A GUIDE TO THE GOTHIC - LibreTexts

A GUIDE TO THE GOTHIC

Jeanette A Laredo Tarrant County College (Trinity River)

A Guide to the Gothic (Laredo)

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TABLE OF CONTENTSA Guide to the Gothic is an openly licensed, online textbook that presents a comprehensive examination of the genre. In addition tocritical essays exploring major periods, tropes and trends of the Gothic tradition, A Guide to the Gothic includes selections from morethan 200 years of Gothic works that are in the public domain. Intended for instructors of Gothic literature seeking a collaborativeresource to educate and inspire the next generation of Gothic scholars.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

INTRODUCTION

1: GOTHIC LITERATURE IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY1.1: GOTHIC LITERATURE IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY1.2: EDMUND BURKE, FROM ON THE SUBLIME AND BEAUTIFUL (1757)1.3: HORACE WALPOLE, EXCERPT FROM THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO (1764)1.4: CLARA REEVE, EXCERPT FROM THE OLD ENGLISH BARON (1778)1.5: WILLIAM BECKFORD, EXCERPT FROM VATHEK (1786)1.6: MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT, FROM A VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN- WITH STRICTURES ONPOLITICAL AND MORAL SUBJECTS (1792)1.7: CALEB WILLIAMS; OR, THINGS AS THEY ARE (1794)1.8: ANNE RADCLIFFE, EXCERPT FROM THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO (1794)1.9: MATTHEW LEWIS, EXCERPT FROM THE MONK (1796)1.10: SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, REVIEW OF THE MONK1.11: MARY SHELLEY, EXCERPT FROM FRANKENSTEIN (1818)1.12: RESOURCES FOR INSTRUCTORS

2: VICTORIAN GOTHIC2.1: VICTORIAN GOTHIC2.2: JANE AUSTEN, EXCERPT FROM NORTHANGER ABBEY (1817)2.3: CHARLOTTE BRONTË, EXCERPT FROM JANE EYRE (1847)2.4: ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE (1886)2.5: OSCAR WILDE, EXCERPT FROM THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY (1890)2.6: BRAM STOKER, EXCERPT FROM DRACULA (1897)2.7: RESOURCES FOR INSTRUCTORS

3: NO MAN’S LAND, ELDER GODS AND MONSTERS- THE MODERN GOTHICFROM 1900-1932.

3.1: NO MAN’S LAND, ELDER GODS AND MONSTERS- THE MODERN GOTHIC FROM 1900-1932.3.2: EDITH WHARTON, “AFTERWARD” (1910)3.3: SIGMUND FREUD, EXCERPT FROM THE UNCANNY (1919)3.4: H.P. LOVECRAFT, “THE PICTURE IN THE HOUSE” (1920)3.5: VIRGINIA WOOLF, “A HAUNTED HOUSE” (1921)3.6: RESOURCES FOR INSTRUCTORS

BACK MATTERINDEXGLOSSARY

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About the AuthorsJack Clark specializes in nineteenth-century literature and history which is where his interest in the Gothic originated.Jack has always been passionate about popular culture, fantasy and science fiction which has led him to do his doctoratestudying the resurgence of nineteenth-century archetypes in the twenty-first century, at the Auckland University ofTechnology, New Zealand.

Sarah Gray is Assistant Professor of English at Missouri Valley College in Marshall, Missouri and co-editor of theUniversity Press of Mississippi collection of essays on The Woman Fantastic in Contemporary American Media Culture.Her research focuses on Gothic and dark reform literature of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and on expanding thebody of work dedicated to Rebecca Harding Davis and her world.

Katharine Hawkins received her doctoral thesis from Macquarie University in 2019 and is now continuing her researchinto the intersecting fields of the Gothic, feminism and Monster theory. Her recent writing focuses on the relationshipbetween the Monstrous Feminine and rage, the resurgence of the archetype of the Witch within contemporary feminism, aswell as gothic tropes within Indie-video games and film. Katharine has been teaching sociology, criminology and genderstudies since 2015, and currently lives in Sydney with two black cats and the spectre of her student debt.

Jeanette A. Laredo is a scholar of all things awful including 18th-century British Gothic literature. Her work has appearedin the journal Aeternum, the collection Gothic Afterlives, and she has a forthcoming chapter in The Streaming of HillHouse: Essays on the Haunting Netflix Adaptation. She enjoys being surrounded by her chihuahuas and listening topodcasts about murder while sipping a hot mug of tea.

The following Tarrant County College Connect students agreed to have parts of their research essays for British LiteratureII shared in this volume:

Joe GonzalesDanielle HillPaige Murphy

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AcknowledgementsThis textbook would not have been possible without the kind assistance of Kevin Hawkins and John Martin of theScholarly Communications department at my alma mater the Univerisity of North Texas.

I would also like to thank the scholars who shared the depth of their gothic knowledge with the readers of this textbook, aswell as the students from my online British literature class at Tarrant County College Connect who agreed to have theirwork featured in this volume.

I am thankful to Allegra Davis, my department chair at TCC Connect who encouraged me to innovate in my onlineclassroom which led to the development of this textbook.

Finally, I am grateful to Pressbooks for offering this platform for publishing open textbooks like mine.

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IntroductionJeanette A. Laredo

I remember telling my father I was getting my Ph.D. in Gothic literature and he replied, confused, “Gothic like Goths? Thepeople who wear all black?” While technically true, this definitely wasn’t my area of study and I as tried to explain Irealized how difficult it can be to define what is gothic. Historically, the Goths were a group of Germanic tribes thattoppled the Roman Empire and plunged Europe into the Dark Ages. The term “Gothic” was first used to describe thearchitecture that developed during this period which was considered barbaric and garish by Renaissance artists. Borrowingthe term’s association with darkness and superstition, Horace Walpole used to describe his novel The Castle of Otranto: AGothic Story (1765). In the 1970s, bands like Joy Division and The Cure adopted the genre’s macabre elements to createGothic rock, a genre of atmospheric post-punk rock with a thriving Goth subculture. At each stage in its evolution, theGothic has exceeded existing boundaries to influence literature, film, popular culture and fashion to the point that a pair ofblack Crocs festooned in metal spikes and chains can now be described as “gothic”.

A man and woman dressed in black wearing makeup and Victorian period attire at a Gothicfestival in Germany.

These are not the goths you’re looking for: A man and woman dressed in black wearing makeup and Victorian periodattire at a Gothic festival in Germany (Sigurdas).

Part of the reason the Gothic can be difficult to define is that the genre is an “uneasy conflation of genres, styles andconflicted cultural concerns” (Hogle 2). Walpole intended his novel to be a combination of “two kinds of romance, theancient and the modern” (Walpole 65). Predictably Otranto is torn between the hyper-rationality of the Enlightenment thatdemanded: “strict adherence to common life” and the passionate feelings of Romanticism where “all was imagination andimprobability” (Walpole 65). Trying to wed the best of both genres of writing, Walpole creates a marriage of high-browaesthetics and low-brow supernatural content that defies easy categorization. As a result, the genre “oscillates” sometimesviolently “between the earthly laws of conventional reality and the possibilities of the supernatural”(Hogle 4).

In light of the genre’s ambivalence, it might be more useful to regard the Gothic as both a genre, with a canon of originalworks, and as a mode with a set of conventions has permeated other genres like fantasy and science fiction. The Gothicliterary genre flourished in Britain between 1765 and 1838, emerging as a dark strain of eighteenth-century Romanticism.

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Gothic plots featured supernatural occurrences, eerie atmospheres, and decrepit architectural spaces that represented theturmoil of their tortured protagonists. It is these conventions that have allowed the Gothic to survive beyond the Gothicnovel’s heyday. Modern literature, film, and television rework the familiar staples of the Gothic genre. They can be set inan antiquated space—the abandoned castle, derelict labyrinth, haunted house, ruined abbey or urban underworld—whichcontains a threat in the form of monsters, ghosts, or specters which represent the return of repressed conflict that haunts thestory’s protagonists.

Working off these definitions of the Gothic, I have organized this book to cover the historical periods that saw the rise andfall of the Gothic genre. The historical periods include the Eighteenth Century Gothic which covers early Gothic novelslike Walpole’s Otranto and William Beckford’s Vathek as well as high Gothic works like Matthew Lewis’ The Monk.Victorian Gothic examines works that defined the genre during Queen Victoria’s reign like Robert Louis Stevenson’s TheStrange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray. Modern Gothic explores thegenre’s evolution through the end of World War II.

Future editions of this textbook will include sections on:

Pre-gothicFemale GothicGothic RomanticsGothic TelevisionGothic MusicAmerican GothicIrish GothicVampiresHaunted HousesGhosts

This guide is by no means comprehensive and my hope is that this project will continue to grow and become a living,collaborative resource for instructors of the Gothic and inspire the next generation of Gothic scholars.

Works Cited

Hogle, Jerrold E. “Introduction.” The Cambridge Companion to Gothic Fiction, edited by Jerrold E. Hogle, CambridgeUniversity Press, 2002, pp. 1–20.

Walpole, Horace. The Castle of Otranto: A Gothic Story; and, The Mysterious Mother : A Tragedy. Broadview Press, 2003.

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CHAPTER OVERVIEW1: GOTHIC LITERATURE IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

1.1: GOTHIC LITERATURE IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY1.2: EDMUND BURKE, FROM ON THE SUBLIME AND BEAUTIFUL (1757)1.3: HORACE WALPOLE, EXCERPT FROM THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO (1764)1.4: CLARA REEVE, EXCERPT FROM THE OLD ENGLISH BARON (1778)1.5: WILLIAM BECKFORD, EXCERPT FROM VATHEK (1786)1.6: MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT, FROM A VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN- WITH STRICTURES ONPOLITICAL AND MORAL SUBJECTS (1792)1.7: CALEB WILLIAMS; OR, THINGS AS THEY ARE (1794)1.8: ANNE RADCLIFFE, EXCERPT FROM THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO (1794)1.9: MATTHEW LEWIS, EXCERPT FROM THE MONK (1796)1.10: SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, REVIEW OF THE MONK1.11: MARY SHELLEY, EXCERPT FROM FRANKENSTEIN (1818)1.12: RESOURCES FOR INSTRUCTORS

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1.1: Gothic Literature in the Eighteenth Century

Gothic Literature in the Eighteenth Century

Sarah Gray

Gothic Roots and Conventions

In the opening pages of Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto (1764), Manfred, whom readers will come to recognize asa definitive Gothic villain, sends a servant to fetch his son, Prince Conrad, who is to marry the Lady Isabella; however, theservant discovers Conrad crushed to death beneath an impossibly large, black-plumed helmet. Manfred, having only thisone heir and a wife incapable of bearing additional children, immediately sets upon Isabella with the aim of taking her ashis own wife. In the words of Robert Spector, the ensuing events, “provided all the machinery of the [Gothic] genre; itssetting, theme, and subversive subject matter remained the stock material of the Gothic whatever changes it underwent”(9). Within the first chapter, readers encounter a prophecy, the supernatural, a beautiful virgin, a dutiful, abandoned wife, apersecuted maiden, ridiculous servants, a young, handsome peasant, and a ghost, all set within the labyrinthine corridors ofthe eponymous castle. Carol Margaret Davison builds on Spector’s theory, pointing out how “as the vast majority ofGothic works illustrate, the component parts of this untidy and undying monster have been variously, regularly andsuccessfully reconfigured to promote vastly different political and aesthetic ends and to speak to a broad cross-section ofaudiences and eras” (57). For the next several decades, authors as varied as Ann Radcliffe, Sir Walter Scott, and JaneAusten would utilize various aspects of the genre to different ends, each manipulating Gothic’s stock elements to fit his orher unique aim.

The crumbling walls of Kenilworth Castle against the backdrop of a stormy sky filled with birds in flight evokes thegloomy aesthetic of early Gothic fiction (Tillibean).

Gothic literature arose at the end of the eighteenth century during a time of social, political, and economic unrest. Thus, itwas and continues to be described as a reactionary genre devoted to returning repressed societal fears to our attention sowe might expel them. The period typically associated with European Gothic fiction begins with Horace Walpole’s The

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Castle of Otranto published in 1764 and ends with Charles Maturin’s Melmoth the Wanderer published in 1820. Thoughthis time span is still used to describe the rise and “fall” of Gothic literature, the genre experienced in the 1790s a period ofsuch vogue that it is now referred to as “the effulgence of Gothic” after Robert Miles’ study of the same name. It wasduring this period that the most well-known Gothic authors, including Ann Radcliffe (discussed in “Female Gothic”) andMatthew Gregory Lewis, published most of their fiction and inspired a deluge of imitations, including William Beckford’sVathek, which became known to Gothic scholars as “The Radcliffe School” of terror or the “Lewisite” horror story.

Though Gothic fiction is most easily recognized via the formulaic plot devices and stock characters briefly mentionedabove, one of its most important and often overlooked characteristics is its reliance on anachronisms to highlight the clashbetween “modernity” and “antiquity.” Chris Baldick and Robert Mighall explain that the purpose of anachronism in Gothicfiction is to allow the “birth of modernity” through the anachronism’s defeat and removal (278). The earliest Gothicnarratives established a formula that remained largely unchanged both in England and America throughout what AmericanGothic scholar Donald A. Ringe refers to as the genre’s “major phase,” which roughly coincided with Miles’ “effulgence”of Gothic in England (176). Indeed, the formula became so pervasive that Eve Sedgwick produced a book-length studydedicated to examining The Coherence of Gothic Conventions. In this cornerstone critical text, Sedgwick identifies manyof Gothic literature’s important features:

“An oppressive ruin, a wild landscape, a Catholic or feudal society. You know about the trembling sensibility of theheroine and the impetuosity of her lover. You know about the tyrannical older man with the piercing glance who is goingto imprison and try to rape or murder them” (9).

Having established our knowledge of these key points, Sedgwick identifies what Gothic scholars would eventually refer toas the “laundry list” of stock elements, at least a handful of which readers are likely to encounter in any Gothic tale:

These include the priesthood and monastic institutions; sleeplike and deathlike states; subterranean spaces and live burial;doubles; the discovery of obscured family ties; affinities between narrative and pictorial art; possibilities of incest;unnatural echoes or silences, unintelligible writings, and the unspeakable; garrulous retainers; the poisonous effects of guiltand shame; nocturnal landscapes and dreams; apparitions from the past; Faust- and Wandering Jew-like figures; civilinsurrections and fires; the charnel house and the madhouse. (9-10)

Several of the items in Sedgwick’s list have already been identified just in the first chapter of Walpole’s Otranto, and manyappear in Lewis’ and Beckford’s most well-known works excerpted in this textbook.

These stock elements of the Gothic combine to create a specific effect on readers. The ruined abbeys and mountainouslandscapes of Ann Radcliffe’s novels, for example, exist specifically, according to S.L. Varnado, to create moments whenthe reader “becomes aware of an objective spiritual presence,” through “feelings of awe, mystery, and fascination” (15).This feeling, which Varnado, using Kant’s terms, calls “the numinous,” can oscillate between positive and negativeaspects: awe and fear, fascination and repulsion, terror and horror. Jerrold Hogle describes the oscillation in Gothic fictionbetween terror and horror, stating that “the first of these holds characters and readers mostly in anxious suspense . . . whilethe latter confronts the principal characters with the gross violence of physical or psychological dissolution” (3). EdmundBurke’s theories of sublimity and beauty supply basic categories that critics have employed to analyze Gothic writers’moral effects. These categories appear in discussions about the ability of terror or horror to educate readers morally interms of much-contested claims about the moral effects of pleasurable and painful experience. Burke defines beauty as“that quality or those qualities in bodies by which they cause love, or some passion similar to it,” associating it with thatwhich inspires love (83 and 103). He defines sublimity, on the other hand, as “whatever is fitted in any sort to excite theideas of pain, and danger,” and claims that “it is productive of the strongest emotion which the mind is capable of feeling.”(36 and 103). Through sensations of pain and pleasure associated with experiencing the beautiful and the sublime in artand life, individuals exercise and develop their mental and spiritual capacities. Beauty, then, is associated with thepleasurable, the social, domestic, and feminine, while the sublime, with power, masculinity, danger, fear, and even delightif the danger does not threaten destruction. Thus, Burke’s ideas regarding masculine sublimity and feminine beautyunderlie in part the “gendering” of the Gothic canon that occurred in twentieth-century literary criticism discussed in moredepth in the next section.

Because of its presentation of “deteriorating castles, abbeys, and manor houses in foreign, usually Roman Catholic,countries” as sublime and beautiful, conservative elements of Protestant England saw Gothic fiction not only as toospectacular in its portrayal of disorder and decadence, but also too similar to Catholicism in its portrayal of superstitious

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and supernatural elements (Davison 93). On one hand, conservative elements denounced its involvement in a“promiscuous spread of knowledge” that would undermine social and individual safety and security by destabilizingauthority and received traditions (Miles 16). The emotional content and effects of Gothic fiction and the sensational natureof its themes caused many, especially those in power, to deem the Gothic, and the arts in general, to be detrimental tosociety’s moral growth (Kilgour 33). On the other hand, progressive elements recognized its capacity for mountingpolitical and cultural critiques precisely by representing the Catholic Church and divine-rights monarchy as source andsymbol of all that was bad in English history.

Political and Religious ContextsIn Georgian England, the period that gave birth to Gothic literature was also the era that witnessed some of the mosthorrific atrocities and fantastic accomplishments in the country’s history. These events resulted in large part from theagitations arising from demands for increased individual liberty and autonomy. The American Revolution from 1765-83,the anti-Catholic Gordon Riots of 1780, the Regency Crisis of 1788, the storming of the Bastille in 1789, the FrenchRevolution from 1789-99, and the Reign of Terror from 1793-94, and a rapidly advancing industrial and capitalisteconomy supplied crises with which the people of England dealt daily along with cultural upheavals that resulted in thecategorical instability that Michael McKeon and, more recently, Ian Haywood, describe as characteristic of thepreoccupations that informed eighteenth-century fiction (382-399, 139).

The period surrounding the last Jacobite rebellion in 1745, and with it the end of the threat of the re-emergence of anEnglish Catholic monarchy, witnessed a surge in anti-Catholic sentiment which persisted in various forms. This sentimentreflected sincere identification with England’s Protestant past as well as Puritan values that ignited the Reformation andlater spread to America. The widespread feeling involved distrust, among many other things, of theatricality, or anysemblance of what many Protestants viewed as the Catholic Church’s idolatry of images and relics. Such fears also arosepartly out of aristocratic fears that a return of Roman power would herald the loss of those establishments (abbeys andcastles) which many Protestant English families had called their homes since Henry VIII’s disestablishment, as well asmore widespread fears of a return to the autocratic forms of divine rights monarchy (Miles 16-17). Anti-Catholic sentimentrevived and strengthened during the years of the revolutionary foreign wars, culminating, along with fears of invasion, in apervasive conservative backlash to the events of the French Revolution. The emergence of Gothic fiction during this era isoften seen as an expression of the massive dislocation and threats to security that characterized political and culturalexperience during this time in the form of coded critiques of power and domination at a time when direct political critiquewas punished as treason.

The atmosphere in the American colonies was no less volatile as the First Continental Congress began calling for theliberation of America from England. Gothic novels and dramas from England appealed to American audiences becausethey provided sensationalist entertainment but also because they narrated stories of vulnerability and conflict with whichthe young nation could identify. Haywood notes that for immigrants and citizens, America was synonymous with “freedomand democracy which were still unobtainable in Britain” (139). However, noting the conflicts inherent in the youngnation’s emergence, he also points out that American citizens “found it difficult to reconcile the image of America thepristine nation . . . with the violence of its history, the horrors of war . . . the continuing existence of chattel slavery . . . andthe perilous fate of its indigenous peoples” (139-40). Instability and insecurity prevailed on both sides of the Atlantic ascitizens of England and America experienced conditions of uncertainty and confusion that in themselves could only bedescribed as Gothic.

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This illustration of a young girl being threatened by a skeletal monk recalls the Gothic’s preoccupation with sinisterreligious figures and superstition.

Gothic fiction and drama, then, arose within the context of profound cultural turmoil. Critics have argued a number ofangles from which the Gothic may be considered, citing the influence of a steadily rising middle class in England andAmerica as well as a need for relatively safe forms of transgression as a method of questioning laws and morality that wereseen by many as oppressive and an outcome of the conservative backlash that attended the revolutions and other lessviolent but nonetheless turbulent changes. As Maggie Kilgour notes, “the gothic is part of the reaction against the political,social, scientific, industrial, epistemological revolutions of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries which enabled the riseof the middle class” (10-11). However, Gothic fiction did more than just react to these revolutions, it also projected idealforms of citizenship and social relations that would result in a stable society that fostered well-being. Paula Backscheiderstates that “to become mass art, literature must appeal enough to become popular; to do this, it must speak to the hopes andfears of its audience at a particular moment in their history even as it does what popular art always does: entertain” (166).The Gothic did precisely that, critiquing the forces that destabilized society while presenting characters who could morallyuplift the world. Though novels and drama enjoyed success in the decades preceding the eighteenth century, a single genrehad never before garnered so much attention in itself. From 1760 to the early nineteenth century, the Gothic novel anddrama enjoyed such success that Gothic can be considered, as Backscheider does, the Western world’s first popular culturephenomenon (166).

Essential to the Gothic’s ability to obtain and sustain its audience’s attention is its involvement in defining and arguing theboundaries between morality and transgression, and conformity and subversion regarding cultural categories andindividual identities. Fred Botting argues that “from the eighteenth century onwards, Gothic texts have been involved inconstructing and contesting distinctions between civilization and barbarism, reason and desire, self and other” (20). One ofthe ways that the Gothic could safely and effectively comment on contested aspects of English society, such as politics,education, religion, gender, and class in this era of instability was to position its critiques in terms of historically andgeographically distant events and locations. Openly suggesting King George III was an insane autocrat would have beentreason; however, commenting on the misdeeds of a foreign government or ruler from Italy or France two centuries earlierwas perfectly acceptable. The Gothic, with its seemingly stock characters and recycled scenes, is actually situated and

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dynamic, reflecting specific fears and uncertainties that characterize the cultural milieu from which the work arises.Davison asserts:

“Eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century literary history is only truly rendered comprehensible when the Gothic, a middleclass and often feminized form, is positioned in its legitimate place, examined as an aesthetic development in its own right,and recognized for its exceptional and enduring contributions to literary history” (14).

Gothic fiction not only contested patriarchal gender ideals, but it also threatened patriarchal control over those idealsthrough its immense success as a genre. The rapidly growing female reading public, Botting suggests, starved forrepresentations of female experiences, forced the control of literary production “away from the guardians of taste . . . muchto the chagrin of those interested in maintaining an exclusive set of literary values” (47). In other words, men—especiallyclergymen—began to lose influence regarding the production and consumption of literary texts due to women’s increasingdemand for romances. Botting points out that increased availability of all kinds of texts as a result of cheaper printingprocesses and the rise of circulating libraries meant that the “reading public included larger numbers of readers from themiddle class, especially women,” and reflected England’s shift in cultural power from “an aristocratic and landedminority” to the middle classes (46). Despite cautionary warnings of the dangerous effects of fiction and romance by theclergy and other concerned with moral degeneration in turbulent times, the increasing ease with which women were able toobtain and read romances made it impossible to diminish what E.J. Clery describes as “the threat of female consumption ofpassion,” which she suggests “could only be nullified by a change in attitudes” (18). She points out that only gradually“through the early years of the nineteenth century” did romances come to be considered as “harmless escapism, unlikely tobe confused with reality” (18).

A Gothic EducationAn additional form of support for the Gothic arose from then-current moral theories that sought to ally art to the cause ofperfectibility, an important issue during the early years of the modern liberal project that involved rationalizing power andauthority after regicide and abdication, particularly by way of supporting claims to individual autonomy. Henry Home,Lord Kames (1696-1782), a judge in the supreme courts of Scotland and a prominent writer, disagreed with those who sawin fine art, including literature, threats to moral and social order. He outlined an aesthetic theory in 1761 that involved adynamic that he called “ideal presence,” intended to impress upon the newly crowned King George III the importance ofpatronizing the arts, especially modern literature, for the moral and political betterment of England. Building on moralsense theories regarding sympathy and benevolence, Kames defines ideal presence as a mode of being that occurs whenone experiences sublimity and beauty and thus becomes susceptible to moral improvement. He argued that “the power offiction to generate passion is an admirable contrivance, subservient to excellent purposes” (88). Kames credits idealpresence with the power to solidify social bonds:

In appearance at least, what can be more slight than ideal presence? and yet from it is derived that extensive influencewhich language hath over the heart; and influence, which, more than any other means, strengthens the bond of society, andattracts individuals from their private system to perform acts of generosity and benevolence . . . For when events arerelated in a lively manner, and every circumstance appears as passing before us, we suffer not patiently the truth of thefacts to be questioned” (100).

He suggests, then, that art has a distinct role in producing moral effects. Robert Miles describes Kames’ concept of idealpresence as a process by which, in “our repeated surrendering to pleasurable reverie” through reading or the enjoyment ofthe arts, “we rehearse moral scenes: impressions are re-iterated, warmth infused, and the lesson imprinted” (15). In short,we are morally and spiritually improved through the repeated arousal of the senses that occurs when we engage with art.

Kames’s description of the effects of art, however, points out one of the main reasons that many took issue with the Gothicand with Lewis’ The Monk in particular. Their opinion was, according to Botting, that Gothic’s “style seduces readers,leads them astray and leaves them unable to distinguish between virtue and vice and thereby expel the latter” (83). At issuewas whether Gothic was teaching the “right” things. Gothic novels and dramas of the eighteenth century often featurewomen protagonists who experience terror at the thought of being married to a villain, kidnapped, imprisoned, or evenmurdered. The finer distinctions regarding the moral effects of Gothic fear thus provide another important focus forscholars of the Gothic. Botting, for example, elaborates on Kames’, Radcliffe’s, and others’ ideas about terror and horror,arguing that though the terms “are often used synonymously, distinctions can be made between them as countervailingaspects of Gothic emotional ambivalence. If terror leads to an imaginative expansion of one’s sense of self, horror

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describes the movement of contraction and recoil” (10). Botting’s observations suggest that not only are the types ofemotions that Gothic represents and elicits critical to its effects, but that it is equally important that the characters’ actionsmatch the emotion being elicited. In other words, Gothic novels aimed at moral improvement avoid featuring a virtuousaction taking place during a moment of horror, which would result in a reader’s recoil rather than imaginative expansion.Such was and is the issue with Lewis’ tale, a romance that, according to Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “if a parent saw in thehands of a son or daughter, he might reasonably turn pale” (188).

In addition to excerpts from Lewis’ The Monk, the other novels excerpted in this section—Walpole’s The Castle of Otrantoand Beckford’s Vathek—represent not only the evolution of Gothic literature during this period of immense popularity butalso the variety authors of the genre were able to achieve while still remaining within the otherwise strict confines of alargely formulaic genre. Walpole provides in The Castle of Otranto the first complete example of a Gothic novel fromwhich later authors, took their cues. Beckford illustrates the malleability of the genre and its ability to be employed even asa mode or aspect within a larger piece of fiction since Vathek, as Thomas Keymer describes in “poised enigmaticallybetween multiple possibilities—from oriental fantasy to punitive fable, from arch comedy to gothic sublime” (xxix).Finally, Lewis offers a view both of what makes Gothic literature so intriguing and so possibly dangerous whileColeridge’s review of the novel helps illustrate the fear people felt at the widespread popularity of The Monk and otherGothic tales. However diverse, in these texts, we find just a few of the seeds that would ultimately grow into the works oftoday’s writers of horror and psychological thrillers in both text and film.

Works Cited

Backscheider, Paula. Spectacular Politics. Johns Hopkins UP, 1993.

Baldick, Chris, and Robert Mighall. “Gothic Criticism.” The New Companion to the Gothic, edited by David Punter,Wiley-Blackwell, 2012, pp. 267-87.

Botting, Fred. Gothic: The New Critical Idiom. Routledge, 1996.

Burke, Edmund. A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful. Edited by AdamPhillips, Oxford UP, 2008.

Clery, E.J. Women’s Gothic: from Clara Reeve to Mary Shelley. 2nd ed., Northcote House, 2004.

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. “Review of The Monk (1797).” Gothic Documents: A Sourcebook, 1700-1820, edited by E.J.Clery and Robert Miles, Manchester UP, 2000, pp. 185-89.

Davison, Carol Margaret. Gothic Literature, 1764-1824. U of Wales P, 2009.

Haywood, Ian. Bloody Romanticism: Spectacular Violence and the Politics of Representation, 1776-1832. PalgraveMacmillan, 2006.

Hogle, Jerrold E. “Introduction: The Gothic in Western Culture.” The Cambridge Companion to Gothic Fiction, edited byJerrold E. Hogle, Cambridge UP, 2002, pp. 1-20.

Home, Henry, Lord Kames. Elements of Criticism. 6th ed., Garland, 1972.

Keymer, Thomas. Introduction. Vathek, by William Beckford. Oxford UP, 201, pp. ix-xxix.

Kilgour, Maggie. The Rise of the Gothic Novel. Routledge, 1995.

McKeon, Michael. “Generic Transformation and Social Change: Rethinking the Rise of the Novel.” Theory of the Novel: AHistorical Approach, edited by Michael McKeon, Johns Hopkins UP, 2000, pp. 382-99.

Miles, Robert. Gothic Writing, 1750-1820: A Genealogy. Manchester UP, 2002.

Ringe, Donald. American Gothic: Imagination and Reason in Nineteenth-Century Fiction. UP of Kentucky, 1982.

Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky. The Coherence of Gothic Conventions. Methuen, 1980.

Spector, Robert. The English Gothic: A Bibliographic Guide to Writers from Horace Walpole to Mary Shelley. Greenwood,1984.

Varnado, S.L. Haunted Presence: The Numinous in Gothic Fiction. U of Alabama P, 1987.

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1.2: Edmund Burke, from On the Sublime and Beautiful (1757)

Edmund Burke, from On the Sublime and Beautiful (1757)

Jeanette A. Laredo

An etching of a man, presumably Edmund Burke, standing on the shoulders of two men who represent the sublime andbeautiful.

Part I, Section VII: Of the sublime

Whatever is fitted in any sort to excite the ideas of pain and danger, that is to say, whatever is in any sort terrible, or isconversant about terrible objects, or operates in a manner analogous to terror, is a source of the sublime; that is, it isproductive of the strongest emotion which the mind is capable of feeling. I say the strongest emotion, because I amsatisfied the ideas of pain are much more powerful than those which enter on the part of pleasure. Without all doubt, thetorments which we may be made to suffer are much greater in their effect on the body and mind, than any pleasures whichthe most learned voluptuary could suggest, or than the liveliest imagination, and the most sound and exquisitely sensiblebody, could enjoy. Nay, I am in great doubt whether any man could be found, who would earn a life of the most perfectsatisfaction at the price of ending it in the torments, which justice inflicted in a few hours on the late unfortunate regicidein France. But as pain is stronger in its operation than pleasure, so death is in general a much more affecting idea than pain;because there are very few pains, however exquisite, which are not preferred to death: nay, what generally makes painitself, if I may say so, more painful, is, that it is considered as an emissary of this king of terrors. When danger or painpress too nearly, they are incapable of giving any delight, and are simply terrible; but at certain distances, and with certainmodifications, they may be, and they are, delightful, as we every day experience. The cause of this I shall endeavor toinvestigate hereafter.

Part II, Section I: Of the passion caused by the sublimeThe passion caused by the great and sublime in nature, when those causes operate most powerfully, is astonishment: andastonishment is that state of the soul in which all its motions are suspended, with some degree of horror. In this case the

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mind is so entirely filled with its object, that it cannot entertain any other, nor by consequence reason on that object whichemploys it. Hence arises the great power of the sublime, that, far from being produced by them, it anticipates ourreasonings, and hurries us on by an irresistible force. Astonishment, as I have said, is the effect of the sublime in its highestdegree; the inferior effects are admiration, reverence, and respect.

Part II, Section II: TerrorNo passion so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning as fear. For fear being an apprehension ofpain or death, it operates in a manner that resembles actual pain. Whatever therefore is terrible, with regard to sight, issublime too, whether this cause of terror be endued with greatness of dimensions or not; for it is impossible to look onanything as trifling, or contemptible, that may be dangerous. There are many animals, who, though far from being large,are yet capable of raising ideas of the sublime, because they are considered as objects of terror. As serpents and poisonousanimals of almost all kinds. And to things of great dimensions, if we annex an adventitious idea of terror, they becomewithout comparison greater. A level plain of a vast extent on land, is certainly no mean idea; the prospect of such a plainmay be as extensive as a prospect of the ocean; but can it ever fill the mind with anything so great as the ocean itself? Thisis owing to several causes; but it is owing to none more than this, that the ocean is an object of no small terror. Indeedterror is in all cases whatsoever, either more openly or latently, the ruling principle of the sublime. Several languages beara strong testimony to the affinity of these ideas. They frequently use the same word to signify indifferently the modes ofastonishment or admiration and those of terror. [Greek: Thambos] is in Greek either fear or wonder; [Greek: deinos] isterrible or respectable; [Greek: ahideo], to reverence or to fear. Vereor in Latin is what [Greek: ahideo] is in Greek. TheRomans used the verb stupeo, a term which strongly marks the state of an astonished mind, to express the effect either ofsimple fear, or of astonishment; the word attonitus (thunderstruck) is equally expressive of the alliance of these ideas; anddo not the French étonnement, and the English astonishment and amazement, point out as clearly the kindred emotionswhich attend fear and wonder? They who have a more general knowledge of languages, could produce, I make no doubt,many other and equally striking examples.

Part II, Section III: Obscurity

To make anything very terrible, obscurity seems in general to be necessary. When we know the full extent of any danger,when we can accustom our eyes to it, a great deal of the apprehension vanishes. Every one will be sensible of this, whoconsiders how greatly night adds to our dread, in all cases of danger, and how much the notions of ghosts and goblins, ofwhich none can form clear ideas, affect minds which give credit to the popular tales concerning such sorts of beings. Thosedespotic governments which are founded on the passions of men, and principally upon the passion of fear, keep their chiefas much as may be from the public eye. The policy has been the same in many cases of religion. Almost all the heathentemples were dark. Even in the barbarous temples of the Americans at this day, they keep their idol in a dark part of thehut, which is consecrated to his worship. For this purpose too the Druids performed all their ceremonies in the bosom ofthe darkest woods, and in the shade of the oldest and most spreading oaks. No person seems better to have understood thesecret of heightening, or of setting terrible things, if I may use the expression, in their strongest light, by the force of ajudicious obscurity than Milton. His description of death in the second book is admirably studied; it is astonishing withwhat a gloomy pomp, with what a significant and expressive uncertainty of strokes and coloring, he has finished theportrait of the king of terrors:

“The other shape,

If shape it might be called that shape had noneDistinguishable, in member, joint, or limb;Or substance might be called that shadow seemed; For each seemed either; black he stood as night; Fierce as ten furies;terrible as hell; And shook a deadly dart. What seemed his head The likeness of a kingly crown had on.”

In this description all is dark, uncertain, confused, terrible, and sublime to the last degree.

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1.3: Horace Walpole, excerpt from The Castle of Otranto (1764)

Horace Walpole, excerpt from The Castle of Otranto (1764)

Jeanette A. Laredo

John Giles Eccardt, portrait of Horace Walpole (1754).

Preface to the First Edition The following work was found in the library of an ancient Catholic family in the north of England. It was printed at Naples, in the black letter, in the year 1529. How much sooner it waswritten does not appear. The principal incidents are such as were believed in the darkest ages of Christianity; but the language and conduct have nothing that savours of barbarism. Thestyle is the purest Italian.

If the story was written near the time when it is supposed to have happened, it must have been between 1095, the era of the first Crusade, and 1243, the date of the last, or not longafterwards. There is no other circumstance in the work that can lead us to guess at the period in which the scene is laid: the names of the actors are evidently fictitious, and probablydisguised on purpose: yet the Spanish names of the domestics seem to indicate that this work was not composed until the establishment of the Arragonian Kings in Naples had madeSpanish appellations familiar in that country. The beauty of the diction, and the zeal of the author (moderated, however, by singular judgment) concur to make me think that the date ofthe composition was little antecedent to that of the impression. Letters were then in their most flourishing state in Italy, and contributed to dispel the empire of superstition, at that timeso forcibly attacked by the reformers. It is not unlikely that an artful priest might endeavour to turn their own arms on the innovators, and might avail himself of his abilities as an authorto confirm the populace in their ancient errors and superstitions. If this was his view, he has certainly acted with signal address. Such a work as the following would enslave a hundredvulgar minds beyond half the books of controversy that have been written from the days of Luther to the present hour.

This solution of the author’s motives is, however, offered as a mere conjecture. Whatever his views were, or whatever effects the execution of them might have, his work can only belaid before the public at present as a matter of entertainment. Even as such, some apology for it is necessary. Miracles, visions, necromancy, dreams, and other preternatural events, areexploded now even from romances. That was not the case when our author wrote; much less when the story itself is supposed to have happened. Belief in every kind of prodigy was soestablished in those dark ages, that an author would not be faithful to the manners of the times, who should omit all mention of them. He is not bound to believe them himself, but hemust represent his actors as believing them.

If this air of the miraculous is excused, the reader will find nothing else unworthy of his perusal. Allow the possibility of the facts, and all the actors comport themselves as personswould do in their situation. There is no bombast, no similes, flowers, digressions, or unnecessary descriptions. Everything tends directly to the catastrophe. Never is the reader’sattention relaxed. The rules of the drama are almost observed throughout the conduct of the piece. The characters are well drawn, and still better maintained. Terror, the author’sprincipal engine, prevents the story from ever languishing; and it is so often contrasted by pity, that the mind is kept up in a constant vicissitude of interesting passions.

Some persons may perhaps think the characters of the domestics too little serious for the general cast of the story; but besides their opposition to the principal personages, the art of theauthor is very observable in his conduct of the subalterns. They discover many passages essential to the story, which could not be well brought to light but by their naïveté andsimplicity. In particular, the womanish terror and foibles of Bianca, in the last chapter, conduce essentially towards advancing the catastrophe.

It is natural for a translator to be prejudiced in favour of his adopted work. More impartial readers may not be so much struck with the beauties of this piece as I was. Yet I am not blindto my author’s defects. I could wish he had grounded his plan on a more useful moral than this: that “the sins of fathers are visited on their children to the third and fourth generation.” Idoubt whether, in his time, any more than at present, ambition curbed its appetite of dominion from the dread of so remote a punishment. And yet this moral is weakened by that lessdirect insinuation, that even such anathema may be diverted by devotion to St. Nicholas. Here the interest of the Monk plainly gets the better of the judgment of the author. However,with all its faults, I have no doubt but the English reader will be pleased with a sight of this performance. The piety that reigns throughout, the lessons of virtue that are inculcated, andthe rigid purity of the sentiments, exempt this work from the censure to which romances are but too liable. Should it meet with the success I hope for, I may be encouraged to reprint theoriginal Italian, though it will tend to depreciate my own labour. Our language falls far short of the charms of the Italian, both for variety and harmony. The latter is peculiarly excellentfor simple narrative. It is difficult in English to relate without falling too low or rising too high; a fault obviously occasioned by the little care taken to speak pure language in commonconversation. Every Italian or Frenchman of any rank piques himself on speaking his own tongue correctly and with choice. I cannot flatter myself with having done justice to my authorin this respect: his style is as elegant as his conduct of the passions is masterly. It is a pity that he did not apply his talents to what they were evidently proper for—the theatre.

I will detain the reader no longer, but to make one short remark. Though the machinery is invention, and the names of the actors imaginary, I cannot but believe that the groundwork ofthe story is founded on truth. The scene is undoubtedly laid in some real castle. The author seems frequently, without design, to describe particular parts. “The chamber,” says he, “onthe right hand;” “the door on the left hand;” “the distance from the chapel to Conrad’s apartment:” these and other passages are strong presumptions that the author had some certainbuilding in his eye. Curious persons, who have leisure to employ in such researches, may possibly discover in the Italian writers the foundation on which our author has built. If acatastrophe, at all resembling that which he describes, is believed to have given rise to this work, it will contribute to interest the reader, and will make the “Castle of Otranto” a stillmore moving story.

Preface to Second Edition The favourable manner in which this little piece has been received by the public, calls upon the author to explain the grounds on which he composed it. But, before he opens thosemotives, it is fit that he should ask pardon of his readers for having offered his work to them under the borrowed personage of a translator. As diffidence of his own abilities and the

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novelty of the attempt, were the sole inducements to assume the disguise, he flatters himself he shall appear excusable. He resigned the performance to the impartial judgement of thepublic; determined to let it perish in obscurity, if disproved; nor meaning to avow such a trifle, unless better judges should pronounce that he might own it without blush.

It was an attempt to blend the two kinds of romance, the ancient and the modern. In the former, all was imagination and improbability: in the latter, nature is always intended to be, andsometimes has been, copied with success. Invention has not been wanting; but the great resources of fancy have been dammed up, by a strict adherence to common life. But if, in thelatter species, Nature has cramped imagination, she did but take her revenge, having been totally excluded from old romances. The actions, sentiments, and conversations, of the heroesand heroines of ancient days, were as unnatural as the machines employed to put them in motion.

The author of the following pages thought it possible to reconcile the two kinds. Desirous of leaving the powers of fancy at liberty to expatiate through the boundless realms ofinvention, and thence of creating more interesting situations, he wished to conduct the mortal agents in his drama according to the rules of probability; in short, to make them think,speak, and act, as it might be supposed mere men and women would do in extraordinary positions. He had observed, that, in all inspired writings, the personages under the dispensationof miracles, and witness to the most stupendous phenomena, never lose sight of their human character: whereas, in the productions of romantic story, an improbable event never fails tobe attended by an absurd dialogue. The actors seem to lose their senses, the moment the laws of nature have lost their tone. As the public have applauded the attempt, the author mustnot say he was entirely unequal to the task he had undertaken: yet, if the new route he has struck out shall have paved a road for men of brighter talents, he shall own, with pleasure andmodesty, that he was sensible the plan was capable of receiving greater embellishments than his imagination, or conduct of the passions, could bestow on it.

With regard to the deportment of the domestics, on which I have touched in the former preface, I will beg leave to add a few words.—The simplicity of their behaviour, almost tendingto excite smiles, which, at first, seems not consonant to the serious cast of the work, appeared to me not only improper, but was marked designedly in that manner. My rule was nature.However grave, important, or even melancholy, the sensations of the princes and heroes may be, they do not stamp the same affections on their domestics: at least the latter do not, orshould not be made to, express their passions in the same dignified tone. In my humble opinion, the contrast between the sublime of the one and the naivete of the other, sets the patheticof the former in a stronger light. The very impatience which a reader feels, while delayed, by the coarse pleasantries of vulgar actors, from arriving at the knowledge of the importantcatastrophe he expects, perhaps heightens, certainly proves that he has been artfully interested in, the depending event. But I had higher authority than my own opinion for this conduct.The great master of nature, SHAKESPEARE, was the model I copied. Let me ask, if his tragedies of Hamlet and Julius Caesar would not lose a considerable share of their spirit andwonderful beauties, if the humour of the gravediggers, the fooleries of Polonius, and the clumsy jests of the Roman citizens, were omitted, or vested in heroics? Is not the eloquence ofAntony, the nobler and affectedly-unaffected oration of Brutus, artificially exalted by the rude bursts of nature from the mouths of their auditors? These touches remind one of theGrecian sculptor, who, to convey the idea of a Colossus, within the dimensions of a seal, inserted a little boy measuring his thumb.

“No,” says Voltaire, in his edition of Corneille, “this mixture of buffoonery and solemnity is intolerable.”—Voltaire is a genius— but not of Shakespeare’s magnitude. Without recurringto disputable authority, I appeal from Voltaire to himself. I shall not avail myself of his former encomiums on our mighty poet; though the French critic has twice translated the samespeech in Hamlet, some years ago in admiration, latterly in derision; and I am sorry to find that his judgment grows weaker when it ought to be farther matured. But I shall make use ofhis own words, delivered on the general topic of the theatre, when he was neither thinking to recommend or decry Shakespeare’s practice; consequently, at a moment when Voltaire wasimpartial. In the preface to his Enfant Prodigue, that exquisite piece, of which I declare my admiration, and which, should I live twenty years longer, I trust I shall never attempt toridicule, he has these words, speaking of comedy (but equally applicable to tragedy, if tragedy is, as surely it ought to be, a picture of human life; nor can I conceive why occassionalpleasantry ought more to be banished from the tragic scene than pathetic seriousness from the comic), “One sees there a mixture of the grave and the light, of the comic and the tragic;often even a single adventure exhibits all these contrasts. Nothing is more common than a house in which the father scolds, a girl occupied by her passions weeps, the son ridicules both,some relations take a differing part in the scene, etc. We do not infer from this that every comedy ought to have scenes of buffoonery and of gravity. Now there is gaiety, nowseriousness, now a mixture. Then there are others in which tenderness moves one to tears. We must not exclude any type, and if I were asked which is the best I would answer, ‘the onewhich is best made.” Surely if comedy may be toute sérieuse, tragedy may now and then, soberly, be indulged in a smile. Who shall proscribe it? Shall the critic, who, in self-defence,declares, that no kind ought to be excluded from comedy, give laws to Shakespeare?

I am aware that the preface from whence I have quoted these passages does not stand in Monsieur de Voltaire’s name, but in that of his editor; yet who doubts that the editor and theauthor were the same person? or where is the editor, who has so happily possessed himself of his author’s style, and brilliant ease of argument? These passages were indubitably thegenuine sentiments of that great writer. In his epistle to Maffei, prefixed to his Mérope, he delivers almost the same opinion, though, I doubt, with a little irony. I will repeat his words,and then give my reason for quoting them. After translating a passage in Maffei’s Mérope, Monsieur de Voltaire adds, “All of these characteristics are naive. Everything is convenient tothose who introduce the scene and to the customs that you give them. These natural familiarities would, I think, have been well received in Athens, but Paris and our nation preferanother type of subtlety.” I doubt, I say, whether there is not a grain of sneer in this and other passages of that epistle; yet the force of truth is not damaged by being tinged with ridicule.Maffei was to represent a Grecian story: surely the Athenians were as competent judges of Grecian manners, and of the propriety of introducing them, as the parterre of Paris. “On thecontrary,” says Voltaire (and I cannot but admire his reasoning), “there were but ten thousand citizens at Athens and Paris has near eight hundred thousand inhabitants, among whom onemay reckon thirty thousand judges of dramatic works.”—indeed!—but allowing so numerous a tribunal, I believe this is the only instance in which it was ever pretended that thirtythousand persons, living near two thousand years after the era in question, were, upon the mere face of the poll, declared better judges than the Grecians themselves, of what ought to bethe manners of a tragedy written on a Grecian story.

I will not enter into a discussion of the espèce de simplicité, which the parterre of Paris demands, nor of the shackles with which the thirty thousand judges have cramped their poetry,the chief merit of which, as I gather from repeated passages in the New Commentary on Corneille, consists in vaulting in spite of those fetters; a merit which, if true, would reducepoetry from the lofty effort of imagination, to a puerile and most contemptible labour—difficiles nugae [hard doggerel] with witness! I cannot, however, help mentioning a couplet,which, to my English ears, always sounded as the flattest and most trifling instance of circumstantial propriety, but which Voltaire, who has dealt so severely with nine parts in ten ofCorneille’s works, has singled out to defend in Racine;

To Caeser’s closet through this door you come.And t’other leads to the Queen’s drawing-room.

Unhappy Shakespeare! hadst thou made Rosencrantz inform his compeer, Guildenstern, of the iconography of the palace of Copenhagen, instead of presenting us with a moral dialoguebetween the Prince of Denmark and the gravedigger, the illuminated pit of Paris would have been instructed a second time to adore thy talents.

The result of all I have said, is, to shelter my own daring under the canon of the brightest genius this country, at least, has produced. I might have pleaded that, having created a newspecies of romance, I was at liberty to lay down what rules I thought fit for the conduct of it: but I should be more proud of having imitated, however faintly, weakly, and at a distance,so masterly a pattern, than to enjoy the entire merit of invention, unless I could have marked my work with genius, as well as with originality. Such as it is, the public have honoured itsufficiently, whatever rank their suffrages allot to it.

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Frontispiece of the 1765 edition of The Castle of Otranto by Horace Walpole.

Chapter IManfred, Prince of Otranto, had one son and one daughter: the latter, a most beautiful virgin, aged eighteen, was called Matilda. Conrad, the son, was three years younger, a homelyyouth, sickly, and of no promising disposition; yet he was the darling of his father, who never showed any symptoms of affection to Matilda. Manfred had contracted a marriage for hisson with the Marquis of Vicenza’s daughter, Isabella; and she had already been delivered by her guardians into the hands of Manfred, that he might celebrate the wedding as soon asConrad’s infirm state of health would permit.

Manfred’s impatience for this ceremonial was remarked by his family and neighbours. The former, indeed, apprehending the severity of their Prince’s disposition, did not dare to uttertheir surmises on this precipitation. Hippolita, his wife, an amiable lady, did sometimes venture to represent the danger of marrying their only son so early, considering his great youth,and greater infirmities; but she never received any other answer than reflections on her own sterility, who had given him but one heir. His tenants and subjects were less cautious in theirdiscourses. They attributed this hasty wedding to the Prince’s dread of seeing accomplished an ancient prophecy, which was said to have pronounced that the castle and lordship ofOtranto “should pass from the present family, whenever the real owner should be grown too large to inhabit it.” It was difficult to make any sense of this prophecy; and still less easy toconceive what it had to do with the marriage in question. Yet these mysteries, or contradictions, did not make the populace adhere the less to their opinion.

Young Conrad’s birthday was fixed for his espousals. The company was assembled in the chapel of the Castle, and everything ready for beginning the divine office, when Conradhimself was missing. Manfred, impatient of the least delay, and who had not observed his son retire, despatched one of his attendants to summon the young Prince. The servant, who hadnot stayed long enough to have crossed the court to Conrad’s apartment, came running back breathless, in a frantic manner, his eyes staring, and foaming at the mouth. He said nothing,but pointed to the court.

The company were struck with terror and amazement. The Princess Hippolita, without knowing what was the matter, but anxious for her son, swooned away. Manfred, less apprehensivethan enraged at the procrastination of the nuptials, and at the folly of his domestic, asked imperiously what was the matter? The fellow made no answer, but continued pointing towardsthe courtyard; and at last, after repeated questions put to him, cried out, “Oh! the helmet! the helmet!”

In the meantime, some of the company had run into the court, from whence was heard a confused noise of shrieks, horror, and surprise. Manfred, who began to be alarmed at not seeinghis son, went himself to get information of what occasioned this strange confusion. Matilda remained endeavouring to assist her mother, and Isabella stayed for the same purpose, and toavoid showing any impatience for the bridegroom, for whom, in truth, she had conceived little affection.

The first thing that struck Manfred’s eyes was a group of his servants endeavouring to raise something that appeared to him a mountain of sable plumes. He gazed without believing hissight.

“What are ye doing?” cried Manfred, wrathfully; “where is my son?”

A volley of voices replied, “Oh! my Lord! the Prince! the Prince! the helmet! the helmet!”

Shocked with these lamentable sounds, and dreading he knew not what, he advanced hastily,—but what a sight for a father’s eyes!—he beheld his child dashed to pieces, and almostburied under an enormous helmet, an hundred times more large than any casque ever made for human being, and shaded with a proportionable quantity of black feathers.

Illustration of the scene in Otranto where Manfred’s son Conrad is crushed to death by the sudden appearance of a giant helmet.

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The horror of the spectacle, the ignorance of all around how this misfortune had happened, and above all, the tremendous phenomenon before him, took away the Prince’s speech. Yethis silence lasted longer than even grief could occasion. He fixed his eyes on what he wished in vain to believe a vision; and seemed less attentive to his loss, than buried in meditationon the stupendous object that had occasioned it. He touched, he examined the fatal casque; nor could even the bleeding mangled remains of the young Prince divert the eyes of Manfredfrom the portent before him.

All who had known his partial fondness for young Conrad, were as much surprised at their Prince’s insensibility, as thunderstruck themselves at the miracle of the helmet. Theyconveyed the disfigured corpse into the hall, without receiving the least direction from Manfred. As little was he attentive to the ladies who remained in the chapel. On the contrary,without mentioning the unhappy princesses, his wife and daughter, the first sounds that dropped from Manfred’s lips were, “Take care of the Lady Isabella.”

The domestics, without observing the singularity of this direction, were guided by their affection to their mistress, to consider it as peculiarly addressed to her situation, and flew to herassistance. They conveyed her to her chamber more dead than alive, and indifferent to all the strange circumstances she heard, except the death of her son.

Matilda, who doted on her mother, smothered her own grief and amazement, and thought of nothing but assisting and comforting her afflicted parent. Isabella, who had been treated byHippolita like a daughter, and who returned that tenderness with equal duty and affection, was scarce less assiduous about the Princess; at the same time endeavouring to partake andlessen the weight of sorrow which she saw Matilda strove to suppress, for whom she had conceived the warmest sympathy of friendship. Yet her own situation could not help finding itsplace in her thoughts. She felt no concern for the death of young Conrad, except commiseration; and she was not sorry to be delivered from a marriage which had promised her littlefelicity, either from her destined bridegroom, or from the severe temper of Manfred, who, though he had distinguished her by great indulgence, had imprinted her mind with terror, fromhis causeless rigour to such amiable princesses as Hippolita and Matilda.

While the ladies were conveying the wretched mother to her bed, Manfred remained in the court, gazing on the ominous casque, and regardless of the crowd which the strangeness ofthe event had now assembled around him. The few words he articulated, tended solely to inquiries, whether any man knew from whence it could have come? Nobody could give him theleast information. However, as it seemed to be the sole object of his curiosity, it soon became so to the rest of the spectators, whose conjectures were as absurd and improbable, as thecatastrophe itself was unprecedented. In the midst of their senseless guesses, a young peasant, whom rumour had drawn thither from a neighbouring village, observed that themiraculous helmet was exactly like that on the figure in black marble of Alfonso the Good, one of their former princes, in the church of St. Nicholas.

“Villain! What sayest thou?” cried Manfred, starting from his trance in a tempest of rage, and seizing the young man by the collar; “how darest thou utter such treason? Thy life shallpay for it.”

The spectators, who as little comprehended the cause of the Prince’s fury as all the rest they had seen, were at a loss to unravel this new circumstance. The young peasant himself wasstill more astonished, not conceiving how he had offended the Prince. Yet recollecting himself, with a mixture of grace and humility, he disengaged himself from Manfred’s grip, andthen with an obeisance, which discovered more jealousy of innocence than dismay, he asked, with respect, of what he was guilty? Manfred, more enraged at the vigour, howeverdecently exerted, with which the young man had shaken off his hold, than appeased by his submission, ordered his attendants to seize him, and, if he had not been withheld by hisfriends whom he had invited to the nuptials, would have poignarded the peasant in their arms.

During this altercation, some of the vulgar spectators had run to the great church, which stood near the castle, and came back open-mouthed, declaring that the helmet was missing fromAlfonso’s statue. Manfred, at this news, grew perfectly frantic; and, as if he sought a subject on which to vent the tempest within him, he rushed again on the young peasant, crying—

“Villain! Monster! Sorcerer! ’tis thou hast done this! ’tis thou hast slain my son!”

The mob, who wanted some object within the scope of their capacities, on whom they might discharge their bewildered reasoning, caught the words from the mouth of their lord, and re-echoed—

“Ay, ay; ’tis he, ’tis he: he has stolen the helmet from good Alfonso’s tomb, and dashed out the brains of our young Prince with it,” never reflecting how enormous the disproportion wasbetween the marble helmet that had been in the church, and that of steel before their eyes; nor how impossible it was for a youth seemingly not twenty, to wield a piece of armour of soprodigious a weight.

The folly of these ejaculations brought Manfred to himself: yet whether provoked at the peasant having observed the resemblance between the two helmets, and thereby led to the fartherdiscovery of the absence of that in the church, or wishing to bury any such rumour under so impertinent a supposition, he gravely pronounced that the young man was certainly anecromancer, and that till the Church could take cognisance of the affair, he would have the Magician, whom they had thus detected, kept prisoner under the helmet itself, which heordered his attendants to raise, and place the young man under it; declaring he should be kept there without food, with which his own infernal art might furnish him.

It was in vain for the youth to represent against this preposterous sentence: in vain did Manfred’s friends endeavour to divert him from this savage and ill-grounded resolution. Thegenerality were charmed with their lord’s decision, which, to their apprehensions, carried great appearance of justice, as the Magician was to be punished by the very instrument withwhich he had offended: nor were they struck with the least compunction at the probability of the youth being starved, for they firmly believed that, by his diabolic skill, he could easilysupply himself with nutriment.

Manfred thus saw his commands even cheerfully obeyed; and appointing a guard with strict orders to prevent any food being conveyed to the prisoner, he dismissed his friends andattendants, and retired to his own chamber, after locking the gates of the castle, in which he suffered none but his domestics to remain.

In the meantime, the care and zeal of the young Ladies had brought the Princess Hippolita to herself, who amidst the transports of her own sorrow frequently demanded news of her lord,would have dismissed her attendants to watch over him, and at last enjoined Matilda to leave her, and visit and comfort her father. Matilda, who wanted no affectionate duty to Manfred,though she trembled at his austerity, obeyed the orders of Hippolita, whom she tenderly recommended to Isabella; and inquiring of the domestics for her father, was informed that he wasretired to his chamber, and had commanded that nobody should have admittance to him. Concluding that he was immersed in sorrow for the death of her brother, and fearing to renewhis tears by the sight of his sole remaining child, she hesitated whether she should break in upon his affliction; yet solicitude for him, backed by the commands of her mother,encouraged her to venture disobeying the orders he had given; a fault she had never been guilty of before.

The gentle timidity of her nature made her pause for some minutes at his door. She heard him traverse his chamber backwards, and forwards with disordered steps; a mood whichincreased her apprehensions. She was, however, just going to beg admittance, when Manfred suddenly opened the door; and as it was now twilight, concurring with the disorder of hismind, he did not distinguish the person, but asked angrily, who it was? Matilda replied, trembling—

“My dearest father, it is I, your daughter.”

Manfred, stepping back hastily, cried, “Begone! I do not want a daughter;” and flinging back abruptly, clapped the door against the terrified Matilda.

She was too well acquainted with her father’s impetuosity to venture a second intrusion. When she had a little recovered the shock of so bitter a reception, she wiped away her tears toprevent the additional stab that the knowledge of it would give to Hippolita, who questioned her in the most anxious terms on the health of Manfred, and how he bore his loss. Matildaassured her he was well, and supported his misfortune with manly fortitude.

“But will he not let me see him?” said Hippolita mournfully; “will he not permit me to blend my tears with his, and shed a mother’s sorrows in the bosom of her Lord? Or do youdeceive me, Matilda? I know how Manfred doted on his son: is not the stroke too heavy for him? has he not sunk under it? You do not answer me—alas! I dread the worst!—Raise me,my maidens; I will, I will see my Lord. Bear me to him instantly: he is dearer to me even than my children.”

Matilda made signs to Isabella to prevent Hippolita’s rising; and both those lovely young women were using their gentle violence to stop and calm the Princess, when a servant, on thepart of Manfred, arrived and told Isabella that his Lord demanded to speak with her.

“With me!” cried Isabella.

“Go,” said Hippolita, relieved by a message from her Lord: “Manfred cannot support the sight of his own family. He thinks you less disordered than we are, and dreads the shock of mygrief. Console him, dear Isabella, and tell him I will smother my own anguish rather than add to his.”

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As it was now evening the servant who conducted Isabella bore a torch before her. When they came to Manfred, who was walking impatiently about the gallery, he started, and saidhastily—

“Take away that light, and begone.”

Illustration for Otranto depicts a young woman, perhaps Isabella, in front of a suit of armor with a man who may be Manfred, behind her.

Then shutting the door impetuously, he flung himself upon a bench against the wall, and bade Isabella sit by him. She obeyed trembling.“I sent for you, Lady,” said he—and thenstopped under great appearance of confusion.“My Lord!”“Yes, I sent for you on a matter of great moment,” resumed he. “Dry your tears, young Lady—you have lost your bridegroom.Yes, cruel fate! and I have lost the hopes of my race! But Conrad was not worthy of your beauty.”“How, my Lord!” said Isabella; “sure you do not suspect me of not feeling the concernI ought: my duty and affection would have always—”“Think no more of him,” interrupted Manfred; “he was a sickly, puny child, and Heaven has perhaps taken him away, that I mightnot trust the honours of my house on so frail a foundation. The line of Manfred calls for numerous supports. My foolish fondness for that boy blinded the eyes of my prudence—but it isbetter as it is. I hope, in a few years, to have reason to rejoice at the death of Conrad.”Words cannot paint the astonishment of Isabella. At first she apprehended that grief had disorderedManfred’s understanding. Her next thought suggested that this strange discourse was designed to ensnare her: she feared that Manfred had perceived her indifference for his son: and inconsequence of that idea she replied—

“Good my Lord, do not doubt my tenderness: my heart would have accompanied my hand. Conrad would have engrossed all my care; and wherever fate shall dispose of me, I shallalways cherish his memory, and regard your Highness and the virtuous Hippolita as my parents.”

“Curse on Hippolita!” cried Manfred. “Forget her from this moment, as I do. In short, Lady, you have missed a husband undeserving of your charms: they shall now be better disposedof. Instead of a sickly boy, you shall have a husband in the prime of his age, who will know how to value your beauties, and who may expect a numerous offspring.”

“Alas, my Lord!” said Isabella, “my mind is too sadly engrossed by the recent catastrophe in your family to think of another marriage. If ever my father returns, and it shall be hispleasure, I shall obey, as I did when I consented to give my hand to your son: but until his return, permit me to remain under your hospitable roof, and employ the melancholy hours inassuaging yours, Hippolita’s, and the fair Matilda’s affliction.”

“I desired you once before,” said Manfred angrily, “not to name that woman: from this hour she must be a stranger to you, as she must be to me. In short, Isabella, since I cannot giveyou my son, I offer you myself.”

“Heavens!” cried Isabella, waking from her delusion, “what do I hear? You! my Lord! You! My father-in-law! the father of Conrad! the husband of the virtuous and tender Hippolita!”

“I tell you,” said Manfred imperiously, “Hippolita is no longer my wife; I divorce her from this hour. Too long has she cursed me by her unfruitfulness. My fate depends on having sons,and this night I trust will give a new date to my hopes.”

At those words he seized the cold hand of Isabella, who was half dead with fright and horror. She shrieked, and started from him, Manfred rose to pursue her, when the moon, which wasnow up, and gleamed in at the opposite casement, presented to his sight the plumes of the fatal helmet, which rose to the height of the windows, waving backwards and forwards in atempestuous manner, and accompanied with a hollow and rustling sound. Isabella, who gathered courage from her situation, and who dreaded nothing so much as Manfred’s pursuit ofhis declaration, cried—

“Look, my Lord! see, Heaven itself declares against your impious intentions!”

“Heaven nor Hell shall impede my designs,” said Manfred, advancing again to seize the Princess.

At that instant the portrait of his grandfather, which hung over the bench where they had been sitting, uttered a deep sigh, and heaved its breast.

Isabella, whose back was turned to the picture, saw not the motion, nor knew whence the sound came, but started, and said—

“Hark, my Lord! What sound was that?” and at the same time made towards the door.

Manfred, distracted between the flight of Isabella, who had now reached the stairs, and yet unable to keep his eyes from the picture, which began to move, had, however, advanced somesteps after her, still looking backwards on the portrait, when he saw it quit its panel, and descend on the floor with a grave and melancholy air.

“Do I dream?” cried Manfred, returning; “or are the devils themselves in league against me? Speak, internal spectre! Or, if thou art my grandsire, why dost thou too conspire against thywretched descendant, who too dearly pays for—” Ere he could finish the sentence, the vision sighed again, and made a sign to Manfred to follow him.

“Lead on!” cried Manfred; “I will follow thee to the gulf of perdition.”

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The spectre marched sedately, but dejected, to the end of the gallery, and turned into a chamber on the right hand. Manfred accompanied him at a little distance, full of anxiety andhorror, but resolved. As he would have entered the chamber, the door was clapped to with violence by an invisible hand. The Prince, collecting courage from this delay, would haveforcibly burst open the door with his foot, but found that it resisted his utmost efforts.

“Since Hell will not satisfy my curiosity,” said Manfred, “I will use the human means in my power for preserving my race; Isabella shall not escape me.”

The lady, whose resolution had given way to terror the moment she had quitted Manfred, continued her flight to the bottom of the principal staircase. There she stopped, not knowingwhither to direct her steps, nor how to escape from the impetuosity of the Prince. The gates of the castle, she knew, were locked, and guards placed in the court. Should she, as her heartprompted her, go and prepare Hippolita for the cruel destiny that awaited her, she did not doubt but Manfred would seek her there, and that his violence would incite him to double theinjury he meditated, without leaving room for them to avoid the impetuosity of his passions. Delay might give him time to reflect on the horrid measures he had conceived, or producesome circumstance in her favour, if she could—for that night, at least—avoid his odious purpose. Yet where conceal herself? How avoid the pursuit he would infallibly make throughoutthe castle?

As these thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, she recollected a subterraneous passage which led from the vaults of the castle to the church of St. Nicholas. Could she reach thealtar before she was overtaken, she knew even Manfred’s violence would not dare to profane the sacredness of the place; and she determined, if no other means of deliverance offered, toshut herself up for ever among the holy virgins whose convent was contiguous to the cathedral. In this resolution, she seized a lamp that burned at the foot of the staircase, and hurriedtowards the secret passage.

The lower part of the castle was hollowed into several intricate cloisters; and it was not easy for one under so much anxiety to find the door that opened into the cavern. An awful silencereigned throughout those subterraneous regions, except now and then some blasts of wind that shook the doors she had passed, and which, grating on the rusty hinges, were re-echoedthrough that long labyrinth of darkness. Every murmur struck her with new terror; yet more she dreaded to hear the wrathful voice of Manfred urging his domestics to pursue her.

She trod as softly as impatience would give her leave, yet frequently stopped and listened to hear if she was followed. In one of those moments she thought she heard a sigh. Sheshuddered, and recoiled a few paces. In a moment she thought she heard the step of some person. Her blood curdled; she concluded it was Manfred. Every suggestion that horror couldinspire rushed into her mind. She condemned her rash flight, which had thus exposed her to his rage in a place where her cries were not likely to draw anybody to her assistance. Yet thesound seemed not to come from behind. If Manfred knew where she was, he must have followed her. She was still in one of the cloisters, and the steps she had heard were too distinct toproceed from the way she had come. Cheered with this reflection, and hoping to find a friend in whoever was not the Prince, she was going to advance, when a door that stood ajar, atsome distance to the left, was opened gently: but ere her lamp, which she held up, could discover who opened it, the person retreated precipitately on seeing the light.

Isabella, whom every incident was sufficient to dismay, hesitated whether she should proceed. Her dread of Manfred soon outweighed every other terror. The very circumstance of theperson avoiding her gave her a sort of courage. It could only be, she thought, some domestic belonging to the castle. Her gentleness had never raised her an enemy, and consciousinnocence made her hope that, unless sent by the Prince’s order to seek her, his servants would rather assist than prevent her flight. Fortifying herself with these reflections, andbelieving by what she could observe that she was near the mouth of the subterraneous cavern, she approached the door that had been opened; but a sudden gust of wind that met her atthe door extinguished her lamp, and left her in total darkness.

Words cannot paint the horror of the Princess’s situation. Alone in so dismal a place, her mind imprinted with all the terrible events of the day, hopeless of escaping, expecting everymoment the arrival of Manfred, and far from tranquil on knowing she was within reach of somebody, she knew not whom, who for some cause seemed concealed thereabouts; all thesethoughts crowded on her distracted mind, and she was ready to sink under her apprehensions. She addressed herself to every saint in heaven, and inwardly implored their assistance. Fora considerable time she remained in an agony of despair.

At last, as softly as was possible, she felt for the door, and having found it, entered trembling into the vault from whence she had heard the sigh and steps. It gave her a kind ofmomentary joy to perceive an imperfect ray of clouded moonshine gleam from the roof of the vault, which seemed to be fallen in, and from whence hung a fragment of earth orbuilding, she could not distinguish which, that appeared to have been crushed inwards. She advanced eagerly towards this chasm, when she discerned a human form standing closeagainst the wall.

She shrieked, believing it the ghost of her betrothed Conrad. The figure, advancing, said, in a submissive voice—

“Be not alarmed, Lady; I will not injure you.”

Isabella, a little encouraged by the words and tone of voice of the stranger, and recollecting that this must be the person who had opened the door, recovered her spirits enough to reply—

“Sir, whoever you are, take pity on a wretched Princess, standing on the brink of destruction. Assist me to escape from this fatal castle, or in a few moments I may be made miserable forever.”

“Alas!” said the stranger, “what can I do to assist you? I will die in your defence; but I am unacquainted with the castle, and want—”

“Oh!” said Isabella, hastily interrupting him; “help me but to find a trap-door that must be hereabout, and it is the greatest service you can do me, for I have not a minute to lose.”

Saying a these words, she felt about on the pavement, and directed the stranger to search likewise, for a smooth piece of brass enclosed in one of the stones.

“That,” said she, “is the lock, which opens with a spring, of which I know the secret. If we can find that, I may escape—if not, alas! courteous stranger, I fear I shall have involved youin my misfortunes: Manfred will suspect you for the accomplice of my flight, and you will fall a victim to his resentment.”

“I value not my life,” said the stranger, “and it will be some comfort to lose it in trying to deliver you from his tyranny.”

“Generous youth,” said Isabella, “how shall I ever requite—”

As she uttered those words, a ray of moonshine, streaming through a cranny of the ruin above, shone directly on the lock they sought.

“Oh! transport!” said Isabella; “here is the trap-door!” and, taking out the key, she touched the spring, which, starting aside, discovered an iron ring. “Lift up the door,” said the Princess.

The stranger obeyed, and beneath appeared some stone steps descending into a vault totally dark.

“We must go down here,” said Isabella. “Follow me; dark and dismal as it is, we cannot miss our way; it leads directly to the church of St. Nicholas. But, perhaps,” added the Princessmodestly, “you have no reason to leave the castle, nor have I farther occasion for your service; in a few minutes I shall be safe from Manfred’s rage—only let me know to whom I am somuch obliged.”

“I will never quit you,” said the stranger eagerly, “until I have placed you in safety—nor think me, Princess, more generous than I am; though you are my principal care—”

The stranger was interrupted by a sudden noise of voices that seemed approaching, and they soon distinguished these words—

“Talk not to me of necromancers; I tell you she must be in the castle; I will find her in spite of enchantment.”

“Oh, heavens!” cried Isabella; “it is the voice of Manfred! Make haste, or we are ruined! and shut the trap-door after you.”

Saying this, she descended the steps precipitately; and as the stranger hastened to follow her, he let the door slip out of his hands: it fell, and the spring closed over it. He tried in vain toopen it, not having observed Isabella’s method of touching the spring; nor had he many moments to make an essay. The noise of the falling door had been heard by Manfred, who,directed by the sound, hastened thither, attended by his servants with torches.

“It must be Isabella,” cried Manfred, before he entered the vault. “She is escaping by the subterraneous passage, but she cannot have got far.”

What was the astonishment of the Prince when, instead of Isabella, the light of the torches discovered to him the young peasant whom he thought confined under the fatal helmet!

“Traitor!” said Manfred; “how camest thou here? I thought thee in durance above in the court.”

“I am no traitor,” replied the young man boldly, “nor am I answerable for your thoughts.”

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“Presumptuous villain!” cried Manfred; “dost thou provoke my wrath? Tell me, how hast thou escaped from above? Thou hast corrupted thy guards, and their lives shall answer it.”

“My poverty,” said the peasant calmly, “will disculpate them: though the ministers of a tyrant’s wrath, to thee they are faithful, and but too willing to execute the orders which youunjustly imposed upon them.”

“Art thou so hardy as to dare my vengeance?” said the Prince; “but tortures shall force the truth from thee. Tell me; I will know thy accomplices.”

“There was my accomplice!” said the youth, smiling, and pointing to the roof.

Manfred ordered the torches to be held up, and perceived that one of the cheeks of the enchanted casque had forced its way through the pavement of the court, as his servants had let itfall over the peasant, and had broken through into the vault, leaving a gap, through which the peasant had pressed himself some minutes before he was found by Isabella.

“Was that the way by which thou didst descend?” said Manfred.

“It was,” said the youth.

“But what noise was that,” said Manfred, “which I heard as I entered the cloister?”

“A door clapped,” said the peasant; “I heard it as well as you.”

“What door?” said Manfred hastily.

“I am not acquainted with your castle,” said the peasant; “this is the first time I ever entered it, and this vault the only part of it within which I ever was.”

“But I tell thee,” said Manfred (wishing to find out if the youth had discovered the trap-door), “it was this way I heard the noise. My servants heard it too.”

“My Lord,” interrupted one of them officiously, “to be sure it was the trap-door, and he was going to make his escape.”

“Peace, blockhead!” said the Prince angrily; “if he was going to escape, how should he come on this side? I will know from his own mouth what noise it was I heard. Tell me truly; thylife depends on thy veracity.”

“My veracity is dearer to me than my life,” said the peasant; “nor would I purchase the one by forfeiting the other.”

“Indeed, young philosopher!” said Manfred contemptuously; “tell me, then, what was the noise I heard?”

“Ask me what I can answer,” said he, “and put me to death instantly if I tell you a lie.”

Manfred, growing impatient at the steady valour and indifference of the youth, cried—

“Well, then, thou man of truth, answer! Was it the fall of the trap-door that I heard?”

“It was,” said the youth.

“It was!” said the Prince; “and how didst thou come to know there was a trap-door here?”

“I saw the plate of brass by a gleam of moonshine,” replied he.

“But what told thee it was a lock?” said Manfred. “How didst thou discover the secret of opening it?”

“Providence, that delivered me from the helmet, was able to direct me to the spring of a lock,” said he.

“Providence should have gone a little farther, and have placed thee out of the reach of my resentment,” said Manfred. “When Providence had taught thee to open the lock, it abandonedthee for a fool, who did not know how to make use of its favours. Why didst thou not pursue the path pointed out for thy escape? Why didst thou shut the trap-door before thou hadstdescended the steps?”

“I might ask you, my Lord,” said the peasant, “how I, totally unacquainted with your castle, was to know that those steps led to any outlet? but I scorn to evade your questions.Wherever those steps lead to, perhaps I should have explored the way—I could not be in a worse situation than I was. But the truth is, I let the trap-door fall: your immediate arrivalfollowed. I had given the alarm—what imported it to me whether I was seized a minute sooner or a minute later?”

“Thou art a resolute villain for thy years,” said Manfred; “yet on reflection I suspect thou dost but trifle with me. Thou hast not yet told me how thou didst open the lock.”

