, and of some feeling of emptiness around me. The room was dark,
so I could not see Lucy’s bed; I stole across and felt for her. The bed
was empty. I lit a match and found that she was not in the room. The
door was shut, but not locked, as I had left it. I feared to wake her
mother, who has been more than usually ill lately, so threw on some
clothes and got ready to look for her. As I was leaving the room it
struck me that the clothes she wore might give me some clue to her
dreaming intention. Dressing-gown would mean house; dress, outside.
Dressing-gown and dress were both in their places. “Thank God,” I said
to myself, “she cannot be far, as she is only in her nightdress.” I ran
downstairs and looked in the sitting-room. Not there! Then I looked in
all the other open rooms of the house, with an ever-growing fear
chilling my heart. Finally I came to the hall door and found it open. It
was not wide open, but the catch of the lock had not caught. The people
of the house are careful to lock the door every night, so I feared that
Lucy must have gone out as she was. There was no time to think of what
might happen; a vague, overmastering fear obscured all details. I took a
big, heavy shawl and ran out. The clock was striking one as I was in the
Crescent, and there was not a soul in sight. I ran along the North
Terrace, but could see no sign of the white figure which I expected. At
the edge of the West Cliff above the pier I looked across the harbour to
the East Cliff, in the hope or fear--I don’t know which--of seeing Lucy
in our favourite seat. There was a bright full moon, with heavy black,
driving clouds, which threw the whole scene into a fleeting diorama of
light and shade as they sailed across. For a moment or two I could see
nothing, as the shadow of a cloud obscured St. Mary’s Church and all
around it. Then as the cloud passed I could see the ruins of the abbey
coming into view; and as the edge of a narrow band of light as sharp as
a sword-cut moved along, the church and the churchyard became gradually
visible. Whatever my expectation was, it was not disappointed, for
there, on our favourite seat, the silver light of the moon struck a
half-reclining figure, snowy white. The coming of the cloud was too
quick for me to see much, for shadow shut down on light almost
immediately; but it seemed to me as though something dark stood behind
the seat where the white figure shone, and bent over it. What it was,
whether man or beast, I could not tell; I did not wait to catch another
glance, but flew down the steep steps to the pier and along by the
fish-market to the bridge, which was the only way to reach the East
Cliff. The town seemed as dead, for not a soul did I see; I rejoiced
that it was so, for I wanted no witness of poor Lucy’s condition. The
time and distance seemed endless, and my knees trembled and my breath
came laboured as I toiled up the endless steps to the abbey. I must have
gone fast, and yet it seemed to me as if my feet were weighted with
lead, and as though every joint in my body were rusty. When I got almost
to the top I could see the seat and the white figure, for I was now
close enough to distinguish it even through the spells of shadow. There
was undoubtedly something, long and black, bending over the
half-reclining white figure. I called in fright, “Lucy! Lucy!” and
something raised a head, and from where I was I could see a white face
and red, gleaming eyes. Lucy did not answer, and I ran on to the
entrance of the churchyard. As I entered, the church was between me and
the seat, and for a minute or so I lost sight of her. When I came in
view again the cloud had passed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantly
that I could see Lucy half reclining with her head lying over the back
of the seat. She was quite alone, and there was not a sign of any living
thing about.

When I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep. Her lips
were parted, and she was breathing--not softly as usual with her, but in
long, heavy gasps, as though striving to get her lungs full at every
breath. As I came close, she put up her hand in her sleep and pulled the
collar of her nightdress close around her throat. Whilst she did so
there came a little shudder through her, as though she felt the cold. I
flung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges tight round her neck,
for I dreaded lest she should get some deadly chill from the night air,
unclad as she was. I feared to wake her all at once, so, in order to
have my hands free that I might help her, I fastened the shawl at her
throat with a big safety-pin; but I must have been clumsy in my anxiety
and pinched or pricked her with it, for by-and-by, when her breathing
became quieter, she put her hand to her throat again and moaned. When I
had her carefully wrapped up I put my shoes on her feet and then began
very gently to wake her. At first she did not respond; but gradually she
became more and more uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighing
occasionally. At last, as time was passing fast, and, for many other
reasons, I wished to get her home at once, I shook her more forcibly,
till finally she opened her eyes and awoke. She did not seem surprised
to see me, as, of course, she did not realise all at once where she was.
Lucy always wakes prettily, and even at such a time, when her body must
have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat appalled at waking
unclad in a churchyard at night, she did not lose her grace. She
trembled a little, and clung to me; when I told her to come at once with
me home she rose without a word, with the obedience of a child. As we
passed along, the gravel hurt my feet, and Lucy noticed me wince. She
stopped and wanted to insist upon my taking my shoes; but I would not.
However, when we got to the pathway outside the churchyard, where there
was a puddle of water, remaining from the storm, I daubed my feet with
mud, using each foot in turn on the other, so that as we went home, no
one, in case we should meet any one, should notice my bare feet.

Fortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a soul. Once we saw
a man, who seemed not quite sober, passing along a street in front of
us; but we hid in a door till he had disappeared up an opening such as
there are here, steep little closes, or “wynds,” as they call them in
Scotland. My heart beat so loud all the time that sometimes I thought I
should faint. I was filled with anxiety about Lucy, not only for her
health, lest she should suffer from the exposure, but for her reputation
in case the story should get wind. When we got in, and had washed our
feet, and had said a prayer of thankfulness together, I tucked her into
bed. Before falling asleep she asked--even implored--me not to say a
word to any one, even her mother, about her sleep-walking adventure. I
hesitated at first to promise; but on thinking of the state of her
mother’s health, and how the knowledge of such a thing would fret her,
and thinking, too, of how such a story might become distorted--nay,
infallibly would--in case it should leak out, I thought it wiser to do
so. I hope I did right. I have locked the door, and the key is tied to
my wrist, so perhaps I shall not be again disturbed. Lucy is sleeping
soundly; the reflex of the dawn is high and far over the sea....

       *       *       *       *       *

_Same day, noon._--All goes well. Lucy slept till I woke her and seemed
not to have even changed her side. The adventure of the night does not
seem to have harmed her; on the contrary, it has benefited her, for she
looks better this morning than she has done for weeks. I was sorry to
notice that my clumsiness with the safety-pin hurt her. Indeed, it might
have been serious, for the skin of her throat was pierced. I must have
pinched up a piece of loose skin and have transfixed it, for there are
two little red points like pin-pricks, and on the band of her nightdress
was a drop of blood. When I apologised and was concerned about it, she
laughed and petted me, and said she did not even feel it. Fortunately it
cannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Same day, night._--We passed a happy day. The air was clear, and the
sun bright, and there was a cool breeze. We took our lunch to Mulgrave
Woods, Mrs. Westenra driving by the road and Lucy and I walking by the
cliff-path and joining her at the gate. I felt a little sad myself, for
I could not but feel how _absolutely_ happy it would have been had
Jonathan been with me. But there! I must only be patient. In the evening
we strolled in the Casino Terrace, and heard some good music by Spohr
and Mackenzie, and went to bed early. Lucy seems more restful than she
has been for some time, and fell asleep at once. I shall lock the door
and secure the key the same as before, though I do not expect any
trouble to-night.

       *       *       *       *       *

_12 August._--My expectations were wrong, for twice during the night I
was wakened by Lucy trying to get out. She seemed, even in her sleep, to
be a little impatient at finding the door shut, and went back to bed
under a sort of protest. I woke with the dawn, and heard the birds
chirping outside of the window. Lucy woke, too, and, I was glad to see,
was even better than on the previous morning. All her old gaiety of
manner seemed to have come back, and she came and snuggled in beside me
and told me all about Arthur. I told her how anxious I was about
Jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me. Well, she succeeded
somewhat, for, though sympathy can’t alter facts, it can help to make
them more bearable.

       *       *       *       *       *

_13 August._--Another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my wrist as
before. Again I awoke in the night, and found Lucy sitting up in bed,
still asleep, pointing to the window. I got up quietly, and pulling
aside the blind, looked out. It was brilliant moonlight, and the soft
effect of the light over the sea and sky--merged together in one great,
silent mystery--was beautiful beyond words. Between me and the moonlight
flitted a great bat, coming and going in great whirling circles. Once or
twice it came quite close, but was, I suppose, frightened at seeing me,
and flitted away across the harbour towards the abbey. When I came back
from the window Lucy had lain down again, and was sleeping peacefully.
She did not stir again all night.

       *       *       *       *       *

_14 August._--On the East Cliff, reading and writing all day. Lucy seems
to have become as much in love with the spot as I am, and it is hard to
get her away from it when it is time to come home for lunch or tea or
dinner. This afternoon she made a funny remark. We were coming home for
dinner, and had come to the top of the steps up from the West Pier and
stopped to look at the view, as we generally do. The setting sun, low
down in the sky, was just dropping behind Kettleness; the red light was
thrown over on the East Cliff and the old abbey, and seemed to bathe
everything in a beautiful rosy glow. We were silent for a while, and
suddenly Lucy murmured as if to herself:--

“His red eyes again! They are just the same.” It was such an odd
expression, coming _apropos_ of nothing, that it quite startled me. I
slewed round a little, so as to see Lucy well without seeming to stare
at her, and saw that she was in a half-dreamy state, with an odd look on
her face that I could not quite make out; so I said nothing, but
followed her eyes. She appeared to be looking over at our own seat,
whereon was a dark figure seated alone. I was a little startled myself,
for it seemed for an instant as if the stranger had great eyes like
burning flames; but a second look dispelled the illusion. The red
sunlight was shining on the windows of St. Mary’s Church behind our
seat, and as the sun dipped there was just sufficient change in the
refraction and reflection to make it appear as if the light moved. I
called Lucy’s attention to the peculiar effect, and she became herself
with a start, but she looked sad all the same; it may have been that she
was thinking of that terrible night up there. We never refer to it; so I
said nothing, and we went home to dinner. Lucy had a headache and went
early to bed. I saw her asleep, and went out for a little stroll myself;
I walked along the cliffs to the westward, and was full of sweet
sadness, for I was thinking of Jonathan. When coming home--it was then
bright moonlight, so bright that, though the front of our part of the
Crescent was in shadow, everything could be well seen--I threw a glance
up at our window, and saw Lucy’s head leaning out. I thought that
perhaps she was looking out for me, so I opened my handkerchief and
waved it. She did not notice or make any movement whatever. Just then,
the moonlight crept round an angle of the building, and the light fell
on the window. There distinctly was Lucy with her head lying up against
the side of the window-sill and her eyes shut. She was fast asleep, and
by her, seated on the window-sill, was something that looked like a
good-sized bird. I was afraid she might get a chill, so I ran upstairs,
but as I came into the room she was moving back to her bed, fast
asleep, and breathing heavily; she was holding her hand to her throat,
as though to protect it from cold.

I did not wake her, but tucked her up warmly; I have taken care that the
door is locked and the window securely fastened.

She looks so sweet as she sleeps; but she is paler than is her wont, and
there is a drawn, haggard look under her eyes which I do not like. I
fear she is fretting about something. I wish I could find out what it
is.

       *       *       *       *       *

_15 August._--Rose later than usual. Lucy was languid and tired, and
slept on after we had been called. We had a happy surprise at breakfast.
Arthur’s father is better, and wants the marriage to come off soon. Lucy
is full of quiet joy, and her mother is glad and sorry at once. Later on
in the day she told me the cause. She is grieved to lose Lucy as her
very own, but she is rejoiced that she is soon to have some one to
protect her. Poor dear, sweet lady! She confided to me that she has got
her death-warrant. She has not told Lucy, and made me promise secrecy;
her doctor told her that within a few months, at most, she must die, for
her heart is weakening. At any time, even now, a sudden shock would be
almost sure to kill her. Ah, we were wise to keep from her the affair of
the dreadful night of Lucy’s sleep-walking.

       *       *       *       *       *

_17 August._--No diary for two whole days. I have not had the heart to
write. Some sort of shadowy pall seems to be coming over our happiness.
No news from Jonathan, and Lucy seems to be growing weaker, whilst her
mother’s hours are numbering to a close. I do not understand Lucy’s
fading away as she is doing. She eats well and sleeps well, and enjoys
the fresh air; but all the time the roses in her cheeks are fading, and
she gets weaker and more languid day by day; at night I hear her gasping
as if for air. I keep the key of our door always fastened to my wrist at
night, but she gets up and walks about the room, and sits at the open
window. Last night I found her leaning out when I woke up, and when I
tried to wake her I could not; she was in a faint. When I managed to
restore her she was as weak as water, and cried silently between long,
painful struggles for breath. When I asked her how she came to be at the
window she shook her head and turned away. I trust her feeling ill may
not be from that unlucky prick of the safety-pin. I looked at her throat
just now as she lay asleep, and the tiny wounds seem not to have healed.
They are still open, and, if anything, larger than before, and the
edges of them are faintly white. They are like little white dots with
red centres. Unless they heal within a day or two, I shall insist on the
doctor seeing about them.


_Letter, Samuel F. Billington & Son, Solicitors, Whitby, to Messrs.
Carter, Paterson & Co., London._

“_17 August._

“Dear Sirs,--

“Herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by Great Northern
Railway. Same are to be delivered at Carfax, near Purfleet, immediately
on receipt at goods station King’s Cross. The house is at present empty,
but enclosed please find keys, all of which are labelled.

“You will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which form the
consignment, in the partially ruined building forming part of the house
and marked ‘A’ on rough diagram enclosed. Your agent will easily
recognise the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of the mansion. The
goods leave by the train at 9:30 to-night, and will be due at King’s
Cross at 4:30 to-morrow afternoon. As our client wishes the delivery
made as soon as possible, we shall be obliged by your having teams ready
at King’s Cross at the time named and forthwith conveying the goods to
destination. In order to obviate any delays possible through any routine
requirements as to payment in your departments, we enclose cheque
herewith for ten pounds (£10), receipt of which please acknowledge.
Should the charge be less than this amount, you can return balance; if
greater, we shall at once send cheque for difference on hearing from
you. You are to leave the keys on coming away in the main hall of the
house, where the proprietor may get them on his entering the house by
means of his duplicate key.

“Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business courtesy in
pressing you in all ways to use the utmost expedition.

_“We are, dear Sirs,

“Faithfully yours,

“SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON.”_


_Letter, Messrs. Carter, Paterson & Co., London, to Messrs. Billington &
Son, Whitby._

“_21 August._

“Dear Sirs,--

“We beg to acknowledge £10 received and to return cheque £1 17s. 9d,
amount of overplus, as shown in receipted account herewith. Goods are
delivered in exact accordance with instructions, and keys left in parcel
in main hall, as directed.

“We are, dear Sirs,

“Yours respectfully.

“_Pro_ CARTER, PATERSON & CO.”


_Mina Murray’s Journal._

_18 August._--I am happy to-day, and write sitting on the seat in the
churchyard. Lucy is ever so much better. Last night she slept well all
night, and did not disturb me once. The roses seem coming back already
to her cheeks, though she is still sadly pale and wan-looking. If she
were in any way anæmic I could understand it, but she is not. She is in
gay spirits and full of life and cheerfulness. All the morbid reticence
seems to have passed from her, and she has just reminded me, as if I
needed any reminding, of _that_ night, and that it was here, on this
very seat, I found her asleep. As she told me she tapped playfully with
the heel of her boot on the stone slab and said:--

“My poor little feet didn’t make much noise then! I daresay poor old Mr.
Swales would have told me that it was because I didn’t want to wake up
Geordie.” As she was in such a communicative humour, I asked her if she
had dreamed at all that night. Before she answered, that sweet, puckered
look came into her forehead, which Arthur--I call him Arthur from her
habit--says he loves; and, indeed, I don’t wonder that he does. Then she
went on in a half-dreaming kind of way, as if trying to recall it to
herself:--

“I didn’t quite dream; but it all seemed to be real. I only wanted to be
here in this spot--I don’t know why, for I was afraid of something--I
don’t know what. I remember, though I suppose I was asleep, passing
through the streets and over the bridge. A fish leaped as I went by, and
I leaned over to look at it, and I heard a lot of dogs howling--the
whole town seemed as if it must be full of dogs all howling at once--as
I went up the steps. Then I had a vague memory of something long and
dark with red eyes, just as we saw in the sunset, and something very
sweet and very bitter all around me at once; and then I seemed sinking
into deep green water, and there was a singing in my ears, as I have
heard there is to drowning men; and then everything seemed passing away
from me; my soul seemed to go out from my body and float about the air.
I seem to remember that once the West Lighthouse was right under me,
and then there was a sort of agonising feeling, as if I were in an
earthquake, and I came back and found you shaking my body. I saw you do
it before I felt you.”

Then she began to laugh. It seemed a little uncanny to me, and I
listened to her breathlessly. I did not quite like it, and thought it
better not to keep her mind on the subject, so we drifted on to other
subjects, and Lucy was like her old self again. When we got home the
fresh breeze had braced her up, and her pale cheeks were really more
rosy. Her mother rejoiced when she saw her, and we all spent a very
happy evening together.

       *       *       *       *       *

_19 August._--Joy, joy, joy! although not all joy. At last, news of
Jonathan. The dear fellow has been ill; that is why he did not write. I
am not afraid to think it or say it, now that I know. Mr. Hawkins sent
me on the letter, and wrote himself, oh, so kindly. I am to leave in the
morning and go over to Jonathan, and to help to nurse him if necessary,
and to bring him home. Mr. Hawkins says it would not be a bad thing if
we were to be married out there. I have cried over the good Sister’s
letter till I can feel it wet against my bosom, where it lies. It is of
Jonathan, and must be next my heart, for he is _in_ my heart. My journey
is all mapped out, and my luggage ready. I am only taking one change of
dress; Lucy will bring my trunk to London and keep it till I send for
it, for it may be that ... I must write no more; I must keep it to say
to Jonathan, my husband. The letter that he has seen and touched must
comfort me till we meet.


_Letter, Sister Agatha, Hospital of St. Joseph and Ste. Mary,
Buda-Pesth, to Miss Wilhelmina Murray._

“_12 August._

“Dear Madam,--

“I write by desire of Mr. Jonathan Harker, who is himself not strong
enough to write, though progressing well, thanks to God and St. Joseph
and Ste. Mary. He has been under our care for nearly six weeks,
suffering from a violent brain fever. He wishes me to convey his love,
and to say that by this post I write for him to Mr. Peter Hawkins,
Exeter, to say, with his dutiful respects, that he is sorry for his
delay, and that all of his work is completed. He will require some few
weeks’ rest in our sanatorium in the hills, but will then return. He
wishes me to say that he has not sufficient money with him, and that he
would like to pay for his staying here, so that others who need shall
not be wanting for help.

“Believe me,

“Yours, with sympathy and all blessings,

“SISTER AGATHA.

“P. S.--My patient being asleep, I open this to let you know something
more. He has told me all about you, and that you are shortly to be his
wife. All blessings to you both! He has had some fearful shock--so says
our doctor--and in his delirium his ravings have been dreadful; of
wolves and poison and blood; of ghosts and demons; and I fear to say of
what. Be careful with him always that there may be nothing to excite him
of this kind for a long time to come; the traces of such an illness as
his do not lightly die away. We should have written long ago, but we
knew nothing of his friends, and there was on him nothing that any one
could understand. He came in the train from Klausenburg, and the guard
was told by the station-master there that he rushed into the station
shouting for a ticket for home. Seeing from his violent demeanour that
he was English, they gave him a ticket for the furthest station on the
way thither that the train reached.

“Be assured that he is well cared for. He has won all hearts by his
sweetness and gentleness. He is truly getting on well, and I have no
doubt will in a few weeks be all himself. But be careful of him for
safety’s sake. There are, I pray God and St. Joseph and Ste. Mary, many,
many, happy years for you both.”


_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

_19 August._--Strange and sudden change in Renfield last night. About
eight o’clock he began to get excited and sniff about as a dog does when
setting. The attendant was struck by his manner, and knowing my interest
in him, encouraged him to talk. He is usually respectful to the
attendant and at times servile; but to-night, the man tells me, he was
quite haughty. Would not condescend to talk with him at all. All he
would say was:--

     “I don’t want to talk to you: you don’t count now; the Master is at
     hand.”

The attendant thinks it is some sudden form of religious mania which has
seized him. If so, we must look out for squalls, for a strong man with
homicidal and religious mania at once might be dangerous. The
combination is a dreadful one. At nine o’clock I visited him myself. His
attitude to me was the same as that to the attendant; in his sublime
self-feeling the difference between myself and attendant seemed to him
as nothing. It looks like religious mania, and he will soon think that
he himself is God. These infinitesimal distinctions between man and man
are too paltry for an Omnipotent Being. How these madmen give themselves
away! The real God taketh heed lest a sparrow fall; but the God created
from human vanity sees no difference between an eagle and a sparrow. Oh,
if men only knew!

For half an hour or more Renfield kept getting excited in greater and
greater degree. I did not pretend to be watching him, but I kept strict
observation all the same. All at once that shifty look came into his
eyes which we always see when a madman has seized an idea, and with it
the shifty movement of the head and back which asylum attendants come to
know so well. He became quite quiet, and went and sat on the edge of his
bed resignedly, and looked into space with lack-lustre eyes. I thought I
would find out if his apathy were real or only assumed, and tried to
lead him to talk of his pets, a theme which had never failed to excite
his attention. At first he made no reply, but at length said testily:--

“Bother them all! I don’t care a pin about them.”

“What?” I said. “You don’t mean to tell me you don’t care about
spiders?” (Spiders at present are his hobby and the note-book is filling
up with columns of small figures.) To this he answered enigmatically:--

“The bride-maidens rejoice the eyes that wait the coming of the bride;
but when the bride draweth nigh, then the maidens shine not to the eyes
that are filled.”

He would not explain himself, but remained obstinately seated on his bed
all the time I remained with him.

I am weary to-night and low in spirits. I cannot but think of Lucy, and
how different things might have been. If I don’t sleep at once, chloral,
the modern Morpheus--C_{2}HCl_{3}O. H_{2}O! I must be careful not to let
it grow into a habit. No, I shall take none to-night! I have thought of
Lucy, and I shall not dishonour her by mixing the two. If need be,
to-night shall be sleepless....

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--Glad I made the resolution; gladder that I kept to it. I had
lain tossing about, and had heard the clock strike only twice, when the
night-watchman came to me, sent up from the ward, to say that Renfield
had escaped. I threw on my clothes and ran down at once; my patient is
too dangerous a person to be roaming about. Those ideas of his might
work out dangerously with strangers. The attendant was waiting for me.
He said he had seen him not ten minutes before, seemingly asleep in his
bed, when he had looked through the observation-trap in the door. His
attention was called by the sound of the window being wrenched out. He
ran back and saw his feet disappear through the window, and had at once
sent up for me. He was only in his night-gear, and cannot be far off.
The attendant thought it would be more useful to watch where he should
go than to follow him, as he might lose sight of him whilst getting out
of the building by the door. He is a bulky man, and couldn’t get through
the window. I am thin, so, with his aid, I got out, but feet foremost,
and, as we were only a few feet above ground, landed unhurt. The
attendant told me the patient had gone to the left, and had taken a
straight line, so I ran as quickly as I could. As I got through the belt
of trees I saw a white figure scale the high wall which separates our
grounds from those of the deserted house.

I ran back at once, told the watchman to get three or four men
immediately and follow me into the grounds of Carfax, in case our friend
might be dangerous. I got a ladder myself, and crossing the wall,
dropped down on the other side. I could see Renfield’s figure just
disappearing behind the angle of the house, so I ran after him. On the
far side of the house I found him pressed close against the old
ironbound oak door of the chapel. He was talking, apparently to some
one, but I was afraid to go near enough to hear what he was saying, lest
I might frighten him, and he should run off. Chasing an errant swarm of
bees is nothing to following a naked lunatic, when the fit of escaping
is upon him! After a few minutes, however, I could see that he did not
take note of anything around him, and so ventured to draw nearer to
him--the more so as my men had now crossed the wall and were closing him
in. I heard him say:--

“I am here to do Your bidding, Master. I am Your slave, and You will
reward me, for I shall be faithful. I have worshipped You long and afar
off. Now that You are near, I await Your commands, and You will not pass
me by, will You, dear Master, in Your distribution of good things?”

He _is_ a selfish old beggar anyhow. He thinks of the loaves and fishes
even when he believes he is in a Real Presence. His manias make a
startling combination. When we closed in on him he fought like a tiger.
He is immensely strong, for he was more like a wild beast than a man. I
never saw a lunatic in such a paroxysm of rage before; and I hope I
shall not again. It is a mercy that we have found out his strength and
his danger in good time. With strength and determination like his, he
might have done wild work before he was caged. He is safe now at any
rate. Jack Sheppard himself couldn’t get free from the strait-waistcoat
that keeps him restrained, and he’s chained to the wall in the padded
room. His cries are at times awful, but the silences that follow are
more deadly still, for he means murder in every turn and movement.

Just now he spoke coherent words for the first time:--

“I shall be patient, Master. It is coming--coming--coming!”

So I took the hint, and came too. I was too excited to sleep, but this
diary has quieted me, and I feel I shall get some sleep to-night.




CHAPTER IX


_Letter, Mina Harker to Lucy Westenra._

“_Buda-Pesth, 24 August._

“My dearest Lucy,--

“I know you will be anxious to hear all that has happened since we
parted at the railway station at Whitby. Well, my dear, I got to Hull
all right, and caught the boat to Hamburg, and then the train on here. I
feel that I can hardly recall anything of the journey, except that I
knew I was coming to Jonathan, and, that as I should have to do some
nursing, I had better get all the sleep I could.... I found my dear one,
oh, so thin and pale and weak-looking. All the resolution has gone out
of his dear eyes, and that quiet dignity which I told you was in his
face has vanished. He is only a wreck of himself, and he does not
remember anything that has happened to him for a long time past. At
least, he wants me to believe so, and I shall never ask. He has had some
terrible shock, and I fear it might tax his poor brain if he were to try
to recall it. Sister Agatha, who is a good creature and a born nurse,
tells me that he raved of dreadful things whilst he was off his head. I
wanted her to tell me what they were; but she would only cross herself,
and say she would never tell; that the ravings of the sick were the
secrets of God, and that if a nurse through her vocation should hear
them, she should respect her trust. She is a sweet, good soul, and the
next day, when she saw I was troubled, she opened up the subject again,
and after saying that she could never mention what my poor dear raved
about, added: ‘I can tell you this much, my dear: that it was not about
anything which he has done wrong himself; and you, as his wife to be,
have no cause to be concerned. He has not forgotten you or what he owes
to you. His fear was of great and terrible things, which no mortal can
treat of.’ I do believe the dear soul thought I might be jealous lest my
poor dear should have fallen in love with any other girl. The idea of
_my_ being jealous about Jonathan! And yet, my dear, let me whisper, I
felt a thrill of joy through me when I _knew_ that no other woman was a
cause of trouble. I am now sitting by his bedside, where I can see his
face while he sleeps. He is waking!...

“When he woke he asked me for his coat, as he wanted to get something
from the pocket; I asked Sister Agatha, and she brought all his things.
I saw that amongst them was his note-book, and was going to ask him to
let me look at it--for I knew then that I might find some clue to his
trouble--but I suppose he must have seen my wish in my eyes, for he sent
me over to the window, saying he wanted to be quite alone for a moment.
Then he called me back, and when I came he had his hand over the
note-book, and he said to me very solemnly:--

“‘Wilhelmina’--I knew then that he was in deadly earnest, for he has
never called me by that name since he asked me to marry him--‘you know,
dear, my ideas of the trust between husband and wife: there should be no
secret, no concealment. I have had a great shock, and when I try to
think of what it is I feel my head spin round, and I do not know if it
was all real or the dreaming of a madman. You know I have had brain
fever, and that is to be mad. The secret is here, and I do not want to
know it. I want to take up my life here, with our marriage.’ For, my
dear, we had decided to be married as soon as the formalities are
complete. ‘Are you willing, Wilhelmina, to share my ignorance? Here is
the book. Take it and keep it, read it if you will, but never let me
know; unless, indeed, some solemn duty should come upon me to go back to
the bitter hours, asleep or awake, sane or mad, recorded here.’ He fell
back exhausted, and I put the book under his pillow, and kissed him. I
have asked Sister Agatha to beg the Superior to let our wedding be this
afternoon, and am waiting her reply....

       *       *       *       *       *

“She has come and told me that the chaplain of the English mission
church has been sent for. We are to be married in an hour, or as soon
after as Jonathan awakes....

       *       *       *       *       *

“Lucy, the time has come and gone. I feel very solemn, but very, very
happy. Jonathan woke a little after the hour, and all was ready, and he
sat up in bed, propped up with pillows. He answered his ‘I will’ firmly
and strongly. I could hardly speak; my heart was so full that even those
words seemed to choke me. The dear sisters were so kind. Please God, I
shall never, never forget them, nor the grave and sweet responsibilities
I have taken upon me. I must tell you of my wedding present. When the
chaplain and the sisters had left me alone with my husband--oh, Lucy, it
is the first time I have written the words ‘my husband’--left me alone
with my husband, I took the book from under his pillow, and wrapped it
up in white paper, and tied it with a little bit of pale blue ribbon
which was round my neck, and sealed it over the knot with sealing-wax,
and for my seal I used my wedding ring. Then I kissed it and showed it
to my husband, and told him that I would keep it so, and then it would
be an outward and visible sign for us all our lives that we trusted each
other; that I would never open it unless it were for his own dear sake
or for the sake of some stern duty. Then he took my hand in his, and oh,
Lucy, it was the first time he took _his wife’s_ hand, and said that it
was the dearest thing in all the wide world, and that he would go
through all the past again to win it, if need be. The poor dear meant to
have said a part of the past, but he cannot think of time yet, and I
shall not wonder if at first he mixes up not only the month, but the
year.

“Well, my dear, what could I say? I could only tell him that I was the
happiest woman in all the wide world, and that I had nothing to give him
except myself, my life, and my trust, and that with these went my love
and duty for all the days of my life. And, my dear, when he kissed me,
and drew me to him with his poor weak hands, it was like a very solemn
pledge between us....

“Lucy dear, do you know why I tell you all this? It is not only because
it is all sweet to me, but because you have been, and are, very dear to
me. It was my privilege to be your friend and guide when you came from
the schoolroom to prepare for the world of life. I want you to see now,
and with the eyes of a very happy wife, whither duty has led me; so that
in your own married life you too may be all happy as I am. My dear,
please Almighty God, your life may be all it promises: a long day of
sunshine, with no harsh wind, no forgetting duty, no distrust. I must
not wish you no pain, for that can never be; but I do hope you will be
_always_ as happy as I am _now_. Good-bye, my dear. I shall post this at
once, and, perhaps, write you very soon again. I must stop, for Jonathan
is waking--I must attend to my husband!

“Your ever-loving

“MINA HARKER.”


_Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Harker._

“_Whitby, 30 August._

“My dearest Mina,--

“Oceans of love and millions of kisses, and may you soon be in your own
home with your husband. I wish you could be coming home soon enough to
stay with us here. The strong air would soon restore Jonathan; it has
quite restored me. I have an appetite like a cormorant, am full of
life, and sleep well. You will be glad to know that I have quite given
up walking in my sleep. I think I have not stirred out of my bed for a
week, that is when I once got into it at night. Arthur says I am getting
fat. By the way, I forgot to tell you that Arthur is here. We have such
walks and drives, and rides, and rowing, and tennis, and fishing
together; and I love him more than ever. He _tells_ me that he loves me
more, but I doubt that, for at first he told me that he couldn’t love me
more than he did then. But this is nonsense. There he is, calling to me.
So no more just at present from your loving

“LUCY.

“P. S.--Mother sends her love. She seems better, poor dear.
“P. P. S.--We are to be married on 28 September.”


_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

_20 August._--The case of Renfield grows even more interesting. He has
now so far quieted that there are spells of cessation from his passion.
For the first week after his attack he was perpetually violent. Then one
night, just as the moon rose, he grew quiet, and kept murmuring to
himself: “Now I can wait; now I can wait.” The attendant came to tell
me, so I ran down at once to have a look at him. He was still in the
strait-waistcoat and in the padded room, but the suffused look had gone
from his face, and his eyes had something of their old pleading--I might
almost say, “cringing”--softness. I was satisfied with his present
condition, and directed him to be relieved. The attendants hesitated,
but finally carried out my wishes without protest. It was a strange
thing that the patient had humour enough to see their distrust, for,
coming close to me, he said in a whisper, all the while looking
furtively at them:--

“They think I could hurt you! Fancy _me_ hurting _you_! The fools!”

It was soothing, somehow, to the feelings to find myself dissociated
even in the mind of this poor madman from the others; but all the same I
do not follow his thought. Am I to take it that I have anything in
common with him, so that we are, as it were, to stand together; or has
he to gain from me some good so stupendous that my well-being is needful
to him? I must find out later on. To-night he will not speak. Even the
offer of a kitten or even a full-grown cat will not tempt him. He will
only say: “I don’t take any stock in cats. I have more to think of now,
and I can wait; I can wait.”

After a while I left him. The attendant tells me that he was quiet
until just before dawn, and that then he began to get uneasy, and at
length violent, until at last he fell into a paroxysm which exhausted
him so that he swooned into a sort of coma.

       *       *       *       *       *

... Three nights has the same thing happened--violent all day then quiet
from moonrise to sunrise. I wish I could get some clue to the cause. It
would almost seem as if there was some influence which came and went.
Happy thought! We shall to-night play sane wits against mad ones. He
escaped before without our help; to-night he shall escape with it. We
shall give him a chance, and have the men ready to follow in case they
are required....

       *       *       *       *       *

_23 August._--“The unexpected always happens.” How well Disraeli knew
life. Our bird when he found the cage open would not fly, so all our
subtle arrangements were for nought. At any rate, we have proved one
thing; that the spells of quietness last a reasonable time. We shall in
future be able to ease his bonds for a few hours each day. I have given
orders to the night attendant merely to shut him in the padded room,
when once he is quiet, until an hour before sunrise. The poor soul’s
body will enjoy the relief even if his mind cannot appreciate it. Hark!
The unexpected again! I am called; the patient has once more escaped.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--Another night adventure. Renfield artfully waited until the
attendant was entering the room to inspect. Then he dashed out past him
and flew down the passage. I sent word for the attendants to follow.
Again he went into the grounds of the deserted house, and we found him
in the same place, pressed against the old chapel door. When he saw me
he became furious, and had not the attendants seized him in time, he
would have tried to kill me. As we were holding him a strange thing
happened. He suddenly redoubled his efforts, and then as suddenly grew
calm. I looked round instinctively, but could see nothing. Then I caught
the patient’s eye and followed it, but could trace nothing as it looked
into the moonlit sky except a big bat, which was flapping its silent and
ghostly way to the west. Bats usually wheel and flit about, but this one
seemed to go straight on, as if it knew where it was bound for or had
some intention of its own. The patient grew calmer every instant, and
presently said:--

“You needn’t tie me; I shall go quietly!” Without trouble we came back
to the house. I feel there is something ominous in his calm, and shall
not forget this night....


_Lucy Westenra’s Diary_

_Hillingham, 24 August._--I must imitate Mina, and keep writing things
down. Then we can have long talks when we do meet. I wonder when it will
be. I wish she were with me again, for I feel so unhappy. Last night I
seemed to be dreaming again just as I was at Whitby. Perhaps it is the
change of air, or getting home again. It is all dark and horrid to me,
for I can remember nothing; but I am full of vague fear, and I feel so
weak and worn out. When Arthur came to lunch he looked quite grieved
when he saw me, and I hadn’t the spirit to try to be cheerful. I wonder
if I could sleep in mother’s room to-night. I shall make an excuse and
try.

       *       *       *       *       *

_25 August._--Another bad night. Mother did not seem to take to my
proposal. She seems not too well herself, and doubtless she fears to
worry me. I tried to keep awake, and succeeded for a while; but when the
clock struck twelve it waked me from a doze, so I must have been falling
asleep. There was a sort of scratching or flapping at the window, but I
did not mind it, and as I remember no more, I suppose I must then have
fallen asleep. More bad dreams. I wish I could remember them. This
morning I am horribly weak. My face is ghastly pale, and my throat pains
me. It must be something wrong with my lungs, for I don’t seem ever to
get air enough. I shall try to cheer up when Arthur comes, or else I
know he will be miserable to see me so.


_Letter, Arthur Holmwood to Dr. Seward._

“_Albemarle Hotel, 31 August._

“My dear Jack,--

“I want you to do me a favour. Lucy is ill; that is, she has no special
disease, but she looks awful, and is getting worse every day. I have
asked her if there is any cause; I do not dare to ask her mother, for to
disturb the poor lady’s mind about her daughter in her present state of
health would be fatal. Mrs. Westenra has confided to me that her doom is
spoken--disease of the heart--though poor Lucy does not know it yet. I
am sure that there is something preying on my dear girl’s mind. I am
almost distracted when I think of her; to look at her gives me a pang. I
told her I should ask you to see her, and though she demurred at
first--I know why, old fellow--she finally consented. It will be a
painful task for you, I know, old friend, but it is for _her_ sake, and
I must not hesitate to ask, or you to act. You are to come to lunch at
Hillingham to-morrow, two o’clock, so as not to arouse any suspicion in
Mrs. Westenra, and after lunch Lucy will take an opportunity of being
alone with you. I shall come in for tea, and we can go away together; I
am filled with anxiety, and want to consult with you alone as soon as I
can after you have seen her. Do not fail!

“ARTHUR.”


_Telegram, Arthur Holmwood to Seward._

“_1 September._

“Am summoned to see my father, who is worse. Am writing. Write me fully
by to-night’s post to Ring. Wire me if necessary.”


_Letter from Dr. Seward to Arthur Holmwood._

“_2 September._

“My dear old fellow,--

“With regard to Miss Westenra’s health I hasten to let you know at once
that in my opinion there is not any functional disturbance or any malady
that I know of. At the same time, I am not by any means satisfied with
her appearance; she is woefully different from what she was when I saw
her last. Of course you must bear in mind that I did not have full
opportunity of examination such as I should wish; our very friendship
makes a little difficulty which not even medical science or custom can
bridge over. I had better tell you exactly what happened, leaving you to
draw, in a measure, your own conclusions. I shall then say what I have
done and propose doing.

“I found Miss Westenra in seemingly gay spirits. Her mother was present,
and in a few seconds I made up my mind that she was trying all she knew
to mislead her mother and prevent her from being anxious. I have no
doubt she guesses, if she does not know, what need of caution there is.
We lunched alone, and as we all exerted ourselves to be cheerful, we
got, as some kind of reward for our labours, some real cheerfulness
amongst us. Then Mrs. Westenra went to lie down, and Lucy was left with
me. We went into her boudoir, and till we got there her gaiety remained,
for the servants were coming and going. As soon as the door was closed,
however, the mask fell from her face, and she sank down into a chair
with a great sigh, and hid her eyes with her hand. When I saw that her
high spirits had failed, I at once took advantage of her reaction to
make a diagnosis. She said to me very sweetly:--

“‘I cannot tell you how I loathe talking about myself.’ I reminded her
that a doctor’s confidence was sacred, but that you were grievously
anxious about her. She caught on to my meaning at once, and settled that
matter in a word. ‘Tell Arthur everything you choose. I do not care for
myself, but all for him!’ So I am quite free.

“I could easily see that she is somewhat bloodless, but I could not see
the usual anæmic signs, and by a chance I was actually able to test the
quality of her blood, for in opening a window which was stiff a cord
gave way, and she cut her hand slightly with broken glass. It was a
slight matter in itself, but it gave me an evident chance, and I secured
a few drops of the blood and have analysed them. The qualitative
analysis gives a quite normal condition, and shows, I should infer, in
itself a vigorous state of health. In other physical matters I was quite
satisfied that there is no need for anxiety; but as there must be a
cause somewhere, I have come to the conclusion that it must be something
mental. She complains of difficulty in breathing satisfactorily at
times, and of heavy, lethargic sleep, with dreams that frighten her, but
regarding which she can remember nothing. She says that as a child she
used to walk in her sleep, and that when in Whitby the habit came back,
and that once she walked out in the night and went to East Cliff, where
Miss Murray found her; but she assures me that of late the habit has not
returned. I am in doubt, and so have done the best thing I know of; I
have written to my old friend and master, Professor Van Helsing, of
Amsterdam, who knows as much about obscure diseases as any one in the
world. I have asked him to come over, and as you told me that all things
were to be at your charge, I have mentioned to him who you are and your
relations to Miss Westenra. This, my dear fellow, is in obedience to
your wishes, for I am only too proud and happy to do anything I can for
her. Van Helsing would, I know, do anything for me for a personal
reason, so, no matter on what ground he comes, we must accept his
wishes. He is a seemingly arbitrary man, but this is because he knows
what he is talking about better than any one else. He is a philosopher
and a metaphysician, and one of the most advanced scientists of his day;
and he has, I believe, an absolutely open mind. This, with an iron
nerve, a temper of the ice-brook, an indomitable resolution,
self-command, and toleration exalted from virtues to blessings, and the
kindliest and truest heart that beats--these form his equipment for the
noble work that he is doing for mankind--work both in theory and
practice, for his views are as wide as his all-embracing sympathy. I
tell you these facts that you may know why I have such confidence in
him. I have asked him to come at once. I shall see Miss Westenra
to-morrow again. She is to meet me at the Stores, so that I may not
alarm her mother by too early a repetition of my call.

“Yours always,

“JOHN SEWARD.”


_Letter, Abraham Van Helsing, M. D., D. Ph., D. Lit., etc., etc., to Dr.
Seward._

“_2 September._

“My good Friend,--

“When I have received your letter I am already coming to you. By good
fortune I can leave just at once, without wrong to any of those who have
trusted me. Were fortune other, then it were bad for those who have
trusted, for I come to my friend when he call me to aid those he holds
dear. Tell your friend that when that time you suck from my wound so
swiftly the poison of the gangrene from that knife that our other
friend, too nervous, let slip, you did more for him when he wants my
aids and you call for them than all his great fortune could do. But it
is pleasure added to do for him, your friend; it is to you that I come.
Have then rooms for me at the Great Eastern Hotel, so that I may be near
to hand, and please it so arrange that we may see the young lady not too
late on to-morrow, for it is likely that I may have to return here that
night. But if need be I shall come again in three days, and stay longer
if it must. Till then good-bye, my friend John.

 “VAN HELSING.”


_Letter, Dr. Seward to Hon. Arthur Holmwood._

“_3 September._

“My dear Art,--

“Van Helsing has come and gone. He came on with me to Hillingham, and
found that, by Lucy’s discretion, her mother was lunching out, so that
we were alone with her. Van Helsing made a very careful examination of
the patient. He is to report to me, and I shall advise you, for of
course I was not present all the time. He is, I fear, much concerned,
but says he must think. When I told him of our friendship and how you
trust to me in the matter, he said: ‘You must tell him all you think.
Tell him what I think, if you can guess it, if you will. Nay, I am not
jesting. This is no jest, but life and death, perhaps more.’ I asked
what he meant by that, for he was very serious. This was when we had
come back to town, and he was having a cup of tea before starting on his
return to Amsterdam. He would not give me any further clue. You must not
be angry with me, Art, because his very reticence means that all his
brains are working for her good. He will speak plainly enough when the
time comes, be sure. So I told him I would simply write an account of
our visit, just as if I were doing a descriptive special article for
_The Daily Telegraph_. He seemed not to notice, but remarked that the
smuts in London were not quite so bad as they used to be when he was a
student here. I am to get his report to-morrow if he can possibly make
it. In any case I am to have a letter.

“Well, as to the visit. Lucy was more cheerful than on the day I first
saw her, and certainly looked better. She had lost something of the
ghastly look that so upset you, and her breathing was normal. She was
very sweet to the professor (as she always is), and tried to make him
feel at ease; though I could see that the poor girl was making a hard
struggle for it. I believe Van Helsing saw it, too, for I saw the quick
look under his bushy brows that I knew of old. Then he began to chat of
all things except ourselves and diseases and with such an infinite
geniality that I could see poor Lucy’s pretense of animation merge into
reality. Then, without any seeming change, he brought the conversation
gently round to his visit, and suavely said:--

“‘My dear young miss, I have the so great pleasure because you are so
much beloved. That is much, my dear, ever were there that which I do not
see. They told me you were down in the spirit, and that you were of a
ghastly pale. To them I say: “Pouf!”’ And he snapped his fingers at me
and went on: ‘But you and I shall show them how wrong they are. How can
he’--and he pointed at me with the same look and gesture as that with
which once he pointed me out to his class, on, or rather after, a
particular occasion which he never fails to remind me of--‘know anything
of a young ladies? He has his madmans to play with, and to bring them
back to happiness, and to those that love them. It is much to do, and,
oh, but there are rewards, in that we can bestow such happiness. But the
young ladies! He has no wife nor daughter, and the young do not tell
themselves to the young, but to the old, like me, who have known so many
sorrows and the causes of them. So, my dear, we will send him away to
smoke the cigarette in the garden, whiles you and I have little talk all
to ourselves.’ I took the hint, and strolled about, and presently the
professor came to the window and called me in. He looked grave, but
said: ‘I have made careful examination, but there is no functional
cause. With you I agree that there has been much blood lost; it has
been, but is not. But the conditions of her are in no way anæmic. I have
asked her to send me her maid, that I may ask just one or two question,
that so I may not chance to miss nothing. I know well what she will say.
And yet there is cause; there is always cause for everything. I must go
back home and think. You must send to me the telegram every day; and if
there be cause I shall come again. The disease--for not to be all well
is a disease--interest me, and the sweet young dear, she interest me
too. She charm me, and for her, if not for you or disease, I come.’

“As I tell you, he would not say a word more, even when we were alone.
And so now, Art, you know all I know. I shall keep stern watch. I trust
your poor father is rallying. It must be a terrible thing to you, my
dear old fellow, to be placed in such a position between two people who
are both so dear to you. I know your idea of duty to your father, and
you are right to stick to it; but, if need be, I shall send you word to
come at once to Lucy; so do not be over-anxious unless you hear from
me.”


_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

_4 September._--Zoöphagous patient still keeps up our interest in him.
He had only one outburst and that was yesterday at an unusual time. Just
before the stroke of noon he began to grow restless. The attendant knew
the symptoms, and at once summoned aid. Fortunately the men came at a
run, and were just in time, for at the stroke of noon he became so
violent that it took all their strength to hold him. In about five
minutes, however, he began to get more and more quiet, and finally sank
into a sort of melancholy, in which state he has remained up to now. The
attendant tells me that his screams whilst in the paroxysm were really
appalling; I found my hands full when I got in, attending to some of the
other patients who were frightened by him. Indeed, I can quite
understand the effect, for the sounds disturbed even me, though I was
some distance away. It is now after the dinner-hour of the asylum, and
as yet my patient sits in a corner brooding, with a dull, sullen,
woe-begone look in his face, which seems rather to indicate than to show
something directly. I cannot quite understand it.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--Another change in my patient. At five o’clock I looked in on
him, and found him seemingly as happy and contented as he used to be. He
was catching flies and eating them, and was keeping note of his capture
by making nail-marks on the edge of the door between the ridges of
padding. When he saw me, he came over and apologised for his bad
conduct, and asked me in a very humble, cringing way to be led back to
his own room and to have his note-book again. I thought it well to
humour him: so he is back in his room with the window open. He has the
sugar of his tea spread out on the window-sill, and is reaping quite a
harvest of flies. He is not now eating them, but putting them into a
box, as of old, and is already examining the corners of his room to find
a spider. I tried to get him to talk about the past few days, for any
clue to his thoughts would be of immense help to me; but he would not
rise. For a moment or two he looked very sad, and said in a sort of
far-away voice, as though saying it rather to himself than to me:--

“All over! all over! He has deserted me. No hope for me now unless I do
it for myself!” Then suddenly turning to me in a resolute way, he said:
“Doctor, won’t you be very good to me and let me have a little more
sugar? I think it would be good for me.”

“And the flies?” I said.

“Yes! The flies like it, too, and I like the flies; therefore I like
it.” And there are people who know so little as to think that madmen do
not argue. I procured him a double supply, and left him as happy a man
as, I suppose, any in the world. I wish I could fathom his mind.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Midnight._--Another change in him. I had been to see Miss Westenra,
whom I found much better, and had just returned, and was standing at our
own gate looking at the sunset, when once more I heard him yelling. As
his room is on this side of the house, I could hear it better than in
the morning. It was a shock to me to turn from the wonderful smoky
beauty of a sunset over London, with its lurid lights and inky shadows
and all the marvellous tints that come on foul clouds even as on foul
water, and to realise all the grim sternness of my own cold stone
building, with its wealth of breathing misery, and my own desolate heart
to endure it all. I reached him just as the sun was going down, and from
his window saw the red disc sink. As it sank he became less and less
frenzied; and just as it dipped he slid from the hands that held him, an
inert mass, on the floor. It is wonderful, however, what intellectual
recuperative power lunatics have, for within a few minutes he stood up
quite calmly and looked around him. I signalled to the attendants not to
hold him, for I was anxious to see what he would do. He went straight
over to the window and brushed out the crumbs of sugar; then he took his
fly-box, and emptied it outside, and threw away the box; then he shut
the window, and crossing over, sat down on his bed. All this surprised
me, so I asked him: “Are you not going to keep flies any more?”

“No,” said he; “I am sick of all that rubbish!” He certainly is a
wonderfully interesting study. I wish I could get some glimpse of his
mind or of the cause of his sudden passion. Stop; there may be a clue
after all, if we can find why to-day his paroxysms came on at high noon
and at sunset. Can it be that there is a malign influence of the sun at
periods which affects certain natures--as at times the moon does others?
We shall see.


_Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam._

“_4 September._--Patient still better to-day.”


_Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam._

“_5 September._--Patient greatly improved. Good appetite; sleeps
naturally; good spirits; colour coming back.”


_Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam._

“_6 September._--Terrible change for the worse. Come at once; do not
lose an hour. I hold over telegram to Holmwood till have seen you.”




CHAPTER X


_Letter, Dr. Seward to Hon. Arthur Holmwood._

“_6 September._

“My dear Art,--

“My news to-day is not so good. Lucy this morning had gone back a bit.
There is, however, one good thing which has arisen from it; Mrs.
Westenra was naturally anxious concerning Lucy, and has consulted me
professionally about her. I took advantage of the opportunity, and told
her that my old master, Van Helsing, the great specialist, was coming to
stay with me, and that I would put her in his charge conjointly with
myself; so now we can come and go without alarming her unduly, for a
shock to her would mean sudden death, and this, in Lucy’s weak
condition, might be disastrous to her. We are hedged in with
difficulties, all of us, my poor old fellow; but, please God, we shall
come through them all right. If any need I shall write, so that, if you
do not hear from me, take it for granted that I am simply waiting for
news. In haste

“Yours ever,

“JOHN SEWARD.”


_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

_7 September._--The first thing Van Helsing said to me when we met at
Liverpool Street was:--

“Have you said anything to our young friend the lover of her?”

“No,” I said. “I waited till I had seen you, as I said in my telegram. I
wrote him a letter simply telling him that you were coming, as Miss
Westenra was not so well, and that I should let him know if need be.”

“Right, my friend,” he said, “quite right! Better he not know as yet;
perhaps he shall never know. I pray so; but if it be needed, then he
shall know all. And, my good friend John, let me caution you. You deal
with the madmen. All men are mad in some way or the other; and inasmuch
as you deal discreetly with your madmen, so deal with God’s madmen,
too--the rest of the world. You tell not your madmen what you do nor why
you do it; you tell them not what you think. So you shall keep knowledge
in its place, where it may rest--where it may gather its kind around it
and breed. You and I shall keep as yet what we know here, and here.” He
touched me on the heart and on the forehead, and then touched himself
the same way. “I have for myself thoughts at the present. Later I shall
unfold to you.”

“Why not now?” I asked. “It may do some good; we may arrive at some
decision.” He stopped and looked at me, and said:--

“My friend John, when the corn is grown, even before it has
ripened--while the milk of its mother-earth is in him, and the sunshine
has not yet begun to paint him with his gold, the husbandman he pull the
ear and rub him between his rough hands, and blow away the green chaff,
and say to you: ‘Look! he’s good corn; he will make good crop when the
time comes.’” I did not see the application, and told him so. For reply
he reached over and took my ear in his hand and pulled it playfully, as
he used long ago to do at lectures, and said: “The good husbandman tell
you so then because he knows, but not till then. But you do not find the
good husbandman dig up his planted corn to see if he grow; that is for
the children who play at husbandry, and not for those who take it as of
the work of their life. See you now, friend John? I have sown my corn,
and Nature has her work to do in making it sprout; if he sprout at all,
there’s some promise; and I wait till the ear begins to swell.” He broke
off, for he evidently saw that I understood. Then he went on, and very
gravely:--

“You were always a careful student, and your case-book was ever more
full than the rest. You were only student then; now you are master, and
I trust that good habit have not fail. Remember, my friend, that
knowledge is stronger than memory, and we should not trust the weaker.
Even if you have not kept the good practise, let me tell you that this
case of our dear miss is one that may be--mind, I say _may be_--of such
interest to us and others that all the rest may not make him kick the
beam, as your peoples say. Take then good note of it. Nothing is too
small. I counsel you, put down in record even your doubts and surmises.
Hereafter it may be of interest to you to see how true you guess. We
learn from failure, not from success!”

When I described Lucy’s symptoms--the same as before, but infinitely
more marked--he looked very grave, but said nothing. He took with him a
bag in which were many instruments and drugs, “the ghastly paraphernalia
of our beneficial trade,” as he once called, in one of his lectures, the
equipment of a professor of the healing craft. When we were shown in,
Mrs. Westenra met us. She was alarmed, but not nearly so much as I
expected to find her. Nature in one of her beneficent moods has ordained
that even death has some antidote to its own terrors. Here, in a case
where any shock may prove fatal, matters are so ordered that, from some
cause or other, the things not personal--even the terrible change in her
daughter to whom she is so attached--do not seem to reach her. It is
something like the way Dame Nature gathers round a foreign body an
envelope of some insensitive tissue which can protect from evil that
which it would otherwise harm by contact. If this be an ordered
selfishness, then we should pause before we condemn any one for the vice
of egoism, for there may be deeper root for its causes than we have
knowledge of.

I used my knowledge of this phase of spiritual pathology, and laid down
a rule that she should not be present with Lucy or think of her illness
more than was absolutely required. She assented readily, so readily that
I saw again the hand of Nature fighting for life. Van Helsing and I were
shown up to Lucy’s room. If I was shocked when I saw her yesterday, I
was horrified when I saw her to-day. She was ghastly, chalkily pale; the
red seemed to have gone even from her lips and gums, and the bones of
her face stood out prominently; her breathing was painful to see or
hear. Van Helsing’s face grew set as marble, and his eyebrows converged
till they almost touched over his nose. Lucy lay motionless, and did not
seem to have strength to speak, so for a while we were all silent. Then
Van Helsing beckoned to me, and we went gently out of the room. The
instant we had closed the door he stepped quickly along the passage to
the next door, which was open. Then he pulled me quickly in with him and
closed the door. “My God!” he said; “this is dreadful. There is no time
to be lost. She will die for sheer want of blood to keep the heart’s
action as it should be. There must be transfusion of blood at once. Is
it you or me?”

“I am younger and stronger, Professor. It must be me.”

“Then get ready at once. I will bring up my bag. I am prepared.”

I went downstairs with him, and as we were going there was a knock at
the hall-door. When we reached the hall the maid had just opened the
door, and Arthur was stepping quickly in. He rushed up to me, saying in
an eager whisper:--

“Jack, I was so anxious. I read between the lines of your letter, and
have been in an agony. The dad was better, so I ran down here to see for
myself. Is not that gentleman Dr. Van Helsing? I am so thankful to you,
sir, for coming.” When first the Professor’s eye had lit upon him he had
been angry at his interruption at such a time; but now, as he took in
his stalwart proportions and recognised the strong young manhood which
seemed to emanate from him, his eyes gleamed. Without a pause he said to
him gravely as he held out his hand:--

“Sir, you have come in time. You are the lover of our dear miss. She is
bad, very, very bad. Nay, my child, do not go like that.” For he
suddenly grew pale and sat down in a chair almost fainting. “You are to
help her. You can do more than any that live, and your courage is your
best help.”

“What can I do?” asked Arthur hoarsely. “Tell me, and I shall do it. My
life is hers, and I would give the last drop of blood in my body for
her.” The Professor has a strongly humorous side, and I could from old
knowledge detect a trace of its origin in his answer:--

“My young sir, I do not ask so much as that--not the last!”

“What shall I do?” There was fire in his eyes, and his open nostril
quivered with intent. Van Helsing slapped him on the shoulder. “Come!”
he said. “You are a man, and it is a man we want. You are better than
me, better than my friend John.” Arthur looked bewildered, and the
Professor went on by explaining in a kindly way:--

“Young miss is bad, very bad. She wants blood, and blood she must have
or die. My friend John and I have consulted; and we are about to perform
what we call transfusion of blood--to transfer from full veins of one to
the empty veins which pine for him. John was to give his blood, as he is
the more young and strong than me”--here Arthur took my hand and wrung
it hard in silence--“but, now you are here, you are more good than us,
old or young, who toil much in the world of thought. Our nerves are not
so calm and our blood not so bright than yours!” Arthur turned to him
and said:--

“If you only knew how gladly I would die for her you would
understand----”

He stopped, with a sort of choke in his voice.

“Good boy!” said Van Helsing. “In the not-so-far-off you will be happy
that you have done all for her you love. Come now and be silent. You
shall kiss her once before it is done, but then you must go; and you
must leave at my sign. Say no word to Madame; you know how it is with
her! There must be no shock; any knowledge of this would be one. Come!”

We all went up to Lucy’s room. Arthur by direction remained outside.
Lucy turned her head and looked at us, but said nothing. She was not
asleep, but she was simply too weak to make the effort. Her eyes spoke
to us; that was all. Van Helsing took some things from his bag and laid
them on a little table out of sight. Then he mixed a narcotic, and
coming over to the bed, said cheerily:--

“Now, little miss, here is your medicine. Drink it off, like a good
child. See, I lift you so that to swallow is easy. Yes.” She had made
the effort with success.

It astonished me how long the drug took to act. This, in fact, marked
the extent of her weakness. The time seemed endless until sleep began to
flicker in her eyelids. At last, however, the narcotic began to manifest
its potency; and she fell into a deep sleep. When the Professor was
satisfied he called Arthur into the room, and bade him strip off his
coat. Then he added: “You may take that one little kiss whiles I bring
over the table. Friend John, help to me!” So neither of us looked whilst
he bent over her.

Van Helsing turning to me, said:

“He is so young and strong and of blood so pure that we need not
defibrinate it.”

Then with swiftness, but with absolute method, Van Helsing performed the
operation. As the transfusion went on something like life seemed to come
back to poor Lucy’s cheeks, and through Arthur’s growing pallor the joy
of his face seemed absolutely to shine. After a bit I began to grow
anxious, for the loss of blood was telling on Arthur, strong man as he
was. It gave me an idea of what a terrible strain Lucy’s system must
have undergone that what weakened Arthur only partially restored her.
But the Professor’s face was set, and he stood watch in hand and with
his eyes fixed now on the patient and now on Arthur. I could hear my own
heart beat. Presently he said in a soft voice: “Do not stir an instant.
It is enough. You attend him; I will look to her.” When all was over I
could see how much Arthur was weakened. I dressed the wound and took his
arm to bring him away, when Van Helsing spoke without turning round--the
man seems to have eyes in the back of his head:--

“The brave lover, I think, deserve another kiss, which he shall have
presently.” And as he had now finished his operation, he adjusted the
pillow to the patient’s head. As he did so the narrow black velvet band
which she seems always to wear round her throat, buckled with an old
diamond buckle which her lover had given her, was dragged a little up,
and showed a red mark on her throat. Arthur did not notice it, but I
could hear the deep hiss of indrawn breath which is one of Van Helsing’s
ways of betraying emotion. He said nothing at the moment, but turned to
me, saying: “Now take down our brave young lover, give him of the port
wine, and let him lie down a while. He must then go home and rest, sleep
much and eat much, that he may be recruited of what he has so given to
his love. He must not stay here. Hold! a moment. I may take it, sir,
that you are anxious of result. Then bring it with you that in all ways
the operation is successful. You have saved her life this time, and you
can go home and rest easy in mind that all that can be is. I shall tell
her all when she is well; she shall love you none the less for what you
have done. Good-bye.”

When Arthur had gone I went back to the room. Lucy was sleeping gently,
but her breathing was stronger; I could see the counterpane move as her
breast heaved. By the bedside sat Van Helsing, looking at her intently.
The velvet band again covered the red mark. I asked the Professor in a
whisper:--

“What do you make of that mark on her throat?”

“What do you make of it?”

“I have not examined it yet,” I answered, and then and there proceeded
to loose the band. Just over the external jugular vein there were two
punctures, not large, but not wholesome-looking. There was no sign of
disease, but the edges were white and worn-looking, as if by some
trituration. It at once occurred to me that this wound, or whatever it
was, might be the means of that manifest loss of blood; but I abandoned
the idea as soon as formed, for such a thing could not be. The whole bed
would have been drenched to a scarlet with the blood which the girl must
have lost to leave such a pallor as she had before the transfusion.

“Well?” said Van Helsing.

“Well,” said I, “I can make nothing of it.” The Professor stood up. “I
must go back to Amsterdam to-night,” he said. “There are books and
things there which I want. You must remain here all the night, and you
must not let your sight pass from her.”

“Shall I have a nurse?” I asked.

“We are the best nurses, you and I. You keep watch all night; see that
she is well fed, and that nothing disturbs her. You must not sleep all
the night. Later on we can sleep, you and I. I shall be back as soon as
possible. And then we may begin.”

“May begin?” I said. “What on earth do you mean?”

“We shall see!” he answered, as he hurried out. He came back a moment
later and put his head inside the door and said with warning finger held
up:--

“Remember, she is your charge. If you leave her, and harm befall, you
shall not sleep easy hereafter!”


_Dr. Seward’s Diary--continued._

_8 September._--I sat up all night with Lucy. The opiate worked itself
off towards dusk, and she waked naturally; she looked a different being
from what she had been before the operation. Her spirits even were good,
and she was full of a happy vivacity, but I could see evidences of the
absolute prostration which she had undergone. When I told Mrs. Westenra
that Dr. Van Helsing had directed that I should sit up with her she
almost pooh-poohed the idea, pointing out her daughter’s renewed
strength and excellent spirits. I was firm, however, and made
preparations for my long vigil. When her maid had prepared her for the
night I came in, having in the meantime had supper, and took a seat by
the bedside. She did not in any way make objection, but looked at me
gratefully whenever I caught her eye. After a long spell she seemed
sinking off to sleep, but with an effort seemed to pull herself together
and shook it off. This was repeated several times, with greater effort
and with shorter pauses as the time moved on. It was apparent that she
did not want to sleep, so I tackled the subject at once:--

“You do not want to go to sleep?”

“No; I am afraid.”

“Afraid to go to sleep! Why so? It is the boon we all crave for.”

“Ah, not if you were like me--if sleep was to you a presage of horror!”

“A presage of horror! What on earth do you mean?”

“I don’t know; oh, I don’t know. And that is what is so terrible. All
this weakness comes to me in sleep; until I dread the very thought.”

“But, my dear girl, you may sleep to-night. I am here watching you, and
I can promise that nothing will happen.”

“Ah, I can trust you!” I seized the opportunity, and said: “I promise
you that if I see any evidence of bad dreams I will wake you at once.”

“You will? Oh, will you really? How good you are to me. Then I will
sleep!” And almost at the word she gave a deep sigh of relief, and sank
back, asleep.

All night long I watched by her. She never stirred, but slept on and on
in a deep, tranquil, life-giving, health-giving sleep. Her lips were
slightly parted, and her breast rose and fell with the regularity of a
pendulum. There was a smile on her face, and it was evident that no bad
dreams had come to disturb her peace of mind.

In the early morning her maid came, and I left her in her care and took
myself back home, for I was anxious about many things. I sent a short
wire to Van Helsing and to Arthur, telling them of the excellent result
of the operation. My own work, with its manifold arrears, took me all
day to clear off; it was dark when I was able to inquire about my
zoöphagous patient. The report was good; he had been quite quiet for the
past day and night. A telegram came from Van Helsing at Amsterdam whilst
I was at dinner, suggesting that I should be at Hillingham to-night, as
it might be well to be at hand, and stating that he was leaving by the
night mail and would join me early in the morning.

       *       *       *       *       *

_9 September_.--I was pretty tired and worn out when I got to
Hillingham. For two nights I had hardly had a wink of sleep, and my
brain was beginning to feel that numbness which marks cerebral
exhaustion. Lucy was up and in cheerful spirits. When she shook hands
with me she looked sharply in my face and said:--

“No sitting up to-night for you. You are worn out. I am quite well
again; indeed, I am; and if there is to be any sitting up, it is I who
will sit up with you.” I would not argue the point, but went and had my
supper. Lucy came with me, and, enlivened by her charming presence, I
made an excellent meal, and had a couple of glasses of the more than
excellent port. Then Lucy took me upstairs, and showed me a room next
her own, where a cozy fire was burning. “Now,” she said, “you must stay
here. I shall leave this door open and my door too. You can lie on the
sofa for I know that nothing would induce any of you doctors to go to
bed whilst there is a patient above the horizon. If I want anything I
shall call out, and you can come to me at once.” I could not but
acquiesce, for I was “dog-tired,” and could not have sat up had I tried.
So, on her renewing her promise to call me if she should want anything,
I lay on the sofa, and forgot all about everything.


_Lucy Westenra’s Diary._

_9 September._--I feel so happy to-night. I have been so miserably weak,
that to be able to think and move about is like feeling sunshine after
a long spell of east wind out of a steel sky. Somehow Arthur feels very,
very close to me. I seem to feel his presence warm about me. I suppose
it is that sickness and weakness are selfish things and turn our inner
eyes and sympathy on ourselves, whilst health and strength give Love
rein, and in thought and feeling he can wander where he wills. I know
where my thoughts are. If Arthur only knew! My dear, my dear, your ears
must tingle as you sleep, as mine do waking. Oh, the blissful rest of
last night! How I slept, with that dear, good Dr. Seward watching me.
And to-night I shall not fear to sleep, since he is close at hand and
within call. Thank everybody for being so good to me! Thank God!
Good-night, Arthur.


_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

_10 September._--I was conscious of the Professor’s hand on my head, and
started awake all in a second. That is one of the things that we learn
in an asylum, at any rate.

“And how is our patient?”

“Well, when I left her, or rather when she left me,” I answered.

“Come, let us see,” he said. And together we went into the room.

The blind was down, and I went over to raise it gently, whilst Van
Helsing stepped, with his soft, cat-like tread, over to the bed.

As I raised the blind, and the morning sunlight flooded the room, I
heard the Professor’s low hiss of inspiration, and knowing its rarity, a
deadly fear shot through my heart. As I passed over he moved back, and
his exclamation of horror, “Gott in Himmel!” needed no enforcement from
his agonised face. He raised his hand and pointed to the bed, and his
iron face was drawn and ashen white. I felt my knees begin to tremble.

There on the bed, seemingly in a swoon, lay poor Lucy, more horribly
white and wan-looking than ever. Even the lips were white, and the gums
seemed to have shrunken back from the teeth, as we sometimes see in a
corpse after a prolonged illness. Van Helsing raised his foot to stamp
in anger, but the instinct of his life and all the long years of habit
stood to him, and he put it down again softly. “Quick!” he said. “Bring
the brandy.” I flew to the dining-room, and returned with the decanter.
He wetted the poor white lips with it, and together we rubbed palm and
wrist and heart. He felt her heart, and after a few moments of agonising
suspense said:--

“It is not too late. It beats, though but feebly. All our work is
undone; we must begin again. There is no young Arthur here now; I have
to call on you yourself this time, friend John.” As he spoke, he was
dipping into his bag and producing the instruments for transfusion; I
had taken off my coat and rolled up my shirt-sleeve. There was no
possibility of an opiate just at present, and no need of one; and so,
without a moment’s delay, we began the operation. After a time--it did
not seem a short time either, for the draining away of one’s blood, no
matter how willingly it be given, is a terrible feeling--Van Helsing
held up a warning finger. “Do not stir,” he said, “but I fear that with
growing strength she may wake; and that would make danger, oh, so much
danger. But I shall precaution take. I shall give hypodermic injection
of morphia.” He proceeded then, swiftly and deftly, to carry out his
intent. The effect on Lucy was not bad, for the faint seemed to merge
subtly into the narcotic sleep. It was with a feeling of personal pride
that I could see a faint tinge of colour steal back into the pallid
cheeks and lips. No man knows, till he experiences it, what it is to
feel his own life-blood drawn away into the veins of the woman he loves.

The Professor watched me critically. “That will do,” he said. “Already?”
I remonstrated. “You took a great deal more from Art.” To which he
smiled a sad sort of smile as he replied:--

“He is her lover, her _fiancé_. You have work, much work, to do for her
and for others; and the present will suffice.”

When we stopped the operation, he attended to Lucy, whilst I applied
digital pressure to my own incision. I laid down, whilst I waited his
leisure to attend to me, for I felt faint and a little sick. By-and-by
he bound up my wound, and sent me downstairs to get a glass of wine for
myself. As I was leaving the room, he came after me, and half
whispered:--

“Mind, nothing must be said of this. If our young lover should turn up
unexpected, as before, no word to him. It would at once frighten him and
enjealous him, too. There must be none. So!”

When I came back he looked at me carefully, and then said:--

“You are not much the worse. Go into the room, and lie on your sofa, and
rest awhile; then have much breakfast, and come here to me.”

I followed out his orders, for I knew how right and wise they were. I
had done my part, and now my next duty was to keep up my strength. I
felt very weak, and in the weakness lost something of the amazement at
what had occurred. I fell asleep on the sofa, however, wondering over
and over again how Lucy had made such a retrograde movement, and how
she could have been drained of so much blood with no sign anywhere to
show for it. I think I must have continued my wonder in my dreams, for,
sleeping and waking, my thoughts always came back to the little
punctures in her throat and the ragged, exhausted appearance of their
edges--tiny though they were.

Lucy slept well into the day, and when she woke she was fairly well and
strong, though not nearly so much so as the day before. When Van Helsing
had seen her, he went out for a walk, leaving me in charge, with strict
injunctions that I was not to leave her for a moment. I could hear his
voice in the hall, asking the way to the nearest telegraph office.

Lucy chatted with me freely, and seemed quite unconscious that anything
had happened. I tried to keep her amused and interested. When her mother
came up to see her, she did not seem to notice any change whatever, but
said to me gratefully:--

“We owe you so much, Dr. Seward, for all you have done, but you really
must now take care not to overwork yourself. You are looking pale
yourself. You want a wife to nurse and look after you a bit; that you
do!” As she spoke, Lucy turned crimson, though it was only momentarily,
for her poor wasted veins could not stand for long such an unwonted
drain to the head. The reaction came in excessive pallor as she turned
imploring eyes on me. I smiled and nodded, and laid my finger on my
lips; with a sigh, she sank back amid her pillows.

Van Helsing returned in a couple of hours, and presently said to me:
“Now you go home, and eat much and drink enough. Make yourself strong. I
stay here to-night, and I shall sit up with little miss myself. You and
I must watch the case, and we must have none other to know. I have grave
reasons. No, do not ask them; think what you will. Do not fear to think
even the most not-probable. Good-night.”

In the hall two of the maids came to me, and asked if they or either of
them might not sit up with Miss Lucy. They implored me to let them; and
when I said it was Dr. Van Helsing’s wish that either he or I should sit
up, they asked me quite piteously to intercede with the “foreign
gentleman.” I was much touched by their kindness. Perhaps it is because
I am weak at present, and perhaps because it was on Lucy’s account, that
their devotion was manifested; for over and over again have I seen
similar instances of woman’s kindness. I got back here in time for a
late dinner; went my rounds--all well; and set this down whilst waiting
for sleep. It is coming.

       *       *       *       *       *

_11 September._--This afternoon I went over to Hillingham. Found Van
Helsing in excellent spirits, and Lucy much better. Shortly after I had
arrived, a big parcel from abroad came for the Professor. He opened it
with much impressment--assumed, of course--and showed a great bundle of
white flowers.

“These are for you, Miss Lucy,” he said.

“For me? Oh, Dr. Van Helsing!”

“Yes, my dear, but not for you to play with. These are medicines.” Here
Lucy made a wry face. “Nay, but they are not to take in a decoction or
in nauseous form, so you need not snub that so charming nose, or I shall
point out to my friend Arthur what woes he may have to endure in seeing
so much beauty that he so loves so much distort. Aha, my pretty miss,
that bring the so nice nose all straight again. This is medicinal, but
you do not know how. I put him in your window, I make pretty wreath, and
hang him round your neck, so that you sleep well. Oh yes! they, like the
lotus flower, make your trouble forgotten. It smell so like the waters
of Lethe, and of that fountain of youth that the Conquistadores sought
for in the Floridas, and find him all too late.”

Whilst he was speaking, Lucy had been examining the flowers and smelling
them. Now she threw them down, saying, with half-laughter, and
half-disgust:--

“Oh, Professor, I believe you are only putting up a joke on me. Why,
these flowers are only common garlic.”

To my surprise, Van Helsing rose up and said with all his sternness, his
iron jaw set and his bushy eyebrows meeting:--

“No trifling with me! I never jest! There is grim purpose in all I do;
and I warn you that you do not thwart me. Take care, for the sake of
others if not for your own.” Then seeing poor Lucy scared, as she might
well be, he went on more gently: “Oh, little miss, my dear, do not fear
me. I only do for your good; but there is much virtue to you in those so
common flowers. See, I place them myself in your room. I make myself the
wreath that you are to wear. But hush! no telling to others that make so
inquisitive questions. We must obey, and silence is a part of obedience;
and obedience is to bring you strong and well into loving arms that wait
for you. Now sit still awhile. Come with me, friend John, and you shall
help me deck the room with my garlic, which is all the way from Haarlem,
where my friend Vanderpool raise herb in his glass-houses all the year.
I had to telegraph yesterday, or they would not have been here.”

We went into the room, taking the flowers with us. The Professor’s
actions were certainly odd and not to be found in any pharmacopoeia
that I ever heard of. First he fastened up the windows and latched them
securely; next, taking a handful of the flowers, he rubbed them all over
the sashes, as though to ensure that every whiff of air that might get
in would be laden with the garlic smell. Then with the wisp he rubbed
all over the jamb of the door, above, below, and at each side, and round
the fireplace in the same way. It all seemed grotesque to me, and
presently I said:--

“Well, Professor, I know you always have a reason for what you do, but
this certainly puzzles me. It is well we have no sceptic here, or he
would say that you were working some spell to keep out an evil spirit.”

“Perhaps I am!” he answered quietly as he began to make the wreath which
Lucy was to wear round her neck.

We then waited whilst Lucy made her toilet for the night, and when she
was in bed he came and himself fixed the wreath of garlic round her
neck. The last words he said to her were:--

“Take care you do not disturb it; and even if the room feel close, do
not to-night open the window or the door.”

“I promise,” said Lucy, “and thank you both a thousand times for all
your kindness to me! Oh, what have I done to be blessed with such
friends?”

As we left the house in my fly, which was waiting, Van Helsing said:--

“To-night I can sleep in peace, and sleep I want--two nights of travel,
much reading in the day between, and much anxiety on the day to follow,
and a night to sit up, without to wink. To-morrow in the morning early
you call for me, and we come together to see our pretty miss, so much
more strong for my ‘spell’ which I have work. Ho! ho!”

He seemed so confident that I, remembering my own confidence two nights
before and with the baneful result, felt awe and vague terror. It must
have been my weakness that made me hesitate to tell it to my friend, but
I felt it all the more, like unshed tears.




CHAPTER XI

_Lucy Westenra’s Diary._


_12 September._--How good they all are to me. I quite love that dear Dr.
Van Helsing. I wonder why he was so anxious about these flowers. He
positively frightened me, he was so fierce. And yet he must have been
right, for I feel comfort from them already. Somehow, I do not dread
being alone to-night, and I can go to sleep without fear. I shall not
mind any flapping outside the window. Oh, the terrible struggle that I
have had against sleep so often of late; the pain of the sleeplessness,
or the pain of the fear of sleep, with such unknown horrors as it has
for me! How blessed are some people, whose lives have no fears, no
dreads; to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings
nothing but sweet dreams. Well, here I am to-night, hoping for sleep,
and lying like Ophelia in the play, with “virgin crants and maiden
strewments.” I never liked garlic before, but to-night it is delightful!
There is peace in its smell; I feel sleep coming already. Good-night,
everybody.


_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

_13 September._--Called at the Berkeley and found Van Helsing, as usual,
up to time. The carriage ordered from the hotel was waiting. The
Professor took his bag, which he always brings with him now.

Let all be put down exactly. Van Helsing and I arrived at Hillingham at
eight o’clock. It was a lovely morning; the bright sunshine and all the
fresh feeling of early autumn seemed like the completion of nature’s
annual work. The leaves were turning to all kinds of beautiful colours,
but had not yet begun to drop from the trees. When we entered we met
Mrs. Westenra coming out of the morning room. She is always an early
riser. She greeted us warmly and said:--

“You will be glad to know that Lucy is better. The dear child is still
asleep. I looked into her room and saw her, but did not go in, lest I
should disturb her.” The Professor smiled, and looked quite jubilant. He
rubbed his hands together, and said:--

“Aha! I thought I had diagnosed the case. My treatment is working,” to
which she answered:--

“You must not take all the credit to yourself, doctor. Lucy’s state this
morning is due in part to me.”

“How you do mean, ma’am?” asked the Professor.

“Well, I was anxious about the dear child in the night, and went into
her room. She was sleeping soundly--so soundly that even my coming did
not wake her. But the room was awfully stuffy. There were a lot of those
horrible, strong-smelling flowers about everywhere, and she had actually
a bunch of them round her neck. I feared that the heavy odour would be
too much for the dear child in her weak state, so I took them all away
and opened a bit of the window to let in a little fresh air. You will be
pleased with her, I am sure.”

She moved off into her boudoir, where she usually breakfasted early. As
she had spoken, I watched the Professor’s face, and saw it turn ashen
grey. He had been able to retain his self-command whilst the poor lady
was present, for he knew her state and how mischievous a shock would be;
he actually smiled on her as he held open the door for her to pass into
her room. But the instant she had disappeared he pulled me, suddenly and
forcibly, into the dining-room and closed the door.

Then, for the first time in my life, I saw Van Helsing break down. He
raised his hands over his head in a sort of mute despair, and then beat
his palms together in a helpless way; finally he sat down on a chair,
and putting his hands before his face, began to sob, with loud, dry sobs
that seemed to come from the very racking of his heart. Then he raised
his arms again, as though appealing to the whole universe. “God! God!
God!” he said. “What have we done, what has this poor thing done, that
we are so sore beset? Is there fate amongst us still, sent down from the
pagan world of old, that such things must be, and in such way? This poor
mother, all unknowing, and all for the best as she think, does such
thing as lose her daughter body and soul; and we must not tell her, we
must not even warn her, or she die, and then both die. Oh, how we are
beset! How are all the powers of the devils against us!” Suddenly he
jumped to his feet. “Come,” he said, “come, we must see and act. Devils
or no devils, or all the devils at once, it matters not; we fight him
all the same.” He went to the hall-door for his bag; and together we
went up to Lucy’s room.

Once again I drew up the blind, whilst Van Helsing went towards the bed.
This time he did not start as he looked on the poor face with the same
awful, waxen pallor as before. He wore a look of stern sadness and
infinite pity.

“As I expected,” he murmured, with that hissing inspiration of his which
meant so much. Without a word he went and locked the door, and then
began to set out on the little table the instruments for yet another
operation of transfusion of blood. I had long ago recognised the
necessity, and begun to take off my coat, but he stopped me with a
warning hand. “No!” he said. “To-day you must operate. I shall provide.
You are weakened already.” As he spoke he took off his coat and rolled
up his shirt-sleeve.

Again the operation; again the narcotic; again some return of colour to
the ashy cheeks, and the regular breathing of healthy sleep. This time I
watched whilst Van Helsing recruited himself and rested.

Presently he took an opportunity of telling Mrs. Westenra that she must
not remove anything from Lucy’s room without consulting him; that the
flowers were of medicinal value, and that the breathing of their odour
was a part of the system of cure. Then he took over the care of the case
himself, saying that he would watch this night and the next and would
send me word when to come.

After another hour Lucy waked from her sleep, fresh and bright and
seemingly not much the worse for her terrible ordeal.

What does it all mean? I am beginning to wonder if my long habit of life
amongst the insane is beginning to tell upon my own brain.


_Lucy Westenra’s Diary._

_17 September._--Four days and nights of peace. I am getting so strong
again that I hardly know myself. It is as if I had passed through some
long nightmare, and had just awakened to see the beautiful sunshine and
feel the fresh air of the morning around me. I have a dim
half-remembrance of long, anxious times of waiting and fearing; darkness
in which there was not even the pain of hope to make present distress
more poignant: and then long spells of oblivion, and the rising back to
life as a diver coming up through a great press of water. Since,
however, Dr. Van Helsing has been with me, all this bad dreaming seems
to have passed away; the noises that used to frighten me out of my
wits--the flapping against the windows, the distant voices which seemed
so close to me, the harsh sounds that came from I know not where and
commanded me to do I know not what--have all ceased. I go to bed now
without any fear of sleep. I do not even try to keep awake. I have grown
quite fond of the garlic, and a boxful arrives for me every day from
Haarlem. To-night Dr. Van Helsing is going away, as he has to be for a
day in Amsterdam. But I need not be watched; I am well enough to be left
alone. Thank God for mother’s sake, and dear Arthur’s, and for all our
friends who have been so kind! I shall not even feel the change, for
last night Dr. Van Helsing slept in his chair a lot of the time. I found
him asleep twice when I awoke; but I did not fear to go to sleep again,
although the boughs or bats or something napped almost angrily against
the window-panes.


_“The Pall Mall Gazette,” 18 September._

                           THE ESCAPED WOLF.

         PERILOUS ADVENTURE OF OUR INTERVIEWER.

         _Interview with the Keeper in the Zoölogical Gardens._

After many inquiries and almost as many refusals, and perpetually using
the words “Pall Mall Gazette” as a sort of talisman, I managed to find
the keeper of the section of the Zoölogical Gardens in which the wolf
department is included. Thomas Bilder lives in one of the cottages in
the enclosure behind the elephant-house, and was just sitting down to
his tea when I found him. Thomas and his wife are hospitable folk,
elderly, and without children, and if the specimen I enjoyed of their
hospitality be of the average kind, their lives must be pretty
comfortable. The keeper would not enter on what he called “business”
until the supper was over, and we were all satisfied. Then when the
table was cleared, and he had lit his pipe, he said:--

“Now, sir, you can go on and arsk me what you want. You’ll excoose me
refoosin’ to talk of perfeshunal subjects afore meals. I gives the
wolves and the jackals and the hyenas in all our section their tea afore
I begins to arsk them questions.”

“How do you mean, ask them questions?” I queried, wishful to get him
into a talkative humour.

“’Ittin’ of them over the ’ead with a pole is one way; scratchin’ of
their hears is another, when gents as is flush wants a bit of a show-orf
to their gals. I don’t so much mind the fust--the ’ittin’ with a pole
afore I chucks in their dinner; but I waits till they’ve ’ad their
sherry and kawffee, so to speak, afore I tries on with the
ear-scratchin’. Mind you,” he added philosophically, “there’s a deal of
the same nature in us as in them theer animiles. Here’s you a-comin’ and
arskin’ of me questions about my business, and I that grumpy-like that
only for your bloomin’ ’arf-quid I’d ’a’ seen you blowed fust ’fore I’d
answer. Not even when you arsked me sarcastic-like if I’d like you to
arsk the Superintendent if you might arsk me questions. Without offence
did I tell yer to go to ’ell?”

“You did.”

“An’ when you said you’d report me for usin’ of obscene language that
was ’ittin’ me over the ’ead; but the ’arf-quid made that all right. I
weren’t a-goin’ to fight, so I waited for the food, and did with my ’owl
as the wolves, and lions, and tigers does. But, Lor’ love yer ’art, now
that the old ’ooman has stuck a chunk of her tea-cake in me, an’ rinsed
me out with her bloomin’ old teapot, and I’ve lit hup, you may scratch
my ears for all you’re worth, and won’t git even a growl out of me.
Drive along with your questions. I know what yer a-comin’ at, that ’ere
escaped wolf.”

“Exactly. I want you to give me your view of it. Just tell me how it
happened; and when I know the facts I’ll get you to say what you
consider was the cause of it, and how you think the whole affair will
end.”

“All right, guv’nor. This ’ere is about the ’ole story. That ’ere wolf
what we called Bersicker was one of three grey ones that came from
Norway to Jamrach’s, which we bought off him four years ago. He was a
nice well-behaved wolf, that never gave no trouble to talk of. I’m more
surprised at ’im for wantin’ to get out nor any other animile in the
place. But, there, you can’t trust wolves no more nor women.”

“Don’t you mind him, sir!” broke in Mrs. Tom, with a cheery laugh. “’E’s
got mindin’ the animiles so long that blest if he ain’t like a old wolf
’isself! But there ain’t no ’arm in ’im.”

“Well, sir, it was about two hours after feedin’ yesterday when I first
hear my disturbance. I was makin’ up a litter in the monkey-house for a
young puma which is ill; but when I heard the yelpin’ and ’owlin’ I kem
away straight. There was Bersicker a-tearin’ like a mad thing at the
bars as if he wanted to get out. There wasn’t much people about that
day, and close at hand was only one man, a tall, thin chap, with a ’ook
nose and a pointed beard, with a few white hairs runnin’ through it. He
had a ’ard, cold look and red eyes, and I took a sort of mislike to him,
for it seemed as if it was ’im as they was hirritated at. He ’ad white
kid gloves on ’is ’ands, and he pointed out the animiles to me and says:
‘Keeper, these wolves seem upset at something.’

“‘Maybe it’s you,’ says I, for I did not like the airs as he give
’isself. He didn’t git angry, as I ’oped he would, but he smiled a kind
of insolent smile, with a mouth full of white, sharp teeth. ‘Oh no, they
wouldn’t like me,’ ’e says.

“‘Ow yes, they would,’ says I, a-imitatin’ of him. ‘They always likes a
bone or two to clean their teeth on about tea-time, which you ’as a
bagful.’

“Well, it was a odd thing, but when the animiles see us a-talkin’ they
lay down, and when I went over to Bersicker he let me stroke his ears
same as ever. That there man kem over, and blessed but if he didn’t put
in his hand and stroke the old wolf’s ears too!

“‘Tyke care,’ says I. ‘Bersicker is quick.’

“‘Never mind,’ he says. ‘I’m used to ’em!’

“‘Are you in the business yourself?’ I says, tyking off my ’at, for a
man what trades in wolves, anceterer, is a good friend to keepers.

“‘No,’ says he, ‘not exactly in the business, but I ’ave made pets of
several.’ And with that he lifts his ’at as perlite as a lord, and walks
away. Old Bersicker kep’ a-lookin’ arter ’im till ’e was out of sight,
and then went and lay down in a corner and wouldn’t come hout the ’ole
hevening. Well, larst night, so soon as the moon was hup, the wolves
here all began a-’owling. There warn’t nothing for them to ’owl at.
There warn’t no one near, except some one that was evidently a-callin’ a
dog somewheres out back of the gardings in the Park road. Once or twice
I went out to see that all was right, and it was, and then the ’owling
stopped. Just before twelve o’clock I just took a look round afore
turnin’ in, an’, bust me, but when I kem opposite to old Bersicker’s
cage I see the rails broken and twisted about and the cage empty. And
that’s all I know for certing.”

“Did any one else see anything?”

“One of our gard’ners was a-comin’ ’ome about that time from a ’armony,
when he sees a big grey dog comin’ out through the garding ’edges. At
least, so he says, but I don’t give much for it myself, for if he did ’e
never said a word about it to his missis when ’e got ’ome, and it was
only after the escape of the wolf was made known, and we had been up all
night-a-huntin’ of the Park for Bersicker, that he remembered seein’
anything. My own belief was that the ’armony ’ad got into his ’ead.”

“Now, Mr. Bilder, can you account in any way for the escape of the
wolf?”

“Well, sir,” he said, with a suspicious sort of modesty, “I think I can;
but I don’t know as ’ow you’d be satisfied with the theory.”

“Certainly I shall. If a man like you, who knows the animals from
experience, can’t hazard a good guess at any rate, who is even to try?”

“Well then, sir, I accounts for it this way; it seems to me that ’ere
wolf escaped--simply because he wanted to get out.”

From the hearty way that both Thomas and his wife laughed at the joke I
could see that it had done service before, and that the whole
explanation was simply an elaborate sell. I couldn’t cope in badinage
with the worthy Thomas, but I thought I knew a surer way to his heart,
so I said:--

“Now, Mr. Bilder, we’ll consider that first half-sovereign worked off,
and this brother of his is waiting to be claimed when you’ve told me
what you think will happen.”

“Right y’are, sir,” he said briskly. “Ye’ll excoose me, I know, for
a-chaffin’ of ye, but the old woman here winked at me, which was as much
as telling me to go on.”

“Well, I never!” said the old lady.

“My opinion is this: that ’ere wolf is a-’idin’ of, somewheres. The
gard’ner wot didn’t remember said he was a-gallopin’ northward faster
than a horse could go; but I don’t believe him, for, yer see, sir,
wolves don’t gallop no more nor dogs does, they not bein’ built that
way. Wolves is fine things in a storybook, and I dessay when they gets
in packs and does be chivyin’ somethin’ that’s more afeared than they is
they can make a devil of a noise and chop it up, whatever it is. But,
Lor’ bless you, in real life a wolf is only a low creature, not half so
clever or bold as a good dog; and not half a quarter so much fight in
’im. This one ain’t been used to fightin’ or even to providin’ for
hisself, and more like he’s somewhere round the Park a-’idin’ an’
a-shiverin’ of, and, if he thinks at all, wonderin’ where he is to get
his breakfast from; or maybe he’s got down some area and is in a
coal-cellar. My eye, won’t some cook get a rum start when she sees his
green eyes a-shining at her out of the dark! If he can’t get food he’s
bound to look for it, and mayhap he may chance to light on a butcher’s
shop in time. If he doesn’t, and some nursemaid goes a-walkin’ orf with
a soldier, leavin’ of the hinfant in the perambulator--well, then I
shouldn’t be surprised if the census is one babby the less. That’s
all.”

I was handing him the half-sovereign, when something came bobbing up
against the window, and Mr. Bilder’s face doubled its natural length
with surprise.

“God bless me!” he said. “If there ain’t old Bersicker come back by
’isself!”

He went to the door and opened it; a most unnecessary proceeding it
seemed to me. I have always thought that a wild animal never looks so
well as when some obstacle of pronounced durability is between us; a
personal experience has intensified rather than diminished that idea.

After all, however, there is nothing like custom, for neither Bilder nor
his wife thought any more of the wolf than I should of a dog. The animal
itself was as peaceful and well-behaved as that father of all
picture-wolves--Red Riding Hood’s quondam friend, whilst moving her
confidence in masquerade.

The whole scene was an unutterable mixture of comedy and pathos. The
wicked wolf that for half a day had paralysed London and set all the
children in the town shivering in their shoes, was there in a sort of
penitent mood, and was received and petted like a sort of vulpine
prodigal son. Old Bilder examined him all over with most tender
solicitude, and when he had finished with his penitent said:--

“There, I knew the poor old chap would get into some kind of trouble;
didn’t I say it all along? Here’s his head all cut and full of broken
glass. ’E’s been a-gettin’ over some bloomin’ wall or other. It’s a
shyme that people are allowed to top their walls with broken bottles.
This ’ere’s what comes of it. Come along, Bersicker.”

He took the wolf and locked him up in a cage, with a piece of meat that
satisfied, in quantity at any rate, the elementary conditions of the
fatted calf, and went off to report.

I came off, too, to report the only exclusive information that is given
to-day regarding the strange escapade at the Zoo.


_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

_17 September._--I was engaged after dinner in my study posting up my
books, which, through press of other work and the many visits to Lucy,
had fallen sadly into arrear. Suddenly the door was burst open, and in
rushed my patient, with his face distorted with passion. I was
thunderstruck, for such a thing as a patient getting of his own accord
into the Superintendent’s study is almost unknown. Without an instant’s
pause he made straight at me. He had a dinner-knife in his hand, and,
as I saw he was dangerous, I tried to keep the table between us. He was
too quick and too strong for me, however; for before I could get my
balance he had struck at me and cut my left wrist rather severely.
Before he could strike again, however, I got in my right and he was
sprawling on his back on the floor. My wrist bled freely, and quite a
little pool trickled on to the carpet. I saw that my friend was not
intent on further effort, and occupied myself binding up my wrist,
keeping a wary eye on the prostrate figure all the time. When the
attendants rushed in, and we turned our attention to him, his employment
positively sickened me. He was lying on his belly on the floor licking
up, like a dog, the blood which had fallen from my wounded wrist. He was
easily secured, and, to my surprise, went with the attendants quite
placidly, simply repeating over and over again: “The blood is the life!
The blood is the life!”

I cannot afford to lose blood just at present; I have lost too much of
late for my physical good, and then the prolonged strain of Lucy’s
illness and its horrible phases is telling on me. I am over-excited and
weary, and I need rest, rest, rest. Happily Van Helsing has not summoned
me, so I need not forego my sleep; to-night I could not well do without
it.


_Telegram, Van Helsing, Antwerp, to Seward, Carfax._

(Sent to Carfax, Sussex, as no county given; delivered late by
twenty-two hours.)

“_17 September._--Do not fail to be at Hillingham to-night. If not
watching all the time frequently, visit and see that flowers are as
placed; very important; do not fail. Shall be with you as soon as
possible after arrival.”


_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

_18 September._--Just off for train to London. The arrival of Van
Helsing’s telegram filled me with dismay. A whole night lost, and I know
by bitter experience what may happen in a night. Of course it is
possible that all may be well, but what _may_ have happened? Surely
there is some horrible doom hanging over us that every possible accident
should thwart us in all we try to do. I shall take this cylinder with
me, and then I can complete my entry on Lucy’s phonograph.


_Memorandum left by Lucy Westenra._

_17 September. Night._--I write this and leave it to be seen, so that no
one may by any chance get into trouble through me. This is an exact
record of what took place to-night. I feel I am dying of weakness, and
have barely strength to write, but it must be done if I die in the
doing.

I went to bed as usual, taking care that the flowers were placed as Dr.
Van Helsing directed, and soon fell asleep.

I was waked by the flapping at the window, which had begun after that
sleep-walking on the cliff at Whitby when Mina saved me, and which now I
know so well. I was not afraid, but I did wish that Dr. Seward was in
the next room--as Dr. Van Helsing said he would be--so that I might have
called him. I tried to go to sleep, but could not. Then there came to me
the old fear of sleep, and I determined to keep awake. Perversely sleep
would try to come then when I did not want it; so, as I feared to be
alone, I opened my door and called out: “Is there anybody there?” There
was no answer. I was afraid to wake mother, and so closed my door again.
Then outside in the shrubbery I heard a sort of howl like a dog’s, but
more fierce and deeper. I went to the window and looked out, but could
see nothing, except a big bat, which had evidently been buffeting its
wings against the window. So I went back to bed again, but determined
not to go to sleep. Presently the door opened, and mother looked in;
seeing by my moving that I was not asleep, came in, and sat by me. She
said to me even more sweetly and softly than her wont:--

“I was uneasy about you, darling, and came in to see that you were all
right.”

I feared she might catch cold sitting there, and asked her to come in
and sleep with me, so she came into bed, and lay down beside me; she did
not take off her dressing gown, for she said she would only stay a while
and then go back to her own bed. As she lay there in my arms, and I in
hers, the flapping and buffeting came to the window again. She was
startled and a little frightened, and cried out: “What is that?” I tried
to pacify her, and at last succeeded, and she lay quiet; but I could
hear her poor dear heart still beating terribly. After a while there was
the low howl again out in the shrubbery, and shortly after there was a
crash at the window, and a lot of broken glass was hurled on the floor.
The window blind blew back with the wind that rushed in, and in the
aperture of the broken panes there was the head of a great, gaunt grey
wolf. Mother cried out in a fright, and struggled up into a sitting
posture, and clutched wildly at anything that would help her. Amongst
other things, she clutched the wreath of flowers that Dr. Van Helsing
insisted on my wearing round my neck, and tore it away from me. For a
second or two she sat up, pointing at the wolf, and there was a strange
and horrible gurgling in her throat; then she fell over--as if struck
with lightning, and her head hit my forehead and made me dizzy for a
moment or two. The room and all round seemed to spin round. I kept my
eyes fixed on the window, but the wolf drew his head back, and a whole
myriad of little specks seemed to come blowing in through the broken
window, and wheeling and circling round like the pillar of dust that
travellers describe when there is a simoon in the desert. I tried to
stir, but there was some spell upon me, and dear mother’s poor body,
which seemed to grow cold already--for her dear heart had ceased to
beat--weighed me down; and I remembered no more for a while.

The time did not seem long, but very, very awful, till I recovered
consciousness again. Somewhere near, a passing bell was tolling; the
dogs all round the neighbourhood were howling; and in our shrubbery,
seemingly just outside, a nightingale was singing. I was dazed and
stupid with pain and terror and weakness, but the sound of the
nightingale seemed like the voice of my dead mother come back to comfort
me. The sounds seemed to have awakened the maids, too, for I could hear
their bare feet pattering outside my door. I called to them, and they
came in, and when they saw what had happened, and what it was that lay
over me on the bed, they screamed out. The wind rushed in through the
broken window, and the door slammed to. They lifted off the body of my
dear mother, and laid her, covered up with a sheet, on the bed after I
had got up. They were all so frightened and nervous that I directed them
to go to the dining-room and have each a glass of wine. The door flew
open for an instant and closed again. The maids shrieked, and then went
in a body to the dining-room; and I laid what flowers I had on my dear
mother’s breast. When they were there I remembered what Dr. Van Helsing
had told me, but I didn’t like to remove them, and, besides, I would
have some of the servants to sit up with me now. I was surprised that
the maids did not come back. I called them, but got no answer, so I went
to the dining-room to look for them.

My heart sank when I saw what had happened. They all four lay helpless
on the floor, breathing heavily. The decanter of sherry was on the table
half full, but there was a queer, acrid smell about. I was suspicious,
and examined the decanter. It smelt of laudanum, and looking on the
sideboard, I found that the bottle which mother’s doctor uses for
her--oh! did use--was empty. What am I to do? what am I to do? I am back
in the room with mother. I cannot leave her, and I am alone, save for
the sleeping servants, whom some one has drugged. Alone with the dead! I
dare not go out, for I can hear the low howl of the wolf through the
broken window.

The air seems full of specks, floating and circling in the draught from
the window, and the lights burn blue and dim. What am I to do? God
shield me from harm this night! I shall hide this paper in my breast,
where they shall find it when they come to lay me out. My dear mother
gone! It is time that I go too. Good-bye, dear Arthur, if I should not
survive this night. God keep you, dear, and God help me!




CHAPTER XII

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY


_18 September._--I drove at once to Hillingham and arrived early.
Keeping my cab at the gate, I went up the avenue alone. I knocked gently
and rang as quietly as possible, for I feared to disturb Lucy or her
mother, and hoped to only bring a servant to the door. After a while,
finding no response, I knocked and rang again; still no answer. I cursed
the laziness of the servants that they should lie abed at such an
hour--for it was now ten o’clock--and so rang and knocked again, but
more impatiently, but still without response. Hitherto I had blamed only
the servants, but now a terrible fear began to assail me. Was this
desolation but another link in the chain of doom which seemed drawing
tight around us? Was it indeed a house of death to which I had come, too
late? I knew that minutes, even seconds of delay, might mean hours of
danger to Lucy, if she had had again one of those frightful relapses;
and I went round the house to try if I could find by chance an entry
anywhere.

I could find no means of ingress. Every window and door was fastened and
locked, and I returned baffled to the porch. As I did so, I heard the
rapid pit-pat of a swiftly driven horse’s feet. They stopped at the
gate, and a few seconds later I met Van Helsing running up the avenue.
When he saw me, he gasped out:--

“Then it was you, and just arrived. How is she? Are we too late? Did you
not get my telegram?”

I answered as quickly and coherently as I could that I had only got his
telegram early in the morning, and had not lost a minute in coming here,
and that I could not make any one in the house hear me. He paused and
raised his hat as he said solemnly:--

“Then I fear we are too late. God’s will be done!” With his usual
recuperative energy, he went on: “Come. If there be no way open to get
in, we must make one. Time is all in all to us now.”

We went round to the back of the house, where there was a kitchen
window. The Professor took a small surgical saw from his case, and
handing it to me, pointed to the iron bars which guarded the window. I
attacked them at once and had very soon cut through three of them. Then
with a long, thin knife we pushed back the fastening of the sashes and
opened the window. I helped the Professor in, and followed him. There
was no one in the kitchen or in the servants’ rooms, which were close at
hand. We tried all the rooms as we went along, and in the dining-room,
dimly lit by rays of light through the shutters, found four
servant-women lying on the floor. There was no need to think them dead,
for their stertorous breathing and the acrid smell of laudanum in the
room left no doubt as to their condition. Van Helsing and I looked at
each other, and as we moved away he said: “We can attend to them later.”
Then we ascended to Lucy’s room. For an instant or two we paused at the
door to listen, but there was no sound that we could hear. With white
faces and trembling hands, we opened the door gently, and entered the
room.

How shall I describe what we saw? On the bed lay two women, Lucy and her
mother. The latter lay farthest in, and she was covered with a white
sheet, the edge of which had been blown back by the draught through the
broken window, showing the drawn, white face, with a look of terror
fixed upon it. By her side lay Lucy, with face white and still more
drawn. The flowers which had been round her neck we found upon her
mother’s bosom, and her throat was bare, showing the two little wounds
which we had noticed before, but looking horribly white and mangled.
Without a word the Professor bent over the bed, his head almost touching
poor Lucy’s breast; then he gave a quick turn of his head, as of one who
listens, and leaping to his feet, he cried out to me:--

“It is not yet too late! Quick! quick! Bring the brandy!”

I flew downstairs and returned with it, taking care to smell and taste
it, lest it, too, were drugged like the decanter of sherry which I found
on the table. The maids were still breathing, but more restlessly, and I
fancied that the narcotic was wearing off. I did not stay to make sure,
but returned to Van Helsing. He rubbed the brandy, as on another
occasion, on her lips and gums and on her wrists and the palms of her
hands. He said to me:--

“I can do this, all that can be at the present. You go wake those maids.
Flick them in the face with a wet towel, and flick them hard. Make them
get heat and fire and a warm bath. This poor soul is nearly as cold as
that beside her. She will need be heated before we can do anything
more.”

I went at once, and found little difficulty in waking three of the
women. The fourth was only a young girl, and the drug had evidently
affected her more strongly, so I lifted her on the sofa and let her
sleep. The others were dazed at first, but as remembrance came back to
them they cried and sobbed in a hysterical manner. I was stern with
them, however, and would not let them talk. I told them that one life
was bad enough to lose, and that if they delayed they would sacrifice
Miss Lucy. So, sobbing and crying, they went about their way, half clad
as they were, and prepared fire and water. Fortunately, the kitchen and
boiler fires were still alive, and there was no lack of hot water. We
got a bath and carried Lucy out as she was and placed her in it. Whilst
we were busy chafing her limbs there was a knock at the hall door. One
of the maids ran off, hurried on some more clothes, and opened it. Then
she returned and whispered to us that there was a gentleman who had come
with a message from Mr. Holmwood. I bade her simply tell him that he
must wait, for we could see no one now. She went away with the message,
and, engrossed with our work, I clean forgot all about him.

I never saw in all my experience the Professor work in such deadly
earnest. I knew--as he knew--that it was a stand-up fight with death,
and in a pause told him so. He answered me in a way that I did not
understand, but with the sternest look that his face could wear:--

“If that were all, I would stop here where we are now, and let her fade
away into peace, for I see no light in life over her horizon.” He went
on with his work with, if possible, renewed and more frenzied vigour.

Presently we both began to be conscious that the heat was beginning to
be of some effect. Lucy’s heart beat a trifle more audibly to the
stethoscope, and her lungs had a perceptible movement. Van Helsing’s
face almost beamed, and as we lifted her from the bath and rolled her in
a hot sheet to dry her he said to me:--

“The first gain is ours! Check to the King!”

We took Lucy into another room, which had by now been prepared, and laid
her in bed and forced a few drops of brandy down her throat. I noticed
that Van Helsing tied a soft silk handkerchief round her throat. She was
still unconscious, and was quite as bad as, if not worse than, we had
ever seen her.

Van Helsing called in one of the women, and told her to stay with her
and not to take her eyes off her till we returned, and then beckoned me
out of the room.

“We must consult as to what is to be done,” he said as we descended the
stairs. In the hall he opened the dining-room door, and we passed in, he
closing the door carefully behind him. The shutters had been opened, but
the blinds were already down, with that obedience to the etiquette of
death which the British woman of the lower classes always rigidly
observes. The room was, therefore, dimly dark. It was, however, light
enough for our purposes. Van Helsing’s sternness was somewhat relieved
by a look of perplexity. He was evidently torturing his mind about
something, so I waited for an instant, and he spoke:--

“What are we to do now? Where are we to turn for help? We must have
another transfusion of blood, and that soon, or that poor girl’s life
won’t be worth an hour’s purchase. You are exhausted already; I am
exhausted too. I fear to trust those women, even if they would have
courage to submit. What are we to do for some one who will open his
veins for her?”

“What’s the matter with me, anyhow?”

The voice came from the sofa across the room, and its tones brought
relief and joy to my heart, for they were those of Quincey Morris. Van
Helsing started angrily at the first sound, but his face softened and a
glad look came into his eyes as I cried out: “Quincey Morris!” and
rushed towards him with outstretched hands.

“What brought you here?” I cried as our hands met.

“I guess Art is the cause.”

He handed me a telegram:--

“Have not heard from Seward for three days, and am terribly anxious.
Cannot leave. Father still in same condition. Send me word how Lucy is.
Do not delay.--HOLMWOOD.”

“I think I came just in the nick of time. You know you have only to tell
me what to do.”

Van Helsing strode forward, and took his hand, looking him straight in
the eyes as he said:--

“A brave man’s blood is the best thing on this earth when a woman is in
trouble. You’re a man and no mistake. Well, the devil may work against
us for all he’s worth, but God sends us men when we want them.”

Once again we went through that ghastly operation. I have not the heart
to go through with the details. Lucy had got a terrible shock and it
told on her more than before, for though plenty of blood went into her
veins, her body did not respond to the treatment as well as on the other
occasions. Her struggle back into life was something frightful to see
and hear. However, the action of both heart and lungs improved, and Van
Helsing made a subcutaneous injection of morphia, as before, and with
good effect. Her faint became a profound slumber. The Professor watched
whilst I went downstairs with Quincey Morris, and sent one of the maids
to pay off one of the cabmen who were waiting. I left Quincey lying down
after having a glass of wine, and told the cook to get ready a good
breakfast. Then a thought struck me, and I went back to the room where
Lucy now was. When I came softly in, I found Van Helsing with a sheet or
two of note-paper in his hand. He had evidently read it, and was
thinking it over as he sat with his hand to his brow. There was a look
of grim satisfaction in his face, as of one who has had a doubt solved.
He handed me the paper saying only: “It dropped from Lucy’s breast when
we carried her to the bath.”

When I had read it, I stood looking at the Professor, and after a pause
asked him: “In God’s name, what does it all mean? Was she, or is she,
mad; or what sort of horrible danger is it?” I was so bewildered that I
did not know what to say more. Van Helsing put out his hand and took the
paper, saying:--

“Do not trouble about it now. Forget it for the present. You shall know
and understand it all in good time; but it will be later. And now what
is it that you came to me to say?” This brought me back to fact, and I
was all myself again.

“I came to speak about the certificate of death. If we do not act
properly and wisely, there may be an inquest, and that paper would have
to be produced. I am in hopes that we need have no inquest, for if we
had it would surely kill poor Lucy, if nothing else did. I know, and you
know, and the other doctor who attended her knows, that Mrs. Westenra
had disease of the heart, and we can certify that she died of it. Let us
fill up the certificate at once, and I shall take it myself to the
registrar and go on to the undertaker.”

“Good, oh my friend John! Well thought of! Truly Miss Lucy, if she be
sad in the foes that beset her, is at least happy in the friends that
love her. One, two, three, all open their veins for her, besides one old
man. Ah yes, I know, friend John; I am not blind! I love you all the
more for it! Now go.”

In the hall I met Quincey Morris, with a telegram for Arthur telling him
that Mrs. Westenra was dead; that Lucy also had been ill, but was now
going on better; and that Van Helsing and I were with her. I told him
where I was going, and he hurried me out, but as I was going said:--

“When you come back, Jack, may I have two words with you all to
ourselves?” I nodded in reply and went out. I found no difficulty about
the registration, and arranged with the local undertaker to come up in
the evening to measure for the coffin and to make arrangements.

When I got back Quincey was waiting for me. I told him I would see him
as soon as I knew about Lucy, and went up to her room. She was still
sleeping, and the Professor seemingly had not moved from his seat at her
side. From his putting his finger to his lips, I gathered that he
expected her to wake before long and was afraid of forestalling nature.
So I went down to Quincey and took him into the breakfast-room, where
the blinds were not drawn down, and which was a little more cheerful, or
rather less cheerless, than the other rooms. When we were alone, he said
to me:--

“Jack Seward, I don’t want to shove myself in anywhere where I’ve no
right to be; but this is no ordinary case. You know I loved that girl
and wanted to marry her; but, although that’s all past and gone, I can’t
help feeling anxious about her all the same. What is it that’s wrong
with her? The Dutchman--and a fine old fellow he is; I can see
that--said, that time you two came into the room, that you must have
_another_ transfusion of blood, and that both you and he were exhausted.
Now I know well that you medical men speak _in camera_, and that a man
must not expect to know what they consult about in private. But this is
no common matter, and, whatever it is, I have done my part. Is not that
so?”

“That’s so,” I said, and he went on:--

“I take it that both you and Van Helsing had done already what I did
to-day. Is not that so?”

“That’s so.”

“And I guess Art was in it too. When I saw him four days ago down at his
own place he looked queer. I have not seen anything pulled down so quick
since I was on the Pampas and had a mare that I was fond of go to grass
all in a night. One of those big bats that they call vampires had got at
her in the night, and what with his gorge and the vein left open, there
wasn’t enough blood in her to let her stand up, and I had to put a
bullet through her as she lay. Jack, if you may tell me without
betraying confidence, Arthur was the first, is not that so?” As he spoke
the poor fellow looked terribly anxious. He was in a torture of suspense
regarding the woman he loved, and his utter ignorance of the terrible
mystery which seemed to surround her intensified his pain. His very
heart was bleeding, and it took all the manhood of him--and there was a
royal lot of it, too--to keep him from breaking down. I paused before
answering, for I felt that I must not betray anything which the
Professor wished kept secret; but already he knew so much, and guessed
so much, that there could be no reason for not answering, so I answered
in the same phrase: “That’s so.”

“And how long has this been going on?”

“About ten days.”

“Ten days! Then I guess, Jack Seward, that that poor pretty creature
that we all love has had put into her veins within that time the blood
of four strong men. Man alive, her whole body wouldn’t hold it.” Then,
coming close to me, he spoke in a fierce half-whisper: “What took it
out?”

I shook my head. “That,” I said, “is the crux. Van Helsing is simply
frantic about it, and I am at my wits’ end. I can’t even hazard a guess.
There has been a series of little circumstances which have thrown out
all our calculations as to Lucy being properly watched. But these shall
not occur again. Here we stay until all be well--or ill.” Quincey held
out his hand. “Count me in,” he said. “You and the Dutchman will tell me
what to do, and I’ll do it.”

When she woke late in the afternoon, Lucy’s first movement was to feel
in her breast, and, to my surprise, produced the paper which Van Helsing
had given me to read. The careful Professor had replaced it where it had
come from, lest on waking she should be alarmed. Her eye then lit on Van
Helsing and on me too, and gladdened. Then she looked around the room,
and seeing where she was, shuddered; she gave a loud cry, and put her
poor thin hands before her pale face. We both understood what that
meant--that she had realised to the full her mother’s death; so we tried
what we could to comfort her. Doubtless sympathy eased her somewhat, but
she was very low in thought and spirit, and wept silently and weakly for
a long time. We told her that either or both of us would now remain with
her all the time, and that seemed to comfort her. Towards dusk she fell
into a doze. Here a very odd thing occurred. Whilst still asleep she
took the paper from her breast and tore it in two. Van Helsing stepped
over and took the pieces from her. All the same, however, she went on
with the action of tearing, as though the material were still in her
hands; finally she lifted her hands and opened them as though scattering
the fragments. Van Helsing seemed surprised, and his brows gathered as
if in thought, but he said nothing.

       *       *       *       *       *

_19 September._--All last night she slept fitfully, being always afraid
to sleep, and something weaker when she woke from it. The Professor and
I took it in turns to watch, and we never left her for a moment
unattended. Quincey Morris said nothing about his intention, but I knew
that all night long he patrolled round and round the house.

When the day came, its searching light showed the ravages in poor Lucy’s
strength. She was hardly able to turn her head, and the little
nourishment which she could take seemed to do her no good. At times she
slept, and both Van Helsing and I noticed the difference in her, between
sleeping and waking. Whilst asleep she looked stronger, although more
haggard, and her breathing was softer; her open mouth showed the pale
gums drawn back from the teeth, which thus looked positively longer and
sharper than usual; when she woke the softness of her eyes evidently
changed the expression, for she looked her own self, although a dying
one. In the afternoon she asked for Arthur, and we telegraphed for him.
Quincey went off to meet him at the station.

When he arrived it was nearly six o’clock, and the sun was setting full
and warm, and the red light streamed in through the window and gave more
colour to the pale cheeks. When he saw her, Arthur was simply choking
with emotion, and none of us could speak. In the hours that had passed,
the fits of sleep, or the comatose condition that passed for it, had
grown more frequent, so that the pauses when conversation was possible
were shortened. Arthur’s presence, however, seemed to act as a
stimulant; she rallied a little, and spoke to him more brightly than she
had done since we arrived. He too pulled himself together, and spoke as
cheerily as he could, so that the best was made of everything.

It was now nearly one o’clock, and he and Van Helsing are sitting with
her. I am to relieve them in a quarter of an hour, and I am entering
this on Lucy’s phonograph. Until six o’clock they are to try to rest. I
fear that to-morrow will end our watching, for the shock has been too
great; the poor child cannot rally. God help us all.


_Letter, Mina Harker to Lucy Westenra._

(Unopened by her.)

“_17 September._

“My dearest Lucy,--

“It seems _an age_ since I heard from you, or indeed since I wrote. You
will pardon me, I know, for all my faults when you have read all my
budget of news. Well, I got my husband back all right; when we arrived
at Exeter there was a carriage waiting for us, and in it, though he had
an attack of gout, Mr. Hawkins. He took us to his house, where there
were rooms for us all nice and comfortable, and we dined together. After
dinner Mr. Hawkins said:--

“‘My dears, I want to drink your health and prosperity; and may every
blessing attend you both. I know you both from children, and have, with
love and pride, seen you grow up. Now I want you to make your home here
with me. I have left to me neither chick nor child; all are gone, and in
my will I have left you everything.’ I cried, Lucy dear, as Jonathan and
the old man clasped hands. Our evening was a very, very happy one.

“So here we are, installed in this beautiful old house, and from both my
bedroom and the drawing-room I can see the great elms of the cathedral
close, with their great black stems standing out against the old yellow
stone of the cathedral and I can hear the rooks overhead cawing and
cawing and chattering and gossiping all day, after the manner of
rooks--and humans. I am busy, I need not tell you, arranging things and
housekeeping. Jonathan and Mr. Hawkins are busy all day; for, now that
Jonathan is a partner, Mr. Hawkins wants to tell him all about the
clients.

“How is your dear mother getting on? I wish I could run up to town for a
day or two to see you, dear, but I dare not go yet, with so much on my
shoulders; and Jonathan wants looking after still. He is beginning to
put some flesh on his bones again, but he was terribly weakened by the
long illness; even now he sometimes starts out of his sleep in a sudden
way and awakes all trembling until I can coax him back to his usual
placidity. However, thank God, these occasions grow less frequent as the
days go on, and they will in time pass away altogether, I trust. And now
I have told you my news, let me ask yours. When are you to be married,
and where, and who is to perform the ceremony, and what are you to wear,
and is it to be a public or a private wedding? Tell me all about it,
dear; tell me all about everything, for there is nothing which interests
you which will not be dear to me. Jonathan asks me to send his
‘respectful duty,’ but I do not think that is good enough from the
junior partner of the important firm Hawkins & Harker; and so, as you
love me, and he loves me, and I love you with all the moods and tenses
of the verb, I send you simply his ‘love’ instead. Good-bye, my dearest
Lucy, and all blessings on you.

“Yours,

“MINA HARKER.”


_Report from Patrick Hennessey, M. D., M. R. C. S. L. K. Q. C. P. I.,
etc., etc., to John Seward, M. D._

“_20 September._

“My dear Sir,--

“In accordance with your wishes, I enclose report of the conditions of
everything left in my charge.... With regard to patient, Renfield, there
is more to say. He has had another outbreak, which might have had a
dreadful ending, but which, as it fortunately happened, was unattended
with any unhappy results. This afternoon a carrier’s cart with two men
made a call at the empty house whose grounds abut on ours--the house to
which, you will remember, the patient twice ran away. The men stopped at
our gate to ask the porter their way, as they were strangers. I was
myself looking out of the study window, having a smoke after dinner, and
saw one of them come up to the house. As he passed the window of
Renfield’s room, the patient began to rate him from within, and called
him all the foul names he could lay his tongue to. The man, who seemed a
decent fellow enough, contented himself by telling him to “shut up for a
foul-mouthed beggar,” whereon our man accused him of robbing him and
wanting to murder him and said that he would hinder him if he were to
swing for it. I opened the window and signed to the man not to notice,
so he contented himself after looking the place over and making up his
mind as to what kind of a place he had got to by saying: ‘Lor’ bless
yer, sir, I wouldn’t mind what was said to me in a bloomin’ madhouse. I
pity ye and the guv’nor for havin’ to live in the house with a wild
beast like that.’ Then he asked his way civilly enough, and I told him
where the gate of the empty house was; he went away, followed by threats
and curses and revilings from our man. I went down to see if I could
make out any cause for his anger, since he is usually such a
well-behaved man, and except his violent fits nothing of the kind had
ever occurred. I found him, to my astonishment, quite composed and most
genial in his manner. I tried to get him to talk of the incident, but he
blandly asked me questions as to what I meant, and led me to believe
that he was completely oblivious of the affair. It was, I am sorry to
say, however, only another instance of his cunning, for within half an
hour I heard of him again. This time he had broken out through the
window of his room, and was running down the avenue. I called to the
attendants to follow me, and ran after him, for I feared he was intent
on some mischief. My fear was justified when I saw the same cart which
had passed before coming down the road, having on it some great wooden
boxes. The men were wiping their foreheads, and were flushed in the
face, as if with violent exercise. Before I could get up to him the
patient rushed at them, and pulling one of them off the cart, began to
knock his head against the ground. If I had not seized him just at the
moment I believe he would have killed the man there and then. The other
fellow jumped down and struck him over the head with the butt-end of his
heavy whip. It was a terrible blow; but he did not seem to mind it, but
seized him also, and struggled with the three of us, pulling us to and
fro as if we were kittens. You know I am no light weight, and the others
were both burly men. At first he was silent in his fighting; but as we
began to master him, and the attendants were putting a strait-waistcoat
on him, he began to shout: ‘I’ll frustrate them! They shan’t rob me!
they shan’t murder me by inches! I’ll fight for my Lord and Master!’ and
all sorts of similar incoherent ravings. It was with very considerable
difficulty that they got him back to the house and put him in the padded
room. One of the attendants, Hardy, had a finger broken. However, I set
it all right; and he is going on well.

“The two carriers were at first loud in their threats of actions for
damages, and promised to rain all the penalties of the law on us. Their
threats were, however, mingled with some sort of indirect apology for
the defeat of the two of them by a feeble madman. They said that if it
had not been for the way their strength had been spent in carrying and
raising the heavy boxes to the cart they would have made short work of
him. They gave as another reason for their defeat the extraordinary
state of drouth to which they had been reduced by the dusty nature of
their occupation and the reprehensible distance from the scene of their
labours of any place of public entertainment. I quite understood their
drift, and after a stiff glass of grog, or rather more of the same, and
with each a sovereign in hand, they made light of the attack, and swore
that they would encounter a worse madman any day for the pleasure of
meeting so ‘bloomin’ good a bloke’ as your correspondent. I took their
names and addresses, in case they might be needed. They are as
follows:--Jack Smollet, of Dudding’s Rents, King George’s Road, Great
Walworth, and Thomas Snelling, Peter Farley’s Row, Guide Court, Bethnal
Green. They are both in the employment of Harris & Sons, Moving and
Shipment Company, Orange Master’s Yard, Soho.

“I shall report to you any matter of interest occurring here, and shall
wire you at once if there is anything of importance.

“Believe me, dear Sir,

“Yours faithfully,

“PATRICK HENNESSEY.”


_Letter, Mina Harker to Lucy Westenra_.

(Unopened by her.)

“_18 September._

“My dearest Lucy,--

“Such a sad blow has befallen us. Mr. Hawkins has died very suddenly.
Some may not think it so sad for us, but we had both come to so love him
that it really seems as though we had lost a father. I never knew either
father or mother, so that the dear old man’s death is a real blow to me.
Jonathan is greatly distressed. It is not only that he feels sorrow,
deep sorrow, for the dear, good man who has befriended him all his life,
and now at the end has treated him like his own son and left him a
fortune which to people of our modest bringing up is wealth beyond the
dream of avarice, but Jonathan feels it on another account. He says the
amount of responsibility which it puts upon him makes him nervous. He
begins to doubt himself. I try to cheer him up, and _my_ belief in _him_
helps him to have a belief in himself. But it is here that the grave
shock that he experienced tells upon him the most. Oh, it is too hard
that a sweet, simple, noble, strong nature such as his--a nature which
enabled him by our dear, good friend’s aid to rise from clerk to master
in a few years--should be so injured that the very essence of its
strength is gone. Forgive me, dear, if I worry you with my troubles in
the midst of your own happiness; but, Lucy dear, I must tell some one,
for the strain of keeping up a brave and cheerful appearance to Jonathan
tries me, and I have no one here that I can confide in. I dread coming
up to London, as we must do the day after to-morrow; for poor Mr.
Hawkins left in his will that he was to be buried in the grave with his
father. As there are no relations at all, Jonathan will have to be chief
mourner. I shall try to run over to see you, dearest, if only for a few
minutes. Forgive me for troubling you. With all blessings,

“Your loving

“MINA HARKER.”


_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

_20 September._--Only resolution and habit can let me make an entry
to-night. I am too miserable, too low-spirited, too sick of the world
and all in it, including life itself, that I would not care if I heard
this moment the flapping of the wings of the angel of death. And he has
been flapping those grim wings to some purpose of late--Lucy’s mother
and Arthur’s father, and now.... Let me get on with my work.

I duly relieved Van Helsing in his watch over Lucy. We wanted Arthur to
go to rest also, but he refused at first. It was only when I told him
that we should want him to help us during the day, and that we must not
all break down for want of rest, lest Lucy should suffer, that he agreed
to go. Van Helsing was very kind to him. “Come, my child,” he said;
“come with me. You are sick and weak, and have had much sorrow and much
mental pain, as well as that tax on your strength that we know of. You
must not be alone; for to be alone is to be full of fears and alarms.
Come to the drawing-room, where there is a big fire, and there are two
sofas. You shall lie on one, and I on the other, and our sympathy will
be comfort to each other, even though we do not speak, and even if we
sleep.” Arthur went off with him, casting back a longing look on Lucy’s
face, which lay in her pillow, almost whiter than the lawn. She lay
quite still, and I looked round the room to see that all was as it
should be. I could see that the Professor had carried out in this room,
as in the other, his purpose of using the garlic; the whole of the
window-sashes reeked with it, and round Lucy’s neck, over the silk
handkerchief which Van Helsing made her keep on, was a rough chaplet of
the same odorous flowers. Lucy was breathing somewhat stertorously, and
her face was at its worst, for the open mouth showed the pale gums. Her
teeth, in the dim, uncertain light, seemed longer and sharper than they
had been in the morning. In particular, by some trick of the light, the
canine teeth looked longer and sharper than the rest. I sat down by her,
and presently she moved uneasily. At the same moment there came a sort
of dull flapping or buffeting at the window. I went over to it softly,
and peeped out by the corner of the blind. There was a full moonlight,
and I could see that the noise was made by a great bat, which wheeled
round--doubtless attracted by the light, although so dim--and every now
and again struck the window with its wings. When I came back to my seat,
I found that Lucy had moved slightly, and had torn away the garlic
flowers from her throat. I replaced them as well as I could, and sat
watching her.

Presently she woke, and I gave her food, as Van Helsing had prescribed.
She took but a little, and that languidly. There did not seem to be with
her now the unconscious struggle for life and strength that had hitherto
so marked her illness. It struck me as curious that the moment she
became conscious she pressed the garlic flowers close to her. It was
certainly odd that whenever she got into that lethargic state, with the
stertorous breathing, she put the flowers from her; but that when she
waked she clutched them close. There was no possibility of making any
mistake about this, for in the long hours that followed, she had many
spells of sleeping and waking and repeated both actions many times.

At six o’clock Van Helsing came to relieve me. Arthur had then fallen
into a doze, and he mercifully let him sleep on. When he saw Lucy’s face
I could hear the sissing indraw of his breath, and he said to me in a
sharp whisper: “Draw up the blind; I want light!” Then he bent down,
and, with his face almost touching Lucy’s, examined her carefully. He
removed the flowers and lifted the silk handkerchief from her throat. As
he did so he started back, and I could hear his ejaculation, “Mein
Gott!” as it was smothered in his throat. I bent over and looked, too,
and as I noticed some queer chill came over me.

The wounds on the throat had absolutely disappeared.

For fully five minutes Van Helsing stood looking at her, with his face
at its sternest. Then he turned to me and said calmly:--

“She is dying. It will not be long now. It will be much difference, mark
me, whether she dies conscious or in her sleep. Wake that poor boy, and
let him come and see the last; he trusts us, and we have promised him.”

I went to the dining-room and waked him. He was dazed for a moment, but
when he saw the sunlight streaming in through the edges of the shutters
he thought he was late, and expressed his fear. I assured him that Lucy
was still asleep, but told him as gently as I could that both Van
Helsing and I feared that the end was near. He covered his face with his
hands, and slid down on his knees by the sofa, where he remained,
perhaps a minute, with his head buried, praying, whilst his shoulders
shook with grief. I took him by the hand and raised him up. “Come,” I
said, “my dear old fellow, summon all your fortitude: it will be best
and easiest for her.”

When we came into Lucy’s room I could see that Van Helsing had, with
his usual forethought, been putting matters straight and making
everything look as pleasing as possible. He had even brushed Lucy’s
hair, so that it lay on the pillow in its usual sunny ripples. When we
came into the room she opened her eyes, and seeing him, whispered
softly:--

“Arthur! Oh, my love, I am so glad you have come!” He was stooping to
kiss her, when Van Helsing motioned him back. “No,” he whispered, “not
yet! Hold her hand; it will comfort her more.”

So Arthur took her hand and knelt beside her, and she looked her best,
with all the soft lines matching the angelic beauty of her eyes. Then
gradually her eyes closed, and she sank to sleep. For a little bit her
breast heaved softly, and her breath came and went like a tired child’s.

And then insensibly there came the strange change which I had noticed in
the night. Her breathing grew stertorous, the mouth opened, and the pale
gums, drawn back, made the teeth look longer and sharper than ever. In a
sort of sleep-waking, vague, unconscious way she opened her eyes, which
were now dull and hard at once, and said in a soft, voluptuous voice,
such as I had never heard from her lips:--

“Arthur! Oh, my love, I am so glad you have come! Kiss me!” Arthur bent
eagerly over to kiss her; but at that instant Van Helsing, who, like me,
had been startled by her voice, swooped upon him, and catching him by
the neck with both hands, dragged him back with a fury of strength which
I never thought he could have possessed, and actually hurled him almost
across the room.

“Not for your life!” he said; “not for your living soul and hers!” And
he stood between them like a lion at bay.

Arthur was so taken aback that he did not for a moment know what to do
or say; and before any impulse of violence could seize him he realised
the place and the occasion, and stood silent, waiting.

I kept my eyes fixed on Lucy, as did Van Helsing, and we saw a spasm as
of rage flit like a shadow over her face; the sharp teeth champed
together. Then her eyes closed, and she breathed heavily.

Very shortly after she opened her eyes in all their softness, and
putting out her poor, pale, thin hand, took Van Helsing’s great brown
one; drawing it to her, she kissed it. “My true friend,” she said, in a
faint voice, but with untellable pathos, “My true friend, and his! Oh,
guard him, and give me peace!”

“I swear it!” he said solemnly, kneeling beside her and holding up his
hand, as one who registers an oath. Then he turned to Arthur, and said
to him: “Come, my child, take her hand in yours, and kiss her on the
forehead, and only once.”

Their eyes met instead of their lips; and so they parted.

Lucy’s eyes closed; and Van Helsing, who had been watching closely, took
Arthur’s arm, and drew him away.

And then Lucy’s breathing became stertorous again, and all at once it
ceased.

“It is all over,” said Van Helsing. “She is dead!”

I took Arthur by the arm, and led him away to the drawing-room, where he
sat down, and covered his face with his hands, sobbing in a way that
nearly broke me down to see.

I went back to the room, and found Van Helsing looking at poor Lucy, and
his face was sterner than ever. Some change had come over her body.
Death had given back part of her beauty, for her brow and cheeks had
recovered some of their flowing lines; even the lips had lost their
deadly pallor. It was as if the blood, no longer needed for the working
of the heart, had gone to make the harshness of death as little rude as
might be.

    “We thought her dying whilst she slept,
        And sleeping when she died.”

I stood beside Van Helsing, and said:--

“Ah, well, poor girl, there is peace for her at last. It is the end!”

He turned to me, and said with grave solemnity:--

“Not so; alas! not so. It is only the beginning!”

When I asked him what he meant, he only shook his head and answered:--

“We can do nothing as yet. Wait and see.”




CHAPTER XIII

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY--_continued_.


The funeral was arranged for the next succeeding day, so that Lucy and
her mother might be buried together. I attended to all the ghastly
formalities, and the urbane undertaker proved that his staff were
afflicted--or blessed--with something of his own obsequious suavity.
Even the woman who performed the last offices for the dead remarked to
me, in a confidential, brother-professional way, when she had come out
from the death-chamber:--

“She makes a very beautiful corpse, sir. It’s quite a privilege to
attend on her. It’s not too much to say that she will do credit to our
establishment!”

I noticed that Van Helsing never kept far away. This was possible from
the disordered state of things in the household. There were no relatives
at hand; and as Arthur had to be back the next day to attend at his
father’s funeral, we were unable to notify any one who should have been
bidden. Under the circumstances, Van Helsing and I took it upon
ourselves to examine papers, etc. He insisted upon looking over Lucy’s
papers himself. I asked him why, for I feared that he, being a
foreigner, might not be quite aware of English legal requirements, and
so might in ignorance make some unnecessary trouble. He answered me:--

“I know; I know. You forget that I am a lawyer as well as a doctor. But
this is not altogether for the law. You knew that, when you avoided the
coroner. I have more than him to avoid. There may be papers more--such
as this.”

As he spoke he took from his pocket-book the memorandum which had been
in Lucy’s breast, and which she had torn in her sleep.

“When you find anything of the solicitor who is for the late Mrs.
Westenra, seal all her papers, and write him to-night. For me, I watch
here in the room and in Miss Lucy’s old room all night, and I myself
search for what may be. It is not well that her very thoughts go into
the hands of strangers.”

I went on with my part of the work, and in another half hour had found
the name and address of Mrs. Westenra’s solicitor and had written to
him. All the poor lady’s papers were in order; explicit directions
regarding the place of burial were given. I had hardly sealed the
letter, when, to my surprise, Van Helsing walked into the room,
saying:--

“Can I help you, friend John? I am free, and if I may, my service is to
you.”

“Have you got what you looked for?” I asked, to which he replied:--

“I did not look for any specific thing. I only hoped to find, and find I
have, all that there was--only some letters and a few memoranda, and a
diary new begun. But I have them here, and we shall for the present say
nothing of them. I shall see that poor lad to-morrow evening, and, with
his sanction, I shall use some.”

When we had finished the work in hand, he said to me:--

“And now, friend John, I think we may to bed. We want sleep, both you
and I, and rest to recuperate. To-morrow we shall have much to do, but
for the to-night there is no need of us. Alas!”

Before turning in we went to look at poor Lucy. The undertaker had
certainly done his work well, for the room was turned into a small
_chapelle ardente_. There was a wilderness of beautiful white flowers,
and death was made as little repulsive as might be. The end of the
winding-sheet was laid over the face; when the Professor bent over and
turned it gently back, we both started at the beauty before us, the tall
wax candles showing a sufficient light to note it well. All Lucy’s
loveliness had come back to her in death, and the hours that had passed,
instead of leaving traces of “decay’s effacing fingers,” had but
restored the beauty of life, till positively I could not believe my eyes
that I was looking at a corpse.

The Professor looked sternly grave. He had not loved her as I had, and
there was no need for tears in his eyes. He said to me: “Remain till I
return,” and left the room. He came back with a handful of wild garlic
from the box waiting in the hall, but which had not been opened, and
placed the flowers amongst the others on and around the bed. Then he
took from his neck, inside his collar, a little gold crucifix, and
placed it over the mouth. He restored the sheet to its place, and we
came away.

I was undressing in my own room, when, with a premonitory tap at the
door, he entered, and at once began to speak:--

“To-morrow I want you to bring me, before night, a set of post-mortem
knives.”

“Must we make an autopsy?” I asked.

“Yes and no. I want to operate, but not as you think. Let me tell you
now, but not a word to another. I want to cut off her head and take out
her heart. Ah! you a surgeon, and so shocked! You, whom I have seen with
no tremble of hand or heart, do operations of life and death that make
the rest shudder. Oh, but I must not forget, my dear friend John, that
you loved her; and I have not forgotten it, for it is I that shall
operate, and you must only help. I would like to do it to-night, but for
Arthur I must not; he will be free after his father’s funeral to-morrow,
and he will want to see her--to see _it_. Then, when she is coffined
ready for the next day, you and I shall come when all sleep. We shall
unscrew the coffin-lid, and shall do our operation: and then replace
all, so that none know, save we alone.”

“But why do it at all? The girl is dead. Why mutilate her poor body
without need? And if there is no necessity for a post-mortem and nothing
to gain by it--no good to her, to us, to science, to human
knowledge--why do it? Without such it is monstrous.”

For answer he put his hand on my shoulder, and said, with infinite
tenderness:--

“Friend John, I pity your poor bleeding heart; and I love you the more
because it does so bleed. If I could, I would take on myself the burden
that you do bear. But there are things that you know not, but that you
shall know, and bless me for knowing, though they are not pleasant
things. John, my child, you have been my friend now many years, and yet
did you ever know me to do any without good cause? I may err--I am but
man; but I believe in all I do. Was it not for these causes that you
send for me when the great trouble came? Yes! Were you not amazed, nay
horrified, when I would not let Arthur kiss his love--though she was
dying--and snatched him away by all my strength? Yes! And yet you saw
how she thanked me, with her so beautiful dying eyes, her voice, too, so
weak, and she kiss my rough old hand and bless me? Yes! And did you not
hear me swear promise to her, that so she closed her eyes grateful? Yes!

“Well, I have good reason now for all I want to do. You have for many
years trust me; you have believe me weeks past, when there be things so
strange that you might have well doubt. Believe me yet a little, friend
John. If you trust me not, then I must tell what I think; and that is
not perhaps well. And if I work--as work I shall, no matter trust or no
trust--without my friend trust in me, I work with heavy heart and feel,
oh! so lonely when I want all help and courage that may be!” He paused a
moment and went on solemnly: “Friend John, there are strange and
terrible days before us. Let us not be two, but one, that so we work to
a good end. Will you not have faith in me?”

I took his hand, and promised him. I held my door open as he went away,
and watched him go into his room and close the door. As I stood without
moving, I saw one of the maids pass silently along the passage--she had
her back towards me, so did not see me--and go into the room where Lucy
lay. The sight touched me. Devotion is so rare, and we are so grateful
to those who show it unasked to those we love. Here was a poor girl
putting aside the terrors which she naturally had of death to go watch
alone by the bier of the mistress whom she loved, so that the poor clay
might not be lonely till laid to eternal rest....

       *       *       *       *       *

I must have slept long and soundly, for it was broad daylight when Van
Helsing waked me by coming into my room. He came over to my bedside and
said:--

“You need not trouble about the knives; we shall not do it.”

“Why not?” I asked. For his solemnity of the night before had greatly
impressed me.

“Because,” he said sternly, “it is too late--or too early. See!” Here he
held up the little golden crucifix. “This was stolen in the night.”

“How, stolen,” I asked in wonder, “since you have it now?”

“Because I get it back from the worthless wretch who stole it, from the
woman who robbed the dead and the living. Her punishment will surely
come, but not through me; she knew not altogether what she did and thus
unknowing, she only stole. Now we must wait.”

He went away on the word, leaving me with a new mystery to think of, a
new puzzle to grapple with.

The forenoon was a dreary time, but at noon the solicitor came: Mr.
Marquand, of Wholeman, Sons, Marquand & Lidderdale. He was very genial
and very appreciative of what we had done, and took off our hands all
cares as to details. During lunch he told us that Mrs. Westenra had for
some time expected sudden death from her heart, and had put her affairs
in absolute order; he informed us that, with the exception of a certain
entailed property of Lucy’s father’s which now, in default of direct
issue, went back to a distant branch of the family, the whole estate,
real and personal, was left absolutely to Arthur Holmwood. When he had
told us so much he went on:--

“Frankly we did our best to prevent such a testamentary disposition, and
pointed out certain contingencies that might leave her daughter either
penniless or not so free as she should be to act regarding a matrimonial
alliance. Indeed, we pressed the matter so far that we almost came into
collision, for she asked us if we were or were not prepared to carry out
her wishes. Of course, we had then no alternative but to accept. We were
right in principle, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred we should
have proved, by the logic of events, the accuracy of our judgment.
Frankly, however, I must admit that in this case any other form of
disposition would have rendered impossible the carrying out of her
wishes. For by her predeceasing her daughter the latter would have come
into possession of the property, and, even had she only survived her
mother by five minutes, her property would, in case there were no
will--and a will was a practical impossibility in such a case--have been
treated at her decease as under intestacy. In which case Lord Godalming,
though so dear a friend, would have had no claim in the world; and the
inheritors, being remote, would not be likely to abandon their just
rights, for sentimental reasons regarding an entire stranger. I assure
you, my dear sirs, I am rejoiced at the result, perfectly rejoiced.”

He was a good fellow, but his rejoicing at the one little part--in which
he was officially interested--of so great a tragedy, was an
object-lesson in the limitations of sympathetic understanding.

He did not remain long, but said he would look in later in the day and
see Lord Godalming. His coming, however, had been a certain comfort to
us, since it assured us that we should not have to dread hostile
criticism as to any of our acts. Arthur was expected at five o’clock, so
a little before that time we visited the death-chamber. It was so in
very truth, for now both mother and daughter lay in it. The undertaker,
true to his craft, had made the best display he could of his goods, and
there was a mortuary air about the place that lowered our spirits at
once. Van Helsing ordered the former arrangement to be adhered to,
explaining that, as Lord Godalming was coming very soon, it would be
less harrowing to his feelings to see all that was left of his _fiancée_
quite alone. The undertaker seemed shocked at his own stupidity and
exerted himself to restore things to the condition in which we left them
the night before, so that when Arthur came such shocks to his feelings
as we could avoid were saved.

Poor fellow! He looked desperately sad and broken; even his stalwart
manhood seemed to have shrunk somewhat under the strain of his
much-tried emotions. He had, I knew, been very genuinely and devotedly
attached to his father; and to lose him, and at such a time, was a
bitter blow to him. With me he was warm as ever, and to Van Helsing he
was sweetly courteous; but I could not help seeing that there was some
constraint with him. The Professor noticed it, too, and motioned me to
bring him upstairs. I did so, and left him at the door of the room, as I
felt he would like to be quite alone with her, but he took my arm and
led me in, saying huskily:--

“You loved her too, old fellow; she told me all about it, and there was
no friend had a closer place in her heart than you. I don’t know how to
thank you for all you have done for her. I can’t think yet....”

Here he suddenly broke down, and threw his arms round my shoulders and
laid his head on my breast, crying:--

“Oh, Jack! Jack! What shall I do! The whole of life seems gone from me
all at once, and there is nothing in the wide world for me to live for.”

I comforted him as well as I could. In such cases men do not need much
expression. A grip of the hand, the tightening of an arm over the
shoulder, a sob in unison, are expressions of sympathy dear to a man’s
heart. I stood still and silent till his sobs died away, and then I said
softly to him:--

“Come and look at her.”

Together we moved over to the bed, and I lifted the lawn from her face.
God! how beautiful she was. Every hour seemed to be enhancing her
loveliness. It frightened and amazed me somewhat; and as for Arthur, he
fell a-trembling, and finally was shaken with doubt as with an ague. At
last, after a long pause, he said to me in a faint whisper:--

“Jack, is she really dead?”

I assured him sadly that it was so, and went on to suggest--for I felt
that such a horrible doubt should not have life for a moment longer than
I could help--that it often happened that after death faces became
softened and even resolved into their youthful beauty; that this was
especially so when death had been preceded by any acute or prolonged
suffering. It seemed to quite do away with any doubt, and, after
kneeling beside the couch for a while and looking at her lovingly and
long, he turned aside. I told him that that must be good-bye, as the
coffin had to be prepared; so he went back and took her dead hand in his
and kissed it, and bent over and kissed her forehead. He came away,
fondly looking back over his shoulder at her as he came.

I left him in the drawing-room, and told Van Helsing that he had said
good-bye; so the latter went to the kitchen to tell the undertaker’s men
to proceed with the preparations and to screw up the coffin. When he
came out of the room again I told him of Arthur’s question, and he
replied:--

“I am not surprised. Just now I doubted for a moment myself!”

We all dined together, and I could see that poor Art was trying to make
the best of things. Van Helsing had been silent all dinner-time; but
when we had lit our cigars he said--

“Lord----”; but Arthur interrupted him:--

“No, no, not that, for God’s sake! not yet at any rate. Forgive me, sir:
I did not mean to speak offensively; it is only because my loss is so
recent.”

The Professor answered very sweetly:--

“I only used that name because I was in doubt. I must not call you
‘Mr.,’ and I have grown to love you--yes, my dear boy, to love you--as
Arthur.”

Arthur held out his hand, and took the old man’s warmly.

“Call me what you will,” he said. “I hope I may always have the title of
a friend. And let me say that I am at a loss for words to thank you for
your goodness to my poor dear.” He paused a moment, and went on: “I know
that she understood your goodness even better than I do; and if I was
rude or in any way wanting at that time you acted so--you remember”--the
Professor nodded--“you must forgive me.”

He answered with a grave kindness:--

“I know it was hard for you to quite trust me then, for to trust such
violence needs to understand; and I take it that you do not--that you
cannot--trust me now, for you do not yet understand. And there may be
more times when I shall want you to trust when you cannot--and may
not--and must not yet understand. But the time will come when your trust
shall be whole and complete in me, and when you shall understand as
though the sunlight himself shone through. Then you shall bless me from
first to last for your own sake, and for the sake of others and for her
dear sake to whom I swore to protect.”

“And, indeed, indeed, sir,” said Arthur warmly, “I shall in all ways
trust you. I know and believe you have a very noble heart, and you are
Jack’s friend, and you were hers. You shall do what you like.”

The Professor cleared his throat a couple of times, as though about to
speak, and finally said:--

“May I ask you something now?”

“Certainly.”

“You know that Mrs. Westenra left you all her property?”

“No, poor dear; I never thought of it.”

“And as it is all yours, you have a right to deal with it as you will. I
want you to give me permission to read all Miss Lucy’s papers and
letters. Believe me, it is no idle curiosity. I have a motive of which,
be sure, she would have approved. I have them all here. I took them
before we knew that all was yours, so that no strange hand might touch
them--no strange eye look through words into her soul. I shall keep
them, if I may; even you may not see them yet, but I shall keep them
safe. No word shall be lost; and in the good time I shall give them back
to you. It’s a hard thing I ask, but you will do it, will you not, for
Lucy’s sake?”

Arthur spoke out heartily, like his old self:--

“Dr. Van Helsing, you may do what you will. I feel that in saying this I
am doing what my dear one would have approved. I shall not trouble you
with questions till the time comes.”

The old Professor stood up as he said solemnly:--

“And you are right. There will be pain for us all; but it will not be
all pain, nor will this pain be the last. We and you too--you most of
all, my dear boy--will have to pass through the bitter water before we
reach the sweet. But we must be brave of heart and unselfish, and do our
duty, and all will be well!”

I slept on a sofa in Arthur’s room that night. Van Helsing did not go to
bed at all. He went to and fro, as if patrolling the house, and was
never out of sight of the room where Lucy lay in her coffin, strewn with
the wild garlic flowers, which sent, through the odour of lily and rose,
a heavy, overpowering smell into the night.


_Mina Harker’s Journal._

_22 September._--In the train to Exeter. Jonathan sleeping.

It seems only yesterday that the last entry was made, and yet how much
between then, in Whitby and all the world before me, Jonathan away and
no news of him; and now, married to Jonathan, Jonathan a solicitor, a
partner, rich, master of his business, Mr. Hawkins dead and buried, and
Jonathan with another attack that may harm him. Some day he may ask me
about it. Down it all goes. I am rusty in my shorthand--see what
unexpected prosperity does for us--so it may be as well to freshen it up
again with an exercise anyhow....

The service was very simple and very solemn. There were only ourselves
and the servants there, one or two old friends of his from Exeter, his
London agent, and a gentleman representing Sir John Paxton, the
President of the Incorporated Law Society. Jonathan and I stood hand in
hand, and we felt that our best and dearest friend was gone from us....

We came back to town quietly, taking a ’bus to Hyde Park Corner.
Jonathan thought it would interest me to go into the Row for a while, so
we sat down; but there were very few people there, and it was
sad-looking and desolate to see so many empty chairs. It made us think
of the empty chair at home; so we got up and walked down Piccadilly.
Jonathan was holding me by the arm, the way he used to in old days
before I went to school. I felt it very improper, for you can’t go on
for some years teaching etiquette and decorum to other girls without the
pedantry of it biting into yourself a bit; but it was Jonathan, and he
was my husband, and we didn’t know anybody who saw us--and we didn’t
care if they did--so on we walked. I was looking at a very beautiful
girl, in a big cart-wheel hat, sitting in a victoria outside Guiliano’s,
when I felt Jonathan clutch my arm so tight that he hurt me, and he said
under his breath: “My God!” I am always anxious about Jonathan, for I
fear that some nervous fit may upset him again; so I turned to him
quickly, and asked him what it was that disturbed him.

He was very pale, and his eyes seemed bulging out as, half in terror and
half in amazement, he gazed at a tall, thin man, with a beaky nose and
black moustache and pointed beard, who was also observing the pretty
girl. He was looking at her so hard that he did not see either of us,
and so I had a good view of him. His face was not a good face; it was
hard, and cruel, and sensual, and his big white teeth, that looked all
the whiter because his lips were so red, were pointed like an animal’s.
Jonathan kept staring at him, till I was afraid he would notice. I
feared he might take it ill, he looked so fierce and nasty. I asked
Jonathan why he was disturbed, and he answered, evidently thinking that
I knew as much about it as he did: “Do you see who it is?”

“No, dear,” I said; “I don’t know him; who is it?” His answer seemed to
shock and thrill me, for it was said as if he did not know that it was
to me, Mina, to whom he was speaking:--

“It is the man himself!”

The poor dear was evidently terrified at something--very greatly
terrified; I do believe that if he had not had me to lean on and to
support him he would have sunk down. He kept staring; a man came out of
the shop with a small parcel, and gave it to the lady, who then drove
off. The dark man kept his eyes fixed on her, and when the carriage
moved up Piccadilly he followed in the same direction, and hailed a
hansom. Jonathan kept looking after him, and said, as if to himself:--

“I believe it is the Count, but he has grown young. My God, if this be
so! Oh, my God! my God! If I only knew! if I only knew!” He was
distressing himself so much that I feared to keep his mind on the
subject by asking him any questions, so I remained silent. I drew him
away quietly, and he, holding my arm, came easily. We walked a little
further, and then went in and sat for a while in the Green Park. It was
a hot day for autumn, and there was a comfortable seat in a shady place.
After a few minutes’ staring at nothing, Jonathan’s eyes closed, and he
went quietly into a sleep, with his head on my shoulder. I thought it
was the best thing for him, so did not disturb him. In about twenty
minutes he woke up, and said to me quite cheerfully:--

“Why, Mina, have I been asleep! Oh, do forgive me for being so rude.
Come, and we’ll have a cup of tea somewhere.” He had evidently forgotten
all about the dark stranger, as in his illness he had forgotten all that
this episode had reminded him of. I don’t like this lapsing into
forgetfulness; it may make or continue some injury to the brain. I must
not ask him, for fear I shall do more harm than good; but I must somehow
learn the facts of his journey abroad. The time is come, I fear, when I
must open that parcel, and know what is written. Oh, Jonathan, you will,
I know, forgive me if I do wrong, but it is for your own dear sake.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--A sad home-coming in every way--the house empty of the dear
soul who was so good to us; Jonathan still pale and dizzy under a slight
relapse of his malady; and now a telegram from Van Helsing, whoever he
may be:--

“You will be grieved to hear that Mrs. Westenra died five days ago, and
that Lucy died the day before yesterday. They were both buried to-day.”

Oh, what a wealth of sorrow in a few words! Poor Mrs. Westenra! poor
Lucy! Gone, gone, never to return to us! And poor, poor Arthur, to have
lost such sweetness out of his life! God help us all to bear our
troubles.


_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

_22 September._--It is all over. Arthur has gone back to Ring, and has
taken Quincey Morris with him. What a fine fellow is Quincey! I believe
in my heart of hearts that he suffered as much about Lucy’s death as any
of us; but he bore himself through it like a moral Viking. If America
can go on breeding men like that, she will be a power in the world
indeed. Van Helsing is lying down, having a rest preparatory to his
journey. He goes over to Amsterdam to-night, but says he returns
to-morrow night; that he only wants to make some arrangements which can
only be made personally. He is to stop with me then, if he can; he says
he has work to do in London which may take him some time. Poor old
fellow! I fear that the strain of the past week has broken down even his
iron strength. All the time of the burial he was, I could see, putting
some terrible restraint on himself. When it was all over, we were
standing beside Arthur, who, poor fellow, was speaking of his part in
the operation where his blood had been transfused to his Lucy’s veins; I
could see Van Helsing’s face grow white and purple by turns. Arthur was
saying that he felt since then as if they two had been really married
and that she was his wife in the sight of God. None of us said a word of
the other operations, and none of us ever shall. Arthur and Quincey went
away together to the station, and Van Helsing and I came on here. The
moment we were alone in the carriage he gave way to a regular fit of
hysterics. He has denied to me since that it was hysterics, and insisted
that it was only his sense of humour asserting itself under very
terrible conditions. He laughed till he cried, and I had to draw down
the blinds lest any one should see us and misjudge; and then he cried,
till he laughed again; and laughed and cried together, just as a woman
does. I tried to be stern with him, as one is to a woman under the
circumstances; but it had no effect. Men and women are so different in
manifestations of nervous strength or weakness! Then when his face grew
grave and stern again I asked him why his mirth, and why at such a time.
His reply was in a way characteristic of him, for it was logical and
forceful and mysterious. He said:--

“Ah, you don’t comprehend, friend John. Do not think that I am not sad,
though I laugh. See, I have cried even when the laugh did choke me. But
no more think that I am all sorry when I cry, for the laugh he come
just the same. Keep it always with you that laughter who knock at your
door and say, ‘May I come in?’ is not the true laughter. No! he is a
king, and he come when and how he like. He ask no person; he choose no
time of suitability. He say, ‘I am here.’ Behold, in example I grieve my
heart out for that so sweet young girl; I give my blood for her, though
I am old and worn; I give my time, my skill, my sleep; I let my other
sufferers want that so she may have all. And yet I can laugh at her very
grave--laugh when the clay from the spade of the sexton drop upon her
coffin and say ‘Thud! thud!’ to my heart, till it send back the blood
from my cheek. My heart bleed for that poor boy--that dear boy, so of
the age of mine own boy had I been so blessed that he live, and with his
hair and eyes the same. There, you know now why I love him so. And yet
when he say things that touch my husband-heart to the quick, and make my
father-heart yearn to him as to no other man--not even to you, friend
John, for we are more level in experiences than father and son--yet even
at such moment King Laugh he come to me and shout and bellow in my ear,
‘Here I am! here I am!’ till the blood come dance back and bring some of
the sunshine that he carry with him to my cheek. Oh, friend John, it is
a strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes, and
troubles; and yet when King Laugh come he make them all dance to the
tune he play. Bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard, and
tears that burn as they fall--all dance together to the music that he
make with that smileless mouth of him. And believe me, friend John, that
he is good to come, and kind. Ah, we men and women are like ropes drawn
tight with strain that pull us different ways. Then tears come; and,
like the rain on the ropes, they brace us up, until perhaps the strain
become too great, and we break. But King Laugh he come like the
sunshine, and he ease off the strain again; and we bear to go on with
our labour, what it may be.”

I did not like to wound him by pretending not to see his idea; but, as I
did not yet understand the cause of his laughter, I asked him. As he
answered me his face grew stern, and he said in quite a different
tone:--

“Oh, it was the grim irony of it all--this so lovely lady garlanded with
flowers, that looked so fair as life, till one by one we wondered if she
were truly dead; she laid in that so fine marble house in that lonely
churchyard, where rest so many of her kin, laid there with the mother
who loved her, and whom she loved; and that sacred bell going ‘Toll!
toll! toll!’ so sad and slow; and those holy men, with the white
garments of the angel, pretending to read books, and yet all the time
their eyes never on the page; and all of us with the bowed head. And all
for what? She is dead; so! Is it not?”

“Well, for the life of me, Professor,” I said, “I can’t see anything to
laugh at in all that. Why, your explanation makes it a harder puzzle
than before. But even if the burial service was comic, what about poor
Art and his trouble? Why, his heart was simply breaking.”

“Just so. Said he not that the transfusion of his blood to her veins had
made her truly his bride?”

“Yes, and it was a sweet and comforting idea for him.”

“Quite so. But there was a difficulty, friend John. If so that, then
what about the others? Ho, ho! Then this so sweet maid is a polyandrist,
and me, with my poor wife dead to me, but alive by Church’s law, though
no wits, all gone--even I, who am faithful husband to this now-no-wife,
am bigamist.”

“I don’t see where the joke comes in there either!” I said; and I did
not feel particularly pleased with him for saying such things. He laid
his hand on my arm, and said:--

“Friend John, forgive me if I pain. I showed not my feeling to others
when it would wound, but only to you, my old friend, whom I can trust.
If you could have looked into my very heart then when I want to laugh;
if you could have done so when the laugh arrived; if you could do so
now, when King Laugh have pack up his crown, and all that is to him--for
he go far, far away from me, and for a long, long time--maybe you would
perhaps pity me the most of all.”

I was touched by the tenderness of his tone, and asked why.

“Because I know!”

And now we are all scattered; and for many a long day loneliness will
sit over our roofs with brooding wings. Lucy lies in the tomb of her
kin, a lordly death-house in a lonely churchyard, away from teeming
London; where the air is fresh, and the sun rises over Hampstead Hill,
and where wild flowers grow of their own accord.

So I can finish this diary; and God only knows if I shall ever begin
another. If I do, or if I even open this again, it will be to deal with
different people and different themes; for here at the end, where the
romance of my life is told, ere I go back to take up the thread of my
life-work, I say sadly and without hope,

                        “FINIS.”


_“The Westminster Gazette,” 25 September._

                          A HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY.


The neighbourhood of Hampstead is just at present exercised with a
series of events which seem to run on lines parallel to those of what
was known to the writers of headlines as “The Kensington Horror,” or
“The Stabbing Woman,” or “The Woman in Black.” During the past two or
three days several cases have occurred of young children straying from
home or neglecting to return from their playing on the Heath. In all
these cases the children were too young to give any properly
intelligible account of themselves, but the consensus of their excuses
is that they had been with a “bloofer lady.” It has always been late in
the evening when they have been missed, and on two occasions the
children have not been found until early in the following morning. It is
generally supposed in the neighbourhood that, as the first child missed
gave as his reason for being away that a “bloofer lady” had asked him to
come for a walk, the others had picked up the phrase and used it as
occasion served. This is the more natural as the favourite game of the
little ones at present is luring each other away by wiles. A
correspondent writes us that to see some of the tiny tots pretending to
be the “bloofer lady” is supremely funny. Some of our caricaturists
might, he says, take a lesson in the irony of grotesque by comparing the
reality and the picture. It is only in accordance with general
principles of human nature that the “bloofer lady” should be the popular
rôle at these _al fresco_ performances. Our correspondent naïvely says
that even Ellen Terry could not be so winningly attractive as some of
these grubby-faced little children pretend--and even imagine
themselves--to be.

There is, however, possibly a serious side to the question, for some of
the children, indeed all who have been missed at night, have been
slightly torn or wounded in the throat. The wounds seem such as might be
made by a rat or a small dog, and although of not much importance
individually, would tend to show that whatever animal inflicts them has
a system or method of its own. The police of the division have been
instructed to keep a sharp look-out for straying children, especially
when very young, in and around Hampstead Heath, and for any stray dog
which may be about.


               _“The Westminster Gazette,” 25 September._

                            _Extra Special._

                         THE HAMPSTEAD HORROR.

                         ANOTHER CHILD INJURED.

                         _The “Bloofer Lady.”_

We have just received intelligence that another child, missed last
night, was only discovered late in the morning under a furze bush at the
Shooter’s Hill side of Hampstead Heath, which is, perhaps, less
frequented than the other parts. It has the same tiny wound in the
throat as has been noticed in other cases. It was terribly weak, and
looked quite emaciated. It too, when partially restored, had the common
story to tell of being lured away by the “bloofer lady.”




CHAPTER XIV

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL


_23 September_.--Jonathan is better after a bad night. I am so glad that
he has plenty of work to do, for that keeps his mind off the terrible
things; and oh, I am rejoiced that he is not now weighed down with the
responsibility of his new position. I knew he would be true to himself,
and now how proud I am to see my Jonathan rising to the height of his
advancement and keeping pace in all ways with the duties that come upon
him. He will be away all day till late, for he said he could not lunch
at home. My household work is done, so I shall take his foreign journal,
and lock myself up in my room and read it....


_24 September_.--I hadn’t the heart to write last night; that terrible
record of Jonathan’s upset me so. Poor dear! How he must have suffered,
whether it be true or only imagination. I wonder if there is any truth
in it at all. Did he get his brain fever, and then write all those
terrible things, or had he some cause for it all? I suppose I shall
never know, for I dare not open the subject to him.... And yet that man
we saw yesterday! He seemed quite certain of him.... Poor fellow! I
suppose it was the funeral upset him and sent his mind back on some
train of thought.... He believes it all himself. I remember how on our
wedding-day he said: “Unless some solemn duty come upon me to go back to
the bitter hours, asleep or awake, mad or sane.” There seems to be
through it all some thread of continuity.... That fearful Count was
coming to London.... If it should be, and he came to London, with his
teeming millions.... There may be a solemn duty; and if it come we must
not shrink from it.... I shall be prepared. I shall get my typewriter
this very hour and begin transcribing. Then we shall be ready for other
eyes if required. And if it be wanted; then, perhaps, if I am ready,
poor Jonathan may not be upset, for I can speak for him and never let
him be troubled or worried with it at all. If ever Jonathan quite gets
over the nervousness he may want to tell me of it all, and I can ask him
questions and find out things, and see how I may comfort him.


_Letter, Van Helsing to Mrs. Harker._

“_24 September._

(_Confidence_)

“Dear Madam,--

“I pray you to pardon my writing, in that I am so far friend as that I
sent to you sad news of Miss Lucy Westenra’s death. By the kindness of
Lord Godalming, I am empowered to read her letters and papers, for I am
deeply concerned about certain matters vitally important. In them I find
some letters from you, which show how great friends you were and how you
love her. Oh, Madam Mina, by that love, I implore you, help me. It is
for others’ good that I ask--to redress great wrong, and to lift much
and terrible troubles--that may be more great than you can know. May it
be that I see you? You can trust me. I am friend of Dr. John Seward and
of Lord Godalming (that was Arthur of Miss Lucy). I must keep it private
for the present from all. I should come to Exeter to see you at once if
you tell me I am privilege to come, and where and when. I implore your
pardon, madam. I have read your letters to poor Lucy, and know how good
you are and how your husband suffer; so I pray you, if it may be,
enlighten him not, lest it may harm. Again your pardon, and forgive me.

“VAN HELSING.”


_Telegram, Mrs. Harker to Van Helsing._

“_25 September._--Come to-day by quarter-past ten train if you can catch
it. Can see you any time you call.

“WILHELMINA HARKER.”

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL.

_25 September._--I cannot help feeling terribly excited as the time
draws near for the visit of Dr. Van Helsing, for somehow I expect that
it will throw some light upon Jonathan’s sad experience; and as he
attended poor dear Lucy in her last illness, he can tell me all about
her. That is the reason of his coming; it is concerning Lucy and her
sleep-walking, and not about Jonathan. Then I shall never know the real
truth now! How silly I am. That awful journal gets hold of my
imagination and tinges everything with something of its own colour. Of
course it is about Lucy. That habit came back to the poor dear, and that
awful night on the cliff must have made her ill. I had almost forgotten
in my own affairs how ill she was afterwards. She must have told him
of her sleep-walking adventure on the cliff, and that I knew all about
it; and now he wants me to tell him what she knows, so that he may
understand. I hope I did right in not saying anything of it to Mrs.
Westenra; I should never forgive myself if any act of mine, were it even
a negative one, brought harm on poor dear Lucy. I hope, too, Dr. Van
Helsing will not blame me; I have had so much trouble and anxiety of
late that I feel I cannot bear more just at present.

I suppose a cry does us all good at times--clears the air as other rain
does. Perhaps it was reading the journal yesterday that upset me, and
then Jonathan went away this morning to stay away from me a whole day
and night, the first time we have been parted since our marriage. I do
hope the dear fellow will take care of himself, and that nothing will
occur to upset him. It is two o’clock, and the doctor will be here soon
now. I shall say nothing of Jonathan’s journal unless he asks me. I am
so glad I have type-written out my own journal, so that, in case he asks
about Lucy, I can hand it to him; it will save much questioning.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--He has come and gone. Oh, what a strange meeting, and how it
all makes my head whirl round! I feel like one in a dream. Can it be all
possible, or even a part of it? If I had not read Jonathan’s journal
first, I should never have accepted even a possibility. Poor, poor, dear
Jonathan! How he must have suffered. Please the good God, all this may
not upset him again. I shall try to save him from it; but it may be even
a consolation and a help to him--terrible though it be and awful in its
consequences--to know for certain that his eyes and ears and brain did
not deceive him, and that it is all true. It may be that it is the doubt
which haunts him; that when the doubt is removed, no matter
which--waking or dreaming--may prove the truth, he will be more
satisfied and better able to bear the shock. Dr. Van Helsing must be a
good man as well as a clever one if he is Arthur’s friend and Dr.
Seward’s, and if they brought him all the way from Holland to look after
Lucy. I feel from having seen him that he _is_ good and kind and of a
noble nature. When he comes to-morrow I shall ask him about Jonathan;
and then, please God, all this sorrow and anxiety may lead to a good
end. I used to think I would like to practise interviewing; Jonathan’s
friend on “The Exeter News” told him that memory was everything in such
work--that you must be able to put down exactly almost every word
spoken, even if you had to refine some of it afterwards. Here was a rare
interview; I shall try to record it _verbatim_.

It was half-past two o’clock when the knock came. I took my courage _à
deux mains_ and waited. In a few minutes Mary opened the door, and
announced “Dr. Van Helsing.”

I rose and bowed, and he came towards me; a man of medium weight,
strongly built, with his shoulders set back over a broad, deep chest and
a neck well balanced on the trunk as the head is on the neck. The poise
of the head strikes one at once as indicative of thought and power; the
head is noble, well-sized, broad, and large behind the ears. The face,
clean-shaven, shows a hard, square chin, a large, resolute, mobile
mouth, a good-sized nose, rather straight, but with quick, sensitive
nostrils, that seem to broaden as the big, bushy brows come down and the
mouth tightens. The forehead is broad and fine, rising at first almost
straight and then sloping back above two bumps or ridges wide apart;
such a forehead that the reddish hair cannot possibly tumble over it,
but falls naturally back and to the sides. Big, dark blue eyes are set
widely apart, and are quick and tender or stern with the man’s moods. He
said to me:--

“Mrs. Harker, is it not?” I bowed assent.

“That was Miss Mina Murray?” Again I assented.

“It is Mina Murray that I came to see that was friend of that poor dear
child Lucy Westenra. Madam Mina, it is on account of the dead I come.”

“Sir,” I said, “you could have no better claim on me than that you were
a friend and helper of Lucy Westenra.” And I held out my hand. He took
it and said tenderly:--

“Oh, Madam Mina, I knew that the friend of that poor lily girl must be
good, but I had yet to learn----” He finished his speech with a courtly
bow. I asked him what it was that he wanted to see me about, so he at
once began:--

“I have read your letters to Miss Lucy. Forgive me, but I had to begin
to inquire somewhere, and there was none to ask. I know that you were
with her at Whitby. She sometimes kept a diary--you need not look
surprised, Madam Mina; it was begun after you had left, and was in
imitation of you--and in that diary she traces by inference certain
things to a sleep-walking in which she puts down that you saved her. In
great perplexity then I come to you, and ask you out of your so much
kindness to tell me all of it that you can remember.”

“I can tell you, I think, Dr. Van Helsing, all about it.”

“Ah, then you have good memory for facts, for details? It is not always
so with young ladies.”

“No, doctor, but I wrote it all down at the time. I can show it to you
if you like.”

“Oh, Madam Mina, I will be grateful; you will do me much favour.” I
could not resist the temptation of mystifying him a bit--I suppose it is
some of the taste of the original apple that remains still in our
mouths--so I handed him the shorthand diary. He took it with a grateful
bow, and said:--

“May I read it?”

“If you wish,” I answered as demurely as I could. He opened it, and for
an instant his face fell. Then he stood up and bowed.

“Oh, you so clever woman!” he said. “I knew long that Mr. Jonathan was a
man of much thankfulness; but see, his wife have all the good things.
And will you not so much honour me and so help me as to read it for me?
Alas! I know not the shorthand.” By this time my little joke was over,
and I was almost ashamed; so I took the typewritten copy from my
workbasket and handed it to him.

“Forgive me,” I said: “I could not help it; but I had been thinking that
it was of dear Lucy that you wished to ask, and so that you might not
have time to wait--not on my account, but because I know your time must
be precious--I have written it out on the typewriter for you.”

He took it and his eyes glistened. “You are so good,” he said. “And may
I read it now? I may want to ask you some things when I have read.”

“By all means,” I said, “read it over whilst I order lunch; and then you
can ask me questions whilst we eat.” He bowed and settled himself in a
chair with his back to the light, and became absorbed in the papers,
whilst I went to see after lunch chiefly in order that he might not be
disturbed. When I came back, I found him walking hurriedly up and down
the room, his face all ablaze with excitement. He rushed up to me and
took me by both hands.

“Oh, Madam Mina,” he said, “how can I say what I owe to you? This paper
is as sunshine. It opens the gate to me. I am daze, I am dazzle, with so
much light, and yet clouds roll in behind the light every time. But that
you do not, cannot, comprehend. Oh, but I am grateful to you, you so
clever woman. Madam”--he said this very solemnly--“if ever Abraham Van
Helsing can do anything for you or yours, I trust you will let me know.
It will be pleasure and delight if I may serve you as a friend; as a
friend, but all I have ever learned, all I can ever do, shall be for you
and those you love. There are darknesses in life, and there are lights;
you are one of the lights. You will have happy life and good life, and
your husband will be blessed in you.”

“But, doctor, you praise me too much, and--and you do not know me.”

“Not know you--I, who am old, and who have studied all my life men and
women; I, who have made my specialty the brain and all that belongs to
him and all that follow from him! And I have read your diary that you
have so goodly written for me, and which breathes out truth in every
line. I, who have read your so sweet letter to poor Lucy of your
marriage and your trust, not know you! Oh, Madam Mina, good women tell
all their lives, and by day and by hour and by minute, such things that
angels can read; and we men who wish to know have in us something of
angels’ eyes. Your husband is noble nature, and you are noble too, for
you trust, and trust cannot be where there is mean nature. And your
husband--tell me of him. Is he quite well? Is all that fever gone, and
is he strong and hearty?” I saw here an opening to ask him about
Jonathan, so I said:--

“He was almost recovered, but he has been greatly upset by Mr. Hawkins’s
death.” He interrupted:--

“Oh, yes, I know, I know. I have read your last two letters.” I went
on:--

“I suppose this upset him, for when we were in town on Thursday last he
had a sort of shock.”

“A shock, and after brain fever so soon! That was not good. What kind of
a shock was it?”

“He thought he saw some one who recalled something terrible, something
which led to his brain fever.” And here the whole thing seemed to
overwhelm me in a rush. The pity for Jonathan, the horror which he
experienced, the whole fearful mystery of his diary, and the fear that
has been brooding over me ever since, all came in a tumult. I suppose I
was hysterical, for I threw myself on my knees and held up my hands to
him, and implored him to make my husband well again. He took my hands
and raised me up, and made me sit on the sofa, and sat by me; he held my
hand in his, and said to me with, oh, such infinite sweetness:--

“My life is a barren and lonely one, and so full of work that I have not
had much time for friendships; but since I have been summoned to here by
my friend John Seward I have known so many good people and seen such
nobility that I feel more than ever--and it has grown with my advancing
years--the loneliness of my life. Believe, me, then, that I come here
full of respect for you, and you have given me hope--hope, not in what I
am seeking of, but that there are good women still left to make life
happy--good women, whose lives and whose truths may make good lesson for
the children that are to be. I am glad, glad, that I may here be of some
use to you; for if your husband suffer, he suffer within the range of my
study and experience. I promise you that I will gladly do _all_ for him
that I can--all to make his life strong and manly, and your life a happy
one. Now you must eat. You are overwrought and perhaps over-anxious.
Husband Jonathan would not like to see you so pale; and what he like not
where he love, is not to his good. Therefore for his sake you must eat
and smile. You have told me all about Lucy, and so now we shall not
speak of it, lest it distress. I shall stay in Exeter to-night, for I
want to think much over what you have told me, and when I have thought I
will ask you questions, if I may. And then, too, you will tell me of
husband Jonathan’s trouble so far as you can, but not yet. You must eat
now; afterwards you shall tell me all.”

After lunch, when we went back to the drawing-room, he said to me:--

“And now tell me all about him.” When it came to speaking to this great
learned man, I began to fear that he would think me a weak fool, and
Jonathan a madman--that journal is all so strange--and I hesitated to go
on. But he was so sweet and kind, and he had promised to help, and I
trusted him, so I said:--

“Dr. Van Helsing, what I have to tell you is so queer that you must not
laugh at me or at my husband. I have been since yesterday in a sort of
fever of doubt; you must be kind to me, and not think me foolish that I
have even half believed some very strange things.” He reassured me by
his manner as well as his words when he said:--

“Oh, my dear, if you only know how strange is the matter regarding which
I am here, it is you who would laugh. I have learned not to think little
of any one’s belief, no matter how strange it be. I have tried to keep
an open mind; and it is not the ordinary things of life that could close
it, but the strange things, the extraordinary things, the things that
make one doubt if they be mad or sane.”

“Thank you, thank you, a thousand times! You have taken a weight off my
mind. If you will let me, I shall give you a paper to read. It is long,
but I have typewritten it out. It will tell you my trouble and
Jonathan’s. It is the copy of his journal when abroad, and all that
happened. I dare not say anything of it; you will read for yourself and
judge. And then when I see you, perhaps, you will be very kind and tell
me what you think.”

“I promise,” he said as I gave him the papers; “I shall in the morning,
so soon as I can, come to see you and your husband, if I may.”

“Jonathan will be here at half-past eleven, and you must come to lunch
with us and see him then; you could catch the quick 3:34 train, which
will leave you at Paddington before eight.” He was surprised at my
knowledge of the trains off-hand, but he does not know that I have made
up all the trains to and from Exeter, so that I may help Jonathan in
case he is in a hurry.

So he took the papers with him and went away, and I sit here
thinking--thinking I don’t know what.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Letter (by hand), Van Helsing to Mrs. Harker._

“_25 September, 6 o’clock._

“Dear Madam Mina,--

“I have read your husband’s so wonderful diary. You may sleep without
doubt. Strange and terrible as it is, it is _true_! I will pledge my
life on it. It may be worse for others; but for him and you there is no
dread. He is a noble fellow; and let me tell you from experience of men,
that one who would do as he did in going down that wall and to that
room--ay, and going a second time--is not one to be injured in
permanence by a shock. His brain and his heart are all right; this I
swear, before I have even seen him; so be at rest. I shall have much to
ask him of other things. I am blessed that to-day I come to see you, for
I have learn all at once so much that again I am dazzle--dazzle more
than ever, and I must think.

“Yours the most faithful,

“ABRAHAM VAN HELSING.”


_Letter, Mrs. Harker to Van Helsing._

“_25 September, 6:30 p. m._

“My dear Dr. Van Helsing,--

“A thousand thanks for your kind letter, which has taken a great weight
off my mind. And yet, if it be true, what terrible things there are in
the world, and what an awful thing if that man, that monster, be really
in London! I fear to think. I have this moment, whilst writing, had a
wire from Jonathan, saying that he leaves by the 6:25 to-night from
Launceston and will be here at 10:18, so that I shall have no fear
to-night. Will you, therefore, instead of lunching with us, please come
to breakfast at eight o’clock, if this be not too early for you? You can
get away, if you are in a hurry, by the 10:30 train, which will bring
you to Paddington by 2:35. Do not answer this, as I shall take it that,
if I do not hear, you will come to breakfast.

“Believe me,

“Your faithful and grateful friend,

“MINA HARKER.”


_Jonathan Harker’s Journal._

_26 September._--I thought never to write in this diary again, but the
time has come. When I got home last night Mina had supper ready, and
when we had supped she told me of Van Helsing’s visit, and of her having
given him the two diaries copied out, and of how anxious she has been
about me. She showed me in the doctor’s letter that all I wrote down was
true. It seems to have made a new man of me. It was the doubt as to the
reality of the whole thing that knocked me over. I felt impotent, and in
the dark, and distrustful. But, now that I _know_, I am not afraid, even
of the Count. He has succeeded after all, then, in his design in getting
to London, and it was he I saw. He has got younger, and how? Van Helsing
is the man to unmask him and hunt him out, if he is anything like what
Mina says. We sat late, and talked it all over. Mina is dressing, and I
shall call at the hotel in a few minutes and bring him over....

He was, I think, surprised to see me. When I came into the room where he
was, and introduced myself, he took me by the shoulder, and turned my
face round to the light, and said, after a sharp scrutiny:--

“But Madam Mina told me you were ill, that you had had a shock.” It was
so funny to hear my wife called “Madam Mina” by this kindly,
strong-faced old man. I smiled, and said:--

“I _was_ ill, I _have_ had a shock; but you have cured me already.”

“And how?”

“By your letter to Mina last night. I was in doubt, and then everything
took a hue of unreality, and I did not know what to trust, even the
evidence of my own senses. Not knowing what to trust, I did not know
what to do; and so had only to keep on working in what had hitherto been
the groove of my life. The groove ceased to avail me, and I mistrusted
myself. Doctor, you don’t know what it is to doubt everything, even
yourself. No, you don’t; you couldn’t with eyebrows like yours.” He
seemed pleased, and laughed as he said:--

“So! You are physiognomist. I learn more here with each hour. I am with
so much pleasure coming to you to breakfast; and, oh, sir, you will
pardon praise from an old man, but you are blessed in your wife.” I
would listen to him go on praising Mina for a day, so I simply nodded
and stood silent.

“She is one of God’s women, fashioned by His own hand to show us men and
other women that there is a heaven where we can enter, and that its
light can be here on earth. So true, so sweet, so noble, so little an
egoist--and that, let me tell you, is much in this age, so sceptical and
selfish. And you, sir--I have read all the letters to poor Miss Lucy,
and some of them speak of you, so I know you since some days from the
knowing of others; but I have seen your true self since last night. You
will give me your hand, will you not? And let us be friends for all our
lives.”

We shook hands, and he was so earnest and so kind that it made me quite
choky.

“And now,” he said, “may I ask you for some more help? I have a great
task to do, and at the beginning it is to know. You can help me here.
Can you tell me what went before your going to Transylvania? Later on I
may ask more help, and of a different kind; but at first this will do.”

“Look here, sir,” I said, “does what you have to do concern the Count?”

“It does,” he said solemnly.

“Then I am with you heart and soul. As you go by the 10:30 train, you
will not have time to read them; but I shall get the bundle of papers.
You can take them with you and read them in the train.”

After breakfast I saw him to the station. When we were parting he
said:--

“Perhaps you will come to town if I send to you, and take Madam Mina
too.”

“We shall both come when you will,” I said.

I had got him the morning papers and the London papers of the previous
night, and while we were talking at the carriage window, waiting for the
train to start, he was turning them over. His eyes suddenly seemed to
catch something in one of them, “The Westminster Gazette”--I knew it by
the colour--and he grew quite white. He read something intently,
groaning to himself: “Mein Gott! Mein Gott! So soon! so soon!” I do not
think he remembered me at the moment. Just then the whistle blew, and
the train moved off. This recalled him to himself, and he leaned out of
the window and waved his hand, calling out: “Love to Madam Mina; I shall
write so soon as ever I can.”


_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

_26 September._--Truly there is no such thing as finality. Not a week
since I said “Finis,” and yet here I am starting fresh again, or rather
going on with the same record. Until this afternoon I had no cause to
think of what is done. Renfield had become, to all intents, as sane as
he ever was. He was already well ahead with his fly business; and he had
just started in the spider line also; so he had not been of any trouble
to me. I had a letter from Arthur, written on Sunday, and from it I
gather that he is bearing up wonderfully well. Quincey Morris is with
him, and that is much of a help, for he himself is a bubbling well of
good spirits. Quincey wrote me a line too, and from him I hear that
Arthur is beginning to recover something of his old buoyancy; so as to
them all my mind is at rest. As for myself, I was settling down to my
work with the enthusiasm which I used to have for it, so that I might
fairly have said that the wound which poor Lucy left on me was becoming
cicatrised. Everything is, however, now reopened; and what is to be the
end God only knows. I have an idea that Van Helsing thinks he knows,
too, but he will only let out enough at a time to whet curiosity. He
went to Exeter yesterday, and stayed there all night. To-day he came
back, and almost bounded into the room at about half-past five o’clock,
and thrust last night’s “Westminster Gazette” into my hand.

“What do you think of that?” he asked as he stood back and folded his
arms.

I looked over the paper, for I really did not know what he meant; but he
took it from me and pointed out a paragraph about children being decoyed
away at Hampstead. It did not convey much to me, until I reached a
passage where it described small punctured wounds on their throats. An
idea struck me, and I looked up. “Well?” he said.

“It is like poor Lucy’s.”

“And what do you make of it?”

“Simply that there is some cause in common. Whatever it was that injured
her has injured them.” I did not quite understand his answer:--

“That is true indirectly, but not directly.”

“How do you mean, Professor?” I asked. I was a little inclined to take
his seriousness lightly--for, after all, four days of rest and freedom
from burning, harrowing anxiety does help to restore one’s spirits--but
when I saw his face, it sobered me. Never, even in the midst of our
despair about poor Lucy, had he looked more stern.

“Tell me!” I said. “I can hazard no opinion. I do not know what to
think, and I have no data on which to found a conjecture.”

“Do you mean to tell me, friend John, that you have no suspicion as to
what poor Lucy died of; not after all the hints given, not only by
events, but by me?”

“Of nervous prostration following on great loss or waste of blood.”

“And how the blood lost or waste?” I shook my head. He stepped over and
sat down beside me, and went on:--

“You are clever man, friend John; you reason well, and your wit is bold;
but you are too prejudiced. You do not let your eyes see nor your ears
hear, and that which is outside your daily life is not of account to
you. Do you not think that there are things which you cannot understand,
and yet which are; that some people see things that others cannot? But
there are things old and new which must not be contemplate by men’s
eyes, because they know--or think they know--some things which other men
have told them. Ah, it is the fault of our science that it wants to
explain all; and if it explain not, then it says there is nothing to
explain. But yet we see around us every day the growth of new beliefs,
which think themselves new; and which are yet but the old, which pretend
to be young--like the fine ladies at the opera. I suppose now you do not
believe in corporeal transference. No? Nor in materialisation. No? Nor
in astral bodies. No? Nor in the reading of thought. No? Nor in
hypnotism----”

“Yes,” I said. “Charcot has proved that pretty well.” He smiled as he
went on: “Then you are satisfied as to it. Yes? And of course then you
understand how it act, and can follow the mind of the great
Charcot--alas that he is no more!--into the very soul of the patient
that he influence. No? Then, friend John, am I to take it that you
simply accept fact, and are satisfied to let from premise to conclusion
be a blank? No? Then tell me--for I am student of the brain--how you
accept the hypnotism and reject the thought reading. Let me tell you, my
friend, that there are things done to-day in electrical science which
would have been deemed unholy by the very men who discovered
electricity--who would themselves not so long before have been burned
as wizards. There are always mysteries in life. Why was it that
Methuselah lived nine hundred years, and ‘Old Parr’ one hundred and
sixty-nine, and yet that poor Lucy, with four men’s blood in her poor
veins, could not live even one day? For, had she live one more day, we
could have save her. Do you know all the mystery of life and death? Do
you know the altogether of comparative anatomy and can say wherefore the
qualities of brutes are in some men, and not in others? Can you tell me
why, when other spiders die small and soon, that one great spider lived
for centuries in the tower of the old Spanish church and grew and grew,
till, on descending, he could drink the oil of all the church lamps? Can
you tell me why in the Pampas, ay and elsewhere, there are bats that
come at night and open the veins of cattle and horses and suck dry their
veins; how in some islands of the Western seas there are bats which hang
on the trees all day, and those who have seen describe as like giant
nuts or pods, and that when the sailors sleep on the deck, because that
it is hot, flit down on them, and then--and then in the morning are
found dead men, white as even Miss Lucy was?”

“Good God, Professor!” I said, starting up. “Do you mean to tell me that
Lucy was bitten by such a bat; and that such a thing is here in London
in the nineteenth century?” He waved his hand for silence, and went
on:--

“Can you tell me why the tortoise lives more long than generations of
men; why the elephant goes on and on till he have seen dynasties; and
why the parrot never die only of bite of cat or dog or other complaint?
Can you tell me why men believe in all ages and places that there are
some few who live on always if they be permit; that there are men and
women who cannot die? We all know--because science has vouched for the
fact--that there have been toads shut up in rocks for thousands of
years, shut in one so small hole that only hold him since the youth of
the world. Can you tell me how the Indian fakir can make himself to die
and have been buried, and his grave sealed and corn sowed on it, and the
corn reaped and be cut and sown and reaped and cut again, and then men
come and take away the unbroken seal and that there lie the Indian
fakir, not dead, but that rise up and walk amongst them as before?” Here
I interrupted him. I was getting bewildered; he so crowded on my mind
his list of nature’s eccentricities and possible impossibilities that my
imagination was getting fired. I had a dim idea that he was teaching me
some lesson, as long ago he used to do in his study at Amsterdam; but
he used then to tell me the thing, so that I could have the object of
thought in mind all the time. But now I was without this help, yet I
wanted to follow him, so I said:--

“Professor, let me be your pet student again. Tell me the thesis, so
that I may apply your knowledge as you go on. At present I am going in
my mind from point to point as a mad man, and not a sane one, follows an
idea. I feel like a novice lumbering through a bog in a mist, jumping
from one tussock to another in the mere blind effort to move on without
knowing where I am going.”

“That is good image,” he said. “Well, I shall tell you. My thesis is
this: I want you to believe.”

“To believe what?”

“To believe in things that you cannot. Let me illustrate. I heard once
of an American who so defined faith: ‘that faculty which enables us to
believe things which we know to be untrue.’ For one, I follow that man.
He meant that we shall have an open mind, and not let a little bit of
truth check the rush of a big truth, like a small rock does a railway
truck. We get the small truth first. Good! We keep him, and we value
him; but all the same we must not let him think himself all the truth in
the universe.”

“Then you want me not to let some previous conviction injure the
receptivity of my mind with regard to some strange matter. Do I read
your lesson aright?”

“Ah, you are my favourite pupil still. It is worth to teach you. Now
that you are willing to understand, you have taken the first step to
understand. You think then that those so small holes in the children’s
throats were made by the same that made the hole in Miss Lucy?”

“I suppose so.” He stood up and said solemnly:--

“Then you are wrong. Oh, would it were so! but alas! no. It is worse,
far, far worse.”

“In God’s name, Professor Van Helsing, what do you mean?” I cried.

He threw himself with a despairing gesture into a chair, and placed his
elbows on the table, covering his face with his hands as he spoke:--

“They were made by Miss Lucy!”




CHAPTER XV

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY--_continued_.


For a while sheer anger mastered me; it was as if he had during her life
struck Lucy on the face. I smote the table hard and rose up as I said to
him:--

“Dr. Van Helsing, are you mad?” He raised his head and looked at me, and
somehow the tenderness of his face calmed me at once. “Would I were!” he
said. “Madness were easy to bear compared with truth like this. Oh, my
friend, why, think you, did I go so far round, why take so long to tell
you so simple a thing? Was it because I hate you and have hated you all
my life? Was it because I wished to give you pain? Was it that I wanted,
now so late, revenge for that time when you saved my life, and from a
fearful death? Ah no!”

“Forgive me,” said I. He went on:--

“My friend, it was because I wished to be gentle in the breaking to you,
for I know you have loved that so sweet lady. But even yet I do not
expect you to believe. It is so hard to accept at once any abstract
truth, that we may doubt such to be possible when we have always
believed the ‘no’ of it; it is more hard still to accept so sad a
concrete truth, and of such a one as Miss Lucy. To-night I go to prove
it. Dare you come with me?”

This staggered me. A man does not like to prove such a truth; Byron
excepted from the category, jealousy.

    “And prove the very truth he most abhorred.”

He saw my hesitation, and spoke:--

“The logic is simple, no madman’s logic this time, jumping from tussock
to tussock in a misty bog. If it be not true, then proof will be relief;
at worst it will not harm. If it be true! Ah, there is the dread; yet
very dread should help my cause, for in it is some need of belief. Come,
I tell you what I propose: first, that we go off now and see that child
in the hospital. Dr. Vincent, of the North Hospital, where the papers
say the child is, is friend of mine, and I think of yours since you were
in class at Amsterdam. He will let two scientists see his case, if he
will not let two friends. We shall tell him nothing, but only that we
wish to learn. And then----”

“And then?” He took a key from his pocket and held it up. “And then we
spend the night, you and I, in the churchyard where Lucy lies. This is
the key that lock the tomb. I had it from the coffin-man to give to
Arthur.” My heart sank within me, for I felt that there was some fearful
ordeal before us. I could do nothing, however, so I plucked up what
heart I could and said that we had better hasten, as the afternoon was
passing....

We found the child awake. It had had a sleep and taken some food, and
altogether was going on well. Dr. Vincent took the bandage from its
throat, and showed us the punctures. There was no mistaking the
similarity to those which had been on Lucy’s throat. They were smaller,
and the edges looked fresher; that was all. We asked Vincent to what he
attributed them, and he replied that it must have been a bite of some
animal, perhaps a rat; but, for his own part, he was inclined to think
that it was one of the bats which are so numerous on the northern
heights of London. “Out of so many harmless ones,” he said, “there may
be some wild specimen from the South of a more malignant species. Some
sailor may have brought one home, and it managed to escape; or even from
the Zoölogical Gardens a young one may have got loose, or one be bred
there from a vampire. These things do occur, you know. Only ten days ago
a wolf got out, and was, I believe, traced up in this direction. For a
week after, the children were playing nothing but Red Riding Hood on the
Heath and in every alley in the place until this ‘bloofer lady’ scare
came along, since when it has been quite a gala-time with them. Even
this poor little mite, when he woke up to-day, asked the nurse if he
might go away. When she asked him why he wanted to go, he said he wanted
to play with the ‘bloofer lady.’”

“I hope,” said Van Helsing, “that when you are sending the child home
you will caution its parents to keep strict watch over it. These fancies
to stray are most dangerous; and if the child were to remain out another
night, it would probably be fatal. But in any case I suppose you will
not let it away for some days?”

“Certainly not, not for a week at least; longer if the wound is not
healed.”

Our visit to the hospital took more time than we had reckoned on, and
the sun had dipped before we came out. When Van Helsing saw how dark it
was, he said:--

“There is no hurry. It is more late than I thought. Come, let us seek
somewhere that we may eat, and then we shall go on our way.”

We dined at “Jack Straw’s Castle” along with a little crowd of
bicyclists and others who were genially noisy. About ten o’clock we
started from the inn. It was then very dark, and the scattered lamps
made the darkness greater when we were once outside their individual
radius. The Professor had evidently noted the road we were to go, for he
went on unhesitatingly; but, as for me, I was in quite a mixup as to
locality. As we went further, we met fewer and fewer people, till at
last we were somewhat surprised when we met even the patrol of horse
police going their usual suburban round. At last we reached the wall of
the churchyard, which we climbed over. With some little difficulty--for
it was very dark, and the whole place seemed so strange to us--we found
the Westenra tomb. The Professor took the key, opened the creaky door,
and standing back, politely, but quite unconsciously, motioned me to
precede him. There was a delicious irony in the offer, in the
courtliness of giving preference on such a ghastly occasion. My
companion followed me quickly, and cautiously drew the door to, after
carefully ascertaining that the lock was a falling, and not a spring,
one. In the latter case we should have been in a bad plight. Then he
fumbled in his bag, and taking out a matchbox and a piece of candle,
proceeded to make a light. The tomb in the day-time, and when wreathed
with fresh flowers, had looked grim and gruesome enough; but now, some
days afterwards, when the flowers hung lank and dead, their whites
turning to rust and their greens to browns; when the spider and the
beetle had resumed their accustomed dominance; when time-discoloured
stone, and dust-encrusted mortar, and rusty, dank iron, and tarnished
brass, and clouded silver-plating gave back the feeble glimmer of a
candle, the effect was more miserable and sordid than could have been
imagined. It conveyed irresistibly the idea that life--animal life--was
not the only thing which could pass away.

Van Helsing went about his work systematically. Holding his candle so
that he could read the coffin plates, and so holding it that the sperm
dropped in white patches which congealed as they touched the metal, he
made assurance of Lucy’s coffin. Another search in his bag, and he took
out a turnscrew.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“To open the coffin. You shall yet be convinced.” Straightway he began
taking out the screws, and finally lifted off the lid, showing the
casing of lead beneath. The sight was almost too much for me. It seemed
to be as much an affront to the dead as it would have been to have
stripped off her clothing in her sleep whilst living; I actually took
hold of his hand to stop him. He only said: “You shall see,” and again
fumbling in his bag, took out a tiny fret-saw. Striking the turnscrew
through the lead with a swift downward stab, which made me wince, he
made a small hole, which was, however, big enough to admit the point of
the saw. I had expected a rush of gas from the week-old corpse. We
doctors, who have had to study our dangers, have to become accustomed to
such things, and I drew back towards the door. But the Professor never
stopped for a moment; he sawed down a couple of feet along one side of
the lead coffin, and then across, and down the other side. Taking the
edge of the loose flange, he bent it back towards the foot of the
coffin, and holding up the candle into the aperture, motioned to me to
look.

I drew near and looked. The coffin was empty.

It was certainly a surprise to me, and gave me a considerable shock, but
Van Helsing was unmoved. He was now more sure than ever of his ground,
and so emboldened to proceed in his task. “Are you satisfied now, friend
John?” he asked.

I felt all the dogged argumentativeness of my nature awake within me as
I answered him:--

“I am satisfied that Lucy’s body is not in that coffin; but that only
proves one thing.”

“And what is that, friend John?”

“That it is not there.”

“That is good logic,” he said, “so far as it goes. But how do you--how
can you--account for it not being there?”

“Perhaps a body-snatcher,” I suggested. “Some of the undertaker’s people
may have stolen it.” I felt that I was speaking folly, and yet it was
the only real cause which I could suggest. The Professor sighed. “Ah
well!” he said, “we must have more proof. Come with me.”

He put on the coffin-lid again, gathered up all his things and placed
them in the bag, blew out the light, and placed the candle also in the
bag. We opened the door, and went out. Behind us he closed the door and
locked it. He handed me the key, saying: “Will you keep it? You had
better be assured.” I laughed--it was not a very cheerful laugh, I am
bound to say--as I motioned him to keep it. “A key is nothing,” I said;
“there may be duplicates; and anyhow it is not difficult to pick a lock
of that kind.” He said nothing, but put the key in his pocket. Then he
told me to watch at one side of the churchyard whilst he would watch at
the other. I took up my place behind a yew-tree, and I saw his dark
figure move until the intervening headstones and trees hid it from my
sight.

It was a lonely vigil. Just after I had taken my place I heard a distant
clock strike twelve, and in time came one and two. I was chilled and
unnerved, and angry with the Professor for taking me on such an errand
and with myself for coming. I was too cold and too sleepy to be keenly
observant, and not sleepy enough to betray my trust so altogether I had
a dreary, miserable time.

Suddenly, as I turned round, I thought I saw something like a white
streak, moving between two dark yew-trees at the side of the churchyard
farthest from the tomb; at the same time a dark mass moved from the
Professor’s side of the ground, and hurriedly went towards it. Then I
too moved; but I had to go round headstones and railed-off tombs, and I
stumbled over graves. The sky was overcast, and somewhere far off an
early cock crew. A little way off, beyond a line of scattered
juniper-trees, which marked the pathway to the church, a white, dim
figure flitted in the direction of the tomb. The tomb itself was hidden
by trees, and I could not see where the figure disappeared. I heard the
rustle of actual movement where I had first seen the white figure, and
coming over, found the Professor holding in his arms a tiny child. When
he saw me he held it out to me, and said:--

“Are you satisfied now?”

“No,” I said, in a way that I felt was aggressive.

“Do you not see the child?”

“Yes, it is a child, but who brought it here? And is it wounded?” I
asked.

“We shall see,” said the Professor, and with one impulse we took our way
out of the churchyard, he carrying the sleeping child.

When we had got some little distance away, we went into a clump of
trees, and struck a match, and looked at the child’s throat. It was
without a scratch or scar of any kind.

“Was I right?” I asked triumphantly.

“We were just in time,” said the Professor thankfully.

We had now to decide what we were to do with the child, and so consulted
about it. If we were to take it to a police-station we should have to
give some account of our movements during the night; at least, we should
have had to make some statement as to how we had come to find the child.
So finally we decided that we would take it to the Heath, and when we
heard a policeman coming, would leave it where he could not fail to find
it; we would then seek our way home as quickly as we could. All fell out
well. At the edge of Hampstead Heath we heard a policeman’s heavy
tramp, and laying the child on the pathway, we waited and watched until
he saw it as he flashed his lantern to and fro. We heard his exclamation
of astonishment, and then we went away silently. By good chance we got a
cab near the “Spaniards,” and drove to town.

I cannot sleep, so I make this entry. But I must try to get a few hours’
sleep, as Van Helsing is to call for me at noon. He insists that I shall
go with him on another expedition.

       *       *       *       *       *

_27 September._--It was two o’clock before we found a suitable
opportunity for our attempt. The funeral held at noon was all completed,
and the last stragglers of the mourners had taken themselves lazily
away, when, looking carefully from behind a clump of alder-trees, we saw
the sexton lock the gate after him. We knew then that we were safe till
morning did we desire it; but the Professor told me that we should not
want more than an hour at most. Again I felt that horrid sense of the
reality of things, in which any effort of imagination seemed out of
place; and I realised distinctly the perils of the law which we were
incurring in our unhallowed work. Besides, I felt it was all so useless.
Outrageous as it was to open a leaden coffin, to see if a woman dead
nearly a week were really dead, it now seemed the height of folly to
open the tomb again, when we knew, from the evidence of our own
eyesight, that the coffin was empty. I shrugged my shoulders, however,
and rested silent, for Van Helsing had a way of going on his own road,
no matter who remonstrated. He took the key, opened the vault, and again
courteously motioned me to precede. The place was not so gruesome as
last night, but oh, how unutterably mean-looking when the sunshine
streamed in. Van Helsing walked over to Lucy’s coffin, and I followed.
He bent over and again forced back the leaden flange; and then a shock
of surprise and dismay shot through me.

There lay Lucy, seemingly just as we had seen her the night before her
funeral. She was, if possible, more radiantly beautiful than ever; and I
could not believe that she was dead. The lips were red, nay redder than
before; and on the cheeks was a delicate bloom.

“Is this a juggle?” I said to him.

“Are you convinced now?” said the Professor in response, and as he spoke
he put over his hand, and in a way that made me shudder, pulled back the
dead lips and showed the white teeth.

“See,” he went on, “see, they are even sharper than before. With this
and this”--and he touched one of the canine teeth and that below
it--“the little children can be bitten. Are you of belief now, friend
John?” Once more, argumentative hostility woke within me. I _could_ not
accept such an overwhelming idea as he suggested; so, with an attempt to
argue of which I was even at the moment ashamed, I said:--

“She may have been placed here since last night.”

“Indeed? That is so, and by whom?”

“I do not know. Some one has done it.”

“And yet she has been dead one week. Most peoples in that time would not
look so.” I had no answer for this, so was silent. Van Helsing did not
seem to notice my silence; at any rate, he showed neither chagrin nor
triumph. He was looking intently at the face of the dead woman, raising
the eyelids and looking at the eyes, and once more opening the lips and
examining the teeth. Then he turned to me and said:--

“Here, there is one thing which is different from all recorded; here is
some dual life that is not as the common. She was bitten by the vampire
when she was in a trance, sleep-walking--oh, you start; you do not know
that, friend John, but you shall know it all later--and in trance could
he best come to take more blood. In trance she died, and in trance she
is Un-Dead, too. So it is that she differ from all other. Usually when
the Un-Dead sleep at home”--as he spoke he made a comprehensive sweep of
his arm to designate what to a vampire was “home”--“their face show what
they are, but this so sweet that was when she not Un-Dead she go back to
the nothings of the common dead. There is no malign there, see, and so
it make hard that I must kill her in her sleep.” This turned my blood
cold, and it began to dawn upon me that I was accepting Van Helsing’s
theories; but if she were really dead, what was there of terror in the
idea of killing her? He looked up at me, and evidently saw the change in
my face, for he said almost joyously:--

“Ah, you believe now?”

I answered: “Do not press me too hard all at once. I am willing to
accept. How will you do this bloody work?”

“I shall cut off her head and fill her mouth with garlic, and I shall
drive a stake through her body.” It made me shudder to think of so
mutilating the body of the woman whom I had loved. And yet the feeling
was not so strong as I had expected. I was, in fact, beginning to
shudder at the presence of this being, this Un-Dead, as Van Helsing
called it, and to loathe it. Is it possible that love is all subjective,
or all objective?

I waited a considerable time for Van Helsing to begin, but he stood as
if wrapped in thought. Presently he closed the catch of his bag with a
snap, and said:--

“I have been thinking, and have made up my mind as to what is best. If I
did simply follow my inclining I would do now, at this moment, what is
to be done; but there are other things to follow, and things that are
thousand times more difficult in that them we do not know. This is
simple. She have yet no life taken, though that is of time; and to act
now would be to take danger from her for ever. But then we may have to
want Arthur, and how shall we tell him of this? If you, who saw the
wounds on Lucy’s throat, and saw the wounds so similar on the child’s at
the hospital; if you, who saw the coffin empty last night and full
to-day with a woman who have not change only to be more rose and more
beautiful in a whole week, after she die--if you know of this and know
of the white figure last night that brought the child to the churchyard,
and yet of your own senses you did not believe, how, then, can I expect
Arthur, who know none of those things, to believe? He doubted me when I
took him from her kiss when she was dying. I know he has forgiven me
because in some mistaken idea I have done things that prevent him say
good-bye as he ought; and he may think that in some more mistaken idea
this woman was buried alive; and that in most mistake of all we have
killed her. He will then argue back that it is we, mistaken ones, that
have killed her by our ideas; and so he will be much unhappy always. Yet
he never can be sure; and that is the worst of all. And he will
sometimes think that she he loved was buried alive, and that will paint
his dreams with horrors of what she must have suffered; and again, he
will think that we may be right, and that his so beloved was, after all,
an Un-Dead. No! I told him once, and since then I learn much. Now, since
I know it is all true, a hundred thousand times more do I know that he
must pass through the bitter waters to reach the sweet. He, poor fellow,
must have one hour that will make the very face of heaven grow black to
him; then we can act for good all round and send him peace. My mind is
made up. Let us go. You return home for to-night to your asylum, and see
that all be well. As for me, I shall spend the night here in this
churchyard in my own way. To-morrow night you will come to me to the
Berkeley Hotel at ten of the clock. I shall send for Arthur to come too,
and also that so fine young man of America that gave his blood. Later we
shall all have work to do. I come with you so far as Piccadilly and
there dine, for I must be back here before the sun set.”

So we locked the tomb and came away, and got over the wall of the
churchyard, which was not much of a task, and drove back to Piccadilly.


_Note left by Van Helsing in his portmanteau, Berkeley Hotel directed to
John Seward, M. D._

(Not delivered.)

“_27 September._

“Friend John,--

“I write this in case anything should happen. I go alone to watch in
that churchyard. It pleases me that the Un-Dead, Miss Lucy, shall not
leave to-night, that so on the morrow night she may be more eager.
Therefore I shall fix some things she like not--garlic and a
crucifix--and so seal up the door of the tomb. She is young as Un-Dead,
and will heed. Moreover, these are only to prevent her coming out; they
may not prevail on her wanting to get in; for then the Un-Dead is
desperate, and must find the line of least resistance, whatsoever it may
be. I shall be at hand all the night from sunset till after the sunrise,
and if there be aught that may be learned I shall learn it. For Miss
Lucy or from her, I have no fear; but that other to whom is there that
she is Un-Dead, he have now the power to seek her tomb and find shelter.
He is cunning, as I know from Mr. Jonathan and from the way that all
along he have fooled us when he played with us for Miss Lucy’s life, and
we lost; and in many ways the Un-Dead are strong. He have always the
strength in his hand of twenty men; even we four who gave our strength
to Miss Lucy it also is all to him. Besides, he can summon his wolf and
I know not what. So if it be that he come thither on this night he shall
find me; but none other shall--until it be too late. But it may be that
he will not attempt the place. There is no reason why he should; his
hunting ground is more full of game than the churchyard where the
Un-Dead woman sleep, and the one old man watch.

“Therefore I write this in case.... Take the papers that are with this,
the diaries of Harker and the rest, and read them, and then find this
great Un-Dead, and cut off his head and burn his heart or drive a stake
through it, so that the world may rest from him.

“If it be so, farewell.

“VAN HELSING.”



_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

_28 September._--It is wonderful what a good night’s sleep will do for
one. Yesterday I was almost willing to accept Van Helsing’s monstrous
ideas; but now they seem to start out lurid before me as outrages on
common sense. I have no doubt that he believes it all. I wonder if his
mind can have become in any way unhinged. Surely there must be _some_
rational explanation of all these mysterious things. Is it possible that
the Professor can have done it himself? He is so abnormally clever that
if he went off his head he would carry out his intent with regard to
some fixed idea in a wonderful way. I am loath to think it, and indeed
it would be almost as great a marvel as the other to find that Van
Helsing was mad; but anyhow I shall watch him carefully. I may get some
light on the mystery.

       *       *       *       *       *

_29 September, morning._.... Last night, at a little before ten o’clock,
Arthur and Quincey came into Van Helsing’s room; he told us all that he
wanted us to do, but especially addressing himself to Arthur, as if all
our wills were centred in his. He began by saying that he hoped we would
all come with him too, “for,” he said, “there is a grave duty to be done
there. You were doubtless surprised at my letter?” This query was
directly addressed to Lord Godalming.

“I was. It rather upset me for a bit. There has been so much trouble
around my house of late that I could do without any more. I have been
curious, too, as to what you mean. Quincey and I talked it over; but the
more we talked, the more puzzled we got, till now I can say for myself
that I’m about up a tree as to any meaning about anything.”

“Me too,” said Quincey Morris laconically.

“Oh,” said the Professor, “then you are nearer the beginning, both of
you, than friend John here, who has to go a long way back before he can
even get so far as to begin.”

It was evident that he recognised my return to my old doubting frame of
mind without my saying a word. Then, turning to the other two, he said
with intense gravity:--

“I want your permission to do what I think good this night. It is, I
know, much to ask; and when you know what it is I propose to do you will
know, and only then, how much. Therefore may I ask that you promise me
in the dark, so that afterwards, though you may be angry with me for a
time--I must not disguise from myself the possibility that such may
be--you shall not blame yourselves for anything.”

“That’s frank anyhow,” broke in Quincey. “I’ll answer for the Professor.
I don’t quite see his drift, but I swear he’s honest; and that’s good
enough for me.”

“I thank you, sir,” said Van Helsing proudly. “I have done myself the
honour of counting you one trusting friend, and such endorsement is dear
to me.” He held out a hand, which Quincey took.

Then Arthur spoke out:--

“Dr. Van Helsing, I don’t quite like to ‘buy a pig in a poke,’ as they
say in Scotland, and if it be anything in which my honour as a gentleman
or my faith as a Christian is concerned, I cannot make such a promise.
If you can assure me that what you intend does not violate either of
these two, then I give my consent at once; though for the life of me, I
cannot understand what you are driving at.”

“I accept your limitation,” said Van Helsing, “and all I ask of you is
that if you feel it necessary to condemn any act of mine, you will first
consider it well and be satisfied that it does not violate your
reservations.”

“Agreed!” said Arthur; “that is only fair. And now that the
_pourparlers_ are over, may I ask what it is we are to do?”

“I want you to come with me, and to come in secret, to the churchyard at
Kingstead.”

Arthur’s face fell as he said in an amazed sort of way:--

“Where poor Lucy is buried?” The Professor bowed. Arthur went on: “And
when there?”

“To enter the tomb!” Arthur stood up.

“Professor, are you in earnest; or it is some monstrous joke? Pardon me,
I see that you are in earnest.” He sat down again, but I could see that
he sat firmly and proudly, as one who is on his dignity. There was
silence until he asked again:--

“And when in the tomb?”

“To open the coffin.”

“This is too much!” he said, angrily rising again. “I am willing to be
patient in all things that are reasonable; but in this--this desecration
of the grave--of one who----” He fairly choked with indignation. The
Professor looked pityingly at him.

“If I could spare you one pang, my poor friend,” he said, “God knows I
would. But this night our feet must tread in thorny paths; or later, and
for ever, the feet you love must walk in paths of flame!”

Arthur looked up with set white face and said:--

“Take care, sir, take care!”

“Would it not be well to hear what I have to say?” said Van Helsing.
“And then you will at least know the limit of my purpose. Shall I go
on?”

“That’s fair enough,” broke in Morris.

After a pause Van Helsing went on, evidently with an effort:--

“Miss Lucy is dead; is it not so? Yes! Then there can be no wrong to
her. But if she be not dead----”

Arthur jumped to his feet.

“Good God!” he cried. “What do you mean? Has there been any mistake; has
she been buried alive?” He groaned in anguish that not even hope could
soften.

“I did not say she was alive, my child; I did not think it. I go no
further than to say that she might be Un-Dead.”

“Un-Dead! Not alive! What do you mean? Is this all a nightmare, or what
is it?”

“There are mysteries which men can only guess at, which age by age they
may solve only in part. Believe me, we are now on the verge of one. But
I have not done. May I cut off the head of dead Miss Lucy?”

“Heavens and earth, no!” cried Arthur in a storm of passion. “Not for
the wide world will I consent to any mutilation of her dead body. Dr.
Van Helsing, you try me too far. What have I done to you that you should
torture me so? What did that poor, sweet girl do that you should want to
cast such dishonour on her grave? Are you mad to speak such things, or
am I mad to listen to them? Don’t dare to think more of such a
desecration; I shall not give my consent to anything you do. I have a
duty to do in protecting her grave from outrage; and, by God, I shall do
it!”

Van Helsing rose up from where he had all the time been seated, and
said, gravely and sternly:--

“My Lord Godalming, I, too, have a duty to do, a duty to others, a duty
to you, a duty to the dead; and, by God, I shall do it! All I ask you
now is that you come with me, that you look and listen; and if when
later I make the same request you do not be more eager for its
fulfilment even than I am, then--then I shall do my duty, whatever it
may seem to me. And then, to follow of your Lordship’s wishes I shall
hold myself at your disposal to render an account to you, when and where
you will.” His voice broke a little, and he went on with a voice full of
pity:--

“But, I beseech you, do not go forth in anger with me. In a long life of
acts which were often not pleasant to do, and which sometimes did wring
my heart, I have never had so heavy a task as now. Believe me that if
the time comes for you to change your mind towards me, one look from
you will wipe away all this so sad hour, for I would do what a man can
to save you from sorrow. Just think. For why should I give myself so
much of labour and so much of sorrow? I have come here from my own land
to do what I can of good; at the first to please my friend John, and
then to help a sweet young lady, whom, too, I came to love. For her--I
am ashamed to say so much, but I say it in kindness--I gave what you
gave; the blood of my veins; I gave it, I, who was not, like you, her
lover, but only her physician and her friend. I gave to her my nights
and days--before death, after death; and if my death can do her good
even now, when she is the dead Un-Dead, she shall have it freely.” He
said this with a very grave, sweet pride, and Arthur was much affected
by it. He took the old man’s hand and said in a broken voice:--

“Oh, it is hard to think of it, and I cannot understand; but at least I
shall go with you and wait.”




CHAPTER XVI

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY--_continued_


It was just a quarter before twelve o’clock when we got into the
churchyard over the low wall. The night was dark with occasional gleams
of moonlight between the rents of the heavy clouds that scudded across
the sky. We all kept somehow close together, with Van Helsing slightly
in front as he led the way. When we had come close to the tomb I looked
well at Arthur, for I feared that the proximity to a place laden with so
sorrowful a memory would upset him; but he bore himself well. I took it
that the very mystery of the proceeding was in some way a counteractant
to his grief. The Professor unlocked the door, and seeing a natural
hesitation amongst us for various reasons, solved the difficulty by
entering first himself. The rest of us followed, and he closed the door.
He then lit a dark lantern and pointed to the coffin. Arthur stepped
forward hesitatingly; Van Helsing said to me:--

“You were with me here yesterday. Was the body of Miss Lucy in that
coffin?”

“It was.” The Professor turned to the rest saying:--

“You hear; and yet there is no one who does not believe with me.” He
took his screwdriver and again took off the lid of the coffin. Arthur
looked on, very pale but silent; when the lid was removed he stepped
forward. He evidently did not know that there was a leaden coffin, or,
at any rate, had not thought of it. When he saw the rent in the lead,
the blood rushed to his face for an instant, but as quickly fell away
again, so that he remained of a ghastly whiteness; he was still silent.
Van Helsing forced back the leaden flange, and we all looked in and
recoiled.

The coffin was empty!

For several minutes no one spoke a word. The silence was broken by
Quincey Morris:--

“Professor, I answered for you. Your word is all I want. I wouldn’t ask
such a thing ordinarily--I wouldn’t so dishonour you as to imply a
doubt; but this is a mystery that goes beyond any honour or dishonour.
Is this your doing?”

“I swear to you by all that I hold sacred that I have not removed nor
touched her. What happened was this: Two nights ago my friend Seward and
I came here--with good purpose, believe me. I opened that coffin, which
was then sealed up, and we found it, as now, empty. We then waited, and
saw something white come through the trees. The next day we came here in
day-time, and she lay there. Did she not, friend John?”

“Yes.”

“That night we were just in time. One more so small child was missing,
and we find it, thank God, unharmed amongst the graves. Yesterday I came
here before sundown, for at sundown the Un-Dead can move. I waited here
all the night till the sun rose, but I saw nothing. It was most probable
that it was because I had laid over the clamps of those doors garlic,
which the Un-Dead cannot bear, and other things which they shun. Last
night there was no exodus, so to-night before the sundown I took away my
garlic and other things. And so it is we find this coffin empty. But
bear with me. So far there is much that is strange. Wait you with me
outside, unseen and unheard, and things much stranger are yet to be.
So”--here he shut the dark slide of his lantern--“now to the outside.”
He opened the door, and we filed out, he coming last and locking the
door behind him.

Oh! but it seemed fresh and pure in the night air after the terror of
that vault. How sweet it was to see the clouds race by, and the passing
gleams of the moonlight between the scudding clouds crossing and
passing--like the gladness and sorrow of a man’s life; how sweet it was
to breathe the fresh air, that had no taint of death and decay; how
humanising to see the red lighting of the sky beyond the hill, and to
hear far away the muffled roar that marks the life of a great city. Each
in his own way was solemn and overcome. Arthur was silent, and was, I
could see, striving to grasp the purpose and the inner meaning of the
mystery. I was myself tolerably patient, and half inclined again to
throw aside doubt and to accept Van Helsing’s conclusions. Quincey
Morris was phlegmatic in the way of a man who accepts all things, and
accepts them in the spirit of cool bravery, with hazard of all he has to
stake. Not being able to smoke, he cut himself a good-sized plug of
tobacco and began to chew. As to Van Helsing, he was employed in a
definite way. First he took from his bag a mass of what looked like
thin, wafer-like biscuit, which was carefully rolled up in a white
napkin; next he took out a double-handful of some whitish stuff, like
dough or putty. He crumbled the wafer up fine and worked it into the
mass between his hands. This he then took, and rolling it into thin
strips, began to lay them into the crevices between the door and its
setting in the tomb. I was somewhat puzzled at this, and being close,
asked him what it was that he was doing. Arthur and Quincey drew near
also, as they too were curious. He answered:--

“I am closing the tomb, so that the Un-Dead may not enter.”

“And is that stuff you have put there going to do it?” asked Quincey.
“Great Scott! Is this a game?”

“It is.”

“What is that which you are using?” This time the question was by
Arthur. Van Helsing reverently lifted his hat as he answered:--

“The Host. I brought it from Amsterdam. I have an Indulgence.” It was an
answer that appalled the most sceptical of us, and we felt individually
that in the presence of such earnest purpose as the Professor’s, a
purpose which could thus use the to him most sacred of things, it was
impossible to distrust. In respectful silence we took the places
assigned to us close round the tomb, but hidden from the sight of any
one approaching. I pitied the others, especially Arthur. I had myself
been apprenticed by my former visits to this watching horror; and yet I,
who had up to an hour ago repudiated the proofs, felt my heart sink
within me. Never did tombs look so ghastly white; never did cypress, or
yew, or juniper so seem the embodiment of funereal gloom; never did tree
or grass wave or rustle so ominously; never did bough creak so
mysteriously; and never did the far-away howling of dogs send such a
woeful presage through the night.

There was a long spell of silence, a big, aching void, and then from the
Professor a keen “S-s-s-s!” He pointed; and far down the avenue of yews
we saw a white figure advance--a dim white figure, which held something
dark at its breast. The figure stopped, and at the moment a ray of
moonlight fell upon the masses of driving clouds and showed in startling
prominence a dark-haired woman, dressed in the cerements of the grave.
We could not see the face, for it was bent down over what we saw to be a
fair-haired child. There was a pause and a sharp little cry, such as a
child gives in sleep, or a dog as it lies before the fire and dreams. We
were starting forward, but the Professor’s warning hand, seen by us as
he stood behind a yew-tree, kept us back; and then as we looked the
white figure moved forwards again. It was now near enough for us to see
clearly, and the moonlight still held. My own heart grew cold as ice,
and I could hear the gasp of Arthur, as we recognised the features of
Lucy Westenra. Lucy Westenra, but yet how changed. The sweetness was
turned to adamantine, heartless cruelty, and the purity to voluptuous
wantonness. Van Helsing stepped out, and, obedient to his gesture, we
all advanced too; the four of us ranged in a line before the door of the
tomb. Van Helsing raised his lantern and drew the slide; by the
concentrated light that fell on Lucy’s face we could see that the lips
were crimson with fresh blood, and that the stream had trickled over her
chin and stained the purity of her lawn death-robe.

We shuddered with horror. I could see by the tremulous light that even
Van Helsing’s iron nerve had failed. Arthur was next to me, and if I had
not seized his arm and held him up, he would have fallen.

When Lucy--I call the thing that was before us Lucy because it bore her
shape--saw us she drew back with an angry snarl, such as a cat gives
when taken unawares; then her eyes ranged over us. Lucy’s eyes in form
and colour; but Lucy’s eyes unclean and full of hell-fire, instead of
the pure, gentle orbs we knew. At that moment the remnant of my love
passed into hate and loathing; had she then to be killed, I could have
done it with savage delight. As she looked, her eyes blazed with unholy
light, and the face became wreathed with a voluptuous smile. Oh, God,
how it made me shudder to see it! With a careless motion, she flung to
the ground, callous as a devil, the child that up to now she had
clutched strenuously to her breast, growling over it as a dog growls
over a bone. The child gave a sharp cry, and lay there moaning. There
was a cold-bloodedness in the act which wrung a groan from Arthur; when
she advanced to him with outstretched arms and a wanton smile he fell
back and hid his face in his hands.

She still advanced, however, and with a languorous, voluptuous grace,
said:--

“Come to me, Arthur. Leave these others and come to me. My arms are
hungry for you. Come, and we can rest together. Come, my husband, come!”

There was something diabolically sweet in her tones--something of the
tingling of glass when struck--which rang through the brains even of us
who heard the words addressed to another. As for Arthur, he seemed under
a spell; moving his hands from his face, he opened wide his arms. She
was leaping for them, when Van Helsing sprang forward and held between
them his little golden crucifix. She recoiled from it, and, with a
suddenly distorted face, full of rage, dashed past him as if to enter
the tomb.

When within a foot or two of the door, however, she stopped, as if
arrested by some irresistible force. Then she turned, and her face was
shown in the clear burst of moonlight and by the lamp, which had now no
quiver from Van Helsing’s iron nerves. Never did I see such baffled
malice on a face; and never, I trust, shall such ever be seen again by
mortal eyes. The beautiful colour became livid, the eyes seemed to throw
out sparks of hell-fire, the brows were wrinkled as though the folds of
the flesh were the coils of Medusa’s snakes, and the lovely,
blood-stained mouth grew to an open square, as in the passion masks of
the Greeks and Japanese. If ever a face meant death--if looks could
kill--we saw it at that moment.

And so for full half a minute, which seemed an eternity, she remained
between the lifted crucifix and the sacred closing of her means of
entry. Van Helsing broke the silence by asking Arthur:--

“Answer me, oh my friend! Am I to proceed in my work?”

Arthur threw himself on his knees, and hid his face in his hands, as he
answered:--

“Do as you will, friend; do as you will. There can be no horror like
this ever any more;” and he groaned in spirit. Quincey and I
simultaneously moved towards him, and took his arms. We could hear the
click of the closing lantern as Van Helsing held it down; coming close
to the tomb, he began to remove from the chinks some of the sacred
emblem which he had placed there. We all looked on in horrified
amazement as we saw, when he stood back, the woman, with a corporeal
body as real at that moment as our own, pass in through the interstice
where scarce a knife-blade could have gone. We all felt a glad sense of
relief when we saw the Professor calmly restoring the strings of putty
to the edges of the door.

When this was done, he lifted the child and said:

“Come now, my friends; we can do no more till to-morrow. There is a
funeral at noon, so here we shall all come before long after that. The
friends of the dead will all be gone by two, and when the sexton lock
the gate we shall remain. Then there is more to do; but not like this of
to-night. As for this little one, he is not much harm, and by to-morrow
night he shall be well. We shall leave him where the police will find
him, as on the other night; and then to home.” Coming close to Arthur,
he said:--

“My friend Arthur, you have had a sore trial; but after, when you look
back, you will see how it was necessary. You are now in the bitter
waters, my child. By this time to-morrow you will, please God, have
passed them, and have drunk of the sweet waters; so do not mourn
overmuch. Till then I shall not ask you to forgive me.”

Arthur and Quincey came home with me, and we tried to cheer each other
on the way. We had left the child in safety, and were tired; so we all
slept with more or less reality of sleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

_29 September, night._--A little before twelve o’clock we three--Arthur,
Quincey Morris, and myself--called for the Professor. It was odd to
notice that by common consent we had all put on black clothes. Of
course, Arthur wore black, for he was in deep mourning, but the rest of
us wore it by instinct. We got to the churchyard by half-past one, and
strolled about, keeping out of official observation, so that when the
gravediggers had completed their task and the sexton under the belief
that every one had gone, had locked the gate, we had the place all to
ourselves. Van Helsing, instead of his little black bag, had with him a
long leather one, something like a cricketing bag; it was manifestly of
fair weight.

When we were alone and had heard the last of the footsteps die out up
the road, we silently, and as if by ordered intention, followed the
Professor to the tomb. He unlocked the door, and we entered, closing it
behind us. Then he took from his bag the lantern, which he lit, and also
two wax candles, which, when lighted, he stuck, by melting their own
ends, on other coffins, so that they might give light sufficient to work
by. When he again lifted the lid off Lucy’s coffin we all looked--Arthur
trembling like an aspen--and saw that the body lay there in all its
death-beauty. But there was no love in my own heart, nothing but
loathing for the foul Thing which had taken Lucy’s shape without her
soul. I could see even Arthur’s face grow hard as he looked. Presently
he said to Van Helsing:--

“Is this really Lucy’s body, or only a demon in her shape?”

“It is her body, and yet not it. But wait a while, and you all see her
as she was, and is.”

She seemed like a nightmare of Lucy as she lay there; the pointed teeth,
the bloodstained, voluptuous mouth--which it made one shudder to
see--the whole carnal and unspiritual appearance, seeming like a
devilish mockery of Lucy’s sweet purity. Van Helsing, with his usual
methodicalness, began taking the various contents from his bag and
placing them ready for use. First he took out a soldering iron and some
plumbing solder, and then a small oil-lamp, which gave out, when lit in
a corner of the tomb, gas which burned at fierce heat with a blue
flame; then his operating knives, which he placed to hand; and last a
round wooden stake, some two and a half or three inches thick and about
three feet long. One end of it was hardened by charring in the fire, and
was sharpened to a fine point. With this stake came a heavy hammer, such
as in households is used in the coal-cellar for breaking the lumps. To
me, a doctor’s preparations for work of any kind are stimulating and
bracing, but the effect of these things on both Arthur and Quincey was
to cause them a sort of consternation. They both, however, kept their
courage, and remained silent and quiet.

When all was ready, Van Helsing said:--

“Before we do anything, let me tell you this; it is out of the lore and
experience of the ancients and of all those who have studied the powers
of the Un-Dead. When they become such, there comes with the change the
curse of immortality; they cannot die, but must go on age after age
adding new victims and multiplying the evils of the world; for all that
die from the preying of the Un-Dead becomes themselves Un-Dead, and prey
on their kind. And so the circle goes on ever widening, like as the
ripples from a stone thrown in the water. Friend Arthur, if you had met
that kiss which you know of before poor Lucy die; or again, last night
when you open your arms to her, you would in time, when you had died,
have become _nosferatu_, as they call it in Eastern Europe, and would
all time make more of those Un-Deads that so have fill us with horror.
The career of this so unhappy dear lady is but just begun. Those
children whose blood she suck are not as yet so much the worse; but if
she live on, Un-Dead, more and more they lose their blood and by her
power over them they come to her; and so she draw their blood with that
so wicked mouth. But if she die in truth, then all cease; the tiny
wounds of the throats disappear, and they go back to their plays
unknowing ever of what has been. But of the most blessed of all, when
this now Un-Dead be made to rest as true dead, then the soul of the poor
lady whom we love shall again be free. Instead of working wickedness by
night and growing more debased in the assimilating of it by day, she
shall take her place with the other Angels. So that, my friend, it will
be a blessed hand for her that shall strike the blow that sets her free.
To this I am willing; but is there none amongst us who has a better
right? Will it be no joy to think of hereafter in the silence of the
night when sleep is not: ‘It was my hand that sent her to the stars; it
was the hand of him that loved her best; the hand that of all she would
herself have chosen, had it been to her to choose?’ Tell me if there be
such a one amongst us?”

We all looked at Arthur. He saw, too, what we all did, the infinite
kindness which suggested that his should be the hand which would restore
Lucy to us as a holy, and not an unholy, memory; he stepped forward and
said bravely, though his hand trembled, and his face was as pale as
snow:--

“My true friend, from the bottom of my broken heart I thank you. Tell me
what I am to do, and I shall not falter!” Van Helsing laid a hand on his
shoulder, and said:--

“Brave lad! A moment’s courage, and it is done. This stake must be
driven through her. It will be a fearful ordeal--be not deceived in
that--but it will be only a short time, and you will then rejoice more
than your pain was great; from this grim tomb you will emerge as though
you tread on air. But you must not falter when once you have begun. Only
think that we, your true friends, are round you, and that we pray for
you all the time.”

“Go on,” said Arthur hoarsely. “Tell me what I am to do.”

“Take this stake in your left hand, ready to place the point over the
heart, and the hammer in your right. Then when we begin our prayer for
the dead--I shall read him, I have here the book, and the others shall
follow--strike in God’s name, that so all may be well with the dead that
we love and that the Un-Dead pass away.”

Arthur took the stake and the hammer, and when once his mind was set on
action his hands never trembled nor even quivered. Van Helsing opened
his missal and began to read, and Quincey and I followed as well as we
could. Arthur placed the point over the heart, and as I looked I could
see its dint in the white flesh. Then he struck with all his might.

The Thing in the coffin writhed; and a hideous, blood-curdling screech
came from the opened red lips. The body shook and quivered and twisted
in wild contortions; the sharp white teeth champed together till the
lips were cut, and the mouth was smeared with a crimson foam. But Arthur
never faltered. He looked like a figure of Thor as his untrembling arm
rose and fell, driving deeper and deeper the mercy-bearing stake, whilst
the blood from the pierced heart welled and spurted up around it. His
face was set, and high duty seemed to shine through it; the sight of it
gave us courage so that our voices seemed to ring through the little
vault.

And then the writhing and quivering of the body became less, and the
teeth seemed to champ, and the face to quiver. Finally it lay still. The
terrible task was over.

The hammer fell from Arthur’s hand. He reeled and would have fallen had
we not caught him. The great drops of sweat sprang from his forehead,
and his breath came in broken gasps. It had indeed been an awful strain
on him; and had he not been forced to his task by more than human
considerations he could never have gone through with it. For a few
minutes we were so taken up with him that we did not look towards the
coffin. When we did, however, a murmur of startled surprise ran from one
to the other of us. We gazed so eagerly that Arthur rose, for he had
been seated on the ground, and came and looked too; and then a glad,
strange light broke over his face and dispelled altogether the gloom of
horror that lay upon it.

There, in the coffin lay no longer the foul Thing that we had so dreaded
and grown to hate that the work of her destruction was yielded as a
privilege to the one best entitled to it, but Lucy as we had seen her in
her life, with her face of unequalled sweetness and purity. True that
there were there, as we had seen them in life, the traces of care and
pain and waste; but these were all dear to us, for they marked her truth
to what we knew. One and all we felt that the holy calm that lay like
sunshine over the wasted face and form was only an earthly token and
symbol of the calm that was to reign for ever.

Van Helsing came and laid his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, and said to
him:--

“And now, Arthur my friend, dear lad, am I not forgiven?”

The reaction of the terrible strain came as he took the old man’s hand
in his, and raising it to his lips, pressed it, and said:--

“Forgiven! God bless you that you have given my dear one her soul again,
and me peace.” He put his hands on the Professor’s shoulder, and laying
his head on his breast, cried for a while silently, whilst we stood
unmoving. When he raised his head Van Helsing said to him:--

“And now, my child, you may kiss her. Kiss her dead lips if you will, as
she would have you to, if for her to choose. For she is not a grinning
devil now--not any more a foul Thing for all eternity. No longer she is
the devil’s Un-Dead. She is God’s true dead, whose soul is with Him!”

Arthur bent and kissed her, and then we sent him and Quincey out of the
tomb; the Professor and I sawed the top off the stake, leaving the point
of it in the body. Then we cut off the head and filled the mouth with
garlic. We soldered up the leaden coffin, screwed on the coffin-lid,
and gathering up our belongings, came away. When the Professor locked
the door he gave the key to Arthur.

Outside the air was sweet, the sun shone, and the birds sang, and it
seemed as if all nature were tuned to a different pitch. There was
gladness and mirth and peace everywhere, for we were at rest ourselves
on one account, and we were glad, though it was with a tempered joy.

Before we moved away Van Helsing said:--

“Now, my friends, one step of our work is done, one the most harrowing
to ourselves. But there remains a greater task: to find out the author
of all this our sorrow and to stamp him out. I have clues which we can
follow; but it is a long task, and a difficult, and there is danger in
it, and pain. Shall you not all help me? We have learned to believe, all
of us--is it not so? And since so, do we not see our duty? Yes! And do
we not promise to go on to the bitter end?”

Each in turn, we took his hand, and the promise was made. Then said the
Professor as we moved off:--

“Two nights hence you shall meet with me and dine together at seven of
the clock with friend John. I shall entreat two others, two that you
know not as yet; and I shall be ready to all our work show and our plans
unfold. Friend John, you come with me home, for I have much to consult
about, and you can help me. To-night I leave for Amsterdam, but shall
return to-morrow night. And then begins our great quest. But first I
shall have much to say, so that you may know what is to do and to dread.
Then our promise shall be made to each other anew; for there is a
terrible task before us, and once our feet are on the ploughshare we
must not draw back.”




CHAPTER XVII

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY--_continued_


When we arrived at the Berkeley Hotel, Van Helsing found a telegram
waiting for him:--

     “Am coming up by train. Jonathan at Whitby. Important news.--MINA
     HARKER.”

The Professor was delighted. “Ah, that wonderful Madam Mina,” he said,
“pearl among women! She arrive, but I cannot stay. She must go to your
house, friend John. You must meet her at the station. Telegraph her _en
route_, so that she may be prepared.”

When the wire was despatched he had a cup of tea; over it he told me of
a diary kept by Jonathan Harker when abroad, and gave me a typewritten
copy of it, as also of Mrs. Harker’s diary at Whitby. “Take these,” he
said, “and study them well. When I have returned you will be master of
all the facts, and we can then better enter on our inquisition. Keep
them safe, for there is in them much of treasure. You will need all your
faith, even you who have had such an experience as that of to-day. What
is here told,” he laid his hand heavily and gravely on the packet of
papers as he spoke, “may be the beginning of the end to you and me and
many another; or it may sound the knell of the Un-Dead who walk the
earth. Read all, I pray you, with the open mind; and if you can add in
any way to the story here told do so, for it is all-important. You have
kept diary of all these so strange things; is it not so? Yes! Then we
shall go through all these together when we meet.” He then made ready
for his departure, and shortly after drove off to Liverpool Street. I
took my way to Paddington, where I arrived about fifteen minutes before
the train came in.

The crowd melted away, after the bustling fashion common to arrival
platforms; and I was beginning to feel uneasy, lest I might miss my
guest, when a sweet-faced, dainty-looking girl stepped up to me, and,
after a quick glance, said: “Dr. Seward, is it not?”

“And you are Mrs. Harker!” I answered at once; whereupon she held out
her hand.

“I knew you from the description of poor dear Lucy; but----” She stopped
suddenly, and a quick blush overspread her face.

The blush that rose to my own cheeks somehow set us both at ease, for it
was a tacit answer to her own. I got her luggage, which included a
typewriter, and we took the Underground to Fenchurch Street, after I had
sent a wire to my housekeeper to have a sitting-room and bedroom
prepared at once for Mrs. Harker.

In due time we arrived. She knew, of course, that the place was a
lunatic asylum, but I could see that she was unable to repress a shudder
when we entered.

She told me that, if she might, she would come presently to my study, as
she had much to say. So here I am finishing my entry in my phonograph
diary whilst I await her. As yet I have not had the chance of looking at
the papers which Van Helsing left with me, though they lie open before
me. I must get her interested in something, so that I may have an
opportunity of reading them. She does not know how precious time is, or
what a task we have in hand. I must be careful not to frighten her. Here
she is!


_Mina Harker’s Journal._

_29 September._--After I had tidied myself, I went down to Dr. Seward’s
study. At the door I paused a moment, for I thought I heard him talking
with some one. As, however, he had pressed me to be quick, I knocked at
the door, and on his calling out, “Come in,” I entered.

To my intense surprise, there was no one with him. He was quite alone,
and on the table opposite him was what I knew at once from the
description to be a phonograph. I had never seen one, and was much
interested.

“I hope I did not keep you waiting,” I said; “but I stayed at the door
as I heard you talking, and thought there was some one with you.”

“Oh,” he replied with a smile, “I was only entering my diary.”

“Your diary?” I asked him in surprise.

“Yes,” he answered. “I keep it in this.” As he spoke he laid his hand on
the phonograph. I felt quite excited over it, and blurted out:--

“Why, this beats even shorthand! May I hear it say something?”

“Certainly,” he replied with alacrity, and stood up to put it in train
for speaking. Then he paused, and a troubled look overspread his face.

“The fact is,” he began awkwardly, “I only keep my diary in it; and as
it is entirely--almost entirely--about my cases, it may be awkward--that
is, I mean----” He stopped, and I tried to help him out of his
embarrassment:--

“You helped to attend dear Lucy at the end. Let me hear how she died;
for all that I know of her, I shall be very grateful. She was very, very
dear to me.”

To my surprise, he answered, with a horrorstruck look in his face:--

“Tell you of her death? Not for the wide world!”

“Why not?” I asked, for some grave, terrible feeling was coming over me.
Again he paused, and I could see that he was trying to invent an excuse.
At length he stammered out:--

“You see, I do not know how to pick out any particular part of the
diary.” Even while he was speaking an idea dawned upon him, and he said
with unconscious simplicity, in a different voice, and with the naïveté
of a child: “That’s quite true, upon my honour. Honest Indian!” I could
not but smile, at which he grimaced. “I gave myself away that time!” he
said. “But do you know that, although I have kept the diary for months
past, it never once struck me how I was going to find any particular
part of it in case I wanted to look it up?” By this time my mind was
made up that the diary of a doctor who attended Lucy might have
something to add to the sum of our knowledge of that terrible Being, and
I said boldly:--

“Then, Dr. Seward, you had better let me copy it out for you on my
typewriter.” He grew to a positively deathly pallor as he said:--

“No! no! no! For all the world, I wouldn’t let you know that terrible
story!”

Then it was terrible; my intuition was right! For a moment I thought,
and as my eyes ranged the room, unconsciously looking for something or
some opportunity to aid me, they lit on a great batch of typewriting on
the table. His eyes caught the look in mine, and, without his thinking,
followed their direction. As they saw the parcel he realised my meaning.

“You do not know me,” I said. “When you have read those papers--my own
diary and my husband’s also, which I have typed--you will know me
better. I have not faltered in giving every thought of my own heart in
this cause; but, of course, you do not know me--yet; and I must not
expect you to trust me so far.”

He is certainly a man of noble nature; poor dear Lucy was right about
him. He stood up and opened a large drawer, in which were arranged in
order a number of hollow cylinders of metal covered with dark wax, and
said:--

“You are quite right. I did not trust you because I did not know you.
But I know you now; and let me say that I should have known you long
ago. I know that Lucy told you of me; she told me of you too. May I make
the only atonement in my power? Take the cylinders and hear them--the
first half-dozen of them are personal to me, and they will not horrify
you; then you will know me better. Dinner will by then be ready. In the
meantime I shall read over some of these documents, and shall be better
able to understand certain things.” He carried the phonograph himself up
to my sitting-room and adjusted it for me. Now I shall learn something
pleasant, I am sure; for it will tell me the other side of a true love
episode of which I know one side already....


_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

_29 September._--I was so absorbed in that wonderful diary of Jonathan
Harker and that other of his wife that I let the time run on without
thinking. Mrs. Harker was not down when the maid came to announce
dinner, so I said: “She is possibly tired; let dinner wait an hour,” and
I went on with my work. I had just finished Mrs. Harker’s diary, when
she came in. She looked sweetly pretty, but very sad, and her eyes were
flushed with crying. This somehow moved me much. Of late I have had
cause for tears, God knows! but the relief of them was denied me; and
now the sight of those sweet eyes, brightened with recent tears, went
straight to my heart. So I said as gently as I could:--

“I greatly fear I have distressed you.”

“Oh, no, not distressed me,” she replied, “but I have been more touched
than I can say by your grief. That is a wonderful machine, but it is
cruelly true. It told me, in its very tones, the anguish of your heart.
It was like a soul crying out to Almighty God. No one must hear them
spoken ever again! See, I have tried to be useful. I have copied out the
words on my typewriter, and none other need now hear your heart beat, as
I did.”

“No one need ever know, shall ever know,” I said in a low voice. She
laid her hand on mine and said very gravely:--

“Ah, but they must!”

“Must! But why?” I asked.

“Because it is a part of the terrible story, a part of poor dear Lucy’s
death and all that led to it; because in the struggle which we have
before us to rid the earth of this terrible monster we must have all
the knowledge and all the help which we can get. I think that the
cylinders which you gave me contained more than you intended me to know;
but I can see that there are in your record many lights to this dark
mystery. You will let me help, will you not? I know all up to a certain
point; and I see already, though your diary only took me to 7 September,
how poor Lucy was beset, and how her terrible doom was being wrought
out. Jonathan and I have been working day and night since Professor Van
Helsing saw us. He is gone to Whitby to get more information, and he
will be here to-morrow to help us. We need have no secrets amongst us;
working together and with absolute trust, we can surely be stronger than
if some of us were in the dark.” She looked at me so appealingly, and at
the same time manifested such courage and resolution in her bearing,
that I gave in at once to her wishes. “You shall,” I said, “do as you
like in the matter. God forgive me if I do wrong! There are terrible
things yet to learn of; but if you have so far travelled on the road to
poor Lucy’s death, you will not be content, I know, to remain in the
dark. Nay, the end--the very end--may give you a gleam of peace. Come,
there is dinner. We must keep one another strong for what is before us;
we have a cruel and dreadful task. When you have eaten you shall learn
the rest, and I shall answer any questions you ask--if there be anything
which you do not understand, though it was apparent to us who were
present.”


_Mina Harker’s Journal._

_29 September._--After dinner I came with Dr. Seward to his study. He
brought back the phonograph from my room, and I took my typewriter. He
placed me in a comfortable chair, and arranged the phonograph so that I
could touch it without getting up, and showed me how to stop it in case
I should want to pause. Then he very thoughtfully took a chair, with his
back to me, so that I might be as free as possible, and began to read. I
put the forked metal to my ears and listened.

When the terrible story of Lucy’s death, and--and all that followed, was
done, I lay back in my chair powerless. Fortunately I am not of a
fainting disposition. When Dr. Seward saw me he jumped up with a
horrified exclamation, and hurriedly taking a case-bottle from a
cupboard, gave me some brandy, which in a few minutes somewhat restored
me. My brain was all in a whirl, and only that there came through all
the multitude of horrors, the holy ray of light that my dear, dear Lucy
was at last at peace, I do not think I could have borne it without
making a scene. It is all so wild, and mysterious, and strange that if I
had not known Jonathan’s experience in Transylvania I could not have
believed. As it was, I didn’t know what to believe, and so got out of my
difficulty by attending to something else. I took the cover off my
typewriter, and said to Dr. Seward:--

“Let me write this all out now. We must be ready for Dr. Van Helsing
when he comes. I have sent a telegram to Jonathan to come on here when
he arrives in London from Whitby. In this matter dates are everything,
and I think that if we get all our material ready, and have every item
put in chronological order, we shall have done much. You tell me that
Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris are coming too. Let us be able to tell him
when they come.” He accordingly set the phonograph at a slow pace, and I
began to typewrite from the beginning of the seventh cylinder. I used
manifold, and so took three copies of the diary, just as I had done with
all the rest. It was late when I got through, but Dr. Seward went about
his work of going his round of the patients; when he had finished he
came back and sat near me, reading, so that I did not feel too lonely
whilst I worked. How good and thoughtful he is; the world seems full of
good men--even if there _are_ monsters in it. Before I left him I
remembered what Jonathan put in his diary of the Professor’s
perturbation at reading something in an evening paper at the station at
Exeter; so, seeing that Dr. Seward keeps his newspapers, I borrowed the
files of “The Westminster Gazette” and “The Pall Mall Gazette,” and took
them to my room. I remember how much “The Dailygraph” and “The Whitby
Gazette,” of which I had made cuttings, helped us to understand the
terrible events at Whitby when Count Dracula landed, so I shall look
through the evening papers since then, and perhaps I shall get some new
light. I am not sleepy, and the work will help to keep me quiet.


_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

_30 September._--Mr. Harker arrived at nine o’clock. He had got his
wife’s wire just before starting. He is uncommonly clever, if one can
judge from his face, and full of energy. If this journal be true--and
judging by one’s own wonderful experiences, it must be--he is also a man
of great nerve. That going down to the vault a second time was a
remarkable piece of daring. After reading his account of it I was
prepared to meet a good specimen of manhood, but hardly the quiet,
business-like gentleman who came here to-day.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--After lunch Harker and his wife went back to their own room,
and as I passed a while ago I heard the click of the typewriter. They
are hard at it. Mrs. Harker says that they are knitting together in
chronological order every scrap of evidence they have. Harker has got
the letters between the consignee of the boxes at Whitby and the
carriers in London who took charge of them. He is now reading his wife’s
typescript of my diary. I wonder what they make out of it. Here it
is....

     Strange that it never struck me that the very next house might be
     the Count’s hiding-place! Goodness knows that we had enough clues
     from the conduct of the patient Renfield! The bundle of letters
     relating to the purchase of the house were with the typescript. Oh,
     if we had only had them earlier we might have saved poor Lucy!
     Stop; that way madness lies! Harker has gone back, and is again
     collating his material. He says that by dinner-time they will be
     able to show a whole connected narrative. He thinks that in the
     meantime I should see Renfield, as hitherto he has been a sort of
     index to the coming and going of the Count. I hardly see this yet,
     but when I get at the dates I suppose I shall. What a good thing
     that Mrs. Harker put my cylinders into type! We never could have
     found the dates otherwise....

     I found Renfield sitting placidly in his room with his hands
     folded, smiling benignly. At the moment he seemed as sane as any
     one I ever saw. I sat down and talked with him on a lot of
     subjects, all of which he treated naturally. He then, of his own
     accord, spoke of going home, a subject he has never mentioned to my
     knowledge during his sojourn here. In fact, he spoke quite
     confidently of getting his discharge at once. I believe that, had I
     not had the chat with Harker and read the letters and the dates of
     his outbursts, I should have been prepared to sign for him after a
     brief time of observation. As it is, I am darkly suspicious. All
     those outbreaks were in some way linked with the proximity of the
     Count. What then does this absolute content mean? Can it be that
     his instinct is satisfied as to the vampire’s ultimate triumph?
     Stay; he is himself zoöphagous, and in his wild ravings outside the
     chapel door of the deserted house he always spoke of “master.” This
     all seems confirmation of our idea. However, after a while I came
     away; my friend is just a little too sane at present to make it
     safe to probe him too deep with questions. He might begin to think,
     and then--! So I came away. I mistrust these quiet moods of his; so
     I have given the attendant a hint to look closely after him, and to
     have a strait-waistcoat ready in case of need.


_Jonathan Harker’s Journal._

_29 September, in train to London._--When I received Mr. Billington’s
courteous message that he would give me any information in his power I
thought it best to go down to Whitby and make, on the spot, such
inquiries as I wanted. It was now my object to trace that horrid cargo
of the Count’s to its place in London. Later, we may be able to deal
with it. Billington junior, a nice lad, met me at the station, and
brought me to his father’s house, where they had decided that I must
stay the night. They are hospitable, with true Yorkshire hospitality:
give a guest everything, and leave him free to do as he likes. They all
knew that I was busy, and that my stay was short, and Mr. Billington had
ready in his office all the papers concerning the consignment of boxes.
It gave me almost a turn to see again one of the letters which I had
seen on the Count’s table before I knew of his diabolical plans.
Everything had been carefully thought out, and done systematically and
with precision. He seemed to have been prepared for every obstacle which
might be placed by accident in the way of his intentions being carried
out. To use an Americanism, he had “taken no chances,” and the absolute
accuracy with which his instructions were fulfilled, was simply the
logical result of his care. I saw the invoice, and took note of it:
“Fifty cases of common earth, to be used for experimental purposes.”
Also the copy of letter to Carter Paterson, and their reply; of both of
these I got copies. This was all the information Mr. Billington could
give me, so I went down to the port and saw the coastguards, the Customs
officers and the harbour-master. They had all something to say of the
strange entry of the ship, which is already taking its place in local
tradition; but no one could add to the simple description “Fifty cases
of common earth.” I then saw the station-master, who kindly put me in
communication with the men who had actually received the boxes. Their
tally was exact with the list, and they had nothing to add except that
the boxes were “main and mortal heavy,” and that shifting them was dry
work. One of them added that it was hard lines that there wasn’t any
gentleman “such-like as yourself, squire,” to show some sort of
appreciation of their efforts in a liquid form; another put in a rider
that the thirst then generated was such that even the time which had
elapsed had not completely allayed it. Needless to add, I took care
before leaving to lift, for ever and adequately, this source of
reproach.

       *       *       *       *       *

_30 September._--The station-master was good enough to give me a line to
his old companion the station-master at King’s Cross, so that when I
arrived there in the morning I was able to ask him about the arrival of
the boxes. He, too, put me at once in communication with the proper
officials, and I saw that their tally was correct with the original
invoice. The opportunities of acquiring an abnormal thirst had been here
limited; a noble use of them had, however, been made, and again I was
compelled to deal with the result in an _ex post facto_ manner.

From thence I went on to Carter Paterson’s central office, where I met
with the utmost courtesy. They looked up the transaction in their
day-book and letter-book, and at once telephoned to their King’s Cross
office for more details. By good fortune, the men who did the teaming
were waiting for work, and the official at once sent them over, sending
also by one of them the way-bill and all the papers connected with the
delivery of the boxes at Carfax. Here again I found the tally agreeing
exactly; the carriers’ men were able to supplement the paucity of the
written words with a few details. These were, I shortly found, connected
almost solely with the dusty nature of the job, and of the consequent
thirst engendered in the operators. On my affording an opportunity,
through the medium of the currency of the realm, of the allaying, at a
later period, this beneficial evil, one of the men remarked:--

“That ’ere ’ouse, guv’nor, is the rummiest I ever was in. Blyme! but it
ain’t been touched sence a hundred years. There was dust that thick in
the place that you might have slep’ on it without ’urtin’ of yer bones;
an’ the place was that neglected that yer might ’ave smelled ole
Jerusalem in it. But the ole chapel--that took the cike, that did! Me
and my mate, we thort we wouldn’t never git out quick enough. Lor’, I
wouldn’t take less nor a quid a moment to stay there arter dark.”

Having been in the house, I could well believe him; but if he knew what
I know, he would, I think, have raised his terms.

Of one thing I am now satisfied: that _all_ the boxes which arrived at
Whitby from Varna in the _Demeter_ were safely deposited in the old
chapel at Carfax. There should be fifty of them there, unless any have
since been removed--as from Dr. Seward’s diary I fear.

I shall try to see the carter who took away the boxes from Carfax when
Renfield attacked them. By following up this clue we may learn a good
deal.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--Mina and I have worked all day, and we have put all the papers
into order.


_Mina Harker’s Journal_

_30 September._--I am so glad that I hardly know how to contain myself.
It is, I suppose, the reaction from the haunting fear which I have had:
that this terrible affair and the reopening of his old wound might act
detrimentally on Jonathan. I saw him leave for Whitby with as brave a
face as I could, but I was sick with apprehension. The effort has,
however, done him good. He was never so resolute, never so strong, never
so full of volcanic energy, as at present. It is just as that dear, good
Professor Van Helsing said: he is true grit, and he improves under
strain that would kill a weaker nature. He came back full of life and
hope and determination; we have got everything in order for to-night. I
feel myself quite wild with excitement. I suppose one ought to pity any
thing so hunted as is the Count. That is just it: this Thing is not
human--not even beast. To read Dr. Seward’s account of poor Lucy’s
death, and what followed, is enough to dry up the springs of pity in
one’s heart.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris arrived earlier than we
expected. Dr. Seward was out on business, and had taken Jonathan with
him, so I had to see them. It was to me a painful meeting, for it
brought back all poor dear Lucy’s hopes of only a few months ago. Of
course they had heard Lucy speak of me, and it seemed that Dr. Van
Helsing, too, has been quite “blowing my trumpet,” as Mr. Morris
expressed it. Poor fellows, neither of them is aware that I know all
about the proposals they made to Lucy. They did not quite know what to
say or do, as they were ignorant of the amount of my knowledge; so they
had to keep on neutral subjects. However, I thought the matter over, and
came to the conclusion that the best thing I could do would be to post
them in affairs right up to date. I knew from Dr. Seward’s diary that
they had been at Lucy’s death--her real death--and that I need not fear
to betray any secret before the time. So I told them, as well as I
could, that I had read all the papers and diaries, and that my husband
and I, having typewritten them, had just finished putting them in order.
I gave them each a copy to read in the library. When Lord Godalming got
his and turned it over--it does make a pretty good pile--he said:--

“Did you write all this, Mrs. Harker?”

I nodded, and he went on:--

“I don’t quite see the drift of it; but you people are all so good and
kind, and have been working so earnestly and so energetically, that all
I can do is to accept your ideas blindfold and try to help you. I have
had one lesson already in accepting facts that should make a man humble
to the last hour of his life. Besides, I know you loved my poor Lucy--”
Here he turned away and covered his face with his hands. I could hear
the tears in his voice. Mr. Morris, with instinctive delicacy, just laid
a hand for a moment on his shoulder, and then walked quietly out of the
room. I suppose there is something in woman’s nature that makes a man
free to break down before her and express his feelings on the tender or
emotional side without feeling it derogatory to his manhood; for when
Lord Godalming found himself alone with me he sat down on the sofa and
gave way utterly and openly. I sat down beside him and took his hand. I
hope he didn’t think it forward of me, and that if he ever thinks of it
afterwards he never will have such a thought. There I wrong him; I
_know_ he never will--he is too true a gentleman. I said to him, for I
could see that his heart was breaking:--

“I loved dear Lucy, and I know what she was to you, and what you were to
her. She and I were like sisters; and now she is gone, will you not let
me be like a sister to you in your trouble? I know what sorrows you have
had, though I cannot measure the depth of them. If sympathy and pity can
help in your affliction, won’t you let me be of some little service--for
Lucy’s sake?”

In an instant the poor dear fellow was overwhelmed with grief. It seemed
to me that all that he had of late been suffering in silence found a
vent at once. He grew quite hysterical, and raising his open hands, beat
his palms together in a perfect agony of grief. He stood up and then sat
down again, and the tears rained down his cheeks. I felt an infinite
pity for him, and opened my arms unthinkingly. With a sob he laid his
head on my shoulder and cried like a wearied child, whilst he shook with
emotion.

We women have something of the mother in us that makes us rise above
smaller matters when the mother-spirit is invoked; I felt this big
sorrowing man’s head resting on me, as though it were that of the baby
that some day may lie on my bosom, and I stroked his hair as though he
were my own child. I never thought at the time how strange it all was.

After a little bit his sobs ceased, and he raised himself with an
apology, though he made no disguise of his emotion. He told me that for
days and nights past--weary days and sleepless nights--he had been
unable to speak with any one, as a man must speak in his time of
sorrow. There was no woman whose sympathy could be given to him, or with
whom, owing to the terrible circumstance with which his sorrow was
surrounded, he could speak freely. “I know now how I suffered,” he said,
as he dried his eyes, “but I do not know even yet--and none other can
ever know--how much your sweet sympathy has been to me to-day. I shall
know better in time; and believe me that, though I am not ungrateful
now, my gratitude will grow with my understanding. You will let me be
like a brother, will you not, for all our lives--for dear Lucy’s sake?”

“For dear Lucy’s sake,” I said as we clasped hands. “Ay, and for your
own sake,” he added, “for if a man’s esteem and gratitude are ever worth
the winning, you have won mine to-day. If ever the future should bring
to you a time when you need a man’s help, believe me, you will not call
in vain. God grant that no such time may ever come to you to break the
sunshine of your life; but if it should ever come, promise me that you
will let me know.” He was so earnest, and his sorrow was so fresh, that
I felt it would comfort him, so I said:--

“I promise.”

As I came along the corridor I saw Mr. Morris looking out of a window.
He turned as he heard my footsteps. “How is Art?” he said. Then noticing
my red eyes, he went on: “Ah, I see you have been comforting him. Poor
old fellow! he needs it. No one but a woman can help a man when he is in
trouble of the heart; and he had no one to comfort him.”

He bore his own trouble so bravely that my heart bled for him. I saw the
manuscript in his hand, and I knew that when he read it he would realise
how much I knew; so I said to him:--

“I wish I could comfort all who suffer from the heart. Will you let me
be your friend, and will you come to me for comfort if you need it? You
will know, later on, why I speak.” He saw that I was in earnest, and
stooping, took my hand, and raising it to his lips, kissed it. It seemed
but poor comfort to so brave and unselfish a soul, and impulsively I
bent over and kissed him. The tears rose in his eyes, and there was a
momentary choking in his throat; he said quite calmly:--

“Little girl, you will never regret that true-hearted kindness, so long
as ever you live!” Then he went into the study to his friend.

“Little girl!”--the very words he had used to Lucy, and oh, but he
proved himself a friend!




CHAPTER XVIII

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY


_30 September._--I got home at five o’clock, and found that Godalming
and Morris had not only arrived, but had already studied the transcript
of the various diaries and letters which Harker and his wonderful wife
had made and arranged. Harker had not yet returned from his visit to the
carriers’ men, of whom Dr. Hennessey had written to me. Mrs. Harker gave
us a cup of tea, and I can honestly say that, for the first time since I
have lived in it, this old house seemed like _home_. When we had
finished, Mrs. Harker said:--

“Dr. Seward, may I ask a favour? I want to see your patient, Mr.
Renfield. Do let me see him. What you have said of him in your diary
interests me so much!” She looked so appealing and so pretty that I
could not refuse her, and there was no possible reason why I should; so
I took her with me. When I went into the room, I told the man that a
lady would like to see him; to which he simply answered: “Why?”

“She is going through the house, and wants to see every one in it,” I
answered. “Oh, very well,” he said; “let her come in, by all means; but
just wait a minute till I tidy up the place.” His method of tidying was
peculiar: he simply swallowed all the flies and spiders in the boxes
before I could stop him. It was quite evident that he feared, or was
jealous of, some interference. When he had got through his disgusting
task, he said cheerfully: “Let the lady come in,” and sat down on the
edge of his bed with his head down, but with his eyelids raised so that
he could see her as she entered. For a moment I thought that he might
have some homicidal intent; I remembered how quiet he had been just
before he attacked me in my own study, and I took care to stand where I
could seize him at once if he attempted to make a spring at her. She
came into the room with an easy gracefulness which would at once command
the respect of any lunatic--for easiness is one of the qualities mad
people most respect. She walked over to him, smiling pleasantly, and
held out her hand.

“Good-evening, Mr. Renfield,” said she. “You see, I know you, for Dr.
Seward has told me of you.” He made no immediate reply, but eyed her all
over intently with a set frown on his face. This look gave way to one
of wonder, which merged in doubt; then, to my intense astonishment, he
said:--

“You’re not the girl the doctor wanted to marry, are you? You can’t be,
you know, for she’s dead.” Mrs. Harker smiled sweetly as she replied:--

“Oh no! I have a husband of my own, to whom I was married before I ever
saw Dr. Seward, or he me. I am Mrs. Harker.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“My husband and I are staying on a visit with Dr. Seward.”

“Then don’t stay.”

“But why not?” I thought that this style of conversation might not be
pleasant to Mrs. Harker, any more than it was to me, so I joined in:--

“How did you know I wanted to marry any one?” His reply was simply
contemptuous, given in a pause in which he turned his eyes from Mrs.
Harker to me, instantly turning them back again:--

“What an asinine question!”

“I don’t see that at all, Mr. Renfield,” said Mrs. Harker, at once
championing me. He replied to her with as much courtesy and respect as
he had shown contempt to me:--

“You will, of course, understand, Mrs. Harker, that when a man is so
loved and honoured as our host is, everything regarding him is of
interest in our little community. Dr. Seward is loved not only by his
household and his friends, but even by his patients, who, being some of
them hardly in mental equilibrium, are apt to distort causes and
effects. Since I myself have been an inmate of a lunatic asylum, I
cannot but notice that the sophistic tendencies of some of its inmates
lean towards the errors of _non causa_ and _ignoratio elenchi_.” I
positively opened my eyes at this new development. Here was my own pet
lunatic--the most pronounced of his type that I had ever met
with--talking elemental philosophy, and with the manner of a polished
gentleman. I wonder if it was Mrs. Harker’s presence which had touched
some chord in his memory. If this new phase was spontaneous, or in any
way due to her unconscious influence, she must have some rare gift or
power.

We continued to talk for some time; and, seeing that he was seemingly
quite reasonable, she ventured, looking at me questioningly as she
began, to lead him to his favourite topic. I was again astonished, for
he addressed himself to the question with the impartiality of the
completest sanity; he even took himself as an example when he mentioned
certain things.

“Why, I myself am an instance of a man who had a strange belief. Indeed,
it was no wonder that my friends were alarmed, and insisted on my being
put under control. I used to fancy that life was a positive and
perpetual entity, and that by consuming a multitude of live things, no
matter how low in the scale of creation, one might indefinitely prolong
life. At times I held the belief so strongly that I actually tried to
take human life. The doctor here will bear me out that on one occasion I
tried to kill him for the purpose of strengthening my vital powers by
the assimilation with my own body of his life through the medium of his
blood--relying, of course, upon the Scriptural phrase, ‘For the blood is
the life.’ Though, indeed, the vendor of a certain nostrum has
vulgarised the truism to the very point of contempt. Isn’t that true,
doctor?” I nodded assent, for I was so amazed that I hardly knew what to
either think or say; it was hard to imagine that I had seen him eat up
his spiders and flies not five minutes before. Looking at my watch, I
saw that I should go to the station to meet Van Helsing, so I told Mrs.
Harker that it was time to leave. She came at once, after saying
pleasantly to Mr. Renfield: “Good-bye, and I hope I may see you often,
under auspices pleasanter to yourself,” to which, to my astonishment, he
replied:--

“Good-bye, my dear. I pray God I may never see your sweet face again.
May He bless and keep you!”

When I went to the station to meet Van Helsing I left the boys behind
me. Poor Art seemed more cheerful than he has been since Lucy first took
ill, and Quincey is more like his own bright self than he has been for
many a long day.

Van Helsing stepped from the carriage with the eager nimbleness of a
boy. He saw me at once, and rushed up to me, saying:--

“Ah, friend John, how goes all? Well? So! I have been busy, for I come
here to stay if need be. All affairs are settled with me, and I have
much to tell. Madam Mina is with you? Yes. And her so fine husband? And
Arthur and my friend Quincey, they are with you, too? Good!”

As I drove to the house I told him of what had passed, and of how my own
diary had come to be of some use through Mrs. Harker’s suggestion; at
which the Professor interrupted me:--

“Ah, that wonderful Madam Mina! She has man’s brain--a brain that a man
should have were he much gifted--and a woman’s heart. The good God
fashioned her for a purpose, believe me, when He made that so good
combination. Friend John, up to now fortune has made that woman of help
to us; after to-night she must not have to do with this so terrible
affair. It is not good that she run a risk so great. We men are
determined--nay, are we not pledged?--to destroy this monster; but it is
no part for a woman. Even if she be not harmed, her heart may fail her
in so much and so many horrors; and hereafter she may suffer--both in
waking, from her nerves, and in sleep, from her dreams. And, besides,
she is young woman and not so long married; there may be other things to
think of some time, if not now. You tell me she has wrote all, then she
must consult with us; but to-morrow she say good-bye to this work, and
we go alone.” I agreed heartily with him, and then I told him what we
had found in his absence: that the house which Dracula had bought was
the very next one to my own. He was amazed, and a great concern seemed
to come on him. “Oh that we had known it before!” he said, “for then we
might have reached him in time to save poor Lucy. However, ‘the milk
that is spilt cries not out afterwards,’ as you say. We shall not think
of that, but go on our way to the end.” Then he fell into a silence that
lasted till we entered my own gateway. Before we went to prepare for
dinner he said to Mrs. Harker:--

“I am told, Madam Mina, by my friend John that you and your husband have
put up in exact order all things that have been, up to this moment.”

“Not up to this moment, Professor,” she said impulsively, “but up to
this morning.”

“But why not up to now? We have seen hitherto how good light all the
little things have made. We have told our secrets, and yet no one who
has told is the worse for it.”

Mrs. Harker began to blush, and taking a paper from her pockets, she
said:--

“Dr. Van Helsing, will you read this, and tell me if it must go in. It
is my record of to-day. I too have seen the need of putting down at
present everything, however trivial; but there is little in this except
what is personal. Must it go in?” The Professor read it over gravely,
and handed it back, saying:--

“It need not go in if you do not wish it; but I pray that it may. It can
but make your husband love you the more, and all us, your friends, more
honour you--as well as more esteem and love.” She took it back with
another blush and a bright smile.

And so now, up to this very hour, all the records we have are complete
and in order. The Professor took away one copy to study after dinner,
and before our meeting, which is fixed for nine o’clock. The rest of us
have already read everything; so when we meet in the study we shall all
be informed as to facts, and can arrange our plan of battle with this
terrible and mysterious enemy.


_Mina Harker’s Journal._

_30 September._--When we met in Dr. Seward’s study two hours after
dinner, which had been at six o’clock, we unconsciously formed a sort of
board or committee. Professor Van Helsing took the head of the table, to
which Dr. Seward motioned him as he came into the room. He made me sit
next to him on his right, and asked me to act as secretary; Jonathan sat
next to me. Opposite us were Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward, and Mr.
Morris--Lord Godalming being next the Professor, and Dr. Seward in the
centre. The Professor said:--

“I may, I suppose, take it that we are all acquainted with the facts
that are in these papers.” We all expressed assent, and he went on:--

“Then it were, I think good that I tell you something of the kind of
enemy with which we have to deal. I shall then make known to you
something of the history of this man, which has been ascertained for me.
So we then can discuss how we shall act, and can take our measure
according.

“There are such beings as vampires; some of us have evidence that they
exist. Even had we not the proof of our own unhappy experience, the
teachings and the records of the past give proof enough for sane
peoples. I admit that at the first I was sceptic. Were it not that
through long years I have train myself to keep an open mind, I could not
have believe until such time as that fact thunder on my ear. ‘See! see!
I prove; I prove.’ Alas! Had I known at the first what now I know--nay,
had I even guess at him--one so precious life had been spared to many of
us who did love her. But that is gone; and we must so work, that other
poor souls perish not, whilst we can save. The _nosferatu_ do not die
like the bee when he sting once. He is only stronger; and being
stronger, have yet more power to work evil. This vampire which is
amongst us is of himself so strong in person as twenty men; he is of
cunning more than mortal, for his cunning be the growth of ages; he have
still the aids of necromancy, which is, as his etymology imply, the
divination by the dead, and all the dead that he can come nigh to are
for him at command; he is brute, and more than brute; he is devil in
callous, and the heart of him is not; he can, within limitations, appear
at will when, and where, and in any of the forms that are to him; he
can, within his range, direct the elements; the storm, the fog, the
thunder; he can command all the meaner things: the rat, and the owl, and
the bat--the moth, and the fox, and the wolf; he can grow and become
small; and he can at times vanish and come unknown. How then are we to
begin our strike to destroy him? How shall we find his where; and having
found it, how can we destroy? My friends, this is much; it is a terrible
task that we undertake, and there may be consequence to make the brave
shudder. For if we fail in this our fight he must surely win; and then
where end we? Life is nothings; I heed him not. But to fail here, is not
mere life or death. It is that we become as him; that we henceforward
become foul things of the night like him--without heart or conscience,
preying on the bodies and the souls of those we love best. To us for
ever are the gates of heaven shut; for who shall open them to us again?
We go on for all time abhorred by all; a blot on the face of God’s
sunshine; an arrow in the side of Him who died for man. But we are face
to face with duty; and in such case must we shrink? For me, I say, no;
but then I am old, and life, with his sunshine, his fair places, his
song of birds, his music and his love, lie far behind. You others are
young. Some have seen sorrow; but there are fair days yet in store. What
say you?”

Whilst he was speaking, Jonathan had taken my hand. I feared, oh so
much, that the appalling nature of our danger was overcoming him when I
saw his hand stretch out; but it was life to me to feel its touch--so
strong, so self-reliant, so resolute. A brave man’s hand can speak for
itself; it does not even need a woman’s love to hear its music.

When the Professor had done speaking my husband looked in my eyes, and I
in his; there was no need for speaking between us.

“I answer for Mina and myself,” he said.

“Count me in, Professor,” said Mr. Quincey Morris, laconically as usual.

“I am with you,” said Lord Godalming, “for Lucy’s sake, if for no other
reason.”

Dr. Seward simply nodded. The Professor stood up and, after laying his
golden crucifix on the table, held out his hand on either side. I took
his right hand, and Lord Godalming his left; Jonathan held my right with
his left and stretched across to Mr. Morris. So as we all took hands our
solemn compact was made. I felt my heart icy cold, but it did not even
occur to me to draw back. We resumed our places, and Dr. Van Helsing
went on with a sort of cheerfulness which showed that the serious work
had begun. It was to be taken as gravely, and in as businesslike a way,
as any other transaction of life:--

“Well, you know what we have to contend against; but we, too, are not
without strength. We have on our side power of combination--a power
denied to the vampire kind; we have sources of science; we are free to
act and think; and the hours of the day and the night are ours equally.
In fact, so far as our powers extend, they are unfettered, and we are
free to use them. We have self-devotion in a cause, and an end to
achieve which is not a selfish one. These things are much.

“Now let us see how far the general powers arrayed against us are
restrict, and how the individual cannot. In fine, let us consider the
limitations of the vampire in general, and of this one in particular.

“All we have to go upon are traditions and superstitions. These do not
at the first appear much, when the matter is one of life and death--nay
of more than either life or death. Yet must we be satisfied; in the
first place because we have to be--no other means is at our control--and
secondly, because, after all, these things--tradition and
superstition--are everything. Does not the belief in vampires rest for
others--though not, alas! for us--on them? A year ago which of us would
have received such a possibility, in the midst of our scientific,
sceptical, matter-of-fact nineteenth century? We even scouted a belief
that we saw justified under our very eyes. Take it, then, that the
vampire, and the belief in his limitations and his cure, rest for the
moment on the same base. For, let me tell you, he is known everywhere
that men have been. In old Greece, in old Rome; he flourish in Germany
all over, in France, in India, even in the Chernosese; and in China, so
far from us in all ways, there even is he, and the peoples fear him at
this day. He have follow the wake of the berserker Icelander, the
devil-begotten Hun, the Slav, the Saxon, the Magyar. So far, then, we
have all we may act upon; and let me tell you that very much of the
beliefs are justified by what we have seen in our own so unhappy
experience. The vampire live on, and cannot die by mere passing of the
time; he can flourish when that he can fatten on the blood of the
living. Even more, we have seen amongst us that he can even grow
younger; that his vital faculties grow strenuous, and seem as though
they refresh themselves when his special pabulum is plenty. But he
cannot flourish without this diet; he eat not as others. Even friend
Jonathan, who lived with him for weeks, did never see him to eat, never!
He throws no shadow; he make in the mirror no reflect, as again
Jonathan observe. He has the strength of many of his hand--witness again
Jonathan when he shut the door against the wolfs, and when he help him
from the diligence too. He can transform himself to wolf, as we gather
from the ship arrival in Whitby, when he tear open the dog; he can be as
bat, as Madam Mina saw him on the window at Whitby, and as friend John
saw him fly from this so near house, and as my friend Quincey saw him at
the window of Miss Lucy. He can come in mist which he create--that noble
ship’s captain proved him of this; but, from what we know, the distance
he can make this mist is limited, and it can only be round himself. He
come on moonlight rays as elemental dust--as again Jonathan saw those
sisters in the castle of Dracula. He become so small--we ourselves saw
Miss Lucy, ere she was at peace, slip through a hairbreadth space at the
tomb door. He can, when once he find his way, come out from anything or
into anything, no matter how close it be bound or even fused up with
fire--solder you call it. He can see in the dark--no small power this,
in a world which is one half shut from the light. Ah, but hear me
through. He can do all these things, yet he is not free. Nay; he is even
more prisoner than the slave of the galley, than the madman in his cell.
He cannot go where he lists; he who is not of nature has yet to obey
some of nature’s laws--why we know not. He may not enter anywhere at the
first, unless there be some one of the household who bid him to come;
though afterwards he can come as he please. His power ceases, as does
that of all evil things, at the coming of the day. Only at certain times
can he have limited freedom. If he be not at the place whither he is
bound, he can only change himself at noon or at exact sunrise or sunset.
These things are we told, and in this record of ours we have proof by
inference. Thus, whereas he can do as he will within his limit, when he
have his earth-home, his coffin-home, his hell-home, the place
unhallowed, as we saw when he went to the grave of the suicide at
Whitby; still at other time he can only change when the time come. It is
said, too, that he can only pass running water at the slack or the flood
of the tide. Then there are things which so afflict him that he has no
power, as the garlic that we know of; and as for things sacred, as this
symbol, my crucifix, that was amongst us even now when we resolve, to
them he is nothing, but in their presence he take his place far off and
silent with respect. There are others, too, which I shall tell you of,
lest in our seeking we may need them. The branch of wild rose on his
coffin keep him that he move not from it; a sacred bullet fired into the
coffin kill him so that he be true dead; and as for the stake through
him, we know already of its peace; or the cut-off head that giveth rest.
We have seen it with our eyes.

“Thus when we find the habitation of this man-that-was, we can confine
him to his coffin and destroy him, if we obey what we know. But he is
clever. I have asked my friend Arminius, of Buda-Pesth University, to
make his record; and, from all the means that are, he tell me of what he
has been. He must, indeed, have been that Voivode Dracula who won his
name against the Turk, over the great river on the very frontier of
Turkey-land. If it be so, then was he no common man; for in that time,
and for centuries after, he was spoken of as the cleverest and the most
cunning, as well as the bravest of the sons of the ‘land beyond the
forest.’ That mighty brain and that iron resolution went with him to his
grave, and are even now arrayed against us. The Draculas were, says
Arminius, a great and noble race, though now and again were scions who
were held by their coevals to have had dealings with the Evil One. They
learned his secrets in the Scholomance, amongst the mountains over Lake
Hermanstadt, where the devil claims the tenth scholar as his due. In the
records are such words as ‘stregoica’--witch, ‘ordog,’ and
‘pokol’--Satan and hell; and in one manuscript this very Dracula is
spoken of as ‘wampyr,’ which we all understand too well. There have been
from the loins of this very one great men and good women, and their
graves make sacred the earth where alone this foulness can dwell. For it
is not the least of its terrors that this evil thing is rooted deep in
all good; in soil barren of holy memories it cannot rest.”

Whilst they were talking Mr. Morris was looking steadily at the window,
and he now got up quietly, and went out of the room. There was a little
pause, and then the Professor went on:--

“And now we must settle what we do. We have here much data, and we must
proceed to lay out our campaign. We know from the inquiry of Jonathan
that from the castle to Whitby came fifty boxes of earth, all of which
were delivered at Carfax; we also know that at least some of these boxes
have been removed. It seems to me, that our first step should be to
ascertain whether all the rest remain in the house beyond that wall
where we look to-day; or whether any more have been removed. If the
latter, we must trace----”

Here we were interrupted in a very startling way. Outside the house came
the sound of a pistol-shot; the glass of the window was shattered with a
bullet, which, ricochetting from the top of the embrasure, struck the
far wall of the room. I am afraid I am at heart a coward, for I shrieked
out. The men all jumped to their feet; Lord Godalming flew over to the
window and threw up the sash. As he did so we heard Mr. Morris’s voice
without:--

“Sorry! I fear I have alarmed you. I shall come in and tell you about
it.” A minute later he came in and said:--

“It was an idiotic thing of me to do, and I ask your pardon, Mrs.
Harker, most sincerely; I fear I must have frightened you terribly. But
the fact is that whilst the Professor was talking there came a big bat
and sat on the window-sill. I have got such a horror of the damned
brutes from recent events that I cannot stand them, and I went out to
have a shot, as I have been doing of late of evenings, whenever I have
seen one. You used to laugh at me for it then, Art.”

“Did you hit it?” asked Dr. Van Helsing.

“I don’t know; I fancy not, for it flew away into the wood.” Without
saying any more he took his seat, and the Professor began to resume his
statement:--

“We must trace each of these boxes; and when we are ready, we must
either capture or kill this monster in his lair; or we must, so to
speak, sterilise the earth, so that no more he can seek safety in it.
Thus in the end we may find him in his form of man between the hours of
noon and sunset, and so engage with him when he is at his most weak.

“And now for you, Madam Mina, this night is the end until all be well.
You are too precious to us to have such risk. When we part to-night, you
no more must question. We shall tell you all in good time. We are men
and are able to bear; but you must be our star and our hope, and we
shall act all the more free that you are not in the danger, such as we
are.”

All the men, even Jonathan, seemed relieved; but it did not seem to me
good that they should brave danger and, perhaps, lessen their
safety--strength being the best safety--through care of me; but their
minds were made up, and, though it was a bitter pill for me to swallow,
I could say nothing, save to accept their chivalrous care of me.

Mr. Morris resumed the discussion:--

“As there is no time to lose, I vote we have a look at his house right
now. Time is everything with him; and swift action on our part may save
another victim.”

I own that my heart began to fail me when the time for action came so
close, but I did not say anything, for I had a greater fear that if I
appeared as a drag or a hindrance to their work, they might even leave
me out of their counsels altogether. They have now gone off to Carfax,
with means to get into the house.

Manlike, they had told me to go to bed and sleep; as if a woman can
sleep when those she loves are in danger! I shall lie down and pretend
to sleep, lest Jonathan have added anxiety about me when he returns.


_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

_1 October, 4 a. m._--Just as we were about to leave the house, an
urgent message was brought to me from Renfield to know if I would see
him at once, as he had something of the utmost importance to say to me.
I told the messenger to say that I would attend to his wishes in the
morning; I was busy just at the moment. The attendant added:--

“He seems very importunate, sir. I have never seen him so eager. I don’t
know but what, if you don’t see him soon, he will have one of his
violent fits.” I knew the man would not have said this without some
cause, so I said: “All right; I’ll go now”; and I asked the others to
wait a few minutes for me, as I had to go and see my “patient.”

“Take me with you, friend John,” said the Professor. “His case in your
diary interest me much, and it had bearing, too, now and again on _our_
case. I should much like to see him, and especial when his mind is
disturbed.”

“May I come also?” asked Lord Godalming.

“Me too?” said Quincey Morris. “May I come?” said Harker. I nodded, and
we all went down the passage together.

We found him in a state of considerable excitement, but far more
rational in his speech and manner than I had ever seen him. There was an
unusual understanding of himself, which was unlike anything I had ever
met with in a lunatic; and he took it for granted that his reasons would
prevail with others entirely sane. We all four went into the room, but
none of the others at first said anything. His request was that I would
at once release him from the asylum and send him home. This he backed up
with arguments regarding his complete recovery, and adduced his own
existing sanity. “I appeal to your friends,” he said, “they will,
perhaps, not mind sitting in judgment on my case. By the way, you have
not introduced me.” I was so much astonished, that the oddness of
introducing a madman in an asylum did not strike me at the moment; and,
besides, there was a certain dignity in the man’s manner, so much of
the habit of equality, that I at once made the introduction: “Lord
Godalming; Professor Van Helsing; Mr. Quincey Morris, of Texas; Mr.
Renfield.” He shook hands with each of them, saying in turn:--

“Lord Godalming, I had the honour of seconding your father at the
Windham; I grieve to know, by your holding the title, that he is no
more. He was a man loved and honoured by all who knew him; and in his
youth was, I have heard, the inventor of a burnt rum punch, much
patronised on Derby night. Mr. Morris, you should be proud of your great
state. Its reception into the Union was a precedent which may have
far-reaching effects hereafter, when the Pole and the Tropics may hold
alliance to the Stars and Stripes. The power of Treaty may yet prove a
vast engine of enlargement, when the Monroe doctrine takes its true
place as a political fable. What shall any man say of his pleasure at
meeting Van Helsing? Sir, I make no apology for dropping all forms of
conventional prefix. When an individual has revolutionised therapeutics
by his discovery of the continuous evolution of brain-matter,
conventional forms are unfitting, since they would seem to limit him to
one of a class. You, gentlemen, who by nationality, by heredity, or by
the possession of natural gifts, are fitted to hold your respective
places in the moving world, I take to witness that I am as sane as at
least the majority of men who are in full possession of their liberties.
And I am sure that you, Dr. Seward, humanitarian and medico-jurist as
well as scientist, will deem it a moral duty to deal with me as one to
be considered as under exceptional circumstances.” He made this last
appeal with a courtly air of conviction which was not without its own
charm.

I think we were all staggered. For my own part, I was under the
conviction, despite my knowledge of the man’s character and history,
that his reason had been restored; and I felt under a strong impulse to
tell him that I was satisfied as to his sanity, and would see about the
necessary formalities for his release in the morning. I thought it
better to wait, however, before making so grave a statement, for of old
I knew the sudden changes to which this particular patient was liable.
So I contented myself with making a general statement that he appeared
to be improving very rapidly; that I would have a longer chat with him
in the morning, and would then see what I could do in the direction of
meeting his wishes. This did not at all satisfy him, for he said
quickly:--

“But I fear, Dr. Seward, that you hardly apprehend my wish. I desire to
go at once--here--now--this very hour--this very moment, if I may. Time
presses, and in our implied agreement with the old scytheman it is of
the essence of the contract. I am sure it is only necessary to put
before so admirable a practitioner as Dr. Seward so simple, yet so
momentous a wish, to ensure its fulfilment.” He looked at me keenly, and
seeing the negative in my face, turned to the others, and scrutinised
them closely. Not meeting any sufficient response, he went on:--

“Is it possible that I have erred in my supposition?”

“You have,” I said frankly, but at the same time, as I felt, brutally.
There was a considerable pause, and then he said slowly:--

“Then I suppose I must only shift my ground of request. Let me ask for
this concession--boon, privilege, what you will. I am content to implore
in such a case, not on personal grounds, but for the sake of others. I
am not at liberty to give you the whole of my reasons; but you may, I
assure you, take it from me that they are good ones, sound and
unselfish, and spring from the highest sense of duty. Could you look,
sir, into my heart, you would approve to the full the sentiments which
animate me. Nay, more, you would count me amongst the best and truest of
your friends.” Again he looked at us all keenly. I had a growing
conviction that this sudden change of his entire intellectual method was
but yet another form or phase of his madness, and so determined to let
him go on a little longer, knowing from experience that he would, like
all lunatics, give himself away in the end. Van Helsing was gazing at
him with a look of utmost intensity, his bushy eyebrows almost meeting
with the fixed concentration of his look. He said to Renfield in a tone
which did not surprise me at the time, but only when I thought of it
afterwards--for it was as of one addressing an equal:--

“Can you not tell frankly your real reason for wishing to be free
to-night? I will undertake that if you will satisfy even me--a stranger,
without prejudice, and with the habit of keeping an open mind--Dr.
Seward will give you, at his own risk and on his own responsibility, the
privilege you seek.” He shook his head sadly, and with a look of
poignant regret on his face. The Professor went on:--

“Come, sir, bethink yourself. You claim the privilege of reason in the
highest degree, since you seek to impress us with your complete
reasonableness. You do this, whose sanity we have reason to doubt, since
you are not yet released from medical treatment for this very defect. If
you will not help us in our effort to choose the wisest course, how can
we perform the duty which you yourself put upon us? Be wise, and help
us; and if we can we shall aid you to achieve your wish.” He still shook
his head as he said:--

“Dr. Van Helsing, I have nothing to say. Your argument is complete, and
if I were free to speak I should not hesitate a moment; but I am not my
own master in the matter. I can only ask you to trust me. If I am
refused, the responsibility does not rest with me.” I thought it was now
time to end the scene, which was becoming too comically grave, so I went
towards the door, simply saying:--

“Come, my friends, we have work to do. Good-night.”

As, however, I got near the door, a new change came over the patient. He
moved towards me so quickly that for the moment I feared that he was
about to make another homicidal attack. My fears, however, were
groundless, for he held up his two hands imploringly, and made his
petition in a moving manner. As he saw that the very excess of his
emotion was militating against him, by restoring us more to our old
relations, he became still more demonstrative. I glanced at Van Helsing,
and saw my conviction reflected in his eyes; so I became a little more
fixed in my manner, if not more stern, and motioned to him that his
efforts were unavailing. I had previously seen something of the same
constantly growing excitement in him when he had to make some request of
which at the time he had thought much, such, for instance, as when he
wanted a cat; and I was prepared to see the collapse into the same
sullen acquiescence on this occasion. My expectation was not realised,
for, when he found that his appeal would not be successful, he got into
quite a frantic condition. He threw himself on his knees, and held up
his hands, wringing them in plaintive supplication, and poured forth a
torrent of entreaty, with the tears rolling down his cheeks, and his
whole face and form expressive of the deepest emotion:--

“Let me entreat you, Dr. Seward, oh, let me implore you, to let me out
of this house at once. Send me away how you will and where you will;
send keepers with me with whips and chains; let them take me in a
strait-waistcoat, manacled and leg-ironed, even to a gaol; but let me go
out of this. You don’t know what you do by keeping me here. I am
speaking from the depths of my heart--of my very soul. You don’t know
whom you wrong, or how; and I may not tell. Woe is me! I may not tell.
By all you hold sacred--by all you hold dear--by your love that is
lost--by your hope that lives--for the sake of the Almighty, take me out
of this and save my soul from guilt! Can’t you hear me, man? Can’t you
understand? Will you never learn? Don’t you know that I am sane and
earnest now; that I am no lunatic in a mad fit, but a sane man fighting
for his soul? Oh, hear me! hear me! Let me go! let me go! let me go!”

I thought that the longer this went on the wilder he would get, and so
would bring on a fit; so I took him by the hand and raised him up.

“Come,” I said sternly, “no more of this; we have had quite enough
already. Get to your bed and try to behave more discreetly.”

He suddenly stopped and looked at me intently for several moments. Then,
without a word, he rose and moving over, sat down on the side of the
bed. The collapse had come, as on former occasion, just as I had
expected.

When I was leaving the room, last of our party, he said to me in a
quiet, well-bred voice:--

“You will, I trust, Dr. Seward, do me the justice to bear in mind, later
on, that I did what I could to convince you to-night.”




CHAPTER XIX

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL


_1 October, 5 a. m._--I went with the party to the search with an easy
mind, for I think I never saw Mina so absolutely strong and well. I am
so glad that she consented to hold back and let us men do the work.
Somehow, it was a dread to me that she was in this fearful business at
all; but now that her work is done, and that it is due to her energy and
brains and foresight that the whole story is put together in such a way
that every point tells, she may well feel that her part is finished, and
that she can henceforth leave the rest to us. We were, I think, all a
little upset by the scene with Mr. Renfield. When we came away from his
room we were silent till we got back to the study. Then Mr. Morris said
to Dr. Seward:--

“Say, Jack, if that man wasn’t attempting a bluff, he is about the
sanest lunatic I ever saw. I’m not sure, but I believe that he had some
serious purpose, and if he had, it was pretty rough on him not to get a
chance.” Lord Godalming and I were silent, but Dr. Van Helsing added:--

“Friend John, you know more of lunatics than I do, and I’m glad of it,
for I fear that if it had been to me to decide I would before that last
hysterical outburst have given him free. But we live and learn, and in
our present task we must take no chance, as my friend Quincey would say.
All is best as they are.” Dr. Seward seemed to answer them both in a
dreamy kind of way:--

“I don’t know but that I agree with you. If that man had been an
ordinary lunatic I would have taken my chance of trusting him; but he
seems so mixed up with the Count in an indexy kind of way that I am
afraid of doing anything wrong by helping his fads. I can’t forget how
he prayed with almost equal fervour for a cat, and then tried to tear my
throat out with his teeth. Besides, he called the Count ‘lord and
master,’ and he may want to get out to help him in some diabolical way.
That horrid thing has the wolves and the rats and his own kind to help
him, so I suppose he isn’t above trying to use a respectable lunatic. He
certainly did seem earnest, though. I only hope we have done what is
best. These things, in conjunction with the wild work we have in hand,
help to unnerve a man.” The Professor stepped over, and laying his hand
on his shoulder, said in his grave, kindly way:--

“Friend John, have no fear. We are trying to do our duty in a very sad
and terrible case; we can only do as we deem best. What else have we to
hope for, except the pity of the good God?” Lord Godalming had slipped
away for a few minutes, but now he returned. He held up a little silver
whistle, as he remarked:--

“That old place may be full of rats, and if so, I’ve got an antidote on
call.” Having passed the wall, we took our way to the house, taking care
to keep in the shadows of the trees on the lawn when the moonlight shone
out. When we got to the porch the Professor opened his bag and took out
a lot of things, which he laid on the step, sorting them into four
little groups, evidently one for each. Then he spoke:--

“My friends, we are going into a terrible danger, and we need arms of
many kinds. Our enemy is not merely spiritual. Remember that he has the
strength of twenty men, and that, though our necks or our windpipes are
of the common kind--and therefore breakable or crushable--his are not
amenable to mere strength. A stronger man, or a body of men more strong
in all than him, can at certain times hold him; but they cannot hurt him
as we can be hurt by him. We must, therefore, guard ourselves from his
touch. Keep this near your heart”--as he spoke he lifted a little silver
crucifix and held it out to me, I being nearest to him--“put these
flowers round your neck”--here he handed to me a wreath of withered
garlic blossoms--“for other enemies more mundane, this revolver and this
knife; and for aid in all, these so small electric lamps, which you can
fasten to your breast; and for all, and above all at the last, this,
which we must not desecrate needless.” This was a portion of Sacred
Wafer, which he put in an envelope and handed to me. Each of the others
was similarly equipped. “Now,” he said, “friend John, where are the
skeleton keys? If so that we can open the door, we need not break house
by the window, as before at Miss Lucy’s.”

Dr. Seward tried one or two skeleton keys, his mechanical dexterity as a
surgeon standing him in good stead. Presently he got one to suit; after
a little play back and forward the bolt yielded, and, with a rusty
clang, shot back. We pressed on the door, the rusty hinges creaked, and
it slowly opened. It was startlingly like the image conveyed to me in
Dr. Seward’s diary of the opening of Miss Westenra’s tomb; I fancy that
the same idea seemed to strike the others, for with one accord they
shrank back. The Professor was the first to move forward, and stepped
into the open door.

“_In manus tuas, Domine!_” he said, crossing himself as he passed over
the threshold. We closed the door behind us, lest when we should have
lit our lamps we should possibly attract attention from the road. The
Professor carefully tried the lock, lest we might not be able to open it
from within should we be in a hurry making our exit. Then we all lit our
lamps and proceeded on our search.

The light from the tiny lamps fell in all sorts of odd forms, as the
rays crossed each other, or the opacity of our bodies threw great
shadows. I could not for my life get away from the feeling that there
was some one else amongst us. I suppose it was the recollection, so
powerfully brought home to me by the grim surroundings, of that terrible
experience in Transylvania. I think the feeling was common to us all,
for I noticed that the others kept looking over their shoulders at every
sound and every new shadow, just as I felt myself doing.

The whole place was thick with dust. The floor was seemingly inches
deep, except where there were recent footsteps, in which on holding down
my lamp I could see marks of hobnails where the dust was cracked. The
walls were fluffy and heavy with dust, and in the corners were masses of
spider’s webs, whereon the dust had gathered till they looked like old
tattered rags as the weight had torn them partly down. On a table in the
hall was a great bunch of keys, with a time-yellowed label on each. They
had been used several times, for on the table were several similar rents
in the blanket of dust, similar to that exposed when the Professor
lifted them. He turned to me and said:--

“You know this place, Jonathan. You have copied maps of it, and you know
it at least more than we do. Which is the way to the chapel?” I had an
idea of its direction, though on my former visit I had not been able to
get admission to it; so I led the way, and after a few wrong turnings
found myself opposite a low, arched oaken door, ribbed with iron bands.
“This is the spot,” said the Professor as he turned his lamp on a small
map of the house, copied from the file of my original correspondence
regarding the purchase. With a little trouble we found the key on the
bunch and opened the door. We were prepared for some unpleasantness, for
as we were opening the door a faint, malodorous air seemed to exhale
through the gaps, but none of us ever expected such an odour as we
encountered. None of the others had met the Count at all at close
quarters, and when I had seen him he was either in the fasting stage of
his existence in his rooms or, when he was gloated with fresh blood, in
a ruined building open to the air; but here the place was small and
close, and the long disuse had made the air stagnant and foul. There was
an earthy smell, as of some dry miasma, which came through the fouler
air. But as to the odour itself, how shall I describe it? It was not
alone that it was composed of all the ills of mortality and with the
pungent, acrid smell of blood, but it seemed as though corruption had
become itself corrupt. Faugh! it sickens me to think of it. Every breath
exhaled by that monster seemed to have clung to the place and
intensified its loathsomeness.

Under ordinary circumstances such a stench would have brought our
enterprise to an end; but this was no ordinary case, and the high and
terrible purpose in which we were involved gave us a strength which rose
above merely physical considerations. After the involuntary shrinking
consequent on the first nauseous whiff, we one and all set about our
work as though that loathsome place were a garden of roses.

We made an accurate examination of the place, the Professor saying as we
began:--

“The first thing is to see how many of the boxes are left; we must then
examine every hole and corner and cranny and see if we cannot get some
clue as to what has become of the rest.” A glance was sufficient to show
how many remained, for the great earth chests were bulky, and there was
no mistaking them.

There were only twenty-nine left out of the fifty! Once I got a fright,
for, seeing Lord Godalming suddenly turn and look out of the vaulted
door into the dark passage beyond, I looked too, and for an instant my
heart stood still. Somewhere, looking out from the shadow, I seemed to
see the high lights of the Count’s evil face, the ridge of the nose, the
red eyes, the red lips, the awful pallor. It was only for a moment, for,
as Lord Godalming said, “I thought I saw a face, but it was only the
shadows,” and resumed his inquiry, I turned my lamp in the direction,
and stepped into the passage. There was no sign of any one; and as there
were no corners, no doors, no aperture of any kind, but only the solid
walls of the passage, there could be no hiding-place even for _him_. I
took it that fear had helped imagination, and said nothing.

A few minutes later I saw Morris step suddenly back from a corner, which
he was examining. We all followed his movements with our eyes, for
undoubtedly some nervousness was growing on us, and we saw a whole mass
of phosphorescence, which twinkled like stars. We all instinctively drew
back. The whole place was becoming alive with rats.

For a moment or two we stood appalled, all save Lord Godalming, who was
seemingly prepared for such an emergency. Rushing over to the great
iron-bound oaken door, which Dr. Seward had described from the outside,
and which I had seen myself, he turned the key in the lock, drew the
huge bolts, and swung the door open. Then, taking his little silver
whistle from his pocket, he blew a low, shrill call. It was answered
from behind Dr. Seward’s house by the yelping of dogs, and after about a
minute three terriers came dashing round the corner of the house.
Unconsciously we had all moved towards the door, and as we moved I
noticed that the dust had been much disturbed: the boxes which had been
taken out had been brought this way. But even in the minute that had
elapsed the number of the rats had vastly increased. They seemed to
swarm over the place all at once, till the lamplight, shining on their
moving dark bodies and glittering, baleful eyes, made the place look
like a bank of earth set with fireflies. The dogs dashed on, but at the
threshold suddenly stopped and snarled, and then, simultaneously lifting
their noses, began to howl in most lugubrious fashion. The rats were
multiplying in thousands, and we moved out.

Lord Godalming lifted one of the dogs, and carrying him in, placed him
on the floor. The instant his feet touched the ground he seemed to
recover his courage, and rushed at his natural enemies. They fled before
him so fast that before he had shaken the life out of a score, the other
dogs, who had by now been lifted in the same manner, had but small prey
ere the whole mass had vanished.

With their going it seemed as if some evil presence had departed, for
the dogs frisked about and barked merrily as they made sudden darts at
their prostrate foes, and turned them over and over and tossed them in
the air with vicious shakes. We all seemed to find our spirits rise.
Whether it was the purifying of the deadly atmosphere by the opening of
the chapel door, or the relief which we experienced by finding ourselves
in the open I know not; but most certainly the shadow of dread seemed to
slip from us like a robe, and the occasion of our coming lost something
of its grim significance, though we did not slacken a whit in our
resolution. We closed the outer door and barred and locked it, and
bringing the dogs with us, began our search of the house. We found
nothing throughout except dust in extraordinary proportions, and all
untouched save for my own footsteps when I had made my first visit.
Never once did the dogs exhibit any symptom of uneasiness, and even when
we returned to the chapel they frisked about as though they had been
rabbit-hunting in a summer wood.

The morning was quickening in the east when we emerged from the front.
Dr. Van Helsing had taken the key of the hall-door from the bunch, and
locked the door in orthodox fashion, putting the key into his pocket
when he had done.

“So far,” he said, “our night has been eminently successful. No harm has
come to us such as I feared might be and yet we have ascertained how
many boxes are missing. More than all do I rejoice that this, our
first--and perhaps our most difficult and dangerous--step has been
accomplished without the bringing thereinto our most sweet Madam Mina or
troubling her waking or sleeping thoughts with sights and sounds and
smells of horror which she might never forget. One lesson, too, we have
learned, if it be allowable to argue _a particulari_: that the brute
beasts which are to the Count’s command are yet themselves not amenable
to his spiritual power; for look, these rats that would come to his
call, just as from his castle top he summon the wolves to your going and
to that poor mother’s cry, though they come to him, they run pell-mell
from the so little dogs of my friend Arthur. We have other matters
before us, other dangers, other fears; and that monster--he has not used
his power over the brute world for the only or the last time to-night.
So be it that he has gone elsewhere. Good! It has given us opportunity
to cry ‘check’ in some ways in this chess game, which we play for the
stake of human souls. And now let us go home. The dawn is close at hand,
and we have reason to be content with our first night’s work. It may be
ordained that we have many nights and days to follow, if full of peril;
but we must go on, and from no danger shall we shrink.”

The house was silent when we got back, save for some poor creature who
was screaming away in one of the distant wards, and a low, moaning sound
from Renfield’s room. The poor wretch was doubtless torturing himself,
after the manner of the insane, with needless thoughts of pain.

I came tiptoe into our own room, and found Mina asleep, breathing so
softly that I had to put my ear down to hear it. She looks paler than
usual. I hope the meeting to-night has not upset her. I am truly
thankful that she is to be left out of our future work, and even of our
deliberations. It is too great a strain for a woman to bear. I did not
think so at first, but I know better now. Therefore I am glad that it is
settled. There may be things which would frighten her to hear; and yet
to conceal them from her might be worse than to tell her if once she
suspected that there was any concealment. Henceforth our work is to be a
sealed book to her, till at least such time as we can tell her that all
is finished, and the earth free from a monster of the nether world. I
daresay it will be difficult to begin to keep silence after such
confidence as ours; but I must be resolute, and to-morrow I shall keep
dark over to-night’s doings, and shall refuse to speak of anything that
has happened. I rest on the sofa, so as not to disturb her.

       *       *       *       *       *

_1 October, later._--I suppose it was natural that we should have all
overslept ourselves, for the day was a busy one, and the night had no
rest at all. Even Mina must have felt its exhaustion, for though I slept
till the sun was high, I was awake before her, and had to call two or
three times before she awoke. Indeed, she was so sound asleep that for a
few seconds she did not recognize me, but looked at me with a sort of
blank terror, as one looks who has been waked out of a bad dream. She
complained a little of being tired, and I let her rest till later in the
day. We now know of twenty-one boxes having been removed, and if it be
that several were taken in any of these removals we may be able to trace
them all. Such will, of course, immensely simplify our labour, and the
sooner the matter is attended to the better. I shall look up Thomas
Snelling to-day.


_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

_1 October._--It was towards noon when I was awakened by the Professor
walking into my room. He was more jolly and cheerful than usual, and it
is quite evident that last night’s work has helped to take some of the
brooding weight off his mind. After going over the adventure of the
night he suddenly said:--

“Your patient interests me much. May it be that with you I visit him
this morning? Or if that you are too occupy, I can go alone if it may
be. It is a new experience to me to find a lunatic who talk philosophy,
and reason so sound.” I had some work to do which pressed, so I told him
that if he would go alone I would be glad, as then I should not have to
keep him waiting; so I called an attendant and gave him the necessary
instructions. Before the Professor left the room I cautioned him against
getting any false impression from my patient. “But,” he answered, “I
want him to talk of himself and of his delusion as to consuming live
things. He said to Madam Mina, as I see in your diary of yesterday, that
he had once had such a belief. Why do you smile, friend John?”

“Excuse me,” I said, “but the answer is here.” I laid my hand on the
type-written matter. “When our sane and learned lunatic made that very
statement of how he _used_ to consume life, his mouth was actually
nauseous with the flies and spiders which he had eaten just before Mrs.
Harker entered the room.” Van Helsing smiled in turn. “Good!” he said.
“Your memory is true, friend John. I should have remembered. And yet it
is this very obliquity of thought and memory which makes mental disease
such a fascinating study. Perhaps I may gain more knowledge out of the
folly of this madman than I shall from the teaching of the most wise.
Who knows?” I went on with my work, and before long was through that in
hand. It seemed that the time had been very short indeed, but there was
Van Helsing back in the study. “Do I interrupt?” he asked politely as he
stood at the door.

“Not at all,” I answered. “Come in. My work is finished, and I am free.
I can go with you now, if you like.

“It is needless; I have seen him!”

“Well?”

“I fear that he does not appraise me at much. Our interview was short.
When I entered his room he was sitting on a stool in the centre, with
his elbows on his knees, and his face was the picture of sullen
discontent. I spoke to him as cheerfully as I could, and with such a
measure of respect as I could assume. He made no reply whatever. “Don’t
you know me?” I asked. His answer was not reassuring: “I know you well
enough; you are the old fool Van Helsing. I wish you would take yourself
and your idiotic brain theories somewhere else. Damn all thick-headed
Dutchmen!” Not a word more would he say, but sat in his implacable
sullenness as indifferent to me as though I had not been in the room at
all. Thus departed for this time my chance of much learning from this so
clever lunatic; so I shall go, if I may, and cheer myself with a few
happy words with that sweet soul Madam Mina. Friend John, it does
rejoice me unspeakable that she is no more to be pained, no more to be
worried with our terrible things. Though we shall much miss her help, it
is better so.”

“I agree with you with all my heart,” I answered earnestly, for I did
not want him to weaken in this matter. “Mrs. Harker is better out of it.
Things are quite bad enough for us, all men of the world, and who have
been in many tight places in our time; but it is no place for a woman,
and if she had remained in touch with the affair, it would in time
infallibly have wrecked her.”

So Van Helsing has gone to confer with Mrs. Harker and Harker; Quincey
and Art are all out following up the clues as to the earth-boxes. I
shall finish my round of work and we shall meet to-night.


_Mina Harker’s Journal._

_1 October._--It is strange to me to be kept in the dark as I am to-day;
after Jonathan’s full confidence for so many years, to see him
manifestly avoid certain matters, and those the most vital of all. This
morning I slept late after the fatigues of yesterday, and though
Jonathan was late too, he was the earlier. He spoke to me before he went
out, never more sweetly or tenderly, but he never mentioned a word of
what had happened in the visit to the Count’s house. And yet he must
have known how terribly anxious I was. Poor dear fellow! I suppose it
must have distressed him even more than it did me. They all agreed that
it was best that I should not be drawn further into this awful work, and
I acquiesced. But to think that he keeps anything from me! And now I am
crying like a silly fool, when I _know_ it comes from my husband’s great
love and from the good, good wishes of those other strong men.

That has done me good. Well, some day Jonathan will tell me all; and
lest it should ever be that he should think for a moment that I kept
anything from him, I still keep my journal as usual. Then if he has
feared of my trust I shall show it to him, with every thought of my
heart put down for his dear eyes to read. I feel strangely sad and
low-spirited to-day. I suppose it is the reaction from the terrible
excitement.

Last night I went to bed when the men had gone, simply because they told
me to. I didn’t feel sleepy, and I did feel full of devouring anxiety. I
kept thinking over everything that has been ever since Jonathan came to
see me in London, and it all seems like a horrible tragedy, with fate
pressing on relentlessly to some destined end. Everything that one does
seems, no matter how right it may be, to bring on the very thing which
is most to be deplored. If I hadn’t gone to Whitby, perhaps poor dear
Lucy would be with us now. She hadn’t taken to visiting the churchyard
till I came, and if she hadn’t come there in the day-time with me she
wouldn’t have walked there in her sleep; and if she hadn’t gone there at
night and asleep, that monster couldn’t have destroyed her as he did.
Oh, why did I ever go to Whitby? There now, crying again! I wonder what
has come over me to-day. I must hide it from Jonathan, for if he knew
that I had been crying twice in one morning--I, who never cried on my
own account, and whom he has never caused to shed a tear--the dear
fellow would fret his heart out. I shall put a bold face on, and if I do
feel weepy, he shall never see it. I suppose it is one of the lessons
that we poor women have to learn....

I can’t quite remember how I fell asleep last night. I remember hearing
the sudden barking of the dogs and a lot of queer sounds, like praying
on a very tumultuous scale, from Mr. Renfield’s room, which is somewhere
under this. And then there was silence over everything, silence so
profound that it startled me, and I got up and looked out of the window.
All was dark and silent, the black shadows thrown by the moonlight
seeming full of a silent mystery of their own. Not a thing seemed to be
stirring, but all to be grim and fixed as death or fate; so that a thin
streak of white mist, that crept with almost imperceptible slowness
across the grass towards the house, seemed to have a sentience and a
vitality of its own. I think that the digression of my thoughts must
have done me good, for when I got back to bed I found a lethargy
creeping over me. I lay a while, but could not quite sleep, so I got out
and looked out of the window again. The mist was spreading, and was now
close up to the house, so that I could see it lying thick against the
wall, as though it were stealing up to the windows. The poor man was
more loud than ever, and though I could not distinguish a word he said,
I could in some way recognise in his tones some passionate entreaty on
his part. Then there was the sound of a struggle, and I knew that the
attendants were dealing with him. I was so frightened that I crept into
bed, and pulled the clothes over my head, putting my fingers in my ears.
I was not then a bit sleepy, at least so I thought; but I must have
fallen asleep, for, except dreams, I do not remember anything until the
morning, when Jonathan woke me. I think that it took me an effort and a
little time to realise where I was, and that it was Jonathan who was
bending over me. My dream was very peculiar, and was almost typical of
the way that waking thoughts become merged in, or continued in, dreams.

I thought that I was asleep, and waiting for Jonathan to come back. I
was very anxious about him, and I was powerless to act; my feet, and my
hands, and my brain were weighted, so that nothing could proceed at the
usual pace. And so I slept uneasily and thought. Then it began to dawn
upon me that the air was heavy, and dank, and cold. I put back the
clothes from my face, and found, to my surprise, that all was dim
around. The gaslight which I had left lit for Jonathan, but turned down,
came only like a tiny red spark through the fog, which had evidently
grown thicker and poured into the room. Then it occurred to me that I
had shut the window before I had come to bed. I would have got out to
make certain on the point, but some leaden lethargy seemed to chain my
limbs and even my will. I lay still and endured; that was all. I closed
my eyes, but could still see through my eyelids. (It is wonderful what
tricks our dreams play us, and how conveniently we can imagine.) The
mist grew thicker and thicker and I could see now how it came in, for I
could see it like smoke--or with the white energy of boiling
water--pouring in, not through the window, but through the joinings of
the door. It got thicker and thicker, till it seemed as if it became
concentrated into a sort of pillar of cloud in the room, through the top
of which I could see the light of the gas shining like a red eye. Things
began to whirl through my brain just as the cloudy column was now
whirling in the room, and through it all came the scriptural words “a
pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night.” Was it indeed some such
spiritual guidance that was coming to me in my sleep? But the pillar was
composed of both the day and the night-guiding, for the fire was in the
red eye, which at the thought got a new fascination for me; till, as I
looked, the fire divided, and seemed to shine on me through the fog like
two red eyes, such as Lucy told me of in her momentary mental wandering
when, on the cliff, the dying sunlight struck the windows of St. Mary’s
Church. Suddenly the horror burst upon me that it was thus that Jonathan
had seen those awful women growing into reality through the whirling mist
in the moonlight, and in my dream I must have fainted, for all became
black darkness. The last conscious effort which imagination made was to
show me a livid white face bending over me out of the mist. I must be
careful of such dreams, for they would unseat one’s reason if there were
too much of them. I would get Dr. Van Helsing or Dr. Seward to prescribe
something for me which would make me sleep, only that I fear to alarm
them. Such a dream at the present time would become woven into their
fears for me. To-night I shall strive hard to sleep naturally. If I do
not, I shall to-morrow night get them to give me a dose of chloral; that
cannot hurt me for once, and it will give me a good night’s sleep. Last
night tired me more than if I had not slept at all.

       *       *       *       *       *

_2 October 10 p. m._--Last night I slept, but did not dream. I must have
slept soundly, for I was not waked by Jonathan coming to bed; but the
sleep has not refreshed me, for to-day I feel terribly weak and
spiritless. I spent all yesterday trying to read, or lying down dozing.
In the afternoon Mr. Renfield asked if he might see me. Poor man, he was
very gentle, and when I came away he kissed my hand and bade God bless
me. Some way it affected me much; I am crying when I think of him. This
is a new weakness, of which I must be careful. Jonathan would be
miserable if he knew I had been crying. He and the others were out till
dinner-time, and they all came in tired. I did what I could to brighten
them up, and I suppose that the effort did me good, for I forgot how
tired I was. After dinner they sent me to bed, and all went off to smoke
together, as they said, but I knew that they wanted to tell each other
of what had occurred to each during the day; I could see from Jonathan’s
manner that he had something important to communicate. I was not so
sleepy as I should have been; so before they went I asked Dr. Seward to
give me a little opiate of some kind, as I had not slept well the night
before. He very kindly made me up a sleeping draught, which he gave to
me, telling me that it would do me no harm, as it was very mild.... I
have taken it, and am waiting for sleep, which still keeps aloof. I hope
I have not done wrong, for as sleep begins to flirt with me, a new fear
comes: that I may have been foolish in thus depriving myself of the
power of waking. I might want it. Here comes sleep. Good-night.




CHAPTER XX

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL


_1 October, evening._--I found Thomas Snelling in his house at Bethnal
Green, but unhappily he was not in a condition to remember anything. The
very prospect of beer which my expected coming had opened to him had
proved too much, and he had begun too early on his expected debauch. I
learned, however, from his wife, who seemed a decent, poor soul, that he
was only the assistant to Smollet, who of the two mates was the
responsible person. So off I drove to Walworth, and found Mr. Joseph
Smollet at home and in his shirtsleeves, taking a late tea out of a
saucer. He is a decent, intelligent fellow, distinctly a good, reliable
type of workman, and with a headpiece of his own. He remembered all
about the incident of the boxes, and from a wonderful dog’s-eared
notebook, which he produced from some mysterious receptacle about the
seat of his trousers, and which had hieroglyphical entries in thick,
half-obliterated pencil, he gave me the destinations of the boxes. There
were, he said, six in the cartload which he took from Carfax and left at
197, Chicksand Street, Mile End New Town, and another six which he
deposited at Jamaica Lane, Bermondsey. If then the Count meant to
scatter these ghastly refuges of his over London, these places were
chosen as the first of delivery, so that later he might distribute more
fully. The systematic manner in which this was done made me think that
he could not mean to confine himself to two sides of London. He was now
fixed on the far east of the northern shore, on the east of the southern
shore, and on the south. The north and west were surely never meant to
be left out of his diabolical scheme--let alone the City itself and the
very heart of fashionable London in the south-west and west. I went back
to Smollet, and asked him if he could tell us if any other boxes had
been taken from Carfax.

He replied:--

“Well, guv’nor, you’ve treated me wery ’an’some”--I had given him half a
sovereign--“an’ I’ll tell yer all I know. I heard a man by the name of
Bloxam say four nights ago in the ’Are an’ ’Ounds, in Pincher’s Alley,
as ’ow he an’ his mate ’ad ’ad a rare dusty job in a old ’ouse at
Purfect. There ain’t a-many such jobs as this ’ere, an’ I’m thinkin’
that maybe Sam Bloxam could tell ye summut.” I asked if he could tell me
where to find him. I told him that if he could get me the address it
would be worth another half-sovereign to him. So he gulped down the rest
of his tea and stood up, saying that he was going to begin the search
then and there. At the door he stopped, and said:--

“Look ’ere, guv’nor, there ain’t no sense in me a-keepin’ you ’ere. I
may find Sam soon, or I mayn’t; but anyhow he ain’t like to be in a way
to tell ye much to-night. Sam is a rare one when he starts on the booze.
If you can give me a envelope with a stamp on it, and put yer address on
it, I’ll find out where Sam is to be found and post it ye to-night. But
ye’d better be up arter ’im soon in the mornin’, or maybe ye won’t ketch
’im; for Sam gets off main early, never mind the booze the night afore.”

This was all practical, so one of the children went off with a penny to
buy an envelope and a sheet of paper, and to keep the change. When she
came back, I addressed the envelope and stamped it, and when Smollet had
again faithfully promised to post the address when found, I took my way
to home. We’re on the track anyhow. I am tired to-night, and want sleep.
Mina is fast asleep, and looks a little too pale; her eyes look as
though she had been crying. Poor dear, I’ve no doubt it frets her to be
kept in the dark, and it may make her doubly anxious about me and the
others. But it is best as it is. It is better to be disappointed and
worried in such a way now than to have her nerve broken. The doctors
were quite right to insist on her being kept out of this dreadful
business. I must be firm, for on me this particular burden of silence
must rest. I shall not ever enter on the subject with her under any
circumstances. Indeed, it may not be a hard task, after all, for she
herself has become reticent on the subject, and has not spoken of the
Count or his doings ever since we told her of our decision.

       *       *       *       *       *

_2 October, evening._--A long and trying and exciting day. By the first
post I got my directed envelope with a dirty scrap of paper enclosed, on
which was written with a carpenter’s pencil in a sprawling hand:--

“Sam Bloxam, Korkrans, 4, Poters Cort, Bartel Street, Walworth. Arsk for
the depite.”

I got the letter in bed, and rose without waking Mina. She looked heavy
and sleepy and pale, and far from well. I determined not to wake her,
but that, when I should return from this new search, I would arrange for
her going back to Exeter. I think she would be happier in our own home,
with her daily tasks to interest her, than in being here amongst us and
in ignorance. I only saw Dr. Seward for a moment, and told him where I
was off to, promising to come back and tell the rest so soon as I should
have found out anything. I drove to Walworth and found, with some
difficulty, Potter’s Court. Mr. Smollet’s spelling misled me, as I asked
for Poter’s Court instead of Potter’s Court. However, when I had found
the court, I had no difficulty in discovering Corcoran’s lodging-house.
When I asked the man who came to the door for the “depite,” he shook his
head, and said: “I dunno ’im. There ain’t no such a person ’ere; I never
’eard of ’im in all my bloomin’ days. Don’t believe there ain’t nobody
of that kind livin’ ere or anywheres.” I took out Smollet’s letter, and
as I read it it seemed to me that the lesson of the spelling of the name
of the court might guide me. “What are you?” I asked.

“I’m the depity,” he answered. I saw at once that I was on the right
track; phonetic spelling had again misled me. A half-crown tip put the
deputy’s knowledge at my disposal, and I learned that Mr. Bloxam, who
had slept off the remains of his beer on the previous night at
Corcoran’s, had left for his work at Poplar at five o’clock that
morning. He could not tell me where the place of work was situated, but
he had a vague idea that it was some kind of a “new-fangled ware’us”;
and with this slender clue I had to start for Poplar. It was twelve
o’clock before I got any satisfactory hint of such a building, and this
I got at a coffee-shop, where some workmen were having their dinner. One
of these suggested that there was being erected at Cross Angel Street a
new “cold storage” building; and as this suited the condition of a
“new-fangled ware’us,” I at once drove to it. An interview with a surly
gatekeeper and a surlier foreman, both of whom were appeased with the
coin of the realm, put me on the track of Bloxam; he was sent for on my
suggesting that I was willing to pay his day’s wages to his foreman for
the privilege of asking him a few questions on a private matter. He was
a smart enough fellow, though rough of speech and bearing. When I had
promised to pay for his information and given him an earnest, he told me
that he had made two journeys between Carfax and a house in Piccadilly,
and had taken from this house to the latter nine great boxes--“main
heavy ones”--with a horse and cart hired by him for this purpose. I
asked him if he could tell me the number of the house in Piccadilly, to
which he replied:--

“Well, guv’nor, I forgits the number, but it was only a few doors from a
big white church or somethink of the kind, not long built. It was a
dusty old ’ouse, too, though nothin’ to the dustiness of the ’ouse we
tooked the bloomin’ boxes from.”

“How did you get into the houses if they were both empty?”

“There was the old party what engaged me a-waitin’ in the ’ouse at
Purfleet. He ’elped me to lift the boxes and put them in the dray. Curse
me, but he was the strongest chap I ever struck, an’ him a old feller,
with a white moustache, one that thin you would think he couldn’t throw
a shadder.”

How this phrase thrilled through me!

“Why, ’e took up ’is end o’ the boxes like they was pounds of tea, and
me a-puffin’ an’ a-blowin’ afore I could up-end mine anyhow--an’ I’m no
chicken, neither.”

“How did you get into the house in Piccadilly?” I asked.

“He was there too. He must ’a’ started off and got there afore me, for
when I rung of the bell he kem an’ opened the door ’isself an’ ’elped me
to carry the boxes into the ’all.”

“The whole nine?” I asked.

“Yus; there was five in the first load an’ four in the second. It was
main dry work, an’ I don’t so well remember ’ow I got ’ome.” I
interrupted him:--

“Were the boxes left in the hall?”

“Yus; it was a big ’all, an’ there was nothin’ else in it.” I made one
more attempt to further matters:--

“You didn’t have any key?”

“Never used no key nor nothink. The old gent, he opened the door ’isself
an’ shut it again when I druv off. I don’t remember the last time--but
that was the beer.”

“And you can’t remember the number of the house?”

“No, sir. But ye needn’t have no difficulty about that. It’s a ’igh ’un
with a stone front with a bow on it, an’ ’igh steps up to the door. I
know them steps, ’avin’ ’ad to carry the boxes up with three loafers
what come round to earn a copper. The old gent give them shillin’s, an’
they seein’ they got so much, they wanted more; but ’e took one of them
by the shoulder and was like to throw ’im down the steps, till the lot
of them went away cussin’.” I thought that with this description I could
find the house, so, having paid my friend for his information, I started
off for Piccadilly. I had gained a new painful experience; the Count
could, it was evident, handle the earth-boxes himself. If so, time was
precious; for, now that he had achieved a certain amount of
distribution, he could, by choosing his own time, complete the task
unobserved. At Piccadilly Circus I discharged my cab, and walked
westward; beyond the Junior Constitutional I came across the house
described, and was satisfied that this was the next of the lairs
arranged by Dracula. The house looked as though it had been long
untenanted. The windows were encrusted with dust, and the shutters were
up. All the framework was black with time, and from the iron the paint
had mostly scaled away. It was evident that up to lately there had been
a large notice-board in front of the balcony; it had, however, been
roughly torn away, the uprights which had supported it still remaining.
Behind the rails of the balcony I saw there were some loose boards,
whose raw edges looked white. I would have given a good deal to have
been able to see the notice-board intact, as it would, perhaps, have
given some clue to the ownership of the house. I remembered my
experience of the investigation and purchase of Carfax, and I could not
but feel that if I could find the former owner there might be some means
discovered of gaining access to the house.

There was at present nothing to be learned from the Piccadilly side, and
nothing could be done; so I went round to the back to see if anything
could be gathered from this quarter. The mews were active, the
Piccadilly houses being mostly in occupation. I asked one or two of the
grooms and helpers whom I saw around if they could tell me anything
about the empty house. One of them said that he heard it had lately been
taken, but he couldn’t say from whom. He told me, however, that up to
very lately there had been a notice-board of “For Sale” up, and that
perhaps Mitchell, Sons, & Candy, the house agents, could tell me
something, as he thought he remembered seeing the name of that firm on
the board. I did not wish to seem too eager, or to let my informant know
or guess too much, so, thanking him in the usual manner, I strolled
away. It was now growing dusk, and the autumn night was closing in, so I
did not lose any time. Having learned the address of Mitchell, Sons, &
Candy from a directory at the Berkeley, I was soon at their office in
Sackville Street.

The gentleman who saw me was particularly suave in manner, but
uncommunicative in equal proportion. Having once told me that the
Piccadilly house--which throughout our interview he called a
“mansion”--was sold, he considered my business as concluded. When I
asked who had purchased it, he opened his eyes a thought wider, and
paused a few seconds before replying:--

“It is sold, sir.”

“Pardon me,” I said, with equal politeness, “but I have a special reason
for wishing to know who purchased it.”

Again he paused longer, and raised his eyebrows still more. “It is sold,
sir,” was again his laconic reply.

“Surely,” I said, “you do not mind letting me know so much.”

“But I do mind,” he answered. “The affairs of their clients are
absolutely safe in the hands of Mitchell, Sons, & Candy.” This was
manifestly a prig of the first water, and there was no use arguing with
him. I thought I had best meet him on his own ground, so I said:--

“Your clients, sir, are happy in having so resolute a guardian of their
confidence. I am myself a professional man.” Here I handed him my card.
“In this instance I am not prompted by curiosity; I act on the part of
Lord Godalming, who wishes to know something of the property which was,
he understood, lately for sale.” These words put a different complexion
on affairs. He said:--

“I would like to oblige you if I could, Mr. Harker, and especially would
I like to oblige his lordship. We once carried out a small matter of
renting some chambers for him when he was the Honourable Arthur
Holmwood. If you will let me have his lordship’s address I will consult
the House on the subject, and will, in any case, communicate with his
lordship by to-night’s post. It will be a pleasure if we can so far
deviate from our rules as to give the required information to his
lordship.”

I wanted to secure a friend, and not to make an enemy, so I thanked him,
gave the address at Dr. Seward’s and came away. It was now dark, and I
was tired and hungry. I got a cup of tea at the Aërated Bread Company
and came down to Purfleet by the next train.

I found all the others at home. Mina was looking tired and pale, but she
made a gallant effort to be bright and cheerful, it wrung my heart to
think that I had had to keep anything from her and so caused her
inquietude. Thank God, this will be the last night of her looking on at
our conferences, and feeling the sting of our not showing our
confidence. It took all my courage to hold to the wise resolution of
keeping her out of our grim task. She seems somehow more reconciled; or
else the very subject seems to have become repugnant to her, for when
any accidental allusion is made she actually shudders. I am glad we
made our resolution in time, as with such a feeling as this, our growing
knowledge would be torture to her.

I could not tell the others of the day’s discovery till we were alone;
so after dinner--followed by a little music to save appearances even
amongst ourselves--I took Mina to her room and left her to go to bed.
The dear girl was more affectionate with me than ever, and clung to me
as though she would detain me; but there was much to be talked of and I
came away. Thank God, the ceasing of telling things has made no
difference between us.

When I came down again I found the others all gathered round the fire in
the study. In the train I had written my diary so far, and simply read
it off to them as the best means of letting them get abreast of my own
information; when I had finished Van Helsing said:--

“This has been a great day’s work, friend Jonathan. Doubtless we are on
the track of the missing boxes. If we find them all in that house, then
our work is near the end. But if there be some missing, we must search
until we find them. Then shall we make our final _coup_, and hunt the
wretch to his real death.” We all sat silent awhile and all at once Mr.
Morris spoke:--

“Say! how are we going to get into that house?”

“We got into the other,” answered Lord Godalming quickly.

“But, Art, this is different. We broke house at Carfax, but we had night
and a walled park to protect us. It will be a mighty different thing to
commit burglary in Piccadilly, either by day or night. I confess I don’t
see how we are going to get in unless that agency duck can find us a key
of some sort; perhaps we shall know when you get his letter in the
morning.” Lord Godalming’s brows contracted, and he stood up and walked
about the room. By-and-by he stopped and said, turning from one to
another of us:--

“Quincey’s head is level. This burglary business is getting serious; we
got off once all right; but we have now a rare job on hand--unless we
can find the Count’s key basket.”

As nothing could well be done before morning, and as it would be at
least advisable to wait till Lord Godalming should hear from Mitchell’s,
we decided not to take any active step before breakfast time. For a good
while we sat and smoked, discussing the matter in its various lights and
bearings; I took the opportunity of bringing this diary right up to the
moment. I am very sleepy and shall go to bed....

Just a line. Mina sleeps soundly and her breathing is regular. Her
forehead is puckered up into little wrinkles, as though she thinks even
in her sleep. She is still too pale, but does not look so haggard as she
did this morning. To-morrow will, I hope, mend all this; she will be
herself at home in Exeter. Oh, but I am sleepy!


_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

_1 October._--I am puzzled afresh about Renfield. His moods change so
rapidly that I find it difficult to keep touch of them, and as they
always mean something more than his own well-being, they form a more
than interesting study. This morning, when I went to see him after his
repulse of Van Helsing, his manner was that of a man commanding destiny.
He was, in fact, commanding destiny--subjectively. He did not really
care for any of the things of mere earth; he was in the clouds and
looked down on all the weaknesses and wants of us poor mortals. I
thought I would improve the occasion and learn something, so I asked
him:--

“What about the flies these times?” He smiled on me in quite a superior
sort of way--such a smile as would have become the face of Malvolio--as
he answered me:--

“The fly, my dear sir, has one striking feature; its wings are typical
of the aërial powers of the psychic faculties. The ancients did well
when they typified the soul as a butterfly!”

I thought I would push his analogy to its utmost logically, so I said
quickly:--

“Oh, it is a soul you are after now, is it?” His madness foiled his
reason, and a puzzled look spread over his face as, shaking his head
with a decision which I had but seldom seen in him, he said:--

“Oh, no, oh no! I want no souls. Life is all I want.” Here he brightened
up; “I am pretty indifferent about it at present. Life is all right; I
have all I want. You must get a new patient, doctor, if you wish to
study zoöphagy!”

This puzzled me a little, so I drew him on:--

“Then you command life; you are a god, I suppose?” He smiled with an
ineffably benign superiority.

“Oh no! Far be it from me to arrogate to myself the attributes of the
Deity. I am not even concerned in His especially spiritual doings. If I
may state my intellectual position I am, so far as concerns things
purely terrestrial, somewhat in the position which Enoch occupied
spiritually!” This was a poser to me. I could not at the moment recall
Enoch’s appositeness; so I had to ask a simple question, though I felt
that by so doing I was lowering myself in the eyes of the lunatic:--

“And why with Enoch?”

“Because he walked with God.” I could not see the analogy, but did not
like to admit it; so I harked back to what he had denied:--

“So you don’t care about life and you don’t want souls. Why not?” I put
my question quickly and somewhat sternly, on purpose to disconcert him.
The effort succeeded; for an instant he unconsciously relapsed into his
old servile manner, bent low before me, and actually fawned upon me as
he replied:--

“I don’t want any souls, indeed, indeed! I don’t. I couldn’t use them if
I had them; they would be no manner of use to me. I couldn’t eat them
or----” He suddenly stopped and the old cunning look spread over his
face, like a wind-sweep on the surface of the water. “And doctor, as to
life, what is it after all? When you’ve got all you require, and you
know that you will never want, that is all. I have friends--good
friends--like you, Dr. Seward”; this was said with a leer of
inexpressible cunning. “I know that I shall never lack the means of
life!”

I think that through the cloudiness of his insanity he saw some
antagonism in me, for he at once fell back on the last refuge of such as
he--a dogged silence. After a short time I saw that for the present it
was useless to speak to him. He was sulky, and so I came away.

Later in the day he sent for me. Ordinarily I would not have come
without special reason, but just at present I am so interested in him
that I would gladly make an effort. Besides, I am glad to have anything
to help to pass the time. Harker is out, following up clues; and so are
Lord Godalming and Quincey. Van Helsing sits in my study poring over the
record prepared by the Harkers; he seems to think that by accurate
knowledge of all details he will light upon some clue. He does not wish
to be disturbed in the work, without cause. I would have taken him with
me to see the patient, only I thought that after his last repulse he
might not care to go again. There was also another reason: Renfield
might not speak so freely before a third person as when he and I were
alone.

I found him sitting out in the middle of the floor on his stool, a pose
which is generally indicative of some mental energy on his part. When I
came in, he said at once, as though the question had been waiting on his
lips:--

“What about souls?” It was evident then that my surmise had been
correct. Unconscious cerebration was doing its work, even with the
lunatic. I determined to have the matter out. “What about them
yourself?” I asked. He did not reply for a moment but looked all round
him, and up and down, as though he expected to find some inspiration for
an answer.

“I don’t want any souls!” he said in a feeble, apologetic way. The
matter seemed preying on his mind, and so I determined to use it--to “be
cruel only to be kind.” So I said:--

“You like life, and you want life?”

“Oh yes! but that is all right; you needn’t worry about that!”

“But,” I asked, “how are we to get the life without getting the soul
also?” This seemed to puzzle him, so I followed it up:--

“A nice time you’ll have some time when you’re flying out there, with
the souls of thousands of flies and spiders and birds and cats buzzing
and twittering and miauing all round you. You’ve got their lives, you
know, and you must put up with their souls!” Something seemed to affect
his imagination, for he put his fingers to his ears and shut his eyes,
screwing them up tightly just as a small boy does when his face is being
soaped. There was something pathetic in it that touched me; it also gave
me a lesson, for it seemed that before me was a child--only a child,
though the features were worn, and the stubble on the jaws was white. It
was evident that he was undergoing some process of mental disturbance,
and, knowing how his past moods had interpreted things seemingly foreign
to himself, I thought I would enter into his mind as well as I could and
go with him. The first step was to restore confidence, so I asked him,
speaking pretty loud so that he would hear me through his closed ears:--

“Would you like some sugar to get your flies round again?” He seemed to
wake up all at once, and shook his head. With a laugh he replied:--

“Not much! flies are poor things, after all!” After a pause he added,
“But I don’t want their souls buzzing round me, all the same.”

“Or spiders?” I went on.

“Blow spiders! What’s the use of spiders? There isn’t anything in them
to eat or”--he stopped suddenly, as though reminded of a forbidden
topic.

“So, so!” I thought to myself, “this is the second time he has suddenly
stopped at the word ‘drink’; what does it mean?” Renfield seemed himself
aware of having made a lapse, for he hurried on, as though to distract
my attention from it:--

“I don’t take any stock at all in such matters. ‘Rats and mice and such
small deer,’ as Shakespeare has it, ‘chicken-feed of the larder’ they
might be called. I’m past all that sort of nonsense. You might as well
ask a man to eat molecules with a pair of chop-sticks, as to try to
interest me about the lesser carnivora, when I know of what is before
me.”

“I see,” I said. “You want big things that you can make your teeth meet
in? How would you like to breakfast on elephant?”

“What ridiculous nonsense you are talking!” He was getting too wide
awake, so I thought I would press him hard. “I wonder,” I said
reflectively, “what an elephant’s soul is like!”

The effect I desired was obtained, for he at once fell from his
high-horse and became a child again.

“I don’t want an elephant’s soul, or any soul at all!” he said. For a
few moments he sat despondently. Suddenly he jumped to his feet, with
his eyes blazing and all the signs of intense cerebral excitement. “To
hell with you and your souls!” he shouted. “Why do you plague me about
souls? Haven’t I got enough to worry, and pain, and distract me already,
without thinking of souls!” He looked so hostile that I thought he was
in for another homicidal fit, so I blew my whistle. The instant,
however, that I did so he became calm, and said apologetically:--

“Forgive me, Doctor; I forgot myself. You do not need any help. I am so
worried in my mind that I am apt to be irritable. If you only knew the
problem I have to face, and that I am working out, you would pity, and
tolerate, and pardon me. Pray do not put me in a strait-waistcoat. I
want to think and I cannot think freely when my body is confined. I am
sure you will understand!” He had evidently self-control; so when the
attendants came I told them not to mind, and they withdrew. Renfield
watched them go; when the door was closed he said, with considerable
dignity and sweetness:--

“Dr. Seward, you have been very considerate towards me. Believe me that
I am very, very grateful to you!” I thought it well to leave him in this
mood, and so I came away. There is certainly something to ponder over in
this man’s state. Several points seem to make what the American
interviewer calls “a story,” if one could only get them in proper order.
Here they are:--

Will not mention “drinking.”

Fears the thought of being burdened with the “soul” of anything.

Has no dread of wanting “life” in the future.

Despises the meaner forms of life altogether, though he dreads being
haunted by their souls.

Logically all these things point one way! he has assurance of some kind
that he will acquire some higher life. He dreads the consequence--the
burden of a soul. Then it is a human life he looks to!

And the assurance--?

Merciful God! the Count has been to him, and there is some new scheme of
terror afoot!

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--I went after my round to Van Helsing and told him my
suspicion. He grew very grave; and, after thinking the matter over for a
while asked me to take him to Renfield. I did so. As we came to the door
we heard the lunatic within singing gaily, as he used to do in the time
which now seems so long ago. When we entered we saw with amazement that
he had spread out his sugar as of old; the flies, lethargic with the
autumn, were beginning to buzz into the room. We tried to make him talk
of the subject of our previous conversation, but he would not attend. He
went on with his singing, just as though we had not been present. He had
got a scrap of paper and was folding it into a note-book. We had to come
away as ignorant as we went in.

His is a curious case indeed; we must watch him to-night.


_Letter, Mitchell, Sons and Candy to Lord Godalming._

_“1 October._

“My Lord,

“We are at all times only too happy to meet your wishes. We beg, with
regard to the desire of your Lordship, expressed by Mr. Harker on your
behalf, to supply the following information concerning the sale and
purchase of No. 347, Piccadilly. The original vendors are the executors
of the late Mr. Archibald Winter-Suffield. The purchaser is a foreign
nobleman, Count de Ville, who effected the purchase himself paying the
purchase money in notes ‘over the counter,’ if your Lordship will pardon
us using so vulgar an expression. Beyond this we know nothing whatever
of him.

“We are, my Lord,

“Your Lordship’s humble servants,

“MITCHELL, SONS & CANDY.”


_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

_2 October._--I placed a man in the corridor last night, and told him to
make an accurate note of any sound he might hear from Renfield’s room,
and gave him instructions that if there should be anything strange he
was to call me. After dinner, when we had all gathered round the fire
in the study--Mrs. Harker having gone to bed--we discussed the attempts
and discoveries of the day. Harker was the only one who had any result,
and we are in great hopes that his clue may be an important one.

Before going to bed I went round to the patient’s room and looked in
through the observation trap. He was sleeping soundly, and his heart
rose and fell with regular respiration.

This morning the man on duty reported to me that a little after midnight
he was restless and kept saying his prayers somewhat loudly. I asked him
if that was all; he replied that it was all he heard. There was
something about his manner so suspicious that I asked him point blank if
he had been asleep. He denied sleep, but admitted to having “dozed” for
a while. It is too bad that men cannot be trusted unless they are
watched.

To-day Harker is out following up his clue, and Art and Quincey are
looking after horses. Godalming thinks that it will be well to have
horses always in readiness, for when we get the information which we
seek there will be no time to lose. We must sterilise all the imported
earth between sunrise and sunset; we shall thus catch the Count at his
weakest, and without a refuge to fly to. Van Helsing is off to the
British Museum looking up some authorities on ancient medicine. The old
physicians took account of things which their followers do not accept,
and the Professor is searching for witch and demon cures which may be
useful to us later.

I sometimes think we must be all mad and that we shall wake to sanity in
strait-waistcoats.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--We have met again. We seem at last to be on the track, and our
work of to-morrow may be the beginning of the end. I wonder if
Renfield’s quiet has anything to do with this. His moods have so
followed the doings of the Count, that the coming destruction of the
monster may be carried to him in some subtle way. If we could only get
some hint as to what passed in his mind, between the time of my argument
with him to-day and his resumption of fly-catching, it might afford us a
valuable clue. He is now seemingly quiet for a spell.... Is he?---- That
wild yell seemed to come from his room....

       *       *       *       *       *

The attendant came bursting into my room and told me that Renfield had
somehow met with some accident. He had heard him yell; and when he went
to him found him lying on his face on the floor, all covered with blood.
I must go at once....




CHAPTER XXI

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY


_3 October._--Let me put down with exactness all that happened, as well
as I can remember it, since last I made an entry. Not a detail that I
can recall must be forgotten; in all calmness I must proceed.

When I came to Renfield’s room I found him lying on the floor on his
left side in a glittering pool of blood. When I went to move him, it
became at once apparent that he had received some terrible injuries;
there seemed none of that unity of purpose between the parts of the body
which marks even lethargic sanity. As the face was exposed I could see
that it was horribly bruised, as though it had been beaten against the
floor--indeed it was from the face wounds that the pool of blood
originated. The attendant who was kneeling beside the body said to me as
we turned him over:--

“I think, sir, his back is broken. See, both his right arm and leg and
the whole side of his face are paralysed.” How such a thing could have
happened puzzled the attendant beyond measure. He seemed quite
bewildered, and his brows were gathered in as he said:--

“I can’t understand the two things. He could mark his face like that by
beating his own head on the floor. I saw a young woman do it once at the
Eversfield Asylum before anyone could lay hands on her. And I suppose he
might have broke his neck by falling out of bed, if he got in an awkward
kink. But for the life of me I can’t imagine how the two things
occurred. If his back was broke, he couldn’t beat his head; and if his
face was like that before the fall out of bed, there would be marks of
it.” I said to him:--

“Go to Dr. Van Helsing, and ask him to kindly come here at once. I want
him without an instant’s delay.” The man ran off, and within a few
minutes the Professor, in his dressing gown and slippers, appeared. When
he saw Renfield on the ground, he looked keenly at him a moment, and
then turned to me. I think he recognised my thought in my eyes, for he
said very quietly, manifestly for the ears of the attendant:--

“Ah, a sad accident! He will need very careful watching, and much
attention. I shall stay with you myself; but I shall first dress myself.
If you will remain I shall in a few minutes join you.”

The patient was now breathing stertorously and it was easy to see that
he had suffered some terrible injury. Van Helsing returned with
extraordinary celerity, bearing with him a surgical case. He had
evidently been thinking and had his mind made up; for, almost before he
looked at the patient, he whispered to me:--

“Send the attendant away. We must be alone with him when he becomes
conscious, after the operation.” So I said:--

“I think that will do now, Simmons. We have done all that we can at
present. You had better go your round, and Dr. Van Helsing will operate.
Let me know instantly if there be anything unusual anywhere.”

The man withdrew, and we went into a strict examination of the patient.
The wounds of the face was superficial; the real injury was a depressed
fracture of the skull, extending right up through the motor area. The
Professor thought a moment and said:--

“We must reduce the pressure and get back to normal conditions, as far
as can be; the rapidity of the suffusion shows the terrible nature of
his injury. The whole motor area seems affected. The suffusion of the
brain will increase quickly, so we must trephine at once or it may be
too late.” As he was speaking there was a soft tapping at the door. I
went over and opened it and found in the corridor without, Arthur and
Quincey in pajamas and slippers: the former spoke:--

“I heard your man call up Dr. Van Helsing and tell him of an accident.
So I woke Quincey or rather called for him as he was not asleep. Things
are moving too quickly and too strangely for sound sleep for any of us
these times. I’ve been thinking that to-morrow night will not see things
as they have been. We’ll have to look back--and forward a little more
than we have done. May we come in?” I nodded, and held the door open
till they had entered; then I closed it again. When Quincey saw the
attitude and state of the patient, and noted the horrible pool on the
floor, he said softly:--

“My God! what has happened to him? Poor, poor devil!” I told him
briefly, and added that we expected he would recover consciousness after
the operation--for a short time, at all events. He went at once and sat
down on the edge of the bed, with Godalming beside him; we all watched
in patience.

“We shall wait,” said Van Helsing, “just long enough to fix the best
spot for trephining, so that we may most quickly and perfectly remove
the blood clot; for it is evident that the hæmorrhage is increasing.”

The minutes during which we waited passed with fearful slowness. I had a
horrible sinking in my heart, and from Van Helsing’s face I gathered
that he felt some fear or apprehension as to what was to come. I dreaded
the words that Renfield might speak. I was positively afraid to think;
but the conviction of what was coming was on me, as I have read of men
who have heard the death-watch. The poor man’s breathing came in
uncertain gasps. Each instant he seemed as though he would open his eyes
and speak; but then would follow a prolonged stertorous breath, and he
would relapse into a more fixed insensibility. Inured as I was to sick
beds and death, this suspense grew, and grew upon me. I could almost
hear the beating of my own heart; and the blood surging through my
temples sounded like blows from a hammer. The silence finally became
agonising. I looked at my companions, one after another, and saw from
their flushed faces and damp brows that they were enduring equal
torture. There was a nervous suspense over us all, as though overhead
some dread bell would peal out powerfully when we should least expect
it.

At last there came a time when it was evident that the patient was
sinking fast; he might die at any moment. I looked up at the Professor
and caught his eyes fixed on mine. His face was sternly set as he
spoke:--

“There is no time to lose. His words may be worth many lives; I have
been thinking so, as I stood here. It may be there is a soul at stake!
We shall operate just above the ear.”

Without another word he made the operation. For a few moments the
breathing continued to be stertorous. Then there came a breath so
prolonged that it seemed as though it would tear open his chest.
Suddenly his eyes opened, and became fixed in a wild, helpless stare.
This was continued for a few moments; then it softened into a glad
surprise, and from the lips came a sigh of relief. He moved
convulsively, and as he did so, said:--

“I’ll be quiet, Doctor. Tell them to take off the strait-waistcoat. I
have had a terrible dream, and it has left me so weak that I cannot
move. What’s wrong with my face? it feels all swollen, and it smarts
dreadfully.” He tried to turn his head; but even with the effort his
eyes seemed to grow glassy again so I gently put it back. Then Van
Helsing said in a quiet grave tone:--

“Tell us your dream, Mr. Renfield.” As he heard the voice his face
brightened, through its mutilation, and he said:--

“That is Dr. Van Helsing. How good it is of you to be here. Give me some
water, my lips are dry; and I shall try to tell you. I dreamed”--he
stopped and seemed fainting, I called quietly to Quincey--“The
brandy--it is in my study--quick!” He flew and returned with a glass,
the decanter of brandy and a carafe of water. We moistened the parched
lips, and the patient quickly revived. It seemed, however, that his poor
injured brain had been working in the interval, for, when he was quite
conscious, he looked at me piercingly with an agonised confusion which I
shall never forget, and said:--

“I must not deceive myself; it was no dream, but all a grim reality.”
Then his eyes roved round the room; as they caught sight of the two
figures sitting patiently on the edge of the bed he went on:--

“If I were not sure already, I would know from them.” For an instant his
eyes closed--not with pain or sleep but voluntarily, as though he were
bringing all his faculties to bear; when he opened them he said,
hurriedly, and with more energy than he had yet displayed:--

“Quick, Doctor, quick. I am dying! I feel that I have but a few minutes;
and then I must go back to death--or worse! Wet my lips with brandy
again. I have something that I must say before I die; or before my poor
crushed brain dies anyhow. Thank you! It was that night after you left
me, when I implored you to let me go away. I couldn’t speak then, for I
felt my tongue was tied; but I was as sane then, except in that way, as
I am now. I was in an agony of despair for a long time after you left
me; it seemed hours. Then there came a sudden peace to me. My brain
seemed to become cool again, and I realised where I was. I heard the
dogs bark behind our house, but not where He was!” As he spoke, Van
Helsing’s eyes never blinked, but his hand came out and met mine and
gripped it hard. He did not, however, betray himself; he nodded slightly
and said: “Go on,” in a low voice. Renfield proceeded:--

“He came up to the window in the mist, as I had seen him often before;
but he was solid then--not a ghost, and his eyes were fierce like a
man’s when angry. He was laughing with his red mouth; the sharp white
teeth glinted in the moonlight when he turned to look back over the belt
of trees, to where the dogs were barking. I wouldn’t ask him to come in
at first, though I knew he wanted to--just as he had wanted all along.
Then he began promising me things--not in words but by doing them.” He
was interrupted by a word from the Professor:--

“How?”

“By making them happen; just as he used to send in the flies when the
sun was shining. Great big fat ones with steel and sapphire on their
wings; and big moths, in the night, with skull and cross-bones on their
backs.” Van Helsing nodded to him as he whispered to me unconsciously:--

“The _Acherontia Aitetropos of the Sphinges_--what you call the
‘Death’s-head Moth’?” The patient went on without stopping.

“Then he began to whisper: ‘Rats, rats, rats! Hundreds, thousands,
millions of them, and every one a life; and dogs to eat them, and cats
too. All lives! all red blood, with years of life in it; and not merely
buzzing flies!’ I laughed at him, for I wanted to see what he could do.
Then the dogs howled, away beyond the dark trees in His house. He
beckoned me to the window. I got up and looked out, and He raised his
hands, and seemed to call out without using any words. A dark mass
spread over the grass, coming on like the shape of a flame of fire; and
then He moved the mist to the right and left, and I could see that there
were thousands of rats with their eyes blazing red--like His, only
smaller. He held up his hand, and they all stopped; and I thought he
seemed to be saying: ‘All these lives will I give you, ay, and many more
and greater, through countless ages, if you will fall down and worship
me!’ And then a red cloud, like the colour of blood, seemed to close
over my eyes; and before I knew what I was doing, I found myself opening
the sash and saying to Him: ‘Come in, Lord and Master!’ The rats were
all gone, but He slid into the room through the sash, though it was only
open an inch wide--just as the Moon herself has often come in through
the tiniest crack and has stood before me in all her size and
splendour.”

His voice was weaker, so I moistened his lips with the brandy again, and
he continued; but it seemed as though his memory had gone on working in
the interval for his story was further advanced. I was about to call him
back to the point, but Van Helsing whispered to me: “Let him go on. Do
not interrupt him; he cannot go back, and maybe could not proceed at all
if once he lost the thread of his thought.” He proceeded:--

“All day I waited to hear from him, but he did not send me anything, not
even a blow-fly, and when the moon got up I was pretty angry with him.
When he slid in through the window, though it was shut, and did not even
knock, I got mad with him. He sneered at me, and his white face looked
out of the mist with his red eyes gleaming, and he went on as though he
owned the whole place, and I was no one. He didn’t even smell the same
as he went by me. I couldn’t hold him. I thought that, somehow, Mrs.
Harker had come into the room.”

The two men sitting on the bed stood up and came over, standing behind
him so that he could not see them, but where they could hear better.
They were both silent, but the Professor started and quivered; his face,
however, grew grimmer and sterner still. Renfield went on without
noticing:--

“When Mrs. Harker came in to see me this afternoon she wasn’t the same;
it was like tea after the teapot had been watered.” Here we all moved,
but no one said a word; he went on:--

“I didn’t know that she was here till she spoke; and she didn’t look the
same. I don’t care for the pale people; I like them with lots of blood
in them, and hers had all seemed to have run out. I didn’t think of it
at the time; but when she went away I began to think, and it made me mad
to know that He had been taking the life out of her.” I could feel that
the rest quivered, as I did, but we remained otherwise still. “So when
He came to-night I was ready for Him. I saw the mist stealing in, and I
grabbed it tight. I had heard that madmen have unnatural strength; and
as I knew I was a madman--at times anyhow--I resolved to use my power.
Ay, and He felt it too, for He had to come out of the mist to struggle
with me. I held tight; and I thought I was going to win, for I didn’t
mean Him to take any more of her life, till I saw His eyes. They burned
into me, and my strength became like water. He slipped through it, and
when I tried to cling to Him, He raised me up and flung me down. There
was a red cloud before me, and a noise like thunder, and the mist seemed
to steal away under the door.” His voice was becoming fainter and his
breath more stertorous. Van Helsing stood up instinctively.

“We know the worst now,” he said. “He is here, and we know his purpose.
It may not be too late. Let us be armed--the same as we were the other
night, but lose no time; there is not an instant to spare.” There was no
need to put our fear, nay our conviction, into words--we shared them in
common. We all hurried and took from our rooms the same things that we
had when we entered the Count’s house. The Professor had his ready, and
as we met in the corridor he pointed to them significantly as he said:--

“They never leave me; and they shall not till this unhappy business is
over. Be wise also, my friends. It is no common enemy that we deal with.
Alas! alas! that that dear Madam Mina should suffer!” He stopped; his
voice was breaking, and I do not know if rage or terror predominated in
my own heart.

Outside the Harkers’ door we paused. Art and Quincey held back, and the
latter said:--

“Should we disturb her?”

“We must,” said Van Helsing grimly. “If the door be locked, I shall
break it in.”

“May it not frighten her terribly? It is unusual to break into a lady’s
room!”

Van Helsing said solemnly, “You are always right; but this is life and
death. All chambers are alike to the doctor; and even were they not they
are all as one to me to-night. Friend John, when I turn the handle, if
the door does not open, do you put your shoulder down and shove; and you
too, my friends. Now!”

He turned the handle as he spoke, but the door did not yield. We threw
ourselves against it; with a crash it burst open, and we almost fell
headlong into the room. The Professor did actually fall, and I saw
across him as he gathered himself up from hands and knees. What I saw
appalled me. I felt my hair rise like bristles on the back of my neck,
and my heart seemed to stand still.

The moonlight was so bright that through the thick yellow blind the room
was light enough to see. On the bed beside the window lay Jonathan
Harker, his face flushed and breathing heavily as though in a stupor.
Kneeling on the near edge of the bed facing outwards was the white-clad
figure of his wife. By her side stood a tall, thin man, clad in black.
His face was turned from us, but the instant we saw we all recognised
the Count--in every way, even to the scar on his forehead. With his left
hand he held both Mrs. Harker’s hands, keeping them away with her arms
at full tension; his right hand gripped her by the back of the neck,
forcing her face down on his bosom. Her white nightdress was smeared
with blood, and a thin stream trickled down the man’s bare breast which
was shown by his torn-open dress. The attitude of the two had a terrible
resemblance to a child forcing a kitten’s nose into a saucer of milk to
compel it to drink. As we burst into the room, the Count turned his
face, and the hellish look that I had heard described seemed to leap
into it. His eyes flamed red with devilish passion; the great nostrils
of the white aquiline nose opened wide and quivered at the edge; and the
white sharp teeth, behind the full lips of the blood-dripping mouth,
champed together like those of a wild beast. With a wrench, which threw
his victim back upon the bed as though hurled from a height, he turned
and sprang at us. But by this time the Professor had gained his feet,
and was holding towards him the envelope which contained the Sacred
Wafer. The Count suddenly stopped, just as poor Lucy had done outside
the tomb, and cowered back. Further and further back he cowered, as we,
lifting our crucifixes, advanced. The moonlight suddenly failed, as a
great black cloud sailed across the sky; and when the gaslight sprang up
under Quincey’s match, we saw nothing but a faint vapour. This, as we
looked, trailed under the door, which with the recoil from its bursting
open, had swung back to its old position. Van Helsing, Art, and I moved
forward to Mrs. Harker, who by this time had drawn her breath and with
it had given a scream so wild, so ear-piercing, so despairing that it
seems to me now that it will ring in my ears till my dying day. For a
few seconds she lay in her helpless attitude and disarray. Her face was
ghastly, with a pallor which was accentuated by the blood which smeared
her lips and cheeks and chin; from her throat trickled a thin stream of
blood; her eyes were mad with terror. Then she put before her face her
poor crushed hands, which bore on their whiteness the red mark of the
Count’s terrible grip, and from behind them came a low desolate wail
which made the terrible scream seem only the quick expression of an
endless grief. Van Helsing stepped forward and drew the coverlet gently
over her body, whilst Art, after looking at her face for an instant
despairingly, ran out of the room. Van Helsing whispered to me:--

“Jonathan is in a stupor such as we know the Vampire can produce. We can
do nothing with poor Madam Mina for a few moments till she recovers
herself; I must wake him!” He dipped the end of a towel in cold water
and with it began to flick him on the face, his wife all the while
holding her face between her hands and sobbing in a way that was
heart-breaking to hear. I raised the blind, and looked out of the
window. There was much moonshine; and as I looked I could see Quincey
Morris run across the lawn and hide himself in the shadow of a great
yew-tree. It puzzled me to think why he was doing this; but at the
instant I heard Harker’s quick exclamation as he woke to partial
consciousness, and turned to the bed. On his face, as there might well
be, was a look of wild amazement. He seemed dazed for a few seconds, and
then full consciousness seemed to burst upon him all at once, and he
started up. His wife was aroused by the quick movement, and turned to
him with her arms stretched out, as though to embrace him; instantly,
however, she drew them in again, and putting her elbows together, held
her hands before her face, and shuddered till the bed beneath her shook.

“In God’s name what does this mean?” Harker cried out. “Dr. Seward, Dr.
Van Helsing, what is it? What has happened? What is wrong? Mina, dear,
what is it? What does that blood mean? My God, my God! has it come to
this!” and, raising himself to his knees, he beat his hands wildly
together. “Good God help us! help her! oh, help her!” With a quick
movement he jumped from bed, and began to pull on his clothes,--all the
man in him awake at the need for instant exertion. “What has happened?
Tell me all about it!” he cried without pausing. “Dr. Van Helsing, you
love Mina, I know. Oh, do something to save her. It cannot have gone too
far yet. Guard her while I look for _him_!” His wife, through her terror
and horror and distress, saw some sure danger to him: instantly
forgetting her own grief, she seized hold of him and cried out:--

“No! no! Jonathan, you must not leave me. I have suffered enough
to-night, God knows, without the dread of his harming you. You must stay
with me. Stay with these friends who will watch over you!” Her
expression became frantic as she spoke; and, he yielding to her, she
pulled him down sitting on the bed side, and clung to him fiercely.

Van Helsing and I tried to calm them both. The Professor held up his
little golden crucifix, and said with wonderful calmness:--

“Do not fear, my dear. We are here; and whilst this is close to you no
foul thing can approach. You are safe for to-night; and we must be calm
and take counsel together.” She shuddered and was silent, holding down
her head on her husband’s breast. When she raised it, his white
night-robe was stained with blood where her lips had touched, and where
the thin open wound in her neck had sent forth drops. The instant she
saw it she drew back, with a low wail, and whispered, amidst choking
sobs:--

“Unclean, unclean! I must touch him or kiss him no more. Oh, that it
should be that it is I who am now his worst enemy, and whom he may have
most cause to fear.” To this he spoke out resolutely:--

“Nonsense, Mina. It is a shame to me to hear such a word. I would not
hear it of you; and I shall not hear it from you. May God judge me by my
deserts, and punish me with more bitter suffering than even this hour,
if by any act or will of mine anything ever come between us!” He put out
his arms and folded her to his breast; and for a while she lay there
sobbing. He looked at us over her bowed head, with eyes that blinked
damply above his quivering nostrils; his mouth was set as steel. After a
while her sobs became less frequent and more faint, and then he said to
me, speaking with a studied calmness which I felt tried his nervous
power to the utmost:--

“And now, Dr. Seward, tell me all about it. Too well I know the broad
fact; tell me all that has been.” I told him exactly what had happened,
and he listened with seeming impassiveness; but his nostrils twitched
and his eyes blazed as I told how the ruthless hands of the Count had
held his wife in that terrible and horrid position, with her mouth to
the open wound in his breast. It interested me, even at that moment, to
see, that, whilst the face of white set passion worked convulsively over
the bowed head, the hands tenderly and lovingly stroked the ruffled
hair. Just as I had finished, Quincey and Godalming knocked at the door.
They entered in obedience to our summons. Van Helsing looked at me
questioningly. I understood him to mean if we were to take advantage of
their coming to divert if possible the thoughts of the unhappy husband
and wife from each other and from themselves; so on nodding acquiescence
to him he asked them what they had seen or done. To which Lord Godalming
answered:--

“I could not see him anywhere in the passage, or in any of our rooms. I
looked in the study but, though he had been there, he had gone. He had,
however----” He stopped suddenly, looking at the poor drooping figure on
the bed. Van Helsing said gravely:--

“Go on, friend Arthur. We want here no more concealments. Our hope now
is in knowing all. Tell freely!” So Art went on:--

“He had been there, and though it could only have been for a few
seconds, he made rare hay of the place. All the manuscript had been
burned, and the blue flames were flickering amongst the white ashes; the
cylinders of your phonograph too were thrown on the fire, and the wax
had helped the flames.” Here I interrupted. “Thank God there is the
other copy in the safe!” His face lit for a moment, but fell again as he
went on: “I ran downstairs then, but could see no sign of him. I looked
into Renfield’s room; but there was no trace there except----!” Again he
paused. “Go on,” said Harker hoarsely; so he bowed his head and
moistening his lips with his tongue, added: “except that the poor fellow
is dead.” Mrs. Harker raised her head, looking from one to the other of
us she said solemnly:--

“God’s will be done!” I could not but feel that Art was keeping back
something; but, as I took it that it was with a purpose, I said nothing.
Van Helsing turned to Morris and asked:--

“And you, friend Quincey, have you any to tell?”

“A little,” he answered. “It may be much eventually, but at present I
can’t say. I thought it well to know if possible where the Count would
go when he left the house. I did not see him; but I saw a bat rise from
Renfield’s window, and flap westward. I expected to see him in some
shape go back to Carfax; but he evidently sought some other lair. He
will not be back to-night; for the sky is reddening in the east, and the
dawn is close. We must work to-morrow!”

He said the latter words through his shut teeth. For a space of perhaps
a couple of minutes there was silence, and I could fancy that I could
hear the sound of our hearts beating; then Van Helsing said, placing his
hand very tenderly on Mrs. Harker’s head:--

“And now, Madam Mina--poor, dear, dear Madam Mina--tell us exactly what
happened. God knows that I do not want that you be pained; but it is
need that we know all. For now more than ever has all work to be done
quick and sharp, and in deadly earnest. The day is close to us that must
end all, if it may be so; and now is the chance that we may live and
learn.”

The poor, dear lady shivered, and I could see the tension of her nerves
as she clasped her husband closer to her and bent her head lower and
lower still on his breast. Then she raised her head proudly, and held
out one hand to Van Helsing who took it in his, and, after stooping and
kissing it reverently, held it fast. The other hand was locked in that
of her husband, who held his other arm thrown round her protectingly.
After a pause in which she was evidently ordering her thoughts, she
began:--

“I took the sleeping draught which you had so kindly given me, but for a
long time it did not act. I seemed to become more wakeful, and myriads
of horrible fancies began to crowd in upon my mind--all of them
connected with death, and vampires; with blood, and pain, and trouble.”
Her husband involuntarily groaned as she turned to him and said
lovingly: “Do not fret, dear. You must be brave and strong, and help me
through the horrible task. If you only knew what an effort it is to me
to tell of this fearful thing at all, you would understand how much I
need your help. Well, I saw I must try to help the medicine to its work
with my will, if it was to do me any good, so I resolutely set myself to
sleep. Sure enough sleep must soon have come to me, for I remember no
more. Jonathan coming in had not waked me, for he lay by my side when
next I remember. There was in the room the same thin white mist that I
had before noticed. But I forget now if you know of this; you will find
it in my diary which I shall show you later. I felt the same vague
terror which had come to me before and the same sense of some presence.
I turned to wake Jonathan, but found that he slept so soundly that it
seemed as if it was he who had taken the sleeping draught, and not I. I
tried, but I could not wake him. This caused me a great fear, and I
looked around terrified. Then indeed, my heart sank within me: beside
the bed, as if he had stepped out of the mist--or rather as if the mist
had turned into his figure, for it had entirely disappeared--stood a
tall, thin man, all in black. I knew him at once from the description of
the others. The waxen face; the high aquiline nose, on which the light
fell in a thin white line; the parted red lips, with the sharp white
teeth showing between; and the red eyes that I had seemed to see in the
sunset on the windows of St. Mary’s Church at Whitby. I knew, too, the
red scar on his forehead where Jonathan had struck him. For an instant
my heart stood still, and I would have screamed out, only that I was
paralysed. In the pause he spoke in a sort of keen, cutting whisper,
pointing as he spoke to Jonathan:--

“‘Silence! If you make a sound I shall take him and dash his brains out
before your very eyes.’ I was appalled and was too bewildered to do or
say anything. With a mocking smile, he placed one hand upon my shoulder
and, holding me tight, bared my throat with the other, saying as he did
so, ‘First, a little refreshment to reward my exertions. You may as well
be quiet; it is not the first time, or the second, that your veins have
appeased my thirst!’ I was bewildered, and, strangely enough, I did not
want to hinder him. I suppose it is a part of the horrible curse that
such is, when his touch is on his victim. And oh, my God, my God, pity
me! He placed his reeking lips upon my throat!” Her husband groaned
again. She clasped his hand harder, and looked at him pityingly, as if
he were the injured one, and went on:--

“I felt my strength fading away, and I was in a half swoon. How long
this horrible thing lasted I know not; but it seemed that a long time
must have passed before he took his foul, awful, sneering mouth away. I
saw it drip with the fresh blood!” The remembrance seemed for a while to
overpower her, and she drooped and would have sunk down but for her
husband’s sustaining arm. With a great effort she recovered herself and
went on:--

“Then he spoke to me mockingly, ‘And so you, like the others, would play
your brains against mine. You would help these men to hunt me and
frustrate me in my designs! You know now, and they know in part already,
and will know in full before long, what it is to cross my path. They
should have kept their energies for use closer to home. Whilst they
played wits against me--against me who commanded nations, and intrigued
for them, and fought for them, hundreds of years before they were
born--I was countermining them. And you, their best beloved one, are now
to me, flesh of my flesh; blood of my blood; kin of my kin; my bountiful
wine-press for a while; and shall be later on my companion and my
helper. You shall be avenged in turn; for not one of them but shall
minister to your needs. But as yet you are to be punished for what you
have done. You have aided in thwarting me; now you shall come to my
call. When my brain says “Come!” to you, you shall cross land or sea to
do my bidding; and to that end this!’ With that he pulled open his
shirt, and with his long sharp nails opened a vein in his breast. When
the blood began to spurt out, he took my hands in one of his, holding
them tight, and with the other seized my neck and pressed my mouth to
the wound, so that I must either suffocate or swallow some of the---- Oh
my God! my God! what have I done? What have I done to deserve such a
fate, I who have tried to walk in meekness and righteousness all my
days. God pity me! Look down on a poor soul in worse than mortal peril;
and in mercy pity those to whom she is dear!” Then she began to rub her
lips as though to cleanse them from pollution.

As she was telling her terrible story, the eastern sky began to quicken,
and everything became more and more clear. Harker was still and quiet;
but over his face, as the awful narrative went on, came a grey look
which deepened and deepened in the morning light, till when the first
red streak of the coming dawn shot up, the flesh stood darkly out
against the whitening hair.

We have arranged that one of us is to stay within call of the unhappy
pair till we can meet together and arrange about taking action.

Of this I am sure: the sun rises to-day on no more miserable house in
all the great round of its daily course.




CHAPTER XXII

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL


_3 October._--As I must do something or go mad, I write this diary. It
is now six o’clock, and we are to meet in the study in half an hour and
take something to eat; for Dr. Van Helsing and Dr. Seward are agreed
that if we do not eat we cannot work our best. Our best will be, God
knows, required to-day. I must keep writing at every chance, for I dare
not stop to think. All, big and little, must go down; perhaps at the end
the little things may teach us most. The teaching, big or little, could
not have landed Mina or me anywhere worse than we are to-day. However,
we must trust and hope. Poor Mina told me just now, with the tears
running down her dear cheeks, that it is in trouble and trial that our
faith is tested--that we must keep on trusting; and that God will aid us
up to the end. The end! oh my God! what end?... To work! To work!

When Dr. Van Helsing and Dr. Seward had come back from seeing poor
Renfield, we went gravely into what was to be done. First, Dr. Seward
told us that when he and Dr. Van Helsing had gone down to the room below
they had found Renfield lying on the floor, all in a heap. His face was
all bruised and crushed in, and the bones of the neck were broken.

Dr. Seward asked the attendant who was on duty in the passage if he had
heard anything. He said that he had been sitting down--he confessed to
half dozing--when he heard loud voices in the room, and then Renfield
had called out loudly several times, “God! God! God!” after that there
was a sound of falling, and when he entered the room he found him lying
on the floor, face down, just as the doctors had seen him. Van Helsing
asked if he had heard “voices” or “a voice,” and he said he could not
say; that at first it had seemed to him as if there were two, but as
there was no one in the room it could have been only one. He could swear
to it, if required, that the word “God” was spoken by the patient. Dr.
Seward said to us, when we were alone, that he did not wish to go into
the matter; the question of an inquest had to be considered, and it
would never do to put forward the truth, as no one would believe it. As
it was, he thought that on the attendant’s evidence he could give a
certificate of death by misadventure in falling from bed. In case the
coroner should demand it, there would be a formal inquest, necessarily
to the same result.

When the question began to be discussed as to what should be our next
step, the very first thing we decided was that Mina should be in full
confidence; that nothing of any sort--no matter how painful--should be
kept from her. She herself agreed as to its wisdom, and it was pitiful
to see her so brave and yet so sorrowful, and in such a depth of
despair. “There must be no concealment,” she said, “Alas! we have had
too much already. And besides there is nothing in all the world that can
give me more pain than I have already endured--than I suffer now!
Whatever may happen, it must be of new hope or of new courage to me!”
Van Helsing was looking at her fixedly as she spoke, and said, suddenly
but quietly:--

“But dear Madam Mina, are you not afraid; not for yourself, but for
others from yourself, after what has happened?” Her face grew set in its
lines, but her eyes shone with the devotion of a martyr as she
answered:--

“Ah no! for my mind is made up!”

“To what?” he asked gently, whilst we were all very still; for each in
our own way we had a sort of vague idea of what she meant. Her answer
came with direct simplicity, as though she were simply stating a fact:--

“Because if I find in myself--and I shall watch keenly for it--a sign of
harm to any that I love, I shall die!”

“You would not kill yourself?” he asked, hoarsely.

“I would; if there were no friend who loved me, who would save me such a
pain, and so desperate an effort!” She looked at him meaningly as she
spoke. He was sitting down; but now he rose and came close to her and
put his hand on her head as he said solemnly:

“My child, there is such an one if it were for your good. For myself I
could hold it in my account with God to find such an euthanasia for you,
even at this moment if it were best. Nay, were it safe! But my
child----” For a moment he seemed choked, and a great sob rose in his
throat; he gulped it down and went on:--

“There are here some who would stand between you and death. You must not
die. You must not die by any hand; but least of all by your own. Until
the other, who has fouled your sweet life, is true dead you must not
die; for if he is still with the quick Un-Dead, your death would make
you even as he is. No, you must live! You must struggle and strive to
live, though death would seem a boon unspeakable. You must fight Death
himself, though he come to you in pain or in joy; by the day, or the
night; in safety or in peril! On your living soul I charge you that you
do not die--nay, nor think of death--till this great evil be past.” The
poor dear grew white as death, and shock and shivered, as I have seen a
quicksand shake and shiver at the incoming of the tide. We were all
silent; we could do nothing. At length she grew more calm and turning to
him said, sweetly, but oh! so sorrowfully, as she held out her hand:--

“I promise you, my dear friend, that if God will let me live, I shall
strive to do so; till, if it may be in His good time, this horror may
have passed away from me.” She was so good and brave that we all felt
that our hearts were strengthened to work and endure for her, and we
began to discuss what we were to do. I told her that she was to have all
the papers in the safe, and all the papers or diaries and phonographs we
might hereafter use; and was to keep the record as she had done before.
She was pleased with the prospect of anything to do--if “pleased” could
be used in connection with so grim an interest.

As usual Van Helsing had thought ahead of everyone else, and was
prepared with an exact ordering of our work.

“It is perhaps well,” he said, “that at our meeting after our visit to
Carfax we decided not to do anything with the earth-boxes that lay
there. Had we done so, the Count must have guessed our purpose, and
would doubtless have taken measures in advance to frustrate such an
effort with regard to the others; but now he does not know our
intentions. Nay, more, in all probability, he does not know that such a
power exists to us as can sterilise his lairs, so that he cannot use
them as of old. We are now so much further advanced in our knowledge as
to their disposition that, when we have examined the house in
Piccadilly, we may track the very last of them. To-day, then, is ours;
and in it rests our hope. The sun that rose on our sorrow this morning
guards us in its course. Until it sets to-night, that monster must
retain whatever form he now has. He is confined within the limitations
of his earthly envelope. He cannot melt into thin air nor disappear
through cracks or chinks or crannies. If he go through a doorway, he
must open the door like a mortal. And so we have this day to hunt out
all his lairs and sterilise them. So we shall, if we have not yet catch
him and destroy him, drive him to bay in some place where the catching
and the destroying shall be, in time, sure.” Here I started up for I
could not contain myself at the thought that the minutes and seconds so
preciously laden with Mina’s life and happiness were flying from us,
since whilst we talked action was impossible. But Van Helsing held up
his hand warningly. “Nay, friend Jonathan,” he said, “in this, the
quickest way home is the longest way, so your proverb say. We shall all
act and act with desperate quick, when the time has come. But think, in
all probable the key of the situation is in that house in Piccadilly.
The Count may have many houses which he has bought. Of them he will have
deeds of purchase, keys and other things. He will have paper that he
write on; he will have his book of cheques. There are many belongings
that he must have somewhere; why not in this place so central, so quiet,
where he come and go by the front or the back at all hour, when in the
very vast of the traffic there is none to notice. We shall go there and
search that house; and when we learn what it holds, then we do what our
friend Arthur call, in his phrases of hunt ‘stop the earths’ and so we
run down our old fox--so? is it not?”

“Then let us come at once,” I cried, “we are wasting the precious,
precious time!” The Professor did not move, but simply said:--

“And how are we to get into that house in Piccadilly?”

“Any way!” I cried. “We shall break in if need be.”

“And your police; where will they be, and what will they say?”

I was staggered; but I knew that if he wished to delay he had a good
reason for it. So I said, as quietly as I could:--

“Don’t wait more than need be; you know, I am sure, what torture I am
in.”

“Ah, my child, that I do; and indeed there is no wish of me to add to
your anguish. But just think, what can we do, until all the world be at
movement. Then will come our time. I have thought and thought, and it
seems to me that the simplest way is the best of all. Now we wish to get
into the house, but we have no key; is it not so?” I nodded.

“Now suppose that you were, in truth, the owner of that house, and could
not still get in; and think there was to you no conscience of the
housebreaker, what would you do?”

“I should get a respectable locksmith, and set him to work to pick the
lock for me.”

“And your police, they would interfere, would they not?”

“Oh, no! not if they knew the man was properly employed.”

“Then,” he looked at me as keenly as he spoke, “all that is in doubt is
the conscience of the employer, and the belief of your policemen as to
whether or no that employer has a good conscience or a bad one. Your
police must indeed be zealous men and clever--oh, so clever!--in reading
the heart, that they trouble themselves in such matter. No, no, my
friend Jonathan, you go take the lock off a hundred empty house in this
your London, or of any city in the world; and if you do it as such
things are rightly done, and at the time such things are rightly done,
no one will interfere. I have read of a gentleman who owned a so fine
house in London, and when he went for months of summer to Switzerland
and lock up his house, some burglar came and broke window at back and
got in. Then he went and made open the shutters in front and walk out
and in through the door, before the very eyes of the police. Then he
have an auction in that house, and advertise it, and put up big notice;
and when the day come he sell off by a great auctioneer all the goods of
that other man who own them. Then he go to a builder, and he sell him
that house, making an agreement that he pull it down and take all away
within a certain time. And your police and other authority help him all
they can. And when that owner come back from his holiday in Switzerland
he find only an empty hole where his house had been. This was all done
_en règle_; and in our work we shall be _en règle_ too. We shall not go
so early that the policemen who have then little to think of, shall deem
it strange; but we shall go after ten o’clock, when there are many
about, and such things would be done were we indeed owners of the
house.”

I could not but see how right he was and the terrible despair of Mina’s
face became relaxed a thought; there was hope in such good counsel. Van
Helsing went on:--

“When once within that house we may find more clues; at any rate some of
us can remain there whilst the rest find the other places where there be
more earth-boxes--at Bermondsey and Mile End.”

Lord Godalming stood up. “I can be of some use here,” he said. “I shall
wire to my people to have horses and carriages where they will be most
convenient.”

“Look here, old fellow,” said Morris, “it is a capital idea to have all
ready in case we want to go horsebacking; but don’t you think that one
of your snappy carriages with its heraldic adornments in a byway of
Walworth or Mile End would attract too much attention for our purposes?
It seems to me that we ought to take cabs when we go south or east; and
even leave them somewhere near the neighbourhood we are going to.”

“Friend Quincey is right!” said the Professor. “His head is what you
call in plane with the horizon. It is a difficult thing that we go to
do, and we do not want no peoples to watch us if so it may.”

Mina took a growing interest in everything and I was rejoiced to see
that the exigency of affairs was helping her to forget for a time the
terrible experience of the night. She was very, very pale--almost
ghastly, and so thin that her lips were drawn away, showing her teeth in
somewhat of prominence. I did not mention this last, lest it should give
her needless pain; but it made my blood run cold in my veins to think of
what had occurred with poor Lucy when the Count had sucked her blood. As
yet there was no sign of the teeth growing sharper; but the time as yet
was short, and there was time for fear.

When we came to the discussion of the sequence of our efforts and of the
disposition of our forces, there were new sources of doubt. It was
finally agreed that before starting for Piccadilly we should destroy the
Count’s lair close at hand. In case he should find it out too soon, we
should thus be still ahead of him in our work of destruction; and his
presence in his purely material shape, and at his weakest, might give us
some new clue.

As to the disposal of forces, it was suggested by the Professor that,
after our visit to Carfax, we should all enter the house in Piccadilly;
that the two doctors and I should remain there, whilst Lord Godalming
and Quincey found the lairs at Walworth and Mile End and destroyed them.
It was possible, if not likely, the Professor urged, that the Count
might appear in Piccadilly during the day, and that if so we might be
able to cope with him then and there. At any rate, we might be able to
follow him in force. To this plan I strenuously objected, and so far as
my going was concerned, for I said that I intended to stay and protect
Mina, I thought that my mind was made up on the subject; but Mina would
not listen to my objection. She said that there might be some law matter
in which I could be useful; that amongst the Count’s papers might be
some clue which I could understand out of my experience in Transylvania;
and that, as it was, all the strength we could muster was required to
cope with the Count’s extraordinary power. I had to give in, for Mina’s
resolution was fixed; she said that it was the last hope for _her_ that
we should all work together. “As for me,” she said, “I have no fear.
Things have been as bad as they can be; and whatever may happen must
have in it some element of hope or comfort. Go, my husband! God can, if
He wishes it, guard me as well alone as with any one present.” So I
started up crying out: “Then in God’s name let us come at once, for we
are losing time. The Count may come to Piccadilly earlier than we
think.”

“Not so!” said Van Helsing, holding up his hand.

“But why?” I asked.

“Do you forget,” he said, with actually a smile, “that last night he
banqueted heavily, and will sleep late?”

Did I forget! shall I ever--can I ever! Can any of us ever forget that
terrible scene! Mina struggled hard to keep her brave countenance; but
the pain overmastered her and she put her hands before her face, and
shuddered whilst she moaned. Van Helsing had not intended to recall her
frightful experience. He had simply lost sight of her and her part in
the affair in his intellectual effort. When it struck him what he said,
he was horrified at his thoughtlessness and tried to comfort her. “Oh,
Madam Mina,” he said, “dear, dear Madam Mina, alas! that I of all who so
reverence you should have said anything so forgetful. These stupid old
lips of mine and this stupid old head do not deserve so; but you will
forget it, will you not?” He bent low beside her as he spoke; she took
his hand, and looking at him through her tears, said hoarsely:--

“No, I shall not forget, for it is well that I remember; and with it I
have so much in memory of you that is sweet, that I take it all
together. Now, you must all be going soon. Breakfast is ready, and we
must all eat that we may be strong.”

Breakfast was a strange meal to us all. We tried to be cheerful and
encourage each other, and Mina was the brightest and most cheerful of
us. When it was over, Van Helsing stood up and said:--

“Now, my dear friends, we go forth to our terrible enterprise. Are we
all armed, as we were on that night when first we visited our enemy’s
lair; armed against ghostly as well as carnal attack?” We all assured
him. “Then it is well. Now, Madam Mina, you are in any case _quite_ safe
here until the sunset; and before then we shall return--if---- We shall
return! But before we go let me see you armed against personal attack. I
have myself, since you came down, prepared your chamber by the placing
of things of which we know, so that He may not enter. Now let me guard
yourself. On your forehead I touch this piece of Sacred Wafer in the
name of the Father, the Son, and----”

There was a fearful scream which almost froze our hearts to hear. As he
had placed the Wafer on Mina’s forehead, it had seared it--had burned
into the flesh as though it had been a piece of white-hot metal. My poor
darling’s brain had told her the significance of the fact as quickly as
her nerves received the pain of it; and the two so overwhelmed her that
her overwrought nature had its voice in that dreadful scream. But the
words to her thought came quickly; the echo of the scream had not ceased
to ring on the air when there came the reaction, and she sank on her
knees on the floor in an agony of abasement. Pulling her beautiful hair
over her face, as the leper of old his mantle, she wailed out:--

“Unclean! Unclean! Even the Almighty shuns my polluted flesh! I must
bear this mark of shame upon my forehead until the Judgment Day.” They
all paused. I had thrown myself beside her in an agony of helpless
grief, and putting my arms around held her tight. For a few minutes our
sorrowful hearts beat together, whilst the friends around us turned away
their eyes that ran tears silently. Then Van Helsing turned and said
gravely; so gravely that I could not help feeling that he was in some
way inspired, and was stating things outside himself:--

“It may be that you may have to bear that mark till God himself see fit,
as He most surely shall, on the Judgment Day, to redress all wrongs of
the earth and of His children that He has placed thereon. And oh, Madam
Mina, my dear, my dear, may we who love you be there to see, when that
red scar, the sign of God’s knowledge of what has been, shall pass away,
and leave your forehead as pure as the heart we know. For so surely as
we live, that scar shall pass away when God sees right to lift the
burden that is hard upon us. Till then we bear our Cross, as His Son did
in obedience to His Will. It may be that we are chosen instruments of
His good pleasure, and that we ascend to His bidding as that other
through stripes and shame; through tears and blood; through doubts and
fears, and all that makes the difference between God and man.”

There was hope in his words, and comfort; and they made for resignation.
Mina and I both felt so, and simultaneously we each took one of the old
man’s hands and bent over and kissed it. Then without a word we all
knelt down together, and, all holding hands, swore to be true to each
other. We men pledged ourselves to raise the veil of sorrow from the
head of her whom, each in his own way, we loved; and we prayed for help
and guidance in the terrible task which lay before us.

It was then time to start. So I said farewell to Mina, a parting which
neither of us shall forget to our dying day; and we set out.

To one thing I have made up my mind: if we find out that Mina must be a
vampire in the end, then she shall not go into that unknown and terrible
land alone. I suppose it is thus that in old times one vampire meant
many; just as their hideous bodies could only rest in sacred earth, so
the holiest love was the recruiting sergeant for their ghastly ranks.

We entered Carfax without trouble and found all things the same as on
the first occasion. It was hard to believe that amongst so prosaic
surroundings of neglect and dust and decay there was any ground for such
fear as already we knew. Had not our minds been made up, and had there
not been terrible memories to spur us on, we could hardly have proceeded
with our task. We found no papers, or any sign of use in the house; and
in the old chapel the great boxes looked just as we had seen them last.
Dr. Van Helsing said to us solemnly as we stood before them:--

“And now, my friends, we have a duty here to do. We must sterilise this
earth, so sacred of holy memories, that he has brought from a far
distant land for such fell use. He has chosen this earth because it has
been holy. Thus we defeat him with his own weapon, for we make it more
holy still. It was sanctified to such use of man, now we sanctify it to
God.” As he spoke he took from his bag a screwdriver and a wrench, and
very soon the top of one of the cases was thrown open. The earth smelled
musty and close; but we did not somehow seem to mind, for our attention
was concentrated on the Professor. Taking from his box a piece of the
Sacred Wafer he laid it reverently on the earth, and then shutting down
the lid began to screw it home, we aiding him as he worked.

One by one we treated in the same way each of the great boxes, and left
them as we had found them to all appearance; but in each was a portion
of the Host.

When we closed the door behind us, the Professor said solemnly:--

“So much is already done. If it may be that with all the others we can
be so successful, then the sunset of this evening may shine on Madam
Mina’s forehead all white as ivory and with no stain!”

As we passed across the lawn on our way to the station to catch our
train we could see the front of the asylum. I looked eagerly, and in the
window of my own room saw Mina. I waved my hand to her, and nodded to
tell that our work there was successfully accomplished. She nodded in
reply to show that she understood. The last I saw, she was waving her
hand in farewell. It was with a heavy heart that we sought the station
and just caught the train, which was steaming in as we reached the
platform.

I have written this in the train.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Piccadilly, 12:30 o’clock._--Just before we reached Fenchurch Street
Lord Godalming said to me:--

“Quincey and I will find a locksmith. You had better not come with us in
case there should be any difficulty; for under the circumstances it
wouldn’t seem so bad for us to break into an empty house. But you are a
solicitor and the Incorporated Law Society might tell you that you
should have known better.” I demurred as to my not sharing any danger
even of odium, but he went on: “Besides, it will attract less attention
if there are not too many of us. My title will make it all right with
the locksmith, and with any policeman that may come along. You had
better go with Jack and the Professor and stay in the Green Park,
somewhere in sight of the house; and when you see the door opened and
the smith has gone away, do you all come across. We shall be on the
lookout for you, and shall let you in.”

“The advice is good!” said Van Helsing, so we said no more. Godalming
and Morris hurried off in a cab, we following in another. At the corner
of Arlington Street our contingent got out and strolled into the Green
Park. My heart beat as I saw the house on which so much of our hope was
centred, looming up grim and silent in its deserted condition amongst
its more lively and spruce-looking neighbours. We sat down on a bench
within good view, and began to smoke cigars so as to attract as little
attention as possible. The minutes seemed to pass with leaden feet as we
waited for the coming of the others.

At length we saw a four-wheeler drive up. Out of it, in leisurely
fashion, got Lord Godalming and Morris; and down from the box descended
a thick-set working man with his rush-woven basket of tools. Morris paid
the cabman, who touched his hat and drove away. Together the two
ascended the steps, and Lord Godalming pointed out what he wanted done.
The workman took off his coat leisurely and hung it on one of the spikes
of the rail, saying something to a policeman who just then sauntered
along. The policeman nodded acquiescence, and the man kneeling down
placed his bag beside him. After searching through it, he took out a
selection of tools which he produced to lay beside him in orderly
fashion. Then he stood up, looked into the keyhole, blew into it, and
turning to his employers, made some remark. Lord Godalming smiled, and
the man lifted a good-sized bunch of keys; selecting one of them, he
began to probe the lock, as if feeling his way with it. After fumbling
about for a bit he tried a second, and then a third. All at once the
door opened under a slight push from him, and he and the two others
entered the hall. We sat still; my own cigar burnt furiously, but Van
Helsing’s went cold altogether. We waited patiently as we saw the
workman come out and bring in his bag. Then he held the door partly
open, steadying it with his knees, whilst he fitted a key to the lock.
This he finally handed to Lord Godalming, who took out his purse and
gave him something. The man touched his hat, took his bag, put on his
coat and departed; not a soul took the slightest notice of the whole
transaction.

When the man had fairly gone, we three crossed the street and knocked at
the door. It was immediately opened by Quincey Morris, beside whom stood
Lord Godalming lighting a cigar.

“The place smells so vilely,” said the latter as we came in. It did
indeed smell vilely--like the old chapel at Carfax--and with our
previous experience it was plain to us that the Count had been using the
place pretty freely. We moved to explore the house, all keeping together
in case of attack; for we knew we had a strong and wily enemy to deal
with, and as yet we did not know whether the Count might not be in the
house. In the dining-room, which lay at the back of the hall, we found
eight boxes of earth. Eight boxes only out of the nine, which we sought!
Our work was not over, and would never be until we should have found the
missing box. First we opened the shutters of the window which looked out
across a narrow stone-flagged yard at the blank face of a stable,
pointed to look like the front of a miniature house. There were no
windows in it, so we were not afraid of being over-looked. We did not
lose any time in examining the chests. With the tools which we had
brought with us we opened them, one by one, and treated them as we had
treated those others in the old chapel. It was evident to us that the
Count was not at present in the house, and we proceeded to search for
any of his effects.

After a cursory glance at the rest of the rooms, from basement to attic,
we came to the conclusion that the dining-room contained any effects
which might belong to the Count; and so we proceeded to minutely examine
them. They lay in a sort of orderly disorder on the great dining-room
table. There were title deeds of the Piccadilly house in a great bundle;
deeds of the purchase of the houses at Mile End and Bermondsey;
note-paper, envelopes, and pens and ink. All were covered up in thin
wrapping paper to keep them from the dust. There were also a clothes
brush, a brush and comb, and a jug and basin--the latter containing
dirty water which was reddened as if with blood. Last of all was a
little heap of keys of all sorts and sizes, probably those belonging to
the other houses. When we had examined this last find, Lord Godalming
and Quincey Morris taking accurate notes of the various addresses of the
houses in the East and the South, took with them the keys in a great
bunch, and set out to destroy the boxes in these places. The rest of us
are, with what patience we can, waiting their return--or the coming of
the Count.




CHAPTER XXIII

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY


_3 October._--The time seemed terribly long whilst we were waiting for
the coming of Godalming and Quincey Morris. The Professor tried to keep
our minds active by using them all the time. I could see his beneficent
purpose, by the side glances which he threw from time to time at Harker.
The poor fellow is overwhelmed in a misery that is appalling to see.
Last night he was a frank, happy-looking man, with strong, youthful
face, full of energy, and with dark brown hair. To-day he is a drawn,
haggard old man, whose white hair matches well with the hollow burning
eyes and grief-written lines of his face. His energy is still intact; in
fact, he is like a living flame. This may yet be his salvation, for, if
all go well, it will tide him over the despairing period; he will then,
in a kind of way, wake again to the realities of life. Poor fellow, I
thought my own trouble was bad enough, but his----! The Professor knows
this well enough, and is doing his best to keep his mind active. What he
has been saying was, under the circumstances, of absorbing interest. So
well as I can remember, here it is:--

“I have studied, over and over again since they came into my hands, all
the papers relating to this monster; and the more I have studied, the
greater seems the necessity to utterly stamp him out. All through there
are signs of his advance; not only of his power, but of his knowledge of
it. As I learned from the researches of my friend Arminus of Buda-Pesth,
he was in life a most wonderful man. Soldier, statesman, and
alchemist--which latter was the highest development of the
science-knowledge of his time. He had a mighty brain, a learning beyond
compare, and a heart that knew no fear and no remorse. He dared even to
attend the Scholomance, and there was no branch of knowledge of his time
that he did not essay. Well, in him the brain powers survived the
physical death; though it would seem that memory was not all complete.
In some faculties of mind he has been, and is, only a child; but he is
growing, and some things that were childish at the first are now of
man’s stature. He is experimenting, and doing it well; and if it had not
been that we have crossed his path he would be yet--he may be yet if we
fail--the father or furtherer of a new order of beings, whose road must
lead through Death, not Life.”

Harker groaned and said, “And this is all arrayed against my darling!
But how is he experimenting? The knowledge may help us to defeat him!”

“He has all along, since his coming, been trying his power, slowly but
surely; that big child-brain of his is working. Well for us, it is, as
yet, a child-brain; for had he dared, at the first, to attempt certain
things he would long ago have been beyond our power. However, he means
to succeed, and a man who has centuries before him can afford to wait
and to go slow. _Festina lente_ may well be his motto.”

“I fail to understand,” said Harker wearily. “Oh, do be more plain to
me! Perhaps grief and trouble are dulling my brain.”

The Professor laid his hand tenderly on his shoulder as he spoke:--

“Ah, my child, I will be plain. Do you not see how, of late, this
monster has been creeping into knowledge experimentally. How he has been
making use of the zoöphagous patient to effect his entry into friend
John’s home; for your Vampire, though in all afterwards he can come when
and how he will, must at the first make entry only when asked thereto by
an inmate. But these are not his most important experiments. Do we not
see how at the first all these so great boxes were moved by others. He
knew not then but that must be so. But all the time that so great
child-brain of his was growing, and he began to consider whether he
might not himself move the box. So he began to help; and then, when he
found that this be all-right, he try to move them all alone. And so he
progress, and he scatter these graves of him; and none but he know where
they are hidden. He may have intend to bury them deep in the ground. So
that he only use them in the night, or at such time as he can change his
form, they do him equal well; and none may know these are his
hiding-place! But, my child, do not despair; this knowledge come to him
just too late! Already all of his lairs but one be sterilise as for him;
and before the sunset this shall be so. Then he have no place where he
can move and hide. I delayed this morning that so we might be sure. Is
there not more at stake for us than for him? Then why we not be even
more careful than him? By my clock it is one hour and already, if all be
well, friend Arthur and Quincey are on their way to us. To-day is our
day, and we must go sure, if slow, and lose no chance. See! there are
five of us when those absent ones return.”

Whilst he was speaking we were startled by a knock at the hall door, the
double postman’s knock of the telegraph boy. We all moved out to the
hall with one impulse, and Van Helsing, holding up his hand to us to
keep silence, stepped to the door and opened it. The boy handed in a
despatch. The Professor closed the door again, and, after looking at the
direction, opened it and read aloud.

“Look out for D. He has just now, 12:45, come from Carfax hurriedly and
hastened towards the South. He seems to be going the round and may want
to see you: Mina.”

There was a pause, broken by Jonathan Harker’s voice:--

“Now, God be thanked, we shall soon meet!” Van Helsing turned to him
quickly and said:--

“God will act in His own way and time. Do not fear, and do not rejoice
as yet; for what we wish for at the moment may be our undoings.”

“I care for nothing now,” he answered hotly, “except to wipe out this
brute from the face of creation. I would sell my soul to do it!”

“Oh, hush, hush, my child!” said Van Helsing. “God does not purchase
souls in this wise; and the Devil, though he may purchase, does not keep
faith. But God is merciful and just, and knows your pain and your
devotion to that dear Madam Mina. Think you, how her pain would be
doubled, did she but hear your wild words. Do not fear any of us, we are
all devoted to this cause, and to-day shall see the end. The time is
coming for action; to-day this Vampire is limit to the powers of man,
and till sunset he may not change. It will take him time to arrive
here--see, it is twenty minutes past one--and there are yet some times
before he can hither come, be he never so quick. What we must hope for
is that my Lord Arthur and Quincey arrive first.”

About half an hour after we had received Mrs. Harker’s telegram, there
came a quiet, resolute knock at the hall door. It was just an ordinary
knock, such as is given hourly by thousands of gentlemen, but it made
the Professor’s heart and mine beat loudly. We looked at each other, and
together moved out into the hall; we each held ready to use our various
armaments--the spiritual in the left hand, the mortal in the right. Van
Helsing pulled back the latch, and, holding the door half open, stood
back, having both hands ready for action. The gladness of our hearts
must have shown upon our faces when on the step, close to the door, we
saw Lord Godalming and Quincey Morris. They came quickly in and closed
the door behind them, the former saying, as they moved along the
hall:--

“It is all right. We found both places; six boxes in each and we
destroyed them all!”

“Destroyed?” asked the Professor.

“For him!” We were silent for a minute, and then Quincey said:--

“There’s nothing to do but to wait here. If, however, he doesn’t turn up
by five o’clock, we must start off; for it won’t do to leave Mrs. Harker
alone after sunset.”

“He will be here before long now,” said Van Helsing, who had been
consulting his pocket-book. “_Nota bene_, in Madam’s telegram he went
south from Carfax, that means he went to cross the river, and he could
only do so at slack of tide, which should be something before one
o’clock. That he went south has a meaning for us. He is as yet only
suspicious; and he went from Carfax first to the place where he would
suspect interference least. You must have been at Bermondsey only a
short time before him. That he is not here already shows that he went to
Mile End next. This took him some time; for he would then have to be
carried over the river in some way. Believe me, my friends, we shall not
have long to wait now. We should have ready some plan of attack, so that
we may throw away no chance. Hush, there is no time now. Have all your
arms! Be ready!” He held up a warning hand as he spoke, for we all could
hear a key softly inserted in the lock of the hall door.

I could not but admire, even at such a moment, the way in which a
dominant spirit asserted itself. In all our hunting parties and
adventures in different parts of the world, Quincey Morris had always
been the one to arrange the plan of action, and Arthur and I had been
accustomed to obey him implicitly. Now, the old habit seemed to be
renewed instinctively. With a swift glance around the room, he at once
laid out our plan of attack, and, without speaking a word, with a
gesture, placed us each in position. Van Helsing, Harker, and I were
just behind the door, so that when it was opened the Professor could
guard it whilst we two stepped between the incomer and the door.
Godalming behind and Quincey in front stood just out of sight ready to
move in front of the window. We waited in a suspense that made the
seconds pass with nightmare slowness. The slow, careful steps came along
the hall; the Count was evidently prepared for some surprise--at least
he feared it.

Suddenly with a single bound he leaped into the room, winning a way past
us before any of us could raise a hand to stay him. There was something
so panther-like in the movement--something so unhuman, that it seemed
to sober us all from the shock of his coming. The first to act was
Harker, who, with a quick movement, threw himself before the door
leading into the room in the front of the house. As the Count saw us, a
horrible sort of snarl passed over his face, showing the eye-teeth long
and pointed; but the evil smile as quickly passed into a cold stare of
lion-like disdain. His expression again changed as, with a single
impulse, we all advanced upon him. It was a pity that we had not some
better organised plan of attack, for even at the moment I wondered what
we were to do. I did not myself know whether our lethal weapons would
avail us anything. Harker evidently meant to try the matter, for he had
ready his great Kukri knife and made a fierce and sudden cut at him. The
blow was a powerful one; only the diabolical quickness of the Count’s
leap back saved him. A second less and the trenchant blade had shorne
through his heart. As it was, the point just cut the cloth of his coat,
making a wide gap whence a bundle of bank-notes and a stream of gold
fell out. The expression of the Count’s face was so hellish, that for a
moment I feared for Harker, though I saw him throw the terrible knife
aloft again for another stroke. Instinctively I moved forward with a
protective impulse, holding the Crucifix and Wafer in my left hand. I
felt a mighty power fly along my arm; and it was without surprise that I
saw the monster cower back before a similar movement made spontaneously
by each one of us. It would be impossible to describe the expression of
hate and baffled malignity--of anger and hellish rage--which came over
the Count’s face. His waxen hue became greenish-yellow by the contrast
of his burning eyes, and the red scar on the forehead showed on the
pallid skin like a palpitating wound. The next instant, with a sinuous
dive he swept under Harker’s arm, ere his blow could fall, and, grasping
a handful of the money from the floor, dashed across the room, threw
himself at the window. Amid the crash and glitter of the falling glass,
he tumbled into the flagged area below. Through the sound of the
shivering glass I could hear the “ting” of the gold, as some of the
sovereigns fell on the flagging.

We ran over and saw him spring unhurt from the ground. He, rushing up
the steps, crossed the flagged yard, and pushed open the stable door.
There he turned and spoke to us:--

“You think to baffle me, you--with your pale faces all in a row, like
sheep in a butcher’s. You shall be sorry yet, each one of you! You think
you have left me without a place to rest; but I have more. My revenge is
just begun! I spread it over centuries, and time is on my side. Your
girls that you all love are mine already; and through them you and
others shall yet be mine--my creatures, to do my bidding and to be my
jackals when I want to feed. Bah!” With a contemptuous sneer, he passed
quickly through the door, and we heard the rusty bolt creak as he
fastened it behind him. A door beyond opened and shut. The first of us
to speak was the Professor, as, realising the difficulty of following
him through the stable, we moved toward the hall.

“We have learnt something--much! Notwithstanding his brave words, he
fears us; he fear time, he fear want! For if not, why he hurry so? His
very tone betray him, or my ears deceive. Why take that money? You
follow quick. You are hunters of wild beast, and understand it so. For
me, I make sure that nothing here may be of use to him, if so that he
return.” As he spoke he put the money remaining into his pocket; took
the title-deeds in the bundle as Harker had left them, and swept the
remaining things into the open fireplace, where he set fire to them with
a match.

Godalming and Morris had rushed out into the yard, and Harker had
lowered himself from the window to follow the Count. He had, however,
bolted the stable door; and by the time they had forced it open there
was no sign of him. Van Helsing and I tried to make inquiry at the back
of the house; but the mews was deserted and no one had seen him depart.

It was now late in the afternoon, and sunset was not far off. We had to
recognise that our game was up; with heavy hearts we agreed with the
Professor when he said:--

“Let us go back to Madam Mina--poor, poor dear Madam Mina. All we can do
just now is done; and we can there, at least, protect her. But we need
not despair. There is but one more earth-box, and we must try to find
it; when that is done all may yet be well.” I could see that he spoke as
bravely as he could to comfort Harker. The poor fellow was quite broken
down; now and again he gave a low groan which he could not suppress--he
was thinking of his wife.

With sad hearts we came back to my house, where we found Mrs. Harker
waiting us, with an appearance of cheerfulness which did honour to her
bravery and unselfishness. When she saw our faces, her own became as
pale as death: for a second or two her eyes were closed as if she were
in secret prayer; and then she said cheerfully:--

“I can never thank you all enough. Oh, my poor darling!” As she spoke,
she took her husband’s grey head in her hands and kissed it--“Lay your
poor head here and rest it. All will yet be well, dear! God will protect
us if He so will it in His good intent.” The poor fellow groaned. There
was no place for words in his sublime misery.

We had a sort of perfunctory supper together, and I think it cheered us
all up somewhat. It was, perhaps, the mere animal heat of food to hungry
people--for none of us had eaten anything since breakfast--or the sense
of companionship may have helped us; but anyhow we were all less
miserable, and saw the morrow as not altogether without hope. True to
our promise, we told Mrs. Harker everything which had passed; and
although she grew snowy white at times when danger had seemed to
threaten her husband, and red at others when his devotion to her was
manifested, she listened bravely and with calmness. When we came to the
part where Harker had rushed at the Count so recklessly, she clung to
her husband’s arm, and held it tight as though her clinging could
protect him from any harm that might come. She said nothing, however,
till the narration was all done, and matters had been brought right up
to the present time. Then without letting go her husband’s hand she
stood up amongst us and spoke. Oh, that I could give any idea of the
scene; of that sweet, sweet, good, good woman in all the radiant beauty
of her youth and animation, with the red scar on her forehead, of which
she was conscious, and which we saw with grinding of our
teeth--remembering whence and how it came; her loving kindness against
our grim hate; her tender faith against all our fears and doubting; and
we, knowing that so far as symbols went, she with all her goodness and
purity and faith, was outcast from God.

“Jonathan,” she said, and the word sounded like music on her lips it was
so full of love and tenderness, “Jonathan dear, and you all my true,
true friends, I want you to bear something in mind through all this
dreadful time. I know that you must fight--that you must destroy even as
you destroyed the false Lucy so that the true Lucy might live hereafter;
but it is not a work of hate. That poor soul who has wrought all this
misery is the saddest case of all. Just think what will be his joy when
he, too, is destroyed in his worser part that his better part may have
spiritual immortality. You must be pitiful to him, too, though it may
not hold your hands from his destruction.”

As she spoke I could see her husband’s face darken and draw together, as
though the passion in him were shrivelling his being to its core.
Instinctively the clasp on his wife’s hand grew closer, till his
knuckles looked white. She did not flinch from the pain which I knew she
must have suffered, but looked at him with eyes that were more appealing
than ever. As she stopped speaking he leaped to his feet, almost tearing
his hand from hers as he spoke:--

“May God give him into my hand just for long enough to destroy that
earthly life of him which we are aiming at. If beyond it I could send
his soul for ever and ever to burning hell I would do it!”

“Oh, hush! oh, hush! in the name of the good God. Don’t say such things,
Jonathan, my husband; or you will crush me with fear and horror. Just
think, my dear--I have been thinking all this long, long day of it--that
... perhaps ... some day ... I, too, may need such pity; and that some
other like you--and with equal cause for anger--may deny it to me! Oh,
my husband! my husband, indeed I would have spared you such a thought
had there been another way; but I pray that God may not have treasured
your wild words, except as the heart-broken wail of a very loving and
sorely stricken man. Oh, God, let these poor white hairs go in evidence
of what he has suffered, who all his life has done no wrong, and on whom
so many sorrows have come.”

We men were all in tears now. There was no resisting them, and we wept
openly. She wept, too, to see that her sweeter counsels had prevailed.
Her husband flung himself on his knees beside her, and putting his arms
round her, hid his face in the folds of her dress. Van Helsing beckoned
to us and we stole out of the room, leaving the two loving hearts alone
with their God.

Before they retired the Professor fixed up the room against any coming
of the Vampire, and assured Mrs. Harker that she might rest in peace.
She tried to school herself to the belief, and, manifestly for her
husband’s sake, tried to seem content. It was a brave struggle; and was,
I think and believe, not without its reward. Van Helsing had placed at
hand a bell which either of them was to sound in case of any emergency.
When they had retired, Quincey, Godalming, and I arranged that we should
sit up, dividing the night between us, and watch over the safety of the
poor stricken lady. The first watch falls to Quincey, so the rest of us
shall be off to bed as soon as we can. Godalming has already turned in,
for his is the second watch. Now that my work is done I, too, shall go
to bed.


_Jonathan Harker’s Journal._

_3-4 October, close to midnight._--I thought yesterday would never end.
There was over me a yearning for sleep, in some sort of blind belief
that to wake would be to find things changed, and that any change must
now be for the better. Before we parted, we discussed what our next step
was to be, but we could arrive at no result. All we knew was that one
earth-box remained, and that the Count alone knew where it was. If he
chooses to lie hidden, he may baffle us for years; and in the
meantime!--the thought is too horrible, I dare not think of it even now.
This I know: that if ever there was a woman who was all perfection, that
one is my poor wronged darling. I love her a thousand times more for her
sweet pity of last night, a pity that made my own hate of the monster
seem despicable. Surely God will not permit the world to be the poorer
by the loss of such a creature. This is hope to me. We are all drifting
reefwards now, and faith is our only anchor. Thank God! Mina is
sleeping, and sleeping without dreams. I fear what her dreams might be
like, with such terrible memories to ground them in. She has not been so
calm, within my seeing, since the sunset. Then, for a while, there came
over her face a repose which was like spring after the blasts of March.
I thought at the time that it was the softness of the red sunset on her
face, but somehow now I think it has a deeper meaning. I am not sleepy
myself, though I am weary--weary to death. However, I must try to sleep;
for there is to-morrow to think of, and there is no rest for me
until....

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--I must have fallen asleep, for I was awaked by Mina, who was
sitting up in bed, with a startled look on her face. I could see easily,
for we did not leave the room in darkness; she had placed a warning hand
over my mouth, and now she whispered in my ear:--

“Hush! there is someone in the corridor!” I got up softly, and crossing
the room, gently opened the door.

Just outside, stretched on a mattress, lay Mr. Morris, wide awake. He
raised a warning hand for silence as he whispered to me:--

“Hush! go back to bed; it is all right. One of us will be here all
night. We don’t mean to take any chances!”

His look and gesture forbade discussion, so I came back and told Mina.
She sighed and positively a shadow of a smile stole over her poor, pale
face as she put her arms round me and said softly:--

“Oh, thank God for good brave men!” With a sigh she sank back again to
sleep. I write this now as I am not sleepy, though I must try again.

       *       *       *       *       *

_4 October, morning._--Once again during the night I was wakened by
Mina. This time we had all had a good sleep, for the grey of the coming
dawn was making the windows into sharp oblongs, and the gas flame was
like a speck rather than a disc of light. She said to me hurriedly:--

“Go, call the Professor. I want to see him at once.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I have an idea. I suppose it must have come in the night, and matured
without my knowing it. He must hypnotise me before the dawn, and then I
shall be able to speak. Go quick, dearest; the time is getting close.” I
went to the door. Dr. Seward was resting on the mattress, and, seeing
me, he sprang to his feet.

“Is anything wrong?” he asked, in alarm.

“No,” I replied; “but Mina wants to see Dr. Van Helsing at once.”

“I will go,” he said, and hurried into the Professor’s room.

In two or three minutes later Van Helsing was in the room in his
dressing-gown, and Mr. Morris and Lord Godalming were with Dr. Seward at
the door asking questions. When the Professor saw Mina smile--a
positive smile ousted the anxiety of his face; he rubbed his hands as he
said:--

“Oh, my dear Madam Mina, this is indeed a change. See! friend Jonathan,
we have got our dear Madam Mina, as of old, back to us to-day!” Then
turning to her, he said, cheerfully: “And what am I do for you? For at
this hour you do not want me for nothings.”

