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Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
Wilde, Oscar
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L
ord Arthur Savile's Crime and Other Stories
by Oscar Wilde
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
2
CHAPTER I
I
T was Lady Windermere's last reception before Easter, and Bentinck House was even
more crowded than usual. Six Cabinet Ministers had come on from the Speaker's Levee in
their stars and ribands, all the pretty women wore their smartest dresses, and at the end of
the picture−gallery stood the Princess Sophia of Carlsruhe, a heavy Tartar−looking lady,
with tiny black eyes and wonderful emeralds, talking bad French at the top of her voice, and
laughing immoderately at everything that was said to her. It was certainly a wonderful
medley of people. Gorgeous peeresses chatted affably to violent Radicals, popular preachers
brushed coat−tails with eminent sceptics, a perfect bevy of bishops kept following a stout
prima−donna from room to room, on the staircase stood several Royal Academicians,
disguised as artists, and it was said that at one time the supper−room was absolutely
crammed with geniuses. In fact, it was one of Lady Windermere's best nights, and the
Princess stayed till nearly half−past eleven.
As soon as she had gone, Lady Windermere returned to the picture− gallery, where a
celebrated political economist was solemnly explaining the scientific theory of music to an
indignant virtuoso from Hungary, and began to talk to the Duchess of Paisley. She looked
wonderfully beautiful with her grand ivory throat, her large blue forget−me−not eyes, and
her heavy coils of golden hair. Or pur they were − not that pale straw colour that nowadays
usurps the gracious name of gold, but such gold as is woven into sunbeams or hidden in
strange amber; and they gave to her face something of the frame of a saint, with not a little
of the fascination of a sinner. She was a curious psychological study. Early in life she had
discovered the important truth that nothing looks so like innocence as an indiscretion; and
by a series of reckless escapades, half of them quite harmless, she had acquired all the
privileges of a personality. She had more than once changed her husband; indeed, Debrett
credits her with three marriages; but as she had never changed her lover, the world had long
ago ceased to talk scandal about her. She was now forty years of age, childless, and with that
inordinate passion for pleasure which is the secret of remaining young.
Suddenly she looked eagerly round the room, and said, in her clear contralto voice,
'Where is my cheiromantist?'
'Your what, Gladys?' exclaimed the Duchess, giving an involuntary start.
'My cheiromantist, Duchess; I can't live without him at present.'
'Dear Gladys! you are always so original,' murmured the Duchess, trying to remember
what a cheiromantist really was, and hoping it was not the same as a cheiropodist.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER I 4
'He comes to see my hand twice a week regularly,' continued Lady Windermere, 'and is
most interesting about it.'
'Good heavens!' said the Duchess to herself, 'he is a sort of cheiropodist after all. How
very dreadful. I hope he is a foreigner at any rate. It wouldn't be quite so bad then.'
'I must certainly introduce him to you.'
'Introduce him!' cried the Duchess; 'you don't mean to say he is here?' and she began
looking about for a small tortoise−shell fan and a very tattered lace shawl, so as to be ready
to go at a moment's notice.
'Of course he is here; I would not dream of giving a party without him. He tells me I
have a pure psychic hand, and that if my thumb had been the least little bit shorter, I should
have been a confirmed pessimist, and gone into a convent.'
'Oh, I see!' said the Duchess, feeling very much relieved; 'he tells fortunes, I suppose?'
'And misfortunes, too,' answered Lady Windermere, 'any amount of them. Next year,
for instance, I am in great danger, both by land and sea, so I am going to live in a balloon,
and draw up my dinner in a basket every evening. It is all written down on my little finger,
or on the palm of my hand, I forget which.'
'But surely that is tempting Providence, Gladys.'
'My dear Duchess, surely Providence can resist temptation by this time. I think every
one should have their hands told once a month, so as to know what not to do. Of course, one
does it all the same, but it is so pleasant to be warned. Now if some one doesn't go and fetch
Mr. Podgers at once, I shall have to go myself.'
'Let me go, Lady Windermere,' said a tall handsome young man, who was standing by,
listening to the conversation with an amused smile.
'Thanks so much, Lord Arthur; but I am afraid you wouldn't recognise him.'
'If he is as wonderful as you say, Lady Windermere, I couldn't well miss him. Tell me
what he is like, and I'll bring him to you at once.'
'Well, he is not a bit like a cheiromantist. I mean he is not mysterious, or esoteric, or
romantic−looking. He is a little, stout man, with a funny, bald head, and great gold−rimmed
spectacles; something between a family doctor and a country attorney. I'm really very sorry,
but it is not my fault. People are so annoying. All my pianists look exactly like poets, and all
my poets look exactly like pianists; and I remember last season asking a most dreadful
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER I 5
conspirator to dinner, a man who had blown up ever so many people, and always wore a
coat of mail, and carried a dagger up his shirt−sleeve; and do you know that when he came
he looked just like a nice old clergyman, and cracked jokes all the evening? Of course, he
was very amusing, and all that, but I was awfully disappointed; and when I asked him about
the coat of mail, he only laughed, and said it was far too cold to wear in England. Ah, here is
Mr. Podgers! Now, Mr. Podgers, I want you to tell the Duchess of Paisley's hand. Duchess,
you must take your glove off. No, not the left hand, the other.'
'Dear Gladys, I really don't think it is quite right,' said the Duchess, feebly unbuttoning a
rather soiled kid glove.
'Nothing interesting ever is,' said Lady Windermere: 'ON A fait le monde ainsi. But I
must introduce you. Duchess, this is Mr. Podgers, my pet cheiromantist. Mr. Podgers, this is
the Duchess of Paisley, and if you say that she has a larger mountain of the moon than I
have, I will never believe in you again.'