“That I will show you, my Lord,” said the peasant; and, taking up a fragment of stone that had fallen from above, he laid himself on the trap-door, and began to beat on the piece of brassthat covered it, meaning to gain time for the escape of the Princess. This presence of mind, joined to the frankness of the youth, staggered Manfred. He even felt a disposition towardspardoning one who had been guilty of no crime. Manfred was not one of those savage tyrants who wanton in cruelty unprovoked. The circumstances of his fortune had given an asperityto his temper, which was naturally humane; and his virtues were always ready to operate, when his passions did not obscure his reason.

While the Prince was in this suspense, a confused noise of voices echoed through the distant vaults. As the sound approached, he distinguished the clamours of some of his domestics,whom he had dispersed through the castle in search of Isabella, calling out—

“Where is my Lord? where is the Prince?”

“Here I am,” said Manfred, as they came nearer; “have you found the Princess?”

The first that arrived, replied, “Oh, my Lord! I am glad we have found you.”

“Found me!” said Manfred; “have you found the Princess?”

“We thought we had, my Lord,” said the fellow, looking terrified, “but—”

“But, what?” cried the Prince; “has she escaped?”

“Jaquez and I, my Lord—”

“Yes, I and Diego,” interrupted the second, who came up in still greater consternation.

“Speak one of you at a time,” said Manfred; “I ask you, where is the Princess?”

“We do not know,” said they both together; “but we are frightened out of our wits.”

“So I think, blockheads,” said Manfred; “what is it has scared you thus?”

“Oh! my Lord,” said Jaquez, “Diego has seen such a sight! your Highness would not believe our eyes.”

“What new absurdity is this?” cried Manfred; “give me a direct answer, or, by Heaven—”

“Why, my Lord, if it please your Highness to hear me,” said the poor fellow, “Diego and I—”

“Yes, I and Jaquez—” cried his comrade.

“Did not I forbid you to speak both at a time?” said the Prince: “you, Jaquez, answer; for the other fool seems more distracted than thou art; what is the matter?”

“My gracious Lord,” said Jaquez, “if it please your Highness to hear me; Diego and I, according to your Highness’s orders, went to search for the young Lady; but being comprehensivethat we might meet the ghost of my young Lord, your Highness’s son, God rest his soul, as he has not received Christian burial—”

“Sot!” cried Manfred in a rage; “is it only a ghost, then, that thou hast seen?”

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“Oh! worse! worse! my Lord,” cried Diego: “I had rather have seen ten whole ghosts.”

“Grant me patience!” said Manfred; “these blockheads distract me. Out of my sight, Diego! and thou, Jaquez, tell me in one word, art thou sober? art thou raving? thou wast wont tohave some sense: has the other sot frightened himself and thee too? Speak; what is it he fancies he has seen?”

“Why, my Lord,” replied Jaquez, trembling, “I was going to tell your Highness, that since the calamitous misfortune of my young Lord, God rest his precious soul! not one of us yourHighness’s faithful servants—indeed we are, my Lord, though poor men—I say, not one of us has dared to set a foot about the castle, but two together: so Diego and I, thinking that myyoung Lady might be in the great gallery, went up there to look for her, and tell her your Highness wanted something to impart to her.”

“O blundering fools!” cried Manfred; “and in the meantime, she has made her escape, because you were afraid of goblins!—Why, thou knave! she left me in the gallery; I came fromthence myself.”

“For all that, she may be there still for aught I know,” said Jaquez; “but the devil shall have me before I seek her there again—poor Diego! I do not believe he will ever recover it.”

“Recover what?” said Manfred; “am I never to learn what it is has terrified these rascals?—but I lose my time; follow me, slave; I will see if she is in the gallery.”

“For Heaven’s sake, my dear, good Lord,” cried Jaquez, “do not go to the gallery. Satan himself I believe is in the chamber next to the gallery.”

Manfred, who hitherto had treated the terror of his servants as an idle panic, was struck at this new circumstance. He recollected the apparition of the portrait, and the sudden closing ofthe door at the end of the gallery. His voice faltered, and he asked with disorder—

“What is in the great chamber?”

“My Lord,” said Jaquez, “when Diego and I came into the gallery, he went first, for he said he had more courage than I. So when we came into the gallery we found nobody. We lookedunder every bench and stool; and still we found nobody.”

“Were all the pictures in their places?” said Manfred.

“Yes, my Lord,” answered Jaquez; “but we did not think of looking behind them.”

“Well, well!” said Manfred; “proceed.”

“When we came to the door of the great chamber,” continued Jaquez, “we found it shut.”

“And could not you open it?” said Manfred.

“Oh! yes, my Lord; would to Heaven we had not!” replied he—“nay, it was not I neither; it was Diego: he was grown foolhardy, and would go on, though I advised him not—if ever Iopen a door that is shut again—”

“Trifle not,” said Manfred, shuddering, “but tell me what you saw in the great chamber on opening the door.”

“I! my Lord!” said Jaquez; “I was behind Diego; but I heard the noise.”

“Jaquez,” said Manfred, in a solemn tone of voice; “tell me, I adjure thee by the souls of my ancestors, what was it thou sawest? what was it thou heardest?”

“It was Diego saw it, my Lord, it was not I,” replied Jaquez; “I only heard the noise. Diego had no sooner opened the door, than he cried out, and ran back. I ran back too, and said, ‘Is itthe ghost?’ ‘The ghost! no, no,’ said Diego, and his hair stood on end—‘it is a giant, I believe; he is all clad in armour, for I saw his foot and part of his leg, and they are as large as thehelmet below in the court.’ As he said these words, my Lord, we heard a violent motion and the rattling of armour, as if the giant was rising, for Diego has told me since that he believesthe giant was lying down, for the foot and leg were stretched at length on the floor. Before we could get to the end of the gallery, we heard the door of the great chamber clap behind us,but we did not dare turn back to see if the giant was following us—yet, now I think on it, we must have heard him if he had pursued us—but for Heaven’s sake, good my Lord, send forthe chaplain, and have the castle exorcised, for, for certain, it is enchanted.”

“Ay, pray do, my Lord,” cried all the servants at once, “or we must leave your Highness’s service.”

“Peace, dotards!” said Manfred, “and follow me; I will know what all this means.”

“We! my Lord!” cried they with one voice; “we would not go up to the gallery for your Highness’s revenue.” The young peasant, who had stood silent, now spoke.

“Will your Highness,” said he, “permit me to try this adventure? My life is of consequence to nobody; I fear no bad angel, and have offended no good one.”

“Your behaviour is above your seeming,” said Manfred, viewing him with surprise and admiration—“hereafter I will reward your bravery—but now,” continued he with a sigh, “I am socircumstanced, that I dare trust no eyes but my own. However, I give you leave to accompany me.”

Manfred, when he first followed Isabella from the gallery, had gone directly to the apartment of his wife, concluding the Princess had retired thither. Hippolita, who knew his step, rosewith anxious fondness to meet her Lord, whom she had not seen since the death of their son. She would have flown in a transport mixed of joy and grief to his bosom, but he pushed herrudely off, and said—

“Where is Isabella?”

“Isabella! my Lord!” said the astonished Hippolita.

“Yes, Isabella,” cried Manfred imperiously; “I want Isabella.”

“My Lord,” replied Matilda, who perceived how much his behaviour had shocked her mother, “she has not been with us since your Highness summoned her to your apartment.”

“Tell me where she is,” said the Prince; “I do not want to know where she has been.”

“My good Lord,” says Hippolita, “your daughter tells you the truth: Isabella left us by your command, and has not returned since;—but, my good Lord, compose yourself: retire to yourrest: this dismal day has disordered you. Isabella shall wait your orders in the morning.”

“What, then, you know where she is!” cried Manfred. “Tell me directly, for I will not lose an instant—and you, woman,” speaking to his wife, “order your chaplain to attend meforthwith.”

“Isabella,” said Hippolita calmly, “is retired, I suppose, to her chamber: she is not accustomed to watch at this late hour. Gracious my Lord,” continued she, “let me know what hasdisturbed you. Has Isabella offended you?”

“Trouble me not with questions,” said Manfred, “but tell me where she is.”

“Matilda shall call her,” said the Princess. “Sit down, my Lord, and resume your wonted fortitude.”

“What, art thou jealous of Isabella?” replied he, “that you wish to be present at our interview!”

“Good heavens! my Lord,” said Hippolita, “what is it your Highness means?”

“Thou wilt know ere many minutes are passed,” said the cruel Prince. “Send your chaplain to me, and wait my pleasure here.”

At these words he flung out of the room in search of Isabella, leaving the amazed ladies thunderstruck with his words and frantic deportment, and lost in vain conjectures on what he wasmeditating.

Manfred was now returning from the vault, attended by the peasant and a few of his servants whom he had obliged to accompany him. He ascended the staircase without stopping till hearrived at the gallery, at the door of which he met Hippolita and her chaplain. When Diego had been dismissed by Manfred, he had gone directly to the Princess’s apartment with the

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alarm of what he had seen. That excellent Lady, who no more than Manfred doubted of the reality of the vision, yet affected to treat it as a delirium of the servant. Willing, however, tosave her Lord from any additional shock, and prepared by a series of griefs not to tremble at any accession to it, she determined to make herself the first sacrifice, if fate had marked thepresent hour for their destruction. Dismissing the reluctant Matilda to her rest, who in vain sued for leave to accompany her mother, and attended only by her chaplain, Hippolita hadvisited the gallery and great chamber; and now with more serenity of soul than she had felt for many hours, she met her Lord, and assured him that the vision of the gigantic leg and footwas all a fable; and no doubt an impression made by fear, and the dark and dismal hour of the night, on the minds of his servants. She and the chaplain had examined the chamber, andfound everything in the usual order.

Manfred, though persuaded, like his wife, that the vision had been no work of fancy, recovered a little from the tempest of mind into which so many strange events had thrown him.Ashamed, too, of his inhuman treatment of a Princess who returned every injury with new marks of tenderness and duty, he felt returning love forcing itself into his eyes; but not lessashamed of feeling remorse towards one against whom he was inwardly meditating a yet more bitter outrage, he curbed the yearnings of his heart, and did not dare to lean even towardspity. The next transition of his soul was to exquisite villainy.

Presuming on the unshaken submission of Hippolita, he flattered himself that she would not only acquiesce with patience to a divorce, but would obey, if it was his pleasure, inendeavouring to persuade Isabella to give him her hand—but ere he could indulge his horrid hope, he reflected that Isabella was not to be found. Coming to himself, he gave orders thatevery avenue to the castle should be strictly guarded, and charged his domestics on pain of their lives to suffer nobody to pass out. The young peasant, to whom he spoke favourably, heordered to remain in a small chamber on the stairs, in which there was a pallet-bed, and the key of which he took away himself, telling the youth he would talk with him in the morning.Then dismissing his attendants, and bestowing a sullen kind of half-nod on Hippolita, he retired to his own chamber.

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1.4: Clara Reeve, excerpt from The Old English Baron (1778)

Clara Reeve, excerpt from The Old English Baron (1778)

Jeanette A. Laredo

Preface to the Second Edition

The Old English Baron was previously published as The Champion of Virtue in 1777, without the Preface.

As this Story is of a species which, tho’ not new, is out of the common track, it has been though necessary to point outsome circumstances to the reader, which will elucidate the design, and, it is hoped, will induce him to form a favourable, aswell as a right judgment of the work before him.

This Story is the literary offspring of the Castle of Otranto, written upon the same plan, with a design to unite the mostattractive and interesting circumstances of the ancient Romance and modern Novel, at the same time it assumes a characterand manner of its own, that differs from both; it is distinguished by the appellation of a Gothic Story, being a picture ofGothic times and manners. Fictitious Stories have been the delight of all times and all countries, by oral tradition inbarbarous, by writing in more civilized ones; and altho’ some persons of wit and learning have condemned themindiscriminately, I would venture to affirm, that even those who so much affect to despise them under one form, willreceive and embrace them under another.

Thus, for instance, a man shall admire and almost adore the Epic poems of the Ancients, and yet despise and execrate theancient Romances, which are only Epics in prose.

History represents human nature as it is in real life;–alas, too often a melancholy retrospect!–Romance displays only theamiable side of the picture; it shews the pleasing features, and throws a veil over the blemishes: Mankind are naturallypleased with what gratifies their vanity; and vanity, like all passions of the human heart, may be rendered subservient togood and useful purposes.

I confess that it may be abused, and become an instrument to corrupt the manners and morals of mankind; so may poetry,so may plays, so may every kind of composition; but that will prove nothing more than the old saying lately revived by thephilosophers the most in fashion, “that every earthly thing has two handles.”

The business of Romance is, first, to excite the attention; and, secondly, to direct it to some useful, or at least innocent,end; Happy the writer who attains both these points, like Richardson! and not unfortunate, or undeserving praise, he whogains only the latter, and furnishes out an entertainment for the reader!

Having, in some degree, opened my design, I beg leave to conduct my reader back again, till he comes within view of theCastle of Otranto; a work which, as already has been observed, is an attempt to unite the various merits and graces of theancient Romance and modern Novel. To attain this end, there is required a sufficient degree of the marvellous, to excite theattention; enough of the manners of real life, to give an air of probability to the work; and enough of the pathetic, to engagethe heart in its behalf.

The book we have mentioned is excellent in the two last points, but has a redundancy in the first; the opening excites theattention very strongly; the conduct of the story is artful and judicious; the characters are admirably drawn and supported;the diction polished and elegant; yet, with all these brilliant advantages, it palls upon the mind (though it does not upon theear); and the reason is obvious, the machinery is so violent, that it destroys the effect it is intended to excite. Had the storybeen kept within the utmost verge of probability, the effect had been preserved, without losing the least circumstance thatexcites or detains the attention.

For instance, we can conceive, and allow of, the appearance of a ghost; we can even dispense with an enchanted sword andhelmet; but then they must keep within certain limits of credibility: a sword so large as to require an hundred men to lift it;a helmet that by its own weight forces a passage through a court- yard into an arched vault, big enough for a man to gothrough; a picture that walks out of its frame; a skeleton ghost in a hermit’s cowl:–When your expectation is wound up tothe highest pitch, these circumstances take it down with a witness, destroy the work of imagination, and, instead ofattention, excite laughter. I was both surprised and vexed to find the enchantment dissolved, which I wished mightcontinue to the end of the book; and several of its readers have confessed the same disappointment to me: The beauties areso numerous, that we cannot bear the defects, but want it to be perfect in all respects.

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In the course of my observations upon this singular book, it seemed to me that it was possible to compose a work upon thesame plan, wherein these defects might be avoided; and the keeping, as in painting, might be preserved.

But then I began to fear it might happen to me as to certain translators, and imitators of Shakespeare; the unities may bepreserved, while the spirit is evaporated. However, I ventured to attempt it; I read the beginning to a circle of friends ofapproved judgment, and by their approbation was encouraged to proceed, and to finish it.

By the advice of the same friends I printed the First Edition in the country, where it circulated chiefly, very few copiesbeing sent to London, and being thus encouraged, I have determined to offer a second Edition to that public which has sooften rewarded the efforts of those, who have endeavoured to contribute to its entertainment.

The work has lately undergone a revision and correction, the former Edition being very incorrect; and by the earnestsolicitation of several friends, for whose judgment I have the greatest deference, I have consented to a change of the titlefrom the Champion of Virtue to the Old English Baron:–as that character is thought to be the principal one in the story.

I have also been prevailed upon, though with extreme reluctance, to suffer my name to appear in the title- page; and I donow, with the utmost respect and diffidence, submit the whole to the candour of the public.

The Old English Baron: A Gothic Story

An illustration to the 1778 edition of The Old English Baron by Clara Reeve depicts two figures startled by a third figurein armor.

In the minority of Henry the Sixth, King of England, when the renowned John, Duke of Bedford was Regent of France,and Humphrey, the good Duke of Gloucester, was Protector of England, a worthy knight, called Sir Philip Harclay,returned from his travels to England, his native country. He had served under the glorious King Henry the Fifth withdistinguished valour, had acquired an honourable fame, and was no less esteemed for Christian virtues than for deeds ofchivalry. After the death of his prince, he entered into the service of the Greek emperor, and distinguished his courageagainst the encroachments of the Saracens. In a battle there, he took prisoner a certain gentleman, by name M. Zadisky, ofGreek extraction, but brought up by a Saracen officer; this man he converted to the Christian faith; after which he boundhim to himself by the ties of friendship and gratitude, and he resolved to continue with his benefactor. After thirty years

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travel and warlike service, he determined to return to his native land, and to spend the remainder of his life in peace; and,by devoting himself to works of piety and charity, prepare for a better state hereafter.

This noble knight had, in his early youth, contracted a strict friendship with the only son of the Lord Lovel, a gentleman ofeminent virtues and accomplishments. During Sir Philip’s residence in foreign countries, he had frequently written to hisfriend, and had for a time received answers; the last informed him of the death of old Lord Lovel, and the marriage of theyoung one; but from that time he had heard no more from him. Sir Philip imputed it not to neglect or forgetfulness, but tothe difficulties of intercourse, common at that time to all travellers and adventurers. When he was returning home, heresolved, after looking into his family affairs, to visit the Castle of Lovel, and enquire into the situation of his friend. Helanded in Kent, attended by his Greek friend and two faithful servants, one of which was maimed by the wounds he hadreceived in the defence of his master.

Sir Philip went to his family seat in Yorkshire. He found his mother and sister were dead, and his estates sequestered in thehands of commissioners appointed by the Protector. He was obliged to prove the reality of his claim, and the identity of hisperson (by the testimony of some of the old servants of his family), after which every thing was restored to him. He tookpossession of his own house, established his household, settled the old servants in their former stations, and placed thosehe brought home in the upper offices of his family. He then left his friend to superintend his domestic affairs; and, attendedby only one of his old servants, he set out for the Castle of Lovel, in the west of England. They travelled by easy journeys;but, towards the evening of the second day, the servant was so ill and fatigued he could go no further; he stopped at an innwhere he grew worse every hour, and the next day expired. Sir Philip was under great concern for the loss of his servant,and some for himself, being alone in a strange place; however he took courage, ordered his servant’s funeral, attended ithimself, and, having shed a tear of humanity over his grave, proceeded alone on his journey.

As he drew near the estate of his friend, he began to enquire of every one he met, whether the Lord Lovel resided at theseat of his ancestors? He was answered by one, he did not know; by another, he could not tell; by a third, that he neverheard of such a person. Sir Philip thought it strange that a man of Lord Lovel’s consequence should be unknown in his ownneighbourhood, and where his ancestors had usually resided. He ruminated on the uncertainty of human happiness. “Thisworld,” said he, “has nothing for a wise man to depend upon. I have lost all my relations, and most of my friends; and ameven uncertain whether any are remaining. I will, however, be thankful for the blessings that are spared to me; and I willendeavour to replace those that I have lost. If my friend lives, he shall share my fortune with me; his children shall havethe reversion of it; and I will share his comforts in return. But perhaps my friend may have met with troubles that havemade him disgusted with the world; perhaps he has buried his amiable wife, or his promising children; and, tired of publiclife, he is retired into a monastery. At least, I will know what all this silence means.”

When he came within a mile of the Castle of Lovel, he stopped at a cottage and asked for a draught of water; a peasant,master of the house, brought it, and asked if his honour would alight and take a moment’s refreshment. Sir Philip acceptedhis offer, being resolved to make farther enquiry before he approached the castle. He asked the same questions of him, thathe had before of others.

“Which Lord Lovel,” said the man, “does your honour enquire after?”

“The man whom I knew was called Arthur,” said Sir Philip.

“Ay,” said the Peasant, “he was the only surviving son of Richard, Lord Lovel, as I think?”

“Very true, friend, he was so.”

“Alas, sir,” said the man, “he is dead! he survived his father but a short time.”

“Dead! say you? how long since?”

“About fifteen years, to the best of my remembrance.”

Sir Philip sighed deeply.

“Alas!” said he, “what do we, by living long, but survive all our friends! But pray tell me how he died?”

“I will, sir, to the best of my knowledge. An’t please your honour, I heard say, that he attended the King when he wentagainst the Welch rebels, and he left his lady big with child; and so there was a battle fought, and the king got the better ofthe rebels. There came first a report that none of the officers were killed; but a few days after there came a messenger with

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an account very different, that several were wounded, and that the Lord Lovel was slain; which sad news overset us allwith sorrow, for he was a noble gentleman, a bountiful master, and the delight of all the neighbourhood.”

“He was indeed,” said Sir Philip, “all that is amiable and good; he was my dear and noble friend, and I am inconsolable forhis loss. But the unfortunate lady, what became of her?”

“Why, a’nt please your honour, they said she died of grief for the loss of her husband; but her death was kept private for atime, and we did not know it for certain till some weeks afterwards.”

“The will of Heaven be obeyed!” said Sir Philip; “but who succeeded to the title and estate?”

“The next heir,” said the peasant, “a kinsman of the deceased, Sir Walter Lovel by name.”

“I have seen him,” said Sir Philip, “formerly; but where was he when these events happened?”

“At the Castle of Lovel, sir; he came there on a visit to the lady, and waited there to receive my Lord, at his return fromWales; when the news of his death arrived, Sir Walter did every thing in his power to comfort her, and some said he was tomarry her; but she refused to be comforted, and took it so to heart that she died.”

“And does the present Lord Lovel reside at the castle?”

“No, sir.”

“Who then?”

“The Lord Baron Fitz-Owen.”

“And how came Sir Walter to leave the seat of his ancestors?”

“Why, sir, he married his sister to this said Lord; and so he sold the Castle to him, and went away, and built himself ahouse in the north country, as far as Northumberland, I think they call it.”

“That is very strange!” said Sir Philip.

“So it is, please your honour; but this is all I know about it.”

“I thank you, friend, for your intelligence; I have taken a long journey to no purpose, and have met with nothing but crossaccidents. This life is, indeed, a pilgrimage! Pray direct me the nearest way to the next monastery.”

“Noble sir,” said the peasant, “it is full five miles off, the night is coming on, and the ways are bad; I am but a poor man,and cannot entertain your honour as you are used to; but if you will enter my poor cottage, that, and every thing in it, are atyour service.”

“My honest friend, I thank you heartily,” said Sir Philip; “your kindness and hospitality might shame many of higher birthand breeding; I will accept your kind offer;—but pray let me know the name of my host?”

“John Wyatt, sir; an honest man though a poor one, and a Christian man, though a sinful one.”

“Whose cottage is this?”

“It belongs to the Lord Fitz-Owen.”

“What family have you?”

“A wife, two sons and a daughter, who will all be proud to wait upon your honour; let me hold your honour’s stirrup whilstyou alight.”

He seconded these words by the proper action, and having assisted his guest to dismount, he conducted him into his house,called his wife to attend him, and then led his horse under a poor shed, that served him as a stable. Sir Philip was fatiguedin body and mind, and was glad to repose himself anywhere. The courtesy of his host engaged his attention, and satisfiedhis wishes. He soon after returned, followed by a youth of about eighteen years.

“Make haste, John,” said the father, “and be sure you say neither more nor less than what I have told you.”

“I will, father,” said the lad; and immediately set off, ran like a buck across the fields, and was out of sight in an instant.

“I hope, friend,” said Sir Philip, “you have not sent your son to provide for my entertainment; I am a soldier, used to lodgeand fare hard; and, if it were otherwise, your courtesy and kindness would give a relish to the most ordinary food.”

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“I wish heartily,” said Wyatt, “it was in my power to entertain your honour as you ought to be; but, as I cannot do so, Iwill, when my son returns, acquaint you with the errand I sent him on.”

After this they conversed together on common subjects, like fellow-creatures of the same natural form and endowments,though different kinds of education had given a conscious superiority to the one, a conscious inferiority to the other; andthe due respect was paid by the latter, without being exacted by the former. In about half an hour young John returned.

“Thou hast made haste,” said the father.

“Not more than good speed,” quoth the son.

“Tell us, then, how you speed?”

“Shall I tell all that passed?” said John.

“All,” said the father; “I don’t want to hide any thing.”

John stood with his cap in his hand, and thus told his tale—

“I went straight to the castle as fast as I could run; it was my hap to light on young Master Edmund first, so I told him justas you had me, that a noble gentleman was come a long journey from foreign parts to see the Lord Lovel, his friend; and,having lived abroad many years, he did not know that he was dead, and that the castle was fallen into other hands; thatupon hearing these tidings he was much grieved and disappointed, and wanting a night’s lodging, to rest himself before hereturned to his own home, he was fain to take up with one at our cottage; that my father thought my Lord would be angrywith him, if he were not told of the stranger’s journey and intentions, especially to let such a man lie at our cottage, wherehe could neither be lodged nor entertained according to his quality.”

Here John stopped, and his father exclaimed—

“A good lad! you did your errand very well; and tell us the answer.”

John proceeded—

“Master Edmund ordered me some beer, and went to acquaint my Lord of the message; he stayed a while, and then cameback to me.—‘John,’ said he, ‘tell the noble stranger that the Baron Fitz-Owen greets him well, and desires him to restassured, that though Lord Lovel is dead, and the castle fallen into other hands, his friends will always find a welcomethere; and my lord desires that he will accept of a lodging there, while he remains in this country.’—So I came awaydirectly, and made haste to deliver my errand.”

Sir Philip expressed some dissatisfaction at this mark of old Wyatt’s respect.

“I wish,” said he, “that you had acquainted me with your intention before you sent to inform the Baron I was here. I chooserather to lodge with you; and I propose to make amends for the trouble I shall give you.”

“Pray, sir, don’t mention it,” said the peasant, “you are as welcome as myself; I hope no offence; the only reason of mysending was, because I am both unable and unworthy to entertain your honour.”

“I am sorry,” said Sir Philip, “you should think me so dainty; I am a Christian soldier; and him I acknowledge for myPrince and Master, accepted the invitations of the poor, and washed the feet of his disciples. Let us say no more on thishead; I am resolved to stay this night in your cottage, tomorrow I will wait on the Baron, and thank him for his hospitableinvitation.”

“That shall be as your honour pleases, since you will condescend to stay here. John, do you run back and acquaint my Lordof it.”

“Not so,” said Sir Philip; “it is now almost dark.”

“‘Tis no matter,” said John, “I can go it blindfold.”

Sir Philip then gave him a message to the Baron in his own name, acquainting him that he would pay his respects to him inthe morning. John flew back the second time, and soon returned with new commendations from the Baron, and that hewould expect him on the morrow. Sir Philip gave him an angel of gold, and praised his speed and abilities.

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He supped with Wyatt and his family upon new-laid eggs and rashers of bacon, with the highest relish. They praised theCreator for His gifts, and acknowledged they were unworthy of the least of His blessings. They gave the best of their twolofts up to Sir Philip, the rest of the family slept in the other, the old woman and her daughter in the bed, the father and histwo sons upon clean straw. Sir Philip’s bed was of a better kind, and yet much inferior to his usual accommodations;nevertheless the good knight slept as well in Wyatt’s cottage, as he could have done in a palace.

During his sleep, many strange and incoherent dreams arose to his imagination. He thought he received a message from hisfriend Lord Lovel, to come to him at the castle; that he stood at the gate and received him, that he strove to embrace him,but could not; but that he spoke to this effect:—“Though I have been dead these fifteen years, I still command here, andnone can enter these gates without my permission; know that it is I that invite, and bid you welcome; the hopes of myhouse rest upon you.” Upon this he bid Sir Philip follow him; he led him through many rooms, till at last he sunk down,and Sir Philip thought he still followed him, till he came into a dark and frightful cave, where he disappeared, and in hisstead he beheld a complete suit of armour stained with blood, which belonged to his friend, and he thought he heard dismalgroans from beneath. Presently after, he thought he was hurried away by an invisible hand, and led into a wild heath,where the people were inclosing the ground, and making preparations for two combatants; the trumpet sounded, and avoice called out still louder, “Forbear! It is not permitted to be revealed till the time is ripe for the event; wait with patienceon the decrees of heaven.” He was then transported to his own house, where, going into an unfrequented room, he wasagain met by his friend, who was living, and in all the bloom of youth, as when he first knew him: He started at the sight,and awoke. The sun shone upon his curtains, and, perceiving it was day, he sat up, and recollected where he was. Theimages that impressed his sleeping fancy remained strongly on his mind waking; but his reason strove to disperse them; itwas natural that the story he had heard should create these ideas, that they should wait on him in his sleep, and that everydream should bear some relation to his deceased friend. The sun dazzled his eyes, the birds serenaded him and diverted hisattention, and a woodbine forced its way through the window, and regaled his sense of smelling with its fragrance. Hearose, paid his devotions to Heaven, and then carefully descended the narrow stairs, and went out at the door of thecottage.

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1.5: William Beckford, excerpt from Vathek (1786)

William Beckford, excerpt from Vathek (1786)

Jeanette A. Laredo

Vathek and his mother Caranthus consult the planets as smoke from a small fire rises into the night sky.A deathlikestillness reigned over the mountain, and through the air. The moon dilated, on a vast platform, the shades of the loftycolumns, which reached from the terrace almost to the clouds. The gloomy watch-towers, whose number could not becounted, were veiled by no roof: and their capitals, of an architecture unknown in the records of the earth, served as anasylum for the birds of darkness, which, alarmed at the approach of such visitants, fled away croaking.

The chief of the eunuchs, trembling with fear, besought Vathek that a fire might be kindled.

“No!” replied he, “there is no time left to think of such trifles; abide where thou art, and expect my commands.”

Having thus spoken, he presented his hand to Nouronihar, and ascending the steps of a vast staircase, reached the terrace,which was flagged with squares of marble, and resembled a smooth expanse of water, upon whose surface not a leaf everdared to vegetate. On the right rose the watch-towers, ranged before the ruins of an immense palace, whose walls wereembossed with various figures. In front stood forth the colossal forms of four creatures, composed of the leopard and thegriffin; and though but of stone, inspired emotions of terror. Near these were distinguished by the splendour of the moon,which streamed full on the place, characters like those on the sabres of the Giaour, that possessed the same virtue ofchanging every moment. These, after vacillating for some time, at last fixed in Arabic letters, and prescribed to the Caliphthe following words:

“Vathek! thou hast violated the conditions of my parchment, and deservest to be sent back; but in favour to thy companion,and as the meed for what thou hast done to obtain it, Eblis permitteth that the portal of his palace shall be opened, and thesubterranean fire will receive thee into the number of its adorers.”

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He scarcely had read these words before the mountain, against which the terrace was reared, trembled; and the watch-towers were ready to topple headlong upon them. The rock yawned, and disclosed within it a staircase of polished marble,that seemed to approach the abyss. Upon each stair were planted two large torches, like those Nouronihar had seen in hervision, the camphorated vapour ascending from which gathered into a cloud under the hollow of the vault.

This appearance, instead of terrifying, gave new courage to the daughter of Fakreddin. Scarcely deigning to bid adieu tothe moon and the firmament, she abandoned without hesitation the pure atmosphere, to plunge into these infernalexhalations. The gait of those impious personages was haughty and determined. As they descended, by the effulgence ofthe torches, they gazed on each other with mutual admiration, and both appeared so resplendent, that they alreadyesteemed themselves spiritual intelligences. The only circumstance that perplexed them, was their not arriving at thebottom of the stairs. On hastening their descent, with an ardent impetuosity, they felt their steps accelerated to such adegree, that they seemed not walking, but falling from a precipice. Their progress, however, was at length impeded by avast portal of ebony, which the Caliph without difficulty recognized. Here the Giaour awaited them, with the key in hishand,

“Ye are welcome!” said he to them, with a ghastly smile, “in spite of Mahomet, and all his dependents. I will now admityou into that palace, where you have so highly merited a place.”

Whilst he was uttering these words, he touched the enamelled lock with his key, and the doors at once expanded with anoise still louder than the thunder of mountains, and as suddenly recoiled the moment they had entered.

The Caliph and Nouronihar beheld each other with amazement, at finding themselves in a place which, though roofed witha vaulted ceiling, was so spacious and lofty, that at first they took it for an immeasurable plain. But their eyes at lengthgrowing to the grandeur of the objects at hand, they extended their view to those at a distance, and discovered rows ofcolumns and arcades, which gradually diminished, till they terminated in a point, radiant as the sun, when he darts his lastbeams athwart the ocean. The pavement, strewed over with gold dust and saffron, exhaled so subtile an odour, as almostoverpowered them. They, however, went on, and observed an infinity of censers, in which ambergris and the wood of aloeswere continually burning. Between the several columns were placed tables, each spread with a profusion of viands, andwines of every species, sparkling in vases of chrystal. A throng of Genii, and other phantastic spirits, of each sex, dancedlasciviously in troops, at the sound of music which issued from beneath.

In the midst of this immense hall, a vast multitude was incessantly passing, who severally kept their right hands on theirhearts, without once regarding any thing around them. They had all the livid paleness of death. Their eyes, deep sank intheir sockets, resembled those phosphoric meteors, that glimmer by night in places of interment. Some stalked slowly on,absorbed in profound reverie; some shrieking with agony, ran furiously about, like tigers wounded with poisoned arrows;whilst others, grinding their teeth in rage, foamed along, more frantic than the wildest maniac. They all avoided each other,and though surrounded by a multitude that no one could number, each wandered at random unheedful of the rest, as ifalone on a desert which no foot had trodden.

Vathek and Nouronihar, frozen with terror at a sight so baleful, demanded of the Giaour what these appearances mightmean, and why these ambulating spectres never withdrew their hands from their hearts.

“Perplex not yourselves,” replied he bluntly, “with so much at once, you will soon be acquainted with all; let us haste andpresent you to Eblis.”

They continued their way through the multitude, but notwithstanding their confidence at first, they were not sufficientlycomposed to examine with attention the various perspectives of halls, and of galleries, that opened on the right hand andleft, which were all illuminated by torches and braziers, whose flames rose in pyramids, to the centre of the vault. Atlength they came to a place where long curtains, brocaded with crimson and gold, fell from all parts, in striking confusion.Here the choirs and dances were heard no longer. The light which glimmered came from afar.

After some time Vathek and Nouronihar perceived a gleam brightening through the drapery, and entered a vast tabernacle,carpeted with the skins of leopards. An infinity of elders, with streaming beards, and afrits, in complete armour, hadprostrated themselves before the ascent of a lofty eminence, on the top of which, upon a globe of fire, sat the formidableEblis. His person was that of a young man, whose noble and regular features seemed to have been tarnished by malignantvapours. In his large eyes appeared both pride and despair; his flowing hair retained some resemblance to that of an angelof light. In his hand, which thunder had blasted, he swayed the iron sceptre, that causes the monster Ouranabad, the afrits,

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and all the powers of the abyss to tremble. At his presence the heart of the Caliph sank within him, and, for the first time,he fell prostrate on his face. Nouronihar, however, though greatly dismayed, could not help admiring the person of Eblis,for she expected to have seen some stupendous giant. Eblis, with a voice more mild than might be imagined, but such astransfused through the soul the deepest melancholy, said:

“Creatures of clay, I receive you into mine empire. Ye are numbered amongst my adorers. Enjoy whatever this palaceaffords—the treasures of the preadimite sultans, their bickering sabres, and those talismans that compel the Dives to openthe subterranean expanses of the mountain of Kaf, which communicate with these. There, insatiable as your curiosity maybe, shall you find sufficient to gratify it. You shall possess the exclusive privilege of entering the fortress of Aherman, andthe halls of Argenk, where are portrayed all creatures endowed with intelligence, and the various animals that inhabited theearth prior to the creation of that contemptible being, whom ye denominate the Father of Mankind.”

Vathek and Nouronihar feeling themselves revived and encouraged by this harangue, eagerly said to the Giaour:

“Bring us instantly to the place which contains these precious talismans.”

“Come,” answered this wicked Dive, with his malignant grin, “come, and possess all that my sovereign hath promised, andmore.”

He then conducted them into a long aisle adjoining the tabernacle, preceding them with hasty steps, and followed by hisdisciples with the utmost alacrity. They reached at length a hall of great extent, and covered with a lofty dome, aroundwhich appeared fifty portals of bronze, secured with as many fastenings of iron. A funereal gloom prevailed over thewhole scene. Here, upon two beds of incorruptible cedar, lay recumbent the fleshless forms of the preadimite kings, whohad been monarchs of the whole earth. They still possessed enough of life to be conscious of their deplorable condition.Their eyes retained a melancholy motion; they regarded each other with looks of the deepest dejection, each holding hisright hand motionless on his heart. At their feet were inscribed the events of their several reigns, their power, their pride,and their crimes. Soliman Raad, Soliman Daki, and Soliman Di Gian Ben Gian, who, after having chained up the Dives inthe dark caverns of Kaf, became so presumptuous, as to doubt of the Supreme Power. All these maintained great state,though not to be compared with the eminence of Soliman Ben Daoud.

This king, so renowned for his wisdom, was on the loftiest elevation, and placed immediately under the dome. Heappeared to possess more animation than the rest, though, from time to time, he laboured with profound sighs, and, like hiscompanions, kept his right hand on his heart; yet his countenance was more composed, and he seemed to be listening to thesullen roar of a vast cataract, visible in part through the grated portals. This was the only sound that intruded on the silenceof these doleful mansions. A range of brazen vases surrounded the elevation.

“Remove the covers from these cabalistic depositaries,” said the Giaour to Vathek, “and avail thyself of the talismans,which will break asunder all these gates of bronze, and not only render thee master of the treasures contained within them,but also of the spirits by which they are guarded.”

The Caliph, whom this ominous preliminary had entirely disconcerted, approached the vases with faltering footsteps, andwas ready to sink with terror, when he heard the groans of Soliman. As he proceeded, a voice from the livid lips of theprophet articulated these words:

“In my lifetime, I filled a magnificent throne, having on my right hand twelve thousand seats of gold, where the patriarchsand prophets heard my doctrines; on my left the sages and doctors, upon as many thrones of silver, were present at all mydecisions. Whilst I thus administered justice to innumerable multitudes, the birds of the air librating over me, served as acanopy from the rays of the sun. My people flourished, and my palace rose to the clouds. I erected a temple to the MostHigh, which was the wonder of the universe; but I basely suffered myself to be seduced by the love of women, and acuriosity that could not be restrained by sub-lunary things. I listened to the counsels of Aherman, and the daughter ofPharaoh; and adored fire, and the host of heaven. I forsook the holy city, and commanded the Genii to rear the stupendouspalace of Istakar, and the terrace of the watch-towers, each of which was consecrated to a star. There for a while I enjoyedmyself in the zenith of glory and pleasure. Not only men, but supernatural existences were subject also to my will. I beganto think, as these unhappy monarchs around had already thought, that the vengeance of heaven was asleep, when at oncethe thunder burst my structures asunder, and precipitated me hither; where, however, I do not remain like the otherinhabitants totally destitute of hope, for an angel of light hath revealed, that in consideration of the piety of my early youth,

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my woes shall come to an end when this cataract shall for ever cease to flow. Till then I am in torments, ineffable torments,an unrelenting fire preys on my heart.”

Having uttered this exclamation, Soliman raised his hands towards heaven, in token of supplication, and the Caliphdiscerned through his bosom, which was transparent as crystal, his heart enveloped in flames. At a sight so full of horror,Nouronihar fell back like one petrified, into the arms of Vathek, who cried out with a convulsive sob:

“O Giaour! whither hast thou brought us! Allow us to depart, and I will relinquish all thou hast promised. O Mahomet!remains there no more mercy!”

“None! none!” replied the malicious Dive. “Know, miserable prince, thou art now in the abode of vengeance, and despair.Thy heart, also, will be kindled, like those of the other votaries of Eblis. A few days are allotted thee previous to this fatalperiod: employ them as thou wilt. Recline on these heaps of gold: command the Infernal Potentates: range at thy pleasurethrough these immense subterranean domains. No barrier shall be shut against thee. As for me, I have fulfilled my mission.I now leave thee to thyself.”

At these words he vanished.

The Caliph and Nouronihar remained in the most abject affliction. Their tears unable to flow, scarcely could they supportthemselves. At length, taking each other despondingly by the hand, they went faltering from this fatal hall, indifferentwhich way they turned their steps. Every portal opened at their approach. The Dives fell prostrate before them. Everyreservoir of riches was disclosed to their view, but they no longer felt the incentives of curiosity, pride, or avarice. Withlike apathy they heard the chorus of Genii, and saw the stately banquets prepared to regale them. They went wandering onfrom chamber to chamber, hall to hall, and gallery to gallery; all without bounds or limit; all distinguishable by the samelowering gloom; all adorned with the same awful grandeur; all traversed by persons in search of repose and consolation,but who sought them in vain, for every one carried within him a heart tormented in flames. Shunned by these varioussufferers, who seemed by their looks to be upbraiding the partners of their guilt, they withdrew from them, to wait indireful suspense the moment which should render them to each other the like objects of terror.

“What,” exclaimed Nouronihar, “will the time come, when I shall snatch my hand from thine!”

“Ah!” said Vathek, “and shall my eyes ever cease to drink from thine long draughts of enjoyment! Shall the moments ofour reciprocal ecstasies be reflected on with horror! It was not thou that broughtest me hither; the principles by whichCarathis perverted my youth have been the sole cause of my perdition!”

Having given vent to these painful expressions, he called to an Afrit, who was stirring up one of the braziers, and bade himfetch the Princess Carathis from the palace of Samarah.

After issuing these orders, the Caliph and Nouronihar continued walking amidst the silent crowd, till they heard voices atthe end of the gallery. Presuming them to proceed from some unhappy beings, who like themselves were awaiting theirfinal doom, they followed the sound, and found it to come from a small square chamber, where they discovered sitting onsofas, five young men of goodly figure, and a lovely female, who were all holding a melancholy conversation, by theglimmering of a lonely lamp. Each had a gloomy and forlorn air, and two of them were embracing each other with greattenderness. On seeing the Caliph and the daughter of Fakreddin enter they arose, saluted, and gave them place. Then hewho had appeared the most considerable of the group, addressed himself thus to Vathek:

“Strangers! who doubtless are in the same state of suspense as ourselves, as you do not yet bear your hand on your heart, ifyou are come hither to pass the interval allotted previous to the infliction of our common punishment, condescend to relatethe adventures that have brought you to this fatal place; and we in return will acquaint you with ours; which deserves buttoo well to be heard. We will trace back our crimes to their source, though we are not permitted to repent. This is the onlyemployment suited to wretches like us.”

The Caliph and Nouronihar assented to the proposal, and Vathek began, not without tears and lamentations, a sincererecital of every circumstance that had passed. When the afflicting narrative was closed, the young man entered on his own.Each person proceeded in order, and when the fourth prince had reached the midst of his adventures, a sudden noiseinterrupted him, which caused the vault to tremble, and to open.

Immediately a cloud descended, which gradually dissipating, discovered Carathis, on the back of an Afrit, who grievouslycomplained of his burden. She, instantly springing to the ground, advanced towards her son, and said:

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“What dost thou here, in this little square chamber? As the Dives are become subject to thy beck, I expected to have foundthee on the throne of the preadimite kings.”

“Execrable woman!” answered the Caliph; “cursed be the day thou gavest me birth! Go! follow this Afrit; let him conductthee to the hall of the Prophet Soliman; there thou wilt learn to what these palaces are destined, and how much I ought toabhor the impious knowledge thou hast taught me.”

“The height of power to which thou art arrived, has certainly turned thy brain,” answered Carathis; “but I ask no more,than permission to show my respect for the prophet. It is, however, proper thou shouldst know, that, as the Afrit hasinformed me neither of us shall return to Samarah, I requested his permission to arrange my affairs, and he politelyconsented. Availing myself, therefore, of the few moments allowed me, I set fire to the tower, and consumed in it themutes, negresses, and serpents, which have rendered me so much good service; nor should I have been less kind toMorakanabad, had he not prevented me, by deserting at last to thy brother. As for Bababalouk, who had the folly to returnto Samarah, and all the good brotherhood to provide husbands for thy wives, I undoubtedly would have put them to thetorture, could I but have allowed them the time. Being, however, in a hurry, I only hung him, after having caught him in asnare with thy wives; whilst them I buried alive by the help of my negresses, who thus spent their last moments, greatly totheir satisfaction. With respect to Dilara, who ever stood high in my favour, she hath evinced the greatness of her mind, byfixing herself near, in the service of one of the Magi, and, I think, will soon be our own.”

Vathek, too much cast down to express the indignation excited by such a discourse, ordered the Afrit to remove Carathisfrom his presence, and continued immersed in thought, which his companions durst not disturb.

Carathis, however, eagerly entered the dome of Soliman, and, without regarding in the least the groans of the Prophet,undauntedly removed the covers of the vases, and violently seized on the talismans. Then, with a voice more loud than hadhitherto been heard in these mansions, she compelled the Dives to disclose to her the most secret treasures, the mostprofound stores, which the Afrit himself had not seen. She passed by rapid descents known only to Eblis and his mostfavoured Potentates, and thus penetrated the very entrails of the earth, where breathes the Sansar, or icy wind of death.Nothing appalled her dauntless soul. She perceived, however, in all the inmates who bore their hands on their heart, a littlesingularity not much to her taste. As she was emerging from one of the abysses, Eblis stood forth to her view, but,notwithstanding he displayed the full effulgence of his infernal majesty, she preserved her countenance unaltered, and evenpaid her compliments with considerable firmness.

This superb monarch thus answered:

“Princess, whose knowledge and whose crimes have merited a conspicuous rank in my empire, thou doest well to employthe leisure that remains, for the flames and torments which are ready to seize on thy heart, will not fail to provide thee withfull employment.”

He said this, and was lost in the curtains of his tabernacle.

Carathis paused for a moment with surprise, but, resolved to follow the advice of Eblis, she assembled all the choirs ofGenii, and all the Dives, to pay her homage. Thus marched she in triumph through a vapour of perfumes, amidst theacclamations of all the malignant spirits; with most of whom she had formed a previous acquaintance. She even attemptedto dethrone one of the Solimans, for the purpose of usurping his place, when a voice, proceeding from the Abyss of Death,proclaimed:

“All is accomplished!”

Instantaneously, the haughty forehead of the intrepid princess became corrugated with agony; she uttered a tremendousyell, and fixed—no more to be withdrawn—her right hand upon her heart, which was become a receptacle of eternal fire.

In this delirium, forgetting all ambitious projects, and her thirst for that knowledge which should ever be hidden frommortals, she overturned the offerings of the Genii; and, having execrated the hour she was begotten, and the womb that hadborne her, glanced off in a whirl that rendered her invisible, and continued to revolve without intermission.

At almost the same instant, the same voice announced to the Caliph, Nouronihar, the five princes, and the princess, theawful and irrevocable decree. Their hearts immediately took fire, and they at once lost the most precious of the gifts ofheaven—hope. These unhappy beings recoiled, with looks of the most furious distraction. Vathek beheld in the eyes ofNouronihar nothing but rage and vengeance; nor could she discern ought in his but aversion and despair. The two princes

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who were friends, and till that moment had preserved their attachment, shrunk back, gnashing their teeth with mutual andunchangeable hatred. Kalilah and his sister made reciprocal gestures of imprecation; whilst the two other princes testifiedtheir horror for each other by the most ghastly convulsions, and screams that could not be smothered. All severally plungedthemselves into the accursed multitude, there to wander in an eternity of unabating anguish.

Such was, and such should be, the punishment of unrestrained passions, and atrocious actions. Such is, and such should be,the chastisement of blind ambition, that would transgress those bounds which the Creator hath prescribed to humanknowledge, and by aiming at discoveries reserved for pure intelligence, acquire that infatuated pride, which perceives notthe condition appointed to man is, to be ignorant and humble.

Thus the Caliph Vathek who, for the sake of empty pomp and forbidden power, hath sullied himself with a thousandcrimes, became a prey to grief without end, and remorse without mitigation; whilst the humble and despisedGulchenrouzpassed whole ages in undisturbed tranquillity, and the pure happiness of childhood.

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1.6: Mary Wollstonecraft, From A Vindication of the Rights of Woman- withStrictures on Political and Moral Subjects (1792)

Mary Wollstonecraft, From A Vindication of the Rights of Woman: with Strictures on Politicaland Moral Subjects (1792)

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The Debutante (1807) by Henry Fuseli shows a woman, the victim of male social conventions, tied to the wall, made tosew and guarded by governesses. The picture reflects Mary Wollstonecraft’s views in The Rights of Women.

Women are everywhere in this deplorable state; for, in order to preserve their innocence, as ignorance is courteouslytermed, truth is hidden from them, and they are made to assume an artificial character before their faculties have acquiredany strength. Taught from their infancy, that beauty is woman’s sceptre, the mind shapes itself to the body, and, roaminground its gilt cage, only seeks to adorn its prison. Men have various employments and pursuits which engage theirattention, and give a character to the opening mind; but women, confined to one, and having their thoughts constantlydirected to the most insignificant part of themselves, seldom extend their views beyond the triumph of the hour. But wastheir understanding once emancipated from the slavery to which the pride and sensuality of man and their short sighteddesire, like that of dominion in tyrants, of present sway, has subjected them, we should probably read of their weaknesseswith surprise. I must be allowed to pursue the argument a little farther.

Perhaps, if the existence of an evil being was allowed, who, in the allegorical language of scripture, went about seekingwhom he should devour, he could not more effectually degrade the human character than by giving a man absolute power.

This argument branches into various ramifications. Birth, riches, and every intrinsic advantage that exalt a man above hisfellows, without any mental exertion, sink him in reality below them. In proportion to his weakness, he is played upon bydesigning men, till the bloated monster has lost all traces of humanity. And that tribes of men, like flocks of sheep, shouldquietly follow such a leader, is a solecism that only a desire of present enjoyment and narrowness of understanding cansolve. Educated in slavish dependence, and enervated by luxury and sloth, where shall we find men who will stand forth toassert the rights of man; or claim the privilege of moral beings, who should have but one road to excellence? Slavery tomonarchs and ministers, which the world will be long in freeing itself from, and whose deadly grasp stops the progress ofthe human mind, is not yet abolished.

Let not men then in the pride of power, use the same arguments that tyrannic kings and venal ministers have used, andfallaciously assert, that woman ought to be subjected because she has always been so. But, when man, governed byreasonable laws, enjoys his natural freedom, let him despise woman, if she do not share it with him; and, till that gloriousperiod arrives, in descanting on the folly of the sex, let him not overlook his own.

Women, it is true, obtaining power by unjust means, by practising or fostering vice, evidently lose the rank which reasonwould assign them, and they become either abject slaves or capricious tyrants. They lose all simplicity, all dignity of mind,in acquiring power, and act as men are observed to act when they have been exalted by the same means.

It is time to effect a revolution in female manners, time to restore to them their lost dignity, and make them, as a part of thehuman species, labour by reforming themselves to reform the world. It is time to separate unchangeable morals from localmanners. If men be demi-gods, why let us serve them! And if the dignity of the female soul be as disputable as that ofanimals, if their reason does not afford sufficient light to direct their conduct whilst unerring instinct is denied, they aresurely of all creatures the most miserable and, bent beneath the iron hand of destiny, must submit to be a FAIR DEFECT increation. But to justify the ways of providence respecting them, by pointing out some irrefragable reason for thus makingsuch a large portion of mankind accountable and not accountable, would puzzle the subtlest casuist.

The only solid foundation for morality appears to be the character of the Supreme Being; the harmony of which arisesfrom a balance of attributes; and, to speak with reverence, one attribute seems to imply the NECESSITY of another. He

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must be just, because he is wise, he must be good, because he is omnipotent. For, to exalt one attribute at the expense ofanother equally noble and necessary, bears the stamp of the warped reason of man, the homage of passion. Man,accustomed to bow down to power in his savage state, can seldom divest himself of this barbarous prejudice even whencivilization determines how much superior mental is to bodily strength; and his reason is clouded by these crude opinions,even when he thinks of the Deity. His omnipotence is made to swallow up, or preside over his other attributes, and thosemortals are supposed to limit his power irreverently, who think that it must be regulated by his wisdom.

I disclaim that species of humility which, after investigating nature, stops at the author. The high and lofty One, whoinhabiteth eternity, doubtless possesses many attributes of which we can form no conception; but reason tells me that theycannot clash with those I adore, and I am compelled to listen to her voice.

It seems natural for man to search for excellence, and either to trace it in the object that he worships, or blindly to invest itwith perfection as a garment. But what good effect can the latter mode of worship have on the moral conduct of a rationalbeing? He bends to power; he adores a dark cloud, which may open a bright prospect to him, or burst in angry, lawless furyon his devoted head, he knows not why. And, supposing that the Deity acts from the vague impulse of an undirected will,man must also follow his own, or act according to rules, deduced from principles which he disclaims as irreverent. Into thisdilemma have both enthusiasts and cooler thinkers fallen, when they laboured to free men from the wholesome restraintswhich a just conception of the character of God imposes.

It is not impious thus to scan the attributes of the Almighty: in fact, who can avoid it that exercises his faculties? for to loveGod as the fountain of wisdom, goodness, and power, appears to be the only worship useful to a being who wishes toacquire either virtue or knowledge. A blind unsettled affection may, like human passions, occupy the mind and warm theheart, whilst, to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with our God, is forgotten. I shall pursue this subject still further,when I consider religion in a light opposite to that recommended by Dr. Gregory, who treats it as a matter of sentiment ortaste.

To return from this apparent digression. It were to be wished, that women would cherish an affection for their husbands,founded on the same principle that devotion ought to rest upon. No other firm base is there under heaven, for let thembeware of the fallacious light of sentiment; too often used as a softer phrase for sensuality. It follows then, I think, thatfrom their infancy women should either be shut up like eastern princes, or educated in such a manner as to be able to thinkand act for themselves.

Why do men halt between two opinions, and expect impossibilities? Why do they expect virtue from a slave, or from abeing whom the constitution of civil society has rendered weak, if not vicious?

Still I know that it will require a considerable length of time to eradicate the firmly rooted prejudices which sensualistshave planted; it will also require some time to convince women that they act contrary to their real interest on an enlargedscale, when they cherish or affect weakness under the name of delicacy, and to convince the world that the poisoned sourceof female vices and follies, if it be necessary, in compliance with custom, to use synonymous terms in a lax sense, has beenthe sensual homage paid to beauty: to beauty of features; for it has been shrewdly observed by a German writer, that apretty woman, as an object of desire, is generally allowed to be so by men of all descriptions; whilst a fine woman, whoinspires more sublime emotions by displaying intellectual beauty, may be overlooked or observed with indifference, bythose men who find their happiness in the gratification of their appetites. I foresee an obvious retort; whilst man remainssuch an imperfect being as he appears hitherto to have been, he will, more or less, be the slave of his appetites; and thosewomen obtaining most power who gratify a predominant one, the sex is degraded by a physical, if not by a moralnecessity.

This objection has, I grant, some force; but while such a sublime precept exists, as, “be pure as your heavenly father ispure;” it would seem that the virtues of man are not limited by the Being who alone could limit them; and that he maypress forward without considering whether he steps out of his sphere by indulging such a noble ambition. To the wildbillows it has been said, “thus far shalt thou go, and no further; and here shall thy proud waves be stayed.” Vainly then dothey beat and foam, restrained by the power that confines the struggling planets within their orbits, matter yields to thegreat governing Spirit. But an immortal soul, not restrained by mechanical laws, and struggling to free itself from theshackles of matter, contributes to, instead of disturbing, the order of creation, when, co-operating with the Father of spirits,it tries to govern itself by the invariable rule that, in a degree, before which our imagination faints, the universe isregulated.

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Besides, if women are educated for dependence, that is, to act according to the will of another fallible being, and submit,right or wrong, to power, where are we to stop? Are they to be considered as viceregents, allowed to reign over a smalldomain, and answerable for their conduct to a higher tribunal, liable to error?

It will not be difficult to prove, that such delegates will act like men subjected by fear, and make their children andservants endure their tyrannical oppression. As they submit without reason, they will, having no fixed rules to square theirconduct by, be kind or cruel, just as the whim of the moment directs; and we ought not to wonder if sometimes, galled bytheir heavy yoke, they take a malignant pleasure in resting it on weaker shoulders.

But, supposing a woman, trained up to obedience, be married to a sensible man, who directs her judgment, without makingher feel the servility of her subjection, to act with as much propriety by this reflected light as can be expected when reasonis taken at second hand, yet she cannot ensure the life of her protector; he may die and leave her with a large family.

A double duty devolves on her; to educate them in the character of both father and mother; to form their principles andsecure their property. But, alas! she has never thought, much less acted for herself. She has only learned to please men, todepend gracefully on them; yet, encumbered with children, how is she to obtain another protector; a husband to supply theplace of reason? A rational man, for we are not treading on romantic ground, though he may think her a pleasing docilecreature, will not choose to marry a FAMILY for love, when the world contains many more pretty creatures. What is thento become of her? She either falls an easy prey to some mean fortune hunter, who defrauds her children of their paternalinheritance, and renders her miserable; or becomes the victim of discontent and blind indulgence. Unable to educate hersons, or impress them with respect; for it is not a play on words to assert, that people are never respected, though filling animportant station, who are not respectable; she pines under the anguish of unavailing impotent regret. The serpent’s toothenters into her very soul, and the vices of licentious youth bring her with sorrow, if not with poverty also, to the grave.

This is not an overcharged picture; on the contrary, it is a very possible case, and something similar must have fallen underevery attentive eye.

I have, however, taken it for granted, that she was well disposed, though experience shows, that the blind may as easily beled into a ditch as along the beaten road. But supposing, no very improbable conjecture, that a being only taught to pleasemust still find her happiness in pleasing; what an example of folly, not to say vice, will she be to her innocent daughters!The mother will be lost in the coquette, and, instead of making friends of her daughters, view them with eyes askance, forthey are rivals—rivals more cruel than any other, because they invite a comparison, and drive her from the throne ofbeauty, who has never thought of a seat on the bench of reason.

It does not require a lively pencil, or the discriminating outline of a caricature, to sketch the domestic miseries and pettyvices which such a mistress of a family diffuses. Still she only acts as a woman ought to act, brought up according toRousseau’s system. She can never be reproached for being masculine, or turning out of her sphere; nay, she may observeanother of his grand rules, and, cautiously preserving her reputation free from spot, be reckoned a good kind of woman.Yet in what respect can she be termed good? She abstains, it is true, without any great struggle, from committing grosscrimes; but how does she fulfil her duties? Duties!—in truth she has enough to think of to adorn her body and nurse a weakconstitution.

With respect to religion, she never presumed to judge for herself; but conformed, as a dependent creature should, to theceremonies of the church which she was brought up in, piously believing, that wiser heads than her own have settled thatbusiness: and not to doubt is her point of perfection. She therefore pays her tythe of mint and cummin, and thanks her Godthat she is not as other women are. These are the blessed effects of a good education! these the virtues of man’s helpmate. Imust relieve myself by drawing a different picture.

Let fancy now present a woman with a tolerable understanding, for I do not wish to leave the line of mediocrity, whoseconstitution, strengthened by exercise, has allowed her body to acquire its full vigour; her mind, at the same time,gradually expanding itself to comprehend the moral duties of life, and in what human virtue and dignity consist. Formedthus by the relative duties of her station, she marries from affection, without losing sight of prudence, and looking beyondmatrimonial felicity, she secures her husband’s respect before it is necessary to exert mean arts to please him, and feed adying flame, which nature doomed to expire when the object became familiar, when friendship and forbearance take placeof a more ardent affection. This is the natural death of love, and domestic peace is not destroyed by struggles to prevent itsextinction. I also suppose the husband to be virtuous; or she is still more in want of independent principles.

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Fate, however, breaks this tie. She is left a widow, perhaps, without a sufficient provision: but she is not desolate! Thepang of nature is felt; but after time has softened sorrow into melancholy resignation, her heart turns to her children withredoubled fondness, and anxious to provide for them, affection gives a sacred heroic cast to her maternal duties. She thinksthat not only the eye sees her virtuous efforts, from whom all her comfort now must flow, and whose approbation is life;but her imagination, a little abstracted and exalted by grief, dwells on the fond hope, that the eyes which her tremblinghand closed, may still see how she subdues every wayward passion to fulfil the double duty of being the father as well asthe mother of her children. Raised to heroism by misfortunes, she represses the first faint dawning of a natural inclination,before it ripens into love, and in the bloom of life forgets her sex—forgets the pleasure of an awakening passion, whichmight again have been inspired and returned. She no longer thinks of pleasing, and conscious dignity prevents her frompriding herself on account of the praise which her conduct demands. Her children have her love, and her brightest hopesare beyond the grave, where her imagination often strays.

I think I see her surrounded by her children, reaping the reward of her care. The intelligent eye meets her’s, whilst healthand innocence smile on their chubby cheeks, and as they grow up the cares of life are lessened by their grateful attention.She lives to see the virtues which she endeavoured to plant on principles, fixed into habits, to see her children attain astrength of character sufficient to enable them to endure adversity without forgetting their mother’s example.

The task of life thus fulfilled, she calmly waits for the sleep of death, and rising from the grave may say, behold, thougavest me a talent, and here are five talents.

I wish to sum up what I have said in a few words, for I here throw down my gauntlet, and deny the existence of sexualvirtues, not excepting modesty. For man and woman, truth, if I understand the meaning of the word, must be the same; yetthe fanciful female character, so prettily drawn by poets and novelists, demanding the sacrifice of truth and sincerity, virtuebecomes a relative idea, having no other foundation than utility, and of that utility men pretend arbitrarily to judge, shapingit to their own convenience.

Women, I allow, may have different duties to fulfil; but they are HUMAN duties, and the principles that should regulatethe discharge of them, I sturdily maintain, must be the same.

To become respectable, the exercise of their understanding is necessary, there is no other foundation for independence ofcharacter; I mean explicitly to say, that they must only bow to the authority of reason, instead of being the MODESTslaves of opinion.

In the superior ranks of life how seldom do we meet with a man of superior abilities, or even common acquirements? Thereason appears to me clear; the state they are born in was an unnatural one. The human character has ever been formed bythe employments the individual, or class pursues; and if the faculties are not sharpened by necessity, they must remainobtuse. The argument may fairly be extended to women; for seldom occupied by serious business, the pursuit of pleasuregives that insignificancy to their character which renders the society of the GREAT so insipid. The same want of firmness,produced by a similar cause, forces them both to fly from themselves to noisy pleasures, and artificial passions, till vanitytakes place of every social affection, and the characteristics of humanity can scarcely be discerned. Such are the blessingsof civil governments, as they are at present organized, that wealth and female softness equally tend to debase mankind, andare produced by the same cause; but allowing women to be rational creatures they should be incited to acquire virtueswhich they may call their own, for how can a rational being be ennobled by any thing that is not obtained by its OWNexertions?

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1.7: Caleb Williams; or, Things As They Are (1794)

Caleb Williams; or, Things As They Are (1794)

Jeanette A. Laredo

AUTHOR’S LATEST PREFACE.

LONDON, November 20, 1832.

“CALEB WILLIAMS” has always been regarded by the public with an unusual degree of favour. The proprietor of “THESTANDARD NOVELS” has therefore imagined that even an account of the concoction and mode of writing of the workwould be viewed with some interest.

I finished the “Enquiry concerning Political Justice,” the first work which may be considered as written by me in a certaindegree in the maturity of my intellectual powers, and bearing my name, early in January, 1793; and about the middle of thefollowing month the book was published. It was my fortune at that time to be obliged to consider my pen as the soleinstrument for supplying my current expenses. By the liberality of my bookseller, Mr. George Robinson, of PaternosterRow, I was enabled then, and for nearly ten years before, to meet these expenses, while writing different things of obscurenote, the names of which, though innocent and in some degree useful, I am rather inclined to suppress. In May, 1791, Iprojected this, my favourite work, and from that time gave up every other occupation that might interfere with it. Myagreement with Robinson was that he was to supply my wants at a specified rate while the book was in the train ofcomposition. Finally, I was very little beforehand with the world on the day of its publication, and was therefore obliged tolook round and consider to what species of industry I should next devote myself.

I had always felt in myself some vocation towards the composition of a narrative of fictitious adventure; and among thethings of obscure note which I have above referred to were two or three pieces of this nature. It is not thereforeextraordinary that some project of the sort should have suggested itself on the present occasion.

But I stood now in a very different situation from that in which I had been placed at a former period. In past years, andeven almost from boyhood, I was perpetually prone to exclaim with Cowley:

“What shall I do to be for ever known,

And make the age to come my own?”

But I had endeavoured for ten years, and was as far from approaching my object as ever. Everything I wrote fell dead-bornfrom the press. Very often I was disposed to quit the enterprise in despair. But still I felt ever and anon impelled to repeatmy effort.

At length I conceived the plan of Political Justice. I was convinced that my object of building to myself a name wouldnever be attained by merely repeating and refining a little upon what other men had said, even though I should imaginethat I delivered things of this sort with a more than usual point and elegance. The world, I believed, would accept nothingfrom me with distinguishing favour that did not bear upon the face of it the undoubted stamp of originality. Having longruminated upon the principles of Political Justice, I persuaded myself that I could offer to the public, in a treatise on thissubject, things at once new, true, and important. In the progress of the work I became more sanguine and confident. Italked over my ideas with a few familiar friends during its progress, and they gave me every generous encouragement. Ithappened that the fame of my book, in some inconsiderable degree, got before its publication, and a certain number ofpersons were prepared to receive it with favour. It would be false modesty in me to say that its acceptance, whenpublished, did not nearly come up to everything that could soberly have been expected by me. In consequence of this, thetone of my mind, both during the period in which I was engaged in the work and afterwards, acquired a certain elevation,and made me now unwilling to stoop to what was insignificant.

I formed a conception of a book of fictitious adventure that should in some way be distinguished by a very powerfulinterest. Pursuing this idea, I invented first the third volume of my tale, then the second, and last of all the first. I bentmyself to the conception of a series of adventures of flight and pursuit; the fugitive in perpetual apprehension of beingoverwhelmed with the worst calamities, and the pursuer, by his ingenuity and resources, keeping his victim in a state of themost fearful alarm. This was the project of my third volume. I was next called upon to conceive a dramatic and impressive

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situation adequate to account for the impulse that the pursuer should feel, incessantly to alarm and harass his victim, withan inextinguishable resolution never to allow him the least interval of peace and security. This I apprehended could best beeffected by a secret murder, to the investigation of which the innocent victim should be impelled by an unconquerablespirit of curiosity. The murderer would thus have a sufficient motive to persecute the unhappy discoverer, that he mightdeprive him of peace, character, and credit, and have him for ever in his power. This constituted the outline of my secondvolume.

The subject of the first volume was still to be invented. To account for the fearful events of the third, it was necessary thatthe pursuer should be invested with every advantage of fortune, with a resolution that nothing could defeat or baffle, andwith extraordinary resources of intellect. Nor could my purpose of giving an overpowering interest to my tale be answeredwithout his appearing to have been originally endowed with a mighty store of amiable dispositions and virtues, so that hisbeing driven to the first act of murder should be judged worthy of the deepest regret, and should be seen in some measureto have arisen out of his virtues themselves. It was necessary to make him, so to speak, the tenant of an atmosphere ofromance, so that every reader should feel prompted almost to worship him for his high qualities. Here were amplematerials for a first volume.

I felt that I had a great advantage in thus carrying back my invention from the ultimate conclusion to the firstcommencement of the train of adventures upon which I purposed to employ my pen. An entire unity of plot would be theinfallible result; and the unity of spirit and interest in a tale truly considered gives it a powerful hold on the reader, whichcan scarcely be generated with equal success in any other way.

I devoted about two or three weeks to the imagining and putting down hints for my story before I engaged seriously andmethodically in its composition. In these hints I began with my third volume, then proceeded to my second, and last of allgrappled with the first. I filled two or three sheets of demy writing-paper, folded in octavo, with these memorandums.They were put down with great brevity, yet explicitly enough to secure a perfect recollection of their meaning, within thetime necessary for drawing out the story at full, in short paragraphs of two, three, four, five, or six lines each.

I then sat down to write my story from the beginning. I wrote for the most part but a short portion in any single day. Iwrote only when the afflatus was upon me. I held it for a maxim that any portion that was written when I was not fully inthe vein told for considerably worse than nothing. Idleness was a thousand times better in this case than industry againstthe grain. Idleness was only time lost; and the next day, it may be, was as promising as ever. It was merely a day perishedfrom the calendar. But a passage written feebly, flatly, and in a wrong spirit, constituted an obstacle that it was next toimpossible to correct and set right again. I wrote therefore by starts; sometimes for a week or ten days not a line. Yet allcame to the same thing in the sequel. On an average, a volume of “Caleb Williams” cost me four months, neither less normore.

It must be admitted, however, that during the whole period, bating a few intervals, my mind was in a high state ofexcitement. I said to myself a thousand times, “I will write a tale that shall constitute an epoch in the mind of the reader,that no one, after he has read it, shall ever be exactly the same man that he was before.”—I put these things down just asthey happened, and with the most entire frankness. I know that it will sound like the most pitiable degree of self-conceit.But such perhaps ought to be the state of mind of an author when he does his best. At any rate, I have said nothing of myvainglorious impulse for nearly forty years.

When I had written about seven-tenths of the first volume, I was prevailed upon by the extreme importunity of an old andintimate friend to allow him the perusal of my manuscript. On the second day he returned it with a note to this purpose: “Ireturn you your manuscript, because I promised to do so. If I had obeyed the impulse of my own mind, I should have thrustit in the fire. If you persist, the book will infallibly prove the grave of your literary fame.”

I doubtless felt no implicit deference for the judgment of my friendly critic. Yet it cost me at least two days of deep anxietybefore I recovered the shock. Let the reader picture to himself my situation. I felt no implicit deference for the judgment ofmy friendly critic. But it was all I had for it. This was my first experiment of an unbiassed decision. It stood in the place ofall the world to me. I could not, and I did not feel disposed to, appeal any further. If I had, how could I tell that the secondand third judgment would be more favourable than the first? Then what would have been the result? No; I had nothing forit but to wrap myself in my own integrity. By dint of resolution I became invulnerable. I resolved to go on to the end,trusting as I could to my own anticipations of the whole, and bidding the world wait its time before it should be admitted tothe consult.

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I began my narrative, as is the more usual way, in the third person. But I speedily became dissatisfied. I then assumed thefirst person, making the hero of my tale his own historian; and in this mode I have persisted in all my subsequent attemptsat works of fiction. It was infinitely the best adapted, at least, to my vein of delineation, where the thing in which myimagination revelled the most freely was the analysis of the private and internal operations of the mind, employing mymetaphysical dissecting knife in tracing and laying bare the involutions of motive, and recording the graduallyaccumulating impulses which led the personages I had to describe primarily to adopt the particular way of proceeding inwhich they afterwards embarked.

When I had determined on the main purpose of my story, it was ever my method to get about me any productions offormer authors that seemed to bear on my subject. I never entertained the fear that in this way of proceeding I should be indanger of servilely copying my predecessors. I imagined that I had a vein of thinking that was properly my own, whichwould always preserve me from plagiarism. I read other authors, that I might see what they had done, or, more properly,that I might forcibly hold my mind and occupy my thoughts in a particular train, I and my predecessors travelling in somesense to the same goal, at the same time that I struck out a path of my own, without ultimately heeding the direction theypursued, and disdaining to inquire whether by any chance it for a few steps coincided or did not coincide with mine.

Thus, in the instance of “Caleb Williams,” I read over a little old book, entitled “The Adventures of Mademoiselle de St.Phale,” a French Protestant in the times of the fiercest persecution of the Huguenots, who fled through France in theutmost terror, in the midst of eternal alarms and hair-breadth escapes, having her quarters perpetually beaten up, and byscarcely any chance finding a moment’s interval of security. I turned over the pages of a tremendous compilation, entitled“God’s Revenge against Murder,” where the beam of the eye of Omniscience was represented as perpetually pursuing theguilty, and laying open his most hidden retreats to the light of day. I was extremely conversant with the “NewgateCalendar” and the “Lives of the Pirates.” In the meantime no works of fiction came amiss to me, provided they werewritten with energy. The authors were still employed upon the same mine as myself, however different was the vein theypursued: we were all of us engaged in exploring the entrails of mind and motive, and in tracing the various rencontres andclashes that may occur between man and man in the diversified scene of human life.

I rather amused myself with tracing a certain similitude between the story of Caleb Williams and the tale of Bluebeard,than derived any hints from that admirable specimen of the terrific. Falkland was my Bluebeard, who had perpetratedatrocious crimes, which, if discovered, he might expect to have all the world roused to revenge against him. CalebWilliams was the wife who, in spite of warning, persisted in his attempts to discover the forbidden secret; and, when hehad succeeded, struggled as fruitlessly to escape the consequences, as the wife of Bluebeard in washing the key of theensanguined chamber, who, as often as she cleared the stain of blood from the one side, found it showing itself withfrightful distinctness on the other.

When I had proceeded as far as the early pages of my third volume, I found myself completely at a stand. I rested on myarms from the 2nd of January, 1794, to the 1st of April following, without getting forward in the smallest degree. It hasever been thus with me in works of any continuance. The bow will not be for ever bent:

“Opere in longo fas est obrepere somnum.”

I endeavoured, however, to take my repose to myself in security, and not to inflict a set of crude and incoherent dreamsupon my readers. In the meantime, when I revived, I revived in earnest, and in the course of that month carried on mywork with unabated speed to the end.

Thus I have endeavoured to give a true history of the concoction and mode of writing of this mighty trifle. When I haddone, I soon became sensible that I had done in a manner nothing. How many flat and insipid parts does the book contain!How terribly unequal does it appear to me! From time to time the author plainly reels to and fro like a drunken man. And,when I had done all, what had I done? Written a book to amuse boys and girls in their vacant hours, a story to be hastilygobbled up by them, swallowed in a pusillanimous and unanimated mood, without chewing and digestion. I was in thisrespect greatly impressed with the confession of one of the most accomplished readers and excellent critics that any authorcould have fallen in with (the unfortunate Joseph Gerald). He told me that he had received my book late one evening, andhad read through the three volumes before he closed his eyes. Thus, what had cost me twelve months’ labour, ceaselessheartaches and industry, now sinking in despair, and now roused and sustained in unusual energy, he went over in a fewhours, shut the book, laid himself on his pillow, slept, and was refreshed, and cried,

“To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.”

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I had thought to have said something here respecting the concoction of “St. Leon” and “Fleetwood.” But all that occurs tome on the subject seems to be anticipated in the following

Volume II

CHAPTER IV.Is it not unaccountable that, in the midst of all my increased veneration for my patron, the first tumult of my emotion wasscarcely subsided, before the old question that had excited my conjectures recurred to my mind, Was he the murderer? Itwas a kind of fatal impulse, that seemed destined to hurry me to my destruction. I did not wonder at the disturbance thatwas given to Mr. Falkland by any allusion, however distant, to this fatal affair. That was as completely accounted for fromthe consideration of his excessive sensibility in matters of honour, as it would have been upon the supposition of the mostatrocious guilt. Knowing, as he did, that such a charge had once been connected with his name, he would of course beperpetually uneasy, and suspect some latent insinuation at every possible opportunity. He would doubt and fear, lest everyman with whom he conversed harboured the foulest suspicion against him. In my case he found that I was in possession ofsome information, more than he was aware of, without its being possible for him to decide to what it amounted, whether Ihad heard a just or unjust, a candid or calumniatory tale. He had also reason to suppose that I gave entertainment tothoughts derogatory to his honour, and that I did not form that favourable judgment, which the exquisite refinement of hisruling passion made indispensable to his peace. All these considerations would of course maintain in him a state ofperpetual uneasiness. But, though I could find nothing that I could consider as justifying me in persisting in the shadow ofa doubt, yet, as I have said, the uncertainty and restlessness of my contemplations would by no means depart from me.