“I want you to hypnotise me!” she said. “Do it before the dawn, for I
feel that then I can speak, and speak freely. Be quick, for the time is
short!” Without a word he motioned her to sit up in bed.

Looking fixedly at her, he commenced to make passes in front of her,
from over the top of her head downward, with each hand in turn. Mina
gazed at him fixedly for a few minutes, during which my own heart beat
like a trip hammer, for I felt that some crisis was at hand. Gradually
her eyes closed, and she sat, stock still; only by the gentle heaving of
her bosom could one know that she was alive. The Professor made a few
more passes and then stopped, and I could see that his forehead was
covered with great beads of perspiration. Mina opened her eyes; but she
did not seem the same woman. There was a far-away look in her eyes, and
her voice had a sad dreaminess which was new to me. Raising his hand to
impose silence, the Professor motioned to me to bring the others in.
They came on tip-toe, closing the door behind them, and stood at the
foot of the bed, looking on. Mina appeared not to see them. The
stillness was broken by Van Helsing’s voice speaking in a low level tone
which would not break the current of her thoughts:--

“Where are you?” The answer came in a neutral way:--

“I do not know. Sleep has no place it can call its own.” For several
minutes there was silence. Mina sat rigid, and the Professor stood
staring at her fixedly; the rest of us hardly dared to breathe. The room
was growing lighter; without taking his eyes from Mina’s face, Dr. Van
Helsing motioned me to pull up the blind. I did so, and the day seemed
just upon us. A red streak shot up, and a rosy light seemed to diffuse
itself through the room. On the instant the Professor spoke again:--

“Where are you now?” The answer came dreamily, but with intention; it
were as though she were interpreting something. I have heard her use the
same tone when reading her shorthand notes.

“I do not know. It is all strange to me!”

“What do you see?”

“I can see nothing; it is all dark.”

“What do you hear?” I could detect the strain in the Professor’s patient
voice.

“The lapping of water. It is gurgling by, and little waves leap. I can
hear them on the outside.”

“Then you are on a ship?” We all looked at each other, trying to glean
something each from the other. We were afraid to think. The answer came
quick:--

“Oh, yes!”

“What else do you hear?”

“The sound of men stamping overhead as they run about. There is the
creaking of a chain, and the loud tinkle as the check of the capstan
falls into the rachet.”

“What are you doing?”

“I am still--oh, so still. It is like death!” The voice faded away into
a deep breath as of one sleeping, and the open eyes closed again.

By this time the sun had risen, and we were all in the full light of
day. Dr. Van Helsing placed his hands on Mina’s shoulders, and laid her
head down softly on her pillow. She lay like a sleeping child for a few
moments, and then, with a long sigh, awoke and stared in wonder to see
us all around her. “Have I been talking in my sleep?” was all she said.
She seemed, however, to know the situation without telling, though she
was eager to know what she had told. The Professor repeated the
conversation, and she said:--

“Then there is not a moment to lose: it may not be yet too late!” Mr.
Morris and Lord Godalming started for the door but the Professor’s calm
voice called them back:--

“Stay, my friends. That ship, wherever it was, was weighing anchor
whilst she spoke. There are many ships weighing anchor at the moment in
your so great Port of London. Which of them is it that you seek? God be
thanked that we have once again a clue, though whither it may lead us we
know not. We have been blind somewhat; blind after the manner of men,
since when we can look back we see what we might have seen looking
forward if we had been able to see what we might have seen! Alas, but
that sentence is a puddle; is it not? We can know now what was in the
Count’s mind, when he seize that money, though Jonathan’s so fierce
knife put him in the danger that even he dread. He meant escape. Hear
me, ESCAPE! He saw that with but one earth-box left, and a pack of men
following like dogs after a fox, this London was no place for him. He
have take his last earth-box on board a ship, and he leave the land. He
think to escape, but no! we follow him. Tally Ho! as friend Arthur would
say when he put on his red frock! Our old fox is wily; oh! so wily, and
we must follow with wile. I, too, am wily and I think his mind in a
little while. In meantime we may rest and in peace, for there are waters
between us which he do not want to pass, and which he could not if he
would--unless the ship were to touch the land, and then only at full or
slack tide. See, and the sun is just rose, and all day to sunset is to
us. Let us take bath, and dress, and have breakfast which we all need,
and which we can eat comfortably since he be not in the same land with
us.” Mina looked at him appealingly as she asked:--

“But why need we seek him further, when he is gone away from us?” He
took her hand and patted it as he replied:--

“Ask me nothings as yet. When we have breakfast, then I answer all
questions.” He would say no more, and we separated to dress.

After breakfast Mina repeated her question. He looked at her gravely for
a minute and then said sorrowfully:--

“Because my dear, dear Madam Mina, now more than ever must we find him
even if we have to follow him to the jaws of Hell!” She grew paler as
she asked faintly:--

“Why?”

“Because,” he answered solemnly, “he can live for centuries, and you are
but mortal woman. Time is now to be dreaded--since once he put that mark
upon your throat.”

I was just in time to catch her as she fell forward in a faint.




CHAPTER XXIV

DR. SEWARD’S PHONOGRAPH DIARY, SPOKEN BY VAN HELSING


This to Jonathan Harker.

You are to stay with your dear Madam Mina. We shall go to make our
search--if I can call it so, for it is not search but knowing, and we
seek confirmation only. But do you stay and take care of her to-day.
This is your best and most holiest office. This day nothing can find him
here. Let me tell you that so you will know what we four know already,
for I have tell them. He, our enemy, have gone away; he have gone back
to his Castle in Transylvania. I know it so well, as if a great hand of
fire wrote it on the wall. He have prepare for this in some way, and
that last earth-box was ready to ship somewheres. For this he took the
money; for this he hurry at the last, lest we catch him before the sun
go down. It was his last hope, save that he might hide in the tomb that
he think poor Miss Lucy, being as he thought like him, keep open to him.
But there was not of time. When that fail he make straight for his last
resource--his last earth-work I might say did I wish _double entente_.
He is clever, oh, so clever! he know that his game here was finish; and
so he decide he go back home. He find ship going by the route he came,
and he go in it. We go off now to find what ship, and whither bound;
when we have discover that, we come back and tell you all. Then we will
comfort you and poor dear Madam Mina with new hope. For it will be hope
when you think it over: that all is not lost. This very creature that we
pursue, he take hundreds of years to get so far as London; and yet in
one day, when we know of the disposal of him we drive him out. He is
finite, though he is powerful to do much harm and suffers not as we do.
But we are strong, each in our purpose; and we are all more strong
together. Take heart afresh, dear husband of Madam Mina. This battle is
but begun, and in the end we shall win--so sure as that God sits on high
to watch over His children. Therefore be of much comfort till we return.

VAN HELSING.


_Jonathan Harker’s Journal._

_4 October._--When I read to Mina, Van Helsing’s message in the
phonograph, the poor girl brightened up considerably. Already the
certainty that the Count is out of the country has given her comfort;
and comfort is strength to her. For my own part, now that his horrible
danger is not face to face with us, it seems almost impossible to
believe in it. Even my own terrible experiences in Castle Dracula seem
like a long-forgotten dream. Here in the crisp autumn air in the bright
sunlight----

Alas! how can I disbelieve! In the midst of my thought my eye fell on
the red scar on my poor darling’s white forehead. Whilst that lasts,
there can be no disbelief. And afterwards the very memory of it will
keep faith crystal clear. Mina and I fear to be idle, so we have been
over all the diaries again and again. Somehow, although the reality
seems greater each time, the pain and the fear seem less. There is
something of a guiding purpose manifest throughout, which is comforting.
Mina says that perhaps we are the instruments of ultimate good. It may
be! I shall try to think as she does. We have never spoken to each other
yet of the future. It is better to wait till we see the Professor and
the others after their investigations.

The day is running by more quickly than I ever thought a day could run
for me again. It is now three o’clock.


_Mina Harker’s Journal._

_5 October, 5 p. m._--Our meeting for report. Present: Professor Van
Helsing, Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward, Mr. Quincey Morris, Jonathan
Harker, Mina Harker.

Dr. Van Helsing described what steps were taken during the day to
discover on what boat and whither bound Count Dracula made his escape:--

“As I knew that he wanted to get back to Transylvania, I felt sure that
he must go by the Danube mouth; or by somewhere in the Black Sea, since
by that way he come. It was a dreary blank that was before us. _Omne
ignotum pro magnifico_; and so with heavy hearts we start to find what
ships leave for the Black Sea last night. He was in sailing ship, since
Madam Mina tell of sails being set. These not so important as to go in
your list of the shipping in the _Times_, and so we go, by suggestion of
Lord Godalming, to your Lloyd’s, where are note of all ships that sail,
however so small. There we find that only one Black-Sea-bound ship go
out with the tide. She is the _Czarina Catherine_, and she sail from
Doolittle’s Wharf for Varna, and thence on to other parts and up the
Danube. ‘Soh!’ said I, ‘this is the ship whereon is the Count.’ So off
we go to Doolittle’s Wharf, and there we find a man in an office of wood
so small that the man look bigger than the office. From him we inquire
of the goings of the _Czarina Catherine_. He swear much, and he red face
and loud of voice, but he good fellow all the same; and when Quincey
give him something from his pocket which crackle as he roll it up, and
put it in a so small bag which he have hid deep in his clothing, he
still better fellow and humble servant to us. He come with us, and ask
many men who are rough and hot; these be better fellows too when they
have been no more thirsty. They say much of blood and bloom, and of
others which I comprehend not, though I guess what they mean; but
nevertheless they tell us all things which we want to know.

“They make known to us among them, how last afternoon at about five
o’clock comes a man so hurry. A tall man, thin and pale, with high nose
and teeth so white, and eyes that seem to be burning. That he be all in
black, except that he have a hat of straw which suit not him or the
time. That he scatter his money in making quick inquiry as to what ship
sails for the Black Sea and for where. Some took him to the office and
then to the ship, where he will not go aboard but halt at shore end of
gang-plank, and ask that the captain come to him. The captain come, when
told that he will be pay well; and though he swear much at the first he
agree to term. Then the thin man go and some one tell him where horse
and cart can be hired. He go there and soon he come again, himself
driving cart on which a great box; this he himself lift down, though it
take several to put it on truck for the ship. He give much talk to
captain as to how and where his box is to be place; but the captain like
it not and swear at him in many tongues, and tell him that if he like he
can come and see where it shall be. But he say ‘no’; that he come not
yet, for that he have much to do. Whereupon the captain tell him that he
had better be quick--with blood--for that his ship will leave the
place--of blood--before the turn of the tide--with blood. Then the thin
man smile and say that of course he must go when he think fit; but he
will be surprise if he go quite so soon. The captain swear again,
polyglot, and the thin man make him bow, and thank him, and say that he
will so far intrude on his kindness as to come aboard before the
sailing. Final the captain, more red than ever, and in more tongues tell
him that he doesn’t want no Frenchmen--with bloom upon them and also
with blood--in his ship--with blood on her also. And so, after asking
where there might be close at hand a ship where he might purchase ship
forms, he departed.

“No one knew where he went ‘or bloomin’ well cared,’ as they said, for
they had something else to think of--well with blood again; for it soon
became apparent to all that the _Czarina Catherine_ would not sail as
was expected. A thin mist began to creep up from the river, and it grew,
and grew; till soon a dense fog enveloped the ship and all around her.
The captain swore polyglot--very polyglot--polyglot with bloom and
blood; but he could do nothing. The water rose and rose; and he began to
fear that he would lose the tide altogether. He was in no friendly mood,
when just at full tide, the thin man came up the gang-plank again and
asked to see where his box had been stowed. Then the captain replied
that he wished that he and his box--old and with much bloom and
blood--were in hell. But the thin man did not be offend, and went down
with the mate and saw where it was place, and came up and stood awhile
on deck in fog. He must have come off by himself, for none notice him.
Indeed they thought not of him; for soon the fog begin to melt away, and
all was clear again. My friends of the thirst and the language that was
of bloom and blood laughed, as they told how the captain’s swears
exceeded even his usual polyglot, and was more than ever full of
picturesque, when on questioning other mariners who were on movement up
and down on the river that hour, he found that few of them had seen any
of fog at all, except where it lay round the wharf. However, the ship
went out on the ebb tide; and was doubtless by morning far down the
river mouth. She was by then, when they told us, well out to sea.

“And so, my dear Madam Mina, it is that we have to rest for a time, for
our enemy is on the sea, with the fog at his command, on his way to the
Danube mouth. To sail a ship takes time, go she never so quick; and when
we start we go on land more quick, and we meet him there. Our best hope
is to come on him when in the box between sunrise and sunset; for then
he can make no struggle, and we may deal with him as we should. There
are days for us, in which we can make ready our plan. We know all about
where he go; for we have seen the owner of the ship, who have shown us
invoices and all papers that can be. The box we seek is to be landed in
Varna, and to be given to an agent, one Ristics who will there present
his credentials; and so our merchant friend will have done his part.
When he ask if there be any wrong, for that so, he can telegraph and
have inquiry made at Varna, we say ‘no’; for what is to be done is not
for police or of the customs. It must be done by us alone and in our own
way.”

When Dr. Van Helsing had done speaking, I asked him if he were certain
that the Count had remained on board the ship. He replied: “We have the
best proof of that: your own evidence, when in the hypnotic trance this
morning.” I asked him again if it were really necessary that they should
pursue the Count, for oh! I dread Jonathan leaving me, and I know that
he would surely go if the others went. He answered in growing passion,
at first quietly. As he went on, however, he grew more angry and more
forceful, till in the end we could not but see wherein was at least some
of that personal dominance which made him so long a master amongst
men:--

“Yes, it is necessary--necessary--necessary! For your sake in the first,
and then for the sake of humanity. This monster has done much harm
already, in the narrow scope where he find himself, and in the short
time when as yet he was only as a body groping his so small measure in
darkness and not knowing. All this have I told these others; you, my
dear Madam Mina, will learn it in the phonograph of my friend John, or
in that of your husband. I have told them how the measure of leaving his
own barren land--barren of peoples--and coming to a new land where life
of man teems till they are like the multitude of standing corn, was the
work of centuries. Were another of the Un-Dead, like him, to try to do
what he has done, perhaps not all the centuries of the world that have
been, or that will be, could aid him. With this one, all the forces of
nature that are occult and deep and strong must have worked together in
some wondrous way. The very place, where he have been alive, Un-Dead for
all these centuries, is full of strangeness of the geologic and chemical
world. There are deep caverns and fissures that reach none know whither.
There have been volcanoes, some of whose openings still send out waters
of strange properties, and gases that kill or make to vivify. Doubtless,
there is something magnetic or electric in some of these combinations of
occult forces which work for physical life in strange way; and in
himself were from the first some great qualities. In a hard and warlike
time he was celebrate that he have more iron nerve, more subtle brain,
more braver heart, than any man. In him some vital principle have in
strange way found their utmost; and as his body keep strong and grow and
thrive, so his brain grow too. All this without that diabolic aid which
is surely to him; for it have to yield to the powers that come from,
and are, symbolic of good. And now this is what he is to us. He have
infect you--oh, forgive me, my dear, that I must say such; but it is for
good of you that I speak. He infect you in such wise, that even if he do
no more, you have only to live--to live in your own old, sweet way; and
so in time, death, which is of man’s common lot and with God’s sanction,
shall make you like to him. This must not be! We have sworn together
that it must not. Thus are we ministers of God’s own wish: that the
world, and men for whom His Son die, will not be given over to monsters,
whose very existence would defame Him. He have allowed us to redeem one
soul already, and we go out as the old knights of the Cross to redeem
more. Like them we shall travel towards the sunrise; and like them, if
we fall, we fall in good cause.” He paused and I said:--

“But will not the Count take his rebuff wisely? Since he has been driven
from England, will he not avoid it, as a tiger does the village from
which he has been hunted?”

“Aha!” he said, “your simile of the tiger good, for me, and I shall
adopt him. Your man-eater, as they of India call the tiger who has once
tasted blood of the human, care no more for the other prey, but prowl
unceasing till he get him. This that we hunt from our village is a
tiger, too, a man-eater, and he never cease to prowl. Nay, in himself he
is not one to retire and stay afar. In his life, his living life, he go
over the Turkey frontier and attack his enemy on his own ground; he be
beaten back, but did he stay? No! He come again, and again, and again.
Look at his persistence and endurance. With the child-brain that was to
him he have long since conceive the idea of coming to a great city. What
does he do? He find out the place of all the world most of promise for
him. Then he deliberately set himself down to prepare for the task. He
find in patience just how is his strength, and what are his powers. He
study new tongues. He learn new social life; new environment of old
ways, the politic, the law, the finance, the science, the habit of a new
land and a new people who have come to be since he was. His glimpse that
he have had, whet his appetite only and enkeen his desire. Nay, it help
him to grow as to his brain; for it all prove to him how right he was at
the first in his surmises. He have done this alone; all alone! from a
ruin tomb in a forgotten land. What more may he not do when the greater
world of thought is open to him. He that can smile at death, as we know
him; who can flourish in the midst of diseases that kill off whole
peoples. Oh, if such an one was to come from God, and not the Devil,
what a force for good might he not be in this old world of ours. But we
are pledged to set the world free. Our toil must be in silence, and our
efforts all in secret; for in this enlightened age, when men believe not
even what they see, the doubting of wise men would be his greatest
strength. It would be at once his sheath and his armour, and his weapons
to destroy us, his enemies, who are willing to peril even our own souls
for the safety of one we love--for the good of mankind, and for the
honour and glory of God.”

After a general discussion it was determined that for to-night nothing
be definitely settled; that we should all sleep on the facts, and try to
think out the proper conclusions. To-morrow, at breakfast, we are to
meet again, and, after making our conclusions known to one another, we
shall decide on some definite cause of action.

       *       *       *       *       *

I feel a wonderful peace and rest to-night. It is as if some haunting
presence were removed from me. Perhaps ...

My surmise was not finished, could not be; for I caught sight in the
mirror of the red mark upon my forehead; and I knew that I was still
unclean.


_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

_5 October._--We all rose early, and I think that sleep did much for
each and all of us. When we met at early breakfast there was more
general cheerfulness than any of us had ever expected to experience
again.

It is really wonderful how much resilience there is in human nature. Let
any obstructing cause, no matter what, be removed in any way--even by
death--and we fly back to first principles of hope and enjoyment. More
than once as we sat around the table, my eyes opened in wonder whether
the whole of the past days had not been a dream. It was only when I
caught sight of the red blotch on Mrs. Harker’s forehead that I was
brought back to reality. Even now, when I am gravely revolving the
matter, it is almost impossible to realise that the cause of all our
trouble is still existent. Even Mrs. Harker seems to lose sight of her
trouble for whole spells; it is only now and again, when something
recalls it to her mind, that she thinks of her terrible scar. We are to
meet here in my study in half an hour and decide on our course of
action. I see only one immediate difficulty, I know it by instinct
rather than reason: we shall all have to speak frankly; and yet I fear
that in some mysterious way poor Mrs. Harker’s tongue is tied. I _know_
that she forms conclusions of her own, and from all that has been I can
guess how brilliant and how true they must be; but she will not, or
cannot, give them utterance. I have mentioned this to Van Helsing, and
he and I are to talk it over when we are alone. I suppose it is some of
that horrid poison which has got into her veins beginning to work. The
Count had his own purposes when he gave her what Van Helsing called “the
Vampire’s baptism of blood.” Well, there may be a poison that distils
itself out of good things; in an age when the existence of ptomaines is
a mystery we should not wonder at anything! One thing I know: that if my
instinct be true regarding poor Mrs. Harker’s silences, then there is a
terrible difficulty--an unknown danger--in the work before us. The same
power that compels her silence may compel her speech. I dare not think
further; for so I should in my thoughts dishonour a noble woman!

Van Helsing is coming to my study a little before the others. I shall
try to open the subject with him.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--When the Professor came in, we talked over the state of
things. I could see that he had something on his mind which he wanted to
say, but felt some hesitancy about broaching the subject. After beating
about the bush a little, he said suddenly:--

“Friend John, there is something that you and I must talk of alone, just
at the first at any rate. Later, we may have to take the others into our
confidence”; then he stopped, so I waited; he went on:--

“Madam Mina, our poor, dear Madam Mina is changing.” A cold shiver ran
through me to find my worst fears thus endorsed. Van Helsing
continued:--

“With the sad experience of Miss Lucy, we must this time be warned
before things go too far. Our task is now in reality more difficult than
ever, and this new trouble makes every hour of the direst importance. I
can see the characteristics of the vampire coming in her face. It is now
but very, very slight; but it is to be seen if we have eyes to notice
without to prejudge. Her teeth are some sharper, and at times her eyes
are more hard. But these are not all, there is to her the silence now
often; as so it was with Miss Lucy. She did not speak, even when she
wrote that which she wished to be known later. Now my fear is this. If
it be that she can, by our hypnotic trance, tell what the Count see and
hear, is it not more true that he who have hypnotise her first, and who
have drink of her very blood and make her drink of his, should, if he
will, compel her mind to disclose to him that which she know?” I nodded
acquiescence; he went on:--

“Then, what we must do is to prevent this; we must keep her ignorant of
our intent, and so she cannot tell what she know not. This is a painful
task! Oh, so painful that it heart-break me to think of; but it must be.
When to-day we meet, I must tell her that for reason which we will not
to speak she must not more be of our council, but be simply guarded by
us.” He wiped his forehead, which had broken out in profuse perspiration
at the thought of the pain which he might have to inflict upon the poor
soul already so tortured. I knew that it would be some sort of comfort
to him if I told him that I also had come to the same conclusion; for at
any rate it would take away the pain of doubt. I told him, and the
effect was as I expected.

It is now close to the time of our general gathering. Van Helsing has
gone away to prepare for the meeting, and his painful part of it. I
really believe his purpose is to be able to pray alone.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--At the very outset of our meeting a great personal relief was
experienced by both Van Helsing and myself. Mrs. Harker had sent a
message by her husband to say that she would not join us at present, as
she thought it better that we should be free to discuss our movements
without her presence to embarrass us. The Professor and I looked at each
other for an instant, and somehow we both seemed relieved. For my own
part, I thought that if Mrs. Harker realised the danger herself, it was
much pain as well as much danger averted. Under the circumstances we
agreed, by a questioning look and answer, with finger on lip, to
preserve silence in our suspicions, until we should have been able to
confer alone again. We went at once into our Plan of Campaign. Van
Helsing roughly put the facts before us first:--

“The _Czarina Catherine_ left the Thames yesterday morning. It will take
her at the quickest speed she has ever made at least three weeks to
reach Varna; but we can travel overland to the same place in three days.
Now, if we allow for two days less for the ship’s voyage, owing to such
weather influences as we know that the Count can bring to bear; and if
we allow a whole day and night for any delays which may occur to us,
then we have a margin of nearly two weeks. Thus, in order to be quite
safe, we must leave here on 17th at latest. Then we shall at any rate
be in Varna a day before the ship arrives, and able to make such
preparations as may be necessary. Of course we shall all go armed--armed
against evil things, spiritual as well as physical.” Here Quincey Morris
added:--

“I understand that the Count comes from a wolf country, and it may be
that he shall get there before us. I propose that we add Winchesters to
our armament. I have a kind of belief in a Winchester when there is any
trouble of that sort around. Do you remember, Art, when we had the pack
after us at Tobolsk? What wouldn’t we have given then for a repeater
apiece!”

“Good!” said Van Helsing, “Winchesters it shall be. Quincey’s head is
level at all times, but most so when there is to hunt, metaphor be more
dishonour to science than wolves be of danger to man. In the meantime we
can do nothing here; and as I think that Varna is not familiar to any of
us, why not go there more soon? It is as long to wait here as there.
To-night and to-morrow we can get ready, and then, if all be well, we
four can set out on our journey.”

“We four?” said Harker interrogatively, looking from one to another of
us.

“Of course!” answered the Professor quickly, “you must remain to take
care of your so sweet wife!” Harker was silent for awhile and then said
in a hollow voice:--

“Let us talk of that part of it in the morning. I want to consult with
Mina.” I thought that now was the time for Van Helsing to warn him not
to disclose our plans to her; but he took no notice. I looked at him
significantly and coughed. For answer he put his finger on his lips and
turned away.


_Jonathan Harker’s Journal._

_5 October, afternoon._--For some time after our meeting this morning I
could not think. The new phases of things leave my mind in a state of
wonder which allows no room for active thought. Mina’s determination not
to take any part in the discussion set me thinking; and as I could not
argue the matter with her, I could only guess. I am as far as ever from
a solution now. The way the others received it, too, puzzled me; the
last time we talked of the subject we agreed that there was to be no
more concealment of anything amongst us. Mina is sleeping now, calmly
and sweetly like a little child. Her lips are curved and her face beams
with happiness. Thank God, there are such moments still for her.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--How strange it all is. I sat watching Mina’s happy sleep, and
came as near to being happy myself as I suppose I shall ever be. As the
evening drew on, and the earth took its shadows from the sun sinking
lower, the silence of the room grew more and more solemn to me. All at
once Mina opened her eyes, and looking at me tenderly, said:--

“Jonathan, I want you to promise me something on your word of honour. A
promise made to me, but made holily in God’s hearing, and not to be
broken though I should go down on my knees and implore you with bitter
tears. Quick, you must make it to me at once.”

“Mina,” I said, “a promise like that, I cannot make at once. I may have
no right to make it.”

“But, dear one,” she said, with such spiritual intensity that her eyes
were like pole stars, “it is I who wish it; and it is not for myself.
You can ask Dr. Van Helsing if I am not right; if he disagrees you may
do as you will. Nay, more, if you all agree, later, you are absolved
from the promise.”

“I promise!” I said, and for a moment she looked supremely happy; though
to me all happiness for her was denied by the red scar on her forehead.
She said:--

“Promise me that you will not tell me anything of the plans formed for
the campaign against the Count. Not by word, or inference, or
implication; not at any time whilst this remains to me!” and she
solemnly pointed to the scar. I saw that she was in earnest, and said
solemnly:--

“I promise!” and as I said it I felt that from that instant a door had
been shut between us.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later, midnight._--Mina has been bright and cheerful all the evening.
So much so that all the rest seemed to take courage, as if infected
somewhat with her gaiety; as a result even I myself felt as if the pall
of gloom which weighs us down were somewhat lifted. We all retired
early. Mina is now sleeping like a little child; it is a wonderful thing
that her faculty of sleep remains to her in the midst of her terrible
trouble. Thank God for it, for then at least she can forget her care.
Perhaps her example may affect me as her gaiety did to-night. I shall
try it. Oh! for a dreamless sleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

_6 October, morning._--Another surprise. Mina woke me early, about the
same time as yesterday, and asked me to bring Dr. Van Helsing. I thought
that it was another occasion for hypnotism, and without question went
for the Professor. He had evidently expected some such call, for I found
him dressed in his room. His door was ajar, so that he could hear the
opening of the door of our room. He came at once; as he passed into the
room, he asked Mina if the others might come, too.

“No,” she said quite simply, “it will not be necessary. You can tell
them just as well. I must go with you on your journey.”

Dr. Van Helsing was as startled as I was. After a moment’s pause he
asked:--

“But why?”

“You must take me with you. I am safer with you, and you shall be safer,
too.”

“But why, dear Madam Mina? You know that your safety is our solemnest
duty. We go into danger, to which you are, or may be, more liable than
any of us from--from circumstances--things that have been.” He paused,
embarrassed.

As she replied, she raised her finger and pointed to her forehead:--

“I know. That is why I must go. I can tell you now, whilst the sun is
coming up; I may not be able again. I know that when the Count wills me
I must go. I know that if he tells me to come in secret, I must come by
wile; by any device to hoodwink--even Jonathan.” God saw the look that
she turned on me as she spoke, and if there be indeed a Recording Angel
that look is noted to her everlasting honour. I could only clasp her
hand. I could not speak; my emotion was too great for even the relief of
tears. She went on:--

“You men are brave and strong. You are strong in your numbers, for you
can defy that which would break down the human endurance of one who had
to guard alone. Besides, I may be of service, since you can hypnotise me
and so learn that which even I myself do not know.” Dr. Van Helsing said
very gravely:--

“Madam Mina, you are, as always, most wise. You shall with us come; and
together we shall do that which we go forth to achieve.” When he had
spoken, Mina’s long spell of silence made me look at her. She had fallen
back on her pillow asleep; she did not even wake when I had pulled up
the blind and let in the sunlight which flooded the room. Van Helsing
motioned to me to come with him quietly. We went to his room, and within
a minute Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward, and Mr. Morris were with us also.
He told them what Mina had said, and went on:--

“In the morning we shall leave for Varna. We have now to deal with a
new factor: Madam Mina. Oh, but her soul is true. It is to her an agony
to tell us so much as she has done; but it is most right, and we are
warned in time. There must be no chance lost, and in Varna we must be
ready to act the instant when that ship arrives.”

“What shall we do exactly?” asked Mr. Morris laconically. The Professor
paused before replying:--

“We shall at the first board that ship; then, when we have identified
the box, we shall place a branch of the wild rose on it. This we shall
fasten, for when it is there none can emerge; so at least says the
superstition. And to superstition must we trust at the first; it was
man’s faith in the early, and it have its root in faith still. Then,
when we get the opportunity that we seek, when none are near to see, we
shall open the box, and--and all will be well.”

“I shall not wait for any opportunity,” said Morris. “When I see the box
I shall open it and destroy the monster, though there were a thousand
men looking on, and if I am to be wiped out for it the next moment!” I
grasped his hand instinctively and found it as firm as a piece of steel.
I think he understood my look; I hope he did.

“Good boy,” said Dr. Van Helsing. “Brave boy. Quincey is all man. God
bless him for it. My child, believe me none of us shall lag behind or
pause from any fear. I do but say what we may do--what we must do. But,
indeed, indeed we cannot say what we shall do. There are so many things
which may happen, and their ways and their ends are so various that
until the moment we may not say. We shall all be armed, in all ways; and
when the time for the end has come, our effort shall not be lack. Now
let us to-day put all our affairs in order. Let all things which touch
on others dear to us, and who on us depend, be complete; for none of us
can tell what, or when, or how, the end may be. As for me, my own
affairs are regulate; and as I have nothing else to do, I shall go make
arrangements for the travel. I shall have all tickets and so forth for
our journey.”

There was nothing further to be said, and we parted. I shall now settle
up all my affairs of earth, and be ready for whatever may come....

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--It is all done; my will is made, and all complete. Mina if she
survive is my sole heir. If it should not be so, then the others who
have been so good to us shall have remainder.

It is now drawing towards the sunset; Mina’s uneasiness calls my
attention to it. I am sure that there is something on her mind which the
time of exact sunset will reveal. These occasions are becoming harrowing
times for us all, for each sunrise and sunset opens up some new
danger--some new pain, which, however, may in God’s will be means to a
good end. I write all these things in the diary since my darling must
not hear them now; but if it may be that she can see them again, they
shall be ready.

She is calling to me.




CHAPTER XXV

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY


_11 October, Evening._--Jonathan Harker has asked me to note this, as he
says he is hardly equal to the task, and he wants an exact record kept.

I think that none of us were surprised when we were asked to see Mrs.
Harker a little before the time of sunset. We have of late come to
understand that sunrise and sunset are to her times of peculiar freedom;
when her old self can be manifest without any controlling force subduing
or restraining her, or inciting her to action. This mood or condition
begins some half hour or more before actual sunrise or sunset, and lasts
till either the sun is high, or whilst the clouds are still aglow with
the rays streaming above the horizon. At first there is a sort of
negative condition, as if some tie were loosened, and then the absolute
freedom quickly follows; when, however, the freedom ceases the
change-back or relapse comes quickly, preceded only by a spell of
warning silence.

To-night, when we met, she was somewhat constrained, and bore all the
signs of an internal struggle. I put it down myself to her making a
violent effort at the earliest instant she could do so. A very few
minutes, however, gave her complete control of herself; then, motioning
her husband to sit beside her on the sofa where she was half reclining,
she made the rest of us bring chairs up close. Taking her husband’s hand
in hers began:--

“We are all here together in freedom, for perhaps the last time! I know,
dear; I know that you will always be with me to the end.” This was to
her husband whose hand had, as we could see, tightened upon hers. “In
the morning we go out upon our task, and God alone knows what may be in
store for any of us. You are going to be so good to me as to take me
with you. I know that all that brave earnest men can do for a poor weak
woman, whose soul perhaps is lost--no, no, not yet, but is at any rate
at stake--you will do. But you must remember that I am not as you are.
There is a poison in my blood, in my soul, which may destroy me; which
must destroy me, unless some relief comes to us. Oh, my friends, you
know as well as I do, that my soul is at stake; and though I know there
is one way out for me, you must not and I must not take it!” She looked
appealingly to us all in turn, beginning and ending with her husband.

“What is that way?” asked Van Helsing in a hoarse voice. “What is that
way, which we must not--may not--take?”

“That I may die now, either by my own hand or that of another, before
the greater evil is entirely wrought. I know, and you know, that were I
once dead you could and would set free my immortal spirit, even as you
did my poor Lucy’s. Were death, or the fear of death, the only thing
that stood in the way I would not shrink to die here, now, amidst the
friends who love me. But death is not all. I cannot believe that to die
in such a case, when there is hope before us and a bitter task to be
done, is God’s will. Therefore, I, on my part, give up here the
certainty of eternal rest, and go out into the dark where may be the
blackest things that the world or the nether world holds!” We were all
silent, for we knew instinctively that this was only a prelude. The
faces of the others were set and Harker’s grew ashen grey; perhaps he
guessed better than any of us what was coming. She continued:--

“This is what I can give into the hotch-pot.” I could not but note the
quaint legal phrase which she used in such a place, and with all
seriousness. “What will each of you give? Your lives I know,” she went
on quickly, “that is easy for brave men. Your lives are God’s, and you
can give them back to Him; but what will you give to me?” She looked
again questioningly, but this time avoided her husband’s face. Quincey
seemed to understand; he nodded, and her face lit up. “Then I shall tell
you plainly what I want, for there must be no doubtful matter in this
connection between us now. You must promise me, one and all--even you,
my beloved husband--that, should the time come, you will kill me.”

“What is that time?” The voice was Quincey’s, but it was low and
strained.

“When you shall be convinced that I am so changed that it is better that
I die than I may live. When I am thus dead in the flesh, then you will,
without a moment’s delay, drive a stake through me and cut off my head;
or do whatever else may be wanting to give me rest!”

Quincey was the first to rise after the pause. He knelt down before her
and taking her hand in his said solemnly:--

“I’m only a rough fellow, who hasn’t, perhaps, lived as a man should to
win such a distinction, but I swear to you by all that I hold sacred and
dear that, should the time ever come, I shall not flinch from the duty
that you have set us. And I promise you, too, that I shall make all
certain, for if I am only doubtful I shall take it that the time has
come!”

“My true friend!” was all she could say amid her fast-falling tears, as,
bending over, she kissed his hand.

“I swear the same, my dear Madam Mina!” said Van Helsing.

“And I!” said Lord Godalming, each of them in turn kneeling to her to
take the oath. I followed, myself. Then her husband turned to her
wan-eyed and with a greenish pallor which subdued the snowy whiteness of
his hair, and asked:--

“And must I, too, make such a promise, oh, my wife?”

“You too, my dearest,” she said, with infinite yearning of pity in her
voice and eyes. “You must not shrink. You are nearest and dearest and
all the world to me; our souls are knit into one, for all life and all
time. Think, dear, that there have been times when brave men have killed
their wives and their womenkind, to keep them from falling into the
hands of the enemy. Their hands did not falter any the more because
those that they loved implored them to slay them. It is men’s duty
towards those whom they love, in such times of sore trial! And oh, my
dear, if it is to be that I must meet death at any hand, let it be at
the hand of him that loves me best. Dr. Van Helsing, I have not
forgotten your mercy in poor Lucy’s case to him who loved”--she stopped
with a flying blush, and changed her phrase--“to him who had best right
to give her peace. If that time shall come again, I look to you to make
it a happy memory of my husband’s life that it was his loving hand which
set me free from the awful thrall upon me.”

“Again I swear!” came the Professor’s resonant voice. Mrs. Harker
smiled, positively smiled, as with a sigh of relief she leaned back and
said:--

“And now one word of warning, a warning which you must never forget:
this time, if it ever come, may come quickly and unexpectedly, and in
such case you must lose no time in using your opportunity. At such a
time I myself might be--nay! if the time ever comes, _shall be_--leagued
with your enemy against you.”

“One more request;” she became very solemn as she said this, “it is not
vital and necessary like the other, but I want you to do one thing for
me, if you will.” We all acquiesced, but no one spoke; there was no need
to speak:--

“I want you to read the Burial Service.” She was interrupted by a deep
groan from her husband; taking his hand in hers, she held it over her
heart, and continued: “You must read it over me some day. Whatever may
be the issue of all this fearful state of things, it will be a sweet
thought to all or some of us. You, my dearest, will I hope read it, for
then it will be in your voice in my memory for ever--come what may!”

“But oh, my dear one,” he pleaded, “death is afar off from you.”

“Nay,” she said, holding up a warning hand. “I am deeper in death at
this moment than if the weight of an earthly grave lay heavy upon me!”

“Oh, my wife, must I read it?” he said, before he began.

“It would comfort me, my husband!” was all she said; and he began to
read when she had got the book ready.

“How can I--how could any one--tell of that strange scene, its
solemnity, its gloom, its sadness, its horror; and, withal, its
sweetness. Even a sceptic, who can see nothing but a travesty of bitter
truth in anything holy or emotional, would have been melted to the heart
had he seen that little group of loving and devoted friends kneeling
round that stricken and sorrowing lady; or heard the tender passion of
her husband’s voice, as in tones so broken with emotion that often he
had to pause, he read the simple and beautiful service from the Burial
of the Dead. I--I cannot go on--words--and--v-voice--f-fail m-me!”

       *       *       *       *       *

She was right in her instinct. Strange as it all was, bizarre as it may
hereafter seem even to us who felt its potent influence at the time, it
comforted us much; and the silence, which showed Mrs. Harker’s coming
relapse from her freedom of soul, did not seem so full of despair to any
of us as we had dreaded.


_Jonathan Harker’s Journal._

_15 October, Varna._--We left Charing Cross on the morning of the 12th,
got to Paris the same night, and took the places secured for us in the
Orient Express. We travelled night and day, arriving here at about five
o’clock. Lord Godalming went to the Consulate to see if any telegram had
arrived for him, whilst the rest of us came on to this hotel--“the
Odessus.” The journey may have had incidents; I was, however, too eager
to get on, to care for them. Until the _Czarina Catherine_ comes into
port there will be no interest for me in anything in the wide world.
Thank God! Mina is well, and looks to be getting stronger; her colour is
coming back. She sleeps a great deal; throughout the journey she slept
nearly all the time. Before sunrise and sunset, however, she is very
wakeful and alert; and it has become a habit for Van Helsing to
hypnotise her at such times. At first, some effort was needed, and he
had to make many passes; but now, she seems to yield at once, as if by
habit, and scarcely any action is needed. He seems to have power at
these particular moments to simply will, and her thoughts obey him. He
always asks her what she can see and hear. She answers to the first:--

“Nothing; all is dark.” And to the second:--

“I can hear the waves lapping against the ship, and the water rushing
by. Canvas and cordage strain and masts and yards creak. The wind is
high--I can hear it in the shrouds, and the bow throws back the foam.”
It is evident that the _Czarina Catherine_ is still at sea, hastening on
her way to Varna. Lord Godalming has just returned. He had four
telegrams, one each day since we started, and all to the same effect:
that the _Czarina Catherine_ had not been reported to Lloyd’s from
anywhere. He had arranged before leaving London that his agent should
send him every day a telegram saying if the ship had been reported. He
was to have a message even if she were not reported, so that he might be
sure that there was a watch being kept at the other end of the wire.

We had dinner and went to bed early. To-morrow we are to see the
Vice-Consul, and to arrange, if we can, about getting on board the ship
as soon as she arrives. Van Helsing says that our chance will be to get
on the boat between sunrise and sunset. The Count, even if he takes the
form of a bat, cannot cross the running water of his own volition, and
so cannot leave the ship. As he dare not change to man’s form without
suspicion--which he evidently wishes to avoid--he must remain in the
box. If, then, we can come on board after sunrise, he is at our mercy;
for we can open the box and make sure of him, as we did of poor Lucy,
before he wakes. What mercy he shall get from us will not count for
much. We think that we shall not have much trouble with officials or the
seamen. Thank God! this is the country where bribery can do anything,
and we are well supplied with money. We have only to make sure that the
ship cannot come into port between sunset and sunrise without our being
warned, and we shall be safe. Judge Moneybag will settle this case, I
think!

       *       *       *       *       *

_16 October._--Mina’s report still the same: lapping waves and rushing
water, darkness and favouring winds. We are evidently in good time, and
when we hear of the _Czarina Catherine_ we shall be ready. As she must
pass the Dardanelles we are sure to have some report.

       *       *       *       *       *

_17 October._--Everything is pretty well fixed now, I think, to welcome
the Count on his return from his tour. Godalming told the shippers that
he fancied that the box sent aboard might contain something stolen from
a friend of his, and got a half consent that he might open it at his own
risk. The owner gave him a paper telling the Captain to give him every
facility in doing whatever he chose on board the ship, and also a
similar authorisation to his agent at Varna. We have seen the agent, who
was much impressed with Godalming’s kindly manner to him, and we are all
satisfied that whatever he can do to aid our wishes will be done. We
have already arranged what to do in case we get the box open. If the
Count is there, Van Helsing and Seward will cut off his head at once and
drive a stake through his heart. Morris and Godalming and I shall
prevent interference, even if we have to use the arms which we shall
have ready. The Professor says that if we can so treat the Count’s body,
it will soon after fall into dust. In such case there would be no
evidence against us, in case any suspicion of murder were aroused. But
even if it were not, we should stand or fall by our act, and perhaps
some day this very script may be evidence to come between some of us and
a rope. For myself, I should take the chance only too thankfully if it
were to come. We mean to leave no stone unturned to carry out our
intent. We have arranged with certain officials that the instant the
_Czarina Catherine_ is seen, we are to be informed by a special
messenger.

       *       *       *       *       *

_24 October._--A whole week of waiting. Daily telegrams to Godalming,
but only the same story: “Not yet reported.” Mina’s morning and evening
hypnotic answer is unvaried: lapping waves, rushing water, and creaking
masts.

_Telegram, October 24th._

_Rufus Smith, Lloyd’s, London, to Lord Godalming, care of H. B. M.
Vice-Consul, Varna._

“_Czarina Catherine_ reported this morning from Dardanelles.”


_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

_25 October._--How I miss my phonograph! To write diary with a pen is
irksome to me; but Van Helsing says I must. We were all wild with
excitement yesterday when Godalming got his telegram from Lloyd’s. I
know now what men feel in battle when the call to action is heard. Mrs.
Harker, alone of our party, did not show any signs of emotion. After
all, it is not strange that she did not; for we took special care not to
let her know anything about it, and we all tried not to show any
excitement when we were in her presence. In old days she would, I am
sure, have noticed, no matter how we might have tried to conceal it; but
in this way she is greatly changed during the past three weeks. The
lethargy grows upon her, and though she seems strong and well, and is
getting back some of her colour, Van Helsing and I are not satisfied. We
talk of her often; we have not, however, said a word to the others. It
would break poor Harker’s heart--certainly his nerve--if he knew that we
had even a suspicion on the subject. Van Helsing examines, he tells me,
her teeth very carefully, whilst she is in the hypnotic condition, for
he says that so long as they do not begin to sharpen there is no active
danger of a change in her. If this change should come, it would be
necessary to take steps!... We both know what those steps would have to
be, though we do not mention our thoughts to each other. We should
neither of us shrink from the task--awful though it be to contemplate.
“Euthanasia” is an excellent and a comforting word! I am grateful to
whoever invented it.

It is only about 24 hours’ sail from the Dardanelles to here, at the
rate the _Czarina Catherine_ has come from London. She should therefore
arrive some time in the morning; but as she cannot possibly get in
before then, we are all about to retire early. We shall get up at one
o’clock, so as to be ready.

       *       *       *       *       *

_25 October, Noon_.--No news yet of the ship’s arrival. Mrs. Harker’s
hypnotic report this morning was the same as usual, so it is possible
that we may get news at any moment. We men are all in a fever of
excitement, except Harker, who is calm; his hands are cold as ice, and
an hour ago I found him whetting the edge of the great Ghoorka knife
which he now always carries with him. It will be a bad lookout for the
Count if the edge of that “Kukri” ever touches his throat, driven by
that stern, ice-cold hand!

Van Helsing and I were a little alarmed about Mrs. Harker to-day. About
noon she got into a sort of lethargy which we did not like; although we
kept silence to the others, we were neither of us happy about it. She
had been restless all the morning, so that we were at first glad to know
that she was sleeping. When, however, her husband mentioned casually
that she was sleeping so soundly that he could not wake her, we went to
her room to see for ourselves. She was breathing naturally and looked so
well and peaceful that we agreed that the sleep was better for her than
anything else. Poor girl, she has so much to forget that it is no wonder
that sleep, if it brings oblivion to her, does her good.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--Our opinion was justified, for when after a refreshing sleep
of some hours she woke up, she seemed brighter and better than she had
been for days. At sunset she made the usual hypnotic report. Wherever he
may be in the Black Sea, the Count is hurrying to his destination. To
his doom, I trust!

       *       *       *       *       *

_26 October._--Another day and no tidings of the _Czarina Catherine_.
She ought to be here by now. That she is still journeying _somewhere_ is
apparent, for Mrs. Harker’s hypnotic report at sunrise was still the
same. It is possible that the vessel may be lying by, at times, for fog;
some of the steamers which came in last evening reported patches of fog
both to north and south of the port. We must continue our watching, as
the ship may now be signalled any moment.

       *       *       *       *       *

_27 October, Noon._--Most strange; no news yet of the ship we wait for.
Mrs. Harker reported last night and this morning as usual: “lapping
waves and rushing water,” though she added that “the waves were very
faint.” The telegrams from London have been the same: “no further
report.” Van Helsing is terribly anxious, and told me just now that he
fears the Count is escaping us. He added significantly:--

“I did not like that lethargy of Madam Mina’s. Souls and memories can do
strange things during trance.” I was about to ask him more, but Harker
just then came in, and he held up a warning hand. We must try to-night
at sunset to make her speak more fully when in her hypnotic state.

       *       *       *       *       *

     _28 October._--Telegram. _Rufus Smith, London, to Lord Godalming,
     care H. B. M. Vice Consul, Varna._

     “_Czarina Catherine_ reported entering Galatz at one o’clock
     to-day.”


_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

_28 October._--When the telegram came announcing the arrival in Galatz I
do not think it was such a shock to any of us as might have been
expected. True, we did not know whence, or how, or when, the bolt would
come; but I think we all expected that something strange would happen.
The delay of arrival at Varna made us individually satisfied that things
would not be just as we had expected; we only waited to learn where the
change would occur. None the less, however, was it a surprise. I suppose
that nature works on such a hopeful basis that we believe against
ourselves that things will be as they ought to be, not as we should know
that they will be. Transcendentalism is a beacon to the angels, even if
it be a will-o’-the-wisp to man. It was an odd experience and we all
took it differently. Van Helsing raised his hand over his head for a
moment, as though in remonstrance with the Almighty; but he said not a
word, and in a few seconds stood up with his face sternly set. Lord
Godalming grew very pale, and sat breathing heavily. I was myself half
stunned and looked in wonder at one after another. Quincey Morris
tightened his belt with that quick movement which I knew so well; in our
old wandering days it meant “action.” Mrs. Harker grew ghastly white, so
that the scar on her forehead seemed to burn, but she folded her hands
meekly and looked up in prayer. Harker smiled--actually smiled--the
dark, bitter smile of one who is without hope; but at the same time his
action belied his words, for his hands instinctively sought the hilt of
the great Kukri knife and rested there. “When does the next train start
for Galatz?” said Van Helsing to us generally.

“At 6:30 to-morrow morning!” We all started, for the answer came from
Mrs. Harker.

“How on earth do you know?” said Art.

“You forget--or perhaps you do not know, though Jonathan does and so
does Dr. Van Helsing--that I am the train fiend. At home in Exeter I
always used to make up the time-tables, so as to be helpful to my
husband. I found it so useful sometimes, that I always make a study of
the time-tables now. I knew that if anything were to take us to Castle
Dracula we should go by Galatz, or at any rate through Bucharest, so I
learned the times very carefully. Unhappily there are not many to learn,
as the only train to-morrow leaves as I say.”

“Wonderful woman!” murmured the Professor.

“Can’t we get a special?” asked Lord Godalming. Van Helsing shook his
head: “I fear not. This land is very different from yours or mine; even
if we did have a special, it would probably not arrive as soon as our
regular train. Moreover, we have something to prepare. We must think.
Now let us organize. You, friend Arthur, go to the train and get the
tickets and arrange that all be ready for us to go in the morning. Do
you, friend Jonathan, go to the agent of the ship and get from him
letters to the agent in Galatz, with authority to make search the ship
just as it was here. Morris Quincey, you see the Vice-Consul, and get
his aid with his fellow in Galatz and all he can do to make our way
smooth, so that no times be lost when over the Danube. John will stay
with Madam Mina and me, and we shall consult. For so if time be long you
may be delayed; and it will not matter when the sun set, since I am here
with Madam to make report.”

“And I,” said Mrs. Harker brightly, and more like her old self than she
had been for many a long day, “shall try to be of use in all ways, and
shall think and write for you as I used to do. Something is shifting
from me in some strange way, and I feel freer than I have been of late!”
The three younger men looked happier at the moment as they seemed to
realise the significance of her words; but Van Helsing and I, turning to
each other, met each a grave and troubled glance. We said nothing at the
time, however.

When the three men had gone out to their tasks Van Helsing asked Mrs.
Harker to look up the copy of the diaries and find him the part of
Harker’s journal at the Castle. She went away to get it; when the door
was shut upon her he said to me:--

“We mean the same! speak out!”

“There is some change. It is a hope that makes me sick, for it may
deceive us.”

“Quite so. Do you know why I asked her to get the manuscript?”

“No!” said I, “unless it was to get an opportunity of seeing me alone.”

“You are in part right, friend John, but only in part. I want to tell
you something. And oh, my friend, I am taking a great--a terrible--risk;
but I believe it is right. In the moment when Madam Mina said those
words that arrest both our understanding, an inspiration came to me. In
the trance of three days ago the Count sent her his spirit to read her
mind; or more like he took her to see him in his earth-box in the ship
with water rushing, just as it go free at rise and set of sun. He learn
then that we are here; for she have more to tell in her open life with
eyes to see and ears to hear than he, shut, as he is, in his coffin-box.
Now he make his most effort to escape us. At present he want her not.

“He is sure with his so great knowledge that she will come at his call;
but he cut her off--take her, as he can do, out of his own power, that
so she come not to him. Ah! there I have hope that our man-brains that
have been of man so long and that have not lost the grace of God, will
come higher than his child-brain that lie in his tomb for centuries,
that grow not yet to our stature, and that do only work selfish and
therefore small. Here comes Madam Mina; not a word to her of her trance!
She know it not; and it would overwhelm her and make despair just when
we want all her hope, all her courage; when most we want all her great
brain which is trained like man’s brain, but is of sweet woman and have
a special power which the Count give her, and which he may not take away
altogether--though he think not so. Hush! let me speak, and you shall
learn. Oh, John, my friend, we are in awful straits. I fear, as I never
feared before. We can only trust the good God. Silence! here she comes!”

I thought that the Professor was going to break down and have hysterics,
just as he had when Lucy died, but with a great effort he controlled
himself and was at perfect nervous poise when Mrs. Harker tripped into
the room, bright and happy-looking and, in the doing of work, seemingly
forgetful of her misery. As she came in, she handed a number of sheets
of typewriting to Van Helsing. He looked over them gravely, his face
brightening up as he read. Then holding the pages between his finger and
thumb he said:--

“Friend John, to you with so much of experience already--and you, too,
dear Madam Mina, that are young--here is a lesson: do not fear ever to
think. A half-thought has been buzzing often in my brain, but I fear to
let him loose his wings. Here now, with more knowledge, I go back to
where that half-thought come from and I find that he be no half-thought
at all; that be a whole thought, though so young that he is not yet
strong to use his little wings. Nay, like the “Ugly Duck” of my friend
Hans Andersen, he be no duck-thought at all, but a big swan-thought that
sail nobly on big wings, when the time come for him to try them. See I
read here what Jonathan have written:--

“That other of his race who, in a later age, again and again, brought
his forces over The Great River into Turkey Land; who, when he was
beaten back, came again, and again, and again, though he had to come
alone from the bloody field where his troops were being slaughtered,
since he knew that he alone could ultimately triumph.”

“What does this tell us? Not much? no! The Count’s child-thought see
nothing; therefore he speak so free. Your man-thought see nothing; my
man-thought see nothing, till just now. No! But there comes another word
from some one who speak without thought because she, too, know not what
it mean--what it _might_ mean. Just as there are elements which rest,
yet when in nature’s course they move on their way and they touch--then
pouf! and there comes a flash of light, heaven wide, that blind and kill
and destroy some; but that show up all earth below for leagues and
leagues. Is it not so? Well, I shall explain. To begin, have you ever
study the philosophy of crime? ‘Yes’ and ‘No.’ You, John, yes; for it is
a study of insanity. You, no, Madam Mina; for crime touch you not--not
but once. Still, your mind works true, and argues not _a particulari ad
universale_. There is this peculiarity in criminals. It is so constant,
in all countries and at all times, that even police, who know not much
from philosophy, come to know it empirically, that _it is_. That is to
be empiric. The criminal always work at one crime--that is the true
criminal who seems predestinate to crime, and who will of none other.
This criminal has not full man-brain. He is clever and cunning and
resourceful; but he be not of man-stature as to brain. He be of
child-brain in much. Now this criminal of ours is predestinate to crime
also; he, too, have child-brain, and it is of the child to do what he
have done. The little bird, the little fish, the little animal learn not
by principle, but empirically; and when he learn to do, then there is to
him the ground to start from to do more. ‘_Dos pou sto_,’ said
Archimedes. ‘Give me a fulcrum, and I shall move the world!’ To do once,
is the fulcrum whereby child-brain become man-brain; and until he have
the purpose to do more, he continue to do the same again every time,
just as he have done before! Oh, my dear, I see that your eyes are
opened, and that to you the lightning flash show all the leagues,” for
Mrs. Harker began to clap her hands and her eyes sparkled. He went on:--

“Now you shall speak. Tell us two dry men of science what you see with
those so bright eyes.” He took her hand and held it whilst she spoke.
His finger and thumb closed on her pulse, as I thought instinctively and
unconsciously, as she spoke:--

“The Count is a criminal and of criminal type. Nordau and Lombroso would
so classify him, and _quâ_ criminal he is of imperfectly formed mind.
Thus, in a difficulty he has to seek resource in habit. His past is a
clue, and the one page of it that we know--and that from his own
lips--tells that once before, when in what Mr. Morris would call a
‘tight place,’ he went back to his own country from the land he had
tried to invade, and thence, without losing purpose, prepared himself
for a new effort. He came again better equipped for his work; and won.
So he came to London to invade a new land. He was beaten, and when all
hope of success was lost, and his existence in danger, he fled back over
the sea to his home; just as formerly he had fled back over the Danube
from Turkey Land.”

“Good, good! oh, you so clever lady!” said Van Helsing,
enthusiastically, as he stooped and kissed her hand. A moment later he
said to me, as calmly as though we had been having a sick-room
consultation:--

“Seventy-two only; and in all this excitement. I have hope.” Turning to
her again, he said with keen expectation:--

“But go on. Go on! there is more to tell if you will. Be not afraid;
John and I know. I do in any case, and shall tell you if you are right.
Speak, without fear!”

“I will try to; but you will forgive me if I seem egotistical.”

“Nay! fear not, you must be egotist, for it is of you that we think.”

“Then, as he is criminal he is selfish; and as his intellect is small
and his action is based on selfishness, he confines himself to one
purpose. That purpose is remorseless. As he fled back over the Danube,
leaving his forces to be cut to pieces, so now he is intent on being
safe, careless of all. So his own selfishness frees my soul somewhat
from the terrible power which he acquired over me on that dreadful
night. I felt it! Oh, I felt it! Thank God, for His great mercy! My soul
is freer than it has been since that awful hour; and all that haunts me
is a fear lest in some trance or dream he may have used my knowledge for
his ends.” The Professor stood up:--

“He has so used your mind; and by it he has left us here in Varna,
whilst the ship that carried him rushed through enveloping fog up to
Galatz, where, doubtless, he had made preparation for escaping from us.
But his child-mind only saw so far; and it may be that, as ever is in
God’s Providence, the very thing that the evil-doer most reckoned on for
his selfish good, turns out to be his chiefest harm. The hunter is taken
in his own snare, as the great Psalmist says. For now that he think he
is free from every trace of us all, and that he has escaped us with so
many hours to him, then his selfish child-brain will whisper him to
sleep. He think, too, that as he cut himself off from knowing your mind,
there can be no knowledge of him to you; there is where he fail! That
terrible baptism of blood which he give you makes you free to go to him
in spirit, as you have as yet done in your times of freedom, when the
sun rise and set. At such times you go by my volition and not by his;
and this power to good of you and others, as you have won from your
suffering at his hands. This is now all the more precious that he know
it not, and to guard himself have even cut himself off from his
knowledge of our where. We, however, are not selfish, and we believe
that God is with us through all this blackness, and these many dark
hours. We shall follow him; and we shall not flinch; even if we peril
ourselves that we become like him. Friend John, this has been a great
hour; and it have done much to advance us on our way. You must be scribe
and write him all down, so that when the others return from their work
you can give it to them; then they shall know as we do.”

And so I have written it whilst we wait their return, and Mrs. Harker
has written with her typewriter all since she brought the MS. to us.




CHAPTER XXVI

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY


_29 October._--This is written in the train from Varna to Galatz. Last
night we all assembled a little before the time of sunset. Each of us
had done his work as well as he could; so far as thought, and endeavour,
and opportunity go, we are prepared for the whole of our journey, and
for our work when we get to Galatz. When the usual time came round Mrs.
Harker prepared herself for her hypnotic effort; and after a longer and
more serious effort on the part of Van Helsing than has been usually
necessary, she sank into the trance. Usually she speaks on a hint; but
this time the Professor had to ask her questions, and to ask them pretty
resolutely, before we could learn anything; at last her answer came:--

“I can see nothing; we are still; there are no waves lapping, but only a
steady swirl of water softly running against the hawser. I can hear
men’s voices calling, near and far, and the roll and creak of oars in
the rowlocks. A gun is fired somewhere; the echo of it seems far away.
There is tramping of feet overhead, and ropes and chains are dragged
along. What is this? There is a gleam of light; I can feel the air
blowing upon me.”

Here she stopped. She had risen, as if impulsively, from where she lay
on the sofa, and raised both her hands, palms upwards, as if lifting a
weight. Van Helsing and I looked at each other with understanding.
Quincey raised his eyebrows slightly and looked at her intently, whilst
Harker’s hand instinctively closed round the hilt of his Kukri. There
was a long pause. We all knew that the time when she could speak was
passing; but we felt that it was useless to say anything. Suddenly she
sat up, and, as she opened her eyes, said sweetly:--

“Would none of you like a cup of tea? You must all be so tired!” We
could only make her happy, and so acquiesced. She bustled off to get
tea; when she had gone Van Helsing said:--

“You see, my friends. _He_ is close to land: he has left his
earth-chest. But he has yet to get on shore. In the night he may lie
hidden somewhere; but if he be not carried on shore, or if the ship do
not touch it, he cannot achieve the land. In such case he can, if it be
in the night, change his form and can jump or fly on shore, as he did
at Whitby. But if the day come before he get on shore, then, unless he
be carried he cannot escape. And if he be carried, then the customs men
may discover what the box contain. Thus, in fine, if he escape not on
shore to-night, or before dawn, there will be the whole day lost to him.
We may then arrive in time; for if he escape not at night we shall come
on him in daytime, boxed up and at our mercy; for he dare not be his
true self, awake and visible, lest he be discovered.”

There was no more to be said, so we waited in patience until the dawn;
at which time we might learn more from Mrs. Harker.

Early this morning we listened, with breathless anxiety, for her
response in her trance. The hypnotic stage was even longer in coming
than before; and when it came the time remaining until full sunrise was
so short that we began to despair. Van Helsing seemed to throw his whole
soul into the effort; at last, in obedience to his will she made
reply:--

“All is dark. I hear lapping water, level with me, and some creaking as
of wood on wood.” She paused, and the red sun shot up. We must wait till
to-night.

And so it is that we are travelling towards Galatz in an agony of
expectation. We are due to arrive between two and three in the morning;
but already, at Bucharest, we are three hours late, so we cannot
possibly get in till well after sun-up. Thus we shall have two more
hypnotic messages from Mrs. Harker; either or both may possibly throw
more light on what is happening.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--Sunset has come and gone. Fortunately it came at a time when
there was no distraction; for had it occurred whilst we were at a
station, we might not have secured the necessary calm and isolation.
Mrs. Harker yielded to the hypnotic influence even less readily than
this morning. I am in fear that her power of reading the Count’s
sensations may die away, just when we want it most. It seems to me that
her imagination is beginning to work. Whilst she has been in the trance
hitherto she has confined herself to the simplest of facts. If this goes
on it may ultimately mislead us. If I thought that the Count’s power
over her would die away equally with her power of knowledge it would be
a happy thought; but I am afraid that it may not be so. When she did
speak, her words were enigmatical:--

“Something is going out; I can feel it pass me like a cold wind. I can
hear, far off, confused sounds--as of men talking in strange tongues,
fierce-falling water, and the howling of wolves.” She stopped and a
shudder ran through her, increasing in intensity for a few seconds,
till, at the end, she shook as though in a palsy. She said no more, even
in answer to the Professor’s imperative questioning. When she woke from
the trance, she was cold, and exhausted, and languid; but her mind was
all alert. She could not remember anything, but asked what she had said;
when she was told, she pondered over it deeply for a long time and in
silence.

       *       *       *       *       *

_30 October, 7 a. m._--We are near Galatz now, and I may not have time
to write later. Sunrise this morning was anxiously looked for by us all.
Knowing of the increasing difficulty of procuring the hypnotic trance,
Van Helsing began his passes earlier than usual. They produced no
effect, however, until the regular time, when she yielded with a still
greater difficulty, only a minute before the sun rose. The Professor
lost no time in his questioning; her answer came with equal quickness:--

“All is dark. I hear water swirling by, level with my ears, and the
creaking of wood on wood. Cattle low far off. There is another sound, a
queer one like----” She stopped and grew white, and whiter still.

“Go on; go on! Speak, I command you!” said Van Helsing in an agonised
voice. At the same time there was despair in his eyes, for the risen sun
was reddening even Mrs. Harker’s pale face. She opened her eyes, and we
all started as she said, sweetly and seemingly with the utmost
unconcern:--

“Oh, Professor, why ask me to do what you know I can’t? I don’t remember
anything.” Then, seeing the look of amazement on our faces, she said,
turning from one to the other with a troubled look:--

“What have I said? What have I done? I know nothing, only that I was
lying here, half asleep, and heard you say ‘go on! speak, I command you!’
It seemed so funny to hear you order me about, as if I were a bad
child!”

“Oh, Madam Mina,” he said, sadly, “it is proof, if proof be needed, of
how I love and honour you, when a word for your good, spoken more
earnest than ever, can seem so strange because it is to order her whom I
am proud to obey!”

The whistles are sounding; we are nearing Galatz. We are on fire with
anxiety and eagerness.


_Mina Harker’s Journal._

_30 October._--Mr. Morris took me to the hotel where our rooms had been
ordered by telegraph, he being the one who could best be spared, since
he does not speak any foreign language. The forces were distributed
much as they had been at Varna, except that Lord Godalming went to the
Vice-Consul, as his rank might serve as an immediate guarantee of some
sort to the official, we being in extreme hurry. Jonathan and the two
doctors went to the shipping agent to learn particulars of the arrival
of the _Czarina Catherine_.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--Lord Godalming has returned. The Consul is away, and the
Vice-Consul sick; so the routine work has been attended to by a clerk.
He was very obliging, and offered to do anything in his power.


_Jonathan Harker’s Journal._

_30 October._--At nine o’clock Dr. Van Helsing, Dr. Seward, and I called
on Messrs. Mackenzie & Steinkoff, the agents of the London firm of
Hapgood. They had received a wire from London, in answer to Lord
Godalming’s telegraphed request, asking us to show them any civility in
their power. They were more than kind and courteous, and took us at once
on board the _Czarina Catherine_, which lay at anchor out in the river
harbour. There we saw the Captain, Donelson by name, who told us of his
voyage. He said that in all his life he had never had so favourable a
run.

“Man!” he said, “but it made us afeard, for we expeckit that we should
have to pay for it wi’ some rare piece o’ ill luck, so as to keep up the
average. It’s no canny to run frae London to the Black Sea wi’ a wind
ahint ye, as though the Deil himself were blawin’ on yer sail for his
ain purpose. An’ a’ the time we could no speer a thing. Gin we were nigh
a ship, or a port, or a headland, a fog fell on us and travelled wi’ us,
till when after it had lifted and we looked out, the deil a thing could
we see. We ran by Gibraltar wi’oot bein’ able to signal; an’ till we
came to the Dardanelles and had to wait to get our permit to pass, we
never were within hail o’ aught. At first I inclined to slack off sail
and beat about till the fog was lifted; but whiles, I thocht that if the
Deil was minded to get us into the Black Sea quick, he was like to do it
whether we would or no. If we had a quick voyage it would be no to our
miscredit wi’ the owners, or no hurt to our traffic; an’ the Old Mon who
had served his ain purpose wad be decently grateful to us for no
hinderin’ him.” This mixture of simplicity and cunning, of superstition
and commercial reasoning, aroused Van Helsing, who said:--

“Mine friend, that Devil is more clever than he is thought by some; and
he know when he meet his match!” The skipper was not displeased with the
compliment, and went on:--

“When we got past the Bosphorus the men began to grumble; some o’ them,
the Roumanians, came and asked me to heave overboard a big box which had
been put on board by a queer lookin’ old man just before we had started
frae London. I had seen them speer at the fellow, and put out their twa
fingers when they saw him, to guard against the evil eye. Man! but the
supersteetion of foreigners is pairfectly rideeculous! I sent them aboot
their business pretty quick; but as just after a fog closed in on us I
felt a wee bit as they did anent something, though I wouldn’t say it was
agin the big box. Well, on we went, and as the fog didn’t let up for
five days I joost let the wind carry us; for if the Deil wanted to get
somewheres--well, he would fetch it up a’reet. An’ if he didn’t, well,
we’d keep a sharp lookout anyhow. Sure eneuch, we had a fair way and
deep water all the time; and two days ago, when the mornin’ sun came
through the fog, we found ourselves just in the river opposite Galatz.
The Roumanians were wild, and wanted me right or wrong to take out the
box and fling it in the river. I had to argy wi’ them aboot it wi’ a
handspike; an’ when the last o’ them rose off the deck wi’ his head in
his hand, I had convinced them that, evil eye or no evil eye, the
property and the trust of my owners were better in my hands than in the
river Danube. They had, mind ye, taken the box on the deck ready to
fling in, and as it was marked Galatz _via_ Varna, I thocht I’d let it
lie till we discharged in the port an’ get rid o’t althegither. We
didn’t do much clearin’ that day, an’ had to remain the nicht at anchor;
but in the mornin’, braw an’ airly, an hour before sun-up, a man came
aboard wi’ an order, written to him from England, to receive a box
marked for one Count Dracula. Sure eneuch the matter was one ready to
his hand. He had his papers a’ reet, an’ glad I was to be rid o’ the
dam’ thing, for I was beginnin’ masel’ to feel uneasy at it. If the Deil
did have any luggage aboord the ship, I’m thinkin’ it was nane ither
than that same!”

“What was the name of the man who took it?” asked Dr. Van Helsing with
restrained eagerness.

“I’ll be tellin’ ye quick!” he answered, and, stepping down to his
cabin, produced a receipt signed “Immanuel Hildesheim.” Burgen-strasse
16 was the address. We found out that this was all the Captain knew; so
with thanks we came away.

We found Hildesheim in his office, a Hebrew of rather the Adelphi
Theatre type, with a nose like a sheep, and a fez. His arguments were
pointed with specie--we doing the punctuation--and with a little
bargaining he told us what he knew. This turned out to be simple but
important. He had received a letter from Mr. de Ville of London, telling
him to receive, if possible before sunrise so as to avoid customs, a box
which would arrive at Galatz in the _Czarina Catherine_. This he was to
give in charge to a certain Petrof Skinsky, who dealt with the Slovaks
who traded down the river to the port. He had been paid for his work by
an English bank note, which had been duly cashed for gold at the Danube
International Bank. When Skinsky had come to him, he had taken him to
the ship and handed over the box, so as to save porterage. That was all
he knew.

We then sought for Skinsky, but were unable to find him. One of his
neighbours, who did not seem to bear him any affection, said that he had
gone away two days before, no one knew whither. This was corroborated by
his landlord, who had received by messenger the key of the house
together with the rent due, in English money. This had been between ten
and eleven o’clock last night. We were at a standstill again.

Whilst we were talking one came running and breathlessly gasped out that
the body of Skinsky had been found inside the wall of the churchyard of
St. Peter, and that the throat had been torn open as if by some wild
animal. Those we had been speaking with ran off to see the horror, the
women crying out “This is the work of a Slovak!” We hurried away lest we
should have been in some way drawn into the affair, and so detained.

As we came home we could arrive at no definite conclusion. We were all
convinced that the box was on its way, by water, to somewhere; but where
that might be we would have to discover. With heavy hearts we came home
to the hotel to Mina.

When we met together, the first thing was to consult as to taking Mina
again into our confidence. Things are getting desperate, and it is at
least a chance, though a hazardous one. As a preliminary step, I was
released from my promise to her.


_Mina Harker’s Journal._

_30 October, evening._--They were so tired and worn out and dispirited
that there was nothing to be done till they had some rest; so I asked
them all to lie down for half an hour whilst I should enter everything
up to the moment. I feel so grateful to the man who invented the
“Traveller’s” typewriter, and to Mr. Morris for getting this one for
me. I should have felt quite astray doing the work if I had to write
with a pen....

It is all done; poor dear, dear Jonathan, what he must have suffered,
what must he be suffering now. He lies on the sofa hardly seeming to
breathe, and his whole body appears in collapse. His brows are knit; his
face is drawn with pain. Poor fellow, maybe he is thinking, and I can
see his face all wrinkled up with the concentration of his thoughts. Oh!
if I could only help at all.... I shall do what I can.

I have asked Dr. Van Helsing, and he has got me all the papers that I
have not yet seen.... Whilst they are resting, I shall go over all
carefully, and perhaps I may arrive at some conclusion. I shall try to
follow the Professor’s example, and think without prejudice on the facts
before me....

       *       *       *       *       *

I do believe that under God’s providence I have made a discovery. I
shall get the maps and look over them....

       *       *       *       *       *

I am more than ever sure that I am right. My new conclusion is ready, so
I shall get our party together and read it. They can judge it; it is
well to be accurate, and every minute is precious.


_Mina Harker’s Memorandum._

(Entered in her Journal.)

_Ground of inquiry._--Count Dracula’s problem is to get back to his own
place.

(_a_) He must be _brought back_ by some one. This is evident; for had he
power to move himself as he wished he could go either as man, or wolf,
or bat, or in some other way. He evidently fears discovery or
interference, in the state of helplessness in which he must be--confined
as he is between dawn and sunset in his wooden box.

(_b_) _How is he to be taken?_--Here a process of exclusions may help
us. By road, by rail, by water?

1. _By Road._--There are endless difficulties, especially in leaving the
city.

(_x_) There are people; and people are curious, and investigate. A hint,
a surmise, a doubt as to what might be in the box, would destroy him.

(_y_) There are, or there may be, customs and octroi officers to pass.

(_z_) His pursuers might follow. This is his highest fear; and in order
to prevent his being betrayed he has repelled, so far as he can, even
his victim--me!

2. _By Rail._--There is no one in charge of the box. It would have to
take its chance of being delayed; and delay would be fatal, with enemies
on the track. True, he might escape at night; but what would he be, if
left in a strange place with no refuge that he could fly to? This is not
what he intends; and he does not mean to risk it.

3. _By Water._--Here is the safest way, in one respect, but with most
danger in another. On the water he is powerless except at night; even
then he can only summon fog and storm and snow and his wolves. But were
he wrecked, the living water would engulf him, helpless; and he would
indeed be lost. He could have the vessel drive to land; but if it were
unfriendly land, wherein he was not free to move, his position would
still be desperate.

We know from the record that he was on the water; so what we have to do
is to ascertain _what_ water.

The first thing is to realise exactly what he has done as yet; we may,
then, get a light on what his later task is to be.

_Firstly._--We must differentiate between what he did in London as part
of his general plan of action, when he was pressed for moments and had
to arrange as best he could.

_Secondly_ we must see, as well as we can surmise it from the facts we
know of, what he has done here.

As to the first, he evidently intended to arrive at Galatz, and sent
invoice to Varna to deceive us lest we should ascertain his means of
exit from England; his immediate and sole purpose then was to escape.
The proof of this, is the letter of instructions sent to Immanuel
Hildesheim to clear and take away the box _before sunrise_. There is
also the instruction to Petrof Skinsky. These we must only guess at; but
there must have been some letter or message, since Skinsky came to
Hildesheim.

That, so far, his plans were successful we know. The _Czarina Catherine_
made a phenomenally quick journey--so much so that Captain Donelson’s
suspicions were aroused; but his superstition united with his canniness
played the Count’s game for him, and he ran with his favouring wind
through fogs and all till he brought up blindfold at Galatz. That the
Count’s arrangements were well made, has been proved. Hildesheim cleared
the box, took it off, and gave it to Skinsky. Skinsky took it--and here
we lose the trail. We only know that the box is somewhere on the water,
moving along. The customs and the octroi, if there be any, have been
avoided.

Now we come to what the Count must have done after his arrival--_on
land_, at Galatz.

The box was given to Skinsky before sunrise. At sunrise the Count could
appear in his own form. Here, we ask why Skinsky was chosen at all to
aid in the work? In my husband’s diary, Skinsky is mentioned as dealing
with the Slovaks who trade down the river to the port; and the man’s
remark, that the murder was the work of a Slovak, showed the general
feeling against his class. The Count wanted isolation.

My surmise is, this: that in London the Count decided to get back to his
castle by water, as the most safe and secret way. He was brought from
the castle by Szgany, and probably they delivered their cargo to Slovaks
who took the boxes to Varna, for there they were shipped for London.
Thus the Count had knowledge of the persons who could arrange this
service. When the box was on land, before sunrise or after sunset, he
came out from his box, met Skinsky and instructed him what to do as to
arranging the carriage of the box up some river. When this was done, and
he knew that all was in train, he blotted out his traces, as he thought,
by murdering his agent.

I have examined the map and find that the river most suitable for the
Slovaks to have ascended is either the Pruth or the Sereth. I read in
the typescript that in my trance I heard cows low and water swirling
level with my ears and the creaking of wood. The Count in his box, then,
was on a river in an open boat--propelled probably either by oars or
poles, for the banks are near and it is working against stream. There
would be no such sound if floating down stream.

Of course it may not be either the Sereth or the Pruth, but we may
possibly investigate further. Now of these two, the Pruth is the more
easily navigated, but the Sereth is, at Fundu, joined by the Bistritza
which runs up round the Borgo Pass. The loop it makes is manifestly as
close to Dracula’s castle as can be got by water.


_Mina Harker’s Journal--continued._

When I had done reading, Jonathan took me in his arms and kissed me. The
others kept shaking me by both hands, and Dr. Van Helsing said:--

“Our dear Madam Mina is once more our teacher. Her eyes have been where
we were blinded. Now we are on the track once again, and this time we
may succeed. Our enemy is at his most helpless; and if we can come on
him by day, on the water, our task will be over. He has a start, but he
is powerless to hasten, as he may not leave his box lest those who carry
him may suspect; for them to suspect would be to prompt them to throw
him in the stream where he perish. This he knows, and will not. Now men,
to our Council of War; for, here and now, we must plan what each and all
shall do.”

“I shall get a steam launch and follow him,” said Lord Godalming.

“And I, horses to follow on the bank lest by chance he land,” said Mr.
Morris.

“Good!” said the Professor, “both good. But neither must go alone. There
must be force to overcome force if need be; the Slovak is strong and
rough, and he carries rude arms.” All the men smiled, for amongst them
they carried a small arsenal. Said Mr. Morris:--

“I have brought some Winchesters; they are pretty handy in a crowd, and
there may be wolves. The Count, if you remember, took some other
precautions; he made some requisitions on others that Mrs. Harker could
not quite hear or understand. We must be ready at all points.” Dr.
Seward said:--

“I think I had better go with Quincey. We have been accustomed to hunt
together, and we two, well armed, will be a match for whatever may come
along. You must not be alone, Art. It may be necessary to fight the
Slovaks, and a chance thrust--for I don’t suppose these fellows carry
guns--would undo all our plans. There must be no chances, this time; we
shall not rest until the Count’s head and body have been separated, and
we are sure that he cannot re-incarnate.” He looked at Jonathan as he
spoke, and Jonathan looked at me. I could see that the poor dear was
torn about in his mind. Of course he wanted to be with me; but then the
boat service would, most likely, be the one which would destroy the ...
the ... the ... Vampire. (Why did I hesitate to write the word?) He was
silent awhile, and during his silence Dr. Van Helsing spoke:--

“Friend Jonathan, this is to you for twice reasons. First, because you
are young and brave and can fight, and all energies may be needed at the
last; and again that it is your right to destroy him--that--which has
wrought such woe to you and yours. Be not afraid for Madam Mina; she
will be my care, if I may. I am old. My legs are not so quick to run as
once; and I am not used to ride so long or to pursue as need be, or to
fight with lethal weapons. But I can be of other service; I can fight in
other way. And I can die, if need be, as well as younger men. Now let
me say that what I would is this: while you, my Lord Godalming and
friend Jonathan go in your so swift little steamboat up the river, and
whilst John and Quincey guard the bank where perchance he might be
landed, I will take Madam Mina right into the heart of the enemy’s
country. Whilst the old fox is tied in his box, floating on the running
stream whence he cannot escape to land--where he dares not raise the lid
of his coffin-box lest his Slovak carriers should in fear leave him to
perish--we shall go in the track where Jonathan went,--from Bistritz
over the Borgo, and find our way to the Castle of Dracula. Here, Madam
Mina’s hypnotic power will surely help, and we shall find our way--all
dark and unknown otherwise--after the first sunrise when we are near
that fateful place. There is much to be done, and other places to be
made sanctify, so that that nest of vipers be obliterated.” Here
Jonathan interrupted him hotly:--

“Do you mean to say, Professor Van Helsing, that you would bring Mina,
in her sad case and tainted as she is with that devil’s illness, right
into the jaws of his death-trap? Not for the world! Not for Heaven or
Hell!” He became almost speechless for a minute, and then went on:--

“Do you know what the place is? Have you seen that awful den of hellish
infamy--with the very moonlight alive with grisly shapes, and every
speck of dust that whirls in the wind a devouring monster in embryo?
Have you felt the Vampire’s lips upon your throat?” Here he turned to
me, and as his eyes lit on my forehead he threw up his arms with a cry:
“Oh, my God, what have we done to have this terror upon us!” and he sank
down on the sofa in a collapse of misery. The Professor’s voice, as he
spoke in clear, sweet tones, which seemed to vibrate in the air, calmed
us all:--

“Oh, my friend, it is because I would save Madam Mina from that awful
place that I would go. God forbid that I should take her into that
place. There is work--wild work--to be done there, that her eyes may not
see. We men here, all save Jonathan, have seen with their own eyes what
is to be done before that place can be purify. Remember that we are in
terrible straits. If the Count escape us this time--and he is strong and
subtle and cunning--he may choose to sleep him for a century, and then
in time our dear one”--he took my hand--“would come to him to keep him
company, and would be as those others that you, Jonathan, saw. You have
told us of their gloating lips; you heard their ribald laugh as they
clutched the moving bag that the Count threw to them. You shudder; and
well may it be. Forgive me that I make you so much pain, but it is
necessary. My friend, is it not a dire need for the which I am giving,
possibly my life? If it were that any one went into that place to stay,
it is I who would have to go to keep them company.”

“Do as you will,” said Jonathan, with a sob that shook him all over, “we
are in the hands of God!”

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--Oh, it did me good to see the way that these brave men worked.
How can women help loving men when they are so earnest, and so true, and
so brave! And, too, it made me think of the wonderful power of money!
What can it not do when it is properly applied; and what might it do
when basely used. I felt so thankful that Lord Godalming is rich, and
that both he and Mr. Morris, who also has plenty of money, are willing
to spend it so freely. For if they did not, our little expedition could
not start, either so promptly or so well equipped, as it will within
another hour. It is not three hours since it was arranged what part each
of us was to do; and now Lord Godalming and Jonathan have a lovely steam
launch, with steam up ready to start at a moment’s notice. Dr. Seward
and Mr. Morris have half a dozen good horses, well appointed. We have
all the maps and appliances of various kinds that can be had. Professor
Van Helsing and I are to leave by the 11:40 train to-night for Veresti,
where we are to get a carriage to drive to the Borgo Pass. We are
bringing a good deal of ready money, as we are to buy a carriage and
horses. We shall drive ourselves, for we have no one whom we can trust
in the matter. The Professor knows something of a great many languages,
so we shall get on all right. We have all got arms, even for me a
large-bore revolver; Jonathan would not be happy unless I was armed like
the rest. Alas! I cannot carry one arm that the rest do; the scar on my
forehead forbids that. Dear Dr. Van Helsing comforts me by telling me
that I am fully armed as there may be wolves; the weather is getting
colder every hour, and there are snow-flurries which come and go as
warnings.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--It took all my courage to say good-bye to my darling. We may
never meet again. Courage, Mina! the Professor is looking at you keenly;
his look is a warning. There must be no tears now--unless it may be that
God will let them fall in gladness.


_Jonathan Harker’s Journal._

_October 30. Night._--I am writing this in the light from the furnace
door of the steam launch: Lord Godalming is firing up. He is an
experienced hand at the work, as he has had for years a launch of his
own on the Thames, and another on the Norfolk Broads. Regarding our
plans, we finally decided that Mina’s guess was correct, and that if any
waterway was chosen for the Count’s escape back to his Castle, the
Sereth and then the Bistritza at its junction, would be the one. We took
it, that somewhere about the 47th degree, north latitude, would be the
place chosen for the crossing the country between the river and the
Carpathians. We have no fear in running at good speed up the river at
night; there is plenty of water, and the banks are wide enough apart to
make steaming, even in the dark, easy enough. Lord Godalming tells me to
sleep for a while, as it is enough for the present for one to be on
watch. But I cannot sleep--how can I with the terrible danger hanging
over my darling, and her going out into that awful place.... My only
comfort is that we are in the hands of God. Only for that faith it would
be easier to die than to live, and so be quit of all the trouble. Mr.
Morris and Dr. Seward were off on their long ride before we started;
they are to keep up the right bank, far enough off to get on higher
lands where they can see a good stretch of river and avoid the following
of its curves. They have, for the first stages, two men to ride and lead
their spare horses--four in all, so as not to excite curiosity. When
they dismiss the men, which shall be shortly, they shall themselves look
after the horses. It may be necessary for us to join forces; if so they
can mount our whole party. One of the saddles has a movable horn, and
can be easily adapted for Mina, if required.

It is a wild adventure we are on. Here, as we are rushing along through
the darkness, with the cold from the river seeming to rise up and strike
us; with all the mysterious voices of the night around us, it all comes
home. We seem to be drifting into unknown places and unknown ways; into
a whole world of dark and dreadful things. Godalming is shutting the
furnace door....

       *       *       *       *       *

_31 October._--Still hurrying along. The day has come, and Godalming is
sleeping. I am on watch. The morning is bitterly cold; the furnace heat
is grateful, though we have heavy fur coats. As yet we have passed only
a few open boats, but none of them had on board any box or package of
anything like the size of the one we seek. The men were scared every
time we turned our electric lamp on them, and fell on their knees and
prayed.

       *       *       *       *       *

_1 November, evening._--No news all day; we have found nothing of the
kind we seek. We have now passed into the Bistritza; and if we are wrong
in our surmise our chance is gone. We have over-hauled every boat, big
and little. Early this morning, one crew took us for a Government boat,
and treated us accordingly. We saw in this a way of smoothing matters,
so at Fundu, where the Bistritza runs into the Sereth, we got a
Roumanian flag which we now fly conspicuously. With every boat which we
have over-hauled since then this trick has succeeded; we have had every
deference shown to us, and not once any objection to whatever we chose
to ask or do. Some of the Slovaks tell us that a big boat passed them,
going at more than usual speed as she had a double crew on board. This
was before they came to Fundu, so they could not tell us whether the
boat turned into the Bistritza or continued on up the Sereth. At Fundu
we could not hear of any such boat, so she must have passed there in the
night. I am feeling very sleepy; the cold is perhaps beginning to tell
upon me, and nature must have rest some time. Godalming insists that he
shall keep the first watch. God bless him for all his goodness to poor
dear Mina and me.

       *       *       *       *       *

_2 November, morning._--It is broad daylight. That good fellow would not
wake me. He says it would have been a sin to, for I slept peacefully and
was forgetting my trouble. It seems brutally selfish to me to have slept
so long, and let him watch all night; but he was quite right. I am a new
man this morning; and, as I sit here and watch him sleeping, I can do
all that is necessary both as to minding the engine, steering, and
keeping watch. I can feel that my strength and energy are coming back to
me. I wonder where Mina is now, and Van Helsing. They should have got to
Veresti about noon on Wednesday. It would take them some time to get the
carriage and horses; so if they had started and travelled hard, they
would be about now at the Borgo Pass. God guide and help them! I am
afraid to think what may happen. If we could only go faster! but we
cannot; the engines are throbbing and doing their utmost. I wonder how
Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris are getting on. There seem to be endless
streams running down the mountains into this river, but as none of them
are very large--at present, at all events, though they are terrible
doubtless in winter and when the snow melts--the horsemen may not have
met much obstruction. I hope that before we get to Strasba we may see
them; for if by that time we have not overtaken the Count, it may be
necessary to take counsel together what to do next.


_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

_2 November._--Three days on the road. No news, and no time to write it
if there had been, for every moment is precious. We have had only the
rest needful for the horses; but we are both bearing it wonderfully.
Those adventurous days of ours are turning up useful. We must push on;
we shall never feel happy till we get the launch in sight again.

       *       *       *       *       *

_3 November._--We heard at Fundu that the launch had gone up the
Bistritza. I wish it wasn’t so cold. There are signs of snow coming; and
if it falls heavy it will stop us. In such case we must get a sledge and
go on, Russian fashion.

       *       *       *       *       *

_4 November._--To-day we heard of the launch having been detained by an
accident when trying to force a way up the rapids. The Slovak boats get
up all right, by aid of a rope and steering with knowledge. Some went up
only a few hours before. Godalming is an amateur fitter himself, and
evidently it was he who put the launch in trim again. Finally, they got
up the rapids all right, with local help, and are off on the chase
afresh. I fear that the boat is not any better for the accident; the
peasantry tell us that after she got upon smooth water again, she kept
stopping every now and again so long as she was in sight. We must push
on harder than ever; our help may be wanted soon.


_Mina Harker’s Journal._

_31 October._--Arrived at Veresti at noon. The Professor tells me that
this morning at dawn he could hardly hypnotise me at all, and that all I
could say was: “dark and quiet.” He is off now buying a carriage and
horses. He says that he will later on try to buy additional horses, so
that we may be able to change them on the way. We have something more
than 70 miles before us. The country is lovely, and most interesting; if
only we were under different conditions, how delightful it would be to
see it all. If Jonathan and I were driving through it alone what a
pleasure it would be. To stop and see people, and learn something of
their life, and to fill our minds and memories with all the colour and
picturesqueness of the whole wild, beautiful country and the quaint
people! But, alas!--

       *       *       *       *       *

_Later._--Dr. Van Helsing has returned. He has got the carriage and
horses; we are to have some dinner, and to start in an hour. The
landlady is putting us up a huge basket of provisions; it seems enough
for a company of soldiers. The Professor encourages her, and whispers to
me that it may be a week before we can get any good food again. He has
been shopping too, and has sent home such a wonderful lot of fur coats
and wraps, and all sorts of warm things. There will not be any chance of
our being cold.

       *       *       *       *       *

We shall soon be off. I am afraid to think what may happen to us. We are
truly in the hands of God. He alone knows what may be, and I pray Him,
with all the strength of my sad and humble soul, that He will watch over
my beloved husband; that whatever may happen, Jonathan may know that I
loved him and honoured him more than I can say, and that my latest and
truest thought will be always for him.




CHAPTER XXVII

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL


_1 November._--All day long we have travelled, and at a good speed. The
horses seem to know that they are being kindly treated, for they go
willingly their full stage at best speed. We have now had so many
changes and find the same thing so constantly that we are encouraged to
think that the journey will be an easy one. Dr. Van Helsing is laconic;
he tells the farmers that he is hurrying to Bistritz, and pays them well
to make the exchange of horses. We get hot soup, or coffee, or tea; and
off we go. It is a lovely country; full of beauties of all imaginable
kinds, and the people are brave, and strong, and simple, and seem full
of nice qualities. They are _very, very_ superstitious. In the first
house where we stopped, when the woman who served us saw the scar on my
forehead, she crossed herself and put out two fingers towards me, to
keep off the evil eye. I believe they went to the trouble of putting an
extra amount of garlic into our food; and I can’t abide garlic. Ever
since then I have taken care not to take off my hat or veil, and so have
escaped their suspicions. We are travelling fast, and as we have no
driver with us to carry tales, we go ahead of scandal; but I daresay
that fear of the evil eye will follow hard behind us all the way. The
Professor seems tireless; all day he would not take any rest, though he
made me sleep for a long spell. At sunset time he hypnotised me, and he
says that I answered as usual “darkness, lapping water and creaking
wood”; so our enemy is still on the river. I am afraid to think of
Jonathan, but somehow I have now no fear for him, or for myself. I write
this whilst we wait in a farmhouse for the horses to be got ready. Dr.
Van Helsing is sleeping. Poor dear, he looks very tired and old and
grey, but his mouth is set as firmly as a conqueror’s; even in his sleep
he is instinct with resolution. When we have well started I must make
him rest whilst I drive. I shall tell him that we have days before us,
and we must not break down when most of all his strength will be
needed.... All is ready; we are off shortly.

       *       *       *       *       *

_2 November, morning._--I was successful, and we took turns driving all
night; now the day is on us, bright though cold. There is a strange
heaviness in the air--I say heaviness for want of a better word; I mean
that it oppresses us both. It is very cold, and only our warm furs keep
us comfortable. At dawn Van Helsing hypnotised me; he says I answered
“darkness, creaking wood and roaring water,” so the river is changing as
they ascend. I do hope that my darling will not run any chance of
danger--more than need be; but we are in God’s hands.

       *       *       *       *       *

_2 November, night._--All day long driving. The country gets wilder as
we go, and the great spurs of the Carpathians, which at Veresti seemed
so far from us and so low on the horizon, now seem to gather round us
and tower in front. We both seem in good spirits; I think we make an
effort each to cheer the other; in the doing so we cheer ourselves. Dr.
Van Helsing says that by morning we shall reach the Borgo Pass. The
houses are very few here now, and the Professor says that the last horse
we got will have to go on with us, as we may not be able to change. He
got two in addition to the two we changed, so that now we have a rude
four-in-hand. The dear horses are patient and good, and they give us no
trouble. We are not worried with other travellers, and so even I can
drive. We shall get to the Pass in daylight; we do not want to arrive
before. So we take it easy, and have each a long rest in turn. Oh, what
will to-morrow bring to us? We go to seek the place where my poor
darling suffered so much. God grant that we may be guided aright, and
that He will deign to watch over my husband and those dear to us both,
and who are in such deadly peril. As for me, I am not worthy in His
sight. Alas! I am unclean to His eyes, and shall be until He may deign
to let me stand forth in His sight as one of those who have not incurred
His wrath.


_Memorandum by Abraham Van Helsing._

_4 November._--This to my old and true friend John Seward, M.D., of
Purfleet, London, in case I may not see him. It may explain. It is
morning, and I write by a fire which all the night I have kept
alive--Madam Mina aiding me. It is cold, cold; so cold that the grey
heavy sky is full of snow, which when it falls will settle for all
winter as the ground is hardening to receive it. It seems to have
affected Madam Mina; she has been so heavy of head all day that she was
not like herself. She sleeps, and sleeps, and sleeps! She who is usual
so alert, have done literally nothing all the day; she even have lost
her appetite. She make no entry into her little diary, she who write so
faithful at every pause. Something whisper to me that all is not well.
However, to-night she is more _vif_. Her long sleep all day have refresh
and restore her, for now she is all sweet and bright as ever. At sunset
I try to hypnotise her, but alas! with no effect; the power has grown
less and less with each day, and to-night it fail me altogether. Well,
God’s will be done--whatever it may be, and whithersoever it may lead!

Now to the historical, for as Madam Mina write not in her stenography, I
must, in my cumbrous old fashion, that so each day of us may not go
unrecorded.

We got to the Borgo Pass just after sunrise yesterday morning. When I
saw the signs of the dawn I got ready for the hypnotism. We stopped our
carriage, and got down so that there might be no disturbance. I made a
couch with furs, and Madam Mina, lying down, yield herself as usual, but
more slow and more short time than ever, to the hypnotic sleep. As
before, came the answer: “darkness and the swirling of water.” Then she
woke, bright and radiant and we go on our way and soon reach the Pass.
At this time and place, she become all on fire with zeal; some new
guiding power be in her manifested, for she point to a road and say:--

“This is the way.”

“How know you it?” I ask.

“Of course I know it,” she answer, and with a pause, add: “Have not my
Jonathan travelled it and wrote of his travel?”

At first I think somewhat strange, but soon I see that there be only one
such by-road. It is used but little, and very different from the coach
road from the Bukovina to Bistritz, which is more wide and hard, and
more of use.

So we came down this road; when we meet other ways--not always were we
sure that they were roads at all, for they be neglect and light snow
have fallen--the horses know and they only. I give rein to them, and
they go on so patient. By-and-by we find all the things which Jonathan
have note in that wonderful diary of him. Then we go on for long, long
hours and hours. At the first, I tell Madam Mina to sleep; she try, and
she succeed. She sleep all the time; till at the last, I feel myself to
suspicious grow, and attempt to wake her. But she sleep on, and I may
not wake her though I try. I do not wish to try too hard lest I harm
her; for I know that she have suffer much, and sleep at times be
all-in-all to her. I think I drowse myself, for all of sudden I feel
guilt, as though I have done something; I find myself bolt up, with the
reins in my hand, and the good horses go along jog, jog, just as ever. I
look down and find Madam Mina still sleep. It is now not far off sunset
time, and over the snow the light of the sun flow in big yellow flood,
so that we throw great long shadow on where the mountain rise so steep.
For we are going up, and up; and all is oh! so wild and rocky, as though
it were the end of the world.

Then I arouse Madam Mina. This time she wake with not much trouble, and
then I try to put her to hypnotic sleep. But she sleep not, being as
though I were not. Still I try and try, till all at once I find her and
myself in dark; so I look round, and find that the sun have gone down.
Madam Mina laugh, and I turn and look at her. She is now quite awake,
and look so well as I never saw her since that night at Carfax when we
first enter the Count’s house. I am amaze, and not at ease then; but she
is so bright and tender and thoughtful for me that I forget all fear. I
light a fire, for we have brought supply of wood with us, and she
prepare food while I undo the horses and set them, tethered in shelter,
to feed. Then when I return to the fire she have my supper ready. I go
to help her; but she smile, and tell me that she have eat already--that
she was so hungry that she would not wait. I like it not, and I have
grave doubts; but I fear to affright her, and so I am silent of it. She
help me and I eat alone; and then we wrap in fur and lie beside the
fire, and I tell her to sleep while I watch. But presently I forget all
of watching; and when I sudden remember that I watch, I find her lying
quiet, but awake, and looking at me with so bright eyes. Once, twice
more the same occur, and I get much sleep till before morning. When I
wake I try to hypnotise her; but alas! though she shut her eyes
obedient, she may not sleep. The sun rise up, and up, and up; and then
sleep come to her too late, but so heavy that she will not wake. I have
to lift her up, and place her sleeping in the carriage when I have
harnessed the horses and made all ready. Madam still sleep, and she look
in her sleep more healthy and more redder than before. And I like it
not. And I am afraid, afraid, afraid!--I am afraid of all things--even
to think but I must go on my way. The stake we play for is life and
death, or more than these, and we must not flinch.

       *       *       *       *       *

_5 November, morning._--Let me be accurate in everything, for though you
and I have seen some strange things together, you may at the first think
that I, Van Helsing, am mad--that the many horrors and the so long
strain on nerves has at the last turn my brain.

All yesterday we travel, ever getting closer to the mountains, and
moving into a more and more wild and desert land. There are great,
frowning precipices and much falling water, and Nature seem to have held
sometime her carnival. Madam Mina still sleep and sleep; and though I
did have hunger and appeased it, I could not waken her--even for food. I
began to fear that the fatal spell of the place was upon her, tainted as
she is with that Vampire baptism. “Well,” said I to myself, “if it be
that she sleep all the day, it shall also be that I do not sleep at
night.” As we travel on the rough road, for a road of an ancient and
imperfect kind there was, I held down my head and slept. Again I waked
with a sense of guilt and of time passed, and found Madam Mina still
sleeping, and the sun low down. But all was indeed changed; the frowning
mountains seemed further away, and we were near the top of a
steep-rising hill, on summit of which was such a castle as Jonathan tell
of in his diary. At once I exulted and feared; for now, for good or ill,
the end was near.

I woke Madam Mina, and again tried to hypnotise her; but alas!
unavailing till too late. Then, ere the great dark came upon us--for
even after down-sun the heavens reflected the gone sun on the snow, and
all was for a time in a great twilight--I took out the horses and fed
them in what shelter I could. Then I make a fire; and near it I make
Madam Mina, now awake and more charming than ever, sit comfortable amid
her rugs. I got ready food: but she would not eat, simply saying that
she had not hunger. I did not press her, knowing her unavailingness. But
I myself eat, for I must needs now be strong for all. Then, with the
fear on me of what might be, I drew a ring so big for her comfort, round
where Madam Mina sat; and over the ring I passed some of the wafer, and
I broke it fine so that all was well guarded. She sat still all the
time--so still as one dead; and she grew whiter and ever whiter till the
snow was not more pale; and no word she said. But when I drew near, she
clung to me, and I could know that the poor soul shook her from head to
feet with a tremor that was pain to feel. I said to her presently, when
she had grown more quiet:--

“Will you not come over to the fire?” for I wished to make a test of
what she could. She rose obedient, but when she have made a step she
stopped, and stood as one stricken.

“Why not go on?” I asked. She shook her head, and, coming back, sat
down in her place. Then, looking at me with open eyes, as of one waked
from sleep, she said simply:--

“I cannot!” and remained silent. I rejoiced, for I knew that what she
could not, none of those that we dreaded could. Though there might be
danger to her body, yet her soul was safe!

Presently the horses began to scream, and tore at their tethers till I
came to them and quieted them. When they did feel my hands on them, they
whinnied low as in joy, and licked at my hands and were quiet for a
time. Many times through the night did I come to them, till it arrive to
the cold hour when all nature is at lowest; and every time my coming was
with quiet of them. In the cold hour the fire began to die, and I was
about stepping forth to replenish it, for now the snow came in flying
sweeps and with it a chill mist. Even in the dark there was a light of
some kind, as there ever is over snow; and it seemed as though the
snow-flurries and the wreaths of mist took shape as of women with
trailing garments. All was in dead, grim silence only that the horses
whinnied and cowered, as if in terror of the worst. I began to
fear--horrible fears; but then came to me the sense of safety in that
ring wherein I stood. I began, too, to think that my imaginings were of
the night, and the gloom, and the unrest that I have gone through, and
all the terrible anxiety. It was as though my memories of all Jonathan’s
horrid experience were befooling me; for the snow flakes and the mist
began to wheel and circle round, till I could get as though a shadowy
glimpse of those women that would have kissed him. And then the horses
cowered lower and lower, and moaned in terror as men do in pain. Even
the madness of fright was not to them, so that they could break away. I
feared for my dear Madam Mina when these weird figures drew near and
circled round. I looked at her, but she sat calm, and smiled at me; when
I would have stepped to the fire to replenish it, she caught me and held
me back, and whispered, like a voice that one hears in a dream, so low
it was:--

“No! No! Do not go without. Here you are safe!” I turned to her, and
looking in her eyes, said:--

“But you? It is for you that I fear!” whereat she laughed--a laugh, low
and unreal, and said:--

“Fear for _me_! Why fear for me? None safer in all the world from them
than I am,” and as I wondered at the meaning of her words, a puff of
wind made the flame leap up, and I see the red scar on her forehead.
Then, alas! I knew. Did I not, I would soon have learned, for the
wheeling figures of mist and snow came closer, but keeping ever without
the Holy circle. Then they began to materialise till--if God have not
take away my reason, for I saw it through my eyes--there were before me
in actual flesh the same three women that Jonathan saw in the room, when
they would have kissed his throat. I knew the swaying round forms, the
bright hard eyes, the white teeth, the ruddy colour, the voluptuous
lips. They smiled ever at poor dear Madam Mina; and as their laugh came
through the silence of the night, they twined their arms and pointed to
her, and said in those so sweet tingling tones that Jonathan said were
of the intolerable sweetness of the water-glasses:--

“Come, sister. Come to us. Come! Come!” In fear I turned to my poor
Madam Mina, and my heart with gladness leapt like flame; for oh! the
terror in her sweet eyes, the repulsion, the horror, told a story to my
heart that was all of hope. God be thanked she was not, yet, of them. I
seized some of the firewood which was by me, and holding out some of the
Wafer, advanced on them towards the fire. They drew back before me, and
laughed their low horrid laugh. I fed the fire, and feared them not; for
I knew that we were safe within our protections. They could not
approach, me, whilst so armed, nor Madam Mina whilst she remained within
the ring, which she could not leave no more than they could enter. The
horses had ceased to moan, and lay still on the ground; the snow fell on
them softly, and they grew whiter. I knew that there was for the poor
beasts no more of terror.

And so we remained till the red of the dawn to fall through the
snow-gloom. I was desolate and afraid, and full of woe and terror; but
when that beautiful sun began to climb the horizon life was to me again.
At the first coming of the dawn the horrid figures melted in the
whirling mist and snow; the wreaths of transparent gloom moved away
towards the castle, and were lost.

Instinctively, with the dawn coming, I turned to Madam Mina, intending
to hypnotise her; but she lay in a deep and sudden sleep, from which I
could not wake her. I tried to hypnotise through her sleep, but she made
no response, none at all; and the day broke. I fear yet to stir. I have
made my fire and have seen the horses, they are all dead. To-day I have
much to do here, and I keep waiting till the sun is up high; for there
may be places where I must go, where that sunlight, though snow and mist
obscure it, will be to me a safety.

I will strengthen me with breakfast, and then I will to my terrible
work. Madam Mina still sleeps; and, God be thanked! she is calm in her
sleep....


_Jonathan Harker’s Journal._

_4 November, evening._--The accident to the launch has been a terrible
thing for us. Only for it we should have overtaken the boat long ago;
and by now my dear Mina would have been free. I fear to think of her,
off on the wolds near that horrid place. We have got horses, and we
follow on the track. I note this whilst Godalming is getting ready. We
have our arms. The Szgany must look out if they mean fight. Oh, if only
Morris and Seward were with us. We must only hope! If I write no more
Good-bye, Mina! God bless and keep you.


_Dr. Seward’s Diary._

_5 November._--With the dawn we saw the body of Szgany before us dashing
away from the river with their leiter-wagon. They surrounded it in a
cluster, and hurried along as though beset. The snow is falling lightly
and there is a strange excitement in the air. It may be our own
feelings, but the depression is strange. Far off I hear the howling of
wolves; the snow brings them down from the mountains, and there are
dangers to all of us, and from all sides. The horses are nearly ready,
and we are soon off. We ride to death of some one. God alone knows who,
or where, or what, or when, or how it may be....


_Dr. Van Helsing’s Memorandum._

_5 November, afternoon._--I am at least sane. Thank God for that mercy
at all events, though the proving it has been dreadful. When I left
Madam Mina sleeping within the Holy circle, I took my way to the castle.
The blacksmith hammer which I took in the carriage from Veresti was
useful; though the doors were all open I broke them off the rusty
hinges, lest some ill-intent or ill-chance should close them, so that
being entered I might not get out. Jonathan’s bitter experience served
me here. By memory of his diary I found my way to the old chapel, for I
knew that here my work lay. The air was oppressive; it seemed as if
there was some sulphurous fume, which at times made me dizzy. Either
there was a roaring in my ears or I heard afar off the howl of wolves.
Then I bethought me of my dear Madam Mina, and I was in terrible plight.
The dilemma had me between his horns.

Her, I had not dare to take into this place, but left safe from the
Vampire in that Holy circle; and yet even there would be the wolf! I
resolve me that my work lay here, and that as to the wolves we must
submit, if it were God’s will. At any rate it was only death and
freedom beyond. So did I choose for her. Had it but been for myself the
choice had been easy, the maw of the wolf were better to rest in than
the grave of the Vampire! So I make my choice to go on with my work.

I knew that there were at least three graves to find--graves that are
inhabit; so I search, and search, and I find one of them. She lay in her
Vampire sleep, so full of life and voluptuous beauty that I shudder as
though I have come to do murder. Ah, I doubt not that in old time, when
such things were, many a man who set forth to do such a task as mine,
found at the last his heart fail him, and then his nerve. So he delay,
and delay, and delay, till the mere beauty and the fascination of the
wanton Un-Dead have hypnotise him; and he remain on and on, till sunset
come, and the Vampire sleep be over. Then the beautiful eyes of the fair
woman open and look love, and the voluptuous mouth present to a
kiss--and man is weak. And there remain one more victim in the Vampire
fold; one more to swell the grim and grisly ranks of the Un-Dead!...

There is some fascination, surely, when I am moved by the mere presence
of such an one, even lying as she lay in a tomb fretted with age and
heavy with the dust of centuries, though there be that horrid odour such
as the lairs of the Count have had. Yes, I was moved--I, Van Helsing,
with all my purpose and with my motive for hate--I was moved to a
yearning for delay which seemed to paralyse my faculties and to clog my
very soul. It may have been that the need of natural sleep, and the
strange oppression of the air were beginning to overcome me. Certain it
was that I was lapsing into sleep, the open-eyed sleep of one who yields
to a sweet fascination, when there came through the snow-stilled air a
long, low wail, so full of woe and pity that it woke me like the sound
of a clarion. For it was the voice of my dear Madam Mina that I heard.

Then I braced myself again to my horrid task, and found by wrenching
away tomb-tops one other of the sisters, the other dark one. I dared not
pause to look on her as I had on her sister, lest once more I should
begin to be enthrall; but I go on searching until, presently, I find in
a high great tomb as if made to one much beloved that other fair sister
which, like Jonathan I had seen to gather herself out of the atoms of
the mist. She was so fair to look on, so radiantly beautiful, so
exquisitely voluptuous, that the very instinct of man in me, which calls
some of my sex to love and to protect one of hers, made my head whirl
with new emotion. But God be thanked, that soul-wail of my dear Madam
Mina had not died out of my ears; and, before the spell could be wrought
further upon me, I had nerved myself to my wild work. By this time I had
searched all the tombs in the chapel, so far as I could tell; and as
there had been only three of these Un-Dead phantoms around us in the
night, I took it that there were no more of active Un-Dead existent.
There was one great tomb more lordly than all the rest; huge it was, and
nobly proportioned. On it was but one word

                                DRACULA.

This then was the Un-Dead home of the King-Vampire, to whom so many more
were due. Its emptiness spoke eloquent to make certain what I knew.
Before I began to restore these women to their dead selves through my
awful work, I laid in Dracula’s tomb some of the Wafer, and so banished
him from it, Un-Dead, for ever.

Then began my terrible task, and I dreaded it. Had it been but one, it
had been easy, comparative. But three! To begin twice more after I had
been through a deed of horror; for if it was terrible with the sweet
Miss Lucy, what would it not be with these strange ones who had survived
through centuries, and who had been strengthened by the passing of the
years; who would, if they could, have fought for their foul lives....

Oh, my friend John, but it was butcher work; had I not been nerved by
thoughts of other dead, and of the living over whom hung such a pall of
fear, I could not have gone on. I tremble and tremble even yet, though
till all was over, God be thanked, my nerve did stand. Had I not seen
the repose in the first place, and the gladness that stole over it just
ere the final dissolution came, as realisation that the soul had been
won, I could not have gone further with my butchery. I could not have
endured the horrid screeching as the stake drove home; the plunging of
writhing form, and lips of bloody foam. I should have fled in terror and
left my work undone. But it is over! And the poor souls, I can pity them
now and weep, as I think of them placid each in her full sleep of death
for a short moment ere fading. For, friend John, hardly had my knife
severed the head of each, before the whole body began to melt away and
crumble in to its native dust, as though the death that should have come
centuries agone had at last assert himself and say at once and loud “I
am here!”

Before I left the castle I so fixed its entrances that never more can
the Count enter there Un-Dead.

When I stepped into the circle where Madam Mina slept, she woke from her
sleep, and, seeing, me, cried out in pain that I had endured too much.

“Come!” she said, “come away from this awful place! Let us go to meet my
husband who is, I know, coming towards us.” She was looking thin and
pale and weak; but her eyes were pure and glowed with fervour. I was
glad to see her paleness and her illness, for my mind was full of the
fresh horror of that ruddy vampire sleep.

And so with trust and hope, and yet full of fear, we go eastward to meet
our friends--and _him_--whom Madam Mina tell me that she _know_ are
coming to meet us.


_Mina Harker’s Journal._

_6 November._--It was late in the afternoon when the Professor and I
took our way towards the east whence I knew Jonathan was coming. We did
not go fast, though the way was steeply downhill, for we had to take
heavy rugs and wraps with us; we dared not face the possibility of being
left without warmth in the cold and the snow. We had to take some of our
provisions, too, for we were in a perfect desolation, and, so far as we
could see through the snowfall, there was not even the sign of
habitation. When we had gone about a mile, I was tired with the heavy
walking and sat down to rest. Then we looked back and saw where the
clear line of Dracula’s castle cut the sky; for we were so deep under
the hill whereon it was set that the angle of perspective of the
Carpathian mountains was far below it. We saw it in all its grandeur,
perched a thousand feet on the summit of a sheer precipice, and with
seemingly a great gap between it and the steep of the adjacent mountain
on any side. There was something wild and uncanny about the place. We
could hear the distant howling of wolves. They were far off, but the
sound, even though coming muffled through the deadening snowfall, was
full of terror. I knew from the way Dr. Van Helsing was searching about
that he was trying to seek some strategic point, where we would be less
exposed in case of attack. The rough roadway still led downwards; we
could trace it through the drifted snow.

In a little while the Professor signalled to me, so I got up and joined
him. He had found a wonderful spot, a sort of natural hollow in a rock,
with an entrance like a doorway between two boulders. He took me by the
hand and drew me in: “See!” he said, “here you will be in shelter; and
if the wolves do come I can meet them one by one.” He brought in our
furs, and made a snug nest for me, and got out some provisions and
forced them upon me. But I could not eat; to even try to do so was
repulsive to me, and, much as I would have liked to please him, I could
not bring myself to the attempt. He looked very sad, but did not
reproach me. Taking his field-glasses from the case, he stood on the top
of the rock, and began to search the horizon. Suddenly he called out:--

“Look! Madam Mina, look! look!” I sprang up and stood beside him on the
rock; he handed me his glasses and pointed. The snow was now falling
more heavily, and swirled about fiercely, for a high wind was beginning
to blow. However, there were times when there were pauses between the
snow flurries and I could see a long way round. From the height where we
were it was possible to see a great distance; and far off, beyond the
white waste of snow, I could see the river lying like a black ribbon in
kinks and curls as it wound its way. Straight in front of us and not far
off--in fact, so near that I wondered we had not noticed before--came a
group of mounted men hurrying along. In the midst of them was a cart, a
long leiter-wagon which swept from side to side, like a dog’s tail
wagging, with each stern inequality of the road. Outlined against the
snow as they were, I could see from the men’s clothes that they were
peasants or gypsies of some kind.

On the cart was a great square chest. My heart leaped as I saw it, for I
felt that the end was coming. The evening was now drawing close, and
well I knew that at sunset the Thing, which was till then imprisoned
there, would take new freedom and could in any of many forms elude all
pursuit. In fear I turned to the Professor; to my consternation,
however, he was not there. An instant later, I saw him below me. Round
the rock he had drawn a circle, such as we had found shelter in last
night. When he had completed it he stood beside me again, saying:--

“At least you shall be safe here from _him_!” He took the glasses from
me, and at the next lull of the snow swept the whole space below us.
“See,” he said, “they come quickly; they are flogging the horses, and
galloping as hard as they can.” He paused and went on in a hollow
voice:--

“They are racing for the sunset. We may be too late. God’s will be
done!” Down came another blinding rush of driving snow, and the whole
landscape was blotted out. It soon passed, however, and once more his
glasses were fixed on the plain. Then came a sudden cry:--

“Look! Look! Look! See, two horsemen follow fast, coming up from the
south. It must be Quincey and John. Take the glass. Look before the snow
blots it all out!” I took it and looked. The two men might be Dr. Seward
and Mr. Morris. I knew at all events that neither of them was Jonathan.
At the same time I _knew_ that Jonathan was not far off; looking around
I saw on the north side of the coming party two other men, riding at
break-neck speed. One of them I knew was Jonathan, and the other I took,
of course, to be Lord Godalming. They, too, were pursuing the party with
the cart. When I told the Professor he shouted in glee like a schoolboy,
and, after looking intently till a snow fall made sight impossible, he
laid his Winchester rifle ready for use against the boulder at the
opening of our shelter. “They are all converging,” he said. “When the
time comes we shall have gypsies on all sides.” I got out my revolver
ready to hand, for whilst we were speaking the howling of wolves came
louder and closer. When the snow storm abated a moment we looked again.
It was strange to see the snow falling in such heavy flakes close to us,
and beyond, the sun shining more and more brightly as it sank down
towards the far mountain tops. Sweeping the glass all around us I could
see here and there dots moving singly and in twos and threes and larger
numbers--the wolves were gathering for their prey.

Every instant seemed an age whilst we waited. The wind came now in
fierce bursts, and the snow was driven with fury as it swept upon us in
circling eddies. At times we could not see an arm’s length before us;
but at others, as the hollow-sounding wind swept by us, it seemed to
clear the air-space around us so that we could see afar off. We had of
late been so accustomed to watch for sunrise and sunset, that we knew
with fair accuracy when it would be; and we knew that before long the
sun would set. It was hard to believe that by our watches it was less
than an hour that we waited in that rocky shelter before the various
bodies began to converge close upon us. The wind came now with fiercer
and more bitter sweeps, and more steadily from the north. It seemingly
had driven the snow clouds from us, for, with only occasional bursts,
the snow fell. We could distinguish clearly the individuals of each
party, the pursued and the pursuers. Strangely enough those pursued did
not seem to realise, or at least to care, that they were pursued; they
seemed, however, to hasten with redoubled speed as the sun dropped lower
and lower on the mountain tops.

Closer and closer they drew. The Professor and I crouched down behind
our rock, and held our weapons ready; I could see that he was determined
that they should not pass. One and all were quite unaware of our
presence.

All at once two voices shouted out to: “Halt!” One was my Jonathan’s,
raised in a high key of passion; the other Mr. Morris’ strong resolute
tone of quiet command. The gypsies may not have known the language, but
there was no mistaking the tone, in whatever tongue the words were
spoken. Instinctively they reined in, and at the instant Lord Godalming
and Jonathan dashed up at one side and Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris on the
other. The leader of the gypsies, a splendid-looking fellow who sat his
horse like a centaur, waved them back, and in a fierce voice gave to his
companions some word to proceed. They lashed the horses which sprang
forward; but the four men raised their Winchester rifles, and in an
unmistakable way commanded them to stop. At the same moment Dr. Van
Helsing and I rose behind the rock and pointed our weapons at them.
Seeing that they were surrounded the men tightened their reins and drew
up. The leader turned to them and gave a word at which every man of the
gypsy party drew what weapon he carried, knife or pistol, and held
himself in readiness to attack. Issue was joined in an instant.

The leader, with a quick movement of his rein, threw his horse out in
front, and pointing first to the sun--now close down on the hill
tops--and then to the castle, said something which I did not understand.
For answer, all four men of our party threw themselves from their horses
and dashed towards the cart. I should have felt terrible fear at seeing
Jonathan in such danger, but that the ardour of battle must have been
upon me as well as the rest of them; I felt no fear, but only a wild,
surging desire to do something. Seeing the quick movement of our
parties, the leader of the gypsies gave a command; his men instantly
formed round the cart in a sort of undisciplined endeavour, each one
shouldering and pushing the other in his eagerness to carry out the
order.

In the midst of this I could see that Jonathan on one side of the ring
of men, and Quincey on the other, were forcing a way to the cart; it was
evident that they were bent on finishing their task before the sun
should set. Nothing seemed to stop or even to hinder them. Neither the
levelled weapons nor the flashing knives of the gypsies in front, nor
the howling of the wolves behind, appeared to even attract their
attention. Jonathan’s impetuosity, and the manifest singleness of his
purpose, seemed to overawe those in front of him; instinctively they
cowered, aside and let him pass. In an instant he had jumped upon the
cart, and, with a strength which seemed incredible, raised the great
box, and flung it over the wheel to the ground. In the meantime, Mr.
Morris had had to use force to pass through his side of the ring of
Szgany. All the time I had been breathlessly watching Jonathan I had,
with the tail of my eye, seen him pressing desperately forward, and had
seen the knives of the gypsies flash as he won a way through them, and
they cut at him. He had parried with his great bowie knife, and at first
I thought that he too had come through in safety; but as he sprang
beside Jonathan, who had by now jumped from the cart, I could see that
with his left hand he was clutching at his side, and that the blood was
spurting through his fingers. He did not delay notwithstanding this, for
as Jonathan, with desperate energy, attacked one end of the chest,
attempting to prize off the lid with his great Kukri knife, he attacked
the other frantically with his bowie. Under the efforts of both men the
lid began to yield; the nails drew with a quick screeching sound, and
the top of the box was thrown back.

By this time the gypsies, seeing themselves covered by the Winchesters,
and at the mercy of Lord Godalming and Dr. Seward, had given in and made
no resistance. The sun was almost down on the mountain tops, and the
shadows of the whole group fell long upon the snow. I saw the Count
lying within the box upon the earth, some of which the rude falling from
the cart had scattered over him. He was deathly pale, just like a waxen
image, and the red eyes glared with the horrible vindictive look which I
knew too well.

As I looked, the eyes saw the sinking sun, and the look of hate in them
turned to triumph.

But, on the instant, came the sweep and flash of Jonathan’s great knife.
I shrieked as I saw it shear through the throat; whilst at the same
moment Mr. Morris’s bowie knife plunged into the heart.

It was like a miracle; but before our very eyes, and almost in the
drawing of a breath, the whole body crumbled into dust and passed from
our sight.

I shall be glad as long as I live that even in that moment of final
dissolution, there was in the face a look of peace, such as I never
could have imagined might have rested there.

The Castle of Dracula now stood out against the red sky, and every stone
of its broken battlements was articulated against the light of the
setting sun.

The gypsies, taking us as in some way the cause of the extraordinary
disappearance of the dead man, turned, without a word, and rode away as
if for their lives. Those who were unmounted jumped upon the
leiter-wagon and shouted to the horsemen not to desert them. The wolves,
which had withdrawn to a safe distance, followed in their wake, leaving
us alone.

Mr. Morris, who had sunk to the ground, leaned on his elbow, holding his
hand pressed to his side; the blood still gushed through his fingers. I
flew to him, for the Holy circle did not now keep me back; so did the
two doctors. Jonathan knelt behind him and the wounded man laid back his
head on his shoulder. With a sigh he took, with a feeble effort, my hand
in that of his own which was unstained. He must have seen the anguish of
my heart in my face, for he smiled at me and said:--

“I am only too happy to have been of any service! Oh, God!” he cried
suddenly, struggling up to a sitting posture and pointing to me, “It was
worth for this to die! Look! look!”

The sun was now right down upon the mountain top, and the red gleams
fell upon my face, so that it was bathed in rosy light. With one impulse
the men sank on their knees and a deep and earnest “Amen” broke from all
as their eyes followed the pointing of his finger. The dying man
spoke:--

“Now God be thanked that all has not been in vain! See! the snow is not
more stainless than her forehead! The curse has passed away!”

And, to our bitter grief, with a smile and in silence, he died, a
gallant gentleman.




                                  NOTE


Seven years ago we all went through the flames; and the happiness of
some of us since then is, we think, well worth the pain we endured. It
is an added joy to Mina and to me that our boy’s birthday is the same
day as that on which Quincey Morris died. His mother holds, I know, the
secret belief that some of our brave friend’s spirit has passed into
him. His bundle of names links all our little band of men together; but
we call him Quincey.

In the summer of this year we made a journey to Transylvania, and went
over the old ground which was, and is, to us so full of vivid and
terrible memories. It was almost impossible to believe that the things
which we had seen with our own eyes and heard with our own ears were
living truths. Every trace of all that had been was blotted out. The
castle stood as before, reared high above a waste of desolation.

When we got home we were talking of the old time--which we could all
look back on without despair, for Godalming and Seward are both happily
married. I took the papers from the safe where they had been ever since
our return so long ago. We were struck with the fact, that in all the
mass of material of which the record is composed, there is hardly one
authentic document; nothing but a mass of typewriting, except the later
note-books of Mina and Seward and myself, and Van Helsing’s memorandum.
We could hardly ask any one, even did we wish to, to accept these as
proofs of so wild a story. Van Helsing summed it all up as he said, with
our boy on his knee:--

“We want no proofs; we ask none to believe us! This boy will some day
know what a brave and gallant woman his mother is. Already he knows her
sweetness and loving care; later on he will understand how some men so
loved her, that they did dare much for her sake.”

JONATHAN HARKER.

                                THE END

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The Works of Edgar Allan Poe

by Edgar Allan Poe

The Raven Edition


Contents

 PREFACE
 LIFE OF POE
 DEATH OF POE
 THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAALL
 THE GOLD-BUG
 FOUR BEASTS IN ONE—THE HOMO-CAMELEOPARD
 THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE
 THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET.(*1)
 THE BALLOON-HOAX
 MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE
 THE OVAL PORTRAIT




EDGAR ALLAN POE
AN APPRECIATION

   Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
   Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
   Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
         Of “never—never more!”

      This stanza from “The Raven” was recommended by James Russell
      Lowell as an inscription upon the Baltimore monument which marks
      the resting place of Edgar Allan Poe, the most interesting and
      original figure in American letters. And, to signify that
      peculiar musical quality of Poe’s genius which inthralls every
      reader, Mr. Lowell suggested this additional verse, from the
      “Haunted Palace”:

   And all with pearl and ruby glowing
    Was the fair palace door,
   Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
    And sparkling ever more,
   A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
    Was but to sing,
   In voices of surpassing beauty,
    The wit and wisdom of their king.

      Born in poverty at Boston, January 19, 1809, dying under painful
      circumstances at Baltimore, October 7, 1849, his whole literary
      career of scarcely fifteen years a pitiful struggle for mere
      subsistence, his memory malignantly misrepresented by his
      earliest biographer, Griswold, how completely has truth at last
      routed falsehood and how magnificently has Poe come into his own.
      For “The Raven,” first published in 1845, and, within a few
      months, read, recited and parodied wherever the English language
      was spoken, the half-starved poet received $10! Less than a year
      later his brother poet, N. P. Willis, issued this touching appeal
      to the admirers of genius on behalf of the neglected author, his
      dying wife and her devoted mother, then living under very
      straitened circumstances in a little cottage at Fordham, N. Y.:

      “Here is one of the finest scholars, one of the most original men
      of genius, and one of the most industrious of the literary
      profession of our country, whose temporary suspension of labor,
      from bodily illness, drops him immediately to a level with the
      common objects of public charity. There is no intermediate
      stopping-place, no respectful shelter, where, with the delicacy
      due to genius and culture, he might secure aid, till, with
      returning health, he would resume his labors, and his unmortified
      sense of independence.”

      And this was the tribute paid by the American public to the
      master who had given to it such tales of conjuring charm, of
      witchery and mystery as “The Fall of the House of Usher” and
      “Ligeia”; such fascinating hoaxes as “The Unparalleled Adventure
      of Hans Pfaall,” “MSS. Found in a Bottle,” “A Descent Into a
      Maelstrom” and “The Balloon-Hoax”; such tales of conscience as
      “William Wilson,” “The Black Cat” and “The Tell-tale Heart,”
      wherein the retributions of remorse are portrayed with an awful
      fidelity; such tales of natural beauty as “The Island of the Fay”
      and “The Domain of Arnheim”; such marvellous studies in
      ratiocination as the “Gold-bug,” “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,”
      “The Purloined Letter” and “The Mystery of Marie Roget,” the
      latter, a recital of fact, demonstrating the author’s wonderful
      capability of correctly analyzing the mysteries of the human
      mind; such tales of illusion and banter as “The Premature Burial”
      and “The System of Dr. Tarr and Professor Fether”; such bits of
      extravaganza as “The Devil in the Belfry” and “The Angel of the
      Odd”; such tales of adventure as “The Narrative of Arthur Gordon
      Pym”; such papers of keen criticism and review as won for Poe the
      enthusiastic admiration of Charles Dickens, although they made
      him many enemies among the over-puffed minor American writers so
      mercilessly exposed by him; such poems of beauty and melody as
      “The Bells,” “The Haunted Palace,” “Tamerlane,” “The City in the
      Sea” and “The Raven.” What delight for the jaded senses of the
      reader is this enchanted domain of wonder-pieces! What an
      atmosphere of beauty, music, color! What resources of
      imagination, construction, analysis and absolute art! One might
      almost sympathize with Sarah Helen Whitman, who, confessing to a
      half faith in the old superstition of the significance of
      anagrams, found, in the transposed letters of Edgar Poe’s name,
      the words “a God-peer.” His mind, she says, was indeed a “Haunted
      Palace,” echoing to the footfalls of angels and demons.

      “No man,” Poe himself wrote, “has recorded, no man has dared to
      record, the wonders of his inner life.”

      In these twentieth century days—of lavish recognition—artistic,
      popular and material—of genius, what rewards might not a Poe
      claim!

      Edgar’s father, a son of General David Poe, the American
      revolutionary patriot and friend of Lafayette, had married Mrs.
      Hopkins, an English actress, and, the match meeting with parental
      disapproval, had himself taken to the stage as a profession.
      Notwithstanding Mrs. Poe’s beauty and talent the young couple had
      a sorry struggle for existence. When Edgar, at the age of two
      years, was orphaned, the family was in the utmost destitution.
      Apparently the future poet was to be cast upon the world homeless
      and friendless. But fate decreed that a few glimmers of sunshine
      were to illumine his life, for the little fellow was adopted by
      John Allan, a wealthy merchant of Richmond, Va. A brother and
      sister, the remaining children, were cared for by others.

      In his new home Edgar found all the luxury and advantages money
      could provide. He was petted, spoiled and shown off to strangers.
      In Mrs. Allan he found all the affection a childless wife could
      bestow. Mr. Allan took much pride in the captivating, precocious
      lad. At the age of five the boy recited, with fine effect,
      passages of English poetry to the visitors at the Allan house.

      From his eighth to his thirteenth year he attended the Manor
      House school, at Stoke-Newington, a suburb of London. It was the
      Rev. Dr. Bransby, head of the school, whom Poe so quaintly
      portrayed in “William Wilson.” Returning to Richmond in 1820
      Edgar was sent to the school of Professor Joseph H. Clarke. He
      proved an apt pupil. Years afterward Professor Clarke thus wrote:

      “While the other boys wrote mere mechanical verses, Poe wrote
      genuine poetry; the boy was a born poet. As a scholar he was
      ambitious to excel. He was remarkable for self-respect, without
      haughtiness. He had a sensitive and tender heart and would do
      anything for a friend. His nature was entirely free from
      selfishness.”

      At the age of seventeen Poe entered the University of Virginia at
      Charlottesville. He left that institution after one session.
      Official records prove that he was not expelled. On the contrary,
      he gained a creditable record as a student, although it is
      admitted that he contracted debts and had “an ungovernable
      passion for card-playing.” These debts may have led to his
      quarrel with Mr. Allan which eventually compelled him to make his
      own way in the world.

      Early in 1827 Poe made his first literary venture. He induced
      Calvin Thomas, a poor and youthful printer, to publish a small
      volume of his verses under the title “Tamerlane and Other Poems.”
      In 1829 we find Poe in Baltimore with another manuscript volume
      of verses, which was soon published. Its title was “Al Aaraaf,
      Tamerlane and Other Poems.” Neither of these ventures seems to
      have attracted much attention.

      Soon after Mrs. Allan’s death, which occurred in 1829, Poe,
      through the aid of Mr. Allan, secured admission to the United
      States Military Academy at West Point. Any glamour which may have
      attached to cadet life in Poe’s eyes was speedily lost, for
      discipline at West Point was never so severe nor were the
      accommodations ever so poor. Poe’s bent was more and more toward
      literature. Life at the academy daily became increasingly
      distasteful. Soon he began to purposely neglect his studies and
      to disregard his duties, his aim being to secure his dismissal
      from the United States service. In this he succeeded. On March 7,
      1831, Poe found himself free. Mr. Allan’s second marriage had
      thrown the lad on his own resources. His literary career was to
      begin.

      Poe’s first genuine victory was won in 1833, when he was the
      successful competitor for a prize of $100 offered by a Baltimore
      periodical for the best prose story. “A MSS. Found in a Bottle”
      was the winning tale. Poe had submitted six stories in a volume.
      “Our only difficulty,” says Mr. Latrobe, one of the judges, “was
      in selecting from the rich contents of the volume.”

      During the fifteen years of his literary life Poe was connected
      with various newspapers and magazines in Richmond, Philadelphia
      and New York. He was faithful, punctual, industrious, thorough.
      N. P. Willis, who for some time employed Poe as critic and
      sub-editor on the “Evening Mirror,” wrote thus:

      “With the highest admiration for Poe’s genius, and a willingness
      to let it alone for more than ordinary irregularity, we were led
      by common report to expect a very capricious attention to his
      duties, and occasionally a scene of violence and difficulty. Time
      went on, however, and he was invariably punctual and industrious.
      We saw but one presentiment of the man—a quiet, patient,
      industrious and most gentlemanly person.

      “We heard, from one who knew him well (what should be stated in
      all mention of his lamentable irregularities), that with a single
      glass of wine his whole nature was reversed, the demon became
      uppermost, and, though none of the usual signs of intoxication
      were visible, his will was palpably insane. In this reversed
      character, we repeat, it was never our chance to meet him.”

      On September 22, 1835, Poe married his cousin, Virginia Clemm, in
      Baltimore. She had barely turned thirteen years, Poe himself was
      but twenty-six. He then was a resident of Richmond and a regular
      contributor to the “Southern Literary Messenger.” It was not
      until a year later that the bride and her widowed mother followed
      him thither.

      Poe’s devotion to his child-wife was one of the most beautiful
      features of his life. Many of his famous poetic productions were
      inspired by her beauty and charm. Consumption had marked her for
      its victim, and the constant efforts of husband and mother were
      to secure for her all the comfort and happiness their slender
      means permitted. Virginia died January 30, 1847, when but
      twenty-five years of age. A friend of the family pictures the
      death-bed scene—mother and husband trying to impart warmth to her
      by chafing her hands and her feet, while her pet cat was suffered
      to nestle upon her bosom for the sake of added warmth.

      These verses from “Annabel Lee,” written by Poe in 1849, the last
      year of his life, tell of his sorrow at the loss of his
      child-wife:

     _I_ was a child and _she_ was a child,
    In a kingdom by the sea;
     But we loved with a love that was more than love—
    I and my Annabel Lee;
     With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
    Coveted her and me.
     And this was the reason that, long ago,
    In this kingdom by the sea.
     A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
    My beautiful Annabel Lee;
     So that her high-born kinsmen came
    And bore her away from me,
     To shut her up in a sepulchre
    In this kingdom by the sea.

      Poe was connected at various times and in various capacities with
      the “Southern Literary Messenger” in Richmond, Va.; “Graham’s
      Magazine” and the “Gentleman’s Magazine” in Philadelphia; the
      “Evening Mirror,” the “Broadway Journal,” and “Godey’s Lady’s
      Book” in New York. Everywhere Poe’s life was one of unremitting
      toil. No tales and poems were ever produced at a greater cost of
      brain and spirit.

      Poe’s initial salary with the “Southern Literary Messenger,” to
      which he contributed the first drafts of a number of his
      best-known tales, was $10 a week! Two years later his salary was
      but $600 a year. Even in 1844, when his literary reputation was
      established securely, he wrote to a friend expressing his
      pleasure because a magazine to which he was to contribute had
      agreed to pay him $20 monthly for two pages of criticism.

      Those were discouraging times in American literature, but Poe
      never lost faith. He was finally to triumph wherever pre-eminent
      talents win admirers. His genius has had no better description
      than in this stanza from William Winter’s poem, read at the
      dedication exercises of the Actors’ Monument to Poe, May 4, 1885,
      in New York:

     He was the voice of beauty and of woe,
     Passion and mystery and the dread unknown;
     Pure as the mountains of perpetual snow,
     Cold as the icy winds that round them moan,
     Dark as the caves wherein earth’s thunders groan,
     Wild as the tempests of the upper sky,
     Sweet as the faint, far-off celestial tone of angel whispers,
     fluttering from on high,
     And tender as love’s tear when youth and beauty die.

      In the two and a half score years that have elapsed since Poe’s
      death he has come fully into his own. For a while Griswold’s
      malignant misrepresentations colored the public estimate of Poe
      as man and as writer. But, thanks to J. H. Ingram, W. F. Gill,
      Eugene Didier, Sarah Helen Whitman and others these scandals have
      been dispelled and Poe is seen as he actually was—not as a man
      without failings, it is true, but as the finest and most original
      genius in American letters. As the years go on his fame
      increases. His works have been translated into many foreign
      languages. His is a household name in France and England—in fact,
      the latter nation has often uttered the reproach that Poe’s own
      country has been slow to appreciate him. But that reproach, if it
      ever was warranted, certainly is untrue.

W. H. R.




EDGAR ALLAN POE


By James Russell Lowell

      The situation of American literature is anomalous. It has no
      centre, or, if it have, it is like that of the sphere of Hermes.
      It is divided into many systems, each revolving round its several
      suns, and often presenting to the rest only the faint glimmer of
      a milk-and-water way. Our capital city, unlike London or Paris,
      is not a great central heart from which life and vigor radiate to
      the extremities, but resembles more an isolated umbilicus stuck
      down as near as may be to the centre of the land, and seeming
      rather to tell a legend of former usefulness than to serve any
      present need. Boston, New York, Philadelphia, each has its
      literature almost more distinct than those of the different
      dialects of Germany; and the Young Queen of the West has also one
      of her own, of which some articulate rumor barely has reached us
      dwellers by the Atlantic.

      Perhaps there is no task more difficult than the just criticism
      of contemporary literature. It is even more grateful to give
      praise where it is needed than where it is deserved, and
      friendship so often seduces the iron stylus of justice into a
      vague flourish, that she writes what seems rather like an epitaph
      than a criticism. Yet if praise be given as an alms, we could not
      drop so poisonous a one into any man’s hat. The critic’s ink may
      suffer equally from too large an infusion of nutgalls or of
      sugar. But it is easier to be generous than to be just, and we
      might readily put faith in that fabulous direction to the hiding
      place of truth, did we judge from the amount of water which we
      usually find mixed with it.

      Remarkable experiences are usually confined to the inner life of
      imaginative men, but Mr. Poe’s biography displays a vicissitude
      and peculiarity of interest such as is rarely met with. The
      offspring of a romantic marriage, and left an orphan at an early
      age, he was adopted by Mr. Allan, a wealthy Virginian, whose
      barren marriage-bed seemed the warranty of a large estate to the
      young poet.

      Having received a classical education in England, he returned
      home and entered the University of Virginia, where, after an
      extravagant course, followed by reformation at the last
      extremity, he was graduated with the highest honors of his class.
      Then came a boyish attempt to join the fortunes of the insurgent
      Greeks, which ended at St. Petersburg, where he got into
      difficulties through want of a passport, from which he was
      rescued by the American consul and sent home. He now entered the
      military academy at West Point, from which he obtained a
      dismissal on hearing of the birth of a son to his adopted father,
      by a second marriage, an event which cut off his expectations as
      an heir. The death of Mr. Allan, in whose will his name was not
      mentioned, soon after relieved him of all doubt in this regard,
      and he committed himself at once to authorship for a support.
      Previously to this, however, he had published (in 1827) a small
      volume of poems, which soon ran through three editions, and
      excited high expectations of its author’s future distinction in
      the minds of many competent judges.

      That no certain augury can be drawn from a poet’s earliest
      lispings there are instances enough to prove. Shakespeare’s first
      poems, though brimful of vigor and youth and picturesqueness,
      give but a very faint promise of the directness, condensation and
      overflowing moral of his maturer works. Perhaps, however,
      Shakespeare is hardly a case in point, his “Venus and Adonis”
      having been published, we believe, in his twenty-sixth year.
      Milton’s Latin verses show tenderness, a fine eye for nature, and
      a delicate appreciation of classic models, but give no hint of
      the author of a new style in poetry. Pope’s youthful pieces have
      all the sing-song, wholly unrelieved by the glittering malignity
      and eloquent irreligion of his later productions. Collins’ callow
      namby-pamby died and gave no sign of the vigorous and original
      genius which he afterward displayed. We have never thought that
      the world lost more in the “marvellous boy,” Chatterton, than a
      very ingenious imitator of obscure and antiquated dulness. Where
      he becomes original (as it is called), the interest of ingenuity
      ceases and he becomes stupid. Kirke White’s promises were
      indorsed by the respectable name of Mr. Southey, but surely with
      no authority from Apollo. They have the merit of a traditional
      piety, which to our mind, if uttered at all, had been less
      objectionable in the retired closet of a diary, and in the sober
      raiment of prose. They do not clutch hold of the memory with the
      drowning pertinacity of Watts; neither have they the interest of
      his occasional simple, lucky beauty. Burns having fortunately
      been rescued by his humble station from the contaminating society
      of the “Best models,” wrote well and naturally from the first.
      Had he been unfortunate enough to have had an educated taste, we
      should have had a series of poems from which, as from his
      letters, we could sift here and there a kernel from the mass of
      chaff. Coleridge’s youthful efforts give no promise whatever of
      that poetical genius which produced at once the wildest,
      tenderest, most original and most purely imaginative poems of
      modern times. Byron’s “Hours of Idleness” would never find a
      reader except from an intrepid and indefatigable curiosity. In
      Wordsworth’s first preludings there is but a dim foreboding of
      the creator of an era. From Southey’s early poems, a safer augury
      might have been drawn. They show the patient investigator, the
      close student of history, and the unwearied explorer of the
      beauties of predecessors, but they give no assurances of a man
      who should add aught to stock of household words, or to the rarer
      and more sacred delights of the fireside or the arbor. The
      earliest specimens of Shelley’s poetic mind already, also, give
      tokens of that ethereal sublimation in which the spirit seems to
      soar above the regions of words, but leaves its body, the verse,
      to be entombed, without hope of resurrection, in a mass of them.
      Cowley is generally instanced as a wonder of precocity. But his
      early insipidities show only a capacity for rhyming and for the
      metrical arrangement of certain conventional combinations of
      words, a capacity wholly dependent on a delicate physical
      organization, and an unhappy memory. An early poem is only
      remarkable when it displays an effort of _reason,_ and the rudest
      verses in which we can trace some conception of the ends of
      poetry, are worth all the miracles of smooth juvenile
      versification. A school-boy, one would say, might acquire the
      regular see-saw of Pope merely by an association with the motion
      of the play-ground tilt.

      Mr. Poe’s early productions show that he could see through the
      verse to the spirit beneath, and that he already had a feeling
      that all the life and grace of the one must depend on and be
      modulated by the will of the other. We call them the most
      remarkable boyish poems that we have ever read. We know of none
      that can compare with them for maturity of purpose, and a nice
      understanding of the effects of language and metre. Such pieces
      are only valuable when they display what we can only express by
      the contradictory phrase of _innate experience._ We copy one of
      the shorter poems, written when the author was only fourteen.
      There is a little dimness in the filling up, but the grace and
      symmetry of the outline are such as few poets ever attain. There
      is a smack of ambrosia about it.

     TO HELEN

Helen, thy beauty is to me
    Like those Nicean barks of yore,
That gently, o’er a perfumed sea,
    The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,
    Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
    To the glory that was Greece
And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
    How statue-like I see thee stand!
The agate lamp within thy hand,
    Ah! Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land!

      It is the tendency of the young poet that impresses us. Here is
      no “withering scorn,” no heart “blighted” ere it has safely got
      into its teens, none of the drawing-room sansculottism which
      Byron had brought into vogue. All is limpid and serene, with a
      pleasant dash of the Greek Helicon in it. The melody of the
      whole, too, is remarkable. It is not of that kind which can be
      demonstrated arithmetically upon the tips of the fingers. It is
      of that finer sort which the inner ear alone _can_ estimate. It
      seems simple, like a Greek column, because of its perfection. In
      a poem named “Ligeia,” under which title he intended to personify
      the music of nature, our boy-poet gives us the following
      exquisite picture:

    Ligeia! Ligeia!
My beautiful one,
    Whose harshest idea
Will to melody run,
    Say, is it thy will,
On the breezes to toss,
    Or, capriciously still,
Like the lone albatross,
    Incumbent on night,
As she on the air,
    To keep watch with delight
On the harmony there?

      John Neal, himself a man of genius, and whose lyre has been too
      long capriciously silent, appreciated the high merit of these and
      similar passages, and drew a proud horoscope for their author.

      Mr. Poe had that indescribable something which men have agreed to
      call _genius_. No man could ever tell us precisely what it is,
      and yet there is none who is not inevitably aware of its presence
      and its power. Let talent writhe and contort itself as it may, it
      has no such magnetism. Larger of bone and sinew it may be, but
      the wings are wanting. Talent sticks fast to earth, and its most
      perfect works have still one foot of clay. Genius claims kindred
      with the very workings of Nature herself, so that a sunset shall
      seem like a quotation from Dante, and if Shakespeare be read in
      the very presence of the sea itself, his verses shall but seem
      nobler for the sublime criticism of ocean. Talent may make
      friends for itself, but only genius can give to its creations the
      divine power of winning love and veneration. Enthusiasm cannot
      cling to what itself is unenthusiastic, nor will he ever have
      disciples who has not himself impulsive zeal enough to be a
      disciple. Great wits are allied to madness only inasmuch as they
      are possessed and carried away by their demon, while talent keeps
      him, as Paracelsus did, securely prisoned in the pommel of his
      sword. To the eye of genius, the veil of the spiritual world is
      ever rent asunder that it may perceive the ministers of good and
      evil who throng continually around it. No man of mere talent ever
      flung his inkstand at the devil.

      When we say that Mr. Poe had genius, we do not mean to say that
      he has produced evidence of the highest. But to say that he
      possesses it at all is to say that he needs only zeal, industry,
      and a reverence for the trust reposed in him, to achieve the
      proudest triumphs and the greenest laurels. If we may believe the
      Longinuses and Aristotles of our newspapers, we have quite too
      many geniuses of the loftiest order to render a place among them
      at all desirable, whether for its hardness of attainment or its
      seclusion. The highest peak of our Parnassus is, according to
      these gentlemen, by far the most thickly settled portion of the
      country, a circumstance which must make it an uncomfortable
      residence for individuals of a poetical temperament, if love of
      solitude be, as immemorial tradition asserts, a necessary part of
      their idiosyncrasy.

      Mr. Poe has two of the prime qualities of genius, a faculty of
      vigorous yet minute analysis, and a wonderful fecundity of
      imagination. The first of these faculties is as needful to the
      artist in words, as a knowledge of anatomy is to the artist in
      colors or in stone. This enables him to conceive truly, to
      maintain a proper relation of parts, and to draw a correct
      outline, while the second groups, fills up and colors. Both of
      these Mr. Poe has displayed with singular distinctness in his
      prose works, the last predominating in his earlier tales, and the
      first in his later ones. In judging of the merit of an author,
      and assigning him his niche among our household gods, we have a
      right to regard him from our own point of view, and to measure
      him by our own standard. But, in estimating the amount of power
      displayed in his works, we must be governed by his own design,
      and placing them by the side of his own ideal, find how much is
      wanting. We differ from Mr. Poe in his opinions of the objects of
      art. He esteems that object to be the creation of Beauty, and
      perhaps it is only in the definition of that word that we
      disagree with him. But in what we shall say of his writings, we
      shall take his own standard as our guide. The temple of the god
      of song is equally accessible from every side, and there is room
      enough in it for all who bring offerings, or seek in oracle.

      In his tales, Mr. Poe has chosen to exhibit his power chiefly in
      that dim region which stretches from the very utmost limits of
      the probable into the weird confines of superstition and
      unreality. He combines in a very remarkable manner two faculties
      which are seldom found united; a power of influencing the mind of
      the reader by the impalpable shadows of mystery, and a minuteness
      of detail which does not leave a pin or a button unnoticed. Both
      are, in truth, the natural results of the predominating quality
      of his mind, to which we have before alluded, analysis. It is
      this which distinguishes the artist. His mind at once reaches
      forward to the effect to be produced. Having resolved to bring
      about certain emotions in the reader, he makes all subordinate
      parts tend strictly to the common centre. Even his mystery is
      mathematical to his own mind. To him X is a known quantity all
      along. In any picture that he paints he understands the chemical
      properties of all his colors. However vague some of his figures
      may seem, however formless the shadows, to him the outline is as
      clear and distinct as that of a geometrical diagram. For this
      reason Mr. Poe has no sympathy with Mysticism. The Mystic dwells
      in the mystery, is enveloped with it; it colors all his thoughts;
      it affects his optic nerve especially, and the commonest things
      get a rainbow edging from it. Mr. Poe, on the other hand, is a
      spectator _ab extra_. He analyzes, he dissects, he watches

    “with an eye serene,
     The very pulse of the machine,”

      for such it practically is to him, with wheels and cogs and
      piston-rods, all working to produce a certain end.

      This analyzing tendency of his mind balances the poetical, and by
      giving him the patience to be minute, enables him to throw a
      wonderful reality into his most unreal fancies. A monomania he
      paints with great power. He loves to dissect one of these cancers
      of the mind, and to trace all the subtle ramifications of its
      roots. In raising images of horror, also, he has strange success,
      conveying to us sometimes by a dusky hint some terrible _doubt_
      which is the secret of all horror. He leaves to imagination the
      task of finishing the picture, a task to which only she is
      competent.

     “For much imaginary work was there;
     Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,
     That for Achilles’ image stood his spear
     Grasped in an armed hand; himself behind
     Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind.”

      Besides the merit of conception, Mr. Poe’s writings have also
      that of form.

      His style is highly finished, graceful and truly classical. It
      would be hard to find a living author who had displayed such
      varied powers. As an example of his style we would refer to one
      of his tales, “The House of Usher,” in the first volume of his
      “Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque.” It has a singular charm
      for us, and we think that no one could read it without being
      strongly moved by its serene and sombre beauty. Had its author
      written nothing else, it would alone have been enough to stamp
      him as a man of genius, and the master of a classic style. In
      this tale occurs, perhaps, the most beautiful of his poems.

      The great masters of imagination have seldom resorted to the
      vague and the unreal as sources of effect. They have not used
      dread and horror alone, but only in combination with other
      qualities, as means of subjugating the fancies of their readers.
      The loftiest muse has ever a household and fireside charm about
      her. Mr. Poe’s secret lies mainly in the skill with which he has
      employed the strange fascination of mystery and terror. In this
      his success is so great and striking as to deserve the name of
      art, not artifice. We cannot call his materials the noblest or
      purest, but we must concede to him the highest merit of
      construction.

      As a critic, Mr. Poe was aesthetically deficient. Unerring in his
      analysis of dictions, metres and plots, he seemed wanting in the
      faculty of perceiving the profounder ethics of art. His
      criticisms are, however, distinguished for scientific precision
      and coherence of logic. They have the exactness, and at the same
      time, the coldness of mathematical demonstrations. Yet they stand
      in strikingly refreshing contrast with the vague generalisms and
      sharp personalities of the day. If deficient in warmth, they are
      also without the heat of partisanship. They are especially
      valuable as illustrating the great truth, too generally
      overlooked, that analytic power is a subordinate quality of the
      critic.

      On the whole, it may be considered certain that Mr. Poe has
      attained an individual eminence in our literature which he will
      keep. He has given proof of power and originality. He has done
      that which could only be done once with success or safety, and
      the imitation or repetition of which would produce weariness.




DEATH OF EDGAR A. POE


By N. P. Willis

      The ancient fable of two antagonistic spirits imprisoned in one
      body, equally powerful and having the complete mastery by
      turns-of one man, that is to say, inhabited by both a devil and
      an angel seems to have been realized, if all we hear is true, in
      the character of the extraordinary man whose name we have written
      above. Our own impression of the nature of Edgar A. Poe, differs
      in some important degree, however, from that which has been
      generally conveyed in the notices of his death. Let us, before
      telling what we personally know of him, copy a graphic and highly
      finished portraiture, from the pen of Dr. Rufus W. Griswold,
      which appeared in a recent number of the “Tribune”:

      “Edgar Allen Poe is dead. He died in Baltimore on Sunday, October
      7th. This announcement will startle many, but few will be grieved
      by it. The poet was known, personally or by reputation, in all
      this country; he had readers in England and in several of the
      states of Continental Europe; but he had few or no friends; and
      the regrets for his death will be suggested principally by the
      consideration that in him literary art has lost one of its most
      brilliant but erratic stars.

      “His conversation was at times almost supramortal in its
      eloquence. His voice was modulated with astonishing skill, and
      his large and variably expressive eyes looked repose or shot
      fiery tumult into theirs who listened, while his own face glowed,
      or was changeless in pallor, as his imagination quickened his
      blood or drew it back frozen to his heart. His imagery was from
      the worlds which no mortals can see but with the vision of
      genius. Suddenly starting from a proposition, exactly and sharply
      defined, in terms of utmost simplicity and clearness, he rejected
      the forms of customary logic, and by a crystalline process of
      accretion, built up his ocular demonstrations in forms of
      gloomiest and ghastliest grandeur, or in those of the most airy
      and delicious beauty, so minutely and distinctly, yet so rapidly,
      that the attention which was yielded to him was chained till it
      stood among his wonderful creations, till he himself dissolved
      the spell, and brought his hearers back to common and base
      existence, by vulgar fancies or exhibitions of the ignoblest
      passion.

      “He was at all times a dreamer dwelling in ideal realms in heaven
      or hell peopled with the creatures and the accidents of his
      brain. He walked the streets, in madness or melancholy, with lips
      moving in indistinct curses, or with eyes upturned in passionate
      prayer (never for himself, for he felt, or professed to feel,
      that he was already damned, but) for their happiness who at the
      moment were objects of his idolatry; or with his glances
      introverted to a heart gnawed with anguish, and with a face
      shrouded in gloom, he would brave the wildest storms, and all
      night, with drenched garments and arms beating the winds and
      rains, would speak as if the spirits that at such times only
      could be evoked by him from the Aidenn, close by whose portals
      his disturbed soul sought to forget the ills to which his
      constitution subjected him—close by the Aidenn where were those
      he loved—the Aidenn which he might never see, but in fitful
      glimpses, as its gates opened to receive the less fiery and more
      happy natures whose destiny to sin did not involve the doom of
      death.

      “He seemed, except when some fitful pursuit subjugated his will
      and engrossed his faculties, always to bear the memory of some
      controlling sorrow. The remarkable poem of ‘The Raven’ was
      probably much more nearly than has been supposed, even by those
      who were very intimate with him, a reflection and an echo of his
      own history. _He_ was that bird’s

    “‘Unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
    Of ‘Never—never more.’

      “Every genuine author in a greater or less degree leaves in his
      works, whatever their design, traces of his personal character:
      elements of his immortal being, in which the individual survives
      the person. While we read the pages of the ‘Fall of the House of
      Usher,’ or of ‘Mesmeric Revelations,’ we see in the solemn and
      stately gloom which invests one, and in the subtle metaphysical
      analysis of both, indications of the idiosyncrasies of what was
      most remarkable and peculiar in the author’s intellectual nature.
      But we see here only the better phases of his nature, only the
      symbols of his juster action, for his harsh experience had
      deprived him of all faith in man or woman. He had made up his
      mind upon the numberless complexities of the social world, and
      the whole system with him was an imposture. This conviction gave
      a direction to his shrewd and naturally unamiable character.
      Still, though he regarded society as composed altogether of
      villains, the sharpness of his intellect was not of that kind
      which enabled him to cope with villany, while it continually
      caused him by overshots to fail of the success of honesty. He was
      in many respects like Francis Vivian in Bulwer’s novel of ‘The
      Caxtons.’ Passion, in him, comprehended many of the worst
      emotions which militate against human happiness. You could not
      contradict him, but you raised quick choler; you could not speak
      of wealth, but his cheek paled with gnawing envy. The astonishing
      natural advantages of this poor boy—his beauty, his readiness,
      the daring spirit that breathed around him like a fiery
      atmosphere—had raised his constitutional self-confidence into an
      arrogance that turned his very claims to admiration into
      prejudices against him. Irascible, envious—bad enough, but not
      the worst, for these salient angles were all varnished over with
      a cold, repellant cynicism, his passions vented themselves in
      sneers. There seemed to him no moral susceptibility; and, what
      was more remarkable in a proud nature, little or nothing of the
      true point of honor. He had, to a morbid excess, that, desire to
      rise which is vulgarly called ambition, but no wish for the
      esteem or the love of his species; only the hard wish to
      succeed—not shine, not serve—succeed, that he might have the
      right to despise a world which galled his self-conceit.

      “We have suggested the influence of his aims and vicissitudes
      upon his literature. It was more conspicuous in his later than in
      his earlier writings. Nearly all that he wrote in the last two or
      three years—including much of his best poetry—was in some sense
      biographical; in draperies of his imagination, those who had
      taken the trouble to trace his steps, could perceive, but
      slightly concealed, the figure of himself.”

      Apropos of the disparaging portion of the above well-written
      sketch, let us truthfully say:

      Some four or five years since, when editing a daily paper in this
      city, Mr. Poe was employed by us, for several months, as critic
      and sub-editor. This was our first personal acquaintance with
      him. He resided with his wife and mother at Fordham, a few miles
      out of town, but was at his desk in the office, from nine in the
      morning till the evening paper went to press. With the highest
      admiration for his genius, and a willingness to let it atone for
      more than ordinary irregularity, we were led by common report to
      expect a very capricious attention to his duties, and
      occasionally a scene of violence and difficulty. Time went on,
      however, and he was invariably punctual and industrious. With his
      pale, beautiful, and intellectual face, as a reminder of what
      genius was in him, it was impossible, of course, not to treat him
      always with deferential courtesy, and, to our occasional request
      that he would not probe too deep in a criticism, or that he would
      erase a passage colored too highly with his resentments against
      society and mankind, he readily and courteously assented—far more
      yielding than most men, we thought, on points so excusably
      sensitive. With a prospect of taking the lead in another
      periodical, he, at last, voluntarily gave up his employment with
      us, and, through all this considerable period, we had seen but
      one presentment of the man—a quiet, patient, industrious, and
      most gentlemanly person, commanding the utmost respect and good
      feeling by his unvarying deportment and ability.

      Residing as he did in the country, we never met Mr. Poe in hours
      of leisure; but he frequently called on us afterward at our place
      of business, and we met him often in the street—invariably the
      same sad mannered, winning and refined gentleman, such as we had
      always known him. It was by rumor only, up to the day of his
      death, that we knew of any other development of manner or
      character. We heard, from one who knew him well (what should be
      stated in all mention of his lamentable irregularities), that,
      with a single glass of wine, his whole nature was reversed, the
      demon became uppermost, and, though none of the usual signs of
      intoxication were visible, his will was palpably insane.
      Possessing his reasoning faculties in excited activity, at such
      times, and seeking his acquaintances with his wonted look and
      memory, he easily seemed personating only another phase of his
      natural character, and was accused, accordingly, of insulting
      arrogance and bad-heartedness. In this reversed character, we
      repeat, it was never our chance to see him. We know it from
      hearsay, and we mention it in connection with this sad infirmity
      of physical constitution; which puts it upon very nearly the
      ground of a temporary and almost irresponsible insanity.

      The arrogance, vanity, and depravity of heart, of which Mr. Poe
      was generally accused, seem to us referable altogether to this
      reversed phase of his character. Under that degree of
      intoxication which only acted upon him by demonizing his sense of
      truth and right, he doubtless said and did much that was wholly
      irreconcilable with his better nature; but, when himself, and as
      we knew him only, his modesty and unaffected humility, as to his
      own deservings, were a constant charm to his character. His
      letters, of which the constant application for autographs has
      taken from us, we are sorry to confess, the greater portion,
      exhibited this quality very strongly. In one of the carelessly
      written notes of which we chance still to retain possession, for
      instance, he speaks of “The Raven”—that extraordinary poem which
      electrified the world of imaginative readers, and has become the
      type of a school of poetry of its own—and, in evident earnest,
      attributes its success to the few words of commendation with
      which we had prefaced it in this paper. It will throw light on
      his sane character to give a literal copy of the note:

“FORDHAM, _April_ 20, 1849

      “MY DEAR WILLIS—The poem which I inclose, and which I am so vain
      as to hope you will like, in some respects, has been just
      published in a paper for which sheer necessity compels me to
      write, now and then. It pays well as times go-but unquestionably
      it ought to pay ten prices; for whatever I send it I feel I am
      consigning to the tomb of the Capulets. The verses accompanying
      this, may I beg you to take out of the tomb, and bring them to
      light in the ‘Home Journal?’ If you can oblige me so far as to
      copy them, I do not think it will be necessary to say ‘From the
      ——,’ that would be too bad; and, perhaps, ‘From a late —— paper,’
      would do.

      “I have not forgotten how a ‘good word in season’ from you made
      ‘The Raven,’ and made ‘Ulalume’ (which by-the-way, people have
      done me the honor of attributing to you), therefore, I _would_
      ask you (if I dared) to say something of these lines if they
      please you.

“Truly yours ever,
“EDGAR A. POE.”

      In double proof of his earnest disposition to do the best for
      himself, and of the trustful and grateful nature which has been
      denied him, we give another of the only three of his notes which
      we chance to retain:

“FORDHAM, _January_ 22, 1848.

      “MY DEAR MR. WILLIS—I am about to make an effort at
      re-establishing myself in the literary world, and _feel_ that I
      may depend upon your aid.

      “My general aim is to start a Magazine, to be called ‘The
      Stylus,’ but it would be useless to me, even when established, if
      not entirely out of the control of a publisher. I mean,
      therefore, to get up a journal which shall be _my own_ at all
      points. With this end in view, I must get a list of at least five
      hundred subscribers to begin with; nearly two hundred I have
      already. I propose, however, to go South and West, among my
      personal and literary friends—old college and West Point
      acquaintances—and see what I can do. In order to get the means of
      taking the first step, I propose to lecture at the Society
      Library, on Thursday, the 3d of February, and, that there may be
      no cause of _squabbling_, my subject shall _not be literary_ at
      all. I have chosen a broad text: ‘The Universe.’

      “Having thus given you _the facts_ of the case, I leave all the
      rest to the suggestions of your own tact and generosity.
      Gratefully, _most gratefully,_

“Your friend always,
“EDGAR A. POE.”

      Brief and chance-taken as these letters are, we think they
      sufficiently prove the existence of the very qualities denied to
      Mr. Poe-humility, willingness to persevere, belief in another’s
      friendship, and capability of cordial and grateful friendship!
      Such he assuredly was when sane. Such only he has invariably
      seemed to us, in all we have happened personally to know of him,
      through a friendship of five or six years. And so much easier is
      it to believe what we have seen and known, than what we hear of
      only, that we remember him but with admiration and respect; these
      descriptions of him, when morally insane, seeming to us like
      portraits, painted in sickness, of a man we have only known in
      health.

      But there is another, more touching, and far more forcible
      evidence that there was _goodness_ in Edgar A. Poe. To reveal it
      we are obliged to venture upon the lifting of the veil which
      sacredly covers grief and refinement in poverty; but we think it
      may be excused, if so we can brighten the memory of the poet,
      even were there not a more needed and immediate service which it
      may render to the nearest link broken by his death.

      Our first knowledge of Mr. Poe’s removal to this city was by a
      call which we received from a lady who introduced herself to us
      as the mother of his wife. She was in search of employment for
      him, and she excused her errand by mentioning that he was ill,
      that her daughter was a confirmed invalid, and that their
      circumstances were such as compelled her taking it upon herself.
      The countenance of this lady, made beautiful and saintly with an
      evidently complete giving up of her life to privation and
      sorrowful tenderness, her gentle and mournful voice urging its
      plea, her long-forgotten but habitually and unconsciously refined
      manners, and her appealing and yet appreciative mention of the
      claims and abilities of her son, disclosed at once the presence
      of one of those angels upon earth that women in adversity can be.
      It was a hard fate that she was watching over. Mr. Poe wrote with
      fastidious difficulty, and in a style too much above the popular
      level to be well paid. He was always in pecuniary difficulty,
      and, with his sick wife, frequently in want of the merest
      necessaries of life. Winter after winter, for years, the most
      touching sight to us, in this whole city, has been that tireless
      minister to genius, thinly and insufficiently clad, going from
      office to office with a poem, or an article on some literary
      subject, to sell, sometimes simply pleading in a broken voice
      that he was ill, and begging for him, mentioning nothing but that
      “he was ill,” whatever might be the reason for his writing
      nothing, and never, amid all her tears and recitals of distress,
      suffering one syllable to escape her lips that could convey a
      doubt of him, or a complaint, or a lessening of pride in his
      genius and good intentions. Her daughter died a year and a half
      since, but she did not desert him. She continued his ministering
      angel—living with him, caring for him, guarding him against
      exposure, and when he was carried away by temptation, amid grief
      and the loneliness of feelings unreplied to, and awoke from his
      self abandonment prostrated in destitution and suffering,
      _begging_ for him still. If woman’s devotion, born with a first
      love, and fed with human passion, hallow its object, as it is
      allowed to do, what does not a devotion like this—pure,
      disinterested and holy as the watch of an invisible spirit—say
      for him who inspired it?

      We have a letter before us, written by this lady, Mrs. Clemm, on
      the morning in which she heard of the death of this object of her
      untiring care. It is merely a request that we would call upon
      her, but we will copy a few of its words—sacred as its privacy
      is—to warrant the truth of the picture we have drawn above, and
      add force to the appeal we wish to make for her:

      “I have this morning heard of the death of my darling Eddie....
      Can you give me any circumstances or particulars?... Oh! do not
      desert your poor friend in his bitter affliction!... Ask Mr. ——
      to come, as I must deliver a message to him from my poor
      Eddie.... I need not ask you to notice his death and to speak
      well of him. I know you will. But say what an affectionate son he
      was to me, his poor desolate mother...”

      To hedge round a grave with respect, what choice is there,
      between the relinquished wealth and honors of the world, and the
      story of such a woman’s unrewarded devotion! Risking what we do,
      in delicacy, by making it public, we feel—other reasons
      aside—that it betters the world to make known that there are such
      ministrations to its erring and gifted. What we have said will
      speak to some hearts. There are those who will be glad to know
      how the lamp, whose light of poetry has beamed on their far-away
      recognition, was watched over with care and pain, that they may
      send to her, who is more darkened than they by its extinction,
      some token of their sympathy. She is destitute and alone. If any,
      far or near, will send to us what may aid and cheer her through
      the remainder of her life, we will joyfully place it in her
      hands.




THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAAL (*1)


      By late accounts from Rotterdam, that city seems to be in a high
      state of philosophical excitement. Indeed, phenomena have there
      occurred of a nature so completely unexpected—so entirely
      novel—so utterly at variance with preconceived opinions—as to
      leave no doubt on my mind that long ere this all Europe is in an
      uproar, all physics in a ferment, all reason and astronomy
      together by the ears.

      It appears that on the—— day of—— (I am not positive about the
      date), a vast crowd of people, for purposes not specifically
      mentioned, were assembled in the great square of the Exchange in
      the well-conditioned city of Rotterdam. The day was
      warm—unusually so for the season—there was hardly a breath of air
      stirring; and the multitude were in no bad humor at being now and
      then besprinkled with friendly showers of momentary duration,
      that fell from large white masses of cloud which chequered in a
      fitful manner the blue vault of the firmament. Nevertheless,
      about noon, a slight but remarkable agitation became apparent in
      the assembly: the clattering of ten thousand tongues succeeded;
      and, in an instant afterward, ten thousand faces were upturned
      toward the heavens, ten thousand pipes descended simultaneously
      from the corners of ten thousand mouths, and a shout, which could
      be compared to nothing but the roaring of Niagara, resounded
      long, loudly, and furiously, through all the environs of
      Rotterdam.

      The origin of this hubbub soon became sufficiently evident. From
      behind the huge bulk of one of those sharply-defined masses of
      cloud already mentioned, was seen slowly to emerge into an open
      area of blue space, a queer, heterogeneous, but apparently solid
      substance, so oddly shaped, so whimsically put together, as not
      to be in any manner comprehended, and never to be sufficiently
      admired, by the host of sturdy burghers who stood open-mouthed
      below. What could it be? In the name of all the vrows and devils
      in Rotterdam, what could it possibly portend? No one knew, no one
      could imagine; no one—not even the burgomaster Mynheer Superbus
      Von Underduk—had the slightest clew by which to unravel the
      mystery; so, as nothing more reasonable could be done, every one
      to a man replaced his pipe carefully in the corner of his mouth,
      and cocking up his right eye towards the phenomenon, puffed,
      paused, waddled about, and grunted significantly—then waddled
      back, grunted, paused, and finally—puffed again.

      In the meantime, however, lower and still lower toward the goodly
      city, came the object of so much curiosity, and the cause of so
      much smoke. In a very few minutes it arrived near enough to be
      accurately discerned. It appeared to be—yes! it was undoubtedly a
      species of balloon; but surely no such balloon had ever been seen
      in Rotterdam before. For who, let me ask, ever heard of a balloon
      manufactured entirely of dirty newspapers? No man in Holland
      certainly; yet here, under the very noses of the people, or
      rather at some distance above their noses was the identical thing
      in question, and composed, I have it on the best authority, of
      the precise material which no one had ever before known to be
      used for a similar purpose. It was an egregious insult to the
      good sense of the burghers of Rotterdam. As to the shape of the
      phenomenon, it was even still more reprehensible. Being little or
      nothing better than a huge foolscap turned upside down. And this
      similitude was regarded as by no means lessened when, upon nearer
      inspection, there was perceived a large tassel depending from its
      apex, and, around the upper rim or base of the cone, a circle of
      little instruments, resembling sheep-bells, which kept up a
      continual tinkling to the tune of Betty Martin. But still worse.
      Suspended by blue ribbons to the end of this fantastic machine,
      there hung, by way of car, an enormous drab beaver hat, with a
      brim superlatively broad, and a hemispherical crown with a black
      band and a silver buckle. It is, however, somewhat remarkable
      that many citizens of Rotterdam swore to having seen the same hat
      repeatedly before; and indeed the whole assembly seemed to regard
      it with eyes of familiarity; while the vrow Grettel Pfaall, upon
      sight of it, uttered an exclamation of joyful surprise, and
      declared it to be the identical hat of her good man himself. Now
      this was a circumstance the more to be observed, as Pfaall, with
      three companions, had actually disappeared from Rotterdam about
      five years before, in a very sudden and unaccountable manner, and
      up to the date of this narrative all attempts had failed of
      obtaining any intelligence concerning them whatsoever. To be
      sure, some bones which were thought to be human, mixed up with a
      quantity of odd-looking rubbish, had been lately discovered in a
      retired situation to the east of Rotterdam, and some people went
      so far as to imagine that in this spot a foul murder had been
      committed, and that the sufferers were in all probability Hans
      Pfaall and his associates. But to return.

      The balloon (for such no doubt it was) had now descended to
      within a hundred feet of the earth, allowing the crowd below a
      sufficiently distinct view of the person of its occupant. This
      was in truth a very droll little somebody. He could not have been
      more than two feet in height; but this altitude, little as it
      was, would have been sufficient to destroy his equilibrium, and
      tilt him over the edge of his tiny car, but for the intervention
      of a circular rim reaching as high as the breast, and rigged on
      to the cords of the balloon. The body of the little man was more
      than proportionately broad, giving to his entire figure a
      rotundity highly absurd. His feet, of course, could not be seen
      at all, although a horny substance of suspicious nature was
      occasionally protruded through a rent in the bottom of the car,
      or to speak more properly, in the top of the hat. His hands were
      enormously large. His hair was extremely gray, and collected into
      a queue behind. His nose was prodigiously long, crooked, and
      inflammatory; his eyes full, brilliant, and acute; his chin and
      cheeks, although wrinkled with age, were broad, puffy, and
      double; but of ears of any kind or character there was not a
      semblance to be discovered upon any portion of his head. This odd
      little gentleman was dressed in a loose surtout of sky-blue
      satin, with tight breeches to match, fastened with silver buckles
      at the knees. His vest was of some bright yellow material; a
      white taffety cap was set jauntily on one side of his head; and,
      to complete his equipment, a blood-red silk handkerchief
      enveloped his throat, and fell down, in a dainty manner, upon his
      bosom, in a fantastic bow-knot of super-eminent dimensions.

      Having descended, as I said before, to about one hundred feet
      from the surface of the earth, the little old gentleman was
      suddenly seized with a fit of trepidation, and appeared
      disinclined to make any nearer approach to terra firma. Throwing
      out, therefore, a quantity of sand from a canvas bag, which, he
      lifted with great difficulty, he became stationary in an instant.
      He then proceeded, in a hurried and agitated manner, to extract
      from a side-pocket in his surtout a large morocco pocket-book.
      This he poised suspiciously in his hand, then eyed it with an air
      of extreme surprise, and was evidently astonished at its weight.
      He at length opened it, and drawing there from a huge letter
      sealed with red sealing-wax and tied carefully with red tape, let
      it fall precisely at the feet of the burgomaster, Superbus Von
      Underduk. His Excellency stooped to take it up. But the aeronaut,
      still greatly discomposed, and having apparently no farther
      business to detain him in Rotterdam, began at this moment to make
      busy preparations for departure; and it being necessary to
      discharge a portion of ballast to enable him to reascend, the
      half dozen bags which he threw out, one after another, without
      taking the trouble to empty their contents, tumbled, every one of
      them, most unfortunately upon the back of the burgomaster, and
      rolled him over and over no less than one-and-twenty times, in
      the face of every man in Rotterdam. It is not to be supposed,
      however, that the great Underduk suffered this impertinence on
      the part of the little old man to pass off with impunity. It is
      said, on the contrary, that during each and every one of his
      one-and twenty circumvolutions he emitted no less than
      one-and-twenty distinct and furious whiffs from his pipe, to
      which he held fast the whole time with all his might, and to
      which he intends holding fast until the day of his death.

      In the meantime the balloon arose like a lark, and, soaring far
      away above the city, at length drifted quietly behind a cloud
      similar to that from which it had so oddly emerged, and was thus
      lost forever to the wondering eyes of the good citizens of
      Rotterdam. All attention was now directed to the letter, the
      descent of which, and the consequences attending thereupon, had
      proved so fatally subversive of both person and personal dignity
      to his Excellency, the illustrious Burgomaster Mynheer Superbus
      Von Underduk. That functionary, however, had not failed, during
      his circumgyratory movements, to bestow a thought upon the
      important subject of securing the packet in question, which was
      seen, upon inspection, to have fallen into the most proper hands,
      being actually addressed to himself and Professor Rub-a-dub, in
      their official capacities of President and Vice-President of the
      Rotterdam College of Astronomy. It was accordingly opened by
      those dignitaries upon the spot, and found to contain the
      following extraordinary, and indeed very serious, communication:

      “To their Excellencies Von Underduk and Rub-a-dub, President and
      Vice-President of the States’ College of Astronomers, in the city
      of Rotterdam.

      “Your Excellencies may perhaps be able to remember an humble
      artizan, by name Hans Pfaall, and by occupation a mender of
      bellows, who, with three others, disappeared from Rotterdam,
      about five years ago, in a manner which must have been considered
      by all parties at once sudden, and extremely unaccountable. If,
      however, it so please your Excellencies, I, the writer of this
      communication, am the identical Hans Pfaall himself. It is well
      known to most of my fellow citizens, that for the period of forty
      years I continued to occupy the little square brick building, at
      the head of the alley called Sauerkraut, in which I resided at
      the time of my disappearance. My ancestors have also resided
      therein time out of mind—they, as well as myself, steadily
      following the respectable and indeed lucrative profession of
      mending of bellows. For, to speak the truth, until of late years,
      that the heads of all the people have been set agog with
      politics, no better business than my own could an honest citizen
      of Rotterdam either desire or deserve. Credit was good,
      employment was never wanting, and on all hands there was no lack
      of either money or good-will. But, as I was saying, we soon began
      to feel the effects of liberty and long speeches, and radicalism,
      and all that sort of thing. People who were formerly, the very
      best customers in the world, had now not a moment of time to
      think of us at all. They had, so they said, as much as they could
      do to read about the revolutions, and keep up with the march of
      intellect and the spirit of the age. If a fire wanted fanning, it
      could readily be fanned with a newspaper, and as the government
      grew weaker, I have no doubt that leather and iron acquired
      durability in proportion, for, in a very short time, there was
      not a pair of bellows in all Rotterdam that ever stood in need of
      a stitch or required the assistance of a hammer. This was a state
      of things not to be endured. I soon grew as poor as a rat, and,
      having a wife and children to provide for, my burdens at length
      became intolerable, and I spent hour after hour in reflecting
      upon the most convenient method of putting an end to my life.
      Duns, in the meantime, left me little leisure for contemplation.
      My house was literally besieged from morning till night, so that
      I began to rave, and foam, and fret like a caged tiger against
      the bars of his enclosure. There were three fellows in particular
      who worried me beyond endurance, keeping watch continually about
      my door, and threatening me with the law. Upon these three I
      internally vowed the bitterest revenge, if ever I should be so
      happy as to get them within my clutches; and I believe nothing in
      the world but the pleasure of this anticipation prevented me from
      putting my plan of suicide into immediate execution, by blowing
      my brains out with a blunderbuss. I thought it best, however, to
      dissemble my wrath, and to treat them with promises and fair
      words, until, by some good turn of fate, an opportunity of
      vengeance should be afforded me.

      “One day, having given my creditors the slip, and feeling more
      than usually dejected, I continued for a long time to wander
      about the most obscure streets without object whatever, until at
      length I chanced to stumble against the corner of a bookseller’s
      stall. Seeing a chair close at hand, for the use of customers, I
      threw myself doggedly into it, and, hardly knowing why, opened
      the pages of the first volume which came within my reach. It
      proved to be a small pamphlet treatise on Speculative Astronomy,
      written either by Professor Encke of Berlin or by a Frenchman of
      somewhat similar name. I had some little tincture of information
      on matters of this nature, and soon became more and more absorbed
      in the contents of the book, reading it actually through twice
      before I awoke to a recollection of what was passing around me.
      By this time it began to grow dark, and I directed my steps
      toward home. But the treatise had made an indelible impression on
      my mind, and, as I sauntered along the dusky streets, I revolved
      carefully over in my memory the wild and sometimes unintelligible
      reasonings of the writer. There are some particular passages
      which affected my imagination in a powerful and extraordinary
      manner. The longer I meditated upon these the more intense grew
      the interest which had been excited within me. The limited nature
      of my education in general, and more especially my ignorance on
      subjects connected with natural philosophy, so far from rendering
      me diffident of my own ability to comprehend what I had read, or
      inducing me to mistrust the many vague notions which had arisen
      in consequence, merely served as a farther stimulus to
      imagination; and I was vain enough, or perhaps reasonable enough,
      to doubt whether those crude ideas which, arising in
      ill-regulated minds, have all the appearance, may not often in
      effect possess all the force, the reality, and other inherent
      properties, of instinct or intuition; whether, to proceed a step
      farther, profundity itself might not, in matters of a purely
      speculative nature, be detected as a legitimate source of falsity
      and error. In other words, I believed, and still do believe, that
      truth, is frequently of its own essence, superficial, and that,
      in many cases, the depth lies more in the abysses where we seek
      her, than in the actual situations wherein she may be found.
      Nature herself seemed to afford me corroboration of these ideas.
      In the contemplation of the heavenly bodies it struck me forcibly
      that I could not distinguish a star with nearly as much
      precision, when I gazed on it with earnest, direct and
      undeviating attention, as when I suffered my eye only to glance
      in its vicinity alone. I was not, of course, at that time aware
      that this apparent paradox was occasioned by the center of the
      visual area being less susceptible of feeble impressions of light
      than the exterior portions of the retina. This knowledge, and
      some of another kind, came afterwards in the course of an
      eventful five years, during which I have dropped the prejudices
      of my former humble situation in life, and forgotten the
      bellows-mender in far different occupations. But at the epoch of
      which I speak, the analogy which a casual observation of a star
      offered to the conclusions I had already drawn, struck me with
      the force of positive conformation, and I then finally made up my
      mind to the course which I afterwards pursued.

      “It was late when I reached home, and I went immediately to bed.
      My mind, however, was too much occupied to sleep, and I lay the
      whole night buried in meditation. Arising early in the morning,
      and contriving again to escape the vigilance of my creditors, I
      repaired eagerly to the bookseller’s stall, and laid out what
      little ready money I possessed, in the purchase of some volumes
      of Mechanics and Practical Astronomy. Having arrived at home
      safely with these, I devoted every spare moment to their perusal,
      and soon made such proficiency in studies of this nature as I
      thought sufficient for the execution of my plan. In the intervals
      of this period, I made every endeavor to conciliate the three
      creditors who had given me so much annoyance. In this I finally
      succeeded—partly by selling enough of my household furniture to
      satisfy a moiety of their claim, and partly by a promise of
      paying the balance upon completion of a little project which I
      told them I had in view, and for assistance in which I solicited
      their services. By these means—for they were ignorant men—I found
      little difficulty in gaining them over to my purpose.

      “Matters being thus arranged, I contrived, by the aid of my wife
      and with the greatest secrecy and caution, to dispose of what
      property I had remaining, and to borrow, in small sums, under
      various pretences, and without paying any attention to my future
      means of repayment, no inconsiderable quantity of ready money.
      With the means thus accruing I proceeded to procure at intervals,
      cambric muslin, very fine, in pieces of twelve yards each; twine;
      a lot of the varnish of caoutchouc; a large and deep basket of
      wicker-work, made to order; and several other articles necessary
      in the construction and equipment of a balloon of extraordinary
      dimensions. This I directed my wife to make up as soon as
      possible, and gave her all requisite information as to the
      particular method of proceeding. In the meantime I worked up the
      twine into a net-work of sufficient dimensions; rigged it with a
      hoop and the necessary cords; bought a quadrant, a compass, a
      spy-glass, a common barometer with some important modifications,
      and two astronomical instruments not so generally known. I then
      took opportunities of conveying by night, to a retired situation
      east of Rotterdam, five iron-bound casks, to contain about fifty
      gallons each, and one of a larger size; six tinned ware tubes,
      three inches in diameter, properly shaped, and ten feet in
      length; a quantity of a particular metallic substance, or
      semi-metal, which I shall not name, and a dozen demijohns of a
      very common acid. The gas to be formed from these latter
      materials is a gas never yet generated by any other person than
      myself—or at least never applied to any similar purpose. The
      secret I would make no difficulty in disclosing, but that it of
      right belongs to a citizen of Nantz, in France, by whom it was
      conditionally communicated to myself. The same individual
      submitted to me, without being at all aware of my intentions, a
      method of constructing balloons from the membrane of a certain
      animal, through which substance any escape of gas was nearly an
      impossibility. I found it, however, altogether too expensive, and
      was not sure, upon the whole, whether cambric muslin with a
      coating of gum caoutchouc, was not equally as good. I mention
      this circumstance, because I think it probable that hereafter the
      individual in question may attempt a balloon ascension with the
      novel gas and material I have spoken of, and I do not wish to
      deprive him of the honor of a very singular invention.

      “On the spot which I intended each of the smaller casks to occupy
      respectively during the inflation of the balloon, I privately dug
      a hole two feet deep; the holes forming in this manner a circle
      twenty-five feet in diameter. In the centre of this circle, being
      the station designed for the large cask, I also dug a hole three
      feet in depth. In each of the five smaller holes, I deposited a
      canister containing fifty pounds, and in the larger one a keg
      holding one hundred and fifty pounds, of cannon powder. These—the
      keg and canisters—I connected in a proper manner with covered
      trains; and having let into one of the canisters the end of about
      four feet of slow match, I covered up the hole, and placed the
      cask over it, leaving the other end of the match protruding about
      an inch, and barely visible beyond the cask. I then filled up the
      remaining holes, and placed the barrels over them in their
      destined situation.

      “Besides the articles above enumerated, I conveyed to the depot,
      and there secreted, one of M. Grimm’s improvements upon the
      apparatus for condensation of the atmospheric air. I found this
      machine, however, to require considerable alteration before it
      could be adapted to the purposes to which I intended making it
      applicable. But, with severe labor and unremitting perseverance,
      I at length met with entire success in all my preparations. My
      balloon was soon completed. It would contain more than forty
      thousand cubic feet of gas; would take me up easily, I
      calculated, with all my implements, and, if I managed rightly,
      with one hundred and seventy-five pounds of ballast into the
      bargain. It had received three coats of varnish, and I found the
      cambric muslin to answer all the purposes of silk itself, quite
      as strong and a good deal less expensive.

      “Everything being now ready, I exacted from my wife an oath of
      secrecy in relation to all my actions from the day of my first
      visit to the bookseller’s stall; and promising, on my part, to
      return as soon as circumstances would permit, I gave her what
      little money I had left, and bade her farewell. Indeed I had no
      fear on her account. She was what people call a notable woman,
      and could manage matters in the world without my assistance. I
      believe, to tell the truth, she always looked upon me as an idle
      boy, a mere make-weight, good for nothing but building castles in
      the air, and was rather glad to get rid of me. It was a dark
      night when I bade her good-bye, and taking with me, as
      aides-de-camp, the three creditors who had given me so much
      trouble, we carried the balloon, with the car and accoutrements,
      by a roundabout way, to the station where the other articles were
      deposited. We there found them all unmolested, and I proceeded
      immediately to business.

      “It was the first of April. The night, as I said before, was
      dark; there was not a star to be seen; and a drizzling rain,
      falling at intervals, rendered us very uncomfortable. But my
      chief anxiety was concerning the balloon, which, in spite of the
      varnish with which it was defended, began to grow rather heavy
      with the moisture; the powder also was liable to damage. I
      therefore kept my three duns working with great diligence,
      pounding down ice around the central cask, and stirring the acid
      in the others. They did not cease, however, importuning me with
      questions as to what I intended to do with all this apparatus,
      and expressed much dissatisfaction at the terrible labor I made
      them undergo. They could not perceive, so they said, what good
      was likely to result from their getting wet to the skin, merely
      to take a part in such horrible incantations. I began to get
      uneasy, and worked away with all my might, for I verily believe
      the idiots supposed that I had entered into a compact with the
      devil, and that, in short, what I was now doing was nothing
      better than it should be. I was, therefore, in great fear of
      their leaving me altogether. I contrived, however, to pacify them
      by promises of payment of all scores in full, as soon as I could
      bring the present business to a termination. To these speeches
      they gave, of course, their own interpretation; fancying, no
      doubt, that at all events I should come into possession of vast
      quantities of ready money; and provided I paid them all I owed,
      and a trifle more, in consideration of their services, I dare say
      they cared very little what became of either my soul or my
      carcass.

      “In about four hours and a half I found the balloon sufficiently
      inflated. I attached the car, therefore, and put all my
      implements in it—not forgetting the condensing apparatus, a
      copious supply of water, and a large quantity of provisions, such
      as pemmican, in which much nutriment is contained in
      comparatively little bulk. I also secured in the car a pair of
      pigeons and a cat. It was now nearly daybreak, and I thought it
      high time to take my departure. Dropping a lighted cigar on the
      ground, as if by accident, I took the opportunity, in stooping to
      pick it up, of igniting privately the piece of slow match, whose
      end, as I said before, protruded a very little beyond the lower
      rim of one of the smaller casks. This manoeuvre was totally
      unperceived on the part of the three duns; and, jumping into the
      car, I immediately cut the single cord which held me to the
      earth, and was pleased to find that I shot upward, carrying with
      all ease one hundred and seventy-five pounds of leaden ballast,
      and able to have carried up as many more.

      “Scarcely, however, had I attained the height of fifty yards,
      when, roaring and rumbling up after me in the most horrible and
      tumultuous manner, came so dense a hurricane of fire, and smoke,
      and sulphur, and legs and arms, and gravel, and burning wood, and
      blazing metal, that my very heart sunk within me, and I fell down
      in the bottom of the car, trembling with unmitigated terror.
      Indeed, I now perceived that I had entirely overdone the
      business, and that the main consequences of the shock were yet to
      be experienced. Accordingly, in less than a second, I felt all
      the blood in my body rushing to my temples, and immediately
      thereupon, a concussion, which I shall never forget, burst
      abruptly through the night and seemed to rip the very firmament
      asunder. When I afterward had time for reflection, I did not fail
      to attribute the extreme violence of the explosion, as regarded
      myself, to its proper cause—my situation directly above it, and
      in the line of its greatest power. But at the time, I thought
      only of preserving my life. The balloon at first collapsed, then
      furiously expanded, then whirled round and round with horrible
      velocity, and finally, reeling and staggering like a drunken man,
      hurled me with great force over the rim of the car, and left me
      dangling, at a terrific height, with my head downward, and my
      face outwards, by a piece of slender cord about three feet in
      length, which hung accidentally through a crevice near the bottom
      of the wicker-work, and in which, as I fell, my left foot became
      most providentially entangled. It is impossible—utterly
      impossible—to form any adequate idea of the horror of my
      situation. I gasped convulsively for breath—a shudder resembling
      a fit of the ague agitated every nerve and muscle of my frame—I
      felt my eyes starting from their sockets—a horrible nausea
      overwhelmed me—and at length I fainted away.

      “How long I remained in this state it is impossible to say. It
      must, however, have been no inconsiderable time, for when I
      partially recovered the sense of existence, I found the day
      breaking, the balloon at a prodigious height over a wilderness of
      ocean, and not a trace of land to be discovered far and wide
      within the limits of the vast horizon. My sensations, however,
      upon thus recovering, were by no means so rife with agony as
      might have been anticipated. Indeed, there was much of incipient
      madness in the calm survey which I began to take of my situation.
      I drew up to my eyes each of my hands, one after the other, and
      wondered what occurrence could have given rise to the swelling of
      the veins, and the horrible blackness of the fingernails. I
      afterward carefully examined my head, shaking it repeatedly, and
      feeling it with minute attention, until I succeeded in satisfying
      myself that it was not, as I had more than half suspected, larger
      than my balloon. Then, in a knowing manner, I felt in both my
      breeches pockets, and, missing therefrom a set of tablets and a
      toothpick case, endeavored to account for their disappearance,
      and not being able to do so, felt inexpressibly chagrined. It now
      occurred to me that I suffered great uneasiness in the joint of
      my left ankle, and a dim consciousness of my situation began to
      glimmer through my mind. But, strange to say! I was neither
      astonished nor horror-stricken. If I felt any emotion at all, it
      was a kind of chuckling satisfaction at the cleverness I was
      about to display in extricating myself from this dilemma; and I
      never, for a moment, looked upon my ultimate safety as a question
      susceptible of doubt. For a few minutes I remained wrapped in the
      profoundest meditation. I have a distinct recollection of
      frequently compressing my lips, putting my forefinger to the side
      of my nose, and making use of other gesticulations and grimaces
      common to men who, at ease in their arm-chairs, meditate upon
      matters of intricacy or importance. Having, as I thought,
      sufficiently collected my ideas, I now, with great caution and
      deliberation, put my hands behind my back, and unfastened the
      large iron buckle which belonged to the waistband of my
      inexpressibles. This buckle had three teeth, which, being
      somewhat rusty, turned with great difficulty on their axis. I
      brought them, however, after some trouble, at right angles to the
      body of the buckle, and was glad to find them remain firm in that
      position. Holding the instrument thus obtained within my teeth, I
      now proceeded to untie the knot of my cravat. I had to rest
      several times before I could accomplish this manoeuvre, but it
      was at length accomplished. To one end of the cravat I then made
      fast the buckle, and the other end I tied, for greater security,
      tightly around my wrist. Drawing now my body upwards, with a
      prodigious exertion of muscular force, I succeeded, at the very
      first trial, in throwing the buckle over the car, and entangling
      it, as I had anticipated, in the circular rim of the wicker-work.

      “My body was now inclined towards the side of the car, at an
      angle of about forty-five degrees; but it must not be understood
      that I was therefore only forty-five degrees below the
      perpendicular. So far from it, I still lay nearly level with the
      plane of the horizon; for the change of situation which I had
      acquired, had forced the bottom of the car considerably outwards
      from my position, which was accordingly one of the most imminent
      and deadly peril. It should be remembered, however, that when I
      fell in the first instance, from the car, if I had fallen with my
      face turned toward the balloon, instead of turned outwardly from
      it, as it actually was; or if, in the second place, the cord by
      which I was suspended had chanced to hang over the upper edge,
      instead of through a crevice near the bottom of the car,—I say it
      may be readily conceived that, in either of these supposed cases,
      I should have been unable to accomplish even as much as I had now
      accomplished, and the wonderful adventures of Hans Pfaall would
      have been utterly lost to posterity, I had therefore every reason
      to be grateful; although, in point of fact, I was still too
      stupid to be anything at all, and hung for, perhaps, a quarter of
      an hour in that extraordinary manner, without making the
      slightest farther exertion whatsoever, and in a singularly
      tranquil state of idiotic enjoyment. But this feeling did not
      fail to die rapidly away, and thereunto succeeded horror, and
      dismay, and a chilling sense of utter helplessness and ruin. In
      fact, the blood so long accumulating in the vessels of my head
      and throat, and which had hitherto buoyed up my spirits with
      madness and delirium, had now begun to retire within their proper
      channels, and the distinctness which was thus added to my
      perception of the danger, merely served to deprive me of the
      self-possession and courage to encounter it. But this weakness
      was, luckily for me, of no very long duration. In good time came
      to my rescue the spirit of despair, and, with frantic cries and
      struggles, I jerked my way bodily upwards, till at length,
      clutching with a vise-like grip the long-desired rim, I writhed
      my person over it, and fell headlong and shuddering within the
      car.

      “It was not until some time afterward that I recovered myself
      sufficiently to attend to the ordinary cares of the balloon. I
      then, however, examined it with attention, and found it, to my
      great relief, uninjured. My implements were all safe, and,
      fortunately, I had lost neither ballast nor provisions. Indeed, I
      had so well secured them in their places, that such an accident
      was entirely out of the question. Looking at my watch, I found it
      six o’clock. I was still rapidly ascending, and my barometer gave
      a present altitude of three and three-quarter miles. Immediately
      beneath me in the ocean, lay a small black object, slightly
      oblong in shape, seemingly about the size, and in every way
      bearing a great resemblance to one of those childish toys called
      a domino. Bringing my telescope to bear upon it, I plainly
      discerned it to be a British ninety four-gun ship, close-hauled,
      and pitching heavily in the sea with her head to the W.S.W.
      Besides this ship, I saw nothing but the ocean and the sky, and
      the sun, which had long arisen.

      “It is now high time that I should explain to your Excellencies
      the object of my perilous voyage. Your Excellencies will bear in
      mind that distressed circumstances in Rotterdam had at length
      driven me to the resolution of committing suicide. It was not,
      however, that to life itself I had any positive disgust, but that
      I was harassed beyond endurance by the adventitious miseries
      attending my situation. In this state of mind, wishing to live,
      yet wearied with life, the treatise at the stall of the
      bookseller opened a resource to my imagination. I then finally
      made up my mind. I determined to depart, yet live—to leave the
      world, yet continue to exist—in short, to drop enigmas, I
      resolved, let what would ensue, to force a passage, if I could,
      to the moon. Now, lest I should be supposed more of a madman than
      I actually am, I will detail, as well as I am able, the
      considerations which led me to believe that an achievement of
      this nature, although without doubt difficult, and incontestably
      full of danger, was not absolutely, to a bold spirit, beyond the
      confines of the possible.

      “The moon’s actual distance from the earth was the first thing to
      be attended to. Now, the mean or average interval between the
      centres of the two planets is 59.9643 of the earth’s equatorial
      radii, or only about 237,000 miles. I say the mean or average
      interval, but it must be borne in mind that the form of the
      moon’s orbit being an ellipse of eccentricity amounting to no
      less than 0.05484 of the major semi-axis of the ellipse itself,
      and the earth’s centre being situated in its focus, if I could,
      in any manner, contrive to meet the moon, as it were, in its
      perigee, the above mentioned distance would be materially
      diminished. But, to say nothing at present of this possibility,
      it was very certain that, at all events, from the 237,000 miles I
      would have to deduct the radius of the earth, say 4,000, and the
      radius of the moon, say 1,080, in all 5,080, leaving an actual
      interval to be traversed, under average circumstances, of 231,920
      miles. Now this, I reflected, was no very extraordinary distance.
      Travelling on land has been repeatedly accomplished at the rate
      of thirty miles per hour, and indeed a much greater speed may be
      anticipated. But even at this velocity, it would take me no more
      than 322 days to reach the surface of the moon. There were,
      however, many particulars inducing me to believe that my average
      rate of travelling might possibly very much exceed that of thirty
      miles per hour, and, as these considerations did not fail to make
      a deep impression upon my mind, I will mention them more fully
      hereafter.

      “The next point to be regarded was a matter of far greater
      importance. From indications afforded by the barometer, we find
      that, in ascensions from the surface of the earth we have, at the
      height of 1,000 feet, left below us about one-thirtieth of the
      entire mass of atmospheric air, that at 10,600 we have ascended
      through nearly one-third; and that at 18,000, which is not far
      from the elevation of Cotopaxi, we have surmounted one-half the
      material, or, at all events, one-half the ponderable, body of air
      incumbent upon our globe. It is also calculated that at an
      altitude not exceeding the hundredth part of the earth’s
      diameter—that is, not exceeding eighty miles—the rarefaction
      would be so excessive that animal life could in no manner be
      sustained, and, moreover, that the most delicate means we possess
      of ascertaining the presence of the atmosphere would be
      inadequate to assure us of its existence. But I did not fail to
      perceive that these latter calculations are founded altogether on
      our experimental knowledge of the properties of air, and the
      mechanical laws regulating its dilation and compression, in what
      may be called, comparatively speaking, the immediate vicinity of
      the earth itself; and, at the same time, it is taken for granted
      that animal life is and must be essentially incapable of
      modification at any given unattainable distance from the surface.
      Now, all such reasoning and from such data must, of course, be
      simply analogical. The greatest height ever reached by man was
      that of 25,000 feet, attained in the aeronautic expedition of
      Messieurs Gay-Lussac and Biot. This is a moderate altitude, even
      when compared with the eighty miles in question; and I could not
      help thinking that the subject admitted room for doubt and great
      latitude for speculation.

      “But, in point of fact, an ascension being made to any given
      altitude, the ponderable quantity of air surmounted in any
      farther ascension is by no means in proportion to the additional
      height ascended (as may be plainly seen from what has been stated
      before), but in a ratio constantly decreasing. It is therefore
      evident that, ascend as high as we may, we cannot, literally
      speaking, arrive at a limit beyond which no atmosphere is to be
      found. It must exist, I argued; although it may exist in a state
      of infinite rarefaction.

      “On the other hand, I was aware that arguments have not been
      wanting to prove the existence of a real and definite limit to
      the atmosphere, beyond which there is absolutely no air
      whatsoever. But a circumstance which has been left out of view by
      those who contend for such a limit seemed to me, although no
      positive refutation of their creed, still a point worthy very
      serious investigation. On comparing the intervals between the
      successive arrivals of Encke’s comet at its perihelion, after
      giving credit, in the most exact manner, for all the disturbances
      due to the attractions of the planets, it appears that the
      periods are gradually diminishing; that is to say, the major axis
      of the comet’s ellipse is growing shorter, in a slow but
      perfectly regular decrease. Now, this is precisely what ought to
      be the case, if we suppose a resistance experienced from the
      comet from an extremely rare ethereal medium pervading the
      regions of its orbit. For it is evident that such a medium must,
      in retarding the comet’s velocity, increase its centripetal, by
      weakening its centrifugal force. In other words, the sun’s
      attraction would be constantly attaining greater power, and the
      comet would be drawn nearer at every revolution. Indeed, there is
      no other way of accounting for the variation in question. But
      again:—The real diameter of the same comet’s nebulosity is
      observed to contract rapidly as it approaches the sun, and dilate
      with equal rapidity in its departure towards its aphelion. Was I
      not justifiable in supposing with M. Valz, that this apparent
      condensation of volume has its origin in the compression of the
      same ethereal medium I have spoken of before, and which is only
      denser in proportion to its solar vicinity? The lenticular-shaped
      phenomenon, also called the zodiacal light, was a matter worthy
      of attention. This radiance, so apparent in the tropics, and
      which cannot be mistaken for any meteoric lustre, extends from
      the horizon obliquely upward, and follows generally the direction
      of the sun’s equator. It appeared to me evidently in the nature
      of a rare atmosphere extending from the sun outward, beyond the
      orbit of Venus at least, and I believed indefinitely farther.(*2)
      Indeed, this medium I could not suppose confined to the path of
      the comet’s ellipse, or to the immediate neighborhood of the sun.
      It was easy, on the contrary, to imagine it pervading the entire
      regions of our planetary system, condensed into what we call
      atmosphere at the planets themselves, and perhaps at some of them
      modified by considerations, so to speak, purely geological.

      “Having adopted this view of the subject, I had little further
      hesitation. Granting that on my passage I should meet with
      atmosphere essentially the same as at the surface of the earth, I
      conceived that, by means of the very ingenious apparatus of M.
      Grimm, I should readily be enabled to condense it in sufficient
      quantity for the purposes of respiration. This would remove the
      chief obstacle in a journey to the moon. I had indeed spent some
      money and great labor in adapting the apparatus to the object
      intended, and confidently looked forward to its successful
      application, if I could manage to complete the voyage within any
      reasonable period. This brings me back to the rate at which it
      might be possible to travel.

      “It is true that balloons, in the first stage of their ascensions
      from the earth, are known to rise with a velocity comparatively
      moderate. Now, the power of elevation lies altogether in the
      superior lightness of the gas in the balloon compared with the
      atmospheric air; and, at first sight, it does not appear probable
      that, as the balloon acquires altitude, and consequently arrives
      successively in atmospheric strata of densities rapidly
      diminishing—I say, it does not appear at all reasonable that, in
      this its progress upwards, the original velocity should be
      accelerated. On the other hand, I was not aware that, in any
      recorded ascension, a diminution was apparent in the absolute
      rate of ascent; although such should have been the case, if on
      account of nothing else, on account of the escape of gas through
      balloons ill-constructed, and varnished with no better material
      than the ordinary varnish. It seemed, therefore, that the effect
      of such escape was only sufficient to counterbalance the effect
      of some accelerating power. I now considered that, provided in my
      passage I found the medium I had imagined, and provided that it
      should prove to be actually and essentially what we denominate
      atmospheric air, it could make comparatively little difference at
      what extreme state of rarefaction I should discover it—that is to
      say, in regard to my power of ascending—for the gas in the
      balloon would not only be itself subject to rarefaction partially
      similar (in proportion to the occurrence of which, I could suffer
      an escape of so much as would be requisite to prevent explosion),
      but, being what it was, would, at all events, continue
      specifically lighter than any compound whatever of mere nitrogen
      and oxygen. In the meantime, the force of gravitation would be
      constantly diminishing, in proportion to the squares of the
      distances, and thus, with a velocity prodigiously accelerating, I
      should at length arrive in those distant regions where the force
      of the earth’s attraction would be superseded by that of the
      moon. In accordance with these ideas, I did not think it worth
      while to encumber myself with more provisions than would be
      sufficient for a period of forty days.

      “There was still, however, another difficulty, which occasioned
      me some little disquietude. It has been observed, that, in
      balloon ascensions to any considerable height, besides the pain
      attending respiration, great uneasiness is experienced about the
      head and body, often accompanied with bleeding at the nose, and
      other symptoms of an alarming kind, and growing more and more
      inconvenient in proportion to the altitude attained.(*3) This was
      a reflection of a nature somewhat startling. Was it not probable
      that these symptoms would increase indefinitely, or at least
      until terminated by death itself? I finally thought not. Their
      origin was to be looked for in the progressive removal of the
      customary atmospheric pressure upon the surface of the body, and
      consequent distention of the superficial blood-vessels—not in any
      positive disorganization of the animal system, as in the case of
      difficulty in breathing, where the atmospheric density is
      chemically insufficient for the due renovation of blood in a
      ventricle of the heart. Unless for default of this renovation, I
      could see no reason, therefore, why life could not be sustained
      even in a vacuum; for the expansion and compression of chest,
      commonly called breathing, is action purely muscular, and the
      cause, not the effect, of respiration. In a word, I conceived
      that, as the body should become habituated to the want of
      atmospheric pressure, the sensations of pain would gradually
      diminish—and to endure them while they continued, I relied with
      confidence upon the iron hardihood of my constitution.

      “Thus, may it please your Excellencies, I have detailed some,
      though by no means all, the considerations which led me to form
      the project of a lunar voyage. I shall now proceed to lay before
      you the result of an attempt so apparently audacious in
      conception, and, at all events, so utterly unparalleled in the
      annals of mankind.

      “Having attained the altitude before mentioned, that is to say
      three miles and three-quarters, I threw out from the car a
      quantity of feathers, and found that I still ascended with
      sufficient rapidity; there was, therefore, no necessity for
      discharging any ballast. I was glad of this, for I wished to
      retain with me as much weight as I could carry, for reasons which
      will be explained in the sequel. I as yet suffered no bodily
      inconvenience, breathing with great freedom, and feeling no pain
      whatever in the head. The cat was lying very demurely upon my
      coat, which I had taken off, and eyeing the pigeons with an air
      of nonchalance. These latter being tied by the leg, to prevent
      their escape, were busily employed in picking up some grains of
      rice scattered for them in the bottom of the car.

      “At twenty minutes past six o’clock, the barometer showed an
      elevation of 26,400 feet, or five miles to a fraction. The
      prospect seemed unbounded. Indeed, it is very easily calculated
      by means of spherical geometry, what a great extent of the
      earth’s area I beheld. The convex surface of any segment of a
      sphere is, to the entire surface of the sphere itself, as the
      versed sine of the segment to the diameter of the sphere. Now, in
      my case, the versed sine—that is to say, the thickness of the
      segment beneath me—was about equal to my elevation, or the
      elevation of the point of sight above the surface. ‘As five
      miles, then, to eight thousand,’ would express the proportion of
      the earth’s area seen by me. In other words, I beheld as much as
      a sixteen-hundredth part of the whole surface of the globe. The
      sea appeared unruffled as a mirror, although, by means of the
      spy-glass, I could perceive it to be in a state of violent
      agitation. The ship was no longer visible, having drifted away,
      apparently to the eastward. I now began to experience, at
      intervals, severe pain in the head, especially about the
      ears—still, however, breathing with tolerable freedom. The cat
      and pigeons seemed to suffer no inconvenience whatsoever.

      “At twenty minutes before seven, the balloon entered a long
      series of dense cloud, which put me to great trouble, by damaging
      my condensing apparatus and wetting me to the skin. This was, to
      be sure, a singular recontre, for I had not believed it possible
      that a cloud of this nature could be sustained at so great an
      elevation. I thought it best, however, to throw out two
      five-pound pieces of ballast, reserving still a weight of one
      hundred and sixty-five pounds. Upon so doing, I soon rose above
      the difficulty, and perceived immediately, that I had obtained a
      great increase in my rate of ascent. In a few seconds after my
      leaving the cloud, a flash of vivid lightning shot from one end
      of it to the other, and caused it to kindle up, throughout its
      vast extent, like a mass of ignited and glowing charcoal. This,
      it must be remembered, was in the broad light of day. No fancy
      may picture the sublimity which might have been exhibited by a
      similar phenomenon taking place amid the darkness of the night.
      Hell itself might have been found a fitting image. Even as it
      was, my hair stood on end, while I gazed afar down within the
      yawning abysses, letting imagination descend, as it were, and
      stalk about in the strange vaulted halls, and ruddy gulfs, and
      red ghastly chasms of the hideous and unfathomable fire. I had
      indeed made a narrow escape. Had the balloon remained a very
      short while longer within the cloud—that is to say—had not the
      inconvenience of getting wet, determined me to discharge the
      ballast, inevitable ruin would have been the consequence. Such
      perils, although little considered, are perhaps the greatest
      which must be encountered in balloons. I had by this time,
      however, attained too great an elevation to be any longer uneasy
      on this head.

      “I was now rising rapidly, and by seven o’clock the barometer
      indicated an altitude of no less than nine miles and a half. I
      began to find great difficulty in drawing my breath. My head,
      too, was excessively painful; and, having felt for some time a
      moisture about my cheeks, I at length discovered it to be blood,
      which was oozing quite fast from the drums of my ears. My eyes,
      also, gave me great uneasiness. Upon passing the hand over them
      they seemed to have protruded from their sockets in no
      inconsiderable degree; and all objects in the car, and even the
      balloon itself, appeared distorted to my vision. These symptoms
      were more than I had expected, and occasioned me some alarm. At
      this juncture, very imprudently, and without consideration, I
      threw out from the car three five-pound pieces of ballast. The
      accelerated rate of ascent thus obtained, carried me too rapidly,
      and without sufficient gradation, into a highly rarefied stratum
      of the atmosphere, and the result had nearly proved fatal to my
      expedition and to myself. I was suddenly seized with a spasm
      which lasted for more than five minutes, and even when this, in a
      measure, ceased, I could catch my breath only at long intervals,
      and in a gasping manner—bleeding all the while copiously at the
      nose and ears, and even slightly at the eyes. The pigeons
      appeared distressed in the extreme, and struggled to escape;
      while the cat mewed piteously, and, with her tongue hanging out
      of her mouth, staggered to and fro in the car as if under the
      influence of poison. I now too late discovered the great rashness
      of which I had been guilty in discharging the ballast, and my
      agitation was excessive. I anticipated nothing less than death,
      and death in a few minutes. The physical suffering I underwent
      contributed also to render me nearly incapable of making any
      exertion for the preservation of my life. I had, indeed, little
      power of reflection left, and the violence of the pain in my head
      seemed to be greatly on the increase. Thus I found that my senses
      would shortly give way altogether, and I had already clutched one
      of the valve ropes with the view of attempting a descent, when
      the recollection of the trick I had played the three creditors,
      and the possible consequences to myself, should I return,
      operated to deter me for the moment. I lay down in the bottom of
      the car, and endeavored to collect my faculties. In this I so far
      succeeded as to determine upon the experiment of losing blood.
      Having no lancet, however, I was constrained to perform the
      operation in the best manner I was able, and finally succeeded in
      opening a vein in my right arm, with the blade of my penknife.
      The blood had hardly commenced flowing when I experienced a
      sensible relief, and by the time I had lost about half a moderate
      basin full, most of the worst symptoms had abandoned me entirely.
      I nevertheless did not think it expedient to attempt getting on
      my feet immediately; but, having tied up my arm as well as I
      could, I lay still for about a quarter of an hour. At the end of
      this time I arose, and found myself freer from absolute pain of
      any kind than I had been during the last hour and a quarter of my
      ascension. The difficulty of breathing, however, was diminished
      in a very slight degree, and I found that it would soon be
      positively necessary to make use of my condenser. In the
      meantime, looking toward the cat, who was again snugly stowed
      away upon my coat, I discovered to my infinite surprise, that she
      had taken the opportunity of my indisposition to bring into light
      a litter of three little kittens. This was an addition to the
      number of passengers on my part altogether unexpected; but I was
      pleased at the occurrence. It would afford me a chance of
      bringing to a kind of test the truth of a surmise, which, more
      than anything else, had influenced me in attempting this
      ascension. I had imagined that the habitual endurance of the
      atmospheric pressure at the surface of the earth was the cause,
      or nearly so, of the pain attending animal existence at a
      distance above the surface. Should the kittens be found to suffer
      uneasiness in an equal degree with their mother, I must consider
      my theory in fault, but a failure to do so I should look upon as
      a strong confirmation of my idea.

      “By eight o’clock I had actually attained an elevation of
      seventeen miles above the surface of the earth. Thus it seemed to
      me evident that my rate of ascent was not only on the increase,
      but that the progression would have been apparent in a slight
      degree even had I not discharged the ballast which I did. The
      pains in my head and ears returned, at intervals, with violence,
      and I still continued to bleed occasionally at the nose; but,
      upon the whole, I suffered much less than might have been
      expected. I breathed, however, at every moment, with more and
      more difficulty, and each inhalation was attended with a
      troublesome spasmodic action of the chest. I now unpacked the
      condensing apparatus, and got it ready for immediate use.

      “The view of the earth, at this period of my ascension, was
      beautiful indeed. To the westward, the northward, and the
      southward, as far as I could see, lay a boundless sheet of
      apparently unruffled ocean, which every moment gained a deeper
      and a deeper tint of blue and began already to assume a slight
      appearance of convexity. At a vast distance to the eastward,
      although perfectly discernible, extended the islands of Great
      Britain, the entire Atlantic coasts of France and Spain, with a
      small portion of the northern part of the continent of Africa. Of
      individual edifices not a trace could be discovered, and the
      proudest cities of mankind had utterly faded away from the face
      of the earth. From the rock of Gibraltar, now dwindled into a dim
      speck, the dark Mediterranean sea, dotted with shining islands as
      the heaven is dotted with stars, spread itself out to the
      eastward as far as my vision extended, until its entire mass of
      waters seemed at length to tumble headlong over the abyss of the
      horizon, and I found myself listening on tiptoe for the echoes of
      the mighty cataract. Overhead, the sky was of a jetty black, and
      the stars were brilliantly visible.

      “The pigeons about this time seeming to undergo much suffering, I
      determined upon giving them their liberty. I first untied one of
      them, a beautiful gray-mottled pigeon, and placed him upon the
      rim of the wicker-work. He appeared extremely uneasy, looking
      anxiously around him, fluttering his wings, and making a loud
      cooing noise, but could not be persuaded to trust himself from
      off the car. I took him up at last, and threw him to about half a
      dozen yards from the balloon. He made, however, no attempt to
      descend as I had expected, but struggled with great vehemence to
      get back, uttering at the same time very shrill and piercing
      cries. He at length succeeded in regaining his former station on
      the rim, but had hardly done so when his head dropped upon his
      breast, and he fell dead within the car. The other one did not
      prove so unfortunate. To prevent his following the example of his
      companion, and accomplishing a return, I threw him downward with
      all my force, and was pleased to find him continue his descent,
      with great velocity, making use of his wings with ease, and in a
      perfectly natural manner. In a very short time he was out of
      sight, and I have no doubt he reached home in safety. Puss, who
      seemed in a great measure recovered from her illness, now made a
      hearty meal of the dead bird and then went to sleep with much
      apparent satisfaction. Her kittens were quite lively, and so far
      evinced not the slightest sign of any uneasiness whatever.

      “At a quarter-past eight, being no longer able to draw breath
      without the most intolerable pain, I proceeded forthwith to
      adjust around the car the apparatus belonging to the condenser.
      This apparatus will require some little explanation, and your
      Excellencies will please to bear in mind that my object, in the
      first place, was to surround myself and cat entirely with a
      barricade against the highly rarefied atmosphere in which I was
      existing, with the intention of introducing within this
      barricade, by means of my condenser, a quantity of this same
      atmosphere sufficiently condensed for the purposes of
      respiration. With this object in view I had prepared a very
      strong perfectly air-tight, but flexible gum-elastic bag. In this
      bag, which was of sufficient dimensions, the entire car was in a
      manner placed. That is to say, it (the bag) was drawn over the
      whole bottom of the car, up its sides, and so on, along the
      outside of the ropes, to the upper rim or hoop where the net-work
      is attached. Having pulled the bag up in this way, and formed a
      complete enclosure on all sides, and at bottom, it was now
      necessary to fasten up its top or mouth, by passing its material
      over the hoop of the net-work—in other words, between the
      net-work and the hoop. But if the net-work were separated from
      the hoop to admit this passage, what was to sustain the car in
      the meantime? Now the net-work was not permanently fastened to
      the hoop, but attached by a series of running loops or nooses. I
      therefore undid only a few of these loops at one time, leaving
      the car suspended by the remainder. Having thus inserted a
      portion of the cloth forming the upper part of the bag, I
      refastened the loops—not to the hoop, for that would have been
      impossible, since the cloth now intervened—but to a series of
      large buttons, affixed to the cloth itself, about three feet
      below the mouth of the bag, the intervals between the buttons
      having been made to correspond to the intervals between the
      loops. This done, a few more of the loops were unfastened from
      the rim, a farther portion of the cloth introduced, and the
      disengaged loops then connected with their proper buttons. In
      this way it was possible to insert the whole upper part of the
      bag between the net-work and the hoop. It is evident that the
      hoop would now drop down within the car, while the whole weight
      of the car itself, with all its contents, would be held up merely
      by the strength of the buttons. This, at first sight, would seem
      an inadequate dependence; but it was by no means so, for the
      buttons were not only very strong in themselves, but so close
      together that a very slight portion of the whole weight was
      supported by any one of them. Indeed, had the car and contents
      been three times heavier than they were, I should not have been
      at all uneasy. I now raised up the hoop again within the covering
      of gum-elastic, and propped it at nearly its former height by
      means of three light poles prepared for the occasion. This was
      done, of course, to keep the bag distended at the top, and to
      preserve the lower part of the net-work in its proper situation.
      All that now remained was to fasten up the mouth of the
      enclosure; and this was readily accomplished by gathering the
      folds of the material together, and twisting them up very tightly
      on the inside by means of a kind of stationary tourniquet.

      “In the sides of the covering thus adjusted round the car, had
      been inserted three circular panes of thick but clear glass,
      through which I could see without difficulty around me in every
      horizontal direction. In that portion of the cloth forming the
      bottom, was likewise, a fourth window, of the same kind, and
      corresponding with a small aperture in the floor of the car
      itself. This enabled me to see perpendicularly down, but having
      found it impossible to place any similar contrivance overhead, on
      account of the peculiar manner of closing up the opening there,
      and the consequent wrinkles in the cloth, I could expect to see
      no objects situated directly in my zenith. This, of course, was a
      matter of little consequence; for had I even been able to place a
      window at top, the balloon itself would have prevented my making
      any use of it.

      “About a foot below one of the side windows was a circular
      opening, eight inches in diameter, and fitted with a brass rim
      adapted in its inner edge to the windings of a screw. In this rim
      was screwed the large tube of the condenser, the body of the
      machine being, of course, within the chamber of gum-elastic.
      Through this tube a quantity of the rare atmosphere circumjacent
      being drawn by means of a vacuum created in the body of the
      machine, was thence discharged, in a state of condensation, to
      mingle with the thin air already in the chamber. This operation
      being repeated several times, at length filled the chamber with
      atmosphere proper for all the purposes of respiration. But in so
      confined a space it would, in a short time, necessarily become
      foul, and unfit for use from frequent contact with the lungs. It
      was then ejected by a small valve at the bottom of the car—the
      dense air readily sinking into the thinner atmosphere below. To
      avoid the inconvenience of making a total vacuum at any moment
      within the chamber, this purification was never accomplished all
      at once, but in a gradual manner—the valve being opened only for
      a few seconds, then closed again, until one or two strokes from
      the pump of the condenser had supplied the place of the
      atmosphere ejected. For the sake of experiment I had put the cat
      and kittens in a small basket, and suspended it outside the car
      to a button at the bottom, close by the valve, through which I
      could feed them at any moment when necessary. I did this at some
      little risk, and before closing the mouth of the chamber, by
      reaching under the car with one of the poles before mentioned to
      which a hook had been attached.

      “By the time I had fully completed these arrangements and filled
      the chamber as explained, it wanted only ten minutes of nine
      o’clock. During the whole period of my being thus employed, I
      endured the most terrible distress from difficulty of
      respiration, and bitterly did I repent the negligence or rather
      fool-hardiness, of which I had been guilty, of putting off to the
      last moment a matter of so much importance. But having at length
      accomplished it, I soon began to reap the benefit of my
      invention. Once again I breathed with perfect freedom and
      ease—and indeed why should I not? I was also agreeably surprised
      to find myself, in a great measure, relieved from the violent
      pains which had hitherto tormented me. A slight headache,
      accompanied with a sensation of fulness or distention about the
      wrists, the ankles, and the throat, was nearly all of which I had
      now to complain. Thus it seemed evident that a greater part of
      the uneasiness attending the removal of atmospheric pressure had
      actually worn off, as I had expected, and that much of the pain
      endured for the last two hours should have been attributed
      altogether to the effects of a deficient respiration.

      “At twenty minutes before nine o’clock—that is to say, a short
      time prior to my closing up the mouth of the chamber, the mercury
      attained its limit, or ran down, in the barometer, which, as I
      mentioned before, was one of an extended construction. It then
      indicated an altitude on my part of 132,000 feet, or
      five-and-twenty miles, and I consequently surveyed at that time
      an extent of the earth’s area amounting to no less than the three
      hundred-and-twentieth part of its entire superficies. At nine
      o’clock I had again lost sight of land to the eastward, but not
      before I became aware that the balloon was drifting rapidly to
      the N. N. W. The convexity of the ocean beneath me was very
      evident indeed, although my view was often interrupted by the
      masses of cloud which floated to and fro. I observed now that
      even the lightest vapors never rose to more than ten miles above
      the level of the sea.

      “At half past nine I tried the experiment of throwing out a
      handful of feathers through the valve. They did not float as I
      had expected; but dropped down perpendicularly, like a bullet, en
      masse, and with the greatest velocity—being out of sight in a
      very few seconds. I did not at first know what to make of this
      extraordinary phenomenon; not being able to believe that my rate
      of ascent had, of a sudden, met with so prodigious an
      acceleration. But it soon occurred to me that the atmosphere was
      now far too rare to sustain even the feathers; that they actually
      fell, as they appeared to do, with great rapidity; and that I had
      been surprised by the united velocities of their descent and my
      own elevation.

      “By ten o’clock I found that I had very little to occupy my
      immediate attention. Affairs went swimmingly, and I believed the
      balloon to be going upward with a speed increasing momently
      although I had no longer any means of ascertaining the
      progression of the increase. I suffered no pain or uneasiness of
      any kind, and enjoyed better spirits than I had at any period
      since my departure from Rotterdam, busying myself now in
      examining the state of my various apparatus, and now in
      regenerating the atmosphere within the chamber. This latter point
      I determined to attend to at regular intervals of forty minutes,
      more on account of the preservation of my health, than from so
      frequent a renovation being absolutely necessary. In the
      meanwhile I could not help making anticipations. Fancy revelled
      in the wild and dreamy regions of the moon. Imagination, feeling
      herself for once unshackled, roamed at will among the
      ever-changing wonders of a shadowy and unstable land. Now there
      were hoary and time-honored forests, and craggy precipices, and
      waterfalls tumbling with a loud noise into abysses without a
      bottom. Then I came suddenly into still noonday solitudes, where
      no wind of heaven ever intruded, and where vast meadows of
      poppies, and slender, lily-looking flowers spread themselves out
      a weary distance, all silent and motionless forever. Then again I
      journeyed far down away into another country where it was all one
      dim and vague lake, with a boundary line of clouds. And out of
      this melancholy water arose a forest of tall eastern trees, like
      a wilderness of dreams. And I have in mind that the shadows of
      the trees which fell upon the lake remained not on the surface
      where they fell, but sunk slowly and steadily down, and
      commingled with the waves, while from the trunks of the trees
      other shadows were continually coming out, and taking the place
      of their brothers thus entombed. “This then,” I said
      thoughtfully, “is the very reason why the waters of this lake
      grow blacker with age, and more melancholy as the hours run on.”
      But fancies such as these were not the sole possessors of my
      brain. Horrors of a nature most stern and most appalling would
      too frequently obtrude themselves upon my mind, and shake the
      innermost depths of my soul with the bare supposition of their
      possibility. Yet I would not suffer my thoughts for any length of
      time to dwell upon these latter speculations, rightly judging the
      real and palpable dangers of the voyage sufficient for my
      undivided attention.

      “At five o’clock, p.m., being engaged in regenerating the
      atmosphere within the chamber, I took that opportunity of
      observing the cat and kittens through the valve. The cat herself
      appeared to suffer again very much, and I had no hesitation in
      attributing her uneasiness chiefly to a difficulty in breathing;
      but my experiment with the kittens had resulted very strangely. I
      had expected, of course, to see them betray a sense of pain,
      although in a less degree than their mother, and this would have
      been sufficient to confirm my opinion concerning the habitual
      endurance of atmospheric pressure. But I was not prepared to find
      them, upon close examination, evidently enjoying a high degree of
      health, breathing with the greatest ease and perfect regularity,
      and evincing not the slightest sign of any uneasiness whatever. I
      could only account for all this by extending my theory, and
      supposing that the highly rarefied atmosphere around might
      perhaps not be, as I had taken for granted, chemically
      insufficient for the purposes of life, and that a person born in
      such a medium might, possibly, be unaware of any inconvenience
      attending its inhalation, while, upon removal to the denser
      strata near the earth, he might endure tortures of a similar
      nature to those I had so lately experienced. It has since been to
      me a matter of deep regret that an awkward accident, at this
      time, occasioned me the loss of my little family of cats, and
      deprived me of the insight into this matter which a continued
      experiment might have afforded. In passing my hand through the
      valve, with a cup of water for the old puss, the sleeves of my
      shirt became entangled in the loop which sustained the basket,
      and thus, in a moment, loosened it from the bottom. Had the whole
      actually vanished into air, it could not have shot from my sight
      in a more abrupt and instantaneous manner. Positively, there
      could not have intervened the tenth part of a second between the
      disengagement of the basket and its absolute and total
      disappearance with all that it contained. My good wishes followed
      it to the earth, but of course, I had no hope that either cat or
      kittens would ever live to tell the tale of their misfortune.

      “At six o’clock, I perceived a great portion of the earth’s
      visible area to the eastward involved in thick shadow, which
      continued to advance with great rapidity, until, at five minutes
      before seven, the whole surface in view was enveloped in the
      darkness of night. It was not, however, until long after this
      time that the rays of the setting sun ceased to illumine the
      balloon; and this circumstance, although of course fully
      anticipated, did not fail to give me an infinite deal of
      pleasure. It was evident that, in the morning, I should behold
      the rising luminary many hours at least before the citizens of
      Rotterdam, in spite of their situation so much farther to the
      eastward, and thus, day after day, in proportion to the height
      ascended, would I enjoy the light of the sun for a longer and a
      longer period. I now determined to keep a journal of my passage,
      reckoning the days from one to twenty-four hours continuously,
      without taking into consideration the intervals of darkness.

      “At ten o’clock, feeling sleepy, I determined to lie down for the
      rest of the night; but here a difficulty presented itself, which,
      obvious as it may appear, had escaped my attention up to the very
      moment of which I am now speaking. If I went to sleep as I
      proposed, how could the atmosphere in the chamber be regenerated
      in the interim? To breathe it for more than an hour, at the
      farthest, would be a matter of impossibility, or, if even this
      term could be extended to an hour and a quarter, the most ruinous
      consequences might ensue. The consideration of this dilemma gave
      me no little disquietude; and it will hardly be believed, that,
      after the dangers I had undergone, I should look upon this
      business in so serious a light, as to give up all hope of
      accomplishing my ultimate design, and finally make up my mind to
      the necessity of a descent. But this hesitation was only
      momentary. I reflected that man is the veriest slave of custom,
      and that many points in the routine of his existence are deemed
      essentially important, which are only so at all by his having
      rendered them habitual. It was very certain that I could not do
      without sleep; but I might easily bring myself to feel no
      inconvenience from being awakened at intervals of an hour during
      the whole period of my repose. It would require but five minutes
      at most to regenerate the atmosphere in the fullest manner, and
      the only real difficulty was to contrive a method of arousing
      myself at the proper moment for so doing. But this was a question
      which, I am willing to confess, occasioned me no little trouble
      in its solution. To be sure, I had heard of the student who, to
      prevent his falling asleep over his books, held in one hand a
      ball of copper, the din of whose descent into a basin of the same
      metal on the floor beside his chair, served effectually to
      startle him up, if, at any moment, he should be overcome with
      drowsiness. My own case, however, was very different indeed, and
      left me no room for any similar idea; for I did not wish to keep
      awake, but to be aroused from slumber at regular intervals of
      time. I at length hit upon the following expedient, which, simple
      as it may seem, was hailed by me, at the moment of discovery, as
      an invention fully equal to that of the telescope, the
      steam-engine, or the art of printing itself.

      “It is necessary to premise, that the balloon, at the elevation
      now attained, continued its course upward with an even and
      undeviating ascent, and the car consequently followed with a
      steadiness so perfect that it would have been impossible to
      detect in it the slightest vacillation whatever. This
      circumstance favored me greatly in the project I now determined
      to adopt. My supply of water had been put on board in kegs
      containing five gallons each, and ranged very securely around the
      interior of the car. I unfastened one of these, and taking two
      ropes tied them tightly across the rim of the wicker-work from
      one side to the other; placing them about a foot apart and
      parallel so as to form a kind of shelf, upon which I placed the
      keg, and steadied it in a horizontal position. About eight inches
      immediately below these ropes, and four feet from the bottom of
      the car I fastened another shelf—but made of thin plank, being
      the only similar piece of wood I had. Upon this latter shelf, and
      exactly beneath one of the rims of the keg, a small earthern
      pitcher was deposited. I now bored a hole in the end of the keg
      over the pitcher, and fitted in a plug of soft wood, cut in a
      tapering or conical shape. This plug I pushed in or pulled out,
      as might happen, until, after a few experiments, it arrived at
      that exact degree of tightness, at which the water, oozing from
      the hole, and falling into the pitcher below, would fill the
      latter to the brim in the period of sixty minutes. This, of
      course, was a matter briefly and easily ascertained, by noticing
      the proportion of the pitcher filled in any given time. Having
      arranged all this, the rest of the plan is obvious. My bed was so
      contrived upon the floor of the car, as to bring my head, in
      lying down, immediately below the mouth of the pitcher. It was
      evident, that, at the expiration of an hour, the pitcher, getting
      full, would be forced to run over, and to run over at the mouth,
      which was somewhat lower than the rim. It was also evident, that
      the water thus falling from a height of more than four feet,
      could not do otherwise than fall upon my face, and that the sure
      consequences would be, to waken me up instantaneously, even from
      the soundest slumber in the world.

      “It was fully eleven by the time I had completed these
      arrangements, and I immediately betook myself to bed, with full
      confidence in the efficiency of my invention. Nor in this matter
      was I disappointed. Punctually every sixty minutes was I aroused
      by my trusty chronometer, when, having emptied the pitcher into
      the bung-hole of the keg, and performed the duties of the
      condenser, I retired again to bed. These regular interruptions to
      my slumber caused me even less discomfort than I had anticipated;
      and when I finally arose for the day, it was seven o’clock, and
      the sun had attained many degrees above the line of my horizon.

      “April 3d. I found the balloon at an immense height indeed, and
      the earth’s apparent convexity increased in a material degree.
      Below me in the ocean lay a cluster of black specks, which
      undoubtedly were islands. Far away to the northward I perceived a
      thin, white, and exceedingly brilliant line, or streak, on the
      edge of the horizon, and I had no hesitation in supposing it to
      be the southern disk of the ices of the Polar Sea. My curiosity
      was greatly excited, for I had hopes of passing on much farther
      to the north, and might possibly, at some period, find myself
      placed directly above the Pole itself. I now lamented that my
      great elevation would, in this case, prevent my taking as
      accurate a survey as I could wish. Much, however, might be
      ascertained. Nothing else of an extraordinary nature occurred
      during the day. My apparatus all continued in good order, and the
      balloon still ascended without any perceptible vacillation. The
      cold was intense, and obliged me to wrap up closely in an
      overcoat. When darkness came over the earth, I betook myself to
      bed, although it was for many hours afterward broad daylight all
      around my immediate situation. The water-clock was punctual in
      its duty, and I slept until next morning soundly, with the
      exception of the periodical interruption.

      “April 4th. Arose in good health and spirits, and was astonished
      at the singular change which had taken place in the appearance of
      the sea. It had lost, in a great measure, the deep tint of blue
      it had hitherto worn, being now of a grayish-white, and of a
      lustre dazzling to the eye. The islands were no longer visible;
      whether they had passed down the horizon to the southeast, or
      whether my increasing elevation had left them out of sight, it is
      impossible to say. I was inclined, however, to the latter
      opinion. The rim of ice to the northward was growing more and
      more apparent. Cold by no means so intense. Nothing of importance
      occurred, and I passed the day in reading, having taken care to
      supply myself with books.

      “April 5th. Beheld the singular phenomenon of the sun rising
      while nearly the whole visible surface of the earth continued to
      be involved in darkness. In time, however, the light spread
      itself over all, and I again saw the line of ice to the
      northward. It was now very distinct, and appeared of a much
      darker hue than the waters of the ocean. I was evidently
      approaching it, and with great rapidity. Fancied I could again
      distinguish a strip of land to the eastward, and one also to the
      westward, but could not be certain. Weather moderate. Nothing of
      any consequence happened during the day. Went early to bed.

      “April 6th. Was surprised at finding the rim of ice at a very
      moderate distance, and an immense field of the same material
      stretching away off to the horizon in the north. It was evident
      that if the balloon held its present course, it would soon arrive
      above the Frozen Ocean, and I had now little doubt of ultimately
      seeing the Pole. During the whole of the day I continued to near
      the ice. Toward night the limits of my horizon very suddenly and
      materially increased, owing undoubtedly to the earth’s form being
      that of an oblate spheroid, and my arriving above the flattened
      regions in the vicinity of the Arctic circle. When darkness at
      length overtook me, I went to bed in great anxiety, fearing to
      pass over the object of so much curiosity when I should have no
      opportunity of observing it.

      “April 7th. Arose early, and, to my great joy, at length beheld
      what there could be no hesitation in supposing the northern Pole
      itself. It was there, beyond a doubt, and immediately beneath my
      feet; but, alas! I had now ascended to so vast a distance, that
      nothing could with accuracy be discerned. Indeed, to judge from
      the progression of the numbers indicating my various altitudes,
      respectively, at different periods, between six A.M. on the
      second of April, and twenty minutes before nine A.M. of the same
      day (at which time the barometer ran down), it might be fairly
      inferred that the balloon had now, at four o’clock in the morning
      of April the seventh, reached a height of not less, certainly,
      than 7,254 miles above the surface of the sea. This elevation may
      appear immense, but the estimate upon which it is calculated gave
      a result in all probability far inferior to the truth. At all
      events I undoubtedly beheld the whole of the earth’s major
      diameter; the entire northern hemisphere lay beneath me like a
      chart orthographically projected: and the great circle of the
      equator itself formed the boundary line of my horizon. Your
      Excellencies may, however, readily imagine that the confined
      regions hitherto unexplored within the limits of the Arctic
      circle, although situated directly beneath me, and therefore seen
      without any appearance of being foreshortened, were still, in
      themselves, comparatively too diminutive, and at too great a
      distance from the point of sight, to admit of any very accurate
      examination. Nevertheless, what could be seen was of a nature
      singular and exciting. Northwardly from that huge rim before
      mentioned, and which, with slight qualification, may be called
      the limit of human discovery in these regions, one unbroken, or
      nearly unbroken, sheet of ice continues to extend. In the first
      few degrees of this its progress, its surface is very sensibly
      flattened, farther on depressed into a plane, and finally,
      becoming not a little concave, it terminates, at the Pole itself,
      in a circular centre, sharply defined, whose apparent diameter
      subtended at the balloon an angle of about sixty-five seconds,
      and whose dusky hue, varying in intensity, was, at all times,
      darker than any other spot upon the visible hemisphere, and
      occasionally deepened into the most absolute and impenetrable
      blackness. Farther than this, little could be ascertained. By
      twelve o’clock the circular centre had materially decreased in
      circumference, and by seven P.M. I lost sight of it entirely; the
      balloon passing over the western limb of the ice, and floating
      away rapidly in the direction of the equator.

      “April 8th. Found a sensible diminution in the earth’s apparent
      diameter, besides a material alteration in its general color and
      appearance. The whole visible area partook in different degrees
      of a tint of pale yellow, and in some portions had acquired a
      brilliancy even painful to the eye. My view downward was also
      considerably impeded by the dense atmosphere in the vicinity of
      the surface being loaded with clouds, between whose masses I
      could only now and then obtain a glimpse of the earth itself.
      This difficulty of direct vision had troubled me more or less for
      the last forty-eight hours; but my present enormous elevation
      brought closer together, as it were, the floating bodies of
      vapor, and the inconvenience became, of course, more and more
      palpable in proportion to my ascent. Nevertheless, I could easily
      perceive that the balloon now hovered above the range of great
      lakes in the continent of North America, and was holding a
      course, due south, which would bring me to the tropics. This
      circumstance did not fail to give me the most heartful
      satisfaction, and I hailed it as a happy omen of ultimate
      success. Indeed, the direction I had hitherto taken, had filled
      me with uneasiness; for it was evident that, had I continued it
      much longer, there would have been no possibility of my arriving
      at the moon at all, whose orbit is inclined to the ecliptic at
      only the small angle of 5° 8′ 48″.

      “April 9th. To-day the earth’s diameter was greatly diminished,
      and the color of the surface assumed hourly a deeper tint of
      yellow. The balloon kept steadily on her course to the southward,
      and arrived, at nine P.M., over the northern edge of the Mexican
      Gulf.

      “April 10th. I was suddenly aroused from slumber, about five
      o’clock this morning, by a loud, crackling, and terrific sound,
      for which I could in no manner account. It was of very brief
      duration, but, while it lasted resembled nothing in the world of
      which I had any previous experience. It is needless to say that I
      became excessively alarmed, having, in the first instance,
      attributed the noise to the bursting of the balloon. I examined
      all my apparatus, however, with great attention, and could
      discover nothing out of order. Spent a great part of the day in
      meditating upon an occurrence so extraordinary, but could find no
      means whatever of accounting for it. Went to bed dissatisfied,
      and in a state of great anxiety and agitation.

      “April 11th. Found a startling diminution in the apparent
      diameter of the earth, and a considerable increase, now
      observable for the first time, in that of the moon itself, which
      wanted only a few days of being full. It now required long and
      excessive labor to condense within the chamber sufficient
      atmospheric air for the sustenance of life.

      “April 12th. A singular alteration took place in regard to the
      direction of the balloon, and although fully anticipated,
      afforded me the most unequivocal delight. Having reached, in its
      former course, about the twentieth parallel of southern latitude,
      it turned off suddenly, at an acute angle, to the eastward, and
      thus proceeded throughout the day, keeping nearly, if not
      altogether, in the exact plane of the lunar ellipse. What was
      worthy of remark, a very perceptible vacillation in the car was a
      consequence of this change of route—a vacillation which
      prevailed, in a more or less degree, for a period of many hours.

      “April 13th. Was again very much alarmed by a repetition of the
      loud, crackling noise which terrified me on the tenth. Thought
      long upon the subject, but was unable to form any satisfactory
      conclusion. Great decrease in the earth’s apparent diameter,
      which now subtended from the balloon an angle of very little more
      than twenty-five degrees. The moon could not be seen at all,
      being nearly in my zenith. I still continued in the plane of the
      ellipse, but made little progress to the eastward.

      “April 14th. Extremely rapid decrease in the diameter of the
      earth. To-day I became strongly impressed with the idea, that the
      balloon was now actually running up the line of apsides to the
      point of perigee—in other words, holding the direct course which
      would bring it immediately to the moon in that part of its orbit
      the nearest to the earth. The moon itself was directly overhead,
      and consequently hidden from my view. Great and long-continued
      labor necessary for the condensation of the atmosphere.

      “April 15th. Not even the outlines of continents and seas could
      now be traced upon the earth with anything approaching
      distinctness. About twelve o’clock I became aware, for the third
      time, of that appalling sound which had so astonished me before.
      It now, however, continued for some moments, and gathered
      intensity as it continued. At length, while, stupefied and
      terror-stricken, I stood in expectation of I knew not what
      hideous destruction, the car vibrated with excessive violence,
      and a gigantic and flaming mass of some material which I could
      not distinguish, came with a voice of a thousand thunders,
      roaring and booming by the balloon. When my fears and
      astonishment had in some degree subsided, I had little difficulty
      in supposing it to be some mighty volcanic fragment ejected from
      that world to which I was so rapidly approaching, and, in all
      probability, one of that singular class of substances
      occasionally picked up on the earth, and termed meteoric stones
      for want of a better appellation.

      “April 16th. To-day, looking upward as well as I could, through
      each of the side windows alternately, I beheld, to my great
      delight, a very small portion of the moon’s disk protruding, as
      it were, on all sides beyond the huge circumference of the
      balloon. My agitation was extreme; for I had now little doubt of
      soon reaching the end of my perilous voyage. Indeed, the labor
      now required by the condenser had increased to a most oppressive
      degree, and allowed me scarcely any respite from exertion. Sleep
      was a matter nearly out of the question. I became quite ill, and
      my frame trembled with exhaustion. It was impossible that human
      nature could endure this state of intense suffering much longer.
      During the now brief interval of darkness a meteoric stone again
      passed in my vicinity, and the frequency of these phenomena began
      to occasion me much apprehension.

      “April 17th. This morning proved an epoch in my voyage. It will
      be remembered that, on the thirteenth, the earth subtended an
      angular breadth of twenty-five degrees. On the fourteenth this
      had greatly diminished; on the fifteenth a still more remarkable
      decrease was observable; and, on retiring on the night of the
      sixteenth, I had noticed an angle of no more than about seven
      degrees and fifteen minutes. What, therefore, must have been my
      amazement, on awakening from a brief and disturbed slumber, on
      the morning of this day, the seventeenth, at finding the surface
      beneath me so suddenly and wonderfully augmented in volume, as to
      subtend no less than thirty-nine degrees in apparent angular
      diameter! I was thunderstruck! No words can give any adequate
      idea of the extreme, the absolute horror and astonishment, with
      which I was seized possessed, and altogether overwhelmed. My
      knees tottered beneath me—my teeth chattered—my hair started up
      on end. ‘The balloon, then, had actually burst!’ These were the
      first tumultuous ideas that hurried through my mind: ‘The balloon
      had positively burst!—I was falling—falling with the most
      impetuous, the most unparalleled velocity! To judge by the
      immense distance already so quickly passed over, it could not be
      more than ten minutes, at the farthest, before I should meet the
      surface of the earth, and be hurled into annihilation!’ But at
      length reflection came to my relief. I paused; I considered; and
      I began to doubt. The matter was impossible. I could not in any
      reason have so rapidly come down. Besides, although I was
      evidently approaching the surface below me, it was with a speed
      by no means commensurate with the velocity I had at first so
      horribly conceived. This consideration served to calm the
      perturbation of my mind, and I finally succeeded in regarding the
      phenomenon in its proper point of view. In fact, amazement must
      have fairly deprived me of my senses, when I could not see the
      vast difference, in appearance, between the surface below me, and
      the surface of my mother earth. The latter was indeed over my
      head, and completely hidden by the balloon, while the moon—the
      moon itself in all its glory—lay beneath me, and at my feet.

      “The stupor and surprise produced in my mind by this
      extraordinary change in the posture of affairs was perhaps, after
      all, that part of the adventure least susceptible of explanation.
      For the bouleversement in itself was not only natural and
      inevitable, but had been long actually anticipated as a
      circumstance to be expected whenever I should arrive at that
      exact point of my voyage where the attraction of the planet
      should be superseded by the attraction of the satellite—or, more
      precisely, where the gravitation of the balloon toward the earth
      should be less powerful than its gravitation toward the moon. To
      be sure I arose from a sound slumber, with all my senses in
      confusion, to the contemplation of a very startling phenomenon,
      and one which, although expected, was not expected at the moment.
      The revolution itself must, of course, have taken place in an
      easy and gradual manner, and it is by no means clear that, had I
      even been awake at the time of the occurrence, I should have been
      made aware of it by any internal evidence of an inversion—that is
      to say, by any inconvenience or disarrangement, either about my
      person or about my apparatus.

      “It is almost needless to say that, upon coming to a due sense of
      my situation, and emerging from the terror which had absorbed
      every faculty of my soul, my attention was, in the first place,
      wholly directed to the contemplation of the general physical
      appearance of the moon. It lay beneath me like a chart—and
      although I judged it to be still at no inconsiderable distance,
      the indentures of its surface were defined to my vision with a
      most striking and altogether unaccountable distinctness. The
      entire absence of ocean or sea, and indeed of any lake or river,
      or body of water whatsoever, struck me, at first glance, as the
      most extraordinary feature in its geological condition. Yet,
      strange to say, I beheld vast level regions of a character
      decidedly alluvial, although by far the greater portion of the
      hemisphere in sight was covered with innumerable volcanic
      mountains, conical in shape, and having more the appearance of
      artificial than of natural protuberance. The highest among them
      does not exceed three and three-quarter miles in perpendicular
      elevation; but a map of the volcanic districts of the Campi
      Phlegraei would afford to your Excellencies a better idea of
      their general surface than any unworthy description I might think
      proper to attempt. The greater part of them were in a state of
      evident eruption, and gave me fearfully to understand their fury
      and their power, by the repeated thunders of the miscalled
      meteoric stones, which now rushed upward by the balloon with a
      frequency more and more appalling.

      “April 18th. To-day I found an enormous increase in the moon’s
      apparent bulk—and the evidently accelerated velocity of my
      descent began to fill me with alarm. It will be remembered, that,
      in the earliest stage of my speculations upon the possibility of
      a passage to the moon, the existence, in its vicinity, of an
      atmosphere, dense in proportion to the bulk of the planet, had
      entered largely into my calculations; this too in spite of many
      theories to the contrary, and, it may be added, in spite of a
      general disbelief in the existence of any lunar atmosphere at
      all. But, in addition to what I have already urged in regard to
      Encke’s comet and the zodiacal light, I had been strengthened in
      my opinion by certain observations of Mr. Schroeter, of
      Lilienthal. He observed the moon when two days and a half old, in
      the evening soon after sunset, before the dark part was visible,
      and continued to watch it until it became visible. The two cusps
      appeared tapering in a very sharp faint prolongation, each
      exhibiting its farthest extremity faintly illuminated by the
      solar rays, before any part of the dark hemisphere was visible.
      Soon afterward, the whole dark limb became illuminated. This
      prolongation of the cusps beyond the semicircle, I thought, must
      have arisen from the refraction of the sun’s rays by the moon’s
      atmosphere. I computed, also, the height of the atmosphere (which
      could refract light enough into its dark hemisphere to produce a
      twilight more luminous than the light reflected from the earth
      when the moon is about 32° from the new) to be 1,356 Paris feet;
      in this view, I supposed the greatest height capable of
      refracting the solar ray, to be 5,376 feet. My ideas on this
      topic had also received confirmation by a passage in the
      eighty-second volume of the Philosophical Transactions, in which
      it is stated that at an occultation of Jupiter’s satellites, the
      third disappeared after having been about 1″ or 2″ of time
      indistinct, and the fourth became indiscernible near the
      limb.(*4)

      “Upon the resistance or, more properly, upon the support of an
      atmosphere, existing in the state of density imagined, I had, of
      course, entirely depended for the safety of my ultimate descent.
      Should I then, after all, prove to have been mistaken, I had in
      consequence nothing better to expect, as a finale to my
      adventure, than being dashed into atoms against the rugged
      surface of the satellite. And, indeed, I had now every reason to
      be terrified. My distance from the moon was comparatively
      trifling, while the labor required by the condenser was
      diminished not at all, and I could discover no indication
      whatever of a decreasing rarity in the air.

      “April 19th. This morning, to my great joy, about nine o’clock,
      the surface of the moon being frightfully near, and my
      apprehensions excited to the utmost, the pump of my condenser at
      length gave evident tokens of an alteration in the atmosphere. By
      ten, I had reason to believe its density considerably increased.
      By eleven, very little labor was necessary at the apparatus; and
      at twelve o’clock, with some hesitation, I ventured to unscrew
      the tourniquet, when, finding no inconvenience from having done
      so, I finally threw open the gum-elastic chamber, and unrigged it
      from around the car. As might have been expected, spasms and
      violent headache were the immediate consequences of an experiment
      so precipitate and full of danger. But these and other
      difficulties attending respiration, as they were by no means so
      great as to put me in peril of my life, I determined to endure as
      I best could, in consideration of my leaving them behind me
      momently in my approach to the denser strata near the moon. This
      approach, however, was still impetuous in the extreme; and it
      soon became alarmingly certain that, although I had probably not
      been deceived in the expectation of an atmosphere dense in
      proportion to the mass of the satellite, still I had been wrong
      in supposing this density, even at the surface, at all adequate
      to the support of the great weight contained in the car of my
      balloon. Yet this should have been the case, and in an equal
      degree as at the surface of the earth, the actual gravity of
      bodies at either planet supposed in the ratio of the atmospheric
      condensation. That it was not the case, however, my precipitous
      downfall gave testimony enough; why it was not so, can only be
      explained by a reference to those possible geological
      disturbances to which I have formerly alluded. At all events I
      was now close upon the planet, and coming down with the most
      terrible impetuosity. I lost not a moment, accordingly, in
      throwing overboard first my ballast, then my water-kegs, then my
      condensing apparatus and gum-elastic chamber, and finally every
      article within the car. But it was all to no purpose. I still
      fell with horrible rapidity, and was now not more than half a
      mile from the surface. As a last resource, therefore, having got
      rid of my coat, hat, and boots, I cut loose from the balloon the
      car itself, which was of no inconsiderable weight, and thus,
      clinging with both hands to the net-work, I had barely time to
      observe that the whole country, as far as the eye could reach,
      was thickly interspersed with diminutive habitations, ere I
      tumbled headlong into the very heart of a fantastical-looking
      city, and into the middle of a vast crowd of ugly little people,
      who none of them uttered a single syllable, or gave themselves
      the least trouble to render me assistance, but stood, like a
      parcel of idiots, grinning in a ludicrous manner, and eyeing me
      and my balloon askant, with their arms set a-kimbo. I turned from
      them in contempt, and, gazing upward at the earth so lately left,
      and left perhaps for ever, beheld it like a huge, dull, copper
      shield, about two degrees in diameter, fixed immovably in the
      heavens overhead, and tipped on one of its edges with a crescent
      border of the most brilliant gold. No traces of land or water
      could be discovered, and the whole was clouded with variable
      spots, and belted with tropical and equatorial zones.

      “Thus, may it please your Excellencies, after a series of great
      anxieties, unheard of dangers, and unparalleled escapes, I had,
      at length, on the nineteenth day of my departure from Rotterdam,
      arrived in safety at the conclusion of a voyage undoubtedly the
      most extraordinary, and the most momentous, ever accomplished,
      undertaken, or conceived by any denizen of earth. But my
      adventures yet remain to be related. And indeed your Excellencies
      may well imagine that, after a residence of five years upon a
      planet not only deeply interesting in its own peculiar character,
      but rendered doubly so by its intimate connection, in capacity of
      satellite, with the world inhabited by man, I may have
      intelligence for the private ear of the States’ College of
      Astronomers of far more importance than the details, however
      wonderful, of the mere voyage which so happily concluded. This
      is, in fact, the case. I have much—very much which it would give
      me the greatest pleasure to communicate. I have much to say of
      the climate of the planet; of its wonderful alternations of heat
      and cold, of unmitigated and burning sunshine for one fortnight,
      and more than polar frigidity for the next; of a constant
      transfer of moisture, by distillation like that in vacuo, from
      the point beneath the sun to the point the farthest from it; of a
      variable zone of running water; of the people themselves; of
      their manners, customs, and political institutions; of their
      peculiar physical construction; of their ugliness; of their want
      of ears, those useless appendages in an atmosphere so peculiarly
      modified; of their consequent ignorance of the use and properties
      of speech; of their substitute for speech in a singular method of
      inter-communication; of the incomprehensible connection between
      each particular individual in the moon with some particular
      individual on the earth—a connection analogous with, and
      depending upon, that of the orbs of the planet and the
      satellites, and by means of which the lives and destinies of the
      inhabitants of the one are interwoven with the lives and
      destinies of the inhabitants of the other; and above all, if it
      so please your Excellencies—above all, of those dark and hideous
      mysteries which lie in the outer regions of the moon—regions
      which, owing to the almost miraculous accordance of the
      satellite’s rotation on its own axis with its sidereal revolution
      about the earth, have never yet been turned, and, by God’s mercy,
      never shall be turned, to the scrutiny of the telescopes of man.
      All this, and more—much more—would I most willingly detail. But,
      to be brief, I must have my reward. I am pining for a return to
      my family and to my home; and as the price of any farther
      communication on my part—in consideration of the light which I
      have it in my power to throw upon many very important branches of
      physical and metaphysical science—I must solicit, through the
      influence of your honorable body, a pardon for the crime of which
      I have been guilty in the death of the creditors upon my
      departure from Rotterdam. This, then, is the object of the
      present paper. Its bearer, an inhabitant of the moon, whom I have
      prevailed upon, and properly instructed, to be my messenger to
      the earth, will await your Excellencies’ pleasure, and return to
      me with the pardon in question, if it can, in any manner, be
      obtained.

      “I have the honor to be, etc., your Excellencies’ very humble
      servant,

      “HANS PFAALL.”

      Upon finishing the perusal of this very extraordinary document,
      Professor Rub-a-dub, it is said, dropped his pipe upon the ground
      in the extremity of his surprise, and Mynheer Superbus Von
      Underduk having taken off his spectacles, wiped them, and
      deposited them in his pocket, so far forgot both himself and his
      dignity, as to turn round three times upon his heel in the
      quintessence of astonishment and admiration. There was no doubt
      about the matter—the pardon should be obtained. So at least
      swore, with a round oath, Professor Rub-a-dub, and so finally
      thought the illustrious Von Underduk, as he took the arm of his
      brother in science, and without saying a word, began to make the
      best of his way home to deliberate upon the measures to be
      adopted. Having reached the door, however, of the burgomaster’s
      dwelling, the professor ventured to suggest that as the messenger
      had thought proper to disappear—no doubt frightened to death by
      the savage appearance of the burghers of Rotterdam—the pardon
      would be of little use, as no one but a man of the moon would
      undertake a voyage to so vast a distance. To the truth of this
      observation the burgomaster assented, and the matter was
      therefore at an end. Not so, however, rumors and speculations.
      The letter, having been published, gave rise to a variety of
      gossip and opinion. Some of the over-wise even made themselves
      ridiculous by decrying the whole business; as nothing better than
      a hoax. But hoax, with these sort of people, is, I believe, a
      general term for all matters above their comprehension. For my
      part, I cannot conceive upon what data they have founded such an
      accusation. Let us see what they say:

      Imprimus. That certain wags in Rotterdam have certain especial
      antipathies to certain burgomasters and astronomers.

      Don’t understand at all.

      Secondly. That an odd little dwarf and bottle conjurer, both of
      whose ears, for some misdemeanor, have been cut off close to his
      head, has been missing for several days from the neighboring city
      of Bruges.

      Well—what of that?

      Thirdly. That the newspapers which were stuck all over the little
      balloon were newspapers of Holland, and therefore could not have
      been made in the moon. They were dirty papers—very dirty—and
      Gluck, the printer, would take his Bible oath to their having
      been printed in Rotterdam.

      He was mistaken—undoubtedly—mistaken.

      Fourthly, That Hans Pfaall himself, the drunken villain, and the
      three very idle gentlemen styled his creditors, were all seen, no
      longer than two or three days ago, in a tippling house in the
      suburbs, having just returned, with money in their pockets, from
      a trip beyond the sea.

      Don’t believe it—don’t believe a word of it.

      Lastly. That it is an opinion very generally received, or which
      ought to be generally received, that the College of Astronomers
      in the city of Rotterdam, as well as other colleges in all other
      parts of the world,—not to mention colleges and astronomers in
      general,—are, to say the least of the matter, not a whit better,
      nor greater, nor wiser than they ought to be.

      ~~~ End of Text ~~~

Notes to Hans Pfaal

      (*1) NOTE—Strictly speaking, there is but little similarity
      between the above sketchy trifle and the celebrated “Moon-Story”
      of Mr. Locke; but as both have the character of _hoaxes_
      (although the one is in a tone of banter, the other of downright
      earnest), and as both hoaxes are on the same subject, the
      moon—moreover, as both attempt to give plausibility by scientific
      detail—the author of “Hans Pfaall” thinks it necessary to say, in
      _self-defence,_ that his own _jeu d’esprit_ was published in the
      “Southern Literary Messenger” about three weeks before the
      commencement of Mr. L’s in the “New York Sun.” Fancying a
      likeness which, perhaps, does not exist, some of the New York
      papers copied “Hans Pfaall,” and collated it with the
      “Moon-Hoax,” by way of detecting the writer of the one in the
      writer of the other.

      As many more persons were actually gulled by the “Moon-Hoax” than
      would be willing to acknowledge the fact, it may here afford some
      little amusement to show why no one should have been deceived-to
      point out those particulars of the story which should have been
      sufficient to establish its real character. Indeed, however rich
      the imagination displayed in this ingenious fiction, it wanted
      much of the force which might have been given it by a more
      scrupulous attention to facts and to general analogy. That the
      public were misled, even for an instant, merely proves the gross
      ignorance which is so generally prevalent upon subjects of an
      astronomical nature.

      The moon’s distance from the earth is, in round numbers, 240,000
      miles. If we desire to ascertain how near, apparently, a lens
      would bring the satellite (or any distant object), we, of course,
      have but to divide the distance by the magnifying or, more
      strictly, by the space-penetrating power of the glass. Mr. L.
      makes his lens have a power of 42,000 times. By this divide
      240,000 (the moon’s real distance), and we have five miles and
      five sevenths, as the apparent distance. No animal at all could
      be seen so far; much less the minute points particularized in the
      story. Mr. L. speaks about Sir John Herschel’s perceiving flowers
      (the Papaver rheas, etc.), and even detecting the color and the
      shape of the eyes of small birds. Shortly before, too, he has
      himself observed that the lens would not render perceptible
      objects of less than eighteen inches in diameter; but even this,
      as I have said, is giving the glass by far too great power. It
      may be observed, in passing, that this prodigious glass is said
      to have been molded at the glasshouse of Messrs. Hartley and
      Grant, in Dumbarton; but Messrs. H. and G.‘s establishment had
      ceased operations for many years previous to the publication of
      the hoax.

      On page 13, pamphlet edition, speaking of “a hairy veil” over the
      eyes of a species of bison, the author says: “It immediately
      occurred to the acute mind of Dr. Herschel that this was a
      providential contrivance to protect the eyes of the animal from
      the great extremes of light and darkness to which all the
      inhabitants of our side of the moon are periodically subjected.”
      But this cannot be thought a very “acute” observation of the
      Doctor’s. The inhabitants of our side of the moon have,
      evidently, no darkness at all, so there can be nothing of the
      “extremes” mentioned. In the absence of the sun they have a light
      from the earth equal to that of thirteen full unclouded moons.

      The topography throughout, even when professing to accord with
      Blunt’s Lunar Chart, is entirely at variance with that or any
      other lunar chart, and even grossly at variance with itself. The
      points of the compass, too, are in inextricable confusion; the
      writer appearing to be ignorant that, on a lunar map, these are
      not in accordance with terrestrial points; the east being to the
      left, etc.

      Deceived, perhaps, by the vague titles, Mare Nubium, Mare
      Tranquillitatis, Mare Faecunditatis, etc., given to the dark
      spots by former astronomers, Mr. L. has entered into details
      regarding oceans and other large bodies of water in the moon;
      whereas there is no astronomical point more positively
      ascertained than that no such bodies exist there. In examining
      the boundary between light and darkness (in the crescent or
      gibbous moon) where this boundary crosses any of the dark places,
      the line of division is found to be rough and jagged; but, were
      these dark places liquid, it would evidently be even.

      The description of the wings of the man-bat, on page 21, is but a
      literal copy of Peter Wilkins’ account of the wings of his flying
      islanders. This simple fact should have induced suspicion, at
      least, it might be thought.

      On page 23, we have the following: “What a prodigious influence
      must our thirteen times larger globe have exercised upon this
      satellite when an embryo in the womb of time, the passive subject
      of chemical affinity!” This is very fine; but it should be
      observed that no astronomer would have made such remark,
      especially to any journal of Science; for the earth, in the sense
      intended, is not only thirteen, but forty-nine times larger than
      the moon. A similar objection applies to the whole of the
      concluding pages, where, by way of introduction to some
      discoveries in Saturn, the philosophical correspondent enters
      into a minute schoolboy account of that planet—this to the
      “Edinburgh Journal of Science!”

      But there is one point, in particular, which should have betrayed
      the fiction. Let us imagine the power actually possessed of
      seeing animals upon the moon’s surface—what would first arrest
      the attention of an observer from the earth? Certainly neither
      their shape, size, nor any other such peculiarity, so soon as
      their remarkable _situation_. They would appear to be walking,
      with heels up and head down, in the manner of flies on a ceiling.
      The _real_ observer would have uttered an instant ejaculation of
      surprise (however prepared by previous knowledge) at the
      singularity of their position; the _fictitious_ observer has not
      even mentioned the subject, but speaks of seeing the entire
      bodies of such creatures, when it is demonstrable that he could
      have seen only the diameter of their heads!

      It might as well be remarked, in conclusion, that the size, and
      particularly the powers of the man-bats (for example, their
      ability to fly in so rare an atmosphere—if, indeed, the moon have
      any), with most of the other fancies in regard to animal and
      vegetable existence, are at variance, generally, with all
      analogical reasoning on these themes; and that analogy here will
      often amount to conclusive demonstration. It is, perhaps,
      scarcely necessary to add, that all the suggestions attributed to
      Brewster and Herschel, in the beginning of the article, about “a
      transfusion of artificial light through the focal object of
      vision,” etc., etc., belong to that species of figurative writing
      which comes, most properly, under the denomination of rigmarole.

      There is a real and very definite limit to optical discovery
      among the stars—a limit whose nature need only be stated to be
      understood. If, indeed, the casting of large lenses were all that
      is required, man’s ingenuity would ultimately prove equal to the
      task, and we might have them of any size demanded. But,
      unhappily, in proportion to the increase of size in the lens, and
      consequently of space-penetrating power, is the diminution of
      light from the object, by diffusion of its rays. And for this
      evil there is no remedy within human ability; for an object is
      seen by means of that light alone which proceeds from itself,
      whether direct or reflected. Thus the only “artificial” light
      which could avail Mr. Locke, would be some artificial light which
      he should be able to throw—not upon the “focal object of vision,”
      but upon the real object to be viewed—to wit: upon the moon. It
      has been easily calculated that, when the light proceeding from a
      star becomes so diffused as to be as weak as the natural light
      proceeding from the whole of the stars, in a clear and moonless
      night, then the star is no longer visible for any practical
      purpose.

      The Earl of Ross’s telescope, lately constructed in England, has
      a _speculum_ with a reflecting surface of 4,071 square inches;
      the Herschel telescope having one of only 1,811. The metal of the
      Earl of Ross’s is 6 feet diameter; it is 5 1/2 inches thick at
      the edges, and 5 at the centre. The weight is 3 tons. The focal
      length is 50 feet.

      I have lately read a singular and somewhat ingenious little book,
      whose title-page runs thus: “L’Homme dans la lvne ou le Voyage
      Chimerique fait au Monde de la Lvne, nouellement decouvert par
      Dominique Gonzales, Aduanturier Espagnol, autrem?t dit le Courier
      volant. Mis en notre langve par J. B. D. A. Paris, chez Francois
      Piot, pres la Fontaine de Saint Benoist. Et chez J. Goignard, au
      premier pilier de la grand’salle du Palais, proche les
      Consultations, MDCXLVII.” Pp. 76.

      The writer professes to have translated his work from the English
      of one Mr. D’Avisson (Davidson?) although there is a terrible
      ambiguity in the statement. “J’ en ai eu,” says he “l’original de
      Monsieur D’Avisson, medecin des mieux versez qui soient
      aujourd’huy dans la cõnoissance des Belles Lettres, et sur tout
      de la Philosophic Naturelle. Je lui ai cette obligation entre les
      autres, de m’ auoir non seulement mis en main ce Livre en
      anglois, mais encore le Manuscrit du Sieur Thomas D’Anan,
      gentilhomme Eccossois, recommandable pour sa vertu, sur la
      version duquel j’ advoue que j’ ay tiré le plan de la mienne.”

      After some irrelevant adventures, much in the manner of Gil Blas,
      and which occupy the first thirty pages, the author relates that,
      being ill during a sea voyage, the crew abandoned him, together
      with a negro servant, on the island of St. Helena. To increase
      the chances of obtaining food, the two separate, and live as far
      apart as possible. This brings about a training of birds, to
      serve the purpose of carrier-pigeons between them. By and by
      these are taught to carry parcels of some weight—and this weight
      is gradually increased. At length the idea is entertained of
      uniting the force of a great number of the birds, with a view to
      raising the author himself. A machine is contrived for the
      purpose, and we have a minute description of it, which is
      materially helped out by a steel engraving. Here we perceive the
      Signor Gonzales, with point ruffles and a huge periwig, seated
      astride something which resembles very closely a broomstick, and
      borne aloft by a multitude of wild swans _(ganzas)_ who had
      strings reaching from their tails to the machine.

      The main event detailed in the Signor’s narrative depends upon a
      very important fact, of which the reader is kept in ignorance
      until near the end of the book. The _ganzas,_ with whom he had
      become so familiar, were not really denizens of St. Helena, but
      of the moon. Thence it had been their custom, time out of mind,
      to migrate annually to some portion of the earth. In proper
      season, of course, they would return home; and the author,
      happening, one day, to require their services for a short voyage,
      is unexpectedly carried straight tip, and in a very brief period
      arrives at the satellite. Here he finds, among other odd things,
      that the people enjoy extreme happiness; that they have no _law;_
      that they die without pain; that they are from ten to thirty feet
      in height; that they live five thousand years; that they have an
      emperor called Irdonozur; and that they can jump sixty feet high,
      when, being out of the gravitating influence, they fly about with
      fans.

      I cannot forbear giving a specimen of the general _philosophy_ of
      the volume.

“I must not forget here, that the stars appeared only on that side of
the globe turned toward the moon, and that the closer they were to it
the larger they seemed. I have also me and the earth. As to the stars,
_since there was no night where I was, they always had the same
appearance; not brilliant, as usual, but pale, and very nearly like the
moon of a morning. _But few of them were visible, and these ten times
larger (as well as I could judge) than they seem to the inhabitants of
the earth. The moon, which wanted two days of being full, was of a
terrible bigness.

“I must not forget here, that the stars appeared only on that side of
the globe turned toward the moon, and that the closer they were to it
the larger they seemed. I have also to inform you that, whether it was
calm weather or stormy, I found myself _always immediately between the
moon and the earth._ I_ _was convinced of this for two reasons-because
my birds always flew in a straight line; and because whenever we
attempted to rest, _we were carried insensibly around the globe of the
earth. _For I admit the opinion of Copernicus, who maintains that it
never ceases to revolve _from the east to the west, _not upon the poles
of the Equinoctial, commonly called the poles of the world, but upon
those of the Zodiac, a question of which I propose to speak more at
length here-after, when I shall have leisure to refresh my memory in
regard to the astrology which I learned at Salamanca when young, and
have since forgotten.”

      Notwithstanding the blunders italicized, the book is not without
      some claim to attention, as affording a naive specimen of the
      current astronomical notions of the time. One of these assumed,
      that the “gravitating power” extended but a short distance from
      the earth’s surface, and, accordingly, we find our voyager
      “carried insensibly around the globe,” etc.

      There have been other “voyages to the moon,” but none of higher
      merit than the one just mentioned. That of Bergerac is utterly
      meaningless. In the third volume of the “American Quarterly
      Review” will be found quite an elaborate criticism upon a certain
      “journey” of the kind in question—a criticism in which it is
      difficult to say whether the critic most exposes the stupidity of
      the book, or his own absurd ignorance of astronomy. I forget the
      title of the work; but the _means_ of the voyage are more
      deplorably ill conceived than are even the _ganzas_ of our friend
      the Signor Gonzales. The adventurer, in digging the earth,
      happens to discover a peculiar metal for which the moon has a
      strong attraction, and straightway constructs of it a box, which,
      when cast loose from its terrestrial fastenings, flies with him,
      forthwith, to the satellite. The “Flight of Thomas O’Rourke,” is
      a _jeu d’ esprit_ not altogether contemptible, and has been
      translated into German. Thomas, the hero, was, in fact, the
      gamekeeper of an Irish peer, whose eccentricities gave rise to
      the tale. The “flight” is made on an eagle’s back, from Hungry
      Hill, a lofty mountain at the end of Bantry Bay.

      In these various _brochures_ the aim is always satirical; the
      theme being a description of Lunarian customs as compared with
      ours. In none is there any effort at _plausibility_ in the
      details of the voyage itself. The writers seem, in each instance,
      to be utterly uninformed in respect to astronomy. In “Hans
      Pfaall” the design is original, inasmuch as regards an attempt at
      _verisimilitude,_ in the application of scientific principles (so
      far as the whimsical nature of the subject would permit), to the
      actual passage between the earth and the moon.

      (*2) The zodiacal light is probably what the ancients called
      Trabes. Emicant Trabes quos docos vocant.—Pliny, lib. 2, p. 26.

      (*3) Since the original publication of Hans Pfaall, I find that
      Mr. Green, of Nassau balloon notoriety, and other late aeronauts,
      deny the assertions of Humboldt, in this respect, and speak of a
      decreasing inconvenience,—precisely in accordance with the theory
      here urged in a mere spirit of banter.

      (*4) Hevelius writes that he has several times found, in skies
      perfectly clear, when even stars of the sixth and seventh
      magnitude were conspicuous, that, at the same altitude of the
      moon, at the same elongation from the earth, and with one and the
      same excellent telescope, the moon and its maculae did not appear
      equally lucid at all times. From the circumstances of the
      observation, it is evident that the cause of this phenomenon is
      not either in our air, in the tube, in the moon, or in the eye of
      the spectator, but must be looked for in something (an
      atmosphere?) existing about the moon.

      Cassini frequently observed Saturn, Jupiter, and the fixed stars,
      when approaching the moon to occultation, to have their circular
      figure changed into an oval one; and, in other occultations, he
      found no alteration of figure at all. Hence it might be supposed,
      that at some times and not at others, there is a dense matter
      encompassing the moon wherein the rays of the stars are
      refracted.




THE GOLD-BUG


What ho! what ho! this fellow is dancing mad!
He hath been bitten by the Tarantula.

_—All in the Wrong._

      Many years ago, I contracted an intimacy with a Mr. William
      Legrand. He was of an ancient Huguenot family, and had once been
      wealthy; but a series of misfortunes had reduced him to want. To
      avoid the mortification consequent upon his disasters, he left
      New Orleans, the city of his forefathers, and took up his
      residence at Sullivan’s Island, near Charleston, South Carolina.

      This Island is a very singular one. It consists of little else
      than the sea sand, and is about three miles long. Its breadth at
      no point exceeds a quarter of a mile. It is separated from the
      main land by a scarcely perceptible creek, oozing its way through
      a wilderness of reeds and slime, a favorite resort of the marsh
      hen. The vegetation, as might be supposed, is scant, or at least
      dwarfish. No trees of any magnitude are to be seen. Near the
      western extremity, where Fort Moultrie stands, and where are some
      miserable frame buildings, tenanted, during summer, by the
      fugitives from Charleston dust and fever, may be found, indeed,
      the bristly palmetto; but the whole island, with the exception of
      this western point, and a line of hard, white beach on the
      seacoast, is covered with a dense undergrowth of the sweet
      myrtle, so much prized by the horticulturists of England. The
      shrub here often attains the height of fifteen or twenty feet,
      and forms an almost impenetrable coppice, burthening the air with
      its fragrance.

      In the inmost recesses of this coppice, not far from the eastern
      or more remote end of the island, Legrand had built himself a
      small hut, which he occupied when I first, by mere accident, made
      his acquaintance. This soon ripened into friendship—for there was
      much in the recluse to excite interest and esteem. I found him
      well educated, with unusual powers of mind, but infected with
      misanthropy, and subject to perverse moods of alternate
      enthusiasm and melancholy. He had with him many books, but rarely
      employed them. His chief amusements were gunning and fishing, or
      sauntering along the beach and through the myrtles, in quest of
      shells or entomological specimens—his collection of the latter
      might have been envied by a Swammerdamm. In these excursions he
      was usually accompanied by an old negro, called Jupiter, who had
      been manumitted before the reverses of the family, but who could
      be induced, neither by threats nor by promises, to abandon what
      he considered his right of attendance upon the footsteps of his
      young “Massa Will.” It is not improbable that the relatives of
      Legrand, conceiving him to be somewhat unsettled in intellect,
      had contrived to instil this obstinacy into Jupiter, with a view
      to the supervision and guardianship of the wanderer.

      The winters in the latitude of Sullivan’s Island are seldom very
      severe, and in the fall of the year it is a rare event indeed
      when a fire is considered necessary. About the middle of October,
      18—, there occurred, however, a day of remarkable chilliness.
      Just before sunset I scrambled my way through the evergreens to
      the hut of my friend, whom I had not visited for several weeks—my
      residence being, at that time, in Charleston, a distance of nine
      miles from the island, while the facilities of passage and
      re-passage were very far behind those of the present day. Upon
      reaching the hut I rapped, as was my custom, and getting no
      reply, sought for the key where I knew it was secreted, unlocked
      the door and went in. A fine fire was blazing upon the hearth. It
      was a novelty, and by no means an ungrateful one. I threw off an
      overcoat, took an arm-chair by the crackling logs, and awaited
      patiently the arrival of my hosts.

      Soon after dark they arrived, and gave me a most cordial welcome.
      Jupiter, grinning from ear to ear, bustled about to prepare some
      marsh-hens for supper. Legrand was in one of his fits—how else
      shall I term them?—of enthusiasm. He had found an unknown
      bivalve, forming a new genus, and, more than this, he had hunted
      down and secured, with Jupiter’s assistance, a _scarabæus_ which
      he believed to be totally new, but in respect to which he wished
      to have my opinion on the morrow.

      “And why not to-night?” I asked, rubbing my hands over the blaze,
      and wishing the whole tribe of _scarabæi_ at the devil.

      “Ah, if I had only known you were here!” said Legrand, “but it’s
      so long since I saw you; and how could I foresee that you would
      pay me a visit this very night of all others? As I was coming
      home I met Lieutenant G——, from the fort, and, very foolishly, I
      lent him the bug; so it will be impossible for you to see it
      until the morning. Stay here to-night, and I will send Jup down
      for it at sunrise. It is the loveliest thing in creation!”

      “What?—sunrise?”

      “Nonsense! no!—the bug. It is of a brilliant gold color—about the
      size of a large hickory-nut—with two jet black spots near one
      extremity of the back, and another, somewhat longer, at the
      other. The _antennæ_ are—”

      “Dey aint no tin in him, Massa Will, I keep a tellin on you,”
      here interrupted Jupiter; “de bug is a goole bug, solid, ebery
      bit of him, inside and all, sep him wing—neber feel half so hebby
      a bug in my life.”

      “Well, suppose it is, Jup,” replied Legrand, somewhat more
      earnestly, it seemed to me, than the case demanded, “is that any
      reason for your letting the birds burn? The color”—here he turned
      to me—“is really almost enough to warrant Jupiter’s idea. You
      never saw a more brilliant metallic lustre than the scales
      emit—but of this you cannot judge till tomorrow. In the mean time
      I can give you some idea of the shape.” Saying this, he seated
      himself at a small table, on which were a pen and ink, but no
      paper. He looked for some in a drawer, but found none.

      “Never mind,” said he at length, “this will answer;” and he drew
      from his waistcoat pocket a scrap of what I took to be very dirty
      foolscap, and made upon it a rough drawing with the pen. While he
      did this, I retained my seat by the fire, for I was still chilly.
      When the design was complete, he handed it to me without rising.
      As I received it, a loud growl was heard, succeeded by a
      scratching at the door. Jupiter opened it, and a large
      Newfoundland, belonging to Legrand, rushed in, leaped upon my
      shoulders, and loaded me with caresses; for I had shown him much
      attention during previous visits. When his gambols were over, I
      looked at the paper, and, to speak the truth, found myself not a
      little puzzled at what my friend had depicted.

      “Well!” I said, after contemplating it for some minutes, “this
      _is_ a strange _scarabæus_, I must confess: new to me: never saw
      anything like it before—unless it was a skull, or a
      death’s-head—which it more nearly resembles than anything else
      that has come under _my_ observation.”

      “A death’s-head!” echoed Legrand. “Oh—yes—well, it has something
      of that appearance upon paper, no doubt. The two upper black
      spots look like eyes, eh? and the longer one at the bottom like a
      mouth—and then the shape of the whole is oval.”

      “Perhaps so,” said I; “but, Legrand, I fear you are no artist. I
      must wait until I see the beetle itself, if I am to form any idea
      of its personal appearance.”

      “Well, I don’t know,” said he, a little nettled, “I draw
      tolerably—_should_ do it at least—have had good masters, and
      flatter myself that I am not quite a blockhead.”

      “But, my dear fellow, you are joking then,” said I, “this is a
      very passable _skull_—indeed, I may say that it is a very
      _excellent_ skull, according to the vulgar notions about such
      specimens of physiology—and your _scarabæus_ must be the queerest
      _scarabæus_ in the world if it resembles it. Why, we may get up a
      very thrilling bit of superstition upon this hint. I presume you
      will call the bug _scarabæus caput hominis_, or something of that
      kind—there are many similar titles in the Natural Histories. But
      where are the _antennæ_ you spoke of?”

      “The _antennæ!_” said Legrand, who seemed to be getting
      unaccountably warm upon the subject; “I am sure you must see the
      _antennæ_. I made them as distinct as they are in the original
      insect, and I presume that is sufficient.”

      “Well, well,” I said, “perhaps you have—still I don’t see them;”
      and I handed him the paper without additional remark, not wishing
      to ruffle his temper; but I was much surprised at the turn
      affairs had taken; his ill humor puzzled me—and, as for the
      drawing of the beetle, there were positively _no antennæ_
      visible, and the whole _did_ bear a very close resemblance to the
      ordinary cuts of a death’s-head.

      He received the paper very peevishly, and was about to crumple
      it, apparently to throw it in the fire, when a casual glance at
      the design seemed suddenly to rivet his attention. In an instant
      his face grew violently red—in another as excessively pale. For
      some minutes he continued to scrutinize the drawing minutely
      where he sat. At length he arose, took a candle from the table,
      and proceeded to seat himself upon a sea-chest in the farthest
      corner of the room. Here again he made an anxious examination of
      the paper; turning it in all directions. He said nothing,
      however, and his conduct greatly astonished me; yet I thought it
      prudent not to exacerbate the growing moodiness of his temper by
      any comment. Presently he took from his coat pocket a wallet,
      placed the paper carefully in it, and deposited both in a
      writing-desk, which he locked. He now grew more composed in his
      demeanor; but his original air of enthusiasm had quite
      disappeared. Yet he seemed not so much sulky as abstracted. As
      the evening wore away he became more and more absorbed in
      reverie, from which no sallies of mine could arouse him. It had
      been my intention to pass the night at the hut, as I had
      frequently done before, but, seeing my host in this mood, I
      deemed it proper to take leave. He did not press me to remain,
      but, as I departed, he shook my hand with even more than his
      usual cordiality.

      It was about a month after this (and during the interval I had
      seen nothing of Legrand) when I received a visit, at Charleston,
      from his man, Jupiter. I had never seen the good old negro look
      so dispirited, and I feared that some serious disaster had
      befallen my friend.

      “Well, Jup,” said I, “what is the matter now?—how is your
      master?”

      “Why, to speak de troof, massa, him not so berry well as mought
      be.”

      “Not well! I am truly sorry to hear it. What does he complain
      of?”

      “Dar! dat’s it!—him neber ’plain of notin’—but him berry sick for
      all dat.”

      “_Very_ sick, Jupiter!—why didn’t you say so at once? Is he
      confined to bed?”

      “No, dat he aint!—he aint ’fin’d nowhar—dat’s just whar de shoe
      pinch—my mind is got to be berry hebby ’bout poor Massa Will.”

      “Jupiter, I should like to understand what it is you are talking
      about. You say your master is sick. Hasn’t he told you what ails
      him?”

      “Why, massa, ’taint worf while for to git mad about de
      matter—Massa Will say noffin at all aint de matter wid him—but
      den what make him go about looking dis here way, wid he head down
      and he soldiers up, and as white as a gose? And den he keep a
      syphon all de time—”

      “Keeps a what, Jupiter?”

      “Keeps a syphon wid de figgurs on de slate—de queerest figgurs I
      ebber did see. Ise gittin’ to be skeered, I tell you. Hab for to
      keep mighty tight eye ’pon him ’noovers. Todder day he gib me
      slip ’fore de sun up and was gone de whole ob de blessed day. I
      had a big stick ready cut for to gib him deuced good beating when
      he did come—but Ise sich a fool dat I hadn’t de heart arter
      all—he look so berry poorly.”

      “Eh?—what?—ah yes!—upon the whole I think you had better not be
      too severe with the poor fellow—don’t flog him, Jupiter—he can’t
      very well stand it—but can you form no idea of what has
      occasioned this illness, or rather this change of conduct? Has
      anything unpleasant happened since I saw you?”

      “No, massa, dey aint bin noffin onpleasant _since_ den—‘twas
      _’fore_ den I’m feared—‘twas de berry day you was dare.”

      “How? what do you mean?”

      “Why, massa, I mean de bug—dare now.”

      “The what?”

      “De bug,—I’m berry sartain dat Massa Will bin bit somewhere ’bout
      de head by dat goole-bug.”

      “And what cause have you, Jupiter, for such a supposition?”

      “Claws enuff, massa, and mouff too. I nebber did see sick a
      deuced bug—he kick and he bite ebery ting what cum near him.
      Massa Will cotch him fuss, but had for to let him go ’gin mighty
      quick, I tell you—den was de time he must ha’ got de bite. I did
      n’t like de look oh de bug mouff, myself, no how, so I would n’t
      take hold ob him wid my finger, but I cotch him wid a piece ob
      paper dat I found. I rap him up in de paper and stuff piece ob it
      in he mouff—dat was de way.”

      “And you think, then, that your master was really bitten by the
      beetle, and that the bite made him sick?”

      “I do n’t tink noffin about it—I nose it. What make him dream
      ’bout de goole so much, if ’taint cause he bit by de goole-bug?
      Ise heerd ’bout dem goole-bugs fore dis.”

      “But how do you know he dreams about gold?”

      “How I know? why ’cause he talk about it in he sleep—dat’s how I
      nose.”

      “Well, Jup, perhaps you are right; but to what fortunate
      circumstance am I to attribute the honor of a visit from you
      to-day?”

      “What de matter, massa?”

      “Did you bring any message from Mr. Legrand?”

      “No, massa, I bring dis here pissel;” and here Jupiter handed me
      a note which ran thus:

      “MY DEAR ——Why have I not seen you for so long a time? I hope you
      have not been so foolish as to take offence at any little
      _brusquerie_ of mine; but no, that is improbable. Since I saw you
      I have had great cause for anxiety. I have something to tell you,
      yet scarcely know how to tell it, or whether I should tell it at
      all.

      “I have not been quite well for some days past, and poor old Jup
      annoys me, almost beyond endurance, by his well-meant attentions.
      Would you believe it?—he had prepared a huge stick, the other
      day, with which to chastise me for giving him the slip, and
      spending the day, _solus_, among the hills on the main land. I
      verily believe that my ill looks alone saved me a flogging.

      “I have made no addition to my cabinet since we met.

      “If you can, in any way, make it convenient, come over with
      Jupiter. _Do_ come. I wish to see you to-_night_, upon business
      of importance. I assure you that it is of the _highest_
      importance.

“Ever yours,
“WILLIAM LEGRAND”.

      There was something in the tone of this note which gave me great
      uneasiness. Its whole style differed materially from that of
      Legrand. What could he be dreaming of? What new crotchet
      possessed his excitable brain? What “business of the highest
      importance” could he possibly have to transact? Jupiter’s account
      of him boded no good. I dreaded lest the continued pressure of
      misfortune had, at length, fairly unsettled the reason of my
      friend. Without a moment’s hesitation, therefore, I prepared to
      accompany the negro.

      Upon reaching the wharf, I noticed a scythe and three spades, all
      apparently new, lying in the bottom of the boat in which we were
      to embark.

      “What is the meaning of all this, Jup?” I inquired.

      “Him syfe, massa, and spade.”

      “Very true; but what are they doing here?”

      “Him de syfe and de spade what Massa Will sis pon my buying for
      him in de town, and de debbil’s own lot of money I had to gib for
      ’em.”

      “But what, in the name of all that is mysterious, is your ‘Massa
      Will’ going to do with scythes and spades?”

      “Dat’s more dan _I_ know, and debbil take me if I don’t b’lieve
      ’tis more dan he know, too. But it’s all cum ob do bug.”

      Finding that no satisfaction was to be obtained of Jupiter, whose
      whole intellect seemed to be absorbed by “de bug,” I now stepped
      into the boat and made sail. With a fair and strong breeze we
      soon ran into the little cove to the northward of Fort Moultrie,
      and a walk of some two miles brought us to the hut. It was about
      three in the afternoon when we arrived. Legrand had been awaiting
      us in eager expectation. He grasped my hand with a nervous
      empressement which alarmed me and strengthened the suspicions
      already entertained. His countenance was pale even to
      ghastliness, and his deep-set eyes glared with unnatural lustre.
      After some inquiries respecting his health, I asked him, not
      knowing what better to say, if he had yet obtained the
      _scarabæus_ from Lieutenant G——.

      “Oh, yes,” he replied, coloring violently, “I got it from him the
      next morning. Nothing should tempt me to part with that
      _scarabæus_. Do you know that Jupiter is quite right about it?”

      “In what way?” I asked, with a sad foreboding at heart.

      “In supposing it to be a bug of _real gold_.” He said this with
      an air of profound seriousness, and I felt inexpressibly shocked.

      “This bug is to make my fortune,” he continued, with a triumphant
      smile, “to reinstate me in my family possessions. Is it any
      wonder, then, that I prize it? Since Fortune has thought fit to
      bestow it upon me, I have only to use it properly and I shall
      arrive at the gold of which it is the index. Jupiter; bring me
      that _scarabæus!_”

      “What! de bug, massa? I’d rudder not go fer trubble dat bug—you
      mus’ git him for your own self.” Hereupon Legrand arose, with a
      grave and stately air, and brought me the beetle from a glass
      case in which it was enclosed. It was a beautiful scarabæus, and,
      at that time, unknown to naturalists—of course a great prize in a
      scientific point of view. There were two round, black spots near
      one extremity of the back, and a long one near the other. The
      scales were exceedingly hard and glossy, with all the appearance
      of burnished gold. The weight of the insect was very remarkable,
      and, taking all things into consideration, I could hardly blame
      Jupiter for his opinion respecting it; but what to make of
      Legrand’s concordance with that opinion, I could not, for the
      life of me, tell.

      “I sent for you,” said he, in a grandiloquent tone, when I had
      completed my examination of the beetle, “I sent for you, that I
      might have your counsel and assistance in furthering the views of
      Fate and of the bug—”

      “My dear Legrand,” I cried, interrupting him, “you are certainly
      unwell, and had better use some little precautions. You shall go
      to bed, and I will remain with you a few days, until you get over
      this. You are feverish and—”

      “Feel my pulse,” said he.

      I felt it, and, to say the truth, found not the slightest
      indication of fever.

      “But you may be ill and yet have no fever. Allow me this once to
      prescribe for you. In the first place, go to bed. In the next—”

      “You are mistaken,” he interposed, “I am as well as I can expect
      to be under the excitement which I suffer. If you really wish me
      well, you will relieve this excitement.”

      “And how is this to be done?”

      “Very easily. Jupiter and myself are going upon an expedition
      into the hills, upon the main land, and, in this expedition we
      shall need the aid of some person in whom we can confide. You are
      the only one we can trust. Whether we succeed or fail, the
      excitement which you now perceive in me will be equally allayed.”

      “I am anxious to oblige you in any way,” I replied; “but do you
      mean to say that this infernal beetle has any connection with
      your expedition into the hills?”

      “It has.”

      “Then, Legrand, I can become a party to no such absurd
      proceeding.”

      “I am sorry—very sorry—for we shall have to try it by ourselves.”

      “Try it by yourselves! The man is surely mad!—but stay!—how long
      do you propose to be absent?”

      “Probably all night. We shall start immediately, and be back, at
      all events, by sunrise.”

      “And will you promise me, upon your honor, that when this freak
      of yours is over, and the bug business (good God!) settled to
      your satisfaction, you will then return home and follow my advice
      implicitly, as that of your physician?”

      “Yes; I promise; and now let us be off, for we have no time to
      lose.”

      With a heavy heart I accompanied my friend. We started about four
      o’clock—Legrand, Jupiter, the dog, and myself. Jupiter had with
      him the scythe and spades—the whole of which he insisted upon
      carrying—more through fear, it seemed to me, of trusting either
      of the implements within reach of his master, than from any
      excess of industry or complaisance. His demeanor was dogged in
      the extreme, and “dat deuced bug” were the sole words which
      escaped his lips during the journey. For my own part, I had
      charge of a couple of dark lanterns, while Legrand contented
      himself with the _scarabæus_, which he carried attached to the
      end of a bit of whip-cord; twirling it to and fro, with the air
      of a conjuror, as he went. When I observed this last, plain
      evidence of my friend’s aberration of mind, I could scarcely
      refrain from tears. I thought it best, however, to humor his
      fancy, at least for the present, or until I could adopt some more
      energetic measures with a chance of success. In the mean time I
      endeavored, but all in vain, to sound him in regard to the object
      of the expedition. Having succeeded in inducing me to accompany
      him, he seemed unwilling to hold conversation upon any topic of
      minor importance, and to all my questions vouchsafed no other
      reply than “we shall see!”

      We crossed the creek at the head of the island by means of a
      skiff, and, ascending the high grounds on the shore of the main
      land, proceeded in a northwesterly direction, through a tract of
      country excessively wild and desolate, where no trace of a human
      footstep was to be seen. Legrand led the way with decision;
      pausing only for an instant, here and there, to consult what
      appeared to be certain landmarks of his own contrivance upon a
      former occasion.

      In this manner we journeyed for about two hours, and the sun was
      just setting when we entered a region infinitely more dreary than
      any yet seen. It was a species of table land, near the summit of
      an almost inaccessible hill, densely wooded from base to
      pinnacle, and interspersed with huge crags that appeared to lie
      loosely upon the soil, and in many cases were prevented from
      precipitating themselves into the valleys below, merely by the
      support of the trees against which they reclined. Deep ravines,
      in various directions, gave an air of still sterner solemnity to
      the scene.

      The natural platform to which we had clambered was thickly
      overgrown with brambles, through which we soon discovered that it
      would have been impossible to force our way but for the scythe;
      and Jupiter, by direction of his master, proceeded to clear for
      us a path to the foot of an enormously tall tulip-tree, which
      stood, with some eight or ten oaks, upon the level, and far
      surpassed them all, and all other trees which I had then ever
      seen, in the beauty of its foliage and form, in the wide spread
      of its branches, and in the general majesty of its appearance.
      When we reached this tree, Legrand turned to Jupiter, and asked
      him if he thought he could climb it. The old man seemed a little
      staggered by the question, and for some moments made no reply. At
      length he approached the huge trunk, walked slowly around it, and
      examined it with minute attention. When he had completed his
      scrutiny, he merely said,

      “Yes, massa, Jup climb any tree he ebber see in he life.”

      “Then up with you as soon as possible, for it will soon be too
      dark to see what we are about.”

      “How far mus go up, massa?” inquired Jupiter.

      “Get up the main trunk first, and then I will tell you which way
      to go—and here—stop! take this beetle with you.”

      “De bug, Massa Will!—de goole-bug!” cried the negro, drawing back
      in dismay—“what for mus tote de bug way up de tree?—d—n if I do!”

      “If you are afraid, Jup, a great big negro like you, to take hold
      of a harmless little dead beetle, why you can carry it up by this
      string—but, if you do not take it up with you in some way, I
      shall be under the necessity of breaking your head with this
      shovel.”

      “What de matter now, massa?” said Jup, evidently shamed into
      compliance; “always want for to raise fuss wid old nigger. Was
      only funnin any how. _Me_ feered de bug! what I keer for de bug?”
      Here he took cautiously hold of the extreme end of the string,
      and, maintaining the insect as far from his person as
      circumstances would permit, prepared to ascend the tree.

      In youth, the tulip-tree, or _Liriodendron Tulipferum_, the most
      magnificent of American foresters, has a trunk peculiarly smooth,
      and often rises to a great height without lateral branches; but,
      in its riper age, the bark becomes gnarled and uneven, while many
      short limbs make their appearance on the stem. Thus the
      difficulty of ascension, in the present case, lay more in
      semblance than in reality. Embracing the huge cylinder, as
      closely as possible, with his arms and knees, seizing with his
      hands some projections, and resting his naked toes upon others,
      Jupiter, after one or two narrow escapes from falling, at length
      wriggled himself into the first great fork, and seemed to
      consider the whole business as virtually accomplished. The risk
      of the achievement was, in fact, now over, although the climber
      was some sixty or seventy feet from the ground.

      “Which way mus go now, Massa Will?” he asked.

      “Keep up the largest branch—the one on this side,” said Legrand.
      The negro obeyed him promptly, and apparently with but little
      trouble; ascending higher and higher, until no glimpse of his
      squat figure could be obtained through the dense foliage which
      enveloped it. Presently his voice was heard in a sort of halloo.

      “How much fudder is got for go?”

      “How high up are you?” asked Legrand.

      “Ebber so fur,” replied the negro; “can see de sky fru de top ob
      de tree.”

      “Never mind the sky, but attend to what I say. Look down the
      trunk and count the limbs below you on this side. How many limbs
      have you passed?”

      “One, two, tree, four, fibe—I done pass fibe big limb, massa, pon
      dis side.”

      “Then go one limb higher.”

      In a few minutes the voice was heard again, announcing that the
      seventh limb was attained.

      “Now, Jup,” cried Legrand, evidently much excited, “I want you to
      work your way out upon that limb as far as you can. If you see
      anything strange, let me know.” By this time what little doubt I
      might have entertained of my poor friend’s insanity, was put
      finally at rest. I had no alternative but to conclude him
      stricken with lunacy, and I became seriously anxious about
      getting him home. While I was pondering upon what was best to be
      done, Jupiter’s voice was again heard.

      “Mos feerd for to ventur pon dis limb berry far—’tis dead limb
      putty much all de way.”

      “Did you say it was a dead limb, Jupiter?” cried Legrand in a
      quavering voice.

      “Yes, massa, him dead as de door-nail—done up for sartain—done
      departed dis here life.”

      “What in the name heaven shall I do?” asked Legrand, seemingly in
      the greatest distress.

      “Do!” said I, glad of an opportunity to interpose a word, “why
      come home and go to bed. Come now!—that’s a fine fellow. It’s
      getting late, and, besides, you remember your promise.”

      “Jupiter,” cried he, without heeding me in the least, “do you
      hear me?”

      “Yes, Massa Will, hear you ebber so plain.”

      “Try the wood well, then, with your knife, and see if you think
      it very rotten.”

      “Him rotten, massa, sure nuff,” replied the negro in a few
      moments, “but not so berry rotten as mought be. Mought ventur out
      leetle way pon de limb by myself, dat’s true.”

      “By yourself!—what do you mean?”

      “Why I mean de bug. ’Tis _berry_ hebby bug. Spose I drop him down
      fuss, and den de limb won’t break wid just de weight ob one
      nigger.”

      “You infernal scoundrel!” cried Legrand, apparently much
      relieved, “what do you mean by telling me such nonsense as that?
      As sure as you drop that beetle I’ll break your neck. Look here,
      Jupiter, do you hear me?”

      “Yes, massa, needn’t hollo at poor nigger dat style.”

      “Well! now listen!—if you will venture out on the limb as far as
      you think safe, and not let go the beetle, I’ll make you a
      present of a silver dollar as soon as you get down.”

      “I’m gwine, Massa Will—deed I is,” replied the negro very
      promptly—“mos out to the eend now.”

      “_Out to the end!_” here fairly screamed Legrand, “do you say you
      are out to the end of that limb?”

      “Soon be to de eend, massa,—o-o-o-o-oh! Lor-gol-a-marcy! what is
      dis here pon de tree?”

      “Well!” cried Legrand, highly delighted, “what is it?”

      “Why taint noffin but a skull—somebody bin lef him head up de
      tree, and de crows done gobble ebery bit ob de meat off.”

      “A skull, you say!—very well—how is it fastened to the limb?—what
      holds it on?”

      “Sure nuff, massa; mus look. Why dis berry curous sarcumstance,
      pon my word—dare’s a great big nail in de skull, what fastens ob
      it on to de tree.”

      “Well now, Jupiter, do exactly as I tell you—do you hear?”

      “Yes, massa.”

      “Pay attention, then—find the left eye of the skull.”

      “Hum! hoo! dat’s good! why dare aint no eye lef at all.”

      “Curse your stupidity! do you know your right hand from your
      left?”

      “Yes, I knows dat—knows all about dat—’tis my lef hand what I
      chops de wood wid.”

      “To be sure! you are left-handed; and your left eye is on the
      same side as your left hand. Now, I suppose, you can find the
      left eye of the skull, or the place where the left eye has been.
      Have you found it?”

      Here was a long pause. At length the negro asked,

      “Is de lef eye of de skull pon de same side as de lef hand of de
      skull, too?—cause de skull aint got not a bit ob a hand at
      all—nebber mind! I got de lef eye now—here de lef eye! what mus
      do wid it?”

      “Let the beetle drop through it, as far as the string will
      reach—but be careful and not let go your hold of the string.”

      “All dat done, Massa Will; mighty easy ting for to put de bug fru
      de hole—look out for him dare below!”

      During this colloquy no portion of Jupiter’s person could be
      seen; but the beetle, which he had suffered to descend, was now
      visible at the end of the string, and glistened, like a globe of
      burnished gold, in the last rays of the setting sun, some of
      which still faintly illumined the eminence upon which we stood.
      The _scarabæus_ hung quite clear of any branches, and, if allowed
      to fall, would have fallen at our feet. Legrand immediately took
      the scythe, and cleared with it a circular space, three or four
      yards in diameter, just beneath the insect, and, having
      accomplished this, ordered Jupiter to let go the string and come
      down from the tree.

      Driving a peg, with great nicety, into the ground, at the precise
      spot where the beetle fell, my friend now produced from his
      pocket a tape measure. Fastening one end of this at that point of
      the trunk, of the tree which was nearest the peg, he unrolled it
      till it reached the peg, and thence farther unrolled it, in the
      direction already established by the two points of the tree and
      the peg, for the distance of fifty feet—Jupiter clearing away the
      brambles with the scythe. At the spot thus attained a second peg
      was driven, and about this, as a centre, a rude circle, about
      four feet in diameter, described. Taking now a spade himself, and
      giving one to Jupiter and one to me, Legrand begged us to set
      about digging as quickly as possible.

      To speak the truth, I had no especial relish for such amusement
      at any time, and, at that particular moment, would most willingly
      have declined it; for the night was coming on, and I felt much
      fatigued with the exercise already taken; but I saw no mode of
      escape, and was fearful of disturbing my poor friend’s equanimity
      by a refusal. Could I have depended, indeed, upon Jupiter’s aid,
      I would have had no hesitation in attempting to get the lunatic
      home by force; but I was too well assured of the old negro’s
      disposition, to hope that he would assist me, under any
      circumstances, in a personal contest with his master. I made no
      doubt that the latter had been infected with some of the
      innumerable Southern superstitions about money buried, and that
      his phantasy had received confirmation by the finding of the
      _scarabæus_, or, perhaps, by Jupiter’s obstinacy in maintaining
      it to be “a bug of real gold.” A mind disposed to lunacy would
      readily be led away by such suggestions—especially if chiming in
      with favorite preconceived ideas—and then I called to mind the
      poor fellow’s speech about the beetle’s being “the index of his
      fortune.” Upon the whole, I was sadly vexed and puzzled, but, at
      length, I concluded to make a virtue of necessity—to dig with a
      good will, and thus the sooner to convince the visionary, by
      ocular demonstration, of the fallacy of the opinions he
      entertained.

      The lanterns having been lit, we all fell to work with a zeal
      worthy a more rational cause; and, as the glare fell upon our
      persons and implements, I could not help thinking how picturesque
      a group we composed, and how strange and suspicious our labors
      must have appeared to any interloper who, by chance, might have
      stumbled upon our whereabouts.

      We dug very steadily for two hours. Little was said; and our
      chief embarrassment lay in the yelpings of the dog, who took
      exceeding interest in our proceedings. He, at length, became so
      obstreperous that we grew fearful of his giving the alarm to some
      stragglers in the vicinity—or, rather, this was the apprehension
      of Legrand;—for myself, I should have rejoiced at any
      interruption which might have enabled me to get the wanderer
      home. The noise was, at length, very effectually silenced by
      Jupiter, who, getting out of the hole with a dogged air of
      deliberation, tied the brute’s mouth up with one of his
      suspenders, and then returned, with a grave chuckle, to his task.

      When the time mentioned had expired, we had reached a depth of
      five feet, and yet no signs of any treasure became manifest. A
      general pause ensued, and I began to hope that the farce was at
      an end. Legrand, however, although evidently much disconcerted,
      wiped his brow thoughtfully and recommenced. We had excavated the
      entire circle of four feet diameter, and now we slightly enlarged
      the limit, and went to the farther depth of two feet. Still
      nothing appeared. The gold-seeker, whom I sincerely pitied, at
      length clambered from the pit, with the bitterest disappointment
      imprinted upon every feature, and proceeded, slowly and
      reluctantly, to put on his coat, which he had thrown off at the
      beginning of his labor. In the mean time I made no remark.
      Jupiter, at a signal from his master, began to gather up his
      tools. This done, and the dog having been unmuzzled, we turned in
      profound silence towards home.

      We had taken, perhaps, a dozen steps in this direction, when,
      with a loud oath, Legrand strode up to Jupiter, and seized him by
      the collar. The astonished negro opened his eyes and mouth to the
      fullest extent, let fall the spades, and fell upon his knees.

      “You scoundrel,” said Legrand, hissing out the syllables from
      between his clenched teeth—“you infernal black villain!—speak, I
      tell you!—answer me this instant, without
      prevarication!—which—which is your left eye?”

      “Oh, my golly, Massa Will! aint dis here my lef eye for sartain?”
      roared the terrified Jupiter, placing his hand upon his right
      organ of vision, and holding it there with a desperate
      pertinacity, as if in immediate dread of his master’s attempt at
      a gouge.

      “I thought so!—I knew it! hurrah!” vociferated Legrand, letting
      the negro go, and executing a series of curvets and caracols,
      much to the astonishment of his valet, who, arising from his
      knees, looked, mutely, from his master to myself, and then from
      myself to his master.

      “Come! we must go back,” said the latter, “the game’s not up
      yet;” and he again led the way to the tulip-tree.

      “Jupiter,” said he, when we reached its foot, “come here! was the
      skull nailed to the limb with the face outwards, or with the face
      to the limb?”

      “De face was out, massa, so dat de crows could get at de eyes
      good, widout any trouble.”

      “Well, then, was it this eye or that through which you dropped
      the beetle?”—here Legrand touched each of Jupiter’s eyes.

      “’Twas dis eye, massa—de lef eye—jis as you tell me,” and here it
      was his right eye that the negro indicated.

      “That will do—we must try it again.”

      Here my friend, about whose madness I now saw, or fancied that I
      saw, certain indications of method, removed the peg which marked
      the spot where the beetle fell, to a spot about three inches to
      the westward of its former position. Taking, now, the tape
      measure from the nearest point of the trunk to the peg, as
      before, and continuing the extension in a straight line to the
      distance of fifty feet, a spot was indicated, removed, by several
      yards, from the point at which we had been digging.

      Around the new position a circle, somewhat larger than in the
      former instance, was now described, and we again set to work with
      the spades. I was dreadfully weary, but, scarcely understanding
      what had occasioned the change in my thoughts, I felt no longer
      any great aversion from the labor imposed. I had become most
      unaccountably interested—nay, even excited. Perhaps there was
      something, amid all the extravagant demeanor of Legrand—some air
      of forethought, or of deliberation, which impressed me. I dug
      eagerly, and now and then caught myself actually looking, with
      something that very much resembled expectation, for the fancied
      treasure, the vision of which had demented my unfortunate
      companion. At a period when such vagaries of thought most fully
      possessed me, and when we had been at work perhaps an hour and a
      half, we were again interrupted by the violent howlings of the
      dog. His uneasiness, in the first instance, had been, evidently,
      but the result of playfulness or caprice, but he now assumed a
      bitter and serious tone. Upon Jupiter’s again attempting to
      muzzle him, he made furious resistance, and, leaping into the
      hole, tore up the mould frantically with his claws. In a few
      seconds he had uncovered a mass of human bones, forming two
      complete skeletons, intermingled with several buttons of metal,
      and what appeared to be the dust of decayed woollen. One or two
      strokes of a spade upturned the blade of a large Spanish knife,
      and, as we dug farther, three or four loose pieces of gold and
      silver coin came to light.

      At sight of these the joy of Jupiter could scarcely be
      restrained, but the countenance of his master wore an air of
      extreme disappointment. He urged us, however, to continue our
      exertions, and the words were hardly uttered when I stumbled and
      fell forward, having caught the toe of my boot in a large ring of
      iron that lay half buried in the loose earth.

      We now worked in earnest, and never did I pass ten minutes of
      more intense excitement. During this interval we had fairly
      unearthed an oblong chest of wood, which, from its perfect
      preservation and wonderful hardness, had plainly been subjected
      to some mineralizing process—perhaps that of the bi-chloride of
      mercury. This box was three feet and a half long, three feet
      broad, and two and a half feet deep. It was firmly secured by
      bands of wrought iron, riveted, and forming a kind of open
      trelliswork over the whole. On each side of the chest, near the
      top, were three rings of iron—six in all—by means of which a firm
      hold could be obtained by six persons. Our utmost united
      endeavors served only to disturb the coffer very slightly in its
      bed. We at once saw the impossibility of removing so great a
      weight. Luckily, the sole fastenings of the lid consisted of two
      sliding bolts. These we drew back—trembling and panting with
      anxiety. In an instant, a treasure of incalculable value lay
      gleaming before us. As the rays of the lanterns fell within the
      pit, there flashed upwards a glow and a glare, from a confused
      heap of gold and of jewels, that absolutely dazzled our eyes.

      I shall not pretend to describe the feelings with which I gazed.
      Amazement was, of course, predominant. Legrand appeared exhausted
      with excitement, and spoke very few words. Jupiter’s countenance
      wore, for some minutes, as deadly a pallor as it is possible, in
      nature of things, for any negro’s visage to assume. He seemed
      stupefied—thunderstricken. Presently he fell upon his knees in
      the pit, and, burying his naked arms up to the elbows in gold,
      let them there remain, as if enjoying the luxury of a bath. At
      length, with a deep sigh, he exclaimed, as if in a soliloquy:

      “And dis all cum ob de goole-bug! de putty goole-bug! de poor
      little goole-bug, what I boosed in dat sabage kind ob style! Aint
      you shamed ob yourself, nigger?—answer me dat!”

      It became necessary, at last, that I should arouse both master
      and valet to the expediency of removing the treasure. It was
      growing late, and it behooved us to make exertion, that we might
      get every thing housed before daylight. It was difficult to say
      what should be done, and much time was spent in deliberation—so
      confused were the ideas of all. We, finally, lightened the box by
      removing two thirds of its contents, when we were enabled, with
      some trouble, to raise it from the hole. The articles taken out
      were deposited among the brambles, and the dog left to guard
      them, with strict orders from Jupiter neither, upon any pretence,
      to stir from the spot, nor to open his mouth until our return. We
      then hurriedly made for home with the chest; reaching the hut in
      safety, but after excessive toil, at one o’clock in the morning.
      Worn out as we were, it was not in human nature to do more
      immediately. We rested until two, and had supper; starting for
      the hills immediately afterwards, armed with three stout sacks,
      which, by good luck, were upon the premises. A little before four
      we arrived at the pit, divided the remainder of the booty, as
      equally as might be, among us, and, leaving the holes unfilled,
      again set out for the hut, at which, for the second time, we
      deposited our golden burthens, just as the first faint streaks of
      the dawn gleamed from over the tree-tops in the East.

      We were now thoroughly broken down; but the intense excitement of
      the time denied us repose. After an unquiet slumber of some three
      or four hours’ duration, we arose, as if by preconcert, to make
      examination of our treasure.

      The chest had been full to the brim, and we spent the whole day,
      and the greater part of the next night, in a scrutiny of its
      contents. There had been nothing like order or arrangement. Every
      thing had been heaped in promiscuously. Having assorted all with
      care, we found ourselves possessed of even vaster wealth than we
      had at first supposed. In coin there was rather more than four
      hundred and fifty thousand dollars—estimating the value of the
      pieces, as accurately as we could, by the tables of the period.
      There was not a particle of silver. All was gold of antique date
      and of great variety—French, Spanish, and German money, with a
      few English guineas, and some counters, of which we had never
      seen specimens before. There were several very large and heavy
      coins, so worn that we could make nothing of their inscriptions.
      There was no American money. The value of the jewels we found
      more difficulty in estimating. There were diamonds—some of them
      exceedingly large and fine—a hundred and ten in all, and not one
      of them small; eighteen rubies of remarkable brilliancy;—three
      hundred and ten emeralds, all very beautiful; and twenty-one
      sapphires, with an opal. These stones had all been broken from
      their settings and thrown loose in the chest. The settings
      themselves, which we picked out from among the other gold,
      appeared to have been beaten up with hammers, as if to prevent
      identification. Besides all this, there was a vast quantity of
      solid gold ornaments; nearly two hundred massive finger and
      earrings; rich chains—thirty of these, if I remember;
      eighty-three very large and heavy crucifixes; five gold censers
      of great value; a prodigious golden punch bowl, ornamented with
      richly chased vine-leaves and Bacchanalian figures; with two
      sword-handles exquisitely embossed, and many other smaller
      articles which I cannot recollect. The weight of these valuables
      exceeded three hundred and fifty pounds avoirdupois; and in this
      estimate I have not included one hundred and ninety-seven superb
      gold watches; three of the number being worth each five hundred
      dollars, if one. Many of them were very old, and as timekeepers
      valueless; the works having suffered, more or less, from
      corrosion—but all were richly jewelled and in cases of great
      worth. We estimated the entire contents of the chest, that night,
      at a million and a half of dollars; and upon the subsequent
      disposal of the trinkets and jewels (a few being retained for our
      own use), it was found that we had greatly undervalued the
      treasure.

      When, at length, we had concluded our examination, and the
      intense excitement of the time had, in some measure, subsided,
      Legrand, who saw that I was dying with impatience for a solution
      of this most extraordinary riddle, entered into a full detail of
      all the circumstances connected with it.

      “You remember;” said he, “the night when I handed you the rough
      sketch I had made of the _scarabæus_. You recollect also, that I
      became quite vexed at you for insisting that my drawing resembled
      a death’s-head. When you first made this assertion I thought you
      were jesting; but afterwards I called to mind the peculiar spots
      on the back of the insect, and admitted to myself that your
      remark had some little foundation in fact. Still, the sneer at my
      graphic powers irritated me—for I am considered a good
      artist—and, therefore, when you handed me the scrap of parchment,
      I was about to crumple it up and throw it angrily into the fire.”

      “The scrap of paper, you mean,” said I.

      “No; it had much of the appearance of paper, and at first I
      supposed it to be such, but when I came to draw upon it, I
      discovered it, at once, to be a piece of very thin parchment. It
      was quite dirty, you remember. Well, as I was in the very act of
      crumpling it up, my glance fell upon the sketch at which you had
      been looking, and you may imagine my astonishment when I
      perceived, in fact, the figure of a death’s-head just where, it
      seemed to me, I had made the drawing of the beetle. For a moment
      I was too much amazed to think with accuracy. I knew that my
      design was very different in detail from this—although there was
      a certain similarity in general outline. Presently I took a
      candle, and seating myself at the other end of the room,
      proceeded to scrutinize the parchment more closely. Upon turning
      it over, I saw my own sketch upon the reverse, just as I had made
      it. My first idea, now, was mere surprise at the really
      remarkable similarity of outline—at the singular coincidence
      involved in the fact, that unknown to me, there should have been
      a skull upon the other side of the parchment, immediately beneath
      my figure of the _scarabæus_, and that this skull, not only in
      outline, but in size, should so closely resemble my drawing. I
      say the singularity of this coincidence absolutely stupefied me
      for a time. This is the usual effect of such coincidences. The
      mind struggles to establish a connexion—a sequence of cause and
      effect—and, being unable to do so, suffers a species of temporary
      paralysis. But, when I recovered from this stupor, there dawned
      upon me gradually a conviction which startled me even far more
      than the coincidence. I began distinctly, positively, to remember
      that there had been no drawing upon the parchment when I made my
      sketch of the _scarabæus_. I became perfectly certain of this;
      for I recollected turning up first one side and then the other,
      in search of the cleanest spot. Had the skull been then there, of
      course I could not have failed to notice it. Here was indeed a
      mystery which I felt it impossible to explain; but, even at that
      early moment, there seemed to glimmer, faintly, within the most
      remote and secret chambers of my intellect, a glow-worm-like
      conception of that truth which last night’s adventure brought to
      so magnificent a demonstration. I arose at once, and putting the
      parchment securely away, dismissed all farther reflection until I
      should be alone.

      “When you had gone, and when Jupiter was fast asleep, I betook
      myself to a more methodical investigation of the affair. In the
      first place I considered the manner in which the parchment had
      come into my possession. The spot where we discovered the
      _scarabæus_ was on the coast of the main land, about a mile
      eastward of the island, and but a short distance above high water
      mark. Upon my taking hold of it, it gave me a sharp bite, which
      caused me to let it drop. Jupiter, with his accustomed caution,
      before seizing the insect, which had flown towards him, looked
      about him for a leaf, or something of that nature, by which to
      take hold of it. It was at this moment that his eyes, and mine
      also, fell upon the scrap of parchment, which I then supposed to
      be paper. It was lying half buried in the sand, a corner sticking
      up. Near the spot where we found it, I observed the remnants of
      the hull of what appeared to have been a ship’s long boat. The
      wreck seemed to have been there for a very great while; for the
      resemblance to boat timbers could scarcely be traced.

      “Well, Jupiter picked up the parchment, wrapped the beetle in it,
      and gave it to me. Soon afterwards we turned to go home, and on
      the way met Lieutenant G——. I showed him the insect, and he
      begged me to let him take it to the fort. Upon my consenting, he
      thrust it forthwith into his waistcoat pocket, without the
      parchment in which it had been wrapped, and which I had continued
      to hold in my hand during his inspection. Perhaps he dreaded my
      changing my mind, and thought it best to make sure of the prize
      at once—you know how enthusiastic he is on all subjects connected
      with Natural History. At the same time, without being conscious
      of it, I must have deposited the parchment in my own pocket.

      “You remember that when I went to the table, for the purpose of
      making a sketch of the beetle, I found no paper where it was
      usually kept. I looked in the drawer, and found none there. I
      searched my pockets, hoping to find an old letter, when my hand
      fell upon the parchment. I thus detail the precise mode in which
      it came into my possession; for the circumstances impressed me
      with peculiar force.

      “No doubt you will think me fanciful—but I had already
      established a kind of connexion. I had put together two links of
      a great chain. There was a boat lying upon a sea-coast, and not
      far from the boat was a parchment—not a paper—with a skull
      depicted upon it. You will, of course, ask ‘where is the
      connexion?’ I reply that the skull, or death’s-head, is the
      well-known emblem of the pirate. The flag of the death’s head is
      hoisted in all engagements.

      “I have said that the scrap was parchment, and not paper.
      Parchment is durable—almost imperishable. Matters of little
      moment are rarely consigned to parchment; since, for the mere
      ordinary purposes of drawing or writing, it is not nearly so well
      adapted as paper. This reflection suggested some meaning—some
      relevancy—in the death’s-head. I did not fail to observe, also,
      the form of the parchment. Although one of its corners had been,
      by some accident, destroyed, it could be seen that the original
      form was oblong. It was just such a slip, indeed, as might have
      been chosen for a memorandum—for a record of something to be long
      remembered and carefully preserved.”

      “But,” I interposed, “you say that the skull was not upon the
      parchment when you made the drawing of the beetle. How then do
      you trace any connexion between the boat and the skull—since this
      latter, according to your own admission, must have been designed
      (God only knows how or by whom) at some period subsequent to your
      sketching the _scarabæus?_”

      “Ah, hereupon turns the whole mystery; although the secret, at
      this point, I had comparatively little difficulty in solving. My
      steps were sure, and could afford but a single result. I
      reasoned, for example, thus: When I drew the _scarabæus_, there
      was no skull apparent upon the parchment. When I had completed
      the drawing I gave it to you, and observed you narrowly until you
      returned it. You, therefore, did not design the skull, and no one
      else was present to do it. Then it was not done by human agency.
      And nevertheless it was done.

      “At this stage of my reflections I endeavored to remember, and
      did remember, with entire distinctness, every incident which
      occurred about the period in question. The weather was chilly (oh
      rare and happy accident!), and a fire was blazing upon the
      hearth. I was heated with exercise and sat near the table. You,
      however, had drawn a chair close to the chimney. Just as I placed
      the parchment in your hand, and as you were in the act of
      inspecting it, Wolf, the Newfoundland, entered, and leaped upon
      your shoulders. With your left hand you caressed him and kept him
      off, while your right, holding the parchment, was permitted to
      fall listlessly between your knees, and in close proximity to the
      fire. At one moment I thought the blaze had caught it, and was
      about to caution you, but, before I could speak, you had
      withdrawn it, and were engaged in its examination. When I
      considered all these particulars, I doubted not for a moment that
      heat had been the agent in bringing to light, upon the parchment,
      the skull which I saw designed upon it. You are well aware that
      chemical preparations exist, and have existed time out of mind,
      by means of which it is possible to write upon either paper or
      vellum, so that the characters shall become visible only when
      subjected to the action of fire. Zaffre, digested in aqua regia,
      and diluted with four times its weight of water, is sometimes
      employed; a green tint results. The regulus of cobalt, dissolved
      in spirit of nitre, gives a red. These colors disappear at longer
      or shorter intervals after the material written upon cools, but
      again become apparent upon the re-application of heat.

      “I now scrutinized the death’s-head with care. Its outer
      edges—the edges of the drawing nearest the edge of the
      vellum—were far more distinct than the others. It was clear that
      the action of the caloric had been imperfect or unequal. I
      immediately kindled a fire, and subjected every portion of the
      parchment to a glowing heat. At first, the only effect was the
      strengthening of the faint lines in the skull; but, upon
      persevering in the experiment, there became visible, at the
      corner of the slip, diagonally opposite to the spot in which the
      death’s-head was delineated, the figure of what I at first
      supposed to be a goat. A closer scrutiny, however, satisfied me
      that it was intended for a kid.”

      “Ha! ha!” said I, “to be sure I have no right to laugh at you—a
      million and a half of money is too serious a matter for mirth—but
      you are not about to establish a third link in your chain—you
      will not find any especial connexion between your pirates and a
      goat—pirates, you know, have nothing to do with goats; they
      appertain to the farming interest.”

      “But I have just said that the figure was not that of a goat.”

      “Well, a kid then—pretty much the same thing.”

      “Pretty much, but not altogether,” said Legrand. “You may have
      heard of one Captain Kidd. I at once looked upon the figure of
      the animal as a kind of punning or hieroglyphical signature. I
      say signature; because its position upon the vellum suggested
      this idea. The death’s-head at the corner diagonally opposite,
      had, in the same manner, the air of a stamp, or seal. But I was
      sorely put out by the absence of all else—of the body to my
      imagined instrument—of the text for my context.”

      “I presume you expected to find a letter between the stamp and
      the signature.”

      “Something of that kind. The fact is, I felt irresistibly
      impressed with a presentiment of some vast good fortune
      impending. I can scarcely say why. Perhaps, after all, it was
      rather a desire than an actual belief;—but do you know that
      Jupiter’s silly words, about the bug being of solid gold, had a
      remarkable effect upon my fancy? And then the series of accidents
      and coincidences—these were so very extraordinary. Do you observe
      how mere an accident it was that these events should have
      occurred upon the sole day of all the year in which it has been,
      or may be, sufficiently cool for fire, and that without the fire,
      or without the intervention of the dog at the precise moment in
      which he appeared, I should never have become aware of the
      death’s-head, and so never the possessor of the treasure?”

      “But proceed—I am all impatience.”

      “Well; you have heard, of course, the many stories current—the
      thousand vague rumors afloat about money buried, somewhere upon
      the Atlantic coast, by Kidd and his associates. These rumors must
      have had some foundation in fact. And that the rumors have
      existed so long and so continuous, could have resulted, it
      appeared to me, only from the circumstance of the buried treasure
      still remaining entombed. Had Kidd concealed his plunder for a
      time, and afterwards reclaimed it, the rumors would scarcely have
      reached us in their present unvarying form. You will observe that
      the stories told are all about money-seekers, not about
      money-finders. Had the pirate recovered his money, there the
      affair would have dropped. It seemed to me that some accident—say
      the loss of a memorandum indicating its locality—had deprived him
      of the means of recovering it, and that this accident had become
      known to his followers, who otherwise might never have heard that
      treasure had been concealed at all, and who, busying themselves
      in vain, because unguided attempts, to regain it, had given first
      birth, and then universal currency, to the reports which are now
      so common. Have you ever heard of any important treasure being
      unearthed along the coast?”

      “Never.”

      “But that Kidd’s accumulations were immense, is well known. I
      took it for granted, therefore, that the earth still held them;
      and you will scarcely be surprised when I tell you that I felt a
      hope, nearly amounting to certainty, that the parchment so
      strangely found, involved a lost record of the place of deposit.”

      “But how did you proceed?”

      “I held the vellum again to the fire, after increasing the heat;
      but nothing appeared. I now thought it possible that the coating
      of dirt might have something to do with the failure; so I
      carefully rinsed the parchment by pouring warm water over it,
      and, having done this, I placed it in a tin pan, with the skull
      downwards, and put the pan upon a furnace of lighted charcoal. In
      a few minutes, the pan having become thoroughly heated, I removed
      the slip, and, to my inexpressible joy, found it spotted, in
      several places, with what appeared to be figures arranged in
      lines. Again I placed it in the pan, and suffered it to remain
      another minute. Upon taking it off, the whole was just as you see
      it now.”

      Here Legrand, having re-heated the parchment, submitted it to my
      inspection. The following characters were rudely traced, in a red
      tint, between the death’s-head and the goat:

     “53‡‡†305))6*;4826)4‡.)4‡);806*;48†8¶60))85;1‡(;:‡*8†83(88)5*†
     ;46(;88*96*?;8)*‡(;485);5*†2:*‡(;4956*2(5*—4)8¶8*;4069285);)
     6†8)4‡‡;1(‡9;48081;8:8‡1;48†85;4)485†528806*81(‡9;48;(88;4(‡?3
     4;48)4‡;161;:188;‡?;”

      “But,” said I, returning him the slip, “I am as much in the dark
      as ever. Were all the jewels of Golconda awaiting me upon my
      solution of this enigma, I am quite sure that I should be unable
      to earn them.”

      “And yet,” said Legrand, “the solution is by no means so
      difficult as you might be lead to imagine from the first hasty
      inspection of the characters. These characters, as any one might
      readily guess, form a cipher—that is to say, they convey a
      meaning; but then, from what is known of Kidd, I could not
      suppose him capable of constructing any of the more abstruse
      cryptographs. I made up my mind, at once, that this was of a
      simple species—such, however, as would appear, to the crude
      intellect of the sailor, absolutely insoluble without the key.”

      “And you really solved it?”

      “Readily; I have solved others of an abstruseness ten thousand
      times greater. Circumstances, and a certain bias of mind, have
      led me to take interest in such riddles, and it may well be
      doubted whether human ingenuity can construct an enigma of the
      kind which human ingenuity may not, by proper application,
      resolve. In fact, having once established connected and legible
      characters, I scarcely gave a thought to the mere difficulty of
      developing their import.

      “In the present case—indeed in all cases of secret writing—the
      first question regards the language of the cipher; for the
      principles of solution, so far, especially, as the more simple
      ciphers are concerned, depend upon, and are varied by, the genius
      of the particular idiom. In general, there is no alternative but
      experiment (directed by probabilities) of every tongue known to
      him who attempts the solution, until the true one be attained.
      But, with the cipher now before us, all difficulty was removed by
      the signature. The pun upon the word ‘Kidd’ is appreciable in no
      other language than the English. But for this consideration I
      should have begun my attempts with the Spanish and French, as the
      tongues in which a secret of this kind would most naturally have
      been written by a pirate of the Spanish main. As it was, I
      assumed the cryptograph to be English.

      “You observe there are no divisions between the words. Had there
      been divisions, the task would have been comparatively easy. In
      such case I should have commenced with a collation and analysis
      of the shorter words, and, had a word of a single letter
      occurred, as is most likely, (a or I, for example,) I should have
      considered the solution as assured. But, there being no division,
      my first step was to ascertain the predominant letters, as well
      as the least frequent. Counting all, I constructed a table, thus:

      Of the character 8 there are 33.

                          ;        “     26.
                          4        “     19.
                        ‡ )        “     16.
                          *        “     13.
                          5        “     12.
                          6        “     11.
                        † 1        “      8.
                          0        “      6.
                        9 2        “      5.
                        : 3        “      4.
                          ?        “      3.
                          ¶        “      2.
                         -.        “      1.

      “Now, in English, the letter which most frequently occurs is e.
      Afterwards, succession runs thus: _a o i d h n r s t u y c f g l
      m w b k p q x z_. _E_ predominates so remarkably that an
      individual sentence of any length is rarely seen, in which it is
      not the prevailing character.

      “Here, then, we leave, in the very beginning, the groundwork for
      something more than a mere guess. The general use which may be
      made of the table is obvious—but, in this particular cipher, we
      shall only very partially require its aid. As our predominant
      character is 8, we will commence by assuming it as the _e_ of the
      natural alphabet. To verify the supposition, let us observe if
      the 8 be seen often in couples—for _e_ is doubled with great
      frequency in English—in such words, for example, as ‘meet,’
      ‘.fleet,’ ‘speed,’ ‘seen,’ been,’ ‘agree,’ &c. In the present
      instance we see it doubled no less than five times, although the
      cryptograph is brief.

      “Let us assume 8, then, as _e_. Now, of all _words_ in the
      language, ‘the’ is most usual; let us see, therefore, whether
      there are not repetitions of any three characters, in the same
      order of collocation, the last of them being 8. If we discover
      repetitions of such letters, so arranged, they will most probably
      represent the word ‘the.’ Upon inspection, we find no less than
      seven such arrangements, the characters being ;48. We may,
      therefore, assume that ; represents _t_, 4 represents _h_, and 8
      represents _e_—the last being now well confirmed. Thus a great
      step has been taken.

      “But, having established a single word, we are enabled to
      establish a vastly important point; that is to say, several
      commencements and terminations of other words. Let us refer, for
      example, to the last instance but one, in which the combination
      ;48 occurs—not far from the end of the cipher. We know that the ;
      immediately ensuing is the commencement of a word, and, of the
      six characters succeeding this ‘the,’ we are cognizant of no less
      than five. Let us set these characters down, thus, by the letters
      we know them to represent, leaving a space for the unknown—

      t eeth.

      “Here we are enabled, at once, to discard the ‘th,’ as forming no
      portion of the word commencing with the first t; since, by
      experiment of the entire alphabet for a letter adapted to the
      vacancy, we perceive that no word can be formed of which this
      _th_ can be a part. We are thus narrowed into

      t ee,

      and, going through the alphabet, if necessary, as before, we
      arrive at the word ‘tree,’ as the sole possible reading. We thus
      gain another letter, _r_, represented by (, with the words ‘the
      tree’ in juxtaposition.

      “Looking beyond these words, for a short distance, we again see
      the combination ;48, and employ it by way of termination to what
      immediately precedes. We have thus this arrangement:

      the tree ;4(‡?34 the,

      or, substituting the natural letters, where known, it reads thus:

      the tree thr‡?3h the.

      “Now, if, in place of the unknown characters, we leave blank
      spaces, or substitute dots, we read thus:

      the tree thr...h the,

      when the word ‘_through_’ makes itself evident at once. But this
      discovery gives us three new letters, _o_, _u_ and _g_,
      represented by ‡, ? and 3.

      “Looking now, narrowly, through the cipher for combinations of
      known characters, we find, not very far from the beginning, this
      arrangement,

      83(88, or egree,

      which, plainly, is the conclusion of the word ‘degree,’ and gives
      us another letter, _d_, represented by †.

      “Four letters beyond the word ‘degree,’ we perceive the
      combination

      ;46(;88.

      “Translating the known characters, and representing the unknown
      by dots, as before, we read thus:

      th.rtee,

      an arrangement immediately suggestive of the word ‘thirteen,’ and
      again furnishing us with two new characters, _i_ and _n_,
      represented by 6 and *.

      “Referring, now, to the beginning of the cryptograph, we find the
      combination,

      53‡‡†.

      “Translating as before, we obtain

      good,

      which assures us that the first letter is _A_, and that the first
      two words are ‘A good.’

      “It is now time that we arrange our key, as far as discovered, in
      a tabular form, to avoid confusion. It will stand thus:

                5 represents      a
                †       “         d
                8       “         e
                3       “         g
                4       “         h
                6       “         i
                *       “         n
                ‡       “         o
                (       “         r
                ;       “         t
                ?       “         u

      “We have, therefore, no less than eleven of the most important
      letters represented, and it will be unnecessary to proceed with
      the details of the solution. I have said enough to convince you
      that ciphers of this nature are readily soluble, and to give you
      some insight into the rationale of their development. But be
      assured that the specimen before us appertains to the very
      simplest species of cryptograph. It now only remains to give you
      the full translation of the characters upon the parchment, as
      unriddled. Here it is:

      “‘_A good glass in the bishop’s hostel in the devil’s seat
      forty-one degrees and thirteen minutes northeast and by north
      main branch seventh limb east side shoot from the left eye of the
      death’s-head a bee line from the tree through the shot fifty feet
      out_.’”

      “But,” said I, “the enigma seems still in as bad a condition as
      ever. How is it possible to extort a meaning from all this jargon
      about ‘devil’s seats,’ ‘death’s heads,’ and ‘bishop’s hotels?’”

      “I confess,” replied Legrand, “that the matter still wears a
      serious aspect, when regarded with a casual glance. My first
      endeavor was to divide the sentence into the natural division
      intended by the cryptographist.”

      “You mean, to punctuate it?”

      “Something of that kind.”

      “But how was it possible to effect this?”

      “I reflected that it had been a point with the writer to run his
      words together without division, so as to increase the difficulty
      of solution. Now, a not over-acute man, in pursuing such an
      object, would be nearly certain to overdo the matter. When, in
      the course of his composition, he arrived at a break in his
      subject which would naturally require a pause, or a point, he
      would be exceedingly apt to run his characters, at this place,
      more than usually close together. If you will observe the MS., in
      the present instance, you will easily detect five such cases of
      unusual crowding. Acting upon this hint, I made the division
      thus: ‘A good glass in the Bishop’s hostel in the Devil’s
      seat—forty-one degrees and thirteen minutes—northeast and by
      north—main branch seventh limb east side—shoot from the left eye
      of the death’s-head—a bee-line from the tree through the shot
      fifty feet out.’”

      “Even this division,” said I, “leaves me still in the dark.”

      “It left me also in the dark,” replied Legrand, “for a few days;
      during which I made diligent inquiry, in the neighborhood of
      Sullivan’s Island, for any building which went by the name of the
      ‘Bishop’s Hotel;’ for, of course, I dropped the obsolete word
      ‘hostel.’ Gaining no information on the subject, I was on the
      point of extending my sphere of search, and proceeding in a more
      systematic manner, when, one morning, it entered into my head,
      quite suddenly, that this ‘Bishop’s Hostel’ might have some
      reference to an old family, of the name of Bessop, which, time
      out of mind, had held possession of an ancient manor-house, about
      four miles to the northward of the island. I accordingly went
      over to the plantation, and re-instituted my inquiries among the
      older negroes of the place. At length one of the most aged of the
      women said that she had heard of such a place as Bessop’s Castle,
      and thought that she could guide me to it, but that it was not a
      castle nor a tavern, but a high rock.

      “I offered to pay her well for her trouble, and, after some
      demur, she consented to accompany me to the spot. We found it
      without much difficulty, when, dismissing her, I proceeded to
      examine the place. The ‘castle’ consisted of an irregular
      assemblage of cliffs and rocks—one of the latter being quite
      remarkable for its height as well as for its insulated and
      artificial appearance. I clambered to its apex, and then felt
      much at a loss as to what should be next done.

      “While I was busied in reflection, my eyes fell upon a narrow
      ledge in the eastern face of the rock, perhaps a yard below the
      summit upon which I stood. This ledge projected about eighteen
      inches, and was not more than a foot wide, while a niche in the
      cliff just above it gave it a rude resemblance to one of the
      hollow-backed chairs used by our ancestors. I made no doubt that
      here was the ‘devil’s seat’ alluded to in the MS., and now I
      seemed to grasp the full secret of the riddle.

      “The ‘good glass,’ I knew, could have reference to nothing but a
      telescope; for the word ‘glass’ is rarely employed in any other
      sense by seamen. Now here, I at once saw, was a telescope to be
      used, and a definite point of view, admitting no variation, from
      which to use it. Nor did I hesitate to believe that the phrases,
      ‘forty-one degrees and thirteen minutes,’ and ‘northeast and by
      north,’ were intended as directions for the levelling of the
      glass. Greatly excited by these discoveries, I hurried home,
      procured a telescope, and returned to the rock.

      “I let myself down to the ledge, and found that it was impossible
      to retain a seat upon it except in one particular position. This
      fact confirmed my preconceived idea. I proceeded to use the
      glass. Of course, the ‘forty-one degrees and thirteen minutes’
      could allude to nothing but elevation above the visible horizon,
      since the horizontal direction was clearly indicated by the
      words, ‘northeast and by north.’ This latter direction I at once
      established by means of a pocket-compass; then, pointing the
      glass as nearly at an angle of forty-one degrees of elevation as
      I could do it by guess, I moved it cautiously up or down, until
      my attention was arrested by a circular rift or opening in the
      foliage of a large tree that overtopped its fellows in the
      distance. In the centre of this rift I perceived a white spot,
      but could not, at first, distinguish what it was. Adjusting the
      focus of the telescope, I again looked, and now made it out to be
      a human skull.

      “Upon this discovery I was so sanguine as to consider the enigma
      solved; for the phrase ‘main branch, seventh limb, east side,’
      could refer only to the position of the skull upon the tree,
      while ‘shoot from the left eye of the death’s head’ admitted,
      also, of but one interpretation, in regard to a search for buried
      treasure. I perceived that the design was to drop a bullet from
      the left eye of the skull, and that a bee-line, or, in other
      words, a straight line, drawn from the nearest point of the trunk
      through ‘the shot,’ (or the spot where the bullet fell,) and
      thence extended to a distance of fifty feet, would indicate a
      definite point—and beneath this point I thought it at least
      possible that a deposit of value lay concealed.”

      “All this,” I said, “is exceedingly clear, and, although
      ingenious, still simple and explicit. When you left the Bishop’s
      Hotel, what then?”

      “Why, having carefully taken the bearings of the tree, I turned
      homewards. The instant that I left ‘the devil’s seat,’ however,
      the circular rift vanished; nor could I get a glimpse of it
      afterwards, turn as I would. What seems to me the chief ingenuity
      in this whole business, is the fact (for repeated experiment has
      convinced me it is a fact) that the circular opening in question
      is visible from no other attainable point of view than that
      afforded by the narrow ledge upon the face of the rock.

      “In this expedition to the ‘Bishop’s Hotel’ I had been attended
      by Jupiter, who had, no doubt, observed, for some weeks past, the
      abstraction of my demeanor, and took especial care not to leave
      me alone. But, on the next day, getting up very early, I
      contrived to give him the slip, and went into the hills in search
      of the tree. After much toil I found it. When I came home at
      night my valet proposed to give me a flogging. With the rest of
      the adventure I believe you are as well acquainted as myself.”

      “I suppose,” said I, “you missed the spot, in the first attempt
      at digging, through Jupiter’s stupidity in letting the bug fall
      through the right instead of through the left eye of the skull.”

      “Precisely. This mistake made a difference of about two inches
      and a half in the ‘shot’—that is to say, in the position of the
      peg nearest the tree; and had the treasure been beneath the
      ‘shot,’ the error would have been of little moment; but ‘the
      shot,’ together with the nearest point of the tree, were merely
      two points for the establishment of a line of direction; of
      course the error, however trivial in the beginning, increased as
      we proceeded with the line, and by the time we had gone fifty
      feet, threw us quite off the scent. But for my deep-seated
      impressions that treasure was here somewhere actually buried, we
      might have had all our labor in vain.”

      “But your grandiloquence, and your conduct in swinging the
      beetle—how excessively odd! I was sure you were mad. And why did
      you insist upon letting fall the bug, instead of a bullet, from
      the skull?”

      “Why, to be frank, I felt somewhat annoyed by your evident
      suspicions touching my sanity, and so resolved to punish you
      quietly, in my own way, by a little bit of sober mystification.
      For this reason I swung the beetle, and for this reason I let it
      fall it from the tree. An observation of yours about its great
      weight suggested the latter idea.”

      “Yes, I perceive; and now there is only one point which puzzles
      me. What are we to make of the skeletons found in the hole?”

      “That is a question I am no more able to answer than yourself.
      There seems, however, only one plausible way of accounting for
      them—and yet it is dreadful to believe in such atrocity as my
      suggestion would imply. It is clear that Kidd—if Kidd indeed
      secreted this treasure, which I doubt not—it is clear that he
      must have had assistance in the labor. But this labor concluded,
      he may have thought it expedient to remove all participants in
      his secret. Perhaps a couple of blows with a mattock were
      sufficient, while his coadjutors were busy in the pit; perhaps it
      required a dozen—who shall tell?”




FOUR BEASTS IN ONE—THE HOMO-CAMELEOPARD


Chacun a ses vertus.

—_Crébillon’s Xerxes._

      Antiochus Epiphanes is very generally looked upon as the Gog of
      the prophet Ezekiel. This honor is, however, more properly
      attributable to Cambyses, the son of Cyrus. And, indeed, the
      character of the Syrian monarch does by no means stand in need of
      any adventitious embellishment. His accession to the throne, or
      rather his usurpation of the sovereignty, a hundred and
      seventy-one years before the coming of Christ; his attempt to
      plunder the temple of Diana at Ephesus; his implacable hostility
      to the Jews; his pollution of the Holy of Holies; and his
      miserable death at Taba, after a tumultuous reign of eleven
      years, are circumstances of a prominent kind, and therefore more
      generally noticed by the historians of his time than the impious,
      dastardly, cruel, silly, and whimsical achievements which make up
      the sum total of his private life and reputation.

      Let us suppose, gentle reader, that it is now the year of the
      world three thousand eight hundred and thirty, and let us, for a
      few minutes, imagine ourselves at that most grotesque habitation
      of man, the remarkable city of Antioch. To be sure there were, in
      Syria and other countries, sixteen cities of that appellation,
      besides the one to which I more particularly allude. But ours is
      that which went by the name of Antiochia Epidaphne, from its
      vicinity to the little village of Daphne, where stood a temple to
      that divinity. It was built (although about this matter there is
      some dispute) by Seleucus Nicanor, the first king of the country
      after Alexander the Great, in memory of his father Antiochus, and
      became immediately the residence of the Syrian monarchy. In the
      flourishing times of the Roman Empire, it was the ordinary
      station of the prefect of the eastern provinces; and many of the
      emperors of the queen city (among whom may be mentioned,
      especially, Verus and Valens) spent here the greater part of
      their time. But I perceive we have arrived at the city itself.
      Let us ascend this battlement, and throw our eyes upon the town
      and neighboring country.

      “What broad and rapid river is that which forces its way, with
      innumerable falls, through the mountainous wilderness, and
      finally through the wilderness of buildings?”

      That is the Orontes, and it is the only water in sight, with the
      exception of the Mediterranean, which stretches, like a broad
      mirror, about twelve miles off to the southward. Every one has
      seen the Mediterranean; but let me tell you, there are few who
      have had a peep at Antioch. By few, I mean, few who, like you and
      me, have had, at the same time, the advantages of a modern
      education. Therefore cease to regard that sea, and give your
      whole attention to the mass of houses that lie beneath us. You
      will remember that it is now the year of the world three thousand
      eight hundred and thirty. Were it later—for example, were it the
      year of our Lord eighteen hundred and forty-five, we should be
      deprived of this extraordinary spectacle. In the nineteenth
      century Antioch is—that is to say, Antioch will be—in a
      lamentable state of decay. It will have been, by that time,
      totally destroyed, at three different periods, by three
      successive earthquakes. Indeed, to say the truth, what little of
      its former self may then remain, will be found in so desolate and
      ruinous a state that the patriarch shall have removed his
      residence to Damascus. This is well. I see you profit by my
      advice, and are making the most of your time in inspecting the
      premises—in

      —satisfying your eyes
      With the memorials and the things of fame
      That most renown this city.—

      I beg pardon; I had forgotten that Shakespeare will not flourish
      for seventeen hundred and fifty years to come. But does not the
      appearance of Epidaphne justify me in calling it grotesque?

      “It is well fortified; and in this respect is as much indebted to
      nature as to art.”

      Very true.

      “There are a prodigious number of stately palaces.”

      There are.

      “And the numerous temples, sumptuous and magnificent, may bear
      comparison with the most lauded of antiquity.”

      All this I must acknowledge. Still there is an infinity of mud
      huts, and abominable hovels. We cannot help perceiving abundance
      of filth in every kennel, and, were it not for the over-powering
      fumes of idolatrous incense, I have no doubt we should find a
      most intolerable stench. Did you ever behold streets so
      insufferably narrow, or houses so miraculously tall? What gloom
      their shadows cast upon the ground! It is well the swinging lamps
      in those endless colonnades are kept burning throughout the day;
      we should otherwise have the darkness of Egypt in the time of her
      desolation.

      “It is certainly a strange place! What is the meaning of yonder
      singular building? See! it towers above all others, and lies to
      the eastward of what I take to be the royal palace!”

      That is the new Temple of the Sun, who is adored in Syria under
      the title of Elah Gabalah. Hereafter a very notorious Roman
      Emperor will institute this worship in Rome, and thence derive a
      cognomen, Heliogabalus. I dare say you would like to take a peep
      at the divinity of the temple. You need not look up at the
      heavens; his Sunship is not there—at least not the Sunship adored
      by the Syrians. That deity will be found in the interior of
      yonder building. He is worshipped under the figure of a large
      stone pillar terminating at the summit in a cone or pyramid,
      whereby is denoted Fire.

      “Hark—behold!—who can those ridiculous beings be, half naked,
      with their faces painted, shouting and gesticulating to the
      rabble?”

      Some few are mountebanks. Others more particularly belong to the
      race of philosophers. The greatest portion, however—those
      especially who belabor the populace with clubs—are the principal
      courtiers of the palace, executing as in duty bound, some
      laudable comicality of the king’s.

      “But what have we here? Heavens! the town is swarming with wild
      beasts! How terrible a spectacle!—how dangerous a peculiarity!”

      Terrible, if you please; but not in the least degree dangerous.
      Each animal if you will take the pains to observe, is following,
      very quietly, in the wake of its master. Some few, to be sure,
      are led with a rope about the neck, but these are chiefly the
      lesser or timid species. The lion, the tiger, and the leopard are
      entirely without restraint. They have been trained without
      difficulty to their present profession, and attend upon their
      respective owners in the capacity of valets-de-chambre. It is
      true, there are occasions when Nature asserts her violated
      dominions;—but then the devouring of a man-at-arms, or the
      throttling of a consecrated bull, is a circumstance of too little
      moment to be more than hinted at in Epidaphne.

      “But what extraordinary tumult do I hear? Surely this is a loud
      noise even for Antioch! It argues some commotion of unusual
      interest.”

      Yes—undoubtedly. The king has ordered some novel spectacle—some
      gladiatorial exhibition at the hippodrome—or perhaps the massacre
      of the Scythian prisoners—or the conflagration of his new
      palace—or the tearing down of a handsome temple—or, indeed, a
      bonfire of a few Jews. The uproar increases. Shouts of laughter
      ascend the skies. The air becomes dissonant with wind
      instruments, and horrible with clamor of a million throats. Let
      us descend, for the love of fun, and see what is going on! This
      way—be careful! Here we are in the principal street, which is
      called the street of Timarchus. The sea of people is coming this
      way, and we shall find a difficulty in stemming the tide. They
      are pouring through the alley of Heraclides, which leads directly
      from the palace;—therefore the king is most probably among the
      rioters. Yes—I hear the shouts of the herald proclaiming his
      approach in the pompous phraseology of the East. We shall have a
      glimpse of his person as he passes by the temple of Ashimah. Let
      us ensconce ourselves in the vestibule of the sanctuary; he will
      be here anon. In the meantime let us survey this image. What is
      it? Oh! it is the god Ashimah in proper person. You perceive,
      however, that he is neither a lamb, nor a goat, nor a satyr,
      neither has he much resemblance to the Pan of the Arcadians. Yet
      all these appearances have been given—I beg pardon—will be
      given—by the learned of future ages, to the Ashimah of the
      Syrians. Put on your spectacles, and tell me what it is. What is
      it?

      “Bless me! it is an ape!”

      True—a baboon; but by no means the less a deity. His name is a
      derivation of the Greek Simia—what great fools are antiquarians!
      But see!—see!—yonder scampers a ragged little urchin. Where is he
      going? What is he bawling about? What does he say? Oh! he says
      the king is coming in triumph; that he is dressed in state; that
      he has just finished putting to death, with his own hand, a
      thousand chained Israelitish prisoners! For this exploit the
      ragamuffin is lauding him to the skies! Hark! here comes a troop
      of a similar description. They have made a Latin hymn upon the
      valor of the king, and are singing it as they go:

      Mille, mille, mille,
      Mille, mille, mille,
      Decollavimus, unus homo!
      Mille, mille, mille, mille, decollavimus!
      Mille, mille, mille,
      Vivat qui mille mille occidit!
      Tantum vini habet nemo
      Quantum sanguinis effudit!(*1)

      Which may be thus paraphrased:

      A thousand, a thousand, a thousand,
      A thousand, a thousand, a thousand,
      We, with one warrior, have slain!
      A thousand, a thousand, a thousand, a thousand.
      Sing a thousand over again!
      Soho!—let us sing
      Long life to our king,
      Who knocked over a thousand so fine!
      Soho!—let us roar,
      He has given us more
      Red gallons of gore
      Than all Syria can furnish of wine!

      “Do you hear that flourish of trumpets?”

      Yes—the king is coming! See! the people are aghast with
      admiration, and lift up their eyes to the heavens in reverence.
      He comes!—he is coming!—there he is!

      “Who?—where?—the king?—do not behold him—cannot say that I
      perceive him.”

      Then you must be blind.

      “Very possible. Still I see nothing but a tumultuous mob of
      idiots and madmen, who are busy in prostrating themselves before
      a gigantic cameleopard, and endeavoring to obtain a kiss of the
      animal’s hoofs. See! the beast has very justly kicked one of the
      rabble over—and another—and another—and another. Indeed, I cannot
      help admiring the animal for the excellent use he is making of
      his feet.”

      Rabble, indeed!—why these are the noble and free citizens of
      Epidaphne! Beasts, did you say?—take care that you are not
      overheard. Do you not perceive that the animal has the visage of
      a man? Why, my dear sir, that cameleopard is no other than
      Antiochus Epiphanes, Antiochus the Illustrious, King of Syria,
      and the most potent of all the autocrats of the East! It is true,
      that he is entitled, at times, Antiochus Epimanes—Antiochus the
      madman—but that is because all people have not the capacity to
      appreciate his merits. It is also certain that he is at present
      ensconced in the hide of a beast, and is doing his best to play
      the part of a cameleopard; but this is done for the better
      sustaining his dignity as king. Besides, the monarch is of
      gigantic stature, and the dress is therefore neither unbecoming
      nor over large. We may, however, presume he would not have
      adopted it but for some occasion of especial state. Such, you
      will allow, is the massacre of a thousand Jews. With how superior
      a dignity the monarch perambulates on all fours! His tail, you
      perceive, is held aloft by his two principal concubines, Elline
      and Argelais; and his whole appearance would be infinitely
      prepossessing, were it not for the protuberance of his eyes,
      which will certainly start out of his head, and the queer color
      of his face, which has become nondescript from the quantity of
      wine he has swallowed. Let us follow him to the hippodrome,
      whither he is proceeding, and listen to the song of triumph which
      he is commencing:

      Who is king but Epiphanes?
      Say—do you know?
      Who is king but Epiphanes?
      Bravo!—bravo!
      There is none but Epiphanes,
      No—there is none:
      So tear down the temples,
      And put out the sun!

      Well and strenuously sung! The populace are hailing him ‘Prince
      of Poets,’ as well as ‘Glory of the East,’ ‘Delight of the
      Universe,’ and ‘Most Remarkable of Cameleopards.’ They have
      encored his effusion, and do you hear?—he is singing it over
      again. When he arrives at the hippodrome, he will be crowned with
      the poetic wreath, in anticipation of his victory at the
      approaching Olympics.

      “But, good Jupiter! what is the matter in the crowd behind us?”

      Behind us, did you say?—oh! ah!—I perceive. My friend, it is well
      that you spoke in time. Let us get into a place of safety as soon
      as possible. Here!—let us conceal ourselves in the arch of this
      aqueduct, and I will inform you presently of the origin of the
      commotion. It has turned out as I have been anticipating. The
      singular appearance of the cameleopard and the head of a man,
      has, it seems, given offence to the notions of propriety
      entertained, in general, by the wild animals domesticated in the
      city. A mutiny has been the result; and, as is usual upon such
      occasions, all human efforts will be of no avail in quelling the
      mob. Several of the Syrians have already been devoured; but the
      general voice of the four-footed patriots seems to be for eating
      up the cameleopard. ‘The Prince of Poets,’ therefore, is upon his
      hinder legs, running for his life. His courtiers have left him in
      the lurch, and his concubines have followed so excellent an
      example. ‘Delight of the Universe,’ thou art in a sad
      predicament! ‘Glory of the East,’ thou art in danger of
      mastication! Therefore never regard so piteously thy tail; it
      will undoubtedly be draggled in the mud, and for this there is no
      help. Look not behind thee, then, at its unavoidable degradation;
      but take courage, ply thy legs with vigor, and scud for the
      hippodrome! Remember that thou art Antiochus Epiphanes. Antiochus
      the Illustrious!—also ‘Prince of Poets,’ ‘Glory of the East,’
      ‘Delight of the Universe,’ and ‘Most Remarkable of Cameleopards!’
      Heavens! what a power of speed thou art displaying! What a
      capacity for leg-bail thou art developing! Run, Prince!—Bravo,
      Epiphanes! Well done, Cameleopard!—Glorious Antiochus!—He
      runs!—he leaps!—he flies! Like an arrow from a catapult he
      approaches the hippodrome! He leaps!—he shrieks!—he is there!
      This is well; for hadst thou, ‘Glory of the East,’ been half a
      second longer in reaching the gates of the Amphitheatre, there is
      not a bear’s cub in Epidaphne that would not have had a nibble at
      thy carcase. Let us be off—let us take our departure!—for we
      shall find our delicate modern ears unable to endure the vast
      uproar which is about to commence in celebration of the king’s
      escape! Listen! it has already commenced. See!—the whole town is
      topsy-turvy.

      “Surely this is the most populous city of the East! What a
      wilderness of people! what a jumble of all ranks and ages! what a
      multiplicity of sects and nations! what a variety of costumes!
      what a Babel of languages! what a screaming of beasts! what a
      tinkling of instruments! what a parcel of philosophers!”

      Come let us be off.

      “Stay a moment! I see a vast hubbub in the hippodrome; what is
      the meaning of it, I beseech you?”

      That?—oh, nothing! The noble and free citizens of Epidaphne
      being, as they declare, well satisfied of the faith, valor,
      wisdom, and divinity of their king, and having, moreover, been
      eye-witnesses of his late superhuman agility, do think it no more
      than their duty to invest his brows (in addition to the poetic
      crown) with the wreath of victory in the footrace—a wreath which
      it is evident he must obtain at the celebration of the next
      Olympiad, and which, therefore, they now give him in advance.

Footnotes—Four Beasts

      (*1) Flavius Vospicus says, that the hymn here introduced was
      sung by the rabble upon the occasion of Aurelian, in the Sarmatic
      war, having slain, with his own hand, nine hundred and fifty of
      the enemy.




THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE


  What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid
  himself among women, although puzzling questions, are not beyond
  _all_ conjecture.

—_Sir Thomas Browne._

      The mental features discoursed of as the analytical, are, in
      themselves, but little susceptible of analysis. We appreciate
      them only in their effects. We know of them, among other things,
      that they are always to their possessor, when inordinately
      possessed, a source of the liveliest enjoyment. As the strong man
      exults in his physical ability, delighting in such exercises as
      call his muscles into action, so glories the analyst in that
      moral activity which _disentangles._ He derives pleasure from
      even the most trivial occupations bringing his talent into play.
      He is fond of enigmas, of conundrums, of hieroglyphics;
      exhibiting in his solutions of each a degree of _acumen_ which
      appears to the ordinary apprehension præternatural. His results,
      brought about by the very soul and essence of method, have, in
      truth, the whole air of intuition.

      The faculty of re-solution is possibly much invigorated by
      mathematical study, and especially by that highest branch of it
      which, unjustly, and merely on account of its retrograde
      operations, has been called, as if _par excellence_, analysis.
      Yet to calculate is not in itself to analyse. A chess-player, for
      example, does the one without effort at the other. It follows
      that the game of chess, in its effects upon mental character, is
      greatly misunderstood. I am not now writing a treatise, but
      simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by observations
      very much at random; I will, therefore, take occasion to assert
      that the higher powers of the reflective intellect are more
      decidedly and more usefully tasked by the unostentatious game of
      draughts than by all the elaborate frivolity of chess. In this
      latter, where the pieces have different and _bizarre_ motions,
      with various and variable values, what is only complex is
      mistaken (a not unusual error) for what is profound. The
      _attention_ is here called powerfully into play. If it flag for
      an instant, an oversight is committed resulting in injury or
      defeat. The possible moves being not only manifold but involute,
      the chances of such oversights are multiplied; and in nine cases
      out of ten it is the more concentrative rather than the more
      acute player who conquers. In draughts, on the contrary, where
      the moves are _unique_ and have but little variation, the
      probabilities of inadvertence are diminished, and the mere
      attention being left comparatively unemployed, what advantages
      are obtained by either party are obtained by superior _acumen_.
      To be less abstract, let us suppose a game of draughts where the
      pieces are reduced to four kings, and where, of course, no
      oversight is to be expected. It is obvious that here the victory
      can be decided (the players being at all equal) only by some
      _recherché_ movement, the result of some strong exertion of the
      intellect. Deprived of ordinary resources, the analyst throws
      himself into the spirit of his opponent, identifies himself
      therewith, and not unfrequently sees thus, at a glance, the sole
      methods (sometime indeed absurdly simple ones) by which he may
      seduce into error or hurry into miscalculation.

      Whist has long been noted for its influence upon what is termed
      the calculating power; and men of the highest order of intellect
      have been known to take an apparently unaccountable delight in
      it, while eschewing chess as frivolous. Beyond doubt there is
      nothing of a similar nature so greatly tasking the faculty of
      analysis. The best chess-player in Christendom _may_ be little
      more than the best player of chess; but proficiency in whist
      implies capacity for success in all those more important
      undertakings where mind struggles with mind. When I say
      proficiency, I mean that perfection in the game which includes a
      comprehension of _all_ the sources whence legitimate advantage
      may be derived. These are not only manifold but multiform, and
      lie frequently among recesses of thought altogether inaccessible
      to the ordinary understanding. To observe attentively is to
      remember distinctly; and, so far, the concentrative chess-player
      will do very well at whist; while the rules of Hoyle (themselves
      based upon the mere mechanism of the game) are sufficiently and
      generally comprehensible. Thus to have a retentive memory, and to
      proceed by “the book,” are points commonly regarded as the sum
      total of good playing. But it is in matters beyond the limits of
      mere rule that the skill of the analyst is evinced. He makes, in
      silence, a host of observations and inferences. So, perhaps, do
      his companions; and the difference in the extent of the
      information obtained, lies not so much in the validity of the
      inference as in the quality of the observation. The necessary
      knowledge is that of _what_ to observe. Our player confines
      himself not at all; nor, because the game is the object, does he
      reject deductions from things external to the game. He examines
      the countenance of his partner, comparing it carefully with that
      of each of his opponents. He considers the mode of assorting the
      cards in each hand; often counting trump by trump, and honor by
      honor, through the glances bestowed by their holders upon each.
      He notes every variation of face as the play progresses,
      gathering a fund of thought from the differences in the
      expression of certainty, of surprise, of triumph, or of chagrin.
      From the manner of gathering up a trick he judges whether the
      person taking it can make another in the suit. He recognises what
      is played through feint, by the manner with which it is thrown
      upon the table. A casual or inadvertent word; the accidental
      dropping or turning of a card, with the accompanying anxiety or
      carelessness in regard to its concealment; the counting of the
      tricks, with the order of their arrangement; embarrassment,
      hesitation, eagerness or trepidation—all afford, to his
      apparently intuitive perception, indications of the true state of
      affairs. The first two or three rounds having been played, he is
      in full possession of the contents of each hand, and
      thenceforward puts down his cards with as absolute a precision of
      purpose as if the rest of the party had turned outward the faces
      of their own.

      The analytical power should not be confounded with ample
      ingenuity; for while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the
      ingenious man is often remarkably incapable of analysis. The
      constructive or combining power, by which ingenuity is usually
      manifested, and to which the phrenologists (I believe
      erroneously) have assigned a separate organ, supposing it a
      primitive faculty, has been so frequently seen in those whose
      intellect bordered otherwise upon idiocy, as to have attracted
      general observation among writers on morals. Between ingenuity
      and the analytic ability there exists a difference far greater,
      indeed, than that between the fancy and the imagination, but of a
      character very strictly analogous. It will be found, in fact,
      that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the _truly_
      imaginative never otherwise than analytic.

      The narrative which follows will appear to the reader somewhat in
      the light of a commentary upon the propositions just advanced.

      Residing in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of
      18—, I there became acquainted with a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin.
      This young gentleman was of an excellent, indeed of an
      illustrious family, but, by a variety of untoward events, had
      been reduced to such poverty that the energy of his character
      succumbed beneath it, and he ceased to bestir himself in the
      world, or to care for the retrieval of his fortunes. By courtesy
      of his creditors, there still remained in his possession a small
      remnant of his patrimony; and, upon the income arising from this,
      he managed, by means of a rigorous economy, to procure the
      necessaries of life, without troubling himself about its
      superfluities. Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries, and in
      Paris these are easily obtained.

      Our first meeting was at an obscure library in the Rue
      Montmartre, where the accident of our both being in search of the
      same very rare and very remarkable volume, brought us into closer
      communion. We saw each other again and again. I was deeply
      interested in the little family history which he detailed to me
      with all that candor which a Frenchman indulges whenever mere
      self is his theme. I was astonished, too, at the vast extent of
      his reading; and, above all, I felt my soul enkindled within me
      by the wild fervor, and the vivid freshness of his imagination.
      Seeking in Paris the objects I then sought, I felt that the
      society of such a man would be to me a treasure beyond price; and
      this feeling I frankly confided to him. It was at length arranged
      that we should live together during my stay in the city; and as
      my worldly circumstances were somewhat less embarrassed than his
      own, I was permitted to be at the expense of renting, and
      furnishing in a style which suited the rather fantastic gloom of
      our common temper, a time-eaten and grotesque mansion, long
      deserted through superstitions into which we did not inquire, and
      tottering to its fall in a retired and desolate portion of the
      Faubourg St. Germain.

      Had the routine of our life at this place been known to the
      world, we should have been regarded as madmen—although, perhaps,
      as madmen of a harmless nature. Our seclusion was perfect. We
      admitted no visitors. Indeed the locality of our retirement had
      been carefully kept a secret from my own former associates; and
      it had been many years since Dupin had ceased to know or be known
      in Paris. We existed within ourselves alone.

      It was a freak of fancy in my friend (for what else shall I call
      it?) to be enamored of the night for her own sake; and into this
      _bizarrerie_, as into all his others, I quietly fell; giving
      myself up to his wild whims with a perfect _abandon_. The sable
      divinity would not herself dwell with us always; but we could
      counterfeit her presence. At the first dawn of the morning we
      closed all the messy shutters of our old building; lighting a
      couple of tapers which, strongly perfumed, threw out only the
      ghastliest and feeblest of rays. By the aid of these we then
      busied our souls in dreams—reading, writing, or conversing, until
      warned by the clock of the advent of the true Darkness. Then we
      sallied forth into the streets arm in arm, continuing the topics
      of the day, or roaming far and wide until a late hour, seeking,
      amid the wild lights and shadows of the populous city, that
      infinity of mental excitement which quiet observation can afford.

      At such times I could not help remarking and admiring (although
      from his rich ideality I had been prepared to expect it) a
      peculiar analytic ability in Dupin. He seemed, too, to take an
      eager delight in its exercise—if not exactly in its display—and
      did not hesitate to confess the pleasure thus derived. He boasted
      to me, with a low chuckling laugh, that most men, in respect to
      himself, wore windows in their bosoms, and was wont to follow up
      such assertions by direct and very startling proofs of his
      intimate knowledge of my own. His manner at these moments was
      frigid and abstract; his eyes were vacant in expression; while
      his voice, usually a rich tenor, rose into a treble which would
      have sounded petulantly but for the deliberateness and entire
      distinctness of the enunciation. Observing him in these moods, I
      often dwelt meditatively upon the old philosophy of the Bi-Part
      Soul, and amused myself with the fancy of a double Dupin—the
      creative and the resolvent.

      Let it not be supposed, from what I have just said, that I am
      detailing any mystery, or penning any romance. What I have
      described in the Frenchman, was merely the result of an excited,
      or perhaps of a diseased intelligence. But of the character of
      his remarks at the periods in question an example will best
      convey the idea.

      We were strolling one night down a long dirty street in the
      vicinity of the Palais Royal. Being both, apparently, occupied
      with thought, neither of us had spoken a syllable for fifteen
      minutes at least. All at once Dupin broke forth with these words:

      “He is a very little fellow, that’s true, and would do better for
      the _Théâtre des Variétés_.”

      “There can be no doubt of that,” I replied unwittingly, and not
      at first observing (so much had I been absorbed in reflection)
      the extraordinary manner in which the speaker had chimed in with
      my meditations. In an instant afterward I recollected myself, and
      my astonishment was profound.

      “Dupin,” said I, gravely, “this is beyond my comprehension. I do
      not hesitate to say that I am amazed, and can scarcely credit my
      senses. How was it possible you should know I was thinking of
      ——?” Here I paused, to ascertain beyond a doubt whether he really
      knew of whom I thought.

      “—— of Chantilly,” said he, “why do you pause? You were remarking
      to yourself that his diminutive figure unfitted him for tragedy.”

      This was precisely what had formed the subject of my reflections.
      Chantilly was a _quondam_ cobbler of the Rue St. Denis, who,
      becoming stage-mad, had attempted the _rôle_ of Xerxes, in
      Crébillon’s tragedy so called, and been notoriously Pasquinaded
      for his pains.

      “Tell me, for Heaven’s sake,” I exclaimed, “the method—if method
      there is—by which you have been enabled to fathom my soul in this
      matter.” In fact I was even more startled than I would have been
      willing to express.

      “It was the fruiterer,” replied my friend, “who brought you to
      the conclusion that the mender of soles was not of sufficient
      height for Xerxes _et id genus omne_.”

      “The fruiterer!—you astonish me—I know no fruiterer whomsoever.”

      “The man who ran up against you as we entered the street—it may
      have been fifteen minutes ago.”

      I now remembered that, in fact, a fruiterer, carrying upon his
      head a large basket of apples, had nearly thrown me down, by
      accident, as we passed from the Rue C—— into the thoroughfare
      where we stood; but what this had to do with Chantilly I could
      not possibly understand.

      There was not a particle of _charlatânerie_ about Dupin. “I will
      explain,” he said, “and that you may comprehend all clearly, we
      will first retrace the course of your meditations, from the
      moment in which I spoke to you until that of the _rencontre_ with
      the fruiterer in question. The larger links of the chain run
      thus—Chantilly, Orion, Dr. Nichols, Epicurus, Stereotomy, the
      street stones, the fruiterer.”

      There are few persons who have not, at some period of their
      lives, amused themselves in retracing the steps by which
      particular conclusions of their own minds have been attained. The
      occupation is often full of interest; and he who attempts it for
      the first time is astonished by the apparently illimitable
      distance and incoherence between the starting-point and the goal.
      What, then, must have been my amazement when I heard the
      Frenchman speak what he had just spoken, and when I could not
      help acknowledging that he had spoken the truth. He continued:

      “We had been talking of horses, if I remember aright, just before
      leaving the Rue C——. This was the last subject we discussed. As
      we crossed into this street, a fruiterer, with a large basket
      upon his head, brushing quickly past us, thrust you upon a pile
      of paving stones collected at a spot where the causeway is
      undergoing repair. You stepped upon one of the loose fragments,
      slipped, slightly strained your ankle, appeared vexed or sulky,
      muttered a few words, turned to look at the pile, and then
      proceeded in silence. I was not particularly attentive to what
      you did; but observation has become with me, of late, a species
      of necessity.

      “You kept your eyes upon the ground—glancing, with a petulant
      expression, at the holes and ruts in the pavement, (so that I saw
      you were still thinking of the stones,) until we reached the
      little alley called Lamartine, which has been paved, by way of
      experiment, with the overlapping and riveted blocks. Here your
      countenance brightened up, and, perceiving your lips move, I
      could not doubt that you murmured the word ‘stereotomy,’ a term
      very affectedly applied to this species of pavement. I knew that
      you could not say to yourself ‘stereotomy’ without being brought
      to think of atomies, and thus of the theories of Epicurus; and
      since, when we discussed this subject not very long ago, I
      mentioned to you how singularly, yet with how little notice, the
      vague guesses of that noble Greek had met with confirmation in
      the late nebular cosmogony, I felt that you could not avoid
      casting your eyes upward to the great _nebula_ in Orion, and I
      certainly expected that you would do so. You did look up; and I
      was now assured that I had correctly followed your steps. But in
      that bitter _tirade_ upon Chantilly, which appeared in
      yesterday’s ‘_Musée_,’ the satirist, making some disgraceful
      allusions to the cobbler’s change of name upon assuming the
      buskin, quoted a Latin line about which we have often conversed.
      I mean the line

     Perdidit antiquum litera prima sonum.

      “I had told you that this was in reference to Orion, formerly
      written Urion; and, from certain pungencies connected with this
      explanation, I was aware that you could not have forgotten it. It
      was clear, therefore, that you would not fail to combine the two
      ideas of Orion and Chantilly. That you did combine them I saw by
      the character of the smile which passed over your lips. You
      thought of the poor cobbler’s immolation. So far, you had been
      stooping in your gait; but now I saw you draw yourself up to your
      full height. I was then sure that you reflected upon the
      diminutive figure of Chantilly. At this point I interrupted your
      meditations to remark that as, in fact, he was a very little
      fellow—that Chantilly—he would do better at the _Théâtre des
      Variétés_.”

      Not long after this, we were looking over an evening edition of
      the “Gazette des Tribunaux,” when the following paragraphs
      arrested our attention.

      “_Extraordinary Murders_.—This morning, about three o’clock, the
      inhabitants of the Quartier St. Roch were aroused from sleep by a
      succession of terrific shrieks, issuing, apparently, from the
      fourth story of a house in the Rue Morgue, known to be in the
      sole occupancy of one Madame L’Espanaye, and her daughter,
      Mademoiselle Camille L’Espanaye. After some delay, occasioned by
      a fruitless attempt to procure admission in the usual manner, the
      gateway was broken in with a crowbar, and eight or ten of the
      neighbors entered accompanied by two _gendarmes_. By this time
      the cries had ceased; but, as the party rushed up the first
      flight of stairs, two or more rough voices in angry contention
      were distinguished and seemed to proceed from the upper part of
      the house. As the second landing was reached, these sounds, also,
      had ceased and everything remained perfectly quiet. The party
      spread themselves and hurried from room to room. Upon arriving at
      a large back chamber in the fourth story, (the door of which,
      being found locked, with the key inside, was forced open,) a
      spectacle presented itself which struck every one present not
      less with horror than with astonishment.

      “The apartment was in the wildest disorder—the furniture broken
      and thrown about in all directions. There was only one bedstead;
      and from this the bed had been removed, and thrown into the
      middle of the floor. On a chair lay a razor, besmeared with
      blood. On the hearth were two or three long and thick tresses of
      grey human hair, also dabbled in blood, and seeming to have been
      pulled out by the roots. Upon the floor were found four
      Napoleons, an ear-ring of topaz, three large silver spoons, three
      smaller of _métal d’Alger_, and two bags, containing nearly four
      thousand francs in gold. The drawers of a _bureau_, which stood
      in one corner were open, and had been, apparently, rifled,
      although many articles still remained in them. A small iron safe
      was discovered under the _bed_ (not under the bedstead). It was
      open, with the key still in the door. It had no contents beyond a
      few old letters, and other papers of little consequence.

      “Of Madame L’Espanaye no traces were here seen; but an unusual
      quantity of soot being observed in the fire-place, a search was
      made in the chimney, and (horrible to relate!) the corpse of the
      daughter, head downward, was dragged therefrom; it having been
      thus forced up the narrow aperture for a considerable distance.
      The body was quite warm. Upon examining it, many excoriations
      were perceived, no doubt occasioned by the violence with which it
      had been thrust up and disengaged. Upon the face were many severe
      scratches, and, upon the throat, dark bruises, and deep
      indentations of finger nails, as if the deceased had been
      throttled to death.

      “After a thorough investigation of every portion of the house,
      without farther discovery, the party made its way into a small
      paved yard in the rear of the building, where lay the corpse of
      the old lady, with her throat so entirely cut that, upon an
      attempt to raise her, the head fell off. The body, as well as the
      head, was fearfully mutilated—the former so much so as scarcely
      to retain any semblance of humanity.

      “To this horrible mystery there is not as yet, we believe, the
      slightest clew.”

      The next day’s paper had these additional particulars.

      “_The Tragedy in the Rue Morgue._—Many individuals have been
      examined in relation to this most extraordinary and frightful
      affair” [The word ‘affaire’ has not yet, in France, that levity
      of import which it conveys with us], “but nothing whatever has
      transpired to throw light upon it. We give below all the material
      testimony elicited.

      “_Pauline Dubourg_, laundress, deposes that she has known both
      the deceased for three years, having washed for them during that
      period. The old lady and her daughter seemed on good terms—very
      affectionate towards each other. They were excellent pay. Could
      not speak in regard to their mode or means of living. Believed
      that Madame L. told fortunes for a living. Was reputed to have
      money put by. Never met any persons in the house when she called
      for the clothes or took them home. Was sure that they had no
      servant in employ. There appeared to be no furniture in any part
      of the building except in the fourth story.

      “_Pierre Moreau_, tobacconist, deposes that he has been in the
      habit of selling small quantities of tobacco and snuff to Madame
      L’Espanaye for nearly four years. Was born in the neighborhood,
      and has always resided there. The deceased and her daughter had
      occupied the house in which the corpses were found, for more than
      six years. It was formerly occupied by a jeweller, who under-let
      the upper rooms to various persons. The house was the property of
      Madame L. She became dissatisfied with the abuse of the premises
      by her tenant, and moved into them herself, refusing to let any
      portion. The old lady was childish. Witness had seen the daughter
      some five or six times during the six years. The two lived an
      exceedingly retired life—were reputed to have money. Had heard it
      said among the neighbors that Madame L. told fortunes—did not
      believe it. Had never seen any person enter the door except the
      old lady and her daughter, a porter once or twice, and a
      physician some eight or ten times.

      “Many other persons, neighbors, gave evidence to the same effect.
      No one was spoken of as frequenting the house. It was not known
      whether there were any living connexions of Madame L. and her
      daughter. The shutters of the front windows were seldom opened.
      Those in the rear were always closed, with the exception of the
      large back room, fourth story. The house was a good house—not
      very old.

      “_Isidore Musèt_, _gendarme_, deposes that he was called to the
      house about three o’clock in the morning, and found some twenty
      or thirty persons at the gateway, endeavoring to gain admittance.
      Forced it open, at length, with a bayonet—not with a crowbar. Had
      but little difficulty in getting it open, on account of its being
      a double or folding gate, and bolted neither at bottom not top.
      The shrieks were continued until the gate was forced—and then
      suddenly ceased. They seemed to be screams of some person (or
      persons) in great agony—were loud and drawn out, not short and
      quick. Witness led the way up stairs. Upon reaching the first
      landing, heard two voices in loud and angry contention—the one a
      gruff voice, the other much shriller—a very strange voice. Could
      distinguish some words of the former, which was that of a
      Frenchman. Was positive that it was not a woman’s voice. Could
      distinguish the words ‘_sacré_’ and ‘_diable._’ The shrill voice
      was that of a foreigner. Could not be sure whether it was the
      voice of a man or of a woman. Could not make out what was said,
      but believed the language to be Spanish. The state of the room
      and of the bodies was described by this witness as we described
      them yesterday.

      “_Henri Duval_, a neighbor, and by trade a silver-smith, deposes
      that he was one of the party who first entered the house.
      Corroborates the testimony of Musèt in general. As soon as they
      forced an entrance, they reclosed the door, to keep out the
      crowd, which collected very fast, notwithstanding the lateness of
      the hour. The shrill voice, this witness thinks, was that of an
      Italian. Was certain it was not French. Could not be sure that it
      was a man’s voice. It might have been a woman’s. Was not
      acquainted with the Italian language. Could not distinguish the
      words, but was convinced by the intonation that the speaker was
      an Italian. Knew Madame L. and her daughter. Had conversed with
      both frequently. Was sure that the shrill voice was not that of
      either of the deceased.

      “——_Odenheimer, restaurateur._ This witness volunteered his
      testimony. Not speaking French, was examined through an
      interpreter. Is a native of Amsterdam. Was passing the house at
      the time of the shrieks. They lasted for several minutes—probably
      ten. They were long and loud—very awful and distressing. Was one
      of those who entered the building. Corroborated the previous
      evidence in every respect but one. Was sure that the shrill voice
      was that of a man—of a Frenchman. Could not distinguish the words
      uttered. They were loud and quick—unequal—spoken apparently in
      fear as well as in anger. The voice was harsh—not so much shrill
      as harsh. Could not call it a shrill voice. The gruff voice said
      repeatedly ‘_sacré_,’ ‘_diable_,’ and once ‘_mon Dieu._’

      “_Jules Mignaud_, banker, of the firm of Mignaud et Fils, Rue
      Deloraine. Is the elder Mignaud. Madame L’Espanaye had some
      property. Had opened an account with his banking house in the
      spring of the year—(eight years previously). Made frequent
      deposits in small sums. Had checked for nothing until the third
      day before her death, when she took out in person the sum of 4000
      francs. This sum was paid in gold, and a clerk went home with the
      money.

      “_Adolphe Le Bon_, clerk to Mignaud et Fils, deposes that on the
      day in question, about noon, he accompanied Madame L’Espanaye to
      her residence with the 4000 francs, put up in two bags. Upon the
      door being opened, Mademoiselle L. appeared and took from his
      hands one of the bags, while the old lady relieved him of the
      other. He then bowed and departed. Did not see any person in the
      street at the time. It is a by-street—very lonely.

      “_William Bird_, tailor deposes that he was one of the party who
      entered the house. Is an Englishman. Has lived in Paris two
      years. Was one of the first to ascend the stairs. Heard the
      voices in contention. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman.
      Could make out several words, but cannot now remember all. Heard
      distinctly ‘_sacré_’ and ‘_mon Dieu._’ There was a sound at the
      moment as if of several persons struggling—a scraping and
      scuffling sound. The shrill voice was very loud—louder than the
      gruff one. Is sure that it was not the voice of an Englishman.
      Appeared to be that of a German. Might have been a woman’s voice.
      Does not understand German.

      “Four of the above-named witnesses, being recalled, deposed that
      the door of the chamber in which was found the body of
      Mademoiselle L. was locked on the inside when the party reached
      it. Every thing was perfectly silent—no groans or noises of any
      kind. Upon forcing the door no person was seen. The windows, both
      of the back and front room, were down and firmly fastened from
      within. A door between the two rooms was closed, but not locked.
      The door leading from the front room into the passage was locked,
      with the key on the inside. A small room in the front of the
      house, on the fourth story, at the head of the passage was open,
      the door being ajar. This room was crowded with old beds, boxes,
      and so forth. These were carefully removed and searched. There
      was not an inch of any portion of the house which was not
      carefully searched. Sweeps were sent up and down the chimneys.
      The house was a four story one, with garrets (_mansardes._) A
      trap-door on the roof was nailed down very securely—did not
      appear to have been opened for years. The time elapsing between
      the hearing of the voices in contention and the breaking open of
      the room door, was variously stated by the witnesses. Some made
      it as short as three minutes—some as long as five. The door was
      opened with difficulty.

      “_Alfonzo Garcio_, undertaker, deposes that he resides in the Rue
      Morgue. Is a native of Spain. Was one of the party who entered
      the house. Did not proceed up stairs. Is nervous, and was
      apprehensive of the consequences of agitation. Heard the voices
      in contention. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Could not
      distinguish what was said. The shrill voice was that of an
      Englishman—is sure of this. Does not understand the English
      language, but judges by the intonation.

      “_Alberto Montani_, confectioner, deposes that he was among the
      first to ascend the stairs. Heard the voices in question. The
      gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Distinguished several words.
      The speaker appeared to be expostulating. Could not make out the
      words of the shrill voice. Spoke quick and unevenly. Thinks it
      the voice of a Russian. Corroborates the general testimony. Is an
      Italian. Never conversed with a native of Russia.

      “Several witnesses, recalled, here testified that the chimneys of
      all the rooms on the fourth story were too narrow to admit the
      passage of a human being. By ‘sweeps’ were meant cylindrical
      sweeping brushes, such as are employed by those who clean
      chimneys. These brushes were passed up and down every flue in the
      house. There is no back passage by which any one could have
      descended while the party proceeded up stairs. The body of
      Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was so firmly wedged in the chimney that
      it could not be got down until four or five of the party united
      their strength.

      “_Paul Dumas_, physician, deposes that he was called to view the
      bodies about day-break. They were both then lying on the sacking
      of the bedstead in the chamber where Mademoiselle L. was found.
      The corpse of the young lady was much bruised and excoriated. The
      fact that it had been thrust up the chimney would sufficiently
      account for these appearances. The throat was greatly chafed.
      There were several deep scratches just below the chin, together
      with a series of livid spots which were evidently the impression
      of fingers. The face was fearfully discolored, and the eye-balls
      protruded. The tongue had been partially bitten through. A large
      bruise was discovered upon the pit of the stomach, produced,
      apparently, by the pressure of a knee. In the opinion of M.
      Dumas, Mademoiselle L’Espanaye had been throttled to death by
      some person or persons unknown. The corpse of the mother was
      horribly mutilated. All the bones of the right leg and arm were
      more or less shattered. The left _tibia_ much splintered, as well
      as all the ribs of the left side. Whole body dreadfully bruised
      and discolored. It was not possible to say how the injuries had
      been inflicted. A heavy club of wood, or a broad bar of iron—a
      chair—any large, heavy, and obtuse weapon would have produced
      such results, if wielded by the hands of a very powerful man. No
      woman could have inflicted the blows with any weapon. The head of
      the deceased, when seen by witness, was entirely separated from
      the body, and was also greatly shattered. The throat had
      evidently been cut with some very sharp instrument—probably with
      a razor.

      “_Alexandre Etienne_, surgeon, was called with M. Dumas to view
      the bodies. Corroborated the testimony, and the opinions of M.
      Dumas.

      “Nothing farther of importance was elicited, although several
      other persons were examined. A murder so mysterious, and so
      perplexing in all its particulars, was never before committed in
      Paris—if indeed a murder has been committed at all. The police
      are entirely at fault—an unusual occurrence in affairs of this
      nature. There is not, however, the shadow of a clew apparent.”

      The evening edition of the paper stated that the greatest
      excitement still continued in the Quartier St. Roch—that the
      premises in question had been carefully re-searched, and fresh
      examinations of witnesses instituted, but all to no purpose. A
      postscript, however, mentioned that Adolphe Le Bon had been
      arrested and imprisoned—although nothing appeared to criminate
      him, beyond the facts already detailed.

      Dupin seemed singularly interested in the progress of this
      affair—at least so I judged from his manner, for he made no
      comments. It was only after the announcement that Le Bon had been
      imprisoned, that he asked me my opinion respecting the murders.

      I could merely agree with all Paris in considering them an
      insoluble mystery. I saw no means by which it would be possible
      to trace the murderer.

      “We must not judge of the means,” said Dupin, “by this shell of
      an examination. The Parisian police, so much extolled for
      _acumen_, are cunning, but no more. There is no method in their
      proceedings, beyond the method of the moment. They make a vast
      parade of measures; but, not unfrequently, these are so ill
      adapted to the objects proposed, as to put us in mind of Monsieur
      Jourdain’s calling for his _robe-de-chambre—pour mieux entendre
      la musique._ The results attained by them are not unfrequently
      surprising, but, for the most part, are brought about by simple
      diligence and activity. When these qualities are unavailing,
      their schemes fail. Vidocq, for example, was a good guesser and a
      persevering man. But, without educated thought, he erred
      continually by the very intensity of his investigations. He
      impaired his vision by holding the object too close. He might
      see, perhaps, one or two points with unusual clearness, but in so
      doing he, necessarily, lost sight of the matter as a whole. Thus
      there is such a thing as being too profound. Truth is not always
      in a well. In fact, as regards the more important knowledge, I do
      believe that she is invariably superficial. The depth lies in the
      valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where
      she is found. The modes and sources of this kind of error are
      well typified in the contemplation of the heavenly bodies. To
      look at a star by glances—to view it in a side-long way, by
      turning toward it the exterior portions of the _retina_ (more
      susceptible of feeble impressions of light than the interior), is
      to behold the star distinctly—is to have the best appreciation of
      its lustre—a lustre which grows dim just in proportion as we turn
      our vision _fully_ upon it. A greater number of rays actually
      fall upon the eye in the latter case, but, in the former, there
      is the more refined capacity for comprehension. By undue
      profundity we perplex and enfeeble thought; and it is possible to
      make even Venus herself vanish from the firmament by a scrutiny
      too sustained, too concentrated, or too direct.

      “As for these murders, let us enter into some examinations for
      ourselves, before we make up an opinion respecting them. An
      inquiry will afford us amusement,” [I thought this an odd term,
      so applied, but said nothing] “and, besides, Le Bon once rendered
      me a service for which I am not ungrateful. We will go and see
      the premises with our own eyes. I know G——, the Prefect of
      Police, and shall have no difficulty in obtaining the necessary
      permission.”

      The permission was obtained, and we proceeded at once to the Rue
      Morgue. This is one of those miserable thoroughfares which
      intervene between the Rue Richelieu and the Rue St. Roch. It was
      late in the afternoon when we reached it, as this quarter is at a
      great distance from that in which we resided. The house was
      readily found; for there were still many persons gazing up at the
      closed shutters, with an objectless curiosity, from the opposite
      side of the way. It was an ordinary Parisian house, with a
      gateway, on one side of which was a glazed watch-box, with a
      sliding panel in the window, indicating a _loge de concierge._
      Before going in we walked up the street, turned down an alley,
      and then, again turning, passed in the rear of the
      building—Dupin, meanwhile examining the whole neighborhood, as
      well as the house, with a minuteness of attention for which I
      could see no possible object.

      Retracing our steps, we came again to the front of the dwelling,
      rang, and, having shown our credentials, were admitted by the
      agents in charge. We went up stairs—into the chamber where the
      body of Mademoiselle L’Espanaye had been found, and where both
      the deceased still lay. The disorders of the room had, as usual,
      been suffered to exist. I saw nothing beyond what had been stated
      in the “Gazette des Tribunaux.” Dupin scrutinized every thing—not
      excepting the bodies of the victims. We then went into the other
      rooms, and into the yard; a _gendarme_ accompanying us
      throughout. The examination occupied us until dark, when we took
      our departure. On our way home my companion stepped in for a
      moment at the office of one of the daily papers.

      I have said that the whims of my friend were manifold, and that
      _Je les ménageais_:—for this phrase there is no English
      equivalent. It was his humor, now, to decline all conversation on
      the subject of the murder, until about noon the next day. He then
      asked me, suddenly, if I had observed any thing _peculiar_ at the
      scene of the atrocity.

      There was something in his manner of emphasizing the word
      “peculiar,” which caused me to shudder, without knowing why.

      “No, nothing _peculiar_,” I said; “nothing more, at least, than
      we both saw stated in the paper.”

      “The ‘Gazette,’” he replied, “has not entered, I fear, into the
      unusual horror of the thing. But dismiss the idle opinions of
      this print. It appears to me that this mystery is considered
      insoluble, for the very reason which should cause it to be
      regarded as easy of solution—I mean for the _outré_ character of
      its features. The police are confounded by the seeming absence of
      motive—not for the murder itself—but for the atrocity of the
      murder. They are puzzled, too, by the seeming impossibility of
      reconciling the voices heard in contention, with the facts that
      no one was discovered up stairs but the assassinated Mademoiselle
      L’Espanaye, and that there were no means of egress without the
      notice of the party ascending. The wild disorder of the room; the
      corpse thrust, with the head downward, up the chimney; the
      frightful mutilation of the body of the old lady; these
      considerations, with those just mentioned, and others which I
      need not mention, have sufficed to paralyze the powers, by
      putting completely at fault the boasted _acumen_, of the
      government agents. They have fallen into the gross but common
      error of confounding the unusual with the abstruse. But it is by
      these deviations from the plane of the ordinary, that reason
      feels its way, if at all, in its search for the true. In
      investigations such as we are now pursuing, it should not be so
      much asked ‘what has occurred,’ as ‘what has occurred that has
      never occurred before.’ In fact, the facility with which I shall
      arrive, or have arrived, at the solution of this mystery, is in
      the direct ratio of its apparent insolubility in the eyes of the
      police.”

      I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment.

      “I am now awaiting,” continued he, looking toward the door of our
      apartment—“I am now awaiting a person who, although perhaps not
      the perpetrator of these butcheries, must have been in some
      measure implicated in their perpetration. Of the worst portion of
      the crimes committed, it is probable that he is innocent. I hope
      that I am right in this supposition; for upon it I build my
      expectation of reading the entire riddle. I look for the man
      here—in this room—every moment. It is true that he may not
      arrive; but the probability is that he will. Should he come, it
      will be necessary to detain him. Here are pistols; and we both
      know how to use them when occasion demands their use.”

      I took the pistols, scarcely knowing what I did, or believing
      what I heard, while Dupin went on, very much as if in a
      soliloquy. I have already spoken of his abstract manner at such
      times. His discourse was addressed to myself; but his voice,
      although by no means loud, had that intonation which is commonly
      employed in speaking to some one at a great distance. His eyes,
      vacant in expression, regarded only the wall.

      “That the voices heard in contention,” he said, “by the party
      upon the stairs, were not the voices of the women themselves, was
      fully proved by the evidence. This relieves us of all doubt upon
      the question whether the old lady could have first destroyed the
      daughter and afterward have committed suicide. I speak of this
      point chiefly for the sake of method; for the strength of Madame
      L’Espanaye would have been utterly unequal to the task of
      thrusting her daughter’s corpse up the chimney as it was found;
      and the nature of the wounds upon her own person entirely
      preclude the idea of self-destruction. Murder, then, has been
      committed by some third party; and the voices of this third party
      were those heard in contention. Let me now advert—not to the
      whole testimony respecting these voices—but to what was
      _peculiar_ in that testimony. Did you observe any thing peculiar
      about it?”

      I remarked that, while all the witnesses agreed in supposing the
      gruff voice to be that of a Frenchman, there was much
      disagreement in regard to the shrill, or, as one individual
      termed it, the harsh voice.

      “That was the evidence itself,” said Dupin, “but it was not the
      peculiarity of the evidence. You have observed nothing
      distinctive. Yet there _was_ something to be observed. The
      witnesses, as you remark, agreed about the gruff voice; they were
      here unanimous. But in regard to the shrill voice, the
      peculiarity is—not that they disagreed—but that, while an
      Italian, an Englishman, a Spaniard, a Hollander, and a Frenchman
      attempted to describe it, each one spoke of it as that _of a
      foreigner_. Each is sure that it was not the voice of one of his
      own countrymen. Each likens it—not to the voice of an individual
      of any nation with whose language he is conversant—but the
      converse. The Frenchman supposes it the voice of a Spaniard, and
      ‘might have distinguished some words _had he been acquainted with
      the Spanish._’ The Dutchman maintains it to have been that of a
      Frenchman; but we find it stated that ‘_not understanding French
      this witness was examined through an interpreter._’ The
      Englishman thinks it the voice of a German, and ‘_does not
      understand German._’ The Spaniard ‘is sure’ that it was that of
      an Englishman, but ‘judges by the intonation’ altogether, ‘_as he
      has no knowledge of the English._’ The Italian believes it the
      voice of a Russian, but ‘_has never conversed with a native of
      Russia._’ A second Frenchman differs, moreover, with the first,
      and is positive that the voice was that of an Italian; but, _not
      being cognizant of that tongue_, is, like the Spaniard,
      ‘convinced by the intonation.’ Now, how strangely unusual must
      that voice have really been, about which such testimony as this
      _could_ have been elicited!—in whose _tones_, even, denizens of
      the five great divisions of Europe could recognise nothing
      familiar! You will say that it might have been the voice of an
      Asiatic—of an African. Neither Asiatics nor Africans abound in
      Paris; but, without denying the inference, I will now merely call
      your attention to three points. The voice is termed by one
      witness ‘harsh rather than shrill.’ It is represented by two
      others to have been ‘quick and _unequal._’ No words—no sounds
      resembling words—were by any witness mentioned as
      distinguishable.

      “I know not,” continued Dupin, “what impression I may have made,
      so far, upon your own understanding; but I do not hesitate to say
      that legitimate deductions even from this portion of the
      testimony—the portion respecting the gruff and shrill voices—are
      in themselves sufficient to engender a suspicion which should
      give direction to all farther progress in the investigation of
      the mystery. I said ‘legitimate deductions;’ but my meaning is
      not thus fully expressed. I designed to imply that the deductions
      are the _sole_ proper ones, and that the suspicion arises
      _inevitably_ from them as the single result. What the suspicion
      is, however, I will not say just yet. I merely wish you to bear
      in mind that, with myself, it was sufficiently forcible to give a
      definite form—a certain tendency—to my inquiries in the chamber.

      “Let us now transport ourselves, in fancy, to this chamber. What
      shall we first seek here? The means of egress employed by the
      murderers. It is not too much to say that neither of us believe
      in præternatural events. Madame and Mademoiselle L’Espanaye were
      not destroyed by spirits. The doers of the deed were material,
      and escaped materially. Then how? Fortunately, there is but one
      mode of reasoning upon the point, and that mode _must_ lead us to
      a definite decision. Let us examine, each by each, the possible
      means of egress. It is clear that the assassins were in the room
      where Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was found, or at least in the room
      adjoining, when the party ascended the stairs. It is then only
      from these two apartments that we have to seek issues. The police
      have laid bare the floors, the ceilings, and the masonry of the
      walls, in every direction. No _secret_ issues could have escaped
      their vigilance. But, not trusting to _their_ eyes, I examined
      with my own. There were, then, no secret issues. Both doors
      leading from the rooms into the passage were securely locked,
      with the keys inside. Let us turn to the chimneys. These,
      although of ordinary width for some eight or ten feet above the
      hearths, will not admit, throughout their extent, the body of a
      large cat. The impossibility of egress, by means already stated,
      being thus absolute, we are reduced to the windows. Through those
      of the front room no one could have escaped without notice from
      the crowd in the street. The murderers _must_ have passed, then,
      through those of the back room. Now, brought to this conclusion
      in so unequivocal a manner as we are, it is not our part, as
      reasoners, to reject it on account of apparent impossibilities.
      It is only left for us to prove that these apparent
      ‘impossibilities’ are, in reality, not such.

      “There are two windows in the chamber. One of them is
      unobstructed by furniture, and is wholly visible. The lower
      portion of the other is hidden from view by the head of the
      unwieldy bedstead which is thrust close up against it. The former
      was found securely fastened from within. It resisted the utmost
      force of those who endeavored to raise it. A large gimlet-hole
      had been pierced in its frame to the left, and a very stout nail
      was found fitted therein, nearly to the head. Upon examining the
      other window, a similar nail was seen similarly fitted in it; and
      a vigorous attempt to raise this sash, failed also. The police
      were now entirely satisfied that egress had not been in these
      directions. And, _therefore_, it was thought a matter of
      supererogation to withdraw the nails and open the windows.

      “My own examination was somewhat more particular, and was so for
      the reason I have just given—because here it was, I knew, that
      all apparent impossibilities _must_ be proved to be not such in
      reality.

      “I proceeded to think thus—_a posteriori_. The murderers did
      escape from one of these windows. This being so, they could not
      have refastened the sashes from the inside, as they were found
      fastened;—the consideration which put a stop, through its
      obviousness, to the scrutiny of the police in this quarter. Yet
      the sashes _were_ fastened. They _must_, then, have the power of
      fastening themselves. There was no escape from this conclusion. I
      stepped to the unobstructed casement, withdrew the nail with some
      difficulty and attempted to raise the sash. It resisted all my
      efforts, as I had anticipated. A concealed spring must, I now
      know, exist; and this corroboration of my idea convinced me that
      my premises at least, were correct, however mysterious still
      appeared the circumstances attending the nails. A careful search
      soon brought to light the hidden spring. I pressed it, and,
      satisfied with the discovery, forbore to upraise the sash.

      “I now replaced the nail and regarded it attentively. A person
      passing out through this window might have reclosed it, and the
      spring would have caught—but the nail could not have been
      replaced. The conclusion was plain, and again narrowed in the
      field of my investigations. The assassins _must_ have escaped
      through the other window. Supposing, then, the springs upon each
      sash to be the same, as was probable, there _must_ be found a
      difference between the nails, or at least between the modes of
      their fixture. Getting upon the sacking of the bedstead, I looked
      over the head-board minutely at the second casement. Passing my
      hand down behind the board, I readily discovered and pressed the
      spring, which was, as I had supposed, identical in character with
      its neighbor. I now looked at the nail. It was as stout as the
      other, and apparently fitted in the same manner—driven in nearly
      up to the head.

      “You will say that I was puzzled; but, if you think so, you must
      have misunderstood the nature of the inductions. To use a
      sporting phrase, I had not been once ‘at fault.’ The scent had
      never for an instant been lost. There was no flaw in any link of
      the chain. I had traced the secret to its ultimate result,—and
      that result was _the nail._ It had, I say, in every respect, the
      appearance of its fellow in the other window; but this fact was
      an absolute nullity (conclusive as it might seem to be) when
      compared with the consideration that here, at this point,
      terminated the clew. ‘There _must_ be something wrong,’ I said,
      ‘about the nail.’ I touched it; and the head, with about a
      quarter of an inch of the shank, came off in my fingers. The rest
      of the shank was in the gimlet-hole where it had been broken off.
      The fracture was an old one (for its edges were incrusted with
      rust), and had apparently been accomplished by the blow of a
      hammer, which had partially imbedded, in the top of the bottom
      sash, the head portion of the nail. I now carefully replaced this
      head portion in the indentation whence I had taken it, and the
      resemblance to a perfect nail was complete—the fissure was
      invisible. Pressing the spring, I gently raised the sash for a
      few inches; the head went up with it, remaining firm in its bed.
      I closed the window, and the semblance of the whole nail was
      again perfect.

      “The riddle, so far, was now unriddled. The assassin had escaped
      through the window which looked upon the bed. Dropping of its own
      accord upon his exit (or perhaps purposely closed), it had become
      fastened by the spring; and it was the retention of this spring
      which had been mistaken by the police for that of the
      nail,—farther inquiry being thus considered unnecessary.

      “The next question is that of the mode of descent. Upon this
      point I had been satisfied in my walk with you around the
      building. About five feet and a half from the casement in
      question there runs a lightning-rod. From this rod it would have
      been impossible for any one to reach the window itself, to say
      nothing of entering it. I observed, however, that the shutters of
      the fourth story were of the peculiar kind called by Parisian
      carpenters _ferrades_—a kind rarely employed at the present day,
      but frequently seen upon very old mansions at Lyons and Bordeaux.
      They are in the form of an ordinary door (a single, not a folding
      door), except that the lower half is latticed or worked in open
      trellis—thus affording an excellent hold for the hands. In the
      present instance these shutters are fully three feet and a half
      broad. When we saw them from the rear of the house, they were
      both about half open—that is to say, they stood off at right
      angles from the wall. It is probable that the police, as well as
      myself, examined the back of the tenement; but, if so, in looking
      at these _ferrades_ in the line of their breadth (as they must
      have done), they did not perceive this great breadth itself, or,
      at all events, failed to take it into due consideration. In fact,
      having once satisfied themselves that no egress could have been
      made in this quarter, they would naturally bestow here a very
      cursory examination. It was clear to me, however, that the
      shutter belonging to the window at the head of the bed, would, if
      swung fully back to the wall, reach to within two feet of the
      lightning-rod. It was also evident that, by exertion of a very
      unusual degree of activity and courage, an entrance into the
      window, from the rod, might have been thus effected. By reaching
      to the distance of two feet and a half (we now suppose the
      shutter open to its whole extent) a robber might have taken a
      firm grasp upon the trellis-work. Letting go, then, his hold upon
      the rod, placing his feet securely against the wall, and
      springing boldly from it, he might have swung the shutter so as
      to close it, and, if we imagine the window open at the time,
      might even have swung himself into the room.

      “I wish you to bear especially in mind that I have spoken of a
      _very_ unusual degree of activity as requisite to success in so
      hazardous and so difficult a feat. It is my design to show you,
      first, that the thing might possibly have been accomplished:—but,
      secondly and _chiefly_, I wish to impress upon your understanding
      the _very extraordinary_—the almost præternatural character of
      that agility which could have accomplished it.

      “You will say, no doubt, using the language of the law, that ‘to
      make out my case,’ I should rather undervalue, than insist upon a
      full estimation of the activity required in this matter. This may
      be the practice in law, but it is not the usage of reason. My
      ultimate object is only the truth. My immediate purpose is to
      lead you to place in juxtaposition, that _very unusual_ activity
      of which I have just spoken with that _very peculiar_ shrill (or
      harsh) and _unequal_ voice, about whose nationality no two
      persons could be found to agree, and in whose utterance no
      syllabification could be detected.”

      At these words a vague and half-formed conception of the meaning
      of Dupin flitted over my mind. I seemed to be upon the verge of
      comprehension without power to comprehend—as men, at times, find
      themselves upon the brink of remembrance without being able, in
      the end, to remember. My friend went on with his discourse.

      “You will see,” he said, “that I have shifted the question from
      the mode of egress to that of ingress. It was my design to convey
      the idea that both were effected in the same manner, at the same
      point. Let us now revert to the interior of the room. Let us
      survey the appearances here. The drawers of the bureau, it is
      said, had been rifled, although many articles of apparel still
      remained within them. The conclusion here is absurd. It is a mere
      guess—a very silly one—and no more. How are we to know that the
      articles found in the drawers were not all these drawers had
      originally contained? Madame L’Espanaye and her daughter lived an
      exceedingly retired life—saw no company—seldom went out—had
      little use for numerous changes of habiliment. Those found were
      at least of as good quality as any likely to be possessed by
      these ladies. If a thief had taken any, why did he not take the
      best—why did he not take all? In a word, why did he abandon four
      thousand francs in gold to encumber himself with a bundle of
      linen? The gold _was_ abandoned. Nearly the whole sum mentioned
      by Monsieur Mignaud, the banker, was discovered, in bags, upon
      the floor. I wish you, therefore, to discard from your thoughts
      the blundering idea of _motive_, engendered in the brains of the
      police by that portion of the evidence which speaks of money
      delivered at the door of the house. Coincidences ten times as
      remarkable as this (the delivery of the money, and murder
      committed within three days upon the party receiving it), happen
      to all of us every hour of our lives, without attracting even
      momentary notice. Coincidences, in general, are great
      stumbling-blocks in the way of that class of thinkers who have
      been educated to know nothing of the theory of probabilities—that
      theory to which the most glorious objects of human research are
      indebted for the most glorious of illustration. In the present
      instance, had the gold been gone, the fact of its delivery three
      days before would have formed something more than a coincidence.
      It would have been corroborative of this idea of motive. But,
      under the real circumstances of the case, if we are to suppose
      gold the motive of this outrage, we must also imagine the
      perpetrator so vacillating an idiot as to have abandoned his gold
      and his motive together.

      “Keeping now steadily in mind the points to which I have drawn
      your attention—that peculiar voice, that unusual agility, and
      that startling absence of motive in a murder so singularly
      atrocious as this—let us glance at the butchery itself. Here is a
      woman strangled to death by manual strength, and thrust up a
      chimney, head downward. Ordinary assassins employ no such modes
      of murder as this. Least of all, do they thus dispose of the
      murdered. In the manner of thrusting the corpse up the chimney,
      you will admit that there was something _excessively
      outré_—something altogether irreconcilable with our common
      notions of human action, even when we suppose the actors the most
      depraved of men. Think, too, how great must have been that
      strength which could have thrust the body _up_ such an aperture
      so forcibly that the united vigor of several persons was found
      barely sufficient to drag it _down!_

      “Turn, now, to other indications of the employment of a vigor
      most marvellous. On the hearth were thick tresses—very thick
      tresses—of grey human hair. These had been torn out by the roots.
      You are aware of the great force necessary in tearing thus from
      the head even twenty or thirty hairs together. You saw the locks
      in question as well as myself. Their roots (a hideous sight!)
      were clotted with fragments of the flesh of the scalp—sure token
      of the prodigious power which had been exerted in uprooting
      perhaps half a million of hairs at a time. The throat of the old
      lady was not merely cut, but the head absolutely severed from the
      body: the instrument was a mere razor. I wish you also to look at
      the _brutal_ ferocity of these deeds. Of the bruises upon the
      body of Madame L’Espanaye I do not speak. Monsieur Dumas, and his
      worthy coadjutor Monsieur Etienne, have pronounced that they were
      inflicted by some obtuse instrument; and so far these gentlemen
      are very correct. The obtuse instrument was clearly the stone
      pavement in the yard, upon which the victim had fallen from the
      window which looked in upon the bed. This idea, however simple it
      may now seem, escaped the police for the same reason that the
      breadth of the shutters escaped them—because, by the affair of
      the nails, their perceptions had been hermetically sealed against
      the possibility of the windows having ever been opened at all.

      “If now, in addition to all these things, you have properly
      reflected upon the odd disorder of the chamber, we have gone so
      far as to combine the ideas of an agility astounding, a strength
      superhuman, a ferocity brutal, a butchery without motive, a
      _grotesquerie_ in horror absolutely alien from humanity, and a
      voice foreign in tone to the ears of men of many nations, and
      devoid of all distinct or intelligible syllabification. What
      result, then, has ensued? What impression have I made upon your
      fancy?”

      I felt a creeping of the flesh as Dupin asked me the question. “A
      madman,” I said, “has done this deed—some raving maniac, escaped
      from a neighboring _Maison de Santé._”

      “In some respects,” he replied, “your idea is not irrelevant. But
      the voices of madmen, even in their wildest paroxysms, are never
      found to tally with that peculiar voice heard upon the stairs.
      Madmen are of some nation, and their language, however incoherent
      in its words, has always the coherence of syllabification.
      Besides, the hair of a madman is not such as I now hold in my
      hand. I disentangled this little tuft from the rigidly clutched
      fingers of Madame L’Espanaye. Tell me what you can make of it.”

      “Dupin!” I said, completely unnerved; “this hair is most
      unusual—this is no _human_ hair.”

      “I have not asserted that it is,” said he; “but, before we decide
      this point, I wish you to glance at the little sketch I have here
      traced upon this paper. It is a _fac-simile_ drawing of what has
      been described in one portion of the testimony as ‘dark bruises,
      and deep indentations of finger nails,’ upon the throat of
      Mademoiselle L’Espanaye, and in another (by Messrs. Dumas and
      Etienne,) as a ‘series of livid spots, evidently the impression
      of fingers.’