'I am sure, Gladys, there is nothing of the kind in my hand,' said the Duchess gravely.
'Your Grace is quite right,' said Mr. Podgers, glancing at the little fat hand with its short
square fingers, 'the mountain of the moon is not developed. The line of life, however, is
excellent. Kindly bend the wrist. Thank you. Three distinct lines on the Rascette! You will
live to a great age, Duchess, and be extremely happy. Ambition − very moderate, line of
intellect not exaggerated, line of heart − '
'Now, do be indiscreet, Mr. Podgers,' cried Lady Windermere.
'Nothing would give me greater pleasure,' said Mr. Podgers, bowing, 'if the Duchess
ever had been, but I am sorry to say that I see great permanence of affection, combined with
a strong sense of duty.'
'Pray go on, Mr. Podgers,' said the Duchess, looking quite pleased.
'Economy is not the least of your Grace's virtues,' continued Mr. Podgers, and Lady
Windermere went off into fits of laughter.
'Economy is a very good thing,' remarked the Duchess complacently; 'when I married
Paisley he had eleven castles, and not a single house fit to live in.'
'And now he has twelve houses, and not a single castle,' cried Lady Windermere.
'Well, my dear,' said the Duchess, 'I like − '
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CHAPTER I 6
'Comfort,' said Mr. Podgers, 'and modern improvements, and hot water laid on in every
bedroom. Your Grace is quite right. Comfort is the only thing our civilisation can give us.
'You have told the Duchess's character admirably, Mr. Podgers, and now you must tell
Lady Flora's'; and in answer to a nod from the smiling hostess, a tall girl, with sandy Scotch
hair, and high shoulder−blades, stepped awkwardly from behind the sofa, and held out a
long, bony hand with spatulate fingers.
'Ah, a pianist! I see,' said Mr. Podgers, 'an excellent pianist, but perhaps hardly a
musician. Very reserved, very honest, and with a great love of animals.'
'Quite true!' exclaimed the Duchess, turning to Lady Windermere, 'absolutely true!
Flora keeps two dozen collie dogs at Macloskie, and would turn our town house into a
menagerie if her father would let her.'
'Well, that is just what I do with my house every Thursday evening,' cried Lady
Windermere, laughing, 'only I like lions better than collie dogs.'
'Your one mistake, Lady Windermere,' said Mr. Podgers, with a pompous bow.
'If a woman can't make her mistakes charming, she is only a female,' was the answer.
'But you must read some more hands for us. Come, Sir Thomas, show Mr. Podgers yours';
and a genial− looking old gentleman, in a white waistcoat, came forward, and held out a
thick rugged hand, with a very long third finger.
'An adventurous nature; four long voyages in the past, and one to come. Been
ship−wrecked three times. No, only twice, but in danger of a shipwreck your next journey. A
strong Conservative, very punctual, and with a passion for collecting curiosities. Had a
severe illness between the ages sixteen and eighteen. Was left a fortune when about thirty.
Great aversion to cats and Radicals.'
'Extraordinary!' exclaimed Sir Thomas; 'you must really tell my wife's hand, too.'
'Your second wife's,' said Mr. Podgers quietly, still keeping Sir Thomas's hand in his.
'Your second wife's. I shall be charmed'; but Lady Marvel, a melancholy−looking woman,
with brown hair and sentimental eyelashes, entirely declined to have her past or her future
exposed; and nothing that Lady Windermere could do would induce Monsieur de Koloff, the
Russian Ambassador, even to take his gloves off. In fact, many people seemed afraid to face
the odd little man with his stereotyped smile, his gold spectacles, and his bright, beady eyes;
and when he told poor Lady Fermor, right out before every one, that she did not care a bit
for music, but was extremely fond of musicians, it was generally felt that cheiromancy was a
most dangerous science, and one that ought not to be encouraged, except in a
TETE−A−TETE.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER I 7
Lord Arthur Savile, however, who did not know anything about Lady Fermor's
unfortunate story, and who had been watching Mr. Podgers with a great deal of interest, was
filled with an immense curiosity to have his own hand read, and feeling somewhat shy about
putting himself forward, crossed over the room to where Lady Windermere was sitting, and,
with a charming blush, asked her if she thought Mr. Podgers would mind.
'Of course, he won't mind,' said Lady Windermere, 'that is what he is here for. All my
lions, Lord Arthur, are performing lions, and jump through hoops whenever I ask them. But
I must warn you beforehand that I shall tell Sybil everything. She is coming to lunch with
me to−morrow, to talk about bonnets, and if Mr. Podgers finds out that you have a bad
temper, or a tendency to gout, or a wife living in Bayswater, I shall certainly let her know all
about it.'
Lord Arthur smiled, and shook his head. 'I am not afraid,' he answered. 'Sybil knows me
as well as I know her.'
'Ah! I am a little sorry to hear you say that. The proper basis for marriage is a mutual
misunderstanding. No, I am not at all cynical, I have merely got experience, which,
however, is very much the same thing. Mr. Podgers, Lord Arthur Savile is dying to have his
hand read. Don't tell him that he is engaged to one of the most beautiful girls in London,
because that appeared in the Morning post a month ago.
'Dear Lady Windermere,' cried the Marchioness of Jedburgh, 'do let Mr. Podgers stay
here a little longer. He has just told me I should go on the stage, and I am so interested.'
'If he has told you that, Lady Jedburgh, I shall certainly take him away. Come over at
once, Mr. Podgers, and read Lord Arthur's hand.'
'Well,' said Lady Jedburgh, making a little Moue as she rose from the sofa, 'if I am not
to be allowed to go on the stage, I must be allowed to be part of the audience at any rate.'