The fluctuating state of my mind produced a contention of opposite principles, that by turns usurped dominion over myconduct. Sometimes I was influenced by the most complete veneration for my master; I placed an unreserved confidence inhis integrity and his virtue, and implicitly surrendered my understanding for him to set it to what point he pleased. At othertimes the confidence, which had before flowed with the most plenteous tide, began to ebb; I was, as I had already been,watchful, inquisitive, suspicious, full of a thousand conjectures as to the meaning of the most indifferent actions. Mr.Falkland, who was most painfully alive to every thing that related to his honour, saw these variations, and betrayed hisconsciousness of them now in one manner, and now in another, frequently before I was myself aware, sometimes almostbefore they existed. The situation of both was distressing; we were each of us a plague to the other; and I often wondered,that the forbearance and benignity of my master was not at length exhausted, and that he did not determine to thrust fromhim for ever so incessant an observer. There was indeed one eminent difference between his share in the transaction andmine. I had some consolation in the midst of my restlessness. Curiosity is a principle that carries its pleasures, as well as itspains, along with it. The mind is urged by a perpetual stimulus; it seems as if it were continually approaching to the end ofits race; and as the insatiable desire of satisfaction is its principle of conduct, so it promises itself in that satisfaction anunknown gratification, which seems as if it were capable of fully compensating any injuries that may be suffered in thecareer. But to Mr. Falkland there was no consolation. What he endured in the intercourse between us appeared to begratuitous evil. He had only to wish that there was no such person as myself in the world, and to curse the hour when hishumanity led him to rescue me from my obscurity, and place me in his service.

A consequence produced upon me by the extraordinary nature of my situation it is necessary to mention. The constant stateof vigilance and suspicion in which my mind was retained, worked a very rapid change in my character. It seemed to haveall the effect that might have been expected from years of observation and experience. The strictness with which Iendeavoured to remark what passed in the mind of one man, and the variety of conjectures into which I was led, appeared,as it were, to render me a competent adept in the different modes in which the human intellect displays its secret workings.I no longer said to myself, as I had done in the beginning, “I will ask Mr. Falkland whether he were the murderer.” On thecontrary, after having carefully examined the different kinds of evidence of which the subject was susceptible, andrecollecting all that had already passed upon the subject, it was not without considerable pain, that I felt myself unable todiscover any way in which I could be perfectly and unalterably satisfied of my patron’s innocence. As to his guilt, I couldscarcely bring myself to doubt that in some way or other, sooner or later, I should arrive at the knowledge of that, if itreally existed. But I could not endure to think, almost for a moment, of that side of the alternative as true; and with all myungovernable suspicion arising from the mysteriousness of the circumstances, and all the delight which a young andunfledged mind receives from ideas that give scope to all that imagination can picture of terrible or sublime, I could not yetbring myself to consider Mr. Falkland’s guilt as a supposition attended with the remotest probability.

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I hope the reader will forgive me for dwelling thus long on preliminary circumstances. I shall come soon enough to thestory of my own misery. I have already said, that one of the motives which induced me to the penning of this narrative,was to console myself in my insupportable distress. I derive a melancholy pleasure from dwelling upon the circumstanceswhich imperceptibly paved the way to my ruin. While I recollect or describe past scenes, which occurred in a morefavourable period of my life, my attention is called off for a short interval, from the hopeless misfortune in which I am atpresent involved. The man must indeed possess an uncommon portion of hardness of heart, who can envy me so slight arelief.—To proceed.

For some time after the explanation which had thus taken place between me and Mr. Falkland, his melancholy, instead ofbeing in the slightest degree diminished by the lenient hand of time, went on perpetually to increase. His fits of insanity—for such I must denominate them for want of a distinct appellation, though it is possible they might not fall under thedefinition that either the faculty or the court of chancery appropriate to the term—became stronger and more durable thanever. It was no longer practicable wholly to conceal them from the family, and even from the neighbourhood. He wouldsometimes, without any previous notice, absent himself from his house for two or three days, unaccompanied by servant orattendant. This was the more extraordinary, as it was well known that he paid no visits, nor kept up any sort of intercoursewith the gentlemen of the vicinity. But it was impossible that a man of Mr. Falkland’s distinction and fortune should longcontinue in such a practice, without its being discovered what was become of him; though a considerable part of ourcounty was among the wildest and most desolate districts that are to be found in South Britain. Mr. Falkland wassometimes seen climbing among the rocks, reclining motionless for hours together upon the edge of a precipice, or lulledinto a kind of nameless lethargy of despair by the dashing of the torrents. He would remain for whole nights together underthe naked cope of heaven, inattentive to the consideration either of place or time; insensible to the variations of theweather, or rather seeming to be delighted with that uproar of the elements, which partially called off his attention from thediscord and dejection that occupied his own mind.

At first, when we received intelligence at any time of the place to which Mr. Falkland had withdrawn himself, some personof his household, Mr. Collins or myself, but most generally myself, as I was always at home, and always, in the receivedsense of the word, at leisure, went to him to persuade him to return. But, after a few experiments, we thought it advisableto desist, and leave him to prolong his absence, or to terminate it, as might happen to suit his own inclination. Mr. Collins,whose grey hairs and long services seemed to give him a sort of right to be importunate, sometimes succeeded; thougheven in that case there was nothing that could sit more uneasily upon Mr. Falkland than this insinuation as if he wanted aguardian to take care of him, or as if he were in, or in danger of falling into, a state in which he would be incapable ofdeliberately controlling his own words and actions. At one time he would suddenly yield to his humble, venerable friend,murmuring grievously at the constraint that was put upon him, but without spirit enough even to complain of it withenergy. At another time, even though complying, he would suddenly burst out in a paroxysm of resentment. Upon theseoccasions there was something inconceivably, savagely terrible in his anger, that gave to the person against whom it wasdirected the most humiliating and insupportable sensations. Me he always treated, at these times, with fierceness, anddrove me from him with a vehemence lofty, emphatical, and sustained, beyond any thing of which I should have thoughthuman nature to be capable. These sallies seemed always to constitute a sort of crisis in his indisposition; and, wheneverhe was induced to such a premature return, he would fall immediately after into a state of the most melancholy inactivity,in which he usually continued for two or three days. It was by an obstinate fatality that, whenever I saw Mr. Falkland inthese deplorable situations, and particularly when I lighted upon him after having sought him among the rocks andprecipices, pale, emaciated, solitary, and haggard, the suggestion would continually recur to me, in spite of inclination, inspite of persuasion, and in spite of evidence, Surely this man is a murderer!

CHAPTER V.It was in one of the lucid intervals, as I may term them, that occurred during this period, that a peasant was brought beforehim, in his character of a justice of peace, upon an accusation of having murdered his fellow. As Mr. Falkland had by thistime acquired the repute of a melancholy valetudinarian, it is probable he would not have been called upon to act in hisofficial character upon the present occasion, had it not been that two or three of the neighbouring justices were all of themfrom home at once, so that he was the only one to be found in a circuit of many miles. The reader however must notimagine, though I have employed the word insanity in describing Mr. Falkland’s symptoms, that he was by any meansreckoned for a madman by the generality of those who had occasion to observe him. It is true that his behaviour, at certaintimes, was singular and unaccountable; but then, at other times, there was in it so much dignity, regularity, and economy;

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he knew so well how to command and make himself respected; his actions and carriage were so condescending,considerate, and benevolent, that, far from having forfeited the esteem of the unfortunate or the many, they were loud andearnest in his praises.

I was present at the examination of this peasant. The moment I heard of the errand which had brought this rabble ofvisitors, a sudden thought struck me. I conceived the possibility of rendering the incident subordinate to the great enquirywhich drank up all the currents of my soul. I said, this man is arraigned of murder, and murder is the master-key that wakesdistemper in the mind of Mr. Falkland. I will watch him without remission. I will trace all the mazes of his thought. Surelyat such a time his secret anguish must betray itself. Surely, if it be not my own fault, I shall now be able to discover thestate of his plea before the tribunal of unerring justice.

I took my station in a manner most favourable to the object upon which my mind was intent. I could perceive in Mr.Falkland’s features, as he entered, a strong reluctance to the business in which he was engaged; but there was no possibilityof retreating. His countenance was embarrassed and anxious; he scarcely saw any body. The examination had notproceeded far, before he chanced to turn his eye to the part of the room where I was. It happened in this as in somepreceding instances—we exchanged a silent look, by which we told volumes to each other. Mr. Falkland’s complexionturned from red to pale, and from pale to red. I perfectly understood his feelings, and would willingly have withdrawnmyself. But it was impossible; my passions were too deeply engaged; I was rooted to the spot; though my own life, that ofmy master, or almost of a whole nation had been at stake, I had no power to change my position.

The first surprise however having subsided, Mr. Falkland assumed a look of determined constancy, and even seemed toincrease in self-possession much beyond what could have been expected from his first entrance. This he could probablyhave maintained, had it not been that the scene, instead of being permanent, was in some sort perpetually changing. Theman who was brought before him was vehemently accused by the brother of the deceased as having acted from the mostrooted malice. He swore that there had been an old grudge between the parties, and related several instances of it. Heaffirmed that the murderer had sought the earliest opportunity of wreaking his revenge; had struck the first blow; and,though the contest was in appearance only a common boxing match, had watched the occasion of giving a fatal stroke,which was followed by the instant death of his antagonist.

While the accuser was giving in his evidence, the accused discovered every token of the most poignant sensibility. At onetime his features were convulsed with anguish; tears unbidden trickled down his manly cheeks; and at another he startedwith apparent astonishment at the unfavourable turn that was given to the narrative, though without betraying anyimpatience to interrupt. I never saw a man less ferocious in his appearance. He was tall, well made, and comely. Hiscountenance was ingenuous and benevolent, without folly. By his side stood a young woman, his sweetheart, extremelyagreeable in her person, and her looks testifying how deeply she interested herself in the fate of her lover. The accidentalspectators were divided, between indignation against the enormity of the supposed criminal, and compassion for the poorgirl that accompanied him. They seemed to take little notice of the favourable appearances visible in the person of theaccused, till, in the sequel, those appearances were more forcibly suggested to their attention. For Mr. Falkland, he was atone moment engrossed by curiosity and earnestness to investigate the tale, while at another he betrayed a sort of revulsionof sentiment, which made the investigation too painful for him to support.

When the accused was called upon for his defence, he readily owned the misunderstanding that had existed, and that thedeceased was the worst enemy he had in the world. Indeed he was his only enemy, and he could not tell the reason that hadmade him so. He had employed every effort to overcome his animosity, but in vain. The deceased had upon all occasionssought to mortify him, and do him an ill turn; but he had resolved never to be engaged in a broil with him, and till this dayhe had succeeded. If he had met with a misfortune with any other man, people at least might have thought it accident; butnow it would always be believed that he had acted from secret malice and a bad heart.

The fact was, that he and his sweetheart had gone to a neighbouring fair, where this man had met them. The man had oftentried to affront him; and his passiveness, interpreted into cowardice, had perhaps encouraged the other to additionalrudeness. Finding that he had endured trivial insults to himself with an even temper, the deceased now thought proper toturn his brutality upon the young woman that accompanied him. He pursued them; he endeavoured in various manners toharass and vex them; they had sought in vain to shake him off. The young woman was considerably terrified. The accusedexpostulated with their persecutor, and asked him how he could be so barbarous as to persist in frightening a woman? Hereplied with an insulting tone, “Then the woman should find some one able to protect her; people that encouraged and

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trusted to such a thief as that, deserved no better!” The accused tried every expedient he could invent; at length he couldendure it no longer; he became exasperated, and challenged the assailant. The challenge was accepted; a ring was formed;he confided the care of his sweetheart to a bystander; and unfortunately the first blow he struck proved fatal.

The accused added, that he did not care what became of him. He had been anxious to go through the world in aninoffensive manner, and now he had the guilt of blood upon him. He did not know but it would be kindness in them tohang him out of the way; for his conscience would reproach him as long as he lived, and the figure of the deceased, as hehad lain senseless and without motion at his feet, would perpetually haunt him. The thought of this man, at one momentfull of life and vigour, and the next lifted a helpless corpse from the ground, and all owing to him, was a thought toodreadful to be endured. He had loved the poor maiden, who had been the innocent occasion of this, with all his heart; butfrom this time he should never support the sight of her. The sight would bring a tribe of fiends in its rear. One unluckyminute had poisoned all his hopes, and made life a burden to him. Saying this, his countenance fell, the muscles of his facetrembled with agony, and he looked the statue of despair.

This was the story of which Mr. Falkland was called upon to be the auditor. Though the incidents were, for the most part,wide of those which belonged to the adventures of the preceding volume, and there had been much less policy and skilldisplayed on either part in this rustic encounter, yet there were many points which, to a man who bore the former stronglyin his recollection, suggested a sufficient resemblance. In each case it was a human brute persisting in a course of hostilityto a man of benevolent character, and suddenly and terribly cut off in the midst of his career. These points perpetuallysmote upon the heart of Mr. Falkland. He at one time started with astonishment, and at another shifted his posture, like aman who is unable longer to endure the sensations that press upon him. Then he new strung his nerves to stubbornpatience. I could see, while his muscles preserved an inflexible steadiness, tears of anguish roll down his cheeks. He darednot trust his eyes to glance towards the side of the room where I stood; and this gave an air of embarrassment to his wholefigure. But when the accused came to speak of his feelings, to describe the depth of his compunction for an involuntaryfault, he could endure it no longer. He suddenly rose, and with every mark of horror and despair rushed out of the room.

This circumstance made no material difference in the affair of the accused. The parties were detained about half an hour.Mr. Falkland had already heard the material parts of the evidence in person. At the expiration of that interval, he sent forMr. Collins out of the room. The story of the culprit was confirmed by many witnesses who had seen the transaction. Wordwas brought that my master was indisposed; and, at the same time, the accused was ordered to be discharged. Thevengeance of the brother however, as I afterwards found, did not rest here, and he met with a magistrate, more scrupulousor more despotic, by whom the culprit was committed for trial.

This affair was no sooner concluded, than I hastened into the garden, and plunged into the deepest of its thickets. My mindwas full, almost to bursting. I no sooner conceived myself sufficiently removed from all observation, than my thoughtsforced their way spontaneously to my tongue, and I exclaimed, in a fit of uncontrollable enthusiasm, “This is the murderer;the Hawkinses were innocent! I am sure of it! I will pledge my life for it! It is out! It is discovered! Guilty, upon my soul!”

While I thus proceeded with hasty steps along the most secret paths of the garden, and from time to time gave vent to thetumult of my thoughts in involuntary exclamations, I felt as if my animal system had undergone a total revolution. Myblood boiled within me. I was conscious to a kind of rapture for which I could not account. I was solemn, yet full of rapidemotion, burning with indignation and energy. In the very tempest and hurricane of the passions, I seemed to enjoy themost soul-ravishing calm. I cannot better express the then state of my mind than by saying, I was never so perfectly aliveas at that moment.

This state of mental elevation continued for several hours, but at length subsided, and gave place to more deliberatereflection. One of the first questions that then occurred was, what shall I do with the knowledge I have been so eager toacquire? I had no inclination to turn informer. I felt what I had had no previous conception of, that it was possible to love amurderer, and, as I then understood it, the worst of murderers. I conceived it to be in the highest degree absurd andiniquitous, to cut off a man qualified for the most essential and extensive utility, merely out of retrospect to an act which,whatever were its merits, could not be retrieved.

This thought led me to another, which had at first passed unnoticed. If I had been disposed to turn informer, what hadoccurred amounted to no evidence that was admissible in a court of justice. Well then, added I, if it be such as would notbe admitted at a criminal tribunal, am I sure it is such as I ought to admit? There were twenty persons besides myselfpresent at the scene from which I pretend to derive such entire conviction. Not one of them saw it in the light that I did. It

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either appeared to them a casual and unimportant circumstance, or they thought it sufficiently accounted for by Mr.Falkland’s infirmity and misfortunes. Did it really contain such an extent of arguments and application, that nobody but Iwas discerning enough to see?

But all this reasoning produced no alteration in my way of thinking. For this time I could not get it out of my mind for amoment: “Mr. Falkland is the murderer! He is guilty! I see it! I feel it! I am sure of it!” Thus was I hurried along by anuncontrollable destiny. The state of my passions in their progressive career, the inquisitiveness and impatience of mythoughts, appeared to make this determination unavoidable.

An incident occurred while I was in the garden, that seemed to make no impression upon me at the time, but which Irecollected when my thoughts were got into somewhat of a slower motion. In the midst of one of my paroxysms ofexclamation, and when I thought myself most alone, the shadow of a man as avoiding me passed transiently by me at asmall distance. Though I had scarcely caught a faint glimpse of his person, there was something in the occurrence thatpersuaded me it was Mr. Falkland. I shuddered at the possibility of his having overheard the words of my soliloquy. Butthis idea, alarming as it was, had not power immediately to suspend the career of my reflections. Subsequent circumstanceshowever brought back the apprehension to my mind. I had scarcely a doubt of its reality, when dinner-time came, and Mr.Falkland was not to be found. Supper and bed-time passed in the same manner. The only conclusion made by his servantsupon this circumstance was, that he was gone upon one of his accustomed melancholy rambles.

CHAPTER VI.The period at which my story is now arrived seemed as if it were the very crisis of the fortune of Mr. Falkland. Incidentfollowed upon incident, in a kind of breathless succession. About nine o’clock the next morning an alarm was given, thatone of the chimneys of the house was on fire. No accident could be apparently more trivial; but presently it blazed withsuch fury, as to make it clear that some beam of the house, which in the first building had been improperly placed, hadbeen reached by the flames. Some danger was apprehended for the whole edifice. The confusion was the greater, inconsequence of the absence of the master, as well as of Mr. Collins, the steward. While some of the domestics wereemployed in endeavouring to extinguish the flames, it was thought proper that others should busy themselves in removingthe most valuable moveables to a lawn in the garden. I took some command in the affair, to which indeed my station in thefamily seemed to entitle me, and for which I was judged qualified by my understanding and mental resources.

Having given some general directions, I conceived, that it was not enough to stand by and superintend, but that I shouldcontribute my personal labour in the public concern. I set out for that purpose; and my steps, by some mysterious fatality,were directed to the private apartment at the end of the library. Here, as I looked round, my eye was suddenly caught bythe trunk mentioned in the first pages of my narrative.

My mind was already raised to its utmost pitch. In a window-seat of the room lay a number of chisels and other carpenter’stools. I know not what infatuation instantaneously seized me. The idea was too powerful to be resisted. I forgot thebusiness upon which I came, the employment of the servants, and the urgency of general danger. I should have done thesame if the flames that seemed to extend as they proceeded, and already surmounted the house, had reached this veryapartment. I snatched a tool suitable for the purpose, threw myself upon the ground, and applied with eagerness to amagazine which inclosed all for which my heart panted. After two or three efforts, in which the energy of uncontrollablepassion was added to my bodily strength, the fastenings gave way, the trunk opened, and all that I sought was at oncewithin my reach.

I was in the act of lifting up the lid, when Mr. Falkland entered, wild, breathless, distracted in his looks! He had beenbrought home from a considerable distance by the sight of the flames. At the moment of his appearance the lid droppeddown from my hand. He no sooner saw me than his eyes emitted sparks of rage. He ran with eagerness to a brace of loadedpistols which hung in the room, and, seizing one, presented it to my head. I saw his design, and sprang to avoid it; but,with the same rapidity with which he had formed his resolution, he changed it, and instantly went to the window, and flungthe pistol into the court below. He bade me begone with his usual irresistible energy; and, overcome as I was already by thehorror of the detection, I eagerly complied.

A moment after, a considerable part of the chimney tumbled with noise into the court below, and a voice exclaimed that thefire was more violent than ever. These circumstances seemed to produce a mechanical effect upon my patron, who, having

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first locked the closet, appeared on the outside of the house, ascended the roof, and was in a moment in every place wherehis presence was required. The flames were at length extinguished.

The reader can with difficulty form a conception of the state to which I was now reduced. My act was in some sort an actof insanity; but how undescribable are the feelings with which I looked back upon it! It was an instantaneous impulse, ashort-lived and passing alienation of mind; but what must Mr. Falkland think of that alienation? To any man a person whohad once shown himself capable of so wild a flight of the mind, must appear dangerous: how must he appear to a manunder Mr. Falkland’s circumstances? I had just had a pistol held to my head, by a man resolved to put a period to myexistence. That indeed was past; but what was it that fate had yet in reserve for me! The insatiable vengeance of aFalkland, of a man whose hands were, to my apprehension, red with blood, and his thoughts familiar with cruelty andmurder. How great were the resources of his mind, resources henceforth to be confederated for my destruction! This wasthe termination of an ungoverned curiosity, an impulse that I had represented to myself as so innocent or so venial.

In the high tide of boiling passion I had overlooked all consequences. It now appeared to me like a dream. Is it in man toleap from the high-raised precipice, or rush unconcerned into the midst of flames? Was it possible I could have forgottenfor a moment the awe-creating manners of Falkland, and the inexorable fury I should awake in his soul? No thought offuture security had reached my mind. I had acted upon no plan. I had conceived no means of concealing my deed, after ithad once been effected. But it was over now. One short minute had effected a reverse in my situation, the suddenness ofwhich the history of man, perhaps is unable to surpass.

I have always been at a loss to account for my having plunged thus headlong into an act so monstrous. There is somethingin it of unexplained and involuntary sympathy. One sentiment flows, by necessity of nature, into another sentiment of thesame general character. This was the first instance in which I had witnessed a danger by fire. All was confusion around me,and all changed into hurricane within. The general situation, to my unpractised apprehension, appeared desperate, and I bycontagion became alike desperate. At first I had been in some degree calm and collected, but that too was a desperateeffort; and when it gave way, a kind of instant insanity became its successor.

I had now every thing to fear. And yet what was my fault? It proceeded from none of those errors which are justly held upto the aversion of mankind; my object had been neither wealth, nor the means of indulgence, nor the usurpation of power.No spark of malignity had harboured in my soul. I had always reverenced the sublime mind of Mr. Falkland; I reverencedit still. My offence had merely been a mistaken thirst of knowledge. Such however it was, as to admit neither offorgiveness nor remission. This epoch was the crisis of my fate, dividing what may be called the offensive part from thedefensive, which has been the sole business of my remaining years. Alas! my offence was short, not aggravated by anysinister intention: but the reprisals I was to suffer are long, and can terminate only with my life!

In the state in which I found myself, when the recollection of what I had done flowed back upon my mind, I was incapableof any resolution. All was chaos and uncertainty within me. My thoughts were too full of horror to be susceptible ofactivity. I felt deserted of my intellectual powers, palsied in mind, and compelled to sit in speechless expectation of themisery to which I was destined. To my own conception I was like a man, who, though blasted with lightning, and deprivedfor ever of the power of motion, should yet retain the consciousness of his situation. Death-dealing despair was the onlyidea of which I was sensible.

I was still in this situation of mind when Mr. Falkland sent for me. His message roused me from my trance. In recovering, Ifelt those sickening and loathsome sensations, which a man may be supposed at first to endure who should return from thesleep of death. Gradually I recovered the power of arranging my ideas and directing my steps. I understood, that the minutethe affair of the fire was over Mr. Falkland had retired to his own room. It was evening before he ordered me to be called.

I found in him every token of extreme distress, except that there was an air of solemn and sad composure that crowned thewhole. For the present, all appearance of gloom, stateliness, and austerity was gone. As I entered he looked up, and, seeingwho it was, ordered me to bolt the door. I obeyed. He went round the room, and examined its other avenues. He thenreturned to where I stood. I trembled in every joint of my frame. I exclaimed within myself, “What scene of death hasRoscius now to act?”

“Williams!” said he, in a tone which had more in it of sorrow than resentment, “I have attempted your life! I am a wretchdevoted to the scorn and execration of mankind!” There he stopped.

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“If there be one being on the whole earth that feels the scorn and execration due to such a wretch more strongly thananother, it is myself. I have been kept in a state of perpetual torture and madness. But I can put an end to it and itsconsequences; and, so far at least as relates to you, I am determined to do it. I know the price, and—I will make thepurchase.

“You must swear,” said he. “You must attest every sacrament, divine and human, never to disclose what I am now to tellyou.”—He dictated the oath, and I repeated it with an aching heart. I had no power to offer a word of remark.

“This confidence,” said he, “is of your seeking, not of mine. It is odious to me, and is dangerous to you.”

Having thus prefaced the disclosure he had to make, he paused. He seemed to collect himself as for an effort of magnitude.He wiped his face with his handkerchief. The moisture that incommoded him appeared not to be tears, but sweat.

“Look at me. Observe me. Is it not strange that such a one as I should retain lineaments of a human creature? I am theblackest of villains. I am the murderer of Tyrrel. I am the assassin of the Hawkinses.”

I started with terror, and was silent.

“What a story is mine! Insulted, disgraced, polluted in the face of hundreds, I was capable of any act of desperation. Iwatched my opportunity, followed Mr. Tyrrel from the rooms, seized a sharp-pointed knife that fell in my way, camebehind him, and stabbed him to the heart. My gigantic oppressor rolled at my feet.

“All are but links of one chain. A blow! A murder! My next business was to defend myself, to tell so well-digested a lie asthat all mankind should believe it true. Never was a task so harrowing and intolerable!

“Well, thus far fortune favoured me; she favoured me beyond my desire. The guilt was removed from me, and cast uponanother; but this I was to endure. Whence came the circumstantial evidence against him, the broken knife and the blood, Iam unable to tell. I suppose, by some miraculous accident, Hawkins was passing by, and endeavoured to assist hisoppressor in the agonies of death. You have heard his story; you have read one of his letters. But you do not know thethousandth part of the proofs of his simple and unalterable rectitude that I have known. His son suffered with him; that son,for the sake of whose happiness and virtue he ruined himself, and would have died a hundred times.—I have had feelings,but I cannot describe them.

“This it is to be a gentleman! a man of honour! I was the fool of fame. My virtue, my honesty, my everlasting peace ofmind, were cheap sacrifices to be made at the shrine of this divinity. But, what is worse, there is nothing that has happenedthat has in any degree contributed to my cure. I am as much the fool of fame as ever. I cling to it to my last breath. ThoughI be the blackest of villains, I will leave behind me a spotless and illustrious name. There is no crime so malignant, noscene of blood so horrible, in which that object cannot engage me. It is no matter that I regard these things at a distancewith aversion;—I am sure of it; bring me to the test, and I shall yield. I despise myself, but thus I am; things are gone toofar to be recalled.

“Why is it that I am compelled to this confidence? From the love of fame. I should tremble at the sight of every pistol orinstrument of death that offered itself to my hands; and perhaps my next murder may not be so fortunate as those I havealready committed. I had no alternative but to make you my confidant or my victim. It was better to trust you with thewhole truth under every seal of secrecy, than to live in perpetual fear of your penetration or your rashness.

“Do you know what it is you have done? To gratify a foolishly inquisitive humour, you have sold yourself. You shallcontinue in my service, but can never share my affection. I will benefit you in respect of fortune, but I shall always hateyou. If ever an unguarded word escape from your lips, if ever you excite my jealousy or suspicion, expect to pay for it byyour death or worse. It is a dear bargain you have made. But it is too late to look back. I charge and adjure you by everything that is sacred, and that is tremendous, preserve your faith!

“My tongue has now for the first time for several years spoken the language of my heart; and the intercourse from thishour shall be shut for ever. I want no pity. I desire no consolation. Surrounded as I am with horrors, I will at least preservemy fortitude to the last. If I had been reserved to a different destiny, I have qualities in that respect worthy of a bettercause. I can be mad, miserable, and frantic; but even in frenzy I can preserve my presence of mind and discretion.”

Such was the story I had been so desirous to know. Though my mind had brooded upon the subject for months, there wasnot a syllable of it that did not come to my ear with the most perfect sense of novelty. “Mr. Falkland is a murderer!” said I,as I retired from the conference. This dreadful appellative, “a murderer,” made my very blood run cold within me. “He

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killed Mr. Tyrrel, for he could not control his resentment and anger: he sacrificed Hawkins the elder and Hawkins theyounger, because he could upon no terms endure the public loss of honour: how can I expect that a man thus passionateand unrelenting will not sooner or later make me his victim?”

But, notwithstanding this terrible application of the story, an application to which perhaps in some form or other, mankindare indebted for nine tenths of their abhorrence against vice, I could not help occasionally recurring to reflections of anopposite nature. “Mr. Falkland is a murderer!” resumed I. “He might yet be a most excellent man, if he did but think so.” Itis the thinking ourselves vicious then, that principally contributes to make us vicious.

Amidst the shock I received from finding, what I had never suffered myself constantly to believe, that my suspicions weretrue, I still discovered new cause of admiration for my master. His menaces indeed were terrible. But, when I recollectedthe offence I had given, so contrary to every received principle of civilised society, so insolent and rude, so intolerable to aman of Mr. Falkland’s elevation, and in Mr. Falkland’s peculiarity of circumstances, I was astonished at his forbearance.There were indeed sufficiently obvious reasons why he might not choose to proceed to extremities with me. But howdifferent from the fearful expectations I had conceived were the calmness of his behaviour, and the regulated mildness ofhis language! In this respect, I for a short time imagined that I was emancipated from the mischiefs which had appalledme; and that, in having to do with a man of Mr. Falkland’s liberality, I had nothing rigorous to apprehend.

“It is a miserable prospect,” said I, “that he holds up to me. He imagines that I am restrained by no principles, and deaf tothe claims of personal excellence. But he shall find himself mistaken. I will never become an informer. I will never injuremy patron; and therefore he will not be my enemy. With all his misfortunes and all his errors, I feel that my soul yearns forhis welfare. If he have been criminal, that is owing to circumstances; the same qualities under other circumstances wouldhave been, or rather were, sublimely beneficent.”

My reasonings were, no doubt, infinitely more favourable to Mr. Falkland, than those which human beings are accustomedto make in the case of such as they style great criminals. This will not be wondered at, when it is considered that I hadmyself just been trampling on the established boundaries of obligation, and therefore might well have a fellow-feeling forother offenders. Add to which, I had known Mr. Falkland from the first as a beneficent divinity. I had observed at leisure,and with a minuteness which could not deceive me, the excellent qualities of his heart; and I found him possessed of amind beyond comparison the most fertile and accomplished I had ever known.

But though the terrors which had impressed me were considerably alleviated, my situation was notwithstandingsufficiently miserable. The ease and light-heartedness of my youth were for ever gone. The voice of an irresistiblenecessity had commanded me to “sleep no more.” I was tormented with a secret, of which I must never disburthen myself;and this consciousness was, at my age, a source of perpetual melancholy. I had made myself a prisoner, in the mostintolerable sense of that term, for years—perhaps for the rest of my life. Though my prudence and discretion should beinvariable, I must remember that I should have an overseer, vigilant from conscious guilt, full of resentment at theunjustifiable means by which I had extorted from him a confession, and whose lightest caprice might at any time decideupon every thing that was dear to me. The vigilance even of a public and systematical despotism is poor, compared with avigilance which is thus goaded by the most anxious passions of the soul. Against this species of persecution I knew nothow to invent a refuge. I dared neither fly from the observation of Mr. Falkland, nor continue exposed to its operation. Iwas at first indeed lulled in a certain degree to security upon the verge of the precipice. But it was not long before I found athousand circumstances perpetually reminding me of my true situation. Those I am now to relate are among the mostmemorable.

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1.8: Anne Radcliffe, excerpt from The Mysteries of Udolpho (1794)

Anne Radcliffe, excerpt from The Mysteries of Udolpho (1794)

Jeanette A. Laredo

Udolpho shows Emily St. Aubert and her maid with a candle exploring a dark room in the castle.” width=”460″height=”667″> An illustration from Udolpho shows Emily St. Aubert and her maid with a candle exploring a dark room inthe castle.

Chapter 26

I will advise you where to plant yourselves;

Acquaint you with the perfect spy o’ the time,

The moment on ‘t; for ‘t must be done to-night.

MACBETH

Emily was somewhat surprised, on the following day, to find that Annette had heard of Madame Montoni’s confinement inthe chamber over the portal, as well as of her purposed visit there, on the approaching night. That the circumstance, whichBarnardine had so solemnly enjoined her to conceal, he had himself told to so indiscreet an hearer as Annette, appearedvery improbable, though he had now charged her with a message, concerning the intended interview. He requested, thatEmily would meet him, unattended, on the terrace, at a little after midnight, when he himself would lead her to the place hehad promised; a proposal, from which she immediately shrunk, for a thousand vague fears darted athwart her mind, such ashad tormented her on the preceding night, and which she neither knew how to trust, or to dismiss. It frequently occurred toher, that Barnardine might have deceived her, concerning Madame Montoni, whose murderer, perhaps, he really was; andthat he had deceived her by order of Montoni, the more easily to draw her into some of the desperate designs of the latter.The terrible suspicion, that Madame Montoni no longer lived, thus came, accompanied by one not less dreadful for herself.Unless the crime, by which the aunt had suffered, was instigated merely by resentment, unconnected with profit, a motive,upon which Montoni did not appear very likely to act, its object must be unattained, till the niece was also dead, to whomMontoni knew that his wife’s estates must descend. Emily remembered the words, which had informed her, that the

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contested estates in France would devolve to her, if Madame Montoni died, without consigning them to her husband, andthe former obstinate perseverance of her aunt made it too probable, that she had, to the last, withheld them. At this instant,recollecting Barnardine’s manner, on the preceding night, she now believed, what she had then fancied, that it expressedmalignant triumph. She shuddered at the recollection, which confirmed her fears, and determined not to meet him on theterrace. Soon after, she was inclined to consider these suspicions as the extravagant exaggerations of a timid and harassedmind, and could not believe Montoni liable to such preposterous depravity as that of destroying, from one motive, his wifeand her niece. She blamed herself for suffering her romantic imagination to carry her so far beyond the bounds ofprobability, and determined to endeavour to check its rapid flights, lest they should sometimes extend into madness. Still,however, she shrunk from the thought of meeting Barnardine, on the terrace, at midnight; and still the wish to be relievedfrom this terrible suspense, concerning her aunt, to see her, and to sooth her sufferings, made her hesitate what to do.

‘Yet how is it possible, Annette, I can pass to the terrace at that hour?’ said she, recollecting herself, ‘the sentinels will stopme, and Signor Montoni will hear of the affair.’

‘O ma’amselle! that is well thought of,’ replied Annette. ‘That is what Barnardine told me about. He gave me this key, andbade me say it unlocks the door at the end of the vaulted gallery, that opens near the end of the east rampart, so that youneed not pass any of the men on watch. He bade me say, too, that his reason for requesting you to come to the terrace was,because he could take you to the place you want to go to, without opening the great doors of the hall, which grate soheavily.’

Emily’s spirits were somewhat calmed by this explanation, which seemed to be honestly given to Annette. ‘But why did hedesire I would come alone, Annette?’ said she.

‘Why that was what I asked him myself, ma’amselle. Says I, Why is my young lady to come alone? — Surely I may comewith her! — What harm can I do? But he said “No — no — I tell you not,” in his gruff way. Nay, says I, I have beentrusted in as great affairs as this, I warrant, and it’s a hard matter if I can’t keep a secret now. Still he would say nothing but—“No — no — no.” Well, says I, if you will only trust me, I will tell you a great secret, that was told me a month ago, andI have never opened my lips about it yet — so you need not be afraid of telling me. But all would not do. Then,ma’amselle, I went so far as to offer him a beautiful new sequin, that Ludovico gave me for a keep sake, and I would nothave parted with it for all St. Marco’s Place; but even that would not do! Now what can be the reason of this? But I know,you know, ma’am, who you are going to see.’

‘Pray did Barnardine tell you this?’

‘He! No, ma’amselle, that he did not.’

Emily enquired who did, but Annette shewed, that she COULD keep a secret.

During the remainder of the day, Emily’s mind was agitated with doubts and fears and contrary determinations, on thesubject of meeting this Barnardine on the rampart, and submitting herself to his guidance, she scarcely knew whither. Pityfor her aunt and anxiety for herself alternately swayed her determination, and night came, before she had decided upon herconduct. She heard the castle clock strike eleven — twelve — and yet her mind wavered. The time, however, was nowcome, when she could hesitate no longer: and then the interest she felt for her aunt overcame other considerations, and,bidding Annette follow her to the outer door of the vaulted gallery, and there await her return, she descended from herchamber. The castle was perfectly still, and the great hall, where so lately she had witnessed a scene of dreadful contention,now returned only the whispering footsteps of the two solitary figures gliding fearfully between the pillars, and gleamedonly to the feeble lamp they carried. Emily, deceived by the long shadows of the pillars and by the catching lights between,often stopped, imagining she saw some person, moving in the distant obscurity of the perspective; and, as she passed thesepillars, she feared to turn her eyes toward them, almost expecting to see a figure start out from behind their broad shaft.She reached, however, the vaulted gallery, without interruption, but unclosed its outer door with a trembling hand, and,charging Annette not to quit it and to keep it a little open, that she might be heard if she called, she delivered to her thelamp, which she did not dare to take herself because of the men on watch, and, alone, stepped out upon the dark terrace.Every thing was so still, that she feared, lest her own light steps should be heard by the distant sentinels, and she walkedcautiously towards the spot, where she had before met Barnardine, listening for a sound, and looking onward through thegloom in search of him. At length, she was startled by a deep voice, that spoke near her, and she paused, uncertain whetherit was his, till it spoke again, and she then recognized the hollow tones of Barnardine, who had been punctual to themoment, and was at the appointed place, resting on the rampart wall. After chiding her for not coming sooner, and saying,

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that he had been waiting nearly half an hour, he desired Emily, who made no reply, to follow him to the door, throughwhich he had entered the terrace.

While he unlocked it, she looked back to that she had left, and, observing the rays of the lamp stream through a smallopening, was certain, that Annette was still there. But her remote situation could little befriend Emily, after she had quittedthe terrace; and, when Barnardine unclosed the gate, the dismal aspect of the passage beyond, shewn by a torch burning onthe pavement, made her shrink from following him alone, and she refused to go, unless Annette might accompany her.This, however, Barnardine absolutely refused to permit, mingling at the same time with his refusal such artfulcircumstances to heighten the pity and curiosity of Emily towards her aunt, that she, at length, consented to follow himalone to the portal.

He then took up the torch, and led her along the passage, at the extremity of which he unlocked another door, whence theydescended, a few steps, into a chapel, which, as Barnardine held up the torch to light her, Emily observed to be in ruins,and she immediately recollected a former conversation of Annette, concerning it, with very unpleasant emotions. Shelooked fearfully on the almost roofless walls, green with damps, and on the gothic points of the windows, where the ivyand the briony had long supplied the place of glass, and ran mantling among the broken capitals of some columns, that hadonce supported the roof. Barnardine stumbled over the broken pavement, and his voice, as he uttered a sudden oath, wasreturned in hollow echoes, that made it more terrific. Emily’s heart sunk; but she still followed him, and he turned out ofwhat had been the principal aisle of the chapel. ‘Down these steps, lady,’ said Barnardine, as he descended a flight, whichappeared to lead into the vaults; but Emily paused on the top, and demanded, in a tremulous tone, whither he wasconducting her.

‘To the portal,’ said Barnardine.

‘Cannot we go through the chapel to the portal?’ said Emily.

‘No, Signora, that leads to the inner court, which I don’t choose to unlock. This way, and we shall reach the outer courtpresently.’

Emily still hesitated; fearing not only to go on, but, since she had gone thus far, to irritate Barnardine by refusing to gofurther.

‘Come, lady,’ said the man, who had nearly reached the bottom of the flight, ‘make a little haste; I cannot wait here allnight.’

‘Whither do these steps lead?’ said Emily, yet pausing.

‘To the portal,’ repeated Barnardine, in an angry tone, ‘I will wait no longer.’ As he said this, he moved on with the light,and Emily, fearing to provoke him by further delay, reluctantly followed. From the steps, they proceeded through apassage, adjoining the vaults, the walls of which were dropping with unwholesome dews, and the vapours, that crept alongthe ground, made the torch burn so dimly, that Emily expected every moment to see it extinguished, and Barnardine couldscarcely find his way. As they advanced, these vapours thickened, and Barnardine, believing the torch was expiring,stopped for a moment to trim it. As he then rested against a pair of iron gates, that opened from the passage, Emily saw, byuncertain flashes of light, the vaults beyond, and, near her, heaps of earth, that seemed to surround an open grave. Such anobject, in such a scene, would, at any time, have disturbed her; but now she was shocked by an instantaneous presentiment,that this was the grave of her unfortunate aunt, and that the treacherous Barnardine was leading herself to destruction. Theobscure and terrible place, to which he had conducted her, seemed to justify the thought; it was a place suited for murder, areceptacle for the dead, where a deed of horror might be committed, and no vestige appear to proclaim it. Emily was sooverwhelmed with terror, that, for a moment, she was unable to determine what conduct to pursue. She then considered,that it would be vain to attempt an escape from Barnardine, by flight, since the length and the intricacy of the way she hadpassed would soon enable him to overtake her, who was unacquainted with the turnings, and whose feebleness would notsuffer her to run long with swiftness. She feared equally to irritate him by a disclosure of her suspicions, which a refusal toaccompany him further certainly would do; and, since she was already as much in his power as it was possible she couldbe, if she proceeded, she, at length, determined to suppress, as far as she could, the appearance of apprehension, and tofollow silently whither he designed to lead her. Pale with horror and anxiety, she now waited till Barnardine had trimmedthe torch, and, as her sight glanced again upon the grave, she could not forbear enquiring, for whom it was prepared. Hetook his eyes from the torch, and fixed them upon her face without speaking. She faintly repeated the question, but the

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man, shaking the torch, passed on; and she followed, trembling, to a second flight of steps, having ascended which, a doordelivered them into the first court of the castle. As they crossed it, the light shewed the high black walls around them,fringed with long grass and dank weeds, that found a scanty soil among the mouldering stones; the heavy buttresses, with,here and there, between them, a narrow grate, that admitted a freer circulation of air to the court, the massy iron gates, thatled to the castle, whose clustering turrets appeared above, and, opposite, the huge towers and arch of the portal itself. Inthis scene the large, uncouth person of Barnardine, bearing the torch, formed a characteristic figure. This Barnardine waswrapt in a long dark cloak, which scarcely allowed the kind of half-boots, or sandals, that were laced upon his legs, toappear, and shewed only the point of a broad sword, which he usually wore, slung in a belt across his shoulders. On hishead was a heavy flat velvet cap, somewhat resembling a turban, in which was a short feather; the visage beneath itshewed strong features, and a countenance furrowed with the lines of cunning and darkened by habitual discontent.

The view of the court, however, reanimated Emily, who, as she crossed silently towards the portal, began to hope, that herown fears, and not the treachery of Barnardine, had deceived her. She looked anxiously up at the first casement, thatappeared above the lofty arch of the portcullis; but it was dark, and she enquired, whether it belonged to the chamber,where Madame Montoni was confined. Emily spoke low, and Barnardine, perhaps, did not hear her question, for hereturned no answer; and they, soon after, entered the postern door of the gate-way, which brought them to the foot of anarrow stair-case, that wound up one of the towers.

‘Up this stair-case the Signora lies,’ said Barnardine.

‘Lies!’ repeated Emily faintly, as she began to ascend.

‘She lies in the upper chamber,’ said Barnardine.

As they passed up, the wind, which poured through the narrow cavities in the wall, made the torch flare, and it threw astronger gleam upon the grim and sallow countenance of Barnardine, and discovered more fully the desolation of the place— the rough stone walls, the spiral stairs, black with age, and a suit of antient armour, with an iron visor, that hung uponthe walls, and appeared a trophy of some former victory.

Having reached a landing-place, ‘You may wait here, lady,’ said he, applying a key to the door of a chamber, ‘while I goup, and tell the Signora you are coming.’

‘That ceremony is unnecessary,’ replied Emily, ‘my aunt will rejoice to see me.’

‘I am not so sure of that,’ said Barnardine, pointing to the room he had opened: ‘Come in here, lady, while I step up.’

Emily, surprised and somewhat shocked, did not dare to oppose him further, but, as he was turning away with the torch,desired he would not leave her in darkness. He looked around, and, observing a tripod lamp, that stood on the stairs,lighted and gave it to Emily, who stepped forward into a large old chamber, and he closed the door. As she listenedanxiously to his departing steps, she thought he descended, instead of ascending, the stairs; but the gusts of wind, thatwhistled round the portal, would not allow her to hear distinctly any other sound. Still, however, she listened, and,perceiving no step in the room above, where he had affirmed Madame Montoni to be, her anxiety increased, though sheconsidered, that the thickness of the floor in this strong building might prevent any sound reaching her from the upperchamber. The next moment, in a pause of the wind, she distinguished Barnardine’s step descending to the court, and thenthought she heard his voice; but, the rising gust again overcoming other sounds, Emily, to be certain on this point, movedsoftly to the door, which, on attempting to open it, she discovered was fastened. All the horrid apprehensions, that hadlately assailed her, returned at this instant with redoubled force, and no longer appeared like the exaggerations of a timidspirit, but seemed to have been sent to warn her of her fate. She now did not doubt, that Madame Montoni had beenmurdered, perhaps in this very chamber; or that she herself was brought hither for the same purpose. The countenance, themanners and the recollected words of Barnardine, when he had spoken of her aunt, confirmed her worst fears. For somemoments, she was incapable of considering of any means, by which she might attempt an escape. Still she listened, butheard footsteps neither on the stairs, or in the room above; she thought, however, that she again distinguished Barnardine’svoice below, and went to a grated window, that opened upon the court, to enquire further. Here, she plainly heard hishoarse accents, mingling with the blast, that swept by, but they were lost again so quickly, that their meaning could not beinterpreted; and then the light of a torch, which seemed to issue from the portal below, flashed across the court, and thelong shadow of a man, who was under the arch-way, appeared upon the pavement. Emily, from the hugeness of this sudden

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portrait, concluded it to be that of Barnardine; but other deep tones, which passed in the wind, soon convinced her he wasnot alone, and that his companion was not a person very liable to pity.

When her spirits had overcome the first shock of her situation, she held up the lamp to examine, if the chamber afforded apossibility of an escape. It was a spacious room, whose walls, wainscoted with rough oak, shewed no casement but thegrated one, which Emily had left, and no other door than that, by which she had entered. The feeble rays of the lamp,however, did not allow her to see at once its full extent; she perceived no furniture, except, indeed, an iron chair, fastenedin the centre of the chamber, immediately over which, depending on a chain from the ceiling, hung an iron ring. Havinggazed upon these, for some time, with wonder and horror, she next observed iron bars below, made for the purpose ofconfining the feet, and on the arms of the chair were rings of the same metal. As she continued to survey them, sheconcluded, that they were instruments of torture, and it struck her, that some poor wretch had once been fastened in thischair, and had there been starved to death. She was chilled by the thought; but, what was her agony, when, in the nextmoment, it occurred to her, that her aunt might have been one of these victims, and that she herself might be the next! Anacute pain seized her head, she was scarcely able to hold the lamp, and, looking round for support, was seating herself,unconsciously, in the iron chair itself; but suddenly perceiving where she was, she started from it in horror, and sprungtowards a remote end of the room. Here again she looked round for a seat to sustain her, and perceived only a dark curtain,which, descending from the ceiling to the floor, was drawn along the whole side of the chamber. Ill as she was, theappearance of this curtain struck her, and she paused to gaze upon it, in wonder and apprehension.

It seemed to conceal a recess of the chamber; she wished, yet dreaded, to lift it, and to discover what it veiled: twice shewas withheld by a recollection of the terrible spectacle her daring hand had formerly unveiled in an apartment of the castle,till, suddenly conjecturing, that it concealed the body of her murdered aunt, she seized it, in a fit of desperation, and drew itaside. Beyond, appeared a corpse, stretched on a kind of low couch, which was crimsoned with human blood, as was thefloor beneath. The features, deformed by death, were ghastly and horrible, and more than one livid wound appeared in theface. Emily, bending over the body, gazed, for a moment, with an eager, frenzied eye; but, in the next, the lamp droppedfrom her hand, and she fell senseless at the foot of the couch.

When her senses returned, she found herself surrounded by men, among whom was Barnardine, who were lifting her fromthe floor, and then bore her along the chamber. She was sensible of what passed, but the extreme languor of her spirits didnot permit her to speak, or move, or even to feel any distinct fear. They carried her down the stair- case, by which she hadascended; when, having reached the arch-way, they stopped, and one of the men, taking the torch from Barnardine, openeda small door, that was cut in the great gate, and, as he stepped out upon the road, the light he bore shewed several men onhorseback, in waiting. Whether it was the freshness of the air, that revived Emily, or that the objects she now saw rousedthe spirit of alarm, she suddenly spoke, and made an ineffectual effort to disengage herself from the grasp of the ruffians,who held her.

Barnardine, meanwhile, called loudly for the torch, while distant voices answered, and several persons approached, and, inthe same instant, a light flashed upon the court of the castle. Again he vociferated for the torch, and the men hurried Emilythrough the gate. At a short distance, under the shelter of the castle walls, she perceived the fellow, who had taken the lightfrom the porter, holding it to a man, busily employed in altering the saddle of a horse, round which were several horsemen,looking on, whose harsh features received the full glare of the torch; while the broken ground beneath them, the oppositewalls, with the tufted shrubs, that overhung their summits, and an embattled watch-tower above, were reddened with thegleam, which, fading gradually away, left the remoter ramparts and the woods below to the obscurity of night.

‘What do you waste time for, there?’ said Barnardine with an oath, as he approached the horsemen. ‘Dispatch — dispatch!’

‘The saddle will be ready in a minute,’ replied the man who was buckling it, at whom Barnardine now swore again, for hisnegligence, and Emily, calling feebly for help, was hurried towards the horses, while the ruffians disputed on which toplace her, the one designed for her not being ready. At this moment a cluster of lights issued from the great gates, and sheimmediately heard the shrill voice of Annette above those of several other persons, who advanced. In the same moment,she distinguished Montoni and Cavigni, followed by a number of ruffian-faced fellows, to whom she no longer lookedwith terror, but with hope, for, at this instant, she did not tremble at the thought of any dangers, that might await her withinthe castle, whence so lately, and so anxiously she had wished to escape. Those, which threatened her from without, hadengrossed all her apprehensions.

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A short contest ensued between the parties, in which that of Montoni, however, were presently victors, and the horsemen,perceiving that numbers were against them, and being, perhaps, not very warmly interested in the affair they hadundertaken, galloped off, while Barnardine had run far enough to be lost in the darkness, and Emily was led back into thecastle. As she re-passed the courts, the remembrance of what she had seen in the portal-chamber came, with all its horror,to her mind; and when, soon after, she heard the gate close, that shut her once more within the castle walls, she shudderedfor herself, and, almost forgetting the danger she had escaped, could scarcely think, that any thing less precious than libertyand peace was to be found beyond them.

Montoni ordered Emily to await him in the cedar parlour, whither he soon followed, and then sternly questioned her on thismysterious affair. Though she now viewed him with horror, as the murderer of her aunt, and scarcely knew what she saidin reply to his impatient enquiries, her answers and her manner convinced him, that she had not taken a voluntary part inthe late scheme, and he dismissed her upon the appearance of his servants, whom he had ordered to attend, that he mightenquire further into the affair, and discover those, who had been accomplices in it.

Emily had been some time in her apartment, before the tumult of her mind allowed her to remember several of the pastcircumstances. Then, again, the dead form, which the curtain in the portal-chamber had disclosed, came to her fancy, andshe uttered a groan, which terrified Annette the more, as Emily forbore to satisfy her curiosity, on the subject of it, for shefeared to trust her with so fatal a secret, lest her indiscretion should call down the immediate vengeance of Montoni onherself.

Thus compelled to bear within her own mind the whole horror of the secret, that oppressed it, her reason seemed to totterunder the intolerable weight. She often fixed a wild and vacant look on Annette, and, when she spoke, either did not hearher, or answered from the purpose. Long fits of abstraction succeeded; Annette spoke repeatedly, but her voice seemed notto make any impression on the sense of the long agitated Emily, who sat fixed and silent, except that, now and then, sheheaved a heavy sigh, but without tears.

Terrified at her condition, Annette, at length, left the room, to inform Montoni of it, who had just dismissed his servants,without having made any discoveries on the subject of his enquiry. The wild description, which this girl now gave ofEmily, induced him to follow her immediately to the chamber.

At the sound of his voice, Emily turned her eyes, and a gleam of recollection seemed to shoot athwart her mind, for sheimmediately rose from her seat, and moved slowly to a remote part of the room. He spoke to her in accents somewhatsoftened from their usual harshness, but she regarded him with a kind of half curious, half terrified look, and answeredonly ‘yes,’ to whatever he said. Her mind still seemed to retain no other impression, than that of fear.

Of this disorder Annette could give no explanation, and Montoni, having attempted, for some time, to persuade Emily totalk, retired, after ordering Annette to remain with her, during the night, and to inform him, in the morning, of hercondition.

When he was gone, Emily again came forward, and asked who it was, that had been there to disturb her. Annette said itwas the Signor- Signor Montoni. Emily repeated the name after her, several times, as if she did not recollect it, and thensuddenly groaned, and relapsed into abstraction.

With some difficulty, Annette led her to the bed, which Emily examined with an eager, frenzied eye, before she lay down,and then, pointing, turned with shuddering emotion, to Annette, who, now more terrified, went towards the door, that shemight bring one of the female servants to pass the night with them; but Emily, observing her going, called her by name,and then in the naturally soft and plaintive tone of her voice, begged, that she, too, would not forsake her. — —‘For sincemy father died,’ added she, sighing, ‘every body forsakes me.’

‘Your father, ma’amselle!’ said Annette, ‘he was dead before you knew me.’

‘He was, indeed!’ rejoined Emily, and her tears began to flow. She now wept silently and long, after which, becomingquite calm, she at length sunk to sleep, Annette having had discretion enough not to interrupt her tears. This girl, asaffectionate as she was simple, lost in these moments all her former fears of remaining in the chamber, and watched aloneby Emily, during the whole night.

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1.9: Matthew Lewis, excerpt from The Monk (1796)

Matthew Lewis, excerpt from The Monk (1796)

Jeanette A. Laredo

The Monk shows a bare breasted Mathilda surrounded by smoke towering over the dejected monk Ambrosio.”width=”512″ height=”865″>

An illustration fromThe Monk

shows a bare-breasted Mathilda surrounded by smoke towering over the dejected monk Ambrosio.

Volume III, Chapter V

——He was a fell despightful Fiend: Hell holds none worse in baleful bower below: By pride, and wit, and rage, and rancor keened; Of Man alike, if good or bad the Foe. Thomson.

On the day following Antonia’s death, all Madrid was a scene of consternation and amazement. An Archer who hadwitnessed the adventure in the Sepulchre had indiscreetly related the circumstances of the murder: He had also named thePerpetrator. The confusion was without example which this intelligence raised among the Devotees. Most of themdisbelieved it, and went themselves to the Abbey to ascertain the fact. Anxious to avoid the shame to which their

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Superior’s ill-conduct exposed the whole Brotherhood, the Monks assured the Visitors that Ambrosio was prevented fromreceiving them as usual by nothing but illness. This attempt was unsuccessful: The same excuse being repeated day afterday, the Archer’s story gradually obtained confidence. His Partizans abandoned him: No one entertained a doubt of hisguilt; and they who before had been the warmest in his praise were now the most vociferous in his condemnation.

While his innocence or guilt was debated in Madrid with the utmost acrimony, Ambrosio was a prey to the pangs ofconscious villainy, and the terrors of punishment impending over him. When He looked back to the eminence on which Hehad lately stood, universally honoured and respected, at peace with the world and with himself, scarcely could He believethat He was indeed the culprit whose crimes and whose fate He trembled to envisage. But a few weeks had elapsed, sinceHe was pure and virtuous, courted by the wisest and noblest in Madrid, and regarded by the People with a reverence thatapproached idolatry: He now saw himself stained with the most loathed and monstrous sins, the object of universalexecration, a Prisoner of the Holy Office, and probably doomed to perish in tortures the most severe. He could not hope todeceive his Judges: The proofs of his guilt were too strong. His being in the Sepulchre at so late an hour, his confusion atthe discovery, the dagger which in his first alarm He owned had been concealed by him, and the blood which had spirtedupon his habit from Antonia’s wound, sufficiently marked him out for the Assassin. He waited with agony for the day ofexamination: He had no resource to comfort him in his distress. Religion could not inspire him with fortitude: If He readthe Books of morality which were put into his hands, He saw in them nothing but the enormity of his offences; If heattempted to pray, He recollected that He deserved not heaven’s protection, and believed his crimes so monstrous as tobaffle even God’s infinite goodness. For every other Sinner He thought there might be hope, but for him there could benone. Shuddering at the past, anguished by the present, and dreading the future, thus passed He the few days preceding thatwhich was marked for his Trial.

That day arrived. At nine in the morning his prison door was unlocked, and his Gaoler entering, commanded him to followhim. He obeyed with trembling. He was conducted into a spacious Hall, hung with black cloth. At the Table sat threegrave, stern-looking Men, also habited in black: One was the Grand Inquisitor, whom the importance of this cause hadinduced to examine into it himself. At a smaller table at a little distance sat the Secretary, provided with all necessaryimplements for writing. Ambrosio was beckoned to advance, and take his station at the lower end of the Table. As his eyeglanced downwards, He perceived various iron instruments lying scattered upon the floor. Their forms were unknown tohim, but apprehension immediately guessed them to be engines of torture. He turned pale, and with difficulty preventedhimself from sinking upon the ground.

Profound silence prevailed, except when the Inquisitors whispered a few words among themselves mysteriously. Near anhour past away, and with every second of it Ambrosio’s fears grew more poignant. At length a small Door, opposite to thatby which He had entered the Hall, grated heavily upon its hinges. An Officer appeared, and was immediately followed bythe beautiful Matilda. Her hair hung about her face wildly; Her cheeks were pale, and her eyes sunk and hollow. She threwa melancholy look upon Ambrosio: He replied by one of aversion and reproach. She was placed opposite to him. A Bellthen sounded thrice. It was the signal for opening the Court, and the Inquisitors entered upon their office.

In these trials neither the accusation is mentioned, or the name of the Accuser. The Prisoners are only asked, whether theywill confess: If they reply that having no crime they can make no confession, they are put to the torture without delay. Thisis repeated at intervals, either till the suspected avow themselves culpable, or the perseverance of the examinants is wornout and exhausted: But without a direct acknowledgment of their guilt, the Inquisition never pronounces the final doom ofits Prisoners.

In general much time is suffered to elapse without their being questioned: But Ambrosio’s trial had been hastened, onaccount of a solemn Auto da Fe which would take place in a few days, and in which the Inquisitors meant thisdistinguished Culprit to perform a part, and give a striking testimony of their vigilance.

The Abbot was not merely accused of rape and murder: The crime of Sorcery was laid to his charge, as well as toMatilda’s. She had been seized as an Accomplice in Antonia’s assassination. On searching her Cell, various suspiciousbooks and instruments were found which justified the accusation brought against her. To criminate the Monk, theconstellated Mirror was produced, which Matilda had accidentally left in his chamber. The strange figures engraved uponit caught the attention of Don Ramirez, while searching the Abbot’s Cell: In consequence, He carried it away with him. Itwas shown to the Grand Inquisitor, who having considered it for some time, took off a small golden Cross which hung athis girdle, and laid it upon the Mirror. Instantly a loud noise was heard, resembling a clap of thunder, and the steel shivered

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into a thousand pieces. This circumstance confirmed the suspicion of the Monk’s having dealt in Magic: It was evensupposed that his former influence over the minds of the People was entirely to be ascribed to witchcraft.

Determined to make him confess not only the crimes which He had committed, but those also of which He was innocent,the Inquisitors began their examination. Though dreading the tortures, as He dreaded death still more which would consignhim to eternal torments, the Abbot asserted his purity in a voice bold and resolute. Matilda followed his example, butspoke with fear and trembling. Having in vain exhorted him to confess, the Inquisitors ordered the Monk to be put to thequestion. The Decree was immediately executed. Ambrosio suffered the most excruciating pangs that ever were inventedby human cruelty: Yet so dreadful is Death when guilt accompanies it, that He had sufficient fortitude to persist in hisdisavowal. His agonies were redoubled in consequence: Nor was He released till fainting from excess of pain, insensibilityrescued him from the hands of his Tormentors.

Matilda was next ordered to the torture: But terrified by the sight of the Friar’s sufferings, her courage totally deserted her.She sank upon her knees, acknowledged her corresponding with infernal Spirits, and that She had witnessed the Monk’sassassination of Antonia: But as to the crime of Sorcery, She declared herself the sole criminal, and Ambrosio perfectlyinnocent. The latter assertion met with no credit. The Abbot had recovered his senses in time to hear the confession of hisAccomplice: But He was too much enfeebled by what He had already undergone to be capable at that time of sustainingnew torments.

He was commanded back to his Cell, but first informed that as soon as He had gained strength sufficient, He must preparehimself for a second examination. The Inquisitors hoped that He would then be less hardened and obstinate. To Matilda itwas announced that She must expiate her crime in fire on the approaching Auto da Fe. All her tears and entreaties couldprocure no mitigation of her doom, and She was dragged by force from the Hall of Trial.

Returned to his dungeon, the sufferings of Ambrosio’s body were far more supportable than those of his mind. Hisdislocated limbs, the nails torn from his hands and feet, and his fingers mashed and broken by the pressure of screws, werefar surpassed in anguish by the agitation of his soul and vehemence of his terrors. He saw that, guilty or innocent, hisJudges were bent upon condemning him: The remembrance of what his denial had already cost him terrified him at theidea of being again applied to the question, and almost engaged him to confess his crimes. Then again the consequences ofhis confession flashed before him, and rendered him once more irresolute. His death would be inevitable, and that a deaththe most dreadful: He had listened to Matilda’s doom, and doubted not that a similar was reserved for him. He shudderedat the approaching Auto da Fe, at the idea of perishing in flames, and only escaping from indurable torments to pass intoothers more subtile and ever-lasting! With affright did He bend his mind’s eye on the space beyond the grave; nor couldhide from himself how justly he ought to dread Heaven’s vengeance. In this Labyrinth of terrors, fain would He have takenhis refuge in the gloom of Atheism: Fain would He have denied the soul’s immortality; have persuaded himself that whenhis eyes once closed, they would never more open, and that the same moment would annihilate his soul and body. Eventhis resource was refused to him. To permit his being blind to the fallacy of this belief, his knowledge was too extensive,his understanding too solid and just. He could not help feeling the existence of a God. Those truths, once his comfort, nowpresented themselves before him in the clearest light; But they only served to drive him to distraction. They destroyed hisill-grounded hopes of escaping punishment; and dispelled by the irresistible brightness of Truth and convinction,Philosophy’s deceitful vapours faded away like a dream.

In anguish almost too great for mortal frame to bear, He expected the time when He was again to be examined. He busiedhimself in planning ineffectual schemes for escaping both present and future punishment. Of the first there was nopossibility; Of the second Despair made him neglect the only means. While Reason forced him to acknowledge a God’sexistence, Conscience made him doubt the infinity of his goodness. He disbelieved that a Sinner like him could find mercy.He had not been deceived into error: Ignorance could furnish him with no excuse. He had seen vice in her true colours;Before He committed his crimes, He had computed every scruple of their weight; and yet he had committed them.

‘Pardon?’ He would cry in an access of phrenzy ‘Oh! there can be none for me!’

Persuaded of this, instead of humbling himself in penitence, of deploring his guilt, and employing his few remaining hoursin deprecating Heaven’s wrath, He abandoned himself to the transports of desperate rage; He sorrowed for the punishmentof his crimes, not their commission; and exhaled his bosom’s anguish in idle sighs, in vain lamentations, in blasphemy anddespair. As the few beams of day which pierced through the bars of his prison window gradually disappeared, and theirplace was supplied by the pale and glimmering Lamp, He felt his terrors redouble, and his ideas become more gloomy,

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more solemn, more despondent. He dreaded the approach of sleep: No sooner did his eyes close, wearied with tears andwatching, than the dreadful visions seemed to be realised on which his mind had dwelt during the day. He found himself insulphurous realms and burning Caverns, surrounded by Fiends appointed his Tormentors, and who drove him through avariety of tortures, each of which was more dreadful than the former. Amidst these dismal scenes wandered the Ghosts ofElvira and her Daughter. They reproached him with their deaths, recounted his crimes to the Daemons, and urged them toinflict torments of cruelty yet more refined. Such were the pictures which floated before his eyes in sleep: They vanishednot till his repose was disturbed by excess of agony. Then would He start from the ground on which He had stretchedhimself, his brows running down with cold sweat, his eyes wild and phrenzied; and He only exchanged the terriblecertainty for surmizes scarcely more supportable. He paced his dungeon with disordered steps; He gazed with terror uponthe surrounding darkness, and often did He cry,

‘Oh! fearful is night to the Guilty!’

The day of his second examination was at hand. He had been compelled to swallow cordials, whose virtues werecalculated to restore his bodily strength, and enable him to support the question longer. On the night preceding this dreadedday, his fears for the morrow permitted him not to sleep. His terrors were so violent, as nearly to annihilate his mentalpowers. He sat like one stupefied near the Table on which his Lamp was burning dimly. Despair chained up his faculties inIdiotism, and He remained for some hours, unable to speak or move, or indeed to think.

‘Look up, Ambrosio!’ said a Voice in accents well-known to him—

The Monk started, and raised his melancholy eyes. Matilda stood before him. She had quitted her religious habit. She nowwore a female dress, at once elegant and splendid: A profusion of diamonds blazed upon her robes, and her hair wasconfined by a coronet of Roses. In her right hand She held a small Book: A lively expression of pleasure beamed upon hercountenance; But still it was mingled with a wild imperious majesty which inspired the Monk with awe, and represt insome measure his transports at seeing her.

‘You here, Matilda?’ He at length exclaimed; ‘How have you gained entrance? Where are your Chains? What means thismagnificence, and the joy which sparkles in your eyes? Have our Judges relented? Is there a chance of my escaping?Answer me for pity, and tell me, what I have to hope, or fear.’

‘Ambrosio!’ She replied with an air of commanding dignity; ‘I have baffled the Inquisition’s fury. I am free: A fewmoments will place kingdoms between these dungeons and me. Yet I purchase my liberty at a dear, at a dreadful price!Dare you pay the same, Ambrosio? Dare you spring without fear over the bounds which separate Men from Angels?—Youare silent.—You look upon me with eyes of suspicion and alarm—I read your thoughts and confess their justice. Yes,Ambrosio; I have sacrificed all for life and liberty. I am no longer a candidate for heaven! I have renounced God’s service,and am enlisted beneath the banners of his Foes. The deed is past recall: Yet were it in my power to go back, I would not.Oh! my Friend, to expire in such torments! To die amidst curses and execrations! To bear the insults of an exasperatedMob! To be exposed to all the mortifications of shame and infamy! Who can reflect without horror on such a doom? Letme then exult in my exchange. I have sold distant and uncertain happiness for present and secure: I have preserved a lifewhich otherwise I had lost in torture; and I have obtained the power of procuring every bliss which can make that lifedelicious! The Infernal Spirits obey me as their Sovereign: By their aid shall my days be past in every refinement of luxuryand voluptuousness. I will enjoy unrestrained the gratification of my senses: Every passion shall be indulged, even tosatiety; Then will I bid my Servants invent new pleasures, to revive and stimulate my glutted appetites! I go impatient toexercise my newly-gained dominion. I pant to be at liberty. Nothing should hold me one moment longer in this abhorredabode, but the hope of persuading you to follow my example. Ambrosio, I still love you: Our mutual guilt and danger haverendered you dearer to me than ever, and I would fain save you from impending destruction. Summon then your resolutionto your aid; and renounce for immediate and certain benefits the hopes of a salvation, difficult to obtain, and perhapsaltogether erroneous. Shake off the prejudice of vulgar souls; Abandon a God who has abandoned you, and raise yourselfto the level of superior Beings!’

She paused for the Monk’s reply: He shuddered, while He gave it.

‘Matilda!’ He said after a long silence in a low and unsteady voice; ‘What price gave you for liberty?’

She answered him firm and dauntless.

‘Ambrosio, it was my Soul!’

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‘Wretched Woman, what have you done? Pass but a few years, and how dreadful will be your sufferings!’

‘Weak Man, pass but this night, and how dreadful will be your own! Do you remember what you have already endured?Tomorrow you must bear torments doubly exquisite. Do you remember the horrors of a fiery punishment? In two days youmust be led a Victim to the Stake! What then will become of you? Still dare you hope for pardon? Still are you beguiledwith visions of salvation? Think upon your crimes! Think upon your lust, your perjury, inhumanity, and hypocrisy! Thinkupon the innocent blood which cries to the Throne of God for vengeance, and then hope for mercy! Then dream of heaven,and sigh for worlds of light, and realms of peace and pleasure! Absurd! Open your eyes, Ambrosio, and be prudent. Hell isyour lot; You are doomed to eternal perdition; Nought lies beyond your grave but a gulph of devouring flames. And willyou then speed towards that Hell? Will you clasp that perdition in your arms, ere ’tis needful? Will you plunge into thoseflames while you still have the power to shun them? ‘Tis a Madman’s action. No, no, Ambrosio: Let us for awhile fly fromdivine vengeance. Be advised by me; Purchase by one moment’s courage the bliss of years; Enjoy the present, and forgetthat a future lags behind.’

‘Matilda, your counsels are dangerous: I dare not, I will not follow them. I must not give up my claim to salvation.Monstrous are my crimes; But God is merciful, and I will not despair of pardon.’

‘Is such your resolution? I have no more to say. I speed to joy and liberty, and abandon you to death and eternal torments.’

‘Yet stay one moment, Matilda! You command the infernal Daemons:

You can force open these prison doors; You can release me from these chains which weigh me down. Save me, I conjureyou, and bear me from these fearful abodes!’

‘You ask the only boon beyond my power to bestow. I am forbidden to assist a Churchman and a Partizan of God:Renounce those titles, and command me.’

‘I will not sell my soul to perdition.’

‘Persist in your obstinacy, till you find yourself at the Stake: Then will you repent your error, and sigh for escape when themoment is gone by. I quit you. Yet ere the hour of death arrives should wisdom enlighten you, listen to the means ofrepairing your present fault. I leave with you this Book. Read the four first lines of the seventh page backwards: The Spiritwhom you have already once beheld will immediately appear to you. If you are wise, we shall meet again: If not, farewellfor ever!’

She let the Book fall upon the ground. A cloud of blue fire wrapped itself round her: She waved her hand to Ambrosio, anddisappeared. The momentary glare which the flames poured through the dungeon, on dissipating suddenly, seemed to haveincreased its natural gloom. The solitary Lamp scarcely gave light sufficient to guide the Monk to a Chair. He threwhimself into his seat, folded his arms, and leaning his head upon the table, sank into reflections perplexing andunconnected.

He was still in this attitude when the opening of the prison door rouzed him from his stupor. He was summoned to appearbefore the Grand Inquisitor. He rose, and followed his Gaoler with painful steps. He was led into the same Hall, placedbefore the same Examiners, and was again interrogated whether He would confess. He replied as before, that having nocrimes, He could acknowledge none: But when the Executioners prepared to put him to the question, when He saw theengines of torture, and remembered the pangs which they had already inflicted, his resolution failed him entirely.Forgetting the consequences, and only anxious to escape the terrors of the present moment, He made an ample confession.He disclosed every circumstance of his guilt, and owned not merely the crimes with which He was charged, but those ofwhich He had never been suspected. Being interrogated as to Matilda’s flight which had created much confusion, Heconfessed that She had sold herself to Satan, and that She was indebted to Sorcery for her escape. He still assured hisJudges that for his own part He had never entered into any compact with the infernal Spirits; But the threat of beingtortured made him declare himself to be a Sorcerer, and Heretic, and whatever other title the Inquisitors chose to fix uponhim. In consequence of this avowal, his sentence was immediately pronounced. He was ordered to prepare himself toperish in the Auto da Fe, which was to be solemnized at twelve o’clock that night. This hour was chosen from the idea thatthe horror of the flames being heightened by the gloom of midnight, the execution would have a greater effect upon themind of the People.

Ambrosio rather dead than alive was left alone in his dungeon. The moment in which this terrible decree was pronouncedhad nearly proved that of his dissolution. He looked forward to the morrow with despair, and his terrors increased with the

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approach of midnight. Sometimes He was buried in gloomy silence: At others He raved with delirious passion, wrung hishands, and cursed the hour when He first beheld the light. In one of these moments his eye rested upon Matilda’smysterious gift. His transports of rage were instantly suspended. He looked earnestly at the Book; He took it up, butimmediately threw it from him with horror. He walked rapidly up and down his dungeon: Then stopped, and again fixedhis eyes on the spot where the Book had fallen. He reflected that here at least was a resource from the fate which Hedreaded. He stooped, and took it up a second time.

He remained for some time trembling and irresolute: He longed to try the charm, yet feared its consequences. Therecollection of his sentence at length fixed his indecision. He opened the Volume; but his agitation was so great that He atfirst sought in vain for the page mentioned by Matilda. Ashamed of himself, He called all his courage to his aid. He turnedto the seventh leaf. He began to read it aloud; But his eyes frequently wandered from the Book, while He anxiously castthem round in search of the Spirit, whom He wished, yet dreaded to behold. Still He persisted in his design; and with avoice unassured and frequent interruptions, He contrived to finish the four first lines of the page.

They were in a language, whose import was totally unknown to him.

Scarce had He pronounced the last word when the effects of the charm were evident. A loud burst of Thunder was heard;The prison shook to its very foundations; A blaze of lightning flashed through the Cell; and in the next moment, borneupon sulphurous whirl-winds, Lucifer stood before him a second time. But He came not as when at Matilda’s summons Heborrowed the Seraph’s form to deceive Ambrosio. He appeared in all that ugliness which since his fall from heaven hadbeen his portion: His blasted limbs still bore marks of the Almighty’s thunder: A swarthy darkness spread itself over hisgigantic form: His hands and feet were armed with long Talons: Fury glared in his eyes, which might have struck thebravest heart with terror: Over his huge shoulders waved two enormous sable wings; and his hair was supplied by livingsnakes, which twined themselves round his brows with frightful hissings. In one hand He held a roll of parchment, and inthe other an iron pen. Still the lightning flashed around him, and the Thunder with repeated bursts, seemed to announce thedissolution of Nature.

Terrified at an Apparition so different from what He had expected, Ambrosio remained gazing upon the Fiend, deprived ofthe power of utterance. The Thunder had ceased to roll: Universal silence reigned through the dungeon.

‘For what am I summoned hither?’ said the Daemon, in a voice which sulphurous fogs had damped to hoarseness—

At the sound Nature seemed to tremble: A violent earthquake rocked the ground, accompanied by a fresh burst of Thunder,louder and more appalling than the first.

Ambrosio was long unable to answer the Daemon’s demand.

‘I am condemned to die;’ He said with a faint voice, his blood running cold, while He gazed upon his dreadful Visitor.‘Save me! Bear me from hence!’

‘Shall the reward of my services be paid me? Dare you embrace my cause? Will you be mine, body and soul? Are youprepared to renounce him who made you, and him who died for you? Answer but “Yes” and Lucifer is your Slave.’