      “You will perceive,” continued my friend, spreading out the paper
      upon the table before us, “that this drawing gives the idea of a
      firm and fixed hold. There is no _slipping_ apparent. Each finger
      has retained—possibly until the death of the victim—the fearful
      grasp by which it originally imbedded itself. Attempt, now, to
      place all your fingers, at the same time, in the respective
      impressions as you see them.”

      I made the attempt in vain.

      “We are possibly not giving this matter a fair trial,” he said.
      “The paper is spread out upon a plane surface; but the human
      throat is cylindrical. Here is a billet of wood, the
      circumference of which is about that of the throat. Wrap the
      drawing around it, and try the experiment again.”

      I did so; but the difficulty was even more obvious than before.
      “This,” I said, “is the mark of no human hand.”

      “Read now,” replied Dupin, “this passage from Cuvier.”

      It was a minute anatomical and generally descriptive account of
      the large fulvous Ourang-Outang of the East Indian Islands. The
      gigantic stature, the prodigious strength and activity, the wild
      ferocity, and the imitative propensities of these mammalia are
      sufficiently well known to all. I understood the full horrors of
      the murder at once.

      “The description of the digits,” said I, as I made an end of
      reading, “is in exact accordance with this drawing. I see that no
      animal but an Ourang-Outang, of the species here mentioned, could
      have impressed the indentations as you have traced them. This
      tuft of tawny hair, too, is identical in character with that of
      the beast of Cuvier. But I cannot possibly comprehend the
      particulars of this frightful mystery. Besides, there were _two_
      voices heard in contention, and one of them was unquestionably
      the voice of a Frenchman.”

      “True; and you will remember an expression attributed almost
      unanimously, by the evidence, to this voice,—the expression,
      ‘_mon Dieu!_’ This, under the circumstances, has been justly
      characterized by one of the witnesses (Montani, the
      confectioner,) as an expression of remonstrance or expostulation.
      Upon these two words, therefore, I have mainly built my hopes of
      a full solution of the riddle. A Frenchman was cognizant of the
      murder. It is possible—indeed it is far more than probable—that
      he was innocent of all participation in the bloody transactions
      which took place. The Ourang-Outang may have escaped from him. He
      may have traced it to the chamber; but, under the agitating
      circumstances which ensued, he could never have re-captured it.
      It is still at large. I will not pursue these guesses—for I have
      no right to call them more—since the shades of reflection upon
      which they are based are scarcely of sufficient depth to be
      appreciable by my own intellect, and since I could not pretend to
      make them intelligible to the understanding of another. We will
      call them guesses then, and speak of them as such. If the
      Frenchman in question is indeed, as I suppose, innocent of this
      atrocity, this advertisement which I left last night, upon our
      return home, at the office of ‘Le Monde’ (a paper devoted to the
      shipping interest, and much sought by sailors), will bring him to
      our residence.”

      He handed me a paper, and I read thus:

      CAUGHT—_In the Bois de Boulogne, early in the morning of the
      ——inst.,_ (the morning of the murder), _a very large, tawny
      Ourang-Outang of the Bornese species. The owner (who is
      ascertained to be a sailor, belonging to a Maltese vessel) may
      have the animal again, upon identifying it satisfactorily, and
      paying a few charges arising from its capture and keeping. Call
      at No. ——, Rue ——, Faubourg St. Germain—au troisième._

      “How was it possible,” I asked, “that you should know the man to
      be a sailor, and belonging to a Maltese vessel?”

      “I do _not_ know it,” said Dupin. “I am not _sure_ of it. Here,
      however, is a small piece of ribbon, which from its form, and
      from its greasy appearance, has evidently been used in tying the
      hair in one of those long _queues_ of which sailors are so fond.
      Moreover, this knot is one which few besides sailors can tie, and
      is peculiar to the Maltese. I picked the ribbon up at the foot of
      the lightning-rod. It could not have belonged to either of the
      deceased. Now if, after all, I am wrong in my induction from this
      ribbon, that the Frenchman was a sailor belonging to a Maltese
      vessel, still I can have done no harm in saying what I did in the
      advertisement. If I am in error, he will merely suppose that I
      have been misled by some circumstance into which he will not take
      the trouble to inquire. But if I am right, a great point is
      gained. Cognizant although innocent of the murder, the Frenchman
      will naturally hesitate about replying to the advertisement—about
      demanding the Ourang-Outang. He will reason thus:—‘I am innocent;
      I am poor; my Ourang-Outang is of great value—to one in my
      circumstances a fortune of itself—why should I lose it through
      idle apprehensions of danger? Here it is, within my grasp. It was
      found in the Bois de Boulogne—at a vast distance from the scene
      of that butchery. How can it ever be suspected that a brute beast
      should have done the deed? The police are at fault—they have
      failed to procure the slightest clew. Should they even trace the
      animal, it would be impossible to prove me cognizant of the
      murder, or to implicate me in guilt on account of that
      cognizance. Above all, _I am known._ The advertiser designates me
      as the possessor of the beast. I am not sure to what limit his
      knowledge may extend. Should I avoid claiming a property of so
      great value, which it is known that I possess, I will render the
      animal at least, liable to suspicion. It is not my policy to
      attract attention either to myself or to the beast. I will answer
      the advertisement, get the Ourang-Outang, and keep it close until
      this matter has blown over.’”

      At this moment we heard a step upon the stairs.

      “Be ready,” said Dupin, “with your pistols, but neither use them
      nor show them until at a signal from myself.”

      The front door of the house had been left open, and the visitor
      had entered, without ringing, and advanced several steps upon the
      staircase. Now, however, he seemed to hesitate. Presently we
      heard him descending. Dupin was moving quickly to the door, when
      we again heard him coming up. He did not turn back a second time,
      but stepped up with decision, and rapped at the door of our
      chamber.

      “Come in,” said Dupin, in a cheerful and hearty tone.

      A man entered. He was a sailor, evidently,—a tall, stout, and
      muscular-looking person, with a certain dare-devil expression of
      countenance, not altogether unprepossessing. His face, greatly
      sunburnt, was more than half hidden by whisker and _mustachio._
      He had with him a huge oaken cudgel, but appeared to be otherwise
      unarmed. He bowed awkwardly, and bade us “good evening,” in
      French accents, which, although somewhat Neufchatelish, were
      still sufficiently indicative of a Parisian origin.

      “Sit down, my friend,” said Dupin. “I suppose you have called
      about the Ourang-Outang. Upon my word, I almost envy you the
      possession of him; a remarkably fine, and no doubt a very
      valuable animal. How old do you suppose him to be?”

      The sailor drew a long breath, with the air of a man relieved of
      some intolerable burden, and then replied, in an assured tone:

      “I have no way of telling—but he can’t be more than four or five
      years old. Have you got him here?”

      “Oh no, we had no conveniences for keeping him here. He is at a
      livery stable in the Rue Dubourg, just by. You can get him in the
      morning. Of course you are prepared to identify the property?”

      “To be sure I am, sir.”

      “I shall be sorry to part with him,” said Dupin.

      “I don’t mean that you should be at all this trouble for nothing,
      sir,” said the man. “Couldn’t expect it. Am very willing to pay a
      reward for the finding of the animal—that is to say, any thing in
      reason.”

      “Well,” replied my friend, “that is all very fair, to be sure.
      Let me think!—what should I have? Oh! I will tell you. My reward
      shall be this. You shall give me all the information in your
      power about these murders in the Rue Morgue.”

      Dupin said the last words in a very low tone, and very quietly.
      Just as quietly, too, he walked toward the door, locked it and
      put the key in his pocket. He then drew a pistol from his bosom
      and placed it, without the least flurry, upon the table.

      The sailor’s face flushed up as if he were struggling with
      suffocation. He started to his feet and grasped his cudgel, but
      the next moment he fell back into his seat, trembling violently,
      and with the countenance of death itself. He spoke not a word. I
      pitied him from the bottom of my heart.

      “My friend,” said Dupin, in a kind tone, “you are alarming
      yourself unnecessarily—you are indeed. We mean you no harm
      whatever. I pledge you the honor of a gentleman, and of a
      Frenchman, that we intend you no injury. I perfectly well know
      that you are innocent of the atrocities in the Rue Morgue. It
      will not do, however, to deny that you are in some measure
      implicated in them. From what I have already said, you must know
      that I have had means of information about this matter—means of
      which you could never have dreamed. Now the thing stands thus.
      You have done nothing which you could have avoided—nothing,
      certainly, which renders you culpable. You were not even guilty
      of robbery, when you might have robbed with impunity. You have
      nothing to conceal. You have no reason for concealment. On the
      other hand, you are bound by every principle of honor to confess
      all you know. An innocent man is now imprisoned, charged with
      that crime of which you can point out the perpetrator.”

      The sailor had recovered his presence of mind, in a great
      measure, while Dupin uttered these words; but his original
      boldness of bearing was all gone.

      “So help me God!” said he, after a brief pause, “I _will_ tell
      you all I know about this affair;—but I do not expect you to
      believe one half I say—I would be a fool indeed if I did. Still,
      I _am_ innocent, and I will make a clean breast if I die for it.”

      What he stated was, in substance, this. He had lately made a
      voyage to the Indian Archipelago. A party, of which he formed
      one, landed at Borneo, and passed into the interior on an
      excursion of pleasure. Himself and a companion had captured the
      Ourang-Outang. This companion dying, the animal fell into his own
      exclusive possession. After great trouble, occasioned by the
      intractable ferocity of his captive during the home voyage, he at
      length succeeded in lodging it safely at his own residence in
      Paris, where, not to attract toward himself the unpleasant
      curiosity of his neighbors, he kept it carefully secluded, until
      such time as it should recover from a wound in the foot, received
      from a splinter on board ship. His ultimate design was to sell
      it.

      Returning home from some sailors’ frolic the night, or rather in
      the morning of the murder, he found the beast occupying his own
      bed-room, into which it had broken from a closet adjoining, where
      it had been, as was thought, securely confined. Razor in hand,
      and fully lathered, it was sitting before a looking-glass,
      attempting the operation of shaving, in which it had no doubt
      previously watched its master through the key-hole of the closet.
      Terrified at the sight of so dangerous a weapon in the possession
      of an animal so ferocious, and so well able to use it, the man,
      for some moments, was at a loss what to do. He had been
      accustomed, however, to quiet the creature, even in its fiercest
      moods, by the use of a whip, and to this he now resorted. Upon
      sight of it, the Ourang-Outang sprang at once through the door of
      the chamber, down the stairs, and thence, through a window,
      unfortunately open, into the street.

      The Frenchman followed in despair; the ape, razor still in hand,
      occasionally stopping to look back and gesticulate at its
      pursuer, until the latter had nearly come up with it. It then
      again made off. In this manner the chase continued for a long
      time. The streets were profoundly quiet, as it was nearly three
      o’clock in the morning. In passing down an alley in the rear of
      the Rue Morgue, the fugitive’s attention was arrested by a light
      gleaming from the open window of Madame L’Espanaye’s chamber, in
      the fourth story of her house. Rushing to the building, it
      perceived the lightning rod, clambered up with inconceivable
      agility, grasped the shutter, which was thrown fully back against
      the wall, and, by its means, swung itself directly upon the
      headboard of the bed. The whole feat did not occupy a minute. The
      shutter was kicked open again by the Ourang-Outang as it entered
      the room.

      The sailor, in the meantime, was both rejoiced and perplexed. He
      had strong hopes of now recapturing the brute, as it could
      scarcely escape from the trap into which it had ventured, except
      by the rod, where it might be intercepted as it came down. On the
      other hand, there was much cause for anxiety as to what it might
      do in the house. This latter reflection urged the man still to
      follow the fugitive. A lightning rod is ascended without
      difficulty, especially by a sailor; but, when he had arrived as
      high as the window, which lay far to his left, his career was
      stopped; the most that he could accomplish was to reach over so
      as to obtain a glimpse of the interior of the room. At this
      glimpse he nearly fell from his hold through excess of horror.
      Now it was that those hideous shrieks arose upon the night, which
      had startled from slumber the inmates of the Rue Morgue. Madame
      L’Espanaye and her daughter, habited in their night clothes, had
      apparently been occupied in arranging some papers in the iron
      chest already mentioned, which had been wheeled into the middle
      of the room. It was open, and its contents lay beside it on the
      floor. The victims must have been sitting with their backs toward
      the window; and, from the time elapsing between the ingress of
      the beast and the screams, it seems probable that it was not
      immediately perceived. The flapping-to of the shutter would
      naturally have been attributed to the wind.

      As the sailor looked in, the gigantic animal had seized Madame
      L’Espanaye by the hair, (which was loose, as she had been combing
      it,) and was flourishing the razor about her face, in imitation
      of the motions of a barber. The daughter lay prostrate and
      motionless; she had swooned. The screams and struggles of the old
      lady (during which the hair was torn from her head) had the
      effect of changing the probably pacific purposes of the
      Ourang-Outang into those of wrath. With one determined sweep of
      its muscular arm it nearly severed her head from her body. The
      sight of blood inflamed its anger into phrenzy. Gnashing its
      teeth, and flashing fire from its eyes, it flew upon the body of
      the girl, and imbedded its fearful talons in her throat,
      retaining its grasp until she expired. Its wandering and wild
      glances fell at this moment upon the head of the bed, over which
      the face of its master, rigid with horror, was just discernible.
      The fury of the beast, who no doubt bore still in mind the
      dreaded whip, was instantly converted into fear. Conscious of
      having deserved punishment, it seemed desirous of concealing its
      bloody deeds, and skipped about the chamber in an agony of
      nervous agitation; throwing down and breaking the furniture as it
      moved, and dragging the bed from the bedstead. In conclusion, it
      seized first the corpse of the daughter, and thrust it up the
      chimney, as it was found; then that of the old lady, which it
      immediately hurled through the window headlong.

      As the ape approached the casement with its mutilated burden, the
      sailor shrank aghast to the rod, and, rather gliding than
      clambering down it, hurried at once home—dreading the
      consequences of the butchery, and gladly abandoning, in his
      terror, all solicitude about the fate of the Ourang-Outang. The
      words heard by the party upon the staircase were the Frenchman’s
      exclamations of horror and affright, commingled with the fiendish
      jabberings of the brute.

      I have scarcely anything to add. The Ourang-Outang must have
      escaped from the chamber, by the rod, just before the breaking of
      the door. It must have closed the window as it passed through it.
      It was subsequently caught by the owner himself, who obtained for
      it a very large sum at the _Jardin des Plantes._ Le Don was
      instantly released, upon our narration of the circumstances (with
      some comments from Dupin) at the bureau of the Prefect of Police.
      This functionary, however well disposed to my friend, could not
      altogether conceal his chagrin at the turn which affairs had
      taken, and was fain to indulge in a sarcasm or two, about the
      propriety of every person minding his own business.

      “Let him talk,” said Dupin, who had not thought it necessary to
      reply. “Let him discourse; it will ease his conscience, I am
      satisfied with having defeated him in his own castle.
      Nevertheless, that he failed in the solution of this mystery, is
      by no means that matter for wonder which he supposes it; for, in
      truth, our friend the Prefect is somewhat too cunning to be
      profound. In his wisdom is no _stamen._ It is all head and no
      body, like the pictures of the Goddess Laverna,—or, at best, all
      head and shoulders, like a codfish. But he is a good creature
      after all. I like him especially for one master stroke of cant,
      by which he has attained his reputation for ingenuity. I mean the
      way he has ‘_de nier ce qui est, et d’expliquer ce qui n’est
      pas._’” (*)

      (*) Rousseau—Nouvelle Heloïse.




THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET.(*1)


      A SEQUEL TO “THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE.”

  Es giebt eine Reihe idealischer Begebenheiten, die der Wirklichkeit
  parallel lauft. Selten fallen sie zusammen. Menschen und zufalle
  modificiren gewohulich die idealische Begebenheit, so dass sie
  unvollkommen erscheint, und ihre Folgen gleichfalls unvollkommen
  sind. So bei der Reformation; statt des Protestantismus kam das
  Lutherthum hervor.
      There are ideal series of events which run parallel with the real
      ones. They rarely coincide. Men and circumstances generally
      modify the ideal train of events, so that it seems imperfect, and
      its consequences are equally imperfect. Thus with the
      Reformation; instead of Protestantism came
      Lutheranism.—_Novalis_.(*2) _Moral Ansichten_.

      There are few persons, even among the calmest thinkers, who have
      not occasionally been startled into a vague yet thrilling
      half-credence in the supernatural, by coincidences of so
      seemingly marvellous a character that, as mere coincidences, the
      intellect has been unable to receive them. Such sentiments—for
      the half-credences of which I speak have never the full force of
      thought—such sentiments are seldom thoroughly stifled unless by
      reference to the doctrine of chance, or, as it is technically
      termed, the Calculus of Probabilities. Now this Calculus is, in
      its essence, purely mathematical; and thus we have the anomaly of
      the most rigidly exact in science applied to the shadow and
      spirituality of the most intangible in speculation.

      The extraordinary details which I am now called upon to make
      public, will be found to form, as regards sequence of time, the
      primary branch of a series of scarcely intelligible coincidences,
      whose secondary or concluding branch will be recognized by all
      readers in the late murder of Mary Cecila Rogers, at New York.

      When, in an article entitled “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” I
      endeavored, about a year ago, to depict some very remarkable
      features in the mental character of my friend, the Chevalier C.
      Auguste Dupin, it did not occur to me that I should ever resume
      the subject. This depicting of character constituted my design;
      and this design was thoroughly fulfilled in the wild train of
      circumstances brought to instance Dupin’s idiosyncrasy. I might
      have adduced other examples, but I should have proven no more.
      Late events, however, in their surprising development, have
      startled me into some farther details, which will carry with them
      the air of extorted confession. Hearing what I have lately heard,
      it would be indeed strange should I remain silent in regard to
      what I both heard and saw so long ago.

      Upon the winding up of the tragedy involved in the deaths of
      Madame L’Espanaye and her daughter, the Chevalier dismissed the
      affair at once from his attention, and relapsed into his old
      habits of moody reverie. Prone, at all times, to abstraction, I
      readily fell in with his humor; and, continuing to occupy our
      chambers in the Faubourg Saint Germain, we gave the Future to the
      winds, and slumbered tranquilly in the Present, weaving the dull
      world around us into dreams.

      But these dreams were not altogether uninterrupted. It may
      readily be supposed that the part played by my friend, in the
      drama at the Rue Morgue, had not failed of its impression upon
      the fancies of the Parisian police. With its emissaries, the name
      of Dupin had grown into a household word. The simple character of
      those inductions by which he had disentangled the mystery never
      having been explained even to the Prefect, or to any other
      individual than myself, of course it is not surprising that the
      affair was regarded as little less than miraculous, or that the
      Chevalier’s analytical abilities acquired for him the credit of
      intuition. His frankness would have led him to disabuse every
      inquirer of such prejudice; but his indolent humor forbade all
      farther agitation of a topic whose interest to himself had long
      ceased. It thus happened that he found himself the cynosure of
      the political eyes; and the cases were not few in which attempt
      was made to engage his services at the Prefecture. One of the
      most remarkable instances was that of the murder of a young girl
      named Marie Rogêt.

      This event occurred about two years after the atrocity in the Rue
      Morgue. Marie, whose Christian and family name will at once
      arrest attention from their resemblance to those of the
      unfortunate “cigar girl,” was the only daughter of the widow
      Estelle Rogêt. The father had died during the child’s infancy,
      and from the period of his death, until within eighteen months
      before the assassination which forms the subject of our
      narrative, the mother and daughter had dwelt together in the Rue
      Pavée Saint Andrée; (*3) Madame there keeping a pension, assisted
      by Marie. Affairs went on thus until the latter had attained her
      twenty-second year, when her great beauty attracted the notice of
      a perfumer, who occupied one of the shops in the basement of the
      Palais Royal, and whose custom lay chiefly among the desperate
      adventurers infesting that neighborhood. Monsieur Le Blanc (*4)
      was not unaware of the advantages to be derived from the
      attendance of the fair Marie in his perfumery; and his liberal
      proposals were accepted eagerly by the girl, although with
      somewhat more of hesitation by Madame.

      The anticipations of the shopkeeper were realized, and his rooms
      soon became notorious through the charms of the sprightly
      grisette. She had been in his employ about a year, when her
      admirers were thrown info confusion by her sudden disappearance
      from the shop. Monsieur Le Blanc was unable to account for her
      absence, and Madame Rogêt was distracted with anxiety and terror.
      The public papers immediately took up the theme, and the police
      were upon the point of making serious investigations, when, one
      fine morning, after the lapse of a week, Marie, in good health,
      but with a somewhat saddened air, made her re-appearance at her
      usual counter in the perfumery. All inquiry, except that of a
      private character, was of course immediately hushed. Monsieur Le
      Blanc professed total ignorance, as before. Marie, with Madame,
      replied to all questions, that the last week had been spent at
      the house of a relation in the country. Thus the affair died
      away, and was generally forgotten; for the girl, ostensibly to
      relieve herself from the impertinence of curiosity, soon bade a
      final adieu to the perfumer, and sought the shelter of her
      mother’s residence in the Rue Pavée Saint Andrée.

      It was about five months after this return home, that her friends
      were alarmed by her sudden disappearance for the second time.
      Three days elapsed, and nothing was heard of her. On the fourth
      her corpse was found floating in the Seine, * near the shore
      which is opposite the Quartier of the Rue Saint Andrée, and at a
      point not very far distant from the secluded neighborhood of the
      Barrière du Roule. (*6)

      The atrocity of this murder, (for it was at once evident that
      murder had been committed,) the youth and beauty of the victim,
      and, above all, her previous notoriety, conspired to produce
      intense excitement in the minds of the sensitive Parisians. I can
      call to mind no similar occurrence producing so general and so
      intense an effect. For several weeks, in the discussion of this
      one absorbing theme, even the momentous political topics of the
      day were forgotten. The Prefect made unusual exertions; and the
      powers of the whole Parisian police were, of course, tasked to
      the utmost extent.

      Upon the first discovery of the corpse, it was not supposed that
      the murderer would be able to elude, for more than a very brief
      period, the inquisition which was immediately set on foot. It was
      not until the expiration of a week that it was deemed necessary
      to offer a reward; and even then this reward was limited to a
      thousand francs. In the mean time the investigation proceeded
      with vigor, if not always with judgment, and numerous individuals
      were examined to no purpose; while, owing to the continual
      absence of all clue to the mystery, the popular excitement
      greatly increased. At the end of the tenth day it was thought
      advisable to double the sum originally proposed; and, at length,
      the second week having elapsed without leading to any
      discoveries, and the prejudice which always exists in Paris
      against the Police having given vent to itself in several serious
      émeutes, the Prefect took it upon himself to offer the sum of
      twenty thousand francs “for the conviction of the assassin,” or,
      if more than one should prove to have been implicated, “for the
      conviction of any one of the assassins.” In the proclamation
      setting forth this reward, a full pardon was promised to any
      accomplice who should come forward in evidence against his
      fellow; and to the whole was appended, wherever it appeared, the
      private placard of a committee of citizens, offering ten thousand
      francs, in addition to the amount proposed by the Prefecture. The
      entire reward thus stood at no less than thirty thousand francs,
      which will be regarded as an extraordinary sum when we consider
      the humble condition of the girl, and the great frequency, in
      large cities, of such atrocities as the one described.

      No one doubted now that the mystery of this murder would be
      immediately brought to light. But although, in one or two
      instances, arrests were made which promised elucidation, yet
      nothing was elicited which could implicate the parties suspected;
      and they were discharged forthwith. Strange as it may appear, the
      third week from the discovery of the body had passed, and passed
      without any light being thrown upon the subject, before even a
      rumor of the events which had so agitated the public mind,
      reached the ears of Dupin and myself. Engaged in researches which
      absorbed our whole attention, it had been nearly a month since
      either of us had gone abroad, or received a visitor, or more than
      glanced at the leading political articles in one of the daily
      papers. The first intelligence of the murder was brought us by
      G——, in person. He called upon us early in the afternoon of the
      thirteenth of July, 18—, and remained with us until late in the
      night. He had been piqued by the failure of all his endeavors to
      ferret out the assassins. His reputation—so he said with a
      peculiarly Parisian air—was at stake. Even his honor was
      concerned. The eyes of the public were upon him; and there was
      really no sacrifice which he would not be willing to make for the
      development of the mystery. He concluded a somewhat droll speech
      with a compliment upon what he was pleased to term the tact of
      Dupin, and made him a direct, and certainly a liberal
      proposition, the precise nature of which I do not feel myself at
      liberty to disclose, but which has no bearing upon the proper
      subject of my narrative.

      The compliment my friend rebutted as best he could, but the
      proposition he accepted at once, although its advantages were
      altogether provisional. This point being settled, the Prefect
      broke forth at once into explanations of his own views,
      interspersing them with long comments upon the evidence; of which
      latter we were not yet in possession. He discoursed much, and
      beyond doubt, learnedly; while I hazarded an occasional
      suggestion as the night wore drowsily away. Dupin, sitting
      steadily in his accustomed arm-chair, was the embodiment of
      respectful attention. He wore spectacles, during the whole
      interview; and an occasional signal glance beneath their green
      glasses, sufficed to convince me that he slept not the less
      soundly, because silently, throughout the seven or eight
      leaden-footed hours which immediately preceded the departure of
      the Prefect.

      In the morning, I procured, at the Prefecture, a full report of
      all the evidence elicited, and, at the various newspaper offices,
      a copy of every paper in which, from first to last, had been
      published any decisive information in regard to this sad affair.
      Freed from all that was positively disproved, this mass of
      information stood thus:

      Marie Rogêt left the residence of her mother, in the Rue Pavée
      St. Andrée, about nine o’clock in the morning of Sunday, June the
      twenty-second, 18—. In going out, she gave notice to a Monsieur
      Jacques St. Eustache, (*7) and to him only, of her intention to
      spend the day with an aunt who resided in the Rue des Drômes. The
      Rue des Drômes is a short and narrow but populous thoroughfare,
      not far from the banks of the river, and at a distance of some
      two miles, in the most direct course possible, from the pension
      of Madame Rogêt. St. Eustache was the accepted suitor of Marie,
      and lodged, as well as took his meals, at the pension. He was to
      have gone for his betrothed at dusk, and to have escorted her
      home. In the afternoon, however, it came on to rain heavily; and,
      supposing that she would remain all night at her aunt’s, (as she
      had done under similar circumstances before,) he did not think
      it necessary to keep his promise. As night drew on, Madame Rogêt
      (who was an infirm old lady, seventy years of age,) was heard to
      express a fear “that she should never see Marie again;” but this
      observation attracted little attention at the time.

      On Monday, it was ascertained that the girl had not been to the
      Rue des Drômes; and when the day elapsed without tidings of her,
      a tardy search was instituted at several points in the city, and
      its environs. It was not, however until the fourth day from the
      period of disappearance that any thing satisfactory was
      ascertained respecting her. On this day, (Wednesday, the
      twenty-fifth of June,) a Monsieur Beauvais, (*8) who, with a
      friend, had been making inquiries for Marie near the Barrière du
      Roule, on the shore of the Seine which is opposite the Rue Pavée
      St. Andrée, was informed that a corpse had just been towed ashore
      by some fishermen, who had found it floating in the river. Upon
      seeing the body, Beauvais, after some hesitation, identified it
      as that of the perfumery-girl. His friend recognized it more
      promptly.

      The face was suffused with dark blood, some of which issued from
      the mouth. No foam was seen, as in the case of the merely
      drowned. There was no discoloration in the cellular tissue. About
      the throat were bruises and impressions of fingers. The arms were
      bent over on the chest and were rigid. The right hand was
      clenched; the left partially open. On the left wrist were two
      circular excoriations, apparently the effect of ropes, or of a
      rope in more than one volution. A part of the right wrist, also,
      was much chafed, as well as the back throughout its extent, but
      more especially at the shoulder-blades. In bringing the body to
      the shore the fishermen had attached to it a rope; but none of
      the excoriations had been effected by this. The flesh of the neck
      was much swollen. There were no cuts apparent, or bruises which
      appeared the effect of blows. A piece of lace was found tied so
      tightly around the neck as to be hidden from sight; it was
      completely buried in the flesh, and was fastened by a knot which
      lay just under the left ear. This alone would have sufficed to
      produce death. The medical testimony spoke confidently of the
      virtuous character of the deceased. She had been subjected, it
      said, to brutal violence. The corpse was in such condition when
      found, that there could have been no difficulty in its
      recognition by friends.

      The dress was much torn and otherwise disordered. In the outer
      garment, a slip, about a foot wide, had been torn upward from the
      bottom hem to the waist, but not torn off. It was wound three
      times around the waist, and secured by a sort of hitch in the
      back. The dress immediately beneath the frock was of fine muslin;
      and from this a slip eighteen inches wide had been torn entirely
      out—torn very evenly and with great care. It was found around her
      neck, fitting loosely, and secured with a hard knot. Over this
      muslin slip and the slip of lace, the strings of a bonnet were
      attached; the bonnet being appended. The knot by which the
      strings of the bonnet were fastened, was not a lady’s, but a slip
      or sailor’s knot.

      After the recognition of the corpse, it was not, as usual, taken
      to the Morgue, (this formality being superfluous,) but hastily
      interred not far from the spot at which it was brought ashore.
      Through the exertions of Beauvais, the matter was industriously
      hushed up, as far as possible; and several days had elapsed
      before any public emotion resulted. A weekly paper, (*9) however,
      at length took up the theme; the corpse was disinterred, and a
      re-examination instituted; but nothing was elicited beyond what
      has been already noted. The clothes, however, were now submitted
      to the mother and friends of the deceased, and fully identified
      as those worn by the girl upon leaving home.

      Meantime, the excitement increased hourly. Several individuals
      were arrested and discharged. St. Eustache fell especially under
      suspicion; and he failed, at first, to give an intelligible
      account of his whereabouts during the Sunday on which Marie left
      home. Subsequently, however, he submitted to Monsieur G——,
      affidavits, accounting satisfactorily for every hour of the day
      in question. As time passed and no discovery ensued, a thousand
      contradictory rumors were circulated, and journalists busied
      themselves in suggestions. Among these, the one which attracted
      the most notice, was the idea that Marie Rogêt still lived—that
      the corpse found in the Seine was that of some other unfortunate.
      It will be proper that I submit to the reader some passages which
      embody the suggestion alluded to. These passages are literal
      translations from L’Etoile, (*10) a paper conducted, in general,
      with much ability.

      “Mademoiselle Rogêt left her mother’s house on Sunday morning,
      June the twenty-second, 18—, with the ostensible purpose of going
      to see her aunt, or some other connexion, in the Rue des Drômes.
      From that hour, nobody is proved to have seen her. There is no
      trace or tidings of her at all.... There has no person, whatever,
      come forward, so far, who saw her at all, on that day, after she
      left her mother’s door.... Now, though we have no evidence that
      Marie Rogêt was in the land of the living after nine o’clock on
      Sunday, June the twenty-second, we have proof that, up to that
      hour, she was alive. On Wednesday noon, at twelve, a female body
      was discovered afloat on the shore of the Barrière de Roule. This
      was, even if we presume that Marie Rogêt was thrown into the
      river within three hours after she left her mother’s house, only
      three days from the time she left her home—three days to an hour.
      But it is folly to suppose that the murder, if murder was
      committed on her body, could have been consummated soon enough to
      have enabled her murderers to throw the body into the river
      before midnight. Those who are guilty of such horrid crimes
      choose darkness rather the light.... Thus we see that if the body
      found in the river was that of Marie Rogêt, it could only have
      been in the water two and a half days, or three at the outside.
      All experience has shown that drowned bodies, or bodies thrown
      into the water immediately after death by violence, require from
      six to ten days for decomposition to take place to bring them to
      the top of the water. Even where a cannon is fired over a corpse,
      and it rises before at least five or six days’ immersion, it
      sinks again, if let alone. Now, we ask, what was there in this
      case to cause a departure from the ordinary course of nature?...
      If the body had been kept in its mangled state on shore until
      Tuesday night, some trace would be found on shore of the
      murderers. It is a doubtful point, also, whether the body would
      be so soon afloat, even were it thrown in after having been dead
      two days. And, furthermore, it is exceedingly improbable that any
      villains who had committed such a murder as is here supposed,
      would have thrown the body in without weight to sink it, when
      such a precaution could have so easily been taken.”

      The editor here proceeds to argue that the body must have been in
      the water “not three days merely, but, at least, five times three
      days,” because it was so far decomposed that Beauvais had great
      difficulty in recognizing it. This latter point, however, was
      fully disproved. I continue the translation:

      “What, then, are the facts on which M. Beauvais says that he has
      no doubt the body was that of Marie Rogêt? He ripped up the gown
      sleeve, and says he found marks which satisfied him of the
      identity. The public generally supposed those marks to have
      consisted of some description of scars. He rubbed the arm and
      found hair upon it—something as indefinite, we think, as can
      readily be imagined—as little conclusive as finding an arm in the
      sleeve. M. Beauvais did not return that night, but sent word to
      Madame Rogêt, at seven o’clock, on Wednesday evening, that an
      investigation was still in progress respecting her daughter. If
      we allow that Madame Rogêt, from her age and grief, could not go
      over, (which is allowing a great deal,) there certainly must have
      been some one who would have thought it worth while to go over
      and attend the investigation, if they thought the body was that
      of Marie. Nobody went over. There was nothing said or heard about
      the matter in the Rue Pavée St. Andrée, that reached even the
      occupants of the same building. M. St. Eustache, the lover and
      intended husband of Marie, who boarded in her mother’s house,
      deposes that he did not hear of the discovery of the body of his
      intended until the next morning, when M. Beauvais came into his
      chamber and told him of it. For an item of news like this, it
      strikes us it was very coolly received.”

      In this way the journal endeavored to create the impression of an
      apathy on the part of the relatives of Marie, inconsistent with
      the supposition that these relatives believed the corpse to be
      hers. Its insinuations amount to this: that Marie, with the
      connivance of her friends, had absented herself from the city for
      reasons involving a charge against her chastity; and that these
      friends, upon the discovery of a corpse in the Seine, somewhat
      resembling that of the girl, had availed themselves of the
      opportunity to impress the public with the belief of her death.
      But L’Etoile was again over-hasty. It was distinctly proved that
      no apathy, such as was imagined, existed; that the old lady was
      exceedingly feeble, and so agitated as to be unable to attend to
      any duty; that St. Eustache, so far from receiving the news
      coolly, was distracted with grief, and bore himself so
      frantically, that M. Beauvais prevailed upon a friend and
      relative to take charge of him, and prevent his attending the
      examination at the disinterment. Moreover, although it was stated
      by L’Etoile, that the corpse was re-interred at the public
      expense—that an advantageous offer of private sculpture was
      absolutely declined by the family—and that no member of the
      family attended the ceremonial;—although, I say, all this was
      asserted by L’Etoile in furtherance of the impression it designed
      to convey—yet all this was satisfactorily disproved. In a
      subsequent number of the paper, an attempt was made to throw
      suspicion upon Beauvais himself. The editor says:

      “Now, then, a change comes over the matter. We are told that on
      one occasion, while a Madame B—— was at Madame Rogêt’s house, M.
      Beauvais, who was going out, told her that a gendarme was
      expected there, and she, Madame B., must not say anything to the
      gendarme until he returned, but let the matter be for him.... In
      the present posture of affairs, M. Beauvais appears to have the
      whole matter locked up in his head. A single step cannot be taken
      without M. Beauvais, for, go which way you will, you run against
      him.... For some reason, he determined that nobody shall have any
      thing to do with the proceedings but himself, and he has elbowed
      the male relatives out of the way, according to their
      representations, in a very singular manner. He seems to have been
      very much averse to permitting the relatives to see the body.”

      By the following fact, some color was given to the suspicion thus
      thrown upon Beauvais. A visitor at his office, a few days prior
      to the girl’s disappearance, and during the absence of its
      occupant, had observed a rose in the key-hole of the door, and
      the name “Marie” inscribed upon a slate which hung near at hand.

      The general impression, so far as we were enabled to glean it
      from the newspapers, seemed to be, that Marie had been the victim
      of a gang of desperadoes—that by these she had been borne across
      the river, maltreated and murdered. Le Commerciel, (*11) however,
      a print of extensive influence, was earnest in combating this
      popular idea. I quote a passage or two from its columns:

      “We are persuaded that pursuit has hitherto been on a false
      scent, so far as it has been directed to the Barrière du Roule.
      It is impossible that a person so well known to thousands as this
      young woman was, should have passed three blocks without some one
      having seen her; and any one who saw her would have remembered
      it, for she interested all who knew her. It was when the streets
      were full of people, when she went out.... It is impossible that
      she could have gone to the Barrière du Roule, or to the Rue des
      Drômes, without being recognized by a dozen persons; yet no one
      has come forward who saw her outside of her mother’s door, and
      there is no evidence, except the testimony concerning her
      expressed intentions, that she did go out at all. Her gown was
      torn, bound round her, and tied; and by that the body was carried
      as a bundle. If the murder had been committed at the Barrière du
      Roule, there would have been no necessity for any such
      arrangement. The fact that the body was found floating near the
      Barrière, is no proof as to where it was thrown into the
      water..... A piece of one of the unfortunate girl’s petticoats,
      two feet long and one foot wide, was torn out and tied under her
      chin around the back of her head, probably to prevent screams.
      This was done by fellows who had no pocket-handkerchief.”

      A day or two before the Prefect called upon us, however, some
      important information reached the police, which seemed to
      overthrow, at least, the chief portion of Le Commerciel’s
      argument. Two small boys, sons of a Madame Deluc, while roaming
      among the woods near the Barrière du Roule, chanced to penetrate
      a close thicket, within which were three or four large stones,
      forming a kind of seat, with a back and footstool. On the upper
      stone lay a white petticoat; on the second a silk scarf. A
      parasol, gloves, and a pocket-handkerchief were also here found.
      The handkerchief bore the name “Marie Rogêt.” Fragments of dress
      were discovered on the brambles around. The earth was trampled,
      the bushes were broken, and there was every evidence of a
      struggle. Between the thicket and the river, the fences were
      found taken down, and the ground bore evidence of some heavy
      burthen having been dragged along it.

      A weekly paper, Le Soleil,(*12) had the following comments upon
      this discovery—comments which merely echoed the sentiment of the
      whole Parisian press:

      “The things had all evidently been there at least three or four
      weeks; they were all mildewed down hard with the action of the
      rain and stuck together from mildew. The grass had grown around
      and over some of them. The silk on the parasol was strong, but
      the threads of it were run together within. The upper part, where
      it had been doubled and folded, was all mildewed and rotten, and
      tore on its being opened..... The pieces of her frock torn out by
      the bushes were about three inches wide and six inches long. One
      part was the hem of the frock, and it had been mended; the other
      piece was part of the skirt, not the hem. They looked like strips
      torn off, and were on the thorn bush, about a foot from the
      ground..... There can be no doubt, therefore, that the spot of
      this appalling outrage has been discovered.”

      Consequent upon this discovery, new evidence appeared. Madame
      Deluc testified that she keeps a roadside inn not far from the
      bank of the river, opposite the Barrière du Roule. The
      neighborhood is secluded—particularly so. It is the usual Sunday
      resort of blackguards from the city, who cross the river in
      boats. About three o’clock, in the afternoon of the Sunday in
      question, a young girl arrived at the inn, accompanied by a young
      man of dark complexion. The two remained here for some time. On
      their departure, they took the road to some thick woods in the
      vicinity. Madame Deluc’s attention was called to the dress worn
      by the girl, on account of its resemblance to one worn by a
      deceased relative. A scarf was particularly noticed. Soon after
      the departure of the couple, a gang of miscreants made their
      appearance, behaved boisterously, ate and drank without making
      payment, followed in the route of the young man and girl,
      returned to the inn about dusk, and re-crossed the river as if in
      great haste.

      It was soon after dark, upon this same evening, that Madame
      Deluc, as well as her eldest son, heard the screams of a female
      in the vicinity of the inn. The screams were violent but brief.
      Madame D. recognized not only the scarf which was found in the
      thicket, but the dress which was discovered upon the corpse. An
      omnibus driver, Valence, (*13) now also testified that he saw
      Marie Rogêt cross a ferry on the Seine, on the Sunday in
      question, in company with a young man of dark complexion. He,
      Valence, knew Marie, and could not be mistaken in her identity.
      The articles found in the thicket were fully identified by the
      relatives of Marie.

      The items of evidence and information thus collected by myself,
      from the newspapers, at the suggestion of Dupin, embraced only
      one more point—but this was a point of seemingly vast
      consequence. It appears that, immediately after the discovery of
      the clothes as above described, the lifeless, or nearly lifeless
      body of St. Eustache, Marie’s betrothed, was found in the
      vicinity of what all now supposed the scene of the outrage. A
      phial labelled “laudanum,” and emptied, was found near him. His
      breath gave evidence of the poison. He died without speaking.
      Upon his person was found a letter, briefly stating his love for
      Marie, with his design of self-destruction.

      “I need scarcely tell you,” said Dupin, as he finished the
      perusal of my notes, “that this is a far more intricate case than
      that of the Rue Morgue; from which it differs in one important
      respect. This is an ordinary, although an atrocious instance of
      crime. There is nothing peculiarly outré about it. You will
      observe that, for this reason, the mystery has been considered
      easy, when, for this reason, it should have been considered
      difficult, of solution. Thus; at first, it was thought
      unnecessary to offer a reward. The myrmidons of G—— were able at
      once to comprehend how and why such an atrocity might have been
      committed. They could picture to their imaginations a mode—many
      modes—and a motive—many motives; and because it was not
      impossible that either of these numerous modes and motives could
      have been the actual one, they have taken it for granted that one
      of them must. But the case with which these variable fancies were
      entertained, and the very plausibility which each assumed, should
      have been understood as indicative rather of the difficulties
      than of the facilities which must attend elucidation. I have
      before observed that it is by prominences above the plane of the
      ordinary, that reason feels her way, if at all, in her search for
      the true, and that the proper question in cases such as this, is
      not so much ‘what has occurred?’ as ‘what has occurred that has
      never occurred before?’ In the investigations at the house of
      Madame L’Espanaye, (*14) the agents of G—— were discouraged and
      confounded by that very unusualness which, to a properly
      regulated intellect, would have afforded the surest omen of
      success; while this same intellect might have been plunged in
      despair at the ordinary character of all that met the eye in the
      case of the perfumery-girl, and yet told of nothing but easy
      triumph to the functionaries of the Prefecture.

      “In the case of Madame L’Espanaye and her daughter there was,
      even at the beginning of our investigation, no doubt that murder
      had been committed. The idea of suicide was excluded at once.
      Here, too, we are freed, at the commencement, from all
      supposition of self-murder. The body found at the Barrière du
      Roule, was found under such circumstances as to leave us no room
      for embarrassment upon this important point. But it has been
      suggested that the corpse discovered, is not that of the Marie
      Rogêt for the conviction of whose assassin, or assassins, the
      reward is offered, and respecting whom, solely, our agreement has
      been arranged with the Prefect. We both know this gentleman well.
      It will not do to trust him too far. If, dating our inquiries
      from the body found, and thence tracing a murderer, we yet
      discover this body to be that of some other individual than
      Marie; or, if starting from the living Marie, we find her, yet
      find her unassassinated—in either case we lose our labor; since
      it is Monsieur G—— with whom we have to deal. For our own
      purpose, therefore, if not for the purpose of justice, it is
      indispensable that our first step should be the determination of
      the identity of the corpse with the Marie Rogêt who is missing.

      “With the public the arguments of L’Etoile have had weight; and
      that the journal itself is convinced of their importance would
      appear from the manner in which it commences one of its essays
      upon the subject—‘Several of the morning papers of the day,’ it
      says, ‘speak of the _conclusive_ article in Monday’s Etoile.’ To
      me, this article appears conclusive of little beyond the zeal of
      its inditer. We should bear in mind that, in general, it is the
      object of our newspapers rather to create a sensation—to make a
      point—than to further the cause of truth. The latter end is only
      pursued when it seems coincident with the former. The print which
      merely falls in with ordinary opinion (however well founded this
      opinion may be) earns for itself no credit with the mob. The mass
      of the people regard as profound only him who suggests _pungent
      contradictions_ of the general idea. In ratiocination, not less
      than in literature, it is the epigram which is the most
      immediately and the most universally appreciated. In both, it is
      of the lowest order of merit.

      “What I mean to say is, that it is the mingled epigram and
      melodrame of the idea, that Marie Rogêt still lives, rather than
      any true plausibility in this idea, which have suggested it to
      L’Etoile, and secured it a favorable reception with the public.
      Let us examine the heads of this journal’s argument; endeavoring
      to avoid the incoherence with which it is originally set forth.

      “The first aim of the writer is to show, from the brevity of the
      interval between Marie’s disappearance and the finding of the
      floating corpse, that this corpse cannot be that of Marie. The
      reduction of this interval to its smallest possible dimension,
      becomes thus, at once, an object with the reasoner. In the rash
      pursuit of this object, he rushes into mere assumption at the
      outset. ‘It is folly to suppose,’ he says, ‘that the murder, if
      murder was committed on her body, could have been consummated
      soon enough to have enabled her murderers to throw the body into
      the river before midnight.’ We demand at once, and very
      naturally, why? Why is it folly to suppose that the murder was
      committed _within five minutes_ after the girl’s quitting her
      mother’s house? Why is it folly to suppose that the murder was
      committed at any given period of the day? There have been
      assassinations at all hours. But, had the murder taken place at
      any moment between nine o’clock in the morning of Sunday, and a
      quarter before midnight, there would still have been time enough
      ‘to throw the body into the river before midnight.’ This
      assumption, then, amounts precisely to this—that the murder was
      not committed on Sunday at all—and, if we allow L’Etoile to
      assume this, we may permit it any liberties whatever. The
      paragraph beginning ‘It is folly to suppose that the murder,
      etc.,’ however it appears as printed in L’Etoile, may be imagined
      to have existed actually thus in the brain of its inditer—‘It is
      folly to suppose that the murder, if murder was committed on the
      body, could have been committed soon enough to have enabled her
      murderers to throw the body into the river before midnight; it is
      folly, we say, to suppose all this, and to suppose at the same
      time, (as we are resolved to suppose,) that the body was not
      thrown in until after midnight’—a sentence sufficiently
      inconsequential in itself, but not so utterly preposterous as the
      one printed.

      “Were it my purpose,” continued Dupin, “merely to _make out a
      case_ against this passage of L’Etoile’s argument, I might safely
      leave it where it is. It is not, however, with L’Etoile that we
      have to do, but with the truth. The sentence in question has but
      one meaning, as it stands; and this meaning I have fairly stated;
      but it is material that we go behind the mere words, for an idea
      which these words have obviously intended, and failed to convey.
      It was the design of the journalist to say that, at whatever
      period of the day or night of Sunday this murder was committed,
      it was improbable that the assassins would have ventured to bear
      the corpse to the river before midnight. And herein lies, really,
      the assumption of which I complain. It is assumed that the murder
      was committed at such a position, and under such circumstances,
      that the bearing it to the river became necessary. Now, the
      assassination might have taken place upon the river’s brink, or
      on the river itself; and, thus, the throwing the corpse in the
      water might have been resorted to, at any period of the day or
      night, as the most obvious and most immediate mode of disposal.
      You will understand that I suggest nothing here as probable, or
      as cöincident with my own opinion. My design, so far, has no
      reference to the facts of the case. I wish merely to caution you
      against the whole tone of L’Etoile’s suggestion, by calling your
      attention to its ex parte character at the outset.

      “Having prescribed thus a limit to suit its own preconceived
      notions; having assumed that, if this were the body of Marie, it
      could have been in the water but a very brief time, the journal
      goes on to say:

      ‘All experience has shown that drowned bodies, or bodies thrown
      into the water immediately after death by violence, require from
      six to ten days for sufficient decomposition to take place to
      bring them to the top of the water. Even when a cannon is fired
      over a corpse, and it rises before at least five or six days’
      immersion, it sinks again if let alone.’

      “These assertions have been tacitly received by every paper in
      Paris, with the exception of Le Moniteur. (*15) This latter print
      endeavors to combat that portion of the paragraph which has
      reference to ‘drowned bodies’ only, by citing some five or six
      instances in which the bodies of individuals known to be drowned
      were found floating after the lapse of less time than is insisted
      upon by L’Etoile. But there is something excessively
      unphilosophical in the attempt on the part of Le Moniteur, to
      rebut the general assertion of L’Etoile, by a citation of
      particular instances militating against that assertion. Had it
      been possible to adduce fifty instead of five examples of bodies
      found floating at the end of two or three days, these fifty
      examples could still have been properly regarded only as
      exceptions to L’Etoile’s rule, until such time as the rule itself
      should be confuted. Admitting the rule, (and this Le Moniteur
      does not deny, insisting merely upon its exceptions,) the
      argument of L’Etoile is suffered to remain in full force; for
      this argument does not pretend to involve more than a question of
      the probability of the body having risen to the surface in less
      than three days; and this probability will be in favor of
      L’Etoile’s position until the instances so childishly adduced
      shall be sufficient in number to establish an antagonistical
      rule.

      “You will see at once that all argument upon this head should be
      urged, if at all, against the rule itself; and for this end we
      must examine the rationale of the rule. Now the human body, in
      general, is neither much lighter nor much heavier than the water
      of the Seine; that is to say, the specific gravity of the human
      body, in its natural condition, is about equal to the bulk of
      fresh water which it displaces. The bodies of fat and fleshy
      persons, with small bones, and of women generally, are lighter
      than those of the lean and large-boned, and of men; and the
      specific gravity of the water of a river is somewhat influenced
      by the presence of the tide from sea. But, leaving this tide out
      of question, it may be said that very few human bodies will sink
      at all, even in fresh water, of their own accord. Almost any one,
      falling into a river, will be enabled to float, if he suffer the
      specific gravity of the water fairly to be adduced in comparison
      with his own—that is to say, if he suffer his whole person to be
      immersed, with as little exception as possible. The proper
      position for one who cannot swim, is the upright position of the
      walker on land, with the head thrown fully back, and immersed;
      the mouth and nostrils alone remaining above the surface. Thus
      circumstanced, we shall find that we float without difficulty and
      without exertion. It is evident, however, that the gravities of
      the body, and of the bulk of water displaced, are very nicely
      balanced, and that a trifle will cause either to preponderate. An
      arm, for instance, uplifted from the water, and thus deprived of
      its support, is an additional weight sufficient to immerse the
      whole head, while the accidental aid of the smallest piece of
      timber will enable us to elevate the head so as to look about.
      Now, in the struggles of one unused to swimming, the arms are
      invariably thrown upwards, while an attempt is made to keep the
      head in its usual perpendicular position. The result is the
      immersion of the mouth and nostrils, and the inception, during
      efforts to breathe while beneath the surface, of water into the
      lungs. Much is also received into the stomach, and the whole body
      becomes heavier by the difference between the weight of the air
      originally distending these cavities, and that of the fluid which
      now fills them. This difference is sufficient to cause the body
      to sink, as a general rule; but is insufficient in the cases of
      individuals with small bones and an abnormal quantity of flaccid
      or fatty matter. Such individuals float even after drowning.

      “The corpse, being supposed at the bottom of the river, will
      there remain until, by some means, its specific gravity again
      becomes less than that of the bulk of water which it displaces.
      This effect is brought about by decomposition, or otherwise. The
      result of decomposition is the generation of gas, distending the
      cellular tissues and all the cavities, and giving the puffed
      appearance which is so horrible. When this distension has so far
      progressed that the bulk of the corpse is materially increased
      without a corresponding increase of mass or weight, its specific
      gravity becomes less than that of the water displaced, and it
      forthwith makes its appearance at the surface. But decomposition
      is modified by innumerable circumstances—is hastened or retarded
      by innumerable agencies; for example, by the heat or cold of the
      season, by the mineral impregnation or purity of the water, by
      its depth or shallowness, by its currency or stagnation, by the
      temperament of the body, by its infection or freedom from disease
      before death. Thus it is evident that we can assign no period,
      with any thing like accuracy, at which the corpse shall rise
      through decomposition. Under certain conditions this result would
      be brought about within an hour; under others, it might not take
      place at all. There are chemical infusions by which the animal
      frame can be preserved forever from corruption; the bi-chloride
      of mercury is one. But, apart from decomposition, there may be,
      and very usually is, a generation of gas within the stomach, from
      the acetous fermentation of vegetable matter (or within other
      cavities from other causes), sufficient to induce a distension
      which will bring the body to the surface. The effect produced by
      the firing of a cannon is that of simple vibration. This may
      either loosen the corpse from the soft mud or ooze in which it is
      imbedded, thus permitting it to rise when other agencies have
      already prepared it for so doing; or it may overcome the tenacity
      of some putrescent portions of the cellular tissue; allowing the
      cavities to distend under the influence of the gas.

      “Having thus before us the whole philosophy of this subject, we
      can easily test by it the assertions of L’Etoile. ‘All experience
      shows,’ says this paper, ‘that drowned bodies, or bodies thrown
      into the water immediately after death by violence, require from
      six to ten days for sufficient decomposition to take place to
      bring them to the top of the water. Even when a cannon is fired
      over a corpse, and it rises before at least five or six days’
      immersion, it sinks again if let alone.’

      “The whole of this paragraph must now appear a tissue of
      inconsequence and incoherence. All experience does not show that
      ‘drowned bodies’ require from six to ten days for sufficient
      decomposition to take place to bring them to the surface. Both
      science and experience show that the period of their rising is,
      and necessarily must be, indeterminate. If, moreover, a body has
      risen to the surface through firing of cannon, it will not ‘sink
      again if let alone,’ until decomposition has so far progressed as
      to permit the escape of the generated gas. But I wish to call
      your attention to the distinction which is made between ‘drowned
      bodies,’ and ‘bodies thrown into the water immediately after
      death by violence.’ Although the writer admits the distinction,
      he yet includes them all in the same category. I have shown how
      it is that the body of a drowning man becomes specifically
      heavier than its bulk of water, and that he would not sink at
      all, except for the struggles by which he elevates his arms above
      the surface, and his gasps for breath while beneath the
      surface—gasps which supply by water the place of the original air
      in the lungs. But these struggles and these gasps would not occur
      in the body ‘thrown into the water immediately after death by
      violence.’ Thus, in the latter instance, the body, as a general
      rule, would not sink at all—a fact of which L’Etoile is evidently
      ignorant. When decomposition had proceeded to a very great
      extent—when the flesh had in a great measure left the bones—then,
      indeed, but not till then, should we lose sight of the corpse.

      “And now what are we to make of the argument, that the body found
      could not be that of Marie Rogêt, because, three days only having
      elapsed, this body was found floating? If drowned, being a woman,
      she might never have sunk; or having sunk, might have reappeared
      in twenty-four hours, or less. But no one supposes her to have
      been drowned; and, dying before being thrown into the river, she
      might have been found floating at any period afterwards whatever.

      “‘But,’ says L’Etoile, ‘if the body had been kept in its mangled
      state on shore until Tuesday night, some trace would be found on
      shore of the murderers.’ Here it is at first difficult to
      perceive the intention of the reasoner. He means to anticipate
      what he imagines would be an objection to his theory—viz.: that
      the body was kept on shore two days, suffering rapid
      decomposition—more rapid than if immersed in water. He supposes
      that, had this been the case, it might have appeared at the
      surface on the Wednesday, and thinks that only under such
      circumstances it could so have appeared. He is accordingly in
      haste to show that it was not kept on shore; for, if so, ‘some
      trace would be found on shore of the murderers.’ I presume you
      smile at the sequitur. You cannot be made to see how the mere
      duration of the corpse on the shore could operate to multiply
      traces of the assassins. Nor can I.

      “‘And furthermore it is exceedingly improbable,’ continues our
      journal, ‘that any villains who had committed such a murder as is
      here supposed, would have thrown the body in without weight to
      sink it, when such a precaution could have so easily been taken.’
      Observe, here, the laughable confusion of thought! No one—not
      even L’Etoile—disputes the murder committed _on the body found_.
      The marks of violence are too obvious. It is our reasoner’s
      object merely to show that this body is not Marie’s. He wishes to
      prove that Marie is not assassinated—not that the corpse was not.
      Yet his observation proves only the latter point. Here is a
      corpse without weight attached. Murderers, casting it in, would
      not have failed to attach a weight. Therefore it was not thrown
      in by murderers. This is all which is proved, if any thing is.
      The question of identity is not even approached, and L’Etoile has
      been at great pains merely to gainsay now what it has admitted
      only a moment before. ‘We are perfectly convinced,’ it says,
      ‘that the body found was that of a murdered female.’

      “Nor is this the sole instance, even in this division of his
      subject, where our reasoner unwittingly reasons against himself.
      His evident object, I have already said, is to reduce, as much as
      possible, the interval between Marie’s disappearance and the
      finding of the corpse. Yet we find him urging the point that no
      person saw the girl from the moment of her leaving her mother’s
      house. ‘We have no evidence,’ he says, ‘that Marie Rogêt was in
      the land of the living after nine o’clock on Sunday, June the
      twenty-second.’ As his argument is obviously an ex parte one, he
      should, at least, have left this matter out of sight; for had any
      one been known to see Marie, say on Monday, or on Tuesday, the
      interval in question would have been much reduced, and, by his
      own ratiocination, the probability much diminished of the corpse
      being that of the grisette. It is, nevertheless, amusing to
      observe that L’Etoile insists upon its point in the full belief
      of its furthering its general argument.

      “Reperuse now that portion of this argument which has reference
      to the identification of the corpse by Beauvais. In regard to the
      hair upon the arm, L’Etoile has been obviously disingenuous. M.
      Beauvais, not being an idiot, could never have urged, in
      identification of the corpse, simply hair upon its arm. No arm is
      without hair. The generality of the expression of L’Etoile is a
      mere perversion of the witness’ phraseology. He must have spoken
      of some peculiarity in this hair. It must have been a peculiarity
      of color, of quantity, of length, or of situation.

      “‘Her foot,’ says the journal, ‘was small—so are thousands of
      feet. Her garter is no proof whatever—nor is her shoe—for shoes
      and garters are sold in packages. The same may be said of the
      flowers in her hat. One thing upon which M. Beauvais strongly
      insists is, that the clasp on the garter found, had been set back
      to take it in. This amounts to nothing; for most women find it
      proper to take a pair of garters home and fit them to the size of
      the limbs they are to encircle, rather than to try them in the
      store where they purchase.’ Here it is difficult to suppose the
      reasoner in earnest. Had M. Beauvais, in his search for the body
      of Marie, discovered a corpse corresponding in general size and
      appearance to the missing girl, he would have been warranted
      (without reference to the question of habiliment at all) in
      forming an opinion that his search had been successful. If, in
      addition to the point of general size and contour, he had found
      upon the arm a peculiar hairy appearance which he had observed
      upon the living Marie, his opinion might have been justly
      strengthened; and the increase of positiveness might well have
      been in the ratio of the peculiarity, or unusualness, of the
      hairy mark. If, the feet of Marie being small, those of the
      corpse were also small, the increase of probability that the body
      was that of Marie would not be an increase in a ratio merely
      arithmetical, but in one highly geometrical, or accumulative. Add
      to all this shoes such as she had been known to wear upon the day
      of her disappearance, and, although these shoes may be ‘sold in
      packages,’ you so far augment the probability as to verge upon
      the certain. What, of itself, would be no evidence of identity,
      becomes through its corroborative position, proof most sure. Give
      us, then, flowers in the hat corresponding to those worn by the
      missing girl, and we seek for nothing farther. If only one
      flower, we seek for nothing farther—what then if two or three, or
      more? Each successive one is multiple evidence—proof not _added_
      to proof, but multiplied by hundreds or thousands. Let us now
      discover, upon the deceased, garters such as the living used, and
      it is almost folly to proceed. But these garters are found to be
      tightened, by the setting back of a clasp, in just such a manner
      as her own had been tightened by Marie, shortly previous to her
      leaving home. It is now madness or hypocrisy to doubt. What
      L’Etoile says in respect to this abbreviation of the garters
      being an usual occurrence, shows nothing beyond its own
      pertinacity in error. The elastic nature of the clasp-garter is
      self-demonstration of the unusualness of the abbreviation. What
      is made to adjust itself, must of necessity require foreign
      adjustment but rarely. It must have been by an accident, in its
      strictest sense, that these garters of Marie needed the
      tightening described. They alone would have amply established her
      identity. But it is not that the corpse was found to have the
      garters of the missing girl, or found to have her shoes, or her
      bonnet, or the flowers of her bonnet, or her feet, or a peculiar
      mark upon the arm, or her general size and appearance—it is that
      the corpse had each, and _all collectively_. Could it be proved
      that the editor of L’Etoile _really_ entertained a doubt, under
      the circumstances, there would be no need, in his case, of a
      commission de lunatico inquirendo. He has thought it sagacious to
      echo the small talk of the lawyers, who, for the most part,
      content themselves with echoing the rectangular precepts of the
      courts. I would here observe that very much of what is rejected
      as evidence by a court, is the best of evidence to the intellect.
      For the court, guiding itself by the general principles of
      evidence—the recognized and _booked_ principles—is averse from
      swerving at particular instances. And this steadfast adherence to
      principle, with rigorous disregard of the conflicting exception,
      is a sure mode of attaining the maximum of attainable truth, in
      any long sequence of time. The practice, in mass, is therefore
      philosophical; but it is not the less certain that it engenders
      vast individual error. (*16)

      “In respect to the insinuations levelled at Beauvais, you will be
      willing to dismiss them in a breath. You have already fathomed
      the true character of this good gentleman. He is a busy-body,
      with much of romance and little of wit. Any one so constituted
      will readily so conduct himself, upon occasion of real
      excitement, as to render himself liable to suspicion on the part
      of the over acute, or the ill-disposed. M. Beauvais (as it
      appears from your notes) had some personal interviews with the
      editor of L’Etoile, and offended him by venturing an opinion that
      the corpse, notwithstanding the theory of the editor, was, in
      sober fact, that of Marie. ‘He persists,’ says the paper, ‘in
      asserting the corpse to be that of Marie, but cannot give a
      circumstance, in addition to those which we have commented upon,
      to make others believe.’ Now, without re-adverting to the fact
      that stronger evidence ‘to make others believe,’ could never have
      been adduced, it may be remarked that a man may very well be
      understood to believe, in a case of this kind, without the
      ability to advance a single reason for the belief of a second
      party. Nothing is more vague than impressions of individual
      identity. Each man recognizes his neighbor, yet there are few
      instances in which any one is prepared to give a reason for his
      recognition. The editor of L’Etoile had no right to be offended
      at M. Beauvais’ unreasoning belief.

      “The suspicious circumstances which invest him, will be found to
      tally much better with my hypothesis of romantic busy-bodyism,
      than with the reasoner’s suggestion of guilt. Once adopting the
      more charitable interpretation, we shall find no difficulty in
      comprehending the rose in the key-hole; the ‘Marie’ upon the
      slate; the ‘elbowing the male relatives out of the way;’ the
      ‘aversion to permitting them to see the body;’ the caution given
      to Madame B——, that she must hold no conversation with the
      gendarme until his return (Beauvais’); and, lastly, his apparent
      determination ‘that nobody should have anything to do with the
      proceedings except himself.’ It seems to me unquestionable that
      Beauvais was a suitor of Marie’s; that she coquetted with him;
      and that he was ambitious of being thought to enjoy her fullest
      intimacy and confidence. I shall say nothing more upon this
      point; and, as the evidence fully rebuts the assertion of
      L’Etoile, touching the matter of apathy on the part of the mother
      and other relatives—an apathy inconsistent with the supposition
      of their believing the corpse to be that of the perfumery-girl—we
      shall now proceed as if the question of identity were settled to
      our perfect satisfaction.”

      “And what,” I here demanded, “do you think of the opinions of Le
      Commerciel?”

      “That, in spirit, they are far more worthy of attention than any
      which have been promulgated upon the subject. The deductions from
      the premises are philosophical and acute; but the premises, in
      two instances, at least, are founded in imperfect observation. Le
      Commerciel wishes to intimate that Marie was seized by some gang
      of low ruffians not far from her mother’s door. ‘It is
      impossible,’ it urges, ‘that a person so well known to thousands
      as this young woman was, should have passed three blocks without
      some one having seen her.’ This is the idea of a man long
      resident in Paris—a public man—and one whose walks to and fro in
      the city, have been mostly limited to the vicinity of the public
      offices. He is aware that he seldom passes so far as a dozen
      blocks from his own bureau, without being recognized and
      accosted. And, knowing the extent of his personal acquaintance
      with others, and of others with him, he compares his notoriety
      with that of the perfumery-girl, finds no great difference
      between them, and reaches at once the conclusion that she, in her
      walks, would be equally liable to recognition with himself in
      his. This could only be the case were her walks of the same
      unvarying, methodical character, and within the same species of
      limited region as are his own. He passes to and fro, at regular
      intervals, within a confined periphery, abounding in individuals
      who are led to observation of his person through interest in the
      kindred nature of his occupation with their own. But the walks of
      Marie may, in general, be supposed discursive. In this particular
      instance, it will be understood as most probable, that she
      proceeded upon a route of more than average diversity from her
      accustomed ones. The parallel which we imagine to have existed in
      the mind of Le Commerciel would only be sustained in the event of
      the two individuals traversing the whole city. In this case,
      granting the personal acquaintances to be equal, the chances
      would be also equal that an equal number of personal rencounters
      would be made. For my own part, I should hold it not only as
      possible, but as very far more than probable, that Marie might
      have proceeded, at any given period, by any one of the many
      routes between her own residence and that of her aunt, without
      meeting a single individual whom she knew, or by whom she was
      known. In viewing this question in its full and proper light, we
      must hold steadily in mind the great disproportion between the
      personal acquaintances of even the most noted individual in
      Paris, and the entire population of Paris itself.

      “But whatever force there may still appear to be in the
      suggestion of Le Commerciel, will be much diminished when we take
      into consideration the hour at which the girl went abroad. ‘It
      was when the streets were full of people,’ says Le Commerciel,
      ‘that she went out.’ But not so. It was at nine o’clock in the
      morning. Now at nine o’clock of every morning in the week, _with
      the exception of Sunday_, the streets of the city are, it is
      true, thronged with people. At nine on Sunday, the populace are
      chiefly within doors _preparing for church_. No observing person
      can have failed to notice the peculiarly deserted air of the
      town, from about eight until ten on the morning of every Sabbath.
      Between ten and eleven the streets are thronged, but not at so
      early a period as that designated.

      “There is another point at which there seems a deficiency of
      observation on the part of Le Commerciel. ‘A piece,’ it says, ‘of
      one of the unfortunate girl’s petticoats, two feet long, and one
      foot wide, was torn out and tied under her chin, and around the
      back of her head, probably to prevent screams. This was done, by
      fellows who had no pocket-handkerchiefs.’ Whether this idea is,
      or is not well founded, we will endeavor to see hereafter; but by
      ‘fellows who have no pocket-handkerchiefs’ the editor intends the
      lowest class of ruffians. These, however, are the very
      description of people who will always be found to have
      handkerchiefs even when destitute of shirts. You must have had
      occasion to observe how absolutely indispensable, of late years,
      to the thorough blackguard, has become the pocket-handkerchief.”

      “And what are we to think,” I asked, “of the article in Le
      Soleil?”

      “That it is a vast pity its inditer was not born a parrot—in
      which case he would have been the most illustrious parrot of his
      race. He has merely repeated the individual items of the already
      published opinion; collecting them, with a laudable industry,
      from this paper and from that. ‘The things had all evidently been
      there,’ he says, ‘at least, three or four weeks, and there can be
      _no doubt_ that the spot of this appalling outrage has been
      discovered.’ The facts here re-stated by Le Soleil, are very far
      indeed from removing my own doubts upon this subject, and we will
      examine them more particularly hereafter in connexion with
      another division of the theme.

      “At present we must occupy ourselves with other investigations.
      You cannot fail to have remarked the extreme laxity of the
      examination of the corpse. To be sure, the question of identity
      was readily determined, or should have been; but there were other
      points to be ascertained. Had the body been in any respect
      despoiled? Had the deceased any articles of jewelry about her
      person upon leaving home? if so, had she any when found? These
      are important questions utterly untouched by the evidence; and
      there are others of equal moment, which have met with no
      attention. We must endeavor to satisfy ourselves by personal
      inquiry. The case of St. Eustache must be re-examined. I have no
      suspicion of this person; but let us proceed methodically. We
      will ascertain beyond a doubt the validity of the affidavits in
      regard to his whereabouts on the Sunday. Affidavits of this
      character are readily made matter of mystification. Should there
      be nothing wrong here, however, we will dismiss St. Eustache from
      our investigations. His suicide, however corroborative of
      suspicion, were there found to be deceit in the affidavits, is,
      without such deceit, in no respect an unaccountable circumstance,
      or one which need cause us to deflect from the line of ordinary
      analysis.

      “In that which I now propose, we will discard the interior points
      of this tragedy, and concentrate our attention upon its
      outskirts. Not the least usual error, in investigations such as
      this, is the limiting of inquiry to the immediate, with total
      disregard of the collateral or circumstantial events. It is the
      mal-practice of the courts to confine evidence and discussion to
      the bounds of apparent relevancy. Yet experience has shown, and a
      true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger
      portion of truth, arises from the seemingly irrelevant. It is
      through the spirit of this principle, if not precisely through
      its letter, that modern science has resolved to calculate upon
      the unforeseen. But perhaps you do not comprehend me. The history
      of human knowledge has so uninterruptedly shown that to
      collateral, or incidental, or accidental events we are indebted
      for the most numerous and most valuable discoveries, that it has
      at length become necessary, in any prospective view of
      improvement, to make not only large, but the largest allowances
      for inventions that shall arise by chance, and quite out of the
      range of ordinary expectation. It is no longer philosophical to
      base, upon what has been, a vision of what is to be. Accident is
      admitted as a portion of the substructure. We make chance a
      matter of absolute calculation. We subject the unlooked for and
      unimagined to the mathematical _formulae_ of the schools.

      “I repeat that it is no more than fact, that the larger portion
      of all truth has sprung from the collateral; and it is but in
      accordance with the spirit of the principle involved in this
      fact, that I would divert inquiry, in the present case, from the
      trodden and hitherto unfruitful ground of the event itself, to
      the contemporary circumstances which surround it. While you
      ascertain the validity of the affidavits, I will examine the
      newspapers more generally than you have as yet done. So far, we
      have only reconnoitred the field of investigation; but it will be
      strange indeed if a comprehensive survey, such as I propose, of
      the public prints, will not afford us some minute points which
      shall establish a direction for inquiry.”

      In pursuance of Dupin’s suggestion, I made scrupulous examination
      of the affair of the affidavits. The result was a firm conviction
      of their validity, and of the consequent innocence of St.
      Eustache. In the mean time my friend occupied himself, with what
      seemed to me a minuteness altogether objectless, in a scrutiny of
      the various newspaper files. At the end of a week he placed
      before me the following extracts:

      “About three years and a half ago, a disturbance very similar to
      the present, was caused by the disappearance of this same Marie
      Rogêt, from the parfumerie of Monsieur Le Blanc, in the Palais
      Royal. At the end of a week, however, she re-appeared at her
      customary comptoir, as well as ever, with the exception of a
      slight paleness not altogether usual. It was given out by
      Monsieur Le Blanc and her mother, that she had merely been on a
      visit to some friend in the country; and the affair was speedily
      hushed up. We presume that the present absence is a freak of the
      same nature, and that, at the expiration of a week, or perhaps of
      a month, we shall have her among us again.”—Evening Paper—Monday,
      June 23. (*17)

      “An evening journal of yesterday, refers to a former mysterious
      disappearance of Mademoiselle Rogêt. It is well known that,
      during the week of her absence from Le Blanc’s parfumerie, she
      was in the company of a young naval officer, much noted for his
      debaucheries. A quarrel, it is supposed, providentially led to
      her return home. We have the name of the Lothario in question,
      who is, at present, stationed in Paris, but, for obvious reasons,
      forbear to make it public.”—Le Mercurie—Tuesday Morning, June 24.
      (*18)

      “An outrage of the most atrocious character was perpetrated near
      this city the day before yesterday. A gentleman, with his wife
      and daughter, engaged, about dusk, the services of six young men,
      who were idly rowing a boat to and fro near the banks of the
      Seine, to convey him across the river. Upon reaching the opposite
      shore, the three passengers stepped out, and had proceeded so far
      as to be beyond the view of the boat, when the daughter
      discovered that she had left in it her parasol. She returned for
      it, was seized by the gang, carried out into the stream, gagged,
      brutally treated, and finally taken to the shore at a point not
      far from that at which she had originally entered the boat with
      her parents. The villains have escaped for the time, but the
      police are upon their trail, and some of them will soon be
      taken.”—Morning Paper—June 25. (*19)

      “We have received one or two communications, the object of which
      is to fasten the crime of the late atrocity upon Mennais; (*20)
      but as this gentleman has been fully exonerated by a loyal
      inquiry, and as the arguments of our several correspondents
      appear to be more zealous than profound, we do not think it
      advisable to make them public.”—Morning Paper—June 28. (*21)

      “We have received several forcibly written communications,
      apparently from various sources, and which go far to render it a
      matter of certainty that the unfortunate Marie Rogêt has become a
      victim of one of the numerous bands of blackguards which infest
      the vicinity of the city upon Sunday. Our own opinion is
      decidedly in favor of this supposition. We shall endeavor to make
      room for some of these arguments hereafter.”—Evening
      Paper—Tuesday, June 31. (*22)

      “On Monday, one of the bargemen connected with the revenue
      service, saw an empty boat floating down the Seine. Sails were
      lying in the bottom of the boat. The bargeman towed it under the
      barge office. The next morning it was taken from thence, without
      the knowledge of any of the officers. The rudder is now at the
      barge office.”—Le Diligence—Thursday, June 26.

      Upon reading these various extracts, they not only seemed to me
      irrelevant, but I could perceive no mode in which any one of them
      could be brought to bear upon the matter in hand. I waited for
      some explanation from Dupin.

      “It is not my present design,” he said, “to dwell upon the first
      and second of those extracts. I have copied them chiefly to show
      you the extreme remissness of the police, who, as far as I can
      understand from the Prefect, have not troubled themselves, in any
      respect, with an examination of the naval officer alluded to. Yet
      it is mere folly to say that between the first and second
      disappearance of Marie there is no _supposable_ connection. Let
      us admit the first elopement to have resulted in a quarrel
      between the lovers, and the return home of the betrayed. We are
      now prepared to view a second elopement (if we know that an
      elopement has again taken place) as indicating a renewal of the
      betrayer’s advances, rather than as the result of new proposals
      by a second individual—we are prepared to regard it as a ‘making
      up’ of the old amour, rather than as the commencement of a new
      one. The chances are ten to one, that he who had once eloped with
      Marie, would again propose an elopement, rather than that she to
      whom proposals of elopement had been made by one individual,
      should have them made to her by another. And here let me call
      your attention to the fact, that the time elapsing between the
      first ascertained, and the second supposed elopement, is a few
      months more than the general period of the cruises of our
      men-of-war. Had the lover been interrupted in his first villany
      by the necessity of departure to sea, and had he seized the first
      moment of his return to renew the base designs not yet altogether
      accomplished—or not yet altogether accomplished by _him?_ Of all
      these things we know nothing.

      “You will say, however, that, in the second instance, there was
      no elopement as imagined. Certainly not—but are we prepared to
      say that there was not the frustrated design? Beyond St.
      Eustache, and perhaps Beauvais, we find no recognized, no open,
      no honorable suitors of Marie. Of none other is there any thing
      said. Who, then, is the secret lover, of whom the relatives (at
      least most of them) know nothing, but whom Marie meets upon the
      morning of Sunday, and who is so deeply in her confidence, that
      she hesitates not to remain with him until the shades of the
      evening descend, amid the solitary groves of the Barrière du
      Roule? Who is that secret lover, I ask, of whom, at least, most
      of the relatives know nothing? And what means the singular
      prophecy of Madame Rogêt on the morning of Marie’s departure?—‘I
      fear that I shall never see Marie again.’

      “But if we cannot imagine Madame Rogêt privy to the design of
      elopement, may we not at least suppose this design entertained by
      the girl? Upon quitting home, she gave it to be understood that
      she was about to visit her aunt in the Rue des Drômes and St.
      Eustache was requested to call for her at dark. Now, at first
      glance, this fact strongly militates against my suggestion;—but
      let us reflect. That she did meet some companion, and proceed
      with him across the river, reaching the Barrière du Roule at so
      late an hour as three o’clock in the afternoon, is known. But in
      consenting so to accompany this individual, (_for whatever
      purpose—to her mother known or unknown,_) she must have thought
      of her expressed intention when leaving home, and of the surprise
      and suspicion aroused in the bosom of her affianced suitor, St.
      Eustache, when, calling for her, at the hour appointed, in the
      Rue des Drômes, he should find that she had not been there, and
      when, moreover, upon returning to the pension with this alarming
      intelligence, he should become aware of her continued absence
      from home. She must have thought of these things, I say. She must
      have foreseen the chagrin of St. Eustache, the suspicion of all.
      She could not have thought of returning to brave this suspicion;
      but the suspicion becomes a point of trivial importance to her,
      if we suppose her not intending to return.

      “We may imagine her thinking thus—‘I am to meet a certain person
      for the purpose of elopement, or for certain other purposes known
      only to myself. It is necessary that there be no chance of
      interruption—there must be sufficient time given us to elude
      pursuit—I will give it to be understood that I shall visit and
      spend the day with my aunt at the Rue des Drômes—I will tell St.
      Eustache not to call for me until dark—in this way, my absence
      from home for the longest possible period, without causing
      suspicion or anxiety, will be accounted for, and I shall gain
      more time than in any other manner. If I bid St. Eustache call
      for me at dark, he will be sure not to call before; but, if I
      wholly neglect to bid him call, my time for escape will be
      diminished, since it will be expected that I return the earlier,
      and my absence will the sooner excite anxiety. Now, if it were my
      design to return at all—if I had in contemplation merely a stroll
      with the individual in question—it would not be my policy to bid
      St. Eustache call; for, calling, he will be sure to ascertain
      that I have played him false—a fact of which I might keep him for
      ever in ignorance, by leaving home without notifying him of my
      intention, by returning before dark, and by then stating that I
      had been to visit my aunt in the Rue des Drômes. But, as it is my
      design never to return—or not for some weeks—or not until certain
      concealments are effected—the gaining of time is the only point
      about which I need give myself any concern.’

      “You have observed, in your notes, that the most general opinion
      in relation to this sad affair is, and was from the first, that
      the girl had been the victim of a gang of blackguards. Now, the
      popular opinion, under certain conditions, is not to be
      disregarded. When arising of itself—when manifesting itself in a
      strictly spontaneous manner—we should look upon it as analogous
      with that _intuition_ which is the idiosyncrasy of the individual
      man of genius. In ninety-nine cases from the hundred I would
      abide by its decision. But it is important that we find no
      palpable traces of _suggestion_. The opinion must be rigorously
      _the public’s own_; and the distinction is often exceedingly
      difficult to perceive and to maintain. In the present instance,
      it appears to me that this ‘public opinion’ in respect to a gang,
      has been superinduced by the collateral event which is detailed
      in the third of my extracts. All Paris is excited by the
      discovered corpse of Marie, a girl young, beautiful and
      notorious. This corpse is found, bearing marks of violence, and
      floating in the river. But it is now made known that, at the very
      period, or about the very period, in which it is supposed that
      the girl was assassinated, an outrage similar in nature to that
      endured by the deceased, although less in extent, was
      perpetuated, by a gang of young ruffians, upon the person of a
      second young female. Is it wonderful that the one known atrocity
      should influence the popular judgment in regard to the other
      unknown? This judgment awaited direction, and the known outrage
      seemed so opportunely to afford it! Marie, too, was found in the
      river; and upon this very river was this known outrage committed.
      The connexion of the two events had about it so much of the
      palpable, that the true wonder would have been a failure of the
      populace to appreciate and to seize it. But, in fact, the one
      atrocity, known to be so committed, is, if any thing, evidence
      that the other, committed at a time nearly coincident, was not so
      committed. It would have been a miracle indeed, if, while a gang
      of ruffians were perpetrating, at a given locality, a most
      unheard-of wrong, there should have been another similar gang, in
      a similar locality, in the same city, under the same
      circumstances, with the same means and appliances, engaged in a
      wrong of precisely the same aspect, at precisely the same period
      of time! Yet in what, if not in this marvellous train of
      coincidence, does the accidentally suggested opinion of the
      populace call upon us to believe?

      “Before proceeding farther, let us consider the supposed scene of
      the assassination, in the thicket at the Barrière du Roule. This
      thicket, although dense, was in the close vicinity of a public
      road. Within were three or four large stones, forming a kind of
      seat with a back and footstool. On the upper stone was discovered
      a white petticoat; on the second, a silk scarf. A parasol,
      gloves, and a pocket-handkerchief, were also here found. The
      handkerchief bore the name, ‘Marie Rogêt.’ Fragments of dress
      were seen on the branches around. The earth was trampled, the
      bushes were broken, and there was every evidence of a violent
      struggle.

      “Notwithstanding the acclamation with which the discovery of this
      thicket was received by the press, and the unanimity with which
      it was supposed to indicate the precise scene of the outrage, it
      must be admitted that there was some very good reason for doubt.
      That it was the scene, I may or I may not believe—but there was
      excellent reason for doubt. Had the true scene been, as Le
      Commerciel suggested, in the neighborhood of the Rue Pavée St.
      Andrée, the perpetrators of the crime, supposing them still
      resident in Paris, would naturally have been stricken with terror
      at the public attention thus acutely directed into the proper
      channel; and, in certain classes of minds, there would have
      arisen, at once, a sense of the necessity of some exertion to
      redivert this attention. And thus, the thicket of the Barrière du
      Roule having been already suspected, the idea of placing the
      articles where they were found, might have been naturally
      entertained. There is no real evidence, although Le Soleil so
      supposes, that the articles discovered had been more than a very
      few days in the thicket; while there is much circumstantial proof
      that they could not have remained there, without attracting
      attention, during the twenty days elapsing between the fatal
      Sunday and the afternoon upon which they were found by the boys.
      ‘They were all _mildewed_ down hard,’ says Le Soleil, adopting
      the opinions of its predecessors, ‘with the action of the rain,
      and stuck together from _mildew_. The grass had grown around and
      over some of them. The silk of the parasol was strong, but the
      threads of it were run together within. The upper part, where it
      had been doubled and folded, was all _mildewed_ and rotten, and
      tore on being opened.’ In respect to the grass having ‘grown
      around and over some of them,’ it is obvious that the fact could
      only have been ascertained from the words, and thus from the
      recollections, of two small boys; for these boys removed the
      articles and took them home before they had been seen by a third
      party. But grass will grow, especially in warm and damp weather,
      (such as was that of the period of the murder,) as much as two or
      three inches in a single day. A parasol lying upon a newly turfed
      ground, might, in a single week, be entirely concealed from sight
      by the upspringing grass. And touching that mildew upon which the
      editor of Le Soleil so pertinaciously insists, that he employs
      the word no less than three times in the brief paragraph just
      quoted, is he really unaware of the nature of this mildew? Is he
      to be told that it is one of the many classes of fungus, of which
      the most ordinary feature is its upspringing and decadence within
      twenty-four hours?

      “Thus we see, at a glance, that what has been most triumphantly
      adduced in support of the idea that the articles had been ‘for at
      least three or four weeks’ in the thicket, is most absurdly null
      as regards any evidence of that fact. On the other hand, it is
      exceedingly difficult to believe that these articles could have
      remained in the thicket specified, for a longer period than a
      single week—for a longer period than from one Sunday to the next.
      Those who know any thing of the vicinity of Paris, know the
      extreme difficulty of finding seclusion unless at a great
      distance from its suburbs. Such a thing as an unexplored, or even
      an unfrequently visited recess, amid its woods or groves, is not
      for a moment to be imagined. Let any one who, being at heart a
      lover of nature, is yet chained by duty to the dust and heat of
      this great metropolis—let any such one attempt, even during the
      weekdays, to slake his thirst for solitude amid the scenes of
      natural loveliness which immediately surround us. At every second
      step, he will find the growing charm dispelled by the voice and
      personal intrusion of some ruffian or party of carousing
      blackguards. He will seek privacy amid the densest foliage, all
      in vain. Here are the very nooks where the unwashed most
      abound—here are the temples most desecrate. With sickness of the
      heart the wanderer will flee back to the polluted Paris as to a
      less odious because less incongruous sink of pollution. But if
      the vicinity of the city is so beset during the working days of
      the week, how much more so on the Sabbath! It is now especially
      that, released from the claims of labor, or deprived of the
      customary opportunities of crime, the town blackguard seeks the
      precincts of the town, not through love of the rural, which in
      his heart he despises, but by way of escape from the restraints
      and conventionalities of society. He desires less the fresh air
      and the green trees, than the utter license of the country. Here,
      at the road-side inn, or beneath the foliage of the woods, he
      indulges, unchecked by any eye except those of his boon
      companions, in all the mad excess of a counterfeit hilarity—the
      joint offspring of liberty and of rum. I say nothing more than
      what must be obvious to every dispassionate observer, when I
      repeat that the circumstance of the articles in question having
      remained undiscovered, for a longer period than from one Sunday
      to another, in any thicket in the immediate neighborhood of
      Paris, is to be looked upon as little less than miraculous.

      “But there are not wanting other grounds for the suspicion that
      the articles were placed in the thicket with the view of
      diverting attention from the real scene of the outrage. And,
      first, let me direct your notice to the date of the discovery of
      the articles. Collate this with the date of the fifth extract
      made by myself from the newspapers. You will find that the
      discovery followed, almost immediately, the urgent communications
      sent to the evening paper. These communications, although various
      and apparently from various sources, tended all to the same
      point—viz., the directing of attention to a gang as the
      perpetrators of the outrage, and to the neighborhood of the
      Barrière du Roule as its scene. Now here, of course, the
      suspicion is not that, in consequence of these communications, or
      of the public attention by them directed, the articles were found
      by the boys; but the suspicion might and may well have been, that
      the articles were not before found by the boys, for the reason
      that the articles had not before been in the thicket; having been
      deposited there only at so late a period as at the date, or
      shortly prior to the date of the communication, by the guilty
      authors of these communications themselves.

      “This thicket was a singular—an exceedingly singular one. It was
      unusually dense. Within its naturally walled enclosure were three
      extraordinary stones, forming a seat with a back and footstool.
      And this thicket, so full of a natural art, was in the immediate
      vicinity, within a few rods, of the dwelling of Madame Deluc,
      whose boys were in the habit of closely examining the shrubberies
      about them in search of the bark of the sassafras. Would it be a
      rash wager—a wager of one thousand to one—that a day never passed
      over the heads of these boys without finding at least one of them
      ensconced in the umbrageous hall, and enthroned upon its natural
      throne? Those who would hesitate at such a wager, have either
      never been boys themselves, or have forgotten the boyish nature.
      I repeat—it is exceedingly hard to comprehend how the articles
      could have remained in this thicket undiscovered, for a longer
      period than one or two days; and that thus there is good ground
      for suspicion, in spite of the dogmatic ignorance of Le Soleil,
      that they were, at a comparatively late date, deposited where
      found.

      “But there are still other and stronger reasons for believing
      them so deposited, than any which I have as yet urged. And, now,
      let me beg your notice to the highly artificial arrangement of
      the articles. On the _upper_ stone lay a white petticoat; on the
      _second_, a silk scarf; scattered around, were a parasol, gloves,
      and a pocket-handkerchief bearing the name, ‘Marie Rogêt.’ Here
      is just such an arrangement as would naturally be made by a not
      over-acute person wishing to dispose the articles naturally. But
      it is by no means a really natural arrangement. I should rather
      have looked to see the things all lying on the ground and
      trampled under foot. In the narrow limits of that bower, it would
      have been scarcely possible that the petticoat and scarf should
      have retained a position upon the stones, when subjected to the
      brushing to and fro of many struggling persons. ‘There was
      evidence,’ it is said, ‘of a struggle; and the earth was
      trampled, the bushes were broken,’—but the petticoat and the
      scarf are found deposited as if upon shelves. ‘The pieces of the
      frock torn out by the bushes were about three inches wide and six
      inches long. One part was the hem of the frock and it had been
      mended. They looked like strips torn off.’ Here, inadvertently,
      Le Soleil has employed an exceedingly suspicious phrase. The
      pieces, as described, do indeed ‘look like strips torn off;’ but
      purposely and by hand. It is one of the rarest of accidents that
      a piece is ‘torn off,’ from any garment such as is now in
      question, by the agency of a thorn. From the very nature of such
      fabrics, a thorn or nail becoming entangled in them, tears them
      rectangularly—divides them into two longitudinal rents, at right
      angles with each other, and meeting at an apex where the thorn
      enters—but it is scarcely possible to conceive the piece ‘torn
      off.’ I never so knew it, nor did you. To tear a piece off from
      such fabric, two distinct forces, in different directions, will
      be, in almost every case, required. If there be two edges to the
      fabric—if, for example, it be a pocket-handkerchief, and it is
      desired to tear from it a slip, then, and then only, will the one
      force serve the purpose. But in the present case the question is
      of a dress, presenting but one edge. To tear a piece from the
      interior, where no edge is presented, could only be effected by a
      miracle through the agency of thorns, and no one thorn could
      accomplish it. But, even where an edge is presented, two thorns
      will be necessary, operating, the one in two distinct directions,
      and the other in one. And this in the supposition that the edge
      is unhemmed. If hemmed, the matter is nearly out of the question.
      We thus see the numerous and great obstacles in the way of pieces
      being ‘torn off’ through the simple agency of ‘thorns;’ yet we
      are required to believe not only that one piece but that many
      have been so torn. ‘And one part,’ too, ‘was the hem of the
      frock!’ Another piece was ‘part of the skirt, not the hem,’—that
      is to say, was torn completely out through the agency of thorns,
      from the uncaged interior of the dress! These, I say, are things
      which one may well be pardoned for disbelieving; yet, taken
      collectedly, they form, perhaps, less of reasonable ground for
      suspicion, than the one startling circumstance of the articles’
      having been left in this thicket at all, by any murderers who had
      enough precaution to think of removing the corpse. You will not
      have apprehended me rightly, however, if you suppose it my design
      to deny this thicket as the scene of the outrage. There might
      have been a wrong here, or, more possibly, an accident at Madame
      Deluc’s. But, in fact, this is a point of minor importance. We
      are not engaged in an attempt to discover the scene, but to
      produce the perpetrators of the murder. What I have adduced,
      notwithstanding the minuteness with which I have adduced it, has
      been with the view, first, to show the folly of the positive and
      headlong assertions of Le Soleil, but secondly and chiefly, to
      bring you, by the most natural route, to a further contemplation
      of the doubt whether this assassination has, or has not, been the
      work of a gang.

      “We will resume this question by mere allusion to the revolting
      details of the surgeon examined at the inquest. It is only
      necessary to say that his published inferences, in regard to the
      number of ruffians, have been properly ridiculed as unjust and
      totally baseless, by all the reputable anatomists of Paris. Not
      that the matter might not have been as inferred, but that there
      was no ground for the inference:—was there not much for another?

      “Let us reflect now upon ‘the traces of a struggle;’ and let me
      ask what these traces have been supposed to demonstrate. A gang.
      But do they not rather demonstrate the absence of a gang? What
      struggle could have taken place—what struggle so violent and so
      enduring as to have left its ‘traces’ in all directions—between a
      weak and defenceless girl and the gang of ruffians imagined? The
      silent grasp of a few rough arms and all would have been over.
      The victim must have been absolutely passive at their will. You
      will here bear in mind that the arguments urged against the
      thicket as the scene, are applicable in chief part, only against
      it as the scene of an outrage committed by more than a single
      individual. If we imagine but one violator, we can conceive, and
      thus only conceive, the struggle of so violent and so obstinate a
      nature as to have left the ‘traces’ apparent.

      “And again. I have already mentioned the suspicion to be excited
      by the fact that the articles in question were suffered to remain
      at all in the thicket where discovered. It seems almost
      impossible that these evidences of guilt should have been
      accidentally left where found. There was sufficient presence of
      mind (it is supposed) to remove the corpse; and yet a more
      positive evidence than the corpse itself (whose features might
      have been quickly obliterated by decay,) is allowed to lie
      conspicuously in the scene of the outrage—I allude to the
      handkerchief with the name of the deceased. If this was accident,
      it was not the accident of a gang. We can imagine it only the
      accident of an individual. Let us see. An individual has
      committed the murder. He is alone with the ghost of the departed.
      He is appalled by what lies motionless before him. The fury of
      his passion is over, and there is abundant room in his heart for
      the natural awe of the deed. His is none of that confidence which
      the presence of numbers inevitably inspires. He is alone with the
      dead. He trembles and is bewildered. Yet there is a necessity for
      disposing of the corpse. He bears it to the river, but leaves
      behind him the other evidences of guilt; for it is difficult, if
      not impossible to carry all the burthen at once, and it will be
      easy to return for what is left. But in his toilsome journey to
      the water his fears redouble within him. The sounds of life
      encompass his path. A dozen times he hears or fancies the step of
      an observer. Even the very lights from the city bewilder him.
      Yet, in time and by long and frequent pauses of deep agony, he
      reaches the river’s brink, and disposes of his ghastly
      charge—perhaps through the medium of a boat. But now what
      treasure does the world hold—what threat of vengeance could it
      hold out—which would have power to urge the return of that lonely
      murderer over that toilsome and perilous path, to the thicket and
      its blood chilling recollections? He returns not, let the
      consequences be what they may. He could not return if he would.
      His sole thought is immediate escape. He turns his back forever
      upon those dreadful shrubberies and flees as from the wrath to
      come.

      “But how with a gang? Their number would have inspired them with
      confidence; if, indeed confidence is ever wanting in the breast
      of the arrant blackguard; and of arrant blackguards alone are the
      supposed gangs ever constituted. Their number, I say, would have
      prevented the bewildering and unreasoning terror which I have
      imagined to paralyze the single man. Could we suppose an
      oversight in one, or two, or three, this oversight would have
      been remedied by a fourth. They would have left nothing behind
      them; for their number would have enabled them to carry all at
      once. There would have been no need of return.

      “Consider now the circumstance that in the outer garment of the
      corpse when found, ‘a slip, about a foot wide had been torn
      upward from the bottom hem to the waist wound three times round
      the waist, and secured by a sort of hitch in the back.’ This was
      done with the obvious design of affording a handle by which to
      carry the body. But would any number of men have dreamed of
      resorting to such an expedient? To three or four, the limbs of
      the corpse would have afforded not only a sufficient, but the
      best possible hold. The device is that of a single individual;
      and this brings us to the fact that ‘between the thicket and the
      river, the rails of the fences were found taken down, and the
      ground bore evident traces of some heavy burden having been
      dragged along it!’ But would a number of men have put themselves
      to the superfluous trouble of taking down a fence, for the
      purpose of dragging through it a corpse which they might have
      lifted over any fence in an instant? Would a number of men have
      so dragged a corpse at all as to have left evident traces of the
      dragging?

      “And here we must refer to an observation of Le Commerciel; an
      observation upon which I have already, in some measure,
      commented. ‘A piece,’ says this journal, ‘of one of the
      unfortunate girl’s petticoats was torn out and tied under her
      chin, and around the back of her head, probably to prevent
      screams. This was done by fellows who had no
      pocket-handkerchiefs.’

      “I have before suggested that a genuine blackguard is never
      without a pocket-handkerchief. But it is not to this fact that I
      now especially advert. That it was not through want of a
      handkerchief for the purpose imagined by Le Commerciel, that this
      bandage was employed, is rendered apparent by the handkerchief
      left in the thicket; and that the object was not ‘to prevent
      screams’ appears, also, from the bandage having been employed in
      preference to what would so much better have answered the
      purpose. But the language of the evidence speaks of the strip in
      question as ‘found around the neck, fitting loosely, and secured
      with a hard knot.’ These words are sufficiently vague, but differ
      materially from those of Le Commerciel. The slip was eighteen
      inches wide, and therefore, although of muslin, would form a
      strong band when folded or rumpled longitudinally. And thus
      rumpled it was discovered. My inference is this. The solitary
      murderer, having borne the corpse, for some distance (whether
      from the thicket or elsewhere) by means of the bandage hitched
      around its middle, found the weight, in this mode of procedure,
      too much for his strength. He resolved to drag the burthen—the
      evidence goes to show that it was dragged. With this object in
      view, it became necessary to attach something like a rope to one
      of the extremities. It could be best attached about the neck,
      where the head would prevent its slipping off. And, now, the
      murderer bethought him, unquestionably, of the bandage about the
      loins. He would have used this, but for its volution about the
      corpse, the hitch which embarrassed it, and the reflection that
      it had not been ‘torn off’ from the garment. It was easier to
      tear a new slip from the petticoat. He tore it, made it fast
      about the neck, and so dragged his victim to the brink of the
      river. That this ‘bandage,’ only attainable with trouble and
      delay, and but imperfectly answering its purpose—that this
      bandage was employed at all, demonstrates that the necessity for
      its employment sprang from circumstances arising at a period when
      the handkerchief was no longer attainable—that is to say,
      arising, as we have imagined, after quitting the thicket, (if the
      thicket it was), and on the road between the thicket and the
      river.

      “But the evidence, you will say, of Madame Deluc (!) points
      especially to the presence of a gang, in the vicinity of the
      thicket, at or about the epoch of the murder. This I grant. I
      doubt if there were not a dozen gangs, such as described by
      Madame Deluc, in and about the vicinity of the Barrière du Roule
      at or about the period of this tragedy. But the gang which has
      drawn upon itself the pointed animadversion, although the
      somewhat tardy and very suspicious evidence of Madame Deluc, is
      the only gang which is represented by that honest and scrupulous
      old lady as having eaten her cakes and swallowed her brandy,
      without putting themselves to the trouble of making her payment.
      Et hinc illæ iræ?

      “But what is the precise evidence of Madame Deluc? ‘A gang of
      miscreants made their appearance, behaved boisterously, ate and
      drank without making payment, followed in the route of the young
      man and girl, returned to the inn about dusk, and recrossed the
      river as if in great haste.’

      “Now this ‘great haste’ very possibly seemed greater haste in the
      eyes of Madame Deluc, since she dwelt lingeringly and lamentingly
      upon her violated cakes and ale—cakes and ale for which she might
      still have entertained a faint hope of compensation. Why,
      otherwise, since it was about dusk, should she make a point of
      the haste? It is no cause for wonder, surely, that even a gang of
      blackguards should make haste to get home, when a wide river is
      to be crossed in small boats, when storm impends, and when night
      approaches.

      “I say approaches; for the night had not yet arrived. It was only
      about dusk that the indecent haste of these ‘miscreants’ offended
      the sober eyes of Madame Deluc. But we are told that it was upon
      this very evening that Madame Deluc, as well as her eldest son,
      ‘heard the screams of a female in the vicinity of the inn.’ And
      in what words does Madame Deluc designate the period of the
      evening at which these screams were heard? ‘It was soon after
      dark,’ she says. But ‘soon after dark,’ is, at least, dark; and
      ‘about dusk’ is as certainly daylight. Thus it is abundantly
      clear that the gang quitted the Barrière du Roule prior to the
      screams overheard (?) by Madame Deluc. And although, in all the
      many reports of the evidence, the relative expressions in
      question are distinctly and invariably employed just as I have
      employed them in this conversation with yourself, no notice
      whatever of the gross discrepancy has, as yet, been taken by any
      of the public journals, or by any of the myrmidons of police.

      “I shall add but one to the arguments against a gang; but this
      one has, to my own understanding at least, a weight altogether
      irresistible. Under the circumstances of large reward offered,
      and full pardon to any king’s evidence, it is not to be imagined,
      for a moment, that some member of a gang of low ruffians, or of
      any body of men, would not long ago have betrayed his
      accomplices. Each one of a gang so placed, is not so much greedy
      of reward, or anxious for escape, as fearful of betrayal. He
      betrays eagerly and early that he may not himself be betrayed.
      That the secret has not been divulged, is the very best of proof
      that it is, in fact, a secret. The horrors of this dark deed are
      known only to one, or two, living human beings, and to God.

      “Let us sum up now the meagre yet certain fruits of our long
      analysis. We have attained the idea either of a fatal accident
      under the roof of Madame Deluc, or of a murder perpetrated, in
      the thicket at the Barrière du Roule, by a lover, or at least by
      an intimate and secret associate of the deceased. This associate
      is of swarthy complexion. This complexion, the ‘hitch’ in the
      bandage, and the ‘sailor’s knot,’ with which the bonnet-ribbon is
      tied, point to a seaman. His companionship with the deceased, a
      gay, but not an abject young girl, designates him as above the
      grade of the common sailor. Here the well written and urgent
      communications to the journals are much in the way of
      corroboration. The circumstance of the first elopement, as
      mentioned by Le Mercurie, tends to blend the idea of this seaman
      with that of the ‘naval officer’ who is first known to have led
      the unfortunate into crime.

      “And here, most fitly, comes the consideration of the continued
      absence of him of the dark complexion. Let me pause to observe
      that the complexion of this man is dark and swarthy; it was no
      common swarthiness which constituted the sole point of
      remembrance, both as regards Valence and Madame Deluc. But why is
      this man absent? Was he murdered by the gang? If so, why are
      there only traces of the assassinated girl? The scene of the two
      outrages will naturally be supposed identical. And where is his
      corpse? The assassins would most probably have disposed of both
      in the same way. But it may be said that this man lives, and is
      deterred from making himself known, through dread of being
      charged with the murder. This consideration might be supposed to
      operate upon him now—at this late period—since it has been given
      in evidence that he was seen with Marie—but it would have had no
      force at the period of the deed. The first impulse of an innocent
      man would have been to announce the outrage, and to aid in
      identifying the ruffians. This policy would have suggested. He
      had been seen with the girl. He had crossed the river with her in
      an open ferry-boat. The denouncing of the assassins would have
      appeared, even to an idiot, the surest and sole means of
      relieving himself from suspicion. We cannot suppose him, on the
      night of the fatal Sunday, both innocent himself and incognizant
      of an outrage committed. Yet only under such circumstances is it
      possible to imagine that he would have failed, if alive, in the
      denouncement of the assassins.

      “And what means are ours, of attaining the truth? We shall find
      these means multiplying and gathering distinctness as we proceed.
      Let us sift to the bottom this affair of the first elopement. Let
      us know the full history of ‘the officer,’ with his present
      circumstances, and his whereabouts at the precise period of the
      murder. Let us carefully compare with each other the various
      communications sent to the evening paper, in which the object was
      to inculpate a gang. This done, let us compare these
      communications, both as regards style and MS., with those sent to
      the morning paper, at a previous period, and insisting so
      vehemently upon the guilt of Mennais. And, all this done, let us
      again compare these various communications with the known MSS. of
      the officer. Let us endeavor to ascertain, by repeated
      questionings of Madame Deluc and her boys, as well as of the
      omnibus driver, Valence, something more of the personal
      appearance and bearing of the ‘man of dark complexion.’ Queries,
      skilfully directed, will not fail to elicit, from some of these
      parties, information on this particular point (or upon
      others)—information which the parties themselves may not even be
      aware of possessing. And let us now trace the boat picked up by
      the bargeman on the morning of Monday the twenty-third of June,
      and which was removed from the barge-office, without the
      cognizance of the officer in attendance, and without the rudder,
      at some period prior to the discovery of the corpse. With a
      proper caution and perseverance we shall infallibly trace this
      boat; for not only can the bargeman who picked it up identify it,
      but the rudder is at hand. The rudder of a sail-boat would not
      have been abandoned, without inquiry, by one altogether at ease
      in heart. And here let me pause to insinuate a question. There
      was no advertisement of the picking up of this boat. It was
      silently taken to the barge-office, and as silently removed. But
      its owner or employer—how happened he, at so early a period as
      Tuesday morning, to be informed, without the agency of
      advertisement, of the locality of the boat taken up on Monday,
      unless we imagine some connexion with the navy—some personal
      permanent connexion leading to cognizance of its minute in
      interests—its petty local news?

      “In speaking of the lonely assassin dragging his burden to the
      shore, I have already suggested the probability of his availing
      himself of a boat. Now we are to understand that Marie Rogêt was
      precipitated from a boat. This would naturally have been the
      case. The corpse could not have been trusted to the shallow
      waters of the shore. The peculiar marks on the back and shoulders
      of the victim tell of the bottom ribs of a boat. That the body
      was found without weight is also corroborative of the idea. If
      thrown from the shore a weight would have been attached. We can
      only account for its absence by supposing the murderer to have
      neglected the precaution of supplying himself with it before
      pushing off. In the act of consigning the corpse to the water, he
      would unquestionably have noticed his oversight; but then no
      remedy would have been at hand. Any risk would have been
      preferred to a return to that accursed shore. Having rid himself
      of his ghastly charge, the murderer would have hastened to the
      city. There, at some obscure wharf, he would have leaped on land.
      But the boat—would he have secured it? He would have been in too
      great haste for such things as securing a boat. Moreover, in
      fastening it to the wharf, he would have felt as if securing
      evidence against himself. His natural thought would have been to
      cast from him, as far as possible, all that had held connection
      with his crime. He would not only have fled from the wharf, but
      he would not have permitted the boat to remain. Assuredly he
      would have cast it adrift. Let us pursue our fancies.—In the
      morning, the wretch is stricken with unutterable horror at
      finding that the boat has been picked up and detained at a
      locality which he is in the daily habit of frequenting —at a
      locality, perhaps, which his duty compels him to frequent. The
      next night, without daring to ask for the rudder, he removes it.
      Now where is that rudderless boat? Let it be one of our first
      purposes to discover. With the first glimpse we obtain of it, the
      dawn of our success shall begin. This boat shall guide us, with a
      rapidity which will surprise even ourselves, to him who employed
      it in the midnight of the fatal Sabbath. Corroboration will rise
      upon corroboration, and the murderer will be traced.”

      [For reasons which we shall not specify, but which to many
      readers will appear obvious, we have taken the liberty of here
      omitting, from the MSS. placed in our hands, such portion as
      details the following up of the apparently slight clew obtained
      by Dupin. We feel it advisable only to state, in brief, that the
      result desired was brought to pass; and that the Prefect
      fulfilled punctually, although with reluctance, the terms of his
      compact with the Chevalier. Mr. Poe’s article concludes with the
      following words.—Eds. (*23)]

      It will be understood that I speak of coincidences and no more.
      What I have said above upon this topic must suffice. In my own
      heart there dwells no faith in præter-nature. That Nature and its
      God are two, no man who thinks, will deny. That the latter,
      creating the former, can, at will, control or modify it, is also
      unquestionable. I say “at will;” for the question is of will, and
      not, as the insanity of logic has assumed, of power. It is not
      that the Deity cannot modify his laws, but that we insult him in
      imagining a possible necessity for modification. In their origin
      these laws were fashioned to embrace all contingencies which
      could lie in the Future. With God all is Now.

      I repeat, then, that I speak of these things only as of
      coincidences. And farther: in what I relate it will be seen that
      between the fate of the unhappy Mary Cecilia Rogers, so far as
      that fate is known, and the fate of one Marie Rogêt up to a
      certain epoch in her history, there has existed a parallel in the
      contemplation of whose wonderful exactitude the reason becomes
      embarrassed. I say all this will be seen. But let it not for a
      moment be supposed that, in proceeding with the sad narrative of
      Marie from the epoch just mentioned, and in tracing to its
      dénouement the mystery which enshrouded her, it is my covert
      design to hint at an extension of the parallel, or even to
      suggest that the measures adopted in Paris for the discovery of
      the assassin of a grisette, or measures founded in any similar
      ratiocination, would produce any similar result.

      For, in respect to the latter branch of the supposition, it
      should be considered that the most trifling variation in the
      facts of the two cases might give rise to the most important
      miscalculations, by diverting thoroughly the two courses of
      events; very much as, in arithmetic, an error which, in its own
      individuality, may be inappreciable, produces, at length, by dint
      of multiplication at all points of the process, a result
      enormously at variance with truth. And, in regard to the former
      branch, we must not fail to hold in view that the very Calculus
      of Probabilities to which I have referred, forbids all idea of
      the extension of the parallel—forbids it with a positiveness
      strong and decided just in proportion as this parallel has
      already been long-drawn and exact. This is one of those anomalous
      propositions which, seemingly appealing to thought altogether
      apart from the mathematical, is yet one which only the
      mathematician can fully entertain. Nothing, for example, is more
      difficult than to convince the merely general reader that the
      fact of sixes having been thrown twice in succession by a player
      at dice, is sufficient cause for betting the largest odds that
      sixes will not be thrown in the third attempt. A suggestion to
      this effect is usually rejected by the intellect at once. It does
      not appear that the two throws which have been completed, and
      which lie now absolutely in the Past, can have influence upon the
      throw which exists only in the Future. The chance for throwing
      sixes seems to be precisely as it was at any ordinary time—that
      is to say, subject only to the influence of the various other
      throws which may be made by the dice. And this is a reflection
      which appears so exceedingly obvious that attempts to controvert
      it are received more frequently with a derisive smile than with
      anything like respectful attention. The error here involved—a
      gross error redolent of mischief—I cannot pretend to expose
      within the limits assigned me at present; and with the
      philosophical it needs no exposure. It may be sufficient here to
      say that it forms one of an infinite series of mistakes which
      arise in the path of Reason through her propensity for seeking
      truth in detail.

FOOTNOTES—Marie Rogêt

      (*1) Upon the original publication of “Marie Roget,” the
      foot-notes now appended were considered unnecessary; but the
      lapse of several years since the tragedy upon which the tale is
      based, renders it expedient to give them, and also to say a few
      words in explanation of the general design. A young girl, Mary
      Cecilia Rogers, was murdered in the vicinity of New York; and,
      although her death occasioned an intense and long-enduring
      excitement, the mystery attending it had remained unsolved at the
      period when the present paper was written and published
      (November, 1842). Herein, under pretence of relating the fate of
      a Parisian grisette, the author has followed in minute detail,
      the essential, while merely paralleling the inessential facts of
      the real murder of Mary Rogers. Thus all argument founded upon
      the fiction is applicable to the truth: and the investigation of
      the truth was the object. The “Mystery of Marie Roget” was
      composed at a distance from the scene of the atrocity, and with
      no other means of investigation than the newspapers afforded.
      Thus much escaped the writer of which he could have availed
      himself had he been upon the spot, and visited the localities. It
      may not be improper to record, nevertheless, that the confessions
      of two persons, (one of them the Madame Deluc of the narrative)
      made, at different periods, long subsequent to the publication,
      confirmed, in full, not only the general conclusion, but
      absolutely all the chief hypothetical details by which that
      conclusion was attained.

      (*2) The nom de plume of Von Hardenburg.

      (*3) Nassau Street.

      (*4) Anderson.

      (*5) The Hudson.

      (*6) Weehawken.

      (*7) Payne.

      (*8) Crommelin.

      (*9) The New York “Mercury.”

      (*10) The New York “Brother Jonathan,” edited by H. Hastings
      Weld, Esq.

      (*11) New York “Journal of Commerce.”

      (*12) Philadelphia “Saturday Evening Post,” edited by C. I.
      Peterson, Esq.

      (*13) Adam

      (*14) See “Murders in the Rue Morgue.”

      (*15) The New York “Commercial Advertiser,” edited by Col. Stone.

      (*16) “A theory based on the qualities of an object, will prevent
      its being unfolded according to its objects; and he who arranges
      topics in reference to their causes, will cease to value them
      according to their results. Thus the jurisprudence of every
      nation will show that, when law becomes a science and a system,
      it ceases to be justice. The errors into which a blind devotion
      to principles of classification has led the common law, will be
      seen by observing how often the legislature has been obliged to
      come forward to restore the equity its scheme had lost.”—Landor.

      (*17) New York “Express”

      (*18) New York “Herald.”

      (*19) New York “Courier and Inquirer.”

      (*20) Mennais was one of the parties originally suspected and
      arrested, but discharged through total lack of evidence.

      (*21) New York “Courier and Inquirer.”

      (*22) New York “Evening Post.”

      (*23) Of the Magazine in which the article was originally
      published.




THE BALLOON-HOAX


[Astounding News by Express, _via_ Norfolk!—The Atlantic crossed in
Three Days!  Signal Triumph of Mr. Monck Mason’s Flying
Machine!—Arrival at Sullivan’s Island, near Charlestown, S.C., of Mr.
Mason, Mr. Robert Holland, Mr. Henson, Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, and four
others, in the Steering Balloon, “Victoria,” after a passage of
Seventy-five Hours from Land to Land!  Full Particulars of the Voyage!
    The subjoined _jeu d’esprit_ with the preceding heading in
    magnificent capitals, well interspersed with notes of admiration,
    was originally published, as matter of fact, in the “New York Sun,”
    a daily newspaper, and therein fully subserved the purpose of
    creating indigestible aliment for the _quidnuncs_ during the few
    hours intervening between a couple of the Charleston mails.  The
    rush for the “sole paper which had the news,” was something beyond
    even the prodigious;  and, in fact, if (as some assert) the
    “Victoria” _did_ not absolutely accomplish the voyage recorded, it
    will be difficult to assign a reason why she _should_ not have
    accomplished it.]

      The great problem is at length solved! The air, as well as the
      earth and the ocean, has been subdued by science, and will become
      a common and convenient highway for mankind. _The Atlantic has
      been actually crossed in a Balloon!_ and this too without
      difficulty—without any great apparent danger—with thorough
      control of the machine—and in the inconceivably brief period of
      seventy-five hours from shore to shore! By the energy of an agent
      at Charleston, S.C., we are enabled to be the first to furnish
      the public with a detailed account of this most extraordinary
      voyage, which was performed between Saturday, the 6th instant, at
      11, A.M., and 2, P.M., on Tuesday, the 9th instant, by Sir
      Everard Bringhurst; Mr. Osborne, a nephew of Lord Bentinck’s; Mr.
      Monck Mason and Mr. Robert Holland, the well-known æronauts; Mr.
      Harrison Ainsworth, author of “Jack Sheppard,” &c.; and Mr.
      Henson, the projector of the late unsuccessful flying
      machine—with two seamen from Woolwich—in all, eight persons. The
      particulars furnished below may be relied on as authentic and
      accurate in every respect, as, with a slight exception, they are
      copied _verbatim_ from the joint diaries of Mr. Monck Mason and
      Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, to whose politeness our agent is also
      indebted for much verbal information respecting the balloon
      itself, its construction, and other matters of interest. The only
      alteration in the MS. received, has been made for the purpose of
      throwing the hurried account of our agent, Mr. Forsyth, into a
      connected and intelligible form.

      “THE BALLOON.

      “Two very decided failures, of late—those of Mr. Henson and Sir
      George Cayley—had much weakened the public interest in the
      subject of aerial navigation. Mr. Henson’s scheme (which at first
      was considered very feasible even by men of science,) was founded
      upon the principle of an inclined plane, started from an eminence
      by an extrinsic force, applied and continued by the revolution of
      impinging vanes, in form and number resembling the vanes of a
      windmill. But, in all the experiments made with models at the
      Adelaide Gallery, it was found that the operation of these fans
      not only did not propel the machine, but actually impeded its
      flight. The only propelling force it ever exhibited, was the mere
      _impetus_ acquired from the descent of the inclined plane; and
      this _impetus_ carried the machine farther when the vanes were at
      rest, than when they were in motion—a fact which sufficiently
      demonstrates their inutility; and in the absence of the
      propelling, which was also the _sustaining_ power, the whole
      fabric would necessarily descend. This consideration led Sir
      George Cayley to think only of adapting a propeller to some
      machine having of itself an independent power of support—in a
      word, to a balloon; the idea, however, being novel, or original,
      with Sir George, only so far as regards the mode of its
      application to practice. He exhibited a model of his invention at
      the Polytechnic Institution. The propelling principle, or power,
      was here, also, applied to interrupted surfaces, or vanes, put in
      revolution. These vanes were four in number, but were found
      entirely ineffectual in moving the balloon, or in aiding its
      ascending power. The whole project was thus a complete failure.

      “It was at this juncture that Mr. Monck Mason (whose voyage from
      Dover to Weilburg in the balloon, “Nassau,” occasioned so much
      excitement in 1837,) conceived the idea of employing the
      principle of the Archimedean screw for the purpose of propulsion
      through the air—rightly attributing the failure of Mr. Henson’s
      scheme, and of Sir George Cayley’s, to the interruption of
      surface in the independent vanes. He made the first public
      experiment at Willis’s Rooms, but afterward removed his model to
      the Adelaide Gallery.

      “Like Sir George Cayley’s balloon, his own was an ellipsoid. Its
      length was thirteen feet six inches—height, six feet eight
      inches. It contained about three hundred and twenty cubic feet of
      gas, which, if pure hydrogen, would support twenty-one pounds
      upon its first inflation, before the gas has time to deteriorate
      or escape. The weight of the whole machine and apparatus was
      seventeen pounds—leaving about four pounds to spare. Beneath the
      centre of the balloon, was a frame of light wood, about nine feet
      long, and rigged on to the balloon itself with a network in the
      customary manner. From this framework was suspended a wicker
      basket or car.

      “The screw consists of an axis of hollow brass tube, eighteen
      inches in length, through which, upon a semi-spiral inclined at
      fifteen degrees, pass a series of steel wire radii, two feet
      long, and thus projecting a foot on either side. These radii are
      connected at the outer extremities by two bands of flattened
      wire—the whole in this manner forming the framework of the screw,
      which is completed by a covering of oiled silk cut into gores,
      and tightened so as to present a tolerably uniform surface. At
      each end of its axis this screw is supported by pillars of hollow
      brass tube descending from the hoop. In the lower ends of these
      tubes are holes in which the pivots of the axis revolve. From the
      end of the axis which is next the car, proceeds a shaft of steel,
      connecting the screw with the pinion of a piece of spring
      machinery fixed in the car. By the operation of this spring, the
      screw is made to revolve with great rapidity, communicating a
      progressive motion to the whole. By means of the rudder, the
      machine was readily turned in any direction. The spring was of
      great power, compared with its dimensions, being capable of
      raising forty-five pounds upon a barrel of four inches diameter,
      after the first turn, and gradually increasing as it was wound
      up. It weighed, altogether, eight pounds six ounces. The rudder
      was a light frame of cane covered with silk, shaped somewhat like
      a battle-door, and was about three feet long, and at the widest,
      one foot. Its weight was about two ounces. It could be turned
      _flat_, and directed upwards or downwards, as well as to the
      right or left; and thus enabled the æronaut to transfer the
      resistance of the air which in an inclined position it must
      generate in its passage, to any side upon which he might desire
      to act; thus determining the balloon in the opposite direction.

      “This model (which, through want of time, we have necessarily
      described in an imperfect manner,) was put in action at the
      Adelaide Gallery, where it accomplished a velocity of five miles
      per hour; although, strange to say, it excited very little
      interest in comparison with the previous complex machine of Mr.
      Henson—so resolute is the world to despise anything which carries
      with it an air of simplicity. To accomplish the great desideratum
      of ærial navigation, it was very generally supposed that some
      exceedingly complicated application must be made of some
      unusually profound principle in dynamics.

      “So well satisfied, however, was Mr. Mason of the ultimate
      success of his invention, that he determined to construct
      immediately, if possible, a balloon of sufficient capacity to
      test the question by a voyage of some extent—the original design
      being to cross the British Channel, as before, in the Nassau
      balloon. To carry out his views, he solicited and obtained the
      patronage of Sir Everard Bringhurst and Mr. Osborne, two
      gentlemen well known for scientific acquirement, and especially
      for the interest they have exhibited in the progress of
      ærostation. The project, at the desire of Mr. Osborne, was kept a
      profound secret from the public—the only persons entrusted with
      the design being those actually engaged in the construction of
      the machine, which was built (under the superintendence of Mr.
      Mason, Mr. Holland, Sir Everard Bringhurst, and Mr. Osborne,) at
      the seat of the latter gentleman near Penstruthal, in Wales. Mr.
      Henson, accompanied by his friend Mr. Ainsworth, was admitted to
      a private view of the balloon, on Saturday last—when the two
      gentlemen made final arrangements to be included in the
      adventure. We are not informed for what reason the two seamen
      were also included in the party—but, in the course of a day or
      two, we shall put our readers in possession of the minutest
      particulars respecting this extraordinary voyage.

      “The balloon is composed of silk, varnished with the liquid gum
      caoutchouc. It is of vast dimensions, containing more than 40,000
      cubic feet of gas; but as coal gas was employed in place of the
      more expensive and inconvenient hydrogen, the supporting power of
      the machine, when fully inflated, and immediately after
      inflation, is not more than about 2500 pounds. The coal gas is
      not only much less costly, but is easily procured and managed.

      “For its introduction into common use for purposes of
      aerostation, we are indebted to Mr. Charles Green. Up to his
      discovery, the process of inflation was not only exceedingly
      expensive, but uncertain. Two, and even three days, have
      frequently been wasted in futile attempts to procure a
      sufficiency of hydrogen to fill a balloon, from which it had
      great tendency to escape, owing to its extreme subtlety, and its
      affinity for the surrounding atmosphere. In a balloon
      sufficiently perfect to retain its contents of coal-gas
      unaltered, in quantity or amount, for six months, an equal
      quantity of hydrogen could not be maintained in equal purity for
      six weeks.

      “The supporting power being estimated at 2500 pounds, and the
      united weights of the party amounting only to about 1200, there
      was left a surplus of 1300, of which again 1200 was exhausted by
      ballast, arranged in bags of different sizes, with their
      respective weights marked upon them—by cordage, barometers,
      telescopes, barrels containing provision for a fortnight,
      water-casks, cloaks, carpet-bags, and various other indispensable
      matters, including a coffee-warmer, contrived for warming coffee
      by means of slack-lime, so as to dispense altogether with fire,
      if it should be judged prudent to do so. All these articles, with
      the exception of the ballast, and a few trifles, were suspended
      from the hoop overhead. The car is much smaller and lighter, in
      proportion, than the one appended to the model. It is formed of a
      light wicker, and is wonderfully strong, for so frail looking a
      machine. Its rim is about four feet deep. The rudder is also very
      much larger, in proportion, than that of the model; and the screw
      is considerably smaller. The balloon is furnished besides with a
      grapnel, and a guide-rope; which latter is of the most
      indispensable importance. A few words, in explanation, will here
      be necessary for such of our readers as are not conversant with
      the details of aerostation.

      “As soon as the balloon quits the earth, it is subjected to the
      influence of many circumstances tending to create a difference in
      its weight; augmenting or diminishing its ascending power. For
      example, there may be a deposition of dew upon the silk, to the
      extent, even, of several hundred pounds; ballast has then to be
      thrown out, or the machine may descend. This ballast being
      discarded, and a clear sunshine evaporating the dew, and at the
      same time expanding the gas in the silk, the whole will again
      rapidly ascend. To check this ascent, the only recourse is, (or
      rather _was_, until Mr. Green’s invention of the guide-rope,) the
      permission of the escape of gas from the valve; but, in the loss
      of gas, is a proportionate general loss of ascending power; so
      that, in a comparatively brief period, the best-constructed
      balloon must necessarily exhaust all its resources, and come to
      the earth. This was the great obstacle to voyages of length.

      “The guide-rope remedies the difficulty in the simplest manner
      conceivable. It is merely a very long rope which is suffered to
      trail from the car, and the effect of which is to prevent the
      balloon from changing its level in any material degree. If, for
      example, there should be a deposition of moisture upon the silk,
      and the machine begins to descend in consequence, there will be
      no necessity for discharging ballast to remedy the increase of
      weight, for it is remedied, or counteracted, in an exactly just
      proportion, by the deposit on the ground of just so much of the
      end of the rope as is necessary. If, on the other hand, any
      circumstances should cause undue levity, and consequent ascent,
      this levity is immediately counteracted by the additional weight
      of rope upraised from the earth. Thus, the balloon can neither
      ascend or descend, except within very narrow limits, and its
      resources, either in gas or ballast, remain comparatively
      unimpaired. When passing over an expanse of water, it becomes
      necessary to employ small kegs of copper or wood, filled with
      liquid ballast of a lighter nature than water. These float, and
      serve all the purposes of a mere rope on land. Another most
      important office of the guide-rope, is to point out the
      _direction_ of the balloon. The rope _drags_, either on land or
      sea, while the balloon is free; the latter, consequently, is
      always in advance, when any progress whatever is made: a
      comparison, therefore, by means of the compass, of the relative
      positions of the two objects, will always indicate the _course_.
      In the same way, the angle formed by the rope with the vertical
      axis of the machine, indicates the _velocity_. When there is _no_
      angle—in other words, when the rope hangs perpendicularly, the
      whole apparatus is stationary; but the larger the angle, that is
      to say, the farther the balloon precedes the end of the rope, the
      greater the velocity; and the converse.

      “As the original design was to cross the British Channel, and
      alight as near Paris as possible, the voyagers had taken the
      precaution to prepare themselves with passports directed to all
      parts of the Continent, specifying the nature of the expedition,
      as in the case of the Nassau voyage, and entitling the
      adventurers to exemption from the usual formalities of office:
      unexpected events, however, rendered these passports superfluous.

      “The inflation was commenced very quietly at daybreak, on
      Saturday morning, the 6th instant, in the Court-Yard of Weal-Vor
      House, Mr. Osborne’s seat, about a mile from Penstruthal, in
      North Wales; and at 7 minutes past 11, every thing being ready
      for departure, the balloon was set free, rising gently but
      steadily, in a direction nearly South; no use being made, for the
      first half hour, of either the screw or the rudder. We proceed
      now with the journal, as transcribed by Mr. Forsyth from the
      joint MSS. of Mr. Monck Mason, and Mr. Ainsworth. The body of the
      journal, as given, is in the hand-writing of Mr. Mason, and a P.
      S. is appended, each day, by Mr. Ainsworth, who has in
      preparation, and will shortly give the public a more minute, and
      no doubt, a thrillingly interesting account of the voyage.

      “THE JOURNAL.

      “_Saturday, April the 6th_.—Every preparation likely to embarrass
      us, having been made over night, we commenced the inflation this
      morning at daybreak; but owing to a thick fog, which encumbered
      the folds of the silk and rendered it unmanageable, we did not
      get through before nearly eleven o’clock. Cut loose, then, in
      high spirits, and rose gently but steadily, with a light breeze
      at North, which bore us in the direction of the British Channel.
      Found the ascending force greater than we had expected; and as we
      arose higher and so got clear of the cliffs, and more in the
      sun’s rays, our ascent became very rapid. I did not wish,
      however, to lose gas at so early a period of the adventure, and
      so concluded to ascend for the present. We soon ran out our
      guide-rope; but even when we had raised it clear of the earth, we
      still went up very rapidly. The balloon was unusually steady, and
      looked beautifully. In about ten minutes after starting, the
      barometer indicated an altitude of 15,000 feet. The weather was
      remarkably fine, and the view of the subjacent country—a most
      romantic one when seen from any point,—was now especially
      sublime. The numerous deep gorges presented the appearance of
      lakes, on account of the dense vapors with which they were
      filled, and the pinnacles and crags to the South East, piled in
      inextricable confusion, resembling nothing so much as the giant
      cities of eastern fable. We were rapidly approaching the
      mountains in the South; but our elevation was more than
      sufficient to enable us to pass them in safety. In a few minutes
      we soared over them in fine style; and Mr. Ainsworth, with the
      seamen, was surprised at their apparent want of altitude when
      viewed from the car, the tendency of great elevation in a balloon
      being to reduce inequalities of the surface below, to nearly a
      dead level. At half-past eleven still proceeding nearly South, we
      obtained our first view of the Bristol Channel; and, in fifteen
      minutes afterward, the line of breakers on the coast appeared
      immediately beneath us, and we were fairly out at sea. We now
      resolved to let off enough gas to bring our guide-rope, with the
      buoys affixed, into the water. This was immediately done, and we
      commenced a gradual descent. In about twenty minutes our first
      buoy dipped, and at the touch of the second soon afterwards, we
      remained stationary as to elevation. We were all now anxious to
      test the efficiency of the rudder and screw, and we put them both
      into requisition forthwith, for the purpose of altering our
      direction more to the eastward, and in a line for Paris. By means
      of the rudder we instantly effected the necessary change of
      direction, and our course was brought nearly at right angles to
      that of the wind; when we set in motion the spring of the screw,
      and were rejoiced to find it propel us readily as desired. Upon
      this we gave nine hearty cheers, and dropped in the sea a bottle,
      enclosing a slip of parchment with a brief account of the
      principle of the invention. Hardly, however, had we done with our
      rejoicings, when an unforeseen accident occurred which
      discouraged us in no little degree. The steel rod connecting the
      spring with the propeller was suddenly jerked out of place, at
      the car end, (by a swaying of the car through some movement of
      one of the two seamen we had taken up,) and in an instant hung
      dangling out of reach, from the pivot of the axis of the screw.
      While we were endeavoring to regain it, our attention being
      completely absorbed, we became involved in a strong current of
      wind from the East, which bore us, with rapidly increasing force,
      towards the Atlantic. We soon found ourselves driving out to sea
      at the rate of not less, certainly, than fifty or sixty miles an
      hour, so that we came up with Cape Clear, at some forty miles to
      our North, before we had secured the rod, and had time to think
      what we were about. It was now that Mr. Ainsworth made an
      extraordinary, but to my fancy, a by no means unreasonable or
      chimerical proposition, in which he was instantly seconded by Mr.
      Holland—viz.: that we should take advantage of the strong gale
      which bore us on, and in place of beating back to Paris, make an
      attempt to reach the coast of North America. After slight
      reflection I gave a willing assent to this bold proposition,
      which (strange to say) met with objection from the two seamen
      only. As the stronger party, however, we overruled their fears,
      and kept resolutely upon our course. We steered due West; but as
      the trailing of the buoys materially impeded our progress, and we
      had the balloon abundantly at command, either for ascent or
      descent, we first threw out fifty pounds of ballast, and then
      wound up (by means of a windlass) so much of the rope as brought
      it quite clear of the sea. We perceived the effect of this
      manoeuvre immediately, in a vastly increased rate of progress;
      and, as the gale freshened, we flew with a velocity nearly
      inconceivable; the guide-rope flying out behind the car, like a
      streamer from a vessel. It is needless to say that a very short
      time sufficed us to lose sight of the coast. We passed over
      innumerable vessels of all kinds, a few of which were endeavoring
      to beat up, but the most of them lying to. We occasioned the
      greatest excitement on board all—an excitement greatly relished
      by ourselves, and especially by our two men, who, now under the
      influence of a dram of Geneva, seemed resolved to give all
      scruple, or fear, to the wind. Many of the vessels fired signal
      guns; and in all we were saluted with loud cheers (which we heard
      with surprising distinctness) and the waving of caps and
      handkerchiefs. We kept on in this manner throughout the day, with
      no material incident, and, as the shades of night closed around
      us, we made a rough estimate of the distance traversed. It could
      not have been less than five hundred miles, and was probably much
      more. The propeller was kept in constant operation, and, no
      doubt, aided our progress materially. As the sun went down, the
      gale freshened into an absolute hurricane, and the ocean beneath
      was clearly visible on account of its phosphorescence. The wind
      was from the East all night, and gave us the brightest omen of
      success. We suffered no little from cold, and the dampness of the
      atmosphere was most unpleasant; but the ample space in the car
      enabled us to lie down, and by means of cloaks and a few
      blankets, we did sufficiently well.

      “P.S. (by Mr. Ainsworth.) The last nine hours have been
      unquestionably the most exciting of my life. I can conceive
      nothing more sublimating than the strange peril and novelty of an
      adventure such as this. May God grant that we succeed! I ask not
      success for mere safety to my insignificant person, but for the
      sake of human knowledge and—for the vastness of the triumph. And
      yet the feat is only so evidently feasible that the sole wonder
      is why men have scrupled to attempt it before. One single gale
      such as now befriends us—let such a tempest whirl forward a
      balloon for four or five days (these gales often last longer) and
      the voyager will be easily borne, in that period, from coast to
      coast. In view of such a gale the broad Atlantic becomes a mere
      lake. I am more struck, just now, with the supreme silence which
      reigns in the sea beneath us, notwithstanding its agitation, than
      with any other phenomenon presenting itself. The waters give up
      no voice to the heavens. The immense flaming ocean writhes and is
      tortured uncomplainingly. The mountainous surges suggest the idea
      of innumerable dumb gigantic fiends struggling in impotent agony.
      In a night such as is this to me, a man _lives_—lives a whole
      century of ordinary life—nor would I forego this rapturous
      delight for that of a whole century of ordinary existence.

      “_Sunday, the seventh_. [Mr. Mason’s MS.] This morning the gale,
      by 10, had subsided to an eight or nine—knot breeze, (for a
      vessel at sea,) and bears us, perhaps, thirty miles per hour, or
      more. It has veered, however, very considerably to the north; and
      now, at sundown, we are holding our course due west, principally
      by the screw and rudder, which answer their purposes to
      admiration. I regard the project as thoroughly successful, and
      the easy navigation of the air in any direction (not exactly in
      the teeth of a gale) as no longer problematical. We could not
      have made head against the strong wind of yesterday; but, by
      ascending, we might have got out of its influence, if requisite.
      Against a pretty stiff breeze, I feel convinced, we can make our
      way with the propeller. At noon, to-day, ascended to an elevation
      of nearly 25,000 feet, by discharging ballast. Did this to search
      for a more direct current, but found none so favorable as the one
      we are now in. We have an abundance of gas to take us across this
      small pond, even should the voyage last three weeks. I have not
      the slightest fear for the result. The difficulty has been
      strangely exaggerated and misapprehended. I can choose my
      current, and should I find _all_ currents against me, I can make
      very tolerable headway with the propeller. We have had no
      incidents worth recording. The night promises fair.

      P.S. [By Mr. Ainsworth.] I have little to record, except the fact
      (to me quite a surprising one) that, at an elevation equal to
      that of Cotopaxi, I experienced neither very intense cold, nor
      headache, nor difficulty of breathing; neither, I find, did Mr.
      Mason, nor Mr. Holland, nor Sir Everard. Mr. Osborne complained
      of constriction of the chest—but this soon wore off. We have
      flown at a great rate during the day, and we must be more than
      half way across the Atlantic. We have passed over some twenty or
      thirty vessels of various kinds, and all seem to be delightfully
      astonished. Crossing the ocean in a balloon is not so difficult a
      feat after all. _Omne ignotum pro magnifico. Mem:_ at 25,000 feet
      elevation the sky appears nearly black, and the stars are
      distinctly visible; while the sea does not seem convex (as one
      might suppose) but absolutely and most unequivocally
      _concave_.(*1)

      “_Monday, the 8th_. [Mr. Mason’s MS.] This morning we had again
      some little trouble with the rod of the propeller, which must be
      entirely remodelled, for fear of serious accident—I mean the
      steel rod—not the vanes. The latter could not be improved. The
      wind has been blowing steadily and strongly from the north-east
      all day and so far fortune seems bent upon favoring us. Just
      before day, we were all somewhat alarmed at some odd noises and
      concussions in the balloon, accompanied with the apparent rapid
      subsidence of the whole machine. These phenomena were occasioned
      by the expansion of the gas, through increase of heat in the
      atmosphere, and the consequent disruption of the minute particles
      of ice with which the network had become encrusted during the
      night. Threw down several bottles to the vessels below. Saw one
      of them picked up by a large ship—seemingly one of the New York
      line packets. Endeavored to make out her name, but could not be
      sure of it. Mr. Osborne’s telescope made it out something like
      “Atalanta.” It is now 12, at night, and we are still going nearly
      west, at a rapid pace. The sea is peculiarly phosphorescent.

      “P.S. [By Mr. Ainsworth.] It is now 2, A.M., and nearly calm, as
      well as I can judge—but it is very difficult to determine this
      point, since we move _with_ the air so completely. I have not
      slept since quitting Wheal-Vor, but can stand it no longer, and
      must take a nap. We cannot be far from the American coast.

      “_Tuesday, the_ 9_th_. [Mr. Ainsworth’s MS.] _One, P.M. We are in
      full view of the low coast of South Carolina_. The great problem
      is accomplished. We have crossed the Atlantic—fairly and _easily_
      crossed it in a balloon! God be praised! Who shall say that
      anything is impossible hereafter?”

      The Journal here ceases. Some particulars of the descent were
      communicated, however, by Mr. Ainsworth to Mr. Forsyth. It was
      nearly dead calm when the voyagers first came in view of the
      coast, which was immediately recognized by both the seamen, and
      by Mr. Osborne. The latter gentleman having acquaintances at Fort
      Moultrie, it was immediately resolved to descend in its vicinity.
      The balloon was brought over the beach (the tide being out and
      the sand hard, smooth, and admirably adapted for a descent,) and
      the grapnel let go, which took firm hold at once. The inhabitants
      of the island, and of the fort, thronged out, of course, to see
      the balloon; but it was with the greatest difficulty that any one
      could be made to credit the actual voyage—_the crossing of the
      Atlantic_. The grapnel caught at 2, P.M., precisely; and thus the
      whole voyage was completed in seventy-five hours; or rather less,
      counting from shore to shore. No serious accident occurred. No
      real danger was at any time apprehended. The balloon was
      exhausted and secured without trouble; and when the MS. from
      which this narrative is compiled was despatched from Charleston,
      the party were still at Fort Moultrie. Their farther intentions
      were not ascertained; but we can safely promise our readers some
      additional information either on Monday or in the course of the
      next day, at farthest.

      This is unquestionably the most stupendous, the most interesting,
      and the most important undertaking, ever accomplished or even
      attempted by man. What magnificent events may ensue, it would be
      useless now to think of determining.

      (*1) _Note_.—Mr. Ainsworth has not attempted to account for this
      phenomenon, which, however, is quite susceptible of explanation.
      A line dropped from an elevation of 25,000 feet, perpendicularly
      to the surface of the earth (or sea), would form the
      perpendicular of a right-angled triangle, of which the base would
      extend from the right angle to the horizon, and the hypothenuse
      from the horizon to the balloon. But the 25,000 feet of altitude
      is little or nothing, in comparison with the extent of the
      prospect. In other words, the base and hypothenuse of the
      supposed triangle would be so long when compared with the
      perpendicular, that the two former may be regarded as nearly
      parallel. In this manner the horizon of the æronaut would appear
      to be _on a level_ with the car. But, as the point immediately
      beneath him seems, and is, at a great distance below him, it
      seems, of course, also, at a great distance below the horizon.
      Hence the impression of _concavity_; and this impression must
      remain, until the elevation shall bear so great a proportion to
      the extent of prospect, that the apparent parallelism of the base
      and hypothenuse disappears—when the earth’s real convexity must
      become apparent.




MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE


Qui n’a plus qu’un moment a vivre
N’a plus rien a dissimuler.

—Quinault—Atys.

      Of my country and of my family I have little to say. Ill usage
      and length of years have driven me from the one, and estranged me
      from the other. Hereditary wealth afforded me an education of no
      common order, and a contemplative turn of mind enabled me to
      methodize the stores which early study very diligently garnered
      up.—Beyond all things, the study of the German moralists gave me
      great delight; not from any ill-advised admiration of their
      eloquent madness, but from the ease with which my habits of rigid
      thought enabled me to detect their falsities. I have often been
      reproached with the aridity of my genius; a deficiency of
      imagination has been imputed to me as a crime; and the Pyrrhonism
      of my opinions has at all times rendered me notorious. Indeed, a
      strong relish for physical philosophy has, I fear, tinctured my
      mind with a very common error of this age—I mean the habit of
      referring occurrences, even the least susceptible of such
      reference, to the principles of that science. Upon the whole, no
      person could be less liable than myself to be led away from the
      severe precincts of truth by the ignes fatui of superstition. I
      have thought proper to premise thus much, lest the incredible
      tale I have to tell should be considered rather the raving of a
      crude imagination, than the positive experience of a mind to
      which the reveries of fancy have been a dead letter and a
      nullity.

      After many years spent in foreign travel, I sailed in the year
      18— , from the port of Batavia, in the rich and populous island
      of Java, on a voyage to the Archipelago of the Sunda islands. I
      went as passenger—having no other inducement than a kind of
      nervous restlessness which haunted me as a fiend.

      Our vessel was a beautiful ship of about four hundred tons,
      copper-fastened, and built at Bombay of Malabar teak. She was
      freighted with cotton-wool and oil, from the Lachadive islands.
      We had also on board coir, jaggeree, ghee, cocoa-nuts, and a few
      cases of opium. The stowage was clumsily done, and the vessel
      consequently crank.

      We got under way with a mere breath of wind, and for many days
      stood along the eastern coast of Java, without any other incident
      to beguile the monotony of our course than the occasional meeting
      with some of the small grabs of the Archipelago to which we were
      bound.

      One evening, leaning over the taffrail, I observed a very
      singular, isolated cloud, to the N.W. It was remarkable, as well
      for its color, as from its being the first we had seen since our
      departure from Batavia. I watched it attentively until sunset,
      when it spread all at once to the eastward and westward, girting
      in the horizon with a narrow strip of vapor, and looking like a
      long line of low beach. My notice was soon afterwards attracted
      by the dusky-red appearance of the moon, and the peculiar
      character of the sea. The latter was undergoing a rapid change,
      and the water seemed more than usually transparent. Although I
      could distinctly see the bottom, yet, heaving the lead, I found
      the ship in fifteen fathoms. The air now became intolerably hot,
      and was loaded with spiral exhalations similar to those arising
      from heat iron. As night came on, every breath of wind died away,
      an more entire calm it is impossible to conceive. The flame of a
      candle burned upon the poop without the least perceptible motion,
      and a long hair, held between the finger and thumb, hung without
      the possibility of detecting a vibration. However, as the captain
      said he could perceive no indication of danger, and as we were
      drifting in bodily to shore, he ordered the sails to be furled,
      and the anchor let go. No watch was set, and the crew, consisting
      principally of Malays, stretched themselves deliberately upon
      deck. I went below—not without a full presentiment of evil.
      Indeed, every appearance warranted me in apprehending a Simoom. I
      told the captain my fears; but he paid no attention to what I
      said, and left me without deigning to give a reply. My
      uneasiness, however, prevented me from sleeping, and about
      midnight I went upon deck. As I placed my foot upon the upper
      step of the companion-ladder, I was startled by a loud, humming
      noise, like that occasioned by the rapid revolution of a
      mill-wheel, and before I could ascertain its meaning, I found the
      ship quivering to its centre. In the next instant, a wilderness
      of foam hurled us upon our beam-ends, and, rushing over us fore
      and aft, swept the entire decks from stem to stern.

      The extreme fury of the blast proved, in a great measure, the
      salvation of the ship. Although completely water-logged, yet, as
      her masts had gone by the board, she rose, after a minute,
      heavily from the sea, and, staggering awhile beneath the immense
      pressure of the tempest, finally righted.

      By what miracle I escaped destruction, it is impossible to say.
      Stunned by the shock of the water, I found myself, upon recovery,
      jammed in between the stern-post and rudder. With great
      difficulty I gained my feet, and looking dizzily around, was, at
      first, struck with the idea of our being among breakers; so
      terrific, beyond the wildest imagination, was the whirlpool of
      mountainous and foaming ocean within which we were engulfed.
      After a while, I heard the voice of an old Swede, who had shipped
      with us at the moment of our leaving port. I hallooed to him with
      all my strength, and presently he came reeling aft. We soon
      discovered that we were the sole survivors of the accident. All
      on deck, with the exception of ourselves, had been swept
      overboard;—the captain and mates must have perished as they
      slept, for the cabins were deluged with water. Without
      assistance, we could expect to do little for the security of the
      ship, and our exertions were at first paralyzed by the momentary
      expectation of going down. Our cable had, of course, parted like
      pack-thread, at the first breath of the hurricane, or we should
      have been instantaneously overwhelmed. We scudded with frightful
      velocity before the sea, and the water made clear breaches over
      us. The frame-work of our stern was shattered excessively, and,
      in almost every respect, we had received considerable injury; but
      to our extreme joy we found the pumps unchoked, and that we had
      made no great shifting of our ballast. The main fury of the blast
      had already blown over, and we apprehended little danger from the
      violence of the wind; but we looked forward to its total
      cessation with dismay; well believing, that, in our shattered
      condition, we should inevitably perish in the tremendous swell
      which would ensue. But this very just apprehension seemed by no
      means likely to be soon verified. For five entire days and
      nights—during which our only subsistence was a small quantity of
      jaggeree, procured with great difficulty from the forecastle—the
      hulk flew at a rate defying computation, before rapidly
      succeeding flaws of wind, which, without equalling the first
      violence of the Simoom, were still more terrific than any tempest
      I had before encountered. Our course for the first four days was,
      with trifling variations, S.E. and by S.; and we must have run
      down the coast of New Holland. On the fifth day the cold became
      extreme, although the wind had hauled round a point more to the
      northward. The sun arose with a sickly yellow lustre, and
      clambered a very few degrees above the horizon—emitting no
      decisive light. There were no clouds apparent, yet the wind was
      upon the increase, and blew with a fitful and unsteady fury.
      About noon, as nearly as we could guess, our attention was again
      arrested by the appearance of the sun. It gave out no light,
      properly so called, but a dull and sullen glow without
      reflection, as if all its rays were polarized. Just before
      sinking within the turgid sea, its central fires suddenly went
      out, as if hurriedly extinguished by some unaccountable power. It
      was a dim, sliver-like rim, alone, as it rushed down the
      unfathomable ocean.

      We waited in vain for the arrival of the sixth day—that day to me
      has not yet arrived—to the Swede, never did arrive. Thenceforward
      we were enshrouded in patchy darkness, so that we could not have
      seen an object at twenty paces from the ship. Eternal night
      continued to envelop us, all unrelieved by the phosphoric
      sea-brilliancy to which we had been accustomed in the tropics. We
      observed too, that, although the tempest continued to rage with
      unabated violence, there was no longer to be discovered the usual
      appearance of surf, or foam, which had hitherto attended us. All
      around were horror, and thick gloom, and a black sweltering
      desert of ebony. Superstitious terror crept by degrees into the
      spirit of the old Swede, and my own soul was wrapped up in silent
      wonder. We neglected all care of the ship, as worse than useless,
      and securing ourselves, as well as possible, to the stump of the
      mizen-mast, looked out bitterly into the world of ocean. We had
      no means of calculating time, nor could we form any guess of our
      situation. We were, however, well aware of having made farther to
      the southward than any previous navigators, and felt great
      amazement at not meeting with the usual impediments of ice. In
      the meantime every moment threatened to be our last—every
      mountainous billow hurried to overwhelm us. The swell surpassed
      anything I had imagined possible, and that we were not instantly
      buried is a miracle. My companion spoke of the lightness of our
      cargo, and reminded me of the excellent qualities of our ship;
      but I could not help feeling the utter hopelessness of hope
      itself, and prepared myself gloomily for that death which I
      thought nothing could defer beyond an hour, as, with every knot
      of way the ship made, the swelling of the black stupendous seas
      became more dismally appalling. At times we gasped for breath at
      an elevation beyond the albatross—at times became dizzy with the
      velocity of our descent into some watery hell, where the air grew
      stagnant, and no sound disturbed the slumbers of the kraken.

      We were at the bottom of one of these abysses, when a quick
      scream from my companion broke fearfully upon the night. “See!
      see!” cried he, shrieking in my ears, “Almighty God! see! see!”
      As he spoke, I became aware of a dull, sullen glare of red light
      which streamed down the sides of the vast chasm where we lay, and
      threw a fitful brilliancy upon our deck. Casting my eyes upwards,
      I beheld a spectacle which froze the current of my blood. At a
      terrific height directly above us, and upon the very verge of the
      precipitous descent, hovered a gigantic ship of, perhaps, four
      thousand tons. Although upreared upon the summit of a wave more
      than a hundred times her own altitude, her apparent size exceeded
      that of any ship of the line or East Indiaman in existence. Her
      huge hull was of a deep dingy black, unrelieved by any of the
      customary carvings of a ship. A single row of brass cannon
      protruded from her open ports, and dashed from their polished
      surfaces the fires of innumerable battle-lanterns, which swung to
      and fro about her rigging. But what mainly inspired us with
      horror and astonishment, was that she bore up under a press of
      sail in the very teeth of that supernatural sea, and of that
      ungovernable hurricane. When we first discovered her, her bows
      were alone to be seen, as she rose slowly from the dim and
      horrible gulf beyond her. For a moment of intense terror she
      paused upon the giddy pinnacle, as if in contemplation of her own
      sublimity, then trembled and tottered, and—came down.

      At this instant, I know not what sudden self-possession came over
      my spirit. Staggering as far aft as I could, I awaited fearlessly
      the ruin that was to overwhelm. Our own vessel was at length
      ceasing from her struggles, and sinking with her head to the sea.
      The shock of the descending mass struck her, consequently, in
      that portion of her frame which was already under water, and the
      inevitable result was to hurl me, with irresistible violence,
      upon the rigging of the stranger.

      As I fell, the ship hove in stays, and went about; and to the
      confusion ensuing I attributed my escape from the notice of the
      crew. With little difficulty I made my way unperceived to the
      main hatchway, which was partially open, and soon found an
      opportunity of secreting myself in the hold. Why I did so I can
      hardly tell. An indefinite sense of awe, which at first sight of
      the navigators of the ship had taken hold of my mind, was perhaps
      the principle of my concealment. I was unwilling to trust myself
      with a race of people who had offered, to the cursory glance I
      had taken, so many points of vague novelty, doubt, and
      apprehension. I therefore thought proper to contrive a
      hiding-place in the hold. This I did by removing a small portion
      of the shifting-boards, in such a manner as to afford me a
      convenient retreat between the huge timbers of the ship.

      I had scarcely completed my work, when a footstep in the hold
      forced me to make use of it. A man passed by my place of
      concealment with a feeble and unsteady gait. I could not see his
      face, but had an opportunity of observing his general appearance.
      There was about it an evidence of great age and infirmity. His
      knees tottered beneath a load of years, and his entire frame
      quivered under the burthen. He muttered to himself, in a low
      broken tone, some words of a language which I could not
      understand, and groped in a corner among a pile of
      singular-looking instruments, and decayed charts of navigation.
      His manner was a wild mixture of the peevishness of second
      childhood, and the solemn dignity of a God. He at length went on
      deck, and I saw him no more.


      A feeling, for which I have no name, has taken possession of my
      soul —a sensation which will admit of no analysis, to which the
      lessons of bygone times are inadequate, and for which I fear
      futurity itself will offer me no key. To a mind constituted like
      my own, the latter consideration is an evil. I shall never—I know
      that I shall never—be satisfied with regard to the nature of my
      conceptions. Yet it is not wonderful that these conceptions are
      indefinite, since they have their origin in sources so utterly
      novel. A new sense—a new entity is added to my soul.


      It is long since I first trod the deck of this terrible ship, and
      the rays of my destiny are, I think, gathering to a focus.
      Incomprehensible men! Wrapped up in meditations of a kind which I
      cannot divine, they pass me by unnoticed. Concealment is utter
      folly on my part, for the people will not see. It was but just
      now that I passed directly before the eyes of the mate; it was no
      long while ago that I ventured into the captain’s own private
      cabin, and took thence the materials with which I write, and have
      written. I shall from time to time continue this journal. It is
      true that I may not find an opportunity of transmitting it to the
      world, but I will not fall to make the endeavour. At the last
      moment I will enclose the MS. in a bottle, and cast it within the
      sea.


      An incident has occurred which has given me new room for
      meditation. Are such things the operation of ungoverned chance? I
      had ventured upon deck and thrown myself down, without attracting
      any notice, among a pile of ratlin-stuff and old sails in the
      bottom of the yawl. While musing upon the singularity of my fate,
      I unwittingly daubed with a tar-brush the edges of a
      neatly-folded studding-sail which lay near me on a barrel. The
      studding-sail is now bent upon the ship, and the thoughtless
      touches of the brush are spread out into the word DISCOVERY.

      I have made many observations lately upon the structure of the
      vessel. Although well armed, she is not, I think, a ship of war.
      Her rigging, build, and general equipment, all negative a
      supposition of this kind. What she is not, I can easily
      perceive—what she is I fear it is impossible to say. I know not
      how it is, but in scrutinizing her strange model and singular
      cast of spars, her huge size and overgrown suits of canvas, her
      severely simple bow and antiquated stern, there will occasionally
      flash across my mind a sensation of familiar things, and there is
      always mixed up with such indistinct shadows of recollection, an
      unaccountable memory of old foreign chronicles and ages long ago.


      I have been looking at the timbers of the ship. She is built of a
      material to which I am a stranger. There is a peculiar character
      about the wood which strikes me as rendering it unfit for the
      purpose to which it has been applied. I mean its extreme
      porousness, considered independently by the worm-eaten condition
      which is a consequence of navigation in these seas, and apart
      from the rottenness attendant upon age. It will appear perhaps an
      observation somewhat over-curious, but this wood would have every
      characteristic of Spanish oak, if Spanish oak were distended by
      any unnatural means.

      In reading the above sentence a curious apothegm of an old
      weather-beaten Dutch navigator comes full upon my recollection.
      “It is as sure,” he was wont to say, when any doubt was
      entertained of his veracity, “as sure as there is a sea where the
      ship itself will grow in bulk like the living body of the
      seaman.”


      About an hour ago, I made bold to thrust myself among a group of
      the crew. They paid me no manner of attention, and, although I
      stood in the very midst of them all, seemed utterly unconscious
      of my presence. Like the one I had at first seen in the hold,
      they all bore about them the marks of a hoary old age. Their
      knees trembled with infirmity; their shoulders were bent double
      with decrepitude; their shrivelled skins rattled in the wind;
      their voices were low, tremulous and broken; their eyes glistened
      with the rheum of years; and their gray hairs streamed terribly
      in the tempest. Around them, on every part of the deck, lay
      scattered mathematical instruments of the most quaint and
      obsolete construction.


      I mentioned some time ago the bending of a studding-sail. From
      that period the ship, being thrown dead off the wind, has
      continued her terrific course due south, with every rag of canvas
      packed upon her, from her trucks to her lower studding-sail
      booms, and rolling every moment her top-gallant yard-arms into
      the most appalling hell of water which it can enter into the mind
      of a man to imagine. I have just left the deck, where I find it
      impossible to maintain a footing, although the crew seem to
      experience little inconvenience. It appears to me a miracle of
      miracles that our enormous bulk is not swallowed up at once and
      forever. We are surely doomed to hover continually upon the brink
      of eternity, without taking a final plunge into the abyss. From
      billows a thousand times more stupendous than any I have ever
      seen, we glide away with the facility of the arrowy sea-gull; and
      the colossal waters rear their heads above us like demons of the
      deep, but like demons confined to simple threats and forbidden to
      destroy. I am led to attribute these frequent escapes to the only
      natural cause which can account for such effect. I must suppose
      the ship to be within the influence of some strong current, or
      impetuous under-tow.


      I have seen the captain face to face, and in his own cabin—but,
      as I expected, he paid me no attention. Although in his
      appearance there is, to a casual observer, nothing which might
      bespeak him more or less than man, still, a feeling of
      irrepressible reverence and awe mingled with the sensation of
      wonder with which I regarded him. In stature he is nearly my own
      height; that is, about five feet eight inches. He is of a
      well-knit and compact frame of body, neither robust nor
      remarkably otherwise. But it is the singularity of the expression
      which reigns upon the face—it is the intense, the wonderful, the
      thrilling evidence of old age, so utter, so extreme, which
      excites within my spirit a sense—a sentiment ineffable. His
      forehead, although little wrinkled, seems to bear upon it the
      stamp of a myriad of years. His gray hairs are records of the
      past, and his grayer eyes are sibyls of the future. The cabin
      floor was thickly strewn with strange, iron-clasped folios, and
      mouldering instruments of science, and obsolete long-forgotten
      charts. His head was bowed down upon his hands, and he pored,
      with a fiery unquiet eye, over a paper which I took to be a
      commission, and which, at all events, bore the signature of a
      monarch. He muttered to himself, as did the first seaman whom I
      saw in the hold, some low peevish syllables of a foreign tongue,
      and although the speaker was close at my elbow, his voice seemed
      to reach my ears from the distance of a mile.


      The ship and all in it are imbued with the spirit of Eld. The
      crew glide to and fro like the ghosts of buried centuries; their
      eyes have an eager and uneasy meaning; and when their fingers
      fall athwart my path in the wild glare of the battle-lanterns, I
      feel as I have never felt before, although I have been all my
      life a dealer in antiquities, and have imbibed the shadows of
      fallen columns at Balbec, and Tadmor, and Persepolis, until my
      very soul has become a ruin.


      When I look around me I feel ashamed of my former apprehensions.
      If I trembled at the blast which has hitherto attended us, shall
      I not stand aghast at a warring of wind and ocean, to convey any
      idea of which the words tornado and simoom are trivial and
      ineffective? All in the immediate vicinity of the ship is the
      blackness of eternal night, and a chaos of foamless water; but,
      about a league on either side of us, may be seen, indistinctly
      and at intervals, stupendous ramparts of ice, towering away into
      the desolate sky, and looking like the walls of the universe.


      As I imagined, the ship proves to be in a current—if that
      appellation can properly be given to a tide which, howling and
      shrieking by the white ice, thunders on to the southward with a
      velocity like the headlong dashing of a cataract.


      To conceive the horror of my sensations is, I presume, utterly
      impossible; yet a curiosity to penetrate the mysteries of these
      awful regions, predominates even over my despair, and will
      reconcile me to the most hideous aspect of death. It is evident
      that we are hurrying onwards to some exciting knowledge—some
      never-to-be-imparted secret, whose attainment is destruction.
      Perhaps this current leads us to the southern pole itself. It
      must be confessed that a supposition apparently so wild has every
      probability in its favor.


      The crew pace the deck with unquiet and tremulous step; but there
      is upon their countenances an expression more of the eagerness of
      hope than of the apathy of despair.

      In the meantime the wind is still in our poop, and, as we carry a
      crowd of canvas, the ship is at times lifted bodily from out the
      sea! Oh, horror upon horror!—the ice opens suddenly to the right,
      and to the left, and we are whirling dizzily, in immense
      concentric circles, round and round the borders of a gigantic
      amphitheatre, the summit of whose walls is lost in the darkness
      and the distance. But little time will be left me to ponder upon
      my destiny! The circles rapidly grow small—we are plunging madly
      within the grasp of the whirlpool—and amid a roaring, and
      bellowing, and thundering of ocean and of tempest, the ship is
      quivering—oh God! and—going down.

      NOTE.—The “MS. Found in a Bottle,” was originally published in
      1831, and it was not until many years afterwards that I became
      acquainted with the maps of Mercator, in which the ocean is
      represented as rushing, by four mouths, into the (northern) Polar
      Gulf, to be absorbed into the bowels of the earth; the Pole
      itself being represented by a black rock, towering to a
      prodigious height.




THE OVAL PORTRAIT


      The château into which my valet had ventured to make forcible
      entrance, rather than permit me, in my desperately wounded
      condition, to pass a night in the open air, was one of those
      piles of commingled gloom and grandeur which have so long frowned
      among the Appennines, not less in fact than in the fancy of Mrs.
      Radcliffe. To all appearance it had been temporarily and very
      lately abandoned. We established ourselves in one of the smallest
      and least sumptuously furnished apartments. It lay in a remote
      turret of the building. Its decorations were rich, yet tattered
      and antique. Its walls were hung with tapestry and bedecked with
      manifold and multiform armorial trophies, together with an
      unusually great number of very spirited modern paintings in
      frames of rich golden arabesque. In these paintings, which
      depended from the walls not only in their main surfaces, but in
      very many nooks which the bizarre architecture of the château
      rendered necessary—in these paintings my incipient delirium,
      perhaps, had caused me to take deep interest; so that I bade
      Pedro to close the heavy shutters of the room—since it was
      already night—to light the tongues of a tall candelabrum which
      stood by the head of my bed, and to throw open far and wide the
      fringed curtains of black velvet which enveloped the bed itself.
      I wished all this done that I might resign myself, if not to
      sleep, at least alternately to the contemplation of these
      pictures, and the perusal of a small volume which had been found
      upon the pillow, and which purported to criticise and describe
      them.

      Long, long I read—and devoutly, devotedly I gazed. Rapidly and
      gloriously the hours flew by and the deep midnight came. The
      position of the candelabrum displeased me, and outreaching my
      hand with difficulty, rather than disturb my slumbering valet, I
      placed it so as to throw its rays more fully upon the book.

      But the action produced an effect altogether unanticipated. The
      rays of the numerous candles (for there were many) now fell
      within a niche of the room which had hitherto been thrown into
      deep shade by one of the bed-posts. I thus saw in vivid light a
      picture all unnoticed before. It was the portrait of a young girl
      just ripening into womanhood. I glanced at the painting
      hurriedly, and then closed my eyes. Why I did this was not at
      first apparent even to my own perception. But while my lids
      remained thus shut, I ran over in my mind my reason for so
      shutting them. It was an impulsive movement to gain time for
      thought—to make sure that my vision had not deceived me—to calm
      and subdue my fancy for a more sober and more certain gaze. In a
      very few moments I again looked fixedly at the painting.

      That I now saw aright I could not and would not doubt; for the
      first flashing of the candles upon that canvas had seemed to
      dissipate the dreamy stupor which was stealing over my senses,
      and to startle me at once into waking life.

      The portrait, I have already said, was that of a young girl. It
      was a mere head and shoulders, done in what is technically termed
      a vignette manner; much in the style of the favorite heads of
      Sully. The arms, the bosom, and even the ends of the radiant hair
      melted imperceptibly into the vague yet deep shadow which formed
      the back-ground of the whole. The frame was oval, richly gilded
      and filigreed in Moresque. As a thing of art nothing could be
      more admirable than the painting itself. But it could have been
      neither the execution of the work, nor the immortal beauty of the
      countenance, which had so suddenly and so vehemently moved me.
      Least of all, could it have been that my fancy, shaken from its
      half slumber, had mistaken the head for that of a living person.
      I saw at once that the peculiarities of the design, of the
      vignetting, and of the frame, must have instantly dispelled such
      idea—must have prevented even its momentary entertainment.
      Thinking earnestly upon these points, I remained, for an hour
      perhaps, half sitting, half reclining, with my vision riveted
      upon the portrait. At length, satisfied with the true secret of
      its effect, I fell back within the bed. I had found the spell of
      the picture in an absolute life-likeliness of expression, which,
      at first startling, finally confounded, subdued, and appalled me.
      With deep and reverent awe I replaced the candelabrum in its
      former position. The cause of my deep agitation being thus shut
      from view, I sought eagerly the volume which discussed the
      paintings and their histories. Turning to the number which
      designated the oval portrait, I there read the vague and quaint
      words which follow:

      “She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full
      of glee. And evil was the hour when she saw, and loved, and
      wedded the painter. He, passionate, studious, austere, and having
      already a bride in his Art; she a maiden of rarest beauty, and
      not more lovely than full of glee; all light and smiles, and
      frolicsome as the young fawn; loving and cherishing all things;
      hating only the Art which was her rival; dreading only the pallet
      and brushes and other untoward instruments which deprived her of
      the countenance of her lover. It was thus a terrible thing for
      this lady to hear the painter speak of his desire to portray even
      his young bride. But she was humble and obedient, and sat meekly
      for many weeks in the dark, high turret-chamber where the light
      dripped upon the pale canvas only from overhead. But he, the
      painter, took glory in his work, which went on from hour to hour,
      and from day to day. And he was a passionate, and wild, and moody
      man, who became lost in reveries; so that he would not see that
      the light which fell so ghastly in that lone turret withered the
      health and the spirits of his bride, who pined visibly to all but
      him. Yet she smiled on and still on, uncomplainingly, because she
      saw that the painter (who had high renown) took a fervid and
      burning pleasure in his task, and wrought day and night to depict
      her who so loved him, yet who grew daily more dispirited and
      weak. And in sooth some who beheld the portrait spoke of its
      resemblance in low words, as of a mighty marvel, and a proof not
      less of the power of the painter than of his deep love for her
      whom he depicted so surpassingly well. But at length, as the
      labor drew nearer to its conclusion, there were admitted none
      into the turret; for the painter had grown wild with the ardor of
      his work, and turned his eyes from canvas merely, even to regard
      the countenance of his wife. And he would not see that the tints
      which he spread upon the canvas were drawn from the cheeks of her
      who sate beside him. And when many weeks had passed, and but
      little remained to do, save one brush upon the mouth and one tint
      upon the eye, the spirit of the lady again flickered up as the
      flame within the socket of the lamp. And then the brush was
      given, and then the tint was placed; and, for one moment, the
      painter stood entranced before the work which he had wrought; but
      in the next, while he yet gazed, he grew tremulous and very
      pallid, and aghast, and crying with a loud voice, ‘This is indeed
      Life itself!’ turned suddenly to regard his beloved:—She was
      dead!”





[Illustration]




The Invisible Man

A Grotesque Romance

by H. G. Wells


Contents

 I. The strange Man’s Arrival
 II. Mr. Teddy Henfrey’s first Impressions
 III. The thousand and one Bottles
 IV. Mr. Cuss interviews the Stranger
 V. The Burglary at the Vicarage
 VI. The Furniture that went mad
 VII. The Unveiling of the Stranger
 VIII. In Transit
 IX. Mr. Thomas Marvel
 X. Mr. Marvel’s Visit to Iping
 XI. In the “Coach and Horses”
 XII. The invisible Man loses his Temper
 XIII. Mr. Marvel discusses his Resignation
 XIV. At Port Stowe
 XV. The Man who was running
 XVI. In the “Jolly Cricketers”
 XVII. Dr. Kemp’s Visitor
 XVIII. The invisible Man sleeps
 XIX. Certain first Principles
 XX. At the House in Great Portland Street
 XXI. In Oxford Street
 XXII. In the Emporium
 XXIII. In Drury Lane
 XXIV. The Plan that failed
 XXV. The Hunting of the invisible Man
 XXVI. The Wicksteed Murder
 XXVII. The Siege of Kemp’s House
 XXVIII. The Hunter hunted
 The Epilogue




CHAPTER I.
THE STRANGE MAN’S ARRIVAL


The stranger came early in February, one wintry day, through a biting
wind and a driving snow, the last snowfall of the year, over the down,
walking from Bramblehurst railway station, and carrying a little black
portmanteau in his thickly gloved hand. He was wrapped up from head to
foot, and the brim of his soft felt hat hid every inch of his face but
the shiny tip of his nose; the snow had piled itself against his
shoulders and chest, and added a white crest to the burden he carried.
He staggered into the “Coach and Horses” more dead than alive, and
flung his portmanteau down. “A fire,” he cried, “in the name of human
charity! A room and a fire!” He stamped and shook the snow from off
himself in the bar, and followed Mrs. Hall into her guest parlour to
strike his bargain. And with that much introduction, that and a couple
of sovereigns flung upon the table, he took up his quarters in the inn.

Mrs. Hall lit the fire and left him there while she went to prepare him
a meal with her own hands. A guest to stop at Iping in the wintertime
was an unheard-of piece of luck, let alone a guest who was no
“haggler,” and she was resolved to show herself worthy of her good
fortune. As soon as the bacon was well under way, and Millie, her
lymphatic maid, had been brisked up a bit by a few deftly chosen
expressions of contempt, she carried the cloth, plates, and glasses
into the parlour and began to lay them with the utmost _éclat_.
Although the fire was burning up briskly, she was surprised to see that
her visitor still wore his hat and coat, standing with his back to her
and staring out of the window at the falling snow in the yard. His
gloved hands were clasped behind him, and he seemed to be lost in
thought. She noticed that the melting snow that still sprinkled his
shoulders dripped upon her carpet. “Can I take your hat and coat, sir?”
she said, “and give them a good dry in the kitchen?”

“No,” he said without turning.

She was not sure she had heard him, and was about to repeat her
question.

He turned his head and looked at her over his shoulder. “I prefer to
keep them on,” he said with emphasis, and she noticed that he wore big
blue spectacles with sidelights, and had a bush side-whisker over his
coat-collar that completely hid his cheeks and face.

“Very well, sir,” she said. “_As_ you like. In a bit the room will be
warmer.”

He made no answer, and had turned his face away from her again, and
Mrs. Hall, feeling that her conversational advances were ill-timed,
laid the rest of the table things in a quick staccato and whisked out
of the room. When she returned he was still standing there, like a man
of stone, his back hunched, his collar turned up, his dripping hat-brim
turned down, hiding his face and ears completely. She put down the eggs
and bacon with considerable emphasis, and called rather than said to
him, “Your lunch is served, sir.”

“Thank you,” he said at the same time, and did not stir until she was
closing the door. Then he swung round and approached the table with a
certain eager quickness.

As she went behind the bar to the kitchen she heard a sound repeated at
regular intervals. Chirk, chirk, chirk, it went, the sound of a spoon
being rapidly whisked round a basin. “That girl!” she said. “There! I
clean forgot it. It’s her being so long!” And while she herself
finished mixing the mustard, she gave Millie a few verbal stabs for her
excessive slowness. She had cooked the ham and eggs, laid the table,
and done everything, while Millie (help indeed!) had only succeeded in
delaying the mustard. And him a new guest and wanting to stay! Then she
filled the mustard pot, and, putting it with a certain stateliness upon
a gold and black tea-tray, carried it into the parlour.

She rapped and entered promptly. As she did so her visitor moved
quickly, so that she got but a glimpse of a white object disappearing
behind the table. It would seem he was picking something from the
floor. She rapped down the mustard pot on the table, and then she
noticed the overcoat and hat had been taken off and put over a chair in
front of the fire, and a pair of wet boots threatened rust to her steel
fender. She went to these things resolutely. “I suppose I may have them
to dry now,” she said in a voice that brooked no denial.

“Leave the hat,” said her visitor, in a muffled voice, and turning she
saw he had raised his head and was sitting and looking at her.

For a moment she stood gaping at him, too surprised to speak.

He held a white cloth—it was a serviette he had brought with him—over
the lower part of his face, so that his mouth and jaws were completely
hidden, and that was the reason of his muffled voice. But it was not
that which startled Mrs. Hall. It was the fact that all his forehead
above his blue glasses was covered by a white bandage, and that another
covered his ears, leaving not a scrap of his face exposed excepting
only his pink, peaked nose. It was bright, pink, and shiny just as it
had been at first. He wore a dark-brown velvet jacket with a high,
black, linen-lined collar turned up about his neck. The thick black
hair, escaping as it could below and between the cross bandages,
projected in curious tails and horns, giving him the strangest
appearance conceivable. This muffled and bandaged head was so unlike
what she had anticipated, that for a moment she was rigid.

He did not remove the serviette, but remained holding it, as she saw
now, with a brown gloved hand, and regarding her with his inscrutable
blue glasses. “Leave the hat,” he said, speaking very distinctly
through the white cloth.

Her nerves began to recover from the shock they had received. She
placed the hat on the chair again by the fire. “I didn’t know, sir,”
she began, “that—” and she stopped embarrassed.

“Thank you,” he said drily, glancing from her to the door and then at
her again.

“I’ll have them nicely dried, sir, at once,” she said, and carried his
clothes out of the room. She glanced at his white-swathed head and blue
goggles again as she was going out of the door; but his napkin was
still in front of his face. She shivered a little as she closed the
door behind her, and her face was eloquent of her surprise and
perplexity. “I _never_,” she whispered. “There!” She went quite softly
to the kitchen, and was too preoccupied to ask Millie what she was
messing about with _now_, when she got there.

The visitor sat and listened to her retreating feet. He glanced
inquiringly at the window before he removed his serviette, and resumed
his meal. He took a mouthful, glanced suspiciously at the window, took
another mouthful, then rose and, taking the serviette in his hand,
walked across the room and pulled the blind down to the top of the
white muslin that obscured the lower panes. This left the room in a
twilight. This done, he returned with an easier air to the table and
his meal.

“The poor soul’s had an accident or an op’ration or somethin’,” said
Mrs. Hall. “What a turn them bandages did give me, to be sure!”

She put on some more coal, unfolded the clothes-horse, and extended the
traveller’s coat upon this. “And they goggles! Why, he looked more like
a divin’ helmet than a human man!” She hung his muffler on a corner of
the horse. “And holding that handkerchief over his mouth all the time.
Talkin’ through it! ... Perhaps his mouth was hurt too—maybe.”

She turned round, as one who suddenly remembers. “Bless my soul alive!”
she said, going off at a tangent; “ain’t you done them taters _yet_,
Millie?”

When Mrs. Hall went to clear away the stranger’s lunch, her idea that
his mouth must also have been cut or disfigured in the accident she
supposed him to have suffered, was confirmed, for he was smoking a
pipe, and all the time that she was in the room he never loosened the
silk muffler he had wrapped round the lower part of his face to put the
mouthpiece to his lips. Yet it was not forgetfulness, for she saw he
glanced at it as it smouldered out. He sat in the corner with his back
to the window-blind and spoke now, having eaten and drunk and being
comfortably warmed through, with less aggressive brevity than before.
The reflection of the fire lent a kind of red animation to his big
spectacles they had lacked hitherto.

“I have some luggage,” he said, “at Bramblehurst station,” and he asked
her how he could have it sent. He bowed his bandaged head quite
politely in acknowledgment of her explanation. “To-morrow?” he said.
“There is no speedier delivery?” and seemed quite disappointed when she
answered, “No.” Was she quite sure? No man with a trap who would go
over?

Mrs. Hall, nothing loath, answered his questions and developed a
conversation. “It’s a steep road by the down, sir,” she said in answer
to the question about a trap; and then, snatching at an opening, said,
“It was there a carriage was upsettled, a year ago and more. A
gentleman killed, besides his coachman. Accidents, sir, happen in a
moment, don’t they?”

But the visitor was not to be drawn so easily. “They do,” he said
through his muffler, eyeing her quietly through his impenetrable
glasses.

“But they take long enough to get well, don’t they? ... There was my
sister’s son, Tom, jest cut his arm with a scythe, tumbled on it in the
’ayfield, and, bless me! he was three months tied up sir. You’d hardly
believe it. It’s regular given me a dread of a scythe, sir.”

“I can quite understand that,” said the visitor.

“He was afraid, one time, that he’d have to have an op’ration—he was
that bad, sir.”

The visitor laughed abruptly, a bark of a laugh that he seemed to bite
and kill in his mouth. “_Was_ he?” he said.

“He was, sir. And no laughing matter to them as had the doing for him,
as I had—my sister being took up with her little ones so much. There
was bandages to do, sir, and bandages to undo. So that if I may make so
bold as to say it, sir—”

“Will you get me some matches?” said the visitor, quite abruptly. “My
pipe is out.”

Mrs. Hall was pulled up suddenly. It was certainly rude of him, after
telling him all she had done. She gasped at him for a moment, and
remembered the two sovereigns. She went for the matches.

“Thanks,” he said concisely, as she put them down, and turned his
shoulder upon her and stared out of the window again. It was altogether
too discouraging. Evidently he was sensitive on the topic of operations
and bandages. She did not “make so bold as to say,” however, after all.
But his snubbing way had irritated her, and Millie had a hot time of it
that afternoon.

The visitor remained in the parlour until four o’clock, without giving
the ghost of an excuse for an intrusion. For the most part he was quite
still during that time; it would seem he sat in the growing darkness
smoking in the firelight—perhaps dozing.

Once or twice a curious listener might have heard him at the coals, and
for the space of five minutes he was audible pacing the room. He seemed
to be talking to himself. Then the armchair creaked as he sat down
again.




CHAPTER II.
MR. TEDDY HENFREY’S FIRST IMPRESSIONS


At four o’clock, when it was fairly dark and Mrs. Hall was screwing up
her courage to go in and ask her visitor if he would take some tea,
Teddy Henfrey, the clock-jobber, came into the bar. “My sakes! Mrs.
Hall,” said he, “but this is terrible weather for thin boots!” The snow
outside was falling faster.

Mrs. Hall agreed, and then noticed he had his bag with him. “Now you’re
here, Mr. Teddy,” said she, “I’d be glad if you’d give th’ old clock in
the parlour a bit of a look. ’Tis going, and it strikes well and
hearty; but the hour-hand won’t do nuthin’ but point at six.”

And leading the way, she went across to the parlour door and rapped and
entered.

Her visitor, she saw as she opened the door, was seated in the armchair
before the fire, dozing it would seem, with his bandaged head drooping
on one side. The only light in the room was the red glow from the
fire—which lit his eyes like adverse railway signals, but left his
downcast face in darkness—and the scanty vestiges of the day that came
in through the open door. Everything was ruddy, shadowy, and indistinct
to her, the more so since she had just been lighting the bar lamp, and
her eyes were dazzled. But for a second it seemed to her that the man
she looked at had an enormous mouth wide open—a vast and incredible
mouth that swallowed the whole of the lower portion of his face. It was
the sensation of a moment: the white-bound head, the monstrous goggle
eyes, and this huge yawn below it. Then he stirred, started up in his
chair, put up his hand. She opened the door wide, so that the room was
lighter, and she saw him more clearly, with the muffler held up to his
face just as she had seen him hold the serviette before. The shadows,
she fancied, had tricked her.

“Would you mind, sir, this man a-coming to look at the clock, sir?” she
said, recovering from the momentary shock.

“Look at the clock?” he said, staring round in a drowsy manner, and
speaking over his hand, and then, getting more fully awake,
“certainly.”

Mrs. Hall went away to get a lamp, and he rose and stretched himself.
Then came the light, and Mr. Teddy Henfrey, entering, was confronted by
this bandaged person. He was, he says, “taken aback.”

“Good afternoon,” said the stranger, regarding him—as Mr. Henfrey says,
with a vivid sense of the dark spectacles—“like a lobster.”

“I hope,” said Mr. Henfrey, “that it’s no intrusion.”

“None whatever,” said the stranger. “Though, I understand,” he said
turning to Mrs. Hall, “that this room is really to be mine for my own
private use.”

“I thought, sir,” said Mrs. Hall, “you’d prefer the clock—”

“Certainly,” said the stranger, “certainly—but, as a rule, I like to be
alone and undisturbed.

“But I’m really glad to have the clock seen to,” he said, seeing a
certain hesitation in Mr. Henfrey’s manner. “Very glad.” Mr. Henfrey
had intended to apologise and withdraw, but this anticipation reassured
him. The stranger turned round with his back to the fireplace and put
his hands behind his back. “And presently,” he said, “when the
clock-mending is over, I think I should like to have some tea. But not
till the clock-mending is over.”

Mrs. Hall was about to leave the room—she made no conversational
advances this time, because she did not want to be snubbed in front of
Mr. Henfrey—when her visitor asked her if she had made any arrangements
about his boxes at Bramblehurst. She told him she had mentioned the
matter to the postman, and that the carrier could bring them over on
the morrow. “You are certain that is the earliest?” he said.

She was certain, with a marked coldness.

“I should explain,” he added, “what I was really too cold and fatigued
to do before, that I am an experimental investigator.”

“Indeed, sir,” said Mrs. Hall, much impressed.

“And my baggage contains apparatus and appliances.”

“Very useful things indeed they are, sir,” said Mrs. Hall.

“And I’m very naturally anxious to get on with my inquiries.”

“Of course, sir.”

“My reason for coming to Iping,” he proceeded, with a certain
deliberation of manner, “was ... a desire for solitude. I do not wish
to be disturbed in my work. In addition to my work, an accident—”

“I thought as much,” said Mrs. Hall to herself.

“—necessitates a certain retirement. My eyes—are sometimes so weak and
painful that I have to shut myself up in the dark for hours together.
Lock myself up. Sometimes—now and then. Not at present, certainly. At
such times the slightest disturbance, the entry of a stranger into the
room, is a source of excruciating annoyance to me—it is well these
things should be understood.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Mrs. Hall. “And if I might make so bold as to
ask—”

“That I think, is all,” said the stranger, with that quietly
irresistible air of finality he could assume at will. Mrs. Hall
reserved her question and sympathy for a better occasion.

After Mrs. Hall had left the room, he remained standing in front of the
fire, glaring, so Mr. Henfrey puts it, at the clock-mending. Mr.
Henfrey not only took off the hands of the clock, and the face, but
extracted the works; and he tried to work in as slow and quiet and
unassuming a manner as possible. He worked with the lamp close to him,
and the green shade threw a brilliant light upon his hands, and upon
the frame and wheels, and left the rest of the room shadowy. When he
looked up, coloured patches swam in his eyes. Being constitutionally of
a curious nature, he had removed the works—a quite unnecessary
proceeding—with the idea of delaying his departure and perhaps falling
into conversation with the stranger. But the stranger stood there,
perfectly silent and still. So still, it got on Henfrey’s nerves. He
felt alone in the room and looked up, and there, grey and dim, was the
bandaged head and huge blue lenses staring fixedly, with a mist of
green spots drifting in front of them. It was so uncanny to Henfrey
that for a minute they remained staring blankly at one another. Then
Henfrey looked down again. Very uncomfortable position! One would like
to say something. Should he remark that the weather was very cold for
the time of year?

He looked up as if to take aim with that introductory shot. “The
weather—” he began.

“Why don’t you finish and go?” said the rigid figure, evidently in a
state of painfully suppressed rage. “All you’ve got to do is to fix the
hour-hand on its axle. You’re simply humbugging—”

“Certainly, sir—one minute more. I overlooked—” and Mr. Henfrey
finished and went.

But he went feeling excessively annoyed. “Damn it!” said Mr. Henfrey to
himself, trudging down the village through the thawing snow; “a man
must do a clock at times, surely.”

And again, “Can’t a man look at you?—Ugly!”

And yet again, “Seemingly not. If the police was wanting you you
couldn’t be more wropped and bandaged.”

At Gleeson’s corner he saw Hall, who had recently married the
stranger’s hostess at the “Coach and Horses,” and who now drove the
Iping conveyance, when occasional people required it, to Sidderbridge
Junction, coming towards him on his return from that place. Hall had
evidently been “stopping a bit” at Sidderbridge, to judge by his
driving. “’Ow do, Teddy?” he said, passing.

“You got a rum un up home!” said Teddy.

Hall very sociably pulled up. “What’s that?” he asked.

“Rum-looking customer stopping at the ‘Coach and Horses,’” said Teddy.
“My sakes!”

And he proceeded to give Hall a vivid description of his grotesque
guest. “Looks a bit like a disguise, don’t it? I’d like to see a man’s
face if I had him stopping in _my_ place,” said Henfrey. “But women are
that trustful—where strangers are concerned. He’s took your rooms and
he ain’t even given a name, Hall.”

“You don’t say so!” said Hall, who was a man of sluggish apprehension.

“Yes,” said Teddy. “By the week. Whatever he is, you can’t get rid of
him under the week. And he’s got a lot of luggage coming to-morrow, so
he says. Let’s hope it won’t be stones in boxes, Hall.”

He told Hall how his aunt at Hastings had been swindled by a stranger
with empty portmanteaux. Altogether he left Hall vaguely suspicious.
“Get up, old girl,” said Hall. “I s’pose I must see ’bout this.”

Teddy trudged on his way with his mind considerably relieved.

Instead of “seeing ’bout it,” however, Hall on his return was severely
rated by his wife on the length of time he had spent in Sidderbridge,
and his mild inquiries were answered snappishly and in a manner not to
the point. But the seed of suspicion Teddy had sown germinated in the
mind of Mr. Hall in spite of these discouragements. “You wim’ don’t
know everything,” said Mr. Hall, resolved to ascertain more about the
personality of his guest at the earliest possible opportunity. And
after the stranger had gone to bed, which he did about half-past nine,
Mr. Hall went very aggressively into the parlour and looked very hard
at his wife’s furniture, just to show that the stranger wasn’t master
there, and scrutinised closely and a little contemptuously a sheet of
mathematical computations the stranger had left. When retiring for the
night he instructed Mrs. Hall to look very closely at the stranger’s
luggage when it came next day.

“You mind your own business, Hall,” said Mrs. Hall, “and I’ll mind
mine.”

She was all the more inclined to snap at Hall because the stranger was
undoubtedly an unusually strange sort of stranger, and she was by no
means assured about him in her own mind. In the middle of the night she
woke up dreaming of huge white heads like turnips, that came trailing
after her, at the end of interminable necks, and with vast black eyes.
But being a sensible woman, she subdued her terrors and turned over and
went to sleep again.




CHAPTER III.
THE THOUSAND AND ONE BOTTLES


So it was that on the twenty-ninth day of February, at the beginning of
the thaw, this singular person fell out of infinity into Iping village.
Next day his luggage arrived through the slush—and very remarkable
luggage it was. There were a couple of trunks indeed, such as a
rational man might need, but in addition there were a box of books—big,
fat books, of which some were just in an incomprehensible
handwriting—and a dozen or more crates, boxes, and cases, containing
objects packed in straw, as it seemed to Hall, tugging with a casual
curiosity at the straw—glass bottles. The stranger, muffled in hat,
coat, gloves, and wrapper, came out impatiently to meet Fearenside’s
cart, while Hall was having a word or so of gossip preparatory to
helping bring them in. Out he came, not noticing Fearenside’s dog, who
was sniffing in a _dilettante_ spirit at Hall’s legs. “Come along with
those boxes,” he said. “I’ve been waiting long enough.”

And he came down the steps towards the tail of the cart as if to lay
hands on the smaller crate.

No sooner had Fearenside’s dog caught sight of him, however, than it
began to bristle and growl savagely, and when he rushed down the steps
it gave an undecided hop, and then sprang straight at his hand. “Whup!”
cried Hall, jumping back, for he was no hero with dogs, and Fearenside
howled, “Lie down!” and snatched his whip.

They saw the dog’s teeth had slipped the hand, heard a kick, saw the
dog execute a flanking jump and get home on the stranger’s leg, and
heard the rip of his trousering. Then the finer end of Fearenside’s
whip reached his property, and the dog, yelping with dismay, retreated
under the wheels of the waggon. It was all the business of a swift
half-minute. No one spoke, everyone shouted. The stranger glanced
swiftly at his torn glove and at his leg, made as if he would stoop to
the latter, then turned and rushed swiftly up the steps into the inn.
They heard him go headlong across the passage and up the uncarpeted
stairs to his bedroom.

“You brute, you!” said Fearenside, climbing off the waggon with his
whip in his hand, while the dog watched him through the wheel. “Come
here,” said Fearenside—“You’d better.”

Hall had stood gaping. “He wuz bit,” said Hall. “I’d better go and see
to en,” and he trotted after the stranger. He met Mrs. Hall in the
passage. “Carrier’s darg,” he said “bit en.”

He went straight upstairs, and the stranger’s door being ajar, he
pushed it open and was entering without any ceremony, being of a
naturally sympathetic turn of mind.

The blind was down and the room dim. He caught a glimpse of a most
singular thing, what seemed a handless arm waving towards him, and a
face of three huge indeterminate spots on white, very like the face of
a pale pansy. Then he was struck violently in the chest, hurled back,
and the door slammed in his face and locked. It was so rapid that it
gave him no time to observe. A waving of indecipherable shapes, a blow,
and a concussion. There he stood on the dark little landing, wondering
what it might be that he had seen.

A couple of minutes after, he rejoined the little group that had formed
outside the “Coach and Horses.” There was Fearenside telling about it
all over again for the second time; there was Mrs. Hall saying his dog
didn’t have no business to bite her guests; there was Huxter, the
general dealer from over the road, interrogative; and Sandy Wadgers
from the forge, judicial; besides women and children, all of them
saying fatuities: “Wouldn’t let en bite _me_, I knows”; “’Tasn’t right
_have_ such dargs”; “Whad ’_e_ bite ’n for, then?” and so forth.

Mr. Hall, staring at them from the steps and listening, found it
incredible that he had seen anything so very remarkable happen
upstairs. Besides, his vocabulary was altogether too limited to express
his impressions.

“He don’t want no help, he says,” he said in answer to his wife’s
inquiry. “We’d better be a-takin’ of his luggage in.”

“He ought to have it cauterised at once,” said Mr. Huxter; “especially
if it’s at all inflamed.”

“I’d shoot en, that’s what I’d do,” said a lady in the group.

Suddenly the dog began growling again.

“Come along,” cried an angry voice in the doorway, and there stood the
muffled stranger with his collar turned up, and his hat-brim bent down.
“The sooner you get those things in the better I’ll be pleased.” It is
stated by an anonymous bystander that his trousers and gloves had been
changed.

“Was you hurt, sir?” said Fearenside. “I’m rare sorry the darg—”

“Not a bit,” said the stranger. “Never broke the skin. Hurry up with
those things.”

He then swore to himself, so Mr. Hall asserts.

Directly the first crate was, in accordance with his directions,
carried into the parlour, the stranger flung himself upon it with
extraordinary eagerness, and began to unpack it, scattering the straw
with an utter disregard of Mrs. Hall’s carpet. And from it he began to
produce bottles—little fat bottles containing powders, small and
slender bottles containing coloured and white fluids, fluted blue
bottles labeled Poison, bottles with round bodies and slender necks,
large green-glass bottles, large white-glass bottles, bottles with
glass stoppers and frosted labels, bottles with fine corks, bottles
with bungs, bottles with wooden caps, wine bottles, salad-oil
bottles—putting them in rows on the chiffonnier, on the mantel, on the
table under the window, round the floor, on the bookshelf—everywhere.
The chemist’s shop in Bramblehurst could not boast half so many. Quite
a sight it was. Crate after crate yielded bottles, until all six were
empty and the table high with straw; the only things that came out of
these crates besides the bottles were a number of test-tubes and a
carefully packed balance.

And directly the crates were unpacked, the stranger went to the window
and set to work, not troubling in the least about the litter of straw,
the fire which had gone out, the box of books outside, nor for the
trunks and other luggage that had gone upstairs.

When Mrs. Hall took his dinner in to him, he was already so absorbed in
his work, pouring little drops out of the bottles into test-tubes, that
he did not hear her until she had swept away the bulk of the straw and
put the tray on the table, with some little emphasis perhaps, seeing
the state that the floor was in. Then he half turned his head and
immediately turned it away again. But she saw he had removed his
glasses; they were beside him on the table, and it seemed to her that
his eye sockets were extraordinarily hollow. He put on his spectacles
again, and then turned and faced her. She was about to complain of the
straw on the floor when he anticipated her.

“I wish you wouldn’t come in without knocking,” he said in the tone of
abnormal exasperation that seemed so characteristic of him.

“I knocked, but seemingly—”

“Perhaps you did. But in my investigations—my really very urgent and
necessary investigations—the slightest disturbance, the jar of a door—I
must ask you—”

“Certainly, sir. You can turn the lock if you’re like that, you know.
Any time.”

“A very good idea,” said the stranger.

“This stror, sir, if I might make so bold as to remark—”

“Don’t. If the straw makes trouble put it down in the bill.” And he
mumbled at her—words suspiciously like curses.

He was so odd, standing there, so aggressive and explosive, bottle in
one hand and test-tube in the other, that Mrs. Hall was quite alarmed.
But she was a resolute woman. “In which case, I should like to know,
sir, what you consider—”

“A shilling—put down a shilling. Surely a shilling’s enough?”

“So be it,” said Mrs. Hall, taking up the table-cloth and beginning to
spread it over the table. “If you’re satisfied, of course—”

He turned and sat down, with his coat-collar toward her.

All the afternoon he worked with the door locked and, as Mrs. Hall
testifies, for the most part in silence. But once there was a
concussion and a sound of bottles ringing together as though the table
had been hit, and the smash of a bottle flung violently down, and then
a rapid pacing athwart the room. Fearing “something was the matter,”
she went to the door and listened, not caring to knock.

“I can’t go on,” he was raving. “I _can’t_ go on. Three hundred
thousand, four hundred thousand! The huge multitude! Cheated! All my
life it may take me! ... Patience! Patience indeed! ... Fool! fool!”

There was a noise of hobnails on the bricks in the bar, and Mrs. Hall
had very reluctantly to leave the rest of his soliloquy. When she
returned the room was silent again, save for the faint crepitation of
his chair and the occasional clink of a bottle. It was all over; the
stranger had resumed work.

When she took in his tea she saw broken glass in the corner of the room
under the concave mirror, and a golden stain that had been carelessly
wiped. She called attention to it.

“Put it down in the bill,” snapped her visitor. “For God’s sake don’t
worry me. If there’s damage done, put it down in the bill,” and he went
on ticking a list in the exercise book before him.

“I’ll tell you something,” said Fearenside, mysteriously. It was late
in the afternoon, and they were in the little beer-shop of Iping
Hanger.

“Well?” said Teddy Henfrey.

“This chap you’re speaking of, what my dog bit. Well—he’s black.
Leastways, his legs are. I seed through the tear of his trousers and
the tear of his glove. You’d have expected a sort of pinky to show,
wouldn’t you? Well—there wasn’t none. Just blackness. I tell you, he’s
as black as my hat.”

“My sakes!” said Henfrey. “It’s a rummy case altogether. Why, his nose
is as pink as paint!”

“That’s true,” said Fearenside. “I knows that. And I tell ’ee what I’m
thinking. That marn’s a piebald, Teddy. Black here and white there—in
patches. And he’s ashamed of it. He’s a kind of half-breed, and the
colour’s come off patchy instead of mixing. I’ve heard of such things
before. And it’s the common way with horses, as any one can see.”




CHAPTER IV.
MR. CUSS INTERVIEWS THE STRANGER


I have told the circumstances of the stranger’s arrival in Iping with a
certain fulness of detail, in order that the curious impression he
created may be understood by the reader. But excepting two odd
incidents, the circumstances of his stay until the extraordinary day of
the club festival may be passed over very cursorily. There were a
number of skirmishes with Mrs. Hall on matters of domestic discipline,
but in every case until late April, when the first signs of penury
began, he over-rode her by the easy expedient of an extra payment. Hall
did not like him, and whenever he dared he talked of the advisability
of getting rid of him; but he showed his dislike chiefly by concealing
it ostentatiously, and avoiding his visitor as much as possible. “Wait
till the summer,” said Mrs. Hall sagely, “when the artisks are
beginning to come. Then we’ll see. He may be a bit overbearing, but
bills settled punctual is bills settled punctual, whatever you’d like
to say.”

The stranger did not go to church, and indeed made no difference
between Sunday and the irreligious days, even in costume. He worked, as
Mrs. Hall thought, very fitfully. Some days he would come down early
and be continuously busy. On others he would rise late, pace his room,
fretting audibly for hours together, smoke, sleep in the armchair by
the fire. Communication with the world beyond the village he had none.
His temper continued very uncertain; for the most part his manner was
that of a man suffering under almost unendurable provocation, and once
or twice things were snapped, torn, crushed, or broken in spasmodic
gusts of violence. He seemed under a chronic irritation of the greatest
intensity. His habit of talking to himself in a low voice grew steadily
upon him, but though Mrs. Hall listened conscientiously she could make
neither head nor tail of what she heard.

He rarely went abroad by daylight, but at twilight he would go out
muffled up invisibly, whether the weather were cold or not, and he
chose the loneliest paths and those most overshadowed by trees and
banks. His goggling spectacles and ghastly bandaged face under the
penthouse of his hat, came with a disagreeable suddenness out of the
darkness upon one or two home-going labourers, and Teddy Henfrey,
tumbling out of the “Scarlet Coat” one night, at half-past nine, was
scared shamefully by the stranger’s skull-like head (he was walking hat
in hand) lit by the sudden light of the opened inn door. Such children
as saw him at nightfall dreamt of bogies, and it seemed doubtful
whether he disliked boys more than they disliked him, or the reverse;
but there was certainly a vivid enough dislike on either side.

It was inevitable that a person of so remarkable an appearance and
bearing should form a frequent topic in such a village as Iping.
Opinion was greatly divided about his occupation. Mrs. Hall was
sensitive on the point. When questioned, she explained very carefully
that he was an “experimental investigator,” going gingerly over the
syllables as one who dreads pitfalls. When asked what an experimental
investigator was, she would say with a touch of superiority that most
educated people knew such things as that, and would thus explain that
he “discovered things.” Her visitor had had an accident, she said,
which temporarily discoloured his face and hands, and being of a
sensitive disposition, he was averse to any public notice of the fact.

Out of her hearing there was a view largely entertained that he was a
criminal trying to escape from justice by wrapping himself up so as to
conceal himself altogether from the eye of the police. This idea sprang
from the brain of Mr. Teddy Henfrey. No crime of any magnitude dating
from the middle or end of February was known to have occurred.
Elaborated in the imagination of Mr. Gould, the probationary assistant
in the National School, this theory took the form that the stranger was
an Anarchist in disguise, preparing explosives, and he resolved to
undertake such detective operations as his time permitted. These
consisted for the most part in looking very hard at the stranger
whenever they met, or in asking people who had never seen the stranger,
leading questions about him. But he detected nothing.

Another school of opinion followed Mr. Fearenside, and either accepted
the piebald view or some modification of it; as, for instance, Silas
Durgan, who was heard to assert that “if he chooses to show enself at
fairs he’d make his fortune in no time,” and being a bit of a
theologian, compared the stranger to the man with the one talent. Yet
another view explained the entire matter by regarding the stranger as a
harmless lunatic. That had the advantage of accounting for everything
straight away.

Between these main groups there were waverers and compromisers. Sussex
folk have few superstitions, and it was only after the events of early
April that the thought of the supernatural was first whispered in the
village. Even then it was only credited among the women folk.

But whatever they thought of him, people in Iping, on the whole, agreed
in disliking him. His irritability, though it might have been
comprehensible to an urban brain-worker, was an amazing thing to these
quiet Sussex villagers. The frantic gesticulations they surprised now
and then, the headlong pace after nightfall that swept him upon them
round quiet corners, the inhuman bludgeoning of all tentative advances
of curiosity, the taste for twilight that led to the closing of doors,
the pulling down of blinds, the extinction of candles and lamps—who
could agree with such goings on? They drew aside as he passed down the
village, and when he had gone by, young humourists would up with
coat-collars and down with hat-brims, and go pacing nervously after him
in imitation of his occult bearing. There was a song popular at that
time called “The Bogey Man”. Miss Statchell sang it at the schoolroom
concert (in aid of the church lamps), and thereafter whenever one or
two of the villagers were gathered together and the stranger appeared,
a bar or so of this tune, more or less sharp or flat, was whistled in
the midst of them. Also belated little children would call “Bogey Man!”
after him, and make off tremulously elated.

Cuss, the general practitioner, was devoured by curiosity. The bandages
excited his professional interest, the report of the thousand and one
bottles aroused his jealous regard. All through April and May he
coveted an opportunity of talking to the stranger, and at last, towards
Whitsuntide, he could stand it no longer, but hit upon the
subscription-list for a village nurse as an excuse. He was surprised to
find that Mr. Hall did not know his guest’s name. “He give a name,”
said Mrs. Hall—an assertion which was quite unfounded—“but I didn’t
rightly hear it.” She thought it seemed so silly not to know the man’s
name.

Cuss rapped at the parlour door and entered. There was a fairly audible
imprecation from within. “Pardon my intrusion,” said Cuss, and then the
door closed and cut Mrs. Hall off from the rest of the conversation.

She could hear the murmur of voices for the next ten minutes, then a
cry of surprise, a stirring of feet, a chair flung aside, a bark of
laughter, quick steps to the door, and Cuss appeared, his face white,
his eyes staring over his shoulder. He left the door open behind him,
and without looking at her strode across the hall and went down the
steps, and she heard his feet hurrying along the road. He carried his
hat in his hand. She stood behind the door, looking at the open door of
the parlour. Then she heard the stranger laughing quietly, and then his
footsteps came across the room. She could not see his face where she
stood. The parlour door slammed, and the place was silent again.

Cuss went straight up the village to Bunting the vicar. “Am I mad?”
Cuss began abruptly, as he entered the shabby little study. “Do I look
like an insane person?”

“What’s happened?” said the vicar, putting the ammonite on the loose
sheets of his forth-coming sermon.

“That chap at the inn—”

“Well?”

“Give me something to drink,” said Cuss, and he sat down.

When his nerves had been steadied by a glass of cheap sherry—the only
drink the good vicar had available—he told him of the interview he had
just had. “Went in,” he gasped, “and began to demand a subscription for
that Nurse Fund. He’d stuck his hands in his pockets as I came in, and
he sat down lumpily in his chair. Sniffed. I told him I’d heard he took
an interest in scientific things. He said yes. Sniffed again. Kept on
sniffing all the time; evidently recently caught an infernal cold. No
wonder, wrapped up like that! I developed the nurse idea, and all the
while kept my eyes open. Bottles—chemicals—everywhere. Balance,
test-tubes in stands, and a smell of—evening primrose. Would he
subscribe? Said he’d consider it. Asked him, point-blank, was he
researching. Said he was. A long research? Got quite cross. ‘A damnable
long research,’ said he, blowing the cork out, so to speak. ‘Oh,’ said
I. And out came the grievance. The man was just on the boil, and my
question boiled him over. He had been given a prescription, most
valuable prescription—what for he wouldn’t say. Was it medical? ‘Damn
you! What are you fishing after?’ I apologised. Dignified sniff and
cough. He resumed. He’d read it. Five ingredients. Put it down; turned
his head. Draught of air from window lifted the paper. Swish, rustle.
He was working in a room with an open fireplace, he said. Saw a
flicker, and there was the prescription burning and lifting
chimneyward. Rushed towards it just as it whisked up the chimney. So!
Just at that point, to illustrate his story, out came his arm.”

“Well?”

“No hand—just an empty sleeve. Lord! I thought, _that’s_ a deformity!
Got a cork arm, I suppose, and has taken it off. Then, I thought,
there’s something odd in that. What the devil keeps that sleeve up and
open, if there’s nothing in it? There was nothing in it, I tell you.
Nothing down it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to
the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of
the cloth. ‘Good God!’ I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those
black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve.”

“Well?”

“That’s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back
in his pocket quickly. ‘I was saying,’ said he, ‘that there was the
prescription burning, wasn’t I?’ Interrogative cough. ‘How the devil,’
said I, ‘can you move an empty sleeve like that?’ ‘Empty sleeve?’
‘Yes,’ said I, ‘an empty sleeve.’

“‘It’s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve?’ He
stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very
slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn’t flinch,
though I’m hanged if that bandaged knob of his, and those blinkers,
aren’t enough to unnerve any one, coming quietly up to you.

“‘You said it was an empty sleeve?’ he said. ‘Certainly,’ I said. At
staring and saying nothing a barefaced man, unspectacled, starts
scratch. Then very quietly he pulled his sleeve out of his pocket
again, and raised his arm towards me as though he would show it to me
again. He did it very, very slowly. I looked at it. Seemed an age.
‘Well?’ said I, clearing my throat, ‘there’s nothing in it.’

“Had to say something. I was beginning to feel frightened. I could see
right down it. He extended it straight towards me, slowly, slowly—just
like that—until the cuff was six inches from my face. Queer thing to
see an empty sleeve come at you like that! And then—”

“Well?”

“Something—exactly like a finger and thumb it felt—nipped my nose.”

Bunting began to laugh.

“There wasn’t anything there!” said Cuss, his voice running up into a
shriek at the “there.” “It’s all very well for you to laugh, but I tell
you I was so startled, I hit his cuff hard, and turned around, and cut
out of the room—I left him—”

Cuss stopped. There was no mistaking the sincerity of his panic. He
turned round in a helpless way and took a second glass of the excellent
vicar’s very inferior sherry. “When I hit his cuff,” said Cuss, “I tell
you, it felt exactly like hitting an arm. And there wasn’t an arm!
There wasn’t the ghost of an arm!”

Mr. Bunting thought it over. He looked suspiciously at Cuss. “It’s a
most remarkable story,” he said. He looked very wise and grave indeed.
“It’s really,” said Mr. Bunting with judicial emphasis, “a most
remarkable story.”




CHAPTER V.
THE BURGLARY AT THE VICARAGE


The facts of the burglary at the vicarage came to us chiefly through
the medium of the vicar and his wife. It occurred in the small hours of
Whit Monday, the day devoted in Iping to the Club festivities. Mrs.
Bunting, it seems, woke up suddenly in the stillness that comes before
the dawn, with the strong impression that the door of their bedroom had
opened and closed. She did not arouse her husband at first, but sat up
in bed listening. She then distinctly heard the pad, pad, pad of bare
feet coming out of the adjoining dressing-room and walking along the
passage towards the staircase. As soon as she felt assured of this, she
aroused the Rev. Mr. Bunting as quietly as possible. He did not strike
a light, but putting on his spectacles, her dressing-gown and his bath
slippers, he went out on the landing to listen. He heard quite
distinctly a fumbling going on at his study desk down-stairs, and then
a violent sneeze.

At that he returned to his bedroom, armed himself with the most obvious
weapon, the poker, and descended the staircase as noiselessly as
possible. Mrs. Bunting came out on the landing.

The hour was about four, and the ultimate darkness of the night was
past. There was a faint shimmer of light in the hall, but the study
doorway yawned impenetrably black. Everything was still except the
faint creaking of the stairs under Mr. Bunting’s tread, and the slight
movements in the study. Then something snapped, the drawer was opened,
and there was a rustle of papers. Then came an imprecation, and a match
was struck and the study was flooded with yellow light. Mr. Bunting was
now in the hall, and through the crack of the door he could see the
desk and the open drawer and a candle burning on the desk. But the
robber he could not see. He stood there in the hall undecided what to
do, and Mrs. Bunting, her face white and intent, crept slowly
downstairs after him. One thing kept Mr. Bunting’s courage; the
persuasion that this burglar was a resident in the village.

They heard the chink of money, and realised that the robber had found
the housekeeping reserve of gold—two pounds ten in half sovereigns
altogether. At that sound Mr. Bunting was nerved to abrupt action.
Gripping the poker firmly, he rushed into the room, closely followed by
Mrs. Bunting. “Surrender!” cried Mr. Bunting, fiercely, and then
stooped amazed. Apparently the room was perfectly empty.

Yet their conviction that they had, that very moment, heard somebody
moving in the room had amounted to a certainty. For half a minute,
perhaps, they stood gaping, then Mrs. Bunting went across the room and
looked behind the screen, while Mr. Bunting, by a kindred impulse,
peered under the desk. Then Mrs. Bunting turned back the
window-curtains, and Mr. Bunting looked up the chimney and probed it
with the poker. Then Mrs. Bunting scrutinised the waste-paper basket
and Mr. Bunting opened the lid of the coal-scuttle. Then they came to a
stop and stood with eyes interrogating each other.

“I could have sworn—” said Mr. Bunting.

“The candle!” said Mr. Bunting. “Who lit the candle?”

“The drawer!” said Mrs. Bunting. “And the money’s gone!”

She went hastily to the doorway.

“Of all the strange occurrences—”

There was a violent sneeze in the passage. They rushed out, and as they
did so the kitchen door slammed. “Bring the candle,” said Mr. Bunting,
and led the way. They both heard a sound of bolts being hastily shot
back.

As he opened the kitchen door he saw through the scullery that the back
door was just opening, and the faint light of early dawn displayed the
dark masses of the garden beyond. He is certain that nothing went out
of the door. It opened, stood open for a moment, and then closed with a
slam. As it did so, the candle Mrs. Bunting was carrying from the study
flickered and flared. It was a minute or more before they entered the
kitchen.

The place was empty. They refastened the back door, examined the
kitchen, pantry, and scullery thoroughly, and at last went down into
the cellar. There was not a soul to be found in the house, search as
they would.

Daylight found the vicar and his wife, a quaintly-costumed little
couple, still marvelling about on their own ground floor by the
unnecessary light of a guttering candle.




CHAPTER VI.
THE FURNITURE THAT WENT MAD


Now it happened that in the early hours of Whit Monday, before Millie
was hunted out for the day, Mr. Hall and Mrs. Hall both rose and went
noiselessly down into the cellar. Their business there was of a private
nature, and had something to do with the specific gravity of their
beer. They had hardly entered the cellar when Mrs. Hall found she had
forgotten to bring down a bottle of sarsaparilla from their joint-room.
As she was the expert and principal operator in this affair, Hall very
properly went upstairs for it.

On the landing he was surprised to see that the stranger’s door was
ajar. He went on into his own room and found the bottle as he had been
directed.

But returning with the bottle, he noticed that the bolts of the front
door had been shot back, that the door was in fact simply on the latch.
And with a flash of inspiration he connected this with the stranger’s
room upstairs and the suggestions of Mr. Teddy Henfrey. He distinctly
remembered holding the candle while Mrs. Hall shot these bolts
overnight. At the sight he stopped, gaping, then with the bottle still
in his hand went upstairs again. He rapped at the stranger’s door.
There was no answer. He rapped again; then pushed the door wide open
and entered.

It was as he expected. The bed, the room also, was empty. And what was
stranger, even to his heavy intelligence, on the bedroom chair and
along the rail of the bed were scattered the garments, the only
garments so far as he knew, and the bandages of their guest. His big
slouch hat even was cocked jauntily over the bed-post.

As Hall stood there he heard his wife’s voice coming out of the depth
of the cellar, with that rapid telescoping of the syllables and
interrogative cocking up of the final words to a high note, by which
the West Sussex villager is wont to indicate a brisk impatience.
“George! You gart whad a wand?”

At that he turned and hurried down to her. “Janny,” he said, over the
rail of the cellar steps, “’tas the truth what Henfrey sez. ’E’s not in
uz room, ’e en’t. And the front door’s onbolted.”

At first Mrs. Hall did not understand, and as soon as she did she
resolved to see the empty room for herself. Hall, still holding the
bottle, went first. “If ’e en’t there,” he said, “’is close are. And
what’s ’e doin’ ’ithout ’is close, then? ’Tas a most curious business.”

As they came up the cellar steps they both, it was afterwards
ascertained, fancied they heard the front door open and shut, but
seeing it closed and nothing there, neither said a word to the other
about it at the time. Mrs. Hall passed her husband in the passage and
ran on first upstairs. Someone sneezed on the staircase. Hall,
following six steps behind, thought that he heard her sneeze. She,
going on first, was under the impression that Hall was sneezing. She
flung open the door and stood regarding the room. “Of all the curious!”
she said.

She heard a sniff close behind her head as it seemed, and turning, was
surprised to see Hall a dozen feet off on the topmost stair. But in
another moment he was beside her. She bent forward and put her hand on
the pillow and then under the clothes.

“Cold,” she said. “He’s been up this hour or more.”

As she did so, a most extraordinary thing happened. The bed-clothes
gathered themselves together, leapt up suddenly into a sort of peak,
and then jumped headlong over the bottom rail. It was exactly as if a
hand had clutched them in the centre and flung them aside. Immediately
after, the stranger’s hat hopped off the bed-post, described a whirling
flight in the air through the better part of a circle, and then dashed
straight at Mrs. Hall’s face. Then as swiftly came the sponge from the
washstand; and then the chair, flinging the stranger’s coat and
trousers carelessly aside, and laughing drily in a voice singularly
like the stranger’s, turned itself up with its four legs at Mrs. Hall,
seemed to take aim at her for a moment, and charged at her. She
screamed and turned, and then the chair legs came gently but firmly
against her back and impelled her and Hall out of the room. The door
slammed violently and was locked. The chair and bed seemed to be
executing a dance of triumph for a moment, and then abruptly everything
was still.

Mrs. Hall was left almost in a fainting condition in Mr. Hall’s arms on
the landing. It was with the greatest difficulty that Mr. Hall and
Millie, who had been roused by her scream of alarm, succeeded in
getting her downstairs, and applying the restoratives customary in such
cases.

“’Tas sperits,” said Mrs. Hall. “I know ’tas sperits. I’ve read in
papers of en. Tables and chairs leaping and dancing...”

“Take a drop more, Janny,” said Hall. “’Twill steady ye.”

“Lock him out,” said Mrs. Hall. “Don’t let him come in again. I half
guessed—I might ha’ known. With them goggling eyes and bandaged head,
and never going to church of a Sunday. And all they bottles—more’n it’s
right for any one to have. He’s put the sperits into the furniture....
My good old furniture! ’Twas in that very chair my poor dear mother
used to sit when I was a little girl. To think it should rise up
against me now!”

“Just a drop more, Janny,” said Hall. “Your nerves is all upset.”

They sent Millie across the street through the golden five o’clock
sunshine to rouse up Mr. Sandy Wadgers, the blacksmith. Mr. Hall’s
compliments and the furniture upstairs was behaving most extraordinary.
Would Mr. Wadgers come round? He was a knowing man, was Mr. Wadgers,
and very resourceful. He took quite a grave view of the case. “Arm
darmed if thet ent witchcraft,” was the view of Mr. Sandy Wadgers. “You
warnt horseshoes for such gentry as he.”

He came round greatly concerned. They wanted him to lead the way
upstairs to the room, but he didn’t seem to be in any hurry. He
preferred to talk in the passage. Over the way Huxter’s apprentice came
out and began taking down the shutters of the tobacco window. He was
called over to join the discussion. Mr. Huxter naturally followed over
in the course of a few minutes. The Anglo-Saxon genius for
parliamentary government asserted itself; there was a great deal of
talk and no decisive action. “Let’s have the facts first,” insisted Mr.
Sandy Wadgers. “Let’s be sure we’d be acting perfectly right in bustin’
that there door open. A door onbust is always open to bustin’, but ye
can’t onbust a door once you’ve busted en.”

And suddenly and most wonderfully the door of the room upstairs opened
of its own accord, and as they looked up in amazement, they saw
descending the stairs the muffled figure of the stranger staring more
blackly and blankly than ever with those unreasonably large blue glass
eyes of his. He came down stiffly and slowly, staring all the time; he
walked across the passage staring, then stopped.

“Look there!” he said, and their eyes followed the direction of his
gloved finger and saw a bottle of sarsaparilla hard by the cellar door.
Then he entered the parlour, and suddenly, swiftly, viciously, slammed
the door in their faces.

Not a word was spoken until the last echoes of the slam had died away.
They stared at one another. “Well, if that don’t lick everything!” said
Mr. Wadgers, and left the alternative unsaid.

“I’d go in and ask’n ’bout it,” said Wadgers, to Mr. Hall. “I’d d’mand
an explanation.”

It took some time to bring the landlady’s husband up to that pitch. At
last he rapped, opened the door, and got as far as, “Excuse me—”

“Go to the devil!” said the stranger in a tremendous voice, and “Shut
that door after you.” So that brief interview terminated.




CHAPTER VII.
THE UNVEILING OF THE STRANGER


The stranger went into the little parlour of the “Coach and Horses”
about half-past five in the morning, and there he remained until near
midday, the blinds down, the door shut, and none, after Hall’s repulse,
venturing near him.

All that time he must have fasted. Thrice he rang his bell, the third
time furiously and continuously, but no one answered him. “Him and his
‘go to the devil’ indeed!” said Mrs. Hall. Presently came an imperfect
rumour of the burglary at the vicarage, and two and two were put
together. Hall, assisted by Wadgers, went off to find Mr. Shuckleforth,
the magistrate, and take his advice. No one ventured upstairs. How the
stranger occupied himself is unknown. Now and then he would stride
violently up and down, and twice came an outburst of curses, a tearing
of paper, and a violent smashing of bottles.

The little group of scared but curious people increased. Mrs. Huxter
came over; some gay young fellows resplendent in black ready-made
jackets and _piqué_ paper ties—for it was Whit Monday—joined the group
with confused interrogations. Young Archie Harker distinguished himself
by going up the yard and trying to peep under the window-blinds. He
could see nothing, but gave reason for supposing that he did, and
others of the Iping youth presently joined him.

It was the finest of all possible Whit Mondays, and down the village
street stood a row of nearly a dozen booths, a shooting gallery, and on
the grass by the forge were three yellow and chocolate waggons and some
picturesque strangers of both sexes putting up a cocoanut shy. The
gentlemen wore blue jerseys, the ladies white aprons and quite
fashionable hats with heavy plumes. Wodger, of the “Purple Fawn,” and
Mr. Jaggers, the cobbler, who also sold old second-hand ordinary
bicycles, were stretching a string of union-jacks and royal ensigns
(which had originally celebrated the first Victorian Jubilee) across
the road.

And inside, in the artificial darkness of the parlour, into which only
one thin jet of sunlight penetrated, the stranger, hungry we must
suppose, and fearful, hidden in his uncomfortable hot wrappings, pored
through his dark glasses upon his paper or chinked his dirty little
bottles, and occasionally swore savagely at the boys, audible if
invisible, outside the windows. In the corner by the fireplace lay the
fragments of half a dozen smashed bottles, and a pungent twang of
chlorine tainted the air. So much we know from what was heard at the
time and from what was subsequently seen in the room.

About noon he suddenly opened his parlour door and stood glaring
fixedly at the three or four people in the bar. “Mrs. Hall,” he said.
Somebody went sheepishly and called for Mrs. Hall.

Mrs. Hall appeared after an interval, a little short of breath, but all
the fiercer for that. Hall was still out. She had deliberated over this
scene, and she came holding a little tray with an unsettled bill upon
it. “Is it your bill you’re wanting, sir?” she said.

“Why wasn’t my breakfast laid? Why haven’t you prepared my meals and
answered my bell? Do you think I live without eating?”

“Why isn’t my bill paid?” said Mrs. Hall. “That’s what I want to know.”

“I told you three days ago I was awaiting a remittance—”

“I told you two days ago I wasn’t going to await no remittances. You
can’t grumble if your breakfast waits a bit, if my bill’s been waiting
these five days, can you?”

The stranger swore briefly but vividly.

“Nar, nar!” from the bar.

“And I’d thank you kindly, sir, if you’d keep your swearing to
yourself, sir,” said Mrs. Hall.

The stranger stood looking more like an angry diving-helmet than ever.
It was universally felt in the bar that Mrs. Hall had the better of
him. His next words showed as much.

“Look here, my good woman—” he began.

“Don’t ‘good woman’ _me_,” said Mrs. Hall.

“I’ve told you my remittance hasn’t come.”

“Remittance indeed!” said Mrs. Hall.

“Still, I daresay in my pocket—”

“You told me three days ago that you hadn’t anything but a sovereign’s
worth of silver upon you.”

“Well, I’ve found some more—”

“’Ul-lo!” from the bar.

“I wonder where you found it,” said Mrs. Hall.

That seemed to annoy the stranger very much. He stamped his foot. “What
do you mean?” he said.

“That I wonder where you found it,” said Mrs. Hall. “And before I take
any bills or get any breakfasts, or do any such things whatsoever, you
got to tell me one or two things I don’t understand, and what nobody
don’t understand, and what everybody is very anxious to understand. I
want to know what you been doing t’my chair upstairs, and I want to
know how ’tis your room was empty, and how you got in again. Them as
stops in this house comes in by the doors—that’s the rule of the house,
and that you _didn’t_ do, and what I want to know is how you _did_ come
in. And I want to know—”

Suddenly the stranger raised his gloved hands clenched, stamped his
foot, and said, “Stop!” with such extraordinary violence that he
silenced her instantly.

“You don’t understand,” he said, “who I am or what I am. I’ll show you.
By Heaven! I’ll show you.” Then he put his open palm over his face and
withdrew it. The centre of his face became a black cavity. “Here,” he
said. He stepped forward and handed Mrs. Hall something which she,
staring at his metamorphosed face, accepted automatically. Then, when
she saw what it was, she screamed loudly, dropped it, and staggered
back. The nose—it was the stranger’s nose! pink and shining—rolled on
the floor.

Then he removed his spectacles, and everyone in the bar gasped. He took
off his hat, and with a violent gesture tore at his whiskers and
bandages. For a moment they resisted him. A flash of horrible
anticipation passed through the bar. “Oh, my Gard!” said some one. Then
off they came.

It was worse than anything. Mrs. Hall, standing open-mouthed and
horror-struck, shrieked at what she saw, and made for the door of the
house. Everyone began to move. They were prepared for scars,
disfigurements, tangible horrors, but nothing! The bandages and false
hair flew across the passage into the bar, making a hobbledehoy jump to
avoid them. Everyone tumbled on everyone else down the steps. For the
man who stood there shouting some incoherent explanation, was a solid
gesticulating figure up to the coat-collar of him, and
then—nothingness, no visible thing at all!

People down the village heard shouts and shrieks, and looking up the
street saw the “Coach and Horses” violently firing out its humanity.
They saw Mrs. Hall fall down and Mr. Teddy Henfrey jump to avoid
tumbling over her, and then they heard the frightful screams of Millie,
who, emerging suddenly from the kitchen at the noise of the tumult, had
come upon the headless stranger from behind. These increased suddenly.

Forthwith everyone all down the street, the sweetstuff seller, cocoanut
shy proprietor and his assistant, the swing man, little boys and girls,
rustic dandies, smart wenches, smocked elders and aproned gipsies—began
running towards the inn, and in a miraculously short space of time a
crowd of perhaps forty people, and rapidly increasing, swayed and
hooted and inquired and exclaimed and suggested, in front of Mrs.
Hall’s establishment. Everyone seemed eager to talk at once, and the
result was Babel. A small group supported Mrs. Hall, who was picked up
in a state of collapse. There was a conference, and the incredible
evidence of a vociferous eye-witness. “O Bogey!” “What’s he been doin’,
then?” “Ain’t hurt the girl, ’as ’e?” “Run at en with a knife, I
believe.” “No ’ed, I tell ye. I don’t mean no manner of speaking. I
mean _marn ’ithout a ’ed_!” “Narnsense! ’tis some conjuring trick.”
“Fetched off ’is wrapping, ’e did—”

In its struggles to see in through the open door, the crowd formed
itself into a straggling wedge, with the more adventurous apex nearest
the inn. “He stood for a moment, I heerd the gal scream, and he turned.
I saw her skirts whisk, and he went after her. Didn’t take ten seconds.
Back he comes with a knife in uz hand and a loaf; stood just as if he
was staring. Not a moment ago. Went in that there door. I tell ’e, ’e
ain’t gart no ’ed at all. You just missed en—”

There was a disturbance behind, and the speaker stopped to step aside
for a little procession that was marching very resolutely towards the
house; first Mr. Hall, very red and determined, then Mr. Bobby Jaffers,
the village constable, and then the wary Mr. Wadgers. They had come now
armed with a warrant.

People shouted conflicting information of the recent circumstances.
“’Ed or no ’ed,” said Jaffers, “I got to ’rest en, and ’rest en I
_will_.”

Mr. Hall marched up the steps, marched straight to the door of the
parlour and flung it open. “Constable,” he said, “do your duty.”

Jaffers marched in. Hall next, Wadgers last. They saw in the dim light
the headless figure facing them, with a gnawed crust of bread in one
gloved hand and a chunk of cheese in the other.

“That’s him!” said Hall.

“What the devil’s this?” came in a tone of angry expostulation from
above the collar of the figure.

“You’re a damned rum customer, mister,” said Mr. Jaffers. “But ’ed or
no ’ed, the warrant says ‘body,’ and duty’s duty—”

“Keep off!” said the figure, starting back.

Abruptly he whipped down the bread and cheese, and Mr. Hall just
grasped the knife on the table in time to save it. Off came the
stranger’s left glove and was slapped in Jaffers’ face. In another
moment Jaffers, cutting short some statement concerning a warrant, had
gripped him by the handless wrist and caught his invisible throat. He
got a sounding kick on the shin that made him shout, but he kept his
grip. Hall sent the knife sliding along the table to Wadgers, who acted
as goal-keeper for the offensive, so to speak, and then stepped forward
as Jaffers and the stranger swayed and staggered towards him, clutching
and hitting in. A chair stood in the way, and went aside with a crash
as they came down together.

“Get the feet,” said Jaffers between his teeth.

Mr. Hall, endeavouring to act on instructions, received a sounding kick
in the ribs that disposed of him for a moment, and Mr. Wadgers, seeing
the decapitated stranger had rolled over and got the upper side of
Jaffers, retreated towards the door, knife in hand, and so collided
with Mr. Huxter and the Sidderbridge carter coming to the rescue of law
and order. At the same moment down came three or four bottles from the
chiffonnier and shot a web of pungency into the air of the room.

“I’ll surrender,” cried the stranger, though he had Jaffers down, and
in another moment he stood up panting, a strange figure, headless and
handless—for he had pulled off his right glove now as well as his left.
“It’s no good,” he said, as if sobbing for breath.

It was the strangest thing in the world to hear that voice coming as if
out of empty space, but the Sussex peasants are perhaps the most
matter-of-fact people under the sun. Jaffers got up also and produced a
pair of handcuffs. Then he stared.

“I say!” said Jaffers, brought up short by a dim realization of the
incongruity of the whole business, “Darn it! Can’t use ’em as I can
see.”

The stranger ran his arm down his waistcoat, and as if by a miracle the
buttons to which his empty sleeve pointed became undone. Then he said
something about his shin, and stooped down. He seemed to be fumbling
with his shoes and socks.

“Why!” said Huxter, suddenly, “that’s not a man at all. It’s just empty
clothes. Look! You can see down his collar and the linings of his
clothes. I could put my arm—”

He extended his hand; it seemed to meet something in mid-air, and he
drew it back with a sharp exclamation. “I wish you’d keep your fingers
out of my eye,” said the aerial voice, in a tone of savage
expostulation. “The fact is, I’m all here—head, hands, legs, and all
the rest of it, but it happens I’m invisible. It’s a confounded
nuisance, but I am. That’s no reason why I should be poked to pieces by
every stupid bumpkin in Iping, is it?”

The suit of clothes, now all unbuttoned and hanging loosely upon its
unseen supports, stood up, arms akimbo.

Several other of the men folks had now entered the room, so that it was
closely crowded. “Invisible, eh?” said Huxter, ignoring the stranger’s
abuse. “Who ever heard the likes of that?”

“It’s strange, perhaps, but it’s not a crime. Why am I assaulted by a
policeman in this fashion?”

“Ah! that’s a different matter,” said Jaffers. “No doubt you are a bit
difficult to see in this light, but I got a warrant and it’s all
correct. What I’m after ain’t no invisibility,—it’s burglary. There’s a
house been broke into and money took.”

“Well?”

“And circumstances certainly point—”

“Stuff and nonsense!” said the Invisible Man.

“I hope so, sir; but I’ve got my instructions.”

“Well,” said the stranger, “I’ll come. I’ll _come_. But no handcuffs.”

“It’s the regular thing,” said Jaffers.

“No handcuffs,” stipulated the stranger.

“Pardon me,” said Jaffers.

Abruptly the figure sat down, and before any one could realise was was
being done, the slippers, socks, and trousers had been kicked off under
the table. Then he sprang up again and flung off his coat.

“Here, stop that,” said Jaffers, suddenly realising what was happening.
He gripped at the waistcoat; it struggled, and the shirt slipped out of
it and left it limp and empty in his hand. “Hold him!” said Jaffers,
loudly. “Once he gets the things off—”

“Hold him!” cried everyone, and there was a rush at the fluttering
white shirt which was now all that was visible of the stranger.

The shirt-sleeve planted a shrewd blow in Hall’s face that stopped his
open-armed advance, and sent him backward into old Toothsome the
sexton, and in another moment the garment was lifted up and became
convulsed and vacantly flapping about the arms, even as a shirt that is
being thrust over a man’s head. Jaffers clutched at it, and only helped
to pull it off; he was struck in the mouth out of the air, and
incontinently threw his truncheon and smote Teddy Henfrey savagely upon
the crown of his head.

“Look out!” said everybody, fencing at random and hitting at nothing.
“Hold him! Shut the door! Don’t let him loose! I got something! Here he
is!” A perfect Babel of noises they made. Everybody, it seemed, was
being hit all at once, and Sandy Wadgers, knowing as ever and his wits
sharpened by a frightful blow in the nose, reopened the door and led
the rout. The others, following incontinently, were jammed for a moment
in the corner by the doorway. The hitting continued. Phipps, the
Unitarian, had a front tooth broken, and Henfrey was injured in the
cartilage of his ear. Jaffers was struck under the jaw, and, turning,
caught at something that intervened between him and Huxter in the
mêlée, and prevented their coming together. He felt a muscular chest,
and in another moment the whole mass of struggling, excited men shot
out into the crowded hall.

“I got him!” shouted Jaffers, choking and reeling through them all, and
wrestling with purple face and swelling veins against his unseen enemy.

Men staggered right and left as the extraordinary conflict swayed
swiftly towards the house door, and went spinning down the half-dozen
steps of the inn. Jaffers cried in a strangled voice—holding tight,
nevertheless, and making play with his knee—spun around, and fell
heavily undermost with his head on the gravel. Only then did his
fingers relax.

There were excited cries of “Hold him!” “Invisible!” and so forth, and
a young fellow, a stranger in the place whose name did not come to
light, rushed in at once, caught something, missed his hold, and fell
over the constable’s prostrate body. Half-way across the road a woman
screamed as something pushed by her; a dog, kicked apparently, yelped
and ran howling into Huxter’s yard, and with that the transit of the
Invisible Man was accomplished. For a space people stood amazed and
gesticulating, and then came panic, and scattered them abroad through
the village as a gust scatters dead leaves.

But Jaffers lay quite still, face upward and knees bent, at the foot of
the steps of the inn.




CHAPTER VIII.
IN TRANSIT


The eighth chapter is exceedingly brief, and relates that Gibbons, the
amateur naturalist of the district, while lying out on the spacious
open downs without a soul within a couple of miles of him, as he
thought, and almost dozing, heard close to him the sound as of a man
coughing, sneezing, and then swearing savagely to himself; and looking,
beheld nothing. Yet the voice was indisputable. It continued to swear
with that breadth and variety that distinguishes the swearing of a
cultivated man. It grew to a climax, diminished again, and died away in
the distance, going as it seemed to him in the direction of Adderdean.
It lifted to a spasmodic sneeze and ended. Gibbons had heard nothing of
the morning’s occurrences, but the phenomenon was so striking and
disturbing that his philosophical tranquillity vanished; he got up
hastily, and hurried down the steepness of the hill towards the
village, as fast as he could go.




CHAPTER IX.
MR. THOMAS MARVEL


You must picture Mr. Thomas Marvel as a person of copious, flexible
visage, a nose of cylindrical protrusion, a liquorish, ample,
fluctuating mouth, and a beard of bristling eccentricity. His figure
inclined to embonpoint; his short limbs accentuated this inclination.
He wore a furry silk hat, and the frequent substitution of twine and
shoe-laces for buttons, apparent at critical points of his costume,
marked a man essentially bachelor.

Mr. Thomas Marvel was sitting with his feet in a ditch by the roadside
over the down towards Adderdean, about a mile and a half out of Iping.
His feet, save for socks of irregular open-work, were bare, his big
toes were broad, and pricked like the ears of a watchful dog. In a
leisurely manner—he did everything in a leisurely manner—he was
contemplating trying on a pair of boots. They were the soundest boots
he had come across for a long time, but too large for him; whereas the
ones he had were, in dry weather, a very comfortable fit, but too
thin-soled for damp. Mr. Thomas Marvel hated roomy shoes, but then he
hated damp. He had never properly thought out which he hated most, and
it was a pleasant day, and there was nothing better to do. So he put
the four shoes in a graceful group on the turf and looked at them. And
seeing them there among the grass and springing agrimony, it suddenly
occurred to him that both pairs were exceedingly ugly to see. He was
not at all startled by a voice behind him.

“They’re boots, anyhow,” said the Voice.

“They are—charity boots,” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, with his head on one
side regarding them distastefully; “and which is the ugliest pair in
the whole blessed universe, I’m darned if I know!”

“H’m,” said the Voice.

“I’ve worn worse—in fact, I’ve worn none. But none so owdacious ugly—if
you’ll allow the expression. I’ve been cadging boots—in particular—for
days. Because I was sick of _them_. They’re sound enough, of course.
But a gentleman on tramp sees such a thundering lot of his boots. And
if you’ll believe me, I’ve raised nothing in the whole blessed country,
try as I would, but _them_. Look at ’em! And a good country for boots,
too, in a general way. But it’s just my promiscuous luck. I’ve got my
boots in this country ten years or more. And then they treat you like
this.”

“It’s a beast of a country,” said the Voice. “And pigs for people.”

“Ain’t it?” said Mr. Thomas Marvel. “Lord! But them boots! It beats
it.”

He turned his head over his shoulder to the right, to look at the boots
of his interlocutor with a view to comparisons, and lo! where the boots
of his interlocutor should have been were neither legs nor boots. He
was irradiated by the dawn of a great amazement. “Where _are_ yer?”
said Mr. Thomas Marvel over his shoulder and coming on all fours. He
saw a stretch of empty downs with the wind swaying the remote
green-pointed furze bushes.

“Am I drunk?” said Mr. Marvel. “Have I had visions? Was I talking to
myself? What the—”

“Don’t be alarmed,” said a Voice.

“None of your ventriloquising _me_,” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, rising
sharply to his feet. “Where _are_ yer? Alarmed, indeed!”

“Don’t be alarmed,” repeated the Voice.

“_You’ll_ be alarmed in a minute, you silly fool,” said Mr. Thomas
Marvel. “Where _are_ yer? Lemme get my mark on yer...

“Are yer _buried_?” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, after an interval.

There was no answer. Mr. Thomas Marvel stood bootless and amazed, his
jacket nearly thrown off.

“Peewit,” said a peewit, very remote.

“Peewit, indeed!” said Mr. Thomas Marvel. “This ain’t no time for
foolery.” The down was desolate, east and west, north and south; the
road with its shallow ditches and white bordering stakes, ran smooth
and empty north and south, and, save for that peewit, the blue sky was
empty too. “So help me,” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, shuffling his coat on
to his shoulders again. “It’s the drink! I might ha’ known.”

“It’s not the drink,” said the Voice. “You keep your nerves steady.”

“Ow!” said Mr. Marvel, and his face grew white amidst its patches.
“It’s the drink!” his lips repeated noiselessly. He remained staring
about him, rotating slowly backwards. “I could have _swore_ I heard a
voice,” he whispered.

“Of course you did.”

“It’s there again,” said Mr. Marvel, closing his eyes and clasping his
hand on his brow with a tragic gesture. He was suddenly taken by the
collar and shaken violently, and left more dazed than ever. “Don’t be a
fool,” said the Voice.

“I’m—off—my—blooming—chump,” said Mr. Marvel. “It’s no good. It’s
fretting about them blarsted boots. I’m off my blessed blooming chump.
Or it’s spirits.”

“Neither one thing nor the other,” said the Voice. “Listen!”

“Chump,” said Mr. Marvel.

“One minute,” said the Voice, penetratingly, tremulous with
self-control.

“Well?” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, with a strange feeling of having been
dug in the chest by a finger.

“You think I’m just imagination? Just imagination?”

“What else _can_ you be?” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, rubbing the back of
his neck.

“Very well,” said the Voice, in a tone of relief. “Then I’m going to
throw flints at you till you think differently.”

“But where _are_ yer?”

The Voice made no answer. Whizz came a flint, apparently out of the
air, and missed Mr. Marvel’s shoulder by a hair’s-breadth. Mr. Marvel,
turning, saw a flint jerk up into the air, trace a complicated path,
hang for a moment, and then fling at his feet with almost invisible
rapidity. He was too amazed to dodge. Whizz it came, and ricochetted
from a bare toe into the ditch. Mr. Thomas Marvel jumped a foot and
howled aloud. Then he started to run, tripped over an unseen obstacle,
and came head over heels into a sitting position.

“_Now_,” said the Voice, as a third stone curved upward and hung in the
air above the tramp. “Am I imagination?”

Mr. Marvel by way of reply struggled to his feet, and was immediately
rolled over again. He lay quiet for a moment. “If you struggle any
more,” said the Voice, “I shall throw the flint at your head.”

“It’s a fair do,” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, sitting up, taking his
wounded toe in hand and fixing his eye on the third missile. “I don’t
understand it. Stones flinging themselves. Stones talking. Put yourself
down. Rot away. I’m done.”

The third flint fell.

“It’s very simple,” said the Voice. “I’m an invisible man.”

“Tell us something I don’t know,” said Mr. Marvel, gasping with pain.
“Where you’ve hid—how you do it—I _don’t_ know. I’m beat.”

“That’s all,” said the Voice. “I’m invisible. That’s what I want you to
understand.”

“Anyone could see that. There is no need for you to be so confounded
impatient, mister. _Now_ then. Give us a notion. How are you hid?”

“I’m invisible. That’s the great point. And what I want you to
understand is this—”

“But whereabouts?” interrupted Mr. Marvel.

“Here! Six yards in front of you.”

“Oh, _come_! I ain’t blind. You’ll be telling me next you’re just thin
air. I’m not one of your ignorant tramps—”

“Yes, I am—thin air. You’re looking through me.”

“What! Ain’t there any stuff to you. _Vox et_—what is it?—jabber. Is it
that?”

“I am just a human being—solid, needing food and drink, needing
covering too—But I’m invisible. You see? Invisible. Simple idea.
Invisible.”

“What, real like?”

“Yes, real.”

“Let’s have a hand of you,” said Marvel, “if you _are_ real. It won’t
be so darn out-of-the-way like, then—_Lord_!” he said, “how you made me
jump!—gripping me like that!”

He felt the hand that had closed round his wrist with his disengaged
fingers, and his fingers went timorously up the arm, patted a muscular
chest, and explored a bearded face. Marvel’s face was astonishment.

“I’m dashed!” he said. “If this don’t beat cock-fighting! Most
remarkable!—And there I can see a rabbit clean through you, ’arf a mile
away! Not a bit of you visible—except—”

He scrutinised the apparently empty space keenly. “You ’aven’t been
eatin’ bread and cheese?” he asked, holding the invisible arm.

“You’re quite right, and it’s not quite assimilated into the system.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Marvel. “Sort of ghostly, though.”

“Of course, all this isn’t half so wonderful as you think.”

“It’s quite wonderful enough for _my_ modest wants,” said Mr. Thomas
Marvel. “Howjer manage it! How the dooce is it done?”

“It’s too long a story. And besides—”

“I tell you, the whole business fairly beats me,” said Mr. Marvel.

“What I want to say at present is this: I need help. I have come to
that—I came upon you suddenly. I was wandering, mad with rage, naked,
impotent. I could have murdered. And I saw you—”

“_Lord_!” said Mr. Marvel.

“I came up behind you—hesitated—went on—”

Mr. Marvel’s expression was eloquent.

“—then stopped. ‘Here,’ I said, ‘is an outcast like myself. This is the
man for me.’ So I turned back and came to you—you. And—”

“_Lord_!” said Mr. Marvel. “But I’m all in a tizzy. May I ask—How is
it? And what you may be requiring in the way of help?—Invisible!”

“I want you to help me get clothes—and shelter—and then, with other
things. I’ve left them long enough. If you won’t—well! But you
_will—must_.”

“Look here,” said Mr. Marvel. “I’m too flabbergasted. Don’t knock me
about any more. And leave me go. I must get steady a bit. And you’ve
pretty near broken my toe. It’s all so unreasonable. Empty downs, empty
sky. Nothing visible for miles except the bosom of Nature. And then
comes a voice. A voice out of heaven! And stones! And a fist—Lord!”

“Pull yourself together,” said the Voice, “for you have to do the job
I’ve chosen for you.”

Mr. Marvel blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were round.

“I’ve chosen you,” said the Voice. “You are the only man except some of
those fools down there, who knows there is such a thing as an invisible
man. You have to be my helper. Help me—and I will do great things for
you. An invisible man is a man of power.” He stopped for a moment to
sneeze violently.

“But if you betray me,” he said, “if you fail to do as I direct you—”
He paused and tapped Mr. Marvel’s shoulder smartly. Mr. Marvel gave a
yelp of terror at the touch. “I don’t want to betray you,” said Mr.
Marvel, edging away from the direction of the fingers. “Don’t you go
a-thinking that, whatever you do. All I want to do is to help you—just
tell me what I got to do. (Lord!) Whatever you want done, that I’m most
willing to do.”




CHAPTER X.
MR. MARVEL’S VISIT TO IPING


After the first gusty panic had spent itself Iping became
argumentative. Scepticism suddenly reared its head—rather nervous
scepticism, not at all assured of its back, but scepticism
nevertheless. It is so much easier not to believe in an invisible man;
and those who had actually seen him dissolve into air, or felt the
strength of his arm, could be counted on the fingers of two hands. And
of these witnesses Mr. Wadgers was presently missing, having retired
impregnably behind the bolts and bars of his own house, and Jaffers was
lying stunned in the parlour of the “Coach and Horses.” Great and
strange ideas transcending experience often have less effect upon men
and women than smaller, more tangible considerations. Iping was gay
with bunting, and everybody was in gala dress. Whit Monday had been
looked forward to for a month or more. By the afternoon even those who
believed in the Unseen were beginning to resume their little amusements
in a tentative fashion, on the supposition that he had quite gone away,
and with the sceptics he was already a jest. But people, sceptics and
believers alike, were remarkably sociable all that day.

Haysman’s meadow was gay with a tent, in which Mrs. Bunting and other
ladies were preparing tea, while, without, the Sunday-school children
ran races and played games under the noisy guidance of the curate and
the Misses Cuss and Sackbut. No doubt there was a slight uneasiness in
the air, but people for the most part had the sense to conceal whatever
imaginative qualms they experienced. On the village green an inclined
strong [rope?], down which, clinging the while to a pulley-swung
handle, one could be hurled violently against a sack at the other end,
came in for considerable favour among the adolescents, as also did the
swings and the cocoanut shies. There was also promenading, and the
steam organ attached to a small roundabout filled the air with a
pungent flavour of oil and with equally pungent music. Members of the
club, who had attended church in the morning, were splendid in badges
of pink and green, and some of the gayer-minded had also adorned their
bowler hats with brilliant-coloured favours of ribbon. Old Fletcher,
whose conceptions of holiday-making were severe, was visible through
the jasmine about his window or through the open door (whichever way
you chose to look), poised delicately on a plank supported on two
chairs, and whitewashing the ceiling of his front room.

About four o’clock a stranger entered the village from the direction of
the downs. He was a short, stout person in an extraordinarily shabby
top hat, and he appeared to be very much out of breath. His cheeks were
alternately limp and tightly puffed. His mottled face was apprehensive,
and he moved with a sort of reluctant alacrity. He turned the corner of
the church, and directed his way to the “Coach and Horses.” Among
others old Fletcher remembers seeing him, and indeed the old gentleman
was so struck by his peculiar agitation that he inadvertently allowed a
quantity of whitewash to run down the brush into the sleeve of his coat
while regarding him.

This stranger, to the perceptions of the proprietor of the cocoanut
shy, appeared to be talking to himself, and Mr. Huxter remarked the
same thing. He stopped at the foot of the “Coach and Horses” steps,
and, according to Mr. Huxter, appeared to undergo a severe internal
struggle before he could induce himself to enter the house. Finally he
marched up the steps, and was seen by Mr. Huxter to turn to the left
and open the door of the parlour. Mr. Huxter heard voices from within
the room and from the bar apprising the man of his error. “That room’s
private!” said Hall, and the stranger shut the door clumsily and went
into the bar.

In the course of a few minutes he reappeared, wiping his lips with the
back of his hand with an air of quiet satisfaction that somehow
impressed Mr. Huxter as assumed. He stood looking about him for some
moments, and then Mr. Huxter saw him walk in an oddly furtive manner
towards the gates of the yard, upon which the parlour window opened.
The stranger, after some hesitation, leant against one of the
gate-posts, produced a short clay pipe, and prepared to fill it. His
fingers trembled while doing so. He lit it clumsily, and folding his
arms began to smoke in a languid attitude, an attitude which his
occasional glances up the yard altogether belied.

All this Mr. Huxter saw over the canisters of the tobacco window, and
the singularity of the man’s behaviour prompted him to maintain his
observation.

Presently the stranger stood up abruptly and put his pipe in his
pocket. Then he vanished into the yard. Forthwith Mr. Huxter,
conceiving he was witness of some petty larceny, leapt round his
counter and ran out into the road to intercept the thief. As he did so,
Mr. Marvel reappeared, his hat askew, a big bundle in a blue
table-cloth in one hand, and three books tied together—as it proved
afterwards with the Vicar’s braces—in the other. Directly he saw Huxter
he gave a sort of gasp, and turning sharply to the left, began to run.
“Stop, thief!” cried Huxter, and set off after him. Mr. Huxter’s
sensations were vivid but brief. He saw the man just before him and
spurting briskly for the church corner and the hill road. He saw the
village flags and festivities beyond, and a face or so turned towards
him. He bawled, “Stop!” again. He had hardly gone ten strides before
his shin was caught in some mysterious fashion, and he was no longer
running, but flying with inconceivable rapidity through the air. He saw
the ground suddenly close to his face. The world seemed to splash into
a million whirling specks of light, and subsequent proceedings
interested him no more.




CHAPTER XI.
IN THE “COACH AND HORSES”


Now in order clearly to understand what had happened in the inn, it is
necessary to go back to the moment when Mr. Marvel first came into view
of Mr. Huxter’s window.

At that precise moment Mr. Cuss and Mr. Bunting were in the parlour.
They were seriously investigating the strange occurrences of the
morning, and were, with Mr. Hall’s permission, making a thorough
examination of the Invisible Man’s belongings. Jaffers had partially
recovered from his fall and had gone home in the charge of his
sympathetic friends. The stranger’s scattered garments had been removed
by Mrs. Hall and the room tidied up. And on the table under the window
where the stranger had been wont to work, Cuss had hit almost at once
on three big books in manuscript labelled “Diary.”

“Diary!” said Cuss, putting the three books on the table. “Now, at any
rate, we shall learn something.” The Vicar stood with his hands on the
table.

“Diary,” repeated Cuss, sitting down, putting two volumes to support
the third, and opening it. “H’m—no name on the fly-leaf.
Bother!—cypher. And figures.”

The vicar came round to look over his shoulder.

Cuss turned the pages over with a face suddenly disappointed. “I’m—dear
me! It’s all cypher, Bunting.”

“There are no diagrams?” asked Mr. Bunting. “No illustrations throwing
light—”

“See for yourself,” said Mr. Cuss. “Some of it’s mathematical and some
of it’s Russian or some such language (to judge by the letters), and
some of it’s Greek. Now the Greek I thought _you_—”

“Of course,” said Mr. Bunting, taking out and wiping his spectacles and
feeling suddenly very uncomfortable—for he had no Greek left in his
mind worth talking about; “yes—the Greek, of course, may furnish a
clue.”

“I’ll find you a place.”

“I’d rather glance through the volumes first,” said Mr. Bunting, still
wiping. “A general impression first, Cuss, and _then_, you know, we can
go looking for clues.”

He coughed, put on his glasses, arranged them fastidiously, coughed
again, and wished something would happen to avert the seemingly
inevitable exposure. Then he took the volume Cuss handed him in a
leisurely manner. And then something did happen.

The door opened suddenly.

Both gentlemen started violently, looked round, and were relieved to
see a sporadically rosy face beneath a furry silk hat. “Tap?” asked the
face, and stood staring.

“No,” said both gentlemen at once.

“Over the other side, my man,” said Mr. Bunting. And “Please shut that
door,” said Mr. Cuss, irritably.

“All right,” said the intruder, as it seemed in a low voice curiously
different from the huskiness of its first inquiry. “Right you are,”
said the intruder in the former voice. “Stand clear!” and he vanished
and closed the door.

“A sailor, I should judge,” said Mr. Bunting. “Amusing fellows, they
are. Stand clear! indeed. A nautical term, referring to his getting
back out of the room, I suppose.”

“I daresay so,” said Cuss. “My nerves are all loose to-day. It quite
made me jump—the door opening like that.”

Mr. Bunting smiled as if he had not jumped. “And now,” he said with a
sigh, “these books.”

Someone sniffed as he did so.

“One thing is indisputable,” said Bunting, drawing up a chair next to
that of Cuss. “There certainly have been very strange things happen in
Iping during the last few days—very strange. I cannot of course believe
in this absurd invisibility story—”

“It’s incredible,” said Cuss—“incredible. But the fact remains that I
saw—I certainly saw right down his sleeve—”

“But did you—are you sure? Suppose a mirror, for instance—
hallucinations are so easily produced. I don’t know if you have ever
seen a really good conjuror—”

“I won’t argue again,” said Cuss. “We’ve thrashed that out, Bunting.
And just now there’s these books—Ah! here’s some of what I take to be
Greek! Greek letters certainly.”

He pointed to the middle of the page. Mr. Bunting flushed slightly and
brought his face nearer, apparently finding some difficulty with his
glasses. Suddenly he became aware of a strange feeling at the nape of
his neck. He tried to raise his head, and encountered an immovable
resistance. The feeling was a curious pressure, the grip of a heavy,
firm hand, and it bore his chin irresistibly to the table. “Don’t move,
little men,” whispered a voice, “or I’ll brain you both!” He looked
into the face of Cuss, close to his own, and each saw a horrified
reflection of his own sickly astonishment.

“I’m sorry to handle you so roughly,” said the Voice, “but it’s
unavoidable.”

“Since when did you learn to pry into an investigator’s private
memoranda,” said the Voice; and two chins struck the table
simultaneously, and two sets of teeth rattled.

“Since when did you learn to invade the private rooms of a man in
misfortune?” and the concussion was repeated.

“Where have they put my clothes?”

“Listen,” said the Voice. “The windows are fastened and I’ve taken the
key out of the door. I am a fairly strong man, and I have the poker
handy—besides being invisible. There’s not the slightest doubt that I
could kill you both and get away quite easily if I wanted to—do you
understand? Very well. If I let you go will you promise not to try any
nonsense and do what I tell you?”

The vicar and the doctor looked at one another, and the doctor pulled a
face. “Yes,” said Mr. Bunting, and the doctor repeated it. Then the
pressure on the necks relaxed, and the doctor and the vicar sat up,
both very red in the face and wriggling their heads.

“Please keep sitting where you are,” said the Invisible Man. “Here’s
the poker, you see.”

“When I came into this room,” continued the Invisible Man, after
presenting the poker to the tip of the nose of each of his visitors, “I
did not expect to find it occupied, and I expected to find, in addition
to my books of memoranda, an outfit of clothing. Where is it? No—don’t
rise. I can see it’s gone. Now, just at present, though the days are
quite warm enough for an invisible man to run about stark, the evenings
are quite chilly. I want clothing—and other accommodation; and I must
also have those three books.”




CHAPTER XII.
THE INVISIBLE MAN LOSES HIS TEMPER


It is unavoidable that at this point the narrative should break off
again, for a certain very painful reason that will presently be
apparent. While these things were going on in the parlour, and while
Mr. Huxter was watching Mr. Marvel smoking his pipe against the gate,
not a dozen yards away were Mr. Hall and Teddy Henfrey discussing in a
state of cloudy puzzlement the one Iping topic.

Suddenly there came a violent thud against the door of the parlour, a
sharp cry, and then—silence.

“Hul-lo!” said Teddy Henfrey.

“Hul-lo!” from the Tap.

Mr. Hall took things in slowly but surely. “That ain’t right,” he said,
and came round from behind the bar towards the parlour door.

He and Teddy approached the door together, with intent faces. Their
eyes considered. “Summat wrong,” said Hall, and Henfrey nodded
agreement. Whiffs of an unpleasant chemical odour met them, and there
was a muffled sound of conversation, very rapid and subdued.

“You all right thur?” asked Hall, rapping.

The muttered conversation ceased abruptly, for a moment silence, then
the conversation was resumed, in hissing whispers, then a sharp cry of
“No! no, you don’t!” There came a sudden motion and the oversetting of
a chair, a brief struggle. Silence again.

“What the dooce?” exclaimed Henfrey, _sotto voce_.

“You—all—right thur?” asked Mr. Hall, sharply, again.

The Vicar’s voice answered with a curious jerking intonation: “Quite
ri-right. Please don’t—interrupt.”

“Odd!” said Mr. Henfrey.

“Odd!” said Mr. Hall.

“Says, ‘Don’t interrupt,’” said Henfrey.

“I heerd’n,” said Hall.

“And a sniff,” said Henfrey.

They remained listening. The conversation was rapid and subdued. “I
_can’t_,” said Mr. Bunting, his voice rising; “I tell you, sir, I
_will_ not.”

“What was that?” asked Henfrey.

“Says he wi’ nart,” said Hall. “Warn’t speaking to us, wuz he?”

“Disgraceful!” said Mr. Bunting, within.

“‘Disgraceful,’” said Mr. Henfrey. “I heard it—distinct.”

“Who’s that speaking now?” asked Henfrey.

“Mr. Cuss, I s’pose,” said Hall. “Can you hear—anything?”

Silence. The sounds within indistinct and perplexing.

“Sounds like throwing the table-cloth about,” said Hall.

Mrs. Hall appeared behind the bar. Hall made gestures of silence and
invitation. This aroused Mrs. Hall’s wifely opposition. “What yer
listenin’ there for, Hall?” she asked. “Ain’t you nothin’ better to
do—busy day like this?”

Hall tried to convey everything by grimaces and dumb show, but Mrs.
Hall was obdurate. She raised her voice. So Hall and Henfrey, rather
crestfallen, tiptoed back to the bar, gesticulating to explain to her.

At first she refused to see anything in what they had heard at all.
Then she insisted on Hall keeping silence, while Henfrey told her his
story. She was inclined to think the whole business nonsense—perhaps
they were just moving the furniture about. “I heerd’n say
‘disgraceful’; _that_ I did,” said Hall.

“_I_ heerd that, Mrs. Hall,” said Henfrey.

“Like as not—” began Mrs. Hall.

“Hsh!” said Mr. Teddy Henfrey. “Didn’t I hear the window?”

“What window?” asked Mrs. Hall.

“Parlour window,” said Henfrey.

Everyone stood listening intently. Mrs. Hall’s eyes, directed straight
before her, saw without seeing the brilliant oblong of the inn door,
the road white and vivid, and Huxter’s shop-front blistering in the
June sun. Abruptly Huxter’s door opened and Huxter appeared, eyes
staring with excitement, arms gesticulating. “Yap!” cried Huxter. “Stop
thief!” and he ran obliquely across the oblong towards the yard gates,
and vanished.

Simultaneously came a tumult from the parlour, and a sound of windows
being closed.

Hall, Henfrey, and the human contents of the tap rushed out at once
pell-mell into the street. They saw someone whisk round the corner
towards the road, and Mr. Huxter executing a complicated leap in the
air that ended on his face and shoulder. Down the street people were
standing astonished or running towards them.

Mr. Huxter was stunned. Henfrey stopped to discover this, but Hall and
the two labourers from the Tap rushed at once to the corner, shouting
incoherent things, and saw Mr. Marvel vanishing by the corner of the
church wall. They appear to have jumped to the impossible conclusion
that this was the Invisible Man suddenly become visible, and set off at
once along the lane in pursuit. But Hall had hardly run a dozen yards
before he gave a loud shout of astonishment and went flying headlong
sideways, clutching one of the labourers and bringing him to the
ground. He had been charged just as one charges a man at football. The
second labourer came round in a circle, stared, and conceiving that
Hall had tumbled over of his own accord, turned to resume the pursuit,
only to be tripped by the ankle just as Huxter had been. Then, as the
first labourer struggled to his feet, he was kicked sideways by a blow
that might have felled an ox.

As he went down, the rush from the direction of the village green came
round the corner. The first to appear was the proprietor of the
cocoanut shy, a burly man in a blue jersey. He was astonished to see
the lane empty save for three men sprawling absurdly on the ground. And
then something happened to his rear-most foot, and he went headlong and
rolled sideways just in time to graze the feet of his brother and
partner, following headlong. The two were then kicked, knelt on, fallen
over, and cursed by quite a number of over-hasty people.

Now when Hall and Henfrey and the labourers ran out of the house, Mrs.
Hall, who had been disciplined by years of experience, remained in the
bar next the till. And suddenly the parlour door was opened, and Mr.
Cuss appeared, and without glancing at her rushed at once down the
steps toward the corner. “Hold him!” he cried. “Don’t let him drop that
parcel.”

He knew nothing of the existence of Marvel. For the Invisible Man had
handed over the books and bundle in the yard. The face of Mr. Cuss was
angry and resolute, but his costume was defective, a sort of limp white
kilt that could only have passed muster in Greece. “Hold him!” he
bawled. “He’s got my trousers! And every stitch of the Vicar’s
clothes!”

“’Tend to him in a minute!” he cried to Henfrey as he passed the
prostrate Huxter, and, coming round the corner to join the tumult, was
promptly knocked off his feet into an indecorous sprawl. Somebody in
full flight trod heavily on his finger. He yelled, struggled to regain
his feet, was knocked against and thrown on all fours again, and became
aware that he was involved not in a capture, but a rout. Everyone was
running back to the village. He rose again and was hit severely behind
the ear. He staggered and set off back to the “Coach and Horses”
forthwith, leaping over the deserted Huxter, who was now sitting up, on
his way.

Behind him as he was halfway up the inn steps he heard a sudden yell of
rage, rising sharply out of the confusion of cries, and a sounding
smack in someone’s face. He recognised the voice as that of the
Invisible Man, and the note was that of a man suddenly infuriated by a
painful blow.

In another moment Mr. Cuss was back in the parlour. “He’s coming back,
Bunting!” he said, rushing in. “Save yourself!”

Mr. Bunting was standing in the window engaged in an attempt to clothe
himself in the hearth-rug and a _West Surrey Gazette_. “Who’s coming?”
he said, so startled that his costume narrowly escaped disintegration.

“Invisible Man,” said Cuss, and rushed on to the window. “We’d better
clear out from here! He’s fighting mad! Mad!”

In another moment he was out in the yard.

“Good heavens!” said Mr. Bunting, hesitating between two horrible
alternatives. He heard a frightful struggle in the passage of the inn,
and his decision was made. He clambered out of the window, adjusted his
costume hastily, and fled up the village as fast as his fat little legs
would carry him.

From the moment when the Invisible Man screamed with rage and Mr.
Bunting made his memorable flight up the village, it became impossible
to give a consecutive account of affairs in Iping. Possibly the
Invisible Man’s original intention was simply to cover Marvel’s retreat
with the clothes and books. But his temper, at no time very good, seems
to have gone completely at some chance blow, and forthwith he set to
smiting and overthrowing, for the mere satisfaction of hurting.

You must figure the street full of running figures, of doors slamming
and fights for hiding-places. You must figure the tumult suddenly
striking on the unstable equilibrium of old Fletcher’s planks and two
chairs—with cataclysmic results. You must figure an appalled couple
caught dismally in a swing. And then the whole tumultuous rush has
passed and the Iping street with its gauds and flags is deserted save
for the still raging unseen, and littered with cocoanuts, overthrown
canvas screens, and the scattered stock in trade of a sweetstuff stall.
Everywhere there is a sound of closing shutters and shoving bolts, and
the only visible humanity is an occasional flitting eye under a raised
eyebrow in the corner of a window pane.

The Invisible Man amused himself for a little while by breaking all the
windows in the “Coach and Horses,” and then he thrust a street lamp
through the parlour window of Mrs. Gribble. He it must have been who
cut the telegraph wire to Adderdean just beyond Higgins’ cottage on the
Adderdean road. And after that, as his peculiar qualities allowed, he
passed out of human perceptions altogether, and he was neither heard,
seen, nor felt in Iping any more. He vanished absolutely.

But it was the best part of two hours before any human being ventured
out again into the desolation of Iping street.




CHAPTER XIII.
MR. MARVEL DISCUSSES HIS RESIGNATION


When the dusk was gathering and Iping was just beginning to peep
timorously forth again upon the shattered wreckage of its Bank Holiday,
a short, thick-set man in a shabby silk hat was marching painfully
through the twilight behind the beechwoods on the road to Bramblehurst.
He carried three books bound together by some sort of ornamental
elastic ligature, and a bundle wrapped in a blue table-cloth. His
rubicund face expressed consternation and fatigue; he appeared to be in
a spasmodic sort of hurry. He was accompanied by a voice other than his
own, and ever and again he winced under the touch of unseen hands.

“If you give me the slip again,” said the Voice, “if you attempt to
give me the slip again—”

“Lord!” said Mr. Marvel. “That shoulder’s a mass of bruises as it is.”

“On my honour,” said the Voice, “I will kill you.”

“I didn’t try to give you the slip,” said Marvel, in a voice that was
not far remote from tears. “I swear I didn’t. I didn’t know the blessed
turning, that was all! How the devil was I to know the blessed turning?
As it is, I’ve been knocked about—”

“You’ll get knocked about a great deal more if you don’t mind,” said
the Voice, and Mr. Marvel abruptly became silent. He blew out his
cheeks, and his eyes were eloquent of despair.

“It’s bad enough to let these floundering yokels explode my little
secret, without _your_ cutting off with my books. It’s lucky for some
of them they cut and ran when they did! Here am I ... No one knew I was
invisible! And now what am I to do?”

“What am _I_ to do?” asked Marvel, _sotto voce_.

“It’s all about. It will be in the papers! Everybody will be looking
for me; everyone on their guard—” The Voice broke off into vivid curses
and ceased.

The despair of Mr. Marvel’s face deepened, and his pace slackened.

“Go on!” said the Voice.

Mr. Marvel’s face assumed a greyish tint between the ruddier patches.

“Don’t drop those books, stupid,” said the Voice, sharply—overtaking
him.

“The fact is,” said the Voice, “I shall have to make use of you....
You’re a poor tool, but I must.”

“I’m a _miserable_ tool,” said Marvel.

“You are,” said the Voice.

“I’m the worst possible tool you could have,” said Marvel.

“I’m not strong,” he said after a discouraging silence.

“I’m not over strong,” he repeated.

“No?”

“And my heart’s weak. That little business—I pulled it through, of
course—but bless you! I could have dropped.”

“Well?”

“I haven’t the nerve and strength for the sort of thing you want.”

“_I’ll_ stimulate you.”

“I wish you wouldn’t. I wouldn’t like to mess up your plans, you know.
But I might—out of sheer funk and misery.”

“You’d better not,” said the Voice, with quiet emphasis.

“I wish I was dead,” said Marvel.

“It ain’t justice,” he said; “you must admit.... It seems to me I’ve a
perfect right—”

“_Get_ on!” said the Voice.

Mr. Marvel mended his pace, and for a time they went in silence again.

“It’s devilish hard,” said Mr. Marvel.

This was quite ineffectual. He tried another tack.

“What do I make by it?” he began again in a tone of unendurable wrong.

“Oh! _shut up_!” said the Voice, with sudden amazing vigour. “I’ll see
to you all right. You do what you’re told. You’ll do it all right.
You’re a fool and all that, but you’ll do—”

“I tell you, sir, I’m not the man for it. Respectfully—but it _is_ so—”

“If you don’t shut up I shall twist your wrist again,” said the
Invisible Man. “I want to think.”

Presently two oblongs of yellow light appeared through the trees, and
the square tower of a church loomed through the gloaming. “I shall keep
my hand on your shoulder,” said the Voice, “all through the village. Go
straight through and try no foolery. It will be the worse for you if
you do.”

“I know that,” sighed Mr. Marvel, “I know all that.”

The unhappy-looking figure in the obsolete silk hat passed up the
street of the little village with his burdens, and vanished into the
gathering darkness beyond the lights of the windows.




CHAPTER XIV.
AT PORT STOWE


Ten o’clock the next morning found Mr. Marvel, unshaven, dirty, and
travel-stained, sitting with the books beside him and his hands deep in
his pockets, looking very weary, nervous, and uncomfortable, and
inflating his cheeks at infrequent intervals, on the bench outside a
little inn on the outskirts of Port Stowe. Beside him were the books,
but now they were tied with string. The bundle had been abandoned in
the pine-woods beyond Bramblehurst, in accordance with a change in the
plans of the Invisible Man. Mr. Marvel sat on the bench, and although
no one took the slightest notice of him, his agitation remained at
fever heat. His hands would go ever and again to his various pockets
with a curious nervous fumbling.

When he had been sitting for the best part of an hour, however, an
elderly mariner, carrying a newspaper, came out of the inn and sat down
beside him. “Pleasant day,” said the mariner.

Mr. Marvel glanced about him with something very like terror. “Very,”
he said.

“Just seasonable weather for the time of year,” said the mariner,
taking no denial.

“Quite,” said Mr. Marvel.

The mariner produced a toothpick, and (saving his regard) was engrossed
thereby for some minutes. His eyes meanwhile were at liberty to examine
Mr. Marvel’s dusty figure, and the books beside him. As he had
approached Mr. Marvel he had heard a sound like the dropping of coins
into a pocket. He was struck by the contrast of Mr. Marvel’s appearance
with this suggestion of opulence. Thence his mind wandered back again
to a topic that had taken a curiously firm hold of his imagination.

“Books?” he said suddenly, noisily finishing with the toothpick.

Mr. Marvel started and looked at them. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Yes,
they’re books.”

“There’s some extra-ordinary things in books,” said the mariner.

“I believe you,” said Mr. Marvel.

“And some extra-ordinary things out of ’em,” said the mariner.

“True likewise,” said Mr. Marvel. He eyed his interlocutor, and then
glanced about him.

“There’s some extra-ordinary things in newspapers, for example,” said
the mariner.

“There are.”

“In _this_ newspaper,” said the mariner.

“Ah!” said Mr. Marvel.

“There’s a story,” said the mariner, fixing Mr. Marvel with an eye that
was firm and deliberate; “there’s a story about an Invisible Man, for
instance.”

Mr. Marvel pulled his mouth askew and scratched his cheek and felt his
ears glowing. “What will they be writing next?” he asked faintly.
“Ostria, or America?”

“Neither,” said the mariner. “_Here_.”

“Lord!” said Mr. Marvel, starting.

“When I say _here_,” said the mariner, to Mr. Marvel’s intense relief,
“I don’t of course mean here in this place, I mean hereabouts.”

“An Invisible Man!” said Mr. Marvel. “And what’s _he_ been up to?”

“Everything,” said the mariner, controlling Marvel with his eye, and
then amplifying, “every—blessed—thing.”

“I ain’t seen a paper these four days,” said Marvel.

“Iping’s the place he started at,” said the mariner.

“In-_deed_!” said Mr. Marvel.

“He started there. And where he came from, nobody don’t seem to know.
Here it is: ‘Pe-culiar Story from Iping.’ And it says in this paper
that the evidence is extra-ordinary strong—extra-ordinary.”

“Lord!” said Mr. Marvel.

“But then, it’s an extra-ordinary story. There is a clergyman and a
medical gent witnesses—saw ’im all right and proper—or leastways didn’t
see ’im. He was staying, it says, at the ‘Coach an’ Horses,’ and no one
don’t seem to have been aware of his misfortune, it says, aware of his
misfortune, until in an Altercation in the inn, it says, his bandages
on his head was torn off. It was then ob-served that his head was
invisible. Attempts were At Once made to secure him, but casting off
his garments, it says, he succeeded in escaping, but not until after a
desperate struggle, in which he had inflicted serious injuries, it
says, on our worthy and able constable, Mr. J. A. Jaffers. Pretty
straight story, eh? Names and everything.”

“Lord!” said Mr. Marvel, looking nervously about him, trying to count
the money in his pockets by his unaided sense of touch, and full of a
strange and novel idea. “It sounds most astonishing.”

“Don’t it? Extra-ordinary, _I_ call it. Never heard tell of Invisible
Men before, I haven’t, but nowadays one hears such a lot of
extra-ordinary things—that—”

“That all he did?” asked Marvel, trying to seem at his ease.

“It’s enough, ain’t it?” said the mariner.

“Didn’t go Back by any chance?” asked Marvel. “Just escaped and that’s
all, eh?”

“All!” said the mariner. “Why!—ain’t it enough?”

“Quite enough,” said Marvel.

“I should think it was enough,” said the mariner. “I should think it
was enough.”

“He didn’t have any pals—it don’t say he had any pals, does it?” asked
Mr. Marvel, anxious.

“Ain’t one of a sort enough for you?” asked the mariner. “No, thank
Heaven, as one might say, he didn’t.”

He nodded his head slowly. “It makes me regular uncomfortable, the bare
thought of that chap running about the country! He is at present At
Large, and from certain evidence it is supposed that he
has—taken—_took_, I suppose they mean—the road to Port Stowe. You see
we’re right _in_ it! None of your American wonders, this time. And just
think of the things he might do! Where’d you be, if he took a drop over
and above, and had a fancy to go for you? Suppose he wants to rob—who
can prevent him? He can trespass, he can burgle, he could walk through
a cordon of policemen as easy as me or you could give the slip to a
blind man! Easier! For these here blind chaps hear uncommon sharp, I’m
told. And wherever there was liquor he fancied—”

“He’s got a tremenjous advantage, certainly,” said Mr. Marvel.
“And—well...”

“You’re right,” said the mariner. “He _has_.”

All this time Mr. Marvel had been glancing about him intently,
listening for faint footfalls, trying to detect imperceptible
movements. He seemed on the point of some great resolution. He coughed
behind his hand.

He looked about him again, listened, bent towards the mariner, and
lowered his voice: “The fact of it is—I happen—to know just a thing or
two about this Invisible Man. From private sources.”

“Oh!” said the mariner, interested. “_You_?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Marvel. “Me.”

“Indeed!” said the mariner. “And may I ask—”

“You’ll be astonished,” said Mr. Marvel behind his hand. “It’s
tremenjous.”

“Indeed!” said the mariner.

“The fact is,” began Mr. Marvel eagerly in a confidential undertone.
Suddenly his expression changed marvellously. “Ow!” he said. He rose
stiffly in his seat. His face was eloquent of physical suffering.
“Wow!” he said.

“What’s up?” said the mariner, concerned.

“Toothache,” said Mr. Marvel, and put his hand to his ear. He caught
hold of his books. “I must be getting on, I think,” he said. He edged
in a curious way along the seat away from his interlocutor. “But you
was just a-going to tell me about this here Invisible Man!” protested
the mariner. Mr. Marvel seemed to consult with himself. “Hoax,” said a
Voice. “It’s a hoax,” said Mr. Marvel.

“But it’s in the paper,” said the mariner.

“Hoax all the same,” said Marvel. “I know the chap that started the
lie. There ain’t no Invisible Man whatsoever—Blimey.”

“But how ’bout this paper? D’you mean to say—?”

“Not a word of it,” said Marvel, stoutly.

The mariner stared, paper in hand. Mr. Marvel jerkily faced about.
“Wait a bit,” said the mariner, rising and speaking slowly, “D’you mean
to say—?”

“I do,” said Mr. Marvel.

“Then why did you let me go on and tell you all this blarsted stuff,
then? What d’yer mean by letting a man make a fool of himself like that
for? Eh?”

Mr. Marvel blew out his cheeks. The mariner was suddenly very red
indeed; he clenched his hands. “I been talking here this ten minutes,”
he said; “and you, you little pot-bellied, leathery-faced son of an old
boot, couldn’t have the elementary manners—”

“Don’t you come bandying words with _me_,” said Mr. Marvel.

“Bandying words! I’m a jolly good mind—”

“Come up,” said a Voice, and Mr. Marvel was suddenly whirled about and
started marching off in a curious spasmodic manner. “You’d better move
on,” said the mariner. “Who’s moving on?” said Mr. Marvel. He was
receding obliquely with a curious hurrying gait, with occasional
violent jerks forward. Some way along the road he began a muttered
monologue, protests and recriminations.

“Silly devil!” said the mariner, legs wide apart, elbows akimbo,
watching the receding figure. “I’ll show you, you silly ass—hoaxing
_me_! It’s here—on the paper!”

Mr. Marvel retorted incoherently and, receding, was hidden by a bend in
the road, but the mariner still stood magnificent in the midst of the
way, until the approach of a butcher’s cart dislodged him. Then he
turned himself towards Port Stowe. “Full of extra-ordinary asses,” he
said softly to himself. “Just to take me down a bit—that was his silly
game—It’s on the paper!”

And there was another extraordinary thing he was presently to hear,
that had happened quite close to him. And that was a vision of a “fist
full of money” (no less) travelling without visible agency, along by
the wall at the corner of St. Michael’s Lane. A brother mariner had
seen this wonderful sight that very morning. He had snatched at the
money forthwith and had been knocked headlong, and when he had got to
his feet the butterfly money had vanished. Our mariner was in the mood
to believe anything, he declared, but that was a bit _too_ stiff.
Afterwards, however, he began to think things over.

The story of the flying money was true. And all about that
neighbourhood, even from the august London and Country Banking Company,
from the tills of shops and inns—doors standing that sunny weather
entirely open—money had been quietly and dexterously making off that
day in handfuls and rouleaux, floating quietly along by walls and shady
places, dodging quickly from the approaching eyes of men. And it had,
though no man had traced it, invariably ended its mysterious flight in
the pocket of that agitated gentleman in the obsolete silk hat, sitting
outside the little inn on the outskirts of Port Stowe.

It was ten days after—and indeed only when the Burdock story was
already old—that the mariner collated these facts and began to
understand how near he had been to the wonderful Invisible Man.




CHAPTER XV.
THE MAN WHO WAS RUNNING


In the early evening time Dr. Kemp was sitting in his study in the
belvedere on the hill overlooking Burdock. It was a pleasant little
room, with three windows—north, west, and south—and bookshelves covered
with books and scientific publications, and a broad writing-table, and,
under the north window, a microscope, glass slips, minute instruments,
some cultures, and scattered bottles of reagents. Dr. Kemp’s solar lamp
was lit, albeit the sky was still bright with the sunset light, and his
blinds were up because there was no offence of peering outsiders to
require them pulled down. Dr. Kemp was a tall and slender young man,
with flaxen hair and a moustache almost white, and the work he was upon
would earn him, he hoped, the fellowship of the Royal Society, so
highly did he think of it.

And his eye, presently wandering from his work, caught the sunset
blazing at the back of the hill that is over against his own. For a
minute perhaps he sat, pen in mouth, admiring the rich golden colour
above the crest, and then his attention was attracted by the little
figure of a man, inky black, running over the hill-brow towards him. He
was a shortish little man, and he wore a high hat, and he was running
so fast that his legs verily twinkled.

“Another of those fools,” said Dr. Kemp. “Like that ass who ran into me
this morning round a corner, with the ‘’Visible Man a-coming, sir!’ I
can’t imagine what possesses people. One might think we were in the
thirteenth century.”

He got up, went to the window, and stared at the dusky hillside, and
the dark little figure tearing down it. “He seems in a confounded
hurry,” said Dr. Kemp, “but he doesn’t seem to be getting on. If his
pockets were full of lead, he couldn’t run heavier.”

“Spurted, sir,” said Dr. Kemp.

In another moment the higher of the villas that had clambered up the
hill from Burdock had occulted the running figure. He was visible again
for a moment, and again, and then again, three times between the three
detached houses that came next, and then the terrace hid him.

“Asses!” said Dr. Kemp, swinging round on his heel and walking back to
his writing-table.

But those who saw the fugitive nearer, and perceived the abject terror
on his perspiring face, being themselves in the open roadway, did not
share in the doctor’s contempt. By the man pounded, and as he ran he
chinked like a well-filled purse that is tossed to and fro. He looked
neither to the right nor the left, but his dilated eyes stared straight
downhill to where the lamps were being lit, and the people were crowded
in the street. And his ill-shaped mouth fell apart, and a glairy foam
lay on his lips, and his breath came hoarse and noisy. All he passed
stopped and began staring up the road and down, and interrogating one
another with an inkling of discomfort for the reason of his haste.

And then presently, far up the hill, a dog playing in the road yelped
and ran under a gate, and as they still wondered something—a wind—a
pad, pad, pad,—a sound like a panting breathing, rushed by.

People screamed. People sprang off the pavement: It passed in shouts,
it passed by instinct down the hill. They were shouting in the street
before Marvel was halfway there. They were bolting into houses and
slamming the doors behind them, with the news. He heard it and made one
last desperate spurt. Fear came striding by, rushed ahead of him, and
in a moment had seized the town.

“The Invisible Man is coming! The Invisible Man!”




CHAPTER XVI.
IN THE “JOLLY CRICKETERS”


The “Jolly Cricketers” is just at the bottom of the hill, where the
tram-lines begin. The barman leant his fat red arms on the counter and
talked of horses with an anaemic cabman, while a black-bearded man in
grey snapped up biscuit and cheese, drank Burton, and conversed in
American with a policeman off duty.

“What’s the shouting about!” said the anaemic cabman, going off at a
tangent, trying to see up the hill over the dirty yellow blind in the
low window of the inn. Somebody ran by outside. “Fire, perhaps,” said
the barman.

Footsteps approached, running heavily, the door was pushed open
violently, and Marvel, weeping and dishevelled, his hat gone, the neck
of his coat torn open, rushed in, made a convulsive turn, and attempted
to shut the door. It was held half open by a strap.

“Coming!” he bawled, his voice shrieking with terror. “He’s coming. The
’Visible Man! After me! For Gawd’s sake! ’Elp! ’Elp! ’Elp!”

“Shut the doors,” said the policeman. “Who’s coming? What’s the row?”
He went to the door, released the strap, and it slammed. The American
closed the other door.

“Lemme go inside,” said Marvel, staggering and weeping, but still
clutching the books. “Lemme go inside. Lock me in—somewhere. I tell you
he’s after me. I give him the slip. He said he’d kill me and he will.”

“_You’re_ safe,” said the man with the black beard. “The door’s shut.
What’s it all about?”

“Lemme go inside,” said Marvel, and shrieked aloud as a blow suddenly
made the fastened door shiver and was followed by a hurried rapping and
a shouting outside. “Hullo,” cried the policeman, “who’s there?” Mr.
Marvel began to make frantic dives at panels that looked like doors.
“He’ll kill me—he’s got a knife or something. For Gawd’s sake—!”

“Here you are,” said the barman. “Come in here.” And he held up the
flap of the bar.

Mr. Marvel rushed behind the bar as the summons outside was repeated.
“Don’t open the door,” he screamed. “_Please_ don’t open the door.
_Where_ shall I hide?”

“This, this Invisible Man, then?” asked the man with the black beard,
with one hand behind him. “I guess it’s about time we saw him.”

The window of the inn was suddenly smashed in, and there was a
screaming and running to and fro in the street. The policeman had been
standing on the settee staring out, craning to see who was at the door.
He got down with raised eyebrows. “It’s that,” he said. The barman
stood in front of the bar-parlour door which was now locked on Mr.
Marvel, stared at the smashed window, and came round to the two other
men.

Everything was suddenly quiet. “I wish I had my truncheon,” said the
policeman, going irresolutely to the door. “Once we open, in he comes.
There’s no stopping him.”

“Don’t you be in too much hurry about that door,” said the anaemic
cabman, anxiously.

“Draw the bolts,” said the man with the black beard, “and if he comes—”
He showed a revolver in his hand.

“That won’t do,” said the policeman; “that’s murder.”

“I know what country I’m in,” said the man with the beard. “I’m going
to let off at his legs. Draw the bolts.”

“Not with that blinking thing going off behind me,” said the barman,
craning over the blind.

“Very well,” said the man with the black beard, and stooping down,
revolver ready, drew them himself. Barman, cabman, and policeman faced
about.

“Come in,” said the bearded man in an undertone, standing back and
facing the unbolted doors with his pistol behind him. No one came in,
the door remained closed. Five minutes afterwards when a second cabman
pushed his head in cautiously, they were still waiting, and an anxious
face peered out of the bar-parlour and supplied information. “Are all
the doors of the house shut?” asked Marvel. “He’s going round—prowling
round. He’s as artful as the devil.”

“Good Lord!” said the burly barman. “There’s the back! Just watch them
doors! I say—!” He looked about him helplessly. The bar-parlour door
slammed and they heard the key turn. “There’s the yard door and the
private door. The yard door—”

He rushed out of the bar.

In a minute he reappeared with a carving-knife in his hand. “The yard
door was open!” he said, and his fat underlip dropped. “He may be in
the house now!” said the first cabman.

“He’s not in the kitchen,” said the barman. “There’s two women there,
and I’ve stabbed every inch of it with this little beef slicer. And
they don’t think he’s come in. They haven’t noticed—”

“Have you fastened it?” asked the first cabman.

“I’m out of frocks,” said the barman.

The man with the beard replaced his revolver. And even as he did so the
flap of the bar was shut down and the bolt clicked, and then with a
tremendous thud the catch of the door snapped and the bar-parlour door
burst open. They heard Marvel squeal like a caught leveret, and
forthwith they were clambering over the bar to his rescue. The bearded
man’s revolver cracked and the looking-glass at the back of the parlour
starred and came smashing and tinkling down.

As the barman entered the room he saw Marvel, curiously crumpled up and
struggling against the door that led to the yard and kitchen. The door
flew open while the barman hesitated, and Marvel was dragged into the
kitchen. There was a scream and a clatter of pans. Marvel, head down,
and lugging back obstinately, was forced to the kitchen door, and the
bolts were drawn.

Then the policeman, who had been trying to pass the barman, rushed in,
followed by one of the cabmen, gripped the wrist of the invisible hand
that collared Marvel, was hit in the face and went reeling back. The
door opened, and Marvel made a frantic effort to obtain a lodgment
behind it. Then the cabman collared something. “I got him,” said the
cabman. The barman’s red hands came clawing at the unseen. “Here he
is!” said the barman.

Mr. Marvel, released, suddenly dropped to the ground and made an
attempt to crawl behind the legs of the fighting men. The struggle
blundered round the edge of the door. The voice of the Invisible Man
was heard for the first time, yelling out sharply, as the policeman
trod on his foot. Then he cried out passionately and his fists flew
round like flails. The cabman suddenly whooped and doubled up, kicked
under the diaphragm. The door into the bar-parlour from the kitchen
slammed and covered Mr. Marvel’s retreat. The men in the kitchen found
themselves clutching at and struggling with empty air.

“Where’s he gone?” cried the man with the beard. “Out?”

“This way,” said the policeman, stepping into the yard and stopping.

A piece of tile whizzed by his head and smashed among the crockery on
the kitchen table.

“I’ll show him,” shouted the man with the black beard, and suddenly a
steel barrel shone over the policeman’s shoulder, and five bullets had
followed one another into the twilight whence the missile had come. As
he fired, the man with the beard moved his hand in a horizontal curve,
so that his shots radiated out into the narrow yard like spokes from a
wheel.

A silence followed. “Five cartridges,” said the man with the black
beard. “That’s the best of all. Four aces and a joker. Get a lantern,
someone, and come and feel about for his body.”




CHAPTER XVII.
DR. KEMP’S VISITOR


Dr. Kemp had continued writing in his study until the shots aroused
him. Crack, crack, crack, they came one after the other.

“Hullo!” said Dr. Kemp, putting his pen into his mouth again and
listening. “Who’s letting off revolvers in Burdock? What are the asses
at now?”

He went to the south window, threw it up, and leaning out stared down
on the network of windows, beaded gas-lamps and shops, with its black
interstices of roof and yard that made up the town at night. “Looks
like a crowd down the hill,” he said, “by ‘The Cricketers,’” and
remained watching. Thence his eyes wandered over the town to far away
where the ships’ lights shone, and the pier glowed—a little
illuminated, facetted pavilion like a gem of yellow light. The moon in
its first quarter hung over the westward hill, and the stars were clear
and almost tropically bright.

After five minutes, during which his mind had travelled into a remote
speculation of social conditions of the future, and lost itself at last
over the time dimension, Dr. Kemp roused himself with a sigh, pulled
down the window again, and returned to his writing desk.

It must have been about an hour after this that the front-door bell
rang. He had been writing slackly, and with intervals of abstraction,
since the shots. He sat listening. He heard the servant answer the
door, and waited for her feet on the staircase, but she did not come.
“Wonder what that was,” said Dr. Kemp.

He tried to resume his work, failed, got up, went downstairs from his
study to the landing, rang, and called over the balustrade to the
housemaid as she appeared in the hall below. “Was that a letter?” he
asked.

“Only a runaway ring, sir,” she answered.

“I’m restless to-night,” he said to himself. He went back to his study,
and this time attacked his work resolutely. In a little while he was
hard at work again, and the only sounds in the room were the ticking of
the clock and the subdued shrillness of his quill, hurrying in the very
centre of the circle of light his lampshade threw on his table.

It was two o’clock before Dr. Kemp had finished his work for the night.
He rose, yawned, and went downstairs to bed. He had already removed his
coat and vest, when he noticed that he was thirsty. He took a candle
and went down to the dining-room in search of a syphon and whiskey.

Dr. Kemp’s scientific pursuits have made him a very observant man, and
as he recrossed the hall, he noticed a dark spot on the linoleum near
the mat at the foot of the stairs. He went on upstairs, and then it
suddenly occurred to him to ask himself what the spot on the linoleum
might be. Apparently some subconscious element was at work. At any
rate, he turned with his burden, went back to the hall, put down the
syphon and whiskey, and bending down, touched the spot. Without any
great surprise he found it had the stickiness and colour of drying
blood.

He took up his burden again, and returned upstairs, looking about him
and trying to account for the blood-spot. On the landing he saw
something and stopped astonished. The door-handle of his own room was
blood-stained.

He looked at his own hand. It was quite clean, and then he remembered
that the door of his room had been open when he came down from his
study, and that consequently he had not touched the handle at all. He
went straight into his room, his face quite calm—perhaps a trifle more
resolute than usual. His glance, wandering inquisitively, fell on the
bed. On the counterpane was a mess of blood, and the sheet had been
torn. He had not noticed this before because he had walked straight to
the dressing-table. On the further side the bedclothes were depressed
as if someone had been recently sitting there.

Then he had an odd impression that he had heard a low voice say, “Good
Heavens!—Kemp!” But Dr. Kemp was no believer in voices.

He stood staring at the tumbled sheets. Was that really a voice? He
looked about again, but noticed nothing further than the disordered and
blood-stained bed. Then he distinctly heard a movement across the room,
near the wash-hand stand. All men, however highly educated, retain some
superstitious inklings. The feeling that is called “eerie” came upon
him. He closed the door of the room, came forward to the
dressing-table, and put down his burdens. Suddenly, with a start, he
perceived a coiled and blood-stained bandage of linen rag hanging in
mid-air, between him and the wash-hand stand.

He stared at this in amazement. It was an empty bandage, a bandage
properly tied but quite empty. He would have advanced to grasp it, but
a touch arrested him, and a voice speaking quite close to him.

“Kemp!” said the Voice.

“Eh?” said Kemp, with his mouth open.

“Keep your nerve,” said the Voice. “I’m an Invisible Man.”

Kemp made no answer for a space, simply stared at the bandage.
“Invisible Man,” he said.

“I am an Invisible Man,” repeated the Voice.

The story he had been active to ridicule only that morning rushed
through Kemp’s brain. He does not appear to have been either very much
frightened or very greatly surprised at the moment. Realisation came
later.

“I thought it was all a lie,” he said. The thought uppermost in his
mind was the reiterated arguments of the morning. “Have you a bandage
on?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the Invisible Man.

“Oh!” said Kemp, and then roused himself. “I say!” he said. “But this
is nonsense. It’s some trick.” He stepped forward suddenly, and his
hand, extended towards the bandage, met invisible fingers.

He recoiled at the touch and his colour changed.

“Keep steady, Kemp, for God’s sake! I want help badly. Stop!”

The hand gripped his arm. He struck at it.

“Kemp!” cried the Voice. “Kemp! Keep steady!” and the grip tightened.

A frantic desire to free himself took possession of Kemp. The hand of
the bandaged arm gripped his shoulder, and he was suddenly tripped and
flung backwards upon the bed. He opened his mouth to shout, and the
corner of the sheet was thrust between his teeth. The Invisible Man had
him down grimly, but his arms were free and he struck and tried to kick
savagely.

“Listen to reason, will you?” said the Invisible Man, sticking to him
in spite of a pounding in the ribs. “By Heaven! you’ll madden me in a
minute!

“Lie still, you fool!” bawled the Invisible Man in Kemp’s ear.

Kemp struggled for another moment and then lay still.

“If you shout, I’ll smash your face,” said the Invisible Man, relieving
his mouth.

“I’m an Invisible Man. It’s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am
an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don’t want to hurt you, but
if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don’t you remember me,
Kemp? Griffin, of University College?”

“Let me get up,” said Kemp. “I’ll stop where I am. And let me sit quiet
for a minute.”

He sat up and felt his neck.

“I am Griffin, of University College, and I have made myself invisible.
I am just an ordinary man—a man you have known—made invisible.”

“Griffin?” said Kemp.

“Griffin,” answered the Voice. A younger student than you were, almost
an albino, six feet high, and broad, with a pink and white face and red
eyes, who won the medal for chemistry.”

“I am confused,” said Kemp. “My brain is rioting. What has this to do
with Griffin?”

“I _am_ Griffin.”

Kemp thought. “It’s horrible,” he said. “But what devilry must happen
to make a man invisible?”

“It’s no devilry. It’s a process, sane and intelligible enough—”

“It’s horrible!” said Kemp. “How on earth—?”

“It’s horrible enough. But I’m wounded and in pain, and tired ... Great
God! Kemp, you are a man. Take it steady. Give me some food and drink,
and let me sit down here.”

Kemp stared at the bandage as it moved across the room, then saw a
basket chair dragged across the floor and come to rest near the bed. It
creaked, and the seat was depressed the quarter of an inch or so. He
rubbed his eyes and felt his neck again. “This beats ghosts,” he said,
and laughed stupidly.

“That’s better. Thank Heaven, you’re getting sensible!”

“Or silly,” said Kemp, and knuckled his eyes.

“Give me some whiskey. I’m near dead.”

“It didn’t feel so. Where are you? If I get up shall I run into you?
_There_! all right. Whiskey? Here. Where shall I give it to you?”

The chair creaked and Kemp felt the glass drawn away from him. He let
go by an effort; his instinct was all against it. It came to rest
poised twenty inches above the front edge of the seat of the chair. He
stared at it in infinite perplexity. “This is—this must be—hypnotism.
You have suggested you are invisible.”

“Nonsense,” said the Voice.

“It’s frantic.”

“Listen to me.”

“I demonstrated conclusively this morning,” began Kemp, “that
invisibility—”

“Never mind what you’ve demonstrated!—I’m starving,” said the Voice,
“and the night is chilly to a man without clothes.”

“Food?” said Kemp.

The tumbler of whiskey tilted itself. “Yes,” said the Invisible Man
rapping it down. “Have you a dressing-gown?”

Kemp made some exclamation in an undertone. He walked to a wardrobe and
produced a robe of dingy scarlet. “This do?” he asked. It was taken
from him. It hung limp for a moment in mid-air, fluttered weirdly,
stood full and decorous buttoning itself, and sat down in his chair.
“Drawers, socks, slippers would be a comfort,” said the Unseen, curtly.
“And food.”

“Anything. But this is the insanest thing I ever was in, in my life!”

He turned out his drawers for the articles, and then went downstairs to
ransack his larder. He came back with some cold cutlets and bread,
pulled up a light table, and placed them before his guest. “Never mind
knives,” said his visitor, and a cutlet hung in mid-air, with a sound
of gnawing.

“Invisible!” said Kemp, and sat down on a bedroom chair.

“I always like to get something about me before I eat,” said the
Invisible Man, with a full mouth, eating greedily. “Queer fancy!”

“I suppose that wrist is all right,” said Kemp.

“Trust me,” said the Invisible Man.

“Of all the strange and wonderful—”

“Exactly. But it’s odd I should blunder into _your_ house to get my
bandaging. My first stroke of luck! Anyhow I meant to sleep in this
house to-night. You must stand that! It’s a filthy nuisance, my blood
showing, isn’t it? Quite a clot over there. Gets visible as it
coagulates, I see. It’s only the living tissue I’ve changed, and only
for as long as I’m alive.... I’ve been in the house three hours.”

“But how’s it done?” began Kemp, in a tone of exasperation. “Confound
it! The whole business—it’s unreasonable from beginning to end.”

“Quite reasonable,” said the Invisible Man. “Perfectly reasonable.”

He reached over and secured the whiskey bottle. Kemp stared at the
devouring dressing gown. A ray of candle-light penetrating a torn patch
in the right shoulder, made a triangle of light under the left ribs.
“What were the shots?” he asked. “How did the shooting begin?”

“There was a real fool of a man—a sort of confederate of mine—curse
him!—who tried to steal my money. _Has_ done so.”

“Is _he_ invisible too?”

“No.”

“Well?”

“Can’t I have some more to eat before I tell you all that? I’m
hungry—in pain. And you want me to tell stories!”

Kemp got up. “_You_ didn’t do any shooting?” he asked.

“Not me,” said his visitor. “Some fool I’d never seen fired at random.
A lot of them got scared. They all got scared at me. Curse them!—I
say—I want more to eat than this, Kemp.”

“I’ll see what there is to eat downstairs,” said Kemp. “Not much, I’m
afraid.”

After he had done eating, and he made a heavy meal, the Invisible Man
demanded a cigar. He bit the end savagely before Kemp could find a
knife, and cursed when the outer leaf loosened. It was strange to see
him smoking; his mouth, and throat, pharynx and nares, became visible
as a sort of whirling smoke cast.

“This blessed gift of smoking!” he said, and puffed vigorously. “I’m
lucky to have fallen upon you, Kemp. You must help me. Fancy tumbling
on you just now! I’m in a devilish scrape—I’ve been mad, I think. The
things I have been through! But we will do things yet. Let me tell
you—”

He helped himself to more whiskey and soda. Kemp got up, looked about
him, and fetched a glass from his spare room. “It’s wild—but I suppose
I may drink.”

“You haven’t changed much, Kemp, these dozen years. You fair men don’t.
Cool and methodical—after the first collapse. I must tell you. We will
work together!”

“But how was it all done?” said Kemp, “and how did you get like this?”

“For God’s sake, let me smoke in peace for a little while! And then I
will begin to tell you.”

But the story was not told that night. The Invisible Man’s wrist was
growing painful; he was feverish, exhausted, and his mind came round to
brood upon his chase down the hill and the struggle about the inn. He
spoke in fragments of Marvel, he smoked faster, his voice grew angry.
Kemp tried to gather what he could.

“He was afraid of me, I could see that he was afraid of me,” said the
Invisible Man many times over. “He meant to give me the slip—he was
always casting about! What a fool I was!

“The cur!

“I should have killed him!”

“Where did you get the money?” asked Kemp, abruptly.

The Invisible Man was silent for a space. “I can’t tell you to-night,”
he said.

He groaned suddenly and leant forward, supporting his invisible head on
invisible hands. “Kemp,” he said, “I’ve had no sleep for near three
days, except a couple of dozes of an hour or so. I must sleep soon.”

“Well, have my room—have this room.”

“But how can I sleep? If I sleep—he will get away. Ugh! What does it
matter?”

“What’s the shot wound?” asked Kemp, abruptly.

“Nothing—scratch and blood. Oh, God! How I want sleep!”

“Why not?”

The Invisible Man appeared to be regarding Kemp. “Because I’ve a
particular objection to being caught by my fellow-men,” he said slowly.

Kemp started.

“Fool that I am!” said the Invisible Man, striking the table smartly.
“I’ve put the idea into your head.”




CHAPTER XVIII.
THE INVISIBLE MAN SLEEPS


Exhausted and wounded as the Invisible Man was, he refused to accept
Kemp’s word that his freedom should be respected. He examined the two
windows of the bedroom, drew up the blinds and opened the sashes, to
confirm Kemp’s statement that a retreat by them would be possible.
Outside the night was very quiet and still, and the new moon was
setting over the down. Then he examined the keys of the bedroom and the
two dressing-room doors, to satisfy himself that these also could be
made an assurance of freedom. Finally he expressed himself satisfied.
He stood on the hearth rug and Kemp heard the sound of a yawn.

“I’m sorry,” said the Invisible Man, “if I cannot tell you all that I
have done to-night. But I am worn out. It’s grotesque, no doubt. It’s
horrible! But believe me, Kemp, in spite of your arguments of this
morning, it is quite a possible thing. I have made a discovery. I meant
to keep it to myself. I can’t. I must have a partner. And you.... We
can do such things ... But to-morrow. Now, Kemp, I feel as though I
must sleep or perish.”

Kemp stood in the middle of the room staring at the headless garment.
“I suppose I must leave you,” he said. “It’s—incredible. Three things
happening like this, overturning all my preconceptions—would make me
insane. But it’s real! Is there anything more that I can get you?”

“Only bid me good-night,” said Griffin.

“Good-night,” said Kemp, and shook an invisible hand. He walked
sideways to the door. Suddenly the dressing-gown walked quickly towards
him. “Understand me!” said the dressing-gown. “No attempts to hamper
me, or capture me! Or—”

Kemp’s face changed a little. “I thought I gave you my word,” he said.

Kemp closed the door softly behind him, and the key was turned upon him
forthwith. Then, as he stood with an expression of passive amazement on
his face, the rapid feet came to the door of the dressing-room and that
too was locked. Kemp slapped his brow with his hand. “Am I dreaming?
Has the world gone mad—or have I?”

He laughed, and put his hand to the locked door. “Barred out of my own
bedroom, by a flagrant absurdity!” he said.

He walked to the head of the staircase, turned, and stared at the
locked doors. “It’s fact,” he said. He put his fingers to his slightly
bruised neck. “Undeniable fact!

“But—”

He shook his head hopelessly, turned, and went downstairs.

He lit the dining-room lamp, got out a cigar, and began pacing the
room, ejaculating. Now and then he would argue with himself.

“Invisible!” he said.

“Is there such a thing as an invisible animal? ... In the sea, yes.
Thousands—millions. All the larvae, all the little nauplii and
tornarias, all the microscopic things, the jelly-fish. In the sea there
are more things invisible than visible! I never thought of that before.
And in the ponds too! All those little pond-life things—specks of
colourless translucent jelly! But in air? No!

“It can’t be.

“But after all—why not?

“If a man was made of glass he would still be visible.”

His meditation became profound. The bulk of three cigars had passed
into the invisible or diffused as a white ash over the carpet before he
spoke again. Then it was merely an exclamation. He turned aside, walked
out of the room, and went into his little consulting-room and lit the
gas there. It was a little room, because Dr. Kemp did not live by
practice, and in it were the day’s newspapers. The morning’s paper lay
carelessly opened and thrown aside. He caught it up, turned it over,
and read the account of a “Strange Story from Iping” that the mariner
at Port Stowe had spelt over so painfully to Mr. Marvel. Kemp read it
swiftly.

“Wrapped up!” said Kemp. “Disguised! Hiding it! ‘No one seems to have
been aware of his misfortune.’ What the devil _is_ his game?”

He dropped the paper, and his eye went seeking. “Ah!” he said, and
caught up the _St. James’ Gazette_, lying folded up as it arrived. “Now
we shall get at the truth,” said Dr. Kemp. He rent the paper open; a
couple of columns confronted him. “An Entire Village in Sussex goes
Mad” was the heading.

“Good Heavens!” said Kemp, reading eagerly an incredulous account of
the events in Iping, of the previous afternoon, that have already been
described. Over the leaf the report in the morning paper had been
reprinted.

He re-read it. “Ran through the streets striking right and left.
Jaffers insensible. Mr. Huxter in great pain—still unable to describe
what he saw. Painful humiliation—vicar. Woman ill with terror! Windows
smashed. This extraordinary story probably a fabrication. Too good not
to print—_cum grano_!”

He dropped the paper and stared blankly in front of him. “Probably a
fabrication!”

He caught up the paper again, and re-read the whole business. “But when
does the Tramp come in? Why the deuce was he chasing a tramp?”

He sat down abruptly on the surgical bench. “He’s not only invisible,”
he said, “but he’s mad! Homicidal!”

When dawn came to mingle its pallor with the lamp-light and cigar smoke
of the dining-room, Kemp was still pacing up and down, trying to grasp
the incredible.

He was altogether too excited to sleep. His servants, descending
sleepily, discovered him, and were inclined to think that over-study
had worked this ill on him. He gave them extraordinary but quite
explicit instructions to lay breakfast for two in the belvedere
study—and then to confine themselves to the basement and ground-floor.
Then he continued to pace the dining-room until the morning’s paper
came. That had much to say and little to tell, beyond the confirmation
of the evening before, and a very badly written account of another
remarkable tale from Port Burdock. This gave Kemp the essence of the
happenings at the “Jolly Cricketers,” and the name of Marvel. “He has
made me keep with him twenty-four hours,” Marvel testified. Certain
minor facts were added to the Iping story, notably the cutting of the
village telegraph-wire. But there was nothing to throw light on the
connexion between the Invisible Man and the Tramp; for Mr. Marvel had
supplied no information about the three books, or the money with which
he was lined. The incredulous tone had vanished and a shoal of
reporters and inquirers were already at work elaborating the matter.

Kemp read every scrap of the report and sent his housemaid out to get
every one of the morning papers she could. These also he devoured.

“He is invisible!” he said. “And it reads like rage growing to mania!
The things he may do! The things he may do! And he’s upstairs free as
the air. What on earth ought I to do?”

“For instance, would it be a breach of faith if—? No.”

He went to a little untidy desk in the corner, and began a note. He
tore this up half written, and wrote another. He read it over and
considered it. Then he took an envelope and addressed it to “Colonel
Adye, Port Burdock.”

The Invisible Man awoke even as Kemp was doing this. He awoke in an
evil temper, and Kemp, alert for every sound, heard his pattering feet
rush suddenly across the bedroom overhead. Then a chair was flung over
and the wash-hand stand tumbler smashed. Kemp hurried upstairs and
rapped eagerly.




CHAPTER XIX.
CERTAIN FIRST PRINCIPLES


“What’s the matter?” asked Kemp, when the Invisible Man admitted him.

“Nothing,” was the answer.

“But, confound it! The smash?”

“Fit of temper,” said the Invisible Man. “Forgot this arm; and it’s
sore.”

“You’re rather liable to that sort of thing.”

“I am.”

Kemp walked across the room and picked up the fragments of broken
glass. “All the facts are out about you,” said Kemp, standing up with
the glass in his hand; “all that happened in Iping, and down the hill.
The world has become aware of its invisible citizen. But no one knows
you are here.”

The Invisible Man swore.

“The secret’s out. I gather it was a secret. I don’t know what your
plans are, but of course I’m anxious to help you.”

The Invisible Man sat down on the bed.

“There’s breakfast upstairs,” said Kemp, speaking as easily as
possible, and he was delighted to find his strange guest rose
willingly. Kemp led the way up the narrow staircase to the belvedere.

“Before we can do anything else,” said Kemp, “I must understand a
little more about this invisibility of yours.” He had sat down, after
one nervous glance out of the window, with the air of a man who has
talking to do. His doubts of the sanity of the entire business flashed
and vanished again as he looked across to where Griffin sat at the
breakfast-table—a headless, handless dressing-gown, wiping unseen lips
on a miraculously held serviette.

“It’s simple enough—and credible enough,” said Griffin, putting the
serviette aside and leaning the invisible head on an invisible hand.

“No doubt, to you, but—” Kemp laughed.

“Well, yes; to me it seemed wonderful at first, no doubt. But now,
great God! ... But we will do great things yet! I came on the stuff
first at Chesilstowe.”

“Chesilstowe?”

“I went there after I left London. You know I dropped medicine and took
up physics? No; well, I did. _Light_ fascinated me.”

“Ah!”

“Optical density! The whole subject is a network of riddles—a network
with solutions glimmering elusively through. And being but
two-and-twenty and full of enthusiasm, I said, ‘I will devote my life
to this. This is worth while.’ You know what fools we are at
two-and-twenty?”

“Fools then or fools now,” said Kemp.

“As though knowing could be any satisfaction to a man!

“But I went to work—like a slave. And I had hardly worked and thought
about the matter six months before light came through one of the meshes
suddenly—blindingly! I found a general principle of pigments and
refraction—a formula, a geometrical expression involving four
dimensions. Fools, common men, even common mathematicians, do not know
anything of what some general expression may mean to the student of
molecular physics. In the books—the books that tramp has hidden—there
are marvels, miracles! But this was not a method, it was an idea, that
might lead to a method by which it would be possible, without changing
any other property of matter—except, in some instances colours—to lower
the refractive index of a substance, solid or liquid, to that of air—so
far as all practical purposes are concerned.”

“Phew!” said Kemp. “That’s odd! But still I don’t see quite ... I can
understand that thereby you could spoil a valuable stone, but personal
invisibility is a far cry.”

“Precisely,” said Griffin. “But consider, visibility depends on the
action of the visible bodies on light. Either a body absorbs light, or
it reflects or refracts it, or does all these things. If it neither
reflects nor refracts nor absorbs light, it cannot of itself be
visible. You see an opaque red box, for instance, because the colour
absorbs some of the light and reflects the rest, all the red part of
the light, to you. If it did not absorb any particular part of the
light, but reflected it all, then it would be a shining white box.
Silver! A diamond box would neither absorb much of the light nor
reflect much from the general surface, but just here and there where
the surfaces were favourable the light would be reflected and
refracted, so that you would get a brilliant appearance of flashing
reflections and translucencies—a sort of skeleton of light. A glass box
would not be so brilliant, nor so clearly visible, as a diamond box,
because there would be less refraction and reflection. See that? From
certain points of view you would see quite clearly through it. Some
kinds of glass would be more visible than others, a box of flint glass
would be brighter than a box of ordinary window glass. A box of very
thin common glass would be hard to see in a bad light, because it would
absorb hardly any light and refract and reflect very little. And if you
put a sheet of common white glass in water, still more if you put it in
some denser liquid than water, it would vanish almost altogether,
because light passing from water to glass is only slightly refracted or
reflected or indeed affected in any way. It is almost as invisible as a
jet of coal gas or hydrogen is in air. And for precisely the same
reason!”

“Yes,” said Kemp, “that is pretty plain sailing.”

“And here is another fact you will know to be true. If a sheet of glass
is smashed, Kemp, and beaten into a powder, it becomes much more
visible while it is in the air; it becomes at last an opaque white
powder. This is because the powdering multiplies the surfaces of the
glass at which refraction and reflection occur. In the sheet of glass
there are only two surfaces; in the powder the light is reflected or
refracted by each grain it passes through, and very little gets right
through the powder. But if the white powdered glass is put into water,
it forthwith vanishes. The powdered glass and water have much the same
refractive index; that is, the light undergoes very little refraction
or reflection in passing from one to the other.

“You make the glass invisible by putting it into a liquid of nearly the
same refractive index; a transparent thing becomes invisible if it is
put in any medium of almost the same refractive index. And if you will
consider only a second, you will see also that the powder of glass
might be made to vanish in air, if its refractive index could be made
the same as that of air; for then there would be no refraction or
reflection as the light passed from glass to air.”

“Yes, yes,” said Kemp. “But a man’s not powdered glass!”

“No,” said Griffin. “He’s more transparent!”

“Nonsense!”

“That from a doctor! How one forgets! Have you already forgotten your
physics, in ten years? Just think of all the things that are
transparent and seem not to be so. Paper, for instance, is made up of
transparent fibres, and it is white and opaque only for the same reason
that a powder of glass is white and opaque. Oil white paper, fill up
the interstices between the particles with oil so that there is no
longer refraction or reflection except at the surfaces, and it becomes
as transparent as glass. And not only paper, but cotton fibre, linen
fibre, wool fibre, woody fibre, and _bone_, Kemp, _flesh_, Kemp,
_hair_, Kemp, _nails_ and _nerves_, Kemp, in fact the whole fabric of a
man except the red of his blood and the black pigment of hair, are all
made up of transparent, colourless tissue. So little suffices to make
us visible one to the other. For the most part the fibres of a living
creature are no more opaque than water.”

“Great Heavens!” cried Kemp. “Of course, of course! I was thinking only
last night of the sea larvae and all jelly-fish!”

“_Now_ you have me! And all that I knew and had in mind a year after I
left London—six years ago. But I kept it to myself. I had to do my work
under frightful disadvantages. Oliver, my professor, was a scientific
bounder, a journalist by instinct, a thief of ideas—he was always
prying! And you know the knavish system of the scientific world. I
simply would not publish, and let him share my credit. I went on
working; I got nearer and nearer making my formula into an experiment,
a reality. I told no living soul, because I meant to flash my work upon
the world with crushing effect and become famous at a blow. I took up
the question of pigments to fill up certain gaps. And suddenly, not by
design but by accident, I made a discovery in physiology.”

“Yes?”

“You know the red colouring matter of blood; it can be made
white—colourless—and remain with all the functions it has now!”

Kemp gave a cry of incredulous amazement.

The Invisible Man rose and began pacing the little study. “You may well
exclaim. I remember that night. It was late at night—in the daytime one
was bothered with the gaping, silly students—and I worked then
sometimes till dawn. It came suddenly, splendid and complete in my
mind. I was alone; the laboratory was still, with the tall lights
burning brightly and silently. In all my great moments I have been
alone. ‘One could make an animal—a tissue—transparent! One could make
it invisible! All except the pigments—I could be invisible!’ I said,
suddenly realising what it meant to be an albino with such knowledge.
It was overwhelming. I left the filtering I was doing, and went and
stared out of the great window at the stars. ‘I could be invisible!’ I
repeated.

“To do such a thing would be to transcend magic. And I beheld,
unclouded by doubt, a magnificent vision of all that invisibility might
mean to a man—the mystery, the power, the freedom. Drawbacks I saw
none. You have only to think! And I, a shabby, poverty-struck,
hemmed-in demonstrator, teaching fools in a provincial college, might
suddenly become—this. I ask you, Kemp if _you_ ... Anyone, I tell you,
would have flung himself upon that research. And I worked three years,
and every mountain of difficulty I toiled over showed another from its
summit. The infinite details! And the exasperation! A professor, a
provincial professor, always prying. ‘When are you going to publish
this work of yours?’ was his everlasting question. And the students,
the cramped means! Three years I had of it—

“And after three years of secrecy and exasperation, I found that to
complete it was impossible—impossible.”

“How?” asked Kemp.

“Money,” said the Invisible Man, and went again to stare out of the
window.

He turned around abruptly. “I robbed the old man—robbed my father.

“The money was not his, and he shot himself.”




CHAPTER XX.
AT THE HOUSE IN GREAT PORTLAND STREET


For a moment Kemp sat in silence, staring at the back of the headless
figure at the window. Then he started, struck by a thought, rose, took
the Invisible Man’s arm, and turned him away from the outlook.

“You are tired,” he said, “and while I sit, you walk about. Have my
chair.”

He placed himself between Griffin and the nearest window.

For a space Griffin sat silent, and then he resumed abruptly:

“I had left the Chesilstowe cottage already,” he said, “when that
happened. It was last December. I had taken a room in London, a large
unfurnished room in a big ill-managed lodging-house in a slum near
Great Portland Street. The room was soon full of the appliances I had
bought with his money; the work was going on steadily, successfully,
drawing near an end. I was like a man emerging from a thicket, and
suddenly coming on some unmeaning tragedy. I went to bury him. My mind
was still on this research, and I did not lift a finger to save his
character. I remember the funeral, the cheap hearse, the scant
ceremony, the windy frost-bitten hillside, and the old college friend
of his who read the service over him—a shabby, black, bent old man with
a snivelling cold.

“I remember walking back to the empty house, through the place that had
once been a village and was now patched and tinkered by the jerry
builders into the ugly likeness of a town. Every way the roads ran out
at last into the desecrated fields and ended in rubble heaps and rank
wet weeds. I remember myself as a gaunt black figure, going along the
slippery, shiny pavement, and the strange sense of detachment I felt
from the squalid respectability, the sordid commercialism of the place.

“I did not feel a bit sorry for my father. He seemed to me to be the
victim of his own foolish sentimentality. The current cant required my
attendance at his funeral, but it was really not my affair.

“But going along the High Street, my old life came back to me for a
space, for I met the girl I had known ten years since. Our eyes met.

“Something moved me to turn back and talk to her. She was a very
ordinary person.

“It was all like a dream, that visit to the old places. I did not feel
then that I was lonely, that I had come out from the world into a
desolate place. I appreciated my loss of sympathy, but I put it down to
the general inanity of things. Re-entering my room seemed like the
recovery of reality. There were the things I knew and loved. There
stood the apparatus, the experiments arranged and waiting. And now
there was scarcely a difficulty left, beyond the planning of details.

“I will tell you, Kemp, sooner or later, all the complicated processes.
We need not go into that now. For the most part, saving certain gaps I
chose to remember, they are written in cypher in those books that tramp
has hidden. We must hunt him down. We must get those books again. But
the essential phase was to place the transparent object whose
refractive index was to be lowered between two radiating centres of a
sort of ethereal vibration, of which I will tell you more fully later.
No, not those Röntgen vibrations—I don’t know that these others of mine
have been described. Yet they are obvious enough. I needed two little
dynamos, and these I worked with a cheap gas engine. My first
experiment was with a bit of white wool fabric. It was the strangest
thing in the world to see it in the flicker of the flashes soft and
white, and then to watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish.

“I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the
emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it
awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it
again.

“And then came a curious experience. I heard a miaow behind me, and
turning, saw a lean white cat, very dirty, on the cistern cover outside
the window. A thought came into my head. ‘Everything ready for you,’ I
said, and went to the window, opened it, and called softly. She came
in, purring—the poor beast was starving—and I gave her some milk. All
my food was in a cupboard in the corner of the room. After that she
went smelling round the room, evidently with the idea of making herself
at home. The invisible rag upset her a bit; you should have seen her
spit at it! But I made her comfortable on the pillow of my truckle-bed.
And I gave her butter to get her to wash.”

“And you processed her?”

“I processed her. But giving drugs to a cat is no joke, Kemp! And the
process failed.”

“Failed!”

“In two particulars. These were the claws and the pigment stuff, what
is it?—at the back of the eye in a cat. You know?”

“_Tapetum_.”

“Yes, the _tapetum_. It didn’t go. After I’d given the stuff to bleach
the blood and done certain other things to her, I gave the beast opium,
and put her and the pillow she was sleeping on, on the apparatus. And
after all the rest had faded and vanished, there remained two little
ghosts of her eyes.”

“Odd!”

“I can’t explain it. She was bandaged and clamped, of course—so I had
her safe; but she woke while she was still misty, and miaowed dismally,
and someone came knocking. It was an old woman from downstairs, who
suspected me of vivisecting—a drink-sodden old creature, with only a
white cat to care for in all the world. I whipped out some chloroform,
applied it, and answered the door. ‘Did I hear a cat?’ she asked. ‘My
cat?’ ‘Not here,’ said I, very politely. She was a little doubtful and
tried to peer past me into the room; strange enough to her no
doubt—bare walls, uncurtained windows, truckle-bed, with the gas engine
vibrating, and the seethe of the radiant points, and that faint ghastly
stinging of chloroform in the air. She had to be satisfied at last and
went away again.”

“How long did it take?” asked Kemp.

“Three or four hours—the cat. The bones and sinews and the fat were the
last to go, and the tips of the coloured hairs. And, as I say, the back
part of the eye, tough, iridescent stuff it is, wouldn’t go at all.

“It was night outside long before the business was over, and nothing
was to be seen but the dim eyes and the claws. I stopped the gas
engine, felt for and stroked the beast, which was still insensible, and
then, being tired, left it sleeping on the invisible pillow and went to
bed. I found it hard to sleep. I lay awake thinking weak aimless stuff,
going over the experiment over and over again, or dreaming feverishly
of things growing misty and vanishing about me, until everything, the
ground I stood on, vanished, and so I came to that sickly falling
nightmare one gets. About two, the cat began miaowing about the room. I
tried to hush it by talking to it, and then I decided to turn it out. I
remember the shock I had when striking a light—there were just the
round eyes shining green—and nothing round them. I would have given it
milk, but I hadn’t any. It wouldn’t be quiet, it just sat down and
miaowed at the door. I tried to catch it, with an idea of putting it
out of the window, but it wouldn’t be caught, it vanished. Then it
began miaowing in different parts of the room. At last I opened the
window and made a bustle. I suppose it went out at last. I never saw
any more of it.

“Then—Heaven knows why—I fell thinking of my father’s funeral again,
and the dismal windy hillside, until the day had come. I found sleeping
was hopeless, and, locking my door after me, wandered out into the
morning streets.”

“You don’t mean to say there’s an invisible cat at large!” said Kemp.

“If it hasn’t been killed,” said the Invisible Man. “Why not?”

“Why not?” said Kemp. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s very probably been killed,” said the Invisible Man. “It was alive
four days after, I know, and down a grating in Great Titchfield Street;
because I saw a crowd round the place, trying to see whence the
miaowing came.”

He was silent for the best part of a minute. Then he resumed abruptly:

“I remember that morning before the change very vividly. I must have
gone up Great Portland Street. I remember the barracks in Albany
Street, and the horse soldiers coming out, and at last I found the
summit of Primrose Hill. It was a sunny day in January—one of those
sunny, frosty days that came before the snow this year. My weary brain
tried to formulate the position, to plot out a plan of action.

“I was surprised to find, now that my prize was within my grasp, how
inconclusive its attainment seemed. As a matter of fact I was worked
out; the intense stress of nearly four years’ continuous work left me
incapable of any strength of feeling. I was apathetic, and I tried in
vain to recover the enthusiasm of my first inquiries, the passion of
discovery that had enabled me to compass even the downfall of my
father’s grey hairs. Nothing seemed to matter. I saw pretty clearly
this was a transient mood, due to overwork and want of sleep, and that
either by drugs or rest it would be possible to recover my energies.

“All I could think clearly was that the thing had to be carried
through; the fixed idea still ruled me. And soon, for the money I had
was almost exhausted. I looked about me at the hillside, with children
playing and girls watching them, and tried to think of all the
fantastic advantages an invisible man would have in the world. After a
time I crawled home, took some food and a strong dose of strychnine,
and went to sleep in my clothes on my unmade bed. Strychnine is a grand
tonic, Kemp, to take the flabbiness out of a man.”

“It’s the devil,” said Kemp. “It’s the palaeolithic in a bottle.”

“I awoke vastly invigorated and rather irritable. You know?”

“I know the stuff.”

“And there was someone rapping at the door. It was my landlord with
threats and inquiries, an old Polish Jew in a long grey coat and greasy
slippers. I had been tormenting a cat in the night, he was sure—the old
woman’s tongue had been busy. He insisted on knowing all about it. The
laws in this country against vivisection were very severe—he might be
liable. I denied the cat. Then the vibration of the little gas engine
could be felt all over the house, he said. That was true, certainly. He
edged round me into the room, peering about over his German-silver
spectacles, and a sudden dread came into my mind that he might carry
away something of my secret. I tried to keep between him and the
concentrating apparatus I had arranged, and that only made him more
curious. What was I doing? Why was I always alone and secretive? Was it
legal? Was it dangerous? I paid nothing but the usual rent. His had
always been a most respectable house—in a disreputable neighbourhood.
Suddenly my temper gave way. I told him to get out. He began to
protest, to jabber of his right of entry. In a moment I had him by the
collar; something ripped, and he went spinning out into his own
passage. I slammed and locked the door and sat down quivering.

“He made a fuss outside, which I disregarded, and after a time he went
away.

“But this brought matters to a crisis. I did not know what he would do,
nor even what he had the power to do. To move to fresh apartments would
have meant delay; altogether I had barely twenty pounds left in the
world, for the most part in a bank—and I could not afford that. Vanish!
It was irresistible. Then there would be an inquiry, the sacking of my
room.

“At the thought of the possibility of my work being exposed or
interrupted at its very climax, I became very angry and active. I
hurried out with my three books of notes, my cheque-book—the tramp has
them now—and directed them from the nearest Post Office to a house of
call for letters and parcels in Great Portland Street. I tried to go
out noiselessly. Coming in, I found my landlord going quietly upstairs;
he had heard the door close, I suppose. You would have laughed to see
him jump aside on the landing as I came tearing after him. He glared at
me as I went by him, and I made the house quiver with the slamming of
my door. I heard him come shuffling up to my floor, hesitate, and go
down. I set to work upon my preparations forthwith.

“It was all done that evening and night. While I was still sitting
under the sickly, drowsy influence of the drugs that decolourise blood,
there came a repeated knocking at the door. It ceased, footsteps went
away and returned, and the knocking was resumed. There was an attempt
to push something under the door—a blue paper. Then in a fit of
irritation I rose and went and flung the door wide open. ‘Now then?’
said I.

“It was my landlord, with a notice of ejectment or something. He held
it out to me, saw something odd about my hands, I expect, and lifted
his eyes to my face.

“For a moment he gaped. Then he gave a sort of inarticulate cry,
dropped candle and writ together, and went blundering down the dark
passage to the stairs. I shut the door, locked it, and went to the
looking-glass. Then I understood his terror.... My face was white—like
white stone.

“But it was all horrible. I had not expected the suffering. A night of
racking anguish, sickness and fainting. I set my teeth, though my skin
was presently afire, all my body afire; but I lay there like grim
death. I understood now how it was the cat had howled until I
chloroformed it. Lucky it was I lived alone and untended in my room.
There were times when I sobbed and groaned and talked. But I stuck to
it.... I became insensible and woke languid in the darkness.

“The pain had passed. I thought I was killing myself and I did not
care. I shall never forget that dawn, and the strange horror of seeing
that my hands had become as clouded glass, and watching them grow
clearer and thinner as the day went by, until at last I could see the
sickly disorder of my room through them, though I closed my transparent
eyelids. My limbs became glassy, the bones and arteries faded,
vanished, and the little white nerves went last. I gritted my teeth and
stayed there to the end. At last only the dead tips of the fingernails
remained, pallid and white, and the brown stain of some acid upon my
fingers.

“I struggled up. At first I was as incapable as a swathed
infant—stepping with limbs I could not see. I was weak and very hungry.
I went and stared at nothing in my shaving-glass, at nothing save where
an attenuated pigment still remained behind the retina of my eyes,
fainter than mist. I had to hang on to the table and press my forehead
against the glass.

“It was only by a frantic effort of will that I dragged myself back to
the apparatus and completed the process.

“I slept during the forenoon, pulling the sheet over my eyes to shut
out the light, and about midday I was awakened again by a knocking. My
strength had returned. I sat up and listened and heard a whispering. I
sprang to my feet and as noiselessly as possible began to detach the
connections of my apparatus, and to distribute it about the room, so as
to destroy the suggestions of its arrangement. Presently the knocking
was renewed and voices called, first my landlord’s, and then two
others. To gain time I answered them. The invisible rag and pillow came
to hand and I opened the window and pitched them out on to the cistern
cover. As the window opened, a heavy crash came at the door. Someone
had charged it with the idea of smashing the lock. But the stout bolts
I had screwed up some days before stopped him. That startled me, made
me angry. I began to tremble and do things hurriedly.

“I tossed together some loose paper, straw, packing paper and so forth,
in the middle of the room, and turned on the gas. Heavy blows began to
rain upon the door. I could not find the matches. I beat my hands on
the wall with rage. I turned down the gas again, stepped out of the
window on the cistern cover, very softly lowered the sash, and sat
down, secure and invisible, but quivering with anger, to watch events.
They split a panel, I saw, and in another moment they had broken away
the staples of the bolts and stood in the open doorway. It was the
landlord and his two step-sons, sturdy young men of three or four and
twenty. Behind them fluttered the old hag of a woman from downstairs.

“You may imagine their astonishment to find the room empty. One of the
younger men rushed to the window at once, flung it up and stared out.
His staring eyes and thick-lipped bearded face came a foot from my
face. I was half minded to hit his silly countenance, but I arrested my
doubled fist. He stared right through me. So did the others as they
joined him. The old man went and peered under the bed, and then they
all made a rush for the cupboard. They had to argue about it at length
in Yiddish and Cockney English. They concluded I had not answered them,
that their imagination had deceived them. A feeling of extraordinary
elation took the place of my anger as I sat outside the window and
watched these four people—for the old lady came in, glancing
suspiciously about her like a cat, trying to understand the riddle of
my behaviour.

“The old man, so far as I could understand his _patois_, agreed with
the old lady that I was a vivisectionist. The sons protested in garbled
English that I was an electrician, and appealed to the dynamos and
radiators. They were all nervous about my arrival, although I found
subsequently that they had bolted the front door. The old lady peered
into the cupboard and under the bed, and one of the young men pushed up
the register and stared up the chimney. One of my fellow lodgers, a
coster-monger who shared the opposite room with a butcher, appeared on
the landing, and he was called in and told incoherent things.

“It occurred to me that the radiators, if they fell into the hands of
some acute well-educated person, would give me away too much, and
watching my opportunity, I came into the room and tilted one of the
little dynamos off its fellow on which it was standing, and smashed
both apparatus. Then, while they were trying to explain the smash, I
dodged out of the room and went softly downstairs.

“I went into one of the sitting-rooms and waited until they came down,
still speculating and argumentative, all a little disappointed at
finding no ‘horrors,’ and all a little puzzled how they stood legally
towards me. Then I slipped up again with a box of matches, fired my
heap of paper and rubbish, put the chairs and bedding thereby, led the
gas to the affair, by means of an india-rubber tube, and waving a
farewell to the room left it for the last time.”

“You fired the house!” exclaimed Kemp.

“Fired the house. It was the only way to cover my trail—and no doubt it
was insured. I slipped the bolts of the front door quietly and went out
into the street. I was invisible, and I was only just beginning to
realise the extraordinary advantage my invisibility gave me. My head
was already teeming with plans of all the wild and wonderful things I
had now impunity to do.”




CHAPTER XXI.
IN OXFORD STREET


“In going downstairs the first time I found an unexpected difficulty
because I could not see my feet; indeed I stumbled twice, and there was
an unaccustomed clumsiness in gripping the bolt. By not looking down,
however, I managed to walk on the level passably well.

“My mood, I say, was one of exaltation. I felt as a seeing man might
do, with padded feet and noiseless clothes, in a city of the blind. I
experienced a wild impulse to jest, to startle people, to clap men on
the back, fling people’s hats astray, and generally revel in my
extraordinary advantage.

“But hardly had I emerged upon Great Portland Street, however (my
lodging was close to the big draper’s shop there), when I heard a
clashing concussion and was hit violently behind, and turning saw a man
carrying a basket of soda-water syphons, and looking in amazement at
his burden. Although the blow had really hurt me, I found something so
irresistible in his astonishment that I laughed aloud. ‘The devil’s in
the basket,’ I said, and suddenly twisted it out of his hand. He let go
incontinently, and I swung the whole weight into the air.

“But a fool of a cabman, standing outside a public house, made a sudden
rush for this, and his extending fingers took me with excruciating
violence under the ear. I let the whole down with a smash on the
cabman, and then, with shouts and the clatter of feet about me, people
coming out of shops, vehicles pulling up, I realised what I had done
for myself, and cursing my folly, backed against a shop window and
prepared to dodge out of the confusion. In a moment I should be wedged
into a crowd and inevitably discovered. I pushed by a butcher boy, who
luckily did not turn to see the nothingness that shoved him aside, and
dodged behind the cab-man’s four-wheeler. I do not know how they
settled the business. I hurried straight across the road, which was
happily clear, and hardly heeding which way I went, in the fright of
detection the incident had given me, plunged into the afternoon throng
of Oxford Street.

“I tried to get into the stream of people, but they were too thick for
me, and in a moment my heels were being trodden upon. I took to the
gutter, the roughness of which I found painful to my feet, and
forthwith the shaft of a crawling hansom dug me forcibly under the
shoulder blade, reminding me that I was already bruised severely. I
staggered out of the way of the cab, avoided a perambulator by a
convulsive movement, and found myself behind the hansom. A happy
thought saved me, and as this drove slowly along I followed in its
immediate wake, trembling and astonished at the turn of my adventure.
And not only trembling, but shivering. It was a bright day in January
and I was stark naked and the thin slime of mud that covered the road
was freezing. Foolish as it seems to me now, I had not reckoned that,
transparent or not, I was still amenable to the weather and all its
consequences.

“Then suddenly a bright idea came into my head. I ran round and got
into the cab. And so, shivering, scared, and sniffing with the first
intimations of a cold, and with the bruises in the small of my back
growing upon my attention, I drove slowly along Oxford Street and past
Tottenham Court Road. My mood was as different from that in which I had
sallied forth ten minutes ago as it is possible to imagine. This
invisibility indeed! The one thought that possessed me was—how was I to
get out of the scrape I was in.

“We crawled past Mudie’s, and there a tall woman with five or six
yellow-labelled books hailed my cab, and I sprang out just in time to
escape her, shaving a railway van narrowly in my flight. I made off up
the roadway to Bloomsbury Square, intending to strike north past the
Museum and so get into the quiet district. I was now cruelly chilled,
and the strangeness of my situation so unnerved me that I whimpered as
I ran. At the northward corner of the Square a little white dog ran out
of the Pharmaceutical Society’s offices, and incontinently made for me,
nose down.

“I had never realised it before, but the nose is to the mind of a dog
what the eye is to the mind of a seeing man. Dogs perceive the scent of
a man moving as men perceive his vision. This brute began barking and
leaping, showing, as it seemed to me, only too plainly that he was
aware of me. I crossed Great Russell Street, glancing over my shoulder
as I did so, and went some way along Montague Street before I realised
what I was running towards.

“Then I became aware of a blare of music, and looking along the street
saw a number of people advancing out of Russell Square, red shirts, and
the banner of the Salvation Army to the fore. Such a crowd, chanting in
the roadway and scoffing on the pavement, I could not hope to
penetrate, and dreading to go back and farther from home again, and
deciding on the spur of the moment, I ran up the white steps of a house
facing the museum railings, and stood there until the crowd should have
passed. Happily the dog stopped at the noise of the band too,
hesitated, and turned tail, running back to Bloomsbury Square again.

“On came the band, bawling with unconscious irony some hymn about ‘When
shall we see His face?’ and it seemed an interminable time to me before
the tide of the crowd washed along the pavement by me. Thud, thud,
thud, came the drum with a vibrating resonance, and for the moment I
did not notice two urchins stopping at the railings by me. ‘See ’em,’
said one. ‘See what?’ said the other. ‘Why—them footmarks—bare. Like
what you makes in mud.’

“I looked down and saw the youngsters had stopped and were gaping at
the muddy footmarks I had left behind me up the newly whitened steps.
The passing people elbowed and jostled them, but their confounded
intelligence was arrested. ‘Thud, thud, thud, when, thud, shall we see,
thud, his face, thud, thud.’ ‘There’s a barefoot man gone up them
steps, or I don’t know nothing,’ said one. ‘And he ain’t never come
down again. And his foot was a-bleeding.’

“The thick of the crowd had already passed. ‘Looky there, Ted,’ quoth
the younger of the detectives, with the sharpness of surprise in his
voice, and pointed straight to my feet. I looked down and saw at once
the dim suggestion of their outline sketched in splashes of mud. For a
moment I was paralysed.

“‘Why, that’s rum,’ said the elder. ‘Dashed rum! It’s just like the
ghost of a foot, ain’t it?’ He hesitated and advanced with outstretched
hand. A man pulled up short to see what he was catching, and then a
girl. In another moment he would have touched me. Then I saw what to
do. I made a step, the boy started back with an exclamation, and with a
rapid movement I swung myself over into the portico of the next house.
But the smaller boy was sharp-eyed enough to follow the movement, and
before I was well down the steps and upon the pavement, he had
recovered from his momentary astonishment and was shouting out that the
feet had gone over the wall.

“They rushed round and saw my new footmarks flash into being on the
lower step and upon the pavement. ‘What’s up?’ asked someone. ‘Feet!
Look! Feet running!’

“Everybody in the road, except my three pursuers, was pouring along
after the Salvation Army, and this blow not only impeded me but them.
There was an eddy of surprise and interrogation. At the cost of bowling
over one young fellow I got through, and in another moment I was
rushing headlong round the circuit of Russell Square, with six or seven
astonished people following my footmarks. There was no time for
explanation, or else the whole host would have been after me.

“Twice I doubled round corners, thrice I crossed the road and came back
upon my tracks, and then, as my feet grew hot and dry, the damp
impressions began to fade. At last I had a breathing space and rubbed
my feet clean with my hands, and so got away altogether. The last I saw
of the chase was a little group of a dozen people perhaps, studying
with infinite perplexity a slowly drying footprint that had resulted
from a puddle in Tavistock Square, a footprint as isolated and
incomprehensible to them as Crusoe’s solitary discovery.

“This running warmed me to a certain extent, and I went on with a
better courage through the maze of less frequented roads that runs
hereabouts. My back had now become very stiff and sore, my tonsils were
painful from the cabman’s fingers, and the skin of my neck had been
scratched by his nails; my feet hurt exceedingly and I was lame from a
little cut on one foot. I saw in time a blind man approaching me, and
fled limping, for I feared his subtle intuitions. Once or twice
accidental collisions occurred and I left people amazed, with
unaccountable curses ringing in their ears. Then came something silent
and quiet against my face, and across the Square fell a thin veil of
slowly falling flakes of snow. I had caught a cold, and do as I would I
could not avoid an occasional sneeze. And every dog that came in sight,
with its pointing nose and curious sniffing, was a terror to me.

“Then came men and boys running, first one and then others, and
shouting as they ran. It was a fire. They ran in the direction of my
lodging, and looking back down a street I saw a mass of black smoke
streaming up above the roofs and telephone wires. It was my lodging
burning; my clothes, my apparatus, all my resources indeed, except my
cheque-book and the three volumes of memoranda that awaited me in Great
Portland Street, were there. Burning! I had burnt my boats—if ever a
man did! The place was blazing.”

The Invisible Man paused and thought. Kemp glanced nervously out of the
window. “Yes?” he said. “Go on.”




CHAPTER XXII.
IN THE EMPORIUM


“So last January, with the beginning of a snowstorm in the air about
me—and if it settled on me it would betray me!—weary, cold, painful,
inexpressibly wretched, and still but half convinced of my invisible
quality, I began this new life to which I am committed. I had no
refuge, no appliances, no human being in the world in whom I could
confide. To have told my secret would have given me away—made a mere
show and rarity of me. Nevertheless, I was half-minded to accost some
passer-by and throw myself upon his mercy. But I knew too clearly the
terror and brutal cruelty my advances would evoke. I made no plans in
the street. My sole object was to get shelter from the snow, to get
myself covered and warm; then I might hope to plan. But even to me, an
Invisible Man, the rows of London houses stood latched, barred, and
bolted impregnably.

“Only one thing could I see clearly before me—the cold exposure and
misery of the snowstorm and the night.

“And then I had a brilliant idea. I turned down one of the roads
leading from Gower Street to Tottenham Court Road, and found myself
outside Omniums, the big establishment where everything is to be
bought—you know the place: meat, grocery, linen, furniture, clothing,
oil paintings even—a huge meandering collection of shops rather than a
shop. I had thought I should find the doors open, but they were closed,
and as I stood in the wide entrance a carriage stopped outside, and a
man in uniform—you know the kind of personage with ‘Omnium’ on his
cap—flung open the door. I contrived to enter, and walking down the
shop—it was a department where they were selling ribbons and gloves and
stockings and that kind of thing—came to a more spacious region devoted
to picnic baskets and wicker furniture.

“I did not feel safe there, however; people were going to and fro, and
I prowled restlessly about until I came upon a huge section in an upper
floor containing multitudes of bedsteads, and over these I clambered,
and found a resting-place at last among a huge pile of folded flock
mattresses. The place was already lit up and agreeably warm, and I
decided to remain where I was, keeping a cautious eye on the two or
three sets of shopmen and customers who were meandering through the
place, until closing time came. Then I should be able, I thought, to
rob the place for food and clothing, and disguised, prowl through it
and examine its resources, perhaps sleep on some of the bedding. That
seemed an acceptable plan. My idea was to procure clothing to make
myself a muffled but acceptable figure, to get money, and then to
recover my books and parcels where they awaited me, take a lodging
somewhere and elaborate plans for the complete realisation of the
advantages my invisibility gave me (as I still imagined) over my
fellow-men.

“Closing time arrived quickly enough. It could not have been more than
an hour after I took up my position on the mattresses before I noticed
the blinds of the windows being drawn, and customers being marched
doorward. And then a number of brisk young men began with remarkable
alacrity to tidy up the goods that remained disturbed. I left my lair
as the crowds diminished, and prowled cautiously out into the less
desolate parts of the shop. I was really surprised to observe how
rapidly the young men and women whipped away the goods displayed for
sale during the day. All the boxes of goods, the hanging fabrics, the
festoons of lace, the boxes of sweets in the grocery section, the
displays of this and that, were being whipped down, folded up, slapped
into tidy receptacles, and everything that could not be taken down and
put away had sheets of some coarse stuff like sacking flung over them.
Finally all the chairs were turned up on to the counters, leaving the
floor clear. Directly each of these young people had done, he or she
made promptly for the door with such an expression of animation as I
have rarely observed in a shop assistant before. Then came a lot of
youngsters scattering sawdust and carrying pails and brooms. I had to
dodge to get out of the way, and as it was, my ankle got stung with the
sawdust. For some time, wandering through the swathed and darkened
departments, I could hear the brooms at work. And at last a good hour
or more after the shop had been closed, came a noise of locking doors.
Silence came upon the place, and I found myself wandering through the
vast and intricate shops, galleries, show-rooms of the place, alone. It
was very still; in one place I remember passing near one of the
Tottenham Court Road entrances and listening to the tapping of
boot-heels of the passers-by.

“My first visit was to the place where I had seen stockings and gloves
for sale. It was dark, and I had the devil of a hunt after matches,
which I found at last in the drawer of the little cash desk. Then I had
to get a candle. I had to tear down wrappings and ransack a number of
boxes and drawers, but at last I managed to turn out what I sought; the
box label called them lambswool pants, and lambswool vests. Then socks,
a thick comforter, and then I went to the clothing place and got
trousers, a lounge jacket, an overcoat and a slouch hat—a clerical sort
of hat with the brim turned down. I began to feel a human being again,
and my next thought was food.

“Upstairs was a refreshment department, and there I got cold meat.
There was coffee still in the urn, and I lit the gas and warmed it up
again, and altogether I did not do badly. Afterwards, prowling through
the place in search of blankets—I had to put up at last with a heap of
down quilts—I came upon a grocery section with a lot of chocolate and
candied fruits, more than was good for me indeed—and some white
burgundy. And near that was a toy department, and I had a brilliant
idea. I found some artificial noses—dummy noses, you know, and I
thought of dark spectacles. But Omniums had no optical department. My
nose had been a difficulty indeed—I had thought of paint. But the
discovery set my mind running on wigs and masks and the like. Finally I
went to sleep in a heap of down quilts, very warm and comfortable.

“My last thoughts before sleeping were the most agreeable I had had
since the change. I was in a state of physical serenity, and that was
reflected in my mind. I thought that I should be able to slip out
unobserved in the morning with my clothes upon me, muffling my face
with a white wrapper I had taken, purchase, with the money I had taken,
spectacles and so forth, and so complete my disguise. I lapsed into
disorderly dreams of all the fantastic things that had happened during
the last few days. I saw the ugly little Jew of a landlord vociferating
in his rooms; I saw his two sons marvelling, and the wrinkled old
woman’s gnarled face as she asked for her cat. I experienced again the
strange sensation of seeing the cloth disappear, and so I came round to
the windy hillside and the sniffing old clergyman mumbling ‘Earth to
earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ at my father’s open grave.

“‘You also,’ said a voice, and suddenly I was being forced towards the
grave. I struggled, shouted, appealed to the mourners, but they
continued stonily following the service; the old clergyman, too, never
faltered droning and sniffing through the ritual. I realised I was
invisible and inaudible, that overwhelming forces had their grip on me.
I struggled in vain, I was forced over the brink, the coffin rang
hollow as I fell upon it, and the gravel came flying after me in
spadefuls. Nobody heeded me, nobody was aware of me. I made convulsive
struggles and awoke.

“The pale London dawn had come, the place was full of a chilly grey
light that filtered round the edges of the window blinds. I sat up, and
for a time I could not think where this ample apartment, with its
counters, its piles of rolled stuff, its heap of quilts and cushions,
its iron pillars, might be. Then, as recollection came back to me, I
heard voices in conversation.

“Then far down the place, in the brighter light of some department
which had already raised its blinds, I saw two men approaching. I
scrambled to my feet, looking about me for some way of escape, and even
as I did so the sound of my movement made them aware of me. I suppose
they saw merely a figure moving quietly and quickly away. ‘Who’s that?’
cried one, and ‘Stop there!’ shouted the other. I dashed around a
corner and came full tilt—a faceless figure, mind you!—on a lanky lad
of fifteen. He yelled and I bowled him over, rushed past him, turned
another corner, and by a happy inspiration threw myself behind a
counter. In another moment feet went running past and I heard voices
shouting, ‘All hands to the doors!’ asking what was ‘up,’ and giving
one another advice how to catch me.

“Lying on the ground, I felt scared out of my wits. But—odd as it may
seem—it did not occur to me at the moment to take off my clothes as I
should have done. I had made up my mind, I suppose, to get away in
them, and that ruled me. And then down the vista of the counters came a
bawling of ‘Here he is!’

“I sprang to my feet, whipped a chair off the counter, and sent it
whirling at the fool who had shouted, turned, came into another round a
corner, sent him spinning, and rushed up the stairs. He kept his
footing, gave a view hallo, and came up the staircase hot after me. Up
the staircase were piled a multitude of those bright-coloured pot
things—what are they?”

“Art pots,” suggested Kemp.

“That’s it! Art pots. Well, I turned at the top step and swung round,
plucked one out of a pile and smashed it on his silly head as he came
at me. The whole pile of pots went headlong, and I heard shouting and
footsteps running from all parts. I made a mad rush for the refreshment
place, and there was a man in white like a man cook, who took up the
chase. I made one last desperate turn and found myself among lamps and
ironmongery. I went behind the counter of this, and waited for my cook,
and as he bolted in at the head of the chase, I doubled him up with a
lamp. Down he went, and I crouched down behind the counter and began
whipping off my clothes as fast as I could. Coat, jacket, trousers,
shoes were all right, but a lambswool vest fits a man like a skin. I
heard more men coming, my cook was lying quiet on the other side of the
counter, stunned or scared speechless, and I had to make another dash
for it, like a rabbit hunted out of a wood-pile.

“‘This way, policeman!’ I heard someone shouting. I found myself in my
bedstead storeroom again, and at the end of a wilderness of wardrobes.
I rushed among them, went flat, got rid of my vest after infinite
wriggling, and stood a free man again, panting and scared, as the
policeman and three of the shopmen came round the corner. They made a
rush for the vest and pants, and collared the trousers. ‘He’s dropping
his plunder,’ said one of the young men. ‘He _must_ be somewhere here.’

“But they did not find me all the same.

“I stood watching them hunt for me for a time, and cursing my ill-luck
in losing the clothes. Then I went into the refreshment-room, drank a
little milk I found there, and sat down by the fire to consider my
position.

“In a little while two assistants came in and began to talk over the
business very excitedly and like the fools they were. I heard a
magnified account of my depredations, and other speculations as to my
whereabouts. Then I fell to scheming again. The insurmountable
difficulty of the place, especially now it was alarmed, was to get any
plunder out of it. I went down into the warehouse to see if there was
any chance of packing and addressing a parcel, but I could not
understand the system of checking. About eleven o’clock, the snow
having thawed as it fell, and the day being finer and a little warmer
than the previous one, I decided that the Emporium was hopeless, and
went out again, exasperated at my want of success, with only the
vaguest plans of action in my mind.”




CHAPTER XXIII.
IN DRURY LANE


“But you begin now to realise,” said the Invisible Man, “the full
disadvantage of my condition. I had no shelter—no covering—to get
clothing was to forego all my advantage, to make myself a strange and
terrible thing. I was fasting; for to eat, to fill myself with
unassimilated matter, would be to become grotesquely visible again.”

“I never thought of that,” said Kemp.

“Nor had I. And the snow had warned me of other dangers. I could not go
abroad in snow—it would settle on me and expose me. Rain, too, would
make me a watery outline, a glistening surface of a man—a bubble. And
fog—I should be like a fainter bubble in a fog, a surface, a greasy
glimmer of humanity. Moreover, as I went abroad—in the London air—I
gathered dirt about my ankles, floating smuts and dust upon my skin. I
did not know how long it would be before I should become visible from
that cause also. But I saw clearly it could not be for long.

“Not in London at any rate.

“I went into the slums towards Great Portland Street, and found myself
at the end of the street in which I had lodged. I did not go that way,
because of the crowd halfway down it opposite to the still smoking
ruins of the house I had fired. My most immediate problem was to get
clothing. What to do with my face puzzled me. Then I saw in one of
those little miscellaneous shops—news, sweets, toys, stationery,
belated Christmas tomfoolery, and so forth—an array of masks and noses.
I realised that problem was solved. In a flash I saw my course. I
turned about, no longer aimless, and went—circuitously in order to
avoid the busy ways, towards the back streets north of the Strand; for
I remembered, though not very distinctly where, that some theatrical
costumiers had shops in that district.

“The day was cold, with a nipping wind down the northward running
streets. I walked fast to avoid being overtaken. Every crossing was a
danger, every passenger a thing to watch alertly. One man as I was
about to pass him at the top of Bedford Street, turned upon me abruptly
and came into me, sending me into the road and almost under the wheel
of a passing hansom. The verdict of the cab-rank was that he had had
some sort of stroke. I was so unnerved by this encounter that I went
into Covent Garden Market and sat down for some time in a quiet corner
by a stall of violets, panting and trembling. I found I had caught a
fresh cold, and had to turn out after a time lest my sneezes should
attract attention.

“At last I reached the object of my quest, a dirty, fly-blown little
shop in a by-way near Drury Lane, with a window full of tinsel robes,
sham jewels, wigs, slippers, dominoes and theatrical photographs. The
shop was old-fashioned and low and dark, and the house rose above it
for four storeys, dark and dismal. I peered through the window and,
seeing no one within, entered. The opening of the door set a clanking
bell ringing. I left it open, and walked round a bare costume stand,
into a corner behind a cheval glass. For a minute or so no one came.
Then I heard heavy feet striding across a room, and a man appeared down
the shop.

“My plans were now perfectly definite. I proposed to make my way into
the house, secrete myself upstairs, watch my opportunity, and when
everything was quiet, rummage out a wig, mask, spectacles, and costume,
and go into the world, perhaps a grotesque but still a credible figure.
And incidentally of course I could rob the house of any available
money.

“The man who had just entered the shop was a short, slight, hunched,
beetle-browed man, with long arms and very short bandy legs. Apparently
I had interrupted a meal. He stared about the shop with an expression
of expectation. This gave way to surprise, and then to anger, as he saw
the shop empty. ‘Damn the boys!’ he said. He went to stare up and down
the street. He came in again in a minute, kicked the door to with his
foot spitefully, and went muttering back to the house door.

“I came forward to follow him, and at the noise of my movement he
stopped dead. I did so too, startled by his quickness of ear. He
slammed the house door in my face.

“I stood hesitating. Suddenly I heard his quick footsteps returning,
and the door reopened. He stood looking about the shop like one who was
still not satisfied. Then, murmuring to himself, he examined the back
of the counter and peered behind some fixtures. Then he stood doubtful.
He had left the house door open and I slipped into the inner room.

“It was a queer little room, poorly furnished and with a number of big
masks in the corner. On the table was his belated breakfast, and it was
a confoundedly exasperating thing for me, Kemp, to have to sniff his
coffee and stand watching while he came in and resumed his meal. And
his table manners were irritating. Three doors opened into the little
room, one going upstairs and one down, but they were all shut. I could
not get out of the room while he was there; I could scarcely move
because of his alertness, and there was a draught down my back. Twice I
strangled a sneeze just in time.

“The spectacular quality of my sensations was curious and novel, but
for all that I was heartily tired and angry long before he had done his
eating. But at last he made an end and putting his beggarly crockery on
the black tin tray upon which he had had his teapot, and gathering all
the crumbs up on the mustard stained cloth, he took the whole lot of
things after him. His burden prevented his shutting the door behind
him—as he would have done; I never saw such a man for shutting
doors—and I followed him into a very dirty underground kitchen and
scullery. I had the pleasure of seeing him begin to wash up, and then,
finding no good in keeping down there, and the brick floor being cold
on my feet, I returned upstairs and sat in his chair by the fire. It
was burning low, and scarcely thinking, I put on a little coal. The
noise of this brought him up at once, and he stood aglare. He peered
about the room and was within an ace of touching me. Even after that
examination, he scarcely seemed satisfied. He stopped in the doorway
and took a final inspection before he went down.

“I waited in the little parlour for an age, and at last he came up and
opened the upstairs door. I just managed to get by him.

“On the staircase he stopped suddenly, so that I very nearly blundered
into him. He stood looking back right into my face and listening. ‘I
could have sworn,’ he said. His long hairy hand pulled at his lower
lip. His eye went up and down the staircase. Then he grunted and went
on up again.

“His hand was on the handle of a door, and then he stopped again with
the same puzzled anger on his face. He was becoming aware of the faint
sounds of my movements about him. The man must have had diabolically
acute hearing. He suddenly flashed into rage. ‘If there’s anyone in
this house—’ he cried with an oath, and left the threat unfinished. He
put his hand in his pocket, failed to find what he wanted, and rushing
past me went blundering noisily and pugnaciously downstairs. But I did
not follow him. I sat on the head of the staircase until his return.

“Presently he came up again, still muttering. He opened the door of the
room, and before I could enter, slammed it in my face.

“I resolved to explore the house, and spent some time in doing so as
noiselessly as possible. The house was very old and tumble-down, damp
so that the paper in the attics was peeling from the walls, and rat
infested. Some of the door handles were stiff and I was afraid to turn
them. Several rooms I did inspect were unfurnished, and others were
littered with theatrical lumber, bought second-hand, I judged, from its
appearance. In one room next to his I found a lot of old clothes. I
began routing among these, and in my eagerness forgot again the evident
sharpness of his ears. I heard a stealthy footstep and, looking up just
in time, saw him peering in at the tumbled heap and holding an
old-fashioned revolver in his hand. I stood perfectly still while he
stared about open-mouthed and suspicious. ‘It must have been her,’ he
said slowly. ‘Damn her!’

“He shut the door quietly, and immediately I heard the key turn in the
lock. Then his footsteps retreated. I realised abruptly that I was
locked in. For a minute I did not know what to do. I walked from door
to window and back, and stood perplexed. A gust of anger came upon me.
But I decided to inspect the clothes before I did anything further, and
my first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought
him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me,
jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the
room.

“Presently he calmed a little. ‘Rats,’ he said in an undertone, fingers
on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the
room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going
all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and
pocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of
rage—I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my
opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I
made no more ado, but knocked him on the head.”

“Knocked him on the head?” exclaimed Kemp.

“Yes—stunned him—as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a
stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old
boots.”

“But—I say! The common conventions of humanity—”

“Are all very well for common people. But the point was, Kemp, that I
had to get out of that house in a disguise without his seeing me. I
couldn’t think of any other way of doing it. And then I gagged him with
a Louis Quatorze vest and tied him up in a sheet.”

“Tied him up in a sheet!”

“Made a sort of bag of it. It was rather a good idea to keep the idiot
scared and quiet, and a devilish hard thing to get out of—head away
from the string. My dear Kemp, it’s no good your sitting glaring as
though I was a murderer. It had to be done. He had his revolver. If
once he saw me he would be able to describe me—”

“But still,” said Kemp, “in England—to-day. And the man was in his own
house, and you were—well, robbing.”

“Robbing! Confound it! You’ll call me a thief next! Surely, Kemp,
you’re not fool enough to dance on the old strings. Can’t you see my
position?”

“And his too,” said Kemp.

The Invisible Man stood up sharply. “What do you mean to say?”

Kemp’s face grew a trifle hard. He was about to speak and checked
himself. “I suppose, after all,” he said with a sudden change of
manner, “the thing had to be done. You were in a fix. But still—”

“Of course I was in a fix—an infernal fix. And he made me wild
too—hunting me about the house, fooling about with his revolver,
locking and unlocking doors. He was simply exasperating. You don’t
blame me, do you? You don’t blame me?”

“I never blame anyone,” said Kemp. “It’s quite out of fashion. What did
you do next?”

“I was hungry. Downstairs I found a loaf and some rank cheese—more than
sufficient to satisfy my hunger. I took some brandy and water, and then
went up past my impromptu bag—he was lying quite still—to the room
containing the old clothes. This looked out upon the street, two lace
curtains brown with dirt guarding the window. I went and peered out
through their interstices. Outside the day was bright—by contrast with
the brown shadows of the dismal house in which I found myself,
dazzlingly bright. A brisk traffic was going by, fruit carts, a hansom,
a four-wheeler with a pile of boxes, a fishmonger’s cart. I turned with
spots of colour swimming before my eyes to the shadowy fixtures behind
me. My excitement was giving place to a clear apprehension of my
position again. The room was full of a faint scent of benzoline, used,
I suppose, in cleaning the garments.

“I began a systematic search of the place. I should judge the hunchback
had been alone in the house for some time. He was a curious person.
Everything that could possibly be of service to me I collected in the
clothes storeroom, and then I made a deliberate selection. I found a
handbag I thought a suitable possession, and some powder, rouge, and
sticking-plaster.

“I had thought of painting and powdering my face and all that there was
to show of me, in order to render myself visible, but the disadvantage
of this lay in the fact that I should require turpentine and other
appliances and a considerable amount of time before I could vanish
again. Finally I chose a mask of the better type, slightly grotesque
but not more so than many human beings, dark glasses, greyish whiskers,
and a wig. I could find no underclothing, but that I could buy
subsequently, and for the time I swathed myself in calico dominoes and
some white cashmere scarfs. I could find no socks, but the hunchback’s
boots were rather a loose fit and sufficed. In a desk in the shop were
three sovereigns and about thirty shillings’ worth of silver, and in a
locked cupboard I burst in the inner room were eight pounds in gold. I
could go forth into the world again, equipped.

“Then came a curious hesitation. Was my appearance really credible? I
tried myself with a little bedroom looking-glass, inspecting myself
from every point of view to discover any forgotten chink, but it all
seemed sound. I was grotesque to the theatrical pitch, a stage miser,
but I was certainly not a physical impossibility. Gathering confidence,
I took my looking-glass down into the shop, pulled down the shop
blinds, and surveyed myself from every point of view with the help of
the cheval glass in the corner.

“I spent some minutes screwing up my courage and then unlocked the shop
door and marched out into the street, leaving the little man to get out
of his sheet again when he liked. In five minutes a dozen turnings
intervened between me and the costumier’s shop. No one appeared to
notice me very pointedly. My last difficulty seemed overcome.”

He stopped again.

“And you troubled no more about the hunchback?” said Kemp.

“No,” said the Invisible Man. “Nor have I heard what became of him. I
suppose he untied himself or kicked himself out. The knots were pretty
tight.”

He became silent and went to the window and stared out.

“What happened when you went out into the Strand?”

“Oh!—disillusionment again. I thought my troubles were over.
Practically I thought I had impunity to do whatever I chose,
everything—save to give away my secret. So I thought. Whatever I did,
whatever the consequences might be, was nothing to me. I had merely to
fling aside my garments and vanish. No person could hold me. I could
take my money where I found it. I decided to treat myself to a
sumptuous feast, and then put up at a good hotel, and accumulate a new
outfit of property. I felt amazingly confident; it’s not particularly
pleasant recalling that I was an ass. I went into a place and was
already ordering lunch, when it occurred to me that I could not eat
unless I exposed my invisible face. I finished ordering the lunch, told
the man I should be back in ten minutes, and went out exasperated. I
don’t know if you have ever been disappointed in your appetite.”

“Not quite so badly,” said Kemp, “but I can imagine it.”

“I could have smashed the silly devils. At last, faint with the desire
for tasteful food, I went into another place and demanded a private
room. ‘I am disfigured,’ I said. ‘Badly.’ They looked at me curiously,
but of course it was not their affair—and so at last I got my lunch. It
was not particularly well served, but it sufficed; and when I had had
it, I sat over a cigar, trying to plan my line of action. And outside a
snowstorm was beginning.

“The more I thought it over, Kemp, the more I realised what a helpless
absurdity an Invisible Man was—in a cold and dirty climate and a
crowded civilised city. Before I made this mad experiment I had dreamt
of a thousand advantages. That afternoon it seemed all disappointment.
I went over the heads of the things a man reckons desirable. No doubt
invisibility made it possible to get them, but it made it impossible to
enjoy them when they are got. Ambition—what is the good of pride of
place when you cannot appear there? What is the good of the love of
woman when her name must needs be Delilah? I have no taste for
politics, for the blackguardisms of fame, for philanthropy, for sport.
What was I to do? And for this I had become a wrapped-up mystery, a
swathed and bandaged caricature of a man!”

He paused, and his attitude suggested a roving glance at the window.

“But how did you get to Iping?” said Kemp, anxious to keep his guest
busy talking.

“I went there to work. I had one hope. It was a half idea! I have it
still. It is a full blown idea now. A way of getting back! Of restoring
what I have done. When I choose. When I have done all I mean to do
invisibly. And that is what I chiefly want to talk to you about now.”

“You went straight to Iping?”

“Yes. I had simply to get my three volumes of memoranda and my
cheque-book, my luggage and underclothing, order a quantity of
chemicals to work out this idea of mine—I will show you the
calculations as soon as I get my books—and then I started. Jove! I
remember the snowstorm now, and the accursed bother it was to keep the
snow from damping my pasteboard nose.”

“At the end,” said Kemp, “the day before yesterday, when they found you
out, you rather—to judge by the papers—”

“I did. Rather. Did I kill that fool of a constable?”

“No,” said Kemp. “He’s expected to recover.”

“That’s his luck, then. I clean lost my temper, the fools! Why couldn’t
they leave me alone? And that grocer lout?”

“There are no deaths expected,” said Kemp.

“I don’t know about that tramp of mine,” said the Invisible Man, with
an unpleasant laugh.

“By Heaven, Kemp, you don’t know what rage _is_! ... To have worked for
years, to have planned and plotted, and then to get some fumbling
purblind idiot messing across your course! ... Every conceivable sort
of silly creature that has ever been created has been sent to cross me.

“If I have much more of it, I shall go wild—I shall start mowing ’em.

“As it is, they’ve made things a thousand times more difficult.”

“No doubt it’s exasperating,” said Kemp, drily.




CHAPTER XXIV.
THE PLAN THAT FAILED


“But now,” said Kemp, with a side glance out of the window, “what are
we to do?”

He moved nearer his guest as he spoke in such a manner as to prevent
the possibility of a sudden glimpse of the three men who were advancing
up the hill road—with an intolerable slowness, as it seemed to Kemp.

“What were you planning to do when you were heading for Port Burdock?
_Had_ you any plan?”

“I was going to clear out of the country. But I have altered that plan
rather since seeing you. I thought it would be wise, now the weather is
hot and invisibility possible, to make for the South. Especially as my
secret was known, and everyone would be on the lookout for a masked and
muffled man. You have a line of steamers from here to France. My idea
was to get aboard one and run the risks of the passage. Thence I could
go by train into Spain, or else get to Algiers. It would not be
difficult. There a man might always be invisible—and yet live. And do
things. I was using that tramp as a money box and luggage carrier,
until I decided how to get my books and things sent over to meet me.”

“That’s clear.”

“And then the filthy brute must needs try and rob me! He _has_ hidden
my books, Kemp. Hidden my books! If I can lay my hands on him!”

“Best plan to get the books out of him first.”

“But where is he? Do you know?”

“He’s in the town police station, locked up, by his own request, in the
strongest cell in the place.”

“Cur!” said the Invisible Man.

“But that hangs up your plans a little.”

“We must get those books; those books are vital.”

“Certainly,” said Kemp, a little nervously, wondering if he heard
footsteps outside. “Certainly we must get those books. But that won’t
be difficult, if he doesn’t know they’re for you.”

“No,” said the Invisible Man, and thought.

Kemp tried to think of something to keep the talk going, but the
Invisible Man resumed of his own accord.

“Blundering into your house, Kemp,” he said, “changes all my plans. For
you are a man that can understand. In spite of all that has happened,
in spite of this publicity, of the loss of my books, of what I have
suffered, there still remain great possibilities, huge possibilities—”

“You have told no one I am here?” he asked abruptly.

Kemp hesitated. “That was implied,” he said.

“No one?” insisted Griffin.

“Not a soul.”

“Ah! Now—” The Invisible Man stood up, and sticking his arms akimbo
began to pace the study.

“I made a mistake, Kemp, a huge mistake, in carrying this thing through
alone. I have wasted strength, time, opportunities. Alone—it is
wonderful how little a man can do alone! To rob a little, to hurt a
little, and there is the end.

“What I want, Kemp, is a goal-keeper, a helper, and a hiding-place, an
arrangement whereby I can sleep and eat and rest in peace, and
unsuspected. I must have a confederate. With a confederate, with food
and rest—a thousand things are possible.

“Hitherto I have gone on vague lines. We have to consider all that
invisibility means, all that it does not mean. It means little
advantage for eavesdropping and so forth—one makes sounds. It’s of
little help—a little help perhaps—in housebreaking and so forth. Once
you’ve caught me you could easily imprison me. But on the other hand I
am hard to catch. This invisibility, in fact, is only good in two
cases: It’s useful in getting away, it’s useful in approaching. It’s
particularly useful, therefore, in killing. I can walk round a man,
whatever weapon he has, choose my point, strike as I like. Dodge as I
like. Escape as I like.”

Kemp’s hand went to his moustache. Was that a movement downstairs?

“And it is killing we must do, Kemp.”

“It is killing we must do,” repeated Kemp. “I’m listening to your plan,
Griffin, but I’m not agreeing, mind. _Why_ killing?”

“Not wanton killing, but a judicious slaying. The point is, they know
there is an Invisible Man—as well as we know there is an Invisible Man.
And that Invisible Man, Kemp, must now establish a Reign of Terror.
Yes; no doubt it’s startling. But I mean it. A Reign of Terror. He must
take some town like your Burdock and terrify and dominate it. He must
issue his orders. He can do that in a thousand ways—scraps of paper
thrust under doors would suffice. And all who disobey his orders he
must kill, and kill all who would defend them.”

“Humph!” said Kemp, no longer listening to Griffin but to the sound of
his front door opening and closing.

“It seems to me, Griffin,” he said, to cover his wandering attention,
“that your confederate would be in a difficult position.”

“No one would know he was a confederate,” said the Invisible Man,
eagerly. And then suddenly, “Hush! What’s that downstairs?”

“Nothing,” said Kemp, and suddenly began to speak loud and fast. “I
don’t agree to this, Griffin,” he said. “Understand me, I don’t agree
to this. Why dream of playing a game against the race? How can you hope
to gain happiness? Don’t be a lone wolf. Publish your results; take the
world—take the nation at least—into your confidence. Think what you
might do with a million helpers—”

The Invisible Man interrupted—arm extended. “There are footsteps coming
upstairs,” he said in a low voice.

“Nonsense,” said Kemp.

“Let me see,” said the Invisible Man, and advanced, arm extended, to
the door.

And then things happened very swiftly. Kemp hesitated for a second and
then moved to intercept him. The Invisible Man started and stood still.
“Traitor!” cried the Voice, and suddenly the dressing-gown opened, and
sitting down the Unseen began to disrobe. Kemp made three swift steps
to the door, and forthwith the Invisible Man—his legs had
vanished—sprang to his feet with a shout. Kemp flung the door open.

As it opened, there came a sound of hurrying feet downstairs and
voices.

With a quick movement Kemp thrust the Invisible Man back, sprang aside,
and slammed the door. The key was outside and ready. In another moment
Griffin would have been alone in the belvedere study, a prisoner. Save
for one little thing. The key had been slipped in hastily that morning.
As Kemp slammed the door it fell noisily upon the carpet.

Kemp’s face became white. He tried to grip the door handle with both
hands. For a moment he stood lugging. Then the door gave six inches.
But he got it closed again. The second time it was jerked a foot wide,
and the dressing-gown came wedging itself into the opening. His throat
was gripped by invisible fingers, and he left his hold on the handle to
defend himself. He was forced back, tripped and pitched heavily into
the corner of the landing. The empty dressing-gown was flung on the top
of him.

Halfway up the staircase was Colonel Adye, the recipient of Kemp’s
letter, the chief of the Burdock police. He was staring aghast at the
sudden appearance of Kemp, followed by the extraordinary sight of
clothing tossing empty in the air. He saw Kemp felled, and struggling
to his feet. He saw him rush forward, and go down again, felled like an
ox.

Then suddenly he was struck violently. By nothing! A vast weight, it
seemed, leapt upon him, and he was hurled headlong down the staircase,
with a grip on his throat and a knee in his groin. An invisible foot
trod on his back, a ghostly patter passed downstairs, he heard the two
police officers in the hall shout and run, and the front door of the
house slammed violently.

He rolled over and sat up staring. He saw, staggering down the
staircase, Kemp, dusty and disheveled, one side of his face white from
a blow, his lip bleeding, and a pink dressing-gown and some
underclothing held in his arms.

“My God!” cried Kemp, “the game’s up! He’s gone!”




CHAPTER XXV.
THE HUNTING OF THE INVISIBLE MAN


For a space Kemp was too inarticulate to make Adye understand the swift
things that had just happened. They stood on the landing, Kemp speaking
swiftly, the grotesque swathings of Griffin still on his arm. But
presently Adye began to grasp something of the situation.

“He is mad,” said Kemp; “inhuman. He is pure selfishness. He thinks of
nothing but his own advantage, his own safety. I have listened to such
a story this morning of brutal self-seeking.... He has wounded men. He
will kill them unless we can prevent him. He will create a panic.
Nothing can stop him. He is going out now—furious!”

“He must be caught,” said Adye. “That is certain.”

“But how?” cried Kemp, and suddenly became full of ideas. “You must
begin at once. You must set every available man to work; you must
prevent his leaving this district. Once he gets away, he may go through
the countryside as he wills, killing and maiming. He dreams of a reign
of terror! A reign of terror, I tell you. You must set a watch on
trains and roads and shipping. The garrison must help. You must wire
for help. The only thing that may keep him here is the thought of
recovering some books of notes he counts of value. I will tell you of
that! There is a man in your police station—Marvel.”

“I know,” said Adye, “I know. Those books—yes. But the tramp....”

“Says he hasn’t them. But he thinks the tramp has. And you must prevent
him from eating or sleeping; day and night the country must be astir
for him. Food must be locked up and secured, all food, so that he will
have to break his way to it. The houses everywhere must be barred
against him. Heaven send us cold nights and rain! The whole
country-side must begin hunting and keep hunting. I tell you, Adye, he
is a danger, a disaster; unless he is pinned and secured, it is
frightful to think of the things that may happen.”

“What else can we do?” said Adye. “I must go down at once and begin
organising. But why not come? Yes—you come too! Come, and we must hold
a sort of council of war—get Hopps to help—and the railway managers. By
Jove! it’s urgent. Come along—tell me as we go. What else is there we
can do? Put that stuff down.”

In another moment Adye was leading the way downstairs. They found the
front door open and the policemen standing outside staring at empty
air. “He’s got away, sir,” said one.

“We must go to the central station at once,” said Adye. “One of you go
on down and get a cab to come up and meet us—quickly. And now, Kemp,
what else?”

“Dogs,” said Kemp. “Get dogs. They don’t see him, but they wind him.
Get dogs.”

“Good,” said Adye. “It’s not generally known, but the prison officials
over at Halstead know a man with bloodhounds. Dogs. What else?”

“Bear in mind,” said Kemp, “his food shows. After eating, his food
shows until it is assimilated. So that he has to hide after eating. You
must keep on beating. Every thicket, every quiet corner. And put all
weapons—all implements that might be weapons, away. He can’t carry such
things for long. And what he can snatch up and strike men with must be
hidden away.”

“Good again,” said Adye. “We shall have him yet!”

“And on the roads,” said Kemp, and hesitated.

“Yes?” said Adye.

“Powdered glass,” said Kemp. “It’s cruel, I know. But think of what he
may do!”

Adye drew the air in sharply between his teeth. “It’s unsportsmanlike.
I don’t know. But I’ll have powdered glass got ready. If he goes too
far....”

“The man’s become inhuman, I tell you,” said Kemp. “I am as sure he
will establish a reign of terror—so soon as he has got over the
emotions of this escape—as I am sure I am talking to you. Our only
chance is to be ahead. He has cut himself off from his kind. His blood
be upon his own head.”




CHAPTER XXVI.
THE WICKSTEED MURDER


The Invisible Man seems to have rushed out of Kemp’s house in a state
of blind fury. A little child playing near Kemp’s gateway was violently
caught up and thrown aside, so that its ankle was broken, and
thereafter for some hours the Invisible Man passed out of human
perceptions. No one knows where he went nor what he did. But one can
imagine him hurrying through the hot June forenoon, up the hill and on
to the open downland behind Port Burdock, raging and despairing at his
intolerable fate, and sheltering at last, heated and weary, amid the
thickets of Hintondean, to piece together again his shattered schemes
against his species. That seems the most probable refuge for him, for
there it was he re-asserted himself in a grimly tragical manner about
two in the afternoon.

One wonders what his state of mind may have been during that time, and
what plans he devised. No doubt he was almost ecstatically exasperated
by Kemp’s treachery, and though we may be able to understand the
motives that led to that deceit, we may still imagine and even
sympathise a little with the fury the attempted surprise must have
occasioned. Perhaps something of the stunned astonishment of his Oxford
Street experiences may have returned to him, for he had evidently
counted on Kemp’s co-operation in his brutal dream of a terrorised
world. At any rate he vanished from human ken about midday, and no
living witness can tell what he did until about half-past two. It was a
fortunate thing, perhaps, for humanity, but for him it was a fatal
inaction.

During that time a growing multitude of men scattered over the
countryside were busy. In the morning he had still been simply a
legend, a terror; in the afternoon, by virtue chiefly of Kemp’s drily
worded proclamation, he was presented as a tangible antagonist, to be
wounded, captured, or overcome, and the countryside began organising
itself with inconceivable rapidity. By two o’clock even he might still
have removed himself out of the district by getting aboard a train, but
after two that became impossible. Every passenger train along the lines
on a great parallelogram between Southampton, Manchester, Brighton and
Horsham, travelled with locked doors, and the goods traffic was almost
entirely suspended. And in a great circle of twenty miles round Port
Burdock, men armed with guns and bludgeons were presently setting out
in groups of three and four, with dogs, to beat the roads and fields.

Mounted policemen rode along the country lanes, stopping at every
cottage and warning the people to lock up their houses, and keep
indoors unless they were armed, and all the elementary schools had
broken up by three o’clock, and the children, scared and keeping
together in groups, were hurrying home. Kemp’s proclamation—signed
indeed by Adye—was posted over almost the whole district by four or
five o’clock in the afternoon. It gave briefly but clearly all the
conditions of the struggle, the necessity of keeping the Invisible Man
from food and sleep, the necessity for incessant watchfulness and for a
prompt attention to any evidence of his movements. And so swift and
decided was the action of the authorities, so prompt and universal was
the belief in this strange being, that before nightfall an area of
several hundred square miles was in a stringent state of siege. And
before nightfall, too, a thrill of horror went through the whole
watching nervous countryside. Going from whispering mouth to mouth,
swift and certain over the length and breadth of the country, passed
the story of the murder of Mr. Wicksteed.

If our supposition that the Invisible Man’s refuge was the Hintondean
thickets, then we must suppose that in the early afternoon he sallied
out again bent upon some project that involved the use of a weapon. We
cannot know what the project was, but the evidence that he had the iron
rod in hand before he met Wicksteed is to me at least overwhelming.

Of course we can know nothing of the details of that encounter. It
occurred on the edge of a gravel pit, not two hundred yards from Lord
Burdock’s lodge gate. Everything points to a desperate struggle—the
trampled ground, the numerous wounds Mr. Wicksteed received, his
splintered walking-stick; but why the attack was made, save in a
murderous frenzy, it is impossible to imagine. Indeed the theory of
madness is almost unavoidable. Mr. Wicksteed was a man of forty-five or
forty-six, steward to Lord Burdock, of inoffensive habits and
appearance, the very last person in the world to provoke such a
terrible antagonist. Against him it would seem the Invisible Man used
an iron rod dragged from a broken piece of fence. He stopped this quiet
man, going quietly home to his midday meal, attacked him, beat down his
feeble defences, broke his arm, felled him, and smashed his head to a
jelly.

Of course, he must have dragged this rod out of the fencing before he
met his victim—he must have been carrying it ready in his hand. Only
two details beyond what has already been stated seem to bear on the
matter. One is the circumstance that the gravel pit was not in Mr.
Wicksteed’s direct path home, but nearly a couple of hundred yards out
of his way. The other is the assertion of a little girl to the effect
that, going to her afternoon school, she saw the murdered man
“trotting” in a peculiar manner across a field towards the gravel pit.
Her pantomime of his action suggests a man pursuing something on the
ground before him and striking at it ever and again with his
walking-stick. She was the last person to see him alive. He passed out
of her sight to his death, the struggle being hidden from her only by a
clump of beech trees and a slight depression in the ground.

Now this, to the present writer’s mind at least, lifts the murder out
of the realm of the absolutely wanton. We may imagine that Griffin had
taken the rod as a weapon indeed, but without any deliberate intention
of using it in murder. Wicksteed may then have come by and noticed this
rod inexplicably moving through the air. Without any thought of the
Invisible Man—for Port Burdock is ten miles away—he may have pursued
it. It is quite conceivable that he may not even have heard of the
Invisible Man. One can then imagine the Invisible Man making
off—quietly in order to avoid discovering his presence in the
neighbourhood, and Wicksteed, excited and curious, pursuing this
unaccountably locomotive object—finally striking at it.

No doubt the Invisible Man could easily have distanced his middle-aged
pursuer under ordinary circumstances, but the position in which
Wicksteed’s body was found suggests that he had the ill luck to drive
his quarry into a corner between a drift of stinging nettles and the
gravel pit. To those who appreciate the extraordinary irascibility of
the Invisible Man, the rest of the encounter will be easy to imagine.

But this is pure hypothesis. The only undeniable facts—for stories of
children are often unreliable—are the discovery of Wicksteed’s body,
done to death, and of the blood-stained iron rod flung among the
nettles. The abandonment of the rod by Griffin, suggests that in the
emotional excitement of the affair, the purpose for which he took it—if
he had a purpose—was abandoned. He was certainly an intensely
egotistical and unfeeling man, but the sight of his victim, his first
victim, bloody and pitiful at his feet, may have released some long
pent fountain of remorse which for a time may have flooded whatever
scheme of action he had contrived.

After the murder of Mr. Wicksteed, he would seem to have struck across
the country towards the downland. There is a story of a voice heard
about sunset by a couple of men in a field near Fern Bottom. It was
wailing and laughing, sobbing and groaning, and ever and again it
shouted. It must have been queer hearing. It drove up across the middle
of a clover field and died away towards the hills.

That afternoon the Invisible Man must have learnt something of the
rapid use Kemp had made of his confidences. He must have found houses
locked and secured; he may have loitered about railway stations and
prowled about inns, and no doubt he read the proclamations and realised
something of the nature of the campaign against him. And as the evening
advanced, the fields became dotted here and there with groups of three
or four men, and noisy with the yelping of dogs. These men-hunters had
particular instructions in the case of an encounter as to the way they
should support one another. But he avoided them all. We may understand
something of his exasperation, and it could have been none the less
because he himself had supplied the information that was being used so
remorselessly against him. For that day at least he lost heart; for
nearly twenty-four hours, save when he turned on Wicksteed, he was a
hunted man. In the night, he must have eaten and slept; for in the
morning he was himself again, active, powerful, angry, and malignant,
prepared for his last great struggle against the world.




CHAPTER XXVII.
THE SIEGE OF KEMP’S HOUSE


Kemp read a strange missive, written in pencil on a greasy sheet of
paper.

“You have been amazingly energetic and clever,” this letter ran,
“though what you stand to gain by it I cannot imagine. You are against
me. For a whole day you have chased me; you have tried to rob me of a
night’s rest. But I have had food in spite of you, I have slept in
spite of you, and the game is only beginning. The game is only
beginning. There is nothing for it, but to start the Terror. This
announces the first day of the Terror. Port Burdock is no longer under
the Queen, tell your Colonel of Police, and the rest of them; it is
under me—the Terror! This is day one of year one of the new epoch—the
Epoch of the Invisible Man. I am Invisible Man the First. To begin with
the rule will be easy. The first day there will be one execution for
the sake of example—a man named Kemp. Death starts for him to-day. He
may lock himself away, hide himself away, get guards about him, put on
armour if he likes—Death, the unseen Death, is coming. Let him take
precautions; it will impress my people. Death starts from the pillar
box by midday. The letter will fall in as the postman comes along, then
off! The game begins. Death starts. Help him not, my people, lest Death
fall upon you also. To-day Kemp is to die.”

Kemp read this letter twice, “It’s no hoax,” he said. “That’s his
voice! And he means it.”

He turned the folded sheet over and saw on the addressed side of it the
postmark Hintondean, and the prosaic detail “2d. to pay.”

He got up slowly, leaving his lunch unfinished—the letter had come by
the one o’clock post—and went into his study. He rang for his
housekeeper, and told her to go round the house at once, examine all
the fastenings of the windows, and close all the shutters. He closed
the shutters of his study himself. From a locked drawer in his bedroom
he took a little revolver, examined it carefully, and put it into the
pocket of his lounge jacket. He wrote a number of brief notes, one to
Colonel Adye, gave them to his servant to take, with explicit
instructions as to her way of leaving the house. “There is no danger,”
he said, and added a mental reservation, “to you.” He remained
meditative for a space after doing this, and then returned to his
cooling lunch.

He ate with gaps of thought. Finally he struck the table sharply. “We
will have him!” he said; “and I am the bait. He will come too far.”

He went up to the belvedere, carefully shutting every door after him.
“It’s a game,” he said, “an odd game—but the chances are all for me,
Mr. Griffin, in spite of your invisibility. Griffin _contra mundum_ ...
with a vengeance.”

He stood at the window staring at the hot hillside. “He must get food
every day—and I don’t envy him. Did he really sleep last night? Out in
the open somewhere—secure from collisions. I wish we could get some
good cold wet weather instead of the heat.

“He may be watching me now.”

He went close to the window. Something rapped smartly against the
brickwork over the frame, and made him start violently back.

“I’m getting nervous,” said Kemp. But it was five minutes before he
went to the window again. “It must have been a sparrow,” he said.

Presently he heard the front-door bell ringing, and hurried downstairs.
He unbolted and unlocked the door, examined the chain, put it up, and
opened cautiously without showing himself. A familiar voice hailed him.
It was Adye.

“Your servant’s been assaulted, Kemp,” he said round the door.

“What!” exclaimed Kemp.

“Had that note of yours taken away from her. He’s close about here. Let
me in.”

Kemp released the chain, and Adye entered through as narrow an opening
as possible. He stood in the hall, looking with infinite relief at Kemp
refastening the door. “Note was snatched out of her hand. Scared her
horribly. She’s down at the station. Hysterics. He’s close here. What
was it about?”

Kemp swore.

“What a fool I was,” said Kemp. “I might have known. It’s not an hour’s
walk from Hintondean. Already?”

“What’s up?” said Adye.

“Look here!” said Kemp, and led the way into his study. He handed Adye
the Invisible Man’s letter. Adye read it and whistled softly. “And
you—?” said Adye.

“Proposed a trap—like a fool,” said Kemp, “and sent my proposal out by
a maid servant. To him.”

Adye followed Kemp’s profanity.

“He’ll clear out,” said Adye.

“Not he,” said Kemp.

A resounding smash of glass came from upstairs. Adye had a silvery
glimpse of a little revolver half out of Kemp’s pocket. “It’s a window,
upstairs!” said Kemp, and led the way up. There came a second smash
while they were still on the staircase. When they reached the study
they found two of the three windows smashed, half the room littered
with splintered glass, and one big flint lying on the writing table.
The two men stopped in the doorway, contemplating the wreckage. Kemp
swore again, and as he did so the third window went with a snap like a
pistol, hung starred for a moment, and collapsed in jagged, shivering
triangles into the room.

“What’s this for?” said Adye.

“It’s a beginning,” said Kemp.

“There’s no way of climbing up here?”

“Not for a cat,” said Kemp.

“No shutters?”

“Not here. All the downstairs rooms—Hullo!”

Smash, and then whack of boards hit hard came from downstairs.
“Confound him!” said Kemp. “That must be—yes—it’s one of the bedrooms.
He’s going to do all the house. But he’s a fool. The shutters are up,
and the glass will fall outside. He’ll cut his feet.”

Another window proclaimed its destruction. The two men stood on the
landing perplexed. “I have it!” said Adye. “Let me have a stick or
something, and I’ll go down to the station and get the bloodhounds put
on. That ought to settle him! They’re hard by—not ten minutes—”

Another window went the way of its fellows.

“You haven’t a revolver?” asked Adye.

Kemp’s hand went to his pocket. Then he hesitated. “I haven’t one—at
least to spare.”

“I’ll bring it back,” said Adye, “you’ll be safe here.”

Kemp, ashamed of his momentary lapse from truthfulness, handed him the
weapon.

“Now for the door,” said Adye.

As they stood hesitating in the hall, they heard one of the first-floor
bedroom windows crack and clash. Kemp went to the door and began to
slip the bolts as silently as possible. His face was a little paler
than usual. “You must step straight out,” said Kemp. In another moment
Adye was on the doorstep and the bolts were dropping back into the
staples. He hesitated for a moment, feeling more comfortable with his
back against the door. Then he marched, upright and square, down the
steps. He crossed the lawn and approached the gate. A little breeze
seemed to ripple over the grass. Something moved near him. “Stop a
bit,” said a Voice, and Adye stopped dead and his hand tightened on the
revolver.

“Well?” said Adye, white and grim, and every nerve tense.

“Oblige me by going back to the house,” said the Voice, as tense and
grim as Adye’s.

“Sorry,” said Adye a little hoarsely, and moistened his lips with his
tongue. The Voice was on his left front, he thought. Suppose he were to
take his luck with a shot?

“What are you going for?” said the Voice, and there was a quick
movement of the two, and a flash of sunlight from the open lip of
Adye’s pocket.

Adye desisted and thought. “Where I go,” he said slowly, “is my own
business.” The words were still on his lips, when an arm came round his
neck, his back felt a knee, and he was sprawling backward. He drew
clumsily and fired absurdly, and in another moment he was struck in the
mouth and the revolver wrested from his grip. He made a vain clutch at
a slippery limb, tried to struggle up and fell back. “Damn!” said Adye.
The Voice laughed. “I’d kill you now if it wasn’t the waste of a
bullet,” it said. He saw the revolver in mid-air, six feet off,
covering him.

“Well?” said Adye, sitting up.

“Get up,” said the Voice.

Adye stood up.

“Attention,” said the Voice, and then fiercely, “Don’t try any games.
Remember I can see your face if you can’t see mine. You’ve got to go
back to the house.”

“He won’t let me in,” said Adye.

“That’s a pity,” said the Invisible Man. “I’ve got no quarrel with
you.”

Adye moistened his lips again. He glanced away from the barrel of the
revolver and saw the sea far off very blue and dark under the midday
sun, the smooth green down, the white cliff of the Head, and the
multitudinous town, and suddenly he knew that life was very sweet. His
eyes came back to this little metal thing hanging between heaven and
earth, six yards away. “What am I to do?” he said sullenly.

“What am _I_ to do?” asked the Invisible Man. “You will get help. The
only thing is for you to go back.”

“I will try. If he lets me in will you promise not to rush the door?”

“I’ve got no quarrel with you,” said the Voice.

Kemp had hurried upstairs after letting Adye out, and now crouching
among the broken glass and peering cautiously over the edge of the
study window sill, he saw Adye stand parleying with the Unseen. “Why
doesn’t he fire?” whispered Kemp to himself. Then the revolver moved a
little and the glint of the sunlight flashed in Kemp’s eyes. He shaded
his eyes and tried to see the source of the blinding beam.

“Surely!” he said, “Adye has given up the revolver.”

“Promise not to rush the door,” Adye was saying. “Don’t push a winning
game too far. Give a man a chance.”

“You go back to the house. I tell you flatly I will not promise
anything.”

Adye’s decision seemed suddenly made. He turned towards the house,
walking slowly with his hands behind him. Kemp watched him—puzzled. The
revolver vanished, flashed again into sight, vanished again, and became
evident on a closer scrutiny as a little dark object following Adye.
Then things happened very quickly. Adye leapt backwards, swung around,
clutched at this little object, missed it, threw up his hands and fell
forward on his face, leaving a little puff of blue in the air. Kemp did
not hear the sound of the shot. Adye writhed, raised himself on one
arm, fell forward, and lay still.

For a space Kemp remained staring at the quiet carelessness of Adye’s
attitude. The afternoon was very hot and still, nothing seemed stirring
in all the world save a couple of yellow butterflies chasing each other
through the shrubbery between the house and the road gate. Adye lay on
the lawn near the gate. The blinds of all the villas down the hill-road
were drawn, but in one little green summer-house was a white figure,
apparently an old man asleep. Kemp scrutinised the surroundings of the
house for a glimpse of the revolver, but it had vanished. His eyes came
back to Adye. The game was opening well.

Then came a ringing and knocking at the front door, that grew at last
tumultuous, but pursuant to Kemp’s instructions the servants had locked
themselves into their rooms. This was followed by a silence. Kemp sat
listening and then began peering cautiously out of the three windows,
one after another. He went to the staircase head and stood listening
uneasily. He armed himself with his bedroom poker, and went to examine
the interior fastenings of the ground-floor windows again. Everything
was safe and quiet. He returned to the belvedere. Adye lay motionless
over the edge of the gravel just as he had fallen. Coming along the
road by the villas were the housemaid and two policemen.

Everything was deadly still. The three people seemed very slow in
approaching. He wondered what his antagonist was doing.

He started. There was a smash from below. He hesitated and went
downstairs again. Suddenly the house resounded with heavy blows and the
splintering of wood. He heard a smash and the destructive clang of the
iron fastenings of the shutters. He turned the key and opened the
kitchen door. As he did so, the shutters, split and splintering, came
flying inward. He stood aghast. The window frame, save for one
crossbar, was still intact, but only little teeth of glass remained in
the frame. The shutters had been driven in with an axe, and now the axe
was descending in sweeping blows upon the window frame and the iron
bars defending it. Then suddenly it leapt aside and vanished. He saw
the revolver lying on the path outside, and then the little weapon
sprang into the air. He dodged back. The revolver cracked just too
late, and a splinter from the edge of the closing door flashed over his
head. He slammed and locked the door, and as he stood outside he heard
Griffin shouting and laughing. Then the blows of the axe with its
splitting and smashing consequences, were resumed.

Kemp stood in the passage trying to think. In a moment the Invisible
Man would be in the kitchen. This door would not keep him a moment, and
then—

A ringing came at the front door again. It would be the policemen. He
ran into the hall, put up the chain, and drew the bolts. He made the
girl speak before he dropped the chain, and the three people blundered
into the house in a heap, and Kemp slammed the door again.

“The Invisible Man!” said Kemp. “He has a revolver, with two
shots—left. He’s killed Adye. Shot him anyhow. Didn’t you see him on
the lawn? He’s lying there.”

“Who?” said one of the policemen.

“Adye,” said Kemp.

“We came in the back way,” said the girl.

“What’s that smashing?” asked one of the policemen.

“He’s in the kitchen—or will be. He has found an axe—”

Suddenly the house was full of the Invisible Man’s resounding blows on
the kitchen door. The girl stared towards the kitchen, shuddered, and
retreated into the dining-room. Kemp tried to explain in broken
sentences. They heard the kitchen door give.

“This way,” said Kemp, starting into activity, and bundled the
policemen into the dining-room doorway.

“Poker,” said Kemp, and rushed to the fender. He handed the poker he
had carried to the policeman and the dining-room one to the other. He
suddenly flung himself backward.

“Whup!” said one policeman, ducked, and caught the axe on his poker.
The pistol snapped its penultimate shot and ripped a valuable Sidney
Cooper. The second policeman brought his poker down on the little
weapon, as one might knock down a wasp, and sent it rattling to the
floor.

At the first clash the girl screamed, stood screaming for a moment by
the fireplace, and then ran to open the shutters—possibly with an idea
of escaping by the shattered window.

The axe receded into the passage, and fell to a position about two feet
from the ground. They could hear the Invisible Man breathing. “Stand
away, you two,” he said. “I want that man Kemp.”

“We want you,” said the first policeman, making a quick step forward
and wiping with his poker at the Voice. The Invisible Man must have
started back, and he blundered into the umbrella stand.

Then, as the policeman staggered with the swing of the blow he had
aimed, the Invisible Man countered with the axe, the helmet crumpled
like paper, and the blow sent the man spinning to the floor at the head
of the kitchen stairs. But the second policeman, aiming behind the axe
with his poker, hit something soft that snapped. There was a sharp
exclamation of pain and then the axe fell to the ground. The policeman
wiped again at vacancy and hit nothing; he put his foot on the axe, and
struck again. Then he stood, poker clubbed, listening intent for the
slightest movement.

He heard the dining-room window open, and a quick rush of feet within.
His companion rolled over and sat up, with the blood running down
between his eye and ear. “Where is he?” asked the man on the floor.

“Don’t know. I’ve hit him. He’s standing somewhere in the hall. Unless
he’s slipped past you. Doctor Kemp—sir.”

Pause.

“Doctor Kemp,” cried the policeman again.

The second policeman began struggling to his feet. He stood up.
Suddenly the faint pad of bare feet on the kitchen stairs could be
heard. “Yap!” cried the first policeman, and incontinently flung his
poker. It smashed a little gas bracket.

He made as if he would pursue the Invisible Man downstairs. Then he
thought better of it and stepped into the dining-room.

“Doctor Kemp—” he began, and stopped short.

“Doctor Kemp’s a hero,” he said, as his companion looked over his
shoulder.

The dining-room window was wide open, and neither housemaid nor Kemp
was to be seen.

The second policeman’s opinion of Kemp was terse and vivid.




CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE HUNTER HUNTED


Mr. Heelas, Mr. Kemp’s nearest neighbour among the villa holders, was
asleep in his summer house when the siege of Kemp’s house began. Mr.
Heelas was one of the sturdy minority who refused to believe “in all
this nonsense” about an Invisible Man. His wife, however, as he was
subsequently to be reminded, did. He insisted upon walking about his
garden just as if nothing was the matter, and he went to sleep in the
afternoon in accordance with the custom of years. He slept through the
smashing of the windows, and then woke up suddenly with a curious
persuasion of something wrong. He looked across at Kemp’s house, rubbed
his eyes and looked again. Then he put his feet to the ground, and sat
listening. He said he was damned, but still the strange thing was
visible. The house looked as though it had been deserted for
weeks—after a violent riot. Every window was broken, and every window,
save those of the belvedere study, was blinded by the internal
shutters.

“I could have sworn it was all right”—he looked at his watch—“twenty
minutes ago.”

He became aware of a measured concussion and the clash of glass, far
away in the distance. And then, as he sat open-mouthed, came a still
more wonderful thing. The shutters of the drawing-room window were
flung open violently, and the housemaid in her outdoor hat and
garments, appeared struggling in a frantic manner to throw up the sash.
Suddenly a man appeared beside her, helping her—Dr. Kemp! In another
moment the window was open, and the housemaid was struggling out; she
pitched forward and vanished among the shrubs. Mr. Heelas stood up,
exclaiming vaguely and vehemently at all these wonderful things. He saw
Kemp stand on the sill, spring from the window, and reappear almost
instantaneously running along a path in the shrubbery and stooping as
he ran, like a man who evades observation. He vanished behind a
laburnum, and appeared again clambering over a fence that abutted on
the open down. In a second he had tumbled over and was running at a
tremendous pace down the slope towards Mr. Heelas.

“Lord!” cried Mr. Heelas, struck with an idea; “it’s that Invisible Man
brute! It’s right, after all!”

With Mr. Heelas to think things like that was to act, and his cook
watching him from the top window was amazed to see him come pelting
towards the house at a good nine miles an hour. There was a slamming of
doors, a ringing of bells, and the voice of Mr. Heelas bellowing like a
bull. “Shut the doors, shut the windows, shut everything!—the Invisible
Man is coming!” Instantly the house was full of screams and directions,
and scurrying feet. He ran himself to shut the French windows that
opened on the veranda; as he did so Kemp’s head and shoulders and knee
appeared over the edge of the garden fence. In another moment Kemp had
ploughed through the asparagus, and was running across the tennis lawn
to the house.

“You can’t come in,” said Mr. Heelas, shutting the bolts. “I’m very
sorry if he’s after you, but you can’t come in!”

Kemp appeared with a face of terror close to the glass, rapping and
then shaking frantically at the French window. Then, seeing his efforts
were useless, he ran along the veranda, vaulted the end, and went to
hammer at the side door. Then he ran round by the side gate to the
front of the house, and so into the hill-road. And Mr. Heelas staring
from his window—a face of horror—had scarcely witnessed Kemp vanish,
ere the asparagus was being trampled this way and that by feet unseen.
At that Mr. Heelas fled precipitately upstairs, and the rest of the
chase is beyond his purview. But as he passed the staircase window, he
heard the side gate slam.

Emerging into the hill-road, Kemp naturally took the downward
direction, and so it was he came to run in his own person the very race
he had watched with such a critical eye from the belvedere study only
four days ago. He ran it well, for a man out of training, and though
his face was white and wet, his wits were cool to the last. He ran with
wide strides, and wherever a patch of rough ground intervened, wherever
there came a patch of raw flints, or a bit of broken glass shone
dazzling, he crossed it and left the bare invisible feet that followed
to take what line they would.

For the first time in his life Kemp discovered that the hill-road was
indescribably vast and desolate, and that the beginnings of the town
far below at the hill foot were strangely remote. Never had there been
a slower or more painful method of progression than running. All the
gaunt villas, sleeping in the afternoon sun, looked locked and barred;
no doubt they were locked and barred—by his own orders. But at any rate
they might have kept a lookout for an eventuality like this! The town
was rising up now, the sea had dropped out of sight behind it, and
people down below were stirring. A tram was just arriving at the hill
foot. Beyond that was the police station. Was that footsteps he heard
behind him? Spurt.

The people below were staring at him, one or two were running, and his
breath was beginning to saw in his throat. The tram was quite near now,
and the “Jolly Cricketers” was noisily barring its doors. Beyond the
tram were posts and heaps of gravel—the drainage works. He had a
transitory idea of jumping into the tram and slamming the doors, and
then he resolved to go for the police station. In another moment he had
passed the door of the “Jolly Cricketers,” and was in the blistering
fag end of the street, with human beings about him. The tram driver and
his helper—arrested by the sight of his furious haste—stood staring
with the tram horses unhitched. Further on the astonished features of
navvies appeared above the mounds of gravel.

His pace broke a little, and then he heard the swift pad of his
pursuer, and leapt forward again. “The Invisible Man!” he cried to the
navvies, with a vague indicative gesture, and by an inspiration leapt
the excavation and placed a burly group between him and the chase. Then
abandoning the idea of the police station he turned into a little side
street, rushed by a greengrocer’s cart, hesitated for the tenth of a
second at the door of a sweetstuff shop, and then made for the mouth of
an alley that ran back into the main Hill Street again. Two or three
little children were playing here, and shrieked and scattered at his
apparition, and forthwith doors and windows opened and excited mothers
revealed their hearts. Out he shot into Hill Street again, three
hundred yards from the tram-line end, and immediately he became aware
of a tumultuous vociferation and running people.

He glanced up the street towards the hill. Hardly a dozen yards off ran
a huge navvy, cursing in fragments and slashing viciously with a spade,
and hard behind him came the tram conductor with his fists clenched. Up
the street others followed these two, striking and shouting. Down
towards the town, men and women were running, and he noticed clearly
one man coming out of a shop-door with a stick in his hand. “Spread
out! Spread out!” cried some one. Kemp suddenly grasped the altered
condition of the chase. He stopped, and looked round, panting. “He’s
close here!” he cried. “Form a line across—”

He was hit hard under the ear, and went reeling, trying to face round
towards his unseen antagonist. He just managed to keep his feet, and he
struck a vain counter in the air. Then he was hit again under the jaw,
and sprawled headlong on the ground. In another moment a knee
compressed his diaphragm, and a couple of eager hands gripped his
throat, but the grip of one was weaker than the other; he grasped the
wrists, heard a cry of pain from his assailant, and then the spade of
the navvy came whirling through the air above him, and struck something
with a dull thud. He felt a drop of moisture on his face. The grip at
his throat suddenly relaxed, and with a convulsive effort, Kemp loosed
himself, grasped a limp shoulder, and rolled uppermost. He gripped the
unseen elbows near the ground. “I’ve got him!” screamed Kemp. “Help!
Help—hold! He’s down! Hold his feet!”

In another second there was a simultaneous rush upon the struggle, and
a stranger coming into the road suddenly might have thought an
exceptionally savage game of Rugby football was in progress. And there
was no shouting after Kemp’s cry—only a sound of blows and feet and
heavy breathing.

Then came a mighty effort, and the Invisible Man threw off a couple of
his antagonists and rose to his knees. Kemp clung to him in front like
a hound to a stag, and a dozen hands gripped, clutched, and tore at the
Unseen. The tram conductor suddenly got the neck and shoulders and
lugged him back.

Down went the heap of struggling men again and rolled over. There was,
I am afraid, some savage kicking. Then suddenly a wild scream of
“Mercy! Mercy!” that died down swiftly to a sound like choking.

“Get back, you fools!” cried the muffled voice of Kemp, and there was a
vigorous shoving back of stalwart forms. “He’s hurt, I tell you. Stand
back!”

There was a brief struggle to clear a space, and then the circle of
eager faces saw the doctor kneeling, as it seemed, fifteen inches in
the air, and holding invisible arms to the ground. Behind him a
constable gripped invisible ankles.

“Don’t you leave go of en,” cried the big navvy, holding a
blood-stained spade; “he’s shamming.”

“He’s not shamming,” said the doctor, cautiously raising his knee; “and
I’ll hold him.” His face was bruised and already going red; he spoke
thickly because of a bleeding lip. He released one hand and seemed to
be feeling at the face. “The mouth’s all wet,” he said. And then, “Good
God!”

He stood up abruptly and then knelt down on the ground by the side of
the thing unseen. There was a pushing and shuffling, a sound of heavy
feet as fresh people turned up to increase the pressure of the crowd.
People now were coming out of the houses. The doors of the “Jolly
Cricketers” stood suddenly wide open. Very little was said.

Kemp felt about, his hand seeming to pass through empty air. “He’s not
breathing,” he said, and then, “I can’t feel his heart. His side—ugh!”

Suddenly an old woman, peering under the arm of the big navvy, screamed
sharply. “Looky there!” she said, and thrust out a wrinkled finger.

And looking where she pointed, everyone saw, faint and transparent as
though it was made of glass, so that veins and arteries and bones and
nerves could be distinguished, the outline of a hand, a hand limp and
prone. It grew clouded and opaque even as they stared.

“Hullo!” cried the constable. “Here’s his feet a-showing!”

And so, slowly, beginning at his hands and feet and creeping along his
limbs to the vital centres of his body, that strange change continued.
It was like the slow spreading of a poison. First came the little white
nerves, a hazy grey sketch of a limb, then the glassy bones and
intricate arteries, then the flesh and skin, first a faint fogginess,
and then growing rapidly dense and opaque. Presently they could see his
crushed chest and his shoulders, and the dim outline of his drawn and
battered features.

When at last the crowd made way for Kemp to stand erect, there lay,
naked and pitiful on the ground, the bruised and broken body of a young
man about thirty. His hair and brow were white—not grey with age, but
white with the whiteness of albinism—and his eyes were like garnets.
His hands were clenched, his eyes wide open, and his expression was one
of anger and dismay.

“Cover his face!” said a man. “For Gawd’s sake, cover that face!” and
three little children, pushing forward through the crowd, were suddenly
twisted round and sent packing off again.

Someone brought a sheet from the “Jolly Cricketers,” and having covered
him, they carried him into that house. And there it was, on a shabby
bed in a tawdry, ill-lighted bedroom, surrounded by a crowd of ignorant
and excited people, broken and wounded, betrayed and unpitied, that
Griffin, the first of all men to make himself invisible, Griffin, the
most gifted physicist the world has ever seen, ended in infinite
disaster his strange and terrible career.



THE EPILOGUE


So ends the story of the strange and evil experiments of the Invisible
Man. And if you would learn more of him you must go to a little inn
near Port Stowe and talk to the landlord. The sign of the inn is an
empty board save for a hat and boots, and the name is the title of this
story. The landlord is a short and corpulent little man with a nose of
cylindrical proportions, wiry hair, and a sporadic rosiness of visage.
Drink generously, and he will tell you generously of all the things
that happened to him after that time, and of how the lawyers tried to
do him out of the treasure found upon him.

“When they found they couldn’t prove whose money was which, I’m
blessed,” he says, “if they didn’t try to make me out a blooming
treasure trove! Do I _look_ like a Treasure Trove? And then a gentleman
gave me a guinea a night to tell the story at the Empire Music
’All—just to tell ’em in my own words—barring one.”

And if you want to cut off the flow of his reminiscences abruptly, you
can always do so by asking if there weren’t three manuscript books in
the story. He admits there were and proceeds to explain, with
asseverations that everybody thinks _he_ has ’em! But bless you! he
hasn’t. “The Invisible Man it was took ’em off to hide ’em when I cut
and ran for Port Stowe. It’s that Mr. Kemp put people on with the idea
of _my_ having ’em.”

And then he subsides into a pensive state, watches you furtively,
bustles nervously with glasses, and presently leaves the bar.

He is a bachelor man—his tastes were ever bachelor, and there are no
women folk in the house. Outwardly he buttons—it is expected of him—but
in his more vital privacies, in the matter of braces for example, he
still turns to string. He conducts his house without enterprise, but
with eminent decorum. His movements are slow, and he is a great
thinker. But he has a reputation for wisdom and for a respectable
parsimony in the village, and his knowledge of the roads of the South
of England would beat Cobbett.

And on Sunday mornings, every Sunday morning, all the year round, while
he is closed to the outer world, and every night after ten, he goes
into his bar parlour, bearing a glass of gin faintly tinged with water,
and having placed this down, he locks the door and examines the blinds,
and even looks under the table. And then, being satisfied of his
solitude, he unlocks the cupboard and a box in the cupboard and a
drawer in that box, and produces three volumes bound in brown leather,
and places them solemnly in the middle of the table. The covers are
weather-worn and tinged with an algal green—for once they sojourned in
a ditch and some of the pages have been washed blank by dirty water.
The landlord sits down in an armchair, fills a long clay pipe
slowly—gloating over the books the while. Then he pulls one towards him
and opens it, and begins to study it—turning over the leaves backwards
and forwards.

His brows are knit and his lips move painfully. “Hex, little two up in
the air, cross and a fiddle-de-dee. Lord! what a one he was for
intellect!”

Presently he relaxes and leans back, and blinks through his smoke
across the room at things invisible to other eyes. “Full of secrets,”
he says. “Wonderful secrets!”

“Once I get the haul of them—_Lord_!”

“I wouldn’t do what _he_ did; I’d just—well!” He pulls at his pipe.

So he lapses into a dream, the undying wonderful dream of his life. And
though Kemp has fished unceasingly, no human being save the landlord
knows those books are there, with the subtle secret of invisibility and
a dozen other strange secrets written therein. And none other will know
of them until he dies.