'Of course; we are all going to be part of the audience,' said Lady Windermere; 'and
now, Mr. Podgers, be sure and tell us something nice. Lord Arthur is one of my special
favourites.'
But when Mr. Podgers saw Lord Arthur's hand he grew curiously pale, and said
nothing. A shudder seemed to pass through him, and his great bushy eyebrows twitched
convulsively, in an odd, irritating way they had when he was puzzled. Then some huge
beads of perspiration broke out on his yellow forehead, like a poisonous dew, and his fat
fingers grew cold and clammy.
Lord Arthur did not fail to notice these strange signs of agitation, and, for the first time
in his life, he himself felt fear. His impulse was to rush from the room, but he restrained
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER I 8
himself. It was better to know the worst, whatever it was, than to be left in this hideous
uncertainty.
'I am waiting, Mr. Podgers,' he said.
'We are all waiting,' cried Lady Windermere, in her quick, impatient manner, but the
cheiromantist made no reply.
'I believe Arthur is going on the stage,' said Lady Jedburgh, 'and that, after your
scolding, Mr. Podgers is afraid to tell him so.'
Suddenly Mr. Podgers dropped Lord Arthur's right hand, and seized hold of his left,
bending down so low to examine it that the gold rims of his spectacles seemed almost to
touch the palm. For a moment his face became a white mask of horror, but he soon
recovered his SANG−FROID, and looking up at Lady Windermere, said with a forced
smile, 'It is the hand of a charming young man.
'Of course it is!' answered Lady Windermere, 'but will he be a charming husband? That
is what I want to know.'
'All charming young men are,' said Mr. Podgers.
'I don't think a husband should be too fascinating,' murmured Lady Jedburgh pensively,
'it is so dangerous.'
'My dear child, they never are too fascinating,' cried Lady Windermere. 'But what I
want are details. Details are the only things that interest. What is going to happen to Lord
Arthur?'
'Well, within the next few months Lord Arthur will go a voyage − '
'Oh yes, his honeymoon, of course!'
'And lose a relative.'
'Not his sister, I hope?' said Lady Jedburgh, in a piteous tone of voice.
'Certainly not his sister,' answered Mr. Podgers, with a deprecating wave of the hand, 'a
distant relative merely.'
'Well, I am dreadfully disappointed,' said Lady Windermere. 'I have absolutely nothing
to tell Sybil to−morrow. No one cares about distant relatives nowadays. They went out of
fashion years ago. However, I suppose she had better have a black silk by her; it always does
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER I 9
for church, you know. And now let us go to supper. They are sure to have eaten everything
up, but we may find some hot soup. Francois used to make excellent soup once, but he is so
agitated about politics at present, that I never feel quite certain about him. I do wish General
Boulanger would keep quiet. Duchess, I am sure you are tired?'
'Not at all, dear Gladys,' answered the Duchess, waddling towards the door. 'I have
enjoyed myself immensely, and the cheiropodist, I mean the cheiromantist, is most
interesting. Flora, where can my tortoise−shell fan be? Oh, thank you, Sir Thomas, so much.
And my lace shawl, Flora? Oh, thank you, Sir Thomas, very kind, I'm sure'; and the worthy
creature finally managed to get downstairs without dropping her scent−bottle more than
twice.
All this time Lord Arthur Savile had remained standing by the fireplace, with the same
feeling of dread over him, the same sickening sense of coming evil. He smiled sadly at his
sister, as she swept past him on Lord Plymdale's arm, looking lovely in her pink brocade and
pearls, and he hardly heard Lady Windermere when she called to him to follow her. He
thought of Sybil Merton, and the idea that anything could come between them made his eyes
dim with tears.
Looking at him, one would have said that Nemesis had stolen the shield of Pallas, and
shown him the Gorgon's head. He seemed turned to stone, and his face was like marble in its
melancholy. He had lived the delicate and luxurious life of a young man of birth and
fortune, a life exquisite in its freedom from sordid care, its beautiful boyish insouciance; and
now for the first time he became conscious of the terrible mystery of Destiny, of the awful
meaning of Doom.
How mad and monstrous it all seemed! Could it be that written on his hand, in
characters that he could not read himself, but that another could decipher, was some fearful
secret of sin, some blood− red sign of crime? Was there no escape possible? Were we no
better than chessmen, moved by an unseen power, vessels the potter fashions at his fancy,
for honour or for shame? His reason revolted against it, and yet he felt that some tragedy
was hanging over him, and that he had been suddenly called upon to bear an intolerable
burden. Actors are so fortunate. They can choose whether they will appear in tragedy or in
comedy, whether they will suffer or make merry, laugh or shed tears. But in real life it is
different. Most men and women are forced to perform parts for which they have no
qualifications. Our Guildensterns play Hamlet for us, and our Hamlets have to jest like
Prince Hal. The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast.
Suddenly Mr. Podgers entered the room. When he saw Lord Arthur he started, and his
coarse, fat face became a sort of greenish−yellow colour. The two men's eyes met, and for a
moment there was silence.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER I 10
'The Duchess has left one of her gloves here, Lord Arthur, and has asked me to bring it
to her,' said Mr. Podgers finally. 'Ah, I see it on the sofa! Good evening.'
'Mr. Podgers, I must insist on your giving me a straightforward answer to a question I
am going to put to you.'
'Another time, Lord Arthur, but the Duchess is anxious. I am afraid I must go.'
'You shall not go. The Duchess is in no hurry.'
'Ladies should not be kept waiting, Lord Arthur,' said Mr. Podgers, with his sickly
smile. 'The fair sex is apt to be impatient.'
Lord Arthur's finely−chiselled lips curled in petulant disdain. The poor Duchess seemed
to him of very little importance at that moment. He walked across the room to where Mr.
Podgers was standing, and held his hand out.