‘Will no less price content you? Can nothing satisfy you but my eternal ruin? Spirit, you ask too much. Yet convey mefrom this dungeon: Be my Servant for one hour, and I will be yours for a thousand years. Will not this offer suffice?’

‘It will not. I must have your soul; must have it mine, and mine for ever.’

‘Insatiate Daemon, I will not doom myself to endless torments. I will not give up my hopes of being one day pardoned.’

‘You will not? On what Chimaera rest then your hopes? Short-sighted Mortal! Miserable Wretch! Are you not guilty? Areyou not infamous in the eyes of Men and Angels. Can such enormous sins be forgiven? Hope you to escape my power?Your fate is already pronounced. The Eternal has abandoned you; Mine you are marked in the book of destiny, and mineyou must and shall be!’

‘Fiend, ’tis false! Infinite is the Almighty’s mercy, and the Penitent shall meet his forgiveness. My crimes are monstrous,but I will not despair of pardon: Haply, when they have received due chastisement….’

‘Chastisement? Was Purgatory meant for guilt like yours? Hope you that your offences shall be bought off by prayers ofsuperstitious dotards and droning Monks? Ambrosio, be wise! Mine you must be: You are doomed to flames, but may shunthem for the present. Sign this parchment: I will bear you from hence, and you may pass your remaining years in bliss and

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liberty. Enjoy your existence: Indulge in every pleasure to which appetite may lead you: But from the moment that it quitsyour body, remember that your soul belongs to me, and that I will not be defrauded of my right.’

The Monk was silent; But his looks declared that the Tempter’s words were not thrown away. He reflected on theconditions proposed with horror: On the other hand, He believed himself doomed to perdition and that, by refusing theDaemon’s succour, He only hastened tortures which He never could escape. The Fiend saw that his resolution was shaken:He renewed his instances, and endeavoured to fix the Abbot’s indecision. He described the agonies of death in the mostterrific colours; and He worked so powerfully upon Ambrosio’s despair and fears that He prevailed upon him to receive theParchment. He then struck the iron Pen which He held into a vein of the Monk’s left hand. It pierced deep, and wasinstantly filled with blood; Yet Ambrosio felt no pain from the wound. The Pen was put into his hand: It trembled. TheWretch placed the Parchment on the Table before him, and prepared to sign it. Suddenly He held his hand: He started awayhastily, and threw the Pen upon the table.

‘What am I doing?’ He cried—Then turning to the Fiend with a desperate air, ‘Leave me! Begone! I will not sign theParchment.’

‘Fool!’ exclaimed the disappointed Daemon, darting looks so furious as penetrated the Friar’s soul with horror; ‘Thus am Itrifled with? Go then! Rave in agony, expire in tortures, and then learn the extent of the Eternal’s mercy! But beware howyou make me again your mock! Call me no more till resolved to accept my offers! Summon me a second time to dismissme thus idly, and these Talons shall rend you into a thousand pieces! Speak yet again; Will you sign the Parchment?’

‘I will not! Leave me! Away!’

Instantly the Thunder was heard to roll horribly: Once more the earth trembled with violence: The Dungeon resoundedwith loud shrieks, and the Daemon fled with blasphemy and curses.

At first, the Monk rejoiced at having resisted the Seducer’s arts, and obtained a triumph over Mankind’s Enemy: But as thehour of punishment drew near, his former terrors revived in his heart. Their momentary repose seemed to have given themfresh vigour. The nearer that the time approached, the more did He dread appearing before the Throne of God. Heshuddered to think how soon He must be plunged into eternity; How soon meet the eyes of his Creator, whom He had sogrievously offended. The Bell announced midnight: It was the signal for being led to the Stake! As He listened to the firststroke, the blood ceased to circulate in the Abbot’s veins: He heard death and torture murmured in each succeeding sound.He expected to see the Archers entering his prison; and as the Bell forbore to toll, he seized the magic volume in a fit ofdespair. He opened it, turned hastily to the seventh page, and as if fearing to allow himself a moment’s thought ran over thefatal lines with rapidity. Accompanied by his former terrors, Lucifer again stood before the Trembler.

‘You have summoned me,’ said the Fiend; ‘Are you determined to be wise? Will you accept my conditions? You knowthem already. Renounce your claim to salvation, make over to me your soul, and I bear you from this dungeon instantly.Yet is it time. Resolve, or it will be too late. Will you sign the Parchment?’

‘I must!—Fate urges me! I accept your conditions.’

‘Sign the Parchment!’ replied the Daemon in an exulting tone.

The Contract and the bloody Pen still lay upon the Table. Ambrosio drew near it. He prepared to sign his name. Amoment’s reflection made him hesitate.

‘Hark!’ cried the Tempter; ‘They come! Be quick! Sign the Parchment, and I bear you from hence this moment.’

In effect, the Archers were heard approaching, appointed to lead Ambrosio to the Stake. The sound encouraged the Monkin his resolution.

‘What is the import of this writing?’ said He.

‘It makes your soul over to me for ever, and without reserve.’

‘What am I to receive in exchange?’

‘My protection, and release from this dungeon. Sign it, and this instant I bear you away.’

Ambrosio took up the Pen; He set it to the Parchment. Again his courage failed him: He felt a pang of terror at his heart,and once more threw the Pen upon the Table.

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‘Weak and Puerile!’ cried the exasperated Fiend: ‘Away with this folly! Sign the writing this instant, or I sacrifice you tomy rage!’

At this moment the bolt of the outward Door was drawn back. The Prisoner heard the rattling of Chains; The heavy Barfell; The Archers were on the point of entering. Worked up to phrenzy by the urgent danger, shrinking from the approachof death, terrified by the Daemon’s threats, and seeing no other means to escape destruction, the wretched Monk complied.He signed the fatal contract, and gave it hastily into the evil Spirit’s hands, whose eyes, as He received the gift, glared withmalicious rapture.

‘Take it!’ said the God-abandoned; ‘Now then save me! Snatch me from hence!’

‘Hold! Do you freely and absolutely renounce your Creator and his Son?’

‘I do! I do!’

‘Do you make over your soul to me for ever?’

‘For ever!’

‘Without reserve or subterfuge? Without future appeal to the divine mercy?’

The last Chain fell from the door of the prison: The key was heard turning in the Lock: Already the iron door gratedheavily upon its rusty hinges.

‘I am yours for ever and irrevocably!’ cried the Monk wild with terror: ‘I abandon all claim to salvation! I own no powerbut yours! Hark! Hark! They come! Oh! save me! Bear me away!’

‘I have triumphed! You are mine past reprieve, and I fulfil my promise.’

While He spoke, the Door unclosed. Instantly the Daemon grasped one of Ambrosio’s arms, spread his broad pinions, andsprang with him into the air. The roof opened as they soared upwards, and closed again when they had quitted theDungeon.

In the meanwhile, the Gaoler was thrown into the utmost surprize by the disappearance of his Prisoner. Though neither Henor the Archers were in time to witness the Monk’s escape, a sulphurous smell prevailing through the prison sufficientlyinformed them by whose aid He had been liberated. They hastened to make their report to the Grand Inquisitor. The story,how a Sorcerer had been carried away by the Devil, was soon noised about Madrid; and for some days the whole City wasemployed in discussing the subject. Gradually it ceased to be the topic of conversation: Other adventures arose whosenovelty engaged universal attention; and Ambrosio was soon forgotten as totally, as if He never had existed. While thiswas passing, the Monk supported by his infernal guide, traversed the air with the rapidity of an arrow, and a few momentsplaced him upon a Precipice’s brink, the steepest in Sierra Morena.

Though rescued from the Inquisition, Ambrosio as yet was insensible of the blessings of liberty. The damning contractweighed heavy upon his mind; and the scenes in which He had been a principal actor had left behind them suchimpressions as rendered his heart the seat of anarchy and confusion. The Objects now before his eyes, and which the fullMoon sailing through clouds permitted him to examine, were ill-calculated to inspire that calm, of which He stood somuch in need. The disorder of his imagination was increased by the wildness of the surrounding scenery; By the gloomyCaverns and steep rocks, rising above each other, and dividing the passing clouds; solitary clusters of Trees scattered hereand there, among whose thick-twined branches the wind of night sighed hoarsely and mournfully; the shrill cry ofmountain Eagles, who had built their nests among these lonely Desarts; the stunning roar of torrents, as swelled by laterains they rushed violently down tremendous precipices; and the dark waters of a silent sluggish stream which faintlyreflected the moonbeams, and bathed the Rock’s base on which Ambrosio stood. The Abbot cast round him a look ofterror. His infernal Conductor was still by his side, and eyed him with a look of mingled malice, exultation, and contempt.

‘Whither have you brought me?’ said the Monk at length in an hollow trembling voice: ‘Why am I placed in thismelancholy scene? Bear me from it quickly! Carry me to Matilda!’

The Fiend replied not, but continued to gaze upon him in silence.

Ambrosio could not sustain his glance; He turned away his eyes, while thus spoke the Daemon:

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‘I have him then in my power! This model of piety! This being without reproach! This Mortal who placed his puny virtueson a level with those of Angels. He is mine! Irrevocably, eternally mine! Companions of my sufferings! Denizens of hell!How grateful will be my present!’

He paused; then addressed himself to the Monk——

‘Carry you to Matilda?’ He continued, repeating Ambrosio’s words:

‘Wretch! you shall soon be with her! You well deserve a place near her, for hell boasts no miscreant more guilty thanyourself.

Hark, Ambrosio, while I unveil your crimes! You have shed the blood of two innocents; Antonia and Elvira perished byyour hand. That Antonia whom you violated, was your Sister! That Elvira whom you murdered, gave you birth! Tremble,abandoned Hypocrite! Inhuman Parricide! Incestuous Ravisher! Tremble at the extent of your offences! And you it waswho thought yourself proof against temptation, absolved from human frailties, and free from error and vice! Is pride then avirtue? Is inhumanity no fault? Know, vain Man! That I long have marked you for my prey: I watched the movements ofyour heart; I saw that you were virtuous from vanity, not principle, and I seized the fit moment of seduction. I observedyour blind idolatry of the Madona’s picture. I bad a subordinate but crafty spirit assume a similar form, and you eagerlyyielded to the blandishments of Matilda. Your pride was gratified by her flattery; Your lust only needed an opportunity tobreak forth; You ran into the snare blindly, and scrupled not to commit a crime which you blamed in another withunfeeling severity. It was I who threw Matilda in your way; It was I who gave you entrance to Antonia’s chamber; It was Iwho caused the dagger to be given you which pierced your Sister’s bosom; and it was I who warned Elvira in dreams ofyour designs upon her Daughter, and thus, by preventing your profiting by her sleep, compelled you to add rape as well asincest to the catalogue of your crimes. Hear, hear, Ambrosio! Had you resisted me one minute longer, you had saved yourbody and soul. The guards whom you heard at your prison door came to signify your pardon. But I had already triumphed:My plots had already succeeded. Scarcely could I propose crimes so quick as you performed them. You are mine, andHeaven itself cannot rescue you from my power. Hope not that your penitence will make void our contract. Here is yourbond signed with your blood; You have given up your claim to mercy, and nothing can restore to you the rights which youhave foolishly resigned. Believe you that your secret thoughts escaped me? No, no, I read them all! You trusted that youshould still have time for repentance. I saw your artifice, knew its falsity, and rejoiced in deceiving the deceiver! You aremine beyond reprieve: I burn to possess my right, and alive you quit not these mountains.’

During the Daemon’s speech, Ambrosio had been stupefied by terror and surprize. This last declaration rouzed him.

‘Not quit these mountains alive?’ He exclaimed: ‘Perfidious, what mean you? Have you forgotten our contract?’

The Fiend answered by a malicious laugh:

‘Our contract? Have I not performed my part? What more did I promise than to save you from your prison? Have I notdone so? Are you not safe from the Inquisition—safe from all but from me? Fool that you were to confide yourself to aDevil! Why did you not stipulate for life, and power, and pleasure? Then all would have been granted: Now, yourreflections come too late. Miscreant, prepare for death; You have not many hours to live!’

On hearing this sentence, dreadful were the feelings of the devoted Wretch! He sank upon his knees, and raised his handstowards heaven. The Fiend read his intention and prevented it—

‘What?’ He cried, darting at him a look of fury: ‘Dare you still implore the Eternal’s mercy? Would you feign penitence,and again act an Hypocrite’s part? Villain, resign your hopes of pardon. Thus I secure my prey!’

As He said this, darting his talons into the Monk’s shaven crown, He sprang with him from the rock. The Caves andmountains rang with Ambrosio’s shrieks. The Daemon continued to soar aloft, till reaching a dreadful height, He releasedthe sufferer. Headlong fell the Monk through the airy waste; The sharp point of a rock received him; and He rolled fromprecipice to precipice, till bruised and mangled He rested on the river’s banks. Life still existed in his miserable frame: Heattempted in vain to raise himself; His broken and dislocated limbs refused to perform their office, nor was He able to quitthe spot where He had first fallen. The Sun now rose above the horizon; Its scorching beams darted full upon the head ofthe expiring Sinner. Myriads of insects were called forth by the warmth; They drank the blood which trickled fromAmbrosio’s wounds; He had no power to drive them from him, and they fastened upon his sores, darted their stings into hisbody, covered him with their multitudes, and inflicted on him tortures the most exquisite and insupportable. The Eagles ofthe rock tore his flesh piecemeal, and dug out his eyeballs with their crooked beaks. A burning thirst tormented him; He

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heard the river’s murmur as it rolled beside him, but strove in vain to drag himself towards the sound. Blind, maimed,helpless, and despairing, venting his rage in blasphemy and curses, execrating his existence, yet dreading the arrival ofdeath destined to yield him up to greater torments, six miserable days did the Villain languish. On the Seventh a violentstorm arose: The winds in fury rent up rocks and forests: The sky was now black with clouds, now sheeted with fire: Therain fell in torrents; It swelled the stream; The waves overflowed their banks; They reached the spot where Ambrosio lay,and when they abated carried with them into the river the Corse of the despairing Monk.

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1.10: Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Review of The Monk

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Review of The Monk

Jeanette A. Laredo

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A sketch of Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

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The horrible and the preternatural have usually seized on the popular taste, at the rise and decline of literature. Mostpowerful stimulants, they can never be required except by the torpor of an unawakened, or the languor of an exhausted,appetite. The same phaenomenon, therefore, which we hail as a favourable omen in the belles lettres of Germany,impresses a degree of gloom in the compositions of our countrymen. We trust, however, that satiety will banish what goodsense should have prevented; and that, wearied with fiends, incomprehensible characters, with shrieks, murders, andsubterraneous dungeons, the public will learn, by the multitude of the manufacturers, with how little expense of thought orimagination this species of composition is manufactured. But, cheaply as we estimate romances in general, weacknowledge, in the work before us, the offspring of no common genius. The tale is similar to that of “Santon Barsista” inthe Guardian. Ambrosio, a monk, surnamed the Man of Holiness, proud of his own undeviating rectitude, and severe to thefaults of others, is successfully assailed by the tempter of mankind, and seduced to the perpetration of rape and murder,and finally precipitated into a contract in which he consigns his soul to everlasting perdition.

The larger part of the three volumes is occupied by the under plot, which, however, is skilfully and closely connected withthe main story, and is sub-servient to its development. The tale of the bleeding nun is truly terrific; and we could not easilyrecollect a bolder or more happy conception than that of the burning cross on the forehead of the wandering Jew (amysterious character, which, though copied as to its more prominent features from Schiller’s incomprehensible Armenian,does, nevertheless, display great vigour of fancy). But the character of Matilda, the chief agent in the seduction of Antonio[sic Ambrosio], appears to us to be the author’s master-piece. It is, indeed, exquisitely imagined, and as exquisitelysupported. The whole work is distinguished by the variety and impressiveness of its incidents; and the author everywherediscovers an imagination rich, powerful, and fervid. Such are the excellencies;–the errors and defects are more numerous,and (we are sorry to add) of greater importance.

All events are levelled into one common mass, and become almost equally probable, where the order of nature may bechanged wherever the author’s purposes demand it. No address is requisite to the accomplishment of any design; and nopleasure therefore can be received from the perception of “difficulty surmounted”. The writer may make us wonder, but hecannot surprise us. For the same reasons a romance is incapable of exemplifying a moral truth. No proud man, for instance,will be made less proud by being told that Lucifer once seduced a presumptuous monk. Incredulus odit. Or even if,believing the story, he should deem his virtue less secure, he would yet acquire no lessons of prudence, no feelings ofhumility. Human prudence can oppose no sufficient shield to the power and cunning of supernatural beings; and theprivilege of being proud might be fairly conceded to him who could rise superior to all earthly temptations, and whom thestrength of the spiritual world alone would be adequate to overwhelm. So falling, he would fall with glory, and mightreasonably welcome his defeat with the haughty emotions of a conqueror. As far, therefore, as the story is concerned, thepraise which a romance can claim, is simply that of having given pleasure during its perusal; and so many are thecalamities of life, that he who has done this, has not written uselessly. The children of sickness and of solitude shall thankhim. To this praise, however, our author has not entitled himself.

The sufferings which he describes are so frightful and intolerable, that we break with abruptness from the delusion, andindignantly suspect the man of a species of brutality, who could find a pleasure in wantonly imagining them; and theabominations which he pourtrays with no hurrying pencil, are such as the observation of character by no means demanded,such as ‘no observation of character can justify, because no good man would willingly suffer them to pass, howevertransiently, through his own mind.’ The merit of a novellist is in proportion (not simply to the effect, but) to the“pleasurable” effect which he produces. Situations of torment, and images of naked horror, are easily conceived; and awriter in whose works they abound, deserves our gratitude almost equally with him who should drag us by way of sportthrough a military hospital, or force us to sit at the dissecting-table of a natural philosopher. To trace the nice boundaries,beyond which terror and sympathy are deserted by the pleasurable emotions,–to reach those limits, yet never to pass them,“hic labor, hic opus eat”. Figures that shock the imagination, and narratives that mangle the feelings, rarely discover“genius”, and always betray a low and vulgar “taste”. Nor has our author indicated less ignorance of the human heart in themanagement of the principal character.

The wisdom and goodness of providence have ordered that the tendency of vicious actions to deprave the heart of theperpetrator, should diminish in proportion to the greatness of his temptations. Now, in addition to constitutional warmthand irresistible opportunity, the monk is impelled to incontinence by friendship, by compassion, by gratitude, by all that isamiable, and all that is estimable; yet in a few weeks after his first frailty, the man who had been described as possessingmuch general humanity, a keen and vigorous understanding, with habits of the most exalted piety, degenerates into an

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uglier fiend than the gloomy imagination of Dante would have ventured to picture. Again, the monk is described as feelingand acting under the influence of an appetite which could not co-exist with his other emotions. The romance-writerpossesses an unlimited power over situations; but he must scrupulously make his characters act in congruity with them. Lethim work “physical” wonders only, and we will be content to “dream” with him for a while; but the first “moral” miraclewhich he attempts, he disgusts and awakens us. Thus our judgment remains unoffended, when, announced by thunders andearthquakes, the spirit appears to Ambrosio involved in blue fires that increase the cold of the cavern; and we acquiesce inthe power of the silver myrtle which made gates and doors fly open at its touch, and charmed every eye into sleep.

But when a mortal, fresh from the impression of that terrible appearance, and in the act of evincing for the first time thewitching force of this myrtle, is represented as being at the same moment agitated by so fleeting an appetite as that of lust,our own feelings convince us that this is not improbable, but impossible; not preternatural, but contrary to nature. Theextent of the powers that may exist, we can never ascertain; and therefore we feel no great difficulty in yielding atemporary belief to any, the strangest, situation of “things”. But that situation once conceived, how beings like ourselveswould feel and act in it, our own feelings sufficiently instruct us; and we instantly reject the clumsy fiction that does notharmonise with them. These are the two “principal” mistakes in “judgment”, which the author has fallen into; but wecannot wholly pass over the frequent incongruity of his style with his subjects. It is gaudy where it should have beenseverely simple; and too often the mind is offended by phrases the most trite and colloquial, where it demands and hadexpected a sternness and solemnity of diction.

A more grievous fault remains, a fault for which no literary excellence can atone, a fault which all other excellence doesbut aggravate, as adding subtlety to a poison by the elegance of its preparation. Mildness of censure would here becriminally misplaced, and silence would make us accomplices. Not without reluctance then, but in full conviction that weare performing a duty, we declare it to be our opinion, that the Monk is a romance, which if a parent saw in the hands of ason or daughter, he might reasonably turn pale. The temptations of Ambrosio are described with a libidinous minuteness,which, we sincerely hope, will receive its best and only adequate censure from the offended conscience of the authorhimself. The shameless harlotry of Matilda, and the trembling innocence of Antonia, are seized with equal avidity, asvehicles of the most voluptuous images; and though the tale is indeed a tale of horror, yet the most painful impressionwhich the work left on our minds was that of great acquirements and splendid genius employed to furnish a “mormo” forchildren, a poison for youth, and a provocative for the debauchee. Tales of enchantments and witchcraft can never be“useful”: our author has contrived to make them “pernicious”, by blending, with an irreverent negligence, all that is mostawfully true in religion with all that is most ridiculously absurd in superstition. He takes frequent occasion, indeed, tomanifest his sovereign contempt for the latter, both in his own person, and (most incongruously) in that of his principalcharacters; and that his respect for the “former” is not excessive, we are forced to conclude from the treatment which itsinspired writings receive from him. Ambrosio discovers Antonia reading–

‘He examined the book which she had been reading, and had now placed upon the table. It was the Bible.

“How!” said the friar to himself,” Antonia reads the Bible, and is still so ignorant?”

‘But, upon a further inspection, he found that Elvira had made exactly the same remark. That prudent mother, while sheadmired the beauties of the sacred writings, was convinced that, unrestricted, no reading more improper could be permitteda young woman. Many of the narratives can only tend to excite ideas the worst calculated for a female breast: every thingis called plainly and roundly by its name; and the “annals of a brothel would scarcely furnish a greater choice of indecentexpressions”. Yet this is the book which young women are recommended to study, which is put into the hands of children,able to comprehend little more than those passages of which they had better remain ignorant, and which but too“frequently inculcates the first rudiments of vice”, and gives the first alarm to the still sleeping passions. Of this was Elviraso fully convinced, that she would have preferred putting into her daughter’s hands “Amadis de Gaul,” or “The ValiantChampion, Tirante the White”; and “would sooner have authorised her studying the lewd exploits of Don Galaor, or thelascivious jokes of the Damsel Plazer di mi vida”.’ Vol. II, p. 247.

The impiety of this falsehood can be equal led only by its impudence. This is indeed as if a Corinthian harlot, clad fromhead to foot in the transparent thinness of the Coan vest, should affect to view with prudish horror the naked knee of aSpartan matron! If it be possible that the author of these blasphemies is a Christian, should he not have reflexed that theonly passage in the scriptures [“Ezekiel” XXIII], which could give a “shadow” of plausibility to the “weakest” of these

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expressions, is represented as being spoken by the Almighty himself? But if he be an infidel, he has acted consistentlyenough with that character, in his endeavours first to influence the fleshly appetites, and then to pour contempt on the onlybook which would be adequate to the task of recalming them. We believe it not absolutely impossible that a mind may beso deeply depraved by the habit of reading lewd and voluptuous tales, as to use even the Bible in conjuring up the spirit ofuncleanness. The most innocent expressions might become the first link in the chain of association, when a man’s soul hadbeen so poisoned; and we believe it not absolutely impossible that he might extract pollution from the word of purity, and,in a literal sense, “turn the grace of God into wantonness”.

We have been induced to pay particular attention to this work, from the unusual success which it has experienced. Itcertainly possesses much real merit in addition to its meretricious attractions. Nor must it be forgotten that the author is aman of rank and fortune. Yes! the author of the Monk signs himself a LEGISLATOR! We stare and tremble.

The poetry interspersed through the volumes is, in general, far above mediocrity. We shall present our readers with thefollowing exquisitely tender elegy, which, we may venture to prophesy, will melt and delight the heart, when ghosts andhobgoblins shall be found only in the lumber-garret of a circulating library.

The Exile‘Farewell, oh native Spain! farewell for ever! These banished eyes shall view thy coasts no more: A mournful presage tells my heart, that never Gonzalvo’s steps again shall press thy shore.

Hushed are the winds; while soft the vessel sailing With gentle motion plows the unruffled main, I feel my bosom’s boasted courage failing, And curse the waves which bear me far from Spain.

I see it yet! Beneath yon blue clear heaven Still do the spires, so well-beloved, appear. From yonder craggy point the gale of even Still wafts my native accents to mine ear.

Propped on some moss-crowned rock, and gaily singing, There in the sun his nets the fisher dries; Oft have I heard the plaintive ballad, bringing Scenes of past joys before my sorrowing eyes.

AHD! happy swain! he waits the accustomed hour, When twilight-gloom obscures the closing sky; Then gladly seeks his loved paternal bower, And shares the feast his native fields supply.

Friendship and Love, his cottage guests, receive him With honest welcome and with smile sincere: No threatening woes of present joys bereave him; No sigh his bosom owns, his cheek no tear.

Ah! happy swain! such bliss to me denying, Fortune thy lot with envy bids me view; Me, who, from home and Spain an exile flying, Bid all I value, all I love, adieu.

No more mine ear shall list the well-known ditty Sung by some mountain-girl, who tends her goats, Some village-swain imploring amorous pity, Or shepherd chanting wild his rustic notes.

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No more my arms a parent’s fond embraces, No more my heart domestic calm must know; Far from these joys, with sighs which memory traces, To sultry skies and distant climes I go.

Where Indian suns engender new diseases, Where snakes and tigers breed, I bend my way, To brave the feverish thirst no art appeases, The yellow plague, and madding blaze of day.

But not to feel slow pangs consume my liver, To die by piece-meal in the bloom of age, My boiling blood drank by insatiate fever, And brain delirious with the day-star’s rage,

Can make me know such grief, as thus to sever With many a bitter sigh, dear land! from thee; To feel this heart must dote on thee for ever,And feel that all thy joys are torn from me!

Ah me! how oft will fancy’s spelIs, in slumber, Recall my native country to my mind! How oft regret will bid me sadly number Each lost delight, and dear friend left behind!

Wild Murcia’s vales and loved romantic bowers, The river on whose banks a child I played, My castle’s antient halls, its frowning towers, Each much-regretted wood, and well-known glade;

Dreams of the land where all my wishes centre, Thy scenes, which I am doomed no more to know, Full oft shall memory trace, my soul’s tormentor, And turn each pleasure past to present woe.

But, lo! the sun beneath the waves retires; Night speeds apace her empire to restore! Clouds from my sight obscure the village-spires, Now seen but faintly, and now seen no more.

Oh, breathe not, winds! Still be the water’s motion! Sleep, sleep, my bark, in silence on the main! So, when to-morrow’s light shall gild the ocean, Once more mine eyes shall see the coast of Spain.

Vain is the wish! My last petition scorning Fresh blows the gale, and high the billows swell: Far shall we be before the break of morning: Oh! then, for ever, native Spain, farewell!’

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1.11: Mary Shelley, excerpt from Frankenstein (1818)

Mary Shelley, excerpt from Frankenstein (1818)

Jeanette A. Laredo

Preface to the 1818 Edition The event on which this fiction is founded has been supposed, by Dr. Darwin, and some of the physiological writers ofGermany, as not of impossible occurrence. I shall not be supposed as according the remotest degree of serious faith to suchan imagination; yet, in assuming it as the basis of a work of fancy, I have not considered myself as merely weaving a seriesof supernatural terrors. The event on which the interest of the story depends is exempt from the disadvantages of a meretale of spectres or enchantment. It was recommended by the novelty of the situations which it developes; and, howeverimpossible as a physical fact, affords a point of view to the imagination for the delineating of human passions morecomprehensive and commanding than any which the ordinary relations of existing events can yield.

I have thus endeavoured to preserve the truth of the elementary principles of human nature, while I have not scrupled toinnovate upon their combinations. The Iliad, the tragic poetry of Greece,—Shakespeare, in the Tempest and MidsummerNight’s Dream,—and most especially Milton, in Paradise Lost, conform to this rule; and the most humble novelist, whoseeks to confer or receive amusement from his labours, may, without presumption, apply to prose fiction a licence, orrather a rule, from the adoption of which so many exquisite combinations of human feeling have resulted in the highestspecimens of poetry.

The circumstance on which my story rests was suggested in casual conversation. It was commenced, partly as a source ofamusement, and partly as an expedient for exercising any untried resources of mind. Other motives were mingled withthese, as the work proceeded. I am by no means indifferent to the manner in which whatever moral tendencies exist in thesentiments or characters it contains shall affect the reader; yet my chief concern in this respect has been limited to theavoiding of the enervating effects of the novels of the present day, and to the exhibitions of the amiableness of domesticaffection, and the excellence of universal virtue. The opinions which naturally spring from the character and situation ofthe hero are by no means to be conceived as existing always in my own conviction; nor is any inference justly to be drawnfrom the following pages as prejudicing any philosophical doctrine of whatever kind.

It is a subject also of additional interest to the author, that this story was begun in the majestic region where the scene isprincipally laid, and in society which cannot cease to be regretted. I passed the summer of 1816 in the environs of Geneva.The season was cold and rainy, and in the evenings we crowded around a blazing wood fire, and occasionally amusedourselves with some German stories of ghosts, which happened to fall into our hands. These tales excited in us a playfuldesire of imitation. Two other friends (a tale from the pen of one of whom would be far more acceptable to the public thanany thing I can ever hope to produce) and myself agreed to write each a story, founded on some supernatural occurrence.

The weather, however, suddenly became serene; and my two friends left me on a journey among the Alps, and lost, in themagnificent scenes which they present, all memory of their ghostly visions. The following tale is the only one which hasbeen completed.

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Frankenstein by Theodor von Holst depicts Victor Frankenstein fleeing from his newborn creation.” width=”628″height=”1024″> The frontispiece illustration from the 1831 edition of Frankenstein by Theodor von Holst depicts VictorFrankenstein fleeing from his newborn creation.

Volume I, 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 manyyears counsellors and syndics; and my father had filled several public situations with honour and reputation. He wasrespected by all who knew him for his integrity and indefatigable attention to public business. He passed his younger daysperpetually occupied by the affairs of his country; and it was not until the decline of life that he thought of marrying, andbestowing on the state sons who might carry his virtues and his name down to posterity.

As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character, I cannot refrain from relating them. One of his most intimatefriends was a merchant, who, from a flourishing state, fell, through numerous mischances, into poverty. This man, whosename was Beaufort, was of a proud and unbending disposition, and could not bear to live in poverty and oblivion in thesame country where he had formerly been distinguished for his rank and magnificence. Having paid his debts, therefore, inthe most honourable manner, he retreated with his daughter to the town of Lucerne, where he lived unknown and inwretchedness. My father loved Beaufort with the truest friendship, and was deeply grieved by his retreat in theseunfortunate circumstances. He grieved also for the loss of his society, and resolved to seek him out and endeavour topersuade 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 heentered, misery and despair alone welcomed him. Beaufort had saved but a very small sum of money from the wreck of hisfortunes; but it was sufficient to provide him with sustenance for some months, and in the mean time he hoped to procuresome respectable employment in a merchant’s house. The interval was consequently spent in inaction; his grief onlybecame more deep and rankling, when he had leisure for reflection; and at length it took so fast hold of his mind, that atthe 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 rapidlydecreasing, and that there was no other prospect of support. But Caroline Beaufort possessed a mind of an uncommonmould; and her courage rose to support her in her adversity. She procured plain work; she plaited straw; and by variousmeans 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; hermeans 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. Hecame like a protecting spirit to the poor girl, who committed herself to his care, and after the interment of his friend heconducted her to Geneva, and placed her under the protection of a relation. Two years after this event Caroline became hiswife.

When my father became a husband and a parent, he found his time so occupied by the duties of his new situation, that herelinquished many of his public employments, and devoted himself to the education of his children. Of these I was theeldest, and the destined successor to all his labours and utility. No creature could have more tender parents than mine. Myimprovement and health were their constant care, especially as I remained for several years their only child. But before Icontinue my narrative, I must record an incident which took place when I was four years of age.

My father had a sister, whom he tenderly loved, and who had married early in life an Italian gentleman. Soon after hermarriage, she had accompanied her husband into her native country, and for some years my father had very little

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communication with her. About the time I mentioned she died; and a few months afterwards he received a letter from herhusband, acquainting him with his intention of marrying an Italian lady, and requesting my father to take charge of theinfant Elizabeth, the only child of his deceased sister. “It is my wish,” he said, “that you should consider her as your owndaughter, and educate her thus. Her mother’s fortune is secured to her, the documents of which I will commit to yourkeeping. Reflect upon this proposition; and decide whether you would prefer educating your niece yourself to her beingbrought up by a stepmother.”

My father did not hestitate, and immediately went to Italy, that he might accompany the little Elizabeth to her future home.I have often heard my mother say, that she was at that time the most beautiful child she had ever seen, and shewed signseven then of a gentle and affectionate disposition. These indications, and a desire to bind as closely as possible the ties ofdomestic love, determined my mother to consider Elizabeth as my future wife; a design which she never found reason torepent.

From this time Elizabeth Lavenza became my playfellow, and, as we grew older, my friend. She was docile and goodtempered, yet gay and playful as a summer insect. Although she was lively and animated, her feelings were strong anddeep, and her disposition uncommonly affectionate. No one could better enjoy liberty, yet no one could submit with moregrace than she did to constraint and caprice. Her imagination was luxuriant, yet her capability of application was great. Herperson was the image of her mind; her hazel eyes, although as lively as a bird’s, possessed an attractive softness. Herfigure was light and airy; and, though capable of enduring great fatigue, she appeared the most fragile creature in theworld. While I admired her understanding and fancy, I loved to tend on her, as I should on a favourite animal; and I neversaw so much grace both of person and mind united to so little pretension.

Every one adored Elizabeth. If the servants had any request to make, it was always through her intercession. We werestrangers to any species of disunion and dispute; for although there was a great dissimilitude in our characters, there was anharmony in that very dissimilitude. I was more calm and philosophical than my companion; yet my temper was not soyielding. My application was of longer endurance; but it was not so severe whilst it endured. I delighted in investigatingthe facts relative to the actual world; she busied herself in following the aërial creations of the poets. The world was to mea secret, which I desired to discover; to her it was a vacancy, which she sought to people with imaginations of her own.

My brothers were considerably younger than myself; but I had a friend in one of my schoolfellows, who compensated forthis deficiency. Henry Clerval was the son of a merchant of Geneva, an intimate friend of my father. He was a boy ofsingular talent and fancy. I remember, when he was nine years old, he wrote a fairy tale, which was the delight andamazement of all his companions. His favourite study consisted in books of chivalry and romance; and when very young, Ican remember, that we used to act plays composed by him out of these favourite books, the principal characters of whichwere Orlando, Robin Hood, Amadis, and St. George.

No youth could have passed more happily than mine. My parents were indulgent, and my companions amiable. Our studieswere never forced; and by some means we always had an end placed in view, which excited us to ardour in the prosecutionof them. It was by this method, and not by emulation, that we were urged to application. Elizabeth was not incited to applyherself to drawing, that her companions might not outstrip her; but through the desire of pleasing her aunt, by therepresentation of some favourite scene done by her own hand. We learned Latin and English, that we might read thewritings in those languages; and so far from study being made odious to us through punishment, we loved application, andour amusements would have been the labours of other children. Perhaps we did not read so many books, or learn languagesso quickly, as those who are disciplined according to the ordinary methods; but what we learned was impressed the moredeeply on our memories.

In this description of our domestic circle I include Henry Clerval; for he was constantly with us. He went to school withme, and generally passed the afternoon at our house; for being an only child, and destitute of companions at home, hisfather was well pleased that he should find associates at our house; and we were never completely happy when Clerval wasabsent.

I feel pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood, before misfortune had tainted my mind, and changed its brightvisions of extensive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self. But, in drawing the picture of my early days,I must not omit to record those events which led, by insensible steps to my after tale of misery: for when I would accountto myself for the birth of that passion, which afterwards ruled my destiny, I find it arise, like a mountain river, from ignoble

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and almost forgotten sources; but, swelling as it proceeded, it became the torrent which, in its course, has swept away allmy hopes and joys.

Natural philosophy is the genius that has regulated my fate; I desire therefore, in this narration, to state those facts whichled to my predilection for that science. When I was thirteen years of age, we all went on a party of pleasure to the bathsnear Thonon: the inclemency of the weather obliged us to remain a day confined to the inn. In this house I chanced to finda volume of the works of Cornelius Agrippa. I opened it with apathy; the theory which he attempts to demonstrate, and thewonderful 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. I cannot help remarking here the many opportunitiesinstructors possess of directing the attention of their pupils to useful knowledge, which they utterly neglect. My fatherlooked carelessly at the title-page of my book, and said, “Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My dear Victor, do not waste your timeupon 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 entirelyexploded, and that a modern system of science had been introduced, which possessed much greater powers than theancient, because the powers of the latter were chimerical, while those of the former were real and practical; under suchcircumstances, I should certainly have thrown Agrippa aside, and, with my imagination warmed as it was, should probablyhave applied myself to the more rational theory of chemistry which has resulted from modern discoveries. It is evenpossible, that the train of my ideas would never have received the fatal impulse that led to my ruin. But the cursory glancemy father had taken of my volume by no means assured me that he was acquainted with its contents; and I continued toread with the greatest avidity.

When I returned home, my first care was to procure the whole works of this author, and afterwards of Paracelsus andAlbertus Magnus. I read and studied the wild fancies of these writers with delight; they appeared to me treasures known tofew beside myself; and although I often wished to communicate these secret stores of knowledge to my father, yet hisindefinite censure of my favourite Agrippa always withheld me. I disclosed my discoveries to Elizabeth, therefore, under apromise of strict secrecy; but she did not interest herself in the subject, and I was left by her to pursue my studies alone.

It may appear very strange, that a disciple of Albertus Magnus should arise in the eighteenth century; but our family wasnot scientifical, and I had not attended any of the lectures given at the schools of Geneva. My dreams were thereforeundisturbed by reality; and I entered with the greatest diligence into the search of the philosopher’s stone and the elixir oflife. But the latter obtained my most undivided attention: wealth was an inferior object; but what glory would attend thediscovery, 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 failurerather to my own inexperience and mistake, than to a want of skill or fidelity in my instructors.

The natural phænomena that take place every day before our eyes did not escape my examinations. Distillation, and thewonderful effects of steam, processes of which my favourite authors were utterly ignorant, excited my astonishment; butmy utmost wonder was engaged by some experiments on an air-pump, which I saw employed by a gentleman whom wewere in the habit of visiting.

The ignorance of the early philosophers on these and several other points served to decrease their credit with me: but Icould not entirely throw them aside, before some other system should occupy their place in my mind.

When I was about fifteen years old, we had retired to our house near Belrive, when we witnessed a most violent andterrible thunder-storm. It advanced from behind the mountains of Jura; and the thunder burst at once with frightfulloudness from various quarters of the heavens. I remained, while the storm lasted, watching its progress with curiosity anddelight. As I stood at the door, on a sudden I beheld a stream of fire issue from an old and beautiful oak, which stood abouttwenty yards from our house; and so soon as the dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared, and nothing remainedbut a blasted stump. When we visited it the next morning, we found the tree shattered in a singular manner. It was notsplintered by the shock, but entirely reduced to thin ribbands of wood. I never beheld any thing so utterly destroyed.

The catastrophe of this tree excited my extreme astonishment; and I eagerly inquired of my father the nature and origin ofthunder and lightning. He replied, “Electricity;” describing at the same time the various effects of that power. He

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constructed a small electrical machine, and exhibited a few experiments; he made also a kite, with a wire and string, whichdrew down that fluid from the clouds.

This last stroke completed the overthrow of Cornelius Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, who had so long reignedthe lords of my imagination. But by some fatality I did not feel inclined to commence the study of any modern system; andthis disinclination was influenced by the following circumstance.

My father expressed a wish that I should attend a course of lectures upon natural philosophy, to which I cheerfullyconsented. Some accident prevented my attending these lectures until the course was nearly finished. The lecture, beingtherefore one of the last, was entirely incomprehensible to me. The professor discoursed with the greatest fluency ofpotassium and boron, of sulphates and oxyds, terms to which I could affix no idea; and I became disgusted with the scienceof natural philosophy, although I still read Pliny and Buffon with delight, authors, in my estimation, of nearly equal interestand utility.

My occupations at this age were principally the mathematics, and most of the branches of study appertaining to thatscience. I was busily employed in learning languages; Latin was already familiar to me, and I began to read some of theeasiest Greek authors without the help of a lexicon. I also perfectly understood English and German. This is the list of myaccomplishments at the age of seventeen; and you may conceive that my hours were fully employed in acquiring andmaintaining a knowledge of this various literature.

Another task also devolved upon me, when I became the instructor of my brothers. Ernest was six years younger thanmyself, and was my principal pupil. He had been afflicted with ill health from his infancy, through which Elizabeth and Ihad been his constant nurses: his disposition was gentle, but he was incapable of any severe application. William, theyoungest of our family, was yet an infant, and the most beautiful little fellow in the world; his lively blue eyes, dimpledcheeks, and endearing manners, inspired the tenderest affection.

Such was our domestic circle, from which care and pain seemed for ever banished. My father directed our studies, and mymother partook of our enjoyments. Neither of us possessed the slightest pre-eminence over the other; the voice ofcommand was never heard amongst us; but mutual affection engaged us all to comply with and obey the slightest desire ofeach other.

Volume, Chapter 2

When I had attained the age of seventeen, my parents resolved that I should become a student at the university ofIngolstadt. I had hitherto attended the schools of Geneva; but my father thought it necessary, for the completion of myeducation, that I should be made acquainted with other customs than those of my native country. My departure wastherefore fixed at an early date; but, before the day resolved upon could arrive, the first misfortune of my life occurred—anomen, as it were, of my future misery.

Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; but her illness was not severe, and she quickly recovered. During her confinement,many arguments had been urged to persuade my mother to refrain from attending upon her. She had, at first, yielded to ourentreaties; but when she heard that her favourite was recovering, she could no longer debar herself from her society, andentered her chamber long before the danger of infection was past. The consequences of this imprudence were fatal. On thethird day my mother sickened; her fever was very malignant, and the looks of her attendants prognosticated the worstevent. On her death-bed the fortitude and benignity of this admirable woman did not desert her. She joined the hands ofElizabeth and myself: “My children,” she said, “my firmest hopes of future happiness were placed on the prospect of yourunion. This expectation will now be the consolation of your father. Elizabeth, my love, you must supply my place to youryounger cousins. Alas! I regret that I am taken from you; and, happy and beloved as I have been, is it not hard to quit youall? But these are not thoughts befitting me; I will endeavour to resign myself cheerfully to death, and will indulge a hopeof meeting you in another world.”

She died calmly; and her countenance expressed affection even in death. I need not describe the feelings of those whosedearest ties are rent by that most irreparable evil, the void that presents itself to the soul, and the despair that is exhibitedon the countenance. It is so long before the mind can persuade itself that she, whom we saw every day, and whose veryexistence appeared a part of our own, can have departed for ever—that the brightness of a beloved eye can have beenextinguished, and the sound of a voice so familiar, and dear to the ear, can be hushed, never more to be heard. These arethe reflections of the first days; but when the lapse of time proves the reality of the evil, then the actual bitterness of grief

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commences. Yet from whom has not that rude hand rent away some dear connexion; and why should I describe a sorrowwhich all have felt, and must feel? The time at length arrives, when grief is rather an indulgence than a necessity; and thesmile that plays upon the lips, although it may be deemed a sacrilege, is not banished. My mother was dead, but we hadstill 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 journey to Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by these events, was now again determined upon. I obtained from myfather a respite of some weeks. This period was spent sadly; my mother’s death, and my speedy departure, depressed ourspirits; but Elizabeth endeavoured to renew the spirit of cheerfulness in our little society. Since the death of her aunt, hermind had acquired new firmness and vigour. She determined to fulfil her duties with the greatest exactness; and she feltthat that most imperious duty, of rendering her uncle and cousins happy, had devolved upon her. She consoled me, amusedher uncle, instructed my brothers; and I never beheld her so enchanting as at this time, when she was continuallyendeavouring to contribute to the happiness of others, entirely forgetful of herself.

The day of my departure at length arrived. I had taken leave of all my friends, excepting Clerval, who spent the lastevening with us. He bitterly lamented that he was unable to accompany me: but his father could not be persuaded to partwith him, intending that he should become a partner with him in business, in compliance with his favourite theory, thatlearning was superfluous in the commerce of ordinary life. Henry had a refined mind; he had no desire to be idle, and waswell pleased to become his father’s partner, but he believed that a man might be a very good trader, and yet possess acultivated understanding.

We sat late, listening to his complaints, and making many little arrangements for the future. The next morning early Ideparted. Tears gushed from the eyes of Elizabeth; they proceeded partly from sorrow at my departure, and partly becauseshe reflected that the same journey was to have taken place three months before, when a mother’s blessing would haveaccompanied me.

I threw myself into the chaise that was to convey me away, and indulged in the most melancholy reflections. I, who hadever been surrounded by amiable companions, continually engaged in endeavouring to bestow mutual pleasure, I was nowalone. In the university, whither I was going, I must form my own friends, and be my own protector. My life had hithertobeen remarkably secluded and domestic; and this had given me invincible repugnance to new countenances. I loved mybrothers, Elizabeth, and Clerval: these were “old familiar faces;” but I believed myself totally unfitted for the company ofstrangers. Such were my reflections as I commenced my journey; but as I proceeded, my spirits and hopes rose. I ardentlydesired the acquisition of knowledge. I had often, when at home, thought it hard to remain during my youth cooped up inone place, and had longed to enter the world, and take my station among other human beings. Now my desires werecomplied 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 spendthe evening as I pleased.

The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction, and paid a visit to some of the principal professors, and amongothers to M. Krempe, professor of natural philosophy. He received me with politeness, and asked me several questionsconcerning my progress in the different branches of science appertaining to natural philosophy. I mentioned, it is true, withfear and trembling, the only authors I had ever read upon those subjects. The professor stared: “Have you,” he said, “reallyspent your time in studying such nonsense?”

I replied in the affirmative. “Every minute,” continued M. Krempe with warmth, “every instant that you have wasted onthose books is utterly and entirely lost. You have burdened your memory with exploded systems, and useless names. GoodGod! in what desert land have you lived, where no one was kind enough to inform you that these fancies, which you haveso greedily imbibed, are a thousand years old, and as musty as they are ancient? I little expected in this enlightened andscientific age to find a disciple of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus. My dear Sir, you must begin your studies entirelyanew.”

So saying, he stept aside, and wrote down a list of several books treating of natural philosophy, which he desired me toprocure, and dismissed me, after mentioning that in the beginning of the following week he intended to commence acourse of lectures upon natural philosophy in its general relations, and that M. Waldman, a fellow-professor, would lectureupon chemistry the alternate days that he missed.

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I returned home, not disappointed, for I had long considered those authors useless whom the professor had so stronglyreprobated; but I did not feel much inclined to study the books which I procured at his recommendation. M. Krempe was alittle squat man, with a gruff voice and repulsive countenance; the teacher, therefore, did not prepossess me in favour of hisdoctrine. Besides, I had a contempt for the uses of modern natural philosophy. It was very different, when the masters ofthe science sought immortality and power; such views, although futile, were grand: but now the scene was changed. Theambition of the inquirer seemed to limit itself to the annihilation of those visions on which my interest in science waschiefly 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 spent almost in solitude. 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 togo 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 thegreatest benevolence; a few gray hairs covered his temples, but those at the back of his head were nearly black. His personwas short, but remarkably erect; and his voice the sweetest I had ever heard. He began his lecture by a recapitulation of thehistory of chemistry and the various improvements made by different men of learning, pronouncing with fervour the namesof the most distinguished discoverers. He then took a cursory view of the present state of the science, and explained manyof its elementary terms. After having made a few preparatory experiments, he concluded with a panegyric upon modernchemistry, the terms of which I shall never forget:—

“The ancient teachers of this science,” said he, “promised impossibilities, and performed nothing. The modern masterspromise very little; they know that metals cannot be transmuted, and that the elixir of life is a chimera. But thesephilosophers, whose hands seem only made to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pour over the microscope or crucible, haveindeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the recesses of nature, and shew how she works in her hiding places. Theyascend into the heavens; they have discovered how the blood circulates, and the nature of the air we breathe. They haveacquired new and almost unlimited powers; they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the earthquake, and evenmock the invisible world with its own shadows.”

I departed highly pleased with the professor and his lecture, and paid him a visit the same evening. His manners in privatewere even more mild and attractive than in public; for there was a certain dignity in his mien during his lecture, which inhis own house was replaced by the greatest affability and kindness. He heard with attention my little narration concerningmy studies, and smiled at the names of Cornelius Agrippa, and Paracelsus, but without the contempt that M. Krempe hadexhibited. He said, that “these were men to whose indefatigable zeal modern philosophers were indebted for most of thefoundations of their knowledge. They had left to us, as an easier task, to give new names, and arrange in connectedclassifications, the facts which they in a great degree had been the instruments of bringing to light. The labours of men ofgenius, however erroneously directed, scarcely ever fail in ultimately turning to the solid advantage of mankind.” I listenedto his statement, which was delivered without any presumption or affectation; and then added, that his lecture had removedmy prejudices against modern chemists; and I, at the same time, requested his advice concerning the books I ought toprocure.

“I am happy,” said M. Waldman, “to have gained a disciple; and if your application equals your ability, I have no doubt ofyour success. Chemistry is that branch of natural philosophy in which the greatest improvements have been and may bemade; it is on that account that I have made it my peculiar study; but at the same time I have not neglected the otherbranches of science. A man would make but a very sorry chemist, if he attended to that department of human knowledgealone. If your wish is to become really a man of science, and not merely a petty experimentalist, I should advise you toapply 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 Iought to procure, and promising me the use of his own, when I should have advanced far enough in the science not toderange 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.

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Volume 1, Chapter III

From this day natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry, in the most comprehensive sense of the term, became nearlymy sole occupation. I read with ardour those works, so full of genius and discrimination, which modern inquirers havewritten 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 repulsivephysiognomy and manners, but not on that account the less valuable. In M. Waldman I found a true friend. His gentlenesswas never tinged by dogmatism; and his instructions were given with an air of frankness and good nature, that banishedevery idea of pedantry. It was, perhaps, the amiable character of this man that inclined me more to that branch of naturalphilosophy which he professed, than an intrinsic love for the science itself. But this state of mind had place only in the firststeps towards knowledge: the more fully I entered into the science, the more exclusively I pursued it for its own sake. Thatapplication, which at first had been a matter of duty and resolution, now became so ardent and eager, that the stars oftendisappeared in the light of morning whilst I was yet engaged in my laboratory.

As I applied so closely, it may be easily conceived that I improved rapidly. My ardour was indeed the astonishment of thestudents; and my proficiency, that of the masters. Professor Krempe often asked me, with a sly smile, how CorneliusAgrippa went on? whilst M. Waldman expressed the most heart-felt exultation in my progress. Two years passed in thismanner, during which I paid no visit to Geneva, but was engaged, heart and soul, in the pursuit of some discoveries, whichI hoped to make. None but those who have experienced them can conceive of the enticements of science. In other studiesyou go as far as others have gone before you, and there is nothing more to know; but in a scientific pursuit there iscontinual food for discovery and wonder. A mind of moderate capacity, which closely pursues one study, must infalliblyarrive at great proficiency in that study; and I, who continually sought the attainment of one object of pursuit, and wassolely wrapt up in this, improved so rapidly, that, at the end of two years, I made some discoveries in the improvement ofsome chemical instruments, which procured me great esteem and admiration at the university. When I had arrived at thispoint, and had become as well acquainted with the theory and practice of natural philosophy as depended on the lessons ofany of the professors at Ingolstadt, my residence there being no longer conducive to my improvements, I thought ofreturning to my friends and my native town, when an incident happened that protracted my stay.

One of the phænonema which had peculiarly attracted my attention was the structure of the human frame, and, indeed, anyanimal endued with life. Whence, I often asked myself, did the principle of life proceed? It was a bold question, and onewhich has ever been considered as a mystery; yet with how many things are we upon the brink of becoming acquainted, ifcowardice or carelessness did not restrain our inquiries. I revolved these circumstances in my mind, and determinedthenceforth to apply myself more particularly to those branches of natural philosophy which relate to physiology. Unless Ihad been animated by an almost supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this study would have been irksome, andalmost intolerable. To examine the causes of life, we must first have recourse to death. I became acquainted with thescience of anatomy: but this was not sufficient; I must also observe the natural decay and corruption of the human body. Inmy 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 hadno effect upon my fancy; and a church-yard was to me merely the receptacle of bodies deprived of life, which, from beingthe seat of beauty and strength, had become food for the worm. Now I was led to examine the cause and progress of thisdecay, and forced to spend days and nights in vaults and charnel houses. My attention was fixed upon every object themost insupportable to the delicacy of the human feelings. I saw how the fine form of man was degraded and wasted; Ibeheld the corruption of death succeed to the blooming cheek of life; I saw how the worm inherited the wonders of the eyeand brain. I paused, examining and analysing all the minutiæ 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 amongso many men of genius, who had directed their inquiries towards the same science, that I alone should be reserved todiscover 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 thatwhich I now affirm is true. Some miracle might have produced it, yet the stages of the discovery were distinct andprobable. After days and nights of incredible labour and fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of generation andlife; nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing animation upon lifeless matter.

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The astonishment which I had at first experienced on this discovery soon gave place to delight and rapture. After so muchtime spent in painful labour, to arrive at once at the summit of my desires, was the most gratifying consummation of mytoils. But this discovery was so great and overwhelming, that all the steps by which I had been progressively led to it wereobliterated, and I beheld only the result. What had been the study and desire of the wisest men since the creation of theworld, was now within my grasp. Not that, like a magic scene, it all opened upon me at once: the information I hadobtained 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 apassage 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 ofthe secret with which I am acquainted; that cannot be: listen patiently until the end of my story, and you will easilyperceive why I am reserved upon that subject. I will not lead you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was, to yourdestruction and infallible misery. Learn from me, if not by my precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is theacquirement of knowledge, and how much happier that man is who believes his native town to be the world, than he whoaspires 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 Ishould 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 doubtedat first whether I should attempt the creation of a being like myself or one of simpler organization; but my imagination wastoo much exalted by my first success to permit me to doubt of my ability to give life to an animal as complex andwonderful 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 beincessantly baffled, and at last my work be imperfect: yet, when I considered the improvement which every day takes placein science and mechanics, I was encouraged to hope my present attempts would at least lay the foundations of futuresuccess. Nor could I consider the magnitude and complexity of my plan as any argument of its impracticability. It was withthese feelings that I began the creation of a human being. As the minuteness of the parts formed a great hindrance to myspeed, I resolved, contrary to my first intention, to make the being of a gigantic stature; that is to say, about eight feet inheight, and proportionably large. After having formed this determination, and having spent some months in successfullycollecting 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 darkworld. A new species would bless me as its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their being tome. No father could claim the gratitude of his child so completely as I should deserve their’s. Pursuing these reflections, Ithought, that if I could bestow animation upon lifeless matter, I might in process of time (although I now found itimpossible) 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 palewith study, and my person had become emaciated with confinement. Sometimes, on the very brink of certainty, I failed; yetstill I clung to the hope which the next day or the next hour might realize. One secret which I alone possessed was the hopeto which I had dedicated myself; and the moon gazed on my midnight labours, while, with unrelaxed and breathlesseagerness, I pursued nature to her hiding places. Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil, as I dabbled among theunhallowed damps of the grave, or tortured the living animal to animate the lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble, and myeyes swim with the remembrance; but then a resistless, and almost frantic impulse, urged me forward; I seemed to havelost all soul or sensation but for this one pursuit. It was indeed but a passing trance, that only made me feel with renewedacuteness so soon as, the unnatural stimulus ceasing to operate, I had returned to my old habits. I collected bones fromcharnel houses; and disturbed, with profane fingers, the tremendous secrets of the human frame. In a solitary chamber, orrather cell, at the top of the house, and separated from all the other apartments by a gallery and staircase, I kept myworkshop 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 withloathing from my occupation, whilst, still urged on by an eagerness which perpetually increased, I brought my work nearto a conclusion.

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The summer months passed while I was thus engaged, heart and soul, in one pursuit. It was a most beautiful season; neverdid the fields bestow a more plentiful harvest, or the vines yield a more luxuriant vintage: but my eyes were insensible tothe charms of nature. And the same feelings which made me neglect the scenes around me caused me also to forget thosefriends 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 withaffection, and we shall hear regularly from you. You must pardon me, if I regard any interruption in your correspondenceas 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 thatrelated to my feelings of affection until the great object, which swallowed up every habit of my nature, should becompleted.

I then thought that my father would be unjust if he ascribed my neglect to vice, or faultiness on my part; but I am nowconvinced that he was justified in conceiving that I should not be altogether free from blame. A human being in perfectionought always to preserve a calm and peaceful mind, and never to allow passion or a transitory desire to disturb histranquillity. I do not think that the pursuit of knowledge is an exception to this rule. If the study to which you applyyourself has a tendency to weaken your affections, and to destroy your taste for those simple pleasures in which no alloycan possibly mix, then that study is certainly unlawful, that is to say, not befitting the human mind. If this rule were alwaysobserved; if no man allowed any pursuit whatsoever to interfere with the tranquillity of his domestic affections, Greece hadnot been enslaved; Cæsar would have spared his country; America would have been discovered more gradually; and theempires 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 moreparticularly than before. Winter, spring, and summer, passed away during my labours; but I did not watch the blossom orthe expanding leaves—sights which before always yielded me supreme delight, so deeply was I engrossed in myoccupation. The leaves of that year had withered before my work drew near to a close; and now every day shewed memore plainly how well I had succeeded. But my enthusiasm was checked by my anxiety, and I appeared rather like onedoomed by slavery to toil in the mines, or any other unwholesome trade, than an artist occupied by his favouriteemployment. Every night I was oppressed by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a most painful degree; a disease that Iregretted the more because I had hitherto enjoyed most excellent health, and had always boasted of the firmness of mynerves. But I believed that exercise and amusement would soon drive away such symptoms; and I promised myself both ofthese, when my creation should be complete.

Volume I, Chapter IV

It was on a dreary night of November, that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amountedto agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay atmy feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burntout, 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 Ihad endeavoured to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful!—GreatGod! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, andflowing; 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, andstraight black lips.

The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly twoyears, for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I haddesired it with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, andbreathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of theroom, and continued a long time traversing my bed-chamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitudesucceeded to the tumult I had before endured; and I threw myself on the bed in my clothes, endeavouring to seek a few

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moments of forgetfulness. But it was in vain: I slept indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I sawElizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I embraced her; but as Iimprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death; her features appeared to change, and I thoughtthat I held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the grave-worms crawling inthe folds of the flannel. I started from my sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, andevery 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 grinwrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but I did not hear; one hand was stretched out, seemingly to detain me, but Iescaped, and rushed down stairs. I took refuge in the court-yard belonging to the house which I inhabited; where Iremained during the rest of the night, walking up and down in the greatest agitation, listening attentively, catching andfearing 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 sohideous as that wretch. I had gazed on him while unfinished; he was ugly then; but when those muscles and joints wererendered 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; atothers, I nearly sank to the ground through languor and extreme weakness. Mingled with this horror, I felt the bitterness ofdisappointment: dreams that had been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space, were now become a hell to me; andthe change was so rapid, the overthrow so complete!

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1.12: Resources for Instructors

Resources for Instructors

Jeanette A. Laredo

Slides

Writing PromptsCompare and contrast the Gothic characteristics of The Castle of Otranto with either Vathek or The Monk. What makesthese works Gothic? How does either Vathek or The Monk use or reinterpret the Gothic conventions of Walpole’sseminal text?Even though Coleridge himself wrote the Gothic poem, Christabel, he completely trashes The Monk in his review:What does Coleridge’s review of the Monk reveal about the schism between Romanticism and the Gothic? Do youagree or disagree with Coleridge? Explain your viewpoint and support your opinion with relevant quotes.The female Gothic gets a bad rap for explaining the supernatural. Can a novel still be Gothic without something trulysupernatural? Why do you think writers of the female Gothic chose to explain the supernatural elements of theirnovels? Give examples from texts we have read this week to support your point of view.Frankenstein is a highly structured—some critics would say artificial—text. Why do you think might Shelley havechosen this type of structure? Consider these reference points: a) Epistolary novel; b) Layered narratives; c) multiplepoints of view. Give examples from the text to support your viewpoint.

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CHAPTER OVERVIEW2: VICTORIAN GOTHIC

2.1: VICTORIAN GOTHIC2.2: JANE AUSTEN, EXCERPT FROM NORTHANGER ABBEY (1817)2.3: CHARLOTTE BRONTË, EXCERPT FROM JANE EYRE (1847)2.4: ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE (1886)2.5: OSCAR WILDE, EXCERPT FROM THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY (1890)2.6: BRAM STOKER, EXCERPT FROM DRACULA (1897)2.7: RESOURCES FOR INSTRUCTORS

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2.1: Victorian Gothic

Victorian Gothic

Jack Clark

The late Victorian period saw the publication of some of the most enduring and popular Gothic texts in English literature.These texts were controversial as they often scrutinized and critiqued social and cultural structures of the period andsimultaneously sensationalized them with romantic notions, sexual depravity, immorality, and grotesque monstrous forms.Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray is a key example of these trends in Victorian Gothic literature. Upon itspublication, the text fell under scrutiny for being controversial, vulgar, and immoral but is now regarded as one of the mostprovocative and philosophical texts of the late nineteenth century. Wilde had intended the text to be simultaneouslycontroversial and provocative as a critique of Victorian aesthetic obsession with beauty and its culturally believedcorrelation with moral sensibility. The Victorians use of art as a tool for social education and moral enlightenment, and toreinforce the superficial nature of this idealistic moral society. Wilde identifies these hypocritical dualities of beauty andimmorality, the sublime and the grotesque, and influence and the monstrous, and creates Dorian Gray as the embodimentof these observations and how a monstrous individual can remain morally infallible if they are physically beautiful. TheGothic trend of the late Victorian Gothic novel was a philosophical observation of the absurdities inherent within thesociety. But these texts were considered disturbing and were something that you read behind closed doors and hid underyour mattress as a sensational controversial piece of erotic literature that you would not show to anyone else. The Pictureof Dorian Gray is a comedy of manners and a horror of beauty that corrupts the soul and the picture acts as a mirror to thesoul to show the monster within. Subsequently, the text acts as a good example of the late Victorian prototypical Gothicnovel that presents themes that challenge key cultural narratives.

Social and Religious UpheavalsTo further understand the context of The Picture of Dorian Gray, it is important to understand the social issues presentwithin Victorian society. The Victorian period was wrought with a multitude of complex cultural oscillations surroundingsocietal expectation, technological innovation, religion, and moral panic. It was a period of revolution; the steam enginechanged the nature of transport, industry and the economy which also lead to rapid urbanization as the rural working classand immigrants began to migrate to the city center for refuge and work in the growing industrial city which held apopulation of over three million toward the end of the nineteenth century (Schwarz 1-2). This also meant that the oncephysically separated social classes now lived closer together than ever before. The result of this was a call for socialsegregation of the working class for any further successful development of London suburbs (Ackroyd 523). Socialentrepreneurs such as Charles Dickens advocated for the rights of women and children and spoke often about educationreform for the working class (House 10). He would often use his observations to inspire characters for his own texts suchas Oliver Twist (1837) A Christmas Carol (1843), and Great Expectations (1861). The advent of scientific empiricism andeducation furthered the development of technology and led to the subsequent publishing of layman’s scientific texts meantthat that the average person was able to gain an understanding of scientific theorems (Harkup 22). Mary Shelley’s fatherWilliam Godwin was instrumental to this movement for accessible education by opening a library and publishing housecalled Juvenile Library and believed that his daughters should also be well educated despite their gender (Harkup 23).Shelley’s education plus having the benefit of being privy to intellectual conversation among her father’s friends wouldbecome a significant influence for her in creating Frankenstein (1818).

The influence of religion over the general populace was also subject to change; the focus on scientific research into theorigins of creation, and post-Enlightenment rationale claimed that religion was part of prior superstition before naturalphenomenon could be explained through the scientific process. Subsequently, public faith in Christian Orthodoxy began towane in the wake of Enlightenment rationalist thinking that deliberately undermined the church and the monarchy. As aresult of these key factors, England began to secularise. Scholars such as Fred Botting, Joseph Carroll, Richard Ellman,and Angela Kingston discuss the conflict between “homoeroticisms correlation with male sexual phycology and theChristian ethos of good and evil as Wilde conceives it” that seemed to correlate with this secularisation (3). This branch ofscholarship typically argues that the text offers “two competing visions of human nature… the first derives from theaesthetic doctrines of Walter Pater, and the other from a traditional Christian conception of the soul” (2). Pater’s faith in

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Christianity waned as he began advocating for human character and morality driven by sensational pleasures, a philosophythat Wilde was partial too in his advocacy for “art for art’s sake” rather than the Victorian necessity to assign moral lessonsfor the middle and upper classes and social education to the artwork. While this is the case, the text also alludes toChristian themes surrounding the sanctity of the soul and the role of corruption.

Due to the ever-evolving class structure and secularisation, societal moral panics surrounding sexuality, consumption, andetiquette were a common thread. Much of this could be attributed to class reform, as the middle classes were beginning togain wealth, power and ambition to rise in the social stratosphere through education and industrialization. As a result, aneed developed for engineers, accountants, lawyers, and politicians among other professions. (Guy 177). While thisrevolution was gaining momentum in England and social revolutions raged over the world, the Victorians also reignedover one of the most powerful economic empires in the world due to the cotton industry, that produced immense amountswealth. After the defeat of the French Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte in 1815 by the English at Waterloo, there was nosignificant rival to this economic expansion (Cornwell 342). This, however, did not stop threats from being created to takeadvantage of the fear of the empire’s populace losing their position. Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1897) manifested an easternthreat that could upset modern technological might with ancient supernatural power. Robert Louis Stevenson alsoperpetuated this fear of internal threats from human nature itself with the publication of the Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll andMr. Hyde. Stevenson stipulated that “within each of us two natures are at war” as humanity struggled to control its moreanimalistic natures and conform (54). Stevenson’s work was an inspiration to Wilde when conceptualizing the duality ofVictorian society.

These changes in power, culture, and control meant the period was a turbulent time where previously believed truths andfacts were under scrutiny. This cultural upheaval caused uncertainty and anxiety across the class threshold (Ackroyd 599).Because of this, there was also resistance to Enlightenment rationality that believed that romanticism and faith still playedan important cognitive role within European culture (Saul, Tebbutt 43). Gothic literature was a significant aspect of thiscounter-revolution in England, often being classed as romantic texts, while simultaneously invoking supernatural themes,reacting to the picturesque paradigm that was inherent in Victorian mentality which gave Wilde his inspiration (Whelan100).

A modern graffiti portrait of Oscar Wilde on a crumbling urban wall perfectly encapsulates the Victorian period’s anxietythat surface beauty could hide moral corruption (Thierry Ehrmann).

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Aestheticism and MoralityThe arts became a fixation of the Victorian middle-class population who believed that morality and virtue could be taughtthrough its sophisticated appearance and could be simultaneously mirrored in the public forum. Art was to be an influenceupon the impressionable which Wilde highlights in the beginning of his text upon first introducing Dorian Gray. In thebeginning of the text, Basil Hayward has been in the process of finishing a portrait of Dorian, whose physical beauty hasinspired him. His associate Lord Henry is very interested to meet the boy who could inspire such artistic inspiration, butBasil is very protective of Dorian as he fears that his character could be manipulated under the wrong Influence. The textcontends that influence is a predominantly negative force. Basil makes this assertion to Lord Henry by saying, “…don’tspoil him (Dorian). Don’t try and influence him. Your influence would be bad” (15). Wilde once again, adds another levelof irony as Basil had just finished a monologue about the captivating influence that Dorian has over Basil’s artisticcreativity which he concludes by stating that, “as long as I live, the personality of Dorian Gray will dominate me” (13).Lord Henry reinforces this point by bluntly suggesting to Dorian upon meeting him that “there is no such thing as a goodinfluence… all influence is immoral…” (18). Ironically Basil and Lord Henry are the two key influences over his characterdevelopment throughout the text and in keeping with the theme of aestheticism, both present Dorian with a piece of art thataid in Dorian’s character development. Basil paints the portrait and presents it to Dorian, having intended to capture theinnocence and beauty of the man but instead introduces him to vanity and a rival. Lord Henry presents Dorian with anobscure book without a title that in his youth had shaped many of his opinions that he promotes (19). As the two keysignifiers of art of the nineteenth century, the book acts as a road map for Dorian into his immortality as he attempts tomirror Lord Henry’s philosophy. The portrait reflects Dorian’s soul and shows him the consequence of his sin. Together thetwo symbolize the resounding influence that the two men have had over Dorian’s development.

The influence of Basil is the symbol of moral aestheticism, constantly observing all that is physically beautiful andmaintaining the duality between morality and said beauty; a philosophy that “argues for a healthy balance between ourinner and outer selves. Wilde frequently has Basil consistently use adjectives that typically pertain to personalitycharacteristics when discussing physical beauty. Basil is at the center of this ironic juxtaposition, often composingmonologues about beauty and then referring to Dorian’s personality (13). A deeper level of this is Basil’s inability toseparate Dorian from the portrait in the second chapter where he states that, “as soon as you (Dorian) are dry, you shall bevarnished and framed, and sent home” (25). It is this dramatic irony and treatment of the portrait as if it were anautonomous being that sets the foundation for the symbiotic relationship that Dorian develops with the portrait as areflection of his soul and the proposition of the portrait acting as a rival that Dorian is jealous of and cannot overcome orescape. For example, the portrait briefly acts as a moral compass that mirrors the soul after the death of his fiancé, SybilVane when Dorian realizes the underlying nature of the portrait; “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” (78). Dorian deduces that if he can keep thebeauty of the portrait unsoiled then he has successfully maintained the purity of his soul (78). Here, Wide is exploring hisalchemic combination of aestheticism and Christian moral virtue through the use of the portrait as a gauge to detect sin.The climax of the text surrounds Dorian’s decision to hide the portrait and allow it to bear his sin as he becomes moreobsessed with his own beauty and youth stating that, “eternal youth, infinite passion, pleasures subtle and secret, wild joysand wilder sins – he was to have all these things… the portrait was to bear the burden…” (85). Within this moment, Dorianbriefly removes the influence of the portrait by locking it up, so he can freely publicly observe his hedonistic lifestylewithout the shame of the portrait’s degradation thus subscribing to the influence of Lord Henry rather than Basil.

Public versus PrivateThe coexistence of public and private affairs in the same space became a zeitgeist of the Victorian social atmosphere whichis exemplified by the theatre where private boxes were constructed to separate the aristocracy from the other classes andthe stage curtains of the theatre “serve to frame rather than hide what happens on stage” (Sampson 30). This fascinationwith this juxtaposition also extended to the home which was an example of how individuals could occupy both public andprivate space (30). The Victorian period was one of excess, social change, empire, and a symbiotic relationship betweenbeauty and moral fidelity. The duality of morality and beauty was a key nature of this modern urban structure that wasunfolding. The Victorians became very aesthetically focused on surfaces and surface beauty. As Lara Whelan states, thepicturesque nature of the city became a representation of progress (100). Stark differences could be drawn between thesophisticated aristocratic dwellings in Kensington and the derelict mean streets of Whitechapel because of the way they arevisibly perceived rather than their internal natures. Wilde uses the Metaphor of the picture in the attic to juxtapose Dorians

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own simultaneous superficial and visceral duplicity. While Dorian and Lord Henry open up the public areas of his house tomaintain outward appearances and charm the other members of the aristocracy with celebrated musicians, dinners, exoticartworks, and decorations of gold and silver, the portrait is hidden in the same space (103). Thus, illustrating the ability ofthe gentry to have both public and private affairs simultaneously occupying the same environment.

Lord Henry represents the nature of this hedonistic aestheticism, as he constantly makes controversial statementssurrounding the nature of beauty and experiencing every sensation and pleasure. These are the words that initiallyinfluence Dorian to unwittingly trade his soul for eternal youth and Lord Henry convinces him that beauty and youth arethe only things worth having (21). It is only after that the portrait is removed from view that Dorian finds the book thatLord Henry has sent him. With the influence of the portrait removed, Dorian finds himself captivated by this newinfluencer (102). As stated above the book is never identified but Wilde does describe the contents of the text throughDorian’s eyes. The text focuses on a supposed psychological study of a Parisian man who experimented with the pleasuresand sensations that are renounced as sin for the sake of nineteenth-century virtue (100). However, it is important to notethat Lord Henry does not necessarily believe every word that he states, nor does he live by his own philosophy. EdouardRoditi specifies that the perversion of Lord Henry’s true doctrine a key element to the text. He argues that Lord Henry’strue philosophy is one of “inaction… beyond good and evil… Lord Henry never acts and never falls” (124). WhereasDorian naively enacts Lord Henry’s philosophy whilst maintaining the façade of his manners and morality within theVictorian social landscape.

An antique street lamp illuminates a dark street, recalling the urban landscape of Victorian gothic works.

Subsequently, late Victorian Gothic novels such as The Picture of Dorian Gray are often immersed in the darker elementsof the urban landscape of London: Mary Shelley’s (1815) creature of science is cast out into the urban and rural landscapesamongst civility, Bram Stoker’s (1897) Count Dracula is an invading foreign entity with ancient supernatural abilities thatcould counteract modern progression, Robert Louis Stevenson’s (1886) Mr. Hyde is let loose on the streets of London toconduct murder and depravity. Likewise, Dorian Gray’s immorality makes him monstrous though, unlike previousiterations of the monstrous Gothic antagonist that donned a grotesque aesthetic, Dorian is considered beautiful. Throughthis duplicitous characterization, Wilde creates a more sinister creature outside the typical good and sublime, evil andgrotesque binary of Victorian Gothic. One that is harder to identify that could exist right next to the spectator to challengethe Victorian duality of morality and beauty through the paradox of Dorian’s influential sinful nature yet unblemishedphysicality. Despite the fact the portrait has been removed from his sight, the portrait is always on his mind and he beginsto visit it periodically after consumption and indulgence as another form of pleasure seeing how much damage he has done(103). However, the pleasure quickly turns to paranoia as Dorian feels that he cannot leave the country or house for verylong in case someone comes across his secret (112). Akin to other Gothic literature, Dorian’s portrait becomes thegrotesque phantom that haunts his existence. The environment is key to the trope and sets the atmosphere as thesupernatural trope needs the appropriate atmosphere to be effective: Dracula’s castle, Frankenstein’s lab, and thePhantom’s opera house to name but a few.