The Time Machine

An Invention

by H. G. Wells


CONTENTS

 I Introduction
 II The Machine
 III The Time Traveller Returns
 IV Time Travelling
 V In the Golden Age
 VI The Sunset of Mankind
 VII A Sudden Shock
 VIII Explanation
 IX The Morlocks
 X When Night Came
 XI The Palace of Green Porcelain
 XII In the Darkness
 XIII The Trap of the White Sphinx
 XIV The Further Vision
 XV The Time Traveller’s Return
 XVI After the Story
 Epilogue




 I.
 Introduction


The Time Traveller (for so it will be convenient to speak of him)
was expounding a recondite matter to us. His grey eyes shone and
twinkled, and his usually pale face was flushed and animated. The
fire burnt brightly, and the soft radiance of the incandescent
lights in the lilies of silver caught the bubbles that flashed and
passed in our glasses. Our chairs, being his patents, embraced and
caressed us rather than submitted to be sat upon, and there was that
luxurious after-dinner atmosphere, when thought runs gracefully free
of the trammels of precision. And he put it to us in this way—marking
the points with a lean forefinger—as we sat and lazily admired his
earnestness over this new paradox (as we thought it) and his fecundity.

“You must follow me carefully. I shall have to controvert one or two
ideas that are almost universally accepted. The geometry, for instance,
they taught you at school is founded on a misconception.”

“Is not that rather a large thing to expect us to begin upon?” said
Filby, an argumentative person with red hair.

“I do not mean to ask you to accept anything without reasonable ground
for it. You will soon admit as much as I need from you. You know of
course that a mathematical line, a line of thickness _nil_, has no real
existence. They taught you that? Neither has a mathematical plane.
These things are mere abstractions.”

“That is all right,” said the Psychologist.

“Nor, having only length, breadth, and thickness, can a cube have a
real existence.”

“There I object,” said Filby. “Of course a solid body may exist. All
real things—”

“So most people think. But wait a moment. Can an _instantaneous_ cube
exist?”

“Don’t follow you,” said Filby.

“Can a cube that does not last for any time at all, have a real
existence?”

Filby became pensive. “Clearly,” the Time Traveller proceeded, “any
real body must have extension in _four_ directions: it must have
Length, Breadth, Thickness, and—Duration. But through a natural
infirmity of the flesh, which I will explain to you in a moment, we
incline to overlook this fact. There are really four dimensions, three
which we call the three planes of Space, and a fourth, Time. There is,
however, a tendency to draw an unreal distinction between the former
three dimensions and the latter, because it happens that our
consciousness moves intermittently in one direction along the latter
from the beginning to the end of our lives.”

“That,” said a very young man, making spasmodic efforts to relight his
cigar over the lamp; “that . . . very clear indeed.”

“Now, it is very remarkable that this is so extensively overlooked,”
continued the Time Traveller, with a slight accession of cheerfulness.
“Really this is what is meant by the Fourth Dimension, though some
people who talk about the Fourth Dimension do not know they mean it. It
is only another way of looking at Time. _There is no difference between
Time and any of the three dimensions of Space except that our
consciousness moves along it_. But some foolish people have got hold of
the wrong side of that idea. You have all heard what they have to say
about this Fourth Dimension?”

“_I_ have not,” said the Provincial Mayor.

“It is simply this. That Space, as our mathematicians have it, is
spoken of as having three dimensions, which one may call Length,
Breadth, and Thickness, and is always definable by reference to three
planes, each at right angles to the others. But some philosophical
people have been asking why _three_ dimensions particularly—why not
another direction at right angles to the other three?—and have even
tried to construct a Four-Dimensional geometry. Professor Simon Newcomb
was expounding this to the New York Mathematical Society only a month
or so ago. You know how on a flat surface, which has only two
dimensions, we can represent a figure of a three-dimensional solid, and
similarly they think that by models of three dimensions they could
represent one of four—if they could master the perspective of the
thing. See?”

“I think so,” murmured the Provincial Mayor; and, knitting his brows,
he lapsed into an introspective state, his lips moving as one who
repeats mystic words. “Yes, I think I see it now,” he said after some
time, brightening in a quite transitory manner.

“Well, I do not mind telling you I have been at work upon this geometry
of Four Dimensions for some time. Some of my results are curious. For
instance, here is a portrait of a man at eight years old, another at
fifteen, another at seventeen, another at twenty-three, and so on. All
these are evidently sections, as it were, Three-Dimensional
representations of his Four-Dimensioned being, which is a fixed and
unalterable thing.”

“Scientific people,” proceeded the Time Traveller, after the pause
required for the proper assimilation of this, “know very well that Time
is only a kind of Space. Here is a popular scientific diagram, a
weather record. This line I trace with my finger shows the movement of
the barometer. Yesterday it was so high, yesterday night it fell, then
this morning it rose again, and so gently upward to here. Surely the
mercury did not trace this line in any of the dimensions of Space
generally recognised? But certainly it traced such a line, and that
line, therefore, we must conclude, was along the Time-Dimension.”

“But,” said the Medical Man, staring hard at a coal in the fire, “if
Time is really only a fourth dimension of Space, why is it, and why has
it always been, regarded as something different? And why cannot we move
about in Time as we move about in the other dimensions of Space?”

The Time Traveller smiled. “Are you so sure we can move freely in
Space? Right and left we can go, backward and forward freely enough,
and men always have done so. I admit we move freely in two dimensions.
But how about up and down? Gravitation limits us there.”

“Not exactly,” said the Medical Man. “There are balloons.”

“But before the balloons, save for spasmodic jumping and the
inequalities of the surface, man had no freedom of vertical movement.”

“Still they could move a little up and down,” said the Medical Man.

“Easier, far easier down than up.”

“And you cannot move at all in Time, you cannot get away from the
present moment.”

“My dear sir, that is just where you are wrong. That is just where the
whole world has gone wrong. We are always getting away from the present
moment. Our mental existences, which are immaterial and have no
dimensions, are passing along the Time-Dimension with a uniform
velocity from the cradle to the grave. Just as we should travel _down_
if we began our existence fifty miles above the earth’s surface.”

“But the great difficulty is this,” interrupted the Psychologist. “You
_can_ move about in all directions of Space, but you cannot move about
in Time.”

“That is the germ of my great discovery. But you are wrong to say that
we cannot move about in Time. For instance, if I am recalling an
incident very vividly I go back to the instant of its occurrence: I
become absent-minded, as you say. I jump back for a moment. Of course
we have no means of staying back for any length of Time, any more than
a savage or an animal has of staying six feet above the ground. But a
civilised man is better off than the savage in this respect. He can go
up against gravitation in a balloon, and why should he not hope that
ultimately he may be able to stop or accelerate his drift along the
Time-Dimension, or even turn about and travel the other way?”

“Oh, _this_,” began Filby, “is all—”

“Why not?” said the Time Traveller.

“It’s against reason,” said Filby.

“What reason?” said the Time Traveller.

“You can show black is white by argument,” said Filby, “but you will
never convince me.”

“Possibly not,” said the Time Traveller. “But now you begin to see the
object of my investigations into the geometry of Four Dimensions. Long
ago I had a vague inkling of a machine—”

“To travel through Time!” exclaimed the Very Young Man.

“That shall travel indifferently in any direction of Space and Time, as
the driver determines.”

Filby contented himself with laughter.

“But I have experimental verification,” said the Time Traveller.

“It would be remarkably convenient for the historian,” the Psychologist
suggested. “One might travel back and verify the accepted account of
the Battle of Hastings, for instance!”

“Don’t you think you would attract attention?” said the Medical Man.
“Our ancestors had no great tolerance for anachronisms.”

“One might get one’s Greek from the very lips of Homer and Plato,” the
Very Young Man thought.

“In which case they would certainly plough you for the Little-go. The
German scholars have improved Greek so much.”

“Then there is the future,” said the Very Young Man. “Just think! One
might invest all one’s money, leave it to accumulate at interest, and
hurry on ahead!”

“To discover a society,” said I, “erected on a strictly communistic
basis.”

“Of all the wild extravagant theories!” began the Psychologist.

“Yes, so it seemed to me, and so I never talked of it until—”

“Experimental verification!” cried I. “You are going to verify _that_?”

“The experiment!” cried Filby, who was getting brain-weary.

“Let’s see your experiment anyhow,” said the Psychologist, “though it’s
all humbug, you know.”

The Time Traveller smiled round at us. Then, still smiling faintly, and
with his hands deep in his trousers pockets, he walked slowly out of
the room, and we heard his slippers shuffling down the long passage to
his laboratory.

The Psychologist looked at us. “I wonder what he’s got?”

“Some sleight-of-hand trick or other,” said the Medical Man, and Filby
tried to tell us about a conjuror he had seen at Burslem, but before he
had finished his preface the Time Traveller came back, and Filby’s
anecdote collapsed.




 II.
 The Machine


The thing the Time Traveller held in his hand was a glittering metallic
framework, scarcely larger than a small clock, and very delicately
made. There was ivory in it, and some transparent crystalline
substance. And now I must be explicit, for this that follows—unless
his explanation is to be accepted—is an absolutely unaccountable
thing. He took one of the small octagonal tables that were scattered
about the room, and set it in front of the fire, with two legs on the
hearthrug. On this table he placed the mechanism. Then he drew up a
chair, and sat down. The only other object on the table was a small
shaded lamp, the bright light of which fell full upon the model. There
were also perhaps a dozen candles about, two in brass candlesticks upon
the mantel and several in sconces, so that the room was brilliantly
illuminated. I sat in a low arm-chair nearest the fire, and I drew
this forward so as to be almost between the Time Traveller and the
fireplace. Filby sat behind him, looking over his shoulder. The Medical
Man and the Provincial Mayor watched him in profile from the right,
the Psychologist from the left. The Very Young Man stood behind the
Psychologist. We were all on the alert. It appears incredible to me
that any kind of trick, however subtly conceived and however adroitly
done, could have been played upon us under these conditions.

The Time Traveller looked at us, and then at the mechanism. “Well?”
said the Psychologist.

“This little affair,” said the Time Traveller, resting his elbows upon
the table and pressing his hands together above the apparatus, “is only
a model. It is my plan for a machine to travel through time. You will
notice that it looks singularly askew, and that there is an odd
twinkling appearance about this bar, as though it was in some way
unreal.” He pointed to the part with his finger. “Also, here is one
little white lever, and here is another.”

The Medical Man got up out of his chair and peered into the thing.
“It’s beautifully made,” he said.

“It took two years to make,” retorted the Time Traveller. Then, when we
had all imitated the action of the Medical Man, he said: “Now I want
you clearly to understand that this lever, being pressed over, sends
the machine gliding into the future, and this other reverses the
motion. This saddle represents the seat of a time traveller. Presently
I am going to press the lever, and off the machine will go. It will
vanish, pass into future Time, and disappear. Have a good look at the
thing. Look at the table too, and satisfy yourselves there is no
trickery. I don’t want to waste this model, and then be told I’m a
quack.”

There was a minute’s pause perhaps. The Psychologist seemed about to
speak to me, but changed his mind. Then the Time Traveller put forth
his finger towards the lever. “No,” he said suddenly. “Lend me your
hand.” And turning to the Psychologist, he took that individual’s hand
in his own and told him to put out his forefinger. So that it was the
Psychologist himself who sent forth the model Time Machine on its
interminable voyage. We all saw the lever turn. I am absolutely certain
there was no trickery. There was a breath of wind, and the lamp flame
jumped. One of the candles on the mantel was blown out, and the little
machine suddenly swung round, became indistinct, was seen as a ghost
for a second perhaps, as an eddy of faintly glittering brass and ivory;
and it was gone—vanished! Save for the lamp the table was bare.

Everyone was silent for a minute. Then Filby said he was damned.

The Psychologist recovered from his stupor, and suddenly looked under
the table. At that the Time Traveller laughed cheerfully. “Well?” he
said, with a reminiscence of the Psychologist. Then, getting up, he
went to the tobacco jar on the mantel, and with his back to us began to
fill his pipe.

We stared at each other. “Look here,” said the Medical Man, “are you in
earnest about this? Do you seriously believe that that machine has
travelled into time?”

“Certainly,” said the Time Traveller, stooping to light a spill at the
fire. Then he turned, lighting his pipe, to look at the Psychologist’s
face. (The Psychologist, to show that he was not unhinged, helped
himself to a cigar and tried to light it uncut.) “What is more, I have
a big machine nearly finished in there”—he indicated the
laboratory—“and when that is put together I mean to have a journey on
my own account.”

“You mean to say that that machine has travelled into the future?” said
Filby.

“Into the future or the past—I don’t, for certain, know which.”

After an interval the Psychologist had an inspiration. “It must have
gone into the past if it has gone anywhere,” he said.

“Why?” said the Time Traveller.

“Because I presume that it has not moved in space, and if it travelled
into the future it would still be here all this time, since it must
have travelled through this time.”

“But,” said I, “If it travelled into the past it would have been
visible when we came first into this room; and last Thursday when we
were here; and the Thursday before that; and so forth!”

“Serious objections,” remarked the Provincial Mayor, with an air of
impartiality, turning towards the Time Traveller.

“Not a bit,” said the Time Traveller, and, to the Psychologist: “You
think. _You_ can explain that. It’s presentation below the threshold,
you know, diluted presentation.”

“Of course,” said the Psychologist, and reassured us. “That’s a simple
point in psychology. I should have thought of it. It’s plain enough,
and helps the paradox delightfully. We cannot see it, nor can we
appreciate this machine, any more than we can the spoke of a wheel
spinning, or a bullet flying through the air. If it is travelling
through time fifty times or a hundred times faster than we are, if it
gets through a minute while we get through a second, the impression it
creates will of course be only one-fiftieth or one-hundredth of what it
would make if it were not travelling in time. That’s plain enough.” He
passed his hand through the space in which the machine had been. “You
see?” he said, laughing.

We sat and stared at the vacant table for a minute or so. Then the Time
Traveller asked us what we thought of it all.

“It sounds plausible enough tonight,” said the Medical Man; “but wait
until tomorrow. Wait for the common sense of the morning.”

“Would you like to see the Time Machine itself?” asked the Time
Traveller. And therewith, taking the lamp in his hand, he led the way
down the long, draughty corridor to his laboratory. I remember vividly
the flickering light, his queer, broad head in silhouette, the dance of
the shadows, how we all followed him, puzzled but incredulous, and how
there in the laboratory we beheld a larger edition of the little
mechanism which we had seen vanish from before our eyes. Parts were of
nickel, parts of ivory, parts had certainly been filed or sawn out of
rock crystal. The thing was generally complete, but the twisted
crystalline bars lay unfinished upon the bench beside some sheets of
drawings, and I took one up for a better look at it. Quartz it seemed
to be.

“Look here,” said the Medical Man, “are you perfectly serious? Or is
this a trick—like that ghost you showed us last Christmas?”

“Upon that machine,” said the Time Traveller, holding the lamp aloft,
“I intend to explore time. Is that plain? I was never more serious in
my life.”

None of us quite knew how to take it.

I caught Filby’s eye over the shoulder of the Medical Man, and he
winked at me solemnly.




 III.
 The Time Traveller Returns


I think that at that time none of us quite believed in the Time
Machine. The fact is, the Time Traveller was one of those men who are
too clever to be believed: you never felt that you saw all round him;
you always suspected some subtle reserve, some ingenuity in ambush,
behind his lucid frankness. Had Filby shown the model and explained the
matter in the Time Traveller’s words, we should have shown _him_ far
less scepticism. For we should have perceived his motives: a
pork-butcher could understand Filby. But the Time Traveller had more
than a touch of whim among his elements, and we distrusted him. Things
that would have made the fame of a less clever man seemed tricks in his
hands. It is a mistake to do things too easily. The serious people who
took him seriously never felt quite sure of his deportment; they were
somehow aware that trusting their reputations for judgment with him was
like furnishing a nursery with eggshell china. So I don’t think any of
us said very much about time travelling in the interval between that
Thursday and the next, though its odd potentialities ran, no doubt, in
most of our minds: its plausibility, that is, its practical
incredibleness, the curious possibilities of anachronism and of utter
confusion it suggested. For my own part, I was particularly preoccupied
with the trick of the model. That I remember discussing with the
Medical Man, whom I met on Friday at the Linnæan. He said he had seen a
similar thing at Tübingen, and laid considerable stress on the
blowing-out of the candle. But how the trick was done he could not
explain.

The next Thursday I went again to Richmond—I suppose I was one of the
Time Traveller’s most constant guests—and, arriving late, found four or
five men already assembled in his drawing-room. The Medical Man was
standing before the fire with a sheet of paper in one hand and his
watch in the other. I looked round for the Time Traveller, and—“It’s
half-past seven now,” said the Medical Man. “I suppose we’d better have
dinner?”

“Where’s——?” said I, naming our host.

“You’ve just come? It’s rather odd. He’s unavoidably detained. He asks
me in this note to lead off with dinner at seven if he’s not back. Says
he’ll explain when he comes.”

“It seems a pity to let the dinner spoil,” said the Editor of a
well-known daily paper; and thereupon the Doctor rang the bell.

The Psychologist was the only person besides the Doctor and myself who
had attended the previous dinner. The other men were Blank, the Editor
aforementioned, a certain journalist, and another—a quiet, shy man with
a beard—whom I didn’t know, and who, as far as my observation went,
never opened his mouth all the evening. There was some speculation at
the dinner-table about the Time Traveller’s absence, and I suggested
time travelling, in a half-jocular spirit. The Editor wanted that
explained to him, and the Psychologist volunteered a wooden account of
the “ingenious paradox and trick” we had witnessed that day week. He
was in the midst of his exposition when the door from the corridor
opened slowly and without noise. I was facing the door, and saw it
first. “Hallo!” I said. “At last!” And the door opened wider, and the
Time Traveller stood before us. I gave a cry of surprise. “Good
heavens! man, what’s the matter?” cried the Medical Man, who saw him
next. And the whole tableful turned towards the door.

He was in an amazing plight. His coat was dusty and dirty, and smeared
with green down the sleeves; his hair disordered, and as it seemed to
me greyer—either with dust and dirt or because its colour had actually
faded. His face was ghastly pale; his chin had a brown cut on it—a cut
half-healed; his expression was haggard and drawn, as by intense
suffering. For a moment he hesitated in the doorway, as if he had been
dazzled by the light. Then he came into the room. He walked with just
such a limp as I have seen in footsore tramps. We stared at him in
silence, expecting him to speak.

He said not a word, but came painfully to the table, and made a motion
towards the wine. The Editor filled a glass of champagne, and pushed it
towards him. He drained it, and it seemed to do him good: for he looked
round the table, and the ghost of his old smile flickered across his
face. “What on earth have you been up to, man?” said the Doctor. The
Time Traveller did not seem to hear. “Don’t let me disturb you,” he
said, with a certain faltering articulation. “I’m all right.” He
stopped, held out his glass for more, and took it off at a draught.
“That’s good,” he said. His eyes grew brighter, and a faint colour came
into his cheeks. His glance flickered over our faces with a certain
dull approval, and then went round the warm and comfortable room. Then
he spoke again, still as it were feeling his way among his words. “I’m
going to wash and dress, and then I’ll come down and explain things....
Save me some of that mutton. I’m starving for a bit of meat.”

He looked across at the Editor, who was a rare visitor, and hoped he
was all right. The Editor began a question. “Tell you presently,” said
the Time Traveller. “I’m—funny! Be all right in a minute.”

He put down his glass, and walked towards the staircase door. Again I
remarked his lameness and the soft padding sound of his footfall, and
standing up in my place, I saw his feet as he went out. He had nothing
on them but a pair of tattered, blood-stained socks. Then the door
closed upon him. I had half a mind to follow, till I remembered how he
detested any fuss about himself. For a minute, perhaps, my mind was
wool-gathering. Then, “Remarkable Behaviour of an Eminent Scientist,” I
heard the Editor say, thinking (after his wont) in headlines. And this
brought my attention back to the bright dinner-table.

“What’s the game?” said the Journalist. “Has he been doing the Amateur
Cadger? I don’t follow.” I met the eye of the Psychologist, and read my
own interpretation in his face. I thought of the Time Traveller limping
painfully upstairs. I don’t think anyone else had noticed his lameness.

The first to recover completely from this surprise was the Medical Man,
who rang the bell—the Time Traveller hated to have servants waiting at
dinner—for a hot plate. At that the Editor turned to his knife and fork
with a grunt, and the Silent Man followed suit. The dinner was resumed.
Conversation was exclamatory for a little while with gaps of
wonderment; and then the Editor got fervent in his curiosity. “Does our
friend eke out his modest income with a crossing? or has he his
Nebuchadnezzar phases?” he inquired. “I feel assured it’s this business
of the Time Machine,” I said, and took up the Psychologist’s account of
our previous meeting. The new guests were frankly incredulous. The
Editor raised objections. “What _was_ this time travelling? A man
couldn’t cover himself with dust by rolling in a paradox, could he?”
And then, as the idea came home to him, he resorted to caricature.
Hadn’t they any clothes-brushes in the Future? The Journalist too,
would not believe at any price, and joined the Editor in the easy work
of heaping ridicule on the whole thing. They were both the new kind of
journalist—very joyous, irreverent young men. “Our Special
Correspondent in the Day after Tomorrow reports,” the Journalist was
saying—or rather shouting—when the Time Traveller came back. He was
dressed in ordinary evening clothes, and nothing save his haggard look
remained of the change that had startled me.

“I say,” said the Editor hilariously, “these chaps here say you have
been travelling into the middle of next week! Tell us all about little
Rosebery, will you? What will you take for the lot?”

The Time Traveller came to the place reserved for him without a word.
He smiled quietly, in his old way. “Where’s my mutton?” he said. “What
a treat it is to stick a fork into meat again!”

“Story!” cried the Editor.

“Story be damned!” said the Time Traveller. “I want something to eat. I
won’t say a word until I get some peptone into my arteries. Thanks. And
the salt.”

“One word,” said I. “Have you been time travelling?”

“Yes,” said the Time Traveller, with his mouth full, nodding his head.

“I’d give a shilling a line for a verbatim note,” said the Editor. The
Time Traveller pushed his glass towards the Silent Man and rang it with
his fingernail; at which the Silent Man, who had been staring at his
face, started convulsively, and poured him wine. The rest of the dinner
was uncomfortable. For my own part, sudden questions kept on rising to
my lips, and I dare say it was the same with the others. The Journalist
tried to relieve the tension by telling anecdotes of Hettie Potter. The
Time Traveller devoted his attention to his dinner, and displayed the
appetite of a tramp. The Medical Man smoked a cigarette, and watched
the Time Traveller through his eyelashes. The Silent Man seemed even
more clumsy than usual, and drank champagne with regularity and
determination out of sheer nervousness. At last the Time Traveller
pushed his plate away, and looked round us. “I suppose I must
apologise,” he said. “I was simply starving. I’ve had a most amazing
time.” He reached out his hand for a cigar, and cut the end. “But come
into the smoking-room. It’s too long a story to tell over greasy
plates.” And ringing the bell in passing, he led the way into the
adjoining room.

“You have told Blank, and Dash, and Chose about the machine?” he said
to me, leaning back in his easy-chair and naming the three new guests.

“But the thing’s a mere paradox,” said the Editor.

“I can’t argue tonight. I don’t mind telling you the story, but I can’t
argue. I will,” he went on, “tell you the story of what has happened to
me, if you like, but you must refrain from interruptions. I want to
tell it. Badly. Most of it will sound like lying. So be it! It’s
true—every word of it, all the same. I was in my laboratory at four
o’clock, and since then … I’ve lived eight days … such days as no human
being ever lived before! I’m nearly worn out, but I shan’t sleep till
I’ve told this thing over to you. Then I shall go to bed. But no
interruptions! Is it agreed?”

“Agreed,” said the Editor, and the rest of us echoed “Agreed.” And with
that the Time Traveller began his story as I have set it forth. He sat
back in his chair at first, and spoke like a weary man. Afterwards he
got more animated. In writing it down I feel with only too much
keenness the inadequacy of pen and ink—and, above all, my own
inadequacy—to express its quality. You read, I will suppose,
attentively enough; but you cannot see the speaker’s white, sincere
face in the bright circle of the little lamp, nor hear the intonation
of his voice. You cannot know how his expression followed the turns of
his story! Most of us hearers were in shadow, for the candles in the
smoking-room had not been lighted, and only the face of the Journalist
and the legs of the Silent Man from the knees downward were
illuminated. At first we glanced now and again at each other. After a
time we ceased to do that, and looked only at the Time Traveller’s
face.




 IV.
 Time Travelling


“I told some of you last Thursday of the principles of the Time
Machine, and showed you the actual thing itself, incomplete in the
workshop. There it is now, a little travel-worn, truly; and one of the
ivory bars is cracked, and a brass rail bent; but the rest of it’s
sound enough. I expected to finish it on Friday; but on Friday, when
the putting together was nearly done, I found that one of the nickel
bars was exactly one inch too short, and this I had to get remade; so
that the thing was not complete until this morning. It was at ten
o’clock today that the first of all Time Machines began its career. I
gave it a last tap, tried all the screws again, put one more drop of
oil on the quartz rod, and sat myself in the saddle. I suppose a
suicide who holds a pistol to his skull feels much the same wonder at
what will come next as I felt then. I took the starting lever in one
hand and the stopping one in the other, pressed the first, and almost
immediately the second. I seemed to reel; I felt a nightmare sensation
of falling; and, looking round, I saw the laboratory exactly as before.
Had anything happened? For a moment I suspected that my intellect had
tricked me. Then I noted the clock. A moment before, as it seemed, it
had stood at a minute or so past ten; now it was nearly half-past
three!

“I drew a breath, set my teeth, gripped the starting lever with both
hands, and went off with a thud. The laboratory got hazy and went dark.
Mrs. Watchett came in and walked, apparently without seeing me, towards
the garden door. I suppose it took her a minute or so to traverse the
place, but to me she seemed to shoot across the room like a rocket. I
pressed the lever over to its extreme position. The night came like the
turning out of a lamp, and in another moment came tomorrow. The
laboratory grew faint and hazy, then fainter and ever fainter. Tomorrow
night came black, then day again, night again, day again, faster and
faster still. An eddying murmur filled my ears, and a strange, dumb
confusedness descended on my mind.

“I am afraid I cannot convey the peculiar sensations of time
travelling. They are excessively unpleasant. There is a feeling exactly
like that one has upon a switchback—of a helpless headlong motion! I
felt the same horrible anticipation, too, of an imminent smash. As I
put on pace, night followed day like the flapping of a black wing. The
dim suggestion of the laboratory seemed presently to fall away from me,
and I saw the sun hopping swiftly across the sky, leaping it every
minute, and every minute marking a day. I supposed the laboratory had
been destroyed and I had come into the open air. I had a dim impression
of scaffolding, but I was already going too fast to be conscious of any
moving things. The slowest snail that ever crawled dashed by too fast
for me. The twinkling succession of darkness and light was excessively
painful to the eye. Then, in the intermittent darknesses, I saw the
moon spinning swiftly through her quarters from new to full, and had a
faint glimpse of the circling stars. Presently, as I went on, still
gaining velocity, the palpitation of night and day merged into one
continuous greyness; the sky took on a wonderful deepness of blue, a
splendid luminous colour like that of early twilight; the jerking sun
became a streak of fire, a brilliant arch, in space; the moon a fainter
fluctuating band; and I could see nothing of the stars, save now and
then a brighter circle flickering in the blue.

“The landscape was misty and vague. I was still on the hillside upon
which this house now stands, and the shoulder rose above me grey and
dim. I saw trees growing and changing like puffs of vapour, now brown,
now green; they grew, spread, shivered, and passed away. I saw huge
buildings rise up faint and fair, and pass like dreams. The whole
surface of the earth seemed changed—melting and flowing under my eyes.
The little hands upon the dials that registered my speed raced round
faster and faster. Presently I noted that the sun belt swayed up and
down, from solstice to solstice, in a minute or less, and that
consequently my pace was over a year a minute; and minute by minute the
white snow flashed across the world, and vanished, and was followed by
the bright, brief green of spring.

“The unpleasant sensations of the start were less poignant now. They
merged at last into a kind of hysterical exhilaration. I remarked,
indeed, a clumsy swaying of the machine, for which I was unable to
account. But my mind was too confused to attend to it, so with a kind
of madness growing upon me, I flung myself into futurity. At first I
scarce thought of stopping, scarce thought of anything but these new
sensations. But presently a fresh series of impressions grew up in my
mind—a certain curiosity and therewith a certain dread—until at last
they took complete possession of me. What strange developments of
humanity, what wonderful advances upon our rudimentary civilisation, I
thought, might not appear when I came to look nearly into the dim
elusive world that raced and fluctuated before my eyes! I saw great and
splendid architecture rising about me, more massive than any buildings
of our own time, and yet, as it seemed, built of glimmer and mist. I
saw a richer green flow up the hillside, and remain there, without any
wintry intermission. Even through the veil of my confusion the earth
seemed very fair. And so my mind came round to the business of
stopping.

“The peculiar risk lay in the possibility of my finding some substance
in the space which I, or the machine, occupied. So long as I travelled
at a high velocity through time, this scarcely mattered: I was, so to
speak, attenuated—was slipping like a vapour through the interstices of
intervening substances! But to come to a stop involved the jamming of
myself, molecule by molecule, into whatever lay in my way; meant
bringing my atoms into such intimate contact with those of the obstacle
that a profound chemical reaction—possibly a far-reaching
explosion—would result, and blow myself and my apparatus out of all
possible dimensions—into the Unknown. This possibility had occurred to
me again and again while I was making the machine; but then I had
cheerfully accepted it as an unavoidable risk—one of the risks a man
has got to take! Now the risk was inevitable, I no longer saw it in the
same cheerful light. The fact is that, insensibly, the absolute
strangeness of everything, the sickly jarring and swaying of the
machine, above all, the feeling of prolonged falling, had absolutely
upset my nerves. I told myself that I could never stop, and with a gust
of petulance I resolved to stop forthwith. Like an impatient fool, I
lugged over the lever, and incontinently the thing went reeling over,
and I was flung headlong through the air.

“There was the sound of a clap of thunder in my ears. I may have been
stunned for a moment. A pitiless hail was hissing round me, and I was
sitting on soft turf in front of the overset machine. Everything still
seemed grey, but presently I remarked that the confusion in my ears was
gone. I looked round me. I was on what seemed to be a little lawn in a
garden, surrounded by rhododendron bushes, and I noticed that their
mauve and purple blossoms were dropping in a shower under the beating
of the hailstones. The rebounding, dancing hail hung in a little cloud
over the machine, and drove along the ground like smoke. In a moment I
was wet to the skin. ‘Fine hospitality,’ said I, ‘to a man who has
travelled innumerable years to see you.’

“Presently I thought what a fool I was to get wet. I stood up and
looked round me. A colossal figure, carved apparently in some white
stone, loomed indistinctly beyond the rhododendrons through the hazy
downpour. But all else of the world was invisible.

“My sensations would be hard to describe. As the columns of hail grew
thinner, I saw the white figure more distinctly. It was very large, for
a silver birch-tree touched its shoulder. It was of white marble, in
shape something like a winged sphinx, but the wings, instead of being
carried vertically at the sides, were spread so that it seemed to
hover. The pedestal, it appeared to me, was of bronze, and was thick
with verdigris. It chanced that the face was towards me; the sightless
eyes seemed to watch me; there was the faint shadow of a smile on the
lips. It was greatly weather-worn, and that imparted an unpleasant
suggestion of disease. I stood looking at it for a little space—half a
minute, perhaps, or half an hour. It seemed to advance and to recede as
the hail drove before it denser or thinner. At last I tore my eyes from
it for a moment, and saw that the hail curtain had worn threadbare, and
that the sky was lightening with the promise of the sun.

“I looked up again at the crouching white shape, and the full temerity
of my voyage came suddenly upon me. What might appear when that hazy
curtain was altogether withdrawn? What might not have happened to men?
What if cruelty had grown into a common passion? What if in this
interval the race had lost its manliness, and had developed into
something inhuman, unsympathetic, and overwhelmingly powerful? I might
seem some old-world savage animal, only the more dreadful and
disgusting for our common likeness—a foul creature to be incontinently
slain.

“Already I saw other vast shapes—huge buildings with intricate parapets
and tall columns, with a wooded hillside dimly creeping in upon me
through the lessening storm. I was seized with a panic fear. I turned
frantically to the Time Machine, and strove hard to readjust it. As I
did so the shafts of the sun smote through the thunderstorm. The grey
downpour was swept aside and vanished like the trailing garments of a
ghost. Above me, in the intense blue of the summer sky, some faint
brown shreds of cloud whirled into nothingness. The great buildings
about me stood out clear and distinct, shining with the wet of the
thunderstorm, and picked out in white by the unmelted hailstones piled
along their courses. I felt naked in a strange world. I felt as perhaps
a bird may feel in the clear air, knowing the hawk wings above and will
swoop. My fear grew to frenzy. I took a breathing space, set my teeth,
and again grappled fiercely, wrist and knee, with the machine. It gave
under my desperate onset and turned over. It struck my chin violently.
One hand on the saddle, the other on the lever, I stood panting heavily
in attitude to mount again.

“But with this recovery of a prompt retreat my courage recovered. I
looked more curiously and less fearfully at this world of the remote
future. In a circular opening, high up in the wall of the nearer house,
I saw a group of figures clad in rich soft robes. They had seen me, and
their faces were directed towards me.

“Then I heard voices approaching me. Coming through the bushes by the
White Sphinx were the heads and shoulders of men running. One of these
emerged in a pathway leading straight to the little lawn upon which I
stood with my machine. He was a slight creature—perhaps four feet
high—clad in a purple tunic, girdled at the waist with a leather belt.
Sandals or buskins—I could not clearly distinguish which—were on his
feet; his legs were bare to the knees, and his head was bare. Noticing
that, I noticed for the first time how warm the air was.

“He struck me as being a very beautiful and graceful creature, but
indescribably frail. His flushed face reminded me of the more beautiful
kind of consumptive—that hectic beauty of which we used to hear so
much. At the sight of him I suddenly regained confidence. I took my
hands from the machine.




 V.
 In the Golden Age


“In another moment we were standing face to face, I and this fragile
thing out of futurity. He came straight up to me and laughed into my
eyes. The absence from his bearing of any sign of fear struck me at
once. Then he turned to the two others who were following him and spoke
to them in a strange and very sweet and liquid tongue.

“There were others coming, and presently a little group of perhaps
eight or ten of these exquisite creatures were about me. One of them
addressed me. It came into my head, oddly enough, that my voice was too
harsh and deep for them. So I shook my head, and, pointing to my ears,
shook it again. He came a step forward, hesitated, and then touched my
hand. Then I felt other soft little tentacles upon my back and
shoulders. They wanted to make sure I was real. There was nothing in
this at all alarming. Indeed, there was something in these pretty
little people that inspired confidence—a graceful gentleness, a certain
childlike ease. And besides, they looked so frail that I could fancy
myself flinging the whole dozen of them about like ninepins. But I made
a sudden motion to warn them when I saw their little pink hands feeling
at the Time Machine. Happily then, when it was not too late, I thought
of a danger I had hitherto forgotten, and reaching over the bars of the
machine I unscrewed the little levers that would set it in motion, and
put these in my pocket. Then I turned again to see what I could do in
the way of communication.

“And then, looking more nearly into their features, I saw some further
peculiarities in their Dresden china type of prettiness. Their hair,
which was uniformly curly, came to a sharp end at the neck and cheek;
there was not the faintest suggestion of it on the face, and their ears
were singularly minute. The mouths were small, with bright red, rather
thin lips, and the little chins ran to a point. The eyes were large and
mild; and—this may seem egotism on my part—I fancied even that there
was a certain lack of the interest I might have expected in them.

“As they made no effort to communicate with me, but simply stood round
me smiling and speaking in soft cooing notes to each other, I began the
conversation. I pointed to the Time Machine and to myself. Then,
hesitating for a moment how to express Time, I pointed to the sun. At
once a quaintly pretty little figure in chequered purple and white
followed my gesture, and then astonished me by imitating the sound of
thunder.

“For a moment I was staggered, though the import of his gesture was
plain enough. The question had come into my mind abruptly: were these
creatures fools? You may hardly understand how it took me. You see, I
had always anticipated that the people of the year Eight Hundred and
Two Thousand odd would be incredibly in front of us in knowledge, art,
everything. Then one of them suddenly asked me a question that showed
him to be on the intellectual level of one of our five-year-old
children—asked me, in fact, if I had come from the sun in a
thunderstorm! It let loose the judgment I had suspended upon their
clothes, their frail light limbs, and fragile features. A flow of
disappointment rushed across my mind. For a moment I felt that I had
built the Time Machine in vain.

“I nodded, pointed to the sun, and gave them such a vivid rendering of
a thunderclap as startled them. They all withdrew a pace or so and
bowed. Then came one laughing towards me, carrying a chain of beautiful
flowers altogether new to me, and put it about my neck. The idea was
received with melodious applause; and presently they were all running
to and fro for flowers, and laughingly flinging them upon me until I
was almost smothered with blossom. You who have never seen the like can
scarcely imagine what delicate and wonderful flowers countless years of
culture had created. Then someone suggested that their plaything should
be exhibited in the nearest building, and so I was led past the sphinx
of white marble, which had seemed to watch me all the while with a
smile at my astonishment, towards a vast grey edifice of fretted stone.
As I went with them the memory of my confident anticipations of a
profoundly grave and intellectual posterity came, with irresistible
merriment, to my mind.

“The building had a huge entry, and was altogether of colossal
dimensions. I was naturally most occupied with the growing crowd of
little people, and with the big open portals that yawned before me
shadowy and mysterious. My general impression of the world I saw over
their heads was a tangled waste of beautiful bushes and flowers, a long
neglected and yet weedless garden. I saw a number of tall spikes of
strange white flowers, measuring a foot perhaps across the spread of
the waxen petals. They grew scattered, as if wild, among the variegated
shrubs, but, as I say, I did not examine them closely at this time. The
Time Machine was left deserted on the turf among the rhododendrons.

“The arch of the doorway was richly carved, but naturally I did not
observe the carving very narrowly, though I fancied I saw suggestions
of old Phœnician decorations as I passed through, and it struck me that
they were very badly broken and weather-worn. Several more brightly
clad people met me in the doorway, and so we entered, I, dressed in
dingy nineteenth-century garments, looking grotesque enough, garlanded
with flowers, and surrounded by an eddying mass of bright,
soft-coloured robes and shining white limbs, in a melodious whirl of
laughter and laughing speech.

“The big doorway opened into a proportionately great hall hung with
brown. The roof was in shadow, and the windows, partially glazed with
coloured glass and partially unglazed, admitted a tempered light. The
floor was made up of huge blocks of some very hard white metal, not
plates nor slabs—blocks, and it was so much worn, as I judged by the
going to and fro of past generations, as to be deeply channelled along
the more frequented ways. Transverse to the length were innumerable
tables made of slabs of polished stone, raised, perhaps, a foot from
the floor, and upon these were heaps of fruits. Some I recognised as a
kind of hypertrophied raspberry and orange, but for the most part they
were strange.

“Between the tables was scattered a great number of cushions. Upon
these my conductors seated themselves, signing for me to do likewise.
With a pretty absence of ceremony they began to eat the fruit with
their hands, flinging peel and stalks, and so forth, into the round
openings in the sides of the tables. I was not loath to follow their
example, for I felt thirsty and hungry. As I did so I surveyed the hall
at my leisure.

“And perhaps the thing that struck me most was its dilapidated look.
The stained-glass windows, which displayed only a geometrical pattern,
were broken in many places, and the curtains that hung across the lower
end were thick with dust. And it caught my eye that the corner of the
marble table near me was fractured. Nevertheless, the general effect
was extremely rich and picturesque. There were, perhaps, a couple of
hundred people dining in the hall, and most of them, seated as near to
me as they could come, were watching me with interest, their little
eyes shining over the fruit they were eating. All were clad in the same
soft, and yet strong, silky material.

“Fruit, by the bye, was all their diet. These people of the remote
future were strict vegetarians, and while I was with them, in spite of
some carnal cravings, I had to be frugivorous also. Indeed, I found
afterwards that horses, cattle, sheep, dogs, had followed the
Ichthyosaurus into extinction. But the fruits were very delightful;
one, in particular, that seemed to be in season all the time I was
there—a floury thing in a three-sided husk—was especially good, and I
made it my staple. At first I was puzzled by all these strange fruits,
and by the strange flowers I saw, but later I began to perceive their
import.

“However, I am telling you of my fruit dinner in the distant future
now. So soon as my appetite was a little checked, I determined to make
a resolute attempt to learn the speech of these new men of mine.
Clearly that was the next thing to do. The fruits seemed a convenient
thing to begin upon, and holding one of these up I began a series of
interrogative sounds and gestures. I had some considerable difficulty
in conveying my meaning. At first my efforts met with a stare of
surprise or inextinguishable laughter, but presently a fair-haired
little creature seemed to grasp my intention and repeated a name. They
had to chatter and explain the business at great length to each other,
and my first attempts to make the exquisite little sounds of their
language caused an immense amount of genuine, if uncivil, amusement.
However, I felt like a schoolmaster amidst children, and persisted, and
presently I had a score of noun substantives at least at my command;
and then I got to demonstrative pronouns, and even the verb ‘to eat.’
But it was slow work, and the little people soon tired and wanted to
get away from my interrogations, so I determined, rather of necessity,
to let them give their lessons in little doses when they felt inclined.
And very little doses I found they were before long, for I never met
people more indolent or more easily fatigued.




 VI.
 The Sunset of Mankind


“A queer thing I soon discovered about my little hosts, and that was
their lack of interest. They would come to me with eager cries of
astonishment, like children, but, like children they would soon stop
examining me, and wander away after some other toy. The dinner and my
conversational beginnings ended, I noted for the first time that almost
all those who had surrounded me at first were gone. It is odd, too, how
speedily I came to disregard these little people. I went out through
the portal into the sunlit world again as soon as my hunger was
satisfied. I was continually meeting more of these men of the future,
who would follow me a little distance, chatter and laugh about me, and,
having smiled and gesticulated in a friendly way, leave me again to my
own devices.

“The calm of evening was upon the world as I emerged from the great
hall, and the scene was lit by the warm glow of the setting sun. At
first things were very confusing. Everything was so entirely different
from the world I had known—even the flowers. The big building I had
left was situated on the slope of a broad river valley, but the Thames
had shifted, perhaps, a mile from its present position. I resolved to
mount to the summit of a crest, perhaps a mile and a half away, from
which I could get a wider view of this our planet in the year Eight
Hundred and Two Thousand Seven Hundred and One, A.D. For that, I should
explain, was the date the little dials of my machine recorded.

“As I walked I was watching for every impression that could possibly
help to explain the condition of ruinous splendour in which I found the
world—for ruinous it was. A little way up the hill, for instance, was a
great heap of granite, bound together by masses of aluminium, a vast
labyrinth of precipitous walls and crumpled heaps, amidst which were
thick heaps of very beautiful pagoda-like plants—nettles possibly—but
wonderfully tinted with brown about the leaves, and incapable of
stinging. It was evidently the derelict remains of some vast structure,
to what end built I could not determine. It was here that I was
destined, at a later date, to have a very strange experience—the first
intimation of a still stranger discovery—but of that I will speak in
its proper place.

“Looking round, with a sudden thought, from a terrace on which I rested
for a while, I realised that there were no small houses to be seen.
Apparently the single house, and possibly even the household, had
vanished. Here and there among the greenery were palace-like buildings,
but the house and the cottage, which form such characteristic features
of our own English landscape, had disappeared.

“‘Communism,’ said I to myself.

“And on the heels of that came another thought. I looked at the
half-dozen little figures that were following me. Then, in a flash, I
perceived that all had the same form of costume, the same soft hairless
visage, and the same girlish rotundity of limb. It may seem strange,
perhaps, that I had not noticed this before. But everything was so
strange. Now, I saw the fact plainly enough. In costume, and in all the
differences of texture and bearing that now mark off the sexes from
each other, these people of the future were alike. And the children
seemed to my eyes to be but the miniatures of their parents. I judged
then that the children of that time were extremely precocious,
physically at least, and I found afterwards abundant verification of my
opinion.

“Seeing the ease and security in which these people were living, I felt
that this close resemblance of the sexes was after all what one would
expect; for the strength of a man and the softness of a woman, the
institution of the family, and the differentiation of occupations are
mere militant necessities of an age of physical force. Where population
is balanced and abundant, much childbearing becomes an evil rather than
a blessing to the State; where violence comes but rarely and offspring
are secure, there is less necessity—indeed there is no necessity—for an
efficient family, and the specialisation of the sexes with reference to
their children’s needs disappears. We see some beginnings of this even
in our own time, and in this future age it was complete. This, I must
remind you, was my speculation at the time. Later, I was to appreciate
how far it fell short of the reality.

“While I was musing upon these things, my attention was attracted by a
pretty little structure, like a well under a cupola. I thought in a
transitory way of the oddness of wells still existing, and then resumed
the thread of my speculations. There were no large buildings towards
the top of the hill, and as my walking powers were evidently
miraculous, I was presently left alone for the first time. With a
strange sense of freedom and adventure I pushed on up to the crest.

“There I found a seat of some yellow metal that I did not recognise,
corroded in places with a kind of pinkish rust and half smothered in
soft moss, the arm-rests cast and filed into the resemblance of
griffins’ heads. I sat down on it, and I surveyed the broad view of our
old world under the sunset of that long day. It was as sweet and fair a
view as I have ever seen. The sun had already gone below the horizon
and the west was flaming gold, touched with some horizontal bars of
purple and crimson. Below was the valley of the Thames, in which the
river lay like a band of burnished steel. I have already spoken of the
great palaces dotted about among the variegated greenery, some in ruins
and some still occupied. Here and there rose a white or silvery figure
in the waste garden of the earth, here and there came the sharp
vertical line of some cupola or obelisk. There were no hedges, no signs
of proprietary rights, no evidences of agriculture; the whole earth had
become a garden.

“So watching, I began to put my interpretation upon the things I had
seen, and as it shaped itself to me that evening, my interpretation was
something in this way. (Afterwards I found I had got only a half
truth—or only a glimpse of one facet of the truth.)

“It seemed to me that I had happened upon humanity upon the wane. The
ruddy sunset set me thinking of the sunset of mankind. For the first
time I began to realise an odd consequence of the social effort in
which we are at present engaged. And yet, come to think, it is a
logical consequence enough. Strength is the outcome of need; security
sets a premium on feebleness. The work of ameliorating the conditions
of life—the true civilising process that makes life more and more
secure—had gone steadily on to a climax. One triumph of a united
humanity over Nature had followed another. Things that are now mere
dreams had become projects deliberately put in hand and carried
forward. And the harvest was what I saw!

“After all, the sanitation and the agriculture of today are still in
the rudimentary stage. The science of our time has attacked but a
little department of the field of human disease, but, even so, it
spreads its operations very steadily and persistently. Our agriculture
and horticulture destroy a weed just here and there and cultivate
perhaps a score or so of wholesome plants, leaving the greater number
to fight out a balance as they can. We improve our favourite plants and
animals—and how few they are—gradually by selective breeding; now a new
and better peach, now a seedless grape, now a sweeter and larger
flower, now a more convenient breed of cattle. We improve them
gradually, because our ideals are vague and tentative, and our
knowledge is very limited; because Nature, too, is shy and slow in our
clumsy hands. Some day all this will be better organised, and still
better. That is the drift of the current in spite of the eddies. The
whole world will be intelligent, educated, and co-operating; things
will move faster and faster towards the subjugation of Nature. In the
end, wisely and carefully we shall readjust the balance of animal and
vegetable life to suit our human needs.

“This adjustment, I say, must have been done, and done well; done
indeed for all Time, in the space of Time across which my machine had
leapt. The air was free from gnats, the earth from weeds or fungi;
everywhere were fruits and sweet and delightful flowers; brilliant
butterflies flew hither and thither. The ideal of preventive medicine
was attained. Diseases had been stamped out. I saw no evidence of any
contagious diseases during all my stay. And I shall have to tell you
later that even the processes of putrefaction and decay had been
profoundly affected by these changes.

“Social triumphs, too, had been effected. I saw mankind housed in
splendid shelters, gloriously clothed, and as yet I had found them
engaged in no toil. There were no signs of struggle, neither social nor
economical struggle. The shop, the advertisement, traffic, all that
commerce which constitutes the body of our world, was gone. It was
natural on that golden evening that I should jump at the idea of a
social paradise. The difficulty of increasing population had been met,
I guessed, and population had ceased to increase.

“But with this change in condition comes inevitably adaptations to the
change. What, unless biological science is a mass of errors, is the
cause of human intelligence and vigour? Hardship and freedom:
conditions under which the active, strong, and subtle survive and the
weaker go to the wall; conditions that put a premium upon the loyal
alliance of capable men, upon self-restraint, patience, and decision.
And the institution of the family, and the emotions that arise therein,
the fierce jealousy, the tenderness for offspring, parental
self-devotion, all found their justification and support in the
imminent dangers of the young. _Now_, where are these imminent dangers?
There is a sentiment arising, and it will grow, against connubial
jealousy, against fierce maternity, against passion of all sorts;
unnecessary things now, and things that make us uncomfortable, savage
survivals, discords in a refined and pleasant life.

“I thought of the physical slightness of the people, their lack of
intelligence, and those big abundant ruins, and it strengthened my
belief in a perfect conquest of Nature. For after the battle comes
Quiet. Humanity had been strong, energetic, and intelligent, and had
used all its abundant vitality to alter the conditions under which it
lived. And now came the reaction of the altered conditions.

“Under the new conditions of perfect comfort and security, that
restless energy, that with us is strength, would become weakness. Even
in our own time certain tendencies and desires, once necessary to
survival, are a constant source of failure. Physical courage and the
love of battle, for instance, are no great help—may even be
hindrances—to a civilised man. And in a state of physical balance and
security, power, intellectual as well as physical, would be out of
place. For countless years I judged there had been no danger of war or
solitary violence, no danger from wild beasts, no wasting disease to
require strength of constitution, no need of toil. For such a life,
what we should call the weak are as well equipped as the strong, are
indeed no longer weak. Better equipped indeed they are, for the strong
would be fretted by an energy for which there was no outlet. No doubt
the exquisite beauty of the buildings I saw was the outcome of the last
surgings of the now purposeless energy of mankind before it settled
down into perfect harmony with the conditions under which it lived—the
flourish of that triumph which began the last great peace. This has
ever been the fate of energy in security; it takes to art and to
eroticism, and then come languor and decay.

“Even this artistic impetus would at last die away—had almost died in
the Time I saw. To adorn themselves with flowers, to dance, to sing in
the sunlight: so much was left of the artistic spirit, and no more.
Even that would fade in the end into a contented inactivity. We are
kept keen on the grindstone of pain and necessity, and it seemed to me
that here was that hateful grindstone broken at last!

“As I stood there in the gathering dark I thought that in this simple
explanation I had mastered the problem of the world—mastered the whole
secret of these delicious people. Possibly the checks they had devised
for the increase of population had succeeded too well, and their
numbers had rather diminished than kept stationary. That would account
for the abandoned ruins. Very simple was my explanation, and plausible
enough—as most wrong theories are!




 VII.
 A Sudden Shock


“As I stood there musing over this too perfect triumph of man, the full
moon, yellow and gibbous, came up out of an overflow of silver light in
the north-east. The bright little figures ceased to move about below, a
noiseless owl flitted by, and I shivered with the chill of the night. I
determined to descend and find where I could sleep.

“I looked for the building I knew. Then my eye travelled along to the
figure of the White Sphinx upon the pedestal of bronze, growing
distinct as the light of the rising moon grew brighter. I could see the
silver birch against it. There was the tangle of rhododendron bushes,
black in the pale light, and there was the little lawn. I looked at the
lawn again. A queer doubt chilled my complacency. ‘No,’ said I stoutly
to myself, ‘that was not the lawn.’

“But it _was_ the lawn. For the white leprous face of the sphinx was
towards it. Can you imagine what I felt as this conviction came home to
me? But you cannot. The Time Machine was gone!

“At once, like a lash across the face, came the possibility of losing
my own age, of being left helpless in this strange new world. The bare
thought of it was an actual physical sensation. I could feel it grip me
at the throat and stop my breathing. In another moment I was in a
passion of fear and running with great leaping strides down the slope.
Once I fell headlong and cut my face; I lost no time in stanching the
blood, but jumped up and ran on, with a warm trickle down my cheek and
chin. All the time I ran I was saying to myself: ‘They have moved it a
little, pushed it under the bushes out of the way.’ Nevertheless, I ran
with all my might. All the time, with the certainty that sometimes
comes with excessive dread, I knew that such assurance was folly, knew
instinctively that the machine was removed out of my reach. My breath
came with pain. I suppose I covered the whole distance from the hill
crest to the little lawn, two miles perhaps, in ten minutes. And I am
not a young man. I cursed aloud, as I ran, at my confident folly in
leaving the machine, wasting good breath thereby. I cried aloud, and
none answered. Not a creature seemed to be stirring in that moonlit
world.

“When I reached the lawn my worst fears were realised. Not a trace of
the thing was to be seen. I felt faint and cold when I faced the empty
space among the black tangle of bushes. I ran round it furiously, as if
the thing might be hidden in a corner, and then stopped abruptly, with
my hands clutching my hair. Above me towered the sphinx, upon the
bronze pedestal, white, shining, leprous, in the light of the rising
moon. It seemed to smile in mockery of my dismay.

“I might have consoled myself by imagining the little people had put
the mechanism in some shelter for me, had I not felt assured of their
physical and intellectual inadequacy. That is what dismayed me: the
sense of some hitherto unsuspected power, through whose intervention my
invention had vanished. Yet, for one thing I felt assured: unless some
other age had produced its exact duplicate, the machine could not have
moved in time. The attachment of the levers—I will show you the method
later—prevented anyone from tampering with it in that way when they
were removed. It had moved, and was hid, only in space. But then, where
could it be?

“I think I must have had a kind of frenzy. I remember running violently
in and out among the moonlit bushes all round the sphinx, and startling
some white animal that, in the dim light, I took for a small deer. I
remember, too, late that night, beating the bushes with my clenched
fist until my knuckles were gashed and bleeding from the broken twigs.
Then, sobbing and raving in my anguish of mind, I went down to the
great building of stone. The big hall was dark, silent, and deserted. I
slipped on the uneven floor, and fell over one of the malachite tables,
almost breaking my shin. I lit a match and went on past the dusty
curtains, of which I have told you.

“There I found a second great hall covered with cushions, upon which,
perhaps, a score or so of the little people were sleeping. I have no
doubt they found my second appearance strange enough, coming suddenly
out of the quiet darkness with inarticulate noises and the splutter and
flare of a match. For they had forgotten about matches. ‘Where is my
Time Machine?’ I began, bawling like an angry child, laying hands upon
them and shaking them up together. It must have been very queer to
them. Some laughed, most of them looked sorely frightened. When I saw
them standing round me, it came into my head that I was doing as
foolish a thing as it was possible for me to do under the
circumstances, in trying to revive the sensation of fear. For,
reasoning from their daylight behaviour, I thought that fear must be
forgotten.

“Abruptly, I dashed down the match, and knocking one of the people over
in my course, went blundering across the big dining-hall again, out
under the moonlight. I heard cries of terror and their little feet
running and stumbling this way and that. I do not remember all I did as
the moon crept up the sky. I suppose it was the unexpected nature of my
loss that maddened me. I felt hopelessly cut off from my own kind—a
strange animal in an unknown world. I must have raved to and fro,
screaming and crying upon God and Fate. I have a memory of horrible
fatigue, as the long night of despair wore away; of looking in this
impossible place and that; of groping among moonlit ruins and touching
strange creatures in the black shadows; at last, of lying on the ground
near the sphinx and weeping with absolute wretchedness, even anger at
the folly of leaving the machine having leaked away with my strength. I
had nothing left but misery. Then I slept, and when I woke again it was
full day, and a couple of sparrows were hopping round me on the turf
within reach of my arm.

“I sat up in the freshness of the morning, trying to remember how I had
got there, and why I had such a profound sense of desertion and
despair. Then things came clear in my mind. With the plain, reasonable
daylight, I could look my circumstances fairly in the face. I saw the
wild folly of my frenzy overnight, and I could reason with myself.
‘Suppose the worst?’ I said. ‘Suppose the machine altogether
lost—perhaps destroyed? It behoves me to be calm and patient, to learn
the way of the people, to get a clear idea of the method of my loss,
and the means of getting materials and tools; so that in the end,
perhaps, I may make another.’ That would be my only hope, a poor hope,
perhaps, but better than despair. And, after all, it was a beautiful
and curious world.

“But probably the machine had only been taken away. Still, I must be
calm and patient, find its hiding-place, and recover it by force or
cunning. And with that I scrambled to my feet and looked about me,
wondering where I could bathe. I felt weary, stiff, and travel-soiled.
The freshness of the morning made me desire an equal freshness. I had
exhausted my emotion. Indeed, as I went about my business, I found
myself wondering at my intense excitement overnight. I made a careful
examination of the ground about the little lawn. I wasted some time in
futile questionings, conveyed, as well as I was able, to such of the
little people as came by. They all failed to understand my gestures;
some were simply stolid, some thought it was a jest and laughed at me.
I had the hardest task in the world to keep my hands off their pretty
laughing faces. It was a foolish impulse, but the devil begotten of
fear and blind anger was ill curbed and still eager to take advantage
of my perplexity. The turf gave better counsel. I found a groove ripped
in it, about midway between the pedestal of the sphinx and the marks of
my feet where, on arrival, I had struggled with the overturned machine.
There were other signs of removal about, with queer narrow footprints
like those I could imagine made by a sloth. This directed my closer
attention to the pedestal. It was, as I think I have said, of bronze.
It was not a mere block, but highly decorated with deep framed panels
on either side. I went and rapped at these. The pedestal was hollow.
Examining the panels with care I found them discontinuous with the
frames. There were no handles or keyholes, but possibly the panels, if
they were doors, as I supposed, opened from within. One thing was clear
enough to my mind. It took no very great mental effort to infer that my
Time Machine was inside that pedestal. But how it got there was a
different problem.

“I saw the heads of two orange-clad people coming through the bushes
and under some blossom-covered apple-trees towards me. I turned smiling
to them, and beckoned them to me. They came, and then, pointing to the
bronze pedestal, I tried to intimate my wish to open it. But at my
first gesture towards this they behaved very oddly. I don’t know how to
convey their expression to you. Suppose you were to use a grossly
improper gesture to a delicate-minded woman—it is how she would look.
They went off as if they had received the last possible insult. I tried
a sweet-looking little chap in white next, with exactly the same
result. Somehow, his manner made me feel ashamed of myself. But, as you
know, I wanted the Time Machine, and I tried him once more. As he
turned off, like the others, my temper got the better of me. In three
strides I was after him, had him by the loose part of his robe round
the neck, and began dragging him towards the sphinx. Then I saw the
horror and repugnance of his face, and all of a sudden I let him go.

“But I was not beaten yet. I banged with my fist at the bronze panels.
I thought I heard something stir inside—to be explicit, I thought I
heard a sound like a chuckle—but I must have been mistaken. Then I got
a big pebble from the river, and came and hammered till I had flattened
a coil in the decorations, and the verdigris came off in powdery
flakes. The delicate little people must have heard me hammering in
gusty outbreaks a mile away on either hand, but nothing came of it. I
saw a crowd of them upon the slopes, looking furtively at me. At last,
hot and tired, I sat down to watch the place. But I was too restless to
watch long; I am too Occidental for a long vigil. I could work at a
problem for years, but to wait inactive for twenty-four hours—that is
another matter.

“I got up after a time, and began walking aimlessly through the bushes
towards the hill again. ‘Patience,’ said I to myself. ‘If you want your
machine again you must leave that sphinx alone. If they mean to take
your machine away, it’s little good your wrecking their bronze panels,
and if they don’t, you will get it back as soon as you can ask for it.
To sit among all those unknown things before a puzzle like that is
hopeless. That way lies monomania. Face this world. Learn its ways,
watch it, be careful of too hasty guesses at its meaning. In the end
you will find clues to it all.’ Then suddenly the humour of the
situation came into my mind: the thought of the years I had spent in
study and toil to get into the future age, and now my passion of
anxiety to get out of it. I had made myself the most complicated and
the most hopeless trap that ever a man devised. Although it was at my
own expense, I could not help myself. I laughed aloud.

“Going through the big palace, it seemed to me that the little people
avoided me. It may have been my fancy, or it may have had something to
do with my hammering at the gates of bronze. Yet I felt tolerably sure
of the avoidance. I was careful, however, to show no concern and to
abstain from any pursuit of them, and in the course of a day or two
things got back to the old footing. I made what progress I could in the
language, and in addition I pushed my explorations here and there.
Either I missed some subtle point or their language was excessively
simple—almost exclusively composed of concrete substantives and verbs.
There seemed to be few, if any, abstract terms, or little use of
figurative language. Their sentences were usually simple and of two
words, and I failed to convey or understand any but the simplest
propositions. I determined to put the thought of my Time Machine and
the mystery of the bronze doors under the sphinx, as much as possible
in a corner of memory, until my growing knowledge would lead me back to
them in a natural way. Yet a certain feeling, you may understand,
tethered me in a circle of a few miles round the point of my arrival.




 VIII.
 Explanation


“So far as I could see, all the world displayed the same exuberant
richness as the Thames valley. From every hill I climbed I saw the same
abundance of splendid buildings, endlessly varied in material and
style, the same clustering thickets of evergreens, the same
blossom-laden trees and tree ferns. Here and there water shone like
silver, and beyond, the land rose into blue undulating hills, and so
faded into the serenity of the sky. A peculiar feature, which presently
attracted my attention, was the presence of certain circular wells,
several, as it seemed to me, of a very great depth. One lay by the path
up the hill which I had followed during my first walk. Like the others,
it was rimmed with bronze, curiously wrought, and protected by a little
cupola from the rain. Sitting by the side of these wells, and peering
down into the shafted darkness, I could see no gleam of water, nor
could I start any reflection with a lighted match. But in all of them I
heard a certain sound: a thud—thud—thud, like the beating of some big
engine; and I discovered, from the flaring of my matches, that a steady
current of air set down the shafts. Further, I threw a scrap of paper
into the throat of one, and, instead of fluttering slowly down, it was
at once sucked swiftly out of sight.

“After a time, too, I came to connect these wells with tall towers
standing here and there upon the slopes; for above them there was often
just such a flicker in the air as one sees on a hot day above a
sun-scorched beach. Putting things together, I reached a strong
suggestion of an extensive system of subterranean ventilation, whose
true import it was difficult to imagine. I was at first inclined to
associate it with the sanitary apparatus of these people. It was an
obvious conclusion, but it was absolutely wrong.

“And here I must admit that I learnt very little of drains and bells
and modes of conveyance, and the like conveniences, during my time in
this real future. In some of these visions of Utopias and coming times
which I have read, there is a vast amount of detail about building, and
social arrangements, and so forth. But while such details are easy
enough to obtain when the whole world is contained in one’s
imagination, they are altogether inaccessible to a real traveller amid
such realities as I found here. Conceive the tale of London which a
negro, fresh from Central Africa, would take back to his tribe! What
would he know of railway companies, of social movements, of telephone
and telegraph wires, of the Parcels Delivery Company, and postal orders
and the like? Yet we, at least, should be willing enough to explain
these things to him! And even of what he knew, how much could he make
his untravelled friend either apprehend or believe? Then, think how
narrow the gap between a negro and a white man of our own times, and
how wide the interval between myself and these of the Golden Age! I was
sensible of much which was unseen, and which contributed to my comfort;
but save for a general impression of automatic organisation, I fear I
can convey very little of the difference to your mind.

“In the matter of sepulture, for instance, I could see no signs of
crematoria nor anything suggestive of tombs. But it occurred to me
that, possibly, there might be cemeteries (or crematoria) somewhere
beyond the range of my explorings. This, again, was a question I
deliberately put to myself, and my curiosity was at first entirely
defeated upon the point. The thing puzzled me, and I was led to make a
further remark, which puzzled me still more: that aged and infirm among
this people there were none.

“I must confess that my satisfaction with my first theories of an
automatic civilisation and a decadent humanity did not long endure. Yet
I could think of no other. Let me put my difficulties. The several big
palaces I had explored were mere living places, great dining-halls and
sleeping apartments. I could find no machinery, no appliances of any
kind. Yet these people were clothed in pleasant fabrics that must at
times need renewal, and their sandals, though undecorated, were fairly
complex specimens of metalwork. Somehow such things must be made. And
the little people displayed no vestige of a creative tendency. There
were no shops, no workshops, no sign of importations among them. They
spent all their time in playing gently, in bathing in the river, in
making love in a half-playful fashion, in eating fruit and sleeping. I
could not see how things were kept going.

“Then, again, about the Time Machine: something, I knew not what, had
taken it into the hollow pedestal of the White Sphinx. _Why?_ For the
life of me I could not imagine. Those waterless wells, too, those
flickering pillars. I felt I lacked a clue. I felt—how shall I put it?
Suppose you found an inscription, with sentences here and there in
excellent plain English, and interpolated therewith, others made up of
words, of letters even, absolutely unknown to you? Well, on the third
day of my visit, that was how the world of Eight Hundred and Two
Thousand Seven Hundred and One presented itself to me!

“That day, too, I made a friend—of a sort. It happened that, as I was
watching some of the little people bathing in a shallow, one of them
was seized with cramp and began drifting downstream. The main current
ran rather swiftly, but not too strongly for even a moderate swimmer.
It will give you an idea, therefore, of the strange deficiency in these
creatures, when I tell you that none made the slightest attempt to
rescue the weakly crying little thing which was drowning before their
eyes. When I realised this, I hurriedly slipped off my clothes, and,
wading in at a point lower down, I caught the poor mite and drew her
safe to land. A little rubbing of the limbs soon brought her round, and
I had the satisfaction of seeing she was all right before I left her. I
had got to such a low estimate of her kind that I did not expect any
gratitude from her. In that, however, I was wrong.

“This happened in the morning. In the afternoon I met my little woman,
as I believe it was, as I was returning towards my centre from an
exploration, and she received me with cries of delight and presented me
with a big garland of flowers—evidently made for me and me alone. The
thing took my imagination. Very possibly I had been feeling desolate.
At any rate I did my best to display my appreciation of the gift. We
were soon seated together in a little stone arbour, engaged in
conversation, chiefly of smiles. The creature’s friendliness affected
me exactly as a child’s might have done. We passed each other flowers,
and she kissed my hands. I did the same to hers. Then I tried talk, and
found that her name was Weena, which, though I don’t know what it
meant, somehow seemed appropriate enough. That was the beginning of a
queer friendship which lasted a week, and ended—as I will tell you!

“She was exactly like a child. She wanted to be with me always. She
tried to follow me everywhere, and on my next journey out and about it
went to my heart to tire her down, and leave her at last, exhausted and
calling after me rather plaintively. But the problems of the world had
to be mastered. I had not, I said to myself, come into the future to
carry on a miniature flirtation. Yet her distress when I left her was
very great, her expostulations at the parting were sometimes frantic,
and I think, altogether, I had as much trouble as comfort from her
devotion. Nevertheless she was, somehow, a very great comfort. I
thought it was mere childish affection that made her cling to me. Until
it was too late, I did not clearly know what I had inflicted upon her
when I left her. Nor until it was too late did I clearly understand
what she was to me. For, by merely seeming fond of me, and showing in
her weak, futile way that she cared for me, the little doll of a
creature presently gave my return to the neighbourhood of the White
Sphinx almost the feeling of coming home; and I would watch for her
tiny figure of white and gold so soon as I came over the hill.

“It was from her, too, that I learnt that fear had not yet left the
world. She was fearless enough in the daylight, and she had the oddest
confidence in me; for once, in a foolish moment, I made threatening
grimaces at her, and she simply laughed at them. But she dreaded the
dark, dreaded shadows, dreaded black things. Darkness to her was the
one thing dreadful. It was a singularly passionate emotion, and it set
me thinking and observing. I discovered then, among other things, that
these little people gathered into the great houses after dark, and
slept in droves. To enter upon them without a light was to put them
into a tumult of apprehension. I never found one out of doors, or one
sleeping alone within doors, after dark. Yet I was still such a
blockhead that I missed the lesson of that fear, and in spite of
Weena’s distress, I insisted upon sleeping away from these slumbering
multitudes.

“It troubled her greatly, but in the end her odd affection for me
triumphed, and for five of the nights of our acquaintance, including
the last night of all, she slept with her head pillowed on my arm. But
my story slips away from me as I speak of her. It must have been the
night before her rescue that I was awakened about dawn. I had been
restless, dreaming most disagreeably that I was drowned, and that sea
anemones were feeling over my face with their soft palps. I woke with a
start, and with an odd fancy that some greyish animal had just rushed
out of the chamber. I tried to get to sleep again, but I felt restless
and uncomfortable. It was that dim grey hour when things are just
creeping out of darkness, when everything is colourless and clear cut,
and yet unreal. I got up, and went down into the great hall, and so out
upon the flagstones in front of the palace. I thought I would make a
virtue of necessity, and see the sunrise.

“The moon was setting, and the dying moonlight and the first pallor of
dawn were mingled in a ghastly half-light. The bushes were inky black,
the ground a sombre grey, the sky colourless and cheerless. And up the
hill I thought I could see ghosts. Three several times, as I scanned
the slope, I saw white figures. Twice I fancied I saw a solitary white,
ape-like creature running rather quickly up the hill, and once near the
ruins I saw a leash of them carrying some dark body. They moved
hastily. I did not see what became of them. It seemed that they
vanished among the bushes. The dawn was still indistinct, you must
understand. I was feeling that chill, uncertain, early-morning feeling
you may have known. I doubted my eyes.

“As the eastern sky grew brighter, and the light of the day came on and
its vivid colouring returned upon the world once more, I scanned the
view keenly. But I saw no vestige of my white figures. They were mere
creatures of the half-light. ‘They must have been ghosts,’ I said; ‘I
wonder whence they dated.’ For a queer notion of Grant Allen’s came
into my head, and amused me. If each generation die and leave ghosts,
he argued, the world at last will get overcrowded with them. On that
theory they would have grown innumerable some Eight Hundred Thousand
Years hence, and it was no great wonder to see four at once. But the
jest was unsatisfying, and I was thinking of these figures all the
morning, until Weena’s rescue drove them out of my head. I associated
them in some indefinite way with the white animal I had startled in my
first passionate search for the Time Machine. But Weena was a pleasant
substitute. Yet all the same, they were soon destined to take far
deadlier possession of my mind.

“I think I have said how much hotter than our own was the weather of
this Golden Age. I cannot account for it. It may be that the sun was
hotter, or the earth nearer the sun. It is usual to assume that the sun
will go on cooling steadily in the future. But people, unfamiliar with
such speculations as those of the younger Darwin, forget that the
planets must ultimately fall back one by one into the parent body. As
these catastrophes occur, the sun will blaze with renewed energy; and
it may be that some inner planet had suffered this fate. Whatever the
reason, the fact remains that the sun was very much hotter than we know
it.

“Well, one very hot morning—my fourth, I think—as I was seeking shelter
from the heat and glare in a colossal ruin near the great house where I
slept and fed, there happened this strange thing. Clambering among
these heaps of masonry, I found a narrow gallery, whose end and side
windows were blocked by fallen masses of stone. By contrast with the
brilliancy outside, it seemed at first impenetrably dark to me. I
entered it groping, for the change from light to blackness made spots
of colour swim before me. Suddenly I halted spellbound. A pair of eyes,
luminous by reflection against the daylight without, was watching me
out of the darkness.

“The old instinctive dread of wild beasts came upon me. I clenched my
hands and steadfastly looked into the glaring eyeballs. I was afraid to
turn. Then the thought of the absolute security in which humanity
appeared to be living came to my mind. And then I remembered that
strange terror of the dark. Overcoming my fear to some extent, I
advanced a step and spoke. I will admit that my voice was harsh and
ill-controlled. I put out my hand and touched something soft. At once
the eyes darted sideways, and something white ran past me. I turned
with my heart in my mouth, and saw a queer little ape-like figure, its
head held down in a peculiar manner, running across the sunlit space
behind me. It blundered against a block of granite, staggered aside,
and in a moment was hidden in a black shadow beneath another pile of
ruined masonry.

“My impression of it is, of course, imperfect; but I know it was a dull
white, and had strange large greyish-red eyes; also that there was
flaxen hair on its head and down its back. But, as I say, it went too
fast for me to see distinctly. I cannot even say whether it ran on all
fours, or only with its forearms held very low. After an instant’s
pause I followed it into the second heap of ruins. I could not find it
at first; but, after a time in the profound obscurity, I came upon one
of those round well-like openings of which I have told you, half closed
by a fallen pillar. A sudden thought came to me. Could this Thing have
vanished down the shaft? I lit a match, and, looking down, I saw a
small, white, moving creature, with large bright eyes which regarded me
steadfastly as it retreated. It made me shudder. It was so like a human
spider! It was clambering down the wall, and now I saw for the first
time a number of metal foot and hand rests forming a kind of ladder
down the shaft. Then the light burned my fingers and fell out of my
hand, going out as it dropped, and when I had lit another the little
monster had disappeared.

“I do not know how long I sat peering down that well. It was not for
some time that I could succeed in persuading myself that the thing I
had seen was human. But, gradually, the truth dawned on me: that Man
had not remained one species, but had differentiated into two distinct
animals: that my graceful children of the Upper World were not the sole
descendants of our generation, but that this bleached, obscene,
nocturnal Thing, which had flashed before me, was also heir to all the
ages.

“I thought of the flickering pillars and of my theory of an underground
ventilation. I began to suspect their true import. And what, I
wondered, was this Lemur doing in my scheme of a perfectly balanced
organisation? How was it related to the indolent serenity of the
beautiful Overworlders? And what was hidden down there, at the foot of
that shaft? I sat upon the edge of the well telling myself that, at any
rate, there was nothing to fear, and that there I must descend for the
solution of my difficulties. And withal I was absolutely afraid to go!
As I hesitated, two of the beautiful upperworld people came running in
their amorous sport across the daylight in the shadow. The male pursued
the female, flinging flowers at her as he ran.

“They seemed distressed to find me, my arm against the overturned
pillar, peering down the well. Apparently it was considered bad form to
remark these apertures; for when I pointed to this one, and tried to
frame a question about it in their tongue, they were still more visibly
distressed and turned away. But they were interested by my matches, and
I struck some to amuse them. I tried them again about the well, and
again I failed. So presently I left them, meaning to go back to Weena,
and see what I could get from her. But my mind was already in
revolution; my guesses and impressions were slipping and sliding to a
new adjustment. I had now a clue to the import of these wells, to the
ventilating towers, to the mystery of the ghosts; to say nothing of a
hint at the meaning of the bronze gates and the fate of the Time
Machine! And very vaguely there came a suggestion towards the solution
of the economic problem that had puzzled me.

“Here was the new view. Plainly, this second species of Man was
subterranean. There were three circumstances in particular which made
me think that its rare emergence above ground was the outcome of a
long-continued underground habit. In the first place, there was the
bleached look common in most animals that live largely in the dark—the
white fish of the Kentucky caves, for instance. Then, those large eyes,
with that capacity for reflecting light, are common features of
nocturnal things—witness the owl and the cat. And last of all, that
evident confusion in the sunshine, that hasty yet fumbling awkward
flight towards dark shadow, and that peculiar carriage of the head
while in the light—all reinforced the theory of an extreme
sensitiveness of the retina.

“Beneath my feet, then, the earth must be tunnelled enormously, and
these tunnellings were the habitat of the New Race. The presence of
ventilating shafts and wells along the hill slopes—everywhere, in fact,
except along the river valley—showed how universal were its
ramifications. What so natural, then, as to assume that it was in this
artificial Underworld that such work as was necessary to the comfort of
the daylight race was done? The notion was so plausible that I at once
accepted it, and went on to assume the _how_ of this splitting of the
human species. I dare say you will anticipate the shape of my theory;
though, for myself, I very soon felt that it fell far short of the
truth.

“At first, proceeding from the problems of our own age, it seemed clear
as daylight to me that the gradual widening of the present merely
temporary and social difference between the Capitalist and the Labourer
was the key to the whole position. No doubt it will seem grotesque
enough to you—and wildly incredible!—and yet even now there are
existing circumstances to point that way. There is a tendency to
utilise underground space for the less ornamental purposes of
civilisation; there is the Metropolitan Railway in London, for
instance, there are new electric railways, there are subways, there are
underground workrooms and restaurants, and they increase and multiply.
Evidently, I thought, this tendency had increased till Industry had
gradually lost its birthright in the sky. I mean that it had gone
deeper and deeper into larger and ever larger underground factories,
spending a still-increasing amount of its time therein, till, in the
end—! Even now, does not an East-end worker live in such artificial
conditions as practically to be cut off from the natural surface of the
earth?

“Again, the exclusive tendency of richer people—due, no doubt, to the
increasing refinement of their education, and the widening gulf between
them and the rude violence of the poor—is already leading to the
closing, in their interest, of considerable portions of the surface of
the land. About London, for instance, perhaps half the prettier country
is shut in against intrusion. And this same widening gulf—which is due
to the length and expense of the higher educational process and the
increased facilities for and temptations towards refined habits on the
part of the rich—will make that exchange between class and class, that
promotion by intermarriage which at present retards the splitting of
our species along lines of social stratification, less and less
frequent. So, in the end, above ground you must have the Haves,
pursuing pleasure and comfort and beauty, and below ground the
Have-nots, the Workers getting continually adapted to the conditions of
their labour. Once they were there, they would no doubt have to pay
rent, and not a little of it, for the ventilation of their caverns; and
if they refused, they would starve or be suffocated for arrears. Such
of them as were so constituted as to be miserable and rebellious would
die; and, in the end, the balance being permanent, the survivors would
become as well adapted to the conditions of underground life, and as
happy in their way, as the Overworld people were to theirs. As it
seemed to me, the refined beauty and the etiolated pallor followed
naturally enough.

“The great triumph of Humanity I had dreamed of took a different shape
in my mind. It had been no such triumph of moral education and general
co-operation as I had imagined. Instead, I saw a real aristocracy,
armed with a perfected science and working to a logical conclusion the
industrial system of today. Its triumph had not been simply a triumph
over Nature, but a triumph over Nature and the fellow-man. This, I must
warn you, was my theory at the time. I had no convenient cicerone in
the pattern of the Utopian books. My explanation may be absolutely
wrong. I still think it is the most plausible one. But even on this
supposition the balanced civilisation that was at last attained must
have long since passed its zenith, and was now far fallen into decay.
The too-perfect security of the Overworlders had led them to a slow
movement of degeneration, to a general dwindling in size, strength, and
intelligence. That I could see clearly enough already. What had
happened to the Undergrounders I did not yet suspect; but, from what I
had seen of the Morlocks—that, by the bye, was the name by which these
creatures were called—I could imagine that the modification of the
human type was even far more profound than among the ‘Eloi,’ the
beautiful race that I already knew.

“Then came troublesome doubts. Why had the Morlocks taken my Time
Machine? For I felt sure it was they who had taken it. Why, too, if the
Eloi were masters, could they not restore the machine to me? And why
were they so terribly afraid of the dark? I proceeded, as I have said,
to question Weena about this Underworld, but here again I was
disappointed. At first she would not understand my questions, and
presently she refused to answer them. She shivered as though the topic
was unendurable. And when I pressed her, perhaps a little harshly, she
burst into tears. They were the only tears, except my own, I ever saw
in that Golden Age. When I saw them I ceased abruptly to trouble about
the Morlocks, and was only concerned in banishing these signs of her
human inheritance from Weena’s eyes. And very soon she was smiling and
clapping her hands, while I solemnly burnt a match.




 IX.
 The Morlocks


“It may seem odd to you, but it was two days before I could follow up
the new-found clue in what was manifestly the proper way. I felt a
peculiar shrinking from those pallid bodies. They were just the
half-bleached colour of the worms and things one sees preserved in
spirit in a zoological museum. And they were filthily cold to the
touch. Probably my shrinking was largely due to the sympathetic
influence of the Eloi, whose disgust of the Morlocks I now began to
appreciate.

“The next night I did not sleep well. Probably my health was a little
disordered. I was oppressed with perplexity and doubt. Once or twice I
had a feeling of intense fear for which I could perceive no definite
reason. I remember creeping noiselessly into the great hall where the
little people were sleeping in the moonlight—that night Weena was among
them—and feeling reassured by their presence. It occurred to me even
then, that in the course of a few days the moon must pass through its
last quarter, and the nights grow dark, when the appearances of these
unpleasant creatures from below, these whitened Lemurs, this new vermin
that had replaced the old, might be more abundant. And on both these
days I had the restless feeling of one who shirks an inevitable duty. I
felt assured that the Time Machine was only to be recovered by boldly
penetrating these mysteries of underground. Yet I could not face the
mystery. If only I had had a companion it would have been different.
But I was so horribly alone, and even to clamber down into the darkness
of the well appalled me. I don’t know if you will understand my
feeling, but I never felt quite safe at my back.

“It was this restlessness, this insecurity, perhaps, that drove me
farther and farther afield in my exploring expeditions. Going to the
south-westward towards the rising country that is now called Combe
Wood, I observed far-off, in the direction of nineteenth-century
Banstead, a vast green structure, different in character from any I had
hitherto seen. It was larger than the largest of the palaces or ruins I
knew, and the façade had an Oriental look: the face of it having the
lustre, as well as the pale-green tint, a kind of bluish-green, of a
certain type of Chinese porcelain. This difference in aspect suggested
a difference in use, and I was minded to push on and explore. But the
day was growing late, and I had come upon the sight of the place after
a long and tiring circuit; so I resolved to hold over the adventure for
the following day, and I returned to the welcome and the caresses of
little Weena. But next morning I perceived clearly enough that my
curiosity regarding the Palace of Green Porcelain was a piece of
self-deception, to enable me to shirk, by another day, an experience I
dreaded. I resolved I would make the descent without further waste of
time, and started out in the early morning towards a well near the
ruins of granite and aluminium.

“Little Weena ran with me. She danced beside me to the well, but when
she saw me lean over the mouth and look downward, she seemed strangely
disconcerted. ‘Good-bye, little Weena,’ I said, kissing her; and then
putting her down, I began to feel over the parapet for the climbing
hooks. Rather hastily, I may as well confess, for I feared my courage
might leak away! At first she watched me in amazement. Then she gave a
most piteous cry, and running to me, she began to pull at me with her
little hands. I think her opposition nerved me rather to proceed. I
shook her off, perhaps a little roughly, and in another moment I was in
the throat of the well. I saw her agonised face over the parapet, and
smiled to reassure her. Then I had to look down at the unstable hooks
to which I clung.

“I had to clamber down a shaft of perhaps two hundred yards. The
descent was effected by means of metallic bars projecting from the
sides of the well, and these being adapted to the needs of a creature
much smaller and lighter than myself, I was speedily cramped and
fatigued by the descent. And not simply fatigued! One of the bars bent
suddenly under my weight, and almost swung me off into the blackness
beneath. For a moment I hung by one hand, and after that experience I
did not dare to rest again. Though my arms and back were presently
acutely painful, I went on clambering down the sheer descent with as
quick a motion as possible. Glancing upward, I saw the aperture, a
small blue disc, in which a star was visible, while little Weena’s head
showed as a round black projection. The thudding sound of a machine
below grew louder and more oppressive. Everything save that little disc
above was profoundly dark, and when I looked up again Weena had
disappeared.

“I was in an agony of discomfort. I had some thought of trying to go up
the shaft again, and leave the Underworld alone. But even while I
turned this over in my mind I continued to descend. At last, with
intense relief, I saw dimly coming up, a foot to the right of me, a
slender loophole in the wall. Swinging myself in, I found it was the
aperture of a narrow horizontal tunnel in which I could lie down and
rest. It was not too soon. My arms ached, my back was cramped, and I
was trembling with the prolonged terror of a fall. Besides this, the
unbroken darkness had had a distressing effect upon my eyes. The air
was full of the throb and hum of machinery pumping air down the shaft.

“I do not know how long I lay. I was roused by a soft hand touching
my face. Starting up in the darkness I snatched at my matches and,
hastily striking one, I saw three stooping white creatures similar to
the one I had seen above ground in the ruin, hastily retreating before
the light. Living, as they did, in what appeared to me impenetrable
darkness, their eyes were abnormally large and sensitive, just as are
the pupils of the abysmal fishes, and they reflected the light in the
same way. I have no doubt they could see me in that rayless obscurity,
and they did not seem to have any fear of me apart from the light. But,
so soon as I struck a match in order to see them, they fled
incontinently, vanishing into dark gutters and tunnels, from which
their eyes glared at me in the strangest fashion.

“I tried to call to them, but the language they had was apparently
different from that of the Overworld people; so that I was needs left
to my own unaided efforts, and the thought of flight before exploration
was even then in my mind. But I said to myself, ‘You are in for it
now,’ and, feeling my way along the tunnel, I found the noise of
machinery grow louder. Presently the walls fell away from me, and I
came to a large open space, and striking another match, saw that I had
entered a vast arched cavern, which stretched into utter darkness
beyond the range of my light. The view I had of it was as much as one
could see in the burning of a match.

“Necessarily my memory is vague. Great shapes like big machines rose
out of the dimness, and cast grotesque black shadows, in which dim
spectral Morlocks sheltered from the glare. The place, by the bye, was
very stuffy and oppressive, and the faint halitus of freshly-shed blood
was in the air. Some way down the central vista was a little table of
white metal, laid with what seemed a meal. The Morlocks at any rate
were carnivorous! Even at the time, I remember wondering what large
animal could have survived to furnish the red joint I saw. It was all
very indistinct: the heavy smell, the big unmeaning shapes, the obscene
figures lurking in the shadows, and only waiting for the darkness to
come at me again! Then the match burnt down, and stung my fingers, and
fell, a wriggling red spot in the blackness.

“I have thought since how particularly ill-equipped I was for such an
experience. When I had started with the Time Machine, I had started
with the absurd assumption that the men of the Future would certainly
be infinitely ahead of ourselves in all their appliances. I had come
without arms, without medicine, without anything to smoke—at times I
missed tobacco frightfully!—even without enough matches. If only I had
thought of a Kodak! I could have flashed that glimpse of the Underworld
in a second, and examined it at leisure. But, as it was, I stood there
with only the weapons and the powers that Nature had endowed me
with—hands, feet, and teeth; these, and four safety-matches that still
remained to me.

“I was afraid to push my way in among all this machinery in the dark,
and it was only with my last glimpse of light I discovered that my
store of matches had run low. It had never occurred to me until that
moment that there was any need to economise them, and I had wasted
almost half the box in astonishing the Overworlders, to whom fire was a
novelty. Now, as I say, I had four left, and while I stood in the dark,
a hand touched mine, lank fingers came feeling over my face, and I was
sensible of a peculiar unpleasant odour. I fancied I heard the
breathing of a crowd of those dreadful little beings about me. I felt
the box of matches in my hand being gently disengaged, and other hands
behind me plucking at my clothing. The sense of these unseen creatures
examining me was indescribably unpleasant. The sudden realisation of my
ignorance of their ways of thinking and doing came home to me very
vividly in the darkness. I shouted at them as loudly as I could. They
started away, and then I could feel them approaching me again. They
clutched at me more boldly, whispering odd sounds to each other. I
shivered violently, and shouted again—rather discordantly. This time
they were not so seriously alarmed, and they made a queer laughing
noise as they came back at me. I will confess I was horribly
frightened. I determined to strike another match and escape under the
protection of its glare. I did so, and eking out the flicker with a
scrap of paper from my pocket, I made good my retreat to the narrow
tunnel. But I had scarce entered this when my light was blown out and
in the blackness I could hear the Morlocks rustling like wind among
leaves, and pattering like the rain, as they hurried after me.

“In a moment I was clutched by several hands, and there was no
mistaking that they were trying to haul me back. I struck another
light, and waved it in their dazzled faces. You can scarce imagine how
nauseatingly inhuman they looked—those pale, chinless faces and great,
lidless, pinkish-grey eyes!—as they stared in their blindness and
bewilderment. But I did not stay to look, I promise you: I retreated
again, and when my second match had ended, I struck my third. It had
almost burnt through when I reached the opening into the shaft. I lay
down on the edge, for the throb of the great pump below made me giddy.
Then I felt sideways for the projecting hooks, and, as I did so, my
feet were grasped from behind, and I was violently tugged backward. I
lit my last match … and it incontinently went out. But I had my hand on
the climbing bars now, and, kicking violently, I disengaged myself from
the clutches of the Morlocks, and was speedily clambering up the shaft,
while they stayed peering and blinking up at me: all but one little
wretch who followed me for some way, and well-nigh secured my boot as a
trophy.

“That climb seemed interminable to me. With the last twenty or thirty
feet of it a deadly nausea came upon me. I had the greatest difficulty
in keeping my hold. The last few yards was a frightful struggle against
this faintness. Several times my head swam, and I felt all the
sensations of falling. At last, however, I got over the well-mouth
somehow, and staggered out of the ruin into the blinding sunlight. I
fell upon my face. Even the soil smelt sweet and clean. Then I remember
Weena kissing my hands and ears, and the voices of others among the
Eloi. Then, for a time, I was insensible.




 X.
 When Night Came


“Now, indeed, I seemed in a worse case than before. Hitherto, except
during my night’s anguish at the loss of the Time Machine, I had felt a
sustaining hope of ultimate escape, but that hope was staggered by
these new discoveries. Hitherto I had merely thought myself impeded by
the childish simplicity of the little people, and by some unknown
forces which I had only to understand to overcome; but there was an
altogether new element in the sickening quality of the Morlocks—a
something inhuman and malign. Instinctively I loathed them. Before, I
had felt as a man might feel who had fallen into a pit: my concern was
with the pit and how to get out of it. Now I felt like a beast in a
trap, whose enemy would come upon him soon.

“The enemy I dreaded may surprise you. It was the darkness of the new
moon. Weena had put this into my head by some at first incomprehensible
remarks about the Dark Nights. It was not now such a very difficult
problem to guess what the coming Dark Nights might mean. The moon was
on the wane: each night there was a longer interval of darkness. And I
now understood to some slight degree at least the reason of the fear of
the little Upperworld people for the dark. I wondered vaguely what foul
villainy it might be that the Morlocks did under the new moon. I felt
pretty sure now that my second hypothesis was all wrong. The Upperworld
people might once have been the favoured aristocracy, and the Morlocks
their mechanical servants: but that had long since passed away. The two
species that had resulted from the evolution of man were sliding down
towards, or had already arrived at, an altogether new relationship. The
Eloi, like the Carlovignan kings, had decayed to a mere beautiful
futility. They still possessed the earth on sufferance: since the
Morlocks, subterranean for innumerable generations, had come at last to
find the daylit surface intolerable. And the Morlocks made their
garments, I inferred, and maintained them in their habitual needs,
perhaps through the survival of an old habit of service. They did it as
a standing horse paws with his foot, or as a man enjoys killing animals
in sport: because ancient and departed necessities had impressed it on
the organism. But, clearly, the old order was already in part reversed.
The Nemesis of the delicate ones was creeping on apace. Ages ago,
thousands of generations ago, man had thrust his brother man out of the
ease and the sunshine. And now that brother was coming back—changed!
Already the Eloi had begun to learn one old lesson anew. They were
becoming reacquainted with Fear. And suddenly there came into my head
the memory of the meat I had seen in the Underworld. It seemed odd how
it floated into my mind: not stirred up as it were by the current of my
meditations, but coming in almost like a question from outside. I tried
to recall the form of it. I had a vague sense of something familiar,
but I could not tell what it was at the time.

“Still, however helpless the little people in the presence of their
mysterious Fear, I was differently constituted. I came out of this age
of ours, this ripe prime of the human race, when Fear does not paralyse
and mystery has lost its terrors. I at least would defend myself.
Without further delay I determined to make myself arms and a fastness
where I might sleep. With that refuge as a base, I could face this
strange world with some of that confidence I had lost in realising to
what creatures night by night I lay exposed. I felt I could never sleep
again until my bed was secure from them. I shuddered with horror to
think how they must already have examined me.

“I wandered during the afternoon along the valley of the Thames, but
found nothing that commended itself to my mind as inaccessible. All the
buildings and trees seemed easily practicable to such dexterous
climbers as the Morlocks, to judge by their wells, must be. Then the
tall pinnacles of the Palace of Green Porcelain and the polished gleam
of its walls came back to my memory; and in the evening, taking Weena
like a child upon my shoulder, I went up the hills towards the
south-west. The distance, I had reckoned, was seven or eight miles, but
it must have been nearer eighteen. I had first seen the place on a
moist afternoon when distances are deceptively diminished. In addition,
the heel of one of my shoes was loose, and a nail was working through
the sole—they were comfortable old shoes I wore about indoors—so that I
was lame. And it was already long past sunset when I came in sight of
the palace, silhouetted black against the pale yellow of the sky.

“Weena had been hugely delighted when I began to carry her, but after a
while she desired me to let her down, and ran along by the side of me,
occasionally darting off on either hand to pick flowers to stick in my
pockets. My pockets had always puzzled Weena, but at the last she had
concluded that they were an eccentric kind of vases for floral
decoration. At least she utilised them for that purpose. And that
reminds me! In changing my jacket I found…”

_The Time Traveller paused, put his hand into his pocket, and silently
placed two withered flowers, not unlike very large white mallows, upon
the little table. Then he resumed his narrative._

“As the hush of evening crept over the world and we proceeded over the
hill crest towards Wimbledon, Weena grew tired and wanted to return to
the house of grey stone. But I pointed out the distant pinnacles of the
Palace of Green Porcelain to her, and contrived to make her understand
that we were seeking a refuge there from her Fear. You know that great
pause that comes upon things before the dusk? Even the breeze stops in
the trees. To me there is always an air of expectation about that
evening stillness. The sky was clear, remote, and empty save for a few
horizontal bars far down in the sunset. Well, that night the
expectation took the colour of my fears. In that darkling calm my
senses seemed preternaturally sharpened. I fancied I could even feel
the hollowness of the ground beneath my feet: could, indeed, almost see
through it the Morlocks on their ant-hill going hither and thither and
waiting for the dark. In my excitement I fancied that they would
receive my invasion of their burrows as a declaration of war. And why
had they taken my Time Machine?

“So we went on in the quiet, and the twilight deepened into night. The
clear blue of the distance faded, and one star after another came out.
The ground grew dim and the trees black. Weena’s fears and her fatigue
grew upon her. I took her in my arms and talked to her and caressed
her. Then, as the darkness grew deeper, she put her arms round my neck,
and, closing her eyes, tightly pressed her face against my shoulder. So
we went down a long slope into a valley, and there in the dimness I
almost walked into a little river. This I waded, and went up the
opposite side of the valley, past a number of sleeping houses, and by a
statue—a Faun, or some such figure, _minus_ the head. Here too were
acacias. So far I had seen nothing of the Morlocks, but it was yet
early in the night, and the darker hours before the old moon rose were
still to come.

“From the brow of the next hill I saw a thick wood spreading wide and
black before me. I hesitated at this. I could see no end to it, either
to the right or the left. Feeling tired—my feet, in particular, were
very sore—I carefully lowered Weena from my shoulder as I halted, and
sat down upon the turf. I could no longer see the Palace of Green
Porcelain, and I was in doubt of my direction. I looked into the
thickness of the wood and thought of what it might hide. Under that
dense tangle of branches one would be out of sight of the stars. Even
were there no other lurking danger—a danger I did not care to let my
imagination loose upon—there would still be all the roots to stumble
over and the tree-boles to strike against. I was very tired, too, after
the excitements of the day; so I decided that I would not face it, but
would pass the night upon the open hill.

“Weena, I was glad to find, was fast asleep. I carefully wrapped her in
my jacket, and sat down beside her to wait for the moonrise. The
hillside was quiet and deserted, but from the black of the wood there
came now and then a stir of living things. Above me shone the stars,
for the night was very clear. I felt a certain sense of friendly
comfort in their twinkling. All the old constellations had gone from
the sky, however: that slow movement which is imperceptible in a
hundred human lifetimes, had long since rearranged them in unfamiliar
groupings. But the Milky Way, it seemed to me, was still the same
tattered streamer of star-dust as of yore. Southward (as I judged it)
was a very bright red star that was new to me; it was even more
splendid than our own green Sirius. And amid all these scintillating
points of light one bright planet shone kindly and steadily like the
face of an old friend.

“Looking at these stars suddenly dwarfed my own troubles and all the
gravities of terrestrial life. I thought of their unfathomable
distance, and the slow inevitable drift of their movements out of the
unknown past into the unknown future. I thought of the great
precessional cycle that the pole of the earth describes. Only forty
times had that silent revolution occurred during all the years that I
had traversed. And during these few revolutions all the activity, all
the traditions, the complex organisations, the nations, languages,
literatures, aspirations, even the mere memory of Man as I knew him,
had been swept out of existence. Instead were these frail creatures who
had forgotten their high ancestry, and the white Things of which I went
in terror. Then I thought of the Great Fear that was between the two
species, and for the first time, with a sudden shiver, came the clear
knowledge of what the meat I had seen might be. Yet it was too
horrible! I looked at little Weena sleeping beside me, her face white
and starlike under the stars, and forthwith dismissed the thought.

“Through that long night I held my mind off the Morlocks as well as I
could, and whiled away the time by trying to fancy I could find signs
of the old constellations in the new confusion. The sky kept very
clear, except for a hazy cloud or so. No doubt I dozed at times. Then,
as my vigil wore on, came a faintness in the eastward sky, like the
reflection of some colourless fire, and the old moon rose, thin and
peaked and white. And close behind, and overtaking it, and overflowing
it, the dawn came, pale at first, and then growing pink and warm. No
Morlocks had approached us. Indeed, I had seen none upon the hill that
night. And in the confidence of renewed day it almost seemed to me that
my fear had been unreasonable. I stood up and found my foot with the
loose heel swollen at the ankle and painful under the heel; so I sat
down again, took off my shoes, and flung them away.

“I awakened Weena, and we went down into the wood, now green and
pleasant instead of black and forbidding. We found some fruit wherewith
to break our fast. We soon met others of the dainty ones, laughing and
dancing in the sunlight as though there was no such thing in nature as
the night. And then I thought once more of the meat that I had seen. I
felt assured now of what it was, and from the bottom of my heart I
pitied this last feeble rill from the great flood of humanity. Clearly,
at some time in the Long-Ago of human decay the Morlocks’ food had run
short. Possibly they had lived on rats and such-like vermin. Even now
man is far less discriminating and exclusive in his food than he
was—far less than any monkey. His prejudice against human flesh is no
deep-seated instinct. And so these inhuman sons of men——! I tried to
look at the thing in a scientific spirit. After all, they were less
human and more remote than our cannibal ancestors of three or four
thousand years ago. And the intelligence that would have made this
state of things a torment had gone. Why should I trouble myself? These
Eloi were mere fatted cattle, which the ant-like Morlocks preserved and
preyed upon—probably saw to the breeding of. And there was Weena
dancing at my side!

“Then I tried to preserve myself from the horror that was coming upon
me, by regarding it as a rigorous punishment of human selfishness. Man
had been content to live in ease and delight upon the labours of his
fellow-man, had taken Necessity as his watchword and excuse, and in the
fullness of time Necessity had come home to him. I even tried a
Carlyle-like scorn of this wretched aristocracy in decay. But this
attitude of mind was impossible. However great their intellectual
degradation, the Eloi had kept too much of the human form not to claim
my sympathy, and to make me perforce a sharer in their degradation and
their Fear.

“I had at that time very vague ideas as to the course I should pursue.
My first was to secure some safe place of refuge, and to make myself
such arms of metal or stone as I could contrive. That necessity was
immediate. In the next place, I hoped to procure some means of fire, so
that I should have the weapon of a torch at hand, for nothing, I knew,
would be more efficient against these Morlocks. Then I wanted to
arrange some contrivance to break open the doors of bronze under the
White Sphinx. I had in mind a battering ram. I had a persuasion that if
I could enter those doors and carry a blaze of light before me I should
discover the Time Machine and escape. I could not imagine the Morlocks
were strong enough to move it far away. Weena I had resolved to bring
with me to our own time. And turning such schemes over in my mind I
pursued our way towards the building which my fancy had chosen as our
dwelling.




 XI.
 The Palace of Green Porcelain


“I found the Palace of Green Porcelain, when we approached it about
noon, deserted and falling into ruin. Only ragged vestiges of glass
remained in its windows, and great sheets of the green facing had
fallen away from the corroded metallic framework. It lay very high upon
a turfy down, and looking north-eastward before I entered it, I was
surprised to see a large estuary, or even creek, where I judged
Wandsworth and Battersea must once have been. I thought then—though I
never followed up the thought—of what might have happened, or might be
happening, to the living things in the sea.

“The material of the Palace proved on examination to be indeed
porcelain, and along the face of it I saw an inscription in some
unknown character. I thought, rather foolishly, that Weena might help
me to interpret this, but I only learnt that the bare idea of writing
had never entered her head. She always seemed to me, I fancy, more
human than she was, perhaps because her affection was so human.

“Within the big valves of the door—which were open and broken—we found,
instead of the customary hall, a long gallery lit by many side windows.
At the first glance I was reminded of a museum. The tiled floor was
thick with dust, and a remarkable array of miscellaneous objects was
shrouded in the same grey covering. Then I perceived, standing strange
and gaunt in the centre of the hall, what was clearly the lower part of
a huge skeleton. I recognised by the oblique feet that it was some
extinct creature after the fashion of the Megatherium. The skull and
the upper bones lay beside it in the thick dust, and in one place,
where rain-water had dropped through a leak in the roof, the thing
itself had been worn away. Further in the gallery was the huge skeleton
barrel of a Brontosaurus. My museum hypothesis was confirmed. Going
towards the side I found what appeared to be sloping shelves, and
clearing away the thick dust, I found the old familiar glass cases of
our own time. But they must have been air-tight to judge from the fair
preservation of some of their contents.

“Clearly we stood among the ruins of some latter-day South Kensington!
Here, apparently, was the Palæontological Section, and a very splendid
array of fossils it must have been, though the inevitable process of
decay that had been staved off for a time, and had, through the
extinction of bacteria and fungi, lost ninety-nine hundredths of its
force, was nevertheless, with extreme sureness if with extreme slowness
at work again upon all its treasures. Here and there I found traces of
the little people in the shape of rare fossils broken to pieces or
threaded in strings upon reeds. And the cases had in some instances
been bodily removed—by the Morlocks, as I judged. The place was very
silent. The thick dust deadened our footsteps. Weena, who had been
rolling a sea urchin down the sloping glass of a case, presently came,
as I stared about me, and very quietly took my hand and stood beside
me.

“And at first I was so much surprised by this ancient monument of an
intellectual age that I gave no thought to the possibilities it
presented. Even my preoccupation about the Time Machine receded a
little from my mind.

“To judge from the size of the place, this Palace of Green Porcelain
had a great deal more in it than a Gallery of Palæontology; possibly
historical galleries; it might be, even a library! To me, at least in
my present circumstances, these would be vastly more interesting than
this spectacle of old-time geology in decay. Exploring, I found another
short gallery running transversely to the first. This appeared to be
devoted to minerals, and the sight of a block of sulphur set my mind
running on gunpowder. But I could find no saltpetre; indeed, no
nitrates of any kind. Doubtless they had deliquesced ages ago. Yet the
sulphur hung in my mind, and set up a train of thinking. As for the
rest of the contents of that gallery, though on the whole they were the
best preserved of all I saw, I had little interest. I am no specialist
in mineralogy, and I went on down a very ruinous aisle running parallel
to the first hall I had entered. Apparently this section had been
devoted to natural history, but everything had long since passed out of
recognition. A few shrivelled and blackened vestiges of what had once
been stuffed animals, desiccated mummies in jars that had once held
spirit, a brown dust of departed plants: that was all! I was sorry for
that, because I should have been glad to trace the patient
readjustments by which the conquest of animated nature had been
attained. Then we came to a gallery of simply colossal proportions, but
singularly ill-lit, the floor of it running downward at a slight angle
from the end at which I entered. At intervals white globes hung from
the ceiling—many of them cracked and smashed—which suggested that
originally the place had been artificially lit. Here I was more in my
element, for rising on either side of me were the huge bulks of big
machines, all greatly corroded and many broken down, but some still
fairly complete. You know I have a certain weakness for mechanism, and
I was inclined to linger among these; the more so as for the most part
they had the interest of puzzles, and I could make only the vaguest
guesses at what they were for. I fancied that if I could solve their
puzzles I should find myself in possession of powers that might be of
use against the Morlocks.

“Suddenly Weena came very close to my side. So suddenly that she
startled me. Had it not been for her I do not think I should have
noticed that the floor of the gallery sloped at all. [Footnote: It may
be, of course, that the floor did not slope, but that the museum was
built into the side of a hill.—ED.] The end I had come in at was quite
above ground, and was lit by rare slit-like windows. As you went down
the length, the ground came up against these windows, until at last
there was a pit like the ‘area‘ of a London house before each, and only
a narrow line of daylight at the top. I went slowly along, puzzling
about the machines, and had been too intent upon them to notice the
gradual diminution of the light, until Weena’s increasing apprehensions
drew my attention. Then I saw that the gallery ran down at last into a
thick darkness. I hesitated, and then, as I looked round me, I saw that
the dust was less abundant and its surface less even. Further away
towards the dimness, it appeared to be broken by a number of small
narrow footprints. My sense of the immediate presence of the Morlocks
revived at that. I felt that I was wasting my time in this academic
examination of machinery. I called to mind that it was already far
advanced in the afternoon, and that I had still no weapon, no refuge,
and no means of making a fire. And then down in the remote blackness of
the gallery I heard a peculiar pattering, and the same odd noises I had
heard down the well.

“I took Weena’s hand. Then, struck with a sudden idea, I left her and
turned to a machine from which projected a lever not unlike those in a
signal-box. Clambering upon the stand, and grasping this lever in my
hands, I put all my weight upon it sideways. Suddenly Weena, deserted
in the central aisle, began to whimper. I had judged the strength of
the lever pretty correctly, for it snapped after a minute’s strain, and
I rejoined her with a mace in my hand more than sufficient, I judged,
for any Morlock skull I might encounter. And I longed very much to kill
a Morlock or so. Very inhuman, you may think, to want to go killing
one’s own descendants! But it was impossible, somehow, to feel any
humanity in the things. Only my disinclination to leave Weena, and a
persuasion that if I began to slake my thirst for murder my Time
Machine might suffer, restrained me from going straight down the
gallery and killing the brutes I heard.

“Well, mace in one hand and Weena in the other, I went out of that
gallery and into another and still larger one, which at the first
glance reminded me of a military chapel hung with tattered flags. The
brown and charred rags that hung from the sides of it, I presently
recognised as the decaying vestiges of books. They had long since
dropped to pieces, and every semblance of print had left them. But here
and there were warped boards and cracked metallic clasps that told the
tale well enough. Had I been a literary man I might, perhaps, have
moralised upon the futility of all ambition. But as it was, the thing
that struck me with keenest force was the enormous waste of labour to
which this sombre wilderness of rotting paper testified. At the time I
will confess that I thought chiefly of the _Philosophical Transactions_
and my own seventeen papers upon physical optics.

“Then, going up a broad staircase, we came to what may once have been a
gallery of technical chemistry. And here I had not a little hope of
useful discoveries. Except at one end where the roof had collapsed,
this gallery was well preserved. I went eagerly to every unbroken case.
And at last, in one of the really air-tight cases, I found a box of
matches. Very eagerly I tried them. They were perfectly good. They were
not even damp. I turned to Weena. ‘Dance,’ I cried to her in her own
tongue. For now I had a weapon indeed against the horrible creatures we
feared. And so, in that derelict museum, upon the thick soft carpeting
of dust, to Weena’s huge delight, I solemnly performed a kind of
composite dance, whistling _The Land of the Leal_ as cheerfully as I
could. In part it was a modest _cancan_, in part a step dance, in part
a skirt dance (so far as my tail-coat permitted), and in part original.
For I am naturally inventive, as you know.

“Now, I still think that for this box of matches to have escaped the
wear of time for immemorial years was a most strange, as for me it was
a most fortunate, thing. Yet, oddly enough, I found a far unlikelier
substance, and that was camphor. I found it in a sealed jar, that by
chance, I suppose, had been really hermetically sealed. I fancied at
first that it was paraffin wax, and smashed the glass accordingly. But
the odour of camphor was unmistakable. In the universal decay this
volatile substance had chanced to survive, perhaps through many
thousands of centuries. It reminded me of a sepia painting I had once
seen done from the ink of a fossil Belemnite that must have perished
and become fossilised millions of years ago. I was about to throw it
away, but I remembered that it was inflammable and burnt with a good
bright flame—was, in fact, an excellent candle—and I put it in my
pocket. I found no explosives, however, nor any means of breaking down
the bronze doors. As yet my iron crowbar was the most helpful thing I
had chanced upon. Nevertheless I left that gallery greatly elated.

“I cannot tell you all the story of that long afternoon. It would
require a great effort of memory to recall my explorations in at all
the proper order. I remember a long gallery of rusting stands of arms,
and how I hesitated between my crowbar and a hatchet or a sword. I
could not carry both, however, and my bar of iron promised best against
the bronze gates. There were numbers of guns, pistols, and rifles. The
most were masses of rust, but many were of some new metal, and still
fairly sound. But any cartridges or powder there may once have been had
rotted into dust. One corner I saw was charred and shattered; perhaps,
I thought, by an explosion among the specimens. In another place was a
vast array of idols—Polynesian, Mexican, Grecian, Phœnician, every
country on earth, I should think. And here, yielding to an irresistible
impulse, I wrote my name upon the nose of a steatite monster from South
America that particularly took my fancy.

“As the evening drew on, my interest waned. I went through gallery
after gallery, dusty, silent, often ruinous, the exhibits sometimes
mere heaps of rust and lignite, sometimes fresher. In one place I
suddenly found myself near the model of a tin mine, and then by the
merest accident I discovered, in an air-tight case, two dynamite
cartridges! I shouted ‘Eureka!’ and smashed the case with joy. Then
came a doubt. I hesitated. Then, selecting a little side gallery, I
made my essay. I never felt such a disappointment as I did in waiting
five, ten, fifteen minutes for an explosion that never came. Of course
the things were dummies, as I might have guessed from their presence. I
really believe that had they not been so, I should have rushed off
incontinently and blown Sphinx, bronze doors, and (as it proved) my
chances of finding the Time Machine, all together into non-existence.

“It was after that, I think, that we came to a little open court within
the palace. It was turfed, and had three fruit-trees. So we rested and
refreshed ourselves. Towards sunset I began to consider our position.
Night was creeping upon us, and my inaccessible hiding-place had still
to be found. But that troubled me very little now. I had in my
possession a thing that was, perhaps, the best of all defences against
the Morlocks—I had matches! I had the camphor in my pocket, too, if a
blaze were needed. It seemed to me that the best thing we could do
would be to pass the night in the open, protected by a fire. In the
morning there was the getting of the Time Machine. Towards that, as
yet, I had only my iron mace. But now, with my growing knowledge, I
felt very differently towards those bronze doors. Up to this, I had
refrained from forcing them, largely because of the mystery on the
other side. They had never impressed me as being very strong, and I
hoped to find my bar of iron not altogether inadequate for the work.




 XII.
 In the Darkness


“We emerged from the Palace while the sun was still in part above the
horizon. I was determined to reach the White Sphinx early the next
morning, and ere the dusk I purposed pushing through the woods that had
stopped me on the previous journey. My plan was to go as far as
possible that night, and then, building a fire, to sleep in the
protection of its glare. Accordingly, as we went along I gathered any
sticks or dried grass I saw, and presently had my arms full of such
litter. Thus loaded, our progress was slower than I had anticipated,
and besides Weena was tired. And I, also, began to suffer from
sleepiness too; so that it was full night before we reached the wood.
Upon the shrubby hill of its edge Weena would have stopped, fearing the
darkness before us; but a singular sense of impending calamity, that
should indeed have served me as a warning, drove me onward. I had been
without sleep for a night and two days, and I was feverish and
irritable. I felt sleep coming upon me, and the Morlocks with it.

“While we hesitated, among the black bushes behind us, and dim against
their blackness, I saw three crouching figures. There was scrub and
long grass all about us, and I did not feel safe from their insidious
approach. The forest, I calculated, was rather less than a mile across.
If we could get through it to the bare hillside, there, as it seemed to
me, was an altogether safer resting-place; I thought that with my
matches and my camphor I could contrive to keep my path illuminated
through the woods. Yet it was evident that if I was to flourish matches
with my hands I should have to abandon my firewood; so, rather
reluctantly, I put it down. And then it came into my head that I would
amaze our friends behind by lighting it. I was to discover the
atrocious folly of this proceeding, but it came to my mind as an
ingenious move for covering our retreat.

“I don’t know if you have ever thought what a rare thing flame must be
in the absence of man and in a temperate climate. The sun’s heat is
rarely strong enough to burn, even when it is focused by dewdrops, as
is sometimes the case in more tropical districts. Lightning may blast
and blacken, but it rarely gives rise to widespread fire. Decaying
vegetation may occasionally smoulder with the heat of its fermentation,
but this rarely results in flame. In this decadence, too, the art of
fire-making had been forgotten on the earth. The red tongues that went
licking up my heap of wood were an altogether new and strange thing to
Weena.

“She wanted to run to it and play with it. I believe she would have
cast herself into it had I not restrained her. But I caught her up, and
in spite of her struggles, plunged boldly before me into the wood. For
a little way the glare of my fire lit the path. Looking back presently,
I could see, through the crowded stems, that from my heap of sticks the
blaze had spread to some bushes adjacent, and a curved line of fire was
creeping up the grass of the hill. I laughed at that, and turned again
to the dark trees before me. It was very black, and Weena clung to me
convulsively, but there was still, as my eyes grew accustomed to the
darkness, sufficient light for me to avoid the stems. Overhead it was
simply black, except where a gap of remote blue sky shone down upon us
here and there. I lit none of my matches because I had no hand free.
Upon my left arm I carried my little one, in my right hand I had my
iron bar.

“For some way I heard nothing but the crackling twigs under my feet,
the faint rustle of the breeze above, and my own breathing and the
throb of the blood-vessels in my ears. Then I seemed to know of a
pattering behind me. I pushed on grimly. The pattering grew more
distinct, and then I caught the same queer sound and voices I had heard
in the Underworld. There were evidently several of the Morlocks, and
they were closing in upon me. Indeed, in another minute I felt a tug at
my coat, then something at my arm. And Weena shivered violently, and
became quite still.

“It was time for a match. But to get one I must put her down. I did so,
and, as I fumbled with my pocket, a struggle began in the darkness
about my knees, perfectly silent on her part and with the same peculiar
cooing sounds from the Morlocks. Soft little hands, too, were creeping
over my coat and back, touching even my neck. Then the match scratched
and fizzed. I held it flaring, and saw the white backs of the Morlocks
in flight amid the trees. I hastily took a lump of camphor from my
pocket, and prepared to light it as soon as the match should wane. Then
I looked at Weena. She was lying clutching my feet and quite
motionless, with her face to the ground. With a sudden fright I stooped
to her. She seemed scarcely to breathe. I lit the block of camphor and
flung it to the ground, and as it split and flared up and drove back
the Morlocks and the shadows, I knelt down and lifted her. The wood
behind seemed full of the stir and murmur of a great company!

“She seemed to have fainted. I put her carefully upon my shoulder and
rose to push on, and then there came a horrible realisation. In
manœuvring with my matches and Weena, I had turned myself about several
times, and now I had not the faintest idea in what direction lay my
path. For all I knew, I might be facing back towards the Palace of
Green Porcelain. I found myself in a cold sweat. I had to think rapidly
what to do. I determined to build a fire and encamp where we were. I
put Weena, still motionless, down upon a turfy bole, and very hastily,
as my first lump of camphor waned, I began collecting sticks and
leaves. Here and there out of the darkness round me the Morlocks’ eyes
shone like carbuncles.

“The camphor flickered and went out. I lit a match, and as I did so,
two white forms that had been approaching Weena dashed hastily away.
One was so blinded by the light that he came straight for me, and I
felt his bones grind under the blow of my fist. He gave a whoop of
dismay, staggered a little way, and fell down. I lit another piece of
camphor, and went on gathering my bonfire. Presently I noticed how dry
was some of the foliage above me, for since my arrival on the Time
Machine, a matter of a week, no rain had fallen. So, instead of casting
about among the trees for fallen twigs, I began leaping up and dragging
down branches. Very soon I had a choking smoky fire of green wood and
dry sticks, and could economise my camphor. Then I turned to where
Weena lay beside my iron mace. I tried what I could to revive her, but
she lay like one dead. I could not even satisfy myself whether or not
she breathed.

“Now, the smoke of the fire beat over towards me, and it must have made
me heavy of a sudden. Moreover, the vapour of camphor was in the air.
My fire would not need replenishing for an hour or so. I felt very
weary after my exertion, and sat down. The wood, too, was full of a
slumbrous murmur that I did not understand. I seemed just to nod and
open my eyes. But all was dark, and the Morlocks had their hands upon
me. Flinging off their clinging fingers I hastily felt in my pocket for
the match-box, and—it had gone! Then they gripped and closed with me
again. In a moment I knew what had happened. I had slept, and my fire
had gone out, and the bitterness of death came over my soul. The forest
seemed full of the smell of burning wood. I was caught by the neck, by
the hair, by the arms, and pulled down. It was indescribably horrible
in the darkness to feel all these soft creatures heaped upon me. I felt
as if I was in a monstrous spider’s web. I was overpowered, and went
down. I felt little teeth nipping at my neck. I rolled over, and as I
did so my hand came against my iron lever. It gave me strength. I
struggled up, shaking the human rats from me, and, holding the bar
short, I thrust where I judged their faces might be. I could feel the
succulent giving of flesh and bone under my blows, and for a moment I
was free.

“The strange exultation that so often seems to accompany hard fighting
came upon me. I knew that both I and Weena were lost, but I determined
to make the Morlocks pay for their meat. I stood with my back to a
tree, swinging the iron bar before me. The whole wood was full of the
stir and cries of them. A minute passed. Their voices seemed to rise to
a higher pitch of excitement, and their movements grew faster. Yet none
came within reach. I stood glaring at the blackness. Then suddenly came
hope. What if the Morlocks were afraid? And close on the heels of that
came a strange thing. The darkness seemed to grow luminous. Very dimly
I began to see the Morlocks about me—three battered at my feet—and then
I recognised, with incredulous surprise, that the others were running,
in an incessant stream, as it seemed, from behind me, and away through
the wood in front. And their backs seemed no longer white, but reddish.
As I stood agape, I saw a little red spark go drifting across a gap of
starlight between the branches, and vanish. And at that I understood
the smell of burning wood, the slumbrous murmur that was growing now
into a gusty roar, the red glow, and the Morlocks’ flight.

“Stepping out from behind my tree and looking back, I saw, through the
black pillars of the nearer trees, the flames of the burning forest. It
was my first fire coming after me. With that I looked for Weena, but
she was gone. The hissing and crackling behind me, the explosive thud
as each fresh tree burst into flame, left little time for reflection.
My iron bar still gripped, I followed in the Morlocks’ path. It was a
close race. Once the flames crept forward so swiftly on my right as I
ran that I was outflanked and had to strike off to the left. But at
last I emerged upon a small open space, and as I did so, a Morlock came
blundering towards me, and past me, and went on straight into the fire!

“And now I was to see the most weird and horrible thing, I think, of
all that I beheld in that future age. This whole space was as bright as
day with the reflection of the fire. In the centre was a hillock or
tumulus, surmounted by a scorched hawthorn. Beyond this was another arm
of the burning forest, with yellow tongues already writhing from it,
completely encircling the space with a fence of fire. Upon the hillside
were some thirty or forty Morlocks, dazzled by the light and heat, and
blundering hither and thither against each other in their bewilderment.
At first I did not realise their blindness, and struck furiously at
them with my bar, in a frenzy of fear, as they approached me, killing
one and crippling several more. But when I had watched the gestures of
one of them groping under the hawthorn against the red sky, and heard
their moans, I was assured of their absolute helplessness and misery in
the glare, and I struck no more of them.

“Yet every now and then one would come straight towards me, setting
loose a quivering horror that made me quick to elude him. At one time
the flames died down somewhat, and I feared the foul creatures would
presently be able to see me. I was thinking of beginning the fight by
killing some of them before this should happen; but the fire burst out
again brightly, and I stayed my hand. I walked about the hill among
them and avoided them, looking for some trace of Weena. But Weena was
gone.

“At last I sat down on the summit of the hillock, and watched this
strange incredible company of blind things groping to and fro, and
making uncanny noises to each other, as the glare of the fire beat on
them. The coiling uprush of smoke streamed across the sky, and through
the rare tatters of that red canopy, remote as though they belonged to
another universe, shone the little stars. Two or three Morlocks came
blundering into me, and I drove them off with blows of my fists,
trembling as I did so.

“For the most part of that night I was persuaded it was a nightmare. I
bit myself and screamed in a passionate desire to awake. I beat the
ground with my hands, and got up and sat down again, and wandered here
and there, and again sat down. Then I would fall to rubbing my eyes and
calling upon God to let me awake. Thrice I saw Morlocks put their heads
down in a kind of agony and rush into the flames. But, at last, above
the subsiding red of the fire, above the streaming masses of black
smoke and the whitening and blackening tree stumps, and the diminishing
numbers of these dim creatures, came the white light of the day.

“I searched again for traces of Weena, but there were none. It was
plain that they had left her poor little body in the forest. I cannot
describe how it relieved me to think that it had escaped the awful fate
to which it seemed destined. As I thought of that, I was almost moved
to begin a massacre of the helpless abominations about me, but I
contained myself. The hillock, as I have said, was a kind of island in
the forest. From its summit I could now make out through a haze of
smoke the Palace of Green Porcelain, and from that I could get my
bearings for the White Sphinx. And so, leaving the remnant of these
damned souls still going hither and thither and moaning, as the day
grew clearer, I tied some grass about my feet and limped on across
smoking ashes and among black stems that still pulsated internally with
fire, towards the hiding-place of the Time Machine. I walked slowly,
for I was almost exhausted, as well as lame, and I felt the intensest
wretchedness for the horrible death of little Weena. It seemed an
overwhelming calamity. Now, in this old familiar room, it is more like
the sorrow of a dream than an actual loss. But that morning it left me
absolutely lonely again—terribly alone. I began to think of this house
of mine, of this fireside, of some of you, and with such thoughts came
a longing that was pain.

“But, as I walked over the smoking ashes under the bright morning sky,
I made a discovery. In my trouser pocket were still some loose matches.
The box must have leaked before it was lost.




 XIII.
 The Trap of the White Sphinx


“About eight or nine in the morning I came to the same seat of yellow
metal from which I had viewed the world upon the evening of my arrival.
I thought of my hasty conclusions upon that evening and could not
refrain from laughing bitterly at my confidence. Here was the same
beautiful scene, the same abundant foliage, the same splendid palaces
and magnificent ruins, the same silver river running between its
fertile banks. The gay robes of the beautiful people moved hither and
thither among the trees. Some were bathing in exactly the place where I
had saved Weena, and that suddenly gave me a keen stab of pain. And
like blots upon the landscape rose the cupolas above the ways to the
Underworld. I understood now what all the beauty of the Overworld
people covered. Very pleasant was their day, as pleasant as the day of
the cattle in the field. Like the cattle, they knew of no enemies and
provided against no needs. And their end was the same.

“I grieved to think how brief the dream of the human intellect had
been. It had committed suicide. It had set itself steadfastly towards
comfort and ease, a balanced society with security and permanency as
its watchword, it had attained its hopes—to come to this at last. Once,
life and property must have reached almost absolute safety. The rich
had been assured of his wealth and comfort, the toiler assured of his
life and work. No doubt in that perfect world there had been no
unemployed problem, no social question left unsolved. And a great quiet
had followed.

“It is a law of nature we overlook, that intellectual versatility is
the compensation for change, danger, and trouble. An animal perfectly
in harmony with its environment is a perfect mechanism. Nature never
appeals to intelligence until habit and instinct are useless. There is
no intelligence where there is no change and no need of change. Only
those animals partake of intelligence that have to meet a huge variety
of needs and dangers.

“So, as I see it, the Upperworld man had drifted towards his feeble
prettiness, and the Underworld to mere mechanical industry. But that
perfect state had lacked one thing even for mechanical
perfection—absolute permanency. Apparently as time went on, the feeding
of an Underworld, however it was effected, had become disjointed.
Mother Necessity, who had been staved off for a few thousand years,
came back again, and she began below. The Underworld being in contact
with machinery, which, however perfect, still needs some little thought
outside habit, had probably retained perforce rather more initiative,
if less of every other human character, than the Upper. And when other
meat failed them, they turned to what old habit had hitherto forbidden.
So I say I saw it in my last view of the world of Eight Hundred and Two
Thousand Seven Hundred and One. It may be as wrong an explanation as
mortal wit could invent. It is how the thing shaped itself to me, and
as that I give it to you.

“After the fatigues, excitements, and terrors of the past days, and in
spite of my grief, this seat and the tranquil view and the warm
sunlight were very pleasant. I was very tired and sleepy, and soon my
theorising passed into dozing. Catching myself at that, I took my own
hint, and spreading myself out upon the turf I had a long and
refreshing sleep.

“I awoke a little before sunsetting. I now felt safe against being
caught napping by the Morlocks, and, stretching myself, I came on down
the hill towards the White Sphinx. I had my crowbar in one hand, and
the other hand played with the matches in my pocket.

“And now came a most unexpected thing. As I approached the pedestal of
the sphinx I found the bronze valves were open. They had slid down into
grooves.

“At that I stopped short before them, hesitating to enter.

“Within was a small apartment, and on a raised place in the corner of
this was the Time Machine. I had the small levers in my pocket. So
here, after all my elaborate preparations for the siege of the White
Sphinx, was a meek surrender. I threw my iron bar away, almost sorry
not to use it.

“A sudden thought came into my head as I stooped towards the portal.
For once, at least, I grasped the mental operations of the Morlocks.
Suppressing a strong inclination to laugh, I stepped through the bronze
frame and up to the Time Machine. I was surprised to find it had been
carefully oiled and cleaned. I have suspected since that the Morlocks
had even partially taken it to pieces while trying in their dim way to
grasp its purpose.

“Now as I stood and examined it, finding a pleasure in the mere touch
of the contrivance, the thing I had expected happened. The bronze
panels suddenly slid up and struck the frame with a clang. I was in the
dark—trapped. So the Morlocks thought. At that I chuckled gleefully.

“I could already hear their murmuring laughter as they came towards me.
Very calmly I tried to strike the match. I had only to fix on the
levers and depart then like a ghost. But I had overlooked one little
thing. The matches were of that abominable kind that light only on the
box.

“You may imagine how all my calm vanished. The little brutes were close
upon me. One touched me. I made a sweeping blow in the dark at them
with the levers, and began to scramble into the saddle of the machine.
Then came one hand upon me and then another. Then I had simply to fight
against their persistent fingers for my levers, and at the same time
feel for the studs over which these fitted. One, indeed, they almost
got away from me. As it slipped from my hand, I had to butt in the dark
with my head—I could hear the Morlock’s skull ring—to recover it. It
was a nearer thing than the fight in the forest, I think, this last
scramble.

“But at last the lever was fixed and pulled over. The clinging hands
slipped from me. The darkness presently fell from my eyes. I found
myself in the same grey light and tumult I have already described.




 XIV.
 The Further Vision


“I have already told you of the sickness and confusion that comes with
time travelling. And this time I was not seated properly in the saddle,
but sideways and in an unstable fashion. For an indefinite time I clung
to the machine as it swayed and vibrated, quite unheeding how I went,
and when I brought myself to look at the dials again I was amazed to
find where I had arrived. One dial records days, and another thousands
of days, another millions of days, and another thousands of millions.
Now, instead of reversing the levers, I had pulled them over so as to
go forward with them, and when I came to look at these indicators I
found that the thousands hand was sweeping round as fast as the seconds
hand of a watch—into futurity.

“As I drove on, a peculiar change crept over the appearance of things.
The palpitating greyness grew darker; then—though I was still
travelling with prodigious velocity—the blinking succession of day and
night, which was usually indicative of a slower pace, returned, and
grew more and more marked. This puzzled me very much at first. The
alternations of night and day grew slower and slower, and so did the
passage of the sun across the sky, until they seemed to stretch through
centuries. At last a steady twilight brooded over the earth, a twilight
only broken now and then when a comet glared across the darkling sky.
The band of light that had indicated the sun had long since
disappeared; for the sun had ceased to set—it simply rose and fell in
the west, and grew ever broader and more red. All trace of the moon had
vanished. The circling of the stars, growing slower and slower, had
given place to creeping points of light. At last, some time before I
stopped, the sun, red and very large, halted motionless upon the
horizon, a vast dome glowing with a dull heat, and now and then
suffering a momentary extinction. At one time it had for a little while
glowed more brilliantly again, but it speedily reverted to its sullen
red heat. I perceived by this slowing down of its rising and setting
that the work of the tidal drag was done. The earth had come to rest
with one face to the sun, even as in our own time the moon faces the
earth. Very cautiously, for I remembered my former headlong fall, I
began to reverse my motion. Slower and slower went the circling hands
until the thousands one seemed motionless and the daily one was no
longer a mere mist upon its scale. Still slower, until the dim outlines
of a desolate beach grew visible.

“I stopped very gently and sat upon the Time Machine, looking round.
The sky was no longer blue. North-eastward it was inky black, and out
of the blackness shone brightly and steadily the pale white stars.
Overhead it was a deep Indian red and starless, and south-eastward it
grew brighter to a glowing scarlet where, cut by the horizon, lay the
huge hull of the sun, red and motionless. The rocks about me were of a
harsh reddish colour, and all the trace of life that I could see at
first was the intensely green vegetation that covered every projecting
point on their south-eastern face. It was the same rich green that one
sees on forest moss or on the lichen in caves: plants which like these
grow in a perpetual twilight.

“The machine was standing on a sloping beach. The sea stretched away to
the south-west, to rise into a sharp bright horizon against the wan
sky. There were no breakers and no waves, for not a breath of wind was
stirring. Only a slight oily swell rose and fell like a gentle
breathing, and showed that the eternal sea was still moving and living.
And along the margin where the water sometimes broke was a thick
incrustation of salt—pink under the lurid sky. There was a sense of
oppression in my head, and I noticed that I was breathing very fast.
The sensation reminded me of my only experience of mountaineering, and
from that I judged the air to be more rarefied than it is now.

“Far away up the desolate slope I heard a harsh scream, and saw a thing
like a huge white butterfly go slanting and fluttering up into the sky
and, circling, disappear over some low hillocks beyond. The sound of
its voice was so dismal that I shivered and seated myself more firmly
upon the machine. Looking round me again, I saw that, quite near, what
I had taken to be a reddish mass of rock was moving slowly towards me.
Then I saw the thing was really a monstrous crab-like creature. Can you
imagine a crab as large as yonder table, with its many legs moving
slowly and uncertainly, its big claws swaying, its long antennæ, like
carters’ whips, waving and feeling, and its stalked eyes gleaming at
you on either side of its metallic front? Its back was corrugated and
ornamented with ungainly bosses, and a greenish incrustation blotched
it here and there. I could see the many palps of its complicated mouth
flickering and feeling as it moved.

“As I stared at this sinister apparition crawling towards me, I felt a
tickling on my cheek as though a fly had lighted there. I tried to
brush it away with my hand, but in a moment it returned, and almost
immediately came another by my ear. I struck at this, and caught
something threadlike. It was drawn swiftly out of my hand. With a
frightful qualm, I turned, and I saw that I had grasped the antenna of
another monster crab that stood just behind me. Its evil eyes were
wriggling on their stalks, its mouth was all alive with appetite, and
its vast ungainly claws, smeared with an algal slime, were descending
upon me. In a moment my hand was on the lever, and I had placed a month
between myself and these monsters. But I was still on the same beach,
and I saw them distinctly now as soon as I stopped. Dozens of them
seemed to be crawling here and there, in the sombre light, among the
foliated sheets of intense green.

“I cannot convey the sense of abominable desolation that hung over the
world. The red eastern sky, the northward blackness, the salt Dead Sea,
the stony beach crawling with these foul, slow-stirring monsters, the
uniform poisonous-looking green of the lichenous plants, the thin air
that hurts one’s lungs: all contributed to an appalling effect. I moved
on a hundred years, and there was the same red sun—a little larger, a
little duller—the same dying sea, the same chill air, and the same
crowd of earthy crustacea creeping in and out among the green weed and
the red rocks. And in the westward sky, I saw a curved pale line like a
vast new moon.

“So I travelled, stopping ever and again, in great strides of a
thousand years or more, drawn on by the mystery of the earth’s fate,
watching with a strange fascination the sun grow larger and duller in
the westward sky, and the life of the old earth ebb away. At last, more
than thirty million years hence, the huge red-hot dome of the sun had
come to obscure nearly a tenth part of the darkling heavens. Then I
stopped once more, for the crawling multitude of crabs had disappeared,
and the red beach, save for its livid green liverworts and lichens,
seemed lifeless. And now it was flecked with white. A bitter cold
assailed me. Rare white flakes ever and again came eddying down. To the
north-eastward, the glare of snow lay under the starlight of the sable
sky, and I could see an undulating crest of hillocks pinkish white.
There were fringes of ice along the sea margin, with drifting masses
farther out; but the main expanse of that salt ocean, all bloody under
the eternal sunset, was still unfrozen.

“I looked about me to see if any traces of animal life remained. A
certain indefinable apprehension still kept me in the saddle of the
machine. But I saw nothing moving, in earth or sky or sea. The green
slime on the rocks alone testified that life was not extinct. A shallow
sandbank had appeared in the sea and the water had receded from the
beach. I fancied I saw some black object flopping about upon this bank,
but it became motionless as I looked at it, and I judged that my eye
had been deceived, and that the black object was merely a rock. The
stars in the sky were intensely bright and seemed to me to twinkle very
little.

“Suddenly I noticed that the circular westward outline of the sun had
changed; that a concavity, a bay, had appeared in the curve. I saw this
grow larger. For a minute perhaps I stared aghast at this blackness
that was creeping over the day, and then I realised that an eclipse was
beginning. Either the moon or the planet Mercury was passing across the
sun’s disk. Naturally, at first I took it to be the moon, but there is
much to incline me to believe that what I really saw was the transit of
an inner planet passing very near to the earth.

“The darkness grew apace; a cold wind began to blow in freshening gusts
from the east, and the showering white flakes in the air increased in
number. From the edge of the sea came a ripple and whisper. Beyond
these lifeless sounds the world was silent. Silent? It would be hard to
convey the stillness of it. All the sounds of man, the bleating of
sheep, the cries of birds, the hum of insects, the stir that makes the
background of our lives—all that was over. As the darkness thickened,
the eddying flakes grew more abundant, dancing before my eyes; and the
cold of the air more intense. At last, one by one, swiftly, one after
the other, the white peaks of the distant hills vanished into
blackness. The breeze rose to a moaning wind. I saw the black central
shadow of the eclipse sweeping towards me. In another moment the pale
stars alone were visible. All else was rayless obscurity. The sky was
absolutely black.

“A horror of this great darkness came on me. The cold, that smote to my
marrow, and the pain I felt in breathing, overcame me. I shivered, and
a deadly nausea seized me. Then like a red-hot bow in the sky appeared
the edge of the sun. I got off the machine to recover myself. I felt
giddy and incapable of facing the return journey. As I stood sick and
confused I saw again the moving thing upon the shoal—there was no
mistake now that it was a moving thing—against the red water of the
sea. It was a round thing, the size of a football perhaps, or, it may
be, bigger, and tentacles trailed down from it; it seemed black against
the weltering blood-red water, and it was hopping fitfully about. Then
I felt I was fainting. But a terrible dread of lying helpless in that
remote and awful twilight sustained me while I clambered upon the
saddle.




 XV.
 The Time Traveller’s Return


“So I came back. For a long time I must have been insensible upon the
machine. The blinking succession of the days and nights was resumed,
the sun got golden again, the sky blue. I breathed with greater
freedom. The fluctuating contours of the land ebbed and flowed. The
hands spun backward upon the dials. At last I saw again the dim shadows
of houses, the evidences of decadent humanity. These, too, changed and
passed, and others came. Presently, when the million dial was at zero,
I slackened speed. I began to recognise our own pretty and familiar
architecture, the thousands hand ran back to the starting-point, the
night and day flapped slower and slower. Then the old walls of the
laboratory came round me. Very gently, now, I slowed the mechanism
down.

“I saw one little thing that seemed odd to me. I think I have told you
that when I set out, before my velocity became very high, Mrs. Watchett
had walked across the room, travelling, as it seemed to me, like a
rocket. As I returned, I passed again across that minute when she
traversed the laboratory. But now her every motion appeared to be the
exact inversion of her previous ones. The door at the lower end opened,
and she glided quietly up the laboratory, back foremost, and
disappeared behind the door by which she had previously entered. Just
before that I seemed to see Hillyer for a moment; but he passed like a
flash.

“Then I stopped the machine, and saw about me again the old familiar
laboratory, my tools, my appliances just as I had left them. I got off
the thing very shakily, and sat down upon my bench. For several minutes
I trembled violently. Then I became calmer. Around me was my old
workshop again, exactly as it had been. I might have slept there, and
the whole thing have been a dream.

“And yet, not exactly! The thing had started from the south-east corner
of the laboratory. It had come to rest again in the north-west, against
the wall where you saw it. That gives you the exact distance from my
little lawn to the pedestal of the White Sphinx, into which the
Morlocks had carried my machine.

“For a time my brain went stagnant. Presently I got up and came through
the passage here, limping, because my heel was still painful, and
feeling sorely begrimed. I saw the _Pall Mall Gazette_ on the table by
the door. I found the date was indeed today, and looking at the
timepiece, saw the hour was almost eight o’clock. I heard your voices
and the clatter of plates. I hesitated—I felt so sick and weak. Then I
sniffed good wholesome meat, and opened the door on you. You know the
rest. I washed, and dined, and now I am telling you the story.




 XVI.
 After the Story


“I know,” he said, after a pause, “that all this will be absolutely
incredible to you, but to me the one incredible thing is that I am here
tonight in this old familiar room looking into your friendly faces and
telling you these strange adventures.” He looked at the Medical Man.
“No. I cannot expect you to believe it. Take it as a lie—or a prophecy.
Say I dreamed it in the workshop. Consider I have been speculating upon
the destinies of our race, until I have hatched this fiction. Treat my
assertion of its truth as a mere stroke of art to enhance its interest.
And taking it as a story, what do you think of it?”

He took up his pipe, and began, in his old accustomed manner, to tap
with it nervously upon the bars of the grate. There was a momentary
stillness. Then chairs began to creak and shoes to scrape upon the
carpet. I took my eyes off the Time Traveller’s face, and looked round
at his audience. They were in the dark, and little spots of colour swam
before them. The Medical Man seemed absorbed in the contemplation of
our host. The Editor was looking hard at the end of his cigar—the
sixth. The Journalist fumbled for his watch. The others, as far as I
remember, were motionless.

The Editor stood up with a sigh. “What a pity it is you’re not a writer
of stories!” he said, putting his hand on the Time Traveller’s
shoulder.

“You don’t believe it?”

“Well——”

“I thought not.”

The Time Traveller turned to us. “Where are the matches?” he said. He
lit one and spoke over his pipe, puffing. “To tell you the truth... I
hardly believe it myself..... And yet...”

His eye fell with a mute inquiry upon the withered white flowers upon
the little table. Then he turned over the hand holding his pipe, and I
saw he was looking at some half-healed scars on his knuckles.

The Medical Man rose, came to the lamp, and examined the flowers. “The
gynæceum’s odd,” he said. The Psychologist leant forward to see,
holding out his hand for a specimen.

“I’m hanged if it isn’t a quarter to one,” said the Journalist. “How
shall we get home?”

“Plenty of cabs at the station,” said the Psychologist.

“It’s a curious thing,” said the Medical Man; “but I certainly don’t
know the natural order of these flowers. May I have them?”

The Time Traveller hesitated. Then suddenly: “Certainly not.”

“Where did you really get them?” said the Medical Man.

The Time Traveller put his hand to his head. He spoke like one who was
trying to keep hold of an idea that eluded him. “They were put into my
pocket by Weena, when I travelled into Time.” He stared round the room.
“I’m damned if it isn’t all going. This room and you and the atmosphere
of every day is too much for my memory. Did I ever make a Time Machine,
or a model of a Time Machine? Or is it all only a dream? They say life
is a dream, a precious poor dream at times—but I can’t stand another
that won’t fit. It’s madness. And where did the dream come from? … I
must look at that machine. If there is one!”

He caught up the lamp swiftly, and carried it, flaring red, through the
door into the corridor. We followed him. There in the flickering light
of the lamp was the machine sure enough, squat, ugly, and askew, a
thing of brass, ebony, ivory, and translucent glimmering quartz. Solid
to the touch—for I put out my hand and felt the rail of it—and with
brown spots and smears upon the ivory, and bits of grass and moss upon
the lower parts, and one rail bent awry.

The Time Traveller put the lamp down on the bench, and ran his hand
along the damaged rail. “It’s all right now,” he said. “The story I
told you was true. I’m sorry to have brought you out here in the cold.”
He took up the lamp, and, in an absolute silence, we returned to the
smoking-room.

He came into the hall with us and helped the Editor on with his coat.
The Medical Man looked into his face and, with a certain hesitation,
told him he was suffering from overwork, at which he laughed hugely. I
remember him standing in the open doorway, bawling good-night.

I shared a cab with the Editor. He thought the tale a “gaudy lie.” For
my own part I was unable to come to a conclusion. The story was so
fantastic and incredible, the telling so credible and sober. I lay
awake most of the night thinking about it. I determined to go next day
and see the Time Traveller again. I was told he was in the laboratory,
and being on easy terms in the house, I went up to him. The laboratory,
however, was empty. I stared for a minute at the Time Machine and put
out my hand and touched the lever. At that the squat
substantial-looking mass swayed like a bough shaken by the wind. Its
instability startled me extremely, and I had a queer reminiscence of
the childish days when I used to be forbidden to meddle. I came back
through the corridor. The Time Traveller met me in the smoking-room. He
was coming from the house. He had a small camera under one arm and a
knapsack under the other. He laughed when he saw me, and gave me an
elbow to shake. “I’m frightfully busy,” said he, “with that thing in
there.”

“But is it not some hoax?” I said. “Do you really travel through time?”

“Really and truly I do.” And he looked frankly into my eyes. He
hesitated. His eye wandered about the room. “I only want half an hour,”
he said. “I know why you came, and it’s awfully good of you. There’s
some magazines here. If you’ll stop to lunch I’ll prove you this time
travelling up to the hilt, specimens and all. If you’ll forgive my
leaving you now?”

I consented, hardly comprehending then the full import of his words,
and he nodded and went on down the corridor. I heard the door of the
laboratory slam, seated myself in a chair, and took up a daily paper.
What was he going to do before lunch-time? Then suddenly I was reminded
by an advertisement that I had promised to meet Richardson, the
publisher, at two. I looked at my watch, and saw that I could barely
save that engagement. I got up and went down the passage to tell the
Time Traveller.

As I took hold of the handle of the door I heard an exclamation, oddly
truncated at the end, and a click and a thud. A gust of air whirled
round me as I opened the door, and from within came the sound of broken
glass falling on the floor. The Time Traveller was not there. I seemed
to see a ghostly, indistinct figure sitting in a whirling mass of black
and brass for a moment—a figure so transparent that the bench behind
with its sheets of drawings was absolutely distinct; but this phantasm
vanished as I rubbed my eyes. The Time Machine had gone. Save for a
subsiding stir of dust, the further end of the laboratory was empty. A
pane of the skylight had, apparently, just been blown in.

I felt an unreasonable amazement. I knew that something strange had
happened, and for the moment could not distinguish what the strange
thing might be. As I stood staring, the door into the garden opened,
and the man-servant appeared.

We looked at each other. Then ideas began to come. “Has Mr. —— gone out
that way?” said I.

“No, sir. No one has come out this way. I was expecting to find him
here.”

At that I understood. At the risk of disappointing Richardson I stayed
on, waiting for the Time Traveller; waiting for the second, perhaps
still stranger story, and the specimens and photographs he would bring
with him. But I am beginning now to fear that I must wait a lifetime.
The Time Traveller vanished three years ago. And, as everybody knows
now, he has never returned.




 Epilogue


One cannot choose but wonder. Will he ever return? It may be that he
swept back into the past, and fell among the blood-drinking, hairy
savages of the Age of Unpolished Stone; into the abysses of the
Cretaceous Sea; or among the grotesque saurians, the huge reptilian
brutes of the Jurassic times. He may even now—if I may use the
phrase—be wandering on some plesiosaurus-haunted Oolitic coral reef, or
beside the lonely saline seas of the Triassic Age. Or did he go
forward, into one of the nearer ages, in which men are still men, but
with the riddles of our own time answered and its wearisome problems
solved? Into the manhood of the race: for I, for my own part, cannot
think that these latter days of weak experiment, fragmentary theory,
and mutual discord are indeed man’s culminating time! I say, for my own
part. He, I know—for the question had been discussed among us long
before the Time Machine was made—thought but cheerlessly of the
Advancement of Mankind, and saw in the growing pile of civilisation
only a foolish heaping that must inevitably fall back upon and destroy
its makers in the end. If that is so, it remains for us to live as
though it were not so. But to me the future is still black and blank—is
a vast ignorance, lit at a few casual places by the memory of his
story. And I have by me, for my comfort, two strange white
flowers—shrivelled now, and brown and flat and brittle—to witness that
even when mind and strength had gone, gratitude and a mutual tenderness
still lived on in the heart of man.





/


The War of the Worlds

by H. G. Wells




   ‘But who shall dwell in these worlds if they be inhabited?
    . . . Are we or they Lords of the World? . . . And
    how are all things made for man?’
                    KEPLER (quoted in _The Anatomy of Melancholy_)




Contents


 BOOK ONE.—THE COMING OF THE MARTIANS

 I. THE EVE OF THE WAR.
 II. THE FALLING STAR.
 III. ON HORSELL COMMON.
 IV. THE CYLINDER OPENS.
 V. THE HEAT-RAY.
 VI. THE HEAT-RAY IN THE CHOBHAM ROAD.
 VII. HOW I REACHED HOME.
 VIII. FRIDAY NIGHT.
 IX. THE FIGHTING BEGINS.
 X. IN THE STORM.
 XI. AT THE WINDOW.
 XII. WHAT I SAW OF THE DESTRUCTION OF WEYBRIDGE AND SHEPPERTON.
 XIII. HOW I FELL IN WITH THE CURATE.
 XIV. IN LONDON.
 XV. WHAT HAD HAPPENED IN SURREY.
 XVI. THE EXODUS FROM LONDON.
 XVII. THE “THUNDER CHILD”.

 BOOK TWO.—THE EARTH UNDER THE MARTIANS

 I. UNDER FOOT.
 II. WHAT WE SAW FROM THE RUINED HOUSE.
 III. THE DAYS OF IMPRISONMENT.
 IV. THE DEATH OF THE CURATE.
 V. THE STILLNESS.
 VI. THE WORK OF FIFTEEN DAYS.
 VII. THE MAN ON PUTNEY HILL.
 VIII. DEAD LONDON.
 IX. WRECKAGE.
 X. THE EPILOGUE.




BOOK ONE
THE COMING OF THE MARTIANS




I.
THE EVE OF THE WAR.


No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century
that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences
greater than man’s and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied
themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinised and
studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might
scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of
water. With infinite complacency men went to and fro over this globe
about their little affairs, serene in their assurance of their empire
over matter. It is possible that the infusoria under the microscope do
the same. No one gave a thought to the older worlds of space as sources
of human danger, or thought of them only to dismiss the idea of life
upon them as impossible or improbable. It is curious to recall some of
the mental habits of those departed days. At most terrestrial men
fancied there might be other men upon Mars, perhaps inferior to
themselves and ready to welcome a missionary enterprise. Yet across the
gulf of space, minds that are to our minds as ours are to those of the
beasts that perish, intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic,
regarded this earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew their
plans against us. And early in the twentieth century came the great
disillusionment.

The planet Mars, I scarcely need remind the reader, revolves about the
sun at a mean distance of 140,000,000 miles, and the light and heat it
receives from the sun is barely half of that received by this world. It
must be, if the nebular hypothesis has any truth, older than our world;
and long before this earth ceased to be molten, life upon its surface
must have begun its course. The fact that it is scarcely one seventh of
the volume of the earth must have accelerated its cooling to the
temperature at which life could begin. It has air and water and all
that is necessary for the support of animated existence.

Yet so vain is man, and so blinded by his vanity, that no writer, up to
the very end of the nineteenth century, expressed any idea that
intelligent life might have developed there far, or indeed at all,
beyond its earthly level. Nor was it generally understood that since
Mars is older than our earth, with scarcely a quarter of the
superficial area and remoter from the sun, it necessarily follows that
it is not only more distant from time’s beginning but nearer its end.

The secular cooling that must someday overtake our planet has already
gone far indeed with our neighbour. Its physical condition is still
largely a mystery, but we know now that even in its equatorial region
the midday temperature barely approaches that of our coldest winter.
Its air is much more attenuated than ours, its oceans have shrunk until
they cover but a third of its surface, and as its slow seasons change
huge snowcaps gather and melt about either pole and periodically
inundate its temperate zones. That last stage of exhaustion, which to
us is still incredibly remote, has become a present-day problem for the
inhabitants of Mars. The immediate pressure of necessity has brightened
their intellects, enlarged their powers, and hardened their hearts. And
looking across space with instruments, and intelligences such as we
have scarcely dreamed of, they see, at its nearest distance only
35,000,000 of miles sunward of them, a morning star of hope, our own
warmer planet, green with vegetation and grey with water, with a cloudy
atmosphere eloquent of fertility, with glimpses through its drifting
cloud wisps of broad stretches of populous country and narrow,
navy-crowded seas.

And we men, the creatures who inhabit this earth, must be to them at
least as alien and lowly as are the monkeys and lemurs to us. The
intellectual side of man already admits that life is an incessant
struggle for existence, and it would seem that this too is the belief
of the minds upon Mars. Their world is far gone in its cooling and this
world is still crowded with life, but crowded only with what they
regard as inferior animals. To carry warfare sunward is, indeed, their
only escape from the destruction that, generation after generation,
creeps upon them.

And before we judge of them too harshly we must remember what ruthless
and utter destruction our own species has wrought, not only upon
animals, such as the vanished bison and the dodo, but upon its inferior
races. The Tasmanians, in spite of their human likeness, were entirely
swept out of existence in a war of extermination waged by European
immigrants, in the space of fifty years. Are we such apostles of mercy
as to complain if the Martians warred in the same spirit?

The Martians seem to have calculated their descent with amazing
subtlety—their mathematical learning is evidently far in excess of
ours—and to have carried out their preparations with a well-nigh
perfect unanimity. Had our instruments permitted it, we might have seen
the gathering trouble far back in the nineteenth century. Men like
Schiaparelli watched the red planet—it is odd, by-the-bye, that for
countless centuries Mars has been the star of war—but failed to
interpret the fluctuating appearances of the markings they mapped so
well. All that time the Martians must have been getting ready.

During the opposition of 1894 a great light was seen on the illuminated
part of the disk, first at the Lick Observatory, then by Perrotin of
Nice, and then by other observers. English readers heard of it first in
the issue of _Nature_ dated August 2. I am inclined to think that this
blaze may have been the casting of the huge gun, in the vast pit sunk
into their planet, from which their shots were fired at us. Peculiar
markings, as yet unexplained, were seen near the site of that outbreak
during the next two oppositions.

The storm burst upon us six years ago now. As Mars approached
opposition, Lavelle of Java set the wires of the astronomical exchange
palpitating with the amazing intelligence of a huge outbreak of
incandescent gas upon the planet. It had occurred towards midnight of
the twelfth; and the spectroscope, to which he had at once resorted,
indicated a mass of flaming gas, chiefly hydrogen, moving with an
enormous velocity towards this earth. This jet of fire had become
invisible about a quarter past twelve. He compared it to a colossal
puff of flame suddenly and violently squirted out of the planet, “as
flaming gases rushed out of a gun.”

A singularly appropriate phrase it proved. Yet the next day there was
nothing of this in the papers except a little note in the _Daily
Telegraph_, and the world went in ignorance of one of the gravest
dangers that ever threatened the human race. I might not have heard of
the eruption at all had I not met Ogilvy, the well-known astronomer, at
Ottershaw. He was immensely excited at the news, and in the excess of
his feelings invited me up to take a turn with him that night in a
scrutiny of the red planet.

In spite of all that has happened since, I still remember that vigil
very distinctly: the black and silent observatory, the shadowed lantern
throwing a feeble glow upon the floor in the corner, the steady ticking
of the clockwork of the telescope, the little slit in the roof—an
oblong profundity with the stardust streaked across it. Ogilvy moved
about, invisible but audible. Looking through the telescope, one saw a
circle of deep blue and the little round planet swimming in the field.
It seemed such a little thing, so bright and small and still, faintly
marked with transverse stripes, and slightly flattened from the perfect
round. But so little it was, so silvery warm—a pin’s head of light! It
was as if it quivered, but really this was the telescope vibrating with
the activity of the clockwork that kept the planet in view.

As I watched, the planet seemed to grow larger and smaller and to
advance and recede, but that was simply that my eye was tired. Forty
millions of miles it was from us—more than forty millions of miles of
void. Few people realise the immensity of vacancy in which the dust of
the material universe swims.

Near it in the field, I remember, were three faint points of light,
three telescopic stars infinitely remote, and all around it was the
unfathomable darkness of empty space. You know how that blackness looks
on a frosty starlight night. In a telescope it seems far profounder.
And invisible to me because it was so remote and small, flying swiftly
and steadily towards me across that incredible distance, drawing nearer
every minute by so many thousands of miles, came the Thing they were
sending us, the Thing that was to bring so much struggle and calamity
and death to the earth. I never dreamed of it then as I watched; no one
on earth dreamed of that unerring missile.

That night, too, there was another jetting out of gas from the distant
planet. I saw it. A reddish flash at the edge, the slightest projection
of the outline just as the chronometer struck midnight; and at that I
told Ogilvy and he took my place. The night was warm and I was thirsty,
and I went stretching my legs clumsily and feeling my way in the
darkness, to the little table where the siphon stood, while Ogilvy
exclaimed at the streamer of gas that came out towards us.

That night another invisible missile started on its way to the earth
from Mars, just a second or so under twenty-four hours after the first
one. I remember how I sat on the table there in the blackness, with
patches of green and crimson swimming before my eyes. I wished I had a
light to smoke by, little suspecting the meaning of the minute gleam I
had seen and all that it would presently bring me. Ogilvy watched till
one, and then gave it up; and we lit the lantern and walked over to his
house. Down below in the darkness were Ottershaw and Chertsey and all
their hundreds of people, sleeping in peace.

He was full of speculation that night about the condition of Mars, and
scoffed at the vulgar idea of its having inhabitants who were
signalling us. His idea was that meteorites might be falling in a heavy
shower upon the planet, or that a huge volcanic explosion was in
progress. He pointed out to me how unlikely it was that organic
evolution had taken the same direction in the two adjacent planets.

“The chances against anything manlike on Mars are a million to one,” he
said.

Hundreds of observers saw the flame that night and the night after
about midnight, and again the night after; and so for ten nights, a
flame each night. Why the shots ceased after the tenth no one on earth
has attempted to explain. It may be the gases of the firing caused the
Martians inconvenience. Dense clouds of smoke or dust, visible through
a powerful telescope on earth as little grey, fluctuating patches,
spread through the clearness of the planet’s atmosphere and obscured
its more familiar features.

Even the daily papers woke up to the disturbances at last, and popular
notes appeared here, there, and everywhere concerning the volcanoes
upon Mars. The seriocomic periodical _Punch_, I remember, made a happy
use of it in the political cartoon. And, all unsuspected, those
missiles the Martians had fired at us drew earthward, rushing now at a
pace of many miles a second through the empty gulf of space, hour by
hour and day by day, nearer and nearer. It seems to me now almost
incredibly wonderful that, with that swift fate hanging over us, men
could go about their petty concerns as they did. I remember how
jubilant Markham was at securing a new photograph of the planet for the
illustrated paper he edited in those days. People in these latter times
scarcely realise the abundance and enterprise of our nineteenth-century
papers. For my own part, I was much occupied in learning to ride the
bicycle, and busy upon a series of papers discussing the probable
developments of moral ideas as civilisation progressed.

One night (the first missile then could scarcely have been 10,000,000
miles away) I went for a walk with my wife. It was starlight and I
explained the Signs of the Zodiac to her, and pointed out Mars, a
bright dot of light creeping zenithward, towards which so many
telescopes were pointed. It was a warm night. Coming home, a party of
excursionists from Chertsey or Isleworth passed us singing and playing
music. There were lights in the upper windows of the houses as the
people went to bed. From the railway station in the distance came the
sound of shunting trains, ringing and rumbling, softened almost into
melody by the distance. My wife pointed out to me the brightness of the
red, green, and yellow signal lights hanging in a framework against the
sky. It seemed so safe and tranquil.




II.
THE FALLING STAR.


Then came the night of the first falling star. It was seen early in the
morning, rushing over Winchester eastward, a line of flame high in the
atmosphere. Hundreds must have seen it, and taken it for an ordinary
falling star. Albin described it as leaving a greenish streak behind it
that glowed for some seconds. Denning, our greatest authority on
meteorites, stated that the height of its first appearance was about
ninety or one hundred miles. It seemed to him that it fell to earth
about one hundred miles east of him.

I was at home at that hour and writing in my study; and although my
French windows face towards Ottershaw and the blind was up (for I loved
in those days to look up at the night sky), I saw nothing of it. Yet
this strangest of all things that ever came to earth from outer space
must have fallen while I was sitting there, visible to me had I only
looked up as it passed. Some of those who saw its flight say it
travelled with a hissing sound. I myself heard nothing of that. Many
people in Berkshire, Surrey, and Middlesex must have seen the fall of
it, and, at most, have thought that another meteorite had descended. No
one seems to have troubled to look for the fallen mass that night.

But very early in the morning poor Ogilvy, who had seen the shooting
star and who was persuaded that a meteorite lay somewhere on the common
between Horsell, Ottershaw, and Woking, rose early with the idea of
finding it. Find it he did, soon after dawn, and not far from the
sand-pits. An enormous hole had been made by the impact of the
projectile, and the sand and gravel had been flung violently in every
direction over the heath, forming heaps visible a mile and a half away.
The heather was on fire eastward, and a thin blue smoke rose against
the dawn.

The Thing itself lay almost entirely buried in sand, amidst the
scattered splinters of a fir tree it had shivered to fragments in its
descent. The uncovered part had the appearance of a huge cylinder,
caked over and its outline softened by a thick scaly dun-coloured
incrustation. It had a diameter of about thirty yards. He approached
the mass, surprised at the size and more so at the shape, since most
meteorites are rounded more or less completely. It was, however, still
so hot from its flight through the air as to forbid his near approach.
A stirring noise within its cylinder he ascribed to the unequal cooling
of its surface; for at that time it had not occurred to him that it
might be hollow.

He remained standing at the edge of the pit that the Thing had made for
itself, staring at its strange appearance, astonished chiefly at its
unusual shape and colour, and dimly perceiving even then some evidence
of design in its arrival. The early morning was wonderfully still, and
the sun, just clearing the pine trees towards Weybridge, was already
warm. He did not remember hearing any birds that morning, there was
certainly no breeze stirring, and the only sounds were the faint
movements from within the cindery cylinder. He was all alone on the
common.

Then suddenly he noticed with a start that some of the grey clinker,
the ashy incrustation that covered the meteorite, was falling off the
circular edge of the end. It was dropping off in flakes and raining
down upon the sand. A large piece suddenly came off and fell with a
sharp noise that brought his heart into his mouth.

For a minute he scarcely realised what this meant, and, although the
heat was excessive, he clambered down into the pit close to the bulk to
see the Thing more clearly. He fancied even then that the cooling of
the body might account for this, but what disturbed that idea was the
fact that the ash was falling only from the end of the cylinder.

And then he perceived that, very slowly, the circular top of the
cylinder was rotating on its body. It was such a gradual movement that
he discovered it only through noticing that a black mark that had been
near him five minutes ago was now at the other side of the
circumference. Even then he scarcely understood what this indicated,
until he heard a muffled grating sound and saw the black mark jerk
forward an inch or so. Then the thing came upon him in a flash. The
cylinder was artificial—hollow—with an end that screwed out! Something
within the cylinder was unscrewing the top!

“Good heavens!” said Ogilvy. “There’s a man in it—men in it! Half
roasted to death! Trying to escape!”

At once, with a quick mental leap, he linked the Thing with the flash
upon Mars.

The thought of the confined creature was so dreadful to him that he
forgot the heat and went forward to the cylinder to help turn. But
luckily the dull radiation arrested him before he could burn his hands
on the still-glowing metal. At that he stood irresolute for a moment,
then turned, scrambled out of the pit, and set off running wildly into
Woking. The time then must have been somewhere about six o’clock. He
met a waggoner and tried to make him understand, but the tale he told
and his appearance were so wild—his hat had fallen off in the pit—that
the man simply drove on. He was equally unsuccessful with the potman
who was just unlocking the doors of the public-house by Horsell Bridge.
The fellow thought he was a lunatic at large and made an unsuccessful
attempt to shut him into the taproom. That sobered him a little; and
when he saw Henderson, the London journalist, in his garden, he called
over the palings and made himself understood.

“Henderson,” he called, “you saw that shooting star last night?”

“Well?” said Henderson.

“It’s out on Horsell Common now.”

“Good Lord!” said Henderson. “Fallen meteorite! That’s good.”

“But it’s something more than a meteorite. It’s a cylinder—an
artificial cylinder, man! And there’s something inside.”

Henderson stood up with his spade in his hand.

“What’s that?” he said. He was deaf in one ear.

Ogilvy told him all that he had seen. Henderson was a minute or so
taking it in. Then he dropped his spade, snatched up his jacket, and
came out into the road. The two men hurried back at once to the common,
and found the cylinder still lying in the same position. But now the
sounds inside had ceased, and a thin circle of bright metal showed
between the top and the body of the cylinder. Air was either entering
or escaping at the rim with a thin, sizzling sound.

They listened, rapped on the scaly burnt metal with a stick, and,
meeting with no response, they both concluded the man or men inside
must be insensible or dead.

Of course the two were quite unable to do anything. They shouted
consolation and promises, and went off back to the town again to get
help. One can imagine them, covered with sand, excited and disordered,
running up the little street in the bright sunlight just as the shop
folks were taking down their shutters and people were opening their
bedroom windows. Henderson went into the railway station at once, in
order to telegraph the news to London. The newspaper articles had
prepared men’s minds for the reception of the idea.

By eight o’clock a number of boys and unemployed men had already
started for the common to see the “dead men from Mars.” That was the
form the story took. I heard of it first from my newspaper boy about a
quarter to nine when I went out to get my _Daily Chronicle_. I was
naturally startled, and lost no time in going out and across the
Ottershaw bridge to the sand-pits.




III.
ON HORSELL COMMON.


I found a little crowd of perhaps twenty people surrounding the huge
hole in which the cylinder lay. I have already described the appearance
of that colossal bulk, embedded in the ground. The turf and gravel
about it seemed charred as if by a sudden explosion. No doubt its
impact had caused a flash of fire. Henderson and Ogilvy were not there.
I think they perceived that nothing was to be done for the present, and
had gone away to breakfast at Henderson’s house.

There were four or five boys sitting on the edge of the Pit, with their
feet dangling, and amusing themselves—until I stopped them—by throwing
stones at the giant mass. After I had spoken to them about it, they
began playing at “touch” in and out of the group of bystanders.

Among these were a couple of cyclists, a jobbing gardener I employed
sometimes, a girl carrying a baby, Gregg the butcher and his little
boy, and two or three loafers and golf caddies who were accustomed to
hang about the railway station. There was very little talking. Few of
the common people in England had anything but the vaguest astronomical
ideas in those days. Most of them were staring quietly at the big table
like end of the cylinder, which was still as Ogilvy and Henderson had
left it. I fancy the popular expectation of a heap of charred corpses
was disappointed at this inanimate bulk. Some went away while I was
there, and other people came. I clambered into the pit and fancied I
heard a faint movement under my feet. The top had certainly ceased to
rotate.

It was only when I got thus close to it that the strangeness of this
object was at all evident to me. At the first glance it was really no
more exciting than an overturned carriage or a tree blown across the
road. Not so much so, indeed. It looked like a rusty gas float. It
required a certain amount of scientific education to perceive that the
grey scale of the Thing was no common oxide, that the yellowish-white
metal that gleamed in the crack between the lid and the cylinder had an
unfamiliar hue. “Extra-terrestrial” had no meaning for most of the
onlookers.

At that time it was quite clear in my own mind that the Thing had come
from the planet Mars, but I judged it improbable that it contained any
living creature. I thought the unscrewing might be automatic. In spite
of Ogilvy, I still believed that there were men in Mars. My mind ran
fancifully on the possibilities of its containing manuscript, on the
difficulties in translation that might arise, whether we should find
coins and models in it, and so forth. Yet it was a little too large for
assurance on this idea. I felt an impatience to see it opened. About
eleven, as nothing seemed happening, I walked back, full of such
thought, to my home in Maybury. But I found it difficult to get to work
upon my abstract investigations.

In the afternoon the appearance of the common had altered very much.
The early editions of the evening papers had startled London with
enormous headlines:

“A MESSAGE RECEIVED FROM MARS.”


“REMARKABLE STORY FROM WOKING,”


and so forth. In addition, Ogilvy’s wire to the Astronomical Exchange
had roused every observatory in the three kingdoms.

There were half a dozen flys or more from the Woking station standing
in the road by the sand-pits, a basket-chaise from Chobham, and a
rather lordly carriage. Besides that, there was quite a heap of
bicycles. In addition, a large number of people must have walked, in
spite of the heat of the day, from Woking and Chertsey, so that there
was altogether quite a considerable crowd—one or two gaily dressed
ladies among the others.

It was glaringly hot, not a cloud in the sky nor a breath of wind, and
the only shadow was that of the few scattered pine trees. The burning
heather had been extinguished, but the level ground towards Ottershaw
was blackened as far as one could see, and still giving off vertical
streamers of smoke. An enterprising sweet-stuff dealer in the Chobham
Road had sent up his son with a barrow-load of green apples and ginger
beer.

Going to the edge of the pit, I found it occupied by a group of about
half a dozen men—Henderson, Ogilvy, and a tall, fair-haired man that I
afterwards learned was Stent, the Astronomer Royal, with several
workmen wielding spades and pickaxes. Stent was giving directions in a
clear, high-pitched voice. He was standing on the cylinder, which was
now evidently much cooler; his face was crimson and streaming with
perspiration, and something seemed to have irritated him.

A large portion of the cylinder had been uncovered, though its lower
end was still embedded. As soon as Ogilvy saw me among the staring
crowd on the edge of the pit he called to me to come down, and asked me
if I would mind going over to see Lord Hilton, the lord of the manor.

The growing crowd, he said, was becoming a serious impediment to their
excavations, especially the boys. They wanted a light railing put up,
and help to keep the people back. He told me that a faint stirring was
occasionally still audible within the case, but that the workmen had
failed to unscrew the top, as it afforded no grip to them. The case
appeared to be enormously thick, and it was possible that the faint
sounds we heard represented a noisy tumult in the interior.

I was very glad to do as he asked, and so become one of the privileged
spectators within the contemplated enclosure. I failed to find Lord
Hilton at his house, but I was told he was expected from London by the
six o’clock train from Waterloo; and as it was then about a quarter
past five, I went home, had some tea, and walked up to the station to
waylay him.




IV.
THE CYLINDER OPENS.


When I returned to the common the sun was setting. Scattered groups
were hurrying from the direction of Woking, and one or two persons were
returning. The crowd about the pit had increased, and stood out black
against the lemon yellow of the sky—a couple of hundred people,
perhaps. There were raised voices, and some sort of struggle appeared
to be going on about the pit. Strange imaginings passed through my
mind. As I drew nearer I heard Stent’s voice:

“Keep back! Keep back!”

A boy came running towards me.

“It’s a-movin’,” he said to me as he passed; “a-screwin’ and a-screwin’
out. I don’t like it. I’m a-goin’ ’ome, I am.”

I went on to the crowd. There were really, I should think, two or three
hundred people elbowing and jostling one another, the one or two ladies
there being by no means the least active.

“He’s fallen in the pit!” cried some one.

“Keep back!” said several.

The crowd swayed a little, and I elbowed my way through. Every one
seemed greatly excited. I heard a peculiar humming sound from the pit.

“I say!” said Ogilvy; “help keep these idiots back. We don’t know
what’s in the confounded thing, you know!”

I saw a young man, a shop assistant in Woking I believe he was,
standing on the cylinder and trying to scramble out of the hole again.
The crowd had pushed him in.

The end of the cylinder was being screwed out from within. Nearly two
feet of shining screw projected. Somebody blundered against me, and I
narrowly missed being pitched onto the top of the screw. I turned, and
as I did so the screw must have come out, for the lid of the cylinder
fell upon the gravel with a ringing concussion. I stuck my elbow into
the person behind me, and turned my head towards the Thing again. For a
moment that circular cavity seemed perfectly black. I had the sunset in
my eyes.

I think everyone expected to see a man emerge—possibly something a
little unlike us terrestrial men, but in all essentials a man. I know I
did. But, looking, I presently saw something stirring within the
shadow: greyish billowy movements, one above another, and then two
luminous disks—like eyes. Then something resembling a little grey
snake, about the thickness of a walking stick, coiled up out of the
writhing middle, and wriggled in the air towards me—and then another.

A sudden chill came over me. There was a loud shriek from a woman
behind. I half turned, keeping my eyes fixed upon the cylinder still,
from which other tentacles were now projecting, and began pushing my
way back from the edge of the pit. I saw astonishment giving place to
horror on the faces of the people about me. I heard inarticulate
exclamations on all sides. There was a general movement backwards. I
saw the shopman struggling still on the edge of the pit. I found myself
alone, and saw the people on the other side of the pit running off,
Stent among them. I looked again at the cylinder, and ungovernable
terror gripped me. I stood petrified and staring.

A big greyish rounded bulk, the size, perhaps, of a bear, was rising
slowly and painfully out of the cylinder. As it bulged up and caught
the light, it glistened like wet leather.

Two large dark-coloured eyes were regarding me steadfastly. The mass
that framed them, the head of the thing, was rounded, and had, one
might say, a face. There was a mouth under the eyes, the lipless brim
of which quivered and panted, and dropped saliva. The whole creature
heaved and pulsated convulsively. A lank tentacular appendage gripped
the edge of the cylinder, another swayed in the air.

Those who have never seen a living Martian can scarcely imagine the
strange horror of its appearance. The peculiar V-shaped mouth with its
pointed upper lip, the absence of brow ridges, the absence of a chin
beneath the wedgelike lower lip, the incessant quivering of this mouth,
the Gorgon groups of tentacles, the tumultuous breathing of the lungs
in a strange atmosphere, the evident heaviness and painfulness of
movement due to the greater gravitational energy of the earth—above
all, the extraordinary intensity of the immense eyes—were at once
vital, intense, inhuman, crippled and monstrous. There was something
fungoid in the oily brown skin, something in the clumsy deliberation of
the tedious movements unspeakably nasty. Even at this first encounter,
this first glimpse, I was overcome with disgust and dread.

Suddenly the monster vanished. It had toppled over the brim of the
cylinder and fallen into the pit, with a thud like the fall of a great
mass of leather. I heard it give a peculiar thick cry, and forthwith
another of these creatures appeared darkly in the deep shadow of the
aperture.

I turned and, running madly, made for the first group of trees, perhaps
a hundred yards away; but I ran slantingly and stumbling, for I could
not avert my face from these things.

There, among some young pine trees and furze bushes, I stopped,
panting, and waited further developments. The common round the
sand-pits was dotted with people, standing like myself in a
half-fascinated terror, staring at these creatures, or rather at the
heaped gravel at the edge of the pit in which they lay. And then, with
a renewed horror, I saw a round, black object bobbing up and down on
the edge of the pit. It was the head of the shopman who had fallen in,
but showing as a little black object against the hot western sun. Now
he got his shoulder and knee up, and again he seemed to slip back until
only his head was visible. Suddenly he vanished, and I could have
fancied a faint shriek had reached me. I had a momentary impulse to go
back and help him that my fears overruled.

Everything was then quite invisible, hidden by the deep pit and the
heap of sand that the fall of the cylinder had made. Anyone coming
along the road from Chobham or Woking would have been amazed at the
sight—a dwindling multitude of perhaps a hundred people or more
standing in a great irregular circle, in ditches, behind bushes, behind
gates and hedges, saying little to one another and that in short,
excited shouts, and staring, staring hard at a few heaps of sand. The
barrow of ginger beer stood, a queer derelict, black against the
burning sky, and in the sand-pits was a row of deserted vehicles with
their horses feeding out of nosebags or pawing the ground.




V.
THE HEAT-RAY.


After the glimpse I had had of the Martians emerging from the cylinder
in which they had come to the earth from their planet, a kind of
fascination paralysed my actions. I remained standing knee-deep in the
heather, staring at the mound that hid them. I was a battleground of
fear and curiosity.

I did not dare to go back towards the pit, but I felt a passionate
longing to peer into it. I began walking, therefore, in a big curve,
seeking some point of vantage and continually looking at the sand-heaps
that hid these new-comers to our earth. Once a leash of thin black
whips, like the arms of an octopus, flashed across the sunset and was
immediately withdrawn, and afterwards a thin rod rose up, joint by
joint, bearing at its apex a circular disk that spun with a wobbling
motion. What could be going on there?

Most of the spectators had gathered in one or two groups—one a little
crowd towards Woking, the other a knot of people in the direction of
Chobham. Evidently they shared my mental conflict. There were few near
me. One man I approached—he was, I perceived, a neighbour of mine,
though I did not know his name—and accosted. But it was scarcely a time
for articulate conversation.

“What ugly _brutes_!” he said. “Good God! What ugly brutes!” He
repeated this over and over again.

“Did you see a man in the pit?” I said; but he made no answer to that.
We became silent, and stood watching for a time side by side, deriving,
I fancy, a certain comfort in one another’s company. Then I shifted my
position to a little knoll that gave me the advantage of a yard or more
of elevation and when I looked for him presently he was walking towards
Woking.

The sunset faded to twilight before anything further happened. The
crowd far away on the left, towards Woking, seemed to grow, and I heard
now a faint murmur from it. The little knot of people towards Chobham
dispersed. There was scarcely an intimation of movement from the pit.

It was this, as much as anything, that gave people courage, and I
suppose the new arrivals from Woking also helped to restore confidence.
At any rate, as the dusk came on a slow, intermittent movement upon the
sand-pits began, a movement that seemed to gather force as the
stillness of the evening about the cylinder remained unbroken. Vertical
black figures in twos and threes would advance, stop, watch, and
advance again, spreading out as they did so in a thin irregular
crescent that promised to enclose the pit in its attenuated horns. I,
too, on my side began to move towards the pit.

Then I saw some cabmen and others had walked boldly into the sand-pits,
and heard the clatter of hoofs and the gride of wheels. I saw a lad
trundling off the barrow of apples. And then, within thirty yards of
the pit, advancing from the direction of Horsell, I noted a little
black knot of men, the foremost of whom was waving a white flag.

This was the Deputation. There had been a hasty consultation, and since
the Martians were evidently, in spite of their repulsive forms,
intelligent creatures, it had been resolved to show them, by
approaching them with signals, that we too were intelligent.

Flutter, flutter, went the flag, first to the right, then to the left.
It was too far for me to recognise anyone there, but afterwards I
learned that Ogilvy, Stent, and Henderson were with others in this
attempt at communication. This little group had in its advance dragged
inward, so to speak, the circumference of the now almost complete
circle of people, and a number of dim black figures followed it at
discreet distances.

Suddenly there was a flash of light, and a quantity of luminous
greenish smoke came out of the pit in three distinct puffs, which drove
up, one after the other, straight into the still air.

This smoke (or flame, perhaps, would be the better word for it) was so
bright that the deep blue sky overhead and the hazy stretches of brown
common towards Chertsey, set with black pine trees, seemed to darken
abruptly as these puffs arose, and to remain the darker after their
dispersal. At the same time a faint hissing sound became audible.

Beyond the pit stood the little wedge of people with the white flag at
its apex, arrested by these phenomena, a little knot of small vertical
black shapes upon the black ground. As the green smoke arose, their
faces flashed out pallid green, and faded again as it vanished. Then
slowly the hissing passed into a humming, into a long, loud, droning
noise. Slowly a humped shape rose out of the pit, and the ghost of a
beam of light seemed to flicker out from it.

Forthwith flashes of actual flame, a bright glare leaping from one to
another, sprang from the scattered group of men. It was as if some
invisible jet impinged upon them and flashed into white flame. It was
as if each man were suddenly and momentarily turned to fire.

Then, by the light of their own destruction, I saw them staggering and
falling, and their supporters turning to run.

I stood staring, not as yet realising that this was death leaping from
man to man in that little distant crowd. All I felt was that it was
something very strange. An almost noiseless and blinding flash of
light, and a man fell headlong and lay still; and as the unseen shaft
of heat passed over them, pine trees burst into fire, and every dry
furze bush became with one dull thud a mass of flames. And far away
towards Knaphill I saw the flashes of trees and hedges and wooden
buildings suddenly set alight.

It was sweeping round swiftly and steadily, this flaming death, this
invisible, inevitable sword of heat. I perceived it coming towards me
by the flashing bushes it touched, and was too astounded and stupefied
to stir. I heard the crackle of fire in the sand-pits and the sudden
squeal of a horse that was as suddenly stilled. Then it was as if an
invisible yet intensely heated finger were drawn through the heather
between me and the Martians, and all along a curving line beyond the
sand-pits the dark ground smoked and crackled. Something fell with a
crash far away to the left where the road from Woking station opens out
on the common. Forth-with the hissing and humming ceased, and the
black, dome-like object sank slowly out of sight into the pit.

All this had happened with such swiftness that I had stood motionless,
dumbfounded and dazzled by the flashes of light. Had that death swept
through a full circle, it must inevitably have slain me in my surprise.
But it passed and spared me, and left the night about me suddenly dark
and unfamiliar.

The undulating common seemed now dark almost to blackness, except where
its roadways lay grey and pale under the deep blue sky of the early
night. It was dark, and suddenly void of men. Overhead the stars were
mustering, and in the west the sky was still a pale, bright, almost
greenish blue. The tops of the pine trees and the roofs of Horsell came
out sharp and black against the western afterglow. The Martians and
their appliances were altogether invisible, save for that thin mast
upon which their restless mirror wobbled. Patches of bush and isolated
trees here and there smoked and glowed still, and the houses towards
Woking station were sending up spires of flame into the stillness of
the evening air.

Nothing was changed save for that and a terrible astonishment. The
little group of black specks with the flag of white had been swept out
of existence, and the stillness of the evening, so it seemed to me, had
scarcely been broken.

It came to me that I was upon this dark common, helpless, unprotected,
and alone. Suddenly, like a thing falling upon me from without,
came—fear.

With an effort I turned and began a stumbling run through the heather.

The fear I felt was no rational fear, but a panic terror not only of
the Martians, but of the dusk and stillness all about me. Such an
extraordinary effect in unmanning me it had that I ran weeping silently
as a child might do. Once I had turned, I did not dare to look back.

I remember I felt an extraordinary persuasion that I was being played
with, that presently, when I was upon the very verge of safety, this
mysterious death—as swift as the passage of light—would leap after me
from the pit about the cylinder, and strike me down.




VI.
THE HEAT-RAY IN THE CHOBHAM ROAD.


It is still a matter of wonder how the Martians are able to slay men so
swiftly and so silently. Many think that in some way they are able to
generate an intense heat in a chamber of practically absolute
non-conductivity. This intense heat they project in a parallel beam
against any object they choose, by means of a polished parabolic mirror
of unknown composition, much as the parabolic mirror of a lighthouse
projects a beam of light. But no one has absolutely proved these
details. However it is done, it is certain that a beam of heat is the
essence of the matter. Heat, and invisible, instead of visible, light.
Whatever is combustible flashes into flame at its touch, lead runs like
water, it softens iron, cracks and melts glass, and when it falls upon
water, incontinently that explodes into steam.

That night nearly forty people lay under the starlight about the pit,
charred and distorted beyond recognition, and all night long the common
from Horsell to Maybury was deserted and brightly ablaze.

The news of the massacre probably reached Chobham, Woking, and
Ottershaw about the same time. In Woking the shops had closed when the
tragedy happened, and a number of people, shop people and so forth,
attracted by the stories they had heard, were walking over the Horsell
Bridge and along the road between the hedges that runs out at last upon
the common. You may imagine the young people brushed up after the
labours of the day, and making this novelty, as they would make any
novelty, the excuse for walking together and enjoying a trivial
flirtation. You may figure to yourself the hum of voices along the road
in the gloaming. . . .

As yet, of course, few people in Woking even knew that the cylinder had
opened, though poor Henderson had sent a messenger on a bicycle to the
post office with a special wire to an evening paper.

As these folks came out by twos and threes upon the open, they found
little knots of people talking excitedly and peering at the spinning
mirror over the sand-pits, and the newcomers were, no doubt, soon
infected by the excitement of the occasion.

By half past eight, when the Deputation was destroyed, there may have
been a crowd of three hundred people or more at this place, besides
those who had left the road to approach the Martians nearer. There were
three policemen too, one of whom was mounted, doing their best, under
instructions from Stent, to keep the people back and deter them from
approaching the cylinder. There was some booing from those more
thoughtless and excitable souls to whom a crowd is always an occasion
for noise and horse-play.

Stent and Ogilvy, anticipating some possibilities of a collision, had
telegraphed from Horsell to the barracks as soon as the Martians
emerged, for the help of a company of soldiers to protect these strange
creatures from violence. After that they returned to lead that
ill-fated advance. The description of their death, as it was seen by
the crowd, tallies very closely with my own impressions: the three
puffs of green smoke, the deep humming note, and the flashes of flame.

But that crowd of people had a far narrower escape than mine. Only the
fact that a hummock of heathery sand intercepted the lower part of the
Heat-Ray saved them. Had the elevation of the parabolic mirror been a
few yards higher, none could have lived to tell the tale. They saw the
flashes and the men falling and an invisible hand, as it were, lit the
bushes as it hurried towards them through the twilight. Then, with a
whistling note that rose above the droning of the pit, the beam swung
close over their heads, lighting the tops of the beech trees that line
the road, and splitting the bricks, smashing the windows, firing the
window frames, and bringing down in crumbling ruin a portion of the
gable of the house nearest the corner.

In the sudden thud, hiss, and glare of the igniting trees, the
panic-stricken crowd seems to have swayed hesitatingly for some
moments. Sparks and burning twigs began to fall into the road, and
single leaves like puffs of flame. Hats and dresses caught fire. Then
came a crying from the common. There were shrieks and shouts, and
suddenly a mounted policeman came galloping through the confusion with
his hands clasped over his head, screaming.

“They’re coming!” a woman shrieked, and incontinently everyone was
turning and pushing at those behind, in order to clear their way to
Woking again. They must have bolted as blindly as a flock of sheep.
Where the road grows narrow and black between the high banks the crowd
jammed, and a desperate struggle occurred. All that crowd did not
escape; three persons at least, two women and a little boy, were
crushed and trampled there, and left to die amid the terror and the
darkness.




VII.
HOW I REACHED HOME.


For my own part, I remember nothing of my flight except the stress of
blundering against trees and stumbling through the heather. All about
me gathered the invisible terrors of the Martians; that pitiless sword
of heat seemed whirling to and fro, flourishing overhead before it
descended and smote me out of life. I came into the road between the
crossroads and Horsell, and ran along this to the crossroads.

At last I could go no further; I was exhausted with the violence of my
emotion and of my flight, and I staggered and fell by the wayside. That
was near the bridge that crosses the canal by the gasworks. I fell and
lay still.

I must have remained there some time.

I sat up, strangely perplexed. For a moment, perhaps, I could not
clearly understand how I came there. My terror had fallen from me like
a garment. My hat had gone, and my collar had burst away from its
fastener. A few minutes before, there had only been three real things
before me—the immensity of the night and space and nature, my own
feebleness and anguish, and the near approach of death. Now it was as
if something turned over, and the point of view altered abruptly. There
was no sensible transition from one state of mind to the other. I was
immediately the self of every day again—a decent, ordinary citizen. The
silent common, the impulse of my flight, the starting flames, were as
if they had been in a dream. I asked myself had these latter things
indeed happened? I could not credit it.

I rose and walked unsteadily up the steep incline of the bridge. My
mind was blank wonder. My muscles and nerves seemed drained of their
strength. I dare say I staggered drunkenly. A head rose over the arch,
and the figure of a workman carrying a basket appeared. Beside him ran
a little boy. He passed me, wishing me good night. I was minded to
speak to him, but did not. I answered his greeting with a meaningless
mumble and went on over the bridge.

Over the Maybury arch a train, a billowing tumult of white, firelit
smoke, and a long caterpillar of lighted windows, went flying
south—clatter, clatter, clap, rap, and it had gone. A dim group of
people talked in the gate of one of the houses in the pretty little row
of gables that was called Oriental Terrace. It was all so real and so
familiar. And that behind me! It was frantic, fantastic! Such things, I
told myself, could not be.

Perhaps I am a man of exceptional moods. I do not know how far my
experience is common. At times I suffer from the strangest sense of
detachment from myself and the world about me; I seem to watch it all
from the outside, from somewhere inconceivably remote, out of time, out
of space, out of the stress and tragedy of it all. This feeling was
very strong upon me that night. Here was another side to my dream.

But the trouble was the blank incongruity of this serenity and the
swift death flying yonder, not two miles away. There was a noise of
business from the gasworks, and the electric lamps were all alight. I
stopped at the group of people.

“What news from the common?” said I.

There were two men and a woman at the gate.

“Eh?” said one of the men, turning.

“What news from the common?” I said.

“Ain’t yer just _been_ there?” asked the men.

“People seem fair silly about the common,” said the woman over the
gate. “What’s it all abart?”

“Haven’t you heard of the men from Mars?” said I; “the creatures from
Mars?”

“Quite enough,” said the woman over the gate. “Thenks;” and all three
of them laughed.

I felt foolish and angry. I tried and found I could not tell them what
I had seen. They laughed again at my broken sentences.

“You’ll hear more yet,” I said, and went on to my home.

I startled my wife at the doorway, so haggard was I. I went into the
dining room, sat down, drank some wine, and so soon as I could collect
myself sufficiently I told her the things I had seen. The dinner, which
was a cold one, had already been served, and remained neglected on the
table while I told my story.

“There is one thing,” I said, to allay the fears I had aroused; “they
are the most sluggish things I ever saw crawl. They may keep the pit
and kill people who come near them, but they cannot get out of it. . .
. But the horror of them!”

“Don’t, dear!” said my wife, knitting her brows and putting her hand on
mine.

“Poor Ogilvy!” I said. “To think he may be lying dead there!”

My wife at least did not find my experience incredible. When I saw how
deadly white her face was, I ceased abruptly.

“They may come here,” she said again and again.

I pressed her to take wine, and tried to reassure her.

“They can scarcely move,” I said.

I began to comfort her and myself by repeating all that Ogilvy had told
me of the impossibility of the Martians establishing themselves on the
earth. In particular I laid stress on the gravitational difficulty. On
the surface of the earth the force of gravity is three times what it is
on the surface of Mars. A Martian, therefore, would weigh three times
more than on Mars, albeit his muscular strength would be the same. His
own body would be a cope of lead to him, therefore. That, indeed, was
the general opinion. Both _The Times_ and the _Daily Telegraph_, for
instance, insisted on it the next morning, and both overlooked, just as
I did, two obvious modifying influences.

The atmosphere of the earth, we now know, contains far more oxygen or
far less argon (whichever way one likes to put it) than does Mars’. The
invigorating influences of this excess of oxygen upon the Martians
indisputably did much to counterbalance the increased weight of their
bodies. And, in the second place, we all overlooked the fact that such
mechanical intelligence as the Martian possessed was quite able to
dispense with muscular exertion at a pinch.

But I did not consider these points at the time, and so my reasoning
was dead against the chances of the invaders. With wine and food, the
confidence of my own table, and the necessity of reassuring my wife, I
grew by insensible degrees courageous and secure.

“They have done a foolish thing,” said I, fingering my wineglass. “They
are dangerous because, no doubt, they are mad with terror. Perhaps they
expected to find no living things—certainly no intelligent living
things.”

“A shell in the pit,” said I, “if the worst comes to the worst, will
kill them all.”

The intense excitement of the events had no doubt left my perceptive
powers in a state of erethism. I remember that dinner table with
extraordinary vividness even now. My dear wife’s sweet anxious face
peering at me from under the pink lamp shade, the white cloth with its
silver and glass table furniture—for in those days even philosophical
writers had many little luxuries—the crimson-purple wine in my glass,
are photographically distinct. At the end of it I sat, tempering nuts
with a cigarette, regretting Ogilvy’s rashness, and denouncing the
short-sighted timidity of the Martians.

So some respectable dodo in the Mauritius might have lorded it in his
nest, and discussed the arrival of that shipful of pitiless sailors in
want of animal food. “We will peck them to death tomorrow, my dear.”

I did not know it, but that was the last civilised dinner I was to eat
for very many strange and terrible days.




VIII.
FRIDAY NIGHT.


The most extraordinary thing to my mind, of all the strange and
wonderful things that happened upon that Friday, was the dovetailing of
the commonplace habits of our social order with the first beginnings of
the series of events that was to topple that social order headlong. If
on Friday night you had taken a pair of compasses and drawn a circle
with a radius of five miles round the Woking sand-pits, I doubt if you
would have had one human being outside it, unless it were some relation
of Stent or of the three or four cyclists or London people lying dead
on the common, whose emotions or habits were at all affected by the
new-comers. Many people had heard of the cylinder, of course, and
talked about it in their leisure, but it certainly did not make the
sensation that an ultimatum to Germany would have done.

In London that night poor Henderson’s telegram describing the gradual
unscrewing of the shot was judged to be a canard, and his evening
paper, after wiring for authentication from him and receiving no
reply—the man was killed—decided not to print a special edition.

Even within the five-mile circle the great majority of people were
inert. I have already described the behaviour of the men and women to
whom I spoke. All over the district people were dining and supping;
working men were gardening after the labours of the day, children were
being put to bed, young people were wandering through the lanes
love-making, students sat over their books.

Maybe there was a murmur in the village streets, a novel and dominant
topic in the public-houses, and here and there a messenger, or even an
eye-witness of the later occurrences, caused a whirl of excitement, a
shouting, and a running to and fro; but for the most part the daily
routine of working, eating, drinking, sleeping, went on as it had done
for countless years—as though no planet Mars existed in the sky. Even
at Woking station and Horsell and Chobham that was the case.

In Woking junction, until a late hour, trains were stopping and going
on, others were shunting on the sidings, passengers were alighting and
waiting, and everything was proceeding in the most ordinary way. A boy
from the town, trenching on Smith’s monopoly, was selling papers with
the afternoon’s news. The ringing impact of trucks, the sharp whistle
of the engines from the junction, mingled with their shouts of “Men
from Mars!” Excited men came into the station about nine o’clock with
incredible tidings, and caused no more disturbance than drunkards might
have done. People rattling Londonwards peered into the darkness outside
the carriage windows, and saw only a rare, flickering, vanishing spark
dance up from the direction of Horsell, a red glow and a thin veil of
smoke driving across the stars, and thought that nothing more serious
than a heath fire was happening. It was only round the edge of the
common that any disturbance was perceptible. There were half a dozen
villas burning on the Woking border. There were lights in all the
houses on the common side of the three villages, and the people there
kept awake till dawn.

A curious crowd lingered restlessly, people coming and going but the
crowd remaining, both on the Chobham and Horsell bridges. One or two
adventurous souls, it was afterwards found, went into the darkness and
crawled quite near the Martians; but they never returned, for now and
again a light-ray, like the beam of a warship’s searchlight swept the
common, and the Heat-Ray was ready to follow. Save for such, that big
area of common was silent and desolate, and the charred bodies lay
about on it all night under the stars, and all the next day. A noise of
hammering from the pit was heard by many people.

So you have the state of things on Friday night. In the centre,
sticking into the skin of our old planet Earth like a poisoned dart,
was this cylinder. But the poison was scarcely working yet. Around it
was a patch of silent common, smouldering in places, and with a few
dark, dimly seen objects lying in contorted attitudes here and there.
Here and there was a burning bush or tree. Beyond was a fringe of
excitement, and farther than that fringe the inflammation had not crept
as yet. In the rest of the world the stream of life still flowed as it
had flowed for immemorial years. The fever of war that would presently
clog vein and artery, deaden nerve and destroy brain, had still to
develop.

All night long the Martians were hammering and stirring, sleepless,
indefatigable, at work upon the machines they were making ready, and
ever and again a puff of greenish-white smoke whirled up to the starlit
sky.

About eleven a company of soldiers came through Horsell, and deployed
along the edge of the common to form a cordon. Later a second company
marched through Chobham to deploy on the north side of the common.
Several officers from the Inkerman barracks had been on the common
earlier in the day, and one, Major Eden, was reported to be missing.
The colonel of the regiment came to the Chobham bridge and was busy
questioning the crowd at midnight. The military authorities were
certainly alive to the seriousness of the business. About eleven, the
next morning’s papers were able to say, a squadron of hussars, two
Maxims, and about four hundred men of the Cardigan regiment started
from Aldershot.

A few seconds after midnight the crowd in the Chertsey road, Woking,
saw a star fall from heaven into the pine woods to the northwest. It
had a greenish colour, and caused a silent brightness like summer
lightning. This was the second cylinder.




IX.
THE FIGHTING BEGINS.


Saturday lives in my memory as a day of suspense. It was a day of
lassitude too, hot and close, with, I am told, a rapidly fluctuating
barometer. I had slept but little, though my wife had succeeded in
sleeping, and I rose early. I went into my garden before breakfast and
stood listening, but towards the common there was nothing stirring but
a lark.

The milkman came as usual. I heard the rattle of his chariot and I went
round to the side gate to ask the latest news. He told me that during
the night the Martians had been surrounded by troops, and that guns
were expected. Then—a familiar, reassuring note—I heard a train running
towards Woking.

“They aren’t to be killed,” said the milkman, “if that can possibly be
avoided.”

I saw my neighbour gardening, chatted with him for a time, and then
strolled in to breakfast. It was a most unexceptional morning. My
neighbour was of opinion that the troops would be able to capture or to
destroy the Martians during the day.

“It’s a pity they make themselves so unapproachable,” he said. “It
would be curious to know how they live on another planet; we might
learn a thing or two.”

He came up to the fence and extended a handful of strawberries, for his
gardening was as generous as it was enthusiastic. At the same time he
told me of the burning of the pine woods about the Byfleet Golf Links.

“They say,” said he, “that there’s another of those blessed things
fallen there—number two. But one’s enough, surely. This lot’ll cost the
insurance people a pretty penny before everything’s settled.” He
laughed with an air of the greatest good humour as he said this. The
woods, he said, were still burning, and pointed out a haze of smoke to
me. “They will be hot under foot for days, on account of the thick soil
of pine needles and turf,” he said, and then grew serious over “poor
Ogilvy.”

After breakfast, instead of working, I decided to walk down towards the
common. Under the railway bridge I found a group of soldiers—sappers, I
think, men in small round caps, dirty red jackets unbuttoned, and
showing their blue shirts, dark trousers, and boots coming to the calf.
They told me no one was allowed over the canal, and, looking along the
road towards the bridge, I saw one of the Cardigan men standing
sentinel there. I talked with these soldiers for a time; I told them of
my sight of the Martians on the previous evening. None of them had seen
the Martians, and they had but the vaguest ideas of them, so that they
plied me with questions. They said that they did not know who had
authorised the movements of the troops; their idea was that a dispute
had arisen at the Horse Guards. The ordinary sapper is a great deal
better educated than the common soldier, and they discussed the
peculiar conditions of the possible fight with some acuteness. I
described the Heat-Ray to them, and they began to argue among
themselves.

“Crawl up under cover and rush ’em, say I,” said one.

“Get aht!” said another. “What’s cover against this ’ere ’eat? Sticks
to cook yer! What we got to do is to go as near as the ground’ll let
us, and then drive a trench.”

“Blow yer trenches! You always want trenches; you ought to ha’ been
born a rabbit, Snippy.”

“Ain’t they got any necks, then?” said a third, abruptly—a little,
contemplative, dark man, smoking a pipe.

I repeated my description.

“Octopuses,” said he, “that’s what I calls ’em. Talk about fishers of
men—fighters of fish it is this time!”

“It ain’t no murder killing beasts like that,” said the first speaker.

“Why not shell the darned things strite off and finish ’em?” said the
little dark man. “You carn tell what they might do.”

“Where’s your shells?” said the first speaker. “There ain’t no time. Do
it in a rush, that’s my tip, and do it at once.”

So they discussed it. After a while I left them, and went on to the
railway station to get as many morning papers as I could.

But I will not weary the reader with a description of that long morning
and of the longer afternoon. I did not succeed in getting a glimpse of
the common, for even Horsell and Chobham church towers were in the
hands of the military authorities. The soldiers I addressed didn’t know
anything; the officers were mysterious as well as busy. I found people
in the town quite secure again in the presence of the military, and I
heard for the first time from Marshall, the tobacconist, that his son
was among the dead on the common. The soldiers had made the people on
the outskirts of Horsell lock up and leave their houses.

I got back to lunch about two, very tired for, as I have said, the day
was extremely hot and dull; and in order to refresh myself I took a
cold bath in the afternoon. About half past four I went up to the
railway station to get an evening paper, for the morning papers had
contained only a very inaccurate description of the killing of Stent,
Henderson, Ogilvy, and the others. But there was little I didn’t know.
The Martians did not show an inch of themselves. They seemed busy in
their pit, and there was a sound of hammering and an almost continuous
streamer of smoke. Apparently they were busy getting ready for a
struggle. “Fresh attempts have been made to signal, but without
success,” was the stereotyped formula of the papers. A sapper told me
it was done by a man in a ditch with a flag on a long pole. The
Martians took as much notice of such advances as we should of the
lowing of a cow.

I must confess the sight of all this armament, all this preparation,
greatly excited me. My imagination became belligerent, and defeated the
invaders in a dozen striking ways; something of my schoolboy dreams of
battle and heroism came back. It hardly seemed a fair fight to me at
that time. They seemed very helpless in that pit of theirs.

About three o’clock there began the thud of a gun at measured intervals
from Chertsey or Addlestone. I learned that the smouldering pine wood
into which the second cylinder had fallen was being shelled, in the
hope of destroying that object before it opened. It was only about
five, however, that a field gun reached Chobham for use against the
first body of Martians.

About six in the evening, as I sat at tea with my wife in the
summerhouse talking vigorously about the battle that was lowering upon
us, I heard a muffled detonation from the common, and immediately after
a gust of firing. Close on the heels of that came a violent rattling
crash, quite close to us, that shook the ground; and, starting out upon
the lawn, I saw the tops of the trees about the Oriental College burst
into smoky red flame, and the tower of the little church beside it
slide down into ruin. The pinnacle of the mosque had vanished, and the
roof line of the college itself looked as if a hundred-ton gun had been
at work upon it. One of our chimneys cracked as if a shot had hit it,
flew, and a piece of it came clattering down the tiles and made a heap
of broken red fragments upon the flower bed by my study window.

I and my wife stood amazed. Then I realised that the crest of Maybury
Hill must be within range of the Martians’ Heat-Ray now that the
college was cleared out of the way.

At that I gripped my wife’s arm, and without ceremony ran her out into
the road. Then I fetched out the servant, telling her I would go
upstairs myself for the box she was clamouring for.

“We can’t possibly stay here,” I said; and as I spoke the firing
reopened for a moment upon the common.

“But where are we to go?” said my wife in terror.

I thought perplexed. Then I remembered her cousins at Leatherhead.

“Leatherhead!” I shouted above the sudden noise.

She looked away from me downhill. The people were coming out of their
houses, astonished.

“How are we to get to Leatherhead?” she said.

Down the hill I saw a bevy of hussars ride under the railway bridge;
three galloped through the open gates of the Oriental College; two
others dismounted, and began running from house to house. The sun,
shining through the smoke that drove up from the tops of the trees,
seemed blood red, and threw an unfamiliar lurid light upon everything.

“Stop here,” said I; “you are safe here;” and I started off at once for
the Spotted Dog, for I knew the landlord had a horse and dog cart. I
ran, for I perceived that in a moment everyone upon this side of the
hill would be moving. I found him in his bar, quite unaware of what was
going on behind his house. A man stood with his back to me, talking to
him.

“I must have a pound,” said the landlord, “and I’ve no one to drive
it.”

“I’ll give you two,” said I, over the stranger’s shoulder.

“What for?”

“And I’ll bring it back by midnight,” I said.

“Lord!” said the landlord; “what’s the hurry? I’m selling my bit of a
pig. Two pounds, and you bring it back? What’s going on now?”

I explained hastily that I had to leave my home, and so secured the dog
cart. At the time it did not seem to me nearly so urgent that the
landlord should leave his. I took care to have the cart there and then,
drove it off down the road, and, leaving it in charge of my wife and
servant, rushed into my house and packed a few valuables, such plate as
we had, and so forth. The beech trees below the house were burning
while I did this, and the palings up the road glowed red. While I was
occupied in this way, one of the dismounted hussars came running up. He
was going from house to house, warning people to leave. He was going on
as I came out of my front door, lugging my treasures, done up in a
tablecloth. I shouted after him:

“What news?”

He turned, stared, bawled something about “crawling out in a thing like
a dish cover,” and ran on to the gate of the house at the crest. A
sudden whirl of black smoke driving across the road hid him for a
moment. I ran to my neighbour’s door and rapped to satisfy myself of
what I already knew, that his wife had gone to London with him and had
locked up their house. I went in again, according to my promise, to get
my servant’s box, lugged it out, clapped it beside her on the tail of
the dog cart, and then caught the reins and jumped up into the driver’s
seat beside my wife. In another moment we were clear of the smoke and
noise, and spanking down the opposite slope of Maybury Hill towards Old
Woking.

In front was a quiet sunny landscape, a wheat field ahead on either
side of the road, and the Maybury Inn with its swinging sign. I saw the
doctor’s cart ahead of me. At the bottom of the hill I turned my head
to look at the hillside I was leaving. Thick streamers of black smoke
shot with threads of red fire were driving up into the still air, and
throwing dark shadows upon the green treetops eastward. The smoke
already extended far away to the east and west—to the Byfleet pine
woods eastward, and to Woking on the west. The road was dotted with
people running towards us. And very faint now, but very distinct
through the hot, quiet air, one heard the whirr of a machine-gun that
was presently stilled, and an intermittent cracking of rifles.
Apparently the Martians were setting fire to everything within range of
their Heat-Ray.

I am not an expert driver, and I had immediately to turn my attention
to the horse. When I looked back again the second hill had hidden the
black smoke. I slashed the horse with the whip, and gave him a loose
rein until Woking and Send lay between us and that quivering tumult. I
overtook and passed the doctor between Woking and Send.




X.
IN THE STORM.


Leatherhead is about twelve miles from Maybury Hill. The scent of hay
was in the air through the lush meadows beyond Pyrford, and the hedges
on either side were sweet and gay with multitudes of dog-roses. The
heavy firing that had broken out while we were driving down Maybury
Hill ceased as abruptly as it began, leaving the evening very peaceful
and still. We got to Leatherhead without misadventure about nine
o’clock, and the horse had an hour’s rest while I took supper with my
cousins and commended my wife to their care.

My wife was curiously silent throughout the drive, and seemed oppressed
with forebodings of evil. I talked to her reassuringly, pointing out
that the Martians were tied to the pit by sheer heaviness, and at the
utmost could but crawl a little out of it; but she answered only in
monosyllables. Had it not been for my promise to the innkeeper, she
would, I think, have urged me to stay in Leatherhead that night. Would
that I had! Her face, I remember, was very white as we parted.

For my own part, I had been feverishly excited all day. Something very
like the war fever that occasionally runs through a civilised community
had got into my blood, and in my heart I was not so very sorry that I
had to return to Maybury that night. I was even afraid that that last
fusillade I had heard might mean the extermination of our invaders from
Mars. I can best express my state of mind by saying that I wanted to be
in at the death.

It was nearly eleven when I started to return. The night was
unexpectedly dark; to me, walking out of the lighted passage of my
cousins’ house, it seemed indeed black, and it was as hot and close as
the day. Overhead the clouds were driving fast, albeit not a breath
stirred the shrubs about us. My cousins’ man lit both lamps. Happily, I
knew the road intimately. My wife stood in the light of the doorway,
and watched me until I jumped up into the dog cart. Then abruptly she
turned and went in, leaving my cousins side by side wishing me good
hap.

I was a little depressed at first with the contagion of my wife’s
fears, but very soon my thoughts reverted to the Martians. At that time
I was absolutely in the dark as to the course of the evening’s
fighting. I did not know even the circumstances that had precipitated
the conflict. As I came through Ockham (for that was the way I
returned, and not through Send and Old Woking) I saw along the western
horizon a blood-red glow, which as I drew nearer, crept slowly up the
sky. The driving clouds of the gathering thunderstorm mingled there
with masses of black and red smoke.

Ripley Street was deserted, and except for a lighted window or so the
village showed not a sign of life; but I narrowly escaped an accident
at the corner of the road to Pyrford, where a knot of people stood with
their backs to me. They said nothing to me as I passed. I do not know
what they knew of the things happening beyond the hill, nor do I know
if the silent houses I passed on my way were sleeping securely, or
deserted and empty, or harassed and watching against the terror of the
night.

From Ripley until I came through Pyrford I was in the valley of the
Wey, and the red glare was hidden from me. As I ascended the little
hill beyond Pyrford Church the glare came into view again, and the
trees about me shivered with the first intimation of the storm that was
upon me. Then I heard midnight pealing out from Pyrford Church behind
me, and then came the silhouette of Maybury Hill, with its tree-tops
and roofs black and sharp against the red.

Even as I beheld this a lurid green glare lit the road about me and
showed the distant woods towards Addlestone. I felt a tug at the reins.
I saw that the driving clouds had been pierced as it were by a thread
of green fire, suddenly lighting their confusion and falling into the
field to my left. It was the third falling star!

Close on its apparition, and blindingly violet by contrast, danced out
the first lightning of the gathering storm, and the thunder burst like
a rocket overhead. The horse took the bit between his teeth and bolted.

A moderate incline runs towards the foot of Maybury Hill, and down this
we clattered. Once the lightning had begun, it went on in as rapid a
succession of flashes as I have ever seen. The thunderclaps, treading
one on the heels of another and with a strange crackling accompaniment,
sounded more like the working of a gigantic electric machine than the
usual detonating reverberations. The flickering light was blinding and
confusing, and a thin hail smote gustily at my face as I drove down the
slope.

At first I regarded little but the road before me, and then abruptly my
attention was arrested by something that was moving rapidly down the
opposite slope of Maybury Hill. At first I took it for the wet roof of
a house, but one flash following another showed it to be in swift
rolling movement. It was an elusive vision—a moment of bewildering
darkness, and then, in a flash like daylight, the red masses of the
Orphanage near the crest of the hill, the green tops of the pine trees,
and this problematical object came out clear and sharp and bright.

And this Thing I saw! How can I describe it? A monstrous tripod, higher
than many houses, striding over the young pine trees, and smashing them
aside in its career; a walking engine of glittering metal, striding now
across the heather; articulate ropes of steel dangling from it, and the
clattering tumult of its passage mingling with the riot of the thunder.
A flash, and it came out vividly, heeling over one way with two feet in
the air, to vanish and reappear almost instantly as it seemed, with the
next flash, a hundred yards nearer. Can you imagine a milking stool
tilted and bowled violently along the ground? That was the impression
those instant flashes gave. But instead of a milking stool imagine it a
great body of machinery on a tripod stand.

Then suddenly the trees in the pine wood ahead of me were parted, as
brittle reeds are parted by a man thrusting through them; they were
snapped off and driven headlong, and a second huge tripod appeared,
rushing, as it seemed, headlong towards me. And I was galloping hard to
meet it! At the sight of the second monster my nerve went altogether.
Not stopping to look again, I wrenched the horse’s head hard round to
the right and in another moment the dog cart had heeled over upon the
horse; the shafts smashed noisily, and I was flung sideways and fell
heavily into a shallow pool of water.

I crawled out almost immediately, and crouched, my feet still in the
water, under a clump of furze. The horse lay motionless (his neck was
broken, poor brute!) and by the lightning flashes I saw the black bulk
of the overturned dog cart and the silhouette of the wheel still
spinning slowly. In another moment the colossal mechanism went striding
by me, and passed uphill towards Pyrford.

Seen nearer, the Thing was incredibly strange, for it was no mere
insensate machine driving on its way. Machine it was, with a ringing
metallic pace, and long, flexible, glittering tentacles (one of which
gripped a young pine tree) swinging and rattling about its strange
body. It picked its road as it went striding along, and the brazen hood
that surmounted it moved to and fro with the inevitable suggestion of a
head looking about. Behind the main body was a huge mass of white metal
like a gigantic fisherman’s basket, and puffs of green smoke squirted
out from the joints of the limbs as the monster swept by me. And in an
instant it was gone.

So much I saw then, all vaguely for the flickering of the lightning, in
blinding highlights and dense black shadows.

As it passed it set up an exultant deafening howl that drowned the
thunder—“Aloo! Aloo!”—and in another minute it was with its companion,
half a mile away, stooping over something in the field. I have no doubt
this Thing in the field was the third of the ten cylinders they had
fired at us from Mars.

For some minutes I lay there in the rain and darkness watching, by the
intermittent light, these monstrous beings of metal moving about in the
distance over the hedge tops. A thin hail was now beginning, and as it
came and went their figures grew misty and then flashed into clearness
again. Now and then came a gap in the lightning, and the night
swallowed them up.

I was soaked with hail above and puddle water below. It was some time
before my blank astonishment would let me struggle up the bank to a
drier position, or think at all of my imminent peril.

Not far from me was a little one-roomed squatter’s hut of wood,
surrounded by a patch of potato garden. I struggled to my feet at last,
and, crouching and making use of every chance of cover, I made a run
for this. I hammered at the door, but I could not make the people hear
(if there were any people inside), and after a time I desisted, and,
availing myself of a ditch for the greater part of the way, succeeded
in crawling, unobserved by these monstrous machines, into the pine
woods towards Maybury.

Under cover of this I pushed on, wet and shivering now, towards my own
house. I walked among the trees trying to find the footpath. It was
very dark indeed in the wood, for the lightning was now becoming
infrequent, and the hail, which was pouring down in a torrent, fell in
columns through the gaps in the heavy foliage.

If I had fully realised the meaning of all the things I had seen I
should have immediately worked my way round through Byfleet to Street
Cobham, and so gone back to rejoin my wife at Leatherhead. But that
night the strangeness of things about me, and my physical wretchedness,
prevented me, for I was bruised, weary, wet to the skin, deafened and
blinded by the storm.

I had a vague idea of going on to my own house, and that was as much
motive as I had. I staggered through the trees, fell into a ditch and
bruised my knees against a plank, and finally splashed out into the
lane that ran down from the College Arms. I say splashed, for the storm
water was sweeping the sand down the hill in a muddy torrent. There in
the darkness a man blundered into me and sent me reeling back.

He gave a cry of terror, sprang sideways, and rushed on before I could
gather my wits sufficiently to speak to him. So heavy was the stress of
the storm just at this place that I had the hardest task to win my way
up the hill. I went close up to the fence on the left and worked my way
along its palings.

Near the top I stumbled upon something soft, and, by a flash of
lightning, saw between my feet a heap of black broadcloth and a pair of
boots. Before I could distinguish clearly how the man lay, the flicker
of light had passed. I stood over him waiting for the next flash. When
it came, I saw that he was a sturdy man, cheaply but not shabbily
dressed; his head was bent under his body, and he lay crumpled up close
to the fence, as though he had been flung violently against it.

Overcoming the repugnance natural to one who had never before touched a
dead body, I stooped and turned him over to feel for his heart. He was
quite dead. Apparently his neck had been broken. The lightning flashed
for a third time, and his face leaped upon me. I sprang to my feet. It
was the landlord of the Spotted Dog, whose conveyance I had taken.

I stepped over him gingerly and pushed on up the hill. I made my way by
the police station and the College Arms towards my own house. Nothing
was burning on the hillside, though from the common there still came a
red glare and a rolling tumult of ruddy smoke beating up against the
drenching hail. So far as I could see by the flashes, the houses about
me were mostly uninjured. By the College Arms a dark heap lay in the
road.

Down the road towards Maybury Bridge there were voices and the sound of
feet, but I had not the courage to shout or to go to them. I let myself
in with my latchkey, closed, locked and bolted the door, staggered to
the foot of the staircase, and sat down. My imagination was full of
those striding metallic monsters, and of the dead body smashed against
the fence.

I crouched at the foot of the staircase with my back to the wall,
shivering violently.




XI.
AT THE WINDOW.


I have already said that my storms of emotion have a trick of
exhausting themselves. After a time I discovered that I was cold and
wet, and with little pools of water about me on the stair carpet. I got
up almost mechanically, went into the dining room and drank some
whisky, and then I was moved to change my clothes.

After I had done that I went upstairs to my study, but why I did so I
do not know. The window of my study looks over the trees and the
railway towards Horsell Common. In the hurry of our departure this
window had been left open. The passage was dark, and, by contrast with
the picture the window frame enclosed, the side of the room seemed
impenetrably dark. I stopped short in the doorway.

The thunderstorm had passed. The towers of the Oriental College and the
pine trees about it had gone, and very far away, lit by a vivid red
glare, the common about the sand-pits was visible. Across the light
huge black shapes, grotesque and strange, moved busily to and fro.

It seemed indeed as if the whole country in that direction was on
fire—a broad hillside set with minute tongues of flame, swaying and
writhing with the gusts of the dying storm, and throwing a red
reflection upon the cloud scud above. Every now and then a haze of
smoke from some nearer conflagration drove across the window and hid
the Martian shapes. I could not see what they were doing, nor the clear
form of them, nor recognise the black objects they were busied upon.
Neither could I see the nearer fire, though the reflections of it
danced on the wall and ceiling of the study. A sharp, resinous tang of
burning was in the air.

I closed the door noiselessly and crept towards the window. As I did
so, the view opened out until, on the one hand, it reached to the
houses about Woking station, and on the other to the charred and
blackened pine woods of Byfleet. There was a light down below the hill,
on the railway, near the arch, and several of the houses along the
Maybury road and the streets near the station were glowing ruins. The
light upon the railway puzzled me at first; there were a black heap and
a vivid glare, and to the right of that a row of yellow oblongs. Then I
perceived this was a wrecked train, the fore part smashed and on fire,
the hinder carriages still upon the rails.

Between these three main centres of light—the houses, the train, and
the burning county towards Chobham—stretched irregular patches of dark
country, broken here and there by intervals of dimly glowing and
smoking ground. It was the strangest spectacle, that black expanse set
with fire. It reminded me, more than anything else, of the Potteries at
night. At first I could distinguish no people at all, though I peered
intently for them. Later I saw against the light of Woking station a
number of black figures hurrying one after the other across the line.

And this was the little world in which I had been living securely for
years, this fiery chaos! What had happened in the last seven hours I
still did not know; nor did I know, though I was beginning to guess,
the relation between these mechanical colossi and the sluggish lumps I
had seen disgorged from the cylinder. With a queer feeling of
impersonal interest I turned my desk chair to the window, sat down, and
stared at the blackened country, and particularly at the three gigantic
black things that were going to and fro in the glare about the
sand-pits.

They seemed amazingly busy. I began to ask myself what they could be.
Were they intelligent mechanisms? Such a thing I felt was impossible.
Or did a Martian sit within each, ruling, directing, using, much as a
man’s brain sits and rules in his body? I began to compare the things
to human machines, to ask myself for the first time in my life how an
ironclad or a steam engine would seem to an intelligent lower animal.

The storm had left the sky clear, and over the smoke of the burning
land the little fading pinpoint of Mars was dropping into the west,
when a soldier came into my garden. I heard a slight scraping at the
fence, and rousing myself from the lethargy that had fallen upon me, I
looked down and saw him dimly, clambering over the palings. At the
sight of another human being my torpor passed, and I leaned out of the
window eagerly.

“Hist!” said I, in a whisper.

He stopped astride of the fence in doubt. Then he came over and across
the lawn to the corner of the house. He bent down and stepped softly.

“Who’s there?” he said, also whispering, standing under the window and
peering up.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“God knows.”

“Are you trying to hide?”

“That’s it.”

“Come into the house,” I said.

I went down, unfastened the door, and let him in, and locked the door
again. I could not see his face. He was hatless, and his coat was
unbuttoned.

“My God!” he said, as I drew him in.

“What has happened?” I asked.

“What hasn’t?” In the obscurity I could see he made a gesture of
despair. “They wiped us out—simply wiped us out,” he repeated again and
again.

He followed me, almost mechanically, into the dining room.

“Take some whisky,” I said, pouring out a stiff dose.

He drank it. Then abruptly he sat down before the table, put his head
on his arms, and began to sob and weep like a little boy, in a perfect
passion of emotion, while I, with a curious forgetfulness of my own
recent despair, stood beside him, wondering.

It was a long time before he could steady his nerves to answer my
questions, and then he answered perplexingly and brokenly. He was a
driver in the artillery, and had only come into action about seven. At
that time firing was going on across the common, and it was said the
first party of Martians were crawling slowly towards their second
cylinder under cover of a metal shield.

Later this shield staggered up on tripod legs and became the first of
the fighting-machines I had seen. The gun he drove had been unlimbered
near Horsell, in order to command the sand-pits, and its arrival it was
that had precipitated the action. As the limber gunners went to the
rear, his horse trod in a rabbit hole and came down, throwing him into
a depression of the ground. At the same moment the gun exploded behind
him, the ammunition blew up, there was fire all about him, and he found
himself lying under a heap of charred dead men and dead horses.

“I lay still,” he said, “scared out of my wits, with the fore quarter
of a horse atop of me. We’d been wiped out. And the smell—good God!
Like burnt meat! I was hurt across the back by the fall of the horse,
and there I had to lie until I felt better. Just like parade it had
been a minute before—then stumble, bang, swish!

“Wiped out!” he said.

He had hid under the dead horse for a long time, peeping out furtively
across the common. The Cardigan men had tried a rush, in skirmishing
order, at the pit, simply to be swept out of existence. Then the
monster had risen to its feet and had begun to walk leisurely to and
fro across the common among the few fugitives, with its headlike hood
turning about exactly like the head of a cowled human being. A kind of
arm carried a complicated metallic case, about which green flashes
scintillated, and out of the funnel of this there smoked the Heat-Ray.

In a few minutes there was, so far as the soldier could see, not a
living thing left upon the common, and every bush and tree upon it that
was not already a blackened skeleton was burning. The hussars had been
on the road beyond the curvature of the ground, and he saw nothing of
them. He heard the Maxims rattle for a time and then become still. The
giant saved Woking station and its cluster of houses until the last;
then in a moment the Heat-Ray was brought to bear, and the town became
a heap of fiery ruins. Then the Thing shut off the Heat-Ray, and
turning its back upon the artilleryman, began to waddle away towards
the smouldering pine woods that sheltered the second cylinder. As it
did so a second glittering Titan built itself up out of the pit.

The second monster followed the first, and at that the artilleryman
began to crawl very cautiously across the hot heather ash towards
Horsell. He managed to get alive into the ditch by the side of the
road, and so escaped to Woking. There his story became ejaculatory. The
place was impassable. It seems there were a few people alive there,
frantic for the most part and many burned and scalded. He was turned
aside by the fire, and hid among some almost scorching heaps of broken
wall as one of the Martian giants returned. He saw this one pursue a
man, catch him up in one of its steely tentacles, and knock his head
against the trunk of a pine tree. At last, after nightfall, the
artilleryman made a rush for it and got over the railway embankment.

Since then he had been skulking along towards Maybury, in the hope of
getting out of danger Londonward. People were hiding in trenches and
cellars, and many of the survivors had made off towards Woking village
and Send. He had been consumed with thirst until he found one of the
water mains near the railway arch smashed, and the water bubbling out
like a spring upon the road.

That was the story I got from him, bit by bit. He grew calmer telling
me and trying to make me see the things he had seen. He had eaten no
food since midday, he told me early in his narrative, and I found some
mutton and bread in the pantry and brought it into the room. We lit no
lamp for fear of attracting the Martians, and ever and again our hands
would touch upon bread or meat. As he talked, things about us came
darkly out of the darkness, and the trampled bushes and broken rose
trees outside the window grew distinct. It would seem that a number of
men or animals had rushed across the lawn. I began to see his face,
blackened and haggard, as no doubt mine was also.

When we had finished eating we went softly upstairs to my study, and I
looked again out of the open window. In one night the valley had become
a valley of ashes. The fires had dwindled now. Where flames had been
there were now streamers of smoke; but the countless ruins of shattered
and gutted houses and blasted and blackened trees that the night had
hidden stood out now gaunt and terrible in the pitiless light of dawn.
Yet here and there some object had had the luck to escape—a white
railway signal here, the end of a greenhouse there, white and fresh
amid the wreckage. Never before in the history of warfare had
destruction been so indiscriminate and so universal. And shining with
the growing light of the east, three of the metallic giants stood about
the pit, their cowls rotating as though they were surveying the
desolation they had made.

It seemed to me that the pit had been enlarged, and ever and again
puffs of vivid green vapour streamed up and out of it towards the
brightening dawn—streamed up, whirled, broke, and vanished.

Beyond were the pillars of fire about Chobham. They became pillars of
bloodshot smoke at the first touch of day.




XII.
WHAT I SAW OF THE DESTRUCTION OF WEYBRIDGE AND SHEPPERTON.


As the dawn grew brighter we withdrew from the window from which we had
watched the Martians, and went very quietly downstairs.

The artilleryman agreed with me that the house was no place to stay in.
He proposed, he said, to make his way Londonward, and thence rejoin his
battery—No. 12, of the Horse Artillery. My plan was to return at once
to Leatherhead; and so greatly had the strength of the Martians
impressed me that I had determined to take my wife to Newhaven, and go
with her out of the country forthwith. For I already perceived clearly
that the country about London must inevitably be the scene of a
disastrous struggle before such creatures as these could be destroyed.

Between us and Leatherhead, however, lay the third cylinder, with its
guarding giants. Had I been alone, I think I should have taken my
chance and struck across country. But the artilleryman dissuaded me:
“It’s no kindness to the right sort of wife,” he said, “to make her a
widow;” and in the end I agreed to go with him, under cover of the
woods, northward as far as Street Cobham before I parted with him.
Thence I would make a big detour by Epsom to reach Leatherhead.

I should have started at once, but my companion had been in active
service and he knew better than that. He made me ransack the house for
a flask, which he filled with whisky; and we lined every available
pocket with packets of biscuits and slices of meat. Then we crept out
of the house, and ran as quickly as we could down the ill-made road by
which I had come overnight. The houses seemed deserted. In the road lay
a group of three charred bodies close together, struck dead by the
Heat-Ray; and here and there were things that people had dropped—a
clock, a slipper, a silver spoon, and the like poor valuables. At the
corner turning up towards the post office a little cart, filled with
boxes and furniture, and horseless, heeled over on a broken wheel. A
cash box had been hastily smashed open and thrown under the debris.

Except the lodge at the Orphanage, which was still on fire, none of the
houses had suffered very greatly here. The Heat-Ray had shaved the
chimney tops and passed. Yet, save ourselves, there did not seem to be
a living soul on Maybury Hill. The majority of the inhabitants had
escaped, I suppose, by way of the Old Woking road—the road I had taken
when I drove to Leatherhead—or they had hidden.

We went down the lane, by the body of the man in black, sodden now from
the overnight hail, and broke into the woods at the foot of the hill.
We pushed through these towards the railway without meeting a soul. The
woods across the line were but the scarred and blackened ruins of
woods; for the most part the trees had fallen, but a certain proportion
still stood, dismal grey stems, with dark brown foliage instead of
green.

On our side the fire had done no more than scorch the nearer trees; it
had failed to secure its footing. In one place the woodmen had been at
work on Saturday; trees, felled and freshly trimmed, lay in a clearing,
with heaps of sawdust by the sawing-machine and its engine. Hard by was
a temporary hut, deserted. There was not a breath of wind this morning,
and everything was strangely still. Even the birds were hushed, and as
we hurried along I and the artilleryman talked in whispers and looked
now and again over our shoulders. Once or twice we stopped to listen.

After a time we drew near the road, and as we did so we heard the
clatter of hoofs and saw through the tree stems three cavalry soldiers
riding slowly towards Woking. We hailed them, and they halted while we
hurried towards them. It was a lieutenant and a couple of privates of
the 8th Hussars, with a stand like a theodolite, which the artilleryman
told me was a heliograph.

“You are the first men I’ve seen coming this way this morning,” said
the lieutenant. “What’s brewing?”

His voice and face were eager. The men behind him stared curiously. The
artilleryman jumped down the bank into the road and saluted.

“Gun destroyed last night, sir. Have been hiding. Trying to rejoin
battery, sir. You’ll come in sight of the Martians, I expect, about
half a mile along this road.”

“What the dickens are they like?” asked the lieutenant.

“Giants in armour, sir. Hundred feet high. Three legs and a body like
’luminium, with a mighty great head in a hood, sir.”

“Get out!” said the lieutenant. “What confounded nonsense!”

“You’ll see, sir. They carry a kind of box, sir, that shoots fire and
strikes you dead.”

“What d’ye mean—a gun?”

“No, sir,” and the artilleryman began a vivid account of the Heat-Ray.
Halfway through, the lieutenant interrupted him and looked up at me. I
was still standing on the bank by the side of the road.

“It’s perfectly true,” I said.

“Well,” said the lieutenant, “I suppose it’s my business to see it too.
Look here”—to the artilleryman—“we’re detailed here clearing people out
of their houses. You’d better go along and report yourself to
Brigadier-General Marvin, and tell him all you know. He’s at Weybridge.
Know the way?”

“I do,” I said; and he turned his horse southward again.

“Half a mile, you say?” said he.

“At most,” I answered, and pointed over the treetops southward. He
thanked me and rode on, and we saw them no more.

Farther along we came upon a group of three women and two children in
the road, busy clearing out a labourer’s cottage. They had got hold of
a little hand truck, and were piling it up with unclean-looking bundles
and shabby furniture. They were all too assiduously engaged to talk to
us as we passed.

By Byfleet station we emerged from the pine trees, and found the
country calm and peaceful under the morning sunlight. We were far
beyond the range of the Heat-Ray there, and had it not been for the
silent desertion of some of the houses, the stirring movement of
packing in others, and the knot of soldiers standing on the bridge over
the railway and staring down the line towards Woking, the day would
have seemed very like any other Sunday.

Several farm waggons and carts were moving creakily along the road to
Addlestone, and suddenly through the gate of a field we saw, across a
stretch of flat meadow, six twelve-pounders standing neatly at equal
distances pointing towards Woking. The gunners stood by the guns
waiting, and the ammunition waggons were at a business-like distance.
The men stood almost as if under inspection.

“That’s good!” said I. “They will get one fair shot, at any rate.”

The artilleryman hesitated at the gate.

“I shall go on,” he said.

Farther on towards Weybridge, just over the bridge, there were a number
of men in white fatigue jackets throwing up a long rampart, and more
guns behind.

“It’s bows and arrows against the lightning, anyhow,” said the
artilleryman. “They ’aven’t seen that fire-beam yet.”

The officers who were not actively engaged stood and stared over the
treetops southwestward, and the men digging would stop every now and
again to stare in the same direction.

Byfleet was in a tumult; people packing, and a score of hussars, some
of them dismounted, some on horseback, were hunting them about. Three
or four black government waggons, with crosses in white circles, and an
old omnibus, among other vehicles, were being loaded in the village
street. There were scores of people, most of them sufficiently
sabbatical to have assumed their best clothes. The soldiers were having
the greatest difficulty in making them realise the gravity of their
position. We saw one shrivelled old fellow with a huge box and a score
or more of flower pots containing orchids, angrily expostulating with
the corporal who would leave them behind. I stopped and gripped his
arm.

“Do you know what’s over there?” I said, pointing at the pine tops that
hid the Martians.

“Eh?” said he, turning. “I was explainin’ these is vallyble.”

“Death!” I shouted. “Death is coming! Death!” and leaving him to digest
that if he could, I hurried on after the artillery-man. At the corner I
looked back. The soldier had left him, and he was still standing by his
box, with the pots of orchids on the lid of it, and staring vaguely
over the trees.

No one in Weybridge could tell us where the headquarters were
established; the whole place was in such confusion as I had never seen
in any town before. Carts, carriages everywhere, the most astonishing
miscellany of conveyances and horseflesh. The respectable inhabitants
of the place, men in golf and boating costumes, wives prettily dressed,
were packing, river-side loafers energetically helping, children
excited, and, for the most part, highly delighted at this astonishing
variation of their Sunday experiences. In the midst of it all the
worthy vicar was very pluckily holding an early celebration, and his
bell was jangling out above the excitement.

I and the artilleryman, seated on the step of the drinking fountain,
made a very passable meal upon what we had brought with us. Patrols of
soldiers—here no longer hussars, but grenadiers in white—were warning
people to move now or to take refuge in their cellars as soon as the
firing began. We saw as we crossed the railway bridge that a growing
crowd of people had assembled in and about the railway station, and the
swarming platform was piled with boxes and packages. The ordinary
traffic had been stopped, I believe, in order to allow of the passage
of troops and guns to Chertsey, and I have heard since that a savage
struggle occurred for places in the special trains that were put on at
a later hour.

We remained at Weybridge until midday, and at that hour we found
ourselves at the place near Shepperton Lock where the Wey and Thames
join. Part of the time we spent helping two old women to pack a little
cart. The Wey has a treble mouth, and at this point boats are to be
hired, and there was a ferry across the river. On the Shepperton side
was an inn with a lawn, and beyond that the tower of Shepperton
Church—it has been replaced by a spire—rose above the trees.

Here we found an excited and noisy crowd of fugitives. As yet the
flight had not grown to a panic, but there were already far more people
than all the boats going to and fro could enable to cross. People came
panting along under heavy burdens; one husband and wife were even
carrying a small outhouse door between them, with some of their
household goods piled thereon. One man told us he meant to try to get
away from Shepperton station.

There was a lot of shouting, and one man was even jesting. The idea
people seemed to have here was that the Martians were simply formidable
human beings, who might attack and sack the town, to be certainly
destroyed in the end. Every now and then people would glance nervously
across the Wey, at the meadows towards Chertsey, but everything over
there was still.

Across the Thames, except just where the boats landed, everything was
quiet, in vivid contrast with the Surrey side. The people who landed
there from the boats went tramping off down the lane. The big ferryboat
had just made a journey. Three or four soldiers stood on the lawn of
the inn, staring and jesting at the fugitives, without offering to
help. The inn was closed, as it was now within prohibited hours.

“What’s that?” cried a boatman, and “Shut up, you fool!” said a man
near me to a yelping dog. Then the sound came again, this time from the
direction of Chertsey, a muffled thud—the sound of a gun.

The fighting was beginning. Almost immediately unseen batteries across
the river to our right, unseen because of the trees, took up the
chorus, firing heavily one after the other. A woman screamed. Everyone
stood arrested by the sudden stir of battle, near us and yet invisible
to us. Nothing was to be seen save flat meadows, cows feeding
unconcernedly for the most part, and silvery pollard willows motionless
in the warm sunlight.

“The sojers’ll stop ’em,” said a woman beside me, doubtfully. A
haziness rose over the treetops.

Then suddenly we saw a rush of smoke far away up the river, a puff of
smoke that jerked up into the air and hung; and forthwith the ground
heaved under foot and a heavy explosion shook the air, smashing two or
three windows in the houses near, and leaving us astonished.

“Here they are!” shouted a man in a blue jersey. “Yonder! D’yer see
them? Yonder!”

Quickly, one after the other, one, two, three, four of the armoured
Martians appeared, far away over the little trees, across the flat
meadows that stretched towards Chertsey, and striding hurriedly towards
the river. Little cowled figures they seemed at first, going with a
rolling motion and as fast as flying birds.

Then, advancing obliquely towards us, came a fifth. Their armoured
bodies glittered in the sun as they swept swiftly forward upon the
guns, growing rapidly larger as they drew nearer. One on the extreme
left, the remotest that is, flourished a huge case high in the air, and
the ghostly, terrible Heat-Ray I had already seen on Friday night smote
towards Chertsey, and struck the town.

At sight of these strange, swift, and terrible creatures the crowd near
the water’s edge seemed to me to be for a moment horror-struck. There
was no screaming or shouting, but a silence. Then a hoarse murmur and a
movement of feet—a splashing from the water. A man, too frightened to
drop the portmanteau he carried on his shoulder, swung round and sent
me staggering with a blow from the corner of his burden. A woman thrust
at me with her hand and rushed past me. I turned with the rush of the
people, but I was not too terrified for thought. The terrible Heat-Ray
was in my mind. To get under water! That was it!

“Get under water!” I shouted, unheeded.

I faced about again, and rushed towards the approaching Martian, rushed
right down the gravelly beach and headlong into the water. Others did
the same. A boatload of people putting back came leaping out as I
rushed past. The stones under my feet were muddy and slippery, and the
river was so low that I ran perhaps twenty feet scarcely waist-deep.
Then, as the Martian towered overhead scarcely a couple of hundred
yards away, I flung myself forward under the surface. The splashes of
the people in the boats leaping into the river sounded like
thunderclaps in my ears. People were landing hastily on both sides of
the river. But the Martian machine took no more notice for the moment
of the people running this way and that than a man would of the
confusion of ants in a nest against which his foot has kicked. When,
half suffocated, I raised my head above water, the Martian’s hood
pointed at the batteries that were still firing across the river, and
as it advanced it swung loose what must have been the generator of the
Heat-Ray.

In another moment it was on the bank, and in a stride wading halfway
across. The knees of its foremost legs bent at the farther bank, and in
another moment it had raised itself to its full height again, close to
the village of Shepperton. Forthwith the six guns which, unknown to
anyone on the right bank, had been hidden behind the outskirts of that
village, fired simultaneously. The sudden near concussion, the last
close upon the first, made my heart jump. The monster was already
raising the case generating the Heat-Ray as the first shell burst six
yards above the hood.

I gave a cry of astonishment. I saw and thought nothing of the other
four Martian monsters; my attention was riveted upon the nearer
incident. Simultaneously two other shells burst in the air near the
body as the hood twisted round in time to receive, but not in time to
dodge, the fourth shell.

The shell burst clean in the face of the Thing. The hood bulged,
flashed, was whirled off in a dozen tattered fragments of red flesh and
glittering metal.

“Hit!” shouted I, with something between a scream and a cheer.

I heard answering shouts from the people in the water about me. I could
have leaped out of the water with that momentary exultation.

The decapitated colossus reeled like a drunken giant; but it did not
fall over. It recovered its balance by a miracle, and, no longer
heeding its steps and with the camera that fired the Heat-Ray now
rigidly upheld, it reeled swiftly upon Shepperton. The living
intelligence, the Martian within the hood, was slain and splashed to
the four winds of heaven, and the Thing was now but a mere intricate
device of metal whirling to destruction. It drove along in a straight
line, incapable of guidance. It struck the tower of Shepperton Church,
smashing it down as the impact of a battering ram might have done,
swerved aside, blundered on and collapsed with tremendous force into
the river out of my sight.

A violent explosion shook the air, and a spout of water, steam, mud,
and shattered metal shot far up into the sky. As the camera of the
Heat-Ray hit the water, the latter had immediately flashed into steam.
In another moment a huge wave, like a muddy tidal bore but almost
scaldingly hot, came sweeping round the bend upstream. I saw people
struggling shorewards, and heard their screaming and shouting faintly
above the seething and roar of the Martian’s collapse.

For a moment I heeded nothing of the heat, forgot the patent need of
self-preservation. I splashed through the tumultuous water, pushing
aside a man in black to do so, until I could see round the bend. Half a
dozen deserted boats pitched aimlessly upon the confusion of the waves.
The fallen Martian came into sight downstream, lying across the river,
and for the most part submerged.

Thick clouds of steam were pouring off the wreckage, and through the
tumultuously whirling wisps I could see, intermittently and vaguely,
the gigantic limbs churning the water and flinging a splash and spray
of mud and froth into the air. The tentacles swayed and struck like
living arms, and, save for the helpless purposelessness of these
movements, it was as if some wounded thing were struggling for its life
amid the waves. Enormous quantities of a ruddy-brown fluid were
spurting up in noisy jets out of the machine.

My attention was diverted from this death flurry by a furious yelling,
like that of the thing called a siren in our manufacturing towns. A
man, knee-deep near the towing path, shouted inaudibly to me and
pointed. Looking back, I saw the other Martians advancing with gigantic
strides down the riverbank from the direction of Chertsey. The
Shepperton guns spoke this time unavailingly.

At that I ducked at once under water, and, holding my breath until
movement was an agony, blundered painfully ahead under the surface as
long as I could. The water was in a tumult about me, and rapidly
growing hotter.

When for a moment I raised my head to take breath and throw the hair
and water from my eyes, the steam was rising in a whirling white fog
that at first hid the Martians altogether. The noise was deafening.
Then I saw them dimly, colossal figures of grey, magnified by the mist.
They had passed by me, and two were stooping over the frothing,
tumultuous ruins of their comrade.

The third and fourth stood beside him in the water, one perhaps two
hundred yards from me, the other towards Laleham. The generators of the
Heat-Rays waved high, and the hissing beams smote down this way and
that.

The air was full of sound, a deafening and confusing conflict of
noises—the clangorous din of the Martians, the crash of falling houses,
the thud of trees, fences, sheds flashing into flame, and the crackling
and roaring of fire. Dense black smoke was leaping up to mingle with
the steam from the river, and as the Heat-Ray went to and fro over
Weybridge its impact was marked by flashes of incandescent white, that
gave place at once to a smoky dance of lurid flames. The nearer houses
still stood intact, awaiting their fate, shadowy, faint and pallid in
the steam, with the fire behind them going to and fro.

For a moment perhaps I stood there, breast-high in the almost boiling
water, dumbfounded at my position, hopeless of escape. Through the reek
I could see the people who had been with me in the river scrambling out
of the water through the reeds, like little frogs hurrying through
grass from the advance of a man, or running to and fro in utter dismay
on the towing path.

Then suddenly the white flashes of the Heat-Ray came leaping towards
me. The houses caved in as they dissolved at its touch, and darted out
flames; the trees changed to fire with a roar. The Ray flickered up and
down the towing path, licking off the people who ran this way and that,
and came down to the water’s edge not fifty yards from where I stood.
It swept across the river to Shepperton, and the water in its track
rose in a boiling weal crested with steam. I turned shoreward.

In another moment the huge wave, well-nigh at the boiling-point had
rushed upon me. I screamed aloud, and scalded, half blinded, agonised,
I staggered through the leaping, hissing water towards the shore. Had
my foot stumbled, it would have been the end. I fell helplessly, in
full sight of the Martians, upon the broad, bare gravelly spit that
runs down to mark the angle of the Wey and Thames. I expected nothing
but death.

I have a dim memory of the foot of a Martian coming down within a score
of yards of my head, driving straight into the loose gravel, whirling
it this way and that and lifting again; of a long suspense, and then of
the four carrying the debris of their comrade between them, now clear
and then presently faint through a veil of smoke, receding
interminably, as it seemed to me, across a vast space of river and
meadow. And then, very slowly, I realised that by a miracle I had
escaped.




XIII.
HOW I FELL IN WITH THE CURATE.


After getting this sudden lesson in the power of terrestrial weapons,
the Martians retreated to their original position upon Horsell Common;
and in their haste, and encumbered with the debris of their smashed
companion, they no doubt overlooked many such a stray and negligible
victim as myself. Had they left their comrade and pushed on forthwith,
there was nothing at that time between them and London but batteries of
twelve-pounder guns, and they would certainly have reached the capital
in advance of the tidings of their approach; as sudden, dreadful, and
destructive their advent would have been as the earthquake that
destroyed Lisbon a century ago.

But they were in no hurry. Cylinder followed cylinder on its
interplanetary flight; every twenty-four hours brought them
reinforcement. And meanwhile the military and naval authorities, now
fully alive to the tremendous power of their antagonists, worked with
furious energy. Every minute a fresh gun came into position until,
before twilight, every copse, every row of suburban villas on the hilly
slopes about Kingston and Richmond, masked an expectant black muzzle.
And through the charred and desolated area—perhaps twenty square miles
altogether—that encircled the Martian encampment on Horsell Common,
through charred and ruined villages among the green trees, through the
blackened and smoking arcades that had been but a day ago pine
spinneys, crawled the devoted scouts with the heliographs that were
presently to warn the gunners of the Martian approach. But the Martians
now understood our command of artillery and the danger of human
proximity, and not a man ventured within a mile of either cylinder,
save at the price of his life.

It would seem that these giants spent the earlier part of the afternoon
in going to and fro, transferring everything from the second and third
cylinders—the second in Addlestone Golf Links and the third at
Pyrford—to their original pit on Horsell Common. Over that, above the
blackened heather and ruined buildings that stretched far and wide,
stood one as sentinel, while the rest abandoned their vast
fighting-machines and descended into the pit. They were hard at work
there far into the night, and the towering pillar of dense green smoke
that rose therefrom could be seen from the hills about Merrow, and
even, it is said, from Banstead and Epsom Downs.

And while the Martians behind me were thus preparing for their next
sally, and in front of me Humanity gathered for the battle, I made my
way with infinite pains and labour from the fire and smoke of burning
Weybridge towards London.

I saw an abandoned boat, very small and remote, drifting down-stream;
and throwing off the most of my sodden clothes, I went after it, gained
it, and so escaped out of that destruction. There were no oars in the
boat, but I contrived to paddle, as well as my parboiled hands would
allow, down the river towards Halliford and Walton, going very
tediously and continually looking behind me, as you may well
understand. I followed the river, because I considered that the water
gave me my best chance of escape should these giants return.

The hot water from the Martian’s overthrow drifted downstream with me,
so that for the best part of a mile I could see little of either bank.
Once, however, I made out a string of black figures hurrying across the
meadows from the direction of Weybridge. Halliford, it seemed, was
deserted, and several of the houses facing the river were on fire. It
was strange to see the place quite tranquil, quite desolate under the
hot blue sky, with the smoke and little threads of flame going straight
up into the heat of the afternoon. Never before had I seen houses
burning without the accompaniment of an obstructive crowd. A little
farther on the dry reeds up the bank were smoking and glowing, and a
line of fire inland was marching steadily across a late field of hay.

For a long time I drifted, so painful and weary was I after the
violence I had been through, and so intense the heat upon the water.
Then my fears got the better of me again, and I resumed my paddling.
The sun scorched my bare back. At last, as the bridge at Walton was
coming into sight round the bend, my fever and faintness overcame my
fears, and I landed on the Middlesex bank and lay down, deadly sick,
amid the long grass. I suppose the time was then about four or five
o’clock. I got up presently, walked perhaps half a mile without meeting
a soul, and then lay down again in the shadow of a hedge. I seem to
remember talking, wanderingly, to myself during that last spurt. I was
also very thirsty, and bitterly regretful I had drunk no more water. It
is a curious thing that I felt angry with my wife; I cannot account for
it, but my impotent desire to reach Leatherhead worried me excessively.

I do not clearly remember the arrival of the curate, so that probably I
dozed. I became aware of him as a seated figure in soot-smudged shirt
sleeves, and with his upturned, clean-shaven face staring at a faint
flickering that danced over the sky. The sky was what is called a
mackerel sky—rows and rows of faint down-plumes of cloud, just tinted
with the midsummer sunset.

I sat up, and at the rustle of my motion he looked at me quickly.

“Have you any water?” I asked abruptly.

He shook his head.

“You have been asking for water for the last hour,” he said.

For a moment we were silent, taking stock of each other. I dare say he
found me a strange enough figure, naked, save for my water-soaked
trousers and socks, scalded, and my face and shoulders blackened by the
smoke. His face was a fair weakness, his chin retreated, and his hair
lay in crisp, almost flaxen curls on his low forehead; his eyes were
rather large, pale blue, and blankly staring. He spoke abruptly,
looking vacantly away from me.

“What does it mean?” he said. “What do these things mean?”

I stared at him and made no answer.

He extended a thin white hand and spoke in almost a complaining tone.

“Why are these things permitted? What sins have we done? The morning
service was over, I was walking through the roads to clear my brain for
the afternoon, and then—fire, earthquake, death! As if it were Sodom
and Gomorrah! All our work undone, all the work—— What are these
Martians?”

“What are we?” I answered, clearing my throat.

He gripped his knees and turned to look at me again. For half a minute,
perhaps, he stared silently.

“I was walking through the roads to clear my brain,” he said. “And
suddenly—fire, earthquake, death!”

He relapsed into silence, with his chin now sunken almost to his knees.

Presently he began waving his hand.

“All the work—all the Sunday schools—What have we done—what has
Weybridge done? Everything gone—everything destroyed. The church! We
rebuilt it only three years ago. Gone! Swept out of existence! Why?”

Another pause, and he broke out again like one demented.

“The smoke of her burning goeth up for ever and ever!” he shouted.

His eyes flamed, and he pointed a lean finger in the direction of
Weybridge.

By this time I was beginning to take his measure. The tremendous
tragedy in which he had been involved—it was evident he was a fugitive
from Weybridge—had driven him to the very verge of his reason.

“Are we far from Sunbury?” I said, in a matter-of-fact tone.

“What are we to do?” he asked. “Are these creatures everywhere? Has the
earth been given over to them?”

“Are we far from Sunbury?”

“Only this morning I officiated at early celebration——”

“Things have changed,” I said, quietly. “You must keep your head. There
is still hope.”

“Hope!”

“Yes. Plentiful hope—for all this destruction!”

I began to explain my view of our position. He listened at first, but
as I went on the interest dawning in his eyes gave place to their
former stare, and his regard wandered from me.

“This must be the beginning of the end,” he said, interrupting me. “The
end! The great and terrible day of the Lord! When men shall call upon
the mountains and the rocks to fall upon them and hide them—hide them
from the face of Him that sitteth upon the throne!”

I began to understand the position. I ceased my laboured reasoning,
struggled to my feet, and, standing over him, laid my hand on his
shoulder.

“Be a man!” said I. “You are scared out of your wits! What good is
religion if it collapses under calamity? Think of what earthquakes and
floods, wars and volcanoes, have done before to men! Did you think God
had exempted Weybridge? He is not an insurance agent.”

For a time he sat in blank silence.

“But how can we escape?” he asked, suddenly. “They are invulnerable,
they are pitiless.”

“Neither the one nor, perhaps, the other,” I answered. “And the
mightier they are the more sane and wary should we be. One of them was
killed yonder not three hours ago.”

“Killed!” he said, staring about him. “How can God’s ministers be
killed?”

“I saw it happen.” I proceeded to tell him. “We have chanced to come in
for the thick of it,” said I, “and that is all.”

“What is that flicker in the sky?” he asked abruptly.

I told him it was the heliograph signalling—that it was the sign of
human help and effort in the sky.

“We are in the midst of it,” I said, “quiet as it is. That flicker in
the sky tells of the gathering storm. Yonder, I take it are the
Martians, and Londonward, where those hills rise about Richmond and
Kingston and the trees give cover, earthworks are being thrown up and
guns are being placed. Presently the Martians will be coming this way
again.”

And even as I spoke he sprang to his feet and stopped me by a gesture.

“Listen!” he said.

From beyond the low hills across the water came the dull resonance of
distant guns and a remote weird crying. Then everything was still. A
cockchafer came droning over the hedge and past us. High in the west
the crescent moon hung faint and pale above the smoke of Weybridge and
Shepperton and the hot, still splendour of the sunset.

“We had better follow this path,” I said, “northward.”




XIV.
IN LONDON.


My younger brother was in London when the Martians fell at Woking. He
was a medical student working for an imminent examination, and he heard
nothing of the arrival until Saturday morning. The morning papers on
Saturday contained, in addition to lengthy special articles on the
planet Mars, on life in the planets, and so forth, a brief and vaguely
worded telegram, all the more striking for its brevity.

The Martians, alarmed by the approach of a crowd, had killed a number
of people with a quick-firing gun, so the story ran. The telegram
concluded with the words: “Formidable as they seem to be, the Martians
have not moved from the pit into which they have fallen, and, indeed,
seem incapable of doing so. Probably this is due to the relative
strength of the earth’s gravitational energy.” On that last text their
leader-writer expanded very comfortingly.

Of course all the students in the crammer’s biology class, to which my
brother went that day, were intensely interested, but there were no
signs of any unusual excitement in the streets. The afternoon papers
puffed scraps of news under big headlines. They had nothing to tell
beyond the movements of troops about the common, and the burning of the
pine woods between Woking and Weybridge, until eight. Then the _St.
James’s Gazette_, in an extra-special edition, announced the bare fact
of the interruption of telegraphic communication. This was thought to
be due to the falling of burning pine trees across the line. Nothing
more of the fighting was known that night, the night of my drive to
Leatherhead and back.

My brother felt no anxiety about us, as he knew from the description in
the papers that the cylinder was a good two miles from my house. He
made up his mind to run down that night to me, in order, as he says, to
see the Things before they were killed. He dispatched a telegram, which
never reached me, about four o’clock, and spent the evening at a music
hall.

In London, also, on Saturday night there was a thunderstorm, and my
brother reached Waterloo in a cab. On the platform from which the
midnight train usually starts he learned, after some waiting, that an
accident prevented trains from reaching Woking that night. The nature
of the accident he could not ascertain; indeed, the railway authorities
did not clearly know at that time. There was very little excitement in
the station, as the officials, failing to realise that anything further
than a breakdown between Byfleet and Woking junction had occurred, were
running the theatre trains which usually passed through Woking round by
Virginia Water or Guildford. They were busy making the necessary
arrangements to alter the route of the Southampton and Portsmouth
Sunday League excursions. A nocturnal newspaper reporter, mistaking my
brother for the traffic manager, to whom he bears a slight resemblance,
waylaid and tried to interview him. Few people, excepting the railway
officials, connected the breakdown with the Martians.

I have read, in another account of these events, that on Sunday morning
“all London was electrified by the news from Woking.” As a matter of
fact, there was nothing to justify that very extravagant phrase. Plenty
of Londoners did not hear of the Martians until the panic of Monday
morning. Those who did took some time to realise all that the hastily
worded telegrams in the Sunday papers conveyed. The majority of people
in London do not read Sunday papers.

The habit of personal security, moreover, is so deeply fixed in the
Londoner’s mind, and startling intelligence so much a matter of course
in the papers, that they could read without any personal tremors:
“About seven o’clock last night the Martians came out of the cylinder,
and, moving about under an armour of metallic shields, have completely
wrecked Woking station with the adjacent houses, and massacred an
entire battalion of the Cardigan Regiment. No details are known. Maxims
have been absolutely useless against their armour; the field guns have
been disabled by them. Flying hussars have been galloping into
Chertsey. The Martians appear to be moving slowly towards Chertsey or
Windsor. Great anxiety prevails in West Surrey, and earthworks are
being thrown up to check the advance Londonward.” That was how the
_Sunday Sun_ put it, and a clever and remarkably prompt “handbook”
article in the _Referee_ compared the affair to a menagerie suddenly
let loose in a village.

No one in London knew positively of the nature of the armoured
Martians, and there was still a fixed idea that these monsters must be
sluggish: “crawling,” “creeping painfully”—such expressions occurred in
almost all the earlier reports. None of the telegrams could have been
written by an eyewitness of their advance. The Sunday papers printed
separate editions as further news came to hand, some even in default of
it. But there was practically nothing more to tell people until late in
the afternoon, when the authorities gave the press agencies the news in
their possession. It was stated that the people of Walton and
Weybridge, and all the district were pouring along the roads
Londonward, and that was all.

My brother went to church at the Foundling Hospital in the morning,
still in ignorance of what had happened on the previous night. There he
heard allusions made to the invasion, and a special prayer for peace.
Coming out, he bought a _Referee_. He became alarmed at the news in
this, and went again to Waterloo station to find out if communication
were restored. The omnibuses, carriages, cyclists, and innumerable
people walking in their best clothes seemed scarcely affected by the
strange intelligence that the newsvendors were disseminating. People
were interested, or, if alarmed, alarmed only on account of the local
residents. At the station he heard for the first time that the Windsor
and Chertsey lines were now interrupted. The porters told him that
several remarkable telegrams had been received in the morning from
Byfleet and Chertsey stations, but that these had abruptly ceased. My
brother could get very little precise detail out of them.

“There’s fighting going on about Weybridge” was the extent of their
information.

The train service was now very much disorganised. Quite a number of
people who had been expecting friends from places on the South-Western
network were standing about the station. One grey-headed old gentleman
came and abused the South-Western Company bitterly to my brother. “It
wants showing up,” he said.

One or two trains came in from Richmond, Putney, and Kingston,
containing people who had gone out for a day’s boating and found the
locks closed and a feeling of panic in the air. A man in a blue and
white blazer addressed my brother, full of strange tidings.

“There’s hosts of people driving into Kingston in traps and carts and
things, with boxes of valuables and all that,” he said. “They come from
Molesey and Weybridge and Walton, and they say there’s been guns heard
at Chertsey, heavy firing, and that mounted soldiers have told them to
get off at once because the Martians are coming. We heard guns firing
at Hampton Court station, but we thought it was thunder. What the
dickens does it all mean? The Martians can’t get out of their pit, can
they?”

My brother could not tell him.

Afterwards he found that the vague feeling of alarm had spread to the
clients of the underground railway, and that the Sunday excursionists
began to return from all over the South-Western “lung”—Barnes,
Wimbledon, Richmond Park, Kew, and so forth—at unnaturally early hours;
but not a soul had anything more than vague hearsay to tell of.
Everyone connected with the terminus seemed ill-tempered.

About five o’clock the gathering crowd in the station was immensely
excited by the opening of the line of communication, which is almost
invariably closed, between the South-Eastern and the South-Western
stations, and the passage of carriage trucks bearing huge guns and
carriages crammed with soldiers. These were the guns that were brought
up from Woolwich and Chatham to cover Kingston. There was an exchange
of pleasantries: “You’ll get eaten!” “We’re the beast-tamers!” and so
forth. A little while after that a squad of police came into the
station and began to clear the public off the platforms, and my brother
went out into the street again.

The church bells were ringing for evensong, and a squad of Salvation
Army lassies came singing down Waterloo Road. On the bridge a number of
loafers were watching a curious brown scum that came drifting down the
stream in patches. The sun was just setting, and the Clock Tower and
the Houses of Parliament rose against one of the most peaceful skies it
is possible to imagine, a sky of gold, barred with long transverse
stripes of reddish-purple cloud. There was talk of a floating body. One
of the men there, a reservist he said he was, told my brother he had
seen the heliograph flickering in the west.

In Wellington Street my brother met a couple of sturdy roughs who had
just been rushed out of Fleet Street with still-wet newspapers and
staring placards. “Dreadful catastrophe!” they bawled one to the other
down Wellington Street. “Fighting at Weybridge! Full description!
Repulse of the Martians! London in Danger!” He had to give threepence
for a copy of that paper.

Then it was, and then only, that he realised something of the full
power and terror of these monsters. He learned that they were not
merely a handful of small sluggish creatures, but that they were minds
swaying vast mechanical bodies; and that they could move swiftly and
smite with such power that even the mightiest guns could not stand
against them.

They were described as “vast spiderlike machines, nearly a hundred feet
high, capable of the speed of an express train, and able to shoot out a
beam of intense heat.” Masked batteries, chiefly of field guns, had
been planted in the country about Horsell Common, and especially
between the Woking district and London. Five of the machines had been
seen moving towards the Thames, and one, by a happy chance, had been
destroyed. In the other cases the shells had missed, and the batteries
had been at once annihilated by the Heat-Rays. Heavy losses of soldiers
were mentioned, but the tone of the dispatch was optimistic.

The Martians had been repulsed; they were not invulnerable. They had
retreated to their triangle of cylinders again, in the circle about
Woking. Signallers with heliographs were pushing forward upon them from
all sides. Guns were in rapid transit from Windsor, Portsmouth,
Aldershot, Woolwich—even from the north; among others, long wire-guns
of ninety-five tons from Woolwich. Altogether one hundred and sixteen
were in position or being hastily placed, chiefly covering London.
Never before in England had there been such a vast or rapid
concentration of military material.

Any further cylinders that fell, it was hoped, could be destroyed at
once by high explosives, which were being rapidly manufactured and
distributed. No doubt, ran the report, the situation was of the
strangest and gravest description, but the public was exhorted to avoid
and discourage panic. No doubt the Martians were strange and terrible
in the extreme, but at the outside there could not be more than twenty
of them against our millions.

The authorities had reason to suppose, from the size of the cylinders,
that at the outside there could not be more than five in each
cylinder—fifteen altogether. And one at least was disposed of—perhaps
more. The public would be fairly warned of the approach of danger, and
elaborate measures were being taken for the protection of the people in
the threatened southwestern suburbs. And so, with reiterated assurances
of the safety of London and the ability of the authorities to cope with
the difficulty, this quasi-proclamation closed.

This was printed in enormous type on paper so fresh that it was still
wet, and there had been no time to add a word of comment. It was
curious, my brother said, to see how ruthlessly the usual contents of
the paper had been hacked and taken out to give this place.

All down Wellington Street people could be seen fluttering out the pink
sheets and reading, and the Strand was suddenly noisy with the voices
of an army of hawkers following these pioneers. Men came scrambling off
buses to secure copies. Certainly this news excited people intensely,
whatever their previous apathy. The shutters of a map shop in the
Strand were being taken down, my brother said, and a man in his Sunday
raiment, lemon-yellow gloves even, was visible inside the window
hastily fastening maps of Surrey to the glass.

Going on along the Strand to Trafalgar Square, the paper in his hand,
my brother saw some of the fugitives from West Surrey. There was a man
with his wife and two boys and some articles of furniture in a cart
such as greengrocers use. He was driving from the direction of
Westminster Bridge; and close behind him came a hay waggon with five or
six respectable-looking people in it, and some boxes and bundles. The
faces of these people were haggard, and their entire appearance
contrasted conspicuously with the Sabbath-best appearance of the people
on the omnibuses. People in fashionable clothing peeped at them out of
cabs. They stopped at the Square as if undecided which way to take, and
finally turned eastward along the Strand. Some way behind these came a
man in workday clothes, riding one of those old-fashioned tricycles
with a small front wheel. He was dirty and white in the face.

My brother turned down towards Victoria, and met a number of such
people. He had a vague idea that he might see something of me. He
noticed an unusual number of police regulating the traffic. Some of the
refugees were exchanging news with the people on the omnibuses. One was
professing to have seen the Martians. “Boilers on stilts, I tell you,
striding along like men.” Most of them were excited and animated by
their strange experience.

Beyond Victoria the public-houses were doing a lively trade with these
arrivals. At all the street corners groups of people were reading
papers, talking excitedly, or staring at these unusual Sunday visitors.
They seemed to increase as night drew on, until at last the roads, my
brother said, were like Epsom High Street on a Derby Day. My brother
addressed several of these fugitives and got unsatisfactory answers
from most.

None of them could tell him any news of Woking except one man, who
assured him that Woking had been entirely destroyed on the previous
night.

“I come from Byfleet,” he said; “a man on a bicycle came through the
place in the early morning, and ran from door to door warning us to
come away. Then came soldiers. We went out to look, and there were
clouds of smoke to the south—nothing but smoke, and not a soul coming
that way. Then we heard the guns at Chertsey, and folks coming from
Weybridge. So I’ve locked up my house and come on.”

At that time there was a strong feeling in the streets that the
authorities were to blame for their incapacity to dispose of the
invaders without all this inconvenience.

About eight o’clock a noise of heavy firing was distinctly audible all
over the south of London. My brother could not hear it for the traffic
in the main thoroughfares, but by striking through the quiet back
streets to the river he was able to distinguish it quite plainly.

He walked from Westminster to his apartments near Regent’s Park, about
two. He was now very anxious on my account, and disturbed at the
evident magnitude of the trouble. His mind was inclined to run, even as
mine had run on Saturday, on military details. He thought of all those
silent, expectant guns, of the suddenly nomadic countryside; he tried
to imagine “boilers on stilts” a hundred feet high.

There were one or two cartloads of refugees passing along Oxford
Street, and several in the Marylebone Road, but so slowly was the news
spreading that Regent Street and Portland Place were full of their
usual Sunday-night promenaders, albeit they talked in groups, and along
the edge of Regent’s Park there were as many silent couples “walking
out” together under the scattered gas lamps as ever there had been. The
night was warm and still, and a little oppressive; the sound of guns
continued intermittently, and after midnight there seemed to be sheet
lightning in the south.

He read and re-read the paper, fearing the worst had happened to me. He
was restless, and after supper prowled out again aimlessly. He returned
and tried in vain to divert his attention to his examination notes. He
went to bed a little after midnight, and was awakened from lurid dreams
in the small hours of Monday by the sound of door knockers, feet
running in the street, distant drumming, and a clamour of bells. Red
reflections danced on the ceiling. For a moment he lay astonished,
wondering whether day had come or the world gone mad. Then he jumped
out of bed and ran to the window.

His room was an attic and as he thrust his head out, up and down the
street there were a dozen echoes to the noise of his window sash, and
heads in every kind of night disarray appeared. Enquiries were being
shouted. “They are coming!” bawled a policeman, hammering at the door;
“the Martians are coming!” and hurried to the next door.

The sound of drumming and trumpeting came from the Albany Street
Barracks, and every church within earshot was hard at work killing
sleep with a vehement disorderly tocsin. There was a noise of doors
opening, and window after window in the houses opposite flashed from
darkness into yellow illumination.

Up the street came galloping a closed carriage, bursting abruptly into
noise at the corner, rising to a clattering climax under the window,
and dying away slowly in the distance. Close on the rear of this came a
couple of cabs, the forerunners of a long procession of flying
vehicles, going for the most part to Chalk Farm station, where the
North-Western special trains were loading up, instead of coming down
the gradient into Euston.

For a long time my brother stared out of the window in blank
astonishment, watching the policemen hammering at door after door, and
delivering their incomprehensible message. Then the door behind him
opened, and the man who lodged across the landing came in, dressed only
in shirt, trousers, and slippers, his braces loose about his waist, his
hair disordered from his pillow.

“What the devil is it?” he asked. “A fire? What a devil of a row!”

They both craned their heads out of the window, straining to hear what
the policemen were shouting. People were coming out of the side
streets, and standing in groups at the corners talking.

“What the devil is it all about?” said my brother’s fellow lodger.

My brother answered him vaguely and began to dress, running with each
garment to the window in order to miss nothing of the growing
excitement. And presently men selling unnaturally early newspapers came
bawling into the street:

“London in danger of suffocation! The Kingston and Richmond defences
forced! Fearful massacres in the Thames Valley!”

And all about him—in the rooms below, in the houses on each side and
across the road, and behind in the Park Terraces and in the hundred
other streets of that part of Marylebone, and the Westbourne Park
district and St. Pancras, and westward and northward in Kilburn and St.
John’s Wood and Hampstead, and eastward in Shoreditch and Highbury and
Haggerston and Hoxton, and, indeed, through all the vastness of London
from Ealing to East Ham—people were rubbing their eyes, and opening
windows to stare out and ask aimless questions, dressing hastily as the
first breath of the coming storm of Fear blew through the streets. It
was the dawn of the great panic. London, which had gone to bed on
Sunday night oblivious and inert, was awakened, in the small hours of
Monday morning, to a vivid sense of danger.

Unable from his window to learn what was happening, my brother went
down and out into the street, just as the sky between the parapets of
the houses grew pink with the early dawn. The flying people on foot and
in vehicles grew more numerous every moment. “Black Smoke!” he heard
people crying, and again “Black Smoke!” The contagion of such a
unanimous fear was inevitable. As my brother hesitated on the
door-step, he saw another newsvendor approaching, and got a paper
forthwith. The man was running away with the rest, and selling his
papers for a shilling each as he ran—a grotesque mingling of profit and
panic.

And from this paper my brother read that catastrophic dispatch of the
Commander-in-Chief:

“The Martians are able to discharge enormous clouds of a black and
poisonous vapour by means of rockets. They have smothered our
batteries, destroyed Richmond, Kingston, and Wimbledon, and are
advancing slowly towards London, destroying everything on the way. It
is impossible to stop them. There is no safety from the Black Smoke but
in instant flight.”


That was all, but it was enough. The whole population of the great
six-million city was stirring, slipping, running; presently it would be
pouring _en masse_ northward.

“Black Smoke!” the voices cried. “Fire!”

The bells of the neighbouring church made a jangling tumult, a cart
carelessly driven smashed, amid shrieks and curses, against the water
trough up the street. Sickly yellow lights went to and fro in the
houses, and some of the passing cabs flaunted unextinguished lamps. And
overhead the dawn was growing brighter, clear and steady and calm.

He heard footsteps running to and fro in the rooms, and up and down
stairs behind him. His landlady came to the door, loosely wrapped in
dressing gown and shawl; her husband followed, ejaculating.

As my brother began to realise the import of all these things, he
turned hastily to his own room, put all his available money—some ten
pounds altogether—into his pockets, and went out again into the
streets.




XV.
WHAT HAD HAPPENED IN SURREY.


It was while the curate had sat and talked so wildly to me under the
hedge in the flat meadows near Halliford, and while my brother was
watching the fugitives stream over Westminster Bridge, that the
Martians had resumed the offensive. So far as one can ascertain from
the conflicting accounts that have been put forth, the majority of them
remained busied with preparations in the Horsell pit until nine that
night, hurrying on some operation that disengaged huge volumes of green
smoke.

But three certainly came out about eight o’clock and, advancing slowly
and cautiously, made their way through Byfleet and Pyrford towards
Ripley and Weybridge, and so came in sight of the expectant batteries
against the setting sun. These Martians did not advance in a body, but
in a line, each perhaps a mile and a half from his nearest fellow. They
communicated with one another by means of sirenlike howls, running up
and down the scale from one note to another.

It was this howling and firing of the guns at Ripley and St. George’s
Hill that we had heard at Upper Halliford. The Ripley gunners,
unseasoned artillery volunteers who ought never to have been placed in
such a position, fired one wild, premature, ineffectual volley, and
bolted on horse and foot through the deserted village, while the
Martian, without using his Heat-Ray, walked serenely over their guns,
stepped gingerly among them, passed in front of them, and so came
unexpectedly upon the guns in Painshill Park, which he destroyed.

The St. George’s Hill men, however, were better led or of a better
mettle. Hidden by a pine wood as they were, they seem to have been
quite unsuspected by the Martian nearest to them. They laid their guns
as deliberately as if they had been on parade, and fired at about a
thousand yards’ range.

The shells flashed all round him, and he was seen to advance a few
paces, stagger, and go down. Everybody yelled together, and the guns
were reloaded in frantic haste. The overthrown Martian set up a
prolonged ululation, and immediately a second glittering giant,
answering him, appeared over the trees to the south. It would seem that
a leg of the tripod had been smashed by one of the shells. The whole of
the second volley flew wide of the Martian on the ground, and,
simultaneously, both his companions brought their Heat-Rays to bear on
the battery. The ammunition blew up, the pine trees all about the guns
flashed into fire, and only one or two of the men who were already
running over the crest of the hill escaped.

After this it would seem that the three took counsel together and
halted, and the scouts who were watching them report that they remained
absolutely stationary for the next half hour. The Martian who had been
overthrown crawled tediously out of his hood, a small brown figure,
oddly suggestive from that distance of a speck of blight, and
apparently engaged in the repair of his support. About nine he had
finished, for his cowl was then seen above the trees again.

It was a few minutes past nine that night when these three sentinels
were joined by four other Martians, each carrying a thick black tube. A
similar tube was handed to each of the three, and the seven proceeded
to distribute themselves at equal distances along a curved line between
St. George’s Hill, Weybridge, and the village of Send, southwest of
Ripley.

A dozen rockets sprang out of the hills before them so soon as they
began to move, and warned the waiting batteries about Ditton and Esher.
At the same time four of their fighting machines, similarly armed with
tubes, crossed the river, and two of them, black against the western
sky, came into sight of myself and the curate as we hurried wearily and
painfully along the road that runs northward out of Halliford. They
moved, as it seemed to us, upon a cloud, for a milky mist covered the
fields and rose to a third of their height.

At this sight the curate cried faintly in his throat, and began
running; but I knew it was no good running from a Martian, and I turned
aside and crawled through dewy nettles and brambles into the broad
ditch by the side of the road. He looked back, saw what I was doing,
and turned to join me.

The two halted, the nearer to us standing and facing Sunbury, the
remoter being a grey indistinctness towards the evening star, away
towards Staines.

The occasional howling of the Martians had ceased; they took up their
positions in the huge crescent about their cylinders in absolute
silence. It was a crescent with twelve miles between its horns. Never
since the devising of gunpowder was the beginning of a battle so still.
To us and to an observer about Ripley it would have had precisely the
same effect—the Martians seemed in solitary possession of the darkling
night, lit only as it was by the slender moon, the stars, the afterglow
of the daylight, and the ruddy glare from St. George’s Hill and the
woods of Painshill.

But facing that crescent everywhere—at Staines, Hounslow, Ditton,
Esher, Ockham, behind hills and woods south of the river, and across
the flat grass meadows to the north of it, wherever a cluster of trees
or village houses gave sufficient cover—the guns were waiting. The
signal rockets burst and rained their sparks through the night and
vanished, and the spirit of all those watching batteries rose to a
tense expectation. The Martians had but to advance into the line of
fire, and instantly those motionless black forms of men, those guns
glittering so darkly in the early night, would explode into a
thunderous fury of battle.

No doubt the thought that was uppermost in a thousand of those vigilant
minds, even as it was uppermost in mine, was the riddle—how much they
understood of us. Did they grasp that we in our millions were
organized, disciplined, working together? Or did they interpret our
spurts of fire, the sudden stinging of our shells, our steady
investment of their encampment, as we should the furious unanimity of
onslaught in a disturbed hive of bees? Did they dream they might
exterminate us? (At that time no one knew what food they needed.) A
hundred such questions struggled together in my mind as I watched that
vast sentinel shape. And in the back of my mind was the sense of all
the huge unknown and hidden forces Londonward. Had they prepared
pitfalls? Were the powder mills at Hounslow ready as a snare? Would the
Londoners have the heart and courage to make a greater Moscow of their
mighty province of houses?

Then, after an interminable time, as it seemed to us, crouching and
peering through the hedge, came a sound like the distant concussion of
a gun. Another nearer, and then another. And then the Martian beside us
raised his tube on high and discharged it, gunwise, with a heavy report
that made the ground heave. The one towards Staines answered him. There
was no flash, no smoke, simply that loaded detonation.

I was so excited by these heavy minute-guns following one another that
I so far forgot my personal safety and my scalded hands as to clamber
up into the hedge and stare towards Sunbury. As I did so a second
report followed, and a big projectile hurtled overhead towards
Hounslow. I expected at least to see smoke or fire, or some such
evidence of its work. But all I saw was the deep blue sky above, with
one solitary star, and the white mist spreading wide and low beneath.
And there had been no crash, no answering explosion. The silence was
restored; the minute lengthened to three.

“What has happened?” said the curate, standing up beside me.

“Heaven knows!” said I.

A bat flickered by and vanished. A distant tumult of shouting began and
ceased. I looked again at the Martian, and saw he was now moving
eastward along the riverbank, with a swift, rolling motion.

Every moment I expected the fire of some hidden battery to spring upon
him; but the evening calm was unbroken. The figure of the Martian grew
smaller as he receded, and presently the mist and the gathering night
had swallowed him up. By a common impulse we clambered higher. Towards
Sunbury was a dark appearance, as though a conical hill had suddenly
come into being there, hiding our view of the farther country; and
then, remoter across the river, over Walton, we saw another such
summit. These hill-like forms grew lower and broader even as we stared.

Moved by a sudden thought, I looked northward, and there I perceived a
third of these cloudy black kopjes had risen.

Everything had suddenly become very still. Far away to the southeast,
marking the quiet, we heard the Martians hooting to one another, and
then the air quivered again with the distant thud of their guns. But
the earthly artillery made no reply.

Now at the time we could not understand these things, but later I was
to learn the meaning of these ominous kopjes that gathered in the
twilight. Each of the Martians, standing in the great crescent I have
described, had discharged, by means of the gunlike tube he carried, a
huge canister over whatever hill, copse, cluster of houses, or other
possible cover for guns, chanced to be in front of him. Some fired only
one of these, some two—as in the case of the one we had seen; the one
at Ripley is said to have discharged no fewer than five at that time.
These canisters smashed on striking the ground—they did not explode—and
incontinently disengaged an enormous volume of heavy, inky vapour,
coiling and pouring upward in a huge and ebony cumulus cloud, a gaseous
hill that sank and spread itself slowly over the surrounding country.
And the touch of that vapour, the inhaling of its pungent wisps, was
death to all that breathes.

It was heavy, this vapour, heavier than the densest smoke, so that,
after the first tumultuous uprush and outflow of its impact, it sank
down through the air and poured over the ground in a manner rather
liquid than gaseous, abandoning the hills, and streaming into the
valleys and ditches and watercourses even as I have heard the
carbonic-acid gas that pours from volcanic clefts is wont to do. And
where it came upon water some chemical action occurred, and the surface
would be instantly covered with a powdery scum that sank slowly and
made way for more. The scum was absolutely insoluble, and it is a
strange thing, seeing the instant effect of the gas, that one could
drink without hurt the water from which it had been strained. The
vapour did not diffuse as a true gas would do. It hung together in
banks, flowing sluggishly down the slope of the land and driving
reluctantly before the wind, and very slowly it combined with the mist
and moisture of the air, and sank to the earth in the form of dust.
Save that an unknown element giving a group of four lines in the blue
of the spectrum is concerned, we are still entirely ignorant of the
nature of this substance.

Once the tumultuous upheaval of its dispersion was over, the black
smoke clung so closely to the ground, even before its precipitation,
that fifty feet up in the air, on the roofs and upper stories of high
houses and on great trees, there was a chance of escaping its poison
altogether, as was proved even that night at Street Cobham and Ditton.

The man who escaped at the former place tells a wonderful story of the
strangeness of its coiling flow, and how he looked down from the church
spire and saw the houses of the village rising like ghosts out of its
inky nothingness. For a day and a half he remained there, weary,
starving and sun-scorched, the earth under the blue sky and against the
prospect of the distant hills a velvet-black expanse, with red roofs,
green trees, and, later, black-veiled shrubs and gates, barns,
outhouses, and walls, rising here and there into the sunlight.

But that was at Street Cobham, where the black vapour was allowed to
remain until it sank of its own accord into the ground. As a rule the
Martians, when it had served its purpose, cleared the air of it again
by wading into it and directing a jet of steam upon it.

This they did with the vapour banks near us, as we saw in the starlight
from the window of a deserted house at Upper Halliford, whither we had
returned. From there we could see the searchlights on Richmond Hill and
Kingston Hill going to and fro, and about eleven the windows rattled,
and we heard the sound of the huge siege guns that had been put in
position there. These continued intermittently for the space of a
quarter of an hour, sending chance shots at the invisible Martians at
Hampton and Ditton, and then the pale beams of the electric light
vanished, and were replaced by a bright red glow.

Then the fourth cylinder fell—a brilliant green meteor—as I learned
afterwards, in Bushey Park. Before the guns on the Richmond and
Kingston line of hills began, there was a fitful cannonade far away in
the southwest, due, I believe, to guns being fired haphazard before the
black vapour could overwhelm the gunners.

So, setting about it as methodically as men might smoke out a wasps’
nest, the Martians spread this strange stifling vapour over the
Londonward country. The horns of the crescent slowly moved apart, until
at last they formed a line from Hanwell to Coombe and Malden. All night
through their destructive tubes advanced. Never once, after the Martian
at St. George’s Hill was brought down, did they give the artillery the
ghost of a chance against them. Wherever there was a possibility of
guns being laid for them unseen, a fresh canister of the black vapour
was discharged, and where the guns were openly displayed the Heat-Ray
was brought to bear.

By midnight the blazing trees along the slopes of Richmond Park and the
glare of Kingston Hill threw their light upon a network of black smoke,
blotting out the whole valley of the Thames and extending as far as the
eye could reach. And through this two Martians slowly waded, and turned
their hissing steam jets this way and that.

They were sparing of the Heat-Ray that night, either because they had
but a limited supply of material for its production or because they did
not wish to destroy the country but only to crush and overawe the
opposition they had aroused. In the latter aim they certainly
succeeded. Sunday night was the end of the organised opposition to
their movements. After that no body of men would stand against them, so
hopeless was the enterprise. Even the crews of the torpedo-boats and
destroyers that had brought their quick-firers up the Thames refused to
stop, mutinied, and went down again. The only offensive operation men
ventured upon after that night was the preparation of mines and
pitfalls, and even in that their energies were frantic and spasmodic.

One has to imagine, as well as one may, the fate of those batteries
towards Esher, waiting so tensely in the twilight. Survivors there were
none. One may picture the orderly expectation, the officers alert and
watchful, the gunners ready, the ammunition piled to hand, the limber
gunners with their horses and waggons, the groups of civilian
spectators standing as near as they were permitted, the evening
stillness, the ambulances and hospital tents with the burned and
wounded from Weybridge; then the dull resonance of the shots the
Martians fired, and the clumsy projectile whirling over the trees and
houses and smashing amid the neighbouring fields.

One may picture, too, the sudden shifting of the attention, the swiftly
spreading coils and bellyings of that blackness advancing headlong,
towering heavenward, turning the twilight to a palpable darkness, a
strange and horrible antagonist of vapour striding upon its victims,
men and horses near it seen dimly, running, shrieking, falling
headlong, shouts of dismay, the guns suddenly abandoned, men choking
and writhing on the ground, and the swift broadening-out of the opaque
cone of smoke. And then night and extinction—nothing but a silent mass
of impenetrable vapour hiding its dead.

Before dawn the black vapour was pouring through the streets of
Richmond, and the disintegrating organism of government was, with a
last expiring effort, rousing the population of London to the necessity
of flight.




XVI.
THE EXODUS FROM LONDON.


So you understand the roaring wave of fear that swept through the
greatest city in the world just as Monday was dawning—the stream of
flight rising swiftly to a torrent, lashing in a foaming tumult round
the railway stations, banked up into a horrible struggle about the
shipping in the Thames, and hurrying by every available channel
northward and eastward. By ten o’clock the police organisation, and by
midday even the railway organisations, were losing coherency, losing
shape and efficiency, guttering, softening, running at last in that
swift liquefaction of the social body.

All the railway lines north of the Thames and the South-Eastern people
at Cannon Street had been warned by midnight on Sunday, and trains were
being filled. People were fighting savagely for standing-room in the
carriages even at two o’clock. By three, people were being trampled and
crushed even in Bishopsgate Street, a couple of hundred yards or more
from Liverpool Street station; revolvers were fired, people stabbed,
and the policemen who had been sent to direct the traffic, exhausted
and infuriated, were breaking the heads of the people they were called
out to protect.

And as the day advanced and the engine drivers and stokers refused to
return to London, the pressure of the flight drove the people in an
ever-thickening multitude away from the stations and along the
northward-running roads. By midday a Martian had been seen at Barnes,
and a cloud of slowly sinking black vapour drove along the Thames and
across the flats of Lambeth, cutting off all escape over the bridges in
its sluggish advance. Another bank drove over Ealing, and surrounded a
little island of survivors on Castle Hill, alive, but unable to escape.

After a fruitless struggle to get aboard a North-Western train at Chalk
Farm—the engines of the trains that had loaded in the goods yard there
_ploughed_ through shrieking people, and a dozen stalwart men fought to
keep the crowd from crushing the driver against his furnace—my brother
emerged upon the Chalk Farm road, dodged across through a hurrying
swarm of vehicles, and had the luck to be foremost in the sack of a
cycle shop. The front tire of the machine he got was punctured in
dragging it through the window, but he got up and off, notwithstanding,
with no further injury than a cut wrist. The steep foot of Haverstock
Hill was impassable owing to several overturned horses, and my brother
struck into Belsize Road.

So he got out of the fury of the panic, and, skirting the Edgware Road,
reached Edgware about seven, fasting and wearied, but well ahead of the
crowd. Along the road people were standing in the roadway, curious,
wondering. He was passed by a number of cyclists, some horsemen, and
two motor cars. A mile from Edgware the rim of the wheel broke, and the
machine became unridable. He left it by the roadside and trudged
through the village. There were shops half opened in the main street of
the place, and people crowded on the pavement and in the doorways and
windows, staring astonished at this extraordinary procession of
fugitives that was beginning. He succeeded in getting some food at an
inn.

For a time he remained in Edgware not knowing what next to do. The
flying people increased in number. Many of them, like my brother,
seemed inclined to loiter in the place. There was no fresh news of the
invaders from Mars.

At that time the road was crowded, but as yet far from congested. Most
of the fugitives at that hour were mounted on cycles, but there were
soon motor cars, hansom cabs, and carriages hurrying along, and the
dust hung in heavy clouds along the road to St. Albans.

It was perhaps a vague idea of making his way to Chelmsford, where some
friends of his lived, that at last induced my brother to strike into a
quiet lane running eastward. Presently he came upon a stile, and,
crossing it, followed a footpath northeastward. He passed near several
farmhouses and some little places whose names he did not learn. He saw
few fugitives until, in a grass lane towards High Barnet, he happened
upon two ladies who became his fellow travellers. He came upon them
just in time to save them.

He heard their screams, and, hurrying round the corner, saw a couple of
men struggling to drag them out of the little pony-chaise in which they
had been driving, while a third with difficulty held the frightened
pony’s head. One of the ladies, a short woman dressed in white, was
simply screaming; the other, a dark, slender figure, slashed at the man
who gripped her arm with a whip she held in her disengaged hand.

My brother immediately grasped the situation, shouted, and hurried
towards the struggle. One of the men desisted and turned towards him,
and my brother, realising from his antagonist’s face that a fight was
unavoidable, and being an expert boxer, went into him forthwith and
sent him down against the wheel of the chaise.

It was no time for pugilistic chivalry and my brother laid him quiet
with a kick, and gripped the collar of the man who pulled at the
slender lady’s arm. He heard the clatter of hoofs, the whip stung
across his face, a third antagonist struck him between the eyes, and
the man he held wrenched himself free and made off down the lane in the
direction from which he had come.

Partly stunned, he found himself facing the man who had held the
horse’s head, and became aware of the chaise receding from him down the
lane, swaying from side to side, and with the women in it looking back.
The man before him, a burly rough, tried to close, and he stopped him
with a blow in the face. Then, realising that he was deserted, he
dodged round and made off down the lane after the chaise, with the
sturdy man close behind him, and the fugitive, who had turned now,
following remotely.

Suddenly he stumbled and fell; his immediate pursuer went headlong, and
he rose to his feet to find himself with a couple of antagonists again.
He would have had little chance against them had not the slender lady
very pluckily pulled up and returned to his help. It seems she had had
a revolver all this time, but it had been under the seat when she and
her companion were attacked. She fired at six yards’ distance, narrowly
missing my brother. The less courageous of the robbers made off, and
his companion followed him, cursing his cowardice. They both stopped in
sight down the lane, where the third man lay insensible.

“Take this!” said the slender lady, and she gave my brother her
revolver.

“Go back to the chaise,” said my brother, wiping the blood from his
split lip.

She turned without a word—they were both panting—and they went back to
where the lady in white struggled to hold back the frightened pony.

The robbers had evidently had enough of it. When my brother looked
again they were retreating.

“I’ll sit here,” said my brother, “if I may”; and he got upon the empty
front seat. The lady looked over her shoulder.

“Give me the reins,” she said, and laid the whip along the pony’s side.
In another moment a bend in the road hid the three men from my
brother’s eyes.

So, quite unexpectedly, my brother found himself, panting, with a cut
mouth, a bruised jaw, and bloodstained knuckles, driving along an
unknown lane with these two women.

He learned they were the wife and the younger sister of a surgeon
living at Stanmore, who had come in the small hours from a dangerous
case at Pinner, and heard at some railway station on his way of the
Martian advance. He had hurried home, roused the women—their servant
had left them two days before—packed some provisions, put his revolver
under the seat—luckily for my brother—and told them to drive on to
Edgware, with the idea of getting a train there. He stopped behind to
tell the neighbours. He would overtake them, he said, at about half
past four in the morning, and now it was nearly nine and they had seen
nothing of him. They could not stop in Edgware because of the growing
traffic through the place, and so they had come into this side lane.

That was the story they told my brother in fragments when presently
they stopped again, nearer to New Barnet. He promised to stay with
them, at least until they could determine what to do, or until the
missing man arrived, and professed to be an expert shot with the
revolver—a weapon strange to him—in order to give them confidence.

They made a sort of encampment by the wayside, and the pony became
happy in the hedge. He told them of his own escape out of London, and
all that he knew of these Martians and their ways. The sun crept higher
in the sky, and after a time their talk died out and gave place to an
uneasy state of anticipation. Several wayfarers came along the lane,
and of these my brother gathered such news as he could. Every broken
answer he had deepened his impression of the great disaster that had
come on humanity, deepened his persuasion of the immediate necessity
for prosecuting this flight. He urged the matter upon them.

“We have money,” said the slender woman, and hesitated.

Her eyes met my brother’s, and her hesitation ended.

“So have I,” said my brother.

She explained that they had as much as thirty pounds in gold, besides a
five-pound note, and suggested that with that they might get upon a
train at St. Albans or New Barnet. My brother thought that was
hopeless, seeing the fury of the Londoners to crowd upon the trains,
and broached his own idea of striking across Essex towards Harwich and
thence escaping from the country altogether.

Mrs. Elphinstone—that was the name of the woman in white—would listen
to no reasoning, and kept calling upon “George”; but her sister-in-law
was astonishingly quiet and deliberate, and at last agreed to my
brother’s suggestion. So, designing to cross the Great North Road, they
went on towards Barnet, my brother leading the pony to save it as much
as possible. As the sun crept up the sky the day became excessively
hot, and under foot a thick, whitish sand grew burning and blinding, so
that they travelled only very slowly. The hedges were grey with dust.
And as they advanced towards Barnet a tumultuous murmuring grew
stronger.

They began to meet more people. For the most part these were staring
before them, murmuring indistinct questions, jaded, haggard, unclean.
One man in evening dress passed them on foot, his eyes on the ground.
They heard his voice, and, looking back at him, saw one hand clutched
in his hair and the other beating invisible things. His paroxysm of
rage over, he went on his way without once looking back.

As my brother’s party went on towards the crossroads to the south of
Barnet they saw a woman approaching the road across some fields on
their left, carrying a child and with two other children; and then
passed a man in dirty black, with a thick stick in one hand and a small
portmanteau in the other. Then round the corner of the lane, from
between the villas that guarded it at its confluence with the high
road, came a little cart drawn by a sweating black pony and driven by a
sallow youth in a bowler hat, grey with dust. There were three girls,
East End factory girls, and a couple of little children crowded in the
cart.

“This’ll tike us rahnd Edgware?” asked the driver, wild-eyed,
white-faced; and when my brother told him it would if he turned to the
left, he whipped up at once without the formality of thanks.

My brother noticed a pale grey smoke or haze rising among the houses in
front of them, and veiling the white façade of a terrace beyond the
road that appeared between the backs of the villas. Mrs. Elphinstone
suddenly cried out at a number of tongues of smoky red flame leaping up
above the houses in front of them against the hot, blue sky. The
tumultuous noise resolved itself now into the disorderly mingling of
many voices, the gride of many wheels, the creaking of waggons, and the
staccato of hoofs. The lane came round sharply not fifty yards from the
crossroads.

“Good heavens!” cried Mrs. Elphinstone. “What is this you are driving
us into?”

My brother stopped.

For the main road was a boiling stream of people, a torrent of human
beings rushing northward, one pressing on another. A great bank of
dust, white and luminous in the blaze of the sun, made everything
within twenty feet of the ground grey and indistinct and was
perpetually renewed by the hurrying feet of a dense crowd of horses and
of men and women on foot, and by the wheels of vehicles of every
description.

“Way!” my brother heard voices crying. “Make way!”

It was like riding into the smoke of a fire to approach the meeting
point of the lane and road; the crowd roared like a fire, and the dust
was hot and pungent. And, indeed, a little way up the road a villa was
burning and sending rolling masses of black smoke across the road to
add to the confusion.

Two men came past them. Then a dirty woman, carrying a heavy bundle and
weeping. A lost retriever dog, with hanging tongue, circled dubiously
round them, scared and wretched, and fled at my brother’s threat.

So much as they could see of the road Londonward between the houses to
the right was a tumultuous stream of dirty, hurrying people, pent in
between the villas on either side; the black heads, the crowded forms,
grew into distinctness as they rushed towards the corner, hurried past,
and merged their individuality again in a receding multitude that was
swallowed up at last in a cloud of dust.

“Go on! Go on!” cried the voices. “Way! Way!”

One man’s hands pressed on the back of another. My brother stood at the
pony’s head. Irresistibly attracted, he advanced slowly, pace by pace,
down the lane.

Edgware had been a scene of confusion, Chalk Farm a riotous tumult, but
this was a whole population in movement. It is hard to imagine that
host. It had no character of its own. The figures poured out past the
corner, and receded with their backs to the group in the lane. Along
the margin came those who were on foot threatened by the wheels,
stumbling in the ditches, blundering into one another.

The carts and carriages crowded close upon one another, making little
way for those swifter and more impatient vehicles that darted forward
every now and then when an opportunity showed itself of doing so,
sending the people scattering against the fences and gates of the
villas.

“Push on!” was the cry. “Push on! They are coming!”

In one cart stood a blind man in the uniform of the Salvation Army,
gesticulating with his crooked fingers and bawling, “Eternity!
Eternity!” His voice was hoarse and very loud so that my brother could
hear him long after he was lost to sight in the dust. Some of the
people who crowded in the carts whipped stupidly at their horses and
quarrelled with other drivers; some sat motionless, staring at nothing
with miserable eyes; some gnawed their hands with thirst, or lay
prostrate in the bottoms of their conveyances. The horses’ bits were
covered with foam, their eyes bloodshot.

There were cabs, carriages, shop-carts, waggons, beyond counting; a
mail cart, a road-cleaner’s cart marked “Vestry of St. Pancras,” a huge
timber waggon crowded with roughs. A brewer’s dray rumbled by with its
two near wheels splashed with fresh blood.

“Clear the way!” cried the voices. “Clear the way!”

“Eter-nity! Eter-nity!” came echoing down the road.

There were sad, haggard women tramping by, well dressed, with children
that cried and stumbled, their dainty clothes smothered in dust, their
weary faces smeared with tears. With many of these came men, sometimes
helpful, sometimes lowering and savage. Fighting side by side with them
pushed some weary street outcast in faded black rags, wide-eyed,
loud-voiced, and foul-mouthed. There were sturdy workmen thrusting
their way along, wretched, unkempt men, clothed like clerks or shopmen,
struggling spasmodically; a wounded soldier my brother noticed, men
dressed in the clothes of railway porters, one wretched creature in a
nightshirt with a coat thrown over it.

But varied as its composition was, certain things all that host had in
common. There were fear and pain on their faces, and fear behind them.
A tumult up the road, a quarrel for a place in a waggon, sent the whole
host of them quickening their pace; even a man so scared and broken
that his knees bent under him was galvanised for a moment into renewed
activity. The heat and dust had already been at work upon this
multitude. Their skins were dry, their lips black and cracked. They
were all thirsty, weary, and footsore. And amid the various cries one
heard disputes, reproaches, groans of weariness and fatigue; the voices
of most of them were hoarse and weak. Through it all ran a refrain:

“Way! Way! The Martians are coming!”

Few stopped and came aside from that flood. The lane opened slantingly
into the main road with a narrow opening, and had a delusive appearance
of coming from the direction of London. Yet a kind of eddy of people
drove into its mouth; weaklings elbowed out of the stream, who for the
most part rested but a moment before plunging into it again. A little
way down the lane, with two friends bending over him, lay a man with a
bare leg, wrapped about with bloody rags. He was a lucky man to have
friends.

A little old man, with a grey military moustache and a filthy black
frock coat, limped out and sat down beside the trap, removed his
boot—his sock was blood-stained—shook out a pebble, and hobbled on
again; and then a little girl of eight or nine, all alone, threw
herself under the hedge close by my brother, weeping.

“I can’t go on! I can’t go on!”

My brother woke from his torpor of astonishment and lifted her up,
speaking gently to her, and carried her to Miss Elphinstone. So soon as
my brother touched her she became quite still, as if frightened.

“Ellen!” shrieked a woman in the crowd, with tears in her
voice—“Ellen!” And the child suddenly darted away from my brother,
crying “Mother!”

“They are coming,” said a man on horseback, riding past along the lane.

“Out of the way, there!” bawled a coachman, towering high; and my
brother saw a closed carriage turning into the lane.

The people crushed back on one another to avoid the horse. My brother
pushed the pony and chaise back into the hedge, and the man drove by
and stopped at the turn of the way. It was a carriage, with a pole for
a pair of horses, but only one was in the traces. My brother saw dimly
through the dust that two men lifted out something on a white stretcher
and put it gently on the grass beneath the privet hedge.

One of the men came running to my brother.

“Where is there any water?” he said. “He is dying fast, and very
thirsty. It is Lord Garrick.”

“Lord Garrick!” said my brother; “the Chief Justice?”

“The water?” he said.

“There may be a tap,” said my brother, “in some of the houses. We have
no water. I dare not leave my people.”

The man pushed against the crowd towards the gate of the corner house.

“Go on!” said the people, thrusting at him. “They are coming! Go on!”

Then my brother’s attention was distracted by a bearded, eagle-faced
man lugging a small handbag, which split even as my brother’s eyes
rested on it and disgorged a mass of sovereigns that seemed to break up
into separate coins as it struck the ground. They rolled hither and
thither among the struggling feet of men and horses. The man stopped
and looked stupidly at the heap, and the shaft of a cab struck his
shoulder and sent him reeling. He gave a shriek and dodged back, and a
cartwheel shaved him narrowly.

“Way!” cried the men all about him. “Make way!”

So soon as the cab had passed, he flung himself, with both hands open,
upon the heap of coins, and began thrusting handfuls in his pocket. A
horse rose close upon him, and in another moment, half rising, he had
been borne down under the horse’s hoofs.

“Stop!” screamed my brother, and pushing a woman out of his way, tried
to clutch the bit of the horse.

Before he could get to it, he heard a scream under the wheels, and saw
through the dust the rim passing over the poor wretch’s back. The
driver of the cart slashed his whip at my brother, who ran round behind
the cart. The multitudinous shouting confused his ears. The man was
writhing in the dust among his scattered money, unable to rise, for the
wheel had broken his back, and his lower limbs lay limp and dead. My
brother stood up and yelled at the next driver, and a man on a black
horse came to his assistance.

“Get him out of the road,” said he; and, clutching the man’s collar
with his free hand, my brother lugged him sideways. But he still
clutched after his money, and regarded my brother fiercely, hammering
at his arm with a handful of gold. “Go on! Go on!” shouted angry voices
behind. “Way! Way!”

There was a smash as the pole of a carriage crashed into the cart that
the man on horseback stopped. My brother looked up, and the man with
the gold twisted his head round and bit the wrist that held his collar.
There was a concussion, and the black horse came staggering sideways,
and the carthorse pushed beside it. A hoof missed my brother’s foot by
a hair’s breadth. He released his grip on the fallen man and jumped
back. He saw anger change to terror on the face of the poor wretch on
the ground, and in a moment he was hidden and my brother was borne
backward and carried past the entrance of the lane, and had to fight
hard in the torrent to recover it.

He saw Miss Elphinstone covering her eyes, and a little child, with all
a child’s want of sympathetic imagination, staring with dilated eyes at
a dusty something that lay black and still, ground and crushed under
the rolling wheels. “Let us go back!” he shouted, and began turning the
pony round. “We cannot cross this—hell,” he said and they went back a
hundred yards the way they had come, until the fighting crowd was
hidden. As they passed the bend in the lane my brother saw the face of
the dying man in the ditch under the privet, deadly white and drawn,
and shining with perspiration. The two women sat silent, crouching in
their seat and shivering.

Then beyond the bend my brother stopped again. Miss Elphinstone was
white and pale, and her sister-in-law sat weeping, too wretched even to
call upon “George.” My brother was horrified and perplexed. So soon as
they had retreated he realised how urgent and unavoidable it was to
attempt this crossing. He turned to Miss Elphinstone, suddenly
resolute.

“We must go that way,” he said, and led the pony round again.

For the second time that day this girl proved her quality. To force
their way into the torrent of people, my brother plunged into the
traffic and held back a cab horse, while she drove the pony across its
head. A waggon locked wheels for a moment and ripped a long splinter
from the chaise. In another moment they were caught and swept forward
by the stream. My brother, with the cabman’s whip marks red across his
face and hands, scrambled into the chaise and took the reins from her.

“Point the revolver at the man behind,” he said, giving it to her, “if
he presses us too hard. No!—point it at his horse.”

Then he began to look out for a chance of edging to the right across
the road. But once in the stream he seemed to lose volition, to become
a part of that dusty rout. They swept through Chipping Barnet with the
torrent; they were nearly a mile beyond the centre of the town before
they had fought across to the opposite side of the way. It was din and
confusion indescribable; but in and beyond the town the road forks
repeatedly, and this to some extent relieved the stress.

They struck eastward through Hadley, and there on either side of the
road, and at another place farther on they came upon a great multitude
of people drinking at the stream, some fighting to come at the water.
And farther on, from a lull near East Barnet, they saw two trains
running slowly one after the other without signal or order—trains
swarming with people, with men even among the coals behind the
engines—going northward along the Great Northern Railway. My brother
supposes they must have filled outside London, for at that time the
furious terror of the people had rendered the central termini
impossible.

Near this place they halted for the rest of the afternoon, for the
violence of the day had already utterly exhausted all three of them.
They began to suffer the beginnings of hunger; the night was cold, and
none of them dared to sleep. And in the evening many people came
hurrying along the road nearby their stopping place, fleeing from
unknown dangers before them, and going in the direction from which my
brother had come.




XVII.
THE “THUNDER CHILD”.


Had the Martians aimed only at destruction, they might on Monday have
annihilated the entire population of London, as it spread itself slowly
through the home counties. Not only along the road through Barnet, but
also through Edgware and Waltham Abbey, and along the roads eastward to
Southend and Shoeburyness, and south of the Thames to Deal and
Broadstairs, poured the same frantic rout. If one could have hung that
June morning in a balloon in the blazing blue above London every
northward and eastward road running out of the tangled maze of streets
would have seemed stippled black with the streaming fugitives, each dot
a human agony of terror and physical distress. I have set forth at
length in the last chapter my brother’s account of the road through
Chipping Barnet, in order that my readers may realise how that swarming
of black dots appeared to one of those concerned. Never before in the
history of the world had such a mass of human beings moved and suffered
together. The legendary hosts of Goths and Huns, the hugest armies Asia
has ever seen, would have been but a drop in that current. And this was
no disciplined march; it was a stampede—a stampede gigantic and
terrible—without order and without a goal, six million people unarmed
and unprovisioned, driving headlong. It was the beginning of the rout
of civilisation, of the massacre of mankind.

Directly below him the balloonist would have seen the network of
streets far and wide, houses, churches, squares, crescents,
gardens—already derelict—spread out like a huge map, and in the
southward _blotted_. Over Ealing, Richmond, Wimbledon, it would have
seemed as if some monstrous pen had flung ink upon the chart. Steadily,
incessantly, each black splash grew and spread, shooting out
ramifications this way and that, now banking itself against rising
ground, now pouring swiftly over a crest into a new-found valley,
exactly as a gout of ink would spread itself upon blotting paper.

And beyond, over the blue hills that rise southward of the river, the
glittering Martians went to and fro, calmly and methodically spreading
their poison cloud over this patch of country and then over that,
laying it again with their steam jets when it had served its purpose,
and taking possession of the conquered country. They do not seem to
have aimed at extermination so much as at complete demoralisation and
the destruction of any opposition. They exploded any stores of powder
they came upon, cut every telegraph, and wrecked the railways here and
there. They were hamstringing mankind. They seemed in no hurry to
extend the field of their operations, and did not come beyond the
central part of London all that day. It is possible that a very
considerable number of people in London stuck to their houses through
Monday morning. Certain it is that many died at home suffocated by the
Black Smoke.

Until about midday the Pool of London was an astonishing scene.
Steamboats and shipping of all sorts lay there, tempted by the enormous
sums of money offered by fugitives, and it is said that many who swam
out to these vessels were thrust off with boathooks and drowned. About
one o’clock in the afternoon the thinning remnant of a cloud of the
black vapour appeared between the arches of Blackfriars Bridge. At that
the Pool became a scene of mad confusion, fighting, and collision, and
for some time a multitude of boats and barges jammed in the northern
arch of the Tower Bridge, and the sailors and lightermen had to fight
savagely against the people who swarmed upon them from the riverfront.
People were actually clambering down the piers of the bridge from
above.

When, an hour later, a Martian appeared beyond the Clock Tower and
waded down the river, nothing but wreckage floated above Limehouse.

Of the falling of the fifth cylinder I have presently to tell. The
sixth star fell at Wimbledon. My brother, keeping watch beside the
women in the chaise in a meadow, saw the green flash of it far beyond
the hills. On Tuesday the little party, still set upon getting across
the sea, made its way through the swarming country towards Colchester.
The news that the Martians were now in possession of the whole of
London was confirmed. They had been seen at Highgate, and even, it was
said, at Neasden. But they did not come into my brother’s view until
the morrow.

That day the scattered multitudes began to realise the urgent need of
provisions. As they grew hungry the rights of property ceased to be
regarded. Farmers were out to defend their cattle-sheds, granaries, and
ripening root crops with arms in their hands. A number of people now,
like my brother, had their faces eastward, and there were some
desperate souls even going back towards London to get food. These were
chiefly people from the northern suburbs, whose knowledge of the Black
Smoke came by hearsay. He heard that about half the members of the
government had gathered at Birmingham, and that enormous quantities of
high explosives were being prepared to be used in automatic mines
across the Midland counties.

He was also told that the Midland Railway Company had replaced the
desertions of the first day’s panic, had resumed traffic, and was
running northward trains from St. Albans to relieve the congestion of
the home counties. There was also a placard in Chipping Ongar
announcing that large stores of flour were available in the northern
towns and that within twenty-four hours bread would be distributed
among the starving people in the neighbourhood. But this intelligence
did not deter him from the plan of escape he had formed, and the three
pressed eastward all day, and heard no more of the bread distribution
than this promise. Nor, as a matter of fact, did anyone else hear more
of it. That night fell the seventh star, falling upon Primrose Hill. It
fell while Miss Elphinstone was watching, for she took that duty
alternately with my brother. She saw it.

On Wednesday the three fugitives—they had passed the night in a field
of unripe wheat—reached Chelmsford, and there a body of the
inhabitants, calling itself the Committee of Public Supply, seized the
pony as provisions, and would give nothing in exchange for it but the
promise of a share in it the next day. Here there were rumours of
Martians at Epping, and news of the destruction of Waltham Abbey Powder
Mills in a vain attempt to blow up one of the invaders.

People were watching for Martians here from the church towers. My
brother, very luckily for him as it chanced, preferred to push on at
once to the coast rather than wait for food, although all three of them
were very hungry. By midday they passed through Tillingham, which,
strangely enough, seemed to be quite silent and deserted, save for a
few furtive plunderers hunting for food. Near Tillingham they suddenly
came in sight of the sea, and the most amazing crowd of shipping of all
sorts that it is possible to imagine.

For after the sailors could no longer come up the Thames, they came on
to the Essex coast, to Harwich and Walton and Clacton, and afterwards
to Foulness and Shoebury, to bring off the people. They lay in a huge
sickle-shaped curve that vanished into mist at last towards the Naze.
Close inshore was a multitude of fishing smacks—English, Scotch,
French, Dutch, and Swedish; steam launches from the Thames, yachts,
electric boats; and beyond were ships of larger burden, a multitude of
filthy colliers, trim merchantmen, cattle ships, passenger boats,
petroleum tanks, ocean tramps, an old white transport even, neat white
and grey liners from Southampton and Hamburg; and along the blue coast
across the Blackwater my brother could make out dimly a dense swarm of
boats chaffering with the people on the beach, a swarm which also
extended up the Blackwater almost to Maldon.

About a couple of miles out lay an ironclad, very low in the water,
almost, to my brother’s perception, like a water-logged ship. This was
the ram _Thunder Child_. It was the only warship in sight, but far away
to the right over the smooth surface of the sea—for that day there was
a dead calm—lay a serpent of black smoke to mark the next ironclads of
the Channel Fleet, which hovered in an extended line, steam up and
ready for action, across the Thames estuary during the course of the
Martian conquest, vigilant and yet powerless to prevent it.

At the sight of the sea, Mrs. Elphinstone, in spite of the assurances
of her sister-in-law, gave way to panic. She had never been out of
England before, she would rather die than trust herself friendless in a
foreign country, and so forth. She seemed, poor woman, to imagine that
the French and the Martians might prove very similar. She had been
growing increasingly hysterical, fearful, and depressed during the two
days’ journeyings. Her great idea was to return to Stanmore. Things had
been always well and safe at Stanmore. They would find George at
Stanmore....

It was with the greatest difficulty they could get her down to the
beach, where presently my brother succeeded in attracting the attention
of some men on a paddle steamer from the Thames. They sent a boat and
drove a bargain for thirty-six pounds for the three. The steamer was
going, these men said, to Ostend.

It was about two o’clock when my brother, having paid their fares at
the gangway, found himself safely aboard the steamboat with his
charges. There was food aboard, albeit at exorbitant prices, and the
three of them contrived to eat a meal on one of the seats forward.

There were already a couple of score of passengers aboard, some of whom
had expended their last money in securing a passage, but the captain
lay off the Blackwater until five in the afternoon, picking up
passengers until the seated decks were even dangerously crowded. He
would probably have remained longer had it not been for the sound of
guns that began about that hour in the south. As if in answer, the
ironclad seaward fired a small gun and hoisted a string of flags. A jet
of smoke sprang out of her funnels.

Some of the passengers were of opinion that this firing came from
Shoeburyness, until it was noticed that it was growing louder. At the
same time, far away in the southeast the masts and upperworks of three
ironclads rose one after the other out of the sea, beneath clouds of
black smoke. But my brother’s attention speedily reverted to the
distant firing in the south. He fancied he saw a column of smoke rising
out of the distant grey haze.

The little steamer was already flapping her way eastward of the big
crescent of shipping, and the low Essex coast was growing blue and
hazy, when a Martian appeared, small and faint in the remote distance,
advancing along the muddy coast from the direction of Foulness. At that
the captain on the bridge swore at the top of his voice with fear and
anger at his own delay, and the paddles seemed infected with his
terror. Every soul aboard stood at the bulwarks or on the seats of the
steamer and stared at that distant shape, higher than the trees or
church towers inland, and advancing with a leisurely parody of a human
stride.

It was the first Martian my brother had seen, and he stood, more amazed
than terrified, watching this Titan advancing deliberately towards the
shipping, wading farther and farther into the water as the coast fell
away. Then, far away beyond the Crouch, came another, striding over
some stunted trees, and then yet another, still farther off, wading
deeply through a shiny mudflat that seemed to hang halfway up between
sea and sky. They were all stalking seaward, as if to intercept the
escape of the multitudinous vessels that were crowded between Foulness
and the Naze. In spite of the throbbing exertions of the engines of the
little paddle-boat, and the pouring foam that her wheels flung behind
her, she receded with terrifying slowness from this ominous advance.

Glancing northwestward, my brother saw the large crescent of shipping
already writhing with the approaching terror; one ship passing behind
another, another coming round from broadside to end on, steamships
whistling and giving off volumes of steam, sails being let out,
launches rushing hither and thither. He was so fascinated by this and
by the creeping danger away to the left that he had no eyes for
anything seaward. And then a swift movement of the steamboat (she had
suddenly come round to avoid being run down) flung him headlong from
the seat upon which he was standing. There was a shouting all about
him, a trampling of feet, and a cheer that seemed to be answered
faintly. The steamboat lurched and rolled him over upon his hands.

He sprang to his feet and saw to starboard, and not a hundred yards
from their heeling, pitching boat, a vast iron bulk like the blade of a
plough tearing through the water, tossing it on either side in huge
waves of foam that leaped towards the steamer, flinging her paddles
helplessly in the air, and then sucking her deck down almost to the
waterline.

A douche of spray blinded my brother for a moment. When his eyes were
clear again he saw the monster had passed and was rushing landward. Big
iron upperworks rose out of this headlong structure, and from that twin
funnels projected and spat a smoking blast shot with fire. It was the
torpedo ram, _Thunder Child_, steaming headlong, coming to the rescue
of the threatened shipping.

Keeping his footing on the heaving deck by clutching the bulwarks, my
brother looked past this charging leviathan at the Martians again, and
he saw the three of them now close together, and standing so far out to
sea that their tripod supports were almost entirely submerged. Thus
sunken, and seen in remote perspective, they appeared far less
formidable than the huge iron bulk in whose wake the steamer was
pitching so helplessly. It would seem they were regarding this new
antagonist with astonishment. To their intelligence, it may be, the
giant was even such another as themselves. The _Thunder Child_ fired no
gun, but simply drove full speed towards them. It was probably her not
firing that enabled her to get so near the enemy as she did. They did
not know what to make of her. One shell, and they would have sent her
to the bottom forthwith with the Heat-Ray.

She was steaming at such a pace that in a minute she seemed halfway
between the steamboat and the Martians—a diminishing black bulk against
the receding horizontal expanse of the Essex coast.

Suddenly the foremost Martian lowered his tube and discharged a
canister of the black gas at the ironclad. It hit her larboard side and
glanced off in an inky jet that rolled away to seaward, an unfolding
torrent of Black Smoke, from which the ironclad drove clear. To the
watchers from the steamer, low in the water and with the sun in their
eyes, it seemed as though she were already among the Martians.

They saw the gaunt figures separating and rising out of the water as
they retreated shoreward, and one of them raised the camera-like
generator of the Heat-Ray. He held it pointing obliquely downward, and
a bank of steam sprang from the water at its touch. It must have driven
through the iron of the ship’s side like a white-hot iron rod through
paper.

A flicker of flame went up through the rising steam, and then the
Martian reeled and staggered. In another moment he was cut down, and a
great body of water and steam shot high in the air. The guns of the
_Thunder Child_ sounded through the reek, going off one after the
other, and one shot splashed the water high close by the steamer,
ricocheted towards the other flying ships to the north, and smashed a
smack to matchwood.

But no one heeded that very much. At the sight of the Martian’s
collapse the captain on the bridge yelled inarticulately, and all the
crowding passengers on the steamer’s stern shouted together. And then
they yelled again. For, surging out beyond the white tumult, drove
something long and black, the flames streaming from its middle parts,
its ventilators and funnels spouting fire.

She was alive still; the steering gear, it seems, was intact and her
engines working. She headed straight for a second Martian, and was
within a hundred yards of him when the Heat-Ray came to bear. Then with
a violent thud, a blinding flash, her decks, her funnels, leaped
upward. The Martian staggered with the violence of her explosion, and
in another moment the flaming wreckage, still driving forward with the
impetus of its pace, had struck him and crumpled him up like a thing of
cardboard. My brother shouted involuntarily. A boiling tumult of steam
hid everything again.

“Two!” yelled the captain.

Everyone was shouting. The whole steamer from end to end rang with
frantic cheering that was taken up first by one and then by all in the
crowding multitude of ships and boats that was driving out to sea.

The steam hung upon the water for many minutes, hiding the third
Martian and the coast altogether. And all this time the boat was
paddling steadily out to sea and away from the fight; and when at last
the confusion cleared, the drifting bank of black vapour intervened,
and nothing of the _Thunder Child_ could be made out, nor could the
third Martian be seen. But the ironclads to seaward were now quite
close and standing in towards shore past the steamboat.

The little vessel continued to beat its way seaward, and the ironclads
receded slowly towards the coast, which was hidden still by a marbled
bank of vapour, part steam, part black gas, eddying and combining in
the strangest way. The fleet of refugees was scattering to the
northeast; several smacks were sailing between the ironclads and the
steamboat. After a time, and before they reached the sinking cloud
bank, the warships turned northward, and then abruptly went about and
passed into the thickening haze of evening southward. The coast grew
faint, and at last indistinguishable amid the low banks of clouds that
were gathering about the sinking sun.

Then suddenly out of the golden haze of the sunset came the vibration
of guns, and a form of black shadows moving. Everyone struggled to the
rail of the steamer and peered into the blinding furnace of the west,
but nothing was to be distinguished clearly. A mass of smoke rose
slanting and barred the face of the sun. The steamboat throbbed on its
way through an interminable suspense.

The sun sank into grey clouds, the sky flushed and darkened, the
evening star trembled into sight. It was deep twilight when the captain
cried out and pointed. My brother strained his eyes. Something rushed
up into the sky out of the greyness—rushed slantingly upward and very
swiftly into the luminous clearness above the clouds in the western
sky; something flat and broad, and very large, that swept round in a
vast curve, grew smaller, sank slowly, and vanished again into the grey
mystery of the night. And as it flew it rained down darkness upon the
land.




BOOK TWO
THE EARTH UNDER THE MARTIANS.




I.
UNDER FOOT.


In the first book I have wandered so much from my own adventures to
tell of the experiences of my brother that all through the last two
chapters I and the curate have been lurking in the empty house at
Halliford whither we fled to escape the Black Smoke. There I will
resume. We stopped there all Sunday night and all the next day—the day
of the panic—in a little island of daylight, cut off by the Black Smoke
from the rest of the world. We could do nothing but wait in aching
inactivity during those two weary days.

My mind was occupied by anxiety for my wife. I figured her at
Leatherhead, terrified, in danger, mourning me already as a dead man. I
paced the rooms and cried aloud when I thought of how I was cut off
from her, of all that might happen to her in my absence. My cousin I
knew was brave enough for any emergency, but he was not the sort of man
to realise danger quickly, to rise promptly. What was needed now was
not bravery, but circumspection. My only consolation was to believe
that the Martians were moving Londonward and away from her. Such vague
anxieties keep the mind sensitive and painful. I grew very weary and
irritable with the curate’s perpetual ejaculations; I tired of the
sight of his selfish despair. After some ineffectual remonstrance I
kept away from him, staying in a room—evidently a children’s
schoolroom—containing globes, forms, and copybooks. When he followed me
thither, I went to a box room at the top of the house and, in order to
be alone with my aching miseries, locked myself in.

We were hopelessly hemmed in by the Black Smoke all that day and the
morning of the next. There were signs of people in the next house on
Sunday evening—a face at a window and moving lights, and later the
slamming of a door. But I do not know who these people were, nor what
became of them. We saw nothing of them next day. The Black Smoke
drifted slowly riverward all through Monday morning, creeping nearer
and nearer to us, driving at last along the roadway outside the house
that hid us.

A Martian came across the fields about midday, laying the stuff with a
jet of superheated steam that hissed against the walls, smashed all the
windows it touched, and scalded the curate’s hand as he fled out of the
front room. When at last we crept across the sodden rooms and looked
out again, the country northward was as though a black snowstorm had
passed over it. Looking towards the river, we were astonished to see an
unaccountable redness mingling with the black of the scorched meadows.

For a time we did not see how this change affected our position, save
that we were relieved of our fear of the Black Smoke. But later I
perceived that we were no longer hemmed in, that now we might get away.
So soon as I realised that the way of escape was open, my dream of
action returned. But the curate was lethargic, unreasonable.

“We are safe here,” he repeated; “safe here.”

I resolved to leave him—would that I had! Wiser now for the
artilleryman’s teaching, I sought out food and drink. I had found oil
and rags for my burns, and I also took a hat and a flannel shirt that I
found in one of the bedrooms. When it was clear to him that I meant to
go alone—had reconciled myself to going alone—he suddenly roused
himself to come. And all being quiet throughout the afternoon, we
started about five o’clock, as I should judge, along the blackened road
to Sunbury.

In Sunbury, and at intervals along the road, were dead bodies lying in
contorted attitudes, horses as well as men, overturned carts and
luggage, all covered thickly with black dust. That pall of cindery
powder made me think of what I had read of the destruction of Pompeii.
We got to Hampton Court without misadventure, our minds full of strange
and unfamiliar appearances, and at Hampton Court our eyes were relieved
to find a patch of green that had escaped the suffocating drift. We
went through Bushey Park, with its deer going to and fro under the
chestnuts, and some men and women hurrying in the distance towards
Hampton, and so we came to Twickenham. These were the first people we
saw.

Away across the road the woods beyond Ham and Petersham were still
afire. Twickenham was uninjured by either Heat-Ray or Black Smoke, and
there were more people about here, though none could give us news. For
the most part they were like ourselves, taking advantage of a lull to
shift their quarters. I have an impression that many of the houses here
were still occupied by scared inhabitants, too frightened even for
flight. Here too the evidence of a hasty rout was abundant along the
road. I remember most vividly three smashed bicycles in a heap, pounded
into the road by the wheels of subsequent carts. We crossed Richmond
Bridge about half past eight. We hurried across the exposed bridge, of
course, but I noticed floating down the stream a number of red masses,
some many feet across. I did not know what these were—there was no time
for scrutiny—and I put a more horrible interpretation on them than they
deserved. Here again on the Surrey side were black dust that had once
been smoke, and dead bodies—a heap near the approach to the station;
but we had no glimpse of the Martians until we were some way towards
Barnes.

We saw in the blackened distance a group of three people running down a
side street towards the river, but otherwise it seemed deserted. Up the
hill Richmond town was burning briskly; outside the town of Richmond
there was no trace of the Black Smoke.

Then suddenly, as we approached Kew, came a number of people running,
and the upperworks of a Martian fighting-machine loomed in sight over
the housetops, not a hundred yards away from us. We stood aghast at our
danger, and had the Martian looked down we must immediately have
perished. We were so terrified that we dared not go on, but turned
aside and hid in a shed in a garden. There the curate crouched, weeping
silently, and refusing to stir again.

But my fixed idea of reaching Leatherhead would not let me rest, and in
the twilight I ventured out again. I went through a shrubbery, and
along a passage beside a big house standing in its own grounds, and so
emerged upon the road towards Kew. The curate I left in the shed, but
he came hurrying after me.

That second start was the most foolhardy thing I ever did. For it was
manifest the Martians were about us. No sooner had the curate overtaken
me than we saw either the fighting-machine we had seen before or
another, far away across the meadows in the direction of Kew Lodge.
Four or five little black figures hurried before it across the
green-grey of the field, and in a moment it was evident this Martian
pursued them. In three strides he was among them, and they ran
radiating from his feet in all directions. He used no Heat-Ray to
destroy them, but picked them up one by one. Apparently he tossed them
into the great metallic carrier which projected behind him, much as a
workman’s basket hangs over his shoulder.

It was the first time I realised that the Martians might have any other
purpose than destruction with defeated humanity. We stood for a moment
petrified, then turned and fled through a gate behind us into a walled
garden, fell into, rather than found, a fortunate ditch, and lay there,
scarce daring to whisper to each other until the stars were out.

I suppose it was nearly eleven o’clock before we gathered courage to
start again, no longer venturing into the road, but sneaking along
hedgerows and through plantations, and watching keenly through the
darkness, he on the right and I on the left, for the Martians, who
seemed to be all about us. In one place we blundered upon a scorched
and blackened area, now cooling and ashen, and a number of scattered
dead bodies of men, burned horribly about the heads and trunks but with
their legs and boots mostly intact; and of dead horses, fifty feet,
perhaps, behind a line of four ripped guns and smashed gun carriages.

Sheen, it seemed, had escaped destruction, but the place was silent and
deserted. Here we happened on no dead, though the night was too dark
for us to see into the side roads of the place. In Sheen my companion
suddenly complained of faintness and thirst, and we decided to try one
of the houses.

The first house we entered, after a little difficulty with the window,
was a small semi-detached villa, and I found nothing eatable left in
the place but some mouldy cheese. There was, however, water to drink;
and I took a hatchet, which promised to be useful in our next
house-breaking.

We then crossed to a place where the road turns towards Mortlake. Here
there stood a white house within a walled garden, and in the pantry of
this domicile we found a store of food—two loaves of bread in a pan, an
uncooked steak, and the half of a ham. I give this catalogue so
precisely because, as it happened, we were destined to subsist upon
this store for the next fortnight. Bottled beer stood under a shelf,
and there were two bags of haricot beans and some limp lettuces. This
pantry opened into a kind of wash-up kitchen, and in this was firewood;
there was also a cupboard, in which we found nearly a dozen of
burgundy, tinned soups and salmon, and two tins of biscuits.

We sat in the adjacent kitchen in the dark—for we dared not strike a
light—and ate bread and ham, and drank beer out of the same bottle. The
curate, who was still timorous and restless, was now, oddly enough, for
pushing on, and I was urging him to keep up his strength by eating when
the thing happened that was to imprison us.

“It can’t be midnight yet,” I said, and then came a blinding glare of
vivid green light. Everything in the kitchen leaped out, clearly
visible in green and black, and vanished again. And then followed such
a concussion as I have never heard before or since. So close on the
heels of this as to seem instantaneous came a thud behind me, a clash
of glass, a crash and rattle of falling masonry all about us, and the
plaster of the ceiling came down upon us, smashing into a multitude of
fragments upon our heads. I was knocked headlong across the floor
against the oven handle and stunned. I was insensible for a long time,
the curate told me, and when I came to we were in darkness again, and
he, with a face wet, as I found afterwards, with blood from a cut
forehead, was dabbing water over me.

For some time I could not recollect what had happened. Then things came
to me slowly. A bruise on my temple asserted itself.

“Are you better?” asked the curate in a whisper.

At last I answered him. I sat up.

“Don’t move,” he said. “The floor is covered with smashed crockery from
the dresser. You can’t possibly move without making a noise, and I
fancy _they_ are outside.”

We both sat quite silent, so that we could scarcely hear each other
breathing. Everything seemed deadly still, but once something near us,
some plaster or broken brickwork, slid down with a rumbling sound.
Outside and very near was an intermittent, metallic rattle.

“That!” said the curate, when presently it happened again.

“Yes,” I said. “But what is it?”

“A Martian!” said the curate.

I listened again.

“It was not like the Heat-Ray,” I said, and for a time I was inclined
to think one of the great fighting-machines had stumbled against the
house, as I had seen one stumble against the tower of Shepperton
Church.

Our situation was so strange and incomprehensible that for three or
four hours, until the dawn came, we scarcely moved. And then the light
filtered in, not through the window, which remained black, but through
a triangular aperture between a beam and a heap of broken bricks in the
wall behind us. The interior of the kitchen we now saw greyly for the
first time.

The window had been burst in by a mass of garden mould, which flowed
over the table upon which we had been sitting and lay about our feet.
Outside, the soil was banked high against the house. At the top of the
window frame we could see an uprooted drainpipe. The floor was littered
with smashed hardware; the end of the kitchen towards the house was
broken into, and since the daylight shone in there, it was evident the
greater part of the house had collapsed. Contrasting vividly with this
ruin was the neat dresser, stained in the fashion, pale green, and with
a number of copper and tin vessels below it, the wallpaper imitating
blue and white tiles, and a couple of coloured supplements fluttering
from the walls above the kitchen range.

As the dawn grew clearer, we saw through the gap in the wall the body
of a Martian, standing sentinel, I suppose, over the still glowing
cylinder. At the sight of that we crawled as circumspectly as possible
out of the twilight of the kitchen into the darkness of the scullery.

Abruptly the right interpretation dawned upon my mind.

“The fifth cylinder,” I whispered, “the fifth shot from Mars, has
struck this house and buried us under the ruins!”

For a time the curate was silent, and then he whispered:

“God have mercy upon us!”

I heard him presently whimpering to himself.

Save for that sound we lay quite still in the scullery; I for my part
scarce dared breathe, and sat with my eyes fixed on the faint light of
the kitchen door. I could just see the curate’s face, a dim, oval
shape, and his collar and cuffs. Outside there began a metallic
hammering, then a violent hooting, and then again, after a quiet
interval, a hissing like the hissing of an engine. These noises, for
the most part problematical, continued intermittently, and seemed if
anything to increase in number as time wore on. Presently a measured
thudding and a vibration that made everything about us quiver and the
vessels in the pantry ring and shift, began and continued. Once the
light was eclipsed, and the ghostly kitchen doorway became absolutely
dark. For many hours we must have crouched there, silent and shivering,
until our tired attention failed. . . .

At last I found myself awake and very hungry. I am inclined to believe
we must have spent the greater portion of a day before that awakening.
My hunger was at a stride so insistent that it moved me to action. I
told the curate I was going to seek food, and felt my way towards the
pantry. He made me no answer, but so soon as I began eating the faint
noise I made stirred him up and I heard him crawling after me.




II.
WHAT WE SAW FROM THE RUINED HOUSE.


After eating we crept back to the scullery, and there I must have dozed
again, for when presently I looked round I was alone. The thudding
vibration continued with wearisome persistence. I whispered for the
curate several times, and at last felt my way to the door of the
kitchen. It was still daylight, and I perceived him across the room,
lying against the triangular hole that looked out upon the Martians.
His shoulders were hunched, so that his head was hidden from me.

I could hear a number of noises almost like those in an engine shed;
and the place rocked with that beating thud. Through the aperture in
the wall I could see the top of a tree touched with gold and the warm
blue of a tranquil evening sky. For a minute or so I remained watching
the curate, and then I advanced, crouching and stepping with extreme
care amid the broken crockery that littered the floor.

I touched the curate’s leg, and he started so violently that a mass of
plaster went sliding down outside and fell with a loud impact. I
gripped his arm, fearing he might cry out, and for a long time we
crouched motionless. Then I turned to see how much of our rampart
remained. The detachment of the plaster had left a vertical slit open
in the debris, and by raising myself cautiously across a beam I was
able to see out of this gap into what had been overnight a quiet
suburban roadway. Vast, indeed, was the change that we beheld.

The fifth cylinder must have fallen right into the midst of the house
we had first visited. The building had vanished, completely smashed,
pulverised, and dispersed by the blow. The cylinder lay now far beneath
the original foundations—deep in a hole, already vastly larger than the
pit I had looked into at Woking. The earth all round it had splashed
under that tremendous impact—“splashed” is the only word—and lay in
heaped piles that hid the masses of the adjacent houses. It had behaved
exactly like mud under the violent blow of a hammer. Our house had
collapsed backward; the front portion, even on the ground floor, had
been destroyed completely; by a chance the kitchen and scullery had
escaped, and stood buried now under soil and ruins, closed in by tons
of earth on every side save towards the cylinder. Over that aspect we
hung now on the very edge of the great circular pit the Martians were
engaged in making. The heavy beating sound was evidently just behind
us, and ever and again a bright green vapour drove up like a veil
across our peephole.

The cylinder was already opened in the centre of the pit, and on the
farther edge of the pit, amid the smashed and gravel-heaped shrubbery,
one of the great fighting-machines, deserted by its occupant, stood
stiff and tall against the evening sky. At first I scarcely noticed the
pit and the cylinder, although it has been convenient to describe them
first, on account of the extraordinary glittering mechanism I saw busy
in the excavation, and on account of the strange creatures that were
crawling slowly and painfully across the heaped mould near it.

The mechanism it certainly was that held my attention first. It was one
of those complicated fabrics that have since been called
handling-machines, and the study of which has already given such an
enormous impetus to terrestrial invention. As it dawned upon me first,
it presented a sort of metallic spider with five jointed, agile legs,
and with an extraordinary number of jointed levers, bars, and reaching
and clutching tentacles about its body. Most of its arms were
retracted, but with three long tentacles it was fishing out a number of
rods, plates, and bars which lined the covering and apparently
strengthened the walls of the cylinder. These, as it extracted them,
were lifted out and deposited upon a level surface of earth behind it.

Its motion was so swift, complex, and perfect that at first I did not
see it as a machine, in spite of its metallic glitter. The
fighting-machines were coordinated and animated to an extraordinary
pitch, but nothing to compare with this. People who have never seen
these structures, and have only the ill-imagined efforts of artists or
the imperfect descriptions of such eye-witnesses as myself to go upon,
scarcely realise that living quality.

I recall particularly the illustration of one of the first pamphlets to
give a consecutive account of the war. The artist had evidently made a
hasty study of one of the fighting-machines, and there his knowledge
ended. He presented them as tilted, stiff tripods, without either
flexibility or subtlety, and with an altogether misleading monotony of
effect. The pamphlet containing these renderings had a considerable
vogue, and I mention them here simply to warn the reader against the
impression they may have created. They were no more like the Martians I
saw in action than a Dutch doll is like a human being. To my mind, the
pamphlet would have been much better without them.

At first, I say, the handling-machine did not impress me as a machine,
but as a crablike creature with a glittering integument, the
controlling Martian whose delicate tentacles actuated its movements
seeming to be simply the equivalent of the crab’s cerebral portion. But
then I perceived the resemblance of its grey-brown, shiny, leathery
integument to that of the other sprawling bodies beyond, and the true
nature of this dexterous workman dawned upon me. With that realisation
my interest shifted to those other creatures, the real Martians.
Already I had had a transient impression of these, and the first nausea
no longer obscured my observation. Moreover, I was concealed and
motionless, and under no urgency of action.

They were, I now saw, the most unearthly creatures it is possible to
conceive. They were huge round bodies—or, rather, heads—about four feet
in diameter, each body having in front of it a face. This face had no
nostrils—indeed, the Martians do not seem to have had any sense of
smell, but it had a pair of very large dark-coloured eyes, and just
beneath this a kind of fleshy beak. In the back of this head or body—I
scarcely know how to speak of it—was the single tight tympanic surface,
since known to be anatomically an ear, though it must have been almost
useless in our dense air. In a group round the mouth were sixteen
slender, almost whiplike tentacles, arranged in two bunches of eight
each. These bunches have since been named rather aptly, by that
distinguished anatomist, Professor Howes, the _hands_. Even as I saw
these Martians for the first time they seemed to be endeavouring to
raise themselves on these hands, but of course, with the increased
weight of terrestrial conditions, this was impossible. There is reason
to suppose that on Mars they may have progressed upon them with some
facility.

The internal anatomy, I may remark here, as dissection has since shown,
was almost equally simple. The greater part of the structure was the
brain, sending enormous nerves to the eyes, ear, and tactile tentacles.
Besides this were the bulky lungs, into which the mouth opened, and the
heart and its vessels. The pulmonary distress caused by the denser
atmosphere and greater gravitational attraction was only too evident in
the convulsive movements of the outer skin.

And this was the sum of the Martian organs. Strange as it may seem to a
human being, all the complex apparatus of digestion, which makes up the
bulk of our bodies, did not exist in the Martians. They were
heads—merely heads. Entrails they had none. They did not eat, much less
digest. Instead, they took the fresh, living blood of other creatures,
and _injected_ it into their own veins. I have myself seen this being
done, as I shall mention in its place. But, squeamish as I may seem, I
cannot bring myself to describe what I could not endure even to
continue watching. Let it suffice to say, blood obtained from a still
living animal, in most cases from a human being, was run directly by
means of a little pipette into the recipient canal. . . .

The bare idea of this is no doubt horribly repulsive to us, but at the
same time I think that we should remember how repulsive our carnivorous
habits would seem to an intelligent rabbit.

The physiological advantages of the practice of injection are
undeniable, if one thinks of the tremendous waste of human time and
energy occasioned by eating and the digestive process. Our bodies are
half made up of glands and tubes and organs, occupied in turning
heterogeneous food into blood. The digestive processes and their
reaction upon the nervous system sap our strength and colour our minds.
Men go happy or miserable as they have healthy or unhealthy livers, or
sound gastric glands. But the Martians were lifted above all these
organic fluctuations of mood and emotion.

Their undeniable preference for men as their source of nourishment is
partly explained by the nature of the remains of the victims they had
brought with them as provisions from Mars. These creatures, to judge
from the shrivelled remains that have fallen into human hands, were
bipeds with flimsy, silicious skeletons (almost like those of the
silicious sponges) and feeble musculature, standing about six feet high
and having round, erect heads, and large eyes in flinty sockets. Two or
three of these seem to have been brought in each cylinder, and all were
killed before earth was reached. It was just as well for them, for the
mere attempt to stand upright upon our planet would have broken every
bone in their bodies.

And while I am engaged in this description, I may add in this place
certain further details which, although they were not all evident to us
at the time, will enable the reader who is unacquainted with them to
form a clearer picture of these offensive creatures.

In three other points their physiology differed strangely from ours.
Their organisms did not sleep, any more than the heart of man sleeps.
Since they had no extensive muscular mechanism to recuperate, that
periodical extinction was unknown to them. They had little or no sense
of fatigue, it would seem. On earth they could never have moved without
effort, yet even to the last they kept in action. In twenty-four hours
they did twenty-four hours of work, as even on earth is perhaps the
case with the ants.

In the next place, wonderful as it seems in a sexual world, the
Martians were absolutely without sex, and therefore without any of the
tumultuous emotions that arise from that difference among men. A young
Martian, there can now be no dispute, was really born upon earth during
the war, and it was found attached to its parent, partially _budded_
off, just as young lilybulbs bud off, or like the young animals in the
fresh-water polyp.

In man, in all the higher terrestrial animals, such a method of
increase has disappeared; but even on this earth it was certainly the
primitive method. Among the lower animals, up even to those first
cousins of the vertebrated animals, the Tunicates, the two processes
occur side by side, but finally the sexual method superseded its
competitor altogether. On Mars, however, just the reverse has
apparently been the case.

It is worthy of remark that a certain speculative writer of
quasi-scientific repute, writing long before the Martian invasion, did
forecast for man a final structure not unlike the actual Martian
condition. His prophecy, I remember, appeared in November or December,
1893, in a long-defunct publication, the _Pall Mall Budget_, and I
recall a caricature of it in a pre-Martian periodical called _Punch_.
He pointed out—writing in a foolish, facetious tone—that the perfection
of mechanical appliances must ultimately supersede limbs; the
perfection of chemical devices, digestion; that such organs as hair,
external nose, teeth, ears, and chin were no longer essential parts of
the human being, and that the tendency of natural selection would lie
in the direction of their steady diminution through the coming ages.
The brain alone remained a cardinal necessity. Only one other part of
the body had a strong case for survival, and that was the hand,
“teacher and agent of the brain.” While the rest of the body dwindled,
the hands would grow larger.

There is many a true word written in jest, and here in the Martians we
have beyond dispute the actual accomplishment of such a suppression of
the animal side of the organism by the intelligence. To me it is quite
credible that the Martians may be descended from beings not unlike
ourselves, by a gradual development of brain and hands (the latter
giving rise to the two bunches of delicate tentacles at last) at the
expense of the rest of the body. Without the body the brain would, of
course, become a mere selfish intelligence, without any of the
emotional substratum of the human being.

The last salient point in which the systems of these creatures differed
from ours was in what one might have thought a very trivial particular.
Micro-organisms, which cause so much disease and pain on earth, have
either never appeared upon Mars or Martian sanitary science eliminated
them ages ago. A hundred diseases, all the fevers and contagions of
human life, consumption, cancers, tumours and such morbidities, never
enter the scheme of their life. And speaking of the differences between
the life on Mars and terrestrial life, I may allude here to the curious
suggestions of the red weed.

Apparently the vegetable kingdom in Mars, instead of having green for a
dominant colour, is of a vivid blood-red tint. At any rate, the seeds
which the Martians (intentionally or accidentally) brought with them
gave rise in all cases to red-coloured growths. Only that known
popularly as the red weed, however, gained any footing in competition
with terrestrial forms. The red creeper was quite a transitory growth,
and few people have seen it growing. For a time, however, the red weed
grew with astonishing vigour and luxuriance. It spread up the sides of
the pit by the third or fourth day of our imprisonment, and its
cactus-like branches formed a carmine fringe to the edges of our
triangular window. And afterwards I found it broadcast throughout the
country, and especially wherever there was a stream of water.

The Martians had what appears to have been an auditory organ, a single
round drum at the back of the head-body, and eyes with a visual range
not very different from ours except that, according to Philips, blue
and violet were as black to them. It is commonly supposed that they
communicated by sounds and tentacular gesticulations; this is asserted,
for instance, in the able but hastily compiled pamphlet (written
evidently by someone not an eye-witness of Martian actions) to which I
have already alluded, and which, so far, has been the chief source of
information concerning them. Now no surviving human being saw so much
of the Martians in action as I did. I take no credit to myself for an
accident, but the fact is so. And I assert that I watched them closely
time after time, and that I have seen four, five, and (once) six of
them sluggishly performing the most elaborately complicated operations
together without either sound or gesture. Their peculiar hooting
invariably preceded feeding; it had no modulation, and was, I believe,
in no sense a signal, but merely the expiration of air preparatory to
the suctional operation. I have a certain claim to at least an
elementary knowledge of psychology, and in this matter I am
convinced—as firmly as I am convinced of anything—that the Martians
interchanged thoughts without any physical intermediation. And I have
been convinced of this in spite of strong preconceptions. Before the
Martian invasion, as an occasional reader here or there may remember, I
had written with some little vehemence against the telepathic theory.

The Martians wore no clothing. Their conceptions of ornament and
decorum were necessarily different from ours; and not only were they
evidently much less sensible of changes of temperature than we are, but
changes of pressure do not seem to have affected their health at all
seriously. Yet though they wore no clothing, it was in the other
artificial additions to their bodily resources that their great
superiority over man lay. We men, with our bicycles and road-skates,
our Lilienthal soaring-machines, our guns and sticks and so forth, are
just in the beginning of the evolution that the Martians have worked
out. They have become practically mere brains, wearing different bodies
according to their needs just as men wear suits of clothes and take a
bicycle in a hurry or an umbrella in the wet. And of their appliances,
perhaps nothing is more wonderful to a man than the curious fact that
what is the dominant feature of almost all human devices in mechanism
is absent—the _wheel_ is absent; among all the things they brought to
earth there is no trace or suggestion of their use of wheels. One would
have at least expected it in locomotion. And in this connection it is
curious to remark that even on this earth Nature has never hit upon the
wheel, or has preferred other expedients to its development. And not
only did the Martians either not know of (which is incredible), or
abstain from, the wheel, but in their apparatus singularly little use
is made of the fixed pivot or relatively fixed pivot, with circular
motions thereabout confined to one plane. Almost all the joints of the
machinery present a complicated system of sliding parts moving over
small but beautifully curved friction bearings. And while upon this
matter of detail, it is remarkable that the long leverages of their
machines are in most cases actuated by a sort of sham musculature of
the disks in an elastic sheath; these disks become polarised and drawn
closely and powerfully together when traversed by a current of
electricity. In this way the curious parallelism to animal motions,
which was so striking and disturbing to the human beholder, was
attained. Such quasi-muscles abounded in the crablike handling-machine
which, on my first peeping out of the slit, I watched unpacking the
cylinder. It seemed infinitely more alive than the actual Martians
lying beyond it in the sunset light, panting, stirring ineffectual
tentacles, and moving feebly after their vast journey across space.

While I was still watching their sluggish motions in the sunlight, and
noting each strange detail of their form, the curate reminded me of his
presence by pulling violently at my arm. I turned to a scowling face,
and silent, eloquent lips. He wanted the slit, which permitted only one
of us to peep through; and so I had to forego watching them for a time
while he enjoyed that privilege.

When I looked again, the busy handling-machine had already put together
several of the pieces of apparatus it had taken out of the cylinder
into a shape having an unmistakable likeness to its own; and down on
the left a busy little digging mechanism had come into view, emitting
jets of green vapour and working its way round the pit, excavating and
embanking in a methodical and discriminating manner. This it was which
had caused the regular beating noise, and the rhythmic shocks that had
kept our ruinous refuge quivering. It piped and whistled as it worked.
So far as I could see, the thing was without a directing Martian at
all.




III.
THE DAYS OF IMPRISONMENT.


The arrival of a second fighting-machine drove us from our peephole
into the scullery, for we feared that from his elevation the Martian
might see down upon us behind our barrier. At a later date we began to
feel less in danger of their eyes, for to an eye in the dazzle of the
sunlight outside our refuge must have been blank blackness, but at
first the slightest suggestion of approach drove us into the scullery
in heart-throbbing retreat. Yet terrible as was the danger we incurred,
the attraction of peeping was for both of us irresistible. And I recall
now with a sort of wonder that, in spite of the infinite danger in
which we were between starvation and a still more terrible death, we
could yet struggle bitterly for that horrible privilege of sight. We
would race across the kitchen in a grotesque way between eagerness and
the dread of making a noise, and strike each other, and thrust and
kick, within a few inches of exposure.

The fact is that we had absolutely incompatible dispositions and habits
of thought and action, and our danger and isolation only accentuated
the incompatibility. At Halliford I had already come to hate the
curate’s trick of helpless exclamation, his stupid rigidity of mind.
His endless muttering monologue vitiated every effort I made to think
out a line of action, and drove me at times, thus pent up and
intensified, almost to the verge of craziness. He was as lacking in
restraint as a silly woman. He would weep for hours together, and I
verily believe that to the very end this spoiled child of life thought
his weak tears in some way efficacious. And I would sit in the darkness
unable to keep my mind off him by reason of his importunities. He ate
more than I did, and it was in vain I pointed out that our only chance
of life was to stop in the house until the Martians had done with their
pit, that in that long patience a time might presently come when we
should need food. He ate and drank impulsively in heavy meals at long
intervals. He slept little.

As the days wore on, his utter carelessness of any consideration so
intensified our distress and danger that I had, much as I loathed doing
it, to resort to threats, and at last to blows. That brought him to
reason for a time. But he was one of those weak creatures, void of
pride, timorous, anæmic, hateful souls, full of shifty cunning, who
face neither God nor man, who face not even themselves.

It is disagreeable for me to recall and write these things, but I set
them down that my story may lack nothing. Those who have escaped the
dark and terrible aspects of life will find my brutality, my flash of
rage in our final tragedy, easy enough to blame; for they know what is
wrong as well as any, but not what is possible to tortured men. But
those who have been under the shadow, who have gone down at last to
elemental things, will have a wider charity.

And while within we fought out our dark, dim contest of whispers,
snatched food and drink, and gripping hands and blows, without, in the
pitiless sunlight of that terrible June, was the strange wonder, the
unfamiliar routine of the Martians in the pit. Let me return to those
first new experiences of mine. After a long time I ventured back to the
peephole, to find that the new-comers had been reinforced by the
occupants of no fewer than three of the fighting-machines. These last
had brought with them certain fresh appliances that stood in an orderly
manner about the cylinder. The second handling-machine was now
completed, and was busied in serving one of the novel contrivances the
big machine had brought. This was a body resembling a milk can in its
general form, above which oscillated a pear-shaped receptacle, and from
which a stream of white powder flowed into a circular basin below.

The oscillatory motion was imparted to this by one tentacle of the
handling-machine. With two spatulate hands the handling-machine was
digging out and flinging masses of clay into the pear-shaped receptacle
above, while with another arm it periodically opened a door and removed
rusty and blackened clinkers from the middle part of the machine.
Another steely tentacle directed the powder from the basin along a
ribbed channel towards some receiver that was hidden from me by the
mound of bluish dust. From this unseen receiver a little thread of
green smoke rose vertically into the quiet air. As I looked, the
handling-machine, with a faint and musical clinking, extended,
telescopic fashion, a tentacle that had been a moment before a mere
blunt projection, until its end was hidden behind the mound of clay. In
another second it had lifted a bar of white aluminium into sight,
untarnished as yet, and shining dazzlingly, and deposited it in a
growing stack of bars that stood at the side of the pit. Between sunset
and starlight this dexterous machine must have made more than a hundred
such bars out of the crude clay, and the mound of bluish dust rose
steadily until it topped the side of the pit.

The contrast between the swift and complex movements of these
contrivances and the inert panting clumsiness of their masters was
acute, and for days I had to tell myself repeatedly that these latter
were indeed the living of the two things.

The curate had possession of the slit when the first men were brought
to the pit. I was sitting below, huddled up, listening with all my
ears. He made a sudden movement backward, and I, fearful that we were
observed, crouched in a spasm of terror. He came sliding down the
rubbish and crept beside me in the darkness, inarticulate,
gesticulating, and for a moment I shared his panic. His gesture
suggested a resignation of the slit, and after a little while my
curiosity gave me courage, and I rose up, stepped across him, and
clambered up to it. At first I could see no reason for his frantic
behaviour. The twilight had now come, the stars were little and faint,
but the pit was illuminated by the flickering green fire that came from
the aluminium-making. The whole picture was a flickering scheme of
green gleams and shifting rusty black shadows, strangely trying to the
eyes. Over and through it all went the bats, heeding it not at all. The
sprawling Martians were no longer to be seen, the mound of blue-green
powder had risen to cover them from sight, and a fighting-machine, with
its legs contracted, crumpled, and abbreviated, stood across the corner
of the pit. And then, amid the clangour of the machinery, came a
drifting suspicion of human voices, that I entertained at first only to
dismiss.

I crouched, watching this fighting-machine closely, satisfying myself
now for the first time that the hood did indeed contain a Martian. As
the green flames lifted I could see the oily gleam of his integument
and the brightness of his eyes. And suddenly I heard a yell, and saw a
long tentacle reaching over the shoulder of the machine to the little
cage that hunched upon its back. Then something—something struggling
violently—was lifted high against the sky, a black, vague enigma
against the starlight; and as this black object came down again, I saw
by the green brightness that it was a man. For an instant he was
clearly visible. He was a stout, ruddy, middle-aged man, well dressed;
three days before, he must have been walking the world, a man of
considerable consequence. I could see his staring eyes and gleams of
light on his studs and watch chain. He vanished behind the mound, and
for a moment there was silence. And then began a shrieking and a
sustained and cheerful hooting from the Martians.

I slid down the rubbish, struggled to my feet, clapped my hands over my
ears, and bolted into the scullery. The curate, who had been crouching
silently with his arms over his head, looked up as I passed, cried out
quite loudly at my desertion of him, and came running after me.

That night, as we lurked in the scullery, balanced between our horror
and the terrible fascination this peeping had, although I felt an
urgent need of action I tried in vain to conceive some plan of escape;
but afterwards, during the second day, I was able to consider our
position with great clearness. The curate, I found, was quite incapable
of discussion; this new and culminating atrocity had robbed him of all
vestiges of reason or forethought. Practically he had already sunk to
the level of an animal. But as the saying goes, I gripped myself with
both hands. It grew upon my mind, once I could face the facts, that
terrible as our position was, there was as yet no justification for
absolute despair. Our chief chance lay in the possibility of the
Martians making the pit nothing more than a temporary encampment. Or
even if they kept it permanently, they might not consider it necessary
to guard it, and a chance of escape might be afforded us. I also
weighed very carefully the possibility of our digging a way out in a
direction away from the pit, but the chances of our emerging within
sight of some sentinel fighting-machine seemed at first too great. And
I should have had to do all the digging myself. The curate would
certainly have failed me.

It was on the third day, if my memory serves me right, that I saw the
lad killed. It was the only occasion on which I actually saw the
Martians feed. After that experience I avoided the hole in the wall for
the better part of a day. I went into the scullery, removed the door,
and spent some hours digging with my hatchet as silently as possible;
but when I had made a hole about a couple of feet deep the loose earth
collapsed noisily, and I did not dare continue. I lost heart, and lay
down on the scullery floor for a long time, having no spirit even to
move. And after that I abandoned altogether the idea of escaping by
excavation.

It says much for the impression the Martians had made upon me that at
first I entertained little or no hope of our escape being brought about
by their overthrow through any human effort. But on the fourth or fifth
night I heard a sound like heavy guns.

It was very late in the night, and the moon was shining brightly. The
Martians had taken away the excavating-machine, and, save for a
fighting-machine that stood in the remoter bank of the pit and a
handling-machine that was buried out of my sight in a corner of the pit
immediately beneath my peephole, the place was deserted by them. Except
for the pale glow from the handling-machine and the bars and patches of
white moonlight the pit was in darkness, and, except for the clinking
of the handling-machine, quite still. That night was a beautiful
serenity; save for one planet, the moon seemed to have the sky to
herself. I heard a dog howling, and that familiar sound it was that
made me listen. Then I heard quite distinctly a booming exactly like
the sound of great guns. Six distinct reports I counted, and after a
long interval six again. And that was all.




IV.
THE DEATH OF THE CURATE.


It was on the sixth day of our imprisonment that I peeped for the last
time, and presently found myself alone. Instead of keeping close to me
and trying to oust me from the slit, the curate had gone back into the
scullery. I was struck by a sudden thought. I went back quickly and
quietly into the scullery. In the darkness I heard the curate drinking.
I snatched in the darkness, and my fingers caught a bottle of burgundy.

For a few minutes there was a tussle. The bottle struck the floor and
broke, and I desisted and rose. We stood panting and threatening each
other. In the end I planted myself between him and the food, and told
him of my determination to begin a discipline. I divided the food in
the pantry, into rations to last us ten days. I would not let him eat
any more that day. In the afternoon he made a feeble effort to get at
the food. I had been dozing, but in an instant I was awake. All day and
all night we sat face to face, I weary but resolute, and he weeping and
complaining of his immediate hunger. It was, I know, a night and a day,
but to me it seemed—it seems now—an interminable length of time.

And so our widened incompatibility ended at last in open conflict. For
two vast days we struggled in undertones and wrestling contests. There
were times when I beat and kicked him madly, times when I cajoled and
persuaded him, and once I tried to bribe him with the last bottle of
burgundy, for there was a rain-water pump from which I could get water.
But neither force nor kindness availed; he was indeed beyond reason. He
would neither desist from his attacks on the food nor from his noisy
babbling to himself. The rudimentary precautions to keep our
imprisonment endurable he would not observe. Slowly I began to realise
the complete overthrow of his intelligence, to perceive that my sole
companion in this close and sickly darkness was a man insane.

From certain vague memories I am inclined to think my own mind wandered
at times. I had strange and hideous dreams whenever I slept. It sounds
paradoxical, but I am inclined to think that the weakness and insanity
of the curate warned me, braced me, and kept me a sane man.

On the eighth day he began to talk aloud instead of whispering, and
nothing I could do would moderate his speech.

“It is just, O God!” he would say, over and over again. “It is just. On
me and mine be the punishment laid. We have sinned, we have fallen
short. There was poverty, sorrow; the poor were trodden in the dust,
and I held my peace. I preached acceptable folly—my God, what
folly!—when I should have stood up, though I died for it, and called
upon them to repent—repent! . . . Oppressors of the poor and needy! . .
. The wine press of God!”

Then he would suddenly revert to the matter of the food I withheld from
him, praying, begging, weeping, at last threatening. He began to raise
his voice—I prayed him not to. He perceived a hold on me—he threatened
he would shout and bring the Martians upon us. For a time that scared
me; but any concession would have shortened our chance of escape beyond
estimating. I defied him, although I felt no assurance that he might
not do this thing. But that day, at any rate, he did not. He talked
with his voice rising slowly, through the greater part of the eighth
and ninth days—threats, entreaties, mingled with a torrent of half-sane
and always frothy repentance for his vacant sham of God’s service, such
as made me pity him. Then he slept awhile, and began again with renewed
strength, so loudly that I must needs make him desist.

“Be still!” I implored.

He rose to his knees, for he had been sitting in the darkness near the
copper.

“I have been still too long,” he said, in a tone that must have reached
the pit, “and now I must bear my witness. Woe unto this unfaithful
city! Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe! To the inhabitants of the earth by
reason of the other voices of the trumpet——”

“Shut up!” I said, rising to my feet, and in a terror lest the Martians
should hear us. “For God’s sake——”

“Nay,” shouted the curate, at the top of his voice, standing likewise
and extending his arms. “Speak! The word of the Lord is upon me!”

In three strides he was at the door leading into the kitchen.

“I must bear my witness! I go! It has already been too long delayed.”

I put out my hand and felt the meat chopper hanging to the wall. In a
flash I was after him. I was fierce with fear. Before he was halfway
across the kitchen I had overtaken him. With one last touch of humanity
I turned the blade back and struck him with the butt. He went headlong
forward and lay stretched on the ground. I stumbled over him and stood
panting. He lay still.

Suddenly I heard a noise without, the run and smash of slipping
plaster, and the triangular aperture in the wall was darkened. I looked
up and saw the lower surface of a handling-machine coming slowly across
the hole. One of its gripping limbs curled amid the debris; another
limb appeared, feeling its way over the fallen beams. I stood
petrified, staring. Then I saw through a sort of glass plate near the
edge of the body the face, as we may call it, and the large dark eyes
of a Martian, peering, and then a long metallic snake of tentacle came
feeling slowly through the hole.

I turned by an effort, stumbled over the curate, and stopped at the
scullery door. The tentacle was now some way, two yards or more, in the
room, and twisting and turning, with queer sudden movements, this way
and that. For a while I stood fascinated by that slow, fitful advance.
Then, with a faint, hoarse cry, I forced myself across the scullery. I
trembled violently; I could scarcely stand upright. I opened the door
of the coal cellar, and stood there in the darkness staring at the
faintly lit doorway into the kitchen, and listening. Had the Martian
seen me? What was it doing now?

Something was moving to and fro there, very quietly; every now and then
it tapped against the wall, or started on its movements with a faint
metallic ringing, like the movements of keys on a split-ring. Then a
heavy body—I knew too well what—was dragged across the floor of the
kitchen towards the opening. Irresistibly attracted, I crept to the
door and peeped into the kitchen. In the triangle of bright outer
sunlight I saw the Martian, in its Briareus of a handling-machine,
scrutinizing the curate’s head. I thought at once that it would infer
my presence from the mark of the blow I had given him.

I crept back to the coal cellar, shut the door, and began to cover
myself up as much as I could, and as noiselessly as possible in the
darkness, among the firewood and coal therein. Every now and then I
paused, rigid, to hear if the Martian had thrust its tentacles through
the opening again.

Then the faint metallic jingle returned. I traced it slowly feeling
over the kitchen. Presently I heard it nearer—in the scullery, as I
judged. I thought that its length might be insufficient to reach me. I
prayed copiously. It passed, scraping faintly across the cellar door.
An age of almost intolerable suspense intervened; then I heard it
fumbling at the latch! It had found the door! The Martians understood
doors!

It worried at the catch for a minute, perhaps, and then the door
opened.

In the darkness I could just see the thing—like an elephant’s trunk
more than anything else—waving towards me and touching and examining
the wall, coals, wood and ceiling. It was like a black worm swaying its
blind head to and fro.

Once, even, it touched the heel of my boot. I was on the verge of
screaming; I bit my hand. For a time the tentacle was silent. I could
have fancied it had been withdrawn. Presently, with an abrupt click, it
gripped something—I thought it had me!—and seemed to go out of the
cellar again. For a minute I was not sure. Apparently it had taken a
lump of coal to examine.

I seized the opportunity of slightly shifting my position, which had
become cramped, and then listened. I whispered passionate prayers for
safety.

Then I heard the slow, deliberate sound creeping towards me again.
Slowly, slowly it drew near, scratching against the walls and tapping
the furniture.

While I was still doubtful, it rapped smartly against the cellar door
and closed it. I heard it go into the pantry, and the biscuit-tins
rattled and a bottle smashed, and then came a heavy bump against the
cellar door. Then silence that passed into an infinity of suspense.

Had it gone?

At last I decided that it had.

It came into the scullery no more; but I lay all the tenth day in the
close darkness, buried among coals and firewood, not daring even to
crawl out for the drink for which I craved. It was the eleventh day
before I ventured so far from my security.




V.
THE STILLNESS.


My first act before I went into the pantry was to fasten the door
between the kitchen and the scullery. But the pantry was empty; every
scrap of food had gone. Apparently, the Martian had taken it all on the
previous day. At that discovery I despaired for the first time. I took
no food, or no drink either, on the eleventh or the twelfth day.

At first my mouth and throat were parched, and my strength ebbed
sensibly. I sat about in the darkness of the scullery, in a state of
despondent wretchedness. My mind ran on eating. I thought I had become
deaf, for the noises of movement I had been accustomed to hear from the
pit had ceased absolutely. I did not feel strong enough to crawl
noiselessly to the peephole, or I would have gone there.

On the twelfth day my throat was so painful that, taking the chance of
alarming the Martians, I attacked the creaking rain-water pump that
stood by the sink, and got a couple of glassfuls of blackened and
tainted rain water. I was greatly refreshed by this, and emboldened by
the fact that no enquiring tentacle followed the noise of my pumping.

During these days, in a rambling, inconclusive way, I thought much of
the curate and of the manner of his death.

On the thirteenth day I drank some more water, and dozed and thought
disjointedly of eating and of vague impossible plans of escape.
Whenever I dozed I dreamt of horrible phantasms, of the death of the
curate, or of sumptuous dinners; but, asleep or awake, I felt a keen
pain that urged me to drink again and again. The light that came into
the scullery was no longer grey, but red. To my disordered imagination
it seemed the colour of blood.

On the fourteenth day I went into the kitchen, and I was surprised to
find that the fronds of the red weed had grown right across the hole in
the wall, turning the half-light of the place into a crimson-coloured
obscurity.

It was early on the fifteenth day that I heard a curious, familiar
sequence of sounds in the kitchen, and, listening, identified it as the
snuffing and scratching of a dog. Going into the kitchen, I saw a dog’s
nose peering in through a break among the ruddy fronds. This greatly
surprised me. At the scent of me he barked shortly.

I thought if I could induce him to come into the place quietly I should
be able, perhaps, to kill and eat him; and in any case, it would be
advisable to kill him, lest his actions attracted the attention of the
Martians.

I crept forward, saying “Good dog!” very softly; but he suddenly
withdrew his head and disappeared.

I listened—I was not deaf—but certainly the pit was still. I heard a
sound like the flutter of a bird’s wings, and a hoarse croaking, but
that was all.

For a long while I lay close to the peephole, but not daring to move
aside the red plants that obscured it. Once or twice I heard a faint
pitter-patter like the feet of the dog going hither and thither on the
sand far below me, and there were more birdlike sounds, but that was
all. At length, encouraged by the silence, I looked out.

Except in the corner, where a multitude of crows hopped and fought over
the skeletons of the dead the Martians had consumed, there was not a
living thing in the pit.

I stared about me, scarcely believing my eyes. All the machinery had
gone. Save for the big mound of greyish-blue powder in one corner,
certain bars of aluminium in another, the black birds, and the
skeletons of the killed, the place was merely an empty circular pit in
the sand.

Slowly I thrust myself out through the red weed, and stood upon the
mound of rubble. I could see in any direction save behind me, to the
north, and neither Martians nor sign of Martians were to be seen. The
pit dropped sheerly from my feet, but a little way along the rubbish
afforded a practicable slope to the summit of the ruins. My chance of
escape had come. I began to tremble.

I hesitated for some time, and then, in a gust of desperate resolution,
and with a heart that throbbed violently, I scrambled to the top of the
mound in which I had been buried so long.

I looked about again. To the northward, too, no Martian was visible.

When I had last seen this part of Sheen in the daylight it had been a
straggling street of comfortable white and red houses, interspersed
with abundant shady trees. Now I stood on a mound of smashed brickwork,
clay, and gravel, over which spread a multitude of red cactus-shaped
plants, knee-high, without a solitary terrestrial growth to dispute
their footing. The trees near me were dead and brown, but further a
network of red thread scaled the still living stems.

The neighbouring houses had all been wrecked, but none had been burned;
their walls stood, sometimes to the second story, with smashed windows
and shattered doors. The red weed grew tumultuously in their roofless
rooms. Below me was the great pit, with the crows struggling for its
refuse. A number of other birds hopped about among the ruins. Far away
I saw a gaunt cat slink crouchingly along a wall, but traces of men
there were none.

The day seemed, by contrast with my recent confinement, dazzlingly
bright, the sky a glowing blue. A gentle breeze kept the red weed that
covered every scrap of unoccupied ground gently swaying. And oh! the
sweetness of the air!




VI.
THE WORK OF FIFTEEN DAYS.


For some time I stood tottering on the mound regardless of my safety.
Within that noisome den from which I had emerged I had thought with a
narrow intensity only of our immediate security. I had not realised
what had been happening to the world, had not anticipated this
startling vision of unfamiliar things. I had expected to see Sheen in
ruins—I found about me the landscape, weird and lurid, of another
planet.

For that moment I touched an emotion beyond the common range of men,
yet one that the poor brutes we dominate know only too well. I felt as
a rabbit might feel returning to his burrow and suddenly confronted by
the work of a dozen busy navvies digging the foundations of a house. I
felt the first inkling of a thing that presently grew quite clear in my
mind, that oppressed me for many days, a sense of dethronement, a
persuasion that I was no longer a master, but an animal among the
animals, under the Martian heel. With us it would be as with them, to
lurk and watch, to run and hide; the fear and empire of man had passed
away.

But so soon as this strangeness had been realised it passed, and my
dominant motive became the hunger of my long and dismal fast. In the
direction away from the pit I saw, beyond a red-covered wall, a patch
of garden ground unburied. This gave me a hint, and I went knee-deep,
and sometimes neck-deep, in the red weed. The density of the weed gave
me a reassuring sense of hiding. The wall was some six feet high, and
when I attempted to clamber it I found I could not lift my feet to the
crest. So I went along by the side of it, and came to a corner and a
rockwork that enabled me to get to the top, and tumble into the garden
I coveted. Here I found some young onions, a couple of gladiolus bulbs,
and a quantity of immature carrots, all of which I secured, and,
scrambling over a ruined wall, went on my way through scarlet and
crimson trees towards Kew—it was like walking through an avenue of
gigantic blood drops—possessed with two ideas: to get more food, and to
limp, as soon and as far as my strength permitted, out of this accursed
unearthly region of the pit.

Some way farther, in a grassy place, was a group of mushrooms which
also I devoured, and then I came upon a brown sheet of flowing shallow
water, where meadows used to be. These fragments of nourishment served
only to whet my hunger. At first I was surprised at this flood in a
hot, dry summer, but afterwards I discovered that it was caused by the
tropical exuberance of the red weed. Directly this extraordinary growth
encountered water it straightway became gigantic and of unparalleled
fecundity. Its seeds were simply poured down into the water of the Wey
and Thames, and its swiftly growing and Titanic water fronds speedily
choked both those rivers.

At Putney, as I afterwards saw, the bridge was almost lost in a tangle
of this weed, and at Richmond, too, the Thames water poured in a broad
and shallow stream across the meadows of Hampton and Twickenham. As the
water spread the weed followed them, until the ruined villas of the
Thames valley were for a time lost in this red swamp, whose margin I
explored, and much of the desolation the Martians had caused was
concealed.

In the end the red weed succumbed almost as quickly as it had spread. A
cankering disease, due, it is believed, to the action of certain
bacteria, presently seized upon it. Now by the action of natural
selection, all terrestrial plants have acquired a resisting power
against bacterial diseases—they never succumb without a severe
struggle, but the red weed rotted like a thing already dead. The fronds
became bleached, and then shrivelled and brittle. They broke off at the
least touch, and the waters that had stimulated their early growth
carried their last vestiges out to sea.

My first act on coming to this water was, of course, to slake my
thirst. I drank a great deal of it and, moved by an impulse, gnawed
some fronds of red weed; but they were watery, and had a sickly,
metallic taste. I found the water was sufficiently shallow for me to
wade securely, although the red weed impeded my feet a little; but the
flood evidently got deeper towards the river, and I turned back to
Mortlake. I managed to make out the road by means of occasional ruins
of its villas and fences and lamps, and so presently I got out of this
spate and made my way to the hill going up towards Roehampton and came
out on Putney Common.

Here the scenery changed from the strange and unfamiliar to the
wreckage of the familiar: patches of ground exhibited the devastation
of a cyclone, and in a few score yards I would come upon perfectly
undisturbed spaces, houses with their blinds trimly drawn and doors
closed, as if they had been left for a day by the owners, or as if
their inhabitants slept within. The red weed was less abundant; the
tall trees along the lane were free from the red creeper. I hunted for
food among the trees, finding nothing, and I also raided a couple of
silent houses, but they had already been broken into and ransacked. I
rested for the remainder of the daylight in a shrubbery, being, in my
enfeebled condition, too fatigued to push on.

All this time I saw no human beings, and no signs of the Martians. I
encountered a couple of hungry-looking dogs, but both hurried
circuitously away from the advances I made them. Near Roehampton I had
seen two human skeletons—not bodies, but skeletons, picked clean—and in
the wood by me I found the crushed and scattered bones of several cats
and rabbits and the skull of a sheep. But though I gnawed parts of
these in my mouth, there was nothing to be got from them.

After sunset I struggled on along the road towards Putney, where I
think the Heat-Ray must have been used for some reason. And in the
garden beyond Roehampton I got a quantity of immature potatoes,
sufficient to stay my hunger. From this garden one looked down upon
Putney and the river. The aspect of the place in the dusk was
singularly desolate: blackened trees, blackened, desolate ruins, and
down the hill the sheets of the flooded river, red-tinged with the
weed. And over all—silence. It filled me with indescribable terror to
think how swiftly that desolating change had come.

For a time I believed that mankind had been swept out of existence, and
that I stood there alone, the last man left alive. Hard by the top of
Putney Hill I came upon another skeleton, with the arms dislocated and
removed several yards from the rest of the body. As I proceeded I
became more and more convinced that the extermination of mankind was,
save for such stragglers as myself, already accomplished in this part
of the world. The Martians, I thought, had gone on and left the country
desolated, seeking food elsewhere. Perhaps even now they were
destroying Berlin or Paris, or it might be they had gone northward.




VII.
THE MAN ON PUTNEY HILL.


I spent that night in the inn that stands at the top of Putney Hill,
sleeping in a made bed for the first time since my flight to
Leatherhead. I will not tell the needless trouble I had breaking into
that house—afterwards I found the front door was on the latch—nor how I
ransacked every room for food, until just on the verge of despair, in
what seemed to me to be a servant’s bedroom, I found a rat-gnawed crust
and two tins of pineapple. The place had been already searched and
emptied. In the bar I afterwards found some biscuits and sandwiches
that had been overlooked. The latter I could not eat, they were too
rotten, but the former not only stayed my hunger, but filled my
pockets. I lit no lamps, fearing some Martian might come beating that
part of London for food in the night. Before I went to bed I had an
interval of restlessness, and prowled from window to window, peering
out for some sign of these monsters. I slept little. As I lay in bed I
found myself thinking consecutively—a thing I do not remember to have
done since my last argument with the curate. During all the intervening
time my mental condition had been a hurrying succession of vague
emotional states or a sort of stupid receptivity. But in the night my
brain, reinforced, I suppose, by the food I had eaten, grew clear
again, and I thought.

Three things struggled for possession of my mind: the killing of the
curate, the whereabouts of the Martians, and the possible fate of my
wife. The former gave me no sensation of horror or remorse to recall; I
saw it simply as a thing done, a memory infinitely disagreeable but
quite without the quality of remorse. I saw myself then as I see myself
now, driven step by step towards that hasty blow, the creature of a
sequence of accidents leading inevitably to that. I felt no
condemnation; yet the memory, static, unprogressive, haunted me. In the
silence of the night, with that sense of the nearness of God that
sometimes comes into the stillness and the darkness, I stood my trial,
my only trial, for that moment of wrath and fear. I retraced every step
of our conversation from the moment when I had found him crouching
beside me, heedless of my thirst, and pointing to the fire and smoke
that streamed up from the ruins of Weybridge. We had been incapable of
co-operation—grim chance had taken no heed of that. Had I foreseen, I
should have left him at Halliford. But I did not foresee; and crime is
to foresee and do. And I set this down as I have set all this story
down, as it was. There were no witnesses—all these things I might have
concealed. But I set it down, and the reader must form his judgment as
he will.

And when, by an effort, I had set aside that picture of a prostrate
body, I faced the problem of the Martians and the fate of my wife. For
the former I had no data; I could imagine a hundred things, and so,
unhappily, I could for the latter. And suddenly that night became
terrible. I found myself sitting up in bed, staring at the dark. I
found myself praying that the Heat-Ray might have suddenly and
painlessly struck her out of being. Since the night of my return from
Leatherhead I had not prayed. I had uttered prayers, fetish prayers,
had prayed as heathens mutter charms when I was in extremity; but now I
prayed indeed, pleading steadfastly and sanely, face to face with the
darkness of God. Strange night! Strangest in this, that so soon as dawn
had come, I, who had talked with God, crept out of the house like a rat
leaving its hiding place—a creature scarcely larger, an inferior
animal, a thing that for any passing whim of our masters might be
hunted and killed. Perhaps they also prayed confidently to God. Surely,
if we have learned nothing else, this war has taught us pity—pity for
those witless souls that suffer our dominion.

The morning was bright and fine, and the eastern sky glowed pink, and
was fretted with little golden clouds. In the road that runs from the
top of Putney Hill to Wimbledon was a number of poor vestiges of the
panic torrent that must have poured Londonward on the Sunday night
after the fighting began. There was a little two-wheeled cart inscribed
with the name of Thomas Lobb, Greengrocer, New Malden, with a smashed
wheel and an abandoned tin trunk; there was a straw hat trampled into
the now hardened mud, and at the top of West Hill a lot of
blood-stained glass about the overturned water trough. My movements
were languid, my plans of the vaguest. I had an idea of going to
Leatherhead, though I knew that there I had the poorest chance of
finding my wife. Certainly, unless death had overtaken them suddenly,
my cousins and she would have fled thence; but it seemed to me I might
find or learn there whither the Surrey people had fled. I knew I wanted
to find my wife, that my heart ached for her and the world of men, but
I had no clear idea how the finding might be done. I was also sharply
aware now of my intense loneliness. From the corner I went, under cover
of a thicket of trees and bushes, to the edge of Wimbledon Common,
stretching wide and far.

That dark expanse was lit in patches by yellow gorse and broom; there
was no red weed to be seen, and as I prowled, hesitating, on the verge
of the open, the sun rose, flooding it all with light and vitality. I
came upon a busy swarm of little frogs in a swampy place among the
trees. I stopped to look at them, drawing a lesson from their stout
resolve to live. And presently, turning suddenly, with an odd feeling
of being watched, I beheld something crouching amid a clump of bushes.
I stood regarding this. I made a step towards it, and it rose up and
became a man armed with a cutlass. I approached him slowly. He stood
silent and motionless, regarding me.

As I drew nearer I perceived he was dressed in clothes as dusty and
filthy as my own; he looked, indeed, as though he had been dragged
through a culvert. Nearer, I distinguished the green slime of ditches
mixing with the pale drab of dried clay and shiny, coaly patches. His
black hair fell over his eyes, and his face was dark and dirty and
sunken, so that at first I did not recognise him. There was a red cut
across the lower part of his face.

“Stop!” he cried, when I was within ten yards of him, and I stopped.
His voice was hoarse. “Where do you come from?” he said.

I thought, surveying him.

“I come from Mortlake,” I said. “I was buried near the pit the Martians
made about their cylinder. I have worked my way out and escaped.”

“There is no food about here,” he said. “This is my country. All this
hill down to the river, and back to Clapham, and up to the edge of the
common. There is only food for one. Which way are you going?”

I answered slowly.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I have been buried in the ruins of a house
thirteen or fourteen days. I don’t know what has happened.”

He looked at me doubtfully, then started, and looked with a changed
expression.

“I’ve no wish to stop about here,” said I. “I think I shall go to
Leatherhead, for my wife was there.”

He shot out a pointing finger.

“It is you,” said he; “the man from Woking. And you weren’t killed at
Weybridge?”

I recognised him at the same moment.

“You are the artilleryman who came into my garden.”

“Good luck!” he said. “We are lucky ones! Fancy _you_!” He put out a
hand, and I took it. “I crawled up a drain,” he said. “But they didn’t
kill everyone. And after they went away I got off towards Walton across
the fields. But—— It’s not sixteen days altogether—and your hair is
grey.” He looked over his shoulder suddenly. “Only a rook,” he said.
“One gets to know that birds have shadows these days. This is a bit
open. Let us crawl under those bushes and talk.”

“Have you seen any Martians?” I said. “Since I crawled out——”

“They’ve gone away across London,” he said. “I guess they’ve got a
bigger camp there. Of a night, all over there, Hampstead way, the sky
is alive with their lights. It’s like a great city, and in the glare
you can just see them moving. By daylight you can’t. But nearer—I
haven’t seen them—” (he counted on his fingers) “five days. Then I saw
a couple across Hammersmith way carrying something big. And the night
before last”—he stopped and spoke impressively—“it was just a matter of
lights, but it was something up in the air. I believe they’ve built a
flying-machine, and are learning to fly.”

I stopped, on hands and knees, for we had come to the bushes.

“Fly!”

“Yes,” he said, “fly.”

I went on into a little bower, and sat down.

“It is all over with humanity,” I said. “If they can do that they will
simply go round the world.”

He nodded.

“They will. But—— It will relieve things over here a bit. And
besides——” He looked at me. “Aren’t you satisfied it _is_ up with
humanity? I am. We’re down; we’re beat.”

I stared. Strange as it may seem, I had not arrived at this fact—a fact
perfectly obvious so soon as he spoke. I had still held a vague hope;
rather, I had kept a lifelong habit of mind. He repeated his words,
“We’re beat.” They carried absolute conviction.

“It’s all over,” he said. “They’ve lost _one_—just _one_. And they’ve
made their footing good and crippled the greatest power in the world.
They’ve walked over us. The death of that one at Weybridge was an
accident. And these are only pioneers. They kept on coming. These green
stars—I’ve seen none these five or six days, but I’ve no doubt they’re
falling somewhere every night. Nothing’s to be done. We’re under! We’re
beat!”

I made him no answer. I sat staring before me, trying in vain to devise
some countervailing thought.

“This isn’t a war,” said the artilleryman. “It never was a war, any
more than there’s war between man and ants.”

Suddenly I recalled the night in the observatory.

“After the tenth shot they fired no more—at least, until the first
cylinder came.”

“How do you know?” said the artilleryman. I explained. He thought.
“Something wrong with the gun,” he said. “But what if there is? They’ll
get it right again. And even if there’s a delay, how can it alter the
end? It’s just men and ants. There’s the ants builds their cities, live
their lives, have wars, revolutions, until the men want them out of the
way, and then they go out of the way. That’s what we are now—just ants.
Only——”

“Yes,” I said.

“We’re eatable ants.”

We sat looking at each other.

“And what will they do with us?” I said.

“That’s what I’ve been thinking,” he said; “that’s what I’ve been
thinking. After Weybridge I went south—thinking. I saw what was up.
Most of the people were hard at it squealing and exciting themselves.
But I’m not so fond of squealing. I’ve been in sight of death once or
twice; I’m not an ornamental soldier, and at the best and worst,
death—it’s just death. And it’s the man that keeps on thinking comes
through. I saw everyone tracking away south. Says I, ‘Food won’t last
this way,’ and I turned right back. I went for the Martians like a
sparrow goes for man. All round”—he waved a hand to the
horizon—“they’re starving in heaps, bolting, treading on each other. .
. .”

He saw my face, and halted awkwardly.

“No doubt lots who had money have gone away to France,” he said. He
seemed to hesitate whether to apologise, met my eyes, and went on:
“There’s food all about here. Canned things in shops; wines, spirits,
mineral waters; and the water mains and drains are empty. Well, I was
telling you what I was thinking. ‘Here’s intelligent things,’ I said,
‘and it seems they want us for food. First, they’ll smash us up—ships,
machines, guns, cities, all the order and organisation. All that will
go. If we were the size of ants we might pull through. But we’re not.
It’s all too bulky to stop. That’s the first certainty.’ Eh?”

I assented.

“It is; I’ve thought it out. Very well, then—next; at present we’re
caught as we’re wanted. A Martian has only to go a few miles to get a
crowd on the run. And I saw one, one day, out by Wandsworth, picking
houses to pieces and routing among the wreckage. But they won’t keep on
doing that. So soon as they’ve settled all our guns and ships, and
smashed our railways, and done all the things they are doing over
there, they will begin catching us systematic, picking the best and
storing us in cages and things. That’s what they will start doing in a
bit. Lord! They haven’t begun on us yet. Don’t you see that?”

“Not begun!” I exclaimed.

“Not begun. All that’s happened so far is through our not having the
sense to keep quiet—worrying them with guns and such foolery. And
losing our heads, and rushing off in crowds to where there wasn’t any
more safety than where we were. They don’t want to bother us yet.
They’re making their things—making all the things they couldn’t bring
with them, getting things ready for the rest of their people. Very
likely that’s why the cylinders have stopped for a bit, for fear of
hitting those who are here. And instead of our rushing about blind, on
the howl, or getting dynamite on the chance of busting them up, we’ve
got to fix ourselves up according to the new state of affairs. That’s
how I figure it out. It isn’t quite according to what a man wants for
his species, but it’s about what the facts point to. And that’s the
principle I acted upon. Cities, nations, civilisation, progress—it’s
all over. That game’s up. We’re beat.”

“But if that is so, what is there to live for?”

The artilleryman looked at me for a moment.

“There won’t be any more blessed concerts for a million years or so;
there won’t be any Royal Academy of Arts, and no nice little feeds at
restaurants. If it’s amusement you’re after, I reckon the game is up.
If you’ve got any drawing-room manners or a dislike to eating peas with
a knife or dropping aitches, you’d better chuck ’em away. They ain’t no
further use.”

“You mean——”

“I mean that men like me are going on living—for the sake of the breed.
I tell you, I’m grim set on living. And if I’m not mistaken, you’ll
show what insides _you’ve_ got, too, before long. We aren’t going to be
exterminated. And I don’t mean to be caught either, and tamed and
fattened and bred like a thundering ox. Ugh! Fancy those brown
creepers!”

“You don’t mean to say——”

“I do. I’m going on, under their feet. I’ve got it planned; I’ve
thought it out. We men are beat. We don’t know enough. We’ve got to
learn before we’ve got a chance. And we’ve got to live and keep
independent while we learn. See! That’s what has to be done.”

I stared, astonished, and stirred profoundly by the man’s resolution.

“Great God!” cried I. “But you are a man indeed!” And suddenly I
gripped his hand.

“Eh!” he said, with his eyes shining. “I’ve thought it out, eh?”

“Go on,” I said.

“Well, those who mean to escape their catching must get ready. I’m
getting ready. Mind you, it isn’t all of us that are made for wild
beasts; and that’s what it’s got to be. That’s why I watched you. I had
my doubts. You’re slender. I didn’t know that it was you, you see, or
just how you’d been buried. All these—the sort of people that lived in
these houses, and all those damn little clerks that used to live down
_that_ way—they’d be no good. They haven’t any spirit in them—no proud
dreams and no proud lusts; and a man who hasn’t one or the other—Lord!
What is he but funk and precautions? They just used to skedaddle off to
work—I’ve seen hundreds of ’em, bit of breakfast in hand, running wild
and shining to catch their little season-ticket train, for fear they’d
get dismissed if they didn’t; working at businesses they were afraid to
take the trouble to understand; skedaddling back for fear they wouldn’t
be in time for dinner; keeping indoors after dinner for fear of the
back streets, and sleeping with the wives they married, not because
they wanted them, but because they had a bit of money that would make
for safety in their one little miserable skedaddle through the world.
Lives insured and a bit invested for fear of accidents. And on
Sundays—fear of the hereafter. As if hell was built for rabbits! Well,
the Martians will just be a godsend to these. Nice roomy cages,
fattening food, careful breeding, no worry. After a week or so chasing
about the fields and lands on empty stomachs, they’ll come and be
caught cheerful. They’ll be quite glad after a bit. They’ll wonder what
people did before there were Martians to take care of them. And the bar
loafers, and mashers, and singers—I can imagine them. I can imagine
them,” he said, with a sort of sombre gratification. “There’ll be any
amount of sentiment and religion loose among them. There’s hundreds of
things I saw with my eyes that I’ve only begun to see clearly these
last few days. There’s lots will take things as they are—fat and
stupid; and lots will be worried by a sort of feeling that it’s all
wrong, and that they ought to be doing something. Now whenever things
are so that a lot of people feel they ought to be doing something, the
weak, and those who go weak with a lot of complicated thinking, always
make for a sort of do-nothing religion, very pious and superior, and
submit to persecution and the will of the Lord. Very likely you’ve seen
the same thing. It’s energy in a gale of funk, and turned clean inside
out. These cages will be full of psalms and hymns and piety. And those
of a less simple sort will work in a bit of—what is it?—eroticism.”

He paused.

“Very likely these Martians will make pets of some of them; train them
to do tricks—who knows?—get sentimental over the pet boy who grew up
and had to be killed. And some, maybe, they will train to hunt us.”

“No,” I cried, “that’s impossible! No human being——”

“What’s the good of going on with such lies?” said the artilleryman.
“There’s men who’d do it cheerful. What nonsense to pretend there
isn’t!”

And I succumbed to his conviction.

“If they come after me,” he said; “Lord, if they come after me!” and
subsided into a grim meditation.

I sat contemplating these things. I could find nothing to bring against
this man’s reasoning. In the days before the invasion no one would have
questioned my intellectual superiority to his—I, a professed and
recognised writer on philosophical themes, and he, a common soldier;
and yet he had already formulated a situation that I had scarcely
realised.

“What are you doing?” I said presently. “What plans have you made?”

He hesitated.

“Well, it’s like this,” he said. “What have we to do? We have to invent
a sort of life where men can live and breed, and be sufficiently secure
to bring the children up. Yes—wait a bit, and I’ll make it clearer what
I think ought to be done. The tame ones will go like all tame beasts;
in a few generations they’ll be big, beautiful, rich-blooded,
stupid—rubbish! The risk is that we who keep wild will go
savage—degenerate into a sort of big, savage rat. . . . You see, how I
mean to live is underground. I’ve been thinking about the drains. Of
course those who don’t know drains think horrible things; but under
this London are miles and miles—hundreds of miles—and a few days rain
and London empty will leave them sweet and clean. The main drains are
big enough and airy enough for anyone. Then there’s cellars, vaults,
stores, from which bolting passages may be made to the drains. And the
railway tunnels and subways. Eh? You begin to see? And we form a
band—able-bodied, clean-minded men. We’re not going to pick up any
rubbish that drifts in. Weaklings go out again.”

“As you meant me to go?”

“Well—I parleyed, didn’t I?”

“We won’t quarrel about that. Go on.”

“Those who stop obey orders. Able-bodied, clean-minded women we want
also—mothers and teachers. No lackadaisical ladies—no blasted rolling
eyes. We can’t have any weak or silly. Life is real again, and the
useless and cumbersome and mischievous have to die. They ought to die.
They ought to be willing to die. It’s a sort of disloyalty, after all,
to live and taint the race. And they can’t be happy. Moreover, dying’s
none so dreadful; it’s the funking makes it bad. And in all those
places we shall gather. Our district will be London. And we may even be
able to keep a watch, and run about in the open when the Martians keep
away. Play cricket, perhaps. That’s how we shall save the race. Eh?
It’s a possible thing? But saving the race is nothing in itself. As I
say, that’s only being rats. It’s saving our knowledge and adding to it
is the thing. There men like you come in. There’s books, there’s
models. We must make great safe places down deep, and get all the books
we can; not novels and poetry swipes, but ideas, science books. That’s
where men like you come in. We must go to the British Museum and pick
all those books through. Especially we must keep up our science—learn
more. We must watch these Martians. Some of us must go as spies. When
it’s all working, perhaps I will. Get caught, I mean. And the great
thing is, we must leave the Martians alone. We mustn’t even steal. If
we get in their way, we clear out. We must show them we mean no harm.
Yes, I know. But they’re intelligent things, and they won’t hunt us
down if they have all they want, and think we’re just harmless vermin.”

The artilleryman paused and laid a brown hand upon my arm.

“After all, it may not be so much we may have to learn before—Just
imagine this: four or five of their fighting machines suddenly starting
off—Heat-Rays right and left, and not a Martian in ’em. Not a Martian
in ’em, but men—men who have learned the way how. It may be in my time,
even—those men. Fancy having one of them lovely things, with its
Heat-Ray wide and free! Fancy having it in control! What would it
matter if you smashed to smithereens at the end of the run, after a
bust like that? I reckon the Martians’ll open their beautiful eyes!
Can’t you see them, man? Can’t you see them hurrying, hurrying—puffing
and blowing and hooting to their other mechanical affairs? Something
out of gear in every case. And swish, bang, rattle, swish! Just as they
are fumbling over it, _swish_ comes the Heat-Ray, and, behold! man has
come back to his own.”

For a while the imaginative daring of the artilleryman, and the tone of
assurance and courage he assumed, completely dominated my mind. I
believed unhesitatingly both in his forecast of human destiny and in
the practicability of his astonishing scheme, and the reader who thinks
me susceptible and foolish must contrast his position, reading steadily
with all his thoughts about his subject, and mine, crouching fearfully
in the bushes and listening, distracted by apprehension. We talked in
this manner through the early morning time, and later crept out of the
bushes, and, after scanning the sky for Martians, hurried precipitately
to the house on Putney Hill where he had made his lair. It was the coal
cellar of the place, and when I saw the work he had spent a week
upon—it was a burrow scarcely ten yards long, which he designed to
reach to the main drain on Putney Hill—I had my first inkling of the
gulf between his dreams and his powers. Such a hole I could have dug in
a day. But I believed in him sufficiently to work with him all that
morning until past midday at his digging. We had a garden barrow and
shot the earth we removed against the kitchen range. We refreshed
ourselves with a tin of mock-turtle soup and wine from the neighbouring
pantry. I found a curious relief from the aching strangeness of the
world in this steady labour. As we worked, I turned his project over in
my mind, and presently objections and doubts began to arise; but I
worked there all the morning, so glad was I to find myself with a
purpose again. After working an hour I began to speculate on the
distance one had to go before the cloaca was reached, the chances we
had of missing it altogether. My immediate trouble was why we should
dig this long tunnel, when it was possible to get into the drain at
once down one of the manholes, and work back to the house. It seemed to
me, too, that the house was inconveniently chosen, and required a
needless length of tunnel. And just as I was beginning to face these
things, the artilleryman stopped digging, and looked at me.

“We’re working well,” he said. He put down his spade. “Let us knock off
a bit,” he said. “I think it’s time we reconnoitred from the roof of
the house.”

I was for going on, and after a little hesitation he resumed his spade;
and then suddenly I was struck by a thought. I stopped, and so did he
at once.

“Why were you walking about the common,” I said, “instead of being
here?”

“Taking the air,” he said. “I was coming back. It’s safer by night.”

“But the work?”

“Oh, one can’t always work,” he said, and in a flash I saw the man
plain. He hesitated, holding his spade. “We ought to reconnoitre now,”
he said, “because if any come near they may hear the spades and drop
upon us unawares.”

I was no longer disposed to object. We went together to the roof and
stood on a ladder peeping out of the roof door. No Martians were to be
seen, and we ventured out on the tiles, and slipped down under shelter
of the parapet.

From this position a shrubbery hid the greater portion of Putney, but
we could see the river below, a bubbly mass of red weed, and the low
parts of Lambeth flooded and red. The red creeper swarmed up the trees
about the old palace, and their branches stretched gaunt and dead, and
set with shrivelled leaves, from amid its clusters. It was strange how
entirely dependent both these things were upon flowing water for their
propagation. About us neither had gained a footing; laburnums, pink
mays, snowballs, and trees of arbor-vitae, rose out of laurels and
hydrangeas, green and brilliant into the sunlight. Beyond Kensington
dense smoke was rising, and that and a blue haze hid the northward
hills.

The artilleryman began to tell me of the sort of people who still
remained in London.

“One night last week,” he said, “some fools got the electric light in
order, and there was all Regent Street and the Circus ablaze, crowded
with painted and ragged drunkards, men and women, dancing and shouting
till dawn. A man who was there told me. And as the day came they became
aware of a fighting-machine standing near by the Langham and looking
down at them. Heaven knows how long he had been there. It must have
given some of them a nasty turn. He came down the road towards them,
and picked up nearly a hundred too drunk or frightened to run away.”

Grotesque gleam of a time no history will ever fully describe!

From that, in answer to my questions, he came round to his grandiose
plans again. He grew enthusiastic. He talked so eloquently of the
possibility of capturing a fighting-machine that I more than half
believed in him again. But now that I was beginning to understand
something of his quality, I could divine the stress he laid on doing
nothing precipitately. And I noted that now there was no question that
he personally was to capture and fight the great machine.

After a time we went down to the cellar. Neither of us seemed disposed
to resume digging, and when he suggested a meal, I was nothing loath.
He became suddenly very generous, and when we had eaten he went away
and returned with some excellent cigars. We lit these, and his optimism
glowed. He was inclined to regard my coming as a great occasion.

“There’s some champagne in the cellar,” he said.

“We can dig better on this Thames-side burgundy,” said I.

“No,” said he; “I am host today. Champagne! Great God! We’ve a heavy
enough task before us! Let us take a rest and gather strength while we
may. Look at these blistered hands!”

And pursuant to this idea of a holiday, he insisted upon playing cards
after we had eaten. He taught me euchre, and after dividing London
between us, I taking the northern side and he the southern, we played
for parish points. Grotesque and foolish as this will seem to the sober
reader, it is absolutely true, and what is more remarkable, I found the
card game and several others we played extremely interesting.

Strange mind of man! that, with our species upon the edge of
extermination or appalling degradation, with no clear prospect before
us but the chance of a horrible death, we could sit following the
chance of this painted pasteboard, and playing the “joker” with vivid
delight. Afterwards he taught me poker, and I beat him at three tough
chess games. When dark came we decided to take the risk, and lit a
lamp.

After an interminable string of games, we supped, and the artilleryman
finished the champagne. We went on smoking the cigars. He was no longer
the energetic regenerator of his species I had encountered in the
morning. He was still optimistic, but it was a less kinetic, a more
thoughtful optimism. I remember he wound up with my health, proposed in
a speech of small variety and considerable intermittence. I took a
cigar, and went upstairs to look at the lights of which he had spoken
that blazed so greenly along the Highgate hills.

At first I stared unintelligently across the London valley. The
northern hills were shrouded in darkness; the fires near Kensington
glowed redly, and now and then an orange-red tongue of flame flashed up
and vanished in the deep blue night. All the rest of London was black.
Then, nearer, I perceived a strange light, a pale, violet-purple
fluorescent glow, quivering under the night breeze. For a space I could
not understand it, and then I knew that it must be the red weed from
which this faint irradiation proceeded. With that realisation my
dormant sense of wonder, my sense of the proportion of things, awoke
again. I glanced from that to Mars, red and clear, glowing high in the
west, and then gazed long and earnestly at the darkness of Hampstead
and Highgate.

I remained a very long time upon the roof, wondering at the grotesque
changes of the day. I recalled my mental states from the midnight
prayer to the foolish card-playing. I had a violent revulsion of
feeling. I remember I flung away the cigar with a certain wasteful
symbolism. My folly came to me with glaring exaggeration. I seemed a
traitor to my wife and to my kind; I was filled with remorse. I
resolved to leave this strange undisciplined dreamer of great things to
his drink and gluttony, and to go on into London. There, it seemed to
me, I had the best chance of learning what the Martians and my
fellowmen were doing. I was still upon the roof when the late moon
rose.




VIII.
DEAD LONDON.


After I had parted from the artilleryman, I went down the hill, and by
the High Street across the bridge to Fulham. The red weed was
tumultuous at that time, and nearly choked the bridge roadway; but its
fronds were already whitened in patches by the spreading disease that
presently removed it so swiftly.

At the corner of the lane that runs to Putney Bridge station I found a
man lying. He was as black as a sweep with the black dust, alive, but
helplessly and speechlessly drunk. I could get nothing from him but
curses and furious lunges at my head. I think I should have stayed by
him but for the brutal expression of his face.

There was black dust along the roadway from the bridge onwards, and it
grew thicker in Fulham. The streets were horribly quiet. I got
food—sour, hard, and mouldy, but quite eatable—in a baker’s shop here.
Some way towards Walham Green the streets became clear of powder, and I
passed a white terrace of houses on fire; the noise of the burning was
an absolute relief. Going on towards Brompton, the streets were quiet
again.

Here I came once more upon the black powder in the streets and upon
dead bodies. I saw altogether about a dozen in the length of the Fulham
Road. They had been dead many days, so that I hurried quickly past
them. The black powder covered them over, and softened their outlines.
One or two had been disturbed by dogs.

Where there was no black powder, it was curiously like a Sunday in the
City, with the closed shops, the houses locked up and the blinds drawn,
the desertion, and the stillness. In some places plunderers had been at
work, but rarely at other than the provision and wine shops. A
jeweller’s window had been broken open in one place, but apparently the
thief had been disturbed, and a number of gold chains and a watch lay
scattered on the pavement. I did not trouble to touch them. Farther on
was a tattered woman in a heap on a doorstep; the hand that hung over
her knee was gashed and bled down her rusty brown dress, and a smashed
magnum of champagne formed a pool across the pavement. She seemed
asleep, but she was dead.

The farther I penetrated into London, the profounder grew the
stillness. But it was not so much the stillness of death—it was the
stillness of suspense, of expectation. At any time the destruction that
had already singed the northwestern borders of the metropolis, and had
annihilated Ealing and Kilburn, might strike among these houses and
leave them smoking ruins. It was a city condemned and derelict. . . .

In South Kensington the streets were clear of dead and of black powder.
It was near South Kensington that I first heard the howling. It crept
almost imperceptibly upon my senses. It was a sobbing alternation of
two notes, “Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” keeping on perpetually. When I
passed streets that ran northward it grew in volume, and houses and
buildings seemed to deaden and cut it off again. It came in a full tide
down Exhibition Road. I stopped, staring towards Kensington Gardens,
wondering at this strange, remote wailing. It was as if that mighty
desert of houses had found a voice for its fear and solitude.

“Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” wailed that superhuman note—great waves of
sound sweeping down the broad, sunlit roadway, between the tall
buildings on each side. I turned northwards, marvelling, towards the
iron gates of Hyde Park. I had half a mind to break into the Natural
History Museum and find my way up to the summits of the towers, in
order to see across the park. But I decided to keep to the ground,
where quick hiding was possible, and so went on up the Exhibition Road.
All the large mansions on each side of the road were empty and still,
and my footsteps echoed against the sides of the houses. At the top,
near the park gate, I came upon a strange sight—a bus overturned, and
the skeleton of a horse picked clean. I puzzled over this for a time,
and then went on to the bridge over the Serpentine. The voice grew
stronger and stronger, though I could see nothing above the housetops
on the north side of the park, save a haze of smoke to the northwest.

“Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” cried the voice, coming, as it seemed to me,
from the district about Regent’s Park. The desolating cry worked upon
my mind. The mood that had sustained me passed. The wailing took
possession of me. I found I was intensely weary, footsore, and now
again hungry and thirsty.

It was already past noon. Why was I wandering alone in this city of the
dead? Why was I alone when all London was lying in state, and in its
black shroud? I felt intolerably lonely. My mind ran on old friends
that I had forgotten for years. I thought of the poisons in the
chemists’ shops, of the liquors the wine merchants stored; I recalled
the two sodden creatures of despair, who so far as I knew, shared the
city with myself. . . .

I came into Oxford Street by the Marble Arch, and here again were black
powder and several bodies, and an evil, ominous smell from the gratings
of the cellars of some of the houses. I grew very thirsty after the
heat of my long walk. With infinite trouble I managed to break into a
public-house and get food and drink. I was weary after eating, and went
into the parlour behind the bar, and slept on a black horsehair sofa I
found there.

I awoke to find that dismal howling still in my ears, “Ulla, ulla,
ulla, ulla.” It was now dusk, and after I had routed out some biscuits
and a cheese in the bar—there was a meat safe, but it contained nothing
but maggots—I wandered on through the silent residential squares to
Baker Street—Portman Square is the only one I can name—and so came out
at last upon Regent’s Park. And as I emerged from the top of Baker
Street, I saw far away over the trees in the clearness of the sunset
the hood of the Martian giant from which this howling proceeded. I was
not terrified. I came upon him as if it were a matter of course. I
watched him for some time, but he did not move. He appeared to be
standing and yelling, for no reason that I could discover.

I tried to formulate a plan of action. That perpetual sound of “Ulla,
ulla, ulla, ulla,” confused my mind. Perhaps I was too tired to be very
fearful. Certainly I was more curious to know the reason of this
monotonous crying than afraid. I turned back away from the park and
struck into Park Road, intending to skirt the park, went along under
the shelter of the terraces, and got a view of this stationary, howling
Martian from the direction of St. John’s Wood. A couple of hundred
yards out of Baker Street I heard a yelping chorus, and saw, first a
dog with a piece of putrescent red meat in his jaws coming headlong
towards me, and then a pack of starving mongrels in pursuit of him. He
made a wide curve to avoid me, as though he feared I might prove a
fresh competitor. As the yelping died away down the silent road, the
wailing sound of “Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” reasserted itself.

I came upon the wrecked handling-machine halfway to St. John’s Wood
station. At first I thought a house had fallen across the road. It was
only as I clambered among the ruins that I saw, with a start, this
mechanical Samson lying, with its tentacles bent and smashed and
twisted, among the ruins it had made. The forepart was shattered. It
seemed as if it had driven blindly straight at the house, and had been
overwhelmed in its overthrow. It seemed to me then that this might have
happened by a handling-machine escaping from the guidance of its
Martian. I could not clamber among the ruins to see it, and the
twilight was now so far advanced that the blood with which its seat was
smeared, and the gnawed gristle of the Martian that the dogs had left,
were invisible to me.

Wondering still more at all that I had seen, I pushed on towards
Primrose Hill. Far away, through a gap in the trees, I saw a second
Martian, as motionless as the first, standing in the park towards the
Zoological Gardens, and silent. A little beyond the ruins about the
smashed handling-machine I came upon the red weed again, and found the
Regent’s Canal, a spongy mass of dark-red vegetation.

As I crossed the bridge, the sound of “Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” ceased.
It was, as it were, cut off. The silence came like a thunderclap.

The dusky houses about me stood faint and tall and dim; the trees
towards the park were growing black. All about me the red weed
clambered among the ruins, writhing to get above me in the dimness.
Night, the mother of fear and mystery, was coming upon me. But while
that voice sounded the solitude, the desolation, had been endurable; by
virtue of it London had still seemed alive, and the sense of life about
me had upheld me. Then suddenly a change, the passing of something—I
knew not what—and then a stillness that could be felt. Nothing but this
gaunt quiet.

London about me gazed at me spectrally. The windows in the white houses
were like the eye sockets of skulls. About me my imagination found a
thousand noiseless enemies moving. Terror seized me, a horror of my
temerity. In front of me the road became pitchy black as though it was
tarred, and I saw a contorted shape lying across the pathway. I could
not bring myself to go on. I turned down St. John’s Wood Road, and ran
headlong from this unendurable stillness towards Kilburn. I hid from
the night and the silence, until long after midnight, in a cabmen’s
shelter in Harrow Road. But before the dawn my courage returned, and
while the stars were still in the sky I turned once more towards
Regent’s Park. I missed my way among the streets, and presently saw
down a long avenue, in the half-light of the early dawn, the curve of
Primrose Hill. On the summit, towering up to the fading stars, was a
third Martian, erect and motionless like the others.

An insane resolve possessed me. I would die and end it. And I would
save myself even the trouble of killing myself. I marched on recklessly
towards this Titan, and then, as I drew nearer and the light grew, I
saw that a multitude of black birds was circling and clustering about
the hood. At that my heart gave a bound, and I began running along the
road.

I hurried through the red weed that choked St. Edmund’s Terrace (I
waded breast-high across a torrent of water that was rushing down from
the waterworks towards the Albert Road), and emerged upon the grass
before the rising of the sun. Great mounds had been heaped about the
crest of the hill, making a huge redoubt of it—it was the final and
largest place the Martians had made—and from behind these heaps there
rose a thin smoke against the sky. Against the sky line an eager dog
ran and disappeared. The thought that had flashed into my mind grew
real, grew credible. I felt no fear, only a wild, trembling exultation,
as I ran up the hill towards the motionless monster. Out of the hood
hung lank shreds of brown, at which the hungry birds pecked and tore.

In another moment I had scrambled up the earthen rampart and stood upon
its crest, and the interior of the redoubt was below me. A mighty space
it was, with gigantic machines here and there within it, huge mounds of
material and strange shelter places. And scattered about it, some in
their overturned war-machines, some in the now rigid handling-machines,
and a dozen of them stark and silent and laid in a row, were the
Martians—_dead!_—slain by the putrefactive and disease bacteria against
which their systems were unprepared; slain as the red weed was being
slain; slain, after all man’s devices had failed, by the humblest
things that God, in his wisdom, has put upon this earth.

For so it had come about, as indeed I and many men might have foreseen
had not terror and disaster blinded our minds. These germs of disease
have taken toll of humanity since the beginning of things—taken toll of
our prehuman ancestors since life began here. But by virtue of this
natural selection of our kind we have developed resisting power; to no
germs do we succumb without a struggle, and to many—those that cause
putrefaction in dead matter, for instance—our living frames are
altogether immune. But there are no bacteria in Mars, and directly
these invaders arrived, directly they drank and fed, our microscopic
allies began to work their overthrow. Already when I watched them they
were irrevocably doomed, dying and rotting even as they went to and
fro. It was inevitable. By the toll of a billion deaths man has bought
his birthright of the earth, and it is his against all comers; it would
still be his were the Martians ten times as mighty as they are. For
neither do men live nor die in vain.

Here and there they were scattered, nearly fifty altogether, in that
great gulf they had made, overtaken by a death that must have seemed to
them as incomprehensible as any death could be. To me also at that time
this death was incomprehensible. All I knew was that these things that
had been alive and so terrible to men were dead. For a moment I
believed that the destruction of Sennacherib had been repeated, that
God had repented, that the Angel of Death had slain them in the night.