'Tell me what you saw there,' he said. 'Tell me the truth. I must know it. I am not a
child.'
Mr. Podgers's eyes blinked behind his gold−rimmed spectacles, and he moved uneasily
from one foot to the other, while his fingers played nervously with a flash watch−chain.
'What makes you think that I saw anything in your hand, Lord Arthur, more than I told
you?'
'I know you did, and I insist on your telling me what it was. I will pay you. I will give
you a cheque for a hundred pounds.'
The green eyes flashed for a moment, and then became dull again.
'Guineas?' said Mr. Podgers at last, in a low voice.
'Certainly. I will send you a cheque to−morrow. What is your club?'
'I have no club. That is to say, not just at present. My address is −, but allow me to give
you my card'; and producing a bit of gilt−edge pasteboard from his waistcoat pocket, Mr.
Podgers handed it, with a low bow, to Lord Arthur, who read on it,
MR. Septimus r. Podgers Professional cheiromantist 103A West moon street
'My hours are from ten to four,' murmured Mr. Podgers mechanically, 'and I make a
reduction for families.'
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER I 11
'Be quick,' cried Lord Arthur, looking very pale, and holding his hand out.
Mr. Podgers glanced nervously round, and drew the heavy Portiere across the door.
'It will take a little time, Lord Arthur, you had better sit down.'
'Be quick, sir,' cried Lord Arthur again, stamping his foot angrily on the polished floor.
Mr. Podgers smiled, drew from his breast−pocket a small magnifying glass, and wiped
it carefully with his handkerchief
'I am quite ready,' he said.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER I 12
CHAPTER II
T
EN minutes later, with face blanched by terror, and eyes wild with grief, Lord Arthur
Savile rushed from Bentinck House, crushing his way through the crowd of fur−coated
footmen that stood round the large striped awning, and seeming not to see or hear anything.
The night was bitter cold, and the gas−lamps round the square flared and flickered in the
keen wind; but his hands were hot with fever, and his forehead burned like fire. On and on
he went, almost with the gait of a drunken man. A policeman looked curiously at him as he
passed, and a beggar, who slouched from an archway to ask for alms, grew frightened,
seeing misery greater than his own. Once he stopped under a lamp, and looked at his hands.
He thought he could detect the stain of blood already upon them, and a faint cry broke from
his trembling lips.
Murder! that is what the cheiromantist had seen there. Murder! The very night seemed
to know it, and the desolate wind to howl it in his ear. The dark corners of the streets were
full of it. It grinned at him from the roofs of the houses.
First he came to the Park, whose sombre woodland seemed to fascinate him. He leaned
wearily up against the railings, cooling his brow against the wet metal, and listening to the
tremulous silence of the trees. 'Murder! murder!' he kept repeating, as though iteration could
dim the horror of the word. The sound of his own voice made him shudder, yet he almost
hoped that Echo might hear him, and wake the slumbering city from its dreams. He felt a
mad desire to stop the casual passer−by, and tell him everything.
Then he wandered across Oxford Street into narrow, shameful alleys. Two women with
painted faces mocked at him as he went by. From a dark courtyard came a sound of oaths
and blows, followed by shrill screams, and, huddled upon a damp door−step, he saw the
crook− backed forms of poverty and eld. A strange pity came over him. Were these children
of sin and misery predestined to their end, as he to his? Were they, like him, merely the
puppets of a monstrous show?
And yet it was not the mystery, but the comedy of suffering that struck him; its absolute
uselessness, its grotesque want of meaning. How incoherent everything seemed! How
lacking in all harmony! He was amazed at the discord between the shallow optimism of the
day, and the real facts of existence. He was still very young.
After a time he found himself in front of Marylebone Church. The silent roadway
looked like a long riband of polished silver, flecked here and there by the dark arabesques of
waving shadows. Far into the distance curved the line of flickering gas−lamps, and outside a
little walled−in house stood a solitary hansom, the driver asleep inside. He walked hastily in
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER II 13
the direction of Portland Place, now and then looking round, as though he feared that he was
being followed. At the corner of Rich Street stood two men, reading a small bill upon a
hoarding. An odd feeling of curiosity stirred him, and he crossed over. As he came near, the
word 'Murder,' printed in black letters, met his eye. He started, and a deep flush came into
his cheek. It was an advertisement offering a reward for any information leading to the arrest
of a man of medium height, between thirty and forty years of age, wearing a billy−cock hat,
a black coat, and check trousers, and with a scar upon his right cheek. He read it over and
over again, and wondered if the wretched man would be caught, and how he had been
scarred. Perhaps, some day, his own name might be placarded on the walls of London. Some
day, perhaps, a price would be set on his head also.
The thought made him sick with horror. He turned on his heel, and hurried on into the
night.
Where he went he hardly knew. He had a dim memory of wandering through a labyrinth
of sordid houses, of being lost in a giant web of sombre streets, and it was bright dawn when
he found himself at last in Piccadilly Circus. As he strolled home towards Belgrave Square,
he met the great waggons on their way to Covent Garden. The white−smocked carters, with
their pleasant sunburnt faces and coarse curly hair, strode sturdily on, cracking their whips,
and calling out now and then to each other; on the back of a huge grey horse, the leader of a
jangling team, sat a chubby boy, with a bunch of primroses in his battered hat, keeping tight
hold of the mane with his little hands, and laughing; and the great piles of vegetables looked
like masses of jade against the morning sky, like masses of green jade against the pink petals
of some marvellous rose. Lord Arthur felt curiously affected, he could not tell why. There
was something in the dawn's delicate loveliness that seemed to him inexpressibly pathetic,
and he thought of all the days that break in beauty, and that set in storm. These rustics, too,
with their rough, good−humoured voices, and their nonchalant ways, what a strange London
they saw! A London free from the sin of night and the smoke of day, a pallid, ghost−like
city, a desolate town of tombs! He wondered what they thought of it, and whether they knew
anything of its splendour and its shame, of its fierce, fiery− coloured joys, and its horrible
hunger, of all it makes and mars from morn to eve. Probably it was to them merely a mart
where they brought their fruits to sell, and where they tarried for a few hours at most,
leaving the streets still silent, the houses still asleep. It gave him pleasure to watch them as
they went by. Rude as they were, with their heavy, hob−nailed shoes, and their awkward
gait, they brought a little of a ready with them. He felt that they had lived with Nature, and
that she had taught them peace. He envied them all that they did not know.