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Scholars such as Jerrod Hogle, Kenneth Womack, specifically evaluate the use of the Gothic and its inherent supernaturalelements as the tool of Wilde to express his ethical criticism of society and artistic culture (169). James Twitchell contendsthat the text best represents Gothic revival of the late-nineteenth-century sharing the same “deathless limbo, the samedisdain for living, the same sadistic glee at the pains of others, and the same almost uncontrollable desire to destroy what isinnocent and good” with the likes of Bram Stoker’s character, Dracula (173). However, he indicates that Wilde was notinterested in terrorizing his readers as he was in “saying something quite specific about the dynamics of artistic creation”(173). However, Twitchell does not take into account that Dorian’s attic is where the true face of the Gothic monsterresides and where the climax of Basil’s murder eventually takes place after Dorian reveals the painting’s nature. In doingso, Wilde unmasks Dorian beyond the supposition of his perceived morality based on his beauty and instead reveals him asthe corrupt creature that is seen in the portrait (126). The text does not begin with a skin-crawling atmosphere typical ofother popular Victorian Gothic horror texts so this event that sparks the decline of Dorian is one that is intended to shockthe spectator. While other Gothic novels portray Victorian London was the embodiment of the empire to be invaded orcorrupted due to its virtuous civility and morality and supreme nature, Oscar Wilde maintains that the city as anenvironment is already corrupted through its population’s moral ambiguity and unethical practices despite its beautifulaesthetic.

The novel’s theme of aestheticism is a critique of Victorian moral panic. Though Dorian engages in a hedonistic lifestylethat is never fully explored in the initial text, leaving much to the imagination, Dorian’s reputation in the public spheredoes fall under scrutiny and scandal. Though many of his social entourage know or have heard of his exploits, they don’tostracize him due to the fact that “civilized society is never very ready to believe anything to the detriment of those whoare both rich and fascinating… manners are more important than morals and… the highest respectability is of much lessvalue than the possession of a good chef” (113). It is the outward appearance and wealth that determine the quality of theman despite any controversy. It was this hypocritical nature that Wilde seeks to expose with his challenge to the culturalnormative. Dorian eventually realizes the emptiness of his life and believes that he may be able to change for the rightreason after he meets a woman he is genuinely attracted too (174). But upon seeing portrait after his attempt to reverse thedamage that he had caused, all he saw was hypocrisy appear on the face of the portrait (176). In a desperate fit of rage andanguish, he believed that destroying the portrait was the only way he could undo the damage and in doing so he destroyedhimself.

The Picture of Dorian Gray is an exemplary piece of Gothic literature of the late nineteenth century but is also a glimpseinto common trends of the Victorian mind and nuances of their society. Where other Gothic texts seek to exposeinsecurities of external pressures or anxiety, Wilde illuminates the danger of the superficial morality inherent with theconfines of the fast progressing industrial urban empire. It expresses a commentary on many of the issues surrounding thesole aesthetical nature of Victorian society but also the issues that Wilde had to deal with personally, surrounding socialexpectations and his own identity and sexuality. Dorian Gray not only symbolizes the hypocrisy of this duplicity but alsothe complex nature of a nation undergoing a significant industrial, social and cultural revolution.

Works CitedAckroyd, Peter. London: The Biography. London: Vintage, 2001.

Beasley, Edward. Mid-Victorian Imperialists. London: Routledge 2005.

Botting, Fred. Gothic. New York: Routledge, 1996.

Buckton, Oliver S. Secret Selves: Confession and Same-Sex Desire in Victorian Autobiography. North Carolina Universityof North Carolina Press 1998.

Cornwell, Bernard. Waterloo: The History of Four Days, Three Armies, and Three Battles. London: William Collins, 2014

Drew, John M. L. “Introduction and Notes.” In The Picture of Dorian Gray. London: Wordsworth Classics, 2001.

Gilbert, Palmela K. Mapping the Victorian Social Body. New York: State University of New York Press 2004.

Giles, Steve, and Maike Oegel. Counter-Cultures in Germany and Central Europe. Oxford: European AcademicPublishers 2003.

Guy, Josephine M. The Victorian Age: An Anthology of Sources and Documents. London: Routledge, 1998.

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Hogle, Jerrold E. The Cambridge Companion to Gothic Fiction. New York Cambridge University Press, 2002.

Houghton, Walter E. The Victorian Frame of Mind: 1830-1870. London: Yale University Press, 1957.

House, Humphry. The Dickens World. London: Oxford University Press, 1960.

Kingston, Angela. Oscar Wilde as a Character in Victorian Fiction. New York: Palgrave Macmillan 2007.

Luckhurst, Rodger. “Introduction.” In Late Victorian Gothic Tales, edited by Rodger Luckhurst. New York OxfordUniversity Press 2005.

Punter, David. A New Companion to the Gothic. England: Blackwell Publishing, 2012.

Reay, Barry. Watching Hannah: Sexuality, Horror, and Bodily De-Formation in Victorian England. London: ReaktionBooks, 2002.

Roditi, Edouard. Oscar Wilde. Norfolk: New Directions Books, 1947.

Sampson, Fiona. In Search of Mary Shelley: The Girl Who Wrote Frankenstein. London Profile Books, 2018

Schwarz, L.D. London in the Age of Industrialisation: Entrepreneurs, Labour Force and Living Conditions, 1700-1850.New York: Cambridge University Press 1992.

Seaman, L. C. B. Life in Victorian London. Britain: Fletcher & Son Ltd, 1973.

Thomas, Donald. The Victorian Underworld. USA: New York University Press, 1998.

Twitchell, James B. The Living Dead: The Study of the Vampire in Romantic Literature. United States: Duke UniversityPress, 1981.

Walkowitz, Judith R. City of Dreadful Delight: Narrative of Sexual Danger in Late Victorian London. Chicago: TheUniversity of Chicago Press, 1992.

———. Prostitution and Victorian Society: Women, Class and the State. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1980.

Whelan, Lara Baker. Class, Culture, and Anxiety in the Victorian Era. New York: Routledge 2010.

White, Jerry. London in the Nineteenth Century. Great Britain Johnathan Cape, 2007.

Wilde, Oscar. The Picture of Dorian Gray. England: Wordsworth Classics 1890.

Womack, Kenneth. “Withered, Wrinkled, and Loathsome of Visage: Reading the Ethics of the Soul and the Late-VictorianGothic in the Picture of Dorian Gray.” In Victorian Gothic: Literary and Cultural Manifestations in the NineteenthCentury, edited by Ruth Robbins and Julian Wolfreys. New York: Palgrave 2000.

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2.2: Jane Austen, excerpt from Northanger Abbey (1817)

Jane Austen, excerpt from Northanger Abbey (1817)

Jeanette A. Laredo

Catherine Moorland has been invited to visit the very Gothic-sounding Northanger Abbey owned by the family of her loveinterest Henry Tilney. But Catherine’s obsession with Gothic novels leads her to look for Gothic villiany where none existsand in this excerpt she goes to explore the apartments of Henry’s mother Mrs. Tilney, who Catherine thinks died suddenlyunder mysterious circumstances.

Chapter 24

The next day afforded no opportunity for the proposed examination of the mysterious apartments. It was Sunday, and thewhole time between morning and afternoon service was required by the general in exercise abroad or eating cold meat athome; and great as was Catherine’s curiosity, her courage was not equal to a wish of exploring them after dinner, either bythe fading light of the sky between six and seven o’clock, or by the yet more partial though stronger illumination of atreacherous lamp. The day was unmarked therefore by anything to interest her imagination beyond the sight of a veryelegant monument to the memory of Mrs. Tilney, which immediately fronted the family pew. By that her eye was instantlycaught and long retained; and the perusal of the highly strained epitaph, in which every virtue was ascribed to her by theinconsolable husband, who must have been in some way or other her destroyer, affected her even to tears.

That the general, having erected such a monument, should be able to face it, was not perhaps very strange, and yet that hecould sit so boldly collected within its view, maintain so elevated an air, look so fearlessly around, nay, that he should evenenter the church, seemed wonderful to Catherine. Not, however, that many instances of beings equally hardened in guiltmight not be produced. She could remember dozens who had persevered in every possible vice, going on from crime tocrime, murdering whomsoever they chose, without any feeling of humanity or remorse; till a violent death or a religiousretirement closed their black career. The erection of the monument itself could not in the smallest degree affect her doubtsof Mrs. Tilney’s actual decease. Were she even to descend into the family vault where her ashes were supposed to slumber,were she to behold the coffin in which they were said to be enclosed—what could it avail in such a case? Catherine hadread too much not to be perfectly aware of the ease with which a waxen figure might be introduced, and a supposititiousfuneral carried on.

The succeeding morning promised something better. The general’s early walk, ill-timed as it was in every other view, wasfavourable here; and when she knew him to be out of the house, she directly proposed to Miss Tilney the accomplishmentof her promise. Eleanor was ready to oblige her; and Catherine reminding her as they went of another promise, their firstvisit in consequence was to the portrait in her bed-chamber. It represented a very lovely woman, with a mild and pensivecountenance, justifying, so far, the expectations of its new observer; but they were not in every respect answered, forCatherine had depended upon meeting with features, hair, complexion, that should be the very counterpart, the very image,if not of Henry’s, of Eleanor’s—the only portraits of which she had been in the habit of thinking, bearing always an equalresemblance of mother and child. A face once taken was taken for generations. But here she was obliged to look andconsider and study for a likeness. She contemplated it, however, in spite of this drawback, with much emotion, and, but fora yet stronger interest, would have left it unwillingly.

Her agitation as they entered the great gallery was too much for any endeavour at discourse; she could only look at hercompanion. Eleanor’s countenance was dejected, yet sedate; and its composure spoke her inured to all the gloomy objectsto which they were advancing. Again she passed through the folding doors, again her hand was upon the important lock,and Catherine, hardly able to breathe, was turning to close the former with fearful caution, when the figure, the dreadedfigure of the general himself at the further end of the gallery, stood before her! The name of “Eleanor” at the samemoment, in his loudest tone, resounded through the building, giving to his daughter the first intimation of his presence, andto Catherine terror upon terror. An attempt at concealment had been her first instinctive movement on perceiving him, yetshe could scarcely hope to have escaped his eye; and when her friend, who with an apologizing look darted hastily by her,had joined and disappeared with him, she ran for safety to her own room, and, locking herself in, believed that she shouldnever have courage to go down again. She remained there at least an hour, in the greatest agitation, deeply commiseratingthe state of her poor friend, and expecting a summons herself from the angry general to attend him in his own apartment.

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No summons, however, arrived; and at last, on seeing a carriage drive up to the abbey, she was emboldened to descend andmeet him under the protection of visitors. The breakfast-room was gay with company; and she was named to them by thegeneral as the friend of his daughter, in a complimentary style, which so well concealed his resentful ire, as to make herfeel secure at least of life for the present. And Eleanor, with a command of countenance which did honour to her concernfor his character, taking an early occasion of saying to her, “My father only wanted me to answer a note,” she began tohope that she had either been unseen by the general, or that from some consideration of policy she should be allowed tosuppose herself so. Upon this trust she dared still to remain in his presence, after the company left them, and nothingoccurred to disturb it.

In the course of this morning’s reflections, she came to a resolution of making her next attempt on the forbidden dooralone. It would be much better in every respect that Eleanor should know nothing of the matter. To involve her in thedanger of a second detection, to court her into an apartment which must wring her heart, could not be the office of a friend.The general’s utmost anger could not be to herself what it might be to a daughter; and, besides, she thought theexamination itself would be more satisfactory if made without any companion. It would be impossible to explain toEleanor the suspicions, from which the other had, in all likelihood, been hitherto happily exempt; nor could she therefore,in her presence, search for those proofs of the general’s cruelty, which however they might yet have escaped discovery, shefelt confident of somewhere drawing forth, in the shape of some fragmented journal, continued to the last gasp. Of the wayto the apartment she was now perfectly mistress; and as she wished to get it over before Henry’s return, who was expectedon the morrow, there was no time to be lost. The day was bright, her courage high; at four o’clock, the sun was now twohours above the horizon, and it would be only her retiring to dress half an hour earlier than usual.

It was done; and Catherine found herself alone in the gallery before the clocks had ceased to strike. It was no time forthought; she hurried on, slipped with the least possible noise through the folding doors, and without stopping to look orbreathe, rushed forward to the one in question. The lock yielded to her hand, and, luckily, with no sullen sound that couldalarm a human being. On tiptoe she entered; the room was before her; but it was some minutes before she could advanceanother step. She beheld what fixed her to the spot and agitated every feature. She saw a large, well-proportionedapartment, an handsome dimity bed, arranged as unoccupied with an housemaid’s care, a bright Bath stove, mahoganywardrobes, and neatly painted chairs, on which the warm beams of a western sun gaily poured through two sash windows!Catherine had expected to have her feelings worked, and worked they were. Astonishment and doubt first seized them; anda shortly succeeding ray of common sense added some bitter emotions of shame. She could not be mistaken as to theroom; but how grossly mistaken in everything else!—in Miss Tilney’s meaning, in her own calculation! This apartment, towhich she had given a date so ancient, a position so awful, proved to be one end of what the general’s father had built.There were two other doors in the chamber, leading probably into dressing-closets; but she had no inclination to openeither. Would the veil in which Mrs. Tilney had last walked, or the volume in which she had last read, remain to tell whatnothing else was allowed to whisper? No: whatever might have been the general’s crimes, he had certainly too much wit tolet them sue for detection. She was sick of exploring, and desired but to be safe in her own room, with her own heart onlyprivy to its folly; and she was on the point of retreating as softly as she had entered, when the sound of footsteps, she couldhardly tell where, made her pause and tremble. To be found there, even by a servant, would be unpleasant; but by thegeneral (and he seemed always at hand when least wanted), much worse! She listened—the sound had ceased; andresolving not to lose a moment, she passed through and closed the door. At that instant a door underneath was hastilyopened; someone seemed with swift steps to ascend the stairs, by the head of which she had yet to pass before she couldgain the gallery. She had no power to move. With a feeling of terror not very definable, she fixed her eyes on the staircase,and in a few moments it gave Henry to her view. “Mr. Tilney!” she exclaimed in a voice of more than commonastonishment. He looked astonished too. “Good God!” she continued, not attending to his address. “How came you here?How came you up that staircase?”

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Northanger Abbey depicts a startled Catherine Moorland encountering Henry Tilney at the top of a staircase.” Anillustration from Northanger Abbey depicts a startled Catherine Moorland encountering Henry Tilney at the top of astaircase.

“How came I up that staircase!” he replied, greatly surprised. “Because it is my nearest way from the stable-yard to myown chamber; and why should I not come up it?”

Catherine recollected herself, blushed deeply, and could say no more. He seemed to be looking in her countenance for thatexplanation which her lips did not afford. She moved on towards the gallery. “And may I not, in my turn,” said he, as hepushed back the folding doors, “ask how you came here? This passage is at least as extraordinary a road from thebreakfast-parlour to your apartment, as that staircase can be from the stables to mine.”

“I have been,” said Catherine, looking down, “to see your mother’s room.”

“My mother’s room! Is there anything extraordinary to be seen there?”

“No, nothing at all. I thought you did not mean to come back till tomorrow.”

“I did not expect to be able to return sooner, when I went away; but three hours ago I had the pleasure of finding nothing todetain me. You look pale. I am afraid I alarmed you by running so fast up those stairs. Perhaps you did not know—youwere not aware of their leading from the offices in common use?”

“No, I was not. You have had a very fine day for your ride.”

“Very; and does Eleanor leave you to find your way into all the rooms in the house by yourself?”

“Oh! No; she showed me over the greatest part on Saturday—and we were coming here to these rooms—but only”—dropping her voice—“your father was with us.”

“And that prevented you,” said Henry, earnestly regarding her. “Have you looked into all the rooms in that passage?”

“No, I only wanted to see—Is not it very late? I must go and dress.”

“It is only a quarter past four” showing his watch—“and you are not now in Bath. No theatre, no rooms to prepare for. Halfan hour at Northanger must be enough.”

She could not contradict it, and therefore suffered herself to be detained, though her dread of further questions made her,for the first time in their acquaintance, wish to leave him. They walked slowly up the gallery. “Have you had any letterfrom Bath since I saw you?”

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“No, and I am very much surprised. Isabella promised so faithfully to write directly.”

“Promised so faithfully! A faithful promise! That puzzles me. I have heard of a faithful performance. But a faithfulpromise—the fidelity of promising! It is a power little worth knowing, however, since it can deceive and pain you. Mymother’s room is very commodious, is it not? Large and cheerful-looking, and the dressing-closets so well disposed! Italways strikes me as the most comfortable apartment in the house, and I rather wonder that Eleanor should not take it forher own. She sent you to look at it, I suppose?”

“No.”

“It has been your own doing entirely?” Catherine said nothing. After a short silence, during which he had closely observedher, he added, “As there is nothing in the room in itself to raise curiosity, this must have proceeded from a sentiment ofrespect for my mother’s character, as described by Eleanor, which does honour to her memory. The world, I believe, neversaw a better woman. But it is not often that virtue can boast an interest such as this. The domestic, unpretending merits of aperson never known do not often create that kind of fervent, venerating tenderness which would prompt a visit like yours.Eleanor, I suppose, has talked of her a great deal?”

“Yes, a great deal. That is—no, not much, but what she did say was very interesting. Her dying so suddenly” (slowly, andwith hesitation it was spoken), “and you—none of you being at home—and your father, I thought—perhaps had not beenvery fond of her.”

“And from these circumstances,” he replied (his quick eye fixed on hers), “you infer perhaps the probability of somenegligence—some”—(involuntarily she shook her head)—“or it may be—of something still less pardonable.” She raisedher eyes towards him more fully than she had ever done before. “My mother’s illness,” he continued, “the seizure whichended in her death, was sudden. The malady itself, one from which she had often suffered, a bilious fever—its causetherefore constitutional. On the third day, in short, as soon as she could be prevailed on, a physician attended her, a veryrespectable man, and one in whom she had always placed great confidence. Upon his opinion of her danger, two otherswere called in the next day, and remained in almost constant attendance for four and twenty hours. On the fifth day shedied. During the progress of her disorder, Frederick and I (we were both at home) saw her repeatedly; and from our ownobservation can bear witness to her having received every possible attention which could spring from the affection of thoseabout her, or which her situation in life could command. Poor Eleanor was absent, and at such a distance as to return onlyto see her mother in her coffin.”

“But your father,” said Catherine, “was he afflicted?”

“For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him not attached to her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as itwas possible for him to—we have not all, you know, the same tenderness of disposition—and I will not pretend to say thatwhile she lived, she might not often have had much to bear, but though his temper injured her, his judgment never did. Hisvalue of her was sincere; and, if not permanently, he was truly afflicted by her death.”

“I am very glad of it,” said Catherine; “it would have been very shocking!”

“If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror as I have hardly words to—Dear Miss Morland,consider the dreadful nature of the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from? Remember thecountry and the age in which we live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians. Consult your ownunderstanding, your own sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing around you. Does our educationprepare us for such atrocities? Do our laws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated without being known, in a countrylike this, where social and literary intercourse is on such a footing, where every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood ofvoluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas have you beenadmitting?”

They had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame she ran off to her own room.

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2.3: Charlotte Brontë, excerpt from Jane Eyre (1847)

Charlotte Brontë, excerpt from Jane Eyre (1847)

Jeanette A. Laredo

Portrait of Charlotte Brontë (1873).

Chapter 1

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in themorning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with itclouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question.

I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the rawtwilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by theconsciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed.

The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered round their mama in the drawing-room: she lay reclined on a sofaby the fireside, and with her darlings about her (for the time neither quarrelling nor crying) looked perfectly happy. Me,she had dispensed from joining the group; saying, “She regretted to be under the necessity of keeping me at a distance; butthat until she heard from Bessie, and could discover by her own observation, that I was endeavouring in good earnest toacquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a more attractive and sprightly manner—something lighter, franker,more natural, as it were—she really must exclude me from privileges intended only for contented, happy, little children.”

“What does Bessie say I have done?” I asked.

“Jane, I don’t like cavillers or questioners; besides, there is something truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders inthat manner. Be seated somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent.”

A breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I slipped in there. It contained a bookcase: I soon possessed myself of avolume, taking care that it should be one stored with pictures. I mounted into the window-seat: gathering up my feet, I satcross-legged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in double retirement.

Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left were the clear panes of glass, protecting, but notseparating me from the drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves of my book, I studied the aspect ofthat winter afternoon. Afar, it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, withceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast.

I returned to my book—Bewick’s History of British Birds: the letterpress thereof I cared little for, generally speaking; andyet there were certain introductory pages that, child as I was, I could not pass quite as a blank. They were those which treat

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of the haunts of sea-fowl; of “the solitary rocks and promontories” by them only inhabited; of the coast of Norway, studdedwith isles from its southern extremity, the Lindeness, or Naze, to the North Cape—

“Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls, Boils round the naked, melancholy isles Of farthest Thule; and the Atlantic surge Pours in among the stormy Hebrides.”

Nor could I pass unnoticed the suggestion of the bleak shores of Lapland, Siberia, Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla, Iceland,Greenland, with “the vast sweep of the Arctic Zone, and those forlorn regions of dreary space,—that reservoir of frost andsnow, where firm fields of ice, the accumulation of centuries of winters, glazed in Alpine heights above heights, surroundthe pole, and concentre the multiplied rigours of extreme cold.” Of these death-white realms I formed an idea of my own:shadowy, like all the half-comprehended notions that float dim through children’s brains, but strangely impressive. Thewords in these introductory pages connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes, and gave significance to the rockstanding up alone in a sea of billow and spray; to the broken boat stranded on a desolate coast; to the cold and ghastlymoon glancing through bars of cloud at a wreck just sinking.

I cannot tell what sentiment haunted the quite solitary churchyard, with its inscribed headstone; its gate, its two trees, itslow horizon, girdled by a broken wall, and its newly-risen crescent, attesting the hour of eventide.

The two ships becalmed on a torpid sea, I believed to be marine phantoms.

The fiend pinning down the thief’s pack behind him, I passed over quickly: it was an object of terror.

So was the black horned thing seated aloof on a rock, surveying a distant crowd surrounding a gallows.

Each picture told a story; mysterious often to my undeveloped understanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever profoundlyinteresting: as interesting as the tales Bessie sometimes narrated on winter evenings, when she chanced to be in goodhumour; and when, having brought her ironing-table to the nursery hearth, she allowed us to sit about it, and while she gotup Mrs. Reed’s lace frills, and crimped her nightcap borders, fed our eager attention with passages of love and adventuretaken from old fairy tales and other ballads; or (as at a later period I discovered) from the pages of Pamela, and Henry, Earlof Moreland.

With Bewick on my knee, I was then happy: happy at least in my way. I feared nothing but interruption, and that came toosoon. The breakfast-room door opened.

“Boh! Madam Mope!” cried the voice of John Reed; then he paused: he found the room apparently empty.

“Where the dickens is she!” he continued. “Lizzy! Georgy! (calling to his sisters) Joan is not here: tell mama she is run outinto the rain—bad animal!”

“It is well I drew the curtain,” thought I; and I wished fervently he might not discover my hiding-place: nor would JohnReed have found it out himself; he was not quick either of vision or conception; but Eliza just put her head in at the door,and said at once—

“She is in the window-seat, to be sure, Jack.”

And I came out immediately, for I trembled at the idea of being dragged forth by the said Jack.

“What do you want?” I asked, with awkward diffidence.

“Say, ‘What do you want, Master Reed?’” was the answer. “I want you to come here;” and seating himself in an arm-chair,he intimated by a gesture that I was to approach and stand before him.

John Reed was a schoolboy of fourteen years old; four years older than I, for I was but ten: large and stout for his age, witha dingy and unwholesome skin; thick lineaments in a spacious visage, heavy limbs and large extremities. He gorgedhimself habitually at table, which made him bilious, and gave him a dim and bleared eye and flabby cheeks. He ought nowto have been at school; but his mama had taken him home for a month or two, “on account of his delicate health.” Mr.Miles, the master, affirmed that he would do very well if he had fewer cakes and sweetmeats sent him from home; but themother’s heart turned from an opinion so harsh, and inclined rather to the more refined idea that John’s sallowness wasowing to over-application and, perhaps, to pining after home.

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John had not much affection for his mother and sisters, and an antipathy to me. He bullied and punished me; not two orthree times in the week, nor once or twice in the day, but continually: every nerve I had feared him, and every morsel offlesh in my bones shrank when he came near. There were moments when I was bewildered by the terror he inspired,because I had no appeal whatever against either his menaces or his inflictions; the servants did not like to offend theiryoung master by taking my part against him, and Mrs. Reed was blind and deaf on the subject: she never saw him strike orheard him abuse me, though he did both now and then in her very presence, more frequently, however, behind her back.

Habitually obedient to John, I came up to his chair: he spent some three minutes in thrusting out his tongue at me as far ashe could without damaging the roots: I knew he would soon strike, and while dreading the blow, I mused on the disgustingand ugly appearance of him who would presently deal it. I wonder if he read that notion in my face; for, all at once,without speaking, he struck suddenly and strongly. I tottered, and on regaining my equilibrium retired back a step or twofrom his chair.

“That is for your impudence in answering mama awhile since,” said he, “and for your sneaking way of getting behindcurtains, and for the look you had in your eyes two minutes since, you rat!”

Accustomed to John Reed’s abuse, I never had an idea of replying to it; my care was how to endure the blow which wouldcertainly follow the insult.

“What were you doing behind the curtain?” he asked.

“I was reading.”

“Show the book.”

I returned to the window and fetched it thence.

“You have no business to take our books; you are a dependent, mama says; you have no money; your father left you none;you ought to beg, and not to live here with gentlemen’s children like us, and eat the same meals we do, and wear clothes atour mama’s expense. Now, I’ll teach you to rummage my bookshelves: for they are mine; all the house belongs to me, orwill do in a few years. Go and stand by the door, out of the way of the mirror and the windows.”

I did so, not at first aware what was his intention; but when I saw him lift and poise the book and stand in act to hurl it, Iinstinctively started aside with a cry of alarm: not soon enough, however; the volume was flung, it hit me, and I fell,striking my head against the door and cutting it. The cut bled, the pain was sharp: my terror had passed its climax; otherfeelings succeeded.

“Wicked and cruel boy!” I said. “You are like a murderer—you are like a slave-driver—you are like the Roman emperors!”

I had read Goldsmith’s History of Rome, and had formed my opinion of Nero, Caligula, etc. Also I had drawn parallels insilence, which I never thought thus to have declared aloud.

“What! what!” he cried. “Did she say that to me? Did you hear her, Eliza and Georgiana? Won’t I tell mama? but first—”

He ran headlong at me: I felt him grasp my hair and my shoulder: he had closed with a desperate thing. I really saw in hima tyrant, a murderer. I felt a drop or two of blood from my head trickle down my neck, and was sensible of somewhatpungent suffering: these sensations for the time predominated over fear, and I received him in frantic sort. I don’t very wellknow what I did with my hands, but he called me “Rat! Rat!” and bellowed out aloud. Aid was near him: Eliza andGeorgiana had run for Mrs. Reed, who was gone upstairs: she now came upon the scene, followed by Bessie and her maidAbbot. We were parted: I heard the words—

“Dear! dear! What a fury to fly at Master John!”

“Did ever anybody see such a picture of passion!”

Then Mrs. Reed subjoined—

“Take her away to the red-room, and lock her in there.” Four hands were immediately laid upon me, and I was borneupstairs.

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Chapter 2

I resisted all the way: a new thing for me, and a circumstance which greatly strengthened the bad opinion Bessie and MissAbbot were disposed to entertain of me. The fact is, I was a trifle beside myself; or rather out of myself, as the Frenchwould say: I was conscious that a moment’s mutiny had already rendered me liable to strange penalties, and, like any otherrebel slave, I felt resolved, in my desperation, to go all lengths.

“Hold her arms, Miss Abbot: she’s like a mad cat.”

“For shame! for shame!” cried the lady’s-maid. “What shocking conduct, Miss Eyre, to strike a young gentleman, yourbenefactress’s son! Your young master.”

“Master! How is he my master? Am I a servant?”

“No; you are less than a servant, for you do nothing for your keep. There, sit down, and think over your wickedness.”

They had got me by this time into the apartment indicated by Mrs. Reed, and had thrust me upon a stool: my impulse wasto rise from it like a spring; their two pair of hands arrested me instantly.

“If you don’t sit still, you must be tied down,” said Bessie. “Miss Abbot, lend me your garters; she would break minedirectly.”

Miss Abbot turned to divest a stout leg of the necessary ligature. This preparation for bonds, and the additional ignominy itinferred, took a little of the excitement out of me.

“Don’t take them off,” I cried; “I will not stir.”

In guarantee whereof, I attached myself to my seat by my hands.

“Mind you don’t,” said Bessie; and when she had ascertained that I was really subsiding, she loosened her hold of me; thenshe and Miss Abbot stood with folded arms, looking darkly and doubtfully on my face, as incredulous of my sanity.

“She never did so before,” at last said Bessie, turning to the Abigail.

“But it was always in her,” was the reply. “I’ve told Missis often my opinion about the child, and Missis agreed with me.She’s an underhand little thing: I never saw a girl of her age with so much cover.”

Bessie answered not; but ere long, addressing me, she said—“You ought to be aware, Miss, that you are under obligationsto Mrs. Reed: she keeps you: if she were to turn you off, you would have to go to the poorhouse.”

I had nothing to say to these words: they were not new to me: my very first recollections of existence included hints of thesame kind. This reproach of my dependence had become a vague sing-song in my ear: very painful and crushing, but onlyhalf intelligible. Miss Abbot joined in—

“And you ought not to think yourself on an equality with the Misses Reed and Master Reed, because Missis kindly allowsyou to be brought up with them. They will have a great deal of money, and you will have none: it is your place to behumble, and to try to make yourself agreeable to them.”

“What we tell you is for your good,” added Bessie, in no harsh voice, “you should try to be useful and pleasant, then,perhaps, you would have a home here; but if you become passionate and rude, Missis will send you away, I am sure.”

“Besides,” said Miss Abbot, “God will punish her: He might strike her dead in the midst of her tantrums, and then wherewould she go? Come, Bessie, we will leave her: I wouldn’t have her heart for anything. Say your prayers, Miss Eyre, whenyou are by yourself; for if you don’t repent, something bad might be permitted to come down the chimney and fetch youaway.”

They went, shutting the door, and locking it behind them.

The red-room was a square chamber, very seldom slept in, I might say never, indeed, unless when a chance influx ofvisitors at Gateshead Hall rendered it necessary to turn to account all the accommodation it contained: yet it was one of thelargest and stateliest chambers in the mansion. A bed supported on massive pillars of mahogany, hung with curtains ofdeep red damask, stood out like a tabernacle in the centre; the two large windows, with their blinds always drawn down,were half shrouded in festoons and falls of similar drapery; the carpet was red; the table at the foot of the bed was coveredwith a crimson cloth; the walls were a soft fawn colour with a blush of pink in it; the wardrobe, the toilet-table, the chairs

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were of darkly polished old mahogany. Out of these deep surrounding shades rose high, and glared white, the piled-upmattresses and pillows of the bed, spread with a snowy Marseilles counterpane. Scarcely less prominent was an amplecushioned easy-chair near the head of the bed, also white, with a footstool before it; and looking, as I thought, like a palethrone.

This room was chill, because it seldom had a fire; it was silent, because remote from the nursery and kitchen; solemn,because it was known to be so seldom entered. The house-maid alone came here on Saturdays, to wipe from the mirrorsand the furniture a week’s quiet dust: and Mrs. Reed herself, at far intervals, visited it to review the contents of a certainsecret drawer in the wardrobe, where were stored divers parchments, her jewel-casket, and a miniature of her deceasedhusband; and in those last words lies the secret of the red-room—the spell which kept it so lonely in spite of its grandeur.

Mr. Reed had been dead nine years: it was in this chamber he breathed his last; here he lay in state; hence his coffin wasborne by the undertaker’s men; and, since that day, a sense of dreary consecration had guarded it from frequent intrusion.

My seat, to which Bessie and the bitter Miss Abbot had left me riveted, was a low ottoman near the marble chimney-piece;the bed rose before me; to my right hand there was the high, dark wardrobe, with subdued, broken reflections varying thegloss of its panels; to my left were the muffled windows; a great looking-glass between them repeated the vacant majestyof the bed and room. I was not quite sure whether they had locked the door; and when I dared move, I got up and went tosee. Alas! yes: no jail was ever more secure. Returning, I had to cross before the looking-glass; my fascinated glanceinvoluntarily explored the depth it revealed. All looked colder and darker in that visionary hollow than in reality: and thestrange little figure there gazing at me, with a white face and arms specking the gloom, and glittering eyes of fear movingwhere all else was still, had the effect of a real spirit: I thought it like one of the tiny phantoms, half fairy, half imp,Bessie’s evening stories represented as coming out of lone, ferny dells in moors, and appearing before the eyes of belatedtravellers. I returned to my stool.

Superstition was with me at that moment; but it was not yet her hour for complete victory: my blood was still warm; themood of the revolted slave was still bracing me with its bitter vigour; I had to stem a rapid rush of retrospective thoughtbefore I quailed to the dismal present.

All John Reed’s violent tyrannies, all his sisters’ proud indifference, all his mother’s aversion, all the servants’ partiality,turned up in my disturbed mind like a dark deposit in a turbid well. Why was I always suffering, always browbeaten,always accused, for ever condemned? Why could I never please? Why was it useless to try to win any one’s favour? Eliza,who was headstrong and selfish, was respected. Georgiana, who had a spoiled temper, a very acrid spite, a captious andinsolent carriage, was universally indulged. Her beauty, her pink cheeks and golden curls, seemed to give delight to allwho looked at her, and to purchase indemnity for every fault. John no one thwarted, much less punished; though he twistedthe necks of the pigeons, killed the little pea-chicks, set the dogs at the sheep, stripped the hothouse vines of their fruit, andbroke the buds off the choicest plants in the conservatory: he called his mother “old girl,” too; sometimes reviled her forher dark skin, similar to his own; bluntly disregarded her wishes; not unfrequently tore and spoiled her silk attire; and hewas still “her own darling.” I dared commit no fault: I strove to fulfil every duty; and I was termed naughty and tiresome,sullen and sneaking, from morning to noon, and from noon to night.

My head still ached and bled with the blow and fall I had received: no one had reproved John for wantonly striking me;and because I had turned against him to avert farther irrational violence, I was loaded with general opprobrium.

“Unjust!—unjust!” said my reason, forced by the agonising stimulus into precocious though transitory power: andResolve, equally wrought up, instigated some strange expedient to achieve escape from insupportable oppression—asrunning away, or, if that could not be effected, never eating or drinking more, and letting myself die.

What a consternation of soul was mine that dreary afternoon! How all my brain was in tumult, and all my heart ininsurrection! Yet in what darkness, what dense ignorance, was the mental battle fought! I could not answer the ceaselessinward question—why I thus suffered; now, at the distance of—I will not say how many years, I see it clearly.

I was a discord in Gateshead Hall: I was like nobody there; I had nothing in harmony with Mrs. Reed or her children, orher chosen vassalage. If they did not love me, in fact, as little did I love them. They were not bound to regard withaffection a thing that could not sympathise with one amongst them; a heterogeneous thing, opposed to them intemperament, in capacity, in propensities; a useless thing, incapable of serving their interest, or adding to their pleasure; anoxious thing, cherishing the germs of indignation at their treatment, of contempt of their judgment. I know that had I been

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a sanguine, brilliant, careless, exacting, handsome, romping child—though equally dependent and friendless—Mrs. Reedwould have endured my presence more complacently; her children would have entertained for me more of the cordiality offellow-feeling; the servants would have been less prone to make me the scapegoat of the nursery.

Daylight began to forsake the red-room; it was past four o’clock, and the beclouded afternoon was tending to dreartwilight. I heard the rain still beating continuously on the staircase window, and the wind howling in the grove behind thehall; I grew by degrees cold as a stone, and then my courage sank. My habitual mood of humiliation, self-doubt, forlorndepression, fell damp on the embers of my decaying ire. All said I was wicked, and perhaps I might be so; what thoughthad I been but just conceiving of starving myself to death? That certainly was a crime: and was I fit to die? Or was thevault under the chancel of Gateshead Church an inviting bourne? In such vault I had been told did Mr. Reed lie buried; andled by this thought to recall his idea, I dwelt on it with gathering dread. I could not remember him; but I knew that he wasmy own uncle—my mother’s brother—that he had taken me when a parentless infant to his house; and that in his lastmoments he had required a promise of Mrs. Reed that she would rear and maintain me as one of her own children. Mrs.Reed probably considered she had kept this promise; and so she had, I dare say, as well as her nature would permit her; buthow could she really like an interloper not of her race, and unconnected with her, after her husband’s death, by any tie? Itmust have been most irksome to find herself bound by a hard-wrung pledge to stand in the stead of a parent to a strangechild she could not love, and to see an uncongenial alien permanently intruded on her own family group.

A singular notion dawned upon me. I doubted not—never doubted—that if Mr. Reed had been alive he would have treatedme kindly; and now, as I sat looking at the white bed and overshadowed walls—occasionally also turning a fascinated eyetowards the dimly gleaning mirror—I began to recall what I had heard of dead men, troubled in their graves by theviolation of their last wishes, revisiting the earth to punish the perjured and avenge the oppressed; and I thought Mr. Reed’sspirit, harassed by the wrongs of his sister’s child, might quit its abode—whether in the church vault or in the unknownworld of the departed—and rise before me in this chamber. I wiped my tears and hushed my sobs, fearful lest any sign ofviolent grief might waken a preternatural voice to comfort me, or elicit from the gloom some haloed face, bending over mewith strange pity. This idea, consolatory in theory, I felt would be terrible if realised: with all my might I endeavoured tostifle it—I endeavoured to be firm. Shaking my hair from my eyes, I lifted my head and tried to look boldly round the darkroom; at this moment a light gleamed on the wall. Was it, I asked myself, a ray from the moon penetrating some aperture inthe blind? No; moonlight was still, and this stirred; while I gazed, it glided up to the ceiling and quivered over my head. Ican now conjecture readily that this streak of light was, in all likelihood, a gleam from a lantern carried by some one acrossthe lawn: but then, prepared as my mind was for horror, shaken as my nerves were by agitation, I thought the swift dartingbeam was a herald of some coming vision from another world. My heart beat thick, my head grew hot; a sound filled myears, which I deemed the rushing of wings; something seemed near me; I was oppressed, suffocated: endurance brokedown; I rushed to the door and shook the lock in desperate effort. Steps came running along the outer passage; the keyturned, Bessie and Abbot entered.

“Miss Eyre, are you ill?” said Bessie.

“What a dreadful noise! it went quite through me!” exclaimed Abbot.

“Take me out! Let me go into the nursery!” was my cry.

“What for? Are you hurt? Have you seen something?” again demanded Bessie.

“Oh! I saw a light, and I thought a ghost would come.” I had now got hold of Bessie’s hand, and she did not snatch it fromme.

“She has screamed out on purpose,” declared Abbot, in some disgust. “And what a scream! If she had been in great painone would have excused it, but she only wanted to bring us all here: I know her naughty tricks.”

“What is all this?” demanded another voice peremptorily; and Mrs. Reed came along the corridor, her cap flying wide, hergown rustling stormily. “Abbot and Bessie, I believe I gave orders that Jane Eyre should be left in the red-room till I cameto her myself.”

“Miss Jane screamed so loud, ma’am,” pleaded Bessie.

“Let her go,” was the only answer. “Loose Bessie’s hand, child: you cannot succeed in getting out by these means, beassured. I abhor artifice, particularly in children; it is my duty to show you that tricks will not answer: you will now stayhere an hour longer, and it is only on condition of perfect submission and stillness that I shall liberate you then.”

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“O aunt! have pity! Forgive me! I cannot endure it—let me be punished some other way! I shall be killed if—”

“Silence! This violence is all most repulsive:” and so, no doubt, she felt it. I was a precocious actress in her eyes; shesincerely looked on me as a compound of virulent passions, mean spirit, and dangerous duplicity.

Bessie and Abbot having retreated, Mrs. Reed, impatient of my now frantic anguish and wild sobs, abruptly thrust me backand locked me in, without farther parley. I heard her sweeping away; and soon after she was gone, I suppose I had aspecies of fit: unconsciousness closed the scene.

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2.4: Robert Louis Stevenson, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1886)

Robert Louis Stevenson, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1886)

Jeanette A. Laredo

Title page of the first London edition of Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde (1886).

Story of the DoorMr. Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance that was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty andembarrassed 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 neverfound its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often andloudly in the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; drank gin when he was alone, to mortify a taste for vintages; andthough he enjoyed the theatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance forothers; sometimes wondering, almost with envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in anyextremity inclined to help rather than to reprove. “I incline to Cain’s heresy,” he used to say quaintly: “I let my brother goto the devil in his own way.” In this character, it was frequently his fortune to be the last reputable acquaintance and the

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last good influence in the lives of downgoing men. And to such as these, so long as they came about his chambers, henever 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 befounded in a similar catholicity of good-nature. It is the mark of a modest man to accept his friendly circle ready-madefrom the hands of opportunity; and that was the lawyer’s way. His friends were those of his own blood or those whom hehad known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object. Hence, nodoubt the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman, the well-known man about town. It was a nutto crack for many, what these two could see in each other, or what subject they could find in common. It was reported bythose who encountered them in their Sunday walks, that they said nothing, looked singularly dull and would hail withobvious relief the appearance of a friend. For all that, the two men put the greatest store by these excursions, counted themthe chief jewel of each week, and not only set aside occasions of pleasure, but even resisted the calls of business, that theymight 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 wassmall and what is called quiet, but it drove a thriving trade on the weekdays. The inhabitants were all doing well, it seemedand all emulously hoping to do better still, and laying out the surplus of their grains in coquetry; so that the shop frontsstood along that thoroughfare with an air of invitation, like rows of smiling saleswomen. Even on Sunday, when it veiledits 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 ofnote, 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 acertain sinister block of building thrust forward its gable on the street. It was two storeys high; showed no window, nothingbut a door on the lower storey and a blind forehead of discoloured wall on the upper; and bore in every feature, the marksof prolonged and sordid negligence. The door, which was equipped with neither bell nor knocker, was blistered anddistained. Tramps slouched into the recess and struck matches on the panels; children kept shop upon the steps; theschoolboy had tried his knife on the mouldings; and for close on a generation, no one had appeared to drive away theserandom 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 formerlifted 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 mymind,” 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 threeo’clock of a black winter morning, and my way lay through a part of town where there was literally nothing to be seen butlamps. Street after street and all the folks asleep—street after street, all lighted up as if for a procession and all as empty asa 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 apoliceman. All at once, I saw two figures: one a little man who was stumping along eastward at a good walk, and the othera 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 oneanother naturally enough at the corner; and then came the horrible part of the thing; for the man trampled calmly over thechild’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 backto where there was already quite a group about the screaming child. He was perfectly cool and made no resistance, butgave me one look, so ugly that it brought out the sweat on me like running. The people who had turned out were the girl’sown family; and pretty soon, the doctor, for whom she had been sent put in his appearance. Well, the child was not muchthe worse, more frightened, according to the Sawbones; and there you might have supposed would be an end to it. Butthere was one curious circumstance. I had taken a loathing to my gentleman at first sight. So had the child’s family, whichwas only natural. But the doctor’s case was what struck me. He was the usual cut and dry apothecary, of no particular ageand colour, with a strong Edinburgh accent and about as emotional as a bagpipe. Well, sir, he was like the rest of us; everytime he looked at my prisoner, I saw that Sawbones turn sick and white with desire to kill him. I knew what was in hismind, 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

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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 hehad 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 hatefulfaces; and there was the man in the middle, with a kind of black sneering coolness—frightened too, I could see that—butcarrying 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 forthe child’s family; he would have clearly liked to stick out; but there was something about the lot of us that meantmischief, and at last he struck. The next thing was to get the money; and where do you think he carried us but to that placewith the door?—whipped out a key, went in, and presently came back with the matter of ten pounds in gold and a chequefor the balance on Coutts’s, drawn payable to bearer and signed with a name that I can’t mention, though it’s one of thepoints of my story, but it was a name at least very well known and often printed. The figure was stiff; but the signature wasgood for more than that if it was only genuine. I took the liberty of pointing out to my gentleman that the whole businesslooked apocryphal, and that a man does not, in real life, walk into a cellar door at four in the morning and come out withanother man’s cheque for close upon a hundred pounds. But he was quite easy and sneering. `Set your mind at rest,’ sayshe, `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, wentin 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 dowith, 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. Black mail I suppose; an honest man payingthrough the nose for some of the capers of his youth. Black Mail House is what I call the place with the door, inconsequence. Though even that, you know, is far from explaining all,” he added, and with the words fell into a vein ofmusing.

From this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson asking rather suddenly: “And you don’t know if the drawer of the cheque livesthere?”

“A likely place, isn’t it?” returned Mr. Enfield. “But I happen to have noticed his address; he lives in some square orother.”

“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 ofthe 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 thestone goes, starting others; and presently some bland old bird (the last you would have thought of) is knocked on the headin 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 likeQueer 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, andnobody goes in or out of that one but, once in a great while, the gentleman of my adventure. There are three windowslooking on the court on the first floor; none below; the windows are always shut but they’re clean. And then there is achimney which is generally smoking; so somebody must live there. And yet it’s not so sure; for the buildings are so packedtogether 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 walkedover 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?”

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“He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his appearance; something displeasing, something down-rightdetestable. I never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must be deformed somewhere; he gives a strongfeeling of deformity, although I couldn’t specify the point. He’s an extraordinary looking man, and yet I really can namenothing 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 Ican see him this moment.”

Mr. Utterson again walked some way in silence and obviously under a weight of consideration. “You are sure he used akey?” 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 isbecause I know it already. You see, Richard, your tale has gone home. If you have been inexact in any point you had bettercorrect it.”

“I think you might have warned me,” returned the other with a touch of sullenness. “But I have been pedantically exact, asyou 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 saynothing,” 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.”

The 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 washis custom of a Sunday, when this meal was over, to sit close by the fire, a volume of some dry divinity on his readingdesk, until the clock of the neighbouring church rang out the hour of twelve, when he would go soberly and gratefully tobed. 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 Willand sat down with a clouded brow to study its contents. The will was holograph, for Mr. Utterson though he took charge ofit 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 thedecease 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 “friendand benefactor Edward Hyde,” but that in case of Dr. Jekyll’s “disappearance or unexplained absence for any periodexceeding three calendar months,” the said Edward Hyde should step into the said Henry Jekyll’s shoes without furtherdelay and free from any burthen or obligation beyond the payment of a few small sums to the members of the doctor’shousehold. This document had long been the lawyer’s eyesore. It offended him both as a lawyer and as a lover of the saneand customary sides of life, to whom the fanciful was the immodest. And hitherto it was his ignorance of Mr. Hyde thathad swelled his indignation; now, by a sudden turn, it was his knowledge. It was already bad enough when the name wasbut a name of which he could learn no more. It was worse when it began to be clothed upon with detestable attributes; andout of the shifting, insubstantial mists that had so long baffled his eye, there leaped up the sudden, definite presentment ofa 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 ofmedicine, where his friend, the great Dr. Lanyon, had his house and received his crowding patients. “If anyone knows, itwill 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 thedining-room where Dr. Lanyon sat alone over his wine. This was a hearty, healthy, dapper, red-faced gentleman, with ashock of hair prematurely white, and a boisterous and decided manner. At sight of Mr. Utterson, he sprang up from hischair 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 thoroughrespectors of themselves and of each other, and what does not always follow, men who thoroughly enjoyed each other’scompany.

After a little rambling talk, the lawyer led up to the subject which so disagreeably preoccupied his mind.

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“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 gowrong, 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 andI have seen devilish little of the man. Such unscientific balderdash,” added the doctor, flushing suddenly purple, “wouldhave 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 nothingworse than that!” He gave his friend a few seconds to recover his composure, and then approached the question he hadcome to put. “Did you ever come across a protege 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 andfro, until the small hours of the morning began to grow large. It was a night of little ease to his toiling mind, toiling in meredarkness and beseiged 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 wasdigging at the problem. Hitherto it had touched him on the intellectual side alone; but now his imagination also wasengaged, 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 anocturnal 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 arich house, where his friend lay asleep, dreaming and smiling at his dreams; and then the door of that room would beopened, the curtains of the bed plucked apart, the sleeper recalled, and lo! there would stand by his side a figure to whompower was given, and even at that dead hour, he must rise and do its bidding. The figure in these two phases haunted thelawyer all night; and if at any time he dozed over, it was but to see it glide more stealthily through sleeping houses, ormove the more swiftly and still the more swiftly, even to dizziness, through wider labyrinths of lamplighted city, and atevery street corner crush a child and leave her screaming. And still the figure had no face by which he might know it; evenin his dreams, it had no face, or one that baffled him and melted before his eyes; and thus it was that there sprang up andgrew 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 wasthe 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 clause of the will. At least it would be a face worth seeing: the face of aman who was without bowels of mercy: a face which had but to show itself to raise up, in the mind of theunimpressionable 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 allhours 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; thelamps, unshaken by any wind, drawing a regular pattern of light and shadow. By ten o’clock, when the shops were closedthe by-street was very solitary and, in spite of the low growl of London from all round, very silent. Small sounds carriedfar; domestic sounds out of the houses were clearly audible on either side of the roadway; and the rumour of the approachof any passenger preceded him by a long time. Mr. Utterson had been some minutes at his post, when he was aware of anodd light footstep drawing near. In the course of his nightly patrols, he had long grown accustomed to the quaint effectwith which the footfalls of a single person, while he is still a great way off, suddenly spring out distinct from the vast humand 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.

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The steps drew swiftly nearer, and swelled out suddenly louder as they turned the end of the street. The lawyer, lookingforth from the entry, could soon see what manner of man he had to deal with. He was small and very plainly dressed andthe look of him, even at that distance, went somehow strongly against the watcher’s inclination. But he made straight forthe 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 thelawyer 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 musthave 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 withoutlooking 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 thepair stared at each other pretty fixedly for a few seconds. “Now I shall know you again,” said Mr. Utterson. “It may beuseful.”

“Yes,” returned Mr. Hyde, “It is as well we have met; and apropos, you should have my address.” And he gave a numberof 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 andonly 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 doorand disappeared into the house.

The lawyer stood awhile when Mr. Hyde had left him, the picture of disquietude. Then he began slowly to mount thestreet, pausing every step or two and putting his hand to his brow like a man in mental perplexity. The problem he was thusdebating as he walked, was one of a class that is rarely solved. Mr. Hyde was pale and dwarfish, he gave an impression ofdeformity without any nameable malformation, he had a displeasing smile, he had borne himself to the lawyer with a sortof murderous mixture of timidity and boldness, and he spoke with a husky, whispering and somewhat broken voice; allthese were points against him, but not all of these together could explain the hitherto unknown disgust, loathing and fearwith which Mr. Utterson regarded him. “There must be something else,” said the perplexed gentleman. “There issomething more, if I could find a name for it. God bless me, the man seems hardly human! Something troglodytic, shall wesay? or can it be the old story of Dr. Fell? or is it the mere radiance of a foul soul that thus transpires through, andtransfigures, its clay continent? The last, I think; for, O my poor old Harry Jekyll, if ever I read Satan’s signature upon aface, 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 fromtheir high estate and let in flats and chambers to all sorts and conditions of men; map-engravers, architects, shady lawyers

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and the agents of obscure enterprises. One house, however, second from the corner, was still occupied entire; and at thedoor 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 pavedwith 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 leftalone, was a pet fancy of his friend the doctor’s; and Utterson himself was wont to speak of it as the pleasantest room inLondon. But tonight there was a shudder in his blood; the face of Hyde sat heavy on his memory; he felt (what was rarewith him) a nausea and distaste of life; and in the gloom of his spirits, he seemed to read a menace in the flickering of thefirelight on the polished cabinets and the uneasy starting of the shadow on the roof. He was ashamed of his relief, whenPoole presently returned to announce that Dr. Jekyll was gone out.

“I saw Mr. Hyde go in by the old dissecting room, 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; hemostly 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 indeep 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 oflimitations. Ay, 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 thethought, brooded awhile on his own past, groping in all the corners of memory, least by chance some Jack-in-the-Box of anold iniquity should leap to light there. His past was fairly blameless; few men could read the rolls of their life with lessapprehension; yet he was humbled to the dust by the many ill things he had done, and raised up again into a sober andfearful gratitude by the many he had come so near to doing yet avoided. And then by a return on his former subject, heconceived a spark of hope. “This Master Hyde, if he were studied,” thought he, “must have secrets of his own; blacksecrets, by the look of him; secrets compared to which poor Jekyll’s worst would be like sunshine. Things cannot continueas 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. Ay, I must putmy shoulders to the wheel—if Jekyll will but let me,” he added, “if Jekyll will only let me.” For once more he saw beforehis mind’s eye, as clear as transparency, the strange clauses of the will.

Dr. Jekyll was Quite at EaseA fortnight later, by excellent good fortune, the doctor gave one of his pleasant dinners to some five or six old cronies, allintelligent, reputable men and all judges of good wine; and Mr. Utterson so contrived that he remained behind after theothers had departed. This was no new arrangement, but a thing that had befallen many scores of times. Where Uttersonwas liked, he was liked well. Hosts loved to detain the dry lawyer, when the light-hearted and loose-tongued had alreadytheir foot on the threshold; they liked to sit a while in his unobtrusive company, practising for solitude, sobering theirminds in the man’s rich silence after the expense and strain of gaiety. To this rule, Dr. Jekyll was no exception; and as henow sat on the opposite side of the fire—a large, well-made, smooth-faced man of fifty, with something of a stylish castperhaps, but every mark of capacity and kindness—you could see by his looks that he cherished for Mr. Utterson a sincereand warm affection.

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“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 thathide-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 careto 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. “Iam painfully situated, Utterson; my position is a very strange—a very strange one. It is one of those affairs that cannot bemended 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 nodoubt 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 tothank you in. I believe you fully; I would trust you before any man alive, ay, before myself, if I could make the choice; butindeed 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: themoment 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 justadd 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 pointI 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 knewall; 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 himfor my sake, when I am no longer here.”

Utterson heaved an irrepressible sigh. “Well,” said he, “I promise.”

The Carew Murder CaseNearly a year later, in the month of October, 18—, London was startled by a crime of singular ferocity and rendered all themore notable by the high position of the victim. The details were few and startling. A maid servant living alone in a housenot far from the river, had gone upstairs to bed about eleven. Although a fog rolled over the city in the small hours, theearly part of the night was cloudless, and the lane, which the maid’s window overlooked, was brilliantly lit by the fullmoon. 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), neverhad she felt more at peace with all men or thought more kindly of the world. And as she so sat she became aware of anaged beautiful gentleman with white hair, drawing near along the lane; and advancing to meet him, another and very smallgentleman, to whom at first she paid less attention. When they had come within speech (which was just under the maid’seyes) the older man bowed and accosted the other with a very pretty manner of politeness. It did not seem as if the subjectof his address were of great importance; indeed, from his pointing, it some times appeared as if he were only inquiring his

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way; but the moon shone on his face as he spoke, and the girl was pleased to watch it, it seemed to breathe such aninnocent and old-world kindness of disposition, yet with something high too, as of a well-founded self-content. Presentlyher eye wandered to the other, and she was surprised to recognise in him a certain Mr. Hyde, who had once visited hermaster and for whom she had conceived a dislike. He had in his hand a heavy cane, with which he was trifling; but heanswered never a word, and seemed to listen with an ill-contained impatience. And then all of a sudden he broke out in agreat flame of anger, stamping with his foot, brandishing the cane, and carrying on (as the maid described it) like amadman. 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 hisvictim under foot and hailing down a storm of blows, under which the bones were audibly shattered and the body jumpedupon 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 hisvictim in the middle of the lane, incredibly mangled. The stick with which the deed had been done, although it was ofsome rare and very tough and heavy wood, had broken in the middle under the stress of this insensate cruelty; and onesplintered half had rolled in the neighbouring gutter—the other, without doubt, had been carried away by the murderer. Apurse and gold watch were found upon the victim: but no cards or papers, except a sealed and stamped envelope, which hehad 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 thecircumstances, than he shot out a solemn lip. “I shall say nothing till I have seen the body,” said he; “this may be veryserious. Have the kindness to wait while I dress.” And with the same grave countenance he hurried through his breakfastand 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 professionalambition. “This will make a deal of noise,” he said. “And perhaps you can help us to the man.” And he briefly narratedwhat 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 recognized 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 tohis house.”

It was by this time about nine in the morning, and the first fog of the season. A great chocolate-coloured pall lowered overheaven, but the wind was continually charging and routing these embattled vapours; so that as the cab crawled from streetto 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, fora moment, the fog would be quite broken up, and a haggard shaft of daylight would glance in between the swirlingwreaths. 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 ofdarkness, seemed, in the lawyer’s eyes, like a district of some city in a nightmare. The thoughts of his mind, besides, wereof the gloomiest dye; and when he glanced at the companion of his drive, he was conscious of some touch of that terror ofthe 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 lowFrench eating house, a shop for the retail of penny numbers and twopenny salads, many ragged children huddled in thedoorways, and many women of many different nationalities passing out, key in hand, to have a morning glass; and the nextmoment 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 hermanners 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

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he had gone away again in less than an hour; there was nothing strange in that; his habits were very irregular, and he wasoften 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, “Ihad 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. “Andnow, 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 acouple of rooms; but these were furnished with luxury and good taste. A closet was filled with wine; the plate was ofsilver, the napery elegant; a good picture hung upon the walls, a gift (as Utterson supposed) from Henry Jekyll, who wasmuch of a connoisseur; and the carpets were of many plies and agreeable in colour. At this moment, however, the roomsbore 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 himselfdelighted. A visit to the bank, where several thousand pounds were found to be lying to the murderer’s credit, completedhis 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 neverwould have left the stick or, above all, burned the cheque book. Why, money’s life to the man. We have nothing to do butwait 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 theservant maid had only seen him twice; his family could nowhere be traced; he had never been photographed; and the fewwho could describe him differed widely, as common observers will. Only on one point were they agreed; and that was thehaunting sense of unexpressed deformity with which the fugitive impressed his beholders.

The 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 wasindifferently known as the laboratory or dissecting rooms. The doctor had bought the house from the heirs of a celebratedsurgeon; and his own tastes being rather chemical than anatomical, had changed the destination of the block at the bottomof the garden. It was the first time that the lawyer had been received in that part of his friend’s quarters; and he eyed thedingy, windowless structure with curiosity, and gazed round with a distasteful sense of strangeness as he crossed thetheatre, once crowded with eager students and now lying gaunt and silent, the tables laden with chemical apparatus, thefloor strewn with crates and littered with packing straw, and the light falling dimly through the foggy cupola. At the furtherend, a flight of stairs mounted to a door covered with red baize; and through this, Mr. Utterson was at last received into thedoctor’s cabinet. It was a large room fitted round with glass presses, furnished, among other things, with a cheval-glass anda business table, and looking out upon the court by three dusty windows barred with iron. The fire burned in the grate; alamp was set lighted on the chimney shelf, for even in the houses the fog began to lie thickly; and there, close up to thewarmth, sat Dr. Jekyll, looking deathly sick. He did not rise to meet his visitor, but held out a cold hand and bade himwelcome 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 notbeen 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 youthat 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 Ido; he is safe, he is quite safe; mark my words, he will never more be heard of.”

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The lawyer listened gloomily; he did not like his friend’s feverish manner. “You seem pretty sure of him,” said he; “and foryour 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 onething 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 thepolice. 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 owncharacter, 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, “letme see the letter.”

The letter was written in an odd, upright hand and signed “Edward Hyde”: and it signified, briefly enough, that the writer’sbenefactor, Dr. Jekyll, whom he had long so unworthily repaid for a thousand generosities, need labour under no alarm forhis safety, as he had means of escape on which he placed a sure dependence. The lawyer liked this letter well enough; itput 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 willabout 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 alesson 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 into-day: what was the messenger like?” But Poole was positive nothing had come except by post; “and only circulars bythat,” he added.

This news sent off the visitor with his fears renewed. Plainly the letter had come by the laboratory door; possibly, indeed, ithad been written in the cabinet; and if that were so, it must be differently judged, and handled with the more caution. Thenewsboys, 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 ofanother 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, itmight 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 thefoundations of his house. The fog still slept on the wing above the drowned city, where the lamps glimmered likecarbuncles; and through the muffle and smother of these fallen clouds, the procession of the town’s life was still rolling inthrough the great arteries with a sound as of a mighty wind. But the room was gay with firelight. In the bottle the acidswere long ago resolved; the imperial dye had softened with time, as the colour grows richer in stained windows; and theglow 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 alwayssure that he kept as many as he meant. Guest had often been on business to the doctor’s; he knew Poole; he could scarcehave failed to hear of Mr. Hyde’s familiarity about the house; he might draw conclusions: was it not as well, then, that heshould see a letter which put that mystery to right? and above all since Guest, being a great student and critic of

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handwriting, would consider the step natural and obliging? The clerk, besides, was a man of counsel; he could scarce readso 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 betweenourselves, 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: amurderer’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 oddhand.”

“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 theircontents. “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 inquiredsuddenly.

“Well, sir,” returned the clerk, “there’s a rather singular resemblance; the two hands are in many points identical: onlydifferently 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 timeforward. “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; butMr. 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 hisstrange 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, astime drew on, Mr. Utterson began to recover from the hotness of his alarm, and to grow more at quiet with himself. Thedeath of Sir Danvers was, to his way of thinking, more than paid for by the disappearance of Mr. Hyde. Now that that evilinfluence had been withdrawn, a new life began for Dr. Jekyll. He came out of his seclusion, renewed relations with hisfriends, became once more their familiar guest and entertainer; and whilst he had always been known for charities, he wasnow no less distinguished for religion. He was busy, he was much in the open air, he did good; his face seemed to open andbrighten, 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 thehost had looked from one to the other as in the old days when the trio were inseparable friends. On the 12th, and again onthe 14th, the door was shut against the lawyer. “The doctor was confined to the house,” Poole said, “and saw no one.” Onthe 15th, he tried again, and was again refused; and having now been used for the last two months to see his friend almostdaily, he found this return of solitude to weigh upon his spirits. The fifth night he had in Guest to dine with him; and thesixth he betook himself to Dr. Lanyon’s.

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There at least he was not denied admittance; but when he came in, he was shocked at the change which had taken place inthe doctor’s appearance. He had his death-warrant written legibly upon his face. The rosy man had grown pale; his fleshhad fallen away; he was visibly balder and older; and yet it was not so much these tokens of a swift physical decay thatarrested the lawyer’s notice, as a look in the eye and quality of manner that seemed to testify to some deep-seated terror ofthe 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 hecan bear.” And yet when Utterson remarked on his ill-looks, it was with an air of great firmness that Lanyon declaredhimself 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 aloud, unsteady voice. “I am quite done with that person; and I beg that you will spare me any allusion to one whom Iregard as dead.”

“Tut-tut,” said Mr. Utterson; and then after a considerable pause, “Can’t I do anything?” he inquired. “We are three veryold 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 rightand 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 askingthe 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,” Jekyllwrote, “but I share his view that we must never meet. I mean from henceforth to lead a life of extreme seclusion; you mustnot be surprised, nor must you doubt my friendship, if my door is often shut even to you. You must suffer me to go myown dark way. I have brought on myself a punishment and a danger that I cannot name. If I am the chief of sinners, I amthe chief of sufferers also. I could not think that this earth contained a place for sufferings and terrors so unmanning; andyou can do but one thing, Utterson, to lighten this destiny, and that is to respect my silence.” Utterson was amazed; thedark influence of Hyde had been withdrawn, the doctor had returned to his old tasks and amities; a week ago, the prospecthad 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 ofLanyon’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 thefuneral, at which he had been sadly affected, Utterson locked the door of his business room, and sitting there by the light ofa melancholy candle, drew out and set before him an envelope addressed by the hand and sealed with the seal of his deadfriend. “PRIVATE: for the hands of G. J. Utterson ALONE, and in case of his predecease to be destroyed unread,” so itwas emphatically superscribed; and the lawyer dreaded to behold the contents. “I have buried one friend to-day,” hethought: “what if this should cost me another?” And then he condemned the fear as a disloyalty, and broke the seal. Withinthere was another enclosure, likewise sealed, and marked upon the cover as “not to be opened till the death ordisappearance of Dr. Henry Jekyll.” Utterson could not trust his eyes. Yes, it was disappearance; here again, as in the madwill which he had long ago restored to its author, here again were the idea of a disappearance and the name of Henry Jekyllbracketted. But in the will, that idea had sprung from the sinister suggestion of the man Hyde; it was set there with apurpose all too plain and horrible. Written by the hand of Lanyon, what should it mean? A great curiosity came on thetrustee, to disregard the prohibition and dive at once to the bottom of these mysteries; but professional honour and faith tohis 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 thesociety of his surviving friend with the same eagerness. He thought of him kindly; but his thoughts were disquieted and

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fearful. He went to call indeed; but he was perhaps relieved to be denied admittance; perhaps, in his heart, he preferred tospeak with Poole upon the doorstep and surrounded by the air and sounds of the open city, rather than to be admitted intothat house of voluntary bondage, and to sit and speak with its inscrutable recluse. Poole had, indeed, no very pleasant newsto communicate. The doctor, it appeared, now more than ever confined himself to the cabinet over the laboratory, where hewould sometimes even sleep; he was out of spirits, he had grown very silent, he did not read; it seemed as if he hadsomething on his mind. Utterson became so used to the unvarying character of these reports, that he fell off little by little inthe frequency of his visits.

Incident at the WindowIt chanced on Sunday, when Mr. Utterson was on his usual walk with Mr. Enfield, that their way lay once again throughthe 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 thoughtme, 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 thewindows. To tell you the truth, I am uneasy about poor Jekyll; and even outside, I feel as if the presence of a friend mightdo him good.”

The court was very cool and a little damp, and full of premature twilight, although the sky, high up overhead, was stillbright with sunset. The middle one of the three windows was half-way open; and sitting close beside it, taking the air withan infinite sadness of mien, like some disconsolate prisoner, Utterson saw Dr. Jekyll.

“What! 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. Butindeed, Utterson, I am very glad to see you; this is really a great pleasure; I would ask you and Mr. Enfield up, but theplace 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 fromwhere 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 thevery blood of the two gentlemen below. They saw it but for a glimpse for the window was instantly thrust down; but thatglimpse 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 somestirrings of life, that Mr. Utterson at last turned and looked at his companion. They were both pale; and there was ananswering 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; “isthe doctor ill?”

“Mr. Utterson,” said the man, “there is something wrong.”

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“Take a seat, and here is a glass of wine for you,” said the lawyer. “Now, take your time, and tell me plainly what youwant.”

“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 whenhe had first announced his terror, he had not once looked the lawyer in the face. Even now, he sat with the glass of wineuntasted 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 mewhat 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 therelief that appeared upon the butler’s face, and perhaps with no less, that the wine was still untasted when he set it down tofollow.

It was a wild, cold, seasonable night of March, with a pale moon, lying on her back as though the wind had tilted her, andflying wrack of the most diaphanous and lawny texture. The wind made talking difficult, and flecked the blood into theface. It seemed to have swept the streets unusually bare of passengers, besides; for Mr. Utterson thought he had never seenthat part of London so deserted. He could have wished it otherwise; never in his life had he been conscious of so sharp awish to see and touch his fellow-creatures; for struggle as he might, there was borne in upon his mind a crushinganticipation of calamity. The square, when they got there, was full of wind and dust, and the thin trees in the garden werelashing themselves along the railing. Poole, who had kept all the way a pace or two ahead, now pulled up in the middle ofthe pavement, and in spite of the biting weather, took off his hat and mopped his brow with a red pocket-handkerchief. Butfor all the hurry of his coming, these were not the dews of exertion that he wiped away, but the moisture of some stranglinganguish; 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 fromwithin, “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 theservants, men and women, stood huddled together like a flock of sheep. At the sight of Mr. Utterson, the housemaid brokeinto hysterical whimpering; and the cook, crying out “Bless God! it’s Mr. Utterson,” ran forward as if to take him in herarms.

“What, what? Are you all here?” said the lawyer peevishly. “Very irregular, very unseemly; your master would be far frompleased.”

“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, whenthe girl had so suddenly raised the note of her lamentation, they had all started and turned towards the inner door withfaces of dreadful expectation. “And now,” continued the butler, addressing the knife-boy, “reach me a candle, and we’ll getthis through hands at once.” And then he begged Mr. Utterson to follow him, and led the way to the back garden.

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“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 herecollected his courage and followed the butler into the laboratory building through the surgical theatre, with its lumber ofcrates 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 asomewhat 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 giveear.

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 hisvoice? No, sir; master’s made away with; he was made away with eight days ago, when we heard him cry out upon thename of God; and who’s in there instead of him, and why it stays there, is a thing that cries to Heaven, Mr. Utterson!”

“This is a very strange tale, Poole; this is rather a wild tale my man,” said Mr. Utterson, biting his finger. “Suppose it wereas you suppose, supposing Dr. Jekyll to have been—well, murdered what could induce the murderer to stay? That won’thold 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 tohis 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 smuggledin when nobody was looking. Well, sir, every day, ay, and twice and thrice in the same day, there have been orders andcomplaints, and I have been sent flying to all the wholesale chemists in town. Every time I brought the stuff back, therewould be another paper telling me to return it, because it was not pure, and another order to a different firm. This drug iswanted 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, carefullyexamined. Its contents ran thus: “Dr. Jekyll presents his compliments to Messrs. Maw. He assures them that their lastsample is impure and quite useless for his present purpose. In the year 18—, Dr. J. purchased a somewhat large quantityfrom Messrs. M. He now begs them to search with most sedulous care, and should any of the same quality be left, forwardit to him at once. Expense is no consideration. The importance of this to Dr. J. can hardly be exaggerated.” So far the letterhad run composedly enough, but here with a sudden splutter of the pen, the writer’s emotion had broken loose. “For God’ssake,” 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 tolook for this drug or whatever it is; for the cabinet door was open, and there he was at the far end of the room diggingamong the crates. He looked up when I came in, gave a kind of cry, and whipped upstairs into the cabinet. It was but for

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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 uponhis 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, isplainly seized with one of those maladies that both torture and deform the sufferer; hence, for aught I know, the alterationof his voice; hence the mask and the avoidance of his friends; hence his eagerness to find this drug, by means of which thepoor soul retains some hope of ultimate recovery—God grant that he be not deceived! There is my explanation; it is sadenough, Poole, ay, and appalling to consider; but it is plain and natural, hangs well together, and delivers us from allexorbitant 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.” Uttersonattempted to protest. “O, sir,” cried Poole, “do you think I do not know my master after twenty years? Do you think I donot know where his head comes to in the cabinet door, where I saw him every morning of my life? No, sir, that thing in themask was never Dr. Jekyll—God knows what it was, but it was never Dr. Jekyll; and it is the belief of my heart that therewas murder done.”

“Poole,” replied the lawyer, “if you say that, it will become my duty to make certain. Much as I desire to spare yourmaster’s feelings, much as I am puzzled by this note which seems to prove him to be still alive, I shall consider it my dutyto 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 noloser.”

“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, lookingup, “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 cleanbreast. 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 ifyou mean, was it Mr. Hyde?—why, yes, I think it was! You see, it was much of the same bigness; and it had the samequick, light way with it; and then who else could have got in by the laboratory door? You have not forgot, sir, that at thetime 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 gavea 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 andwhipped into the cabinet, it went down my spine like ice. O, I know it’s not evidence, Mr. Utterson; I’m book-learnedenough 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 thatconnection. Ay truly, I believe you; I believe poor Harry is killed; and I believe his murderer (for what purpose, God alonecan 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.

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“Put yourself together, Bradshaw,” said the lawyer. “This suspense, I know, is telling upon all of you; but it is now ourintention 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 arebroad enough to bear the blame. Meanwhile, lest anything should really be amiss, or any malefactor seek to escape by theback, you and the boy must go round the corner with a pair of good sticks and take your post at the laboratory door. Wegive 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 underhis arm, led the way into the yard. The scud had banked over the moon, and it was now quite dark. The wind, which onlybroke in puffs and draughts into that deep well of building, tossed the light of the candle to and fro about their steps, untilthey came into the shelter of the theatre, where they sat down silently to wait. London hummed solemnly all around; butnearer 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 fromthe 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 foullyshed in every step of it! But hark again, a little closer—put your heart in your ears, Mr. Utterson, and tell me, is that thedoctor’s foot?”

The steps fell lightly and oddly, with a certain swing, for all they went so slowly; it was different indeed from the heavycreaking 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 setupon the nearest table to light them to the attack; and they drew near with bated breath to where that patient foot was stillgoing up and down, up and down, in the quiet of the night. “Jekyll,” cried Utterson, with a loud voice, “I demand to seeyou.” He paused a moment, but there came no reply. “I give you fair warning, our suspicions are aroused, and I must andshall 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 andhinges. A dismal screech, as of mere animal terror, rang from the cabinet. Up went the axe again, and again the panelscrashed and the frame bounded; four times the blow fell; but the wood was tough and the fittings were of excellentworkmanship; 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 laythe cabinet before their eyes in the quiet lamplight, a good fire glowing and chattering on the hearth, the kettle singing itsthin strain, a drawer or two open, papers neatly set forth on the business table, and nearer the fire, the things laid out fortea; the quietest room, you would have said, and, but for the glazed presses full of chemicals, the most commonplace thatnight 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 onits back and beheld the face of Edward Hyde. He was dressed in clothes far too large for him, clothes of the doctor’sbigness; the cords of his face still moved with a semblance of life, but life was quite gone: and by the crushed phial in thehand 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 forus 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 andwas lighted from above, and by the cabinet, which formed an upper story at one end and looked upon the court. A corridorjoined the theatre to the door on the by-street; and with this the cabinet communicated separately by a second flight ofstairs. There were besides a few dark closets and a spacious cellar. All these they now thoroughly examined. Each closet

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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 evenas they opened the door they were advertised of the uselessness of further search, by the fall of a perfect mat of cobwebwhich had for years sealed up the entrance. No where 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 byon 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 isbeyond 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 morethoroughly to examine the contents of the cabinet. At one table, there were traces of chemical work, various measuredheaps of some white salt being laid on glass saucers, as though for an experiment in which the unhappy man had beenprevented.

“That is the same drug that I was always bringing him,” said Poole; and even as he spoke, the kettle with a startling noiseboiled over.

This brought them to the fireside, where the easy-chair was drawn cosily up, and the tea things stood ready to the sitter’selbow, the very sugar in the cup. There were several books on a shelf; one lay beside the tea things open, and Utterson wasamazed to find it a copy of a pious work, for which Jekyll had several times expressed a great esteem, annotated, in hisown 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 lookedwith an involuntary horror. But it was so turned as to show them nothing but the rosy glow playing on the roof, the firesparkling in a hundred repetitions along the glazed front of the presses, and their own pale and fearful countenancesstooping 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 upat 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, andbore, in the doctor’s hand, the name of Mr. Utterson. The lawyer unsealed it, and several enclosures fell to the floor. Thefirst was a will, drawn in the same eccentric terms as the one which he had returned six months before, to serve as atestament in case of death and as a deed of gift in case of disappearance; but in place of the name of Edward Hyde, thelawyer, with indescribable amazement read the name of Gabriel John Utterson. He looked at Poole, and then back at thepaper, 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 ragedto 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, “hewas 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 foreseethat 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 hiseyes and read as follows:

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“My dear Utterson,—When this shall fall into your hands, I shall have disappeared, under what circumstances I have notthe penetration to foresee, but my instinct and all the circumstances of my nameless situation tell me that the end is sureand must be early. Go then, and first read the narrative which Lanyon warned me he was to place in your hands; and if youcare 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 savehis credit. It is now ten; I must go home and read these documents in quiet; but I shall be back before midnight, when weshall send for the police.”