I stood staring into the pit, and my heart lightened gloriously, even
as the rising sun struck the world to fire about me with his rays. The
pit was still in darkness; the mighty engines, so great and wonderful
in their power and complexity, so unearthly in their tortuous forms,
rose weird and vague and strange out of the shadows towards the light.
A multitude of dogs, I could hear, fought over the bodies that lay
darkly in the depth of the pit, far below me. Across the pit on its
farther lip, flat and vast and strange, lay the great flying-machine
with which they had been experimenting upon our denser atmosphere when
decay and death arrested them. Death had come not a day too soon. At
the sound of a cawing overhead I looked up at the huge fighting-machine
that would fight no more for ever, at the tattered red shreds of flesh
that dripped down upon the overturned seats on the summit of Primrose
Hill.

I turned and looked down the slope of the hill to where, enhaloed now
in birds, stood those other two Martians that I had seen overnight,
just as death had overtaken them. The one had died, even as it had been
crying to its companions; perhaps it was the last to die, and its voice
had gone on perpetually until the force of its machinery was exhausted.
They glittered now, harmless tripod towers of shining metal, in the
brightness of the rising sun.

All about the pit, and saved as by a miracle from everlasting
destruction, stretched the great Mother of Cities. Those who have only
seen London veiled in her sombre robes of smoke can scarcely imagine
the naked clearness and beauty of the silent wilderness of houses.

Eastward, over the blackened ruins of the Albert Terrace and the
splintered spire of the church, the sun blazed dazzling in a clear sky,
and here and there some facet in the great wilderness of roofs caught
the light and glared with a white intensity.

Northward were Kilburn and Hampsted, blue and crowded with houses;
westward the great city was dimmed; and southward, beyond the Martians,
the green waves of Regent’s Park, the Langham Hotel, the dome of the
Albert Hall, the Imperial Institute, and the giant mansions of the
Brompton Road came out clear and little in the sunrise, the jagged
ruins of Westminster rising hazily beyond. Far away and blue were the
Surrey hills, and the towers of the Crystal Palace glittered like two
silver rods. The dome of St. Paul’s was dark against the sunrise, and
injured, I saw for the first time, by a huge gaping cavity on its
western side.

And as I looked at this wide expanse of houses and factories and
churches, silent and abandoned; as I thought of the multitudinous hopes
and efforts, the innumerable hosts of lives that had gone to build this
human reef, and of the swift and ruthless destruction that had hung
over it all; when I realised that the shadow had been rolled back, and
that men might still live in the streets, and this dear vast dead city
of mine be once more alive and powerful, I felt a wave of emotion that
was near akin to tears.

The torment was over. Even that day the healing would begin. The
survivors of the people scattered over the country—leaderless, lawless,
foodless, like sheep without a shepherd—the thousands who had fled by
sea, would begin to return; the pulse of life, growing stronger and
stronger, would beat again in the empty streets and pour across the
vacant squares. Whatever destruction was done, the hand of the
destroyer was stayed. All the gaunt wrecks, the blackened skeletons of
houses that stared so dismally at the sunlit grass of the hill, would
presently be echoing with the hammers of the restorers and ringing with
the tapping of their trowels. At the thought I extended my hands
towards the sky and began thanking God. In a year, thought I—in a year.
. . .

With overwhelming force came the thought of myself, of my wife, and the
old life of hope and tender helpfulness that had ceased for ever.




IX.
WRECKAGE.


And now comes the strangest thing in my story. Yet, perhaps, it is not
altogether strange. I remember, clearly and coldly and vividly, all
that I did that day until the time that I stood weeping and praising
God upon the summit of Primrose Hill. And then I forget.

Of the next three days I know nothing. I have learned since that, so
far from my being the first discoverer of the Martian overthrow,
several such wanderers as myself had already discovered this on the
previous night. One man—the first—had gone to St. Martin’s-le-Grand,
and, while I sheltered in the cabmen’s hut, had contrived to telegraph
to Paris. Thence the joyful news had flashed all over the world; a
thousand cities, chilled by ghastly apprehensions, suddenly flashed
into frantic illuminations; they knew of it in Dublin, Edinburgh,
Manchester, Birmingham, at the time when I stood upon the verge of the
pit. Already men, weeping with joy, as I have heard, shouting and
staying their work to shake hands and shout, were making up trains,
even as near as Crewe, to descend upon London. The church bells that
had ceased a fortnight since suddenly caught the news, until all
England was bell-ringing. Men on cycles, lean-faced, unkempt, scorched
along every country lane shouting of unhoped deliverance, shouting to
gaunt, staring figures of despair. And for the food! Across the
Channel, across the Irish Sea, across the Atlantic, corn, bread, and
meat were tearing to our relief. All the shipping in the world seemed
going Londonward in those days. But of all this I have no memory. I
drifted—a demented man. I found myself in a house of kindly people, who
had found me on the third day wandering, weeping, and raving through
the streets of St. John’s Wood. They have told me since that I was
singing some insane doggerel about “The Last Man Left Alive! Hurrah!
The Last Man Left Alive!” Troubled as they were with their own affairs,
these people, whose name, much as I would like to express my gratitude
to them, I may not even give here, nevertheless cumbered themselves
with me, sheltered me, and protected me from myself. Apparently they
had learned something of my story from me during the days of my lapse.

Very gently, when my mind was assured again, did they break to me what
they had learned of the fate of Leatherhead. Two days after I was
imprisoned it had been destroyed, with every soul in it, by a Martian.
He had swept it out of existence, as it seemed, without any
provocation, as a boy might crush an ant hill, in the mere wantonness
of power.

I was a lonely man, and they were very kind to me. I was a lonely man
and a sad one, and they bore with me. I remained with them four days
after my recovery. All that time I felt a vague, a growing craving to
look once more on whatever remained of the little life that seemed so
happy and bright in my past. It was a mere hopeless desire to feast
upon my misery. They dissuaded me. They did all they could to divert me
from this morbidity. But at last I could resist the impulse no longer,
and, promising faithfully to return to them, and parting, as I will
confess, from these four-day friends with tears, I went out again into
the streets that had lately been so dark and strange and empty.

Already they were busy with returning people; in places even there were
shops open, and I saw a drinking fountain running water.

I remember how mockingly bright the day seemed as I went back on my
melancholy pilgrimage to the little house at Woking, how busy the
streets and vivid the moving life about me. So many people were abroad
everywhere, busied in a thousand activities, that it seemed incredible
that any great proportion of the population could have been slain. But
then I noticed how yellow were the skins of the people I met, how
shaggy the hair of the men, how large and bright their eyes, and that
every other man still wore his dirty rags. Their faces seemed all with
one of two expressions—a leaping exultation and energy or a grim
resolution. Save for the expression of the faces, London seemed a city
of tramps. The vestries were indiscriminately distributing bread sent
us by the French government. The ribs of the few horses showed
dismally. Haggard special constables with white badges stood at the
corners of every street. I saw little of the mischief wrought by the
Martians until I reached Wellington Street, and there I saw the red
weed clambering over the buttresses of Waterloo Bridge.

At the corner of the bridge, too, I saw one of the common contrasts of
that grotesque time—a sheet of paper flaunting against a thicket of the
red weed, transfixed by a stick that kept it in place. It was the
placard of the first newspaper to resume publication—the _Daily Mail_.
I bought a copy for a blackened shilling I found in my pocket. Most of
it was in blank, but the solitary compositor who did the thing had
amused himself by making a grotesque scheme of advertisement stereo on
the back page. The matter he printed was emotional; the news
organisation had not as yet found its way back. I learned nothing fresh
except that already in one week the examination of the Martian
mechanisms had yielded astonishing results. Among other things, the
article assured me what I did not believe at the time, that the “Secret
of Flying,” was discovered. At Waterloo I found the free trains that
were taking people to their homes. The first rush was already over.
There were few people in the train, and I was in no mood for casual
conversation. I got a compartment to myself, and sat with folded arms,
looking greyly at the sunlit devastation that flowed past the windows.
And just outside the terminus the train jolted over temporary rails,
and on either side of the railway the houses were blackened ruins. To
Clapham Junction the face of London was grimy with powder of the Black
Smoke, in spite of two days of thunderstorms and rain, and at Clapham
Junction the line had been wrecked again; there were hundreds of
out-of-work clerks and shopmen working side by side with the customary
navvies, and we were jolted over a hasty relaying.

All down the line from there the aspect of the country was gaunt and
unfamiliar; Wimbledon particularly had suffered. Walton, by virtue of
its unburned pine woods, seemed the least hurt of any place along the
line. The Wandle, the Mole, every little stream, was a heaped mass of
red weed, in appearance between butcher’s meat and pickled cabbage. The
Surrey pine woods were too dry, however, for the festoons of the red
climber. Beyond Wimbledon, within sight of the line, in certain nursery
grounds, were the heaped masses of earth about the sixth cylinder. A
number of people were standing about it, and some sappers were busy in
the midst of it. Over it flaunted a Union Jack, flapping cheerfully in
the morning breeze. The nursery grounds were everywhere crimson with
the weed, a wide expanse of livid colour cut with purple shadows, and
very painful to the eye. One’s gaze went with infinite relief from the
scorched greys and sullen reds of the foreground to the blue-green
softness of the eastward hills.

The line on the London side of Woking station was still undergoing
repair, so I descended at Byfleet station and took the road to Maybury,
past the place where I and the artilleryman had talked to the hussars,
and on by the spot where the Martian had appeared to me in the
thunderstorm. Here, moved by curiosity, I turned aside to find, among a
tangle of red fronds, the warped and broken dog cart with the whitened
bones of the horse scattered and gnawed. For a time I stood regarding
these vestiges. . . .

Then I returned through the pine wood, neck-high with red weed here and
there, to find the landlord of the Spotted Dog had already found
burial, and so came home past the College Arms. A man standing at an
open cottage door greeted me by name as I passed.

I looked at my house with a quick flash of hope that faded immediately.
The door had been forced; it was unfast and was opening slowly as I
approached.

It slammed again. The curtains of my study fluttered out of the open
window from which I and the artilleryman had watched the dawn. No one
had closed it since. The smashed bushes were just as I had left them
nearly four weeks ago. I stumbled into the hall, and the house felt
empty. The stair carpet was ruffled and discoloured where I had
crouched, soaked to the skin from the thunderstorm the night of the
catastrophe. Our muddy footsteps I saw still went up the stairs.

I followed them to my study, and found lying on my writing-table still,
with the selenite paper weight upon it, the sheet of work I had left on
the afternoon of the opening of the cylinder. For a space I stood
reading over my abandoned arguments. It was a paper on the probable
development of Moral Ideas with the development of the civilising
process; and the last sentence was the opening of a prophecy: “In about
two hundred years,” I had written, “we may expect——” The sentence ended
abruptly. I remembered my inability to fix my mind that morning,
scarcely a month gone by, and how I had broken off to get my _Daily
Chronicle_ from the newsboy. I remembered how I went down to the garden
gate as he came along, and how I had listened to his odd story of “Men
from Mars.”

I came down and went into the dining room. There were the mutton and
the bread, both far gone now in decay, and a beer bottle overturned,
just as I and the artilleryman had left them. My home was desolate. I
perceived the folly of the faint hope I had cherished so long. And then
a strange thing occurred. “It is no use,” said a voice. “The house is
deserted. No one has been here these ten days. Do not stay here to
torment yourself. No one escaped but you.”

I was startled. Had I spoken my thought aloud? I turned, and the French
window was open behind me. I made a step to it, and stood looking out.

And there, amazed and afraid, even as I stood amazed and afraid, were
my cousin and my wife—my wife white and tearless. She gave a faint cry.

“I came,” she said. “I knew—knew——”

She put her hand to her throat—swayed. I made a step forward, and
caught her in my arms.




X.
THE EPILOGUE.


I cannot but regret, now that I am concluding my story, how little I am
able to contribute to the discussion of the many debatable questions
which are still unsettled. In one respect I shall certainly provoke
criticism. My particular province is speculative philosophy. My
knowledge of comparative physiology is confined to a book or two, but
it seems to me that Carver’s suggestions as to the reason of the rapid
death of the Martians is so probable as to be regarded almost as a
proven conclusion. I have assumed that in the body of my narrative.

At any rate, in all the bodies of the Martians that were examined after
the war, no bacteria except those already known as terrestrial species
were found. That they did not bury any of their dead, and the reckless
slaughter they perpetrated, point also to an entire ignorance of the
putrefactive process. But probable as this seems, it is by no means a
proven conclusion.

Neither is the composition of the Black Smoke known, which the Martians
used with such deadly effect, and the generator of the Heat-Rays
remains a puzzle. The terrible disasters at the Ealing and South
Kensington laboratories have disinclined analysts for further
investigations upon the latter. Spectrum analysis of the black powder
points unmistakably to the presence of an unknown element with a
brilliant group of three lines in the green, and it is possible that it
combines with argon to form a compound which acts at once with deadly
effect upon some constituent in the blood. But such unproven
speculations will scarcely be of interest to the general reader, to
whom this story is addressed. None of the brown scum that drifted down
the Thames after the destruction of Shepperton was examined at the
time, and now none is forthcoming.

The results of an anatomical examination of the Martians, so far as the
prowling dogs had left such an examination possible, I have already
given. But everyone is familiar with the magnificent and almost
complete specimen in spirits at the Natural History Museum, and the
countless drawings that have been made from it; and beyond that the
interest of their physiology and structure is purely scientific.

A question of graver and universal interest is the possibility of
another attack from the Martians. I do not think that nearly enough
attention is being given to this aspect of the matter. At present the
planet Mars is in conjunction, but with every return to opposition I,
for one, anticipate a renewal of their adventure. In any case, we
should be prepared. It seems to me that it should be possible to define
the position of the gun from which the shots are discharged, to keep a
sustained watch upon this part of the planet, and to anticipate the
arrival of the next attack.

In that case the cylinder might be destroyed with dynamite or artillery
before it was sufficiently cool for the Martians to emerge, or they
might be butchered by means of guns so soon as the screw opened. It
seems to me that they have lost a vast advantage in the failure of
their first surprise. Possibly they see it in the same light.

Lessing has advanced excellent reasons for supposing that the Martians
have actually succeeded in effecting a landing on the planet Venus.
Seven months ago now, Venus and Mars were in alignment with the sun;
that is to say, Mars was in opposition from the point of view of an
observer on Venus. Subsequently a peculiar luminous and sinuous marking
appeared on the unillumined half of the inner planet, and almost
simultaneously a faint dark mark of a similar sinuous character was
detected upon a photograph of the Martian disk. One needs to see the
drawings of these appearances in order to appreciate fully their
remarkable resemblance in character.

At any rate, whether we expect another invasion or not, our views of
the human future must be greatly modified by these events. We have
learned now that we cannot regard this planet as being fenced in and a
secure abiding place for Man; we can never anticipate the unseen good
or evil that may come upon us suddenly out of space. It may be that in
the larger design of the universe this invasion from Mars is not
without its ultimate benefit for men; it has robbed us of that serene
confidence in the future which is the most fruitful source of
decadence, the gifts to human science it has brought are enormous, and
it has done much to promote the conception of the commonweal of
mankind. It may be that across the immensity of space the Martians have
watched the fate of these pioneers of theirs and learned their lesson,
and that on the planet Venus they have found a securer settlement. Be
that as it may, for many years yet there will certainly be no
relaxation of the eager scrutiny of the Martian disk, and those fiery
darts of the sky, the shooting stars, will bring with them as they fall
an unavoidable apprehension to all the sons of men.

The broadening of men’s views that has resulted can scarcely be
exaggerated. Before the cylinder fell there was a general persuasion
that through all the deep of space no life existed beyond the petty
surface of our minute sphere. Now we see further. If the Martians can
reach Venus, there is no reason to suppose that the thing is impossible
for men, and when the slow cooling of the sun makes this earth
uninhabitable, as at last it must do, it may be that the thread of life
that has begun here will have streamed out and caught our sister planet
within its toils.

Dim and wonderful is the vision I have conjured up in my mind of life
spreading slowly from this little seed bed of the solar system
throughout the inanimate vastness of sidereal space. But that is a
remote dream. It may be, on the other hand, that the destruction of the
Martians is only a reprieve. To them, and not to us, perhaps, is the
future ordained.

I must confess the stress and danger of the time have left an abiding
sense of doubt and insecurity in my mind. I sit in my study writing by
lamplight, and suddenly I see again the healing valley below set with
writhing flames, and feel the house behind and about me empty and
desolate. I go out into the Byfleet Road, and vehicles pass me, a
butcher boy in a cart, a cabful of visitors, a workman on a bicycle,
children going to school, and suddenly they become vague and unreal,
and I hurry again with the artilleryman through the hot, brooding
silence. Of a night I see the black powder darkening the silent
streets, and the contorted bodies shrouded in that layer; they rise
upon me tattered and dog-bitten. They gibber and grow fiercer, paler,
uglier, mad distortions of humanity at last, and I wake, cold and
wretched, in the darkness of the night.

I go to London and see the busy multitudes in Fleet Street and the
Strand, and it comes across my mind that they are but the ghosts of the
past, haunting the streets that I have seen silent and wretched, going
to and fro, phantasms in a dead city, the mockery of life in a
galvanised body. And strange, too, it is to stand on Primrose Hill, as
I did but a day before writing this last chapter, to see the great
province of houses, dim and blue through the haze of the smoke and
mist, vanishing at last into the vague lower sky, to see the people
walking to and fro among the flower beds on the hill, to see the
sight-seers about the Martian machine that stands there still, to hear
the tumult of playing children, and to recall the time when I saw it
all bright and clear-cut, hard and silent, under the dawn of that last
great day. . . .

And strangest of all is it to hold my wife’s hand again, and to think
that I have counted her, and that she has counted me, among the dead.





[Illustration]




Around the World in Eighty Days

by Jules Verne


Contents

 CHAPTER I. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AND PASSEPARTOUT ACCEPT EACH OTHER, THE ONE AS MASTER, THE OTHER AS MAN
 CHAPTER II. IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT IS CONVINCED THAT HE HAS AT LAST FOUND HIS IDEAL
 CHAPTER III. IN WHICH A CONVERSATION TAKES PLACE WHICH SEEMS LIKELY TO COST PHILEAS FOGG DEAR
 CHAPTER IV. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG ASTOUNDS PASSEPARTOUT, HIS SERVANT
 CHAPTER V. IN WHICH A NEW SPECIES OF FUNDS, UNKNOWN TO THE MONEYED MEN, APPEARS ON ’CHANGE
 CHAPTER VI. IN WHICH FIX, THE DETECTIVE, BETRAYS A VERY NATURAL IMPATIENCE
 CHAPTER VII. WHICH ONCE MORE DEMONSTRATES THE USELESSNESS OF PASSPORTS AS AIDS TO DETECTIVES
 CHAPTER VIII. IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT TALKS RATHER MORE, PERHAPS, THAN IS PRUDENT
 CHAPTER IX. IN WHICH THE RED SEA AND THE INDIAN OCEAN PROVE PROPITIOUS TO THE DESIGNS OF PHILEAS FOGG
 CHAPTER X. IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT IS ONLY TOO GLAD TO GET OFF WITH THE LOSS OF HIS SHOES
 CHAPTER XI. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG SECURES A CURIOUS MEANS OF CONVEYANCE AT A FABULOUS PRICE
 CHAPTER XII. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AND HIS COMPANIONS VENTURE ACROSS THE INDIAN FORESTS, AND WHAT ENSUED
 CHAPTER XIII. IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT RECEIVES A NEW PROOF THAT FORTUNE FAVORS THE BRAVE
 CHAPTER XIV. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG DESCENDS THE WHOLE LENGTH OF THE BEAUTIFUL VALLEY OF THE GANGES WITHOUT EVER THINKING OF SEEING IT
 CHAPTER XV. IN WHICH THE BAG OF BANKNOTES DISGORGES SOME THOUSANDS OF POUNDS MORE
 CHAPTER XVI. IN WHICH FIX DOES NOT SEEM TO UNDERSTAND IN THE LEAST WHAT IS SAID TO HIM
 CHAPTER XVII. SHOWING WHAT HAPPENED ON THE VOYAGE FROM SINGAPORE TO HONG KONG
 CHAPTER XVIII. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG, PASSEPARTOUT, AND FIX GO EACH ABOUT HIS BUSINESS
 CHAPTER XIX. IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT TAKES A TOO GREAT INTEREST IN HIS MASTER, AND WHAT COMES OF IT
 CHAPTER XX. IN WHICH FIX COMES FACE TO FACE WITH PHILEAS FOGG
 CHAPTER XXI. IN WHICH THE MASTER OF THE “TANKADERE” RUNS GREAT RISK OF LOSING A REWARD OF TWO HUNDRED POUNDS
 CHAPTER XXII. IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT FINDS OUT THAT, EVEN AT THE ANTIPODES, IT IS CONVENIENT TO HAVE SOME MONEY IN ONE’S POCKET
 CHAPTER XXIII. IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT’S NOSE BECOMES OUTRAGEOUSLY LONG
 CHAPTER XXIV. DURING WHICH MR. FOGG AND PARTY CROSS THE PACIFIC OCEAN
 CHAPTER XXV. IN WHICH A SLIGHT GLIMPSE IS HAD OF SAN FRANCISCO
 CHAPTER XXVI. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AND PARTY TRAVEL BY THE PACIFIC RAILROAD
 CHAPTER XXVII. IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT UNDERGOES, AT A SPEED OF TWENTY MILES AN HOUR, A COURSE OF MORMON HISTORY
 CHAPTER XXVIII. IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT DOES NOT SUCCEED IN MAKING ANYBODY LISTEN TO REASON
 CHAPTER XXIX. IN WHICH CERTAIN INCIDENTS ARE NARRATED WHICH ARE ONLY TO BE MET WITH ON AMERICAN RAILROADS
 CHAPTER XXX. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG SIMPLY DOES HIS DUTY
 CHAPTER XXXI. IN WHICH FIX, THE DETECTIVE, CONSIDERABLY FURTHERS THE INTERESTS OF PHILEAS FOGG
 CHAPTER XXXII. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG ENGAGES IN A DIRECT STRUGGLE WITH BAD FORTUNE
 CHAPTER XXXIII. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG SHOWS HIMSELF EQUAL TO THE OCCASION
 CHAPTER XXXIV. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AT LAST REACHES LONDON
 CHAPTER XXXV. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG DOES NOT HAVE TO REPEAT HIS ORDERS TO PASSEPARTOUT TWICE
 CHAPTER XXXVI. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG’S NAME IS ONCE MORE AT A PREMIUM ON ’CHANGE
 CHAPTER XXXVII. IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT PHILEAS FOGG GAINED NOTHING BY HIS TOUR AROUND THE WORLD, UNLESS IT WERE HAPPINESS




CHAPTER I.
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AND PASSEPARTOUT ACCEPT EACH OTHER, THE ONE AS
MASTER, THE OTHER AS MAN


Mr. Phileas Fogg lived, in 1872, at No. 7, Saville Row, Burlington
Gardens, the house in which Sheridan died in 1814. He was one of the
most noticeable members of the Reform Club, though he seemed always to
avoid attracting attention; an enigmatical personage, about whom little
was known, except that he was a polished man of the world. People said
that he resembled Byron—at least that his head was Byronic; but he was
a bearded, tranquil Byron, who might live on a thousand years without
growing old.

Certainly an Englishman, it was more doubtful whether Phileas Fogg was
a Londoner. He was never seen on ’Change, nor at the Bank, nor in the
counting-rooms of the “City”; no ships ever came into London docks of
which he was the owner; he had no public employment; he had never been
entered at any of the Inns of Court, either at the Temple, or Lincoln’s
Inn, or Gray’s Inn; nor had his voice ever resounded in the Court of
Chancery, or in the Exchequer, or the Queen’s Bench, or the
Ecclesiastical Courts. He certainly was not a manufacturer; nor was he
a merchant or a gentleman farmer. His name was strange to the
scientific and learned societies, and he never was known to take part
in the sage deliberations of the Royal Institution or the London
Institution, the Artisan’s Association, or the Institution of Arts and
Sciences. He belonged, in fact, to none of the numerous societies which
swarm in the English capital, from the Harmonic to that of the
Entomologists, founded mainly for the purpose of abolishing pernicious
insects.

Phileas Fogg was a member of the Reform, and that was all.

The way in which he got admission to this exclusive club was simple
enough.

He was recommended by the Barings, with whom he had an open credit. His
cheques were regularly paid at sight from his account current, which
was always flush.

Was Phileas Fogg rich? Undoubtedly. But those who knew him best could
not imagine how he had made his fortune, and Mr. Fogg was the last
person to whom to apply for the information. He was not lavish, nor, on
the contrary, avaricious; for, whenever he knew that money was needed
for a noble, useful, or benevolent purpose, he supplied it quietly and
sometimes anonymously. He was, in short, the least communicative of
men. He talked very little, and seemed all the more mysterious for his
taciturn manner. His daily habits were quite open to observation; but
whatever he did was so exactly the same thing that he had always done
before, that the wits of the curious were fairly puzzled.

Had he travelled? It was likely, for no one seemed to know the world
more familiarly; there was no spot so secluded that he did not appear
to have an intimate acquaintance with it. He often corrected, with a
few clear words, the thousand conjectures advanced by members of the
club as to lost and unheard-of travellers, pointing out the true
probabilities, and seeming as if gifted with a sort of second sight, so
often did events justify his predictions. He must have travelled
everywhere, at least in the spirit.

It was at least certain that Phileas Fogg had not absented himself from
London for many years. Those who were honoured by a better acquaintance
with him than the rest, declared that nobody could pretend to have ever
seen him anywhere else. His sole pastimes were reading the papers and
playing whist. He often won at this game, which, as a silent one,
harmonised with his nature; but his winnings never went into his purse,
being reserved as a fund for his charities. Mr. Fogg played, not to
win, but for the sake of playing. The game was in his eyes a contest, a
struggle with a difficulty, yet a motionless, unwearying struggle,
congenial to his tastes.

Phileas Fogg was not known to have either wife or children, which may
happen to the most honest people; either relatives or near friends,
which is certainly more unusual. He lived alone in his house in Saville
Row, whither none penetrated. A single domestic sufficed to serve him.
He breakfasted and dined at the club, at hours mathematically fixed, in
the same room, at the same table, never taking his meals with other
members, much less bringing a guest with him; and went home at exactly
midnight, only to retire at once to bed. He never used the cosy
chambers which the Reform provides for its favoured members. He passed
ten hours out of the twenty-four in Saville Row, either in sleeping or
making his toilet. When he chose to take a walk it was with a regular
step in the entrance hall with its mosaic flooring, or in the circular
gallery with its dome supported by twenty red porphyry Ionic columns,
and illumined by blue painted windows. When he breakfasted or dined all
the resources of the club—its kitchens and pantries, its buttery and
dairy—aided to crowd his table with their most succulent stores; he was
served by the gravest waiters, in dress coats, and shoes with swan-skin
soles, who proffered the viands in special porcelain, and on the finest
linen; club decanters, of a lost mould, contained his sherry, his port,
and his cinnamon-spiced claret; while his beverages were refreshingly
cooled with ice, brought at great cost from the American lakes.

If to live in this style is to be eccentric, it must be confessed that
there is something good in eccentricity.

The mansion in Saville Row, though not sumptuous, was exceedingly
comfortable. The habits of its occupant were such as to demand but
little from the sole domestic, but Phileas Fogg required him to be
almost superhumanly prompt and regular. On this very 2nd of October he
had dismissed James Forster, because that luckless youth had brought
him shaving-water at eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit instead of
eighty-six; and he was awaiting his successor, who was due at the house
between eleven and half-past.

Phileas Fogg was seated squarely in his armchair, his feet close
together like those of a grenadier on parade, his hands resting on his
knees, his body straight, his head erect; he was steadily watching a
complicated clock which indicated the hours, the minutes, the seconds,
the days, the months, and the years. At exactly half-past eleven Mr.
Fogg would, according to his daily habit, quit Saville Row, and repair
to the Reform.

A rap at this moment sounded on the door of the cosy apartment where
Phileas Fogg was seated, and James Forster, the dismissed servant,
appeared.

“The new servant,” said he.

A young man of thirty advanced and bowed.

“You are a Frenchman, I believe,” asked Phileas Fogg, “and your name is
John?”

“Jean, if monsieur pleases,” replied the newcomer, “Jean Passepartout,
a surname which has clung to me because I have a natural aptness for
going out of one business into another. I believe I’m honest, monsieur,
but, to be outspoken, I’ve had several trades. I’ve been an itinerant
singer, a circus-rider, when I used to vault like Leotard, and dance on
a rope like Blondin. Then I got to be a professor of gymnastics, so as
to make better use of my talents; and then I was a sergeant fireman at
Paris, and assisted at many a big fire. But I quitted France five years
ago, and, wishing to taste the sweets of domestic life, took service as
a valet here in England. Finding myself out of place, and hearing that
Monsieur Phileas Fogg was the most exact and settled gentleman in the
United Kingdom, I have come to monsieur in the hope of living with him
a tranquil life, and forgetting even the name of Passepartout.”

“Passepartout suits me,” responded Mr. Fogg. “You are well recommended
to me; I hear a good report of you. You know my conditions?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Good! What time is it?”

“Twenty-two minutes after eleven,” returned Passepartout, drawing an
enormous silver watch from the depths of his pocket.

“You are too slow,” said Mr. Fogg.

“Pardon me, monsieur, it is impossible—”

“You are four minutes too slow. No matter; it’s enough to mention the
error. Now from this moment, twenty-nine minutes after eleven, a.m.,
this Wednesday, 2nd October, you are in my service.”

Phileas Fogg got up, took his hat in his left hand, put it on his head
with an automatic motion, and went off without a word.

Passepartout heard the street door shut once; it was his new master
going out. He heard it shut again; it was his predecessor, James
Forster, departing in his turn. Passepartout remained alone in the
house in Saville Row.




CHAPTER II.
IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT IS CONVINCED THAT HE HAS AT LAST FOUND HIS IDEAL


“Faith,” muttered Passepartout, somewhat flurried, “I’ve seen people at
Madame Tussaud’s as lively as my new master!”

Madame Tussaud’s “people,” let it be said, are of wax, and are much
visited in London; speech is all that is wanting to make them human.

During his brief interview with Mr. Fogg, Passepartout had been
carefully observing him. He appeared to be a man about forty years of
age, with fine, handsome features, and a tall, well-shaped figure; his
hair and whiskers were light, his forehead compact and unwrinkled, his
face rather pale, his teeth magnificent. His countenance possessed in
the highest degree what physiognomists call “repose in action,” a
quality of those who act rather than talk. Calm and phlegmatic, with a
clear eye, Mr. Fogg seemed a perfect type of that English composure
which Angelica Kauffmann has so skilfully represented on canvas. Seen
in the various phases of his daily life, he gave the idea of being
perfectly well-balanced, as exactly regulated as a Leroy chronometer.
Phileas Fogg was, indeed, exactitude personified, and this was betrayed
even in the expression of his very hands and feet; for in men, as well
as in animals, the limbs themselves are expressive of the passions.

He was so exact that he was never in a hurry, was always ready, and was
economical alike of his steps and his motions. He never took one step
too many, and always went to his destination by the shortest cut; he
made no superfluous gestures, and was never seen to be moved or
agitated. He was the most deliberate person in the world, yet always
reached his destination at the exact moment.

He lived alone, and, so to speak, outside of every social relation; and
as he knew that in this world account must be taken of friction, and
that friction retards, he never rubbed against anybody.

As for Passepartout, he was a true Parisian of Paris. Since he had
abandoned his own country for England, taking service as a valet, he
had in vain searched for a master after his own heart. Passepartout was
by no means one of those pert dunces depicted by Molière with a bold
gaze and a nose held high in the air; he was an honest fellow, with a
pleasant face, lips a trifle protruding, soft-mannered and serviceable,
with a good round head, such as one likes to see on the shoulders of a
friend. His eyes were blue, his complexion rubicund, his figure almost
portly and well-built, his body muscular, and his physical powers fully
developed by the exercises of his younger days. His brown hair was
somewhat tumbled; for, while the ancient sculptors are said to have
known eighteen methods of arranging Minerva’s tresses, Passepartout was
familiar with but one of dressing his own: three strokes of a
large-tooth comb completed his toilet.

It would be rash to predict how Passepartout’s lively nature would
agree with Mr. Fogg. It was impossible to tell whether the new servant
would turn out as absolutely methodical as his master required;
experience alone could solve the question. Passepartout had been a sort
of vagrant in his early years, and now yearned for repose; but so far
he had failed to find it, though he had already served in ten English
houses. But he could not take root in any of these; with chagrin, he
found his masters invariably whimsical and irregular, constantly
running about the country, or on the look-out for adventure. His last
master, young Lord Longferry, Member of Parliament, after passing his
nights in the Haymarket taverns, was too often brought home in the
morning on policemen’s shoulders. Passepartout, desirous of respecting
the gentleman whom he served, ventured a mild remonstrance on such
conduct; which, being ill-received, he took his leave. Hearing that Mr.
Phileas Fogg was looking for a servant, and that his life was one of
unbroken regularity, that he neither travelled nor stayed from home
overnight, he felt sure that this would be the place he was after. He
presented himself, and was accepted, as has been seen.

At half-past eleven, then, Passepartout found himself alone in the
house in Saville Row. He began its inspection without delay, scouring
it from cellar to garret. So clean, well-arranged, solemn a mansion
pleased him; it seemed to him like a snail’s shell, lighted and warmed
by gas, which sufficed for both these purposes. When Passepartout
reached the second story he recognised at once the room which he was to
inhabit, and he was well satisfied with it. Electric bells and
speaking-tubes afforded communication with the lower stories; while on
the mantel stood an electric clock, precisely like that in Mr. Fogg’s
bedchamber, both beating the same second at the same instant. “That’s
good, that’ll do,” said Passepartout to himself.

He suddenly observed, hung over the clock, a card which, upon
inspection, proved to be a programme of the daily routine of the house.
It comprised all that was required of the servant, from eight in the
morning, exactly at which hour Phileas Fogg rose, till half-past
eleven, when he left the house for the Reform Club—all the details of
service, the tea and toast at twenty-three minutes past eight, the
shaving-water at thirty-seven minutes past nine, and the toilet at
twenty minutes before ten. Everything was regulated and foreseen that
was to be done from half-past eleven a.m. till midnight, the hour at
which the methodical gentleman retired.

Mr. Fogg’s wardrobe was amply supplied and in the best taste. Each pair
of trousers, coat, and vest bore a number, indicating the time of year
and season at which they were in turn to be laid out for wearing; and
the same system was applied to the master’s shoes. In short, the house
in Saville Row, which must have been a very temple of disorder and
unrest under the illustrious but dissipated Sheridan, was cosiness,
comfort, and method idealised. There was no study, nor were there
books, which would have been quite useless to Mr. Fogg; for at the
Reform two libraries, one of general literature and the other of law
and politics, were at his service. A moderate-sized safe stood in his
bedroom, constructed so as to defy fire as well as burglars; but
Passepartout found neither arms nor hunting weapons anywhere;
everything betrayed the most tranquil and peaceable habits.

Having scrutinised the house from top to bottom, he rubbed his hands, a
broad smile overspread his features, and he said joyfully, “This is
just what I wanted! Ah, we shall get on together, Mr. Fogg and I! What
a domestic and regular gentleman! A real machine; well, I don’t mind
serving a machine.”




CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH A CONVERSATION TAKES PLACE WHICH SEEMS LIKELY TO COST PHILEAS
FOGG DEAR


Phileas Fogg, having shut the door of his house at half-past eleven,
and having put his right foot before his left five hundred and
seventy-five times, and his left foot before his right five hundred and
seventy-six times, reached the Reform Club, an imposing edifice in Pall
Mall, which could not have cost less than three millions. He repaired
at once to the dining-room, the nine windows of which open upon a
tasteful garden, where the trees were already gilded with an autumn
colouring; and took his place at the habitual table, the cover of which
had already been laid for him. His breakfast consisted of a side-dish,
a broiled fish with Reading sauce, a scarlet slice of roast beef
garnished with mushrooms, a rhubarb and gooseberry tart, and a morsel
of Cheshire cheese, the whole being washed down with several cups of
tea, for which the Reform is famous. He rose at thirteen minutes to
one, and directed his steps towards the large hall, a sumptuous
apartment adorned with lavishly-framed paintings. A flunkey handed him
an uncut _Times_, which he proceeded to cut with a skill which betrayed
familiarity with this delicate operation. The perusal of this paper
absorbed Phileas Fogg until a quarter before four, whilst the
_Standard_, his next task, occupied him till the dinner hour. Dinner
passed as breakfast had done, and Mr. Fogg re-appeared in the
reading-room and sat down to the _Pall Mall_ at twenty minutes before
six. Half an hour later several members of the Reform came in and drew
up to the fireplace, where a coal fire was steadily burning. They were
Mr. Fogg’s usual partners at whist: Andrew Stuart, an engineer; John
Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, bankers; Thomas Flanagan, a brewer; and
Gauthier Ralph, one of the Directors of the Bank of England—all rich
and highly respectable personages, even in a club which comprises the
princes of English trade and finance.

“Well, Ralph,” said Thomas Flanagan, “what about that robbery?”

“Oh,” replied Stuart, “the Bank will lose the money.”

“On the contrary,” broke in Ralph, “I hope we may put our hands on the
robber. Skilful detectives have been sent to all the principal ports of
America and the Continent, and he’ll be a clever fellow if he slips
through their fingers.”

“But have you got the robber’s description?” asked Stuart.

“In the first place, he is no robber at all,” returned Ralph,
positively.

“What! a fellow who makes off with fifty-five thousand pounds, no
robber?”

“No.”

“Perhaps he’s a manufacturer, then.”

“The _Daily Telegraph_ says that he is a gentleman.”

It was Phileas Fogg, whose head now emerged from behind his newspapers,
who made this remark. He bowed to his friends, and entered into the
conversation. The affair which formed its subject, and which was town
talk, had occurred three days before at the Bank of England. A package
of banknotes, to the value of fifty-five thousand pounds, had been
taken from the principal cashier’s table, that functionary being at the
moment engaged in registering the receipt of three shillings and
sixpence. Of course, he could not have his eyes everywhere. Let it be
observed that the Bank of England reposes a touching confidence in the
honesty of the public. There are neither guards nor gratings to protect
its treasures; gold, silver, banknotes are freely exposed, at the mercy
of the first comer. A keen observer of English customs relates that,
being in one of the rooms of the Bank one day, he had the curiosity to
examine a gold ingot weighing some seven or eight pounds. He took it
up, scrutinised it, passed it to his neighbour, he to the next man, and
so on until the ingot, going from hand to hand, was transferred to the
end of a dark entry; nor did it return to its place for half an hour.
Meanwhile, the cashier had not so much as raised his head. But in the
present instance things had not gone so smoothly. The package of notes
not being found when five o’clock sounded from the ponderous clock in
the “drawing office,” the amount was passed to the account of profit
and loss. As soon as the robbery was discovered, picked detectives
hastened off to Liverpool, Glasgow, Havre, Suez, Brindisi, New York,
and other ports, inspired by the proffered reward of two thousand
pounds, and five per cent. on the sum that might be recovered.
Detectives were also charged with narrowly watching those who arrived
at or left London by rail, and a judicial examination was at once
entered upon.

There were real grounds for supposing, as the _Daily Telegraph_ said,
that the thief did not belong to a professional band. On the day of the
robbery a well-dressed gentleman of polished manners, and with a
well-to-do air, had been observed going to and fro in the paying room
where the crime was committed. A description of him was easily procured
and sent to the detectives; and some hopeful spirits, of whom Ralph was
one, did not despair of his apprehension. The papers and clubs were
full of the affair, and everywhere people were discussing the
probabilities of a successful pursuit; and the Reform Club was
especially agitated, several of its members being Bank officials.

Ralph would not concede that the work of the detectives was likely to
be in vain, for he thought that the prize offered would greatly
stimulate their zeal and activity. But Stuart was far from sharing this
confidence; and, as they placed themselves at the whist-table, they
continued to argue the matter. Stuart and Flanagan played together,
while Phileas Fogg had Fallentin for his partner. As the game proceeded
the conversation ceased, excepting between the rubbers, when it revived
again.

“I maintain,” said Stuart, “that the chances are in favour of the
thief, who must be a shrewd fellow.”

“Well, but where can he fly to?” asked Ralph. “No country is safe for
him.”

“Pshaw!”

“Where could he go, then?”

“Oh, I don’t know that. The world is big enough.”

“It was once,” said Phileas Fogg, in a low tone. “Cut, sir,” he added,
handing the cards to Thomas Flanagan.

The discussion fell during the rubber, after which Stuart took up its
thread.

“What do you mean by ‘once’? Has the world grown smaller?”

“Certainly,” returned Ralph. “I agree with Mr. Fogg. The world has
grown smaller, since a man can now go round it ten times more quickly
than a hundred years ago. And that is why the search for this thief
will be more likely to succeed.”

“And also why the thief can get away more easily.”

“Be so good as to play, Mr. Stuart,” said Phileas Fogg.

But the incredulous Stuart was not convinced, and when the hand was
finished, said eagerly: “You have a strange way, Ralph, of proving that
the world has grown smaller. So, because you can go round it in three
months—”

“In eighty days,” interrupted Phileas Fogg.

“That is true, gentlemen,” added John Sullivan. “Only eighty days, now
that the section between Rothal and Allahabad, on the Great Indian
Peninsula Railway, has been opened. Here is the estimate made by the
_Daily Telegraph:_—

From London to Suez _viâ_ Mont Cenis and Brindisi, by rail and
steamboats ................. 7 days
From Suez to Bombay, by steamer .................... 13 ”
From Bombay to Calcutta, by rail ................... 3 ”
From Calcutta to Hong Kong, by steamer ............. 13 ”
From Hong Kong to Yokohama (Japan), by steamer ..... 6 ”
From Yokohama to San Francisco, by steamer ......... 22 ”
From San Francisco to New York, by rail ............. 7 ”
From New York to London, by steamer and rail ........ 9 ”
-------
Total ............................................ 80 days.”


“Yes, in eighty days!” exclaimed Stuart, who in his excitement made a
false deal. “But that doesn’t take into account bad weather, contrary
winds, shipwrecks, railway accidents, and so on.”

“All included,” returned Phileas Fogg, continuing to play despite the
discussion.

“But suppose the Hindoos or Indians pull up the rails,” replied Stuart;
“suppose they stop the trains, pillage the luggage-vans, and scalp the
passengers!”

“All included,” calmly retorted Fogg; adding, as he threw down the
cards, “Two trumps.”

Stuart, whose turn it was to deal, gathered them up, and went on: “You
are right, theoretically, Mr. Fogg, but practically—”

“Practically also, Mr. Stuart.”

“I’d like to see you do it in eighty days.”

“It depends on you. Shall we go?”

“Heaven preserve me! But I would wager four thousand pounds that such a
journey, made under these conditions, is impossible.”

“Quite possible, on the contrary,” returned Mr. Fogg.

“Well, make it, then!”

“The journey round the world in eighty days?”

“Yes.”

“I should like nothing better.”

“When?”

“At once. Only I warn you that I shall do it at your expense.”

“It’s absurd!” cried Stuart, who was beginning to be annoyed at the
persistency of his friend. “Come, let’s go on with the game.”

“Deal over again, then,” said Phileas Fogg. “There’s a false deal.”

Stuart took up the pack with a feverish hand; then suddenly put them
down again.

“Well, Mr. Fogg,” said he, “it shall be so: I will wager the four
thousand on it.”

“Calm yourself, my dear Stuart,” said Fallentin. “It’s only a joke.”

“When I say I’ll wager,” returned Stuart, “I mean it.”

“All right,” said Mr. Fogg; and, turning to the others, he continued:
“I have a deposit of twenty thousand at Baring’s which I will willingly
risk upon it.”

“Twenty thousand pounds!” cried Sullivan. “Twenty thousand pounds,
which you would lose by a single accidental delay!”

“The unforeseen does not exist,” quietly replied Phileas Fogg.

“But, Mr. Fogg, eighty days are only the estimate of the least possible
time in which the journey can be made.”

“A well-used minimum suffices for everything.”

“But, in order not to exceed it, you must jump mathematically from the
trains upon the steamers, and from the steamers upon the trains again.”

“I will jump—mathematically.”

“You are joking.”

“A true Englishman doesn’t joke when he is talking about so serious a
thing as a wager,” replied Phileas Fogg, solemnly. “I will bet twenty
thousand pounds against anyone who wishes that I will make the tour of
the world in eighty days or less; in nineteen hundred and twenty hours,
or a hundred and fifteen thousand two hundred minutes. Do you accept?”

“We accept,” replied Messrs. Stuart, Fallentin, Sullivan, Flanagan, and
Ralph, after consulting each other.

“Good,” said Mr. Fogg. “The train leaves for Dover at a quarter before
nine. I will take it.”

“This very evening?” asked Stuart.

“This very evening,” returned Phileas Fogg. He took out and consulted a
pocket almanac, and added, “As today is Wednesday, the 2nd of October,
I shall be due in London in this very room of the Reform Club, on
Saturday, the 21st of December, at a quarter before nine p.m.; or else
the twenty thousand pounds, now deposited in my name at Baring’s, will
belong to you, in fact and in right, gentlemen. Here is a cheque for
the amount.”

A memorandum of the wager was at once drawn up and signed by the six
parties, during which Phileas Fogg preserved a stoical composure. He
certainly did not bet to win, and had only staked the twenty thousand
pounds, half of his fortune, because he foresaw that he might have to
expend the other half to carry out this difficult, not to say
unattainable, project. As for his antagonists, they seemed much
agitated; not so much by the value of their stake, as because they had
some scruples about betting under conditions so difficult to their
friend.

The clock struck seven, and the party offered to suspend the game so
that Mr. Fogg might make his preparations for departure.

“I am quite ready now,” was his tranquil response. “Diamonds are
trumps: be so good as to play, gentlemen.”




CHAPTER IV.
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG ASTOUNDS PASSEPARTOUT, HIS SERVANT


Having won twenty guineas at whist, and taken leave of his friends,
Phileas Fogg, at twenty-five minutes past seven, left the Reform Club.

Passepartout, who had conscientiously studied the programme of his
duties, was more than surprised to see his master guilty of the
inexactness of appearing at this unaccustomed hour; for, according to
rule, he was not due in Saville Row until precisely midnight.

Mr. Fogg repaired to his bedroom, and called out, “Passepartout!”

Passepartout did not reply. It could not be he who was called; it was
not the right hour.

“Passepartout!” repeated Mr. Fogg, without raising his voice.

Passepartout made his appearance.

“I’ve called you twice,” observed his master.

“But it is not midnight,” responded the other, showing his watch.

“I know it; I don’t blame you. We start for Dover and Calais in ten
minutes.”

A puzzled grin overspread Passepartout’s round face; clearly he had not
comprehended his master.

“Monsieur is going to leave home?”

“Yes,” returned Phileas Fogg. “We are going round the world.”

Passepartout opened wide his eyes, raised his eyebrows, held up his
hands, and seemed about to collapse, so overcome was he with stupefied
astonishment.

“Round the world!” he murmured.

“In eighty days,” responded Mr. Fogg. “So we haven’t a moment to lose.”

“But the trunks?” gasped Passepartout, unconsciously swaying his head
from right to left.

“We’ll have no trunks; only a carpet-bag, with two shirts and three
pairs of stockings for me, and the same for you. We’ll buy our clothes
on the way. Bring down my mackintosh and traveling-cloak, and some
stout shoes, though we shall do little walking. Make haste!”

Passepartout tried to reply, but could not. He went out, mounted to his
own room, fell into a chair, and muttered: “That’s good, that is! And
I, who wanted to remain quiet!”

He mechanically set about making the preparations for departure. Around
the world in eighty days! Was his master a fool? No. Was this a joke,
then? They were going to Dover; good! To Calais; good again! After all,
Passepartout, who had been away from France five years, would not be
sorry to set foot on his native soil again. Perhaps they would go as
far as Paris, and it would do his eyes good to see Paris once more. But
surely a gentleman so chary of his steps would stop there; no
doubt—but, then, it was none the less true that he was going away, this
so domestic person hitherto!

By eight o’clock Passepartout had packed the modest carpet-bag,
containing the wardrobes of his master and himself; then, still
troubled in mind, he carefully shut the door of his room, and descended
to Mr. Fogg.

Mr. Fogg was quite ready. Under his arm might have been observed a
red-bound copy of Bradshaw’s Continental Railway Steam Transit and
General Guide, with its timetables showing the arrival and departure of
steamers and railways. He took the carpet-bag, opened it, and slipped
into it a goodly roll of Bank of England notes, which would pass
wherever he might go.

“You have forgotten nothing?” asked he.

“Nothing, monsieur.”

“My mackintosh and cloak?”

“Here they are.”

“Good! Take this carpet-bag,” handing it to Passepartout. “Take good
care of it, for there are twenty thousand pounds in it.”

Passepartout nearly dropped the bag, as if the twenty thousand pounds
were in gold, and weighed him down.

Master and man then descended, the street-door was double-locked, and
at the end of Saville Row they took a cab and drove rapidly to Charing
Cross. The cab stopped before the railway station at twenty minutes
past eight. Passepartout jumped off the box and followed his master,
who, after paying the cabman, was about to enter the station, when a
poor beggar-woman, with a child in her arms, her naked feet smeared
with mud, her head covered with a wretched bonnet, from which hung a
tattered feather, and her shoulders shrouded in a ragged shawl,
approached, and mournfully asked for alms.

Mr. Fogg took out the twenty guineas he had just won at whist, and
handed them to the beggar, saying, “Here, my good woman. I’m glad that
I met you;” and passed on.

Passepartout had a moist sensation about the eyes; his master’s action
touched his susceptible heart.

Two first-class tickets for Paris having been speedily purchased, Mr.
Fogg was crossing the station to the train, when he perceived his five
friends of the Reform.

“Well, gentlemen,” said he, “I’m off, you see; and, if you will examine
my passport when I get back, you will be able to judge whether I have
accomplished the journey agreed upon.”

“Oh, that would be quite unnecessary, Mr. Fogg,” said Ralph politely.
“We will trust your word, as a gentleman of honour.”

“You do not forget when you are due in London again?” asked Stuart.

“In eighty days; on Saturday, the 21st of December, 1872, at a quarter
before nine p.m. Good-bye, gentlemen.”

Phileas Fogg and his servant seated themselves in a first-class
carriage at twenty minutes before nine; five minutes later the whistle
screamed, and the train slowly glided out of the station.

The night was dark, and a fine, steady rain was falling. Phileas Fogg,
snugly ensconced in his corner, did not open his lips. Passepartout,
not yet recovered from his stupefaction, clung mechanically to the
carpet-bag, with its enormous treasure.

Just as the train was whirling through Sydenham, Passepartout suddenly
uttered a cry of despair.

“What’s the matter?” asked Mr. Fogg.

“Alas! In my hurry—I—I forgot—”

“What?”

“To turn off the gas in my room!”

“Very well, young man,” returned Mr. Fogg, coolly; “it will burn—at
your expense.”




CHAPTER V.
IN WHICH A NEW SPECIES OF FUNDS, UNKNOWN TO THE MONEYED MEN, APPEARS ON
’CHANGE


Phileas Fogg rightly suspected that his departure from London would
create a lively sensation at the West End. The news of the bet spread
through the Reform Club, and afforded an exciting topic of conversation
to its members. From the club it soon got into the papers throughout
England. The boasted “tour of the world” was talked about, disputed,
argued with as much warmth as if the subject were another Alabama
claim. Some took sides with Phileas Fogg, but the large majority shook
their heads and declared against him; it was absurd, impossible, they
declared, that the tour of the world could be made, except
theoretically and on paper, in this minimum of time, and with the
existing means of travelling. The _Times, Standard, Morning Post_, and
_Daily News_, and twenty other highly respectable newspapers scouted
Mr. Fogg’s project as madness; the _Daily Telegraph_ alone hesitatingly
supported him. People in general thought him a lunatic, and blamed his
Reform Club friends for having accepted a wager which betrayed the
mental aberration of its proposer.

Articles no less passionate than logical appeared on the question, for
geography is one of the pet subjects of the English; and the columns
devoted to Phileas Fogg’s venture were eagerly devoured by all classes
of readers. At first some rash individuals, principally of the gentler
sex, espoused his cause, which became still more popular when the
_Illustrated London News_ came out with his portrait, copied from a
photograph in the Reform Club. A few readers of the _Daily Telegraph_
even dared to say, “Why not, after all? Stranger things have come to
pass.”

At last a long article appeared, on the 7th of October, in the bulletin
of the Royal Geographical Society, which treated the question from
every point of view, and demonstrated the utter folly of the
enterprise.

Everything, it said, was against the travellers, every obstacle imposed
alike by man and by nature. A miraculous agreement of the times of
departure and arrival, which was impossible, was absolutely necessary
to his success. He might, perhaps, reckon on the arrival of trains at
the designated hours, in Europe, where the distances were relatively
moderate; but when he calculated upon crossing India in three days, and
the United States in seven, could he rely beyond misgiving upon
accomplishing his task? There were accidents to machinery, the
liability of trains to run off the line, collisions, bad weather, the
blocking up by snow—were not all these against Phileas Fogg? Would he
not find himself, when travelling by steamer in winter, at the mercy of
the winds and fogs? Is it uncommon for the best ocean steamers to be
two or three days behind time? But a single delay would suffice to
fatally break the chain of communication; should Phileas Fogg once
miss, even by an hour; a steamer, he would have to wait for the next,
and that would irrevocably render his attempt vain.

This article made a great deal of noise, and, being copied into all the
papers, seriously depressed the advocates of the rash tourist.

Everybody knows that England is the world of betting men, who are of a
higher class than mere gamblers; to bet is in the English temperament.
Not only the members of the Reform, but the general public, made heavy
wagers for or against Phileas Fogg, who was set down in the betting
books as if he were a race-horse. Bonds were issued, and made their
appearance on ’Change; “Phileas Fogg bonds” were offered at par or at a
premium, and a great business was done in them. But five days after the
article in the bulletin of the Geographical Society appeared, the
demand began to subside: “Phileas Fogg” declined. They were offered by
packages, at first of five, then of ten, until at last nobody would
take less than twenty, fifty, a hundred!

Lord Albemarle, an elderly paralytic gentleman, was now the only
advocate of Phileas Fogg left. This noble lord, who was fastened to his
chair, would have given his fortune to be able to make the tour of the
world, if it took ten years; and he bet five thousand pounds on Phileas
Fogg. When the folly as well as the uselessness of the adventure was
pointed out to him, he contented himself with replying, “If the thing
is feasible, the first to do it ought to be an Englishman.”

The Fogg party dwindled more and more, everybody was going against him,
and the bets stood a hundred and fifty and two hundred to one; and a
week after his departure an incident occurred which deprived him of
backers at any price.

The commissioner of police was sitting in his office at nine o’clock
one evening, when the following telegraphic dispatch was put into his
hands:

_Suez to London._


ROWAN, COMMISSIONER OF POLICE, SCOTLAND YARD:
    I’ve found the bank robber, Phileas Fogg. Send without delay
    warrant of arrest to Bombay.


FIX, _Detective_.


The effect of this dispatch was instantaneous. The polished gentleman
disappeared to give place to the bank robber. His photograph, which was
hung with those of the rest of the members at the Reform Club, was
minutely examined, and it betrayed, feature by feature, the description
of the robber which had been provided to the police. The mysterious
habits of Phileas Fogg were recalled; his solitary ways, his sudden
departure; and it seemed clear that, in undertaking a tour round the
world on the pretext of a wager, he had had no other end in view than
to elude the detectives, and throw them off his track.




CHAPTER VI.
IN WHICH FIX, THE DETECTIVE, BETRAYS A VERY NATURAL IMPATIENCE


The circumstances under which this telegraphic dispatch about Phileas
Fogg was sent were as follows:

The steamer “Mongolia,” belonging to the Peninsular and Oriental
Company, built of iron, of two thousand eight hundred tons burden, and
five hundred horse-power, was due at eleven o’clock a.m. on Wednesday,
the 9th of October, at Suez. The “Mongolia” plied regularly between
Brindisi and Bombay _viâ_ the Suez Canal, and was one of the fastest
steamers belonging to the company, always making more than ten knots an
hour between Brindisi and Suez, and nine and a half between Suez and
Bombay.

Two men were promenading up and down the wharves, among the crowd of
natives and strangers who were sojourning at this once straggling
village—now, thanks to the enterprise of M. Lesseps, a fast-growing
town. One was the British consul at Suez, who, despite the prophecies
of the English Government, and the unfavourable predictions of
Stephenson, was in the habit of seeing, from his office window, English
ships daily passing to and fro on the great canal, by which the old
roundabout route from England to India by the Cape of Good Hope was
abridged by at least a half. The other was a small, slight-built
personage, with a nervous, intelligent face, and bright eyes peering
out from under eyebrows which he was incessantly twitching. He was just
now manifesting unmistakable signs of impatience, nervously pacing up
and down, and unable to stand still for a moment. This was Fix, one of
the detectives who had been dispatched from England in search of the
bank robber; it was his task to narrowly watch every passenger who
arrived at Suez, and to follow up all who seemed to be suspicious
characters, or bore a resemblance to the description of the criminal,
which he had received two days before from the police headquarters at
London. The detective was evidently inspired by the hope of obtaining
the splendid reward which would be the prize of success, and awaited
with a feverish impatience, easy to understand, the arrival of the
steamer “Mongolia.”

“So you say, consul,” asked he for the twentieth time, “that this
steamer is never behind time?”

“No, Mr. Fix,” replied the consul. “She was bespoken yesterday at Port
Said, and the rest of the way is of no account to such a craft. I
repeat that the ‘Mongolia’ has been in advance of the time required by
the company’s regulations, and gained the prize awarded for excess of
speed.”

“Does she come directly from Brindisi?”

“Directly from Brindisi; she takes on the Indian mails there, and she
left there Saturday at five p.m. Have patience, Mr. Fix; she will not
be late. But really, I don’t see how, from the description you have,
you will be able to recognise your man, even if he is on board the
‘Mongolia.’”

“A man rather feels the presence of these fellows, consul, than
recognises them. You must have a scent for them, and a scent is like a
sixth sense which combines hearing, seeing, and smelling. I’ve arrested
more than one of these gentlemen in my time, and, if my thief is on
board, I’ll answer for it; he’ll not slip through my fingers.”

“I hope so, Mr. Fix, for it was a heavy robbery.”

“A magnificent robbery, consul; fifty-five thousand pounds! We don’t
often have such windfalls. Burglars are getting to be so contemptible
nowadays! A fellow gets hung for a handful of shillings!”

“Mr. Fix,” said the consul, “I like your way of talking, and hope
you’ll succeed; but I fear you will find it far from easy. Don’t you
see, the description which you have there has a singular resemblance to
an honest man?”

“Consul,” remarked the detective, dogmatically, “great robbers always
resemble honest folks. Fellows who have rascally faces have only one
course to take, and that is to remain honest; otherwise they would be
arrested off-hand. The artistic thing is, to unmask honest
countenances; it’s no light task, I admit, but a real art.”

Mr. Fix evidently was not wanting in a tinge of self-conceit.

Little by little the scene on the quay became more animated; sailors of
various nations, merchants, ship-brokers, porters, fellahs, bustled to
and fro as if the steamer were immediately expected. The weather was
clear, and slightly chilly. The minarets of the town loomed above the
houses in the pale rays of the sun. A jetty pier, some two thousand
yards along, extended into the roadstead. A number of fishing-smacks
and coasting boats, some retaining the fantastic fashion of ancient
galleys, were discernible on the Red Sea.

As he passed among the busy crowd, Fix, according to habit, scrutinised
the passers-by with a keen, rapid glance.

It was now half-past ten.

“The steamer doesn’t come!” he exclaimed, as the port clock struck.

“She can’t be far off now,” returned his companion.

“How long will she stop at Suez?”

“Four hours; long enough to get in her coal. It is thirteen hundred and
ten miles from Suez to Aden, at the other end of the Red Sea, and she
has to take in a fresh coal supply.”

“And does she go from Suez directly to Bombay?”

“Without putting in anywhere.”

“Good!” said Fix. “If the robber is on board he will no doubt get off
at Suez, so as to reach the Dutch or French colonies in Asia by some
other route. He ought to know that he would not be safe an hour in
India, which is English soil.”

“Unless,” objected the consul, “he is exceptionally shrewd. An English
criminal, you know, is always better concealed in London than anywhere
else.”

This observation furnished the detective food for thought, and
meanwhile the consul went away to his office. Fix, left alone, was more
impatient than ever, having a presentiment that the robber was on board
the “Mongolia.” If he had indeed left London intending to reach the New
World, he would naturally take the route _viâ_ India, which was less
watched and more difficult to watch than that of the Atlantic. But
Fix’s reflections were soon interrupted by a succession of sharp
whistles, which announced the arrival of the “Mongolia.” The porters
and fellahs rushed down the quay, and a dozen boats pushed off from the
shore to go and meet the steamer. Soon her gigantic hull appeared
passing along between the banks, and eleven o’clock struck as she
anchored in the road. She brought an unusual number of passengers, some
of whom remained on deck to scan the picturesque panorama of the town,
while the greater part disembarked in the boats, and landed on the
quay.

Fix took up a position, and carefully examined each face and figure
which made its appearance. Presently one of the passengers, after
vigorously pushing his way through the importunate crowd of porters,
came up to him and politely asked if he could point out the English
consulate, at the same time showing a passport which he wished to have
_visaed_. Fix instinctively took the passport, and with a rapid glance
read the description of its bearer. An involuntary motion of surprise
nearly escaped him, for the description in the passport was identical
with that of the bank robber which he had received from Scotland Yard.

“Is this your passport?” asked he.

“No, it’s my master’s.”

“And your master is—”

“He stayed on board.”

“But he must go to the consul’s in person, so as to establish his
identity.”

“Oh, is that necessary?”

“Quite indispensable.”

“And where is the consulate?”

“There, on the corner of the square,” said Fix, pointing to a house two
hundred steps off.

“I’ll go and fetch my master, who won’t be much pleased, however, to be
disturbed.”

The passenger bowed to Fix, and returned to the steamer.




CHAPTER VII.
WHICH ONCE MORE DEMONSTRATES THE USELESSNESS OF PASSPORTS AS AIDS TO
DETECTIVES


The detective passed down the quay, and rapidly made his way to the
consul’s office, where he was at once admitted to the presence of that
official.

“Consul,” said he, without preamble, “I have strong reasons for
believing that my man is a passenger on the ‘Mongolia.’” And he
narrated what had just passed concerning the passport.

“Well, Mr. Fix,” replied the consul, “I shall not be sorry to see the
rascal’s face; but perhaps he won’t come here—that is, if he is the
person you suppose him to be. A robber doesn’t quite like to leave
traces of his flight behind him; and, besides, he is not obliged to
have his passport countersigned.”

“If he is as shrewd as I think he is, consul, he will come.”

“To have his passport _visaed?_”

“Yes. Passports are only good for annoying honest folks, and aiding in
the flight of rogues. I assure you it will be quite the thing for him
to do; but I hope you will not _visa_ the passport.”

“Why not? If the passport is genuine I have no right to refuse.”

“Still, I must keep this man here until I can get a warrant to arrest
him from London.”

“Ah, that’s your look-out. But I cannot—”

The consul did not finish his sentence, for as he spoke a knock was
heard at the door, and two strangers entered, one of whom was the
servant whom Fix had met on the quay. The other, who was his master,
held out his passport with the request that the consul would do him the
favour to _visa_ it. The consul took the document and carefully read
it, whilst Fix observed, or rather devoured, the stranger with his eyes
from a corner of the room.

“You are Mr. Phileas Fogg?” said the consul, after reading the
passport.

“I am.”

“And this man is your servant?”

“He is: a Frenchman, named Passepartout.”

“You are from London?”

“Yes.”

“And you are going—”

“To Bombay.”

“Very good, sir. You know that a _visa_ is useless, and that no
passport is required?”

“I know it, sir,” replied Phileas Fogg; “but I wish to prove, by your
_visa_, that I came by Suez.”

“Very well, sir.”

The consul proceeded to sign and date the passport, after which he
added his official seal. Mr. Fogg paid the customary fee, coldly bowed,
and went out, followed by his servant.

“Well?” queried the detective.

“Well, he looks and acts like a perfectly honest man,” replied the
consul.

“Possibly; but that is not the question. Do you think, consul, that
this phlegmatic gentleman resembles, feature by feature, the robber
whose description I have received?”

“I concede that; but then, you know, all descriptions—”

“I’ll make certain of it,” interrupted Fix. “The servant seems to me
less mysterious than the master; besides, he’s a Frenchman, and can’t
help talking. Excuse me for a little while, consul.”

Fix started off in search of Passepartout.

Meanwhile Mr. Fogg, after leaving the consulate, repaired to the quay,
gave some orders to Passepartout, went off to the “Mongolia” in a boat,
and descended to his cabin. He took up his note-book, which contained
the following memoranda:

“Left London, Wednesday, October 2nd, at 8.45 p.m.

“Reached Paris, Thursday, October 3rd, at 7.20 a.m.

“Left Paris, Thursday, at 8.40 a.m.

“Reached Turin by Mont Cenis, Friday, October 4th, at 6.35 a.m.

“Left Turin, Friday, at 7.20 a.m.

“Arrived at Brindisi, Saturday, October 5th, at 4 p.m.

“Sailed on the ‘Mongolia,’ Saturday, at 5 p.m.

“Reached Suez, Wednesday, October 9th, at 11 a.m.

“Total of hours spent, 158½; or, in days, six days and a half.”

These dates were inscribed in an itinerary divided into columns,
indicating the month, the day of the month, and the day for the
stipulated and actual arrivals at each principal point Paris, Brindisi,
Suez, Bombay, Calcutta, Singapore, Hong Kong, Yokohama, San Francisco,
New York, and London—from the 2nd of October to the 21st of December;
and giving a space for setting down the gain made or the loss suffered
on arrival at each locality. This methodical record thus contained an
account of everything needed, and Mr. Fogg always knew whether he was
behind-hand or in advance of his time. On this Friday, October 9th, he
noted his arrival at Suez, and observed that he had as yet neither
gained nor lost. He sat down quietly to breakfast in his cabin, never
once thinking of inspecting the town, being one of those Englishmen who
are wont to see foreign countries through the eyes of their domestics.




CHAPTER VIII.
IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT TALKS RATHER MORE, PERHAPS, THAN IS PRUDENT


Fix soon rejoined Passepartout, who was lounging and looking about on
the quay, as if he did not feel that he, at least, was obliged not to
see anything.

“Well, my friend,” said the detective, coming up with him, “is your
passport _visaed?_”

“Ah, it’s you, is it, monsieur?” responded Passepartout. “Thanks, yes,
the passport is all right.”

“And you are looking about you?”

“Yes; but we travel so fast that I seem to be journeying in a dream. So
this is Suez?”

“Yes.”

“In Egypt?”

“Certainly, in Egypt.”

“And in Africa?”

“In Africa.”

“In Africa!” repeated Passepartout. “Just think, monsieur, I had no
idea that we should go farther than Paris; and all that I saw of Paris
was between twenty minutes past seven and twenty minutes before nine in
the morning, between the Northern and the Lyons stations, through the
windows of a car, and in a driving rain! How I regret not having seen
once more Père la Chaise and the circus in the Champs Elysées!”

“You are in a great hurry, then?”

“I am not, but my master is. By the way, I must buy some shoes and
shirts. We came away without trunks, only with a carpet-bag.”

“I will show you an excellent shop for getting what you want.”

“Really, monsieur, you are very kind.”

And they walked off together, Passepartout chatting volubly as they
went along.

“Above all,” said he; “don’t let me lose the steamer.”

“You have plenty of time; it’s only twelve o’clock.”

Passepartout pulled out his big watch. “Twelve!” he exclaimed; “why,
it’s only eight minutes before ten.”

“Your watch is slow.”

“My watch? A family watch, monsieur, which has come down from my
great-grandfather! It doesn’t vary five minutes in the year. It’s a
perfect chronometer, look you.”

“I see how it is,” said Fix. “You have kept London time, which is two
hours behind that of Suez. You ought to regulate your watch at noon in
each country.”

“I regulate my watch? Never!”

“Well, then, it will not agree with the sun.”

“So much the worse for the sun, monsieur. The sun will be wrong, then!”

And the worthy fellow returned the watch to its fob with a defiant
gesture. After a few minutes silence, Fix resumed: “You left London
hastily, then?”

“I rather think so! Last Friday at eight o’clock in the evening,
Monsieur Fogg came home from his club, and three-quarters of an hour
afterwards we were off.”

“But where is your master going?”

“Always straight ahead. He is going round the world.”

“Round the world?” cried Fix.

“Yes, and in eighty days! He says it is on a wager; but, between us, I
don’t believe a word of it. That wouldn’t be common sense. There’s
something else in the wind.”

“Ah! Mr. Fogg is a character, is he?”

“I should say he was.”

“Is he rich?”

“No doubt, for he is carrying an enormous sum in brand new banknotes
with him. And he doesn’t spare the money on the way, either: he has
offered a large reward to the engineer of the ‘Mongolia’ if he gets us
to Bombay well in advance of time.”

“And you have known your master a long time?”

“Why, no; I entered his service the very day we left London.”

The effect of these replies upon the already suspicious and excited
detective may be imagined. The hasty departure from London soon after
the robbery; the large sum carried by Mr. Fogg; his eagerness to reach
distant countries; the pretext of an eccentric and foolhardy bet—all
confirmed Fix in his theory. He continued to pump poor Passepartout,
and learned that he really knew little or nothing of his master, who
lived a solitary existence in London, was said to be rich, though no
one knew whence came his riches, and was mysterious and impenetrable in
his affairs and habits. Fix felt sure that Phileas Fogg would not land
at Suez, but was really going on to Bombay.

“Is Bombay far from here?” asked Passepartout.

“Pretty far. It is a ten days’ voyage by sea.”

“And in what country is Bombay?”

“India.”

“In Asia?”

“Certainly.”

“The deuce! I was going to tell you there’s one thing that worries
me—my burner!”

“What burner?”

“My gas-burner, which I forgot to turn off, and which is at this moment
burning at my expense. I have calculated, monsieur, that I lose two
shillings every four and twenty hours, exactly sixpence more than I
earn; and you will understand that the longer our journey—”

Did Fix pay any attention to Passepartout’s trouble about the gas? It
is not probable. He was not listening, but was cogitating a project.
Passepartout and he had now reached the shop, where Fix left his
companion to make his purchases, after recommending him not to miss the
steamer, and hurried back to the consulate. Now that he was fully
convinced, Fix had quite recovered his equanimity.

“Consul,” said he, “I have no longer any doubt. I have spotted my man.
He passes himself off as an odd stick who is going round the world in
eighty days.”

“Then he’s a sharp fellow,” returned the consul, “and counts on
returning to London after putting the police of the two countries off
his track.”

“We’ll see about that,” replied Fix.

“But are you not mistaken?”

“I am not mistaken.”

“Why was this robber so anxious to prove, by the _visa_, that he had
passed through Suez?”

“Why? I have no idea; but listen to me.”

He reported in a few words the most important parts of his conversation
with Passepartout.

“In short,” said the consul, “appearances are wholly against this man.
And what are you going to do?”

“Send a dispatch to London for a warrant of arrest to be dispatched
instantly to Bombay, take passage on board the ‘Mongolia,’ follow my
rogue to India, and there, on English ground, arrest him politely, with
my warrant in my hand, and my hand on his shoulder.”

Having uttered these words with a cool, careless air, the detective
took leave of the consul, and repaired to the telegraph office, whence
he sent the dispatch which we have seen to the London police office. A
quarter of an hour later found Fix, with a small bag in his hand,
proceeding on board the “Mongolia;” and, ere many moments longer, the
noble steamer rode out at full steam upon the waters of the Red Sea.




CHAPTER IX.
IN WHICH THE RED SEA AND THE INDIAN OCEAN PROVE PROPITIOUS TO THE
DESIGNS OF PHILEAS FOGG


The distance between Suez and Aden is precisely thirteen hundred and
ten miles, and the regulations of the company allow the steamers one
hundred and thirty-eight hours in which to traverse it. The “Mongolia,”
thanks to the vigorous exertions of the engineer, seemed likely, so
rapid was her speed, to reach her destination considerably within that
time. The greater part of the passengers from Brindisi were bound for
India some for Bombay, others for Calcutta by way of Bombay, the
nearest route thither, now that a railway crosses the Indian peninsula.
Among the passengers was a number of officials and military officers of
various grades, the latter being either attached to the regular British
forces or commanding the Sepoy troops, and receiving high salaries ever
since the central government has assumed the powers of the East India
Company: for the sub-lieutenants get £280, brigadiers, £2,400, and
generals of divisions, £4,000. What with the military men, a number of
rich young Englishmen on their travels, and the hospitable efforts of
the purser, the time passed quickly on the “Mongolia.” The best of fare
was spread upon the cabin tables at breakfast, lunch, dinner, and the
eight o’clock supper, and the ladies scrupulously changed their toilets
twice a day; and the hours were whirled away, when the sea was
tranquil, with music, dancing, and games.

But the Red Sea is full of caprice, and often boisterous, like most
long and narrow gulfs. When the wind came from the African or Asian
coast the “Mongolia,” with her long hull, rolled fearfully. Then the
ladies speedily disappeared below; the pianos were silent; singing and
dancing suddenly ceased. Yet the good ship ploughed straight on,
unretarded by wind or wave, towards the straits of Bab-el-Mandeb. What
was Phileas Fogg doing all this time? It might be thought that, in his
anxiety, he would be constantly watching the changes of the wind, the
disorderly raging of the billows—every chance, in short, which might
force the “Mongolia” to slacken her speed, and thus interrupt his
journey. But, if he thought of these possibilities, he did not betray
the fact by any outward sign.

Always the same impassible member of the Reform Club, whom no incident
could surprise, as unvarying as the ship’s chronometers, and seldom
having the curiosity even to go upon the deck, he passed through the
memorable scenes of the Red Sea with cold indifference; did not care to
recognise the historic towns and villages which, along its borders,
raised their picturesque outlines against the sky; and betrayed no fear
of the dangers of the Arabic Gulf, which the old historians always
spoke of with horror, and upon which the ancient navigators never
ventured without propitiating the gods by ample sacrifices. How did
this eccentric personage pass his time on the “Mongolia”? He made his
four hearty meals every day, regardless of the most persistent rolling
and pitching on the part of the steamer; and he played whist
indefatigably, for he had found partners as enthusiastic in the game as
himself. A tax-collector, on the way to his post at Goa; the Rev.
Decimus Smith, returning to his parish at Bombay; and a
brigadier-general of the English army, who was about to rejoin his
brigade at Benares, made up the party, and, with Mr. Fogg, played whist
by the hour together in absorbing silence.

As for Passepartout, he, too, had escaped sea-sickness, and took his
meals conscientiously in the forward cabin. He rather enjoyed the
voyage, for he was well fed and well lodged, took a great interest in
the scenes through which they were passing, and consoled himself with
the delusion that his master’s whim would end at Bombay. He was
pleased, on the day after leaving Suez, to find on deck the obliging
person with whom he had walked and chatted on the quays.

“If I am not mistaken,” said he, approaching this person, with his most
amiable smile, “you are the gentleman who so kindly volunteered to
guide me at Suez?”

“Ah! I quite recognise you. You are the servant of the strange
Englishman—”

“Just so, monsieur—”

“Fix.”

“Monsieur Fix,” resumed Passepartout, “I’m charmed to find you on
board. Where are you bound?”

“Like you, to Bombay.”

“That’s capital! Have you made this trip before?”

“Several times. I am one of the agents of the Peninsular Company.”

“Then you know India?”

“Why yes,” replied Fix, who spoke cautiously.

“A curious place, this India?”

“Oh, very curious. Mosques, minarets, temples, fakirs, pagodas, tigers,
snakes, elephants! I hope you will have ample time to see the sights.”

“I hope so, Monsieur Fix. You see, a man of sound sense ought not to
spend his life jumping from a steamer upon a railway train, and from a
railway train upon a steamer again, pretending to make the tour of the
world in eighty days! No; all these gymnastics, you may be sure, will
cease at Bombay.”

“And Mr. Fogg is getting on well?” asked Fix, in the most natural tone
in the world.

“Quite well, and I too. I eat like a famished ogre; it’s the sea air.”

“But I never see your master on deck.”

“Never; he hasn’t the least curiosity.”

“Do you know, Mr. Passepartout, that this pretended tour in eighty days
may conceal some secret errand—perhaps a diplomatic mission?”

“Faith, Monsieur Fix, I assure you I know nothing about it, nor would I
give half a crown to find out.”

After this meeting, Passepartout and Fix got into the habit of chatting
together, the latter making it a point to gain the worthy man’s
confidence. He frequently offered him a glass of whiskey or pale ale in
the steamer bar-room, which Passepartout never failed to accept with
graceful alacrity, mentally pronouncing Fix the best of good fellows.

Meanwhile the “Mongolia” was pushing forward rapidly; on the 13th,
Mocha, surrounded by its ruined walls whereon date-trees were growing,
was sighted, and on the mountains beyond were espied vast
coffee-fields. Passepartout was ravished to behold this celebrated
place, and thought that, with its circular walls and dismantled fort,
it looked like an immense coffee-cup and saucer. The following night
they passed through the Strait of Bab-el-Mandeb, which means in Arabic
“The Bridge of Tears,” and the next day they put in at Steamer Point,
north-west of Aden harbour, to take in coal. This matter of fuelling
steamers is a serious one at such distances from the coal-mines; it
costs the Peninsular Company some eight hundred thousand pounds a year.
In these distant seas, coal is worth three or four pounds sterling a
ton.

The “Mongolia” had still sixteen hundred and fifty miles to traverse
before reaching Bombay, and was obliged to remain four hours at Steamer
Point to coal up. But this delay, as it was foreseen, did not affect
Phileas Fogg’s programme; besides, the “Mongolia,” instead of reaching
Aden on the morning of the 15th, when she was due, arrived there on the
evening of the 14th, a gain of fifteen hours.

Mr. Fogg and his servant went ashore at Aden to have the passport again
_visaed;_ Fix, unobserved, followed them. The _visa_ procured, Mr. Fogg
returned on board to resume his former habits; while Passepartout,
according to custom, sauntered about among the mixed population of
Somalis, Banyans, Parsees, Jews, Arabs, and Europeans who comprise the
twenty-five thousand inhabitants of Aden. He gazed with wonder upon the
fortifications which make this place the Gibraltar of the Indian Ocean,
and the vast cisterns where the English engineers were still at work,
two thousand years after the engineers of Solomon.

“Very curious, _very_ curious,” said Passepartout to himself, on
returning to the steamer. “I see that it is by no means useless to
travel, if a man wants to see something new.” At six p.m. the
“Mongolia” slowly moved out of the roadstead, and was soon once more on
the Indian Ocean. She had a hundred and sixty-eight hours in which to
reach Bombay, and the sea was favourable, the wind being in the
north-west, and all sails aiding the engine. The steamer rolled but
little, the ladies, in fresh toilets, reappeared on deck, and the
singing and dancing were resumed. The trip was being accomplished most
successfully, and Passepartout was enchanted with the congenial
companion which chance had secured him in the person of the delightful
Fix. On Sunday, October 20th, towards noon, they came in sight of the
Indian coast: two hours later the pilot came on board. A range of hills
lay against the sky in the horizon, and soon the rows of palms which
adorn Bombay came distinctly into view. The steamer entered the road
formed by the islands in the bay, and at half-past four she hauled up
at the quays of Bombay.

Phileas Fogg was in the act of finishing the thirty-third rubber of the
voyage, and his partner and himself having, by a bold stroke, captured
all thirteen of the tricks, concluded this fine campaign with a
brilliant victory.

The “Mongolia” was due at Bombay on the 22nd; she arrived on the 20th.
This was a gain to Phileas Fogg of two days since his departure from
London, and he calmly entered the fact in the itinerary, in the column
of gains.




CHAPTER X.
IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT IS ONLY TOO GLAD TO GET OFF WITH THE LOSS OF HIS
SHOES


Everybody knows that the great reversed triangle of land, with its base
in the north and its apex in the south, which is called India, embraces
fourteen hundred thousand square miles, upon which is spread unequally
a population of one hundred and eighty millions of souls. The British
Crown exercises a real and despotic dominion over the larger portion of
this vast country, and has a governor-general stationed at Calcutta,
governors at Madras, Bombay, and in Bengal, and a lieutenant-governor
at Agra.

But British India, properly so called, only embraces seven hundred
thousand square miles, and a population of from one hundred to one
hundred and ten millions of inhabitants. A considerable portion of
India is still free from British authority; and there are certain
ferocious rajahs in the interior who are absolutely independent. The
celebrated East India Company was all-powerful from 1756, when the
English first gained a foothold on the spot where now stands the city
of Madras, down to the time of the great Sepoy insurrection. It
gradually annexed province after province, purchasing them of the
native chiefs, whom it seldom paid, and appointed the governor-general
and his subordinates, civil and military. But the East India Company
has now passed away, leaving the British possessions in India directly
under the control of the Crown. The aspect of the country, as well as
the manners and distinctions of race, is daily changing.

Formerly one was obliged to travel in India by the old cumbrous methods
of going on foot or on horseback, in palanquins or unwieldy coaches;
now fast steamboats ply on the Indus and the Ganges, and a great
railway, with branch lines joining the main line at many points on its
route, traverses the peninsula from Bombay to Calcutta in three days.
This railway does not run in a direct line across India. The distance
between Bombay and Calcutta, as the bird flies, is only from one
thousand to eleven hundred miles; but the deflections of the road
increase this distance by more than a third.

The general route of the Great Indian Peninsula Railway is as follows:
Leaving Bombay, it passes through Salcette, crossing to the continent
opposite Tannah, goes over the chain of the Western Ghauts, runs thence
north-east as far as Burhampoor, skirts the nearly independent
territory of Bundelcund, ascends to Allahabad, turns thence eastwardly,
meeting the Ganges at Benares, then departs from the river a little,
and, descending south-eastward by Burdivan and the French town of
Chandernagor, has its terminus at Calcutta.

The passengers of the “Mongolia” went ashore at half-past four p.m.; at
exactly eight the train would start for Calcutta.

Mr. Fogg, after bidding good-bye to his whist partners, left the
steamer, gave his servant several errands to do, urged it upon him to
be at the station promptly at eight, and, with his regular step, which
beat to the second, like an astronomical clock, directed his steps to
the passport office. As for the wonders of Bombay—its famous city hall,
its splendid library, its forts and docks, its bazaars, mosques,
synagogues, its Armenian churches, and the noble pagoda on Malabar
Hill, with its two polygonal towers—he cared not a straw to see them.
He would not deign to examine even the masterpieces of Elephanta, or
the mysterious hypogea, concealed south-east from the docks, or those
fine remains of Buddhist architecture, the Kanherian grottoes of the
island of Salcette.

Having transacted his business at the passport office, Phileas Fogg
repaired quietly to the railway station, where he ordered dinner. Among
the dishes served up to him, the landlord especially recommended a
certain giblet of “native rabbit,” on which he prided himself.

Mr. Fogg accordingly tasted the dish, but, despite its spiced sauce,
found it far from palatable. He rang for the landlord, and, on his
appearance, said, fixing his clear eyes upon him, “Is this rabbit,
sir?”

“Yes, my lord,” the rogue boldly replied, “rabbit from the jungles.”

“And this rabbit did not mew when he was killed?”

“Mew, my lord! What, a rabbit mew! I swear to you—”

“Be so good, landlord, as not to swear, but remember this: cats were
formerly considered, in India, as sacred animals. That was a good
time.”

“For the cats, my lord?”

“Perhaps for the travellers as well!”

After which Mr. Fogg quietly continued his dinner. Fix had gone on
shore shortly after Mr. Fogg, and his first destination was the
headquarters of the Bombay police. He made himself known as a London
detective, told his business at Bombay, and the position of affairs
relative to the supposed robber, and nervously asked if a warrant had
arrived from London. It had not reached the office; indeed, there had
not yet been time for it to arrive. Fix was sorely disappointed, and
tried to obtain an order of arrest from the director of the Bombay
police. This the director refused, as the matter concerned the London
office, which alone could legally deliver the warrant. Fix did not
insist, and was fain to resign himself to await the arrival of the
important document; but he was determined not to lose sight of the
mysterious rogue as long as he stayed in Bombay. He did not doubt for a
moment, any more than Passepartout, that Phileas Fogg would remain
there, at least until it was time for the warrant to arrive.

Passepartout, however, had no sooner heard his master’s orders on
leaving the “Mongolia” than he saw at once that they were to leave
Bombay as they had done Suez and Paris, and that the journey would be
extended at least as far as Calcutta, and perhaps beyond that place. He
began to ask himself if this bet that Mr. Fogg talked about was not
really in good earnest, and whether his fate was not in truth forcing
him, despite his love of repose, around the world in eighty days!

Having purchased the usual quota of shirts and shoes, he took a
leisurely promenade about the streets, where crowds of people of many
nationalities—Europeans, Persians with pointed caps, Banyas with round
turbans, Sindes with square bonnets, Parsees with black mitres, and
long-robed Armenians—were collected. It happened to be the day of a
Parsee festival. These descendants of the sect of Zoroaster—the most
thrifty, civilised, intelligent, and austere of the East Indians, among
whom are counted the richest native merchants of Bombay—were
celebrating a sort of religious carnival, with processions and shows,
in the midst of which Indian dancing-girls, clothed in rose-coloured
gauze, looped up with gold and silver, danced airily, but with perfect
modesty, to the sound of viols and the clanging of tambourines. It is
needless to say that Passepartout watched these curious ceremonies with
staring eyes and gaping mouth, and that his countenance was that of the
greenest booby imaginable.

Unhappily for his master, as well as himself, his curiosity drew him
unconsciously farther off than he intended to go. At last, having seen
the Parsee carnival wind away in the distance, he was turning his steps
towards the station, when he happened to espy the splendid pagoda on
Malabar Hill, and was seized with an irresistible desire to see its
interior. He was quite ignorant that it is forbidden to Christians to
enter certain Indian temples, and that even the faithful must not go in
without first leaving their shoes outside the door. It may be said here
that the wise policy of the British Government severely punishes a
disregard of the practices of the native religions.

Passepartout, however, thinking no harm, went in like a simple tourist,
and was soon lost in admiration of the splendid Brahmin ornamentation
which everywhere met his eyes, when of a sudden he found himself
sprawling on the sacred flagging. He looked up to behold three enraged
priests, who forthwith fell upon him; tore off his shoes, and began to
beat him with loud, savage exclamations. The agile Frenchman was soon
upon his feet again, and lost no time in knocking down two of his
long-gowned adversaries with his fists and a vigorous application of
his toes; then, rushing out of the pagoda as fast as his legs could
carry him, he soon escaped the third priest by mingling with the crowd
in the streets.

At five minutes before eight, Passepartout, hatless, shoeless, and
having in the squabble lost his package of shirts and shoes, rushed
breathlessly into the station.

Fix, who had followed Mr. Fogg to the station, and saw that he was
really going to leave Bombay, was there, upon the platform. He had
resolved to follow the supposed robber to Calcutta, and farther, if
necessary. Passepartout did not observe the detective, who stood in an
obscure corner; but Fix heard him relate his adventures in a few words
to Mr. Fogg.

“I hope that this will not happen again,” said Phileas Fogg coldly, as
he got into the train. Poor Passepartout, quite crestfallen, followed
his master without a word. Fix was on the point of entering another
carriage, when an idea struck him which induced him to alter his plan.

“No, I’ll stay,” muttered he. “An offence has been committed on Indian
soil. I’ve got my man.”

Just then the locomotive gave a sharp screech, and the train passed out
into the darkness of the night.




CHAPTER XI.
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG SECURES A CURIOUS MEANS OF CONVEYANCE AT A
FABULOUS PRICE


The train had started punctually. Among the passengers were a number of
officers, Government officials, and opium and indigo merchants, whose
business called them to the eastern coast. Passepartout rode in the
same carriage with his master, and a third passenger occupied a seat
opposite to them. This was Sir Francis Cromarty, one of Mr. Fogg’s
whist partners on the “Mongolia,” now on his way to join his corps at
Benares. Sir Francis was a tall, fair man of fifty, who had greatly
distinguished himself in the last Sepoy revolt. He made India his home,
only paying brief visits to England at rare intervals; and was almost
as familiar as a native with the customs, history, and character of
India and its people. But Phileas Fogg, who was not travelling, but
only describing a circumference, took no pains to inquire into these
subjects; he was a solid body, traversing an orbit around the
terrestrial globe, according to the laws of rational mechanics. He was
at this moment calculating in his mind the number of hours spent since
his departure from London, and, had it been in his nature to make a
useless demonstration, would have rubbed his hands for satisfaction.
Sir Francis Cromarty had observed the oddity of his travelling
companion—although the only opportunity he had for studying him had
been while he was dealing the cards, and between two rubbers—and
questioned himself whether a human heart really beat beneath this cold
exterior, and whether Phileas Fogg had any sense of the beauties of
nature. The brigadier-general was free to mentally confess that, of all
the eccentric persons he had ever met, none was comparable to this
product of the exact sciences.

Phileas Fogg had not concealed from Sir Francis his design of going
round the world, nor the circumstances under which he set out; and the
general only saw in the wager a useless eccentricity and a lack of
sound common sense. In the way this strange gentleman was going on, he
would leave the world without having done any good to himself or
anybody else.

An hour after leaving Bombay the train had passed the viaducts and the
Island of Salcette, and had got into the open country. At Callyan they
reached the junction of the branch line which descends towards
south-eastern India by Kandallah and Pounah; and, passing Pauwell, they
entered the defiles of the mountains, with their basalt bases, and
their summits crowned with thick and verdant forests. Phileas Fogg and
Sir Francis Cromarty exchanged a few words from time to time, and now
Sir Francis, reviving the conversation, observed, “Some years ago, Mr.
Fogg, you would have met with a delay at this point which would
probably have lost you your wager.”

“How so, Sir Francis?”

“Because the railway stopped at the base of these mountains, which the
passengers were obliged to cross in palanquins or on ponies to
Kandallah, on the other side.”

“Such a delay would not have deranged my plans in the least,” said Mr.
Fogg. “I have constantly foreseen the likelihood of certain obstacles.”

“But, Mr. Fogg,” pursued Sir Francis, “you run the risk of having some
difficulty about this worthy fellow’s adventure at the pagoda.”
Passepartout, his feet comfortably wrapped in his travelling-blanket,
was sound asleep and did not dream that anybody was talking about him.
“The Government is very severe upon that kind of offence. It takes
particular care that the religious customs of the Indians should be
respected, and if your servant were caught—”

“Very well, Sir Francis,” replied Mr. Fogg; “if he had been caught he
would have been condemned and punished, and then would have quietly
returned to Europe. I don’t see how this affair could have delayed his
master.”

The conversation fell again. During the night the train left the
mountains behind, and passed Nassik, and the next day proceeded over
the flat, well-cultivated country of the Khandeish, with its straggling
villages, above which rose the minarets of the pagodas. This fertile
territory is watered by numerous small rivers and limpid streams,
mostly tributaries of the Godavery.

Passepartout, on waking and looking out, could not realise that he was
actually crossing India in a railway train. The locomotive, guided by
an English engineer and fed with English coal, threw out its smoke upon
cotton, coffee, nutmeg, clove, and pepper plantations, while the steam
curled in spirals around groups of palm-trees, in the midst of which
were seen picturesque bungalows, viharis (sort of abandoned
monasteries), and marvellous temples enriched by the exhaustless
ornamentation of Indian architecture. Then they came upon vast tracts
extending to the horizon, with jungles inhabited by snakes and tigers,
which fled at the noise of the train; succeeded by forests penetrated
by the railway, and still haunted by elephants which, with pensive
eyes, gazed at the train as it passed. The travellers crossed, beyond
Milligaum, the fatal country so often stained with blood by the
sectaries of the goddess Kali. Not far off rose Ellora, with its
graceful pagodas, and the famous Aurungabad, capital of the ferocious
Aureng-Zeb, now the chief town of one of the detached provinces of the
kingdom of the Nizam. It was thereabouts that Feringhea, the Thuggee
chief, king of the stranglers, held his sway. These ruffians, united by
a secret bond, strangled victims of every age in honour of the goddess
Death, without ever shedding blood; there was a period when this part
of the country could scarcely be travelled over without corpses being
found in every direction. The English Government has succeeded in
greatly diminishing these murders, though the Thuggees still exist, and
pursue the exercise of their horrible rites.

At half-past twelve the train stopped at Burhampoor where Passepartout
was able to purchase some Indian slippers, ornamented with false
pearls, in which, with evident vanity, he proceeded to encase his feet.
The travellers made a hasty breakfast and started off for Assurghur,
after skirting for a little the banks of the small river Tapty, which
empties into the Gulf of Cambray, near Surat.

Passepartout was now plunged into absorbing reverie. Up to his arrival
at Bombay, he had entertained hopes that their journey would end there;
but, now that they were plainly whirling across India at full speed, a
sudden change had come over the spirit of his dreams. His old vagabond
nature returned to him; the fantastic ideas of his youth once more took
possession of him. He came to regard his master’s project as intended
in good earnest, believed in the reality of the bet, and therefore in
the tour of the world and the necessity of making it without fail
within the designated period. Already he began to worry about possible
delays, and accidents which might happen on the way. He recognised
himself as being personally interested in the wager, and trembled at
the thought that he might have been the means of losing it by his
unpardonable folly of the night before. Being much less cool-headed
than Mr. Fogg, he was much more restless, counting and recounting the
days passed over, uttering maledictions when the train stopped, and
accusing it of sluggishness, and mentally blaming Mr. Fogg for not
having bribed the engineer. The worthy fellow was ignorant that, while
it was possible by such means to hasten the rate of a steamer, it could
not be done on the railway.

The train entered the defiles of the Sutpour Mountains, which separate
the Khandeish from Bundelcund, towards evening. The next day Sir
Francis Cromarty asked Passepartout what time it was; to which, on
consulting his watch, he replied that it was three in the morning. This
famous timepiece, always regulated on the Greenwich meridian, which was
now some seventy-seven degrees westward, was at least four hours slow.
Sir Francis corrected Passepartout’s time, whereupon the latter made
the same remark that he had done to Fix; and upon the general insisting
that the watch should be regulated in each new meridian, since he was
constantly going eastward, that is in the face of the sun, and
therefore the days were shorter by four minutes for each degree gone
over, Passepartout obstinately refused to alter his watch, which he
kept at London time. It was an innocent delusion which could harm no
one.

The train stopped, at eight o’clock, in the midst of a glade some
fifteen miles beyond Rothal, where there were several bungalows, and
workmen’s cabins. The conductor, passing along the carriages, shouted,
“Passengers will get out here!”

Phileas Fogg looked at Sir Francis Cromarty for an explanation; but the
general could not tell what meant a halt in the midst of this forest of
dates and acacias.

Passepartout, not less surprised, rushed out and speedily returned,
crying: “Monsieur, no more railway!”

“What do you mean?” asked Sir Francis.

“I mean to say that the train isn’t going on.”

The general at once stepped out, while Phileas Fogg calmly followed
him, and they proceeded together to the conductor.

“Where are we?” asked Sir Francis.

“At the hamlet of Kholby.”

“Do we stop here?”

“Certainly. The railway isn’t finished.”

“What! not finished?”

“No. There’s still a matter of fifty miles to be laid from here to
Allahabad, where the line begins again.”

“But the papers announced the opening of the railway throughout.”

“What would you have, officer? The papers were mistaken.”

“Yet you sell tickets from Bombay to Calcutta,” retorted Sir Francis,
who was growing warm.

“No doubt,” replied the conductor; “but the passengers know that they
must provide means of transportation for themselves from Kholby to
Allahabad.”

Sir Francis was furious. Passepartout would willingly have knocked the
conductor down, and did not dare to look at his master.

“Sir Francis,” said Mr. Fogg quietly, “we will, if you please, look
about for some means of conveyance to Allahabad.”

“Mr. Fogg, this is a delay greatly to your disadvantage.”

“No, Sir Francis; it was foreseen.”

“What! You knew that the way—”

“Not at all; but I knew that some obstacle or other would sooner or
later arise on my route. Nothing, therefore, is lost. I have two days,
which I have already gained, to sacrifice. A steamer leaves Calcutta
for Hong Kong at noon, on the 25th. This is the 22nd, and we shall
reach Calcutta in time.”

There was nothing to say to so confident a response.

It was but too true that the railway came to a termination at this
point. The papers were like some watches, which have a way of getting
too fast, and had been premature in their announcement of the
completion of the line. The greater part of the travellers were aware
of this interruption, and, leaving the train, they began to engage such
vehicles as the village could provide four-wheeled palkigharis, waggons
drawn by zebus, carriages that looked like perambulating pagodas,
palanquins, ponies, and what not.

Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty, after searching the village from end
to end, came back without having found anything.

“I shall go afoot,” said Phileas Fogg.

Passepartout, who had now rejoined his master, made a wry grimace, as
he thought of his magnificent, but too frail Indian shoes. Happily he
too had been looking about him, and, after a moment’s hesitation, said,
“Monsieur, I think I have found a means of conveyance.”

“What?”

“An elephant! An elephant that belongs to an Indian who lives but a
hundred steps from here.”

“Let’s go and see the elephant,” replied Mr. Fogg.

They soon reached a small hut, near which, enclosed within some high
palings, was the animal in question. An Indian came out of the hut,
and, at their request, conducted them within the enclosure. The
elephant, which its owner had reared, not for a beast of burden, but
for warlike purposes, was half domesticated. The Indian had begun
already, by often irritating him, and feeding him every three months on
sugar and butter, to impart to him a ferocity not in his nature, this
method being often employed by those who train the Indian elephants for
battle. Happily, however, for Mr. Fogg, the animal’s instruction in
this direction had not gone far, and the elephant still preserved his
natural gentleness. Kiouni—this was the name of the beast—could
doubtless travel rapidly for a long time, and, in default of any other
means of conveyance, Mr. Fogg resolved to hire him. But elephants are
far from cheap in India, where they are becoming scarce, the males,
which alone are suitable for circus shows, are much sought, especially
as but few of them are domesticated. When therefore Mr. Fogg proposed
to the Indian to hire Kiouni, he refused point-blank. Mr. Fogg
persisted, offering the excessive sum of ten pounds an hour for the
loan of the beast to Allahabad. Refused. Twenty pounds? Refused also.
Forty pounds? Still refused. Passepartout jumped at each advance; but
the Indian declined to be tempted. Yet the offer was an alluring one,
for, supposing it took the elephant fifteen hours to reach Allahabad,
his owner would receive no less than six hundred pounds sterling.

Phileas Fogg, without getting in the least flurried, then proposed to
purchase the animal outright, and at first offered a thousand pounds
for him. The Indian, perhaps thinking he was going to make a great
bargain, still refused.

Sir Francis Cromarty took Mr. Fogg aside, and begged him to reflect
before he went any further; to which that gentleman replied that he was
not in the habit of acting rashly, that a bet of twenty thousand pounds
was at stake, that the elephant was absolutely necessary to him, and
that he would secure him if he had to pay twenty times his value.
Returning to the Indian, whose small, sharp eyes, glistening with
avarice, betrayed that with him it was only a question of how great a
price he could obtain. Mr. Fogg offered first twelve hundred, then
fifteen hundred, eighteen hundred, two thousand pounds. Passepartout,
usually so rubicund, was fairly white with suspense.

At two thousand pounds the Indian yielded.

“What a price, good heavens!” cried Passepartout, “for an elephant.”

It only remained now to find a guide, which was comparatively easy. A
young Parsee, with an intelligent face, offered his services, which Mr.
Fogg accepted, promising so generous a reward as to materially
stimulate his zeal. The elephant was led out and equipped. The Parsee,
who was an accomplished elephant driver, covered his back with a sort
of saddle-cloth, and attached to each of his flanks some curiously
uncomfortable howdahs. Phileas Fogg paid the Indian with some banknotes
which he extracted from the famous carpet-bag, a proceeding that seemed
to deprive poor Passepartout of his vitals. Then he offered to carry
Sir Francis to Allahabad, which the brigadier gratefully accepted, as
one traveller the more would not be likely to fatigue the gigantic
beast. Provisions were purchased at Kholby, and, while Sir Francis and
Mr. Fogg took the howdahs on either side, Passepartout got astride the
saddle-cloth between them. The Parsee perched himself on the elephant’s
neck, and at nine o’clock they set out from the village, the animal
marching off through the dense forest of palms by the shortest cut.




CHAPTER XII.
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AND HIS COMPANIONS VENTURE ACROSS THE INDIAN
FORESTS, AND WHAT ENSUED


In order to shorten the journey, the guide passed to the left of the
line where the railway was still in process of being built. This line,
owing to the capricious turnings of the Vindhia Mountains, did not
pursue a straight course. The Parsee, who was quite familiar with the
roads and paths in the district, declared that they would gain twenty
miles by striking directly through the forest.

Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty, plunged to the neck in the
peculiar howdahs provided for them, were horribly jostled by the swift
trotting of the elephant, spurred on as he was by the skilful Parsee;
but they endured the discomfort with true British phlegm, talking
little, and scarcely able to catch a glimpse of each other. As for
Passepartout, who was mounted on the beast’s back, and received the
direct force of each concussion as he trod along, he was very careful,
in accordance with his master’s advice, to keep his tongue from between
his teeth, as it would otherwise have been bitten off short. The worthy
fellow bounced from the elephant’s neck to his rump, and vaulted like a
clown on a spring-board; yet he laughed in the midst of his bouncing,
and from time to time took a piece of sugar out of his pocket, and
inserted it in Kiouni’s trunk, who received it without in the least
slackening his regular trot.

After two hours the guide stopped the elephant, and gave him an hour
for rest, during which Kiouni, after quenching his thirst at a
neighbouring spring, set to devouring the branches and shrubs round
about him. Neither Sir Francis nor Mr. Fogg regretted the delay, and
both descended with a feeling of relief. “Why, he’s made of iron!”
exclaimed the general, gazing admiringly on Kiouni.

“Of forged iron,” replied Passepartout, as he set about preparing a
hasty breakfast.

At noon the Parsee gave the signal of departure. The country soon
presented a very savage aspect. Copses of dates and dwarf-palms
succeeded the dense forests; then vast, dry plains, dotted with scanty
shrubs, and sown with great blocks of syenite. All this portion of
Bundelcund, which is little frequented by travellers, is inhabited by a
fanatical population, hardened in the most horrible practices of the
Hindoo faith. The English have not been able to secure complete
dominion over this territory, which is subjected to the influence of
rajahs, whom it is almost impossible to reach in their inaccessible
mountain fastnesses. The travellers several times saw bands of
ferocious Indians, who, when they perceived the elephant striding
across-country, made angry and threatening motions. The Parsee avoided
them as much as possible. Few animals were observed on the route; even
the monkeys hurried from their path with contortions and grimaces which
convulsed Passepartout with laughter.

In the midst of his gaiety, however, one thought troubled the worthy
servant. What would Mr. Fogg do with the elephant when he got to
Allahabad? Would he carry him on with him? Impossible! The cost of
transporting him would make him ruinously expensive. Would he sell him,
or set him free? The estimable beast certainly deserved some
consideration. Should Mr. Fogg choose to make him, Passepartout, a
present of Kiouni, he would be very much embarrassed; and these
thoughts did not cease worrying him for a long time.

The principal chain of the Vindhias was crossed by eight in the
evening, and another halt was made on the northern slope, in a ruined
bungalow. They had gone nearly twenty-five miles that day, and an equal
distance still separated them from the station of Allahabad.

The night was cold. The Parsee lit a fire in the bungalow with a few
dry branches, and the warmth was very grateful, provisions purchased at
Kholby sufficed for supper, and the travellers ate ravenously. The
conversation, beginning with a few disconnected phrases, soon gave
place to loud and steady snores. The guide watched Kiouni, who slept
standing, bolstering himself against the trunk of a large tree. Nothing
occurred during the night to disturb the slumberers, although
occasional growls from panthers and chatterings of monkeys broke the
silence; the more formidable beasts made no cries or hostile
demonstration against the occupants of the bungalow. Sir Francis slept
heavily, like an honest soldier overcome with fatigue. Passepartout was
wrapped in uneasy dreams of the bouncing of the day before. As for Mr.
Fogg, he slumbered as peacefully as if he had been in his serene
mansion in Saville Row.

The journey was resumed at six in the morning; the guide hoped to reach
Allahabad by evening. In that case, Mr. Fogg would only lose a part of
the forty-eight hours saved since the beginning of the tour. Kiouni,
resuming his rapid gait, soon descended the lower spurs of the
Vindhias, and towards noon they passed by the village of Kallenger, on
the Cani, one of the branches of the Ganges. The guide avoided
inhabited places, thinking it safer to keep the open country, which
lies along the first depressions of the basin of the great river.
Allahabad was now only twelve miles to the north-east. They stopped
under a clump of bananas, the fruit of which, as healthy as bread and
as succulent as cream, was amply partaken of and appreciated.

At two o’clock the guide entered a thick forest which extended several
miles; he preferred to travel under cover of the woods. They had not as
yet had any unpleasant encounters, and the journey seemed on the point
of being successfully accomplished, when the elephant, becoming
restless, suddenly stopped.

It was then four o’clock.

“What’s the matter?” asked Sir Francis, putting out his head.

“I don’t know, officer,” replied the Parsee, listening attentively to a
confused murmur which came through the thick branches.

The murmur soon became more distinct; it now seemed like a distant
concert of human voices accompanied by brass instruments. Passepartout
was all eyes and ears. Mr. Fogg patiently waited without a word. The
Parsee jumped to the ground, fastened the elephant to a tree, and
plunged into the thicket. He soon returned, saying:

“A procession of Brahmins is coming this way. We must prevent their
seeing us, if possible.”

The guide unloosed the elephant and led him into a thicket, at the same
time asking the travellers not to stir. He held himself ready to
bestride the animal at a moment’s notice, should flight become
necessary; but he evidently thought that the procession of the faithful
would pass without perceiving them amid the thick foliage, in which
they were wholly concealed.

The discordant tones of the voices and instruments drew nearer, and now
droning songs mingled with the sound of the tambourines and cymbals.
The head of the procession soon appeared beneath the trees, a hundred
paces away; and the strange figures who performed the religious
ceremony were easily distinguished through the branches. First came the
priests, with mitres on their heads, and clothed in long lace robes.
They were surrounded by men, women, and children, who sang a kind of
lugubrious psalm, interrupted at regular intervals by the tambourines
and cymbals; while behind them was drawn a car with large wheels, the
spokes of which represented serpents entwined with each other. Upon the
car, which was drawn by four richly caparisoned zebus, stood a hideous
statue with four arms, the body coloured a dull red, with haggard eyes,
dishevelled hair, protruding tongue, and lips tinted with betel. It
stood upright upon the figure of a prostrate and headless giant.

Sir Francis, recognising the statue, whispered, “The goddess Kali; the
goddess of love and death.”

“Of death, perhaps,” muttered back Passepartout, “but of love—that ugly
old hag? Never!”

The Parsee made a motion to keep silence.

A group of old fakirs were capering and making a wild ado round the
statue; these were striped with ochre, and covered with cuts whence
their blood issued drop by drop—stupid fanatics, who, in the great
Indian ceremonies, still throw themselves under the wheels of
Juggernaut. Some Brahmins, clad in all the sumptuousness of Oriental
apparel, and leading a woman who faltered at every step, followed. This
woman was young, and as fair as a European. Her head and neck,
shoulders, ears, arms, hands, and toes were loaded down with jewels and
gems with bracelets, earrings, and rings; while a tunic bordered with
gold, and covered with a light muslin robe, betrayed the outline of her
form.

The guards who followed the young woman presented a violent contrast to
her, armed as they were with naked sabres hung at their waists, and
long damascened pistols, and bearing a corpse on a palanquin. It was
the body of an old man, gorgeously arrayed in the habiliments of a
rajah, wearing, as in life, a turban embroidered with pearls, a robe of
tissue of silk and gold, a scarf of cashmere sewed with diamonds, and
the magnificent weapons of a Hindoo prince. Next came the musicians and
a rearguard of capering fakirs, whose cries sometimes drowned the noise
of the instruments; these closed the procession.

Sir Francis watched the procession with a sad countenance, and, turning
to the guide, said, “A suttee.”

The Parsee nodded, and put his finger to his lips. The procession
slowly wound under the trees, and soon its last ranks disappeared in
the depths of the wood. The songs gradually died away; occasionally
cries were heard in the distance, until at last all was silence again.

Phileas Fogg had heard what Sir Francis said, and, as soon as the
procession had disappeared, asked: “What is a suttee?”

“A suttee,” returned the general, “is a human sacrifice, but a
voluntary one. The woman you have just seen will be burned to-morrow at
the dawn of day.”

“Oh, the scoundrels!” cried Passepartout, who could not repress his
indignation.

“And the corpse?” asked Mr. Fogg.

“Is that of the prince, her husband,” said the guide; “an independent
rajah of Bundelcund.”

“Is it possible,” resumed Phileas Fogg, his voice betraying not the
least emotion, “that these barbarous customs still exist in India, and
that the English have been unable to put a stop to them?”

“These sacrifices do not occur in the larger portion of India,” replied
Sir Francis; “but we have no power over these savage territories, and
especially here in Bundelcund. The whole district north of the Vindhias
is the theatre of incessant murders and pillage.”

“The poor wretch!” exclaimed Passepartout, “to be burned alive!”

“Yes,” returned Sir Francis, “burned alive. And, if she were not, you
cannot conceive what treatment she would be obliged to submit to from
her relatives. They would shave off her hair, feed her on a scanty
allowance of rice, treat her with contempt; she would be looked upon as
an unclean creature, and would die in some corner, like a scurvy dog.
The prospect of so frightful an existence drives these poor creatures
to the sacrifice much more than love or religious fanaticism.
Sometimes, however, the sacrifice is really voluntary, and it requires
the active interference of the Government to prevent it. Several years
ago, when I was living at Bombay, a young widow asked permission of the
governor to be burned along with her husband’s body; but, as you may
imagine, he refused. The woman left the town, took refuge with an
independent rajah, and there carried out her self-devoted purpose.”

While Sir Francis was speaking, the guide shook his head several times,
and now said: “The sacrifice which will take place to-morrow at dawn is
not a voluntary one.”

“How do you know?”

“Everybody knows about this affair in Bundelcund.”

“But the wretched creature did not seem to be making any resistance,”
observed Sir Francis.

“That was because they had intoxicated her with fumes of hemp and
opium.”

“But where are they taking her?”

“To the pagoda of Pillaji, two miles from here; she will pass the night
there.”

“And the sacrifice will take place—”

“To-morrow, at the first light of dawn.”

The guide now led the elephant out of the thicket, and leaped upon his
neck. Just at the moment that he was about to urge Kiouni forward with
a peculiar whistle, Mr. Fogg stopped him, and, turning to Sir Francis
Cromarty, said, “Suppose we save this woman.”

“Save the woman, Mr. Fogg!”

“I have yet twelve hours to spare; I can devote them to that.”

“Why, you are a man of heart!”

“Sometimes,” replied Phileas Fogg, quietly; “when I have the time.”




CHAPTER XIII.
IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT RECEIVES A NEW PROOF THAT FORTUNE FAVORS THE
BRAVE


The project was a bold one, full of difficulty, perhaps impracticable.
Mr. Fogg was going to risk life, or at least liberty, and therefore the
success of his tour. But he did not hesitate, and he found in Sir
Francis Cromarty an enthusiastic ally.

As for Passepartout, he was ready for anything that might be proposed.
His master’s idea charmed him; he perceived a heart, a soul, under that
icy exterior. He began to love Phileas Fogg.

There remained the guide: what course would he adopt? Would he not take
part with the Indians? In default of his assistance, it was necessary
to be assured of his neutrality.

Sir Francis frankly put the question to him.

“Officers,” replied the guide, “I am a Parsee, and this woman is a
Parsee. Command me as you will.”

“Excellent!” said Mr. Fogg.

“However,” resumed the guide, “it is certain, not only that we shall
risk our lives, but horrible tortures, if we are taken.”

“That is foreseen,” replied Mr. Fogg. “I think we must wait till night
before acting.”

“I think so,” said the guide.

The worthy Indian then gave some account of the victim, who, he said,
was a celebrated beauty of the Parsee race, and the daughter of a
wealthy Bombay merchant. She had received a thoroughly English
education in that city, and, from her manners and intelligence, would
be thought an European. Her name was Aouda. Left an orphan, she was
married against her will to the old rajah of Bundelcund; and, knowing
the fate that awaited her, she escaped, was retaken, and devoted by the
rajah’s relatives, who had an interest in her death, to the sacrifice
from which it seemed she could not escape.

The Parsee’s narrative only confirmed Mr. Fogg and his companions in
their generous design. It was decided that the guide should direct the
elephant towards the pagoda of Pillaji, which he accordingly approached
as quickly as possible. They halted, half an hour afterwards, in a
copse, some five hundred feet from the pagoda, where they were well
concealed; but they could hear the groans and cries of the fakirs
distinctly.

They then discussed the means of getting at the victim. The guide was
familiar with the pagoda of Pillaji, in which, as he declared, the
young woman was imprisoned. Could they enter any of its doors while the
whole party of Indians was plunged in a drunken sleep, or was it safer
to attempt to make a hole in the walls? This could only be determined
at the moment and the place themselves; but it was certain that the
abduction must be made that night, and not when, at break of day, the
victim was led to her funeral pyre. Then no human intervention could
save her.

As soon as night fell, about six o’clock, they decided to make a
reconnaissance around the pagoda. The cries of the fakirs were just
ceasing; the Indians were in the act of plunging themselves into the
drunkenness caused by liquid opium mingled with hemp, and it might be
possible to slip between them to the temple itself.

The Parsee, leading the others, noiselessly crept through the wood, and
in ten minutes they found themselves on the banks of a small stream,
whence, by the light of the rosin torches, they perceived a pyre of
wood, on the top of which lay the embalmed body of the rajah, which was
to be burned with his wife. The pagoda, whose minarets loomed above the
trees in the deepening dusk, stood a hundred steps away.

“Come!” whispered the guide.

He slipped more cautiously than ever through the brush, followed by his
companions; the silence around was only broken by the low murmuring of
the wind among the branches.

Soon the Parsee stopped on the borders of the glade, which was lit up
by the torches. The ground was covered by groups of the Indians,
motionless in their drunken sleep; it seemed a battlefield strewn with
the dead. Men, women, and children lay together.

In the background, among the trees, the pagoda of Pillaji loomed
distinctly. Much to the guide’s disappointment, the guards of the
rajah, lighted by torches, were watching at the doors and marching to
and fro with naked sabres; probably the priests, too, were watching
within.

The Parsee, now convinced that it was impossible to force an entrance
to the temple, advanced no farther, but led his companions back again.
Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty also saw that nothing could be
attempted in that direction. They stopped, and engaged in a whispered
colloquy.

“It is only eight now,” said the brigadier, “and these guards may also
go to sleep.”

“It is not impossible,” returned the Parsee.

They lay down at the foot of a tree, and waited.

The time seemed long; the guide ever and anon left them to take an
observation on the edge of the wood, but the guards watched steadily by
the glare of the torches, and a dim light crept through the windows of
the pagoda.

They waited till midnight; but no change took place among the guards,
and it became apparent that their yielding to sleep could not be
counted on. The other plan must be carried out; an opening in the walls
of the pagoda must be made. It remained to ascertain whether the
priests were watching by the side of their victim as assiduously as
were the soldiers at the door.

After a last consultation, the guide announced that he was ready for
the attempt, and advanced, followed by the others. They took a
roundabout way, so as to get at the pagoda on the rear. They reached
the walls about half-past twelve, without having met anyone; here there
was no guard, nor were there either windows or doors.

The night was dark. The moon, on the wane, scarcely left the horizon,
and was covered with heavy clouds; the height of the trees deepened the
darkness.

It was not enough to reach the walls; an opening in them must be
accomplished, and to attain this purpose the party only had their
pocket-knives. Happily the temple walls were built of brick and wood,
which could be penetrated with little difficulty; after one brick had
been taken out, the rest would yield easily.

They set noiselessly to work, and the Parsee on one side and
Passepartout on the other began to loosen the bricks so as to make an
aperture two feet wide. They were getting on rapidly, when suddenly a
cry was heard in the interior of the temple, followed almost instantly
by other cries replying from the outside. Passepartout and the guide
stopped. Had they been heard? Was the alarm being given? Common
prudence urged them to retire, and they did so, followed by Phileas
Fogg and Sir Francis. They again hid themselves in the wood, and waited
till the disturbance, whatever it might be, ceased, holding themselves
ready to resume their attempt without delay. But, awkwardly enough, the
guards now appeared at the rear of the temple, and there installed
themselves, in readiness to prevent a surprise.

It would be difficult to describe the disappointment of the party, thus
interrupted in their work. They could not now reach the victim; how,
then, could they save her? Sir Francis shook his fists, Passepartout
was beside himself, and the guide gnashed his teeth with rage. The
tranquil Fogg waited, without betraying any emotion.

“We have nothing to do but to go away,” whispered Sir Francis.

“Nothing but to go away,” echoed the guide.

“Stop,” said Fogg. “I am only due at Allahabad tomorrow before noon.”

“But what can you hope to do?” asked Sir Francis. “In a few hours it
will be daylight, and—”

“The chance which now seems lost may present itself at the last
moment.”

Sir Francis would have liked to read Phileas Fogg’s eyes. What was this
cool Englishman thinking of? Was he planning to make a rush for the
young woman at the very moment of the sacrifice, and boldly snatch her
from her executioners?

This would be utter folly, and it was hard to admit that Fogg was such
a fool. Sir Francis consented, however, to remain to the end of this
terrible drama. The guide led them to the rear of the glade, where they
were able to observe the sleeping groups.

Meanwhile Passepartout, who had perched himself on the lower branches
of a tree, was resolving an idea which had at first struck him like a
flash, and which was now firmly lodged in his brain.

He had commenced by saying to himself, “What folly!” and then he
repeated, “Why not, after all? It’s a chance,—perhaps the only one; and
with such sots!” Thinking thus, he slipped, with the suppleness of a
serpent, to the lowest branches, the ends of which bent almost to the
ground.

The hours passed, and the lighter shades now announced the approach of
day, though it was not yet light. This was the moment. The slumbering
multitude became animated, the tambourines sounded, songs and cries
arose; the hour of the sacrifice had come. The doors of the pagoda
swung open, and a bright light escaped from its interior, in the midst
of which Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis espied the victim. She seemed, having
shaken off the stupor of intoxication, to be striving to escape from
her executioner. Sir Francis’s heart throbbed; and, convulsively
seizing Mr. Fogg’s hand, found in it an open knife. Just at this moment
the crowd began to move. The young woman had again fallen into a stupor
caused by the fumes of hemp, and passed among the fakirs, who escorted
her with their wild, religious cries.

Phileas Fogg and his companions, mingling in the rear ranks of the
crowd, followed; and in two minutes they reached the banks of the
stream, and stopped fifty paces from the pyre, upon which still lay the
rajah’s corpse. In the semi-obscurity they saw the victim, quite
senseless, stretched out beside her husband’s body. Then a torch was
brought, and the wood, heavily soaked with oil, instantly took fire.

At this moment Sir Francis and the guide seized Phileas Fogg, who, in
an instant of mad generosity, was about to rush upon the pyre. But he
had quickly pushed them aside, when the whole scene suddenly changed. A
cry of terror arose. The whole multitude prostrated themselves,
terror-stricken, on the ground.

The old rajah was not dead, then, since he rose of a sudden, like a
spectre, took up his wife in his arms, and descended from the pyre in
the midst of the clouds of smoke, which only heightened his ghostly
appearance.

Fakirs and soldiers and priests, seized with instant terror, lay there,
with their faces on the ground, not daring to lift their eyes and
behold such a prodigy.

The inanimate victim was borne along by the vigorous arms which
supported her, and which she did not seem in the least to burden. Mr.
Fogg and Sir Francis stood erect, the Parsee bowed his head, and
Passepartout was, no doubt, scarcely less stupefied.

The resuscitated rajah approached Sir Francis and Mr. Fogg, and, in an
abrupt tone, said, “Let us be off!”

It was Passepartout himself, who had slipped upon the pyre in the midst
of the smoke and, profiting by the still overhanging darkness, had
delivered the young woman from death! It was Passepartout who, playing
his part with a happy audacity, had passed through the crowd amid the
general terror.

A moment after all four of the party had disappeared in the woods, and
the elephant was bearing them away at a rapid pace. But the cries and
noise, and a ball which whizzed through Phileas Fogg’s hat, apprised
them that the trick had been discovered.

The old rajah’s body, indeed, now appeared upon the burning pyre; and
the priests, recovered from their terror, perceived that an abduction
had taken place. They hastened into the forest, followed by the
soldiers, who fired a volley after the fugitives; but the latter
rapidly increased the distance between them, and ere long found
themselves beyond the reach of the bullets and arrows.




CHAPTER XIV.
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG DESCENDS THE WHOLE LENGTH OF THE BEAUTIFUL VALLEY
OF THE GANGES WITHOUT EVER THINKING OF SEEING IT


The rash exploit had been accomplished; and for an hour Passepartout
laughed gaily at his success. Sir Francis pressed the worthy fellow’s
hand, and his master said, “Well done!” which, from him, was high
commendation; to which Passepartout replied that all the credit of the
affair belonged to Mr. Fogg. As for him, he had only been struck with a
“queer” idea; and he laughed to think that for a few moments he,
Passepartout, the ex-gymnast, ex-sergeant fireman, had been the spouse
of a charming woman, a venerable, embalmed rajah! As for the young
Indian woman, she had been unconscious throughout of what was passing,
and now, wrapped up in a travelling-blanket, was reposing in one of the
howdahs.

The elephant, thanks to the skilful guidance of the Parsee, was
advancing rapidly through the still darksome forest, and, an hour after
leaving the pagoda, had crossed a vast plain. They made a halt at seven
o’clock, the young woman being still in a state of complete
prostration. The guide made her drink a little brandy and water, but
the drowsiness which stupefied her could not yet be shaken off. Sir
Francis, who was familiar with the effects of the intoxication produced
by the fumes of hemp, reassured his companions on her account. But he
was more disturbed at the prospect of her future fate. He told Phileas
Fogg that, should Aouda remain in India, she would inevitably fall
again into the hands of her executioners. These fanatics were scattered
throughout the county, and would, despite the English police, recover
their victim at Madras, Bombay, or Calcutta. She would only be safe by
quitting India for ever.

Phileas Fogg replied that he would reflect upon the matter.

The station at Allahabad was reached about ten o’clock, and, the
interrupted line of railway being resumed, would enable them to reach
Calcutta in less than twenty-four hours. Phileas Fogg would thus be
able to arrive in time to take the steamer which left Calcutta the next
day, October 25th, at noon, for Hong Kong.

The young woman was placed in one of the waiting-rooms of the station,
whilst Passepartout was charged with purchasing for her various
articles of toilet, a dress, shawl, and some furs; for which his master
gave him unlimited credit. Passepartout started off forthwith, and
found himself in the streets of Allahabad, that is, the City of God,
one of the most venerated in India, being built at the junction of the
two sacred rivers, Ganges and Jumna, the waters of which attract
pilgrims from every part of the peninsula. The Ganges, according to the
legends of the Ramayana, rises in heaven, whence, owing to Brahma’s
agency, it descends to the earth.

Passepartout made it a point, as he made his purchases, to take a good
look at the city. It was formerly defended by a noble fort, which has
since become a state prison; its commerce has dwindled away, and
Passepartout in vain looked about him for such a bazaar as he used to
frequent in Regent Street. At last he came upon an elderly, crusty Jew,
who sold second-hand articles, and from whom he purchased a dress of
Scotch stuff, a large mantle, and a fine otter-skin pelisse, for which
he did not hesitate to pay seventy-five pounds. He then returned
triumphantly to the station.

The influence to which the priests of Pillaji had subjected Aouda began
gradually to yield, and she became more herself, so that her fine eyes
resumed all their soft Indian expression.

When the poet-king, Ucaf Uddaul, celebrates the charms of the queen of
Ahmehnagara, he speaks thus:

“Her shining tresses, divided in two parts, encircle the harmonious
contour of her white and delicate cheeks, brilliant in their glow and
freshness. Her ebony brows have the form and charm of the bow of Kama,
the god of love, and beneath her long silken lashes the purest
reflections and a celestial light swim, as in the sacred lakes of
Himalaya, in the black pupils of her great clear eyes. Her teeth, fine,
equal, and white, glitter between her smiling lips like dewdrops in a
passion-flower’s half-enveloped breast. Her delicately formed ears, her
vermilion hands, her little feet, curved and tender as the lotus-bud,
glitter with the brilliancy of the loveliest pearls of Ceylon, the most
dazzling diamonds of Golconda. Her narrow and supple waist, which a
hand may clasp around, sets forth the outline of her rounded figure and
the beauty of her bosom, where youth in its flower displays the wealth
of its treasures; and beneath the silken folds of her tunic she seems
to have been modelled in pure silver by the godlike hand of
Vicvarcarma, the immortal sculptor.”

It is enough to say, without applying this poetical rhapsody to Aouda,
that she was a charming woman, in all the European acceptation of the
phrase. She spoke English with great purity, and the guide had not
exaggerated in saying that the young Parsee had been transformed by her
bringing up.

The train was about to start from Allahabad, and Mr. Fogg proceeded to
pay the guide the price agreed upon for his service, and not a farthing
more; which astonished Passepartout, who remembered all that his master
owed to the guide’s devotion. He had, indeed, risked his life in the
adventure at Pillaji, and, if he should be caught afterwards by the
Indians, he would with difficulty escape their vengeance. Kiouni, also,
must be disposed of. What should be done with the elephant, which had
been so dearly purchased? Phileas Fogg had already determined this
question.

“Parsee,” said he to the guide, “you have been serviceable and devoted.
I have paid for your service, but not for your devotion. Would you like
to have this elephant? He is yours.”

The guide’s eyes glistened.

“Your honour is giving me a fortune!” cried he.

“Take him, guide,” returned Mr. Fogg, “and I shall still be your
debtor.”

“Good!” exclaimed Passepartout. “Take him, friend. Kiouni is a brave
and faithful beast.” And, going up to the elephant, he gave him several
lumps of sugar, saying, “Here, Kiouni, here, here.”

The elephant grunted out his satisfaction, and, clasping Passepartout
around the waist with his trunk, lifted him as high as his head.
Passepartout, not in the least alarmed, caressed the animal, which
replaced him gently on the ground.

Soon after, Phileas Fogg, Sir Francis Cromarty, and Passepartout,
installed in a carriage with Aouda, who had the best seat, were
whirling at full speed towards Benares. It was a run of eighty miles,
and was accomplished in two hours. During the journey, the young woman
fully recovered her senses. What was her astonishment to find herself
in this carriage, on the railway, dressed in European habiliments, and
with travellers who were quite strangers to her! Her companions first
set about fully reviving her with a little liquor, and then Sir Francis
narrated to her what had passed, dwelling upon the courage with which
Phileas Fogg had not hesitated to risk his life to save her, and
recounting the happy sequel of the venture, the result of
Passepartout’s rash idea. Mr. Fogg said nothing; while Passepartout,
abashed, kept repeating that “it wasn’t worth telling.”

Aouda pathetically thanked her deliverers, rather with tears than
words; her fine eyes interpreted her gratitude better than her lips.
Then, as her thoughts strayed back to the scene of the sacrifice, and
recalled the dangers which still menaced her, she shuddered with
terror.

Phileas Fogg understood what was passing in Aouda’s mind, and offered,
in order to reassure her, to escort her to Hong Kong, where she might
remain safely until the affair was hushed up—an offer which she eagerly
and gratefully accepted. She had, it seems, a Parsee relation, who was
one of the principal merchants of Hong Kong, which is wholly an English
city, though on an island on the Chinese coast.

At half-past twelve the train stopped at Benares. The Brahmin legends
assert that this city is built on the site of the ancient Casi, which,
like Mahomet’s tomb, was once suspended between heaven and earth;
though the Benares of to-day, which the Orientalists call the Athens of
India, stands quite unpoetically on the solid earth, Passepartout
caught glimpses of its brick houses and clay huts, giving an aspect of
desolation to the place, as the train entered it.

Benares was Sir Francis Cromarty’s destination, the troops he was
rejoining being encamped some miles northward of the city. He bade
adieu to Phileas Fogg, wishing him all success, and expressing the hope
that he would come that way again in a less original but more
profitable fashion. Mr. Fogg lightly pressed him by the hand. The
parting of Aouda, who did not forget what she owed to Sir Francis,
betrayed more warmth; and, as for Passepartout, he received a hearty
shake of the hand from the gallant general.

The railway, on leaving Benares, passed for a while along the valley of
the Ganges. Through the windows of their carriage the travellers had
glimpses of the diversified landscape of Behar, with its mountains
clothed in verdure, its fields of barley, wheat, and corn, its jungles
peopled with green alligators, its neat villages, and its still
thickly-leaved forests. Elephants were bathing in the waters of the
sacred river, and groups of Indians, despite the advanced season and
chilly air, were performing solemnly their pious ablutions. These were
fervent Brahmins, the bitterest foes of Buddhism, their deities being
Vishnu, the solar god, Shiva, the divine impersonation of natural
forces, and Brahma, the supreme ruler of priests and legislators. What
would these divinities think of India, anglicised as it is to-day, with
steamers whistling and scudding along the Ganges, frightening the gulls
which float upon its surface, the turtles swarming along its banks, and
the faithful dwelling upon its borders?

The panorama passed before their eyes like a flash, save when the steam
concealed it fitfully from the view; the travellers could scarcely
discern the fort of Chupenie, twenty miles south-westward from Benares,
the ancient stronghold of the rajahs of Behar; or Ghazipur and its
famous rose-water factories; or the tomb of Lord Cornwallis, rising on
the left bank of the Ganges; the fortified town of Buxar, or Patna, a
large manufacturing and trading-place, where is held the principal
opium market of India; or Monghir, a more than European town, for it is
as English as Manchester or Birmingham, with its iron foundries,
edgetool factories, and high chimneys puffing clouds of black smoke
heavenward.

Night came on; the train passed on at full speed, in the midst of the
roaring of the tigers, bears, and wolves which fled before the
locomotive; and the marvels of Bengal, Golconda ruined Gour,
Murshedabad, the ancient capital, Burdwan, Hugly, and the French town
of Chandernagor, where Passepartout would have been proud to see his
country’s flag flying, were hidden from their view in the darkness.

Calcutta was reached at seven in the morning, and the packet left for
Hong Kong at noon; so that Phileas Fogg had five hours before him.

According to his journal, he was due at Calcutta on the 25th of
October, and that was the exact date of his actual arrival. He was
therefore neither behind-hand nor ahead of time. The two days gained
between London and Bombay had been lost, as has been seen, in the
journey across India. But it is not to be supposed that Phileas Fogg
regretted them.




CHAPTER XV.
IN WHICH THE BAG OF BANKNOTES DISGORGES SOME THOUSANDS OF POUNDS MORE


The train entered the station, and Passepartout jumping out first, was
followed by Mr. Fogg, who assisted his fair companion to descend.
Phileas Fogg intended to proceed at once to the Hong Kong steamer, in
order to get Aouda comfortably settled for the voyage. He was unwilling
to leave her while they were still on dangerous ground.

Just as he was leaving the station a policeman came up to him, and
said, “Mr. Phileas Fogg?”

“I am he.”

“Is this man your servant?” added the policeman, pointing to
Passepartout.

“Yes.”

“Be so good, both of you, as to follow me.”

Mr. Fogg betrayed no surprise whatever. The policeman was a
representative of the law, and law is sacred to an Englishman.
Passepartout tried to reason about the matter, but the policeman tapped
him with his stick, and Mr. Fogg made him a signal to obey.

“May this young lady go with us?” asked he.

“She may,” replied the policeman.

Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout were conducted to a palkigahri, a
sort of four-wheeled carriage, drawn by two horses, in which they took
their places and were driven away. No one spoke during the twenty
minutes which elapsed before they reached their destination. They first
passed through the “black town,” with its narrow streets, its
miserable, dirty huts, and squalid population; then through the
“European town,” which presented a relief in its bright brick mansions,
shaded by coconut-trees and bristling with masts, where, although it
was early morning, elegantly dressed horsemen and handsome equipages
were passing back and forth.

The carriage stopped before a modest-looking house, which, however, did
not have the appearance of a private mansion. The policeman having
requested his prisoners—for so, truly, they might be called—to descend,
conducted them into a room with barred windows, and said: “You will
appear before Judge Obadiah at half-past eight.”

He then retired, and closed the door.

“Why, we are prisoners!” exclaimed Passepartout, falling into a chair.

Aouda, with an emotion she tried to conceal, said to Mr. Fogg: “Sir,
you must leave me to my fate! It is on my account that you receive this
treatment, it is for having saved me!”

Phileas Fogg contented himself with saying that it was impossible. It
was quite unlikely that he should be arrested for preventing a suttee.
The complainants would not dare present themselves with such a charge.
There was some mistake. Moreover, he would not, in any event, abandon
Aouda, but would escort her to Hong Kong.

“But the steamer leaves at noon!” observed Passepartout, nervously.

“We shall be on board by noon,” replied his master, placidly.

It was said so positively that Passepartout could not help muttering to
himself, “Parbleu that’s certain! Before noon we shall be on board.”
But he was by no means reassured.

At half-past eight the door opened, the policeman appeared, and,
requesting them to follow him, led the way to an adjoining hall. It was
evidently a court-room, and a crowd of Europeans and natives already
occupied the rear of the apartment.

Mr. Fogg and his two companions took their places on a bench opposite
the desks of the magistrate and his clerk. Immediately after, Judge
Obadiah, a fat, round man, followed by the clerk, entered. He proceeded
to take down a wig which was hanging on a nail, and put it hurriedly on
his head.

“The first case,” said he. Then, putting his hand to his head, he
exclaimed, “Heh! This is not my wig!”

“No, your worship,” returned the clerk, “it is mine.”

“My dear Mr. Oysterpuff, how can a judge give a wise sentence in a
clerk’s wig?”

The wigs were exchanged.

Passepartout was getting nervous, for the hands on the face of the big
clock over the judge seemed to go around with terrible rapidity.

“The first case,” repeated Judge Obadiah.

“Phileas Fogg?” demanded Oysterpuff.

“I am here,” replied Mr. Fogg.

“Passepartout?”

“Present,” responded Passepartout.

“Good,” said the judge. “You have been looked for, prisoners, for two
days on the trains from Bombay.”

“But of what are we accused?” asked Passepartout, impatiently.

“You are about to be informed.”

“I am an English subject, sir,” said Mr. Fogg, “and I have the right—”

“Have you been ill-treated?”

“Not at all.”

“Very well; let the complainants come in.”

A door was swung open by order of the judge, and three Indian priests
entered.

“That’s it,” muttered Passepartout; “these are the rogues who were
going to burn our young lady.”

The priests took their places in front of the judge, and the clerk
proceeded to read in a loud voice a complaint of sacrilege against
Phileas Fogg and his servant, who were accused of having violated a
place held consecrated by the Brahmin religion.

“You hear the charge?” asked the judge.

“Yes, sir,” replied Mr. Fogg, consulting his watch, “and I admit it.”

“You admit it?”

“I admit it, and I wish to hear these priests admit, in their turn,
what they were going to do at the pagoda of Pillaji.”

The priests looked at each other; they did not seem to understand what
was said.

“Yes,” cried Passepartout, warmly; “at the pagoda of Pillaji, where
they were on the point of burning their victim.”

The judge stared with astonishment, and the priests were stupefied.

“What victim?” said Judge Obadiah. “Burn whom? In Bombay itself?”

“Bombay?” cried Passepartout.

“Certainly. We are not talking of the pagoda of Pillaji, but of the
pagoda of Malabar Hill, at Bombay.”

“And as a proof,” added the clerk, “here are the desecrator’s very
shoes, which he left behind him.”

Whereupon he placed a pair of shoes on his desk.

“My shoes!” cried Passepartout, in his surprise permitting this
imprudent exclamation to escape him.

The confusion of master and man, who had quite forgotten the affair at
Bombay, for which they were now detained at Calcutta, may be imagined.

Fix the detective, had foreseen the advantage which Passepartout’s
escapade gave him, and, delaying his departure for twelve hours, had
consulted the priests of Malabar Hill. Knowing that the English
authorities dealt very severely with this kind of misdemeanour, he
promised them a goodly sum in damages, and sent them forward to
Calcutta by the next train. Owing to the delay caused by the rescue of
the young widow, Fix and the priests reached the Indian capital before
Mr. Fogg and his servant, the magistrates having been already warned by
a dispatch to arrest them should they arrive. Fix’s disappointment when
he learned that Phileas Fogg had not made his appearance in Calcutta
may be imagined. He made up his mind that the robber had stopped
somewhere on the route and taken refuge in the southern provinces. For
twenty-four hours Fix watched the station with feverish anxiety; at
last he was rewarded by seeing Mr. Fogg and Passepartout arrive,
accompanied by a young woman, whose presence he was wholly at a loss to
explain. He hastened for a policeman; and this was how the party came
to be arrested and brought before Judge Obadiah.

Had Passepartout been a little less preoccupied, he would have espied
the detective ensconced in a corner of the court-room, watching the
proceedings with an interest easily understood; for the warrant had
failed to reach him at Calcutta, as it had done at Bombay and Suez.

Judge Obadiah had unfortunately caught Passepartout’s rash exclamation,
which the poor fellow would have given the world to recall.

“The facts are admitted?” asked the judge.

“Admitted,” replied Mr. Fogg, coldly.

“Inasmuch,” resumed the judge, “as the English law protects equally and
sternly the religions of the Indian people, and as the man Passepartout
has admitted that he violated the sacred pagoda of Malabar Hill, at
Bombay, on the 20th of October, I condemn the said Passepartout to
imprisonment for fifteen days and a fine of three hundred pounds.”

“Three hundred pounds!” cried Passepartout, startled at the largeness
of the sum.

“Silence!” shouted the constable.

“And inasmuch,” continued the judge, “as it is not proved that the act
was not done by the connivance of the master with the servant, and as
the master in any case must be held responsible for the acts of his
paid servant, I condemn Phileas Fogg to a week’s imprisonment and a
fine of one hundred and fifty pounds.”

Fix rubbed his hands softly with satisfaction; if Phileas Fogg could be
detained in Calcutta a week, it would be more than time for the warrant
to arrive. Passepartout was stupefied. This sentence ruined his master.
A wager of twenty thousand pounds lost, because he, like a precious
fool, had gone into that abominable pagoda!

Phileas Fogg, as self-composed as if the judgment did not in the least
concern him, did not even lift his eyebrows while it was being
pronounced. Just as the clerk was calling the next case, he rose, and
said, “I offer bail.”

“You have that right,” returned the judge.

Fix’s blood ran cold, but he resumed his composure when he heard the
judge announce that the bail required for each prisoner would be one
thousand pounds.

“I will pay it at once,” said Mr. Fogg, taking a roll of bank-bills
from the carpet-bag, which Passepartout had by him, and placing them on
the clerk’s desk.

“This sum will be restored to you upon your release from prison,” said
the judge. “Meanwhile, you are liberated on bail.”

“Come!” said Phileas Fogg to his servant.

“But let them at least give me back my shoes!” cried Passepartout
angrily.

“Ah, these are pretty dear shoes!” he muttered, as they were handed to
him. “More than a thousand pounds apiece; besides, they pinch my feet.”

Mr. Fogg, offering his arm to Aouda, then departed, followed by the
crestfallen Passepartout. Fix still nourished hopes that the robber
would not, after all, leave the two thousand pounds behind him, but
would decide to serve out his week in jail, and issued forth on Mr.
Fogg’s traces. That gentleman took a carriage, and the party were soon
landed on one of the quays.

The “Rangoon” was moored half a mile off in the harbour, its signal of
departure hoisted at the mast-head. Eleven o’clock was striking; Mr.
Fogg was an hour in advance of time. Fix saw them leave the carriage
and push off in a boat for the steamer, and stamped his feet with
disappointment.

“The rascal is off, after all!” he exclaimed. “Two thousand pounds
sacrificed! He’s as prodigal as a thief! I’ll follow him to the end of
the world if necessary; but, at the rate he is going on, the stolen
money will soon be exhausted.”

The detective was not far wrong in making this conjecture. Since
leaving London, what with travelling expenses, bribes, the purchase of
the elephant, bails, and fines, Mr. Fogg had already spent more than
five thousand pounds on the way, and the percentage of the sum
recovered from the bank robber promised to the detectives, was rapidly
diminishing.




CHAPTER XVI.
IN WHICH FIX DOES NOT SEEM TO UNDERSTAND IN THE LEAST WHAT IS SAID TO
HIM


The “Rangoon”—one of the Peninsular and Oriental Company’s boats plying
in the Chinese and Japanese seas—was a screw steamer, built of iron,
weighing about seventeen hundred and seventy tons, and with engines of
four hundred horse-power. She was as fast, but not as well fitted up,
as the “Mongolia,” and Aouda was not as comfortably provided for on
board of her as Phileas Fogg could have wished. However, the trip from
Calcutta to Hong Kong only comprised some three thousand five hundred
miles, occupying from ten to twelve days, and the young woman was not
difficult to please.

During the first days of the journey Aouda became better acquainted
with her protector, and constantly gave evidence of her deep gratitude
for what he had done. The phlegmatic gentleman listened to her,
apparently at least, with coldness, neither his voice nor his manner
betraying the slightest emotion; but he seemed to be always on the
watch that nothing should be wanting to Aouda’s comfort. He visited her
regularly each day at certain hours, not so much to talk himself, as to
sit and hear her talk. He treated her with the strictest politeness,
but with the precision of an automaton, the movements of which had been
arranged for this purpose. Aouda did not quite know what to make of
him, though Passepartout had given her some hints of his master’s
eccentricity, and made her smile by telling her of the wager which was
sending him round the world. After all, she owed Phileas Fogg her life,
and she always regarded him through the exalting medium of her
gratitude.

Aouda confirmed the Parsee guide’s narrative of her touching history.
She did, indeed, belong to the highest of the native races of India.
Many of the Parsee merchants have made great fortunes there by dealing
in cotton; and one of them, Sir Jametsee Jeejeebhoy, was made a baronet
by the English government. Aouda was a relative of this great man, and
it was his cousin, Jeejeeh, whom she hoped to join at Hong Kong.
Whether she would find a protector in him she could not tell; but Mr.
Fogg essayed to calm her anxieties, and to assure her that everything
would be mathematically—he used the very word—arranged. Aouda fastened
her great eyes, “clear as the sacred lakes of the Himalaya,” upon him;
but the intractable Fogg, as reserved as ever, did not seem at all
inclined to throw himself into this lake.

The first few days of the voyage passed prosperously, amid favourable
weather and propitious winds, and they soon came in sight of the great
Andaman, the principal of the islands in the Bay of Bengal, with its
picturesque Saddle Peak, two thousand four hundred feet high, looming
above the waters. The steamer passed along near the shores, but the
savage Papuans, who are in the lowest scale of humanity, but are not,
as has been asserted, cannibals, did not make their appearance.

The panorama of the islands, as they steamed by them, was superb. Vast
forests of palms, arecs, bamboo, teakwood, of the gigantic mimosa, and
tree-like ferns covered the foreground, while behind, the graceful
outlines of the mountains were traced against the sky; and along the
coasts swarmed by thousands the precious swallows whose nests furnish a
luxurious dish to the tables of the Celestial Empire. The varied
landscape afforded by the Andaman Islands was soon passed, however, and
the “Rangoon” rapidly approached the Straits of Malacca, which gave
access to the China seas.

What was detective Fix, so unluckily drawn on from country to country,
doing all this while? He had managed to embark on the “Rangoon” at
Calcutta without being seen by Passepartout, after leaving orders that,
if the warrant should arrive, it should be forwarded to him at Hong
Kong; and he hoped to conceal his presence to the end of the voyage. It
would have been difficult to explain why he was on board without
awakening Passepartout’s suspicions, who thought him still at Bombay.
But necessity impelled him, nevertheless, to renew his acquaintance
with the worthy servant, as will be seen.

All the detective’s hopes and wishes were now centred on Hong Kong; for
the steamer’s stay at Singapore would be too brief to enable him to
take any steps there. The arrest must be made at Hong Kong, or the
robber would probably escape him for ever. Hong Kong was the last
English ground on which he would set foot; beyond, China, Japan,
America offered to Fogg an almost certain refuge. If the warrant should
at last make its appearance at Hong Kong, Fix could arrest him and give
him into the hands of the local police, and there would be no further
trouble. But beyond Hong Kong, a simple warrant would be of no avail;
an extradition warrant would be necessary, and that would result in
delays and obstacles, of which the rascal would take advantage to elude
justice.

Fix thought over these probabilities during the long hours which he
spent in his cabin, and kept repeating to himself, “Now, either the
warrant will be at Hong Kong, in which case I shall arrest my man, or
it will not be there; and this time it is absolutely necessary that I
should delay his departure. I have failed at Bombay, and I have failed
at Calcutta; if I fail at Hong Kong, my reputation is lost: Cost what
it may, I _must_ succeed! But how shall I prevent his departure, if
that should turn out to be my last resource?”

Fix made up his mind that, if worst came to worst, he would make a
confidant of Passepartout, and tell him what kind of a fellow his
master really was. That Passepartout was not Fogg’s accomplice, he was
very certain. The servant, enlightened by his disclosure, and afraid of
being himself implicated in the crime, would doubtless become an ally
of the detective. But this method was a dangerous one, only to be
employed when everything else had failed. A word from Passepartout to
his master would ruin all. The detective was therefore in a sore
strait. But suddenly a new idea struck him. The presence of Aouda on
the “Rangoon,” in company with Phileas Fogg, gave him new material for
reflection.

Who was this woman? What combination of events had made her Fogg’s
travelling companion? They had evidently met somewhere between Bombay
and Calcutta; but where? Had they met accidentally, or had Fogg gone
into the interior purposely in quest of this charming damsel? Fix was
fairly puzzled. He asked himself whether there had not been a wicked
elopement; and this idea so impressed itself upon his mind that he
determined to make use of the supposed intrigue. Whether the young
woman were married or not, he would be able to create such difficulties
for Mr. Fogg at Hong Kong that he could not escape by paying any amount
of money.

But could he even wait till they reached Hong Kong? Fogg had an
abominable way of jumping from one boat to another, and, before
anything could be effected, might get full under way again for
Yokohama.

Fix decided that he must warn the English authorities, and signal the
“Rangoon” before her arrival. This was easy to do, since the steamer
stopped at Singapore, whence there is a telegraphic wire to Hong Kong.
He finally resolved, moreover, before acting more positively, to
question Passepartout. It would not be difficult to make him talk; and,
as there was no time to lose, Fix prepared to make himself known.

It was now the 30th of October, and on the following day the “Rangoon”
was due at Singapore.

Fix emerged from his cabin and went on deck. Passepartout was
promenading up and down in the forward part of the steamer. The
detective rushed forward with every appearance of extreme surprise, and
exclaimed, “You here, on the ‘Rangoon’?”

“What, Monsieur Fix, are you on board?” returned the really astonished
Passepartout, recognising his crony of the “Mongolia.” “Why, I left you
at Bombay, and here you are, on the way to Hong Kong! Are you going
round the world too?”

“No, no,” replied Fix; “I shall stop at Hong Kong—at least for some
days.”

“Hum!” said Passepartout, who seemed for an instant perplexed. “But how
is it I have not seen you on board since we left Calcutta?”

“Oh, a trifle of sea-sickness—I’ve been staying in my berth. The Gulf
of Bengal does not agree with me as well as the Indian Ocean. And how
is Mr. Fogg?”

“As well and as punctual as ever, not a day behind time! But, Monsieur
Fix, you don’t know that we have a young lady with us.”

“A young lady?” replied the detective, not seeming to comprehend what
was said.

Passepartout thereupon recounted Aouda’s history, the affair at the
Bombay pagoda, the purchase of the elephant for two thousand pounds,
the rescue, the arrest, and sentence of the Calcutta court, and the
restoration of Mr. Fogg and himself to liberty on bail. Fix, who was
familiar with the last events, seemed to be equally ignorant of all
that Passepartout related; and the later was charmed to find so
interested a listener.

“But does your master propose to carry this young woman to Europe?”

“Not at all. We are simply going to place her under the protection of
one of her relatives, a rich merchant at Hong Kong.”

“Nothing to be done there,” said Fix to himself, concealing his
disappointment. “A glass of gin, Mr. Passepartout?”

“Willingly, Monsieur Fix. We must at least have a friendly glass on
board the ‘Rangoon.’”




CHAPTER XVII.
SHOWING WHAT HAPPENED ON THE VOYAGE FROM SINGAPORE TO HONG KONG


The detective and Passepartout met often on deck after this interview,
though Fix was reserved, and did not attempt to induce his companion to
divulge any more facts concerning Mr. Fogg. He caught a glimpse of that
mysterious gentleman once or twice; but Mr. Fogg usually confined
himself to the cabin, where he kept Aouda company, or, according to his
inveterate habit, took a hand at whist.

Passepartout began very seriously to conjecture what strange chance
kept Fix still on the route that his master was pursuing. It was really
worth considering why this certainly very amiable and complacent
person, whom he had first met at Suez, had then encountered on board
the “Mongolia,” who disembarked at Bombay, which he announced as his
destination, and now turned up so unexpectedly on the “Rangoon,” was
following Mr. Fogg’s tracks step by step. What was Fix’s object?
Passepartout was ready to wager his Indian shoes—which he religiously
preserved—that Fix would also leave Hong Kong at the same time with
them, and probably on the same steamer.

Passepartout might have cudgelled his brain for a century without
hitting upon the real object which the detective had in view. He never
could have imagined that Phileas Fogg was being tracked as a robber
around the globe. But, as it is in human nature to attempt the solution
of every mystery, Passepartout suddenly discovered an explanation of
Fix’s movements, which was in truth far from unreasonable. Fix, he
thought, could only be an agent of Mr. Fogg’s friends at the Reform
Club, sent to follow him up, and to ascertain that he really went round
the world as had been agreed upon.

“It’s clear!” repeated the worthy servant to himself, proud of his
shrewdness. “He’s a spy sent to keep us in view! That isn’t quite the
thing, either, to be spying Mr. Fogg, who is so honourable a man! Ah,
gentlemen of the Reform, this shall cost you dear!”

Passepartout, enchanted with his discovery, resolved to say nothing to
his master, lest he should be justly offended at this mistrust on the
part of his adversaries. But he determined to chaff Fix, when he had
the chance, with mysterious allusions, which, however, need not betray
his real suspicions.

During the afternoon of Wednesday, 30th October, the “Rangoon” entered
the Strait of Malacca, which separates the peninsula of that name from
Sumatra. The mountainous and craggy islets intercepted the beauties of
this noble island from the view of the travellers. The “Rangoon”
weighed anchor at Singapore the next day at four a.m., to receive coal,
having gained half a day on the prescribed time of her arrival. Phileas
Fogg noted this gain in his journal, and then, accompanied by Aouda,
who betrayed a desire for a walk on shore, disembarked.

Fix, who suspected Mr. Fogg’s every movement, followed them cautiously,
without being himself perceived; while Passepartout, laughing in his
sleeve at Fix’s manœuvres, went about his usual errands.

The island of Singapore is not imposing in aspect, for there are no
mountains; yet its appearance is not without attractions. It is a park
checkered by pleasant highways and avenues. A handsome carriage, drawn
by a sleek pair of New Holland horses, carried Phileas Fogg and Aouda
into the midst of rows of palms with brilliant foliage, and of
clove-trees, whereof the cloves form the heart of a half-open flower.
Pepper plants replaced the prickly hedges of European fields;
sago-bushes, large ferns with gorgeous branches, varied the aspect of
this tropical clime; while nutmeg-trees in full foliage filled the air
with a penetrating perfume. Agile and grinning bands of monkeys skipped
about in the trees, nor were tigers wanting in the jungles.

After a drive of two hours through the country, Aouda and Mr. Fogg
returned to the town, which is a vast collection of heavy-looking,
irregular houses, surrounded by charming gardens rich in tropical
fruits and plants; and at ten o’clock they re-embarked, closely
followed by the detective, who had kept them constantly in sight.

Passepartout, who had been purchasing several dozen mangoes—a fruit as
large as good-sized apples, of a dark-brown colour outside and a bright
red within, and whose white pulp, melting in the mouth, affords
gourmands a delicious sensation—was waiting for them on deck. He was
only too glad to offer some mangoes to Aouda, who thanked him very
gracefully for them.

At eleven o’clock the “Rangoon” rode out of Singapore harbour, and in a
few hours the high mountains of Malacca, with their forests, inhabited
by the most beautifully-furred tigers in the world, were lost to view.
Singapore is distant some thirteen hundred miles from the island of
Hong Kong, which is a little English colony near the Chinese coast.
Phileas Fogg hoped to accomplish the journey in six days, so as to be
in time for the steamer which would leave on the 6th of November for
Yokohama, the principal Japanese port.

The “Rangoon” had a large quota of passengers, many of whom disembarked
at Singapore, among them a number of Indians, Ceylonese, Chinamen,
Malays, and Portuguese, mostly second-class travellers.

The weather, which had hitherto been fine, changed with the last
quarter of the moon. The sea rolled heavily, and the wind at intervals
rose almost to a storm, but happily blew from the south-west, and thus
aided the steamer’s progress. The captain as often as possible put up
his sails, and under the double action of steam and sail the vessel
made rapid progress along the coasts of Anam and Cochin China. Owing to
the defective construction of the “Rangoon,” however, unusual
precautions became necessary in unfavourable weather; but the loss of
time which resulted from this cause, while it nearly drove Passepartout
out of his senses, did not seem to affect his master in the least.
Passepartout blamed the captain, the engineer, and the crew, and
consigned all who were connected with the ship to the land where the
pepper grows. Perhaps the thought of the gas, which was remorselessly
burning at his expense in Saville Row, had something to do with his hot
impatience.

“You are in a great hurry, then,” said Fix to him one day, “to reach
Hong Kong?”

“A very great hurry!”

“Mr. Fogg, I suppose, is anxious to catch the steamer for Yokohama?”

“Terribly anxious.”

“You believe in this journey around the world, then?”

“Absolutely. Don’t you, Mr. Fix?”

“I? I don’t believe a word of it.”

“You’re a sly dog!” said Passepartout, winking at him.

This expression rather disturbed Fix, without his knowing why. Had the
Frenchman guessed his real purpose? He knew not what to think. But how
could Passepartout have discovered that he was a detective? Yet, in
speaking as he did, the man evidently meant more than he expressed.

Passepartout went still further the next day; he could not hold his
tongue.

“Mr. Fix,” said he, in a bantering tone, “shall we be so unfortunate as
to lose you when we get to Hong Kong?”

“Why,” responded Fix, a little embarrassed, “I don’t know; perhaps—”

“Ah, if you would only go on with us! An agent of the Peninsular
Company, you know, can’t stop on the way! You were only going to
Bombay, and here you are in China. America is not far off, and from
America to Europe is only a step.”

Fix looked intently at his companion, whose countenance was as serene
as possible, and laughed with him. But Passepartout persisted in
chaffing him by asking him if he made much by his present occupation.

“Yes, and no,” returned Fix; “there is good and bad luck in such
things. But you must understand that I don’t travel at my own expense.”

“Oh, I am quite sure of that!” cried Passepartout, laughing heartily.

Fix, fairly puzzled, descended to his cabin and gave himself up to his
reflections. He was evidently suspected; somehow or other the Frenchman
had found out that he was a detective. But had he told his master? What
part was he playing in all this: was he an accomplice or not? Was the
game, then, up? Fix spent several hours turning these things over in
his mind, sometimes thinking that all was lost, then persuading himself
that Fogg was ignorant of his presence, and then undecided what course
it was best to take.

Nevertheless, he preserved his coolness of mind, and at last resolved
to deal plainly with Passepartout. If he did not find it practicable to
arrest Fogg at Hong Kong, and if Fogg made preparations to leave that
last foothold of English territory, he, Fix, would tell Passepartout
all. Either the servant was the accomplice of his master, and in this
case the master knew of his operations, and he should fail; or else the
servant knew nothing about the robbery, and then his interest would be
to abandon the robber.

Such was the situation between Fix and Passepartout. Meanwhile Phileas
Fogg moved about above them in the most majestic and unconscious
indifference. He was passing methodically in his orbit around the
world, regardless of the lesser stars which gravitated around him. Yet
there was near by what the astronomers would call a disturbing star,
which might have produced an agitation in this gentleman’s heart. But
no! the charms of Aouda failed to act, to Passepartout’s great
surprise; and the disturbances, if they existed, would have been more
difficult to calculate than those of Uranus which led to the discovery
of Neptune.

It was every day an increasing wonder to Passepartout, who read in
Aouda’s eyes the depths of her gratitude to his master. Phileas Fogg,
though brave and gallant, must be, he thought, quite heartless. As to
the sentiment which this journey might have awakened in him, there was
clearly no trace of such a thing; while poor Passepartout existed in
perpetual reveries.

One day he was leaning on the railing of the engine-room, and was
observing the engine, when a sudden pitch of the steamer threw the
screw out of the water. The steam came hissing out of the valves; and
this made Passepartout indignant.

“The valves are not sufficiently charged!” he exclaimed. “We are not
going. Oh, these English! If this was an American craft, we should blow
up, perhaps, but we should at all events go faster!”




CHAPTER XVIII.
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG, PASSEPARTOUT, AND FIX GO EACH ABOUT HIS BUSINESS


The weather was bad during the latter days of the voyage. The wind,
obstinately remaining in the north-west, blew a gale, and retarded the
steamer. The “Rangoon” rolled heavily and the passengers became
impatient of the long, monstrous waves which the wind raised before
their path. A sort of tempest arose on the 3rd of November, the squall
knocking the vessel about with fury, and the waves running high. The
“Rangoon” reefed all her sails, and even the rigging proved too much,
whistling and shaking amid the squall. The steamer was forced to
proceed slowly, and the captain estimated that she would reach Hong
Kong twenty hours behind time, and more if the storm lasted.

Phileas Fogg gazed at the tempestuous sea, which seemed to be
struggling especially to delay him, with his habitual tranquillity. He
never changed countenance for an instant, though a delay of twenty
hours, by making him too late for the Yokohama boat, would almost
inevitably cause the loss of the wager. But this man of nerve
manifested neither impatience nor annoyance; it seemed as if the storm
were a part of his programme, and had been foreseen. Aouda was amazed
to find him as calm as he had been from the first time she saw him.

Fix did not look at the state of things in the same light. The storm
greatly pleased him. His satisfaction would have been complete had the
“Rangoon” been forced to retreat before the violence of wind and waves.
Each delay filled him with hope, for it became more and more probable
that Fogg would be obliged to remain some days at Hong Kong; and now
the heavens themselves became his allies, with the gusts and squalls.
It mattered not that they made him sea-sick—he made no account of this
inconvenience; and, whilst his body was writhing under their effects,
his spirit bounded with hopeful exultation.

Passepartout was enraged beyond expression by the unpropitious weather.
Everything had gone so well till now! Earth and sea had seemed to be at
his master’s service; steamers and railways obeyed him; wind and steam
united to speed his journey. Had the hour of adversity come?
Passepartout was as much excited as if the twenty thousand pounds were
to come from his own pocket. The storm exasperated him, the gale made
him furious, and he longed to lash the obstinate sea into obedience.
Poor fellow! Fix carefully concealed from him his own satisfaction,
for, had he betrayed it, Passepartout could scarcely have restrained
himself from personal violence.

Passepartout remained on deck as long as the tempest lasted, being
unable to remain quiet below, and taking it into his head to aid the
progress of the ship by lending a hand with the crew. He overwhelmed
the captain, officers, and sailors, who could not help laughing at his
impatience, with all sorts of questions. He wanted to know exactly how
long the storm was going to last; whereupon he was referred to the
barometer, which seemed to have no intention of rising. Passepartout
shook it, but with no perceptible effect; for neither shaking nor
maledictions could prevail upon it to change its mind.

On the 4th, however, the sea became more calm, and the storm lessened
its violence; the wind veered southward, and was once more favourable.
Passepartout cleared up with the weather. Some of the sails were
unfurled, and the “Rangoon” resumed its most rapid speed. The time lost
could not, however, be regained. Land was not signalled until five
o’clock on the morning of the 6th; the steamer was due on the 5th.
Phileas Fogg was twenty-four hours behind-hand, and the Yokohama
steamer would, of course, be missed.

The pilot went on board at six, and took his place on the bridge, to
guide the “Rangoon” through the channels to the port of Hong Kong.
Passepartout longed to ask him if the steamer had left for Yokohama;
but he dared not, for he wished to preserve the spark of hope, which
still remained till the last moment. He had confided his anxiety to Fix
who—the sly rascal!—tried to console him by saying that Mr. Fogg would
be in time if he took the next boat; but this only put Passepartout in
a passion.

Mr. Fogg, bolder than his servant, did not hesitate to approach the
pilot, and tranquilly ask him if he knew when a steamer would leave
Hong Kong for Yokohama.

“At high tide to-morrow morning,” answered the pilot.

“Ah!” said Mr. Fogg, without betraying any astonishment.

Passepartout, who heard what passed, would willingly have embraced the
pilot, while Fix would have been glad to twist his neck.

“What is the steamer’s name?” asked Mr. Fogg.

“The ‘Carnatic.’”

“Ought she not to have gone yesterday?”

“Yes, sir; but they had to repair one of her boilers, and so her
departure was postponed till to-morrow.”

“Thank you,” returned Mr. Fogg, descending mathematically to the
saloon.

Passepartout clasped the pilot’s hand and shook it heartily in his
delight, exclaiming, “Pilot, you are the best of good fellows!”

The pilot probably does not know to this day why his responses won him
this enthusiastic greeting. He remounted the bridge, and guided the
steamer through the flotilla of junks, tankas, and fishing boats which
crowd the harbour of Hong Kong.

At one o’clock the “Rangoon” was at the quay, and the passengers were
going ashore.

Chance had strangely favoured Phileas Fogg, for had not the “Carnatic”
been forced to lie over for repairing her boilers, she would have left
on the 6th of November, and the passengers for Japan would have been
obliged to await for a week the sailing of the next steamer. Mr. Fogg
was, it is true, twenty-four hours behind his time; but this could not
seriously imperil the remainder of his tour.

The steamer which crossed the Pacific from Yokohama to San Francisco
made a direct connection with that from Hong Kong, and it could not
sail until the latter reached Yokohama; and if Mr. Fogg was twenty-four
hours late on reaching Yokohama, this time would no doubt be easily
regained in the voyage of twenty-two days across the Pacific. He found
himself, then, about twenty-four hours behind-hand, thirty-five days
after leaving London.

The “Carnatic” was announced to leave Hong Kong at five the next
morning. Mr. Fogg had sixteen hours in which to attend to his business
there, which was to deposit Aouda safely with her wealthy relative.

On landing, he conducted her to a palanquin, in which they repaired to
the Club Hotel. A room was engaged for the young woman, and Mr. Fogg,
after seeing that she wanted for nothing, set out in search of her
cousin Jeejeeh. He instructed Passepartout to remain at the hotel until
his return, that Aouda might not be left entirely alone.

Mr. Fogg repaired to the Exchange, where, he did not doubt, every one
would know so wealthy and considerable a personage as the Parsee
merchant. Meeting a broker, he made the inquiry, to learn that Jeejeeh
had left China two years before, and, retiring from business with an
immense fortune, had taken up his residence in Europe—in Holland the
broker thought, with the merchants of which country he had principally
traded. Phileas Fogg returned to the hotel, begged a moment’s
conversation with Aouda, and without more ado, apprised her that
Jeejeeh was no longer at Hong Kong, but probably in Holland.

Aouda at first said nothing. She passed her hand across her forehead,
and reflected a few moments. Then, in her sweet, soft voice, she said:
“What ought I to do, Mr. Fogg?”

“It is very simple,” responded the gentleman. “Go on to Europe.”

“But I cannot intrude—”

“You do not intrude, nor do you in the least embarrass my project.
Passepartout!”

“Monsieur.”

“Go to the ‘Carnatic,’ and engage three cabins.”

Passepartout, delighted that the young woman, who was very gracious to
him, was going to continue the journey with them, went off at a brisk
gait to obey his master’s order.




CHAPTER XIX.
IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT TAKES A TOO GREAT INTEREST IN HIS MASTER, AND
WHAT COMES OF IT


Hong Kong is an island which came into the possession of the English by
the Treaty of Nankin, after the war of 1842; and the colonising genius
of the English has created upon it an important city and an excellent
port. The island is situated at the mouth of the Canton River, and is
separated by about sixty miles from the Portuguese town of Macao, on
the opposite coast. Hong Kong has beaten Macao in the struggle for the
Chinese trade, and now the greater part of the transportation of
Chinese goods finds its depot at the former place. Docks, hospitals,
wharves, a Gothic cathedral, a government house, macadamised streets,
give to Hong Kong the appearance of a town in Kent or Surrey
transferred by some strange magic to the antipodes.

Passepartout wandered, with his hands in his pockets, towards the
Victoria port, gazing as he went at the curious palanquins and other
modes of conveyance, and the groups of Chinese, Japanese, and Europeans
who passed to and fro in the streets. Hong Kong seemed to him not
unlike Bombay, Calcutta, and Singapore, since, like them, it betrayed
everywhere the evidence of English supremacy. At the Victoria port he
found a confused mass of ships of all nations: English, French,
American, and Dutch, men-of-war and trading vessels, Japanese and
Chinese junks, sempas, tankas, and flower-boats, which formed so many
floating parterres. Passepartout noticed in the crowd a number of the
natives who seemed very old and were dressed in yellow. On going into a
barber’s to get shaved he learned that these ancient men were all at
least eighty years old, at which age they are permitted to wear yellow,
which is the Imperial colour. Passepartout, without exactly knowing
why, thought this very funny.

On reaching the quay where they were to embark on the “Carnatic,” he
was not astonished to find Fix walking up and down. The detective
seemed very much disturbed and disappointed.

“This is bad,” muttered Passepartout, “for the gentlemen of the Reform
Club!” He accosted Fix with a merry smile, as if he had not perceived
that gentleman’s chagrin. The detective had, indeed, good reasons to
inveigh against the bad luck which pursued him. The warrant had not
come! It was certainly on the way, but as certainly it could not now
reach Hong Kong for several days; and, this being the last English
territory on Mr. Fogg’s route, the robber would escape, unless he could
manage to detain him.

“Well, Monsieur Fix,” said Passepartout, “have you decided to go with
us so far as America?”

“Yes,” returned Fix, through his set teeth.

“Good!” exclaimed Passepartout, laughing heartily. “I knew you could
not persuade yourself to separate from us. Come and engage your berth.”

They entered the steamer office and secured cabins for four persons.
The clerk, as he gave them the tickets, informed them that, the repairs
on the “Carnatic” having been completed, the steamer would leave that
very evening, and not next morning, as had been announced.

“That will suit my master all the better,” said Passepartout. “I will
go and let him know.”

Fix now decided to make a bold move; he resolved to tell Passepartout
all. It seemed to be the only possible means of keeping Phileas Fogg
several days longer at Hong Kong. He accordingly invited his companion
into a tavern which caught his eye on the quay. On entering, they found
themselves in a large room handsomely decorated, at the end of which
was a large camp-bed furnished with cushions. Several persons lay upon
this bed in a deep sleep. At the small tables which were arranged about
the room some thirty customers were drinking English beer, porter, gin,
and brandy; smoking, the while, long red clay pipes stuffed with little
balls of opium mingled with essence of rose. From time to time one of
the smokers, overcome with the narcotic, would slip under the table,
whereupon the waiters, taking him by the head and feet, carried and
laid him upon the bed. The bed already supported twenty of these
stupefied sots.

Fix and Passepartout saw that they were in a smoking-house haunted by
those wretched, cadaverous, idiotic creatures to whom the English
merchants sell every year the miserable drug called opium, to the
amount of one million four hundred thousand pounds—thousands devoted to
one of the most despicable vices which afflict humanity! The Chinese
government has in vain attempted to deal with the evil by stringent
laws. It passed gradually from the rich, to whom it was at first
exclusively reserved, to the lower classes, and then its ravages could
not be arrested. Opium is smoked everywhere, at all times, by men and
women, in the Celestial Empire; and, once accustomed to it, the victims
cannot dispense with it, except by suffering horrible bodily
contortions and agonies. A great smoker can smoke as many as eight
pipes a day; but he dies in five years. It was in one of these dens
that Fix and Passepartout, in search of a friendly glass, found
themselves. Passepartout had no money, but willingly accepted Fix’s
invitation in the hope of returning the obligation at some future time.

They ordered two bottles of port, to which the Frenchman did ample
justice, whilst Fix observed him with close attention. They chatted
about the journey, and Passepartout was especially merry at the idea
that Fix was going to continue it with them. When the bottles were
empty, however, he rose to go and tell his master of the change in the
time of the sailing of the “Carnatic.”

Fix caught him by the arm, and said, “Wait a moment.”

“What for, Mr. Fix?”

“I want to have a serious talk with you.”

“A serious talk!” cried Passepartout, drinking up the little wine that
was left in the bottom of his glass. “Well, we’ll talk about it
to-morrow; I haven’t time now.”

“Stay! What I have to say concerns your master.”

Passepartout, at this, looked attentively at his companion. Fix’s face
seemed to have a singular expression. He resumed his seat.

“What is it that you have to say?”

Fix placed his hand upon Passepartout’s arm, and, lowering his voice,
said, “You have guessed who I am?”

“Parbleu!” said Passepartout, smiling.

“Then I’m going to tell you everything—”

“Now that I know everything, my friend! Ah! that’s very good. But go
on, go on. First, though, let me tell you that those gentlemen have put
themselves to a useless expense.”

“Useless!” said Fix. “You speak confidently. It’s clear that you don’t
know how large the sum is.”

“Of course I do,” returned Passepartout. “Twenty thousand pounds.”

“Fifty-five thousand!” answered Fix, pressing his companion’s hand.

“What!” cried the Frenchman. “Has Monsieur Fogg dared—fifty-five
thousand pounds! Well, there’s all the more reason for not losing an
instant,” he continued, getting up hastily.

Fix pushed Passepartout back in his chair, and resumed: “Fifty-five
thousand pounds; and if I succeed, I get two thousand pounds. If you’ll
help me, I’ll let you have five hundred of them.”

“Help you?” cried Passepartout, whose eyes were standing wide open.

“Yes; help me keep Mr. Fogg here for two or three days.”

“Why, what are you saying? Those gentlemen are not satisfied with
following my master and suspecting his honour, but they must try to put
obstacles in his way! I blush for them!”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that it is a piece of shameful trickery. They might as well
waylay Mr. Fogg and put his money in their pockets!”

“That’s just what we count on doing.”

“It’s a conspiracy, then,” cried Passepartout, who became more and more
excited as the liquor mounted in his head, for he drank without
perceiving it. “A real conspiracy! And gentlemen, too. Bah!”

Fix began to be puzzled.

“Members of the Reform Club!” continued Passepartout. “You must know,
Monsieur Fix, that my master is an honest man, and that, when he makes
a wager, he tries to win it fairly!”

“But who do you think I am?” asked Fix, looking at him intently.

“Parbleu! An agent of the members of the Reform Club, sent out here to
interrupt my master’s journey. But, though I found you out some time
ago, I’ve taken good care to say nothing about it to Mr. Fogg.”

“He knows nothing, then?”

“Nothing,” replied Passepartout, again emptying his glass.

The detective passed his hand across his forehead, hesitating before he
spoke again. What should he do? Passepartout’s mistake seemed sincere,
but it made his design more difficult. It was evident that the servant
was not the master’s accomplice, as Fix had been inclined to suspect.

“Well,” said the detective to himself, “as he is not an accomplice, he
will help me.”

He had no time to lose: Fogg must be detained at Hong Kong, so he
resolved to make a clean breast of it.

“Listen to me,” said Fix abruptly. “I am not, as you think, an agent of
the members of the Reform Club—”

“Bah!” retorted Passepartout, with an air of raillery.

“I am a police detective, sent out here by the London office.”

“You, a detective?”

“I will prove it. Here is my commission.”

Passepartout was speechless with astonishment when Fix displayed this
document, the genuineness of which could not be doubted.

“Mr. Fogg’s wager,” resumed Fix, “is only a pretext, of which you and
the gentlemen of the Reform are dupes. He had a motive for securing
your innocent complicity.”

“But why?”

“Listen. On the 28th of last September a robbery of fifty-five thousand
pounds was committed at the Bank of England by a person whose
description was fortunately secured. Here is his description; it
answers exactly to that of Mr. Phileas Fogg.”

“What nonsense!” cried Passepartout, striking the table with his fist.
“My master is the most honourable of men!”

“How can you tell? You know scarcely anything about him. You went into
his service the day he came away; and he came away on a foolish
pretext, without trunks, and carrying a large amount in banknotes. And
yet you are bold enough to assert that he is an honest man!”

“Yes, yes,” repeated the poor fellow, mechanically.

“Would you like to be arrested as his accomplice?”

Passepartout, overcome by what he had heard, held his head between his
hands, and did not dare to look at the detective. Phileas Fogg, the
saviour of Aouda, that brave and generous man, a robber! And yet how
many presumptions there were against him! Passepartout essayed to
reject the suspicions which forced themselves upon his mind; he did not
wish to believe that his master was guilty.

“Well, what do you want of me?” said he, at last, with an effort.

“See here,” replied Fix; “I have tracked Mr. Fogg to this place, but as
yet I have failed to receive the warrant of arrest for which I sent to
London. You must help me to keep him here in Hong Kong—”

“I! But I—”

“I will share with you the two thousand pounds reward offered by the
Bank of England.”

“Never!” replied Passepartout, who tried to rise, but fell back,
exhausted in mind and body.

“Mr. Fix,” he stammered, “even should what you say be true—if my master
is really the robber you are seeking for—which I deny—I have been, am,
in his service; I have seen his generosity and goodness; and I will
never betray him—not for all the gold in the world. I come from a
village where they don’t eat that kind of bread!”

“You refuse?”

“I refuse.”

“Consider that I’ve said nothing,” said Fix; “and let us drink.”

“Yes; let us drink!”

Passepartout felt himself yielding more and more to the effects of the
liquor. Fix, seeing that he must, at all hazards, be separated from his
master, wished to entirely overcome him. Some pipes full of opium lay
upon the table. Fix slipped one into Passepartout’s hand. He took it,
put it between his lips, lit it, drew several puffs, and his head,
becoming heavy under the influence of the narcotic, fell upon the
table.

“At last!” said Fix, seeing Passepartout unconscious. “Mr. Fogg will
not be informed of the ‘Carnatic’s’ departure; and, if he is, he will
have to go without this cursed Frenchman!”

And, after paying his bill, Fix left the tavern.




CHAPTER XX.
IN WHICH FIX COMES FACE TO FACE WITH PHILEAS FOGG


While these events were passing at the opium-house, Mr. Fogg,
unconscious of the danger he was in of losing the steamer, was quietly
escorting Aouda about the streets of the English quarter, making the
necessary purchases for the long voyage before them. It was all very
well for an Englishman like Mr. Fogg to make the tour of the world with
a carpet-bag; a lady could not be expected to travel comfortably under
such conditions. He acquitted his task with characteristic serenity,
and invariably replied to the remonstrances of his fair companion, who
was confused by his patience and generosity:

“It is in the interest of my journey—a part of my programme.”

The purchases made, they returned to the hotel, where they dined at a
sumptuously served _table-d’hôte;_ after which Aouda, shaking hands
with her protector after the English fashion, retired to her room for
rest. Mr. Fogg absorbed himself throughout the evening in the perusal
of the _Times_ and _Illustrated London News_.

Had he been capable of being astonished at anything, it would have been
not to see his servant return at bedtime. But, knowing that the steamer
was not to leave for Yokohama until the next morning, he did not
disturb himself about the matter. When Passepartout did not appear the
next morning to answer his master’s bell, Mr. Fogg, not betraying the
least vexation, contented himself with taking his carpet-bag, calling
Aouda, and sending for a palanquin.

It was then eight o’clock; at half-past nine, it being then high tide,
the “Carnatic” would leave the harbour. Mr. Fogg and Aouda got into the
palanquin, their luggage being brought after on a wheelbarrow, and half
an hour later stepped upon the quay whence they were to embark. Mr.
Fogg then learned that the “Carnatic” had sailed the evening before. He
had expected to find not only the steamer, but his domestic, and was
forced to give up both; but no sign of disappointment appeared on his
face, and he merely remarked to Aouda, “It is an accident, madam;
nothing more.”

At this moment a man who had been observing him attentively approached.
It was Fix, who, bowing, addressed Mr. Fogg: “Were you not, like me,
sir, a passenger by the ‘Rangoon,’ which arrived yesterday?”

“I was, sir,” replied Mr. Fogg coldly. “But I have not the honour—”

“Pardon me; I thought I should find your servant here.”

“Do you know where he is, sir?” asked Aouda anxiously.

“What!” responded Fix, feigning surprise. “Is he not with you?”

“No,” said Aouda. “He has not made his appearance since yesterday.
Could he have gone on board the ‘Carnatic’ without us?”

“Without you, madam?” answered the detective. “Excuse me, did you
intend to sail in the ‘Carnatic’?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So did I, madam, and I am excessively disappointed. The ‘Carnatic’,
its repairs being completed, left Hong Kong twelve hours before the
stated time, without any notice being given; and we must now wait a
week for another steamer.”

As he said “a week” Fix felt his heart leap for joy. Fogg detained at
Hong Kong for a week! There would be time for the warrant to arrive,
and fortune at last favoured the representative of the law. His horror
may be imagined when he heard Mr. Fogg say, in his placid voice, “But
there are other vessels besides the ‘Carnatic,’ it seems to me, in the
harbour of Hong Kong.”

And, offering his arm to Aouda, he directed his steps toward the docks
in search of some craft about to start. Fix, stupefied, followed; it
seemed as if he were attached to Mr. Fogg by an invisible thread.
Chance, however, appeared really to have abandoned the man it had
hitherto served so well. For three hours Phileas Fogg wandered about
the docks, with the determination, if necessary, to charter a vessel to
carry him to Yokohama; but he could only find vessels which were
loading or unloading, and which could not therefore set sail. Fix began
to hope again.

But Mr. Fogg, far from being discouraged, was continuing his search,
resolved not to stop if he had to resort to Macao, when he was accosted
by a sailor on one of the wharves.

“Is your honour looking for a boat?”

“Have you a boat ready to sail?”

“Yes, your honour; a pilot-boat—No. 43—the best in the harbour.”

“Does she go fast?”

“Between eight and nine knots the hour. Will you look at her?”

“Yes.”

“Your honour will be satisfied with her. Is it for a sea excursion?”

“No; for a voyage.”

“A voyage?”

“Yes, will you agree to take me to Yokohama?”

The sailor leaned on the railing, opened his eyes wide, and said, “Is
your honour joking?”

“No. I have missed the ‘Carnatic,’ and I must get to Yokohama by the
14th at the latest, to take the boat for San Francisco.”

“I am sorry,” said the sailor; “but it is impossible.”

“I offer you a hundred pounds per day, and an additional reward of two
hundred pounds if I reach Yokohama in time.”

“Are you in earnest?”

“Very much so.”

The pilot walked away a little distance, and gazed out to sea,
evidently struggling between the anxiety to gain a large sum and the
fear of venturing so far. Fix was in mortal suspense.

Mr. Fogg turned to Aouda and asked her, “You would not be afraid, would
you, madam?”

“Not with you, Mr. Fogg,” was her answer.

The pilot now returned, shuffling his hat in his hands.

“Well, pilot?” said Mr. Fogg.

“Well, your honour,” replied he, “I could not risk myself, my men, or
my little boat of scarcely twenty tons on so long a voyage at this time
of year. Besides, we could not reach Yokohama in time, for it is
sixteen hundred and sixty miles from Hong Kong.”

“Only sixteen hundred,” said Mr. Fogg.

“It’s the same thing.”

Fix breathed more freely.

“But,” added the pilot, “it might be arranged another way.”

Fix ceased to breathe at all.

“How?” asked Mr. Fogg.

“By going to Nagasaki, at the extreme south of Japan, or even to
Shanghai, which is only eight hundred miles from here. In going to
Shanghai we should not be forced to sail wide of the Chinese coast,
which would be a great advantage, as the currents run northward, and
would aid us.”

“Pilot,” said Mr. Fogg, “I must take the American steamer at Yokohama,
and not at Shanghai or Nagasaki.”

“Why not?” returned the pilot. “The San Francisco steamer does not
start from Yokohama. It puts in at Yokohama and Nagasaki, but it starts
from Shanghai.”

“You are sure of that?”

“Perfectly.”

“And when does the boat leave Shanghai?”

“On the 11th, at seven in the evening. We have, therefore, four days
before us, that is ninety-six hours; and in that time, if we had good
luck and a south-west wind, and the sea was calm, we could make those
eight hundred miles to Shanghai.”

“And you could go—”

“In an hour; as soon as provisions could be got aboard and the sails
put up.”

“It is a bargain. Are you the master of the boat?”

“Yes; John Bunsby, master of the ‘Tankadere.’”

“Would you like some earnest-money?”

“If it would not put your honour out—”

“Here are two hundred pounds on account sir,” added Phileas Fogg,
turning to Fix, “if you would like to take advantage—”

“Thanks, sir; I was about to ask the favour.”

“Very well. In half an hour we shall go on board.”

“But poor Passepartout?” urged Aouda, who was much disturbed by the
servant’s disappearance.

“I shall do all I can to find him,” replied Phileas Fogg.

While Fix, in a feverish, nervous state, repaired to the pilot-boat,
the others directed their course to the police-station at Hong Kong.
Phileas Fogg there gave Passepartout’s description, and left a sum of
money to be spent in the search for him. The same formalities having
been gone through at the French consulate, and the palanquin having
stopped at the hotel for the luggage, which had been sent back there,
they returned to the wharf.

It was now three o’clock; and pilot-boat No. 43, with its crew on
board, and its provisions stored away, was ready for departure.

The “Tankadere” was a neat little craft of twenty tons, as gracefully
built as if she were a racing yacht. Her shining copper sheathing, her
galvanised iron-work, her deck, white as ivory, betrayed the pride
taken by John Bunsby in making her presentable. Her two masts leaned a
trifle backward; she carried brigantine, foresail, storm-jib, and
standing-jib, and was well rigged for running before the wind; and she
seemed capable of brisk speed, which, indeed, she had already proved by
gaining several prizes in pilot-boat races. The crew of the “Tankadere”
was composed of John Bunsby, the master, and four hardy mariners, who
were familiar with the Chinese seas. John Bunsby, himself, a man of
forty-five or thereabouts, vigorous, sunburnt, with a sprightly
expression of the eye, and energetic and self-reliant countenance,
would have inspired confidence in the most timid.

Phileas Fogg and Aouda went on board, where they found Fix already
installed. Below deck was a square cabin, of which the walls bulged out
in the form of cots, above a circular divan; in the centre was a table
provided with a swinging lamp. The accommodation was confined, but
neat.

“I am sorry to have nothing better to offer you,” said Mr. Fogg to Fix,
who bowed without responding.

The detective had a feeling akin to humiliation in profiting by the
kindness of Mr. Fogg.

“It’s certain,” thought he, “though rascal as he is, he is a polite
one!”

The sails and the English flag were hoisted at ten minutes past three.
Mr. Fogg and Aouda, who were seated on deck, cast a last glance at the
quay, in the hope of espying Passepartout. Fix was not without his
fears lest chance should direct the steps of the unfortunate servant,
whom he had so badly treated, in this direction; in which case an
explanation the reverse of satisfactory to the detective must have
ensued. But the Frenchman did not appear, and, without doubt, was still
lying under the stupefying influence of the opium.

John Bunsby, master, at length gave the order to start, and the
“Tankadere,” taking the wind under her brigantine, foresail, and
standing-jib, bounded briskly forward over the waves.




CHAPTER XXI.
IN WHICH THE MASTER OF THE “TANKADERE” RUNS GREAT RISK OF LOSING A
REWARD OF TWO HUNDRED POUNDS


This voyage of eight hundred miles was a perilous venture on a craft of
twenty tons, and at that season of the year. The Chinese seas are
usually boisterous, subject to terrible gales of wind, and especially
during the equinoxes; and it was now early November.

It would clearly have been to the master’s advantage to carry his
passengers to Yokohama, since he was paid a certain sum per day; but he
would have been rash to attempt such a voyage, and it was imprudent
even to attempt to reach Shanghai. But John Bunsby believed in the
“Tankadere,” which rode on the waves like a seagull; and perhaps he was
not wrong.

Late in the day they passed through the capricious channels of Hong
Kong, and the “Tankadere,” impelled by favourable winds, conducted
herself admirably.

“I do not need, pilot,” said Phileas Fogg, when they got into the open
sea, “to advise you to use all possible speed.”

“Trust me, your honour. We are carrying all the sail the wind will let
us. The poles would add nothing, and are only used when we are going
into port.”

“It’s your trade, not mine, pilot, and I confide in you.”

Phileas Fogg, with body erect and legs wide apart, standing like a
sailor, gazed without staggering at the swelling waters. The young
woman, who was seated aft, was profoundly affected as she looked out
upon the ocean, darkening now with the twilight, on which she had
ventured in so frail a vessel. Above her head rustled the white sails,
which seemed like great white wings. The boat, carried forward by the
wind, seemed to be flying in the air.

Night came. The moon was entering her first quarter, and her
insufficient light would soon die out in the mist on the horizon.
Clouds were rising from the east, and already overcast a part of the
heavens.

The pilot had hung out his lights, which was very necessary in these
seas crowded with vessels bound landward; for collisions are not
uncommon occurrences, and, at the speed she was going, the least shock
would shatter the gallant little craft.

Fix, seated in the bow, gave himself up to meditation. He kept apart
from his fellow-travellers, knowing Mr. Fogg’s taciturn tastes;
besides, he did not quite like to talk to the man whose favours he had
accepted. He was thinking, too, of the future. It seemed certain that
Fogg would not stop at Yokohama, but would at once take the boat for
San Francisco; and the vast extent of America would ensure him impunity
and safety. Fogg’s plan appeared to him the simplest in the world.
Instead of sailing directly from England to the United States, like a
common villain, he had traversed three quarters of the globe, so as to
gain the American continent more surely; and there, after throwing the
police off his track, he would quietly enjoy himself with the fortune
stolen from the bank. But, once in the United States, what should he,
Fix, do? Should he abandon this man? No, a hundred times no! Until he
had secured his extradition, he would not lose sight of him for an
hour. It was his duty, and he would fulfil it to the end. At all
events, there was one thing to be thankful for; Passepartout was not
with his master; and it was above all important, after the confidences
Fix had imparted to him, that the servant should never have speech with
his master.

Phileas Fogg was also thinking of Passepartout, who had so strangely
disappeared. Looking at the matter from every point of view, it did not
seem to him impossible that, by some mistake, the man might have
embarked on the “Carnatic” at the last moment; and this was also
Aouda’s opinion, who regretted very much the loss of the worthy fellow
to whom she owed so much. They might then find him at Yokohama; for, if
the “Carnatic” was carrying him thither, it would be easy to ascertain
if he had been on board.

A brisk breeze arose about ten o’clock; but, though it might have been
prudent to take in a reef, the pilot, after carefully examining the
heavens, let the craft remain rigged as before. The “Tankadere” bore
sail admirably, as she drew a great deal of water, and everything was
prepared for high speed in case of a gale.

Mr. Fogg and Aouda descended into the cabin at midnight, having been
already preceded by Fix, who had lain down on one of the cots. The
pilot and crew remained on deck all night.

At sunrise the next day, which was 8th November, the boat had made more
than one hundred miles. The log indicated a mean speed of between eight
and nine miles. The “Tankadere” still carried all sail, and was
accomplishing her greatest capacity of speed. If the wind held as it
was, the chances would be in her favour. During the day she kept along
the coast, where the currents were favourable; the coast, irregular in
profile, and visible sometimes across the clearings, was at most five
miles distant. The sea was less boisterous, since the wind came off
land—a fortunate circumstance for the boat, which would suffer, owing
to its small tonnage, by a heavy surge on the sea.

The breeze subsided a little towards noon, and set in from the
south-west. The pilot put up his poles, but took them down again within
two hours, as the wind freshened up anew.

Mr. Fogg and Aouda, happily unaffected by the roughness of the sea, ate
with a good appetite, Fix being invited to share their repast, which he
accepted with secret chagrin. To travel at this man’s expense and live
upon his provisions was not palatable to him. Still, he was obliged to
eat, and so he ate.

When the meal was over, he took Mr. Fogg apart, and said, “sir”—this
“sir” scorched his lips, and he had to control himself to avoid
collaring this “gentleman”—“sir, you have been very kind to give me a
passage on this boat. But, though my means will not admit of my
expending them as freely as you, I must ask to pay my share—”

“Let us not speak of that, sir,” replied Mr. Fogg.

“But, if I insist—”

“No, sir,” repeated Mr. Fogg, in a tone which did not admit of a reply.
“This enters into my general expenses.”

Fix, as he bowed, had a stifled feeling, and, going forward, where he
ensconced himself, did not open his mouth for the rest of the day.

Meanwhile they were progressing famously, and John Bunsby was in high
hope. He several times assured Mr. Fogg that they would reach Shanghai
in time; to which that gentleman responded that he counted upon it. The
crew set to work in good earnest, inspired by the reward to be gained.
There was not a sheet which was not tightened, not a sail which was not
vigorously hoisted; not a lurch could be charged to the man at the
helm. They worked as desperately as if they were contesting in a Royal
yacht regatta.

By evening, the log showed that two hundred and twenty miles had been
accomplished from Hong Kong, and Mr. Fogg might hope that he would be
able to reach Yokohama without recording any delay in his journal; in
which case, the many misadventures which had overtaken him since he
left London would not seriously affect his journey.

The “Tankadere” entered the Straits of Fo-Kien, which separate the
island of Formosa from the Chinese coast, in the small hours of the
night, and crossed the Tropic of Cancer. The sea was very rough in the
straits, full of eddies formed by the counter-currents, and the
chopping waves broke her course, whilst it became very difficult to
stand on deck.

At daybreak the wind began to blow hard again, and the heavens seemed
to predict a gale. The barometer announced a speedy change, the mercury
rising and falling capriciously; the sea also, in the south-east,
raised long surges which indicated a tempest. The sun had set the
evening before in a red mist, in the midst of the phosphorescent
scintillations of the ocean.

John Bunsby long examined the threatening aspect of the heavens,
muttering indistinctly between his teeth. At last he said in a low
voice to Mr. Fogg, “Shall I speak out to your honour?”

“Of course.”

“Well, we are going to have a squall.”

“Is the wind north or south?” asked Mr. Fogg quietly.

“South. Look! a typhoon is coming up.”

“Glad it’s a typhoon from the south, for it will carry us forward.”

“Oh, if you take it that way,” said John Bunsby, “I’ve nothing more to
say.” John Bunsby’s suspicions were confirmed. At a less advanced
season of the year the typhoon, according to a famous meteorologist,
would have passed away like a luminous cascade of electric flame; but
in the winter equinox it was to be feared that it would burst upon them
with great violence.

The pilot took his precautions in advance. He reefed all sail, the
pole-masts were dispensed with; all hands went forward to the bows. A
single triangular sail, of strong canvas, was hoisted as a storm-jib,
so as to hold the wind from behind. Then they waited.

John Bunsby had requested his passengers to go below; but this
imprisonment in so narrow a space, with little air, and the boat
bouncing in the gale, was far from pleasant. Neither Mr. Fogg, Fix, nor
Aouda consented to leave the deck.

The storm of rain and wind descended upon them towards eight o’clock.
With but its bit of sail, the “Tankadere” was lifted like a feather by
a wind, an idea of whose violence can scarcely be given. To compare her
speed to four times that of a locomotive going on full steam would be
below the truth.

The boat scudded thus northward during the whole day, borne on by
monstrous waves, preserving always, fortunately, a speed equal to
theirs. Twenty times she seemed almost to be submerged by these
mountains of water which rose behind her; but the adroit management of
the pilot saved her. The passengers were often bathed in spray, but
they submitted to it philosophically. Fix cursed it, no doubt; but
Aouda, with her eyes fastened upon her protector, whose coolness amazed
her, showed herself worthy of him, and bravely weathered the storm. As
for Phileas Fogg, it seemed just as if the typhoon were a part of his
programme.

Up to this time the “Tankadere” had always held her course to the
north; but towards evening the wind, veering three quarters, bore down
from the north-west. The boat, now lying in the trough of the waves,
shook and rolled terribly; the sea struck her with fearful violence. At
night the tempest increased in violence. John Bunsby saw the approach
of darkness and the rising of the storm with dark misgivings. He
thought awhile, and then asked his crew if it was not time to slacken
speed. After a consultation he approached Mr. Fogg, and said, “I think,
your honour, that we should do well to make for one of the ports on the
coast.”

“I think so too.”

“Ah!” said the pilot. “But which one?”

“I know of but one,” returned Mr. Fogg tranquilly.

“And that is—”

“Shanghai.”

The pilot, at first, did not seem to comprehend; he could scarcely
realise so much determination and tenacity. Then he cried, “Well—yes!
Your honour is right. To Shanghai!”

So the “Tankadere” kept steadily on her northward track.

The night was really terrible; it would be a miracle if the craft did
not founder. Twice it could have been all over with her if the crew had
not been constantly on the watch. Aouda was exhausted, but did not
utter a complaint. More than once Mr. Fogg rushed to protect her from
the violence of the waves.

Day reappeared. The tempest still raged with undiminished fury; but the
wind now returned to the south-east. It was a favourable change, and
the “Tankadere” again bounded forward on this mountainous sea, though
the waves crossed each other, and imparted shocks and counter-shocks
which would have crushed a craft less solidly built. From time to time
the coast was visible through the broken mist, but no vessel was in
sight. The “Tankadere” was alone upon the sea.

There were some signs of a calm at noon, and these became more distinct
as the sun descended toward the horizon. The tempest had been as brief
as terrific. The passengers, thoroughly exhausted, could now eat a
little, and take some repose.

The night was comparatively quiet. Some of the sails were again
hoisted, and the speed of the boat was very good. The next morning at
dawn they espied the coast, and John Bunsby was able to assert that
they were not one hundred miles from Shanghai. A hundred miles, and
only one day to traverse them! That very evening Mr. Fogg was due at
Shanghai, if he did not wish to miss the steamer to Yokohama. Had there
been no storm, during which several hours were lost, they would be at
this moment within thirty miles of their destination.

The wind grew decidedly calmer, and happily the sea fell with it. All
sails were now hoisted, and at noon the “Tankadere” was within
forty-five miles of Shanghai. There remained yet six hours in which to
accomplish that distance. All on board feared that it could not be
done, and every one—Phileas Fogg, no doubt, excepted—felt his heart
beat with impatience. The boat must keep up an average of nine miles an
hour, and the wind was becoming calmer every moment! It was a
capricious breeze, coming from the coast, and after it passed the sea
became smooth. Still, the “Tankadere” was so light, and her fine sails
caught the fickle zephyrs so well, that, with the aid of the currents
John Bunsby found himself at six o’clock not more than ten miles from
the mouth of Shanghai River. Shanghai itself is situated at least
twelve miles up the stream. At seven they were still three miles from
Shanghai. The pilot swore an angry oath; the reward of two hundred
pounds was evidently on the point of escaping him. He looked at Mr.
Fogg. Mr. Fogg was perfectly tranquil; and yet his whole fortune was at
this moment at stake.

At this moment, also, a long black funnel, crowned with wreaths of
smoke, appeared on the edge of the waters. It was the American steamer,
leaving for Yokohama at the appointed time.

“Confound her!” cried John Bunsby, pushing back the rudder with a
desperate jerk.

“Signal her!” said Phileas Fogg quietly.

A small brass cannon stood on the forward deck of the “Tankadere,” for
making signals in the fogs. It was loaded to the muzzle; but just as
the pilot was about to apply a red-hot coal to the touchhole, Mr. Fogg
said, “Hoist your flag!”

The flag was run up at half-mast, and, this being the signal of
distress, it was hoped that the American steamer, perceiving it, would
change her course a little, so as to succour the pilot-boat.

“Fire!” said Mr. Fogg. And the booming of the little cannon resounded
in the air.




CHAPTER XXII.
IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT FINDS OUT THAT, EVEN AT THE ANTIPODES, IT IS
CONVENIENT TO HAVE SOME MONEY IN ONE’S POCKET


The “Carnatic,” setting sail from Hong Kong at half-past six on the 7th
of November, directed her course at full steam towards Japan. She
carried a large cargo and a well-filled cabin of passengers. Two
state-rooms in the rear were, however, unoccupied—those which had been
engaged by Phileas Fogg.

The next day a passenger with a half-stupefied eye, staggering gait,
and disordered hair, was seen to emerge from the second cabin, and to
totter to a seat on deck.

It was Passepartout; and what had happened to him was as follows:
Shortly after Fix left the opium den, two waiters had lifted the
unconscious Passepartout, and had carried him to the bed reserved for
the smokers. Three hours later, pursued even in his dreams by a fixed
idea, the poor fellow awoke, and struggled against the stupefying
influence of the narcotic. The thought of a duty unfulfilled shook off
his torpor, and he hurried from the abode of drunkenness. Staggering
and holding himself up by keeping against the walls, falling down and
creeping up again, and irresistibly impelled by a kind of instinct, he
kept crying out, “The ‘Carnatic!’ the ‘Carnatic!’”

The steamer lay puffing alongside the quay, on the point of starting.
Passepartout had but few steps to go; and, rushing upon the plank, he
crossed it, and fell unconscious on the deck, just as the “Carnatic”
was moving off. Several sailors, who were evidently accustomed to this
sort of scene, carried the poor Frenchman down into the second cabin,
and Passepartout did not wake until they were one hundred and fifty
miles away from China. Thus he found himself the next morning on the
deck of the “Carnatic,” and eagerly inhaling the exhilarating
sea-breeze. The pure air sobered him. He began to collect his sense,
which he found a difficult task; but at last he recalled the events of
the evening before, Fix’s revelation, and the opium-house.

“It is evident,” said he to himself, “that I have been abominably
drunk! What will Mr. Fogg say? At least I have not missed the steamer,
which is the most important thing.”

Then, as Fix occurred to him: “As for that rascal, I hope we are well
rid of him, and that he has not dared, as he proposed, to follow us on
board the “Carnatic.” A detective on the track of Mr. Fogg, accused of
robbing the Bank of England! Pshaw! Mr. Fogg is no more a robber than I
am a murderer.”

Should he divulge Fix’s real errand to his master? Would it do to tell
the part the detective was playing? Would it not be better to wait
until Mr. Fogg reached London again, and then impart to him that an
agent of the metropolitan police had been following him round the
world, and have a good laugh over it? No doubt; at least, it was worth
considering. The first thing to do was to find Mr. Fogg, and apologise
for his singular behaviour.

Passepartout got up and proceeded, as well as he could with the rolling
of the steamer, to the after-deck. He saw no one who resembled either
his master or Aouda. “Good!” muttered he; “Aouda has not got up yet,
and Mr. Fogg has probably found some partners at whist.”

He descended to the saloon. Mr. Fogg was not there. Passepartout had
only, however, to ask the purser the number of his master’s state-room.
The purser replied that he did not know any passenger by the name of
Fogg.

“I beg your pardon,” said Passepartout persistently. “He is a tall
gentleman, quiet, and not very talkative, and has with him a young
lady—”

“There is no young lady on board,” interrupted the purser. “Here is a
list of the passengers; you may see for yourself.”

Passepartout scanned the list, but his master’s name was not upon it.
All at once an idea struck him.

“Ah! am I on the ‘Carnatic?’”

“Yes.”

“On the way to Yokohama?”

“Certainly.”

Passepartout had for an instant feared that he was on the wrong boat;
but, though he was really on the “Carnatic,” his master was not there.

He fell thunderstruck on a seat. He saw it all now. He remembered that
the time of sailing had been changed, that he should have informed his
master of that fact, and that he had not done so. It was his fault,
then, that Mr. Fogg and Aouda had missed the steamer. Yes, but it was
still more the fault of the traitor who, in order to separate him from
his master, and detain the latter at Hong Kong, had inveigled him into
getting drunk! He now saw the detective’s trick; and at this moment Mr.
Fogg was certainly ruined, his bet was lost, and he himself perhaps
arrested and imprisoned! At this thought Passepartout tore his hair.
Ah, if Fix ever came within his reach, what a settling of accounts
there would be!

After his first depression, Passepartout became calmer, and began to
study his situation. It was certainly not an enviable one. He found
himself on the way to Japan, and what should he do when he got there?
His pocket was empty; he had not a solitary shilling, not so much as a
penny. His passage had fortunately been paid for in advance; and he had
five or six days in which to decide upon his future course. He fell to
at meals with an appetite, and ate for Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and himself. He
helped himself as generously as if Japan were a desert, where nothing
to eat was to be looked for.

At dawn on the 13th the “Carnatic” entered the port of Yokohama. This
is an important port of call in the Pacific, where all the
mail-steamers, and those carrying travellers between North America,
China, Japan, and the Oriental islands put in. It is situated in the
bay of Yeddo, and at but a short distance from that second capital of
the Japanese Empire, and the residence of the Tycoon, the civil
Emperor, before the Mikado, the spiritual Emperor, absorbed his office
in his own. The “Carnatic” anchored at the quay near the custom-house,
in the midst of a crowd of ships bearing the flags of all nations.

Passepartout went timidly ashore on this so curious territory of the
Sons of the Sun. He had nothing better to do than, taking chance for
his guide, to wander aimlessly through the streets of Yokohama. He
found himself at first in a thoroughly European quarter, the houses
having low fronts, and being adorned with verandas, beneath which he
caught glimpses of neat peristyles. This quarter occupied, with its
streets, squares, docks, and warehouses, all the space between the
“promontory of the Treaty” and the river. Here, as at Hong Kong and
Calcutta, were mixed crowds of all races, Americans and English,
Chinamen and Dutchmen, mostly merchants ready to buy or sell anything.
The Frenchman felt himself as much alone among them as if he had
dropped down in the midst of Hottentots.

He had, at least, one resource,—to call on the French and English
consuls at Yokohama for assistance. But he shrank from telling the
story of his adventures, intimately connected as it was with that of
his master; and, before doing so, he determined to exhaust all other
means of aid. As chance did not favour him in the European quarter, he
penetrated that inhabited by the native Japanese, determined, if
necessary, to push on to Yeddo.

The Japanese quarter of Yokohama is called Benten, after the goddess of
the sea, who is worshipped on the islands round about. There
Passepartout beheld beautiful fir and cedar groves, sacred gates of a
singular architecture, bridges half hid in the midst of bamboos and
reeds, temples shaded by immense cedar-trees, holy retreats where were
sheltered Buddhist priests and sectaries of Confucius, and interminable
streets, where a perfect harvest of rose-tinted and red-cheeked
children, who looked as if they had been cut out of Japanese screens,
and who were playing in the midst of short-legged poodles and yellowish
cats, might have been gathered.

The streets were crowded with people. Priests were passing in
processions, beating their dreary tambourines; police and custom-house
officers with pointed hats encrusted with lac and carrying two sabres
hung to their waists; soldiers, clad in blue cotton with white stripes,
and bearing guns; the Mikado’s guards, enveloped in silken doubles,
hauberks and coats of mail; and numbers of military folk of all
ranks—for the military profession is as much respected in Japan as it
is despised in China—went hither and thither in groups and pairs.
Passepartout saw, too, begging friars, long-robed pilgrims, and simple
civilians, with their warped and jet-black hair, big heads, long busts,
slender legs, short stature, and complexions varying from copper-colour
to a dead white, but never yellow, like the Chinese, from whom the
Japanese widely differ. He did not fail to observe the curious
equipages—carriages and palanquins, barrows supplied with sails, and
litters made of bamboo; nor the women—whom he thought not especially
handsome—who took little steps with their little feet, whereon they
wore canvas shoes, straw sandals, and clogs of worked wood, and who
displayed tight-looking eyes, flat chests, teeth fashionably blackened,
and gowns crossed with silken scarfs, tied in an enormous knot behind
an ornament which the modern Parisian ladies seem to have borrowed from
the dames of Japan.

Passepartout wandered for several hours in the midst of this motley
crowd, looking in at the windows of the rich and curious shops, the
jewellery establishments glittering with quaint Japanese ornaments, the
restaurants decked with streamers and banners, the tea-houses, where
the odorous beverage was being drunk with “saki,” a liquor concocted
from the fermentation of rice, and the comfortable smoking-houses,
where they were puffing, not opium, which is almost unknown in Japan,
but a very fine, stringy tobacco. He went on till he found himself in
the fields, in the midst of vast rice plantations. There he saw
dazzling camellias expanding themselves, with flowers which were giving
forth their last colours and perfumes, not on bushes, but on trees, and
within bamboo enclosures, cherry, plum, and apple trees, which the
Japanese cultivate rather for their blossoms than their fruit, and
which queerly-fashioned, grinning scarecrows protected from the
sparrows, pigeons, ravens, and other voracious birds. On the branches
of the cedars were perched large eagles; amid the foliage of the
weeping willows were herons, solemnly standing on one leg; and on every
hand were crows, ducks, hawks, wild birds, and a multitude of cranes,
which the Japanese consider sacred, and which to their minds symbolise
long life and prosperity.

As he was strolling along, Passepartout espied some violets among the
shrubs.

“Good!” said he; “I’ll have some supper.”

But, on smelling them, he found that they were odourless.

“No chance there,” thought he.

The worthy fellow had certainly taken good care to eat as hearty a
breakfast as possible before leaving the “Carnatic;” but, as he had
been walking about all day, the demands of hunger were becoming
importunate. He observed that the butchers stalls contained neither
mutton, goat, nor pork; and, knowing also that it is a sacrilege to
kill cattle, which are preserved solely for farming, he made up his
mind that meat was far from plentiful in Yokohama—nor was he mistaken;
and, in default of butcher’s meat, he could have wished for a quarter
of wild boar or deer, a partridge, or some quails, some game or fish,
which, with rice, the Japanese eat almost exclusively. But he found it
necessary to keep up a stout heart, and to postpone the meal he craved
till the following morning. Night came, and Passepartout re-entered the
native quarter, where he wandered through the streets, lit by
vari-coloured lanterns, looking on at the dancers, who were executing
skilful steps and boundings, and the astrologers who stood in the open
air with their telescopes. Then he came to the harbour, which was lit
up by the resin torches of the fishermen, who were fishing from their
boats.

The streets at last became quiet, and the patrol, the officers of
which, in their splendid costumes, and surrounded by their suites,
Passepartout thought seemed like ambassadors, succeeded the bustling
crowd. Each time a company passed, Passepartout chuckled, and said to
himself: “Good! another Japanese embassy departing for Europe!”




CHAPTER XXIII.
IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT’S NOSE BECOMES OUTRAGEOUSLY LONG


The next morning poor, jaded, famished Passepartout said to himself
that he must get something to eat at all hazards, and the sooner he did
so the better. He might, indeed, sell his watch; but he would have
starved first. Now or never he must use the strong, if not melodious
voice which nature had bestowed upon him. He knew several French and
English songs, and resolved to try them upon the Japanese, who must be
lovers of music, since they were for ever pounding on their cymbals,
tam-tams, and tambourines, and could not but appreciate European
talent.

It was, perhaps, rather early in the morning to get up a concert, and
the audience prematurely aroused from their slumbers, might not
possibly pay their entertainer with coin bearing the Mikado’s features.
Passepartout therefore decided to wait several hours; and, as he was
sauntering along, it occurred to him that he would seem rather too well
dressed for a wandering artist. The idea struck him to change his
garments for clothes more in harmony with his project; by which he
might also get a little money to satisfy the immediate cravings of
hunger. The resolution taken, it remained to carry it out.

It was only after a long search that Passepartout discovered a native
dealer in old clothes, to whom he applied for an exchange. The man
liked the European costume, and ere long Passepartout issued from his
shop accoutred in an old Japanese coat, and a sort of one-sided turban,
faded with long use. A few small pieces of silver, moreover, jingled in
his pocket.

“Good!” thought he. “I will imagine I am at the Carnival!”

His first care, after being thus “Japanesed,” was to enter a tea-house
of modest appearance, and, upon half a bird and a little rice, to
breakfast like a man for whom dinner was as yet a problem to be solved.

“Now,” thought he, when he had eaten heartily, “I mustn’t lose my head.
I can’t sell this costume again for one still more Japanese. I must
consider how to leave this country of the Sun, of which I shall not
retain the most delightful of memories, as quickly as possible.”

It occurred to him to visit the steamers which were about to leave for
America. He would offer himself as a cook or servant, in payment of his
passage and meals. Once at San Francisco, he would find some means of
going on. The difficulty was, how to traverse the four thousand seven
hundred miles of the Pacific which lay between Japan and the New World.

Passepartout was not the man to let an idea go begging, and directed
his steps towards the docks. But, as he approached them, his project,
which at first had seemed so simple, began to grow more and more
formidable to his mind. What need would they have of a cook or servant
on an American steamer, and what confidence would they put in him,
dressed as he was? What references could he give?

As he was reflecting in this wise, his eyes fell upon an immense
placard which a sort of clown was carrying through the streets. This
placard, which was in English, read as follows:

ACROBATIC JAPANESE TROUPE,
HONOURABLE WILLIAM BATULCAR, PROPRIETOR,
LAST REPRESENTATIONS,
PRIOR TO THEIR DEPARTURE TO THE UNITED STATES,
OF THE
LONG NOSES! LONG NOSES!
UNDER THE DIRECT PATRONAGE OF THE GOD TINGOU!
GREAT ATTRACTION!


“The United States!” said Passepartout; “that’s just what I want!”

He followed the clown, and soon found himself once more in the Japanese
quarter. A quarter of an hour later he stopped before a large cabin,
adorned with several clusters of streamers, the exterior walls of which
were designed to represent, in violent colours and without perspective,
a company of jugglers.

This was the Honourable William Batulcar’s establishment. That
gentleman was a sort of Barnum, the director of a troupe of
mountebanks, jugglers, clowns, acrobats, equilibrists, and gymnasts,
who, according to the placard, was giving his last performances before
leaving the Empire of the Sun for the States of the Union.

Passepartout entered and asked for Mr. Batulcar, who straightway
appeared in person.

“What do you want?” said he to Passepartout, whom he at first took for
a native.

“Would you like a servant, sir?” asked Passepartout.

“A servant!” cried Mr. Batulcar, caressing the thick grey beard which
hung from his chin. “I already have two who are obedient and faithful,
have never left me, and serve me for their nourishment and here they
are,” added he, holding out his two robust arms, furrowed with veins as
large as the strings of a bass-viol.

“So I can be of no use to you?”

“None.”

“The devil! I should so like to cross the Pacific with you!”

“Ah!” said the Honourable Mr. Batulcar. “You are no more a Japanese
than I am a monkey! Who are you dressed up in that way?”

“A man dresses as he can.”

“That’s true. You are a Frenchman, aren’t you?”

“Yes; a Parisian of Paris.”

“Then you ought to know how to make grimaces?”

“Why,” replied Passepartout, a little vexed that his nationality should
cause this question, “we Frenchmen know how to make grimaces, it is
true but not any better than the Americans do.”

“True. Well, if I can’t take you as a servant, I can as a clown. You
see, my friend, in France they exhibit foreign clowns, and in foreign
parts French clowns.”

“Ah!”

“You are pretty strong, eh?”

“Especially after a good meal.”

“And you can sing?”

“Yes,” returned Passepartout, who had formerly been wont to sing in the
streets.

“But can you sing standing on your head, with a top spinning on your
left foot, and a sabre balanced on your right?”

“Humph! I think so,” replied Passepartout, recalling the exercises of
his younger days.

“Well, that’s enough,” said the Honourable William Batulcar.

The engagement was concluded there and then.

Passepartout had at last found something to do. He was engaged to act
in the celebrated Japanese troupe. It was not a very dignified
position, but within a week he would be on his way to San Francisco.

The performance, so noisily announced by the Honourable Mr. Batulcar,
was to commence at three o’clock, and soon the deafening instruments of
a Japanese orchestra resounded at the door. Passepartout, though he had
not been able to study or rehearse a part, was designated to lend the
aid of his sturdy shoulders in the great exhibition of the “human
pyramid,” executed by the Long Noses of the god Tingou. This “great
attraction” was to close the performance.

Before three o’clock the large shed was invaded by the spectators,
comprising Europeans and natives, Chinese and Japanese, men, women and
children, who precipitated themselves upon the narrow benches and into
the boxes opposite the stage. The musicians took up a position inside,
and were vigorously performing on their gongs, tam-tams, flutes, bones,
tambourines, and immense drums.

The performance was much like all acrobatic displays; but it must be
confessed that the Japanese are the first equilibrists in the world.

One, with a fan and some bits of paper, performed the graceful trick of
the butterflies and the flowers; another traced in the air, with the
odorous smoke of his pipe, a series of blue words, which composed a
compliment to the audience; while a third juggled with some lighted
candles, which he extinguished successively as they passed his lips,
and relit again without interrupting for an instant his juggling.
Another reproduced the most singular combinations with a spinning-top;
in his hands the revolving tops seemed to be animated with a life of
their own in their interminable whirling; they ran over pipe-stems, the
edges of sabres, wires and even hairs stretched across the stage; they
turned around on the edges of large glasses, crossed bamboo ladders,
dispersed into all the corners, and produced strange musical effects by
the combination of their various pitches of tone. The jugglers tossed
them in the air, threw them like shuttlecocks with wooden battledores,
and yet they kept on spinning; they put them into their pockets, and
took them out still whirling as before.

It is useless to describe the astonishing performances of the acrobats
and gymnasts. The turning on ladders, poles, balls, barrels, &c., was
executed with wonderful precision.

But the principal attraction was the exhibition of the Long Noses, a
show to which Europe is as yet a stranger.

The Long Noses form a peculiar company, under the direct patronage of
the god Tingou. Attired after the fashion of the Middle Ages, they bore
upon their shoulders a splendid pair of wings; but what especially
distinguished them was the long noses which were fastened to their
faces, and the uses which they made of them. These noses were made of
bamboo, and were five, six, and even ten feet long, some straight,
others curved, some ribboned, and some having imitation warts upon
them. It was upon these appendages, fixed tightly on their real noses,
that they performed their gymnastic exercises. A dozen of these
sectaries of Tingou lay flat upon their backs, while others, dressed to
represent lightning-rods, came and frolicked on their noses, jumping
from one to another, and performing the most skilful leapings and
somersaults.

As a last scene, a “human pyramid” had been announced, in which fifty
Long Noses were to represent the Car of Juggernaut. But, instead of
forming a pyramid by mounting each other’s shoulders, the artists were
to group themselves on top of the noses. It happened that the performer
who had hitherto formed the base of the Car had quitted the troupe, and
as, to fill this part, only strength and adroitness were necessary,
Passepartout had been chosen to take his place.

The poor fellow really felt sad when—melancholy reminiscence of his
youth!—he donned his costume, adorned with vari-coloured wings, and
fastened to his natural feature a false nose six feet long. But he
cheered up when he thought that this nose was winning him something to
eat.

He went upon the stage, and took his place beside the rest who were to
compose the base of the Car of Juggernaut. They all stretched
themselves on the floor, their noses pointing to the ceiling. A second
group of artists disposed themselves on these long appendages, then a
third above these, then a fourth, until a human monument reaching to
the very cornices of the theatre soon arose on top of the noses. This
elicited loud applause, in the midst of which the orchestra was just
striking up a deafening air, when the pyramid tottered, the balance was
lost, one of the lower noses vanished from the pyramid, and the human
monument was shattered like a castle built of cards!

It was Passepartout’s fault. Abandoning his position, clearing the
footlights without the aid of his wings, and, clambering up to the
right-hand gallery, he fell at the feet of one of the spectators,
crying, “Ah, my master! my master!”

“You here?”

“Myself.”

“Very well; then let us go to the steamer, young man!”

Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout passed through the lobby of the
theatre to the outside, where they encountered the Honourable Mr.
Batulcar, furious with rage. He demanded damages for the “breakage” of
the pyramid; and Phileas Fogg appeased him by giving him a handful of
banknotes.

At half-past six, the very hour of departure, Mr. Fogg and Aouda,
followed by Passepartout, who in his hurry had retained his wings, and
nose six feet long, stepped upon the American steamer.




CHAPTER XXIV.
DURING WHICH MR. FOGG AND PARTY CROSS THE PACIFIC OCEAN


What happened when the pilot-boat came in sight of Shanghai will be
easily guessed. The signals made by the “Tankadere” had been seen by
the captain of the Yokohama steamer, who, espying the flag at
half-mast, had directed his course towards the little craft. Phileas
Fogg, after paying the stipulated price of his passage to John Busby,
and rewarding that worthy with the additional sum of five hundred and
fifty pounds, ascended the steamer with Aouda and Fix; and they started
at once for Nagasaki and Yokohama.

They reached their destination on the morning of the 14th of November.
Phileas Fogg lost no time in going on board the “Carnatic,” where he
learned, to Aouda’s great delight—and perhaps to his own, though he
betrayed no emotion—that Passepartout, a Frenchman, had really arrived
on her the day before.

The San Francisco steamer was announced to leave that very evening, and
it became necessary to find Passepartout, if possible, without delay.
Mr. Fogg applied in vain to the French and English consuls, and, after
wandering through the streets a long time, began to despair of finding
his missing servant. Chance, or perhaps a kind of presentiment, at last
led him into the Honourable Mr. Batulcar’s theatre. He certainly would
not have recognised Passepartout in the eccentric mountebank’s costume;
but the latter, lying on his back, perceived his master in the gallery.
He could not help starting, which so changed the position of his nose
as to bring the “pyramid” pell-mell upon the stage.

All this Passepartout learned from Aouda, who recounted to him what had
taken place on the voyage from Hong Kong to Shanghai on the
“Tankadere,” in company with one Mr. Fix.

Passepartout did not change countenance on hearing this name. He
thought that the time had not yet arrived to divulge to his master what
had taken place between the detective and himself; and, in the account
he gave of his absence, he simply excused himself for having been
overtaken by drunkenness, in smoking opium at a tavern in Hong Kong.

Mr. Fogg heard this narrative coldly, without a word; and then
furnished his man with funds necessary to obtain clothing more in
harmony with his position. Within an hour the Frenchman had cut off his
nose and parted with his wings, and retained nothing about him which
recalled the sectary of the god Tingou.

The steamer which was about to depart from Yokohama to San Francisco
belonged to the Pacific Mail Steamship Company, and was named the
“General Grant.” She was a large paddle-wheel steamer of two thousand
five hundred tons; well equipped and very fast. The massive
walking-beam rose and fell above the deck; at one end a piston-rod
worked up and down; and at the other was a connecting-rod which, in
changing the rectilinear motion to a circular one, was directly
connected with the shaft of the paddles. The “General Grant” was rigged
with three masts, giving a large capacity for sails, and thus
materially aiding the steam power. By making twelve miles an hour, she
would cross the ocean in twenty-one days. Phileas Fogg was therefore
justified in hoping that he would reach San Francisco by the 2nd of
December, New York by the 11th, and London on the 20th—thus gaining
several hours on the fatal date of the 21st of December.

There was a full complement of passengers on board, among them English,
many Americans, a large number of coolies on their way to California,
and several East Indian officers, who were spending their vacation in
making the tour of the world. Nothing of moment happened on the voyage;
the steamer, sustained on its large paddles, rolled but little, and the
“Pacific” almost justified its name. Mr. Fogg was as calm and taciturn
as ever. His young companion felt herself more and more attached to him
by other ties than gratitude; his silent but generous nature impressed
her more than she thought; and it was almost unconsciously that she
yielded to emotions which did not seem to have the least effect upon
her protector. Aouda took the keenest interest in his plans, and became
impatient at any incident which seemed likely to retard his journey.

She often chatted with Passepartout, who did not fail to perceive the
state of the lady’s heart; and, being the most faithful of domestics,
he never exhausted his eulogies of Phileas Fogg’s honesty, generosity,
and devotion. He took pains to calm Aouda’s doubts of a successful
termination of the journey, telling her that the most difficult part of
it had passed, that now they were beyond the fantastic countries of
Japan and China, and were fairly on their way to civilised places
again. A railway train from San Francisco to New York, and a
transatlantic steamer from New York to Liverpool, would doubtless bring
them to the end of this impossible journey round the world within the
period agreed upon.

On the ninth day after leaving Yokohama, Phileas Fogg had traversed
exactly one half of the terrestrial globe. The “General Grant” passed,
on the 23rd of November, the one hundred and eightieth meridian, and
was at the very antipodes of London. Mr. Fogg had, it is true,
exhausted fifty-two of the eighty days in which he was to complete the
tour, and there were only twenty-eight left. But, though he was only
half-way by the difference of meridians, he had really gone over
two-thirds of the whole journey; for he had been obliged to make long
circuits from London to Aden, from Aden to Bombay, from Calcutta to
Singapore, and from Singapore to Yokohama. Could he have followed
without deviation the fiftieth parallel, which is that of London, the
whole distance would only have been about twelve thousand miles;
whereas he would be forced, by the irregular methods of locomotion, to
traverse twenty-six thousand, of which he had, on the 23rd of November,
accomplished seventeen thousand five hundred. And now the course was a
straight one, and Fix was no longer there to put obstacles in their
way!

It happened also, on the 23rd of November, that Passepartout made a
joyful discovery. It will be remembered that the obstinate fellow had
insisted on keeping his famous family watch at London time, and on
regarding that of the countries he had passed through as quite false
and unreliable. Now, on this day, though he had not changed the hands,
he found that his watch exactly agreed with the ship’s chronometers.
His triumph was hilarious. He would have liked to know what Fix would
say if he were aboard!

“The rogue told me a lot of stories,” repeated Passepartout, “about the
meridians, the sun, and the moon! Moon, indeed! moonshine more likely!
If one listened to that sort of people, a pretty sort of time one would
keep! I was sure that the sun would some day regulate itself by my
watch!”

Passepartout was ignorant that, if the face of his watch had been
divided into twenty-four hours, like the Italian clocks, he would have
no reason for exultation; for the hands of his watch would then,
instead of as now indicating nine o’clock in the morning, indicate nine
o’clock in the evening, that is, the twenty-first hour after midnight
precisely the difference between London time and that of the one
hundred and eightieth meridian. But if Fix had been able to explain
this purely physical effect, Passepartout would not have admitted, even
if he had comprehended it. Moreover, if the detective had been on board
at that moment, Passepartout would have joined issue with him on a
quite different subject, and in an entirely different manner.

Where was Fix at that moment?

He was actually on board the “General Grant.”

On reaching Yokohama, the detective, leaving Mr. Fogg, whom he expected
to meet again during the day, had repaired at once to the English
consulate, where he at last found the warrant of arrest. It had
followed him from Bombay, and had come by the “Carnatic,” on which
steamer he himself was supposed to be. Fix’s disappointment may be
imagined when he reflected that the warrant was now useless. Mr. Fogg
had left English ground, and it was now necessary to procure his
extradition!

“Well,” thought Fix, after a moment of anger, “my warrant is not good
here, but it will be in England. The rogue evidently intends to return
to his own country, thinking he has thrown the police off his track.
Good! I will follow him across the Atlantic. As for the money, heaven
grant there may be some left! But the fellow has already spent in
travelling, rewards, trials, bail, elephants, and all sorts of charges,
more than five thousand pounds. Yet, after all, the Bank is rich!”

His course decided on, he went on board the “General Grant,” and was
there when Mr. Fogg and Aouda arrived. To his utter amazement, he
recognised Passepartout, despite his theatrical disguise. He quickly
concealed himself in his cabin, to avoid an awkward explanation, and
hoped—thanks to the number of passengers—to remain unperceived by Mr.
Fogg’s servant.

On that very day, however, he met Passepartout face to face on the
forward deck. The latter, without a word, made a rush for him, grasped
him by the throat, and, much to the amusement of a group of Americans,
who immediately began to bet on him, administered to the detective a
perfect volley of blows, which proved the great superiority of French
over English pugilistic skill.

When Passepartout had finished, he found himself relieved and
comforted. Fix got up in a somewhat rumpled condition, and, looking at
his adversary, coldly said, “Have you done?”

“For this time—yes.”

“Then let me have a word with you.”

“But I—”

“In your master’s interests.”

Passepartout seemed to be vanquished by Fix’s coolness, for he quietly
followed him, and they sat down aside from the rest of the passengers.

“You have given me a thrashing,” said Fix. “Good, I expected it. Now,
listen to me. Up to this time I have been Mr. Fogg’s adversary. I am
now in his game.”

“Aha!” cried Passepartout; “you are convinced he is an honest man?”

“No,” replied Fix coldly, “I think him a rascal. Sh! don’t budge, and
let me speak. As long as Mr. Fogg was on English ground, it was for my
interest to detain him there until my warrant of arrest arrived. I did
everything I could to keep him back. I sent the Bombay priests after
him, I got you intoxicated at Hong Kong, I separated you from him, and
I made him miss the Yokohama steamer.”

Passepartout listened, with closed fists.

“Now,” resumed Fix, “Mr. Fogg seems to be going back to England. Well,
I will follow him there. But hereafter I will do as much to keep
obstacles out of his way as I have done up to this time to put them in
his path. I’ve changed my game, you see, and simply because it was for
my interest to change it. Your interest is the same as mine; for it is
only in England that you will ascertain whether you are in the service
of a criminal or an honest man.”

Passepartout listened very attentively to Fix, and was convinced that
he spoke with entire good faith.

“Are we friends?” asked the detective.

“Friends?—no,” replied Passepartout; “but allies, perhaps. At the least
sign of treason, however, I’ll twist your neck for you.”

“Agreed,” said the detective quietly.

Eleven days later, on the 3rd of December, the “General Grant” entered
the bay of the Golden Gate, and reached San Francisco.

Mr. Fogg had neither gained nor lost a single day.




CHAPTER XXV.
IN WHICH A SLIGHT GLIMPSE IS HAD OF SAN FRANCISCO


It was seven in the morning when Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout set
foot upon the American continent, if this name can be given to the
floating quay upon which they disembarked. These quays, rising and
falling with the tide, thus facilitate the loading and unloading of
vessels. Alongside them were clippers of all sizes, steamers of all
nationalities, and the steamboats, with several decks rising one above
the other, which ply on the Sacramento and its tributaries. There were
also heaped up the products of a commerce which extends to Mexico,
Chili, Peru, Brazil, Europe, Asia, and all the Pacific islands.

Passepartout, in his joy on reaching at last the American continent,
thought he would manifest it by executing a perilous vault in fine
style; but, tumbling upon some worm-eaten planks, he fell through them.
Put out of countenance by the manner in which he thus “set foot” upon
the New World, he uttered a loud cry, which so frightened the
innumerable cormorants and pelicans that are always perched upon these
movable quays, that they flew noisily away.

Mr. Fogg, on reaching shore, proceeded to find out at what hour the
first train left for New York, and learned that this was at six o’clock
p.m.; he had, therefore, an entire day to spend in the Californian
capital. Taking a carriage at a charge of three dollars, he and Aouda
entered it, while Passepartout mounted the box beside the driver, and
they set out for the International Hotel.

From his exalted position Passepartout observed with much curiosity the
wide streets, the low, evenly ranged houses, the Anglo-Saxon Gothic
churches, the great docks, the palatial wooden and brick warehouses,
the numerous conveyances, omnibuses, horse-cars, and upon the
side-walks, not only Americans and Europeans, but Chinese and Indians.
Passepartout was surprised at all he saw. San Francisco was no longer
the legendary city of 1849—a city of banditti, assassins, and
incendiaries, who had flocked hither in crowds in pursuit of plunder; a
paradise of outlaws, where they gambled with gold-dust, a revolver in
one hand and a bowie-knife in the other: it was now a great commercial
emporium.

The lofty tower of its City Hall overlooked the whole panorama of the
streets and avenues, which cut each other at right-angles, and in the
midst of which appeared pleasant, verdant squares, while beyond
appeared the Chinese quarter, seemingly imported from the Celestial
Empire in a toy-box. Sombreros and red shirts and plumed Indians were
rarely to be seen; but there were silk hats and black coats everywhere
worn by a multitude of nervously active, gentlemanly-looking men. Some
of the streets—especially Montgomery Street, which is to San Francisco
what Regent Street is to London, the Boulevard des Italiens to Paris,
and Broadway to New York—were lined with splendid and spacious stores,
which exposed in their windows the products of the entire world.

When Passepartout reached the International Hotel, it did not seem to
him as if he had left England at all.

The ground floor of the hotel was occupied by a large bar, a sort of
restaurant freely open to all passers-by, who might partake of dried
beef, oyster soup, biscuits, and cheese, without taking out their
purses. Payment was made only for the ale, porter, or sherry which was
drunk. This seemed “very American” to Passepartout. The hotel
refreshment-rooms were comfortable, and Mr. Fogg and Aouda, installing
themselves at a table, were abundantly served on diminutive plates by
negroes of darkest hue.

After breakfast, Mr. Fogg, accompanied by Aouda, started for the
English consulate to have his passport _visaed_. As he was going out,
he met Passepartout, who asked him if it would not be well, before
taking the train, to purchase some dozens of Enfield rifles and Colt’s
revolvers. He had been listening to stories of attacks upon the trains
by the Sioux and Pawnees. Mr. Fogg thought it a useless precaution, but
told him to do as he thought best, and went on to the consulate.

He had not proceeded two hundred steps, however, when, “by the greatest
chance in the world,” he met Fix. The detective seemed wholly taken by
surprise. What! Had Mr. Fogg and himself crossed the Pacific together,
and not met on the steamer! At least Fix felt honoured to behold once
more the gentleman to whom he owed so much, and, as his business
recalled him to Europe, he should be delighted to continue the journey
in such pleasant company.

Mr. Fogg replied that the honour would be his; and the detective—who
was determined not to lose sight of him—begged permission to accompany
them in their walk about San Francisco—a request which Mr. Fogg readily
granted.

They soon found themselves in Montgomery Street, where a great crowd
was collected; the side-walks, street, horsecar rails, the shop-doors,
the windows of the houses, and even the roofs, were full of people. Men
were going about carrying large posters, and flags and streamers were
floating in the wind; while loud cries were heard on every hand.

“Hurrah for Camerfield!”

“Hurrah for Mandiboy!”

It was a political meeting; at least so Fix conjectured, who said to
Mr. Fogg, “Perhaps we had better not mingle with the crowd. There may
be danger in it.”

“Yes,” returned Mr. Fogg; “and blows, even if they are political, are
still blows.”

Fix smiled at this remark; and, in order to be able to see without
being jostled about, the party took up a position on the top of a
flight of steps situated at the upper end of Montgomery Street.
Opposite them, on the other side of the street, between a coal wharf
and a petroleum warehouse, a large platform had been erected in the
open air, towards which the current of the crowd seemed to be directed.

For what purpose was this meeting? What was the occasion of this
excited assemblage? Phileas Fogg could not imagine. Was it to nominate
some high official—a governor or member of Congress? It was not
improbable, so agitated was the multitude before them.

Just at this moment there was an unusual stir in the human mass. All
the hands were raised in the air. Some, tightly closed, seemed to
disappear suddenly in the midst of the cries—an energetic way, no
doubt, of casting a vote. The crowd swayed back, the banners and flags
wavered, disappeared an instant, then reappeared in tatters. The
undulations of the human surge reached the steps, while all the heads
floundered on the surface like a sea agitated by a squall. Many of the
black hats disappeared, and the greater part of the crowd seemed to
have diminished in height.

“It is evidently a meeting,” said Fix, “and its object must be an
exciting one. I should not wonder if it were about the ‘Alabama,’
despite the fact that that question is settled.”

“Perhaps,” replied Mr. Fogg, simply.

“At least, there are two champions in presence of each other, the
Honourable Mr. Camerfield and the Honourable Mr. Mandiboy.”

Aouda, leaning upon Mr. Fogg’s arm, observed the tumultuous scene with
surprise, while Fix asked a man near him what the cause of it all was.
Before the man could reply, a fresh agitation arose; hurrahs and
excited shouts were heard; the staffs of the banners began to be used
as offensive weapons; and fists flew about in every direction. Thumps
were exchanged from the tops of the carriages and omnibuses which had
been blocked up in the crowd. Boots and shoes went whirling through the
air, and Mr. Fogg thought he even heard the crack of revolvers mingling
in the din, the rout approached the stairway, and flowed over the lower
step. One of the parties had evidently been repulsed; but the mere
lookers-on could not tell whether Mandiboy or Camerfield had gained the
upper hand.

“It would be prudent for us to retire,” said Fix, who was anxious that
Mr. Fogg should not receive any injury, at least until they got back to
London. “If there is any question about England in all this, and we
were recognised, I fear it would go hard with us.”

“An English subject—” began Mr. Fogg.

He did not finish his sentence; for a terrific hubbub now arose on the
terrace behind the flight of steps where they stood, and there were
frantic shouts of, “Hurrah for Mandiboy! Hip, hip, hurrah!”

It was a band of voters coming to the rescue of their allies, and
taking the Camerfield forces in flank. Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Fix found
themselves between two fires; it was too late to escape. The torrent of
men, armed with loaded canes and sticks, was irresistible. Phileas Fogg
and Fix were roughly hustled in their attempts to protect their fair
companion; the former, as cool as ever, tried to defend himself with
the weapons which nature has placed at the end of every Englishman’s
arm, but in vain. A big brawny fellow with a red beard, flushed face,
and broad shoulders, who seemed to be the chief of the band, raised his
clenched fist to strike Mr. Fogg, whom he would have given a crushing
blow, had not Fix rushed in and received it in his stead. An enormous
bruise immediately made its appearance under the detective’s silk hat,
which was completely smashed in.

“Yankee!” exclaimed Mr. Fogg, darting a contemptuous look at the
ruffian.

“Englishman!” returned the other. “We will meet again!”

“When you please.”

“What is your name?”

“Phileas Fogg. And yours?”

“Colonel Stamp Proctor.”

The human tide now swept by, after overturning Fix, who speedily got
upon his feet again, though with tattered clothes. Happily, he was not
seriously hurt. His travelling overcoat was divided into two unequal
parts, and his trousers resembled those of certain Indians, which fit
less compactly than they are easy to put on. Aouda had escaped
unharmed, and Fix alone bore marks of the fray in his black and blue
bruise.

“Thanks,” said Mr. Fogg to the detective, as soon as they were out of
the crowd.

“No thanks are necessary,” replied Fix; “but let us go.”

“Where?”

“To a tailor’s.”

Such a visit was, indeed, opportune. The clothing of both Mr. Fogg and
Fix was in rags, as if they had themselves been actively engaged in the
contest between Camerfield and Mandiboy. An hour after, they were once
more suitably attired, and with Aouda returned to the International
Hotel.

Passepartout was waiting for his master, armed with half a dozen
six-barrelled revolvers. When he perceived Fix, he knit his brows; but
Aouda having, in a few words, told him of their adventure, his
countenance resumed its placid expression. Fix evidently was no longer
an enemy, but an ally; he was faithfully keeping his word.

Dinner over, the coach which was to convey the passengers and their
luggage to the station drew up to the door. As he was getting in, Mr.
Fogg said to Fix, “You have not seen this Colonel Proctor again?”

“No.”

“I will come back to America to find him,” said Phileas Fogg calmly.
“It would not be right for an Englishman to permit himself to be
treated in that way, without retaliating.”

The detective smiled, but did not reply. It was clear that Mr. Fogg was
one of those Englishmen who, while they do not tolerate duelling at
home, fight abroad when their honour is attacked.

At a quarter before six the travellers reached the station, and found
the train ready to depart. As he was about to enter it, Mr. Fogg called
a porter, and said to him: “My friend, was there not some trouble
to-day in San Francisco?”

“It was a political meeting, sir,” replied the porter.

“But I thought there was a great deal of disturbance in the streets.”

“It was only a meeting assembled for an election.”

“The election of a general-in-chief, no doubt?” asked Mr. Fogg.

“No, sir; of a justice of the peace.”

Phileas Fogg got into the train, which started off at full speed.




CHAPTER XXVI.
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AND PARTY TRAVEL BY THE PACIFIC RAILROAD


“From ocean to ocean”—so say the Americans; and these four words
compose the general designation of the “great trunk line” which crosses
the entire width of the United States. The Pacific Railroad is,
however, really divided into two distinct lines: the Central Pacific,
between San Francisco and Ogden, and the Union Pacific, between Ogden
and Omaha. Five main lines connect Omaha with New York.

New York and San Francisco are thus united by an uninterrupted metal
ribbon, which measures no less than three thousand seven hundred and
eighty-six miles. Between Omaha and the Pacific the railway crosses a
territory which is still infested by Indians and wild beasts, and a
large tract which the Mormons, after they were driven from Illinois in
1845, began to colonise.

The journey from New York to San Francisco consumed, formerly, under
the most favourable conditions, at least six months. It is now
accomplished in seven days.

It was in 1862 that, in spite of the Southern Members of Congress, who
wished a more southerly route, it was decided to lay the road between
the forty-first and forty-second parallels. President Lincoln himself
fixed the end of the line at Omaha, in Nebraska. The work was at once
commenced, and pursued with true American energy; nor did the rapidity
with which it went on injuriously affect its good execution. The road
grew, on the prairies, a mile and a half a day. A locomotive, running
on the rails laid down the evening before, brought the rails to be laid
on the morrow, and advanced upon them as fast as they were put in
position.

The Pacific Railroad is joined by several branches in Iowa, Kansas,
Colorado, and Oregon. On leaving Omaha, it passes along the left bank
of the Platte River as far as the junction of its northern branch,
follows its southern branch, crosses the Laramie territory and the
Wahsatch Mountains, turns the Great Salt Lake, and reaches Salt Lake
City, the Mormon capital, plunges into the Tuilla Valley, across the
American Desert, Cedar and Humboldt Mountains, the Sierra Nevada, and
descends, _viâ_ Sacramento, to the Pacific—its grade, even on the Rocky
Mountains, never exceeding one hundred and twelve feet to the mile.

Such was the road to be traversed in seven days, which would enable
Phileas Fogg—at least, so he hoped—to take the Atlantic steamer at New
York on the 11th for Liverpool.

The car which he occupied was a sort of long omnibus on eight wheels,
and with no compartments in the interior. It was supplied with two rows
of seats, perpendicular to the direction of the train on either side of
an aisle which conducted to the front and rear platforms. These
platforms were found throughout the train, and the passengers were able
to pass from one end of the train to the other. It was supplied with
saloon cars, balcony cars, restaurants, and smoking-cars; theatre cars
alone were wanting, and they will have these some day.

Book and news dealers, sellers of edibles, drinkables, and cigars, who
seemed to have plenty of customers, were continually circulating in the
aisles.

The train left Oakland station at six o’clock. It was already night,
cold and cheerless, the heavens being overcast with clouds which seemed
to threaten snow. The train did not proceed rapidly; counting the
stoppages, it did not run more than twenty miles an hour, which was a
sufficient speed, however, to enable it to reach Omaha within its
designated time.

There was but little conversation in the car, and soon many of the
passengers were overcome with sleep. Passepartout found himself beside
the detective; but he did not talk to him. After recent events, their
relations with each other had grown somewhat cold; there could no
longer be mutual sympathy or intimacy between them. Fix’s manner had
not changed; but Passepartout was very reserved, and ready to strangle
his former friend on the slightest provocation.

Snow began to fall an hour after they started, a fine snow, however,
which happily could not obstruct the train; nothing could be seen from
the windows but a vast, white sheet, against which the smoke of the
locomotive had a greyish aspect.

At eight o’clock a steward entered the car and announced that the time
for going to bed had arrived; and in a few minutes the car was
transformed into a dormitory. The backs of the seats were thrown back,
bedsteads carefully packed were rolled out by an ingenious system,
berths were suddenly improvised, and each traveller had soon at his
disposition a comfortable bed, protected from curious eyes by thick
curtains. The sheets were clean and the pillows soft. It only remained
to go to bed and sleep which everybody did—while the train sped on
across the State of California.

The country between San Francisco and Sacramento is not very hilly. The
Central Pacific, taking Sacramento for its starting-point, extends
eastward to meet the road from Omaha. The line from San Francisco to
Sacramento runs in a north-easterly direction, along the American
River, which empties into San Pablo Bay. The one hundred and twenty
miles between these cities were accomplished in six hours, and towards
midnight, while fast asleep, the travellers passed through Sacramento;
so that they saw nothing of that important place, the seat of the State
government, with its fine quays, its broad streets, its noble hotels,
squares, and churches.

The train, on leaving Sacramento, and passing the junction, Roclin,
Auburn, and Colfax, entered the range of the Sierra Nevada. ’Cisco was
reached at seven in the morning; and an hour later the dormitory was
transformed into an ordinary car, and the travellers could observe the
picturesque beauties of the mountain region through which they were
steaming. The railway track wound in and out among the passes, now
approaching the mountain-sides, now suspended over precipices, avoiding
abrupt angles by bold curves, plunging into narrow defiles, which
seemed to have no outlet. The locomotive, its great funnel emitting a
weird light, with its sharp bell, and its cow-catcher extended like a
spur, mingled its shrieks and bellowings with the noise of torrents and
cascades, and twined its smoke among the branches of the gigantic
pines.

There were few or no bridges or tunnels on the route. The railway
turned around the sides of the mountains, and did not attempt to
violate nature by taking the shortest cut from one point to another.

The train entered the State of Nevada through the Carson Valley about
nine o’clock, going always northeasterly; and at midday reached Reno,
where there was a delay of twenty minutes for breakfast.

From this point the road, running along Humboldt River, passed
northward for several miles by its banks; then it turned eastward, and
kept by the river until it reached the Humboldt Range, nearly at the
extreme eastern limit of Nevada.

Having breakfasted, Mr. Fogg and his companions resumed their places in
the car, and observed the varied landscape which unfolded itself as
they passed along the vast prairies, the mountains lining the horizon,
and the creeks, with their frothy, foaming streams. Sometimes a great
herd of buffaloes, massing together in the distance, seemed like a
moveable dam. These innumerable multitudes of ruminating beasts often
form an insurmountable obstacle to the passage of the trains; thousands
of them have been seen passing over the track for hours together, in
compact ranks. The locomotive is then forced to stop and wait till the
road is once more clear.

This happened, indeed, to the train in which Mr. Fogg was travelling.
About twelve o’clock a troop of ten or twelve thousand head of buffalo
encumbered the track. The locomotive, slackening its speed, tried to
clear the way with its cow-catcher; but the mass of animals was too
great. The buffaloes marched along with a tranquil gait, uttering now
and then deafening bellowings. There was no use of interrupting them,
for, having taken a particular direction, nothing can moderate and
change their course; it is a torrent of living flesh which no dam could
contain.

The travellers gazed on this curious spectacle from the platforms; but
Phileas Fogg, who had the most reason of all to be in a hurry, remained
in his seat, and waited philosophically until it should please the
buffaloes to get out of the way.

Passepartout was furious at the delay they occasioned, and longed to
discharge his arsenal of revolvers upon them.

“What a country!” cried he. “Mere cattle stop the trains, and go by in
a procession, just as if they were not impeding travel! Parbleu! I
should like to know if Mr. Fogg foresaw _this_ mishap in his programme!
And here’s an engineer who doesn’t dare to run the locomotive into this
herd of beasts!”

The engineer did not try to overcome the obstacle, and he was wise. He
would have crushed the first buffaloes, no doubt, with the cow-catcher;
but the locomotive, however powerful, would soon have been checked, the
train would inevitably have been thrown off the track, and would then
have been helpless.

The best course was to wait patiently, and regain the lost time by
greater speed when the obstacle was removed. The procession of
buffaloes lasted three full hours, and it was night before the track
was clear. The last ranks of the herd were now passing over the rails,
while the first had already disappeared below the southern horizon.

It was eight o’clock when the train passed through the defiles of the
Humboldt Range, and half-past nine when it penetrated Utah, the region
of the Great Salt Lake, the singular colony of the Mormons.




CHAPTER XXVII.
IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT UNDERGOES, AT A SPEED OF TWENTY MILES AN HOUR, A
COURSE OF MORMON HISTORY


During the night of the 5th of December, the train ran south-easterly
for about fifty miles; then rose an equal distance in a north-easterly
direction, towards the Great Salt Lake.

Passepartout, about nine o’clock, went out upon the platform to take
the air. The weather was cold, the heavens grey, but it was not
snowing. The sun’s disc, enlarged by the mist, seemed an enormous ring
of gold, and Passepartout was amusing himself by calculating its value
in pounds sterling, when he was diverted from this interesting study by
a strange-looking personage who made his appearance on the platform.

This personage, who had taken the train at Elko, was tall and dark,
with black moustache, black stockings, a black silk hat, a black
waistcoat, black trousers, a white cravat, and dogskin gloves. He might
have been taken for a clergyman. He went from one end of the train to
the other, and affixed to the door of each car a notice written in
manuscript.

Passepartout approached and read one of these notices, which stated
that Elder William Hitch, Mormon missionary, taking advantage of his
presence on train No. 48, would deliver a lecture on Mormonism in car
No. 117, from eleven to twelve o’clock; and that he invited all who
were desirous of being instructed concerning the mysteries of the
religion of the “Latter Day Saints” to attend.

“I’ll go,” said Passepartout to himself. He knew nothing of Mormonism
except the custom of polygamy, which is its foundation.

The news quickly spread through the train, which contained about one
hundred passengers, thirty of whom, at most, attracted by the notice,
ensconced themselves in car No. 117. Passepartout took one of the front
seats. Neither Mr. Fogg nor Fix cared to attend.

At the appointed hour Elder William Hitch rose, and, in an irritated
voice, as if he had already been contradicted, said, “I tell you that
Joe Smith is a martyr, that his brother Hiram is a martyr, and that the
persecutions of the United States Government against the prophets will
also make a martyr of Brigham Young. Who dares to say the contrary?”

No one ventured to gainsay the missionary, whose excited tone
contrasted curiously with his naturally calm visage. No doubt his anger
arose from the hardships to which the Mormons were actually subjected.
The government had just succeeded, with some difficulty, in reducing
these independent fanatics to its rule. It had made itself master of
Utah, and subjected that territory to the laws of the Union, after
imprisoning Brigham Young on a charge of rebellion and polygamy. The
disciples of the prophet had since redoubled their efforts, and
resisted, by words at least, the authority of Congress. Elder Hitch, as
is seen, was trying to make proselytes on the very railway trains.

Then, emphasising his words with his loud voice and frequent gestures,
he related the history of the Mormons from Biblical times: how that, in
Israel, a Mormon prophet of the tribe of Joseph published the annals of
the new religion, and bequeathed them to his son Mormon; how, many
centuries later, a translation of this precious book, which was written
in Egyptian, was made by Joseph Smith, junior, a Vermont farmer, who
revealed himself as a mystical prophet in 1825; and how, in short, the
celestial messenger appeared to him in an illuminated forest, and gave
him the annals of the Lord.

Several of the audience, not being much interested in the missionary’s
narrative, here left the car; but Elder Hitch, continuing his lecture,
related how Smith, junior, with his father, two brothers, and a few
disciples, founded the church of the “Latter Day Saints,” which,
adopted not only in America, but in England, Norway and Sweden, and
Germany, counts many artisans, as well as men engaged in the liberal
professions, among its members; how a colony was established in Ohio, a
temple erected there at a cost of two hundred thousand dollars, and a
town built at Kirkland; how Smith became an enterprising banker, and
received from a simple mummy showman a papyrus scroll written by
Abraham and several famous Egyptians.

The Elder’s story became somewhat wearisome, and his audience grew
gradually less, until it was reduced to twenty passengers. But this did
not disconcert the enthusiast, who proceeded with the story of Joseph
Smith’s bankruptcy in 1837, and how his ruined creditors gave him a
coat of tar and feathers; his reappearance some years afterwards, more
honourable and honoured than ever, at Independence, Missouri, the chief
of a flourishing colony of three thousand disciples, and his pursuit
thence by outraged Gentiles, and retirement into the Far West.

Ten hearers only were now left, among them honest Passepartout, who was
listening with all his ears. Thus he learned that, after long
persecutions, Smith reappeared in Illinois, and in 1839 founded a
community at Nauvoo, on the Mississippi, numbering twenty-five thousand
souls, of which he became mayor, chief justice, and general-in-chief;
that he announced himself, in 1843, as a candidate for the Presidency
of the United States; and that finally, being drawn into ambuscade at
Carthage, he was thrown into prison, and assassinated by a band of men
disguised in masks.

Passepartout was now the only person left in the car, and the Elder,
looking him full in the face, reminded him that, two years after the
assassination of Joseph Smith, the inspired prophet, Brigham Young, his
successor, left Nauvoo for the banks of the Great Salt Lake, where, in
the midst of that fertile region, directly on the route of the
emigrants who crossed Utah on their way to California, the new colony,
thanks to the polygamy practised by the Mormons, had flourished beyond
expectations.

“And this,” added Elder William Hitch, “this is why the jealousy of
Congress has been aroused against us! Why have the soldiers of the
Union invaded the soil of Utah? Why has Brigham Young, our chief, been
imprisoned, in contempt of all justice? Shall we yield to force? Never!
Driven from Vermont, driven from Illinois, driven from Ohio, driven
from Missouri, driven from Utah, we shall yet find some independent
territory on which to plant our tents. And you, my brother,” continued
the Elder, fixing his angry eyes upon his single auditor, “will you not
plant yours there, too, under the shadow of our flag?”

“No!” replied Passepartout courageously, in his turn retiring from the
car, and leaving the Elder to preach to vacancy.

During the lecture the train had been making good progress, and towards
half-past twelve it reached the northwest border of the Great Salt
Lake. Thence the passengers could observe the vast extent of this
interior sea, which is also called the Dead Sea, and into which flows
an American Jordan. It is a picturesque expanse, framed in lofty crags
in large strata, encrusted with white salt—a superb sheet of water,
which was formerly of larger extent than now, its shores having
encroached with the lapse of time, and thus at once reduced its breadth
and increased its depth.

The Salt Lake, seventy miles long and thirty-five wide, is situated
three miles eight hundred feet above the sea. Quite different from Lake
Asphaltite, whose depression is twelve hundred feet below the sea, it
contains considerable salt, and one quarter of the weight of its water
is solid matter, its specific weight being 1,170, and, after being
distilled, 1,000. Fishes are, of course, unable to live in it, and
those which descend through the Jordan, the Weber, and other streams
soon perish.

The country around the lake was well cultivated, for the Mormons are
mostly farmers; while ranches and pens for domesticated animals, fields
of wheat, corn, and other cereals, luxuriant prairies, hedges of wild
rose, clumps of acacias and milk-wort, would have been seen six months
later. Now the ground was covered with a thin powdering of snow.

The train reached Ogden at two o’clock, where it rested for six hours,
Mr. Fogg and his party had time to pay a visit to Salt Lake City,
connected with Ogden by a branch road; and they spent two hours in this
strikingly American town, built on the pattern of other cities of the
Union, like a checker-board, “with the sombre sadness of right-angles,”
as Victor Hugo expresses it. The founder of the City of the Saints
could not escape from the taste for symmetry which distinguishes the
Anglo-Saxons. In this strange country, where the people are certainly
not up to the level of their institutions, everything is done
“squarely”—cities, houses, and follies.

The travellers, then, were promenading, at three o’clock, about the
streets of the town built between the banks of the Jordan and the spurs
of the Wahsatch Range. They saw few or no churches, but the prophet’s
mansion, the court-house, and the arsenal, blue-brick houses with
verandas and porches, surrounded by gardens bordered with acacias,
palms, and locusts. A clay and pebble wall, built in 1853, surrounded
the town; and in the principal street were the market and several
hotels adorned with pavilions. The place did not seem thickly
populated. The streets were almost deserted, except in the vicinity of
the temple, which they only reached after having traversed several
quarters surrounded by palisades. There were many women, which was
easily accounted for by the “peculiar institution” of the Mormons; but
it must not be supposed that all the Mormons are polygamists. They are
free to marry or not, as they please; but it is worth noting that it is
mainly the female citizens of Utah who are anxious to marry, as,
according to the Mormon religion, maiden ladies are not admitted to the
possession of its highest joys. These poor creatures seemed to be
neither well off nor happy. Some—the more well-to-do, no doubt—wore
short, open, black silk dresses, under a hood or modest shawl; others
were habited in Indian fashion.

Passepartout could not behold without a certain fright these women,
charged, in groups, with conferring happiness on a single Mormon. His
common sense pitied, above all, the husband. It seemed to him a
terrible thing to have to guide so many wives at once across the
vicissitudes of life, and to conduct them, as it were, in a body to the
Mormon paradise with the prospect of seeing them in the company of the
glorious Smith, who doubtless was the chief ornament of that delightful
place, to all eternity. He felt decidedly repelled from such a
vocation, and he imagined—perhaps he was mistaken—that the fair ones of
Salt Lake City cast rather alarming glances on his person. Happily, his
stay there was but brief. At four the party found themselves again at
the station, took their places in the train, and the whistle sounded
for starting. Just at the moment, however, that the locomotive wheels
began to move, cries of “Stop! stop!” were heard.

Trains, like time and tide, stop for no one. The gentleman who uttered
the cries was evidently a belated Mormon. He was breathless with
running. Happily for him, the station had neither gates nor barriers.
He rushed along the track, jumped on the rear platform of the train,
and fell, exhausted, into one of the seats.

Passepartout, who had been anxiously watching this amateur gymnast,
approached him with lively interest, and learned that he had taken
flight after an unpleasant domestic scene.

When the Mormon had recovered his breath, Passepartout ventured to ask
him politely how many wives he had; for, from the manner in which he
had decamped, it might be thought that he had twenty at least.

“One, sir,” replied the Mormon, raising his arms heavenward —“one, and
that was enough!”




CHAPTER XXVIII.
IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT DOES NOT SUCCEED IN MAKING ANYBODY LISTEN TO
REASON


The train, on leaving Great Salt Lake at Ogden, passed northward for an
hour as far as Weber River, having completed nearly nine hundred miles
from San Francisco. From this point it took an easterly direction
towards the jagged Wahsatch Mountains. It was in the section included
between this range and the Rocky Mountains that the American engineers
found the most formidable difficulties in laying the road, and that the
government granted a subsidy of forty-eight thousand dollars per mile,
instead of sixteen thousand allowed for the work done on the plains.
But the engineers, instead of violating nature, avoided its
difficulties by winding around, instead of penetrating the rocks. One
tunnel only, fourteen thousand feet in length, was pierced in order to
arrive at the great basin.

The track up to this time had reached its highest elevation at the
Great Salt Lake. From this point it described a long curve, descending
towards Bitter Creek Valley, to rise again to the dividing ridge of the
waters between the Atlantic and the Pacific. There were many creeks in
this mountainous region, and it was necessary to cross Muddy Creek,
Green Creek, and others, upon culverts.

Passepartout grew more and more impatient as they went on, while Fix
longed to get out of this difficult region, and was more anxious than
Phileas Fogg himself to be beyond the danger of delays and accidents,
and set foot on English soil.

At ten o’clock at night the train stopped at Fort Bridger station, and
twenty minutes later entered Wyoming Territory, following the valley of
Bitter Creek throughout. The next day, 7th December, they stopped for a
quarter of an hour at Green River station. Snow had fallen abundantly
during the night, but, being mixed with rain, it had half melted, and
did not interrupt their progress. The bad weather, however, annoyed
Passepartout; for the accumulation of snow, by blocking the wheels of
the cars, would certainly have been fatal to Mr. Fogg’s tour.

“What an idea!” he said to himself. “Why did my master make this
journey in winter? Couldn’t he have waited for the good season to
increase his chances?”

While the worthy Frenchman was absorbed in the state of the sky and the
depression of the temperature, Aouda was experiencing fears from a
totally different cause.

Several passengers had got off at Green River, and were walking up and
down the platforms; and among these Aouda recognised Colonel Stamp
Proctor, the same who had so grossly insulted Phileas Fogg at the San
Francisco meeting. Not wishing to be recognised, the young woman drew
back from the window, feeling much alarm at her discovery. She was
attached to the man who, however coldly, gave her daily evidences of
the most absolute devotion. She did not comprehend, perhaps, the depth
of the sentiment with which her protector inspired her, which she
called gratitude, but which, though she was unconscious of it, was
really more than that. Her heart sank within her when she recognised
the man whom Mr. Fogg desired, sooner or later, to call to account for
his conduct. Chance alone, it was clear, had brought Colonel Proctor on
this train; but there he was, and it was necessary, at all hazards,
that Phileas Fogg should not perceive his adversary.

Aouda seized a moment when Mr. Fogg was asleep to tell Fix and
Passepartout whom she had seen.

“That Proctor on this train!” cried Fix. “Well, reassure yourself,
madam; before he settles with Mr. Fogg; he has got to deal with me! It
seems to me that I was the more insulted of the two.”

“And, besides,” added Passepartout, “I’ll take charge of him, colonel
as he is.”

“Mr. Fix,” resumed Aouda, “Mr. Fogg will allow no one to avenge him. He
said that he would come back to America to find this man. Should he
perceive Colonel Proctor, we could not prevent a collision which might
have terrible results. He must not see him.”

“You are right, madam,” replied Fix; “a meeting between them might ruin
all. Whether he were victorious or beaten, Mr. Fogg would be delayed,
and—”

“And,” added Passepartout, “that would play the game of the gentlemen
of the Reform Club. In four days we shall be in New York. Well, if my
master does not leave this car during those four days, we may hope that
chance will not bring him face to face with this confounded American.
We must, if possible, prevent his stirring out of it.”

The conversation dropped. Mr. Fogg had just woke up, and was looking
out of the window. Soon after Passepartout, without being heard by his
master or Aouda, whispered to the detective, “Would you really fight
for him?”

“I would do anything,” replied Fix, in a tone which betrayed determined
will, “to get him back living to Europe!”

Passepartout felt something like a shudder shoot through his frame, but
his confidence in his master remained unbroken.

Was there any means of detaining Mr. Fogg in the car, to avoid a
meeting between him and the colonel? It ought not to be a difficult
task, since that gentleman was naturally sedentary and little curious.
The detective, at least, seemed to have found a way; for, after a few
moments, he said to Mr. Fogg, “These are long and slow hours, sir, that
we are passing on the railway.”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Fogg; “but they pass.”

“You were in the habit of playing whist,” resumed Fix, “on the
steamers.”

“Yes; but it would be difficult to do so here. I have neither cards nor
partners.”

“Oh, but we can easily buy some cards, for they are sold on all the
American trains. And as for partners, if madam plays—”

“Certainly, sir,” Aouda quickly replied; “I understand whist. It is
part of an English education.”

“I myself have some pretensions to playing a good game. Well, here are
three of us, and a dummy—”

“As you please, sir,” replied Phileas Fogg, heartily glad to resume his
favourite pastime even on the railway.

Passepartout was dispatched in search of the steward, and soon returned
with two packs of cards, some pins, counters, and a shelf covered with
cloth.

The game commenced. Aouda understood whist sufficiently well, and even
received some compliments on her playing from Mr. Fogg. As for the
detective, he was simply an adept, and worthy of being matched against
his present opponent.

“Now,” thought Passepartout, “we’ve got him. He won’t budge.”

At eleven in the morning the train had reached the dividing ridge of
the waters at Bridger Pass, seven thousand five hundred and twenty-four
feet above the level of the sea, one of the highest points attained by
the track in crossing the Rocky Mountains. After going about two
hundred miles, the travellers at last found themselves on one of those
vast plains which extend to the Atlantic, and which nature has made so
propitious for laying the iron road.

On the declivity of the Atlantic basin the first streams, branches of
the North Platte River, already appeared. The whole northern and
eastern horizon was bounded by the immense semi-circular curtain which
is formed by the southern portion of the Rocky Mountains, the highest
being Laramie Peak. Between this and the railway extended vast plains,
plentifully irrigated. On the right rose the lower spurs of the
mountainous mass which extends southward to the sources of the Arkansas
River, one of the great tributaries of the Missouri.

At half-past twelve the travellers caught sight for an instant of Fort
Halleck, which commands that section; and in a few more hours the Rocky
Mountains were crossed. There was reason to hope, then, that no
accident would mark the journey through this difficult country. The
snow had ceased falling, and the air became crisp and cold. Large
birds, frightened by the locomotive, rose and flew off in the distance.
No wild beast appeared on the plain. It was a desert in its vast
nakedness.

After a comfortable breakfast, served in the car, Mr. Fogg and his
partners had just resumed whist, when a violent whistling was heard,
and the train stopped. Passepartout put his head out of the door, but
saw nothing to cause the delay; no station was in view.

Aouda and Fix feared that Mr. Fogg might take it into his head to get
out; but that gentleman contented himself with saying to his servant,
“See what is the matter.”

Passepartout rushed out of the car. Thirty or forty passengers had
already descended, amongst them Colonel Stamp Proctor.

The train had stopped before a red signal which blocked the way. The
engineer and conductor were talking excitedly with a signal-man, whom
the station-master at Medicine Bow, the next stopping place, had sent
on before. The passengers drew around and took part in the discussion,
in which Colonel Proctor, with his insolent manner, was conspicuous.

Passepartout, joining the group, heard the signal-man say, “No! you
can’t pass. The bridge at Medicine Bow is shaky, and would not bear the
weight of the train.”

This was a suspension-bridge thrown over some rapids, about a mile from
the place where they now were. According to the signal-man, it was in a
ruinous condition, several of the iron wires being broken; and it was
impossible to risk the passage. He did not in any way exaggerate the
condition of the bridge. It may be taken for granted that, rash as the
Americans usually are, when they are prudent there is good reason for
it.

Passepartout, not daring to apprise his master of what he heard,
listened with set teeth, immovable as a statue.

“Hum!” cried Colonel Proctor; “but we are not going to stay here, I
imagine, and take root in the snow?”

“Colonel,” replied the conductor, “we have telegraphed to Omaha for a
train, but it is not likely that it will reach Medicine Bow in less
than six hours.”

“Six hours!” cried Passepartout.

“Certainly,” returned the conductor, “besides, it will take us as long
as that to reach Medicine Bow on foot.”

“But it is only a mile from here,” said one of the passengers.

“Yes, but it’s on the other side of the river.”

“And can’t we cross that in a boat?” asked the colonel.

“That’s impossible. The creek is swelled by the rains. It is a rapid,
and we shall have to make a circuit of ten miles to the north to find a
ford.”

The colonel launched a volley of oaths, denouncing the railway company
and the conductor; and Passepartout, who was furious, was not
disinclined to make common cause with him. Here was an obstacle,
indeed, which all his master’s banknotes could not remove.

There was a general disappointment among the passengers, who, without
reckoning the delay, saw themselves compelled to trudge fifteen miles
over a plain covered with snow. They grumbled and protested, and would
certainly have thus attracted Phileas Fogg’s attention if he had not
been completely absorbed in his game.

Passepartout found that he could not avoid telling his master what had
occurred, and, with hanging head, he was turning towards the car, when
the engineer, a true Yankee, named Forster called out, “Gentlemen,
perhaps there is a way, after all, to get over.”

“On the bridge?” asked a passenger.

“On the bridge.”

“With our train?”

“With our train.”

Passepartout stopped short, and eagerly listened to the engineer.

“But the bridge is unsafe,” urged the conductor.

“No matter,” replied Forster; “I think that by putting on the very
highest speed we might have a chance of getting over.”

“The devil!” muttered Passepartout.

But a number of the passengers were at once attracted by the engineer’s
proposal, and Colonel Proctor was especially delighted, and found the
plan a very feasible one. He told stories about engineers leaping their
trains over rivers without bridges, by putting on full steam; and many
of those present avowed themselves of the engineer’s mind.

“We have fifty chances out of a hundred of getting over,” said one.

“Eighty! ninety!”

Passepartout was astounded, and, though ready to attempt anything to
get over Medicine Creek, thought the experiment proposed a little too
American. “Besides,” thought he, “there’s a still more simple way, and
it does not even occur to any of these people! Sir,” said he aloud to
one of the passengers, “the engineer’s plan seems to me a little
dangerous, but—”

“Eighty chances!” replied the passenger, turning his back on him.

“I know it,” said Passepartout, turning to another passenger, “but a
simple idea—”

“Ideas are no use,” returned the American, shrugging his shoulders, “as
the engineer assures us that we can pass.”

“Doubtless,” urged Passepartout, “we can pass, but perhaps it would be
more prudent—”

“What! Prudent!” cried Colonel Proctor, whom this word seemed to excite
prodigiously. “At full speed, don’t you see, at full speed!”

“I know—I see,” repeated Passepartout; “but it would be, if not more
prudent, since that word displeases you, at least more natural—”

“Who! What! What’s the matter with this fellow?” cried several.

The poor fellow did not know to whom to address himself.

“Are you afraid?” asked Colonel Proctor.

“I afraid? Very well; I will show these people that a Frenchman can be
as American as they!”

“All aboard!” cried the conductor.

“Yes, all aboard!” repeated Passepartout, and immediately. “But they
can’t prevent me from thinking that it would be more natural for us to
cross the bridge on foot, and let the train come after!”

But no one heard this sage reflection, nor would anyone have
acknowledged its justice. The passengers resumed their places in the
cars. Passepartout took his seat without telling what had passed. The
whist-players were quite absorbed in their game.

The locomotive whistled vigorously; the engineer, reversing the steam,
backed the train for nearly a mile—retiring, like a jumper, in order to
take a longer leap. Then, with another whistle, he began to move
forward; the train increased its speed, and soon its rapidity became
frightful; a prolonged screech issued from the locomotive; the piston
worked up and down twenty strokes to the second. They perceived that
the whole train, rushing on at the rate of a hundred miles an hour,
hardly bore upon the rails at all.

And they passed over! It was like a flash. No one saw the bridge. The
train leaped, so to speak, from one bank to the other, and the engineer
could not stop it until it had gone five miles beyond the station. But
scarcely had the train passed the river, when the bridge, completely
ruined, fell with a crash into the rapids of Medicine Bow.




CHAPTER XXIX.
IN WHICH CERTAIN INCIDENTS ARE NARRATED WHICH ARE ONLY TO BE MET WITH
ON AMERICAN RAILROADS


The train pursued its course, that evening, without interruption,
passing Fort Saunders, crossing Cheyne Pass, and reaching Evans Pass.
The road here attained the highest elevation of the journey, eight
thousand and ninety-two feet above the level of the sea. The travellers
had now only to descend to the Atlantic by limitless plains, levelled
by nature. A branch of the “grand trunk” led off southward to Denver,
the capital of Colorado. The country round about is rich in gold and
silver, and more than fifty thousand inhabitants are already settled
there.

Thirteen hundred and eighty-two miles had been passed over from San
Francisco, in three days and three nights; four days and nights more
would probably bring them to New York. Phileas Fogg was not as yet
behind-hand.

During the night Camp Walbach was passed on the left; Lodge Pole Creek
ran parallel with the road, marking the boundary between the
territories of Wyoming and Colorado. They entered Nebraska at eleven,
passed near Sedgwick, and touched at Julesburg, on the southern branch
of the Platte River.

It was here that the Union Pacific Railroad was inaugurated on the 23rd
of October, 1867, by the chief engineer, General Dodge. Two powerful
locomotives, carrying nine cars of invited guests, amongst whom was
Thomas C. Durant, vice-president of the road, stopped at this point;
cheers were given, the Sioux and Pawnees performed an imitation Indian
battle, fireworks were let off, and the first number of the _Railway
Pioneer_ was printed by a press brought on the train. Thus was
celebrated the inauguration of this great railroad, a mighty instrument
of progress and civilisation, thrown across the desert, and destined to
link together cities and towns which do not yet exist. The whistle of
the locomotive, more powerful than Amphion’s lyre, was about to bid
them rise from American soil.

Fort McPherson was left behind at eight in the morning, and three
hundred and fifty-seven miles had yet to be traversed before reaching
Omaha. The road followed the capricious windings of the southern branch
of the Platte River, on its left bank. At nine the train stopped at the
important town of North Platte, built between the two arms of the
river, which rejoin each other around it and form a single artery, a
large tributary, whose waters empty into the Missouri a little above
Omaha.

The one hundred and first meridian was passed.

Mr. Fogg and his partners had resumed their game; no one—not even the
dummy—complained of the length of the trip. Fix had begun by winning
several guineas, which he seemed likely to lose; but he showed himself
a not less eager whist-player than Mr. Fogg. During the morning, chance
distinctly favoured that gentleman. Trumps and honours were showered
upon his hands.

Once, having resolved on a bold stroke, he was on the point of playing
a spade, when a voice behind him said, “I should play a diamond.”

Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Fix raised their heads, and beheld Colonel
Proctor.

Stamp Proctor and Phileas Fogg recognised each other at once.

“Ah! it’s you, is it, Englishman?” cried the colonel; “it’s you who are
going to play a spade!”

“And who plays it,” replied Phileas Fogg coolly, throwing down the ten
of spades.

“Well, it pleases me to have it diamonds,” replied Colonel Proctor, in
an insolent tone.

He made a movement as if to seize the card which had just been played,
adding, “You don’t understand anything about whist.”

“Perhaps I do, as well as another,” said Phileas Fogg, rising.

“You have only to try, son of John Bull,” replied the colonel.

Aouda turned pale, and her blood ran cold. She seized Mr. Fogg’s arm
and gently pulled him back. Passepartout was ready to pounce upon the
American, who was staring insolently at his opponent. But Fix got up,
and, going to Colonel Proctor said, “You forget that it is I with whom
you have to deal, sir; for it was I whom you not only insulted, but
struck!”

“Mr. Fix,” said Mr. Fogg, “pardon me, but this affair is mine, and mine
only. The colonel has again insulted me, by insisting that I should not
play a spade, and he shall give me satisfaction for it.”

“When and where you will,” replied the American, “and with whatever
weapon you choose.”

Aouda in vain attempted to retain Mr. Fogg; as vainly did the detective
endeavour to make the quarrel his. Passepartout wished to throw the
colonel out of the window, but a sign from his master checked him.
Phileas Fogg left the car, and the American followed him upon the
platform. “Sir,” said Mr. Fogg to his adversary, “I am in a great hurry
to get back to Europe, and any delay whatever will be greatly to my
disadvantage.”

“Well, what’s that to me?” replied Colonel Proctor.

“Sir,” said Mr. Fogg, very politely, “after our meeting at San
Francisco, I determined to return to America and find you as soon as I
had completed the business which called me to England.”

“Really!”

“Will you appoint a meeting for six months hence?”

“Why not ten years hence?”

“I say six months,” returned Phileas Fogg; “and I shall be at the place
of meeting promptly.”

“All this is an evasion,” cried Stamp Proctor. “Now or never!”

“Very good. You are going to New York?”

“No.”

“To Chicago?”

“No.”

“To Omaha?”

“What difference is it to you? Do you know Plum Creek?”

“No,” replied Mr. Fogg.

“It’s the next station. The train will be there in an hour, and will
stop there ten minutes. In ten minutes several revolver-shots could be
exchanged.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Fogg. “I will stop at Plum Creek.”

“And I guess you’ll stay there too,” added the American insolently.

“Who knows?” replied Mr. Fogg, returning to the car as coolly as usual.
He began to reassure Aouda, telling her that blusterers were never to
be feared, and begged Fix to be his second at the approaching duel, a
request which the detective could not refuse. Mr. Fogg resumed the
interrupted game with perfect calmness.

At eleven o’clock the locomotive’s whistle announced that they were
approaching Plum Creek station. Mr. Fogg rose, and, followed by Fix,
went out upon the platform. Passepartout accompanied him, carrying a
pair of revolvers. Aouda remained in the car, as pale as death.

The door of the next car opened, and Colonel Proctor appeared on the
platform, attended by a Yankee of his own stamp as his second. But just
as the combatants were about to step from the train, the conductor
hurried up, and shouted, “You can’t get off, gentlemen!”

“Why not?” asked the colonel.

“We are twenty minutes late, and we shall not stop.”

“But I am going to fight a duel with this gentleman.”

“I am sorry,” said the conductor; “but we shall be off at once. There’s
the bell ringing now.”

The train started.

“I’m really very sorry, gentlemen,” said the conductor. “Under any
other circumstances I should have been happy to oblige you. But, after
all, as you have not had time to fight here, why not fight as we go
along?”

“That wouldn’t be convenient, perhaps, for this gentleman,” said the
colonel, in a jeering tone.

“It would be perfectly so,” replied Phileas Fogg.

“Well, we are really in America,” thought Passepartout, “and the
conductor is a gentleman of the first order!”

So muttering, he followed his master.

The two combatants, their seconds, and the conductor passed through the
cars to the rear of the train. The last car was only occupied by a
dozen passengers, whom the conductor politely asked if they would not
be so kind as to leave it vacant for a few moments, as two gentlemen
had an affair of honour to settle. The passengers granted the request
with alacrity, and straightway disappeared on the platform.

The car, which was some fifty feet long, was very convenient for their
purpose. The adversaries might march on each other in the aisle, and
fire at their ease. Never was duel more easily arranged. Mr. Fogg and
Colonel Proctor, each provided with two six-barrelled revolvers,
entered the car. The seconds, remaining outside, shut them in. They
were to begin firing at the first whistle of the locomotive. After an
interval of two minutes, what remained of the two gentlemen would be
taken from the car.

Nothing could be more simple. Indeed, it was all so simple that Fix and
Passepartout felt their hearts beating as if they would crack. They
were listening for the whistle agreed upon, when suddenly savage cries
resounded in the air, accompanied by reports which certainly did not
issue from the car where the duellists were. The reports continued in
front and the whole length of the train. Cries of terror proceeded from
the interior of the cars.

Colonel Proctor and Mr. Fogg, revolvers in hand, hastily quitted their
prison, and rushed forward where the noise was most clamorous. They
then perceived that the train was attacked by a band of Sioux.

This was not the first attempt of these daring Indians, for more than
once they had waylaid trains on the road. A hundred of them had,
according to their habit, jumped upon the steps without stopping the
train, with the ease of a clown mounting a horse at full gallop.

The Sioux were armed with guns, from which came the reports, to which
the passengers, who were almost all armed, responded by revolver-shots.

The Indians had first mounted the engine, and half stunned the engineer
and stoker with blows from their muskets. A Sioux chief, wishing to
stop the train, but not knowing how to work the regulator, had opened
wide instead of closing the steam-valve, and the locomotive was
plunging forward with terrific velocity.

The Sioux had at the same time invaded the cars, skipping like enraged
monkeys over the roofs, thrusting open the doors, and fighting hand to
hand with the passengers. Penetrating the baggage-car, they pillaged
it, throwing the trunks out of the train. The cries and shots were
constant. The travellers defended themselves bravely; some of the cars
were barricaded, and sustained a siege, like moving forts, carried
along at a speed of a hundred miles an hour.

Aouda behaved courageously from the first. She defended herself like a
true heroine with a revolver, which she shot through the broken windows
whenever a savage made his appearance. Twenty Sioux had fallen mortally
wounded to the ground, and the wheels crushed those who fell upon the
rails as if they had been worms. Several passengers, shot or stunned,
lay on the seats.

It was necessary to put an end to the struggle, which had lasted for
ten minutes, and which would result in the triumph of the Sioux if the
train was not stopped. Fort Kearney station, where there was a
garrison, was only two miles distant; but, that once passed, the Sioux
would be masters of the train between Fort Kearney and the station
beyond.

The conductor was fighting beside Mr. Fogg, when he was shot and fell.
At the same moment he cried, “Unless the train is stopped in five
minutes, we are lost!”

“It shall be stopped,” said Phileas Fogg, preparing to rush from the
car.

“Stay, monsieur,” cried Passepartout; “I will go.”

Mr. Fogg had not time to stop the brave fellow, who, opening a door
unperceived by the Indians, succeeded in slipping under the car; and
while the struggle continued and the balls whizzed across each other
over his head, he made use of his old acrobatic experience, and with
amazing agility worked his way under the cars, holding on to the
chains, aiding himself by the brakes and edges of the sashes, creeping
from one car to another with marvellous skill, and thus gaining the
forward end of the train.

There, suspended by one hand between the baggage-car and the tender,
with the other he loosened the safety chains; but, owing to the
traction, he would never have succeeded in unscrewing the yoking-bar,
had not a violent concussion jolted this bar out. The train, now
detached from the engine, remained a little behind, whilst the
locomotive rushed forward with increased speed.

Carried on by the force already acquired, the train still moved for
several minutes; but the brakes were worked and at last they stopped,
less than a hundred feet from Kearney station.

The soldiers of the fort, attracted by the shots, hurried up; the Sioux
had not expected them, and decamped in a body before the train entirely
stopped.

But when the passengers counted each other on the station platform
several were found missing; among others the courageous Frenchman,
whose devotion had just saved them.




CHAPTER XXX.
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG SIMPLY DOES HIS DUTY


Three passengers including Passepartout had disappeared. Had they been
killed in the struggle? Were they taken prisoners by the Sioux? It was
impossible to tell.

There were many wounded, but none mortally. Colonel Proctor was one of
the most seriously hurt; he had fought bravely, and a ball had entered
his groin. He was carried into the station with the other wounded
passengers, to receive such attention as could be of avail.

Aouda was safe; and Phileas Fogg, who had been in the thickest of the
fight, had not received a scratch. Fix was slightly wounded in the arm.
But Passepartout was not to be found, and tears coursed down Aouda’s
cheeks.

All the passengers had got out of the train, the wheels of which were
stained with blood. From the tyres and spokes hung ragged pieces of
flesh. As far as the eye could reach on the white plain behind, red
trails were visible. The last Sioux were disappearing in the south,
along the banks of Republican River.

Mr. Fogg, with folded arms, remained motionless. He had a serious
decision to make. Aouda, standing near him, looked at him without
speaking, and he understood her look. If his servant was a prisoner,
ought he not to risk everything to rescue him from the Indians? “I will
find him, living or dead,” said he quietly to Aouda.

“Ah, Mr.—Mr. Fogg!” cried she, clasping his hands and covering them
with tears.

“Living,” added Mr. Fogg, “if we do not lose a moment.”

Phileas Fogg, by this resolution, inevitably sacrificed himself; he
pronounced his own doom. The delay of a single day would make him lose
the steamer at New York, and his bet would be certainly lost. But as he
thought, “It is my duty,” he did not hesitate.

The commanding officer of Fort Kearney was there. A hundred of his
soldiers had placed themselves in a position to defend the station,
should the Sioux attack it.

“Sir,” said Mr. Fogg to the captain, “three passengers have
disappeared.”

“Dead?” asked the captain.

“Dead or prisoners; that is the uncertainty which must be solved. Do
you propose to pursue the Sioux?”

“That’s a serious thing to do, sir,” returned the captain. “These
Indians may retreat beyond the Arkansas, and I cannot leave the fort
unprotected.”

“The lives of three men are in question, sir,” said Phileas Fogg.

“Doubtless; but can I risk the lives of fifty men to save three?”

“I don’t know whether you can, sir; but you ought to do so.”

“Nobody here,” returned the other, “has a right to teach me my duty.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Fogg, coldly. “I will go alone.”

“You, sir!” cried Fix, coming up; “you go alone in pursuit of the
Indians?”

“Would you have me leave this poor fellow to perish—him to whom every
one present owes his life? I shall go.”

“No, sir, you shall not go alone,” cried the captain, touched in spite
of himself. “No! you are a brave man. Thirty volunteers!” he added,
turning to the soldiers.

The whole company started forward at once. The captain had only to pick
his men. Thirty were chosen, and an old sergeant placed at their head.

“Thanks, captain,” said Mr. Fogg.

“Will you let me go with you?” asked Fix.

“Do as you please, sir. But if you wish to do me a favour, you will
remain with Aouda. In case anything should happen to me—”

A sudden pallor overspread the detective’s face. Separate himself from
the man whom he had so persistently followed step by step! Leave him to
wander about in this desert! Fix gazed attentively at Mr. Fogg, and,
despite his suspicions and of the struggle which was going on within
him, he lowered his eyes before that calm and frank look.

“I will stay,” said he.

A few moments after, Mr. Fogg pressed the young woman’s hand, and,
having confided to her his precious carpet-bag, went off with the
sergeant and his little squad. But, before going, he had said to the
soldiers, “My friends, I will divide five thousand dollars among you,
if we save the prisoners.”

It was then a little past noon.

Aouda retired to a waiting-room, and there she waited alone, thinking
of the simple and noble generosity, the tranquil courage of Phileas
Fogg. He had sacrificed his fortune, and was now risking his life, all
without hesitation, from duty, in silence.

Fix did not have the same thoughts, and could scarcely conceal his
agitation. He walked feverishly up and down the platform, but soon
resumed his outward composure. He now saw the folly of which he had
been guilty in letting Fogg go alone. What! This man, whom he had just
followed around the world, was permitted now to separate himself from
him! He began to accuse and abuse himself, and, as if he were director
of police, administered to himself a sound lecture for his greenness.

“I have been an idiot!” he thought, “and this man will see it. He has
gone, and won’t come back! But how is it that I, Fix, who have in my
pocket a warrant for his arrest, have been so fascinated by him?
Decidedly, I am nothing but an ass!”

So reasoned the detective, while the hours crept by all too slowly. He
did not know what to do. Sometimes he was tempted to tell Aouda all;
but he could not doubt how the young woman would receive his
confidences. What course should he take? He thought of pursuing Fogg
across the vast white plains; it did not seem impossible that he might
overtake him. Footsteps were easily printed on the snow! But soon,
under a new sheet, every imprint would be effaced.

Fix became discouraged. He felt a sort of insurmountable longing to
abandon the game altogether. He could now leave Fort Kearney station,
and pursue his journey homeward in peace.

Towards two o’clock in the afternoon, while it was snowing hard, long
whistles were heard approaching from the east. A great shadow, preceded
by a wild light, slowly advanced, appearing still larger through the
mist, which gave it a fantastic aspect. No train was expected from the
east, neither had there been time for the succour asked for by
telegraph to arrive; the train from Omaha to San Francisco was not due
till the next day. The mystery was soon explained.

The locomotive, which was slowly approaching with deafening whistles,
was that which, having been detached from the train, had continued its
route with such terrific rapidity, carrying off the unconscious
engineer and stoker. It had run several miles, when, the fire becoming
low for want of fuel, the steam had slackened; and it had finally
stopped an hour after, some twenty miles beyond Fort Kearney. Neither
the engineer nor the stoker was dead, and, after remaining for some
time in their swoon, had come to themselves. The train had then
stopped. The engineer, when he found himself in the desert, and the
locomotive without cars, understood what had happened. He could not
imagine how the locomotive had become separated from the train; but he
did not doubt that the train left behind was in distress.

He did not hesitate what to do. It would be prudent to continue on to
Omaha, for it would be dangerous to return to the train, which the
Indians might still be engaged in pillaging. Nevertheless, he began to
rebuild the fire in the furnace; the pressure again mounted, and the
locomotive returned, running backwards to Fort Kearney. This it was
which was whistling in the mist.

The travellers were glad to see the locomotive resume its place at the
head of the train. They could now continue the journey so terribly
interrupted.

Aouda, on seeing the locomotive come up, hurried out of the station,
and asked the conductor, “Are you going to start?”

“At once, madam.”

“But the prisoners, our unfortunate fellow-travellers—”

“I cannot interrupt the trip,” replied the conductor. “We are already
three hours behind time.”

“And when will another train pass here from San Francisco?”

“To-morrow evening, madam.”

“To-morrow evening! But then it will be too late! We must wait—”

“It is impossible,” responded the conductor. “If you wish to go, please
get in.”

“I will not go,” said Aouda.

Fix had heard this conversation. A little while before, when there was
no prospect of proceeding on the journey, he had made up his mind to
leave Fort Kearney; but now that the train was there, ready to start,
and he had only to take his seat in the car, an irresistible influence
held him back. The station platform burned his feet, and he could not
stir. The conflict in his mind again began; anger and failure stifled
him. He wished to struggle on to the end.

Meanwhile the passengers and some of the wounded, among them Colonel
Proctor, whose injuries were serious, had taken their places in the
train. The buzzing of the over-heated boiler was heard, and the steam
was escaping from the valves. The engineer whistled, the train started,
and soon disappeared, mingling its white smoke with the eddies of the
densely falling snow.

The detective had remained behind.

Several hours passed. The weather was dismal, and it was very cold. Fix
sat motionless on a bench in the station; he might have been thought
asleep. Aouda, despite the storm, kept coming out of the waiting-room,
going to the end of the platform, and peering through the tempest of
snow, as if to pierce the mist which narrowed the horizon around her,
and to hear, if possible, some welcome sound. She heard and saw
nothing. Then she would return, chilled through, to issue out again
after the lapse of a few moments, but always in vain.

Evening came, and the little band had not returned. Where could they
be? Had they found the Indians, and were they having a conflict with
them, or were they still wandering amid the mist? The commander of the
fort was anxious, though he tried to conceal his apprehensions. As
night approached, the snow fell less plentifully, but it became
intensely cold. Absolute silence rested on the plains. Neither flight
of bird nor passing of beast troubled the perfect calm.

Throughout the night Aouda, full of sad forebodings, her heart stifled
with anguish, wandered about on the verge of the plains. Her
imagination carried her far off, and showed her innumerable dangers.
What she suffered through the long hours it would be impossible to
describe.

Fix remained stationary in the same place, but did not sleep. Once a
man approached and spoke to him, and the detective merely replied by
shaking his head.

Thus the night passed. At dawn, the half-extinguished disc of the sun
rose above a misty horizon; but it was now possible to recognise
objects two miles off. Phileas Fogg and the squad had gone southward;
in the south all was still vacancy. It was then seven o’clock.

The captain, who was really alarmed, did not know what course to take.

Should he send another detachment to the rescue of the first? Should he
sacrifice more men, with so few chances of saving those already
sacrificed? His hesitation did not last long, however. Calling one of
his lieutenants, he was on the point of ordering a reconnaissance, when
gunshots were heard. Was it a signal? The soldiers rushed out of the
fort, and half a mile off they perceived a little band returning in
good order.

Mr. Fogg was marching at their head, and just behind him were
Passepartout and the other two travellers, rescued from the Sioux.

They had met and fought the Indians ten miles south of Fort Kearney.
Shortly before the detachment arrived, Passepartout and his companions
had begun to struggle with their captors, three of whom the Frenchman
had felled with his fists, when his master and the soldiers hastened up
to their relief.

All were welcomed with joyful cries. Phileas Fogg distributed the
reward he had promised to the soldiers, while Passepartout, not without
reason, muttered to himself, “It must certainly be confessed that I
cost my master dear!”

Fix, without saying a word, looked at Mr. Fogg, and it would have been
difficult to analyse the thoughts which struggled within him. As for
Aouda, she took her protector’s hand and pressed it in her own, too
much moved to speak.

Meanwhile, Passepartout was looking about for the train; he thought he
should find it there, ready to start for Omaha, and he hoped that the
time lost might be regained.

“The train! the train!” cried he.

“Gone,” replied Fix.

“And when does the next train pass here?” said Phileas Fogg.

“Not till this evening.”

“Ah!” returned the impassible gentleman quietly.




CHAPTER XXXI.
IN WHICH FIX, THE DETECTIVE, CONSIDERABLY FURTHERS THE INTERESTS OF
PHILEAS FOGG


Phileas Fogg found himself twenty hours behind time. Passepartout, the
involuntary cause of this delay, was desperate. He had ruined his
master!

At this moment the detective approached Mr. Fogg, and, looking him
intently in the face, said:

“Seriously, sir, are you in great haste?”

“Quite seriously.”

“I have a purpose in asking,” resumed Fix. “Is it absolutely necessary
that you should be in New York on the 11th, before nine o’clock in the
evening, the time that the steamer leaves for Liverpool?”

“It is absolutely necessary.”

“And, if your journey had not been interrupted by these Indians, you
would have reached New York on the morning of the 11th?”

“Yes; with eleven hours to spare before the steamer left.”

“Good! you are therefore twenty hours behind. Twelve from twenty leaves
eight. You must regain eight hours. Do you wish to try to do so?”

“On foot?” asked Mr. Fogg.

“No; on a sledge,” replied Fix. “On a sledge with sails. A man has
proposed such a method to me.”

It was the man who had spoken to Fix during the night, and whose offer
he had refused.

Phileas Fogg did not reply at once; but Fix, having pointed out the
man, who was walking up and down in front of the station, Mr. Fogg went
up to him. An instant after, Mr. Fogg and the American, whose name was
Mudge, entered a hut built just below the fort.

There Mr. Fogg examined a curious vehicle, a kind of frame on two long
beams, a little raised in front like the runners of a sledge, and upon
which there was room for five or six persons. A high mast was fixed on
the frame, held firmly by metallic lashings, to which was attached a
large brigantine sail. This mast held an iron stay upon which to hoist
a jib-sail. Behind, a sort of rudder served to guide the vehicle. It
was, in short, a sledge rigged like a sloop. During the winter, when
the trains are blocked up by the snow, these sledges make extremely
rapid journeys across the frozen plains from one station to another.
Provided with more sails than a cutter, and with the wind behind them,
they slip over the surface of the prairies with a speed equal if not
superior to that of the express trains.

Mr. Fogg readily made a bargain with the owner of this land-craft. The
wind was favourable, being fresh, and blowing from the west. The snow
had hardened, and Mudge was very confident of being able to transport
Mr. Fogg in a few hours to Omaha. Thence the trains eastward run
frequently to Chicago and New York. It was not impossible that the lost
time might yet be recovered; and such an opportunity was not to be
rejected.

Not wishing to expose Aouda to the discomforts of travelling in the
open air, Mr. Fogg proposed to leave her with Passepartout at Fort
Kearney, the servant taking upon himself to escort her to Europe by a
better route and under more favourable conditions. But Aouda refused to
separate from Mr. Fogg, and Passepartout was delighted with her
decision; for nothing could induce him to leave his master while Fix
was with him.

It would be difficult to guess the detective’s thoughts. Was this
conviction shaken by Phileas Fogg’s return, or did he still regard him
as an exceedingly shrewd rascal, who, his journey round the world
completed, would think himself absolutely safe in England? Perhaps
Fix’s opinion of Phileas Fogg was somewhat modified; but he was
nevertheless resolved to do his duty, and to hasten the return of the
whole party to England as much as possible.

At eight o’clock the sledge was ready to start. The passengers took
their places on it, and wrapped themselves up closely in their
travelling-cloaks. The two great sails were hoisted, and under the
pressure of the wind the sledge slid over the hardened snow with a
velocity of forty miles an hour.

The distance between Fort Kearney and Omaha, as the birds fly, is at
most two hundred miles. If the wind held good, the distance might be
traversed in five hours; if no accident happened the sledge might reach
Omaha by one o’clock.

What a journey! The travellers, huddled close together, could not speak
for the cold, intensified by the rapidity at which they were going. The
sledge sped on as lightly as a boat over the waves. When the breeze
came skimming the earth the sledge seemed to be lifted off the ground
by its sails. Mudge, who was at the rudder, kept in a straight line,
and by a turn of his hand checked the lurches which the vehicle had a
tendency to make. All the sails were up, and the jib was so arranged as
not to screen the brigantine. A top-mast was hoisted, and another jib,
held out to the wind, added its force to the other sails. Although the
speed could not be exactly estimated, the sledge could not be going at
less than forty miles an hour.

“If nothing breaks,” said Mudge, “we shall get there!”

Mr. Fogg had made it for Mudge’s interest to reach Omaha within the
time agreed on, by the offer of a handsome reward.

The prairie, across which the sledge was moving in a straight line, was
as flat as a sea. It seemed like a vast frozen lake. The railroad which
ran through this section ascended from the south-west to the north-west
by Great Island, Columbus, an important Nebraska town, Schuyler, and
Fremont, to Omaha. It followed throughout the right bank of the Platte
River. The sledge, shortening this route, took a chord of the arc
described by the railway. Mudge was not afraid of being stopped by the
Platte River, because it was frozen. The road, then, was quite clear of
obstacles, and Phileas Fogg had but two things to fear—an accident to
the sledge, and a change or calm in the wind.

But the breeze, far from lessening its force, blew as if to bend the
mast, which, however, the metallic lashings held firmly. These
lashings, like the chords of a stringed instrument, resounded as if
vibrated by a violin bow. The sledge slid along in the midst of a
plaintively intense melody.

“Those chords give the fifth and the octave,” said Mr. Fogg.

These were the only words he uttered during the journey. Aouda, cosily
packed in furs and cloaks, was sheltered as much as possible from the
attacks of the freezing wind. As for Passepartout, his face was as red
as the sun’s disc when it sets in the mist, and he laboriously inhaled
the biting air. With his natural buoyancy of spirits, he began to hope
again. They would reach New York on the evening, if not on the morning,
of the 11th, and there were still some chances that it would be before
the steamer sailed for Liverpool.

Passepartout even felt a strong desire to grasp his ally, Fix, by the
hand. He remembered that it was the detective who procured the sledge,
the only means of reaching Omaha in time; but, checked by some
presentiment, he kept his usual reserve. One thing, however,
Passepartout would never forget, and that was the sacrifice which Mr.
Fogg had made, without hesitation, to rescue him from the Sioux. Mr.
Fogg had risked his fortune and his life. No! His servant would never
forget that!

While each of the party was absorbed in reflections so different, the
sledge flew past over the vast carpet of snow. The creeks it passed
over were not perceived. Fields and streams disappeared under the
uniform whiteness. The plain was absolutely deserted. Between the Union
Pacific road and the branch which unites Kearney with Saint Joseph it
formed a great uninhabited island. Neither village, station, nor fort
appeared. From time to time they sped by some phantom-like tree, whose
white skeleton twisted and rattled in the wind. Sometimes flocks of
wild birds rose, or bands of gaunt, famished, ferocious prairie-wolves
ran howling after the sledge. Passepartout, revolver in hand, held
himself ready to fire on those which came too near. Had an accident
then happened to the sledge, the travellers, attacked by these beasts,
would have been in the most terrible danger; but it held on its even
course, soon gained on the wolves, and ere long left the howling band
at a safe distance behind.

About noon Mudge perceived by certain landmarks that he was crossing
the Platte River. He said nothing, but he felt certain that he was now
within twenty miles of Omaha. In less than an hour he left the rudder
and furled his sails, whilst the sledge, carried forward by the great
impetus the wind had given it, went on half a mile further with its
sails unspread.

It stopped at last, and Mudge, pointing to a mass of roofs white with
snow, said: “We have got there!”

Arrived! Arrived at the station which is in daily communication, by
numerous trains, with the Atlantic seaboard!

Passepartout and Fix jumped off, stretched their stiffened limbs, and
aided Mr. Fogg and the young woman to descend from the sledge. Phileas
Fogg generously rewarded Mudge, whose hand Passepartout warmly grasped,
and the party directed their steps to the Omaha railway station.

The Pacific Railroad proper finds its terminus at this important
Nebraska town. Omaha is connected with Chicago by the Chicago and Rock
Island Railroad, which runs directly east, and passes fifty stations.

A train was ready to start when Mr. Fogg and his party reached the
station, and they only had time to get into the cars. They had seen
nothing of Omaha; but Passepartout confessed to himself that this was
not to be regretted, as they were not travelling to see the sights.

The train passed rapidly across the State of Iowa, by Council Bluffs,
Des Moines, and Iowa City. During the night it crossed the Mississippi
at Davenport, and by Rock Island entered Illinois. The next day, which
was the 10th, at four o’clock in the evening, it reached Chicago,
already risen from its ruins, and more proudly seated than ever on the
borders of its beautiful Lake Michigan.

Nine hundred miles separated Chicago from New York; but trains are not
wanting at Chicago. Mr. Fogg passed at once from one to the other, and
the locomotive of the Pittsburgh, Fort Wayne, and Chicago Railway left
at full speed, as if it fully comprehended that that gentleman had no
time to lose. It traversed Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey
like a flash, rushing through towns with antique names, some of which
had streets and car-tracks, but as yet no houses. At last the Hudson
came into view; and, at a quarter-past eleven in the evening of the
11th, the train stopped in the station on the right bank of the river,
before the very pier of the Cunard line.

The “China,” for Liverpool, had started three-quarters of an hour
before!




CHAPTER XXXII.
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG ENGAGES IN A DIRECT STRUGGLE WITH BAD FORTUNE


The “China,” in leaving, seemed to have carried off Phileas Fogg’s last
hope. None of the other steamers were able to serve his projects. The
“Pereire,” of the French Transatlantic Company, whose admirable
steamers are equal to any in speed and comfort, did not leave until the
14th; the Hamburg boats did not go directly to Liverpool or London, but
to Havre; and the additional trip from Havre to Southampton would
render Phileas Fogg’s last efforts of no avail. The Inman steamer did
not depart till the next day, and could not cross the Atlantic in time
to save the wager.

Mr. Fogg learned all this in consulting his “Bradshaw,” which gave him
the daily movements of the transatlantic steamers.

Passepartout was crushed; it overwhelmed him to lose the boat by
three-quarters of an hour. It was his fault, for, instead of helping
his master, he had not ceased putting obstacles in his path! And when
he recalled all the incidents of the tour, when he counted up the sums
expended in pure loss and on his own account, when he thought that the
immense stake, added to the heavy charges of this useless journey,
would completely ruin Mr. Fogg, he overwhelmed himself with bitter
self-accusations. Mr. Fogg, however, did not reproach him; and, on
leaving the Cunard pier, only said: “We will consult about what is best
to-morrow. Come.”

The party crossed the Hudson in the Jersey City ferryboat, and drove in
a carriage to the St. Nicholas Hotel, on Broadway. Rooms were engaged,
and the night passed, briefly to Phileas Fogg, who slept profoundly,
but very long to Aouda and the others, whose agitation did not permit
them to rest.

The next day was the 12th of December. From seven in the morning of the
12th to a quarter before nine in the evening of the 21st there were
nine days, thirteen hours, and forty-five minutes. If Phileas Fogg had
left in the “China,” one of the fastest steamers on the Atlantic, he
would have reached Liverpool, and then London, within the period agreed
upon.

Mr. Fogg left the hotel alone, after giving Passepartout instructions
to await his return, and inform Aouda to be ready at an instant’s
notice. He proceeded to the banks of the Hudson, and looked about among
the vessels moored or anchored in the river, for any that were about to
depart. Several had departure signals, and were preparing to put to sea
at morning tide; for in this immense and admirable port there is not
one day in a hundred that vessels do not set out for every quarter of
the globe. But they were mostly sailing vessels, of which, of course,
Phileas Fogg could make no use.

He seemed about to give up all hope, when he espied, anchored at the
Battery, a cable’s length off at most, a trading vessel, with a screw,
well-shaped, whose funnel, puffing a cloud of smoke, indicated that she
was getting ready for departure.

Phileas Fogg hailed a boat, got into it, and soon found himself on
board the “Henrietta,” iron-hulled, wood-built above. He ascended to
the deck, and asked for the captain, who forthwith presented himself.
He was a man of fifty, a sort of sea-wolf, with big eyes, a complexion
of oxidised copper, red hair and thick neck, and a growling voice.

“The captain?” asked Mr. Fogg.

“I am the captain.”

“I am Phileas Fogg, of London.”

“And I am Andrew Speedy, of Cardiff.”

“You are going to put to sea?”

“In an hour.”

“You are bound for—”

“Bordeaux.”

“And your cargo?”

“No freight. Going in ballast.”

“Have you any passengers?”

“No passengers. Never have passengers. Too much in the way.”

“Is your vessel a swift one?”

“Between eleven and twelve knots. The “Henrietta,” well known.”

“Will you carry me and three other persons to Liverpool?”

“To Liverpool? Why not to China?”

“I said Liverpool.”

“No!”

“No?”

“No. I am setting out for Bordeaux, and shall go to Bordeaux.”

“Money is no object?”

“None.”

The captain spoke in a tone which did not admit of a reply.

“But the owners of the ‘Henrietta’—” resumed Phileas Fogg.

“The owners are myself,” replied the captain. “The vessel belongs to
me.”

“I will freight it for you.”

“No.”

“I will buy it of you.”

“No.”

Phileas Fogg did not betray the least disappointment; but the situation
was a grave one. It was not at New York as at Hong Kong, nor with the
captain of the “Henrietta” as with the captain of the “Tankadere.” Up
to this time money had smoothed away every obstacle. Now money failed.

Still, some means must be found to cross the Atlantic on a boat, unless
by balloon—which would have been venturesome, besides not being capable
of being put in practice. It seemed that Phileas Fogg had an idea, for
he said to the captain, “Well, will you carry me to Bordeaux?”

“No, not if you paid me two hundred dollars.”

“I offer you two thousand.”

“Apiece?”

“Apiece.”

“And there are four of you?”

“Four.”

Captain Speedy began to scratch his head. There were eight thousand
dollars to gain, without changing his route; for which it was well
worth conquering the repugnance he had for all kinds of passengers.
Besides, passengers at two thousand dollars are no longer passengers,
but valuable merchandise. “I start at nine o’clock,” said Captain
Speedy, simply. “Are you and your party ready?”

“We will be on board at nine o’clock,” replied, no less simply, Mr.
Fogg.

It was half-past eight. To disembark from the “Henrietta,” jump into a
hack, hurry to the St. Nicholas, and return with Aouda, Passepartout,
and even the inseparable Fix was the work of a brief time, and was
performed by Mr. Fogg with the coolness which never abandoned him. They
were on board when the “Henrietta” made ready to weigh anchor.

When Passepartout heard what this last voyage was going to cost, he
uttered a prolonged “Oh!” which extended throughout his vocal gamut.

As for Fix, he said to himself that the Bank of England would certainly
not come out of this affair well indemnified. When they reached
England, even if Mr. Fogg did not throw some handfuls of bank-bills
into the sea, more than seven thousand pounds would have been spent!




CHAPTER XXXIII.
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG SHOWS HIMSELF EQUAL TO THE OCCASION


An hour after, the “Henrietta” passed the lighthouse which marks the
entrance of the Hudson, turned the point of Sandy Hook, and put to sea.
During the day she skirted Long Island, passed Fire Island, and
directed her course rapidly eastward.

At noon the next day, a man mounted the bridge to ascertain the
vessel’s position. It might be thought that this was Captain Speedy.
Not the least in the world. It was Phileas Fogg, Esquire. As for
Captain Speedy, he was shut up in his cabin under lock and key, and was
uttering loud cries, which signified an anger at once pardonable and
excessive.

What had happened was very simple. Phileas Fogg wished to go to
Liverpool, but the captain would not carry him there. Then Phileas Fogg
had taken passage for Bordeaux, and, during the thirty hours he had
been on board, had so shrewdly managed with his banknotes that the
sailors and stokers, who were only an occasional crew, and were not on
the best terms with the captain, went over to him in a body. This was
why Phileas Fogg was in command instead of Captain Speedy; why the
captain was a prisoner in his cabin; and why, in short, the “Henrietta”
was directing her course towards Liverpool. It was very clear, to see
Mr. Fogg manage the craft, that he had been a sailor.

How the adventure ended will be seen anon. Aouda was anxious, though
she said nothing. As for Passepartout, he thought Mr. Fogg’s manœuvre
simply glorious. The captain had said “between eleven and twelve
knots,” and the “Henrietta” confirmed his prediction.

If, then—for there were “ifs” still—the sea did not become too
boisterous, if the wind did not veer round to the east, if no accident
happened to the boat or its machinery, the “Henrietta” might cross the
three thousand miles from New York to Liverpool in the nine days,
between the 12th and the 21st of December. It is true that, once
arrived, the affair on board the “Henrietta,” added to that of the Bank
of England, might create more difficulties for Mr. Fogg than he
imagined or could desire.

During the first days, they went along smoothly enough. The sea was not
very unpropitious, the wind seemed stationary in the north-east, the
sails were hoisted, and the “Henrietta” ploughed across the waves like
a real transatlantic steamer.

Passepartout was delighted. His master’s last exploit, the consequences
of which he ignored, enchanted him. Never had the crew seen so jolly
and dexterous a fellow. He formed warm friendships with the sailors,
and amazed them with his acrobatic feats. He thought they managed the
vessel like gentlemen, and that the stokers fired up like heroes. His
loquacious good-humour infected everyone. He had forgotten the past,
its vexations and delays. He only thought of the end, so nearly
accomplished; and sometimes he boiled over with impatience, as if
heated by the furnaces of the “Henrietta.” Often, also, the worthy
fellow revolved around Fix, looking at him with a keen, distrustful
eye; but he did not speak to him, for their old intimacy no longer
existed.

Fix, it must be confessed, understood nothing of what was going on. The
conquest of the “Henrietta,” the bribery of the crew, Fogg managing the
boat like a skilled seaman, amazed and confused him. He did not know
what to think. For, after all, a man who began by stealing fifty-five
thousand pounds might end by stealing a vessel; and Fix was not
unnaturally inclined to conclude that the “Henrietta” under Fogg’s
command, was not going to Liverpool at all, but to some part of the
world where the robber, turned into a pirate, would quietly put himself
in safety. The conjecture was at least a plausible one, and the
detective began to seriously regret that he had embarked on the affair.

As for Captain Speedy, he continued to howl and growl in his cabin; and
Passepartout, whose duty it was to carry him his meals, courageous as
he was, took the greatest precautions. Mr. Fogg did not seem even to
know that there was a captain on board.

On the 13th they passed the edge of the Banks of Newfoundland, a
dangerous locality; during the winter, especially, there are frequent
fogs and heavy gales of wind. Ever since the evening before the
barometer, suddenly falling, had indicated an approaching change in the
atmosphere; and during the night the temperature varied, the cold
became sharper, and the wind veered to the south-east.

This was a misfortune. Mr. Fogg, in order not to deviate from his
course, furled his sails and increased the force of the steam; but the
vessel’s speed slackened, owing to the state of the sea, the long waves
of which broke against the stern. She pitched violently, and this
retarded her progress. The breeze little by little swelled into a
tempest, and it was to be feared that the “Henrietta” might not be able
to maintain herself upright on the waves.

Passepartout’s visage darkened with the skies, and for two days the
poor fellow experienced constant fright. But Phileas Fogg was a bold
mariner, and knew how to maintain headway against the sea; and he kept
on his course, without even decreasing his steam. The “Henrietta,” when
she could not rise upon the waves, crossed them, swamping her deck, but
passing safely. Sometimes the screw rose out of the water, beating its
protruding end, when a mountain of water raised the stern above the
waves; but the craft always kept straight ahead.

The wind, however, did not grow as boisterous as might have been
feared; it was not one of those tempests which burst, and rush on with
a speed of ninety miles an hour. It continued fresh, but, unhappily, it
remained obstinately in the south-east, rendering the sails useless.

The 16th of December was the seventy-fifth day since Phileas Fogg’s
departure from London, and the “Henrietta” had not yet been seriously
delayed. Half of the voyage was almost accomplished, and the worst
localities had been passed. In summer, success would have been
well-nigh certain. In winter, they were at the mercy of the bad season.
Passepartout said nothing; but he cherished hope in secret, and
comforted himself with the reflection that, if the wind failed them,
they might still count on the steam.

On this day the engineer came on deck, went up to Mr. Fogg, and began
to speak earnestly with him. Without knowing why it was a presentiment,
perhaps Passepartout became vaguely uneasy. He would have given one of
his ears to hear with the other what the engineer was saying. He
finally managed to catch a few words, and was sure he heard his master
say, “You are certain of what you tell me?”

“Certain, sir,” replied the engineer. “You must remember that, since we
started, we have kept up hot fires in all our furnaces, and, though we
had coal enough to go on short steam from New York to Bordeaux, we
haven’t enough to go with all steam from New York to Liverpool.” “I
will consider,” replied Mr. Fogg.

Passepartout understood it all; he was seized with mortal anxiety. The
coal was giving out! “Ah, if my master can get over that,” muttered he,
“he’ll be a famous man!” He could not help imparting to Fix what he had
overheard.

“Then you believe that we really are going to Liverpool?”

“Of course.”

“Ass!” replied the detective, shrugging his shoulders and turning on
his heel.

Passepartout was on the point of vigorously resenting the epithet, the
reason of which he could not for the life of him comprehend; but he
reflected that the unfortunate Fix was probably very much disappointed
and humiliated in his self-esteem, after having so awkwardly followed a
false scent around the world, and refrained.

And now what course would Phileas Fogg adopt? It was difficult to
imagine. Nevertheless he seemed to have decided upon one, for that
evening he sent for the engineer, and said to him, “Feed all the fires
until the coal is exhausted.”

A few moments after, the funnel of the “Henrietta” vomited forth
torrents of smoke. The vessel continued to proceed with all steam on;
but on the 18th, the engineer, as he had predicted, announced that the
coal would give out in the course of the day.

“Do not let the fires go down,” replied Mr. Fogg. “Keep them up to the
last. Let the valves be filled.”

Towards noon Phileas Fogg, having ascertained their position, called
Passepartout, and ordered him to go for Captain Speedy. It was as if
the honest fellow had been commanded to unchain a tiger. He went to the
poop, saying to himself, “He will be like a madman!”

In a few moments, with cries and oaths, a bomb appeared on the
poop-deck. The bomb was Captain Speedy. It was clear that he was on the
point of bursting. “Where are we?” were the first words his anger
permitted him to utter. Had the poor man been an apoplectic, he could
never have recovered from his paroxysm of wrath.

“Where are we?” he repeated, with purple face.

“Seven hundred and seven miles from Liverpool,” replied Mr. Fogg, with
imperturbable calmness.

“Pirate!” cried Captain Speedy.

“I have sent for you, sir—”

“Pickaroon!”

“—sir,” continued Mr. Fogg, “to ask you to sell me your vessel.”

“No! By all the devils, no!”

“But I shall be obliged to burn her.”

“Burn the ‘Henrietta’!”

“Yes; at least the upper part of her. The coal has given out.”

“Burn my vessel!” cried Captain Speedy, who could scarcely pronounce
the words. “A vessel worth fifty thousand dollars!”

“Here are sixty thousand,” replied Phileas Fogg, handing the captain a
roll of bank-bills. This had a prodigious effect on Andrew Speedy. An
American can scarcely remain unmoved at the sight of sixty thousand
dollars. The captain forgot in an instant his anger, his imprisonment,
and all his grudges against his passenger. The “Henrietta” was twenty
years old; it was a great bargain. The bomb would not go off after all.
Mr. Fogg had taken away the match.

“And I shall still have the iron hull,” said the captain in a softer
tone.

“The iron hull and the engine. Is it agreed?”

“Agreed.”

And Andrew Speedy, seizing the banknotes, counted them and consigned
them to his pocket.

During this colloquy, Passepartout was as white as a sheet, and Fix
seemed on the point of having an apoplectic fit. Nearly twenty thousand
pounds had been expended, and Fogg left the hull and engine to the
captain, that is, near the whole value of the craft! It was true,
however, that fifty-five thousand pounds had been stolen from the Bank.

When Andrew Speedy had pocketed the money, Mr. Fogg said to him, “Don’t
let this astonish you, sir. You must know that I shall lose twenty
thousand pounds, unless I arrive in London by a quarter before nine on
the evening of the 21st of December. I missed the steamer at New York,
and as you refused to take me to Liverpool—”

“And I did well!” cried Andrew Speedy; “for I have gained at least
forty thousand dollars by it!” He added, more sedately, “Do you know
one thing, Captain—”

“Fogg.”

“Captain Fogg, you’ve got something of the Yankee about you.”

And, having paid his passenger what he considered a high compliment, he
was going away, when Mr. Fogg said, “The vessel now belongs to me?”

“Certainly, from the keel to the truck of the masts—all the wood, that
is.”

“Very well. Have the interior seats, bunks, and frames pulled down, and
burn them.”

It was necessary to have dry wood to keep the steam up to the adequate
pressure, and on that day the poop, cabins, bunks, and the spare deck
were sacrificed. On the next day, the 19th of December, the masts,
rafts, and spars were burned; the crew worked lustily, keeping up the
fires. Passepartout hewed, cut, and sawed away with all his might.
There was a perfect rage for demolition.

The railings, fittings, the greater part of the deck, and top sides
disappeared on the 20th, and the “Henrietta” was now only a flat hulk.
But on this day they sighted the Irish coast and Fastnet Light. By ten
in the evening they were passing Queenstown. Phileas Fogg had only
twenty-four hours more in which to get to London; that length of time
was necessary to reach Liverpool, with all steam on. And the steam was
about to give out altogether!

“Sir,” said Captain Speedy, who was now deeply interested in Mr. Fogg’s
project, “I really commiserate you. Everything is against you. We are
only opposite Queenstown.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Fogg, “is that place where we see the lights
Queenstown?”

“Yes.”

“Can we enter the harbour?”

“Not under three hours. Only at high tide.”

“Stay,” replied Mr. Fogg calmly, without betraying in his features that
by a supreme inspiration he was about to attempt once more to conquer
ill-fortune.

Queenstown is the Irish port at which the transatlantic steamers stop
to put off the mails. These mails are carried to Dublin by express
trains always held in readiness to start; from Dublin they are sent on
to Liverpool by the most rapid boats, and thus gain twelve hours on the
Atlantic steamers.

Phileas Fogg counted on gaining twelve hours in the same way. Instead
of arriving at Liverpool the next evening by the “Henrietta,” he would
be there by noon, and would therefore have time to reach London before
a quarter before nine in the evening.

The “Henrietta” entered Queenstown Harbour at one o’clock in the
morning, it then being high tide; and Phileas Fogg, after being grasped
heartily by the hand by Captain Speedy, left that gentleman on the
levelled hulk of his craft, which was still worth half what he had sold
it for.

The party went on shore at once. Fix was greatly tempted to arrest Mr.
Fogg on the spot; but he did not. Why? What struggle was going on
within him? Had he changed his mind about “his man”? Did he understand
that he had made a grave mistake? He did not, however, abandon Mr.
Fogg. They all got upon the train, which was just ready to start, at
half-past one; at dawn of day they were in Dublin; and they lost no
time in embarking on a steamer which, disdaining to rise upon the
waves, invariably cut through them.

Phileas Fogg at last disembarked on the Liverpool quay, at twenty
minutes before twelve, 21st December. He was only six hours distant
from London.

But at this moment Fix came up, put his hand upon Mr. Fogg’s shoulder,
and, showing his warrant, said, “You are really Phileas Fogg?”

“I am.”

“I arrest you in the Queen’s name!”




CHAPTER XXXIV.
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AT LAST REACHES LONDON


Phileas Fogg was in prison. He had been shut up in the Custom House,
and he was to be transferred to London the next day.

Passepartout, when he saw his master arrested, would have fallen upon
Fix had he not been held back by some policemen. Aouda was
thunderstruck at the suddenness of an event which she could not
understand. Passepartout explained to her how it was that the honest
and courageous Fogg was arrested as a robber. The young woman’s heart
revolted against so heinous a charge, and when she saw that she could
attempt to do nothing to save her protector, she wept bitterly.

As for Fix, he had arrested Mr. Fogg because it was his duty, whether
Mr. Fogg were guilty or not.

The thought then struck Passepartout, that he was the cause of this new
misfortune! Had he not concealed Fix’s errand from his master? When Fix
revealed his true character and purpose, why had he not told Mr. Fogg?
If the latter had been warned, he would no doubt have given Fix proof
of his innocence, and satisfied him of his mistake; at least, Fix would
not have continued his journey at the expense and on the heels of his
master, only to arrest him the moment he set foot on English soil.
Passepartout wept till he was blind, and felt like blowing his brains
out.

Aouda and he had remained, despite the cold, under the portico of the
Custom House. Neither wished to leave the place; both were anxious to
see Mr. Fogg again.

That gentleman was really ruined, and that at the moment when he was
about to attain his end. This arrest was fatal. Having arrived at
Liverpool at twenty minutes before twelve on the 21st of December, he
had till a quarter before nine that evening to reach the Reform Club,
that is, nine hours and a quarter; the journey from Liverpool to London
was six hours.

If anyone, at this moment, had entered the Custom House, he would have
found Mr. Fogg seated, motionless, calm, and without apparent anger,
upon a wooden bench. He was not, it is true, resigned; but this last
blow failed to force him into an outward betrayal of any emotion. Was
he being devoured by one of those secret rages, all the more terrible
because contained, and which only burst forth, with an irresistible
force, at the last moment? No one could tell. There he sat, calmly
waiting—for what? Did he still cherish hope? Did he still believe, now
that the door of this prison was closed upon him, that he would
succeed?

However that may have been, Mr. Fogg carefully put his watch upon the
table, and observed its advancing hands. Not a word escaped his lips,
but his look was singularly set and stern. The situation, in any event,
was a terrible one, and might be thus stated: if Phileas Fogg was
honest he was ruined; if he was a knave, he was caught.

Did escape occur to him? Did he examine to see if there were any
practicable outlet from his prison? Did he think of escaping from it?
Possibly; for once he walked slowly around the room. But the door was
locked, and the window heavily barred with iron rods. He sat down
again, and drew his journal from his pocket. On the line where these
words were written, “21st December, Saturday, Liverpool,” he added,
“80th day, 11.40 a.m.,” and waited.

The Custom House clock struck one. Mr. Fogg observed that his watch was
two hours too fast.

Two hours! Admitting that he was at this moment taking an express
train, he could reach London and the Reform Club by a quarter before
nine, p.m. His forehead slightly wrinkled.

At thirty-three minutes past two he heard a singular noise outside,
then a hasty opening of doors. Passepartout’s voice was audible, and
immediately after that of Fix. Phileas Fogg’s eyes brightened for an
instant.

The door swung open, and he saw Passepartout, Aouda, and Fix, who
hurried towards him.

Fix was out of breath, and his hair was in disorder. He could not
speak. “Sir,” he stammered, “sir—forgive me—most—unfortunate
resemblance—robber arrested three days ago—you are free!”

Phileas Fogg was free! He walked to the detective, looked him steadily
in the face, and with the only rapid motion he had ever made in his
life, or which he ever would make, drew back his arms, and with the
precision of a machine knocked Fix down.

“Well hit!” cried Passepartout, “Parbleu! that’s what you might call a
good application of English fists!”

Fix, who found himself on the floor, did not utter a word. He had only
received his deserts. Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout left the Custom
House without delay, got into a cab, and in a few moments descended at
the station.

Phileas Fogg asked if there was an express train about to leave for
London. It was forty minutes past two. The express train had left
thirty-five minutes before. Phileas Fogg then ordered a special train.

There were several rapid locomotives on hand; but the railway
arrangements did not permit the special train to leave until three
o’clock.

At that hour Phileas Fogg, having stimulated the engineer by the offer
of a generous reward, at last set out towards London with Aouda and his
faithful servant.

It was necessary to make the journey in five hours and a half; and this
would have been easy on a clear road throughout. But there were forced
delays, and when Mr. Fogg stepped from the train at the terminus, all
the clocks in London were striking ten minutes before nine.[1]


Having made the tour of the world, he was behind-hand five minutes. He
had lost the wager!

 [1] A somewhat remarkable eccentricity on the part of the London
 clocks!—TRANSLATOR.




CHAPTER XXXV.
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG DOES NOT HAVE TO REPEAT HIS ORDERS TO
PASSEPARTOUT TWICE


The dwellers in Saville Row would have been surprised the next day, if
they had been told that Phileas Fogg had returned home. His doors and
windows were still closed, no appearance of change was visible.

After leaving the station, Mr. Fogg gave Passepartout instructions to
purchase some provisions, and quietly went to his domicile.

He bore his misfortune with his habitual tranquillity. Ruined! And by
the blundering of the detective! After having steadily traversed that
long journey, overcome a hundred obstacles, braved many dangers, and
still found time to do some good on his way, to fail near the goal by a
sudden event which he could not have foreseen, and against which he was
unarmed; it was terrible! But a few pounds were left of the large sum
he had carried with him. There only remained of his fortune the twenty
thousand pounds deposited at Barings, and this amount he owed to his
friends of the Reform Club. So great had been the expense of his tour
that, even had he won, it would not have enriched him; and it is
probable that he had not sought to enrich himself, being a man who
rather laid wagers for honour’s sake than for the stake proposed. But
this wager totally ruined him.

Mr. Fogg’s course, however, was fully decided upon; he knew what
remained for him to do.

A room in the house in Saville Row was set apart for Aouda, who was
overwhelmed with grief at her protector’s misfortune. From the words
which Mr. Fogg dropped, she saw that he was meditating some serious
project.

Knowing that Englishmen governed by a fixed idea sometimes resort to
the desperate expedient of suicide, Passepartout kept a narrow watch
upon his master, though he carefully concealed the appearance of so
doing.

First of all, the worthy fellow had gone up to his room, and had
extinguished the gas burner, which had been burning for eighty days. He
had found in the letter-box a bill from the gas company, and he thought
it more than time to put a stop to this expense, which he had been
doomed to bear.

The night passed. Mr. Fogg went to bed, but did he sleep? Aouda did not
once close her eyes. Passepartout watched all night, like a faithful
dog, at his master’s door.

Mr. Fogg called him in the morning, and told him to get Aouda’s
breakfast, and a cup of tea and a chop for himself. He desired Aouda to
excuse him from breakfast and dinner, as his time would be absorbed all
day in putting his affairs to rights. In the evening he would ask
permission to have a few moment’s conversation with the young lady.

Passepartout, having received his orders, had nothing to do but obey
them. He looked at his imperturbable master, and could scarcely bring
his mind to leave him. His heart was full, and his conscience tortured
by remorse; for he accused himself more bitterly than ever of being the
cause of the irretrievable disaster. Yes! if he had warned Mr. Fogg,
and had betrayed Fix’s projects to him, his master would certainly not
have given the detective passage to Liverpool, and then—

Passepartout could hold in no longer.

“My master! Mr. Fogg!” he cried, “why do you not curse me? It was my
fault that—”

“I blame no one,” returned Phileas Fogg, with perfect calmness. “Go!”

Passepartout left the room, and went to find Aouda, to whom he
delivered his master’s message.

“Madam,” he added, “I can do nothing myself—nothing! I have no
influence over my master; but you, perhaps—”

“What influence could I have?” replied Aouda. “Mr. Fogg is influenced
by no one. Has he ever understood that my gratitude to him is
overflowing? Has he ever read my heart? My friend, he must not be left
alone an instant! You say he is going to speak with me this evening?”

“Yes, madam; probably to arrange for your protection and comfort in
England.”

“We shall see,” replied Aouda, becoming suddenly pensive.

Throughout this day (Sunday) the house in Saville Row was as if
uninhabited, and Phileas Fogg, for the first time since he had lived in
that house, did not set out for his club when Westminster clock struck
half-past eleven.

Why should he present himself at the Reform? His friends no longer
expected him there. As Phileas Fogg had not appeared in the saloon on
the evening before (Saturday, the 21st of December, at a quarter before
nine), he had lost his wager. It was not even necessary that he should
go to his bankers for the twenty thousand pounds; for his antagonists
already had his cheque in their hands, and they had only to fill it out
and send it to the Barings to have the amount transferred to their
credit.

Mr. Fogg, therefore, had no reason for going out, and so he remained at
home. He shut himself up in his room, and busied himself putting his
affairs in order. Passepartout continually ascended and descended the
stairs. The hours were long for him. He listened at his master’s door,
and looked through the keyhole, as if he had a perfect right so to do,
and as if he feared that something terrible might happen at any moment.
Sometimes he thought of Fix, but no longer in anger. Fix, like all the
world, had been mistaken in Phileas Fogg, and had only done his duty in
tracking and arresting him; while he, Passepartout. . . . This thought
haunted him, and he never ceased cursing his miserable folly.

Finding himself too wretched to remain alone, he knocked at Aouda’s
door, went into her room, seated himself, without speaking, in a
corner, and looked ruefully at the young woman. Aouda was still
pensive.

About half-past seven in the evening Mr. Fogg sent to know if Aouda
would receive him, and in a few moments he found himself alone with
her.

Phileas Fogg took a chair, and sat down near the fireplace, opposite
Aouda. No emotion was visible on his face. Fogg returned was exactly
the Fogg who had gone away; there was the same calm, the same
impassibility.

He sat several minutes without speaking; then, bending his eyes on
Aouda, “Madam,” said he, “will you pardon me for bringing you to
England?”

“I, Mr. Fogg!” replied Aouda, checking the pulsations of her heart.

“Please let me finish,” returned Mr. Fogg. “When I decided to bring you
far away from the country which was so unsafe for you, I was rich, and
counted on putting a portion of my fortune at your disposal; then your
existence would have been free and happy. But now I am ruined.”

“I know it, Mr. Fogg,” replied Aouda; “and I ask you in my turn, will
you forgive me for having followed you, and—who knows?—for having,
perhaps, delayed you, and thus contributed to your ruin?”

“Madam, you could not remain in India, and your safety could only be
assured by bringing you to such a distance that your persecutors could
not take you.”

“So, Mr. Fogg,” resumed Aouda, “not content with rescuing me from a
terrible death, you thought yourself bound to secure my comfort in a
foreign land?”

“Yes, madam; but circumstances have been against me. Still, I beg to
place the little I have left at your service.”

“But what will become of you, Mr. Fogg?”

“As for me, madam,” replied the gentleman, coldly, “I have need of
nothing.”

“But how do you look upon the fate, sir, which awaits you?”

“As I am in the habit of doing.”

“At least,” said Aouda, “want should not overtake a man like you. Your
friends—”

“I have no friends, madam.”

“Your relatives—”

“I have no longer any relatives.”

“I pity you, then, Mr. Fogg, for solitude is a sad thing, with no heart
to which to confide your griefs. They say, though, that misery itself,
shared by two sympathetic souls, may be borne with patience.”

“They say so, madam.”

“Mr. Fogg,” said Aouda, rising and seizing his hand, “do you wish at
once a kinswoman and friend? Will you have me for your wife?”

Mr. Fogg, at this, rose in his turn. There was an unwonted light in his
eyes, and a slight trembling of his lips. Aouda looked into his face.
The sincerity, rectitude, firmness, and sweetness of this soft glance
of a noble woman, who could dare all to save him to whom she owed all,
at first astonished, then penetrated him. He shut his eyes for an
instant, as if to avoid her look. When he opened them again, “I love
you!” he said, simply. “Yes, by all that is holiest, I love you, and I
am entirely yours!”

“Ah!” cried Aouda, pressing his hand to her heart.

Passepartout was summoned and appeared immediately. Mr. Fogg still held
Aouda’s hand in his own; Passepartout understood, and his big, round
face became as radiant as the tropical sun at its zenith.

Mr. Fogg asked him if it was not too late to notify the Reverend Samuel
Wilson, of Marylebone parish, that evening.

Passepartout smiled his most genial smile, and said, “Never too late.”

It was five minutes past eight.

“Will it be for to-morrow, Monday?”

“For to-morrow, Monday,” said Mr. Fogg, turning to Aouda.

“Yes; for to-morrow, Monday,” she replied.

Passepartout hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him.




CHAPTER XXXVI.
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG’S NAME IS ONCE MORE AT A PREMIUM ON ’CHANGE


It is time to relate what a change took place in English public opinion
when it transpired that the real bankrobber, a certain James Strand,
had been arrested, on the 17th day of December, at Edinburgh. Three
days before, Phileas Fogg had been a criminal, who was being
desperately followed up by the police; now he was an honourable
gentleman, mathematically pursuing his eccentric journey round the
world.

The papers resumed their discussion about the wager; all those who had
laid bets, for or against him, revived their interest, as if by magic;
the “Phileas Fogg bonds” again became negotiable, and many new wagers
were made. Phileas Fogg’s name was once more at a premium on ’Change.

His five friends of the Reform Club passed these three days in a state
of feverish suspense. Would Phileas Fogg, whom they had forgotten,
reappear before their eyes! Where was he at this moment? The 17th of
December, the day of James Strand’s arrest, was the seventy-sixth since
Phileas Fogg’s departure, and no news of him had been received. Was he
dead? Had he abandoned the effort, or was he continuing his journey
along the route agreed upon? And would he appear on Saturday, the 21st
of December, at a quarter before nine in the evening, on the threshold
of the Reform Club saloon?

The anxiety in which, for three days, London society existed, cannot be
described. Telegrams were sent to America and Asia for news of Phileas
Fogg. Messengers were dispatched to the house in Saville Row morning
and evening. No news. The police were ignorant what had become of the
detective, Fix, who had so unfortunately followed up a false scent.
Bets increased, nevertheless, in number and value. Phileas Fogg, like a
racehorse, was drawing near his last turning-point. The bonds were
quoted, no longer at a hundred below par, but at twenty, at ten, and at
five; and paralytic old Lord Albemarle bet even in his favour.

A great crowd was collected in Pall Mall and the neighbouring streets
on Saturday evening; it seemed like a multitude of brokers permanently
established around the Reform Club. Circulation was impeded, and
everywhere disputes, discussions, and financial transactions were going
on. The police had great difficulty in keeping back the crowd, and as
the hour when Phileas Fogg was due approached, the excitement rose to
its highest pitch.

The five antagonists of Phileas Fogg had met in the great saloon of the
club. John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, the bankers, Andrew Stuart,
the engineer, Gauthier Ralph, the director of the Bank of England, and
Thomas Flanagan, the brewer, one and all waited anxiously.

When the clock indicated twenty minutes past eight, Andrew Stuart got
up, saying, “Gentlemen, in twenty minutes the time agreed upon between
Mr. Fogg and ourselves will have expired.”

“What time did the last train arrive from Liverpool?” asked Thomas
Flanagan.

“At twenty-three minutes past seven,” replied Gauthier Ralph; “and the
next does not arrive till ten minutes after twelve.”

“Well, gentlemen,” resumed Andrew Stuart, “if Phileas Fogg had come in
the 7:23 train, he would have got here by this time. We can, therefore,
regard the bet as won.”

“Wait; don’t let us be too hasty,” replied Samuel Fallentin. “You know
that Mr. Fogg is very eccentric. His punctuality is well known; he
never arrives too soon, or too late; and I should not be surprised if
he appeared before us at the last minute.”

“Why,” said Andrew Stuart nervously, “if I should see him, I should not
believe it was he.”

“The fact is,” resumed Thomas Flanagan, “Mr. Fogg’s project was
absurdly foolish. Whatever his punctuality, he could not prevent the
delays which were certain to occur; and a delay of only two or three
days would be fatal to his tour.”

“Observe, too,” added John Sullivan, “that we have received no
intelligence from him, though there are telegraphic lines all along his
route.”

“He has lost, gentleman,” said Andrew Stuart, “he has a hundred times
lost! You know, besides, that the ‘China’—the only steamer he could
have taken from New York to get here in time arrived yesterday. I have
seen a list of the passengers, and the name of Phileas Fogg is not
among them. Even if we admit that fortune has favoured him, he can
scarcely have reached America. I think he will be at least twenty days
behind-hand, and that Lord Albemarle will lose a cool five thousand.”

“It is clear,” replied Gauthier Ralph; “and we have nothing to do but
to present Mr. Fogg’s cheque at Barings to-morrow.”

At this moment, the hands of the club clock pointed to twenty minutes
to nine.

“Five minutes more,” said Andrew Stuart.

The five gentlemen looked at each other. Their anxiety was becoming
intense; but, not wishing to betray it, they readily assented to Mr.
Fallentin’s proposal of a rubber.

“I wouldn’t give up my four thousand of the bet,” said Andrew Stuart,
as he took his seat, “for three thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine.”

The clock indicated eighteen minutes to nine.

The players took up their cards, but could not keep their eyes off the
clock. Certainly, however secure they felt, minutes had never seemed so
long to them!

“Seventeen minutes to nine,” said Thomas Flanagan, as he cut the cards
which Ralph handed to him.

Then there was a moment of silence. The great saloon was perfectly
quiet; but the murmurs of the crowd outside were heard, with now and
then a shrill cry. The pendulum beat the seconds, which each player
eagerly counted, as he listened, with mathematical regularity.

“Sixteen minutes to nine!” said John Sullivan, in a voice which
betrayed his emotion.

One minute more, and the wager would be won. Andrew Stuart and his
partners suspended their game. They left their cards, and counted the
seconds.

At the fortieth second, nothing. At the fiftieth, still nothing.

At the fifty-fifth, a loud cry was heard in the street, followed by
applause, hurrahs, and some fierce growls.

The players rose from their seats.

At the fifty-seventh second the door of the saloon opened; and the
pendulum had not beat the sixtieth second when Phileas Fogg appeared,
followed by an excited crowd who had forced their way through the club
doors, and in his calm voice, said, “Here I am, gentlemen!”




CHAPTER XXXVII.
IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT PHILEAS FOGG GAINED NOTHING BY HIS TOUR
AROUND THE WORLD, UNLESS IT WERE HAPPINESS


Yes; Phileas Fogg in person.

The reader will remember that at five minutes past eight in the
evening—about five and twenty hours after the arrival of the travellers
in London—Passepartout had been sent by his master to engage the
services of the Reverend Samuel Wilson in a certain marriage ceremony,
which was to take place the next day.

Passepartout went on his errand enchanted. He soon reached the
clergyman’s house, but found him not at home. Passepartout waited a
good twenty minutes, and when he left the reverend gentleman, it was
thirty-five minutes past eight. But in what a state he was! With his
hair in disorder, and without his hat, he ran along the street as never
man was seen to run before, overturning passers-by, rushing over the
sidewalk like a waterspout.

In three minutes he was in Saville Row again, and staggered back into
Mr. Fogg’s room.

He could not speak.

“What is the matter?” asked Mr. Fogg.

“My master!” gasped Passepartout—“marriage—impossible—”

“Impossible?”

“Impossible—for to-morrow.”

“Why so?”

“Because to-morrow—is Sunday!”

“Monday,” replied Mr. Fogg.

“No—to-day is Saturday.”

“Saturday? Impossible!”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes!” cried Passepartout. “You have made a mistake of
one day! We arrived twenty-four hours ahead of time; but there are only
ten minutes left!”

Passepartout had seized his master by the collar, and was dragging him
along with irresistible force.

Phileas Fogg, thus kidnapped, without having time to think, left his
house, jumped into a cab, promised a hundred pounds to the cabman, and,
having run over two dogs and overturned five carriages, reached the
Reform Club.

The clock indicated a quarter before nine when he appeared in the great
saloon.

Phileas Fogg had accomplished the journey round the world in eighty
days!

Phileas Fogg had won his wager of twenty thousand pounds!

How was it that a man so exact and fastidious could have made this
error of a day? How came he to think that he had arrived in London on
Saturday, the twenty-first day of December, when it was really Friday,
the twentieth, the seventy-ninth day only from his departure?

The cause of the error is very simple.

Phileas Fogg had, without suspecting it, gained one day on his journey,
and this merely because he had travelled constantly _eastward;_ he
would, on the contrary, have lost a day had he gone in the opposite
direction, that is, _westward_.

In journeying eastward he had gone towards the sun, and the days
therefore diminished for him as many times four minutes as he crossed
degrees in this direction. There are three hundred and sixty degrees on
the circumference of the earth; and these three hundred and sixty
degrees, multiplied by four minutes, gives precisely twenty-four
hours—that is, the day unconsciously gained. In other words, while
Phileas Fogg, going eastward, saw the sun pass the meridian _eighty_
times, his friends in London only saw it pass the meridian
_seventy-nine_ times. This is why they awaited him at the Reform Club
on Saturday, and not Sunday, as Mr. Fogg thought.

And Passepartout’s famous family watch, which had always kept London
time, would have betrayed this fact, if it had marked the days as well
as the hours and the minutes!

Phileas Fogg, then, had won the twenty thousand pounds; but, as he had
spent nearly nineteen thousand on the way, the pecuniary gain was
small. His object was, however, to be victorious, and not to win money.
He divided the one thousand pounds that remained between Passepartout
and the unfortunate Fix, against whom he cherished no grudge. He
deducted, however, from Passepartout’s share the cost of the gas which
had burned in his room for nineteen hundred and twenty hours, for the
sake of regularity.

That evening, Mr. Fogg, as tranquil and phlegmatic as ever, said to
Aouda: “Is our marriage still agreeable to you?”

“Mr. Fogg,” replied she, “it is for me to ask that question. You were
ruined, but now you are rich again.”

“Pardon me, madam; my fortune belongs to you. If you had not suggested
our marriage, my servant would not have gone to the Reverend Samuel
Wilson’s, I should not have been apprised of my error, and—”

“Dear Mr. Fogg!” said the young woman.

“Dear Aouda!” replied Phileas Fogg.

It need not be said that the marriage took place forty-eight hours
after, and that Passepartout, glowing and dazzling, gave the bride
away. Had he not saved her, and was he not entitled to this honour?

The next day, as soon as it was light, Passepartout rapped vigorously
at his master’s door. Mr. Fogg opened it, and asked, “What’s the
matter, Passepartout?”

“What is it, sir? Why, I’ve just this instant found out—”

“What?”

“That we might have made the tour of the world in only seventy-eight
days.”

“No doubt,” returned Mr. Fogg, “by not crossing India. But if I had not
crossed India, I should not have saved Aouda; she would not have been
my wife, and—”

Mr. Fogg quietly shut the door.

Phileas Fogg had won his wager, and had made his journey around the
world in eighty days. To do this he had employed every means of
conveyance—steamers, railways, carriages, yachts, trading-vessels,
sledges, elephants. The eccentric gentleman had throughout displayed
all his marvellous qualities of coolness and exactitude. But what then?
What had he really gained by all this trouble? What had he brought back
from this long and weary journey?

Nothing, say you? Perhaps so; nothing but a charming woman, who,
strange as it may appear, made him the happiest of men!

Truly, would you not for less than that make the tour around the world?







Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea

by Jules Verne




Contents

 PART I
 CHAPTER I A SHIFTING REEF
 CHAPTER II PRO AND CON
 CHAPTER III I FORM MY RESOLUTION
 CHAPTER IV NED LAND
 CHAPTER V AT A VENTURE
 CHAPTER VI AT FULL STEAM
 CHAPTER VII AN UNKNOWN SPECIES OF WHALE
 CHAPTER VIII MOBILIS IN MOBILI
 CHAPTER IX NED LAND’S TEMPERS
 CHAPTER X THE MAN OF THE SEAS
 CHAPTER XI ALL BY ELECTRICITY
 CHAPTER XII SOME FIGURES
 CHAPTER XIII THE BLACK RIVER
 CHAPTER XIV A NOTE OF INVITATION
 CHAPTER XV A WALK ON THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA
 CHAPTER XVI A SUBMARINE FOREST
 CHAPTER XVII FOUR THOUSAND LEAGUES UNDER THE PACIFIC
 CHAPTER XVIII VANIKORO
 CHAPTER XIX TORRES STRAITS
 CHAPTER XX A FEW DAYS ON LAND
 CHAPTER XXI CAPTAIN NEMO’S THUNDERBOLT
 CHAPTER XXII “ÆGRI SOMNIA”
 CHAPTER XXIII THE CORAL KINGDOM

 PART II
 CHAPTER I THE INDIAN OCEAN
 CHAPTER II A NOVEL PROPOSAL OF CAPTAIN NEMO’S
 CHAPTER III A PEARL OF TEN MILLIONS
 CHAPTER IV THE RED SEA
 CHAPTER V THE ARABIAN TUNNEL
 CHAPTER VI THE GRECIAN ARCHIPELAGO
 CHAPTER VII THE MEDITERRANEAN IN FORTY-EIGHT HOURS
 CHAPTER VIII VIGO BAY
 CHAPTER IX A VANISHED CONTINENT
 CHAPTER X THE SUBMARINE COAL-MINES
 CHAPTER XI THE SARGASSO SEA
 CHAPTER XII CACHALOTS AND WHALES
 CHAPTER XIII THE ICEBERG
 CHAPTER XIV THE SOUTH POLE
 CHAPTER XV ACCIDENT OR INCIDENT?
 CHAPTER XVI WANT OF AIR
 CHAPTER XVII FROM CAPE HORN TO THE AMAZON
 CHAPTER XVIII THE POULPS
 CHAPTER XIX THE GULF STREAM
 CHAPTER XX FROM LATITUDE 47° 24′ TO LONGITUDE 17° 28′
 CHAPTER XXI A HECATOMB
 CHAPTER XXII THE LAST WORDS OF CAPTAIN NEMO
 CHAPTER XXIII CONCLUSION




List of Illustrations

 An old grey-bearded gunner . . . .
 Captain Nemo’s state-room
 Captain Nemo took the Sun’s altitude
 I was ready to set out
 Conseil seized his gun
 All fell on their knees in an attitude of prayer
 A terrible combat began
 “A man! A shipwrecked sailor!” I cried
 The _Nautilus_ was floating near a mountain
 The _Nautilus_ was blocked up
 One of these long arms glided through the opening
 The unfortunate vessel sank more rapidly




PART ONE




CHAPTER I
A SHIFTING REEF


The year 1866 was signalised by a remarkable incident, a mysterious and
puzzling phenomenon, which doubtless no one has yet forgotten. Not to
mention rumours which agitated the maritime population and excited the
public mind, even in the interior of continents, seafaring men were
particularly excited. Merchants, common sailors, captains of vessels,
skippers, both of Europe and America, naval officers of all countries,
and the Governments of several states on the two continents, were
deeply interested in the matter.

For some time past, vessels had been met by “an enormous thing,” a long
object, spindle-shaped, occasionally phosphorescent, and infinitely
larger and more rapid in its movements than a whale.

The facts relating to this apparition (entered in various log-books)
agreed in most respects as to the shape of the object or creature in
question, the untiring rapidity of its movements, its surprising power
of locomotion, and the peculiar life with which it seemed endowed. If
it was a cetacean, it surpassed in size all those hitherto classified
in science. Taking into consideration the mean of observations made at
divers times,—rejecting the timid estimate of those who assigned to
this object a length of two hundred feet, equally with the exaggerated
opinions which set it down as a mile in width and three in length,—we
might fairly conclude that this mysterious being surpassed greatly all
dimensions admitted by the ichthyologists of the day, if it existed at
all. And that it _did_ exist was an undeniable fact; and, with that
tendency which disposes the human mind in favour of the marvellous, we
can understand the excitement produced in the entire world by this
supernatural apparition. As to classing it in the list of fables, the
idea was out of the question.

On the 20th of July, 1866, the steamer _Governor Higginson_, of the
Calcutta and Burnach Steam Navigation Company, had met this moving mass
five miles off the east coast of Australia. Captain Baker thought at
first that he was in the presence of an unknown sandbank; he even
prepared to determine its exact position, when two columns of water,
projected by the inexplicable object, shot with a hissing noise a
hundred and fifty feet up into the air. Now, unless the sandbank had
been submitted to the intermittent eruption of a geyser, the _Governor
Higginson_ had to do neither more nor less than with an aquatic mammal,
unknown till then, which threw up from its blow-holes columns of water
mixed with air and vapour.

Similar facts were observed on the 23rd of July in the same year, in
the Pacific Ocean, by the _Columbus_, of the West India and Pacific
Steam Navigation Company. But this extraordinary cetaceous creature
could transport itself from one place to another with surprising
velocity; as, in an interval of three days, the _Governor Higginson_
and the _Columbus_ had observed it at two different points of the
chart, separated by a distance of more than seven hundred nautical
leagues.

Fifteen days later, two thousand miles farther off, the _Helvetia_, of
the Compagnie-Nationale, and the _Shannon_, of the Royal Mail Steamship
Company, sailing to windward in that portion of the Atlantic lying
between the United States and Europe, respectively signalled the
monster to each other in 42° 15′ N. lat. and 60° 35′ W. long. In these
simultaneous observations they thought themselves justified in
estimating the minimum length of the mammal at more than three hundred
and fifty feet, as the _Shannon_ and _Helvetia_ were of smaller
dimensions than it, though they measured three hundred feet over all.

Now the largest whales, those which frequent those parts of the sea
round the Aleutian, Kulammak, and Umgullich islands, have never
exceeded the length of sixty yards, if they attain that.

These reports arriving one after the other, with fresh observations
made on board the transatlantic ship _Pereire_, a collision which
occurred between the _Etna_ of the Inman line and the monster, a
_procès verbal_ directed by the officers of the French frigate
_Normandie_, a very accurate survey made by the staff of Commodore
Fitz-James on board the _Lord Clyde_, greatly influenced public
opinion. Light-thinking people jested upon the phenomenon, but grave
practical countries, such as England, America, and Germany, treated the
matter more seriously.

In every place of great resort the monster was the fashion. They sang
of it in the cafés, ridiculed it in the papers, and represented it on
the stage. All kinds of stories were circulated regarding it. There
appeared in the papers caricatures of every gigantic and imaginary
creature, from the white whale, the terrible “Moby Dick” of hyperborean
regions, to the immense kraken whose tentacles could entangle a ship of
five hundred tons, and hurry it into the abyss of the ocean. The
legends of ancient times were even resuscitated, and the opinions of
Aristotle and Pliny revived, who admitted the existence of these
monsters, as well as the Norwegian tales of Bishop Pontoppidan, the
accounts of Paul Heggede, and, last of all, the reports of Mr.
Harrington (whose good faith no one could suspect), who affirmed that,
being on board the _Castillan_, in 1857, he had seen this enormous
serpent, which had never until that time frequented any other seas but
those of the ancient “_Constitutionnel_.”

Then burst forth the interminable controversy between the credulous and
the incredulous in the societies of savants and the scientific
journals. “The question of the monster” inflamed all minds. Editors of
scientific journals, quarrelling with believers in the supernatural,
spilled seas of ink during this memorable campaign, some even drawing
blood; for, from the sea-serpent they came to direct personalities.

For six months war was waged with various fortune in the leading
articles of the Geographical Institution of Brazil, the Royal Academy
of Science of Berlin, the British Association, the Smithsonian
Institution of Washington, in the discussions of the “Indian
Archipelago,” of the Cosmos of the Abbé Moigno, in the Mittheilungen of
Petermann, in the scientific chronicles of the great journals of France
and other countries. The cheaper journals replied keenly and with
inexhaustible zest. These satirical writers parodied a remark of
Linnæus, quoted by the adversaries of the monster, maintaining “that
nature did not make fools,” and adjured their contemporaries not to
give the lie to nature, by admitting the existence of krakens,
sea-serpents, “Moby Dicks,” and other lucubrations of delirious
sailors. At length an article in a well-known satirical journal by a
favourite contributor, the chief of the staff, settled the monster,
like Hippolytus, giving it the death-blow amidst an universal burst of
laughter. Wit had conquered science.

During the first months of the year 1867 the question seemed buried,
never to revive, when new facts were brought before the public. It was
then no longer a scientific problem to be solved, but a real danger
seriously to be avoided. The question took quite another shape. The
monster became a small island, a rock, a reef, but a reef of indefinite
and shifting proportions.

On the 5th of March, 1867, the _Moravian_, of the Montreal Ocean
Company, finding herself during the night in 27° 30′ lat. and 72° 15′
long., struck on her starboard quarter a rock, marked in no chart for
that part of the sea. Under the combined efforts of the wind and its
four hundred horse-power, it was going at the rate of thirteen knots.
Had it not been for the superior strength of the hull of the
_Moravian_, she would have been broken by the shock and gone down with
the 237 passengers she was bringing home from Canada.

The accident happened about five o’clock in the morning, as the day was
breaking. The officers of the quarter-deck hurried to the after-part of
the vessel. They examined the sea with the most scrupulous attention.
They saw nothing but a strong eddy about three cables’ length distant,
as if the surface had been violently agitated. The bearings of the
place were taken exactly, and the _Moravian_ continued its route
without apparent damage. Had it struck on a submerged rock, or on an
enormous wreck? they could not tell; but on examination of the ship’s
bottom when undergoing repairs, it was found that part of her keel was
broken.

This fact, so grave in itself, might perhaps have been forgotten like
many others if, three weeks after, it had not been re-enacted under
similar circumstances. But, thanks to the nationality of the victim of
the shock, thanks to the reputation of the company to which the vessel
belonged, the circumstance became extensively circulated.

The 13th of April, 1867, the sea being beautiful, the breeze
favourable, the _Scotia_, of the Cunard Company’s line, found herself
in 15° 12′ long. and 45° 37′ lat. She was going at the speed of
thirteen knots and a half.

At seventeen minutes past four in the afternoon, whilst the passengers
were assembled at lunch in the great saloon, a slight shock was felt on
the hull of the _Scotia_, on her quarter, a little aft of the
port-paddle.

The _Scotia_ had not struck, but she had been struck, and seemingly by
something rather sharp and penetrating than blunt. The shock had been
so slight that no one had been alarmed, had it not been for the shouts
of the carpenter’s watch, who rushed on to the bridge, exclaiming, “We
are sinking! we are sinking!” At first the passengers were much
frightened, but Captain Anderson hastened to reassure them. The danger
could not be imminent. The _Scotia_, divided into seven compartments by
strong partitions, could brave with impunity any leak. Captain Anderson
went down immediately into the hold. He found that the sea was pouring
into the fifth compartment; and the rapidity of the influx proved that
the force of the water was considerable. Fortunately this compartment
did not hold the boilers, or the fires would have been immediately
extinguished. Captain Anderson ordered the engines to be stopped at
once, and one of the men went down to ascertain the extent of the
injury. Some minutes afterwards they discovered the existence of a
large hole, of two yards in diameter, in the ship’s bottom. Such a leak
could not be stopped; and the _Scotia_, her paddles half submerged, was
obliged to continue her course. She was then three hundred miles from
Cape Clear, and after three days’ delay, which caused great uneasiness
in Liverpool, she entered the basin of the company.

The engineers visited the _Scotia_, which was put in dry dock. They
could scarcely believe it possible; at two yards and a half below
water-mark was a regular rent, in the form of an isosceles triangle.
The broken place in the iron plates was so perfectly defined that it
could not have been more neatly done by a punch. It was clear, then,
that the instrument producing the perforation was not of a common
stamp; and after having been driven with prodigious strength, and
piercing an iron plate 1-3/8 inches thick, had withdrawn itself by a
retrograde motion truly inexplicable.

Such was the last fact, which resulted in exciting once more the
torrent of public opinion. From this moment all unlucky casualties
which could not be otherwise accounted for were put down to the
monster. Upon this imaginary creature rested the responsibility of all
these shipwrecks, which unfortunately were considerable; for of three
thousand ships whose loss was annually recorded at Lloyd’s, the number
of sailing and steam ships supposed to be totally lost, from the
absence of all news, amounted to not less than two hundred!

Now, it was the “monster” who, justly or unjustly, was accused of their
disappearance, and, thanks to it, communication between the different
continents became more and more dangerous. The public demanded
peremptorily that the seas should at any price be relieved from this
formidable cetacean.




CHAPTER II
PRO AND CON


At the period when these events took place, I had just returned from a
scientific research in the disagreeable territory of Nebraska, in the
United States. In virtue of my office as Assistant Professor in the
Museum of Natural History in Paris, the French Government had attached
me to that expedition. After six months in Nebraska, I arrived in New
York towards the end of March, laden with a precious collection. My
departure for France was fixed for the first days in May. Meanwhile, I
was occupying myself in classifying my mineralogical, botanical, and
zoological riches, when the accident happened to the _Scotia_.

I was perfectly up in the subject which was the question of the day.
How could I be otherwise? I had read and re-read all the American and
European papers without being any nearer a conclusion. This mystery
puzzled me. Under the impossibility of forming an opinion, I jumped
from one extreme to the other. That there really was something could
not be doubted, and the incredulous were invited to put their finger on
the wound of the _Scotia_.

On my arrival at New York the question was at its height. The
hypothesis of the floating island, and the unapproachable sandbank,
supported by minds little competent to form a judgment, was abandoned.
And, indeed, unless this shoal had a machine in its stomach, how could
it change its position with such astonishing rapidity?

From the same cause, the idea of a floating hull of an enormous wreck
was given up.

There remained then only two possible solutions of the question, which
created two distinct parties: on one side, those who were for a monster
of colossal strength; on the other, those who were for a submarine
vessel of enormous motive power.

But this last hypothesis, plausible as it was, could not stand against
inquiries made in both worlds. That a private gentleman should have
such a machine at his command was not likely. Where, when, and how was
it built? and how could its construction have been kept secret?
Certainly a Government might possess such a destructive machine. And in
these disastrous times, when the ingenuity of man has multiplied the
power of weapons of war, it was possible that, without the knowledge of
others, a state might try to work such a formidable engine. After the
chassepots came the torpedoes, after the torpedoes the submarine rams,
then—the reaction. At least, I hope so.

But the hypothesis of a war machine fell before the declaration of
Governments. As public interest was in question, and transatlantic
communications suffered, their veracity could not be doubted. But, how
admit that the construction of this submarine boat had escaped the
public eye? For a private gentleman to keep the secret under such
circumstances would be very difficult, and for a state whose every act
is persistently watched by powerful rivals, certainly impossible.

After inquiries made in England, France, Russia, Prussia, Spain, Italy,
and America, even in Turkey, the hypothesis of a submarine monitor was
definitely rejected.

Upon my arrival in New York several persons did me the honour of
consulting me on the phenomenon in question. I had published in France
a work in quarto, in two volumes, entitled “Mysteries of the Great
Submarine Grounds.” This book, highly approved of in the learned world,
gained for me a special reputation in this rather obscure branch of
Natural History. My advice was asked. As long as I could deny the
reality of the fact, I confined myself to a decided negative. But soon,
finding myself driven into a corner, I was obliged to explain myself
categorically. And even “the Honourable Pierre Aronnax, Professor in
the Museum of Paris,” was called upon by the _New York Herald_ to
express a definite opinion of some sort. I did something. I spoke, for
want of power to hold my tongue. I discussed the question in all its
forms, politically and scientifically; and I give here an extract from
a carefully-studied article which I published in the number of the 30th
of April. It ran as follows:—

“After examining one by one the different hypotheses, rejecting all
other suggestions, it becomes necessary to admit the existence of a
marine animal of enormous power.

“The great depths of the ocean are entirely unknown to us. Soundings
cannot reach them. What passes in those remote depths—what beings live,
or can live, twelve or fifteen miles beneath the surface of the
waters—what is the organisation of these animals, we can scarcely
conjecture. However, the solution of the problem submitted to me may
modify the form of the dilemma. Either we do know all the varieties of
beings which people our planet, or we do not. If we do _not_ know them
all—if Nature has still secrets in ichthyology for us, nothing is more
conformable to reason than to admit the existence of fishes, or
cetaceans of other kinds, or even of new species, of an organisation
formed to inhabit the strata inaccessible to soundings, and which an
accident of some sort, either fatastical or capricious, has brought at
long intervals to the upper level of the ocean.

“If, on the contrary, we _do_ know all living kinds, we must
necessarily seek for the animal in question amongst those marine beings
already classed; and, in that case, I should be disposed to admit the
existence of a gigantic narwhal.

“The common narwhal, or unicorn of the sea, often attains a length of
sixty feet. Increase its size fivefold or tenfold, give it strength
proportionate to its size, lengthen its destructive weapons, and you
obtain the animal required. It will have the proportions determined by
the officers of the _Shannon_, the instrument required by the
perforation of the _Scotia_, and the power necessary to pierce the hull
of the steamer.

“Indeed, the narwhal is armed with a sort of ivory sword, a halberd,
according to the expression of certain naturalists. The principal tusk
has the hardness of steel. Some of these tusks have been found buried
in the bodies of whales, which the unicorn always attacks with success.
Others have been drawn out, not without trouble, from the bottoms of
ships, which they had pierced through and through, as a gimlet pierces
a barrel. The Museum of the Faculty of Medicine of Paris possesses one
of these defensive weapons, two yards and a quarter in length, and
fifteen inches in diameter at the base.

“Very well! suppose this weapon to be six times stronger and the animal
ten times more powerful; launch it at the rate of twenty miles an hour,
and you obtain a shock capable of producing the catastrophe required.
Until further information, therefore, I shall maintain it to be a
sea-unicorn of colossal dimensions, armed not with a halberd, but with
a real spur, as the armoured frigates, or the ‘rams’ of war, whose
massiveness and motive power it would possess at the same time. Thus
may this puzzling phenomenon be explained, unless there be something
over and above all that one has ever conjectured, seen, perceived, or
experienced; which is just within the bounds of possibility.”

These last words were cowardly on my part; but, up to a certain point,
I wished to shelter my dignity as Professor, and not give too much
cause for laughter to the Americans, who laugh well when they do laugh.

I reserved for myself a way of escape. In effect, however, I admitted
the existence of the “monster.” My article was warmly discussed, which
procured it a high reputation. It rallied round it a certain number of
partisans. The solution it proposed gave, at least, full liberty to the
imagination. The human mind delights in grand conceptions of
supernatural beings. And the sea is precisely their best vehicle, the
only medium through which these giants (against which terrestrial
animals, such as elephants or rhinoceroses, are as nothing) can be
produced or developed.

The industrial and commercial papers treated the question chiefly from
this point of view. The _Shipping and Mercantile Gazette_, the _Lloyd’s
List_, the _Packet-Boat_, and the _Maritime and Colonial Review_, all
papers devoted to insurance companies which threatened to raise their
rates of premium, were unanimous on this point. Public opinion had been
pronounced. The United States were the first in the field; and in New
York they made preparations for an expedition destined to pursue this
narwhal. A frigate of great speed, the _Abraham Lincoln_, was put in
commission as soon as possible. The arsenals were opened to Commander
Farragut, who hastened the arming of his frigate; but, as it always
happens, the moment it was decided to pursue the monster, the monster
did not appear. For two months no one heard it spoken of. No ship met
with it. It seemed as if this unicorn knew of the plots weaving around
it. It had been so much talked of, even through the Atlantic cable,
that jesters pretended that this slender fly had stopped a telegram on
its passage and was making the most of it.

So when the frigate had been armed for a long campaign, and provided
with formidable fishing apparatus, no one could tell what course to
pursue. Impatience grew apace, when, on the 2nd of July, they learned
that a steamer of the line of San Francisco, from California to
Shanghai, had seen the animal three weeks before in the North Pacific
Ocean. The excitement caused by this news was extreme. The ship was
revictualled and well stocked with coal.

Three hours before the _Abraham Lincoln_ left Brooklyn pier, I received
a letter worded as follows:—


“To M. ARONNAX, Professor in the Museum of Paris, Fifth Avenue Hotel,
New York.

“SIR,—If you will consent to join the _Abraham Lincoln_ in this
expedition, the Government of the United States will with pleasure see
France represented in the enterprise. Commander Farragut has a cabin at
your disposal.


“Very cordially yours,
“J.B. HOBSON,
“Secretary of Marine.”




CHAPTER III
I FORM MY RESOLUTION


Three seconds before the arrival of J. B. Hobson’s letter, I no more
thought of pursuing the unicorn than of attempting the passage of the
North Sea. Three seconds after reading the letter of the honourable
Secretary of Marine, I felt that my true vocation, the sole end of my
life, was to chase this disturbing monster, and purge it from the
world.

But I had just returned from a fatiguing journey, weary and longing for
repose. I aspired to nothing more than again seeing my country, my
friends, my little lodging by the Jardin des Plantes, my dear and
precious collections. But nothing could keep me back! I forgot
all—fatigue, friends and collections—and accepted without hesitation
the offer of the American Government.

“Besides,” thought I, “all roads lead back to Europe (for my particular
benefit), and I will not hurry me towards the coast of France. This
worthy animal may allow itself to be caught in the seas of Europe (for
my particular benefit), and I will not bring back less than half a yard
of his ivory halberd to the Museum of Natural History.” But in the
meanwhile I must seek this narwhal in the North Pacific Ocean, which,
to return to France, was taking the road to the antipodes.

“Conseil,” I called in an impatient voice.

Conseil was my servant, a true, devoted Flemish boy, who had
accompanied me in all my travels. I liked him, and he returned the
liking well. He was phlegmatic by nature, regular from principle,
zealous from habit, evincing little disturbance at the different
surprises of life, very quick with his hands, and apt at any service
required of him; and, despite his name, never giving advice—even when
asked for it.

Conseil had followed me for the last ten years wherever science led.
Never once did he complain of the length or fatigue of a journey, never
make an objection to pack his portmanteau for whatever country it might
be, or however far away, whether China or Congo. Besides all this, he
had good health, which defied all sickness, and solid muscles, but no
nerves; good morals are understood. This boy was thirty years old, and
his age to that of his master as fifteen to twenty. May I be excused
for saying that I was forty years old?

But Conseil had one fault: he was ceremonious to a degree, and would
never speak to me but in the third person, which was sometimes
provoking.

“Conseil,” said I again, beginning with feverish hands to make
preparations for my departure.

Certainly I was sure of this devoted boy. As a rule, I never asked him
if it were convenient for him or not to follow me in my travels; but
this time the expedition in question might be prolonged, and the
enterprise might be hazardous in pursuit of an animal capable of
sinking a frigate as easily as a nutshell. Here there was matter for
reflection even to the most impassive man in the world. What would
Conseil say?

“Conseil,” I called a third time.

Conseil appeared.

“Did you call, sir?” said he, entering.

“Yes, my boy; make preparations for me and yourself too. We leave in
two hours.”

“As you please, sir,” replied Conseil, quietly.

“Not an instant to lose;—lock in my trunk all travelling utensils,
coats, shirts, and stockings—without counting, as many as you can, and
make haste.”

“And your collections, sir?” observed Conseil.

“We will think of them by and by.”

“What! the archiotherium, the hyracotherium, the oreodons, the
cheropotamus, and the other skins?”

“They will keep them at the hotel.”

“And your live Babiroussa, sir?”

“They will feed it during our absence; besides, I will give orders to
forward our menagerie to France.”

“We are not returning to Paris, then?” said Conseil.

“Oh! certainly,” I answered, evasively, “by making a curve.”

“Will the curve please you, sir?”

“Oh! it will be nothing; not quite so direct a road, that is all. We
take our passage in the _Abraham Lincoln_.”

“As you think proper, sir,” coolly replied Conseil.

“You see, my friend, it has to do with the monster—the famous narwhal.
We are going to purge it from the seas. The author of a work in quarto
in two volumes, on the ‘Mysteries of the Great Submarine Grounds’
cannot forbear embarking with Commander Farragut. A glorious mission,
but a dangerous one! We cannot tell where we may go; these animals can
be very capricious. But we will go whether or no; we have got a captain
who is pretty wide-awake.”

I opened a credit account for Babiroussa, and, Conseil following, I
jumped into a cab. Our luggage was transported to the deck of the
frigate immediately. I hastened on board and asked for Commander
Farragut. One of the sailors conducted me to the poop, where I found
myself in the presence of a good-looking officer, who held out his hand
to me.

“Monsieur Pierre Aronnax?” said he.

“Himself,” replied I; “Commander Farragut?”

“You are welcome, Professor; your cabin is ready for you.”

I bowed, and desired to be conducted to the cabin destined for me.

The _Abraham Lincoln_ had been well chosen and equipped for her new
destination. She was a frigate of great speed, fitted with
high-pressure engines which admitted a pressure of seven atmospheres.
Under this the _Abraham Lincoln_ attained the mean speed of nearly
eighteen knots and a third an hour—a considerable speed, but,
nevertheless, insufficient to grapple with this gigantic cetacean.

The interior arrangements of the frigate corresponded to its nautical
qualities. I was well satisfied with my cabin, which was in the after
part, opening upon the gunroom.

“We shall be well off here,” said I to Conseil.

“As well, by your honour’s leave, as a hermit-crab in the shell of a
whelk,” said Conseil.

I left Conseil to stow our trunks conveniently away, and remounted the
poop in order to survey the preparations for departure.

At that moment Commander Farragut was ordering the last moorings to be
cast loose which held the _Abraham Lincoln_ to the pier of Brooklyn. So
in a quarter of an hour, perhaps less, the frigate would have sailed
without me. I should have missed this extraordinary, supernatural, and
incredible expedition, the recital of which may well meet with some
scepticism.

But Commander Farragut would not lose a day nor an hour in scouring the
seas in which the animal had been sighted. He sent for the engineer.

“Is the steam full on?” asked he.

“Yes, sir,” replied the engineer.

“Go ahead,” cried Commander Farragut.

The quay of Brooklyn, and all that part of New York bordering on the
East River, was crowded with spectators. Three cheers burst
successively from five hundred thousand throats; thousands of
handkerchiefs were waved above the heads of the compact mass, saluting
the _Abraham Lincoln_, until she reached the waters of the Hudson, at
the point of that elongated peninsula which forms the town of New York.
Then the frigate, following the coast of New Jersey along the right
bank of the beautiful river, covered with villas, passed between the
forts, which saluted her with their heaviest guns. The _Abraham
Lincoln_ answered by hoisting the American colours three times, whose
thirty-nine stars shone resplendent from the mizzen-peak; then
modifying its speed to take the narrow channel marked by buoys placed
in the inner bay formed by Sandy Hook Point, it coasted the long sandy
beach, where some thousands of spectators gave it one final cheer. The
escort of boats and tenders still followed the frigate, and did not
leave her until they came abreast of the lightship, whose two lights
marked the entrance of New York Channel.

Six bells struck, the pilot got into his boat, and rejoined the little
schooner which was waiting under our lee, the fires were made up, the
screw beat the waves more rapidly, the frigate skirted the low yellow
coast of Long Island; and at eight bells, after having lost sight in
the north-west of the lights of Fire Island, she ran at full steam on
to the dark waters of the Atlantic.




CHAPTER IV
NED LAND


Captain Farragut was a good seaman, worthy of the frigate he commanded.
His vessel and he were one. He was the soul of it. On the question of
the cetacean there was no doubt in his mind, and he would not allow the
existence of the animal to be disputed on board. He believed in it, as
certain good women believe in the leviathan—by faith, not by reason.
The monster did exist, and he had sworn to rid the seas of it. He was a
kind of Knight of Rhodes, a second Dieudonné de Gozon, going to meet
the serpent which desolated the island. Either Captain Farragut would
kill the narwhal, or the narwhal would kill the captain. There was no
third course.

The officers on board shared the opinion of their chief. They were ever
chatting, discussing, and calculating the various chances of a meeting,
watching narrowly the vast surface of the ocean. More than one took up
his quarters voluntarily in the cross-trees, who would have cursed such
a berth under any other circumstances. As long as the sun described its
daily course, the rigging was crowded with sailors, whose feet were
burnt to such an extent by the heat of the deck as to render it
unbearable; still the _Abraham Lincoln_ had not yet breasted the
suspected waters of the Pacific. As to the ship’s company, they desired
nothing better than to meet the unicorn, to harpoon it, hoist it on
board, and despatch it. They watched the sea with eager attention.

Besides, Captain Farragut had spoken of a certain sum of two thousand
dollars, set apart for whoever should first sight the monster, were he
cabin-boy, common seaman, or officer.

I leave you to judge how eyes were used on board the _Abraham Lincoln_.

For my own part I was not behind the others, and left to no one my
share of daily observations. The frigate might have been called the
_Argus_, for a hundred reasons. Only one amongst us, Conseil, seemed to
protest by his indifference against the question which so interested us
all, and seemed to be out of keeping with the general enthusiasm on
board.

I have said that Captain Farragut had carefully provided his ship with
every apparatus for catching the gigantic cetacean. No whaler had ever
been better armed. We possessed every known engine, from the harpoon
thrown by the hand to the barbed arrows of the blunderbuss, and the
explosive balls of the duck-gun. On the forecastle lay the perfection
of a breech-loading gun, very thick at the breech, and very narrow in
the bore, the model of which had been in the Exhibition of 1867. This
precious weapon of American origin could throw with ease a conical
projectile of nine pounds to a mean distance of ten miles.

Thus the _Abraham Lincoln_ wanted for no means of destruction; and,
what was better still, she had on board Ned Land, the prince of
harpooners.

Ned Land was a Canadian, with an uncommon quickness of hand, and who
knew no equal in his dangerous occupation. Skill, coolness, audacity,
and cunning he possessed in a superior degree, and it must be a cunning
whale or a singularly “cute” cachalot to escape the stroke of his
harpoon.

Ned Land was about forty years of age; he was a tall man (more than six
feet high), strongly built, grave and taciturn, occasionally violent,
and very passionate when contradicted. His person attracted attention,
but above all the boldness of his look, which gave a singular
expression to his face.

Who calls himself Canadian calls himself French; and, little
communicative as Ned Land was, I must admit that he took a certain
liking for me. My nationality drew him to me, no doubt. It was an
opportunity for him to talk, and for me to hear, that old language of
Rabelais, which is still in use in some Canadian provinces. The
harpooner’s family was originally from Quebec, and was already a tribe
of hardy fishermen when this town belonged to France.

Little by little, Ned Land acquired a taste for chatting, and I loved
to hear the recital of his adventures in the polar seas. He related his
fishing, and his combats, with natural poetry of expression; his
recital took the form of an epic poem, and I seemed to be listening to
a Canadian Homer singing the Iliad of the regions of the North.

I am portraying this hardy companion as I really knew him. We are old
friends now, united in that unchangeable friendship which is born and
cemented amidst extreme dangers. Ah, brave Ned! I ask no more than to
live a hundred years longer, that I may have more time to dwell the
longer on your memory.

Now, what was Ned Land’s opinion upon the question of the marine
monster? I must admit that he did not believe in the unicorn, and was
the only one on board who did not share that universal conviction. He
even avoided the subject, which I one day thought it my duty to press
upon him. One magnificent evening, the 30th of July—that is to say,
three weeks after our departure—the frigate was abreast of Cape Blanc,
thirty miles to leeward of the coast of Patagonia. We had crossed the
tropic of Capricorn, and the Straits of Magellan opened less than seven
hundred miles to the south. Before eight days were over the _Abraham
Lincoln_ would be ploughing the waters of the Pacific.

Seated on the poop, Ned Land and I were chatting of one thing and
another as we looked at this mysterious sea, whose great depths had up
to this time been inaccessible to the eye of man. I naturally led up
the conversation to the giant unicorn, and examined the various chances
of success or failure of the expedition. But, seeing that Ned Land let
me speak without saying too much himself, I pressed him more closely.

“Well, Ned,” said I, “is it possible that you are not convinced of the
existence of this cetacean that we are following? Have you any
particular reason for being so incredulous?”

The harpooner looked at me fixedly for some moments before answering,
struck his broad forehead with his hand (a habit of his), as if to
collect himself, and said at last, “Perhaps I have, M. Aronnax.”

“But, Ned, you, a whaler by profession, familiarised with all the great
marine mammalia—you, whose imagination might easily accept the
hypothesis of enormous cetaceans, _you_ ought to be the last to doubt
under such circumstances!”

“That is just what deceives you, Professor,” replied Ned. “That the
vulgar should believe in extraordinary comets traversing space, and in
the existence of antediluvian monsters in the heart of the globe, may
well be; but neither astronomer nor geologist believes in such
chimeras. As a whaler I have followed many a cetacean, harpooned a
great number, and killed several; but, however strong or well-armed
they may have been, neither their tails nor their weapons would have
been able even to scratch the iron plates of a steamer.”

“But, Ned, they tell of ships which the teeth of the narwhal have
pierced through and through.”

“Wooden ships—that is possible,” replied the Canadian, “but I have
never seen it done; and, until further proof, I deny that whales,
cetaceans, or sea-unicorns could ever produce the effect you describe.”

“Well, Ned, I repeat it with a conviction resting on the logic of
facts. I believe in the existence of a mammal powerfully organised,
belonging to the branch of vertebrata, like the whales, the cachalots,
or the dolphins, and furnished with a horn of defence of great
penetrating power.”

“Hum!” said the harpooner, shaking his head with the air of a man who
would not be convinced.

“Notice one thing, my worthy Canadian,” I resumed. “If such an animal
is in existence, if it inhabits the depths of the ocean, if it
frequents the strata lying miles below the surface of the water, it
must necessarily possess an organisation the strength of which would
defy all comparison.”

“And why this powerful organisation?” demanded Ned.

“Because it requires incalculable strength to keep one’s self in these
strata and resist their pressure. Listen to me. Let us admit that the
pressure of the atmosphere is represented by the weight of a column of
water thirty-two feet high. In reality the column of water would be
shorter, as we are speaking of sea water, the density of which is
greater than that of fresh water. Very well, when you dive, Ned, as
many times thirty-two feet of water as there are above you, so many
times does your body bear a pressure equal to that of the atmosphere,
that is to say, 15 lbs. for each square inch of its surface. It
follows, then, that at 320 feet this pressure = that of 10 atmospheres,
of 100 atmospheres at 3200 feet, and of 1000 atmospheres at 32,000
feet, that is, about 6 miles; which is equivalent to saying that if you
could attain this depth in the ocean, each square three-eighths of an
inch of the surface of your body would bear a pressure of 5600 lbs. Ah!
my brave Ned, do you know how many square inches you carry on the
surface of your body?”

“I have no idea, M. Aronnax.”

“About 6500; and, as in reality the atmospheric pressure is about 15
lbs. to the square inch, your 6500 square inches bear at this moment a
pressure of 97,500 lbs.”

“Without my perceiving it?”

“Without your perceiving it. And if you are not crushed by such a
pressure, it is because the air penetrates the interior of your body
with equal pressure. Hence perfect equilibrium between the interior and
exterior pressure, which thus neutralise each other, and which allows
you to bear it without inconvenience. But in the water it is another
thing.”

“Yes, I understand,” replied Ned, becoming more attentive; “because the
water surrounds me, but does not penetrate.”

“Precisely, Ned: so that at 32 feet beneath the surface of the sea you
would undergo a pressure of 97,500 lbs.; at 320 feet, ten times that
pressure; at 3200 feet, a hundred times that pressure; lastly, at
32,000 feet, a thousand times that pressure would be 97,500,000
lbs.—that is to say, that you would be flattened as if you had been
drawn from the plates of a hydraulic machine!”

“The devil!” exclaimed Ned.

“Very well, my worthy harpooner, if some vertebrate, several hundred
yards long, and large in proportion, can maintain itself in such
depths—of those whose surface is represented by millions of square
inches, that is by tens of millions of pounds, we must estimate the
pressure they undergo. Consider, then, what must be the resistance of
their bony structure, and the strength of their organisation to
withstand such pressure!”

“Why!” exclaimed Ned Land, “they must be made of iron plates eight
inches thick, like the armoured frigates.”

“As you say, Ned. And think what destruction such a mass would cause,
if hurled with the speed of an express train against the hull of a
vessel.”

“Yes—certainly—perhaps,” replied the Canadian, shaken by these figures,
but not yet willing to give in.

“Well, have I convinced you?”

“You have convinced me of one thing, sir, which is that, if such
animals do exist at the bottom of the seas, they must necessarily be as
strong as you say.”

“But if they do not exist, mine obstinate harpooner, how explain the
accident to the _Scotia?_”




CHAPTER V
AT A VENTURE


The voyage of the _Abraham Lincoln_ was for a long time marked by no
special incident. But one circumstance happened which showed the
wonderful dexterity of Ned Land, and proved what confidence we might
place in him.

The 30th of June, the frigate spoke some American whalers, from whom we
learned that they knew nothing about the narwhal. But one of them, the
captain of the _Monroe_, knowing that Ned Land had shipped on board the
_Abraham Lincoln_, begged for his help in chasing a whale they had in
sight. Commander Farragut, desirous of seeing Ned Land at work, gave
him permission to go on board the _Monroe_. And fate served our
Canadian so well that, instead of one whale, he harpooned two with a
double blow, striking one straight to the heart, and catching the other
after some minutes’ pursuit.

Decidedly, if the monster ever had to do with Ned Land’s harpoon, I
would not bet in its favour.

The frigate skirted the south-east coast of America with great
rapidity. The 3rd of July we were at the opening of the Straits of
Magellan, level with Cape Vierges. But Commander Farragut would not
take a tortuous passage, but doubled Cape Horn.

The ship’s crew agreed with him. And certainly it was possible that
they might meet the narwhal in this narrow pass. Many of the sailors
affirmed that the monster could not pass there, “that he was too big
for that!”

The 6th of July, about three o’clock in the afternoon, the _Abraham
Lincoln_, at fifteen miles to the south, doubled the solitary island,
this lost rock at the extremity of the American continent, to which
some Dutch sailors gave the name of their native town, Cape Horn. The
course was taken towards the north-west, and the next day the screw of
the frigate was at last beating the waters of the Pacific.

“Keep your eyes open!” called out the sailors.

And they were opened widely. Both eyes and glasses, a little dazzled,
it is true, by the prospect of two thousand dollars, had not an
instant’s repose. Day and night they watched the surface of the ocean,
and even nyctalopes, whose faculty of seeing in the darkness multiplies
their chances a hundredfold, would have had enough to do to gain the
prize.

I myself, for whom money had no charms, was not the least attentive on
board. Giving but few minutes to my meals, but a few hours to sleep,
indifferent to either rain or sunshine, I did not leave the poop of the
vessel. Now leaning on the netting of the forecastle, now on the
taffrail, I devoured with eagerness the soft foam which whitened the
sea as far as the eye could reach; and how often have I shared the
emotion of the majority of the crew, when some capricious whale raised
its black back above the waves! The poop of the vessel was crowded in a
moment. The cabins poured forth a torrent of sailors and officers, each
with heaving breast and troubled eye watching the course of the
cetacean. I looked and looked, till I was nearly blind, whilst Conseil,
always phlegmatic, kept repeating in a calm voice:

“If, sir, you would not squint so much, you would see better!”

But vain excitement! The _Abraham Lincoln_ checked its speed and made
for the animal signalled, a simple whale, or common cachalot, which
soon disappeared amidst a storm of execration.

But the weather was good. The voyage was being accomplished under the
most favourable auspices. It was then the bad season in Australia, the
July of that zone corresponding to our January in Europe, but the sea
was beautiful and easily scanned round a vast circumference.

The 20th of July, the tropic of Capricorn was cut by 105° of longitude,
and the 27th of the same month we crossed the equator on the 110th
meridian. This passed, the frigate took a more decided westerly
direction, and scoured the central waters of the Pacific. Commander
Farragut thought, and with reason, that it was better to remain in deep
water, and keep clear of continents or islands, which the beast itself
seemed to shun (perhaps because there was not enough water for him!
suggested the greater part of the crew). The frigate passed at some
distance from the Marquesas and the Sandwich Islands, crossed the
tropic of Cancer, and made for the China Seas. We were on the theatre
of the last diversions of the monster: and, to say truth, we no longer
_lived_ on board. Hearts palpitated, fearfully preparing themselves for
future incurable aneurism. The entire ship’s crew were undergoing a
nervous excitement, of which I can give no idea: they could not eat,
they could not sleep—twenty times a day, a misconception or an optical
illusion of some sailor seated on the taffrail, would cause dreadful
perspirations, and these emotions, twenty times repeated, kept us in a
state of excitement so violent that a reaction was unavoidable.

And truly, reaction soon showed itself. For three months, during which
a day seemed an age, the _Abraham Lincoln_ furrowed all the waters of
the Northern Pacific, running at whales, making sharp deviations from
her course, veering suddenly from one tack to another, stopping
suddenly, putting on steam, and backing ever and anon at the risk of
deranging her machinery, and not one point of the Japanese or American
coast was left unexplored.

The warmest partisans of the enterprise now became its most ardent
detractors. Reaction mounted from the crew to the captain himself, and
certainly, had it not been for resolute determination on the part of
Captain Farragut, the frigate would have headed due southward. This
useless search could not last much longer. The _Abraham Lincoln_ had
nothing to reproach herself with, she had done her best to succeed.
Never had an American ship’s crew shown more zeal or patience; its
failure could not be placed to their charge—there remained nothing but
to return.

This was represented to the commander. The sailors could not hide their
discontent, and the service suffered. I will not say there was a mutiny
on board, but after a reasonable period of obstinacy, Captain Farragut
(as Columbus did) asked for three days’ patience. If in three days the
monster did not appear, the man at the helm should give three turns of
the wheel, and the _Abraham Lincoln_ would make for the European seas.

This promise was made on the 2nd of November. It had the effect of
rallying the ship’s crew. The ocean was watched with renewed attention.
Each one wished for a last glance in which to sum up his remembrance.
Glasses were used with feverish activity. It was a grand defiance given
to the giant narwhal, and he could scarcely fail to answer the summons
and “appear.”

Two days passed, the steam was at half pressure; a thousand schemes
were tried to attract the attention and stimulate the apathy of the
animal in case it should be met in those parts. Large quantities of
bacon were trailed in the wake of the ship, to the great satisfaction
(I must say) of the sharks. Small craft radiated in all directions
round the _Abraham Lincoln_ as she lay to, and did not leave a spot of
the sea unexplored. But the night of the 4th of November arrived
without the unveiling of this submarine mystery.

The next day, the 5th of November, at twelve, the delay would (morally
speaking) expire; after that time, Commander Farragut, faithful to his
promise, was to turn the course to the south-east and abandon for ever
the northern regions of the Pacific.

The frigate was then in 31° 15′ north latitude and 136° 42′ east
longitude. The coast of Japan still remained less than two hundred
miles to leeward. Night was approaching. They had just struck eight
bells; large clouds veiled the face of the moon, then in its first
quarter. The sea undulated peaceably under the stern of the vessel.

At that moment I was leaning forward on the starboard netting. Conseil,
standing near me, was looking straight before him. The crew, perched in
the ratlines, examined the horizon, which contracted and darkened by
degrees. Officers with their night glasses scoured the growing
darkness; sometimes the ocean sparkled under the rays of the moon,
which darted between two clouds, then all trace of light was lost in
the darkness.

In looking at Conseil, I could see he was undergoing a little of the
general influence. At least I thought so. Perhaps for the first time
his nerves vibrated to a sentiment of curiosity.

“Come, Conseil,” said I, “this is the last chance of pocketing the two
thousand dollars.”

“May I be permitted to say, sir,” replied Conseil, “that I never
reckoned on getting the prize; and, had the government of the Union
offered a hundred thousand dollars, it would have been none the
poorer.”

“You are right, Conseil. It is a foolish affair after all, and one upon
which we entered too lightly. What time lost, what useless emotions! We
should have been back in France six months ago.”

“In your little room, sir,” replied Conseil, “and in your museum, sir,
and I should have already classed all your fossils, sir. And the
Babiroussa would have been installed in its cage in the Jardin des
Plantes, and have drawn all the curious people of the capital!”

“As you say, Conseil. I fancy we shall run a fair chance of being
laughed at for our pains.”

“That’s tolerably certain,” replied Conseil, quietly; “I think they
will make fun of you, sir. And, must I say it?”

“Go on, my good friend.”

“Well, sir, you will only get your deserts.”

“Indeed!”

“When one has the honour of being a savant as you are, sir, one should
not expose one’s self to——”

Conseil had not time to finish his compliment. In the midst of general
silence a voice had just been heard. It was the voice of Ned Land
shouting—

“Look out there! The very thing we are looking for—on our weather
beam!”




CHAPTER VI
AT FULL STEAM


At this cry the whole ship’s crew hurried towards the
harpooner,—commander, officers, masters, sailors, cabin boys; even the
engineers left their engines, and the stokers their furnaces.

The order to stop her had been given, and the frigate now simply went
on by her own momentum. The darkness was then profound, and however
good the Canadian’s eyes were, I asked myself how he had managed to
see, and what he had been able to see. My heart beat as if it would
break. But Ned Land was not mistaken, and we all perceived the object
he pointed to. At two cables’ length from the _Abraham Lincoln_, on the
starboard quarter, the sea seemed to be illuminated all over. It was
not a mere phosphoric phenomenon. The monster emerged some fathoms from
the water, and then threw out that very intense but inexplicable light
mentioned in the report of several captains. This magnificent
irradiation must have been produced by an agent of great _shining_
power. The luminous part traced on the sea an immense oval, much
elongated, the centre of which condensed a burning heat, whose
overpowering brilliancy died out by successive gradations.

“It is only an agglomeration of phosphoric particles,” cried one of the
officers.

“No, sir, certainly not,” I replied. “Never did pholades or salpæ
produce such a powerful light. That brightness is of an essentially
electrical nature. Besides, see, see! it moves; it is moving forwards,
backwards; it is darting towards us!”

A general cry rose from the frigate.

“Silence!” said the Captain; “up with the helm, reverse the engines.”

The steam was shut off, and the _Abraham Lincoln_, beating to port,
described a semicircle.

“Right the helm, go ahead,” cried the Captain.

These orders were executed, and the frigate moved rapidly from the
burning light.

I was mistaken. She tried to sheer off, but the supernatural animal
approached with a velocity double her own.

We gasped for breath. Stupefaction more than fear made us dumb and
motionless. The animal gained on us, sporting with the waves. It made
the round of the frigate, which was then making fourteen knots, and
enveloped it with its electric rings like luminous dust. Then it moved
away two or three miles, leaving a phosphorescent track, like those
volumes of steam that the express trains leave behind. All at once from
the dark line of the horizon whither it retired to gain its momentum,
the monster rushed suddenly towards the _Abraham Lincoln_ with alarming
rapidity, stopped suddenly about twenty feet from the hull, and died
out,—not diving under the water, for its brilliancy did not abate,—but
suddenly, and as if the source of this brilliant emanation was
exhausted. Then it reappeared on the other side of the vessel, as if it
had turned and slid under the hull. Any moment a collision might have
occurred which would have been fatal to us. However, I was astonished
at the manœuvres of the frigate. She fled and did not attack.

On the captain’s face, generally so impassive, was an expression of
unaccountable astonishment.

“M. Aronnax,” he said, “I do not know with what formidable being I
have to deal, and I will not imprudently risk my frigate in the midst
of this darkness. Besides, how attack this unknown thing, how defend
one’s self from it? Wait for daylight, and the scene will change.”

“You have no further doubt, captain, of the nature of the animal?”

“No, sir; it is evidently a gigantic narwhal, and an electric one.”

“Perhaps,” added I, “one can only approach it with a gymnotus or a
torpedo.”

“Undoubtedly,” replied the captain, “if it possesses such dreadful
power, it is the most terrible animal that ever was created. That is
why, sir, I must be on my guard.”

The crew were on their feet all night. No one thought of sleep. The
_Abraham Lincoln_, not being able to struggle with such velocity, had
moderated its pace, and sailed at half speed. For its part, the
narwhal, imitating the frigate, let the waves rock it at will, and
seemed decided not to leave the scene of the struggle. Towards
midnight, however, it disappeared, or, to use a more appropriate term,
it “died out” like a large glow-worm. Had it fled? One could only fear,
not hope. But at seven minutes to one o’clock in the morning a
deafening whistling was heard, like that produced by a body of water
rushing with great violence.

The captain, Ned Land, and I, were then on the poop, eagerly peering
through the profound darkness.

“Ned Land,” asked the commander, “you have often heard the roaring of
whales?”

“Often, sir; but never such whales the sight of which brought me in two
thousand dollars. If I can only approach within four harpoon lengths of
it!”

“But to approach it,” said the commander, “I ought to put a whaler at
your disposal?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“That will be trifling with the lives of my men.”

“And mine too,” simply said the harpooner.

Towards two o’clock in the morning, the burning light reappeared, not
less intense, about five miles to windward of the _Abraham Lincoln_.
Notwithstanding the distance, and the noise of the wind and sea, one
heard distinctly the loud strokes of the animal’s tail, and even its
panting breath. It seemed that, at the moment that the enormous narwhal
had come to take breath at the surface of the water, the air was
engulfed in its lungs, like the steam in the vast cylinders of a
machine of two thousand horse-power.

“Hum!” thought I, “a whale with the strength of a cavalry regiment
would be a pretty whale!”

We were on the _qui vive_ till daylight, and prepared for the combat.
The fishing implements were laid along the hammock nettings. The second
lieutenant loaded the blunderbusses, which could throw harpoons to the
distance of a mile, and long duck-guns, with explosive bullets, which
inflicted mortal wounds even to the most terrible animals. Ned Land
contented himself with sharpening his harpoon—a terrible weapon in his
hands.

At six o’clock day began to break; and, with the first glimmer of
light, the electric light of the narwhal disappeared. At seven o’clock
the day was sufficiently advanced, but a very thick sea fog obscured
our view, and the best spy-glasses could not pierce it. That caused
disappointment and anger.

I climbed the mizzen-mast. Some officers were already perched on the
mast heads. At eight o’clock the fog lay heavily on the waves, and its
thick scrolls rose little by little. The horizon grew wider and clearer
at the same time. Suddenly, just as on the day before, Ned Land’s voice
was heard:

“The thing itself on the port quarter!” cried the harpooner.

Every eye was turned towards the point indicated. There, a mile and a
half from the frigate, a long blackish body emerged a yard above the
waves. Its tail, violently agitated, produced a considerable eddy.
Never did a caudal appendage beat the sea with such violence. An
immense track, of dazzling whiteness, marked the passage of the animal,
and described a long curve.

The frigate approached the cetacean. I examined it thoroughly.

The reports of the _Shannon_ and of the _Helvetia_ had rather
exaggerated its size, and I estimated its length at only two hundred
and fifty feet. As to its dimensions, I could only conjecture them to
be admirably proportioned. While I watched this phenomenon, two jets of
steam and water were ejected from its vents, and rose to the height of
120 feet; thus I ascertained its way of breathing. I concluded
definitely that it belonged to the vertebrate branch, class mammalia.

The crew waited impatiently for their chief’s orders. The latter, after
having observed the animal attentively, called the engineer. The
engineer ran to him.

“Sir,” said the commander, “you have steam up?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the engineer.

“Well, make up your fires and put on all steam.”

Three hurrahs greeted this order. The time for the struggle had
arrived. Some moments after, the two funnels of the frigate vomited
torrents of black smoke, and the bridge quaked under the trembling of
the boilers.

The _Abraham Lincoln_, propelled by her wonderful screw, went straight
at the animal. The latter allowed it to come within half a cable’s
length; then, as if disdaining to dive, it took a little turn, and
stopped a short distance off.

This pursuit lasted nearly three-quarters of an hour, without the
frigate gaining two yards on the cetacean. It was quite evident that at
that rate we should never come up with it.

“Well, Mr. Land,” asked the captain, “do you advise me to put the boats
out to sea?”

“No, sir,” replied Ned Land; “because we shall not take that beast
easily.”

“What shall we do then?”

“Put on more steam if you can, sir. With your leave, I mean to post
myself under the bowsprit, and if we get within harpooning distance, I
shall throw my harpoon.”

“Go, Ned,” said the captain. “Engineer, put on more pressure.”

Ned Land went to his post. The fires were increased, the screw revolved
forty-three times a minute, and the steam poured out of the valves. We
heaved the log, and calculated that the _Abraham Lincoln_ was going at
the rate of 18½ miles an hour.

But the accursed animal swam too at the rate of 18½ miles an hour.

For a whole hour, the frigate kept up this pace, without gaining six
feet. It was humiliating for one of the swiftest sailers in the
American navy. A stubborn anger seized the crew; the sailors abused the
monster, who, as before, disdained to answer them; the captain no
longer contented himself with twisting his beard—he gnawed it.

The engineer was again called.

“You have turned full steam in?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the engineer.

The speed of the _Abraham Lincoln_ increased. Its masts trembled down
to their stepping holes, and the clouds of smoke could hardly find way
out of the narrow funnels.

They heaved the log a second time.

“Well?” asked the captain of the man at the wheel.

“Nineteen miles and three-tenths, sir.”

“Clap on more steam.”

The engineer obeyed. The manometer showed ten degrees. But the cetacean
grew warm itself, no doubt; for without straining itself, it made
19-3/10 miles.

What a pursuit! No, I cannot describe the emotion that vibrated through
me. Ned Land kept his post, harpoon in hand. Several times the animal
let us gain upon it.—“We shall catch it! we shall catch it!” cried the
Canadian. But just as he was going to strike, the cetacean stole away
with a rapidity that could not be estimated at less than thirty miles
an hour, and even during our maximum of speed, it bullied the frigate,
going round and round it. A cry of fury broke from everyone!

At noon we were no further advanced than at eight o’clock in the
morning.

The captain then decided to take more direct means.

“Ah!” said he, “that animal goes quicker than the _Abraham Lincoln_.
Very well! we will see whether it will escape these conical bullets.
Send your men to the forecastle, sir.”

The forecastle gun was immediately loaded and slewed round. But the
shot passed some feet above the cetacean, which was half a mile off.

“Another, more to the right,” cried the commander, “and five dollars to
whoever will hit that infernal beast.”

An old gunner with a grey beard—that I can see now—with steady eye and
grave face, went up to the gun and took a long aim. A loud report was
heard, with which were mingled the cheers of the crew.


[Illustration] An old grey-bearded gunner . . . .


The bullet did its work; it hit the animal, but not fatally, and
sliding off the rounded surface, was lost in two miles depth of sea.

The chase began again, and the captain, leaning towards me, said—

“I will pursue that beast till my frigate bursts up.”

“Yes,” answered I; “and you will be quite right to do it.”

I wished the beast would exhaust itself, and not be insensible to
fatigue like a steam engine! But it was of no use. Hours passed,
without its showing any signs of exhaustion.

However, it must be said in praise of the _Abraham Lincoln_, that she
struggled on indefatigably. I cannot reckon the distance she made under
three hundred miles during this unlucky day, November the 6th. But
night came on, and overshadowed the rough ocean.

Now I thought our expedition was at an end, and that we should never
again see the extraordinary animal. I was mistaken. At ten minutes to
eleven in the evening, the electric light reappeared three miles to
windward of the frigate, as pure, as intense as during the preceding
night.

The narwhal seemed motionless; perhaps, tired with its day’s work, it
slept, letting itself float with the undulation of the waves. Now was a
chance of which the captain resolved to take advantage.

He gave his orders. The _Abraham Lincoln_ kept up half steam, and
advanced cautiously so as not to awake its adversary. It is no rare
thing to meet in the middle of the ocean whales so sound asleep that
they can be successfully attacked, and Ned Land had harpooned more than
one during its sleep. The Canadian went to take his place again under
the bowsprit.

The frigate approached noiselessly, stopped at two cables’ lengths from
the animal, and following its track. No one breathed; a deep silence
reigned on the bridge. We were not a hundred feet from the burning
focus, the light of which increased and dazzled our eyes.

At this moment, leaning on the forecastle bulwark, I saw below me Ned
Land grappling the martingale in one hand, brandishing his terrible
harpoon in the other, scarcely twenty feet from the motionless animal.
Suddenly his arm straightened, and the harpoon was thrown; I heard the
sonorous stroke of the weapon, which seemed to have struck a hard body.
The electric light went out suddenly, and two enormous waterspouts
broke over the bridge of the frigate, rushing like a torrent from stem
to stern, overthrowing men, and breaking the lashings of the spars. A
fearful shock followed, and, thrown over the rail without having time
to stop myself, I fell into the sea.




CHAPTER VII
AN UNKNOWN SPECIES OF WHALE


This unexpected fall so stunned me that I have no clear recollection of
my sensations at the time. I was at first drawn down to a depth of
about twenty feet. I am a good swimmer (though without pretending to
rival Byron or Edgar Poe, who were masters of the art), and in that
plunge I did not lose my presence of mind. Two vigorous strokes brought
me to the surface of the water. My first care was to look for the
frigate. Had the crew seen me disappear? Had the _Abraham Lincoln_
veered round? Would the captain put out a boat? Might I hope to be
saved?

The darkness was intense. I caught a glimpse of a black mass
disappearing in the east, its beacon lights dying out in the distance.
It was the frigate! I was lost.

“Help, help!” I shouted, swimming towards the _Abraham Lincoln_ in
desperation.

My clothes encumbered me; they seemed glued to my body, and paralysed
my movements.

I was sinking! I was suffocating!

“Help!”

This was my last cry. My mouth filled with water; I struggled against
being drawn down the abyss. Suddenly my clothes were seized by a strong
hand, and I felt myself quickly drawn up to the surface of the sea; and
I heard, yes, I heard these words pronounced in my ear—

“If master would be so good as to lean on my shoulder, master would
swim with much greater ease.”

I seized with one hand my faithful Conseil’s arm.

“Is it you?” said I, “you?”

“Myself,” answered Conseil; “and waiting master’s orders.”

“That shock threw you as well as me into the sea?”

“No; but being in my master’s service, I followed him.”

The worthy fellow thought that was but natural.

“And the frigate?” I asked.

“The frigate?” replied Conseil, turning on his back; “I think that
master had better not count too much on her.”

“You think so?”

“I say that, at the time I threw myself into the sea, I heard the men
at the wheel say, ‘The screw and the rudder are broken.’”

“Broken?”

“Yes, broken by the monster’s teeth. It is the only injury the _Abraham
Lincoln_ has sustained. But it is a bad look out for us—she no longer
answers her helm.”

“Then we are lost!”

“Perhaps so,” calmly answered Conseil. “However, we have still several
hours before us, and one can do a good deal in some hours.”

Conseil’s imperturbable coolness set me up again. I swam more
vigorously; but, cramped by my clothes, which stuck to me like a leaden
weight, I felt great difficulty in bearing up. Conseil saw this.

“Will master let me make a slit?” said he; and, slipping an open knife
under my clothes, he ripped them up from top to bottom very rapidly.
Then he cleverly slipped them off me, while I swam for both of us.

Then I did the same for Conseil, and we continued to swim near to each
other.

Nevertheless, our situation was no less terrible. Perhaps our
disappearance had not been noticed; and if it had been, the frigate
could not tack, being without its helm. Conseil argued on this
supposition, and laid his plans accordingly. This phlegmatic boy was
perfectly self-possessed. We then decided that, as our only chance of
safety was being picked up by the _Abraham Lincoln’s_ boats, we ought
to manage so as to wait for them as long as possible. I resolved then
to husband our strength, so that both should not be exhausted at the
same time; and this is how we managed: while one of us lay on our back,
quite still, with arms crossed, and legs stretched out, the other would
swim and push the other on in front. This towing business did not last
more than ten minutes each; and relieving each other thus, we could
swim on for some hours, perhaps till daybreak. Poor chance! but hope is
so firmly rooted in the heart of man! Moreover, there were two of us.
Indeed I declare (though it may seem improbable) if I sought to destroy
all hope,—if I wished to despair, I could not.

The collision of the frigate with the cetacean had occurred about
eleven o’clock the evening before. I reckoned then we should have eight
hours to swim before sunrise, an operation quite practicable if we
relieved each other. The sea, very calm, was in our favour. Sometimes I
tried to pierce the intense darkness that was only dispelled by the
phosphorescence caused by our movements. I watched the luminous waves
that broke over my hand, whose mirror-like surface was spotted with
silvery rings. One might have said that we were in a bath of
quicksilver.

Near one o’clock in the morning, I was seized with dreadful fatigue. My
limbs stiffened under the strain of violent cramp. Conseil was obliged
to keep me up, and our preservation devolved on him alone. I heard the
poor boy pant; his breathing became short and hurried. I found that he
could not keep up much longer.

“Leave me! leave me!” I said to him.

“Leave my master? Never!” replied he. “I would drown first.”

Just then the moon appeared through the fringes of a thick cloud that
the wind was driving to the east. The surface of the sea glittered with
its rays. This kindly light reanimated us. My head got better again. I
looked at all points of the horizon. I saw the frigate! She was five
miles from us, and looked like a dark mass, hardly discernible. But no
boats!

I would have cried out. But what good would it have been at such a
distance! My swollen lips could utter no sounds. Conseil could
articulate some words, and I heard him repeat at intervals, “Help!
help!”

Our movements were suspended for an instant; we listened. It might be
only a singing in the ear, but it seemed to me as if a cry answered the
cry from Conseil.

“Did you hear?” I murmured.

“Yes! Yes!”

And Conseil gave one more despairing call.

This time there was no mistake! A human voice responded to ours! Was it
the voice of another unfortunate creature, abandoned in the middle of
the ocean, some other victim of the shock sustained by the vessel? Or
rather was it a boat from the frigate, that was hailing us in the
darkness?

Conseil made a last effort, and, leaning on my shoulder, while I struck
out in a despairing effort, he raised himself half out of the water,
then fell back exhausted.

“What did you see?”

“I saw”—murmured he; “I saw—but do not talk—reserve all your strength!”

What had he seen? Then, I know not why, the thought of the monster came
into my head for the first time! But that voice! The time is past for
Jonahs to take refuge in whales’ bellies! However, Conseil was towing
me again. He raised his head sometimes, looked before us, and uttered a
cry of recognition, which was responded to by a voice that came nearer
and nearer. I scarcely heard it. My strength was exhausted; my fingers
stiffened; my hand afforded me support no longer; my mouth,
convulsively opening, filled with salt water. Cold crept over me. I
raised my head for the last time, then I sank.

At this moment a hard body struck me. I clung to it: then I felt that I
was being drawn up, that I was brought to the surface of the water,
that my chest collapsed:—I fainted.

It is certain that I soon came to, thanks to the vigorous rubbings that
I received. I half opened my eyes.

“Conseil!” I murmured.

“Does master call me?” asked Conseil.

Just then, by the waning light of the moon which was sinking down to
the horizon, I saw a face which was not Conseil’s and which I
immediately recognised.

“Ned!” I cried.

“The same, sir, who is seeking his prize!” replied the Canadian.

“Were you thrown into the sea by the shock to the frigate?”

“Yes, Professor; but more fortunate than you, I was able to find a
footing almost directly upon a floating island.”

“An island?”

“Or, more correctly speaking, on our gigantic narwhal.”

“Explain yourself, Ned!”

“Only I soon found out why my harpoon had not entered its skin and was
blunted.”

“Why, Ned, why?”

“Because, Professor, that beast is made of sheet iron.”

The Canadian’s last words produced a sudden revolution in my brain. I
wriggled myself quickly to the top of the being, or object, half out of
the water, which served us for a refuge. I kicked it. It was evidently
a hard impenetrable body, and not the soft substance that forms the
bodies of the great marine mammalia. But this hard body might be a bony
carapace, like that of the antediluvian animals; and I should be free
to class this monster among amphibious reptiles, such as tortoises or
alligators.

Well, no! the blackish back that supported me was smooth, polished,
without scales. The blow produced a metallic sound; and incredible
though it may be, it seemed, I might say, as if it was made of riveted
plates.

There was no doubt about it! This monster, this natural phenomenon that
had puzzled the learned world, and overthrown and misled the
imagination of seamen of both hemispheres, it must be owned, a still
more astonishing phenomenon, inasmuch as it was a simply human
construction.

We had no time to lose, however. We were lying upon the back of a sort
of submarine boat, which appeared (as far as I could judge) like a huge
fish of steel. Ned Land’s mind was made up on this point. Conseil and I
could only agree with him.

Just then a bubbling began at the back of this strange thing (which was
evidently propelled by a screw), and it began to move. We had only just
time to seize hold of the upper part, which rose about seven feet out
of the water, and happily its speed was not great.