By the time he had reached Belgrave Square the sky was a faint blue, and the birds were
beginning to twitter in the gardens.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER II 14
CHAPTER III
W
HEN Lord Arthur woke it was twelve o'clock, and the midday sun was streaming
through the ivory−silk curtains of his room. He got up and looked out of the window. A dim
haze of heat was hanging over the great city, and the roofs of the houses were like dull
silver. In the flickering green of the square below some children were flitting about like
white butterflies, and the pavement was crowded with people on their way to the Park.
Never had life seemed lovelier to him, never had the things of evil seemed more remote.
Then his valet brought him a cup of chocolate on a tray. After he had drunk it, he drew
aside a heavy Portiere of peach−coloured plush, and passed into the bathroom. The light
stole softly from above, through thin slabs of transparent onyx, and the water in the marble
tank glimmered like a moonstone. He plunged hastily in, till the cool ripples touched throat
and hair, and then dipped his head right under, as though he would have wiped away the
stain of some shameful memory. When he stepped out he felt almost at peace. The exquisite
physical conditions of the moment had dominated him, as indeed often happens in the case
of very finely−wrought natures, for the senses, like fire, can purify as well as destroy.
After breakfast, he flung himself down on a divan, and lit a cigarette. On the
mantel−shelf, framed in dainty old brocade, stood a large photograph of Sybil Merton, as he
had seen her first at Lady Noel's ball. The small, exquisitely−shaped head drooped slightly
to one side, as though the thin, reed−like throat could hardly bear the burden of so much
beauty; the lips were slightly parted, and seemed made for sweet music; and all the tender
purity of girlhood looked out in wonder from the dreaming eyes. With her soft, clinging
dress of CREPE−DE−CHINE, and her large leaf−shaped fan, she looked like one of those
delicate little figures men find in the olive−woods near Tanagra; and there was a touch of
Greek grace in her pose and attitude. Yet she was not Petite. She was simply perfectly
proportioned − a rare thing in an age when so many women are either over life−size or
insignificant.
Now as Lord Arthur looked at her, he was filled with the terrible pity that is born of
love. He felt that to marry her, with the doom of murder hanging over his head, would be a
betrayal like that of Judas, a sin worse than any the Borgia had ever dreamed of. What
happiness could there be for them, when at any moment he might be called upon to carry out
the awful prophecy written in his hand? What manner of life would be theirs while Fate still
held this fearful fortune in the scales? The marriage must be postponed, at all costs. Of this
he was quite resolved. Ardently though he loved the girl, and the mere touch of her fingers,
when they sat together, made each nerve of his body thrill with exquisite joy, he recognised
none the less clearly where his duty lay, and was fully conscious of the fact that he had no
right to marry until he had committed the murder. This done, he could stand before the altar
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER III 15
with Sybil Merton, and give his life into her hands without terror of wrongdoing. This done,
he could take her to his arms, knowing that she would never have to blush for him, never
have to hang her head in shame. But done it must be first; and the sooner the better for both.
Many men in his position would have preferred the primrose path of dalliance to the
steep heights of duty; but Lord Arthur was too conscientious to set pleasure above principle.
There was more than mere passion in his love; and Sybil was to him a symbol of all that is
good and noble. For a moment he had a natural repugnance against what he was asked to do,
but it soon passed away. His heart told him that it was not a sin, but a sacrifice; his reason
reminded him that there was no other course open. He had to choose between living for
himself and living for others, and terrible though the task laid upon him undoubtedly was,
yet he knew that he must not suffer selfishness to triumph over love. Sooner or later we are
all called upon to decide on the same issue − of us all, the same question is asked. To Lord
Arthur it came early in life − before his nature had been spoiled by the calculating cynicism
of middle−age, or his heart corroded by the shallow, fashionable egotism of our day, and he
felt no hesitation about doing his duty. Fortunately also, for him, he was no mere dreamer,
or idle dilettante. Had he been so, he would have hesitated, like Hamlet, and let irresolution
mar his purpose. But he was essentially practical. Life to him meant action, rather than
thought. He had that rarest of all things, common sense.
The wild, turbid feelings of the previous night had by this time completely passed away,
and it was almost with a sense of shame that he looked back upon his mad wanderings from
street to street, his fierce emotional agony. The very sincerity of his sufferings made them
seem unreal to him now. He wondered how he could have been so foolish as to rant and rave
about the inevitable. The only question that seemed to trouble him was, whom to make away
with; for he was not blind to the fact that murder, like the religions of the Pagan world,
requires a victim as well as a priest. Not being a genius, he had no enemies, and indeed he
felt that this was not the time for the gratification of any personal pique or dislike, the
mission in which he was engaged being one of great and grave solemnity. He accordingly
made out a list of his friends and relatives on a sheet of notepaper, and after careful
consideration, decided in favour of Lady Clementina Beauchamp, a dear old lady who lived
in Curzon Street, and was his own second cousin by his mother's side. He had always been
very fond of Lady Clem, as every one called her, and as he was very wealthy himself,
having come into all Lord Rugby's property when he came of age, there was no possibility
of his deriving any vulgar monetary advantage by her death. In fact, the more he thought
over the matter, the more she seemed to him to be just the right person, and, feeling that any
delay would be unfair to Sybil, he determined to make his arrangements at once.