They went out, locking the door of the theatre behind them; and Utterson, once more leaving the servants gathered aboutthe 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 handof my colleague and old school companion, Henry Jekyll. I was a good deal surprised by this; for we were by no means inthe habit of correspondence; I had seen the man, dined with him, indeed, the night before; and I could imagine nothing inour intercourse that should justify formality of registration. The contents increased my wonder; for this is how the letterran:

“10th December, 18—.

“Dear Lanyon,—You are one of my oldest friends; and although we may have differed at times on scientific questions, Icannot 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. Lanyonmy life, my honour, my reason, are all at your mercy; if you fail me to-night, I am lost. You might suppose, after thispreface, 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 drivestraight to my house. Poole, my butler, has his orders; you will find him waiting your arrival with a locksmith. The door ofmy 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 thelock 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 samething) the third from the bottom. In my extreme distress of mind, I have a morbid fear of misdirecting you; but even if I amin error, you may know the right drawer by its contents: some powders, a phial and a paper book. This drawer I beg of youto 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 canneither be prevented nor foreseen, but because an hour when your servants are in bed is to be preferred for what will thenremain to do. At midnight, then, I have to ask you to be alone in your consulting room, to admit with your own hand intothe house a man who will present himself in my name, and to place in his hands the drawer that you will have brought withyou from my cabinet. Then you will have played your part and earned my gratitude completely. Five minutes afterwards, ifyou insist upon an explanation, you will have understood that these arrangements are of capital importance; and that by theneglect of one of them, fantastic as they must appear, you might have charged your conscience with my death or theshipwreck 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 ofsuch a possibility. Think of me at this hour, in a strange place, labouring under a blackness of distress that no fancy canexaggerate, 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

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“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 bemost convenient for you in the course of the day; and once more expect my messenger at midnight. It may then already betoo 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 ofdoubt, 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 itsimportance; 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 samepost as mine a registered letter of instruction, and had sent at once for a locksmith and a carpenter. The tradesmen camewhile we were yet speaking; and we moved in a body to old Dr. Denman’s surgical theatre, from which (as you aredoubtless aware) Jekyll’s private cabinet is most conveniently entered. The door was very strong, the lock excellent; thecarpenter avowed he would have great trouble and have to do much damage, if force were to be used; and the locksmithwas near despair. But this last was a handy fellow, and after two hour’s work, the door stood open. The press marked Ewas unlocked; and I took out the drawer, had it filled up with straw and tied in a sheet, and returned with it to CavendishSquare.

Here I proceeded to examine its contents. The powders were neatly enough made up, but not with the nicety of thedispensing chemist; so that it was plain they were of Jekyll’s private manufacture: and when I opened one of the wrappers Ifound what seemed to me a simple crystalline salt of a white colour. The phial, to which I next turned my attention, mighthave been about half full of a blood-red liquor, which was highly pungent to the sense of smell and seemed to me tocontain phosphorus and some volatile ether. At the other ingredients I could make no guess. The book was an ordinaryversion book and contained little but a series of dates. These covered a period of many years, but I observed that the entriesceased nearly a year ago and quite abruptly. Here and there a brief remark was appended to a date, usually no more than asingle word: “double” occurring perhaps six times in a total of several hundred entries; and once very early in the list andfollowed by several marks of exclamation, “total failure!!!” All this, though it whetted my curiosity, told me little that wasdefinite. Here were a phial of some salt, and the record of a series of experiments that had led (like too many of Jekyll’sinvestigations) to no end of practical usefulness. How could the presence of these articles in my house affect either thehonour, the sanity, or the life of my flighty colleague? If his messenger could go to one place, why could he not go toanother? And even granting some impediment, why was this gentleman to be received by me in secret? The more Ireflected the more convinced I grew that I was dealing with a case of cerebral disease; and though I dismissed my servantsto 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 thesummons, 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 searchingbackward 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, Ikept 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 hisremarkable 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, andwas accompanied by a marked sinking of the pulse. At the time, I set it down to some idiosyncratic, personal distaste, andmerely wondered at the acuteness of the symptoms; but I have since had reason to believe the cause to lie much deeper inthe 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 disgustfulcuriosity) was dressed in a fashion that would have made an ordinary person laughable; his clothes, that is to say, although

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they were of rich and sober fabric, were enormously too large for him in every measurement—the trousers hanging on hislegs and rolled up to keep them from the ground, the waist of the coat below his haunches, and the collar sprawling wideupon his shoulders. Strange to relate, this ludicrous accoutrement was far from moving me to laughter. Rather, as there wassomething abnormal and misbegotten in the very essence of the creature that now faced me—something seizing, surprisingand revolting—this fresh disparity seemed but to fit in with and to reinforce it; so that to my interest in the man’s natureand 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. Myvisitor 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 armand 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 notyet the pleasure of your acquaintance. Be seated, if you please.” And I showed him an example, and sat down myself inmy customary seat and with as fair an imitation of my ordinary manner to a patient, as the lateness of the hour, the natureof 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 hasshown its heels to my politeness. I come here at the instance of your colleague, Dr. Henry Jekyll, on a piece of business ofsome moment; and I understood…” He paused and put his hand to his throat, and I could see, in spite of his collectedmanner, 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 ofhis 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 fairlywell 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. Themixture, which was at first of a reddish hue, began, in proportion as the crystals melted, to brighten in colour, to effervesceaudibly, and to throw off small fumes of vapour. Suddenly and at the same moment, the ebullition ceased and thecompound changed to a dark purple, which faded again more slowly to a watery green. My visitor, who had watched thesemetamorphoses with a keen eye, smiled, set down the glass upon the table, and then turned and looked upon me with an airof 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 inmy 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, andneither richer nor wiser, unless the sense of service rendered to a man in mortal distress may be counted as a kind of richesof the soul. Or, if you shall so prefer to choose, a new province of knowledge and new avenues to fame and power shall belaid open to you, here, in this room, upon the instant; and your sight shall be blasted by a prodigy to stagger the unbelief ofSatan.”

“Sir,” said I, affecting a coolness that I was far from truly possessing, “you speak enigmas, and you will perhaps notwonder that I hear you with no very strong impression of belief. But I have gone too far in the way of inexplicable servicesto 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. Andnow, you who have so long been bound to the most narrow and material views, you who have denied the virtue oftranscendental medicine, you who have derided your superiors—behold!”

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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 myfeet 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, andgroping 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 mysoul 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 feelthat my days are numbered, and that I must die; and yet I shall die incredulous. As for the moral turpitude that manunveiled to me, even with tears of penitence, I can not, even in memory, dwell on it without a start of horror. I will say butone thing, Utterson, and that (if you can bring your mind to credit it) will be more than enough. The creature who creptinto my house that night was, on Jekyll’s own confession, known by the name of Hyde and hunted for in every corner ofthe land as the murderer of Carew.

HASTIE LANYON

Poster for a theatrical adaptation of Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

Henry Jekyll’s Full Statement of the CaseI was born in the year 18— to a large fortune, endowed besides with excellent parts, inclined by nature to industry, fond ofthe respect of the wise and good among my fellowmen, and thus, as might have been supposed, with every guarantee of anhonourable and distinguished future. And indeed the worst of my faults was a certain impatient gaiety of disposition, suchas has made the happiness of many, but such as I found it hard to reconcile with my imperious desire to carry my headhigh, and wear a more than commonly grave countenance before the public. Hence it came about that I concealed mypleasures; and that when I reached years of reflection, and began to look round me and take stock of my progress andposition in the world, I stood already committed to a profound duplicity of life. Many a man would have even blazonedsuch irregularities as I was guilty of; but from the high views that I had set before me, I regarded and hid them with analmost morbid sense of shame. It was thus rather the exacting nature of my aspirations than any particular degradation inmy faults, that made me what I was, and, with even a deeper trench than in the majority of men, severed in me thoseprovinces of good and ill which divide and compound man’s dual nature. In this case, I was driven to reflect deeply andinveterately 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 moremyself when I laid aside restraint and plunged in shame, than when I laboured, in the eye of day, at the furtherance ofknowledge or the relief of sorrow and suffering. And it chanced that the direction of my scientific studies, which ledwholly towards the mystic and the transcendental, reacted and shed a strong light on this consciousness of the perennialwar among my members. With every day, and from both sides of my intelligence, the moral and the intellectual, I thusdrew steadily nearer to that truth, by whose partial discovery I have been doomed to such a dreadful shipwreck: that man isnot truly one, but truly two. I say two, because the state of my own knowledge does not pass beyond that point. Others will

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follow, others will outstrip me on the same lines; and I hazard the guess that man will be ultimately known for a merepolity of multifarious, incongruous and independent denizens. I, for my part, from the nature of my life, advancedinfallibly in one direction and in one direction only. It was on the moral side, and in my own person, that I learned torecognise the thorough and primitive duality of man; I saw that, of the two natures that contended in the field of myconsciousness, 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 hadlearned to dwell with pleasure, as a beloved daydream, on the thought of the separation of these elements. If each, I toldmyself, could be housed in separate identities, life would be relieved of all that was unbearable; the unjust might go hisway, delivered from the aspirations and remorse of his more upright twin; and the just could walk steadfastly and securelyon his upward path, doing the good things in which he found his pleasure, and no longer exposed to disgrace and penitenceby 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 theydissociated?

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. Ibegan to perceive more deeply than it has ever yet been stated, the trembling immateriality, the mistlike transience, of thisseemingly so solid body in which we walk attired. Certain agents I found to have the power to shake and pluck back thatfleshly vestment, even as a wind might toss the curtains of a pavilion. For two good reasons, I will not enter deeply intothis scientific branch of my confession. First, because I have been made to learn that the doom and burthen of our life isbound for ever on man’s shoulders, and when the attempt is made to cast it off, it but returns upon us with more unfamiliarand 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 thatmade 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 thestamp 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 potentlycontrolled and shook the very fortress of identity, might, by the least scruple of an overdose or at the least inopportunity inthe moment of exhibition, utterly blot out that immaterial tabernacle which I looked to it to change. But the temptation of adiscovery so singular and profound at last overcame the suggestions of alarm. I had long since prepared my tincture; Ipurchased at once, from a firm of wholesale chemists, a large quantity of a particular salt which I knew, from myexperiments, to be the last ingredient required; and late one accursed night, I compounded the elements, watched them boiland 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 beexceeded at the hour of birth or death. Then these agonies began swiftly to subside, and I came to myself as if out of agreat 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 ofdisordered sensual images running like a millrace in my fancy, a solution of the bonds of obligation, an unknown but notan innocent freedom of the soul. I knew myself, at the first breath of this new life, to be more wicked, tenfold morewicked, sold a slave to my original evil; and the thought, in that moment, braced and delighted me like wine. I stretchedout 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 forthe very purpose of these transformations. The night however, was far gone into the morning—the morning, black as itwas, was nearly ripe for the conception of the day—the inmates of my house were locked in the most rigorous hours ofslumber; and I determined, flushed as I was with hope and triumph, to venture in my new shape as far as to my bedroom. Icrossed the yard, wherein the constellations looked down upon me, I could have thought, with wonder, the first creature ofthat sort that their unsleeping vigilance had yet disclosed to them; I stole through the corridors, a stranger in my ownhouse; 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 evilside of my nature, to which I had now transferred the stamping efficacy, was less robust and less developed than the goodwhich I had just deposed. Again, in the course of my life, which had been, after all, nine tenths a life of effort, virtue andcontrol, it had been much less exercised and much less exhausted. And hence, as I think, it came about that Edward Hyde

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was so much smaller, slighter and younger than Henry Jekyll. Even as good shone upon the countenance of the one, evilwas written broadly and plainly on the face of the other. Evil besides (which I must still believe to be the lethal side ofman) had left on that body an imprint of deformity and decay. And yet when I looked upon that ugly idol in the glass, I wasconscious of no repugnance, rather of a leap of welcome. This, too, was myself. It seemed natural and human. In my eyesit bore a livelier image of the spirit, it seemed more express and single, than the imperfect and divided countenance I hadbeen hitherto accustomed to call mine. And in so far I was doubtless right. I have observed that when I wore the semblanceof Edward Hyde, none could come near to me at first without a visible misgiving of the flesh. This, as I take it, wasbecause all human beings, as we meet them, are commingled out of good and evil: and Edward Hyde, alone in the ranks ofmankind, 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 beseen if I had lost my identity beyond redemption and must flee before daylight from a house that was no longer mine; andhurrying back to my cabinet, I once more prepared and drank the cup, once more suffered the pangs of dissolution, andcame 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 theexperiment while under the empire of generous or pious aspirations, all must have been otherwise, and from these agoniesof death and birth, I had come forth an angel instead of a fiend. The drug had no discriminating action; it was neitherdiabolical nor divine; it but shook the doors of the prisonhouse of my disposition; and like the captives of Philippi, thatwhich stood within ran forth. At that time my virtue slumbered; my evil, kept awake by ambition, was alert and swift toseize the occasion; and the thing that was projected was Edward Hyde. Hence, although I had now two characters as wellas two appearances, one was wholly evil, and the other was still the old Henry Jekyll, that incongruous compound ofwhose 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 aversions to the dryness of a life of study. I would still be merrily disposed attimes; and as my pleasures were (to say the least) undignified, and I was not only well known and highly considered, butgrowing towards the elderly man, this incoherency of my life was daily growing more unwelcome. It was on this side thatmy 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 behumourous; and I made my preparations with the most studious care. I took and furnished that house in Soho, to whichHyde 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 aboutmy house in the square; and to parry mishaps, I even called and made myself a familiar object, in my second character. Inext drew up that will to which you so much objected; so that if anything befell me in the person of Dr. Jekyll, I couldenter on that of Edward Hyde without pecuniary loss. And thus fortified, as I supposed, on every side, I began to profit bythe 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 thefirst 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 myimpenetrable mantle, the safety was complete. Think of it—I did not even exist! Let me but escape into my laboratorydoor, give me but a second or two to mix and swallow the draught that I had always standing ready; and whatever he haddone, 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 harderterm. But in the hands of Edward Hyde, they soon began to turn toward the monstrous. When I would come back fromthese excursions, I was often plunged into a kind of wonder at my vicarious depravity. This familiar that I called out of myown soul, and sent forth alone to do his good pleasure, was a being inherently malign and villainous; his every act andthought centered on self; drinking pleasure with bestial avidity from any degree of torture to another; relentless like a manof stone. Henry Jekyll stood at times aghast before the acts of Edward Hyde; but the situation was apart from ordinarylaws, and insidiously relaxed the grasp of conscience. It was Hyde, after all, and Hyde alone, that was guilty. Jekyll was noworse; he woke again to his good qualities seemingly unimpaired; he would even make haste, where it was possible, toundo the evil done by Hyde. And thus his conscience slumbered.

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Into the details of the infamy at which I thus connived (for even now I can scarce grant that I committed it) I have nodesign 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 childaroused against me the anger of a passer-by, whom I recognised the other day in the person of your kinsman; the doctorand the child’s family joined him; there were moments when I feared for my life; and at last, in order to pacify their toojust 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 Hydehimself; and when, by sloping my own hand backward, I had supplied my double with a signature, I thought I sat beyondthe 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 decentfurniture and tall proportions of my room in the square; in vain that I recognised the pattern of the bed curtains and thedesign of the mahogany frame; something still kept insisting that I was not where I was, that I had not wakened where Iseemed to be, but in the little room in Soho where I was accustomed to sleep in the body of Edward Hyde. I smiled tomyself, and in my psychological way, began lazily to inquire into the elements of this illusion, occasionally, even as I didso, dropping back into a comfortable morning doze. I was still so engaged when, in one of my more wakeful moments, myeyes fell upon my hand. Now the hand of Henry Jekyll (as you have often remarked) was professional in shape and size: itwas large, firm, white and comely. But the hand which I now saw, clearly enough, in the yellow light of a mid-Londonmorning, lying half shut on the bedclothes, was lean, corder, knuckly, of a dusky pallor and thickly shaded with a swartgrowth of hair. It was the hand of Edward Hyde.

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in both New York and London. The stage adaptation opened in New York in 1887 and London in1888.” width=”256″ height=”600″>

Richard Mansfield was best known for the dual role depicted in this double exposure: he starred inDr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

in both New York and London. The stage adaptation opened in New York in 1887 and London in 1888.

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 inmy breast as sudden and startling as the crash of cymbals; and bounding from my bed I rushed to the mirror. At the sightthat met my eyes, my blood was changed into something exquisitely thin and icy. Yes, I had gone to bed Henry Jekyll, Ihad awakened Edward Hyde. How was this to be explained? I asked myself; and then, with another bound of terror—howwas it to be remedied? It was well on in the morning; the servants were up; all my drugs were in the cabinet—a long

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journey down two pairs of stairs, through the back passage, across the open court and through the anatomical theatre, fromwhere I was then standing horror-struck. It might indeed be possible to cover my face; but of what use was that, when Iwas unable to conceal the alteration in my stature? And then with an overpowering sweetness of relief, it came back uponmy mind that the servants were already used to the coming and going of my second self. I had soon dressed, as well as Iwas able, in clothes of my own size: had soon passed through the house, where Bradshaw stared and drew back at seeingMr. Hyde at such an hour and in such a strange array; and ten minutes later, Dr. Jekyll had returned to his own shape andwas 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 theBabylonian finger on the wall, to be spelling out the letters of my judgment; and I began to reflect more seriously than everbefore on the issues and possibilities of my double existence. That part of me which I had the power of projecting, hadlately been much exercised and nourished; it had seemed to me of late as though the body of Edward Hyde had grown instature, as though (when I wore that form) I were conscious of a more generous tide of blood; and I began to spy a dangerthat, if this were much prolonged, the balance of my nature might be permanently overthrown, the power of voluntarychange be forfeited, and the character of Edward Hyde become irrevocably mine. The power of the drug had not beenalways equally displayed. Once, very early in my career, it had totally failed me; since then I had been obliged on morethan one occasion to double, and once, with infinite risk of death, to treble the amount; and these rare uncertainties hadcast hitherto the sole shadow on my contentment. Now, however, and in the light of that morning’s accident, I was led toremark that whereas, in the beginning, the difficulty had been to throw off the body of Jekyll, it had of late gradually butdecidedly transferred itself to the other side. All things therefore seemed to point to this; that I was slowly losing hold ofmy 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 mostunequally shared between them. Jekyll (who was composite) now with the most sensitive apprehensions, now with agreedy gusto, projected and shared in the pleasures and adventures of Hyde; but Hyde was indifferent to Jekyll, or butremembered him as the mountain bandit remembers the cavern in which he conceals himself from pursuit. Jekyll had morethan a father’s interest; Hyde had more than a son’s indifference. To cast in my lot with Jekyll, was to die to those appetiteswhich I had long secretly indulged and had of late begun to pamper. To cast it in with Hyde, was to die to a thousandinterests 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 asold 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 wantingin the strength to keep to it.

Yes, I preferred the elderly and discontented doctor, surrounded by friends and cherishing honest hopes; and bade aresolute farewell to the liberty, the comparative youth, the light step, leaping impulses and secret pleasures, that I hadenjoyed in the disguise of Hyde. I made this choice perhaps with some unconscious reservation, for I neither gave up thehouse in Soho, nor destroyed the clothes of Edward Hyde, which still lay ready in my cabinet. For two months, however, Iwas true to my determination; for two months, I led a life of such severity as I had never before attained to, and enjoyedthe compensations of an approving conscience. But time began at last to obliterate the freshness of my alarm; the praises ofconscience began to grow into a thing of course; I began to be tortured with throes and longings, as of Hyde strugglingafter freedom; and at last, in an hour of moral weakness, I once again compounded and swallowed the transformingdraught.

I do not suppose that, when a drunkard reasons with himself upon his vice, he is once out of five hundred times affected bythe 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 leadingcharacters of Edward Hyde. Yet it was by these that I was punished. My devil had been long caged, he came out roaring. Iwas 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; Ideclare, at least, before God, no man morally sane could have been guilty of that crime upon so pitiful a provocation; andthat I struck in no more reasonable spirit than that in which a sick child may break a plaything. But I had voluntarily

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stripped myself of all those balancing instincts by which even the worst of us continues to walk with some degree ofsteadiness 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 delightfrom 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 ofthese excesses, at once glorying and trembling, my lust of evil gratified and stimulated, my love of life screwed to thetopmost peg. I ran to the house in Soho, and (to make assurance doubly sure) destroyed my papers; thence I set out throughthe 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 hecompounded 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 handsto 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 ofchildhood, when I had walked with my father’s hand, and through the self-denying toils of my professional life, to arriveagain and again, with the same sense of unreality, at the damned horrors of the evening. I could have screamed aloud; Isought with tears and prayers to smother down the crowd of hideous images and sounds with which my memory swarmedagainst me; and still, between the petitions, the ugly face of my iniquity stared into my soul. As the acuteness of thisremorse began to die away, it was succeeded by a sense of joy. The problem of my conduct was solved. Hyde wasthenceforth impossible; whether I would or not, I was now confined to the better part of my existence; and O, how Irejoiced to think of it! with what willing humility I embraced anew the restrictions of natural life! with what sincererenunciation 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, andthat 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 toknow it; I think I was glad to have my better impulses thus buttressed and guarded by the terrors of the scaffold. Jekyll wasnow 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 muchwas done for others, and that the days passed quietly, almost happily for myself. Nor can I truly say that I wearied of thisbeneficent and innocent life; I think instead that I daily enjoyed it more completely; but I was still cursed with my dualityof purpose; and as the first edge of my penitence wore off, the lower side of me, so long indulged, so recently chaineddown, began to growl for licence. Not that I dreamed of resuscitating Hyde; the bare idea of that would startle me tofrenzy: no, it was in my own person that I was once more tempted to trifle with my conscience; and it was as an ordinarysecret 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 evilfinally destroyed the balance of my soul. And yet I was not alarmed; the fall seemed natural, like a return to the old daysbefore I had made my discovery. It was a fine, clear, January day, wet under foot where the frost had melted, but cloudlessoverhead; 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, butnot yet moved to begin. After all, I reflected, I was like my neighbours; and then I smiled, comparing myself with othermen, comparing my active good-will with the lazy cruelty of their neglect. And at the very moment of that vaingloriousthought, a qualm came over me, a horrid nausea and the most deadly shuddering. These passed away, and left me faint; andthen as in its turn faintness subsided, I began to be aware of a change in the temper of my thoughts, a greater boldness, acontempt of danger, a solution of the bonds of obligation. I looked down; my clothes hung formlessly on my shrunkenlimbs; the hand that lay on my knee was corded and hairy. I was once more Edward Hyde. A moment before I had beensafe of all men’s respect, wealthy, beloved—the cloth laying for me in the dining-room at home; and now I was thecommon 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 facultiesseemed sharpened to a point and my spirits more tensely elastic; thus it came about that, where Jekyll perhaps might havesuccumbed, Hyde rose to the importance of the moment. My drugs were in one of the presses of my cabinet; how was I toreach them? That was the problem that (crushing my temples in my hands) I set myself to solve. The laboratory door I hadclosed. If I sought to enter by the house, my own servants would consign me to the gallows. I saw I must employ another

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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 thefamous physician to rifle the study of his colleague, Dr. Jekyll? Then I remembered that of my original character, one partremained to me: I could write my own hand; and once I had conceived that kindling spark, the way that I must followbecame 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 fatethese 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 certainlydragged him from his perch. At the inn, as I entered, I looked about me with so black a countenance as made the attendantstremble; not a look did they exchange in my presence; but obsequiously took my orders, led me to a private room, andbrought me wherewithal to write. Hyde in danger of his life was a creature new to me; shaken with inordinate anger, strungto 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 theirbeing posted, sent them out with directions that they should be registered. Thenceforward, he sat all day over the fire in theprivate room, gnawing his nails; there he dined, sitting alone with his fears, the waiter visibly quailing before his eye; andthence, when the night was fully come, he set forth in the corner of a closed cab, and was driven to and fro about thestreets of the city. He, I say—I cannot say, I. That child of Hell had nothing human; nothing lived in him but fear andhatred. 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 twobase passions raged within him like a tempest. He walked fast, hunted by his fears, chattering to himself, skulking throughthe 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 atleast but a drop in the sea to the abhorrence with which I looked back upon these hours. A change had come over me. Itwas no longer the fear of the gallows, it was the horror of being Hyde that racked me. I received Lanyon’s condemnationpartly 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 prostrationof the day, with a stringent and profound slumber which not even the nightmares that wrung me could avail to break. Iawoke in the morning shaken, weakened, but refreshed. I still hated and feared the thought of the brute that slept withinme, and I had not of course forgotten the appalling dangers of the day before; but I was once more at home, in my ownhouse and close to my drugs; and gratitude for my escape shone so strong in my soul that it almost rivalled the brightnessof hope.

I was stepping leisurely across the court after breakfast, drinking the chill of the air with pleasure, when I was seized againwith 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 meto 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 immediatestimulation of the drug, that I was able to wear the countenance of Jekyll. At all hours of the day and night, I would betaken with the premonitory shudder; above all, if I slept, or even dozed for a moment in my chair, it was always as Hydethat I awakened. Under the strain of this continually impending doom and by the sleeplessness to which I now condemnedmyself, ay, even beyond what I had thought possible to man, I became, in my own person, a creature eaten up and emptiedby fever, languidly weak both in body and mind, and solely occupied by one thought: the horror of my other self. Butwhen I slept, or when the virtue of the medicine wore off, I would leap almost without transition (for the pangs oftransformation grew daily less marked) into the possession of a fancy brimming with images of terror, a soul boiling withcauseless hatreds, and a body that seemed not strong enough to contain the raging energies of life. The powers of Hydeseemed 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 someof the phenomena of consciousness, and was co-heir with him to death: and beyond these links of community, which inthemselves made the most poignant part of his distress, he thought of Hyde, for all his energy of life, as of something notonly hellish but inorganic. This was the shocking thing; that the slime of the pit seemed to utter cries and voices; that theamorphous dust gesticulated and sinned; that what was dead, and had no shape, should usurp the offices of life. And this

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again, that that insurgent horror was knit to him closer than a wife, closer than an eye; lay caged in his flesh, where heheard it mutter and felt it struggle to be born; and at every hour of weakness, and in the confidence of slumber, prevailedagainst him, and deposed him out of life. The hatred of Hyde for Jekyll was of a different order. His terror of the gallowsdrove him continually to commit temporary suicide, and return to his subordinate station of a part instead of a person; buthe loathed the necessity, he loathed the despondency into which Jekyll was now fallen, and he resented the dislike withwhich he was himself regarded. Hence the ape-like tricks that he would play me, scrawling in my own hand blasphemieson the pages of my books, burning the letters and destroying the portrait of my father; and indeed, had it not been for hisfear of death, he would long ago have ruined himself in order to involve me in the ruin. But his love of me is wonderful; Igo 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 thatsuffice; and yet even to these, habit brought—no, not alleviation—but a certain callousness of soul, a certain acquiescenceof despair; and my punishment might have gone on for years, but for the last calamity which has now fallen, and which hasfinally severed me from my own face and nature. My provision of the salt, which had never been renewed since the date ofthe first experiment, began to run low. I sent out for a fresh supply and mixed the draught; the ebullition followed, and thefirst change of colour, not the second; I drank it and it was without efficiency. You will learn from Poole how I have hadLondon ransacked; it was in vain; and I am now persuaded that my first supply was impure, and that it was that unknownimpurity 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 sadlyaltered!) in the glass. Nor must I delay too long to bring my writing to an end; for if my narrative has hitherto escapeddestruction, it has been by a combination of great prudence and great good luck. Should the throes of change take me inthe act of writing it, Hyde will tear it in pieces; but if some time shall have elapsed after I have laid it by, his wonderfulselfishness and circumscription to the moment will probably save it once again from the action of his ape-like spite. Andindeed the doom that is closing on us both has already changed and crushed him. Half an hour from now, when I shallagain 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 giveear to every sound of menace. Will Hyde die upon the scaffold? or will he find courage to release himself at the lastmoment? 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 anend.

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2.5: Oscar Wilde, excerpt from The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890)

Oscar Wilde, excerpt from The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890)

Jeanette A. Laredo

Oscar Wilde and his lover Lord Alfred Douglas.

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 cantranslate 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 thingsare 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 towhom 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 ofman forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfectmedium. No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has ethical sympathies. Anethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can expresseverything. 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, theactor’s craft is the type. All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Thosewho read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. Diversity of opinion about awork of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital. When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself. We

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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 isthat one admires it intensely.

All art is quite useless. OSCAR WILDE

Painting of The Picture of Dorian Gray by Ivan Albright

Chapter 1

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, innumerablecigarettes, 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 thefantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the hugewindow, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid, jade-faced painters ofTokyo 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 monotonousinsistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dimroar 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 extraordinarypersonal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward, whose suddendisappearance 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 passedacross his face, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and closing his eyes, placed his fingers uponthe 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 itnext year to the Grosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have gone there, there have been either

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so many people that I have not been able to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that I have not beenable 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 friendslaugh 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 upin such fanciful whorls from his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette. “Not send it anywhere? My dear fellow, why? Have youany 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 theold 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 resemblancebetween you, with your rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young Adonis, who looks as if he was madeout of ivory and rose-leaves. Why, my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you—well, of course you have an intellectualexpression and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode ofexaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or allforehead, or something horrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions. How perfectly hideous theyare! Except, of course, in the Church. But then in the Church they don’t think. A bishop keeps on saying at the age ofeighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutelydelightful. 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 wehave no flowers to look at, and always here in summer when we want something to chill our intelligence. Don’t flatteryourself, 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, Ishould be sorry to look like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth. There is a fatality about all physicaland intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings. It is better notto 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 andgape at the play. If they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we allshould live—undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it fromalien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are—my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray’sgood 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 ofthem. 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. IfI 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 intoone’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 ofmarriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I never know where my wife is, and mywife never knows what I am doing. When we meet—we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go down tothe Duke’s—we tell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious faces. My wife is very good at it—muchbetter, in fact, than I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do. But when she does find me out, shemakes no row at all. I sometimes wish she would; but she merely laughs at me.”

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“I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry,” said Basil Hallward, strolling towards the door that led into thegarden. “I believe that you are really a very good husband, but that you are thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. Youare an extraordinary fellow. You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing. Your cynicism is simply apose.”

“Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know,” cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young menwent out into the garden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that stood in the shade of a tall laurelbush. 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, Iinsist 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 realreason.”

“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 theartist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is ratherthe painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that Ihave 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. Perhapsyou 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 Ishall understand it,” he replied, gazing intently at the little golden, white-feathered disk, “and as for believing things, I canbelieve 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 inthe languid air. A grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a blue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on itsbrown 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. Youknow 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 beingcivilized. Well, after I had been in the room about ten minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tediousacademicians, I suddenly became conscious that some one was looking at me. I turned half-way round and saw DorianGray for the first time. When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation of terror came over me. Iknew that I had come face to face with some one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, itwould absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. I did not want any external influence in my life. Youknow 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 theverge 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 nocredit 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.”

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“I don’t believe that, Harry, and I don’t believe you do either. However, whatever was my motive—and it may have beenpride, 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 withgigantic tiaras and parrot noses. She spoke of me as her dearest friend. I had only met her once before, but she took it intoher head to lionize me. I believe some picture of mine had made a great success at the time, at least had been chatteredabout in the penny newspapers, which is the nineteenth-century standard of immortality. Suddenly I found myself face toface with the young man whose personality had so strangely stirred me. We were quite close, almost touching. Our eyesmet 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 meso 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 arapid precis of all her guests. I remember her bringing me up to a truculent and red-faced old gentleman covered all overwith orders and ribbons, and hissing into my ear, in a tragic whisper which must have been perfectly audible to everybodyin the room, the most astounding details. I simply fled. I like to find out people for myself. But Lady Brandon treats herguests exactly as an auctioneer treats his goods. She either explains them entirely away, or tells one everything about themexcept 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 tellme, 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, pluckinganother daisy.

Hallward shook his head. “You don’t understand what friendship is, Harry,” he murmured—”or what enmity is, for thatmatter. 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 ravelledskeins of glossy white silk, were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the summer sky. “Yes; horribly unjust of you. Imake a great difference between people. I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their goodcharacters, and my enemies for their good intellects. A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies. I have notgot one who is a fool. They are all men of some intellectual power, and consequently they all appreciate me. Is that veryvain 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 anythingelse.”

“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 noneof us can stand other people having the same faults as ourselves. I quite sympathize with the rage of the Englishdemocracy against what they call the vices of the upper orders. The masses feel that drunkenness, stupidity, andimmorality should be their own special property, and that if any one of us makes an ass of himself, he is poaching on theirpreserves. When poor Southwark got into the divorce court, their indignation was quite magnificent. And yet I don’tsuppose that ten per cent of the proletariat live correctly.”

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“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 trueEnglishman—always a rash thing to do—he never dreams of considering whether the idea is right or wrong. The onlything he considers of any importance is whether one believes it oneself. Now, the value of an idea has nothing whatsoeverto do with the sincerity of the man who expresses it. Indeed, the probabilities are that the more insincere the man is, themore purely intellectual will the idea be, as in that case it will not be coloured by either his wants, his desires, or hisprejudices. However, I don’t propose to discuss politics, sociology, or metaphysics with you. I like persons better thanprinciples, and I like persons with no principles better than anything else in the world. Tell me more about Mr. DorianGray. 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 anyimportance in the world’s history. The first is the appearance of a new medium for art, and the second is the appearance ofa new personality for art also. What the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of Antinous was to lateGreek sculpture, and the face of Dorian Gray will some day be to me. It is not merely that I paint from him, draw fromhim, 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 youthat I am dissatisfied with what I have done of him, or that his beauty is such that art cannot express it. There is nothingthat art cannot express, and I know that the work I have done, since I met Dorian Gray, is good work, is the best work ofmy life. But in some curious way—I wonder will you understand me?—his personality has suggested to me an entirelynew manner in art, an entirely new mode of style. I see things differently, I think of them differently. I can now recreate lifein 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 iswhat 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 romanticspirit, all the perfection of the spirit that is Greek. The harmony of soul and body—how much that is! We in our madnesshave separated the two, and have invented a realism that is vulgar, an ideality that is void. Harry! if you only knew whatDorian Gray is to me! You remember that landscape of mine, for which Agnew offered me such a huge price but which Iwould 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 theplain 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 morepresent 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 inthe 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, Ihave never cared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He shall never know anything about it. But the world mightguess 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 willrun to many editions.”

“I hate them for it,” cried Hallward. “An artist should create beautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life intothem. We live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of autobiography. We have lost the abstractsense of beauty. Some day I will show the world what it is; and for that reason the world shall never see my portrait ofDorian Gray.”

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“I think you are wrong, Basil, but I won’t argue with you. It is only the intellectually lost who ever argue. Tell me, isDorian 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 Iflatter him dreadfully. I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I shall be sorry for having said. As arule, he is charming to me, and we sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and then, however, he is horriblythoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul tosome 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 asummer’s day.”

“Days in summer, Basil, are apt to linger,” murmured Lord Henry. “Perhaps you will tire sooner than he will. It is a sadthing to think of, but there is no doubt that genius lasts longer than beauty. That accounts for the fact that we all take suchpains to over-educate ourselves. In the wild struggle for existence, we want to have something that endures, and so we fillour minds with rubbish and facts, in the silly hope of keeping our place. The thoroughly well-informed man—that is themodern ideal. And the mind of the thoroughly well-informed man is a dreadful thing. It is like a bric-a-brac shop, allmonsters and dust, with everything priced above its proper value. I think you will tire first, all the same. Some day you willlook 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 timehe calls, you will be perfectly cold and indifferent. It will be a great pity, for it will alter you. What you have told me isquite 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 sounromantic.”

“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 thefaithless who know love’s tragedies.” And Lord Henry struck a light on a dainty silver case and began to smoke a cigarettewith a self-conscious and satisfied air, as if he had summed up the world in a phrase. There was a rustle of chirrupingsparrows in the green lacquer leaves of the ivy, and the blue cloud-shadows chased themselves across the grass likeswallows. How pleasant it was in the garden! And how delightful other people’s emotions were!—much more delightfulthan their ideas, it seemed to him. One’s own soul, and the passions of one’s friends—those were the fascinating things inlife. He pictured to himself with silent amusement the tedious luncheon that he had missed by staying so long with BasilHallward. Had he gone to his aunt’s, he would have been sure to have met Lord Goodbody there, and the wholeconversation would have been about the feeding of the poor and the necessity for model lodging-houses. Each class wouldhave preached the importance of those virtues, for whose exercise there was no necessity in their own lives. The richwould have spoken on the value of thrift, and the idle grown eloquent over the dignity of labour. It was charming to haveescaped 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 manwho 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 mehe was good-looking. Women have no appreciation of good looks; at least, good women have not. She said that he wasvery earnest and had a beautiful nature. I at once pictured to myself a creature with spectacles and lank hair, horriblyfreckled, 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.”

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“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 fewmoments.” 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. Youraunt 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 artwhatever charm it possesses: my life as an artist depends on him. Mind, Harry, I trust you.” He spoke very slowly, and thewords 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 2As they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano, with his back to them, turning over the pages of avolume of Schumann’s “Forest Scenes.” “You must lend me these, Basil,” he cried. “I want to learn them. They areperfectly 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 youwere, 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 aclub in Whitechapel with her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to have played a duet together—threeduets, 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 notbeing there. The audience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to the piano, she makes quiteenough 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 blueeyes, his crisp gold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at once. All the candour of youth wasthere, as well as all youth’s passionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. No wonder BasilHallward worshipped him.

“You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray—far too charming.” And Lord Henry flung himself down on thedivan 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 heardLord 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, Iwant 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 haveoften told me that you liked your sitters to have some one to chat to.”

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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 aman at the Orleans. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon Street. I am nearly always at homeat 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 talkwhen 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 upon the platform, and don’t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very badinfluence 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 LordHenry, to whom he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a delightful contrast. And he had such abeautiful voice. After a few moments he said to him, “Have you really a very bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as Basilsays?”

“There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral—immoral from the scientific point ofview.”

“Why?”

“Because to influence a person is to give him one’s own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with hisnatural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes anecho 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. Torealize one’s nature perfectly—that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They haveforgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one’s self. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungryand clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone out of our race. Perhaps we neverreally had it. The terror of society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of religion—these arethe 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 consciousonly 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 socharacteristic of him, and that he had even in his Eton days, “I believe that if one man were to live out his life fully andcompletely, were to give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream—I believe that theworld would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we would forget all the maladies of mediaevalism, and return to theHellenic ideal—to something finer, richer than the Hellenic ideal, it may be. But the bravest man amongst us is afraid ofhimself. The mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives. We are punished for ourrefusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us. The body sins once, and has donewith its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of aregret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for thethings it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has beensaid 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 theworld take place also. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have hadpassions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose merememory 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 cannotfind 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 thatentirely fresh influences were at work within him. Yet they seemed to him to have come really from himself. The few

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words that Basil’s friend had said to him—words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in them—hadtouched some secret chord that had never been touched before, but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curiouspulses.

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, andcruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! They seemed to be able to give aplastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was thereanything so real as words?

Yes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood. He understood them now. Life suddenly becamefiery-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 feltintensely interested. He was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced, and, remembering a book thathe had read when he was sixteen, a book which had revealed to him much that he had not known before, he wonderedwhether Dorian Gray was passing through a similar experience. He had merely shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit themark? 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 wereperfectly still. And I have caught the effect I wanted—the half-parted lips and the bright look in the eyes. I don’t knowwhat Harry has been saying to you, but he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. I suppose he hasbeen 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 toldme.”

“You know you believe it all,” said Lord Henry, looking at him with his dreamy languorous eyes. “I will go out to thegarden with you. It is horribly hot in the studio. Basil, let us have something iced to drink, something with strawberries init.”

“Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will tell him what you want. I have got to work up thisbackground, so I will join you later on. Don’t keep Dorian too long. I have never been in better form for painting than I amto-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, feverishlydrinking in their perfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him and put his hand upon his shoulder. “You are quiteright 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 theirgilded threads. There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened. His finelychiselled 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 thesenses by means of the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think you know, just as you know lessthan 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 byhim. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low languid voicethat 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 itbeen left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship betweenthem had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life’smystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.

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“Let us go and sit in the shade,” said Lord Henry. “Parker has brought out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in thisglare, you will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not allow yourself to becomesunburnt. 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 foreheadwith its lines, and passion branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will feel it terribly. Now, whereveryou go, you charm the world. Will it always be so? … You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don’t frown. Youhave. And beauty is a form of genius—is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts ofthe world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot bequestioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lostit you won’t smile…. People say sometimes that beauty is only superficial. That may be so, but at least it is not sosuperficial as thought is. To me, beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge byappearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible…. Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good toyou. 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 foryou, 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 andyour roses. You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly…. Ah! realize your youthwhile you have it. Don’t squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless failure, orgiving 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. Beafraid of nothing…. A new Hedonism—that is what our century wants. You might be its visible symbol. With yourpersonality there is nothing you could not do. The world belongs to you for a season…. The moment I met you I saw thatyou were quite unconscious of what you really are, of what you really might be. There was so much in you that charmedme that I felt I must tell you something about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be if you were wasted. For there issuch 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 afteryear the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats inus at twenty becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memoryof 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 cameand buzzed round it for a moment. Then it began to scramble all over the oval stellated globe of the tiny blossoms. Hewatched it with that strange interest in trivial things that we try to develop when things of high import make us afraid, orwhen we are stirred by some new emotion for which we cannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us layssudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield. After a time the bee flew away. He saw it creeping into the stainedtrumpet 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 eachother 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.

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“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 everyromance by trying to make it last for ever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only difference between a caprice and alifelong 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 acaprice,” 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 canvasmade the only sound that broke the stillness, except when, now and then, Hallward stepped back to look at his work from adistance. In the slanting beams that streamed through the open doorway the dust danced and was golden. The heavy scentof 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 timeat the picture, biting the end of one of his huge brushes and frowning. “It is quite finished,” he cried at last, and stoopingdown 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 aswell.

“My dear fellow, I congratulate you most warmly,” he said. “It is the finest portrait of modern times. Mr. Gray, come overand 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 forthe first time. He stood there motionless and in wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward was speaking to him, but notcatching 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 tothem, laughed at them, forgotten them. They had not influenced his nature. Then had come Lord Henry Wotton with hisstrange panegyric on youth, his terrible warning of its brevity. That had stirred him at the time, and now, as he stood gazingat the shadow of his own loveliness, the full reality of the description flashed across him. Yes, there would be a day whenhis face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and colourless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. Thescarlet would pass away from his lips and the gold steal from his hair. The life that was to make his soul would mar hisbody. 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 hisheart.

“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 giveyou 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 ofJune…. 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

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that—for that—I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soulfor that!”

“You would hardly care for such an arrangement, Basil,” cried Lord Henry, laughing. “It would be rather hard lines onyour 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 nomore 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 longwill you like me? Till I have my first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when one loses one’s good looks, whatever theymay be, one loses everything. Your picture has taught me that. Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right. Youth is the onlything 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 friendas you, and I shall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things, are you?—you who are finer than anyof them!”

“I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should itkeep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me and gives something to it. Oh, if it were onlythe other way! If the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint it? It will mock mesome day—mock me horribly!” The hot tears welled into his eyes; he tore his hand away and, flinging himself on thedivan, 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 ofwork 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 livesand mar them.”

Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid face and tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walkedover to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What was he doing there? His fingers werestraying 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 itto 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. “Inever 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 withyourself.” And he walked across the room and rang the bell for tea. “You will have tea, of course, Dorian? And so willyou, 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 onthe stage. What absurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. It was the most

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premature definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after all—though I wishyou chaps would not squabble over the picture. You had much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn’t reallywant 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 callme 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 areextremely 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 werebrought in by a page. Dorian Gray went over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to the table andexamined 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 todine 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 fromcoming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have all thesurprise 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 forphysiology. It has nothing to do with our own will. Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old men want to befaithless, 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.”

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“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 atyour 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 3At half-past twelve next day Lord Henry Wotton strolled from Curzon Street over to the Albany to call on his uncle, LordFermor, a genial if somewhat rough-mannered old bachelor, whom the outside world called selfish because it derived noparticular benefit from him, but who was considered generous by Society as he fed the people who amused him. His fatherhad been our ambassador at Madrid when Isabella was young and Prim unthought of, but had retired from the diplomaticservice in a capricious moment of annoyance on not being offered the Embassy at Paris, a post to which he considered thathe was fully entitled by reason of his birth, his indolence, the good English of his dispatches, and his inordinate passion forpleasure. The son, who had been his father’s secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhat foolishly as wasthought at the time, and on succeeding some months later to the title, had set himself to the serious study of the greataristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. He had two large town houses, but preferred to live in chambers as it was lesstrouble, and took most of his meals at his club. He paid some attention to the management of his collieries in the Midlandcounties, excusing himself for this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of having coal was that it enableda gentleman to afford the decency of burning wood on his own hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except when the Torieswere in office, during which period he roundly abused them for being a pack of Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, whobullied him, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn. Only England could have produced him, and healways said that the country was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but there was a good deal to be said forhis prejudices.

When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough shooting-coat, smoking a cheroot and grumblingover The Times. “Well, Harry,” said the old gentleman, “what brings you out so early? I thought you dandies never got uptill 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’twant money. It is only people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay mine. Credit is the capital

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of a younger son, and one lives charmingly upon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor’s tradesmen, and consequentlythey 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 ofnonsense. When I was in the Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in now by examination. Whatcan you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure humbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quiteenough, 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. Hismother was a Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about his mother. What was she like? Whom didshe marry? You have known nearly everybody in your time, so you might have known her. I am very much interested inMr. 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 believeI was at her christening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret Devereux, and made all the men frantic byrunning 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 monthsafter the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, toinsult 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 apigeon. The thing was hushed up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time afterwards. He brought hisdaughter 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 mustbe 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 Kelsodid the right thing by him. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came to her, through her grandfather. Hergrandfather hated Kelso, thought him a mean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I wasashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble who was always quarrelling with the cabmen abouttheir 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 grandsonbetter 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. Hetold 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, Inever 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. Carlingtonwent 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’tafter him. And by the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what is this humbug your father tells me about Dartmoorwanting 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 Dartmoorhas 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 concealingtheir past,” he said, rising to go.

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“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 forwomen.”

“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 toknow 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 protege.”

“Humph! tell your Aunt Agatha, Harry, not to bother me any more with her charity appeals. I am sick of them. Why, thegood 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 istheir distinguishing characteristic.”

The old gentleman growled approvingly and rang the bell for his servant. Lord Henry passed up the low arcade intoBurlington 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 itssuggestion of a strange, almost modern romance. A beautiful woman risking everything for a mad passion. A few wildweeks 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 aninteresting background. It posed the lad, made him more perfect, as it were. Behind every exquisite thing that existed, therewas something tragic. Worlds had to be in travail, that the meanest flower might blow…. And how charming he had beenat 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 anexquisite violin. He answered to every touch and thrill of the bow…. There was something terribly enthralling in theexercise of influence. No other activity was like it. To project one’s soul into some gracious form, and let it tarry there for amoment; to hear one’s own intellectual views echoed back to one with all the added music of passion and youth; to conveyone’s temperament into another as though it were a subtle fluid or a strange perfume: there was a real joy in that—perhapsthe most satisfying joy left to us in an age so limited and vulgar as our own, an age grossly carnal in its pleasures, andgrossly common in its aims…. He was a marvellous type, too, this lad, whom by so curious a chance he had met in Basil’sstudio, or could be fashioned into a marvellous type, at any rate. Grace was his, and the white purity of boyhood, andbeauty such as old Greek marbles kept for us. There was nothing that one could not do with him. He could be made a Titanor a toy. What a pity it was that such beauty was destined to fade! … And Basil? From a psychological point of view, howinteresting he was! The new manner in art, the fresh mode of looking at life, suggested so strangely by the merely visiblepresence of one who was unconscious of it all; the silent spirit that dwelt in dim woodland, and walked unseen in openfield, suddenly showing herself, Dryadlike and not afraid, because in his soul who sought for her there had been wakenedthat wonderful vision to which alone are wonderful things revealed; the mere shapes and patterns of things becoming, as itwere, refined, and gaining a kind of symbolical value, as though they were themselves patterns of some other and moreperfect form whose shadow they made real: how strange it all was! He remembered something like it in history. Was it notPlato, that artist in thought, who had first analyzed it? Was it not Buonarotti who had carved it in the coloured marbles of asonnet-sequence? But in our own century it was strange…. Yes; he would try to be to Dorian Gray what, without knowingit, 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 loveand death.

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Suddenly he stopped and glanced up at the houses. He found that he had passed his aunt’s some distance, and, smiling tohimself, turned back. When he entered the somewhat sombre hall, the butler told him that they had gone in to lunch. Hegave 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. Dorianbowed to him shyly from the end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek. Opposite was the Duchess ofHarley, a lady of admirable good-nature and good temper, much liked by every one who knew her, and of those amplearchitectural proportions that in women who are not duchesses are described by contemporary historians as stoutness. Nextto her sat, on her right, Sir Thomas Burdon, a Radical member of Parliament, who followed his leader in public life and inprivate life followed the best cooks, dining with the Tories and thinking with the Liberals, in accordance with a wise andwell-known rule. The post on her left was occupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman of considerable charmand culture, who had fallen, however, into bad habits of silence, having, as he explained once to Lady Agatha, saideverything 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. Fortunatelyfor him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most intelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statementin the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely earnest manner which is the one unpardonableerror, 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 youthink 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, lookingsupercilious.

“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 theverb.

“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 peoplewho try to exhaust a subject, he exhausted his listeners. The duchess sighed and exercised her privilege of interruption. “Iwish to goodness it never had been discovered at all!” she exclaimed. “Really, our girls have no chance nowadays. It ismost unfair.”

“Perhaps, after all, America never has been discovered,” said Mr. Erskine; “I myself would say that it had merely beendetected.”

“Oh! but I have seen specimens of the inhabitants,” answered the duchess vaguely. “I must confess that most of them areextremely 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’scast-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. “Ihave travelled all over it in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters, are extremely civil. I assure you that it isan 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.”

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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 istheir distinguishing characteristic. Yes, Mr. Erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. I assure you there is no nonsenseabout the Americans.”

“How dreadful!” cried Lord Henry. “I can stand brute force, but brute reason is quite unbearable. There is something unfairabout 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 oftruth. 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 assureyou 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 withthat. It is too ugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain. Oneshould 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 contentwith philosophic contemplation. But, as the nineteenth century has gone bankrupt through an over-expenditure ofsympathy, I would suggest that we should appeal to science to put us straight. The advantage of the emotions is that theylead 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 cavemanhad 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.

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“Yes,” he continued, “that is one of the great secrets of life. Nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping commonsense, 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 itiridescent with fancy and winged it with paradox. The praise of folly, as he went on, soared into a philosophy, andphilosophy herself became young, and catching the mad music of pleasure, wearing, one might fancy, her wine-stainedrobe and wreath of ivy, danced like a Bacchante over the hills of life, and mocked the slow Silenus for being sober. Factsfled before her like frightened forest things. Her white feet trod the huge press at which wise Omar sits, till the seethinggrape-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 theconsciousness that amongst his audience there was one whose temperament he wished to fascinate seemed to give his witkeenness and to lend colour to his imagination. He was brilliant, fantastic, irresponsible. He charmed his listeners out ofthemselves, 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 hercarriage was waiting. She wrung her hands in mock despair. “How annoying!” she cried. “I must go. I have to call for myhusband 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 latehe 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, Imust go, dear Agatha. Good-bye, Lord Henry, you are quite delightful and dreadfully demoralizing. I am sure I don’t knowwhat 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, followedby 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 hisarm.

“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 thatwould be as lovely as a Persian carpet and as unreal. But there is no literary public in England for anything exceptnewspapers, primers, and encyclopaedias. Of all people in the world the English have the least sense of the beauty ofliterature.”

“I fear you are right,” answered Mr. Erskine. “I myself used to have literary ambitions, but I gave them up long ago. Andnow, 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 atlunch?”

“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 alllook on you as being primarily responsible. But I should like to talk to you about life. The generation into which I wasborn was tedious. Some day, when you are tired of London, come down to Treadley and expound to me your philosophy ofpleasure 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 yourexcellent 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.

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“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 thetime? 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 comeand look at it with me, if you care to.”

Chapter 4One afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious arm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry’shouse in Mayfair. It was, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled wainscoting of olive-stained oak, itscream-coloured frieze and ceiling of raised plasterwork, and its brickdust felt carpet strewn with silk, long-fringed Persianrugs. On a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette by Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of Les Cent Nouvelles, bound forMargaret of Valois by Clovis Eve and powdered with the gilt daisies that Queen had selected for her device. Some largeblue china jars and parrot-tulips were ranged on the mantelshelf, and through the small leaded panes of the windowstreamed 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 ofManon Lescaut that he had found in one of the book-cases. The formal monotonous ticking of the Louis Quatorze clockannoyed 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 yourphotographs. 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, andwatched him with her vague forget-me-not eyes. She was a curious woman, whose dresses always looked as if they hadbeen designed in a rage and put on in a tempest. She was usually in love with somebody, and, as her passion was neverreturned, she had kept all her illusions. She tried to look picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy. Her name wasVictoria, 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 timewithout 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, duringgood 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 getto 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. Perhapsit 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 neverbeen 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—Iforget what it was—and I found Mr. Gray here. We have had such a pleasant chat about music. We have quite the sameideas. No; I think our ideas are quite different. But he has been most pleasant. I am so glad I’ve seen him.”

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“I am charmed, my love, quite charmed,” said Lord Henry, elevating his dark, crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking atthem both with an amused smile. “So sorry I am late, Dorian. I went to look after a piece of old brocade in Wardour Streetand 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 havepromised 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 allnight in the rain, she flitted out of the room, leaving a faint odour of frangipanni. Then he lit a cigarette and flung himselfdown 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 intopractice, 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 debut.”

“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 itcharmingly. 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 Ithought it was. I find that, ultimately, there are only two kinds of women, the plain and the coloured. The plain women arevery useful. If you want to gain a reputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down to supper. The otherwomen are very charming. They commit one mistake, however. They paint in order to try and look young. Ourgrandmothers painted in order to try and talk brilliantly. Rougeand esprit used to go together. That is all over now. As longas a woman can look ten years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly satisfied. As for conversation, there areonly five women in London worth talking to, and two of these can’t be admitted into decent society. However, tell meabout 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 metyou. You filled me with a wild desire to know everything about life. For days after I met you, something seemed to throbin 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

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exquisite poison in the air. I had a passion for sensations…. Well, one evening about seven o’clock, I determined to go outin 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 meredanger gave me a sense of delight. I remembered what you had said to me on that wonderful evening when we first dinedtogether, about the search for beauty being the real secret of life. I don’t know what I expected, but I went out andwandered eastward, soon losing my way in a labyrinth of grimy streets and black grassless squares. About half-past eight Ipassed by an absurd little theatre, with great flaring gas-jets and gaudy play-bills. A hideous Jew, in the most amazingwaistcoat I ever beheld in my life, was standing at the entrance, smoking a vile cigar. He had greasy ringlets, and anenormous diamond blazed in the centre of a soiled shirt. ‘Have a box, my Lord?’ he said, when he saw me, and he took offhis 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’tmake 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 mylife. 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. Youshould say the first romance of your life. You will always be loved, and you will always be in love with love. A grandepassion is the privilege of people who have nothing to do. That is the one use of the idle classes of a country. Don’t beafraid. 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, andtheir fidelity, I call either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination. Faithfulness is to the emotional life whatconsistency is to the life of the intellect—simply a confession of failure. Faithfulness! I must analyse it some day. Thepassion for property is in it. There are many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might pickthem 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 outfrom behind the curtain and surveyed the house. It was a tawdry affair, all Cupids and cornucopias, like a third-ratewedding-cake. The gallery and pit were fairly full, but the two rows of dingy stalls were quite empty, and there was hardlya person in what I suppose they called the dress-circle. Women went about with oranges and ginger-beer, and there was aterrible 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 theplay-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 Ilive, Dorian, the more keenly I feel that whatever was good enough for our fathers is not good enough for us. In art, as inpolitics, les grandperes 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 ofseeing Shakespeare done in such a wretched hole of a place. Still, I felt interested, in a sort of way. At any rate, Idetermined to wait for the first act. There was a dreadful orchestra, presided over by a young Hebrew who sat at a crackedpiano, that nearly drove me away, but at last the drop-scene was drawn up and the play began. Romeo was a stout elderlygentleman, with corked eyebrows, a husky tragedy voice, and a figure like a beer-barrel. Mercutio was almost as bad. Hewas played by the low-comedian, who had introduced gags of his own and was on most friendly terms with the pit. Theywere both as grotesque as the scenery, and that looked as if it had come out of a country-booth. But Juliet! Harry, imagine agirl, 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 inmy life. You said to me once that pathos left you unmoved, but that beauty, mere beauty, could fill your eyes with tears. Itell you, Harry, I could hardly see this girl for the mist of tears that came across me. And her voice—I never heard such avoice. It was very low at first, with deep mellow notes that seemed to fall singly upon one’s ear. Then it became a little

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louder, and sounded like a flute or a distant hautboy. In the garden-scene it had all the tremulous ecstasy that one hears justbefore dawn when nightingales are singing. There were moments, later on, when it had the wild passion of violins. Youknow how a voice can stir one. Your voice and the voice of Sibyl Vane are two things that I shall never forget. When Iclose my eyes, I hear them, and each of them says something different. I don’t know which to follow. Why should I notlove 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 isRosalind, and the next evening she is Imogen. I have seen her die in the gloom of an Italian tomb, sucking the poison fromher lover’s lips. I have watched her wandering through the forest of Arden, disguised as a pretty boy in hose and doubletand dainty cap. She has been mad, and has come into the presence of a guilty king, and given him rue to wear and bitterherbs to taste of. She has been innocent, and the black hands of jealousy have crushed her reedlike throat. I have seen herin 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 findthem. 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 anactress 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 acrime, 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 SibylVane?”

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 bydeceiving one’s self, and one always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance. You know her, atany 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 theperformance was over and offered to take me behind the scenes and introduce me to her. I was furious with him, and toldhim that Juliet had been dead for hundreds of years and that her body was lying in a marble tomb in Verona. I think, fromhis 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 terriblydisappointed at that, and confided to me that all the dramatic critics were in a conspiracy against him, and that they wereevery 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 themcannot be at all expensive.”

“Well, he seemed to think they were beyond his means,” laughed Dorian. “By this time, however, the lights were being putout in the theatre, and I had to go. He wanted me to try some cigars that he strongly recommended. I declined. The nextnight, of course, I arrived at the place again. When he saw me, he made me a low bow and assured me that I was amunificent patron of art. He was a most offensive brute, though he had an extraordinary passion for Shakespeare. He toldme once, with an air of pride, that his five bankruptcies were entirely due to ‘The Bard,’ as he insisted on calling him. Heseemed to think it a distinction.”

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“It was a distinction, my dear Dorian—a great distinction. Most people become bankrupt through having invested tooheavily in the prose of life. To have ruined one’s self over poetry is an honour. But when did you first speak to Miss SibylVane?”

“The third night. She had been playing Rosalind. I could not help going round. I had thrown her some flowers, and she hadlooked at me—at least I fancied that she had. The old Jew was persistent. He seemed determined to take me behind, so Iconsented. 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 exquisitewonder when I told her what I thought of her performance, and she seemed quite unconscious of her power. I think wewere both rather nervous. The old Jew stood grinning at the doorway of the dusty greenroom, making elaborate speechesabout us both, while we stood looking at each other like children. He would insist on calling me ‘My Lord,’ so I had toassure Sibyl that I was not anything of the kind. She said quite simply to me, ‘You look more like a prince. I must call youPrince 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 withher mother, a faded tired woman who played Lady Capulet in a sort of magenta dressing-wrapper on the first night, andlooks 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 isabsolutely 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,” saidDorian, 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; andwhen 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 tellyou 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 charmSibyl Vane to love me! I want to make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the world to hear our laughter and growsad. I want a breath of our passion to stir their dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain. My God, Harry, how Iworship her!” He was walking up and down the room as he spoke. Hectic spots of red burned on his cheeks. He wasterribly excited.

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Lord Henry watched him with a subtle sense of pleasure. How different he was now from the shy frightened boy he hadmet in Basil Hallward’s studio! His nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of scarlet flame. Out of itssecret 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 arecertain to acknowledge her genius. Then we must get her out of the Jew’s hands. She is bound to him for three years—atleast for two years and eight months—from the present time. I shall have to pay him something, of course. When all that issettled, 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 toldme 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, whereshe 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. Nogentleman 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 mostwonderful frame, specially designed by himself, and, though I am a little jealous of the picture for being a whole monthyounger 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. Hesays 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 ofgenerosity.”

“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 havediscovered that.”

“Basil, my dear boy, puts everything that is charming in him into his work. The consequence is that he has nothing left forlife but his prejudices, his principles, and his common sense. The only artists I have ever known who are personallydelightful are bad artists. Good artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in whatthey are. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutelyfascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book ofsecond-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetrythat 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 forgetabout 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 interestedhim so much as Dorian Gray, and yet the lad’s mad adoration of some one else caused him not the slightest pang ofannoyance or jealousy. He was pleased by it. It made him a more interesting study. He had been always enthralled by themethods of natural science, but the ordinary subject-matter of that science had seemed to him trivial and of no import. Andso he had begun by vivisecting himself, as he had ended by vivisecting others. Human life—that appeared to him the onething worth investigating. Compared to it there was nothing else of any value. It was true that as one watched life in itscurious crucible of pain and pleasure, one could not wear over one’s face a mask of glass, nor keep the sulphurous fumesfrom troubling the brain and making the imagination turbid with monstrous fancies and misshapen dreams. There werepoisons so subtle that to know their properties one had to sicken of them. There were maladies so strange that one had topass through them if one sought to understand their nature. And, yet, what a great reward one received! How wonderful the

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whole world became to one! To note the curious hard logic of passion, and the emotional coloured life of the intellect—toobserve where they met, and where they separated, at what point they were in unison, and at what point they were atdiscord—there was a delight in that! What matter what the cost was? One could never pay too high a price for anysensation.

He was conscious—and the thought brought a gleam of pleasure into his brown agate eyes—that it was through certainwords of his, musical words said with musical utterance, that Dorian Gray’s soul had turned to this white girl and bowed inworship 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 revealedbefore the veil was drawn away. Sometimes this was the effect of art, and chiefly of the art of literature, which dealtimmediately with the passions and the intellect. But now and then a complex personality took the place and assumed theoffice of art, was indeed, in its way, a real work of art, life having its elaborate masterpieces, just as poetry has, orsculpture, or painting.

Yes, the lad was premature. He was gathering his harvest while it was yet spring. The pulse and passion of youth were inhim, but he was becoming self-conscious. It was delightful to watch him. With his beautiful face, and his beautiful soul, hewas a thing to wonder at. It was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. He was like one of those graciousfigures in a pageant or a play, whose joys seem to be remote from one, but whose sorrows stir one’s sense of beauty, andwhose 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 itsmoments of spirituality. The senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade. Who could say where the fleshly impulseceased, or the psychical impulse began? How shallow were the arbitrary definitions of ordinary psychologists! And yethow difficult to decide between the claims of the various schools! Was the soul a shadow seated in the house of sin? Orwas the body really in the soul, as Giordano Bruno thought? The separation of spirit from matter was a mystery, and theunion 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 berevealed to us. As it was, we always misunderstood ourselves and rarely understood others. Experience was of no ethicalvalue. It was merely the name men gave to their mistakes. Moralists had, as a rule, regarded it as a mode of warning, hadclaimed for it a certain ethical efficacy in the formation of character, had praised it as something that taught us what tofollow and showed us what to avoid. But there was no motive power in experience. It was as little of an active cause asconscience itself. All that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the same as our past, and that the sin we haddone 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 analysisof 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 thatcuriosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire for new experiences, yet it was not a simple, but rather a verycomplex passion. What there was in it of the purely sensuous instinct of boyhood had been transformed by the workings ofthe imagination, changed into something that seemed to the lad himself to be remote from sense, and was for that veryreason all the more dangerous. It was the passions about whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannized most stronglyover us. Our weakest motives were those of whose nature we were conscious. It often happened that when we thought wewere 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 wastime to dress for dinner. He got up and looked out into the street. The sunset had smitten into scarlet gold the upperwindows of the houses opposite. The panes glowed like plates of heated metal. The sky above was like a faded rose. Hethought 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 itwas from Dorian Gray. It was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to Sibyl Vane.

Chapter 5“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

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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 onlyhappy, Sibyl, when I see you act. You must not think of anything but your acting. Mr. Isaacs has been very good to us, andwe 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 thewindow.

“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. Theytrembled. Some southern wind of passion swept over her and stirred the dainty folds of her dress. “I love him,” she saidsimply.

“Foolish child! foolish child!” was the parrot-phrase flung in answer. The waving of crooked, false-jewelled fingers gavegrotesqueness 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 whoseauthor apes the name of common sense. She did not listen. She was free in her prison of passion. Her prince, PrinceCharming, was with her. She had called on memory to remake him. She had sent her soul to search for him, and it hadbrought 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 shouldbe thought of. Against the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. The arrows of craft shot by her. She sawthe 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 somuch? 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? Iam 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 ofpain. Sybil rushed to her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. “Forgive me, Mother. I know it pains you to talkabout 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 youwere 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 evenknow his name. The whole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when James is going away to Australia, and I have somuch 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 astage-player, clasped her in her arms. At this moment, the door opened and a young lad with rough brown hair came intothe room. He was thick-set of figure, and his hands and feet were large and somewhat clumsy in movement. He was not sofinely bred as his sister. One would hardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between them. Mrs. Vane fixedher eyes on him and intensified her smile. She mentally elevated her son to the dignity of an audience. She felt sure that thetableau was interesting.

“You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think,” said the lad with a good-natured grumble.

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“Ah! but you don’t like being kissed, Jim,” she cried. “You are a dreadful old bear.” And she ran across the room andhugged 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’tsuppose 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, andbeginning to patch it. She felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. It would have increased the theatricalpicturesqueness 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 anykind in the Colonies—nothing that I would call society—so when you have made your fortune, you must come back andassert 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 andSibyl 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! Iwas afraid you were going to say good-bye to some of your friends—to Tom Hardy, who gave you that hideous pipe, orNed Langton, who makes fun of you for smoking it. It is very sweet of you to let me have your last afternoon. Where shallwe 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. Onecould 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 thingsready?” he asked.

“Quite ready, James,” she answered, keeping her eyes on her work. For some months past she had felt ill at ease when shewas alone with this rough stern son of hers. Her shallow secret nature was troubled when their eyes met. She used towonder if he suspected anything. The silence, for he made no other observation, became intolerable to her. She began tocomplain. Women defend themselves by attacking, just as they attack by sudden and strange surrenders. “I hope you willbe contented, James, with your sea-faring life,” she said. “You must remember that it is your own choice. You might haveentered 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 overSibyl. 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 dealof most gratifying attention. I myself used to receive many bouquets at one time. That was when acting was reallyunderstood. As for Sibyl, I do not know at present whether her attachment is serious or not. But there is no doubt that theyoung man in question is a perfect gentleman. He is always most polite to me. Besides, he has the appearance of beingrich, 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 quiteromantic 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, thereis no reason why she should not contract an alliance with him. I trust he is one of the aristocracy. He has all the appearance

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of it, I must say. It might be a most brilliant marriage for Sibyl. They would make a charming couple. His good looks arereally quite remarkable; everybody notices them.”

The lad muttered something to himself and drummed on the window-pane with his coarse fingers. He had just turnedround 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 fiveo’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 herfeel 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 glancedin 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 staredat, which comes on geniuses late in life and never leaves the commonplace. Sibyl, however, was quite unconscious of theeffect she was producing. Her love was trembling in laughter on her lips. She was thinking of Prince Charming, and, thatshe 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-shirtedbushrangers. For he was not to remain a sailor, or a supercargo, or whatever he was going to be. Oh, no! A sailor’sexistence was dreadful. Fancy being cooped up in a horrid ship, with the hoarse, hump-backed waves trying to get in, and ablack wind blowing the masts down and tearing the sails into long screaming ribands! He was to leave the vessel atMelbourne, bid a polite good-bye to the captain, and go off at once to the gold-fields. Before a week was over he was tocome across a large nugget of pure gold, the largest nugget that had ever been discovered, and bring it down to the coast ina waggon guarded by six mounted policemen. The bushrangers were to attack them three times, and be defeated withimmense 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 wasriding home, he was to see the beautiful heiress being carried off by a robber on a black horse, and give chase, and rescueher. Of course, she would fall in love with him, and he with her, and they would get married, and come home, and live inan immense house in London. Yes, there were delightful things in store for him. But he must be very good, and not lose histemper, or spend his money foolishly. She was only a year older than he was, but she knew so much more of life. He mustbe 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 thedanger 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 thatreason 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 olderthey 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. Achance phrase that he had heard at the theatre, a whispered sneer that had reached his ears one night as he waited at thestage-door, had set loose a train of horrible thoughts. He remembered it as if it had been the lash of a hunting-crop acrosshis face. His brows knit together into a wedge-like furrow, and with a twitch of pain he bit his underlip.

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“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 sawhim, you would think him the most wonderful person in the world. Some day you will meet him—when you come backfrom Australia. You will like him so much. Everybody likes him, and I … love him. I wish you could come to the theatreto-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 bein love is to surpass one’s self. Poor dreadful Mr. Isaacs will be shouting ‘genius’ to his loafers at the bar. He has preachedme as a dogma; to-night he will announce me as a revelation. I feel it. And it is all his, his only, Prince Charming, mywonderful lover, my god of graces. But I am poor beside him. Poor? What does that matter? When poverty creeps in at thedoor, 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 loveyourself. Then you will know what it is. Don’t look so sulky. Surely you should be glad to think that, though you are goingaway, you leave me happier than I have ever been before. Life has been hard for us both, terribly hard and difficult. But itwill 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 thesmart people go by.”

They took their seats amidst a crowd of watchers. The tulip-beds across the road flamed like throbbing rings of fire. Awhite dust—tremulous cloud of orris-root it seemed—hung in the panting air. The brightly coloured parasols danced anddipped like monstrous butterflies.

She made her brother talk of himself, his hopes, his prospects. He spoke slowly and with effort. They passed words to eachother as players at a game pass counters. Sibyl felt oppressed. She could not communicate her joy. A faint smile curvingthat sullen mouth was all the echo she could win. After some time she became silent. Suddenly she caught a glimpse ofgolden 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!” heexclaimed; but at that moment the Duke of Berwick’s four-in-hand came between, and when it had left the space clear, the

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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 ladystanding close to her tittered.

“Come away, Jim; come away,” she whispered. He followed her doggedly as she passed through the crowd. He felt glad atwhat he had said.

When they reached the Achilles Statue, she turned round. There was pity in her eyes that became laughter on her lips. Sheshook her head at him. “You are foolish, Jim, utterly foolish; a bad-tempered boy, that is all. How can you say suchhorrible things? You don’t know what you are talking about. You are simply jealous and unkind. Ah! I wish you would fallin 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 lookafter 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, ifmy 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 actingin. 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 knowyou 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 afterfive o’clock, and Sibyl had to lie down for a couple of hours before acting. Jim insisted that she should do so. He said thathe would sooner part with her when their mother was not present. She would be sure to make a scene, and he detestedscenes 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 strayedthrough 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 downto 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 havebeen told to him before, if it was as he suspected. Leaden with fear, his mother watched him. Words dropped mechanicallyfrom her lips. A tattered lace handkerchief twitched in her fingers. When the clock struck six, he got up and went to thedoor. 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. “Tellme 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. Thevulgar directness of the question called for a direct answer. The situation had not been gradually led up to. It was crude. Itreminded her of a bad rehearsal.

“No,” she answered, wondering at the harsh simplicity of life.

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“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 madeprovision for us. Don’t speak against him, my son. He was your father, and a gentleman. Indeed, he was highlyconnected.”

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, whois 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 shakinghands. “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 askingabout 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 childnow 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 himlike a dog. I swear it.”

The exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that accompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made lifeseem more vivid to her. She was familiar with the atmosphere. She breathed more freely, and for the first time for manymonths she really admired her son. She would have liked to have continued the scene on the same emotional scale, but hecut her short. Trunks had to be carried down and mufflers looked for. The lodging-house drudge bustled in and out. Therewas the bargaining with the cabman. The moment was lost in vulgar details. It was with a renewed feeling ofdisappointment that she waved the tattered lace handkerchief from the window, as her son drove away. She was consciousthat a great opportunity had been wasted. She consoled herself by telling Sibyl how desolate she felt her life would be, nowthat she had only one child to look after. She remembered the phrase. It had pleased her. Of the threat she said nothing. Itwas vividly and dramatically expressed. She felt that they would all laugh at it some day.

Chapter 6“I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?” said Lord Henry that evening as Hallward was shown into a little privateroom 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 themwould 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 bemarried. There is a great difference. I have a distinct remembrance of being married, but I have no recollection at all ofbeing 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 thoroughlystupid 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 ruinhis intellect.”

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“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 hisappreciation of the personal appearance of other people. It has had that excellent effect, amongst others. We are to see herto-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 approveof 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 theworld to air our moral prejudices. I never take any notice of what common people say, and I never interfere with whatcharming people do. If a personality fascinates me, whatever mode of expression that personality selects is absolutelydelightful to me. Dorian Gray falls in love with a beautiful girl who acts Juliet, and proposes to marry her. Why not? If hewedded Messalina, he would be none the less interesting. You know I am not a champion of marriage. The real drawbackto marriage is that it makes one unselfish. And unselfish people are colourless. They lack individuality. Still, there arecertain temperaments that marriage makes more complex. They retain their egotism, and add to it many other egos. Theyare 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 iscertainly an experience. I hope that Dorian Gray will make this girl his wife, passionately adore her for six months, andthen 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 besorrier 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 ofoptimism is sheer terror. We think that we are generous because we credit our neighbour with the possession of thosevirtues that are likely to be a benefit to us. We praise the banker that we may overdraw our account, and find good qualitiesin the highwayman in the hope that he may spare our pockets. I mean everything that I have said. I have the greatestcontempt for optimism. As for a spoiled life, no life is spoiled but one whose growth is arrested. If you want to mar anature, you have merely to reform it. As for marriage, of course that would be silly, but there are other and moreinteresting 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—allreally delightful things are. And yet it seems to me to be the one thing I have been looking for all my life.” He was flushedwith 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 knowof 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 smilingas 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 wassimply this. After I left you yesterday evening, Harry, I dressed, had some dinner at that little Italian restaurant in RupertStreet you introduced me to, and went down at eight o’clock to the theatre. Sibyl was playing Rosalind. Of course, thescenery was dreadful and the Orlando absurd. But Sibyl! You should have seen her! When she came on in her boy’sclothes, 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. Shehad never seemed to me more exquisite. She had all the delicate grace of that Tanagra figurine that you have in yourstudio, Basil. Her hair clustered round her face like dark leaves round a pale rose. As for her acting—well, you shall seeher to-night. She is simply a born artist. I sat in the dingy box absolutely enthralled. I forgot that I was in London and inthe nineteenth century. I was away with my love in a forest that no man had ever seen. After the performance was over, Iwent behind and spoke to her. As we were sitting together, suddenly there came into her eyes a look that I had never seen

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there before. My lips moved towards hers. We kissed each other. I can’t describe to you what I felt at that moment. Itseemed to me that all my life had been narrowed to one perfect point of rose-coloured joy. She trembled all over and shooklike a white narcissus. Then she flung herself on her knees and kissed my hands. I feel that I should not tell you all this, butI 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 myguardians 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 dowhat 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 lovedher, and she said she was not worthy to be my wife. Not worthy! Why, the whole world is nothing to me compared withher.”