“As long as it sails horizontally,” muttered Ned Land, “I do not mind;
but if it takes a fancy to dive, I would not give two straws for my
life.”

The Canadian might have said still less. It became really necessary to
communicate with the beings, whatever they were, shut up inside the
machine. I searched all over the outside for an aperture, a panel, or a
man-hole, to use a technical expression; but the lines of the iron
rivets, solidly driven into the joints of the iron plates, were clear
and uniform. Besides, the moon disappeared then, and left us in total
darkness.

At last this long night passed. My indistinct remembrance prevents my
describing all the impressions it made. I can only recall one
circumstance. During some lulls of the wind and sea, I fancied I heard
several times vague sounds, a sort of fugitive harmony produced by
words of command. What was then the mystery of this submarine craft, of
which the whole world vainly sought an explanation? What kind of beings
existed in this strange boat? What mechanical agent caused its
prodigious speed?

Daybreak appeared. The morning mists surrounded us, but they soon
cleared off. I was about to examine the hull, which formed on deck a
kind of horizontal platform, when I felt it gradually sinking.

“Oh! confound it!” cried Ned Land, kicking the resounding plate. “Open,
you inhospitable rascals!”

Happily the sinking movement ceased. Suddenly a noise, like iron works
violently pushed aside, came from the interior of the boat. One iron
plate was moved, a man appeared, uttered an odd cry, and disappeared
immediately.

Some moments after, eight strong men, with masked faces, appeared
noiselessly, and drew us down into their formidable machine.




CHAPTER VIII
MOBILIS IN MOBILI


This forcible abduction, so roughly carried out, was accomplished with
the rapidity of lightning. I shivered all over. Whom had we to deal
with? No doubt some new sort of pirates, who explored the sea in their
own way.

Hardly had the narrow panel closed upon me, when I was enveloped in
darkness. My eyes, dazzled with the outer light, could distinguish
nothing. I felt my naked feet cling to the rungs of an iron ladder. Ned
Land and Conseil, firmly seized, followed me. At the bottom of the
ladder, a door opened, and shut after us immediately with a bang.

We were alone. Where, I could not say, hardly imagine. All was black,
and such a dense black that, after some minutes, my eyes had not been
able to discern even the faintest glimmer.

Meanwhile, Ned Land, furious at these proceedings, gave free vent to
his indignation.

“Confound it!” cried he, “here are people who come up to the Scotch for
hospitality. They only just miss being cannibals. I should not be
surprised at it, but I declare that they shall not eat me without my
protesting.”

“Calm yourself, friend Ned, calm yourself,” replied Conseil, quietly.
“Do not cry out before you are hurt. We are not quite done for yet.”

“Not quite,” sharply replied the Canadian, “but pretty near, at all
events. Things look black. Happily, my bowie knife I have still, and I
can always see well enough to use it. The first of these pirates who
lays a hand on me——”

“Do not excite yourself, Ned,” I said to the harpooner, “and do not
compromise us by useless violence. Who knows that they will not listen
to us? Let us rather try to find out where we are.”

I groped about. In five steps I came to an iron wall, made of plates
bolted together. Then turning back I struck against a wooden table,
near which were ranged several stools. The boards of this prison were
concealed under a thick mat of phormium, which deadened the noise of
the feet. The bare walls revealed no trace of window or door. Conseil,
going round the reverse way, met me, and we went back to the middle of
the cabin, which measured about twenty feet by ten. As to its height,
Ned Land, in spite of his own great height, could not measure it.

Half an hour had already passed without our situation being bettered,
when the dense darkness suddenly gave way to extreme light. Our prison
was suddenly lighted—that is to say, it became filled with a luminous
matter, so strong that I could not bear it at first. In its whiteness
and intensity I recognised that electric light which played round the
submarine boat like a magnificent phenomenon of phosphorescence. After
shutting my eyes involuntarily, I opened them, and saw that this
luminous agent came from a half globe, unpolished, placed in the roof
of the cabin.

“At last one can see,” cried Ned Land, who, knife in hand, stood on the
defensive.

“Yes,” said I; “but we are still in the dark about ourselves.”

“Let master have patience,” said the imperturbable Conseil.

The sudden lighting of the cabin enabled me to examine it minutely. It
only contained a table and five stools. The invisible door might be
hermetically sealed. No noise was heard. All seemed dead in the
interior of this boat. Did it move, did it float on the surface of the
ocean, or did it dive into its depths? I could not guess.

A noise of bolts was now heard, the door opened, and two men appeared.

One was short, very muscular, broad-shouldered, with robust limbs,
strong head, an abundance of black hair, thick moustache, a quick
penetrating look, and the vivacity which characterises the population
of Southern France.

The second stranger merits a more detailed description. A disciple of
Gratiolet or Engel would have read his face like an open book. I made
out his prevailing qualities directly:—self-confidence,—because his
head was well set on his shoulders, and his black eyes looked around
with cold assurance; calmness,—for his skin, rather pale, showed his
coolness of blood; energy,—evinced by the rapid contraction of his
lofty brows; and courage,—because his deep breathing denoted great
power of lungs.

Whether this person was thirty-five or fifty years of age, I could not
say. He was tall, had a large forehead, straight nose, a clearly cut
mouth, beautiful teeth, with fine taper hands, indicative of a highly
nervous temperament. This man was certainly the most admirable specimen
I had ever met. One particular feature was his eyes, rather far from
each other, and which could take in nearly a quarter of the horizon at
once.

This faculty—(I verified it later)—gave him a range of vision far
superior to Ned Land’s. When this stranger fixed upon an object, his
eyebrows met, his large eyelids closed around so as to contract the
range of his vision, and he looked as if he magnified the objects
lessened by distance, as if he pierced those sheets of water so opaque
to our eyes, and as if he read the very depths of the seas.

The two strangers, with caps made from the fur of the sea otter, and
shod with sea boots of seal’s skin, were dressed in clothes of a
particular texture, which allowed free movement of the limbs. The
taller of the two, evidently the chief on board, examined us with great
attention, without saying a word; then turning to his companion, talked
with him in an unknown tongue. It was a sonorous, harmonious, and
flexible dialect, the vowels seeming to admit of very varied
accentuation.

The other replied by a shake of the head, and added two or three
perfectly incomprehensible words. Then he seemed to question me by a
look.

I replied in good French that I did not know his language; but he
seemed not to understand me, and my situation became more embarrassing.

“If master were to tell our story,” said Conseil, “perhaps these
gentlemen may understand some words.”

I began to tell our adventures, articulating each syllable clearly, and
without omitting one single detail. I announced our names and rank,
introducing in person Professor Aronnax, his servant Conseil, and
master Ned Land, the harpooner.

The man with the soft calm eyes listened to me quietly, even politely,
and with extreme attention; but nothing in his countenance indicated
that he had understood my story. When I finished, he said not a word.
There remained one resource, to speak English. Perhaps they would know
this almost universal language. I knew it, as well as the German
language,—well enough to read it fluently, but not to speak it
correctly. But, anyhow, we must make ourselves understood.

“Go on in your turn,” I said to the harpooner; “speak your best
Anglo-Saxon, and try to do better than I.”

Ned did not beg off, and recommenced our story.

To his great disgust, the harpooner did not seem to have made himself
more intelligible than I had. Our visitors did not stir. They evidently
understood neither the language of Arago nor of Faraday.

Very much embarrassed, after having vainly exhausted our speaking
resources, I knew not what part to take, when Conseil said—

“If master will permit me, I will relate it in German.”

But in spite of the elegant terms and good accent of the narrator, the
German language had no success. At last, nonplussed, I tried to
remember my first lessons, and to narrate our adventures in Latin, but
with no better success. This last attempt being of no avail, the two
strangers exchanged some words in their unknown language, and retired.

The door shut.

“It is an infamous shame,” cried Ned Land, who broke out for the
twentieth time. “We speak to those rogues in French, English, German,
and Latin, and not one of them has the politeness to answer!”

“Calm yourself,” I said to the impetuous Ned, “anger will do no good.”

“But do you see, Professor,” replied our irascible companion, “that we
shall absolutely die of hunger in this iron cage?”

“Bah!” said Conseil, philosophically; “we can hold out some time yet.”

“My friends,” I said, “we must not despair. We have been worse off than
this. Do me the favour to wait a little before forming an opinion upon
the commander and crew of this boat.”

“My opinion is formed,” replied Ned Land, sharply. “They are rascals.”

“Good! and from what country?”

“From the land of rogues!”

“My brave Ned, that country is not clearly indicated on the map of the
world; but I admit that the nationality of the two strangers is hard to
determine. Neither English, French, nor German, that is quite certain.
However, I am inclined to think that the commander and his companion
were born in low latitudes. There is southern blood in them. But I
cannot decide by their appearance whether they are Spaniards, Turks,
Arabians, or Indians. As to their language, it is quite
incomprehensible.”

“There is the disadvantage of not knowing all languages,” said Conseil,
“or the disadvantage of not having one universal language.”

As he said these words, the door opened. A steward entered. He brought
us clothes, coats and trousers, made of a stuff I did not know. I
hastened to dress myself, and my companions followed my example. During
that time, the steward—dumb, perhaps deaf—had arranged the table, and
laid three plates.

“This is something like,” said Conseil.

“Bah!” said the rancorous harpooner, “what do you suppose they eat
here? Tortoise liver, filleted shark, and beefsteaks from sea-dogs.”

“We shall see,” said Conseil.

The dishes, of bell metal, were placed on the table, and we took our
places. Undoubtedly we had to do with civilised people, and, had it not
been for the electric light which flooded us, I could have fancied I
was in the dining-room of the Adelphi Hotel at Liverpool, or at the
Grand Hotel in Paris. I must say, however, that there was neither bread
nor wine. The water was fresh and clear, but it was water, and did not
suit Ned Land’s taste. Amongst the dishes which were brought to us, I
recognised several fish delicately dressed; but of some, although
excellent, I could give no opinion, neither could I tell to what
kingdom they belonged, whether animal or vegetable. As to the dinner
service, it was elegant, and in perfect taste. Each utensil, spoon,
fork, knife, plate, had a letter engraved on it, with a motto above it,
of which this is an exact facsimile:—

MOBILIS IN MOBILI
N.


The letter N was no doubt the initial of the name of the enigmatical
person, who commanded at the bottom of the sea.

Ned and Conseil did not reflect much. They devoured the food, and I did
likewise. I was, besides, reassured as to our fate; and it seemed
evident that our hosts would not let us die of want.

However, everything has an end, everything passes away, even the hunger
of people who have not eaten for fifteen hours. Our appetites
satisfied, we felt overcome with sleep.

“Faith! I shall sleep well,” said Conseil.

“So shall I,” replied Ned Land.

My two companions stretched themselves on the cabin carpet, and were
soon sound asleep. For my own part, too many thoughts crowded my brain,
too many insoluble questions pressed upon me, too many fancies kept my
eyes half open. Where were we? What strange power carried us on? I
felt—or rather fancied I felt—the machine sinking down to the lowest
beds of the sea. Dreadful nightmares beset me; I saw in these
mysterious asylums a world of unknown animals, amongst which this
submarine boat seemed to be of the same kind, living, moving, and
formidable as they. Then my brain grew calmer, my imagination wandered
into vague unconsciousness, and I soon fell into a deep sleep.




CHAPTER IX
NED LAND’S TEMPERS


How long we slept I do not know; but our sleep must have lasted long,
for it rested us completely from our fatigues. I woke first. My
companions had not moved, and were still stretched in their corner.

Hardly roused from my somewhat hard couch, I felt my brain freed, my
mind clear. I then began an attentive examination of our cell. Nothing
was changed inside. The prison was still a prison,—the prisoners,
prisoners. However, the steward, during our sleep, had cleared the
table. I breathed with difficulty. The heavy air seemed to oppress my
lungs. Although the cell was large, we had evidently consumed a great
part of the oxygen that it contained. Indeed, each man consumes, in one
hour, the oxygen contained in more than 176 pints of air, and this air,
charged (as then) with a nearly equal quantity of carbonic acid,
becomes unbreathable.

It became necessary to renew the atmosphere of our prison, and no doubt
the whole in the submarine boat. That gave rise to a question in my
mind. How would the commander of this floating dwelling-place proceed?
Would he obtain air by chemical means, in getting by heat the oxygen
contained in chlorate of potash, and in absorbing carbonic acid by
caustic potash? Or, a more convenient, economical, and consequently
more probable alternative, would he be satisfied to rise and take
breath at the surface of the water, like a cetacean, and so renew for
twenty-four hours the atmospheric provision?

In fact, I was already obliged to increase my respirations to eke out
of this cell the little oxygen it contained, when suddenly I was
refreshed by a current of pure air, and perfumed with saline
emanations. It was an invigorating sea breeze, charged with iodine. I
opened my mouth wide, and my lungs saturated themselves with fresh
particles.

At the same time I felt the boat rolling. The iron-plated monster had
evidently just risen to the surface of the ocean to breathe, after the
fashion of whales. I found out from that the mode of ventilating the
boat.

When I had inhaled this air freely, I sought the conduit-pipe, which
conveyed to us the beneficial whiff, and I was not long in finding it.
Above the door was a ventilator, through which volumes of fresh air
renewed the impoverished atmosphere of the cell.

I was making my observations, when Ned and Conseil awoke almost at the
same time, under the influence of this reviving air. They rubbed their
eyes, stretched themselves, and were on their feet in an instant.

“Did master sleep well?” asked Conseil, with his usual politeness.

“Very well, my brave boy. And you, Mr. Land?”

“Soundly, Professor. But I don’t know if I am right or not; there seems
to be a sea breeze!”

A seaman could not be mistaken, and I told the Canadian all that had
passed during his sleep.

“Good!” said he; “that accounts for those roarings we heard, when the
supposed narwhal sighted the _Abraham Lincoln_.”

“Quite so, Master Land; it was taking breath.”

“Only, M. Aronnax, I have no idea what o’clock it is, unless it is
dinner-time.”

“Dinner-time! my good fellow? Say rather breakfast-time, for we
certainly have begun another day.”

“So,” said Conseil, “we have slept twenty-four hours?”

“That is my opinion.”

“I will not contradict you,” replied Ned Land. “But dinner or
breakfast, the steward will be welcome, whichever he brings.”

“Master Land, we must conform to the rules on board, and I suppose our
appetites are in advance of the dinner hour.”

“That is just like you, friend Conseil,” said Ned, impatiently. “You
are never out of temper, always calm; you would return thanks before
grace, and die of hunger rather than complain!”

Time was getting on, and we were fearfully hungry; and this time the
steward did not appear. It was rather too long to leave us, if they
really had good intentions towards us. Ned Land, tormented by the
cravings of hunger, got still more angry; and, notwithstanding his
promise, I dreaded an explosion when he found himself with one of the
crew.

For two hours more Ned Land’s temper increased; he cried, he shouted,
but in vain. The walls were deaf. There was no sound to be heard in the
boat: all was still as death. It did not move, for I should have felt
the trembling motion of the hull under the influence of the screw.
Plunged in the depths of the waters, it belonged no longer to
earth:—this silence was dreadful.

I felt terrified, Conseil was calm, Ned Land roared.

Just then a noise was heard outside. Steps sounded on the metal flags.
The locks were turned, the door opened, and the steward appeared.

Before I could rush forward to stop him, the Canadian had thrown him
down, and held him by the throat. The steward was choking under the
grip of his powerful hand.

Conseil was already trying to unclasp the harpooner’s hand from his
half-suffocated victim, and I was going to fly to the rescue, when
suddenly I was nailed to the spot by hearing these words in French—

“Be quiet, Master Land; and you, Professor, will you be so good as to
listen to me?”




CHAPTER X
THE MAN OF THE SEAS


It was the commander of the vessel who thus spoke.

At these words, Ned Land rose suddenly. The steward, nearly strangled,
tottered out on a sign from his master; but such was the power of the
commander on board, that not a gesture betrayed the resentment which
this man must have felt towards the Canadian. Conseil, interested in
spite of himself, I stupefied, awaited in silence the result of this
scene.

The commander, leaning against the corner of a table with his arms
folded, scanned us with profound attention. Did he hesitate to speak?
Did he regret the words which he had just spoken in French? One might
almost think so.

After some moments of silence, which not one of us dreamed of breaking,
“Gentlemen,” said he, in a calm and penetrating voice, “I speak French,
English, German, and Latin equally well. I could, therefore, have
answered you at our first interview, but I wished to know you first,
then to reflect. The story told by each one, entirely agreeing in the
main points, convinced me of your identity. I know now that chance has
brought before me M. Pierre Aronnax, Professor of Natural History at
the Museum of Paris, entrusted with a scientific mission abroad,
Conseil, his servant, and Ned Land, of Canadian origin, harpooner on
board the frigate _Abraham Lincoln_ of the navy of the United States of
America.”

I bowed assent. It was not a question that the commander put to me.
Therefore there was no answer to be made. This man expressed himself
with perfect ease, without any accent. His sentences were well turned,
his words clear, and his fluency of speech remarkable. Yet, I did not
recognise in him a fellow-countryman.

He continued the conversation in these terms:

“You have doubtless thought, sir, that I have delayed long in paying
you this second visit. The reason is that, your identity recognised, I
wished to weigh maturely what part to act towards you. I have hesitated
much. Most annoying circumstances have brought you into the presence of
a man who has broken all the ties of humanity. You have come to trouble
my existence.”

“Unintentionally!” said I.

“Unintentionally?” replied the stranger, raising his voice a little;
“was it unintentionally that the _Abraham Lincoln_ pursued me all over
the seas? Was it unintentionally that you took passage in this frigate?
Was it unintentionally that your cannon balls rebounded off the plating
of my vessel? Was it unintentionally that Mr. Ned Land struck me with
his harpoon?”

I detected a restrained irritation in these words. But to these
recriminations I had a very natural answer to make and I made it.

“Sir,” said I, “no doubt you are ignorant of the discussions which have
taken place concerning you in America and Europe. You do not know that
divers accidents, caused by collisions with your submarine machine,
have excited public feeling in the two continents. I omit the
hypotheses without number by which it was sought to explain the
inexplicable phenomenon of which you alone possess the secret. But you
must understand that, in pursuing you over the high seas of the
Pacific, the _Abraham Lincoln_ believed itself to be chasing some
powerful sea-monster, of which it was necessary to rid the ocean at any
price.”

A half-smile curled the lips of the commander: then, in a calmer tone—

“M. Aronnax,” he replied, “dare you affirm that your frigate would not
as soon have pursued and cannonaded a submarine boat as a monster?”

This question embarrassed me, for certainly Captain Farragut might not
have hesitated. He might have thought it his duty to destroy a
contrivance of this kind, as he would a gigantic narwhal.

“You understand then, sir,” continued the stranger, “that I have the
right to treat you as enemies?”

I answered nothing, purposely. For what good would it be to discuss
such a proposition, when force could destroy the best arguments?

“I have hesitated some time,” continued the commander; “nothing obliged
me to show you hospitality. If I chose to separate myself from you, I
should have no interest in seeing you again; I could place you upon the
deck of this vessel which has served you as a refuge, I could sink
beneath the waters, and forget that you had ever existed. Would not
that be my right?”

“It might be the right of a savage,” I answered, “but not that of a
civilised man.”

“Professor,” replied the commander, quickly, “I am not what you call a
civilised man! I have done with society entirely, for reasons which I
alone have the right of appreciating. I do not therefore obey its laws,
and I desire you never to allude to them before me again!”

This was said plainly. A flash of anger and disdain kindled in the eyes
of the Unknown, and I had a glimpse of a terrible past in the life of
this man. Not only had he put himself beyond the pale of human laws,
but he had made himself independent of them, free in the strictest
acceptation of the word, quite beyond their reach! Who then would dare
to pursue him at the bottom of the sea, when, on its surface, he defied
all attempts made against him? What vessel could resist the shock of
his submarine monitor? What cuirass, however thick, could withstand the
blows of his spur? No man could demand from him an account of his
actions; God, if he believed in one—his conscience, if he had one—were
the sole judges to whom he was answerable.

These reflections crossed my mind rapidly, whilst the stranger
personage was silent, absorbed, and as if wrapped up in himself. I
regarded him with fear mingled with interest, as doubtless, Œdipus
regarded the Sphinx.

After rather a long silence, the commander resumed the conversation.

“I have hesitated,” said he, “but I have thought that my interest might
be reconciled with that pity to which every human being has a right.
You will remain on board my vessel, since fate has cast you there. You
will be free; and, in exchange for this liberty, I shall only impose
one single condition. Your word of honour to submit to it will
suffice.”

“Speak, sir,” I answered. “I suppose this condition is one which a man
of honour may accept?”

“Yes, sir; it is this. It is possible that certain events, unforeseen,
may oblige me to consign you to your cabins for some hours or some
days, as the case may be. As I desire never to use violence, I expect
from you, more than all the others, a passive obedience. In thus
acting, I take all the responsibility: I acquit you entirely, for I
make it an impossibility for you to see what ought not to be seen. Do
you accept this condition?”

Then things took place on board which, to say the least, were singular,
and which ought not to be seen by people who were not placed beyond the
pale of social laws. Amongst the surprises which the future was
preparing for me, this might not be the least.

“We accept,” I answered; “only I will ask your permission, sir, to
address one question to you—one only.”

“Speak, sir.”

“You said that we should be free on board.”

“Entirely.”

“I ask you, then, what you mean by this liberty?”

“Just the liberty to go, to come, to see, to observe even all that
passes here,—save under rare circumstances,—the liberty, in short,
which we enjoy ourselves, my companions and I.”

It was evident that we did not understand one another.

“Pardon me, sir,” I resumed, “but this liberty is only what every
prisoner has of pacing his prison. It cannot suffice us.”

“It must suffice you, however.”

“What! we must renounce for ever seeing our country, our friends, our
relations again?”

“Yes, sir. But to renounce that unendurable worldly yoke which men
believe to be liberty, is not perhaps so painful as you think.”

“Well,” exclaimed Ned Land, “never will I give my word of honour not to
try to escape.”

“I did not ask you for your word of honour, Master Land,” answered the
commander, coldly.

“Sir,” I replied, beginning to get angry in spite of myself, “you abuse
your situation towards us; it is cruelty.”

“No, sir, it is clemency. You are my prisoners of war. I keep you, when
I could, by a word, plunge you into the depths of the ocean. You
attacked me. You came to surprise a secret which no man in the world
must penetrate,—the secret of my whole existence. And you think that I
am going to send you back to that world which must know me no more?
Never! In retaining you, it is not you whom I guard—it is myself.”

These words indicated a resolution taken on the part of the commander,
against which no arguments would prevail.

“So, sir,” I rejoined, “you give us simply the choice between life and
death?”

“Simply.”

“My friends,” said I, “to a question thus put, there is nothing to
answer. But no word of honour binds us to the master of this vessel.”

“None, sir,” answered the Unknown.

Then, in a gentler tone, he continued—

“Now, permit me to finish what I have to say to you. I know you, M.
Aronnax. You and your companions will not, perhaps, have so much to
complain of in the chance which has bound you to my fate. You will find
amongst the books which are my favourite study the work which you have
published on ‘the depths of the sea.’ I have often read it. You have
carried out your work as far as terrestrial science permitted you. But
you do not know all—you have not seen all. Let me tell you then,
Professor, that you will not regret the time passed on board my vessel.
You are going to visit the land of marvels.”

These words of the commander had a great effect upon me. I cannot deny
it. My weak point was touched; and I forgot, for a moment, that the
contemplation of these sublime subjects was not worth the loss of
liberty. Besides, I trusted to the future to decide this grave
question. So I contented myself with saying—

“By what name ought I to address you?”

“Sir,” replied the commander, “I am nothing to you but Captain Nemo;
and you and your companions are nothing to me but the passengers of the
_Nautilus_.”

Captain Nemo called. A steward appeared. The captain gave him his
orders in that strange language which I did not understand. Then,
turning towards the Canadian and Conseil—

“A repast awaits you in your cabin,” said he. “Be so good as to follow
this man.

“And now, M. Aronnax, our breakfast is ready. Permit me to lead the
way.”

“I am at your service, Captain.”

I followed Captain Nemo; and as soon as I had passed through the door,
I found myself in a kind of passage lighted by electricity, similar to
the waist of a ship. After we had proceeded a dozen yards, a second
door opened before me.

I then entered a dining-room, decorated and furnished in severe taste.
High oaken sideboards, inlaid with ebony, stood at the two extremities
of the room, and upon their shelves glittered china, porcelain, and
glass of inestimable value. The plate on the table sparkled in the rays
which the luminous ceiling shed around, while the light was tempered
and softened by exquisite paintings.

In the centre of the room was a table richly laid out. Captain Nemo
indicated the place I was to occupy.

The breakfast consisted of a certain number of dishes, the contents of
which were furnished by the sea alone; and I was ignorant of the nature
and mode of preparation of some of them. I acknowledged that they were
good, but they had a peculiar flavour, which I easily became accustomed
to. These different aliments appeared to me to be rich in phosphorus,
and I thought they must have a marine origin.

Captain Nemo looked at me. I asked him no questions, but he guessed my
thoughts, and answered of his own accord the questions which I was
burning to address to him.

“The greater part of these dishes are unknown to you,” he said to me.
“However, you may partake of them without fear. They are wholesome and
nourishing. For a long time I have renounced the food of the earth, and
am never ill now. My crew, who are healthy, are fed on the same food.”

“So,” said I, “all these eatables are the produce of the sea?”

“Yes, Professor, the sea supplies all my wants. Sometimes I cast my
nets in tow, and I draw them in ready to break. Sometimes I hunt in the
midst of this element, which appears to be inaccessible to man, and
quarry the game which dwells in my submarine forests. My flocks, like
those of Neptune’s old shepherds, graze fearlessly in the immense
prairies of the ocean. I have a vast property there, which I cultivate
myself, and which is always sown by the hand of the Creator of all
things.”

“I can understand perfectly, sir, that your nets furnish excellent fish
for your table; I can understand also that you hunt aquatic game in
your submarine forests; but I cannot understand at all how a particle
of meat, no matter how small, can figure in your bill of fare.”

“This, which you believe to be meat, Professor, is nothing else than
fillet of turtle. Here are also some dolphins’ livers, which you take
to be ragout of pork. My cook is a clever fellow, who excels in
dressing these various products of the ocean. Taste all these dishes.
Here is a preserve of holothuria, which a Malay would declare to be
unrivalled in the world; here is a cream, of which the milk has been
furnished by the cetacea, and the sugar by the great fucus of the North
Sea; and lastly, permit me to offer you some preserve of anemones,
which is equal to that of the most delicious fruits.”

I tasted, more from curiosity than as a connoisseur, whilst Captain
Nemo enchanted me with his extraordinary stories.

“You like the sea, Captain?”

“Yes; I love it! The sea is everything. It covers seven-tenths of the
terrestrial globe. Its breath is pure and healthy. It is an immense
desert, where man is never lonely, for he feels life stirring on all
sides. The sea is only the embodiment of a supernatural and wonderful
existence. It is nothing but love and emotion; it is the ‘Living
Infinite,’ as one of your poets has said. In fact, Professor, Nature
manifests herself in it by her three kingdoms, mineral, vegetable, and
animal. The sea is the vast reservoir of Nature. The globe began with
sea, so to speak; and who knows if it will not end with it? In it is
supreme tranquillity. The sea does not belong to despots. Upon its
surface men can still exercise unjust laws, fight, tear one another to
pieces, and be carried away with terrestrial horrors. But at thirty
feet below its level, their reign ceases, their influence is quenched,
and their power disappears. Ah! sir, live—live in the bosom of the
waters! There only is independence! There I recognise no masters! There
I am free!”

Captain Nemo suddenly became silent in the midst of this enthusiasm, by
which he was quite carried away. For a few moments he paced up and
down, much agitated. Then he became more calm, regained his accustomed
coldness of expression, and turning towards me—

“Now, Professor,” said he, “if you wish to go over the _Nautilus_, I am
at your service.”

Captain Nemo rose. I followed him. A double door, contrived at the back
of the dining-room, opened, and I entered a room equal in dimensions to
that which I had just quitted.

It was a library. High pieces of furniture, of black violet ebony
inlaid with brass, supported upon their wide shelves a great number of
books uniformly bound. They followed the shape of the room, terminating
at the lower part in huge divans, covered with brown leather, which
were curved, to afford the greatest comfort. Light movable desks, made
to slide in and out at will, allowed one to rest one’s book while
reading. In the centre stood an immense table, covered with pamphlets,
amongst which were some newspapers, already of old date. The electric
light flooded everything; it was shed from four unpolished globes half
sunk in the volutes of the ceiling. I looked with real admiration at
this room, so ingeniously fitted up, and I could scarcely believe my
eyes.

“Captain Nemo,” said I to my host, who had just thrown himself on one
of the divans, “this is a library which would do honour to more than
one of the continental palaces, and I am absolutely astounded when I
consider that it can follow you to the bottom of the seas.”

“Where could one find greater solitude or silence, Professor?” replied
Captain Nemo. “Did your study in the Museum afford you such perfect
quiet?”

“No, sir; and I must confess that it is a very poor one after yours.
You must have six or seven thousand volumes here.”

“Twelve thousand, M. Aronnax. These are the only ties which bind me to
the earth. But I had done with the world on the day when my _Nautilus_
plunged for the first time beneath the waters. That day I bought my
last volumes, my last pamphlets, my last papers, and from that time I
wish to think that men no longer think or write. These books,
Professor, are at your service besides, and you can make use of them
freely.”

I thanked Captain Nemo, and went up to the shelves of the library.
Works on science, morals, and literature abounded in every language;
but I did not see one single work on political economy; that subject
appeared to be strictly proscribed. Strange to say, all these books
were irregularly arranged, in whatever language they were written; and
this medley proved that the Captain of the _Nautilus_ must have read
indiscriminately the books which he took up by chance.

“Sir,” said I to the Captain, “I thank you for having placed this
library at my disposal. It contains treasures of science, and I shall
profit by them.”

“This room is not only a library,” said Captain Nemo, “it is also a
smoking-room.”

“A smoking-room!” I cried. “Then one may smoke on board?”

“Certainly.”

“Then, sir, I am forced to believe that you have kept up a
communication with Havannah.”

“Not any,” answered the Captain. “Accept this cigar, M. Aronnax; and,
though it does not come from Havannah, you will be pleased with it, if
you are a connoisseur.”

I took the cigar which was offered me; its shape recalled the London
ones, but it seemed to be made of leaves of gold. I lighted it at a
little brazier, which was supported upon an elegant bronze stem, and
drew the first whiffs with the delight of a lover of smoking who has
not smoked for two days.

“It is excellent, but it is not tobacco.”

“No!” answered the Captain, “this tobacco comes neither from Havannah
nor from the East. It is a kind of sea-weed, rich in nicotine, with
which the sea provides me, but somewhat sparingly.”

At that moment Captain Nemo opened a door which stood opposite to that
by which I had entered the library, and I passed into an immense
drawing-room splendidly lighted.

It was a vast four-sided room, thirty feet long, eighteen wide, and
fifteen high. A luminous ceiling, decorated with light arabesques, shed
a soft clear light over all the marvels accumulated in this museum. For
it was in fact a museum, in which an intelligent and prodigal hand had
gathered all the treasures of nature and art, with the artistic
confusion which distinguishes a painter’s studio.

Thirty first-rate pictures, uniformly framed, separated by bright
drapery, ornamented the walls, which were hung with tapestry of severe
design. I saw works of great value, the greater part of which I had
admired in the special collections of Europe, and in the exhibitions of
paintings. The several schools of the old masters were represented by a
Madonna of Raphael, a Virgin of Leonardo da Vinci, a nymph of Corregio,
a woman of Titan, an Adoration of Veronese, an Assumption of Murillo, a
portrait of Holbein, a monk of Velasquez, a martyr of Ribera, a fair of
Rubens, two Flemish landscapes of Teniers, three little “genre”
pictures of Gerard Dow, Metsu, and Paul Potter, two specimens of
Géricault and Prudhon, and some sea-pieces of Backhuysen and Vernet.
Amongst the works of modern painters were pictures with the signatures
of Delacroix, Ingres, Decamps, Troyon, Meissonier, Daubigny, etc.; and
some admirable statues in marble and bronze, after the finest antique
models, stood upon pedestals in the corners of this magnificent museum.
Amazement, as the Captain of the _Nautilus_ had predicted, had already
begun to take possession of me.

“Professor,” said this strange man, “you must excuse the unceremonious
way in which I receive you, and the disorder of this room.”

“Sir,” I answered, “without seeking to know who you are, I recognise in
you an artist.”

“An amateur, nothing more, sir. Formerly I loved to collect these
beautiful works created by the hand of man. I sought them greedily, and
ferreted them out indefatigably, and I have been able to bring together
some objects of great value. These are my last souvenirs of that world
which is dead to me. In my eyes, your modern artists are already old;
they have two or three thousand years of existence; I confound them in
my own mind. Masters have no age.”

“And these musicians?” said I, pointing out some works of Weber,
Rossini, Mozart, Beethoven, Haydn, Meyerbeer, Hérold, Wagner, Auber,
Gounod, and a number of others, scattered over a large model
piano-organ which occupied one of the panels of the drawing-room.

“These musicians,” replied Captain Nemo, “are the contemporaries of
Orpheus; for in the memory of the dead all chronological differences
are effaced; and I am dead, Professor; as much dead as those of your
friends who are sleeping six feet under the earth!”

Captain Nemo was silent, and seemed lost in a profound reverie. I
contemplated him with deep interest, analysing in silence the strange
expression of his countenance. Leaning on his elbow against an angle of
a costly mosaic table, he no longer saw me,—he had forgotten my
presence.

I did not disturb this reverie, and continued my observation of the
curiosities which enriched this drawing-room.

Under elegant glass cases, fixed by copper rivets, were classed and
labelled the most precious productions of the sea which had ever been
presented to the eye of a naturalist. My delight as a professor may be
conceived.

The division containing the zoophytes presented the most curious
specimens of the two groups of polypi and echinodermes. In the first
group, the tubipores, were gorgones arranged like a fan, soft sponges
of Syria, ises of the Moluccas, pennatules, an admirable virgularia of
the Norwegian seas, variegated unbellulairæ, alcyonariæ, a whole series
of madrepores, which my master Milne Edwards has so cleverly
classified, amongst which I remarked some wonderful flabellinæ oculinæ
of the Island of Bourbon, the “Neptune’s car” of the Antilles, superb
varieties of corals—in short, every species of those curious polypi of
which entire islands are formed, which will one day become continents.
Of the echinodermes, remarkable for their coating of spines, asteri,
sea-stars, pantacrinæ, comatules, astérophons, echini, holothuri, etc.,
represented individually a complete collection of this group.

A somewhat nervous conchyliologist would certainly have fainted before
other more numerous cases, in which were classified the specimens of
molluscs. It was a collection of inestimable value, which time fails me
to describe minutely. Amongst these specimens I will quote from memory
only the elegant royal hammer-fish of the Indian Ocean, whose regular
white spots stood out brightly on a red and brown ground, an imperial
spondyle, bright-coloured, bristling with spines, a rare specimen in
the European museums—(I estimated its value at not less than £1000); a
common hammer-fish of the seas of New Holland, which is only procured
with difficulty; exotic buccardia of Senegal; fragile white bivalve
shells, which a breath might shatter like a soap-bubble; several
varieties of the aspirgillum of Java, a kind of calcareous tube, edged
with leafy folds, and much debated by amateurs; a whole series of
trochi, some a greenish-yellow, found in the American seas, others a
reddish-brown, natives of Australian waters; others from the Gulf of
Mexico, remarkable for their imbricated shell; stellari found in the
Southern Seas; and last, the rarest of all, the magnificent spur of New
Zealand; and every description of delicate and fragile shells to which
science has given appropriate names.

Apart, in separate compartments, were spread out chaplets of pearls of
the greatest beauty, which reflected the electric light in little
sparks of fire; pink pearls, torn from the pinna-marina of the Red Sea;
green pearls of the haliotyde iris; yellow, blue and black pearls, the
curious productions of the divers molluscs of every ocean, and certain
mussels of the water-courses of the North; lastly, several specimens of
inestimable value which had been gathered from the rarest pintadines.
Some of these pearls were larger than a pigeon’s egg, and were worth as
much, and more than that which the traveller Tavernier sold to the Shah
of Persia for three millions, and surpassed the one in the possession
of the Imaum of Muscat, which I had believed to be unrivalled in the
world.

Therefore, to estimate the value of this collection was simply
impossible. Captain Nemo must have expended millions in the acquirement
of these various specimens, and I was thinking what source he could
have drawn from, to have been able thus to gratify his fancy for
collecting, when I was interrupted by these words—

“You are examining my shells, Professor? Unquestionably they must be
interesting to a naturalist; but for me they have a far greater charm,
for I have collected them all with my own hand, and there is not a sea
on the face of the globe which has escaped my researches.”

“I can understand, Captain, the delight of wandering about in the midst
of such riches. You are one of those who have collected their treasures
themselves. No museum in Europe possesses such a collection of the
produce of the ocean. But if I exhaust all my admiration upon it, I
shall have none left for the vessel which carries it. I do not wish to
pry into your secrets; but I must confess that this _Nautilus_, with
the motive power which is confined in it, the contrivances which enable
it to be worked, the powerful agent which propels it, all excite my
curiosity to the highest pitch. I see suspended on the walls of this
room instruments of whose use I am ignorant.”

“You will find these same instruments in my own room, Professor, where
I shall have much pleasure in explaining their use to you. But first
come and inspect the cabin which is set apart for your own use. You
must see how you will be accommodated on board the _Nautilus_.”

I followed Captain Nemo, who, by one of the doors opening from each
panel of the drawing-room, regained the waist. He conducted me towards
the bow, and there I found, not a cabin, but an elegant room, with a
bed, dressing-table, and several other pieces of furniture.

I could only thank my host.

“Your room adjoins mine,” said he, opening a door, “and mine opens into
the drawing-room that we have just quitted.”

I entered the Captain’s room: it had a severe, almost a monkish,
aspect. A small iron bedstead, a table, some articles for the toilet;
the whole lighted by a skylight. No comforts, the strictest necessaries
only.

Captain Nemo pointed to a seat.

“Be so good as to sit down,” he said. I seated myself, and he began
thus:


[Illustration] Captain Nemo’s state-room




CHAPTER XI
ALL BY ELECTRICITY


“Sir,” said Captain Nemo, showing me the instruments hanging on the
walls of his room, “here are the contrivances required for the
navigation of the _Nautilus_. Here, as in the drawing-room, I have them
always under my eyes, and they indicate my position and exact direction
in the middle of the ocean. Some are known to you, such as the
thermometer, which gives the internal temperature of the _Nautilus;_
the barometer, which indicates the weight of the air and foretells the
changes of the weather; the hygrometer, which marks the dryness of the
atmosphere; the storm-glass, the contents of which, by decomposing,
announce the approach of tempests; the compass, which guides my course;
the sextant, which shows the latitude by the altitude of the sun;
chronometers, by which I calculate the longitude; and glasses for day
and night, which I use to examine the points of the horizon, when the
_Nautilus_ rises to the surface of the waves.”

“These are the usual nautical instruments,” I replied, “and I know the
use of them. But these others, no doubt, answer to the particular
requirements of the _Nautilus_. This dial with the movable needle is a
manometer, is it not?”

“It is actually a manometer. But by communication with the water, whose
external pressure it indicates, it gives our depth at the same time.”

“And these other instruments, the use of which I cannot guess?”

“Here, Professor, I ought to give you some explanations. Will you be
kind enough to listen to me?”

He was silent for a few moments, then he said—

“There is a powerful agent, obedient, rapid, easy, which conforms to
every use, and reigns supreme on board my vessel. Everything is done by
means of it. It lights it, warms it, and is the soul of my mechanical
apparatus. This agent is electricity.”

“Electricity?” I cried in surprise.

“Yes, sir.”

“Nevertheless, Captain, you possess an extreme rapidity of movement,
which does not agree with the power of electricity. Until now, its
dynamic force has remained under restraint, and has only been able to
produce a small amount of power.”

“Professor,” said Captain Nemo, “my electricity is not everybody’s. You
know what sea-water is composed of. In a thousand grammes are found 96½
per cent. of water, and about 2-2/3 per cent. of chloride of sodium;
then, in a smaller quantity, chlorides of magnesium and of potassium,
bromide of magnesium, sulphate of magnesia, sulphate and carbonate of
lime. You see, then, that chloride of sodium forms a large part of it.
So it is this sodium that I extract from sea-water, and of which I
compose my ingredients. I owe all to the ocean; it produces
electricity, and electricity gives heat, light, motion, and, in a word,
life to the _Nautilus_.”

“But not the air you breathe?”

“Oh! I could manufacture the air necessary for my consumption, but it
is useless, because I go up to the surface of the water when I please.
However, if electricity does not furnish me with air to breathe, it
works at least the powerful pumps that are stored in spacious
reservoirs, and which enable me to prolong at need, and as long as I
will, my stay in the depths of the sea. It gives a uniform and
unintermittent light, which the sun does not. Now look at this clock;
it is electrical, and goes with a regularity that defies the best
chronometers. I have divided it into twenty-four hours, like the
Italian clocks, because for me there is neither night nor day, sun nor
moon, but only that factitious light that I take with me to the bottom
of the sea. Look! just now, it is ten o’clock in the morning.”

“Exactly.”

“Another application of electricity. This dial hanging in front of us
indicates the speed of the _Nautilus_. An electric thread puts it in
communication with the screw, and the needle indicates the real speed.
Look! now we are spinning along with a uniform speed of fifteen miles
an hour.”

“It is marvelous! And I see, Captain, you were right to make use of
this agent that takes the place of wind, water, and steam.”

“We have not finished, M. Aronnax,” said Captain Nemo, rising. “If you
will follow me, we will examine the stern of the _Nautilus_.”

Really, I knew already the anterior part of this submarine boat, of
which this is the exact division, starting from the ship’s head:—the
dining-room, five yards long, separated from the library by a
water-tight partition; the library, five yards long; the large
drawing-room, ten yards long, separated from the Captain’s room by a
second water-tight partition; the said room, five yards in length;
mine, two and a half yards; and, lastly a reservoir of air, seven and a
half yards, that extended to the bows. Total length thirty-five yards,
or one hundred and five feet. The partitions had doors that were shut
hermetically by means of india-rubber instruments, and they ensured the
safety of the _Nautilus_ in case of a leak.

I followed Captain Nemo through the waist, and arrived at the centre of
the boat. There was a sort of well that opened between two partitions.
An iron ladder, fastened with an iron hook to the partition, led to the
upper end. I asked the Captain what the ladder was used for.

“It leads to the small boat,” he said.

“What! have you a boat?” I exclaimed, in surprise.

“Of course; an excellent vessel, light and insubmersible, that serves
either as a fishing or as a pleasure boat.”

“But then, when you wish to embark, you are obliged to come to the
surface of the water?”

“Not at all. This boat is attached to the upper part of the hull of the
_Nautilus_, and occupies a cavity made for it. It is decked, quite
water-tight, and held together by solid bolts. This ladder leads to a
man-hole made in the hull of the _Nautilus_, that corresponds with a
similar hole made in the side of the boat. By this double opening I get
into the small vessel. They shut the one belonging to the _Nautilus;_ I
shut the other by means of screw pressure. I undo the bolts, and the
little boat goes up to the surface of the sea with prodigious rapidity.
I then open the panel of the bridge, carefully shut till then; I mast
it, hoist my sail, take my oars, and I’m off.”

“But how do you get back on board?”

“I do not come back, M. Aronnax; the _Nautilus_ comes to me.”

“By your orders?”

“By my orders. An electric thread connects us. I telegraph to it, and
that is enough.”

“Really,” I said, astonished at these marvels, “nothing can be more
simple.”

After having passed by the cage of the staircase that led to the
platform, I saw a cabin six feet long, in which Conseil and Ned Land,
enchanted with their repast, were devouring it with avidity. Then a
door opened into a kitchen nine feet long, situated between the large
storerooms. There electricity, better than gas itself, did all the
cooking. The streams under the furnaces gave out to the sponges of
platina a heat which was regularly kept up and distributed. They also
heated a distilling apparatus, which, by evaporation, furnished
excellent drinkable water. Near this kitchen was a bathroom comfortably
furnished, with hot and cold water taps.

Next to the kitchen was the berthroom of the vessel, sixteen feet long.
But the door was shut, and I could not see the management of it, which
might have given me an idea of the number of men employed on board the
_Nautilus_.

At the bottom was a fourth partition that separated this office from
the engine-room. A door opened, and I found myself in the compartment
where Captain Nemo—certainly an engineer of a very high order—had
arranged his locomotive machinery. This engine-room, clearly lighted,
did not measure less than sixty-five feet in length. It was divided
into two parts; the first contained the materials for producing
electricity, and the second the machinery that connected it with the
screw. I examined it with great interest, in order to understand the
machinery of the _Nautilus_.

“You see,” said the Captain, “I use Bunsen’s contrivances, not
Ruhmkorff’s. Those would not have been powerful enough. Bunsen’s are
fewer in number, but strong and large, which experience proves to be
the best. The electricity produced passes forward, where it works, by
electro-magnets of great size, on a system of levers and cog-wheels
that transmit the movement to the axle of the screw. This one, the
diameter of which is nineteen feet, and the thread twenty-three feet,
performs about a hundred and twenty revolutions in a second.”

“And you get then?”

“A speed of fifty miles an hour.”

“I have seen the _Nautilus_ manœuvre before the _Abraham Lincoln_, and
I have my own ideas as to its speed. But this is not enough. We must
see where we go. We must be able to direct it to the right, to the
left, above, below. How do you get to the great depths, where you find
an increasing resistance, which is rated by hundreds of atmospheres?
How do you return to the surface of the ocean? And how do you maintain
yourselves in the requisite medium? Am I asking too much?”

“Not at all, Professor,” replied the Captain, with some hesitation;
“since you may never leave this submarine boat. Come into the saloon,
it is our usual study, and there you will learn all you want to know
about the _Nautilus_.”




CHAPTER XII
SOME FIGURES


A moment after we were seated on a divan in the saloon smoking. The
Captain showed me a sketch that gave the plan, section, and elevation
of the _Nautilus_. Then he began his description in these words:—

“Here, M. Aronnax, are the several dimensions of the boat you are in.
It is an elongated cylinder with conical ends. It is very like a cigar
in shape, a shape already adopted in London in several constructions of
the same sort. The length of this cylinder, from stem to stern, is
exactly 232 feet, and its maximum breadth is twenty-six feet. It is not
built quite like your long-voyage steamers, but its lines are
sufficiently long, and its curves prolonged enough, to allow the water
to slide off easily, and oppose no obstacle to its passage. These two
dimensions enable you to obtain by a simple calculation the surface and
cubic contents of the _Nautilus_. Its area measures 6032 feet; and its
contents about 1500 cubic yards—that is to say, when completely
immersed it displaces 50,000 feet of water, or weighs 1500 tons.

“When I made the plans for this submarine vessel, I meant that
nine-tenths should be submerged: consequently, it ought only to
displace nine-tenths of its bulk—that is to say, only to weigh that
number of tons. I ought not, therefore, to have exceeded that weight,
constructing it on the aforesaid dimensions.

“The _Nautilus_ is composed of two hulls, one inside, the other
outside, joined by T-shaped irons, which render it very strong. Indeed,
owing to this cellular arrangement it resists like a block, as if it
were solid. Its sides cannot yield; it coheres spontaneously, and not
by the closeness of its rivets; and the homogenity of its construction,
due to the perfect union of the materials, enables it to defy the
roughest seas.

“These two hulls are composed of steel plates, whose density is from .7
to .8 that of water. The first is not less than two inches and a half
thick and weighs 394 tons. The second envelope, the keel, twenty inches
high and ten thick, weighs alone sixty-two tons. The engine, the
ballast, the several accessories and apparatus appendages, the
partitions and bulkheads, weigh 961.62 tons. Do you follow all this?”

“I do.”

“Then, when the _Nautilus_ is afloat under these circumstances,
one-tenth is out of the water. Now, if I have made reservoirs of a size
equal to this tenth, or capable of holding 150 tons, and if I fill them
with water, the boat, weighing then 1507 tons, will be completely
immersed. That would happen, Professor. These reservoirs are in the
lower parts of the _Nautilus_. I turn on taps and they fill, and the
vessel sinks that had just been level with the surface.”

“Well, Captain, but now we come to the real difficulty. I can
understand your rising to the surface; but diving below the surface,
does not your submarine contrivance encounter a pressure, and
consequently undergo an upward thrust of one atmosphere for every
thirty feet of water, just about fifteen pounds per square inch?”

“Just so, sir.”

“Then, unless you quite fill the _Nautilus_, I do not see how you can
draw it down to those depths.”

“Professor, you must not confound statics with dynamics or you will be
exposed to grave errors. There is very little labour spent in attaining
the lower regions of the ocean, for all bodies have a tendency to sink.
When I wanted to find out the necessary increase of weight required to
sink the _Nautilus_, I had only to calculate the reduction of volume
that sea-water acquires according to the depth.”

“That is evident.”

“Now, if water is not absolutely incompressible, it is at least capable
of very slight compression. Indeed, after the most recent calculations
this reduction is only .000436 of an atmosphere for each thirty feet of
depth. If we want to sink 3000 feet, I should keep account of the
reduction of bulk under a pressure equal to that of a column of water
of a thousand feet. The calculation is easily verified. Now, I have
supplementary reservoirs capable of holding a hundred tons. Therefore I
can sink to a considerable depth. When I wish to rise to the level of
the sea, I only let off the water, and empty all the reservoirs if I
want the _Nautilus_ to emerge from the tenth part of her total
capacity.”

I had nothing to object to these reasonings.

“I admit your calculations, Captain,” I replied; “I should be wrong to
dispute them since daily experience confirms them; but I foresee a real
difficulty in the way.”

“What, sir?”

“When you are about 1000 feet deep, the walls of the _Nautilus_ bear a
pressure of 100 atmospheres. If, then, just now you were to empty the
supplementary reservoirs, to lighten the vessel, and to go up to the
surface, the pumps must overcome the pressure of 100 atmospheres, which
is 1500 pounds per square inch. From that a power——”

“That electricity alone can give,” said the Captain, hastily. “I
repeat, sir, that the dynamic power of my engines is almost infinite.
The pumps of the _Nautilus_ have an enormous power, as you must have
observed when their jets of water burst like a torrent upon the
_Abraham Lincoln_. Besides I use subsidiary reservoirs only to attain a
mean depth of 750 to 1000 fathoms, and that with a view of managing my
machines. Also, when I have a mind to visit the depths of the ocean
five or six miles below the surface, I make use of slower but not less
infallible means.”

“What are they, Captain?”

“That involves my telling you how the _Nautilus_ is worked.”

“I am impatient to learn.”

“To steer this boat to starboard or port, to turn—in a word, following
a horizontal plan, I use an ordinary rudder fixed on the back of the
stern-post, and with one wheel and some tackle to steer by. But I can
also make the _Nautilus_ rise and sink, and sink and rise, by a
vertical movement by means of two inclined planes fastened to its
sides, opposite the centre of flotation, planes that move in every
direction, and that are worked by powerful levers from the interior. If
the planes are kept parallel with the boat, it moves horizontally. If
slanted, the _Nautilus_, according to this inclination, and under the
influence of the screw, either sinks diagonally or rises diagonally as
it suits me. And even if I wish to rise more quickly to the surface, I
ship the screw, and the pressure of the water causes the _Nautilus_ to
rise vertically like a balloon filled with hydrogen.”

“Bravo, Captain! But how can the steersman follow the route in the
middle of the waters?”

“The steersman is placed in a glazed box, that is raised about the hull
of the _Nautilus_, and furnished with lenses.”

“Are these lenses capable of resisting such pressure?”

“Perfectly. Glass, which breaks at a blow, is, nevertheless, capable of
offering considerable resistance. During some experiments of fishing by
electric light in 1864 in the Northern Seas, we saw plates less than a
third of an inch thick resist a pressure of sixteen atmospheres. Now,
the glass that I use is not less than thirty times thicker.”

“Granted. But, after all, in order to see, the light must exceed the
darkness, and in the midst of the darkness in the water, how can you
see?”

“Behind the steersman’s cage is placed a powerful electric reflector,
the rays from which light up the sea for half a mile in front.”

“Ah! bravo, bravo, Captain! Now I can account for this phosphorescence
in the supposed narwhal that puzzled us so. I now ask you if the
boarding of the _Nautilus_ and of the _Scotia_, that has made such a
noise, has been the result of a chance rencontre?”

“Quite accidental, sir. I was sailing only one fathom below the surface
of the water, when the shock came. It had no bad result.”

“None, sir. But now, about your rencontre with the _Abraham Lincoln?_”

“Professor, I am sorry for one of the best vessels in the American
navy; but they attacked me, and I was bound to defend myself. I
contented myself, however, with putting the frigate _hors de combat;_
she will not have any difficulty in getting repaired at the next port.”

“Ah, Commander! your _Nautilus_ is certainly a marvellous boat.”

“Yes, Professor; and I love it as if it were part of myself. If danger
threatens one of your vessels on the ocean, the first impression is the
feeling of an abyss above and below. On the _Nautilus_ men’s hearts
never fail them. No defects to be afraid of, for the double shell is as
firm as iron; no rigging to attend to; no sails for the wind to carry
away; no boilers to burst; no fire to fear, for the vessel is made of
iron, not of wood; no coal to run short, for electricity is the only
mechanical agent; no collision to fear, for it alone swims in deep
water; no tempest to brave, for when it dives below the water, it
reaches absolute tranquillity. There, sir! that is the perfection of
vessels! And if it is true that the engineer has more confidence in the
vessel than the builder, and the builder than the captain himself, you
understand the trust I repose in my _Nautilus;_ for I am at once
captain, builder, and engineer.”

“But how could you construct this wonderful _Nautilus_ in secret?”

“Each separate portion, M. Aronnax, was brought from different parts of
the globe. The keel was forged at Creusot, the shaft of the screw at
Penn & Co.’s, London, the iron plates of the hull at Laird’s of
Liverpool, the screw itself at Scott’s at Glasgow. The reservoirs were
made by Cail & Co. at Paris, the engine by Krupp in Prussia, its beak
in Motala’s workshop in Sweden, its mathematical instruments by Hart
Brothers, of New York, etc.; and each of these people had my orders
under different names.”

“But these parts had to be put together and arranged?”

“Professor, I had set up my workshops upon a desert island in the
ocean. There my workmen, that is to say, the brave men that I
instructed and educated, and myself have put together our _Nautilus_.
Then when the work was finished, fire destroyed all trace of our
proceedings on this island, that I could have jumped over if I had
liked.”

“Then the cost of this vessel is great?”

“M. Aronnax, an iron vessel costs £45 per ton. Now the _Nautilus_
weighed 1500. It came therefore to £67,500, and £80,000 more for
fitting it up, and about £200,000 with the works of art and the
collections it contains.”

“One last question, Captain Nemo.”

“Ask it, Professor.”

“You are rich?”

“Immensely rich, sir; and I could, without missing it, pay the national
debt of France.”

I stared at the singular person who spoke thus. Was he playing upon my
credulity? The future would decide that.




CHAPTER XIII
THE BLACK RIVER


The portion of the terrestrial globe which is covered by water is
estimated at upwards of eighty millions of acres. This fluid mass
comprises two billions two hundred and fifty millions of cubic miles,
forming a spherical body of a diameter of sixty leagues, the weight of
which would be three quintillions of tons. To comprehend the meaning of
these figures, it is necessary to observe that a quintillion is to a
billion as a billion is to unity; in other words, there are as many
billions in a quintillion as there are units in a billion. This mass of
fluid is equal to about the quantity of water which would be discharged
by all the rivers of the earth in forty thousand years.

During the geological epochs, the igneous period succeeded to the
aqeous. The ocean originally prevailed everywhere. Then by degrees, in
the silurian period, the tops of the mountains began to appear, the
islands emerged, then disappeared in partial deluges, reappeared,
became settled, formed continents, till at length the earth became
geographically arranged, as we see in the present day. The solid had
wrested from the liquid thirty-seven million six hundred and
fifty-seven square miles, equal to twelve billion nine hundred and
sixty millions of acres.

The shape of continents allows us to divide the waters into five great
portions: the Arctic or Frozen Ocean, the Antarctic or Frozen Ocean,
the Indian, the Atlantic, and the Pacific Oceans.

The Pacific Ocean extends from north to south between the two polar
circles, and from east to west between Asia and America, over an extent
of 145 degrees of longitude. It is the quietest of seas; its currents
are broad and slow, it has medium tides, and abundant rain. Such was
the ocean that my fate destined me first to travel over under these
strange conditions.

“Sir,” said Captain Nemo, “we will, if you please, take our bearings
and fix the starting-point of this voyage. It is a quarter to twelve; I
will go up again to the surface.”

The Captain pressed an electric clock three times. The pumps began to
drive the water from the tanks; the needle of the manometer marked by a
different pressure the ascent of the _Nautilus_, then it stopped.

“We have arrived,” said the Captain.

I went to the central staircase which opened on to the platform,
clambered up the iron steps, and found myself on the upper part of the
_Nautilus_.

The platform was only three feet out of water. The front and back of
the _Nautilus_ was of that spindle-shape which caused it justly to be
compared to a cigar. I noticed that its iron plates, slightly
overlaying each other, resembled the shell which clothes the bodies of
our large terrestrial reptiles. It explained to me how natural it was,
in spite of all glasses, that this boat should have been taken for a
marine animal.

Toward the middle of the platform the long-boat, half buried in the
hull of the vessel, formed a slight excrescence. Fore and aft rose two
cages of medium height with inclined sides, and partly closed by thick
lenticular glasses; one destined for the steersman who directed the
_Nautilus_, the other containing a brilliant lantern to give light on
the road.

The sea was beautiful, the sky pure. Scarcely could the long vehicle
feel the broad undulations of the ocean. A light breeze from the east
rippled the surface of the waters. The horizon, free from fog, made
observation easy. Nothing was in sight. Not a quicksand, not an island.
A vast desert.

Captain Nemo, by the help of his sextant, took the altitude of the sun,
which ought also to give the latitude. He waited for some moments till
its disc touched the horizon. Whilst taking observations not a muscle
moved, the instrument could not have been more motionless in a hand of
marble.


[Illustration] Captain Nemo took the Sun’s altitude


“Twelve o’clock, sir,” said he. “When you like——”

I cast a last look upon the sea, slightly yellowed by the Japanese
coast, and descended to the saloon.

“And now, sir, I leave you to your studies,” added the Captain; “our
course is E.N.E., our depth is twenty-six fathoms. Here are maps on a
large scale by which you may follow it. The saloon is at your disposal,
and with your permission, I will retire.” Captain Nemo bowed, and I
remained alone, lost in thoughts all bearing on the commander of the
_Nautilus_.

For a whole hour was I deep in these reflections, seeking to pierce
this mystery so interesting to me. Then my eyes fell upon the vast
planisphere spread upon the table, and I placed my finger on the very
spot where the given latitude and longitude crossed.

The sea has its large rivers like the continents. They are special
currents known by their temperature and their colour. The most
remarkable of these is known by the name of the Gulf Stream. Science
has decided on the globe the direction of five principal currents: one
in the North Atlantic, a second in the South, a third in the North
Pacific, a fourth in the South, and a fifth in the Southern Indian
Ocean. It is even probable that a sixth current existed at one time or
another in the Northern Indian Ocean, when the Caspian and Aral Seas
formed but one vast sheet of water.

At this point indicated on the planisphere one of these currents was
rolling, the Kuro-Scivo of the Japanese, the Black River, which,
leaving the Gulf of Bengal, where it is warmed by the perpendicular
rays of a tropical sun, crosses the Straits of Malacca along the coast
of Asia, turns into the North Pacific to the Aleutian Islands, carrying
with it trunks of camphor-trees and other indigenous productions, and
edging the waves of the ocean with the pure indigo of its warm water.
It was this current that the _Nautilus_ was to follow. I followed it
with my eye; saw it lose itself in the vastness of the Pacific, and
felt myself drawn with it, when Ned Land and Conseil appeared at the
door of the saloon.

My two brave companions remained petrified at the sight of the wonders
spread before them.

“Where are we, where are we?” exclaimed the Canadian. “In the museum at
Quebec?”

“My friends,” I answered, making a sign for them to enter, “you are not
in Canada, but on board the _Nautilus_, fifty yards below the level of
the sea.”

“But, M. Aronnax,” said Ned Land, “can you tell me how many men there
are on board? Ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred?”

“I cannot answer you, Mr. Land; it is better to abandon for a time all
idea of seizing the _Nautilus_ or escaping from it. This ship is a
masterpiece of modern industry, and I should be sorry not to have seen
it. Many people would accept the situation forced upon us, if only to
move amongst such wonders. So be quiet and let us try and see what
passes around us.”

“See!” exclaimed the harpooner, “but we can see nothing in this iron
prison! We are walking—we are sailing—blindly.”

Ned Land had scarcely pronounced these words when all was suddenly
darkness. The luminous ceiling was gone, and so rapidly that my eyes
received a painful impression.

We remained mute, not stirring, and not knowing what surprise awaited
us, whether agreeable or disagreeable. A sliding noise was heard: one
would have said that panels were working at the sides of the
_Nautilus_.

“It is the end of the end!” said Ned Land.

Suddenly light broke at each side of the saloon, through two oblong
openings. The liquid mass appeared vividly lit up by the electric
gleam. Two crystal plates separated us from the sea. At first I
trembled at the thought that this frail partition might break, but
strong bands of copper bound them, giving an almost infinite power of
resistance.

The sea was distinctly visible for a mile all round the _Nautilus_.
What a spectacle! What pen can describe it? Who could paint the effects
of the light through those transparent sheets of water, and the
softness of the successive graduations from the lower to the superior
strata of the ocean?

We know the transparency of the sea and that its clearness is far
beyond that of rock-water. The mineral and organic substances which it
holds in suspension heightens its transparency. In certain parts of the
ocean at the Antilles, under seventy-five fathoms of water, can be seen
with surprising clearness a bed of sand. The penetrating power of the
solar rays does not seem to cease for a depth of one hundred and fifty
fathoms. But in this middle fluid travelled over by the _Nautilus_, the
electric brightness was produced even in the bosom of the waves. It was
no longer luminous water, but liquid light.

On each side a window opened into this unexplored abyss. The obscurity
of the saloon showed to advantage the brightness outside, and we looked
out as if this pure crystal had been the glass of an immense aquarium.

“You wished to see, friend Ned; well, you see now.”

“Curious! curious!” muttered the Canadian, who, forgetting his
ill-temper, seemed to submit to some irresistible attraction; “and one
would come further than this to admire such a sight!”

“Ah!” thought I to myself, “I understand the life of this man; he has
made a world apart for himself, in which he treasures all his greatest
wonders.”

For two whole hours an aquatic army escorted the _Nautilus_. During
their games, their bounds, while rivalling each other in beauty,
brightness, and velocity, I distinguished the green labre; the banded
mullet, marked by a double line of black; the round-tailed goby, of a
white colour, with violet spots on the back; the Japanese scombrus, a
beautiful mackerel of those seas, with a blue body and silvery head;
the brilliant azurors, whose name alone defies description; some banded
spares, with variegated fins of blue and yellow; the woodcocks of the
seas, some specimens of which attain a yard in length; Japanese
salamanders, spider lampreys, serpents six feet long, with eyes small
and lively, and a huge mouth bristling with teeth; with many other
species.

Our imagination was kept at its height, interjections followed quickly
on each other. Ned named the fish, and Conseil classed them. I was in
ecstasies with the vivacity of their movements and the beauty of their
forms. Never had it been given to me to surprise these animals, alive
and at liberty, in their natural element. I will not mention all the
varieties which passed before my dazzled eyes, all the collection of
the seas of China and Japan. These fish, more numerous than the birds
of the air, came, attracted, no doubt, by the brilliant focus of the
electric light.

Suddenly there was daylight in the saloon, the iron panels closed
again, and the enchanting vision disappeared. But for a long time I
dreamt on till my eyes fell on the instruments hanging on the
partition. The compass still showed the course to be N.N.E., the
manometer indicated a pressure of five atmospheres, equivalent to a
depth of twenty-five fathoms, and the electric log gave a speed of
fifteen miles an hour. I expected Captain Nemo, but he did not appear.
The clock marked the hour of five.

Ned Land and Conseil returned to their cabin, and I retired to my
chamber. My dinner was ready. It was composed of turtle soup made of
the most delicate hawksbills, of a surmullet served with puff paste
(the liver of which, prepared by itself, was most delicious), and
fillets of the emperor-holocanthus, the savour of which seemed to me
superior even to salmon.

I passed the evening reading, writing, and thinking. Then sleep
overpowered me, and I stretched myself on my couch of zostera, and
slept profoundly, whilst the _Nautilus_ was gliding rapidly through the
current of the Black River.




CHAPTER XIV
A NOTE OF INVITATION


The next day was the 9th of November. I awoke after a long sleep of
twelve hours. Conseil came, according to custom, to know “how I had
passed the night,” and to offer his services. He had left his friend
the Canadian sleeping like a man who had never done anything else all
his life. I let the worthy fellow chatter as he pleased, without caring
to answer him. I was pre-occupied by the absence of the Captain during
our sitting of the day before, and hoping to see him to-day.

As soon as I was dressed I went into the saloon. It was deserted.

I plunged into the study of the shell treasures hidden behind the
glasses. I revelled also in great herbals filled with the rarest marine
plants, which, although dried up, retained their lovely colours.
Amongst these precious hydrophytes I remarked some vorticellæ,
pavonariæ, delicate ceramies with scarlet tints, some fan-shaped agari,
and some natabuli like flat mushrooms, which at one time used to be
classed as zoophytes; in short, a perfect series of algæ.

The whole day passed without my being honoured by a visit from Captain
Nemo. The panels of the saloon did not open. Perhaps they did not wish
us to tire of these beautiful things.

The course of the _Nautilus_ was E.N.E., her speed twelve knots, the
depth below the surface between twenty-five and thirty fathoms.

The next day, 10th of November, the same desertion, the same solitude.
I did not see one of the ship’s crew: Ned and Conseil spent the greater
part of the day with me. They were astonished at the inexplicable
absence of the Captain. Was this singular man ill?—had he altered his
intentions with regard to us?

After all, as Conseil said, we enjoyed perfect liberty, we were
delicately and abundantly fed. Our host kept to his terms of the
treaty. We could not complain, and, indeed, the singularity of our fate
reserved such wonderful compensation for us, that we had no right to
accuse it as yet.

That day I commenced the journal of these adventures which has enabled
me to relate them with more scrupulous exactitude and minute detail. I
wrote it on paper made from the zostera marina.

11th November, early in the morning. The fresh air spreading over the
interior of the _Nautilus_ told me that we had come to the surface of
the ocean to renew our supply of oxygen. I directed my steps to the
central staircase, and mounted the platform.

It was six o’clock, the weather was cloudy, the sea grey but calm.
Scarcely a billow. Captain Nemo, whom I hoped to meet, would he be
there? I saw no one but the steersman imprisoned in his glass cage.
Seated upon the projection formed by the hull of the pinnace, I inhaled
the salt breeze with delight.

By degrees the fog disappeared under the action of the sun’s rays, the
radiant orb rose from behind the eastern horizon. The sea flamed under
its glance like a train of gunpowder. The clouds scattered in the
heights were coloured with lively tints of beautiful shades, and
numerous “mare’s tails,” which betokened wind for that day. But what
was wind to this _Nautilus_ which tempests could not frighten!

I was admiring this joyous rising of the sun, so gay, and so
lifegiving, when I heard steps approaching the platform. I was prepared
to salute Captain Nemo, but it was his second (whom I had already seen
on the Captain’s first visit) who appeared. He advanced on the
platform, not seeming to see me. With his powerful glass to his eye he
scanned every point of the horizon with great attention. This
examination over, he approached the panel and pronounced a sentence in
exactly these terms. I have remembered it, for every morning it was
repeated under exactly the same conditions. It was thus worded—

“Nautron respoc lorni virch.”

What it meant I could not say.

These words pronounced, the second descended. I thought that the
_Nautilus_ was about to return to its submarine navigation. I regained
the panel and returned to my chamber.

Five days sped thus, without any change in our situation. Every morning
I mounted the platform. The same phrase was pronounced by the same
individual. But Captain Nemo did not appear.

I had made up my mind that I should never see him again, when, on the
16th November, on returning to my room with Ned and Conseil, I found
upon my table a note addressed to me. I opened it impatiently. It was
written in a bold, clear hand, the characters rather pointed, recalling
the German type. The note was worded as follows—

16th of _November_, 1867.


TO PROFESSOR ARONNAX, On board the _Nautilus_.

Captain Nemo invites Professor Aronnax to a hunting-party, which will
take place to-morrow morning in the forests of the island of Crespo. He
hopes that nothing will prevent the Professor from being present, and
he will with pleasure see him joined by his companions.


CAPTAIN NEMO, Commander of the _Nautilus_.


“A hunt!” exclaimed Ned.

“And in the forests of the island of Crespo!” added Conseil.

“Oh! then the gentleman is going on _terra firma?_” replied Ned Land.

“That seems to me to be clearly indicated,” said I, reading the letter
once more.

“Well, we must accept,” said the Canadian. “But once more on dry
ground, we shall know what to do. Indeed, I shall not be sorry to eat a
piece of fresh venison.”

Without seeking to reconcile what was contradictory between Captain
Nemo’s manifest aversion to islands and continents, and his invitation
to hunt in a forest, I contented myself with replying—

“Let us first see where the island of Crespo is.”

I consulted the planisphere, and in 32° 40′ north lat. and 157° 50′
west long., I found a small island, recognised in 1801 by Captain
Crespo, and marked in the ancient Spanish maps as Rocca de la Plata,
the meaning of which is “The Silver Rock.” We were then about eighteen
hundred miles from our starting-point, and the course of the
_Nautilus_, a little changed, was bringing it back towards the
south-east.

I showed this little rock lost in the midst of the North Pacific to my
companions.

“If Captain Nemo does sometimes go on dry ground,” said I, “he at least
chooses desert islands.”

Ned Land shrugged his shoulders without speaking, and Conseil and he
left me.

After supper, which was served by the steward mute and impassive, I
went to bed, not without some anxiety.

The next morning, the 17th of November, on awakening, I felt that the
_Nautilus_ was perfectly still. I dressed quickly and entered the
saloon.

Captain Nemo was there, waiting for me. He rose, bowed, and asked me if
it was convenient for me to accompany him. As he made no allusion to
his absence during the last eight days, I did not mention it, and
simply answered that my companions and myself were ready to follow him.

We entered the dining-room, where breakfast was served.

“M. Aronnax,” said the Captain, “pray, share my breakfast without
ceremony; we will chat as we eat. For though I promised you a walk in
the forest, I did not undertake to find hotels there. So breakfast as a
man who will most likely not have his dinner till very late.”

I did honour to the repast. It was composed of several kinds of fish,
and slices of holothuridæ (excellent zoophytes), and different sorts of
sea-weed. Our drink consisted of pure water, to which the Captain added
some drops of a fermented liquor, extracted by the Kamschatcha method
from a sea-weed known under the name of _Rhodomenia palmata_. Captain
Nemo ate at first without saying a word. Then he began—

“Sir, when I proposed to you to hunt in my submarine forest of Crespo,
you evidently thought me mad. Sir, you should never judge lightly of
any man.”

“But Captain, believe me——”

“Be kind enough to listen, and you will then see whether you have any
cause to accuse me of folly and contradiction.”

“I listen.”

“You know as well as I do, Professor, that man can live under water,
providing he carries with him a sufficient supply of breathable air. In
submarine works, the workman, clad in an impervious dress, with his
head in a metal helmet, receives air from above by means of forcing
pumps and regulators.”

“That is a diving apparatus,” said I.

“Just so, but under these conditions the man is not at liberty; he is
attached to the pump which sends him air through an india-rubber tube,
and if we were obliged to be thus held to the _Nautilus_, we could not
go far.”

“And the means of getting free?” I asked.

“It is to use the Rouquayrol apparatus, invented by two of your own
countrymen, which I have brought to perfection for my own use, and
which will allow you to risk yourself under these new physiological
conditions without any organ whatever suffering. It consists of a
reservoir of thick iron plates, in which I store the air under a
pressure of fifty atmospheres. This reservoir is fixed on the back by
means of braces, like a soldier’s knapsack. Its upper part forms a box
in which the air is kept by means of a bellows, and therefore cannot
escape unless at its normal tension. In the Rouquayrol apparatus such
as we use, two india-rubber pipes leave this box and join a sort of
tent which holds the nose and mouth; one is to introduce fresh air, the
other to let out the foul, and the tongue closes one or the other
according to the wants of the respirator. But I, in encountering great
pressures at the bottom of the sea, was obliged to shut my head, like
that of a diver in a ball of copper; and it is to this ball of copper
that the two pipes, the inspirator and the expirator, open.”

“Perfectly, Captain Nemo; but the air that you carry with you must soon
be used; when it only contains fifteen per cent. of oxygen it is no
longer fit to breathe.”

“Right! but I told you, M. Aronnax, that the pumps of the _Nautilus_
allow me to store the air under considerable pressure, and on these
conditions the reservoir of the apparatus can furnish breathable air
for nine or ten hours.”

“I have no further objections to make,” I answered; “I will only ask
you one thing, Captain—how can you light your road at the bottom of the
sea?”

“With the Ruhmkorff apparatus, M. Aronnax; one is carried on the back,
the other is fastened to the waist. It is composed of a Bunsen pile,
which I do not work with bichromate of potash, but with sodium. A wire
is introduced which collects the electricity produced, and directs it
towards a particularly made lantern. In this lantern is a spiral glass
which contains a small quantity of carbonic gas. When the apparatus is
at work this gas becomes luminous, giving out a white and continuous
light. Thus provided, I can breathe and I can see.”

“Captain Nemo, to all my objections you make such crushing answers,
that I dare no longer doubt. But if I am forced to admit the Rouquayrol
and Ruhmkorff apparatus, I must be allowed some reservations with
regard to the gun I am to carry.”

“But it is not a gun for powder,” answered the Captain.

“Then it is an air-gun.”

“Doubtless! How would you have me manufacture gunpowder on board,
without either saltpetre, sulphur, or charcoal?”

“Besides,” I added, “to fire under water in a medium eight hundred and
fifty-five times denser than the air, we must conquer very considerable
resistance.”

“That would be no difficulty. There exist guns, according to Fulton,
perfected in England by Philip Coles and Burley, in France by Furcy,
and in Italy by Landi, which are furnished with a peculiar system of
closing, which can fire under these conditions. But I repeat, having no
powder, I use air under great pressure, which the pumps of the
_Nautilus_ furnish abundantly.”

“But this air must be rapidly used?”

“Well, have I not my Rouquayrol reservoir, which can furnish it at
need? A tap is all that is required. Besides, M. Aronnax, you must see
yourself that, during our submarine hunt, we can spend but little air
and but few balls.”

“But it seems to me that in this twilight, and in the midst of this
fluid, which is very dense compared with the atmosphere, shots could
not go far, nor easily prove mortal.”

“Sir, on the contrary, with this gun every blow is mortal; and however
lightly the animal is touched, it falls as if struck by a thunderbolt.”

“Why?”

“Because the balls sent by this gun are not ordinary balls, but little
cases of glass (invented by Leniebroek, an Austrian chemist), of which
I have a large supply. These glass cases are covered with a case of
steel, and weighted with a pellet of lead; they are real Leyden
bottles, into which the electricity is forced to a very high tension.
With the slightest shock they are discharged, and the animal, however
strong it may be, falls dead. I must tell you that these cases are size
number four, and that the charge for an ordinary gun would be ten.”

“I will argue no longer,” I replied, rising from the table; “I have
nothing left me but to take my gun. At all events, I will go where you
go.”

Captain Nemo then led me aft; and in passing before Ned’s and Conseil’s
cabin, I called my two companions, who followed immediately. We then
came to a kind of cell near the machinery-room, in which we were to put
on our walking-dress.




CHAPTER XV
A WALK ON THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA


This cell was, to speak correctly, the arsenal and wardrobe of the
_Nautilus_. A dozen diving apparatuses hung from the partition, waiting
our use.

Ned Land, on seeing them, showed evident repugnance to dress himself in
one.

“But, my worthy Ned, the forests of the Island of Crespo are nothing
but submarine forests.”

“Good!” said the disappointed harpooner, who saw his dreams of fresh
meat fade away. “And you, M. Aronnax, are you going to dress yourself
in those clothes?”

“There is no alternative, Master Ned.”

“As you please, sir,” replied the harpooner, shrugging his shoulders;
“but as for me, unless I am forced, I will never get into one.”

“No one will force you, Master Ned,” said Captain Nemo.

“Is Conseil going to risk it?” asked Ned.

“I follow my master wherever he goes,” replied Conseil.

At the Captain’s call two of the ship’s crew came to help us to dress
in these heavy and impervious clothes, made of india-rubber without
seam, and constructed expressly to resist considerable pressure. One
would have thought it a suit of armour, both supple and resisting. This
suit formed trousers and waistcoat. The trousers were finished off with
thick boots, weighted with heavy leaden soles. The texture of the
waistcoat was held together by bands of copper, which crossed the
chest, protecting it from the great pressure of the water, and leaving
the lungs free to act; the sleeves ended in gloves, which in no way
restrained the movement of the hands. There was a vast difference
noticeable between these consummate apparatuses and the old cork
breastplates, jackets, and other contrivances in vogue during the
eighteenth century.

Captain Nemo and one of his companions (a sort of Hercules, who must
have possessed great strength), Conseil, and myself, were soon
enveloped in the dresses. There remained nothing more to be done but to
enclose our heads in the metal box. But before proceeding to this
operation, I asked the Captain’s permission to examine the guns we were
to carry.

One of the _Nautilus_ men gave me a simple gun, the butt end of which,
made of steel, hollow in the centre, was rather large. It served as a
reservoir for compressed air, which a valve, worked by a spring,
allowed to escape into a metal tube. A box of projectiles, in a groove
in the thickness of the butt end, contained about twenty of these
electric balls, which, by means of a spring, were forced into the
barrel of the gun. As soon as one shot was fired, another was ready.

“Captain Nemo,” said I, “this arm is perfect, and easily handled: I
only ask to be allowed to try it. But how shall we gain the bottom of
the sea?”

“At this moment, Professor, the _Nautilus_ is stranded in five fathoms,
and we have nothing to do but to start.”

“But how shall we get off?”

“You shall see.”

Captain Nemo thrust his head into the helmet, Conseil and I did the
same, not without hearing an ironical “Good sport!” from the Canadian.
The upper part of our dress terminated in a copper collar upon which
was screwed the metal helmet. Three holes, protected by thick glass,
allowed us to see in all directions, by simply turning our head in the
interior of the head-dress. As soon as it was in position, the
Rouquayrol apparatus on our backs began to act; and, for my part, I
could breathe with ease.

With the Ruhmkorff lamp hanging from my belt, and the gun in my hand, I
was ready to set out. But to speak the truth, imprisoned in these heavy
garments, and glued to the deck by my leaden soles, it was impossible
for me to take a step.


[Illustration] I was ready to set out


But this state of things was provided for. I felt myself being pushed
into a little room contiguous to the wardrobe-room. My companions
followed, towed along in the same way. I heard a water-tight door,
furnished with stopper-plates, close upon us, and we were wrapped in
profound darkness.

After some minutes, a loud hissing was heard. I felt the cold mount
from my feet to my chest. Evidently from some part of the vessel they
had, by means of a tap, given entrance to the water, which was invading
us, and with which the room was soon filled. A second door cut in the
side of the _Nautilus_ then opened. We saw a faint light. In another
instant our feet trod the bottom of the sea.

And now, how can I retrace the impression left upon me by that walk
under the waters? Words are impotent to relate such wonders! Captain
Nemo walked in front, his companion followed some steps behind. Conseil
and I remained near each other, as if an exchange of words had been
possible through our metallic cases. I no longer felt the weight of my
clothing, or of my shoes, of my reservoir of air, or my thick helmet,
in the midst of which my head rattled like an almond in its shell.

The light, which lit the soil thirty feet below the surface of the
ocean, astonished me by its power. The solar rays shone through the
watery mass easily, and dissipated all colour, and I clearly
distinguished objects at a distance of a hundred and fifty yards.
Beyond that the tints darkened into fine gradations of ultramarine, and
faded into vague obscurity. Truly this water which surrounded me was
but another air denser than the terrestrial atmosphere, but almost as
transparent. Above me was the calm surface of the sea.

We were walking on fine, even sand, not wrinkled, as on a flat shore,
which retains the impression of the billows. This dazzling carpet,
really a reflector, repelled the rays of the sun with wonderful
intensity, which accounted for the vibration which penetrated every
atom of liquid. Shall I be believed when I say that, at the depth of
thirty feet, I could see as if I was in broad daylight?

For a quarter of an hour I trod on this sand, sown with the impalpable
dust of shells. The hull of the _Nautilus_, resembling a long shoal,
disappeared by degrees; but its lantern, when darkness should overtake
us in the waters, would help to guide us on board by its distinct rays.

Soon forms of objects outlined in the distance were discernible. I
recognised magnificent rocks, hung with a tapestry of zoophytes of the
most beautiful kind, and I was at first struck by the peculiar effect
of this medium.

It was then ten in the morning; the rays of the sun struck the surface
of the waves at rather an oblique angle, and at the touch of their
light, decomposed by refraction as through a prism, flowers, rocks,
plants, shells, and polypi were shaded at the edges by the seven solar
colours. It was marvellous, a feast for the eyes, this complication of
coloured tints, a perfect kaleidoscope of green, yellow, orange,
violet, indigo, and blue; in one word, the whole palette of an
enthusiastic colourist! Why could I not communicate to Conseil the
lively sensations which were mounting to my brain, and rival him in
expressions of admiration? For aught I knew, Captain Nemo and his
companion might be able to exchange thoughts by means of signs
previously agreed upon. So, for want of better, I talked to myself; I
declaimed in the copper box which covered my head, thereby expending
more air in vain words than was perhaps expedient.

Various kinds of isis, clusters of pure tuft-coral, prickly fungi, and
anemones formed a brilliant garden of flowers, enamelled with porphitæ,
decked with their collarettes of blue tentacles, sea-stars studding the
sandy bottom, together with asterophytons like fine lace embroidered by
the hands of naïads, whose festoons were waved by the gentle
undulations caused by our walk. It was a real grief to me to crush
under my feet the brilliant specimens of molluscs which strewed the
ground by thousands, of hammer-heads, donaciae (veritable bounding
shells), of staircases, and red helmet-shells, angel-wings, and many
others produced by this inexhaustible ocean. But we were bound to walk,
so we went on, whilst above our heads waved shoals of physalides
leaving their tentacles to float in their train, medusæ whose umbrellas
of opal or rose-pink, escalloped with a band of blue, sheltered us from
the rays of the sun and fiery pelagiæ, which, in the darkness, would
have strewn our path with phosphorescent light.

All these wonders I saw in the space of a quarter of a mile, scarcely
stopping, and following Captain Nemo, who beckoned me on by signs. Soon
the nature of the soil changed; to the sandy plain succeeded an extent
of slimy mud, which the Americans call “ooze,” composed of equal parts
of silicious and calcareous shells. We then travelled over a plain of
sea-weed of wild and luxuriant vegetation. This sward was of close
texture, and soft to the feet, and rivalled the softest carpet woven by
the hand of man. But whilst verdure was spread at our feet, it did not
abandon our heads. A light network of marine plants, of that
inexhaustible family of sea-weeds of which more than two thousand kinds
are known, grew on the surface of the water. I saw long ribbons of
fucus floating, some globular, others tuberous; laurenciæ and
cladostephi of most delicate foliage, and some rhodomeniæ palmatæ,
resembling the fan of a cactus. I noticed that the green plants kept
nearer the top of the sea, whilst the red were at a greater depth,
leaving to the black or brown hydrophytes the care of forming gardens
and parterres in the remote beds of the ocean.

We had quitted the _Nautilus_ about an hour and a half. It was near
noon; I knew by the perpendicularity of the sun’s rays, which were no
longer refracted. The magical colours disappeared by degrees, and the
shades of emerald and sapphire were effaced. We walked with a regular
step, which rang upon the ground with astonishing intensity; the
slightest noise was transmitted with a quickness to which the ear is
unaccustomed on the earth; indeed, water is a better conductor of sound
than air, in the ratio of four to one. At this period the earth sloped
downwards; the light took a uniform tint. We were at a depth of a
hundred and five yards and twenty inches, undergoing a pressure of six
atmospheres.

At this depth I could still see the rays of the sun, though feebly; to
their intense brilliancy had succeeded a reddish twilight, the lowest
state between day and night; but we could still see well enough; it was
not necessary to resort to the Ruhmkorff apparatus as yet. At this
moment Captain Nemo stopped; he waited till I joined him, and then
pointed to an obscure mass, looming in the shadow, at a short distance.

“It is the forest of the Island of Crespo,” thought I;—and I was not
mistaken.




CHAPTER XVI
A SUBMARINE FOREST


We had at last arrived on the borders of this forest, doubtless one of
the finest of Captain Nemo’s immense domains. He looked upon it as his
own, and considered he had the same right over it that the first men
had in the first days of the world. And, indeed, who would have
disputed with him the possession of this submarine property? What other
hardier pioneer would come, hatchet in hand, to cut down the dark
copses?

This forest was composed of large tree-plants; and the moment we
penetrated under its vast arcades, I was struck by the singular
position of their branches—a position I had not yet observed.

Not a herb which carpeted the ground, not a branch which clothed the
trees, was either broken or bent, nor did they extend horizontally; all
stretched up to the surface of the ocean. Not a filament, not a ribbon,
however thin they might be, but kept as straight as a rod of iron. The
fuci and llianas grew in rigid perpendicular lines, due to the density
of the element which had produced them. Motionless, yet when bent to
one side by the hand, they directly resumed their former position.
Truly it was the region of perpendicularity!

I soon accustomed myself to this fantastic position, as well as to the
comparative darkness which surrounded us. The soil of the forest seemed
covered with sharp blocks, difficult to avoid. The submarine flora
struck me as being very perfect, and richer even than it would have
been in the arctic or tropical zones, where these productions are not
so plentiful. But for some minutes I involuntarily confounded the
genera, taking zoophytes for hydrophytes, animals for plants; and who
would not have been mistaken? The fauna and the flora are too closely
allied in this submarine world.

These plants are self-propagated, and the principle of their existence
is in the water, which upholds and nourishes them. The greater number,
instead of leaves, shot forth blades of capricious shapes, comprised
within a scale of colours,—pink, carmine, green, olive, fawn, and
brown. I saw there (but not dried up, as our specimens of the
_Nautilus_ are) pavonari spread like a fan, as if to catch the breeze;
scarlet ceramies, whose laminaries extended their edible shoots of
fern-shaped nereocysti, which grow to a height of fifteen feet;
clusters of acetabuli, whose stems increase in size upwards; and
numbers of other marine plants, all devoid of flowers!

“Curious anomaly, fantastic element!” said an ingenious naturalist, “in
which the animal kingdom blossoms, and the vegetable does not!”

Under these numerous shrubs (as large as trees of the temperate zone),
and under their damp shadow, were massed together real bushes of living
flowers, hedges of zoophytes, on which blossomed some zebrameandrines,
with crooked grooves, some yellow caryophylliæ; and, to complete the
allusion, the fish-flies flew from branch to branch like a swarm of
humming-birds, whilst yellow lepisacomthi, with bristling jaws,
dactylopteri, and monocentrides rose at our feet like a flight of
snipes.

In about an hour Captain Nemo gave the signal to halt. I, for my part,
was not sorry, and we stretched ourselves under an arbour of alariæ,
the long thin blades of which stood up like arrows.

This short rest seemed delicious to me; there was nothing wanting but
the charm of conversation; but, impossible to speak, impossible to
answer, I only put my great copper head to Conseil’s. I saw the worthy
fellow’s eyes glistening with delight, and to show his satisfaction, he
shook himself in his breastplate of air in the most comical way in the
world.

After four hours of this walking I was surprised not to find myself
dreadfully hungry. How to account for this state of the stomach I could
not tell. But instead I felt an insurmountable desire to sleep, which
happens to all divers. And my eyes soon closed behind the thick
glasses, and I fell into a heavy slumber, which the movement alone had
prevented before. Captain Nemo and his robust companion, stretched in
the clear crystal, set us the example.

How long I remained buried in this drowsiness I cannot judge; but, when
I woke, the sun seemed sinking towards the horizon. Captain Nemo had
already risen, and I was beginning to stretch my limbs, when an
unexpected apparition brought me briskly to my feet.

A few steps off, a monstrous sea-spider, about thirty-eight inches
high, was watching me with squinting eyes, ready to spring upon me.
Though my diver’s dress was thick enough to defend me from the bite of
this animal, I could not help shuddering with horror. Conseil and the
sailor of the _Nautilus_ awoke at this moment. Captain Nemo pointed out
the hideous crustacean, which a blow from the butt end of the gun
knocked over, and I saw the horrible claws of the monster writhe in
terrible convulsions. This accident reminded me that other animals more
to be feared might haunt these obscure depths, against whose attacks my
diving-dress would not protect me. I had never thought of it before,
but I now resolved to be upon my guard. Indeed, I thought that this
halt would mark the termination of our walk; but I was mistaken, for,
instead of returning to the _Nautilus_, Captain Nemo continued his bold
excursion. The ground was still on the incline, its declivity seemed to
be getting greater, and to be leading us to greater depths. It must
have been about three o’clock when we reached a narrow valley, between
high perpendicular walls, situated about seventy-five fathoms deep.
Thanks to the perfection of our apparatus, we were forty-five fathoms
below the limit which nature seems to have imposed on man as to his
submarine excursions.

I say seventy-five fathoms, though I had no instrument by which to
judge the distance. But I knew that even in the clearest waters the
solar rays could not penetrate further. And accordingly the darkness
deepened. At ten paces not an object was visible. I was groping my way,
when I suddenly saw a brilliant white light. Captain Nemo had just put
his electric apparatus into use; his companion did the same, and
Conseil and I followed their example. By turning a screw I established
a communication between the wire and the spiral glass, and the sea, lit
by our four lanterns, was illuminated for a circle of thirty-six yards.

Captain Nemo was still plunging into the dark depths of the forest,
whose trees were getting scarcer at every step. I noticed that
vegetable life disappeared sooner than animal life. The medusæ had
already abandoned the arid soil, from which a great number of animals,
zoophytes, articulata, molluscs, and fishes, still obtained sustenance.

As we walked, I thought the light of our Ruhmkorff apparatus could not
fail to draw some inhabitant from its dark couch. But if they did
approach us, they at least kept at a respectful distance from the
hunters. Several times I saw Captain Nemo stop, put his gun to his
shoulder, and after some moments drop it and walk on. At last, after
about four hours, this marvellous excursion came to an end. A wall of
superb rocks, in an imposing mass, rose before us, a heap of gigantic
blocks, an enormous, steep granite shore, forming dark grottos, but
which presented no practicable slope; it was the prop of the Island of
Crespo. It was the earth! Captain Nemo stopped suddenly. A gesture of
his brought us all to a halt, and, however desirous I might be to scale
the wall, I was obliged to stop. Here ended Captain Nemo’s domains. And
he would not go beyond them. Further on was a portion of the globe he
might not trample upon.

The return began. Captain Nemo had returned to the head of his little
band, directing their course without hesitation. I thought we were not
following the same road to return to the _Nautilus_. The new road was
very steep, and consequently very painful. We approached the surface of
the sea rapidly. But this return to the upper strata was not so sudden
as to cause relief from the pressure too rapidly, which might have
produced serious disorder in our organisation, and brought on internal
lesions, so fatal to divers. Very soon light reappeared and grew, and
the sun being low on the horizon, the refraction edged the different
objects with a spectral ring. At ten yards and a half deep, we walked
amidst a shoal of little fishes of all kinds, more numerous than the
birds of the air, and also more agile; but no aquatic game worthy of a
shot had as yet met our gaze, when at that moment I saw the Captain
shoulder his gun quickly, and follow a moving object into the shrubs.
He fired;—I heard a slight hissing, and a creature fell stunned at some
distance from us. It was a magnificent sea-otter, an enhydrus, the only
exclusively marine quadruped. This otter was five feet long, and must
have been very valuable. Its skin, chestnut-brown above and silvery
underneath, would have made one of those beautiful furs so sought after
in the Russian and Chinese markets; the fineness and the lustre of its
coat would certainly fetch £80. I admired this curious mammal, with its
rounded head ornamented with short ears, its round eyes, and white
whiskers like those of a cat, with webbed feet and nails, and tufted
tail. This precious animal, hunted and tracked by fishermen, has now
become very rare, and taken refuge chiefly in the northern parts of the
Pacific, or probably its race would soon become extinct.

Captain Nemo’s companion took the beast, threw it over his shoulder,
and we continued our journey. For one hour a plain of sand lay
stretched before us. Sometimes it rose to within two yards and some
inches of the surface of the water. I then saw our image clearly
reflected, drawn inversely, and above us appeared an identical group
reflecting our movements and our actions; in a word, like us in every
point, except that they walked with their heads downward and their feet
in the air.

Another effect I noticed, which was the passage of thick clouds which
formed and vanished rapidly; but on reflection I understood that these
seeming clouds were due to the varying thickness of the reeds at the
bottom, and I could even see the fleecy foam which their broken tops
multiplied on the water, and the shadows of large birds passing above
our heads, whose rapid flight I could discern on the surface of the
sea.

On this occasion, I was witness to one of the finest gun-shots which
ever made the nerves of a hunter thrill. A large bird of great breadth
of wing, clearly visible, approached, hovering over us. Captain Nemo’s
companion shouldered his gun and fired, when it was only a few yards
above the waves. The creature fell stunned, and the force of its fall
brought it within the reach of the dexterous hunter’s grasp. It was an
albatross of the finest kind.

Our march had not been interrupted by this incident. For two hours we
followed these sandy plains, then fields of algæ very disagreeable to
cross. Candidly, I could do no more when I saw a glimmer of light,
which, for a half mile, broke the darkness of the waters. It was the
lantern of the _Nautilus_. Before twenty minutes were over we should be
on board, and I should be able to breathe with ease, for it seemed that
my reservoir supplied air very deficient in oxygen. But I did not
reckon on an accidental meeting, which delayed our arrival for some
time.

I had remained some steps behind, when I presently saw Captain Nemo
coming hurriedly towards me. With his strong hand he bent me to the
ground, his companion doing the same to Conseil. At first I knew not
what to think of this sudden attack, but I was soon reassured by seeing
the Captain lie down beside me, and remain immovable.

I was stretched on the ground, just under the shelter of a bush of
algæ, when, raising my head, I saw some enormous mass, casting
phosphorescent gleams, pass blusteringly by.

My blood froze in my veins as I recognised two formidable sharks which
threatened us. It was a couple of tintoreas, terrible creatures, with
enormous tails and a dull glassy stare, the phosphorescent matter
ejected from holes pierced around the muzzle. Monstrous brutes! which
would crush a whole man in their iron jaws. I did not know whether
Conseil stopped to classify them; for my part, I noticed their silver
bellies, and their huge mouths bristling with teeth, from a very
unscientific point of view, and more as a possible victim than as a
naturalist.

Happily the voracious creatures do not see well. They passed without
seeing us, brushing us with their brownish fins, and we escaped by a
miracle from a danger certainly greater than meeting a tiger full-face
in the forest. Half an hour after, guided by the electric light, we
reached the _Nautilus_. The outside door had been left open, and
Captain Nemo closed it as soon as we had entered the first cell. He
then pressed a knob. I heard the pumps working in the midst of the
vessel, I felt the water sinking from around me, and in a few moments
the cell was entirely empty. The inside door then opened, and we
entered the vestry.

There our diving-dress was taken off, not without some trouble; and,
fairly worn out from want of food and sleep. I returned to my room, in
great wonder at this surprising excursion at the bottom of the sea.




CHAPTER XVII
FOUR THOUSAND LEAGUES UNDER THE PACIFIC


The next morning, the 18th of November, I had quite recovered from my
fatigues of the day before, and I went up on to the platform, just as
the second lieutenant was uttering his daily phrase.

I was admiring the magnificent aspect of the ocean when Captain Nemo
appeared. He did not seem to be aware of my presence, and began a
series of astronomical observations. Then, when he had finished, he
went and leant on the cage of the watch-light, and gazed abstractedly
on the ocean. In the meantime, a number of the sailors of the
_Nautilus_, all strong and healthy men, had come up onto the platform.
They came to draw up the nets that had been laid all night. These
sailors were evidently of different nations, although the European type
was visible in all of them. I recognised some unmistakable Irishmen,
Frenchmen, some Sclaves, and a Greek, or a Candiote. They were civil,
and only used that odd language among themselves, the origin of which I
could not guess, neither could I question them.

The nets were hauled in. They were a large kind of “chaluts,” like
those on the Normandy coasts, great pockets that the waves and a chain
fixed in the smaller meshes kept open. These pockets, drawn by iron
poles, swept through the water, and gathered in everything in their
way. That day they brought up curious specimens from those productive
coasts.

I reckoned that the haul had brought in more than nine hundredweight of
fish. It was a fine haul, but not to be wondered at. Indeed, the nets
are let down for several hours, and enclose in their meshes an infinite
variety. We had no lack of excellent food, and the rapidity of the
_Nautilus_ and the attraction of the electric light could always renew
our supply. These several productions of the sea were immediately
lowered through the panel to the steward’s room, some to be eaten
fresh, and others pickled.

The fishing ended, the provision of air renewed, I thought that the
_Nautilus_ was about to continue its submarine excursion, and was
preparing to return to my room, when, without further preamble, the
Captain turned to me, saying:

“Professor, is not this ocean gifted with real life? It has its tempers
and its gentle moods. Yesterday it slept as we did, and now it has woke
after a quiet night. Look!” he continued, “it wakes under the caresses
of the sun. It is going to renew its diurnal existence. It is an
interesting study to watch the play of its organisation. It has a
pulse, arteries, spasms; and I agree with the learned Maury, who
discovered in it a circulation as real as the circulation of blood in
animals.

“Yes, the ocean has indeed circulation, and to promote it, the Creator
has caused things to multiply in it—caloric, salt, and animalculae.”

When Captain Nemo spoke thus, he seemed altogether changed, and aroused
an extraordinary emotion in me.

“Also,” he added, “true existence is there; and I can imagine the
foundations of nautical towns, clusters of submarine houses, which,
like the _Nautilus_, would ascend every morning to breathe at the
surface of the water, free towns, independent cities. Yet who knows
whether some despot——”

Captain Nemo finished his sentence with a violent gesture. Then,
addressing me as if to chase away some sorrowful thought:

“M. Aronnax,” he asked, “do you know the depth of the ocean?”

“I only know, Captain, what the principal soundings have taught us.”

“Could you tell me them, so that I can suit them to my purpose?”

“These are some,” I replied, “that I remember. If I am not mistaken, a
depth of 8,000 yards has been found in the North Atlantic, and 2,500
yards in the Mediterranean. The most remarkable soundings have been
made in the South Atlantic, near the thirty-fifth parallel, and they
gave 12,000 yards, 14,000 yards, and 15,000 yards. To sum up all, it is
reckoned that if the bottom of the sea were levelled, its mean depth
would be about one and three-quarter leagues.”

“Well, Professor,” replied the Captain, “we shall show you better than
that I hope. As to the mean depth of this part of the Pacific, I tell
you it is only 4,000 yards.”

Having said this, Captain Nemo went towards the panel, and disappeared
down the ladder. I followed him, and went into the large drawing-room.
The screw was immediately put in motion, and the log gave twenty miles
an hour.

During the days and weeks that passed, Captain Nemo was very sparing of
his visits. I seldom saw him. The lieutenant pricked the ship’s course
regularly on the chart, so I could always tell exactly the route of the
_Nautilus_.

Nearly every day, for some time, the panels of the drawing-room were
opened, and we were never tired of penetrating the mysteries of the
submarine world.

The general direction of the _Nautilus_ was south-east, and it kept
between 100 and 150 yards of depth. One day, however, I do not know
why, being drawn diagonally by means of the inclined planes, it touched
the bed of the sea. The thermometer indicated a temperature of 4.25
(cent.): a temperature that at this depth seemed common to all
latitudes.

At three o’clock in the morning of the 26th of November the _Nautilus_
crossed the tropic of Cancer at 172° long. On 27th instant it sighted
the Sandwich Islands, where Cook died, February 14, 1779. We had then
gone 4,860 leagues from our starting-point. In the morning, when I went
on the platform, I saw two miles to windward, Hawaii, the largest of
the seven islands that form the group. I saw clearly the cultivated
ranges, and the several mountain-chains that run parallel with the
side, and the volcanoes that overtop Mouna-Rea, which rise 5,000 yards
above the level of the sea. Besides other things the nets brought up,
were several flabellariae and graceful polypi, that are peculiar to
that part of the ocean. The direction of the _Nautilus_ was still to
the south-east. It crossed the equator December 1, in 142° long.; and
on the 4th of the same month, after crossing rapidly and without
anything in particular occurring, we sighted the Marquesas group. I
saw, three miles off, Martin’s peak in Nouka-Hiva, the largest of the
group that belongs to France. I only saw the woody mountains against
the horizon, because Captain Nemo did not wish to bring the ship to the
wind. There the nets brought up beautiful specimens of fish: some with
azure fins and tails like gold, the flesh of which is unrivalled; some
nearly destitute of scales, but of exquisite flavour; others, with bony
jaws, and yellow-tinged gills, as good as bonitos; all fish that would
be of use to us. After leaving these charming islands protected by the
French flag, from the 4th to the 11th of December the _Nautilus_ sailed
over about 2,000 miles.

During the daytime of the 11th of December I was busy reading in the
large drawing-room. Ned Land and Conseil watched the luminous water
through the half-open panels. The _Nautilus_ was immovable. While its
reservoirs were filled, it kept at a depth of 1,000 yards, a region
rarely visited in the ocean, and in which large fish were seldom seen.

I was then reading a charming book by Jean Mace, The Slaves of the
Stomach, and I was learning some valuable lessons from it, when Conseil
interrupted me.

“Will master come here a moment?” he said, in a curious voice.

“What is the matter, Conseil?”

“I want master to look.”

I rose, went, and leaned on my elbows before the panes and watched.

In a full electric light, an enormous black mass, quite immovable, was
suspended in the midst of the waters. I watched it attentively, seeking
to find out the nature of this gigantic cetacean. But a sudden thought
crossed my mind. “A vessel!” I said, half aloud.

“Yes,” replied the Canadian, “a disabled ship that has sunk
perpendicularly.”

Ned Land was right; we were close to a vessel of which the tattered
shrouds still hung from their chains. The keel seemed to be in good
order, and it had been wrecked at most some few hours. Three stumps of
masts, broken off about two feet above the bridge, showed that the
vessel had had to sacrifice its masts. But, lying on its side, it had
filled, and it was heeling over to port. This skeleton of what it had
once been was a sad spectacle as it lay lost under the waves, but
sadder still was the sight of the bridge, where some corpses, bound
with ropes, were still lying. I counted five—four men, one of whom was
standing at the helm, and a woman standing by the poop, holding an
infant in her arms. She was quite young. I could distinguish her
features, which the water had not decomposed, by the brilliant light
from the _Nautilus_. In one despairing effort, she had raised her
infant above her head—poor little thing!—whose arms encircled its
mother’s neck. The attitude of the four sailors was frightful,
distorted as they were by their convulsive movements, whilst making a
last effort to free themselves from the cords that bound them to the
vessel. The steersman alone, calm, with a grave, clear face, his grey
hair glued to his forehead, and his hand clutching the wheel of the
helm, seemed even then to be guiding the three broken masts through the
depths of the ocean.

What a scene! We were dumb; our hearts beat fast before this shipwreck,
taken as it were from life and photographed in its last moments. And I
saw already, coming towards it with hungry eyes, enormous sharks,
attracted by the human flesh.

However, the _Nautilus_, turning, went round the submerged vessel, and
in one instant I read on the stern—“The Florida, Sunderland.”




CHAPTER XVIII
VANIKORO


This terrible spectacle was the forerunner of the series of maritime
catastrophes that the _Nautilus_ was destined to meet with in its
route. As long as it went through more frequented waters, we often saw
the hulls of shipwrecked vessels that were rotting in the depths, and
deeper down cannons, bullets, anchors, chains, and a thousand other
iron materials eaten up by rust. However, on the 11th of December we
sighted the Pomotou Islands, the old “dangerous group” of Bougainville,
that extend over a space of 500 leagues at E.S.E. to W.N.W., from the
Island Ducie to that of Lazareff. This group covers an area of 370
square leagues, and it is formed of sixty groups of islands, among
which the Gambier group is remarkable, over which France exercises
sway. These are coral islands, slowly raised, but continuous, created
by the daily work of polypi. Then this new island will be joined later
on to the neighboring groups, and a fifth continent will stretch from
New Zealand and New Caledonia, and from thence to the Marquesas.

One day, when I was suggesting this theory to Captain Nemo, he replied
coldly:

“The earth does not want new continents, but new men.”

Chance had conducted the _Nautilus_ towards the Island of
Clermont-Tonnere, one of the most curious of the group, that was
discovered in 1822 by Captain Bell of the Minerva. I could study now
the madreporal system, to which are due the islands in this ocean.

Madrepores (which must not be mistaken for corals) have a tissue lined
with a calcareous crust, and the modifications of its structure have
induced M. Milne Edwards, my worthy master, to class them into five
sections. The animalcule that the marine polypus secretes live by
millions at the bottom of their cells. Their calcareous deposits become
rocks, reefs, and large and small islands. Here they form a ring,
surrounding a little inland lake, that communicates with the sea by
means of gaps. There they make barriers of reefs like those on the
coasts of New Caledonia and the various Pomoton islands. In other
places, like those at Reunion and at Maurice, they raise fringed reefs,
high, straight walls, near which the depth of the ocean is
considerable.

Some cable-lengths off the shores of the Island of Clermont I admired
the gigantic work accomplished by these microscopical workers. These
walls are specially the work of those madrepores known as milleporas,
porites, madrepores, and astraeas. These polypi are found particularly
in the rough beds of the sea, near the surface; and consequently it is
from the upper part that they begin their operations, in which they
bury themselves by degrees with the debris of the secretions that
support them. Such is, at least, Darwin’s theory, who thus explains the
formation of the _atolls_, a superior theory (to my mind) to that given
of the foundation of the madreporical works, summits of mountains or
volcanoes, that are submerged some feet below the level of the sea.

I could observe closely these curious walls, for perpendicularly they
were more than 300 yards deep, and our electric sheets lighted up this
calcareous matter brilliantly. Replying to a question Conseil asked me
as to the time these colossal barriers took to be raised, I astonished
him much by telling him that learned men reckoned it about the eighth
of an inch in a hundred years.

Towards evening Clermont-Tonnerre was lost in the distance, and the
route of the _Nautilus_ was sensibly changed. After having crossed the
tropic of Capricorn in 135° longitude, it sailed W.N.W., making again
for the tropical zone. Although the summer sun was very strong, we did
not suffer from heat, for at fifteen or twenty fathoms below the
surface, the temperature did not rise above from ten to twelve degrees.

On 15th of December, we left to the east the bewitching group of the
Societies and the graceful Tahiti, queen of the Pacific. I saw in the
morning, some miles to the windward, the elevated summits of the
island. These waters furnished our table with excellent fish, mackerel,
bonitos, and some varieties of a sea-serpent.

On the 25th of December the _Nautilus_ sailed into the midst of the New
Hebrides, discovered by Quiros in 1606, and that Bougainville explored
in 1768, and to which Cook gave its present name in 1773. This group is
composed principally of nine large islands, that form a band of 120
leagues N.N.W. to S.S.E., between 15° and 2° S. lat., and 164 deg. and
168° long. We passed tolerably near to the Island of Aurou, that at
noon looked like a mass of green woods, surmounted by a peak of great
height.

That day being Christmas Day, Ned Land seemed to regret sorely the
non-celebration of “Christmas,” the family fete of which Protestants
are so fond. I had not seen Captain Nemo for a week, when, on the
morning of the 27th, he came into the large drawing-room, always
seeming as if he had seen you five minutes before. I was busily tracing
the route of the _Nautilus_ on the planisphere. The Captain came up to
me, put his finger on one spot on the chart, and said this single word.

“Vanikoro.”

The effect was magical! It was the name of the islands on which La
Perouse had been lost! I rose suddenly.

“The _Nautilus_ has brought us to Vanikoro?” I asked.

“Yes, Professor,” said the Captain.

“And I can visit the celebrated islands where the Boussole and the
Astrolabe struck?”

“If you like, Professor.”

“When shall we be there?”

“We are there now.”

Followed by Captain Nemo, I went up on to the platform, and greedily
scanned the horizon.

To the N.E. two volcanic islands emerged of unequal size, surrounded by
a coral reef that measured forty miles in circumference. We were close
to Vanikoro, really the one to which Dumont d’Urville gave the name of
Isle de la Recherche, and exactly facing the little harbour of Vanou,
situated in 16° 4′ S. lat., and 164° 32′ E. long. The earth seemed
covered with verdure from the shore to the summits in the interior,
that were crowned by Mount Kapogo, 476 feet high. The _Nautilus_,
having passed the outer belt of rocks by a narrow strait, found itself
among breakers where the sea was from thirty to forty fathoms deep.
Under the verdant shade of some mangroves I perceived some savages, who
appeared greatly surprised at our approach. In the long black body,
moving between wind and water, did they not see some formidable
cetacean that they regarded with suspicion?

Just then Captain Nemo asked me what I knew about the wreck of La
Perouse.

“Only what everyone knows, Captain,” I replied.

“And could you tell me what everyone knows about it?” he inquired,
ironically.

“Easily.”

I related to him all that the last works of Dumont d’Urville had made
known—works from which the following is a brief account.

La Perouse, and his second, Captain de Langle, were sent by Louis XVI,
in 1785, on a voyage of circumnavigation. They embarked in the
corvettes Boussole and the Astrolabe, neither of which were again heard
of. In 1791, the French Government, justly uneasy as to the fate of
these two sloops, manned two large merchantmen, the Recherche and the
Esperance, which left Brest the 28th of September under the command of
Bruni d’Entrecasteaux.

Two months after, they learned from Bowen, commander of the Albemarle,
that the debris of shipwrecked vessels had been seen on the coasts of
New Georgia. But D’Entrecasteaux, ignoring this communication—rather
uncertain, besides—directed his course towards the Admiralty Islands,
mentioned in a report of Captain Hunter’s as being the place where La
Perouse was wrecked.

They sought in vain. The Esperance and the Recherche passed before
Vanikoro without stopping there, and, in fact, this voyage was most
disastrous, as it cost D’Entrecasteaux his life, and those of two of
his lieutenants, besides several of his crew.

Captain Dillon, a shrewd old Pacific sailor, was the first to find
unmistakable traces of the wrecks. On the 15th of May, 1824, his
vessel, the St. Patrick, passed close to Tikopia, one of the New
Hebrides. There a Lascar came alongside in a canoe, sold him the handle
of a sword in silver that bore the print of characters engraved on the
hilt. The Lascar pretended that six years before, during a stay at
Vanikoro, he had seen two Europeans that belonged to some vessels that
had run aground on the reefs some years ago.

Dillon guessed that he meant La Perouse, whose disappearance had
troubled the whole world. He tried to get on to Vanikoro, where,
according to the Lascar, he would find numerous debris of the wreck,
but winds and tides prevented him.

Dillon returned to Calcutta. There he interested the Asiatic Society
and the Indian Company in his discovery. A vessel, to which was given
the name of the Recherche, was put at his disposal, and he set out,
23rd January, 1827, accompanied by a French agent.

The Recherche, after touching at several points in the Pacific, cast
anchor before Vanikoro, 7th July, 1827, in that same harbour of Vanou
where the _Nautilus_ was at this time.

There it collected numerous relics of the wreck—iron utensils, anchors,
pulley-strops, swivel-guns, an 18 lb.-shot, fragments of astronomical
instruments, a piece of crown work, and a bronze clock, bearing this
inscription—“Bazin m’a fait,” the mark of the foundry of the arsenal at
Brest about 1785. There could be no further doubt.

Dillon, having made all inquiries, stayed in the unlucky place till
October. Then he quitted Vanikoro, and directed his course towards New
Zealand; put into Calcutta, 7th April, 1828, and returned to France,
where he was warmly welcomed by Charles X.

But at the same time, without knowing Dillon’s movements, Dumont
d’Urville had already set out to find the scene of the wreck. And they
had learned from a whaler that some medals and a cross of St. Louis had
been found in the hands of some savages of Louisiade and New Caledonia.
Dumont d’Urville, commander of the Astrolabe, had then sailed, and two
months after Dillon had left Vanikoro he put into Hobart Town. There he
learned the results of Dillon’s inquiries, and found that a certain
James Hobbs, second lieutenant of the Union of Calcutta, after landing
on an island situated 8° 18′ S. lat., and 156° 30′ E. long., had seen
some iron bars and red stuffs used by the natives of these parts.
Dumont d’Urville, much perplexed, and not knowing how to credit the
reports of low-class journals, decided to follow Dillon’s track.

On the 10th of February, 1828, the Astrolabe appeared off Tikopia, and
took as guide and interpreter a deserter found on the island; made his
way to Vanikoro, sighted it on the 12th inst., lay among the reefs
until the 14th, and not until the 20th did he cast anchor within the
barrier in the harbour of Vanou.

On the 23rd, several officers went round the island and brought back
some unimportant trifles. The natives, adopting a system of denials and
evasions, refused to take them to the unlucky place. This ambiguous
conduct led them to believe that the natives had ill-treated the
castaways, and indeed they seemed to fear that Dumont d’Urville had
come to avenge La Perouse and his unfortunate crew.

However, on the 26th, appeased by some presents, and understanding that
they had no reprisals to fear, they led M. Jacquireot to the scene of
the wreck.

There, in three or four fathoms of water, between the reefs of Pacou
and Vanou, lay anchors, cannons, pigs of lead and iron, embedded in the
limy concretions. The large boat and the whaler belonging to the
Astrolabe were sent to this place, and, not without some difficulty,
their crews hauled up an anchor weighing 1,800 lbs., a brass gun, some
pigs of iron, and two copper swivel-guns.

Dumont d’Urville, questioning the natives, learned too that La Perouse,
after losing both his vessels on the reefs of this island, had
constructed a smaller boat, only to be lost a second time. Where, no
one knew.

But the French Government, fearing that Dumont d’Urville was not
acquainted with Dillon’s movements, had sent the sloop Bayonnaise,
commanded by Legoarant de Tromelin, to Vanikoro, which had been
stationed on the west coast of America. The Bayonnaise cast her anchor
before Vanikoro some months after the departure of the Astrolabe, but
found no new document; but stated that the savages had respected the
monument to La Perouse. That is the substance of what I told Captain
Nemo.

“So,” he said, “no one knows now where the third vessel perished that
was constructed by the castaways on the island of Vanikoro?”

“No one knows.”

Captain Nemo said nothing, but signed to me to follow him into the
large saloon. The _Nautilus_ sank several yards below the waves, and
the panels were opened.

I hastened to the aperture, and under the crustations of coral, covered
with fungi, syphonules, alcyons, madrepores, through myriads of
charming fish—girelles, glyphisidri, pompherides, diacopes, and
holocentres—I recognised certain debris that the drags had not been
able to tear up—iron stirrups, anchors, cannons, bullets, capstan
fittings, the stem of a ship, all objects clearly proving the wreck of
some vessel, and now carpeted with living flowers. While I was looking
on this desolate scene, Captain Nemo said, in a sad voice:

“Commander La Perouse set out 7th December, 1785, with his vessels La
Boussole and the Astrolabe. He first cast anchor at Botany Bay, visited
the Friendly Isles, New Caledonia, then directed his course towards
Santa Cruz, and put into Namouka, one of the Hapai group. Then his
vessels struck on the unknown reefs of Vanikoro. The Boussole, which
went first, ran aground on the southerly coast. The Astrolabe went to
its help, and ran aground too. The first vessel was destroyed almost
immediately. The second, stranded under the wind, resisted some days.
The natives made the castaways welcome. They installed themselves in
the island, and constructed a smaller boat with the debris of the two
large ones. Some sailors stayed willingly at Vanikoro; the others, weak
and ill, set out with La Perouse. They directed their course towards
the Solomon Islands, and there perished, with everything, on the
westerly coast of the chief island of the group, between Capes
Deception and Satisfaction.”

“How do you know that?”

“By this, that I found on the spot where was the last wreck.”

Captain Nemo showed me a tin-plate box, stamped with the French arms,
and corroded by the salt water. He opened it, and I saw a bundle of
papers, yellow but still readable.

They were the instructions of the naval minister to Commander La
Perouse, annotated in the margin in Louis XVI’s handwriting.

“Ah! it is a fine death for a sailor!” said Captain Nemo, at last. “A
coral tomb makes a quiet grave; and I trust that I and my comrades will
find no other.”




CHAPTER XIX
TORRES STRAITS


During the night of the 27th or 28th of December, the _Nautilus_ left
the shores of Vanikoro with great speed. Her course was south-westerly,
and in three days she had gone over the 750 leagues that separated it
from La Perouse’s group and the south-east point of Papua.

Early on the 1st of January, 1863, Conseil joined me on the platform.

“Master, will you permit me to wish you a happy New Year?”

“What! Conseil; exactly as if I was at Paris in my study at the Jardin
des Plantes? Well, I accept your good wishes, and thank you for them.
Only, I will ask you what you mean by a ‘Happy New Year’ under our
circumstances? Do you mean the year that will bring us to the end of
our imprisonment, or the year that sees us continue this strange
voyage?”

“Really, I do not know how to answer, master. We are sure to see
curious things, and for the last two months we have not had time for
dullness. The last marvel is always the most astonishing; and, if we
continue this progression, I do not know how it will end. It is my
opinion that we shall never again see the like. I think then, with no
offence to master, that a happy year would be one in which we could see
everything.”

On 2nd January we had made 11,340 miles, or 5,250 French leagues, since
our starting-point in the Japan Seas. Before the ship’s head stretched
the dangerous shores of the coral sea, on the north-east coast of
Australia. Our boat lay along some miles from the redoubtable bank on
which Cook’s vessel was lost, 10th June, 1770. The boat in which Cook
was struck on a rock, and, if it did not sink, it was owing to a piece
of coral that was broken by the shock, and fixed itself in the broken
keel.

I had wished to visit the reef, 360 leagues long, against which the
sea, always rough, broke with great violence, with a noise like
thunder. But just then the inclined planes drew the _Nautilus_ down to
a great depth, and I could see nothing of the high coral walls. I had
to content myself with the different specimens of fish brought up by
the nets. I remarked, among others, some germons, a species of mackerel
as large as a tunny, with bluish sides, and striped with transverse
bands, that disappear with the animal’s life.

These fish followed us in shoals, and furnished us with very delicate
food. We took also a large number of gilt-heads, about one and a half
inches long, tasting like dorys; and flying pyrapeds like submarine
swallows, which, in dark nights, light alternately the air and water
with their phosphorescent light. Among the molluscs and zoophytes, I
found in the meshes of the net several species of alcyonarians, echini,
hammers, spurs, dials, cerites, and hyalleae. The flora was represented
by beautiful floating seaweeds, laminariae, and macrocystes,
impregnated with the mucilage that transudes through their pores; and
among which I gathered an admirable Nemastoma Geliniarois, that was
classed among the natural curiosities of the museum.

Two days after crossing the coral sea, 4th January, we sighted the
Papuan coasts. On this occasion, Captain Nemo informed me that his
intention was to get into the Indian Ocean by the Strait of Torres. His
communication ended there.

The Torres Straits are nearly thirty-four leagues wide; but they are
obstructed by an innumerable quantity of islands, islets, breakers, and
rocks, that make its navigation almost impracticable; so that Captain
Nemo took all needful precautions to cross them. The _Nautilus_,
floating betwixt wind and water, went at a moderate pace. Her screw,
like a cetacean’s tail, beat the waves slowly.

Profiting by this, I and my two companions went up on to the deserted
platform. Before us was the steersman’s cage, and I expected that
Captain Nemo was there directing the course of the _Nautilus_. I had
before me the excellent charts of the Straits of Torres, and I
consulted them attentively. Round the _Nautilus_ the sea dashed
furiously. The course of the waves, that went from south-east to
north-west at the rate of two and a half miles, broke on the coral that
showed itself here and there.

“This is a bad sea!” remarked Ned Land.

“Detestable indeed, and one that does not suit a boat like the
_Nautilus_.”

“The Captain must be very sure of his route, for I see there pieces of
coral that would do for its keel if it only touched them slightly.”

Indeed the situation was dangerous, but the _Nautilus_ seemed to slide
like magic off these rocks. It did not follow the routes of the
Astrolabe and the Zelee exactly, for they proved fatal to Dumont
d’Urville. It bore more northwards, coasted the Islands of Murray, and
came back to the south-west towards Cumberland Passage. I thought it
was going to pass it by, when, going back to north-west, it went
through a large quantity of islands and islets little known, towards
the Island Sound and Canal Mauvais.

I wondered if Captain Nemo, foolishly imprudent, would steer his vessel
into that pass where Dumont d’Urville’s two corvettes touched; when,
swerving again, and cutting straight through to the west, he steered
for the Island of Gilboa.

It was then three in the afternoon. The tide began to recede, being
quite full. The _Nautilus_ approached the island, that I still saw,
with its remarkable border of screw-pines. He stood off it at about two
miles distant. Suddenly a shock overthrew me. The _Nautilus_ just
touched a rock, and stayed immovable, laying lightly to port side.

When I rose, I perceived Captain Nemo and his lieutenant on the
platform. They were examining the situation of the vessel, and
exchanging words in their incomprehensible dialect.

She was situated thus: Two miles, on the starboard side, appeared
Gilboa, stretching from north to west like an immense arm. Towards the
south and east some coral showed itself, left by the ebb. We had run
aground, and in one of those seas where the tides are middling—a sorry
matter for the floating of the _Nautilus_. However, the vessel had not
suffered, for her keel was solidly joined. But, if she could neither
glide off nor move, she ran the risk of being for ever fastened to
these rocks, and then Captain Nemo’s submarine vessel would be done
for.

I was reflecting thus, when the Captain, cool and calm, always master
of himself, approached me.

“An accident?” I asked.

“No; an incident.”

“But an incident that will oblige you perhaps to become an inhabitant
of this land from which you flee?”

Captain Nemo looked at me curiously, and made a negative gesture, as
much as to say that nothing would force him to set foot on terra firma
again. Then he said:

“Besides, M. Aronnax, the _Nautilus_ is not lost; it will carry you yet
into the midst of the marvels of the ocean. Our voyage is only begun,
and I do not wish to be deprived so soon of the honour of your
company.”

“However, Captain Nemo,” I replied, without noticing the ironical turn
of his phrase, “the _Nautilus_ ran aground in open sea. Now the tides
are not strong in the Pacific; and, if you cannot lighten the
_Nautilus_, I do not see how it will be reinflated.”

“The tides are not strong in the Pacific: you are right there,
Professor; but in Torres Straits one finds still a difference of a yard
and a half between the level of high and low seas. To-day is 4th
January, and in five days the moon will be full. Now, I shall be very
much astonished if that satellite does not raise these masses of water
sufficiently, and render me a service that I should be indebted to her
for.”

Having said this, Captain Nemo, followed by his lieutenant, re-descended
to the interior of the _Nautilus_. As to the vessel, it moved not, and
was immovable, as if the coralline polypi had already walled it up with
their indestructible cement.

“Well, sir?” said Ned Land, who came up to me after the departure of
the Captain.

“Well, friend Ned, we will wait patiently for the tide on the 9th
instant; for it appears that the moon will have the goodness to put it
off again.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“And this Captain is not going to cast anchor at all since the tide
will suffice?” said Conseil, simply.

The Canadian looked at Conseil, then shrugged his shoulders.

“Sir, you may believe me when I tell you that this piece of iron will
navigate neither on nor under the sea again; it is only fit to be sold
for its weight. I think, therefore, that the time has come to part
company with Captain Nemo.”

“Friend Ned, I do not despair of this stout _Nautilus_, as you do; and
in four days we shall know what to hold to on the Pacific tides.
Besides, flight might be possible if we were in sight of the English or
Provencal coast; but on the Papuan shores, it is another thing; and it
will be time enough to come to that extremity if the _Nautilus_ does
not recover itself again, which I look upon as a grave event.”

“But do they know, at least, how to act circumspectly? There is an
island; on that island there are trees; under those trees, terrestrial
animals, bearers of cutlets and roast beef, to which I would willingly
give a trial.”

“In this, friend Ned is right,” said Conseil, “and I agree with him.
Could not master obtain permission from his friend Captain Nemo to put
us on land, if only so as not to lose the habit of treading on the
solid parts of our planet?”

“I can ask him, but he will refuse.”

“Will master risk it?” asked Conseil, “and we shall know how to rely
upon the Captain’s amiability.”

To my great surprise, Captain Nemo gave me the permission I asked for,
and he gave it very agreeably, without even exacting from me a promise
to return to the vessel; but flight across New Guinea might be very
perilous, and I should not have counselled Ned Land to attempt it.
Better to be a prisoner on board the _Nautilus_ than to fall into the
hands of the natives.

At eight o’clock, armed with guns and hatchets, we got off the
_Nautilus_. The sea was pretty calm; a slight breeze blew on land.
Conseil and I rowing, we sped along quickly, and Ned steered in the
straight passage that the breakers left between them. The boat was well
handled, and moved rapidly.

Ned Land could not restrain his joy. He was like a prisoner that had
escaped from prison, and knew not that it was necessary to re-enter it.

“Meat! We are going to eat some meat; and what meat!” he replied. “Real
game! no, bread, indeed.”

“I do not say that fish is not good; we must not abuse it; but a piece
of fresh venison, grilled on live coals, will agreeably vary our
ordinary course.”

“Glutton!” said Conseil, “he makes my mouth water.”

“It remains to be seen,” I said, “if these forests are full of game,
and if the game is not such as will hunt the hunter himself.”

“Well said, M. Aronnax,” replied the Canadian, whose teeth seemed
sharpened like the edge of a hatchet; “but I will eat tiger—loin of
tiger—if there is no other quadruped on this island.”

“Friend Ned is uneasy about it,” said Conseil.

“Whatever it may be,” continued Ned Land, “every animal with four paws
without feathers, or with two paws without feathers, will be saluted by
my first shot.”

“Very well! Master Land’s imprudences are beginning.”

“Never fear, M. Aronnax,” replied the Canadian; “I do not want
twenty-five minutes to offer you a dish, of my sort.”

At half-past eight the _Nautilus_ boat ran softly aground on a heavy
sand, after having happily passed the coral reef that surrounds the
Island of Gilboa.




CHAPTER XX
A FEW DAYS ON LAND


I was much impressed on touching land. Ned Land tried the soil with his
feet, as if to take possession of it. However, it was only two months
before that we had become, according to Captain Nemo, “passengers on
board the _Nautilus_,” but, in reality, prisoners of its commander.

In a few minutes we were within musket-shot of the coast. The whole
horizon was hidden behind a beautiful curtain of forests. Enormous
trees, the trunks of which attained a height of 200 feet, were tied to
each other by garlands of bindweed, real natural hammocks, which a
light breeze rocked. They were mimosas, figs, hibisci, and palm trees,
mingled together in profusion; and under the shelter of their verdant
vault grew orchids, leguminous plants, and ferns.

But, without noticing all these beautiful specimens of Papuan flora,
the Canadian abandoned the agreeable for the useful. He discovered a
coco-tree, beat down some of the fruit, broke them, and we drunk the
milk and ate the nut with a satisfaction that protested against the
ordinary food on the _Nautilus_.

“Excellent!” said Ned Land.

“Exquisite!” replied Conseil.

“And I do not think,” said the Canadian, “that he would object to our
introducing a cargo of coco-nuts on board.”

“I do not think he would, but he would not taste them.”

“So much the worse for him,” said Conseil.

“And so much the better for us,” replied Ned Land. “There will be more
for us.”

“One word only, Master Land,” I said to the harpooner, who was
beginning to ravage another coco-nut tree. “Coco-nuts are good things,
but before filling the canoe with them it would be wise to reconnoitre
and see if the island does not produce some substance not less useful.
Fresh vegetables would be welcome on board the _Nautilus_.”

“Master is right,” replied Conseil; “and I propose to reserve three
places in our vessel, one for fruits, the other for vegetables, and the
third for the venison, of which I have not yet seen the smallest
specimen.”

“Conseil, we must not despair,” said the Canadian.

“Let us continue,” I returned, “and lie in wait. Although the island
seems uninhabited, it might still contain some individuals that would
be less hard than we on the nature of game.”

“Ho! ho!” said Ned Land, moving his jaws significantly.

“Well, Ned!” said Conseil.

“My word!” returned the Canadian, “I begin to understand the charms of
anthropophagy.”

“Ned! Ned! what are you saying? You, a man-eater? I should not feel
safe with you, especially as I share your cabin. I might perhaps wake
one day to find myself half devoured.”

“Friend Conseil, I like you much, but not enough to eat you
unnecessarily.”

“I would not trust you,” replied Conseil. “But enough. We must
absolutely bring down some game to satisfy this cannibal, or else one
of these fine mornings, master will find only pieces of his servant to
serve him.”

While we were talking thus, we were penetrating the sombre arches of
the forest, and for two hours we surveyed it in all directions.

Chance rewarded our search for eatable vegetables, and one of the most
useful products of the tropical zones furnished us with precious food
that we missed on board. I would speak of the bread-fruit tree, very
abundant in the island of Gilboa; and I remarked chiefly the variety
destitute of seeds, which bears in Malaya the name of “rima.”

Ned Land knew these fruits well. He had already eaten many during his
numerous voyages, and he knew how to prepare the eatable substance.
Moreover, the sight of them excited him, and he could contain himself
no longer.

“Master,” he said, “I shall die if I do not taste a little of this
bread-fruit pie.”

“Taste it, friend Ned—taste it as you want. We are here to make
experiments—make them.”

“It won’t take long,” said the Canadian.

And, provided with a lentil, he lighted a fire of dead wood that
crackled joyously. During this time, Conseil and I chose the best
fruits of the bread-fruit. Some had not then attained a sufficient
degree of maturity; and their thick skin covered a white but rather
fibrous pulp. Others, the greater number yellow and gelatinous, waited
only to be picked.

These fruits enclosed no kernel. Conseil brought a dozen to Ned Land,
who placed them on a coal fire, after having cut them in thick slices,
and while doing this repeating:

“You will see, master, how good this bread is. More so when one has
been deprived of it so long. It is not even bread,” added he, “but a
delicate pastry. You have eaten none, master?”

“No, Ned.”

“Very well, prepare yourself for a juicy thing. If you do not come for
more, I am no longer the king of harpooners.”

After some minutes, the part of the fruits that was exposed to the fire
was completely roasted. The interior looked like a white pasty, a sort
of soft crumb, the flavour of which was like that of an artichoke.

It must be confessed this bread was excellent, and I ate of it with
great relish.

“What time is it now?” asked the Canadian.

“Two o’clock at least,” replied Conseil.

“How time flies on firm ground!” sighed Ned Land.

“Let us be off,” replied Conseil.

We returned through the forest, and completed our collection by a raid
upon the cabbage-palms, that we gathered from the tops of the trees,
little beans that I recognised as the “abrou” of the Malays, and yams
of a superior quality.

We were loaded when we reached the boat. But Ned Land did not find his
provisions sufficient. Fate, however, favoured us. Just as we were
pushing off, he perceived several trees, from twenty-five to thirty
feet high, a species of palm-tree.

At last, at five o’clock in the evening, loaded with our riches, we
quitted the shore, and half an hour after we hailed the _Nautilus_. No
one appeared on our arrival. The enormous iron-plated cylinder seemed
deserted. The provisions embarked, I descended to my chamber, and after
supper slept soundly.

The next day, 6th January, nothing new on board. Not a sound inside,
not a sign of life. The boat rested along the edge, in the same place
in which we had left it. We resolved to return to the island. Ned Land
hoped to be more fortunate than on the day before with regard to the
hunt, and wished to visit another part of the forest.

At dawn we set off. The boat, carried on by the waves that flowed to
shore, reached the island in a few minutes.

We landed, and, thinking that it was better to give in to the Canadian,
we followed Ned Land, whose long limbs threatened to distance us. He
wound up the coast towards the west: then, fording some torrents, he
gained the high plain that was bordered with admirable forests. Some
kingfishers were rambling along the water-courses, but they would not
let themselves be approached. Their circumspection proved to me that
these birds knew what to expect from bipeds of our species, and I
concluded that, if the island was not inhabited, at least human beings
occasionally frequented it.

After crossing a rather large prairie, we arrived at the skirts of a
little wood that was enlivened by the songs and flight of a large
number of birds.

“There are only birds,” said Conseil.

“But they are eatable,” replied the harpooner.

“I do not agree with you, friend Ned, for I see only parrots there.”

“Friend Conseil,” said Ned, gravely, “the parrot is like pheasant to
those who have nothing else.”

“And,” I added, “this bird, suitably prepared, is worth knife and
fork.”

Indeed, under the thick foliage of this wood, a world of parrots were
flying from branch to branch, only needing a careful education to speak
the human language. For the moment, they were chattering with parrots
of all colours, and grave cockatoos, who seemed to meditate upon some
philosophical problem, whilst brilliant red lories passed like a piece
of bunting carried away by the breeze, papuans, with the finest azure
colours, and in all a variety of winged things most charming to behold,
but few eatable.

However, a bird peculiar to these lands, and which has never passed the
limits of the Arrow and Papuan islands, was wanting in this collection.
But fortune reserved it for me before long.

After passing through a moderately thick copse, we found a plain
obstructed with bushes. I saw then those magnificent birds, the
disposition of whose long feathers obliges them to fly against the
wind. Their undulating flight, graceful aerial curves, and the shading
of their colours, attracted and charmed one’s looks. I had no trouble
in recognising them.

“Birds of paradise!” I exclaimed.

The Malays, who carry on a great trade in these birds with the Chinese,
have several means that we could not employ for taking them. Sometimes
they put snares on the top of high trees that the birds of paradise
prefer to frequent. Sometimes they catch them with a viscous birdlime
that paralyses their movements. They even go so far as to poison the
fountains that the birds generally drink from. But we were obliged to
fire at them during flight, which gave us few chances to bring them
down; and, indeed, we vainly exhausted one half our ammunition.

About eleven o’clock in the morning, the first range of mountains that
form the centre of the island was traversed, and we had killed nothing.
Hunger drove us on. The hunters had relied on the products of the
chase, and they were wrong. Happily Conseil, to his great surprise,
made a double shot and secured breakfast. He brought down a white
pigeon and a wood-pigeon, which, cleverly plucked and suspended from a
skewer, was roasted before a red fire of dead wood. While these
interesting birds were cooking, Ned prepared the fruit of the
bread-tree. Then the wood-pigeons were devoured to the bones, and
declared excellent. The nutmeg, with which they are in the habit of
stuffing their crops, flavours their flesh and renders it delicious
eating.

“Now, Ned, what do you miss now?”

“Some four-footed game, M. Aronnax. All these pigeons are only
side-dishes and trifles; and until I have killed an animal with cutlets
I shall not be content.”

“Nor I, Ned, if I do not catch a bird of paradise.”

“Let us continue hunting,” replied Conseil. “Let us go towards the sea.
We have arrived at the first declivities of the mountains, and I think
we had better regain the region of forests.”

That was sensible advice, and was followed out. After walking for one
hour we had attained a forest of sago-trees. Some inoffensive serpents
glided away from us. The birds of paradise fled at our approach, and
truly I despaired of getting near one when Conseil, who was walking in
front, suddenly bent down, uttered a triumphal cry, and came back to me
bringing a magnificent specimen.

“Ah! bravo, Conseil!”

“Master is very good.”

“No, my boy; you have made an excellent stroke. Take one of these
living birds, and carry it in your hand.”

“If master will examine it, he will see that I have not deserved great
merit.”

“Why, Conseil?”

“Because this bird is as drunk as a quail.”

“Drunk!”

“Yes, sir; drunk with the nutmegs that it devoured under the
nutmeg-tree, under which I found it. See, friend Ned, see the monstrous
effects of intemperance!”

“By Jove!” exclaimed the Canadian, “because I have drunk gin for two
months, you must needs reproach me!”

However, I examined the curious bird. Conseil was right. The bird,
drunk with the juice, was quite powerless. It could not fly; it could
hardly walk.

This bird belonged to the most beautiful of the eight species that are
found in Papua and in the neighbouring islands. It was the “large
emerald bird, the most rare kind.” It measured three feet in length.
Its head was comparatively small, its eyes placed near the opening of
the beak, and also small. But the shades of colour were beautiful,
having a yellow beak, brown feet and claws, nut-coloured wings with
purple tips, pale yellow at the back of the neck and head, and emerald
colour at the throat, chestnut on the breast and belly. Two horned,
downy nets rose from below the tail, that prolonged the long light
feathers of admirable fineness, and they completed the whole of this
marvellous bird, that the natives have poetically named the “bird of
the sun.”

But if my wishes were satisfied by the possession of the bird of
paradise, the Canadian’s were not yet. Happily, about two o’clock, Ned
Land brought down a magnificent hog; from the brood of those the
natives call “bari-outang.” The animal came in time for us to procure
real quadruped meat, and he was well received. Ned Land was very proud
of his shot. The hog, hit by the electric ball, fell stone dead. The
Canadian skinned and cleaned it properly, after having taken half a
dozen cutlets, destined to furnish us with a grilled repast in the
evening. Then the hunt was resumed, which was still more marked by Ned
and Conseil’s exploits.

Indeed, the two friends, beating the bushes, roused a herd of kangaroos
that fled and bounded along on their elastic paws. But these animals
did not take to flight so rapidly but what the electric capsule could
stop their course.

“Ah, Professor!” cried Ned Land, who was carried away by the delights
of the chase, “what excellent game, and stewed, too! What a supply for
the _Nautilus!_ Two! three! five down! And to think that we shall eat
that flesh, and that the idiots on board shall not have a crumb!”

I think that, in the excess of his joy, the Canadian, if he had not
talked so much, would have killed them all. But he contented himself
with a single dozen of these interesting marsupians. These animals were
small. They were a species of those “kangaroo rabbitss” that live
habitually in the hollows of trees, and whose speed is extreme; but
they are moderately fat, and furnish, at least, estimable food. We were
very satisfied with the results of the hunt. Happy Ned proposed to
return to this enchanting island the next day, for he wished to
depopulate it of all the eatable quadrupeds. But he had reckoned
without his host.

At six o’clock in the evening we had regained the shore; our boat was
moored to the usual place. The _Nautilus_, like a long rock, emerged
from the waves two miles from the beach. Ned Land, without waiting,
occupied himself about the important dinner business. He understood all
about cooking well. The “bari-outang,” grilled on the coals, soon
scented the air with a delicious odour.

Indeed, the dinner was excellent. Two wood-pigeons completed this
extraordinary menu. The sago pasty, the artocarpus bread, some mangoes,
half a dozen pineapples, and the liquor fermented from some coco-nuts,
overjoyed us. I even think that my worthy companions’ ideas had not all
the plainness desirable.

“Suppose we do not return to the _Nautilus_ this evening?” said
Conseil.

“Suppose we never return?” added Ned Land.

Just then a stone fell at our feet and cut short the harpooner’s
proposition.




CHAPTER XXI
CAPTAIN NEMO’S THUNDERBOLT


We looked at the edge of the forest without rising, my hand stopping in
the action of putting it to my mouth, Ned Land’s completing its office.

“Stones do not fall from the sky,” remarked Conseil, “or they would
merit the name aerolites.”

A second stone, carefully aimed, that made a savoury pigeon’s leg fall
from Conseil’s hand, gave still more weight to his observation. We all
three arose, shouldered our guns, and were ready to reply to any
attack.

“Are they apes?” cried Ned Land.

“Very nearly—they are savages.”

“To the boat!” I said, hurrying to the sea.

It was indeed necessary to beat a retreat, for about twenty natives
armed with bows and slings appeared on the skirts of a copse that
masked the horizon to the right, hardly a hundred steps from us.

Our boat was moored about sixty feet from us. The savages approached
us, not running, but making hostile demonstrations. Stones and arrows
fell thickly.

Ned Land had not wished to leave his provisions; and, in spite of his
imminent danger, his pig on one side and kangaroos on the other, he
went tolerably fast. In two minutes we were on the shore. To load the
boat with provisions and arms, to push it out to sea, and ship the
oars, was the work of an instant. We had not gone two cable-lengths,
when a hundred savages, howling and gesticulating, entered the water up
to their waists. I watched to see if their apparition would attract
some men from the _Nautilus_ on to the platform. But no. The enormous
machine, lying off, was absolutely deserted.

Twenty minutes later we were on board. The panels were open. After
making the boat fast, we entered into the interior of the _Nautilus_.

I descended to the drawing-room, from whence I heard some chords.
Captain Nemo was there, bending over his organ, and plunged in a
musical ecstasy.

“Captain!”

He did not hear me.

“Captain!” I said, touching his hand.

He shuddered, and, turning round, said, “Ah! it is you, Professor?
Well, have you had a good hunt, have you botanised successfully?”

“Yes Captain; but we have unfortunately brought a troop of bipeds,
whose vicinity troubles me.”

“What bipeds?”

“Savages.”

“Savages!” he echoed, ironically. “So you are astonished, Professor, at
having set foot on a strange land and finding savages? Savages! where
are there not any? Besides, are they worse than others, these whom you
call savages?”

“But Captain——”

“How many have you counted?”

“A hundred at least.”

“M. Aronnax,” replied Captain Nemo, placing his fingers on the organ
stops, “when all the natives of Papua are assembled on this shore, the
_Nautilus_ will have nothing to fear from their attacks.”

The Captain’s fingers were then running over the keys of the
instrument, and I remarked that he touched only the black keys, which
gave his melodies an essentially Scotch character. Soon he had
forgotten my presence, and had plunged into a reverie that I did not
disturb. I went up again on to the platform: night had already fallen;
for, in this low latitude, the sun sets rapidly and without twilight. I
could only see the island indistinctly; but the numerous fires, lighted
on the beach, showed that the natives did not think of leaving it. I
was alone for several hours, sometimes thinking of the natives—but
without any dread of them, for the imperturbable confidence of the
Captain was catching—sometimes forgetting them to admire the splendours
of the night in the tropics. My remembrances went to France in the
train of those zodiacal stars that would shine in some hours’ time. The
moon shone in the midst of the constellations of the zenith.

The night slipped away without any mischance, the islanders frightened
no doubt at the sight of a monster aground in the bay. The panels were
open, and would have offered an easy access to the interior of the
_Nautilus_.

At six o’clock in the morning of the 8th January I went up on to the
platform. The dawn was breaking. The island soon showed itself through
the dissipating fogs, first the shore, then the summits.

The natives were there, more numerous than on the day before—five or
six hundred perhaps—some of them, profiting by the low water, had come
on to the coral, at less than two cable-lengths from the _Nautilus_. I
distinguished them easily; they were true Papuans, with athletic
figures, men of good race, large high foreheads, large, but not broad
and flat, and white teeth. Their woolly hair, with a reddish tinge,
showed off on their black shining bodies like those of the Nubians.
From the lobes of their ears, cut and distended, hung chaplets of
bones. Most of these savages were naked. Amongst them, I remarked some
women, dressed from the hips to knees in quite a crinoline of herbs,
that sustained a vegetable waistband. Some chiefs had ornamented their
necks with a crescent and collars of glass beads, red and white; nearly
all were armed with bows, arrows, and shields and carried on their
shoulders a sort of net containing those round stones which they cast
from their slings with great skill. One of these chiefs, rather near to
the _Nautilus_, examined it attentively. He was, perhaps, a “mado” of
high rank, for he was draped in a mat of banana-leaves, notched round
the edges, and set off with brilliant colours.

I could easily have knocked down this native, who was within a short
length; but I thought that it was better to wait for real hostile
demonstrations. Between Europeans and savages, it is proper for the
Europeans to parry sharply, not to attack.

During low water the natives roamed about near the _Nautilus_, but were
not troublesome; I heard them frequently repeat the word “Assai,” and
by their gestures I understood that they invited me to go on land, an
invitation that I declined.

So that, on that day, the boat did not push off, to the great
displeasure of Master Land, who could not complete his provisions.

This adroit Canadian employed his time in preparing the viands and meat
that he had brought off the island. As for the savages, they returned
to the shore about eleven o’clock in the morning, as soon as the coral
tops began to disappear under the rising tide; but I saw their numbers
had increased considerably on the shore. Probably they came from the
neighbouring islands, or very likely from Papua. However, I had not
seen a single native canoe. Having nothing better to do, I thought of
dragging these beautiful limpid waters, under which I saw a profusion
of shells, zoophytes, and marine plants. Moreover, it was the last day
that the _Nautilus_ would pass in these parts, if it float in open sea
the next day, according to Captain Nemo’s promise.

I therefore called Conseil, who brought me a little light drag, very
like those for the oyster fishery. Now to work! For two hours we fished
unceasingly, but without bringing up any rarities. The drag was filled
with midas-ears, harps, melames, and particularly the most beautiful
hammers I have ever seen. We also brought up some sea-slugs,
pearl-oysters, and a dozen little turtles that were reserved for the
pantry on board.

But just when I expected it least, I put my hand on a wonder, I might
say a natural deformity, very rarely met with. Conseil was just
dragging, and his net came up filled with divers ordinary shells, when,
all at once, he saw me plunge my arm quickly into the net, to draw out
a shell, and heard me utter a cry.

“What is the matter, sir?” he asked in surprise. “Has master been
bitten?”

“No, my boy; but I would willingly have given a finger for my
discovery.”

“What discovery?”

“This shell,” I said, holding up the object of my triumph.

“It is simply an olive porphyry, genus olive, order of the
pectinibranchidæ, class of gasteropods, sub-class mollusca.”

“Yes, Conseil; but, instead of being rolled from right to left, this
olive turns from left to right.”

“Is it possible?”

“Yes, my boy; it is a left shell.”

Shells are all right-handed, with rare exceptions; and, when by chance
their spiral is left, amateurs are ready to pay their weight in gold.

Conseil and I were absorbed in the contemplation of our treasure, and I
was promising myself to enrich the museum with it, when a stone
unfortunately thrown by a native struck against, and broke, the
precious object in Conseil’s hand. I uttered a cry of despair! Conseil
took up his gun, and aimed at a savage who was poising his sling at ten
yards from him. I would have stopped him, but his blow took effect and
broke the bracelet of amulets which encircled the arm of the savage.


[Illustration] Conseil seized his gun


“Conseil!” cried I. “Conseil!”

“Well, sir! do you not see that the cannibal has commenced the attack?”

“A shell is not worth the life of a man,” said I.

“Ah! the scoundrel!” cried Conseil; “I would rather he had broken my
shoulder!”

Conseil was in earnest, but I was not of his opinion. However, the
situation had changed some minutes before, and we had not perceived. A
score of canoes surrounded the _Nautilus_. These canoes, scooped out of
the trunk of a tree, long, narrow, well adapted for speed, were
balanced by means of a long bamboo pole, which floated on the water.
They were managed by skilful, half-naked paddlers, and I watched their
advance with some uneasiness. It was evident that these Papuans had
already had dealings with the Europeans and knew their ships. But this
long iron cylinder anchored in the bay, without masts or chimneys, what
could they think of it? Nothing good, for at first they kept at a
respectful distance. However, seeing it motionless, by degrees they
took courage, and sought to familiarise themselves with it. Now this
familiarity was precisely what it was necessary to avoid. Our arms,
which were noiseless, could only produce a moderate effect on the
savages, who have little respect for aught but blustering things. The
thunderbolt without the reverberations of thunder would frighten man
but little, though the danger lies in the lightning, not in the noise.

At this moment the canoes approached the _Nautilus_, and a shower of
arrows alighted on her.

I went down to the saloon, but found no one there. I ventured to knock
at the door that opened into the Captain’s room. “Come in,” was the
answer.

I entered, and found Captain Nemo deep in algebraical calculations of
_x_ and other quantities.

“I am disturbing you,” said I, for courtesy’s sake.

“That is true, M. Aronnax,” replied the Captain; “but I think you have
serious reasons for wishing to see me?”

“Very grave ones; the natives are surrounding us in their canoes, and
in a few minutes we shall certainly be attacked by many hundreds of
savages.”

“Ah!” said Captain Nemo quietly, “they are come with their canoes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, sir, we must close the hatches.”

“Exactly, and I came to say to you——”

“Nothing can be more simple,” said Captain Nemo. And, pressing an
electric button, he transmitted an order to the ship’s crew.

“It is all done, sir,” said he, after some moments. “The pinnace is
ready, and the hatches are closed. You do not fear, I imagine, that
these gentlemen could stave in walls on which the balls of your frigate
have had no effect?”

“No, Captain; but a danger still exists.”

“What is that, sir?”

“It is that to-morrow, at about this hour, we must open the hatches to
renew the air of the _Nautilus_. Now, if, at this moment, the Papuans
should occupy the platform, I do not see how you could prevent them
from entering.”

“Then, sir, you suppose that they will board us?”

“I am certain of it.”

“Well, sir, let them come. I see no reason for hindering them. After
all, these Papuans are poor creatures, and I am unwilling that my visit
to the island should cost the life of a single one of these wretches.”

Upon that I was going away; But Captain Nemo detained me, and asked me
to sit down by him. He questioned me with interest about our excursions
on shore, and our hunting; and seemed not to understand the craving for
meat that possessed the Canadian. Then the conversation turned on
various subjects, and, without being more communicative, Captain Nemo
showed himself more amiable.

Amongst other things, we happened to speak of the situation of the
_Nautilus_, run aground in exactly the same spot in this strait where
Dumont d’Urville was nearly lost. Apropos of this:

“This D’Urville was one of your great sailors,” said the Captain to me,
“one of your most intelligent navigators. He is the Captain Cook of you
Frenchmen. Unfortunate man of science, after having braved the icebergs
of the South Pole, the coral reefs of Oceania, the cannibals of the
Pacific, to perish miserably in a railway train! If this energetic man
could have reflected during the last moments of his life, what must
have been uppermost in his last thoughts, do you suppose?”

So speaking, Captain Nemo seemed moved, and his emotion gave me a
better opinion of him. Then, chart in hand, we reviewed the travels of
the French navigator, his voyages of circumnavigation, his double
detention at the South Pole, which led to the discovery of Adelaide and
Louis Philippe, and fixing the hydrographical bearings of the principal
islands of Oceania.

“That which your D’Urville has done on the surface of the seas,” said
Captain Nemo, “that have I done under them, and more easily, more
completely than he. The Astrolabe and the Zelee, incessantly tossed
about by the hurricane, could not be worth the _Nautilus_, quiet
repository of labour that she is, truly motionless in the midst of the
waters.

“To-morrow,” added the Captain, rising, “to-morrow, at twenty minutes
to three p.m., the _Nautilus_ shall float, and leave the Strait of
Torres uninjured.”

Having curtly pronounced these words, Captain Nemo bowed slightly. This
was to dismiss me, and I went back to my room.

There I found Conseil, who wished to know the result of my interview
with the Captain.

“My boy,” said I, “when I feigned to believe that his _Nautilus_ was
threatened by the natives of Papua, the Captain answered me very
sarcastically. I have but one thing to say to you: Have confidence in
him, and go to sleep in peace.”

“Have you no need of my services, sir?”

“No, my friend. What is Ned Land doing?”

“If you will excuse me, sir,” answered Conseil, “friend Ned is busy
making a kangaroo-pie which will be a marvel.”

I remained alone and went to bed, but slept indifferently. I heard the
noise of the savages, who stamped on the platform, uttering deafening
cries. The night passed thus, without disturbing the ordinary repose of
the crew. The presence of these cannibals affected them no more than
the soldiers of a masked battery care for the ants that crawl over its
front.

At six in the morning I rose. The hatches had not been opened. The
inner air was not renewed, but the reservoirs, filled ready for any
emergency, were now resorted to, and discharged several cubic feet of
oxygen into the exhausted atmosphere of the _Nautilus_.

I worked in my room till noon, without having seen Captain Nemo, even
for an instant. On board no preparations for departure were visible.

I waited still some time, then went into the large saloon. The clock
marked half-past two. In ten minutes it would be high-tide: and, if
Captain Nemo had not made a rash promise, the _Nautilus_ would be
immediately detached. If not, many months would pass ere she could
leave her bed of coral.

However, some warning vibrations began to be felt in the vessel. I
heard the keel grating against the rough calcareous bottom of the coral
reef.

At five-and-twenty minutes to three, Captain Nemo appeared in the
saloon.

“We are going to start,” said he.

“Ah!” replied I.

“I have given the order to open the hatches.”

“And the Papuans?”

“The Papuans?” answered Captain Nemo, slightly shrugging his shoulders.

“Will they not come inside the _Nautilus?_”

“How?”

“Only by leaping over the hatches you have opened.”

“M. Aronnax,” quietly answered Captain Nemo, “they will not enter the
hatches of the _Nautilus_ in that way, even if they were open.”

I looked at the Captain.

“You do not understand?” said he.

“Hardly.”

“Well, come and you will see.”

I directed my steps towards the central staircase. There Ned Land and
Conseil were slyly watching some of the ship’s crew, who were opening
the hatches, while cries of rage and fearful vociferations resounded
outside.

The port lids were pulled down outside. Twenty horrible faces appeared.
But the first native who placed his hand on the stair-rail, struck from
behind by some invisible force, I know not what, fled, uttering the
most fearful cries and making the wildest contortions.

Ten of his companions followed him. They met with the same fate.

Conseil was in ecstasy. Ned Land, carried away by his violent
instincts, rushed on to the staircase. But the moment he seized the
rail with both hands, he, in his turn, was overthrown.

“I am struck by a thunderbolt,” cried he, with an oath.

This explained all. It was no rail; but a metallic cable charged with
electricity from the deck communicating with the platform. Whoever
touched it felt a powerful shock—and this shock would have been mortal
if Captain Nemo had discharged into the conductor the whole force of
the current. It might truly be said that between his assailants and
himself he had stretched a network of electricity which none could pass
with impunity.

Meanwhile, the exasperated Papuans had beaten a retreat paralysed with
terror. As for us, half laughing, we consoled and rubbed the
unfortunate Ned Land, who swore like one possessed.

But at this moment the _Nautilus_, raised by the last waves of the
tide, quitted her coral bed exactly at the fortieth minute fixed by the
Captain. Her screw swept the waters slowly and majestically. Her speed
increased gradually, and, sailing on the surface of the ocean, she
quitted safe and sound the dangerous passes of the Straits of Torres.




CHAPTER XXII
“ÆGRI SOMNIA”


The following day 10th January, the _Nautilus_ continued her course
between two seas, but with such remarkable speed that I could not
estimate it at less than thirty-five miles an hour. The rapidity of her
screw was such that I could neither follow nor count its revolutions.
When I reflected that this marvellous electric agent, after having
afforded motion, heat, and light to the _Nautilus_, still protected her
from outward attack, and transformed her into an ark of safety which no
profane hand might touch without being thunderstricken, my admiration
was unbounded, and from the structure it extended to the engineer who
had called it into existence.

Our course was directed to the west, and on the 11th of January we
doubled Cape Wessel, situation in 135° long. and 10° north lat., which
forms the east point of the Gulf of Carpentaria. The reefs were still
numerous, but more equalised, and marked on the chart with extreme
precision. The _Nautilus_ easily avoided the breakers of Money to port
and the Victoria reefs to starboard, placed at 130° long. and on the
10th parallel, which we strictly followed.

On the 13th of January, Captain Nemo arrived in the Sea of Timor, and
recognised the island of that name in 122° long.

From this point the direction of the _Nautilus_ inclined towards the
south-west. Her head was set for the Indian Ocean. Where would the
fancy of Captain Nemo carry us next? Would he return to the coast of
Asia or would he approach again the shores of Europe? Improbable
conjectures both, to a man who fled from inhabited continents. Then
would he descend to the south? Was he going to double the Cape of Good
Hope, then Cape Horn, and finally go as far as the Antarctic pole?
Would he come back at last to the Pacific, where his _Nautilus_ could
sail free and independently? Time would show.

After having skirted the sands of Cartier, of Hibernia, Seringapatam,
and Scott, last efforts of the solid against the liquid element, on the
14th of January we lost sight of land altogether. The speed of the
_Nautilus_ was considerably abated, and with irregular course she
sometimes swam in the bosom of the waters, sometimes floated on their
surface.

During this period of the voyage, Captain Nemo made some interesting
experiments on the varied temperature of the sea, in different beds.
Under ordinary conditions these observations are made by means of
rather complicated instruments, and with somewhat doubtful results, by
means of thermometrical sounding-leads, the glasses often breaking
under the pressure of the water, or an apparatus grounded on the
variations of the resistance of metals to the electric currents.
Results so obtained could not be correctly calculated. On the contrary,
Captain Nemo went himself to test the temperature in the depths of the
sea, and his thermometer, placed in communication with the different
sheets of water, gave him the required degree immediately and
accurately.

It was thus that, either by overloading her reservoirs or by descending
obliquely by means of her inclined planes, the _Nautilus_ successively
attained the depth of three, four, five, seven, nine, and ten thousand
yards, and the definite result of this experience was that the sea
preserved an average temperature of four degrees and a half at a depth
of five thousand fathoms under all latitudes.

On the 16th of January, the _Nautilus_ seemed becalmed only a few yards
beneath the surface of the waves. Her electric apparatus remained
inactive and her motionless screw left her to drift at the mercy of the
currents. I supposed that the crew was occupied with interior repairs,
rendered necessary by the violence of the mechanical movements of the
machine.

My companions and I then witnessed a curious spectacle. The hatches of
the saloon were open, and, as the beacon light of the _Nautilus_ was
not in action, a dim obscurity reigned in the midst of the waters. I
observed the state of the sea, under these conditions, and the largest
fish appeared to me no more than scarcely defined shadows, when the
_Nautilus_ found herself suddenly transported into full light. I
thought at first that the beacon had been lighted, and was casting its
electric radiance into the liquid mass. I was mistaken, and after a
rapid survey perceived my error.

The _Nautilus_ floated in the midst of a phosphorescent bed which, in
this obscurity, became quite dazzling. It was produced by myriads of
luminous animalculae, whose brilliancy was increased as they glided
over the metallic hull of the vessel. I was surprised by lightning in
the midst of these luminous sheets, as though they had been rivulets of
lead melted in an ardent furnace or metallic masses brought to a white
heat, so that, by force of contrast, certain portions of light appeared
to cast a shade in the midst of the general ignition, from which all
shade seemed banished. No; this was not the calm irradiation of our
ordinary lightning. There was unusual life and vigour: this was truly
living light!

In reality, it was an infinite agglomeration of coloured infusoria, of
veritable globules of jelly, provided with a threadlike tentacle, and
of which as many as twenty-five thousand have been counted in less than
two cubic half-inches of water.

During several hours the _Nautilus_ floated in these brilliant waves,
and our admiration increased as we watched the marine monsters
disporting themselves like salamanders. I saw there in the midst of
this fire that burns not the swift and elegant porpoise (the
indefatigable clown of the ocean), and some swordfish ten feet long,
those prophetic heralds of the hurricane whose formidable sword would
now and then strike the glass of the saloon. Then appeared the smaller
fish, the balista, the leaping mackerel, wolf-thorn-tails, and a
hundred others which striped the luminous atmosphere as they swam. This
dazzling spectacle was enchanting! Perhaps some atmospheric condition
increased the intensity of this phenomenon. Perhaps some storm agitated
the surface of the waves. But at this depth of some yards, the
_Nautilus_ was unmoved by its fury and reposed peacefully in still
water.

So we progressed, incessantly charmed by some new marvel. The days
passed rapidly away, and I took no account of them. Ned, according to
habit, tried to vary the diet on board. Like snails, we were fixed to
our shells, and I declare it is easy to lead a snail’s life.

Thus this life seemed easy and natural, and we thought no longer of the
life we led on land; but something happened to recall us to the
strangeness of our situation.

On the 18th of January, the _Nautilus_ was in 105° long. and 15° S.
lat. The weather was threatening, the sea rough and rolling. There was
a strong east wind. The barometer, which had been going down for some
days, foreboded a coming storm. I went up on to the platform just as
the second lieutenant was taking the measure of the horary angles, and
waited, according to habit till the daily phrase was said. But on this
day it was exchanged for another phrase not less incomprehensible.
Almost directly, I saw Captain Nemo appear with a glass, looking
towards the horizon.

For some minutes he was immovable, without taking his eye off the point
of observation. Then he lowered his glass and exchanged a few words
with his lieutenant. The latter seemed to be a victim to some emotion
that he tried in vain to repress. Captain Nemo, having more command
over himself, was cool. He seemed, too, to be making some objections to
which the lieutenant replied by formal assurances. At least I concluded
so by the difference of their tones and gestures. For myself, I had
looked carefully in the direction indicated without seeing anything.
The sky and water were lost in the clear line of the horizon.

However, Captain Nemo walked from one end of the platform to the other,
without looking at me, perhaps without seeing me. His step was firm,
but less regular than usual. He stopped sometimes, crossed his arms,
and observed the sea. What could he be looking for on that immense
expanse?

The _Nautilus_ was then some hundreds of miles from the nearest coast.

The lieutenant had taken up the glass and examined the horizon
steadfastly, going and coming, stamping his foot and showing more
nervous agitation than his superior officer. Besides, this mystery must
necessarily be solved, and before long; for, upon an order from Captain
Nemo, the engine, increasing its propelling power, made the screw turn
more rapidly.

Just then the lieutenant drew the Captain’s attention again. The latter
stopped walking and directed his glass towards the place indicated. He
looked long. I felt very much puzzled, and descended to the
drawing-room, and took out an excellent telescope that I generally
used. Then, leaning on the cage of the watch-light that jutted out from
the front of the platform, set myself to look over all the line of the
sky and sea.

But my eye was no sooner applied to the glass than it was quickly
snatched out of my hands.

I turned round. Captain Nemo was before me, but I did not know him. His
face was transfigured. His eyes flashed sullenly; his teeth were set;
his stiff body, clenched fists, and head shrunk between his shoulders,
betrayed the violent agitation that pervaded his whole frame. He did
not move. My glass, fallen from his hands, had rolled at his feet.

Had I unwittingly provoked this fit of anger? Did this incomprehensible
person imagine that I had discovered some forbidden secret? No; I was
not the object of this hatred, for he was not looking at me; his eye
was steadily fixed upon the impenetrable point of the horizon. At last
Captain Nemo recovered himself. His agitation subsided. He addressed
some words in a foreign language to his lieutenant, then turned to me.
“M. Aronnax,” he said, in rather an imperious tone, “I require you to
keep one of the conditions that bind you to me.”

“What is it, Captain?”

“You must be confined, with your companions, until I think fit to
release you.”

“You are the master,” I replied, looking steadily at him. “But may I
ask you one question?”

“None, sir.”

There was no resisting this imperious command, it would have been
useless. I went down to the cabin occupied by Ned Land and Conseil, and
told them the Captain’s determination. You may judge how this
communication was received by the Canadian.

But there was not time for altercation. Four of the crew waited at the
door, and conducted us to that cell where we had passed our first night
on board the _Nautilus_.

Ned Land would have remonstrated, but the door was shut upon him.

“Will master tell me what this means?” asked Conseil.

I told my companions what had passed. They were as much astonished as
I, and equally at a loss how to account for it.

Meanwhile, I was absorbed in my own reflections, and could think of
nothing but the strange fear depicted in the Captain’s countenance. I
was utterly at a loss to account for it, when my cogitations were
disturbed by these words from Ned Land:

“Hallo! breakfast is ready.”

And indeed the table was laid. Evidently Captain Nemo had given this
order at the same time that he had hastened the speed of the
_Nautilus_.

“Will master permit me to make a recommendation?” asked Conseil.

“Yes, my boy.”

“Well, it is that master breakfasts. It is prudent, for we do not know
what may happen.”

“You are right, Conseil.”

“Unfortunately,” said Ned Land, “they have only given us the ship’s
fare.”

“Friend Ned,” asked Conseil, “what would you have said if the breakfast
had been entirely forgotten?”

This argument cut short the harpooner’s recriminations.

We sat down to table. The meal was eaten in silence.

Just then the luminous globe that lighted the cell went out, and left
us in total darkness. Ned Land was soon asleep, and what astonished me
was that Conseil went off into a heavy slumber. I was thinking what
could have caused his irresistible drowsiness, when I felt my brain
becoming stupefied. In spite of my efforts to keep my eyes open, they
would close. A painful suspicion seized me. Evidently soporific
substances had been mixed with the food we had just taken. Imprisonment
was not enough to conceal Captain Nemo’s projects from us, sleep was
more necessary. I then heard the panels shut. The undulations of the
sea, which caused a slight rolling motion, ceased. Had the _Nautilus_
quitted the surface of the ocean? Had it gone back to the motionless
bed of water? I tried to resist sleep. It was impossible. My breathing
grew weak. I felt a mortal cold freeze my stiffened and half-paralysed
limbs. My eyelids, like leaden caps, fell over my eyes. I could not
raise them; a morbid sleep, full of hallucinations, bereft me of my
being. Then the visions disappeared, and left me in complete
insensibility.




CHAPTER XXIII
THE CORAL KINGDOM


The next day I woke with my head singularly clear. To my great
surprise, I was in my own room. My companions, no doubt, had been
reinstated in their cabin, without having perceived it any more than I.
Of what had passed during the night they were as ignorant as I was, and
to penetrate this mystery I only reckoned upon the chances of the
future.

I then thought of quitting my room. Was I free again or a prisoner?
Quite free. I opened the door, went to the half-deck, went up the
central stairs. The panels, shut the evening before, were open. I went
on to the platform.

Ned Land and Conseil waited there for me. I questioned them; they knew
nothing. Lost in a heavy sleep in which they had been totally
unconscious, they had been astonished at finding themselves in their
cabin.

As for the _Nautilus_, it seemed quiet and mysterious as ever. It
floated on the surface of the waves at a moderate pace. Nothing seemed
changed on board.

The second lieutenant then came on to the platform, and gave the usual
order below.

As for Captain Nemo, he did not appear.

Of the people on board, I only saw the impassive steward, who served me
with his usual dumb regularity.

About two o’clock, I was in the drawing-room, busied in arranging my
notes, when the Captain opened the door and appeared. I bowed. He made
a slight inclination in return, without speaking. I resumed my work,
hoping that he would perhaps give me some explanation of the events of
the preceding night. He made none. I looked at him. He seemed fatigued;
his heavy eyes had not been refreshed by sleep; his face looked very
sorrowful. He walked to and fro, sat down and got up again, took a
chance book, put it down, consulted his instruments without taking his
habitual notes, and seemed restless and uneasy. At last, he came up to
me, and said:

“Are you a doctor, M. Aronnax?”

I so little expected such a question that I stared some time at him
without answering.

“Are you a doctor?” he repeated. “Several of your colleagues have
studied medicine.”

“Well,” said I, “I am a doctor and resident surgeon to the hospital. I
practised several years before entering the museum.”

“Very well, sir.”

My answer had evidently satisfied the Captain. But, not knowing what he
would say next, I waited for other questions, reserving my answers
according to circumstances.

“M. Aronnax, will you consent to prescribe for one of my men?” he
asked.

“Is he ill?”

“Yes.”

“I am ready to follow you.”

“Come, then.”

I own my heart beat, I do not know why. I saw certain connection
between the illness of one of the crew and the events of the day
before; and this mystery interested me at least as much as the sick
man.

Captain Nemo conducted me to the poop of the _Nautilus_, and took me
into a cabin situated near the sailors’ quarters.

There, on a bed, lay a man about forty years of age, with a resolute
expression of countenance, a true type of an Anglo-Saxon.

I leant over him. He was not only ill, he was wounded. His head,
swathed in bandages covered with blood, lay on a pillow. I undid the
bandages, and the wounded man looked at me with his large eyes and gave
no sign of pain as I did it. It was a horrible wound. The skull,
shattered by some deadly weapon, left the brain exposed, which was much
injured. Clots of blood had formed in the bruised and broken mass, in
colour like the dregs of wine.

There was both contusion and suffusion of the brain. His breathing was
slow, and some spasmodic movements of the muscles agitated his face. I
felt his pulse. It was intermittent. The extremities of the body were
growing cold already, and I saw death must inevitably ensue. After
dressing the unfortunate man’s wounds, I readjusted the bandages on his
head, and turned to Captain Nemo.

“What caused this wound?” I asked.

“What does it signify?” he replied, evasively. “A shock has broken one
of the levers of the engine, which struck myself. But your opinion as
to his state?”

I hesitated before giving it.

“You may speak,” said the Captain. “This man does not understand
French.”

I gave a last look at the wounded man.

“He will be dead in two hours.”

“Can nothing save him?”

“Nothing.”

Captain Nemo’s hand contracted, and some tears glistened in his eyes,
which I thought incapable of shedding any.

For some moments I still watched the dying man, whose life ebbed
slowly. His pallor increased under the electric light that was shed
over his death-bed. I looked at his intelligent forehead, furrowed with
premature wrinkles, produced probably by misfortune and sorrow. I tried
to learn the secret of his life from the last words that escaped his
lips.

“You can go now, M. Aronnax,” said the Captain.

I left him in the dying man’s cabin, and returned to my room much
affected by this scene. During the whole day, I was haunted by
uncomfortable suspicions, and at night I slept badly, and between my
broken dreams I fancied I heard distant sighs like the notes of a
funeral psalm. Were they the prayers of the dead, murmured in that
language that I could not understand?

The next morning I went on to the bridge. Captain Nemo was there before
me. As soon as he perceived me he came to me.

“Professor, will it be convenient to you to make a submarine excursion
to-day?”

“With my companions?” I asked.

“If they like.”

“We obey your orders, Captain.”

“Will you be so good then as to put on your cork jackets?”

It was not a question of dead or dying. I rejoined Ned Land and
Conseil, and told them of Captain Nemo’s proposition. Conseil hastened
to accept it, and this time the Canadian seemed quite willing to follow
our example.

It was eight o’clock in the morning. At half-past eight we were
equipped for this new excursion, and provided with two contrivances for
light and breathing. The double door was open; and, accompanied by
Captain Nemo, who was followed by a dozen of the crew, we set foot, at
a depth of about thirty feet, on the solid bottom on which the
_Nautilus_ rested.

A slight declivity ended in an uneven bottom, at fifteen fathoms depth.
This bottom differed entirely from the one I had visited on my first
excursion under the waters of the Pacific Ocean. Here, there was no
fine sand, no submarine prairies, no sea-forest. I immediately
recognised that marvellous region in which, on that day, the Captain
did the honours to us. It was the coral kingdom.

The light produced a thousand charming varieties, playing in the midst
of the branches that were so vividly coloured. I seemed to see the
membraneous and cylindrical tubes tremble beneath the undulation of the
waters. I was tempted to gather their fresh petals, ornamented with
delicate tentacles, some just blown, the others budding, while a small
fish, swimming swiftly, touched them slightly, like flights of birds.
But if my hand approached these living flowers, these animated,
sensitive plants, the whole colony took alarm. The white petals
re-entered their red cases, the flowers faded as I looked, and the bush
changed into a block of stony knobs.

Chance had thrown me just by the most precious specimens of the
zoophyte. This coral was more valuable than that found in the
Mediterranean, on the coasts of France, Italy and Barbary. Its tints
justified the poetical names of “Flower of Blood,” and “Froth of
Blood,” that trade has given to its most beautiful productions. Coral
is sold for £20 per ounce; and in this place the watery beds would make
the fortunes of a company of coral-divers. This precious matter, often
confused with other polypi, formed then the inextricable plots called
“macciota,” and on which I noticed several beautiful specimens of pink
coral.

But soon the bushes contract, and the arborisations increase. Real
petrified thickets, long joists of fantastic architecture, were
disclosed before us. Captain Nemo placed himself under a dark gallery,
where by a slight declivity we reached a depth of a hundred yards. The
light from our lamps produced sometimes magical effects, following the
rough outlines of the natural arches and pendants disposed like
lustres, that were tipped with points of fire.

At last, after walking two hours, we had attained a depth of about
three hundred yards, that is to say, the extreme limit on which coral
begins to form. But there was no isolated bush, nor modest brushwood,
at the bottom of lofty trees. It was an immense forest of large mineral
vegetations, enormous petrified trees, united by garlands of elegant
sea-bindweed, all adorned with clouds and reflections. We passed freely
under their high branches, lost in the shade of the waves.

Captain Nemo had stopped. I and my companions halted, and, turning
round, I saw his men were forming a semi-circle round their chief.
Watching attentively, I observed that four of them carried on their
shoulders an object of an oblong shape.

We occupied, in this place, the centre of a vast glade surrounded by
the lofty foliage of the submarine forest. Our lamps threw over this
place a sort of clear twilight that singularly elongated the shadows on
the ground. At the end of the glade the darkness increased, and was
only relieved by little sparks reflected by the points of coral.

Ned Land and Conseil were near me. We watched, and I thought I was
going to witness a strange scene. On observing the ground, I saw that
it was raised in certain places by slight excrescences encrusted with
limy deposits, and disposed with a regularity that betrayed the hand of
man.

In the midst of the glade, on a pedestal of rocks roughly piled up,
stood a cross of coral that extended its long arms that one might have
thought were made of petrified blood. Upon a sign from Captain Nemo one
of the men advanced; and at some feet from the cross he began to dig a
hole with a pickaxe that he took from his belt. I understood all! This
glade was a cemetery, this hole a tomb, this oblong object the body of
the man who had died in the night! The Captain and his men had come to
bury their companion in this general resting-place, at the bottom of
this inaccessible ocean!

The grave was being dug slowly; the fish fled on all sides while their
retreat was being thus disturbed; I heard the strokes of the pickaxe,
which sparkled when it hit upon some flint lost at the bottom of the
waters. The hole was soon large and deep enough to receive the body.
Then the bearers approached; the body, enveloped in a tissue of white
linen, was lowered into the damp grave. Captain Nemo, with his arms
crossed on his breast, and all the friends of him who had loved them,
knelt in prayer.


[Illustration] All fell on their knees in an attitude of prayer


The grave was then filled in with the rubbish taken from the ground,
which formed a slight mound. When this was done, Captain Nemo and his
men rose; then, approaching the grave, they knelt again, and all
extended their hands in sign of a last adieu. Then the funeral
procession returned to the _Nautilus_, passing under the arches of the
forest, in the midst of thickets, along the coral bushes, and still on
the ascent. At last the light of the ship appeared, and its luminous
track guided us to the _Nautilus_. At one o’clock we had returned.

As soon as I had changed my clothes I went up on to the platform, and,
a prey to conflicting emotions, I sat down near the binnacle. Captain
Nemo joined me. I rose and said to him:

“So, as I said he would, this man died in the night?”

“Yes, M. Aronnax.”

“And he rests now, near his companions, in the coral cemetery?”

“Yes, forgotten by all else, but not by us. We dug the grave, and the
polypi undertake to seal our dead for eternity.” And, burying his face
quickly in his hands, he tried in vain to suppress a sob. Then he
added: “Our peaceful cemetery is there, some hundred feet below the
surface of the waves.”

“Your dead sleep quietly, at least, Captain, out of the reach of
sharks.”

“Yes, sir, of sharks and men,” gravely replied the Captain.




PART TWO




CHAPTER I
THE INDIAN OCEAN


We now come to the second part of our journey under the sea. The first
ended with the moving scene in the coral cemetery which left such a
deep impression on my mind. Thus, in the midst of this great sea,
Captain Nemo’s life was passing, even to his grave, which he had
prepared in one of its deepest abysses. There, not one of the ocean’s
monsters could trouble the last sleep of the crew of the _Nautilus_, of
those friends riveted to each other in death as in life. “Nor any man,
either,” had added the Captain. Still the same fierce, implacable
defiance towards human society!

I could no longer content myself with the theory which satisfied
Conseil.

That worthy fellow persisted in seeing in the Commander of the
_Nautilus_ one of those unknown _savants_ who return mankind contempt
for indifference. For him, he was a misunderstood genius who, tired of
earth’s deceptions, had taken refuge in this inaccessible medium, where
he might follow his instincts freely. To my mind, this explains but one
side of Captain Nemo’s character. Indeed, the mystery of that last
night during which we had been chained in prison, the sleep, and the
precaution so violently taken by the Captain of snatching from my eyes
the glass I had raised to sweep the horizon, the mortal wound of the
man, due to an unaccountable shock of the _Nautilus_, all put me on a
new track. No; Captain Nemo was not satisfied with shunning man. His
formidable apparatus not only suited his instinct of freedom, but
perhaps also the design of some terrible retaliation.

At this moment nothing is clear to me; I catch but a glimpse of light
amidst all the darkness, and I must confine myself to writing as events
shall dictate.

That day, the 24th of January, 1868, at noon, the second officer came
to take the altitude of the sun. I mounted the platform, lit a cigar,
and watched the operation. It seemed to me that the man did not
understand French; for several times I made remarks in a loud voice,
which must have drawn from him some involuntary sign of attention, if
he had understood them; but he remained undisturbed and dumb.

As he was taking observations with the sextant, one of the sailors of
the _Nautilus_ (the strong man who had accompanied us on our first
submarine excursion to the Island of Crespo) came to clean the glasses
of the lantern. I examined the fittings of the apparatus, the strength
of which was increased a hundredfold by lenticular rings, placed
similar to those in a lighthouse, and which projected their brilliance
in a horizontal plane. The electric lamp was combined in such a way as
to give its most powerful light. Indeed, it was produced in vacuo,
which insured both its steadiness and its intensity. This vacuum
economised the graphite points between which the luminous arc was
developed—an important point of economy for Captain Nemo, who could not
easily have replaced them; and under these conditions their waste was
imperceptible. When the _Nautilus_ was ready to continue its submarine
journey, I went down to the saloon. The panel was closed, and the
course marked direct west.

We were furrowing the waters of the Indian Ocean, a vast liquid plain,
with a surface of 1,200,000,000 of acres, and whose waters are so clear
and transparent that any one leaning over them would turn giddy. The
_Nautilus_ usually floated between fifty and a hundred fathoms deep. We
went on so for some days. To any one but myself, who had a great love
for the sea, the hours would have seemed long and monotonous; but the
daily walks on the platform, when I steeped myself in the reviving air
of the ocean, the sight of the rich waters through the windows of the
saloon, the books in the library, the compiling of my memoirs, took up
all my time, and left me not a moment of ennui or weariness.

For some days we saw a great number of aquatic birds, sea-mews or
gulls. Some were cleverly killed and, prepared in a certain way, made
very acceptable water-game. Amongst large-winged birds, carried a long
distance from all lands and resting upon the waves from the fatigue of
their flight, I saw some magnificent albatrosses, uttering discordant
cries like the braying of an ass, and birds belonging to the family of
the long-wings.

As to the fish, they always provoked our admiration when we surprised
the secrets of their aquatic life through the open panels. I saw many
kinds which I never before had a chance of observing.

I shall notice chiefly ostracions peculiar to the Red Sea, the Indian
Ocean, and that part which washes the coast of tropical America. These
fishes, like the tortoise, the armadillo, the sea-hedgehog, and the
Crustacea, are protected by a breastplate which is neither chalky nor
stony, but real bone. In some it takes the form of a solid triangle, in
others of a solid quadrangle. Amongst the triangular I saw some an inch
and a half in length, with wholesome flesh and a delicious flavour;
they are brown at the tail, and yellow at the fins, and I recommend
their introduction into fresh water, to which a certain number of
sea-fish easily accustom themselves. I would also mention quadrangular
ostracions, having on the back four large tubercles; some dotted over
with white spots on the lower part of the body, and which may be tamed
like birds; trigons provided with spikes formed by the lengthening of
their bony shell, and which, from their strange gruntings, are called
“seapigs”; also dromedaries with large humps in the shape of a cone,
whose flesh is very tough and leathery.

I now borrow from the daily notes of Master Conseil. “Certain fish of
the genus petrodon peculiar to those seas, with red backs and white
chests, which are distinguished by three rows of longitudinal
filaments; and some electrical, seven inches long, decked in the
liveliest colours. Then, as specimens of other kinds, some ovoides,
resembling an egg of a dark brown colour, marked with white bands, and
without tails; diodons, real sea-porcupines, furnished with spikes, and
capable of swelling in such a way as to look like cushions bristling
with darts; hippocampi, common to every ocean; some pegasi with
lengthened snouts, which their pectoral fins, being much elongated and
formed in the shape of wings, allow, if not to fly, at least to shoot
into the air; pigeon spatulae, with tails covered with many rings of
shell; macrognathi with long jaws, an excellent fish, nine inches long,
and bright with most agreeable colours; pale-coloured calliomores, with
rugged heads; and plenty of chaetodons, with long and tubular muzzles,
which kill insects by shooting them, as from an air-gun, with a single
drop of water. These we may call the flycatchers of the seas.

“In the eighty-ninth genus of fishes, classed by Lacepede, belonging to
the second lower class of bony, characterised by opercules and
bronchial membranes, I remarked the scorpaena, the head of which is
furnished with spikes, and which has but one dorsal fin; these
creatures are covered, or not, with little shells, according to the
sub-class to which they belong. The second sub-class gives us specimens
of didactyles fourteen or fifteen inches in length, with yellow rays,
and heads of a most fantastic appearance. As to the first sub-class, it
gives several specimens of that singular looking fish appropriately
called a ‘seafrog,’ with large head, sometimes pierced with holes,
sometimes swollen with protuberances, bristling with spikes, and
covered with tubercles; it has irregular and hideous horns; its body
and tail are covered with callosities; its sting makes a dangerous
wound; it is both repugnant and horrible to look at.”

From the 21st to the 23rd of January the _Nautilus_ went at the rate of
two hundred and fifty leagues in twenty-four hours, being five hundred
and forty miles, or twenty-two miles an hour. If we recognised so many
different varieties of fish, it was because, attracted by the electric
light, they tried to follow us; the greater part, however, were soon
distanced by our speed, though some kept their place in the waters of
the _Nautilus_ for a time. The morning of the 24th, in 12° 5′ S. lat.,
and 94° 33′ long., we observed Keeling Island, a coral formation,
planted with magnificent cocos, and which had been visited by Mr.
Darwin and Captain Fitzroy. The _Nautilus_ skirted the shores of this
desert island for a little distance. Its nets brought up numerous
specimens of polypi and curious shells of mollusca. Some precious
productions of the species of delphinulae enriched the treasures of
Captain Nemo, to which I added an astraea punctifera, a kind of
parasite polypus often found fixed to a shell.

Soon Keeling Island disappeared from the horizon, and our course was
directed to the north-west in the direction of the Indian Peninsula.

From Keeling Island our course was slower and more variable, often
taking us into great depths. Several times they made use of the
inclined planes, which certain internal levers placed obliquely to the
waterline. In that way we went about two miles, but without ever
obtaining the greatest depths of the Indian Sea, which soundings of
seven thousand fathoms have never reached. As to the temperature of the
lower strata, the thermometer invariably indicated 4° above zero. I
only observed that in the upper regions the water was always colder in
the high levels than at the surface of the sea.

On the 25th of January the ocean was entirely deserted; the _Nautilus_
passed the day on the surface, beating the waves with its powerful
screw and making them rebound to a great height. Who under such
circumstances would not have taken it for a gigantic cetacean? Three
parts of this day I spent on the platform. I watched the sea. Nothing
on the horizon, till about four o’clock a steamer running west on our
counter. Her masts were visible for an instant, but she could not see
the _Nautilus_, being too low in the water. I fancied this steamboat
belonged to the P. O. Company, which runs from Ceylon to Sydney,
touching at King George’s Point and Melbourne.

At five o’clock in the evening, before that fleeting twilight which
binds night to day in tropical zones, Conseil and I were astonished by
a curious spectacle.

It was a shoal of argonauts travelling along on the surface of the
ocean. We could count several hundreds. They belonged to the tubercle
kind which are peculiar to the Indian seas.

These graceful molluscs moved backwards by means of their locomotive
tube, through which they propelled the water already drawn in. Of their
eight tentacles, six were elongated, and stretched out floating on the
water, whilst the other two, rolled up flat, were spread to the wing
like a light sail. I saw their spiral-shaped and fluted shells, which
Cuvier justly compares to an elegant skiff. A boat indeed! It bears the
creature which secretes it without its adhering to it.

For nearly an hour the _Nautilus_ floated in the midst of this shoal of
molluscs. Then I know not what sudden fright they took. But as if at a
signal every sail was furled, the arms folded, the body drawn in, the
shells turned over, changing their centre of gravity, and the whole
fleet disappeared under the waves. Never did the ships of a squadron
manœuvre with more unity.

At that moment night fell suddenly, and the reeds, scarcely raised by
the breeze, lay peaceably under the sides of the _Nautilus_.

The next day, 26th of January, we cut the equator at the eighty-second
meridian and entered the northern hemisphere. During the day a
formidable troop of sharks accompanied us, terrible creatures, which
multiply in these seas and make them very dangerous. They were
“cestracio philippi” sharks, with brown backs and whitish bellies,
armed with eleven rows of teeth—eyed sharks—their throat being marked
with a large black spot surrounded with white like an eye. There were
also some Isabella sharks, with rounded snouts marked with dark spots.
These powerful creatures often hurled themselves at the windows of the
saloon with such violence as to make us feel very insecure. At such
times Ned Land was no longer master of himself. He wanted to go to the
surface and harpoon the monsters, particularly certain smooth-hound
sharks, whose mouth is studded with teeth like a mosaic; and large
tiger-sharks nearly six yards long, the last named of which seemed to
excite him more particularly. But the _Nautilus_, accelerating her
speed, easily left the most rapid of them behind.

The 27th of January, at the entrance of the vast Bay of Bengal, we met
repeatedly a forbidding spectacle, dead bodies floating on the surface
of the water. They were the dead of the Indian villages, carried by the
Ganges to the level of the sea, and which the vultures, the only
undertakers of the country, had not been able to devour. But the sharks
did not fail to help them at their funeral work.

About seven o’clock in the evening, the _Nautilus_, half-immersed, was
sailing in a sea of milk. At first sight the ocean seemed lactified.
Was it the effect of the lunar rays? No; for the moon, scarcely two
days old, was still lying hidden under the horizon in the rays of the
sun. The whole sky, though lit by the sidereal rays, seemed black by
contrast with the whiteness of the waters.

Conseil could not believe his eyes, and questioned me as to the cause
of this strange phenomenon. Happily I was able to answer him.

“It is called a milk sea,” I explained. “A large extent of white
wavelets often to be seen on the coasts of Amboyna, and in these parts
of the sea.”

“But, sir,” said Conseil, “can you tell me what causes such an effect?
for I suppose the water is not really turned into milk.”

“No, my boy; and the whiteness which surprises you is caused only by
the presence of myriads of infusoria, a sort of luminous little worm,
gelatinous and without colour, of the thickness of a hair, and whose
length is not more than seven-thousandths of an inch. These insects
adhere to one another sometimes for several leagues.”

“Several leagues!” exclaimed Conseil.

“Yes, my boy; and you need not try to compute the number of these
infusoria. You will not be able, for, if I am not mistaken, ships have
floated on these milk seas for more than forty miles.”

Towards midnight the sea suddenly resumed its usual colour; but behind
us, even to the limits of the horizon, the sky reflected the whitened
waves, and for a long time seemed impregnated with the vague
glimmerings of an aurora borealis.




CHAPTER II
A NOVEL PROPOSAL OF CAPTAIN NEMO’S


On the 28th of February, when at noon the _Nautilus_ came to the
surface of the sea, in 9° 4′ N. lat., there was land in sight about
eight miles to westward. The first thing I noticed was a range of
mountains about two thousand feet high, the shapes of which were most
capricious. On taking the bearings, I knew that we were nearing the
island of Ceylon, the pearl which hangs from the lobe of the Indian
Peninsula.

Captain Nemo and his second appeared at this moment. The Captain
glanced at the map. Then turning to me, said:

“The Island of Ceylon, noted for its pearl-fisheries. Would you like to
visit one of them, M. Aronnax?”

“Certainly, Captain.”

“Well, the thing is easy. Though, if we see the fisheries, we shall not
see the fishermen. The annual exportation has not yet begun. Never
mind, I will give orders to make for the Gulf of Manaar, where we shall
arrive in the night.”

The Captain said something to his second, who immediately went out.
Soon the _Nautilus_ returned to her native element, and the manometer
showed that she was about thirty feet deep.

“Well, sir,” said Captain Nemo, “you and your companions shall visit
the Bank of Manaar, and if by chance some fisherman should be there, we
shall see him at work.”

“Agreed, Captain!”

“By the bye, M. Aronnax you are not afraid of sharks?”

“Sharks!” exclaimed I.

This question seemed a very hard one.

“Well?” continued Captain Nemo.

“I admit, Captain, that I am not yet very familiar with that kind of
fish.”

“We are accustomed to them,” replied Captain Nemo, “and in time you
will be too. However, we shall be armed, and on the road we may be able
to hunt some of the tribe. It is interesting. So, till to-morrow, sir,
and early.”

This said in a careless tone, Captain Nemo left the saloon. Now, if you
were invited to hunt the bear in the mountains of Switzerland, what
would you say?

“Very well! to-morrow we will go and hunt the bear.” If you were asked
to hunt the lion in the plains of Atlas, or the tiger in the Indian
jungles, what would you say?

“Ha! ha! it seems we are going to hunt the tiger or the lion!” But when
you are invited to hunt the shark in its natural element, you would
perhaps reflect before accepting the invitation. As for myself, I
passed my hand over my forehead, on which stood large drops of cold
perspiration. “Let us reflect,” said I, “and take our time. Hunting
otters in submarine forests, as we did in the Island of Crespo, will
pass; but going up and down at the bottom of the sea, where one is
almost certain to meet sharks, is quite another thing! I know well that
in certain countries, particularly in the Andaman Islands, the negroes
never hesitate to attack them with a dagger in one hand and a running
noose in the other; but I also know that few who affront those
creatures ever return alive. However, I am not a negro, and if I were I
think a little hesitation in this case would not be ill-timed.”

At this moment Conseil and the Canadian entered, quite composed, and
even joyous. They knew not what awaited them.

“Faith, sir,” said Ned Land, “your Captain Nemo—the devil take him!—has
just made us a very pleasant offer.”

“Ah!” said I, “you know?”

“If agreeable to you, sir,” interrupted Conseil, “the commander of the
_Nautilus_ has invited us to visit the magnificent Ceylon fisheries
to-morrow, in your company; he did it kindly, and behaved like a real
gentleman.”

“He said nothing more?”

“Nothing more, sir, except that he had already spoken to you of this
little walk.”

“Sir,” said Conseil, “would you give us some details of the pearl
fishery?”

“As to the fishing itself,” I asked, “or the incidents, which?”

“On the fishing,” replied the Canadian; “before entering upon the
ground, it is as well to know something about it.”

“Very well; sit down, my friends, and I will teach you.”

Ned and Conseil seated themselves on an ottoman, and the first thing
the Canadian asked was:

“Sir, what is a pearl?”

“My worthy Ned,” I answered, “to the poet, a pearl is a tear of the
sea; to the Orientals, it is a drop of dew solidified; to the ladies,
it is a jewel of an oblong shape, of a brilliancy of mother-of-pearl
substance, which they wear on their fingers, their necks, or their
ears; for the chemist it is a mixture of phosphate and carbonate of
lime, with a little gelatine; and lastly, for naturalists, it is simply
a morbid secretion of the organ that produces the mother-of-pearl
amongst certain bivalves.”

“Branch of molluscs,” said Conseil.

“Precisely so, my learned Conseil; and, amongst these testacea the
earshell, the tridacnae, the turbots, in a word, all those which
secrete mother-of-pearl, that is, the blue, bluish, violet, or white
substance which lines the interior of their shells, are capable of
producing pearls.”

“Mussels too?” asked the Canadian.

“Yes, mussels of certain waters in Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Saxony,
Bohemia, and France.”

“Good! For the future I shall pay attention,” replied the Canadian.

“But,” I continued, “the particular mollusc which secretes the pearl is
the pearl-oyster, the meleagrina margaritifera, that precious
pintadine. The pearl is nothing but a nacreous formation, deposited in
a globular form, either adhering to the oyster shell, or buried in the
folds of the creature. On the shell it is fast; in the flesh it is
loose; but always has for a kernel a small hard substance, may be a
barren egg, may be a grain of sand, around which the pearly matter
deposits itself year after year successively, and by thin concentric
layers.”

“Are many pearls found in the same oyster?” asked Conseil.

“Yes, my boy. Some are a perfect casket. One oyster has been mentioned,
though I allow myself to doubt it, as having contained no less than a
hundred and fifty sharks.”

“A hundred and fifty sharks!” exclaimed Ned Land.

“Did I say sharks?” said I hurriedly. “I meant to say a hundred and
fifty pearls. Sharks would not be sense.”

“Certainly not,” said Conseil; “but will you tell us now by what means
they extract these pearls?”

“They proceed in various ways. When they adhere to the shell, the
fishermen often pull them off with pincers; but the most common way is
to lay the oysters on mats of the seaweed which covers the banks. Thus
they die in the open air; and at the end of ten days they are in a
forward state of decomposition. They are then plunged into large
reservoirs of sea-water; then they are opened and washed.”

“The price of these pearls varies according to their size?” asked
Conseil.

“Not only according to their size,” I answered, “but also according to
their shape, their water (that is, their colour), and their lustre:
that is, that bright and diapered sparkle which makes them so charming
to the eye. The most beautiful are called virgin pearls, or paragons.
They are formed alone in the tissue of the mollusc, are white, often
opaque, and sometimes have the transparency of an opal; they are
generally round or oval. The round are made into bracelets, the oval
into pendants, and, being more precious, are sold singly. Those
adhering to the shell of the oyster are more irregular in shape, and
are sold by weight. Lastly, in a lower order are classed those small
pearls known under the name of seed-pearls; they are sold by measure,
and are especially used in embroidery for church ornaments.”

“But,” said Conseil, “is this pearl-fishery dangerous?”

“No,” I answered, quickly; “particularly if certain precautions are
taken.”

“What does one risk in such a calling?” said Ned Land, “the swallowing
of some mouthfuls of sea-water?”

“As you say, Ned. By the bye,” said I, trying to take Captain Nemo’s
careless tone, “are you afraid of sharks, brave Ned?”

“I!” replied the Canadian; “a harpooner by profession? It is my trade
to make light of them.”

“But,” said I, “it is not a question of fishing for them with an
iron-swivel, hoisting them into the vessel, cutting off their tails
with a blow of a chopper, ripping them up, and throwing their heart
into the sea!”

“Then, it is a question of——”

“Precisely.”

“In the water?”

“In the water.”

“Faith, with a good harpoon! You know, sir, these sharks are
ill-fashioned beasts. They turn on their bellies to seize you, and in
that time——”

Ned Land had a way of saying “seize” which made my blood run cold.

“Well, and you, Conseil, what do you think of sharks?”

“Me!” said Conseil. “I will be frank, sir.”

“So much the better,” thought I.

“If you, sir, mean to face the sharks, I do not see why your faithful
servant should not face them with you.”




CHAPTER III
A PEARL OF TEN MILLIONS


The next morning at four o’clock I was awakened by the steward whom
Captain Nemo had placed at my service. I rose hurriedly, dressed, and
went into the saloon.

Captain Nemo was awaiting me.

“M. Aronnax,” said he, “are you ready to start?”

“I am ready.”

“Then please to follow me.”

“And my companions, Captain?”

“They have been told and are waiting.”

“Are we not to put on our diver’s dresses?” asked I.

“Not yet. I have not allowed the _Nautilus_ to come too near this
coast, and we are some distance from the Manaar Bank; but the boat is
ready, and will take us to the exact point of disembarking, which will
save us a long way. It carries our diving apparatus, which we will put
on when we begin our submarine journey.”

Captain Nemo conducted me to the central staircase, which led on the
platform. Ned and Conseil were already there, delighted at the idea of
the “pleasure party” which was preparing. Five sailors from the
_Nautilus_, with their oars, waited in the boat, which had been made
fast against the side.

The night was still dark. Layers of clouds covered the sky, allowing
but few stars to be seen. I looked on the side where the land lay, and
saw nothing but a dark line enclosing three parts of the horizon, from
south-west to north-west. The _Nautilus_, having returned during the
night up the western coast of Ceylon, was now west of the bay, or
rather gulf, formed by the mainland and the Island of Manaar. There,
under the dark waters, stretched the pintadine bank, an inexhaustible
field of pearls, the length of which is more than twenty miles.

Captain Nemo, Ned Land, Conseil, and I took our places in the stern of
the boat. The master went to the tiller; his four companions leaned on
their oars, the painter was cast off, and we sheered off.

The boat went towards the south; the oarsmen did not hurry. I noticed
that their strokes, strong in the water, only followed each other every
ten seconds, according to the method generally adopted in the navy.
Whilst the craft was running by its own velocity, the liquid drops
struck the dark depths of the waves crisply like spats of melted lead.
A little billow, spreading wide, gave a slight roll to the boat, and
some samphire reeds flapped before it.

We were silent. What was Captain Nemo thinking of? Perhaps of the land
he was approaching, and which he found too near to him, contrary to the
Canadian’s opinion, who thought it too far off. As to Conseil, he was
merely there from curiosity.

About half-past five the first tints on the horizon showed the upper
line of coast more distinctly. Flat enough in the east, it rose a
little to the south. Five miles still lay between us, and it was
indistinct owing to the mist on the water. At six o’clock it became
suddenly daylight, with that rapidity peculiar to tropical regions,
which know neither dawn nor twilight. The solar rays pierced the
curtain of clouds, piled up on the eastern horizon, and the radiant orb
rose rapidly. I saw land distinctly, with a few trees scattered here
and there. The boat neared Manaar Island, which was rounded to the
south. Captain Nemo rose from his seat and watched the sea.

At a sign from him the anchor was dropped, but the chain scarcely ran,
for it was little more than a yard deep, and this spot was one of the
highest points of the bank of pintadines.

“Here we are, M. Aronnax,” said Captain Nemo. “You see that enclosed
bay? Here, in a month will be assembled the numerous fishing boats of
the exporters, and these are the waters their divers will ransack so
boldly. Happily, this bay is well situated for that kind of fishing. It
is sheltered from the strongest winds; the sea is never very rough
here, which makes it favourable for the diver’s work. We will now put
on our dresses, and begin our walk.”

I did not answer, and, while watching the suspected waves, began with
the help of the sailors to put on my heavy sea-dress. Captain Nemo and
my companions were also dressing. None of the _Nautilus_ men were to
accompany us on this new excursion.

Soon we were enveloped to the throat in india-rubber clothing; the air
apparatus fixed to our backs by braces. As to the Ruhmkorff apparatus,
there was no necessity for it. Before putting my head into the copper
cap, I had asked the question of the Captain.

“They would be useless,” he replied. “We are going to no great depth,
and the solar rays will be enough to light our walk. Besides, it would
not be prudent to carry the electric light in these waters; its
brilliancy might attract some of the dangerous inhabitants of the coast
most inopportunely.”

As Captain Nemo pronounced these words, I turned to Conseil and Ned
Land. But my two friends had already encased their heads in the metal
cap, and they could neither hear nor answer.

One last question remained to ask of Captain Nemo.

“And our arms?” asked I; “our guns?”

“Guns! What for? Do not mountaineers attack the bear with a dagger in
their hand, and is not steel surer than lead? Here is a strong blade;
put it in your belt, and we start.”

I looked at my companions; they were armed like us, and, more than
that, Ned Land was brandishing an enormous harpoon, which he had placed
in the boat before leaving the _Nautilus_.

Then, following the Captain’s example, I allowed myself to be dressed
in the heavy copper helmet, and our reservoirs of air were at once in
activity. An instant after we were landed, one after the other, in
about two yards of water upon an even sand. Captain Nemo made a sign
with his hand, and we followed him by a gentle declivity till we
disappeared under the waves.

Over our feet, like coveys of snipe in a bog, rose shoals of fish, of
the genus monoptera, which have no other fins but their tail. I
recognized the Javanese, a real serpent two and a half feet long, of a
livid colour underneath, and which might easily be mistaken for a
conger eel if it were not for the golden stripes on its side. In the
genus stromateus, whose bodies are very flat and oval, I saw some of
the most brilliant colours, carrying their dorsal fin like a scythe; an
excellent eating fish, which, dried and pickled, is known by the name
of Karawade; then some tranquebars, belonging to the genus
apsiphoroides, whose body is covered with a shell cuirass of eight
longitudinal plates.

The heightening sun lit the mass of waters more and more. The soil
changed by degrees. To the fine sand succeeded a perfect causeway of
boulders, covered with a carpet of molluscs and zoophytes. Amongst the
specimens of these branches I noticed some placenae, with thin unequal
shells, a kind of ostracion peculiar to the Red Sea and the Indian
Ocean; some orange lucinae with rounded shells; rockfish three feet and
a half long, which raised themselves under the waves like hands ready
to seize one. There were also some panopyres, slightly luminous; and
lastly, some oculines, like magnificent fans, forming one of the
richest vegetations of these seas.

In the midst of these living plants, and under the arbours of the
hydrophytes, were layers of clumsy articulates, particularly some
raninae, whose carapace formed a slightly rounded triangle; and some
horrible looking parthenopes.

At about seven o’clock we found ourselves at last surveying the
oyster-banks on which the pearl-oysters are reproduced by millions.

Captain Nemo pointed with his hand to the enormous heap of oysters; and
I could well understand that this mine was inexhaustible, for Nature’s
creative power is far beyond man’s instinct of destruction. Ned Land,
faithful to his instinct, hastened to fill a net which he carried by
his side with some of the finest specimens. But we could not stop. We
must follow the Captain, who seemed to guide himself by paths known
only to himself. The ground was sensibly rising, and sometimes, on
holding up my arm, it was above the surface of the sea. Then the level
of the bank would sink capriciously. Often we rounded high rocks
scarped into pyramids. In their dark fractures huge crustacea, perched
upon their high claws like some war-machine, watched us with fixed
eyes, and under our feet crawled various kinds of annelides.

At this moment there opened before us a large grotto dug in a
picturesque heap of rocks and carpeted with all the thick warp of the
submarine flora. At first it seemed very dark to me. The solar rays
seemed to be extinguished by successive gradations, until its vague
transparency became nothing more than drowned light. Captain Nemo
entered; we followed. My eyes soon accustomed themselves to this
relative state of darkness. I could distinguish the arches springing
capriciously from natural pillars, standing broad upon their granite
base, like the heavy columns of Tuscan architecture. Why had our
incomprehensible guide led us to the bottom of this submarine crypt? I
was soon to know. After descending a rather sharp declivity, our feet
trod the bottom of a kind of circular pit. There Captain Nemo stopped,
and with his hand indicated an object I had not yet perceived. It was
an oyster of extraordinary dimensions, a gigantic tridacne, a goblet
which could have contained a whole lake of holy-water, a basin the
breadth of which was more than two yards and a half, and consequently
larger than that ornamenting the saloon of the _Nautilus_. I approached
this extraordinary mollusc. It adhered by its filaments to a table of
granite, and there, isolated, it developed itself in the calm waters of
the grotto. I estimated the weight of this tridacne at 600 lbs. Such an
oyster would contain 30 lbs. of meat; and one must have the stomach of
a Gargantua to demolish some dozens of them.

Captain Nemo was evidently acquainted with the existence of this
bivalve, and seemed to have a particular motive in verifying the actual
state of this tridacne. The shells were a little open; the Captain came
near and put his dagger between to prevent them from closing; then with
his hand he raised the membrane with its fringed edges, which formed a
cloak for the creature. There, between the folded plaits, I saw a loose
pearl, whose size equalled that of a coco-nut. Its globular shape,
perfect clearness, and admirable lustre made it altogether a jewel of
inestimable value. Carried away by my curiosity, I stretched out my
hand to seize it, weigh it, and touch it; but the Captain stopped me,
made a sign of refusal, and quickly withdrew his dagger, and the two
shells closed suddenly. I then understood Captain Nemo’s intention. In
leaving this pearl hidden in the mantle of the tridacne he was allowing
it to grow slowly. Each year the secretions of the mollusc would add
new concentric circles. I estimated its value at £500,000 at least.

After ten minutes Captain Nemo stopped suddenly. I thought he had
halted previously to returning. No; by a gesture he bade us crouch
beside him in a deep fracture of the rock, his hand pointed to one part
of the liquid mass, which I watched attentively.

About five yards from me a shadow appeared, and sank to the ground. The
disquieting idea of sharks shot through my mind, but I was mistaken;
and once again it was not a monster of the ocean that we had anything
to do with.

It was a man, a living man, an Indian, a fisherman, a poor devil who, I
suppose, had come to glean before the harvest. I could see the bottom
of his canoe anchored some feet above his head. He dived and went up
successively. A stone held between his feet, cut in the shape of a
sugar loaf, whilst a rope fastened him to his boat, helped him to
descend more rapidly. This was all his apparatus. Reaching the bottom,
about five yards deep, he went on his knees and filled his bag with
oysters picked up at random. Then he went up, emptied it, pulled up his
stone, and began the operation once more, which lasted thirty seconds.

The diver did not see us. The shadow of the rock hid us from sight. And
how should this poor Indian ever dream that men, beings like himself,
should be there under the water watching his movements and losing no
detail of the fishing? Several times he went up in this way, and dived
again. He did not carry away more than ten at each plunge, for he was
obliged to pull them from the bank to which they adhered by means of
their strong byssus. And how many of those oysters for which he risked
his life had no pearl in them! I watched him closely; his manœuvres
were regular; and for the space of half an hour no danger appeared to
threaten him.

I was beginning to accustom myself to the sight of this interesting
fishing, when suddenly, as the Indian was on the ground, I saw him make
a gesture of terror, rise, and make a spring to return to the surface
of the sea.

I understood his dread. A gigantic shadow appeared just above the
unfortunate diver. It was a shark of enormous size advancing
diagonally, his eyes on fire, and his jaws open. I was mute with horror
and unable to move.

The voracious creature shot towards the Indian, who threw himself on
one side to avoid the shark’s fins; but not its tail, for it struck his
chest and stretched him on the ground.

This scene lasted but a few seconds: the shark returned, and, turning
on his back, prepared himself for cutting the Indian in two, when I saw
Captain Nemo rise suddenly, and then, dagger in hand, walk straight to
the monster, ready to fight face to face with him. The very moment the
shark was going to snap the unhappy fisherman in two, he perceived his
new adversary, and, turning over, made straight towards him.

I can still see Captain Nemo’s position. Holding himself well together,
he waited for the shark with admirable coolness; and, when it rushed at
him, threw himself on one side with wonderful quickness, avoiding the
shock, and burying his dagger deep into its side. But it was not all
over. A terrible combat ensued.


[Illustration] A terrible combat began


The shark had seemed to roar, if I might say so. The blood rushed in
torrents from its wound. The sea was dyed red, and through the opaque
liquid I could distinguish nothing more. Nothing more until the moment
when, like lightning, I saw the undaunted Captain hanging on to one of
the creature’s fins, struggling, as it were, hand to hand with the
monster, and dealing successive blows at his enemy, yet still unable to
give a decisive one.

The shark’s struggles agitated the water with such fury that the
rocking threatened to upset me.

I wanted to go to the Captain’s assistance, but, nailed to the spot
with horror, I could not stir.

I saw the haggard eye; I saw the different phases of the fight. The
Captain fell to the earth, upset by the enormous mass which leant upon
him. The shark’s jaws opened wide, like a pair of factory shears, and
it would have been all over with the Captain; but, quick as thought,
harpoon in hand, Ned Land rushed towards the shark and struck it with
its sharp point.

The waves were impregnated with a mass of blood. They rocked under the
shark’s movements, which beat them with indescribable fury. Ned Land
had not missed his aim. It was the monster’s death-rattle. Struck to
the heart, it struggled in dreadful convulsions, the shock of which
overthrew Conseil.

But Ned Land had disentangled the Captain, who, getting up without any
wound, went straight to the Indian, quickly cut the cord which held him
to his stone, took him in his arms, and, with a sharp blow of his heel,
mounted to the surface.

We all three followed in a few seconds, saved by a miracle, and reached
the fisherman’s boat.

Captain Nemo’s first care was to recall the unfortunate man to life
again. I did not think he could succeed. I hoped so, for the poor
creature’s immersion was not long; but the blow from the shark’s tail
might have been his death-blow.

Happily, with the Captain’s and Conseil’s sharp friction, I saw
consciousness return by degrees. He opened his eyes. What was his
surprise, his terror even, at seeing four great copper heads leaning
over him! And, above all, what must he have thought when Captain Nemo,
drawing from the pocket of his dress a bag of pearls, placed it in his
hand! This munificent charity from the man of the waters to the poor
Cingalese was accepted with a trembling hand. His wondering eyes showed
that he knew not to what super-human beings he owed both fortune and
life.

At a sign from the Captain we regained the bank, and, following the
road already traversed, came in about half an hour to the anchor which
held the canoe of the _Nautilus_ to the earth.

Once on board, we each, with the help of the sailors, got rid of the
heavy copper helmet.

Captain Nemo’s first word was to the Canadian.

“Thank you, Master Land,” said he.

“It was in revenge, Captain,” replied Ned Land. “I owed you that.”

A ghastly smile passed across the Captain’s lips, and that was all.

“To the _Nautilus_,” said he.

The boat flew over the waves. Some minutes after we met the shark’s
dead body floating. By the black marking of the extremity of its fins,
I recognised the terrible melanopteron of the Indian Seas, of the
species of shark so properly called. It was more than twenty-five feet
long; its enormous mouth occupied one-third of its body. It was an
adult, as was known by its six rows of teeth placed in an isosceles
triangle in the upper jaw.

Whilst I was contemplating this inert mass, a dozen of these voracious
beasts appeared round the boat; and, without noticing us, threw
themselves upon the dead body and fought with one another for the
pieces.

At half-past eight we were again on board the _Nautilus_. There I
reflected on the incidents which had taken place in our excursion to
the Manaar Bank.

Two conclusions I must inevitably draw from it—one bearing upon the
unparalleled courage of Captain Nemo, the other upon his devotion to a
human being, a representative of that race from which he fled beneath
the sea. Whatever he might say, this strange man had not yet succeeded
in entirely crushing his heart.

When I made this observation to him, he answered in a slightly moved
tone:

“That Indian, sir, is an inhabitant of an oppressed country; and I am
still, and shall be, to my last breath, one of them!”




CHAPTER IV
THE RED SEA


In the course of the day of the 29th of January, the island of Ceylon
disappeared under the horizon, and the _Nautilus_, at a speed of twenty
miles an hour, slid into the labyrinth of canals which separate the
Maldives from the Laccadives. It coasted even the Island of Kiltan, a
land originally coraline, discovered by Vasco da Gama in 1499, and one
of the nineteen principal islands of the Laccadive Archipelago,
situated between 10° and 14° 30′ N. lat., and 69° 50′ 72″ E. long.

We had made 16,220 miles, or 7,500 (French) leagues from our
starting-point in the Japanese Seas.

The next day (30th January), when the _Nautilus_ went to the surface of
the ocean there was no land in sight. Its course was N.N.E., in the
direction of the Sea of Oman, between Arabia and the Indian Peninsula,
which serves as an outlet to the Persian Gulf. It was evidently a block
without any possible egress. Where was Captain Nemo taking us to? I
could not say. This, however, did not satisfy the Canadian, who that
day came to me asking where we were going.

“We are going where our Captain’s fancy takes us, Master Ned.”

“His fancy cannot take us far, then,” said the Canadian. “The Persian
Gulf has no outlet: and, if we do go in, it will not be long before we
are out again.”

“Very well, then, we will come out again, Master Land; and if, after
the Persian Gulf, the _Nautilus_ would like to visit the Red Sea, the
Straits of Bab-el-mandeb are there to give us entrance.”

“I need not tell you, sir,” said Ned Land, “that the Red Sea is as much
closed as the Gulf, as the Isthmus of Suez is not yet cut; and, if it
was, a boat as mysterious as ours would not risk itself in a canal cut
with sluices. And again, the Red Sea is not the road to take us back to
Europe.”

“But I never said we were going back to Europe.”

“What do you suppose, then?”

“I suppose that, after visiting the curious coasts of Arabia and Egypt,
the _Nautilus_ will go down the Indian Ocean again, perhaps cross the
Channel of Mozambique, perhaps off the Mascarenhas, so as to gain the
Cape of Good Hope.”

“And once at the Cape of Good Hope?” asked the Canadian, with peculiar
emphasis.

“Well, we shall penetrate into that Atlantic which we do not yet know.
Ah! friend Ned, you are getting tired of this journey under the sea;
you are surfeited with the incessantly varying spectacle of submarine
wonders. For my part, I shall be sorry to see the end of a voyage which
it is given to so few men to make.”

For four days, till the 3rd of February, the _Nautilus_ scoured the Sea
of Oman, at various speeds and at various depths. It seemed to go at
random, as if hesitating as to which road it should follow, but we
never passed the Tropic of Cancer.

In quitting this sea we sighted Muscat for an instant, one of the most
important towns of the country of Oman. I admired its strange aspect,
surrounded by black rocks upon which its white houses and forts stood
in relief. I saw the rounded domes of its mosques, the elegant points
of its minarets, its fresh and verdant terraces. But it was only a
vision! The _Nautilus_ soon sank under the waves of that part of the
sea.

We passed along the Arabian coast of Mahrah and Hadramaut, for a
distance of six miles, its undulating line of mountains being
occasionally relieved by some ancient ruin. The 5th of February we at
last entered the Gulf of Aden, a perfect funnel introduced into the
neck of Bab-el-mandeb, through which the Indian waters entered the Red
Sea.

The 6th of February, the _Nautilus_ floated in sight of Aden, perched
upon a promontory which a narrow isthmus joins to the mainland, a kind
of inaccessible Gibraltar, the fortifications of which were rebuilt by
the English after taking possession in 1839. I caught a glimpse of the
octagon minarets of this town, which was at one time the richest
commercial magazine on the coast.

I certainly thought that Captain Nemo, arrived at this point, would
back out again; but I was mistaken, for he did no such thing, much to
my surprise.

The next day, the 7th of February, we entered the Straits of
Bab-el-mandeb, the name of which, in the Arab tongue, means The Gate of
Tears.

To twenty miles in breadth, it is only thirty-two in length. And for
the _Nautilus_, starting at full speed, the crossing was scarcely the
work of an hour. But I saw nothing, not even the Island of Perim, with
which the British Government has fortified the position of Aden. There
were too many English or French steamers of the line of Suez to Bombay,
Calcutta to Melbourne, and from Bourbon to the Mauritius, furrowing
this narrow passage, for the _Nautilus_ to venture to show itself. So
it remained prudently below. At last about noon, we were in the waters
of the Red Sea.

I would not even seek to understand the caprice which had decided
Captain Nemo upon entering the gulf. But I quite approved of the
_Nautilus_ entering it. Its speed was lessened: sometimes it kept on
the surface, sometimes it dived to avoid a vessel, and thus I was able
to observe the upper and lower parts of this curious sea.

The 8th of February, from the first dawn of day, Mocha came in sight,
now a ruined town, whose walls would fall at a gunshot, yet which
shelters here and there some verdant date-trees; once an important
city, containing six public markets, and twenty-six mosques, and whose
walls, defended by fourteen forts, formed a girdle of two miles in
circumference.

The _Nautilus_ then approached the African shore, where the depth of
the sea was greater. There, between two waters clear as crystal,
through the open panels we were allowed to contemplate the beautiful
bushes of brilliant coral and large blocks of rock clothed with a
splendid fur of green algæ and fuci. What an indescribable spectacle,
and what variety of sites and landscapes along these sandbanks and
volcanic islands which bound the Libyan coast! But where these shrubs
appeared in all their beauty was on the eastern coast, which the
_Nautilus_ soon gained. It was on the coast of Tehama, for there not
only did this display of zoophytes flourish beneath the level of the
sea, but they also formed picturesque interlacings which unfolded
themselves about sixty feet above the surface, more capricious but less
highly coloured than those whose freshness was kept up by the vital
power of the waters.

What charming hours I passed thus at the window of the saloon! What new
specimens of submarine flora and fauna did I admire under the
brightness of our electric lantern!

The 9th of February the _Nautilus_ floated in the broadest part of the
Red Sea, which is comprised between Souakin, on the west coast, and
Komfidah, on the east coast, with a diameter of ninety miles.

That day at noon, after the bearings were taken, Captain Nemo mounted
the platform, where I happened to be, and I was determined not to let
him go down again without at least pressing him regarding his ulterior
projects. As soon as he saw me he approached and graciously offered me
a cigar.

“Well, sir, does this Red Sea please you? Have you sufficiently
observed the wonders it covers, its fishes, its zoophytes, its
parterres of sponges, and its forests of coral? Did you catch a glimpse
of the towns on its borders?”

“Yes, Captain Nemo,” I replied; “and the _Nautilus_ is wonderfully
fitted for such a study. Ah! it is an intelligent boat!”

“Yes, sir, intelligent and invulnerable. It fears neither the terrible
tempests of the Red Sea, nor its currents, nor its sandbanks.”

“Certainly,” said I, “this sea is quoted as one of the worst, and in
the time of the ancients, if I am not mistaken, its reputation was
detestable.”

“Detestable, M. Aronnax. The Greek and Latin historians do not speak
favourably of it, and Strabo says it is very dangerous during the
Etesian winds and in the rainy season. The Arabian Edrisi portrays it
under the name of the Gulf of Colzoum, and relates that vessels
perished there in great numbers on the sandbanks and that no one would
risk sailing in the night. It is, he pretends, a sea subject to fearful
hurricanes, strewn with inhospitable islands, and ‘which offers nothing
good either on its surface or in its depths.’”

“One may see,” I replied, “that these historians never sailed on board
the _Nautilus_.”

“Just so,” replied the Captain, smiling; “and in that respect moderns
are not more advanced than the ancients. It required many ages to find
out the mechanical power of steam. Who knows if, in another hundred
years, we may not see a second _Nautilus?_ Progress is slow, M.
Aronnax.”

“It is true,” I answered; “your boat is at least a century before its
time, perhaps an era. What a misfortune that the secret of such an
invention should die with its inventor!”

Captain Nemo did not reply. After some minutes’ silence he continued:

“You were speaking of the opinions of ancient historians upon the
dangerous navigation of the Red Sea.”

“It is true,” said I; “but were not their fears exaggerated?”

“Yes and no, M. Aronnax,” replied Captain Nemo, who seemed to know the
Red Sea by heart. “That which is no longer dangerous for a modern
vessel, well rigged, strongly built, and master of its own course,
thanks to obedient steam, offered all sorts of perils to the ships of
the ancients. Picture to yourself those first navigators venturing in
ships made of planks sewn with the cords of the palmtree, saturated
with the grease of the seadog, and covered with powdered resin! They
had not even instruments wherewith to take their bearings, and they
went by guess amongst currents of which they scarcely knew anything.
Under such conditions shipwrecks were, and must have been, numerous.
But in our time, steamers running between Suez and the South Seas have
nothing more to fear from the fury of this gulf, in spite of contrary
trade-winds. The captain and passengers do not prepare for their
departure by offering propitiatory sacrifices; and, on their return,
they no longer go ornamented with wreaths and gilt fillets to thank the
gods in the neighbouring temple.”

“I agree with you,” said I; “and steam seems to have killed all
gratitude in the hearts of sailors. But, Captain, since you seem to
have especially studied this sea, can you tell me the origin of its
name?”

“There exist several explanations on the subject, M. Aronnax. Would you
like to know the opinion of a chronicler of the fourteenth century?”

“Willingly.”

“This fanciful writer pretends that its name was given to it after the
passage of the Israelites, when Pharaoh perished in the waves which
closed at the voice of Moses.”

“A poet’s explanation, Captain Nemo,” I replied; “but I cannot content
myself with that. I ask you for your personal opinion.”

“Here it is, M. Aronnax. According to my idea, we must see in this
appellation of the Red Sea a translation of the Hebrew word ‘Edom’; and
if the ancients gave it that name, it was on account of the particular
colour of its waters.”

“But up to this time I have seen nothing but transparent waves and
without any particular colour.”

“Very likely; but as we advance to the bottom of the gulf, you will see
this singular appearance. I remember seeing the Bay of Tor entirely
red, like a sea of blood.”

“And you attribute this colour to the presence of a microscopic
seaweed?”

“Yes.”

“So, Captain Nemo, it is not the first time you have overrun the Red
Sea on board the _Nautilus?_”

“No, sir.”

“As you spoke a while ago of the passage of the Israelites and of the
catastrophe to the Egyptians, I will ask whether you have met with the
traces under the water of this great historical fact?”

“No, sir; and for a good reason.”

“What is it?”

“It is that the spot where Moses and his people passed is now so
blocked up with sand that the camels can barely bathe their legs there.
You can well understand that there would not be water enough for my
_Nautilus_.”

“And the spot?” I asked.

“The spot is situated a little above the Isthmus of Suez, in the arm
which formerly made a deep estuary, when the Red Sea extended to the
Salt Lakes. Now, whether this passage were miraculous or not, the
Israelites, nevertheless, crossed there to reach the Promised Land, and
Pharaoh’s army perished precisely on that spot; and I think that
excavations made in the middle of the sand would bring to light a large
number of arms and instruments of Egyptian origin.”

“That is evident,” I replied; “and for the sake of archaeologists let
us hope that these excavations will be made sooner or later, when new
towns are established on the isthmus, after the construction of the
Suez Canal; a canal, however, very useless to a vessel like the
_Nautilus_.”

“Very likely; but useful to the whole world,” said Captain Nemo. “The
ancients well understood the utility of a communication between the Red
Sea and the Mediterranean for their commercial affairs: but they did
not think of digging a canal direct, and took the Nile as an
intermediate. Very probably the canal which united the Nile to the Red
Sea was begun by Sesostris, if we may believe tradition. One thing is
certain, that in the year 615 before Jesus Christ, Necos undertook the
works of an alimentary canal to the waters of the Nile across the plain
of Egypt, looking towards Arabia. It took four days to go up this
canal, and it was so wide that two triremes could go abreast. It was
carried on by Darius, the son of Hystaspes, and probably finished by
Ptolemy II. Strabo saw it navigated: but its decline from the point of
departure, near Bubastes, to the Red Sea was so slight that it was only
navigable for a few months in the year. This canal answered all
commercial purposes to the age of Antonius, when it was abandoned and
blocked up with sand. Restored by order of the Caliph Omar, it was
definitely destroyed in 761 or 762 by Caliph Al-Mansor, who wished to
prevent the arrival of provisions to Mohammed-ben-Abdallah, who had
revolted against him. During the expedition into Egypt, your General
Bonaparte discovered traces of the works in the Desert of Suez; and,
surprised by the tide, he nearly perished before regaining Hadjaroth,
at the very place where Moses had encamped three thousand years before
him.”

“Well, Captain, what the ancients dared not undertake, this junction
between the two seas, which will shorten the road from Cadiz to India,
M. Lesseps has succeeded in doing; and before long he will have changed
Africa into an immense island.”

“Yes, M. Aronnax; you have the right to be proud of your countryman.
Such a man brings more honour to a nation than great captains. He
began, like so many others, with disgust and rebuffs; but he has
triumphed, for he has the genius of will. And it is sad to think that a
work like that, which ought to have been an international work and
which would have sufficed to make a reign illustrious, should have
succeeded by the energy of one man. All honour to M. Lesseps!”

“Yes! honour to the great citizen,” I replied, surprised by the manner
in which Captain Nemo had just spoken.

“Unfortunately,” he continued, “I cannot take you through the Suez
Canal; but you will be able to see the long jetty of Port Said after
to-morrow, when we shall be in the Mediterranean.”

“The Mediterranean!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, sir; does that astonish you?”

“What astonishes me is to think that we shall be there the day after
to-morrow.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, Captain, although by this time I ought to have accustomed myself
to be surprised at nothing since I have been on board your boat.”

“But the cause of this surprise?”

“Well! it is the fearful speed you will have to put on the _Nautilus_,
if the day after to-morrow she is to be in the Mediterranean, having
made the round of Africa, and doubled the Cape of Good Hope!”

“Who told you that she would make the round of Africa and double the
Cape of Good Hope, sir?”

“Well, unless the _Nautilus_ sails on dry land, and passes above the
isthmus——”

“Or beneath it, M. Aronnax.”

“Beneath it?”

“Certainly,” replied Captain Nemo quietly. “A long time ago Nature made
under this tongue of land what man has this day made on its surface.”

“What! such a passage exists?”

“Yes; a subterranean passage, which I have named the Arabian Tunnel. It
takes us beneath Suez and opens into the Gulf of Pelusium.”

“But this isthmus is composed of nothing but quicksands?”

“To a certain depth. But at fifty-five yards only there is a solid
layer of rock.”

“Did you discover this passage by chance?” I asked more and more
surprised.

“Chance and reasoning, sir; and by reasoning even more than by chance.
Not only does this passage exist, but I have profited by it several
times. Without that I should not have ventured this day into the
impassable Red Sea. I noticed that in the Red Sea and in the
Mediterranean there existed a certain number of fishes of a kind
perfectly identical. Certain of the fact, I asked myself was it
possible that there was no communication between the two seas? If there
was, the subterranean current must necessarily run from the Red Sea to
the Mediterranean, from the sole cause of difference of level. I caught
a large number of fishes in the neighbourhood of Suez. I passed a
copper ring through their tails, and threw them back into the sea. Some
months later, on the coast of Syria, I caught some of my fish
ornamented with the ring. Thus the communication between the two was
proved. I then sought for it with my _Nautilus;_ I discovered it,
ventured into it, and before long, sir, you too will have passed
through my Arabian tunnel!”




CHAPTER V
THE ARABIAN TUNNEL


That same evening, in 21° 30′ N. lat., the _Nautilus_ floated on the
surface of the sea, approaching the Arabian coast. I saw Djeddah, the
most important counting-house of Egypt, Syria, Turkey, and India. I
distinguished clearly enough its buildings, the vessels anchored at the
quays, and those whose draught of water obliged them to anchor in the
roads. The sun, rather low on the horizon, struck full on the houses of
the town, bringing out their whiteness. Outside, some wooden cabins,
and some made of reeds, showed the quarter inhabited by the Bedouins.
Soon Djeddah was shut out from view by the shadows of night, and the
_Nautilus_ found herself under water slightly phosphorescent.

The next day, the 10th of February, we sighted several ships running to
windward. The _Nautilus_ returned to its submarine navigation; but at
noon, when her bearings were taken, the sea being deserted, she rose
again to her waterline.

Accompanied by Ned and Conseil, I seated myself on the platform. The
coast on the eastern side looked like a mass faintly printed upon a
damp fog.

We were leaning on the sides of the pinnace, talking of one thing and
another, when Ned Land, stretching out his hand towards a spot on the
sea, said:

“Do you see anything there, sir?”

“No, Ned,” I replied; “but I have not your eyes, you know.”

“Look well,” said Ned, “there, on the starboard beam, about the height
of the lantern! Do you not see a mass which seems to move?”

“Certainly,” said I, after close attention; “I see something like a
long black body on the top of the water.”

And certainly before long the black object was not more than a mile
from us. It looked like a great sandbank deposited in the open sea. It
was a gigantic dugong!

Ned Land looked eagerly. His eyes shone with covetousness at the sight
of the animal. His hand seemed ready to harpoon it. One would have
thought he was awaiting the moment to throw himself into the sea and
attack it in its element.

At this instant Captain Nemo appeared on the platform. He saw the
dugong, understood the Canadian’s attitude, and, addressing him, said:

“If you held a harpoon just now, Master Land, would it not burn your
hand?”

“Just so, sir.”

“And you would not be sorry to go back, for one day, to your trade of a
fisherman and to add this cetacean to the list of those you have
already killed?”

“I should not, sir.”

“Well, you can try.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Ned Land, his eyes flaming.

“Only,” continued the Captain, “I advise you for your own sake not to
miss the creature.”

“Is the dugong dangerous to attack?” I asked, in spite of the
Canadian’s shrug of the shoulders.

“Yes,” replied the Captain; “sometimes the animal turns upon its
assailants and overturns their boat. But for Master Land this danger is
not to be feared. His eye is prompt, his arm sure.”

At this moment seven men of the crew, mute and immovable as ever,
mounted the platform. One carried a harpoon and a line similar to those
employed in catching whales. The pinnace was lifted from the bridge,
pulled from its socket, and let down into the sea. Six oarsmen took
their seats, and the coxswain went to the tiller. Ned, Conseil, and I
went to the back of the boat.

“You are not coming, Captain?” I asked.

“No, sir; but I wish you good sport.”

The boat put off, and, lifted by the six rowers, drew rapidly towards
the dugong, which floated about two miles from the _Nautilus_.

Arrived some cables-length from the cetacean, the speed slackened, and
the oars dipped noiselessly into the quiet waters. Ned Land, harpoon in
hand, stood in the fore part of the boat. The harpoon used for striking
the whale is generally attached to a very long cord which runs out
rapidly as the wounded creature draws it after him. But here the cord
was not more than ten fathoms long, and the extremity was attached to a
small barrel which, by floating, was to show the course the dugong took
under the water.

I stood and carefully watched the Canadian’s adversary. This dugong,
which also bears the name of the halicore, closely resembles the
manatee; its oblong body terminated in a lengthened tail, and its
lateral fins in perfect fingers. Its difference from the manatee
consisted in its upper jaw, which was armed with two long and pointed
teeth which formed on each side diverging tusks.

This dugong which Ned Land was preparing to attack was of colossal
dimensions; it was more than seven yards long. It did not move, and
seemed to be sleeping on the waves, which circumstance made it easier
to capture.

The boat approached within six yards of the animal. The oars rested on
the rowlocks. I half rose. Ned Land, his body thrown a little back,
brandished the harpoon in his experienced hand.

Suddenly a hissing noise was heard, and the dugong disappeared. The
harpoon, although thrown with great force; had apparently only struck
the water.

“Curse it!” exclaimed the Canadian furiously; “I have missed it!”

“No,” said I; “the creature is wounded—look at the blood; but your
weapon has not stuck in his body.”

“My harpoon! my harpoon!” cried Ned Land.

The sailors rowed on, and the coxswain made for the floating barrel.
The harpoon regained, we followed in pursuit of the animal.

The latter came now and then to the surface to breathe. Its wound had
not weakened it, for it shot onwards with great rapidity.

The boat, rowed by strong arms, flew on its track. Several times it
approached within some few yards, and the Canadian was ready to strike,
but the dugong made off with a sudden plunge, and it was impossible to
reach it.

Imagine the passion which excited impatient Ned Land! He hurled at the
unfortunate creature the most energetic expletives in the English
tongue. For my part, I was only vexed to see the dugong escape all our
attacks.

We pursued it without relaxation for an hour, and I began to think it
would prove difficult to capture, when the animal, possessed with the
perverse idea of vengeance of which he had cause to repent, turned upon
the pinnace and assailed us in its turn.

This manœuvre did not escape the Canadian.

“Look out!” he cried.

The coxswain said some words in his outlandish tongue, doubtless
warning the men to keep on their guard.

The dugong came within twenty feet of the boat, stopped, sniffed the
air briskly with its large nostrils (not pierced at the extremity, but
in the upper part of its muzzle). Then, taking a spring, he threw
himself upon us.

The pinnace could not avoid the shock, and half upset, shipped at least
two tons of water, which had to be emptied; but, thanks to the
coxswain, we caught it sideways, not full front, so we were not quite
overturned. While Ned Land, clinging to the bows, belaboured the
gigantic animal with blows from his harpoon, the creature’s teeth were
buried in the gunwale, and it lifted the whole thing out of the water,
as a lion does a roebuck. We were upset over one another, and I know
not how the adventure would have ended, if the Canadian, still enraged
with the beast, had not struck it to the heart.

I heard its teeth grind on the iron plate, and the dugong disappeared,
carrying the harpoon with him. But the barrel soon returned to the
surface, and shortly after the body of the animal, turned on its back.
The boat came up with it, took it in tow, and made straight for the
_Nautilus_.

It required tackle of enormous strength to hoist the dugong on to the
platform. It weighed 10,000 lbs.

The next day, 11th February, the larder of the _Nautilus_ was enriched
by some more delicate game. A flight of sea-swallows rested on the
_Nautilus_. It was a species of the Sterna nilotica, peculiar to Egypt;
its beak is black, head grey and pointed, the eye surrounded by white
spots, the back, wings, and tail of a greyish colour, the belly and
throat white, and claws red. They also took some dozen of Nile ducks, a
wild bird of high flavour, its throat and upper part of the head white
with black spots.

About five o’clock in the evening we sighted to the north the Cape of
Ras-Mohammed. This cape forms the extremity of Arabia Petraea,
comprised between the Gulf of Suez and the Gulf of Acabah.

The _Nautilus_ penetrated into the Straits of Jubal, which leads to the
Gulf of Suez. I distinctly saw a high mountain, towering between the
two gulfs of Ras-Mohammed. It was Mount Horeb, that Sinai at the top of
which Moses saw God face to face.

At six o’clock the _Nautilus_, sometimes floating, sometimes immersed,
passed some distance from Tor, situated at the end of the bay, the
waters of which seemed tinted with red, an observation already made by
Captain Nemo. Then night fell in the midst of a heavy silence,
sometimes broken by the cries of the pelican and other night-birds, and
the noise of the waves breaking upon the shore, chafing against the
rocks, or the panting of some far-off steamer beating the waters of the
Gulf with its noisy paddles.

From eight to nine o’clock the _Nautilus_ remained some fathoms under
the water. According to my calculation we must have been very near
Suez. Through the panel of the saloon I saw the bottom of the rocks
brilliantly lit up by our electric lamp. We seemed to be leaving the
Straits behind us more and more.

At a quarter-past nine, the vessel having returned to the surface, I
mounted the platform. Most impatient to pass through Captain Nemo’s
tunnel, I could not stay in one place, so came to breathe the fresh
night air.

Soon in the shadow I saw a pale light, half discoloured by the fog,
shining about a mile from us.

“A floating lighthouse!” said someone near me.

I turned, and saw the Captain.

“It is the floating light of Suez,” he continued. “It will not be long
before we gain the entrance of the tunnel.”

“The entrance cannot be easy?”

“No, sir; for that reason I am accustomed to go into the steersman’s
cage and myself direct our course. And now, if you will go down, M.
Aronnax, the _Nautilus_ is going under the waves, and will not return
to the surface until we have passed through the Arabian Tunnel.”

Captain Nemo led me towards the central staircase; half way down he
opened a door, traversed the upper deck, and landed in the pilot’s
cage, which it may be remembered rose at the extremity of the platform.
It was a cabin measuring six feet square, very much like that occupied
by the pilot on the steamboats of the Mississippi or Hudson. In the
midst worked a wheel, placed vertically, and caught to the tiller-rope,
which ran to the back of the _Nautilus_. Four light-ports with
lenticular glasses, let in a groove in the partition of the cabin,
allowed the man at the wheel to see in all directions.

This cabin was dark; but soon my eyes accustomed themselves to the
obscurity, and I perceived the pilot, a strong man, with his hands
resting on the spokes of the wheel. Outside, the sea appeared vividly
lit up by the lantern, which shed its rays from the back of the cabin
to the other extremity of the platform.

“Now,” said Captain Nemo, “let us try to make our passage.”

Electric wires connected the pilot’s cage with the machinery room, and
from there the Captain could communicate simultaneously to his
_Nautilus_ the direction and the speed. He pressed a metal knob, and at
once the speed of the screw diminished.

I looked in silence at the high straight wall we were running by at
this moment, the immovable base of a massive sandy coast. We followed
it thus for an hour only some few yards off.

Captain Nemo did not take his eye from the knob, suspended by its two
concentric circles in the cabin. At a simple gesture, the pilot
modified the course of the _Nautilus_ every instant.

I had placed myself at the port-scuttle, and saw some magnificent
substructures of coral, zoophytes, seaweed, and fucus, agitating their
enormous claws, which stretched out from the fissures of the rock.

At a quarter-past ten, the Captain himself took the helm. A large
gallery, black and deep, opened before us. The _Nautilus_ went boldly
into it. A strange roaring was heard round its sides. It was the waters
of the Red Sea, which the incline of the tunnel precipitated violently
towards the Mediterranean. The _Nautilus_ went with the torrent, rapid
as an arrow, in spite of the efforts of the machinery, which, in order
to offer more effective resistance, beat the waves with reversed screw.

On the walls of the narrow passage I could see nothing but brilliant
rays, straight lines, furrows of fire, traced by the great speed, under
the brilliant electric light. My heart beat fast.

At thirty-five minutes past ten, Captain Nemo quitted the helm, and,
turning to me, said:

“The Mediterranean!”

In less than twenty minutes, the _Nautilus_, carried along by the
torrent, had passed through the Isthmus of Suez.




CHAPTER VI
THE GRECIAN ARCHIPELAGO


The next day, the 12th of February, at the dawn of day, the _Nautilus_
rose to the surface. I hastened on to the platform. Three miles to the
south the dim outline of Pelusium was to be seen. A torrent had carried
us from one sea to another. About seven o’clock Ned and Conseil joined
me.

“Well, Sir Naturalist,” said the Canadian, in a slightly jovial tone,
“and the Mediterranean?”

“We are floating on its surface, friend Ned.”

“What!” said Conseil, “this very night.”

“Yes, this very night; in a few minutes we have passed this impassable
isthmus.”

“I do not believe it,” replied the Canadian.

“Then you are wrong, Master Land,” I continued; “this low coast which
rounds off to the south is the Egyptian coast. And you who have such
good eyes, Ned, you can see the jetty of Port Said stretching into the
sea.”

The Canadian looked attentively.

“Certainly you are right, sir, and your Captain is a first-rate man. We
are in the Mediterranean. Good! Now, if you please, let us talk of our
own little affair, but so that no one hears us.”

I saw what the Canadian wanted, and, in any case, I thought it better
to let him talk, as he wished it; so we all three went and sat down
near the lantern, where we were less exposed to the spray of the
blades.

“Now, Ned, we listen; what have you to tell us?”

“What I have to tell you is very simple. We are in Europe; and before
Captain Nemo’s caprices drag us once more to the bottom of the Polar
Seas, or lead us into Oceania, I ask to leave the _Nautilus_.”

I wished in no way to shackle the liberty of my companions, but I
certainly felt no desire to leave Captain Nemo.

Thanks to him, and thanks to his apparatus, I was each day nearer the
completion of my submarine studies; and I was rewriting my book of
submarine depths in its very element. Should I ever again have such an
opportunity of observing the wonders of the ocean? No, certainly not!
And I could not bring myself to the idea of abandoning the _Nautilus_
before the cycle of investigation was accomplished.

“Friend Ned, answer me frankly, are you tired of being on board? Are
you sorry that destiny has thrown us into Captain Nemo’s hands?”

The Canadian remained some moments without answering. Then, crossing
his arms, he said:

“Frankly, I do not regret this journey under the seas. I shall be glad
to have made it; but, now that it is made, let us have done with it.
That is my idea.”

“It will come to an end, Ned.”

“Where and when?”

“Where I do not know—when I cannot say; or, rather, I suppose it will
end when these seas have nothing more to teach us.”

“Then what do you hope for?” demanded the Canadian.

“That circumstances may occur as well six months hence as now by which
we may and ought to profit.”

“Oh!” said Ned Land, “and where shall we be in six months, if you
please, Sir Naturalist?”

“Perhaps in China; you know the _Nautilus_ is a rapid traveller. It
goes through water as swallows through the air, or as an express on the
land. It does not fear frequented seas; who can say that it may not
beat the coasts of France, England, or America, on which flight may be
attempted as advantageously as here.”

“M. Aronnax,” replied the Canadian, “your arguments are rotten at the
foundation. You speak in the future, ‘We shall be there! we shall be
here!’ I speak in the present, ‘We are here, and we must profit by
it.’”

Ned Land’s logic pressed me hard, and I felt myself beaten on that
ground. I knew not what argument would now tell in my favour.

“Sir,” continued Ned, “let us suppose an impossibility: if Captain Nemo
should this day offer you your liberty; would you accept it?”

“I do not know,” I answered.

“And if,” he added, “the offer made you this day was never to be
renewed, would you accept it?”

“Friend Ned, this is my answer. Your reasoning is against me. We must
not rely on Captain Nemo’s good-will. Common prudence forbids him to
set us at liberty. On the other side, prudence bids us profit by the
first opportunity to leave the _Nautilus_.”

“Well, M. Aronnax, that is wisely said.”

“Only one observation—just one. The occasion must be serious, and our
first attempt must succeed; if it fails, we shall never find another,
and Captain Nemo will never forgive us.”

“All that is true,” replied the Canadian. “But your observation applies
equally to all attempts at flight, whether in two years’ time, or in
two days’. But the question is still this: If a favourable opportunity
presents itself, it must be seized.”

“Agreed! And now, Ned, will you tell me what you mean by a favourable
opportunity?”

“It will be that which, on a dark night, will bring the _Nautilus_ a
short distance from some European coast.”

“And you will try and save yourself by swimming?”

“Yes, if we were near enough to the bank, and if the vessel was
floating at the time. Not if the bank was far away, and the boat was
under the water.”

“And in that case?”

“In that case, I should seek to make myself master of the pinnace. I
know how it is worked. We must get inside, and the bolts once drawn, we
shall come to the surface of the water, without even the pilot, who is
in the bows, perceiving our flight.”

“Well, Ned, watch for the opportunity; but do not forget that a hitch
will ruin us.”

“I will not forget, sir.”

“And now, Ned, would you like to know what I think of your project?”

“Certainly, M. Aronnax.”

“Well, I think—I do not say I hope—I think that this favourable
opportunity will never present itself.”

“Why not?”

“Because Captain Nemo cannot hide from himself that we have not given
up all hope of regaining our liberty, and he will be on his guard,
above all, in the seas and in the sight of European coasts.”

“We shall see,” replied Ned Land, shaking his head determinedly.

“And now, Ned Land,” I added, “let us stop here. Not another word on
the subject. The day that you are ready, come and let us know, and we
will follow you. I rely entirely upon you.”

Thus ended a conversation which, at no very distant time, led to such
grave results. I must say here that facts seemed to confirm my
foresight, to the Canadian’s great despair. Did Captain Nemo distrust
us in these frequented seas? or did he only wish to hide himself from
the numerous vessels, of all nations, which ploughed the Mediterranean?
I could not tell; but we were oftener between waters and far from the
coast. Or, if the _Nautilus_ did emerge, nothing was to be seen but the
pilot’s cage; and sometimes it went to great depths, for, between the
Grecian Archipelago and Asia Minor we could not touch the bottom by
more than a thousand fathoms.

Thus I only knew we were near the Island of Carpathos, one of the
Sporades, by Captain Nemo reciting these lines from Virgil:

“Est Carpathio Neptuni gurgite vates,
Caeruleus Proteus,”


as he pointed to a spot on the planisphere.

It was indeed the ancient abode of Proteus, the old shepherd of
Neptune’s flocks, now the Island of Scarpanto, situated between Rhodes
and Crete. I saw nothing but the granite base through the glass panels
of the saloon.

The next day, the 14th of February, I resolved to employ some hours in
studying the fishes of the Archipelago; but for some reason or other
the panels remained hermetically sealed. Upon taking the course of the
_Nautilus_, I found that we were going towards Candia, the ancient Isle
of Crete. At the time I embarked on the _Abraham Lincoln_, the whole of
this island had risen in insurrection against the despotism of the
Turks. But how the insurgents had fared since that time I was
absolutely ignorant, and it was not Captain Nemo, deprived of all land
communications, who could tell me.

I made no allusion to this event when that night I found myself alone
with him in the saloon. Besides, he seemed to be taciturn and
preoccupied. Then, contrary to his custom, he ordered both panels to be
opened, and, going from one to the other, observed the mass of waters
attentively. To what end I could not guess; so, on my side, I employed
my time in studying the fish passing before my eyes.

In the midst of the waters a man appeared, a diver, carrying at his
belt a leathern purse. It was not a body abandoned to the waves; it was
a living man, swimming with a strong hand, disappearing occasionally to
take breath at the surface.

I turned towards Captain Nemo, and in an agitated voice exclaimed:

“A man shipwrecked! He must be saved at any price!”


[Illustration] “A man! A shipwrecked sailor!” I cried


The Captain did not answer me, but came and leaned against the panel.

The man had approached, and, with his face flattened against the glass,
was looking at us.

To my great amazement, Captain Nemo signed to him. The diver answered
with his hand, mounted immediately to the surface of the water, and did
not appear again.

“Do not be uncomfortable,” said Captain Nemo. “It is Nicholas of Cape
Matapan, surnamed Pesca. He is well known in all the Cyclades. A bold
diver! water is his element, and he lives more in it than on land,
going continually from one island to another, even as far as Crete.”

“You know him, Captain?”

“Why not, M. Aronnax?”

Saying which, Captain Nemo went towards a piece of furniture standing
near the left panel of the saloon. Near this piece of furniture, I saw
a chest bound with iron, on the cover of which was a copper plate,
bearing the cypher of the _Nautilus_ with its device.

At that moment, the Captain, without noticing my presence, opened the
piece of furniture, a sort of strong box, which held a great many
ingots.

They were ingots of gold. From whence came this precious metal, which
represented an enormous sum? Where did the Captain gather this gold
from? and what was he going to do with it?

I did not say one word. I looked. Captain Nemo took the ingots one by
one, and arranged them methodically in the chest, which he filled
entirely. I estimated the contents at more than 4,000 lbs. weight of
gold, that is to say, nearly £200,000.

The chest was securely fastened, and the Captain wrote an address on
the lid, in characters which must have belonged to Modern Greece.

This done, Captain Nemo pressed a knob, the wire of which communicated
with the quarters of the crew. Four men appeared, and, not without some
trouble, pushed the chest out of the saloon. Then I heard them hoisting
it up the iron staircase by means of pulleys.

At that moment, Captain Nemo turned to me.

“And you were saying, sir?” said he.

“I was saying nothing, Captain.”

“Then, sir, if you will allow me, I will wish you good night.”

Whereupon he turned and left the saloon.

I returned to my room much troubled, as one may believe. I vainly tried
to sleep—I sought the connecting link between the apparition of the
diver and the chest filled with gold. Soon, I felt by certain movements
of pitching and tossing that the _Nautilus_ was leaving the depths and
returning to the surface.

Then I heard steps upon the platform; and I knew they were unfastening
the pinnace and launching it upon the waves. For one instant it struck
the side of the _Nautilus_, then all noise ceased.

Two hours after, the same noise, the same going and coming was renewed;
the boat was hoisted on board, replaced in its socket, and the
_Nautilus_ again plunged under the waves.

So these millions had been transported to their address. To what point
of the continent? Who was Captain Nemo’s correspondent?

The next day I related to Conseil and the Canadian the events of the
night, which had excited my curiosity to the highest degree. My
companions were not less surprised than myself.

“But where does he take his millions to?” asked Ned Land.

To that there was no possible answer. I returned to the saloon after
having breakfast and set to work. Till five o’clock in the evening I
employed myself in arranging my notes. At that moment—(ought I to
attribute it to some peculiar idiosyncrasy)—I felt so great a heat that
I was obliged to take off my coat. It was strange, for we were under
low latitudes; and even then the _Nautilus_, submerged as it was, ought
to experience no change of temperature. I looked at the manometer; it
showed a depth of sixty feet, to which atmospheric heat could never
attain.

I continued my work, but the temperature rose to such a pitch as to be
intolerable.

“Could there be fire on board?” I asked myself.

I was leaving the saloon, when Captain Nemo entered; he approached the
thermometer, consulted it, and, turning to me, said:

“Forty-two degrees.”

“I have noticed it, Captain,” I replied; “and if it gets much hotter we
cannot bear it.”

“Oh, sir, it will not get hotter if we do not wish it.”

“You can reduce it as you please, then?”

“No; but I can go farther from the stove which produces it.”

“It is outward, then!”

“Certainly; we are floating in a current of boiling water.”

“Is it possible!” I exclaimed.

“Look.”

The panels opened, and I saw the sea entirely white all round. A
sulphurous smoke was curling amid the waves, which boiled like water in
a copper. I placed my hand on one of the panes of glass, but the heat
was so great that I quickly took it off again.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“Near the Island of Santorin, sir,” replied the Captain. “I wished to
give you a sight of the curious spectacle of a submarine eruption.”

“I thought,” said I, “that the formation of these new islands was
ended.”

“Nothing is ever ended in the volcanic parts of the sea,” replied
Captain Nemo; “and the globe is always being worked by subterranean
fires. Already, in the nineteenth year of our era, according to
Cassiodorus and Pliny, a new island, Theia (the divine), appeared in
the very place where these islets have recently been formed. Then they
sank under the waves, to rise again in the year 69, when they again
subsided. Since that time to our days the Plutonian work has been
suspended. But on the 3rd of February, 1866, a new island, which they
named George Island, emerged from the midst of the sulphurous vapour
near Nea Kamenni, and settled again the 6th of the same month. Seven
days after, the 13th of February, the Island of Aphroessa appeared,
leaving between Nea Kamenni and itself a canal ten yards broad. I was
in these seas when the phenomenon occurred, and I was able therefore to
observe all the different phases. The Island of Aphroessa, of round
form, measured 300 feet in diameter, and 30 feet in height. It was
composed of black and vitreous lava, mixed with fragments of felspar.
And lately, on the 10th of March, a smaller island, called Reka, showed
itself near Nea Kamenni, and since then these three have joined
together, forming but one and the same island.”

“And the canal in which we are at this moment?” I asked.

“Here it is,” replied Captain Nemo, showing me a map of the
Archipelago. “You see, I have marked the new islands.”

I returned to the glass. The _Nautilus_ was no longer moving, the heat
was becoming unbearable. The sea, which till now had been white, was
red, owing to the presence of salts of iron. In spite of the ship’s
being hermetically sealed, an insupportable smell of sulphur filled the
saloon, and the brilliancy of the electricity was entirely extinguished
by bright scarlet flames. I was in a bath, I was choking, I was
broiled.

“We can remain no longer in this boiling water,” said I to the Captain.

“It would not be prudent,” replied the impassive Captain Nemo.

An order was given; the _Nautilus_ tacked about and left the furnace it
could not brave with impunity. A quarter of an hour after we were
breathing fresh air on the surface. The thought then struck me that, if
Ned Land had chosen this part of the sea for our flight, we should
never have come alive out of this sea of fire.

The next day, the 16th of February, we left the basin which, between
Rhodes and Alexandria, is reckoned about 1,500 fathoms in depth, and
the _Nautilus_, passing some distance from Cerigo, quitted the Grecian
Archipelago after having doubled Cape Matapan.




CHAPTER VII
THE MEDITERRANEAN IN FORTY-EIGHT HOURS


The Mediterranean, the blue sea par excellence, “the great sea” of the
Hebrews, “the sea” of the Greeks, the “mare nostrum” of the Romans,
bordered by orange-trees, aloes, cacti, and sea-pines; embalmed with
the perfume of the myrtle, surrounded by rude mountains, saturated with
pure and transparent air, but incessantly worked by underground fires;
a perfect battlefield in which Neptune and Pluto still dispute the
empire of the world!

It is upon these banks, and on these waters, says Michelet, that man is
renewed in one of the most powerful climates of the globe. But,
beautiful as it was, I could only take a rapid glance at the basin
whose superficial area is two million of square yards. Even Captain
Nemo’s knowledge was lost to me, for this puzzling person did not
appear once during our passage at full speed. I estimated the course
which the _Nautilus_ took under the waves of the sea at about six
hundred leagues, and it was accomplished in forty-eight hours. Starting
on the morning of the 16th of February from the shores of Greece, we
had crossed the Straits of Gibraltar by sunrise on the 18th.

It was plain to me that this Mediterranean, enclosed in the midst of
those countries which he wished to avoid, was distasteful to Captain
Nemo. Those waves and those breezes brought back too many remembrances,
if not too many regrets. Here he had no longer that independence and
that liberty of gait which he had when in the open seas, and his
_Nautilus_ felt itself cramped between the close shores of Africa and
Europe.

Our speed was now twenty-five miles an hour. It may be well understood
that Ned Land, to his great disgust, was obliged to renounce his
intended flight. He could not launch the pinnace, going at the rate of
twelve or thirteen yards every second. To quit the _Nautilus_ under
such conditions would be as bad as jumping from a train going at full
speed—an imprudent thing, to say the least of it. Besides, our vessel
only mounted to the surface of the waves at night to renew its stock of
air; it was steered entirely by the compass and the log.

I saw no more of the interior of this Mediterranean than a traveller by
express train perceives of the landscape which flies before his eyes;
that is to say, the distant horizon, and not the nearer objects which
pass like a flash of lightning.

We were then passing between Sicily and the coast of Tunis. In the
narrow space between Cape Bon and the Straits of Messina the bottom of
the sea rose almost suddenly. There was a perfect bank, on which there
was not more than nine fathoms of water, whilst on either side the
depth was ninety fathoms.

The _Nautilus_ had to manœuvre very carefully so as not to strike
against this submarine barrier.

I showed Conseil, on the map of the Mediterranean, the spot occupied by
this reef.

“But if you please, sir,” observed Conseil, “it is like a real isthmus
joining Europe to Africa.”

“Yes, my boy, it forms a perfect bar to the Straits of Lybia, and the
soundings of Smith have proved that in former times the continents
between Cape Boco and Cape Furina were joined.”

“I can well believe it,” said Conseil.

“I will add,” I continued, “that a similar barrier exists between
Gibraltar and Ceuta, which in geological times formed the entire
Mediterranean.”

“What if some volcanic burst should one day raise these two barriers
above the waves?”

“It is not probable, Conseil.”

“Well, but allow me to finish, please, sir; if this phenomenon should
take place, it will be troublesome for M. Lesseps, who has taken so
much pains to pierce the isthmus.”

“I agree with you; but I repeat, Conseil, this phenomenon will never
happen. The violence of subterranean force is ever diminishing.
Volcanoes, so plentiful in the first days of the world, are being
extinguished by degrees; the internal heat is weakened, the temperature
of the lower strata of the globe is lowered by a perceptible quantity
every century to the detriment of our globe, for its heat is its life.”

“But the sun?”

“The sun is not sufficient, Conseil. Can it give heat to a dead body?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, my friend, this earth will one day be that cold corpse; it will
become uninhabitable and uninhabited like the moon, which has long
since lost all its vital heat.”

“In how many centuries?”

“In some hundreds of thousands of years, my boy.”

“Then,” said Conseil, “we shall have time to finish our journey—that
is, if Ned Land does not interfere with it.”

And Conseil, reassured, returned to the study of the bank, which the
_Nautilus_ was skirting at a moderate speed.

During the night of the 16th and 17th February we had entered the
second Mediterranean basin, the greatest depth of which was 1,450
fathoms. The _Nautilus_, by the action of its screw, slid down the
inclined planes and buried itself in the lowest depths of the sea.

On the 18th of February, about three o’clock in the morning, we were at
the entrance of the Straits of Gibraltar. There once existed two
currents: an upper one, long since recognised, which conveys the waters
of the ocean into the basin of the Mediterranean; and a lower
counter-current, which reasoning has now shown to exist. Indeed, the
volume of water in the Mediterranean, incessantly added to by the waves
of the Atlantic and by rivers falling into it, would each year raise
the level of this sea, for its evaporation is not sufficient to restore
the equilibrium. As it is not so, we must necessarily admit the
existence of an under-current, which empties into the basin of the
Atlantic through the Straits of Gibraltar the surplus waters of the
Mediterranean. A fact indeed; and it was this counter-current by which
the _Nautilus_ profited. It advanced rapidly by the narrow pass. For
one instant I caught a glimpse of the beautiful ruins of the temple of
Hercules, buried in the ground, according to Pliny, and with the low
island which supports it; and a few minutes later we were floating on
the Atlantic.




CHAPTER VIII
VIGO BAY


The Atlantic! a vast sheet of water whose superficial area covers
twenty-five millions of square miles, the length of which is nine
thousand miles, with a mean breadth of two thousand seven hundred—an
ocean whose parallel winding shores embrace an immense circumference,
watered by the largest rivers of the world, the St. Lawrence, the
Mississippi, the Amazon, the Plata, the Orinoco, the Niger, the
Senegal, the Elbe, the Loire, and the Rhine, which carry water from the
most civilised, as well as from the most savage, countries! Magnificent
field of water, incessantly ploughed by vessels of every nation,
sheltered by the flags of every nation, and which terminates in those
two terrible points so dreaded by mariners, Cape Horn and the Cape of
Tempests.

The _Nautilus_ was piercing the water with its sharp spur, after having
accomplished nearly ten thousand leagues in three months and a half, a
distance greater than the great circle of the earth. Where were we
going now, and what was reserved for the future? The _Nautilus_,
leaving the Straits of Gibraltar, had gone far out. It returned to the
surface of the waves, and our daily walks on the platform were restored
to us.

I mounted at once, accompanied by Ned Land and Conseil. At a distance
of about twelve miles, Cape St. Vincent was dimly to be seen, forming
the south-western point of the Spanish peninsula. A strong southerly
gale was blowing. The sea was swollen and billowy; it made the
_Nautilus_ rock violently. It was almost impossible to keep one’s foot
on the platform, which the heavy rolls of the sea beat over every
instant. So we descended after inhaling some mouthfuls of fresh air.

I returned to my room, Conseil to his cabin; but the Canadian, with a
preoccupied air, followed me. Our rapid passage across the
Mediterranean had not allowed him to put his project into execution,
and he could not help showing his disappointment. When the door of my
room was shut, he sat down and looked at me silently.

“Friend Ned,” said I, “I understand you; but you cannot reproach
yourself. To have attempted to leave the _Nautilus_ under the
circumstances would have been folly.”

Ned Land did not answer; his compressed lips and frowning brow showed
with him the violent possession this fixed idea had taken of his mind.

“Let us see,” I continued; “we need not despair yet. We are going up
the coast of Portugal again; France and England are not far off, where
we can easily find refuge. Now if the _Nautilus_, on leaving the
Straits of Gibraltar, had gone to the south, if it had carried us
towards regions where there were no continents, I should share your
uneasiness. But we know now that Captain Nemo does not fly from
civilised seas, and in some days I think you can act with security.”

Ned Land still looked at me fixedly; at length his fixed lips parted,
and he said, “It is for to-night.”

I drew myself up suddenly. I was, I admit, little prepared for this
communication. I wanted to answer the Canadian, but words would not
come.

“We agreed to wait for an opportunity,” continued Ned Land, “and the
opportunity has arrived. This night we shall be but a few miles from
the Spanish coast. It is cloudy. The wind blows freely. I have your
word, M. Aronnax, and I rely upon you.”

As I was silent, the Canadian approached me.

“To-night, at nine o’clock,” said he. “I have warned Conseil. At that
moment Captain Nemo will be shut up in his room, probably in bed.
Neither the engineers nor the ship’s crew can see us. Conseil and I
will gain the central staircase, and you, M. Aronnax, will remain in
the library, two steps from us, waiting my signal. The oars, the mast,
and the sail are in the canoe. I have even succeeded in getting some
provisions. I have procured an English wrench, to unfasten the bolts
which attach it to the shell of the _Nautilus_. So all is ready, till
to-night.”

“The sea is bad.”

“That I allow,” replied the Canadian; “but we must risk that. Liberty
is worth paying for; besides, the boat is strong, and a few miles with
a fair wind to carry us is no great thing. Who knows but by to-morrow
we may be a hundred leagues away? Let circumstances only favour us, and
by ten or eleven o’clock we shall have landed on some spot of terra
firma, alive or dead. But adieu now till to-night.”

With these words the Canadian withdrew, leaving me almost dumb. I had
imagined that, the chance gone, I should have time to reflect and
discuss the matter. My obstinate companion had given me no time; and,
after all, what could I have said to him? Ned Land was perfectly right.
There was almost the opportunity to profit by. Could I retract my word,
and take upon myself the responsibility of compromising the future of
my companions? To-morrow Captain Nemo might take us far from all land.

At that moment a rather loud hissing noise told me that the reservoirs
were filling, and that the _Nautilus_ was sinking under the waves of
the Atlantic.

A sad day I passed, between the desire of regaining my liberty of
action and of abandoning the wonderful _Nautilus_, and leaving my
submarine studies incomplete.

What dreadful hours I passed thus! Sometimes seeing myself and
companions safely landed, sometimes wishing, in spite of my reason,
that some unforeseen circumstance, would prevent the realisation of Ned
Land’s project.

Twice I went to the saloon. I wished to consult the compass. I wished
to see if the direction the _Nautilus_ was taking was bringing us
nearer or taking us farther from the coast. But no; the _Nautilus_ kept
in Portuguese waters.

I must therefore take my part and prepare for flight. My luggage was
not heavy; my notes, nothing more.

As to Captain Nemo, I asked myself what he would think of our escape;
what trouble, what wrong it might cause him and what he might do in
case of its discovery or failure. Certainly I had no cause to complain
of him; on the contrary, never was hospitality freer than his. In
leaving him I could not be taxed with ingratitude. No oath bound us to
him. It was on the strength of circumstances he relied, and not upon
our word, to fix us for ever.

I had not seen the Captain since our visit to the Island of Santorin.
Would chance bring me to his presence before our departure? I wished
it, and I feared it at the same time. I listened if I could hear him
walking the room contiguous to mine. No sound reached my ear. I felt an
unbearable uneasiness. This day of waiting seemed eternal. Hours struck
too slowly to keep pace with my impatience.

My dinner was served in my room as usual. I ate but little; I was too
preoccupied. I left the table at seven o’clock. A hundred and twenty
minutes (I counted them) still separated me from the moment in which I
was to join Ned Land. My agitation redoubled. My pulse beat violently.
I could not remain quiet. I went and came, hoping to calm my troubled
spirit by constant movement. The idea of failure in our bold enterprise
was the least painful of my anxieties; but the thought of seeing our
project discovered before leaving the _Nautilus_, of being brought
before Captain Nemo, irritated, or (what was worse) saddened, at my
desertion, made my heart beat.

I wanted to see the saloon for the last time. I descended the stairs
and arrived in the museum, where I had passed so many useful and
agreeable hours. I looked at all its riches, all its treasures, like a
man on the eve of an eternal exile, who was leaving never to return.

These wonders of Nature, these masterpieces of art, amongst which for
so many days my life had been concentrated, I was going to abandon them
for ever! I should like to have taken a last look through the windows
of the saloon into the waters of the Atlantic: but the panels were
hermetically closed, and a cloak of steel separated me from that ocean
which I had not yet explored.

In passing through the saloon, I came near the door let into the angle
which opened into the Captain’s room. To my great surprise, this door
was ajar. I drew back involuntarily. If Captain Nemo should be in his
room, he could see me. But, hearing no sound, I drew nearer. The room
was deserted. I pushed open the door and took some steps forward. Still
the same monklike severity of aspect.

Suddenly the clock struck eight. The first beat of the hammer on the
bell awoke me from my dreams. I trembled as if an invisible eye had
plunged into my most secret thoughts, and I hurried from the room.

There my eye fell upon the compass. Our course was still north. The log
indicated moderate speed, the manometer a depth of about sixty feet.

I returned to my room, clothed myself warmly—sea boots, an otterskin
cap, a great coat of byssus, lined with sealskin; I was ready, I was
waiting. The vibration of the screw alone broke the deep silence which
reigned on board. I listened attentively. Would no loud voice suddenly
inform me that Ned Land had been surprised in his projected flight. A
mortal dread hung over me, and I vainly tried to regain my accustomed
coolness.

At a few minutes to nine, I put my ear to the Captain’s door. No noise.
I left my room and returned to the saloon, which was half in obscurity,
but deserted.

I opened the door communicating with the library. The same insufficient
light, the same solitude. I placed myself near the door leading to the
central staircase, and there waited for Ned Land’s signal.

At that moment the trembling of the screw sensibly diminished, then it
stopped entirely. The silence was now only disturbed by the beatings of
my own heart. Suddenly a slight shock was felt; and I knew that the
_Nautilus_ had stopped at the bottom of the ocean. My uneasiness
increased. The Canadian’s signal did not come. I felt inclined to join
Ned Land and beg of him to put off his attempt. I felt that we were not
sailing under our usual conditions.

At this moment the door of the large saloon opened, and Captain Nemo
appeared. He saw me, and without further preamble began in an amiable
tone of voice:

“Ah, sir! I have been looking for you. Do you know the history of
Spain?”

Now, one might know the history of one’s own country by heart; but in
the condition I was at the time, with troubled mind and head quite
lost, I could not have said a word of it.

“Well,” continued Captain Nemo, “you heard my question! Do you know the
history of Spain?”

“Very slightly,” I answered.

“Well, here are learned men having to learn,” said the Captain. “Come,
sit down, and I will tell you a curious episode in this history. Sir,
listen well,” said he; “this history will interest you on one side, for
it will answer a question which doubtless you have not been able to
solve.”

“I listen, Captain,” said I, not knowing what my interlocutor was
driving at, and asking myself if this incident was bearing on our
projected flight.

“Sir, if you have no objection, we will go back to 1702. You cannot be
ignorant that your king, Louis XIV, thinking that the gesture of a
potentate was sufficient to bring the Pyrenees under his yoke, had
imposed the Duke of Anjou, his grandson, on the Spaniards. This prince
reigned more or less badly under the name of Philip V, and had a strong
party against him abroad. Indeed, the preceding year, the royal houses
of Holland, Austria, and England had concluded a treaty of alliance at
the Hague, with the intention of plucking the crown of Spain from the
head of Philip V, and placing it on that of an archduke to whom they
prematurely gave the title of Charles III.

“Spain must resist this coalition; but she was almost entirely
unprovided with either soldiers or sailors. However, money would not
fail them, provided that their galleons, laden with gold and silver
from America, once entered their ports. And about the end of 1702 they
expected a rich convoy which France was escorting with a fleet of
twenty-three vessels, commanded by Admiral Chateau-Renaud, for the
ships of the coalition were already beating the Atlantic. This convoy
was to go to Cadiz, but the Admiral, hearing that an English fleet was
cruising in those waters, resolved to make for a French port.

“The Spanish commanders of the convoy objected to this decision. They
wanted to be taken to a Spanish port, and, if not to Cadiz, into Vigo
Bay, situated on the northwest coast of Spain, and which was not
blocked.

“Admiral Chateau-Renaud had the rashness to obey this injunction, and
the galleons entered Vigo Bay.

“Unfortunately, it formed an open road which could not be defended in
any way. They must therefore hasten to unload the galleons before the
arrival of the combined fleet; and time would not have failed them had
not a miserable question of rivalry suddenly arisen.

“You are following the chain of events?” asked Captain Nemo.

“Perfectly,” said I, not knowing the end proposed by this historical
lesson.

“I will continue. This is what passed. The merchants of Cadiz had a
privilege by which they had the right of receiving all merchandise
coming from the West Indies. Now, to disembark these ingots at the port
of Vigo was depriving them of their rights. They complained at Madrid,
and obtained the consent of the weak-minded Philip that the convoy,
without discharging its cargo, should remain sequestered in the roads
of Vigo until the enemy had disappeared.

“But whilst coming to this decision, on the 22nd of October, 1702, the
English vessels arrived in Vigo Bay, when Admiral Chateau-Renaud, in
spite of inferior forces, fought bravely. But, seeing that the treasure
must fall into the enemy’s hands, he burnt and scuttled every galleon,
which went to the bottom with their immense riches.”

Captain Nemo stopped. I admit I could not see yet why this history
should interest me.

“Well?” I asked.

“Well, M. Aronnax,” replied Captain Nemo, “we are in that Vigo Bay; and
it rests with yourself whether you will penetrate its mysteries.”

The Captain rose, telling me to follow him. I had had time to recover.
I obeyed. The saloon was dark, but through the transparent glass the
waves were sparkling. I looked.

For half a mile around the _Nautilus_, the waters seemed bathed in
electric light. The sandy bottom was clean and bright. Some of the
ship’s crew in their diving-dresses were clearing away half-rotten
barrels and empty cases from the midst of the blackened wrecks. From
these cases and from these barrels escaped ingots of gold and silver,
cascades of piastres and jewels. The sand was heaped up with them.
Laden with their precious booty, the men returned to the _Nautilus_,
disposed of their burden, and went back to this inexhaustible fishery
of gold and silver.

I understood now. This was the scene of the battle of the 22nd of
October, 1702. Here on this very spot the galleons laden for the
Spanish Government had sunk. Here Captain Nemo came, according to his
wants, to pack up those millions with which he burdened the _Nautilus_.
It was for him and him alone America had given up her precious metals.
He was heir direct, without anyone to share, in those treasures torn
from the Incas and from the conquered of Ferdinand Cortez.

“Did you know, sir,” he asked, smiling, “that the sea contained such
riches?”

“I knew,” I answered, “that they value money held in suspension in
these waters at two millions.”

“Doubtless; but to extract this money the expense would be greater than
the profit. Here, on the contrary, I have but to pick up what man has
lost—and not only in Vigo Bay, but in a thousand other ports where
shipwrecks have happened, and which are marked on my submarine map. Can
you understand now the source of the millions I am worth?”

“I understand, Captain. But allow me to tell you that in exploring Vigo
Bay you have only been beforehand with a rival society.”

“And which?”

“A society which has received from the Spanish Government the privilege
of seeking those buried galleons. The shareholders are led on by the
allurement of an enormous bounty, for they value these rich shipwrecks
at five hundred millions.”

“Five hundred millions they were,” answered Captain Nemo, “but they are
so no longer.”

“Just so,” said I; “and a warning to those shareholders would be an act
of charity. But who knows if it would be well received? What gamblers
usually regret above all is less the loss of their money than of their
foolish hopes. After all, I pity them less than the thousands of
unfortunates to whom so much riches well-distributed would have been
profitable, whilst for them they will be for ever barren.”

I had no sooner expressed this regret than I felt that it must have
wounded Captain Nemo.

“Barren!” he exclaimed, with animation. “Do you think then, sir, that
these riches are lost because I gather them? Is it for myself alone,
according to your idea, that I take the trouble to collect these
treasures? Who told you that I did not make a good use of it? Do you
think I am ignorant that there are suffering beings and oppressed races
on this earth, miserable creatures to console, victims to avenge? Do
you not understand?”

Captain Nemo stopped at these last words, regretting perhaps that he
had spoken so much. But I had guessed that, whatever the motive which
had forced him to seek independence under the sea, it had left him
still a man, that his heart still beat for the sufferings of humanity,
and that his immense charity was for oppressed races as well as
individuals. And I then understood for whom those millions were
destined which were forwarded by Captain Nemo when the _Nautilus_ was
cruising in the waters of Crete.




CHAPTER IX
A VANISHED CONTINENT


The next morning, the 19th of February, I saw the Canadian enter my
room. I expected this visit. He looked very disappointed.

“Well, sir?” said he.

“Well, Ned, fortune was against us yesterday.”

“Yes; that Captain must needs stop exactly at the hour we intended
leaving his vessel.”

“Yes, Ned, he had business at his bankers.”

“His bankers!”

“Or rather his banking-house; by that I mean the ocean, where his
riches are safer than in the chests of the State.”

I then related to the Canadian the incidents of the preceding night,
hoping to bring him back to the idea of not abandoning the Captain; but
my recital had no other result than an energetically expressed regret
from Ned that he had not been able to take a walk on the battlefield of
Vigo on his own account.

“However,” said he, “all is not ended. It is only a blow of the harpoon
lost. Another time we must succeed; and to-night, if necessary——”

“In what direction is the _Nautilus_ going?” I asked.

“I do not know,” replied Ned.

“Well, at noon we shall see the point.”

The Canadian returned to Conseil. As soon as I was dressed, I went into
the saloon. The compass was not reassuring. The course of the
_Nautilus_ was S.S.W. We were turning our backs on Europe.

I waited with some impatience till the ship’s place was pricked on the
chart. At about half-past eleven the reservoirs were emptied, and our
vessel rose to the surface of the ocean. I rushed towards the platform.
Ned Land had preceded me. No more land in sight. Nothing but an immense
sea. Some sails on the horizon, doubtless those going to San Roque in
search of favourable winds for doubling the Cape of Good Hope. The
weather was cloudy. A gale of wind was preparing. Ned raved, and tried
to pierce the cloudy horizon. He still hoped that behind all that fog
stretched the land he so longed for.

At noon the sun showed itself for an instant. The second profited by
this brightness to take its height. Then, the sea becoming more
billowy, we descended, and the panel closed.

An hour after, upon consulting the chart, I saw the position of the
_Nautilus_ was marked at 16° 17′ long., and 33° 22′ lat., at 150
leagues from the nearest coast. There was no means of flight, and I
leave you to imagine the rage of the Canadian when I informed him of
our situation.

For myself, I was not particularly sorry. I felt lightened of the load
which had oppressed me, and was able to return with some degree of
calmness to my accustomed work.

That night, about eleven o’clock, I received a most unexpected visit
from Captain Nemo. He asked me very graciously if I felt fatigued from
my watch of the preceding night. I answered in the negative.

“Then, M. Aronnax, I propose a curious excursion.”

“Propose, Captain?”

“You have hitherto only visited the submarine depths by daylight, under
the brightness of the sun. Would it suit you to see them in the
darkness of the night?”

“Most willingly.”

“I warn you, the way will be tiring. We shall have far to walk, and
must climb a mountain. The roads are not well kept.”

“What you say, Captain, only heightens my curiosity; I am ready to
follow you.”

“Come then, sir, we will put on our diving-dresses.”

Arrived at the robing-room, I saw that neither of my companions nor any
of the ship’s crew were to follow us on this excursion. Captain Nemo
had not even proposed my taking with me either Ned or Conseil.

In a few moments we had put on our diving-dresses; they placed on our
backs the reservoirs, abundantly filled with air, but no electric lamps
were prepared. I called the Captain’s attention to the fact.

“They will be useless,” he replied.

I thought I had not heard aright, but I could not repeat my
observation, for the Captain’s head had already disappeared in its
metal case. I finished harnessing myself. I felt them put an
iron-pointed stick into my hand, and some minutes later, after going
through the usual form, we set foot on the bottom of the Atlantic at a
depth of 150 fathoms. Midnight was near. The waters were profoundly
dark, but Captain Nemo pointed out in the distance a reddish spot, a
sort of large light shining brilliantly about two miles from the
_Nautilus_. What this fire might be, what could feed it, why and how it
lit up the liquid mass, I could not say. In any case, it did light our
way, vaguely, it is true, but I soon accustomed myself to the peculiar
darkness, and I understood, under such circumstances, the uselessness
of the Ruhmkorff apparatus.

As we advanced, I heard a kind of pattering above my head. The noise
redoubling, sometimes producing a continual shower, I soon understood
the cause. It was rain falling violently, and crisping the surface of
the waves. Instinctively the thought flashed across my mind that I
should be wet through! By the water! in the midst of the water! I could
not help laughing at the odd idea. But, indeed, in the thick
diving-dress, the liquid element is no longer felt, and one only seems
to be in an atmosphere somewhat denser than the terrestrial atmosphere.
Nothing more.

After half an hour’s walk the soil became stony. Medusae, microscopic
crustacea, and pennatules lit it slightly with their phosphorescent
gleam. I caught a glimpse of pieces of stone covered with millions of
zoophytes and masses of sea weed. My feet often slipped upon this
sticky carpet of sea weed, and without my iron-tipped stick I should
have fallen more than once. In turning round, I could still see the
whitish lantern of the _Nautilus_ beginning to pale in the distance.

But the rosy light which guided us increased and lit up the horizon.
The presence of this fire under water puzzled me in the highest degree.
Was I going towards a natural phenomenon as yet unknown to the
_savants_ of the earth? Or even (for this thought crossed my brain) had
the hand of man aught to do with this conflagration? Had he fanned this
flame? Was I to meet in these depths companions and friends of Captain
Nemo whom he was going to visit, and who, like him, led this strange
existence? Should I find down there a whole colony of exiles who, weary
of the miseries of this earth, had sought and found independence in the
deep ocean? All these foolish and unreasonable ideas pursued me. And in
this condition of mind, over-excited by the succession of wonders
continually passing before my eyes, I should not have been surprised to
meet at the bottom of the sea one of those submarine towns of which
Captain Nemo dreamed.

Our road grew lighter and lighter. The white glimmer came in rays from
the summit of a mountain about 800 feet high. But what I saw was simply
a reflection, developed by the clearness of the waters. The source of
this inexplicable light was a fire on the opposite side of the
mountain.

In the midst of this stony maze furrowing the bottom of the Atlantic,
Captain Nemo advanced without hesitation. He knew this dreary road.
Doubtless he had often travelled over it, and could not lose himself. I
followed him with unshaken confidence. He seemed to me like a genie of
the sea; and, as he walked before me, I could not help admiring his
stature, which was outlined in black on the luminous horizon.

It was one in the morning when we arrived at the first slopes of the
mountain; but to gain access to them we must venture through the
difficult paths of a vast copse.

Yes; a copse of dead trees, without leaves, without sap, trees
petrified by the action of the water and here and there overtopped by
gigantic pines. It was like a coal-pit still standing, holding by the
roots to the broken soil, and whose branches, like fine black paper
cuttings, showed distinctly on the watery ceiling. Picture to yourself
a forest in the Hartz hanging on to the sides of the mountain, but a
forest swallowed up. The paths were encumbered with seaweed and fucus,
between which grovelled a whole world of crustacea. I went along,
climbing the rocks, striding over extended trunks, breaking the sea
bind-weed which hung from one tree to the other; and frightening the
fishes, which flew from branch to branch. Pressing onward, I felt no
fatigue. I followed my guide, who was never tired. What a spectacle!
How can I express it? how paint the aspect of those woods and rocks in
this medium—their under parts dark and wild, the upper coloured with
red tints, by that light which the reflecting powers of the waters
doubled? We climbed rocks which fell directly after with gigantic
bounds and the low growling of an avalanche. To right and left ran
long, dark galleries, where sight was lost. Here opened vast glades
which the hand of man seemed to have worked; and I sometimes asked
myself if some inhabitant of these submarine regions would not suddenly
appear to me.

But Captain Nemo was still mounting. I could not stay behind. I
followed boldly. My stick gave me good help. A false step would have
been dangerous on the narrow passes sloping down to the sides of the
gulfs; but I walked with firm step, without feeling any giddiness. Now
I jumped a crevice, the depth of which would have made me hesitate had
it been among the glaciers on the land; now I ventured on the unsteady
trunk of a tree thrown across from one abyss to the other, without
looking under my feet, having only eyes to admire the wild sites of
this region.

There, monumental rocks, leaning on their regularly-cut bases, seemed
to defy all laws of equilibrium. From between their stony knees trees
sprang, like a jet under heavy pressure, and upheld others which upheld
them. Natural towers, large scarps, cut perpendicularly, like a
“curtain,” inclined at an angle which the laws of gravitation could
never have tolerated in terrestrial regions.

Two hours after quitting the _Nautilus_ we had crossed the line of
trees, and a hundred feet above our heads rose the top of the mountain,
which cast a shadow on the brilliant irradiation of the opposite slope.
Some petrified shrubs ran fantastically here and there. Fishes got up
under our feet like birds in the long grass. The massive rocks were
rent with impenetrable fractures, deep grottos, and unfathomable holes,
at the bottom of which formidable creatures might be heard moving. My
blood curdled when I saw enormous antennae blocking my road, or some
frightful claw closing with a noise in the shadow of some cavity.
Millions of luminous spots shone brightly in the midst of the darkness.
They were the eyes of giant crustacea crouched in their holes; giant
lobsters setting themselves up like halberdiers, and moving their claws
with the clicking sound of pincers; titanic crabs, pointed like a gun
on its carriage; and frightful-looking poulps, interweaving their
tentacles like a living nest of serpents.

We had now arrived on the first platform, where other surprises awaited
me. Before us lay some picturesque ruins, which betrayed the hand of
man and not that of the Creator. There were vast heaps of stone,
amongst which might be traced the vague and shadowy forms of castles
and temples, clothed with a world of blossoming zoophytes, and over
which, instead of ivy, sea-weed and fucus threw a thick vegetable
mantle. But what was this portion of the globe which had been swallowed
by cataclysms? Who had placed those rocks and stones like cromlechs of
prehistoric times? Where was I? Whither had Captain Nemo’s fancy
hurried me?

I would fain have asked him; not being able to, I stopped him—I seized
his arm. But, shaking his head, and pointing to the highest point of
the mountain, he seemed to say:

“Come, come along; come higher!”

I followed, and in a few minutes I had climbed to the top, which for a
circle of ten yards commanded the whole mass of rock.

I looked down the side we had just climbed. The mountain did not rise
more than seven or eight hundred feet above the level of the plain; but
on the opposite side it commanded from twice that height the depths of
this part of the Atlantic. My eyes ranged far over a large space lit by
a violent fulguration. In fact, the mountain was a volcano.

At fifty feet above the peak, in the midst of a rain of stones and
scoriae, a large crater was vomiting forth torrents of lava which fell
in a cascade of fire into the bosom of the liquid mass. Thus situated,
this volcano lit the lower plain like an immense torch, even to the
extreme limits of the horizon. I said that the submarine crater threw
up lava, but no flames. Flames require the oxygen of the air to feed
upon and cannot be developed under water; but streams of lava, having
in themselves the principles of their incandescence, can attain a white
heat, fight vigorously against the liquid element, and turn it to
vapour by contact.

Rapid currents bearing all these gases in diffusion and torrents of
lava slid to the bottom of the mountain like an eruption of Vesuvius on
another Terra del Greco.

There indeed under my eyes, ruined, destroyed, lay a town—its roofs
open to the sky, its temples fallen, its arches dislocated, its columns
lying on the ground, from which one would still recognise the massive
character of Tuscan architecture. Further on, some remains of a
gigantic aqueduct; here the high base of an Acropolis, with the
floating outline of a Parthenon; there traces of a quay, as if an
ancient port had formerly abutted on the borders of the ocean, and
disappeared with its merchant vessels and its war-galleys. Farther on
again, long lines of sunken walls and broad, deserted streets—a perfect
Pompeii escaped beneath the waters. Such was the sight that Captain
Nemo brought before my eyes!

Where was I? Where was I? I must know at any cost. I tried to speak,
but Captain Nemo stopped me by a gesture, and, picking up a piece of
chalk-stone, advanced to a rock of black basalt, and traced the one
word:

ATLANTIS

What a light shot through my mind! Atlantis! the Atlantis of Plato,
that continent denied by Origen and Humbolt, who placed its
disappearance amongst the legendary tales. I had it there now before my
eyes, bearing upon it the unexceptionable testimony of its catastrophe.
The region thus engulfed was beyond Europe, Asia, and Lybia, beyond the
columns of Hercules, where those powerful people, the Atlantides,
lived, against whom the first wars of ancient Greeks were waged.

Thus, led by the strangest destiny, I was treading under foot the
mountains of this continent, touching with my hand those ruins a
thousand generations old and contemporary with the geological epochs. I
was walking on the very spot where the contemporaries of the first man
had walked.

Whilst I was trying to fix in my mind every detail of this grand
landscape, Captain Nemo remained motionless, as if petrified in mute
ecstasy, leaning on a mossy stone. Was he dreaming of those generations
long since disappeared? Was he asking them the secret of human destiny?
Was it here this strange man came to steep himself in historical
recollections, and live again this ancient life—he who wanted no modern
one? What would I not have given to know his thoughts, to share them,
to understand them! We remained for an hour at this place,
contemplating the vast plains under the brightness of the lava, which
was some times wonderfully intense. Rapid tremblings ran along the
mountain caused by internal bubblings, deep noise, distinctly
transmitted through the liquid medium were echoed with majestic
grandeur. At this moment the moon appeared through the mass of waters
and threw her pale rays on the buried continent. It was but a gleam,
but what an indescribable effect! The Captain rose, cast one last look
on the immense plain, and then bade me follow him.

We descended the mountain rapidly, and, the mineral forest once passed,
I saw the lantern of the _Nautilus_ shining like a star. The Captain
walked straight to it, and we got on board as the first rays of light
whitened the surface of the ocean.




CHAPTER X
THE SUBMARINE COAL-MINES


The next day, the 20th of February, I awoke very late: the fatigues of
the previous night had prolonged my sleep until eleven o’clock. I
dressed quickly, and hastened to find the course the _Nautilus_ was
taking. The instruments showed it to be still toward the south, with a
speed of twenty miles an hour and a depth of fifty fathoms.

The species of fishes here did not differ much from those already
noticed. There were rays of giant size, five yards long, and endowed
with great muscular strength, which enabled them to shoot above the
waves; sharks of many kinds; amongst others, one fifteen feet long,
with triangular sharp teeth, and whose transparency rendered it almost
invisible in the water.

Amongst bony fish Conseil noticed some about three yards long, armed at
the upper jaw with a piercing sword; other bright-coloured creatures,
known in the time of Aristotle by the name of the sea-dragon, which are
dangerous to capture on account of the spikes on their back.

About four o’clock, the soil, generally composed of a thick mud mixed
with petrified wood, changed by degrees, and it became more stony, and
seemed strewn with conglomerate and pieces of basalt, with a sprinkling
of lava. I thought that a mountainous region was succeeding the long
plains; and accordingly, after a few evolutions of the _Nautilus_, I
saw the southerly horizon blocked by a high wall which seemed to close
all exit. Its summit evidently passed the level of the ocean. It must
be a continent, or at least an island—one of the Canaries, or of the
Cape Verde Islands. The bearings not being yet taken, perhaps
designedly, I was ignorant of our exact position. In any case, such a
wall seemed to me to mark the limits of that Atlantis, of which we had
in reality passed over only the smallest part.

Much longer should I have remained at the window admiring the beauties
of sea and sky, but the panels closed. At this moment the _Nautilus_
arrived at the side of this high, perpendicular wall. What it would do,
I could not guess. I returned to my room; it no longer moved. I laid
myself down with the full intention of waking after a few hours’ sleep;
but it was eight o’clock the next day when I entered the saloon. I
looked at the manometer. It told me that the _Nautilus_ was floating on
the surface of the ocean. Besides, I heard steps on the platform. I
went to the panel. It was open; but, instead of broad daylight, as I
expected, I was surrounded by profound darkness. Where were we? Was I
mistaken? Was it still night? No; not a star was shining and night has
not that utter darkness.


[Illustration] The _Nautilus_ was floating near a mountain


I knew not what to think, when a voice near me said:

“Is that you, Professor?”

“Ah! Captain,” I answered, “where are we?”

“Underground, sir.”

“Underground!” I exclaimed. “And the _Nautilus_ floating still?”

“It always floats.”

“But I do not understand.”

“Wait a few minutes, our lantern will be lit, and, if you like light
places, you will be satisfied.”

I stood on the platform and waited. The darkness was so complete that I
could not even see Captain Nemo; but, looking to the zenith, exactly
above my head, I seemed to catch an undecided gleam, a kind of twilight
filling a circular hole. At this instant the lantern was lit, and its
vividness dispelled the faint light. I closed my dazzled eyes for an
instant, and then looked again. The _Nautilus_ was stationary, floating
near a mountain which formed a sort of quay. The lake, then, supporting
it was a lake imprisoned by a circle of walls, measuring two miles in
diameter and six in circumference. Its level (the manometer showed)
could only be the same as the outside level, for there must necessarily
be a communication between the lake and the sea. The high partitions,
leaning forward on their base, grew into a vaulted roof bearing the
shape of an immense funnel turned upside down, the height being about
five or six hundred yards. At the summit was a circular orifice, by
which I had caught the slight gleam of light, evidently daylight.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“In the very heart of an extinct volcano, the interior of which has
been invaded by the sea, after some great convulsion of the earth.
Whilst you were sleeping, Professor, the _Nautilus_ penetrated to this
lagoon by a natural canal, which opens about ten yards beneath the
surface of the ocean. This is its harbour of refuge, a sure,
commodious, and mysterious one, sheltered from all gales. Show me, if
you can, on the coasts of any of your continents or islands, a road
which can give such perfect refuge from all storms.”

“Certainly,” I replied, “you are in safety here, Captain Nemo. Who
could reach you in the heart of a volcano? But did I not see an opening
at its summit?”

“Yes; its crater, formerly filled with lava, vapour, and flames, and
which now gives entrance to the life-giving air we breathe.”

“But what is this volcanic mountain?”

“It belongs to one of the numerous islands with which this sea is
strewn—to vessels a simple sandbank—to us an immense cavern. Chance led
me to discover it, and chance served me well.”

“But of what use is this refuge, Captain? The _Nautilus_ wants no
port.”

“No, sir; but it wants electricity to make it move, and the wherewithal
to make the electricity—sodium to feed the elements, coal from which to
get the sodium, and a coal-mine to supply the coal. And exactly on this
spot the sea covers entire forests embedded during the geological
periods, now mineralised and transformed into coal; for me they are an
inexhaustible mine.”

“Your men follow the trade of miners here, then, Captain?”

“Exactly so. These mines extend under the waves like the mines of
Newcastle. Here, in their diving-dresses, pick axe and shovel in hand,
my men extract the coal, which I do not even ask from the mines of the
earth. When I burn this combustible for the manufacture of sodium, the
smoke, escaping from the crater of the mountain, gives it the
appearance of a still-active volcano.”

“And we shall see your companions at work?”

“No; not this time at least; for I am in a hurry to continue our
submarine tour of the earth. So I shall content myself with drawing
from the reserve of sodium I already possess. The time for loading is
one day only, and we continue our voyage. So, if you wish to go over
the cavern and make the round of the lagoon, you must take advantage of
to-day, M. Aronnax.”

I thanked the Captain and went to look for my companions, who had not
yet left their cabin. I invited them to follow me without saying where
we were. They mounted the platform. Conseil, who was astonished at
nothing, seemed to look upon it as quite natural that he should wake
under a mountain, after having fallen asleep under the waves. But Ned
Land thought of nothing but finding whether the cavern had any exit.
After breakfast, about ten o’clock, we went down on to the mountain.

“Here we are, once more on land,” said Conseil.

“I do not call this land,” said the Canadian. “And besides, we are not
on it, but beneath it.”

Between the walls of the mountains and the waters of the lake lay a
sandy shore which, at its greatest breadth, measured five hundred feet.
On this soil one might easily make the tour of the lake. But the base
of the high partitions was stony ground, with volcanic blocks and
enormous pumice-stones lying in picturesque heaps. All these detached
masses, covered with enamel, polished by the action of the
subterraneous fires, shone resplendent by the light of our electric
lantern. The mica dust from the shore, rising under our feet, flew like
a cloud of sparks. The bottom now rose sensibly, and we soon arrived at
long circuitous slopes, or inclined planes, which took us higher by
degrees; but we were obliged to walk carefully among these
conglomerates, bound by no cement, the feet slipping on the glassy
crystal, felspar, and quartz.

The volcanic nature of this enormous excavation was confirmed on all
sides, and I pointed it out to my companions.

“Picture to yourselves,” said I, “what this crater must have been when
filled with boiling lava, and when the level of the incandescent liquid
rose to the orifice of the mountain, as though melted on the top of a
hot plate.”

“I can picture it perfectly,” said Conseil. “But, sir, will you tell me
why the Great Architect has suspended operations, and how it is that
the furnace is replaced by the quiet waters of the lake?”

“Most probably, Conseil, because some convulsion beneath the ocean
produced that very opening which has served as a passage for the
_Nautilus_. Then the waters of the Atlantic rushed into the interior of
the mountain. There must have been a terrible struggle between the two
elements, a struggle which ended in the victory of Neptune. But many
ages have run out since then, and the submerged volcano is now a
peaceable grotto.”

“Very well,” replied Ned Land; “I accept the explanation, sir; but, in
our own interests, I regret that the opening of which you speak was not
made above the level of the sea.”

“But, friend Ned,” said Conseil, “if the passage had not been under the
sea, the _Nautilus_ could not have gone through it.”

We continued ascending. The steps became more and more perpendicular
and narrow. Deep excavations, which we were obliged to cross, cut them
here and there; sloping masses had to be turned. We slid upon our knees
and crawled along. But Conseil’s dexterity and the Canadian’s strength
surmounted all obstacles. At a height of about 31 feet the nature of
the ground changed without becoming more practicable. To the
conglomerate and trachyte succeeded black basalt, the first dispread in
layers full of bubbles, the latter forming regular prisms, placed like
a colonnade supporting the spring of the immense vault, an admirable
specimen of natural architecture. Between the blocks of basalt wound
long streams of lava, long since grown cold, encrusted with bituminous
rays; and in some places there were spread large carpets of sulphur. A
more powerful light shone through the upper crater, shedding a vague
glimmer over these volcanic depressions for ever buried in the bosom of
this extinguished mountain. But our upward march was soon stopped at a
height of about two hundred and fifty feet by impassable obstacles.
There was a complete vaulted arch overhanging us, and our ascent was
changed to a circular walk. At the last change vegetable life began to
struggle with the mineral. Some shrubs, and even some trees, grew from
the fractures of the walls. I recognised some euphorbias, with the
caustic sugar coming from them; heliotropes, quite incapable of
justifying their name, sadly drooped their clusters of flowers, both
their colour and perfume half gone. Here and there some chrysanthemums
grew timidly at the foot of an aloe with long, sickly-looking leaves.
But between the streams of lava, I saw some little violets still
slightly perfumed, and I admit that I smelt them with delight. Perfume
is the soul of the flower, and sea-flowers have no soul.

We had arrived at the foot of some sturdy dragon-trees, which had
pushed aside the rocks with their strong roots, when Ned Land
exclaimed:

“Ah! sir, a hive! a hive!”

“A hive!” I replied, with a gesture of incredulity.

“Yes, a hive,” repeated the Canadian, “and bees humming round it.”

I approached, and was bound to believe my own eyes. There at a hole
bored in one of the dragon-trees were some thousands of these ingenious
insects, so common in all the Canaries, and whose produce is so much
esteemed. Naturally enough, the Canadian wished to gather the honey,
and I could not well oppose his wish. A quantity of dry leaves, mixed
with sulphur, he lit with a spark from his flint, and he began to smoke
out the bees. The humming ceased by degrees, and the hive eventually
yielded several pounds of the sweetest honey, with which Ned Land
filled his haversack.

“When I have mixed this honey with the paste of the artocarpus,” said
he, “I shall be able to offer you a succulent cake.”

“’Pon my word,” said Conseil, “it will be gingerbread.”

“Never mind the gingerbread,” said I; “let us continue our interesting
walk.”

At every turn of the path we were following, the lake appeared in all
its length and breadth. The lantern lit up the whole of its peaceable
surface, which knew neither ripple nor wave. The _Nautilus_ remained
perfectly immovable. On the platform, and on the mountain, the ship’s
crew were working like black shadows clearly carved against the
luminous atmosphere. We were now going round the highest crest of the
first layers of rock which upheld the roof. I then saw that bees were
not the only representatives of the animal kingdom in the interior of
this volcano. Birds of prey hovered here and there in the shadows, or
fled from their nests on the top of the rocks. There were sparrow
hawks, with white breasts, and kestrels, and down the slopes scampered,
with their long legs, several fine fat bustards. I leave anyone to
imagine the covetousness of the Canadian at the sight of this savoury
game, and whether he did not regret having no gun. But he did his best
to replace the lead by stones, and, after several fruitless attempts,
he succeeded in wounding a magnificent bird. To say that he risked his
life twenty times before reaching it is but the truth; but he managed
so well that the creature joined the honey-cakes in his bag. We were
now obliged to descend toward the shore, the crest becoming
impracticable. Above us the crater seemed to gape like the mouth of a
well. From this place the sky could be clearly seen, and clouds,
dissipated by the west wind, leaving behind them, even on the summit of
the mountain, their misty remnants—certain proof that they were only
moderately high, for the volcano did not rise more than eight hundred
feet above the level of the ocean. Half an hour after the Canadian’s
last exploit we had regained the inner shore. Here the flora was
represented by large carpets of marine crystal, a little umbelliferous
plant very good to pickle, which also bears the name of pierce-stone
and sea-fennel. Conseil gathered some bundles of it. As to the fauna,
it might be counted by thousands of crustacea of all sorts, lobsters,
crabs, spider-crabs, chameleon shrimps, and a large number of shells,
rockfish, and limpets. Three-quarters of an hour later we had finished
our circuitous walk and were on board. The crew had just finished
loading the sodium, and the _Nautilus_ could have left that instant.
But Captain Nemo gave no order. Did he wish to wait until night, and
leave the submarine passage secretly? Perhaps so. Whatever it might be,
the next day, the _Nautilus_, having left its port, steered clear of
all land at a few yards beneath the waves of the Atlantic.




CHAPTER XI
THE SARGASSO SEA


That day the _Nautilus_ crossed a singular part of the Atlantic Ocean.
No one can be ignorant of the existence of a current of warm water
known by the name of the Gulf Stream. After leaving the Gulf of
Florida, we went in the direction of Spitzbergen. But before entering
the Gulf of Mexico, about 45° of N. lat., this current divides into two
arms, the principal one going towards the coast of Ireland and Norway,
whilst the second bends to the south about the height of the Azores;
then, touching the African shore, and describing a lengthened oval,
returns to the Antilles. This second arm—it is rather a collar than an
arm—surrounds with its circles of warm water that portion of the cold,
quiet, immovable ocean called the Sargasso Sea, a perfect lake in the
open Atlantic: it takes no less than three years for the great current
to pass round it. Such was the region the _Nautilus_ was now visiting,
a perfect meadow, a close carpet of seaweed, fucus, and tropical
berries, so thick and so compact that the stem of a vessel could hardly
tear its way through it. And Captain Nemo, not wishing to entangle his
screw in this herbaceous mass, kept some yards beneath the surface of
the waves. The name Sargasso comes from the Spanish word “sargazzo”
which signifies kelp. This kelp, or berry-plant, is the principal
formation of this immense bank. And this is the reason why these plants
unite in the peaceful basin of the Atlantic. The only explanation which
can be given, he says, seems to me to result from the experience known
to all the world. Place in a vase some fragments of cork or other
floating body, and give to the water in the vase a circular movement,
the scattered fragments will unite in a group in the centre of the
liquid surface, that is to say, in the part least agitated. In the
phenomenon we are considering, the Atlantic is the vase, the Gulf
Stream the circular current, and the Sargasso Sea the central point at
which the floating bodies unite.

I share Maury’s opinion, and I was able to study the phenomenon in the
very midst, where vessels rarely penetrate. Above us floated products
of all kinds, heaped up among these brownish plants; trunks of trees
torn from the Andes or the Rocky Mountains, and floated by the Amazon
or the Mississippi; numerous wrecks, remains of keels, or ships’
bottoms, side-planks stove in, and so weighted with shells and
barnacles that they could not again rise to the surface. And time will
one day justify Maury’s other opinion, that these substances thus
accumulated for ages will become petrified by the action of the water
and will then form inexhaustible coal-mines—a precious reserve prepared
by far-seeing Nature for the moment when men shall have exhausted the
mines of continents.

In the midst of this inextricable mass of plants and sea weed, I
noticed some charming pink halcyons and actiniae, with their long
tentacles trailing after them, and medusæ, green, red, and blue.

All the day of the 22nd of February we passed in the Sargasso Sea,
where such fish as are partial to marine plants find abundant
nourishment. The next, the ocean had returned to its accustomed aspect.
From this time for nineteen days, from the 23rd of February to the 12th
of March, the _Nautilus_ kept in the middle of the Atlantic, carrying
us at a constant speed of a hundred leagues in twenty-four hours.
Captain Nemo evidently intended accomplishing his submarine programme,
and I imagined that he intended, after doubling Cape Horn, to return to
the Australian seas of the Pacific. Ned Land had cause for fear. In
these large seas, void of islands, we could not attempt to leave the
boat. Nor had we any means of opposing Captain Nemo’s will. Our only
course was to submit; but what we could neither gain by force nor
cunning, I liked to think might be obtained by persuasion. This voyage
ended, would he not consent to restore our liberty, under an oath never
to reveal his existence?—an oath of honour which we should have
religiously kept. But we must consider that delicate question with the
Captain. But was I free to claim this liberty? Had he not himself said
from the beginning, in the firmest manner, that the secret of his life
exacted from him our lasting imprisonment on board the _Nautilus?_ And
would not my four months’ silence appear to him a tacit acceptance of
our situation? And would not a return to the subject result in raising
suspicions which might be hurtful to our projects, if at some future
time a favourable opportunity offered to return to them?

During the nineteen days mentioned above, no incident of any kind
happened to signalise our voyage. I saw little of the Captain; he was
at work. In the library I often found his books left open, especially
those on natural history. My work on submarine depths, conned over by
him, was covered with marginal notes, often contradicting my theories
and systems; but the Captain contented himself with thus purging my
work; it was very rare for him to discuss it with me. Sometimes I heard
the melancholy tones of his organ; but only at night, in the midst of
the deepest obscurity, when the _Nautilus_ slept upon the deserted
ocean. During this part of our voyage we sailed whole days on the
surface of the waves. The sea seemed abandoned. A few sailing-vessels,
on the road to India, were making for the Cape of Good Hope. One day we
were followed by the boats of a whaler, who, no doubt, took us for some
enormous whale of great price; but Captain Nemo did not wish the worthy
fellows to lose their time and trouble, so ended the chase by plunging
under the water. Our navigation continued until the 13th of March; that
day the _Nautilus_ was employed in taking soundings, which greatly
interested me. We had then made about 13,000 leagues since our
departure from the high seas of the Pacific. The bearings gave us 45°
37′ S. lat., and 37° 53′ W. long. It was the same water in which
Captain Denham of the Herald sounded 7,000 fathoms without finding the
bottom. There, too, Lieutenant Parker, of the American frigate
Congress, could not touch the bottom with 15,140 fathoms. Captain Nemo
intended seeking the bottom of the ocean by a diagonal sufficiently
lengthened by means of lateral planes placed at an angle of 45° with
the water-line of the _Nautilus_. Then the screw set to work at its
maximum speed, its four blades beating the waves with in describable
force. Under this powerful pressure, the hull of the _Nautilus_
quivered like a sonorous chord and sank regularly under the water.

At 7,000 fathoms I saw some blackish tops rising from the midst of the
waters; but these summits might belong to high mountains like the
Himalayas or Mont Blanc, even higher; and the depth of the abyss
remained incalculable. The _Nautilus_ descended still lower, in spite
of the great pressure. I felt the steel plates tremble at the
fastenings of the bolts; its bars bent, its partitions groaned; the
windows of the saloon seemed to curve under the pressure of the waters.
And this firm structure would doubtless have yielded, if, as its
Captain had said, it had not been capable of resistance like a solid
block. We had attained a depth of 16,000 yards (four leagues), and the
sides of the _Nautilus_ then bore a pressure of 1,600 atmospheres, that
is to say, 3,200 lbs. to each square two-fifths of an inch of its
surface.

“What a situation to be in!” I exclaimed. “To overrun these deep
regions where man has never trod! Look, Captain, look at these
magnificent rocks, these uninhabited grottoes, these lowest receptacles
of the globe, where life is no longer possible! What unknown sights are
here! Why should we be unable to preserve a remembrance of them?”

“Would you like to carry away more than the remembrance?” said Captain
Nemo.

“What do you mean by those words?”

“I mean to say that nothing is easier than to make a photographic view
of this submarine region.”

I had not time to express my surprise at this new proposition, when, at
Captain Nemo’s call, an objective was brought into the saloon. Through
the widely-opened panel, the liquid mass was bright with electricity,
which was distributed with such uniformity that not a shadow, not a
gradation, was to be seen in our manufactured light. The _Nautilus_
remained motionless, the force of its screw subdued by the inclination
of its planes: the instrument was propped on the bottom of the oceanic
site, and in a few seconds we had obtained a perfect negative.

But, the operation being over, Captain Nemo said, “Let us go up; we
must not abuse our position, nor expose the _Nautilus_ too long to such
great pressure.”

“Go up again!” I exclaimed.

“Hold well on.”

I had not time to understand why the Captain cautioned me thus, when I
was thrown forward on to the carpet. At a signal from the Captain, its
screw was shipped, and its blades raised vertically; the _Nautilus_
shot into the air like a balloon, rising with stunning rapidity, and
cutting the mass of waters with a sonorous agitation. Nothing was
visible; and in four minutes it had shot through the four leagues which
separated it from the ocean, and, after emerging like a flying-fish,
fell, making the waves rebound to an enormous height.




CHAPTER XII
CACHALOTS AND WHALES


During the nights of the 13th and 14th of March, the _Nautilus_
returned to its southerly course. I fancied that, when on a level with
Cape Horn, he would turn the helm westward, in order to beat the
Pacific seas, and so complete the tour of the world. He did nothing of
the kind, but continued on his way to the southern regions. Where was
he going to? To the pole? It was madness! I began to think that the
Captain’s temerity justified Ned Land’s fears. For some time past the
Canadian had not spoken to me of his projects of flight; he was less
communicative, almost silent. I could see that this lengthened
imprisonment was weighing upon him, and I felt that rage was burning
within him. When he met the Captain, his eyes lit up with suppressed
anger; and I feared that his natural violence would lead him into some
extreme. That day, the 14th of March, Conseil and he came to me in my
room. I inquired the cause of their visit.

“A simple question to ask you, sir,” replied the Canadian.

“Speak, Ned.”

“How many men are there on board the _Nautilus_, do you think?”

“I cannot tell, my friend.”

“I should say that its working does not require a large crew.”

“Certainly, under existing conditions, ten men, at the most, ought to
be enough.”

“Well, why should there be any more?”

“Why?” I replied, looking fixedly at Ned Land, whose meaning was easy
to guess. “Because,” I added, “if my surmises are correct, and if I
have well understood the Captain’s existence, the _Nautilus_ is not
only a vessel: it is also a place of refuge for those who, like its
commander, have broken every tie upon earth.”

“Perhaps so,” said Conseil; “but, in any case, the _Nautilus_ can only
contain a certain number of men. Could not you, sir, estimate their
maximum?”

“How, Conseil?”

“By calculation; given the size of the vessel, which you know, sir, and
consequently the quantity of air it contains, knowing also how much
each man expends at a breath, and comparing these results with the fact
that the _Nautilus_ is obliged to go to the surface every twenty-four
hours.”

Conseil had not finished the sentence before I saw what he was driving
at.

“I understand,” said I; “but that calculation, though simple enough,
can give but a very uncertain result.”

“Never mind,” said Ned Land urgently.

“Here it is, then,” said I. “In one hour each man consumes the oxygen
contained in twenty gallons of air; and in twenty-four, that contained
in 480 gallons. We must, therefore find how many times 480 gallons of
air the _Nautilus_ contains.”

“Just so,” said Conseil.

“Or,” I continued, “the size of the _Nautilus_ being 1,500 tons; and
one ton holding 200 gallons, it contains 300,000 gallons of air, which,
divided by 480, gives a quotient of 625. Which means to say, strictly
speaking, that the air contained in the _Nautilus_ would suffice for
625 men for twenty-four hours.”

“Six hundred and twenty-five!” repeated Ned.

“But remember that all of us, passengers, sailors, and officers
included, would not form a tenth part of that number.”

“Still too many for three men,” murmured Conseil.

The Canadian shook his head, passed his hand across his forehead, and
left the room without answering.

“Will you allow me to make one observation, sir?” said Conseil. “Poor
Ned is longing for everything that he can not have. His past life is
always present to him; everything that we are forbidden he regrets. His
head is full of old recollections. And we must understand him. What has
he to do here? Nothing; he is not learned like you, sir; and has not
the same taste for the beauties of the sea that we have. He would risk
everything to be able to go once more into a tavern in his own
country.”

Certainly the monotony on board must seem intolerable to the Canadian,
accustomed as he was to a life of liberty and activity. Events were
rare which could rouse him to any show of spirit; but that day an event
did happen which recalled the bright days of the harpooner. About
eleven in the morning, being on the surface of the ocean, the
_Nautilus_ fell in with a troop of whales—an encounter which did not
astonish me, knowing that these creatures, hunted to death, had taken
refuge in high latitudes.

We were seated on the platform, with a quiet sea. The month of October
in those latitudes gave us some lovely autumnal days. It was the
Canadian—he could not be mistaken—who signalled a whale on the eastern
horizon. Looking attentively, one might see its black back rise and
fall with the waves five miles from the _Nautilus_.

“Ah!” exclaimed Ned Land, “if I was on board a whaler, now such a
meeting would give me pleasure. It is one of large size. See with what
strength its blow-holes throw up columns of air an steam! Confound it,
why am I bound to these steel plates?”

“What, Ned,” said I, “you have not forgotten your old ideas of
fishing?”

“Can a whale-fisher ever forget his old trade, sir? Can he ever tire of
the emotions caused by such a chase?”

“You have never fished in these seas, Ned?”

“Never, sir; in the northern only, and as much in Behring as in Davis
Straits.”

“Then the southern whale is still unknown to you. It is the Greenland
whale you have hunted up to this time, and that would not risk passing
through the warm waters of the equator. Whales are localised, according
to their kinds, in certain seas which they never leave. And if one of
these creatures went from Behring to Davis Straits, it must be simply
because there is a passage from one sea to the other, either on the
American or the Asiatic side.”

“In that case, as I have never fished in these seas, I do not know the
kind of whale frequenting them!”

“I have told you, Ned.”

“A greater reason for making their acquaintance,” said Conseil.

“Look! look!” exclaimed the Canadian, “they approach: they aggravate
me; they know that I cannot get at them!”

Ned stamped his feet. His hand trembled, as he grasped an imaginary
harpoon.

“Are these cetaceans as large as those of the northern seas?” asked he.

“Very nearly, Ned.”

“Because I have seen large whales, sir, whales measuring a hundred
feet. I have even been told that those of Hullamoch and Umgallick, of
the Aleutian Islands, are sometimes a hundred and fifty feet long.”

“That seems to me exaggeration. These creatures are only
balaeaopterons, provided with dorsal fins; and, like the cachalots, are
generally much smaller than the Greenland whale.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the Canadian, whose eyes had never left the ocean,
“they are coming nearer; they are in the same water as the _Nautilus_.”

Then, returning to the conversation, he said:

“You spoke of the cachalot as a small creature. I have heard of
gigantic ones. They are intelligent cetacea. It is said of some that
they cover themselves with seaweed and fucus, and then are taken for
islands. People encamp upon them, and settle there; lights a fire——”

“And build houses,” said Conseil.

“Yes, joker,” said Ned Land. “And one fine day the creature plunges,
carrying with it all the inhabitants to the bottom of the sea.”

“Something like the travels of Sinbad the Sailor,” I replied, laughing.

“Ah!” suddenly exclaimed Ned Land, “it is not one whale; there are
ten—there are twenty—it is a whole troop! And I not able to do
anything! hands and feet tied!”

“But, friend Ned,” said Conseil, “why do you not ask Captain Nemo’s
permission to chase them?”

Conseil had not finished his sentence when Ned Land had lowered himself
through the panel to seek the Captain. A few minutes afterwards the two
appeared together on the platform.

Captain Nemo watched the troop of cetacea playing on the waters about a
mile from the _Nautilus_.

“They are southern whales,” said he; “there goes the fortune of a whole
fleet of whalers.”

“Well, sir,” asked the Canadian, “can I not chase them, if only to
remind me of my old trade of harpooner?”

“And to what purpose?” replied Captain Nemo; “only to destroy! We have
nothing to do with the whale-oil on board.”

“But, sir,” continued the Canadian, “in the Red Sea you allowed us to
follow the dugong.”

“Then it was to procure fresh meat for my crew. Here it would be
killing for killing’s sake. I know that is a privilege reserved for
man, but I do not approve of such murderous pastime. In destroying the
southern whale (like the Greenland whale, an inoffensive creature),
your traders do a culpable action, Master Land. They have already
depopulated the whole of Baffin’s Bay, and are annihilating a class of
useful animals. Leave the unfortunate cetacea alone. They have plenty
of natural enemies—cachalots, swordfish, and sawfish—without you
troubling them.”

The Captain was right. The barbarous and inconsiderate greed of these
fishermen will one day cause the disappearance of the last whale in the
ocean. Ned Land whistled “Yankee-doodle” between his teeth, thrust his
hands into his pockets, and turned his back upon us. But Captain Nemo
watched the troop of cetacea, and, addressing me, said:

“I was right in saying that whales had natural enemies enough, without
counting man. These will have plenty to do before long. Do you see, M.
Aronnax, about eight miles to leeward, those blackish moving points?”

“Yes, Captain,” I replied.

“Those are cachalots—terrible animals, which I have met in troops of
two or three hundred. As to those, they are cruel, mischievous
creatures; they would be right in exterminating them.”

The Canadian turned quickly at the last words.

“Well, Captain,” said he, “it is still time, in the interest of the
whales.”

“It is useless to expose one’s self, Professor. The _Nautilus_ will
disperse them. It is armed with a steel spur as good as Master Land’s
harpoon, I imagine.”

The Canadian did not put himself out enough to shrug his shoulders.
Attack cetacea with blows of a spur! Who had ever heard of such a
thing?

“Wait, M. Aronnax,” said Captain Nemo. “We will show you something you
have never yet seen. We have no pity for these ferocious creatures.
They are nothing but mouth and teeth.”

Mouth and teeth! No one could better describe the macrocephalous
cachalot, which is sometimes more than seventy-five feet long. Its
enormous head occupies one-third of its entire body. Better armed than
the whale, whose upper jaw is furnished only with whalebone, it is
supplied with twenty-five large tusks, about eight inches long,
cylindrical and conical at the top, each weighing two pounds. It is in
the upper part of this enormous head, in great cavities divided by
cartilages, that is to be found from six to eight hundred pounds of
that precious oil called spermaceti. The cachalot is a disagreeable
creature, more tadpole than fish, according to Fredol’s description. It
is badly formed, the whole of its left side being (if we may say it), a
“failure,” and being only able to see with its right eye. But the
formidable troop was nearing us. They had seen the whales and were
preparing to attack them. One could judge beforehand that the cachalots
would be victorious, not only because they were better built for attack
than their inoffensive adversaries, but also because they could remain
longer under water without coming to the surface. There was only just
time to go to the help of the whales. The _Nautilus_ went under water.
Conseil, Ned Land, and I took our places before the window in the
saloon, and Captain Nemo joined the pilot in his cage to work his
apparatus as an engine of destruction. Soon I felt the beatings of the
screw quicken, and our speed increased. The battle between the
cachalots and the whales had already begun when the _Nautilus_ arrived.
They did not at first show any fear at the sight of this new monster
joining in the conflict. But they soon had to guard against its blows.
What a battle! The _Nautilus_ was nothing but a formidable harpoon,
brandished by the hand of its Captain. It hurled itself against the
fleshy mass, passing through from one part to the other, leaving behind
it two quivering halves of the animal. It could not feel the formidable
blows from their tails upon its sides, nor the shock which it produced
itself, much more. One cachalot killed, it ran at the next, tacked on
the spot that it might not miss its prey, going forwards and backwards,
answering to its helm, plunging when the cetacean dived into the deep
waters, coming up with it when it returned to the surface, striking it
front or sideways, cutting or tearing in all directions and at any
pace, piercing it with its terrible spur. What carnage! What a noise on
the surface of the waves! What sharp hissing, and what snorting
peculiar to these enraged animals! In the midst of these waters,
generally so peaceful, their tails made perfect billows. For one hour
this wholesale massacre continued, from which the cachalots could not
escape. Several times ten or twelve united tried to crush the
_Nautilus_ by their weight. From the window we could see their enormous
mouths, studded with tusks, and their formidable eyes. Ned Land could
not contain himself; he threatened and swore at them. We could feel
them clinging to our vessel like dogs worrying a wild boar in a copse.
But the _Nautilus_, working its screw, carried them here and there, or
to the upper levels of the ocean, without caring for their enormous
weight, nor the powerful strain on the vessel. At length the mass of
cachalots broke up, the waves became quiet, and I felt that we were
rising to the surface. The panel opened, and we hurried on to the
platform. The sea was covered with mutilated bodies. A formidable
explosion could not have divided and torn this fleshy mass with more
violence. We were floating amid gigantic bodies, bluish on the back and
white underneath, covered with enormous protuberances. Some terrified
cachalots were flying towards the horizon. The waves were dyed red for
several miles, and the _Nautilus_ floated in a sea of blood: Captain
Nemo joined us.

“Well, Master Land?” said he.

“Well, sir,” replied the Canadian, whose enthusiasm had somewhat
calmed; “it is a terrible spectacle, certainly. But I am not a butcher.
I am a hunter, and I call this a butchery.”

“It is a massacre of mischievous creatures,” replied the Captain; “and
the _Nautilus_ is not a butcher’s knife.”

“I like my harpoon better,” said the Canadian.

“Every one to his own,” answered the Captain, looking fixedly at Ned
Land.

I feared he would commit some act of violence, which would end in sad
consequences. But his anger was turned by the sight of a whale which
the _Nautilus_ had just come up with. The creature had not quite
escaped from the cachalot’s teeth. I recognised the southern whale by
its flat head, which is entirely black. Anatomically, it is
distinguished from the white whale and the North Cape whale by the
seven cervical vertebrae, and it has two more ribs than its congeners.
The unfortunate cetacean was lying on its side, riddled with holes from
the bites, and quite dead. From its mutilated fin still hung a young
whale which it could not save from the massacre. Its open mouth let the
water flow in and out, murmuring like the waves breaking on the shore.
Captain Nemo steered close to the corpse of the creature. Two of his
men mounted its side, and I saw, not without surprise, that they were
drawing from its breasts all the milk which they contained, that is to
say, about two or three tons. The Captain offered me a cup of the milk,
which was still warm. I could not help showing my repugnance to the
drink; but he assured me that it was excellent, and not to be
distinguished from cow’s milk. I tasted it, and was of his opinion. It
was a useful reserve to us, for in the shape of salt butter or cheese
it would form an agreeable variety from our ordinary food. From that
day I noticed with uneasiness that Ned Land’s ill-will towards Captain
Nemo increased, and I resolved to watch the Canadian’s gestures
closely.




CHAPTER XIII
THE ICEBERG


The _Nautilus_ was steadily pursuing its southerly course, following
the fiftieth meridian with considerable speed. Did he wish to reach the
pole? I did not think so, for every attempt to reach that point had
hitherto failed. Again, the season was far advanced, for in the
Antarctic regions the 13th of March corresponds with the 13th of
September of northern regions, which begin at the equinoctial season.
On the 14th of March I saw floating ice in latitude 55°, merely pale
bits of debris from twenty to twenty-five feet long, forming banks over
which the sea curled. The _Nautilus_ remained on the surface of the
ocean. Ned Land, who had fished in the Arctic Seas, was familiar with
its icebergs; but Conseil and I admired them for the first time. In the
atmosphere towards the southern horizon stretched a white dazzling
band. English whalers have given it the name of “ice blink.” However
thick the clouds may be, it is always visible, and announces the
presence of an ice pack or bank. Accordingly, larger blocks soon
appeared, whose brilliancy changed with the caprices of the fog. Some
of these masses showed green veins, as if long undulating lines had
been traced with sulphate of copper; others resembled enormous
amethysts with the light shining through them. Some reflected the light
of day upon a thousand crystal facets. Others shaded with vivid
calcareous reflections resembled a perfect town of marble. The more we
neared the south the more these floating islands increased both in
number and importance.

At 60° lat. every pass had disappeared. But, seeking carefully, Captain
Nemo soon found a narrow opening, through which he boldly slipped,
knowing, however, that it would close behind him. Thus, guided by this
clever hand, the _Nautilus_ passed through all the ice with a precision
which quite charmed Conseil; icebergs or mountains, ice-fields or
smooth plains, seeming to have no limits, drift-ice or floating
ice-packs, plains broken up, called palchs when they are circular, and
streams when they are made up of long strips. The temperature was very
low; the thermometer exposed to the air marked 2 deg. or 3° below zero,
but we were warmly clad with fur, at the expense of the sea-bear and
seal. The interior of the _Nautilus_, warmed regularly by its electric
apparatus, defied the most intense cold. Besides, it would only have
been necessary to go some yards beneath the waves to find a more
bearable temperature. Two months earlier we should have had perpetual
daylight in these latitudes; but already we had had three or four hours
of night, and by and by there would be six months of darkness in these
circumpolar regions. On the 15th of March we were in the latitude of
New Shetland and South Orkney. The Captain told me that formerly
numerous tribes of seals inhabited them; but that English and American
whalers, in their rage for destruction, massacred both old and young;
thus, where there was once life and animation, they had left silence
and death.

About eight o’clock on the morning of the 16th of March the _Nautilus_,
following the fifty-fifth meridian, cut the Antarctic polar circle. Ice
surrounded us on all sides, and closed the horizon. But Captain Nemo
went from one opening to another, still going higher. I cannot express
my astonishment at the beauties of these new regions. The ice took most
surprising forms. Here the grouping formed an oriental town, with
innumerable mosques and minarets; there a fallen city thrown to the
earth, as it were, by some convulsion of nature. The whole aspect was
constantly changed by the oblique rays of the sun, or lost in the
greyish fog amidst hurricanes of snow. Detonations and falls were heard
on all sides, great overthrows of icebergs, which altered the whole
landscape like a diorama. Often seeing no exit, I thought we were
definitely prisoners; but, instinct guiding him at the slightest
indication, Captain Nemo would discover a new pass. He was never
mistaken when he saw the thin threads of bluish water trickling along
the ice-fields; and I had no doubt that he had already ventured into
the midst of these Antarctic seas before. On the 16th of March,
however, the ice-fields absolutely blocked our road. It was not the
iceberg itself, as yet, but vast fields cemented by the cold. But this
obstacle could not stop Captain Nemo: he hurled himself against it with
frightful violence. The _Nautilus_ entered the brittle mass like a
wedge, and split it with frightful crackings. It was the battering ram
of the ancients hurled by infinite strength. The ice, thrown high in
the air, fell like hail around us. By its own power of impulsion our
apparatus made a canal for itself; some times carried away by its own
impetus, it lodged on the ice-field, crushing it with its weight, and
sometimes buried beneath it, dividing it by a simple pitching movement,
producing large rents in it. Violent gales assailed us at this time,
accompanied by thick fogs, through which, from one end of the platform
to the other, we could see nothing. The wind blew sharply from all
parts of the compass, and the snow lay in such hard heaps that we had
to break it with blows of a pickaxe. The temperature was always at 5
deg. below zero; every outward part of the _Nautilus_ was covered with
ice. A rigged vessel would have been entangled in the blocked up
gorges. A vessel without sails, with electricity for its motive power,
and wanting no coal, could alone brave such high latitudes. At length,
on the 18th of March, after many useless assaults, the _Nautilus_ was
positively blocked. It was no longer either streams, packs, or
ice-fields, but an interminable and immovable barrier, formed by
mountains soldered together.

“An iceberg!” said the Canadian to me.

I knew that to Ned Land, as well as to all other navigators who had
preceded us, this was an inevitable obstacle. The sun appearing for an
instant at noon, Captain Nemo took an observation as near as possible,
which gave our situation at 51° 30′ long. and 67° 39′ of S. lat. We had
advanced one degree more in this Antarctic region. Of the liquid
surface of the sea there was no longer a glimpse. Under the spur of the
_Nautilus_ lay stretched a vast plain, entangled with confused blocks.
Here and there sharp points and slender needles rising to a height of
200 feet; further on a steep shore, hewn as it were with an axe and
clothed with greyish tints; huge mirrors, reflecting a few rays of
sunshine, half drowned in the fog. And over this desolate face of
nature a stern silence reigned, scarcely broken by the flapping of the
wings of petrels and puffins. Everything was frozen—even the noise. The
_Nautilus_ was then obliged to stop in its adventurous course amid
these fields of ice. In spite of our efforts, in spite of the powerful
means employed to break up the ice, the _Nautilus_ remained immovable.
Generally, when we can proceed no further, we have return still open to
us; but here return was as impossible as advance, for every pass had
closed behind us; and for the few moments when we were stationary, we
were likely to be entirely blocked, which did indeed happen about two
o’clock in the afternoon, the fresh ice forming around its sides with
astonishing rapidity. I was obliged to admit that Captain Nemo was more
than imprudent. I was on the platform at that moment. The Captain had
been observing our situation for some time past, when he said to me:

“Well, sir, what do you think of this?”

“I think that we are caught, Captain.”


[Illustration] The _Nautilus_ was blocked up


“So, M. Aronnax, you really think that the _Nautilus_ cannot disengage
itself?”

“With difficulty, Captain; for the season is already too far advanced
for you to reckon on the breaking of the ice.”

“Ah! sir,” said Captain Nemo, in an ironical tone, “you will always be
the same. You see nothing but difficulties and obstacles. I affirm that
not only can the _Nautilus_ disengage itself, but also that it can go
further still.”

“Further to the South?” I asked, looking at the Captain.

“Yes, sir; it shall go to the pole.”

“To the pole!” I exclaimed, unable to repress a gesture of incredulity.

“Yes,” replied the Captain, coldly, “to the Antarctic pole—to that
unknown point from whence springs every meridian of the globe. You know
whether I can do as I please with the _Nautilus!_”

Yes, I knew that. I knew that this man was bold, even to rashness. But
to conquer those obstacles which bristled round the South Pole,
rendering it more inaccessible than the North, which had not yet been
reached by the boldest navigators—was it not a mad enterprise, one
which only a maniac would have conceived? It then came into my head to
ask Captain Nemo if he had ever discovered that pole which had never
yet been trodden by a human creature?

“No, sir,” he replied; “but we will discover it together. Where others
have failed, I will not fail. I have never yet led my _Nautilus_ so far
into southern seas; but, I repeat, it shall go further yet.”

“I can well believe you, Captain,” said I, in a slightly ironical tone.
“I believe you! Let us go ahead! There are no obstacles for us! Let us
smash this iceberg! Let us blow it up; and, if it resists, let us give
the _Nautilus_ wings to fly over it!”

“Over it, sir!” said Captain Nemo, quietly; “no, not over it, but under
it!”

“Under it!” I exclaimed, a sudden idea of the Captain’s projects
flashing upon my mind. I understood; the wonderful qualities of the
_Nautilus_ were going to serve us in this superhuman enterprise.

“I see we are beginning to understand one another, sir,” said the
Captain, half smiling. “You begin to see the possibility—I should say
the success—of this attempt. That which is impossible for an ordinary
vessel is easy to the _Nautilus_. If a continent lies before the pole,
it must stop before the continent; but if, on the contrary, the pole is
washed by open sea, it will go even to the pole.”

“Certainly,” said I, carried away by the Captain’s reasoning; “if the
surface of the sea is solidified by the ice, the lower depths are free
by the Providential law which has placed the maximum of density of the
waters of the ocean one degree higher than freezing-point; and, if I am
not mistaken, the portion of this iceberg which is above the water is
as one to four to that which is below.”

“Very nearly, sir; for one foot of iceberg above the sea there are
three below it. If these ice mountains are not more than 300 feet above
the surface, they are not more than 900 beneath. And what are 900 feet
to the _Nautilus?_”

“Nothing, sir.”

“It could even seek at greater depths that uniform temperature of
sea-water, and there brave with impunity the thirty or forty degrees of
surface cold.”

“Just so, sir—just so,” I replied, getting animated.

“The only difficulty,” continued Captain Nemo, “is that of remaining
several days without renewing our provision of air.”

“Is that all? The _Nautilus_ has vast reservoirs; we can fill them, and
they will supply us with all the oxygen we want.”

“Well thought of, M. Aronnax,” replied the Captain, smiling. “But, not
wishing you to accuse me of rashness, I will first give you all my
objections.”

“Have you any more to make?”

“Only one. It is possible, if the sea exists at the South Pole, that it
may be covered; and, consequently, we shall be unable to come to the
surface.”

“Good, sir! but do you forget that the _Nautilus_ is armed with a
powerful spur, and could we not send it diagonally against these fields
of ice, which would open at the shocks.”

“Ah! sir, you are full of ideas to-day.”

“Besides, Captain,” I added, enthusiastically, “why should we not find
the sea open at the South Pole as well as at the North? The frozen
poles of the earth do not coincide, either in the southern or in the
northern regions; and, until it is proved to the contrary, we may
suppose either a continent or an ocean free from ice at these two
points of the globe.”

“I think so too, M. Aronnax,” replied Captain Nemo. “I only wish you to
observe that, after having made so many objections to my project, you
are now crushing me with arguments in its favour!”

The preparations for this audacious attempt now began. The powerful
pumps of the _Nautilus_ were working air into the reservoirs and
storing it at high pressure. About four o’clock, Captain Nemo announced
the closing of the panels on the platform. I threw one last look at the
massive iceberg which we were going to cross. The weather was clear,
the atmosphere pure enough, the cold very great, being 12° below zero;
but, the wind having gone down, this temperature was not so unbearable.
About ten men mounted the sides of the _Nautilus_, armed with pickaxes
to break the ice around the vessel, which was soon free. The operation
was quickly performed, for the fresh ice was still very thin. We all
went below. The usual reservoirs were filled with the newly-liberated
water, and the _Nautilus_ soon descended. I had taken my place with
Conseil in the saloon; through the open window we could see the lower
beds of the Southern Ocean. The thermometer went up, the needle of the
compass deviated on the dial. At about 900 feet, as Captain Nemo had
foreseen, we were floating beneath the undulating bottom of the
iceberg. But the _Nautilus_ went lower still—it went to the depth of
four hundred fathoms. The temperature of the water at the surface
showed twelve degrees, it was now only ten; we had gained two. I need
not say the temperature of the _Nautilus_ was raised by its heating
apparatus to a much higher degree; every manœuvre was accomplished with
wonderful precision.

“We shall pass it, if you please, sir,” said Conseil.

“I believe we shall,” I said, in a tone of firm conviction.

In this open sea, the _Nautilus_ had taken its course direct to the
pole, without leaving the fifty-second meridian. From 67° 30′ to 90
deg., twenty-two degrees and a half of latitude remained to travel;
that is, about five hundred leagues. The _Nautilus_ kept up a mean
speed of twenty-six miles an hour—the speed of an express train. If
that was kept up, in forty hours we should reach the pole.

For a part of the night the novelty of the situation kept us at the
window. The sea was lit with the electric lantern; but it was deserted;
fishes did not sojourn in these imprisoned waters; they only found
there a passage to take them from the Antarctic Ocean to the open polar
sea. Our pace was rapid; we could feel it by the quivering of the long
steel body. About two in the morning I took some hours’ repose, and
Conseil did the same. In crossing the waist I did not meet Captain
Nemo: I supposed him to be in the pilot’s cage. The next morning, the
19th of March, I took my post once more in the saloon. The electric log
told me that the speed of the _Nautilus_ had been slackened. It was
then going towards the surface; but prudently emptying its reservoirs
very slowly. My heart beat fast. Were we going to emerge and regain the
open polar atmosphere? No! A shock told me that the _Nautilus_ had
struck the bottom of the iceberg, still very thick, judging from the
deadened sound. We had in deed “struck,” to use a sea expression, but
in an inverse sense, and at a thousand feet deep. This would give three
thousand feet of ice above us; one thousand being above the water-mark.
The iceberg was then higher than at its borders—not a very reassuring
fact. Several times that day the _Nautilus_ tried again, and every time
it struck the wall which lay like a ceiling above it. Sometimes it met
with but 900 yards, only 200 of which rose above the surface. It was
twice the height it was when the _Nautilus_ had gone under the waves. I
carefully noted the different depths, and thus obtained a submarine
profile of the chain as it was developed under the water. That night no
change had taken place in our situation. Still ice between four and
five hundred yards in depth! It was evidently diminishing, but, still,
what a thickness between us and the surface of the ocean! It was then
eight. According to the daily custom on board the _Nautilus_, its air
should have been renewed four hours ago; but I did not suffer much,
although Captain Nemo had not yet made any demand upon his reserve of
oxygen. My sleep was painful that night; hope and fear besieged me by
turns: I rose several times. The groping of the _Nautilus_ continued.
About three in the morning, I noticed that the lower surface of the
iceberg was only about fifty feet deep. One hundred and fifty feet now
separated us from the surface of the waters. The iceberg was by degrees
becoming an ice-field, the mountain a plain. My eyes never left the
manometer. We were still rising diagonally to the surface, which
sparkled under the electric rays. The iceberg was stretching both above
and beneath into lengthening slopes; mile after mile it was getting
thinner. At length, at six in the morning of that memorable day, the
19th of March, the door of the saloon opened, and Captain Nemo
appeared.

“The sea is open!” was all he said.




CHAPTER XIV
THE SOUTH POLE


I rushed on to the platform. Yes! the open sea, with but a few
scattered pieces of ice and moving icebergs—a long stretch of sea; a
world of birds in the air, and myriads of fishes under those waters,
which varied from intense blue to olive green, according to the bottom.
The thermometer marked 3° C. above zero. It was comparatively spring,
shut up as we were behind this iceberg, whose lengthened mass was dimly
seen on our northern horizon.

“Are we at the pole?” I asked the Captain, with a beating heart.

“I do not know,” he replied. “At noon I will take our bearings.”

“But will the sun show himself through this fog?” said I, looking at
the leaden sky.

“However little it shows, it will be enough,” replied the Captain.

About ten miles south a solitary island rose to a height of one hundred
and four yards. We made for it, but carefully, for the sea might be
strewn with banks. One hour afterwards we had reached it, two hours
later we had made the round of it. It measured four or five miles in
circumference. A narrow canal separated it from a considerable stretch
of land, perhaps a continent, for we could not see its limits. The
existence of this land seemed to give some colour to Maury’s theory.
The ingenious American has remarked that, between the South Pole and
the sixtieth parallel, the sea is covered with floating ice of enormous
size, which is never met with in the North Atlantic. From this fact he
has drawn the conclusion that the Antarctic Circle encloses
considerable continents, as icebergs cannot form in open sea, but only
on the coasts. According to these calculations, the mass of ice
surrounding the southern pole forms a vast cap, the circumference of
which must be, at least, 2,500 miles. But the _Nautilus_, for fear of
running aground, had stopped about three cable-lengths from a strand
over which reared a superb heap of rocks. The boat was launched; the
Captain, two of his men, bearing instruments, Conseil, and myself were
in it. It was ten in the morning. I had not seen Ned Land. Doubtless
the Canadian did not wish to admit the presence of the South Pole. A
few strokes of the oar brought us to the sand, where we ran ashore.
Conseil was going to jump on to the land, when I held him back.

“Sir,” said I to Captain Nemo, “to you belongs the honour of first
setting foot on this land.”

“Yes, sir,” said the Captain, “and if I do not hesitate to tread this
South Pole, it is because, up to this time, no human being has left a
trace there.”

Saying this, he jumped lightly on to the sand. His heart beat with
emotion. He climbed a rock, sloping to a little promontory, and there,
with his arms crossed, mute and motionless, and with an eager look, he
seemed to take possession of these southern regions. After five minutes
passed in this ecstasy, he turned to us.

“When you like, sir.”

I landed, followed by Conseil, leaving the two men in the boat. For a
long way the soil was composed of a reddish sandy stone, something like
crushed brick, scoriae, streams of lava, and pumice-stones. One could
not mistake its volcanic origin. In some parts, slight curls of smoke
emitted a sulphurous smell, proving that the internal fires had lost
nothing of their expansive powers, though, having climbed a high
acclivity, I could see no volcano for a radius of several miles. We
know that in those Antarctic countries, James Ross found two craters,
the Erebus and Terror, in full activity, on the 167th meridian,
latitude 77° 32′. The vegetation of this desolate continent seemed to
me much restricted. Some lichens lay upon the black rocks; some
microscopic plants, rudimentary diatomas, a kind of cells placed
between two quartz shells; long purple and scarlet weed, supported on
little swimming bladders, which the breaking of the waves brought to
the shore. These constituted the meagre flora of this region. The shore
was strewn with molluscs, little mussels, and limpets. I also saw
myriads of northern clios, one-and-a-quarter inches long, of which a
whale would swallow a whole world at a mouthful; and some perfect
sea-butterflies, animating the waters on the skirts of the shore.

There appeared on the high bottoms some coral shrubs, of the kind
which, according to James Ross, live in the Antarctic seas to the depth
of more than 1,000 yards. Then there were little kingfishers and
starfish studding the soil. But where life abounded most was in the
air. There thousands of birds fluttered and flew of all kinds,
deafening us with their cries; others crowded the rock, looking at us
as we passed by without fear, and pressing familiarly close by our
feet. There were penguins, so agile in the water, heavy and awkward as
they are on the ground; they were uttering harsh cries, a large
assembly, sober in gesture, but extravagant in clamour. Albatrosses
passed in the air, the expanse of their wings being at least four yards
and a half, and justly called the vultures of the ocean; some gigantic
petrels, and some damiers, a kind of small duck, the underpart of whose
body is black and white; then there were a whole series of petrels,
some whitish, with brown-bordered wings, others blue, peculiar to the
Antarctic seas, and so oily, as I told Conseil, that the inhabitants of
the Ferroe Islands had nothing to do before lighting them but to put a
wick in.

“A little more,” said Conseil, “and they would be perfect lamps! After
that, we cannot expect Nature to have previously furnished them with
wicks!”

About half a mile farther on the soil was riddled with ruffs’ nests, a
sort of laying-ground, out of which many birds were issuing. Captain
Nemo had some hundreds hunted. They uttered a cry like the braying of
an ass, were about the size of a goose, slate-colour on the body, white
beneath, with a yellow line round their throats; they allowed
themselves to be killed with a stone, never trying to escape. But the
fog did not lift, and at eleven the sun had not yet shown itself. Its
absence made me uneasy. Without it no observations were possible. How,
then, could we decide whether we had reached the pole? When I rejoined
Captain Nemo, I found him leaning on a piece of rock, silently watching
the sky. He seemed impatient and vexed. But what was to be done? This
rash and powerful man could not command the sun as he did the sea. Noon
arrived without the orb of day showing itself for an instant. We could
not even tell its position behind the curtain of fog; and soon the fog
turned to snow.

“Till to-morrow,” said the Captain, quietly, and we returned to the
_Nautilus_ amid these atmospheric disturbances.

The tempest of snow continued till the next day. It was impossible to
remain on the platform. From the saloon, where I was taking notes of
incidents happening during this excursion to the polar continent, I
could hear the cries of petrels and albatrosses sporting in the midst
of this violent storm. The _Nautilus_ did not remain motionless, but
skirted the coast, advancing ten miles more to the south in the
half-light left by the sun as it skirted the edge of the horizon. The
next day, the 20th of March, the snow had ceased. The cold was a little
greater, the thermometer showing 2° below zero. The fog was rising, and
I hoped that that day our observations might be taken. Captain Nemo not
having yet appeared, the boat took Conseil and myself to land. The soil
was still of the same volcanic nature; everywhere were traces of lava,
scoriae, and basalt; but the crater which had vomited them I could not
see. Here, as lower down, this continent was alive with myriads of
birds. But their rule was now divided with large troops of sea-mammals,
looking at us with their soft eyes. There were several kinds of seals,
some stretched on the earth, some on flakes of ice, many going in and
out of the sea. They did not flee at our approach, never having had
anything to do with man; and I reckoned that there were provisions
there for hundreds of vessels.

“Sir,” said Conseil, “will you tell me the names of these creatures?”

“They are seals and morses.”

It was now eight in the morning. Four hours remained to us before the
sun could be observed with advantage. I directed our steps towards a
vast bay cut in the steep granite shore. There, I can aver that earth
and ice were lost to sight by the numbers of sea-mammals covering them,
and I involuntarily sought for old Proteus, the mythological shepherd
who watched these immense flocks of Neptune. There were more seals than
anything else, forming distinct groups, male and female, the father
watching over his family, the mother suckling her little ones, some
already strong enough to go a few steps. When they wished to change
their place, they took little jumps, made by the contraction of their
bodies, and helped awkwardly enough by their imperfect fin, which, as
with the lamantin, their cousins, forms a perfect forearm. I should say
that, in the water, which is their element—the spine of these creatures
is flexible; with smooth and close skin and webbed feet—they swim
admirably. In resting on the earth they take the most graceful
attitudes. Thus the ancients, observing their soft and expressive
looks, which cannot be surpassed by the most beautiful look a woman can
give, their clear voluptuous eyes, their charming positions, and the
poetry of their manners, metamorphosed them, the male into a triton and
the female into a mermaid. I made Conseil notice the considerable
development of the lobes of the brain in these interesting cetaceans.
No mammal, except man, has such a quantity of brain matter; they are
also capable of receiving a certain amount of education, are easily
domesticated, and I think, with other naturalists, that if properly
taught they would be of great service as fishing-dogs. The greater part
of them slept on the rocks or on the sand. Amongst these seals,
properly so called, which have no external ears (in which they differ
from the otter, whose ears are prominent), I noticed several varieties
of seals about three yards long, with a white coat, bulldog heads,
armed with teeth in both jaws, four incisors at the top and four at the
bottom, and two large canine teeth in the shape of a fleur-de-lis.
Amongst them glided sea-elephants, a kind of seal, with short, flexible
trunks. The giants of this species measured twenty feet round and ten
yards and a half in length; but they did not move as we approached.

“These creatures are not dangerous?” asked Conseil.

“No; not unless you attack them. When they have to defend their young
their rage is terrible, and it is not uncommon for them to break the
fishing-boats to pieces.”

“They are quite right,” said Conseil.

“I do not say they are not.”

Two miles farther on we were stopped by the promontory which shelters
the bay from the southerly winds. Beyond it we heard loud bellowings
such as a troop of ruminants would produce.

“Good!” said Conseil; “a concert of bulls!”

“No; a concert of morses.”

“They are fighting!”

“They are either fighting or playing.”

We now began to climb the blackish rocks, amid unforeseen stumbles, and
over stones which the ice made slippery. More than once I rolled over
at the expense of my loins. Conseil, more prudent or more steady, did
not stumble, and helped me up, saying:

“If, sir, you would have the kindness to take wider steps, you would
preserve your equilibrium better.”

Arrived at the upper ridge of the promontory, I saw a vast white plain
covered with morses. They were playing amongst themselves, and what we
heard were bellowings of pleasure, not of anger.

As I passed these curious animals I could examine them leisurely, for
they did not move. Their skins were thick and rugged, of a yellowish
tint, approaching to red; their hair was short and scant. Some of them
were four yards and a quarter long. Quieter and less timid than their
cousins of the north, they did not, like them, place sentinels round
the outskirts of their encampment. After examining this city of morses,
I began to think of returning. It was eleven o’clock, and, if Captain
Nemo found the conditions favourable for observations, I wished to be
present at the operation. We followed a narrow pathway running along
the summit of the steep shore. At half-past eleven we had reached the
place where we landed. The boat had run aground, bringing the Captain.
I saw him standing on a block of basalt, his instruments near him, his
eyes fixed on the northern horizon, near which the sun was then
describing a lengthened curve. I took my place beside him, and waited
without speaking. Noon arrived, and, as before, the sun did not appear.
It was a fatality. Observations were still wanting. If not accomplished
to-morrow, we must give up all idea of taking any. We were indeed
exactly at the 20th of March. To-morrow, the 21st, would be the
equinox; the sun would disappear behind the horizon for six months, and
with its disappearance the long polar night would begin. Since the
September equinox it had emerged from the northern horizon, rising by
lengthened spirals up to the 21st of December. At this period, the
summer solstice of the northern regions, it had begun to descend; and
to-morrow was to shed its last rays upon them. I communicated my fears
and observations to Captain Nemo.

“You are right, M. Aronnax,” said he; “if to-morrow I cannot take the
altitude of the sun, I shall not be able to do it for six months. But
precisely because chance has led me into these seas on the 21st of
March, my bearings will be easy to take, if at twelve we can see the
sun.”

“Why, Captain?”

“Because then the orb of day described such lengthened curves that it
is difficult to measure exactly its height above the horizon, and grave
errors may be made with instruments.”

“What will you do then?”

“I shall only use my chronometer,” replied Captain Nemo. “If to-morrow,
the 21st of March, the disc of the sun, allowing for refraction, is
exactly cut by the northern horizon, it will show that I am at the
South Pole.”

“Just so,” said I. “But this statement is not mathematically correct,
because the equinox does not necessarily begin at noon.”

“Very likely, sir; but the error will not be a hundred yards and we do
not want more. Till to-morrow, then!”

Captain Nemo returned on board. Conseil and I remained to survey the
shore, observing and studying until five o’clock. Then I went to bed,
not, however, without invoking, like the Indian, the favour of the
radiant orb. The next day, the 21st of March, at five in the morning, I
mounted the platform. I found Captain Nemo there.

“The weather is lightening a little,” said he. “I have some hope. After
breakfast we will go on shore and choose a post for observation.”

That point settled, I sought Ned Land. I wanted to take him with me.
But the obstinate Canadian refused, and I saw that his taciturnity and
his bad humour grew day by day. After all, I was not sorry for his
obstinacy under the circumstances. Indeed, there were too many seals on
shore, and we ought not to lay such temptation in this unreflecting
fisherman’s way. Breakfast over, we went on shore. The _Nautilus_ had
gone some miles further up in the night. It was a whole league from the
coast, above which reared a sharp peak about five hundred yards high.
The boat took with me Captain Nemo, two men of the crew, and the
instruments, which consisted of a chronometer, a telescope, and a
barometer. While crossing, I saw numerous whales belonging to the three
kinds peculiar to the southern seas; the whale, or the English “right
whale,” which has no dorsal fin; the “humpback,” with reeved chest and
large, whitish fins, which, in spite of its name, do not form wings;
and the fin-back, of a yellowish brown, the liveliest of all the
cetacea. This powerful creature is heard a long way off when he throws
to a great height columns of air and vapour, which look like whirlwinds
of smoke. These different mammals were disporting themselves in troops
in the quiet waters; and I could see that this basin of the Antarctic
Pole serves as a place of refuge to the cetacea too closely tracked by
the hunters. I also noticed large medusæ floating between the reeds.

At nine we landed; the sky was brightening, the clouds were flying to
the south, and the fog seemed to be leaving the cold surface of the
waters. Captain Nemo went towards the peak, which he doubtless meant to
be his observatory. It was a painful ascent over the sharp lava and the
pumice-stones, in an atmosphere often impregnated with a sulphurous
smell from the smoking cracks. For a man unaccustomed to walk on land,
the Captain climbed the steep slopes with an agility I never saw
equalled and which a hunter would have envied. We were two hours
getting to the summit of this peak, which was half porphyry and half
basalt. From thence we looked upon a vast sea which, towards the north,
distinctly traced its boundary line upon the sky. At our feet lay
fields of dazzling whiteness. Over our heads a pale azure, free from
fog. To the north the disc of the sun seemed like a ball of fire,
already horned by the cutting of the horizon. From the bosom of the
water rose sheaves of liquid jets by hundreds. In the distance lay the
_Nautilus_ like a cetacean asleep on the water. Behind us, to the south
and east, an immense country and a chaotic heap of rocks and ice, the
limits of which were not visible. On arriving at the summit Captain
Nemo carefully took the mean height of the barometer, for he would have
to consider that in taking his observations. At a quarter to twelve the
sun, then seen only by refraction, looked like a golden disc shedding
its last rays upon this deserted continent and seas which never man had
yet ploughed. Captain Nemo, furnished with a lenticular glass which, by
means of a mirror, corrected the refraction, watched the orb sinking
below the horizon by degrees, following a lengthened diagonal. I held
the chronometer. My heart beat fast. If the disappearance of the
half-disc of the sun coincided with twelve o’clock on the chronometer,
we were at the pole itself.

“Twelve!” I exclaimed.

“The South Pole!” replied Captain Nemo, in a grave voice, handing me
the glass, which showed the orb cut in exactly equal parts by the
horizon.

I looked at the last rays crowning the peak, and the shadows mounting
by degrees up its slopes. At that moment Captain Nemo, resting with his
hand on my shoulder, said:

“I, Captain Nemo, on this 21st day of March, 1868, have reached the
South Pole on the ninetieth degree; and I take possession of this part
of the globe, equal to one-sixth of the known continents.”

“In whose name, Captain?”

“In my own, sir!”

Saying which, Captain Nemo unfurled a black banner, bearing an “N” in
gold quartered on its bunting. Then, turning towards the orb of day,
whose last rays lapped the horizon of the sea, he exclaimed:

“Adieu, sun! Disappear, thou radiant orb! rest beneath this open sea,
and let a night of six months spread its shadows over my new domains!”




CHAPTER XV
ACCIDENT OR INCIDENT?


The next day, the 22nd of March, at six in the morning, preparations
for departure were begun. The last gleams of twilight were melting into
night. The cold was great, the constellations shone with wonderful
intensity. In the zenith glittered that wondrous Southern Cross—the
polar bear of Antarctic regions. The thermometer showed 12 below zero,
and when the wind freshened it was most biting. Flakes of ice increased
on the open water. The sea seemed everywhere alike. Numerous blackish
patches spread on the surface, showing the formation of fresh ice.
Evidently the southern basin, frozen during the six winter months, was
absolutely inaccessible. What became of the whales in that time?
Doubtless they went beneath the icebergs, seeking more practicable
seas. As to the seals and morses, accustomed to live in a hard climate,
they remained on these icy shores. These creatures have the instinct to
break holes in the ice-field and to keep them open. To these holes they
come for breath; when the birds, driven away by the cold, have
emigrated to the north, these sea mammals remain sole masters of the
polar continent. But the reservoirs were filling with water, and the
_Nautilus_ was slowly descending. At 1,000 feet deep it stopped; its
screw beat the waves, and it advanced straight towards the north at a
speed of fifteen miles an hour. Towards night it was already floating
under the immense body of the iceberg. At three in the morning I was
awakened by a violent shock. I sat up in my bed and listened in the
darkness, when I was thrown into the middle of the room. The
_Nautilus_, after having struck, had rebounded violently. I groped
along the partition, and by the staircase to the saloon, which was lit
by the luminous ceiling. The furniture was upset. Fortunately the
windows were firmly set, and had held fast. The pictures on the
starboard side, from being no longer vertical, were clinging to the
paper, whilst those of the port side were hanging at least a foot from
the wall. The _Nautilus_ was lying on its starboard side perfectly
motionless. I heard footsteps, and a confusion of voices; but Captain
Nemo did not appear. As I was leaving the saloon, Ned Land and Conseil
entered.

“What is the matter?” said I, at once.

“I came to ask you, sir,” replied Conseil.

“Confound it!” exclaimed the Canadian, “I know well enough! The
_Nautilus_ has struck; and, judging by the way she lies, I do not think
she will right herself as she did the first time in Torres Straits.”

“But,” I asked, “has she at least come to the surface of the sea?”

“We do not know,” said Conseil.

“It is easy to decide,” I answered. I consulted the manometer. To my
great surprise, it showed a depth of more than 180 fathoms. “What does
that mean?” I exclaimed.

“We must ask Captain Nemo,” said Conseil.

“But where shall we find him?” said Ned Land.

“Follow me,” said I, to my companions.

We left the saloon. There was no one in the library. At the centre
staircase, by the berths of the ship’s crew, there was no one. I
thought that Captain Nemo must be in the pilot’s cage. It was best to
wait. We all returned to the saloon. For twenty minutes we remained
thus, trying to hear the slightest noise which might be made on board
the _Nautilus_, when Captain Nemo entered. He seemed not to see us; his
face, generally so impassive, showed signs of uneasiness. He watched
the compass silently, then the manometer; and, going to the
planisphere, placed his finger on a spot representing the southern
seas. I would not interrupt him; but, some minutes later, when he
turned towards me, I said, using one of his own expressions in the
Torres Straits:

“An incident, Captain?”

“No, sir; an accident this time.”

“Serious?”

“Perhaps.”

“Is the danger immediate?”

“No.”

“The _Nautilus_ has stranded?”

“Yes.”

“And this has happened—how?”

“From a caprice of nature, not from the ignorance of man. Not a mistake
has been made in the working. But we cannot prevent equilibrium from
producing its effects. We may brave human laws, but we cannot resist
natural ones.”

Captain Nemo had chosen a strange moment for uttering this
philosophical reflection. On the whole, his answer helped me little.

“May I ask, sir, the cause of this accident?”

“An enormous block of ice, a whole mountain, has turned over,” he
replied. “When icebergs are undermined at their base by warmer water or
reiterated shocks their centre of gravity rises, and the whole thing
turns over. This is what has happened; one of these blocks, as it fell,
struck the _Nautilus_, then, gliding under its hull, raised it with
irresistible force, bringing it into beds which are not so thick, where
it is lying on its side.”

“But can we not get the _Nautilus_ off by emptying its reservoirs, that
it might regain its equilibrium?”

“That, sir, is being done at this moment. You can hear the pump
working. Look at the needle of the manometer; it shows that the
_Nautilus_ is rising, but the block of ice is floating with it; and,
until some obstacle stops its ascending motion, our position cannot be
altered.”

Indeed, the _Nautilus_ still held the same position to starboard;
doubtless it would right itself when the block stopped. But at this
moment who knows if we may not be frightfully crushed between the two
glassy surfaces? I reflected on all the consequences of our position.
Captain Nemo never took his eyes off the manometer. Since the fall of
the iceberg, the _Nautilus_ had risen about a hundred and fifty feet,
but it still made the same angle with the perpendicular. Suddenly a
slight movement was felt in the hold. Evidently it was righting a
little. Things hanging in the saloon were sensibly returning to their
normal position. The partitions were nearing the upright. No one spoke.
With beating hearts we watched and felt the straightening. The boards
became horizontal under our feet. Ten minutes passed.

“At last we have righted!” I exclaimed.

“Yes,” said Captain Nemo, going to the door of the saloon.

“But are we floating?” I asked.

“Certainly,” he replied; “since the reservoirs are not empty; and, when
empty, the _Nautilus_ must rise to the surface of the sea.”

We were in open sea; but at a distance of about ten yards, on either
side of the _Nautilus_, rose a dazzling wall of ice. Above and beneath
the same wall. Above, because the lower surface of the iceberg
stretched over us like an immense ceiling. Beneath, because the
overturned block, having slid by degrees, had found a resting-place on
the lateral walls, which kept it in that position. The _Nautilus_ was
really imprisoned in a perfect tunnel of ice more than twenty yards in
breadth, filled with quiet water. It was easy to get out of it by going
either forward or backward, and then make a free passage under the
iceberg, some hundreds of yards deeper. The luminous ceiling had been
extinguished, but the saloon was still resplendent with intense light.
It was the powerful reflection from the glass partition sent violently
back to the sheets of the lantern. I cannot describe the effect of the
voltaic rays upon the great blocks so capriciously cut; upon every
angle, every ridge, every facet was thrown a different light, according
to the nature of the veins running through the ice; a dazzling mine of
gems, particularly of sapphires, their blue rays crossing with the
green of the emerald. Here and there were opal shades of wonderful
softness, running through bright spots like diamonds of fire, the
brilliancy of which the eye could not bear. The power of the lantern
seemed increased a hundredfold, like a lamp through the lenticular
plates of a first-class lighthouse.

“How beautiful! how beautiful!” cried Conseil.

“Yes,” I said, “it is a wonderful sight. Is it not, Ned?”

“Yes, confound it! Yes,” answered Ned Land, “it is superb! I am mad at
being obliged to admit it. No one has ever seen anything like it; but
the sight may cost us dear. And, if I must say all, I think we are
seeing here things which God never intended man to see.”

Ned was right, it was too beautiful. Suddenly a cry from Conseil made
me turn.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Shut your eyes, sir! Do not look, sir!” Saying which, Conseil clapped
his hands over his eyes.

“But what is the matter, my boy?”

“I am dazzled, blinded.”

My eyes turned involuntarily towards the glass, but I could not stand
the fire which seemed to devour them. I understood what had happened.
The _Nautilus_ had put on full speed. All the quiet lustre of the
ice-walls was at once changed into flashes of lightning. The fire from
these myriads of diamonds was blinding. It required some time to calm
our troubled looks. At last the hands were taken down.

“Faith, I should never have believed it,” said Conseil.

It was then five in the morning; and at that moment a shock was felt at
the bows of the _Nautilus_. I knew that its spur had struck a block of
ice. It must have been a false manœuvre, for this submarine tunnel,
obstructed by blocks, was not very easy navigation. I thought that
Captain Nemo, by changing his course, would either turn these obstacles
or else follow the windings of the tunnel. In any case, the road before
us could not be entirely blocked. But, contrary to my expectations, the
_Nautilus_ took a decided retrograde motion.

“We are going backwards?” said Conseil.

“Yes,” I replied. “This end of the tunnel can have no egress.”

“And then?”

“Then,” said I, “the working is easy. We must go back again, and go out
at the southern opening. That is all.”

In speaking thus, I wished to appear more confident than I really was.
But the retrograde motion of the _Nautilus_ was increasing; and,
reversing the screw, it carried us at great speed.

“It will be a hindrance,” said Ned.

“What does it matter, some hours more or less, provided we get out at
last?”

“Yes,” repeated Ned Land, “provided we do get out at last!”

For a short time I walked from the saloon to the library. My companions
were silent. I soon threw myself on an ottoman, and took a book, which
my eyes overran mechanically. A quarter of an hour after, Conseil,
approaching me, said, “Is what you are reading very interesting, sir?”

“Very interesting!” I replied.

“I should think so, sir. It is your own book you are reading.”

“My book?”

And indeed I was holding in my hand the work on the Great Submarine
Depths. I did not even dream of it. I closed the book and returned to
my walk. Ned and Conseil rose to go.

“Stay here, my friends,” said I, detaining them. “Let us remain
together until we are out of this block.”

“As you please, sir,” Conseil replied.

Some hours passed. I often looked at the instruments hanging from the
partition. The manometer showed that the _Nautilus_ kept at a constant
depth of more than three hundred yards; the compass still pointed to
south; the log indicated a speed of twenty miles an hour, which, in
such a cramped space, was very great. But Captain Nemo knew that he
could not hasten too much, and that minutes were worth ages to us. At
twenty-five minutes past eight a second shock took place, this time
from behind. I turned pale. My companions were close by my side. I
seized Conseil’s hand. Our looks expressed our feelings better than
words. At this moment the Captain entered the saloon. I went up to him.

“Our course is barred southward?” I asked.

“Yes, sir. The iceberg has shifted and closed every outlet.”

“We are blocked up then?”

“Yes.”




CHAPTER XVI
WANT OF AIR


Thus around the _Nautilus_, above and below, was an impenetrable wall
of ice. We were prisoners to the iceberg. I watched the Captain. His
countenance had resumed its habitual imperturbability.

“Gentlemen,” he said calmly, “there are two ways of dying in the
circumstances in which we are placed.” (This puzzling person had the
air of a mathematical professor lecturing to his pupils.) “The first is
to be crushed; the second is to die of suffocation. I do not speak of
the possibility of dying of hunger, for the supply of provisions in the
_Nautilus_ will certainly last longer than we shall. Let us, then,
calculate our chances.”

“As to suffocation, Captain,” I replied, “that is not to be feared,
because our reservoirs are full.”

“Just so; but they will only yield two days’ supply of air. Now, for
thirty-six hours we have been hidden under the water, and already the
heavy atmosphere of the _Nautilus_ requires renewal. In forty-eight
hours our reserve will be exhausted.”

“Well, Captain, can we be delivered before forty-eight hours?”

“We will attempt it, at least, by piercing the wall that surrounds us.”

“On which side?”

“Sound will tell us. I am going to run the _Nautilus_ aground on the
lower bank, and my men will attack the iceberg on the side that is
least thick.”

Captain Nemo went out. Soon I discovered by a hissing noise that the
water was entering the reservoirs. The _Nautilus_ sank slowly, and
rested on the ice at a depth of 350 yards, the depth at which the lower
bank was immersed.

“My friends,” I said, “our situation is serious, but I rely on your
courage and energy.”

“Sir,” replied the Canadian, “I am ready to do anything for the general
safety.”

“Good! Ned,” and I held out my hand to the Canadian.

“I will add,” he continued, “that, being as handy with the pickaxe as
with the harpoon, if I can be useful to the Captain, he can command my
services.”

“He will not refuse your help. Come, Ned!”

I led him to the room where the crew of the _Nautilus_ were putting on
their cork-jackets. I told the Captain of Ned’s proposal, which he
accepted. The Canadian put on his sea-costume, and was ready as soon as
his companions. When Ned was dressed, I re-entered the drawing-room,
where the panes of glass were open, and, posted near Conseil, I
examined the ambient beds that supported the _Nautilus_. Some instants
after, we saw a dozen of the crew set foot on the bank of ice, and
among them Ned Land, easily known by his stature. Captain Nemo was with
them. Before proceeding to dig the walls, he took the soundings, to be
sure of working in the right direction. Long sounding lines were sunk
in the side walls, but after fifteen yards they were again stopped by
the thick wall. It was useless to attack it on the ceiling-like
surface, since the iceberg itself measured more than 400 yards in
height. Captain Nemo then sounded the lower surface. There ten yards of
wall separated us from the water, so great was the thickness of the
ice-field. It was necessary, therefore, to cut from it a piece equal in
extent to the waterline of the _Nautilus_. There were about 6,000 cubic
yards to detach, so as to dig a hole by which we could descend to the
ice-field. The work had begun immediately and carried on with
indefatigable energy. Instead of digging round the _Nautilus_ which
would have involved greater difficulty, Captain Nemo had an immense
trench made at eight yards from the port-quarter. Then the men set to
work simultaneously with their screws on several points of its
circumference. Presently the pickaxe attacked this compact matter
vigorously, and large blocks were detached from the mass. By a curious
effect of specific gravity, these blocks, lighter than water, fled, so
to speak, to the vault of the tunnel, that increased in thickness at
the top in proportion as it diminished at the base. But that mattered
little, so long as the lower part grew thinner. After two hours’ hard
work, Ned Land came in exhausted. He and his comrades were replaced by
new workers, whom Conseil and I joined. The second lieutenant of the
_Nautilus_ superintended us. The water seemed singularly cold, but I
soon got warm handling the pickaxe. My movements were free enough,
although they were made under a pressure of thirty atmospheres. When I
re-entered, after working two hours, to take some food and rest, I
found a perceptible difference between the pure fluid with which the
Rouquayrol engine supplied me and the atmosphere of the _Nautilus_,
already charged with carbonic acid. The air had not been renewed for
forty-eight hours, and its vivifying qualities were considerably
enfeebled. However, after a lapse of twelve hours, we had only raised a
block of ice one yard thick, on the marked surface, which was about 600
cubic yards! Reckoning that it took twelve hours to accomplish this
much it would take five nights and four days to bring this enterprise
to a satisfactory conclusion. Five nights and four days! And we have
only air enough for two days in the reservoirs! “Without taking into
account,” said Ned, “that, even if we get out of this infernal prison,
we shall also be imprisoned under the iceberg, shut out from all
possible communication with the atmosphere.” True enough! Who could
then foresee the minimum of time necessary for our deliverance? We
might be suffocated before the _Nautilus_ could regain the surface of
the waves? Was it destined to perish in this ice-tomb, with all those
it enclosed? The situation was terrible. But everyone had looked the
danger in the face, and each was determined to do his duty to the last.

As I expected, during the night a new block a yard square was carried
away, and still further sank the immense hollow. But in the morning
when, dressed in my cork-jacket, I traversed the slushy mass at a
temperature of six or seven degrees below zero, I remarked that the
side walls were gradually closing in. The beds of water farthest from
the trench, that were not warmed by the men’s work, showed a tendency
to solidification. In presence of this new and imminent danger, what
would become of our chances of safety, and how hinder the
solidification of this liquid medium, that would burst the partitions
of the _Nautilus_ like glass?

I did not tell my companions of this new danger. What was the good of
damping the energy they displayed in the painful work of escape? But
when I went on board again, I told Captain Nemo of this grave
complication.

“I know it,” he said, in that calm tone which could counteract the most
terrible apprehensions. “It is one danger more; but I see no way of
escaping it; the only chance of safety is to go quicker than
solidification. We must be beforehand with it, that is all.”

On this day for several hours I used my pickaxe vigorously. The work
kept me up. Besides, to work was to quit the _Nautilus_, and breathe
directly the pure air drawn from the reservoirs, and supplied by our
apparatus, and to quit the impoverished and vitiated atmosphere.
Towards evening the trench was dug one yard deeper. When I returned on
board, I was nearly suffocated by the carbonic acid with which the air
was filled—ah! if we had only the chemical means to drive away this
deleterious gas. We had plenty of oxygen; all this water contained a
considerable quantity, and by dissolving it with our powerful piles, it
would restore the vivifying fluid. I had thought well over it; but of
what good was that, since the carbonic acid produced by our respiration
had invaded every part of the vessel? To absorb it, it was necessary to
fill some jars with caustic potash, and to shake them incessantly. Now
this substance was wanting on board, and nothing could replace it. On
that evening, Captain Nemo ought to open the taps of his reservoirs,
and let some pure air into the interior of the _Nautilus;_ without this
precaution we could not get rid of the sense of suffocation. The next
day, March 26th, I resumed my miner’s work in beginning the fifth yard.
The side walls and the lower surface of the iceberg thickened visibly.
It was evident that they would meet before the _Nautilus_ was able to
disengage itself. Despair seized me for an instant; my pickaxe nearly
fell from my hands. What was the good of digging if I must be
suffocated, crushed by the water that was turning into stone?—a
punishment that the ferocity of the savages even would not have
invented! Just then Captain Nemo passed near me. I touched his hand and
showed him the walls of our prison. The wall to port had advanced to at
least four yards from the hull of the _Nautilus_. The Captain
understood me, and signed me to follow him. We went on board. I took
off my cork-jacket and accompanied him into the drawing-room.

“M. Aronnax, we must attempt some desperate means, or we shall be
sealed up in this solidified water as in cement.”

“Yes; but what is to be done?”

“Ah! if my _Nautilus_ were strong enough to bear this pressure without
being crushed!”

“Well?” I asked, not catching the Captain’s idea.

“Do you not understand,” he replied, “that this congelation of water
will help us? Do you not see that by its solidification, it would burst
through this field of ice that imprisons us, as, when it freezes, it
bursts the hardest stones? Do you not perceive that it would be an
agent of safety instead of destruction?”

“Yes, Captain, perhaps. But, whatever resistance to crushing the
_Nautilus_ possesses, it could not support this terrible pressure, and
would be flattened like an iron plate.”

“I know it, sir. Therefore we must not reckon on the aid of nature, but
on our own exertions. We must stop this solidification. Not only will
the side walls be pressed together; but there is not ten feet of water
before or behind the _Nautilus_. The congelation gains on us on all
sides.”

“How long will the air in the reservoirs last for us to breathe on
board?”

The Captain looked in my face. “After to-morrow they will be empty!”

A cold sweat came over me. However, ought I to have been astonished at
the answer? On March 22, the _Nautilus_ was in the open polar seas. We
were at 26°. For five days we had lived on the reserve on board. And
what was left of the respirable air must be kept for the workers. Even
now, as I write, my recollection is still so vivid that an involuntary
terror seizes me and my lungs seem to be without air. Meanwhile,
Captain Nemo reflected silently, and evidently an idea had struck him;
but he seemed to reject it. At last, these words escaped his lips:

“Boiling water!” he muttered.

“Boiling water?” I cried.

“Yes, sir. We are enclosed in a space that is relatively confined.
Would not jets of boiling water, constantly injected by the pumps,
raise the temperature in this part and stay the congelation?”

“Let us try it,” I said resolutely.

“Let us try it, Professor.”

The thermometer then stood at 7° outside. Captain Nemo took me to the
galleys, where the vast distillatory machines stood that furnished the
drinkable water by evaporation. They filled these with water, and all
the electric heat from the piles was thrown through the worms bathed in
the liquid. In a few minutes this water reached 100°. It was directed
towards the pumps, while fresh water replaced it in proportion. The
heat developed by the troughs was such that cold water, drawn up from
the sea after only having gone through the machines, came boiling into
the body of the pump. The injection was begun, and three hours after
the thermometer marked 6° below zero outside. One degree was gained.
Two hours later the thermometer only marked 4°.

“We shall succeed,” I said to the Captain, after having anxiously
watched the result of the operation.

“I think,” he answered, “that we shall not be crushed. We have no more
suffocation to fear.”

During the night the temperature of the water rose to 1° below zero.
The injections could not carry it to a higher point. But, as the
congelation of the sea-water produces at least 2°, I was at least
reassured against the dangers of solidification.

The next day, March 27th, six yards of ice had been cleared, twelve
feet only remaining to be cleared away. There was yet forty-eight
hours’ work. The air could not be renewed in the interior of the
_Nautilus_. And this day would make it worse. An intolerable weight
oppressed me. Towards three o’clock in the evening this feeling rose to
a violent degree. Yawns dislocated my jaws. My lungs panted as they
inhaled this burning fluid, which became rarefied more and more. A
moral torpor took hold of me. I was powerless, almost unconscious. My
brave Conseil, though exhibiting the same symptoms and suffering in the
same manner, never left me. He took my hand and encouraged me, and I
heard him murmur, “Oh! if I could only not breathe, so as to leave more
air for my master!”

Tears came into my eyes on hearing him speak thus. If our situation to
all was intolerable in the interior, with what haste and gladness would
we put on our cork-jackets to work in our turn! Pickaxes sounded on the
frozen ice-beds. Our arms ached, the skin was torn off our hands. But
what were these fatigues, what did the wounds matter? Vital air came to
the lungs! We breathed! we breathed!

All this time no one prolonged his voluntary task beyond the prescribed
time. His task accomplished, each one handed in turn to his panting
companions the apparatus that supplied him with life. Captain Nemo set
the example, and submitted first to this severe discipline. When the
time came, he gave up his apparatus to another and returned to the
vitiated air on board, calm, unflinching, unmurmuring.

On that day the ordinary work was accomplished with unusual vigour.
Only two yards remained to be raised from the surface. Two yards only
separated us from the open sea. But the reservoirs were nearly emptied
of air. The little that remained ought to be kept for the workers; not
a particle for the _Nautilus_. When I went back on board, I was half
suffocated. What a night! I know not how to describe it. The next day
my breathing was oppressed. Dizziness accompanied the pain in my head
and made me like a drunken man. My companions showed the same symptoms.
Some of the crew had rattling in the throat.

On that day, the sixth of our imprisonment, Captain Nemo, finding the
pickaxes work too slowly, resolved to crush the ice-bed that still
separated us from the liquid sheet. This man’s coolness and energy
never forsook him. He subdued his physical pains by moral force.

By his orders the vessel was lightened, that is to say, raised from the
ice-bed by a change of specific gravity. When it floated they towed it
so as to bring it above the immense trench made on the level of the
water-line. Then, filling his reservoirs of water, he descended and
shut himself up in the hole.

Just then all the crew came on board, and the double door of
communication was shut. The _Nautilus_ then rested on the bed of ice,
which was not one yard thick, and which the sounding leads had
perforated in a thousand places. The taps of the reservoirs were then
opened, and a hundred cubic yards of water was let in, increasing the
weight of the _Nautilus_ to 1,800 tons. We waited, we listened,
forgetting our sufferings in hope. Our safety depended on this last
chance. Notwithstanding the buzzing in my head, I soon heard the
humming sound under the hull of the _Nautilus_. The ice cracked with a
singular noise, like tearing paper, and the _Nautilus_ sank.

“We are off!” murmured Conseil in my ear.

I could not answer him. I seized his hand, and pressed it convulsively.
All at once, carried away by its frightful overcharge, the _Nautilus_
sank like a bullet under the waters, that is to say, it fell as if it
was in a vacuum. Then all the electric force was put on the pumps, that
soon began to let the water out of the reservoirs. After some minutes,
our fall was stopped. Soon, too, the manometer indicated an ascending
movement. The screw, going at full speed, made the iron hull tremble to
its very bolts and drew us towards the north. But if this floating
under the iceberg is to last another day before we reach the open sea,
I shall be dead first.

Half stretched upon a divan in the library, I was suffocating. My face
was purple, my lips blue, my faculties suspended. I neither saw nor
heard. All notion of time had gone from my mind. My muscles could not
contract. I do not know how many hours passed thus, but I was conscious
of the agony that was coming over me. I felt as if I was going to die.
Suddenly I came to. Some breaths of air penetrated my lungs. Had we
risen to the surface of the waves? Were we free of the iceberg? No! Ned
and Conseil, my two brave friends, were sacrificing themselves to save
me. Some particles of air still remained at the bottom of one
apparatus. Instead of using it, they had kept it for me, and, while
they were being suffocated, they gave me life, drop by drop. I wanted
to push back the thing; they held my hands, and for some moments I
breathed freely. I looked at the clock; it was eleven in the morning.
It ought to be the 28th of March. The _Nautilus_ went at a frightful
pace, forty miles an hour. It literally tore through the water. Where
was Captain Nemo? Had he succumbed? Were his companions dead with him?
At the moment the manometer indicated that we were not more than twenty
feet from the surface. A mere plate of ice separated us from the
atmosphere. Could we not break it? Perhaps. In any case the _Nautilus_
was going to attempt it. I felt that it was in an oblique position,
lowering the stern, and raising the bows. The introduction of water had
been the means of disturbing its equilibrium. Then, impelled by its
powerful screw, it attacked the ice-field from beneath like a
formidable battering-ram. It broke it by backing and then rushing
forward against the field, which gradually gave way; and at last,
dashing suddenly against it, shot forwards on the ice-field, that
crushed beneath its weight. The panel was opened—one might say torn
off—and the pure air came in in abundance to all parts of the
_Nautilus_.




CHAPTER XVII
FROM CAPE HORN TO THE AMAZON


How I got on to the platform, I have no idea; perhaps the Canadian had
carried me there. But I breathed, I inhaled the vivifying sea-air. My
two companions were getting drunk with the fresh particles. The other
unhappy men had been so long without food, that they could not with
impunity indulge in the simplest aliments that were given them. We, on
the contrary, had no end to restrain ourselves; we could draw this air
freely into our lungs, and it was the breeze, the breeze alone, that
filled us with this keen enjoyment.

“Ah!” said Conseil, “how delightful this oxygen is! Master need not
fear to breathe it. There is enough for everybody.”

Ned Land did not speak, but he opened his jaws wide enough to frighten
a shark. Our strength soon returned, and, when I looked round me, I saw
we were alone on the platform. The foreign seamen in the _Nautilus_
were contented with the air that circulated in the interior; none of
them had come to drink in the open air.

The first words I spoke were words of gratitude and thankfulness to my
two companions. Ned and Conseil had prolonged my life during the last
hours of this long agony. All my gratitude could not repay such
devotion.

“My friends,” said I, “we are bound one to the other for ever, and I am
under infinite obligations to you.”

“Which I shall take advantage of,” exclaimed the Canadian.

“What do you mean?” said Conseil.

“I mean that I shall take you with me when I leave this infernal
_Nautilus_.”

“Well,” said Conseil, “after all this, are we going right?”

“Yes,” I replied, “for we are going the way of the sun, and here the
sun is in the north.”

“No doubt,” said Ned Land; “but it remains to be seen whether he will
bring the ship into the Pacific or the Atlantic Ocean, that is, into
frequented or deserted seas.”

I could not answer that question, and I feared that Captain Nemo would
rather take us to the vast ocean that touches the coasts of Asia and
America at the same time. He would thus complete the tour round the
submarine world, and return to those waters in which the _Nautilus_
could sail freely. We ought, before long, to settle this important
point. The _Nautilus_ went at a rapid pace. The polar circle was soon
passed, and the course shaped for Cape Horn. We were off the American
point, March 31st, at seven o’clock in the evening. Then all our past
sufferings were forgotten. The remembrance of that imprisonment in the
ice was effaced from our minds. We only thought of the future. Captain
Nemo did not appear again either in the drawing-room or on the
platform. The point shown each day on the planisphere, and, marked by
the lieutenant, showed me the exact direction of the _Nautilus_. Now,
on that evening, it was evident, to my great satisfaction, that we
were going back to the North by the Atlantic. The next day, April 1st,
when the _Nautilus_ ascended to the surface some minutes before noon,
we sighted land to the west. It was Terra del Fuego, which the first
navigators named thus from seeing the quantity of smoke that rose from
the natives’ huts. The coast seemed low to me, but in the distance rose
high mountains. I even thought I had a glimpse of Mount Sarmiento, that
rises 2,070 yards above the level of the sea, with a very pointed
summit, which, according as it is misty or clear, is a sign of fine or
of wet weather. At this moment the peak was clearly defined against the
sky. The _Nautilus_, diving again under the water, approached the
coast, which was only some few miles off. From the glass windows in the
drawing-room, I saw long seaweeds and gigantic fuci and varech, of
which the open polar sea contains so many specimens, with their sharp
polished filaments; they measured about 300 yards in length—real
cables, thicker than one’s thumb; and, having great tenacity, they are
often used as ropes for vessels. Another weed known as velp, with
leaves four feet long, buried in the coral concretions, hung at the
bottom. It served as nest and food for myriads of crustacea and
molluscs, crabs, and cuttlefish. There seals and otters had splendid
repasts, eating the flesh of fish with sea-vegetables, according to the
English fashion. Over this fertile and luxuriant ground the _Nautilus_
passed with great rapidity. Towards evening it approached the Falkland
group, the rough summits of which I recognised the following day. The
depth of the sea was moderate. On the shores our nets brought in
beautiful specimens of sea weed, and particularly a certain fucus, the
roots of which were filled with the best mussels in the world. Geese
and ducks fell by dozens on the platform, and soon took their places in
the pantry on board.

When the last heights of the Falklands had disappeared from the
horizon, the _Nautilus_ sank to between twenty and twenty-five yards,
and followed the American coast. Captain Nemo did not show himself.
Until the 3rd of April we did not quit the shores of Patagonia,
sometimes under the ocean, sometimes at the surface. The _Nautilus_
passed beyond the large estuary formed by the Plata, and was, on
the 4th of April, fifty-six miles off Uraguay. Its direction was
northwards, and followed the long windings of the coast of South
America. We had then made 1,600 miles since our embarkation in the seas
of Japan. About eleven o’clock in the morning the Tropic of Capricorn
was crossed on the thirty-seventh meridian, and we passed Cape Frio
standing out to sea. Captain Nemo, to Ned Land’s great displeasure,
did not like the neighbourhood of the inhabited coasts of Brazil, for
we went at a giddy speed. Not a fish, not a bird of the swiftest kind
could follow us, and the natural curiosities of these seas escaped all
observation.

This speed was kept up for several days, and in the evening of the 9th
of April we sighted the most easterly point of South America that forms
Cape San Roque. But then the _Nautilus_ swerved again, and sought the
lowest depth of a submarine valley which is between this Cape and
Sierra Leone on the African coast. This valley bifurcates to the
parallel of the Antilles, and terminates at the north by the enormous
depression of 9,000 yards. In this place, the geological basin of the
ocean forms, as far as the Lesser Antilles, a cliff of three and a half
miles perpendicular in height, and, at the parallel of the Cape Verde
Islands, another wall not less considerable, that encloses thus all
the sunk continent of the Atlantic. The bottom of this immense valley
is dotted with some mountains, that give to these submarine places a
picturesque aspect. I speak, moreover, from the manuscript charts that
were in the library of the _Nautilus_—charts evidently due to Captain
Nemo’s hand, and made after his personal observations. For two days the
desert and deep waters were visited by means of the inclined planes.
The _Nautilus_ was furnished with long diagonal broadsides which
carried it to all elevations. But on the 11th of April it rose
suddenly, and land appeared at the mouth of the Amazon River, a vast
estuary, the embouchure of which is so considerable that it freshens
the sea-water for the distance of several leagues.

The equator was crossed. Twenty miles to the west were the Guianas, a
French territory, on which we could have found an easy refuge; but a
stiff breeze was blowing, and the furious waves would not have allowed
a single boat to face them. Ned Land understood that, no doubt, for he
spoke not a word about it. For my part, I made no allusion to his
schemes of flight, for I would not urge him to make an attempt that
must inevitably fail. I made the time pass pleasantly by interesting
studies. During the days of April 11th and 12th, the _Nautilus_ did not
leave the surface of the sea, and the net brought in a marvellous haul
of zoophytes, fish and reptiles. Some zoophytes had been fished up by
the chain of the nets; they were for the most part beautiful
phyctallines, belonging to the actinidian family, and among other
species the phyctalis protexta, peculiar to that part of the ocean,
with a little cylindrical trunk, ornamented with vertical lines,
speckled with red dots, crowning a marvellous blossoming of tentacles.
As to the molluscs, they consisted of some I had already
observed—turritellas, olive porphyras, with regular lines intercrossed,
with red spots standing out plainly against the flesh; odd pteroceras,
like petrified scorpions; translucid hyaleas, argonauts, cuttle-fish
(excellent eating), and certain species of calmars that naturalists of
antiquity have classed amongst the flying-fish, and that serve
principally for bait for cod-fishing. I had now an opportunity of
studying several species of fish on these shores. Amongst the
cartilaginous ones, petromyzons-pricka, a sort of eel, fifteen inches
long, with a greenish head, violet fins, grey-blue back, brown belly,
silvered and sown with bright spots, the pupil of the eye encircled
with gold—a curious animal, that the current of the Amazon had drawn to
the sea, for they inhabit fresh waters—tuberculated streaks, with
pointed snouts, and a long loose tail, armed with a long jagged sting;
little sharks, a yard long, grey and whitish skin, and several rows of
teeth, bent back, that are generally known by the name of pantouffles;
vespertilios, a kind of red isosceles triangle, half a yard long, to
which pectorals are attached by fleshy prolongations that make them
look like bats, but that their horny appendage, situated near the
nostrils, has given them the name of sea-unicorns; lastly, some species
of balistae, the curassavian, whose spots were of a brilliant gold
colour, and the capriscus of clear violet, and with varying shades like
a pigeon’s throat.

I end here this catalogue, which is somewhat dry perhaps, but very
exact, with a series of bony fish that I observed in passing belonging
to the apteronotes, and whose snout is white as snow, the body of a
beautiful black, marked with a very long loose fleshy strip;
odontognathes, armed with spikes; sardines nine inches long, glittering
with a bright silver light; a species of mackerel provided with two
anal fins; centronotes of a blackish tint, that are fished for with
torches, long fish, two yards in length, with fat flesh, white and
firm, which, when they arc fresh, taste like eel, and when dry, like
smoked salmon; labres, half red, covered with scales only at the bottom
of the dorsal and anal fins; chrysoptera, on which gold and silver
blend their brightness with that of the ruby and topaz; golden-tailed
spares, the flesh of which is extremely delicate, and whose
phosphorescent properties betray them in the midst of the waters;
orange-coloured spares with long tongues; maigres, with gold caudal
fins, dark thorn-tails, anableps of Surinam, etc.

Notwithstanding this “et cetera,” I must not omit to mention fish that
Conseil will long remember, and with good reason. One of our nets had
hauled up a sort of very flat ray fish, which, with the tail cut off,
formed a perfect disc, and weighed twenty ounces. It was white
underneath, red above, with large round spots of dark blue encircled
with black, very glossy skin, terminating in a bilobed fin. Laid out on
the platform, it struggled, tried to turn itself by convulsive
movements, and made so many efforts, that one last turn had nearly sent
it into the sea. But Conseil, not wishing to let the fish go, rushed to
it, and, before I could prevent him, had seized it with both hands. In
a moment he was overthrown, his legs in the air, and half his body
paralysed, crying—

“Oh! master, master! help me!”

It was the first time the poor boy had spoken to me so familiarly.
The Canadian and I took him up, and rubbed his contracted arms till
he became sensible. The unfortunate Conseil had attacked a cramp-fish
of the most dangerous kind, the cumana. This odd animal, in a medium
conductor like water, strikes fish at several yards’ distance, so
great is the power of its electric organ, the two principal surfaces
of which do not measure less than twenty-seven square feet. The next
day, April 12th, the _Nautilus_ approached the Dutch coast, near the
mouth of the Maroni. There several groups of sea-cows herded together;
they were manatees, that, like the dugong and the stellera, belong to
the sirenian order. These beautiful animals, peaceable and inoffensive,
from eighteen to twenty-one feet in length, weigh at least sixteen
hundredweight. I told Ned Land and Conseil that provident nature had
assigned an important role to these mammalia. Indeed, they, like the
seals, are designed to graze on the submarine prairies, and thus
destroy the accumulation of weed that obstructs the tropical rivers.

“And do you know,” I added, “what has been the result since men have
almost entirely annihilated this useful race? That the putrefied weeds
have poisoned the air, and the poisoned air causes the yellow fever,
that desolates these beautiful countries. Enormous vegetations are
multiplied under the torrid seas, and the evil is irresistibly
developed from the mouth of the Rio de la Plata to Florida. If we are
to believe Toussenel, this plague is nothing to what it would be if the
seas were cleaned of whales and seals. Then, infested with poulps,
medusæ, and cuttle-fish, they would become immense centres of
infection, since their waves would not possess ‘these vast stomachs
that God had charged to infest the surface of the seas.’”




CHAPTER XVIII
THE POULPS


For several days the _Nautilus_ kept off from the American coast.
Evidently it did not wish to risk the tides of the Gulf of Mexico or of
the sea of the Antilles. April 16th, we sighted Martinique and
Guadaloupe from a distance of about thirty miles. I saw their tall
peaks for an instant. The Canadian, who counted on carrying out his
projects in the Gulf, by either landing or hailing one of the numerous
boats that coast from one island to another, was quite disheartened.
Flight would have been quite practicable, if Ned Land had been able to
take possession of the boat without the Captain’s knowledge. But in the
open sea it could not be thought of. The Canadian, Conseil, and I had a
long conversation on this subject. For six months we had been prisoners
on board the _Nautilus_. We had travelled 17,000 leagues; and, as Ned
Land said, there was no reason why it should come to an end. We could
hope nothing from the Captain of the _Nautilus_, but only from
ourselves. Besides, for some time past he had become graver, more
retired, less sociable. He seemed to shun me. I met him rarely.
Formerly he was pleased to explain the submarine marvels to me; now he
left me to my studies, and came no more to the saloon. What change had
come over him? For what cause? For my part, I did not wish to bury with
me my curious and novel studies. I had now the power to write the true
book of the sea; and this book, sooner or later, I wished to see
daylight. The land nearest us was the archipelago of the Bahamas. There
rose high submarine cliffs covered with large weeds. It was about
eleven o’clock when Ned Land drew my attention to a formidable
pricking, like the sting of an ant, which was produced by means of
large seaweeds.

“Well,” I said, “these are proper caverns for poulps, and I should not
be astonished to see some of these monsters.”

“What!” said Conseil; “cuttlefish, real cuttlefish of the cephalopod
class?”

“No,” I said, “poulps of huge dimensions.”

“I will never believe that such animals exist,” said Ned.

“Well,” said Conseil, with the most serious air in the world, “I
remember perfectly to have seen a large vessel drawn under the waves by
an octopus’s arm.”

“You saw that?” said the Canadian.

“Yes, Ned.”

“With your own eyes?”

“With my own eyes.”

“Where, pray, might that be?”

“At St. Malo,” answered Conseil.

“In the port?” said Ned, ironically.

“No; in a church,” replied Conseil.

“In a church!” cried the Canadian.

“Yes; friend Ned. In a picture representing the poulp in question.”

“Good!” said Ned Land, bursting out laughing.

“He is quite right,” I said. “I have heard of this picture; but the
subject represented is taken from a legend, and you know what to think
of legends in the matter of natural history. Besides, when it is a
question of monsters, the imagination is apt to run wild. Not only is
it supposed that these poulps can draw down vessels, but a certain
Olaus Magnus speaks of an octopus a mile long that is more like an
island than an animal. It is also said that the Bishop of Nidros was
building an altar on an immense rock. Mass finished, the rock began to
walk, and returned to the sea. The rock was a poulp. Another Bishop,
Pontoppidan, speaks also of a poulp on which a regiment of cavalry
could manœuvre. Lastly, the ancient naturalists speak of monsters whose
mouths were like gulfs, and which were too large to pass through the
Straits of Gibraltar.”

“But how much is true of these stories?” asked Conseil.

“Nothing, my friends; at least of that which passes the limit of truth
to get to fable or legend. Nevertheless, there must be some ground for
the imagination of the story-tellers. One cannot deny that poulps and
cuttlefish exist of a large species, inferior, however, to the
cetaceans. Aristotle has stated the dimensions of a cuttlefish as five
cubits, or nine feet two inches. Our fishermen frequently see some that
are more than four feet long. Some skeletons of poulps are preserved in
the museums of Trieste and Montpelier, that measure two yards in
length. Besides, according to the calculations of some naturalists, one
of these animals only six feet long would have tentacles twenty-seven
feet long. That would suffice to make a formidable monster.”

“Do they fish for them in these days?” asked Ned.

“If they do not fish for them, sailors see them at least. One of my
friends, Captain Paul Bos of Havre, has often affirmed that he met one
of these monsters of colossal dimensions in the Indian seas. But the
most astonishing fact, and which does not permit of the denial of the
existence of these gigantic animals, happened some years ago, in 1861.”

“What is the fact?” asked Ned Land.

“This is it. In 1861, to the north-east of Teneriffe, very nearly in
the same latitude we are in now, the crew of the despatch-boat Alector
perceived a monstrous cuttlefish swimming in the waters. Captain
Bouguer went near to the animal, and attacked it with harpoon and guns,
without much success, for balls and harpoons glided over the soft
flesh. After several fruitless attempts the crew tried to pass a
slip-knot round the body of the mollusc. The noose slipped as far as
the tail fins and there stopped. They tried then to haul it on board,
but its weight was so considerable that the tightness of the cord
separated the tail from the body, and, deprived of this ornament, he
disappeared under the water.”

“Indeed! is that a fact?”

“An indisputable fact, my good Ned. They proposed to name this poulp
‘Bouguer’s cuttlefish.’”

“What length was it?” asked the Canadian.

“Did it not measure about six yards?” said Conseil, who, posted at the
window, was examining again the irregular windings of the cliff.

“Precisely,” I replied.

“Its head,” rejoined Conseil, “was it not crowned with eight tentacles,
that beat the water like a nest of serpents?”

“Precisely.”

“Had not its eyes, placed at the back of its head, considerable
development?”

“Yes, Conseil.”

“And was not its mouth like a parrot’s beak?”

“Exactly, Conseil.”

“Very well! no offence to master,” he replied, quietly; “if this is not
Bouguer’s cuttlefish, it is, at least, one of its brothers.”

I looked at Conseil. Ned Land hurried to the window.

“What a horrible beast!” he cried.

I looked in my turn, and could not repress a gesture of disgust. Before
my eyes was a horrible monster worthy to figure in the legends of the
marvellous. It was an immense cuttlefish, being eight yards long. It
swam crossways in the direction of the _Nautilus_ with great speed,
watching us with its enormous staring green eyes. Its eight arms, or
rather feet, fixed to its head, that have given the name of cephalopod
to these animals, were twice as long as its body, and were twisted like
the furies’ hair. One could see the 250 air holes on the inner side of
the tentacles. The monster’s mouth, a horned beak like a parrot’s,
opened and shut vertically. Its tongue, a horned substance, furnished
with several rows of pointed teeth, came out quivering from this
veritable pair of shears. What a freak of nature, a bird’s beak on a
mollusc! Its spindle-like body formed a fleshy mass that might weigh
4,000 to 5,000 lbs.; the, varying colour changing with great rapidity,
according to the irritation of the animal, passed successively from
livid grey to reddish brown. What irritated this mollusc? No doubt the
presence of the _Nautilus_, more formidable than itself, and on which
its suckers or its jaws had no hold. Yet, what monsters these poulps
are! what vitality the Creator has given them! what vigour in their
movements! and they possess three hearts! Chance had brought us in
presence of this cuttlefish, and I did not wish to lose the opportunity
of carefully studying this specimen of cephalopods. I overcame the
horror that inspired me, and, taking a pencil, began to draw it.

“Perhaps this is the same which the Alector saw,” said Conseil.

“No,” replied the Canadian; “for this is whole, and the other had lost
its tail.”

“That is no reason,” I replied. “The arms and tails of these animals
are re-formed by renewal; and in seven years the tail of Bouguer’s
cuttlefish has no doubt had time to grow.”

By this time other poulps appeared at the port light. I counted seven.
They formed a procession after the _Nautilus_, and I heard their beaks
gnashing against the iron hull. I continued my work. These monsters
kept in the water with such precision that they seemed immovable.
Suddenly the _Nautilus_ stopped. A shock made it tremble in every
plate.

“Have we struck anything?” I asked.

“In any case,” replied the Canadian, “we shall be free, for we are
floating.”

The _Nautilus_ was floating, no doubt, but it did not move. A minute
passed. Captain Nemo, followed by his lieutenant, entered the
drawing-room. I had not seen him for some time. He seemed dull. Without
noticing or speaking to us, he went to the panel, looked at the poulps,
and said something to his lieutenant. The latter went out. Soon the
panels were shut. The ceiling was lighted. I went towards the Captain.

“A curious collection of poulps?” I said.

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Naturalist,” he replied; “and we are going to fight
them, man to beast.”

I looked at him. I thought I had not heard aright.

“Man to beast?” I repeated.

“Yes, sir. The screw is stopped. I think that the horny jaws of one of
the cuttlefish is entangled in the blades. That is what prevents our
moving.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Rise to the surface, and slaughter this vermin.”

“A difficult enterprise.”

“Yes, indeed. The electric bullets are powerless against the soft
flesh, where they do not find resistance enough to go off. But we shall
attack them with the hatchet.”

“And the harpoon, sir,” said the Canadian, “if you do not refuse my
help.”

“I will accept it, Master Land.”

“We will follow you,” I said, and, following Captain Nemo, we went
towards the central staircase.

There, about ten men with boarding-hatchets were ready for the attack.
Conseil and I took two hatchets; Ned Land seized a harpoon. The
_Nautilus_ had then risen to the surface. One of the sailors, posted on
the top ladderstep, unscrewed the bolts of the panels. But hardly were
the screws loosed, when the panel rose with great violence, evidently
drawn by the suckers of a poulp’s arm. Immediately one of these arms
slid like a serpent down the opening and twenty others were above. With
one blow of the axe, Captain Nemo cut this formidable tentacle, that
slid wriggling down the ladder. Just as we were pressing one on the
other to reach the platform, two other arms, lashing the air, came down
on the seaman placed before Captain Nemo, and lifted him up with
irresistible power. Captain Nemo uttered a cry, and rushed out. We
hurried after him.


[Illustration] One of these long arms glided through the opening


What a scene! The unhappy man, seized by the tentacle and fixed to the
suckers, was balanced in the air at the caprice of this enormous trunk.
He rattled in his throat, he was stifled, he cried, “Help! help!” These
words, spoken in French, startled me! I had a fellow-countryman on
board, perhaps several! That heart-rending cry! I shall hear it all my
life. The unfortunate man was lost. Who could rescue him from that
powerful pressure? However, Captain Nemo had rushed to the poulp, and
with one blow of the axe had cut through one arm. His lieutenant
struggled furiously against other monsters that crept on the flanks of
the _Nautilus_. The crew fought with their axes. The Canadian, Conseil,
and I buried our weapons in the fleshy masses; a strong smell of musk
penetrated the atmosphere. It was horrible!

For one instant, I thought the unhappy man, entangled with the poulp,
would be torn from its powerful suction. Seven of the eight arms had
been cut off. One only wriggled in the air, brandishing the victim like
a feather. But just as Captain Nemo and his lieutenant threw themselves
on it, the animal ejected a stream of black liquid. We were blinded
with it. When the cloud dispersed, the cuttlefish had disappeared, and
my unfortunate countryman with it. Ten or twelve poulps now invaded the
platform and sides of the _Nautilus_. We rolled pell-mell into the
midst of this nest of serpents, that wriggled on the platform in the
waves of blood and ink. It seemed as though these slimy tentacles
sprang up like the hydra’s heads. Ned Land’s harpoon, at each stroke,
was plunged into the staring eyes of the cuttle fish. But my bold
companion was suddenly overturned by the tentacles of a monster he had
not been able to avoid.

Ah! how my heart beat with emotion and horror! The formidable beak of a
cuttlefish was open over Ned Land. The unhappy man would be cut in two.
I rushed to his succour. But Captain Nemo was before me; his axe
disappeared between the two enormous jaws, and, miraculously saved, the
Canadian, rising, plunged his harpoon deep into the triple heart of the
poulp.

“I owed myself this revenge!” said the Captain to the Canadian.

Ned bowed without replying. The combat had lasted a quarter of an hour.
The monsters, vanquished and mutilated, left us at last, and
disappeared under the waves. Captain Nemo, covered with blood, nearly
exhausted, gazed upon the sea that had swallowed up one of his
companions, and great tears gathered in his eyes.




CHAPTER XIX
THE GULF STREAM


This terrible scene of the 20th of April none of us can ever forget. I
have written it under the influence of violent emotion. Since then I
have revised the recital; I have read it to Conseil and to the
Canadian. They found it exact as to facts, but insufficient as to
effect. To paint such pictures, one must have the pen of the most
illustrious of our poets, the author of The Toilers of the Deep.

I have said that Captain Nemo wept while watching the waves; his grief
was great. It was the second companion he had lost since our arrival on
board, and what a death! That friend, crushed, stifled, bruised by the
dreadful arms of a poulp, pounded by his iron jaws, would not rest with
his comrades in the peaceful coral cemetery! In the midst of the
struggle, it was the despairing cry uttered by the unfortunate man that
had torn my heart. The poor Frenchman, forgetting his conventional
language, had taken to his own mother tongue, to utter a last appeal!
Amongst the crew of the _Nautilus_, associated with the body and soul
of the Captain, recoiling like him from all contact with men, I had a
fellow-countryman. Did he alone represent France in this mysterious
association, evidently composed of individuals of divers nationalities?
It was one of these insoluble problems that rose up unceasingly before
my mind!

Captain Nemo entered his room, and I saw him no more for some time. But
that he was sad and irresolute I could see by the vessel, of which he
was the soul, and which received all his impressions. The _Nautilus_
did not keep on in its settled course; it floated about like a corpse
at the will of the waves. It went at random. He could not tear himself
away from the scene of the last struggle, from this sea that had
devoured one of his men. Ten days passed thus. It was not till the 1st
of May that the _Nautilus_ resumed its northerly course, after having
sighted the Bahamas at the mouth of the Bahama Canal. We were then
following the current from the largest river to the sea, that has its
banks, its fish, and its proper temperatures. I mean the Gulf Stream.
It is really a river, that flows freely to the middle of the Atlantic,
and whose waters do not mix with the ocean waters. It is a salt river,
salter than the surrounding sea. Its mean depth is 1,500 fathoms, its
mean breadth ten miles. In certain places the current flows with the
speed of two miles and a half an hour. The body of its waters is more
considerable than that of all the rivers in the globe. It was on this
ocean river that the _Nautilus_ then sailed.

I must add that, during the night, the phosphorescent waters of the
Gulf Stream rivalled the electric power of our watch-light, especially
in the stormy weather that threatened us so frequently. May 8th, we
were still crossing Cape Hatteras, at the height of North Carolina. The
width of the Gulf Stream there is seventy-five miles, and its depth
210 yards. The _Nautilus_ still went at random; all supervision seemed
abandoned. I thought that, under these circumstances, escape would be
possible. Indeed, the inhabited shores offered anywhere an easy refuge.
The sea was incessantly ploughed by the steamers that ply between New
York or Boston and the Gulf of Mexico, and overrun day and night by
the little schooners coasting about the several parts of the American
coast. We could hope to be picked up. It was a favourable opportunity,
notwithstanding the thirty miles that separated the _Nautilus_ from
the coasts of the Union. One unfortunate circumstance thwarted the
Canadian’s plans. The weather was very bad. We were nearing those
shores where tempests are so frequent, that country of waterspouts and
cyclones actually engendered by the current of the Gulf Stream. To
tempt the sea in a frail boat was certain destruction. Ned Land owned
this himself. He fretted, seized with nostalgia that flight only could
cure.

“Master,” he said that day to me, “this must come to an end. I must
make a clean breast of it. This Nemo is leaving land and going up to
the north. But I declare to you that I have had enough of the South
Pole, and I will not follow him to the North.”

“What is to be done, Ned, since flight is impracticable just now?”

“We must speak to the Captain,” said he; “you said nothing when we were
in your native seas. I will speak, now we are in mine. When I think
that before long the _Nautilus_ will be by Nova Scotia, and that there
near New foundland is a large bay, and into that bay the St. Lawrence
empties itself, and that the St. Lawrence is my river, the river by
Quebec, my native town—when I think of this, I feel furious, it makes
my hair stand on end. Sir, I would rather throw myself into the sea! I
will not stay here! I am stifled!”

The Canadian was evidently losing all patience. His vigorous nature
could not stand this prolonged imprisonment. His face altered daily;
his temper became more surly. I knew what he must suffer, for I was
seized with home-sickness myself. Nearly seven months had passed
without our having had any news from land; Captain Nemo’s isolation,
his altered spirits, especially since the fight with the poulps, his
taciturnity, all made me view things in a different light.

“Well, sir?” said Ned, seeing I did not reply.

“Well, Ned, do you wish me to ask Captain Nemo his intentions
concerning us?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Although he has already made them known?”

“Yes; I wish it settled finally. Speak for me, in my name only, if you
like.”

“But I so seldom meet him. He avoids me.”

“That is all the more reason for you to go to see him.”

I went to my room. From thence I meant to go to Captain Nemo’s. It
would not do to let this opportunity of meeting him slip. I knocked at
the door. No answer. I knocked again, then turned the handle. The door
opened, I went in. The Captain was there. Bending over his work-table,
he had not heard me. Resolved not to go without having spoken, I
approached him. He raised his head quickly, frowned, and said roughly,
“You here! What do you want?”

“To speak to you, Captain.”

“But I am busy, sir; I am working. I leave you at liberty to shut
yourself up; cannot I be allowed the same?”

This reception was not encouraging; but I was determined to hear and
answer everything.

“Sir,” I said coldly, “I have to speak to you on a matter that admits
of no delay.”

“What is that, sir?” he replied, ironically. “Have you discovered
something that has escaped me, or has the sea delivered up any new
secrets?”

We were at cross-purposes. But, before I could reply, he showed me an
open manuscript on his table, and said, in a more serious tone, “Here,
M. Aronnax, is a manuscript written in several languages. It contains
the sum of my studies of the sea; and, if it please God, it shall not
perish with me. This manuscript, signed with my name, complete with the
history of my life, will be shut up in a little floating case. The last
survivor of all of us on board the _Nautilus_ will throw this case into
the sea, and it will go whither it is borne by the waves.”

This man’s name! his history written by himself! His mystery would then
be revealed some day.