The first thing to be done was, of course, to settle with the cheiromantist; so he sat
down at a small Sheraton writing−table that stood near the window, drew a cheque for 105
pounds, payable to the order of Mr. Septimus Podgers, and, enclosing it in an envelope, told
his valet to take it to West Moon Street. He then telephoned to the stables for his hansom,
and dressed to go out. As he was leaving the room he looked back at Sybil Merton's
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER III 16
photograph, and swore that, come what may, he would never let her know what he was
doing for her sake, but would keep the secret of his self−sacrifice hidden always in his heart.
On his way to the Buckingham, he stopped at a florist's, and sent Sybil a beautiful
basket of narcissus, with lovely white petals and staring pheasants' eyes, and on arriving at
the club, went straight to the library, rang the bell, and ordered the waiter to bring him a
lemon−and−soda, and a book on Toxicology. He had fully decided that poison was the best
means to adopt in this troublesome business. Anything like personal violence was extremely
distasteful to him, and besides, he was very anxious not to murder Lady Clementina in any
way that might attract public attention, as he hated the idea of being lionised at Lady
Windermere's, or seeing his name figuring in the paragraphs of vulgar society − newspapers.
He had also to think of Sybil's father and mother, who were rather old−fashioned people,
and might possibly object to the marriage if there was anything like a scandal, though he felt
certain that if he told them the whole facts of the case they would be the very first to
appreciate the motives that had actuated him. He had every reason, then, to decide in favour
of poison. It was safe, sure, and quiet, and did away with any necessity for painful scenes, to
which, like most Englishmen, he had a rooted objection.
Of the science of poisons, however, he knew absolutely nothing, and as the waiter
seemed quite unable to find anything in the library but RUFF'S Guide and BAILEY'S
Magazine, he examined the book− shelves himself, and finally came across a
handsomely−bound edition of the Pharmacopoeia, and a copy of Erskine's
Toxicology, edited by Sir Mathew Reid, the President of the Royal College of Physicians,
and one of the oldest members of the Buckingham, having been elected in mistake for
somebody else; a CONTRETEMPS that so enraged the Committee, that when the real man
came up they black−balled him unanimously. Lord Arthur was a good deal puzzled at the
technical terms used in both books, and had begun to regret that he had not paid more
attention to his classics at Oxford, when in the second volume of Erskine, he found a very
interesting and complete account of the properties of aconitine, written in fairly clear
English. It seemed to him to be exactly the poison he wanted. It was swift − indeed, almost
immediate, in its effect − perfectly painless, and when taken in the form of a gelatine
capsule, the mode recommended by Sir Mathew, not by any means unpalatable. He
accordingly made a note, upon his shirt−cuff, of the amount necessary for a fatal dose, put
the books back in their places, and strolled up St. James's Street, to Pestle and Humbey's, the
great chemists. Mr. Pestle, who always attended personally on the aristocracy, was a good
deal surprised at the order, and in a very deferential manner murmured something about a
medical certificate being necessary. However, as soon as Lord Arthur explained to him that
it was for a large Norwegian mastiff that he was obliged to get rid of, as it showed signs of
incipient rabies, and had already bitten the coachman twice in the calf of the leg, he
expressed himself as being perfectly satisfied, complimented Lord Arthur on his wonderful
knowledge of Toxicology, and had the prescription made up immediately.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER III 17
Lord Arthur put the capsule into a pretty little silver Bonbonniere that he saw in a shop
window in Bond Street, threw away Pestle and Hambey's ugly pill−box, and drove off at
once to Lady Clementina's.
'Well, Monsieur le mauvais SUJET,' cried the old lady, as he entered the room, 'why
haven't you been to see me all this time?'
'My dear Lady Clem, I never have a moment to myself,' said Lord Arthur, smiling.
'I suppose you mean that you go about all day long with Miss Sybil Merton, buying
Chiffons and talking nonsense? I cannot understand why people make such a fuss about
being married. In my day we never dreamed of billing and cooing in public, or in private for
that matter.'
'I assure you I have not seen Sybil for twenty−four hours, Lady Clem. As far as I can
make out, she belongs entirely to her milliners.'
'Of course; that is the only reason you come to see an ugly old woman like myself. I
wonder you men don't take warning. On a fait des folies pour moi, and here I am, a poor
rheumatic creature, with a false front and a bad temper. Why, if it were not for dear Lady
Jansen, who sends me all the worst French novels she can find, I don't think I could get
through the day. Doctors are no use at all, except to get fees out of one. They can't even cure
my heartburn.'
'I have brought you a cure for that, Lady Clem,' said Lord Arthur gravely. 'It is a
wonderful thing, invented by an American.'
'I don't think I like American inventions, Arthur. I am quite sure I don't. I read some
American novels lately, and they were quite nonsensical.'
'Oh, but there is no nonsense at all about this, Lady Clem! I assure you it is a perfect
cure. You must promise to try it'; and Lord Arthur brought the little box out of his pocket,
and handed it to her.
'Well, the box is charming, Arthur. Is it really a present? That is very sweet of you. And
is this the wonderful medicine? It looks like a BONBON. I'll take it at once.'
'Good heavens! Lady Clem,' cried Lord Arthur, catching hold of her hand, 'you mustn't
do anything of the kind. It is a homoeopathic medicine, and if you take it without having
heartburn, it might do you no end of harm. Wait till you have an attack, and take it then. You
will be astonished at the result.'