“Women are wonderfully practical,” murmured Lord Henry, “much more practical than we are. In situations of that kindwe 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 neverbring 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 bestreason possible, for the only reason, indeed, that excuses one for asking any question—simple curiosity. I have a theorythat it is always the women who propose to us, and not we who propose to the women. Except, of course, in middle-classlife. 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 angrywith you. When you see Sibyl Vane, you will feel that the man who could wrong her would be a beast, a beast without aheart. I cannot understand how any one can wish to shame the thing he loves. I love Sibyl Vane. I want to place her on apedestal of gold and to see the world worship the woman who is mine. What is marriage? An irrevocable vow. You mockat 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 megood. When I am with her, I regret all that you have taught me. I become different from what you have known me to be. Iam 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 Icannot claim my theory as my own. It belongs to Nature, not to me. Pleasure is Nature’s test, her sign of approval. Whenwe 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 irisesthat 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-pointedfingers. “Discord is to be forced to be in harmony with others. One’s own life—that is the important thing. As for the livesof 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 notone’s concern. Besides, individualism has really the higher aim. Modern morality consists in accepting the standard ofone’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.

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“Yes, we are overcharged for everything nowadays. I should fancy that the real tragedy of the poor is that they can affordnothing 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, mediaeval art is charming, but mediaeval 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 hasceased to use in fact. Believe me, no civilized man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilized man ever knows what apleasure 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. Womentreat 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 inour 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 somewitty 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 hadthe courage to commit.”

“What nonsense you talk, Harry!” cried the lad, taking a light from a fire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placedon the table. “Let us go down to the theatre. When Sibyl comes on the stage you will have a new ideal of life. She willrepresent 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 amafraid, however, that, for me at any rate, there is no such thing. Still, your wonderful girl may thrill me. I love acting. It isso 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 twoin 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 agloom over him. He could not bear this marriage, and yet it seemed to him to be better than many other things that mighthave happened. After a few minutes, they all passed downstairs. He drove off by himself, as had been arranged, andwatched the flashing lights of the little brougham in front of him. A strange sense of loss came over him. He felt thatDorian Gray would never again be to him all that he had been in the past. Life had come between them…. His eyesdarkened, and the crowded flaring streets became blurred to his eyes. When the cab drew up at the theatre, it seemed tohim that he had grown years older.

Chapter 7

For some reason or other, the house was crowded that night, and the fat Jew manager who met them at the door wasbeaming 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 hehad come to look for Miranda and had been met by Caliban. Lord Henry, upon the other hand, rather liked him. At least hedeclared he did, and insisted on shaking him by the hand and assuring him that he was proud to meet a man who had

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discovered a real genius and gone bankrupt over a poet. Hallward amused himself with watching the faces in the pit. Theheat was terribly oppressive, and the huge sunlight flamed like a monstrous dahlia with petals of yellow fire. The youths inthe gallery had taken off their coats and waistcoats and hung them over the side. They talked to each other across thetheatre and shared their oranges with the tawdry girls who sat beside them. Some women were laughing in the pit. Theirvoices 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 willforget everything. These common rough people, with their coarse faces and brutal gestures, become quite different whenshe is on the stage. They sit silently and watch her. They weep and laugh as she wills them to do. She makes them asresponsive 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 thegallery 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 oneyou 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 senseof beauty in people whose lives have been sordid and ugly, if she can strip them of their selfishness and lend them tears forsorrows that are not their own, she is worthy of all your adoration, worthy of the adoration of the world. This marriage isquite right. I did not think so at first, but I admit it now. The gods made Sibyl Vane for you. Without her you would havebeen incomplete.”

“Thanks, Basil,” answered Dorian Gray, pressing his hand. “I knew that you would understand me. Harry is so cynical, heterrifies 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, shewas certainly lovely to look at—one of the loveliest creatures, Lord Henry thought, that he had ever seen. There wassomething of the fawn in her shy grace and startled eyes. A faint blush, like the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, cameto her cheeks as she glanced at the crowded enthusiastic house. She stepped back a few paces and her lips seemed totremble. 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 otherfriends. 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 aplant sways in the water. The curves of her throat were the curves of a white lily. Her hands seemed to be made of coolivory.

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 thepoint of view of tone it was absolutely false. It was wrong in colour. It took away all the life from the verse. It made thepassion 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.

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She looked charming as she came out in the moonlight. That could not be denied. But the staginess of her acting wasunbearable, and grew worse as she went on. Her gestures became absurdly artificial. She overemphasized everything thatshe 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 ofelocution. 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 beingnervous, 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 totalk loudly and to whistle. The Jew manager, who was standing at the back of the dress-circle, stamped and swore withrage. 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 youwaste 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 nightshe 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 anylonger. 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 whatdoes it matter if she plays Juliet like a wooden doll? She is very lovely, and if she knows as little about life as she doesabout acting, she will be a delightful experience. There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating—peoplewho know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing. Good heavens, my dear boy, don’t look sotragic! The secret of remaining young is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming. Come to the club with Basil andmyself. 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?” Thehot tears came to his eyes. His lips trembled, and rushing to the back of the box, he leaned up against the wall, hiding hisface 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 alook of triumph on her face. Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire. There was a radiance about her. Her parted lips weresmiling over some secret of their own.

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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 itwas. 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 weresweeter than honey to the red petals of her mouth. “Dorian, you should have understood. But you understand now, don’tyou?”

“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. Myfriends 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 Ilived. I thought that it was all true. I was Rosalind one night and Portia the other. The joy of Beatrice was my joy, and thesorrows of Cordelia were mine also. I believed in everything. The common people who acted with me seemed to me to begodlike. The painted scenes were my world. I knew nothing but shadows, and I thought them real. You came—oh, mybeautiful love!—and you freed my soul from prison. You taught me what reality really is. To-night, for the first time in mylife, I saw through the hollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant in which I had always played. To-night, forthe first time, I became conscious that the Romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the moonlight in the orchard wasfalse, that the scenery was vulgar, and that the words I had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not what Iwanted to say. You had brought me something higher, something of which all art is but a reflection. You had made meunderstand what love really is. My love! My love! Prince Charming! Prince of life! I have grown sick of shadows. You aremore 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 notunderstand how it was that everything had gone from me. I thought that I was going to be wonderful. I found that I coulddo 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 canbe 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 atbeing 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 strokedhis 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. Nowyou don’t even stir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because you were marvellous, because you hadgenius 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. Youdon’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 youwould 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 arenot 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 handupon his arm and looked into his eyes. He thrust her back. “Don’t touch me!” he cried.

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A low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet and lay there like a trampled flower. “Dorian, Dorian, don’tleave 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 willtry. 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 wehad 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 willwork 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 isonly once that I have not pleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should have shown myself more of an artist. It wasfoolish 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. Shecrouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselledlips curled in exquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceasedto 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 havedisappointed me.”

She wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer. Her little hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seekingfor 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-shadowedarchways and evil-looking houses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after him. Drunkards hadreeled 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 emptystreet. 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 somecherries. He thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money for them, and began to eat them listlessly. Theyhad been plucked at midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long line of boys carrying crates ofstriped tulips, and of yellow and red roses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge, jade-green piles ofvegetables. Under the portico, with its grey, sun-bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls, waiting forthe auction to be over. Others crowded round the swinging doors of the coffee-house in the piazza. The heavy cart-horsesslipped and stamped upon the rough stones, shaking their bells and trappings. Some of the drivers were lying asleep on apile 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 roundat the silent square, with its blank, close-shuttered windows and its staring blinds. The sky was pure opal now, and theroofs of the houses glistened like silver against it. From some chimney opposite a thin wreath of smoke was rising. Itcurled, 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 ofentrance, 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 hisbedroom, a large octagonal chamber on the ground floor that, in his new-born feeling for luxury, he had just had decoratedfor himself and hung with some curious Renaissance tapestries that had been discovered stored in a disused attic at SelbyRoyal. As he was turning the handle of the door, his eye fell upon the portrait Basil Hallward had painted of him. Hestarted back as if in surprise. Then he went on into his own room, looking somewhat puzzled. After he had taken thebutton-hole out of his coat, he seemed to hesitate. Finally, he came back, went over to the picture, and examined it. In thedim 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 certainlystrange.

He turned round and, walking to the window, drew up the blind. The bright dawn flooded the room and swept the fantasticshadows into dusky corners, where they lay shuddering. But the strange expression that he had noticed in the face of theportrait seemed to linger there, to be more intensified even. The quivering ardent sunlight showed him the lines of crueltyround the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking into a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing.

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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 helooked into the actual painting, and yet there was no doubt that the whole expression had altered. It was not a mere fancyof 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 BasilHallward’s studio the day the picture had been finished. Yes, he remembered it perfectly. He had uttered a mad wish thathe himself might remain young, and the portrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the face on thecanvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering andthought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness of his then just conscious boyhood. Surely his wishhad not been fulfilled? Such things were impossible. It seemed monstrous even to think of them. And, yet, there was thepicture 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 herbecause he had thought her great. Then she had disappointed him. She had been shallow and unworthy. And, yet, a feelingof infinite regret came over him, as he thought of her lying at his feet sobbing like a little child. He remembered with whatcallousness he had watched her. Why had he been made like that? Why had such a soul been given to him? But he hadsuffered also. During the three terrible hours that the play had lasted, he had lived centuries of pain, aeon upon aeon oftorture. 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 hisown 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 phantomsbehind it. Suddenly there had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that makes men mad. The picture had notchanged. 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. Itsblue eyes met his own. A sense of infinite pity, not for himself, but for the painted image of himself, came over him. It hadaltered already, and would alter more. Its gold would wither into grey. Its red and white roses would die. For every sin thathe committed, a stain would fleck and wreck its fairness. But he would not sin. The picture, changed or unchanged, wouldbe to him the visible emblem of conscience. He would resist temptation. He would not see Lord Henry any more—wouldnot, at any rate, listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in Basil Hallward’s garden had first stirred within him thepassion for impossible things. He would go back to Sibyl Vane, make her amends, marry her, try to love her again. Yes, itwas his duty to do so. She must have suffered more than he had. Poor child! He had been selfish and cruel to her. Thefascination that she had exercised over him would return. They would be happy together. His life with her would bebeautiful 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. “Howhorrible!” he murmured to himself, and he walked across to the window and opened it. When he stepped out on to thegrass, he drew a deep breath. The fresh morning air seemed to drive away all his sombre passions. He thought only ofSibyl. A faint echo of his love came back to him. He repeated her name over and over again. The birds that were singing inthe dew-drenched garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her.

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2.6: Bram Stoker, excerpt from Dracula (1897)

Bram Stoker, excerpt from Dracula (1897)

Jeanette A. Laredo

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A photograph of author Bram Stoker.

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Chapter 1

Johnathan 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 at6:46, but train was an hour late. Buda-Pesth seems a wonderful place, from the glimpse which I got of it from the train andthe little I could walk through the streets. I feared to go very far from the station, as we had arrived late and would start asnear the correct time as possible. The impression I had was that we were leaving the West and entering the East; the mostwestern of splendid bridges over the Danube, which is here of noble width and depth, took us among the traditions ofTurkish rule.

We left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to Klausenburgh. Here I stopped for the night at the Hotel Royale. Ihad for dinner, or rather supper, a chicken done up some way with red pepper, which was very good but thirsty. (Mem., getrecipe for Mina.) I asked the waiter, and he said it was called “paprika hendl,” and that, as it was a national dish, I shouldbe able to get it anywhere along the Carpathians. I found my smattering of German very useful here; indeed, I don’t knowhow 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 thebooks and maps in the library regarding Transylvania; it had struck me that some foreknowledge of the country couldhardly fail to have some importance in dealing with a nobleman of that country. I find that the district he named is in theextreme east of the country, just on the borders of three states, Transylvania, Moldavia and Bukovina, in the midst of theCarpathian mountains; one of the wildest and least known portions of Europe. I was not able to light on any map or workgiving the exact locality of the Castle Dracula, as there are no maps of this country as yet to compare with our ownOrdnance Survey maps; but I found that Bistritz, the post town named by Count Dracula, is a fairly well-known place. Ishall 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 theWallachs, who are the descendants of the Dacians; Magyars in the West, and Szekelys in the East and North. I am goingamong the latter, who claim to be descended from Attila and the Huns. This may be so, for when the Magyars conqueredthe country in the eleventh century they found the Huns settled in it. I read that every known superstition in the world isgathered into the horseshoe of the Carpathians, as if it were the centre of some sort of imaginative whirlpool; if so my staymay 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 howlingall night under my window, which may have had something to do with it; or it may have been the paprika, for I had todrink up all the water in my carafe, and was still thirsty. Towards morning I slept and was wakened by the continuousknocking at my door, so I guess I must have been sleeping soundly then. I had for breakfast more paprika, and a sort ofporridge 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 beforeeight, 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 anhour before we began to move. It seems to me that the further east you go the more unpunctual are the trains. What oughtthey 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 littletowns or castles on the top of steep hills such as we see in old missals; sometimes we ran by rivers and streams whichseemed from the wide stony margin on each side of them to be subject to great floods. It takes a lot of water, and runningstrong, to sweep the outside edge of a river clear. At every station there were groups of people, sometimes crowds, and inall 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 orother, and most of them had big belts with a lot of strips of something fluttering from them like the dresses in a ballet, butof course there were petticoats under them. The strangest figures we saw were the Slovaks, who were more barbarian thanthe 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 hadlong black hair and heavy black moustaches. They are very picturesque, but do not look prepossessing. On the stage they

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would be set down at once as some old Oriental band of brigands. They are, however, I am told, very harmless and ratherwanting 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 thefrontier—for the Borgo Pass leads from it into Bukovina—it has had a very stormy existence, and it certainly shows marksof it. Fifty years ago a series of great fires took place, which made terrible havoc on five separate occasions. At the verybeginning of the seventeenth century it underwent a siege of three weeks and lost 13,000 people, the casualties of warproper 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 nearthe 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 HerrEnglishman?” “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 thediligence will start for Bukovina; a place on it is kept for you. At the Borgo Pass my carriage will await you and will bringyou to me. I trust that your journey from London has been a happy one, and that you will enjoy your stay in my beautifulland.

“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 forme; but on making inquiries as to details he seemed somewhat reticent, and pretended that he could not understand myGerman. This could not be true, because up to then he had understood it perfectly; at least, he answered my questionsexactly 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 CountDracula, and could tell me anything of his castle, both he and his wife crossed themselves, and, saying that they knewnothing 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, forit 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 ofwhat German she knew, and mixed it all up with some other language which I did not know at all. I was just able to followher by asking many questions. When I told her that I must go at once, and that I was engaged on important business, sheasked 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 theworld will have full sway? Do you know where you are going, and what you are going to?” She was in such evidentdistress that I tried to comfort her, but without effect. Finally she went down on her knees and implored me not to go; atleast to wait a day or two before starting. It was all very ridiculous but I did not feel comfortable. However, there wasbusiness to be done, and I could allow nothing to interfere with it. I therefore tried to raise her up, and said, as gravely as Icould, that I thanked her, but my duty was imperative, and that I must go. She then rose and dried her eyes, and taking acrucifix from her neck offered it to me. I did not know what to do, for, as an English Churchman, I have been taught toregard such things as in some measure idolatrous, and yet it seemed so ungracious to refuse an old lady meaning so welland 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, “Foryour 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 ghostlytraditions 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 thisbook should ever reach Mina before I do, let it bring my good-bye. Here comes the coach!

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5 May. The Castle.—The grey of the morning has passed, and the sun is high over the distant horizon, which seemsjagged, 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, asI am not to be called till I awake, naturally I write till sleep comes. There are many odd things to put down, and, lest whoreads them may fancy that I dined too well before I left Bistritz, let me put down my dinner exactly. I dined on what theycalled “robber steak”—bits of bacon, onion, and beef, seasoned with red pepper, and strung on sticks and roasted over thefire, in the simple style of the London cat’s meat! The wine was Golden Mediasch, which produces a queer sting on thetongue, 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 evidentlytalking of me, for every now and then they looked at me, and some of the people who were sitting on the bench outside thedoor—which they call by a name meaning “word-bearer”—came and listened, and then looked at me, most of thempityingly. I could hear a lot of words often repeated, queer words, for there were many nationalities in the crowd; so Iquietly got my polyglot dictionary from my bag and looked them out. I must say they were not cheering to me, foramongst them were “Ordog”—Satan, “pokol”—hell, “stregoica”—witch, “vrolok” and “vlkoslak”—both of which meanthe same thing, one being Slovak and the other Servian for something that is either were-wolf or vampire. (Mem., I mustask 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 ofthe cross and pointed two fingers towards me. With some difficulty I got a fellow-passenger to tell me what they meant; hewould 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 sokind-hearted, and so sorrowful, and so sympathetic that I could not but be touched. I shall never forget the last glimpsewhich I had of the inn-yard and its crowd of picturesque figures, all crossing themselves, as they stood round the widearchway, 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 hisbig 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 thelanguage, or rather languages, which my fellow-passengers were speaking, I might not have been able to throw them off soeasily. Before us lay a green sloping land full of forests and woods, with here and there steep hills, crowned with clumps oftrees 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. Inand out amongst these green hills of what they call here the “Mittel Land” ran the road, losing itself as it swept round thegrassy curve, or was shut out by the straggling ends of pine woods, which here and there ran down the hillsides liketongues of flame. The road was rugged, but still we seemed to fly over it with a feverish haste. I could not understand thenwhat the haste meant, but the driver was evidently bent on losing no time in reaching Borgo Prund. I was told that this roadis in summertime excellent, but that it had not yet been put in order after the winter snows. In this respect it is differentfrom 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. Ofold the Hospadars would not repair them, lest the Turk should think that they were preparing to bring in foreign troops, andso 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 Carpathiansthemselves. Right and left of us they towered, with the afternoon sun falling full upon them and bringing out all theglorious colours of this beautiful range, deep blue and purple in the shadows of the peaks, green and brown where grassand rock mingled, and an endless perspective of jagged rock and pointed crags, till these were themselves lost in thedistance, where the snowy peaks rose grandly. Here and there seemed mighty rifts in the mountains, through which, as thesun began to sink, we saw now and again the white gleam of falling water. One of my companions touched my arm as weswept round the base of a hill and opened up the lofty, snow-covered peak of a mountain, which seemed, as we wound onour 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 creepround us. This was emphasised by the fact that the snowy mountain-top still held the sunset, and seemed to glow out with adelicate cool pink. Here and there we passed Cszeks and Slovaks, all in picturesque attire, but I noticed that goitre was

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painfully prevalent. By the roadside were many crosses, and as we swept by, my companions all crossed themselves. Hereand there was a peasant man or woman kneeling before a shrine, who did not even turn round as we approached, butseemed in the self-surrender of devotion to have neither eyes nor ears for the outer world. There were many things new tome: for instance, hay-ricks in the trees, and here and there very beautiful masses of weeping birch, their white stemsshining like silver through the delicate green of the leaves. Now and again we passed a leiter-wagon—the ordinarypeasant’s cart—with its long, snake-like vertebra, calculated to suit the inequalities of the road. On this were sure to beseated 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 inthe valleys which ran deep between the spurs of the hills, as we ascended through the Pass, the dark firs stood out here andthere against the background of late-lying snow. Sometimes, as the road was cut through the pine woods that seemed in thedarkness to be closing down upon us, great masses of greyness, which here and there bestrewed the trees, produced apeculiarly 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 windceaselessly through the valleys. Sometimes the hills were so steep that, despite our driver’s haste, the horses could only goslowly. 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 tosleep.” 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 afterthe other, as though urging him to further speed. He lashed the horses unmercifully with his long whip, and with wild criesof encouragement urged them on to further exertions. Then through the darkness I could see a sort of patch of grey lightahead of us, as though there were a cleft in the hills. The excitement of the passengers grew greater; the crazy coachrocked on its great leather springs, and swayed like a boat tossed on a stormy sea. I had to hold on. The road grew morelevel, and we appeared to fly along. Then the mountains seemed to come nearer to us on each side and to frown down uponus; we were entering on the Borgo Pass. One by one several of the passengers offered me gifts, which they pressed uponme with an earnestness which would take no denial; these were certainly of an odd and varied kind, but each was given insimple good faith, with a kindly word, and a blessing, and that strange mixture of fear-meaning movements which I hadseen outside the hotel at Bistritz—the sign of the cross and the guard against the evil eye. Then, as we flew along, thedriver leaned forward, and on each side the passengers, craning over the edge of the coach, peered eagerly into thedarkness. 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 sawbefore 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 hadgot into the thunderous one. I was now myself looking out for the conveyance which was to take me to the Count. Eachmoment I expected to see the glare of lamps through the blackness; but all was dark. The only light was the flickering raysof our own lamps, in which the steam from our hard-driven horses rose in a white cloud. We could see now the sandy roadlying white before us, but there was on it no sign of a vehicle. The passengers drew back with a sigh of gladness, whichseemed 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 “Anhour 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 orthe next day; better the next day.” Whilst he was speaking the horses began to neigh and snort and plunge wildly, so thatthe driver had to hold them up. Then, amongst a chorus of screams from the peasants and a universal crossing ofthemselves, a calèche, with four horses, drove up behind us, overtook us, and drew up beside the coach. I could see fromthe flash of our lamps, as the rays fell on them, that the horses were coal-black and splendid animals. They were driven bya tall man, with a long brown beard and a great black hat, which seemed to hide his face from us. I could only see thegleam 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:—

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“That is why, I suppose, you wished him to go on to Bukovina. You cannot deceive me, my friend; I know too much, andmy 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 withexceeding alacrity my bags were handed out and put in the calèche. Then I descended from the side of the coach, as thecalèche was close alongside, the driver helping me with a hand which caught my arm in a grip of steel; his strength musthave been prodigious. Without a word he shook his reins, the horses turned, and we swept into the darkness of the Pass. AsI looked back I saw the steam from the horses of the coach by the light of the lamps, and projected against it the figures ofmy late companions crossing themselves. Then the driver cracked his whip and called to his horses, and off they swept ontheir way to Bukovina. As they sank into the darkness I felt a strange chill, and a lonely feeling came over me; but a cloakwas 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 (theplum brandy of the country) underneath the seat, if you should require it.” I did not take any, but it was a comfort to knowit was there all the same. I felt a little strangely, and not a little frightened. I think had there been any alternative I shouldhave taken it, instead of prosecuting that unknown night journey. The carriage went at a hard pace straight along, then wemade a complete turn and went along another straight road. It seemed to me that we were simply going over and over thesame ground again; and so I took note of some salient point, and found that this was so. I would have liked to have askedthe driver what this all meant, but I really feared to do so, for I thought that, placed as I was, any protest would have hadno 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 ofshock, for I suppose the general superstition about midnight was increased by my recent experiences. I waited with a sickfeeling of suspense.

Then a dog began to howl somewhere in a farmhouse far down the road—a long, agonised wailing, as if from fear. Thesound was taken up by another dog, and then another and another, till, borne on the wind which now sighed softly throughthe Pass, a wild howling began, which seemed to come from all over the country, as far as the imagination could grasp itthrough the gloom of the night. At the first howl the horses began to strain and rear, but the driver spoke to themsoothingly, and they quieted down, but shivered and sweated as though after a runaway from sudden fright. Then, far off inthe distance, from the mountains on each side of us began a louder and a sharper howling—that of wolves—which affectedboth the horses and myself in the same way—for I was minded to jump from the calèche and run, whilst they reared againand 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 descendand 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 stilltrembled. The driver again took his seat, and shaking his reins, started off at a great pace. This time, after going to the farside 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; andagain great frowning rocks guarded us boldly on either side. Though we were in shelter, we could hear the rising wind, forit moaned and whistled through the rocks, and the branches of the trees crashed together as we swept along. It grew colderand 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 thewolves sounded nearer and nearer, as though they were closing round on us from every side. I grew dreadfully afraid, andthe horses shared my fear. The driver, however, was not in the least disturbed; he kept turning his head to left and right, butI 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 checkedthe horses, and, jumping to the ground, disappeared into the darkness. I did not know what to do, the less as the howling ofthe wolves grew closer; but while I wondered the driver suddenly appeared again, and without a word took his seat, and weresumed our journey. I think I must have fallen asleep and kept dreaming of the incident, for it seemed to be repeated

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endlessly, and now looking back, it is like a sort of awful nightmare. Once the flame appeared so near the road, that even inthe darkness around us I could watch the driver’s motions. He went rapidly to where the blue flame arose—it must havebeen very faint, for it did not seem to illumine the place around it at all—and gathering a few stones, formed them intosome 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 eyesdeceived me straining through the darkness. Then for a time there were no blue flames, and we sped onwards through thegloom, 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 horsesbegan to tremble worse than ever and to snort and scream with fright. I could not see any cause for it, for the howling ofthe wolves had ceased altogether; but just then the moon, sailing through the black clouds, appeared behind the jaggedcrest of a beetling, pine-clad rock, and by its light I saw around us a ring of wolves, with white teeth and lolling redtongues, with long, sinewy limbs and shaggy hair. They were a hundred times more terrible in the grim silence which heldthem than even when they howled. For myself, I felt a sort of paralysis of fear. It is only when a man feels himself face toface 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 jumpedabout and reared, and looked helplessly round with eyes that rolled in a way painful to see; but the living ring of terrorencompassed them on every side; and they had perforce to remain within it. I called to the coachman to come, for itseemed to me that our only chance was to try to break out through the ring and to aid his approach. I shouted and beat theside 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 thesound, saw him stand in the roadway. As he swept his long arms, as though brushing aside some impalpable obstacle, thewolves fell back and back further still. Just then a heavy cloud passed across the face of the moon, so that we were again indarkness.

When I could see again the driver was climbing into the calèche, and the wolves had disappeared. This was all so strangeand uncanny that a dreadful fear came upon me, and I was afraid to speak or move. The time seemed interminable as weswept on our way, now in almost complete darkness, for the rolling clouds obscured the moon. We kept on ascending, withoccasional periods of quick descent, but in the main always ascending. Suddenly, I became conscious of the fact that thedriver was in the act of pulling up the horses in the courtyard of a vast ruined castle, from whose tall black windows cameno 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 aremarkable place. In the gloom the courtyard looked of considerable size, and as several dark ways led from it under greatround 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 butnotice 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 withlarge iron nails, and set in a projecting doorway of massive stone. I could see even in the dim light that the stone wasmassively carved, but that the carving had been much worn by time and weather. As I stood, the driver jumped again intohis 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 frowningwalls and dark window openings it was not likely that my voice could penetrate. The time I waited seemed endless, and Ifelt doubts and fears crowding upon me. What sort of place had I come to, and among what kind of people? What sort ofgrim adventure was it on which I had embarked? Was this a customary incident in the life of a solicitor’s clerk sent out toexplain the purchase of a London estate to a foreigner? Solicitor’s clerk! Mina would not like that. Solicitor—for justbefore leaving London I got word that my examination was successful; and I am now a full-blown solicitor! I began to rubmy eyes and pinch myself to see if I were awake. It all seemed like a horrible nightmare to me, and I expected that I shouldsuddenly awake, and find myself at home, with the dawn struggling in through the windows, as I had now and again felt in

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the morning after a day of overwork. But my flesh answered the pinching test, and my eyes were not to be deceived. I wasindeed 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 chinksthe gleam of a coming light. Then there was the sound of rattling chains and the clanking of massive bolts drawn back. Akey 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 asingle speck of colour about him anywhere. He held in his hand an antique silver lamp, in which the flame burned withoutchimney or globe of any kind, throwing long quivering shadows as it flickered in the draught of the open door. The oldman 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 astatue, as though his gesture of welcome had fixed him into stone. The instant, however, that I had stepped over thethreshold, 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 thehandshake was so much akin to that which I had noticed in the driver, whose face I had not seen, that for a moment Idoubted 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 eatand rest.” As he was speaking, he put the lamp on a bracket on the wall, and stepping out, took my luggage; he had carriedit 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 oncarrying my traps along the passage, and then up a great winding stair, and along another great passage, on whose stonefloor 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 inwhich a table was spread for supper, and on whose mighty hearth a great fire of logs, freshly replenished, flamed andflared.

The Count halted, putting down my bags, closed the door, and crossing the room, opened another door, which led into asmall octagonal room lit by a single lamp, and seemingly without a window of any sort. Passing through this, he openedanother door, and motioned me to enter. It was a welcome sight; for here was a great bedroom well lighted and warmedwith 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 youare 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 thenreached my normal state, I discovered that I was half famished with hunger; so making a hasty toilet, I went into the otherroom.

I found supper already laid out. My host, who stood on one side of the great fireplace, leaning against the stonework, madea 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 acharming 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 mypart for some time to come; but I am happy to say I can send a sufficient substitute, one in whom I have every possibleconfidence. He is a young man, full of energy and talent in his own way, and of a very faithful disposition. He is discreet

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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 waseating 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 cigarwhich 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 loftydomed 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 couldsee it under the heavy moustache, was fixed and rather cruel-looking, with peculiarly sharp white teeth; these protrudedover the lips, whose remarkable ruddiness showed astonishing vitality in a man of his years. For the rest, his ears werepale, and at the tops extremely pointed; the chin was broad and strong, and the cheeks firm though thin. The general effectwas 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 andfine; 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 theCount 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 noticingit, drew back; and with a grim sort of smile, which showed more than he had yet done his protuberant teeth, sat himselfdown again on his own side of the fireplace. We were both silent for a while; and as I looked towards the window I saw thefirst dim streak of the coming dawn. There seemed a strange stillness over everything; but as I listened I heard as if fromdown 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 strangeto 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 tillthe afternoon; so sleep well and dream well!” With a courteous bow, he opened for me himself the door to the octagonalroom, 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, andawoke of my own accord. When I had dressed myself I went into the room where we had supped, and found a coldbreakfast laid out, with coffee kept hot by the pot being placed on the hearth. There was a card on the table, on which waswritten:—

“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 lookedfor a bell, so that I might let the servants know I had finished; but I could not find one. There are certainly odd deficienciesin the house, considering the extraordinary evidences of wealth which are round me. The table service is of gold, and sobeautifully wrought that it must be of immense value. The curtains and upholstery of the chairs and sofas and the hangingsof my bed are of the costliest and most beautiful fabrics, and must have been of fabulous value when they were made, forthey are centuries old, though in excellent order. I saw something like them in Hampton Court, but there they were wornand 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, andI 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 servantanywhere, or heard a sound near the castle except the howling of wolves. Some time after I had finished my meal—I donot know whether to call it breakfast or dinner, for it was between five and six o’clock when I had it—I looked about forsomething to read, for I did not like to go about the castle until I had asked the Count’s permission. There was absolutely

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nothing in the room, book, newspaper, or even writing materials; so I opened another door in the room and found a sort oflibrary. 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 volumesof magazines and newspapers. A table in the centre was littered with English magazines and newspapers, though none ofthem 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 ofreference as the London Directory, the “Red” and “Blue” books, Whitaker’s Almanac, the Army and Navy Lists, and—itsomehow 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 Ihad 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 laidhis hand on some of the books—“have been good friends to me, and for some years past, ever since I had the idea of goingto London, have given me many, many hours of pleasure. Through them I have come to know your great England; and toknow 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 andrush 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 yourtongue 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 wouldtravel. 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 mefor a stranger. That is not enough for me. Here I am noble; I am boyar; the common people know me, and I am master. Buta 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 likethe 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 beenso long master that I would be master still—or at least that none other should be master of me. You come to me not aloneas agent of my friend Peter Hawkins, of Exeter, to tell me all about my new estate in London. You shall, I trust, rest herewith 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 onewho 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 wouldperhaps 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 manystrange things. Nay, from what you have told me of your experiences already, you know something of what strange thingsthere 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 manyquestions regarding things that had already happened to me or come within my notice. Sometimes he sheered off thesubject, 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 wascommonly believed that on a certain night of the year—last night, in fact, when all evil spirits are supposed to haveunchecked 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 foughtover for centuries by the Wallachian, the Saxon, and the Turk. Why, there is hardly a foot of soil in all this region that hasnot been enriched by the blood of men, patriots or invaders. In old days there were stirring times, when the Austrian andthe Hungarian came up in hordes, and the patriots went out to meet them—men and women, the aged and the children too

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—and waited their coming on the rocks above the passes, that they might sweep destruction on them with their artificialavalanches. When the invader was triumphant he found but little, for whatever there was had been sheltered in the friendlysoil.”

“But how,” said I, “can it have remained so long undiscovered, when there is a sure index to it if men will but take thetrouble to look?” The Count smiled, and as his lips ran back over his gums, the long, sharp, canine teeth showed outstrangely; 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 ofthis 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 forhis 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 othermatters.

“Come,” he said at last, “tell me of London and of the house which you have procured for me.” With an apology for myremissness, I went into my own room to get the papers from my bag. Whilst I was placing them in order I heard a rattlingof china and silver in the next room, and as I passed through, noticed that the table had been cleared and the lamp lit, for itwas 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 thetable; and with him I went into plans and deeds and figures of all sorts. He was interested in everything, and asked me amyriad questions about the place and its surroundings. He clearly had studied beforehand all he could get on the subject ofthe 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 bymy side to correct and aid me. He will be in Exeter, miles away, probably working at papers of the law with my otherfriend, 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 hissignature to the necessary papers, and had written a letter with them ready to post to Mr. Hawkins, he began to ask me howI 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 dilapidatednotice that the place was for sale. It is surrounded by a high wall, of ancient structure, built of heavy stones, and has notbeen 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 thecardinal points of the compass. It contains in all some twenty acres, quite surrounded by the solid stone wall abovementioned. There are many trees on it, which make it in places gloomy, and there is a deep, dark-looking pond or smalllake, evidently fed by some springs, as the water is clear and flows away in a fair-sized stream. The house is very large andof all periods back, I should say, to mediæval times, for one part is of stone immensely thick, with only a few windowshigh 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 enterit, 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 variouspoints. 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 andformed 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 bemade 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 oldtimes. We Transylvanian nobles love not to think that our bones may lie amongst the common dead. I seek not gaiety normirth, not the bright voluptuousness of much sunshine and sparkling waters which please the young and gay. I am nolonger young; and my heart, through weary years of mourning over the dead, is not attuned to mirth. Moreover, the wallsof my castle are broken; the shadows are many, and the wind breathes cold through the broken battlements and casements.

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I love the shade and the shadow, and would be alone with my thoughts when I may.” Somehow his words and his look didnot 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 tolook at some of the books around me. One was an atlas, which I found opened naturally at England, as if that map hadbeen much used. On looking at it I found in certain places little rings marked, and on examining these I noticed that onewas near London on the east side, manifestly where his new estate was situated; the other two were Exeter, and Whitby onthe 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 notwork always. Come; I am informed that your supper is ready.” He took my arm, and we went into the next room, where Ifound an excellent supper ready on the table. The Count again excused himself, as he had dined out on his being awayfrom home. But he sat as on the previous night, and chatted whilst I ate. After supper I smoked, as on the last evening, andthe Count stayed with me, chatting and asking questions on every conceivable subject, hour after hour. I felt that it wasgetting very late indeed, but I did not say anything, for I felt under obligation to meet my host’s wishes in every way. I wasnot sleepy, as the long sleep yesterday had fortified me; but I could not help experiencing that chill which comes over oneat the coming of the dawn, which is like, in its way, the turn of the tide. They say that people who are near death diegenerally 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 withpreternatural 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 regardingmy dear new country of England less interesting, so that I may not forget how time flies by us,” and, with a courtly bow, hequickly 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 Icould 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 fromthe 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 outof 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! Ifthere 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 ammyself the only living soul within the place. Let me be prosaic so far as facts can be; it will help me to bear up, andimagination 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 shavingglass by the window, and was just beginning to shave. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder, and heard the Count’s voicesaying to me, “Good-morning.” I started, for it amazed me that I had not seen him, since the reflection of the glass coveredthe whole room behind me. In starting I had cut myself slightly, but did not notice it at the moment. Having answered theCount’s salutation, I turned to the glass again to see how I had been mistaken. This time there could be no error, for theman was close to me, and I could see him over my shoulder. But there was no reflection of him in the mirror! The wholeroom behind me was displayed; but there was no sign of a man in it, except myself. This was startling, and, coming on thetop of so many strange things, was beginning to increase that vague feeling of uneasiness which I always have when theCount 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 downthe razor, turning as I did so half round to look for some sticking plaster. When the Count saw my face, his eyes blazedwith a sort of demoniac fury, and he suddenly made a grab at my throat. I drew away, and his hand touched the string ofbeads which held the crucifix. It made an instant change in him, for the fury passed so quickly that I could hardly believethat 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 seizingthe shaving glass, he went on: “And this is the wretched thing that has done the mischief. It is a foul bauble of man’svanity. Away with it!” and opening the heavy window with one wrench of his terrible hand, he flung out the glass, whichwas shattered into a thousand pieces on the stones of the courtyard far below. Then he withdrew without a word. It is veryannoying, for I do not see how I am to shave, unless in my watch-case or the bottom of the shaving-pot, which isfortunately of metal.

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When I went into the dining-room, breakfast was prepared; but I could not find the Count anywhere. So I breakfastedalone. 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 dida little exploring in the castle. I went out on the stairs, and found a room looking towards the South. The view wasmagnificent, and from where I stood there was every opportunity of seeing it. The castle is on the very edge of a terribleprecipice. A stone falling from the window would fall a thousand feet without touching anything! As far as the eye canreach is a sea of green tree tops, with occasionally a deep rift where there is a chasm. Here and there are silver threadswhere 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 everydoor and peering out of every window I could find; but after a little the conviction of my helplessness overpowered allother 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 ratdoes in a trap. When, however, the conviction had come to me that I was helpless I sat down quietly—as quietly as I haveever done anything in my life—and began to think over what was best to be done. I am thinking still, and as yet have cometo no definite conclusion. Of one thing only am I certain; that it is no use making my ideas known to the Count. He knowswell that I am imprisoned; and as he has done it himself, and has doubtless his own motives for it, he would only deceiveme 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 tomyself, and my eyes open. I am, I know, either being deceived, like a baby, by my own fears, or else I am in desperatestraits; 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 didnot come at once into the library, so I went cautiously to my own room and found him making the bed. This was odd, butonly confirmed what I had all along thought—that there were no servants in the house. When later I saw him through thechink of the hinges of the door laying the table in the dining-room, I was assured of it; for if he does himself all thesemenial 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 thecastle, it must have been the Count himself who was the driver of the coach that brought me here. This is a terriblethought; 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 thecrucifix, of the garlic, of the wild rose, of the mountain ash? Bless that good, good woman who hung the crucifix round myneck! 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 regardwith disfavour and as idolatrous should in a time of loneliness and trouble be of help. Is it that there is something in theessence of the thing itself, or that it is a medium, a tangible help, in conveying memories of sympathy and comfort? Sometime, 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 Ican about Count Dracula, as it may help me to understand. To-night he may talk of himself, if I turn the conversation thatway. 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 upto the subject wonderfully. In his speaking of things and people, and especially of battles, he spoke as if he had beenpresent at them all. This he afterwards explained by saying that to a boyar the pride of his house and name is his ownpride, that their glory is his glory, that their fate is his fate. Whenever he spoke of his house he always said “we,” andspoke 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 wasmost fascinating. It seemed to have in it a whole history of the country. He grew excited as he spoke, and walked about theroom pulling his great white moustache and grasping anything on which he laid his hands as though he would crush it bymain 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 whichThor and Wodin gave them, which their Berserkers displayed to such fell intent on the seaboards of Europe, ay, and ofAsia and Africa too, till the peoples thought that the were-wolves themselves had come. Here, too, when they came, they

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found the Huns, whose warlike fury had swept the earth like a living flame, till the dying peoples held that in their veinsran the blood of those old witches, who, expelled from Scythia had mated with the devils in the desert. Fools, fools! Whatdevil or what witch was ever so great as Attila, whose blood is in these veins?” He held up his arms. “Is it a wonder thatwe were a conquering race; that we were proud; that when the Magyar, the Lombard, the Avar, the Bulgar, or the Turkpoured his thousands on our frontiers, we drove them back? Is it strange that when Arpad and his legions swept throughthe Hungarian fatherland he found us here when he reached the frontier; that the Honfoglalas was completed there? Andwhen the Hungarian flood swept eastward, the Szekelys were claimed as kindred by the victorious Magyars, and to us forcenturies 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 Nationsreceived the ‘bloody sword,’ or at its warlike call flocked quicker to the standard of the King? When was redeemed thatgreat shame of my nation, the shame of Cassova, when the flags of the Wallach and the Magyar went down beneath theCrescent? 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 andbrought the shame of slavery on them! Was it not this Dracula, indeed, who inspired that other of his race who in a laterage 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 heknew that he alone could ultimately triumph! They said that he thought only of himself. Bah! what good are peasantswithout a leader? Where ends the war without a brain and heart to conduct it? Again, when, after the battle of Mohács, wethrew off the Hungarian yoke, we of the Dracula blood were amongst their leaders, for our spirit would not brook that wewere not free. Ah, young sir, the Szekelys—and the Dracula as their heart’s blood, their brains, and their swords—canboast 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 istold.”

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. Lastevening when the Count came from his room he began by asking me questions on legal matters and on the doing of certainkinds of business. I had spent the day wearily over books, and, simply to keep my mind occupied, went over some of thematters I had been examined in at Lincoln’s Inn. There was a certain method in the Count’s inquiries, so I shall try to putthem 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, butthat it would not be wise to have more than one solicitor engaged in one transaction, as only one could act at a time, andthat to change would be certain to militate against his interest. He seemed thoroughly to understand, and went on to ask ifthere would be any practical difficulty in having one man to attend, say, to banking, and another to look after shipping, incase local help were needed in a place far from the home of the banking solicitor. I asked him to explain more fully, so thatI 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 residentthere, 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 beonly to my interest. Now, suppose I, who have much of affairs, wish to ship goods, say, to Newcastle, or Durham, orHarwich, or Dover, might it not be that it could with more ease be done by consigning to one in these ports?” I answeredthat certainly it would be most easy, but that we solicitors had a system of agency one for the other, so that local workcould 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?”

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“Of course,” I replied; and “such is often done by men of business, who do not like the whole of their affairs to be knownby 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, andof all sorts of difficulties which might arise, but by forethought could be guarded against. I explained all these things tohim 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 notevidently do much in the way of business, his knowledge and acumen were wonderful. When he had satisfied himself onthese points of which he had spoken, and I had verified all as well as I could by the books available, he suddenly stood upand said:—

“Have you written since your first letter to our friend Mr. Peter Hawkins, or to any other?” It was with some bitterness inmy 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 shouldcome 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; andbesides, while Count Dracula was speaking, there was that in his eyes and in his bearing which made me remember that Iwas 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 thetrouble 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 willdoubtless 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, andlooking at them, then at him, and noticing his quiet smile, with the sharp, canine teeth lying over the red underlip, Iunderstood as well as if he had spoken that I should be careful what I wrote, for he would be able to read it. So Idetermined to write only formal notes now, but to write fully to Mr. Hawkins in secret, and also to Mina, for to her I couldwrite in shorthand, which would puzzle the Count, if he did see it. When I had written my two letters I sat quiet, reading abook whilst the Count wrote several notes, referring as he wrote them to some books on his table. Then he took up my twoand placed them with his own, and put by his writing materials, after which, the instant the door had closed behind him, Ileaned over and looked at the letters, which were face down on the table. I felt no compunction in doing so, for under thecircumstances 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; thethird was to Coutts & Co., London, and the fourth to Herren Klopstock & Billreuth, bankers, Buda-Pesth. The second andfourth were unsealed. I was just about to look at them when I saw the door-handle move. I sank back in my seat, havingjust had time to replace the letters as they had been and to resume my book before the Count, holding still another letter inhis 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 youwish.” 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 roomsyou 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 baddreams for those who sleep unwisely. Be warned! Should sleep now or ever overcome you, or be like to do, then haste toyour own chamber or to these rooms, for your rest will then be safe. But if you be not careful in this respect, then”—Hefinished his speech in a gruesome way, for he motioned with his hands as if he were washing them. I quite understood; myonly doubt was as to whether any dream could be more terrible than the unnatural, horrible net of gloom and mysterywhich 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 placewhere he is not. I have placed the crucifix over the head of my bed—I imagine that my rest is thus freer from dreams; andthere it shall remain.

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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 towhere I could look out towards the South. There was some sense of freedom in the vast expanse, inaccessible though itwas 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 tellon me. It is destroying my nerve. I start at my own shadow, and am full of all sorts of horrible imaginings. God knows thatthere is ground for my terrible fear in this accursed place! I looked out over the beautiful expanse, bathed in soft yellowmoonlight till it was almost as light as day. In the soft light the distant hills became melted, and the shadows in the valleysand gorges of velvety blackness. The mere beauty seemed to cheer me; there was peace and comfort in every breath Idrew. 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 atwhich I stood was tall and deep, stone-mullioned, and though weatherworn, was still complete; but it was evidently many aday 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 andthe movement of his back and arms. In any case I could not mistake the hands which I had had so many opportunities ofstudying. I was at first interested and somewhat amused, for it is wonderful how small a matter will interest and amuse aman when he is a prisoner. But my very feelings changed to repulsion and terror when I saw the whole man slowly emergefrom the window and begin to crawl down the castle wall over that dreadful abyss, face down with his cloak spreading outaround him like great wings. At first I could not believe my eyes. I thought it was some trick of the moonlight, some weirdeffect 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 withconsiderable 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 horribleplace overpowering me; I am in fear—in awful fear—and there is no escape for me; I am encompassed about with terrorsthat I dare not think of….

Dracula climbing down the wall of his castle, book cover 1916.

15 May.—Once more have I seen the Count go out in his lizard fashion. He moved downwards in a sidelong way, somehundred feet down, and a good deal to the left. He vanished into some hole or window. When his head had disappeared, Ileaned out to try and see more, but without avail—the distance was too great to allow a proper angle of sight. I knew hehad 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 theroom, and taking a lamp, tried all the doors. They were all locked, as I had expected, and the locks were comparativelynew; but I went down the stone stairs to the hall where I had entered originally. I found I could pull back the bolts easilyenough and unhook the great chains; but the door was locked, and the key was gone! That key must be in the Count’s

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room; I must watch should his door be unlocked, so that I may get it and escape. I went on to make a thoroughexamination of the various stairs and passages, and to try the doors that opened from them. One or two small rooms nearthe 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. Itried it harder, and found that it was not really locked, but that the resistance came from the fact that the hinges had fallensomewhat, and the heavy door rested on the floor. Here was an opportunity which I might not have again, so I exertedmyself, 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 thanthe rooms I knew and a storey lower down. From the windows I could see that the suite of rooms lay along to the south ofthe castle, the windows of the end room looking out both west and south. On the latter side, as well as to the former, therewas 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 rootsclung in cracks and crevices and crannies of the stone. This was evidently the portion of the castle occupied by the ladiesin bygone days, for the furniture had more air of comfort than any I had seen. The windows were curtainless, and theyellow moonlight, flooding in through the diamond panes, enabled one to see even colours, whilst it softened the wealth ofdust which lay over all and disguised in some measure the ravages of time and the moth. My lamp seemed to be of littleeffect in the brilliant moonlight, but I was glad to have it with me, for there was a dread loneliness in the place whichchilled my heart and made my nerves tremble. Still, it was better than living alone in the rooms which I had come to hatefrom the presence of the Count, and after trying a little to school my nerves, I found a soft quietude come over me. Here Iam, 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 nineteenthcentury up-to-date with a vengeance. And yet, unless my senses deceive me, the old centuries had, and have, powers oftheir 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 arethings 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 madalready. If I be sane, then surely it is maddening to think that of all the foul things that lurk in this hateful place the Countis 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 certainthings 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 turnto 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 hasa 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’swarning came into my mind, but I took a pleasure in disobeying it. The sense of sleep was upon me, and with it theobstinacy which sleep brings as outrider. The soft moonlight soothed, and the wide expanse without gave a sense offreedom which refreshed me. I determined not to return to-night to the gloom-haunted rooms, but to sleep here, where, ofold, ladies had sat and sung and lived sweet lives whilst their gentle breasts were sad for their menfolk away in the midstof 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 toeast and south, and unthinking of and uncaring for the dust, composed myself for sleep. I suppose I must have fallenasleep; I hope so, but I fear, for all that followed was startlingly real—so real that now sitting here in the broad, fullsunlight 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 thebrilliant moonlight, my own footsteps marked where I had disturbed the long accumulation of dust. In the moonlightopposite me were three young women, ladies by their dress and manner. I thought at the time that I must be dreamingwhen 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,

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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 hadbrilliant white teeth that shone like pearls against the ruby of their voluptuous lips. There was something about them thatmade me uneasy, some longing and at the same time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire that theywould 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 herpain; but it is the truth. They whispered together, and then they all three laughed—such a silvery, musical laugh, but ashard as though the sound never could have come through the softness of human lips. It was like the intolerable, tinglingsweetness of water-glasses when played on by a cunning hand. The fair girl shook her head coquettishly, and the other twourged 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 delightfulanticipation. The fair girl advanced and bent over me till I could feel the movement of her breath upon me. Sweet it was inone 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 bentover me, simply gloating. There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as she archedher neck she actually licked her lips like an animal, till I could see in the moonlight the moisture shining on the scarlet lipsand on the red tongue as it lapped the white sharp teeth. Lower and lower went her head as the lips went below the rangeof my mouth and chin and seemed about to fasten on my throat. Then she paused, and I could hear the churning sound ofher tongue as it licked her teeth and lips, and could feel the hot breath on my neck. Then the skin of my throat began totingle as one’s flesh does when the hand that is to tickle it approaches nearer—nearer. I could feel the soft, shivering touchof the lips on the super-sensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth, just touching and pausing there. Iclosed 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 slenderneck of the fair woman and with giant’s power draw it back, the blue eyes transformed with fury, the white teeth champingwith rage, and the fair cheeks blazing red with passion. But the Count! Never did I imagine such wrath and fury, even tothe demons of the pit. His eyes were positively blazing. The red light in them was lurid, as if the flames of hell-fire blazedbehind them. His face was deathly pale, and the lines of it were hard like drawn wires; the thick eyebrows that met over thenose 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 seenused to the wolves. In a voice which, though low and almost in a whisper seemed to cut through the air and then ring roundthe 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! Thisman belongs to me! Beware how you meddle with him, or you’ll have to deal with me.” The fair girl, with a laugh ofribald coquetry, turned to answer him:—

“You yourself never loved; you never love!” On this the other women joined, and such a mirthless, hard, soulless laughterrang 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 donewith 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 thrownupon the floor, and which moved as though there were some living thing within it. For answer he nodded his head. One ofthe 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 withthem the dreadful bag. There was no door near them, and they could not have passed me without my noticing. They simplyseemed to fade into the rays of the moonlight and pass out through the window, for I could see outside the dim, shadowyforms for a moment before they entirely faded away.

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Then the horror overcame me, and I sank down unconscious.

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2.7: Resources for Instructors

Resources for Instructors

Jeanette A. Laredo

Slides

Writing PromptsOscar Wilde believed in “art for art’s sake,” or that art should simply be beautiful instead of having a deeper meaningor social lesson. Write a response agreeing or disagreeing with this statement and use quotes from this week’s readingsto support your viewpoint.Compare and contrast how Dracula and The Picture of Dorian Gray Gothic use elements to critique one of thefollowing Victorian ideas: imperialism, gender fluidity (e.g. the New Woman and the aesthete), moral duplicity, theduality of self, public versus private life, and repression. Quote from both texts to support your points.

AssignmentsThe excesses, stereotypes, and frequent absurdities of the traditional Gothic made it the perfect target for parody andthis week you read one of the most famous parodies of the Gothic in Jane Austen’s novel Northanger Abbey (1818).Using your knowledge of the conventions of Gothic fiction (the supernatural, gloomy exotic settings, a lecherousvillain etc.) pen your own brief Gothic parody (300-500 words). The subject does not have to be spooky (a parodywould actually work better if it’s not) and can be about anything (getting up in the morning, going on a date, workingout, scrolling through Facebook) as long as you use Gothic elements to write about it. You will be graded on how wellyou deploy stock Gothic elements in your parody.

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CHAPTER OVERVIEW3: NO MAN’S LAND, ELDER GODS AND MONSTERS- THE MODERN GOTHICFROM 1900-1932.

3.1: NO MAN’S LAND, ELDER GODS AND MONSTERS- THE MODERN GOTHIC FROM 1900-1932.3.2: EDITH WHARTON, “AFTERWARD” (1910)3.3: SIGMUND FREUD, EXCERPT FROM THE UNCANNY (1919)3.4: H.P. LOVECRAFT, “THE PICTURE IN THE HOUSE” (1920)3.5: VIRGINIA WOOLF, “A HAUNTED HOUSE” (1921)3.6: RESOURCES FOR INSTRUCTORS

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3.1: No Man’s Land, Elder Gods and Monsters- The Modern Gothic from 1900-1932.

No Man’s Land, Elder Gods and Monsters: The Modern Gothic from 1900-1932.

Katherine Hawkins

Although often overshadowed by the Victorian melodrama that dominated the 19th century, the evolution of Gothicliterary and cultural expressions between 1900 and 1932 are no less demonstrative of the mournful repression and abjectdread that characterize the genre. While it is not helpful to wholly segregate early 20th Century Gothic from previousliterary traditions, the extraordinary social, technological and political upheaval of this period saw a rapid andtransformative shift in the ways in which these narratives were expressed. Word limits restrict the depth to which thesignificance of this extraordinary era may be explored. However, this chapter will discuss the Gothic critiques of domesticlife, the popularity of psychoanalysis and Freudian theory, the outbreak of the First World War, the onset of the GreatDepression, the otherworldly introduction of Lovecraftian horror and the revolutionary introduction of film.

Thirty-two years may seem a trifling amount of time compared to the yawning centuries endured by Walpole’s crumblingruins; but this was not a time of slow, moldering grief. Indeed, the horrors of early 20th Century lie in the suddenness of itstransformations and the subsequent trauma of their recollection. This was an era wracked by crises of identity, incalculableloss and guilt, and the terror of the monstrous, unconscious self. Here we cannot find the quiet melancholy of ghosts industy mansions, but rather the shocking flare that illuminated first the trenches, and then the screen of the cinema.

Re-Turn of the Century: Moving from the Old to the NewThe Gothic would not ordinarily be associated with progress and modernity, yet it is precisely the forward-march oftechnological innovation and social change that so transformed the genre during the first three decades of the 20th Century.This is not to say that the Gothic itself did a sudden, optimistic about-face, but rather that the revenant repression alwaysinherent within the Gothic becomes all the more apparent when starkly contrasted with the change and transformationbrought on during that time. While a more detailed examination of the significance of H.P Lovecraft within Gothicconventions will follow, his ‘weird fiction’ is perhaps the best exemplar of the persistent edifices of the ‘Old World’attempting to ensnare the emerging present. He is described by David Punter and Glennis Byron as, “[..] conducting a one-man battle against the forces of modernization, while clearly remaining locked into an image of the past that is itselfcompounded in terror and destruction”(144). Indeed, his infamous revulsion for the increasing cultural heterogeneity ofAmerica was matched only by his fear of what “terrifying vistas of reality” may be revealed by the chaotic hurtle towardsmodernity (Lovecraft 201).

Lovecraft was not the only author of the time whose gaze was faced backward. However, the Gothic nostalgia for theprevious century is at best bittersweet for authors that recall its repressive confines. While not exclusively a Gothic authorper se, Edith Wharton’s short stories and novels nonetheless recall the late 19th Century with caustic irony, The House ofMirth and her Pulitzer Prize-winning Age of Innocence exposing the hitherto unrepresented dark side of the claustrophobicNew York high society that she had been born into. One of the best examples of her acerbic appropriations of the Gothicstyle is the short story Afterward, which depicts the particularly obnoxious Ned and Mary Boyne who purchase thedecrepit Lyng house solely on account of it being haunted, and thereby possessing a “charm of having been for centuries adim, deep reservoir of life” (Wharton 3). The narrative drips with a deeply ironic description of the Boyne’s fetishizationof the obsolete and the supernatural; describing Lyng’s lack of ‘vulgar necessities’ like electric lights and hot water pipesin terms that imply the comparative refinement of Victorian antiquarianism (Wharton 4).

Accordingly, in A Motor-Flight Through France, she maintained that the “[..]Gothic spirit, pushed to its logicalconclusion” ought to strive for, “[..]the utterance of the unutterable” (Wharton 17). While Wharton herself was critical ofthe suffragist movement that was gaining increasing visibility at the time, her scathing depictions of bourgeois domesticitydemonstrates precisely that which had been ‘unutterable’ to her as a young woman: a pronounced disdain for the stiflingexpectations placed upon women (“Edith Wharton”). For example, her short story The Lady’s Maid’s Bell (1904) utilizesthe uncanny, supernatural elements of haunted houses and revenant ghosts in order to demonstrate the silent, distinctlyfeminine dread of married life (Punter et al 171).

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Post-War GothicWhile there were certainly significant Gothic publications prior to the onset of the First World War, it is difficult to de-center this cultural trauma from a discussion of early 20th Century horror. Indeed, as David Skal asserts, “Wars tend not toresolve themselves, culturally, until years after actual combat stops. The same is true of economic depressions, fatalepidemics, political witch hunts – the traumas can linger for decades”(286). Consequently, it should be unsurprising thatthere is a marked shift in the tone of almost all genres of art and literature – including the Gothic. In particular, the long-established trope of psychological decline within the Gothic genre was given renewed significance in the yearsimmediately following the end of the war, as traumatized, wounded and disfigured soldiers returned home. British poetSiegfried Sassoon’s many war poems about the horrors of trench warfare reflect the trauma that was then referred to as‘shell-shock’; his stark, embittered recollections replacing the comparatively decadent romanticism that characterised Poeor the Brontës’ depictions of madness and grief the century prior.

Sassoon’s 1920 poem “I stood with the Dead” depicts the hopelessness and despair of the trenches: a soldier – evidentlyinsensible and in shock – stands amongst his dead comrades, ordering them to rise and to resume killing. The title and therepeated phrase, “They were dead; They were dead” not only inextricably links the author to the abject scene of the piled,staring corpses of his friends, but also recalls an inescapable, looping repetition that is a defining feature of Gothicdepictions of trauma (Sassoon 38). Christine Berthin describes repetition within the Gothic as a temporal as well as asensory/psychological displacement, wherein the constant re-playing or re-appearance of fearful or distressing phenomenaconstitutes a “distortion of chronology” that blurs the boundaries between a traumatic past and the present (67). Akin toDerrida’s hauntological reflections on linguistic displacement, Berthin asserts that the inability to disentangle oneself froma traumatic past obfuscates the potential for future recuperation, stripping away a protagonist’s subjectivity. In this state,these wretched individuals are “haunted, and do not belong to themselves. They are not contemporary with themselves andperform actions that only make sense beyond the frame of the present where they find themselves ungrounded” (Berthin67). In conjunction with Berthin, Sassoon’s depiction of the trauma of the Great War also conjures one of the mostconsistent fixtures of post-War Gothic symbolism: the dreadful image of soldiers stripped of their humanity and reduced tothe status of murderous automatons – a subject that will be revisited in a moment.

While there is a wealth of literature that exemplifies this dehumanizing trope within the Gothic, an examination of post-War Gothic is not complete without considering its articulation within the emergent popularity of cinema at the time.While the technology of moving film had existed prior to the turn of the century, the transition of film from short‘nickelodeons’ to longer narrative features had opened up a rich well of potential for Gothic imaginings by the time theWar ended (Skal 31) . Arguably the best exemplar of post-War Gothic film is Robert Wiene’s 1920 expressionistmasterpiece, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. Its jarring, hyper-stylized painted sets and depictions of madness,somnambulism, and murder, encapsulates the traumatized zeitgeist of post-War Germany; a country reeling from defeatand the loss of its national identity. Although the original script was intended to be a “political parable of uncheckedauthoritarianism following the cataclysm of the war,” Wiene de-clawed this narrative by framing it as a mere delusionretold by the insane, titular Doctor (Skal 41-43).

Directorial gaslighting aside, the film nonetheless exemplifies the same post-war Gothic conventions that renderedSassoon’s work so affective. Although The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari is more reliant upon metaphor than Sassoon’saccusatory fusillades, its depiction of the sleepwalking Cesare being commanded to murder by Caligari recalls the samedreaded loss of selfhood implicit in the dehumanized, autotomized soldier-subject mentioned above. Just as Sassoon ishaunted by the recurring trauma of the front, Caligari’s evocation of the War is that of a similarly haunting and coercivesupernatural entity that is identified by Skal in the film’s opening intertitle: “Everywhere there are spirits…They are allaround us…They have driven me from hearth and home, from my wife and children”(43).

The manifestation of post-War Gothic in both film and literature coincides strongly with the contemporaneous popularityof psychoanalysis, and the associated significance of the unconscious. While Cesare’s somnambulism in Caligari makesthis connection evident, Freud’s observations represent important epistemological milestones – both terms of the history ofthe Gothic, but also for the psyche of the broader post-War population. Freud remarked that the war necessitated a re-thinking of the conventions of death, stating, “Death will no longer be denied, we are forced to believe in it. People reallydie; and no-longer one by one, but many, often tens of thousands in a single day” (47). Freud ultimately defined thenomenclature for another pivotal convention within the Gothic: the return of the repressed. As with Berthin’s discussion ofhauntological repetitions, Valdine Clements explains that the portentous re-emergence of that, “[..] which has been

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submerged or held at bay because it threatens the established order of things” pre-dates Freudian psychoanalysisconsiderably (4). However, Freud’s post-war discussion of repression within his 1919 work The Uncanny is arguably theanalytic text that best contextualizes the return of the repressed within post-War Gothic; employing a more modernapproach to trauma that reconceptualised what it meant for a person – or indeed, an entire population – to be ‘haunted’ bytheir histories.

Freud and the UncannyThe Uncanny represents what Ellen Power Stengel describes as “the most famous heuristics ever to analyse supernaturalliterature” (1). Unlike much of Freud’s prior and subsequent therapeutic psychoanalytic work, The Uncanny is a treatise onthe aesthetics of that which is terrible, rather than frightening, lending it perfectly to the study of the Gothic (Freud 217-218). Much of the text is dedicated to the explanation of the specific etymology of the uncanny, wherein Freud identifiesan interesting inversion of meaning in the equivalent German term, heimliche. He explains that heimliche refers to a stateof comfort and familiarity – typically within the home. However, he states that this should not suggest that the uncanny isakin to its opposite der unheimliche, as this would imply a neat and dualistic process of simple unknowing, an awarenessthat is reducible to the known unknown (Freud 223). Rather, following a long demonstration of etymological genealogy,Freud reveals a definition of das heimliche that is its own antonym: the heimliche as that which ought to have remainedhidden, but has nonetheless become visible. Through this unusual linguistic inversion Freud demonstrates the unsettlingpotential of the uncanny as that which is not at home, at home. For Freud, the Uncanny refers to the experience ofdiscomfort that is provoked by the reappearance of irrational or infantile imaginings (hitherto surmounted or repressed)within the realm of the familiar (Freud 239). Put more simply, the Uncanny unsettles us because it makes us uncertainabout the things that ought to be familiar or habitual, and in so doing it ‘makes strange’ our conceptions of the normativeand the rational (Bennet & Royle 37).

A department store display of mannequins evokes the uncanny because of its strange imitation of humanity (Robert Couse-Baker).

According to Punter, such a capacity to disrupt the often-prescriptive boundaries of rationality is, “at the core of theGothic, since it, like the uncanny, deals in the constant troubling of the quotidian, daylight certainties within the context ofwhich one might prefer to lead one’s life” (286). In Edith Wharton Rings “The Lady’s Maid’s Bell”, Ellen Powers Stengelprovides a reading of Wharton’s 1904 short story through Freud’s Uncanny, explaining the relationship between thepresent materiality described by the story’s protagonist Hartley, and the return of the repressed in the form of the ghost ofEmma Saxon (Stengel 3). The gloomy Brympton Place is beset by secrecy and censorship – the servants feigning

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ignorance or amnesia at the fate of Hartley’s deceased predecessor. Nonetheless, the heuristics of the everyday here-and-now are disturbed through the irruption of the Revenant ghost: a diachronic figure from the past that joins with thesynchronic, surmounted present. By this confluence of the spatial-present and the revenant-repressed, the sinister goings-on of Brympton Place are revealed to Hartley and thus the domestic setting rendered Uncanny (Stengel 4-5).

Lovecraft and the Anti-human Gothic

In The Return of the Repressed: Gothic Horror from The Castle of Otrano to Alien, Clements notes that an oft-overlookedcharacteristic of more modern Gothic fiction is the tension that arises between a character’s skepticism and the gradual,dreadful revelation of something that exists beyond their rationalized heuristics (15). This, she asserts, is a consequence ofthe modern era – where the comparative safety and technological advancement come at the cost of a deeper spiritualconnection to the supernatural, and to the realm of the unknown (ibid). Here Lovecraft’s aforementioned disdain for thecultural and technological changes of the modern era become relevant to the Gothic and the repressed. In his 1927 essaySupernatural Horror in Literature, Lovecraft states:

“The appeal of the spectrally macabre is generally narrow because it demands from the reader a certain degree ofimaginations and a capacity for detachment from every-day life. Relatively few are free enough from the daily routine torespond to rappings from outside, and tales of ordinary feelings and events, or of common sentimental distortions of suchfeelings and events, will always take first place in the taste of the majority [..]” (171-172).

Here, Freud’s description of the “primitive”, surmounted atavism that is recalled through the Uncanny is contextualized byLovecraft in terms of the boundaries drawn between the supernatural “Other” and modern, cynical rationality – boundariesthat the Gothic consistently transgresses (236).

Jeffrey Andrew Weinstock (63) describes Lovecraft’s ‘weird fiction’ as a modern continuance of the Gothic tradition inthat it chastens the hubris of humanity’s pretentions towards ontological supremacy. Inherent within Lovecraft’s work is apronounced anti-humanism, a “cosmic fear” that strips humanity of its privileged, unique status within the cosmos, and inso doing speaks to the intimate connection between the fear of the unknown, and the fear of death (Weinstock 63-64). Hereit ought to be noted that Lovecraft himself took care to demonstrate that weird fiction ought not be subsumed into abroader category of horror fiction; insisting that a true weird tale must evoke, “A certain atmosphere of breathless andunexplainable dread of outer, unknown forces”, as well as a “[..] malign and particular suspension or defeat of those fixed

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laws of Nature which are our only safeguard against the assaults of chaos and the daemons of unplumbed space”(Lovecraft 173).

While eluding categorical enclosure within the literary traditions of the time, Lovecraft’s “cosmic fear” is commensuratewith the teleology of the Gothic, as it contradicts the solipsism of Enlightenment rationalism that holds mankind to becapable of comprehending (and thus overcoming) any and all instances of threatening uncertainty (Sederholm et al 35;Punter et al 12). Weinstock asserts that within Lovecraft’s Gothic anti-humanism, “human beings are reduced to things,demoted to matter that doesn’t really matter in the larger scheme of things”(76). Although Lovecraft himself was not aveteran, the parallels to the themes of dehumanization and automatism inherent within The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari andSassoon’s war-poetry are indicative of the broader cultural and literary zeitgeist that permeated the 1920’s.

The 1930’s: Gothic Depression

By 1931, the United States had been plunged into the depths of the Depression. The hedonism of the jazz-era gave way toimpoverished cynicism and movie-goers sought an outlet for their anger (Skal 115-116). In the space of this single year,Hollywood studios produced three films adapted from 19th Century Gothic novels: Dracula, Frankenstein, and Dr. Jekylland Mr. Hyde. All three represent a different aspect of Monstrosity that recalled the anxieties of Depression-era audiences:Dracula as the aristocratic foreigner – both immigrant and capitalist come to further drain the lifeblood from America; theCreature as the wretched and abandoned walking corpse – a poignant symbol of the all-too-common unemploymentbreadlines; and the bourgeois Dr. Jekyll who allowed the villainous Mr. Hyde to exploit and murder ‘disposable’ lower-class women (Skal 159). These films launched the careers of iconic horror actors like Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi andsecured a permanent place for the Monster Movie in cinema and pop-culture history. But more importantly, theydemonstrated that the Gothic tradition could not only survive the rapidly changing times, but it could also adapt and thrivethrough them.

The Spartan severity of the early 1930’s lacked the sumptuous, dark romanticism and macabre indulgences that hadinformed Stoker, Shelley and Stevenson’s stories. This was an era that would not escape the deprivation of economicDepression for many years and would soon see the rise of the Third Reich – despite having only just recovered from theprevious War. In just 32 years, the Gothic had transformed from decadent tales of vampires and mysterious castles to thehaunted, existential dread of a traumatized generation. Nonetheless, its core traditions of uncanniness, displacement,repetition, and haunting would continue. Indeed, as should already be evident, the longevity of the Gothic lies in itsrevenant regeneration: where there are fear and uncertainty to be repressed, it will inevitably rise anew. And further horrorswere certainly on their way.

Works Cited

Bennet, Andrew and Royle, Nicholas. Introduction to Literature, Criticism and Theory (2nd Edition). Prentice-Hall, 1999.

Bethin, Christine. Gothic Hauntings. Melancholy Crypts and Textual Ghosts. Palgrave Macmillan, 2010.

Clements, Valdine. The Return of the Repressed: Gothic Horror From the Castle of Otranto to Alien. State University ofNew York Press, 1999.

“Edith Wharton”. In Our Time: Literature, Reported by Hermione Lee, Bridget Bennett, Laura Rattray and Melvin Bragg,from BBC Radio, 4th Oct. 2018.

Freud, Sigmund. Reflections on War and Death. Moffat, Yard and Company, 1918.

—. ‘The ‘Uncanny’. The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, Volume XVII (1917-1919): An Infantile Neurosis and Other Works, 217-256.

Lovecraft, Howard Phillips. “Supernatural Horror in Literature.” H.P. Lovecraft: Selected Works, Critical Perspectives andInterviews on his Influence, edited by Leverett Butts, McFarland & Company Inc, 2018, pp. 171-203. (Original WorkPublished 1927).

—. “The Call of Cthulu”. Necronomicon: The Very Best Weird Tales of H.P. Lovecraft, Commemorative Edition, edited byStephen Jones. Gollancz, 2008, pp. 201-225.

Punter, David and Glennis, Byron. The Gothic. Blackwell Publishing, Oxford, 2004.

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Sassoon, Siegfried. The War Poems of Siegfried Sassoon. 2005.

Sederholm, Carl H & Weinstock, Jeffrey Andrews. “Introduction: Lovecraft Rising”. The Age of Lovecraft, edited by CarlSederholm and Jeffrey Andrew Weinstock, University of Minnesota Press, 2016, pp. 62-78.

Skal, David. The Monster Show (Revised Edition). Faber & Faber Inc, 1993.

Stengel, Ellen Power. “Edith Wharton Rings “The Lady’s Maid’s Bell””. Edith Wharton Review, vol. 7, no.1, 1990, pp. 3-9. Jstor.org/stable/43512769 Accessed June 29, 2019.

Weinstock, Jeffrey Andrew. “Lovecraft’s Things: Sinister Souvenirs From Other Worlds.” The Age of Lovecraft, edited byCarl Sederholm and Jeffrey Andrew Weinstock, University of Minnesota Press, 2016, pp. 62-78.

Wharton, Edith. “The Lady’s Maid’s Bell”. Ghost: 100 Stories to Read With the Lights On, edited by Louise Welsh, Headof Zeus Ltd, 2015, pp. 344-358. (Original Work Published 1904).

—. “Motor-Flight through France, A.” Atlantic Monthly, vol. 99, 1907, p. 98.

—. “Afterward.” The Early Short Fiction of Edith Wharton, by Edith Wharton, vol. 2, ICON Classics, 2008, pp. 3-36.LitFinder, http://link.galegroup.com.simsrad.ne...F&xid=9f979b07. Accessed 29 June 2019.

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3.2: Edith Wharton, “Afterward” (1910)

Edith Wharton, “Afterward” (1910)

Jeanette A. Laredo

A photographic portrait of Edith Wharton.

I

“Oh, there is one, of course, but you’ll never know it.”

The assertion, laughingly flung out six months earlier in a bright June garden, came back to Mary Boyne with a sharpperception of its latent significance as she stood, in the December dusk, waiting for the lamps to be brought into thelibrary.

The words had been spoken by their friend Alida Stair, as they sat at tea on her lawn at Pangbourne, in reference to thevery house of which the library in question was the central, the pivotal “feature.” Mary Boyne and her husband, in quest ofa country place in one of the southern or southwestern counties, had, on their arrival in England, carried their problemstraight to Alida Stair, who had successfully solved it in her own case; but it was not until they had rejected, almostcapriciously, several practical and judicious suggestions that she threw it out: “Well, there’s Lyng, in Dorsetshire. Itbelongs to Hugo’s cousins, and you can get it for a song.”

The reasons she gave for its being obtainable on these terms — its remoteness from a station, its lack of electric light, hot-water pipes, and other vulgar necessities — were exactly those pleading in its favor with two romantic Americansperversely in search of the economic drawbacks which were associated, in their tradition, with unusual architecturalfelicities.

“I should never believe I was living in an old house unless I was thoroughly uncomfortable,” Ned Boyne, the moreextravagant of the two, had jocosely insisted; “the least hint of ‘convenience’ would make me think it had been bought outof an exhibition, with the pieces numbered, and set up again.” And they had proceeded to enumerate, with humorousprecision, their various suspicions and exactions, refusing to believe that the house their cousin recommended was really

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Tudor till they learned it had no heating system, or that the village church was literally in the grounds till she assured themof the deplorable uncertainty of the watersupply.

“It’s too uncomfortable to be true!” Edward Boyne had continued to exult as the avowal of each disadvantage wassuccessively wrung from her; but he had cut short his rhapsody to ask, with a sudden relapse to distrust: “And the ghost?You’ve been concealing from us the fact that there is no ghost!”

Mary, at the moment, had laughed with him, yet almost with her laugh, being possessed of several sets of independentperceptions, had noted a sudden flatness of tone in Alida’s answering hilarity.

“Oh, Dorsetshire’s full of ghosts, you know.”

“Yes, yes; but that won’t do. I don’t want to have to drive ten miles to see somebody else’s ghost. I want one of my own onthe premises. Is there a ghost at Lyng?”