“Captain,” I said, “I can but approve of the idea that makes you act
thus. The result of your studies must not be lost. But the means you
employ seem to me to be primitive. Who knows where the winds will carry
this case, and in whose hands it will fall? Could you not use some
other means? Could not you, or one of yours——”

“Never, sir!” he said, hastily interrupting me.

“But I and my companions are ready to keep this manuscript in store;
and, if you will put us at liberty——”

“At liberty?” said the Captain, rising.

“Yes, sir; that is the subject on which I wish to question you. For
seven months we have been here on board, and I ask you to-day, in the
name of my companions and in my own, if your intention is to keep us
here always?”

“M. Aronnax, I will answer you to-day as I did seven months ago:
Whoever enters the _Nautilus_, must never quit it.”

“You impose actual slavery upon us!”

“Give it what name you please.”

“But everywhere the slave has the right to regain his liberty.”

“Who denies you this right? Have I ever tried to chain you with an
oath?”

He looked at me with his arms crossed.

“Sir,” I said, “to return a second time to this subject will be neither
to your nor to my taste; but, as we have entered upon it, let us go
through with it. I repeat, it is not only myself whom it concerns.
Study is to me a relief, a diversion, a passion that could make me
forget everything. Like you, I am willing to live obscure, in the frail
hope of bequeathing one day, to future time, the result of my labours.
But it is otherwise with Ned Land. Every man, worthy of the name,
deserves some consideration. Have you thought that love of liberty,
hatred of slavery, can give rise to schemes of revenge in a nature like
the Canadian’s; that he could think, attempt, and try——”

I was silenced; Captain Nemo rose.

“Whatever Ned Land thinks of, attempts, or tries, what does it matter
to me? I did not seek him! It is not for my pleasure that I keep him on
board! As for you, M. Aronnax, you are one of those who can understand
everything, even silence. I have nothing more to say to you. Let this
first time you have come to treat of this subject be the last, for a
second time I will not listen to you.”

I retired. Our situation was critical. I related my conversation to my
two companions.

“We know now,” said Ned, “that we can expect nothing from this man. The
_Nautilus_ is nearing Long Island. We will escape, whatever the weather
may be.”

But the sky became more and more threatening. Symptoms of a hurricane
became manifest. The atmosphere was becoming white and misty. On the
horizon fine streaks of cirrhous clouds were succeeded by masses of
cumuli. Other low clouds passed swiftly by. The swollen sea rose in
huge billows. The birds disappeared with the exception of the petrels,
those friends of the storm. The barometer fell sensibly, and indicated
an extreme tension of the vapours. The mixture of the storm glass was
decomposed under the influence of the electricity that pervaded the
atmosphere. The tempest burst on the 18th of May, just as the
_Nautilus_ was floating off Long Island, some miles from the port of
New York. I can describe this strife of the elements! for, instead of
fleeing to the depths of the sea, Captain Nemo, by an unaccountable
caprice, would brave it at the surface. The wind blew from the
south-west at first. Captain Nemo, during the squalls, had taken his
place on the platform. He had made himself fast, to prevent being
washed overboard by the monstrous waves. I had hoisted myself up, and
made myself fast also, dividing my admiration between the tempest and
this extraordinary man who was coping with it. The raging sea was swept
by huge cloud-drifts, which were actually saturated with the waves. The
_Nautilus_, sometimes lying on its side, sometimes standing up like a
mast, rolled and pitched terribly. About five o’clock a torrent of rain
fell, that lulled neither sea nor wind. The hurricane blew nearly
forty leagues an hour. It is under these conditions that it overturns
houses, breaks iron gates, displaces twenty-four pounders. However, the
_Nautilus_, in the midst of the tempest, confirmed the words of a
clever engineer, “There is no well-constructed hull that cannot defy
the sea.” This was not a resisting rock; it was a steel spindle,
obedient and movable, without rigging or masts, that braved its fury
with impunity. However, I watched these raging waves attentively. They
measured fifteen feet in height, and 150 to 175 yards long, and their
speed of propagation was thirty feet per second. Their bulk and power
increased with the depth of the water. Such waves as these, at the
Hebrides, have displaced a mass weighing 8,400 lbs. They are they
which, in the tempest of December 23rd, 1864, after destroying the town
of Yeddo, in Japan, broke the same day on the shores of America. The
intensity of the tempest increased with the night. The barometer, as in
1860 at Reunion during a cyclone, fell seven-tenths at the close of
day. I saw a large vessel pass the horizon struggling painfully. She
was trying to lie to under half steam, to keep up above the waves. It
was probably one of the steamers of the line from New York to
Liverpool, or Havre. It soon disappeared in the gloom. At ten o’clock
in the evening the sky was on fire. The atmosphere was streaked with
vivid lightning. I could not bear the brightness of it; while the
captain, looking at it, seemed to envy the spirit of the tempest. A
terrible noise filled the air, a complex noise, made up of the howls of
the crushed waves, the roaring of the wind, and the claps of thunder.
The wind veered suddenly to all points of the horizon; and the cyclone,
rising in the east, returned after passing by the north, west, and
south, in the inverse course pursued by the circular storm of the
southern hemisphere. Ah, that Gulf Stream! It deserves its name of the
King of Tempests. It is that which causes those formidable cyclones, by
the difference of temperature between its air and its currents. A
shower of fire had succeeded the rain. The drops of water were changed
to sharp spikes. One would have thought that Captain Nemo was courting
a death worthy of himself, a death by lightning. As the _Nautilus_,
pitching dreadfully, raised its steel spur in the air, it seemed to act
as a conductor, and I saw long sparks burst from it. Crushed and
without strength I crawled to the panel, opened it, and descended to
the saloon. The storm was then at its height. It was impossible to
stand upright in the interior of the _Nautilus_. Captain Nemo came down
about twelve. I heard the reservoirs filling by degrees, and the
_Nautilus_ sank slowly beneath the waves. Through the open windows in
the saloon I saw large fish terrified, passing like phantoms in the
water. Some were struck before my eyes. The _Nautilus_ was still
descending. I thought that at about eight fathoms deep we should find a
calm. But no! the upper beds were too violently agitated for that. We
had to seek repose at more than twenty-five fathoms in the bowels of
the deep. But there, what quiet, what silence, what peace! Who could
have told that such a hurricane had been let loose on the surface of
that ocean?




CHAPTER XX
FROM LATITUDE 47° 24′ TO LONGITUDE 17° 28′


In consequence of the storm, we had been thrown eastward once more. All
hope of escape on the shores of New York or St. Lawrence had faded
away; and poor Ned, in despair, had isolated himself like Captain Nemo.
Conseil and I, however, never left each other. I said that the
_Nautilus_ had gone aside to the east. I should have said (to be more
exact) the north-east. For some days, it wandered first on the surface,
and then beneath it, amid those fogs so dreaded by sailors. What
accidents are due to these thick fogs! What shocks upon these reefs
when the wind drowns the breaking of the waves! What collisions between
vessels, in spite of their warning lights, whistles, and alarm bells!
And the bottoms of these seas look like a field of battle, where still
lie all the conquered of the ocean; some old and already encrusted,
others fresh and reflecting from their iron bands and copper plates the
brilliancy of our lantern.

On the 15th of May we were at the extreme south of the Bank of
Newfoundland. This bank consists of alluvia, or large heaps of organic
matter, brought either from the Equator by the Gulf Stream, or from the
North Pole by the counter-current of cold water which skirts the
American coast. There also are heaped up those erratic blocks which are
carried along by the broken ice; and close by, a vast charnel-house of
molluscs, which perish here by millions. The depth of the sea is not
great at Newfoundland—not more than some hundreds of fathoms; but
towards the south is a depression of 1,500 fathoms. There the Gulf
Stream widens. It loses some of its speed and some of its temperature,
but it becomes a sea.

It was on the 17th of May, about 500 miles from Heart’s Content, at a
depth of more than 1,400 fathoms, that I saw the electric cable lying
on the bottom. Conseil, to whom I had not mentioned it, thought at
first that it was a gigantic sea-serpent. But I undeceived the worthy
fellow, and by way of consolation related several particulars in the
laying of this cable. The first one was laid in the years 1857 and
1858; but, after transmitting about 400 telegrams, would not act any
longer. In 1863 the engineers constructed an other one, measuring 2,000
miles in length, and weighing 4,500 tons, which was embarked on the
Great Eastern. This attempt also failed.

On the 25th of May the _Nautilus_, being at a depth of more than 1,918
fathoms, was on the precise spot where the rupture occurred which
ruined the enterprise. It was within 638 miles of the coast of Ireland;
and at half-past two in the afternoon they discovered that
communication with Europe had ceased. The electricians on board
resolved to cut the cable before fishing it up, and at eleven o’clock
at night they had recovered the damaged part. They made another point
and spliced it, and it was once more submerged. But some days after it
broke again, and in the depths of the ocean could not be recaptured.
The Americans, however, were not discouraged. Cyrus Field, the bold
promoter of the enterprise, as he had sunk all his own fortune, set a
new subscription on foot, which was at once answered, and another cable
was constructed on better principles. The bundles of conducting wires
were each enveloped in gutta-percha, and protected by a wadding of
hemp, contained in a metallic covering. The Great Eastern sailed on the
13th of July, 1866. The operation worked well. But one incident
occurred. Several times in unrolling the cable they observed that nails
had recently been forced into it, evidently with the motive of
destroying it. Captain Anderson, the officers, and engineers consulted
together, and had it posted up that, if the offender was surprised on
board, he would be thrown without further trial into the sea. From that
time the criminal attempt was never repeated.

On the 23rd of July the Great Eastern was not more than 500 miles from
Newfoundland, when they telegraphed from Ireland the news of the
armistice concluded between Prussia and Austria after Sadowa. On the
27th, in the midst of heavy fogs, they reached the port of Heart’s
Content. The enterprise was successfully terminated; and for its first
despatch, young America addressed old Europe in these words of wisdom,
so rarely understood: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace,
goodwill towards men.”

I did not expect to find the electric cable in its primitive state,
such as it was on leaving the manufactory. The long serpent, covered
with the remains of shells, bristling with foraminiferae, was encrusted
with a strong coating which served as a protection against all boring
molluscs. It lay quietly sheltered from the motions of the sea, and
under a favourable pressure for the transmission of the electric spark
which passes from Europe to America in .32 of a second. Doubtless this
cable will last for a great length of time, for they find that the
gutta-percha covering is improved by the sea-water. Besides, on this
level, so well chosen, the cable is never so deeply submerged as to
cause it to break. The _Nautilus_ followed it to the lowest depth,
which was more than 2,212 fathoms, and there it lay without any
anchorage; and then we reached the spot where the accident had taken
place in 1863. The bottom of the ocean then formed a valley about 100
miles broad, in which Mont Blanc might have been placed without its
summit appearing above the waves. This valley is closed at the east by
a perpendicular wall more than 2,000 yards high. We arrived there on
the 28th of May, and the _Nautilus_ was then not more than 120 miles
from Ireland.

Was Captain Nemo going to land on the British Isles? No. To my great
surprise he made for the south, once more coming back towards European
seas. In rounding the Emerald Isle, for one instant I caught sight of
Cape Clear, and the light which guides the thousands of vessels leaving
Glasgow or Liverpool. An important question then arose in my mind. Did
the _Nautilus_ dare entangle itself in the Manche? Ned Land, who had
re-appeared since we had been nearing land, did not cease to question
me. How could I answer? Captain Nemo remained invisible. After having
shown the Canadian a glimpse of American shores, was he going to show
me the coast of France?

But the _Nautilus_ was still going southward. On the 30th of May, it
passed in sight of Land’s End, between the extreme point of England and
the Scilly Isles, which were left to starboard. If we wished to enter
the Manche, he must go straight to the east. He did not do so.

During the whole of the 31st of May, the _Nautilus_ described a series
of circles on the water, which greatly interested me. It seemed to be
seeking a spot it had some trouble in finding. At noon, Captain Nemo
himself came to work the ship’s log. He spoke no word to me, but seemed
gloomier than ever. What could sadden him thus? Was it his proximity
to European shores? Had he some recollections of his abandoned country?
If not, what did he feel? Remorse or regret? For a long while this
thought haunted my mind, and I had a kind of presentiment that before
long chance would betray the captain’s secrets.

The next day, the 1st of June, the _Nautilus_ continued the same
process. It was evidently seeking some particular spot in the ocean.
Captain Nemo took the sun’s altitude as he had done the day before. The
sea was beautiful, the sky clear. About eight miles to the east, a
large steam vessel could be discerned on the horizon. No flag fluttered
from its mast, and I could not discover its nationality. Some minutes
before the sun passed the meridian, Captain Nemo took his sextant, and
watched with great attention. The perfect rest of the water greatly
helped the operation. The _Nautilus_ was motionless; it neither rolled
nor pitched.

I was on the platform when the altitude was taken, and the Captain
pronounced these words: “It is here.”

He turned and went below. Had he seen the vessel which was changing its
course and seemed to be nearing us? I could not tell. I returned to the
saloon. The panels closed, I heard the hissing of the water in the
reservoirs. The _Nautilus_ began to sink, following a vertical line,
for its screw communicated no motion to it. Some minutes later it
stopped at a depth of more than 420 fathoms, resting on the ground. The
luminous ceiling was darkened, then the panels were opened, and through
the glass I saw the sea brilliantly illuminated by the rays of our
lantern for at least half a mile round us.

I looked to the port side, and saw nothing but an immensity of quiet
waters. But to starboard, on the bottom appeared a large protuberance,
which at once attracted my attention. One would have thought it a ruin
buried under a coating of white shells, much resembling a covering of
snow. Upon examining the mass attentively, I could recognise the
ever-thickening form of a vessel bare of its masts, which must have
sunk. It certainly belonged to past times. This wreck, to be thus
encrusted with the lime of the water, must already be able to count
many years passed at the bottom of the ocean.

What was this vessel? Why did the _Nautilus_ visit its tomb? Could it
have been aught but a shipwreck which had drawn it under the water? I
knew not what to think, when near me in a slow voice I heard Captain
Nemo say:

“At one time this ship was called the Marseillais. It carried
seventy-four guns, and was launched in 1762. In 1778, the 13th of
August, commanded by La Poype-Vertrieux, it fought boldly against the
Preston. In 1779, on the 4th of July, it was at the taking of Grenada,
with the squadron of Admiral Estaing. In 1781, on the 5th of September,
it took part in the battle of Comte de Grasse, in Chesapeake Bay. In
1794, the French Republic changed its name. On the 16th of April, in
the same year, it joined the squadron of Villaret Joyeuse, at Brest,
being entrusted with the escort of a cargo of corn coming from America,
under the command of Admiral Van Stebel. On the 11th and 12th Prairal
of the second year, this squadron fell in with an English vessel. Sir,
to-day is the 13th Prairal, the first of June, 1868. It is now
seventy-four years ago, day for day on this very spot, in latitude 47°
24′, longitude 17° 28′, that this vessel, after fighting heroically,
losing its three masts, with the water in its hold, and the third of
its crew disabled, preferred sinking with its 356 sailors to
surrendering; and, nailing its colours to the poop, disappeared under
the waves to the cry of ‘Long live the Republic!’”

“The Avenger!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, sir, the Avenger! A good name!” muttered Captain Nemo, crossing
his arms.




CHAPTER XXI
A HECATOMB


The way of describing this unlooked-for scene, the history of the
patriot ship, told at first so coldly, and the emotion with which this
strange man pronounced the last words, the name of the Avenger, the
significance of which could not escape me, all impressed itself deeply
on my mind. My eyes did not leave the Captain, who, with his hand
stretched out to sea, was watching with a glowing eye the glorious
wreck. Perhaps I was never to know who he was, from whence he came, or
where he was going to, but I saw the man move, and apart from the
_savant_. It was no common misanthropy which had shut Captain Nemo and
his companions within the _Nautilus_, but a hatred, either monstrous or
sublime, which time could never weaken. Did this hatred still seek for
vengeance? The future would soon teach me that. But the _Nautilus_ was
rising slowly to the surface of the sea, and the form of the Avenger
disappeared by degrees from my sight. Soon a slight rolling told me
that we were in the open air. At that moment a dull boom was heard. I
looked at the Captain. He did not move.

“Captain?” said I.

He did not answer. I left him and mounted the platform. Conseil and the
Canadian were already there.

“Where did that sound come from?” I asked.

“It was a gunshot,” replied Ned Land.

I looked in the direction of the vessel I had already seen. It was
nearing the _Nautilus_, and we could see that it was putting on steam.
It was within six miles of us.

“What is that ship, Ned?”

“By its rigging, and the height of its lower masts,” said the Canadian,
“I bet she is a ship-of-war. May it reach us; and, if necessary, sink
this cursed _Nautilus_.”

“Friend Ned,” replied Conseil, “what harm can it do to the _Nautilus?_
Can it attack it beneath the waves? Can its cannonade us at the bottom
of the sea?”

“Tell me, Ned,” said I, “can you recognise what country she belongs
to?”

The Canadian knitted his eyebrows, dropped his eyelids, and screwed up
the corners of his eyes, and for a few moments fixed a piercing look
upon the vessel.

“No, sir,” he replied; “I cannot tell what nation she belongs to, for
she shows no colours. But I can declare she is a man-of-war, for a long
pennant flutters from her main mast.”

For a quarter of an hour we watched the ship which was steaming towards
us. I could not, however, believe that she could see the _Nautilus_
from that distance; and still less that she could know what this
submarine engine was. Soon the Canadian informed me that she was a
large, armoured, two-decker ram. A thick black smoke was pouring from
her two funnels. Her closely-furled sails were stopped to her yards.
She hoisted no flag at her mizzen-peak. The distance prevented us from
distinguishing the colours of her pennant, which floated like a thin
ribbon. She advanced rapidly. If Captain Nemo allowed her to approach,
there was a chance of salvation for us.

“Sir,” said Ned Land, “if that vessel passes within a mile of us I
shall throw myself into the sea, and I should advise you to do the
same.”

I did not reply to the Canadian’s suggestion, but continued watching
the ship. Whether English, French, American, or Russian, she would be
sure to take us in if we could only reach her. Presently a white smoke
burst from the fore part of the vessel; some seconds after, the water,
agitated by the fall of a heavy body, splashed the stern of the
_Nautilus_, and shortly afterwards a loud explosion struck my ear.

“What! they are firing at us!” I exclaimed.

“So please you, sir,” said Ned, “they have recognised the unicorn, and
they are firing at us.”

“But,” I exclaimed, “surely they can see that there are men in the
case?”

“It is, perhaps, because of that,” replied Ned Land, looking at me.

A whole flood of light burst upon my mind. Doubtless they knew now how
to believe the stories of the pretended monster. No doubt, on board the
_Abraham Lincoln_, when the Canadian struck it with the harpoon,
Commander Farragut had recognised in the supposed narwhal a submarine
vessel, more dangerous than a supernatural cetacean. Yes, it must have
been so; and on every sea they were now seeking this engine of
destruction. Terrible indeed! if, as we supposed, Captain Nemo employed
the _Nautilus_ in works of vengeance. On the night when we were
imprisoned in that cell, in the midst of the Indian Ocean, had he not
attacked some vessel? The man buried in the coral cemetery, had he not
been a victim to the shock caused by the _Nautilus?_ Yes, I repeat it,
it must be so. One part of the mysterious existence of Captain Nemo had
been unveiled; and, if his identity had not been recognised, at least,
the nations united against him were no longer hunting a chimerical
creature, but a man who had vowed a deadly hatred against them. All the
formidable past rose before me. Instead of meeting friends on board the
approaching ship, we could only expect pitiless enemies. But the shot
rattled about us. Some of them struck the sea and ricochetted, losing
themselves in the distance. But none touched the _Nautilus_. The vessel
was not more than three miles from us. In spite of the serious
cannonade, Captain Nemo did not appear on the platform; but, if one of
the conical projectiles had struck the shell of the _Nautilus_, it
would have been fatal. The Canadian then said, “Sir, we must do all we
can to get out of this dilemma. Let us signal them. They will then,
perhaps, understand that we are honest folks.”

Ned Land took his handkerchief to wave in the air; but he had scarcely
displayed it, when he was struck down by an iron hand, and fell, in
spite of his great strength, upon the deck.

“Fool!” exclaimed the Captain, “do you wish to be pierced by the spur
of the _Nautilus_ before it is hurled at this vessel?”

Captain Nemo was terrible to hear; he was still more terrible to see.
His face was deadly pale, with a spasm at his heart. For an instant it
must have ceased to beat. His pupils were fearfully contracted. He did
not speak, he roared, as, with his body thrown forward, he wrung the
Canadian’s shoulders. Then, leaving him, and turning to the ship of
war, whose shot was still raining around him, he exclaimed, with a
powerful voice, “Ah, ship of an accursed nation, you know who I am! I
do not want your colours to know you by! Look! and I will show you
mine!”

And on the fore part of the platform Captain Nemo unfurled a black
flag, similar to the one he had placed at the South Pole. At that
moment a shot struck the shell of the _Nautilus_ obliquely, without
piercing it; and, rebounding near the Captain, was lost in the sea. He
shrugged his shoulders; and, addressing me, said shortly, “Go down, you
and your companions, go down!”

“Sir,” I cried, “are you going to attack this vessel?”

“Sir, I am going to sink it.”

“You will not do that?”

“I shall do it,” he replied coldly. “And I advise you not to judge me,
sir. Fate has shown you what you ought not to have seen. The attack has
begun; go down.”

“What is this vessel?”

“You do not know? Very well! so much the better! Its nationality to
you, at least, will be a secret. Go down!”

We could but obey. About fifteen of the sailors surrounded the Captain,
looking with implacable hatred at the vessel nearing them. One could
feel that the same desire of vengeance animated every soul. I went down
at the moment another projectile struck the _Nautilus_, and I heard the
Captain exclaim:

“Strike, mad vessel! Shower your useless shot! And then, you will not
escape the spur of the _Nautilus_. But it is not here that you shall
perish! I would not have your ruins mingle with those of the Avenger!”

I reached my room. The Captain and his second had remained on the
platform. The screw was set in motion, and the _Nautilus_, moving with
speed, was soon beyond the reach of the ship’s guns. But the pursuit
continued, and Captain Nemo contented himself with keeping his
distance.

About four in the afternoon, being no longer able to contain my
impatience, I went to the central staircase. The panel was open, and I
ventured on to the platform. The Captain was still walking up and down
with an agitated step. He was looking at the ship, which was five or
six miles to leeward.

He was going round it like a wild beast, and, drawing it eastward, he
allowed them to pursue. But he did not attack. Perhaps he still
hesitated? I wished to mediate once more. But I had scarcely spoken,
when Captain Nemo imposed silence, saying:

“I am the law, and I am the judge! I am the oppressed, and there is the
oppressor! Through him I have lost all that I loved, cherished, and
venerated—country, wife, children, father, and mother. I saw all
perish! All that I hate is there! Say no more!”

I cast a last look at the man-of-war, which was putting on steam, and
rejoined Ned and Conseil.

“We will fly!” I exclaimed.

“Good!” said Ned. “What is this vessel?”

“I do not know; but, whatever it is, it will be sunk before night. In
any case, it is better to perish with it, than be made accomplices in a
retaliation the justice of which we cannot judge.”

“That is my opinion too,” said Ned Land, coolly. “Let us wait for
night.”

Night arrived. Deep silence reigned on board. The compass showed that
the _Nautilus_ had not altered its course. It was on the surface,
rolling slightly. My companions and I resolved to fly when the vessel
should be near enough either to hear us or to see us; for the moon,
which would be full in two or three days, shone brightly. Once on board
the ship, if we could not prevent the blow which threatened it, we
could, at least we would, do all that circumstances would allow.
Several times I thought the _Nautilus_ was preparing for attack; but
Captain Nemo contented himself with allowing his adversary to approach,
and then fled once more before it.

Part of the night passed without any incident. We watched the
opportunity for action. We spoke little, for we were too much moved.
Ned Land would have thrown himself into the sea, but I forced him to
wait. According to my idea, the _Nautilus_ would attack the ship at her
waterline, and then it would not only be possible, but easy to fly.

At three in the morning, full of uneasiness, I mounted the platform.
Captain Nemo had not left it. He was standing at the fore part near his
flag, which a slight breeze displayed above his head. He did not take
his eyes from the vessel. The intensity of his look seemed to attract,
and fascinate, and draw it onward more surely than if he had been
towing it. The moon was then passing the meridian. Jupiter was rising
in the east. Amid this peaceful scene of nature, sky and ocean rivalled
each other in tranquillity, the sea offering to the orbs of night the
finest mirror they could ever have in which to reflect their image. As
I thought of the deep calm of these elements, compared with all those
passions brooding imperceptibly within the _Nautilus_, I shuddered.

The vessel was within two miles of us. It was ever nearing that
phosphorescent light which showed the presence of the _Nautilus_. I
could see its green and red lights, and its white lantern hanging from
the large foremast. An indistinct vibration quivered through its
rigging, showing that the furnaces were heated to the uttermost.
Sheaves of sparks and red ashes flew from the funnels, shining in the
atmosphere like stars.

I remained thus until six in the morning, without Captain Nemo noticing
me. The ship stood about a mile and a half from us, and with the first
dawn of day the firing began afresh. The moment could not be far off
when, the _Nautilus_ attacking its adversary, my companions and myself
should for ever leave this man. I was preparing to go down to remind
them, when the second mounted the platform, accompanied by several
sailors. Captain Nemo either did not or would not see them. Some steps
were taken which might be called the signal for action. They were very
simple. The iron balustrade around the platform was lowered, and the
lantern and pilot cages were pushed within the shell until they were
flush with the deck. The long surface of the steel cigar no longer
offered a single point to check its manœuvres. I returned to the
saloon. The _Nautilus_ still floated; some streaks of light were
filtering through the liquid beds. With the undulations of the waves
the windows were brightened by the red streaks of the rising sun, and
this dreadful day of the 2nd of June had dawned.

At five o’clock, the log showed that the speed of the _Nautilus_ was
slackening, and I knew that it was allowing them to draw nearer.
Besides, the reports were heard more distinctly, and the projectiles,
labouring through the ambient water, were extinguished with a strange
hissing noise.

“My friends,” said I, “the moment is come. One grasp of the hand, and
may God protect us!”

Ned Land was resolute, Conseil calm, myself so nervous that I knew not
how to contain myself. We all passed into the library; but the moment I
pushed the door opening on to the central staircase, I heard the upper
panel close sharply. The Canadian rushed on to the stairs, but I
stopped him. A well-known hissing noise told me that the water was
running into the reservoirs, and in a few minutes the _Nautilus_ was
some yards beneath the surface of the waves. I understood the manœuvre.
It was too late to act. The _Nautilus_ did not wish to strike at the
impenetrable cuirass, but below the water-line, where the metallic
covering no longer protected it.

We were again imprisoned, unwilling witnesses of the dreadful drama
that was preparing. We had scarcely time to reflect; taking refuge in
my room, we looked at each other without speaking. A deep stupor had
taken hold of my mind: thought seemed to stand still. I was in that
painful state of expectation preceding a dreadful report. I waited, I
listened, every sense was merged in that of hearing! The speed of the
_Nautilus_ was accelerated. It was preparing to rush. The whole ship
trembled. Suddenly I screamed. I felt the shock, but comparatively
light. I felt the penetrating power of the steel spur. I heard
rattlings and scrapings. But the _Nautilus_, carried along by its
propelling power, passed through the mass of the vessel like a needle
through sailcloth!

I could stand it no longer. Mad, out of my mind, I rushed from my room
into the saloon. Captain Nemo was there, mute, gloomy, implacable; he
was looking through the port panel. A large mass cast a shadow on the
water; and, that it might lose nothing of her agony, the _Nautilus_ was
going down into the abyss with her. Ten yards from me I saw the open
shell, through which the water was rushing with the noise of thunder,
then the double line of guns and the netting. The bridge was covered
with black, agitated shadows.

The water was rising. The poor creatures were crowding the ratlines,
clinging to the masts, struggling under the water. It was a human
ant-heap overtaken by the sea. Paralysed, stiffened with anguish, my
hair standing on end, with eyes wide open, panting, without breath, and
without voice, I too was watching! An irresistible attraction glued me
to the glass! Suddenly an explosion took place. The compressed air blew
up her decks, as if the magazines had caught fire. Then the unfortunate
vessel sank more rapidly. Her topmast, laden with victims, now
appeared; then her spars, bending under the weight of men; and, last of
all, the top of her mainmast. Then the dark mass disappeared, and with
it the dead crew, drawn down by the strong eddy.


[Illustration] The unfortunate vessel sank more rapidly


I turned to Captain Nemo. That terrible avenger, a perfect archangel of
hatred, was still looking. When all was over, he turned to his room,
opened the door, and entered. I followed him with my eyes. On the end
wall beneath his heroes, I saw the portrait of a woman, still young,
and two little children. Captain Nemo looked at them for some moments,
stretched his arms towards them, and, kneeling down, burst into deep
sobs.




CHAPTER XXII
THE LAST WORDS OF CAPTAIN NEMO


The panels had closed on this dreadful vision, but light had not
returned to the saloon: all was silence and darkness within the
_Nautilus_. At wonderful speed, a hundred feet beneath the water, it
was leaving this desolate spot. Whither was it going? To the north or
south? Where was the man flying to after such dreadful retaliation? I
had returned to my room, where Ned and Conseil had remained silent
enough. I felt an insurmountable horror for Captain Nemo. Whatever he
had suffered at the hands of these men, he had no right to punish thus.
He had made me, if not an accomplice, at least a witness of his
vengeance. At eleven the electric light reappeared. I passed into the
saloon. It was deserted. I consulted the different instruments. The
_Nautilus_ was flying northward at the rate of twenty-five miles an
hour, now on the surface, and now thirty feet below it. On taking the
bearings by the chart, I saw that we were passing the mouth of the
Manche, and that our course was hurrying us towards the northern seas
at a frightful speed. That night we had crossed two hundred leagues of
the Atlantic. The shadows fell, and the sea was covered with darkness
until the rising of the moon. I went to my room, but could not sleep. I
was troubled with dreadful nightmare. The horrible scene of destruction
was continually before my eyes. From that day, who could tell into what
part of the North Atlantic basin the _Nautilus_ would take us? Still
with unaccountable speed. Still in the midst of these northern fogs.
Would it touch at Spitzbergen, or on the shores of Nova Zembla? Should
we explore those unknown seas, the White Sea, the Sea of Kara, the Gulf
of Obi, the Archipelago of Liarrov, and the unknown coast of Asia? I
could not say. I could no longer judge of the time that was passing.
The clocks had been stopped on board. It seemed, as in polar countries,
that night and day no longer followed their regular course. I felt
myself being drawn into that strange region where the foundered
imagination of Edgar Poe roamed at will. Like the fabulous Gordon Pym,
at every moment I expected to see “that veiled human figure, of larger
proportions than those of any inhabitant of the earth, thrown across
the cataract which defends the approach to the pole.” I estimated
(though, perhaps, I may be mistaken)—I estimated this adventurous
course of the _Nautilus_ to have lasted fifteen or twenty days. And I
know not how much longer it might have lasted, had it not been for the
catastrophe which ended this voyage. Of Captain Nemo I saw nothing
whatever now, nor of his second. Not a man of the crew was visible for
an instant. The _Nautilus_ was almost incessantly under water. When we
came to the surface to renew the air, the panels opened and shut
mechanically. There were no more marks on the planisphere. I knew not
where we were. And the Canadian, too, his strength and patience at an
end, appeared no more. Conseil could not draw a word from him; and,
fearing that, in a dreadful fit of madness, he might kill himself,
watched him with constant devotion. One morning (what date it was I
could not say) I had fallen into a heavy sleep towards the early hours,
a sleep both painful and unhealthy, when I suddenly awoke. Ned Land was
leaning over me, saying, in a low voice, “We are going to fly.” I sat
up.

“When shall we go?” I asked.

“To-night. All inspection on board the _Nautilus_ seems to have ceased.
All appear to be stupefied. You will be ready, sir?”

“Yes; where are we?”

“In sight of land. I took the reckoning this morning in the fog—twenty
miles to the east.”

“What country is it?”

“I do not know; but, whatever it is, we will take refuge there.”

“Yes, Ned, yes. We will fly to-night, even if the sea should swallow us
up.”

“The sea is bad, the wind violent, but twenty miles in that light boat
of the _Nautilus_ does not frighten me. Unknown to the crew, I have
been able to procure food and some bottles of water.”

“I will follow you.”

“But,” continued the Canadian, “if I am surprised, I will defend
myself; I will force them to kill me.”

“We will die together, friend Ned.”

I had made up my mind to all. The Canadian left me. I reached the
platform, on which I could with difficulty support myself against the
shock of the waves. The sky was threatening; but, as land was in those
thick brown shadows, we must fly. I returned to the saloon, fearing and
yet hoping to see Captain Nemo, wishing and yet not wishing to see him.
What could I have said to him? Could I hide the involuntary horror with
which he inspired me? No. It was better that I should not meet him face
to face; better to forget him. And yet—— How long seemed that day, the
last that I should pass in the _Nautilus_. I remained alone. Ned Land
and Conseil avoided speaking, for fear of betraying themselves. At six
I dined, but I was not hungry; I forced myself to eat in spite of my
disgust, that I might not weaken myself. At half-past six Ned Land came
to my room, saying, “We shall not see each other again before our
departure. At ten the moon will not be risen. We will profit by the
darkness. Come to the boat; Conseil and I will wait for you.”

The Canadian went out without giving me time to answer. Wishing to
verify the course of the _Nautilus_, I went to the saloon. We were
running N.N.E. at frightful speed, and more than fifty yards deep. I
cast a last look on these wonders of nature, on the riches of art
heaped up in this museum, upon the unrivalled collection destined to
perish at the bottom of the sea, with him who had formed it. I wished
to fix an indelible impression of it in my mind. I remained an hour
thus, bathed in the light of that luminous ceiling, and passing in
review those treasures shining under their glasses. Then I returned to
my room.

I dressed myself in strong sea clothing. I collected my notes, placing
them carefully about me. My heart beat loudly. I could not check its
pulsations. Certainly my trouble and agitation would have betrayed me
to Captain Nemo’s eyes. What was he doing at this moment? I listened at
the door of his room. I heard steps. Captain Nemo was there. He had not
gone to rest. At every moment I expected to see him appear, and ask me
why I wished to fly. I was constantly on the alert. My imagination
magnified everything. The impression became at last so poignant that I
asked myself if it would not be better to go to the Captain’s room, see
him face to face, and brave him with look and gesture.

It was the inspiration of a madman; fortunately I resisted the desire,
and stretched myself on my bed to quiet my bodily agitation. My nerves
were somewhat calmer, but in my excited brain I saw over again all my
existence on board the _Nautilus;_ every incident, either happy or
unfortunate, which had happened since my disappearance from the
_Abraham Lincoln_—the submarine hunt, the Torres Straits, the savages
of Papua, the running ashore, the coral cemetery, the passage of Suez,
the Island of Santorin, the Cretan diver, Vigo Bay, Atlantis, the
iceberg, the South Pole, the imprisonment in the ice, the fight among
the poulps, the storm in the Gulf Stream, the Avenger, and the horrible
scene of the vessel sunk with all her crew. All these events passed
before my eyes like scenes in a drama. Then Captain Nemo seemed to grow
enormously, his features to assume superhuman proportions. He was no
longer my equal, but a man of the waters, the genie of the sea.

It was then half-past nine. I held my head between my hands to keep it
from bursting. I closed my eyes; I would not think any longer. There
was another half-hour to wait, another half-hour of a nightmare, which
might drive me mad.

At that moment I heard the distant strains of the organ, a sad harmony
to an undefinable chant, the wail of a soul longing to break these
earthly bonds. I listened with every sense, scarcely breathing;
plunged, like Captain Nemo, in that musical ecstasy, which was drawing
him in spirit to the end of life.

Then a sudden thought terrified me. Captain Nemo had left his room. He
was in the saloon, which I must cross to fly. There I should meet him
for the last time. He would see me, perhaps speak to me. A gesture of
his might destroy me, a single word chain me on board.

But ten was about to strike. The moment had come for me to leave my
room, and join my companions.

I must not hesitate, even if Captain Nemo himself should rise before
me. I opened my door carefully; and even then, as it turned on its
hinges, it seemed to me to make a dreadful noise. Perhaps it only
existed in my own imagination.

I crept along the dark stairs of the _Nautilus_, stopping at each step
to check the beating of my heart. I reached the door of the saloon, and
opened it gently. It was plunged in profound darkness. The strains of
the organ sounded faintly. Captain Nemo was there. He did not see me.
In the full light I do not think he would have noticed me, so entirely
was he absorbed in the ecstasy.

I crept along the carpet, avoiding the slightest sound which might
betray my presence. I was at least five minutes reaching the door, at
the opposite side, opening into the library.

I was going to open it, when a sigh from Captain Nemo nailed me to the
spot. I knew that he was rising. I could even see him, for the light
from the library came through to the saloon. He came towards me
silently, with his arms crossed, gliding like a spectre rather than
walking. His breast was swelling with sobs; and I heard him murmur
these words (the last which ever struck my ear):

“Almighty God! enough! enough!”

Was it a confession of remorse which thus escaped from this man’s
conscience?

In desperation, I rushed through the library, mounted the central
staircase, and, following the upper flight, reached the boat. I crept
through the opening, which had already admitted my two companions.

“Let us go! let us go!” I exclaimed.

“Directly!” replied the Canadian.

The orifice in the plates of the _Nautilus_ was first closed, and
fastened down by means of a false key, with which Ned Land had provided
himself; the opening in the boat was also closed. The Canadian began to
loosen the bolts which still held us to the submarine boat.

Suddenly a noise was heard. Voices were answering each other loudly.
What was the matter? Had they discovered our flight? I felt Ned Land
slipping a dagger into my hand.

“Yes,” I murmured, “we know how to die!”

The Canadian had stopped in his work. But one word many times repeated,
a dreadful word, revealed the cause of the agitation spreading on board
the _Nautilus_. It was not we the crew were looking after!

“The maelstrom! the maelstrom!” Could a more dreadful word in a more
dreadful situation have sounded in our ears! We were then upon the
dangerous coast of Norway. Was the _Nautilus_ being drawn into this
gulf at the moment our boat was going to leave its sides? We knew that
at the tide the pent-up waters between the islands of Ferroe and
Loffoden rush with irresistible violence, forming a whirlpool from
which no vessel ever escapes. From every point of the horizon enormous
waves were meeting, forming a gulf justly called the “Navel of the
Ocean,” whose power of attraction extends to a distance of twelve
miles. There, not only vessels, but whales are sacrificed, as well as
white bears from the northern regions.

It is thither that the _Nautilus_, voluntarily or involuntarily, had
been run by the Captain.

It was describing a spiral, the circumference of which was lessening by
degrees, and the boat, which was still fastened to its side, was
carried along with giddy speed. I felt that sickly giddiness which
arises from long-continued whirling round.

We were in dread. Our horror was at its height, circulation had
stopped, all nervous influence was annihilated, and we were covered
with cold sweat, like a sweat of agony! And what noise around our frail
bark! What roarings repeated by the echo miles away! What an uproar was
that of the waters broken on the sharp rocks at the bottom, where the
hardest bodies are crushed, and trees worn away, “with all the fur
rubbed off,” according to the Norwegian phrase!

What a situation to be in! We rocked frightfully. The _Nautilus_
defended itself like a human being. Its steel muscles cracked.
Sometimes it seemed to stand upright, and we with it!

“We must hold on,” said Ned, “and look after the bolts. We may still be
saved if we stick to the _Nautilus_.”

He had not finished the words, when we heard a crashing noise, the
bolts gave way, and the boat, torn from its groove, was hurled like a
stone from a sling into the midst of the whirlpool.

My head struck on a piece of iron, and with the violent shock I lost
all consciousness.




CHAPTER XXIII
CONCLUSION


Thus ends the voyage under the seas. What passed during that night—how
the boat escaped from the eddies of the maelstrom—how Ned Land,
Conseil, and myself ever came out of the gulf, I cannot tell.

But when I returned to consciousness, I was lying in a fisherman’s hut,
on the Loffoden Isles. My two companions, safe and sound, were near me
holding my hands. We embraced each other heartily.

At that moment we could not think of returning to France. The means of
communication between the north of Norway and the south are rare. And I
am therefore obliged to wait for the steamboat running monthly from
Cape North.

And, among the worthy people who have so kindly received us, I revise
my record of these adventures once more. Not a fact has been omitted,
not a detail exaggerated. It is a faithful narrative of this incredible
expedition in an element inaccessible to man, but to which Progress
will one day open a road.

Shall I be believed? I do not know. And it matters little, after all.
What I now affirm is, that I have a right to speak of these seas, under
which, in less than ten months, I have crossed 20,000 leagues in that
submarine tour of the world, which has revealed so many wonders.

But what has become of the _Nautilus?_ Did it resist the pressure of
the maelstrom? Does Captain Nemo still live? And does he still follow
under the ocean those frightful retaliations? Or, did he stop after the
last hecatomb?

Will the waves one day carry to him this manuscript containing the
history of his life? Shall I ever know the name of this man? Will the
missing vessel tell us by its nationality that of Captain Nemo?

I hope so. And I also hope that his powerful vessel has conquered the
sea at its most terrible gulf, and that the _Nautilus_ has survived
where so many other vessels have been lost! If it be so—if Captain Nemo
still inhabits the ocean, his adopted country, may hatred be appeased
in that savage heart! May the contemplation of so many wonders
extinguish for ever the spirit of vengeance! May the judge disappear,
and the philosopher continue the peaceful exploration of the sea! If
his destiny be strange, it is also sublime. Have I not understood it
myself? Have I not lived ten months of this unnatural life? And to the
question asked by Ecclesiastes three thousand years ago, “That which is
far off and exceeding deep, who can find it out?” two men alone of all
now living have the right to give an answer——

CAPTAIN NEMO AND MYSELF.





Frankenstein;

or, the Modern Prometheus

by Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley


 CONTENTS

 Letter 1
 Letter 2
 Letter 3
 Letter 4
 Chapter 1
 Chapter 2
 Chapter 3
 Chapter 4
 Chapter 5
 Chapter 6
 Chapter 7
 Chapter 8
 Chapter 9
 Chapter 10
 Chapter 11
 Chapter 12
 Chapter 13
 Chapter 14
 Chapter 15
 Chapter 16
 Chapter 17
 Chapter 18
 Chapter 19
 Chapter 20
 Chapter 21
 Chapter 22
 Chapter 23
 Chapter 24




Letter 1

_To Mrs. Saville, England._


St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17—.


You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the
commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil
forebodings. I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is to assure
my dear sister of my welfare and increasing confidence in the success
of my undertaking.

I am already far north of London, and as I walk in the streets of
Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which
braces my nerves and fills me with delight. Do you understand this
feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions towards
which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes.
Inspirited by this wind of promise, my daydreams become more fervent
and vivid. I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat of
frost and desolation; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the
region of beauty and delight. There, Margaret, the sun is for ever
visible, its broad disk just skirting the horizon and diffusing a
perpetual splendour. There—for with your leave, my sister, I will put
some trust in preceding navigators—there snow and frost are banished;
and, sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted to a land surpassing in
wonders and in beauty every region hitherto discovered on the habitable
globe. Its productions and features may be without example, as the
phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered
solitudes. What may not be expected in a country of eternal light? I
may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle and may
regulate a thousand celestial observations that require only this
voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. I
shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world
never before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by
the foot of man. These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to
conquer all fear of danger or death and to induce me to commence this
laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little
boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery up his
native river. But supposing all these conjectures to be false, you
cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all
mankind, to the last generation, by discovering a passage near the pole
to those countries, to reach which at present so many months are
requisite; or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which, if at
all possible, can only be effected by an undertaking such as mine.

These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my
letter, and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me
to heaven, for nothing contributes so much to tranquillise the mind as
a steady purpose—a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual
eye. This expedition has been the favourite dream of my early years. I
have read with ardour the accounts of the various voyages which have
been made in the prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean
through the seas which surround the pole. You may remember that a
history of all the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the
whole of our good Uncle Thomas’ library. My education was neglected,
yet I was passionately fond of reading. These volumes were my study
day and night, and my familiarity with them increased that regret which
I had felt, as a child, on learning that my father’s dying injunction
had forbidden my uncle to allow me to embark in a seafaring life.

These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets
whose effusions entranced my soul and lifted it to heaven. I also
became a poet and for one year lived in a paradise of my own creation;
I imagined that I also might obtain a niche in the temple where the
names of Homer and Shakespeare are consecrated. You are well
acquainted with my failure and how heavily I bore the disappointment.
But just at that time I inherited the fortune of my cousin, and my
thoughts were turned into the channel of their earlier bent.

Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking. I
can, even now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself to this
great enterprise. I commenced by inuring my body to hardship. I
accompanied the whale-fishers on several expeditions to the North Sea;
I voluntarily endured cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep; I often
worked harder than the common sailors during the day and devoted my
nights to the study of mathematics, the theory of medicine, and those
branches of physical science from which a naval adventurer might derive
the greatest practical advantage. Twice I actually hired myself as an
under-mate in a Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration. I
must own I felt a little proud when my captain offered me the second
dignity in the vessel and entreated me to remain with the greatest
earnestness, so valuable did he consider my services.

And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish some great purpose?
My life might have been passed in ease and luxury, but I preferred glory to
every enticement that wealth placed in my path. Oh, that some encouraging
voice would answer in the affirmative! My courage and my resolution is
firm; but my hopes fluctuate, and my spirits are often depressed. I am
about to proceed on a long and difficult voyage, the emergencies of which
will demand all my fortitude: I am required not only to raise the spirits
of others, but sometimes to sustain my own, when theirs are failing.

This is the most favourable period for travelling in Russia. They fly
quickly over the snow in their sledges; the motion is pleasant, and, in
my opinion, far more agreeable than that of an English stagecoach. The
cold is not excessive, if you are wrapped in furs—a dress which I have
already adopted, for there is a great difference between walking the
deck and remaining seated motionless for hours, when no exercise
prevents the blood from actually freezing in your veins. I have no
ambition to lose my life on the post-road between St. Petersburgh and
Archangel.

I shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight or three weeks; and my
intention is to hire a ship there, which can easily be done by paying the
insurance for the owner, and to engage as many sailors as I think necessary
among those who are accustomed to the whale-fishing. I do not intend to
sail until the month of June; and when shall I return? Ah, dear sister, how
can I answer this question? If I succeed, many, many months, perhaps years,
will pass before you and I may meet. If I fail, you will see me again soon,
or never.

Farewell, my dear, excellent Margaret. Heaven shower down blessings on you,
and save me, that I may again and again testify my gratitude for all your
love and kindness.

Your affectionate brother,

R. Walton




Letter 2

_To Mrs. Saville, England._

Archangel, 28th March, 17—.


How slowly the time passes here, encompassed as I am by frost and snow!
Yet a second step is taken towards my enterprise. I have hired a
vessel and am occupied in collecting my sailors; those whom I have
already engaged appear to be men on whom I can depend and are certainly
possessed of dauntless courage.

But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy, and the
absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil, I have no
friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm of success, there
will be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed by disappointment, no
one will endeavour to sustain me in dejection. I shall commit my thoughts
to paper, it is true; but that is a poor medium for the communication of
feeling. I desire the company of a man who could sympathise with me, whose
eyes would reply to mine. You may deem me romantic, my dear sister, but I
bitterly feel the want of a friend. I have no one near me, gentle yet
courageous, possessed of a cultivated as well as of a capacious mind, whose
tastes are like my own, to approve or amend my plans. How would such a
friend repair the faults of your poor brother! I am too ardent in execution
and too impatient of difficulties. But it is a still greater evil to me
that I am self-educated: for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild
on a common and read nothing but our Uncle Thomas’ books of voyages.
At that age I became acquainted with the celebrated poets of our own
country; but it was only when it had ceased to be in my power to derive its
most important benefits from such a conviction that I perceived the
necessity of becoming acquainted with more languages than that of my native
country. Now I am twenty-eight and am in reality more illiterate than many
schoolboys of fifteen. It is true that I have thought more and that my
daydreams are more extended and magnificent, but they want (as the painters
call it) _keeping;_ and I greatly need a friend who would have sense
enough not to despise me as romantic, and affection enough for me to
endeavour to regulate my mind.

Well, these are useless complaints; I shall certainly find no friend on the
wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel, among merchants and seamen. Yet
some feelings, unallied to the dross of human nature, beat even in these
rugged bosoms. My lieutenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful courage
and enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory, or rather, to word my phrase
more characteristically, of advancement in his profession. He is an
Englishman, and in the midst of national and professional prejudices,
unsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the noblest endowments of
humanity. I first became acquainted with him on board a whale vessel;
finding that he was unemployed in this city, I easily engaged him to assist
in my enterprise.

The master is a person of an excellent disposition and is remarkable in the
ship for his gentleness and the mildness of his discipline. This
circumstance, added to his well-known integrity and dauntless courage, made
me very desirous to engage him. A youth passed in solitude, my best years
spent under your gentle and feminine fosterage, has so refined the
groundwork of my character that I cannot overcome an intense distaste to
the usual brutality exercised on board ship: I have never believed it to be
necessary, and when I heard of a mariner equally noted for his kindliness
of heart and the respect and obedience paid to him by his crew, I felt
myself peculiarly fortunate in being able to secure his services. I heard
of him first in rather a romantic manner, from a lady who owes to him the
happiness of her life. This, briefly, is his story. Some years ago he loved
a young Russian lady of moderate fortune, and having amassed a considerable
sum in prize-money, the father of the girl consented to the match. He saw
his mistress once before the destined ceremony; but she was bathed in
tears, and throwing herself at his feet, entreated him to spare her,
confessing at the same time that she loved another, but that he was poor,
and that her father would never consent to the union. My generous friend
reassured the suppliant, and on being informed of the name of her lover,
instantly abandoned his pursuit. He had already bought a farm with his
money, on which he had designed to pass the remainder of his life; but he
bestowed the whole on his rival, together with the remains of his
prize-money to purchase stock, and then himself solicited the young
woman’s father to consent to her marriage with her lover. But the old
man decidedly refused, thinking himself bound in honour to my friend, who,
when he found the father inexorable, quitted his country, nor returned
until he heard that his former mistress was married according to her
inclinations. “What a noble fellow!” you will exclaim. He is
so; but then he is wholly uneducated: he is as silent as a Turk, and a kind
of ignorant carelessness attends him, which, while it renders his conduct
the more astonishing, detracts from the interest and sympathy which
otherwise he would command.

Yet do not suppose, because I complain a little or because I can
conceive a consolation for my toils which I may never know, that I am
wavering in my resolutions. Those are as fixed as fate, and my voyage
is only now delayed until the weather shall permit my embarkation. The
winter has been dreadfully severe, but the spring promises well, and it
is considered as a remarkably early season, so that perhaps I may sail
sooner than I expected. I shall do nothing rashly: you know me
sufficiently to confide in my prudence and considerateness whenever the
safety of others is committed to my care.

I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect of my
undertaking. It is impossible to communicate to you a conception of
the trembling sensation, half pleasurable and half fearful, with which
I am preparing to depart. I am going to unexplored regions, to “the
land of mist and snow,” but I shall kill no albatross; therefore do not
be alarmed for my safety or if I should come back to you as worn and
woeful as the “Ancient Mariner.” You will smile at my allusion, but I
will disclose a secret. I have often attributed my attachment to, my
passionate enthusiasm for, the dangerous mysteries of ocean to that
production of the most imaginative of modern poets. There is something
at work in my soul which I do not understand. I am practically
industrious—painstaking, a workman to execute with perseverance and
labour—but besides this there is a love for the marvellous, a belief
in the marvellous, intertwined in all my projects, which hurries me out
of the common pathways of men, even to the wild sea and unvisited
regions I am about to explore.

But to return to dearer considerations. Shall I meet you again, after
having traversed immense seas, and returned by the most southern cape of
Africa or America? I dare not expect such success, yet I cannot bear to
look on the reverse of the picture. Continue for the present to write to
me by every opportunity: I may receive your letters on some occasions when
I need them most to support my spirits. I love you very tenderly. 
Remember me with affection, should you never hear from me again.

Your affectionate brother,
 Robert Walton




Letter 3

_To Mrs. Saville, England._

July 7th, 17—.


My dear Sister,

I write a few lines in haste to say that I am safe—and well advanced
on my voyage. This letter will reach England by a merchantman now on
its homeward voyage from Archangel; more fortunate than I, who may not
see my native land, perhaps, for many years. I am, however, in good
spirits: my men are bold and apparently firm of purpose, nor do the
floating sheets of ice that continually pass us, indicating the dangers
of the region towards which we are advancing, appear to dismay them. We
have already reached a very high latitude; but it is the height of
summer, and although not so warm as in England, the southern gales,
which blow us speedily towards those shores which I so ardently desire
to attain, breathe a degree of renovating warmth which I had not
expected.

No incidents have hitherto befallen us that would make a figure in a
letter. One or two stiff gales and the springing of a leak are
accidents which experienced navigators scarcely remember to record, and
I shall be well content if nothing worse happen to us during our voyage.

Adieu, my dear Margaret. Be assured that for my own sake, as well as
yours, I will not rashly encounter danger. I will be cool,
persevering, and prudent.

But success _shall_ crown my endeavours. Wherefore not? Thus far I
have gone, tracing a secure way over the pathless seas, the very stars
themselves being witnesses and testimonies of my triumph. Why not
still proceed over the untamed yet obedient element? What can stop the
determined heart and resolved will of man?

My swelling heart involuntarily pours itself out thus. But I must
finish. Heaven bless my beloved sister!

R.W.




Letter 4


_To Mrs. Saville, England._

August 5th, 17—.

So strange an accident has happened to us that I cannot forbear
recording it, although it is very probable that you will see me before
these papers can come into your possession.

Last Monday (July 31st) we were nearly surrounded by ice, which closed
in the ship on all sides, scarcely leaving her the sea-room in which
she floated. Our situation was somewhat dangerous, especially as we
were compassed round by a very thick fog. We accordingly lay to,
hoping that some change would take place in the atmosphere and weather.

About two o’clock the mist cleared away, and we beheld, stretched out
in every direction, vast and irregular plains of ice, which seemed to
have no end. Some of my comrades groaned, and my own mind began to
grow watchful with anxious thoughts, when a strange sight suddenly
attracted our attention and diverted our solicitude from our own
situation. We perceived a low carriage, fixed on a sledge and drawn by
dogs, pass on towards the north, at the distance of half a mile; a
being which had the shape of a man, but apparently of gigantic stature,
sat in the sledge and guided the dogs. We watched the rapid progress
of the traveller with our telescopes until he was lost among the
distant inequalities of the ice.

This appearance excited our unqualified wonder. We were, as we believed,
many hundred miles from any land; but this apparition seemed to denote that
it was not, in reality, so distant as we had supposed. Shut in, however, by
ice, it was impossible to follow his track, which we had observed with the
greatest attention.

About two hours after this occurrence we heard the ground sea, and before
night the ice broke and freed our ship. We, however, lay to until the
morning, fearing to encounter in the dark those large loose masses which
float about after the breaking up of the ice. I profited of this time to
rest for a few hours.

In the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went upon deck and
found all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel, apparently
talking to someone in the sea. It was, in fact, a sledge, like that we
had seen before, which had drifted towards us in the night on a large
fragment of ice. Only one dog remained alive; but there was a human
being within it whom the sailors were persuading to enter the vessel.
He was not, as the other traveller seemed to be, a savage inhabitant of
some undiscovered island, but a European. When I appeared on deck the
master said, “Here is our captain, and he will not allow you to perish
on the open sea.”

On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in English, although with a
foreign accent. “Before I come on board your vessel,” said he,
“will you have the kindness to inform me whither you are bound?”

You may conceive my astonishment on hearing such a question addressed
to me from a man on the brink of destruction and to whom I should have
supposed that my vessel would have been a resource which he would not
have exchanged for the most precious wealth the earth can afford. I
replied, however, that we were on a voyage of discovery towards the
northern pole.

Upon hearing this he appeared satisfied and consented to come on board.
Good God! Margaret, if you had seen the man who thus capitulated for
his safety, your surprise would have been boundless. His limbs were
nearly frozen, and his body dreadfully emaciated by fatigue and
suffering. I never saw a man in so wretched a condition. We attempted
to carry him into the cabin, but as soon as he had quitted the fresh
air he fainted. We accordingly brought him back to the deck and
restored him to animation by rubbing him with brandy and forcing him to
swallow a small quantity. As soon as he showed signs of life we
wrapped him up in blankets and placed him near the chimney of the
kitchen stove. By slow degrees he recovered and ate a little soup,
which restored him wonderfully.

Two days passed in this manner before he was able to speak, and I often
feared that his sufferings had deprived him of understanding. When he
had in some measure recovered, I removed him to my own cabin and
attended on him as much as my duty would permit. I never saw a more
interesting creature: his eyes have generally an expression of
wildness, and even madness, but there are moments when, if anyone
performs an act of kindness towards him or does him any the most
trifling service, his whole countenance is lighted up, as it were, with
a beam of benevolence and sweetness that I never saw equalled. But he
is generally melancholy and despairing, and sometimes he gnashes his
teeth, as if impatient of the weight of woes that oppresses him.

When my guest was a little recovered I had great trouble to keep off
the men, who wished to ask him a thousand questions; but I would not
allow him to be tormented by their idle curiosity, in a state of body
and mind whose restoration evidently depended upon entire repose.
Once, however, the lieutenant asked why he had come so far upon the ice
in so strange a vehicle.

His countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the deepest gloom, and
he replied, “To seek one who fled from me.”

“And did the man whom you pursued travel in the same fashion?”

“Yes.”

“Then I fancy we have seen him, for the day before we picked you up we
saw some dogs drawing a sledge, with a man in it, across the ice.”

This aroused the stranger’s attention, and he asked a multitude of
questions concerning the route which the dæmon, as he called him, had
pursued. Soon after, when he was alone with me, he said, “I have,
doubtless, excited your curiosity, as well as that of these good
people; but you are too considerate to make inquiries.”

“Certainly; it would indeed be very impertinent and inhuman in me to
trouble you with any inquisitiveness of mine.”

“And yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous situation; you have
benevolently restored me to life.”

Soon after this he inquired if I thought that the breaking up of the
ice had destroyed the other sledge. I replied that I could not answer
with any degree of certainty, for the ice had not broken until near
midnight, and the traveller might have arrived at a place of safety
before that time; but of this I could not judge.

From this time a new spirit of life animated the decaying frame of the
stranger. He manifested the greatest eagerness to be upon deck to watch for
the sledge which had before appeared; but I have persuaded him to remain in
the cabin, for he is far too weak to sustain the rawness of the atmosphere.
I have promised that someone should watch for him and give him instant
notice if any new object should appear in sight.

Such is my journal of what relates to this strange occurrence up to the
present day. The stranger has gradually improved in health but is very
silent and appears uneasy when anyone except myself enters his cabin.
Yet his manners are so conciliating and gentle that the sailors are all
interested in him, although they have had very little communication
with him. For my own part, I begin to love him as a brother, and his
constant and deep grief fills me with sympathy and compassion. He must
have been a noble creature in his better days, being even now in wreck
so attractive and amiable.

I said in one of my letters, my dear Margaret, that I should find no friend
on the wide ocean; yet I have found a man who, before his spirit had been
broken by misery, I should have been happy to have possessed as the brother
of my heart.

I shall continue my journal concerning the stranger at intervals,
should I have any fresh incidents to record.




August 13th, 17—.


My affection for my guest increases every day. He excites at once my
admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree. How can I see so
noble a creature destroyed by misery without feeling the most poignant
grief? He is so gentle, yet so wise; his mind is so cultivated, and
when he speaks, although his words are culled with the choicest art,
yet they flow with rapidity and unparalleled eloquence.

He is now much recovered from his illness and is continually on the deck,
apparently watching for the sledge that preceded his own. Yet, although
unhappy, he is not so utterly occupied by his own misery but that he
interests himself deeply in the projects of others. He has frequently
conversed with me on mine, which I have communicated to him without
disguise. He entered attentively into all my arguments in favour of my
eventual success and into every minute detail of the measures I had taken
to secure it. I was easily led by the sympathy which he evinced to use the
language of my heart, to give utterance to the burning ardour of my soul
and to say, with all the fervour that warmed me, how gladly I would
sacrifice my fortune, my existence, my every hope, to the furtherance of my
enterprise. One man’s life or death were but a small price to pay for
the acquirement of the knowledge which I sought, for the dominion I should
acquire and transmit over the elemental foes of our race. As I spoke, a
dark gloom spread over my listener’s countenance. At first I
perceived that he tried to suppress his emotion; he placed his hands before
his eyes, and my voice quivered and failed me as I beheld tears trickle
fast from between his fingers; a groan burst from his heaving breast. I
paused; at length he spoke, in broken accents: “Unhappy man! Do you
share my madness? Have you drunk also of the intoxicating draught? Hear me;
let me reveal my tale, and you will dash the cup from your lips!”

Such words, you may imagine, strongly excited my curiosity; but the
paroxysm of grief that had seized the stranger overcame his weakened
powers, and many hours of repose and tranquil conversation were
necessary to restore his composure.

Having conquered the violence of his feelings, he appeared to despise
himself for being the slave of passion; and quelling the dark tyranny of
despair, he led me again to converse concerning myself personally. He asked
me the history of my earlier years. The tale was quickly told, but it
awakened various trains of reflection. I spoke of my desire of finding a
friend, of my thirst for a more intimate sympathy with a fellow mind than
had ever fallen to my lot, and expressed my conviction that a man could
boast of little happiness who did not enjoy this blessing.

“I agree with you,” replied the stranger; “we are
unfashioned creatures, but half made up, if one wiser, better, dearer than
ourselves—such a friend ought to be—do not lend his aid to
perfectionate our weak and faulty natures. I once had a friend, the most
noble of human creatures, and am entitled, therefore, to judge respecting
friendship. You have hope, and the world before you, and have no cause for
despair. But I—I have lost everything and cannot begin life
anew.”

As he said this his countenance became expressive of a calm, settled
grief that touched me to the heart. But he was silent and presently
retired to his cabin.

Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he
does the beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight
afforded by these wonderful regions seem still to have the power of
elevating his soul from earth. Such a man has a double existence: he
may suffer misery and be overwhelmed by disappointments, yet when he
has retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit that has a
halo around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures.

Will you smile at the enthusiasm I express concerning this divine
wanderer? You would not if you saw him. You have been tutored and
refined by books and retirement from the world, and you are therefore
somewhat fastidious; but this only renders you the more fit to
appreciate the extraordinary merits of this wonderful man. Sometimes I
have endeavoured to discover what quality it is which he possesses that
elevates him so immeasurably above any other person I ever knew. I
believe it to be an intuitive discernment, a quick but never-failing
power of judgment, a penetration into the causes of things, unequalled
for clearness and precision; add to this a facility of expression and a
voice whose varied intonations are soul-subduing music.




August 19th, 17—.


Yesterday the stranger said to me, “You may easily perceive, Captain
Walton, that I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes. I had
determined at one time that the memory of these evils should die with
me, but you have won me to alter my determination. You seek for
knowledge and wisdom, as I once did; and I ardently hope that the
gratification of your wishes may not be a serpent to sting you, as mine
has been. I do not know that the relation of my disasters will be
useful to you; yet, when I reflect that you are pursuing the same
course, exposing yourself to the same dangers which have rendered me
what I am, I imagine that you may deduce an apt moral from my tale, one
that may direct you if you succeed in your undertaking and console you
in case of failure. Prepare to hear of occurrences which are usually
deemed marvellous. Were we among the tamer scenes of nature I might
fear to encounter your unbelief, perhaps your ridicule; but many things
will appear possible in these wild and mysterious regions which would
provoke the laughter of those unacquainted with the ever-varied powers
of nature; nor can I doubt but that my tale conveys in its series
internal evidence of the truth of the events of which it is composed.”

You may easily imagine that I was much gratified by the offered
communication, yet I could not endure that he should renew his grief by
a recital of his misfortunes. I felt the greatest eagerness to hear
the promised narrative, partly from curiosity and partly from a strong
desire to ameliorate his fate if it were in my power. I expressed
these feelings in my answer.

“I thank you,” he replied, “for your sympathy, but it is
useless; my fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event, and then I
shall repose in peace. I understand your feeling,” continued he,
perceiving that I wished to interrupt him; “but you are mistaken, my
friend, if thus you will allow me to name you; nothing can alter my
destiny; listen to my history, and you will perceive how irrevocably it is
determined.”

He then told me that he would commence his narrative the next day when I
should be at leisure. This promise drew from me the warmest thanks. I have
resolved every night, when I am not imperatively occupied by my duties, to
record, as nearly as possible in his own words, what he has related during
the day. If I should be engaged, I will at least make notes. This
manuscript will doubtless afford you the greatest pleasure; but to me, who
know him, and who hear it from his own lips—with what interest and
sympathy shall I read it in some future day! Even now, as I commence my
task, his full-toned voice swells in my ears; his lustrous eyes dwell on me
with all their melancholy sweetness; I see his thin hand raised in
animation, while the lineaments of his face are irradiated by the soul
within. Strange and harrowing must be his story, frightful the storm which
embraced the gallant vessel on its course and wrecked it—thus!




Chapter 1


I am by birth a Genevese, and my family is one of the most
distinguished of that republic. My ancestors had been for many years
counsellors and syndics, and my father had filled several public
situations with honour and reputation. He was respected by all who
knew him for his integrity and indefatigable attention to public
business. He passed his younger days perpetually occupied by the
affairs of his country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his
marrying early, nor was it until the decline of life that he became a
husband and the father of a family.

As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character, I cannot
refrain from relating them. One of his most intimate friends was a
merchant who, from a flourishing state, fell, through numerous
mischances, into poverty. This man, whose name was Beaufort, was of a
proud and unbending disposition and could not bear to live in poverty
and oblivion in the same country where he had formerly been
distinguished for his rank and magnificence. Having paid his debts,
therefore, in the most honourable manner, he retreated with his
daughter to the town of Lucerne, where he lived unknown and in
wretchedness. My father loved Beaufort with the truest friendship and
was deeply grieved by his retreat in these unfortunate circumstances.
He bitterly deplored the false pride which led his friend to a conduct
so little worthy of the affection that united them. He lost no time in
endeavouring to seek him out, with the hope of persuading him to begin
the world again through his credit and assistance.

Beaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal himself, and it was ten
months before my father discovered his abode. Overjoyed at this discovery,
he hastened to the house, which was situated in a mean street near the
Reuss. But when he entered, misery and despair alone welcomed him. Beaufort
had saved but a very small sum of money from the wreck of his fortunes, but
it was sufficient to provide him with sustenance for some months, and in
the meantime he hoped to procure some respectable employment in a
merchant’s house. The interval was, consequently, spent in inaction;
his grief only became more deep and rankling when he had leisure for
reflection, and at length it took so fast hold of his mind that at the end
of three months he lay on a bed of sickness, incapable of any exertion.

His daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness, but she saw
with despair that their little fund was rapidly decreasing and that
there was no other prospect of support. But Caroline Beaufort
possessed a mind of an uncommon mould, and her courage rose to support
her in her adversity. She procured plain work; she plaited straw and
by various means contrived to earn a pittance scarcely sufficient to
support life.

Several months passed in this manner. Her father grew worse; her time
was more entirely occupied in attending him; her means of subsistence
decreased; and in the tenth month her father died in her arms, leaving
her an orphan and a beggar. This last blow overcame her, and she knelt
by Beaufort’s coffin weeping bitterly, when my father entered the
chamber. He came like a protecting spirit to the poor girl, who
committed herself to his care; and after the interment of his friend he
conducted her to Geneva and placed her under the protection of a
relation. Two years after this event Caroline became his wife.

There was a considerable difference between the ages of my parents, but
this circumstance seemed to unite them only closer in bonds of devoted
affection. There was a sense of justice in my father’s upright mind
which rendered it necessary that he should approve highly to love
strongly. Perhaps during former years he had suffered from the
late-discovered unworthiness of one beloved and so was disposed to set
a greater value on tried worth. There was a show of gratitude and
worship in his attachment to my mother, differing wholly from the
doting fondness of age, for it was inspired by reverence for her
virtues and a desire to be the means of, in some degree, recompensing
her for the sorrows she had endured, but which gave inexpressible grace
to his behaviour to her. Everything was made to yield to her wishes
and her convenience. He strove to shelter her, as a fair exotic is
sheltered by the gardener, from every rougher wind and to surround her
with all that could tend to excite pleasurable emotion in her soft and
benevolent mind. Her health, and even the tranquillity of her hitherto
constant spirit, had been shaken by what she had gone through. During
the two years that had elapsed previous to their marriage my father had
gradually relinquished all his public functions; and immediately after
their union they sought the pleasant climate of Italy, and the change
of scene and interest attendant on a tour through that land of wonders,
as a restorative for her weakened frame.

From Italy they visited Germany and France. I, their eldest child, was born
at Naples, and as an infant accompanied them in their rambles. I remained
for several years their only child. Much as they were attached to each
other, they seemed to draw inexhaustible stores of affection from a very
mine of love to bestow them upon me. My mother’s tender caresses and
my father’s smile of benevolent pleasure while regarding me are my
first recollections. I was their plaything and their idol, and something
better—their child, the innocent and helpless creature bestowed on
them by Heaven, whom to bring up to good, and whose future lot it was in
their hands to direct to happiness or misery, according as they fulfilled
their duties towards me. With this deep consciousness of what they owed
towards the being to which they had given life, added to the active spirit
of tenderness that animated both, it may be imagined that while during
every hour of my infant life I received a lesson of patience, of charity,
and of self-control, I was so guided by a silken cord that all seemed but
one train of enjoyment to me.

For a long time I was their only care. My mother had much desired to have a
daughter, but I continued their single offspring. When I was about five
years old, while making an excursion beyond the frontiers of Italy, they
passed a week on the shores of the Lake of Como. Their benevolent
disposition often made them enter the cottages of the poor. This, to my
mother, was more than a duty; it was a necessity, a
passion—remembering what she had suffered, and how she had been
relieved—for her to act in her turn the guardian angel to the
afflicted. During one of their walks a poor cot in the foldings of a vale
attracted their notice as being singularly disconsolate, while the number
of half-clothed children gathered about it spoke of penury in its worst
shape. One day, when my father had gone by himself to Milan, my mother,
accompanied by me, visited this abode. She found a peasant and his wife,
hard working, bent down by care and labour, distributing a scanty meal to
five hungry babes. Among these there was one which attracted my mother far
above all the rest. She appeared of a different stock. The four others were
dark-eyed, hardy little vagrants; this child was thin and very fair. Her
hair was the brightest living gold, and despite the poverty of her
clothing, seemed to set a crown of distinction on her head. Her brow was
clear and ample, her blue eyes cloudless, and her lips and the moulding of
her face so expressive of sensibility and sweetness that none could behold
her without looking on her as of a distinct species, a being heaven-sent,
and bearing a celestial stamp in all her features.

The peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wonder and
admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her history. She was
not her child, but the daughter of a Milanese nobleman. Her mother was a
German and had died on giving her birth. The infant had been placed with
these good people to nurse: they were better off then. They had not been
long married, and their eldest child was but just born. The father of their
charge was one of those Italians nursed in the memory of the antique glory
of Italy—one among the _schiavi ognor frementi,_ who exerted
himself to obtain the liberty of his country. He became the victim of its
weakness. Whether he had died or still lingered in the dungeons of Austria
was not known. His property was confiscated; his child became an orphan and
a beggar. She continued with her foster parents and bloomed in their rude
abode, fairer than a garden rose among dark-leaved brambles.

When my father returned from Milan, he found playing with me in the hall of
our villa a child fairer than pictured cherub—a creature who seemed
to shed radiance from her looks and whose form and motions were lighter
than the chamois of the hills. The apparition was soon explained. With his
permission my mother prevailed on her rustic guardians to yield their
charge to her. They were fond of the sweet orphan. Her presence had seemed
a blessing to them, but it would be unfair to her to keep her in poverty
and want when Providence afforded her such powerful protection. They
consulted their village priest, and the result was that Elizabeth Lavenza
became the inmate of my parents’ house—my more than
sister—the beautiful and adored companion of all my occupations and
my pleasures.

Everyone loved Elizabeth. The passionate and almost reverential
attachment with which all regarded her became, while I shared it, my
pride and my delight. On the evening previous to her being brought to
my home, my mother had said playfully, “I have a pretty present for my
Victor—tomorrow he shall have it.” And when, on the morrow, she
presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I, with childish
seriousness, interpreted her words literally and looked upon Elizabeth
as mine—mine to protect, love, and cherish. All praises bestowed on
her I received as made to a possession of my own. We called each other
familiarly by the name of cousin. No word, no expression could body
forth the kind of relation in which she stood to me—my more than
sister, since till death she was to be mine only.




Chapter 2


We were brought up together; there was not quite a year difference in
our ages. I need not say that we were strangers to any species of
disunion or dispute. Harmony was the soul of our companionship, and
the diversity and contrast that subsisted in our characters drew us
nearer together. Elizabeth was of a calmer and more concentrated
disposition; but, with all my ardour, I was capable of a more intense
application and was more deeply smitten with the thirst for knowledge.
She busied herself with following the aerial creations of the poets;
and in the majestic and wondrous scenes which surrounded our Swiss
home —the sublime shapes of the mountains, the changes of the seasons,
tempest and calm, the silence of winter, and the life and turbulence of
our Alpine summers—she found ample scope for admiration and delight.
While my companion contemplated with a serious and satisfied spirit the
magnificent appearances of things, I delighted in investigating their
causes. The world was to me a secret which I desired to divine.
Curiosity, earnest research to learn the hidden laws of nature,
gladness akin to rapture, as they were unfolded to me, are among the
earliest sensations I can remember.

On the birth of a second son, my junior by seven years, my parents gave
up entirely their wandering life and fixed themselves in their native
country. We possessed a house in Geneva, and a _campagne_ on Belrive,
the eastern shore of the lake, at the distance of rather more than a
league from the city. We resided principally in the latter, and the
lives of my parents were passed in considerable seclusion. It was my
temper to avoid a crowd and to attach myself fervently to a few. I was
indifferent, therefore, to my school-fellows in general; but I united
myself in the bonds of the closest friendship to one among them. Henry
Clerval was the son of a merchant of Geneva. He was a boy of singular
talent and fancy. He loved enterprise, hardship, and even danger for
its own sake. He was deeply read in books of chivalry and romance. He
composed heroic songs and began to write many a tale of enchantment and
knightly adventure. He tried to make us act plays and to enter into
masquerades, in which the characters were drawn from the heroes of
Roncesvalles, of the Round Table of King Arthur, and the chivalrous
train who shed their blood to redeem the holy sepulchre from the hands
of the infidels.

No human being could have passed a happier childhood than myself. My
parents were possessed by the very spirit of kindness and indulgence.
We felt that they were not the tyrants to rule our lot according to
their caprice, but the agents and creators of all the many delights
which we enjoyed. When I mingled with other families I distinctly
discerned how peculiarly fortunate my lot was, and gratitude assisted
the development of filial love.

My temper was sometimes violent, and my passions vehement; but by some
law in my temperature they were turned not towards childish pursuits
but to an eager desire to learn, and not to learn all things
indiscriminately. I confess that neither the structure of languages,
nor the code of governments, nor the politics of various states
possessed attractions for me. It was the secrets of heaven and earth
that I desired to learn; and whether it was the outward substance of
things or the inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of man
that occupied me, still my inquiries were directed to the metaphysical,
or in its highest sense, the physical secrets of the world.

Meanwhile Clerval occupied himself, so to speak, with the moral
relations of things. The busy stage of life, the virtues of heroes,
and the actions of men were his theme; and his hope and his dream was
to become one among those whose names are recorded in story as the
gallant and adventurous benefactors of our species. The saintly soul
of Elizabeth shone like a shrine-dedicated lamp in our peaceful home.
Her sympathy was ours; her smile, her soft voice, the sweet glance of
her celestial eyes, were ever there to bless and animate us. She was
the living spirit of love to soften and attract; I might have become
sullen in my study, rough through the ardour of my nature, but that
she was there to subdue me to a semblance of her own gentleness. And
Clerval—could aught ill entrench on the noble spirit of Clerval? Yet
he might not have been so perfectly humane, so thoughtful in his
generosity, so full of kindness and tenderness amidst his passion for
adventurous exploit, had she not unfolded to him the real loveliness of
beneficence and made the doing good the end and aim of his soaring
ambition.

I feel exquisite pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood,
before misfortune had tainted my mind and changed its bright visions of
extensive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self. Besides,
in drawing the picture of my early days, I also record those events which
led, by insensible steps, to my after tale of misery, for when I would
account to myself for the birth of that passion which afterwards ruled my
destiny I find it arise, like a mountain river, from ignoble and almost
forgotten sources; but, swelling as it proceeded, it became the torrent
which, in its course, has swept away all my hopes and joys.

Natural philosophy is the genius that has regulated my fate; I desire,
therefore, in this narration, to state those facts which led to my
predilection for that science. When I was thirteen years of age we all went
on a party of pleasure to the baths near Thonon; the inclemency of the
weather obliged us to remain a day confined to the inn. In this house I
chanced to find a volume of the works of Cornelius Agrippa. I opened it
with apathy; the theory which he attempts to demonstrate and the wonderful
facts which he relates soon changed this feeling into enthusiasm. A new
light seemed to dawn upon my mind, and bounding with joy, I communicated my
discovery to my father. My father looked carelessly at the title page of my
book and said, “Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My dear Victor, do not waste
your time upon this; it is sad trash.”

If, instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains to explain to me
that the principles of Agrippa had been entirely exploded and that a modern
system of science had been introduced which possessed much greater powers
than the ancient, because the powers of the latter were chimerical, while
those of the former were real and practical, under such circumstances I
should certainly have thrown Agrippa aside and have contented my
imagination, warmed as it was, by returning with greater ardour to my
former studies. It is even possible that the train of my ideas would never
have received the fatal impulse that led to my ruin. But the cursory glance
my father had taken of my volume by no means assured me that he was
acquainted with its contents, and I continued to read with the greatest
avidity.

When I returned home my first care was to procure the whole works of this
author, and afterwards of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. I read and
studied the wild fancies of these writers with delight; they appeared to me
treasures known to few besides myself. I have described myself as always
having been imbued with a fervent longing to penetrate the secrets of
nature. In spite of the intense labour and wonderful discoveries of modern
philosophers, I always came from my studies discontented and unsatisfied.
Sir Isaac Newton is said to have avowed that he felt like a child picking
up shells beside the great and unexplored ocean of truth. Those of his
successors in each branch of natural philosophy with whom I was acquainted
appeared even to my boy’s apprehensions as tyros engaged in the same
pursuit.

The untaught peasant beheld the elements around him and was acquainted
with their practical uses. The most learned philosopher knew little
more. He had partially unveiled the face of Nature, but her immortal
lineaments were still a wonder and a mystery. He might dissect,
anatomise, and give names; but, not to speak of a final cause, causes
in their secondary and tertiary grades were utterly unknown to him. I
had gazed upon the fortifications and impediments that seemed to keep
human beings from entering the citadel of nature, and rashly and
ignorantly I had repined.

But here were books, and here were men who had penetrated deeper and knew
more. I took their word for all that they averred, and I became their
disciple. It may appear strange that such should arise in the eighteenth
century; but while I followed the routine of education in the schools of
Geneva, I was, to a great degree, self-taught with regard to my favourite
studies. My father was not scientific, and I was left to struggle with a
child’s blindness, added to a student’s thirst for knowledge.
Under the guidance of my new preceptors I entered with the greatest
diligence into the search of the philosopher’s stone and the elixir
of life; but the latter soon obtained my undivided attention. Wealth was an
inferior object, but what glory would attend the discovery if I could
banish disease from the human frame and render man invulnerable to any but
a violent death!

Nor were these my only visions. The raising of ghosts or devils was a
promise liberally accorded by my favourite authors, the fulfilment of which
I most eagerly sought; and if my incantations were always unsuccessful, I
attributed the failure rather to my own inexperience and mistake than to a
want of skill or fidelity in my instructors. And thus for a time I was
occupied by exploded systems, mingling, like an unadept, a thousand
contradictory theories and floundering desperately in a very slough of
multifarious knowledge, guided by an ardent imagination and childish
reasoning, till an accident again changed the current of my ideas.

When I was about fifteen years old we had retired to our house near
Belrive, when we witnessed a most violent and terrible thunderstorm. It
advanced from behind the mountains of Jura, and the thunder burst at once
with frightful loudness from various quarters of the heavens. I remained,
while the storm lasted, watching its progress with curiosity and delight.
As I stood at the door, on a sudden I beheld a stream of fire issue from an
old and beautiful oak which stood about twenty yards from our house; and so
soon as the dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared, and nothing
remained but a blasted stump. When we visited it the next morning, we found
the tree shattered in a singular manner. It was not splintered by the
shock, but entirely reduced to thin ribbons of wood. I never beheld
anything so utterly destroyed.

Before this I was not unacquainted with the more obvious laws of
electricity. On this occasion a man of great research in natural
philosophy was with us, and excited by this catastrophe, he entered on
the explanation of a theory which he had formed on the subject of
electricity and galvanism, which was at once new and astonishing to me.
All that he said threw greatly into the shade Cornelius Agrippa,
Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, the lords of my imagination; but by
some fatality the overthrow of these men disinclined me to pursue my
accustomed studies. It seemed to me as if nothing would or could ever
be known. All that had so long engaged my attention suddenly grew
despicable. By one of those caprices of the mind which we are perhaps
most subject to in early youth, I at once gave up my former
occupations, set down natural history and all its progeny as a deformed
and abortive creation, and entertained the greatest disdain for a
would-be science which could never even step within the threshold of
real knowledge. In this mood of mind I betook myself to the
mathematics and the branches of study appertaining to that science as
being built upon secure foundations, and so worthy of my consideration.

Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments
are we bound to prosperity or ruin. When I look back, it seems to me
as if this almost miraculous change of inclination and will was the
immediate suggestion of the guardian angel of my life—the last effort
made by the spirit of preservation to avert the storm that was even
then hanging in the stars and ready to envelop me. Her victory was
announced by an unusual tranquillity and gladness of soul which
followed the relinquishing of my ancient and latterly tormenting
studies. It was thus that I was to be taught to associate evil with
their prosecution, happiness with their disregard.

It was a strong effort of the spirit of good, but it was ineffectual.
Destiny was too potent, and her immutable laws had decreed my utter and
terrible destruction.




Chapter 3


When I had attained the age of seventeen my parents resolved that I
should become a student at the university of Ingolstadt. I had
hitherto attended the schools of Geneva, but my father thought it
necessary for the completion of my education that I should be made
acquainted with other customs than those of my native country. My
departure was therefore fixed at an early date, but before the day
resolved upon could arrive, the first misfortune of my life
occurred—an omen, as it were, of my future misery.

Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; her illness was severe, and she was
in the greatest danger. During her illness many arguments had been urged to
persuade my mother to refrain from attending upon her. She had at first
yielded to our entreaties, but when she heard that the life of her
favourite was menaced, she could no longer control her anxiety. She
attended her sickbed; her watchful attentions triumphed over the malignity
of the distemper—Elizabeth was saved, but the consequences of this
imprudence were fatal to her preserver. On the third day my mother
sickened; her fever was accompanied by the most alarming symptoms, and the
looks of her medical attendants prognosticated the worst event. On her
deathbed the fortitude and benignity of this best of women did not desert
her. She joined the hands of Elizabeth and myself. “My
children,” she said, “my firmest hopes of future happiness were
placed on the prospect of your union. This expectation will now be the
consolation of your father. Elizabeth, my love, you must supply my place to
my younger children. Alas! I regret that I am taken from you; and, happy
and beloved as I have been, is it not hard to quit you all? But these are
not thoughts befitting me; I will endeavour to resign myself cheerfully to
death and will indulge a hope of meeting you in another world.”

She died calmly, and her countenance expressed affection even in death.
I need not describe the feelings of those whose dearest ties are rent
by that most irreparable evil, the void that presents itself to the
soul, and the despair that is exhibited on the countenance. It is so
long before the mind can persuade itself that she whom we saw every day
and whose very existence appeared a part of our own can have departed
for ever—that the brightness of a beloved eye can have been
extinguished and the sound of a voice so familiar and dear to the ear
can be hushed, never more to be heard. These are the reflections of
the first days; but when the lapse of time proves the reality of the
evil, then the actual bitterness of grief commences. Yet from whom has
not that rude hand rent away some dear connection? And why should I
describe a sorrow which all have felt, and must feel? The time at
length arrives when grief is rather an indulgence than a necessity; and
the smile that plays upon the lips, although it may be deemed a
sacrilege, is not banished. My mother was dead, but we had still
duties which we ought to perform; we must continue our course with the
rest and learn to think ourselves fortunate whilst one remains whom the
spoiler has not seized.

My departure for Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by these events,
was now again determined upon. I obtained from my father a respite of
some weeks. It appeared to me sacrilege so soon to leave the repose,
akin to death, of the house of mourning and to rush into the thick of
life. I was new to sorrow, but it did not the less alarm me. I was
unwilling to quit the sight of those that remained to me, and above
all, I desired to see my sweet Elizabeth in some degree consoled.

She indeed veiled her grief and strove to act the comforter to us all.
She looked steadily on life and assumed its duties with courage and
zeal. She devoted herself to those whom she had been taught to call
her uncle and cousins. Never was she so enchanting as at this time,
when she recalled the sunshine of her smiles and spent them upon us.
She forgot even her own regret in her endeavours to make us forget.

The day of my departure at length arrived. Clerval spent the last
evening with us. He had endeavoured to persuade his father to permit
him to accompany me and to become my fellow student, but in vain. His
father was a narrow-minded trader and saw idleness and ruin in the
aspirations and ambition of his son. Henry deeply felt the misfortune
of being debarred from a liberal education. He said little, but when
he spoke I read in his kindling eye and in his animated glance a
restrained but firm resolve not to be chained to the miserable details
of commerce.

We sat late. We could not tear ourselves away from each other nor
persuade ourselves to say the word “Farewell!” It was said, and we
retired under the pretence of seeking repose, each fancying that the
other was deceived; but when at morning’s dawn I descended to the
carriage which was to convey me away, they were all there—my father
again to bless me, Clerval to press my hand once more, my Elizabeth to
renew her entreaties that I would write often and to bestow the last
feminine attentions on her playmate and friend.

I threw myself into the chaise that was to convey me away and indulged in
the most melancholy reflections. I, who had ever been surrounded by
amiable companions, continually engaged in endeavouring to bestow mutual
pleasure—I was now alone. In the university whither I was going I
must form my own friends and be my own protector. My life had hitherto
been remarkably secluded and domestic, and this had given me invincible
repugnance to new countenances. I loved my brothers, Elizabeth, and
Clerval; these were “old familiar faces,” but I believed myself
totally unfitted for the company of strangers. Such were my reflections as
I commenced my journey; but as I proceeded, my spirits and hopes rose. I
ardently desired the acquisition of knowledge. I had often, when at home,
thought it hard to remain during my youth cooped up in one place and had
longed to enter the world and take my station among other human beings. 
Now my desires were complied with, and it would, indeed, have been folly to
repent.

I had sufficient leisure for these and many other reflections during my
journey to Ingolstadt, which was long and fatiguing. At length the
high white steeple of the town met my eyes. I alighted and was
conducted to my solitary apartment to spend the evening as I pleased.

The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction and paid a visit to
some of the principal professors. Chance—or rather the evil
influence, the Angel of Destruction, which asserted omnipotent sway over me
from the moment I turned my reluctant steps from my father’s
door—led me first to M. Krempe, professor of natural philosophy. He
was an uncouth man, but deeply imbued in the secrets of his science. He
asked me several questions concerning my progress in the different branches
of science appertaining to natural philosophy. I replied carelessly, and
partly in contempt, mentioned the names of my alchemists as the principal
authors I had studied. The professor stared. “Have you,” he
said, “really spent your time in studying such nonsense?”

I replied in the affirmative. “Every minute,” continued M. Krempe with
warmth, “every instant that you have wasted on those books is utterly
and entirely lost. You have burdened your memory with exploded systems
and useless names. Good God! In what desert land have you lived,
where no one was kind enough to inform you that these fancies which you
have so greedily imbibed are a thousand years old and as musty as they
are ancient? I little expected, in this enlightened and scientific
age, to find a disciple of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus. My dear
sir, you must begin your studies entirely anew.”

So saying, he stepped aside and wrote down a list of several books
treating of natural philosophy which he desired me to procure, and
dismissed me after mentioning that in the beginning of the following
week he intended to commence a course of lectures upon natural
philosophy in its general relations, and that M. Waldman, a fellow
professor, would lecture upon chemistry the alternate days that he
omitted.

I returned home not disappointed, for I have said that I had long
considered those authors useless whom the professor reprobated; but I
returned not at all the more inclined to recur to these studies in any
shape. M. Krempe was a little squat man with a gruff voice and a
repulsive countenance; the teacher, therefore, did not prepossess me in
favour of his pursuits. In rather a too philosophical and connected a
strain, perhaps, I have given an account of the conclusions I had come
to concerning them in my early years. As a child I had not been
content with the results promised by the modern professors of natural
science. With a confusion of ideas only to be accounted for by my
extreme youth and my want of a guide on such matters, I had retrod the
steps of knowledge along the paths of time and exchanged the
discoveries of recent inquirers for the dreams of forgotten alchemists.
Besides, I had a contempt for the uses of modern natural philosophy.
It was very different when the masters of the science sought
immortality and power; such views, although futile, were grand; but now
the scene was changed. The ambition of the inquirer seemed to limit
itself to the annihilation of those visions on which my interest in
science was chiefly founded. I was required to exchange chimeras of
boundless grandeur for realities of little worth.

Such were my reflections during the first two or three days of my
residence at Ingolstadt, which were chiefly spent in becoming
acquainted with the localities and the principal residents in my new
abode. But as the ensuing week commenced, I thought of the information
which M. Krempe had given me concerning the lectures. And although I
could not consent to go and hear that little conceited fellow deliver
sentences out of a pulpit, I recollected what he had said of M.
Waldman, whom I had never seen, as he had hitherto been out of town.

Partly from curiosity and partly from idleness, I went into the lecturing
room, which M. Waldman entered shortly after. This professor was very
unlike his colleague. He appeared about fifty years of age, but with an
aspect expressive of the greatest benevolence; a few grey hairs covered his
temples, but those at the back of his head were nearly black. His person
was short but remarkably erect and his voice the sweetest I had ever heard.
He began his lecture by a recapitulation of the history of chemistry and
the various improvements made by different men of learning, pronouncing
with fervour the names of the most distinguished discoverers. He then took
a cursory view of the present state of the science and explained many of
its elementary terms. After having made a few preparatory experiments, he
concluded with a panegyric upon modern chemistry, the terms of which I
shall never forget:

“The ancient teachers of this science,” said he,
“promised impossibilities and performed nothing. The modern masters
promise very little; they know that metals cannot be transmuted and that
the elixir of life is a chimera but these philosophers, whose hands seem
only made to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pore over the microscope or
crucible, have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the recesses
of nature and show how she works in her hiding-places. They ascend into the
heavens; they have discovered how the blood circulates, and the nature of
the air we breathe. They have acquired new and almost unlimited powers;
they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the earthquake, and even
mock the invisible world with its own shadows.”

Such were the professor’s words—rather let me say such the words of
the fate—enounced to destroy me. As he went on I felt as if my soul
were grappling with a palpable enemy; one by one the various keys were
touched which formed the mechanism of my being; chord after chord was
sounded, and soon my mind was filled with one thought, one conception,
one purpose. So much has been done, exclaimed the soul of
Frankenstein—more, far more, will I achieve; treading in the steps
already marked, I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and
unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation.

I closed not my eyes that night. My internal being was in a state of
insurrection and turmoil; I felt that order would thence arise, but I
had no power to produce it. By degrees, after the morning’s dawn,
sleep came. I awoke, and my yesternight’s thoughts were as a dream.
There only remained a resolution to return to my ancient studies and to
devote myself to a science for which I believed myself to possess a
natural talent. On the same day I paid M. Waldman a visit. His
manners in private were even more mild and attractive than in public,
for there was a certain dignity in his mien during his lecture which in
his own house was replaced by the greatest affability and kindness. I
gave him pretty nearly the same account of my former pursuits as I had
given to his fellow professor. He heard with attention the little
narration concerning my studies and smiled at the names of Cornelius
Agrippa and Paracelsus, but without the contempt that M. Krempe had
exhibited. He said that “These were men to whose indefatigable zeal
modern philosophers were indebted for most of the foundations of their
knowledge. They had left to us, as an easier task, to give new names
and arrange in connected classifications the facts which they in a
great degree had been the instruments of bringing to light. The
labours of men of genius, however erroneously directed, scarcely ever
fail in ultimately turning to the solid advantage of mankind.” I
listened to his statement, which was delivered without any presumption
or affectation, and then added that his lecture had removed my
prejudices against modern chemists; I expressed myself in measured
terms, with the modesty and deference due from a youth to his
instructor, without letting escape (inexperience in life would have
made me ashamed) any of the enthusiasm which stimulated my intended
labours. I requested his advice concerning the books I ought to
procure.

“I am happy,” said M. Waldman, “to have gained a
disciple; and if your application equals your ability, I have no doubt of
your success. Chemistry is that branch of natural philosophy in which the
greatest improvements have been and may be made; it is on that account that
I have made it my peculiar study; but at the same time, I have not
neglected the other branches of science. A man would make but a very sorry
chemist if he attended to that department of human knowledge alone. If your
wish is to become really a man of science and not merely a petty
experimentalist, I should advise you to apply to every branch of natural
philosophy, including mathematics.”

He then took me into his laboratory and explained to me the uses of his
various machines, instructing me as to what I ought to procure and
promising me the use of his own when I should have advanced far enough in
the science not to derange their mechanism. He also gave me the list of
books which I had requested, and I took my leave.

Thus ended a day memorable to me; it decided my future destiny.




Chapter 4


From this day natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry, in the
most comprehensive sense of the term, became nearly my sole occupation.
I read with ardour those works, so full of genius and discrimination,
which modern inquirers have written on these subjects. I attended the
lectures and cultivated the acquaintance of the men of science of the
university, and I found even in M. Krempe a great deal of sound sense
and real information, combined, it is true, with a repulsive
physiognomy and manners, but not on that account the less valuable. In
M. Waldman I found a true friend. His gentleness was never tinged by
dogmatism, and his instructions were given with an air of frankness and
good nature that banished every idea of pedantry. In a thousand ways
he smoothed for me the path of knowledge and made the most abstruse
inquiries clear and facile to my apprehension. My application was at
first fluctuating and uncertain; it gained strength as I proceeded and
soon became so ardent and eager that the stars often disappeared in the
light of morning whilst I was yet engaged in my laboratory.

As I applied so closely, it may be easily conceived that my progress
was rapid. My ardour was indeed the astonishment of the students, and
my proficiency that of the masters. Professor Krempe often asked me,
with a sly smile, how Cornelius Agrippa went on, whilst M. Waldman
expressed the most heartfelt exultation in my progress. Two years
passed in this manner, during which I paid no visit to Geneva, but was
engaged, heart and soul, in the pursuit of some discoveries which I
hoped to make. None but those who have experienced them can conceive
of the enticements of science. In other studies you go as far as
others have gone before you, and there is nothing more to know; but in
a scientific pursuit there is continual food for discovery and wonder.
A mind of moderate capacity which closely pursues one study must
infallibly arrive at great proficiency in that study; and I, who
continually sought the attainment of one object of pursuit and was
solely wrapped up in this, improved so rapidly that at the end of two
years I made some discoveries in the improvement of some chemical
instruments, which procured me great esteem and admiration at the
university. When I had arrived at this point and had become as well
acquainted with the theory and practice of natural philosophy as
depended on the lessons of any of the professors at Ingolstadt, my
residence there being no longer conducive to my improvements, I thought
of returning to my friends and my native town, when an incident
happened that protracted my stay.

One of the phenomena which had peculiarly attracted my attention was
the structure of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal endued with
life. Whence, I often asked myself, did the principle of life proceed?
It was a bold question, and one which has ever been considered as a
mystery; yet with how many things are we upon the brink of becoming
acquainted, if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our
inquiries. I revolved these circumstances in my mind and determined
thenceforth to apply myself more particularly to those branches of
natural philosophy which relate to physiology. Unless I had been
animated by an almost supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this
study would have been irksome and almost intolerable. To examine the
causes of life, we must first have recourse to death. I became
acquainted with the science of anatomy, but this was not sufficient; I
must also observe the natural decay and corruption of the human body.
In my education my father had taken the greatest precautions that my
mind should be impressed with no supernatural horrors. I do not ever
remember to have trembled at a tale of superstition or to have feared
the apparition of a spirit. Darkness had no effect upon my fancy, and
a churchyard was to me merely the receptacle of bodies deprived of
life, which, from being the seat of beauty and strength, had become
food for the worm. Now I was led to examine the cause and progress of
this decay and forced to spend days and nights in vaults and
charnel-houses. My attention was fixed upon every object the most
insupportable to the delicacy of the human feelings. I saw how the
fine form of man was degraded and wasted; I beheld the corruption of
death succeed to the blooming cheek of life; I saw how the worm
inherited the wonders of the eye and brain. I paused, examining and
analysing all the minutiae of causation, as exemplified in the change
from life to death, and death to life, until from the midst of this
darkness a sudden light broke in upon me—a light so brilliant and
wondrous, yet so simple, that while I became dizzy with the immensity
of the prospect which it illustrated, I was surprised that among so
many men of genius who had directed their inquiries towards the same
science, that I alone should be reserved to discover so astonishing a
secret.

Remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman. The sun does not
more certainly shine in the heavens than that which I now affirm is
true. Some miracle might have produced it, yet the stages of the
discovery were distinct and probable. After days and nights of
incredible labour and fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of
generation and life; nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing
animation upon lifeless matter.

The astonishment which I had at first experienced on this discovery
soon gave place to delight and rapture. After so much time spent in
painful labour, to arrive at once at the summit of my desires was the
most gratifying consummation of my toils. But this discovery was so
great and overwhelming that all the steps by which I had been
progressively led to it were obliterated, and I beheld only the result.
What had been the study and desire of the wisest men since the creation
of the world was now within my grasp. Not that, like a magic scene, it
all opened upon me at once: the information I had obtained was of a
nature rather to direct my endeavours so soon as I should point them
towards the object of my search than to exhibit that object already
accomplished. I was like the Arabian who had been buried with the dead
and found a passage to life, aided only by one glimmering and seemingly
ineffectual light.

I see by your eagerness and the wonder and hope which your eyes
express, my friend, that you expect to be informed of the secret with
which I am acquainted; that cannot be; listen patiently until the end
of my story, and you will easily perceive why I am reserved upon that
subject. I will not lead you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was,
to your destruction and infallible misery. Learn from me, if not by my
precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquirement of
knowledge and how much happier that man is who believes his native town
to be the world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature
will allow.

When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated
a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it.
Although I possessed the capacity of bestowing animation, yet to
prepare a frame for the reception of it, with all its intricacies of
fibres, muscles, and veins, still remained a work of inconceivable
difficulty and labour. I doubted at first whether I should attempt the
creation of a being like myself, or one of simpler organization; but my
imagination was too much exalted by my first success to permit me to
doubt of my ability to give life to an animal as complex and wonderful
as man. The materials at present within my command hardly appeared
adequate to so arduous an undertaking, but I doubted not that I should
ultimately succeed. I prepared myself for a multitude of reverses; my
operations might be incessantly baffled, and at last my work be
imperfect, yet when I considered the improvement which every day takes
place in science and mechanics, I was encouraged to hope my present
attempts would at least lay the foundations of future success. Nor
could I consider the magnitude and complexity of my plan as any
argument of its impracticability. It was with these feelings that I
began the creation of a human being. As the minuteness of the parts
formed a great hindrance to my speed, I resolved, contrary to my first
intention, to make the being of a gigantic stature, that is to say,
about eight feet in height, and proportionably large. After having
formed this determination and having spent some months in successfully
collecting and arranging my materials, I began.

No one can conceive the variety of feelings which bore me onwards, like
a hurricane, in the first enthusiasm of success. Life and death
appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and
pour a torrent of light into our dark world. A new species would bless
me as its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would
owe their being to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his
child so completely as I should deserve theirs. Pursuing these
reflections, I thought that if I could bestow animation upon lifeless
matter, I might in process of time (although I now found it impossible)
renew life where death had apparently devoted the body to corruption.

These thoughts supported my spirits, while I pursued my undertaking
with unremitting ardour. My cheek had grown pale with study, and my
person had become emaciated with confinement. Sometimes, on the very
brink of certainty, I failed; yet still I clung to the hope which the
next day or the next hour might realise. One secret which I alone
possessed was the hope to which I had dedicated myself; and the moon
gazed on my midnight labours, while, with unrelaxed and breathless
eagerness, I pursued nature to her hiding-places. Who shall conceive
the horrors of my secret toil as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps
of the grave or tortured the living animal to animate the lifeless
clay? My limbs now tremble, and my eyes swim with the remembrance; but
then a resistless and almost frantic impulse urged me forward; I seemed
to have lost all soul or sensation but for this one pursuit. It was
indeed but a passing trance, that only made me feel with renewed
acuteness so soon as, the unnatural stimulus ceasing to operate, I had
returned to my old habits. I collected bones from charnel-houses and
disturbed, with profane fingers, the tremendous secrets of the human
frame. In a solitary chamber, or rather cell, at the top of the house,
and separated from all the other apartments by a gallery and staircase,
I kept my workshop of filthy creation; my eyeballs were starting from
their sockets in attending to the details of my employment. The
dissecting room and the slaughter-house furnished many of my materials;
and often did my human nature turn with loathing from my occupation,
whilst, still urged on by an eagerness which perpetually increased, I
brought my work near to a conclusion.

The summer months passed while I was thus engaged, heart and soul, in
one pursuit. It was a most beautiful season; never did the fields
bestow a more plentiful harvest or the vines yield a more luxuriant
vintage, but my eyes were insensible to the charms of nature. And the
same feelings which made me neglect the scenes around me caused me also
to forget those friends who were so many miles absent, and whom I had
not seen for so long a time. I knew my silence disquieted them, and I
well remembered the words of my father: “I know that while you are
pleased with yourself you will think of us with affection, and we shall
hear regularly from you. You must pardon me if I regard any
interruption in your correspondence as a proof that your other duties
are equally neglected.”

I knew well therefore what would be my father’s feelings, but I could
not tear my thoughts from my employment, loathsome in itself, but which
had taken an irresistible hold of my imagination. I wished, as it
were, to procrastinate all that related to my feelings of affection
until the great object, which swallowed up every habit of my nature,
should be completed.

I then thought that my father would be unjust if he ascribed my neglect
to vice or faultiness on my part, but I am now convinced that he was
justified in conceiving that I should not be altogether free from
blame. A human being in perfection ought always to preserve a calm and
peaceful mind and never to allow passion or a transitory desire to
disturb his tranquillity. I do not think that the pursuit of knowledge
is an exception to this rule. If the study to which you apply yourself
has a tendency to weaken your affections and to destroy your taste for
those simple pleasures in which no alloy can possibly mix, then that
study is certainly unlawful, that is to say, not befitting the human
mind. If this rule were always observed; if no man allowed any pursuit
whatsoever to interfere with the tranquillity of his domestic
affections, Greece had not been enslaved, Cæsar would have spared his
country, America would have been discovered more gradually, and the
empires of Mexico and Peru had not been destroyed.

But I forget that I am moralizing in the most interesting part of my
tale, and your looks remind me to proceed.

My father made no reproach in his letters and only took notice of my
silence by inquiring into my occupations more particularly than before.
Winter, spring, and summer passed away during my labours; but I did not
watch the blossom or the expanding leaves—sights which before always
yielded me supreme delight—so deeply was I engrossed in my
occupation. The leaves of that year had withered before my work drew near
to a close, and now every day showed me more plainly how well I had
succeeded. But my enthusiasm was checked by my anxiety, and I appeared
rather like one doomed by slavery to toil in the mines, or any other
unwholesome trade than an artist occupied by his favourite employment.
Every night I was oppressed by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a most
painful degree; the fall of a leaf startled me, and I shunned my fellow
creatures as if I had been guilty of a crime. Sometimes I grew alarmed at
the wreck I perceived that I had become; the energy of my purpose alone
sustained me: my labours would soon end, and I believed that exercise and
amusement would then drive away incipient disease; and I promised myself
both of these when my creation should be complete.




Chapter 5


It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment
of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I
collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a
spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was
already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the
panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the
half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature
open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.

How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate
the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to
form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as
beautiful. Beautiful! Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered
the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous
black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these
luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes,
that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun-white sockets in which
they were set, his shrivelled complexion and straight black lips.

The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings
of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole
purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had
deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardour
that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty
of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my
heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I
rushed out of the room and continued a long time traversing my
bed-chamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude
succeeded to the tumult I had before endured, and I threw myself on the
bed in my clothes, endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness.
But it was in vain; I slept, indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest
dreams. I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in
the streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I embraced her,
but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with
the hue of death; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I
held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her
form, and I saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel.
I started from my sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead, my
teeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed; when, by the dim and
yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window
shutters, I beheld the wretch—the miserable monster whom I had
created. He held up the curtain of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they
may be called, were fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he muttered some
inarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have
spoken, but I did not hear; one hand was stretched out, seemingly to
detain me, but I escaped and rushed downstairs. I took refuge in the
courtyard belonging to the house which I inhabited, where I remained
during the rest of the night, walking up and down in the greatest
agitation, listening attentively, catching and fearing each sound as if
it were to announce the approach of the demoniacal corpse to which I
had so miserably given life.

Oh! No mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A mummy
again endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch. I
had gazed on him while unfinished; he was ugly then, but when those
muscles and joints were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing
such as even Dante could not have conceived.

I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly and
hardly that I felt the palpitation of every artery; at others, I nearly
sank to the ground through languor and extreme weakness. Mingled with
this horror, I felt the bitterness of disappointment; dreams that had
been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space were now become a
hell to me; and the change was so rapid, the overthrow so complete!

Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned and discovered to my
sleepless and aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt, its white steeple
and clock, which indicated the sixth hour. The porter opened the gates
of the court, which had that night been my asylum, and I issued into
the streets, pacing them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the
wretch whom I feared every turning of the street would present to my
view. I did not dare return to the apartment which I inhabited, but
felt impelled to hurry on, although drenched by the rain which poured
from a black and comfortless sky.

I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavouring by
bodily exercise to ease the load that weighed upon my mind. I
traversed the streets without any clear conception of where I was or
what I was doing. My heart palpitated in the sickness of fear, and I
hurried on with irregular steps, not daring to look about me:
 
 Like one who, on a lonely road,
 Doth walk in fear and dread,
 And, having once turned round, walks on,
 And turns no more his head;
 Because he knows a frightful fiend
 Doth close behind him tread.
 
 [Coleridge’s “Ancient Mariner.”]



Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at which the various
diligences and carriages usually stopped. Here I paused, I knew not why;
but I remained some minutes with my eyes fixed on a coach that was coming
towards me from the other end of the street. As it drew nearer I observed
that it was the Swiss diligence; it stopped just where I was standing, and
on the door being opened, I perceived Henry Clerval, who, on seeing me,
instantly sprung out. “My dear Frankenstein,” exclaimed he,
“how glad I am to see you! How fortunate that you should be here at
the very moment of my alighting!”

Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his presence brought back
to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those scenes of home so dear
to my recollection. I grasped his hand, and in a moment forgot my horror
and misfortune; I felt suddenly, and for the first time during many months,
calm and serene joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore, in the most cordial
manner, and we walked towards my college. Clerval continued talking for
some time about our mutual friends and his own good fortune in being
permitted to come to Ingolstadt. “You may easily believe,” said
he, “how great was the difficulty to persuade my father that all
necessary knowledge was not comprised in the noble art of book-keeping;
and, indeed, I believe I left him incredulous to the last, for his constant
answer to my unwearied entreaties was the same as that of the Dutch
schoolmaster in The Vicar of Wakefield: ‘I have ten thousand florins
a year without Greek, I eat heartily without Greek.’ But his
affection for me at length overcame his dislike of learning, and he has
permitted me to undertake a voyage of discovery to the land of
knowledge.”

“It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me how you left
my father, brothers, and Elizabeth.”

“Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they hear from
you so seldom. By the by, I mean to lecture you a little upon their
account myself. But, my dear Frankenstein,” continued he, stopping
short and gazing full in my face, “I did not before remark how very ill
you appear; so thin and pale; you look as if you had been watching for
several nights.”

“You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply engaged in one
occupation that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest, as you see;
but I hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments are now at an
end and that I am at length free.”

I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far less to
allude to, the occurrences of the preceding night. I walked with a
quick pace, and we soon arrived at my college. I then reflected, and
the thought made me shiver, that the creature whom I had left in my
apartment might still be there, alive and walking about. I dreaded to
behold this monster, but I feared still more that Henry should see him.
Entreating him, therefore, to remain a few minutes at the bottom of the
stairs, I darted up towards my own room. My hand was already on the
lock of the door before I recollected myself. I then paused, and a
cold shivering came over me. I threw the door forcibly open, as
children are accustomed to do when they expect a spectre to stand in
waiting for them on the other side; but nothing appeared. I stepped
fearfully in: the apartment was empty, and my bedroom was also freed
from its hideous guest. I could hardly believe that so great a good
fortune could have befallen me, but when I became assured that my enemy
had indeed fled, I clapped my hands for joy and ran down to Clerval.

We ascended into my room, and the servant presently brought breakfast;
but I was unable to contain myself. It was not joy only that possessed
me; I felt my flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse
beat rapidly. I was unable to remain for a single instant in the same
place; I jumped over the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud.
Clerval at first attributed my unusual spirits to joy on his arrival,
but when he observed me more attentively, he saw a wildness in my eyes
for which he could not account, and my loud, unrestrained, heartless
laughter frightened and astonished him.

“My dear Victor,” cried he, “what, for God’s sake,
is the matter? Do not laugh in that manner. How ill you are! What is the
cause of all this?”

“Do not ask me,” cried I, putting my hands before my eyes, for I
thought I saw the dreaded spectre glide into the room; “_he_ can
tell. Oh, save me! Save me!” I imagined that the monster seized me;
I struggled furiously and fell down in a fit.

Poor Clerval! What must have been his feelings? A meeting, which he
anticipated with such joy, so strangely turned to bitterness. But I
was not the witness of his grief, for I was lifeless and did not
recover my senses for a long, long time.

This was the commencement of a nervous fever which confined me for
several months. During all that time Henry was my only nurse. I
afterwards learned that, knowing my father’s advanced age and unfitness
for so long a journey, and how wretched my sickness would make
Elizabeth, he spared them this grief by concealing the extent of my
disorder. He knew that I could not have a more kind and attentive
nurse than himself; and, firm in the hope he felt of my recovery, he
did not doubt that, instead of doing harm, he performed the kindest
action that he could towards them.

But I was in reality very ill, and surely nothing but the unbounded and
unremitting attentions of my friend could have restored me to life.
The form of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence was for ever
before my eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning him. Doubtless my
words surprised Henry; he at first believed them to be the wanderings
of my disturbed imagination, but the pertinacity with which I
continually recurred to the same subject persuaded him that my disorder
indeed owed its origin to some uncommon and terrible event.

By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses that alarmed and
grieved my friend, I recovered. I remember the first time I became
capable of observing outward objects with any kind of pleasure, I
perceived that the fallen leaves had disappeared and that the young
buds were shooting forth from the trees that shaded my window. It was
a divine spring, and the season contributed greatly to my
convalescence. I felt also sentiments of joy and affection revive in
my bosom; my gloom disappeared, and in a short time I became as
cheerful as before I was attacked by the fatal passion.

“Dearest Clerval,” exclaimed I, “how kind, how very good
you are to me. This whole winter, instead of being spent in study, as you
promised yourself, has been consumed in my sick room. How shall I ever
repay you? I feel the greatest remorse for the disappointment of which I
have been the occasion, but you will forgive me.”

“You will repay me entirely if you do not discompose yourself, but get
well as fast as you can; and since you appear in such good spirits, I
may speak to you on one subject, may I not?”

I trembled. One subject! What could it be? Could he allude to an object on
whom I dared not even think?

“Compose yourself,” said Clerval, who observed my change of
colour, “I will not mention it if it agitates you; but your father
and cousin would be very happy if they received a letter from you in your
own handwriting. They hardly know how ill you have been and are uneasy at
your long silence.”

“Is that all, my dear Henry? How could you suppose that my first
thought would not fly towards those dear, dear friends whom I love and
who are so deserving of my love?”

“If this is your present temper, my friend, you will perhaps be glad
to see a letter that has been lying here some days for you; it is from
your cousin, I believe.”




Chapter 6


Clerval then put the following letter into my hands. It was from my
own Elizabeth:

“My dearest Cousin,

“You have been ill, very ill, and even the constant letters of dear
kind Henry are not sufficient to reassure me on your account. You are
forbidden to write—to hold a pen; yet one word from you, dear Victor,
is necessary to calm our apprehensions. For a long time I have thought
that each post would bring this line, and my persuasions have
restrained my uncle from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. I have
prevented his encountering the inconveniences and perhaps dangers of so
long a journey, yet how often have I regretted not being able to
perform it myself! I figure to myself that the task of attending on
your sickbed has devolved on some mercenary old nurse, who could never
guess your wishes nor minister to them with the care and affection of
your poor cousin. Yet that is over now: Clerval writes that indeed
you are getting better. I eagerly hope that you will confirm this
intelligence soon in your own handwriting.

“Get well—and return to us. You will find a happy, cheerful home and
friends who love you dearly. Your father’s health is vigorous, and he
asks but to see you, but to be assured that you are well; and not a
care will ever cloud his benevolent countenance. How pleased you would
be to remark the improvement of our Ernest! He is now sixteen and full
of activity and spirit. He is desirous to be a true Swiss and to enter
into foreign service, but we cannot part with him, at least until his
elder brother returns to us. My uncle is not pleased with the idea of
a military career in a distant country, but Ernest never had your
powers of application. He looks upon study as an odious fetter; his
time is spent in the open air, climbing the hills or rowing on the
lake. I fear that he will become an idler unless we yield the point
and permit him to enter on the profession which he has selected.

“Little alteration, except the growth of our dear children, has taken
place since you left us. The blue lake and snow-clad mountains—they
never change; and I think our placid home and our contented hearts are
regulated by the same immutable laws. My trifling occupations take up
my time and amuse me, and I am rewarded for any exertions by seeing
none but happy, kind faces around me. Since you left us, but one
change has taken place in our little household. Do you remember on
what occasion Justine Moritz entered our family? Probably you do not;
I will relate her history, therefore in a few words. Madame Moritz,
her mother, was a widow with four children, of whom Justine was the
third. This girl had always been the favourite of her father, but
through a strange perversity, her mother could not endure her, and
after the death of M. Moritz, treated her very ill. My aunt observed
this, and when Justine was twelve years of age, prevailed on her mother
to allow her to live at our house. The republican institutions of our
country have produced simpler and happier manners than those which
prevail in the great monarchies that surround it. Hence there is less
distinction between the several classes of its inhabitants; and the
lower orders, being neither so poor nor so despised, their manners are
more refined and moral. A servant in Geneva does not mean the same
thing as a servant in France and England. Justine, thus received in
our family, learned the duties of a servant, a condition which, in our
fortunate country, does not include the idea of ignorance and a
sacrifice of the dignity of a human being.

“Justine, you may remember, was a great favourite of yours; and I
recollect you once remarked that if you were in an ill humour, one
glance from Justine could dissipate it, for the same reason that
Ariosto gives concerning the beauty of Angelica—she looked so
frank-hearted and happy. My aunt conceived a great attachment for her,
by which she was induced to give her an education superior to that
which she had at first intended. This benefit was fully repaid;
Justine was the most grateful little creature in the world: I do not
mean that she made any professions I never heard one pass her lips, but
you could see by her eyes that she almost adored her protectress.
Although her disposition was gay and in many respects inconsiderate,
yet she paid the greatest attention to every gesture of my aunt. She
thought her the model of all excellence and endeavoured to imitate her
phraseology and manners, so that even now she often reminds me of her.

“When my dearest aunt died every one was too much occupied in their own
grief to notice poor Justine, who had attended her during her illness
with the most anxious affection. Poor Justine was very ill; but other
trials were reserved for her.

“One by one, her brothers and sister died; and her mother, with the
exception of her neglected daughter, was left childless. The
conscience of the woman was troubled; she began to think that the
deaths of her favourites was a judgement from heaven to chastise her
partiality. She was a Roman Catholic; and I believe her confessor
confirmed the idea which she had conceived. Accordingly, a few months
after your departure for Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by her
repentant mother. Poor girl! She wept when she quitted our house; she
was much altered since the death of my aunt; grief had given softness
and a winning mildness to her manners, which had before been remarkable
for vivacity. Nor was her residence at her mother’s house of a nature
to restore her gaiety. The poor woman was very vacillating in her
repentance. She sometimes begged Justine to forgive her unkindness,
but much oftener accused her of having caused the deaths of her
brothers and sister. Perpetual fretting at length threw Madame Moritz
into a decline, which at first increased her irritability, but she is
now at peace for ever. She died on the first approach of cold weather,
at the beginning of this last winter. Justine has just returned to us;
and I assure you I love her tenderly. She is very clever and gentle,
and extremely pretty; as I mentioned before, her mien and her
expression continually remind me of my dear aunt.

“I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin, of little darling
William. I wish you could see him; he is very tall of his age, with
sweet laughing blue eyes, dark eyelashes, and curling hair. When he
smiles, two little dimples appear on each cheek, which are rosy with
health. He has already had one or two little _wives,_ but Louisa Biron
is his favourite, a pretty little girl of five years of age.

“Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged in a little
gossip concerning the good people of Geneva. The pretty Miss Mansfield
has already received the congratulatory visits on her approaching
marriage with a young Englishman, John Melbourne, Esq. Her ugly
sister, Manon, married M. Duvillard, the rich banker, last autumn. Your
favourite schoolfellow, Louis Manoir, has suffered several misfortunes
since the departure of Clerval from Geneva. But he has already
recovered his spirits, and is reported to be on the point of marrying a
lively pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier. She is a widow, and much
older than Manoir; but she is very much admired, and a favourite with
everybody.

“I have written myself into better spirits, dear cousin; but my anxiety
returns upon me as I conclude. Write, dearest Victor,—one line—one
word will be a blessing to us. Ten thousand thanks to Henry for his
kindness, his affection, and his many letters; we are sincerely
grateful. Adieu! my cousin; take care of yourself; and, I entreat
you, write!

“Elizabeth Lavenza.


“Geneva, March 18th, 17—.”



“Dear, dear Elizabeth!” I exclaimed, when I had read her
letter: “I will write instantly and relieve them from the anxiety
they must feel.” I wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued me; but
my convalescence had commenced, and proceeded regularly. In another
fortnight I was able to leave my chamber.

One of my first duties on my recovery was to introduce Clerval to the
several professors of the university. In doing this, I underwent a
kind of rough usage, ill befitting the wounds that my mind had
sustained. Ever since the fatal night, the end of my labours, and the
beginning of my misfortunes, I had conceived a violent antipathy even
to the name of natural philosophy. When I was otherwise quite restored
to health, the sight of a chemical instrument would renew all the agony
of my nervous symptoms. Henry saw this, and had removed all my
apparatus from my view. He had also changed my apartment; for he
perceived that I had acquired a dislike for the room which had
previously been my laboratory. But these cares of Clerval were made of
no avail when I visited the professors. M. Waldman inflicted torture
when he praised, with kindness and warmth, the astonishing progress I
had made in the sciences. He soon perceived that I disliked the
subject; but not guessing the real cause, he attributed my feelings to
modesty, and changed the subject from my improvement, to the science
itself, with a desire, as I evidently saw, of drawing me out. What
could I do? He meant to please, and he tormented me. I felt as if he
had placed carefully, one by one, in my view those instruments which
were to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel death. I
writhed under his words, yet dared not exhibit the pain I felt.
Clerval, whose eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning the
sensations of others, declined the subject, alleging, in excuse, his
total ignorance; and the conversation took a more general turn. I
thanked my friend from my heart, but I did not speak. I saw plainly
that he was surprised, but he never attempted to draw my secret from
me; and although I loved him with a mixture of affection and reverence
that knew no bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to confide in
him that event which was so often present to my recollection, but which
I feared the detail to another would only impress more deeply.

M. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my condition at that time, of
almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me even
more pain than the benevolent approbation of M. Waldman. “D—n
the fellow!” cried he; “why, M. Clerval, I assure you he has
outstript us all. Ay, stare if you please; but it is nevertheless true. A
youngster who, but a few years ago, believed in Cornelius Agrippa as firmly
as in the gospel, has now set himself at the head of the university; and if
he is not soon pulled down, we shall all be out of countenance.—Ay,
ay,” continued he, observing my face expressive of suffering,
“M. Frankenstein is modest; an excellent quality in a young man.
Young men should be diffident of themselves, you know, M. Clerval: I was
myself when young; but that wears out in a very short time.”

M. Krempe had now commenced an eulogy on himself, which happily turned
the conversation from a subject that was so annoying to me.

Clerval had never sympathised in my tastes for natural science; and his
literary pursuits differed wholly from those which had occupied me. He
came to the university with the design of making himself complete
master of the oriental languages, and thus he should open a field for
the plan of life he had marked out for himself. Resolved to pursue no
inglorious career, he turned his eyes toward the East, as affording
scope for his spirit of enterprise. The Persian, Arabic, and Sanskrit
languages engaged his attention, and I was easily induced to enter on
the same studies. Idleness had ever been irksome to me, and now that I
wished to fly from reflection, and hated my former studies, I felt
great relief in being the fellow-pupil with my friend, and found not
only instruction but consolation in the works of the orientalists. I
did not, like him, attempt a critical knowledge of their dialects, for
I did not contemplate making any other use of them than temporary
amusement. I read merely to understand their meaning, and they well
repaid my labours. Their melancholy is soothing, and their joy
elevating, to a degree I never experienced in studying the authors of
any other country. When you read their writings, life appears to
consist in a warm sun and a garden of roses,—in the smiles and frowns
of a fair enemy, and the fire that consumes your own heart. How
different from the manly and heroical poetry of Greece and Rome!

Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return to Geneva was
fixed for the latter end of autumn; but being delayed by several
accidents, winter and snow arrived, the roads were deemed impassable,
and my journey was retarded until the ensuing spring. I felt this
delay very bitterly; for I longed to see my native town and my beloved
friends. My return had only been delayed so long, from an
unwillingness to leave Clerval in a strange place, before he had become
acquainted with any of its inhabitants. The winter, however, was spent
cheerfully; and although the spring was uncommonly late, when it came
its beauty compensated for its dilatoriness.

The month of May had already commenced, and I expected the letter daily
which was to fix the date of my departure, when Henry proposed a
pedestrian tour in the environs of Ingolstadt, that I might bid a
personal farewell to the country I had so long inhabited. I acceded
with pleasure to this proposition: I was fond of exercise, and Clerval
had always been my favourite companion in the ramble of this nature
that I had taken among the scenes of my native country.

We passed a fortnight in these perambulations: my health and spirits
had long been restored, and they gained additional strength from the
salubrious air I breathed, the natural incidents of our progress, and
the conversation of my friend. Study had before secluded me from the
intercourse of my fellow-creatures, and rendered me unsocial; but
Clerval called forth the better feelings of my heart; he again taught
me to love the aspect of nature, and the cheerful faces of children.
Excellent friend! how sincerely you did love me, and endeavour to
elevate my mind until it was on a level with your own. A selfish
pursuit had cramped and narrowed me, until your gentleness and
affection warmed and opened my senses; I became the same happy creature
who, a few years ago, loved and beloved by all, had no sorrow or care.
When happy, inanimate nature had the power of bestowing on me the most
delightful sensations. A serene sky and verdant fields filled me with
ecstasy. The present season was indeed divine; the flowers of spring
bloomed in the hedges, while those of summer were already in bud. I
was undisturbed by thoughts which during the preceding year had pressed
upon me, notwithstanding my endeavours to throw them off, with an
invincible burden.

Henry rejoiced in my gaiety, and sincerely sympathised in my feelings: he
exerted himself to amuse me, while he expressed the sensations that filled
his soul. The resources of his mind on this occasion were truly
astonishing: his conversation was full of imagination; and very often, in
imitation of the Persian and Arabic writers, he invented tales of wonderful
fancy and passion. At other times he repeated my favourite poems, or drew
me out into arguments, which he supported with great ingenuity.

We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon: the peasants were
dancing, and every one we met appeared gay and happy. My own spirits were
high, and I bounded along with feelings of unbridled joy and hilarity.




Chapter 7


On my return, I found the following letter from my father:—

“My dear Victor,

“You have probably waited impatiently for a letter to fix the date of
your return to us; and I was at first tempted to write only a few
lines, merely mentioning the day on which I should expect you. But
that would be a cruel kindness, and I dare not do it. What would be
your surprise, my son, when you expected a happy and glad welcome, to
behold, on the contrary, tears and wretchedness? And how, Victor, can
I relate our misfortune? Absence cannot have rendered you callous to
our joys and griefs; and how shall I inflict pain on my long absent
son? I wish to prepare you for the woeful news, but I know it is
impossible; even now your eye skims over the page to seek the words
which are to convey to you the horrible tidings.

“William is dead!—that sweet child, whose smiles delighted and warmed
my heart, who was so gentle, yet so gay! Victor, he is murdered!

“I will not attempt to console you; but will simply relate the
circumstances of the transaction.

“Last Thursday (May 7th), I, my niece, and your two brothers, went to
walk in Plainpalais. The evening was warm and serene, and we prolonged
our walk farther than usual. It was already dusk before we thought of
returning; and then we discovered that William and Ernest, who had gone
on before, were not to be found. We accordingly rested on a seat until
they should return. Presently Ernest came, and enquired if we had seen
his brother; he said, that he had been playing with him, that William
had run away to hide himself, and that he vainly sought for him, and
afterwards waited for a long time, but that he did not return.

“This account rather alarmed us, and we continued to search for him
until night fell, when Elizabeth conjectured that he might have
returned to the house. He was not there. We returned again, with
torches; for I could not rest, when I thought that my sweet boy had
lost himself, and was exposed to all the damps and dews of night;
Elizabeth also suffered extreme anguish. About five in the morning I
discovered my lovely boy, whom the night before I had seen blooming and
active in health, stretched on the grass livid and motionless; the
print of the murder’s finger was on his neck.

“He was conveyed home, and the anguish that was visible in my
countenance betrayed the secret to Elizabeth. She was very earnest to
see the corpse. At first I attempted to prevent her but she persisted,
and entering the room where it lay, hastily examined the neck of the
victim, and clasping her hands exclaimed, ‘O God! I have murdered my
darling child!’

“She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty. When she again
lived, it was only to weep and sigh. She told me, that that same
evening William had teased her to let him wear a very valuable
miniature that she possessed of your mother. This picture is gone, and
was doubtless the temptation which urged the murderer to the deed. We
have no trace of him at present, although our exertions to discover him
are unremitted; but they will not restore my beloved William!

“Come, dearest Victor; you alone can console Elizabeth. She weeps
continually, and accuses herself unjustly as the cause of his death;
her words pierce my heart. We are all unhappy; but will not that be an
additional motive for you, my son, to return and be our comforter?
Your dear mother! Alas, Victor! I now say, Thank God she did not live
to witness the cruel, miserable death of her youngest darling!

“Come, Victor; not brooding thoughts of vengeance against the assassin,
but with feelings of peace and gentleness, that will heal, instead of
festering, the wounds of our minds. Enter the house of mourning, my
friend, but with kindness and affection for those who love you, and not
with hatred for your enemies.

“Your affectionate and afflicted father,

“Alphonse Frankenstein.



“Geneva, May 12th, 17—.”



Clerval, who had watched my countenance as I read this letter, was
surprised to observe the despair that succeeded the joy I at first
expressed on receiving news from my friends. I threw the letter on the
table, and covered my face with my hands.

“My dear Frankenstein,” exclaimed Henry, when he perceived me
weep with bitterness, “are you always to be unhappy? My dear friend,
what has happened?”

I motioned him to take up the letter, while I walked up and down the
room in the extremest agitation. Tears also gushed from the eyes of
Clerval, as he read the account of my misfortune.

“I can offer you no consolation, my friend,” said he;
“your disaster is irreparable. What do you intend to do?”

“To go instantly to Geneva: come with me, Henry, to order the horses.”

During our walk, Clerval endeavoured to say a few words of consolation;
he could only express his heartfelt sympathy. “Poor William!” said he,
“dear lovely child, he now sleeps with his angel mother! Who that had
seen him bright and joyous in his young beauty, but must weep over his
untimely loss! To die so miserably; to feel the murderer’s grasp! How
much more a murdered that could destroy radiant innocence! Poor little
fellow! one only consolation have we; his friends mourn and weep, but
he is at rest. The pang is over, his sufferings are at an end for ever.
A sod covers his gentle form, and he knows no pain. He can no longer
be a subject for pity; we must reserve that for his miserable
survivors.”

Clerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets; the words
impressed themselves on my mind and I remembered them afterwards in
solitude. But now, as soon as the horses arrived, I hurried into a
cabriolet, and bade farewell to my friend.

My journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hurry on, for I longed
to console and sympathise with my loved and sorrowing friends; but when I
drew near my native town, I slackened my progress. I could hardly sustain
the multitude of feelings that crowded into my mind. I passed through
scenes familiar to my youth, but which I had not seen for nearly six years.
How altered every thing might be during that time! One sudden and
desolating change had taken place; but a thousand little circumstances
might have by degrees worked other alterations, which, although they were
done more tranquilly, might not be the less decisive. Fear overcame me; I
dared no advance, dreading a thousand nameless evils that made me tremble,
although I was unable to define them.

I remained two days at Lausanne, in this painful state of mind. I
contemplated the lake: the waters were placid; all around was calm; and the
snowy mountains, “the palaces of nature,” were not changed. By
degrees the calm and heavenly scene restored me, and I continued my journey
towards Geneva.

The road ran by the side of the lake, which became narrower as I
approached my native town. I discovered more distinctly the black
sides of Jura, and the bright summit of Mont Blanc. I wept like a
child. “Dear mountains! my own beautiful lake! how do you welcome your
wanderer? Your summits are clear; the sky and lake are blue and
placid. Is this to prognosticate peace, or to mock at my unhappiness?”

I fear, my friend, that I shall render myself tedious by dwelling on
these preliminary circumstances; but they were days of comparative
happiness, and I think of them with pleasure. My country, my beloved
country! who but a native can tell the delight I took in again
beholding thy streams, thy mountains, and, more than all, thy lovely
lake!

Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame me. Night also
closed around; and when I could hardly see the dark mountains, I felt still
more gloomily. The picture appeared a vast and dim scene of evil, and I
foresaw obscurely that I was destined to become the most wretched of human
beings. Alas! I prophesied truly, and failed only in one single
circumstance, that in all the misery I imagined and dreaded, I did not
conceive the hundredth part of the anguish I was destined to endure.

It was completely dark when I arrived in the environs of Geneva; the gates
of the town were already shut; and I was obliged to pass the night at
Secheron, a village at the distance of half a league from the city. The sky
was serene; and, as I was unable to rest, I resolved to visit the spot
where my poor William had been murdered. As I could not pass through the
town, I was obliged to cross the lake in a boat to arrive at Plainpalais.
During this short voyage I saw the lightning playing on the summit of Mont
Blanc in the most beautiful figures. The storm appeared to approach
rapidly, and, on landing, I ascended a low hill, that I might observe its
progress. It advanced; the heavens were clouded, and I soon felt the rain
coming slowly in large drops, but its violence quickly increased.

I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness and storm
increased every minute, and the thunder burst with a terrific crash
over my head. It was echoed from Salêve, the Juras, and the Alps of
Savoy; vivid flashes of lightning dazzled my eyes, illuminating the
lake, making it appear like a vast sheet of fire; then for an instant
every thing seemed of a pitchy darkness, until the eye recovered itself
from the preceding flash. The storm, as is often the case in
Switzerland, appeared at once in various parts of the heavens. The
most violent storm hung exactly north of the town, over the part of the
lake which lies between the promontory of Belrive and the village of
Copêt. Another storm enlightened Jura with faint flashes; and another
darkened and sometimes disclosed the Môle, a peaked mountain to the
east of the lake.

While I watched the tempest, so beautiful yet terrific, I wandered on with
a hasty step. This noble war in the sky elevated my spirits; I clasped my
hands, and exclaimed aloud, “William, dear angel! this is thy
funeral, this thy dirge!” As I said these words, I perceived in the
gloom a figure which stole from behind a clump of trees near me; I stood
fixed, gazing intently: I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning
illuminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to me; its
gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect more hideous than belongs
to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch, the filthy
dæmon, to whom I had given life. What did he there? Could he be (I
shuddered at the conception) the murderer of my brother? No sooner did that
idea cross my imagination, than I became convinced of its truth; my teeth
chattered, and I was forced to lean against a tree for support. The figure
passed me quickly, and I lost it in the gloom. Nothing in human shape could
have destroyed the fair child. _He_ was the murderer! I could not
doubt it. The mere presence of the idea was an irresistible proof of the
fact. I thought of pursuing the devil; but it would have been in vain, for
another flash discovered him to me hanging among the rocks of the nearly
perpendicular ascent of Mont Salêve, a hill that bounds Plainpalais on the
south. He soon reached the summit, and disappeared.

I remained motionless. The thunder ceased; but the rain still
continued, and the scene was enveloped in an impenetrable darkness. I
revolved in my mind the events which I had until now sought to forget:
the whole train of my progress toward the creation; the appearance of
the works of my own hands at my bedside; its departure. Two years had
now nearly elapsed since the night on which he first received life; and
was this his first crime? Alas! I had turned loose into the world a
depraved wretch, whose delight was in carnage and misery; had he not
murdered my brother?

No one can conceive the anguish I suffered during the remainder of the
night, which I spent, cold and wet, in the open air. But I did not
feel the inconvenience of the weather; my imagination was busy in
scenes of evil and despair. I considered the being whom I had cast
among mankind, and endowed with the will and power to effect purposes
of horror, such as the deed which he had now done, nearly in the light
of my own vampire, my own spirit let loose from the grave, and forced
to destroy all that was dear to me.

Day dawned; and I directed my steps towards the town. The gates were
open, and I hastened to my father’s house. My first thought was to
discover what I knew of the murderer, and cause instant pursuit to be
made. But I paused when I reflected on the story that I had to tell. A
being whom I myself had formed, and endued with life, had met me at
midnight among the precipices of an inaccessible mountain. I
remembered also the nervous fever with which I had been seized just at
the time that I dated my creation, and which would give an air of
delirium to a tale otherwise so utterly improbable. I well knew that
if any other had communicated such a relation to me, I should have
looked upon it as the ravings of insanity. Besides, the strange nature
of the animal would elude all pursuit, even if I were so far credited
as to persuade my relatives to commence it. And then of what use would
be pursuit? Who could arrest a creature capable of scaling the
overhanging sides of Mont Salêve? These reflections determined me, and
I resolved to remain silent.

It was about five in the morning when I entered my father’s house. I
told the servants not to disturb the family, and went into the library
to attend their usual hour of rising.

Six years had elapsed, passed in a dream but for one indelible trace, and I
stood in the same place where I had last embraced my father before my
departure for Ingolstadt. Beloved and venerable parent! He still remained
to me. I gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood over the
mantel-piece. It was an historical subject, painted at my father’s
desire, and represented Caroline Beaufort in an agony of despair, kneeling
by the coffin of her dead father. Her garb was rustic, and her cheek pale;
but there was an air of dignity and beauty, that hardly permitted the
sentiment of pity. Below this picture was a miniature of William; and my
tears flowed when I looked upon it. While I was thus engaged, Ernest
entered: he had heard me arrive, and hastened to welcome me:
“Welcome, my dearest Victor,” said he. “Ah! I wish you
had come three months ago, and then you would have found us all joyous and
delighted. You come to us now to share a misery which nothing can
alleviate; yet your presence will, I hope, revive our father, who seems
sinking under his misfortune; and your persuasions will induce poor
Elizabeth to cease her vain and tormenting self-accusations.—Poor
William! he was our darling and our pride!”

Tears, unrestrained, fell from my brother’s eyes; a sense of mortal
agony crept over my frame. Before, I had only imagined the
wretchedness of my desolated home; the reality came on me as a new, and
a not less terrible, disaster. I tried to calm Ernest; I enquired more
minutely concerning my father, and here I named my cousin.

“She most of all,” said Ernest, “requires consolation; she accused
herself of having caused the death of my brother, and that made her
very wretched. But since the murderer has been discovered—”

“The murderer discovered! Good God! how can that be? who could attempt
to pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well try to overtake the
winds, or confine a mountain-stream with a straw. I saw him too; he
was free last night!”

“I do not know what you mean,” replied my brother, in accents of
wonder, “but to us the discovery we have made completes our misery. No
one would believe it at first; and even now Elizabeth will not be
convinced, notwithstanding all the evidence. Indeed, who would credit
that Justine Moritz, who was so amiable, and fond of all the family,
could suddenly become so capable of so frightful, so appalling a crime?”

“Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the accused? But it is
wrongfully; every one knows that; no one believes it, surely, Ernest?”

“No one did at first; but several circumstances came out, that have
almost forced conviction upon us; and her own behaviour has been so
confused, as to add to the evidence of facts a weight that, I fear,
leaves no hope for doubt. But she will be tried today, and you will
then hear all.”

He then related that, the morning on which the murder of poor William
had been discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and confined to her
bed for several days. During this interval, one of the servants,
happening to examine the apparel she had worn on the night of the
murder, had discovered in her pocket the picture of my mother, which
had been judged to be the temptation of the murderer. The servant
instantly showed it to one of the others, who, without saying a word to
any of the family, went to a magistrate; and, upon their deposition,
Justine was apprehended. On being charged with the fact, the poor girl
confirmed the suspicion in a great measure by her extreme confusion of
manner.

This was a strange tale, but it did not shake my faith; and I replied
earnestly, “You are all mistaken; I know the murderer. Justine, poor,
good Justine, is innocent.”

At that instant my father entered. I saw unhappiness deeply impressed
on his countenance, but he endeavoured to welcome me cheerfully; and,
after we had exchanged our mournful greeting, would have introduced
some other topic than that of our disaster, had not Ernest exclaimed,
“Good God, papa! Victor says that he knows who was the murderer of
poor William.”

“We do also, unfortunately,” replied my father, “for indeed I had
rather have been for ever ignorant than have discovered so much
depravity and ungratitude in one I valued so highly.”

“My dear father, you are mistaken; Justine is innocent.”

“If she is, God forbid that she should suffer as guilty. She is to be
tried today, and I hope, I sincerely hope, that she will be acquitted.”

This speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced in my own mind that
Justine, and indeed every human being, was guiltless of this murder. I
had no fear, therefore, that any circumstantial evidence could be
brought forward strong enough to convict her. My tale was not one to
announce publicly; its astounding horror would be looked upon as
madness by the vulgar. Did any one indeed exist, except I, the
creator, who would believe, unless his senses convinced him, in the
existence of the living monument of presumption and rash ignorance
which I had let loose upon the world?

We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had altered her since I last
beheld her; it had endowed her with loveliness surpassing the beauty of
her childish years. There was the same candour, the same vivacity, but
it was allied to an expression more full of sensibility and intellect.
She welcomed me with the greatest affection. “Your arrival, my dear
cousin,” said she, “fills me with hope. You perhaps will find some
means to justify my poor guiltless Justine. Alas! who is safe, if she
be convicted of crime? I rely on her innocence as certainly as I do
upon my own. Our misfortune is doubly hard to us; we have not only
lost that lovely darling boy, but this poor girl, whom I sincerely
love, is to be torn away by even a worse fate. If she is condemned, I
never shall know joy more. But she will not, I am sure she will not;
and then I shall be happy again, even after the sad death of my little
William.”

“She is innocent, my Elizabeth,” said I, “and that shall
be proved; fear nothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the assurance
of her acquittal.”

“How kind and generous you are! every one else believes in her guilt,
and that made me wretched, for I knew that it was impossible: and to
see every one else prejudiced in so deadly a manner rendered me
hopeless and despairing.” She wept.

“Dearest niece,” said my father, “dry your tears. If she
is, as you believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our laws, and the
activity with which I shall prevent the slightest shadow of
partiality.”




Chapter 8


We passed a few sad hours until eleven o’clock, when the trial was to
commence. My father and the rest of the family being obliged to attend
as witnesses, I accompanied them to the court. During the whole of
this wretched mockery of justice I suffered living torture. It was to
be decided whether the result of my curiosity and lawless devices would
cause the death of two of my fellow beings: one a smiling babe full of
innocence and joy, the other far more dreadfully murdered, with every
aggravation of infamy that could make the murder memorable in horror.
Justine also was a girl of merit and possessed qualities which promised
to render her life happy; now all was to be obliterated in an
ignominious grave, and I the cause! A thousand times rather would I
have confessed myself guilty of the crime ascribed to Justine, but I
was absent when it was committed, and such a declaration would have
been considered as the ravings of a madman and would not have
exculpated her who suffered through me.

The appearance of Justine was calm. She was dressed in mourning, and
her countenance, always engaging, was rendered, by the solemnity of her
feelings, exquisitely beautiful. Yet she appeared confident in
innocence and did not tremble, although gazed on and execrated by
thousands, for all the kindness which her beauty might otherwise have
excited was obliterated in the minds of the spectators by the
imagination of the enormity she was supposed to have committed. She
was tranquil, yet her tranquillity was evidently constrained; and as
her confusion had before been adduced as a proof of her guilt, she
worked up her mind to an appearance of courage. When she entered the
court she threw her eyes round it and quickly discovered where we were
seated. A tear seemed to dim her eye when she saw us, but she quickly
recovered herself, and a look of sorrowful affection seemed to attest
her utter guiltlessness.

The trial began, and after the advocate against her had stated the
charge, several witnesses were called. Several strange facts combined
against her, which might have staggered anyone who had not such proof
of her innocence as I had. She had been out the whole of the night on
which the murder had been committed and towards morning had been
perceived by a market-woman not far from the spot where the body of the
murdered child had been afterwards found. The woman asked her what she
did there, but she looked very strangely and only returned a confused
and unintelligible answer. She returned to the house about eight
o’clock, and when one inquired where she had passed the night, she
replied that she had been looking for the child and demanded earnestly
if anything had been heard concerning him. When shown the body, she
fell into violent hysterics and kept her bed for several days. The
picture was then produced which the servant had found in her pocket;
and when Elizabeth, in a faltering voice, proved that it was the same
which, an hour before the child had been missed, she had placed round
his neck, a murmur of horror and indignation filled the court.

Justine was called on for her defence. As the trial had proceeded, her
countenance had altered. Surprise, horror, and misery were strongly
expressed. Sometimes she struggled with her tears, but when she was
desired to plead, she collected her powers and spoke in an audible
although variable voice.

“God knows,” she said, “how entirely I am innocent. But I
do not pretend that my protestations should acquit me; I rest my innocence
on a plain and simple explanation of the facts which have been adduced
against me, and I hope the character I have always borne will incline my
judges to a favourable interpretation where any circumstance appears
doubtful or suspicious.”

She then related that, by the permission of Elizabeth, she had passed
the evening of the night on which the murder had been committed at the
house of an aunt at Chêne, a village situated at about a league from
Geneva. On her return, at about nine o’clock, she met a man who asked
her if she had seen anything of the child who was lost. She was
alarmed by this account and passed several hours in looking for him,
when the gates of Geneva were shut, and she was forced to remain
several hours of the night in a barn belonging to a cottage, being
unwilling to call up the inhabitants, to whom she was well known. Most
of the night she spent here watching; towards morning she believed that
she slept for a few minutes; some steps disturbed her, and she awoke.
It was dawn, and she quitted her asylum, that she might again endeavour
to find my brother. If she had gone near the spot where his body lay,
it was without her knowledge. That she had been bewildered when
questioned by the market-woman was not surprising, since she had passed
a sleepless night and the fate of poor William was yet uncertain.
Concerning the picture she could give no account.

“I know,” continued the unhappy victim, “how heavily and
fatally this one circumstance weighs against me, but I have no power of
explaining it; and when I have expressed my utter ignorance, I am only left
to conjecture concerning the probabilities by which it might have been
placed in my pocket. But here also I am checked. I believe that I have no
enemy on earth, and none surely would have been so wicked as to destroy me
wantonly. Did the murderer place it there? I know of no opportunity
afforded him for so doing; or, if I had, why should he have stolen the
jewel, to part with it again so soon?

“I commit my cause to the justice of my judges, yet I see no room for
hope. I beg permission to have a few witnesses examined concerning my
character, and if their testimony shall not overweigh my supposed
guilt, I must be condemned, although I would pledge my salvation on my
innocence.”

Several witnesses were called who had known her for many years, and
they spoke well of her; but fear and hatred of the crime of which they
supposed her guilty rendered them timorous and unwilling to come
forward. Elizabeth saw even this last resource, her excellent
dispositions and irreproachable conduct, about to fail the accused,
when, although violently agitated, she desired permission to address
the court.

“I am,” said she, “the cousin of the unhappy child who
was murdered, or rather his sister, for I was educated by and have lived
with his parents ever since and even long before his birth. It may
therefore be judged indecent in me to come forward on this occasion, but
when I see a fellow creature about to perish through the cowardice of her
pretended friends, I wish to be allowed to speak, that I may say what I
know of her character. I am well acquainted with the accused. I have lived
in the same house with her, at one time for five and at another for nearly
two years. During all that period she appeared to me the most amiable and
benevolent of human creatures. She nursed Madame Frankenstein, my aunt, in
her last illness, with the greatest affection and care and afterwards
attended her own mother during a tedious illness, in a manner that excited
the admiration of all who knew her, after which she again lived in my
uncle’s house, where she was beloved by all the family. She was
warmly attached to the child who is now dead and acted towards him like a
most affectionate mother. For my own part, I do not hesitate to say that,
notwithstanding all the evidence produced against her, I believe and rely
on her perfect innocence. She had no temptation for such an action; as to
the bauble on which the chief proof rests, if she had earnestly desired it,
I should have willingly given it to her, so much do I esteem and value
her.”

A murmur of approbation followed Elizabeth’s simple and powerful
appeal, but it was excited by her generous interference, and not in
favour of poor Justine, on whom the public indignation was turned with
renewed violence, charging her with the blackest ingratitude. She
herself wept as Elizabeth spoke, but she did not answer. My own
agitation and anguish was extreme during the whole trial. I believed
in her innocence; I knew it. Could the dæmon who had (I did not for a
minute doubt) murdered my brother also in his hellish sport have
betrayed the innocent to death and ignominy? I could not sustain the
horror of my situation, and when I perceived that the popular voice and
the countenances of the judges had already condemned my unhappy victim,
I rushed out of the court in agony. The tortures of the accused did
not equal mine; she was sustained by innocence, but the fangs of
remorse tore my bosom and would not forgo their hold.

I passed a night of unmingled wretchedness. In the morning I went to
the court; my lips and throat were parched. I dared not ask the fatal
question, but I was known, and the officer guessed the cause of my
visit. The ballots had been thrown; they were all black, and Justine
was condemned.

I cannot pretend to describe what I then felt. I had before
experienced sensations of horror, and I have endeavoured to bestow upon
them adequate expressions, but words cannot convey an idea of the
heart-sickening despair that I then endured. The person to whom I
addressed myself added that Justine had already confessed her guilt.
“That evidence,” he observed, “was hardly required in so glaring a
case, but I am glad of it, and, indeed, none of our judges like to
condemn a criminal upon circumstantial evidence, be it ever so
decisive.”

This was strange and unexpected intelligence; what could it mean? Had
my eyes deceived me? And was I really as mad as the whole world would
believe me to be if I disclosed the object of my suspicions? I
hastened to return home, and Elizabeth eagerly demanded the result.

“My cousin,” replied I, “it is decided as you may have expected; all
judges had rather that ten innocent should suffer than that one guilty
should escape. But she has confessed.”

This was a dire blow to poor Elizabeth, who had relied with firmness upon
Justine’s innocence. “Alas!” said she. “How shall I
ever again believe in human goodness? Justine, whom I loved and esteemed as
my sister, how could she put on those smiles of innocence only to betray?
Her mild eyes seemed incapable of any severity or guile, and yet she has
committed a murder.”

Soon after we heard that the poor victim had expressed a desire to see my
cousin. My father wished her not to go but said that he left it to her own
judgment and feelings to decide. “Yes,” said Elizabeth,
“I will go, although she is guilty; and you, Victor, shall accompany
me; I cannot go alone.” The idea of this visit was torture to me, yet
I could not refuse.

We entered the gloomy prison chamber and beheld Justine sitting on some
straw at the farther end; her hands were manacled, and her head rested on
her knees. She rose on seeing us enter, and when we were left alone with
her, she threw herself at the feet of Elizabeth, weeping bitterly. My
cousin wept also.

“Oh, Justine!” said she. “Why did you rob me of my last consolation?
I relied on your innocence, and although I was then very wretched, I
was not so miserable as I am now.”

“And do you also believe that I am so very, very wicked? Do you also
join with my enemies to crush me, to condemn me as a murderer?” Her
voice was suffocated with sobs.

“Rise, my poor girl,” said Elizabeth; “why do you kneel,
if you are innocent? I am not one of your enemies, I believed you
guiltless, notwithstanding every evidence, until I heard that you had
yourself declared your guilt. That report, you say, is false; and be
assured, dear Justine, that nothing can shake my confidence in you for a
moment, but your own confession.”

“I did confess, but I confessed a lie. I confessed, that I might
obtain absolution; but now that falsehood lies heavier at my heart than
all my other sins. The God of heaven forgive me! Ever since I was
condemned, my confessor has besieged me; he threatened and menaced,
until I almost began to think that I was the monster that he said I
was. He threatened excommunication and hell fire in my last moments if
I continued obdurate. Dear lady, I had none to support me; all looked
on me as a wretch doomed to ignominy and perdition. What could I do?
In an evil hour I subscribed to a lie; and now only am I truly
miserable.”

She paused, weeping, and then continued, “I thought with horror, my
sweet lady, that you should believe your Justine, whom your blessed
aunt had so highly honoured, and whom you loved, was a creature capable
of a crime which none but the devil himself could have perpetrated.
Dear William! dearest blessed child! I soon shall see you again in
heaven, where we shall all be happy; and that consoles me, going as I
am to suffer ignominy and death.”

“Oh, Justine! Forgive me for having for one moment distrusted you.
Why did you confess? But do not mourn, dear girl. Do not fear. I
will proclaim, I will prove your innocence. I will melt the stony
hearts of your enemies by my tears and prayers. You shall not die!
You, my playfellow, my companion, my sister, perish on the scaffold!
No! No! I never could survive so horrible a misfortune.”

Justine shook her head mournfully. “I do not fear to die,” she said;
“that pang is past. God raises my weakness and gives me courage to
endure the worst. I leave a sad and bitter world; and if you remember
me and think of me as of one unjustly condemned, I am resigned to the
fate awaiting me. Learn from me, dear lady, to submit in patience to
the will of heaven!”

During this conversation I had retired to a corner of the prison room,
where I could conceal the horrid anguish that possessed me. Despair!
Who dared talk of that? The poor victim, who on the morrow was to pass
the awful boundary between life and death, felt not, as I did, such
deep and bitter agony. I gnashed my teeth and ground them together,
uttering a groan that came from my inmost soul. Justine started. When
she saw who it was, she approached me and said, “Dear sir, you are very
kind to visit me; you, I hope, do not believe that I am guilty?”

I could not answer. “No, Justine,” said Elizabeth; “he is more
convinced of your innocence than I was, for even when he heard that you
had confessed, he did not credit it.”

“I truly thank him. In these last moments I feel the sincerest
gratitude towards those who think of me with kindness. How sweet is
the affection of others to such a wretch as I am! It removes more than
half my misfortune, and I feel as if I could die in peace now that my
innocence is acknowledged by you, dear lady, and your cousin.”

Thus the poor sufferer tried to comfort others and herself. She indeed
gained the resignation she desired. But I, the true murderer, felt the
never-dying worm alive in my bosom, which allowed of no hope or
consolation. Elizabeth also wept and was unhappy, but hers also was
the misery of innocence, which, like a cloud that passes over the fair
moon, for a while hides but cannot tarnish its brightness. Anguish and
despair had penetrated into the core of my heart; I bore a hell within
me which nothing could extinguish. We stayed several hours with
Justine, and it was with great difficulty that Elizabeth could tear
herself away. “I wish,” cried she, “that I were to die with you; I
cannot live in this world of misery.”

Justine assumed an air of cheerfulness, while she with difficulty
repressed her bitter tears. She embraced Elizabeth and said in a voice
of half-suppressed emotion, “Farewell, sweet lady, dearest Elizabeth,
my beloved and only friend; may heaven, in its bounty, bless and
preserve you; may this be the last misfortune that you will ever
suffer! Live, and be happy, and make others so.”

And on the morrow Justine died. Elizabeth’s heart-rending eloquence
failed to move the judges from their settled conviction in the
criminality of the saintly sufferer. My passionate and indignant
appeals were lost upon them. And when I received their cold answers
and heard the harsh, unfeeling reasoning of these men, my purposed
avowal died away on my lips. Thus I might proclaim myself a madman,
but not revoke the sentence passed upon my wretched victim. She
perished on the scaffold as a murderess!

From the tortures of my own heart, I turned to contemplate the deep and
voiceless grief of my Elizabeth. This also was my doing! And my
father’s woe, and the desolation of that late so smiling home all was
the work of my thrice-accursed hands! Ye weep, unhappy ones, but these
are not your last tears! Again shall you raise the funeral wail, and
the sound of your lamentations shall again and again be heard!
Frankenstein, your son, your kinsman, your early, much-loved friend; he
who would spend each vital drop of blood for your sakes, who has no
thought nor sense of joy except as it is mirrored also in your dear
countenances, who would fill the air with blessings and spend his life
in serving you—he bids you weep, to shed countless tears; happy beyond
his hopes, if thus inexorable fate be satisfied, and if the destruction
pause before the peace of the grave have succeeded to your sad torments!

Thus spoke my prophetic soul, as, torn by remorse, horror, and despair,
I beheld those I loved spend vain sorrow upon the graves of William and
Justine, the first hapless victims to my unhallowed arts.




Chapter 9


Nothing is more painful to the human mind than, after the feelings have
been worked up by a quick succession of events, the dead calmness of
inaction and certainty which follows and deprives the soul both of hope
and fear. Justine died, she rested, and I was alive. The blood flowed
freely in my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse pressed on my
heart which nothing could remove. Sleep fled from my eyes; I wandered
like an evil spirit, for I had committed deeds of mischief beyond
description horrible, and more, much more (I persuaded myself) was yet
behind. Yet my heart overflowed with kindness and the love of virtue.
I had begun life with benevolent intentions and thirsted for the moment
when I should put them in practice and make myself useful to my fellow
beings. Now all was blasted; instead of that serenity of conscience
which allowed me to look back upon the past with self-satisfaction, and
from thence to gather promise of new hopes, I was seized by remorse and
the sense of guilt, which hurried me away to a hell of intense tortures
such as no language can describe.

This state of mind preyed upon my health, which had perhaps never
entirely recovered from the first shock it had sustained. I shunned
the face of man; all sound of joy or complacency was torture to me;
solitude was my only consolation—deep, dark, deathlike solitude.

My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible in my disposition
and habits and endeavoured by arguments deduced from the feelings of his
serene conscience and guiltless life to inspire me with fortitude and
awaken in me the courage to dispel the dark cloud which brooded over me.
“Do you think, Victor,” said he, “that I do not suffer
also? No one could love a child more than I loved your
brother”—tears came into his eyes as he spoke—“but
is it not a duty to the survivors that we should refrain from augmenting
their unhappiness by an appearance of immoderate grief? It is also a duty
owed to yourself, for excessive sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment,
or even the discharge of daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for
society.”

This advice, although good, was totally inapplicable to my case; I
should have been the first to hide my grief and console my friends if
remorse had not mingled its bitterness, and terror its alarm, with my
other sensations. Now I could only answer my father with a look of
despair and endeavour to hide myself from his view.

About this time we retired to our house at Belrive. This change was
particularly agreeable to me. The shutting of the gates regularly at
ten o’clock and the impossibility of remaining on the lake after that
hour had rendered our residence within the walls of Geneva very irksome
to me. I was now free. Often, after the rest of the family had
retired for the night, I took the boat and passed many hours upon the
water. Sometimes, with my sails set, I was carried by the wind; and
sometimes, after rowing into the middle of the lake, I left the boat to
pursue its own course and gave way to my own miserable reflections. I
was often tempted, when all was at peace around me, and I the only
unquiet thing that wandered restless in a scene so beautiful and
heavenly—if I except some bat, or the frogs, whose harsh and
interrupted croaking was heard only when I approached the shore—often,
I say, I was tempted to plunge into the silent lake, that the waters
might close over me and my calamities for ever. But I was restrained,
when I thought of the heroic and suffering Elizabeth, whom I tenderly
loved, and whose existence was bound up in mine. I thought also of my
father and surviving brother; should I by my base desertion leave them
exposed and unprotected to the malice of the fiend whom I had let loose
among them?

At these moments I wept bitterly and wished that peace would revisit my
mind only that I might afford them consolation and happiness. But that
could not be. Remorse extinguished every hope. I had been the author of
unalterable evils, and I lived in daily fear lest the monster whom I had
created should perpetrate some new wickedness. I had an obscure feeling
that all was not over and that he would still commit some signal crime,
which by its enormity should almost efface the recollection of the past.
There was always scope for fear so long as anything I loved remained
behind. My abhorrence of this fiend cannot be conceived. When I thought of
him I gnashed my teeth, my eyes became inflamed, and I ardently wished to
extinguish that life which I had so thoughtlessly bestowed. When I
reflected on his crimes and malice, my hatred and revenge burst all bounds
of moderation. I would have made a pilgrimage to the highest peak of the
Andes, could I, when there, have precipitated him to their base. I wished
to see him again, that I might wreak the utmost extent of abhorrence on his
head and avenge the deaths of William and Justine.

Our house was the house of mourning. My father’s health was deeply
shaken by the horror of the recent events. Elizabeth was sad and
desponding; she no longer took delight in her ordinary occupations; all
pleasure seemed to her sacrilege toward the dead; eternal woe and tears she
then thought was the just tribute she should pay to innocence so blasted
and destroyed. She was no longer that happy creature who in earlier youth
wandered with me on the banks of the lake and talked with ecstasy of our
future prospects. The first of those sorrows which are sent to wean us from
the earth had visited her, and its dimming influence quenched her dearest
smiles.

“When I reflect, my dear cousin,” said she, “on the miserable death of
Justine Moritz, I no longer see the world and its works as they before
appeared to me. Before, I looked upon the accounts of vice and
injustice that I read in books or heard from others as tales of ancient
days or imaginary evils; at least they were remote and more familiar to
reason than to the imagination; but now misery has come home, and men
appear to me as monsters thirsting for each other’s blood. Yet I am
certainly unjust. Everybody believed that poor girl to be guilty; and
if she could have committed the crime for which she suffered, assuredly
she would have been the most depraved of human creatures. For the sake
of a few jewels, to have murdered the son of her benefactor and friend,
a child whom she had nursed from its birth, and appeared to love as if
it had been her own! I could not consent to the death of any human
being, but certainly I should have thought such a creature unfit to
remain in the society of men. But she was innocent. I know, I feel
she was innocent; you are of the same opinion, and that confirms me.
Alas! Victor, when falsehood can look so like the truth, who can
assure themselves of certain happiness? I feel as if I were walking on
the edge of a precipice, towards which thousands are crowding and
endeavouring to plunge me into the abyss. William and Justine were
assassinated, and the murderer escapes; he walks about the world free,
and perhaps respected. But even if I were condemned to suffer on the
scaffold for the same crimes, I would not change places with such a
wretch.”

I listened to this discourse with the extremest agony. I, not in deed,
but in effect, was the true murderer. Elizabeth read my anguish in my
countenance, and kindly taking my hand, said, “My dearest friend, you
must calm yourself. These events have affected me, God knows how
deeply; but I am not so wretched as you are. There is an expression of
despair, and sometimes of revenge, in your countenance that makes me
tremble. Dear Victor, banish these dark passions. Remember the
friends around you, who centre all their hopes in you. Have we lost
the power of rendering you happy? Ah! While we love, while we are
true to each other, here in this land of peace and beauty, your native
country, we may reap every tranquil blessing—what can disturb our
peace?”

And could not such words from her whom I fondly prized before every
other gift of fortune suffice to chase away the fiend that lurked in my
heart? Even as she spoke I drew near to her, as if in terror, lest at
that very moment the destroyer had been near to rob me of her.

Thus not the tenderness of friendship, nor the beauty of earth, nor of
heaven, could redeem my soul from woe; the very accents of love were
ineffectual. I was encompassed by a cloud which no beneficial
influence could penetrate. The wounded deer dragging its fainting
limbs to some untrodden brake, there to gaze upon the arrow which had
pierced it, and to die, was but a type of me.

Sometimes I could cope with the sullen despair that overwhelmed me, but
sometimes the whirlwind passions of my soul drove me to seek, by bodily
exercise and by change of place, some relief from my intolerable
sensations. It was during an access of this kind that I suddenly left
my home, and bending my steps towards the near Alpine valleys, sought
in the magnificence, the eternity of such scenes, to forget myself and
my ephemeral, because human, sorrows. My wanderings were directed
towards the valley of Chamounix. I had visited it frequently during my
boyhood. Six years had passed since then: _I_ was a wreck, but nought
had changed in those savage and enduring scenes.

I performed the first part of my journey on horseback. I afterwards
hired a mule, as the more sure-footed and least liable to receive
injury on these rugged roads. The weather was fine; it was about the
middle of the month of August, nearly two months after the death of
Justine, that miserable epoch from which I dated all my woe. The
weight upon my spirit was sensibly lightened as I plunged yet deeper in
the ravine of Arve. The immense mountains and precipices that overhung
me on every side, the sound of the river raging among the rocks, and
the dashing of the waterfalls around spoke of a power mighty as
Omnipotence—and I ceased to fear or to bend before any being less
almighty than that which had created and ruled the elements, here
displayed in their most terrific guise. Still, as I ascended higher,
the valley assumed a more magnificent and astonishing character.
Ruined castles hanging on the precipices of piny mountains, the
impetuous Arve, and cottages every here and there peeping forth from
among the trees formed a scene of singular beauty. But it was
augmented and rendered sublime by the mighty Alps, whose white and
shining pyramids and domes towered above all, as belonging to another
earth, the habitations of another race of beings.

I passed the bridge of Pélissier, where the ravine, which the river
forms, opened before me, and I began to ascend the mountain that
overhangs it. Soon after, I entered the valley of Chamounix. This
valley is more wonderful and sublime, but not so beautiful and
picturesque as that of Servox, through which I had just passed. The
high and snowy mountains were its immediate boundaries, but I saw no
more ruined castles and fertile fields. Immense glaciers approached
the road; I heard the rumbling thunder of the falling avalanche and
marked the smoke of its passage. Mont Blanc, the supreme and
magnificent Mont Blanc, raised itself from the surrounding _aiguilles_,
and its tremendous _dôme_ overlooked the valley.

A tingling long-lost sense of pleasure often came across me during this
journey. Some turn in the road, some new object suddenly perceived and
recognised, reminded me of days gone by, and were associated with the
lighthearted gaiety of boyhood. The very winds whispered in soothing
accents, and maternal Nature bade me weep no more. Then again the
kindly influence ceased to act—I found myself fettered again to grief
and indulging in all the misery of reflection. Then I spurred on my
animal, striving so to forget the world, my fears, and more than all,
myself—or, in a more desperate fashion, I alighted and threw myself on
the grass, weighed down by horror and despair.

At length I arrived at the village of Chamounix. Exhaustion succeeded
to the extreme fatigue both of body and of mind which I had endured.
For a short space of time I remained at the window watching the pallid
lightnings that played above Mont Blanc and listening to the rushing of
the Arve, which pursued its noisy way beneath. The same lulling sounds
acted as a lullaby to my too keen sensations; when I placed my head
upon my pillow, sleep crept over me; I felt it as it came and blessed
the giver of oblivion.




Chapter 10


I spent the following day roaming through the valley. I stood beside
the sources of the Arveiron, which take their rise in a glacier, that
with slow pace is advancing down from the summit of the hills to
barricade the valley. The abrupt sides of vast mountains were before
me; the icy wall of the glacier overhung me; a few shattered pines were
scattered around; and the solemn silence of this glorious
presence-chamber of imperial Nature was broken only by the brawling
waves or the fall of some vast fragment, the thunder sound of the
avalanche or the cracking, reverberated along the mountains, of the
accumulated ice, which, through the silent working of immutable laws,
was ever and anon rent and torn, as if it had been but a plaything in
their hands. These sublime and magnificent scenes afforded me the
greatest consolation that I was capable of receiving. They elevated me
from all littleness of feeling, and although they did not remove my
grief, they subdued and tranquillised it. In some degree, also, they
diverted my mind from the thoughts over which it had brooded for the
last month. I retired to rest at night; my slumbers, as it were,
waited on and ministered to by the assemblance of grand shapes which I
had contemplated during the day. They congregated round me; the
unstained snowy mountain-top, the glittering pinnacle, the pine woods,
and ragged bare ravine, the eagle, soaring amidst the clouds—they all
gathered round me and bade me be at peace.

Where had they fled when the next morning I awoke? All of
soul-inspiriting fled with sleep, and dark melancholy clouded every
thought. The rain was pouring in torrents, and thick mists hid the
summits of the mountains, so that I even saw not the faces of those
mighty friends. Still I would penetrate their misty veil and seek them
in their cloudy retreats. What were rain and storm to me? My mule was
brought to the door, and I resolved to ascend to the summit of
Montanvert. I remembered the effect that the view of the tremendous
and ever-moving glacier had produced upon my mind when I first saw it.
It had then filled me with a sublime ecstasy that gave wings to the
soul and allowed it to soar from the obscure world to light and joy.
The sight of the awful and majestic in nature had indeed always the
effect of solemnising my mind and causing me to forget the passing
cares of life. I determined to go without a guide, for I was well
acquainted with the path, and the presence of another would destroy the
solitary grandeur of the scene.

The ascent is precipitous, but the path is cut into continual and short
windings, which enable you to surmount the perpendicularity of the
mountain. It is a scene terrifically desolate. In a thousand spots
the traces of the winter avalanche may be perceived, where trees lie
broken and strewed on the ground, some entirely destroyed, others bent,
leaning upon the jutting rocks of the mountain or transversely upon
other trees. The path, as you ascend higher, is intersected by ravines
of snow, down which stones continually roll from above; one of them is
particularly dangerous, as the slightest sound, such as even speaking
in a loud voice, produces a concussion of air sufficient to draw
destruction upon the head of the speaker. The pines are not tall or
luxuriant, but they are sombre and add an air of severity to the scene.
I looked on the valley beneath; vast mists were rising from the rivers
which ran through it and curling in thick wreaths around the opposite
mountains, whose summits were hid in the uniform clouds, while rain
poured from the dark sky and added to the melancholy impression I
received from the objects around me. Alas! Why does man boast of
sensibilities superior to those apparent in the brute; it only renders
them more necessary beings. If our impulses were confined to hunger,
thirst, and desire, we might be nearly free; but now we are moved by
every wind that blows and a chance word or scene that that word may
convey to us.

  We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep.
     We rise; one wand’ring thought pollutes the day.
  We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh or weep,
     Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away;
  It is the same: for, be it joy or sorrow,
     The path of its departure still is free.
  Man’s yesterday may ne’er be like his morrow;
     Nought may endure but mutability!


It was nearly noon when I arrived at the top of the ascent. For some
time I sat upon the rock that overlooks the sea of ice. A mist covered
both that and the surrounding mountains. Presently a breeze dissipated
the cloud, and I descended upon the glacier. The surface is very
uneven, rising like the waves of a troubled sea, descending low, and
interspersed by rifts that sink deep. The field of ice is almost a
league in width, but I spent nearly two hours in crossing it. The
opposite mountain is a bare perpendicular rock. From the side where I
now stood Montanvert was exactly opposite, at the distance of a league;
and above it rose Mont Blanc, in awful majesty. I remained in a recess
of the rock, gazing on this wonderful and stupendous scene. The sea,
or rather the vast river of ice, wound among its dependent mountains,
whose aerial summits hung over its recesses. Their icy and glittering
peaks shone in the sunlight over the clouds. My heart, which was
before sorrowful, now swelled with something like joy; I exclaimed,
“Wandering spirits, if indeed ye wander, and do not rest in your narrow
beds, allow me this faint happiness, or take me, as your companion,
away from the joys of life.”

As I said this I suddenly beheld the figure of a man, at some distance,
advancing towards me with superhuman speed. He bounded over the
crevices in the ice, among which I had walked with caution; his
stature, also, as he approached, seemed to exceed that of man. I was
troubled; a mist came over my eyes, and I felt a faintness seize me,
but I was quickly restored by the cold gale of the mountains. I
perceived, as the shape came nearer (sight tremendous and abhorred!)
that it was the wretch whom I had created. I trembled with rage and
horror, resolving to wait his approach and then close with him in
mortal combat. He approached; his countenance bespoke bitter anguish,
combined with disdain and malignity, while its unearthly ugliness
rendered it almost too horrible for human eyes. But I scarcely
observed this; rage and hatred had at first deprived me of utterance,
and I recovered only to overwhelm him with words expressive of furious
detestation and contempt.

“Devil,” I exclaimed, “do you dare approach me? And do
not you fear the fierce vengeance of my arm wreaked on your miserable head?
Begone, vile insect! Or rather, stay, that I may trample you to dust! And,
oh! That I could, with the extinction of your miserable existence, restore
those victims whom you have so diabolically murdered!”

“I expected this reception,” said the dæmon. “All men hate the
wretched; how, then, must I be hated, who am miserable beyond all
living things! Yet you, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy creature,
to whom thou art bound by ties only dissoluble by the annihilation of
one of us. You purpose to kill me. How dare you sport thus with life?
Do your duty towards me, and I will do mine towards you and the rest of
mankind. If you will comply with my conditions, I will leave them and
you at peace; but if you refuse, I will glut the maw of death, until it
be satiated with the blood of your remaining friends.”

“Abhorred monster! Fiend that thou art! The tortures of hell are too
mild a vengeance for thy crimes. Wretched devil! You reproach me with
your creation, come on, then, that I may extinguish the spark which I
so negligently bestowed.”

My rage was without bounds; I sprang on him, impelled by all the
feelings which can arm one being against the existence of another.

He easily eluded me and said,

“Be calm! I entreat you to hear me before you give vent to your hatred
on my devoted head. Have I not suffered enough, that you seek to
increase my misery? Life, although it may only be an accumulation of
anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it. Remember, thou hast made
me more powerful than thyself; my height is superior to thine, my
joints more supple. But I will not be tempted to set myself in
opposition to thee. I am thy creature, and I will be even mild and
docile to my natural lord and king if thou wilt also perform thy part,
the which thou owest me. Oh, Frankenstein, be not equitable to every
other and trample upon me alone, to whom thy justice, and even thy
clemency and affection, is most due. Remember that I am thy creature;
I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou
drivest from joy for no misdeed. Everywhere I see bliss, from which I
alone am irrevocably excluded. I was benevolent and good; misery made
me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous.”

“Begone! I will not hear you. There can be no community between you
and me; we are enemies. Begone, or let us try our strength in a fight,
in which one must fall.”

“How can I move thee? Will no entreaties cause thee to turn a
favourable eye upon thy creature, who implores thy goodness and
compassion? Believe me, Frankenstein, I was benevolent; my soul glowed
with love and humanity; but am I not alone, miserably alone? You, my
creator, abhor me; what hope can I gather from your fellow creatures,
who owe me nothing? They spurn and hate me. The desert mountains and
dreary glaciers are my refuge. I have wandered here many days; the
caves of ice, which I only do not fear, are a dwelling to me, and the
only one which man does not grudge. These bleak skies I hail, for they
are kinder to me than your fellow beings. If the multitude of mankind
knew of my existence, they would do as you do, and arm themselves for
my destruction. Shall I not then hate them who abhor me? I will keep
no terms with my enemies. I am miserable, and they shall share my
wretchedness. Yet it is in your power to recompense me, and deliver
them from an evil which it only remains for you to make so great, that
not only you and your family, but thousands of others, shall be
swallowed up in the whirlwinds of its rage. Let your compassion be
moved, and do not disdain me. Listen to my tale; when you have heard
that, abandon or commiserate me, as you shall judge that I deserve.
But hear me. The guilty are allowed, by human laws, bloody as they
are, to speak in their own defence before they are condemned. Listen
to me, Frankenstein. You accuse me of murder, and yet you would, with
a satisfied conscience, destroy your own creature. Oh, praise the
eternal justice of man! Yet I ask you not to spare me; listen to me,
and then, if you can, and if you will, destroy the work of your hands.”

“Why do you call to my remembrance,” I rejoined, “circumstances of
which I shudder to reflect, that I have been the miserable origin and
author? Cursed be the day, abhorred devil, in which you first saw
light! Cursed (although I curse myself) be the hands that formed you!
You have made me wretched beyond expression. You have left me no power
to consider whether I am just to you or not. Begone! Relieve me from
the sight of your detested form.”

“Thus I relieve thee, my creator,” he said, and placed his hated hands
before my eyes, which I flung from me with violence; “thus I take from
thee a sight which you abhor. Still thou canst listen to me and grant
me thy compassion. By the virtues that I once possessed, I demand this
from you. Hear my tale; it is long and strange, and the temperature of
this place is not fitting to your fine sensations; come to the hut upon
the mountain. The sun is yet high in the heavens; before it descends
to hide itself behind your snowy precipices and illuminate another
world, you will have heard my story and can decide. On you it rests,
whether I quit for ever the neighbourhood of man and lead a harmless
life, or become the scourge of your fellow creatures and the author of
your own speedy ruin.”

As he said this he led the way across the ice; I followed. My heart
was full, and I did not answer him, but as I proceeded, I weighed the
various arguments that he had used and determined at least to listen to
his tale. I was partly urged by curiosity, and compassion confirmed my
resolution. I had hitherto supposed him to be the murderer of my
brother, and I eagerly sought a confirmation or denial of this opinion.
For the first time, also, I felt what the duties of a creator towards
his creature were, and that I ought to render him happy before I
complained of his wickedness. These motives urged me to comply with
his demand. We crossed the ice, therefore, and ascended the opposite
rock. The air was cold, and the rain again began to descend; we
entered the hut, the fiend with an air of exultation, I with a heavy
heart and depressed spirits. But I consented to listen, and seating
myself by the fire which my odious companion had lighted, he thus began
his tale.




Chapter 11


“It is with considerable difficulty that I remember the original era of
my being; all the events of that period appear confused and indistinct.
A strange multiplicity of sensations seized me, and I saw, felt, heard,
and smelt at the same time; and it was, indeed, a long time before I
learned to distinguish between the operations of my various senses. By
degrees, I remember, a stronger light pressed upon my nerves, so that I
was obliged to shut my eyes. Darkness then came over me and troubled
me, but hardly had I felt this when, by opening my eyes, as I now
suppose, the light poured in upon me again. I walked and, I believe,
descended, but I presently found a great alteration in my sensations.
Before, dark and opaque bodies had surrounded me, impervious to my
touch or sight; but I now found that I could wander on at liberty, with
no obstacles which I could not either surmount or avoid. The light
became more and more oppressive to me, and the heat wearying me as I
walked, I sought a place where I could receive shade. This was the
forest near Ingolstadt; and here I lay by the side of a brook resting
from my fatigue, until I felt tormented by hunger and thirst. This
roused me from my nearly dormant state, and I ate some berries which I
found hanging on the trees or lying on the ground. I slaked my thirst
at the brook, and then lying down, was overcome by sleep.

“It was dark when I awoke; I felt cold also, and half frightened, as it
were, instinctively, finding myself so desolate. Before I had quitted
your apartment, on a sensation of cold, I had covered myself with some
clothes, but these were insufficient to secure me from the dews of
night. I was a poor, helpless, miserable wretch; I knew, and could
distinguish, nothing; but feeling pain invade me on all sides, I sat
down and wept.

“Soon a gentle light stole over the heavens and gave me a sensation of
pleasure. I started up and beheld a radiant form rise from among the
trees. [The moon] I gazed with a kind of wonder. It moved slowly,
but it enlightened my path, and I again went out in search of berries.
I was still cold when under one of the trees I found a huge cloak, with
which I covered myself, and sat down upon the ground. No distinct
ideas occupied my mind; all was confused. I felt light, and hunger,
and thirst, and darkness; innumerable sounds rang in my ears, and on
all sides various scents saluted me; the only object that I could
distinguish was the bright moon, and I fixed my eyes on that with
pleasure.

“Several changes of day and night passed, and the orb of night had
greatly lessened, when I began to distinguish my sensations from each
other. I gradually saw plainly the clear stream that supplied me with
drink and the trees that shaded me with their foliage. I was delighted
when I first discovered that a pleasant sound, which often saluted my
ears, proceeded from the throats of the little winged animals who had
often intercepted the light from my eyes. I began also to observe,
with greater accuracy, the forms that surrounded me and to perceive the
boundaries of the radiant roof of light which canopied me. Sometimes I
tried to imitate the pleasant songs of the birds but was unable.
Sometimes I wished to express my sensations in my own mode, but the
uncouth and inarticulate sounds which broke from me frightened me into
silence again.

“The moon had disappeared from the night, and again, with a lessened
form, showed itself, while I still remained in the forest. My
sensations had by this time become distinct, and my mind received every
day additional ideas. My eyes became accustomed to the light and to
perceive objects in their right forms; I distinguished the insect from
the herb, and by degrees, one herb from another. I found that the
sparrow uttered none but harsh notes, whilst those of the blackbird and
thrush were sweet and enticing.

“One day, when I was oppressed by cold, I found a fire which had been
left by some wandering beggars, and was overcome with delight at the
warmth I experienced from it. In my joy I thrust my hand into the live
embers, but quickly drew it out again with a cry of pain. How strange,
I thought, that the same cause should produce such opposite effects! I
examined the materials of the fire, and to my joy found it to be
composed of wood. I quickly collected some branches, but they were wet
and would not burn. I was pained at this and sat still watching the
operation of the fire. The wet wood which I had placed near the heat
dried and itself became inflamed. I reflected on this, and by touching
the various branches, I discovered the cause and busied myself in
collecting a great quantity of wood, that I might dry it and have a
plentiful supply of fire. When night came on and brought sleep with
it, I was in the greatest fear lest my fire should be extinguished. I
covered it carefully with dry wood and leaves and placed wet branches
upon it; and then, spreading my cloak, I lay on the ground and sank
into sleep.

“It was morning when I awoke, and my first care was to visit the fire.
I uncovered it, and a gentle breeze quickly fanned it into a flame. I
observed this also and contrived a fan of branches, which roused the
embers when they were nearly extinguished. When night came again I
found, with pleasure, that the fire gave light as well as heat and that
the discovery of this element was useful to me in my food, for I found
some of the offals that the travellers had left had been roasted, and
tasted much more savoury than the berries I gathered from the trees. I
tried, therefore, to dress my food in the same manner, placing it on
the live embers. I found that the berries were spoiled by this
operation, and the nuts and roots much improved.

“Food, however, became scarce, and I often spent the whole day
searching in vain for a few acorns to assuage the pangs of hunger. When
I found this, I resolved to quit the place that I had hitherto
inhabited, to seek for one where the few wants I experienced would be
more easily satisfied. In this emigration I exceedingly lamented the
loss of the fire which I had obtained through accident and knew not how
to reproduce it. I gave several hours to the serious consideration of
this difficulty, but I was obliged to relinquish all attempt to supply
it, and wrapping myself up in my cloak, I struck across the wood
towards the setting sun. I passed three days in these rambles and at
length discovered the open country. A great fall of snow had taken
place the night before, and the fields were of one uniform white; the
appearance was disconsolate, and I found my feet chilled by the cold
damp substance that covered the ground.

“It was about seven in the morning, and I longed to obtain food and
shelter; at length I perceived a small hut, on a rising ground, which
had doubtless been built for the convenience of some shepherd. This
was a new sight to me, and I examined the structure with great
curiosity. Finding the door open, I entered. An old man sat in it,
near a fire, over which he was preparing his breakfast. He turned on
hearing a noise, and perceiving me, shrieked loudly, and quitting the
hut, ran across the fields with a speed of which his debilitated form
hardly appeared capable. His appearance, different from any I had ever
before seen, and his flight somewhat surprised me. But I was enchanted
by the appearance of the hut; here the snow and rain could not
penetrate; the ground was dry; and it presented to me then as exquisite
and divine a retreat as Pandæmonium appeared to the dæmons of hell
after their sufferings in the lake of fire. I greedily devoured the
remnants of the shepherd’s breakfast, which consisted of bread, cheese,
milk, and wine; the latter, however, I did not like. Then, overcome by
fatigue, I lay down among some straw and fell asleep.

“It was noon when I awoke, and allured by the warmth of the sun, which
shone brightly on the white ground, I determined to recommence my
travels; and, depositing the remains of the peasant’s breakfast in a
wallet I found, I proceeded across the fields for several hours, until
at sunset I arrived at a village. How miraculous did this appear! The
huts, the neater cottages, and stately houses engaged my admiration by
turns. The vegetables in the gardens, the milk and cheese that I saw
placed at the windows of some of the cottages, allured my appetite. One
of the best of these I entered, but I had hardly placed my foot within
the door before the children shrieked, and one of the women fainted.
The whole village was roused; some fled, some attacked me, until,
grievously bruised by stones and many other kinds of missile weapons, I
escaped to the open country and fearfully took refuge in a low hovel,
quite bare, and making a wretched appearance after the palaces I had
beheld in the village. This hovel however, joined a cottage of a neat
and pleasant appearance, but after my late dearly bought experience, I
dared not enter it. My place of refuge was constructed of wood, but so
low that I could with difficulty sit upright in it. No wood, however,
was placed on the earth, which formed the floor, but it was dry; and
although the wind entered it by innumerable chinks, I found it an
agreeable asylum from the snow and rain.

“Here, then, I retreated and lay down happy to have found a shelter,
however miserable, from the inclemency of the season, and still more
from the barbarity of man. As soon as morning dawned I crept from my
kennel, that I might view the adjacent cottage and discover if I could
remain in the habitation I had found. It was situated against the back
of the cottage and surrounded on the sides which were exposed by a pig
sty and a clear pool of water. One part was open, and by that I had
crept in; but now I covered every crevice by which I might be perceived
with stones and wood, yet in such a manner that I might move them on
occasion to pass out; all the light I enjoyed came through the sty, and
that was sufficient for me.

“Having thus arranged my dwelling and carpeted it with clean straw, I
retired, for I saw the figure of a man at a distance, and I remembered
too well my treatment the night before to trust myself in his power. I
had first, however, provided for my sustenance for that day by a loaf
of coarse bread, which I purloined, and a cup with which I could drink
more conveniently than from my hand of the pure water which flowed by
my retreat. The floor was a little raised, so that it was kept
perfectly dry, and by its vicinity to the chimney of the cottage it was
tolerably warm.

“Being thus provided, I resolved to reside in this hovel until
something should occur which might alter my determination. It was
indeed a paradise compared to the bleak forest, my former residence,
the rain-dropping branches, and dank earth. I ate my breakfast with
pleasure and was about to remove a plank to procure myself a little
water when I heard a step, and looking through a small chink, I beheld
a young creature, with a pail on her head, passing before my hovel. The
girl was young and of gentle demeanour, unlike what I have since found
cottagers and farmhouse servants to be. Yet she was meanly dressed, a
coarse blue petticoat and a linen jacket being her only garb; her fair
hair was plaited but not adorned: she looked patient yet sad. I lost
sight of her, and in about a quarter of an hour she returned bearing
the pail, which was now partly filled with milk. As she walked along,
seemingly incommoded by the burden, a young man met her, whose
countenance expressed a deeper despondence. Uttering a few sounds with
an air of melancholy, he took the pail from her head and bore it to the
cottage himself. She followed, and they disappeared. Presently I saw
the young man again, with some tools in his hand, cross the field
behind the cottage; and the girl was also busied, sometimes in the
house and sometimes in the yard.

“On examining my dwelling, I found that one of the windows of the
cottage had formerly occupied a part of it, but the panes had been
filled up with wood. In one of these was a small and almost
imperceptible chink through which the eye could just penetrate.
Through this crevice a small room was visible, whitewashed and clean
but very bare of furniture. In one corner, near a small fire, sat an
old man, leaning his head on his hands in a disconsolate attitude. The
young girl was occupied in arranging the cottage; but presently she
took something out of a drawer, which employed her hands, and she sat
down beside the old man, who, taking up an instrument, began to play
and to produce sounds sweeter than the voice of the thrush or the
nightingale. It was a lovely sight, even to me, poor wretch who had
never beheld aught beautiful before. The silver hair and benevolent
countenance of the aged cottager won my reverence, while the gentle
manners of the girl enticed my love. He played a sweet mournful air
which I perceived drew tears from the eyes of his amiable companion, of
which the old man took no notice, until she sobbed audibly; he then
pronounced a few sounds, and the fair creature, leaving her work, knelt
at his feet. He raised her and smiled with such kindness and affection
that I felt sensations of a peculiar and overpowering nature; they were
a mixture of pain and pleasure, such as I had never before experienced,
either from hunger or cold, warmth or food; and I withdrew from the
window, unable to bear these emotions.

“Soon after this the young man returned, bearing on his shoulders a
load of wood. The girl met him at the door, helped to relieve him of
his burden, and taking some of the fuel into the cottage, placed it on
the fire; then she and the youth went apart into a nook of the cottage,
and he showed her a large loaf and a piece of cheese. She seemed
pleased and went into the garden for some roots and plants, which she
placed in water, and then upon the fire. She afterwards continued her
work, whilst the young man went into the garden and appeared busily
employed in digging and pulling up roots. After he had been employed
thus about an hour, the young woman joined him and they entered the
cottage together.

“The old man had, in the meantime, been pensive, but on the appearance
of his companions he assumed a more cheerful air, and they sat down to
eat. The meal was quickly dispatched. The young woman was again
occupied in arranging the cottage, the old man walked before the
cottage in the sun for a few minutes, leaning on the arm of the youth.
Nothing could exceed in beauty the contrast between these two excellent
creatures. One was old, with silver hairs and a countenance beaming
with benevolence and love; the younger was slight and graceful in his
figure, and his features were moulded with the finest symmetry, yet his
eyes and attitude expressed the utmost sadness and despondency. The
old man returned to the cottage, and the youth, with tools different
from those he had used in the morning, directed his steps across the
fields.

“Night quickly shut in, but to my extreme wonder, I found that the
cottagers had a means of prolonging light by the use of tapers, and was
delighted to find that the setting of the sun did not put an end to the
pleasure I experienced in watching my human neighbours. In the evening
the young girl and her companion were employed in various occupations
which I did not understand; and the old man again took up the
instrument which produced the divine sounds that had enchanted me in
the morning. So soon as he had finished, the youth began, not to play,
but to utter sounds that were monotonous, and neither resembling the
harmony of the old man’s instrument nor the songs of the birds; I since
found that he read aloud, but at that time I knew nothing of the
science of words or letters.

“The family, after having been thus occupied for a short time,
extinguished their lights and retired, as I conjectured, to rest.”




Chapter 12


“I lay on my straw, but I could not sleep. I thought of the
occurrences of the day. What chiefly struck me was the gentle manners
of these people, and I longed to join them, but dared not. I
remembered too well the treatment I had suffered the night before from
the barbarous villagers, and resolved, whatever course of conduct I
might hereafter think it right to pursue, that for the present I would
remain quietly in my hovel, watching and endeavouring to discover the
motives which influenced their actions.

“The cottagers arose the next morning before the sun. The young woman
arranged the cottage and prepared the food, and the youth departed
after the first meal.

“This day was passed in the same routine as that which preceded it.
The young man was constantly employed out of doors, and the girl in
various laborious occupations within. The old man, whom I soon
perceived to be blind, employed his leisure hours on his instrument or
in contemplation. Nothing could exceed the love and respect which the
younger cottagers exhibited towards their venerable companion. They
performed towards him every little office of affection and duty with
gentleness, and he rewarded them by his benevolent smiles.

“They were not entirely happy. The young man and his companion often
went apart and appeared to weep. I saw no cause for their unhappiness,
but I was deeply affected by it. If such lovely creatures were
miserable, it was less strange that I, an imperfect and solitary being,
should be wretched. Yet why were these gentle beings unhappy? They
possessed a delightful house (for such it was in my eyes) and every
luxury; they had a fire to warm them when chill and delicious viands
when hungry; they were dressed in excellent clothes; and, still more,
they enjoyed one another’s company and speech, interchanging each day
looks of affection and kindness. What did their tears imply? Did they
really express pain? I was at first unable to solve these questions,
but perpetual attention and time explained to me many appearances which
were at first enigmatic.

“A considerable period elapsed before I discovered one of the causes of
the uneasiness of this amiable family: it was poverty, and they
suffered that evil in a very distressing degree. Their nourishment
consisted entirely of the vegetables of their garden and the milk of
one cow, which gave very little during the winter, when its masters
could scarcely procure food to support it. They often, I believe,
suffered the pangs of hunger very poignantly, especially the two
younger cottagers, for several times they placed food before the old
man when they reserved none for themselves.

“This trait of kindness moved me sensibly. I had been accustomed,
during the night, to steal a part of their store for my own
consumption, but when I found that in doing this I inflicted pain on
the cottagers, I abstained and satisfied myself with berries, nuts, and
roots which I gathered from a neighbouring wood.

“I discovered also another means through which I was enabled to assist
their labours. I found that the youth spent a great part of each day
in collecting wood for the family fire, and during the night I often
took his tools, the use of which I quickly discovered, and brought home
firing sufficient for the consumption of several days.

“I remember, the first time that I did this, the young woman, when she
opened the door in the morning, appeared greatly astonished on seeing a great
pile of wood on the outside. She uttered some words in a loud voice, and the
youth joined her, who also expressed surprise. I observed, with pleasure,
that he did not go to the forest that day, but spent it in repairing the
cottage and cultivating the garden.

“By degrees I made a discovery of still greater moment. I found that
these people possessed a method of communicating their experience and
feelings to one another by articulate sounds. I perceived that the words
they spoke sometimes produced pleasure or pain, smiles or sadness, in the
minds and countenances of the hearers. This was indeed a godlike science,
and I ardently desired to become acquainted with it. But I was baffled in
every attempt I made for this purpose. Their pronunciation was quick, and
the words they uttered, not having any apparent connection with visible
objects, I was unable to discover any clue by which I could unravel the
mystery of their reference. By great application, however, and after having
remained during the space of several revolutions of the moon in my hovel, I
discovered the names that were given to some of the most familiar objects of
discourse; I learned and applied the words, _fire, milk, bread,_ and
_wood._ I learned also the names of the cottagers themselves. The youth
and his companion had each of them several names, but the old man had only
one, which was _father._ The girl was called _sister_ or
_Agatha,_ and the youth _Felix, brother,_ or _son_. I cannot
describe the delight I felt when I learned the ideas appropriated to each of
these sounds and was able to pronounce them. I distinguished several other
words without being able as yet to understand or apply them, such as _good,
dearest, unhappy._

“I spent the winter in this manner. The gentle manners and beauty of
the cottagers greatly endeared them to me; when they were unhappy, I
felt depressed; when they rejoiced, I sympathised in their joys. I saw
few human beings besides them, and if any other happened to enter the
cottage, their harsh manners and rude gait only enhanced to me the
superior accomplishments of my friends. The old man, I could perceive,
often endeavoured to encourage his children, as sometimes I found that
he called them, to cast off their melancholy. He would talk in a
cheerful accent, with an expression of goodness that bestowed pleasure
even upon me. Agatha listened with respect, her eyes sometimes filled
with tears, which she endeavoured to wipe away unperceived; but I
generally found that her countenance and tone were more cheerful after
having listened to the exhortations of her father. It was not thus
with Felix. He was always the saddest of the group, and even to my
unpractised senses, he appeared to have suffered more deeply than his
friends. But if his countenance was more sorrowful, his voice was more
cheerful than that of his sister, especially when he addressed the old
man.

“I could mention innumerable instances which, although slight, marked
the dispositions of these amiable cottagers. In the midst of poverty
and want, Felix carried with pleasure to his sister the first little
white flower that peeped out from beneath the snowy ground. Early in
the morning, before she had risen, he cleared away the snow that
obstructed her path to the milk-house, drew water from the well, and
brought the wood from the outhouse, where, to his perpetual
astonishment, he found his store always replenished by an invisible
hand. In the day, I believe, he worked sometimes for a neighbouring
farmer, because he often went forth and did not return until dinner,
yet brought no wood with him. At other times he worked in the garden,
but as there was little to do in the frosty season, he read to the old
man and Agatha.

“This reading had puzzled me extremely at first, but by degrees I
discovered that he uttered many of the same sounds when he read as when
he talked. I conjectured, therefore, that he found on the paper signs
for speech which he understood, and I ardently longed to comprehend
these also; but how was that possible when I did not even understand
the sounds for which they stood as signs? I improved, however,
sensibly in this science, but not sufficiently to follow up any kind of
conversation, although I applied my whole mind to the endeavour, for I
easily perceived that, although I eagerly longed to discover myself to
the cottagers, I ought not to make the attempt until I had first become
master of their language, which knowledge might enable me to make them
overlook the deformity of my figure, for with this also the contrast
perpetually presented to my eyes had made me acquainted.

“I had admired the perfect forms of my cottagers—their grace, beauty,
and delicate complexions; but how was I terrified when I viewed myself
in a transparent pool! At first I started back, unable to believe that
it was indeed I who was reflected in the mirror; and when I became
fully convinced that I was in reality the monster that I am, I was
filled with the bitterest sensations of despondence and mortification.
Alas! I did not yet entirely know the fatal effects of this miserable
deformity.

“As the sun became warmer and the light of day longer, the snow
vanished, and I beheld the bare trees and the black earth. From this
time Felix was more employed, and the heart-moving indications of
impending famine disappeared. Their food, as I afterwards found, was
coarse, but it was wholesome; and they procured a sufficiency of it.
Several new kinds of plants sprang up in the garden, which they
dressed; and these signs of comfort increased daily as the season
advanced.

“The old man, leaning on his son, walked each day at noon, when it did
not rain, as I found it was called when the heavens poured forth its
waters. This frequently took place, but a high wind quickly dried the
earth, and the season became far more pleasant than it had been.

“My mode of life in my hovel was uniform. During the morning I
attended the motions of the cottagers, and when they were dispersed in
various occupations, I slept; the remainder of the day was spent in
observing my friends. When they had retired to rest, if there was any
moon or the night was star-light, I went into the woods and collected
my own food and fuel for the cottage. When I returned, as often as it
was necessary, I cleared their path from the snow and performed those
offices that I had seen done by Felix. I afterwards found that these
labours, performed by an invisible hand, greatly astonished them; and
once or twice I heard them, on these occasions, utter the words _good
spirit, wonderful_; but I did not then understand the signification
of these terms.

“My thoughts now became more active, and I longed to discover the
motives and feelings of these lovely creatures; I was inquisitive to
know why Felix appeared so miserable and Agatha so sad. I thought
(foolish wretch!) that it might be in my power to restore happiness to
these deserving people. When I slept or was absent, the forms of the
venerable blind father, the gentle Agatha, and the excellent Felix
flitted before me. I looked upon them as superior beings who would be
the arbiters of my future destiny. I formed in my imagination a
thousand pictures of presenting myself to them, and their reception of
me. I imagined that they would be disgusted, until, by my gentle
demeanour and conciliating words, I should first win their favour and
afterwards their love.

“These thoughts exhilarated me and led me to apply with fresh ardour to
the acquiring the art of language. My organs were indeed harsh, but
supple; and although my voice was very unlike the soft music of their
tones, yet I pronounced such words as I understood with tolerable ease.
It was as the ass and the lap-dog; yet surely the gentle ass whose
intentions were affectionate, although his manners were rude, deserved
better treatment than blows and execration.

“The pleasant showers and genial warmth of spring greatly altered the
aspect of the earth. Men who before this change seemed to have been
hid in caves dispersed themselves and were employed in various arts of
cultivation. The birds sang in more cheerful notes, and the leaves
began to bud forth on the trees. Happy, happy earth! Fit habitation
for gods, which, so short a time before, was bleak, damp, and
unwholesome. My spirits were elevated by the enchanting appearance of
nature; the past was blotted from my memory, the present was tranquil,
and the future gilded by bright rays of hope and anticipations of joy.”




Chapter 13


“I now hasten to the more moving part of my story. I shall relate
events that impressed me with feelings which, from what I had been,
have made me what I am.

“Spring advanced rapidly; the weather became fine and the skies
cloudless. It surprised me that what before was desert and gloomy
should now bloom with the most beautiful flowers and verdure. My
senses were gratified and refreshed by a thousand scents of delight and
a thousand sights of beauty.

“It was on one of these days, when my cottagers periodically rested
from labour—the old man played on his guitar, and the children
listened to him—that I observed the countenance of Felix was
melancholy beyond expression; he sighed frequently, and once his father
paused in his music, and I conjectured by his manner that he inquired
the cause of his son’s sorrow. Felix replied in a cheerful accent, and
the old man was recommencing his music when someone tapped at the door.

“It was a lady on horseback, accompanied by a country-man as a guide.
The lady was dressed in a dark suit and covered with a thick black
veil. Agatha asked a question, to which the stranger only replied by
pronouncing, in a sweet accent, the name of Felix. Her voice was
musical but unlike that of either of my friends. On hearing this word,
Felix came up hastily to the lady, who, when she saw him, threw up her
veil, and I beheld a countenance of angelic beauty and expression. Her
hair of a shining raven black, and curiously braided; her eyes were
dark, but gentle, although animated; her features of a regular
proportion, and her complexion wondrously fair, each cheek tinged with
a lovely pink.

“Felix seemed ravished with delight when he saw her, every trait of
sorrow vanished from his face, and it instantly expressed a degree of
ecstatic joy, of which I could hardly have believed it capable; his
eyes sparkled, as his cheek flushed with pleasure; and at that moment I
thought him as beautiful as the stranger. She appeared affected by
different feelings; wiping a few tears from her lovely eyes, she held
out her hand to Felix, who kissed it rapturously and called her, as
well as I could distinguish, his sweet Arabian. She did not appear to
understand him, but smiled. He assisted her to dismount, and
dismissing her guide, conducted her into the cottage. Some
conversation took place between him and his father, and the young
stranger knelt at the old man’s feet and would have kissed his hand,
but he raised her and embraced her affectionately.

“I soon perceived that although the stranger uttered articulate sounds
and appeared to have a language of her own, she was neither understood
by nor herself understood the cottagers. They made many signs which I
did not comprehend, but I saw that her presence diffused gladness
through the cottage, dispelling their sorrow as the sun dissipates the
morning mists. Felix seemed peculiarly happy and with smiles of
delight welcomed his Arabian. Agatha, the ever-gentle Agatha, kissed
the hands of the lovely stranger, and pointing to her brother, made
signs which appeared to me to mean that he had been sorrowful until she
came. Some hours passed thus, while they, by their countenances,
expressed joy, the cause of which I did not comprehend. Presently I
found, by the frequent recurrence of some sound which the stranger
repeated after them, that she was endeavouring to learn their language;
and the idea instantly occurred to me that I should make use of the
same instructions to the same end. The stranger learned about twenty
words at the first lesson; most of them, indeed, were those which I had
before understood, but I profited by the others.

“As night came on, Agatha and the Arabian retired early. When they
separated Felix kissed the hand of the stranger and said, ‘Good night
sweet Safie.’ He sat up much longer, conversing with his father, and
by the frequent repetition of her name I conjectured that their lovely
guest was the subject of their conversation. I ardently desired to
understand them, and bent every faculty towards that purpose, but found
it utterly impossible.

“The next morning Felix went out to his work, and after the usual
occupations of Agatha were finished, the Arabian sat at the feet of the
old man, and taking his guitar, played some airs so entrancingly
beautiful that they at once drew tears of sorrow and delight from my
eyes. She sang, and her voice flowed in a rich cadence, swelling or
dying away like a nightingale of the woods.

“When she had finished, she gave the guitar to Agatha, who at first
declined it. She played a simple air, and her voice accompanied it in
sweet accents, but unlike the wondrous strain of the stranger. The old
man appeared enraptured and said some words which Agatha endeavoured to
explain to Safie, and by which he appeared to wish to express that she
bestowed on him the greatest delight by her music.

“The days now passed as peaceably as before, with the sole alteration
that joy had taken place of sadness in the countenances of my friends.
Safie was always gay and happy; she and I improved rapidly in the
knowledge of language, so that in two months I began to comprehend most
of the words uttered by my protectors.

“In the meanwhile also the black ground was covered with herbage, and
the green banks interspersed with innumerable flowers, sweet to the
scent and the eyes, stars of pale radiance among the moonlight woods;
the sun became warmer, the nights clear and balmy; and my nocturnal
rambles were an extreme pleasure to me, although they were considerably
shortened by the late setting and early rising of the sun, for I never
ventured abroad during daylight, fearful of meeting with the same
treatment I had formerly endured in the first village which I entered.

“My days were spent in close attention, that I might more speedily
master the language; and I may boast that I improved more rapidly than
the Arabian, who understood very little and conversed in broken
accents, whilst I comprehended and could imitate almost every word that
was spoken.

“While I improved in speech, I also learned the science of letters as
it was taught to the stranger, and this opened before me a wide field
for wonder and delight.

“The book from which Felix instructed Safie was Volney’s _Ruins
of Empires_. I should not have understood the purport of this book had not
Felix, in reading it, given very minute explanations. He had chosen this
work, he said, because the declamatory style was framed in imitation of the
Eastern authors. Through this work I obtained a cursory knowledge of history
and a view of the several empires at present existing in the world; it gave
me an insight into the manners, governments, and religions of the different
nations of the earth. I heard of the slothful Asiatics, of the stupendous
genius and mental activity of the Grecians, of the wars and wonderful virtue
of the early Romans—of their subsequent degenerating—of the
decline of that mighty empire, of chivalry, Christianity, and kings. I heard
of the discovery of the American hemisphere and wept with Safie over the
hapless fate of its original inhabitants.

“These wonderful narrations inspired me with strange feelings. Was
man, indeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous and magnificent, yet so
vicious and base? He appeared at one time a mere scion of the evil
principle and at another as all that can be conceived of noble and
godlike. To be a great and virtuous man appeared the highest honour
that can befall a sensitive being; to be base and vicious, as many on
record have been, appeared the lowest degradation, a condition more
abject than that of the blind mole or harmless worm. For a long time I
could not conceive how one man could go forth to murder his fellow, or
even why there were laws and governments; but when I heard details of
vice and bloodshed, my wonder ceased and I turned away with disgust and
loathing.

“Every conversation of the cottagers now opened new wonders to me.
While I listened to the instructions which Felix bestowed upon the
Arabian, the strange system of human society was explained to me. I
heard of the division of property, of immense wealth and squalid
poverty, of rank, descent, and noble blood.

“The words induced me to turn towards myself. I learned that the
possessions most esteemed by your fellow creatures were high and
unsullied descent united with riches. A man might be respected with
only one of these advantages, but without either he was considered,
except in very rare instances, as a vagabond and a slave, doomed to
waste his powers for the profits of the chosen few! And what was I? Of
my creation and creator I was absolutely ignorant, but I knew that I
possessed no money, no friends, no kind of property. I was, besides,
endued with a figure hideously deformed and loathsome; I was not even
of the same nature as man. I was more agile than they and could
subsist upon coarser diet; I bore the extremes of heat and cold with
less injury to my frame; my stature far exceeded theirs. When I looked
around I saw and heard of none like me. Was I, then, a monster, a blot
upon the earth, from which all men fled and whom all men disowned?

“I cannot describe to you the agony that these reflections inflicted
upon me; I tried to dispel them, but sorrow only increased with
knowledge. Oh, that I had for ever remained in my native wood, nor
known nor felt beyond the sensations of hunger, thirst, and heat!

“Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the mind when it
has once seized on it like a lichen on the rock. I wished sometimes to
shake off all thought and feeling, but I learned that there was but one
means to overcome the sensation of pain, and that was death—a state
which I feared yet did not understand. I admired virtue and good
feelings and loved the gentle manners and amiable qualities of my
cottagers, but I was shut out from intercourse with them, except
through means which I obtained by stealth, when I was unseen and
unknown, and which rather increased than satisfied the desire I had of
becoming one among my fellows. The gentle words of Agatha and the
animated smiles of the charming Arabian were not for me. The mild
exhortations of the old man and the lively conversation of the loved
Felix were not for me. Miserable, unhappy wretch!

“Other lessons were impressed upon me even more deeply. I heard of the
difference of sexes, and the birth and growth of children, how the
father doted on the smiles of the infant, and the lively sallies of the
older child, how all the life and cares of the mother were wrapped up
in the precious charge, how the mind of youth expanded and gained
knowledge, of brother, sister, and all the various relationships which
bind one human being to another in mutual bonds.

“But where were my friends and relations? No father had watched my
infant days, no mother had blessed me with smiles and caresses; or if
they had, all my past life was now a blot, a blind vacancy in which I
distinguished nothing. From my earliest remembrance I had been as I
then was in height and proportion. I had never yet seen a being
resembling me or who claimed any intercourse with me. What was I? The
question again recurred, to be answered only with groans.

“I will soon explain to what these feelings tended, but allow me now to
return to the cottagers, whose story excited in me such various
feelings of indignation, delight, and wonder, but which all terminated
in additional love and reverence for my protectors (for so I loved, in
an innocent, half-painful self-deceit, to call them).”




Chapter 14


“Some time elapsed before I learned the history of my friends. It was
one which could not fail to impress itself deeply on my mind, unfolding
as it did a number of circumstances, each interesting and wonderful to
one so utterly inexperienced as I was.

“The name of the old man was De Lacey. He was descended from a good
family in France, where he had lived for many years in affluence,
respected by his superiors and beloved by his equals. His son was bred
in the service of his country, and Agatha had ranked with ladies of the
highest distinction. A few months before my arrival they had lived in
a large and luxurious city called Paris, surrounded by friends and
possessed of every enjoyment which virtue, refinement of intellect, or
taste, accompanied by a moderate fortune, could afford.

“The father of Safie had been the cause of their ruin. He was a
Turkish merchant and had inhabited Paris for many years, when, for some
reason which I could not learn, he became obnoxious to the government.
He was seized and cast into prison the very day that Safie arrived from
Constantinople to join him. He was tried and condemned to death. The
injustice of his sentence was very flagrant; all Paris was indignant;
and it was judged that his religion and wealth rather than the crime
alleged against him had been the cause of his condemnation.

“Felix had accidentally been present at the trial; his horror and
indignation were uncontrollable when he heard the decision of the
court. He made, at that moment, a solemn vow to deliver him and then
looked around for the means. After many fruitless attempts to gain
admittance to the prison, he found a strongly grated window in an
unguarded part of the building, which lighted the dungeon of the
unfortunate Muhammadan, who, loaded with chains, waited in despair the
execution of the barbarous sentence. Felix visited the grate at night
and made known to the prisoner his intentions in his favour. The Turk,
amazed and delighted, endeavoured to kindle the zeal of his deliverer
by promises of reward and wealth. Felix rejected his offers with
contempt, yet when he saw the lovely Safie, who was allowed to visit
her father and who by her gestures expressed her lively gratitude, the
youth could not help owning to his own mind that the captive possessed
a treasure which would fully reward his toil and hazard.

“The Turk quickly perceived the impression that his daughter had made
on the heart of Felix and endeavoured to secure him more entirely in
his interests by the promise of her hand in marriage so soon as he
should be conveyed to a place of safety. Felix was too delicate to
accept this offer, yet he looked forward to the probability of the
event as to the consummation of his happiness.

“During the ensuing days, while the preparations were going forward for
the escape of the merchant, the zeal of Felix was warmed by several
letters that he received from this lovely girl, who found means to
express her thoughts in the language of her lover by the aid of an old
man, a servant of her father who understood French. She thanked him in
the most ardent terms for his intended services towards her parent, and
at the same time she gently deplored her own fate.

“I have copies of these letters, for I found means, during my residence
in the hovel, to procure the implements of writing; and the letters
were often in the hands of Felix or Agatha. Before I depart I will
give them to you; they will prove the truth of my tale; but at present,
as the sun is already far declined, I shall only have time to repeat
the substance of them to you.

“Safie related that her mother was a Christian Arab, seized and made a
slave by the Turks; recommended by her beauty, she had won the heart of
the father of Safie, who married her. The young girl spoke in high and
enthusiastic terms of her mother, who, born in freedom, spurned the
bondage to which she was now reduced. She instructed her daughter in
the tenets of her religion and taught her to aspire to higher powers of
intellect and an independence of spirit forbidden to the female
followers of Muhammad. This lady died, but her lessons were indelibly
impressed on the mind of Safie, who sickened at the prospect of again
returning to Asia and being immured within the walls of a harem,
allowed only to occupy herself with infantile amusements, ill-suited to
the temper of her soul, now accustomed to grand ideas and a noble
emulation for virtue. The prospect of marrying a Christian and
remaining in a country where women were allowed to take a rank in
society was enchanting to her.

“The day for the execution of the Turk was fixed, but on the night
previous to it he quitted his prison and before morning was distant
many leagues from Paris. Felix had procured passports in the name of
his father, sister, and himself. He had previously communicated his
plan to the former, who aided the deceit by quitting his house, under
the pretence of a journey and concealed himself, with his daughter, in
an obscure part of Paris.

“Felix conducted the fugitives through France to Lyons and across Mont
Cenis to Leghorn, where the merchant had decided to wait a favourable
opportunity of passing into some part of the Turkish dominions.

“Safie resolved to remain with her father until the moment of his
departure, before which time the Turk renewed his promise that she
should be united to his deliverer; and Felix remained with them in
expectation of that event; and in the meantime he enjoyed the society
of the Arabian, who exhibited towards him the simplest and tenderest
affection. They conversed with one another through the means of an
interpreter, and sometimes with the interpretation of looks; and Safie
sang to him the divine airs of her native country.

“The Turk allowed this intimacy to take place and encouraged the hopes
of the youthful lovers, while in his heart he had formed far other
plans. He loathed the idea that his daughter should be united to a
Christian, but he feared the resentment of Felix if he should appear
lukewarm, for he knew that he was still in the power of his deliverer
if he should choose to betray him to the Italian state which they
inhabited. He revolved a thousand plans by which he should be enabled
to prolong the deceit until it might be no longer necessary, and
secretly to take his daughter with him when he departed. His plans
were facilitated by the news which arrived from Paris.

“The government of France were greatly enraged at the escape of their
victim and spared no pains to detect and punish his deliverer. The
plot of Felix was quickly discovered, and De Lacey and Agatha were
thrown into prison. The news reached Felix and roused him from his
dream of pleasure. His blind and aged father and his gentle sister lay
in a noisome dungeon while he enjoyed the free air and the society of
her whom he loved. This idea was torture to him. He quickly arranged
with the Turk that if the latter should find a favourable opportunity
for escape before Felix could return to Italy, Safie should remain as a
boarder at a convent at Leghorn; and then, quitting the lovely Arabian,
he hastened to Paris and delivered himself up to the vengeance of the
law, hoping to free De Lacey and Agatha by this proceeding.

“He did not succeed. They remained confined for five months before the
trial took place, the result of which deprived them of their fortune
and condemned them to a perpetual exile from their native country.

“They found a miserable asylum in the cottage in Germany, where I
discovered them. Felix soon learned that the treacherous Turk, for
whom he and his family endured such unheard-of oppression, on
discovering that his deliverer was thus reduced to poverty and ruin,
became a traitor to good feeling and honour and had quitted Italy with
his daughter, insultingly sending Felix a pittance of money to aid him,
as he said, in some plan of future maintenance.

“Such were the events that preyed on the heart of Felix and rendered
him, when I first saw him, the most miserable of his family. He could
have endured poverty, and while this distress had been the meed of his
virtue, he gloried in it; but the ingratitude of the Turk and the loss
of his beloved Safie were misfortunes more bitter and irreparable. The
arrival of the Arabian now infused new life into his soul.

“When the news reached Leghorn that Felix was deprived of his wealth
and rank, the merchant commanded his daughter to think no more of her
lover, but to prepare to return to her native country. The generous
nature of Safie was outraged by this command; she attempted to
expostulate with her father, but he left her angrily, reiterating his
tyrannical mandate.

“A few days after, the Turk entered his daughter’s apartment and told
her hastily that he had reason to believe that his residence at Leghorn
had been divulged and that he should speedily be delivered up to the
French government; he had consequently hired a vessel to convey him to
Constantinople, for which city he should sail in a few hours. He
intended to leave his daughter under the care of a confidential
servant, to follow at her leisure with the greater part of his
property, which had not yet arrived at Leghorn.

“When alone, Safie resolved in her own mind the plan of conduct that it
would become her to pursue in this emergency. A residence in Turkey
was abhorrent to her; her religion and her feelings were alike averse
to it. By some papers of her father which fell into her hands she
heard of the exile of her lover and learnt the name of the spot where
he then resided. She hesitated some time, but at length she formed her
determination. Taking with her some jewels that belonged to her and a
sum of money, she quitted Italy with an attendant, a native of Leghorn,
but who understood the common language of Turkey, and departed for
Germany.

“She arrived in safety at a town about twenty leagues from the cottage
of De Lacey, when her attendant fell dangerously ill. Safie nursed her
with the most devoted affection, but the poor girl died, and the
Arabian was left alone, unacquainted with the language of the country
and utterly ignorant of the customs of the world. She fell, however,
into good hands. The Italian had mentioned the name of the spot for
which they were bound, and after her death the woman of the house in
which they had lived took care that Safie should arrive in safety at
the cottage of her lover.”




Chapter 15


“Such was the history of my beloved cottagers. It impressed me deeply.
I learned, from the views of social life which it developed, to admire
their virtues and to deprecate the vices of mankind.

“As yet I looked upon crime as a distant evil, benevolence and
generosity were ever present before me, inciting within me a desire to
become an actor in the busy scene where so many admirable qualities
were called forth and displayed. But in giving an account of the
progress of my intellect, I must not omit a circumstance which occurred
in the beginning of the month of August of the same year.

“One night during my accustomed visit to the neighbouring wood where I
collected my own food and brought home firing for my protectors, I found on
the ground a leathern portmanteau containing several articles of dress and
some books. I eagerly seized the prize and returned with it to my hovel. 
Fortunately the books were written in the language, the elements of which I
had acquired at the cottage; they consisted of _Paradise Lost_, a volume
of _Plutarch’s Lives_, and the _Sorrows of Werter_. The
possession of these treasures gave me extreme delight; I now continually
studied and exercised my mind upon these histories, whilst my friends were
employed in their ordinary occupations.

“I can hardly describe to you the effect of these books. They produced
in me an infinity of new images and feelings, that sometimes raised me
to ecstasy, but more frequently sunk me into the lowest dejection. In
the _Sorrows of Werter_, besides the interest of its simple and affecting
story, so many opinions are canvassed and so many lights thrown upon
what had hitherto been to me obscure subjects that I found in it a
never-ending source of speculation and astonishment. The gentle and
domestic manners it described, combined with lofty sentiments and
feelings, which had for their object something out of self, accorded
well with my experience among my protectors and with the wants which
were for ever alive in my own bosom. But I thought Werter himself a
more divine being than I had ever beheld or imagined; his character
contained no pretension, but it sank deep. The disquisitions upon
death and suicide were calculated to fill me with wonder. I did not
pretend to enter into the merits of the case, yet I inclined towards
the opinions of the hero, whose extinction I wept, without precisely
understanding it.

“As I read, however, I applied much personally to my own feelings and
condition. I found myself similar yet at the same time strangely
unlike to the beings concerning whom I read and to whose conversation I
was a listener. I sympathised with and partly understood them, but I
was unformed in mind; I was dependent on none and related to none.
‘The path of my departure was free,’ and there was none to lament my
annihilation. My person was hideous and my stature gigantic. What did
this mean? Who was I? What was I? Whence did I come? What was my
destination? These questions continually recurred, but I was unable to
solve them.

“The volume of _Plutarch’s Lives_ which I possessed contained the
histories of the first founders of the ancient republics. This book
had a far different effect upon me from the _Sorrows of Werter_. I
learned from Werter’s imaginations despondency and gloom, but Plutarch
taught me high thoughts; he elevated me above the wretched sphere of my
own reflections, to admire and love the heroes of past ages. Many
things I read surpassed my understanding and experience. I had a very
confused knowledge of kingdoms, wide extents of country, mighty rivers,
and boundless seas. But I was perfectly unacquainted with towns and
large assemblages of men. The cottage of my protectors had been the
only school in which I had studied human nature, but this book
developed new and mightier scenes of action. I read of men concerned
in public affairs, governing or massacring their species. I felt the
greatest ardour for virtue rise within me, and abhorrence for vice, as
far as I understood the signification of those terms, relative as they
were, as I applied them, to pleasure and pain alone. Induced by these
feelings, I was of course led to admire peaceable lawgivers, Numa,
Solon, and Lycurgus, in preference to Romulus and Theseus. The
patriarchal lives of my protectors caused these impressions to take a
firm hold on my mind; perhaps, if my first introduction to humanity had
been made by a young soldier, burning for glory and slaughter, I should
have been imbued with different sensations.

“But _Paradise Lost_ excited different and far deeper emotions. I read
it, as I had read the other volumes which had fallen into my hands, as
a true history. It moved every feeling of wonder and awe that the
picture of an omnipotent God warring with his creatures was capable of
exciting. I often referred the several situations, as their similarity
struck me, to my own. Like Adam, I was apparently united by no link to
any other being in existence; but his state was far different from mine
in every other respect. He had come forth from the hands of God a
perfect creature, happy and prosperous, guarded by the especial care of
his Creator; he was allowed to converse with and acquire knowledge from
beings of a superior nature, but I was wretched, helpless, and alone.
Many times I considered Satan as the fitter emblem of my condition, for
often, like him, when I viewed the bliss of my protectors, the bitter
gall of envy rose within me.

“Another circumstance strengthened and confirmed these feelings. Soon
after my arrival in the hovel I discovered some papers in the pocket of
the dress which I had taken from your laboratory. At first I had
neglected them, but now that I was able to decipher the characters in
which they were written, I began to study them with diligence. It was
your journal of the four months that preceded my creation. You
minutely described in these papers every step you took in the progress
of your work; this history was mingled with accounts of domestic
occurrences. You doubtless recollect these papers. Here they are.
Everything is related in them which bears reference to my accursed
origin; the whole detail of that series of disgusting circumstances
which produced it is set in view; the minutest description of my odious
and loathsome person is given, in language which painted your own
horrors and rendered mine indelible. I sickened as I read. ‘Hateful
day when I received life!’ I exclaimed in agony. ‘Accursed creator!
Why did you form a monster so hideous that even _you_ turned from me in
disgust? God, in pity, made man beautiful and alluring, after his own
image; but my form is a filthy type of yours, more horrid even from the
very resemblance. Satan had his companions, fellow devils, to admire
and encourage him, but I am solitary and abhorred.’

“These were the reflections of my hours of despondency and solitude;
but when I contemplated the virtues of the cottagers, their amiable and
benevolent dispositions, I persuaded myself that when they should
become acquainted with my admiration of their virtues they would
compassionate me and overlook my personal deformity. Could they turn
from their door one, however monstrous, who solicited their compassion
and friendship? I resolved, at least, not to despair, but in every way
to fit myself for an interview with them which would decide my fate. I
postponed this attempt for some months longer, for the importance
attached to its success inspired me with a dread lest I should fail.
Besides, I found that my understanding improved so much with every
day’s experience that I was unwilling to commence this undertaking
until a few more months should have added to my sagacity.

“Several changes, in the meantime, took place in the cottage. The
presence of Safie diffused happiness among its inhabitants, and I also
found that a greater degree of plenty reigned there. Felix and Agatha
spent more time in amusement and conversation, and were assisted in
their labours by servants. They did not appear rich, but they were
contented and happy; their feelings were serene and peaceful, while
mine became every day more tumultuous. Increase of knowledge only
discovered to me more clearly what a wretched outcast I was. I
cherished hope, it is true, but it vanished when I beheld my person
reflected in water or my shadow in the moonshine, even as that frail
image and that inconstant shade.

“I endeavoured to crush these fears and to fortify myself for the trial
which in a few months I resolved to undergo; and sometimes I allowed my
thoughts, unchecked by reason, to ramble in the fields of Paradise, and
dared to fancy amiable and lovely creatures sympathising with my
feelings and cheering my gloom; their angelic countenances breathed
smiles of consolation. But it was all a dream; no Eve soothed my
sorrows nor shared my thoughts; I was alone. I remembered Adam’s
supplication to his Creator. But where was mine? He had abandoned me,
and in the bitterness of my heart I cursed him.

“Autumn passed thus. I saw, with surprise and grief, the leaves decay
and fall, and nature again assume the barren and bleak appearance it
had worn when I first beheld the woods and the lovely moon. Yet I did
not heed the bleakness of the weather; I was better fitted by my
conformation for the endurance of cold than heat. But my chief
delights were the sight of the flowers, the birds, and all the gay
apparel of summer; when those deserted me, I turned with more attention
towards the cottagers. Their happiness was not decreased by the
absence of summer. They loved and sympathised with one another; and
their joys, depending on each other, were not interrupted by the
casualties that took place around them. The more I saw of them, the
greater became my desire to claim their protection and kindness; my
heart yearned to be known and loved by these amiable creatures; to see
their sweet looks directed towards me with affection was the utmost
limit of my ambition. I dared not think that they would turn them from
me with disdain and horror. The poor that stopped at their door were
never driven away. I asked, it is true, for greater treasures than a
little food or rest: I required kindness and sympathy; but I did not
believe myself utterly unworthy of it.

“The winter advanced, and an entire revolution of the seasons had taken
place since I awoke into life. My attention at this time was solely
directed towards my plan of introducing myself into the cottage of my
protectors. I revolved many projects, but that on which I finally
fixed was to enter the dwelling when the blind old man should be alone.
I had sagacity enough to discover that the unnatural hideousness of my
person was the chief object of horror with those who had formerly
beheld me. My voice, although harsh, had nothing terrible in it; I
thought, therefore, that if in the absence of his children I could gain
the good will and mediation of the old De Lacey, I might by his means
be tolerated by my younger protectors.

“One day, when the sun shone on the red leaves that strewed the ground
and diffused cheerfulness, although it denied warmth, Safie, Agatha,
and Felix departed on a long country walk, and the old man, at his own
desire, was left alone in the cottage. When his children had departed,
he took up his guitar and played several mournful but sweet airs, more
sweet and mournful than I had ever heard him play before. At first his
countenance was illuminated with pleasure, but as he continued,
thoughtfulness and sadness succeeded; at length, laying aside the
instrument, he sat absorbed in reflection.

“My heart beat quick; this was the hour and moment of trial, which
would decide my hopes or realise my fears. The servants were gone to a
neighbouring fair. All was silent in and around the cottage; it was an
excellent opportunity; yet, when I proceeded to execute my plan, my
limbs failed me and I sank to the ground. Again I rose, and exerting
all the firmness of which I was master, removed the planks which I had
placed before my hovel to conceal my retreat. The fresh air revived
me, and with renewed determination I approached the door of their
cottage.

“I knocked. ‘Who is there?’ said the old man. ‘Come in.’

“I entered. ‘Pardon this intrusion,’ said I; ‘I am
a traveller in want of a little rest; you would greatly oblige me if you
would allow me to remain a few minutes before the fire.’

“‘Enter,’ said De Lacey, ‘and I will try in what
manner I can to relieve your wants; but, unfortunately, my children are
from home, and as I am blind, I am afraid I shall find it difficult to
procure food for you.’

“‘Do not trouble yourself, my kind host; I have food; it is
warmth and rest only that I need.’

“I sat down, and a silence ensued. I knew that every minute was
precious to me, yet I remained irresolute in what manner to commence
the interview, when the old man addressed me.

‘By your language, stranger, I suppose you are my countryman; are you
French?’

“‘No; but I was educated by a French family and understand that
language only. I am now going to claim the protection of some friends,
whom I sincerely love, and of whose favour I have some hopes.’

“‘Are they Germans?’

“‘No, they are French. But let us change the subject. I am an
unfortunate and deserted creature, I look around and I have no relation
or friend upon earth. These amiable people to whom I go have never
seen me and know little of me. I am full of fears, for if I fail
there, I am an outcast in the world for ever.’

“‘Do not despair. To be friendless is indeed to be unfortunate, but
the hearts of men, when unprejudiced by any obvious self-interest, are
full of brotherly love and charity. Rely, therefore, on your hopes;
and if these friends are good and amiable, do not despair.’

“‘They are kind—they are the most excellent creatures in the world;
but, unfortunately, they are prejudiced against me. I have good
dispositions; my life has been hitherto harmless and in some degree
beneficial; but a fatal prejudice clouds their eyes, and where they
ought to see a feeling and kind friend, they behold only a detestable
monster.’

“‘That is indeed unfortunate; but if you are really blameless, cannot
you undeceive them?’

“‘I am about to undertake that task; and it is on that account that I
feel so many overwhelming terrors. I tenderly love these friends; I
have, unknown to them, been for many months in the habits of daily
kindness towards them; but they believe that I wish to injure them, and
it is that prejudice which I wish to overcome.’

“‘Where do these friends reside?’

“‘Near this spot.’

“The old man paused and then continued, ‘If you will unreservedly
confide to me the particulars of your tale, I perhaps may be of use in
undeceiving them. I am blind and cannot judge of your countenance, but
there is something in your words which persuades me that you are
sincere. I am poor and an exile, but it will afford me true pleasure
to be in any way serviceable to a human creature.’

“‘Excellent man! I thank you and accept your generous offer. You
raise me from the dust by this kindness; and I trust that, by your aid,
I shall not be driven from the society and sympathy of your fellow
creatures.’

“‘Heaven forbid! Even if you were really criminal, for that can only
drive you to desperation, and not instigate you to virtue. I also am
unfortunate; I and my family have been condemned, although innocent;
judge, therefore, if I do not feel for your misfortunes.’

“‘How can I thank you, my best and only benefactor? From your lips
first have I heard the voice of kindness directed towards me; I shall
be for ever grateful; and your present humanity assures me of success
with those friends whom I am on the point of meeting.’

“‘May I know the names and residence of those friends?’

“I paused. This, I thought, was the moment of decision, which was to
rob me of or bestow happiness on me for ever. I struggled vainly for
firmness sufficient to answer him, but the effort destroyed all my
remaining strength; I sank on the chair and sobbed aloud. At that
moment I heard the steps of my younger protectors. I had not a moment
to lose, but seizing the hand of the old man, I cried, ‘Now is the
time! Save and protect me! You and your family are the friends whom I
seek. Do not you desert me in the hour of trial!’

“‘Great God!’ exclaimed the old man. ‘Who are you?’

“At that instant the cottage door was opened, and Felix, Safie, and
Agatha entered. Who can describe their horror and consternation on
beholding me? Agatha fainted, and Safie, unable to attend to her
friend, rushed out of the cottage. Felix darted forward, and with
supernatural force tore me from his father, to whose knees I clung, in
a transport of fury, he dashed me to the ground and struck me violently
with a stick. I could have torn him limb from limb, as the lion rends
the antelope. But my heart sank within me as with bitter sickness, and
I refrained. I saw him on the point of repeating his blow, when,
overcome by pain and anguish, I quitted the cottage, and in the general
tumult escaped unperceived to my hovel.”




Chapter 16


“Cursed, cursed creator! Why did I live? Why, in that instant, did I
not extinguish the spark of existence which you had so wantonly
bestowed? I know not; despair had not yet taken possession of me; my
feelings were those of rage and revenge. I could with pleasure have
destroyed the cottage and its inhabitants and have glutted myself with
their shrieks and misery.

“When night came I quitted my retreat and wandered in the wood; and
now, no longer restrained by the fear of discovery, I gave vent to my
anguish in fearful howlings. I was like a wild beast that had broken
the toils, destroying the objects that obstructed me and ranging
through the wood with a stag-like swiftness. Oh! What a miserable
night I passed! The cold stars shone in mockery, and the bare trees
waved their branches above me; now and then the sweet voice of a bird
burst forth amidst the universal stillness. All, save I, were at rest
or in enjoyment; I, like the arch-fiend, bore a hell within me, and
finding myself unsympathised with, wished to tear up the trees, spread
havoc and destruction around me, and then to have sat down and enjoyed
the ruin.

“But this was a luxury of sensation that could not endure; I became
fatigued with excess of bodily exertion and sank on the damp grass in
the sick impotence of despair. There was none among the myriads of men
that existed who would pity or assist me; and should I feel kindness
towards my enemies? No; from that moment I declared everlasting war
against the species, and more than all, against him who had formed me
and sent me forth to this insupportable misery.

“The sun rose; I heard the voices of men and knew that it was
impossible to return to my retreat during that day. Accordingly I hid
myself in some thick underwood, determining to devote the ensuing hours
to reflection on my situation.

“The pleasant sunshine and the pure air of day restored me to some
degree of tranquillity; and when I considered what had passed at the
cottage, I could not help believing that I had been too hasty in my
conclusions. I had certainly acted imprudently. It was apparent that
my conversation had interested the father in my behalf, and I was a
fool in having exposed my person to the horror of his children. I
ought to have familiarised the old De Lacey to me, and by degrees to
have discovered myself to the rest of his family, when they should have
been prepared for my approach. But I did not believe my errors to be
irretrievable, and after much consideration I resolved to return to the
cottage, seek the old man, and by my representations win him to my
party.

“These thoughts calmed me, and in the afternoon I sank into a profound
sleep; but the fever of my blood did not allow me to be visited by
peaceful dreams. The horrible scene of the preceding day was for ever
acting before my eyes; the females were flying and the enraged Felix
tearing me from his father’s feet. I awoke exhausted, and finding that
it was already night, I crept forth from my hiding-place, and went in
search of food.

“When my hunger was appeased, I directed my steps towards the
well-known path that conducted to the cottage. All there was at peace.
I crept into my hovel and remained in silent expectation of the
accustomed hour when the family arose. That hour passed, the sun
mounted high in the heavens, but the cottagers did not appear. I
trembled violently, apprehending some dreadful misfortune. The inside
of the cottage was dark, and I heard no motion; I cannot describe the
agony of this suspense.

“Presently two countrymen passed by, but pausing near the cottage, they
entered into conversation, using violent gesticulations; but I did not
understand what they said, as they spoke the language of the country,
which differed from that of my protectors. Soon after, however, Felix
approached with another man; I was surprised, as I knew that he had not
quitted the cottage that morning, and waited anxiously to discover from
his discourse the meaning of these unusual appearances.

“‘Do you consider,’ said his companion to him,
‘that you will be obliged to pay three months’ rent and to lose
the produce of your garden? I do not wish to take any unfair advantage, and
I beg therefore that you will take some days to consider of your
determination.’

“‘It is utterly useless,’ replied Felix; ‘we can
never again inhabit your cottage. The life of my father is in the greatest
danger, owing to the dreadful circumstance that I have related. My wife and
my sister will never recover from their horror. I entreat you not to reason
with me any more. Take possession of your tenement and let me fly from this
place.’

“Felix trembled violently as he said this. He and his companion
entered the cottage, in which they remained for a few minutes, and then
departed. I never saw any of the family of De Lacey more.

“I continued for the remainder of the day in my hovel in a state of
utter and stupid despair. My protectors had departed and had broken
the only link that held me to the world. For the first time the
feelings of revenge and hatred filled my bosom, and I did not strive to
control them, but allowing myself to be borne away by the stream, I
bent my mind towards injury and death. When I thought of my friends,
of the mild voice of De Lacey, the gentle eyes of Agatha, and the
exquisite beauty of the Arabian, these thoughts vanished and a gush of
tears somewhat soothed me. But again when I reflected that they had
spurned and deserted me, anger returned, a rage of anger, and unable to
injure anything human, I turned my fury towards inanimate objects. As
night advanced, I placed a variety of combustibles around the cottage,
and after having destroyed every vestige of cultivation in the garden,
I waited with forced impatience until the moon had sunk to commence my
operations.

“As the night advanced, a fierce wind arose from the woods and quickly
dispersed the clouds that had loitered in the heavens; the blast tore
along like a mighty avalanche and produced a kind of insanity in my
spirits that burst all bounds of reason and reflection. I lighted the
dry branch of a tree and danced with fury around the devoted cottage,
my eyes still fixed on the western horizon, the edge of which the moon
nearly touched. A part of its orb was at length hid, and I waved my
brand; it sank, and with a loud scream I fired the straw, and heath,
and bushes, which I had collected. The wind fanned the fire, and the
cottage was quickly enveloped by the flames, which clung to it and
licked it with their forked and destroying tongues.

“As soon as I was convinced that no assistance could save any part of
the habitation, I quitted the scene and sought for refuge in the woods.

“And now, with the world before me, whither should I bend my steps? I
resolved to fly far from the scene of my misfortunes; but to me, hated
and despised, every country must be equally horrible. At length the
thought of you crossed my mind. I learned from your papers that you
were my father, my creator; and to whom could I apply with more fitness
than to him who had given me life? Among the lessons that Felix had
bestowed upon Safie, geography had not been omitted; I had learned from
these the relative situations of the different countries of the earth.
You had mentioned Geneva as the name of your native town, and towards
this place I resolved to proceed.

“But how was I to direct myself? I knew that I must travel in a
southwesterly direction to reach my destination, but the sun was my
only guide. I did not know the names of the towns that I was to pass
through, nor could I ask information from a single human being; but I
did not despair. From you only could I hope for succour, although
towards you I felt no sentiment but that of hatred. Unfeeling,
heartless creator! You had endowed me with perceptions and passions
and then cast me abroad an object for the scorn and horror of mankind.
But on you only had I any claim for pity and redress, and from you I
determined to seek that justice which I vainly attempted to gain from
any other being that wore the human form.

“My travels were long and the sufferings I endured intense. It was
late in autumn when I quitted the district where I had so long resided.
I travelled only at night, fearful of encountering the visage of a
human being. Nature decayed around me, and the sun became heatless;
rain and snow poured around me; mighty rivers were frozen; the surface
of the earth was hard and chill, and bare, and I found no shelter. Oh,
earth! How often did I imprecate curses on the cause of my being! The
mildness of my nature had fled, and all within me was turned to gall
and bitterness. The nearer I approached to your habitation, the more
deeply did I feel the spirit of revenge enkindled in my heart. Snow
fell, and the waters were hardened, but I rested not. A few incidents
now and then directed me, and I possessed a map of the country; but I
often wandered wide from my path. The agony of my feelings allowed me
no respite; no incident occurred from which my rage and misery could
not extract its food; but a circumstance that happened when I arrived
on the confines of Switzerland, when the sun had recovered its warmth
and the earth again began to look green, confirmed in an especial
manner the bitterness and horror of my feelings.

“I generally rested during the day and travelled only when I was
secured by night from the view of man. One morning, however, finding
that my path lay through a deep wood, I ventured to continue my journey
after the sun had risen; the day, which was one of the first of spring,
cheered even me by the loveliness of its sunshine and the balminess of
the air. I felt emotions of gentleness and pleasure, that had long
appeared dead, revive within me. Half surprised by the novelty of
these sensations, I allowed myself to be borne away by them, and
forgetting my solitude and deformity, dared to be happy. Soft tears
again bedewed my cheeks, and I even raised my humid eyes with
thankfulness towards the blessed sun, which bestowed such joy upon me.

“I continued to wind among the paths of the wood, until I came to its
boundary, which was skirted by a deep and rapid river, into which many
of the trees bent their branches, now budding with the fresh spring.
Here I paused, not exactly knowing what path to pursue, when I heard
the sound of voices, that induced me to conceal myself under the shade
of a cypress. I was scarcely hid when a young girl came running
towards the spot where I was concealed, laughing, as if she ran from
someone in sport. She continued her course along the precipitous sides
of the river, when suddenly her foot slipped, and she fell into the
rapid stream. I rushed from my hiding-place and with extreme labour,
from the force of the current, saved her and dragged her to shore. She
was senseless, and I endeavoured by every means in my power to restore
animation, when I was suddenly interrupted by the approach of a rustic,
who was probably the person from whom she had playfully fled. On
seeing me, he darted towards me, and tearing the girl from my arms,
hastened towards the deeper parts of the wood. I followed speedily, I
hardly knew why; but when the man saw me draw near, he aimed a gun,
which he carried, at my body and fired. I sank to the ground, and my
injurer, with increased swiftness, escaped into the wood.

“This was then the reward of my benevolence! I had saved a human being
from destruction, and as a recompense I now writhed under the miserable
pain of a wound which shattered the flesh and bone. The feelings of
kindness and gentleness which I had entertained but a few moments
before gave place to hellish rage and gnashing of teeth. Inflamed by
pain, I vowed eternal hatred and vengeance to all mankind. But the
agony of my wound overcame me; my pulses paused, and I fainted.

“For some weeks I led a miserable life in the woods, endeavouring to
cure the wound which I had received. The ball had entered my shoulder,
and I knew not whether it had remained there or passed through; at any
rate I had no means of extracting it. My sufferings were augmented
also by the oppressive sense of the injustice and ingratitude of their
infliction. My daily vows rose for revenge—a deep and deadly revenge,
such as would alone compensate for the outrages and anguish I had
endured.

“After some weeks my wound healed, and I continued my journey. The
labours I endured were no longer to be alleviated by the bright sun or
gentle breezes of spring; all joy was but a mockery which insulted my
desolate state and made me feel more painfully that I was not made for
the enjoyment of pleasure.

“But my toils now drew near a close, and in two months from this time I
reached the environs of Geneva.

“It was evening when I arrived, and I retired to a hiding-place among
the fields that surround it to meditate in what manner I should apply
to you. I was oppressed by fatigue and hunger and far too unhappy to
enjoy the gentle breezes of evening or the prospect of the sun setting
behind the stupendous mountains of Jura.

“At this time a slight sleep relieved me from the pain of reflection,
which was disturbed by the approach of a beautiful child, who came
running into the recess I had chosen, with all the sportiveness of
infancy. Suddenly, as I gazed on him, an idea seized me that this
little creature was unprejudiced and had lived too short a time to have
imbibed a horror of deformity. If, therefore, I could seize him and
educate him as my companion and friend, I should not be so desolate in
this peopled earth.

“Urged by this impulse, I seized on the boy as he passed and drew him
towards me. As soon as he beheld my form, he placed his hands before
his eyes and uttered a shrill scream; I drew his hand forcibly from his
face and said, ‘Child, what is the meaning of this? I do not intend to
hurt you; listen to me.’

“He struggled violently. ‘Let me go,’ he cried;
‘monster! Ugly wretch! You wish to eat me and tear me to pieces. You
are an ogre. Let me go, or I will tell my papa.’

“‘Boy, you will never see your father again; you must come with me.’

“‘Hideous monster! Let me go. My papa is a syndic—he is M.
Frankenstein—he will punish you. You dare not keep me.’

“‘Frankenstein! you belong then to my enemy—to him towards whom I have
sworn eternal revenge; you shall be my first victim.’

“The child still struggled and loaded me with epithets which carried
despair to my heart; I grasped his throat to silence him, and in a
moment he lay dead at my feet.

“I gazed on my victim, and my heart swelled with exultation and hellish
triumph; clapping my hands, I exclaimed, ‘I too can create desolation;
my enemy is not invulnerable; this death will carry despair to him, and
a thousand other miseries shall torment and destroy him.’

“As I fixed my eyes on the child, I saw something glittering on his
breast. I took it; it was a portrait of a most lovely woman. In spite
of my malignity, it softened and attracted me. For a few moments I
gazed with delight on her dark eyes, fringed by deep lashes, and her
lovely lips; but presently my rage returned; I remembered that I was
for ever deprived of the delights that such beautiful creatures could
bestow and that she whose resemblance I contemplated would, in
regarding me, have changed that air of divine benignity to one
expressive of disgust and affright.

“Can you wonder that such thoughts transported me with rage? I only
wonder that at that moment, instead of venting my sensations in
exclamations and agony, I did not rush among mankind and perish in the
attempt to destroy them.

“While I was overcome by these feelings, I left the spot where I had
committed the murder, and seeking a more secluded hiding-place, I
entered a barn which had appeared to me to be empty. A woman was
sleeping on some straw; she was young, not indeed so beautiful as her
whose portrait I held, but of an agreeable aspect and blooming in the
loveliness of youth and health. Here, I thought, is one of those whose
joy-imparting smiles are bestowed on all but me. And then I bent over
her and whispered, ‘Awake, fairest, thy lover is near—he who would
give his life but to obtain one look of affection from thine eyes; my
beloved, awake!’

“The sleeper stirred; a thrill of terror ran through me. Should she
indeed awake, and see me, and curse me, and denounce the murderer? Thus
would she assuredly act if her darkened eyes opened and she beheld me.
The thought was madness; it stirred the fiend within me—not I, but
she, shall suffer; the murder I have committed because I am for ever
robbed of all that she could give me, she shall atone. The crime had
its source in her; be hers the punishment! Thanks to the lessons of
Felix and the sanguinary laws of man, I had learned now to work
mischief. I bent over her and placed the portrait securely in one of
the folds of her dress. She moved again, and I fled.

“For some days I haunted the spot where these scenes had taken place,
sometimes wishing to see you, sometimes resolved to quit the world and
its miseries for ever. At length I wandered towards these mountains,
and have ranged through their immense recesses, consumed by a burning
passion which you alone can gratify. We may not part until you have
promised to comply with my requisition. I am alone and miserable; man
will not associate with me; but one as deformed and horrible as myself
would not deny herself to me. My companion must be of the same species
and have the same defects. This being you must create.”




Chapter 17


The being finished speaking and fixed his looks upon me in the
expectation of a reply. But I was bewildered, perplexed, and unable to
arrange my ideas sufficiently to understand the full extent of his
proposition. He continued,

“You must create a female for me with whom I can live in the
interchange of those sympathies necessary for my being. This you alone
can do, and I demand it of you as a right which you must not refuse to
concede.”

The latter part of his tale had kindled anew in me the anger that had
died away while he narrated his peaceful life among the cottagers, and
as he said this I could no longer suppress the rage that burned within
me.

“I do refuse it,” I replied; “and no torture shall ever extort a
consent from me. You may render me the most miserable of men, but you
shall never make me base in my own eyes. Shall I create another like
yourself, whose joint wickedness might desolate the world. Begone! I
have answered you; you may torture me, but I will never consent.”

“You are in the wrong,” replied the fiend; “and instead
of threatening, I am content to reason with you. I am malicious because I
am miserable. Am I not shunned and hated by all mankind? You, my creator,
would tear me to pieces and triumph; remember that, and tell me why I
should pity man more than he pities me? You would not call it murder if you
could precipitate me into one of those ice-rifts and destroy my frame, the
work of your own hands. Shall I respect man when he condemns me? Let him
live with me in the interchange of kindness, and instead of injury I would
bestow every benefit upon him with tears of gratitude at his acceptance.
But that cannot be; the human senses are insurmountable barriers to our
union. Yet mine shall not be the submission of abject slavery. I will
revenge my injuries; if I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear, and
chiefly towards you my arch-enemy, because my creator, do I swear
inextinguishable hatred. Have a care; I will work at your destruction, nor
finish until I desolate your heart, so that you shall curse the hour of
your birth.”

A fiendish rage animated him as he said this; his face was wrinkled
into contortions too horrible for human eyes to behold; but presently
he calmed himself and proceeded—

“I intended to reason. This passion is detrimental to me, for you do
not reflect that _you_ are the cause of its excess. If any being felt
emotions of benevolence towards me, I should return them a hundred and a
hundredfold; for that one creature’s sake I would make peace with the
whole kind! But I now indulge in dreams of bliss that cannot be realised.
What I ask of you is reasonable and moderate; I demand a creature of
another sex, but as hideous as myself; the gratification is small, but it
is all that I can receive, and it shall content me. It is true, we shall be
monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more
attached to one another. Our lives will not be happy, but they will be
harmless and free from the misery I now feel. Oh! My creator, make me
happy; let me feel gratitude towards you for one benefit! Let me see that I
excite the sympathy of some existing thing; do not deny me my
request!”

I was moved. I shuddered when I thought of the possible consequences
of my consent, but I felt that there was some justice in his argument.
His tale and the feelings he now expressed proved him to be a creature
of fine sensations, and did I not as his maker owe him all the portion
of happiness that it was in my power to bestow? He saw my change of
feeling and continued,

“If you consent, neither you nor any other human being shall ever see
us again; I will go to the vast wilds of South America. My food is not
that of man; I do not destroy the lamb and the kid to glut my appetite;
acorns and berries afford me sufficient nourishment. My companion will
be of the same nature as myself and will be content with the same fare.
We shall make our bed of dried leaves; the sun will shine on us as on
man and will ripen our food. The picture I present to you is peaceful
and human, and you must feel that you could deny it only in the
wantonness of power and cruelty. Pitiless as you have been towards me,
I now see compassion in your eyes; let me seize the favourable moment
and persuade you to promise what I so ardently desire.”

“You propose,” replied I, “to fly from the habitations of
man, to dwell in those wilds where the beasts of the field will be your
only companions. How can you, who long for the love and sympathy of man,
persevere in this exile? You will return and again seek their kindness, and
you will meet with their detestation; your evil passions will be renewed,
and you will then have a companion to aid you in the task of destruction.
This may not be; cease to argue the point, for I cannot consent.”

“How inconstant are your feelings! But a moment ago you were moved by
my representations, and why do you again harden yourself to my complaints?
I swear to you, by the earth which I inhabit, and by you that made me, that
with the companion you bestow, I will quit the neighbourhood of man and
dwell, as it may chance, in the most savage of places. My evil passions
will have fled, for I shall meet with sympathy! My life will flow quietly
away, and in my dying moments I shall not curse my maker.”

His words had a strange effect upon me. I compassionated him and
sometimes felt a wish to console him, but when I looked upon him, when
I saw the filthy mass that moved and talked, my heart sickened and my
feelings were altered to those of horror and hatred. I tried to stifle
these sensations; I thought that as I could not sympathise with him, I
had no right to withhold from him the small portion of happiness which
was yet in my power to bestow.

“You swear,” I said, “to be harmless; but have you not
already shown a degree of malice that should reasonably make me distrust
you? May not even this be a feint that will increase your triumph by
affording a wider scope for your revenge?”

“How is this? I must not be trifled with, and I demand an answer. If
I have no ties and no affections, hatred and vice must be my portion;
the love of another will destroy the cause of my crimes, and I shall
become a thing of whose existence everyone will be ignorant. My vices
are the children of a forced solitude that I abhor, and my virtues will
necessarily arise when I live in communion with an equal. I shall feel
the affections of a sensitive being and become linked to the chain of
existence and events from which I am now excluded.”

I paused some time to reflect on all he had related and the various
arguments which he had employed. I thought of the promise of virtues which
he had displayed on the opening of his existence and the subsequent blight
of all kindly feeling by the loathing and scorn which his protectors had
manifested towards him. His power and threats were not omitted in my
calculations; a creature who could exist in the ice-caves of the glaciers
and hide himself from pursuit among the ridges of inaccessible precipices
was a being possessing faculties it would be vain to cope with. After a
long pause of reflection I concluded that the justice due both to him and
my fellow creatures demanded of me that I should comply with his request.
Turning to him, therefore, I said,

“I consent to your demand, on your solemn oath to quit Europe for ever,
and every other place in the neighbourhood of man, as soon as I shall
deliver into your hands a female who will accompany you in your exile.”

“I swear,” he cried, “by the sun, and by the blue sky of
heaven, and by the fire of love that burns my heart, that if you grant my
prayer, while they exist you shall never behold me again. Depart to your
home and commence your labours; I shall watch their progress with
unutterable anxiety; and fear not but that when you are ready I shall
appear.”

Saying this, he suddenly quitted me, fearful, perhaps, of any change in
my sentiments. I saw him descend the mountain with greater speed than
the flight of an eagle, and quickly lost among the undulations of the
sea of ice.

His tale had occupied the whole day, and the sun was upon the verge of
the horizon when he departed. I knew that I ought to hasten my descent
towards the valley, as I should soon be encompassed in darkness; but my
heart was heavy, and my steps slow. The labour of winding among the
little paths of the mountain and fixing my feet firmly as I advanced
perplexed me, occupied as I was by the emotions which the occurrences
of the day had produced. Night was far advanced when I came to the
halfway resting-place and seated myself beside the fountain. The stars
shone at intervals as the clouds passed from over them; the dark pines
rose before me, and every here and there a broken tree lay on the
ground; it was a scene of wonderful solemnity and stirred strange
thoughts within me. I wept bitterly, and clasping my hands in agony, I
exclaimed, “Oh! stars and clouds and winds, ye are all about to mock
me; if ye really pity me, crush sensation and memory; let me become as
nought; but if not, depart, depart, and leave me in darkness.”

These were wild and miserable thoughts, but I cannot describe to you
how the eternal twinkling of the stars weighed upon me and how I
listened to every blast of wind as if it were a dull ugly siroc on its
way to consume me.

Morning dawned before I arrived at the village of Chamounix; I took no
rest, but returned immediately to Geneva. Even in my own heart I could
give no expression to my sensations—they weighed on me with a
mountain’s weight and their excess destroyed my agony beneath them.
Thus I returned home, and entering the house, presented myself to the
family. My haggard and wild appearance awoke intense alarm, but I
answered no question, scarcely did I speak. I felt as if I were placed
under a ban—as if I had no right to claim their sympathies—as if
never more might I enjoy companionship with them. Yet even thus I
loved them to adoration; and to save them, I resolved to dedicate
myself to my most abhorred task. The prospect of such an occupation
made every other circumstance of existence pass before me like a dream,
and that thought only had to me the reality of life.




Chapter 18


Day after day, week after week, passed away on my return to Geneva; and
I could not collect the courage to recommence my work. I feared the
vengeance of the disappointed fiend, yet I was unable to overcome my
repugnance to the task which was enjoined me. I found that I could not
compose a female without again devoting several months to profound
study and laborious disquisition. I had heard of some discoveries
having been made by an English philosopher, the knowledge of which was
material to my success, and I sometimes thought of obtaining my
father’s consent to visit England for this purpose; but I clung to
every pretence of delay and shrank from taking the first step in an
undertaking whose immediate necessity began to appear less absolute to
me. A change indeed had taken place in me; my health, which had
hitherto declined, was now much restored; and my spirits, when
unchecked by the memory of my unhappy promise, rose proportionably. My
father saw this change with pleasure, and he turned his thoughts
towards the best method of eradicating the remains of my melancholy,
which every now and then would return by fits, and with a devouring
blackness overcast the approaching sunshine. At these moments I took
refuge in the most perfect solitude. I passed whole days on the lake
alone in a little boat, watching the clouds and listening to the
rippling of the waves, silent and listless. But the fresh air and
bright sun seldom failed to restore me to some degree of composure, and
on my return I met the salutations of my friends with a readier smile
and a more cheerful heart.

It was after my return from one of these rambles that my father,
calling me aside, thus addressed me,

“I am happy to remark, my dear son, that you have resumed your former
pleasures and seem to be returning to yourself. And yet you are still
unhappy and still avoid our society. For some time I was lost in
conjecture as to the cause of this, but yesterday an idea struck me,
and if it is well founded, I conjure you to avow it. Reserve on such a
point would be not only useless, but draw down treble misery on us all.”

I trembled violently at his exordium, and my father continued—

“I confess, my son, that I have always looked forward to your
marriage with our dear Elizabeth as the tie of our domestic comfort and the
stay of my declining years. You were attached to each other from your
earliest infancy; you studied together, and appeared, in dispositions and
tastes, entirely suited to one another. But so blind is the experience of
man that what I conceived to be the best assistants to my plan may have
entirely destroyed it. You, perhaps, regard her as your sister, without any
wish that she might become your wife. Nay, you may have met with another
whom you may love; and considering yourself as bound in honour to
Elizabeth, this struggle may occasion the poignant misery which you appear
to feel.”

“My dear father, reassure yourself. I love my cousin tenderly and
sincerely. I never saw any woman who excited, as Elizabeth does, my
warmest admiration and affection. My future hopes and prospects are
entirely bound up in the expectation of our union.”

“The expression of your sentiments of this subject, my dear Victor,
gives me more pleasure than I have for some time experienced. If you
feel thus, we shall assuredly be happy, however present events may cast
a gloom over us. But it is this gloom which appears to have taken so
strong a hold of your mind that I wish to dissipate. Tell me,
therefore, whether you object to an immediate solemnisation of the
marriage. We have been unfortunate, and recent events have drawn us
from that everyday tranquillity befitting my years and infirmities. You
are younger; yet I do not suppose, possessed as you are of a competent
fortune, that an early marriage would at all interfere with any future
plans of honour and utility that you may have formed. Do not suppose,
however, that I wish to dictate happiness to you or that a delay on
your part would cause me any serious uneasiness. Interpret my words
with candour and answer me, I conjure you, with confidence and
sincerity.”

I listened to my father in silence and remained for some time incapable
of offering any reply. I revolved rapidly in my mind a multitude of
thoughts and endeavoured to arrive at some conclusion. Alas! To me
the idea of an immediate union with my Elizabeth was one of horror and
dismay. I was bound by a solemn promise which I had not yet fulfilled
and dared not break, or if I did, what manifold miseries might not
impend over me and my devoted family! Could I enter into a festival
with this deadly weight yet hanging round my neck and bowing me to the
ground? I must perform my engagement and let the monster depart with
his mate before I allowed myself to enjoy the delight of a union from
which I expected peace.

I remembered also the necessity imposed upon me of either journeying to
England or entering into a long correspondence with those philosophers
of that country whose knowledge and discoveries were of indispensable
use to me in my present undertaking. The latter method of obtaining
the desired intelligence was dilatory and unsatisfactory; besides, I
had an insurmountable aversion to the idea of engaging myself in my
loathsome task in my father’s house while in habits of familiar
intercourse with those I loved. I knew that a thousand fearful
accidents might occur, the slightest of which would disclose a tale to
thrill all connected with me with horror. I was aware also that I
should often lose all self-command, all capacity of hiding the
harrowing sensations that would possess me during the progress of my
unearthly occupation. I must absent myself from all I loved while thus
employed. Once commenced, it would quickly be achieved, and I might be
restored to my family in peace and happiness. My promise fulfilled,
the monster would depart for ever. Or (so my fond fancy imaged) some
accident might meanwhile occur to destroy him and put an end to my
slavery for ever.

These feelings dictated my answer to my father. I expressed a wish to
visit England, but concealing the true reasons of this request, I
clothed my desires under a guise which excited no suspicion, while I
urged my desire with an earnestness that easily induced my father to
comply. After so long a period of an absorbing melancholy that
resembled madness in its intensity and effects, he was glad to find
that I was capable of taking pleasure in the idea of such a journey,
and he hoped that change of scene and varied amusement would, before my
return, have restored me entirely to myself.

The duration of my absence was left to my own choice; a few months, or
at most a year, was the period contemplated. One paternal kind
precaution he had taken to ensure my having a companion. Without
previously communicating with me, he had, in concert with Elizabeth,
arranged that Clerval should join me at Strasburgh. This interfered
with the solitude I coveted for the prosecution of my task; yet at the
commencement of my journey the presence of my friend could in no way be
an impediment, and truly I rejoiced that thus I should be saved many
hours of lonely, maddening reflection. Nay, Henry might stand between
me and the intrusion of my foe. If I were alone, would he not at times
force his abhorred presence on me to remind me of my task or to
contemplate its progress?

To England, therefore, I was bound, and it was understood that my union
with Elizabeth should take place immediately on my return. My father’s
age rendered him extremely averse to delay. For myself, there was one
reward I promised myself from my detested toils—one consolation for my
unparalleled sufferings; it was the prospect of that day when,
enfranchised from my miserable slavery, I might claim Elizabeth and
forget the past in my union with her.

I now made arrangements for my journey, but one feeling haunted me
which filled me with fear and agitation. During my absence I should
leave my friends unconscious of the existence of their enemy and
unprotected from his attacks, exasperated as he might be by my
departure. But he had promised to follow me wherever I might go, and
would he not accompany me to England? This imagination was dreadful in
itself, but soothing inasmuch as it supposed the safety of my friends.
I was agonised with the idea of the possibility that the reverse of
this might happen. But through the whole period during which I was the
slave of my creature I allowed myself to be governed by the impulses of
the moment; and my present sensations strongly intimated that the fiend
would follow me and exempt my family from the danger of his
machinations.

It was in the latter end of September that I again quitted my native
country. My journey had been my own suggestion, and Elizabeth
therefore acquiesced, but she was filled with disquiet at the idea of
my suffering, away from her, the inroads of misery and grief. It had
been her care which provided me a companion in Clerval—and yet a man
is blind to a thousand minute circumstances which call forth a woman’s
sedulous attention. She longed to bid me hasten my return; a thousand
conflicting emotions rendered her mute as she bade me a tearful, silent
farewell.

I threw myself into the carriage that was to convey me away, hardly
knowing whither I was going, and careless of what was passing around.
I remembered only, and it was with a bitter anguish that I reflected on
it, to order that my chemical instruments should be packed to go with
me. Filled with dreary imaginations, I passed through many beautiful
and majestic scenes, but my eyes were fixed and unobserving. I could
only think of the bourne of my travels and the work which was to occupy
me whilst they endured.

After some days spent in listless indolence, during which I traversed
many leagues, I arrived at Strasburgh, where I waited two days for
Clerval. He came. Alas, how great was the contrast between us! He
was alive to every new scene, joyful when he saw the beauties of the
setting sun, and more happy when he beheld it rise and recommence a new
day. He pointed out to me the shifting colours of the landscape and
the appearances of the sky. “This is what it is to live,” he cried;
“now I enjoy existence! But you, my dear Frankenstein, wherefore are
you desponding and sorrowful!” In truth, I was occupied by gloomy
thoughts and neither saw the descent of the evening star nor the golden
sunrise reflected in the Rhine. And you, my friend, would be far more
amused with the journal of Clerval, who observed the scenery with an
eye of feeling and delight, than in listening to my reflections. I, a
miserable wretch, haunted by a curse that shut up every avenue to
enjoyment.

We had agreed to descend the Rhine in a boat from Strasburgh to
Rotterdam, whence we might take shipping for London. During this
voyage we passed many willowy islands and saw several beautiful towns.
We stayed a day at Mannheim, and on the fifth from our departure from
Strasburgh, arrived at Mainz. The course of the Rhine below Mainz
becomes much more picturesque. The river descends rapidly and winds
between hills, not high, but steep, and of beautiful forms. We saw
many ruined castles standing on the edges of precipices, surrounded by
black woods, high and inaccessible. This part of the Rhine, indeed,
presents a singularly variegated landscape. In one spot you view
rugged hills, ruined castles overlooking tremendous precipices, with
the dark Rhine rushing beneath; and on the sudden turn of a promontory,
flourishing vineyards with green sloping banks and a meandering river
and populous towns occupy the scene.

We travelled at the time of the vintage and heard the song of the labourers
as we glided down the stream. Even I, depressed in mind, and my spirits
continually agitated by gloomy feelings, even I was pleased. I lay at the
bottom of the boat, and as I gazed on the cloudless blue sky, I seemed to
drink in a tranquillity to which I had long been a stranger. And if these
were my sensations, who can describe those of Henry? He felt as if he had
been transported to Fairy-land and enjoyed a happiness seldom tasted by
man. “I have seen,” he said, “the most beautiful scenes
of my own country; I have visited the lakes of Lucerne and Uri, where the
snowy mountains descend almost perpendicularly to the water, casting black
and impenetrable shades, which would cause a gloomy and mournful appearance
were it not for the most verdant islands that relieve the eye by their gay
appearance; I have seen this lake agitated by a tempest, when the wind tore
up whirlwinds of water and gave you an idea of what the water-spout must be
on the great ocean; and the waves dash with fury the base of the mountain,
where the priest and his mistress were overwhelmed by an avalanche and
where their dying voices are still said to be heard amid the pauses of the
nightly wind; I have seen the mountains of La Valais, and the Pays de Vaud;
but this country, Victor, pleases me more than all those wonders. The
mountains of Switzerland are more majestic and strange, but there is a
charm in the banks of this divine river that I never before saw equalled.
Look at that castle which overhangs yon precipice; and that also on the
island, almost concealed amongst the foliage of those lovely trees; and now
that group of labourers coming from among their vines; and that village
half hid in the recess of the mountain. Oh, surely the spirit that inhabits
and guards this place has a soul more in harmony with man than those who
pile the glacier or retire to the inaccessible peaks of the mountains of
our own country.”

Clerval! Beloved friend! Even now it delights me to record your words and
to dwell on the praise of which you are so eminently deserving. He was a
being formed in the “very poetry of nature.” His wild and
enthusiastic imagination was chastened by the sensibility of his heart. His
soul overflowed with ardent affections, and his friendship was of that
devoted and wondrous nature that the worldly-minded teach us to look for only
in the imagination. But even human sympathies were not sufficient to
satisfy his eager mind. The scenery of external nature, which others regard
only with admiration, he loved with ardour:—

    ——The sounding cataract
    Haunted him like a passion: the tall rock,
    The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
    Their colours and their forms, were then to him
    An appetite; a feeling, and a love,
    That had no need of a remoter charm,
    By thought supplied, or any interest
    Unborrow’d from the eye.

          [Wordsworth’s “Tintern Abbey”.]

And where does he now exist? Is this gentle and lovely being lost
for ever? Has this mind, so replete with ideas, imaginations fanciful
and magnificent, which formed a world, whose existence depended on the
life of its creator;—has this mind perished? Does it now only exist
in my memory? No, it is not thus; your form so divinely wrought, and
beaming with beauty, has decayed, but your spirit still visits and
consoles your unhappy friend.

Pardon this gush of sorrow; these ineffectual words are but a slight
tribute to the unexampled worth of Henry, but they soothe my heart,
overflowing with the anguish which his remembrance creates. I will
proceed with my tale.

Beyond Cologne we descended to the plains of Holland; and we resolved to
post the remainder of our way, for the wind was contrary and the stream of
the river was too gentle to aid us.

Our journey here lost the interest arising from beautiful scenery, but we
arrived in a few days at Rotterdam, whence we proceeded by sea to England.
It was on a clear morning, in the latter days of December, that I first saw
the white cliffs of Britain. The banks of the Thames presented a new scene;
they were flat but fertile, and almost every town was marked by the
remembrance of some story. We saw Tilbury Fort and remembered the Spanish
Armada, Gravesend, Woolwich, and Greenwich—places which I had heard
of even in my country.

At length we saw the numerous steeples of London, St. Paul’s towering
above all, and the Tower famed in English history.




Chapter 19


London was our present point of rest; we determined to remain several
months in this wonderful and celebrated city. Clerval desired the
intercourse of the men of genius and talent who flourished at this
time, but this was with me a secondary object; I was principally
occupied with the means of obtaining the information necessary for the
completion of my promise and quickly availed myself of the letters of
introduction that I had brought with me, addressed to the most
distinguished natural philosophers.

If this journey had taken place during my days of study and happiness,
it would have afforded me inexpressible pleasure. But a blight had
come over my existence, and I only visited these people for the sake of
the information they might give me on the subject in which my interest
was so terribly profound. Company was irksome to me; when alone, I
could fill my mind with the sights of heaven and earth; the voice of
Henry soothed me, and I could thus cheat myself into a transitory
peace. But busy, uninteresting, joyous faces brought back despair to
my heart. I saw an insurmountable barrier placed between me and my
fellow men; this barrier was sealed with the blood of William and
Justine, and to reflect on the events connected with those names filled
my soul with anguish.

But in Clerval I saw the image of my former self; he was inquisitive
and anxious to gain experience and instruction. The difference of
manners which he observed was to him an inexhaustible source of
instruction and amusement. He was also pursuing an object he had long
had in view. His design was to visit India, in the belief that he had
in his knowledge of its various languages, and in the views he had
taken of its society, the means of materially assisting the progress of
European colonization and trade. In Britain only could he further the
execution of his plan. He was for ever busy, and the only check to his
enjoyments was my sorrowful and dejected mind. I tried to conceal this
as much as possible, that I might not debar him from the pleasures
natural to one who was entering on a new scene of life, undisturbed by
any care or bitter recollection. I often refused to accompany him,
alleging another engagement, that I might remain alone. I now also
began to collect the materials necessary for my new creation, and this
was to me like the torture of single drops of water continually falling
on the head. Every thought that was devoted to it was an extreme
anguish, and every word that I spoke in allusion to it caused my lips
to quiver, and my heart to palpitate.

After passing some months in London, we received a letter from a person in
Scotland who had formerly been our visitor at Geneva. He mentioned the
beauties of his native country and asked us if those were not sufficient
allurements to induce us to prolong our journey as far north as Perth,
where he resided. Clerval eagerly desired to accept this invitation, and I,
although I abhorred society, wished to view again mountains and streams and
all the wondrous works with which Nature adorns her chosen dwelling-places.

We had arrived in England at the beginning of October, and it was now
February. We accordingly determined to commence our journey towards the
north at the expiration of another month. In this expedition we did not
intend to follow the great road to Edinburgh, but to visit Windsor, Oxford,
Matlock, and the Cumberland lakes, resolving to arrive at the completion of
this tour about the end of July. I packed up my chemical instruments and
the materials I had collected, resolving to finish my labours in some
obscure nook in the northern highlands of Scotland.

We quitted London on the 27th of March and remained a few days at
Windsor, rambling in its beautiful forest. This was a new scene to us
mountaineers; the majestic oaks, the quantity of game, and the herds of
stately deer were all novelties to us.

From thence we proceeded to Oxford. As we entered this city, our minds
were filled with the remembrance of the events that had been transacted
there more than a century and a half before. It was here that Charles
I. had collected his forces. This city had remained faithful to him,
after the whole nation had forsaken his cause to join the standard of
Parliament and liberty. The memory of that unfortunate king and his
companions, the amiable Falkland, the insolent Goring, his queen, and
son, gave a peculiar interest to every part of the city which they
might be supposed to have inhabited. The spirit of elder days found a
dwelling here, and we delighted to trace its footsteps. If these
feelings had not found an imaginary gratification, the appearance of
the city had yet in itself sufficient beauty to obtain our admiration.
The colleges are ancient and picturesque; the streets are almost
magnificent; and the lovely Isis, which flows beside it through meadows
of exquisite verdure, is spread forth into a placid expanse of waters,
which reflects its majestic assemblage of towers, and spires, and
domes, embosomed among aged trees.

I enjoyed this scene, and yet my enjoyment was embittered both by the
memory of the past and the anticipation of the future. I was formed
for peaceful happiness. During my youthful days discontent never
visited my mind, and if I was ever overcome by _ennui_, the sight of what
is beautiful in nature or the study of what is excellent and sublime in
the productions of man could always interest my heart and communicate
elasticity to my spirits. But I am a blasted tree; the bolt has
entered my soul; and I felt then that I should survive to exhibit what
I shall soon cease to be—a miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity,
pitiable to others and intolerable to myself.

We passed a considerable period at Oxford, rambling among its environs
and endeavouring to identify every spot which might relate to the most
animating epoch of English history. Our little voyages of discovery
were often prolonged by the successive objects that presented
themselves. We visited the tomb of the illustrious Hampden and the
field on which that patriot fell. For a moment my soul was elevated
from its debasing and miserable fears to contemplate the divine ideas
of liberty and self-sacrifice of which these sights were the monuments
and the remembrancers. For an instant I dared to shake off my chains
and look around me with a free and lofty spirit, but the iron had eaten
into my flesh, and I sank again, trembling and hopeless, into my
miserable self.

We left Oxford with regret and proceeded to Matlock, which was our next
place of rest. The country in the neighbourhood of this village
resembled, to a greater degree, the scenery of Switzerland; but
everything is on a lower scale, and the green hills want the crown of
distant white Alps which always attend on the piny mountains of my
native country. We visited the wondrous cave and the little cabinets
of natural history, where the curiosities are disposed in the same
manner as in the collections at Servox and Chamounix. The latter name
made me tremble when pronounced by Henry, and I hastened to quit
Matlock, with which that terrible scene was thus associated.

From Derby, still journeying northwards, we passed two months in
Cumberland and Westmorland. I could now almost fancy myself among the
Swiss mountains. The little patches of snow which yet lingered on the
northern sides of the mountains, the lakes, and the dashing of the
rocky streams were all familiar and dear sights to me. Here also we
made some acquaintances, who almost contrived to cheat me into
happiness. The delight of Clerval was proportionably greater than
mine; his mind expanded in the company of men of talent, and he found
in his own nature greater capacities and resources than he could have
imagined himself to have possessed while he associated with his
inferiors. “I could pass my life here,” said he to me; “and among
these mountains I should scarcely regret Switzerland and the Rhine.”

But he found that a traveller’s life is one that includes much pain
amidst its enjoyments. His feelings are for ever on the stretch; and
when he begins to sink into repose, he finds himself obliged to quit
that on which he rests in pleasure for something new, which again
engages his attention, and which also he forsakes for other novelties.

We had scarcely visited the various lakes of Cumberland and Westmorland
and conceived an affection for some of the inhabitants when the period
of our appointment with our Scotch friend approached, and we left them
to travel on. For my own part I was not sorry. I had now neglected my
promise for some time, and I feared the effects of the dæmon’s
disappointment. He might remain in Switzerland and wreak his vengeance
on my relatives. This idea pursued me and tormented me at every moment
from which I might otherwise have snatched repose and peace. I waited
for my letters with feverish impatience; if they were delayed I was
miserable and overcome by a thousand fears; and when they arrived and I
saw the superscription of Elizabeth or my father, I hardly dared to
read and ascertain my fate. Sometimes I thought that the fiend
followed me and might expedite my remissness by murdering my companion.
When these thoughts possessed me, I would not quit Henry for a moment,
but followed him as his shadow, to protect him from the fancied rage of
his destroyer. I felt as if I had committed some great crime, the
consciousness of which haunted me. I was guiltless, but I had indeed
drawn down a horrible curse upon my head, as mortal as that of crime.

I visited Edinburgh with languid eyes and mind; and yet that city might
have interested the most unfortunate being. Clerval did not like it so well
as Oxford, for the antiquity of the latter city was more pleasing to him.
But the beauty and regularity of the new town of Edinburgh, its romantic
castle and its environs, the most delightful in the world, Arthur’s
Seat, St. Bernard’s Well, and the Pentland Hills, compensated him for
the change and filled him with cheerfulness and admiration. But I was
impatient to arrive at the termination of my journey.

We left Edinburgh in a week, passing through Coupar, St. Andrew’s, and
along the banks of the Tay, to Perth, where our friend expected us.
But I was in no mood to laugh and talk with strangers or enter into
their feelings or plans with the good humour expected from a guest; and
accordingly I told Clerval that I wished to make the tour of Scotland
alone. “Do you,” said I, “enjoy yourself, and let this be our
rendezvous. I may be absent a month or two; but do not interfere with
my motions, I entreat you; leave me to peace and solitude for a short
time; and when I return, I hope it will be with a lighter heart, more
congenial to your own temper.”

Henry wished to dissuade me, but seeing me bent on this plan, ceased to
remonstrate. He entreated me to write often. “I had rather be with
you,” he said, “in your solitary rambles, than with these Scotch
people, whom I do not know; hasten, then, my dear friend, to return,
that I may again feel myself somewhat at home, which I cannot do in
your absence.”

Having parted from my friend, I determined to visit some remote spot of
Scotland and finish my work in solitude. I did not doubt but that the
monster followed me and would discover himself to me when I should have
finished, that he might receive his companion.

With this resolution I traversed the northern highlands and fixed on one of
the remotest of the Orkneys as the scene of my labours. It was a place
fitted for such a work, being hardly more than a rock whose high sides were
continually beaten upon by the waves. The soil was barren, scarcely
affording pasture for a few miserable cows, and oatmeal for its
inhabitants, which consisted of five persons, whose gaunt and scraggy limbs
gave tokens of their miserable fare. Vegetables and bread, when they
indulged in such luxuries, and even fresh water, was to be procured from
the mainland, which was about five miles distant.

On the whole island there were but three miserable huts, and one of
these was vacant when I arrived. This I hired. It contained but two
rooms, and these exhibited all the squalidness of the most miserable
penury. The thatch had fallen in, the walls were unplastered, and the
door was off its hinges. I ordered it to be repaired, bought some
furniture, and took possession, an incident which would doubtless have
occasioned some surprise had not all the senses of the cottagers been
benumbed by want and squalid poverty. As it was, I lived ungazed at
and unmolested, hardly thanked for the pittance of food and clothes
which I gave, so much does suffering blunt even the coarsest sensations
of men.

In this retreat I devoted the morning to labour; but in the evening,
when the weather permitted, I walked on the stony beach of the sea to
listen to the waves as they roared and dashed at my feet. It was a
monotonous yet ever-changing scene. I thought of Switzerland; it was
far different from this desolate and appalling landscape. Its hills
are covered with vines, and its cottages are scattered thickly in the
plains. Its fair lakes reflect a blue and gentle sky, and when
troubled by the winds, their tumult is but as the play of a lively
infant when compared to the roarings of the giant ocean.

In this manner I distributed my occupations when I first arrived, but
as I proceeded in my labour, it became every day more horrible and
irksome to me. Sometimes I could not prevail on myself to enter my
laboratory for several days, and at other times I toiled day and night
in order to complete my work. It was, indeed, a filthy process in
which I was engaged. During my first experiment, a kind of
enthusiastic frenzy had blinded me to the horror of my employment; my
mind was intently fixed on the consummation of my labour, and my eyes
were shut to the horror of my proceedings. But now I went to it in
cold blood, and my heart often sickened at the work of my hands.

Thus situated, employed in the most detestable occupation, immersed in
a solitude where nothing could for an instant call my attention from
the actual scene in which I was engaged, my spirits became unequal; I
grew restless and nervous. Every moment I feared to meet my
persecutor. Sometimes I sat with my eyes fixed on the ground, fearing
to raise them lest they should encounter the object which I so much
dreaded to behold. I feared to wander from the sight of my fellow
creatures lest when alone he should come to claim his companion.

In the mean time I worked on, and my labour was already considerably
advanced. I looked towards its completion with a tremulous and eager
hope, which I dared not trust myself to question but which was
intermixed with obscure forebodings of evil that made my heart sicken
in my bosom.




Chapter 20


I sat one evening in my laboratory; the sun had set, and the moon was just
rising from the sea; I had not sufficient light for my employment, and I
remained idle, in a pause of consideration of whether I should leave my
labour for the night or hasten its conclusion by an unremitting attention
to it. As I sat, a train of reflection occurred to me which led me to
consider the effects of what I was now doing. Three years before, I was
engaged in the same manner and had created a fiend whose unparalleled
barbarity had desolated my heart and filled it for ever with the bitterest
remorse. I was now about to form another being of whose dispositions I was
alike ignorant; she might become ten thousand times more malignant than her
mate and delight, for its own sake, in murder and wretchedness. He had
sworn to quit the neighbourhood of man and hide himself in deserts, but she
had not; and she, who in all probability was to become a thinking and
reasoning animal, might refuse to comply with a compact made before her
creation. They might even hate each other; the creature who already lived
loathed his own deformity, and might he not conceive a greater abhorrence
for it when it came before his eyes in the female form? She also might turn
with disgust from him to the superior beauty of man; she might quit him,
and he be again alone, exasperated by the fresh provocation of being
deserted by one of his own species.

Even if they were to leave Europe and inhabit the deserts of the new world,
yet one of the first results of those sympathies for which the dæmon
thirsted would be children, and a race of devils would be propagated upon
the earth who might make the very existence of the species of man a
condition precarious and full of terror. Had I right, for my own benefit,
to inflict this curse upon everlasting generations? I had before been moved
by the sophisms of the being I had created; I had been struck senseless by
his fiendish threats; but now, for the first time, the wickedness of my
promise burst upon me; I shuddered to think that future ages might curse me
as their pest, whose selfishness had not hesitated to buy its own peace at
the price, perhaps, of the existence of the whole human race.

I trembled and my heart failed within me, when, on looking up, I saw by
the light of the moon the dæmon at the casement. A ghastly grin
wrinkled his lips as he gazed on me, where I sat fulfilling the task
which he had allotted to me. Yes, he had followed me in my travels; he
had loitered in forests, hid himself in caves, or taken refuge in wide
and desert heaths; and he now came to mark my progress and claim the
fulfilment of my promise.

As I looked on him, his countenance expressed the utmost extent of
malice and treachery. I thought with a sensation of madness on my
promise of creating another like to him, and trembling with passion,
tore to pieces the thing on which I was engaged. The wretch saw me
destroy the creature on whose future existence he depended for
happiness, and with a howl of devilish despair and revenge, withdrew.

I left the room, and locking the door, made a solemn vow in my own
heart never to resume my labours; and then, with trembling steps, I
sought my own apartment. I was alone; none were near me to dissipate
the gloom and relieve me from the sickening oppression of the most
terrible reveries.

Several hours passed, and I remained near my window gazing on the sea;
it was almost motionless, for the winds were hushed, and all nature
reposed under the eye of the quiet moon. A few fishing vessels alone
specked the water, and now and then the gentle breeze wafted the sound
of voices as the fishermen called to one another. I felt the silence,
although I was hardly conscious of its extreme profundity, until my ear
was suddenly arrested by the paddling of oars near the shore, and a
person landed close to my house.

In a few minutes after, I heard the creaking of my door, as if some one
endeavoured to open it softly. I trembled from head to foot; I felt a
presentiment of who it was and wished to rouse one of the peasants who
dwelt in a cottage not far from mine; but I was overcome by the sensation
of helplessness, so often felt in frightful dreams, when you in vain
endeavour to fly from an impending danger, and was rooted to the spot.

Presently I heard the sound of footsteps along the passage; the door
opened, and the wretch whom I dreaded appeared. Shutting the door, he
approached me and said in a smothered voice,

“You have destroyed the work which you began; what is it that you
intend? Do you dare to break your promise? I have endured toil and misery;
I left Switzerland with you; I crept along the shores of the Rhine, among
its willow islands and over the summits of its hills. I have dwelt many
months in the heaths of England and among the deserts of Scotland. I have
endured incalculable fatigue, and cold, and hunger; do you dare destroy my
hopes?”

“Begone! I do break my promise; never will I create another like
yourself, equal in deformity and wickedness.”

“Slave, I before reasoned with you, but you have proved yourself
unworthy of my condescension. Remember that I have power; you believe
yourself miserable, but I can make you so wretched that the light of
day will be hateful to you. You are my creator, but I am your master;
obey!”

“The hour of my irresolution is past, and the period of your power is
arrived. Your threats cannot move me to do an act of wickedness; but
they confirm me in a determination of not creating you a companion in
vice. Shall I, in cool blood, set loose upon the earth a dæmon whose
delight is in death and wretchedness? Begone! I am firm, and your
words will only exasperate my rage.”

The monster saw my determination in my face and gnashed his teeth in the
impotence of anger. “Shall each man,” cried he, “find a
wife for his bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be alone? I had
feelings of affection, and they were requited by detestation and scorn.
Man! You may hate, but beware! Your hours will pass in dread and misery,
and soon the bolt will fall which must ravish from you your happiness for
ever. Are you to be happy while I grovel in the intensity of my
wretchedness? You can blast my other passions, but revenge
remains—revenge, henceforth dearer than light or food! I may die, but
first you, my tyrant and tormentor, shall curse the sun that gazes on your
misery. Beware, for I am fearless and therefore powerful. I will watch with
the wiliness of a snake, that I may sting with its venom. Man, you shall
repent of the injuries you inflict.”

“Devil, cease; and do not poison the air with these sounds of malice.
I have declared my resolution to you, and I am no coward to bend
beneath words. Leave me; I am inexorable.”

“It is well. I go; but remember, I shall be with you on your
wedding-night.”

I started forward and exclaimed, “Villain! Before you sign my
death-warrant, be sure that you are yourself safe.”

I would have seized him, but he eluded me and quitted the house with
precipitation. In a few moments I saw him in his boat, which shot
across the waters with an arrowy swiftness and was soon lost amidst the
waves.

All was again silent, but his words rang in my ears. I burned with rage to
pursue the murderer of my peace and precipitate him into the ocean. I
walked up and down my room hastily and perturbed, while my imagination
conjured up a thousand images to torment and sting me. Why had I not
followed him and closed with him in mortal strife? But I had suffered him
to depart, and he had directed his course towards the mainland. I shuddered
to think who might be the next victim sacrificed to his insatiate revenge.
And then I thought again of his words—“_I will be with you on
your wedding-night._” That, then, was the period fixed for the
fulfilment of my destiny. In that hour I should die and at once satisfy and
extinguish his malice. The prospect did not move me to fear; yet when I
thought of my beloved Elizabeth, of her tears and endless sorrow, when she
should find her lover so barbarously snatched from her, tears, the first I
had shed for many months, streamed from my eyes, and I resolved not to fall
before my enemy without a bitter struggle.

The night passed away, and the sun rose from the ocean; my feelings became
calmer, if it may be called calmness when the violence of rage sinks into
the depths of despair. I left the house, the horrid scene of the last
night’s contention, and walked on the beach of the sea, which I
almost regarded as an insuperable barrier between me and my fellow
creatures; nay, a wish that such should prove the fact stole across me. I
desired that I might pass my life on that barren rock, wearily, it is true,
but uninterrupted by any sudden shock of misery. If I returned, it was to
be sacrificed or to see those whom I most loved die under the grasp of a
dæmon whom I had myself created.

I walked about the isle like a restless spectre, separated from all it
loved and miserable in the separation. When it became noon, and the
sun rose higher, I lay down on the grass and was overpowered by a deep
sleep. I had been awake the whole of the preceding night, my nerves
were agitated, and my eyes inflamed by watching and misery. The sleep
into which I now sank refreshed me; and when I awoke, I again felt as
if I belonged to a race of human beings like myself, and I began to
reflect upon what had passed with greater composure; yet still the
words of the fiend rang in my ears like a death-knell; they appeared
like a dream, yet distinct and oppressive as a reality.

The sun had far descended, and I still sat on the shore, satisfying my
appetite, which had become ravenous, with an oaten cake, when I saw a
fishing-boat land close to me, and one of the men brought me a packet;
it contained letters from Geneva, and one from Clerval entreating me to
join him. He said that he was wearing away his time fruitlessly where
he was, that letters from the friends he had formed in London desired
his return to complete the negotiation they had entered into for his
Indian enterprise. He could not any longer delay his departure; but as
his journey to London might be followed, even sooner than he now
conjectured, by his longer voyage, he entreated me to bestow as much of
my society on him as I could spare. He besought me, therefore, to
leave my solitary isle and to meet him at Perth, that we might proceed
southwards together. This letter in a degree recalled me to life, and
I determined to quit my island at the expiration of two days.

Yet, before I departed, there was a task to perform, on which I shuddered
to reflect; I must pack up my chemical instruments, and for that purpose I
must enter the room which had been the scene of my odious work, and I must
handle those utensils the sight of which was sickening to me. The next
morning, at daybreak, I summoned sufficient courage and unlocked the door
of my laboratory. The remains of the half-finished creature, whom I had
destroyed, lay scattered on the floor, and I almost felt as if I had
mangled the living flesh of a human being. I paused to collect myself and
then entered the chamber. With trembling hand I conveyed the instruments
out of the room, but I reflected that I ought not to leave the relics of my
work to excite the horror and suspicion of the peasants; and I accordingly
put them into a basket, with a great quantity of stones, and laying them
up, determined to throw them into the sea that very night; and in the
meantime I sat upon the beach, employed in cleaning and arranging my
chemical apparatus.

Nothing could be more complete than the alteration that had taken place
in my feelings since the night of the appearance of the dæmon. I had
before regarded my promise with a gloomy despair as a thing that, with
whatever consequences, must be fulfilled; but I now felt as if a film
had been taken from before my eyes and that I for the first time saw
clearly. The idea of renewing my labours did not for one instant occur
to me; the threat I had heard weighed on my thoughts, but I did not
reflect that a voluntary act of mine could avert it. I had resolved in
my own mind that to create another like the fiend I had first made
would be an act of the basest and most atrocious selfishness, and I
banished from my mind every thought that could lead to a different
conclusion.

Between two and three in the morning the moon rose; and I then, putting my
basket aboard a little skiff, sailed out about four miles from the shore.
The scene was perfectly solitary; a few boats were returning towards land,
but I sailed away from them. I felt as if I was about the commission of a
dreadful crime and avoided with shuddering anxiety any encounter with my
fellow creatures. At one time the moon, which had before been clear, was
suddenly overspread by a thick cloud, and I took advantage of the moment of
darkness and cast my basket into the sea; I listened to the gurgling sound
as it sank and then sailed away from the spot. The sky became clouded, but
the air was pure, although chilled by the northeast breeze that was then
rising. But it refreshed me and filled me with such agreeable sensations
that I resolved to prolong my stay on the water, and fixing the rudder in a
direct position, stretched myself at the bottom of the boat. Clouds hid the
moon, everything was obscure, and I heard only the sound of the boat as its
keel cut through the waves; the murmur lulled me, and in a short time I
slept soundly.

I do not know how long I remained in this situation, but when I awoke I
found that the sun had already mounted considerably. The wind was high, and
the waves continually threatened the safety of my little skiff. I found
that the wind was northeast and must have driven me far from the coast from
which I had embarked. I endeavoured to change my course but quickly found
that if I again made the attempt the boat would be instantly filled with
water. Thus situated, my only resource was to drive before the wind. I
confess that I felt a few sensations of terror. I had no compass with me
and was so slenderly acquainted with the geography of this part of the
world that the sun was of little benefit to me. I might be driven into the
wide Atlantic and feel all the tortures of starvation or be swallowed up in
the immeasurable waters that roared and buffeted around me. I had already
been out many hours and felt the torment of a burning thirst, a prelude to
my other sufferings. I looked on the heavens, which were covered by clouds
that flew before the wind, only to be replaced by others; I looked upon the
sea; it was to be my grave. “Fiend,” I exclaimed, “your
task is already fulfilled!” I thought of Elizabeth, of my father, and
of Clerval—all left behind, on whom the monster might satisfy his
sanguinary and merciless passions. This idea plunged me into a reverie so
despairing and frightful that even now, when the scene is on the point of
closing before me for ever, I shudder to reflect on it.

Some hours passed thus; but by degrees, as the sun declined towards the
horizon, the wind died away into a gentle breeze and the sea became
free from breakers. But these gave place to a heavy swell; I felt sick
and hardly able to hold the rudder, when suddenly I saw a line of high
land towards the south.

Almost spent, as I was, by fatigue and the dreadful suspense I endured
for several hours, this sudden certainty of life rushed like a flood of
warm joy to my heart, and tears gushed from my eyes.

How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging love we have
of life even in the excess of misery! I constructed another sail with a
part of my dress and eagerly steered my course towards the land. It had a
wild and rocky appearance, but as I approached nearer I easily perceived
the traces of cultivation. I saw vessels near the shore and found myself
suddenly transported back to the neighbourhood of civilised man. I
carefully traced the windings of the land and hailed a steeple which I at
length saw issuing from behind a small promontory. As I was in a state of
extreme debility, I resolved to sail directly towards the town, as a place
where I could most easily procure nourishment. Fortunately I had money with
me. As I turned the promontory I perceived a small neat town and a good
harbour, which I entered, my heart bounding with joy at my unexpected
escape.

As I was occupied in fixing the boat and arranging the sails, several
people crowded towards the spot. They seemed much surprised at my
appearance, but instead of offering me any assistance, whispered
together with gestures that at any other time might have produced in me
a slight sensation of alarm. As it was, I merely remarked that they
spoke English, and I therefore addressed them in that language. “My
good friends,” said I, “will you be so kind as to tell me the name of
this town and inform me where I am?”

“You will know that soon enough,” replied a man with a hoarse voice.
“Maybe you are come to a place that will not prove much to your taste,
but you will not be consulted as to your quarters, I promise you.”

I was exceedingly surprised on receiving so rude an answer from a
stranger, and I was also disconcerted on perceiving the frowning and
angry countenances of his companions. “Why do you answer me so
roughly?” I replied. “Surely it is not the custom of Englishmen to
receive strangers so inhospitably.”

“I do not know,” said the man, “what the custom of the
English may be, but it is the custom of the Irish to hate villains.”

While this strange dialogue continued, I perceived the crowd rapidly
increase. Their faces expressed a mixture of curiosity and anger, which
annoyed and in some degree alarmed me. I inquired the way to the inn, but
no one replied. I then moved forward, and a murmuring sound arose from the
crowd as they followed and surrounded me, when an ill-looking man
approaching tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Come, sir, you must
follow me to Mr. Kirwin’s to give an account of yourself.”

“Who is Mr. Kirwin? Why am I to give an account of myself? Is not
this a free country?”

“Ay, sir, free enough for honest folks. Mr. Kirwin is a magistrate,
and you are to give an account of the death of a gentleman who was
found murdered here last night.”

This answer startled me, but I presently recovered myself. I was innocent;
that could easily be proved; accordingly I followed my conductor in silence
and was led to one of the best houses in the town. I was ready to sink from
fatigue and hunger, but being surrounded by a crowd, I thought it politic
to rouse all my strength, that no physical debility might be construed into
apprehension or conscious guilt. Little did I then expect the calamity that
was in a few moments to overwhelm me and extinguish in horror and despair
all fear of ignominy or death.

I must pause here, for it requires all my fortitude to recall the memory of
the frightful events which I am about to relate, in proper detail, to my
recollection.




Chapter 21


I was soon introduced into the presence of the magistrate, an old
benevolent man with calm and mild manners. He looked upon me, however,
with some degree of severity, and then, turning towards my conductors,
he asked who appeared as witnesses on this occasion.

About half a dozen men came forward; and, one being selected by the
magistrate, he deposed that he had been out fishing the night before with
his son and brother-in-law, Daniel Nugent, when, about ten o’clock,
they observed a strong northerly blast rising, and they accordingly put in
for port. It was a very dark night, as the moon had not yet risen; they did
not land at the harbour, but, as they had been accustomed, at a creek about
two miles below. He walked on first, carrying a part of the fishing tackle,
and his companions followed him at some distance. As he was proceeding
along the sands, he struck his foot against something and fell at his
length on the ground. His companions came up to assist him, and by the
light of their lantern they found that he had fallen on the body of a man,
who was to all appearance dead. Their first supposition was that it was the
corpse of some person who had been drowned and was thrown on shore by the
waves, but on examination they found that the clothes were not wet and even
that the body was not then cold. They instantly carried it to the cottage
of an old woman near the spot and endeavoured, but in vain, to restore it
to life. It appeared to be a handsome young man, about five and twenty
years of age. He had apparently been strangled, for there was no sign of
any violence except the black mark of fingers on his neck.

The first part of this deposition did not in the least interest me, but
when the mark of the fingers was mentioned I remembered the murder of
my brother and felt myself extremely agitated; my limbs trembled, and a
mist came over my eyes, which obliged me to lean on a chair for
support. The magistrate observed me with a keen eye and of course drew
an unfavourable augury from my manner.

The son confirmed his father’s account, but when Daniel Nugent was
called he swore positively that just before the fall of his companion, he
saw a boat, with a single man in it, at a short distance from the shore;
and as far as he could judge by the light of a few stars, it was the same
boat in which I had just landed.

A woman deposed that she lived near the beach and was standing at the door
of her cottage, waiting for the return of the fishermen, about an hour
before she heard of the discovery of the body, when she saw a boat with
only one man in it push off from that part of the shore where the corpse
was afterwards found.

Another woman confirmed the account of the fishermen having brought the
body into her house; it was not cold. They put it into a bed and
rubbed it, and Daniel went to the town for an apothecary, but life was
quite gone.

Several other men were examined concerning my landing, and they agreed
that, with the strong north wind that had arisen during the night, it
was very probable that I had beaten about for many hours and had been
obliged to return nearly to the same spot from which I had departed.
Besides, they observed that it appeared that I had brought the body
from another place, and it was likely that as I did not appear to know
the shore, I might have put into the harbour ignorant of the distance
of the town of —— from the place where I had deposited the corpse.

Mr. Kirwin, on hearing this evidence, desired that I should be taken into
the room where the body lay for interment, that it might be observed what
effect the sight of it would produce upon me. This idea was probably
suggested by the extreme agitation I had exhibited when the mode of the
murder had been described. I was accordingly conducted, by the magistrate
and several other persons, to the inn. I could not help being struck by the
strange coincidences that had taken place during this eventful night; but,
knowing that I had been conversing with several persons in the island I had
inhabited about the time that the body had been found, I was perfectly
tranquil as to the consequences of the affair.

I entered the room where the corpse lay and was led up to the coffin. How
can I describe my sensations on beholding it? I feel yet parched with
horror, nor can I reflect on that terrible moment without shuddering and
agony. The examination, the presence of the magistrate and witnesses,
passed like a dream from my memory when I saw the lifeless form of Henry
Clerval stretched before me. I gasped for breath, and throwing myself on
the body, I exclaimed, “Have my murderous machinations deprived you
also, my dearest Henry, of life? Two I have already destroyed; other
victims await their destiny; but you, Clerval, my friend, my
benefactor—”

The human frame could no longer support the agonies that I endured, and
I was carried out of the room in strong convulsions.

A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of death; my
ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful; I called myself the
murderer of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Sometimes I entreated my
attendants to assist me in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was
tormented; and at others I felt the fingers of the monster already grasping
my neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately, as I spoke
my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me; but my gestures and
bitter cries were sufficient to affright the other witnesses.

Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I not
sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away many blooming
children, the only hopes of their doting parents; how many brides and
youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the
next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials was I
made that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of
the wheel, continually renewed the torture?

But I was doomed to live and in two months found myself as awaking from
a dream, in a prison, stretched on a wretched bed, surrounded by
gaolers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable apparatus of a dungeon.
It was morning, I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding; I had
forgotten the particulars of what had happened and only felt as if some
great misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed me; but when I looked around
and saw the barred windows and the squalidness of the room in which I
was, all flashed across my memory and I groaned bitterly.

This sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping in a chair beside
me. She was a hired nurse, the wife of one of the turnkeys, and her
countenance expressed all those bad qualities which often characterise
that class. The lines of her face were hard and rude, like that of
persons accustomed to see without sympathising in sights of misery. Her
tone expressed her entire indifference; she addressed me in English,
and the voice struck me as one that I had heard during my sufferings.

“Are you better now, sir?” said she.

I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, “I believe I am;
but if it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I am sorry that I am
still alive to feel this misery and horror.”

“For that matter,” replied the old woman, “if you mean about the
gentleman you murdered, I believe that it were better for you if you
were dead, for I fancy it will go hard with you! However, that’s none
of my business; I am sent to nurse you and get you well; I do my duty
with a safe conscience; it were well if everybody did the same.”

I turned with loathing from the woman who could utter so unfeeling a
speech to a person just saved, on the very edge of death; but I felt
languid and unable to reflect on all that had passed. The whole series
of my life appeared to me as a dream; I sometimes doubted if indeed it
were all true, for it never presented itself to my mind with the force
of reality.

As the images that floated before me became more distinct, I grew
feverish; a darkness pressed around me; no one was near me who soothed
me with the gentle voice of love; no dear hand supported me. The
physician came and prescribed medicines, and the old woman prepared
them for me; but utter carelessness was visible in the first, and the
expression of brutality was strongly marked in the visage of the
second. Who could be interested in the fate of a murderer but the
hangman who would gain his fee?

These were my first reflections, but I soon learned that Mr. Kirwin had
shown me extreme kindness. He had caused the best room in the prison
to be prepared for me (wretched indeed was the best); and it was he who
had provided a physician and a nurse. It is true, he seldom came to
see me, for although he ardently desired to relieve the sufferings of
every human creature, he did not wish to be present at the agonies and
miserable ravings of a murderer. He came, therefore, sometimes to see
that I was not neglected, but his visits were short and with long
intervals.

One day, while I was gradually recovering, I was seated in a chair, my eyes
half open and my cheeks livid like those in death. I was overcome by gloom
and misery and often reflected I had better seek death than desire to
remain in a world which to me was replete with wretchedness. At one time I
considered whether I should not declare myself guilty and suffer the
penalty of the law, less innocent than poor Justine had been. Such were my
thoughts when the door of my apartment was opened and Mr. Kirwin entered.
His countenance expressed sympathy and compassion; he drew a chair close to
mine and addressed me in French,

“I fear that this place is very shocking to you; can I do anything to
make you more comfortable?”

“I thank you, but all that you mention is nothing to me; on the whole
earth there is no comfort which I am capable of receiving.”

“I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be but of little relief to
one borne down as you are by so strange a misfortune. But you will, I
hope, soon quit this melancholy abode, for doubtless evidence can
easily be brought to free you from the criminal charge.”

“That is my least concern; I am, by a course of strange events, become
the most miserable of mortals. Persecuted and tortured as I am and
have been, can death be any evil to me?”

“Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agonising than the
strange chances that have lately occurred. You were thrown, by some
surprising accident, on this shore, renowned for its hospitality,
seized immediately, and charged with murder. The first sight that was
presented to your eyes was the body of your friend, murdered in so
unaccountable a manner and placed, as it were, by some fiend across
your path.”

As Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding the agitation I endured on
this retrospect of my sufferings, I also felt considerable surprise at
the knowledge he seemed to possess concerning me. I suppose some
astonishment was exhibited in my countenance, for Mr. Kirwin hastened
to say,

“Immediately upon your being taken ill, all the papers that were on
your person were brought me, and I examined them that I might discover some
trace by which I could send to your relations an account of your misfortune
and illness. I found several letters, and, among others, one which I
discovered from its commencement to be from your father. I instantly wrote
to Geneva; nearly two months have elapsed since the departure of my letter.
But you are ill; even now you tremble; you are unfit for agitation of any
kind.”

“This suspense is a thousand times worse than the most horrible event;
tell me what new scene of death has been acted, and whose murder I am
now to lament?”

“Your family is perfectly well,” said Mr. Kirwin with
gentleness; “and someone, a friend, is come to visit you.”

I know not by what chain of thought the idea presented itself, but it
instantly darted into my mind that the murderer had come to mock at my
misery and taunt me with the death of Clerval, as a new incitement for
me to comply with his hellish desires. I put my hand before my eyes,
and cried out in agony,

“Oh! Take him away! I cannot see him; for God’s sake, do not
let him enter!”

Mr. Kirwin regarded me with a troubled countenance. He could not help
regarding my exclamation as a presumption of my guilt and said in
rather a severe tone,

“I should have thought, young man, that the presence of your father
would have been welcome instead of inspiring such violent repugnance.”

“My father!” cried I, while every feature and every muscle was relaxed
from anguish to pleasure. “Is my father indeed come? How kind, how
very kind! But where is he, why does he not hasten to me?”

My change of manner surprised and pleased the magistrate; perhaps he
thought that my former exclamation was a momentary return of delirium,
and now he instantly resumed his former benevolence. He rose and
quitted the room with my nurse, and in a moment my father entered it.

Nothing, at this moment, could have given me greater pleasure than the
arrival of my father. I stretched out my hand to him and cried,

“Are you then safe—and Elizabeth—and Ernest?”

My father calmed me with assurances of their welfare and endeavoured, by
dwelling on these subjects so interesting to my heart, to raise my
desponding spirits; but he soon felt that a prison cannot be the abode of
cheerfulness. “What a place is this that you inhabit, my son!”
said he, looking mournfully at the barred windows and wretched appearance
of the room. “You travelled to seek happiness, but a fatality seems
to pursue you. And poor Clerval—”

The name of my unfortunate and murdered friend was an agitation too
great to be endured in my weak state; I shed tears.

“Alas! Yes, my father,” replied I; “some destiny of the
most horrible kind hangs over me, and I must live to fulfil it, or surely I
should have died on the coffin of Henry.”

We were not allowed to converse for any length of time, for the
precarious state of my health rendered every precaution necessary that
could ensure tranquillity. Mr. Kirwin came in and insisted that my
strength should not be exhausted by too much exertion. But the
appearance of my father was to me like that of my good angel, and I
gradually recovered my health.

As my sickness quitted me, I was absorbed by a gloomy and black
melancholy that nothing could dissipate. The image of Clerval was
for ever before me, ghastly and murdered. More than once the agitation
into which these reflections threw me made my friends dread a dangerous
relapse. Alas! Why did they preserve so miserable and detested a
life? It was surely that I might fulfil my destiny, which is now
drawing to a close. Soon, oh, very soon, will death extinguish these
throbbings and relieve me from the mighty weight of anguish that bears
me to the dust; and, in executing the award of justice, I shall also
sink to rest. Then the appearance of death was distant, although the
wish was ever present to my thoughts; and I often sat for hours
motionless and speechless, wishing for some mighty revolution that
might bury me and my destroyer in its ruins.

The season of the assizes approached. I had already been three months
in prison, and although I was still weak and in continual danger of a
relapse, I was obliged to travel nearly a hundred miles to the country
town where the court was held. Mr. Kirwin charged himself with every
care of collecting witnesses and arranging my defence. I was spared
the disgrace of appearing publicly as a criminal, as the case was not
brought before the court that decides on life and death. The grand
jury rejected the bill, on its being proved that I was on the Orkney
Islands at the hour the body of my friend was found; and a fortnight
after my removal I was liberated from prison.

My father was enraptured on finding me freed from the vexations of a
criminal charge, that I was again allowed to breathe the fresh
atmosphere and permitted to return to my native country. I did not
participate in these feelings, for to me the walls of a dungeon or a
palace were alike hateful. The cup of life was poisoned for ever, and
although the sun shone upon me, as upon the happy and gay of heart, I
saw around me nothing but a dense and frightful darkness, penetrated by
no light but the glimmer of two eyes that glared upon me. Sometimes
they were the expressive eyes of Henry, languishing in death, the dark
orbs nearly covered by the lids and the long black lashes that fringed
them; sometimes it was the watery, clouded eyes of the monster, as I
first saw them in my chamber at Ingolstadt.

My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of affection. He talked
of Geneva, which I should soon visit, of Elizabeth and Ernest; but
these words only drew deep groans from me. Sometimes, indeed, I felt a
wish for happiness and thought with melancholy delight of my beloved
cousin or longed, with a devouring _maladie du pays_, to see once more
the blue lake and rapid Rhone, that had been so dear to me in early
childhood; but my general state of feeling was a torpor in which a
prison was as welcome a residence as the divinest scene in nature; and
these fits were seldom interrupted but by paroxysms of anguish and
despair. At these moments I often endeavoured to put an end to the
existence I loathed, and it required unceasing attendance and vigilance
to restrain me from committing some dreadful act of violence.

Yet one duty remained to me, the recollection of which finally
triumphed over my selfish despair. It was necessary that I should
return without delay to Geneva, there to watch over the lives of those
I so fondly loved and to lie in wait for the murderer, that if any
chance led me to the place of his concealment, or if he dared again to
blast me by his presence, I might, with unfailing aim, put an end to
the existence of the monstrous image which I had endued with the
mockery of a soul still more monstrous. My father still desired to
delay our departure, fearful that I could not sustain the fatigues of a
journey, for I was a shattered wreck—the shadow of a human being. My
strength was gone. I was a mere skeleton, and fever night and day
preyed upon my wasted frame.

Still, as I urged our leaving Ireland with such inquietude and impatience,
my father thought it best to yield. We took our passage on board a vessel
bound for Havre-de-Grace and sailed with a fair wind from the Irish shores.
It was midnight. I lay on the deck looking at the stars and listening to
the dashing of the waves. I hailed the darkness that shut Ireland from my
sight, and my pulse beat with a feverish joy when I reflected that I should
soon see Geneva. The past appeared to me in the light of a frightful dream;
yet the vessel in which I was, the wind that blew me from the detested
shore of Ireland, and the sea which surrounded me, told me too forcibly
that I was deceived by no vision and that Clerval, my friend and dearest
companion, had fallen a victim to me and the monster of my creation. I
repassed, in my memory, my whole life; my quiet happiness while residing
with my family in Geneva, the death of my mother, and my departure for
Ingolstadt. I remembered, shuddering, the mad enthusiasm that hurried me on
to the creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to mind the night in
which he first lived. I was unable to pursue the train of thought; a
thousand feelings pressed upon me, and I wept bitterly.

Ever since my recovery from the fever, I had been in the custom of taking
every night a small quantity of laudanum, for it was by means of this drug
only that I was enabled to gain the rest necessary for the preservation of
life. Oppressed by the recollection of my various misfortunes, I now
swallowed double my usual quantity and soon slept profoundly. But sleep did
not afford me respite from thought and misery; my dreams presented a
thousand objects that scared me. Towards morning I was possessed by a kind
of nightmare; I felt the fiend’s grasp in my neck and could not free
myself from it; groans and cries rang in my ears. My father, who was
watching over me, perceiving my restlessness, awoke me; the dashing waves
were around, the cloudy sky above, the fiend was not here: a sense of
security, a feeling that a truce was established between the present hour
and the irresistible, disastrous future imparted to me a kind of calm
forgetfulness, of which the human mind is by its structure peculiarly
susceptible.




Chapter 22


The voyage came to an end. We landed, and proceeded to Paris. I soon
found that I had overtaxed my strength and that I must repose before I
could continue my journey. My father’s care and attentions were
indefatigable, but he did not know the origin of my sufferings and
sought erroneous methods to remedy the incurable ill. He wished me to
seek amusement in society. I abhorred the face of man. Oh, not
abhorred! They were my brethren, my fellow beings, and I felt
attracted even to the most repulsive among them, as to creatures of an
angelic nature and celestial mechanism. But I felt that I had no right
to share their intercourse. I had unchained an enemy among them whose
joy it was to shed their blood and to revel in their groans. How they
would, each and all, abhor me and hunt me from the world, did they know
my unhallowed acts and the crimes which had their source in me!

My father yielded at length to my desire to avoid society and strove by
various arguments to banish my despair. Sometimes he thought that I
felt deeply the degradation of being obliged to answer a charge of
murder, and he endeavoured to prove to me the futility of pride.

“Alas! My father,” said I, “how little do you know me. 
Human beings, their feelings and passions, would indeed be degraded if such
a wretch as I felt pride. Justine, poor unhappy Justine, was as innocent
as I, and she suffered the same charge; she died for it; and I am the cause
of this—I murdered her. William, Justine, and Henry—they all
died by my hands.”

My father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me make the same
assertion; when I thus accused myself, he sometimes seemed to desire an
explanation, and at others he appeared to consider it as the offspring of
delirium, and that, during my illness, some idea of this kind had presented
itself to my imagination, the remembrance of which I preserved in my
convalescence. I avoided explanation and maintained a continual silence
concerning the wretch I had created. I had a persuasion that I should be
supposed mad, and this in itself would for ever have chained my tongue. But,
besides, I could not bring myself to disclose a secret which would fill my
hearer with consternation and make fear and unnatural horror the inmates of
his breast. I checked, therefore, my impatient thirst for sympathy and was
silent when I would have given the world to have confided the fatal secret.
Yet, still, words like those I have recorded would burst uncontrollably
from me. I could offer no explanation of them, but their truth in part
relieved the burden of my mysterious woe.

Upon this occasion my father said, with an expression of unbounded wonder,
“My dearest Victor, what infatuation is this? My dear son, I entreat
you never to make such an assertion again.”

“I am not mad,” I cried energetically; “the sun and the heavens, who
have viewed my operations, can bear witness of my truth. I am the
assassin of those most innocent victims; they died by my machinations.
A thousand times would I have shed my own blood, drop by drop, to have
saved their lives; but I could not, my father, indeed I could not
sacrifice the whole human race.”

The conclusion of this speech convinced my father that my ideas were
deranged, and he instantly changed the subject of our conversation and
endeavoured to alter the course of my thoughts. He wished as much as
possible to obliterate the memory of the scenes that had taken place in
Ireland and never alluded to them or suffered me to speak of my
misfortunes.

As time passed away I became more calm; misery had her dwelling in my
heart, but I no longer talked in the same incoherent manner of my own
crimes; sufficient for me was the consciousness of them. By the utmost
self-violence I curbed the imperious voice of wretchedness, which
sometimes desired to declare itself to the whole world, and my manners
were calmer and more composed than they had ever been since my journey
to the sea of ice.

A few days before we left Paris on our way to Switzerland, I received the
following letter from Elizabeth:

“My dear Friend,

“It gave me the greatest pleasure to receive a letter from my uncle
dated at Paris; you are no longer at a formidable distance, and I may
hope to see you in less than a fortnight. My poor cousin, how much you
must have suffered! I expect to see you looking even more ill than
when you quitted Geneva. This winter has been passed most miserably,
tortured as I have been by anxious suspense; yet I hope to see peace in
your countenance and to find that your heart is not totally void of
comfort and tranquillity.

“Yet I fear that the same feelings now exist that made you so miserable
a year ago, even perhaps augmented by time. I would not disturb you at
this period, when so many misfortunes weigh upon you, but a
conversation that I had with my uncle previous to his departure renders
some explanation necessary before we meet.

Explanation! You may possibly say, What can Elizabeth have to explain? If
you really say this, my questions are answered and all my doubts satisfied.
But you are distant from me, and it is possible that you may dread and yet
be pleased with this explanation; and in a probability of this being the
case, I dare not any longer postpone writing what, during your absence, I
have often wished to express to you but have never had the courage to begin.

“You well know, Victor, that our union had been the favourite plan of
your parents ever since our infancy. We were told this when young, and
taught to look forward to it as an event that would certainly take
place. We were affectionate playfellows during childhood, and, I
believe, dear and valued friends to one another as we grew older. But
as brother and sister often entertain a lively affection towards each
other without desiring a more intimate union, may not such also be our
case? Tell me, dearest Victor. Answer me, I conjure you by our mutual
happiness, with simple truth—Do you not love another?

“You have travelled; you have spent several years of your life at
Ingolstadt; and I confess to you, my friend, that when I saw you last
autumn so unhappy, flying to solitude from the society of every
creature, I could not help supposing that you might regret our
connection and believe yourself bound in honour to fulfil the wishes of
your parents, although they opposed themselves to your inclinations.
But this is false reasoning. I confess to you, my friend, that I love
you and that in my airy dreams of futurity you have been my constant
friend and companion. But it is your happiness I desire as well as my
own when I declare to you that our marriage would render me eternally
miserable unless it were the dictate of your own free choice. Even now
I weep to think that, borne down as you are by the cruellest
misfortunes, you may stifle, by the word _honour_, all hope of that
love and happiness which would alone restore you to yourself. I, who
have so disinterested an affection for you, may increase your miseries
tenfold by being an obstacle to your wishes. Ah! Victor, be assured
that your cousin and playmate has too sincere a love for you not to be
made miserable by this supposition. Be happy, my friend; and if you
obey me in this one request, remain satisfied that nothing on earth
will have the power to interrupt my tranquillity.

“Do not let this letter disturb you; do not answer tomorrow, or the
next day, or even until you come, if it will give you pain. My uncle
will send me news of your health, and if I see but one smile on your
lips when we meet, occasioned by this or any other exertion of mine, I
shall need no other happiness.

“Elizabeth Lavenza.



“Geneva, May 18th, 17—”



This letter revived in my memory what I had before forgotten, the threat of
the fiend—“_I will be with you on your
wedding-night!_” Such was my sentence, and on that night would the
dæmon employ every art to destroy me and tear me from the glimpse of
happiness which promised partly to console my sufferings. On that night he
had determined to consummate his crimes by my death. Well, be it so; a
deadly struggle would then assuredly take place, in which if he were
victorious I should be at peace and his power over me be at an end. If he
were vanquished, I should be a free man. Alas! What freedom? Such as the
peasant enjoys when his family have been massacred before his eyes, his
cottage burnt, his lands laid waste, and he is turned adrift, homeless,
penniless, and alone, but free. Such would be my liberty except that in my
Elizabeth I possessed a treasure, alas, balanced by those horrors of
remorse and guilt which would pursue me until death.

Sweet and beloved Elizabeth! I read and reread her letter, and some
softened feelings stole into my heart and dared to whisper paradisiacal
dreams of love and joy; but the apple was already eaten, and the
angel’s arm bared to drive me from all hope. Yet I would die to make
her happy. If the monster executed his threat, death was inevitable; yet,
again, I considered whether my marriage would hasten my fate. My
destruction might indeed arrive a few months sooner, but if my torturer
should suspect that I postponed it, influenced by his menaces, he would
surely find other and perhaps more dreadful means of revenge. He had vowed
_to be with me on my wedding-night_, yet he did not consider that
threat as binding him to peace in the meantime, for as if to show me that
he was not yet satiated with blood, he had murdered Clerval immediately
after the enunciation of his threats. I resolved, therefore, that if my
immediate union with my cousin would conduce either to hers or my
father’s happiness, my adversary’s designs against my life
should not retard it a single hour.

In this state of mind I wrote to Elizabeth. My letter was calm and
affectionate. “I fear, my beloved girl,” I said, “little happiness
remains for us on earth; yet all that I may one day enjoy is centred in
you. Chase away your idle fears; to you alone do I consecrate my life
and my endeavours for contentment. I have one secret, Elizabeth, a
dreadful one; when revealed to you, it will chill your frame with
horror, and then, far from being surprised at my misery, you will only
wonder that I survive what I have endured. I will confide this tale of
misery and terror to you the day after our marriage shall take place,
for, my sweet cousin, there must be perfect confidence between us. But
until then, I conjure you, do not mention or allude to it. This I most
earnestly entreat, and I know you will comply.”

In about a week after the arrival of Elizabeth’s letter we returned
to Geneva. The sweet girl welcomed me with warm affection, yet tears were
in her eyes as she beheld my emaciated frame and feverish cheeks. I saw a
change in her also. She was thinner and had lost much of that heavenly
vivacity that had before charmed me; but her gentleness and soft looks of
compassion made her a more fit companion for one blasted and miserable as I
was.

The tranquillity which I now enjoyed did not endure. Memory brought madness
with it, and when I thought of what had passed, a real insanity possessed
me; sometimes I was furious and burnt with rage, sometimes low and
despondent. I neither spoke nor looked at anyone, but sat motionless,
bewildered by the multitude of miseries that overcame me.

Elizabeth alone had the power to draw me from these fits; her gentle voice
would soothe me when transported by passion and inspire me with human
feelings when sunk in torpor. She wept with me and for me. When reason
returned, she would remonstrate and endeavour to inspire me with
resignation. Ah! It is well for the unfortunate to be resigned, but for the
guilty there is no peace. The agonies of remorse poison the luxury there is
otherwise sometimes found in indulging the excess of grief.

Soon after my arrival my father spoke of my immediate marriage with
Elizabeth. I remained silent.

“Have you, then, some other attachment?”

“None on earth. I love Elizabeth and look forward to our union with
delight. Let the day therefore be fixed; and on it I will consecrate
myself, in life or death, to the happiness of my cousin.”

“My dear Victor, do not speak thus. Heavy misfortunes have befallen
us, but let us only cling closer to what remains and transfer our love
for those whom we have lost to those who yet live. Our circle will be
small but bound close by the ties of affection and mutual misfortune.
And when time shall have softened your despair, new and dear objects of
care will be born to replace those of whom we have been so cruelly
deprived.”

Such were the lessons of my father. But to me the remembrance of the
threat returned; nor can you wonder that, omnipotent as the fiend had
yet been in his deeds of blood, I should almost regard him as
invincible, and that when he had pronounced the words “_I shall be with
you on your wedding-night_,” I should regard the threatened fate as
unavoidable. But death was no evil to me if the loss of Elizabeth were
balanced with it, and I therefore, with a contented and even cheerful
countenance, agreed with my father that if my cousin would consent, the
ceremony should take place in ten days, and thus put, as I imagined,
the seal to my fate.

Great God! If for one instant I had thought what might be the hellish
intention of my fiendish adversary, I would rather have banished myself
for ever from my native country and wandered a friendless outcast over
the earth than have consented to this miserable marriage. But, as if
possessed of magic powers, the monster had blinded me to his real
intentions; and when I thought that I had prepared only my own death, I
hastened that of a far dearer victim.

As the period fixed for our marriage drew nearer, whether from cowardice or
a prophetic feeling, I felt my heart sink within me. But I concealed my
feelings by an appearance of hilarity that brought smiles and joy to the
countenance of my father, but hardly deceived the ever-watchful and nicer
eye of Elizabeth. She looked forward to our union with placid contentment,
not unmingled with a little fear, which past misfortunes had impressed,
that what now appeared certain and tangible happiness might soon dissipate
into an airy dream and leave no trace but deep and everlasting regret.

Preparations were made for the event, congratulatory visits were received,
and all wore a smiling appearance. I shut up, as well as I could, in my own
heart the anxiety that preyed there and entered with seeming earnestness
into the plans of my father, although they might only serve as the
decorations of my tragedy. Through my father’s exertions a part of
the inheritance of Elizabeth had been restored to her by the Austrian
government. A small possession on the shores of Como belonged to her. It
was agreed that, immediately after our union, we should proceed to Villa
Lavenza and spend our first days of happiness beside the beautiful lake
near which it stood.

In the meantime I took every precaution to defend my person in case the
fiend should openly attack me. I carried pistols and a dagger
constantly about me and was ever on the watch to prevent artifice, and
by these means gained a greater degree of tranquillity. Indeed, as the
period approached, the threat appeared more as a delusion, not to be
regarded as worthy to disturb my peace, while the happiness I hoped for
in my marriage wore a greater appearance of certainty as the day fixed
for its solemnisation drew nearer and I heard it continually spoken of
as an occurrence which no accident could possibly prevent.

Elizabeth seemed happy; my tranquil demeanour contributed greatly to
calm her mind. But on the day that was to fulfil my wishes and my
destiny, she was melancholy, and a presentiment of evil pervaded her;
and perhaps also she thought of the dreadful secret which I had
promised to reveal to her on the following day. My father was in the
meantime overjoyed, and, in the bustle of preparation, only recognised in
the melancholy of his niece the diffidence of a bride.

After the ceremony was performed a large party assembled at my
father’s, but it was agreed that Elizabeth and I should commence our
journey by water, sleeping that night at Evian and continuing our
voyage on the following day. The day was fair, the wind favourable;
all smiled on our nuptial embarkation.

Those were the last moments of my life during which I enjoyed the
feeling of happiness. We passed rapidly along; the sun was hot, but we
were sheltered from its rays by a kind of canopy while we enjoyed the
beauty of the scene, sometimes on one side of the lake, where we saw
Mont Salêve, the pleasant banks of Montalègre, and at a distance,
surmounting all, the beautiful Mont Blanc, and the assemblage of snowy
mountains that in vain endeavour to emulate her; sometimes coasting the
opposite banks, we saw the mighty Jura opposing its dark side to the
ambition that would quit its native country, and an almost
insurmountable barrier to the invader who should wish to enslave it.

I took the hand of Elizabeth. “You are sorrowful, my love. Ah! If
you knew what I have suffered and what I may yet endure, you would
endeavour to let me taste the quiet and freedom from despair that this
one day at least permits me to enjoy.”

“Be happy, my dear Victor,” replied Elizabeth; “there is, I hope,
nothing to distress you; and be assured that if a lively joy is not
painted in my face, my heart is contented. Something whispers to me
not to depend too much on the prospect that is opened before us, but I
will not listen to such a sinister voice. Observe how fast we move
along and how the clouds, which sometimes obscure and sometimes rise
above the dome of Mont Blanc, render this scene of beauty still more
interesting. Look also at the innumerable fish that are swimming in
the clear waters, where we can distinguish every pebble that lies at
the bottom. What a divine day! How happy and serene all nature
appears!”

Thus Elizabeth endeavoured to divert her thoughts and mine from all
reflection upon melancholy subjects. But her temper was fluctuating;
joy for a few instants shone in her eyes, but it continually gave place
to distraction and reverie.

The sun sank lower in the heavens; we passed the river Drance and
observed its path through the chasms of the higher and the glens of the
lower hills. The Alps here come closer to the lake, and we approached
the amphitheatre of mountains which forms its eastern boundary. The
spire of Evian shone under the woods that surrounded it and the range
of mountain above mountain by which it was overhung.

The wind, which had hitherto carried us along with amazing rapidity,
sank at sunset to a light breeze; the soft air just ruffled the water
and caused a pleasant motion among the trees as we approached the
shore, from which it wafted the most delightful scent of flowers and
hay. The sun sank beneath the horizon as we landed, and as I touched
the shore I felt those cares and fears revive which soon were to clasp
me and cling to me for ever.




Chapter 23


It was eight o’clock when we landed; we walked for a short time on the
shore, enjoying the transitory light, and then retired to the inn and
contemplated the lovely scene of waters, woods, and mountains, obscured
in darkness, yet still displaying their black outlines.

The wind, which had fallen in the south, now rose with great violence
in the west. The moon had reached her summit in the heavens and was
beginning to descend; the clouds swept across it swifter than the
flight of the vulture and dimmed her rays, while the lake reflected the
scene of the busy heavens, rendered still busier by the restless waves
that were beginning to rise. Suddenly a heavy storm of rain descended.

I had been calm during the day, but so soon as night obscured the
shapes of objects, a thousand fears arose in my mind. I was anxious
and watchful, while my right hand grasped a pistol which was hidden in
my bosom; every sound terrified me, but I resolved that I would sell my
life dearly and not shrink from the conflict until my own life or that
of my adversary was extinguished.

Elizabeth observed my agitation for some time in timid and fearful silence,
but there was something in my glance which communicated terror to her, and
trembling, she asked, “What is it that agitates you, my dear Victor?
What is it you fear?”

“Oh! Peace, peace, my love,” replied I; “this night, and
all will be safe; but this night is dreadful, very dreadful.”

I passed an hour in this state of mind, when suddenly I reflected how
fearful the combat which I momentarily expected would be to my wife,
and I earnestly entreated her to retire, resolving not to join her
until I had obtained some knowledge as to the situation of my enemy.

She left me, and I continued some time walking up and down the passages
of the house and inspecting every corner that might afford a retreat to
my adversary. But I discovered no trace of him and was beginning to
conjecture that some fortunate chance had intervened to prevent the
execution of his menaces when suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful
scream. It came from the room into which Elizabeth had retired. As I
heard it, the whole truth rushed into my mind, my arms dropped, the
motion of every muscle and fibre was suspended; I could feel the blood
trickling in my veins and tingling in the extremities of my limbs. This
state lasted but for an instant; the scream was repeated, and I rushed
into the room.

Great God! Why did I not then expire! Why am I here to relate the
destruction of the best hope and the purest creature on earth? She was
there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the bed, her head hanging down
and her pale and distorted features half covered by her hair. Everywhere I
turn I see the same figure—her bloodless arms and relaxed form flung
by the murderer on its bridal bier. Could I behold this and live? Alas!
Life is obstinate and clings closest where it is most hated. For a moment
only did I lose recollection; I fell senseless on the ground.

When I recovered I found myself surrounded by the people of the inn; their
countenances expressed a breathless terror, but the horror of others
appeared only as a mockery, a shadow of the feelings that oppressed me. I
escaped from them to the room where lay the body of Elizabeth, my love, my
wife, so lately living, so dear, so worthy. She had been moved from the
posture in which I had first beheld her, and now, as she lay, her head upon
her arm and a handkerchief thrown across her face and neck, I might have
supposed her asleep. I rushed towards her and embraced her with ardour, but
the deadly languor and coldness of the limbs told me that what I now held
in my arms had ceased to be the Elizabeth whom I had loved and cherished.
The murderous mark of the fiend’s grasp was on her neck, and the
breath had ceased to issue from her lips.

While I still hung over her in the agony of despair, I happened to look up.
The windows of the room had before been darkened, and I felt a kind of
panic on seeing the pale yellow light of the moon illuminate the chamber.
The shutters had been thrown back, and with a sensation of horror not to be
described, I saw at the open window a figure the most hideous and abhorred.
A grin was on the face of the monster; he seemed to jeer, as with his
fiendish finger he pointed towards the corpse of my wife. I rushed towards
the window, and drawing a pistol from my bosom, fired; but he eluded me,
leaped from his station, and running with the swiftness of lightning,
plunged into the lake.

The report of the pistol brought a crowd into the room. I pointed to
the spot where he had disappeared, and we followed the track with
boats; nets were cast, but in vain. After passing several hours, we
returned hopeless, most of my companions believing it to have been a
form conjured up by my fancy. After having landed, they proceeded to
search the country, parties going in different directions among the
woods and vines.

I attempted to accompany them and proceeded a short distance from the
house, but my head whirled round, my steps were like those of a drunken
man, I fell at last in a state of utter exhaustion; a film covered my
eyes, and my skin was parched with the heat of fever. In this state I
was carried back and placed on a bed, hardly conscious of what had
happened; my eyes wandered round the room as if to seek something that
I had lost.

After an interval I arose, and as if by instinct, crawled into the room
where the corpse of my beloved lay. There were women weeping around; I
hung over it and joined my sad tears to theirs; all this time no
distinct idea presented itself to my mind, but my thoughts rambled to
various subjects, reflecting confusedly on my misfortunes and their
cause. I was bewildered, in a cloud of wonder and horror. The death
of William, the execution of Justine, the murder of Clerval, and lastly
of my wife; even at that moment I knew not that my only remaining
friends were safe from the malignity of the fiend; my father even now
might be writhing under his grasp, and Ernest might be dead at his
feet. This idea made me shudder and recalled me to action. I started
up and resolved to return to Geneva with all possible speed.

There were no horses to be procured, and I must return by the lake; but the
wind was unfavourable, and the rain fell in torrents. However, it was
hardly morning, and I might reasonably hope to arrive by night. I hired men
to row and took an oar myself, for I had always experienced relief from
mental torment in bodily exercise. But the overflowing misery I now felt,
and the excess of agitation that I endured rendered me incapable of any
exertion. I threw down the oar, and leaning my head upon my hands, gave way
to every gloomy idea that arose. If I looked up, I saw scenes which were
familiar to me in my happier time and which I had contemplated but the day
before in the company of her who was now but a shadow and a recollection.
Tears streamed from my eyes. The rain had ceased for a moment, and I saw
the fish play in the waters as they had done a few hours before; they had
then been observed by Elizabeth. Nothing is so painful to the human mind as
a great and sudden change. The sun might shine or the clouds might lower,
but nothing could appear to me as it had done the day before. A fiend had
snatched from me every hope of future happiness; no creature had ever been
so miserable as I was; so frightful an event is single in the history of
man.

But why should I dwell upon the incidents that followed this last
overwhelming event? Mine has been a tale of horrors; I have reached their
_acme_, and what I must now relate can but be tedious to you. Know
that, one by one, my friends were snatched away; I was left desolate. My
own strength is exhausted, and I must tell, in a few words, what remains of
my hideous narration.

I arrived at Geneva. My father and Ernest yet lived, but the former sunk
under the tidings that I bore. I see him now, excellent and venerable old
man! His eyes wandered in vacancy, for they had lost their charm and their
delight—his Elizabeth, his more than daughter, whom he doted on with
all that affection which a man feels, who in the decline of life, having
few affections, clings more earnestly to those that remain. Cursed, cursed
be the fiend that brought misery on his grey hairs and doomed him to waste
in wretchedness! He could not live under the horrors that were accumulated
around him; the springs of existence suddenly gave way; he was unable to
rise from his bed, and in a few days he died in my arms.

What then became of me? I know not; I lost sensation, and chains and
darkness were the only objects that pressed upon me. Sometimes,
indeed, I dreamt that I wandered in flowery meadows and pleasant vales
with the friends of my youth, but I awoke and found myself in a
dungeon. Melancholy followed, but by degrees I gained a clear
conception of my miseries and situation and was then released from my
prison. For they had called me mad, and during many months, as I
understood, a solitary cell had been my habitation.

Liberty, however, had been a useless gift to me, had I not, as I
awakened to reason, at the same time awakened to revenge. As the
memory of past misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to reflect on their
cause—the monster whom I had created, the miserable dæmon whom I had
sent abroad into the world for my destruction. I was possessed by a
maddening rage when I thought of him, and desired and ardently prayed
that I might have him within my grasp to wreak a great and signal
revenge on his cursed head.

Nor did my hate long confine itself to useless wishes; I began to
reflect on the best means of securing him; and for this purpose, about
a month after my release, I repaired to a criminal judge in the town
and told him that I had an accusation to make, that I knew the
destroyer of my family, and that I required him to exert his whole
authority for the apprehension of the murderer.

The magistrate listened to me with attention and kindness. “Be
assured, sir,” said he, “no pains or exertions on my part shall
be spared to discover the villain.”

“I thank you,” replied I; “listen, therefore, to the
deposition that I have to make. It is indeed a tale so strange that I
should fear you would not credit it were there not something in truth
which, however wonderful, forces conviction. The story is too connected to
be mistaken for a dream, and I have no motive for falsehood.” My
manner as I thus addressed him was impressive but calm; I had formed in my
own heart a resolution to pursue my destroyer to death, and this purpose
quieted my agony and for an interval reconciled me to life. I now related
my history briefly but with firmness and precision, marking the dates with
accuracy and never deviating into invective or exclamation.

The magistrate appeared at first perfectly incredulous, but as I continued
he became more attentive and interested; I saw him sometimes shudder with
horror; at others a lively surprise, unmingled with disbelief, was painted
on his countenance.

When I had concluded my narration, I said, “This is the being whom I
accuse and for whose seizure and punishment I call upon you to exert your
whole power. It is your duty as a magistrate, and I believe and hope that
your feelings as a man will not revolt from the execution of those
functions on this occasion.”

This address caused a considerable change in the physiognomy of my own
auditor. He had heard my story with that half kind of belief that is given
to a tale of spirits and supernatural events; but when he was called upon
to act officially in consequence, the whole tide of his incredulity
returned. He, however, answered mildly, “I would willingly afford you
every aid in your pursuit, but the creature of whom you speak appears to
have powers which would put all my exertions to defiance. Who can follow an
animal which can traverse the sea of ice and inhabit caves and dens where
no man would venture to intrude? Besides, some months have elapsed since
the commission of his crimes, and no one can conjecture to what place he
has wandered or what region he may now inhabit.”

“I do not doubt that he hovers near the spot which I inhabit, and if
he has indeed taken refuge in the Alps, he may be hunted like the chamois
and destroyed as a beast of prey. But I perceive your thoughts; you do not
credit my narrative and do not intend to pursue my enemy with the
punishment which is his desert.”

As I spoke, rage sparkled in my eyes; the magistrate was intimidated.
“You are mistaken,” said he. “I will exert myself, and if
it is in my power to seize the monster, be assured that he shall suffer
punishment proportionate to his crimes. But I fear, from what you have
yourself described to be his properties, that this will prove
impracticable; and thus, while every proper measure is pursued, you should
make up your mind to disappointment.”

“That cannot be; but all that I can say will be of little avail. My
revenge is of no moment to you; yet, while I allow it to be a vice, I
confess that it is the devouring and only passion of my soul. My rage
is unspeakable when I reflect that the murderer, whom I have turned
loose upon society, still exists. You refuse my just demand; I have
but one resource, and I devote myself, either in my life or death, to
his destruction.”

I trembled with excess of agitation as I said this; there was a frenzy
in my manner, and something, I doubt not, of that haughty fierceness
which the martyrs of old are said to have possessed. But to a Genevan
magistrate, whose mind was occupied by far other ideas than those of
devotion and heroism, this elevation of mind had much the appearance of
madness. He endeavoured to soothe me as a nurse does a child and
reverted to my tale as the effects of delirium.

“Man,” I cried, “how ignorant art thou in thy pride of
wisdom! Cease; you know not what it is you say.”

I broke from the house angry and disturbed and retired to meditate on
some other mode of action.




Chapter 24


My present situation was one in which all voluntary thought was
swallowed up and lost. I was hurried away by fury; revenge alone
endowed me with strength and composure; it moulded my feelings and
allowed me to be calculating and calm at periods when otherwise
delirium or death would have been my portion.

My first resolution was to quit Geneva for ever; my country, which, when I
was happy and beloved, was dear to me, now, in my adversity, became
hateful. I provided myself with a sum of money, together with a few jewels
which had belonged to my mother, and departed.

And now my wanderings began which are to cease but with life. I have
traversed a vast portion of the earth and have endured all the hardships
which travellers in deserts and barbarous countries are wont to meet. How I
have lived I hardly know; many times have I stretched my failing limbs upon
the sandy plain and prayed for death. But revenge kept me alive; I dared
not die and leave my adversary in being.

When I quitted Geneva my first labour was to gain some clue by which I
might trace the steps of my fiendish enemy. But my plan was unsettled,
and I wandered many hours round the confines of the town, uncertain
what path I should pursue. As night approached I found myself at the
entrance of the cemetery where William, Elizabeth, and my father
reposed. I entered it and approached the tomb which marked their
graves. Everything was silent except the leaves of the trees, which
were gently agitated by the wind; the night was nearly dark, and the
scene would have been solemn and affecting even to an uninterested
observer. The spirits of the departed seemed to flit around and to
cast a shadow, which was felt but not seen, around the head of the
mourner.

The deep grief which this scene had at first excited quickly gave way to
rage and despair. They were dead, and I lived; their murderer also lived,
and to destroy him I must drag out my weary existence. I knelt on the grass
and kissed the earth and with quivering lips exclaimed, “By the
sacred earth on which I kneel, by the shades that wander near me, by the
deep and eternal grief that I feel, I swear; and by thee, O Night, and the
spirits that preside over thee, to pursue the dæmon who caused this misery,
until he or I shall perish in mortal conflict. For this purpose I will
preserve my life; to execute this dear revenge will I again behold the sun
and tread the green herbage of earth, which otherwise should vanish from my
eyes for ever. And I call on you, spirits of the dead, and on you, wandering
ministers of vengeance, to aid and conduct me in my work. Let the cursed
and hellish monster drink deep of agony; let him feel the despair that now
torments me.”

I had begun my adjuration with solemnity and an awe which almost assured me
that the shades of my murdered friends heard and approved my devotion, but
the furies possessed me as I concluded, and rage choked my utterance.

I was answered through the stillness of night by a loud and fiendish
laugh. It rang on my ears long and heavily; the mountains re-echoed
it, and I felt as if all hell surrounded me with mockery and laughter.
Surely in that moment I should have been possessed by frenzy and have
destroyed my miserable existence but that my vow was heard and that I
was reserved for vengeance. The laughter died away, when a well-known
and abhorred voice, apparently close to my ear, addressed me in an
audible whisper, “I am satisfied, miserable wretch! You have
determined to live, and I am satisfied.”

I darted towards the spot from which the sound proceeded, but the devil
eluded my grasp. Suddenly the broad disk of the moon arose and shone
full upon his ghastly and distorted shape as he fled with more than
mortal speed.

I pursued him, and for many months this has been my task. Guided by a
slight clue, I followed the windings of the Rhone, but vainly. The
blue Mediterranean appeared, and by a strange chance, I saw the fiend
enter by night and hide himself in a vessel bound for the Black Sea. I
took my passage in the same ship, but he escaped, I know not how.

Amidst the wilds of Tartary and Russia, although he still evaded me, I
have ever followed in his track. Sometimes the peasants, scared by
this horrid apparition, informed me of his path; sometimes he himself,
who feared that if I lost all trace of him I should despair and die,
left some mark to guide me. The snows descended on my head, and I saw
the print of his huge step on the white plain. To you first entering
on life, to whom care is new and agony unknown, how can you understand
what I have felt and still feel? Cold, want, and fatigue were the
least pains which I was destined to endure; I was cursed by some devil
and carried about with me my eternal hell; yet still a spirit of good
followed and directed my steps and when I most murmured would suddenly
extricate me from seemingly insurmountable difficulties. Sometimes,
when nature, overcome by hunger, sank under the exhaustion, a repast
was prepared for me in the desert that restored and inspirited me. The
fare was, indeed, coarse, such as the peasants of the country ate, but
I will not doubt that it was set there by the spirits that I had
invoked to aid me. Often, when all was dry, the heavens cloudless, and
I was parched by thirst, a slight cloud would bedim the sky, shed the
few drops that revived me, and vanish.

I followed, when I could, the courses of the rivers; but the dæmon
generally avoided these, as it was here that the population of the
country chiefly collected. In other places human beings were seldom
seen, and I generally subsisted on the wild animals that crossed my
path. I had money with me and gained the friendship of the villagers
by distributing it; or I brought with me some food that I had killed,
which, after taking a small part, I always presented to those who had
provided me with fire and utensils for cooking.

My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me, and it was during
sleep alone that I could taste joy. O blessed sleep! Often, when most
miserable, I sank to repose, and my dreams lulled me even to rapture. The
spirits that guarded me had provided these moments, or rather hours, of
happiness that I might retain strength to fulfil my pilgrimage. Deprived of
this respite, I should have sunk under my hardships. During the day I was
sustained and inspirited by the hope of night, for in sleep I saw my
friends, my wife, and my beloved country; again I saw the benevolent
countenance of my father, heard the silver tones of my Elizabeth’s
voice, and beheld Clerval enjoying health and youth. Often, when wearied by
a toilsome march, I persuaded myself that I was dreaming until night should
come and that I should then enjoy reality in the arms of my dearest
friends. What agonising fondness did I feel for them! How did I cling to
their dear forms, as sometimes they haunted even my waking hours, and
persuade myself that they still lived! At such moments vengeance, that
burned within me, died in my heart, and I pursued my path towards the
destruction of the dæmon more as a task enjoined by heaven, as the
mechanical impulse of some power of which I was unconscious, than as the
ardent desire of my soul.

What his feelings were whom I pursued I cannot know. Sometimes, indeed, he
left marks in writing on the barks of the trees or cut in stone that guided
me and instigated my fury. “My reign is not yet
over”—these words were legible in one of these
inscriptions—“you live, and my power is complete. Follow me; I
seek the everlasting ices of the north, where you will feel the misery of
cold and frost, to which I am impassive. You will find near this place, if
you follow not too tardily, a dead hare; eat and be refreshed. Come on, my
enemy; we have yet to wrestle for our lives, but many hard and miserable
hours must you endure until that period shall arrive.”

Scoffing devil! Again do I vow vengeance; again do I devote thee,
miserable fiend, to torture and death. Never will I give up my search
until he or I perish; and then with what ecstasy shall I join my
Elizabeth and my departed friends, who even now prepare for me the
reward of my tedious toil and horrible pilgrimage!

As I still pursued my journey to the northward, the snows thickened and the
cold increased in a degree almost too severe to support. The peasants were
shut up in their hovels, and only a few of the most hardy ventured forth to
seize the animals whom starvation had forced from their hiding-places to
seek for prey. The rivers were covered with ice, and no fish could be
procured; and thus I was cut off from my chief article of maintenance.

The triumph of my enemy increased with the difficulty of my labours. One
inscription that he left was in these words: “Prepare! Your toils
only begin; wrap yourself in furs and provide food, for we shall soon enter
upon a journey where your sufferings will satisfy my everlasting
hatred.”

My courage and perseverance were invigorated by these scoffing words; I
resolved not to fail in my purpose, and calling on Heaven to support
me, I continued with unabated fervour to traverse immense deserts,
until the ocean appeared at a distance and formed the utmost boundary
of the horizon. Oh! How unlike it was to the blue seasons of the
south! Covered with ice, it was only to be distinguished from land by
its superior wildness and ruggedness. The Greeks wept for joy when
they beheld the Mediterranean from the hills of Asia, and hailed with
rapture the boundary of their toils. I did not weep, but I knelt down
and with a full heart thanked my guiding spirit for conducting me in
safety to the place where I hoped, notwithstanding my adversary’s gibe,
to meet and grapple with him.

Some weeks before this period I had procured a sledge and dogs and thus
traversed the snows with inconceivable speed. I know not whether the
fiend possessed the same advantages, but I found that, as before I had
daily lost ground in the pursuit, I now gained on him, so much so that
when I first saw the ocean he was but one day’s journey in advance, and
I hoped to intercept him before he should reach the beach. With new
courage, therefore, I pressed on, and in two days arrived at a wretched
hamlet on the seashore. I inquired of the inhabitants concerning the
fiend and gained accurate information. A gigantic monster, they said,
had arrived the night before, armed with a gun and many pistols,
putting to flight the inhabitants of a solitary cottage through fear of
his terrific appearance. He had carried off their store of winter
food, and placing it in a sledge, to draw which he had seized on a
numerous drove of trained dogs, he had harnessed them, and the same
night, to the joy of the horror-struck villagers, had pursued his
journey across the sea in a direction that led to no land; and they
conjectured that he must speedily be destroyed by the breaking of the
ice or frozen by the eternal frosts.

On hearing this information I suffered a temporary access of despair.
He had escaped me, and I must commence a destructive and almost endless
journey across the mountainous ices of the ocean, amidst cold that few
of the inhabitants could long endure and which I, the native of a
genial and sunny climate, could not hope to survive. Yet at the idea
that the fiend should live and be triumphant, my rage and vengeance
returned, and like a mighty tide, overwhelmed every other feeling.
After a slight repose, during which the spirits of the dead hovered
round and instigated me to toil and revenge, I prepared for my journey.

I exchanged my land-sledge for one fashioned for the inequalities of
the Frozen Ocean, and purchasing a plentiful stock of provisions, I
departed from land.

I cannot guess how many days have passed since then, but I have endured
misery which nothing but the eternal sentiment of a just retribution
burning within my heart could have enabled me to support. Immense and
rugged mountains of ice often barred up my passage, and I often heard
the thunder of the ground sea, which threatened my destruction. But
again the frost came and made the paths of the sea secure.

By the quantity of provision which I had consumed, I should guess that
I had passed three weeks in this journey; and the continual protraction
of hope, returning back upon the heart, often wrung bitter drops of
despondency and grief from my eyes. Despair had indeed almost secured
her prey, and I should soon have sunk beneath this misery. Once, after
the poor animals that conveyed me had with incredible toil gained the
summit of a sloping ice mountain, and one, sinking under his fatigue,
died, I viewed the expanse before me with anguish, when suddenly my eye
caught a dark speck upon the dusky plain. I strained my sight to
discover what it could be and uttered a wild cry of ecstasy when I
distinguished a sledge and the distorted proportions of a well-known
form within. Oh! With what a burning gush did hope revisit my heart!
Warm tears filled my eyes, which I hastily wiped away, that they might
not intercept the view I had of the dæmon; but still my sight was
dimmed by the burning drops, until, giving way to the emotions that
oppressed me, I wept aloud.

But this was not the time for delay; I disencumbered the dogs of their
dead companion, gave them a plentiful portion of food, and after an
hour’s rest, which was absolutely necessary, and yet which was bitterly
irksome to me, I continued my route. The sledge was still visible, nor
did I again lose sight of it except at the moments when for a short
time some ice-rock concealed it with its intervening crags. I indeed
perceptibly gained on it, and when, after nearly two days’ journey, I
beheld my enemy at no more than a mile distant, my heart bounded within
me.

But now, when I appeared almost within grasp of my foe, my hopes were
suddenly extinguished, and I lost all trace of him more utterly than I had
ever done before. A ground sea was heard; the thunder of its progress, as
the waters rolled and swelled beneath me, became every moment more ominous
and terrific. I pressed on, but in vain. The wind arose; the sea roared;
and, as with the mighty shock of an earthquake, it split and cracked with a
tremendous and overwhelming sound. The work was soon finished; in a few
minutes a tumultuous sea rolled between me and my enemy, and I was left
drifting on a scattered piece of ice that was continually lessening and
thus preparing for me a hideous death.

In this manner many appalling hours passed; several of my dogs died, and I
myself was about to sink under the accumulation of distress when I saw your
vessel riding at anchor and holding forth to me hopes of succour and life.
I had no conception that vessels ever came so far north and was astounded
at the sight. I quickly destroyed part of my sledge to construct oars, and
by these means was enabled, with infinite fatigue, to move my ice raft in
the direction of your ship. I had determined, if you were going southwards,
still to trust myself to the mercy of the seas rather than abandon my
purpose. I hoped to induce you to grant me a boat with which I could pursue
my enemy. But your direction was northwards. You took me on board when my
vigour was exhausted, and I should soon have sunk under my multiplied
hardships into a death which I still dread, for my task is unfulfilled.

Oh! When will my guiding spirit, in conducting me to the dæmon, allow
me the rest I so much desire; or must I die, and he yet live? If I do,
swear to me, Walton, that he shall not escape, that you will seek him
and satisfy my vengeance in his death. And do I dare to ask of you to
undertake my pilgrimage, to endure the hardships that I have undergone?
No; I am not so selfish. Yet, when I am dead, if he should appear, if
the ministers of vengeance should conduct him to you, swear that he
shall not live—swear that he shall not triumph over my accumulated
woes and survive to add to the list of his dark crimes. He is eloquent
and persuasive, and once his words had even power over my heart; but
trust him not. His soul is as hellish as his form, full of treachery
and fiend-like malice. Hear him not; call on the names of William,
Justine, Clerval, Elizabeth, my father, and of the wretched Victor, and
thrust your sword into his heart. I will hover near and direct the
steel aright.

Walton, _in continuation._


August 26th, 17—.


You have read this strange and terrific story, Margaret; and do you not
feel your blood congeal with horror, like that which even now curdles
mine? Sometimes, seized with sudden agony, he could not continue his
tale; at others, his voice broken, yet piercing, uttered with
difficulty the words so replete with anguish. His fine and lovely eyes
were now lighted up with indignation, now subdued to downcast sorrow
and quenched in infinite wretchedness. Sometimes he commanded his
countenance and tones and related the most horrible incidents with a
tranquil voice, suppressing every mark of agitation; then, like a
volcano bursting forth, his face would suddenly change to an expression
of the wildest rage as he shrieked out imprecations on his persecutor.

His tale is connected and told with an appearance of the simplest truth,
yet I own to you that the letters of Felix and Safie, which he showed me,
and the apparition of the monster seen from our ship, brought to me a
greater conviction of the truth of his narrative than his asseverations,
however earnest and connected. Such a monster has, then, really existence!
I cannot doubt it, yet I am lost in surprise and admiration. Sometimes I
endeavoured to gain from Frankenstein the particulars of his
creature’s formation, but on this point he was impenetrable.

“Are you mad, my friend?” said he. “Or whither does your
senseless curiosity lead you? Would you also create for yourself and the
world a demoniacal enemy? Peace, peace! Learn my miseries and do not seek
to increase your own.”

Frankenstein discovered that I made notes concerning his history; he asked
to see them and then himself corrected and augmented them in many places,
but principally in giving the life and spirit to the conversations he held
with his enemy. “Since you have preserved my narration,” said
he, “I would not that a mutilated one should go down to
posterity.”

Thus has a week passed away, while I have listened to the strangest
tale that ever imagination formed. My thoughts and every feeling of my
soul have been drunk up by the interest for my guest which this tale
and his own elevated and gentle manners have created. I wish to soothe
him, yet can I counsel one so infinitely miserable, so destitute of
every hope of consolation, to live? Oh, no! The only joy that he can
now know will be when he composes his shattered spirit to peace and
death. Yet he enjoys one comfort, the offspring of solitude and
delirium; he believes that when in dreams he holds converse with his
friends and derives from that communion consolation for his miseries or
excitements to his vengeance, that they are not the creations of his
fancy, but the beings themselves who visit him from the regions of a
remote world. This faith gives a solemnity to his reveries that render
them to me almost as imposing and interesting as truth.

Our conversations are not always confined to his own history and
misfortunes. On every point of general literature he displays
unbounded knowledge and a quick and piercing apprehension. His
eloquence is forcible and touching; nor can I hear him, when he relates
a pathetic incident or endeavours to move the passions of pity or love,
without tears. What a glorious creature must he have been in the days
of his prosperity, when he is thus noble and godlike in ruin! He seems
to feel his own worth and the greatness of his fall.

“When younger,” said he, “I believed myself destined for
some great enterprise. My feelings are profound, but I possessed a coolness
of judgment that fitted me for illustrious achievements. This sentiment of
the worth of my nature supported me when others would have been oppressed,
for I deemed it criminal to throw away in useless grief those talents that
might be useful to my fellow creatures. When I reflected on the work I had
completed, no less a one than the creation of a sensitive and rational
animal, I could not rank myself with the herd of common projectors. But
this thought, which supported me in the commencement of my career, now
serves only to plunge me lower in the dust. All my speculations and hopes
are as nothing, and like the archangel who aspired to omnipotence, I am
chained in an eternal hell. My imagination was vivid, yet my powers of
analysis and application were intense; by the union of these qualities I
conceived the idea and executed the creation of a man. Even now I cannot
recollect without passion my reveries while the work was incomplete. I trod
heaven in my thoughts, now exulting in my powers, now burning with the idea
of their effects. From my infancy I was imbued with high hopes and a lofty
ambition; but how am I sunk! Oh! My friend, if you had known me as I once
was, you would not recognise me in this state of degradation. Despondency
rarely visited my heart; a high destiny seemed to bear me on, until I fell,
never, never again to rise.”

Must I then lose this admirable being? I have longed for a friend; I have
sought one who would sympathise with and love me. Behold, on these desert
seas I have found such a one, but I fear I have gained him only to know his
value and lose him. I would reconcile him to life, but he repulses the idea.

“I thank you, Walton,” he said, “for your kind intentions towards so
miserable a wretch; but when you speak of new ties and fresh
affections, think you that any can replace those who are gone? Can any
man be to me as Clerval was, or any woman another Elizabeth? Even
where the affections are not strongly moved by any superior excellence,
the companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our
minds which hardly any later friend can obtain. They know our
infantine dispositions, which, however they may be afterwards modified,
are never eradicated; and they can judge of our actions with more
certain conclusions as to the integrity of our motives. A sister or a
brother can never, unless indeed such symptoms have been shown early,
suspect the other of fraud or false dealing, when another friend,
however strongly he may be attached, may, in spite of himself, be
contemplated with suspicion. But I enjoyed friends, dear not only
through habit and association, but from their own merits; and wherever
I am, the soothing voice of my Elizabeth and the conversation of
Clerval will be ever whispered in my ear. They are dead, and but one
feeling in such a solitude can persuade me to preserve my life. If I
were engaged in any high undertaking or design, fraught with extensive
utility to my fellow creatures, then could I live to fulfil it. But
such is not my destiny; I must pursue and destroy the being to whom I
gave existence; then my lot on earth will be fulfilled and I may die.”

My beloved Sister,

September 2d.


I write to you, encompassed by peril and ignorant whether I am ever
doomed to see again dear England and the dearer friends that inhabit
it. I am surrounded by mountains of ice which admit of no escape and
threaten every moment to crush my vessel. The brave fellows whom I
have persuaded to be my companions look towards me for aid, but I have
none to bestow. There is something terribly appalling in our
situation, yet my courage and hopes do not desert me. Yet it is
terrible to reflect that the lives of all these men are endangered
through me. If we are lost, my mad schemes are the cause.

And what, Margaret, will be the state of your mind? You will not hear of my
destruction, and you will anxiously await my return. Years will pass, and
you will have visitings of despair and yet be tortured by hope. Oh! My
beloved sister, the sickening failing of your heart-felt expectations is,
in prospect, more terrible to me than my own death. But you have a husband
and lovely children; you may be happy. Heaven bless you and make you so!

My unfortunate guest regards me with the tenderest compassion. He
endeavours to fill me with hope and talks as if life were a possession
which he valued. He reminds me how often the same accidents have
happened to other navigators who have attempted this sea, and in spite
of myself, he fills me with cheerful auguries. Even the sailors feel
the power of his eloquence; when he speaks, they no longer despair; he
rouses their energies, and while they hear his voice they believe these
vast mountains of ice are mole-hills which will vanish before the
resolutions of man. These feelings are transitory; each day of
expectation delayed fills them with fear, and I almost dread a mutiny
caused by this despair.

September 5th.


A scene has just passed of such uncommon interest that, although it is
highly probable that these papers may never reach you, yet I cannot
forbear recording it.

We are still surrounded by mountains of ice, still in imminent danger
of being crushed in their conflict. The cold is excessive, and many of
my unfortunate comrades have already found a grave amidst this scene of
desolation. Frankenstein has daily declined in health; a feverish fire
still glimmers in his eyes, but he is exhausted, and when suddenly
roused to any exertion, he speedily sinks again into apparent
lifelessness.

I mentioned in my last letter the fears I entertained of a mutiny.
This morning, as I sat watching the wan countenance of my friend—his
eyes half closed and his limbs hanging listlessly—I was roused by half
a dozen of the sailors, who demanded admission into the cabin. They
entered, and their leader addressed me. He told me that he and his
companions had been chosen by the other sailors to come in deputation
to me to make me a requisition which, in justice, I could not refuse.
We were immured in ice and should probably never escape, but they
feared that if, as was possible, the ice should dissipate and a free
passage be opened, I should be rash enough to continue my voyage and
lead them into fresh dangers, after they might happily have surmounted
this. They insisted, therefore, that I should engage with a solemn
promise that if the vessel should be freed I would instantly direct my
course southwards.

This speech troubled me. I had not despaired, nor had I yet conceived
the idea of returning if set free. Yet could I, in justice, or even in
possibility, refuse this demand? I hesitated before I answered, when
Frankenstein, who had at first been silent, and indeed appeared hardly
to have force enough to attend, now roused himself; his eyes sparkled,
and his cheeks flushed with momentary vigour. Turning towards the men,
he said,

“What do you mean? What do you demand of your captain? Are you, then,
so easily turned from your design? Did you not call this a glorious
expedition? “And wherefore was it glorious? Not because the way was
smooth and placid as a southern sea, but because it was full of dangers and
terror, because at every new incident your fortitude was to be called forth
and your courage exhibited, because danger and death surrounded it, and
these you were to brave and overcome. For this was it a glorious, for this
was it an honourable undertaking. You were hereafter to be hailed as the
benefactors of your species, your names adored as belonging to brave men
who encountered death for honour and the benefit of mankind. And now,
behold, with the first imagination of danger, or, if you will, the first
mighty and terrific trial of your courage, you shrink away and are content
to be handed down as men who had not strength enough to endure cold and
peril; and so, poor souls, they were chilly and returned to their warm
firesides. Why, that requires not this preparation; ye need not have come
thus far and dragged your captain to the shame of a defeat merely to prove
yourselves cowards. Oh! Be men, or be more than men. Be steady to your
purposes and firm as a rock. This ice is not made of such stuff as your
hearts may be; it is mutable and cannot withstand you if you say that it
shall not. Do not return to your families with the stigma of disgrace
marked on your brows. Return as heroes who have fought and conquered and
who know not what it is to turn their backs on the foe.”

He spoke this with a voice so modulated to the different feelings expressed
in his speech, with an eye so full of lofty design and heroism, that can
you wonder that these men were moved? They looked at one another and were
unable to reply. I spoke; I told them to retire and consider of what had
been said, that I would not lead them farther north if they strenuously
desired the contrary, but that I hoped that, with reflection, their courage
would return.

They retired and I turned towards my friend, but he was sunk in languor and
almost deprived of life.

How all this will terminate, I know not, but I had rather die than
return shamefully, my purpose unfulfilled. Yet I fear such will be my
fate; the men, unsupported by ideas of glory and honour, can never
willingly continue to endure their present hardships.

September 7th.


The die is cast; I have consented to return if we are not destroyed.
Thus are my hopes blasted by cowardice and indecision; I come back
ignorant and disappointed. It requires more philosophy than I possess
to bear this injustice with patience.

September 12th.


It is past; I am returning to England. I have lost my hopes of utility
and glory; I have lost my friend. But I will endeavour to detail these
bitter circumstances to you, my dear sister; and while I am wafted
towards England and towards you, I will not despond.

September 9th, the ice began to move, and roarings like thunder were heard
at a distance as the islands split and cracked in every direction. We were
in the most imminent peril, but as we could only remain passive, my chief
attention was occupied by my unfortunate guest whose illness increased in
such a degree that he was entirely confined to his bed. The ice cracked
behind us and was driven with force towards the north; a breeze sprang from
the west, and on the 11th the passage towards the south became perfectly
free. When the sailors saw this and that their return to their native
country was apparently assured, a shout of tumultuous joy broke from them,
loud and long-continued. Frankenstein, who was dozing, awoke and asked the
cause of the tumult. “They shout,” I said, “because they
will soon return to England.”

“Do you, then, really return?”

“Alas! Yes; I cannot withstand their demands. I cannot lead them
unwillingly to danger, and I must return.”

“Do so, if you will; but I will not. You may give up your purpose, but
mine is assigned to me by Heaven, and I dare not. I am weak, but
surely the spirits who assist my vengeance will endow me with
sufficient strength.” Saying this, he endeavoured to spring from the
bed, but the exertion was too great for him; he fell back and fainted.

It was long before he was restored, and I often thought that life was
entirely extinct. At length he opened his eyes; he breathed with
difficulty and was unable to speak. The surgeon gave him a composing
draught and ordered us to leave him undisturbed. In the meantime he
told me that my friend had certainly not many hours to live.

His sentence was pronounced, and I could only grieve and be patient. I sat
by his bed, watching him; his eyes were closed, and I thought he slept; but
presently he called to me in a feeble voice, and bidding me come near,
said, “Alas! The strength I relied on is gone; I feel that I shall
soon die, and he, my enemy and persecutor, may still be in being. Think
not, Walton, that in the last moments of my existence I feel that burning
hatred and ardent desire of revenge I once expressed; but I feel myself
justified in desiring the death of my adversary. During these last days I
have been occupied in examining my past conduct; nor do I find it blamable.
In a fit of enthusiastic madness I created a rational creature and was
bound towards him to assure, as far as was in my power, his happiness and
well-being. This was my duty, but there was another still paramount to
that. My duties towards the beings of my own species had greater claims to
my attention because they included a greater proportion of happiness or
misery. Urged by this view, I refused, and I did right in refusing, to
create a companion for the first creature. He showed unparalleled malignity
and selfishness in evil; he destroyed my friends; he devoted to destruction
beings who possessed exquisite sensations, happiness, and wisdom; nor do I
know where this thirst for vengeance may end. Miserable himself that he may
render no other wretched, he ought to die. The task of his destruction was
mine, but I have failed. When actuated by selfish and vicious motives, I
asked you to undertake my unfinished work, and I renew this request now,
when I am only induced by reason and virtue.

“Yet I cannot ask you to renounce your country and friends to fulfil
this task; and now that you are returning to England, you will have
little chance of meeting with him. But the consideration of these
points, and the well balancing of what you may esteem your duties, I
leave to you; my judgment and ideas are already disturbed by the near
approach of death. I dare not ask you to do what I think right, for I
may still be misled by passion.

“That he should live to be an instrument of mischief disturbs me; in
other respects, this hour, when I momentarily expect my release, is the
only happy one which I have enjoyed for several years. The forms of
the beloved dead flit before me, and I hasten to their arms. Farewell,
Walton! Seek happiness in tranquillity and avoid ambition, even if it
be only the apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself in
science and discoveries. Yet why do I say this? I have myself been
blasted in these hopes, yet another may succeed.”

His voice became fainter as he spoke, and at length, exhausted by his
effort, he sank into silence. About half an hour afterwards he
attempted again to speak but was unable; he pressed my hand feebly, and
his eyes closed for ever, while the irradiation of a gentle smile passed
away from his lips.

Margaret, what comment can I make on the untimely extinction of this
glorious spirit? What can I say that will enable you to understand the
depth of my sorrow? All that I should express would be inadequate and
feeble. My tears flow; my mind is overshadowed by a cloud of
disappointment. But I journey towards England, and I may there find
consolation.

I am interrupted. What do these sounds portend? It is midnight; the
breeze blows fairly, and the watch on deck scarcely stir. Again there
is a sound as of a human voice, but hoarser; it comes from the cabin
where the remains of Frankenstein still lie. I must arise and examine.
Good night, my sister.

Great God! what a scene has just taken place! I am yet dizzy with the
remembrance of it. I hardly know whether I shall have the power to detail
it; yet the tale which I have recorded would be incomplete without this
final and wonderful catastrophe.

I entered the cabin where lay the remains of my ill-fated and admirable
friend. Over him hung a form which I cannot find words to
describe—gigantic in stature, yet uncouth and distorted in its
proportions. As he hung over the coffin, his face was concealed by long
locks of ragged hair; but one vast hand was extended, in colour and
apparent texture like that of a mummy. When he heard the sound of my
approach, he ceased to utter exclamations of grief and horror and sprung
towards the window. Never did I behold a vision so horrible as his face, of
such loathsome yet appalling hideousness. I shut my eyes involuntarily and
endeavoured to recollect what were my duties with regard to this destroyer.
I called on him to stay.

He paused, looking on me with wonder, and again turning towards the
lifeless form of his creator, he seemed to forget my presence, and
every feature and gesture seemed instigated by the wildest rage of some
uncontrollable passion.

“That is also my victim!” he exclaimed. “In his murder my
crimes are consummated; the miserable series of my being is wound to its
close! Oh, Frankenstein! Generous and self-devoted being! What does it
avail that I now ask thee to pardon me? I, who irretrievably destroyed thee
by destroying all thou lovedst. Alas! He is cold, he cannot answer
me.”

His voice seemed suffocated, and my first impulses, which had suggested to
me the duty of obeying the dying request of my friend in destroying his
enemy, were now suspended by a mixture of curiosity and compassion. I
approached this tremendous being; I dared not again raise my eyes to his
face, there was something so scaring and unearthly in his ugliness. I
attempted to speak, but the words died away on my lips. The monster
continued to utter wild and incoherent self-reproaches. At length I
gathered resolution to address him in a pause of the tempest of his passion.

“Your repentance,” I said, “is now superfluous. If you
had listened to the voice of conscience and heeded the stings of remorse
before you had urged your diabolical vengeance to this extremity,
Frankenstein would yet have lived.”

“And do you dream?” said the dæmon. “Do you think that I was then
dead to agony and remorse? He,” he continued, pointing to the corpse,
“he suffered not in the consummation of the deed. Oh! Not the
ten-thousandth portion of the anguish that was mine during the
lingering detail of its execution. A frightful selfishness hurried me
on, while my heart was poisoned with remorse. Think you that the
groans of Clerval were music to my ears? My heart was fashioned to be
susceptible of love and sympathy, and when wrenched by misery to vice
and hatred, it did not endure the violence of the change without
torture such as you cannot even imagine.

“After the murder of Clerval I returned to Switzerland, heart-broken
and overcome. I pitied Frankenstein; my pity amounted to horror; I
abhorred myself. But when I discovered that he, the author at once of
my existence and of its unspeakable torments, dared to hope for
happiness, that while he accumulated wretchedness and despair upon me
he sought his own enjoyment in feelings and passions from the
indulgence of which I was for ever barred, then impotent envy and bitter
indignation filled me with an insatiable thirst for vengeance. I
recollected my threat and resolved that it should be accomplished. I
knew that I was preparing for myself a deadly torture, but I was the
slave, not the master, of an impulse which I detested yet could not
disobey. Yet when she died! Nay, then I was not miserable. I had
cast off all feeling, subdued all anguish, to riot in the excess of my
despair. Evil thenceforth became my good. Urged thus far, I had no
choice but to adapt my nature to an element which I had willingly
chosen. The completion of my demoniacal design became an insatiable
passion. And now it is ended; there is my last victim!”

I was at first touched by the expressions of his misery; yet, when I called
to mind what Frankenstein had said of his powers of eloquence and
persuasion, and when I again cast my eyes on the lifeless form of my
friend, indignation was rekindled within me. “Wretch!” I said.
“It is well that you come here to whine over the desolation that you
have made. You throw a torch into a pile of buildings, and when they are
consumed, you sit among the ruins and lament the fall. Hypocritical fiend!
If he whom you mourn still lived, still would he be the object, again would
he become the prey, of your accursed vengeance. It is not pity that you
feel; you lament only because the victim of your malignity is withdrawn
from your power.”

“Oh, it is not thus—not thus,” interrupted the being.
“Yet such must be the impression conveyed to you by what appears to
be the purport of my actions. Yet I seek not a fellow feeling in my misery.
No sympathy may I ever find. When I first sought it, it was the love of
virtue, the feelings of happiness and affection with which my whole being
overflowed, that I wished to be participated. But now that virtue has
become to me a shadow, and that happiness and affection are turned into
bitter and loathing despair, in what should I seek for sympathy? I am
content to suffer alone while my sufferings shall endure; when I die, I am
well satisfied that abhorrence and opprobrium should load my memory. Once
my fancy was soothed with dreams of virtue, of fame, and of enjoyment. Once
I falsely hoped to meet with beings who, pardoning my outward form, would
love me for the excellent qualities which I was capable of unfolding. I was
nourished with high thoughts of honour and devotion. But now crime has
degraded me beneath the meanest animal. No guilt, no mischief, no
malignity, no misery, can be found comparable to mine. When I run over the
frightful catalogue of my sins, I cannot believe that I am the same
creature whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and transcendent
visions of the beauty and the majesty of goodness. But it is even so; the
fallen angel becomes a malignant devil. Yet even that enemy of God and man
had friends and associates in his desolation; I am alone.

“You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to have a knowledge of my
crimes and his misfortunes. But in the detail which he gave you of them
he could not sum up the hours and months of misery which I endured
wasting in impotent passions. For while I destroyed his hopes, I did
not satisfy my own desires. They were for ever ardent and craving; still
I desired love and fellowship, and I was still spurned. Was there no
injustice in this? Am I to be thought the only criminal, when all
humankind sinned against me? Why do you not hate Felix, who drove his
friend from his door with contumely? Why do you not execrate the rustic
who sought to destroy the saviour of his child? Nay, these are virtuous
and immaculate beings! I, the miserable and the abandoned, am an
abortion, to be spurned at, and kicked, and trampled on. Even now my
blood boils at the recollection of this injustice.

“But it is true that I am a wretch. I have murdered the lovely and
the helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they slept and grasped to
death his throat who never injured me or any other living thing. I have
devoted my creator, the select specimen of all that is worthy of love and
admiration among men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that
irremediable ruin. There he lies, white and cold in death. You hate me, but
your abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard myself. I look on the
hands which executed the deed; I think on the heart in which the
imagination of it was conceived and long for the moment when these hands
will meet my eyes, when that imagination will haunt my thoughts no more.

“Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief. My work
is nearly complete. Neither yours nor any man’s death is needed to
consummate the series of my being and accomplish that which must be done,
but it requires my own. Do not think that I shall be slow to perform this
sacrifice. I shall quit your vessel on the ice raft which brought me
thither and shall seek the most northern extremity of the globe; I shall
collect my funeral pile and consume to ashes this miserable frame, that its
remains may afford no light to any curious and unhallowed wretch who would
create such another as I have been. I shall die. I shall no longer feel the
agonies which now consume me or be the prey of feelings unsatisfied, yet
unquenched. He is dead who called me into being; and when I shall be no
more, the very remembrance of us both will speedily vanish. I shall no
longer see the sun or stars or feel the winds play on my cheeks. Light,
feeling, and sense will pass away; and in this condition must I find my
happiness. Some years ago, when the images which this world affords first
opened upon me, when I felt the cheering warmth of summer and heard the
rustling of the leaves and the warbling of the birds, and these were all to
me, I should have wept to die; now it is my only consolation. Polluted by
crimes and torn by the bitterest remorse, where can I find rest but in
death?

“Farewell! I leave you, and in you the last of humankind whom these
eyes will ever behold. Farewell, Frankenstein! If thou wert yet alive
and yet cherished a desire of revenge against me, it would be better
satiated in my life than in my destruction. But it was not so; thou
didst seek my extinction, that I might not cause greater wretchedness;
and if yet, in some mode unknown to me, thou hadst not ceased to think
and feel, thou wouldst not desire against me a vengeance greater than
that which I feel. Blasted as thou wert, my agony was still superior to
thine, for the bitter sting of remorse will not cease to rankle in my
wounds until death shall close them for ever.

“But soon,” he cried with sad and solemn enthusiasm, “I
shall die, and what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these burning
miseries will be extinct. I shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly and
exult in the agony of the torturing flames. The light of that conflagration
will fade away; my ashes will be swept into the sea by the winds. My spirit
will sleep in peace, or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus.
Farewell.”

He sprang from the cabin-window as he said this, upon the ice raft
which lay close to the vessel. He was soon borne away by the waves and
lost in darkness and distance.








The Picture of Dorian Gray

by Oscar Wilde


Contents

 THE PREFACE
 CHAPTER I.
 CHAPTER II.
 CHAPTER III.
 CHAPTER IV.
 CHAPTER V.
 CHAPTER VI.
 CHAPTER VII.
 CHAPTER VIII.
 CHAPTER IX.
 CHAPTER X.
 CHAPTER XI.
 CHAPTER XII.
 CHAPTER XIII.
 CHAPTER XIV.
 CHAPTER XV.
 CHAPTER XVI.
 CHAPTER XVII.
 CHAPTER XVIII.
 CHAPTER XIX.
 CHAPTER XX.




THE PREFACE


The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and
conceal the artist is art’s aim. The critic is he who can translate
into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful
things.

The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.
Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without
being charming. This is a fault.

Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the
cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom
beautiful things mean only beauty.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well
written, or badly written. That is all.

The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing
his own face in a glass.

The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban
not seeing his own face in a glass. The moral life of man forms part of
the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in
the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove
anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has
ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable
mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express
everything. Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an
art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. From the
point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the
musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor’s craft is the
type. All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the
surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their
peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.
Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new,
complex, and vital. When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with
himself. We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he
does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that
one admires it intensely.

All art is quite useless.

OSCAR WILDE




CHAPTER I.


The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light
summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through
the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate
perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.

From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was
lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry
Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured
blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to
bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then
the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long
tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window,
producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of
those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of
an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of
swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their
way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous
insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine,
seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London
was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.

In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the
full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty,
and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist
himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago
caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many
strange conjectures.

As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so
skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his
face, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and
closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought
to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he
might awake.

“It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done,” said
Lord Henry languidly. “You must certainly send it next year to the
Grosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have
gone there, there have been either so many people that I have not been
able to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that
I have not been able to see the people, which was worse. The Grosvenor
is really the only place.”

“I don’t think I shall send it anywhere,” he answered, tossing his head
back in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at
Oxford. “No, I won’t send it anywhere.”

Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement through
the thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorls
from his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette. “Not send it anywhere? My dear
fellow, why? Have you any reason? What odd chaps you painters are! You
do anything in the world to gain a reputation. As soon as you have one,
you seem to want to throw it away. It is silly of you, for there is
only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is
not being talked about. A portrait like this would set you far above
all the young men in England, and make the old men quite jealous, if
old men are ever capable of any emotion.”

“I know you will laugh at me,” he replied, “but I really can’t exhibit
it. I have put too much of myself into it.”

Lord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed.

“Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same.”

“Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didn’t know you
were so vain; and I really can’t see any resemblance between you, with
your rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young
Adonis, who looks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why,
my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you—well, of course you have an
intellectual expression and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends
where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode
of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one
sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something
horrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions.
How perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But
then in the Church they don’t think. A bishop keeps on saying at the
age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen,
and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful.
Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but
whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel quite sure of
that. He is some brainless beautiful creature who should be always here
in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in summer
when we want something to chill our intelligence. Don’t flatter
yourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him.”

“You don’t understand me, Harry,” answered the artist. “Of course I am
not like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to
look like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth.
There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction,
the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering
steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one’s fellows.
The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit
at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory,
they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all
should live—undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They
neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands.
Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are—my art,
whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray’s good looks—we shall all suffer
for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly.”

“Dorian Gray? Is that his name?” asked Lord Henry, walking across the
studio towards Basil Hallward.

“Yes, that is his name. I didn’t intend to tell it to you.”

“But why not?”

“Oh, I can’t explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their
names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown
to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life
mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if
one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my people where I
am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit,
I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into
one’s life. I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it?”

“Not at all,” answered Lord Henry, “not at all, my dear Basil. You seem
to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it
makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I
never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing.
When we meet—we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go
down to the Duke’s—we tell each other the most absurd stories with the
most serious faces. My wife is very good at it—much better, in fact,
than I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do. But
when she does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimes wish
she would; but she merely laughs at me.”

“I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry,” said Basil
Hallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. “I
believe that you are really a very good husband, but that you are
thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinary
fellow. You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing.
Your cynicism is simply a pose.”

“Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know,”
cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the
garden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that
stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over the
polished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous.

After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. “I am afraid I must be
going, Basil,” he murmured, “and before I go, I insist on your
answering a question I put to you some time ago.”

“What is that?” said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.

“You know quite well.”

“I do not, Harry.”

“Well, I will tell you what it is. I want you to explain to me why you
won’t exhibit Dorian Gray’s picture. I want the real reason.”

“I told you the real reason.”

“No, you did not. You said it was because there was too much of
yourself in it. Now, that is childish.”

“Harry,” said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, “every
portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not
of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is
not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on
the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit
this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of
my own soul.”

Lord Henry laughed. “And what is that?” he asked.

“I will tell you,” said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came
over his face.

“I am all expectation, Basil,” continued his companion, glancing at
him.

“Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry,” answered the painter;
“and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly
believe it.”

Lord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from
the grass and examined it. “I am quite sure I shall understand it,” he
replied, gazing intently at the little golden, white-feathered disk,
“and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it
is quite incredible.”

The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy
lilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the
languid air. A grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a
blue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze
wings. Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward’s heart
beating, and wondered what was coming.

“The story is simply this,” said the painter after some time. “Two
months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon’s. You know we poor
artists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to
remind the public that we are not savages. With an evening coat and a
white tie, as you told me once, anybody, even a stock-broker, can gain
a reputation for being civilized. Well, after I had been in the room
about ten minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tedious
academicians, I suddenly became conscious that some one was looking at
me. I turned half-way round and saw Dorian Gray for the first time.
When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation
of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with some
one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to
do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art
itself. I did not want any external influence in my life. You know
yourself, Harry, how independent I am by nature. I have always been my
own master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray.
Then—but I don’t know how to explain it to you. Something seemed to
tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had
a strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and
exquisite sorrows. I grew afraid and turned to quit the room. It was
not conscience that made me do so: it was a sort of cowardice. I take
no credit to myself for trying to escape.”

“Conscience and cowardice are really the same things, Basil. Conscience
is the trade-name of the firm. That is all.”

“I don’t believe that, Harry, and I don’t believe you do either.
However, whatever was my motive—and it may have been pride, for I used
to be very proud—I certainly struggled to the door. There, of course, I
stumbled against Lady Brandon. ‘You are not going to run away so soon,
Mr. Hallward?’ she screamed out. You know her curiously shrill voice?”

“Yes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty,” said Lord Henry,
pulling the daisy to bits with his long nervous fingers.

“I could not get rid of her. She brought me up to royalties, and people
with stars and garters, and elderly ladies with gigantic tiaras and
parrot noses. She spoke of me as her dearest friend. I had only met her
once before, but she took it into her head to lionize me. I believe
some picture of mine had made a great success at the time, at least had
been chattered about in the penny newspapers, which is the
nineteenth-century standard of immortality. Suddenly I found myself
face to face with the young man whose personality had so strangely
stirred me. We were quite close, almost touching. Our eyes met again.
It was reckless of me, but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him.
Perhaps it was not so reckless, after all. It was simply inevitable. We
would have spoken to each other without any introduction. I am sure of
that. Dorian told me so afterwards. He, too, felt that we were destined
to know each other.”

“And how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful young man?” asked his
companion. “I know she goes in for giving a rapid _précis_ of all her
guests. I remember her bringing me up to a truculent and red-faced old
gentleman covered all over with orders and ribbons, and hissing into my
ear, in a tragic whisper which must have been perfectly audible to
everybody in the room, the most astounding details. I simply fled. I
like to find out people for myself. But Lady Brandon treats her guests
exactly as an auctioneer treats his goods. She either explains them
entirely away, or tells one everything about them except what one wants
to know.”

“Poor Lady Brandon! You are hard on her, Harry!” said Hallward
listlessly.

“My dear fellow, she tried to found a _salon_, and only succeeded in
opening a restaurant. How could I admire her? But tell me, what did she
say about Mr. Dorian Gray?”

“Oh, something like, ‘Charming boy—poor dear mother and I absolutely
inseparable. Quite forget what he does—afraid he—doesn’t do
anything—oh, yes, plays the piano—or is it the violin, dear Mr. Gray?’
Neither of us could help laughing, and we became friends at once.”

“Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is far
the best ending for one,” said the young lord, plucking another daisy.

Hallward shook his head. “You don’t understand what friendship is,
Harry,” he murmured—“or what enmity is, for that matter. You like every
one; that is to say, you are indifferent to every one.”

“How horribly unjust of you!” cried Lord Henry, tilting his hat back
and looking up at the little clouds that, like ravelled skeins of
glossy white silk, were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the
summer sky. “Yes; horribly unjust of you. I make a great difference
between people. I choose my friends for their good looks, my
acquaintances for their good characters, and my enemies for their good
intellects. A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies. I
have not got one who is a fool. They are all men of some intellectual
power, and consequently they all appreciate me. Is that very vain of
me? I think it is rather vain.”

“I should think it was, Harry. But according to your category I must be
merely an acquaintance.”

“My dear old Basil, you are much more than an acquaintance.”

“And much less than a friend. A sort of brother, I suppose?”

“Oh, brothers! I don’t care for brothers. My elder brother won’t die,
and my younger brothers seem never to do anything else.”

“Harry!” exclaimed Hallward, frowning.

“My dear fellow, I am not quite serious. But I can’t help detesting my
relations. I suppose it comes from the fact that none of us can stand
other people having the same faults as ourselves. I quite sympathize
with the rage of the English democracy against what they call the vices
of the upper orders. The masses feel that drunkenness, stupidity, and
immorality should be their own special property, and that if any one of
us makes an ass of himself, he is poaching on their preserves. When
poor Southwark got into the divorce court, their indignation was quite
magnificent. And yet I don’t suppose that ten per cent of the
proletariat live correctly.”

“I don’t agree with a single word that you have said, and, what is
more, Harry, I feel sure you don’t either.”

Lord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard and tapped the toe of his
patent-leather boot with a tasselled ebony cane. “How English you are
Basil! That is the second time you have made that observation. If one
puts forward an idea to a true Englishman—always a rash thing to do—he
never dreams of considering whether the idea is right or wrong. The
only thing he considers of any importance is whether one believes it
oneself. Now, the value of an idea has nothing whatsoever to do with
the sincerity of the man who expresses it. Indeed, the probabilities
are that the more insincere the man is, the more purely intellectual
will the idea be, as in that case it will not be coloured by either his
wants, his desires, or his prejudices. However, I don’t propose to
discuss politics, sociology, or metaphysics with you. I like persons
better than principles, and I like persons with no principles better
than anything else in the world. Tell me more about Mr. Dorian Gray.
How often do you see him?”

“Every day. I couldn’t be happy if I didn’t see him every day. He is
absolutely necessary to me.”

“How extraordinary! I thought you would never care for anything but
your art.”

“He is all my art to me now,” said the painter gravely. “I sometimes
think, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the
world’s history. The first is the appearance of a new medium for art,
and the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also.
What the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of
Antinous was to late Greek sculpture, and the face of Dorian Gray will
some day be to me. It is not merely that I paint from him, draw from
him, sketch from him. Of course, I have done all that. But he is much
more to me than a model or a sitter. I won’t tell you that I am
dissatisfied with what I have done of him, or that his beauty is such
that art cannot express it. There is nothing that art cannot express,
and I know that the work I have done, since I met Dorian Gray, is good
work, is the best work of my life. But in some curious way—I wonder
will you understand me?—his personality has suggested to me an entirely
new manner in art, an entirely new mode of style. I see things
differently, I think of them differently. I can now recreate life in a
way that was hidden from me before. ‘A dream of form in days of
thought’—who is it who says that? I forget; but it is what Dorian Gray
has been to me. The merely visible presence of this lad—for he seems to
me little more than a lad, though he is really over twenty—his merely
visible presence—ah! I wonder can you realize all that that means?
Unconsciously he defines for me the lines of a fresh school, a school
that is to have in it all the passion of the romantic spirit, all the
perfection of the spirit that is Greek. The harmony of soul and
body—how much that is! We in our madness have separated the two, and
have invented a realism that is vulgar, an ideality that is void.
Harry! if you only knew what Dorian Gray is to me! You remember that
landscape of mine, for which Agnew offered me such a huge price but
which I would not part with? It is one of the best things I have ever
done. And why is it so? Because, while I was painting it, Dorian Gray
sat beside me. Some subtle influence passed from him to me, and for the
first time in my life I saw in the plain woodland the wonder I had
always looked for and always missed.”

“Basil, this is extraordinary! I must see Dorian Gray.”

Hallward got up from the seat and walked up and down the garden. After
some time he came back. “Harry,” he said, “Dorian Gray is to me simply
a motive in art. You might see nothing in him. I see everything in him.
He is never more present in my work than when no image of him is there.
He is a suggestion, as I have said, of a new manner. I find him in the
curves of certain lines, in the loveliness and subtleties of certain
colours. That is all.”

“Then why won’t you exhibit his portrait?” asked Lord Henry.

“Because, without intending it, I have put into it some expression of
all this curious artistic idolatry, of which, of course, I have never
cared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He shall never know
anything about it. But the world might guess it, and I will not bare my
soul to their shallow prying eyes. My heart shall never be put under
their microscope. There is too much of myself in the thing, Harry—too
much of myself!”

“Poets are not so scrupulous as you are. They know how useful passion
is for publication. Nowadays a broken heart will run to many editions.”

“I hate them for it,” cried Hallward. “An artist should create
beautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life into them. We
live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of
autobiography. We have lost the abstract sense of beauty. Some day I
will show the world what it is; and for that reason the world shall
never see my portrait of Dorian Gray.”

“I think you are wrong, Basil, but I won’t argue with you. It is only
the intellectually lost who ever argue. Tell me, is Dorian Gray very
fond of you?”

The painter considered for a few moments. “He likes me,” he answered
after a pause; “I know he likes me. Of course I flatter him dreadfully.
I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I shall
be sorry for having said. As a rule, he is charming to me, and we sit
in the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and then, however, he
is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me
pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to some
one who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of
decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer’s day.”

“Days in summer, Basil, are apt to linger,” murmured Lord Henry.
“Perhaps you will tire sooner than he will. It is a sad thing to think
of, but there is no doubt that genius lasts longer than beauty. That
accounts for the fact that we all take such pains to over-educate
ourselves. In the wild struggle for existence, we want to have
something that endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish and
facts, in the silly hope of keeping our place. The thoroughly
well-informed man—that is the modern ideal. And the mind of the
thoroughly well-informed man is a dreadful thing. It is like a
_bric-à-brac_ shop, all monsters and dust, with everything priced above
its proper value. I think you will tire first, all the same. Some day
you will look at your friend, and he will seem to you to be a little
out of drawing, or you won’t like his tone of colour, or something. You
will bitterly reproach him in your own heart, and seriously think that
he has behaved very badly to you. The next time he calls, you will be
perfectly cold and indifferent. It will be a great pity, for it will
alter you. What you have told me is quite a romance, a romance of art
one might call it, and the worst of having a romance of any kind is
that it leaves one so unromantic.”

“Harry, don’t talk like that. As long as I live, the personality of
Dorian Gray will dominate me. You can’t feel what I feel. You change
too often.”

“Ah, my dear Basil, that is exactly why I can feel it. Those who are
faithful know only the trivial side of love: it is the faithless who
know love’s tragedies.” And Lord Henry struck a light on a dainty
silver case and began to smoke a cigarette with a self-conscious and
satisfied air, as if he had summed up the world in a phrase. There was
a rustle of chirruping sparrows in the green lacquer leaves of the ivy,
and the blue cloud-shadows chased themselves across the grass like
swallows. How pleasant it was in the garden! And how delightful other
people’s emotions were!—much more delightful than their ideas, it
seemed to him. One’s own soul, and the passions of one’s friends—those
were the fascinating things in life. He pictured to himself with silent
amusement the tedious luncheon that he had missed by staying so long
with Basil Hallward. Had he gone to his aunt’s, he would have been sure
to have met Lord Goodbody there, and the whole conversation would have
been about the feeding of the poor and the necessity for model
lodging-houses. Each class would have preached the importance of those
virtues, for whose exercise there was no necessity in their own lives.
The rich would have spoken on the value of thrift, and the idle grown
eloquent over the dignity of labour. It was charming to have escaped
all that! As he thought of his aunt, an idea seemed to strike him. He
turned to Hallward and said, “My dear fellow, I have just remembered.”

“Remembered what, Harry?”

“Where I heard the name of Dorian Gray.”

“Where was it?” asked Hallward, with a slight frown.

“Don’t look so angry, Basil. It was at my aunt, Lady Agatha’s. She told
me she had discovered a wonderful young man who was going to help her
in the East End, and that his name was Dorian Gray. I am bound to state
that she never told me he was good-looking. Women have no appreciation
of good looks; at least, good women have not. She said that he was very
earnest and had a beautiful nature. I at once pictured to myself a
creature with spectacles and lank hair, horribly freckled, and tramping
about on huge feet. I wish I had known it was your friend.”

“I am very glad you didn’t, Harry.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want you to meet him.”

“You don’t want me to meet him?”

“No.”

“Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir,” said the butler, coming into
the garden.

“You must introduce me now,” cried Lord Henry, laughing.

The painter turned to his servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight.
“Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker: I shall be in in a few moments.” The man
bowed and went up the walk.

Then he looked at Lord Henry. “Dorian Gray is my dearest friend,” he
said. “He has a simple and a beautiful nature. Your aunt was quite
right in what she said of him. Don’t spoil him. Don’t try to influence
him. Your influence would be bad. The world is wide, and has many
marvellous people in it. Don’t take away from me the one person who
gives to my art whatever charm it possesses: my life as an artist
depends on him. Mind, Harry, I trust you.” He spoke very slowly, and
the words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will.

“What nonsense you talk!” said Lord Henry, smiling, and taking Hallward
by the arm, he almost led him into the house.




CHAPTER II.


As they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano, with
his back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of Schumann’s
“Forest Scenes.” “You must lend me these, Basil,” he cried. “I want to
learn them. They are perfectly charming.”

“That entirely depends on how you sit to-day, Dorian.”

“Oh, I am tired of sitting, and I don’t want a life-sized portrait of
myself,” answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool in a
wilful, petulant manner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint
blush coloured his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. “I beg your
pardon, Basil, but I didn’t know you had any one with you.”

“This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I
have just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you
have spoiled everything.”

“You have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray,” said Lord
Henry, stepping forward and extending his hand. “My aunt has often
spoken to me about you. You are one of her favourites, and, I am
afraid, one of her victims also.”

“I am in Lady Agatha’s black books at present,” answered Dorian with a
funny look of penitence. “I promised to go to a club in Whitechapel
with her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to
have played a duet together—three duets, I believe. I don’t know what
she will say to me. I am far too frightened to call.”

“Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you.
And I don’t think it really matters about your not being there. The
audience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to
the piano, she makes quite enough noise for two people.”

“That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me,” answered Dorian,
laughing.

Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome,
with his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp
gold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at
once. All the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth’s
passionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the
world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him.

“You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray—far too
charming.” And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan and opened
his cigarette-case.

The painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushes
ready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry’s last
remark, he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said,
“Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it
awfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?”

Lord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray. “Am I to go, Mr. Gray?” he
asked.

“Oh, please don’t, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky
moods, and I can’t bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell
me why I should not go in for philanthropy.”

“I don’t know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. It is so tedious a
subject that one would have to talk seriously about it. But I certainly
shall not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You don’t
really mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you liked your
sitters to have some one to chat to.”

Hallward bit his lip. “If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay.
Dorian’s whims are laws to everybody, except himself.”

Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. “You are very pressing, Basil,
but I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the
Orleans. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon
Street. I am nearly always at home at five o’clock. Write to me when
you are coming. I should be sorry to miss you.”

“Basil,” cried Dorian Gray, “if Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go,
too. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is
horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask
him to stay. I insist upon it.”

“Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me,” said Hallward,
gazing intently at his picture. “It is quite true, I never talk when I
am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious
for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay.”

“But what about my man at the Orleans?”

The painter laughed. “I don’t think there will be any difficulty about
that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform,
and don’t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry
says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single
exception of myself.”

Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek
martyr, and made a little _moue_ of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom
he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a
delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few
moments he said to him, “Have you really a very bad influence, Lord
Henry? As bad as Basil says?”

“There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is
immoral—immoral from the scientific point of view.”

“Why?”

“Because to influence a person is to give him one’s own soul. He does
not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His
virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as
sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else’s music, an
actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is
self-development. To realize one’s nature perfectly—that is what each
of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have
forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one’s
self. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungry and clothe
the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone
out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society,
which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of
religion—these are the two things that govern us. And yet—”

“Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good
boy,” said the painter, deep in his work and conscious only that a look
had come into the lad’s face that he had never seen there before.

“And yet,” continued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with
that graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of
him, and that he had even in his Eton days, “I believe that if one man
were to live out his life fully and completely, were to give form to
every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream—I
believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we
would forget all the maladies of mediævalism, and return to the
Hellenic ideal—to something finer, richer than the Hellenic ideal, it
may be. But the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. The
mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial
that mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse
that we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us. The body
sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of
purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure,
or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is
to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for
the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its
monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that
the great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the
brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place
also. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your
rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid,
thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping
dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame—”

“Stop!” faltered Dorian Gray, “stop! you bewilder me. I don’t know what
to say. There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Don’t speak.
Let me think. Or, rather, let me try not to think.”

For nearly ten minutes he stood there, motionless, with parted lips and
eyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh
influences were at work within him. Yet they seemed to him to have come
really from himself. The few words that Basil’s friend had said to
him—words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in
them—had touched some secret chord that had never been touched before,
but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses.

Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But
music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather another
chaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! How terrible they
were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them.
And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! They seemed to be able
to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their
own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything
so real as words?

Yes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood.
He understood them now. Life suddenly became fiery-coloured to him. It
seemed to him that he had been walking in fire. Why had he not known
it?

With his subtle smile, Lord Henry watched him. He knew the precise
psychological moment when to say nothing. He felt intensely interested.
He was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced,
and, remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, a book
which had revealed to him much that he had not known before, he
wondered whether Dorian Gray was passing through a similar experience.
He had merely shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit the mark? How
fascinating the lad was!

Hallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that had
the true refinement and perfect delicacy that in art, at any rate comes
only from strength. He was unconscious of the silence.

“Basil, I am tired of standing,” cried Dorian Gray suddenly. “I must go
out and sit in the garden. The air is stifling here.”

“My dear fellow, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I can’t think of
anything else. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still. And
I have caught the effect I wanted—the half-parted lips and the bright
look in the eyes. I don’t know what Harry has been saying to you, but
he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. I suppose
he has been paying you compliments. You mustn’t believe a word that he
says.”

“He has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is the
reason that I don’t believe anything he has told me.”

“You know you believe it all,” said Lord Henry, looking at him with his
dreamy languorous eyes. “I will go out to the garden with you. It is
horribly hot in the studio. Basil, let us have something iced to drink,
something with strawberries in it.”

“Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will
tell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so I
will join you later on. Don’t keep Dorian too long. I have never been
in better form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my
masterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands.”

Lord Henry went out to the garden and found Dorian Gray burying his
face in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their
perfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him and put his hand
upon his shoulder. “You are quite right to do that,” he murmured.
“Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the
senses but the soul.”

The lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had
tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There
was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are
suddenly awakened. His finely chiselled nostrils quivered, and some
hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling.

“Yes,” continued Lord Henry, “that is one of the great secrets of
life—to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means
of the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think
you know, just as you know less than you want to know.”

Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking
the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic,
olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was
something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His
cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved,
as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own.
But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been
left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil
Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered
him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to
have disclosed to him life’s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be
afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be
frightened.

“Let us go and sit in the shade,” said Lord Henry. “Parker has brought
out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will be
quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must
not allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming.”

“What can it matter?” cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down on
the seat at the end of the garden.

“It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray.”

“Why?”

“Because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing
worth having.”

“I don’t feel that, Lord Henry.”

“No, you don’t feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and
ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion
branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will
feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it
always be so? ... You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray.
Don’t frown. You have. And beauty is a form of genius—is higher,
indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great
facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in
dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be
questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of
those who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won’t
smile.... People say sometimes that beauty is only superficial. That
may be so, but at least it is not so superficial as thought is. To me,
beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not
judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not
the invisible.... Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. But
what the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in
which to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your
beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there
are no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself with those
mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than
defeats. Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something
dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your
roses. You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You
will suffer horribly.... Ah! realize your youth while you have it.
Don’t squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious, trying
to improve the hopeless failure, or giving away your life to the
ignorant, the common, and the vulgar. These are the sickly aims, the
false ideals, of our age. Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you!
Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations.
Be afraid of nothing.... A new Hedonism—that is what our century wants.
You might be its visible symbol. With your personality there is nothing
you could not do. The world belongs to you for a season.... The moment
I met you I saw that you were quite unconscious of what you really are,
of what you really might be. There was so much in you that charmed me
that I felt I must tell you something about yourself. I thought how
tragic it would be if you were wasted. For there is such a little time
that your youth will last—such a little time. The common hill-flowers
wither, but they blossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next
June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the
clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will hold
its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy
that beats in us at twenty becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses
rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the
passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite
temptations that we had not the courage to yield to. Youth! Youth!
There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!”

Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac fell
from his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it for
a moment. Then it began to scramble all over the oval stellated globe
of the tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest in
trivial things that we try to develop when things of high import make
us afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion for which we
cannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays
sudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield. After a time the
bee flew away. He saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian
convolvulus. The flower seemed to quiver, and then swayed gently to and
fro.

Suddenly the painter appeared at the door of the studio and made
staccato signs for them to come in. They turned to each other and
smiled.

“I am waiting,” he cried. “Do come in. The light is quite perfect, and
you can bring your drinks.”

They rose up and sauntered down the walk together. Two green-and-white
butterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the corner of
the garden a thrush began to sing.

“You are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray,” said Lord Henry, looking at
him.

“Yes, I am glad now. I wonder shall I always be glad?”

“Always! That is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it.
Women are so fond of using it. They spoil every romance by trying to
make it last for ever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only
difference between a caprice and a lifelong passion is that the caprice
lasts a little longer.”

As they entered the studio, Dorian Gray put his hand upon Lord Henry’s
arm. “In that case, let our friendship be a caprice,” he murmured,
flushing at his own boldness, then stepped up on the platform and
resumed his pose.

Lord Henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair and watched him.
The sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that
broke the stillness, except when, now and then, Hallward stepped back
to look at his work from a distance. In the slanting beams that
streamed through the open doorway the dust danced and was golden. The
heavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything.

After about a quarter of an hour Hallward stopped painting, looked for
a long time at Dorian Gray, and then for a long time at the picture,
biting the end of one of his huge brushes and frowning. “It is quite
finished,” he cried at last, and stooping down he wrote his name in
long vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas.

Lord Henry came over and examined the picture. It was certainly a
wonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well.

“My dear fellow, I congratulate you most warmly,” he said. “It is the
finest portrait of modern times. Mr. Gray, come over and look at
yourself.”

The lad started, as if awakened from some dream.

“Is it really finished?” he murmured, stepping down from the platform.

“Quite finished,” said the painter. “And you have sat splendidly
to-day. I am awfully obliged to you.”

“That is entirely due to me,” broke in Lord Henry. “Isn’t it, Mr.
Gray?”

Dorian made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of his picture
and turned towards it. When he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks
flushed for a moment with pleasure. A look of joy came into his eyes,
as if he had recognized himself for the first time. He stood there
motionless and in wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward was speaking to
him, but not catching the meaning of his words. The sense of his own
beauty came on him like a revelation. He had never felt it before.
Basil Hallward’s compliments had seemed to him to be merely the
charming exaggeration of friendship. He had listened to them, laughed
at them, forgotten them. They had not influenced his nature. Then had
come Lord Henry Wotton with his strange panegyric on youth, his
terrible warning of its brevity. That had stirred him at the time, and
now, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full
reality of the description flashed across him. Yes, there would be a
day when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and
colourless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. The scarlet
would pass away from his lips and the gold steal from his hair. The
life that was to make his soul would mar his body. He would become
dreadful, hideous, and uncouth.

As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through him like a
knife and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. His eyes
deepened into amethyst, and across them came a mist of tears. He felt
as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart.

“Don’t you like it?” cried Hallward at last, stung a little by the
lad’s silence, not understanding what it meant.

“Of course he likes it,” said Lord Henry. “Who wouldn’t like it? It is
one of the greatest things in modern art. I will give you anything you
like to ask for it. I must have it.”

“It is not my property, Harry.”

“Whose property is it?”

“Dorian’s, of course,” answered the painter.

“He is a very lucky fellow.”

“How sad it is!” murmured Dorian Gray with his eyes still fixed upon
his own portrait. “How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and
dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be
older than this particular day of June.... If it were only the other
way! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was
to grow old! For that—for that—I would give everything! Yes, there is
nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for
that!”

“You would hardly care for such an arrangement, Basil,” cried Lord
Henry, laughing. “It would be rather hard lines on your work.”

“I should object very strongly, Harry,” said Hallward.

Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. “I believe you would, Basil. You
like your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a
green bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say.”

The painter stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak like
that. What had happened? He seemed quite angry. His face was flushed
and his cheeks burning.

“Yes,” he continued, “I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your
silver Faun. You will like them always. How long will you like me? Till
I have my first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when one loses
one’s good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything. Your
picture has taught me that. Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right. Youth
is the only thing worth having. When I find that I am growing old, I
shall kill myself.”

Hallward turned pale and caught his hand. “Dorian! Dorian!” he cried,
“don’t talk like that. I have never had such a friend as you, and I
shall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things,
are you?—you who are finer than any of them!”

“I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of
the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must
lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me and gives
something to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture
could change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint
it? It will mock me some day—mock me horribly!” The hot tears welled
into his eyes; he tore his hand away and, flinging himself on the
divan, he buried his face in the cushions, as though he was praying.

“This is your doing, Harry,” said the painter bitterly.

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “It is the real Dorian Gray—that is
all.”

“It is not.”

“If it is not, what have I to do with it?”

“You should have gone away when I asked you,” he muttered.

“I stayed when you asked me,” was Lord Henry’s answer.

“Harry, I can’t quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between
you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever
done, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and colour? I will
not let it come across our three lives and mar them.”

Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid
face and tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked over to the deal
painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What was
he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin
tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long
palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at
last. He was going to rip up the canvas.

With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to
Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of
the studio. “Don’t, Basil, don’t!” he cried. “It would be murder!”

“I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian,” said the painter
coldly when he had recovered from his surprise. “I never thought you
would.”

“Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I
feel that.”

“Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and
sent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself.” And he walked
across the room and rang the bell for tea. “You will have tea, of
course, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to such simple
pleasures?”

“I adore simple pleasures,” said Lord Henry. “They are the last refuge
of the complex. But I don’t like scenes, except on the stage. What
absurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as
a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man
is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after
all—though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You
had much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn’t really
want it, and I really do.”

“If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I shall never forgive you!”
cried Dorian Gray; “and I don’t allow people to call me a silly boy.”

“You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it
existed.”

“And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you
don’t really object to being reminded that you are extremely young.”

“I should have objected very strongly this morning, Lord Henry.”

“Ah! this morning! You have lived since then.”

There came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a laden
tea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a
rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn.
Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray
went over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to
the table and examined what was under the covers.

“Let us go to the theatre to-night,” said Lord Henry. “There is sure to
be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White’s, but it
is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire to say that I am
ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent
engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have
all the surprise of candour.”

“It is such a bore putting on one’s dress-clothes,” muttered Hallward.
“And, when one has them on, they are so horrid.”

“Yes,” answered Lord Henry dreamily, “the costume of the nineteenth
century is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only
real colour-element left in modern life.”

“You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry.”

“Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one
in the picture?”

“Before either.”

“I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry,” said the
lad.

“Then you shall come; and you will come, too, Basil, won’t you?”

“I can’t, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do.”

“Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray.”

“I should like that awfully.”

The painter bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture.
“I shall stay with the real Dorian,” he said, sadly.

“Is it the real Dorian?” cried the original of the portrait, strolling
across to him. “Am I really like that?”

“Yes; you are just like that.”

“How wonderful, Basil!”

“At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter,”
sighed Hallward. “That is something.”

“What a fuss people make about fidelity!” exclaimed Lord Henry. “Why,
even in love it is purely a question for physiology. It has nothing to
do with our own will. Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old
men want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say.”

“Don’t go to the theatre to-night, Dorian,” said Hallward. “Stop and
dine with me.”

“I can’t, Basil.”

“Why?”

“Because I have promised Lord Henry Wotton to go with him.”

“He won’t like you the better for keeping your promises. He always
breaks his own. I beg you not to go.”

Dorian Gray laughed and shook his head.

“I entreat you.”

The lad hesitated, and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching them
from the tea-table with an amused smile.

“I must go, Basil,” he answered.

“Very well,” said Hallward, and he went over and laid down his cup on
the tray. “It is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had better
lose no time. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, Dorian. Come and see me soon.
Come to-morrow.”

“Certainly.”

“You won’t forget?”

“No, of course not,” cried Dorian.

“And ... Harry!”

“Yes, Basil?”

“Remember what I asked you, when we were in the garden this morning.”

“I have forgotten it.”

“I trust you.”

“I wish I could trust myself,” said Lord Henry, laughing. “Come, Mr.
Gray, my hansom is outside, and I can drop you at your own place.
Good-bye, Basil. It has been a most interesting afternoon.”

As the door closed behind them, the painter flung himself down on a
sofa, and a look of pain came into his face.




CHAPTER III.