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER III 18
'I should like to take it now,' said Lady Clementina, holding up to the light the little
transparent capsule, with its floating bubble of liquid aconitine. I am sure it is delicious. The
fact is that, though I hate doctors, I love medicines. However, I'll keep it till my next attack.'
'And when will that be?' asked Lord Arthur eagerly. 'Will it be soon?'
'I hope not for a week. I had a very bad time yesterday morning with it. But one never
knows.'
'You are sure to have one before the end of the month then, Lady Clem?'
'I am afraid so. But how sympathetic you are to−day, Arthur! Really, Sybil has done
you a great deal of good. And now you must run away, for I am dining with some very dull
people, who won't talk scandal, and I know that if I don't get my sleep now I shall never be
able to keep awake during dinner. Good−bye, Arthur, give my love to Sybil, and thank you
so much for the American medicine.'
'You won't forget to take it, Lady Clem, will you?' said Lord Arthur, rising from his
seat.
'Of course I won't, you silly boy. I think it is most kind of you to think of me, and I shall
write and tell you if I want any more.'
Lord Arthur left the house in high spirits, and with a feeling of immense relief.
That night he had an interview with Sybil Merton. He told her how he had been
suddenly placed in a position of terrible difficulty, from which neither honour nor duty
would allow him to recede. He told her that the marriage must be put off for the present, as
until he had got rid of his fearful entanglements, he was not a free man. He implored her to
trust him, and not to have any doubts about the future. Everything would come right, but
patience was necessary.
The scene took place in the conservatory of Mr. Merton's house, in Park Lane, where
Lord Arthur had dined as usual. Sybil had never seemed more happy, and for a moment
Lord Arthur had been tempted to play the coward's part, to write to Lady Clementina for the
pill, and to let the marriage go on as if there was no such person as Mr. Podgers in the world.
His better nature, however, soon asserted itself, and even when Sybil flung herself weeping
into his arms, he did not falter. The beauty that stirred his senses had touched his conscience
also. He felt that to wreck so fair a life for the sake of a few months' pleasure would be a
wrong thing to do.
He stayed with Sybil till nearly midnight, comforting her and being comforted in turn,
and early the next morning he left for Venice, after writing a manly, firm letter to Mr.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER III 19
Merton about the necessary postponement of the marriage.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER III 20
CHAPTER IV
I
N Venice he met his brother, Lord Surbiton, who happened to have come over from
Corfu in his yacht. The two young men spent a delightful fortnight together. In the morning
they rode on the Lido, or glided up and down the green canals in their long black gondola; in
the afternoon they usually entertained visitors on the yacht; and in the evening they dined at
Florian's, and smoked innumerable cigarettes on the Piazza. Yet somehow Lord Arthur was
not happy. Every day he studied the obituary column in the Times, expecting to see a notice
of Lady Clementina's death, but every day he was disappointed. He began to be afraid that
some accident had happened to her, and often regretted that he had prevented her taking the
aconitine when she had been so anxious to try its effect. Sybil's letters, too, though full of
love, and trust, and tenderness, were often very sad in their tone, and sometimes he used to
think that he was parted from her for ever.
After a fortnight Lord Surbiton got bored with Venice, and determined to run down the
coast to Ravenna, as he heard that there was some capital cock−shooting in the Pinetum.
Lord Arthur at first refused absolutely to come, but Surbiton, of whom he was extremely
fond, finally persuaded him that if he stayed at Danieli's by himself he would be moped to
death, and on the morning of the 15th they started, with a strong nor'−east wind blowing,
and a rather choppy sea. The sport was excellent, and the free, open− air life brought the
colour back to Lord Arthur's cheek, but about the 22nd he became anxious about Lady
Clementina, and, in spite of Surbiton's remonstrances, came back to Venice by train.
As he stepped out of his gondola on to the hotel steps, the proprietor came forward to
meet him with a sheaf of telegrams. Lord Arthur snatched them out of his hand, and tore
them open. Everything had been successful. Lady Clementina had died quite suddenly on
the night of the 17th!
His first thought was for Sybil, and he sent her off a telegram announcing his immediate
return to London. He then ordered his valet to pack his things for the night mail, sent his
gondoliers about five times their proper fare, and ran up to his sitting−room with a light step
and a buoyant heart. There he found three letters waiting for him. One was from Sybil
herself, full of sympathy and condolence. The others were from his mother, and from Lady
Clementina's solicitor. It seemed that the old lady had dined with the Duchess that very
night, had delighted every one by her wit and Esprit, but had gone home somewhat early,
complaining of heartburn. In the morning she was found dead in her bed, having apparently
suffered no pain. Sir Mathew Reid had been sent for at once, but, of course, there was
nothing to be done, and she was to be buried on the 22nd at Beauchamp Chalcote. A few
days before she died she had made her will, and left Lord Arthur her little house in Curzon
Street, and all her furniture, personal effects, and pictures, with the exception of her
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER IV 21
collection of miniatures, which was to go to her sister, Lady Margaret Rufford, and her
amethyst necklace, which Sybil Merton was to have. The property was not of much value;
but Mr. Mansfield, the solicitor, was extremely anxious for Lord Arthur to return at once, if
possible, as there were a great many bills to be paid, and Lady Clementina had never kept
any regular accounts.
Lord Arthur was very much touched by Lady Clementina's kind remembrance of him,
and felt that Mr. Podgers had a great deal to answer for. His love of Sybil, however,
dominated every other emotion, and the consciousness that he had done his duty gave him
peace and comfort. When he arrived at Charing Cross, he felt perfectly happy.
The Mertons received him very kindly. Sybil made him promise that he would never
again allow anything to come between them, and the marriage was fixed for the 7th June.