His rejoinder had made Alida laugh again, and it was then that she had flung back tantalizingly: “Oh, there is one, ofcourse, but you’ll never know it.”

“Never know it?” Boyne pulled her up. “But what in the world constitutes a ghost except the fact of its being known forone?”

“I can’t say. But that’s the story.”

“That there’s a ghost, but that nobody knows it’s a ghost?”

“Well — not till afterward, at any rate.”

“Till afterward?”

“Not till long, long afterward.”

“But if it’s once been identified as an unearthly visitant, why hasn’t its signalement been handed down in the family? Howhas it managed to preserve its incognito?”

Alida could only shake her head. “Don’t ask me. But it has.”

“And then suddenly –” Mary spoke up as if from some cavernous depth of divination –“suddenly, long afterward, one saysto one’s self, ‘That was it?'”

She was oddly startled at the sepulchral sound with which her question fell on the banter of the other two, and she saw theshadow of the same surprise flit across Alida’s clear pupils. “I suppose so. One just has to wait.”

“Oh, hang waiting!” Ned broke in. “Life’s too short for a ghost who can only be enjoyed in retrospect. Can’t we do betterthan that, Mary?”

But it turned out that in the event they were not destined to, for within three months of their conversation with Mrs. Stairthey were established at Lyng, and the life they had yearned for to the point of planning it out in all its daily details hadactually begun for them.

It was to sit, in the thick December dusk, by just such a widehooded fireplace, under just such black oak rafters, with thesense that beyond the mullioned panes the downs were darkening to a deeper solitude: it was for the ultimate indulgence insuch sensations that Mary Boyne had endured for nearly fourteen years the soul-deadening ugliness of the Middle West,and that Boyne had ground on doggedly at his engineering till, with a suddenness that still made her blink, the prodigiouswindfall of the Blue Star Mine had put them at a stroke in possession of life and the leisure to taste it. They had never for amoment meant their new state to be one of idleness; but they meant to give themselves only to harmonious activities. Shehad her vision of painting and gardening (against a background of gray walls), he dreamed of the production of his long-planned book on the “Economic Basis of Culture”; and with such absorbing work ahead no existence could be toosequestered; they could not get far enough from the world, or plunge deep enough into the past.

Dorsetshire had attracted them from the first by a semblance of remoteness out of all proportion to its geographicalposition. But to the Boynes it was one of the ever-recurring wonders of the whole incredibly compressed island — a nestof counties, as they put it — that for the production of its effects so little of a given quality went so far: that so few milesmade a distance, and so short a distance a difference.

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“It’s that,” Ned had once enthusiastically explained, “that gives such depth to their effects, such relief to their leastcontrasts. They’ve been able to lay the butter so thick on every exquisite mouthful.”

The butter had certainly been laid on thick at Lyng: the old gray house, hidden under a shoulder of the downs, had almostall the finer marks of commerce with a protracted past. The mere fact that it was neither large nor exceptional made it, tothe Boynes, abound the more richly in its special sense — the sense of having been for centuries a deep, dim reservoir oflife. The life had probably not been of the most vivid order: for long periods, no doubt, it had fallen as noiselessly into thepast as the quiet drizzle of autumn fell, hour after hour, into the green fish-pond between the yews; but these back-watersof existence sometimes breed, in their sluggish depths, strange acuities of emotion, and Mary Boyne had felt from the firstthe occasional brush of an intenser memory.

The feeling had never been stronger than on the December afternoon when, waiting in the library for the belated lamps,she rose from her seat and stood among the shadows of the hearth. Her husband had gone off, after luncheon, for one of hislong tramps on the downs. She had noticed of late that he preferred to be unaccompanied on these occasions; and, in thetried security of their personal relations, had been driven to conclude that his book was bothering him, and that he neededthe afternoons to turn over in solitude the problems left from the morning’s work. Certainly the book was not going assmoothly as she had imagined it would, and the lines of perplexity between his eyes had never been there in hisengineering days. Then he had often looked fagged to the verge of illness, but the native demon of “worry” had neverbranded his brow. Yet the few pages he had so far read to her — the introduction, and a synopsis of the opening chapter —gave evidences of a firm possession of his subject, and a deepening confidence in his powers.

The fact threw her into deeper perplexity, since, now that he had done with “business” and its disturbing contingencies, theone other possible element of anxiety was eliminated. Unless it were his health, then? But physically he had gained sincethey had come to Dorsetshire, grown robuster, ruddier, and fresher-eyed. It was only within a week that she had felt in himthe undefinable change that made her restless in his absence, and as tongue-tied in his presence as though it were she whohad a secret to keep from him!

The thought that there was a secret somewhere between them struck her with a sudden smart rap of wonder, and shelooked about her down the dim, long room.

“Can it be the house?” she mused.

The room itself might have been full of secrets. They seemed to be piling themselves up, as evening fell, like the layersand layers of velvet shadow dropping from the low ceiling, the dusky walls of books, the smoke-blurred sculpture of thehooded hearth.

“Why, of course — the house is haunted!” she reflected.

The ghost — Alida’s imperceptible ghost — after figuring largely in the banter of their first month or two at Lyng, hadbeen gradually discarded as too ineffectual for imaginative use. Mary had, indeed, as became the tenant of a hauntedhouse, made the customary inquiries among her few rural neighbors, but, beyond a vague, “They du say so, Ma’am,” thevillagers had nothing to impart. The elusive specter had apparently never had sufficient identity for a legend to crystallizeabout it, and after a time the Boynes had laughingly set the matter down to their profitand-loss account, agreeing that Lyngwas one of the few houses good enough in itself to dispense with supernatural enhancements.

“And I suppose, poor, ineffectual demon, that’s why it beats its beautiful wings in vain in the void,” Mary had laughinglyconcluded.

“Or, rather,” Ned answered, in the same strain, “why, amid so much that’s ghostly, it can never affirm its separate existenceas the ghost.” And thereupon their invisible housemate had finally dropped out of their references, which were numerousenough to make them promptly unaware of the loss.

Now, as she stood on the hearth, the subject of their earlier curiosity revived in her with a new sense of its meaning — asense gradually acquired through close daily contact with the scene of the lurking mystery. It was the house itself, ofcourse, that possessed the ghost-seeing faculty, that communed visually but secretly with its own past; and if one couldonly get into close enough communion with the house, one might surprise its secret, and acquire the ghost-sight on one’sown account. Perhaps, in his long solitary hours in this very room, where she never trespassed till the afternoon, herhusband had acquired it already, and was silently carrying the dread weight of whatever it had revealed to him. Mary wastoo well-versed in the code of the spectral world not to know that one could not talk about the ghosts one saw: to do so was

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almost as great a breach of goodbreeding as to name a lady in a club. But this explanation did not really satisfy her. “What,after all, except for the fun of the frisson,” she reflected, “would he really care for any of their old ghosts?” And thence shewas thrown back once more on the fundamental dilemma: the fact that one’s greater or less susceptibility to spectralinfluences had no particular bearing on the case, since, when one did see a ghost at Lyng, one did not know it.

“Not till long afterward,” Alida Stair had said. Well, supposing Ned had seen one when they first came, and had knownonly within the last week what had happened to him? More and more under the spell of the hour, she threw back hersearching thoughts to the early days of their tenancy, but at first only to recall a gay confusion of unpacking, settling,arranging of books, and calling to each other from remote corners of the house as treasure after treasure of their habitationrevealed itself to them. It was in this particular connection that she presently recalled a certain soft afternoon of theprevious October, when, passing from the first rapturous flurry of exploration to a detailed inspection of the old house, shehad pressed (like a novel heroine) a panel that opened at her touch, on a narrow flight of stairs leading to an unsuspectedflat ledge of the roof — the roof which, from below, seemed to slope away on all sides too abruptly for any but practisedfeet to scale.

The view from this hidden coign was enchanting, and she had flown down to snatch Ned from his papers and give him thefreedom of her discovery. She remembered still how, standing on the narrow ledge, he had passed his arm about her whiletheir gaze flew to the long, tossed horizon-line of the downs, and then dropped contentedly back to trace the arabesque ofyew hedges about the fish-pond, and the shadow of the cedar on the lawn.

“And now the other way,” he had said, gently turning her about within his arm; and closely pressed to him, she hadabsorbed, like some long, satisfying draft, the picture of the gray-walled court, the squat lions on the gates, and the lime-avenue reaching up to the highroad under the downs.

It was just then, while they gazed and held each other, that she had felt his arm relax, and heard a sharp “Hullo!” that madeher turn to glance at him.

Distinctly, yes, she now recalled she had seen, as she glanced, a shadow of anxiety, of perplexity, rather, fall across hisface; and, following his eyes, had beheld the figure of a man — a man in loose, grayish clothes, as it appeared to her —who was sauntering down the lime-avenue to the court with the tentative gait of a stranger seeking his way. Her short-sighted eyes had given her but a blurred impression of slightness and grayness, with something foreign, or at least unlocal,in the cut of the figure or its garb; but her husband had apparently seen more — seen enough to make him push past herwith a sharp “Wait!” and dash down the twisting stairs without pausing to give her a hand for the descent.

A slight tendency to dizziness obliged her, after a provisional clutch at the chimney against which they had been leaning,to follow him down more cautiously; and when she had reached the attic landing she paused again for a less definitereason, leaning over the oak banister to strain her eyes through the silence of the brown, sun-flecked depths below. Shelingered there till, somewhere in those depths, she heard the closing of a door; then, mechanically impelled, she went downthe shallow flights of steps till she reached the lower hall.

The front door stood open on the mild sunlight of the court, and hall and court were empty. The library door was open, too,and after listening in vain for any sound of voices within, she quickly crossed the threshold, and found her husband alone,vaguely fingering the papers on his desk.

He looked up, as if surprised at her precipitate entrance, but the shadow of anxiety had passed from his face, leaving iteven, as she fancied, a little brighter and clearer than usual.

“What was it? Who was it?” she asked.

“Who?” he repeated, with the surprise still all on his side.

“The man we saw coming toward the house.”

He seemed honestly to reflect. “The man? Why, I thought I saw Peters; I dashed after him to say a word about the stable-drains, but he had disappeared before I could get down.”

“Disappeared? Why, he seemed to be walking so slowly when we saw him.”

Boyne shrugged his shoulders. “So I thought; but he must have got up steam in the interval. What do you say to our tryinga scramble up Meldon Steep before sunset?”

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That was all. At the time the occurrence had been less than nothing, had, indeed, been immediately obliterated by themagic of their first vision from Meldon Steep, a height which they had dreamed of climbing ever since they had first seenits bare spine heaving itself above the low roof of Lyng. Doubtless it was the mere fact of the other incident’s havingoccurred on the very day of their ascent to Meldon that had kept it stored away in the unconscious fold of association fromwhich it now emerged; for in itself it had no mark of the portentous. At the moment there could have been nothing morenatural than that Ned should dash himself from the roof in the pursuit of dilatory tradesmen. It was the period when theywere always on the watch for one or the other of the specialists employed about the place; always lying in wait for them,and dashing out at them with questions, reproaches, or reminders. And certainly in the distance the gray figure had lookedlike Peters.

Yet now, as she reviewed the rapid scene, she felt her husband’s explanation of it to have been invalidated by the look ofanxiety on his face. Why had the familiar appearance of Peters made him anxious? Why, above all, if it was of such primenecessity to confer with that authority on the subject of the stable-drains, had the failure to find him produced such a lookof relief? Mary could not say that any one of these considerations had occurred to her at the time, yet, from the promptnesswith which they now marshaled themselves at her summons, she had a sudden sense that they must all along have beenthere, waiting their hour.

II Weary with her thoughts, she moved toward the window. The library was now completely dark, and she was surprised tosee how much faint light the outer world still held.

As she peered out into it across the court, a figure shaped itself in the tapering perspective of bare lines: it looked a mereblot of deeper gray in the grayness, and for an instant, as it moved toward her, her heart thumped to the thought, “It’s theghost!”

She had time, in that long instant, to feel suddenly that the man of whom, two months earlier, she had a brief distant visionfrom the roof was now, at his predestined hour, about to reveal himself as not having been Peters; and her spirit sank underthe impending fear of the disclosure. But almost with the next tick of the clock the ambiguous figure, gaining substanceand character, showed itself even to her weak sight as her husband’s; and she turned away to meet him, as he entered, withthe confession of her folly.

“It’s really too absurd,” she laughed out from the threshold, “but I never can remember!”

“Remember what?” Boyne questioned as they drew together.

“That when one sees the Lyng ghost one never knows it.”

Her hand was on his sleeve, and he kept it there, but with no response in his gesture or in the lines of his fagged,preoccupied face.

“Did you think you’d seen it?” he asked, after an appreciable interval.

“Why, I actually took you for it, my dear, in my mad determination to spot it!”

“Me — just now?” His arm dropped away, and he turned from her with a faint echo of her laugh. “Really, dearest, you’dbetter give it up, if that’s the best you can do.”

“Yes, I give it up — I give it up. Have you?” she asked, turning round on him abruptly.

The parlor-maid had entered with letters and a lamp, and the light struck up into Boyne’s face as he bent above the tray shepresented.

“Have you?” Mary perversely insisted, when the servant had disappeared on her errand of illumination.

“Have I what?” he rejoined absently, the light bringing out the sharp stamp of worry between his brows as he turned overthe letters.

“Given up trying to see the ghost.” Her heart beat a little at the experiment she was making.

Her husband, laying his letters aside, moved away into the shadow of the hearth.

“I never tried,” he said, tearing open the wrapper of a newspaper.

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“Well, of course,” Mary persisted, “the exasperating thing is that there’s no use trying, since one can’t be sure till so longafterward.”

He was unfolding the paper as if he had hardly heard her; but after a pause, during which the sheets rustled spasmodicallybetween his hands, he lifted his head to say abruptly, “Have you any idea how long?”

Mary had sunk into a low chair beside the fireplace. From her seat she looked up, startled, at her husband’s profile, whichwas darkly projected against the circle of lamplight.

“No; none. Have YOU?” she retorted, repeating her former phrase with an added keenness of intention.

Boyne crumpled the paper into a bunch, and then inconsequently turned back with it toward the lamp.

“Lord, no! I only meant,” he explained, with a faint tinge of impatience, “is there any legend, any tradition, as to that?”

“Not that I know of,” she answered; but the impulse to add, “What makes you ask?” was checked by the reappearance ofthe parlormaid with tea and a second lamp.

With the dispersal of shadows, and the repetition of the daily domestic office, Mary Boyne felt herself less oppressed bythat sense of something mutely imminent which had darkened her solitary afternoon. For a few moments she gave herselfsilently to the details of her task, and when she looked up from it she was struck to the point of bewilderment by thechange in her husband’s face. He had seated himself near the farther lamp, and was absorbed in the perusal of his letters;but was it something he had found in them, or merely the shifting of her own point of view, that had restored his features totheir normal aspect? The longer she looked, the more definitely the change affirmed itself. The lines of painful tension hadvanished, and such traces of fatigue as lingered were of the kind easily attributable to steady mental effort. He glanced up,as if drawn by her gaze, and met her eyes with a smile.

“I’m dying for my tea, you know; and here’s a letter for you,” he said.

She took the letter he held out in exchange for the cup she proffered him, and, returning to her seat, broke the seal with thelanguid gesture of the reader whose interests are all inclosed in the circle of one cherished presence.

Her next conscious motion was that of starting to her feet, the letter falling to them as she rose, while she held out to herhusband a long newspaper clipping.

“Ned! What’s this? What does it mean?”

He had risen at the same instant, almost as if hearing her cry before she uttered it; and for a perceptible space of time heand she studied each other, like adversaries watching for an advantage, across the space between her chair and his desk.

“What’s what? You fairly made me jump!” Boyne said at length, moving toward her with a sudden, half-exasperated laugh.The shadow of apprehension was on his face again, not now a look of fixed foreboding, but a shifting vigilance of lips andeyes that gave her the sense of his feeling himself invisibly surrounded.

Her hand shook so that she could hardly give him the clipping.

“This article — from the ‘Waukesha Sentinel’ — that a man named Elwell has brought suit against you — that there wassomething wrong about the Blue Star Mine. I can’t understand more than half.”

They continued to face each other as she spoke, and to her astonishment, she saw that her words had the almost immediateeffect of dissipating the strained watchfulness of his look.

“Oh, that!” He glanced down the printed slip, and then folded it with the gesture of one who handles something harmlessand familiar. “What’s the matter with you this afternoon, Mary? I thought you’d got bad news.”

She stood before him with her undefinable terror subsiding slowly under the reassuring touch of his composure.

“You knew about this, then — it’s all right?”

“Certainly I knew about it; and it’s all right.”

“But what is it? I don’t understand. What does this man accuse you of?”

“Oh, pretty nearly every crime in the calendar.” Boyne had tossed the clipping down, and thrown himself comfortably intoan arm-chair near the fire. “Do you want to hear the story? It’s not particularly interesting — just a squabble over interests

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in the Blue Star.”

“But who is this Elwell? I don’t know the name.”

“Oh, he’s a fellow I put into it — gave him a hand up. I told you all about him at the time.”

“I daresay. I must have forgotten.” Vainly she strained back among her memories. “But if you helped him, why does hemake this return?”

“Oh, probably some shyster lawyer got hold of him and talked him over. It’s all rather technical and complicated. I thoughtthat kind of thing bored you.”

His wife felt a sting of compunction. Theoretically, she deprecated the American wife’s detachment from her husband’sprofessional interests, but in practice she had always found it difficult to fix her attention on Boyne’s report of thetransactions in which his varied interests involved him. Besides, she had felt from the first that, in a community where theamenities of living could be obtained only at the cost of efforts as arduous as her husband’s professional labors, such briefleisure as they could command should be used as an escape from immediate preoccupations, a flight to the life they alwaysdreamed of living. Once or twice, now that this new life had actually drawn its magic circle about them, she had askedherself if she had done right; but hitherto such conjectures had been no more than the retrospective excursions of an activefancy. Now, for the first time, it startled her a little to find how little she knew of the material foundation on which herhappiness was built.

She glanced again at her husband, and was reassured by the composure of his face; yet she felt the need of more definitegrounds for her reassurance.

“But doesn’t this suit worry you? Why have you never spoken to me about it?”

He answered both questions at once: “I didn’t speak of it at first because it did worry me — annoyed me, rather. But it’s allancient history now. Your correspondent must have got hold of a back number of the ‘Sentinel.'”

She felt a quick thrill of relief. “You mean it’s over? He’s lost his case?”

There was a just perceptible delay in Boyne’s reply. “The suit’s been withdrawn — that’s all.”

But she persisted, as if to exonerate herself from the inward charge of being too easily put off. “Withdrawn because he sawhe had no chance?”

“Oh, he had no chance,” Boyne answered.

She was still struggling with a dimly felt perplexity at the back of her thoughts.

“How long ago was it withdrawn?”

He paused, as if with a slight return of his former uncertainty. “I’ve just had the news now; but I’ve been expecting it.”

“Just now — in one of your letters?”

“Yes; in one of my letters.”

She made no answer, and was aware only, after a short interval of waiting, that he had risen, and strolling across the room,had placed himself on the sofa at her side. She felt him, as he did so, pass an arm about her, she felt his hand seek hers andclasp it, and turning slowly, drawn by the warmth of his cheek, she met the smiling clearness of his eyes.

“It’s all right — it’s all right?” she questioned, through the flood of her dissolving doubts; and “I give you my word itnever was righter!” he laughed back at her, holding her close.

III

One of the strangest things she was afterward to recall out of all the next day’s incredible strangeness was the sudden andcomplete recovery of her sense of security.

It was in the air when she woke in her low-ceilinged, dusky room; it accompanied her down-stairs to the breakfast-table,flashed out at her from the fire, and re-duplicated itself brightly from the flanks of the urn and the sturdy flutings of theGeorgian teapot. It was as if, in some roundabout way, all her diffused apprehensions of the previous day, with theirmoment of sharp concentration about the newspaper article, — as if this dim questioning of the future, and startled return

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upon the past,-had between them liquidated the arrears of some haunting moral obligation. If she had indeed been carelessof her husband’s affairs, it was, her new state seemed to prove, because her faith in him instinctively justified suchcarelessness; and his right to her faith had overwhelmingly affirmed itself in the very face of menace and suspicion. Shehad never seen him more untroubled, more naturally and unconsciously in possession of himself, than after the cross-examination to which she had subjected him: it was almost as if he had been aware of her lurking doubts, and had wantedthe air cleared as much as she did.

It was as clear, thank Heaven! as the bright outer light that surprised her almost with a touch of summer when she issuedfrom the house for her daily round of the gardens. She had left Boyne at his desk, indulging herself, as she passed thelibrary door, by a last peep at his quiet face, where he bent, pipe in his mouth, above his papers, and now she had her ownmorning’s task to perform. The task involved on such charmed winter days almost as much delighted loitering about thedifferent quarters of her demesne as if spring were already at work on shrubs and borders. There were such inexhaustiblepossibilities still before her, such opportunities to bring out the latent graces of the old place, without a single irreverenttouch of alteration, that the winter months were all too short to plan what spring and autumn executed. And her recoveredsense of safety gave, on this particular morning, a peculiar zest to her progress through the sweet, still place. She went firstto the kitchen-garden, where the espaliered pear-trees drew complicated patterns on the walls, and pigeons were flutteringand preening about the silvery-slated roof of their cot. There was something wrong about the piping of the hothouse, andshe was expecting an authority from Dorchester, who was to drive out between trains and make a diagnosis of the boiler.But when she dipped into the damp heat of the greenhouses, among the spiced scents and waxy pinks and reds of old-fashioned exotics, — even the flora of Lyng was in the note!-she learned that the great man had not arrived, and the daybeing too rare to waste in an artificial atmosphere, she came out again and paced slowly along the springy turf of thebowling-green to the gardens behind the house. At their farther end rose a grass terrace, commanding, over the fish-pondand the yew hedges, a view of the long house-front, with its twisted chimney-stacks and the blue shadows of its roofangles, all drenched in the pale gold moisture of the air.

Seen thus, across the level tracery of the yews, under the suffused, mild light, it sent her, from its open windows andhospitably smoking chimneys, the look of some warm human presence, of a mind slowly ripened on a sunny wall ofexperience. She had never before had so deep a sense of her intimacy with it, such a conviction that its secrets were allbeneficent, kept, as they said to children, “for one’s good,” so complete a trust in its power to gather up her life and Ned’sinto the harmonious pattern of the long, long story it sat there weaving in the sun.

She heard steps behind her, and turned, expecting to see the gardener, accompanied by the engineer from Dorchester. Butonly one figure was in sight, that of a youngish, slightly built man, who, for reasons she could not on the spot havespecified, did not remotely resemble her preconceived notion of an authority on hot-house boilers. The new-comer, onseeing her, lifted his hat, and paused with the air of a gentleman — perhaps a traveler-desirous of having it immediatelyknown that his intrusion is involuntary. The local fame of Lyng occasionally attracted the more intelligent sight-seer, andMary half-expected to see the stranger dissemble a camera, or justify his presence by producing it. But he made no gestureof any sort, and after a moment she asked, in a tone responding to the courteous deprecation of his attitude: “Is there anyone you wish to see?”

“I came to see Mr. Boyne,” he replied. His intonation, rather than his accent, was faintly American, and Mary, at thefamiliar note, looked at him more closely. The brim of his soft felt hat cast a shade on his face, which, thus obscured, woreto her short-sighted gaze a look of seriousness, as of a person arriving “on business,” and civilly but firmly aware of hisrights.

Past experience had made Mary equally sensible to such claims; but she was jealous of her husband’s morning hours, anddoubtful of his having given any one the right to intrude on them.

“Have you an appointment with Mr. Boyne?” she asked.

He hesitated, as if unprepared for the question.

“Not exactly an appointment,” he replied.

“Then I’m afraid, this being his working-time, that he can’t receive you now. Will you give me a message, or come backlater?”

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The visitor, again lifting his hat, briefly replied that he would come back later, and walked away, as if to regain the front ofthe house. As his figure receded down the walk between the yew hedges, Mary saw him pause and look up an instant at thepeaceful house-front bathed in faint winter sunshine; and it struck her, with a tardy touch of compunction, that it wouldhave been more humane to ask if he had come from a distance, and to offer, in that case, to inquire if her husband couldreceive him. But as the thought occurred to her he passed out of sight behind a pyramidal yew, and at the same moment herattention was distracted by the approach of the gardener, attended by the bearded pepper-and-salt figure of the boiler-maker from Dorchester.

The encounter with this authority led to such far-reaching issues that they resulted in his finding it expedient to ignore histrain, and beguiled Mary into spending the remainder of the morning in absorbed confabulation among the greenhouses.She was startled to find, when the colloquy ended, that it was nearly luncheon-time, and she half expected, as she hurriedback to the house, to see her husband coming out to meet her. But she found no one in the court but an under-gardenerraking the gravel, and the hall, when she entered it, was so silent that she guessed Boyne to be still at work behind theclosed door of the library.

Not wishing to disturb him, she turned into the drawing-room, and there, at her writing-table, lost herself in renewedcalculations of the outlay to which the morning’s conference had committed her. The knowledge that she could permitherself such follies had not yet lost its novelty; and somehow, in contrast to the vague apprehensions of the previous days,it now seemed an element of her recovered security, of the sense that, as Ned had said, things in general had never been“righter.”

She was still luxuriating in a lavish play of figures when the parlor-maid, from the threshold, roused her with a dubiouslyworded inquiry as to the expediency of serving luncheon. It was one of their jokes that Trimmle announced luncheon as ifshe were divulging a state secret, and Mary, intent upon her papers, merely murmured an absent-minded assent.

She felt Trimmle wavering expressively on the threshold as if in rebuke of such offhand acquiescence; then her retreatingsteps sounded down the passage, and Mary, pushing away her papers, crossed the hall, and went to the library door. It wasstill closed, and she wavered in her turn, disliking to disturb her husband, yet anxious that he should not exceed his normalmeasure of work. As she stood there, balancing her impulses, the esoteric Trimmle returned with the announcement ofluncheon, and Mary, thus impelled, opened the door and went into the library.

Boyne was not at his desk, and she peered about her, expecting to discover him at the book-shelves, somewhere down thelength of the room; but her call brought no response, and gradually it became clear to her that he was not in the library.

She turned back to the parlor-maid.

“Mr. Boyne must be up-stairs. Please tell him that luncheon is ready.”

The parlor-maid appeared to hesitate between the obvious duty of obeying orders and an equally obvious conviction of thefoolishness of the injunction laid upon her. The struggle resulted in her saying doubtfully, “If you please, Madam, Mr.Boyne’s not up-stairs.”

“Not in his room? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, Madam.”

Mary consulted the clock. “Where is he, then?”

“He’s gone out,” Trimmle announced, with the superior air of one who has respectfully waited for the question that a well-ordered mind would have first propounded.

Mary’s previous conjecture had been right, then. Boyne must have gone to the gardens to meet her, and since she hadmissed him, it was clear that he had taken the shorter way by the south door, instead of going round to the court. Shecrossed the hall to the glass portal opening directly on the yew garden, but the parlormaid, after another moment of innerconflict, decided to bring out recklessly, “Please, Madam, Mr. Boyne didn’t go that way.”

Mary turned back. “Where did he go? And when?”

“He went out of the front door, up the drive, Madam.” It was a matter of principle with Trimmle never to answer more thanone question at a time.

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“Up the drive? At this hour?” Mary went to the door herself, and glanced across the court through the long tunnel of barelimes. But its perspective was as empty as when she had scanned it on entering the house.

“Did Mr. Boyne leave no message?” she asked.

Trimmle seemed to surrender herself to a last struggle with the forces of chaos.

“No, Madam. He just went out with the gentleman.”

“The gentleman? What gentleman?” Mary wheeled about, as if to front this new factor.

“The gentleman who called, Madam,” said Trimmle, resignedly.

“When did a gentleman call? Do explain yourself, Trimmle!”

Only the fact that Mary was very hungry, and that she wanted to consult her husband about the greenhouses, would havecaused her to lay so unusual an injunction on her attendant; and even now she was detached enough to note in Trimmle’seye the dawning defiance of the respectful subordinate who has been pressed too hard.

“I couldn’t exactly say the hour, Madam, because I didn’t let the gentleman in,” she replied, with the air of magnanimouslyignoring the irregularity of her mistress’s course.

“You didn’t let him in?”

“No, Madam. When the bell rang I was dressing, and Agnes –”

“Go and ask Agnes, then,” Mary interjected. Trimmle still wore her look of patient magnanimity. “Agnes would not know,Madam, for she had unfortunately burnt her hand in trying the wick of the new lamp from town –” Trimmle, as Mary wasaware, had always been opposed to the new lamp –“and so Mrs. Dockett sent the kitchen-maid instead.”

Mary looked again at the clock. “It’s after two! Go and ask the kitchen-maid if Mr. Boyne left any word.”

She went into luncheon without waiting, and Trimmle presently brought her there the kitchen-maid’s statement that thegentleman had called about one o’clock, that Mr. Boyne had gone out with him without leaving any message. The kitchen-maid did not even know the caller’s name, for he had written it on a slip of paper, which he had folded and handed to her,with the injunction to deliver it at once to Mr. Boyne.

Mary finished her luncheon, still wondering, and when it was over, and Trimmle had brought the coffee to the drawing-room, her wonder had deepened to a first faint tinge of disquietude. It was unlike Boyne to absent himself withoutexplanation at so unwonted an hour, and the difficulty of identifying the visitor whose summons he had apparently obeyedmade his disappearance the more unaccountable. Mary Boyne’s experience as the wife of a busy engineer, subject tosudden calls and compelled to keep irregular hours, had trained her to the philosophic acceptance of surprises; but sinceBoyne’s withdrawal from business he had adopted a Benedictine regularity of life. As if to make up for the dispersed andagitated years, with their “stand-up” lunches and dinners rattled down to the joltings of the dining-car, he cultivated the lastrefinements of punctuality and monotony, discouraging his wife’s fancy for the unexpected; and declaring that to a delicatetaste there were infinite gradations of pleasure in the fixed recurrences of habit.

Still, since no life can completely defend itself from the unforeseen, it was evident that all Boyne’s precautions wouldsooner or later prove unavailable, and Mary concluded that he had cut short a tiresome visit by walking with his caller tothe station, or at least accompanying him for part of the way.

This conclusion relieved her from farther preoccupation, and she went out herself to take up her conference with thegardener. Thence she walked to the village post-office, a mile or so away; and when she turned toward home, the earlytwilight was setting in.

She had taken a foot-path across the downs, and as Boyne, meanwhile, had probably returned from the station by thehighroad, there was little likelihood of their meeting on the way. She felt sure, however, of his having reached the housebefore her; so sure that, when she entered it herself, without even pausing to inquire of Trimmle, she made directly for thelibrary. But the library was still empty, and with an unwonted precision of visual memory she immediately observed thatthe papers on her husband’s desk lay precisely as they had lain when she had gone in to call him to luncheon.

Then of a sudden she was seized by a vague dread of the unknown. She had closed the door behind her on entering, and asshe stood alone in the long, silent, shadowy room, her dread seemed to take shape and sound, to be there audibly breathing

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and lurking among the shadows. Her short-sighted eyes strained through them, halfdiscerning an actual presence,something aloof, that watched and knew; and in the recoil from that intangible propinquity she threw herself suddenly onthe bell-rope and gave it a desperate pull.

The long, quavering summons brought Trimmle in precipitately with a lamp, and Mary breathed again at this soberingreappearance of the usual.

“You may bring tea if Mr. Boyne is in,” she said, to justify her ring.

“Very well, Madam. But Mr. Boyne is not in,” said Trimmle, putting down the lamp.

“Not in? You mean he’s come back and gone out again?”

“No, Madam. He’s never been back.”

The dread stirred again, and Mary knew that now it had her fast.

“Not since he went out with — the gentleman?”

“Not since he went out with the gentleman.”

“But who was the gentleman?” Mary gasped out, with the sharp note of some one trying to be heard through a confusion ofmeaningless noises.

“That I couldn’t say, Madam.” Trimmle, standing there by the lamp, seemed suddenly to grow less round and rosy, asthough eclipsed by the same creeping shade of apprehension.

“But the kitchen-maid knows — wasn’t it the kitchen-maid who let him in?”

“She doesn’t know either, Madam, for he wrote his name on a folded paper.”

Mary, through her agitation, was aware that they were both designating the unknown visitor by a vague pronoun, instead ofthe conventional formula which, till then, had kept their allusions within the bounds of custom. And at the same momenther mind caught at the suggestion of the folded paper.

“But he must have a name! Where is the paper?”

She moved to the desk, and began to turn over the scattered documents that littered it. The first that caught her eye was anunfinished letter in her husband’s hand, with his pen lying across it, as though dropped there at a sudden summons.

“My dear Parvis,” — who was Parvis? –“I have just received your letter announcing Elwell’s death, and while I supposethere is now no farther risk of trouble, it might be safer –”

She tossed the sheet aside, and continued her search; but no folded paper was discoverable among the letters and pages ofmanuscript which had been swept together in a promiscuous heap, as if by a hurried or a startled gesture.

“But the kitchen-maid saw him. Send her here,” she commanded, wondering at her dullness in not thinking sooner of sosimple a solution.

Trimmle, at the behest, vanished in a flash, as if thankful to be out of the room, and when she reappeared, conducting theagitated underling, Mary had regained her self-possession, and had her questions pat.

The gentleman was a stranger, yes — that she understood. But what had he said? And, above all, what had he looked like?The first question was easily enough answered, for the disconcerting reason that he had said so little — had merely askedfor Mr. Boyne, and, scribbling something on a bit of paper, had requested that it should at once be carried in to him.

“Then you don’t know what he wrote? You’re not sure it was his name?”

The kitchen-maid was not sure, but supposed it was, since he had written it in answer to her inquiry as to whom she shouldannounce.

“And when you carried the paper in to Mr. Boyne, what did he say?”

The kitchen-maid did not think that Mr. Boyne had said anything, but she could not be sure, for just as she had handed himthe paper and he was opening it, she had become aware that the visitor had followed her into the library, and she hadslipped out, leaving the two gentlemen together.

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“But then, if you left them in the library, how do you know that they went out of the house?”

This question plunged the witness into momentary inarticulateness, from which she was rescued by Trimmle, who, bymeans of ingenious circumlocutions, elicited the statement that before she could cross the hall to the back passage she hadheard the gentlemen behind her, and had seen them go out of the front door together.

“Then, if you saw the gentleman twice, you must be able to tell me what he looked like.”

But with this final challenge to her powers of expression it became clear that the limit of the kitchen-maid’s endurance hadbeen reached. The obligation of going to the front door to “show in” a visitor was in itself so subversive of the fundamentalorder of things that it had thrown her faculties into hopeless disarray, and she could only stammer out, after various pantingefforts at evocation, “His hat, mum, was different-like, as you might say –”

“Different? How different?” Mary flashed out at her, her own mind, in the same instant, leaping back to an image left on itthat morning, but temporarily lost under layers of subsequent impressions.

“His hat had a wide brim, you mean? and his face was pale — a youngish face?” Mary pressed her, with a white-lippedintensity of interrogation. But if the kitchen-maid found any adequate answer to this challenge, it was swept away for herlistener down the rushing current of her own convictions. The stranger — the stranger in the garden! Why had Mary notthought of him before? She needed no one now to tell her that it was he who had called for her husband and gone awaywith him. But who was he, and why had Boyne obeyed his call?

IV

It leaped out at her suddenly, like a grin out of the dark, that they had often called England so little –“such a confoundedlyhard place to get lost in.”

A confoundedly hard place to get lost in! That had been her husband’s phrase. And now, with the whole machinery ofofficial investigation sweeping its flash-lights from shore to shore, and across the dividing straits; now, with Boyne’s nameblazing from the walls of every town and village, his portrait (how that wrung her!) hawked up and down the country likethe image of a hunted criminal; now the little compact, populous island, so policed, surveyed, and administered, revealeditself as a Sphinx-like guardian of abysmal mysteries, staring back into his wife’s anguished eyes as if with the maliciousjoy of knowing something they would never know!

In the fortnight since Boyne’s disappearance there had been no word of him, no trace of his movements. Even the usualmisleading reports that raise expectancy in tortured bosoms had been few and fleeting. No one but the bewildered kitchen-maid had seen him leave the house, and no one else had seen “the gentleman” who accompanied him. All inquiries in theneighborhood failed to elicit the memory of a stranger’s presence that day in the neighborhood of Lyng. And no one hadmet Edward Boyne, either alone or in company, in any of the neighboring villages, or on the road across the downs, or ateither of the local railway-stations. The sunny English noon had swallowed him as completely as if he had gone out intoCimmerian night.

Mary, while every external means of investigation was working at its highest pressure, had ransacked her husband’s papersfor any trace of antecedent complications, of entanglements or obligations unknown to her, that might throw a faint rayinto the darkness. But if any such had existed in the background of Boyne’s life, they had disappeared as completely as theslip of paper on which the visitor had written his name. There remained no possible thread of guidance except — if it wereindeed an exception — the letter which Boyne had apparently been in the act of writing when he received his mysterioussummons. That letter, read and reread by his wife, and submitted by her to the police, yielded little enough for conjectureto feed on.

“I have just heard of Elwell’s death, and while I suppose there is now no farther risk of trouble, it might be safer –” Thatwas all. The “risk of trouble” was easily explained by the newspaper clipping which had apprised Mary of the suit broughtagainst her husband by one of his associates in the Blue Star enterprise. The only new information conveyed in the letterwas the fact of its showing Boyne, when he wrote it, to be still apprehensive of the results of the suit, though he hadassured his wife that it had been withdrawn, and though the letter itself declared that the plaintiff was dead. It took severalweeks of exhaustive cabling to fix the identity of the “Parvis” to whom the fragmentary communication was addressed, buteven after these inquiries had shown him to be a Waukesha lawyer, no new facts concerning the Elwell suit were elicited.

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He appeared to have had no direct concern in it, but to have been conversant with the facts merely as an acquaintance, andpossible intermediary; and he declared himself unable to divine with what object Boyne intended to seek his assistance.

This negative information, sole fruit of the first fortnight’s feverish search, was not increased by a jot during the slowweeks that followed. Mary knew that the investigations were still being carried on, but she had a vague sense of theirgradually slackening, as the actual march of time seemed to slacken. It was as though the days, flying horror-struck fromthe shrouded image of the one inscrutable day, gained assurance as the distance lengthened, till at last they fell back intotheir normal gait. And so with the human imaginations at work on the dark event. No doubt it occupied them still, butweek by week and hour by hour it grew less absorbing, took up less space, was slowly but inevitably crowded out of theforeground of consciousness by the new problems perpetually bubbling up from the vaporous caldron of humanexperience.

Even Mary Boyne’s consciousness gradually felt the same lowering of velocity. It still swayed with the incessantoscillations of conjecture; but they were slower, more rhythmical in their beat. There were moments of overwhelminglassitude when, like the victim of some poison which leaves the brain clear, but holds the body motionless, she saw herselfdomesticated with the Horror, accepting its perpetual presence as one of the fixed conditions of life.

These moments lengthened into hours and days, till she passed into a phase of stolid acquiescence. She watched thefamiliar routine of life with the incurious eye of a savage on whom the meaningless processes of civilization make but thefaintest impression. She had come to regard herself as part of the routine, a spoke of the wheel, revolving with its motion;she felt almost like the furniture of the room in which she sat, an insensate object to be dusted and pushed about with thechairs and tables. And this deepening apathy held her fast at Lyng, in spite of the urgent entreaties of friends and the usualmedical recommendation of “change.” Her friends supposed that her refusal to move was inspired by the belief that herhusband would one day return to the spot from which he had vanished, and a beautiful legend grew up about thisimaginary state of waiting. But in reality she had no such belief: the depths of anguish inclosing her were no longer lightedby flashes of hope. She was sure that Boyne would never come back, that he had gone out of her sight as completely as ifDeath itself had waited that day on the threshold. She had even renounced, one by one, the various theories as to hisdisappearance which had been advanced by the press, the police, and her own agonized imagination. In sheer lassitude hermind turned from these alternatives of horror, and sank back into the blank fact that he was gone.

No, she would never know what had become of him — no one would ever know. But the house knew; the library in whichshe spent her long, lonely evenings knew. For it was here that the last scene had been enacted, here that the stranger hadcome, and spoken the word which had caused Boyne to rise and follow him. The floor she trod had felt his tread; the bookson the shelves had seen his face; and there were moments when the intense consciousness of the old, dusky walls seemedabout to break out into some audible revelation of their secret. But the revelation never came, and she knew it would nevercome. Lyng was not one of the garrulous old houses that betray the secrets intrusted to them. Its very legend proved that ithad always been the mute accomplice, the incorruptible custodian of the mysteries it had surprised. And Mary Boyne,sitting face to face with its portentous silence, felt the futility of seeking to break it by any human means.

V “I don’t say it wasn’t straight, yet don’t say it was straight. It was business.”

Mary, at the words, lifted her head with a start, and looked intently at the speaker.

When, half an hour before, a card with “Mr. Parvis” on it had been brought up to her, she had been immediately aware thatthe name had been a part of her consciousness ever since she had read it at the head of Boyne’s unfinished letter. In thelibrary she had found awaiting her a small neutral-tinted man with a bald head and gold eye-glasses, and it sent a strangetremor through her to know that this was the person to whom her husband’s last known thought had been directed.

Parvis, civilly, but without vain preamble, — in the manner of a man who has his watch in his hand, — had set forth theobject of his visit. He had “run over” to England on business, and finding himself in the neighborhood of Dorchester, hadnot wished to leave it without paying his respects to Mrs. Boyne; without asking her, if the occasion offered, what shemeant to do about Bob Elwell’s family.

The words touched the spring of some obscure dread in Mary’s bosom. Did her visitor, after all, know what Boyne hadmeant by his unfinished phrase? She asked for an elucidation of his question, and noticed at once that he seemed surprisedat her continued ignorance of the subject. Was it possible that she really knew as little as she said?

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“I know nothing — you must tell me,” she faltered out; and her visitor thereupon proceeded to unfold his story. It threw,even to her confused perceptions, and imperfectly initiated vision, a lurid glare on the whole hazy episode of the Blue StarMine. Her husband had made his money in that brilliant speculation at the cost of “getting ahead” of some one less alert toseize the chance; the victim of his ingenuity was young Robert Elwell, who had “put him on” to the Blue Star scheme.

Parvis, at Mary’s first startled cry, had thrown her a sobering glance through his impartial glasses.

“Bob Elwell wasn’t smart enough, that’s all; if he had been, he might have turned round and served Boyne the same way.It’s the kind of thing that happens every day in business. I guess it’s what the scientists call the survival of the fittest,” saidMr. Parvis, evidently pleased with the aptness of his analogy.

Mary felt a physical shrinking from the next question she tried to frame; it was as though the words on her lips had a tastethat nauseated her.

“But then — you accuse my husband of doing something dishonorable?”

Mr. Parvis surveyed the question dispassionately. “Oh, no, I don’t. I don’t even say it wasn’t straight.” He glanced up anddown the long lines of books, as if one of them might have supplied him with the definition he sought. “I don’t say itwasn’t straight, and yet I don’t say it was straight. It was business.” After all, no definition in his category could be morecomprehensive than that.

Mary sat staring at him with a look of terror. He seemed to her like the indifferent, implacable emissary of some dark,formless power.

“But Mr. Elwell’s lawyers apparently did not take your view, since I suppose the suit was withdrawn by their advice.”

“Oh, yes, they knew he hadn’t a leg to stand on, technically. It was when they advised him to withdraw the suit that he gotdesperate. You see, he’d borrowed most of the money he lost in the Blue Star, and he was up a tree. That’s why he shothimself when they told him he had no show.”

The horror was sweeping over Mary in great, deafening waves.

“He shot himself? He killed himself because of that? ”

“Well, he didn’t kill himself, exactly. He dragged on two months before he died.” Parvis emitted the statement asunemotionally as a gramophone grinding out its “record.”

“You mean that he tried to kill himself, and failed? And tried again?”

“Oh, he didn’t have to try again,” said Parvis, grimly.

They sat opposite each other in silence, he swinging his eyeglass thoughtfully about his finger, she, motionless, her armsstretched along her knees in an attitude of rigid tension.

“But if you knew all this,” she began at length, hardly able to force her voice above a whisper, “how is it that when I wroteyou at the time of my husband’s disappearance you said you didn’t understand his letter?”

Parvis received this without perceptible discomfiture. “Why, I didn’t understand it — strictly speaking. And it wasn’t thetime to talk about it, if I had. The Elwell business was settled when the suit was withdrawn. Nothing I could have told youwould have helped you to find your husband.”

Mary continued to scrutinize him. “Then why are you telling me now?”

Still Parvis did not hesitate. “Well, to begin with, I supposed you knew more than you appear to — I mean about thecircumstances of Elwell’s death. And then people are talking of it now; the whole matter’s been raked up again. And Ithought, if you didn’t know, you ought to.”

She remained silent, and he continued: “You see, it’s only come out lately what a bad state Elwell’s affairs were in. Hiswife’s a proud woman, and she fought on as long as she could, going out to work, and taking sewing at home, when shegot too sick-something with the heart, I believe. But she had his bedridden mother to look after, and the children, and shebroke down under it, and finally had to ask for help. That attracted attention to the case, and the papers took it up, and asubscription was started. Everybody out there liked Bob Elwell, and most of the prominent names in the place are down onthe list, and people began to wonder why –”

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Parvis broke off to fumble in an inner pocket. “Here,” he continued, “here’s an account of the whole thing from the‘Sentinel’ — a little sensational, of course. But I guess you’d better look it over.”

He held out a newspaper to Mary, who unfolded it slowly, remembering, as she did so, the evening when, in that sameroom, the perusal of a clipping from the “Sentinel” had first shaken the depths of her security.

As she opened the paper, her eyes, shrinking from the glaring head-lines, “Widow of Boyne’s Victim Forced to Appeal forAid,” ran down the column of text to two portraits inserted in it. The first was her husband’s, taken from a photographmade the year they had come to England. It was the picture of him that she liked best, the one that stood on the writing-table up-stairs in her bedroom. As the eyes in the photograph met hers, she felt it would be impossible to read what wassaid of him, and closed her lids with the sharpness of the pain.

“I thought if you felt disposed to put your name down –” she heard Parvis continue.

She opened her eyes with an effort, and they fell on the other portrait. It was that of a youngish man, slightly built, inrough clothes, with features somewhat blurred by the shadow of a projecting hat-brim. Where had she seen that outlinebefore? She stared at it confusedly, her heart hammering in her throat and ears. Then she gave a cry.

“This is the man — the man who came for my husband!”

She heard Parvis start to his feet, and was dimly aware that she had slipped backward into the corner of the sofa, and thathe was bending above her in alarm. With an intense effort she straightened herself, and reached out for the paper, whichshe had dropped.

“It’s the man! I should know him anywhere!” she cried in a voice that sounded in her own ears like a scream.

Parvis’s voice seemed to come to her from far off, down endless, fog-muffled windings.

“Mrs. Boyne, you’re not very well. Shall I call somebody? Shall I get a glass of water?”

“No, no, no!” She threw herself toward him, her hand frantically clenching the newspaper. “I tell you, it’s the man! I knowhim! He spoke to me in the garden!”

Parvis took the journal from her, directing his glasses to the portrait. “It can’t be, Mrs. Boyne. It’s Robert Elwell.”

“Robert Elwell?” Her white stare seemed to travel into space. “Then it was Robert Elwell who came for him.”

“Came for Boyne? The day he went away?” Parvis’s voice dropped as hers rose. He bent over, laying a fraternal hand onher, as if to coax her gently back into her seat. “Why, Elwell was dead! Don’t you remember?”

Mary sat with her eyes fixed on the picture, unconscious of what he was saying.

“Don’t you remember Boyne’s unfinished letter to me — the one you found on his desk that day? It was written just afterhe’d heard of Elwell’s death.” She noticed an odd shake in Parvis’s unemotional voice. “Surely you remember that!” heurged her.

Yes, she remembered: that was the profoundest horror of it. Elwell had died the day before her husband’s disappearance;and this was Elwell’s portrait; and it was the portrait of the man who had spoken to her in the garden. She lifted her headand looked slowly about the library. The library could have borne witness that it was also the portrait of the man who hadcome in that day to call Boyne from his unfinished letter. Through the misty surgings of her brain she heard the faint boomof halfforgotten words — words spoken by Alida Stair on the lawn at Pangbourne before Boyne and his wife had ever seenthe house at Lyng, or had imagined that they might one day live there.

“This was the man who spoke to me,” she repeated.

She looked again at Parvis. He was trying to conceal his disturbance under what he imagined to be an expression ofindulgent commiseration; but the edges of his lips were blue. “He thinks me mad; but I’m not mad,” she reflected; andsuddenly there flashed upon her a way of justifying her strange affirmation.

She sat quiet, controlling the quiver of her lips, and waiting till she could trust her voice to keep its habitual level; then shesaid, looking straight at Parvis: “Will you answer me one question, please? When was it that Robert Elwell tried to killhimself?”

“When — when?” Parvis stammered.

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“Yes; the date. Please try to remember.”

She saw that he was growing still more afraid of her. “I have a reason,” she insisted gently.

“Yes, yes. Only I can’t remember. About two months before, I should say.”

“I want the date,” she repeated.

Parvis picked up the newspaper. “We might see here,” he said, still humoring her. He ran his eyes down the page. “Here itis. Last October — the –”

She caught the words from him. “The 20th, wasn’t it?” With a sharp look at her, he verified. “Yes, the 20th. Then you didknow?”

“I know now.” Her white stare continued to travel past him. “Sunday, the 20th — that was the day he came first.”

Parvis’s voice was almost inaudible. “Came here first?”

“Yes.”

“You saw him twice, then?”

“Yes, twice.” She breathed it at him with dilated eyes. “He came first on the 20th of October. I remember the date becauseit was the day we went up Meldon Steep for the first time.” She felt a faint gasp of inward laughter at the thought that butfor that she might have forgotten.

Parvis continued to scrutinize her, as if trying to intercept her gaze.

“We saw him from the roof,” she went on. “He came down the limeavenue toward the house. He was dressed just as he isin that picture. My husband saw him first. He was frightened, and ran down ahead of me; but there was no one there. Hehad vanished.”

“Elwell had vanished?” Parvis faltered.

“Yes.” Their two whispers seemed to grope for each other. “I couldn’t think what had happened. I see now. He triedtocome then; but he wasn’t dead enough — he couldn’t reach us. He had to wait for two months; and then he came backagain — and Ned went with him.”

She nodded at Parvis with the look of triumph of a child who has successfully worked out a difficult puzzle. But suddenlyshe lifted her hands with a desperate gesture, pressing them to her bursting temples.

“Oh, my God! I sent him to Ned — I told him where to go! I sent him to this room!” she screamed out.

She felt the walls of the room rush toward her, like inward falling ruins; and she heard Parvis, a long way off, as if throughthe ruins, crying to her, and struggling to get at her. But she was numb to his touch, she did not know what he was saying.Through the tumult she heard but one clear note, the voice of Alida Stair, speaking on the lawn at Pangbourne.

“You won’t know till afterward,” it said. “You won’t know till long, long afterward.”

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3.3: Sigmund Freud, excerpt from The Uncanny (1919)

Sigmund Freud, excerpt from The Uncanny (1919)

Jeanette A. Laredo

Photographic portrait of Sigmund Freud (1921)

One of the most uncanny and widespread forms of superstition is the dread of the evil eye, which has been exhaustivelystudied by the Hamburg oculist Seligmann (1910-11). There never seems to have been any doubt about the source of thisdread. Whoever possesses something that is at once valuable and fragile is afraid of other people’s envy, in so far as heprojects on to them the envy he would have felt in their place. A feeling like this betrays itself by a look even though it isnot put into words; and when a man is prominent owing to noticeable, and particularly owing to unattractive, attributes,other people are ready to believe that his envy is rising to a more than usual degree of intensity and that this intensity willconvert it into effective action. What is feared is thus a secret intention of doing harm, and certain signs are taken to meanthat that intention has the necessary power at its command.

These last examples of the uncanny are to be referred to the principle which I have called ‘omnipotence of thoughts’,taking the name from an expression used by one of my patients. And now we find ourselves on familiar ground. Ouranalysis of instances of the uncanny has led us back to the old, animistic conception of the universe. This wascharacterized by the idea that the world was peopled with the spirits of human beings; by the subject’s narcissisticovervaluation of his own mental processes; by the belief in the omnipotence of thoughts and the technique of magic basedon that belief; by the attribution to various outside persons and things of carefully graded magical powers, or ‘mana’; aswell as by all the other creations with the help of which man, in the unrestricted narcissism of that stage of development,strove to fend off the manifest prohibitions of reality. It seems as if each one of us has been through a phase of individualdevelopment corresponding to this animistic stage in primitive men, that none of us has passed through it withoutpreserving certain residues and traces of it which are still capable of manifesting themselves, and that everything whichnow strikes us as ‘uncanny’ fulfils the condition of touching those residues of animistic mental activity within us andbringing them to expression.

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At this point I will put forward two considerations which, I think, contain the gist of this short study. In the first place, ifpsychoanalytic theory is correct in maintaining that every affect belonging to an emotional impulse, whatever its kind, istransformed, if it is repressed, into anxiety, then among instances of frightening things there must be one class in which thefrightening element can be shown to be something repressed which recurs. This class of frightening things would thenconstitute the uncanny; and it must be a matter of indifference whether what is uncanny was itself originally frightening orwhether it carried some other affect. In the second place, if this is indeed the secret nature of the uncanny, we canunderstand why linguistic usage has extended das Heimliche [‘homely’] into its opposite, das Unheimliche; for thisuncanny is in reality nothing new or alien, but something which is familiar and old-established in the mind and which hasbecome alienated from it only through the process of repression. This reference to the factor of repression enables us,furthermore, to understand Schelling’s definition of the uncanny as something which ought to have remained hidden buthas come to light.

It only remains for us to test our new hypothesis on one or two more examples of the uncanny.

Many people experience the feeling in the highest degree in relation to death and dead bodies, to the return of the dead,and to spirits and ghosts. As we have seen some languages in use to-day can only render the German expression ‘anunheimlich house’ by ‘a haunted house’. We might indeed have begun our investigation with this example, perhaps themost striking of all, of something uncanny, but we refrained from doing so because the uncanny in it is too muchintermixed with what is purely gruesome and is in part overlaid by it. There is scarcely any other matter, however, uponwhich our thoughts and feelings have changed so little since the very earliest times, and in which discarded forms havebeen so completely preserved under a thin disguise, as our relation to death. Two things account for our conservatism: thestrength of our original emotional reaction to death and the insufficiency of our scientific knowledge about it. Biology hasnot yet been able to decide whether death is the inevitable fate of every living being or whether it is only a regular but yetperhaps avoidable event in life. It is true that the statement ‘All men are mortal’ is paraded in text-books of logic as anexample of a general proposition; but no human being really grasps it, and our unconscious has as little use now as it everhad for the idea of its own mortality. Religions continue to dispute the importance of the undeniable fact of individualdeath and to postulate a life after death; civil governments still believe that they cannot maintain moral order among theliving if they do not uphold the prospect of a better life hereafter as a recompense for mundane existence. In our greatcities, placards announce lectures that undertake to tell us how to get into touch with the souls of the departed; and itcannot be denied that not a few of the most able and penetrating minds among our men of science have come to theconclusion, especially towards the close of their own lives, that a contact of this kind is not impossible. Since almost all ofus still think as savages do on this topic, it is no matter for surprise that the primitive fear of the dead is still so strongwithin us and always ready to come to the surface on any provocation. Most likely our fear still implies the old belief thatthe dead man becomes the enemy of his survivor and seeks to carry him off to share his new life with him. Considering ourunchanged attitude towards death, we might rather enquire what has become of the repression, which is the necessarycondition of a primitive feeling recurring in the shape of something uncanny. But repression is there, too. All supposedlyeducated people have ceased to believe officially that the dead can become visible as spirits, and have made any suchappearances dependent on improbable and remote conditions; their emotional attitude towards their dead, moreover, once ahighly ambiguous and ambivalent one, has been toned down in the higher strata of the mind into an unambiguous feelingof piety.

We have now only a few remarks to add — for animism, magic and sorcery, the omnipotence of thoughts, man’s attitude todeath, involuntary repetition and the castration complex comprise practically all the factors which turn somethingfrightening into something uncanny. . .

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3.4: H.P. Lovecraft, “The Picture in the House” (1920)

H.P. Lovecraft, “The Picture in the House” (1920)

Jeanette A. Laredo

A photograph of H. P. Lovecraft taken in June 1934.

Born in Providence, Rhode Island in 1890, H.P. Lovecraft was an intelligent child whose early years would be tinged bytragedy. While he was still a newborn, his father Winfield Scott Lovecraft experienced mental deterioration due tountreated syphilis. Two years later his father was labeled mentally insane and sent to a sanitarium where he died five yearslater. Lovecraft became obsessed with astrology growing up, an obsession nurtured by his grandmother. As a teenager,Lovecraft continued this interest in the cosmos and wrote writing monthly articles on astrology for the Providence Tribune.His later fiction was heavily influenced by the Gothic short stories of Edgar Allen Poe. Lovecraft experienced literarysuccess in 1928 when the horror magazine Weird Tales purchased “The Call of Cthulhu” which featured a cosmic entitythat would become the centerpiece of his unique Lovecraftian universe of fictional terror. “The Picture in the House” ismore traditionally Gothic than Lovecraft’s later weird fiction and concerns a New England genealogist who encounters athreatening old man in a dilapidated house.

Searchers after horror haunt strange, far places. For them are the catacombs of Ptolemais, and the carven mausolea of thenightmare countries. They climb to the moonlit towers of ruined Rhine castles, and falter down black cobwebbed stepsbeneath the scattered stones of forgotten cities in Asia. The haunted wood and the desolate mountain are their shrines, andthey linger around the sinister monoliths on uninhabited islands. But the true epicure in the terrible, to whom a new thrillof unutterable ghastliness is the chief end and justification of existence, esteems most of all the ancient, lonely farmhousesof backwoods New England; for there the dark elements of strength, solitude, grotesqueness and ignorance combine toform the perfection of the hideous.

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Most horrible of all sights are the little unpainted wooden houses remote from travelled ways, usually squatted upon somedamp grassy slope or leaning against some gigantic outcropping of rock. Two hundred years and more they have leaned orsquatted there, while the vines have crawled and the trees have swelled and spread. They are almost hidden now in lawlessluxuriances of green and guardian shrouds of shadow; but the small-paned windows still stare shockingly, as if blinkingthrough a lethal stupor which wards off madness by dulling the memory of unutterable things.

In such houses have dwelt generations of strange people, whose like the world has never seen. Seized with a gloomy andfanatical belief which exiled them from their kind, their ancestors sought the wilderness for freedom. There the scions of aconquering race indeed flourished free from the restrictions of their fellows, but cowered in an appalling slavery to thedismal phantasms of their own minds. Divorced from the enlightenment of civilization, the strength of these Puritansturned into singular channels; and in their isolation, morbid self-repression, and struggle for life with relentless Nature,there came to them dark furtive traits from the prehistoric depths of their cold Northern heritage. By necessity practical andby philosophy stern, these folks were not beautiful in their sins. Erring as all mortals must, they were forced by their rigidcode to seek concealment above all else; so that they came to use less and less taste in what they concealed. Only thesilent, sleepy, staring houses in the backwoods can tell all that has lain hidden since the early days, and they are notcommunicative, being loath to shake off the drowsiness which helps them forget. Sometimes one feels that it would bemerciful to tear down these houses, for they must often dream.

It was to a time-battered edifice of this description that I was driven one afternoon in November, 1896, by a rain of suchchilling copiousness that any shelter was preferable to exposure. I had been travelling for some time amongst the people ofthe Miskatonic Valley in quest of certain genealogical data; and from the remote, devious, and problematical nature of mycourse, had deemed it convenient to employ a bicycle despite the lateness of the season. Now I found myself upon anapparently abandoned road which I had chosen as the shortest cut to Arkham, overtaken by the storm at a point far fromany town, and confronted with no refuge save the antique and repellent wooden building which blinked with blearedwindows from between two huge leafless elms near the foot of a rocky hill. Distant though it is from the remnant of a road,this house none the less impressed me unfavorably the very moment I espied it. Honest, wholesome structures do not stareat travellers so slyly and hauntingly, and in my genealogical researches I had encountered legends of a century beforewhich biased me against places of this kind. Yet the force of the elements was such as to overcome my scruples, and I didnot hesitate to wheel my machine up the weedy rise to the closed door which seemed at once so suggestive and secretive.

I had somehow taken it for granted that the house was abandoned, yet as I approached it I was not so sure, for though thewalks were indeed overgrown with weeds, they seemed to retain their nature a little too well to argue complete desertion.Therefore instead of trying the door I knocked, feeling as I did so a trepidation I could scarcely explain. As I waited on therough, mossy rock which served as a door-step, I glanced at the neighboring windows and the panes of the transom aboveme, and noticed that although old, rattling, and almost opaque with dirt, they were not broken. The building, then, muststill be inhabited, despite its isolation and general neglect. However, my rapping evoked no response, so after repeating thesummons I tried the rusty latch and found the door unfastened. Inside was a little vestibule with walls from which theplaster was falling, and through the doorway came a faint but peculiarly hateful odor. I entered, carrying my bicycle, andclosed the door behind me. Ahead rose a narrow staircase, flanked by a small door probably leading to the cellar, while tothe left and right were closed doors leading to rooms on the ground floor.

Leaning my cycle against the wall I opened the door at the left, and crossed into a small low-ceiled chamber but dimlylighted by its two dusty windows and furnished in the barest and most primitive possible way. It appeared to be a kind ofsitting-room, for it had a table and several chairs, and an immense fireplace above which ticked an antique clock on amantel. Books and papers were very few, and in the prevailing gloom I could not readily discern the titles. What interestedme was the uniform air of archaism as displayed in every visible detail. Most of the houses in this region I had found richin relics of the past, but here the antiquity was curiously complete; for in all the room I could not discover a single articleof definitely post-revolutionary date. Had the furnishings been less humble, the place would have been a collector’sparadise.

As I surveyed this quaint apartment, I felt an increase in that aversion first excited by the bleak exterior of the house. Justwhat it was that I feared or loathed, I could by no means define; but something in the whole atmosphere seemed redolentof unhallowed age, of unpleasant crudeness, and of secrets which should be forgotten. I felt disinclined to sit down, andwandered about examining the various articles which I had noticed. The first object of my curiosity was a book of mediumsize lying upon the table and presenting such an antediluvian aspect that I marvelled at beholding it outside a museum or

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library. It was bound in leather with metal fittings, and was in an excellent state of preservation; being altogether anunusual sort of volume to encounter in an abode so lowly. When I opened it to the title page my wonder grew even greater,for it proved to be nothing less rare than Pigafetta’s account of the Congo region, written in Latin from the notes of thesailor Lopex and printed at Frankfurt in 1598. I had often heard of this work, with its curious illustrations by the brothersDe Bry, hence for a moment forgot my uneasiness in my desire to turn the pages before me. The engravings were indeedinteresting, drawn wholly from imagination and careless descriptions, and represented negroes with white skins andCaucasian features; nor would I soon have closed the book had not an exceedingly trivial circumstance upset my tirednerves and revived my sensation of disquiet. What annoyed me was merely the persistent way in which the volume tendedto fall open of itself at Plate XII, which represented in gruesome detail a butcher’s shop of the cannibal Anziques. Iexperienced some shame at my susceptibility to so slight a thing, but the drawing nevertheless disturbed me, especially inconnection with some adjacent passages descriptive of Anzique gastronomy.

I had turned to a neighboring shelf and was examining its meagre literary contents—an eighteenth century Bible, a“Pilgrim’s Progress” of like period, illustrated with grotesque woodcuts and printed by the almanack-maker IsaiahThomas, the rotting bulk of Cotton Mather’s “Magnalia Christi Americana,” and a few other books of evidently equal age—when my attention was aroused by the unmistakable sound of walking in the room overhead. At first astonished andstartled, considering the lack of response to my recent knocking at the door, I immediately afterward concluded that thewalker had just awakened from a sound sleep, and listened with less surprise as the footsteps sounded on the creakingstairs. The tread was heavy, yet seemed to contain a curious quality of cautiousness; a quality which I disliked the morebecause the tread was heavy. When I had entered the room I had shut the door behind me. Now, after a moment of silenceduring which the walker may have been inspecting my bicycle in the hall, I heard a fumbling at the latch and saw thepaneled portal swing open again.

In the doorway stood a person of such singular appearance that I should have exclaimed aloud but for the restraints of goodbreeding. Old, white-bearded, and ragged, my host possessed a countenance and physique which inspired equal wonderand respect. His height could not have been less than six feet, and despite a general air of age and poverty he was stout andpowerful in proportion. His face, almost hidden by a long beard which grew high on the cheeks, seemed abnormally ruddyand less wrinkled than one might expect; while over a high forehead fell a shock of white hair little thinned by the years.His blue eyes, though a trifle bloodshot, seemed inexplicably keen and burning. But for his horrible unkemptness the manwould have been as distinguished-looking as he was impressive. This unkemptness, however, made him offensive despitehis face and figure. Of what his clothing consisted I could hardly tell, for it seemed to me no more than a mass of tatterssurmounting a pair of high, heavy boots; and his lack of cleanliness surpassed description.

The appearance of this man, and the instinctive fear he inspired, prepared me for something like enmity; so that I almostshuddered through surprise and a sense of uncanny incongruity when he motioned me to a chair and addressed me in athin, weak voice full of fawning respect and ingratiating hospitality. His speech was very curious, an extreme form ofYankee dialect I had thought long extinct; and I studied it closely as he sat down opposite me for conversation.

“Ketched in the rain, be ye?” he greeted. “Glad ye was nigh the haouse en’ hed the sense ta come right in. I calc’late I wasasleep, else I’d a heerd ye—I ain’t as young as I uster be, an’ I need a paowerful sight o’ naps naowadays. Trav’lin fur? Ihain’t seed many folks ‘long this rud sence they tuk off the Arkham stage.”

I replied that I was going to Arkham, and apologized for my rude entry into his domicile, whereupon he continued.

“Glad ta see ye, young Sir—new faces is scurce arount here, an’ I hain’t got much ta cheer me up these days. Guess yewhail from Bosting, don’t ye? I never ben thar, but I kin tell a taown man when I see ‘im—we hed one fer deestrickschoolmaster in ‘eighty-four, but he quit suddent an’ no one never heerd on ‘im sence—” here the old man lapsed into akind of chuckle, and made no explanation when I questioned him. He seemed to be in an aboundingly good humor, yet topossess those eccentricities which one might guess from his grooming. For some time he rambled on with an almostfeverish geniality, when it struck me to ask him how he came by so rare a book as Pigafetta’s “Regnum Congo.” The effectof this volume had not left me, and I felt a certain hesitancy in speaking of it, but curiosity overmastered all the vague fearswhich had steadily accumulated since my first glimpse of the house. To my relief, the question did not seem an awkwardone, for the old man answered freely and volubly.

“Oh, that Afriky book? Cap’n Ebenezer Holt traded me thet in ‘sixty-eight—him as was kilt in the war.” Something aboutthe name of Ebenezer Holt caused me to look up sharply. I had encountered it in my genealogical work, but not in any

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record since the Revolution. I wondered if my host could help me in the task at which I was laboring, and resolved to askhim about it later on. He continued.

“Ebenezer was on a Salem merchantman for years, an’ picked up a sight o’ queer stuff in every port. He got this inLondon, I guess—he uster like ter buy things at the shops. I was up ta his haouse onct, on the hill, tradin’ hosses, when Isee this book. I relished the picters, so he give it in on a swap. ‘Tis a queer book—here, leave me git on my spectacles—”The old man fumbled among his rags, producing a pair of dirty and amazingly antique glasses with small octagonal lensesand steel bows. Donning these, he reached for the volume on the table and turned the pages lovingly.

“Ebenezer cud read a leetle o’ this—’tis Latin—but I can’t. I had two er three schoolmasters read me a bit, and PassonClark, him they say got draownded in the pond—kin yew make anything outen it?” I told him that I could, and translatedfor his benefit a paragraph near the beginning. If I erred, he was not scholar enough to correct me; for he seemed childishlypleased at my English version. His proximity was becoming rather obnoxious, yet I saw no way to escape withoutoffending him. I was amused at the childish fondness of this ignorant old man for the pictures in a book he could not read,and wondered how much better he could read the few books in English which adorned the room. This revelation ofsimplicity removed much of the ill-defined apprehension I had felt, and I smiled as my host rambled on:

“Queer haow picters kin set a body thinkin’. Take this un here near the front. Hey yew ever seed trees like thet, with bigleaves a floppin’ over an’ daown? And them men—them can’t be niggers—they dew beat all. Kinder like Injuns, I guess,even ef they be in Afriky. Some o’ these here critters looks like monkeys, or half monkeys an’ half men, but I never heerdo’ nothin’ like this un.” Here he pointed to a fabulous creature of the artist, which one might describe as a sort of dragonwith the head of an alligator.

“But naow I’ll show ye the best un—over here nigh the middle—”The old man’s speech grew a trifle thicker and his eyesassumed a brighter glow; but his fumbling hands, though seemingly clumsier than before, were entirely adequate to theirmission. The book fell open, almost of its own accord and as if from frequent consultation at this place, to the repellenttwelfth plate showing a butcher’s shop amongst the Anzique cannibals. My sense of restlessness returned, though I did notexhibit it. The especially bizarre thing was that the artist had made his Africans look like white men—the limbs andquarters hanging about the walls of the shop were ghastly, while the butcher with his axe was hideously incongruous. Butmy host seemed to relish the view as much as I disliked it.

“What d’ye think o’ this—ain’t never see the like hereabouts, eh? When I see this I telled Eb Holt, ‘That’s suthin’ ta stir yeup an’ make yer blood tickle.’ When I read in Scripter about slayin’—like them Midianites was slew—I kinder thinkthings, but I ain’t got no picter of it. Here a body kin see all they is to it—I s’pose ’tis sinful, but ain’t we all born an’ livin’in sin?—Thet feller bein’ chopped up gives me a tickle every time I look at ‘im—I hey ta keep lookin’ at ‘im—see wharthe butcher cut off his feet? Thar’s his head on thet bench, with one arm side of it, an’ t’other arm’s on the other side o’ themeat block.”

As the man mumbled on in his shocking ecstasy the expression on his hairy, spectacled face became indescribable, but hisvoice sank rather than mounted. My own sensations can scarcely be recorded. All the terror I had dimly felt before rushedupon me actively and vividly, and I knew that I loathed the ancient and abhorrent creature so near me with an infiniteintensity. His madness, or at least his partial perversion, seemed beyond dispute. He was almost whispering now, with ahuskiness more terrible than a scream, and I trembled as I listened.

“As I says, ’tis queer haow picters sets ye thinkin’. D’ye know, young Sir, I’m right sot on this un here. Arter I got thebook off Eb I uster look at it a lot, especial when I’d heerd Passon Clark rant o’ Sundays in his big wig. Onct I tried suthin’funny—here, young Sir, don’t git skeert—all I done was ter look at the picter afore I kilt the sheep for market—killin’sheep was kinder more fun arter lookin’ at it—” The tone of the old man now sank very low, sometimes becoming so faintthat his words were hardly audible. I listened to the rain, and to the rattling of the bleared, small-paned windows, andmarked a rumbling of approaching thunder quite unusual for the season. Once a terrific flash and peal shook the frail houseto its foundations, but the whisperer seemed not to notice it.

“Killin’ sheep was kinder more fun—but d’ye know, ‘twan’t quite satisfyin’. Queer haow a cravin’ gits a holt on ye—Asye love the Almighty, young man, don’t tell nobody, but I swar ter Gawd thet picter begun to make me hungry fer victualsI couldn’t raise nor buy—here, set still, what’s ailin’ ye?—I didn’t do nothin’, only I wondered haow ‘twud be ef I did—They say meat makes blood an’ flesh, an’ gives ye new life, so I wondered ef ‘twudn’t make a man live longer an’ longeref ’twas more the same—” But the whisperer never continued. The interruption was not produced by my fright, nor by the

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rapidly increasing storm amidst whose fury I was presently to open my eyes on a smoky solitude of blackened ruins. It wasproduced by a very simple though somewhat unusual happening.

The open book lay flat between us, with the picture staring repulsively upward. As the old man whispered the words “morethe same” a tiny splattering impact was heard, and something showed on the yellowed paper of the upturned volume. Ithought of the rain and of a leaky roof, but rain is not red. On the butcher’s shop of the Anzique cannibals a small redspattering glistened picturesquely, lending vividness to the horror of the engraving. The old man saw it, and stoppedwhispering even before my expression of horror made it necessary; saw it and glanced quickly toward the floor of theroom he had left an hour before. I followed his glance, and beheld just above us on the loose plaster of the ancient ceiling alarge irregular spot of wet crimson which seemed to spread even as I viewed it. I did not shriek or move, but merely shutmy eyes. A moment later came the titanic thunderbolt of thunderbolts; blasting that accursed house of unutterable secretsand bringing the oblivion which alone saved my mind.

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3.5: Virginia Woolf, “A Haunted House” (1921)

Virginia Woolf, “A Haunted House” (1921)

Jeanette A. Laredo

Portrait of Virginia Woolf.

Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, openingthere, making sure—a ghostly couple.

“Here we left it,” she said. And he added, “Oh, but here too!” “It’s upstairs,” she murmured. “And in the garden,” hewhispered “Quietly,” they said, “or we shall wake them.”

But it wasn’t that you woke us. Oh, no. “They’re looking for it; they’re drawing the curtain,” one might say, and so read ona page or two. “Now they’ve found it,” one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading,one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling withcontent and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. “What did I come in here for? What did I want tofind?” My hands were empty. “Perhaps it’s upstairs then?” The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden stillas ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.

But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The window panes reflected apples, reflectedroses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet,the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling—what?My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drewits bubble of sound. “Safe, safe, safe,” the pulse of the house beat softly. “The treasure buried; the room…” the pulsestopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?

A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. Sofine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burnt behind the glass. Death was the glass; deathwas between us; coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms

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were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, foundit dropped beneath the Downs. “Safe, safe, safe,” the pulse of the house beat gladly. “The Treasure yours.”

The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. Butthe beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house,opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy.

“Here we slept,” she says. And he adds, “Kisses without number.” “Waking in the morning—” “Silver between the trees—” “Upstairs—” “In the garden—” “When summer came—” “In winter snowtime—” The doors go shutting far in thedistance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.

Nearer they come; cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken; we hear nosteps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. “Look,” he breathes. “Sound asleep.Love upon their lips.”

Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; theflame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the facespondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.

“Safe, safe, safe,” the heart of the house beats proudly. “Long years—” he sighs. “Again you found me.” “Here,” shemurmurs, “sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure—” Stooping, theirlight lifts the lids upon my eyes. “Safe! safe! safe!” the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry “Oh, is this yourburied treasure? The light in the heart.”

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3.6: Resources for Instructors

Resources for Instructors

Jeanette A. Laredo

Slides

IndexDdire

Glossary

Sample Word 1 | SampleDefinition 1