At half-past twelve next day Lord Henry Wotton strolled from Curzon
Street over to the Albany to call on his uncle, Lord Fermor, a genial
if somewhat rough-mannered old bachelor, whom the outside world called
selfish because it derived no particular benefit from him, but who was
considered generous by Society as he fed the people who amused him. His
father had been our ambassador at Madrid when Isabella was young and
Prim unthought of, but had retired from the diplomatic service in a
capricious moment of annoyance on not being offered the Embassy at
Paris, a post to which he considered that he was fully entitled by
reason of his birth, his indolence, the good English of his dispatches,
and his inordinate passion for pleasure. The son, who had been his
father’s secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhat
foolishly as was thought at the time, and on succeeding some months
later to the title, had set himself to the serious study of the great
aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. He had two large town
houses, but preferred to live in chambers as it was less trouble, and
took most of his meals at his club. He paid some attention to the
management of his collieries in the Midland counties, excusing himself
for this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of
having coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of
burning wood on his own hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except when
the Tories were in office, during which period he roundly abused them
for being a pack of Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, who bullied
him, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn.
Only England could have produced him, and he always said that the
country was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but
there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices.

When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough
shooting-coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over _The Times_. “Well,
Harry,” said the old gentleman, “what brings you out so early? I
thought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till
five.”

“Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get
something out of you.”

“Money, I suppose,” said Lord Fermor, making a wry face. “Well, sit
down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that
money is everything.”

“Yes,” murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; “and
when they grow older they know it. But I don’t want money. It is only
people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay
mine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly
upon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor’s tradesmen, and
consequently they never bother me. What I want is information: not
useful information, of course; useless information.”

“Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry,
although those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense. When I was in
the Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in
now by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure
humbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite
enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for
him.”

“Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue Books, Uncle George,” said
Lord Henry languidly.

“Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?” asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy
white eyebrows.

“That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I know who
he is. He is the last Lord Kelso’s grandson. His mother was a Devereux,
Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about his mother. What
was she like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearly everybody in
your time, so you might have known her. I am very much interested in
Mr. Gray at present. I have only just met him.”

“Kelso’s grandson!” echoed the old gentleman. “Kelso’s grandson! ... Of
course.... I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at her
christening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret
Devereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless
young fellow—a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or
something of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if it
happened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few
months after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said
Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his
son-in-law in public—paid him, sir, to do it, paid him—and that the
fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing was hushed
up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time
afterwards. He brought his daughter back with him, I was told, and she
never spoke to him again. Oh, yes; it was a bad business. The girl
died, too, died within a year. So she left a son, did she? I had
forgotten that. What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother, he
must be a good-looking chap.”

“He is very good-looking,” assented Lord Henry.

“I hope he will fall into proper hands,” continued the old man. “He
should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing
by him. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came to her,
through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him a
mean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I
was ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble
who was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They made
quite a story of it. I didn’t dare show my face at Court for a month. I
hope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies.”

“I don’t know,” answered Lord Henry. “I fancy that the boy will be well
off. He is not of age yet. He has Selby, I know. He told me so. And ...
his mother was very beautiful?”

“Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw,
Harry. What on earth induced her to behave as she did, I never could
understand. She could have married anybody she chose. Carlington was
mad after her. She was romantic, though. All the women of that family
were. The men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful.
Carlington went on his knees to her. Told me so himself. She laughed at
him, and there wasn’t a girl in London at the time who wasn’t after
him. And by the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what is this
humbug your father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an
American? Ain’t English girls good enough for him?”

“It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George.”

“I’ll back English women against the world, Harry,” said Lord Fermor,
striking the table with his fist.

“The betting is on the Americans.”

“They don’t last, I am told,” muttered his uncle.

“A long engagement exhausts them, but they are capital at a
steeplechase. They take things flying. I don’t think Dartmoor has a
chance.”

“Who are her people?” grumbled the old gentleman. “Has she got any?”

Lord Henry shook his head. “American girls are as clever at concealing
their parents, as English women are at concealing their past,” he said,
rising to go.

“They are pork-packers, I suppose?”

“I hope so, Uncle George, for Dartmoor’s sake. I am told that
pork-packing is the most lucrative profession in America, after
politics.”

“Is she pretty?”

“She behaves as if she was beautiful. Most American women do. It is the
secret of their charm.”

“Why can’t these American women stay in their own country? They are
always telling us that it is the paradise for women.”

“It is. That is the reason why, like Eve, they are so excessively
anxious to get out of it,” said Lord Henry. “Good-bye, Uncle George. I
shall be late for lunch, if I stop any longer. Thanks for giving me the
information I wanted. I always like to know everything about my new
friends, and nothing about my old ones.”

“Where are you lunching, Harry?”

“At Aunt Agatha’s. I have asked myself and Mr. Gray. He is her latest
_protégé_.”

“Humph! tell your Aunt Agatha, Harry, not to bother me any more with
her charity appeals. I am sick of them. Why, the good woman thinks that
I have nothing to do but to write cheques for her silly fads.”

“All right, Uncle George, I’ll tell her, but it won’t have any effect.
Philanthropic people lose all sense of humanity. It is their
distinguishing characteristic.”

The old gentleman growled approvingly and rang the bell for his
servant. Lord Henry passed up the low arcade into Burlington Street and
turned his steps in the direction of Berkeley Square.

So that was the story of Dorian Gray’s parentage. Crudely as it had
been told to him, it had yet stirred him by its suggestion of a
strange, almost modern romance. A beautiful woman risking everything
for a mad passion. A few wild weeks of happiness cut short by a
hideous, treacherous crime. Months of voiceless agony, and then a child
born in pain. The mother snatched away by death, the boy left to
solitude and the tyranny of an old and loveless man. Yes; it was an
interesting background. It posed the lad, made him more perfect, as it
were. Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something
tragic. Worlds had to be in travail, that the meanest flower might
blow.... And how charming he had been at dinner the night before, as
with startled eyes and lips parted in frightened pleasure he had sat
opposite to him at the club, the red candleshades staining to a richer
rose the wakening wonder of his face. Talking to him was like playing
upon an exquisite violin. He answered to every touch and thrill of the
bow.... There was something terribly enthralling in the exercise of
influence. No other activity was like it. To project one’s soul into
some gracious form, and let it tarry there for a moment; to hear one’s
own intellectual views echoed back to one with all the added music of
passion and youth; to convey one’s temperament into another as though
it were a subtle fluid or a strange perfume: there was a real joy in
that—perhaps the most satisfying joy left to us in an age so limited
and vulgar as our own, an age grossly carnal in its pleasures, and
grossly common in its aims.... He was a marvellous type, too, this lad,
whom by so curious a chance he had met in Basil’s studio, or could be
fashioned into a marvellous type, at any rate. Grace was his, and the
white purity of boyhood, and beauty such as old Greek marbles kept for
us. There was nothing that one could not do with him. He could be made
a Titan or a toy. What a pity it was that such beauty was destined to
fade! ... And Basil? From a psychological point of view, how
interesting he was! The new manner in art, the fresh mode of looking at
life, suggested so strangely by the merely visible presence of one who
was unconscious of it all; the silent spirit that dwelt in dim
woodland, and walked unseen in open field, suddenly showing herself,
Dryadlike and not afraid, because in his soul who sought for her there
had been wakened that wonderful vision to which alone are wonderful
things revealed; the mere shapes and patterns of things becoming, as it
were, refined, and gaining a kind of symbolical value, as though they
were themselves patterns of some other and more perfect form whose
shadow they made real: how strange it all was! He remembered something
like it in history. Was it not Plato, that artist in thought, who had
first analyzed it? Was it not Buonarotti who had carved it in the
coloured marbles of a sonnet-sequence? But in our own century it was
strange.... Yes; he would try to be to Dorian Gray what, without
knowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned the wonderful
portrait. He would seek to dominate him—had already, indeed, half done
so. He would make that wonderful spirit his own. There was something
fascinating in this son of love and death.

Suddenly he stopped and glanced up at the houses. He found that he had
passed his aunt’s some distance, and, smiling to himself, turned back.
When he entered the somewhat sombre hall, the butler told him that they
had gone in to lunch. He gave one of the footmen his hat and stick and
passed into the dining-room.

“Late as usual, Harry,” cried his aunt, shaking her head at him.

He invented a facile excuse, and having taken the vacant seat next to
her, looked round to see who was there. Dorian bowed to him shyly from
the end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek.
Opposite was the Duchess of Harley, a lady of admirable good-nature and
good temper, much liked by every one who knew her, and of those ample
architectural proportions that in women who are not duchesses are
described by contemporary historians as stoutness. Next to her sat, on
her right, Sir Thomas Burdon, a Radical member of Parliament, who
followed his leader in public life and in private life followed the
best cooks, dining with the Tories and thinking with the Liberals, in
accordance with a wise and well-known rule. The post on her left was
occupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman of considerable
charm and culture, who had fallen, however, into bad habits of silence,
having, as he explained once to Lady Agatha, said everything that he
had to say before he was thirty. His own neighbour was Mrs. Vandeleur,
one of his aunt’s oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but so
dreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book.
Fortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most
intelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statement
in the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely
earnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once
himself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of
them ever quite escape.

“We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry,” cried the duchess,
nodding pleasantly to him across the table. “Do you think he will
really marry this fascinating young person?”

“I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess.”

“How dreadful!” exclaimed Lady Agatha. “Really, some one should
interfere.”

“I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American
dry-goods store,” said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious.

“My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas.”

“Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods?” asked the duchess, raising
her large hands in wonder and accentuating the verb.

“American novels,” answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail.

The duchess looked puzzled.

“Don’t mind him, my dear,” whispered Lady Agatha. “He never means
anything that he says.”

“When America was discovered,” said the Radical member—and he began to
give some wearisome facts. Like all people who try to exhaust a
subject, he exhausted his listeners. The duchess sighed and exercised
her privilege of interruption. “I wish to goodness it never had been
discovered at all!” she exclaimed. “Really, our girls have no chance
nowadays. It is most unfair.”

“Perhaps, after all, America never has been discovered,” said Mr.
Erskine; “I myself would say that it had merely been detected.”

“Oh! but I have seen specimens of the inhabitants,” answered the
duchess vaguely. “I must confess that most of them are extremely
pretty. And they dress well, too. They get all their dresses in Paris.
I wish I could afford to do the same.”

“They say that when good Americans die they go to Paris,” chuckled Sir
Thomas, who had a large wardrobe of Humour’s cast-off clothes.

“Really! And where do bad Americans go to when they die?” inquired the
duchess.

“They go to America,” murmured Lord Henry.

Sir Thomas frowned. “I am afraid that your nephew is prejudiced against
that great country,” he said to Lady Agatha. “I have travelled all over
it in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters, are
extremely civil. I assure you that it is an education to visit it.”

“But must we really see Chicago in order to be educated?” asked Mr.
Erskine plaintively. “I don’t feel up to the journey.”

Sir Thomas waved his hand. “Mr. Erskine of Treadley has the world on
his shelves. We practical men like to see things, not to read about
them. The Americans are an extremely interesting people. They are
absolutely reasonable. I think that is their distinguishing
characteristic. Yes, Mr. Erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. I
assure you there is no nonsense about the Americans.”

“How dreadful!” cried Lord Henry. “I can stand brute force, but brute
reason is quite unbearable. There is something unfair about its use. It
is hitting below the intellect.”

“I do not understand you,” said Sir Thomas, growing rather red.

“I do, Lord Henry,” murmured Mr. Erskine, with a smile.

“Paradoxes are all very well in their way....” rejoined the baronet.

“Was that a paradox?” asked Mr. Erskine. “I did not think so. Perhaps
it was. Well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth. To test reality
we must see it on the tight rope. When the verities become acrobats, we
can judge them.”

“Dear me!” said Lady Agatha, “how you men argue! I am sure I never can
make out what you are talking about. Oh! Harry, I am quite vexed with
you. Why do you try to persuade our nice Mr. Dorian Gray to give up the
East End? I assure you he would be quite invaluable. They would love
his playing.”

“I want him to play to me,” cried Lord Henry, smiling, and he looked
down the table and caught a bright answering glance.

“But they are so unhappy in Whitechapel,” continued Lady Agatha.

“I can sympathize with everything except suffering,” said Lord Henry,
shrugging his shoulders. “I cannot sympathize with that. It is too
ugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid
in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathize with the
colour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life’s sores,
the better.”

“Still, the East End is a very important problem,” remarked Sir Thomas
with a grave shake of the head.

“Quite so,” answered the young lord. “It is the problem of slavery, and
we try to solve it by amusing the slaves.”

The politician looked at him keenly. “What change do you propose,
then?” he asked.

Lord Henry laughed. “I don’t desire to change anything in England
except the weather,” he answered. “I am quite content with philosophic
contemplation. But, as the nineteenth century has gone bankrupt through
an over-expenditure of sympathy, I would suggest that we should appeal
to science to put us straight. The advantage of the emotions is that
they lead us astray, and the advantage of science is that it is not
emotional.”

“But we have such grave responsibilities,” ventured Mrs. Vandeleur
timidly.

“Terribly grave,” echoed Lady Agatha.

Lord Henry looked over at Mr. Erskine. “Humanity takes itself too
seriously. It is the world’s original sin. If the caveman had known how
to laugh, history would have been different.”

“You are really very comforting,” warbled the duchess. “I have always
felt rather guilty when I came to see your dear aunt, for I take no
interest at all in the East End. For the future I shall be able to look
her in the face without a blush.”

“A blush is very becoming, Duchess,” remarked Lord Henry.

“Only when one is young,” she answered. “When an old woman like myself
blushes, it is a very bad sign. Ah! Lord Henry, I wish you would tell
me how to become young again.”

He thought for a moment. “Can you remember any great error that you
committed in your early days, Duchess?” he asked, looking at her across
the table.

“A great many, I fear,” she cried.

“Then commit them over again,” he said gravely. “To get back one’s
youth, one has merely to repeat one’s follies.”

“A delightful theory!” she exclaimed. “I must put it into practice.”

“A dangerous theory!” came from Sir Thomas’s tight lips. Lady Agatha
shook her head, but could not help being amused. Mr. Erskine listened.

“Yes,” he continued, “that is one of the great secrets of life.
Nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and
discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are
one’s mistakes.”

A laugh ran round the table.

He played with the idea and grew wilful; tossed it into the air and
transformed it; let it escape and recaptured it; made it iridescent
with fancy and winged it with paradox. The praise of folly, as he went
on, soared into a philosophy, and philosophy herself became young, and
catching the mad music of pleasure, wearing, one might fancy, her
wine-stained robe and wreath of ivy, danced like a Bacchante over the
hills of life, and mocked the slow Silenus for being sober. Facts fled
before her like frightened forest things. Her white feet trod the huge
press at which wise Omar sits, till the seething grape-juice rose round
her bare limbs in waves of purple bubbles, or crawled in red foam over
the vat’s black, dripping, sloping sides. It was an extraordinary
improvisation. He felt that the eyes of Dorian Gray were fixed on him,
and the consciousness that amongst his audience there was one whose
temperament he wished to fascinate seemed to give his wit keenness and
to lend colour to his imagination. He was brilliant, fantastic,
irresponsible. He charmed his listeners out of themselves, and they
followed his pipe, laughing. Dorian Gray never took his gaze off him,
but sat like one under a spell, smiles chasing each other over his lips
and wonder growing grave in his darkening eyes.

At last, liveried in the costume of the age, reality entered the room
in the shape of a servant to tell the duchess that her carriage was
waiting. She wrung her hands in mock despair. “How annoying!” she
cried. “I must go. I have to call for my husband at the club, to take
him to some absurd meeting at Willis’s Rooms, where he is going to be
in the chair. If I am late he is sure to be furious, and I couldn’t
have a scene in this bonnet. It is far too fragile. A harsh word would
ruin it. No, I must go, dear Agatha. Good-bye, Lord Henry, you are
quite delightful and dreadfully demoralizing. I am sure I don’t know
what to say about your views. You must come and dine with us some
night. Tuesday? Are you disengaged Tuesday?”

“For you I would throw over anybody, Duchess,” said Lord Henry with a
bow.

“Ah! that is very nice, and very wrong of you,” she cried; “so mind you
come”; and she swept out of the room, followed by Lady Agatha and the
other ladies.

When Lord Henry had sat down again, Mr. Erskine moved round, and taking
a chair close to him, placed his hand upon his arm.

“You talk books away,” he said; “why don’t you write one?”

“I am too fond of reading books to care to write them, Mr. Erskine. I
should like to write a novel certainly, a novel that would be as lovely
as a Persian carpet and as unreal. But there is no literary public in
England for anything except newspapers, primers, and encyclopaedias. Of
all people in the world the English have the least sense of the beauty
of literature.”

“I fear you are right,” answered Mr. Erskine. “I myself used to have
literary ambitions, but I gave them up long ago. And now, my dear young
friend, if you will allow me to call you so, may I ask if you really
meant all that you said to us at lunch?”

“I quite forget what I said,” smiled Lord Henry. “Was it all very bad?”

“Very bad indeed. In fact I consider you extremely dangerous, and if
anything happens to our good duchess, we shall all look on you as being
primarily responsible. But I should like to talk to you about life. The
generation into which I was born was tedious. Some day, when you are
tired of London, come down to Treadley and expound to me your
philosophy of pleasure over some admirable Burgundy I am fortunate
enough to possess.”

“I shall be charmed. A visit to Treadley would be a great privilege. It
has a perfect host, and a perfect library.”

“You will complete it,” answered the old gentleman with a courteous
bow. “And now I must bid good-bye to your excellent aunt. I am due at
the Athenaeum. It is the hour when we sleep there.”

“All of you, Mr. Erskine?”

“Forty of us, in forty arm-chairs. We are practising for an English
Academy of Letters.”

Lord Henry laughed and rose. “I am going to the park,” he cried.

As he was passing out of the door, Dorian Gray touched him on the arm.
“Let me come with you,” he murmured.

“But I thought you had promised Basil Hallward to go and see him,”
answered Lord Henry.

“I would sooner come with you; yes, I feel I must come with you. Do let
me. And you will promise to talk to me all the time? No one talks so
wonderfully as you do.”

“Ah! I have talked quite enough for to-day,” said Lord Henry, smiling.
“All I want now is to look at life. You may come and look at it with
me, if you care to.”




CHAPTER IV.


One afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious
arm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry’s house in Mayfair. It
was, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled
wainscoting of olive-stained oak, its cream-coloured frieze and ceiling
of raised plasterwork, and its brickdust felt carpet strewn with silk,
long-fringed Persian rugs. On a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette
by Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of Les Cent Nouvelles, bound for
Margaret of Valois by Clovis Eve and powdered with the gilt daisies
that Queen had selected for her device. Some large blue china jars and
parrot-tulips were ranged on the mantelshelf, and through the small
leaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-coloured light of a
summer day in London.

Lord Henry had not yet come in. He was always late on principle, his
principle being that punctuality is the thief of time. So the lad was
looking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages
of an elaborately illustrated edition of Manon Lescaut that he had
found in one of the book-cases. The formal monotonous ticking of the
Louis Quatorze clock annoyed him. Once or twice he thought of going
away.

At last he heard a step outside, and the door opened. “How late you
are, Harry!” he murmured.

“I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray,” answered a shrill voice.

He glanced quickly round and rose to his feet. “I beg your pardon. I
thought—”

“You thought it was my husband. It is only his wife. You must let me
introduce myself. I know you quite well by your photographs. I think my
husband has got seventeen of them.”

“Not seventeen, Lady Henry?”

“Well, eighteen, then. And I saw you with him the other night at the
opera.” She laughed nervously as she spoke, and watched him with her
vague forget-me-not eyes. She was a curious woman, whose dresses always
looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest.
She was usually in love with somebody, and, as her passion was never
returned, she had kept all her illusions. She tried to look
picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy. Her name was Victoria,
and she had a perfect mania for going to church.

“That was at Lohengrin, Lady Henry, I think?”

“Yes; it was at dear Lohengrin. I like Wagner’s music better than
anybody’s. It is so loud that one can talk the whole time without other
people hearing what one says. That is a great advantage, don’t you
think so, Mr. Gray?”

The same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips, and her
fingers began to play with a long tortoise-shell paper-knife.

Dorian smiled and shook his head: “I am afraid I don’t think so, Lady
Henry. I never talk during music—at least, during good music. If one
hears bad music, it is one’s duty to drown it in conversation.”

“Ah! that is one of Harry’s views, isn’t it, Mr. Gray? I always hear
Harry’s views from his friends. It is the only way I get to know of
them. But you must not think I don’t like good music. I adore it, but I
am afraid of it. It makes me too romantic. I have simply worshipped
pianists—two at a time, sometimes, Harry tells me. I don’t know what it
is about them. Perhaps it is that they are foreigners. They all are,
ain’t they? Even those that are born in England become foreigners after
a time, don’t they? It is so clever of them, and such a compliment to
art. Makes it quite cosmopolitan, doesn’t it? You have never been to
any of my parties, have you, Mr. Gray? You must come. I can’t afford
orchids, but I spare no expense in foreigners. They make one’s rooms
look so picturesque. But here is Harry! Harry, I came in to look for
you, to ask you something—I forget what it was—and I found Mr. Gray
here. We have had such a pleasant chat about music. We have quite the
same ideas. No; I think our ideas are quite different. But he has been
most pleasant. I am so glad I’ve seen him.”

“I am charmed, my love, quite charmed,” said Lord Henry, elevating his
dark, crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused
smile. “So sorry I am late, Dorian. I went to look after a piece of old
brocade in Wardour Street and had to bargain for hours for it. Nowadays
people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.”

“I am afraid I must be going,” exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an
awkward silence with her silly sudden laugh. “I have promised to drive
with the duchess. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Good-bye, Harry. You are dining
out, I suppose? So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at Lady Thornbury’s.”

“I dare say, my dear,” said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her
as, looking like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the
rain, she flitted out of the room, leaving a faint odour of
frangipanni. Then he lit a cigarette and flung himself down on the
sofa.

“Never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair, Dorian,” he said after a
few puffs.

“Why, Harry?”

“Because they are so sentimental.”

“But I like sentimental people.”

“Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired; women,
because they are curious: both are disappointed.”

“I don’t think I am likely to marry, Harry. I am too much in love. That
is one of your aphorisms. I am putting it into practice, as I do
everything that you say.”

“Who are you in love with?” asked Lord Henry after a pause.

“With an actress,” said Dorian Gray, blushing.

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “That is a rather commonplace
_début_.”

“You would not say so if you saw her, Harry.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name is Sibyl Vane.”

“Never heard of her.”

“No one has. People will some day, however. She is a genius.”

“My dear boy, no woman is a genius. Women are a decorative sex. They
never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. Women represent
the triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent the triumph of
mind over morals.”

“Harry, how can you?”

“My dear Dorian, it is quite true. I am analysing women at present, so
I ought to know. The subject is not so abstruse as I thought it was. I
find that, ultimately, there are only two kinds of women, the plain and
the coloured. The plain women are very useful. If you want to gain a
reputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down to
supper. The other women are very charming. They commit one mistake,
however. They paint in order to try and look young. Our grandmothers
painted in order to try and talk brilliantly. _Rouge_ and _esprit_ used
to go together. That is all over now. As long as a woman can look ten
years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly satisfied. As for
conversation, there are only five women in London worth talking to, and
two of these can’t be admitted into decent society. However, tell me
about your genius. How long have you known her?”

“Ah! Harry, your views terrify me.”

“Never mind that. How long have you known her?”

“About three weeks.”

“And where did you come across her?”

“I will tell you, Harry, but you mustn’t be unsympathetic about it.
After all, it never would have happened if I had not met you. You
filled me with a wild desire to know everything about life. For days
after I met you, something seemed to throb in my veins. As I lounged in
the park, or strolled down Piccadilly, I used to look at every one who
passed me and wonder, with a mad curiosity, what sort of lives they
led. Some of them fascinated me. Others filled me with terror. There
was an exquisite poison in the air. I had a passion for sensations....
Well, one evening about seven o’clock, I determined to go out in search
of some adventure. I felt that this grey monstrous London of ours, with
its myriads of people, its sordid sinners, and its splendid sins, as
you once phrased it, must have something in store for me. I fancied a
thousand things. The mere danger gave me a sense of delight. I
remembered what you had said to me on that wonderful evening when we
first dined together, about the search for beauty being the real secret
of life. I don’t know what I expected, but I went out and wandered
eastward, soon losing my way in a labyrinth of grimy streets and black
grassless squares. About half-past eight I passed by an absurd little
theatre, with great flaring gas-jets and gaudy play-bills. A hideous
Jew, in the most amazing waistcoat I ever beheld in my life, was
standing at the entrance, smoking a vile cigar. He had greasy ringlets,
and an enormous diamond blazed in the centre of a soiled shirt. ‘Have a
box, my Lord?’ he said, when he saw me, and he took off his hat with an
air of gorgeous servility. There was something about him, Harry, that
amused me. He was such a monster. You will laugh at me, I know, but I
really went in and paid a whole guinea for the stage-box. To the
present day I can’t make out why I did so; and yet if I hadn’t—my dear
Harry, if I hadn’t—I should have missed the greatest romance of my
life. I see you are laughing. It is horrid of you!”

“I am not laughing, Dorian; at least I am not laughing at you. But you
should not say the greatest romance of your life. You should say the
first romance of your life. You will always be loved, and you will
always be in love with love. A _grande passion_ is the privilege of
people who have nothing to do. That is the one use of the idle classes
of a country. Don’t be afraid. There are exquisite things in store for
you. This is merely the beginning.”

“Do you think my nature so shallow?” cried Dorian Gray angrily.

“No; I think your nature so deep.”

“How do you mean?”

“My dear boy, the people who love only once in their lives are really
the shallow people. What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, I
call either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination.
Faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life
of the intellect—simply a confession of failure. Faithfulness! I must
analyse it some day. The passion for property is in it. There are many
things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might
pick them up. But I don’t want to interrupt you. Go on with your
story.”

“Well, I found myself seated in a horrid little private box, with a
vulgar drop-scene staring me in the face. I looked out from behind the
curtain and surveyed the house. It was a tawdry affair, all Cupids and
cornucopias, like a third-rate wedding-cake. The gallery and pit were
fairly full, but the two rows of dingy stalls were quite empty, and
there was hardly a person in what I suppose they called the
dress-circle. Women went about with oranges and ginger-beer, and there
was a terrible consumption of nuts going on.”

“It must have been just like the palmy days of the British drama.”

“Just like, I should fancy, and very depressing. I began to wonder what
on earth I should do when I caught sight of the play-bill. What do you
think the play was, Harry?”

“I should think ‘The Idiot Boy’, or ‘Dumb but Innocent’. Our fathers
used to like that sort of piece, I believe. The longer I live, Dorian,
the more keenly I feel that whatever was good enough for our fathers is
not good enough for us. In art, as in politics, _les grandpères ont
toujours tort_.”

“This play was good enough for us, Harry. It was Romeo and Juliet. I
must admit that I was rather annoyed at the idea of seeing Shakespeare
done in such a wretched hole of a place. Still, I felt interested, in a
sort of way. At any rate, I determined to wait for the first act. There
was a dreadful orchestra, presided over by a young Hebrew who sat at a
cracked piano, that nearly drove me away, but at last the drop-scene
was drawn up and the play began. Romeo was a stout elderly gentleman,
with corked eyebrows, a husky tragedy voice, and a figure like a
beer-barrel. Mercutio was almost as bad. He was played by the
low-comedian, who had introduced gags of his own and was on most
friendly terms with the pit. They were both as grotesque as the
scenery, and that looked as if it had come out of a country-booth. But
Juliet! Harry, imagine a girl, hardly seventeen years of age, with a
little, flowerlike face, a small Greek head with plaited coils of
dark-brown hair, eyes that were violet wells of passion, lips that were
like the petals of a rose. She was the loveliest thing I had ever seen
in my life. You said to me once that pathos left you unmoved, but that
beauty, mere beauty, could fill your eyes with tears. I tell you,
Harry, I could hardly see this girl for the mist of tears that came
across me. And her voice—I never heard such a voice. It was very low at
first, with deep mellow notes that seemed to fall singly upon one’s
ear. Then it became a little louder, and sounded like a flute or a
distant hautboy. In the garden-scene it had all the tremulous ecstasy
that one hears just before dawn when nightingales are singing. There
were moments, later on, when it had the wild passion of violins. You
know how a voice can stir one. Your voice and the voice of Sibyl Vane
are two things that I shall never forget. When I close my eyes, I hear
them, and each of them says something different. I don’t know which to
follow. Why should I not love her? Harry, I do love her. She is
everything to me in life. Night after night I go to see her play. One
evening she is Rosalind, and the next evening she is Imogen. I have
seen her die in the gloom of an Italian tomb, sucking the poison from
her lover’s lips. I have watched her wandering through the forest of
Arden, disguised as a pretty boy in hose and doublet and dainty cap.
She has been mad, and has come into the presence of a guilty king, and
given him rue to wear and bitter herbs to taste of. She has been
innocent, and the black hands of jealousy have crushed her reedlike
throat. I have seen her in every age and in every costume. Ordinary
women never appeal to one’s imagination. They are limited to their
century. No glamour ever transfigures them. One knows their minds as
easily as one knows their bonnets. One can always find them. There is
no mystery in any of them. They ride in the park in the morning and
chatter at tea-parties in the afternoon. They have their stereotyped
smile and their fashionable manner. They are quite obvious. But an
actress! How different an actress is! Harry! why didn’t you tell me
that the only thing worth loving is an actress?”

“Because I have loved so many of them, Dorian.”

“Oh, yes, horrid people with dyed hair and painted faces.”

“Don’t run down dyed hair and painted faces. There is an extraordinary
charm in them, sometimes,” said Lord Henry.

“I wish now I had not told you about Sibyl Vane.”

“You could not have helped telling me, Dorian. All through your life
you will tell me everything you do.”

“Yes, Harry, I believe that is true. I cannot help telling you things.
You have a curious influence over me. If I ever did a crime, I would
come and confess it to you. You would understand me.”

“People like you—the wilful sunbeams of life—don’t commit crimes,
Dorian. But I am much obliged for the compliment, all the same. And now
tell me—reach me the matches, like a good boy—thanks—what are your
actual relations with Sibyl Vane?”

Dorian Gray leaped to his feet, with flushed cheeks and burning eyes.
“Harry! Sibyl Vane is sacred!”

“It is only the sacred things that are worth touching, Dorian,” said
Lord Henry, with a strange touch of pathos in his voice. “But why
should you be annoyed? I suppose she will belong to you some day. When
one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one’s self, and one
always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a
romance. You know her, at any rate, I suppose?”

“Of course I know her. On the first night I was at the theatre, the
horrid old Jew came round to the box after the performance was over and
offered to take me behind the scenes and introduce me to her. I was
furious with him, and told him that Juliet had been dead for hundreds
of years and that her body was lying in a marble tomb in Verona. I
think, from his blank look of amazement, that he was under the
impression that I had taken too much champagne, or something.”

“I am not surprised.”

“Then he asked me if I wrote for any of the newspapers. I told him I
never even read them. He seemed terribly disappointed at that, and
confided to me that all the dramatic critics were in a conspiracy
against him, and that they were every one of them to be bought.”

“I should not wonder if he was quite right there. But, on the other
hand, judging from their appearance, most of them cannot be at all
expensive.”

“Well, he seemed to think they were beyond his means,” laughed Dorian.
“By this time, however, the lights were being put out in the theatre,
and I had to go. He wanted me to try some cigars that he strongly
recommended. I declined. The next night, of course, I arrived at the
place again. When he saw me, he made me a low bow and assured me that I
was a munificent patron of art. He was a most offensive brute, though
he had an extraordinary passion for Shakespeare. He told me once, with
an air of pride, that his five bankruptcies were entirely due to ‘The
Bard,’ as he insisted on calling him. He seemed to think it a
distinction.”

“It was a distinction, my dear Dorian—a great distinction. Most people
become bankrupt through having invested too heavily in the prose of
life. To have ruined one’s self over poetry is an honour. But when did
you first speak to Miss Sibyl Vane?”

“The third night. She had been playing Rosalind. I could not help going
round. I had thrown her some flowers, and she had looked at me—at least
I fancied that she had. The old Jew was persistent. He seemed
determined to take me behind, so I consented. It was curious my not
wanting to know her, wasn’t it?”

“No; I don’t think so.”

“My dear Harry, why?”

“I will tell you some other time. Now I want to know about the girl.”

“Sibyl? Oh, she was so shy and so gentle. There is something of a child
about her. Her eyes opened wide in exquisite wonder when I told her
what I thought of her performance, and she seemed quite unconscious of
her power. I think we were both rather nervous. The old Jew stood
grinning at the doorway of the dusty greenroom, making elaborate
speeches about us both, while we stood looking at each other like
children. He would insist on calling me ‘My Lord,’ so I had to assure
Sibyl that I was not anything of the kind. She said quite simply to me,
‘You look more like a prince. I must call you Prince Charming.’”

“Upon my word, Dorian, Miss Sibyl knows how to pay compliments.”

“You don’t understand her, Harry. She regarded me merely as a person in
a play. She knows nothing of life. She lives with her mother, a faded
tired woman who played Lady Capulet in a sort of magenta
dressing-wrapper on the first night, and looks as if she had seen
better days.”

“I know that look. It depresses me,” murmured Lord Henry, examining his
rings.

“The Jew wanted to tell me her history, but I said it did not interest
me.”

“You were quite right. There is always something infinitely mean about
other people’s tragedies.”

“Sibyl is the only thing I care about. What is it to me where she came
from? From her little head to her little feet, she is absolutely and
entirely divine. Every night of my life I go to see her act, and every
night she is more marvellous.”

“That is the reason, I suppose, that you never dine with me now. I
thought you must have some curious romance on hand. You have; but it is
not quite what I expected.”

“My dear Harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and I have
been to the opera with you several times,” said Dorian, opening his
blue eyes in wonder.

“You always come dreadfully late.”

“Well, I can’t help going to see Sibyl play,” he cried, “even if it is
only for a single act. I get hungry for her presence; and when I think
of the wonderful soul that is hidden away in that little ivory body, I
am filled with awe.”

“You can dine with me to-night, Dorian, can’t you?”

He shook his head. “To-night she is Imogen,” he answered, “and
to-morrow night she will be Juliet.”

“When is she Sibyl Vane?”

“Never.”

“I congratulate you.”

“How horrid you are! She is all the great heroines of the world in one.
She is more than an individual. You laugh, but I tell you she has
genius. I love her, and I must make her love me. You, who know all the
secrets of life, tell me how to charm Sibyl Vane to love me! I want to
make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the world to hear our
laughter and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stir their
dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain. My God, Harry,
how I worship her!” He was walking up and down the room as he spoke.
Hectic spots of red burned on his cheeks. He was terribly excited.

Lord Henry watched him with a subtle sense of pleasure. How different
he was now from the shy frightened boy he had met in Basil Hallward’s
studio! His nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of
scarlet flame. Out of its secret hiding-place had crept his soul, and
desire had come to meet it on the way.

“And what do you propose to do?” said Lord Henry at last.

“I want you and Basil to come with me some night and see her act. I
have not the slightest fear of the result. You are certain to
acknowledge her genius. Then we must get her out of the Jew’s hands.
She is bound to him for three years—at least for two years and eight
months—from the present time. I shall have to pay him something, of
course. When all that is settled, I shall take a West End theatre and
bring her out properly. She will make the world as mad as she has made
me.”

“That would be impossible, my dear boy.”

“Yes, she will. She has not merely art, consummate art-instinct, in
her, but she has personality also; and you have often told me that it
is personalities, not principles, that move the age.”

“Well, what night shall we go?”

“Let me see. To-day is Tuesday. Let us fix to-morrow. She plays Juliet
to-morrow.”

“All right. The Bristol at eight o’clock; and I will get Basil.”

“Not eight, Harry, please. Half-past six. We must be there before the
curtain rises. You must see her in the first act, where she meets
Romeo.”

“Half-past six! What an hour! It will be like having a meat-tea, or
reading an English novel. It must be seven. No gentleman dines before
seven. Shall you see Basil between this and then? Or shall I write to
him?”

“Dear Basil! I have not laid eyes on him for a week. It is rather
horrid of me, as he has sent me my portrait in the most wonderful
frame, specially designed by himself, and, though I am a little jealous
of the picture for being a whole month younger than I am, I must admit
that I delight in it. Perhaps you had better write to him. I don’t want
to see him alone. He says things that annoy me. He gives me good
advice.”

Lord Henry smiled. “People are very fond of giving away what they need
most themselves. It is what I call the depth of generosity.”

“Oh, Basil is the best of fellows, but he seems to me to be just a bit
of a Philistine. Since I have known you, Harry, I have discovered
that.”

“Basil, my dear boy, puts everything that is charming in him into his
work. The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his
prejudices, his principles, and his common sense. The only artists I
have ever known who are personally delightful are bad artists. Good
artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly
uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is
the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely
fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they
look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets
makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot
write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.”

“I wonder is that really so, Harry?” said Dorian Gray, putting some
perfume on his handkerchief out of a large, gold-topped bottle that
stood on the table. “It must be, if you say it. And now I am off.
Imogen is waiting for me. Don’t forget about to-morrow. Good-bye.”

As he left the room, Lord Henry’s heavy eyelids drooped, and he began
to think. Certainly few people had ever interested him so much as
Dorian Gray, and yet the lad’s mad adoration of some one else caused
him not the slightest pang of annoyance or jealousy. He was pleased by
it. It made him a more interesting study. He had been always enthralled
by the methods of natural science, but the ordinary subject-matter of
that science had seemed to him trivial and of no import. And so he had
begun by vivisecting himself, as he had ended by vivisecting others.
Human life—that appeared to him the one thing worth investigating.
Compared to it there was nothing else of any value. It was true that as
one watched life in its curious crucible of pain and pleasure, one
could not wear over one’s face a mask of glass, nor keep the sulphurous
fumes from troubling the brain and making the imagination turbid with
monstrous fancies and misshapen dreams. There were poisons so subtle
that to know their properties one had to sicken of them. There were
maladies so strange that one had to pass through them if one sought to
understand their nature. And, yet, what a great reward one received!
How wonderful the whole world became to one! To note the curious hard
logic of passion, and the emotional coloured life of the intellect—to
observe where they met, and where they separated, at what point they
were in unison, and at what point they were at discord—there was a
delight in that! What matter what the cost was? One could never pay too
high a price for any sensation.

He was conscious—and the thought brought a gleam of pleasure into his
brown agate eyes—that it was through certain words of his, musical
words said with musical utterance, that Dorian Gray’s soul had turned
to this white girl and bowed in worship before her. To a large extent
the lad was his own creation. He had made him premature. That was
something. Ordinary people waited till life disclosed to them its
secrets, but to the few, to the elect, the mysteries of life were
revealed before the veil was drawn away. Sometimes this was the effect
of art, and chiefly of the art of literature, which dealt immediately
with the passions and the intellect. But now and then a complex
personality took the place and assumed the office of art, was indeed,
in its way, a real work of art, life having its elaborate masterpieces,
just as poetry has, or sculpture, or painting.

Yes, the lad was premature. He was gathering his harvest while it was
yet spring. The pulse and passion of youth were in him, but he was
becoming self-conscious. It was delightful to watch him. With his
beautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at. It
was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. He was like one
of those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose joys seem to be
remote from one, but whose sorrows stir one’s sense of beauty, and
whose wounds are like red roses.

Soul and body, body and soul—how mysterious they were! There was
animalism in the soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality.
The senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade. Who could say
where the fleshly impulse ceased, or the psychical impulse began? How
shallow were the arbitrary definitions of ordinary psychologists! And
yet how difficult to decide between the claims of the various schools!
Was the soul a shadow seated in the house of sin? Or was the body
really in the soul, as Giordano Bruno thought? The separation of spirit
from matter was a mystery, and the union of spirit with matter was a
mystery also.

He began to wonder whether we could ever make psychology so absolute a
science that each little spring of life would be revealed to us. As it
was, we always misunderstood ourselves and rarely understood others.
Experience was of no ethical value. It was merely the name men gave to
their mistakes. Moralists had, as a rule, regarded it as a mode of
warning, had claimed for it a certain ethical efficacy in the formation
of character, had praised it as something that taught us what to follow
and showed us what to avoid. But there was no motive power in
experience. It was as little of an active cause as conscience itself.
All that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the same
as our past, and that the sin we had done once, and with loathing, we
would do many times, and with joy.

It was clear to him that the experimental method was the only method by
which one could arrive at any scientific analysis of the passions; and
certainly Dorian Gray was a subject made to his hand, and seemed to
promise rich and fruitful results. His sudden mad love for Sibyl Vane
was a psychological phenomenon of no small interest. There was no doubt
that curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire for new
experiences, yet it was not a simple, but rather a very complex
passion. What there was in it of the purely sensuous instinct of
boyhood had been transformed by the workings of the imagination,
changed into something that seemed to the lad himself to be remote from
sense, and was for that very reason all the more dangerous. It was the
passions about whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannized most
strongly over us. Our weakest motives were those of whose nature we
were conscious. It often happened that when we thought we were
experimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves.

While Lord Henry sat dreaming on these things, a knock came to the
door, and his valet entered and reminded him it was time to dress for
dinner. He got up and looked out into the street. The sunset had
smitten into scarlet gold the upper windows of the houses opposite. The
panes glowed like plates of heated metal. The sky above was like a
faded rose. He thought of his friend’s young fiery-coloured life and
wondered how it was all going to end.

When he arrived home, about half-past twelve o’clock, he saw a telegram
lying on the hall table. He opened it and found it was from Dorian
Gray. It was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to Sibyl
Vane.




CHAPTER V.


“Mother, Mother, I am so happy!” whispered the girl, burying her face
in the lap of the faded, tired-looking woman who, with back turned to
the shrill intrusive light, was sitting in the one arm-chair that their
dingy sitting-room contained. “I am so happy!” she repeated, “and you
must be happy, too!”

Mrs. Vane winced and put her thin, bismuth-whitened hands on her
daughter’s head. “Happy!” she echoed, “I am only happy, Sibyl, when I
see you act. You must not think of anything but your acting. Mr. Isaacs
has been very good to us, and we owe him money.”

The girl looked up and pouted. “Money, Mother?” she cried, “what does
money matter? Love is more than money.”

“Mr. Isaacs has advanced us fifty pounds to pay off our debts and to
get a proper outfit for James. You must not forget that, Sibyl. Fifty
pounds is a very large sum. Mr. Isaacs has been most considerate.”

“He is not a gentleman, Mother, and I hate the way he talks to me,”
said the girl, rising to her feet and going over to the window.

“I don’t know how we could manage without him,” answered the elder
woman querulously.

Sibyl Vane tossed her head and laughed. “We don’t want him any more,
Mother. Prince Charming rules life for us now.” Then she paused. A rose
shook in her blood and shadowed her cheeks. Quick breath parted the
petals of her lips. They trembled. Some southern wind of passion swept
over her and stirred the dainty folds of her dress. “I love him,” she
said simply.

“Foolish child! foolish child!” was the parrot-phrase flung in answer.
The waving of crooked, false-jewelled fingers gave grotesqueness to the
words.

The girl laughed again. The joy of a caged bird was in her voice. Her
eyes caught the melody and echoed it in radiance, then closed for a
moment, as though to hide their secret. When they opened, the mist of a
dream had passed across them.

Thin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at
prudence, quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name
of common sense. She did not listen. She was free in her prison of
passion. Her prince, Prince Charming, was with her. She had called on
memory to remake him. She had sent her soul to search for him, and it
had brought him back. His kiss burned again upon her mouth. Her eyelids
were warm with his breath.

Then wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery. This
young man might be rich. If so, marriage should be thought of. Against
the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. The arrows of
craft shot by her. She saw the thin lips moving, and smiled.

Suddenly she felt the need to speak. The wordy silence troubled her.
“Mother, Mother,” she cried, “why does he love me so much? I know why I
love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be.
But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet—why, I
cannot tell—though I feel so much beneath him, I don’t feel humble. I
feel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love
Prince Charming?”

The elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her
cheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sybil rushed to
her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. “Forgive me,
Mother. I know it pains you to talk about our father. But it only pains
you because you loved him so much. Don’t look so sad. I am as happy
to-day as you were twenty years ago. Ah! let me be happy for ever!”

“My child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. Besides,
what do you know of this young man? You don’t even know his name. The
whole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when James is going away
to Australia, and I have so much to think of, I must say that you
should have shown more consideration. However, as I said before, if he
is rich ...”

“Ah! Mother, Mother, let me be happy!”

Mrs. Vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatrical
gestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a
stage-player, clasped her in her arms. At this moment, the door opened
and a young lad with rough brown hair came into the room. He was
thick-set of figure, and his hands and feet were large and somewhat
clumsy in movement. He was not so finely bred as his sister. One would
hardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between them.
Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him and intensified her smile. She mentally
elevated her son to the dignity of an audience. She felt sure that the
_tableau_ was interesting.

“You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think,” said the
lad with a good-natured grumble.

“Ah! but you don’t like being kissed, Jim,” she cried. “You are a
dreadful old bear.” And she ran across the room and hugged him.

James Vane looked into his sister’s face with tenderness. “I want you
to come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don’t suppose I shall ever see
this horrid London again. I am sure I don’t want to.”

“My son, don’t say such dreadful things,” murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up
a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. She
felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. It would
have increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation.

“Why not, Mother? I mean it.”

“You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in a
position of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind in the
Colonies—nothing that I would call society—so when you have made your
fortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London.”

“Society!” muttered the lad. “I don’t want to know anything about that.
I should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off the stage. I
hate it.”

“Oh, Jim!” said Sibyl, laughing, “how unkind of you! But are you really
going for a walk with me? That will be nice! I was afraid you were
going to say good-bye to some of your friends—to Tom Hardy, who gave
you that hideous pipe, or Ned Langton, who makes fun of you for smoking
it. It is very sweet of you to let me have your last afternoon. Where
shall we go? Let us go to the park.”

“I am too shabby,” he answered, frowning. “Only swell people go to the
park.”

“Nonsense, Jim,” she whispered, stroking the sleeve of his coat.

He hesitated for a moment. “Very well,” he said at last, “but don’t be
too long dressing.” She danced out of the door. One could hear her
singing as she ran upstairs. Her little feet pattered overhead.

He walked up and down the room two or three times. Then he turned to
the still figure in the chair. “Mother, are my things ready?” he asked.

“Quite ready, James,” she answered, keeping her eyes on her work. For
some months past she had felt ill at ease when she was alone with this
rough stern son of hers. Her shallow secret nature was troubled when
their eyes met. She used to wonder if he suspected anything. The
silence, for he made no other observation, became intolerable to her.
She began to complain. Women defend themselves by attacking, just as
they attack by sudden and strange surrenders. “I hope you will be
contented, James, with your sea-faring life,” she said. “You must
remember that it is your own choice. You might have entered a
solicitor’s office. Solicitors are a very respectable class, and in the
country often dine with the best families.”

“I hate offices, and I hate clerks,” he replied. “But you are quite
right. I have chosen my own life. All I say is, watch over Sibyl. Don’t
let her come to any harm. Mother, you must watch over her.”

“James, you really talk very strangely. Of course I watch over Sibyl.”

“I hear a gentleman comes every night to the theatre and goes behind to
talk to her. Is that right? What about that?”

“You are speaking about things you don’t understand, James. In the
profession we are accustomed to receive a great deal of most gratifying
attention. I myself used to receive many bouquets at one time. That was
when acting was really understood. As for Sibyl, I do not know at
present whether her attachment is serious or not. But there is no doubt
that the young man in question is a perfect gentleman. He is always
most polite to me. Besides, he has the appearance of being rich, and
the flowers he sends are lovely.”

“You don’t know his name, though,” said the lad harshly.

“No,” answered his mother with a placid expression in her face. “He has
not yet revealed his real name. I think it is quite romantic of him. He
is probably a member of the aristocracy.”

James Vane bit his lip. “Watch over Sibyl, Mother,” he cried, “watch
over her.”

“My son, you distress me very much. Sibyl is always under my special
care. Of course, if this gentleman is wealthy, there is no reason why
she should not contract an alliance with him. I trust he is one of the
aristocracy. He has all the appearance of it, I must say. It might be a
most brilliant marriage for Sibyl. They would make a charming couple.
His good looks are really quite remarkable; everybody notices them.”

The lad muttered something to himself and drummed on the window-pane
with his coarse fingers. He had just turned round to say something when
the door opened and Sibyl ran in.

“How serious you both are!” she cried. “What is the matter?”

“Nothing,” he answered. “I suppose one must be serious sometimes.
Good-bye, Mother; I will have my dinner at five o’clock. Everything is
packed, except my shirts, so you need not trouble.”

“Good-bye, my son,” she answered with a bow of strained stateliness.

She was extremely annoyed at the tone he had adopted with her, and
there was something in his look that had made her feel afraid.

“Kiss me, Mother,” said the girl. Her flowerlike lips touched the
withered cheek and warmed its frost.

“My child! my child!” cried Mrs. Vane, looking up to the ceiling in
search of an imaginary gallery.

“Come, Sibyl,” said her brother impatiently. He hated his mother’s
affectations.

They went out into the flickering, wind-blown sunlight and strolled
down the dreary Euston Road. The passersby glanced in wonder at the
sullen heavy youth who, in coarse, ill-fitting clothes, was in the
company of such a graceful, refined-looking girl. He was like a common
gardener walking with a rose.

Jim frowned from time to time when he caught the inquisitive glance of
some stranger. He had that dislike of being stared at, which comes on
geniuses late in life and never leaves the commonplace. Sibyl, however,
was quite unconscious of the effect she was producing. Her love was
trembling in laughter on her lips. She was thinking of Prince Charming,
and, that she might think of him all the more, she did not talk of him,
but prattled on about the ship in which Jim was going to sail, about
the gold he was certain to find, about the wonderful heiress whose life
he was to save from the wicked, red-shirted bushrangers. For he was not
to remain a sailor, or a supercargo, or whatever he was going to be.
Oh, no! A sailor’s existence was dreadful. Fancy being cooped up in a
horrid ship, with the hoarse, hump-backed waves trying to get in, and a
black wind blowing the masts down and tearing the sails into long
screaming ribands! He was to leave the vessel at Melbourne, bid a
polite good-bye to the captain, and go off at once to the gold-fields.
Before a week was over he was to come across a large nugget of pure
gold, the largest nugget that had ever been discovered, and bring it
down to the coast in a waggon guarded by six mounted policemen. The
bushrangers were to attack them three times, and be defeated with
immense slaughter. Or, no. He was not to go to the gold-fields at all.
They were horrid places, where men got intoxicated, and shot each other
in bar-rooms, and used bad language. He was to be a nice sheep-farmer,
and one evening, as he was riding home, he was to see the beautiful
heiress being carried off by a robber on a black horse, and give chase,
and rescue her. Of course, she would fall in love with him, and he with
her, and they would get married, and come home, and live in an immense
house in London. Yes, there were delightful things in store for him.
But he must be very good, and not lose his temper, or spend his money
foolishly. She was only a year older than he was, but she knew so much
more of life. He must be sure, also, to write to her by every mail, and
to say his prayers each night before he went to sleep. God was very
good, and would watch over him. She would pray for him, too, and in a
few years he would come back quite rich and happy.

The lad listened sulkily to her and made no answer. He was heart-sick
at leaving home.

Yet it was not this alone that made him gloomy and morose.
Inexperienced though he was, he had still a strong sense of the danger
of Sibyl’s position. This young dandy who was making love to her could
mean her no good. He was a gentleman, and he hated him for that, hated
him through some curious race-instinct for which he could not account,
and which for that reason was all the more dominant within him. He was
conscious also of the shallowness and vanity of his mother’s nature,
and in that saw infinite peril for Sibyl and Sibyl’s happiness.
Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge
them; sometimes they forgive them.

His mother! He had something on his mind to ask of her, something that
he had brooded on for many months of silence. A chance phrase that he
had heard at the theatre, a whispered sneer that had reached his ears
one night as he waited at the stage-door, had set loose a train of
horrible thoughts. He remembered it as if it had been the lash of a
hunting-crop across his face. His brows knit together into a wedge-like
furrow, and with a twitch of pain he bit his underlip.

“You are not listening to a word I am saying, Jim,” cried Sibyl, “and I
am making the most delightful plans for your future. Do say something.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Oh! that you will be a good boy and not forget us,” she answered,
smiling at him.

He shrugged his shoulders. “You are more likely to forget me than I am
to forget you, Sibyl.”

She flushed. “What do you mean, Jim?” she asked.

“You have a new friend, I hear. Who is he? Why have you not told me
about him? He means you no good.”

“Stop, Jim!” she exclaimed. “You must not say anything against him. I
love him.”

“Why, you don’t even know his name,” answered the lad. “Who is he? I
have a right to know.”

“He is called Prince Charming. Don’t you like the name? Oh! you silly
boy! you should never forget it. If you only saw him, you would think
him the most wonderful person in the world. Some day you will meet
him—when you come back from Australia. You will like him so much.
Everybody likes him, and I ... love him. I wish you could come to the
theatre to-night. He is going to be there, and I am to play Juliet. Oh!
how I shall play it! Fancy, Jim, to be in love and play Juliet! To have
him sitting there! To play for his delight! I am afraid I may frighten
the company, frighten or enthrall them. To be in love is to surpass
one’s self. Poor dreadful Mr. Isaacs will be shouting ‘genius’ to his
loafers at the bar. He has preached me as a dogma; to-night he will
announce me as a revelation. I feel it. And it is all his, his only,
Prince Charming, my wonderful lover, my god of graces. But I am poor
beside him. Poor? What does that matter? When poverty creeps in at the
door, love flies in through the window. Our proverbs want rewriting.
They were made in winter, and it is summer now; spring-time for me, I
think, a very dance of blossoms in blue skies.”

“He is a gentleman,” said the lad sullenly.

“A prince!” she cried musically. “What more do you want?”

“He wants to enslave you.”

“I shudder at the thought of being free.”

“I want you to beware of him.”

“To see him is to worship him; to know him is to trust him.”

“Sibyl, you are mad about him.”

She laughed and took his arm. “You dear old Jim, you talk as if you
were a hundred. Some day you will be in love yourself. Then you will
know what it is. Don’t look so sulky. Surely you should be glad to
think that, though you are going away, you leave me happier than I have
ever been before. Life has been hard for us both, terribly hard and
difficult. But it will be different now. You are going to a new world,
and I have found one. Here are two chairs; let us sit down and see the
smart people go by.”

They took their seats amidst a crowd of watchers. The tulip-beds across
the road flamed like throbbing rings of fire. A white dust—tremulous
cloud of orris-root it seemed—hung in the panting air. The brightly
coloured parasols danced and dipped like monstrous butterflies.

She made her brother talk of himself, his hopes, his prospects. He
spoke slowly and with effort. They passed words to each other as
players at a game pass counters. Sibyl felt oppressed. She could not
communicate her joy. A faint smile curving that sullen mouth was all
the echo she could win. After some time she became silent. Suddenly she
caught a glimpse of golden hair and laughing lips, and in an open
carriage with two ladies Dorian Gray drove past.

She started to her feet. “There he is!” she cried.

“Who?” said Jim Vane.

“Prince Charming,” she answered, looking after the victoria.

He jumped up and seized her roughly by the arm. “Show him to me. Which
is he? Point him out. I must see him!” he exclaimed; but at that moment
the Duke of Berwick’s four-in-hand came between, and when it had left
the space clear, the carriage had swept out of the park.

“He is gone,” murmured Sibyl sadly. “I wish you had seen him.”

“I wish I had, for as sure as there is a God in heaven, if he ever does
you any wrong, I shall kill him.”

She looked at him in horror. He repeated his words. They cut the air
like a dagger. The people round began to gape. A lady standing close to
her tittered.

“Come away, Jim; come away,” she whispered. He followed her doggedly as
she passed through the crowd. He felt glad at what he had said.

When they reached the Achilles Statue, she turned round. There was pity
in her eyes that became laughter on her lips. She shook her head at
him. “You are foolish, Jim, utterly foolish; a bad-tempered boy, that
is all. How can you say such horrible things? You don’t know what you
are talking about. You are simply jealous and unkind. Ah! I wish you
would fall in love. Love makes people good, and what you said was
wicked.”

“I am sixteen,” he answered, “and I know what I am about. Mother is no
help to you. She doesn’t understand how to look after you. I wish now
that I was not going to Australia at all. I have a great mind to chuck
the whole thing up. I would, if my articles hadn’t been signed.”

“Oh, don’t be so serious, Jim. You are like one of the heroes of those
silly melodramas Mother used to be so fond of acting in. I am not going
to quarrel with you. I have seen him, and oh! to see him is perfect
happiness. We won’t quarrel. I know you would never harm any one I
love, would you?”

“Not as long as you love him, I suppose,” was the sullen answer.

“I shall love him for ever!” she cried.

“And he?”

“For ever, too!”

“He had better.”

She shrank from him. Then she laughed and put her hand on his arm. He
was merely a boy.

At the Marble Arch they hailed an omnibus, which left them close to
their shabby home in the Euston Road. It was after five o’clock, and
Sibyl had to lie down for a couple of hours before acting. Jim insisted
that she should do so. He said that he would sooner part with her when
their mother was not present. She would be sure to make a scene, and he
detested scenes of every kind.

In Sybil’s own room they parted. There was jealousy in the lad’s heart,
and a fierce murderous hatred of the stranger who, as it seemed to him,
had come between them. Yet, when her arms were flung round his neck,
and her fingers strayed through his hair, he softened and kissed her
with real affection. There were tears in his eyes as he went
downstairs.

His mother was waiting for him below. She grumbled at his
unpunctuality, as he entered. He made no answer, but sat down to his
meagre meal. The flies buzzed round the table and crawled over the
stained cloth. Through the rumble of omnibuses, and the clatter of
street-cabs, he could hear the droning voice devouring each minute that
was left to him.

After some time, he thrust away his plate and put his head in his
hands. He felt that he had a right to know. It should have been told to
him before, if it was as he suspected. Leaden with fear, his mother
watched him. Words dropped mechanically from her lips. A tattered lace
handkerchief twitched in her fingers. When the clock struck six, he got
up and went to the door. Then he turned back and looked at her. Their
eyes met. In hers he saw a wild appeal for mercy. It enraged him.

“Mother, I have something to ask you,” he said. Her eyes wandered
vaguely about the room. She made no answer. “Tell me the truth. I have
a right to know. Were you married to my father?”

She heaved a deep sigh. It was a sigh of relief. The terrible moment,
the moment that night and day, for weeks and months, she had dreaded,
had come at last, and yet she felt no terror. Indeed, in some measure
it was a disappointment to her. The vulgar directness of the question
called for a direct answer. The situation had not been gradually led up
to. It was crude. It reminded her of a bad rehearsal.

“No,” she answered, wondering at the harsh simplicity of life.

“My father was a scoundrel then!” cried the lad, clenching his fists.

She shook her head. “I knew he was not free. We loved each other very
much. If he had lived, he would have made provision for us. Don’t speak
against him, my son. He was your father, and a gentleman. Indeed, he
was highly connected.”

An oath broke from his lips. “I don’t care for myself,” he exclaimed,
“but don’t let Sibyl.... It is a gentleman, isn’t it, who is in love
with her, or says he is? Highly connected, too, I suppose.”

For a moment a hideous sense of humiliation came over the woman. Her
head drooped. She wiped her eyes with shaking hands. “Sibyl has a
mother,” she murmured; “I had none.”

The lad was touched. He went towards her, and stooping down, he kissed
her. “I am sorry if I have pained you by asking about my father,” he
said, “but I could not help it. I must go now. Good-bye. Don’t forget
that you will have only one child now to look after, and believe me
that if this man wrongs my sister, I will find out who he is, track him
down, and kill him like a dog. I swear it.”

The exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that
accompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid
to her. She was familiar with the atmosphere. She breathed more freely,
and for the first time for many months she really admired her son. She
would have liked to have continued the scene on the same emotional
scale, but he cut her short. Trunks had to be carried down and mufflers
looked for. The lodging-house drudge bustled in and out. There was the
bargaining with the cabman. The moment was lost in vulgar details. It
was with a renewed feeling of disappointment that she waved the
tattered lace handkerchief from the window, as her son drove away. She
was conscious that a great opportunity had been wasted. She consoled
herself by telling Sibyl how desolate she felt her life would be, now
that she had only one child to look after. She remembered the phrase.
It had pleased her. Of the threat she said nothing. It was vividly and
dramatically expressed. She felt that they would all laugh at it some
day.




CHAPTER VI.


“I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?” said Lord Henry that
evening as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol
where dinner had been laid for three.

“No, Harry,” answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the bowing
waiter. “What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope! They don’t
interest me. There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons
worth painting, though many of them would be the better for a little
whitewashing.”

“Dorian Gray is engaged to be married,” said Lord Henry, watching him
as he spoke.

Hallward started and then frowned. “Dorian engaged to be married!” he
cried. “Impossible!”

“It is perfectly true.”

“To whom?”

“To some little actress or other.”

“I can’t believe it. Dorian is far too sensible.”

“Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear
Basil.”

“Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry.”

“Except in America,” rejoined Lord Henry languidly. “But I didn’t say
he was married. I said he was engaged to be married. There is a great
difference. I have a distinct remembrance of being married, but I have
no recollection at all of being engaged. I am inclined to think that I
never was engaged.”

“But think of Dorian’s birth, and position, and wealth. It would be
absurd for him to marry so much beneath him.”

“If you want to make him marry this girl, tell him that, Basil. He is
sure to do it, then. Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it
is always from the noblest motives.”

“I hope the girl is good, Harry. I don’t want to see Dorian tied to
some vile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his
intellect.”

“Oh, she is better than good—she is beautiful,” murmured Lord Henry,
sipping a glass of vermouth and orange-bitters. “Dorian says she is
beautiful, and he is not often wrong about things of that kind. Your
portrait of him has quickened his appreciation of the personal
appearance of other people. It has had that excellent effect, amongst
others. We are to see her to-night, if that boy doesn’t forget his
appointment.”

“Are you serious?”

“Quite serious, Basil. I should be miserable if I thought I should ever
be more serious than I am at the present moment.”

“But do you approve of it, Harry?” asked the painter, walking up and
down the room and biting his lip. “You can’t approve of it, possibly.
It is some silly infatuation.”

“I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now. It is an absurd
attitude to take towards life. We are not sent into the world to air
our moral prejudices. I never take any notice of what common people
say, and I never interfere with what charming people do. If a
personality fascinates me, whatever mode of expression that personality
selects is absolutely delightful to me. Dorian Gray falls in love with
a beautiful girl who acts Juliet, and proposes to marry her. Why not?
If he wedded Messalina, he would be none the less interesting. You know
I am not a champion of marriage. The real drawback to marriage is that
it makes one unselfish. And unselfish people are colourless. They lack
individuality. Still, there are certain temperaments that marriage
makes more complex. They retain their egotism, and add to it many other
egos. They are forced to have more than one life. They become more
highly organized, and to be highly organized is, I should fancy, the
object of man’s existence. Besides, every experience is of value, and
whatever one may say against marriage, it is certainly an experience. I
hope that Dorian Gray will make this girl his wife, passionately adore
her for six months, and then suddenly become fascinated by some one
else. He would be a wonderful study.”

“You don’t mean a single word of all that, Harry; you know you don’t.
If Dorian Gray’s life were spoiled, no one would be sorrier than
yourself. You are much better than you pretend to be.”

Lord Henry laughed. “The reason we all like to think so well of others
is that we are all afraid for ourselves. The basis of optimism is sheer
terror. We think that we are generous because we credit our neighbour
with the possession of those virtues that are likely to be a benefit to
us. We praise the banker that we may overdraw our account, and find
good qualities in the highwayman in the hope that he may spare our
pockets. I mean everything that I have said. I have the greatest
contempt for optimism. As for a spoiled life, no life is spoiled but
one whose growth is arrested. If you want to mar a nature, you have
merely to reform it. As for marriage, of course that would be silly,
but there are other and more interesting bonds between men and women. I
will certainly encourage them. They have the charm of being
fashionable. But here is Dorian himself. He will tell you more than I
can.”

“My dear Harry, my dear Basil, you must both congratulate me!” said the
lad, throwing off his evening cape with its satin-lined wings and
shaking each of his friends by the hand in turn. “I have never been so
happy. Of course, it is sudden—all really delightful things are. And
yet it seems to me to be the one thing I have been looking for all my
life.” He was flushed with excitement and pleasure, and looked
extraordinarily handsome.

“I hope you will always be very happy, Dorian,” said Hallward, “but I
don’t quite forgive you for not having let me know of your engagement.
You let Harry know.”

“And I don’t forgive you for being late for dinner,” broke in Lord
Henry, putting his hand on the lad’s shoulder and smiling as he spoke.
“Come, let us sit down and try what the new _chef_ here is like, and
then you will tell us how it all came about.”

“There is really not much to tell,” cried Dorian as they took their
seats at the small round table. “What happened was simply this. After I
left you yesterday evening, Harry, I dressed, had some dinner at that
little Italian restaurant in Rupert Street you introduced me to, and
went down at eight o’clock to the theatre. Sibyl was playing Rosalind.
Of course, the scenery was dreadful and the Orlando absurd. But Sibyl!
You should have seen her! When she came on in her boy’s clothes, she
was perfectly wonderful. She wore a moss-coloured velvet jerkin with
cinnamon sleeves, slim, brown, cross-gartered hose, a dainty little
green cap with a hawk’s feather caught in a jewel, and a hooded cloak
lined with dull red. She had never seemed to me more exquisite. She had
all the delicate grace of that Tanagra figurine that you have in your
studio, Basil. Her hair clustered round her face like dark leaves round
a pale rose. As for her acting—well, you shall see her to-night. She is
simply a born artist. I sat in the dingy box absolutely enthralled. I
forgot that I was in London and in the nineteenth century. I was away
with my love in a forest that no man had ever seen. After the
performance was over, I went behind and spoke to her. As we were
sitting together, suddenly there came into her eyes a look that I had
never seen there before. My lips moved towards hers. We kissed each
other. I can’t describe to you what I felt at that moment. It seemed to
me that all my life had been narrowed to one perfect point of
rose-coloured joy. She trembled all over and shook like a white
narcissus. Then she flung herself on her knees and kissed my hands. I
feel that I should not tell you all this, but I can’t help it. Of
course, our engagement is a dead secret. She has not even told her own
mother. I don’t know what my guardians will say. Lord Radley is sure to
be furious. I don’t care. I shall be of age in less than a year, and
then I can do what I like. I have been right, Basil, haven’t I, to take
my love out of poetry and to find my wife in Shakespeare’s plays? Lips
that Shakespeare taught to speak have whispered their secret in my ear.
I have had the arms of Rosalind around me, and kissed Juliet on the
mouth.”

“Yes, Dorian, I suppose you were right,” said Hallward slowly.

“Have you seen her to-day?” asked Lord Henry.

Dorian Gray shook his head. “I left her in the forest of Arden; I shall
find her in an orchard in Verona.”

Lord Henry sipped his champagne in a meditative manner. “At what
particular point did you mention the word marriage, Dorian? And what
did she say in answer? Perhaps you forgot all about it.”

“My dear Harry, I did not treat it as a business transaction, and I did
not make any formal proposal. I told her that I loved her, and she said
she was not worthy to be my wife. Not worthy! Why, the whole world is
nothing to me compared with her.”

“Women are wonderfully practical,” murmured Lord Henry, “much more
practical than we are. In situations of that kind we often forget to
say anything about marriage, and they always remind us.”

Hallward laid his hand upon his arm. “Don’t, Harry. You have annoyed
Dorian. He is not like other men. He would never bring misery upon any
one. His nature is too fine for that.”

Lord Henry looked across the table. “Dorian is never annoyed with me,”
he answered. “I asked the question for the best reason possible, for
the only reason, indeed, that excuses one for asking any
question—simple curiosity. I have a theory that it is always the women
who propose to us, and not we who propose to the women. Except, of
course, in middle-class life. But then the middle classes are not
modern.”

Dorian Gray laughed, and tossed his head. “You are quite incorrigible,
Harry; but I don’t mind. It is impossible to be angry with you. When
you see Sibyl Vane, you will feel that the man who could wrong her
would be a beast, a beast without a heart. I cannot understand how any
one can wish to shame the thing he loves. I love Sibyl Vane. I want to
place her on a pedestal of gold and to see the world worship the woman
who is mine. What is marriage? An irrevocable vow. You mock at it for
that. Ah! don’t mock. It is an irrevocable vow that I want to take. Her
trust makes me faithful, her belief makes me good. When I am with her,
I regret all that you have taught me. I become different from what you
have known me to be. I am changed, and the mere touch of Sibyl Vane’s
hand makes me forget you and all your wrong, fascinating, poisonous,
delightful theories.”

“And those are ...?” asked Lord Henry, helping himself to some salad.

“Oh, your theories about life, your theories about love, your theories
about pleasure. All your theories, in fact, Harry.”

“Pleasure is the only thing worth having a theory about,” he answered
in his slow melodious voice. “But I am afraid I cannot claim my theory
as my own. It belongs to Nature, not to me. Pleasure is Nature’s test,
her sign of approval. When we are happy, we are always good, but when
we are good, we are not always happy.”

“Ah! but what do you mean by good?” cried Basil Hallward.

“Yes,” echoed Dorian, leaning back in his chair and looking at Lord
Henry over the heavy clusters of purple-lipped irises that stood in the
centre of the table, “what do you mean by good, Harry?”

“To be good is to be in harmony with one’s self,” he replied, touching
the thin stem of his glass with his pale, fine-pointed fingers.
“Discord is to be forced to be in harmony with others. One’s own
life—that is the important thing. As for the lives of one’s neighbours,
if one wishes to be a prig or a Puritan, one can flaunt one’s moral
views about them, but they are not one’s concern. Besides,
individualism has really the higher aim. Modern morality consists in
accepting the standard of one’s age. I consider that for any man of
culture to accept the standard of his age is a form of the grossest
immorality.”

“But, surely, if one lives merely for one’s self, Harry, one pays a
terrible price for doing so?” suggested the painter.

“Yes, we are overcharged for everything nowadays. I should fancy that
the real tragedy of the poor is that they can afford nothing but
self-denial. Beautiful sins, like beautiful things, are the privilege
of the rich.”

“One has to pay in other ways but money.”

“What sort of ways, Basil?”

“Oh! I should fancy in remorse, in suffering, in ... well, in the
consciousness of degradation.”

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “My dear fellow, mediæval art is
charming, but mediæval emotions are out of date. One can use them in
fiction, of course. But then the only things that one can use in
fiction are the things that one has ceased to use in fact. Believe me,
no civilized man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilized man ever
knows what a pleasure is.”

“I know what pleasure is,” cried Dorian Gray. “It is to adore some
one.”

“That is certainly better than being adored,” he answered, toying with
some fruits. “Being adored is a nuisance. Women treat us just as
humanity treats its gods. They worship us, and are always bothering us
to do something for them.”

“I should have said that whatever they ask for they had first given to
us,” murmured the lad gravely. “They create love in our natures. They
have a right to demand it back.”

“That is quite true, Dorian,” cried Hallward.

“Nothing is ever quite true,” said Lord Henry.

“This is,” interrupted Dorian. “You must admit, Harry, that women give
to men the very gold of their lives.”

“Possibly,” he sighed, “but they invariably want it back in such very
small change. That is the worry. Women, as some witty Frenchman once
put it, inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces and always
prevent us from carrying them out.”

“Harry, you are dreadful! I don’t know why I like you so much.”

“You will always like me, Dorian,” he replied. “Will you have some
coffee, you fellows? Waiter, bring coffee, and _fine-champagne_, and
some cigarettes. No, don’t mind the cigarettes—I have some. Basil, I
can’t allow you to smoke cigars. You must have a cigarette. A cigarette
is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it
leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want? Yes, Dorian, you will
always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you have never
had the courage to commit.”

“What nonsense you talk, Harry!” cried the lad, taking a light from a
fire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placed on the table.
“Let us go down to the theatre. When Sibyl comes on the stage you will
have a new ideal of life. She will represent something to you that you
have never known.”

“I have known everything,” said Lord Henry, with a tired look in his
eyes, “but I am always ready for a new emotion. I am afraid, however,
that, for me at any rate, there is no such thing. Still, your wonderful
girl may thrill me. I love acting. It is so much more real than life.
Let us go. Dorian, you will come with me. I am so sorry, Basil, but
there is only room for two in the brougham. You must follow us in a
hansom.”

They got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing. The
painter was silent and preoccupied. There was a gloom over him. He
could not bear this marriage, and yet it seemed to him to be better
than many other things that might have happened. After a few minutes,
they all passed downstairs. He drove off by himself, as had been
arranged, and watched the flashing lights of the little brougham in
front of him. A strange sense of loss came over him. He felt that
Dorian Gray would never again be to him all that he had been in the
past. Life had come between them.... His eyes darkened, and the crowded
flaring streets became blurred to his eyes. When the cab drew up at the
theatre, it seemed to him that he had grown years older.




CHAPTER VII.


For some reason or other, the house was crowded that night, and the fat
Jew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear with
an oily tremulous smile. He escorted them to their box with a sort of
pompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands and talking at the top
of his voice. Dorian Gray loathed him more than ever. He felt as if he
had come to look for Miranda and had been met by Caliban. Lord Henry,
upon the other hand, rather liked him. At least he declared he did, and
insisted on shaking him by the hand and assuring him that he was proud
to meet a man who had discovered a real genius and gone bankrupt over a
poet. Hallward amused himself with watching the faces in the pit. The
heat was terribly oppressive, and the huge sunlight flamed like a
monstrous dahlia with petals of yellow fire. The youths in the gallery
had taken off their coats and waistcoats and hung them over the side.
They talked to each other across the theatre and shared their oranges
with the tawdry girls who sat beside them. Some women were laughing in
the pit. Their voices were horribly shrill and discordant. The sound of
the popping of corks came from the bar.

“What a place to find one’s divinity in!” said Lord Henry.

“Yes!” answered Dorian Gray. “It was here I found her, and she is
divine beyond all living things. When she acts, you will forget
everything. These common rough people, with their coarse faces and
brutal gestures, become quite different when she is on the stage. They
sit silently and watch her. They weep and laugh as she wills them to
do. She makes them as responsive as a violin. She spiritualizes them,
and one feels that they are of the same flesh and blood as one’s self.”

“The same flesh and blood as one’s self! Oh, I hope not!” exclaimed
Lord Henry, who was scanning the occupants of the gallery through his
opera-glass.

“Don’t pay any attention to him, Dorian,” said the painter. “I
understand what you mean, and I believe in this girl. Any one you love
must be marvellous, and any girl who has the effect you describe must
be fine and noble. To spiritualize one’s age—that is something worth
doing. If this girl can give a soul to those who have lived without
one, if she can create the sense of beauty in people whose lives have
been sordid and ugly, if she can strip them of their selfishness and
lend them tears for sorrows that are not their own, she is worthy of
all your adoration, worthy of the adoration of the world. This marriage
is quite right. I did not think so at first, but I admit it now. The
gods made Sibyl Vane for you. Without her you would have been
incomplete.”

“Thanks, Basil,” answered Dorian Gray, pressing his hand. “I knew that
you would understand me. Harry is so cynical, he terrifies me. But here
is the orchestra. It is quite dreadful, but it only lasts for about
five minutes. Then the curtain rises, and you will see the girl to whom
I am going to give all my life, to whom I have given everything that is
good in me.”

A quarter of an hour afterwards, amidst an extraordinary turmoil of
applause, Sibyl Vane stepped on to the stage. Yes, she was certainly
lovely to look at—one of the loveliest creatures, Lord Henry thought,
that he had ever seen. There was something of the fawn in her shy grace
and startled eyes. A faint blush, like the shadow of a rose in a mirror
of silver, came to her cheeks as she glanced at the crowded
enthusiastic house. She stepped back a few paces and her lips seemed to
tremble. Basil Hallward leaped to his feet and began to applaud.
Motionless, and as one in a dream, sat Dorian Gray, gazing at her. Lord
Henry peered through his glasses, murmuring, “Charming! charming!”

The scene was the hall of Capulet’s house, and Romeo in his pilgrim’s
dress had entered with Mercutio and his other friends. The band, such
as it was, struck up a few bars of music, and the dance began. Through
the crowd of ungainly, shabbily dressed actors, Sibyl Vane moved like a
creature from a finer world. Her body swayed, while she danced, as a
plant sways in the water. The curves of her throat were the curves of a
white lily. Her hands seemed to be made of cool ivory.

Yet she was curiously listless. She showed no sign of joy when her eyes
rested on Romeo. The few words she had to speak—

Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
    Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,
    And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss—


with the brief dialogue that follows, were spoken in a thoroughly
artificial manner. The voice was exquisite, but from the point of view
of tone it was absolutely false. It was wrong in colour. It took away
all the life from the verse. It made the passion unreal.

Dorian Gray grew pale as he watched her. He was puzzled and anxious.
Neither of his friends dared to say anything to him. She seemed to them
to be absolutely incompetent. They were horribly disappointed.

Yet they felt that the true test of any Juliet is the balcony scene of
the second act. They waited for that. If she failed there, there was
nothing in her.

She looked charming as she came out in the moonlight. That could not be
denied. But the staginess of her acting was unbearable, and grew worse
as she went on. Her gestures became absurdly artificial. She
overemphasized everything that she had to say. The beautiful passage—

Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face,
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night—


was declaimed with the painful precision of a schoolgirl who has been
taught to recite by some second-rate professor of elocution. When she
leaned over the balcony and came to those wonderful lines—

Although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contract to-night:
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
Ere one can say, “It lightens.” Sweet, good-night!
This bud of love by summer’s ripening breath
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet—


she spoke the words as though they conveyed no meaning to her. It was
not nervousness. Indeed, so far from being nervous, she was absolutely
self-contained. It was simply bad art. She was a complete failure.

Even the common uneducated audience of the pit and gallery lost their
interest in the play. They got restless, and began to talk loudly and
to whistle. The Jew manager, who was standing at the back of the
dress-circle, stamped and swore with rage. The only person unmoved was
the girl herself.

When the second act was over, there came a storm of hisses, and Lord
Henry got up from his chair and put on his coat. “She is quite
beautiful, Dorian,” he said, “but she can’t act. Let us go.”

“I am going to see the play through,” answered the lad, in a hard
bitter voice. “I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste an
evening, Harry. I apologize to you both.”

“My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill,” interrupted
Hallward. “We will come some other night.”

“I wish she were ill,” he rejoined. “But she seems to me to be simply
callous and cold. She has entirely altered. Last night she was a great
artist. This evening she is merely a commonplace mediocre actress.”

“Don’t talk like that about any one you love, Dorian. Love is a more
wonderful thing than art.”

“They are both simply forms of imitation,” remarked Lord Henry. “But do
let us go. Dorian, you must not stay here any longer. It is not good
for one’s morals to see bad acting. Besides, I don’t suppose you will
want your wife to act, so what does it matter if she plays Juliet like
a wooden doll? She is very lovely, and if she knows as little about
life as she does about acting, she will be a delightful experience.
There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating—people
who know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing.
Good heavens, my dear boy, don’t look so tragic! The secret of
remaining young is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming. Come to
the club with Basil and myself. We will smoke cigarettes and drink to
the beauty of Sibyl Vane. She is beautiful. What more can you want?”

“Go away, Harry,” cried the lad. “I want to be alone. Basil, you must
go. Ah! can’t you see that my heart is breaking?” The hot tears came to
his eyes. His lips trembled, and rushing to the back of the box, he
leaned up against the wall, hiding his face in his hands.

“Let us go, Basil,” said Lord Henry with a strange tenderness in his
voice, and the two young men passed out together.

A few moments afterwards the footlights flared up and the curtain rose
on the third act. Dorian Gray went back to his seat. He looked pale,
and proud, and indifferent. The play dragged on, and seemed
interminable. Half of the audience went out, tramping in heavy boots
and laughing. The whole thing was a _fiasco_. The last act was played
to almost empty benches. The curtain went down on a titter and some
groans.

As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into the
greenroom. The girl was standing there alone, with a look of triumph on
her face. Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire. There was a
radiance about her. Her parted lips were smiling over some secret of
their own.

When he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy
came over her. “How badly I acted to-night, Dorian!” she cried.

“Horribly!” he answered, gazing at her in amazement. “Horribly! It was
dreadful. Are you ill? You have no idea what it was. You have no idea
what I suffered.”

The girl smiled. “Dorian,” she answered, lingering over his name with
long-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey to
the red petals of her mouth. “Dorian, you should have understood. But
you understand now, don’t you?”

“Understand what?” he asked, angrily.

“Why I was so bad to-night. Why I shall always be bad. Why I shall
never act well again.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “You are ill, I suppose. When you are ill
you shouldn’t act. You make yourself ridiculous. My friends were bored.
I was bored.”

She seemed not to listen to him. She was transfigured with joy. An
ecstasy of happiness dominated her.

“Dorian, Dorian,” she cried, “before I knew you, acting was the one
reality of my life. It was only in the theatre that I lived. I thought
that it was all true. I was Rosalind one night and Portia the other.
The joy of Beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of Cordelia were mine
also. I believed in everything. The common people who acted with me
seemed to me to be godlike. The painted scenes were my world. I knew
nothing but shadows, and I thought them real. You came—oh, my beautiful
love!—and you freed my soul from prison. You taught me what reality
really is. To-night, for the first time in my life, I saw through the
hollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant in which I had
always played. To-night, for the first time, I became conscious that
the Romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the moonlight in the
orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and that the words I
had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not what I wanted to
say. You had brought me something higher, something of which all art is
but a reflection. You had made me understand what love really is. My
love! My love! Prince Charming! Prince of life! I have grown sick of
shadows. You are more to me than all art can ever be. What have I to do
with the puppets of a play? When I came on to-night, I could not
understand how it was that everything had gone from me. I thought that
I was going to be wonderful. I found that I could do nothing. Suddenly
it dawned on my soul what it all meant. The knowledge was exquisite to
me. I heard them hissing, and I smiled. What could they know of love
such as ours? Take me away, Dorian—take me away with you, where we can
be quite alone. I hate the stage. I might mimic a passion that I do not
feel, but I cannot mimic one that burns me like fire. Oh, Dorian,
Dorian, you understand now what it signifies? Even if I could do it, it
would be profanation for me to play at being in love. You have made me
see that.”

He flung himself down on the sofa and turned away his face. “You have
killed my love,” he muttered.

She looked at him in wonder and laughed. He made no answer. She came
across to him, and with her little fingers stroked his hair. She knelt
down and pressed his hands to her lips. He drew them away, and a
shudder ran through him.

Then he leaped up and went to the door. “Yes,” he cried, “you have
killed my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don’t even
stir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because
you were marvellous, because you had genius and intellect, because you
realized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the
shadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and
stupid. My God! how mad I was to love you! What a fool I have been! You
are nothing to me now. I will never see you again. I will never think
of you. I will never mention your name. You don’t know what you were to
me, once. Why, once ... Oh, I can’t bear to think of it! I wish I had
never laid eyes upon you! You have spoiled the romance of my life. How
little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art! Without your
art, you are nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid,
magnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and you would have
borne my name. What are you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty
face.”

The girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together, and
her voice seemed to catch in her throat. “You are not serious, Dorian?”
she murmured. “You are acting.”

“Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well,” he answered bitterly.

She rose from her knees and, with a piteous expression of pain in her
face, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm and
looked into his eyes. He thrust her back. “Don’t touch me!” he cried.

A low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet and lay
there like a trampled flower. “Dorian, Dorian, don’t leave me!” she
whispered. “I am so sorry I didn’t act well. I was thinking of you all
the time. But I will try—indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly across
me, my love for you. I think I should never have known it if you had
not kissed me—if we had not kissed each other. Kiss me again, my love.
Don’t go away from me. I couldn’t bear it. Oh! don’t go away from me.
My brother ... No; never mind. He didn’t mean it. He was in jest....
But you, oh! can’t you forgive me for to-night? I will work so hard and
try to improve. Don’t be cruel to me, because I love you better than
anything in the world. After all, it is only once that I have not
pleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should have shown
myself more of an artist. It was foolish of me, and yet I couldn’t help
it. Oh, don’t leave me, don’t leave me.” A fit of passionate sobbing
choked her. She crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian
Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled
lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculous
about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane
seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed
him.

“I am going,” he said at last in his calm clear voice. “I don’t wish to
be unkind, but I can’t see you again. You have disappointed me.”

She wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer. Her little
hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. He
turned on his heel and left the room. In a few moments he was out of
the theatre.

Where he went to he hardly knew. He remembered wandering through dimly
lit streets, past gaunt, black-shadowed archways and evil-looking
houses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after
him. Drunkards had reeled by, cursing and chattering to themselves like
monstrous apes. He had seen grotesque children huddled upon door-steps,
and heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts.

As the dawn was just breaking, he found himself close to Covent Garden.
The darkness lifted, and, flushed with faint fires, the sky hollowed
itself into a perfect pearl. Huge carts filled with nodding lilies
rumbled slowly down the polished empty street. The air was heavy with
the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an
anodyne for his pain. He followed into the market and watched the men
unloading their waggons. A white-smocked carter offered him some
cherries. He thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money
for them, and began to eat them listlessly. They had been plucked at
midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long
line of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red
roses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge,
jade-green piles of vegetables. Under the portico, with its grey,
sun-bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls,
waiting for the auction to be over. Others crowded round the swinging
doors of the coffee-house in the piazza. The heavy cart-horses slipped
and stamped upon the rough stones, shaking their bells and trappings.
Some of the drivers were lying asleep on a pile of sacks. Iris-necked
and pink-footed, the pigeons ran about picking up seeds.

After a little while, he hailed a hansom and drove home. For a few
moments he loitered upon the doorstep, looking round at the silent
square, with its blank, close-shuttered windows and its staring blinds.
The sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened like
silver against it. From some chimney opposite a thin wreath of smoke
was rising. It curled, a violet riband, through the nacre-coloured air.

In the huge gilt Venetian lantern, spoil of some Doge’s barge, that
hung from the ceiling of the great, oak-panelled hall of entrance,
lights were still burning from three flickering jets: thin blue petals
of flame they seemed, rimmed with white fire. He turned them out and,
having thrown his hat and cape on the table, passed through the library
towards the door of his bedroom, a large octagonal chamber on the
ground floor that, in his new-born feeling for luxury, he had just had
decorated for himself and hung with some curious Renaissance tapestries
that had been discovered stored in a disused attic at Selby Royal. As
he was turning the handle of the door, his eye fell upon the portrait
Basil Hallward had painted of him. He started back as if in surprise.
Then he went on into his own room, looking somewhat puzzled. After he
had taken the button-hole out of his coat, he seemed to hesitate.
Finally, he came back, went over to the picture, and examined it. In
the dim arrested light that struggled through the cream-coloured silk
blinds, the face appeared to him to be a little changed. The expression
looked different. One would have said that there was a touch of cruelty
in the mouth. It was certainly strange.

He turned round and, walking to the window, drew up the blind. The
bright dawn flooded the room and swept the fantastic shadows into dusky
corners, where they lay shuddering. But the strange expression that he
had noticed in the face of the portrait seemed to linger there, to be
more intensified even. The quivering ardent sunlight showed him the
lines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking
into a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing.

He winced and, taking up from the table an oval glass framed in ivory
Cupids, one of Lord Henry’s many presents to him, glanced hurriedly
into its polished depths. No line like that warped his red lips. What
did it mean?

He rubbed his eyes, and came close to the picture, and examined it
again. There were no signs of any change when he looked into the actual
painting, and yet there was no doubt that the whole expression had
altered. It was not a mere fancy of his own. The thing was horribly
apparent.

He threw himself into a chair and began to think. Suddenly there
flashed across his mind what he had said in Basil Hallward’s studio the
day the picture had been finished. Yes, he remembered it perfectly. He
had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the
portrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the
face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that
the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and
thought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness
of his then just conscious boyhood. Surely his wish had not been
fulfilled? Such things were impossible. It seemed monstrous even to
think of them. And, yet, there was the picture before him, with the
touch of cruelty in the mouth.

Cruelty! Had he been cruel? It was the girl’s fault, not his. He had
dreamed of her as a great artist, had given his love to her because he
had thought her great. Then she had disappointed him. She had been
shallow and unworthy. And, yet, a feeling of infinite regret came over
him, as he thought of her lying at his feet sobbing like a little
child. He remembered with what callousness he had watched her. Why had
he been made like that? Why had such a soul been given to him? But he
had suffered also. During the three terrible hours that the play had
lasted, he had lived centuries of pain, aeon upon aeon of torture. His
life was well worth hers. She had marred him for a moment, if he had
wounded her for an age. Besides, women were better suited to bear
sorrow than men. They lived on their emotions. They only thought of
their emotions. When they took lovers, it was merely to have some one
with whom they could have scenes. Lord Henry had told him that, and
Lord Henry knew what women were. Why should he trouble about Sibyl
Vane? She was nothing to him now.

But the picture? What was he to say of that? It held the secret of his
life, and told his story. It had taught him to love his own beauty.
Would it teach him to loathe his own soul? Would he ever look at it
again?

No; it was merely an illusion wrought on the troubled senses. The
horrible night that he had passed had left phantoms behind it. Suddenly
there had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that makes men
mad. The picture had not changed. It was folly to think so.

Yet it was watching him, with its beautiful marred face and its cruel
smile. Its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight. Its blue eyes met
his own. A sense of infinite pity, not for himself, but for the painted
image of himself, came over him. It had altered already, and would
alter more. Its gold would wither into grey. Its red and white roses
would die. For every sin that he committed, a stain would fleck and
wreck its fairness. But he would not sin. The picture, changed or
unchanged, would be to him the visible emblem of conscience. He would
resist temptation. He would not see Lord Henry any more—would not, at
any rate, listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in Basil
Hallward’s garden had first stirred within him the passion for
impossible things. He would go back to Sibyl Vane, make her amends,
marry her, try to love her again. Yes, it was his duty to do so. She
must have suffered more than he had. Poor child! He had been selfish
and cruel to her. The fascination that she had exercised over him would
return. They would be happy together. His life with her would be
beautiful and pure.

He got up from his chair and drew a large screen right in front of the
portrait, shuddering as he glanced at it. “How horrible!” he murmured
to himself, and he walked across to the window and opened it. When he
stepped out on to the grass, he drew a deep breath. The fresh morning
air seemed to drive away all his sombre passions. He thought only of
Sibyl. A faint echo of his love came back to him. He repeated her name
over and over again. The birds that were singing in the dew-drenched
garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her.




CHAPTER VIII.


It was long past noon when he awoke. His valet had crept several times
on tiptoe into the room to see if he was stirring, and had wondered
what made his young master sleep so late. Finally his bell sounded, and
Victor came in softly with a cup of tea, and a pile of letters, on a
small tray of old Sevres china, and drew back the olive-satin curtains,
with their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of the three tall
windows.

“Monsieur has well slept this morning,” he said, smiling.

“What o’clock is it, Victor?” asked Dorian Gray drowsily.

“One hour and a quarter, Monsieur.”

How late it was! He sat up, and having sipped some tea, turned over his
letters. One of them was from Lord Henry, and had been brought by hand
that morning. He hesitated for a moment, and then put it aside. The
others he opened listlessly. They contained the usual collection of
cards, invitations to dinner, tickets for private views, programmes of
charity concerts, and the like that are showered on fashionable young
men every morning during the season. There was a rather heavy bill for
a chased silver Louis-Quinze toilet-set that he had not yet had the
courage to send on to his guardians, who were extremely old-fashioned
people and did not realize that we live in an age when unnecessary
things are our only necessities; and there were several very
courteously worded communications from Jermyn Street money-lenders
offering to advance any sum of money at a moment’s notice and at the
most reasonable rates of interest.

After about ten minutes he got up, and throwing on an elaborate
dressing-gown of silk-embroidered cashmere wool, passed into the
onyx-paved bathroom. The cool water refreshed him after his long sleep.
He seemed to have forgotten all that he had gone through. A dim sense
of having taken part in some strange tragedy came to him once or twice,
but there was the unreality of a dream about it.

As soon as he was dressed, he went into the library and sat down to a
light French breakfast that had been laid out for him on a small round
table close to the open window. It was an exquisite day. The warm air
seemed laden with spices. A bee flew in and buzzed round the
blue-dragon bowl that, filled with sulphur-yellow roses, stood before
him. He felt perfectly happy.

Suddenly his eye fell on the screen that he had placed in front of the
portrait, and he started.

“Too cold for Monsieur?” asked his valet, putting an omelette on the
table. “I shut the window?”

Dorian shook his head. “I am not cold,” he murmured.

Was it all true? Had the portrait really changed? Or had it been simply
his own imagination that had made him see a look of evil where there
had been a look of joy? Surely a painted canvas could not alter? The
thing was absurd. It would serve as a tale to tell Basil some day. It
would make him smile.

And, yet, how vivid was his recollection of the whole thing! First in
the dim twilight, and then in the bright dawn, he had seen the touch of
cruelty round the warped lips. He almost dreaded his valet leaving the
room. He knew that when he was alone he would have to examine the
portrait. He was afraid of certainty. When the coffee and cigarettes
had been brought and the man turned to go, he felt a wild desire to
tell him to remain. As the door was closing behind him, he called him
back. The man stood waiting for his orders. Dorian looked at him for a
moment. “I am not at home to any one, Victor,” he said with a sigh. The
man bowed and retired.

Then he rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on
a luxuriously cushioned couch that stood facing the screen. The screen
was an old one, of gilt Spanish leather, stamped and wrought with a
rather florid Louis-Quatorze pattern. He scanned it curiously,
wondering if ever before it had concealed the secret of a man’s life.

Should he move it aside, after all? Why not let it stay there? What was
the use of knowing? If the thing was true, it was terrible. If it was
not true, why trouble about it? But what if, by some fate or deadlier
chance, eyes other than his spied behind and saw the horrible change?
What should he do if Basil Hallward came and asked to look at his own
picture? Basil would be sure to do that. No; the thing had to be
examined, and at once. Anything would be better than this dreadful
state of doubt.

He got up and locked both doors. At least he would be alone when he
looked upon the mask of his shame. Then he drew the screen aside and
saw himself face to face. It was perfectly true. The portrait had
altered.

As he often remembered afterwards, and always with no small wonder, he
found himself at first gazing at the portrait with a feeling of almost
scientific interest. That such a change should have taken place was
incredible to him. And yet it was a fact. Was there some subtle
affinity between the chemical atoms that shaped themselves into form
and colour on the canvas and the soul that was within him? Could it be
that what that soul thought, they realized?—that what it dreamed, they
made true? Or was there some other, more terrible reason? He shuddered,
and felt afraid, and, going back to the couch, lay there, gazing at the
picture in sickened horror.

One thing, however, he felt that it had done for him. It had made him
conscious how unjust, how cruel, he had been to Sibyl Vane. It was not
too late to make reparation for that. She could still be his wife. His
unreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would be
transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil
Hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would
be to him what holiness is to some, and conscience to others, and the
fear of God to us all. There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could
lull the moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol of the
degradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men
brought upon their souls.

Three o’clock struck, and four, and the half-hour rang its double
chime, but Dorian Gray did not stir. He was trying to gather up the
scarlet threads of life and to weave them into a pattern; to find his
way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was
wandering. He did not know what to do, or what to think. Finally, he
went over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had
loved, imploring her forgiveness and accusing himself of madness. He
covered page after page with wild words of sorrow and wilder words of
pain. There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we
feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession,
not the priest, that gives us absolution. When Dorian had finished the
letter, he felt that he had been forgiven.

Suddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard Lord Henry’s
voice outside. “My dear boy, I must see you. Let me in at once. I can’t
bear your shutting yourself up like this.”

He made no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knocking
still continued and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry
in, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel
with him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was
inevitable. He jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture,
and unlocked the door.

“I am so sorry for it all, Dorian,” said Lord Henry as he entered. “But
you must not think too much about it.”

“Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?” asked the lad.

“Yes, of course,” answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair and slowly
pulling off his yellow gloves. “It is dreadful, from one point of view,
but it was not your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and see her,
after the play was over?”

“Yes.”

“I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?”

“I was brutal, Harry—perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am
not sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know
myself better.”

“Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would
find you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair of yours.”

“I have got through all that,” said Dorian, shaking his head and
smiling. “I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin
with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in
us. Don’t sneer at it, Harry, any more—at least not before me. I want
to be good. I can’t bear the idea of my soul being hideous.”

“A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you
on it. But how are you going to begin?”

“By marrying Sibyl Vane.”

“Marrying Sibyl Vane!” cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him
in perplexed amazement. “But, my dear Dorian—”

“Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about
marriage. Don’t say it. Don’t ever say things of that kind to me again.
Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word
to her. She is to be my wife.”

“Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn’t you get my letter? I wrote to you this
morning, and sent the note down by my own man.”

“Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was
afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn’t like. You cut
life to pieces with your epigrams.”

“You know nothing then?”

“What do you mean?”

Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray,
took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. “Dorian,” he
said, “my letter—don’t be frightened—was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is
dead.”

A cry of pain broke from the lad’s lips, and he leaped to his feet,
tearing his hands away from Lord Henry’s grasp. “Dead! Sibyl dead! It
is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?”

“It is quite true, Dorian,” said Lord Henry, gravely. “It is in all the
morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till
I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not
be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris.
But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make
one’s _début_ with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an
interest to one’s old age. I suppose they don’t know your name at the
theatre? If they don’t, it is all right. Did any one see you going
round to her room? That is an important point.”

Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror.
Finally he stammered, in a stifled voice, “Harry, did you say an
inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl—? Oh, Harry, I can’t bear
it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once.”

“I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put
in that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the theatre
with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had
forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she
did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the
floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake,
some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don’t know what it was, but
it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was
prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously.”

“Harry, Harry, it is terrible!” cried the lad.

“Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed
up in it. I see by _The Standard_ that she was seventeen. I should have
thought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and
seemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn’t let this
thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and
afterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, and
everybody will be there. You can come to my sister’s box. She has got
some smart women with her.”

“So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,” said Dorian Gray, half to himself,
“murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife.
Yet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as
happily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then go
on to the opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. How
extraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book,
Harry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has
happened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears.
Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my
life. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been
addressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent
people we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen? Oh,
Harry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She was
everything to me. Then came that dreadful night—was it really only last
night?—when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke. She
explained it all to me. It was terribly pathetic. But I was not moved a
bit. I thought her shallow. Suddenly something happened that made me
afraid. I can’t tell you what it was, but it was terrible. I said I
would go back to her. I felt I had done wrong. And now she is dead. My
God! My God! Harry, what shall I do? You don’t know the danger I am in,
and there is nothing to keep me straight. She would have done that for
me. She had no right to kill herself. It was selfish of her.”

“My dear Dorian,” answered Lord Henry, taking a cigarette from his case
and producing a gold-latten matchbox, “the only way a woman can ever
reform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible
interest in life. If you had married this girl, you would have been
wretched. Of course, you would have treated her kindly. One can always
be kind to people about whom one cares nothing. But she would have soon
found out that you were absolutely indifferent to her. And when a woman
finds that out about her husband, she either becomes dreadfully dowdy,
or wears very smart bonnets that some other woman’s husband has to pay
for. I say nothing about the social mistake, which would have been
abject—which, of course, I would not have allowed—but I assure you that
in any case the whole thing would have been an absolute failure.”

“I suppose it would,” muttered the lad, walking up and down the room
and looking horribly pale. “But I thought it was my duty. It is not my
fault that this terrible tragedy has prevented my doing what was right.
I remember your saying once that there is a fatality about good
resolutions—that they are always made too late. Mine certainly were.”

“Good resolutions are useless attempts to interfere with scientific
laws. Their origin is pure vanity. Their result is absolutely _nil_.
They give us, now and then, some of those luxurious sterile emotions
that have a certain charm for the weak. That is all that can be said
for them. They are simply cheques that men draw on a bank where they
have no account.”

“Harry,” cried Dorian Gray, coming over and sitting down beside him,
“why is it that I cannot feel this tragedy as much as I want to? I
don’t think I am heartless. Do you?”

“You have done too many foolish things during the last fortnight to be
entitled to give yourself that name, Dorian,” answered Lord Henry with
his sweet melancholy smile.

The lad frowned. “I don’t like that explanation, Harry,” he rejoined,
“but I am glad you don’t think I am heartless. I am nothing of the
kind. I know I am not. And yet I must admit that this thing that has
happened does not affect me as it should. It seems to me to be simply
like a wonderful ending to a wonderful play. It has all the terrible
beauty of a Greek tragedy, a tragedy in which I took a great part, but
by which I have not been wounded.”

“It is an interesting question,” said Lord Henry, who found an
exquisite pleasure in playing on the lad’s unconscious egotism, “an
extremely interesting question. I fancy that the true explanation is
this: It often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such an
inartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their
absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack
of style. They affect us just as vulgarity affects us. They give us an
impression of sheer brute force, and we revolt against that. Sometimes,
however, a tragedy that possesses artistic elements of beauty crosses
our lives. If these elements of beauty are real, the whole thing simply
appeals to our sense of dramatic effect. Suddenly we find that we are
no longer the actors, but the spectators of the play. Or rather we are
both. We watch ourselves, and the mere wonder of the spectacle
enthralls us. In the present case, what is it that has really happened?
Some one has killed herself for love of you. I wish that I had ever had
such an experience. It would have made me in love with love for the
rest of my life. The people who have adored me—there have not been very
many, but there have been some—have always insisted on living on, long
after I had ceased to care for them, or they to care for me. They have
become stout and tedious, and when I meet them, they go in at once for
reminiscences. That awful memory of woman! What a fearful thing it is!
And what an utter intellectual stagnation it reveals! One should absorb
the colour of life, but one should never remember its details. Details
are always vulgar.”

“I must sow poppies in my garden,” sighed Dorian.

“There is no necessity,” rejoined his companion. “Life has always
poppies in her hands. Of course, now and then things linger. I once
wore nothing but violets all through one season, as a form of artistic
mourning for a romance that would not die. Ultimately, however, it did
die. I forget what killed it. I think it was her proposing to sacrifice
the whole world for me. That is always a dreadful moment. It fills one
with the terror of eternity. Well—would you believe it?—a week ago, at
Lady Hampshire’s, I found myself seated at dinner next the lady in
question, and she insisted on going over the whole thing again, and
digging up the past, and raking up the future. I had buried my romance
in a bed of asphodel. She dragged it out again and assured me that I
had spoiled her life. I am bound to state that she ate an enormous
dinner, so I did not feel any anxiety. But what a lack of taste she
showed! The one charm of the past is that it is the past. But women
never know when the curtain has fallen. They always want a sixth act,
and as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over, they propose
to continue it. If they were allowed their own way, every comedy would
have a tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate in a farce.
They are charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of art. You are
more fortunate than I am. I assure you, Dorian, that not one of the
women I have known would have done for me what Sibyl Vane did for you.
Ordinary women always console themselves. Some of them do it by going
in for sentimental colours. Never trust a woman who wears mauve,
whatever her age may be, or a woman over thirty-five who is fond of
pink ribbons. It always means that they have a history. Others find a
great consolation in suddenly discovering the good qualities of their
husbands. They flaunt their conjugal felicity in one’s face, as if it
were the most fascinating of sins. Religion consoles some. Its
mysteries have all the charm of a flirtation, a woman once told me, and
I can quite understand it. Besides, nothing makes one so vain as being
told that one is a sinner. Conscience makes egotists of us all. Yes;
there is really no end to the consolations that women find in modern
life. Indeed, I have not mentioned the most important one.”

“What is that, Harry?” said the lad listlessly.

“Oh, the obvious consolation. Taking some one else’s admirer when one
loses one’s own. In good society that always whitewashes a woman. But
really, Dorian, how different Sibyl Vane must have been from all the
women one meets! There is something to me quite beautiful about her
death. I am glad I am living in a century when such wonders happen.
They make one believe in the reality of the things we all play with,
such as romance, passion, and love.”

“I was terribly cruel to her. You forget that.”

“I am afraid that women appreciate cruelty, downright cruelty, more
than anything else. They have wonderfully primitive instincts. We have
emancipated them, but they remain slaves looking for their masters, all
the same. They love being dominated. I am sure you were splendid. I
have never seen you really and absolutely angry, but I can fancy how
delightful you looked. And, after all, you said something to me the day
before yesterday that seemed to me at the time to be merely fanciful,
but that I see now was absolutely true, and it holds the key to
everything.”

“What was that, Harry?”

“You said to me that Sibyl Vane represented to you all the heroines of
romance—that she was Desdemona one night, and Ophelia the other; that
if she died as Juliet, she came to life as Imogen.”

“She will never come to life again now,” muttered the lad, burying his
face in his hands.

“No, she will never come to life. She has played her last part. But you
must think of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing-room simply as a
strange lurid fragment from some Jacobean tragedy, as a wonderful scene
from Webster, or Ford, or Cyril Tourneur. The girl never really lived,
and so she has never really died. To you at least she was always a
dream, a phantom that flitted through Shakespeare’s plays and left them
lovelier for its presence, a reed through which Shakespeare’s music
sounded richer and more full of joy. The moment she touched actual
life, she marred it, and it marred her, and so she passed away. Mourn
for Ophelia, if you like. Put ashes on your head because Cordelia was
strangled. Cry out against Heaven because the daughter of Brabantio
died. But don’t waste your tears over Sibyl Vane. She was less real
than they are.”

There was a silence. The evening darkened in the room. Noiselessly, and
with silver feet, the shadows crept in from the garden. The colours
faded wearily out of things.

After some time Dorian Gray looked up. “You have explained me to
myself, Harry,” he murmured with something of a sigh of relief. “I felt
all that you have said, but somehow I was afraid of it, and I could not
express it to myself. How well you know me! But we will not talk again
of what has happened. It has been a marvellous experience. That is all.
I wonder if life has still in store for me anything as marvellous.”

“Life has everything in store for you, Dorian. There is nothing that
you, with your extraordinary good looks, will not be able to do.”

“But suppose, Harry, I became haggard, and old, and wrinkled? What
then?”

“Ah, then,” said Lord Henry, rising to go, “then, my dear Dorian, you
would have to fight for your victories. As it is, they are brought to
you. No, you must keep your good looks. We live in an age that reads
too much to be wise, and that thinks too much to be beautiful. We
cannot spare you. And now you had better dress and drive down to the
club. We are rather late, as it is.”

“I think I shall join you at the opera, Harry. I feel too tired to eat
anything. What is the number of your sister’s box?”

“Twenty-seven, I believe. It is on the grand tier. You will see her
name on the door. But I am sorry you won’t come and dine.”

“I don’t feel up to it,” said Dorian listlessly. “But I am awfully
obliged to you for all that you have said to me. You are certainly my
best friend. No one has ever understood me as you have.”

“We are only at the beginning of our friendship, Dorian,” answered Lord
Henry, shaking him by the hand. “Good-bye. I shall see you before
nine-thirty, I hope. Remember, Patti is singing.”

As he closed the door behind him, Dorian Gray touched the bell, and in
a few minutes Victor appeared with the lamps and drew the blinds down.
He waited impatiently for him to go. The man seemed to take an
interminable time over everything.

As soon as he had left, he rushed to the screen and drew it back. No;
there was no further change in the picture. It had received the news of
Sibyl Vane’s death before he had known of it himself. It was conscious
of the events of life as they occurred. The vicious cruelty that marred
the fine lines of the mouth had, no doubt, appeared at the very moment
that the girl had drunk the poison, whatever it was. Or was it
indifferent to results? Did it merely take cognizance of what passed
within the soul? He wondered, and hoped that some day he would see the
change taking place before his very eyes, shuddering as he hoped it.

Poor Sibyl! What a romance it had all been! She had often mimicked
death on the stage. Then Death himself had touched her and taken her
with him. How had she played that dreadful last scene? Had she cursed
him, as she died? No; she had died for love of him, and love would
always be a sacrament to him now. She had atoned for everything by the
sacrifice she had made of her life. He would not think any more of what
she had made him go through, on that horrible night at the theatre.
When he thought of her, it would be as a wonderful tragic figure sent
on to the world’s stage to show the supreme reality of love. A
wonderful tragic figure? Tears came to his eyes as he remembered her
childlike look, and winsome fanciful ways, and shy tremulous grace. He
brushed them away hastily and looked again at the picture.

He felt that the time had really come for making his choice. Or had his
choice already been made? Yes, life had decided that for him—life, and
his own infinite curiosity about life. Eternal youth, infinite passion,
pleasures subtle and secret, wild joys and wilder sins—he was to have
all these things. The portrait was to bear the burden of his shame:
that was all.

A feeling of pain crept over him as he thought of the desecration that
was in store for the fair face on the canvas. Once, in boyish mockery
of Narcissus, he had kissed, or feigned to kiss, those painted lips
that now smiled so cruelly at him. Morning after morning he had sat
before the portrait wondering at its beauty, almost enamoured of it, as
it seemed to him at times. Was it to alter now with every mood to which
he yielded? Was it to become a monstrous and loathsome thing, to be
hidden away in a locked room, to be shut out from the sunlight that had
so often touched to brighter gold the waving wonder of its hair? The
pity of it! the pity of it!

For a moment, he thought of praying that the horrible sympathy that
existed between him and the picture might cease. It had changed in
answer to a prayer; perhaps in answer to a prayer it might remain
unchanged. And yet, who, that knew anything about life, would surrender
the chance of remaining always young, however fantastic that chance
might be, or with what fateful consequences it might be fraught?
Besides, was it really under his control? Had it indeed been prayer
that had produced the substitution? Might there not be some curious
scientific reason for it all? If thought could exercise its influence
upon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influence upon
dead and inorganic things? Nay, without thought or conscious desire,
might not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods
and passions, atom calling to atom in secret love or strange affinity?
But the reason was of no importance. He would never again tempt by a
prayer any terrible power. If the picture was to alter, it was to
alter. That was all. Why inquire too closely into it?

For there would be a real pleasure in watching it. He would be able to
follow his mind into its secret places. This portrait would be to him
the most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed to him his own body, so
it would reveal to him his own soul. And when winter came upon it, he
would still be standing where spring trembles on the verge of summer.
When the blood crept from its face, and left behind a pallid mask of
chalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour of boyhood. Not one
blossom of his loveliness would ever fade. Not one pulse of his life
would ever weaken. Like the gods of the Greeks, he would be strong, and
fleet, and joyous. What did it matter what happened to the coloured
image on the canvas? He would be safe. That was everything.

He drew the screen back into its former place in front of the picture,
smiling as he did so, and passed into his bedroom, where his valet was
already waiting for him. An hour later he was at the opera, and Lord
Henry was leaning over his chair.




CHAPTER IX.


As he was sitting at breakfast next morning, Basil Hallward was shown
into the room.

“I am so glad I have found you, Dorian,” he said gravely. “I called
last night, and they told me you were at the opera. Of course, I knew
that was impossible. But I wish you had left word where you had really
gone to. I passed a dreadful evening, half afraid that one tragedy
might be followed by another. I think you might have telegraphed for me
when you heard of it first. I read of it quite by chance in a late
edition of _The Globe_ that I picked up at the club. I came here at
once and was miserable at not finding you. I can’t tell you how
heart-broken I am about the whole thing. I know what you must suffer.
But where were you? Did you go down and see the girl’s mother? For a
moment I thought of following you there. They gave the address in the
paper. Somewhere in the Euston Road, isn’t it? But I was afraid of
intruding upon a sorrow that I could not lighten. Poor woman! What a
state she must be in! And her only child, too! What did she say about
it all?”

“My dear Basil, how do I know?” murmured Dorian Gray, sipping some
pale-yellow wine from a delicate, gold-beaded bubble of Venetian glass
and looking dreadfully bored. “I was at the opera. You should have come
on there. I met Lady Gwendolen, Harry’s sister, for the first time. We
were in her box. She is perfectly charming; and Patti sang divinely.
Don’t talk about horrid subjects. If one doesn’t talk about a thing, it
has never happened. It is simply expression, as Harry says, that gives
reality to things. I may mention that she was not the woman’s only
child. There is a son, a charming fellow, I believe. But he is not on
the stage. He is a sailor, or something. And now, tell me about
yourself and what you are painting.”

“You went to the opera?” said Hallward, speaking very slowly and with a
strained touch of pain in his voice. “You went to the opera while Sibyl
Vane was lying dead in some sordid lodging? You can talk to me of other
women being charming, and of Patti singing divinely, before the girl
you loved has even the quiet of a grave to sleep in? Why, man, there
are horrors in store for that little white body of hers!”

“Stop, Basil! I won’t hear it!” cried Dorian, leaping to his feet. “You
must not tell me about things. What is done is done. What is past is
past.”

“You call yesterday the past?”

“What has the actual lapse of time got to do with it? It is only
shallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion. A man who is
master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a
pleasure. I don’t want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use
them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them.”

“Dorian, this is horrible! Something has changed you completely. You
look exactly the same wonderful boy who, day after day, used to come
down to my studio to sit for his picture. But you were simple, natural,
and affectionate then. You were the most unspoiled creature in the
whole world. Now, I don’t know what has come over you. You talk as if
you had no heart, no pity in you. It is all Harry’s influence. I see
that.”

The lad flushed up and, going to the window, looked out for a few
moments on the green, flickering, sun-lashed garden. “I owe a great
deal to Harry, Basil,” he said at last, “more than I owe to you. You
only taught me to be vain.”

“Well, I am punished for that, Dorian—or shall be some day.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Basil,” he exclaimed, turning round. “I
don’t know what you want. What do you want?”

“I want the Dorian Gray I used to paint,” said the artist sadly.

“Basil,” said the lad, going over to him and putting his hand on his
shoulder, “you have come too late. Yesterday, when I heard that Sibyl
Vane had killed herself—”

“Killed herself! Good heavens! is there no doubt about that?” cried
Hallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror.

“My dear Basil! Surely you don’t think it was a vulgar accident? Of
course she killed herself.”

The elder man buried his face in his hands. “How fearful,” he muttered,
and a shudder ran through him.

“No,” said Dorian Gray, “there is nothing fearful about it. It is one
of the great romantic tragedies of the age. As a rule, people who act
lead the most commonplace lives. They are good husbands, or faithful
wives, or something tedious. You know what I mean—middle-class virtue
and all that kind of thing. How different Sibyl was! She lived her
finest tragedy. She was always a heroine. The last night she played—the
night you saw her—she acted badly because she had known the reality of
love. When she knew its unreality, she died, as Juliet might have died.
She passed again into the sphere of art. There is something of the
martyr about her. Her death has all the pathetic uselessness of
martyrdom, all its wasted beauty. But, as I was saying, you must not
think I have not suffered. If you had come in yesterday at a particular
moment—about half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to six—you would
have found me in tears. Even Harry, who was here, who brought me the
news, in fact, had no idea what I was going through. I suffered
immensely. Then it passed away. I cannot repeat an emotion. No one can,
except sentimentalists. And you are awfully unjust, Basil. You come
down here to console me. That is charming of you. You find me consoled,
and you are furious. How like a sympathetic person! You remind me of a
story Harry told me about a certain philanthropist who spent twenty
years of his life in trying to get some grievance redressed, or some
unjust law altered—I forget exactly what it was. Finally he succeeded,
and nothing could exceed his disappointment. He had absolutely nothing
to do, almost died of _ennui_, and became a confirmed misanthrope. And
besides, my dear old Basil, if you really want to console me, teach me
rather to forget what has happened, or to see it from a proper artistic
point of view. Was it not Gautier who used to write about _la
consolation des arts_? I remember picking up a little vellum-covered
book in your studio one day and chancing on that delightful phrase.
Well, I am not like that young man you told me of when we were down at
Marlow together, the young man who used to say that yellow satin could
console one for all the miseries of life. I love beautiful things that
one can touch and handle. Old brocades, green bronzes, lacquer-work,
carved ivories, exquisite surroundings, luxury, pomp—there is much to
be got from all these. But the artistic temperament that they create,
or at any rate reveal, is still more to me. To become the spectator of
one’s own life, as Harry says, is to escape the suffering of life. I
know you are surprised at my talking to you like this. You have not
realized how I have developed. I was a schoolboy when you knew me. I am
a man now. I have new passions, new thoughts, new ideas. I am
different, but you must not like me less. I am changed, but you must
always be my friend. Of course, I am very fond of Harry. But I know
that you are better than he is. You are not stronger—you are too much
afraid of life—but you are better. And how happy we used to be
together! Don’t leave me, Basil, and don’t quarrel with me. I am what I
am. There is nothing more to be said.”

The painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him,
and his personality had been the great turning point in his art. He
could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his
indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was
so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.

“Well, Dorian,” he said at length, with a sad smile, “I won’t speak to
you again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust your
name won’t be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to take
place this afternoon. Have they summoned you?”

Dorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face at
the mention of the word “inquest.” There was something so crude and
vulgar about everything of the kind. “They don’t know my name,” he
answered.

“But surely she did?”

“Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioned
to any one. She told me once that they were all rather curious to learn
who I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince
Charming. It was pretty of her. You must do me a drawing of Sibyl,
Basil. I should like to have something more of her than the memory of a
few kisses and some broken pathetic words.”

“I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But you
must come and sit to me yourself again. I can’t get on without you.”

“I can never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!” he exclaimed,
starting back.

The painter stared at him. “My dear boy, what nonsense!” he cried. “Do
you mean to say you don’t like what I did of you? Where is it? Why have
you pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it. It is the best
thing I have ever done. Do take the screen away, Dorian. It is simply
disgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. I felt the room
looked different as I came in.”

“My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don’t imagine I let
him arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes—that
is all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong on the portrait.”

“Too strong! Surely not, my dear fellow? It is an admirable place for
it. Let me see it.” And Hallward walked towards the corner of the room.

A cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray’s lips, and he rushed between
the painter and the screen. “Basil,” he said, looking very pale, “you
must not look at it. I don’t wish you to.”

“Not look at my own work! You are not serious. Why shouldn’t I look at
it?” exclaimed Hallward, laughing.

“If you try to look at it, Basil, on my word of honour I will never
speak to you again as long as I live. I am quite serious. I don’t offer
any explanation, and you are not to ask for any. But, remember, if you
touch this screen, everything is over between us.”

Hallward was thunderstruck. He looked at Dorian Gray in absolute
amazement. He had never seen him like this before. The lad was actually
pallid with rage. His hands were clenched, and the pupils of his eyes
were like disks of blue fire. He was trembling all over.

“Dorian!”

“Don’t speak!”

“But what is the matter? Of course I won’t look at it if you don’t want
me to,” he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel and going over
towards the window. “But, really, it seems rather absurd that I
shouldn’t see my own work, especially as I am going to exhibit it in
Paris in the autumn. I shall probably have to give it another coat of
varnish before that, so I must see it some day, and why not to-day?”

“To exhibit it! You want to exhibit it?” exclaimed Dorian Gray, a
strange sense of terror creeping over him. Was the world going to be
shown his secret? Were people to gape at the mystery of his life? That
was impossible. Something—he did not know what—had to be done at once.

“Yes; I don’t suppose you will object to that. Georges Petit is going
to collect all my best pictures for a special exhibition in the Rue de
Sèze, which will open the first week in October. The portrait will only
be away a month. I should think you could easily spare it for that
time. In fact, you are sure to be out of town. And if you keep it
always behind a screen, you can’t care much about it.”

Dorian Gray passed his hand over his forehead. There were beads of
perspiration there. He felt that he was on the brink of a horrible
danger. “You told me a month ago that you would never exhibit it,” he
cried. “Why have you changed your mind? You people who go in for being
consistent have just as many moods as others have. The only difference
is that your moods are rather meaningless. You can’t have forgotten
that you assured me most solemnly that nothing in the world would
induce you to send it to any exhibition. You told Harry exactly the
same thing.” He stopped suddenly, and a gleam of light came into his
eyes. He remembered that Lord Henry had said to him once, half
seriously and half in jest, “If you want to have a strange quarter of
an hour, get Basil to tell you why he won’t exhibit your picture. He
told me why he wouldn’t, and it was a revelation to me.” Yes, perhaps
Basil, too, had his secret. He would ask him and try.

“Basil,” he said, coming over quite close and looking him straight in
the face, “we have each of us a secret. Let me know yours, and I shall
tell you mine. What was your reason for refusing to exhibit my
picture?”

The painter shuddered in spite of himself. “Dorian, if I told you, you
might like me less than you do, and you would certainly laugh at me. I
could not bear your doing either of those two things. If you wish me
never to look at your picture again, I am content. I have always you to
look at. If you wish the best work I have ever done to be hidden from
the world, I am satisfied. Your friendship is dearer to me than any
fame or reputation.”

“No, Basil, you must tell me,” insisted Dorian Gray. “I think I have a
right to know.” His feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosity
had taken its place. He was determined to find out Basil Hallward’s
mystery.

“Let us sit down, Dorian,” said the painter, looking troubled. “Let us
sit down. And just answer me one question. Have you noticed in the
picture something curious?—something that probably at first did not
strike you, but that revealed itself to you suddenly?”

“Basil!” cried the lad, clutching the arms of his chair with trembling
hands and gazing at him with wild startled eyes.

“I see you did. Don’t speak. Wait till you hear what I have to say.
Dorian, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most
extraordinary influence over me. I was dominated, soul, brain, and
power, by you. You became to me the visible incarnation of that unseen
ideal whose memory haunts us artists like an exquisite dream. I
worshipped you. I grew jealous of every one to whom you spoke. I wanted
to have you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with you. When
you were away from me, you were still present in my art.... Of course,
I never let you know anything about this. It would have been
impossible. You would not have understood it. I hardly understood it
myself. I only knew that I had seen perfection face to face, and that
the world had become wonderful to my eyes—too wonderful, perhaps, for
in such mad worships there is peril, the peril of losing them, no less
than the peril of keeping them.... Weeks and weeks went on, and I grew
more and more absorbed in you. Then came a new development. I had drawn
you as Paris in dainty armour, and as Adonis with huntsman’s cloak and
polished boar-spear. Crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms you had sat on
the prow of Adrian’s barge, gazing across the green turbid Nile. You
had leaned over the still pool of some Greek woodland and seen in the
water’s silent silver the marvel of your own face. And it had all been
what art should be—unconscious, ideal, and remote. One day, a fatal day
I sometimes think, I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you as
you actually are, not in the costume of dead ages, but in your own
dress and in your own time. Whether it was the realism of the method,
or the mere wonder of your own personality, thus directly presented to
me without mist or veil, I cannot tell. But I know that as I worked at
it, every flake and film of colour seemed to me to reveal my secret. I
grew afraid that others would know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that
I had told too much, that I had put too much of myself into it. Then it
was that I resolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited. You
were a little annoyed; but then you did not realize all that it meant
to me. Harry, to whom I talked about it, laughed at me. But I did not
mind that. When the picture was finished, and I sat alone with it, I
felt that I was right.... Well, after a few days the thing left my
studio, and as soon as I had got rid of the intolerable fascination of
its presence, it seemed to me that I had been foolish in imagining that
I had seen anything in it, more than that you were extremely
good-looking and that I could paint. Even now I cannot help feeling
that it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is
ever really shown in the work one creates. Art is always more abstract
than we fancy. Form and colour tell us of form and colour—that is all.
It often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely
than it ever reveals him. And so when I got this offer from Paris, I
determined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition.
It never occurred to me that you would refuse. I see now that you were
right. The picture cannot be shown. You must not be angry with me,
Dorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you are
made to be worshipped.”

Dorian Gray drew a long breath. The colour came back to his cheeks, and
a smile played about his lips. The peril was over. He was safe for the
time. Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the painter who
had just made this strange confession to him, and wondered if he
himself would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. Lord
Henry had the charm of being very dangerous. But that was all. He was
too clever and too cynical to be really fond of. Would there ever be
some one who would fill him with a strange idolatry? Was that one of
the things that life had in store?

“It is extraordinary to me, Dorian,” said Hallward, “that you should
have seen this in the portrait. Did you really see it?”

“I saw something in it,” he answered, “something that seemed to me very
curious.”

“Well, you don’t mind my looking at the thing now?”

Dorian shook his head. “You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not
possibly let you stand in front of that picture.”

“You will some day, surely?”

“Never.”

“Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-bye, Dorian. You have been
the one person in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever I
have done that is good, I owe to you. Ah! you don’t know what it cost
me to tell you all that I have told you.”

“My dear Basil,” said Dorian, “what have you told me? Simply that you
felt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment.”

“It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I
have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one
should never put one’s worship into words.”

“It was a very disappointing confession.”

“Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn’t see anything else in the
picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?”

“No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn’t
talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we
must always remain so.”

“You have got Harry,” said the painter sadly.

“Oh, Harry!” cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. “Harry spends
his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is
improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I
don’t think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would sooner go
to you, Basil.”

“You will sit to me again?”

“Impossible!”

“You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes
across two ideal things. Few come across one.”

“I can’t explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again.
There is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its own. I
will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant.”

“Pleasanter for you, I am afraid,” murmured Hallward regretfully. “And
now good-bye. I am sorry you won’t let me look at the picture once
again. But that can’t be helped. I quite understand what you feel about
it.”

As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! How
little he knew of the true reason! And how strange it was that, instead
of having been forced to reveal his own secret, he had succeeded,
almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! How much that
strange confession explained to him! The painter’s absurd fits of
jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his curious
reticences—he understood them all now, and he felt sorry. There seemed
to him to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance.

He sighed and touched the bell. The portrait must be hidden away at all
costs. He could not run such a risk of discovery again. It had been mad
of him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for an hour, in a room
to which any of his friends had access.




CHAPTER X.


When his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly and wondered if
he had thought of peering behind the screen. The man was quite
impassive and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette and walked
over to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the reflection of
Victor’s face perfectly. It was like a placid mask of servility. There
was nothing to be afraid of, there. Yet he thought it best to be on his
guard.

Speaking very slowly, he told him to tell the house-keeper that he
wanted to see her, and then to go to the frame-maker and ask him to
send two of his men round at once. It seemed to him that as the man
left the room his eyes wandered in the direction of the screen. Or was
that merely his own fancy?

After a few moments, in her black silk dress, with old-fashioned thread
mittens on her wrinkled hands, Mrs. Leaf bustled into the library. He
asked her for the key of the schoolroom.

“The old schoolroom, Mr. Dorian?” she exclaimed. “Why, it is full of
dust. I must get it arranged and put straight before you go into it. It
is not fit for you to see, sir. It is not, indeed.”

“I don’t want it put straight, Leaf. I only want the key.”

“Well, sir, you’ll be covered with cobwebs if you go into it. Why, it
hasn’t been opened for nearly five years—not since his lordship died.”

He winced at the mention of his grandfather. He had hateful memories of
him. “That does not matter,” he answered. “I simply want to see the
place—that is all. Give me the key.”

“And here is the key, sir,” said the old lady, going over the contents
of her bunch with tremulously uncertain hands. “Here is the key. I’ll
have it off the bunch in a moment. But you don’t think of living up
there, sir, and you so comfortable here?”

“No, no,” he cried petulantly. “Thank you, Leaf. That will do.”

She lingered for a few moments, and was garrulous over some detail of
the household. He sighed and told her to manage things as she thought
best. She left the room, wreathed in smiles.

As the door closed, Dorian put the key in his pocket and looked round
the room. His eye fell on a large, purple satin coverlet heavily
embroidered with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-century
Venetian work that his grandfather had found in a convent near Bologna.
Yes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in. It had perhaps
served often as a pall for the dead. Now it was to hide something that
had a corruption of its own, worse than the corruption of death
itself—something that would breed horrors and yet would never die. What
the worm was to the corpse, his sins would be to the painted image on
the canvas. They would mar its beauty and eat away its grace. They
would defile it and make it shameful. And yet the thing would still
live on. It would be always alive.

He shuddered, and for a moment he regretted that he had not told Basil
the true reason why he had wished to hide the picture away. Basil would
have helped him to resist Lord Henry’s influence, and the still more
poisonous influences that came from his own temperament. The love that
he bore him—for it was really love—had nothing in it that was not noble
and intellectual. It was not that mere physical admiration of beauty
that is born of the senses and that dies when the senses tire. It was
such love as Michelangelo had known, and Montaigne, and Winckelmann,
and Shakespeare himself. Yes, Basil could have saved him. But it was
too late now. The past could always be annihilated. Regret, denial, or
forgetfulness could do that. But the future was inevitable. There were
passions in him that would find their terrible outlet, dreams that
would make the shadow of their evil real.

He took up from the couch the great purple-and-gold texture that
covered it, and, holding it in his hands, passed behind the screen. Was
the face on the canvas viler than before? It seemed to him that it was
unchanged, and yet his loathing of it was intensified. Gold hair, blue
eyes, and rose-red lips—they all were there. It was simply the
expression that had altered. That was horrible in its cruelty. Compared
to what he saw in it of censure or rebuke, how shallow Basil’s
reproaches about Sibyl Vane had been!—how shallow, and of what little
account! His own soul was looking out at him from the canvas and
calling him to judgement. A look of pain came across him, and he flung
the rich pall over the picture. As he did so, a knock came to the door.
He passed out as his servant entered.

“The persons are here, Monsieur.”

He felt that the man must be got rid of at once. He must not be allowed
to know where the picture was being taken to. There was something sly
about him, and he had thoughtful, treacherous eyes. Sitting down at the
writing-table he scribbled a note to Lord Henry, asking him to send him
round something to read and reminding him that they were to meet at
eight-fifteen that evening.

“Wait for an answer,” he said, handing it to him, “and show the men in
here.”

In two or three minutes there was another knock, and Mr. Hubbard
himself, the celebrated frame-maker of South Audley Street, came in
with a somewhat rough-looking young assistant. Mr. Hubbard was a
florid, red-whiskered little man, whose admiration for art was
considerably tempered by the inveterate impecuniosity of most of the
artists who dealt with him. As a rule, he never left his shop. He
waited for people to come to him. But he always made an exception in
favour of Dorian Gray. There was something about Dorian that charmed
everybody. It was a pleasure even to see him.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Gray?” he said, rubbing his fat freckled
hands. “I thought I would do myself the honour of coming round in
person. I have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. Picked it up at a
sale. Old Florentine. Came from Fonthill, I believe. Admirably suited
for a religious subject, Mr. Gray.”

“I am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, Mr.
Hubbard. I shall certainly drop in and look at the frame—though I don’t
go in much at present for religious art—but to-day I only want a
picture carried to the top of the house for me. It is rather heavy, so
I thought I would ask you to lend me a couple of your men.”

“No trouble at all, Mr. Gray. I am delighted to be of any service to
you. Which is the work of art, sir?”

“This,” replied Dorian, moving the screen back. “Can you move it,
covering and all, just as it is? I don’t want it to get scratched going
upstairs.”

“There will be no difficulty, sir,” said the genial frame-maker,
beginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture from
the long brass chains by which it was suspended. “And, now, where shall
we carry it to, Mr. Gray?”

“I will show you the way, Mr. Hubbard, if you will kindly follow me. Or
perhaps you had better go in front. I am afraid it is right at the top
of the house. We will go up by the front staircase, as it is wider.”

He held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall and
began the ascent. The elaborate character of the frame had made the
picture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequious
protests of Mr. Hubbard, who had the true tradesman’s spirited dislike
of seeing a gentleman doing anything useful, Dorian put his hand to it
so as to help them.

“Something of a load to carry, sir,” gasped the little man when they
reached the top landing. And he wiped his shiny forehead.

“I am afraid it is rather heavy,” murmured Dorian as he unlocked the
door that opened into the room that was to keep for him the curious
secret of his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men.

He had not entered the place for more than four years—not, indeed,
since he had used it first as a play-room when he was a child, and then
as a study when he grew somewhat older. It was a large,
well-proportioned room, which had been specially built by the last Lord
Kelso for the use of the little grandson whom, for his strange likeness
to his mother, and also for other reasons, he had always hated and
desired to keep at a distance. It appeared to Dorian to have but little
changed. There was the huge Italian _cassone_, with its fantastically
painted panels and its tarnished gilt mouldings, in which he had so
often hidden himself as a boy. There the satinwood book-case filled
with his dog-eared schoolbooks. On the wall behind it was hanging the
same ragged Flemish tapestry where a faded king and queen were playing
chess in a garden, while a company of hawkers rode by, carrying hooded
birds on their gauntleted wrists. How well he remembered it all! Every
moment of his lonely childhood came back to him as he looked round. He
recalled the stainless purity of his boyish life, and it seemed
horrible to him that it was here the fatal portrait was to be hidden
away. How little he had thought, in those dead days, of all that was in
store for him!

But there was no other place in the house so secure from prying eyes as
this. He had the key, and no one else could enter it. Beneath its
purple pall, the face painted on the canvas could grow bestial, sodden,
and unclean. What did it matter? No one could see it. He himself would
not see it. Why should he watch the hideous corruption of his soul? He
kept his youth—that was enough. And, besides, might not his nature grow
finer, after all? There was no reason that the future should be so full
of shame. Some love might come across his life, and purify him, and
shield him from those sins that seemed to be already stirring in spirit
and in flesh—those curious unpictured sins whose very mystery lent them
their subtlety and their charm. Perhaps, some day, the cruel look would
have passed away from the scarlet sensitive mouth, and he might show to
the world Basil Hallward’s masterpiece.

No; that was impossible. Hour by hour, and week by week, the thing upon
the canvas was growing old. It might escape the hideousness of sin, but
the hideousness of age was in store for it. The cheeks would become
hollow or flaccid. Yellow crow’s feet would creep round the fading eyes
and make them horrible. The hair would lose its brightness, the mouth
would gape or droop, would be foolish or gross, as the mouths of old
men are. There would be the wrinkled throat, the cold, blue-veined
hands, the twisted body, that he remembered in the grandfather who had
been so stern to him in his boyhood. The picture had to be concealed.
There was no help for it.

“Bring it in, Mr. Hubbard, please,” he said, wearily, turning round. “I
am sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking of something else.”

“Always glad to have a rest, Mr. Gray,” answered the frame-maker, who
was still gasping for breath. “Where shall we put it, sir?”

“Oh, anywhere. Here: this will do. I don’t want to have it hung up.
Just lean it against the wall. Thanks.”

“Might one look at the work of art, sir?”

Dorian started. “It would not interest you, Mr. Hubbard,” he said,
keeping his eye on the man. He felt ready to leap upon him and fling
him to the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging that
concealed the secret of his life. “I shan’t trouble you any more now. I
am much obliged for your kindness in coming round.”

“Not at all, not at all, Mr. Gray. Ever ready to do anything for you,
sir.” And Mr. Hubbard tramped downstairs, followed by the assistant,
who glanced back at Dorian with a look of shy wonder in his rough
uncomely face. He had never seen any one so marvellous.

When the sound of their footsteps had died away, Dorian locked the door
and put the key in his pocket. He felt safe now. No one would ever look
upon the horrible thing. No eye but his would ever see his shame.

On reaching the library, he found that it was just after five o’clock
and that the tea had been already brought up. On a little table of dark
perfumed wood thickly incrusted with nacre, a present from Lady Radley,
his guardian’s wife, a pretty professional invalid, who had spent the
preceding winter in Cairo, was lying a note from Lord Henry, and beside
it was a book bound in yellow paper, the cover slightly torn and the
edges soiled. A copy of the third edition of _The St. James’s Gazette_
had been placed on the tea-tray. It was evident that Victor had
returned. He wondered if he had met the men in the hall as they were
leaving the house and had wormed out of them what they had been doing.
He would be sure to miss the picture—had no doubt missed it already,
while he had been laying the tea-things. The screen had not been set
back, and a blank space was visible on the wall. Perhaps some night he
might find him creeping upstairs and trying to force the door of the
room. It was a horrible thing to have a spy in one’s house. He had
heard of rich men who had been blackmailed all their lives by some
servant who had read a letter, or overheard a conversation, or picked
up a card with an address, or found beneath a pillow a withered flower
or a shred of crumpled lace.

He sighed, and having poured himself out some tea, opened Lord Henry’s
note. It was simply to say that he sent him round the evening paper,
and a book that might interest him, and that he would be at the club at
eight-fifteen. He opened _The St. James’s_ languidly, and looked
through it. A red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. It drew
attention to the following paragraph:

INQUEST ON AN ACTRESS.—An inquest was held this morning at the Bell
Tavern, Hoxton Road, by Mr. Danby, the District Coroner, on the body of
Sibyl Vane, a young actress recently engaged at the Royal Theatre,
Holborn. A verdict of death by misadventure was returned. Considerable
sympathy was expressed for the mother of the deceased, who was greatly
affected during the giving of her own evidence, and that of Dr.
Birrell, who had made the post-mortem examination of the deceased.


He frowned, and tearing the paper in two, went across the room and
flung the pieces away. How ugly it all was! And how horribly real
ugliness made things! He felt a little annoyed with Lord Henry for
having sent him the report. And it was certainly stupid of him to have
marked it with red pencil. Victor might have read it. The man knew more
than enough English for that.

Perhaps he had read it and had begun to suspect something. And, yet,
what did it matter? What had Dorian Gray to do with Sibyl Vane’s death?
There was nothing to fear. Dorian Gray had not killed her.

His eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him. What was
it, he wondered. He went towards the little, pearl-coloured octagonal
stand that had always looked to him like the work of some strange
Egyptian bees that wrought in silver, and taking up the volume, flung
himself into an arm-chair and began to turn over the leaves. After a
few minutes he became absorbed. It was the strangest book that he had
ever read. It seemed to him that in exquisite raiment, and to the
delicate sound of flutes, the sins of the world were passing in dumb
show before him. Things that he had dimly dreamed of were suddenly made
real to him. Things of which he had never dreamed were gradually
revealed.

It was a novel without a plot and with only one character, being,
indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian who
spent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all the
passions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his
own, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through
which the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere
artificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue,
as much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. The
style in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid
and obscure at once, full of _argot_ and of archaisms, of technical
expressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the work
of some of the finest artists of the French school of _Symbolistes_.
There were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids and as subtle in
colour. The life of the senses was described in the terms of mystical
philosophy. One hardly knew at times whether one was reading the
spiritual ecstasies of some mediæval saint or the morbid confessions of
a modern sinner. It was a poisonous book. The heavy odour of incense
seemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. The mere
cadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so full
as it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated,
produced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter,
a form of reverie, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of
the falling day and creeping shadows.

Cloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamed
through the windows. He read on by its wan light till he could read no
more. Then, after his valet had reminded him several times of the
lateness of the hour, he got up, and going into the next room, placed
the book on the little Florentine table that always stood at his
bedside and began to dress for dinner.

It was almost nine o’clock before he reached the club, where he found
Lord Henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very much bored.

“I am so sorry, Harry,” he cried, “but really it is entirely your
fault. That book you sent me so fascinated me that I forgot how the
time was going.”

“Yes, I thought you would like it,” replied his host, rising from his
chair.

“I didn’t say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There is a
great difference.”

“Ah, you have discovered that?” murmured Lord Henry. And they passed
into the dining-room.




CHAPTER XI.


For years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the influence of
this book. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never
sought to free himself from it. He procured from Paris no less than
nine large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in
different colours, so that they might suit his various moods and the
changing fancies of a nature over which he seemed, at times, to have
almost entirely lost control. The hero, the wonderful young Parisian in
whom the romantic and the scientific temperaments were so strangely
blended, became to him a kind of prefiguring type of himself. And,
indeed, the whole book seemed to him to contain the story of his own
life, written before he had lived it.

In one point he was more fortunate than the novel’s fantastic hero. He
never knew—never, indeed, had any cause to know—that somewhat grotesque
dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and still water which
came upon the young Parisian so early in his life, and was occasioned
by the sudden decay of a beau that had once, apparently, been so
remarkable. It was with an almost cruel joy—and perhaps in nearly every
joy, as certainly in every pleasure, cruelty has its place—that he used
to read the latter part of the book, with its really tragic, if
somewhat overemphasized, account of the sorrow and despair of one who
had himself lost what in others, and the world, he had most dearly
valued.

For the wonderful beauty that had so fascinated Basil Hallward, and
many others besides him, seemed never to leave him. Even those who had
heard the most evil things against him—and from time to time strange
rumours about his mode of life crept through London and became the
chatter of the clubs—could not believe anything to his dishonour when
they saw him. He had always the look of one who had kept himself
unspotted from the world. Men who talked grossly became silent when
Dorian Gray entered the room. There was something in the purity of his
face that rebuked them. His mere presence seemed to recall to them the
memory of the innocence that they had tarnished. They wondered how one
so charming and graceful as he was could have escaped the stain of an
age that was at once sordid and sensual.

Often, on returning home from one of those mysterious and prolonged
absences that gave rise to such strange conjecture among those who were
his friends, or thought that they were so, he himself would creep
upstairs to the locked room, open the door with the key that never left
him now, and stand, with a mirror, in front of the portrait that Basil
Hallward had painted of him, looking now at the evil and aging face on
the canvas, and now at the fair young face that laughed back at him
from the polished glass. The very sharpness of the contrast used to
quicken his sense of pleasure. He grew more and more enamoured of his
own beauty, more and more interested in the corruption of his own soul.
He would examine with minute care, and sometimes with a monstrous and
terrible delight, the hideous lines that seared the wrinkling forehead
or crawled around the heavy sensual mouth, wondering sometimes which
were the more horrible, the signs of sin or the signs of age. He would
place his white hands beside the coarse bloated hands of the picture,
and smile. He mocked the misshapen body and the failing limbs.

There were moments, indeed, at night, when, lying sleepless in his own
delicately scented chamber, or in the sordid room of the little
ill-famed tavern near the docks which, under an assumed name and in
disguise, it was his habit to frequent, he would think of the ruin he
had brought upon his soul with a pity that was all the more poignant
because it was purely selfish. But moments such as these were rare.
That curiosity about life which Lord Henry had first stirred in him, as
they sat together in the garden of their friend, seemed to increase
with gratification. The more he knew, the more he desired to know. He
had mad hungers that grew more ravenous as he fed them.

Yet he was not really reckless, at any rate in his relations to
society. Once or twice every month during the winter, and on each
Wednesday evening while the season lasted, he would throw open to the
world his beautiful house and have the most celebrated musicians of the
day to charm his guests with the wonders of their art. His little
dinners, in the settling of which Lord Henry always assisted him, were
noted as much for the careful selection and placing of those invited,
as for the exquisite taste shown in the decoration of the table, with
its subtle symphonic arrangements of exotic flowers, and embroidered
cloths, and antique plate of gold and silver. Indeed, there were many,
especially among the very young men, who saw, or fancied that they saw,
in Dorian Gray the true realization of a type of which they had often
dreamed in Eton or Oxford days, a type that was to combine something of
the real culture of the scholar with all the grace and distinction and
perfect manner of a citizen of the world. To them he seemed to be of
the company of those whom Dante describes as having sought to “make
themselves perfect by the worship of beauty.” Like Gautier, he was one
for whom “the visible world existed.”

And, certainly, to him life itself was the first, the greatest, of the
arts, and for it all the other arts seemed to be but a preparation.
Fashion, by which what is really fantastic becomes for a moment
universal, and dandyism, which, in its own way, is an attempt to assert
the absolute modernity of beauty, had, of course, their fascination for
him. His mode of dressing, and the particular styles that from time to
time he affected, had their marked influence on the young exquisites of
the Mayfair balls and Pall Mall club windows, who copied him in
everything that he did, and tried to reproduce the accidental charm of
his graceful, though to him only half-serious, fopperies.

For, while he was but too ready to accept the position that was almost
immediately offered to him on his coming of age, and found, indeed, a
subtle pleasure in the thought that he might really become to the
London of his own day what to imperial Neronian Rome the author of the
Satyricon once had been, yet in his inmost heart he desired to be
something more than a mere _arbiter elegantiarum_, to be consulted on
the wearing of a jewel, or the knotting of a necktie, or the conduct of
a cane. He sought to elaborate some new scheme of life that would have
its reasoned philosophy and its ordered principles, and find in the
spiritualizing of the senses its highest realization.

The worship of the senses has often, and with much justice, been
decried, men feeling a natural instinct of terror about passions and
sensations that seem stronger than themselves, and that they are
conscious of sharing with the less highly organized forms of existence.
But it appeared to Dorian Gray that the true nature of the senses had
never been understood, and that they had remained savage and animal
merely because the world had sought to starve them into submission or
to kill them by pain, instead of aiming at making them elements of a
new spirituality, of which a fine instinct for beauty was to be the
dominant characteristic. As he looked back upon man moving through
history, he was haunted by a feeling of loss. So much had been
surrendered! and to such little purpose! There had been mad wilful
rejections, monstrous forms of self-torture and self-denial, whose
origin was fear and whose result was a degradation infinitely more
terrible than that fancied degradation from which, in their ignorance,
they had sought to escape; Nature, in her wonderful irony, driving out
the anchorite to feed with the wild animals of the desert and giving to
the hermit the beasts of the field as his companions.

Yes: there was to be, as Lord Henry had prophesied, a new Hedonism that
was to recreate life and to save it from that harsh uncomely puritanism
that is having, in our own day, its curious revival. It was to have its
service of the intellect, certainly, yet it was never to accept any
theory or system that would involve the sacrifice of any mode of
passionate experience. Its aim, indeed, was to be experience itself,
and not the fruits of experience, sweet or bitter as they might be. Of
the asceticism that deadens the senses, as of the vulgar profligacy
that dulls them, it was to know nothing. But it was to teach man to
concentrate himself upon the moments of a life that is itself but a
moment.

There are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either
after one of those dreamless nights that make us almost enamoured of
death, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through
the chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality
itself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques,
and that lends to Gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one
might fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled
with the malady of reverie. Gradually white fingers creep through the
curtains, and they appear to tremble. In black fantastic shapes, dumb
shadows crawl into the corners of the room and crouch there. Outside,
there is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sound of men
going forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down
from the hills and wandering round the silent house, as though it
feared to wake the sleepers and yet must needs call forth sleep from
her purple cave. Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by
degrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and we
watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan
mirrors get back their mimic life. The flameless tapers stand where we
had left them, and beside them lies the half-cut book that we had been
studying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the
letter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often.
Nothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night
comes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where
we had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the
necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of
stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids
might open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in
the darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh
shapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in
which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate,
in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of
joy having its bitterness and the memories of pleasure their pain.

It was the creation of such worlds as these that seemed to Dorian Gray
to be the true object, or amongst the true objects, of life; and in his
search for sensations that would be at once new and delightful, and
possess that element of strangeness that is so essential to romance, he
would often adopt certain modes of thought that he knew to be really
alien to his nature, abandon himself to their subtle influences, and
then, having, as it were, caught their colour and satisfied his
intellectual curiosity, leave them with that curious indifference that
is not incompatible with a real ardour of temperament, and that,
indeed, according to certain modern psychologists, is often a condition
of it.

It was rumoured of him once that he was about to join the Roman
Catholic communion, and certainly the Roman ritual had always a great
attraction for him. The daily sacrifice, more awful really than all the
sacrifices of the antique world, stirred him as much by its superb
rejection of the evidence of the senses as by the primitive simplicity
of its elements and the eternal pathos of the human tragedy that it
sought to symbolize. He loved to kneel down on the cold marble pavement
and watch the priest, in his stiff flowered dalmatic, slowly and with
white hands moving aside the veil of the tabernacle, or raising aloft
the jewelled, lantern-shaped monstrance with that pallid wafer that at
times, one would fain think, is indeed the “_panis cælestis_,” the
bread of angels, or, robed in the garments of the Passion of Christ,
breaking the Host into the chalice and smiting his breast for his sins.
The fuming censers that the grave boys, in their lace and scarlet,
tossed into the air like great gilt flowers had their subtle
fascination for him. As he passed out, he used to look with wonder at
the black confessionals and long to sit in the dim shadow of one of
them and listen to men and women whispering through the worn grating
the true story of their lives.

But he never fell into the error of arresting his intellectual
development by any formal acceptance of creed or system, or of
mistaking, for a house in which to live, an inn that is but suitable
for the sojourn of a night, or for a few hours of a night in which
there are no stars and the moon is in travail. Mysticism, with its
marvellous power of making common things strange to us, and the subtle
antinomianism that always seems to accompany it, moved him for a
season; and for a season he inclined to the materialistic doctrines of
the _Darwinismus_ movement in Germany, and found a curious pleasure in
tracing the thoughts and passions of men to some pearly cell in the
brain, or some white nerve in the body, delighting in the conception of
the absolute dependence of the spirit on certain physical conditions,
morbid or healthy, normal or diseased. Yet, as has been said of him
before, no theory of life seemed to him to be of any importance
compared with life itself. He felt keenly conscious of how barren all
intellectual speculation is when separated from action and experiment.
He knew that the senses, no less than the soul, have their spiritual
mysteries to reveal.

And so he would now study perfumes and the secrets of their
manufacture, distilling heavily scented oils and burning odorous gums
from the East. He saw that there was no mood of the mind that had not
its counterpart in the sensuous life, and set himself to discover their
true relations, wondering what there was in frankincense that made one
mystical, and in ambergris that stirred one’s passions, and in violets
that woke the memory of dead romances, and in musk that troubled the
brain, and in champak that stained the imagination; and seeking often
to elaborate a real psychology of perfumes, and to estimate the several
influences of sweet-smelling roots and scented, pollen-laden flowers;
of aromatic balms and of dark and fragrant woods; of spikenard, that
sickens; of hovenia, that makes men mad; and of aloes, that are said to
be able to expel melancholy from the soul.

At another time he devoted himself entirely to music, and in a long
latticed room, with a vermilion-and-gold ceiling and walls of
olive-green lacquer, he used to give curious concerts in which mad
gipsies tore wild music from little zithers, or grave, yellow-shawled
Tunisians plucked at the strained strings of monstrous lutes, while
grinning Negroes beat monotonously upon copper drums and, crouching
upon scarlet mats, slim turbaned Indians blew through long pipes of
reed or brass and charmed—or feigned to charm—great hooded snakes and
horrible horned adders. The harsh intervals and shrill discords of
barbaric music stirred him at times when Schubert’s grace, and Chopin’s
beautiful sorrows, and the mighty harmonies of Beethoven himself, fell
unheeded on his ear. He collected together from all parts of the world
the strangest instruments that could be found, either in the tombs of
dead nations or among the few savage tribes that have survived contact
with Western civilizations, and loved to touch and try them. He had the
mysterious _juruparis_ of the Rio Negro Indians, that women are not
allowed to look at and that even youths may not see till they have been
subjected to fasting and scourging, and the earthen jars of the
Peruvians that have the shrill cries of birds, and flutes of human
bones such as Alfonso de Ovalle heard in Chile, and the sonorous green
jaspers that are found near Cuzco and give forth a note of singular
sweetness. He had painted gourds filled with pebbles that rattled when
they were shaken; the long _clarin_ of the Mexicans, into which the
performer does not blow, but through which he inhales the air; the
harsh _ture_ of the Amazon tribes, that is sounded by the sentinels who
sit all day long in high trees, and can be heard, it is said, at a
distance of three leagues; the _teponaztli_, that has two vibrating
tongues of wood and is beaten with sticks that are smeared with an
elastic gum obtained from the milky juice of plants; the _yotl_-bells
of the Aztecs, that are hung in clusters like grapes; and a huge
cylindrical drum, covered with the skins of great serpents, like the
one that Bernal Diaz saw when he went with Cortes into the Mexican
temple, and of whose doleful sound he has left us so vivid a
description. The fantastic character of these instruments fascinated
him, and he felt a curious delight in the thought that art, like
Nature, has her monsters, things of bestial shape and with hideous
voices. Yet, after some time, he wearied of them, and would sit in his
box at the opera, either alone or with Lord Henry, listening in rapt
pleasure to “Tannhauser” and seeing in the prelude to that great work
of art a presentation of the tragedy of his own soul.

On one occasion he took up the study of jewels, and appeared at a
costume ball as Anne de Joyeuse, Admiral of France, in a dress covered
with five hundred and sixty pearls. This taste enthralled him for
years, and, indeed, may be said never to have left him. He would often
spend a whole day settling and resettling in their cases the various
stones that he had collected, such as the olive-green chrysoberyl that
turns red by lamplight, the cymophane with its wirelike line of silver,
the pistachio-coloured peridot, rose-pink and wine-yellow topazes,
carbuncles of fiery scarlet with tremulous, four-rayed stars, flame-red
cinnamon-stones, orange and violet spinels, and amethysts with their
alternate layers of ruby and sapphire. He loved the red gold of the
sunstone, and the moonstone’s pearly whiteness, and the broken rainbow
of the milky opal. He procured from Amsterdam three emeralds of
extraordinary size and richness of colour, and had a turquoise _de la
vieille roche_ that was the envy of all the connoisseurs.

He discovered wonderful stories, also, about jewels. In Alphonso’s
Clericalis Disciplina a serpent was mentioned with eyes of real
jacinth, and in the romantic history of Alexander, the Conqueror of
Emathia was said to have found in the vale of Jordan snakes “with
collars of real emeralds growing on their backs.” There was a gem in
the brain of the dragon, Philostratus told us, and “by the exhibition
of golden letters and a scarlet robe” the monster could be thrown into
a magical sleep and slain. According to the great alchemist, Pierre de
Boniface, the diamond rendered a man invisible, and the agate of India
made him eloquent. The cornelian appeased anger, and the hyacinth
provoked sleep, and the amethyst drove away the fumes of wine. The
garnet cast out demons, and the hydropicus deprived the moon of her
colour. The selenite waxed and waned with the moon, and the meloceus,
that discovers thieves, could be affected only by the blood of kids.
Leonardus Camillus had seen a white stone taken from the brain of a
newly killed toad, that was a certain antidote against poison. The
bezoar, that was found in the heart of the Arabian deer, was a charm
that could cure the plague. In the nests of Arabian birds was the
aspilates, that, according to Democritus, kept the wearer from any
danger by fire.

The King of Ceilan rode through his city with a large ruby in his hand,
as the ceremony of his coronation. The gates of the palace of John the
Priest were “made of sardius, with the horn of the horned snake
inwrought, so that no man might bring poison within.” Over the gable
were “two golden apples, in which were two carbuncles,” so that the
gold might shine by day and the carbuncles by night. In Lodge’s strange
romance ‘A Margarite of America’, it was stated that in the chamber of
the queen one could behold “all the chaste ladies of the world,
inchased out of silver, looking through fair mirrours of chrysolites,
carbuncles, sapphires, and greene emeraults.” Marco Polo had seen the
inhabitants of Zipangu place rose-coloured pearls in the mouths of the
dead. A sea-monster had been enamoured of the pearl that the diver
brought to King Perozes, and had slain the thief, and mourned for seven
moons over its loss. When the Huns lured the king into the great pit,
he flung it away—Procopius tells the story—nor was it ever found again,
though the Emperor Anastasius offered five hundred-weight of gold
pieces for it. The King of Malabar had shown to a certain Venetian a
rosary of three hundred and four pearls, one for every god that he
worshipped.

When the Duke de Valentinois, son of Alexander VI., visited Louis XII.
of France, his horse was loaded with gold leaves, according to
Brantome, and his cap had double rows of rubies that threw out a great
light. Charles of England had ridden in stirrups hung with four hundred
and twenty-one diamonds. Richard II had a coat, valued at thirty
thousand marks, which was covered with balas rubies. Hall described
Henry VIII., on his way to the Tower previous to his coronation, as
wearing “a jacket of raised gold, the placard embroidered with diamonds
and other rich stones, and a great bauderike about his neck of large
balasses.” The favourites of James I wore ear-rings of emeralds set in
gold filigrane. Edward II gave to Piers Gaveston a suit of red-gold
armour studded with jacinths, a collar of gold roses set with
turquoise-stones, and a skull-cap _parsemé_ with pearls. Henry II. wore
jewelled gloves reaching to the elbow, and had a hawk-glove sewn with
twelve rubies and fifty-two great orients. The ducal hat of Charles the
Rash, the last Duke of Burgundy of his race, was hung with pear-shaped
pearls and studded with sapphires.

How exquisite life had once been! How gorgeous in its pomp and
decoration! Even to read of the luxury of the dead was wonderful.

Then he turned his attention to embroideries and to the tapestries that
performed the office of frescoes in the chill rooms of the northern
nations of Europe. As he investigated the subject—and he always had an
extraordinary faculty of becoming absolutely absorbed for the moment in
whatever he took up—he was almost saddened by the reflection of the
ruin that time brought on beautiful and wonderful things. He, at any
rate, had escaped that. Summer followed summer, and the yellow jonquils
bloomed and died many times, and nights of horror repeated the story of
their shame, but he was unchanged. No winter marred his face or stained
his flowerlike bloom. How different it was with material things! Where
had they passed to? Where was the great crocus-coloured robe, on which
the gods fought against the giants, that had been worked by brown girls
for the pleasure of Athena? Where the huge velarium that Nero had
stretched across the Colosseum at Rome, that Titan sail of purple on
which was represented the starry sky, and Apollo driving a chariot
drawn by white, gilt-reined steeds? He longed to see the curious
table-napkins wrought for the Priest of the Sun, on which were
displayed all the dainties and viands that could be wanted for a feast;
the mortuary cloth of King Chilperic, with its three hundred golden
bees; the fantastic robes that excited the indignation of the Bishop of
Pontus and were figured with “lions, panthers, bears, dogs, forests,
rocks, hunters—all, in fact, that a painter can copy from nature”; and
the coat that Charles of Orleans once wore, on the sleeves of which
were embroidered the verses of a song beginning “_Madame, je suis tout
joyeux_,” the musical accompaniment of the words being wrought in gold
thread, and each note, of square shape in those days, formed with four
pearls. He read of the room that was prepared at the palace at Rheims
for the use of Queen Joan of Burgundy and was decorated with “thirteen
hundred and twenty-one parrots, made in broidery, and blazoned with the
king’s arms, and five hundred and sixty-one butterflies, whose wings
were similarly ornamented with the arms of the queen, the whole worked
in gold.” Catherine de Medicis had a mourning-bed made for her of black
velvet powdered with crescents and suns. Its curtains were of damask,
with leafy wreaths and garlands, figured upon a gold and silver ground,
and fringed along the edges with broideries of pearls, and it stood in
a room hung with rows of the queen’s devices in cut black velvet upon
cloth of silver. Louis XIV. had gold embroidered caryatides fifteen
feet high in his apartment. The state bed of Sobieski, King of Poland,
was made of Smyrna gold brocade embroidered in turquoises with verses
from the Koran. Its supports were of silver gilt, beautifully chased,
and profusely set with enamelled and jewelled medallions. It had been
taken from the Turkish camp before Vienna, and the standard of Mohammed
had stood beneath the tremulous gilt of its canopy.

And so, for a whole year, he sought to accumulate the most exquisite
specimens that he could find of textile and embroidered work, getting
the dainty Delhi muslins, finely wrought with gold-thread palmates and
stitched over with iridescent beetles’ wings; the Dacca gauzes, that
from their transparency are known in the East as “woven air,” and
“running water,” and “evening dew”; strange figured cloths from Java;
elaborate yellow Chinese hangings; books bound in tawny satins or fair
blue silks and wrought with _fleurs-de-lis_, birds and images; veils of
_lacis_ worked in Hungary point; Sicilian brocades and stiff Spanish
velvets; Georgian work, with its gilt coins, and Japanese _Foukousas_,
with their green-toned golds and their marvellously plumaged birds.

He had a special passion, also, for ecclesiastical vestments, as indeed
he had for everything connected with the service of the Church. In the
long cedar chests that lined the west gallery of his house, he had
stored away many rare and beautiful specimens of what is really the
raiment of the Bride of Christ, who must wear purple and jewels and
fine linen that she may hide the pallid macerated body that is worn by
the suffering that she seeks for and wounded by self-inflicted pain. He
possessed a gorgeous cope of crimson silk and gold-thread damask,
figured with a repeating pattern of golden pomegranates set in
six-petalled formal blossoms, beyond which on either side was the
pine-apple device wrought in seed-pearls. The orphreys were divided
into panels representing scenes from the life of the Virgin, and the
coronation of the Virgin was figured in coloured silks upon the hood.
This was Italian work of the fifteenth century. Another cope was of
green velvet, embroidered with heart-shaped groups of acanthus-leaves,
from which spread long-stemmed white blossoms, the details of which
were picked out with silver thread and coloured crystals. The morse
bore a seraph’s head in gold-thread raised work. The orphreys were
woven in a diaper of red and gold silk, and were starred with
medallions of many saints and martyrs, among whom was St. Sebastian. He
had chasubles, also, of amber-coloured silk, and blue silk and gold
brocade, and yellow silk damask and cloth of gold, figured with
representations of the Passion and Crucifixion of Christ, and
embroidered with lions and peacocks and other emblems; dalmatics of
white satin and pink silk damask, decorated with tulips and dolphins
and _fleurs-de-lis_; altar frontals of crimson velvet and blue linen;
and many corporals, chalice-veils, and sudaria. In the mystic offices
to which such things were put, there was something that quickened his
imagination.

For these treasures, and everything that he collected in his lovely
house, were to be to him means of forgetfulness, modes by which he
could escape, for a season, from the fear that seemed to him at times
to be almost too great to be borne. Upon the walls of the lonely locked
room where he had spent so much of his boyhood, he had hung with his
own hands the terrible portrait whose changing features showed him the
real degradation of his life, and in front of it had draped the
purple-and-gold pall as a curtain. For weeks he would not go there,
would forget the hideous painted thing, and get back his light heart,
his wonderful joyousness, his passionate absorption in mere existence.
Then, suddenly, some night he would creep out of the house, go down to
dreadful places near Blue Gate Fields, and stay there, day after day,
until he was driven away. On his return he would sit in front of the
picture, sometimes loathing it and himself, but filled, at other times,
with that pride of individualism that is half the fascination of sin,
and smiling with secret pleasure at the misshapen shadow that had to
bear the burden that should have been his own.

After a few years he could not endure to be long out of England, and
gave up the villa that he had shared at Trouville with Lord Henry, as
well as the little white walled-in house at Algiers where they had more
than once spent the winter. He hated to be separated from the picture
that was such a part of his life, and was also afraid that during his
absence some one might gain access to the room, in spite of the
elaborate bars that he had caused to be placed upon the door.

He was quite conscious that this would tell them nothing. It was true
that the portrait still preserved, under all the foulness and ugliness
of the face, its marked likeness to himself; but what could they learn
from that? He would laugh at any one who tried to taunt him. He had not
painted it. What was it to him how vile and full of shame it looked?
Even if he told them, would they believe it?

Yet he was afraid. Sometimes when he was down at his great house in
Nottinghamshire, entertaining the fashionable young men of his own rank
who were his chief companions, and astounding the county by the wanton
luxury and gorgeous splendour of his mode of life, he would suddenly
leave his guests and rush back to town to see that the door had not
been tampered with and that the picture was still there. What if it
should be stolen? The mere thought made him cold with horror. Surely
the world would know his secret then. Perhaps the world already
suspected it.

For, while he fascinated many, there were not a few who distrusted him.
He was very nearly blackballed at a West End club of which his birth
and social position fully entitled him to become a member, and it was
said that on one occasion, when he was brought by a friend into the
smoking-room of the Churchill, the Duke of Berwick and another
gentleman got up in a marked manner and went out. Curious stories
became current about him after he had passed his twenty-fifth year. It
was rumoured that he had been seen brawling with foreign sailors in a
low den in the distant parts of Whitechapel, and that he consorted with
thieves and coiners and knew the mysteries of their trade. His
extraordinary absences became notorious, and, when he used to reappear
again in society, men would whisper to each other in corners, or pass
him with a sneer, or look at him with cold searching eyes, as though
they were determined to discover his secret.

Of such insolences and attempted slights he, of course, took no notice,
and in the opinion of most people his frank debonair manner, his
charming boyish smile, and the infinite grace of that wonderful youth
that seemed never to leave him, were in themselves a sufficient answer
to the calumnies, for so they termed them, that were circulated about
him. It was remarked, however, that some of those who had been most
intimate with him appeared, after a time, to shun him. Women who had
wildly adored him, and for his sake had braved all social censure and
set convention at defiance, were seen to grow pallid with shame or
horror if Dorian Gray entered the room.

Yet these whispered scandals only increased in the eyes of many his
strange and dangerous charm. His great wealth was a certain element of
security. Society—civilized society, at least—is never very ready to
believe anything to the detriment of those who are both rich and
fascinating. It feels instinctively that manners are of more importance
than morals, and, in its opinion, the highest respectability is of much
less value than the possession of a good _chef_. And, after all, it is
a very poor consolation to be told that the man who has given one a bad
dinner, or poor wine, is irreproachable in his private life. Even the
cardinal virtues cannot atone for half-cold _entrées_, as Lord Henry
remarked once, in a discussion on the subject, and there is possibly a
good deal to be said for his view. For the canons of good society are,
or should be, the same as the canons of art. Form is absolutely
essential to it. It should have the dignity of a ceremony, as well as
its unreality, and should combine the insincere character of a romantic
play with the wit and beauty that make such plays delightful to us. Is
insincerity such a terrible thing? I think not. It is merely a method
by which we can multiply our personalities.

Such, at any rate, was Dorian Gray’s opinion. He used to wonder at the
shallow psychology of those who conceive the ego in man as a thing
simple, permanent, reliable, and of one essence. To him, man was a
being with myriad lives and myriad sensations, a complex multiform
creature that bore within itself strange legacies of thought and
passion, and whose very flesh was tainted with the monstrous maladies
of the dead. He loved to stroll through the gaunt cold picture-gallery
of his country house and look at the various portraits of those whose
blood flowed in his veins. Here was Philip Herbert, described by
Francis Osborne, in his Memoires on the Reigns of Queen Elizabeth and
King James, as one who was “caressed by the Court for his handsome
face, which kept him not long company.” Was it young Herbert’s life
that he sometimes led? Had some strange poisonous germ crept from body
to body till it had reached his own? Was it some dim sense of that
ruined grace that had made him so suddenly, and almost without cause,
give utterance, in Basil Hallward’s studio, to the mad prayer that had
so changed his life? Here, in gold-embroidered red doublet, jewelled
surcoat, and gilt-edged ruff and wristbands, stood Sir Anthony Sherard,
with his silver-and-black armour piled at his feet. What had this man’s
legacy been? Had the lover of Giovanna of Naples bequeathed him some
inheritance of sin and shame? Were his own actions merely the dreams
that the dead man had not dared to realize? Here, from the fading
canvas, smiled Lady Elizabeth Devereux, in her gauze hood, pearl
stomacher, and pink slashed sleeves. A flower was in her right hand,
and her left clasped an enamelled collar of white and damask roses. On
a table by her side lay a mandolin and an apple. There were large green
rosettes upon her little pointed shoes. He knew her life, and the
strange stories that were told about her lovers. Had he something of
her temperament in him? These oval, heavy-lidded eyes seemed to look
curiously at him. What of George Willoughby, with his powdered hair and
fantastic patches? How evil he looked! The face was saturnine and
swarthy, and the sensual lips seemed to be twisted with disdain.
Delicate lace ruffles fell over the lean yellow hands that were so
overladen with rings. He had been a macaroni of the eighteenth century,
and the friend, in his youth, of Lord Ferrars. What of the second Lord
Beckenham, the companion of the Prince Regent in his wildest days, and
one of the witnesses at the secret marriage with Mrs. Fitzherbert? How
proud and handsome he was, with his chestnut curls and insolent pose!
What passions had he bequeathed? The world had looked upon him as
infamous. He had led the orgies at Carlton House. The star of the
Garter glittered upon his breast. Beside him hung the portrait of his
wife, a pallid, thin-lipped woman in black. Her blood, also, stirred
within him. How curious it all seemed! And his mother with her Lady
Hamilton face and her moist, wine-dashed lips—he knew what he had got
from her. He had got from her his beauty, and his passion for the
beauty of others. She laughed at him in her loose Bacchante dress.
There were vine leaves in her hair. The purple spilled from the cup she
was holding. The carnations of the painting had withered, but the eyes
were still wonderful in their depth and brilliancy of colour. They
seemed to follow him wherever he went.

Yet one had ancestors in literature as well as in one’s own race,
nearer perhaps in type and temperament, many of them, and certainly
with an influence of which one was more absolutely conscious. There
were times when it appeared to Dorian Gray that the whole of history
was merely the record of his own life, not as he had lived it in act
and circumstance, but as his imagination had created it for him, as it
had been in his brain and in his passions. He felt that he had known
them all, those strange terrible figures that had passed across the
stage of the world and made sin so marvellous and evil so full of
subtlety. It seemed to him that in some mysterious way their lives had
been his own.

The hero of the wonderful novel that had so influenced his life had
himself known this curious fancy. In the seventh chapter he tells how,
crowned with laurel, lest lightning might strike him, he had sat, as
Tiberius, in a garden at Capri, reading the shameful books of
Elephantis, while dwarfs and peacocks strutted round him and the
flute-player mocked the swinger of the censer; and, as Caligula, had
caroused with the green-shirted jockeys in their stables and supped in
an ivory manger with a jewel-frontleted horse; and, as Domitian, had
wandered through a corridor lined with marble mirrors, looking round
with haggard eyes for the reflection of the dagger that was to end his
days, and sick with that ennui, that terrible _tædium vitæ_, that comes
on those to whom life denies nothing; and had peered through a clear
emerald at the red shambles of the circus and then, in a litter of
pearl and purple drawn by silver-shod mules, been carried through the
Street of Pomegranates to a House of Gold and heard men cry on Nero
Caesar as he passed by; and, as Elagabalus, had painted his face with
colours, and plied the distaff among the women, and brought the Moon
from Carthage and given her in mystic marriage to the Sun.

Over and over again Dorian used to read this fantastic chapter, and the
two chapters immediately following, in which, as in some curious
tapestries or cunningly wrought enamels, were pictured the awful and
beautiful forms of those whom vice and blood and weariness had made
monstrous or mad: Filippo, Duke of Milan, who slew his wife and painted
her lips with a scarlet poison that her lover might suck death from the
dead thing he fondled; Pietro Barbi, the Venetian, known as Paul the
Second, who sought in his vanity to assume the title of Formosus, and
whose tiara, valued at two hundred thousand florins, was bought at the
price of a terrible sin; Gian Maria Visconti, who used hounds to chase
living men and whose murdered body was covered with roses by a harlot
who had loved him; the Borgia on his white horse, with Fratricide
riding beside him and his mantle stained with the blood of Perotto;
Pietro Riario, the young Cardinal Archbishop of Florence, child and
minion of Sixtus IV., whose beauty was equalled only by his debauchery,
and who received Leonora of Aragon in a pavilion of white and crimson
silk, filled with nymphs and centaurs, and gilded a boy that he might
serve at the feast as Ganymede or Hylas; Ezzelin, whose melancholy
could be cured only by the spectacle of death, and who had a passion
for red blood, as other men have for red wine—the son of the Fiend, as
was reported, and one who had cheated his father at dice when gambling
with him for his own soul; Giambattista Cibo, who in mockery took the
name of Innocent and into whose torpid veins the blood of three lads
was infused by a Jewish doctor; Sigismondo Malatesta, the lover of
Isotta and the lord of Rimini, whose effigy was burned at Rome as the
enemy of God and man, who strangled Polyssena with a napkin, and gave
poison to Ginevra d’Este in a cup of emerald, and in honour of a
shameful passion built a pagan church for Christian worship; Charles
VI., who had so wildly adored his brother’s wife that a leper had
warned him of the insanity that was coming on him, and who, when his
brain had sickened and grown strange, could only be soothed by Saracen
cards painted with the images of love and death and madness; and, in
his trimmed jerkin and jewelled cap and acanthuslike curls, Grifonetto
Baglioni, who slew Astorre with his bride, and Simonetto with his page,
and whose comeliness was such that, as he lay dying in the yellow
piazza of Perugia, those who had hated him could not choose but weep,
and Atalanta, who had cursed him, blessed him.

There was a horrible fascination in them all. He saw them at night, and
they troubled his imagination in the day. The Renaissance knew of
strange manners of poisoning—poisoning by a helmet and a lighted torch,
by an embroidered glove and a jewelled fan, by a gilded pomander and by
an amber chain. Dorian Gray had been poisoned by a book. There were
moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could
realize his conception of the beautiful.




CHAPTER XII.


It was on the ninth of November, the eve of his own thirty-eighth
birthday, as he often remembered afterwards.

He was walking home about eleven o’clock from Lord Henry’s, where he
had been dining, and was wrapped in heavy furs, as the night was cold
and foggy. At the corner of Grosvenor Square and South Audley Street, a
man passed him in the mist, walking very fast and with the collar of
his grey ulster turned up. He had a bag in his hand. Dorian recognized
him. It was Basil Hallward. A strange sense of fear, for which he could
not account, came over him. He made no sign of recognition and went on
quickly in the direction of his own house.

But Hallward had seen him. Dorian heard him first stopping on the
pavement and then hurrying after him. In a few moments, his hand was on
his arm.

“Dorian! What an extraordinary piece of luck! I have been waiting for
you in your library ever since nine o’clock. Finally I took pity on
your tired servant and told him to go to bed, as he let me out. I am
off to Paris by the midnight train, and I particularly wanted to see
you before I left. I thought it was you, or rather your fur coat, as
you passed me. But I wasn’t quite sure. Didn’t you recognize me?”

“In this fog, my dear Basil? Why, I can’t even recognize Grosvenor
Square. I believe my house is somewhere about here, but I don’t feel at
all certain about it. I am sorry you are going away, as I have not seen
you for ages. But I suppose you will be back soon?”

“No: I am going to be out of England for six months. I intend to take a
studio in Paris and shut myself up till I have finished a great picture
I have in my head. However, it wasn’t about myself I wanted to talk.
Here we are at your door. Let me come in for a moment. I have something
to say to you.”

“I shall be charmed. But won’t you miss your train?” said Dorian Gray
languidly as he passed up the steps and opened the door with his
latch-key.

The lamplight struggled out through the fog, and Hallward looked at his
watch. “I have heaps of time,” he answered. “The train doesn’t go till
twelve-fifteen, and it is only just eleven. In fact, I was on my way to
the club to look for you, when I met you. You see, I shan’t have any
delay about luggage, as I have sent on my heavy things. All I have with
me is in this bag, and I can easily get to Victoria in twenty minutes.”

Dorian looked at him and smiled. “What a way for a fashionable painter
to travel! A Gladstone bag and an ulster! Come in, or the fog will get
into the house. And mind you don’t talk about anything serious. Nothing
is serious nowadays. At least nothing should be.”

Hallward shook his head, as he entered, and followed Dorian into the
library. There was a bright wood fire blazing in the large open hearth.
The lamps were lit, and an open Dutch silver spirit-case stood, with
some siphons of soda-water and large cut-glass tumblers, on a little
marqueterie table.

“You see your servant made me quite at home, Dorian. He gave me
everything I wanted, including your best gold-tipped cigarettes. He is
a most hospitable creature. I like him much better than the Frenchman
you used to have. What has become of the Frenchman, by the bye?”

Dorian shrugged his shoulders. “I believe he married Lady Radley’s
maid, and has established her in Paris as an English dressmaker.
_Anglomanie_ is very fashionable over there now, I hear. It seems silly
of the French, doesn’t it? But—do you know?—he was not at all a bad
servant. I never liked him, but I had nothing to complain about. One
often imagines things that are quite absurd. He was really very devoted
to me and seemed quite sorry when he went away. Have another
brandy-and-soda? Or would you like hock-and-seltzer? I always take
hock-and-seltzer myself. There is sure to be some in the next room.”

“Thanks, I won’t have anything more,” said the painter, taking his cap
and coat off and throwing them on the bag that he had placed in the
corner. “And now, my dear fellow, I want to speak to you seriously.
Don’t frown like that. You make it so much more difficult for me.”

“What is it all about?” cried Dorian in his petulant way, flinging
himself down on the sofa. “I hope it is not about myself. I am tired of
myself to-night. I should like to be somebody else.”

“It is about yourself,” answered Hallward in his grave deep voice, “and
I must say it to you. I shall only keep you half an hour.”

Dorian sighed and lit a cigarette. “Half an hour!” he murmured.

“It is not much to ask of you, Dorian, and it is entirely for your own
sake that I am speaking. I think it right that you should know that the
most dreadful things are being said against you in London.”

“I don’t wish to know anything about them. I love scandals about other
people, but scandals about myself don’t interest me. They have not got
the charm of novelty.”

“They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in his
good name. You don’t want people to talk of you as something vile and
degraded. Of course, you have your position, and your wealth, and all
that kind of thing. But position and wealth are not everything. Mind
you, I don’t believe these rumours at all. At least, I can’t believe
them when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man’s
face. It cannot be concealed. People talk sometimes of secret vices.
There are no such things. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself
in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of
his hands even. Somebody—I won’t mention his name, but you know
him—came to me last year to have his portrait done. I had never seen
him before, and had never heard anything about him at the time, though
I have heard a good deal since. He offered an extravagant price. I
refused him. There was something in the shape of his fingers that I
hated. I know now that I was quite right in what I fancied about him.
His life is dreadful. But you, Dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent
face, and your marvellous untroubled youth—I can’t believe anything
against you. And yet I see you very seldom, and you never come down to
the studio now, and when I am away from you, and I hear all these
hideous things that people are whispering about you, I don’t know what
to say. Why is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of Berwick leaves
the room of a club when you enter it? Why is it that so many gentlemen
in London will neither go to your house or invite you to theirs? You
used to be a friend of Lord Staveley. I met him at dinner last week.
Your name happened to come up in conversation, in connection with the
miniatures you have lent to the exhibition at the Dudley. Staveley
curled his lip and said that you might have the most artistic tastes,
but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to
know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same room with. I
reminded him that I was a friend of yours, and asked him what he meant.
He told me. He told me right out before everybody. It was horrible! Why
is your friendship so fatal to young men? There was that wretched boy
in the Guards who committed suicide. You were his great friend. There
was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England with a tarnished name.
You and he were inseparable. What about Adrian Singleton and his
dreadful end? What about Lord Kent’s only son and his career? I met his
father yesterday in St. James’s Street. He seemed broken with shame and
sorrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he
got now? What gentleman would associate with him?”

“Stop, Basil. You are talking about things of which you know nothing,”
said Dorian Gray, biting his lip, and with a note of infinite contempt
in his voice. “You ask me why Berwick leaves a room when I enter it. It
is because I know everything about his life, not because he knows
anything about mine. With such blood as he has in his veins, how could
his record be clean? You ask me about Henry Ashton and young Perth. Did
I teach the one his vices, and the other his debauchery? If Kent’s
silly son takes his wife from the streets, what is that to me? If
Adrian Singleton writes his friend’s name across a bill, am I his
keeper? I know how people chatter in England. The middle classes air
their moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and whisper
about what they call the profligacies of their betters in order to try
and pretend that they are in smart society and on intimate terms with
the people they slander. In this country, it is enough for a man to
have distinction and brains for every common tongue to wag against him.
And what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead
themselves? My dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land
of the hypocrite.”

“Dorian,” cried Hallward, “that is not the question. England is bad
enough I know, and English society is all wrong. That is the reason why
I want you to be fine. You have not been fine. One has a right to judge
of a man by the effect he has over his friends. Yours seem to lose all
sense of honour, of goodness, of purity. You have filled them with a
madness for pleasure. They have gone down into the depths. You led them
there. Yes: you led them there, and yet you can smile, as you are
smiling now. And there is worse behind. I know you and Harry are
inseparable. Surely for that reason, if for none other, you should not
have made his sister’s name a by-word.”

“Take care, Basil. You go too far.”

“I must speak, and you must listen. You shall listen. When you met Lady
Gwendolen, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. Is there a
single decent woman in London now who would drive with her in the park?
Why, even her children are not allowed to live with her. Then there are
other stories—stories that you have been seen creeping at dawn out of
dreadful houses and slinking in disguise into the foulest dens in
London. Are they true? Can they be true? When I first heard them, I
laughed. I hear them now, and they make me shudder. What about your
country-house and the life that is led there? Dorian, you don’t know
what is said about you. I won’t tell you that I don’t want to preach to
you. I remember Harry saying once that every man who turned himself
into an amateur curate for the moment always began by saying that, and
then proceeded to break his word. I do want to preach to you. I want
you to lead such a life as will make the world respect you. I want you
to have a clean name and a fair record. I want you to get rid of the
dreadful people you associate with. Don’t shrug your shoulders like
that. Don’t be so indifferent. You have a wonderful influence. Let it
be for good, not for evil. They say that you corrupt every one with
whom you become intimate, and that it is quite sufficient for you to
enter a house for shame of some kind to follow after. I don’t know
whether it is so or not. How should I know? But it is said of you. I am
told things that it seems impossible to doubt. Lord Gloucester was one
of my greatest friends at Oxford. He showed me a letter that his wife
had written to him when she was dying alone in her villa at Mentone.
Your name was implicated in the most terrible confession I ever read. I
told him that it was absurd—that I knew you thoroughly, and that you
were incapable of anything of the kind. Know you? I wonder do I know
you? Before I could answer that, I should have to see your soul.”

“To see my soul!” muttered Dorian Gray, starting up from the sofa and
turning almost white from fear.

“Yes,” answered Hallward gravely, and with deep-toned sorrow in his
voice, “to see your soul. But only God can do that.”

A bitter laugh of mockery broke from the lips of the younger man. “You
shall see it yourself, to-night!” he cried, seizing a lamp from the
table. “Come: it is your own handiwork. Why shouldn’t you look at it?
You can tell the world all about it afterwards, if you choose. Nobody
would believe you. If they did believe you, they would like me all the
better for it. I know the age better than you do, though you will prate
about it so tediously. Come, I tell you. You have chattered enough
about corruption. Now you shall look on it face to face.”

There was the madness of pride in every word he uttered. He stamped his
foot upon the ground in his boyish insolent manner. He felt a terrible
joy at the thought that some one else was to share his secret, and that
the man who had painted the portrait that was the origin of all his
shame was to be burdened for the rest of his life with the hideous
memory of what he had done.

“Yes,” he continued, coming closer to him and looking steadfastly into
his stern eyes, “I shall show you my soul. You shall see the thing that
you fancy only God can see.”

Hallward started back. “This is blasphemy, Dorian!” he cried. “You must
not say things like that. They are horrible, and they don’t mean
anything.”

“You think so?” He laughed again.

“I know so. As for what I said to you to-night, I said it for your
good. You know I have been always a stanch friend to you.”

“Don’t touch me. Finish what you have to say.”

A twisted flash of pain shot across the painter’s face. He paused for a
moment, and a wild feeling of pity came over him. After all, what right
had he to pry into the life of Dorian Gray? If he had done a tithe of
what was rumoured about him, how much he must have suffered! Then he
straightened himself up, and walked over to the fire-place, and stood
there, looking at the burning logs with their frostlike ashes and their
throbbing cores of flame.

“I am waiting, Basil,” said the young man in a hard clear voice.

He turned round. “What I have to say is this,” he cried. “You must give
me some answer to these horrible charges that are made against you. If
you tell me that they are absolutely untrue from beginning to end, I
shall believe you. Deny them, Dorian, deny them! Can’t you see what I
am going through? My God! don’t tell me that you are bad, and corrupt,
and shameful.”

Dorian Gray smiled. There was a curl of contempt in his lips. “Come
upstairs, Basil,” he said quietly. “I keep a diary of my life from day
to day, and it never leaves the room in which it is written. I shall
show it to you if you come with me.”

“I shall come with you, Dorian, if you wish it. I see I have missed my
train. That makes no matter. I can go to-morrow. But don’t ask me to
read anything to-night. All I want is a plain answer to my question.”

“That shall be given to you upstairs. I could not give it here. You
will not have to read long.”




CHAPTER XIII.


He passed out of the room and began the ascent, Basil Hallward
following close behind. They walked softly, as men do instinctively at
night. The lamp cast fantastic shadows on the wall and staircase. A
rising wind made some of the windows rattle.

When they reached the top landing, Dorian set the lamp down on the
floor, and taking out the key, turned it in the lock. “You insist on
knowing, Basil?” he asked in a low voice.

“Yes.”

“I am delighted,” he answered, smiling. Then he added, somewhat
harshly, “You are the one man in the world who is entitled to know
everything about me. You have had more to do with my life than you
think”; and, taking up the lamp, he opened the door and went in. A cold
current of air passed them, and the light shot up for a moment in a
flame of murky orange. He shuddered. “Shut the door behind you,” he
whispered, as he placed the lamp on the table.

Hallward glanced round him with a puzzled expression. The room looked
as if it had not been lived in for years. A faded Flemish tapestry, a
curtained picture, an old Italian _cassone_, and an almost empty
book-case—that was all that it seemed to contain, besides a chair and a
table. As Dorian Gray was lighting a half-burned candle that was
standing on the mantelshelf, he saw that the whole place was covered
with dust and that the carpet was in holes. A mouse ran scuffling
behind the wainscoting. There was a damp odour of mildew.

“So you think that it is only God who sees the soul, Basil? Draw that
curtain back, and you will see mine.”

The voice that spoke was cold and cruel. “You are mad, Dorian, or
playing a part,” muttered Hallward, frowning.

“You won’t? Then I must do it myself,” said the young man, and he tore
the curtain from its rod and flung it on the ground.

An exclamation of horror broke from the painter’s lips as he saw in the
dim light the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him. There was
something in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing.
Good heavens! it was Dorian Gray’s own face that he was looking at! The
horror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely spoiled that marvellous
beauty. There was still some gold in the thinning hair and some scarlet
on the sensual mouth. The sodden eyes had kept something of the
loveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet completely
passed away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. Yes, it
was Dorian himself. But who had done it? He seemed to recognize his own
brushwork, and the frame was his own design. The idea was monstrous,
yet he felt afraid. He seized the lighted candle, and held it to the
picture. In the left-hand corner was his own name, traced in long
letters of bright vermilion.

It was some foul parody, some infamous ignoble satire. He had never
done that. Still, it was his own picture. He knew it, and he felt as if
his blood had changed in a moment from fire to sluggish ice. His own
picture! What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned and looked at
Dorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man. His mouth twitched, and his
parched tongue seemed unable to articulate. He passed his hand across
his forehead. It was dank with clammy sweat.

The young man was leaning against the mantelshelf, watching him with
that strange expression that one sees on the faces of those who are
absorbed in a play when some great artist is acting. There was neither
real sorrow in it nor real joy. There was simply the passion of the
spectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He had taken
the flower out of his coat, and was smelling it, or pretending to do
so.

“What does this mean?” cried Hallward, at last. His own voice sounded
shrill and curious in his ears.

“Years ago, when I was a boy,” said Dorian Gray, crushing the flower in
his hand, “you met me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my
good looks. One day you introduced me to a friend of yours, who
explained to me the wonder of youth, and you finished a portrait of me
that revealed to me the wonder of beauty. In a mad moment that, even
now, I don’t know whether I regret or not, I made a wish, perhaps you
would call it a prayer....”

“I remember it! Oh, how well I remember it! No! the thing is
impossible. The room is damp. Mildew has got into the canvas. The
paints I used had some wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you the
thing is impossible.”

“Ah, what is impossible?” murmured the young man, going over to the
window and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass.

“You told me you had destroyed it.”

“I was wrong. It has destroyed me.”

“I don’t believe it is my picture.”

“Can’t you see your ideal in it?” said Dorian bitterly.

“My ideal, as you call it...”

“As you called it.”

“There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. You were to me such an
ideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr.”

“It is the face of my soul.”

“Christ! what a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of a
devil.”

“Each of us has heaven and hell in him, Basil,” cried Dorian with a
wild gesture of despair.

Hallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it. “My God! If it
is true,” he exclaimed, “and this is what you have done with your life,
why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you
to be!” He held the light up again to the canvas and examined it. The
surface seemed to be quite undisturbed and as he had left it. It was
from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. Through
some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly
eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was
not so fearful.

His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and
lay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then he
flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and
buried his face in his hands.

“Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!” There was no
answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. “Pray,
Dorian, pray,” he murmured. “What is it that one was taught to say in
one’s boyhood? ‘Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash
away our iniquities.’ Let us say that together. The prayer of your
pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered
also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped
yourself too much. We are both punished.”

Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed
eyes. “It is too late, Basil,” he faltered.

“It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot
remember a prayer. Isn’t there a verse somewhere, ‘Though your sins be
as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow’?”

“Those words mean nothing to me now.”

“Hush! Don’t say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God!
Don’t you see that accursed thing leering at us?”

Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable
feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had
been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his
ear by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred
within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more
than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced wildly
around. Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced
him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a knife that he
had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had
forgotten to take away with him. He moved slowly towards it, passing
Hallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seized it and
turned round. Hallward stirred in his chair as if he was going to rise.
He rushed at him and dug the knife into the great vein that is behind
the ear, crushing the man’s head down on the table and stabbing again
and again.

There was a stifled groan and the horrible sound of some one choking
with blood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively,
waving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him twice
more, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle on the
floor. He waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. Then he
threw the knife on the table, and listened.

He could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. He
opened the door and went out on the landing. The house was absolutely
quiet. No one was about. For a few seconds he stood bending over the
balustrade and peering down into the black seething well of darkness.
Then he took out the key and returned to the room, locking himself in
as he did so.

The thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table with
bowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. Had it not been
for the red jagged tear in the neck and the clotted black pool that was
slowly widening on the table, one would have said that the man was
simply asleep.

How quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and walking
over to the window, opened it and stepped out on the balcony. The wind
had blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock’s
tail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. He looked down and saw the
policeman going his rounds and flashing the long beam of his lantern on
the doors of the silent houses. The crimson spot of a prowling hansom
gleamed at the corner and then vanished. A woman in a fluttering shawl
was creeping slowly by the railings, staggering as she went. Now and
then she stopped and peered back. Once, she began to sing in a hoarse
voice. The policeman strolled over and said something to her. She
stumbled away, laughing. A bitter blast swept across the square. The
gas-lamps flickered and became blue, and the leafless trees shook their
black iron branches to and fro. He shivered and went back, closing the
window behind him.

Having reached the door, he turned the key and opened it. He did not
even glance at the murdered man. He felt that the secret of the whole
thing was not to realize the situation. The friend who had painted the
fatal portrait to which all his misery had been due had gone out of his
life. That was enough.

Then he remembered the lamp. It was a rather curious one of Moorish
workmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnished
steel, and studded with coarse turquoises. Perhaps it might be missed
by his servant, and questions would be asked. He hesitated for a
moment, then he turned back and took it from the table. He could not
help seeing the dead thing. How still it was! How horribly white the
long hands looked! It was like a dreadful wax image.

Having locked the door behind him, he crept quietly downstairs. The
woodwork creaked and seemed to cry out as if in pain. He stopped
several times and waited. No: everything was still. It was merely the
sound of his own footsteps.

When he reached the library, he saw the bag and coat in the corner.
They must be hidden away somewhere. He unlocked a secret press that was
in the wainscoting, a press in which he kept his own curious disguises,
and put them into it. He could easily burn them afterwards. Then he
pulled out his watch. It was twenty minutes to two.

He sat down and began to think. Every year—every month, almost—men were
strangled in England for what he had done. There had been a madness of
murder in the air. Some red star had come too close to the earth....
And yet, what evidence was there against him? Basil Hallward had left
the house at eleven. No one had seen him come in again. Most of the
servants were at Selby Royal. His valet had gone to bed.... Paris! Yes.
It was to Paris that Basil had gone, and by the midnight train, as he
had intended. With his curious reserved habits, it would be months
before any suspicions would be roused. Months! Everything could be
destroyed long before then.

A sudden thought struck him. He put on his fur coat and hat and went
out into the hall. There he paused, hearing the slow heavy tread of the
policeman on the pavement outside and seeing the flash of the
bull’s-eye reflected in the window. He waited and held his breath.

After a few moments he drew back the latch and slipped out, shutting
the door very gently behind him. Then he began ringing the bell. In
about five minutes his valet appeared, half-dressed and looking very
drowsy.

“I am sorry to have had to wake you up, Francis,” he said, stepping in;
“but I had forgotten my latch-key. What time is it?”

“Ten minutes past two, sir,” answered the man, looking at the clock and
blinking.

“Ten minutes past two? How horribly late! You must wake me at nine
to-morrow. I have some work to do.”

“All right, sir.”

“Did any one call this evening?”

“Mr. Hallward, sir. He stayed here till eleven, and then he went away
to catch his train.”

“Oh! I am sorry I didn’t see him. Did he leave any message?”

“No, sir, except that he would write to you from Paris, if he did not
find you at the club.”

“That will do, Francis. Don’t forget to call me at nine to-morrow.”

“No, sir.”

The man shambled down the passage in his slippers.

Dorian Gray threw his hat and coat upon the table and passed into the
library. For a quarter of an hour he walked up and down the room,
biting his lip and thinking. Then he took down the Blue Book from one
of the shelves and began to turn over the leaves. “Alan Campbell, 152,
Hertford Street, Mayfair.” Yes; that was the man he wanted.




CHAPTER XIV.


At nine o’clock the next morning his servant came in with a cup of
chocolate on a tray and opened the shutters. Dorian was sleeping quite
peacefully, lying on his right side, with one hand underneath his
cheek. He looked like a boy who had been tired out with play, or study.

The man had to touch him twice on the shoulder before he woke, and as
he opened his eyes a faint smile passed across his lips, as though he
had been lost in some delightful dream. Yet he had not dreamed at all.
His night had been untroubled by any images of pleasure or of pain. But
youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.

He turned round, and leaning upon his elbow, began to sip his
chocolate. The mellow November sun came streaming into the room. The
sky was bright, and there was a genial warmth in the air. It was almost
like a morning in May.

Gradually the events of the preceding night crept with silent,
blood-stained feet into his brain and reconstructed themselves there
with terrible distinctness. He winced at the memory of all that he had
suffered, and for a moment the same curious feeling of loathing for
Basil Hallward that had made him kill him as he sat in the chair came
back to him, and he grew cold with passion. The dead man was still
sitting there, too, and in the sunlight now. How horrible that was!
Such hideous things were for the darkness, not for the day.

He felt that if he brooded on what he had gone through he would sicken
or grow mad. There were sins whose fascination was more in the memory
than in the doing of them, strange triumphs that gratified the pride
more than the passions, and gave to the intellect a quickened sense of
joy, greater than any joy they brought, or could ever bring, to the
senses. But this was not one of them. It was a thing to be driven out
of the mind, to be drugged with poppies, to be strangled lest it might
strangle one itself.

When the half-hour struck, he passed his hand across his forehead, and
then got up hastily and dressed himself with even more than his usual
care, giving a good deal of attention to the choice of his necktie and
scarf-pin and changing his rings more than once. He spent a long time
also over breakfast, tasting the various dishes, talking to his valet
about some new liveries that he was thinking of getting made for the
servants at Selby, and going through his correspondence. At some of the
letters, he smiled. Three of them bored him. One he read several times
over and then tore up with a slight look of annoyance in his face.
“That awful thing, a woman’s memory!” as Lord Henry had once said.

After he had drunk his cup of black coffee, he wiped his lips slowly
with a napkin, motioned to his servant to wait, and going over to the
table, sat down and wrote two letters. One he put in his pocket, the
other he handed to the valet.

“Take this round to 152, Hertford Street, Francis, and if Mr. Campbell
is out of town, get his address.”

As soon as he was alone, he lit a cigarette and began sketching upon a
piece of paper, drawing first flowers and bits of architecture, and
then human faces. Suddenly he remarked that every face that he drew
seemed to have a fantastic likeness to Basil Hallward. He frowned, and
getting up, went over to the book-case and took out a volume at hazard.
He was determined that he would not think about what had happened until
it became absolutely necessary that he should do so.

When he had stretched himself on the sofa, he looked at the title-page
of the book. It was Gautier’s “Émaux et Camées”, Charpentier’s
Japanese-paper edition, with the Jacquemart etching. The binding was of
citron-green leather, with a design of gilt trellis-work and dotted
pomegranates. It had been given to him by Adrian Singleton. As he
turned over the pages, his eye fell on the poem about the hand of
Lacenaire, the cold yellow hand “_du supplice encore mal lavée_,” with
its downy red hairs and its “_doigts de faune_.” He glanced at his own
white taper fingers, shuddering slightly in spite of himself, and
passed on, till he came to those lovely stanzas upon Venice:

Sur une gamme chromatique,
    Le sein de perles ruisselant,
La Vénus de l’Adriatique
    Sort de l’eau son corps rose et blanc.

Les dômes, sur l’azur des ondes
    Suivant la phrase au pur contour,
S’enflent comme des gorges rondes
    Que soulève un soupir d’amour.

L’esquif aborde et me dépose,
    Jetant son amarre au pilier,
Devant une façade rose,
    Sur le marbre d’un escalier.


How exquisite they were! As one read them, one seemed to be floating
down the green water-ways of the pink and pearl city, seated in a black
gondola with silver prow and trailing curtains. The mere lines looked
to him like those straight lines of turquoise-blue that follow one as
one pushes out to the Lido. The sudden flashes of colour reminded him
of the gleam of the opal-and-iris-throated birds that flutter round the
tall honeycombed Campanile, or stalk, with such stately grace, through
the dim, dust-stained arcades. Leaning back with half-closed eyes, he
kept saying over and over to himself:

“Devant une façade rose,
Sur le marbre d’un escalier.”


The whole of Venice was in those two lines. He remembered the autumn
that he had passed there, and a wonderful love that had stirred him to
mad delightful follies. There was romance in every place. But Venice,
like Oxford, had kept the background for romance, and, to the true
romantic, background was everything, or almost everything. Basil had
been with him part of the time, and had gone wild over Tintoret. Poor
Basil! What a horrible way for a man to die!

He sighed, and took up the volume again, and tried to forget. He read
of the swallows that fly in and out of the little _café_ at Smyrna
where the Hadjis sit counting their amber beads and the turbaned
merchants smoke their long tasselled pipes and talk gravely to each
other; he read of the Obelisk in the Place de la Concorde that weeps
tears of granite in its lonely sunless exile and longs to be back by
the hot, lotus-covered Nile, where there are Sphinxes, and rose-red
ibises, and white vultures with gilded claws, and crocodiles with small
beryl eyes that crawl over the green steaming mud; he began to brood
over those verses which, drawing music from kiss-stained marble, tell
of that curious statue that Gautier compares to a contralto voice, the
“_monstre charmant_” that couches in the porphyry-room of the Louvre.
But after a time the book fell from his hand. He grew nervous, and a
horrible fit of terror came over him. What if Alan Campbell should be
out of England? Days would elapse before he could come back. Perhaps he
might refuse to come. What could he do then? Every moment was of vital
importance.

They had been great friends once, five years before—almost inseparable,
indeed. Then the intimacy had come suddenly to an end. When they met in
society now, it was only Dorian Gray who smiled: Alan Campbell never
did.

He was an extremely clever young man, though he had no real
appreciation of the visible arts, and whatever little sense of the
beauty of poetry he possessed he had gained entirely from Dorian. His
dominant intellectual passion was for science. At Cambridge he had
spent a great deal of his time working in the laboratory, and had taken
a good class in the Natural Science Tripos of his year. Indeed, he was
still devoted to the study of chemistry, and had a laboratory of his
own in which he used to shut himself up all day long, greatly to the
annoyance of his mother, who had set her heart on his standing for
Parliament and had a vague idea that a chemist was a person who made up
prescriptions. He was an excellent musician, however, as well, and
played both the violin and the piano better than most amateurs. In
fact, it was music that had first brought him and Dorian Gray
together—music and that indefinable attraction that Dorian seemed to be
able to exercise whenever he wished—and, indeed, exercised often
without being conscious of it. They had met at Lady Berkshire’s the
night that Rubinstein played there, and after that used to be always
seen together at the opera and wherever good music was going on. For
eighteen months their intimacy lasted. Campbell was always either at
Selby Royal or in Grosvenor Square. To him, as to many others, Dorian
Gray was the type of everything that is wonderful and fascinating in
life. Whether or not a quarrel had taken place between them no one ever
knew. But suddenly people remarked that they scarcely spoke when they
met and that Campbell seemed always to go away early from any party at
which Dorian Gray was present. He had changed, too—was strangely
melancholy at times, appeared almost to dislike hearing music, and
would never himself play, giving as his excuse, when he was called
upon, that he was so absorbed in science that he had no time left in
which to practise. And this was certainly true. Every day he seemed to
become more interested in biology, and his name appeared once or twice
in some of the scientific reviews in connection with certain curious
experiments.

This was the man Dorian Gray was waiting for. Every second he kept
glancing at the clock. As the minutes went by he became horribly
agitated. At last he got up and began to pace up and down the room,
looking like a beautiful caged thing. He took long stealthy strides.
His hands were curiously cold.

The suspense became unbearable. Time seemed to him to be crawling with
feet of lead, while he by monstrous winds was being swept towards the
jagged edge of some black cleft of precipice. He knew what was waiting
for him there; saw it, indeed, and, shuddering, crushed with dank hands
his burning lids as though he would have robbed the very brain of sight
and driven the eyeballs back into their cave. It was useless. The brain
had its own food on which it battened, and the imagination, made
grotesque by terror, twisted and distorted as a living thing by pain,
danced like some foul puppet on a stand and grinned through moving
masks. Then, suddenly, time stopped for him. Yes: that blind,
slow-breathing thing crawled no more, and horrible thoughts, time being
dead, raced nimbly on in front, and dragged a hideous future from its
grave, and showed it to him. He stared at it. Its very horror made him
stone.

At last the door opened and his servant entered. He turned glazed eyes
upon him.

“Mr. Campbell, sir,” said the man.

A sigh of relief broke from his parched lips, and the colour came back
to his cheeks.

“Ask him to come in at once, Francis.” He felt that he was himself
again. His mood of cowardice had passed away.

The man bowed and retired. In a few moments, Alan Campbell walked in,
looking very stern and rather pale, his pallor being intensified by his
coal-black hair and dark eyebrows.

“Alan! This is kind of you. I thank you for coming.”

“I had intended never to enter your house again, Gray. But you said it
was a matter of life and death.” His voice was hard and cold. He spoke
with slow deliberation. There was a look of contempt in the steady
searching gaze that he turned on Dorian. He kept his hands in the
pockets of his Astrakhan coat, and seemed not to have noticed the
gesture with which he had been greeted.

“Yes: it is a matter of life and death, Alan, and to more than one
person. Sit down.”

Campbell took a chair by the table, and Dorian sat opposite to him. The
two men’s eyes met. In Dorian’s there was infinite pity. He knew that
what he was going to do was dreadful.

After a strained moment of silence, he leaned across and said, very
quietly, but watching the effect of each word upon the face of him he
had sent for, “Alan, in a locked room at the top of this house, a room
to which nobody but myself has access, a dead man is seated at a table.
He has been dead ten hours now. Don’t stir, and don’t look at me like
that. Who the man is, why he died, how he died, are matters that do not
concern you. What you have to do is this—”

“Stop, Gray. I don’t want to know anything further. Whether what you
have told me is true or not true doesn’t concern me. I entirely decline
to be mixed up in your life. Keep your horrible secrets to yourself.
They don’t interest me any more.”

“Alan, they will have to interest you. This one will have to interest
you. I am awfully sorry for you, Alan. But I can’t help myself. You are
the one man who is able to save me. I am forced to bring you into the
matter. I have no option. Alan, you are scientific. You know about
chemistry and things of that kind. You have made experiments. What you
have got to do is to destroy the thing that is upstairs—to destroy it
so that not a vestige of it will be left. Nobody saw this person come
into the house. Indeed, at the present moment he is supposed to be in
Paris. He will not be missed for months. When he is missed, there must
be no trace of him found here. You, Alan, you must change him, and
everything that belongs to him, into a handful of ashes that I may
scatter in the air.”

“You are mad, Dorian.”

“Ah! I was waiting for you to call me Dorian.”

“You are mad, I tell you—mad to imagine that I would raise a finger to
help you, mad to make this monstrous confession. I will have nothing to
do with this matter, whatever it is. Do you think I am going to peril
my reputation for you? What is it to me what devil’s work you are up
to?”

“It was suicide, Alan.”

“I am glad of that. But who drove him to it? You, I should fancy.”

“Do you still refuse to do this for me?”

“Of course I refuse. I will have absolutely nothing to do with it. I
don’t care what shame comes on you. You deserve it all. I should not be
sorry to see you disgraced, publicly disgraced. How dare you ask me, of
all men in the world, to mix myself up in this horror? I should have
thought you knew more about people’s characters. Your friend Lord Henry
Wotton can’t have taught you much about psychology, whatever else he
has taught you. Nothing will induce me to stir a step to help you. You
have come to the wrong man. Go to some of your friends. Don’t come to
me.”

“Alan, it was murder. I killed him. You don’t know what he had made me
suffer. Whatever my life is, he had more to do with the making or the
marring of it than poor Harry has had. He may not have intended it, the
result was the same.”

“Murder! Good God, Dorian, is that what you have come to? I shall not
inform upon you. It is not my business. Besides, without my stirring in
the matter, you are certain to be arrested. Nobody ever commits a crime
without doing something stupid. But I will have nothing to do with it.”

“You must have something to do with it. Wait, wait a moment; listen to
me. Only listen, Alan. All I ask of you is to perform a certain
scientific experiment. You go to hospitals and dead-houses, and the
horrors that you do there don’t affect you. If in some hideous
dissecting-room or fetid laboratory you found this man lying on a
leaden table with red gutters scooped out in it for the blood to flow
through, you would simply look upon him as an admirable subject. You
would not turn a hair. You would not believe that you were doing
anything wrong. On the contrary, you would probably feel that you were
benefiting the human race, or increasing the sum of knowledge in the
world, or gratifying intellectual curiosity, or something of that kind.
What I want you to do is merely what you have often done before.
Indeed, to destroy a body must be far less horrible than what you are
accustomed to work at. And, remember, it is the only piece of evidence
against me. If it is discovered, I am lost; and it is sure to be
discovered unless you help me.”

“I have no desire to help you. You forget that. I am simply indifferent
to the whole thing. It has nothing to do with me.”

“Alan, I entreat you. Think of the position I am in. Just before you
came I almost fainted with terror. You may know terror yourself some
day. No! don’t think of that. Look at the matter purely from the
scientific point of view. You don’t inquire where the dead things on
which you experiment come from. Don’t inquire now. I have told you too
much as it is. But I beg of you to do this. We were friends once,
Alan.”

“Don’t speak about those days, Dorian—they are dead.”

“The dead linger sometimes. The man upstairs will not go away. He is
sitting at the table with bowed head and outstretched arms. Alan! Alan!
If you don’t come to my assistance, I am ruined. Why, they will hang
me, Alan! Don’t you understand? They will hang me for what I have
done.”

“There is no good in prolonging this scene. I absolutely refuse to do
anything in the matter. It is insane of you to ask me.”

“You refuse?”

“Yes.”

“I entreat you, Alan.”

“It is useless.”

The same look of pity came into Dorian Gray’s eyes. Then he stretched
out his hand, took a piece of paper, and wrote something on it. He read
it over twice, folded it carefully, and pushed it across the table.
Having done this, he got up and went over to the window.

Campbell looked at him in surprise, and then took up the paper, and
opened it. As he read it, his face became ghastly pale and he fell back
in his chair. A horrible sense of sickness came over him. He felt as if
his heart was beating itself to death in some empty hollow.

After two or three minutes of terrible silence, Dorian turned round and
came and stood behind him, putting his hand upon his shoulder.

“I am so sorry for you, Alan,” he murmured, “but you leave me no
alternative. I have a letter written already. Here it is. You see the
address. If you don’t help me, I must send it. If you don’t help me, I
will send it. You know what the result will be. But you are going to
help me. It is impossible for you to refuse now. I tried to spare you.
You will do me the justice to admit that. You were stern, harsh,
offensive. You treated me as no man has ever dared to treat me—no
living man, at any rate. I bore it all. Now it is for me to dictate
terms.”

Campbell buried his face in his hands, and a shudder passed through
him.

“Yes, it is my turn to dictate terms, Alan. You know what they are. The
thing is quite simple. Come, don’t work yourself into this fever. The
thing has to be done. Face it, and do it.”

A groan broke from Campbell’s lips and he shivered all over. The
ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to him to be dividing
time into separate atoms of agony, each of which was too terrible to be
borne. He felt as if an iron ring was being slowly tightened round his
forehead, as if the disgrace with which he was threatened had already
come upon him. The hand upon his shoulder weighed like a hand of lead.
It was intolerable. It seemed to crush him.

“Come, Alan, you must decide at once.”

“I cannot do it,” he said, mechanically, as though words could alter
things.

“You must. You have no choice. Don’t delay.”

He hesitated a moment. “Is there a fire in the room upstairs?”

“Yes, there is a gas-fire with asbestos.”

“I shall have to go home and get some things from the laboratory.”

“No, Alan, you must not leave the house. Write out on a sheet of
notepaper what you want and my servant will take a cab and bring the
things back to you.”

Campbell scrawled a few lines, blotted them, and addressed an envelope
to his assistant. Dorian took the note up and read it carefully. Then
he rang the bell and gave it to his valet, with orders to return as
soon as possible and to bring the things with him.

As the hall door shut, Campbell started nervously, and having got up
from the chair, went over to the chimney-piece. He was shivering with a
kind of ague. For nearly twenty minutes, neither of the men spoke. A
fly buzzed noisily about the room, and the ticking of the clock was
like the beat of a hammer.

As the chime struck one, Campbell turned round, and looking at Dorian
Gray, saw that his eyes were filled with tears. There was something in
the purity and refinement of that sad face that seemed to enrage him.
“You are infamous, absolutely infamous!” he muttered.

“Hush, Alan. You have saved my life,” said Dorian.

“Your life? Good heavens! what a life that is! You have gone from
corruption to corruption, and now you have culminated in crime. In
doing what I am going to do—what you force me to do—it is not of your
life that I am thinking.”

“Ah, Alan,” murmured Dorian with a sigh, “I wish you had a thousandth
part of the pity for me that I have for you.” He turned away as he
spoke and stood looking out at the garden. Campbell made no answer.

After about ten minutes a knock came to the door, and the servant
entered, carrying a large mahogany chest of chemicals, with a long coil
of steel and platinum wire and two rather curiously shaped iron clamps.

“Shall I leave the things here, sir?” he asked Campbell.

“Yes,” said Dorian. “And I am afraid, Francis, that I have another
errand for you. What is the name of the man at Richmond who supplies
Selby with orchids?”

“Harden, sir.”

“Yes—Harden. You must go down to Richmond at once, see Harden
personally, and tell him to send twice as many orchids as I ordered,
and to have as few white ones as possible. In fact, I don’t want any
white ones. It is a lovely day, Francis, and Richmond is a very pretty
place—otherwise I wouldn’t bother you about it.”

“No trouble, sir. At what time shall I be back?”

Dorian looked at Campbell. “How long will your experiment take, Alan?”
he said in a calm indifferent voice. The presence of a third person in
the room seemed to give him extraordinary courage.

Campbell frowned and bit his lip. “It will take about five hours,” he
answered.

“It will be time enough, then, if you are back at half-past seven,
Francis. Or stay: just leave my things out for dressing. You can have
the evening to yourself. I am not dining at home, so I shall not want
you.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the man, leaving the room.

“Now, Alan, there is not a moment to be lost. How heavy this chest is!
I’ll take it for you. You bring the other things.” He spoke rapidly and
in an authoritative manner. Campbell felt dominated by him. They left
the room together.

When they reached the top landing, Dorian took out the key and turned
it in the lock. Then he stopped, and a troubled look came into his
eyes. He shuddered. “I don’t think I can go in, Alan,” he murmured.

“It is nothing to me. I don’t require you,” said Campbell coldly.

Dorian half opened the door. As he did so, he saw the face of his
portrait leering in the sunlight. On the floor in front of it the torn
curtain was lying. He remembered that the night before he had
forgotten, for the first time in his life, to hide the fatal canvas,
and was about to rush forward, when he drew back with a shudder.

What was that loathsome red dew that gleamed, wet and glistening, on
one of the hands, as though the canvas had sweated blood? How horrible
it was!—more horrible, it seemed to him for the moment, than the silent
thing that he knew was stretched across the table, the thing whose
grotesque misshapen shadow on the spotted carpet showed him that it had
not stirred, but was still there, as he had left it.

He heaved a deep breath, opened the door a little wider, and with
half-closed eyes and averted head, walked quickly in, determined that
he would not look even once upon the dead man. Then, stooping down and
taking up the gold-and-purple hanging, he flung it right over the
picture.

There he stopped, feeling afraid to turn round, and his eyes fixed
themselves on the intricacies of the pattern before him. He heard
Campbell bringing in the heavy chest, and the irons, and the other
things that he had required for his dreadful work. He began to wonder
if he and Basil Hallward had ever met, and, if so, what they had
thought of each other.

“Leave me now,” said a stern voice behind him.

He turned and hurried out, just conscious that the dead man had been
thrust back into the chair and that Campbell was gazing into a
glistening yellow face. As he was going downstairs, he heard the key
being turned in the lock.

It was long after seven when Campbell came back into the library. He
was pale, but absolutely calm. “I have done what you asked me to do,”
he muttered. “And now, good-bye. Let us never see each other again.”

“You have saved me from ruin, Alan. I cannot forget that,” said Dorian
simply.

As soon as Campbell had left, he went upstairs. There was a horrible
smell of nitric acid in the room. But the thing that had been sitting
at the table was gone.




CHAPTER XV.


That evening, at eight-thirty, exquisitely dressed and wearing a large
button-hole of Parma violets, Dorian Gray was ushered into Lady
Narborough’s drawing-room by bowing servants. His forehead was
throbbing with maddened nerves, and he felt wildly excited, but his
manner as he bent over his hostess’s hand was as easy and graceful as
ever. Perhaps one never seems so much at one’s ease as when one has to
play a part. Certainly no one looking at Dorian Gray that night could
have believed that he had passed through a tragedy as horrible as any
tragedy of our age. Those finely shaped fingers could never have
clutched a knife for sin, nor those smiling lips have cried out on God
and goodness. He himself could not help wondering at the calm of his
demeanour, and for a moment felt keenly the terrible pleasure of a
double life.

It was a small party, got up rather in a hurry by Lady Narborough, who
was a very clever woman with what Lord Henry used to describe as the
remains of really remarkable ugliness. She had proved an excellent wife
to one of our most tedious ambassadors, and having buried her husband
properly in a marble mausoleum, which she had herself designed, and
married off her daughters to some rich, rather elderly men, she devoted
herself now to the pleasures of French fiction, French cookery, and
French _esprit_ when she could get it.

Dorian was one of her especial favourites, and she always told him that
she was extremely glad she had not met him in early life. “I know, my
dear, I should have fallen madly in love with you,” she used to say,
“and thrown my bonnet right over the mills for your sake. It is most
fortunate that you were not thought of at the time. As it was, our
bonnets were so unbecoming, and the mills were so occupied in trying to
raise the wind, that I never had even a flirtation with anybody.
However, that was all Narborough’s fault. He was dreadfully
short-sighted, and there is no pleasure in taking in a husband who
never sees anything.”

Her guests this evening were rather tedious. The fact was, as she
explained to Dorian, behind a very shabby fan, one of her married
daughters had come up quite suddenly to stay with her, and, to make
matters worse, had actually brought her husband with her. “I think it
is most unkind of her, my dear,” she whispered. “Of course I go and
stay with them every summer after I come from Homburg, but then an old
woman like me must have fresh air sometimes, and besides, I really wake
them up. You don’t know what an existence they lead down there. It is
pure unadulterated country life. They get up early, because they have
so much to do, and go to bed early, because they have so little to
think about. There has not been a scandal in the neighbourhood since
the time of Queen Elizabeth, and consequently they all fall asleep
after dinner. You shan’t sit next either of them. You shall sit by me
and amuse me.”

Dorian murmured a graceful compliment and looked round the room. Yes:
it was certainly a tedious party. Two of the people he had never seen
before, and the others consisted of Ernest Harrowden, one of those
middle-aged mediocrities so common in London clubs who have no enemies,
but are thoroughly disliked by their friends; Lady Ruxton, an
overdressed woman of forty-seven, with a hooked nose, who was always
trying to get herself compromised, but was so peculiarly plain that to
her great disappointment no one would ever believe anything against
her; Mrs. Erlynne, a pushing nobody, with a delightful lisp and
Venetian-red hair; Lady Alice Chapman, his hostess’s daughter, a dowdy
dull girl, with one of those characteristic British faces that, once
seen, are never remembered; and her husband, a red-cheeked,
white-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class, was under the
impression that inordinate joviality can atone for an entire lack of
ideas.

He was rather sorry he had come, till Lady Narborough, looking at the
great ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy curves on the
mauve-draped mantelshelf, exclaimed: “How horrid of Henry Wotton to be
so late! I sent round to him this morning on chance and he promised
faithfully not to disappoint me.”

It was some consolation that Harry was to be there, and when the door
opened and he heard his slow musical voice lending charm to some
insincere apology, he ceased to feel bored.

But at dinner he could not eat anything. Plate after plate went away
untasted. Lady Narborough kept scolding him for what she called “an
insult to poor Adolphe, who invented the _menu_ specially for you,” and
now and then Lord Henry looked across at him, wondering at his silence
and abstracted manner. From time to time the butler filled his glass
with champagne. He drank eagerly, and his thirst seemed to increase.

“Dorian,” said Lord Henry at last, as the _chaud-froid_ was being
handed round, “what is the matter with you to-night? You are quite out
of sorts.”

“I believe he is in love,” cried Lady Narborough, “and that he is
afraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous. He is quite right. I
certainly should.”

“Dear Lady Narborough,” murmured Dorian, smiling, “I have not been in
love for a whole week—not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town.”

“How you men can fall in love with that woman!” exclaimed the old lady.
“I really cannot understand it.”

“It is simply because she remembers you when you were a little girl,
Lady Narborough,” said Lord Henry. “She is the one link between us and
your short frocks.”

“She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry. But I
remember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago, and how _décolletée_
she was then.”

“She is still _décolletée_,” he answered, taking an olive in his long
fingers; “and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an
_édition de luxe_ of a bad French novel. She is really wonderful, and
full of surprises. Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary.
When her third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief.”

“How can you, Harry!” cried Dorian.

“It is a most romantic explanation,” laughed the hostess. “But her
third husband, Lord Henry! You don’t mean to say Ferrol is the fourth?”

“Certainly, Lady Narborough.”

“I don’t believe a word of it.”

“Well, ask Mr. Gray. He is one of her most intimate friends.”

“Is it true, Mr. Gray?”

“She assures me so, Lady Narborough,” said Dorian. “I asked her
whether, like Marguerite de Navarre, she had their hearts embalmed and
hung at her girdle. She told me she didn’t, because none of them had
had any hearts at all.”

“Four husbands! Upon my word that is _trop de zêle_.”

“_Trop d’audace_, I tell her,” said Dorian.

“Oh! she is audacious enough for anything, my dear. And what is Ferrol
like? I don’t know him.”

“The husbands of very beautiful women belong to the criminal classes,”
said Lord Henry, sipping his wine.

Lady Narborough hit him with her fan. “Lord Henry, I am not at all
surprised that the world says that you are extremely wicked.”

“But what world says that?” asked Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows.
“It can only be the next world. This world and I are on excellent
terms.”

“Everybody I know says you are very wicked,” cried the old lady,
shaking her head.

Lord Henry looked serious for some moments. “It is perfectly
monstrous,” he said, at last, “the way people go about nowadays saying
things against one behind one’s back that are absolutely and entirely
true.”

“Isn’t he incorrigible?” cried Dorian, leaning forward in his chair.

“I hope so,” said his hostess, laughing. “But really, if you all
worship Madame de Ferrol in this ridiculous way, I shall have to marry
again so as to be in the fashion.”

“You will never marry again, Lady Narborough,” broke in Lord Henry.
“You were far too happy. When a woman marries again, it is because she
detested her first husband. When a man marries again, it is because he
adored his first wife. Women try their luck; men risk theirs.”

“Narborough wasn’t perfect,” cried the old lady.

“If he had been, you would not have loved him, my dear lady,” was the
rejoinder. “Women love us for our defects. If we have enough of them,
they will forgive us everything, even our intellects. You will never
ask me to dinner again after saying this, I am afraid, Lady Narborough,
but it is quite true.”

“Of course it is true, Lord Henry. If we women did not love you for
your defects, where would you all be? Not one of you would ever be
married. You would be a set of unfortunate bachelors. Not, however,
that that would alter you much. Nowadays all the married men live like
bachelors, and all the bachelors like married men.”

“_Fin de siêcle_,” murmured Lord Henry.

“_Fin du globe_,” answered his hostess.

“I wish it were _fin du globe_,” said Dorian with a sigh. “Life is a
great disappointment.”

“Ah, my dear,” cried Lady Narborough, putting on her gloves, “don’t
tell me that you have exhausted life. When a man says that one knows
that life has exhausted him. Lord Henry is very wicked, and I sometimes
wish that I had been; but you are made to be good—you look so good. I
must find you a nice wife. Lord Henry, don’t you think that Mr. Gray
should get married?”

“I am always telling him so, Lady Narborough,” said Lord Henry with a
bow.

“Well, we must look out for a suitable match for him. I shall go
through Debrett carefully to-night and draw out a list of all the
eligible young ladies.”

“With their ages, Lady Narborough?” asked Dorian.

“Of course, with their ages, slightly edited. But nothing must be done
in a hurry. I want it to be what _The Morning Post_ calls a suitable
alliance, and I want you both to be happy.”

“What nonsense people talk about happy marriages!” exclaimed Lord
Henry. “A man can be happy with any woman, as long as he does not love
her.”

“Ah! what a cynic you are!” cried the old lady, pushing back her chair
and nodding to Lady Ruxton. “You must come and dine with me soon again.
You are really an admirable tonic, much better than what Sir Andrew
prescribes for me. You must tell me what people you would like to meet,
though. I want it to be a delightful gathering.”

“I like men who have a future and women who have a past,” he answered.
“Or do you think that would make it a petticoat party?”

“I fear so,” she said, laughing, as she stood up. “A thousand pardons,
my dear Lady Ruxton,” she added, “I didn’t see you hadn’t finished your
cigarette.”

“Never mind, Lady Narborough. I smoke a great deal too much. I am going
to limit myself, for the future.”

“Pray don’t, Lady Ruxton,” said Lord Henry. “Moderation is a fatal
thing. Enough is as bad as a meal. More than enough is as good as a
feast.”

Lady Ruxton glanced at him curiously. “You must come and explain that
to me some afternoon, Lord Henry. It sounds a fascinating theory,” she
murmured, as she swept out of the room.

“Now, mind you don’t stay too long over your politics and scandal,”
cried Lady Narborough from the door. “If you do, we are sure to
squabble upstairs.”

The men laughed, and Mr. Chapman got up solemnly from the foot of the
table and came up to the top. Dorian Gray changed his seat and went and
sat by Lord Henry. Mr. Chapman began to talk in a loud voice about the
situation in the House of Commons. He guffawed at his adversaries. The
word _doctrinaire_—word full of terror to the British mind—reappeared
from time to time between his explosions. An alliterative prefix served
as an ornament of oratory. He hoisted the Union Jack on the pinnacles
of thought. The inherited stupidity of the race—sound English common
sense he jovially termed it—was shown to be the proper bulwark for
society.

A smile curved Lord Henry’s lips, and he turned round and looked at
Dorian.

“Are you better, my dear fellow?” he asked. “You seemed rather out of
sorts at dinner.”

“I am quite well, Harry. I am tired. That is all.”

“You were charming last night. The little duchess is quite devoted to
you. She tells me she is going down to Selby.”

“She has promised to come on the twentieth.”

“Is Monmouth to be there, too?”

“Oh, yes, Harry.”

“He bores me dreadfully, almost as much as he bores her. She is very
clever, too clever for a woman. She lacks the indefinable charm of
weakness. It is the feet of clay that make the gold of the image
precious. Her feet are very pretty, but they are not feet of clay.
White porcelain feet, if you like. They have been through the fire, and
what fire does not destroy, it hardens. She has had experiences.”

“How long has she been married?” asked Dorian.

“An eternity, she tells me. I believe, according to the peerage, it is
ten years, but ten years with Monmouth must have been like eternity,
with time thrown in. Who else is coming?”

“Oh, the Willoughbys, Lord Rugby and his wife, our hostess, Geoffrey
Clouston, the usual set. I have asked Lord Grotrian.”

“I like him,” said Lord Henry. “A great many people don’t, but I find
him charming. He atones for being occasionally somewhat overdressed by
being always absolutely over-educated. He is a very modern type.”

“I don’t know if he will be able to come, Harry. He may have to go to
Monte Carlo with his father.”

“Ah! what a nuisance people’s people are! Try and make him come. By the
way, Dorian, you ran off very early last night. You left before eleven.
What did you do afterwards? Did you go straight home?”

Dorian glanced at him hurriedly and frowned.

“No, Harry,” he said at last, “I did not get home till nearly three.”

“Did you go to the club?”

“Yes,” he answered. Then he bit his lip. “No, I don’t mean that. I
didn’t go to the club. I walked about. I forget what I did.... How
inquisitive you are, Harry! You always want to know what one has been
doing. I always want to forget what I have been doing. I came in at
half-past two, if you wish to know the exact time. I had left my
latch-key at home, and my servant had to let me in. If you want any
corroborative evidence on the subject, you can ask him.”

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “My dear fellow, as if I cared! Let
us go up to the drawing-room. No sherry, thank you, Mr. Chapman.
Something has happened to you, Dorian. Tell me what it is. You are not
yourself to-night.”

“Don’t mind me, Harry. I am irritable, and out of temper. I shall come
round and see you to-morrow, or next day. Make my excuses to Lady
Narborough. I shan’t go upstairs. I shall go home. I must go home.”

“All right, Dorian. I dare say I shall see you to-morrow at tea-time.
The duchess is coming.”

“I will try to be there, Harry,” he said, leaving the room. As he drove
back to his own house, he was conscious that the sense of terror he
thought he had strangled had come back to him. Lord Henry’s casual
questioning had made him lose his nerve for the moment, and he wanted
his nerve still. Things that were dangerous had to be destroyed. He
winced. He hated the idea of even touching them.

Yet it had to be done. He realized that, and when he had locked the
door of his library, he opened the secret press into which he had
thrust Basil Hallward’s coat and bag. A huge fire was blazing. He piled
another log on it. The smell of the singeing clothes and burning
leather was horrible. It took him three-quarters of an hour to consume
everything. At the end he felt faint and sick, and having lit some
Algerian pastilles in a pierced copper brazier, he bathed his hands and
forehead with a cool musk-scented vinegar.

Suddenly he started. His eyes grew strangely bright, and he gnawed
nervously at his underlip. Between two of the windows stood a large
Florentine cabinet, made out of ebony and inlaid with ivory and blue
lapis. He watched it as though it were a thing that could fascinate and
make afraid, as though it held something that he longed for and yet
almost loathed. His breath quickened. A mad craving came over him. He
lit a cigarette and then threw it away. His eyelids drooped till the
long fringed lashes almost touched his cheek. But he still watched the
cabinet. At last he got up from the sofa on which he had been lying,
went over to it, and having unlocked it, touched some hidden spring. A
triangular drawer passed slowly out. His fingers moved instinctively
towards it, dipped in, and closed on something. It was a small Chinese
box of black and gold-dust lacquer, elaborately wrought, the sides
patterned with curved waves, and the silken cords hung with round
crystals and tasselled in plaited metal threads. He opened it. Inside
was a green paste, waxy in lustre, the odour curiously heavy and
persistent.

He hesitated for some moments, with a strangely immobile smile upon his
face. Then shivering, though the atmosphere of the room was terribly
hot, he drew himself up and glanced at the clock. It was twenty minutes
to twelve. He put the box back, shutting the cabinet doors as he did
so, and went into his bedroom.

As midnight was striking bronze blows upon the dusky air, Dorian Gray,
dressed commonly, and with a muffler wrapped round his throat, crept
quietly out of his house. In Bond Street he found a hansom with a good
horse. He hailed it and in a low voice gave the driver an address.

The man shook his head. “It is too far for me,” he muttered.

“Here is a sovereign for you,” said Dorian. “You shall have another if
you drive fast.”

“All right, sir,” answered the man, “you will be there in an hour,” and
after his fare had got in he turned his horse round and drove rapidly
towards the river.




CHAPTER XVI.


A cold rain began to fall, and the blurred street-lamps looked ghastly
in the dripping mist. The public-houses were just closing, and dim men
and women were clustering in broken groups round their doors. From some
of the bars came the sound of horrible laughter. In others, drunkards
brawled and screamed.

Lying back in the hansom, with his hat pulled over his forehead, Dorian
Gray watched with listless eyes the sordid shame of the great city, and
now and then he repeated to himself the words that Lord Henry had said
to him on the first day they had met, “To cure the soul by means of the
senses, and the senses by means of the soul.” Yes, that was the secret.
He had often tried it, and would try it again now. There were opium
dens where one could buy oblivion, dens of horror where the memory of
old sins could be destroyed by the madness of sins that were new.

The moon hung low in the sky like a yellow skull. From time to time a
huge misshapen cloud stretched a long arm across and hid it. The
gas-lamps grew fewer, and the streets more narrow and gloomy. Once the
man lost his way and had to drive back half a mile. A steam rose from
the horse as it splashed up the puddles. The sidewindows of the hansom
were clogged with a grey-flannel mist.

“To cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of
the soul!” How the words rang in his ears! His soul, certainly, was
sick to death. Was it true that the senses could cure it? Innocent
blood had been spilled. What could atone for that? Ah! for that there
was no atonement; but though forgiveness was impossible, forgetfulness
was possible still, and he was determined to forget, to stamp the thing
out, to crush it as one would crush the adder that had stung one.
Indeed, what right had Basil to have spoken to him as he had done? Who
had made him a judge over others? He had said things that were
dreadful, horrible, not to be endured.

On and on plodded the hansom, going slower, it seemed to him, at each
step. He thrust up the trap and called to the man to drive faster. The
hideous hunger for opium began to gnaw at him. His throat burned and
his delicate hands twitched nervously together. He struck at the horse
madly with his stick. The driver laughed and whipped up. He laughed in
answer, and the man was silent.

The way seemed interminable, and the streets like the black web of some
sprawling spider. The monotony became unbearable, and as the mist
thickened, he felt afraid.

Then they passed by lonely brickfields. The fog was lighter here, and
he could see the strange, bottle-shaped kilns with their orange,
fanlike tongues of fire. A dog barked as they went by, and far away in
the darkness some wandering sea-gull screamed. The horse stumbled in a
rut, then swerved aside and broke into a gallop.

After some time they left the clay road and rattled again over
rough-paven streets. Most of the windows were dark, but now and then
fantastic shadows were silhouetted against some lamplit blind. He
watched them curiously. They moved like monstrous marionettes and made
gestures like live things. He hated them. A dull rage was in his heart.
As they turned a corner, a woman yelled something at them from an open
door, and two men ran after the hansom for about a hundred yards. The
driver beat at them with his whip.

It is said that passion makes one think in a circle. Certainly with
hideous iteration the bitten lips of Dorian Gray shaped and reshaped
those subtle words that dealt with soul and sense, till he had found in
them the full expression, as it were, of his mood, and justified, by
intellectual approval, passions that without such justification would
still have dominated his temper. From cell to cell of his brain crept
the one thought; and the wild desire to live, most terrible of all
man’s appetites, quickened into force each trembling nerve and fibre.
Ugliness that had once been hateful to him because it made things real,
became dear to him now for that very reason. Ugliness was the one
reality. The coarse brawl, the loathsome den, the crude violence of
disordered life, the very vileness of thief and outcast, were more
vivid, in their intense actuality of impression, than all the gracious
shapes of art, the dreamy shadows of song. They were what he needed for
forgetfulness. In three days he would be free.

Suddenly the man drew up with a jerk at the top of a dark lane. Over
the low roofs and jagged chimney-stacks of the houses rose the black
masts of ships. Wreaths of white mist clung like ghostly sails to the
yards.

“Somewhere about here, sir, ain’t it?” he asked huskily through the
trap.

Dorian started and peered round. “This will do,” he answered, and
having got out hastily and given the driver the extra fare he had
promised him, he walked quickly in the direction of the quay. Here and
there a lantern gleamed at the stern of some huge merchantman. The
light shook and splintered in the puddles. A red glare came from an
outward-bound steamer that was coaling. The slimy pavement looked like
a wet mackintosh.

He hurried on towards the left, glancing back now and then to see if he
was being followed. In about seven or eight minutes he reached a small
shabby house that was wedged in between two gaunt factories. In one of
the top-windows stood a lamp. He stopped and gave a peculiar knock.

After a little time he heard steps in the passage and the chain being
unhooked. The door opened quietly, and he went in without saying a word
to the squat misshapen figure that flattened itself into the shadow as
he passed. At the end of the hall hung a tattered green curtain that
swayed and shook in the gusty wind which had followed him in from the
street. He dragged it aside and entered a long low room which looked as
if it had once been a third-rate dancing-saloon. Shrill flaring
gas-jets, dulled and distorted in the fly-blown mirrors that faced
them, were ranged round the walls. Greasy reflectors of ribbed tin
backed them, making quivering disks of light. The floor was covered
with ochre-coloured sawdust, trampled here and there into mud, and
stained with dark rings of spilled liquor. Some Malays were crouching
by a little charcoal stove, playing with bone counters and showing
their white teeth as they chattered. In one corner, with his head
buried in his arms, a sailor sprawled over a table, and by the tawdrily
painted bar that ran across one complete side stood two haggard women,
mocking an old man who was brushing the sleeves of his coat with an
expression of disgust. “He thinks he’s got red ants on him,” laughed
one of them, as Dorian passed by. The man looked at her in terror and
began to whimper.

At the end of the room there was a little staircase, leading to a
darkened chamber. As Dorian hurried up its three rickety steps, the
heavy odour of opium met him. He heaved a deep breath, and his nostrils
quivered with pleasure. When he entered, a young man with smooth yellow
hair, who was bending over a lamp lighting a long thin pipe, looked up
at him and nodded in a hesitating manner.

“You here, Adrian?” muttered Dorian.

“Where else should I be?” he answered, listlessly. “None of the chaps
will speak to me now.”

“I thought you had left England.”

“Darlington is not going to do anything. My brother paid the bill at
last. George doesn’t speak to me either.... I don’t care,” he added
with a sigh. “As long as one has this stuff, one doesn’t want friends.
I think I have had too many friends.”

Dorian winced and looked round at the grotesque things that lay in such
fantastic postures on the ragged mattresses. The twisted limbs, the
gaping mouths, the staring lustreless eyes, fascinated him. He knew in
what strange heavens they were suffering, and what dull hells were
teaching them the secret of some new joy. They were better off than he
was. He was prisoned in thought. Memory, like a horrible malady, was
eating his soul away. From time to time he seemed to see the eyes of
Basil Hallward looking at him. Yet he felt he could not stay. The
presence of Adrian Singleton troubled him. He wanted to be where no one
would know who he was. He wanted to escape from himself.

“I am going on to the other place,” he said after a pause.

“On the wharf?”

“Yes.”

“That mad-cat is sure to be there. They won’t have her in this place
now.”

Dorian shrugged his shoulders. “I am sick of women who love one. Women
who hate one are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff is better.”

“Much the same.”

“I like it better. Come and have something to drink. I must have
something.”

“I don’t want anything,” murmured the young man.

“Never mind.”

Adrian Singleton rose up wearily and followed Dorian to the bar. A
half-caste, in a ragged turban and a shabby ulster, grinned a hideous
greeting as he thrust a bottle of brandy and two tumblers in front of
them. The women sidled up and began to chatter. Dorian turned his back
on them and said something in a low voice to Adrian Singleton.

A crooked smile, like a Malay crease, writhed across the face of one of
the women. “We are very proud to-night,” she sneered.

“For God’s sake don’t talk to me,” cried Dorian, stamping his foot on
the ground. “What do you want? Money? Here it is. Don’t ever talk to me
again.”

Two red sparks flashed for a moment in the woman’s sodden eyes, then
flickered out and left them dull and glazed. She tossed her head and
raked the coins off the counter with greedy fingers. Her companion
watched her enviously.

“It’s no use,” sighed Adrian Singleton. “I don’t care to go back. What
does it matter? I am quite happy here.”

“You will write to me if you want anything, won’t you?” said Dorian,
after a pause.

“Perhaps.”

“Good night, then.”

“Good night,” answered the young man, passing up the steps and wiping
his parched mouth with a handkerchief.

Dorian walked to the door with a look of pain in his face. As he drew
the curtain aside, a hideous laugh broke from the painted lips of the
woman who had taken his money. “There goes the devil’s bargain!” she
hiccoughed, in a hoarse voice.

“Curse you!” he answered, “don’t call me that.”

She snapped her fingers. “Prince Charming is what you like to be
called, ain’t it?” she yelled after him.

The drowsy sailor leaped to his feet as she spoke, and looked wildly
round. The sound of the shutting of the hall door fell on his ear. He
rushed out as if in pursuit.

Dorian Gray hurried along the quay through the drizzling rain. His
meeting with Adrian Singleton had strangely moved him, and he wondered
if the ruin of that young life was really to be laid at his door, as
Basil Hallward had said to him with such infamy of insult. He bit his
lip, and for a few seconds his eyes grew sad. Yet, after all, what did
it matter to him? One’s days were too brief to take the burden of
another’s errors on one’s shoulders. Each man lived his own life and
paid his own price for living it. The only pity was one had to pay so
often for a single fault. One had to pay over and over again, indeed.
In her dealings with man, destiny never closed her accounts.

There are moments, psychologists tell us, when the passion for sin, or
for what the world calls sin, so dominates a nature that every fibre of
the body, as every cell of the brain, seems to be instinct with fearful
impulses. Men and women at such moments lose the freedom of their will.
They move to their terrible end as automatons move. Choice is taken
from them, and conscience is either killed, or, if it lives at all,
lives but to give rebellion its fascination and disobedience its charm.
For all sins, as theologians weary not of reminding us, are sins of
disobedience. When that high spirit, that morning star of evil, fell
from heaven, it was as a rebel that he fell.

Callous, concentrated on evil, with stained mind, and soul hungry for
rebellion, Dorian Gray hastened on, quickening his step as he went, but
as he darted aside into a dim archway, that had served him often as a
short cut to the ill-famed place where he was going, he felt himself
suddenly seized from behind, and before he had time to defend himself,
he was thrust back against the wall, with a brutal hand round his
throat.

He struggled madly for life, and by a terrible effort wrenched the
tightening fingers away. In a second he heard the click of a revolver,
and saw the gleam of a polished barrel, pointing straight at his head,
and the dusky form of a short, thick-set man facing him.

“What do you want?” he gasped.

“Keep quiet,” said the man. “If you stir, I shoot you.”

“You are mad. What have I done to you?”

“You wrecked the life of Sibyl Vane,” was the answer, “and Sibyl Vane
was my sister. She killed herself. I know it. Her death is at your
door. I swore I would kill you in return. For years I have sought you.
I had no clue, no trace. The two people who could have described you
were dead. I knew nothing of you but the pet name she used to call you.
I heard it to-night by chance. Make your peace with God, for to-night
you are going to die.”

Dorian Gray grew sick with fear. “I never knew her,” he stammered. “I
never heard of her. You are mad.”

“You had better confess your sin, for as sure as I am James Vane, you
are going to die.” There was a horrible moment. Dorian did not know
what to say or do. “Down on your knees!” growled the man. “I give you
one minute to make your peace—no more. I go on board to-night for
India, and I must do my job first. One minute. That’s all.”

Dorian’s arms fell to his side. Paralysed with terror, he did not know
what to do. Suddenly a wild hope flashed across his brain. “Stop,” he
cried. “How long ago is it since your sister died? Quick, tell me!”

“Eighteen years,” said the man. “Why do you ask me? What do years
matter?”

“Eighteen years,” laughed Dorian Gray, with a touch of triumph in his
voice. “Eighteen years! Set me under the lamp and look at my face!”

James Vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what was meant.
Then he seized Dorian Gray and dragged him from the archway.

Dim and wavering as was the wind-blown light, yet it served to show him
the hideous error, as it seemed, into which he had fallen, for the face
of the man he had sought to kill had all the bloom of boyhood, all the
unstained purity of youth. He seemed little more than a lad of twenty
summers, hardly older, if older indeed at all, than his sister had been
when they had parted so many years ago. It was obvious that this was
not the man who had destroyed her life.

He loosened his hold and reeled back. “My God! my God!” he cried, “and
I would have murdered you!”

Dorian Gray drew a long breath. “You have been on the brink of
committing a terrible crime, my man,” he said, looking at him sternly.
“Let this be a warning to you not to take vengeance into your own
hands.”

“Forgive me, sir,” muttered James Vane. “I was deceived. A chance word
I heard in that damned den set me on the wrong track.”

“You had better go home and put that pistol away, or you may get into
trouble,” said Dorian, turning on his heel and going slowly down the
street.

James Vane stood on the pavement in horror. He was trembling from head
to foot. After a little while, a black shadow that had been creeping
along the dripping wall moved out into the light and came close to him
with stealthy footsteps. He felt a hand laid on his arm and looked
round with a start. It was one of the women who had been drinking at
the bar.

“Why didn’t you kill him?” she hissed out, putting haggard face quite
close to his. “I knew you were following him when you rushed out from
Daly’s. You fool! You should have killed him. He has lots of money, and
he’s as bad as bad.”

“He is not the man I am looking for,” he answered, “and I want no man’s
money. I want a man’s life. The man whose life I want must be nearly
forty now. This one is little more than a boy. Thank God, I have not
got his blood upon my hands.”

The woman gave a bitter laugh. “Little more than a boy!” she sneered.
“Why, man, it’s nigh on eighteen years since Prince Charming made me
what I am.”

“You lie!” cried James Vane.

She raised her hand up to heaven. “Before God I am telling the truth,”
she cried.

“Before God?”

“Strike me dumb if it ain’t so. He is the worst one that comes here.
They say he has sold himself to the devil for a pretty face. It’s nigh
on eighteen years since I met him. He hasn’t changed much since then. I
have, though,” she added, with a sickly leer.

“You swear this?”

“I swear it,” came in hoarse echo from her flat mouth. “But don’t give
me away to him,” she whined; “I am afraid of him. Let me have some
money for my night’s lodging.”

He broke from her with an oath and rushed to the corner of the street,
but Dorian Gray had disappeared. When he looked back, the woman had
vanished also.




CHAPTER XVII.


A week later Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory at Selby
Royal, talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who with her husband,
a jaded-looking man of sixty, was amongst his guests. It was tea-time,
and the mellow light of the huge, lace-covered lamp that stood on the
table lit up the delicate china and hammered silver of the service at
which the duchess was presiding. Her white hands were moving daintily
among the cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something that
Dorian had whispered to her. Lord Henry was lying back in a silk-draped
wicker chair, looking at them. On a peach-coloured divan sat Lady
Narborough, pretending to listen to the duke’s description of the last
Brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection. Three young men
in elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of the women.
The house-party consisted of twelve people, and there were more
expected to arrive on the next day.

“What are you two talking about?” said Lord Henry, strolling over to
the table and putting his cup down. “I hope Dorian has told you about
my plan for rechristening everything, Gladys. It is a delightful idea.”

“But I don’t want to be rechristened, Harry,” rejoined the duchess,
looking up at him with her wonderful eyes. “I am quite satisfied with
my own name, and I am sure Mr. Gray should be satisfied with his.”

“My dear Gladys, I would not alter either name for the world. They are
both perfect. I was thinking chiefly of flowers. Yesterday I cut an
orchid, for my button-hole. It was a marvellous spotted thing, as
effective as the seven deadly sins. In a thoughtless moment I asked one
of the gardeners what it was called. He told me it was a fine specimen
of _Robinsoniana_, or something dreadful of that kind. It is a sad
truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things.
Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions. My one quarrel is
with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature. The
man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It
is the only thing he is fit for.”

“Then what should we call you, Harry?” she asked.

“His name is Prince Paradox,” said Dorian.

“I recognize him in a flash,” exclaimed the duchess.

“I won’t hear of it,” laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. “From a
label there is no escape! I refuse the title.”

“Royalties may not abdicate,” fell as a warning from pretty lips.

“You wish me to defend my throne, then?”

“Yes.”

“I give the truths of to-morrow.”

“I prefer the mistakes of to-day,” she answered.

“You disarm me, Gladys,” he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.

“Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear.”

“I never tilt against beauty,” he said, with a wave of his hand.

“That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much.”

“How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be
beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready
than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly.”

“Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?” cried the duchess.
“What becomes of your simile about the orchid?”

“Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good
Tory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly
virtues have made our England what she is.”

“You don’t like your country, then?” she asked.

“I live in it.”

“That you may censure it the better.”

“Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?” he inquired.

“What do they say of us?”

“That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop.”

“Is that yours, Harry?”

“I give it to you.”

“I could not use it. It is too true.”

“You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description.”

“They are practical.”

“They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger,
they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy.”

“Still, we have done great things.”

“Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys.”

“We have carried their burden.”

“Only as far as the Stock Exchange.”

She shook her head. “I believe in the race,” she cried.

“It represents the survival of the pushing.”

“It has development.”

“Decay fascinates me more.”

“What of art?” she asked.

“It is a malady.”

“Love?”

“An illusion.”

“Religion?”

“The fashionable substitute for belief.”

“You are a sceptic.”

“Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith.”

“What are you?”

“To define is to limit.”

“Give me a clue.”

“Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth.”

“You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else.”

“Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince
Charming.”

“Ah! don’t remind me of that,” cried Dorian Gray.

“Our host is rather horrid this evening,” answered the duchess,
colouring. “I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely
scientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern
butterfly.”

“Well, I hope he won’t stick pins into you, Duchess,” laughed Dorian.

“Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me.”

“And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?”

“For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because I
come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by
half-past eight.”

“How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning.”

“I daren’t, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me. You remember the
one I wore at Lady Hilstone’s garden-party? You don’t, but it is nice
of you to pretend that you do. Well, she made it out of nothing. All
good hats are made out of nothing.”

“Like all good reputations, Gladys,” interrupted Lord Henry. “Every
effect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be
a mediocrity.”

“Not with women,” said the duchess, shaking her head; “and women rule
the world. I assure you we can’t bear mediocrities. We women, as some
one says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if
you ever love at all.”

“It seems to me that we never do anything else,” murmured Dorian.

“Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray,” answered the duchess with
mock sadness.

“My dear Gladys!” cried Lord Henry. “How can you say that? Romance
lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art.
Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved.
Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely
intensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best,
and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as
possible.”

“Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?” asked the duchess after
a pause.

“Especially when one has been wounded by it,” answered Lord Henry.

The duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression
in her eyes. “What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?” she inquired.

Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed.
“I always agree with Harry, Duchess.”

“Even when he is wrong?”

“Harry is never wrong, Duchess.”

“And does his philosophy make you happy?”

“I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have
searched for pleasure.”

“And found it, Mr. Gray?”

“Often. Too often.”

The duchess sighed. “I am searching for peace,” she said, “and if I
don’t go and dress, I shall have none this evening.”

“Let me get you some orchids, Duchess,” cried Dorian, starting to his
feet and walking down the conservatory.

“You are flirting disgracefully with him,” said Lord Henry to his
cousin. “You had better take care. He is very fascinating.”

“If he were not, there would be no battle.”

“Greek meets Greek, then?”

“I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman.”

“They were defeated.”

“There are worse things than capture,” she answered.

“You gallop with a loose rein.”

“Pace gives life,” was the _riposte_.

“I shall write it in my diary to-night.”

“What?”

“That a burnt child loves the fire.”

“I am not even singed. My wings are untouched.”

“You use them for everything, except flight.”

“Courage has passed from men to women. It is a new experience for us.”

“You have a rival.”

“Who?”

He laughed. “Lady Narborough,” he whispered. “She perfectly adores
him.”

“You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to antiquity is fatal to us
who are romanticists.”

“Romanticists! You have all the methods of science.”

“Men have educated us.”

“But not explained you.”

“Describe us as a sex,” was her challenge.

“Sphinxes without secrets.”

She looked at him, smiling. “How long Mr. Gray is!” she said. “Let us
go and help him. I have not yet told him the colour of my frock.”

“Ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, Gladys.”

“That would be a premature surrender.”

“Romantic art begins with its climax.”

“I must keep an opportunity for retreat.”

“In the Parthian manner?”

“They found safety in the desert. I could not do that.”

“Women are not always allowed a choice,” he answered, but hardly had he
finished the sentence before from the far end of the conservatory came
a stifled groan, followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall. Everybody
started up. The duchess stood motionless in horror. And with fear in
his eyes, Lord Henry rushed through the flapping palms to find Dorian
Gray lying face downwards on the tiled floor in a deathlike swoon.

He was carried at once into the blue drawing-room and laid upon one of
the sofas. After a short time, he came to himself and looked round with
a dazed expression.

“What has happened?” he asked. “Oh! I remember. Am I safe here, Harry?”
He began to tremble.

“My dear Dorian,” answered Lord Henry, “you merely fainted. That was
all. You must have overtired yourself. You had better not come down to
dinner. I will take your place.”

“No, I will come down,” he said, struggling to his feet. “I would
rather come down. I must not be alone.”

He went to his room and dressed. There was a wild recklessness of
gaiety in his manner as he sat at table, but now and then a thrill of
terror ran through him when he remembered that, pressed against the
window of the conservatory, like a white handkerchief, he had seen the
face of James Vane watching him.




CHAPTER XVIII.


The next day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most of the
time in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet
indifferent to life itself. The consciousness of being hunted, snared,
tracked down, had begun to dominate him. If the tapestry did but
tremble in the wind, he shook. The dead leaves that were blown against
the leaded panes seemed to him like his own wasted resolutions and wild
regrets. When he closed his eyes, he saw again the sailor’s face
peering through the mist-stained glass, and horror seemed once more to
lay its hand upon his heart.

But perhaps it had been only his fancy that had called vengeance out of
the night and set the hideous shapes of punishment before him. Actual
life was chaos, but there was something terribly logical in the
imagination. It was the imagination that set remorse to dog the feet of
sin. It was the imagination that made each crime bear its misshapen
brood. In the common world of fact the wicked were not punished, nor
the good rewarded. Success was given to the strong, failure thrust upon
the weak. That was all. Besides, had any stranger been prowling round
the house, he would have been seen by the servants or the keepers. Had
any foot-marks been found on the flower-beds, the gardeners would have
reported it. Yes, it had been merely fancy. Sibyl Vane’s brother had
not come back to kill him. He had sailed away in his ship to founder in
some winter sea. From him, at any rate, he was safe. Why, the man did
not know who he was, could not know who he was. The mask of youth had
saved him.

And yet if it had been merely an illusion, how terrible it was to think
that conscience could raise such fearful phantoms, and give them
visible form, and make them move before one! What sort of life would
his be if, day and night, shadows of his crime were to peer at him from
silent corners, to mock him from secret places, to whisper in his ear
as he sat at the feast, to wake him with icy fingers as he lay asleep!
As the thought crept through his brain, he grew pale with terror, and
the air seemed to him to have become suddenly colder. Oh! in what a
wild hour of madness he had killed his friend! How ghastly the mere
memory of the scene! He saw it all again. Each hideous detail came back
to him with added horror. Out of the black cave of time, terrible and
swathed in scarlet, rose the image of his sin. When Lord Henry came in
at six o’clock, he found him crying as one whose heart will break.

It was not till the third day that he ventured to go out. There was
something in the clear, pine-scented air of that winter morning that
seemed to bring him back his joyousness and his ardour for life. But it
was not merely the physical conditions of environment that had caused
the change. His own nature had revolted against the excess of anguish
that had sought to maim and mar the perfection of its calm. With subtle
and finely wrought temperaments it is always so. Their strong passions
must either bruise or bend. They either slay the man, or themselves
die. Shallow sorrows and shallow loves live on. The loves and sorrows
that are great are destroyed by their own plenitude. Besides, he had
convinced himself that he had been the victim of a terror-stricken
imagination, and looked back now on his fears with something of pity
and not a little of contempt.

After breakfast, he walked with the duchess for an hour in the garden
and then drove across the park to join the shooting-party. The crisp
frost lay like salt upon the grass. The sky was an inverted cup of blue
metal. A thin film of ice bordered the flat, reed-grown lake.

At the corner of the pine-wood he caught sight of Sir Geoffrey
Clouston, the duchess’s brother, jerking two spent cartridges out of
his gun. He jumped from the cart, and having told the groom to take the
mare home, made his way towards his guest through the withered bracken
and rough undergrowth.

“Have you had good sport, Geoffrey?” he asked.

“Not very good, Dorian. I think most of the birds have gone to the
open. I dare say it will be better after lunch, when we get to new
ground.”

Dorian strolled along by his side. The keen aromatic air, the brown and
red lights that glimmered in the wood, the hoarse cries of the beaters
ringing out from time to time, and the sharp snaps of the guns that
followed, fascinated him and filled him with a sense of delightful
freedom. He was dominated by the carelessness of happiness, by the high
indifference of joy.

Suddenly from a lumpy tussock of old grass some twenty yards in front
of them, with black-tipped ears erect and long hinder limbs throwing it
forward, started a hare. It bolted for a thicket of alders. Sir
Geoffrey put his gun to his shoulder, but there was something in the
animal’s grace of movement that strangely charmed Dorian Gray, and he
cried out at once, “Don’t shoot it, Geoffrey. Let it live.”

“What nonsense, Dorian!” laughed his companion, and as the hare bounded
into the thicket, he fired. There were two cries heard, the cry of a
hare in pain, which is dreadful, the cry of a man in agony, which is
worse.

“Good heavens! I have hit a beater!” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey. “What an
ass the man was to get in front of the guns! Stop shooting there!” he
called out at the top of his voice. “A man is hurt.”

The head-keeper came running up with a stick in his hand.

“Where, sir? Where is he?” he shouted. At the same time, the firing
ceased along the line.

“Here,” answered Sir Geoffrey angrily, hurrying towards the thicket.
“Why on earth don’t you keep your men back? Spoiled my shooting for the
day.”

Dorian watched them as they plunged into the alder-clump, brushing the
lithe swinging branches aside. In a few moments they emerged, dragging
a body after them into the sunlight. He turned away in horror. It
seemed to him that misfortune followed wherever he went. He heard Sir
Geoffrey ask if the man was really dead, and the affirmative answer of
the keeper. The wood seemed to him to have become suddenly alive with
faces. There was the trampling of myriad feet and the low buzz of
voices. A great copper-breasted pheasant came beating through the
boughs overhead.

After a few moments—that were to him, in his perturbed state, like
endless hours of pain—he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. He started
and looked round.

“Dorian,” said Lord Henry, “I had better tell them that the shooting is
stopped for to-day. It would not look well to go on.”

“I wish it were stopped for ever, Harry,” he answered bitterly. “The
whole thing is hideous and cruel. Is the man ...?”

He could not finish the sentence.

“I am afraid so,” rejoined Lord Henry. “He got the whole charge of shot
in his chest. He must have died almost instantaneously. Come; let us go
home.”

They walked side by side in the direction of the avenue for nearly
fifty yards without speaking. Then Dorian looked at Lord Henry and
said, with a heavy sigh, “It is a bad omen, Harry, a very bad omen.”

“What is?” asked Lord Henry. “Oh! this accident, I suppose. My dear
fellow, it can’t be helped. It was the man’s own fault. Why did he get
in front of the guns? Besides, it is nothing to us. It is rather
awkward for Geoffrey, of course. It does not do to pepper beaters. It
makes people think that one is a wild shot. And Geoffrey is not; he
shoots very straight. But there is no use talking about the matter.”

Dorian shook his head. “It is a bad omen, Harry. I feel as if something
horrible were going to happen to some of us. To myself, perhaps,” he
added, passing his hand over his eyes, with a gesture of pain.

The elder man laughed. “The only horrible thing in the world is
_ennui_, Dorian. That is the one sin for which there is no forgiveness.
But we are not likely to suffer from it unless these fellows keep
chattering about this thing at dinner. I must tell them that the
subject is to be tabooed. As for omens, there is no such thing as an
omen. Destiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel
for that. Besides, what on earth could happen to you, Dorian? You have
everything in the world that a man can want. There is no one who would
not be delighted to change places with you.”

“There is no one with whom I would not change places, Harry. Don’t
laugh like that. I am telling you the truth. The wretched peasant who
has just died is better off than I am. I have no terror of death. It is
the coming of death that terrifies me. Its monstrous wings seem to
wheel in the leaden air around me. Good heavens! don’t you see a man
moving behind the trees there, watching me, waiting for me?”

Lord Henry looked in the direction in which the trembling gloved hand
was pointing. “Yes,” he said, smiling, “I see the gardener waiting for
you. I suppose he wants to ask you what flowers you wish to have on the
table to-night. How absurdly nervous you are, my dear fellow! You must
come and see my doctor, when we get back to town.”

Dorian heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the gardener approaching. The
man touched his hat, glanced for a moment at Lord Henry in a hesitating
manner, and then produced a letter, which he handed to his master. “Her
Grace told me to wait for an answer,” he murmured.

Dorian put the letter into his pocket. “Tell her Grace that I am coming
in,” he said, coldly. The man turned round and went rapidly in the
direction of the house.

“How fond women are of doing dangerous things!” laughed Lord Henry. “It
is one of the qualities in them that I admire most. A woman will flirt
with anybody in the world as long as other people are looking on.”

“How fond you are of saying dangerous things, Harry! In the present
instance, you are quite astray. I like the duchess very much, but I
don’t love her.”

“And the duchess loves you very much, but she likes you less, so you
are excellently matched.”

“You are talking scandal, Harry, and there is never any basis for
scandal.”

“The basis of every scandal is an immoral certainty,” said Lord Henry,
lighting a cigarette.

“You would sacrifice anybody, Harry, for the sake of an epigram.”

“The world goes to the altar of its own accord,” was the answer.

“I wish I could love,” cried Dorian Gray with a deep note of pathos in
his voice. “But I seem to have lost the passion and forgotten the
desire. I am too much concentrated on myself. My own personality has
become a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget. It was
silly of me to come down here at all. I think I shall send a wire to
Harvey to have the yacht got ready. On a yacht one is safe.”

“Safe from what, Dorian? You are in some trouble. Why not tell me what
it is? You know I would help you.”

“I can’t tell you, Harry,” he answered sadly. “And I dare say it is
only a fancy of mine. This unfortunate accident has upset me. I have a
horrible presentiment that something of the kind may happen to me.”

“What nonsense!”

“I hope it is, but I can’t help feeling it. Ah! here is the duchess,
looking like Artemis in a tailor-made gown. You see we have come back,
Duchess.”

“I have heard all about it, Mr. Gray,” she answered. “Poor Geoffrey is
terribly upset. And it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare.
How curious!”

“Yes, it was very curious. I don’t know what made me say it. Some whim,
I suppose. It looked the loveliest of little live things. But I am
sorry they told you about the man. It is a hideous subject.”

“It is an annoying subject,” broke in Lord Henry. “It has no
psychological value at all. Now if Geoffrey had done the thing on
purpose, how interesting he would be! I should like to know some one
who had committed a real murder.”

“How horrid of you, Harry!” cried the duchess. “Isn’t it, Mr. Gray?
Harry, Mr. Gray is ill again. He is going to faint.”

Dorian drew himself up with an effort and smiled. “It is nothing,
Duchess,” he murmured; “my nerves are dreadfully out of order. That is
all. I am afraid I walked too far this morning. I didn’t hear what
Harry said. Was it very bad? You must tell me some other time. I think
I must go and lie down. You will excuse me, won’t you?”

They had reached the great flight of steps that led from the
conservatory on to the terrace. As the glass door closed behind Dorian,
Lord Henry turned and looked at the duchess with his slumberous eyes.
“Are you very much in love with him?” he asked.

She did not answer for some time, but stood gazing at the landscape. “I
wish I knew,” she said at last.

He shook his head. “Knowledge would be fatal. It is the uncertainty
that charms one. A mist makes things wonderful.”

“One may lose one’s way.”

“All ways end at the same point, my dear Gladys.”

“What is that?”

“Disillusion.”

“It was my _début_ in life,” she sighed.

“It came to you crowned.”

“I am tired of strawberry leaves.”

“They become you.”

“Only in public.”

“You would miss them,” said Lord Henry.

“I will not part with a petal.”

“Monmouth has ears.”

“Old age is dull of hearing.”

“Has he never been jealous?”

“I wish he had been.”

He glanced about as if in search of something. “What are you looking
for?” she inquired.

“The button from your foil,” he answered. “You have dropped it.”

She laughed. “I have still the mask.”

“It makes your eyes lovelier,” was his reply.

She laughed again. Her teeth showed like white seeds in a scarlet
fruit.

Upstairs, in his own room, Dorian Gray was lying on a sofa, with terror
in every tingling fibre of his body. Life had suddenly become too
hideous a burden for him to bear. The dreadful death of the unlucky
beater, shot in the thicket like a wild animal, had seemed to him to
pre-figure death for himself also. He had nearly swooned at what Lord
Henry had said in a chance mood of cynical jesting.

At five o’clock he rang his bell for his servant and gave him orders to
pack his things for the night-express to town, and to have the brougham
at the door by eight-thirty. He was determined not to sleep another
night at Selby Royal. It was an ill-omened place. Death walked there in
the sunlight. The grass of the forest had been spotted with blood.

Then he wrote a note to Lord Henry, telling him that he was going up to
town to consult his doctor and asking him to entertain his guests in
his absence. As he was putting it into the envelope, a knock came to
the door, and his valet informed him that the head-keeper wished to see
him. He frowned and bit his lip. “Send him in,” he muttered, after some
moments’ hesitation.

As soon as the man entered, Dorian pulled his chequebook out of a
drawer and spread it out before him.

“I suppose you have come about the unfortunate accident of this
morning, Thornton?” he said, taking up a pen.

“Yes, sir,” answered the gamekeeper.

“Was the poor fellow married? Had he any people dependent on him?”
asked Dorian, looking bored. “If so, I should not like them to be left
in want, and will send them any sum of money you may think necessary.”

“We don’t know who he is, sir. That is what I took the liberty of
coming to you about.”

“Don’t know who he is?” said Dorian, listlessly. “What do you mean?
Wasn’t he one of your men?”

“No, sir. Never saw him before. Seems like a sailor, sir.”

The pen dropped from Dorian Gray’s hand, and he felt as if his heart
had suddenly stopped beating. “A sailor?” he cried out. “Did you say a
sailor?”

“Yes, sir. He looks as if he had been a sort of sailor; tattooed on
both arms, and that kind of thing.”

“Was there anything found on him?” said Dorian, leaning forward and
looking at the man with startled eyes. “Anything that would tell his
name?”

“Some money, sir—not much, and a six-shooter. There was no name of any
kind. A decent-looking man, sir, but rough-like. A sort of sailor we
think.”

Dorian started to his feet. A terrible hope fluttered past him. He
clutched at it madly. “Where is the body?” he exclaimed. “Quick! I must
see it at once.”

“It is in an empty stable in the Home Farm, sir. The folk don’t like to
have that sort of thing in their houses. They say a corpse brings bad
luck.”

“The Home Farm! Go there at once and meet me. Tell one of the grooms to
bring my horse round. No. Never mind. I’ll go to the stables myself. It
will save time.”

In less than a quarter of an hour, Dorian Gray was galloping down the
long avenue as hard as he could go. The trees seemed to sweep past him
in spectral procession, and wild shadows to fling themselves across his
path. Once the mare swerved at a white gate-post and nearly threw him.
He lashed her across the neck with his crop. She cleft the dusky air
like an arrow. The stones flew from her hoofs.

At last he reached the Home Farm. Two men were loitering in the yard.
He leaped from the saddle and threw the reins to one of them. In the
farthest stable a light was glimmering. Something seemed to tell him
that the body was there, and he hurried to the door and put his hand
upon the latch.

There he paused for a moment, feeling that he was on the brink of a
discovery that would either make or mar his life. Then he thrust the
door open and entered.

On a heap of sacking in the far corner was lying the dead body of a man
dressed in a coarse shirt and a pair of blue trousers. A spotted
handkerchief had been placed over the face. A coarse candle, stuck in a
bottle, sputtered beside it.

Dorian Gray shuddered. He felt that his could not be the hand to take
the handkerchief away, and called out to one of the farm-servants to
come to him.

“Take that thing off the face. I wish to see it,” he said, clutching at
the door-post for support.

When the farm-servant had done so, he stepped forward. A cry of joy
broke from his lips. The man who had been shot in the thicket was James
Vane.

He stood there for some minutes looking at the dead body. As he rode
home, his eyes were full of tears, for he knew he was safe.




CHAPTER XIX.


“There is no use your telling me that you are going to be good,” cried
Lord Henry, dipping his white fingers into a red copper bowl filled
with rose-water. “You are quite perfect. Pray, don’t change.”

Dorian Gray shook his head. “No, Harry, I have done too many dreadful
things in my life. I am not going to do any more. I began my good
actions yesterday.”

“Where were you yesterday?”

“In the country, Harry. I was staying at a little inn by myself.”

“My dear boy,” said Lord Henry, smiling, “anybody can be good in the
country. There are no temptations there. That is the reason why people
who live out of town are so absolutely uncivilized. Civilization is not
by any means an easy thing to attain to. There are only two ways by
which man can reach it. One is by being cultured, the other by being
corrupt. Country people have no opportunity of being either, so they
stagnate.”

“Culture and corruption,” echoed Dorian. “I have known something of
both. It seems terrible to me now that they should ever be found
together. For I have a new ideal, Harry. I am going to alter. I think I
have altered.”

“You have not yet told me what your good action was. Or did you say you
had done more than one?” asked his companion as he spilled into his
plate a little crimson pyramid of seeded strawberries and, through a
perforated, shell-shaped spoon, snowed white sugar upon them.

“I can tell you, Harry. It is not a story I could tell to any one else.
I spared somebody. It sounds vain, but you understand what I mean. She
was quite beautiful and wonderfully like Sibyl Vane. I think it was
that which first attracted me to her. You remember Sibyl, don’t you?
How long ago that seems! Well, Hetty was not one of our own class, of
course. She was simply a girl in a village. But I really loved her. I
am quite sure that I loved her. All during this wonderful May that we
have been having, I used to run down and see her two or three times a
week. Yesterday she met me in a little orchard. The apple-blossoms kept
tumbling down on her hair, and she was laughing. We were to have gone
away together this morning at dawn. Suddenly I determined to leave her
as flowerlike as I had found her.”

“I should think the novelty of the emotion must have given you a thrill
of real pleasure, Dorian,” interrupted Lord Henry. “But I can finish
your idyll for you. You gave her good advice and broke her heart. That
was the beginning of your reformation.”

“Harry, you are horrible! You mustn’t say these dreadful things.
Hetty’s heart is not broken. Of course, she cried and all that. But
there is no disgrace upon her. She can live, like Perdita, in her
garden of mint and marigold.”

“And weep over a faithless Florizel,” said Lord Henry, laughing, as he
leaned back in his chair. “My dear Dorian, you have the most curiously
boyish moods. Do you think this girl will ever be really content now
with any one of her own rank? I suppose she will be married some day to
a rough carter or a grinning ploughman. Well, the fact of having met
you, and loved you, will teach her to despise her husband, and she will
be wretched. From a moral point of view, I cannot say that I think much
of your great renunciation. Even as a beginning, it is poor. Besides,
how do you know that Hetty isn’t floating at the present moment in some
starlit mill-pond, with lovely water-lilies round her, like Ophelia?”

“I can’t bear this, Harry! You mock at everything, and then suggest the
most serious tragedies. I am sorry I told you now. I don’t care what
you say to me. I know I was right in acting as I did. Poor Hetty! As I
rode past the farm this morning, I saw her white face at the window,
like a spray of jasmine. Don’t let us talk about it any more, and don’t
try to persuade me that the first good action I have done for years,
the first little bit of self-sacrifice I have ever known, is really a
sort of sin. I want to be better. I am going to be better. Tell me
something about yourself. What is going on in town? I have not been to
the club for days.”

“The people are still discussing poor Basil’s disappearance.”

“I should have thought they had got tired of that by this time,” said
Dorian, pouring himself out some wine and frowning slightly.

“My dear boy, they have only been talking about it for six weeks, and
the British public are really not equal to the mental strain of having
more than one topic every three months. They have been very fortunate
lately, however. They have had my own divorce-case and Alan Campbell’s
suicide. Now they have got the mysterious disappearance of an artist.
Scotland Yard still insists that the man in the grey ulster who left
for Paris by the midnight train on the ninth of November was poor
Basil, and the French police declare that Basil never arrived in Paris
at all. I suppose in about a fortnight we shall be told that he has
been seen in San Francisco. It is an odd thing, but every one who
disappears is said to be seen at San Francisco. It must be a delightful
city, and possess all the attractions of the next world.”

“What do you think has happened to Basil?” asked Dorian, holding up his
Burgundy against the light and wondering how it was that he could
discuss the matter so calmly.

“I have not the slightest idea. If Basil chooses to hide himself, it is
no business of mine. If he is dead, I don’t want to think about him.
Death is the only thing that ever terrifies me. I hate it.”

“Why?” said the younger man wearily.

“Because,” said Lord Henry, passing beneath his nostrils the gilt
trellis of an open vinaigrette box, “one can survive everything
nowadays except that. Death and vulgarity are the only two facts in the
nineteenth century that one cannot explain away. Let us have our coffee
in the music-room, Dorian. You must play Chopin to me. The man with
whom my wife ran away played Chopin exquisitely. Poor Victoria! I was
very fond of her. The house is rather lonely without her. Of course,
married life is merely a habit, a bad habit. But then one regrets the
loss even of one’s worst habits. Perhaps one regrets them the most.
They are such an essential part of one’s personality.”

Dorian said nothing, but rose from the table, and passing into the next
room, sat down to the piano and let his fingers stray across the white
and black ivory of the keys. After the coffee had been brought in, he
stopped, and looking over at Lord Henry, said, “Harry, did it ever
occur to you that Basil was murdered?”

Lord Henry yawned. “Basil was very popular, and always wore a Waterbury
watch. Why should he have been murdered? He was not clever enough to
have enemies. Of course, he had a wonderful genius for painting. But a
man can paint like Velasquez and yet be as dull as possible. Basil was
really rather dull. He only interested me once, and that was when he
told me, years ago, that he had a wild adoration for you and that you
were the dominant motive of his art.”

“I was very fond of Basil,” said Dorian with a note of sadness in his
voice. “But don’t people say that he was murdered?”

“Oh, some of the papers do. It does not seem to me to be at all
probable. I know there are dreadful places in Paris, but Basil was not
the sort of man to have gone to them. He had no curiosity. It was his
chief defect.”

“What would you say, Harry, if I told you that I had murdered Basil?”
said the younger man. He watched him intently after he had spoken.

“I would say, my dear fellow, that you were posing for a character that
doesn’t suit you. All crime is vulgar, just as all vulgarity is crime.
It is not in you, Dorian, to commit a murder. I am sorry if I hurt your
vanity by saying so, but I assure you it is true. Crime belongs
exclusively to the lower orders. I don’t blame them in the smallest
degree. I should fancy that crime was to them what art is to us, simply
a method of procuring extraordinary sensations.”

“A method of procuring sensations? Do you think, then, that a man who
has once committed a murder could possibly do the same crime again?
Don’t tell me that.”

“Oh! anything becomes a pleasure if one does it too often,” cried Lord
Henry, laughing. “That is one of the most important secrets of life. I
should fancy, however, that murder is always a mistake. One should
never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner. But let us
pass from poor Basil. I wish I could believe that he had come to such a
really romantic end as you suggest, but I can’t. I dare say he fell
into the Seine off an omnibus and that the conductor hushed up the
scandal. Yes: I should fancy that was his end. I see him lying now on
his back under those dull-green waters, with the heavy barges floating
over him and long weeds catching in his hair. Do you know, I don’t
think he would have done much more good work. During the last ten years
his painting had gone off very much.”

Dorian heaved a sigh, and Lord Henry strolled across the room and began
to stroke the head of a curious Java parrot, a large, grey-plumaged
bird with pink crest and tail, that was balancing itself upon a bamboo
perch. As his pointed fingers touched it, it dropped the white scurf of
crinkled lids over black, glasslike eyes and began to sway backwards
and forwards.

“Yes,” he continued, turning round and taking his handkerchief out of
his pocket; “his painting had quite gone off. It seemed to me to have
lost something. It had lost an ideal. When you and he ceased to be
great friends, he ceased to be a great artist. What was it separated
you? I suppose he bored you. If so, he never forgave you. It’s a habit
bores have. By the way, what has become of that wonderful portrait he
did of you? I don’t think I have ever seen it since he finished it. Oh!
I remember your telling me years ago that you had sent it down to
Selby, and that it had got mislaid or stolen on the way. You never got
it back? What a pity! it was really a masterpiece. I remember I wanted
to buy it. I wish I had now. It belonged to Basil’s best period. Since
then, his work was that curious mixture of bad painting and good
intentions that always entitles a man to be called a representative
British artist. Did you advertise for it? You should.”

“I forget,” said Dorian. “I suppose I did. But I never really liked it.
I am sorry I sat for it. The memory of the thing is hateful to me. Why
do you talk of it? It used to remind me of those curious lines in some
play—Hamlet, I think—how do they run?—

“Like the painting of a sorrow,
A face without a heart.”


Yes: that is what it was like.”

Lord Henry laughed. “If a man treats life artistically, his brain is
his heart,” he answered, sinking into an arm-chair.

Dorian Gray shook his head and struck some soft chords on the piano.
“‘Like the painting of a sorrow,’” he repeated, “‘a face without a
heart.’”

The elder man lay back and looked at him with half-closed eyes. “By the
way, Dorian,” he said after a pause, “‘what does it profit a man if he
gain the whole world and lose—how does the quotation run?—his own
soul’?”

The music jarred, and Dorian Gray started and stared at his friend.
“Why do you ask me that, Harry?”

“My dear fellow,” said Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows in surprise,
“I asked you because I thought you might be able to give me an answer.
That is all. I was going through the park last Sunday, and close by the
Marble Arch there stood a little crowd of shabby-looking people
listening to some vulgar street-preacher. As I passed by, I heard the
man yelling out that question to his audience. It struck me as being
rather dramatic. London is very rich in curious effects of that kind. A
wet Sunday, an uncouth Christian in a mackintosh, a ring of sickly
white faces under a broken roof of dripping umbrellas, and a wonderful
phrase flung into the air by shrill hysterical lips—it was really very
good in its way, quite a suggestion. I thought of telling the prophet
that art had a soul, but that man had not. I am afraid, however, he
would not have understood me.”

“Don’t, Harry. The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought, and
sold, and bartered away. It can be poisoned, or made perfect. There is
a soul in each one of us. I know it.”

“Do you feel quite sure of that, Dorian?”

“Quite sure.”

“Ah! then it must be an illusion. The things one feels absolutely
certain about are never true. That is the fatality of faith, and the
lesson of romance. How grave you are! Don’t be so serious. What have
you or I to do with the superstitions of our age? No: we have given up
our belief in the soul. Play me something. Play me a nocturne, Dorian,
and, as you play, tell me, in a low voice, how you have kept your
youth. You must have some secret. I am only ten years older than you
are, and I am wrinkled, and worn, and yellow. You are really wonderful,
Dorian. You have never looked more charming than you do to-night. You
remind me of the day I saw you first. You were rather cheeky, very shy,
and absolutely extraordinary. You have changed, of course, but not in
appearance. I wish you would tell me your secret. To get back my youth
I would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early,
or be respectable. Youth! There is nothing like it. It’s absurd to talk
of the ignorance of youth. The only people to whose opinions I listen
now with any respect are people much younger than myself. They seem in
front of me. Life has revealed to them her latest wonder. As for the
aged, I always contradict the aged. I do it on principle. If you ask
them their opinion on something that happened yesterday, they solemnly
give you the opinions current in 1820, when people wore high stocks,
believed in everything, and knew absolutely nothing. How lovely that
thing you are playing is! I wonder, did Chopin write it at Majorca,
with the sea weeping round the villa and the salt spray dashing against
the panes? It is marvellously romantic. What a blessing it is that
there is one art left to us that is not imitative! Don’t stop. I want
music to-night. It seems to me that you are the young Apollo and that I
am Marsyas listening to you. I have sorrows, Dorian, of my own, that
even you know nothing of. The tragedy of old age is not that one is
old, but that one is young. I am amazed sometimes at my own sincerity.
Ah, Dorian, how happy you are! What an exquisite life you have had! You
have drunk deeply of everything. You have crushed the grapes against
your palate. Nothing has been hidden from you. And it has all been to
you no more than the sound of music. It has not marred you. You are
still the same.”

“I am not the same, Harry.”

“Yes, you are the same. I wonder what the rest of your life will be.
Don’t spoil it by renunciations. At present you are a perfect type.
Don’t make yourself incomplete. You are quite flawless now. You need
not shake your head: you know you are. Besides, Dorian, don’t deceive
yourself. Life is not governed by will or intention. Life is a question
of nerves, and fibres, and slowly built-up cells in which thought hides
itself and passion has its dreams. You may fancy yourself safe and
think yourself strong. But a chance tone of colour in a room or a
morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that
brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you
had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had
ceased to play—I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things like these that
our lives depend. Browning writes about that somewhere; but our own
senses will imagine them for us. There are moments when the odour of
_lilas blanc_ passes suddenly across me, and I have to live the
strangest month of my life over again. I wish I could change places
with you, Dorian. The world has cried out against us both, but it has
always worshipped you. It always will worship you. You are the type of
what the age is searching for, and what it is afraid it has found. I am
so glad that you have never done anything, never carved a statue, or
painted a picture, or produced anything outside of yourself! Life has
been your art. You have set yourself to music. Your days are your
sonnets.”

Dorian rose up from the piano and passed his hand through his hair.
“Yes, life has been exquisite,” he murmured, “but I am not going to
have the same life, Harry. And you must not say these extravagant
things to me. You don’t know everything about me. I think that if you
did, even you would turn from me. You laugh. Don’t laugh.”

“Why have you stopped playing, Dorian? Go back and give me the nocturne
over again. Look at that great, honey-coloured moon that hangs in the
dusky air. She is waiting for you to charm her, and if you play she
will come closer to the earth. You won’t? Let us go to the club, then.
It has been a charming evening, and we must end it charmingly. There is
some one at White’s who wants immensely to know you—young Lord Poole,
Bournemouth’s eldest son. He has already copied your neckties, and has
begged me to introduce him to you. He is quite delightful and rather
reminds me of you.”

“I hope not,” said Dorian with a sad look in his eyes. “But I am tired
to-night, Harry. I shan’t go to the club. It is nearly eleven, and I
want to go to bed early.”

“Do stay. You have never played so well as to-night. There was
something in your touch that was wonderful. It had more expression than
I had ever heard from it before.”

“It is because I am going to be good,” he answered, smiling. “I am a
little changed already.”

“You cannot change to me, Dorian,” said Lord Henry. “You and I will
always be friends.”

“Yet you poisoned me with a book once. I should not forgive that.
Harry, promise me that you will never lend that book to any one. It
does harm.”

“My dear boy, you are really beginning to moralize. You will soon be
going about like the converted, and the revivalist, warning people
against all the sins of which you have grown tired. You are much too
delightful to do that. Besides, it is no use. You and I are what we
are, and will be what we will be. As for being poisoned by a book,
there is no such thing as that. Art has no influence upon action. It
annihilates the desire to act. It is superbly sterile. The books that
the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame.
That is all. But we won’t discuss literature. Come round to-morrow. I
am going to ride at eleven. We might go together, and I will take you
to lunch afterwards with Lady Branksome. She is a charming woman, and
wants to consult you about some tapestries she is thinking of buying.
Mind you come. Or shall we lunch with our little duchess? She says she
never sees you now. Perhaps you are tired of Gladys? I thought you
would be. Her clever tongue gets on one’s nerves. Well, in any case, be
here at eleven.”

“Must I really come, Harry?”

“Certainly. The park is quite lovely now. I don’t think there have been
such lilacs since the year I met you.”

“Very well. I shall be here at eleven,” said Dorian. “Good night,
Harry.” As he reached the door, he hesitated for a moment, as if he had
something more to say. Then he sighed and went out.




CHAPTER XX.


It was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his arm and
did not even put his silk scarf round his throat. As he strolled home,
smoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed him. He
heard one of them whisper to the other, “That is Dorian Gray.” He
remembered how pleased he used to be when he was pointed out, or stared
at, or talked about. He was tired of hearing his own name now. Half the
charm of the little village where he had been so often lately was that
no one knew who he was. He had often told the girl whom he had lured to
love him that he was poor, and she had believed him. He had told her
once that he was wicked, and she had laughed at him and answered that
wicked people were always very old and very ugly. What a laugh she
had!—just like a thrush singing. And how pretty she had been in her
cotton dresses and her large hats! She knew nothing, but she had
everything that he had lost.

When he reached home, he found his servant waiting up for him. He sent
him to bed, and threw himself down on the sofa in the library, and
began to think over some of the things that Lord Henry had said to him.

Was it really true that one could never change? He felt a wild longing
for the unstained purity of his boyhood—his rose-white boyhood, as Lord
Henry had once called it. He knew that he had tarnished himself, filled
his mind with corruption and given horror to his fancy; that he had
been an evil influence to others, and had experienced a terrible joy in
being so; and that of the lives that had crossed his own, it had been
the fairest and the most full of promise that he had brought to shame.
But was it all irretrievable? Was there no hope for him?

Ah! in what a monstrous moment of pride and passion he had prayed that
the portrait should bear the burden of his days, and he keep the
unsullied splendour of eternal youth! All his failure had been due to
that. Better for him that each sin of his life had brought its sure
swift penalty along with it. There was purification in punishment. Not
“Forgive us our sins” but “Smite us for our iniquities” should be the
prayer of man to a most just God.

The curiously carved mirror that Lord Henry had given to him, so many
years ago now, was standing on the table, and the white-limbed Cupids
laughed round it as of old. He took it up, as he had done on that night
of horror when he had first noted the change in the fatal picture, and
with wild, tear-dimmed eyes looked into its polished shield. Once, some
one who had terribly loved him had written to him a mad letter, ending
with these idolatrous words: “The world is changed because you are made
of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history.” The
phrases came back to his memory, and he repeated them over and over to
himself. Then he loathed his own beauty, and flinging the mirror on the
floor, crushed it into silver splinters beneath his heel. It was his
beauty that had ruined him, his beauty and the youth that he had prayed
for. But for those two things, his life might have been free from
stain. His beauty had been to him but a mask, his youth but a mockery.
What was youth at best? A green, an unripe time, a time of shallow
moods, and sickly thoughts. Why had he worn its livery? Youth had
spoiled him.

It was better not to think of the past. Nothing could alter that. It
was of himself, and of his own future, that he had to think. James Vane
was hidden in a nameless grave in Selby churchyard. Alan Campbell had
shot himself one night in his laboratory, but had not revealed the
secret that he had been forced to know. The excitement, such as it was,
over Basil Hallward’s disappearance would soon pass away. It was
already waning. He was perfectly safe there. Nor, indeed, was it the
death of Basil Hallward that weighed most upon his mind. It was the
living death of his own soul that troubled him. Basil had painted the
portrait that had marred his life. He could not forgive him that. It
was the portrait that had done everything. Basil had said things to him
that were unbearable, and that he had yet borne with patience. The
murder had been simply the madness of a moment. As for Alan Campbell,
his suicide had been his own act. He had chosen to do it. It was
nothing to him.

A new life! That was what he wanted. That was what he was waiting for.
Surely he had begun it already. He had spared one innocent thing, at
any rate. He would never again tempt innocence. He would be good.

As he thought of Hetty Merton, he began to wonder if the portrait in
the locked room had changed. Surely it was not still so horrible as it
had been? Perhaps if his life became pure, he would be able to expel
every sign of evil passion from the face. Perhaps the signs of evil had
already gone away. He would go and look.

He took the lamp from the table and crept upstairs. As he unbarred the
door, a smile of joy flitted across his strangely young-looking face
and lingered for a moment about his lips. Yes, he would be good, and
the hideous thing that he had hidden away would no longer be a terror
to him. He felt as if the load had been lifted from him already.

He went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, and
dragged the purple hanging from the portrait. A cry of pain and
indignation broke from him. He could see no change, save that in the
eyes there was a look of cunning and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of
the hypocrite. The thing was still loathsome—more loathsome, if
possible, than before—and the scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemed
brighter, and more like blood newly spilled. Then he trembled. Had it
been merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? Or the
desire for a new sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his mocking
laugh? Or that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do things
finer than we are ourselves? Or, perhaps, all these? And why was the
red stain larger than it had been? It seemed to have crept like a
horrible disease over the wrinkled fingers. There was blood on the
painted feet, as though the thing had dripped—blood even on the hand
that had not held the knife. Confess? Did it mean that he was to
confess? To give himself up and be put to death? He laughed. He felt
that the idea was monstrous. Besides, even if he did confess, who would
believe him? There was no trace of the murdered man anywhere.
Everything belonging to him had been destroyed. He himself had burned
what had been below-stairs. The world would simply say that he was mad.
They would shut him up if he persisted in his story.... Yet it was his
duty to confess, to suffer public shame, and to make public atonement.
There was a God who called upon men to tell their sins to earth as well
as to heaven. Nothing that he could do would cleanse him till he had
told his own sin. His sin? He shrugged his shoulders. The death of
Basil Hallward seemed very little to him. He was thinking of Hetty
Merton. For it was an unjust mirror, this mirror of his soul that he
was looking at. Vanity? Curiosity? Hypocrisy? Had there been nothing
more in his renunciation than that? There had been something more. At
least he thought so. But who could tell? ... No. There had been nothing
more. Through vanity he had spared her. In hypocrisy he had worn the
mask of goodness. For curiosity’s sake he had tried the denial of self.
He recognized that now.

But this murder—was it to dog him all his life? Was he always to be
burdened by his past? Was he really to confess? Never. There was only
one bit of evidence left against him. The picture itself—that was
evidence. He would destroy it. Why had he kept it so long? Once it had
given him pleasure to watch it changing and growing old. Of late he had
felt no such pleasure. It had kept him awake at night. When he had been
away, he had been filled with terror lest other eyes should look upon
it. It had brought melancholy across his passions. Its mere memory had
marred many moments of joy. It had been like conscience to him. Yes, it
had been conscience. He would destroy it.

He looked round and saw the knife that had stabbed Basil Hallward. He
had cleaned it many times, till there was no stain left upon it. It was
bright, and glistened. As it had killed the painter, so it would kill
the painter’s work, and all that that meant. It would kill the past,
and when that was dead, he would be free. It would kill this monstrous
soul-life, and without its hideous warnings, he would be at peace. He
seized the thing, and stabbed the picture with it.

There was a cry heard, and a crash. The cry was so horrible in its
agony that the frightened servants woke and crept out of their rooms.
Two gentlemen, who were passing in the square below, stopped and looked
up at the great house. They walked on till they met a policeman and
brought him back. The man rang the bell several times, but there was no
answer. Except for a light in one of the top windows, the house was all
dark. After a time, he went away and stood in an adjoining portico and
watched.

“Whose house is that, Constable?” asked the elder of the two gentlemen.

“Mr. Dorian Gray’s, sir,” answered the policeman.

They looked at each other, as they walked away, and sneered. One of
them was Sir Henry Ashton’s uncle.

Inside, in the servants’ part of the house, the half-clad domestics
were talking in low whispers to each other. Old Mrs. Leaf was crying
and wringing her hands. Francis was as pale as death.

After about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of the
footmen and crept upstairs. They knocked, but there was no reply. They
called out. Everything was still. Finally, after vainly trying to force
the door, they got on the roof and dropped down on to the balcony. The
windows yielded easily—their bolts were old.

When they entered, they found hanging upon the wall a splendid portrait
of their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his
exquisite youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead man, in
evening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled,
and loathsome of visage. It was not till they had examined the rings
that they recognized who it was.

THE END





The Strange Case Of Dr. Jekyll And Mr. Hyde

by Robert Louis Stevenson


Contents


 STORY OF THE DOOR

 SEARCH FOR MR. HYDE

 DR. JEKYLL WAS QUITE AT EASE

 THE CAREW MURDER CASE

 INCIDENT OF THE LETTER

 INCIDENT OF DR. LANYON

 INCIDENT AT THE WINDOW

 THE LAST NIGHT

 DR. LANYON’S NARRATIVE

 HENRY JEKYLL’S FULL STATEMENT OF THE CASE


STORY OF THE DOOR

Mr. Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance that was
never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse;
backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary and yet somehow
lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste,
something eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which
never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these
silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often and loudly in
the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; drank gin when he
was alone, to mortify a taste for vintages; and though he enjoyed the
theatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had
an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with
envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and
in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove. “I incline to
Cain’s heresy,” he used to say quaintly: “I let my brother go to the
devil in his own way.” In this character, it was frequently his fortune
to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in
the lives of downgoing men. And to such as these, so long as they came
about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour.

No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstrative
at the best, and even his friendship seemed to be founded in a similar
catholicity of good-nature. It is the mark of a modest man to accept
his friendly circle ready-made from the hands of opportunity; and that
was the lawyer’s way. His friends were those of his own blood or those
whom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the
growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object. Hence, no doubt
the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman,
the well-known man about town. It was a nut to crack for many, what
these two could see in each other, or what subject they could find in
common. It was reported by those who encountered them in their Sunday
walks, that they said nothing, looked singularly dull and would hail
with obvious relief the appearance of a friend. For all that, the two
men put the greatest store by these excursions, counted them the chief
jewel of each week, and not only set aside occasions of pleasure, but
even resisted the calls of business, that they might enjoy them
uninterrupted.

It chanced on one of these rambles that their way led them down a
by-street in a busy quarter of London. The street was small and what is
called quiet, but it drove a thriving trade on the weekdays. The
inhabitants were all doing well, it seemed, and all emulously hoping to
do better still, and laying out the surplus of their gains in coquetry;
so that the shop fronts stood along that thoroughfare with an air of
invitation, like rows of smiling saleswomen. Even on Sunday, when it
veiled its more florid charms and lay comparatively empty of passage,
the street shone out in contrast to its dingy neighbourhood, like a fire
in a forest; and with its freshly painted shutters, well-polished
brasses, and general cleanliness and gaiety of note, instantly caught
and pleased the eye of the passenger.

Two doors from one corner, on the left hand going east the line was
broken by the entry of a court; and just at that point a certain
sinister block of building thrust forward its gable on the street. It
was two storeys high; showed no window, nothing but a door on the lower
storey and a blind forehead of discoloured wall on the upper; and bore
in every feature, the marks of prolonged and sordid negligence. The
door, which was equipped with neither bell nor knocker, was blistered
and distained. Tramps slouched into the recess and struck matches on
the panels; children kept shop upon the steps; the schoolboy had tried
his knife on the mouldings; and for close on a generation, no one had
appeared to drive away these random visitors or to repair their
ravages.

Mr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the by-street; but
when they came abreast of the entry, the former lifted up his cane and
pointed.

“Did you ever remark that door?” he asked; and when his companion had
replied in the affirmative, “It is connected in my mind,” added he,
“with a very odd story.”

“Indeed?” said Mr. Utterson, with a slight change of voice, “and what
was that?”

“Well, it was this way,” returned Mr. Enfield: “I was coming home from
some place at the end of the world, about three o’clock of a black
winter morning, and my way lay through a part of town where there was
literally nothing to be seen but lamps. Street after street and all the
folks asleep—street after street, all lighted up as if for a procession
and all as empty as a church—till at last I got into that state of mind
when a man listens and listens and begins to long for the sight of a
policeman. All at once, I saw two figures: one a little man who was
stumping along eastward at a good walk, and the other a girl of maybe
eight or ten who was running as hard as she was able down a cross
street. Well, sir, the two ran into one another naturally enough at the
corner; and then came the horrible part of the thing; for the man
trampled calmly over the child’s body and left her screaming on the
ground. It sounds nothing to hear, but it was hellish to see. It wasn’t
like a man; it was like some damned Juggernaut. I gave a few halloa,
took to my heels, collared my gentleman, and brought him back to where
there was already quite a group about the screaming child. He was
perfectly cool and made no resistance, but gave me one look, so ugly
that it brought out the sweat on me like running. The people who had
turned out were the girl’s own family; and pretty soon, the doctor, for
whom she had been sent, put in his appearance. Well, the child was not
much the worse, more frightened, according to the Sawbones; and there
you might have supposed would be an end to it. But there was one
curious circumstance. I had taken a loathing to my gentleman at first
sight. So had the child’s family, which was only natural. But the
doctor’s case was what struck me. He was the usual cut and dry
apothecary, of no particular age and colour, with a strong Edinburgh
accent and about as emotional as a bagpipe. Well, sir, he was like the
rest of us; every time he looked at my prisoner, I saw that Sawbones
turn sick and white with the desire to kill him. I knew what was in his
mind, just as he knew what was in mine; and killing being out of the
question, we did the next best. We told the man we could and would make
such a scandal out of this as should make his name stink from one end
of London to the other. If he had any friends or any credit, we
undertook that he should lose them. And all the time, as we were
pitching it in red hot, we were keeping the women off him as best we
could for they were as wild as harpies. I never saw a circle of such
hateful faces; and there was the man in the middle, with a kind of
black sneering coolness—frightened too, I could see that—but carrying
it off, sir, really like Satan. ‘If you choose to make capital out of
this accident,’ said he, ‘I am naturally helpless. No gentleman but
wishes to avoid a scene,’ says he. ‘Name your figure.’ Well, we screwed
him up to a hundred pounds for the child’s family; he would have
clearly liked to stick out; but there was something about the lot of us
that meant mischief, and at last he struck. The next thing was to get
the money; and where do you think he carried us but to that place with
the door?—whipped out a key, went in, and presently came back with the
matter of ten pounds in gold and a cheque for the balance on Coutts’s,
drawn payable to bearer and signed with a name that I can’t mention,
though it’s one of the points of my story, but it was a name at least
very well known and often printed. The figure was stiff; but the
signature was good for more than that if it was only genuine. I took
the liberty of pointing out to my gentleman that the whole business
looked apocryphal, and that a man does not, in real life, walk into a
cellar door at four in the morning and come out with another man’s
cheque for close upon a hundred pounds. But he was quite easy and
sneering. ‘Set your mind at rest,’ says he, ‘I will stay with you till
the banks open and cash the cheque myself.’ So we all set off, the
doctor, and the child’s father, and our friend and myself, and passed
the rest of the night in my chambers; and next day, when we had
breakfasted, went in a body to the bank. I gave in the cheque myself,
and said I had every reason to believe it was a forgery. Not a bit of
it. The cheque was genuine.”

“Tut-tut!” said Mr. Utterson.

“I see you feel as I do,” said Mr. Enfield. “Yes, it’s a bad story. For
my man was a fellow that nobody could have to do with, a really
damnable man; and the person that drew the cheque is the very pink of
the proprieties, celebrated too, and (what makes it worse) one of your
fellows who do what they call good. Blackmail, I suppose; an honest man
paying through the nose for some of the capers of his youth. Black Mail
House is what I call the place with the door, in consequence. Though
even that, you know, is far from explaining all,” he added, and with
the words fell into a vein of musing.

From this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson asking rather suddenly: “And
you don’t know if the drawer of the cheque lives there?”

“A likely place, isn’t it?” returned Mr. Enfield. “But I happen to have
noticed his address; he lives in some square or other.”

“And you never asked about the—place with the door?” said Mr. Utterson.

“No, sir; I had a delicacy,” was the reply. “I feel very strongly about
putting questions; it partakes too much of the style of the day of
judgment. You start a question, and it’s like starting a stone. You sit
quietly on the top of a hill; and away the stone goes, starting others;
and presently some bland old bird (the last you would have thought of)
is knocked on the head in his own back garden and the family have to
change their name. No sir, I make it a rule of mine: the more it looks
like Queer Street, the less I ask.”

“A very good rule, too,” said the lawyer.

“But I have studied the place for myself,” continued Mr. Enfield. “It
seems scarcely a house. There is no other door, and nobody goes in or
out of that one but, once in a great while, the gentleman of my
adventure. There are three windows looking on the court on the first
floor; none below; the windows are always shut but they’re clean. And
then there is a chimney which is generally smoking; so somebody must
live there. And yet it’s not so sure; for the buildings are so packed
together about the court, that it’s hard to say where one ends and
another begins.”

The pair walked on again for a while in silence; and then “Enfield,”
said Mr. Utterson, “that’s a good rule of yours.”

“Yes, I think it is,” returned Enfield.

“But for all that,” continued the lawyer, “there’s one point I want to
ask. I want to ask the name of that man who walked over the child.”

“Well,” said Mr. Enfield, “I can’t see what harm it would do. It was a
man of the name of Hyde.”

“Hm,” said Mr. Utterson. “What sort of a man is he to see?”

“He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his
appearance; something displeasing, something down-right detestable. I
never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must be
deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I
couldn’t specify the point. He’s an extraordinary looking man, and yet
I really can name nothing out of the way. No, sir; I can make no hand
of it; I can’t describe him. And it’s not want of memory; for I declare
I can see him this moment.”

Mr. Utterson again walked some way in silence and obviously under a
weight of consideration. “You are sure he used a key?” he inquired at
last.

“My dear sir...” began Enfield, surprised out of himself.

“Yes, I know,” said Utterson; “I know it must seem strange. The fact
is, if I do not ask you the name of the other party, it is because I
know it already. You see, Richard, your tale has gone home. If you have
been inexact in any point you had better correct it.”

“I think you might have warned me,” returned the other with a touch of
sullenness. “But I have been pedantically exact, as you call it. The
fellow had a key; and what’s more, he has it still. I saw him use it
not a week ago.”

Mr. Utterson sighed deeply but said never a word; and the young man
presently resumed. “Here is another lesson to say nothing,” said he. “I
am ashamed of my long tongue. Let us make a bargain never to refer to
this again.”

“With all my heart,” said the lawyer. “I shake hands on that, Richard.”



SEARCH FOR MR. HYDE

That evening Mr. Utterson came home to his bachelor house in sombre
spirits and sat down to dinner without relish. It was his custom of a
Sunday, when this meal was over, to sit close by the fire, a volume of
some dry divinity on his reading desk, until the clock of the
neighbouring church rang out the hour of twelve, when he would go
soberly and gratefully to bed. On this night however, as soon as the
cloth was taken away, he took up a candle and went into his business
room. There he opened his safe, took from the most private part of it a
document endorsed on the envelope as Dr. Jekyll’s Will and sat down
with a clouded brow to study its contents. The will was holograph, for
Mr. Utterson though he took charge of it now that it was made, had
refused to lend the least assistance in the making of it; it provided
not only that, in case of the decease of Henry Jekyll, M.D., D.C.L.,
L.L.D., F.R.S., etc., all his possessions were to pass into the hands
of his “friend and benefactor Edward Hyde,” but that in case of Dr.
Jekyll’s “disappearance or unexplained absence for any period exceeding
three calendar months,” the said Edward Hyde should step into the said
Henry Jekyll’s shoes without further delay and free from any burthen or
obligation beyond the payment of a few small sums to the members of the
doctor’s household. This document had long been the lawyer’s eyesore.
It offended him both as a lawyer and as a lover of the sane and
customary sides of life, to whom the fanciful was the immodest. And
hitherto it was his ignorance of Mr. Hyde that had swelled his
indignation; now, by a sudden turn, it was his knowledge. It was
already bad enough when the name was but a name of which he could learn
no more. It was worse when it began to be clothed upon with detestable
attributes; and out of the shifting, insubstantial mists that had so
long baffled his eye, there leaped up the sudden, definite presentment
of a fiend.

“I thought it was madness,” he said, as he replaced the obnoxious paper
in the safe, “and now I begin to fear it is disgrace.”

With that he blew out his candle, put on a greatcoat, and set forth in
the direction of Cavendish Square, that citadel of medicine, where his
friend, the great Dr. Lanyon, had his house and received his crowding
patients. “If anyone knows, it will be Lanyon,” he had thought.

The solemn butler knew and welcomed him; he was subjected to no stage
of delay, but ushered direct from the door to the dining-room where Dr.
Lanyon sat alone over his wine. This was a hearty, healthy, dapper,
red-faced gentleman, with a shock of hair prematurely white, and a
boisterous and decided manner. At sight of Mr. Utterson, he sprang up
from his chair and welcomed him with both hands. The geniality, as was
the way of the man, was somewhat theatrical to the eye; but it reposed
on genuine feeling. For these two were old friends, old mates both at
school and college, both thorough respecters of themselves and of each
other, and what does not always follow, men who thoroughly enjoyed each
other’s company.

After a little rambling talk, the lawyer led up to the subject which so
disagreeably preoccupied his mind.

“I suppose, Lanyon,” said he, “you and I must be the two oldest friends
that Henry Jekyll has?”

“I wish the friends were younger,” chuckled Dr. Lanyon. “But I suppose
we are. And what of that? I see little of him now.”

“Indeed?” said Utterson. “I thought you had a bond of common interest.”

“We had,” was the reply. “But it is more than ten years since Henry
Jekyll became too fanciful for me. He began to go wrong, wrong in mind;
and though of course I continue to take an interest in him for old
sake’s sake, as they say, I see and I have seen devilish little of the
man. Such unscientific balderdash,” added the doctor, flushing suddenly
purple, “would have estranged Damon and Pythias.”

This little spirit of temper was somewhat of a relief to Mr. Utterson.
“They have only differed on some point of science,” he thought; and
being a man of no scientific passions (except in the matter of
conveyancing), he even added: “It is nothing worse than that!” He gave
his friend a few seconds to recover his composure, and then approached
the question he had come to put. “Did you ever come across a _protégé_
of his—one Hyde?” he asked.

“Hyde?” repeated Lanyon. “No. Never heard of him. Since my time.”

That was the amount of information that the lawyer carried back with
him to the great, dark bed on which he tossed to and fro, until the
small hours of the morning began to grow large. It was a night of
little ease to his toiling mind, toiling in mere darkness and besieged
by questions.

Six o’clock struck on the bells of the church that was so conveniently
near to Mr. Utterson’s dwelling, and still he was digging at the
problem. Hitherto it had touched him on the intellectual side alone;
but now his imagination also was engaged, or rather enslaved; and as
he lay and tossed in the gross darkness of the night and the curtained
room, Mr. Enfield’s tale went by before his mind in a scroll of
lighted pictures. He would be aware of the great field of lamps of
a nocturnal city; then of the figure of a man walking swiftly; then
of a child running from the doctor’s; and then these met, and that
human Juggernaut trod the child down and passed on regardless of her
screams. Or else he would see a room in a rich house, where his friend
lay asleep, dreaming and smiling at his dreams; and then the door of
that room would be opened, the curtains of the bed plucked apart, the
sleeper recalled, and lo! there would stand by his side a figure to
whom power was given, and even at that dead hour, he must rise and do
its bidding. The figure in these two phases haunted the lawyer all
night; and if at any time he dozed over, it was but to see it glide
more stealthily through sleeping houses, or move the more swiftly and
still the more swiftly, even to dizziness, through wider labyrinths of
lamplighted city, and at every street corner crush a child and leave
her screaming. And still the figure had no face by which he might know
it; even in his dreams, it had no face, or one that baffled him and
melted before his eyes; and thus it was that there sprang up and grew
apace in the lawyer’s mind a singularly strong, almost an inordinate,
curiosity to behold the features of the real Mr. Hyde. If he could but
once set eyes on him, he thought the mystery would lighten and perhaps
roll altogether away, as was the habit of mysterious things when well
examined. He might see a reason for his friend’s strange preference or
bondage (call it which you please) and even for the startling clauses
of the will. At least it would be a face worth seeing: the face of
a man who was without bowels of mercy: a face which had but to show
itself to raise up, in the mind of the unimpressionable Enfield, a
spirit of enduring hatred.

From that time forward, Mr. Utterson began to haunt the door in the
by-street of shops. In the morning before office hours, at noon when
business was plenty and time scarce, at night under the face of the
fogged city moon, by all lights and at all hours of solitude or
concourse, the lawyer was to be found on his chosen post.

“If he be Mr. Hyde,” he had thought, “I shall be Mr. Seek.”

And at last his patience was rewarded. It was a fine dry night; frost
in the air; the streets as clean as a ballroom floor; the lamps,
unshaken by any wind, drawing a regular pattern of light and shadow. By
ten o’clock, when the shops were closed, the by-street was very
solitary and, in spite of the low growl of London from all round, very
silent. Small sounds carried far; domestic sounds out of the houses
were clearly audible on either side of the roadway; and the rumour of
the approach of any passenger preceded him by a long time. Mr. Utterson
had been some minutes at his post, when he was aware of an odd light
footstep drawing near. In the course of his nightly patrols, he had
long grown accustomed to the quaint effect with which the footfalls of
a single person, while he is still a great way off, suddenly spring out
distinct from the vast hum and clatter of the city. Yet his attention
had never before been so sharply and decisively arrested; and it was
with a strong, superstitious prevision of success that he withdrew into
the entry of the court.

The steps drew swiftly nearer, and swelled out suddenly louder as they
turned the end of the street. The lawyer, looking forth from the entry,
could soon see what manner of man he had to deal with. He was small and
very plainly dressed and the look of him, even at that distance, went
somehow strongly against the watcher’s inclination. But he made
straight for the door, crossing the roadway to save time; and as he
came, he drew a key from his pocket like one approaching home.

Mr. Utterson stepped out and touched him on the shoulder as he passed.
“Mr. Hyde, I think?”

Mr. Hyde shrank back with a hissing intake of the breath. But his fear
was only momentary; and though he did not look the lawyer in the face,
he answered coolly enough: “That is my name. What do you want?”

“I see you are going in,” returned the lawyer. “I am an old friend of
Dr. Jekyll’s—Mr. Utterson of Gaunt Street—you must have heard of my
name; and meeting you so conveniently, I thought you might admit me.”

“You will not find Dr. Jekyll; he is from home,” replied Mr. Hyde,
blowing in the key. And then suddenly, but still without looking up,
“How did you know me?” he asked.

“On your side,” said Mr. Utterson “will you do me a favour?”

“With pleasure,” replied the other. “What shall it be?”

“Will you let me see your face?” asked the lawyer.

Mr. Hyde appeared to hesitate, and then, as if upon some sudden
reflection, fronted about with an air of defiance; and the pair stared
at each other pretty fixedly for a few seconds. “Now I shall know you
again,” said Mr. Utterson. “It may be useful.”

“Yes,” returned Mr. Hyde, “it is as well we have met; and _à propos_,
you should have my address.” And he gave a number of a street in Soho.

“Good God!” thought Mr. Utterson, “can he, too, have been thinking of
the will?” But he kept his feelings to himself and only grunted in
acknowledgment of the address.

“And now,” said the other, “how did you know me?”

“By description,” was the reply.

“Whose description?”

“We have common friends,” said Mr. Utterson.

“Common friends,” echoed Mr. Hyde, a little hoarsely. “Who are they?”

“Jekyll, for instance,” said the lawyer.

“He never told you,” cried Mr. Hyde, with a flush of anger. “I did not
think you would have lied.”

“Come,” said Mr. Utterson, “that is not fitting language.”

The other snarled aloud into a savage laugh; and the next moment, with
extraordinary quickness, he had unlocked the door and disappeared into
the house.

The lawyer stood awhile when Mr. Hyde had left him, the picture of
disquietude. Then he began slowly to mount the street, pausing every
step or two and putting his hand to his brow like a man in mental
perplexity. The problem he was thus debating as he walked, was one of a
class that is rarely solved. Mr. Hyde was pale and dwarfish, he gave an
impression of deformity without any nameable malformation, he had a
displeasing smile, he had borne himself to the lawyer with a sort of
murderous mixture of timidity and boldness, and he spoke with a husky,
whispering and somewhat broken voice; all these were points against
him, but not all of these together could explain the hitherto unknown
disgust, loathing and fear with which Mr. Utterson regarded him. “There
must be something else,” said the perplexed gentleman. “There _is_
something more, if I could find a name for it. God bless me, the man
seems hardly human! Something troglodytic, shall we say? or can it be
the old story of Dr. Fell? or is it the mere radiance of a foul soul
that thus transpires through, and transfigures, its clay continent? The
last, I think; for, O my poor old Harry Jekyll, if ever I read Satan’s
signature upon a face, it is on that of your new friend.”

Round the corner from the by-street, there was a square of ancient,
handsome houses, now for the most part decayed from their high estate
and let in flats and chambers to all sorts and conditions of men;
map-engravers, architects, shady lawyers and the agents of obscure
enterprises. One house, however, second from the corner, was still
occupied entire; and at the door of this, which wore a great air of
wealth and comfort, though it was now plunged in darkness except for
the fanlight, Mr. Utterson stopped and knocked. A well-dressed, elderly
servant opened the door.

“Is Dr. Jekyll at home, Poole?” asked the lawyer.

“I will see, Mr. Utterson,” said Poole, admitting the visitor, as he
spoke, into a large, low-roofed, comfortable hall paved with flags,
warmed (after the fashion of a country house) by a bright, open fire,
and furnished with costly cabinets of oak. “Will you wait here by the
fire, sir? or shall I give you a light in the dining-room?”

“Here, thank you,” said the lawyer, and he drew near and leaned on the
tall fender. This hall, in which he was now left alone, was a pet fancy
of his friend the doctor’s; and Utterson himself was wont to speak of
it as the pleasantest room in London. But tonight there was a shudder
in his blood; the face of Hyde sat heavy on his memory; he felt (what
was rare with him) a nausea and distaste of life; and in the gloom of
his spirits, he seemed to read a menace in the flickering of the
firelight on the polished cabinets and the uneasy starting of the
shadow on the roof. He was ashamed of his relief, when Poole presently
returned to announce that Dr. Jekyll was gone out.

“I saw Mr. Hyde go in by the old dissecting room door, Poole,” he said. “Is
that right, when Dr. Jekyll is from home?”

“Quite right, Mr. Utterson, sir,” replied the servant. “Mr. Hyde has a
key.”

“Your master seems to repose a great deal of trust in that young man,
Poole,” resumed the other musingly.

“Yes, sir, he does indeed,” said Poole. “We have all orders to obey
him.”

“I do not think I ever met Mr. Hyde?” asked Utterson.

“O, dear no, sir. He never _dines_ here,” replied the butler. “Indeed
we see very little of him on this side of the house; he mostly comes
and goes by the laboratory.”

“Well, good-night, Poole.”

“Good-night, Mr. Utterson.”

And the lawyer set out homeward with a very heavy heart. “Poor Harry
Jekyll,” he thought, “my mind misgives me he is in deep waters! He was
wild when he was young; a long while ago to be sure; but in the law of
God, there is no statute of limitations. Ah, it must be that; the ghost
of some old sin, the cancer of some concealed disgrace: punishment
coming, _pede claudo_, years after memory has forgotten and self-love
condoned the fault.” And the lawyer, scared by the thought, brooded
awhile on his own past, groping in all the corners of memory, lest by
chance some Jack-in-the-Box of an old iniquity should leap to light
there. His past was fairly blameless; few men could read the rolls of
their life with less apprehension; yet he was humbled to the dust by
the many ill things he had done, and raised up again into a sober and
fearful gratitude by the many he had come so near to doing yet avoided.
And then by a return on his former subject, he conceived a spark of
hope. “This Master Hyde, if he were studied,” thought he, “must have
secrets of his own; black secrets, by the look of him; secrets compared
to which poor Jekyll’s worst would be like sunshine. Things cannot
continue as they are. It turns me cold to think of this creature
stealing like a thief to Harry’s bedside; poor Harry, what a wakening!
And the danger of it; for if this Hyde suspects the existence of the
will, he may grow impatient to inherit. Ah, I must put my shoulder to
the wheel—if Jekyll will but let me,” he added, “if Jekyll will only
let me.” For once more he saw before his mind’s eye, as clear as
transparency, the strange clauses of the will.



DR. JEKYLL WAS QUITE AT EASE

A fortnight later, by excellent good fortune, the doctor gave one of
his pleasant dinners to some five or six old cronies, all intelligent,
reputable men and all judges of good wine; and Mr. Utterson so
contrived that he remained behind after the others had departed. This
was no new arrangement, but a thing that had befallen many scores of
times. Where Utterson was liked, he was liked well. Hosts loved to
detain the dry lawyer, when the light-hearted and loose-tongued had
already their foot on the threshold; they liked to sit a while in his
unobtrusive company, practising for solitude, sobering their minds in
the man’s rich silence after the expense and strain of gaiety. To this
rule, Dr. Jekyll was no exception; and as he now sat on the opposite
side of the fire—a large, well-made, smooth-faced man of fifty, with
something of a slyish cast perhaps, but every mark of capacity and
kindness—you could see by his looks that he cherished for Mr. Utterson
a sincere and warm affection.

“I have been wanting to speak to you, Jekyll,” began the latter. “You
know that will of yours?”

A close observer might have gathered that the topic was distasteful;
but the doctor carried it off gaily. “My poor Utterson,” said he, “you
are unfortunate in such a client. I never saw a man so distressed as
you were by my will; unless it were that hide-bound pedant, Lanyon, at
what he called my scientific heresies. O, I know he’s a good fellow—you
needn’t frown—an excellent fellow, and I always mean to see more of
him; but a hide-bound pedant for all that; an ignorant, blatant pedant.
I was never more disappointed in any man than Lanyon.”

“You know I never approved of it,” pursued Utterson, ruthlessly
disregarding the fresh topic.

“My will? Yes, certainly, I know that,” said the doctor, a trifle
sharply. “You have told me so.”

“Well, I tell you so again,” continued the lawyer. “I have been
learning something of young Hyde.”

The large handsome face of Dr. Jekyll grew pale to the very lips, and
there came a blackness about his eyes. “I do not care to hear more,”
said he. “This is a matter I thought we had agreed to drop.”

“What I heard was abominable,” said Utterson.

“It can make no change. You do not understand my position,” returned
the doctor, with a certain incoherency of manner. “I am painfully
situated, Utterson; my position is a very strange—a very strange one.
It is one of those affairs that cannot be mended by talking.”

“Jekyll,” said Utterson, “you know me: I am a man to be trusted. Make a
clean breast of this in confidence; and I make no doubt I can get you
out of it.”

“My good Utterson,” said the doctor, “this is very good of you, this is
downright good of you, and I cannot find words to thank you in. I
believe you fully; I would trust you before any man alive, ay, before
myself, if I could make the choice; but indeed it isn’t what you fancy;
it is not as bad as that; and just to put your good heart at rest, I
will tell you one thing: the moment I choose, I can be rid of Mr. Hyde.
I give you my hand upon that; and I thank you again and again; and I
will just add one little word, Utterson, that I’m sure you’ll take in
good part: this is a private matter, and I beg of you to let it sleep.”

Utterson reflected a little, looking in the fire.

“I have no doubt you are perfectly right,” he said at last, getting to
his feet.

“Well, but since we have touched upon this business, and for the last
time I hope,” continued the doctor, “there is one point I should like
you to understand. I have really a very great interest in poor Hyde. I
know you have seen him; he told me so; and I fear he was rude. But I do
sincerely take a great, a very great interest in that young man; and if
I am taken away, Utterson, I wish you to promise me that you will bear
with him and get his rights for him. I think you would, if you knew
all; and it would be a weight off my mind if you would promise.”

“I can’t pretend that I shall ever like him,” said the lawyer.

“I don’t ask that,” pleaded Jekyll, laying his hand upon the other’s
arm; “I only ask for justice; I only ask you to help him for my sake,
when I am no longer here.”

Utterson heaved an irrepressible sigh. “Well,” said he, “I promise.”



THE CAREW MURDER CASE

Nearly a year later, in the month of October, 18—, London was startled
by a crime of singular ferocity and rendered all the more notable by
the high position of the victim. The details were few and startling. A
maid servant living alone in a house not far from the river, had gone
upstairs to bed about eleven. Although a fog rolled over the city in
the small hours, the early part of the night was cloudless, and the
lane, which the maid’s window overlooked, was brilliantly lit by the
full moon. It seems she was romantically given, for she sat down upon
her box, which stood immediately under the window, and fell into a
dream of musing. Never (she used to say, with streaming tears, when she
narrated that experience), never had she felt more at peace with all
men or thought more kindly of the world. And as she so sat she became
aware of an aged beautiful gentleman with white hair, drawing near
along the lane; and advancing to meet him, another and very small
gentleman, to whom at first she paid less attention. When they had come
within speech (which was just under the maid’s eyes) the older man
bowed and accosted the other with a very pretty manner of politeness.
It did not seem as if the subject of his address were of great
importance; indeed, from his pointing, it sometimes appeared as if he
were only inquiring his way; but the moon shone on his face as he
spoke, and the girl was pleased to watch it, it seemed to breathe such
an innocent and old-world kindness of disposition, yet with something
high too, as of a well-founded self-content. Presently her eye wandered
to the other, and she was surprised to recognise in him a certain Mr.
Hyde, who had once visited her master and for whom she had conceived a
dislike. He had in his hand a heavy cane, with which he was trifling;
but he answered never a word, and seemed to listen with an
ill-contained impatience. And then all of a sudden he broke out in a
great flame of anger, stamping with his foot, brandishing the cane, and
carrying on (as the maid described it) like a madman. The old gentleman
took a step back, with the air of one very much surprised and a trifle
hurt; and at that Mr. Hyde broke out of all bounds and clubbed him to
the earth. And next moment, with ape-like fury, he was trampling his
victim under foot and hailing down a storm of blows, under which the
bones were audibly shattered and the body jumped upon the roadway. At
the horror of these sights and sounds, the maid fainted.

It was two o’clock when she came to herself and called for the police.
The murderer was gone long ago; but there lay his victim in the middle
of the lane, incredibly mangled. The stick with which the deed had been
done, although it was of some rare and very tough and heavy wood, had
broken in the middle under the stress of this insensate cruelty; and
one splintered half had rolled in the neighbouring gutter—the other,
without doubt, had been carried away by the murderer. A purse and gold
watch were found upon the victim: but no cards or papers, except a
sealed and stamped envelope, which he had been probably carrying to the
post, and which bore the name and address of Mr. Utterson.

This was brought to the lawyer the next morning, before he was out of
bed; and he had no sooner seen it and been told the circumstances, than
he shot out a solemn lip. “I shall say nothing till I have seen the
body,” said he; “this may be very serious. Have the kindness to wait
while I dress.” And with the same grave countenance he hurried through
his breakfast and drove to the police station, whither the body had
been carried. As soon as he came into the cell, he nodded.

“Yes,” said he, “I recognise him. I am sorry to say that this is Sir
Danvers Carew.”

“Good God, sir,” exclaimed the officer, “is it possible?” And the next
moment his eye lighted up with professional ambition. “This will make a
deal of noise,” he said. “And perhaps you can help us to the man.” And
he briefly narrated what the maid had seen, and showed the broken
stick.

Mr. Utterson had already quailed at the name of Hyde; but when the
stick was laid before him, he could doubt no longer; broken and
battered as it was, he recognised it for one that he had himself
presented many years before to Henry Jekyll.

“Is this Mr. Hyde a person of small stature?” he inquired.

“Particularly small and particularly wicked-looking, is what the maid
calls him,” said the officer.

Mr. Utterson reflected; and then, raising his head, “If you will come
with me in my cab,” he said, “I think I can take you to his house.”

It was by this time about nine in the morning, and the first fog of the
season. A great chocolate-coloured pall lowered over heaven, but the
wind was continually charging and routing these embattled vapours; so
that as the cab crawled from street to street, Mr. Utterson beheld a
marvelous number of degrees and hues of twilight; for here it would be
dark like the back-end of evening; and there would be a glow of a rich,
lurid brown, like the light of some strange conflagration; and here,
for a moment, the fog would be quite broken up, and a haggard shaft of
daylight would glance in between the swirling wreaths. The dismal
quarter of Soho seen under these changing glimpses, with its muddy
ways, and slatternly passengers, and its lamps, which had never been
extinguished or had been kindled afresh to combat this mournful
reinvasion of darkness, seemed, in the lawyer’s eyes, like a district
of some city in a nightmare. The thoughts of his mind, besides, were of
the gloomiest dye; and when he glanced at the companion of his drive,
he was conscious of some touch of that terror of the law and the law’s
officers, which may at times assail the most honest.

As the cab drew up before the address indicated, the fog lifted a
little and showed him a dingy street, a gin palace, a low French eating
house, a shop for the retail of penny numbers and twopenny salads, many
ragged children huddled in the doorways, and many women of many
different nationalities passing out, key in hand, to have a morning
glass; and the next moment the fog settled down again upon that part,
as brown as umber, and cut him off from his blackguardly surroundings.
This was the home of Henry Jekyll’s favourite; of a man who was heir to
a quarter of a million sterling.

An ivory-faced and silvery-haired old woman opened the door. She had an
evil face, smoothed by hypocrisy: but her manners were excellent. Yes,
she said, this was Mr. Hyde’s, but he was not at home; he had been in
that night very late, but he had gone away again in less than an hour;
there was nothing strange in that; his habits were very irregular, and
he was often absent; for instance, it was nearly two months since she
had seen him till yesterday.

“Very well, then, we wish to see his rooms,” said the lawyer; and when
the woman began to declare it was impossible, “I had better tell you
who this person is,” he added. “This is Inspector Newcomen of Scotland
Yard.”

A flash of odious joy appeared upon the woman’s face. “Ah!” said she,
“he is in trouble! What has he done?”

Mr. Utterson and the inspector exchanged glances. “He don’t seem a very
popular character,” observed the latter. “And now, my good woman, just
let me and this gentleman have a look about us.”

In the whole extent of the house, which but for the old woman remained
otherwise empty, Mr. Hyde had only used a couple of rooms; but these
were furnished with luxury and good taste. A closet was filled with
wine; the plate was of silver, the napery elegant; a good picture hung
upon the walls, a gift (as Utterson supposed) from Henry Jekyll, who
was much of a connoisseur; and the carpets were of many piles and
agreeable in colour. At this moment, however, the rooms bore every mark
of having been recently and hurriedly ransacked; clothes lay about the
floor, with their pockets inside out; lock-fast drawers stood open; and
on the hearth there lay a pile of grey ashes, as though many papers had
been burned. From these embers the inspector disinterred the butt end
of a green cheque book, which had resisted the action of the fire; the
other half of the stick was found behind the door; and as this clinched
his suspicions, the officer declared himself delighted. A visit to the
bank, where several thousand pounds were found to be lying to the
murderer’s credit, completed his gratification.

“You may depend upon it, sir,” he told Mr. Utterson: “I have him in my
hand. He must have lost his head, or he never would have left the stick
or, above all, burned the cheque book. Why, money’s life to the man. We
have nothing to do but wait for him at the bank, and get out the
handbills.”

This last, however, was not so easy of accomplishment; for Mr. Hyde had
numbered few familiars—even the master of the servant maid had only
seen him twice; his family could nowhere be traced; he had never been
photographed; and the few who could describe him differed widely, as
common observers will. Only on one point were they agreed; and that was
the haunting sense of unexpressed deformity with which the fugitive
impressed his beholders.



INCIDENT OF THE LETTER

It was late in the afternoon, when Mr. Utterson found his way to Dr.
Jekyll’s door, where he was at once admitted by Poole, and carried down
by the kitchen offices and across a yard which had once been a garden,
to the building which was indifferently known as the laboratory or
dissecting rooms. The doctor had bought the house from the heirs of a
celebrated surgeon; and his own tastes being rather chemical than
anatomical, had changed the destination of the block at the bottom of
the garden. It was the first time that the lawyer had been received in
that part of his friend’s quarters; and he eyed the dingy, windowless
structure with curiosity, and gazed round with a distasteful sense of
strangeness as he crossed the theatre, once crowded with eager students
and now lying gaunt and silent, the tables laden with chemical
apparatus, the floor strewn with crates and littered with packing
straw, and the light falling dimly through the foggy cupola. At the
further end, a flight of stairs mounted to a door covered with red
baize; and through this, Mr. Utterson was at last received into the
doctor’s cabinet. It was a large room fitted round with glass presses,
furnished, among other things, with a cheval-glass and a business
table, and looking out upon the court by three dusty windows barred
with iron. The fire burned in the grate; a lamp was set lighted on the
chimney shelf, for even in the houses the fog began to lie thickly; and
there, close up to the warmth, sat Dr. Jekyll, looking deathly sick. He
did not rise to meet his visitor, but held out a cold hand and bade him
welcome in a changed voice.

“And now,” said Mr. Utterson, as soon as Poole had left them, “you have
heard the news?”

The doctor shuddered. “They were crying it in the square,” he said. “I
heard them in my dining-room.”

“One word,” said the lawyer. “Carew was my client, but so are you, and
I want to know what I am doing. You have not been mad enough to hide
this fellow?”

“Utterson, I swear to God,” cried the doctor, “I swear to God I will
never set eyes on him again. I bind my honour to you that I am done
with him in this world. It is all at an end. And indeed he does not
want my help; you do not know him as I do; he is safe, he is quite
safe; mark my words, he will never more be heard of.”

The lawyer listened gloomily; he did not like his friend’s feverish
manner. “You seem pretty sure of him,” said he; “and for your sake, I
hope you may be right. If it came to a trial, your name might appear.”

“I am quite sure of him,” replied Jekyll; “I have grounds for certainty
that I cannot share with any one. But there is one thing on which you
may advise me. I have—I have received a letter; and I am at a loss
whether I should show it to the police. I should like to leave it in
your hands, Utterson; you would judge wisely, I am sure; I have so
great a trust in you.”

“You fear, I suppose, that it might lead to his detection?” asked the
lawyer.

“No,” said the other. “I cannot say that I care what becomes of Hyde; I
am quite done with him. I was thinking of my own character, which this
hateful business has rather exposed.”

Utterson ruminated awhile; he was surprised at his friend’s
selfishness, and yet relieved by it. “Well,” said he, at last, “let me
see the letter.”

The letter was written in an odd, upright hand and signed “Edward
Hyde”: and it signified, briefly enough, that the writer’s benefactor,
Dr. Jekyll, whom he had long so unworthily repaid for a thousand
generosities, need labour under no alarm for his safety, as he had
means of escape on which he placed a sure dependence. The lawyer liked
this letter well enough; it put a better colour on the intimacy than he
had looked for; and he blamed himself for some of his past suspicions.

“Have you the envelope?” he asked.

“I burned it,” replied Jekyll, “before I thought what I was about. But
it bore no postmark. The note was handed in.”

“Shall I keep this and sleep upon it?” asked Utterson.

“I wish you to judge for me entirely,” was the reply. “I have lost
confidence in myself.”

“Well, I shall consider,” returned the lawyer. “And now one word more:
it was Hyde who dictated the terms in your will about that
disappearance?”

The doctor seemed seized with a qualm of faintness; he shut his mouth
tight and nodded.

“I knew it,” said Utterson. “He meant to murder you. You had a fine
escape.”

“I have had what is far more to the purpose,” returned the doctor
solemnly: “I have had a lesson—O God, Utterson, what a lesson I have
had!” And he covered his face for a moment with his hands.

On his way out, the lawyer stopped and had a word or two with Poole.
“By the bye,” said he, “there was a letter handed in to-day: what was
the messenger like?” But Poole was positive nothing had come except by
post; “and only circulars by that,” he added.

This news sent off the visitor with his fears renewed. Plainly the
letter had come by the laboratory door; possibly, indeed, it had been
written in the cabinet; and if that were so, it must be differently
judged, and handled with the more caution. The newsboys, as he went,
were crying themselves hoarse along the footways: “Special edition.
Shocking murder of an M.P.” That was the funeral oration of one friend
and client; and he could not help a certain apprehension lest the good
name of another should be sucked down in the eddy of the scandal. It
was, at least, a ticklish decision that he had to make; and
self-reliant as he was by habit, he began to cherish a longing for
advice. It was not to be had directly; but perhaps, he thought, it
might be fished for.

Presently after, he sat on one side of his own hearth, with Mr. Guest,
his head clerk, upon the other, and midway between, at a nicely
calculated distance from the fire, a bottle of a particular old wine
that had long dwelt unsunned in the foundations of his house. The fog
still slept on the wing above the drowned city, where the lamps
glimmered like carbuncles; and through the muffle and smother of these
fallen clouds, the procession of the town’s life was still rolling in
through the great arteries with a sound as of a mighty wind. But the
room was gay with firelight. In the bottle the acids were long ago
resolved; the imperial dye had softened with time, as the colour grows
richer in stained windows; and the glow of hot autumn afternoons on
hillside vineyards, was ready to be set free and to disperse the fogs
of London. Insensibly the lawyer melted. There was no man from whom he
kept fewer secrets than Mr. Guest; and he was not always sure that he
kept as many as he meant. Guest had often been on business to the
doctor’s; he knew Poole; he could scarce have failed to hear of Mr.
Hyde’s familiarity about the house; he might draw conclusions: was it
not as well, then, that he should see a letter which put that mystery
to rights? and above all since Guest, being a great student and critic
of handwriting, would consider the step natural and obliging? The
clerk, besides, was a man of counsel; he could scarce read so strange a
document without dropping a remark; and by that remark Mr. Utterson
might shape his future course.

“This is a sad business about Sir Danvers,” he said.

“Yes, sir, indeed. It has elicited a great deal of public feeling,”
returned Guest. “The man, of course, was mad.”

“I should like to hear your views on that,” replied Utterson. “I have a
document here in his handwriting; it is between ourselves, for I scarce
know what to do about it; it is an ugly business at the best. But there
it is; quite in your way: a murderer’s autograph.”

Guest’s eyes brightened, and he sat down at once and studied it with
passion. “No sir,” he said: “not mad; but it is an odd hand.”

“And by all accounts a very odd writer,” added the lawyer.

Just then the servant entered with a note.

“Is that from Dr. Jekyll, sir?” inquired the clerk. “I thought I knew
the writing. Anything private, Mr. Utterson?”

“Only an invitation to dinner. Why? Do you want to see it?”

“One moment. I thank you, sir;” and the clerk laid the two sheets of
paper alongside and sedulously compared their contents. “Thank you,
sir,” he said at last, returning both; “it’s a very interesting
autograph.”

There was a pause, during which Mr. Utterson struggled with himself.
“Why did you compare them, Guest?” he inquired suddenly.

“Well, sir,” returned the clerk, “there’s a rather singular
resemblance; the two hands are in many points identical: only
differently sloped.”

“Rather quaint,” said Utterson.

“It is, as you say, rather quaint,” returned Guest.

“I wouldn’t speak of this note, you know,” said the master.

“No, sir,” said the clerk. “I understand.”

But no sooner was Mr. Utterson alone that night, than he locked the
note into his safe, where it reposed from that time forward. “What!” he
thought. “Henry Jekyll forge for a murderer!” And his blood ran cold in
his veins.



INCIDENT OF DR. LANYON

Time ran on; thousands of pounds were offered in reward, for the death
of Sir Danvers was resented as a public injury; but Mr. Hyde had
disappeared out of the ken of the police as though he had never
existed. Much of his past was unearthed, indeed, and all disreputable:
tales came out of the man’s cruelty, at once so callous and violent; of
his vile life, of his strange associates, of the hatred that seemed to
have surrounded his career; but of his present whereabouts, not a
whisper. From the time he had left the house in Soho on the morning of
the murder, he was simply blotted out; and gradually, as time drew on,
Mr. Utterson began to recover from the hotness of his alarm, and to
grow more at quiet with himself. The death of Sir Danvers was, to his
way of thinking, more than paid for by the disappearance of Mr. Hyde.
Now that that evil influence had been withdrawn, a new life began for
Dr. Jekyll. He came out of his seclusion, renewed relations with his
friends, became once more their familiar guest and entertainer; and
whilst he had always been known for charities, he was now no less
distinguished for religion. He was busy, he was much in the open air,
he did good; his face seemed to open and brighten, as if with an inward
consciousness of service; and for more than two months, the doctor was
at peace.

On the 8th of January Utterson had dined at the doctor’s with a small
party; Lanyon had been there; and the face of the host had looked from
one to the other as in the old days when the trio were inseparable
friends. On the 12th, and again on the 14th, the door was shut against
the lawyer. “The doctor was confined to the house,” Poole said, “and
saw no one.” On the 15th, he tried again, and was again refused; and
having now been used for the last two months to see his friend almost
daily, he found this return of solitude to weigh upon his spirits. The
fifth night he had in Guest to dine with him; and the sixth he betook
himself to Dr. Lanyon’s.

There at least he was not denied admittance; but when he came in, he
was shocked at the change which had taken place in the doctor’s
appearance. He had his death-warrant written legibly upon his face. The
rosy man had grown pale; his flesh had fallen away; he was visibly
balder and older; and yet it was not so much these tokens of a swift
physical decay that arrested the lawyer’s notice, as a look in the eye
and quality of manner that seemed to testify to some deep-seated terror
of the mind. It was unlikely that the doctor should fear death; and yet
that was what Utterson was tempted to suspect. “Yes,” he thought; “he
is a doctor, he must know his own state and that his days are counted;
and the knowledge is more than he can bear.” And yet when Utterson
remarked on his ill looks, it was with an air of great firmness that
Lanyon declared himself a doomed man.

“I have had a shock,” he said, “and I shall never recover. It is a
question of weeks. Well, life has been pleasant; I liked it; yes, sir,
I used to like it. I sometimes think if we knew all, we should be more
glad to get away.”

“Jekyll is ill, too,” observed Utterson. “Have you seen him?”

But Lanyon’s face changed, and he held up a trembling hand. “I wish to
see or hear no more of Dr. Jekyll,” he said in a loud, unsteady voice.
“I am quite done with that person; and I beg that you will spare me any
allusion to one whom I regard as dead.”

“Tut, tut!” said Mr. Utterson; and then after a considerable pause,
“Can’t I do anything?” he inquired. “We are three very old friends,
Lanyon; we shall not live to make others.”

“Nothing can be done,” returned Lanyon; “ask himself.”

“He will not see me,” said the lawyer.

“I am not surprised at that,” was the reply. “Some day, Utterson, after
I am dead, you may perhaps come to learn the right and wrong of this. I
cannot tell you. And in the meantime, if you can sit and talk with me
of other things, for God’s sake, stay and do so; but if you cannot keep
clear of this accursed topic, then in God’s name, go, for I cannot bear
it.”

As soon as he got home, Utterson sat down and wrote to Jekyll,
complaining of his exclusion from the house, and asking the cause of
this unhappy break with Lanyon; and the next day brought him a long
answer, often very pathetically worded, and sometimes darkly mysterious
in drift. The quarrel with Lanyon was incurable. “I do not blame our
old friend,” Jekyll wrote, “but I share his view that we must never
meet. I mean from henceforth to lead a life of extreme seclusion; you
must not be surprised, nor must you doubt my friendship, if my door is
often shut even to you. You must suffer me to go my own dark way. I
have brought on myself a punishment and a danger that I cannot name. If
I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also. I could
not think that this earth contained a place for sufferings and terrors
so unmanning; and you can do but one thing, Utterson, to lighten this
destiny, and that is to respect my silence.” Utterson was amazed; the
dark influence of Hyde had been withdrawn, the doctor had returned to
his old tasks and amities; a week ago, the prospect had smiled with
every promise of a cheerful and an honoured age; and now in a moment,
friendship, and peace of mind, and the whole tenor of his life were
wrecked. So great and unprepared a change pointed to madness; but in
view of Lanyon’s manner and words, there must lie for it some deeper
ground.

A week afterwards Dr. Lanyon took to his bed, and in something less
than a fortnight he was dead. The night after the funeral, at which he
had been sadly affected, Utterson locked the door of his business room,
and sitting there by the light of a melancholy candle, drew out and set
before him an envelope addressed by the hand and sealed with the seal
of his dead friend. “PRIVATE: for the hands of G. J. Utterson ALONE,
and in case of his predecease _to be destroyed unread_,” so it was
emphatically superscribed; and the lawyer dreaded to behold the
contents. “I have buried one friend to-day,” he thought: “what if this
should cost me another?” And then he condemned the fear as a
disloyalty, and broke the seal. Within there was another enclosure,
likewise sealed, and marked upon the cover as “not to be opened till
the death or disappearance of Dr. Henry Jekyll.” Utterson could not
trust his eyes. Yes, it was disappearance; here again, as in the mad
will which he had long ago restored to its author, here again were the
idea of a disappearance and the name of Henry Jekyll bracketed. But in
the will, that idea had sprung from the sinister suggestion of the man
Hyde; it was set there with a purpose all too plain and horrible.
Written by the hand of Lanyon, what should it mean? A great curiosity
came on the trustee, to disregard the prohibition and dive at once to
the bottom of these mysteries; but professional honour and faith to his
dead friend were stringent obligations; and the packet slept in the
inmost corner of his private safe.

It is one thing to mortify curiosity, another to conquer it; and it may
be doubted if, from that day forth, Utterson desired the society of his
surviving friend with the same eagerness. He thought of him kindly; but
his thoughts were disquieted and fearful. He went to call indeed; but
he was perhaps relieved to be denied admittance; perhaps, in his heart,
he preferred to speak with Poole upon the doorstep and surrounded by
the air and sounds of the open city, rather than to be admitted into
that house of voluntary bondage, and to sit and speak with its
inscrutable recluse. Poole had, indeed, no very pleasant news to
communicate. The doctor, it appeared, now more than ever confined
himself to the cabinet over the laboratory, where he would sometimes
even sleep; he was out of spirits, he had grown very silent, he did not
read; it seemed as if he had something on his mind. Utterson became so
used to the unvarying character of these reports, that he fell off
little by little in the frequency of his visits.



INCIDENT AT THE WINDOW

It chanced on Sunday, when Mr. Utterson was on his usual walk with Mr.
Enfield, that their way lay once again through the by-street; and that
when they came in front of the door, both stopped to gaze on it.

“Well,” said Enfield, “that story’s at an end at least. We shall never
see more of Mr. Hyde.”

“I hope not,” said Utterson. “Did I ever tell you that I once saw him,
and shared your feeling of repulsion?”

“It was impossible to do the one without the other,” returned Enfield.
“And by the way, what an ass you must have thought me, not to know that
this was a back way to Dr. Jekyll’s! It was partly your own fault that
I found it out, even when I did.”

“So you found it out, did you?” said Utterson. “But if that be so, we
may step into the court and take a look at the windows. To tell you the
truth, I am uneasy about poor Jekyll; and even outside, I feel as if
the presence of a friend might do him good.”

The court was very cool and a little damp, and full of premature
twilight, although the sky, high up overhead, was still bright with
sunset. The middle one of the three windows was half-way open; and
sitting close beside it, taking the air with an infinite sadness of
mien, like some disconsolate prisoner, Utterson saw Dr. Jekyll.

“What! Jekyll! Jekyll!” he cried. “I trust you are better.”

“I am very low, Utterson,” replied the doctor drearily, “very low. It
will not last long, thank God.”

“You stay too much indoors,” said the lawyer. “You should be out,
whipping up the circulation like Mr. Enfield and me. (This is my
cousin—Mr. Enfield—Dr. Jekyll.) Come now; get your hat and take a quick
turn with us.”

“You are very good,” sighed the other. “I should like to very much; but
no, no, no, it is quite impossible; I dare not. But indeed, Utterson, I
am very glad to see you; this is really a great pleasure; I would ask
you and Mr. Enfield up, but the place is really not fit.”

“Why, then,” said the lawyer, good-naturedly, “the best thing we can do
is to stay down here and speak with you from where we are.”

“That is just what I was about to venture to propose,” returned the
doctor with a smile. But the words were hardly uttered, before the
smile was struck out of his face and succeeded by an expression of such
abject terror and despair, as froze the very blood of the two gentlemen
below. They saw it but for a glimpse for the window was instantly
thrust down; but that glimpse had been sufficient, and they turned and
left the court without a word. In silence, too, they traversed the
by-street; and it was not until they had come into a neighbouring
thoroughfare, where even upon a Sunday there were still some stirrings
of life, that Mr. Utterson at last turned and looked at his companion.
They were both pale; and there was an answering horror in their eyes.

“God forgive us, God forgive us,” said Mr. Utterson.

But Mr. Enfield only nodded his head very seriously, and walked on once
more in silence.



THE LAST NIGHT

Mr. Utterson was sitting by his fireside one evening after dinner, when
he was surprised to receive a visit from Poole.

“Bless me, Poole, what brings you here?” he cried; and then taking a
second look at him, “What ails you?” he added; “is the doctor ill?”

“Mr. Utterson,” said the man, “there is something wrong.”

“Take a seat, and here is a glass of wine for you,” said the lawyer.
“Now, take your time, and tell me plainly what you want.”

“You know the doctor’s ways, sir,” replied Poole, “and how he shuts
himself up. Well, he’s shut up again in the cabinet; and I don’t like
it, sir—I wish I may die if I like it. Mr. Utterson, sir, I’m afraid.”

“Now, my good man,” said the lawyer, “be explicit. What are you afraid
of?”

“I’ve been afraid for about a week,” returned Poole, doggedly
disregarding the question, “and I can bear it no more.”

The man’s appearance amply bore out his words; his manner was altered
for the worse; and except for the moment when he had first announced
his terror, he had not once looked the lawyer in the face. Even now, he
sat with the glass of wine untasted on his knee, and his eyes directed
to a corner of the floor. “I can bear it no more,” he repeated.

“Come,” said the lawyer, “I see you have some good reason, Poole; I see
there is something seriously amiss. Try to tell me what it is.”

“I think there’s been foul play,” said Poole, hoarsely.

“Foul play!” cried the lawyer, a good deal frightened and rather
inclined to be irritated in consequence. “What foul play! What does the
man mean?”

“I daren’t say, sir,” was the answer; “but will you come along with me
and see for yourself?”

Mr. Utterson’s only answer was to rise and get his hat and greatcoat;
but he observed with wonder the greatness of the relief that appeared
upon the butler’s face, and perhaps with no less, that the wine was
still untasted when he set it down to follow.

It was a wild, cold, seasonable night of March, with a pale moon, lying
on her back as though the wind had tilted her, and flying wrack of the
most diaphanous and lawny texture. The wind made talking difficult, and
flecked the blood into the face. It seemed to have swept the streets
unusually bare of passengers, besides; for Mr. Utterson thought he had
never seen that part of London so deserted. He could have wished it
otherwise; never in his life had he been conscious of so sharp a wish
to see and touch his fellow-creatures; for struggle as he might, there
was borne in upon his mind a crushing anticipation of calamity. The
square, when they got there, was full of wind and dust, and the thin
trees in the garden were lashing themselves along the railing. Poole,
who had kept all the way a pace or two ahead, now pulled up in the
middle of the pavement, and in spite of the biting weather, took off
his hat and mopped his brow with a red pocket-handkerchief. But for all
the hurry of his coming, these were not the dews of exertion that he
wiped away, but the moisture of some strangling anguish; for his face
was white and his voice, when he spoke, harsh and broken.

“Well, sir,” he said, “here we are, and God grant there be nothing
wrong.”

“Amen, Poole,” said the lawyer.

Thereupon the servant knocked in a very guarded manner; the door was
opened on the chain; and a voice asked from within, “Is that you,
Poole?”

“It’s all right,” said Poole. “Open the door.”

The hall, when they entered it, was brightly lighted up; the fire was
built high; and about the hearth the whole of the servants, men and
women, stood huddled together like a flock of sheep. At the sight of
Mr. Utterson, the housemaid broke into hysterical whimpering; and the
cook, crying out “Bless God! it’s Mr. Utterson,” ran forward as if to
take him in her arms.

“What, what? Are you all here?” said the lawyer peevishly. “Very
irregular, very unseemly; your master would be far from pleased.”

“They’re all afraid,” said Poole.

Blank silence followed, no one protesting; only the maid lifted her
voice and now wept loudly.

“Hold your tongue!” Poole said to her, with a ferocity of accent that
testified to his own jangled nerves; and indeed, when the girl had so
suddenly raised the note of her lamentation, they had all started and
turned towards the inner door with faces of dreadful expectation. “And
now,” continued the butler, addressing the knife-boy, “reach me a
candle, and we’ll get this through hands at once.” And then he begged
Mr. Utterson to follow him, and led the way to the back garden.

“Now, sir,” said he, “you come as gently as you can. I want you to
hear, and I don’t want you to be heard. And see here, sir, if by any
chance he was to ask you in, don’t go.”

Mr. Utterson’s nerves, at this unlooked-for termination, gave a jerk
that nearly threw him from his balance; but he recollected his courage
and followed the butler into the laboratory building through the
surgical theatre, with its lumber of crates and bottles, to the foot of
the stair. Here Poole motioned him to stand on one side and listen;
while he himself, setting down the candle and making a great and
obvious call on his resolution, mounted the steps and knocked with a
somewhat uncertain hand on the red baize of the cabinet door.

“Mr. Utterson, sir, asking to see you,” he called; and even as he did
so, once more violently signed to the lawyer to give ear.

A voice answered from within: “Tell him I cannot see anyone,” it said
complainingly.

“Thank you, sir,” said Poole, with a note of something like triumph in
his voice; and taking up his candle, he led Mr. Utterson back across
the yard and into the great kitchen, where the fire was out and the
beetles were leaping on the floor.

“Sir,” he said, looking Mr. Utterson in the eyes, “Was that my master’s
voice?”

“It seems much changed,” replied the lawyer, very pale, but giving look
for look.

“Changed? Well, yes, I think so,” said the butler. “Have I been twenty
years in this man’s house, to be deceived about his voice? No, sir;
master’s made away with; he was made away with eight days ago, when we
heard him cry out upon the name of God; and _who’s_ in there instead of
him, and _why_ it stays there, is a thing that cries to Heaven, Mr.
Utterson!”

“That is a very strange tale, Poole; this is rather a wild tale my
man,” said Mr. Utterson, biting his finger. “Suppose it were as you
suppose, supposing Dr. Jekyll to have been—well, murdered, what could
induce the murderer to stay? That won’t hold water; it doesn’t commend
itself to reason.”

“Well, Mr. Utterson, you are a hard man to satisfy, but I’ll do it
yet,” said Poole. “All this last week (you must know) him, or it,
whatever it is that lives in that cabinet, has been crying night and
day for some sort of medicine and cannot get it to his mind. It was
sometimes his way—the master’s, that is—to write his orders on a sheet
of paper and throw it on the stair. We’ve had nothing else this week
back; nothing but papers, and a closed door, and the very meals left
there to be smuggled in when nobody was looking. Well, sir, every day,
ay, and twice and thrice in the same day, there have been orders and
complaints, and I have been sent flying to all the wholesale chemists
in town. Every time I brought the stuff back, there would be another
paper telling me to return it, because it was not pure, and another
order to a different firm. This drug is wanted bitter bad, sir,
whatever for.”

“Have you any of these papers?” asked Mr. Utterson.

Poole felt in his pocket and handed out a crumpled note, which the
lawyer, bending nearer to the candle, carefully examined. Its contents
ran thus: “Dr. Jekyll presents his compliments to Messrs. Maw. He
assures them that their last sample is impure and quite useless for his
present purpose. In the year 18—, Dr. J. purchased a somewhat large
quantity from Messrs. M. He now begs them to search with most sedulous
care, and should any of the same quality be left, forward it to him at
once. Expense is no consideration. The importance of this to Dr. J. can
hardly be exaggerated.” So far the letter had run composedly enough,
but here with a sudden splutter of the pen, the writer’s emotion had
broken loose. “For God’s sake,” he added, “find me some of the old.”

“This is a strange note,” said Mr. Utterson; and then sharply, “How do
you come to have it open?”

“The man at Maw’s was main angry, sir, and he threw it back to me like
so much dirt,” returned Poole.

“This is unquestionably the doctor’s hand, do you know?” resumed the
lawyer.

“I thought it looked like it,” said the servant rather sulkily; and
then, with another voice, “But what matters hand of write?” he said.
“I’ve seen him!”

“Seen him?” repeated Mr. Utterson. “Well?”

“That’s it!” said Poole. “It was this way. I came suddenly into the
theatre from the garden. It seems he had slipped out to look for this
drug or whatever it is; for the cabinet door was open, and there he was
at the far end of the room digging among the crates. He looked up when
I came in, gave a kind of cry, and whipped upstairs into the cabinet.
It was but for one minute that I saw him, but the hair stood upon my
head like quills. Sir, if that was my master, why had he a mask upon
his face? If it was my master, why did he cry out like a rat, and run
from me? I have served him long enough. And then...” The man paused and
passed his hand over his face.

“These are all very strange circumstances,” said Mr. Utterson, “but I
think I begin to see daylight. Your master, Poole, is plainly seized
with one of those maladies that both torture and deform the sufferer;
hence, for aught I know, the alteration of his voice; hence the mask
and the avoidance of his friends; hence his eagerness to find this
drug, by means of which the poor soul retains some hope of ultimate
recovery—God grant that he be not deceived! There is my explanation; it
is sad enough, Poole, ay, and appalling to consider; but it is plain
and natural, hangs well together, and delivers us from all exorbitant
alarms.”

“Sir,” said the butler, turning to a sort of mottled pallor, “that
thing was not my master, and there’s the truth. My master”—here he
looked round him and began to whisper—“is a tall, fine build of a man,
and this was more of a dwarf.” Utterson attempted to protest. “O, sir,”
cried Poole, “do you think I do not know my master after twenty years?
Do you think I do not know where his head comes to in the cabinet door,
where I saw him every morning of my life? No, sir, that thing in the
mask was never Dr. Jekyll—God knows what it was, but it was never Dr.
Jekyll; and it is the belief of my heart that there was murder done.”

“Poole,” replied the lawyer, “if you say that, it will become my duty
to make certain. Much as I desire to spare your master’s feelings, much
as I am puzzled by this note which seems to prove him to be still
alive, I shall consider it my duty to break in that door.”

“Ah, Mr. Utterson, that’s talking!” cried the butler.

“And now comes the second question,” resumed Utterson: “Who is going to
do it?”

“Why, you and me, sir,” was the undaunted reply.

“That’s very well said,” returned the lawyer; “and whatever comes of
it, I shall make it my business to see you are no loser.”

“There is an axe in the theatre,” continued Poole; “and you might take
the kitchen poker for yourself.”

The lawyer took that rude but weighty instrument into his hand, and
balanced it. “Do you know, Poole,” he said, looking up, “that you and I
are about to place ourselves in a position of some peril?”

“You may say so, sir, indeed,” returned the butler.

“It is well, then that we should be frank,” said the other. “We both
think more than we have said; let us make a clean breast. This masked
figure that you saw, did you recognise it?”

“Well, sir, it went so quick, and the creature was so doubled up, that
I could hardly swear to that,” was the answer. “But if you mean, was it
Mr. Hyde?—why, yes, I think it was! You see, it was much of the same
bigness; and it had the same quick, light way with it; and then who
else could have got in by the laboratory door? You have not forgot,
sir, that at the time of the murder he had still the key with him? But
that’s not all. I don’t know, Mr. Utterson, if you ever met this Mr.
Hyde?”

“Yes,” said the lawyer, “I once spoke with him.”

“Then you must know as well as the rest of us that there was something
queer about that gentleman—something that gave a man a turn—I don’t
know rightly how to say it, sir, beyond this: that you felt in your
marrow kind of cold and thin.”

“I own I felt something of what you describe,” said Mr. Utterson.

“Quite so, sir,” returned Poole. “Well, when that masked thing like a
monkey jumped from among the chemicals and whipped into the cabinet, it
went down my spine like ice. O, I know it’s not evidence, Mr. Utterson;
I’m book-learned enough for that; but a man has his feelings, and I
give you my bible-word it was Mr. Hyde!”

“Ay, ay,” said the lawyer. “My fears incline to the same point. Evil, I
fear, founded—evil was sure to come—of that connection. Ay truly, I
believe you; I believe poor Harry is killed; and I believe his murderer
(for what purpose, God alone can tell) is still lurking in his victim’s
room. Well, let our name be vengeance. Call Bradshaw.”

The footman came at the summons, very white and nervous.

“Pull yourself together, Bradshaw,” said the lawyer. “This suspense, I
know, is telling upon all of you; but it is now our intention to make
an end of it. Poole, here, and I are going to force our way into the
cabinet. If all is well, my shoulders are broad enough to bear the
blame. Meanwhile, lest anything should really be amiss, or any
malefactor seek to escape by the back, you and the boy must go round
the corner with a pair of good sticks and take your post at the
laboratory door. We give you ten minutes to get to your stations.”

As Bradshaw left, the lawyer looked at his watch. “And now, Poole, let
us get to ours,” he said; and taking the poker under his arm, led the
way into the yard. The scud had banked over the moon, and it was now
quite dark. The wind, which only broke in puffs and draughts into that
deep well of building, tossed the light of the candle to and fro about
their steps, until they came into the shelter of the theatre, where
they sat down silently to wait. London hummed solemnly all around; but
nearer at hand, the stillness was only broken by the sounds of a
footfall moving to and fro along the cabinet floor.

“So it will walk all day, sir,” whispered Poole; “ay, and the better
part of the night. Only when a new sample comes from the chemist,
there’s a bit of a break. Ah, it’s an ill conscience that’s such an
enemy to rest! Ah, sir, there’s blood foully shed in every step of it!
But hark again, a little closer—put your heart in your ears, Mr.
Utterson, and tell me, is that the doctor’s foot?”

The steps fell lightly and oddly, with a certain swing, for all they
went so slowly; it was different indeed from the heavy creaking tread
of Henry Jekyll. Utterson sighed. “Is there never anything else?” he
asked.

Poole nodded. “Once,” he said. “Once I heard it weeping!”

“Weeping? how that?” said the lawyer, conscious of a sudden chill of
horror.

“Weeping like a woman or a lost soul,” said the butler. “I came away
with that upon my heart, that I could have wept too.”

But now the ten minutes drew to an end. Poole disinterred the axe from
under a stack of packing straw; the candle was set upon the nearest
table to light them to the attack; and they drew near with bated breath
to where that patient foot was still going up and down, up and down, in
the quiet of the night.

“Jekyll,” cried Utterson, with a loud voice, “I demand to see you.” He
paused a moment, but there came no reply. “I give you fair warning, our
suspicions are aroused, and I must and shall see you,” he resumed; “if
not by fair means, then by foul—if not of your consent, then by brute
force!”

“Utterson,” said the voice, “for God’s sake, have mercy!”

“Ah, that’s not Jekyll’s voice—it’s Hyde’s!” cried Utterson. “Down with
the door, Poole!”

Poole swung the axe over his shoulder; the blow shook the building, and
the red baize door leaped against the lock and hinges. A dismal
screech, as of mere animal terror, rang from the cabinet. Up went the
axe again, and again the panels crashed and the frame bounded; four
times the blow fell; but the wood was tough and the fittings were of
excellent workmanship; and it was not until the fifth, that the lock
burst and the wreck of the door fell inwards on the carpet.

The besiegers, appalled by their own riot and the stillness that had
succeeded, stood back a little and peered in. There lay the cabinet
before their eyes in the quiet lamplight, a good fire glowing and
chattering on the hearth, the kettle singing its thin strain, a drawer
or two open, papers neatly set forth on the business table, and nearer
the fire, the things laid out for tea; the quietest room, you would
have said, and, but for the glazed presses full of chemicals, the most
commonplace that night in London.

Right in the middle there lay the body of a man sorely contorted and
still twitching. They drew near on tiptoe, turned it on his back and
beheld the face of Edward Hyde. He was dressed in clothes far too large
for him, clothes of the doctor’s bigness; the cords of his face still
moved with a semblance of life, but life was quite gone; and by the
crushed phial in the hand and the strong smell of kernels that hung
upon the air, Utterson knew that he was looking on the body of a
self-destroyer.

“We have come too late,” he said sternly, “whether to save or punish.
Hyde is gone to his account; and it only remains for us to find the
body of your master.”

The far greater proportion of the building was occupied by the theatre,
which filled almost the whole ground storey and was lighted from above,
and by the cabinet, which formed an upper storey at one end and looked
upon the court. A corridor joined the theatre to the door on the
by-street; and with this the cabinet communicated separately by a
second flight of stairs. There were besides a few dark closets and a
spacious cellar. All these they now thoroughly examined. Each closet
needed but a glance, for all were empty, and all, by the dust that fell
from their doors, had stood long unopened. The cellar, indeed, was
filled with crazy lumber, mostly dating from the times of the surgeon
who was Jekyll’s predecessor; but even as they opened the door they
were advertised of the uselessness of further search, by the fall of a
perfect mat of cobweb which had for years sealed up the entrance.
Nowhere was there any trace of Henry Jekyll, dead or alive.

Poole stamped on the flags of the corridor. “He must be buried here,”
he said, hearkening to the sound.

“Or he may have fled,” said Utterson, and he turned to examine the door
in the by-street. It was locked; and lying near by on the flags, they
found the key, already stained with rust.

“This does not look like use,” observed the lawyer.

“Use!” echoed Poole. “Do you not see, sir, it is broken? much as if a
man had stamped on it.”

“Ay,” continued Utterson, “and the fractures, too, are rusty.” The two
men looked at each other with a scare. “This is beyond me, Poole,” said
the lawyer. “Let us go back to the cabinet.”

They mounted the stair in silence, and still with an occasional
awestruck glance at the dead body, proceeded more thoroughly to examine
the contents of the cabinet. At one table, there were traces of
chemical work, various measured heaps of some white salt being laid on
glass saucers, as though for an experiment in which the unhappy man had
been prevented.

“That is the same drug that I was always bringing him,” said Poole; and
even as he spoke, the kettle with a startling noise boiled over.

This brought them to the fireside, where the easy-chair was drawn
cosily up, and the tea things stood ready to the sitter’s elbow, the
very sugar in the cup. There were several books on a shelf; one lay
beside the tea things open, and Utterson was amazed to find it a copy
of a pious work, for which Jekyll had several times expressed a great
esteem, annotated, in his own hand with startling blasphemies.

Next, in the course of their review of the chamber, the searchers came
to the cheval-glass, into whose depths they looked with an involuntary
horror. But it was so turned as to show them nothing but the rosy glow
playing on the roof, the fire sparkling in a hundred repetitions along
the glazed front of the presses, and their own pale and fearful
countenances stooping to look in.

“This glass has seen some strange things, sir,” whispered Poole.

“And surely none stranger than itself,” echoed the lawyer in the same
tones. “For what did Jekyll”—he caught himself up at the word with a
start, and then conquering the weakness—“what could Jekyll want with
it?” he said.

“You may say that!” said Poole.

Next they turned to the business table. On the desk, among the neat
array of papers, a large envelope was uppermost, and bore, in the
doctor’s hand, the name of Mr. Utterson. The lawyer unsealed it, and
several enclosures fell to the floor. The first was a will, drawn in
the same eccentric terms as the one which he had returned six months
before, to serve as a testament in case of death and as a deed of gift
in case of disappearance; but in place of the name of Edward Hyde, the
lawyer, with indescribable amazement read the name of Gabriel John
Utterson. He looked at Poole, and then back at the paper, and last of
all at the dead malefactor stretched upon the carpet.

“My head goes round,” he said. “He has been all these days in
possession; he had no cause to like me; he must have raged to see
himself displaced; and he has not destroyed this document.”

He caught up the next paper; it was a brief note in the doctor’s hand
and dated at the top. “O Poole!” the lawyer cried, “he was alive and
here this day. He cannot have been disposed of in so short a space; he
must be still alive, he must have fled! And then, why fled? and how?
and in that case, can we venture to declare this suicide? O, we must be
careful. I foresee that we may yet involve your master in some dire
catastrophe.”

“Why don’t you read it, sir?” asked Poole.

“Because I fear,” replied the lawyer solemnly. “God grant I have no
cause for it!” And with that he brought the paper to his eyes and read
as follows:


“My dear Utterson,—When this shall fall into your hands, I shall have
disappeared, under what circumstances I have not the penetration to
foresee, but my instinct and all the circumstances of my nameless
situation tell me that the end is sure and must be early. Go then, and
first read the narrative which Lanyon warned me he was to place in your
hands; and if you care to hear more, turn to the confession of

“Your unworthy and unhappy friend,

“HENRY JEKYLL.”


“There was a third enclosure?” asked Utterson.

“Here, sir,” said Poole, and gave into his hands a considerable packet
sealed in several places.

The lawyer put it in his pocket. “I would say nothing of this paper. If
your master has fled or is dead, we may at least save his credit. It is
now ten; I must go home and read these documents in quiet; but I shall
be back before midnight, when we shall send for the police.”

They went out, locking the door of the theatre behind them; and
Utterson, once more leaving the servants gathered about the fire in the
hall, trudged back to his office to read the two narratives in which
this mystery was now to be explained.



DR. LANYON’S NARRATIVE

On the ninth of January, now four days ago, I received by the evening
delivery a registered envelope, addressed in the hand of my colleague
and old school companion, Henry Jekyll. I was a good deal surprised by
this; for we were by no means in the habit of correspondence; I had
seen the man, dined with him, indeed, the night before; and I could
imagine nothing in our intercourse that should justify formality of
registration. The contents increased my wonder; for this is how the
letter ran:

“10_th December_, 18—.


“Dear Lanyon,—You are one of my oldest friends; and although we may
have differed at times on scientific questions, I cannot remember, at
least on my side, any break in our affection. There was never a day
when, if you had said to me, ‘Jekyll, my life, my honour, my reason,
depend upon you,’ I would not have sacrificed my left hand to help you.
Lanyon, my life, my honour, my reason, are all at your mercy; if you
fail me to-night, I am lost. You might suppose, after this preface,
that I am going to ask you for something dishonourable to grant. Judge
for yourself.

“I want you to postpone all other engagements for to-night—ay, even if
you were summoned to the bedside of an emperor; to take a cab, unless
your carriage should be actually at the door; and with this letter in
your hand for consultation, to drive straight to my house. Poole, my
butler, has his orders; you will find him waiting your arrival with a
locksmith. The door of my cabinet is then to be forced; and you are to
go in alone; to open the glazed press (letter E) on the left hand,
breaking the lock if it be shut; and to draw out, _with all its
contents as they stand_, the fourth drawer from the top or (which is
the same thing) the third from the bottom. In my extreme distress of
mind, I have a morbid fear of misdirecting you; but even if I am in
error, you may know the right drawer by its contents: some powders, a
phial and a paper book. This drawer I beg of you to carry back with you
to Cavendish Square exactly as it stands.

“That is the first part of the service: now for the second. You should
be back, if you set out at once on the receipt of this, long before
midnight; but I will leave you that amount of margin, not only in the
fear of one of those obstacles that can neither be prevented nor
foreseen, but because an hour when your servants are in bed is to be
preferred for what will then remain to do. At midnight, then, I have to
ask you to be alone in your consulting room, to admit with your own
hand into the house a man who will present himself in my name, and to
place in his hands the drawer that you will have brought with you from
my cabinet. Then you will have played your part and earned my gratitude
completely. Five minutes afterwards, if you insist upon an explanation,
you will have understood that these arrangements are of capital
importance; and that by the neglect of one of them, fantastic as they
must appear, you might have charged your conscience with my death or
the shipwreck of my reason.

“Confident as I am that you will not trifle with this appeal, my heart
sinks and my hand trembles at the bare thought of such a possibility.
Think of me at this hour, in a strange place, labouring under a
blackness of distress that no fancy can exaggerate, and yet well aware
that, if you will but punctually serve me, my troubles will roll away
like a story that is told. Serve me, my dear Lanyon and save

“Your friend,


“H.J.


“P.S.—I had already sealed this up when a fresh terror struck upon my
soul. It is possible that the post-office may fail me, and this letter
not come into your hands until to-morrow morning. In that case, dear
Lanyon, do my errand when it shall be most convenient for you in the
course of the day; and once more expect my messenger at midnight. It
may then already be too late; and if that night passes without event,
you will know that you have seen the last of Henry Jekyll.”


Upon the reading of this letter, I made sure my colleague was insane;
but till that was proved beyond the possibility of doubt, I felt bound
to do as he requested. The less I understood of this farrago, the less
I was in a position to judge of its importance; and an appeal so worded
could not be set aside without a grave responsibility. I rose
accordingly from table, got into a hansom, and drove straight to
Jekyll’s house. The butler was awaiting my arrival; he had received by
the same post as mine a registered letter of instruction, and had sent
at once for a locksmith and a carpenter. The tradesmen came while we
were yet speaking; and we moved in a body to old Dr. Denman’s surgical
theatre, from which (as you are doubtless aware) Jekyll’s private
cabinet is most conveniently entered. The door was very strong, the
lock excellent; the carpenter avowed he would have great trouble and
have to do much damage, if force were to be used; and the locksmith was
near despair. But this last was a handy fellow, and after two hour’s
work, the door stood open. The press marked E was unlocked; and I took
out the drawer, had it filled up with straw and tied in a sheet, and
returned with it to Cavendish Square.

Here I proceeded to examine its contents. The powders were neatly
enough made up, but not with the nicety of the dispensing chemist; so
that it was plain they were of Jekyll’s private manufacture; and when I
opened one of the wrappers I found what seemed to me a simple
crystalline salt of a white colour. The phial, to which I next turned
my attention, might have been about half full of a blood-red liquor,
which was highly pungent to the sense of smell and seemed to me to
contain phosphorus and some volatile ether. At the other ingredients I
could make no guess. The book was an ordinary version book and
contained little but a series of dates. These covered a period of many
years, but I observed that the entries ceased nearly a year ago and
quite abruptly. Here and there a brief remark was appended to a date,
usually no more than a single word: “double” occurring perhaps six
times in a total of several hundred entries; and once very early in the
list and followed by several marks of exclamation, “total failure!!!”
All this, though it whetted my curiosity, told me little that was
definite. Here were a phial of some salt, and the record of a series of
experiments that had led (like too many of Jekyll’s investigations) to
no end of practical usefulness. How could the presence of these
articles in my house affect either the honour, the sanity, or the life
of my flighty colleague? If his messenger could go to one place, why
could he not go to another? And even granting some impediment, why was
this gentleman to be received by me in secret? The more I reflected the
more convinced I grew that I was dealing with a case of cerebral
disease; and though I dismissed my servants to bed, I loaded an old
revolver, that I might be found in some posture of self-defence.

Twelve o’clock had scarce rung out over London, ere the knocker sounded
very gently on the door. I went myself at the summons, and found a
small man crouching against the pillars of the portico.

“Are you come from Dr. Jekyll?” I asked.

He told me “yes” by a constrained gesture; and when I had bidden him
enter, he did not obey me without a searching backward glance into the
darkness of the square. There was a policeman not far off, advancing
with his bull’s eye open; and at the sight, I thought my visitor
started and made greater haste.

These particulars struck me, I confess, disagreeably; and as I followed
him into the bright light of the consulting room, I kept my hand ready
on my weapon. Here, at last, I had a chance of clearly seeing him. I
had never set eyes on him before, so much was certain. He was small, as
I have said; I was struck besides with the shocking expression of his
face, with his remarkable combination of great muscular activity and
great apparent debility of constitution, and—last but not least—with
the odd, subjective disturbance caused by his neighbourhood. This bore
some resemblance to incipient rigour, and was accompanied by a marked
sinking of the pulse. At the time, I set it down to some idiosyncratic,
personal distaste, and merely wondered at the acuteness of the
symptoms; but I have since had reason to believe the cause to lie much
deeper in the nature of man, and to turn on some nobler hinge than the
principle of hatred.

This person (who had thus, from the first moment of his entrance,
struck in me what I can only describe as a disgustful curiosity) was
dressed in a fashion that would have made an ordinary person laughable;
his clothes, that is to say, although they were of rich and sober
fabric, were enormously too large for him in every measurement—the
trousers hanging on his legs and rolled up to keep them from the
ground, the waist of the coat below his haunches, and the collar
sprawling wide upon his shoulders. Strange to relate, this ludicrous
accoutrement was far from moving me to laughter. Rather, as there was
something abnormal and misbegotten in the very essence of the creature
that now faced me—something seizing, surprising and revolting—this
fresh disparity seemed but to fit in with and to reinforce it; so that
to my interest in the man’s nature and character, there was added a
curiosity as to his origin, his life, his fortune and status in the
world.

These observations, though they have taken so great a space to be set
down in, were yet the work of a few seconds. My visitor was, indeed, on
fire with sombre excitement.

“Have you got it?” he cried. “Have you got it?” And so lively was his
impatience that he even laid his hand upon my arm and sought to shake
me.

I put him back, conscious at his touch of a certain icy pang along my
blood. “Come, sir,” said I. “You forget that I have not yet the
pleasure of your acquaintance. Be seated, if you please.” And I showed
him an example, and sat down myself in my customary seat and with as
fair an imitation of my ordinary manner to a patient, as the lateness
of the hour, the nature of my preoccupations, and the horror I had of
my visitor, would suffer me to muster.

“I beg your pardon, Dr. Lanyon,” he replied civilly enough. “What you
say is very well founded; and my impatience has shown its heels to my
politeness. I come here at the instance of your colleague, Dr. Henry
Jekyll, on a piece of business of some moment; and I understood...” He
paused and put his hand to his throat, and I could see, in spite of his
collected manner, that he was wrestling against the approaches of the
hysteria—“I understood, a drawer...”

But here I took pity on my visitor’s suspense, and some perhaps on my
own growing curiosity.

“There it is, sir,” said I, pointing to the drawer, where it lay on the
floor behind a table and still covered with the sheet.

He sprang to it, and then paused, and laid his hand upon his heart; I
could hear his teeth grate with the convulsive action of his jaws; and
his face was so ghastly to see that I grew alarmed both for his life
and reason.

“Compose yourself,” said I.

He turned a dreadful smile to me, and as if with the decision of
despair, plucked away the sheet. At sight of the contents, he uttered
one loud sob of such immense relief that I sat petrified. And the next
moment, in a voice that was already fairly well under control, “Have
you a graduated glass?” he asked.

I rose from my place with something of an effort and gave him what he
asked.

He thanked me with a smiling nod, measured out a few minims of the red
tincture and added one of the powders. The mixture, which was at first
of a reddish hue, began, in proportion as the crystals melted, to
brighten in colour, to effervesce audibly, and to throw off small fumes
of vapour. Suddenly and at the same moment, the ebullition ceased and
the compound changed to a dark purple, which faded again more slowly to
a watery green. My visitor, who had watched these metamorphoses with a
keen eye, smiled, set down the glass upon the table, and then turned
and looked upon me with an air of scrutiny.

“And now,” said he, “to settle what remains. Will you be wise? will you
be guided? will you suffer me to take this glass in my hand and to go
forth from your house without further parley? or has the greed of
curiosity too much command of you? Think before you answer, for it
shall be done as you decide. As you decide, you shall be left as you
were before, and neither richer nor wiser, unless the sense of service
rendered to a man in mortal distress may be counted as a kind of riches
of the soul. Or, if you shall so prefer to choose, a new province of
knowledge and new avenues to fame and power shall be laid open to you,
here, in this room, upon the instant; and your sight shall be blasted
by a prodigy to stagger the unbelief of Satan.”

“Sir,” said I, affecting a coolness that I was far from truly
possessing, “you speak enigmas, and you will perhaps not wonder that I
hear you with no very strong impression of belief. But I have gone too
far in the way of inexplicable services to pause before I see the end.”

“It is well,” replied my visitor. “Lanyon, you remember your vows: what
follows is under the seal of our profession. And now, you who have so
long been bound to the most narrow and material views, you who have
denied the virtue of transcendental medicine, you who have derided your
superiors—behold!”

He put the glass to his lips and drank at one gulp. A cry followed; he
reeled, staggered, clutched at the table and held on, staring with
injected eyes, gasping with open mouth; and as I looked there came, I
thought, a change—he seemed to swell—his face became suddenly black and
the features seemed to melt and alter—and the next moment, I had sprung
to my feet and leaped back against the wall, my arms raised to shield
me from that prodigy, my mind submerged in terror.

“O God!” I screamed, and “O God!” again and again; for there before my
eyes—pale and shaken, and half fainting, and groping before him with
his hands, like a man restored from death—there stood Henry Jekyll!

What he told me in the next hour, I cannot bring my mind to set on
paper. I saw what I saw, I heard what I heard, and my soul sickened at
it; and yet now when that sight has faded from my eyes, I ask myself if
I believe it, and I cannot answer. My life is shaken to its roots;
sleep has left me; the deadliest terror sits by me at all hours of the
day and night; and I feel that my days are numbered, and that I must
die; and yet I shall die incredulous. As for the moral turpitude that
man unveiled to me, even with tears of penitence, I cannot, even in
memory, dwell on it without a start of horror. I will say but one
thing, Utterson, and that (if you can bring your mind to credit it)
will be more than enough. The creature who crept into my house that
night was, on Jekyll’s own confession, known by the name of Hyde and
hunted for in every corner of the land as the murderer of Carew.

HASTIE LANYON.




HENRY JEKYLL’S FULL STATEMENT OF THE CASE

I was born in the year 18— to a large fortune, endowed besides with
excellent parts, inclined by nature to industry, fond of the respect of
the wise and good among my fellowmen, and thus, as might have been
supposed, with every guarantee of an honourable and distinguished
future. And indeed the worst of my faults was a certain impatient
gaiety of disposition, such as has made the happiness of many, but such
as I found it hard to reconcile with my imperious desire to carry my
head high, and wear a more than commonly grave countenance before the
public. Hence it came about that I concealed my pleasures; and that
when I reached years of reflection, and began to look round me and take
stock of my progress and position in the world, I stood already
committed to a profound duplicity of life. Many a man would have even
blazoned such irregularities as I was guilty of; but from the high
views that I had set before me, I regarded and hid them with an almost
morbid sense of shame. It was thus rather the exacting nature of my
aspirations than any particular degradation in my faults, that made me
what I was, and, with even a deeper trench than in the majority of men,
severed in me those provinces of good and ill which divide and compound
man’s dual nature. In this case, I was driven to reflect deeply and
inveterately on that hard law of life, which lies at the root of
religion and is one of the most plentiful springs of distress. Though
so profound a double-dealer, I was in no sense a hypocrite; both sides
of me were in dead earnest; I was no more myself when I laid aside
restraint and plunged in shame, than when I laboured, in the eye of
day, at the furtherance of knowledge or the relief of sorrow and
suffering. And it chanced that the direction of my scientific studies,
which led wholly towards the mystic and the transcendental, reacted and
shed a strong light on this consciousness of the perennial war among my
members. With every day, and from both sides of my intelligence, the
moral and the intellectual, I thus drew steadily nearer to that truth,
by whose partial discovery I have been doomed to such a dreadful
shipwreck: that man is not truly one, but truly two. I say two, because
the state of my own knowledge does not pass beyond that point. Others
will follow, others will outstrip me on the same lines; and I hazard
the guess that man will be ultimately known for a mere polity of
multifarious, incongruous and independent denizens. I, for my part,
from the nature of my life, advanced infallibly in one direction and in
one direction only. It was on the moral side, and in my own person,
that I learned to recognise the thorough and primitive duality of man;
I saw that, of the two natures that contended in the field of my
consciousness, even if I could rightly be said to be either, it was
only because I was radically both; and from an early date, even before
the course of my scientific discoveries had begun to suggest the most
naked possibility of such a miracle, I had learned to dwell with
pleasure, as a beloved daydream, on the thought of the separation of
these elements. If each, I told myself, could be housed in separate
identities, life would be relieved of all that was unbearable; the
unjust might go his way, delivered from the aspirations and remorse of
his more upright twin; and the just could walk steadfastly and securely
on his upward path, doing the good things in which he found his
pleasure, and no longer exposed to disgrace and penitence by the hands
of this extraneous evil. It was the curse of mankind that these
incongruous faggots were thus bound together—that in the agonised womb
of consciousness, these polar twins should be continuously struggling.
How, then were they dissociated?

I was so far in my reflections when, as I have said, a side light began
to shine upon the subject from the laboratory table. I began to
perceive more deeply than it has ever yet been stated, the trembling
immateriality, the mistlike transience, of this seemingly so solid body
in which we walk attired. Certain agents I found to have the power to
shake and pluck back that fleshly vestment, even as a wind might toss
the curtains of a pavilion. For two good reasons, I will not enter
deeply into this scientific branch of my confession. First, because I
have been made to learn that the doom and burthen of our life is bound
for ever on man’s shoulders, and when the attempt is made to cast it
off, it but returns upon us with more unfamiliar and more awful
pressure. Second, because, as my narrative will make, alas! too
evident, my discoveries were incomplete. Enough then, that I not only
recognised my natural body from the mere aura and effulgence of certain
of the powers that made up my spirit, but managed to compound a drug by
which these powers should be dethroned from their supremacy, and a
second form and countenance substituted, none the less natural to me
because they were the expression, and bore the stamp, of lower elements
in my soul.

I hesitated long before I put this theory to the test of practice. I
knew well that I risked death; for any drug that so potently controlled
and shook the very fortress of identity, might, by the least scruple of
an overdose or at the least inopportunity in the moment of exhibition,
utterly blot out that immaterial tabernacle which I looked to it to
change. But the temptation of a discovery so singular and profound at
last overcame the suggestions of alarm. I had long since prepared my
tincture; I purchased at once, from a firm of wholesale chemists, a
large quantity of a particular salt which I knew, from my experiments,
to be the last ingredient required; and late one accursed night, I
compounded the elements, watched them boil and smoke together in the
glass, and when the ebullition had subsided, with a strong glow of
courage, drank off the potion.

The most racking pangs succeeded: a grinding in the bones, deadly
nausea, and a horror of the spirit that cannot be exceeded at the hour
of birth or death. Then these agonies began swiftly to subside, and I
came to myself as if out of a great sickness. There was something
strange in my sensations, something indescribably new and, from its
very novelty, incredibly sweet. I felt younger, lighter, happier in
body; within I was conscious of a heady recklessness, a current of
disordered sensual images running like a millrace in my fancy, a
solution of the bonds of obligation, an unknown but not an innocent
freedom of the soul. I knew myself, at the first breath of this new
life, to be more wicked, tenfold more wicked, sold a slave to my
original evil; and the thought, in that moment, braced and delighted me
like wine. I stretched out my hands, exulting in the freshness of these
sensations; and in the act, I was suddenly aware that I had lost in
stature.

There was no mirror, at that date, in my room; that which stands beside
me as I write, was brought there later on and for the very purpose of
these transformations. The night however, was far gone into the
morning—the morning, black as it was, was nearly ripe for the
conception of the day—the inmates of my house were locked in the most
rigorous hours of slumber; and I determined, flushed as I was with hope
and triumph, to venture in my new shape as far as to my bedroom. I
crossed the yard, wherein the constellations looked down upon me, I
could have thought, with wonder, the first creature of that sort that
their unsleeping vigilance had yet disclosed to them; I stole through
the corridors, a stranger in my own house; and coming to my room, I saw
for the first time the appearance of Edward Hyde.

I must here speak by theory alone, saying not that which I know, but
that which I suppose to be most probable. The evil side of my nature,
to which I had now transferred the stamping efficacy, was less robust
and less developed than the good which I had just deposed. Again, in
the course of my life, which had been, after all, nine tenths a life of
effort, virtue and control, it had been much less exercised and much
less exhausted. And hence, as I think, it came about that Edward Hyde
was so much smaller, slighter and younger than Henry Jekyll. Even as
good shone upon the countenance of the one, evil was written broadly
and plainly on the face of the other. Evil besides (which I must still
believe to be the lethal side of man) had left on that body an imprint
of deformity and decay. And yet when I looked upon that ugly idol in
the glass, I was conscious of no repugnance, rather of a leap of
welcome. This, too, was myself. It seemed natural and human. In my eyes
it bore a livelier image of the spirit, it seemed more express and
single, than the imperfect and divided countenance I had been hitherto
accustomed to call mine. And in so far I was doubtless right. I have
observed that when I wore the semblance of Edward Hyde, none could come
near to me at first without a visible misgiving of the flesh. This, as
I take it, was because all human beings, as we meet them, are
commingled out of good and evil: and Edward Hyde, alone in the ranks of
mankind, was pure evil.

I lingered but a moment at the mirror: the second and conclusive
experiment had yet to be attempted; it yet remained to be seen if I had
lost my identity beyond redemption and must flee before daylight from a
house that was no longer mine; and hurrying back to my cabinet, I once
more prepared and drank the cup, once more suffered the pangs of
dissolution, and came to myself once more with the character, the
stature and the face of Henry Jekyll.

That night I had come to the fatal cross-roads. Had I approached my
discovery in a more noble spirit, had I risked the experiment while
under the empire of generous or pious aspirations, all must have been
otherwise, and from these agonies of death and birth, I had come forth
an angel instead of a fiend. The drug had no discriminating action; it
was neither diabolical nor divine; it but shook the doors of the
prisonhouse of my disposition; and like the captives of Philippi, that
which stood within ran forth. At that time my virtue slumbered; my
evil, kept awake by ambition, was alert and swift to seize the
occasion; and the thing that was projected was Edward Hyde. Hence,
although I had now two characters as well as two appearances, one was
wholly evil, and the other was still the old Henry Jekyll, that
incongruous compound of whose reformation and improvement I had already
learned to despair. The movement was thus wholly toward the worse.

Even at that time, I had not conquered my aversion to the dryness of a
life of study. I would still be merrily disposed at times; and as my
pleasures were (to say the least) undignified, and I was not only well
known and highly considered, but growing towards the elderly man, this
incoherency of my life was daily growing more unwelcome. It was on this
side that my new power tempted me until I fell in slavery. I had but to
drink the cup, to doff at once the body of the noted professor, and to
assume, like a thick cloak, that of Edward Hyde. I smiled at the
notion; it seemed to me at the time to be humourous; and I made my
preparations with the most studious care. I took and furnished that
house in Soho, to which Hyde was tracked by the police; and engaged as
a housekeeper a creature whom I knew well to be silent and
unscrupulous. On the other side, I announced to my servants that a Mr.
Hyde (whom I described) was to have full liberty and power about my
house in the square; and to parry mishaps, I even called and made
myself a familiar object, in my second character. I next drew up that
will to which you so much objected; so that if anything befell me in
the person of Dr. Jekyll, I could enter on that of Edward Hyde without
pecuniary loss. And thus fortified, as I supposed, on every side, I
began to profit by the strange immunities of my position.

Men have before hired bravos to transact their crimes, while their own
person and reputation sat under shelter. I was the first that ever did
so for his pleasures. I was the first that could plod in the public eye
with a load of genial respectability, and in a moment, like a
schoolboy, strip off these lendings and spring headlong into the sea of
liberty. But for me, in my impenetrable mantle, the safety was
complete. Think of it—I did not even exist! Let me but escape into my
laboratory door, give me but a second or two to mix and swallow the
draught that I had always standing ready; and whatever he had done,
Edward Hyde would pass away like the stain of breath upon a mirror; and
there in his stead, quietly at home, trimming the midnight lamp in his
study, a man who could afford to laugh at suspicion, would be Henry
Jekyll.

The pleasures which I made haste to seek in my disguise were, as I have
said, undignified; I would scarce use a harder term. But in the hands
of Edward Hyde, they soon began to turn toward the monstrous. When I
would come back from these excursions, I was often plunged into a kind
of wonder at my vicarious depravity. This familiar that I called out of
my own soul, and sent forth alone to do his good pleasure, was a being
inherently malign and villainous; his every act and thought centered on
self; drinking pleasure with bestial avidity from any degree of torture
to another; relentless like a man of stone. Henry Jekyll stood at times
aghast before the acts of Edward Hyde; but the situation was apart from
ordinary laws, and insidiously relaxed the grasp of conscience. It was
Hyde, after all, and Hyde alone, that was guilty. Jekyll was no worse;
he woke again to his good qualities seemingly unimpaired; he would even
make haste, where it was possible, to undo the evil done by Hyde. And
thus his conscience slumbered.

Into the details of the infamy at which I thus connived (for even now I
can scarce grant that I committed it) I have no design of entering; I
mean but to point out the warnings and the successive steps with which
my chastisement approached. I met with one accident which, as it
brought on no consequence, I shall no more than mention. An act of
cruelty to a child aroused against me the anger of a passer-by, whom I
recognised the other day in the person of your kinsman; the doctor and
the child’s family joined him; there were moments when I feared for my
life; and at last, in order to pacify their too just resentment, Edward
Hyde had to bring them to the door, and pay them in a cheque drawn in
the name of Henry Jekyll. But this danger was easily eliminated from
the future, by opening an account at another bank in the name of Edward
Hyde himself; and when, by sloping my own hand backward, I had supplied
my double with a signature, I thought I sat beyond the reach of fate.

Some two months before the murder of Sir Danvers, I had been out for
one of my adventures, had returned at a late hour, and woke the next
day in bed with somewhat odd sensations. It was in vain I looked about
me; in vain I saw the decent furniture and tall proportions of my room
in the square; in vain that I recognised the pattern of the bed
curtains and the design of the mahogany frame; something still kept
insisting that I was not where I was, that I had not wakened where I
seemed to be, but in the little room in Soho where I was accustomed to
sleep in the body of Edward Hyde. I smiled to myself, and in my
psychological way, began lazily to inquire into the elements of this
illusion, occasionally, even as I did so, dropping back into a
comfortable morning doze. I was still so engaged when, in one of my
more wakeful moments, my eyes fell upon my hand. Now the hand of Henry
Jekyll (as you have often remarked) was professional in shape and size;
it was large, firm, white and comely. But the hand which I now saw,
clearly enough, in the yellow light of a mid-London morning, lying half
shut on the bedclothes, was lean, corded, knuckly, of a dusky pallor
and thickly shaded with a swart growth of hair. It was the hand of
Edward Hyde.

I must have stared upon it for near half a minute, sunk as I was in the
mere stupidity of wonder, before terror woke up in my breast as sudden
and startling as the crash of cymbals; and bounding from my bed I
rushed to the mirror. At the sight that met my eyes, my blood was
changed into something exquisitely thin and icy. Yes, I had gone to bed
Henry Jekyll, I had awakened Edward Hyde. How was this to be explained?
I asked myself; and then, with another bound of terror—how was it to be
remedied? It was well on in the morning; the servants were up; all my
drugs were in the cabinet—a long journey down two pair of stairs,
through the back passage, across the open court and through the
anatomical theatre, from where I was then standing horror-struck. It
might indeed be possible to cover my face; but of what use was that,
when I was unable to conceal the alteration in my stature? And then
with an overpowering sweetness of relief, it came back upon my mind
that the servants were already used to the coming and going of my
second self. I had soon dressed, as well as I was able, in clothes of
my own size: had soon passed through the house, where Bradshaw stared
and drew back at seeing Mr. Hyde at such an hour and in such a strange
array; and ten minutes later, Dr. Jekyll had returned to his own shape
and was sitting down, with a darkened brow, to make a feint of
breakfasting.

Small indeed was my appetite. This inexplicable incident, this reversal
of my previous experience, seemed, like the Babylonian finger on the
wall, to be spelling out the letters of my judgment; and I began to
reflect more seriously than ever before on the issues and possibilities
of my double existence. That part of me which I had the power of
projecting, had lately been much exercised and nourished; it had seemed
to me of late as though the body of Edward Hyde had grown in stature,
as though (when I wore that form) I were conscious of a more generous
tide of blood; and I began to spy a danger that, if this were much
prolonged, the balance of my nature might be permanently overthrown,
the power of voluntary change be forfeited, and the character of Edward
Hyde become irrevocably mine. The power of the drug had not been always
equally displayed. Once, very early in my career, it had totally failed
me; since then I had been obliged on more than one occasion to double,
and once, with infinite risk of death, to treble the amount; and these
rare uncertainties had cast hitherto the sole shadow on my contentment.
Now, however, and in the light of that morning’s accident, I was led to
remark that whereas, in the beginning, the difficulty had been to throw
off the body of Jekyll, it had of late gradually but decidedly
transferred itself to the other side. All things therefore seemed to
point to this; that I was slowly losing hold of my original and better
self, and becoming slowly incorporated with my second and worse.

Between these two, I now felt I had to choose. My two natures had
memory in common, but all other faculties were most unequally shared
between them. Jekyll (who was composite) now with the most sensitive
apprehensions, now with a greedy gusto, projected and shared in the
pleasures and adventures of Hyde; but Hyde was indifferent to Jekyll,
or but remembered him as the mountain bandit remembers the cavern in
which he conceals himself from pursuit. Jekyll had more than a father’s
interest; Hyde had more than a son’s indifference. To cast in my lot
with Jekyll, was to die to those appetites which I had long secretly
indulged and had of late begun to pamper. To cast it in with Hyde, was
to die to a thousand interests and aspirations, and to become, at a
blow and forever, despised and friendless. The bargain might appear
unequal; but there was still another consideration in the scales; for
while Jekyll would suffer smartingly in the fires of abstinence, Hyde
would be not even conscious of all that he had lost. Strange as my
circumstances were, the terms of this debate are as old and commonplace
as man; much the same inducements and alarms cast the die for any
tempted and trembling sinner; and it fell out with me, as it falls with
so vast a majority of my fellows, that I chose the better part and was
found wanting in the strength to keep to it.

Yes, I preferred the elderly and discontented doctor, surrounded by
friends and cherishing honest hopes; and bade a resolute farewell to
the liberty, the comparative youth, the light step, leaping impulses
and secret pleasures, that I had enjoyed in the disguise of Hyde. I
made this choice perhaps with some unconscious reservation, for I
neither gave up the house in Soho, nor destroyed the clothes of Edward
Hyde, which still lay ready in my cabinet. For two months, however, I
was true to my determination; for two months, I led a life of such
severity as I had never before attained to, and enjoyed the
compensations of an approving conscience. But time began at last to
obliterate the freshness of my alarm; the praises of conscience began
to grow into a thing of course; I began to be tortured with throes and
longings, as of Hyde struggling after freedom; and at last, in an hour
of moral weakness, I once again compounded and swallowed the
transforming draught.

I do not suppose that, when a drunkard reasons with himself upon his
vice, he is once out of five hundred times affected by the dangers that
he runs through his brutish, physical insensibility; neither had I,
long as I had considered my position, made enough allowance for the
complete moral insensibility and insensate readiness to evil, which
were the leading characters of Edward Hyde. Yet it was by these that I
was punished. My devil had been long caged, he came out roaring. I was
conscious, even when I took the draught, of a more unbridled, a more
furious propensity to ill. It must have been this, I suppose, that
stirred in my soul that tempest of impatience with which I listened to
the civilities of my unhappy victim; I declare, at least, before God,
no man morally sane could have been guilty of that crime upon so
pitiful a provocation; and that I struck in no more reasonable spirit
than that in which a sick child may break a plaything. But I had
voluntarily stripped myself of all those balancing instincts by which
even the worst of us continues to walk with some degree of steadiness
among temptations; and in my case, to be tempted, however slightly, was
to fall.

Instantly the spirit of hell awoke in me and raged. With a transport of
glee, I mauled the unresisting body, tasting delight from every blow;
and it was not till weariness had begun to succeed, that I was
suddenly, in the top fit of my delirium, struck through the heart by a
cold thrill of terror. A mist dispersed; I saw my life to be forfeit;
and fled from the scene of these excesses, at once glorying and
trembling, my lust of evil gratified and stimulated, my love of life
screwed to the topmost peg. I ran to the house in Soho, and (to make
assurance doubly sure) destroyed my papers; thence I set out through
the lamplit streets, in the same divided ecstasy of mind, gloating on
my crime, light-headedly devising others in the future, and yet still
hastening and still hearkening in my wake for the steps of the avenger.
Hyde had a song upon his lips as he compounded the draught, and as he
drank it, pledged the dead man. The pangs of transformation had not
done tearing him, before Henry Jekyll, with streaming tears of
gratitude and remorse, had fallen upon his knees and lifted his clasped
hands to God. The veil of self-indulgence was rent from head to foot. I
saw my life as a whole: I followed it up from the days of childhood,
when I had walked with my father’s hand, and through the self-denying
toils of my professional life, to arrive again and again, with the same
sense of unreality, at the damned horrors of the evening. I could have
screamed aloud; I sought with tears and prayers to smother down the
crowd of hideous images and sounds with which my memory swarmed against
me; and still, between the petitions, the ugly face of my iniquity
stared into my soul. As the acuteness of this remorse began to die
away, it was succeeded by a sense of joy. The problem of my conduct was
solved. Hyde was thenceforth impossible; whether I would or not, I was
now confined to the better part of my existence; and O, how I rejoiced
to think of it! with what willing humility I embraced anew the
restrictions of natural life! with what sincere renunciation I locked
the door by which I had so often gone and come, and ground the key
under my heel!

The next day, came the news that the murder had not been overlooked,
that the guilt of Hyde was patent to the world, and that the victim was
a man high in public estimation. It was not only a crime, it had been a
tragic folly. I think I was glad to know it; I think I was glad to have
my better impulses thus buttressed and guarded by the terrors of the
scaffold. Jekyll was now my city of refuge; let but Hyde peep out an
instant, and the hands of all men would be raised to take and slay him.

I resolved in my future conduct to redeem the past; and I can say with
honesty that my resolve was fruitful of some good. You know yourself
how earnestly, in the last months of the last year, I laboured to
relieve suffering; you know that much was done for others, and that the
days passed quietly, almost happily for myself. Nor can I truly say
that I wearied of this beneficent and innocent life; I think instead
that I daily enjoyed it more completely; but I was still cursed with my
duality of purpose; and as the first edge of my penitence wore off, the
lower side of me, so long indulged, so recently chained down, began to
growl for licence. Not that I dreamed of resuscitating Hyde; the bare
idea of that would startle me to frenzy: no, it was in my own person
that I was once more tempted to trifle with my conscience; and it was
as an ordinary secret sinner that I at last fell before the assaults of
temptation.

There comes an end to all things; the most capacious measure is filled
at last; and this brief condescension to my evil finally destroyed the
balance of my soul. And yet I was not alarmed; the fall seemed natural,
like a return to the old days before I had made my discovery. It was a
fine, clear, January day, wet under foot where the frost had melted,
but cloudless overhead; and the Regent’s Park was full of winter
chirrupings and sweet with spring odours. I sat in the sun on a bench;
the animal within me licking the chops of memory; the spiritual side a
little drowsed, promising subsequent penitence, but not yet moved to
begin. After all, I reflected, I was like my neighbours; and then I
smiled, comparing myself with other men, comparing my active good-will
with the lazy cruelty of their neglect. And at the very moment of that
vainglorious thought, a qualm came over me, a horrid nausea and the
most deadly shuddering. These passed away, and left me faint; and then
as in its turn faintness subsided, I began to be aware of a change in
the temper of my thoughts, a greater boldness, a contempt of danger, a
solution of the bonds of obligation. I looked down; my clothes hung
formlessly on my shrunken limbs; the hand that lay on my knee was
corded and hairy. I was once more Edward Hyde. A moment before I had
been safe of all men’s respect, wealthy, beloved—the cloth laying for
me in the dining-room at home; and now I was the common quarry of
mankind, hunted, houseless, a known murderer, thrall to the gallows.

My reason wavered, but it did not fail me utterly. I have more than
once observed that in my second character, my faculties seemed
sharpened to a point and my spirits more tensely elastic; thus it came
about that, where Jekyll perhaps might have succumbed, Hyde rose to the
importance of the moment. My drugs were in one of the presses of my
cabinet; how was I to reach them? That was the problem that (crushing
my temples in my hands) I set myself to solve. The laboratory door I
had closed. If I sought to enter by the house, my own servants would
consign me to the gallows. I saw I must employ another hand, and
thought of Lanyon. How was he to be reached? how persuaded? Supposing
that I escaped capture in the streets, how was I to make my way into
his presence? and how should I, an unknown and displeasing visitor,
prevail on the famous physician to rifle the study of his colleague,
Dr. Jekyll? Then I remembered that of my original character, one part
remained to me: I could write my own hand; and once I had conceived
that kindling spark, the way that I must follow became lighted up from
end to end.

Thereupon, I arranged my clothes as best I could, and summoning a
passing hansom, drove to an hotel in Portland Street, the name of which
I chanced to remember. At my appearance (which was indeed comical
enough, however tragic a fate these garments covered) the driver could
not conceal his mirth. I gnashed my teeth upon him with a gust of
devilish fury; and the smile withered from his face—happily for him—yet
more happily for myself, for in another instant I had certainly dragged
him from his perch. At the inn, as I entered, I looked about me with so
black a countenance as made the attendants tremble; not a look did they
exchange in my presence; but obsequiously took my orders, led me to a
private room, and brought me wherewithal to write. Hyde in danger of
his life was a creature new to me; shaken with inordinate anger, strung
to the pitch of murder, lusting to inflict pain. Yet the creature was
astute; mastered his fury with a great effort of the will; composed his
two important letters, one to Lanyon and one to Poole; and that he
might receive actual evidence of their being posted, sent them out with
directions that they should be registered. Thenceforward, he sat all
day over the fire in the private room, gnawing his nails; there he
dined, sitting alone with his fears, the waiter visibly quailing before
his eye; and thence, when the night was fully come, he set forth in the
corner of a closed cab, and was driven to and fro about the streets of
the city. He, I say—I cannot say, I. That child of Hell had nothing
human; nothing lived in him but fear and hatred. And when at last,
thinking the driver had begun to grow suspicious, he discharged the cab
and ventured on foot, attired in his misfitting clothes, an object
marked out for observation, into the midst of the nocturnal passengers,
these two base passions raged within him like a tempest. He walked
fast, hunted by his fears, chattering to himself, skulking through the
less frequented thoroughfares, counting the minutes that still divided
him from midnight. Once a woman spoke to him, offering, I think, a box
of lights. He smote her in the face, and she fled.

When I came to myself at Lanyon’s, the horror of my old friend perhaps
affected me somewhat: I do not know; it was at least but a drop in the
sea to the abhorrence with which I looked back upon these hours. A
change had come over me. It was no longer the fear of the gallows, it
was the horror of being Hyde that racked me. I received Lanyon’s
condemnation partly in a dream; it was partly in a dream that I came
home to my own house and got into bed. I slept after the prostration of
the day, with a stringent and profound slumber which not even the
nightmares that wrung me could avail to break. I awoke in the morning
shaken, weakened, but refreshed. I still hated and feared the thought
of the brute that slept within me, and I had not of course forgotten
the appalling dangers of the day before; but I was once more at home,
in my own house and close to my drugs; and gratitude for my escape
shone so strong in my soul that it almost rivalled the brightness of
hope.

I was stepping leisurely across the court after breakfast, drinking the
chill of the air with pleasure, when I was seized again with those
indescribable sensations that heralded the change; and I had but the
time to gain the shelter of my cabinet, before I was once again raging
and freezing with the passions of Hyde. It took on this occasion a
double dose to recall me to myself; and alas! six hours after, as I sat
looking sadly in the fire, the pangs returned, and the drug had to be
re-administered. In short, from that day forth it seemed only by a
great effort as of gymnastics, and only under the immediate stimulation
of the drug, that I was able to wear the countenance of Jekyll. At all
hours of the day and night, I would be taken with the premonitory
shudder; above all, if I slept, or even dozed for a moment in my chair,
it was always as Hyde that I awakened. Under the strain of this
continually impending doom and by the sleeplessness to which I now
condemned myself, ay, even beyond what I had thought possible to man, I
became, in my own person, a creature eaten up and emptied by fever,
languidly weak both in body and mind, and solely occupied by one
thought: the horror of my other self. But when I slept, or when the
virtue of the medicine wore off, I would leap almost without transition
(for the pangs of transformation grew daily less marked) into the
possession of a fancy brimming with images of terror, a soul boiling
with causeless hatreds, and a body that seemed not strong enough to
contain the raging energies of life. The powers of Hyde seemed to have
grown with the sickliness of Jekyll. And certainly the hate that now
divided them was equal on each side. With Jekyll, it was a thing of
vital instinct. He had now seen the full deformity of that creature
that shared with him some of the phenomena of consciousness, and was
co-heir with him to death: and beyond these links of community, which
in themselves made the most poignant part of his distress, he thought
of Hyde, for all his energy of life, as of something not only hellish
but inorganic. This was the shocking thing; that the slime of the pit
seemed to utter cries and voices; that the amorphous dust gesticulated
and sinned; that what was dead, and had no shape, should usurp the
offices of life. And this again, that that insurgent horror was knit to
him closer than a wife, closer than an eye; lay caged in his flesh,
where he heard it mutter and felt it struggle to be born; and at every
hour of weakness, and in the confidence of slumber, prevailed against
him, and deposed him out of life. The hatred of Hyde for Jekyll was of
a different order. His terror of the gallows drove him continually to
commit temporary suicide, and return to his subordinate station of a
part instead of a person; but he loathed the necessity, he loathed the
despondency into which Jekyll was now fallen, and he resented the
dislike with which he was himself regarded. Hence the ape-like tricks
that he would play me, scrawling in my own hand blasphemies on the
pages of my books, burning the letters and destroying the portrait of
my father; and indeed, had it not been for his fear of death, he would
long ago have ruined himself in order to involve me in the ruin. But
his love of life is wonderful; I go further: I, who sicken and freeze at
the mere thought of him, when I recall the abjection and passion of
this attachment, and when I know how he fears my power to cut him off
by suicide, I find it in my heart to pity him.

It is useless, and the time awfully fails me, to prolong this
description; no one has ever suffered such torments, let that suffice;
and yet even to these, habit brought—no, not alleviation—but a certain
callousness of soul, a certain acquiescence of despair; and my
punishment might have gone on for years, but for the last calamity
which has now fallen, and which has finally severed me from my own face
and nature. My provision of the salt, which had never been renewed
since the date of the first experiment, began to run low. I sent out
for a fresh supply and mixed the draught; the ebullition followed, and
the first change of colour, not the second; I drank it and it was
without efficiency. You will learn from Poole how I have had London
ransacked; it was in vain; and I am now persuaded that my first supply
was impure, and that it was that unknown impurity which lent efficacy
to the draught.

About a week has passed, and I am now finishing this statement under
the influence of the last of the old powders. This, then, is the last
time, short of a miracle, that Henry Jekyll can think his own thoughts
or see his own face (now how sadly altered!) in the glass. Nor must I
delay too long to bring my writing to an end; for if my narrative has
hitherto escaped destruction, it has been by a combination of great
prudence and great good luck. Should the throes of change take me in
the act of writing it, Hyde will tear it in pieces; but if some time
shall have elapsed after I have laid it by, his wonderful selfishness
and circumscription to the moment will probably save it once again from
the action of his ape-like spite. And indeed the doom that is closing
on us both has already changed and crushed him. Half an hour from now,
when I shall again and forever reindue that hated personality, I know
how I shall sit shuddering and weeping in my chair, or continue, with
the most strained and fearstruck ecstasy of listening, to pace up and
down this room (my last earthly refuge) and give ear to every sound of
menace. Will Hyde die upon the scaffold? or will he find courage to
release himself at the last moment? God knows; I am careless; this is
my true hour of death, and what is to follow concerns another than
myself. Here then, as I lay down the pen and proceed to seal up my
confession, I bring the life of that unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end.