Life seemed to him once more bright and beautiful, and all his old gladness came back to
him again.
One day, however, as he was going over the house in Curzon Street, in company with
Lady Clementina's solicitor and Sybil herself, burning packages of faded letters, and turning
out drawers of odd rubbish, the young girl suddenly gave a little cry of delight.
'What have you found, Sybil?' said Lord Arthur, looking up from his work, and smiling.
'This lovely little silver Bonbonniere, Arthur. Isn't it quaint and Dutch? Do give it to
me! I know amethysts won't become me till I am over eighty.'
It was the box that had held the aconitine.
Lord Arthur started, and a faint blush came into his cheek. He had almost entirely
forgotten what he had done, and it seemed to him a curious coincidence that Sybil, for
whose sake he had gone through all that terrible anxiety, should have been the first to
remind him of it.
'Of course you can have it, Sybil. I gave it to poor Lady Clem myself.'
'Oh! thank you, Arthur; and may I have the Bonbon too? I had no notion that Lady
Clementina liked sweets. I thought she was far too intellectual.'
Lord Arthur grew deadly pale, and a horrible idea crossed his mind.
'BONBON, Sybil? What do you mean?' he said in a slow, hoarse voice.
'There is one in it, that is all. It looks quite old and dusty, and I have not the slightest
intention of eating it. What is the matter, Arthur? How white you look!'
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER IV 22
Lord Arthur rushed across the room, and seized the box. Inside it was the
amber−coloured capsule, with its poison−bubble. Lady Clementina had died a natural death
after all!
The shock of the discovery was almost too much for him. He flung the capsule into the
fire, and sank on the sofa with a cry of despair.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER IV 23
CHAPTER V
M
R. Merton was a good deal distressed at the second postponement of the marriage,
and Lady Julia, who had already ordered her dress for the wedding, did all in her power to
make Sybil break off the match. Dearly, however, as Sybil loved her mother, she had given
her whole life into Lord Arthur's hands, and nothing that Lady Julia could say could make
her waver in her faith. As for Lord Arthur himself, it took him days to get over his terrible
disappointment, and for a time his nerves were completely unstrung. His excellent common
sense, however, soon asserted itself, and his sound, practical mind did not leave him long in
doubt about what to do. Poison having proved a complete failure, dynamite, or some other
form of explosive, was obviously the proper thing to try.
He accordingly looked again over the list of his friends and relatives, and, after careful
consideration, determined to blow up his uncle, the Dean of Chichester. The Dean, who was
a man of great culture and learning, was extremely fond of clocks, and had a wonderful
collection of timepieces, ranging from the fifteenth century to the present day, and it seemed
to Lord Arthur that this hobby of the good Dean's offered him an excellent opportunity for
carrying out his scheme. Where to procure an explosive machine was, of course, quite
another matter. The London Directory gave him no information on the point, and he felt that
there was very little use in going to Scotland Yard about it, as they never seemed to know
anything about the movements of the dynamite faction till after an explosion had taken
place, and not much even then.
Suddenly he thought of his friend Rouvaloff, a young Russian of very revolutionary
tendencies, whom he had met at Lady Windermere's in the winter. Count Rouvaloff was
supposed to be writing a life of Peter the Great, and to have come over to England for the
purpose of studying the documents relating to that Tsar's residence in this country as a ship
carpenter; but it was generally suspected that he was a Nihilist agent, and there was no doubt
that the Russian Embassy did not look with any favour upon his presence in London. Lord
Arthur felt that he was just the man for his purpose, and drove down one morning to his
lodgings in Bloomsbury, to ask his advice and assistance.
'So you are taking up politics seriously?' said Count Rouvaloff, when Lord Arthur had
told him the object of his mission; but Lord Arthur, who hated swagger of any kind, felt
bound to admit to him that he had not the slightest interest in social questions, and simply
wanted the explosive machine for a purely family matter, in which no one was concerned
but himself.
Count Rouvaloff looked at him for some moments in amazement, and then seeing that
he was quite serious, wrote an address on a piece of paper, initialled it, and handed it to him
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER V 24
across the table.
'Scotland Yard would give a good deal to know this address, my dear fellow.'
'They shan't have it,' cried Lord Arthur, laughing; and after shaking the young Russian
warmly by the hand he ran downstairs, examined the paper, and told the coachman to drive
to Soho Square.
There he dismissed him, and strolled down Greek Street, till he came to a place called
Bayle's Court. He passed under the archway, and found himself in a curious
CUL−DE−SAC, that was apparently occupied by a French Laundry, as a perfect network of
clothes−lines was stretched across from house to house, and there was a flutter of white
linen in the morning air. He walked right to the end, and knocked at a little green house.
After some delay, during which every window in the court became a blurred mass of peering
faces, the door was opened by a rather rough−looking foreigner, who asked him in very bad
English what his business was. Lord Arthur handed him the paper Count Rouvaloff had
given him. When the man saw it he bowed, and invited Lord Arthur into a very shabby front
parlour on the ground floor, and in a few moments Herr Winckelkopf, as he was called in
England, bustled into the room, with a very wine− stained napkin round his neck, and a fork
in his left hand.
'Count Rouvaloff has given me an introduction to you,' said Lord Arthur, bowing, 'and I
am anxious to have a short interview with you on a matter of business. My name is Smith,
Mr. Robert Smith, and I want you to supply me with an explosive clock.'
'Charmed to meet you, Lord Arthur,' said the genial little German, laughing. 'Don't look
so alarmed, it is my duty to know everybody, and I remember seeing you one evening at
Lady Windermere's. I hope her ladyship is quite well. Do you mind sitting with me while I
finish my breakfast? There is an excellent Pate, and my friends are kind enough to say that
my Rhine wine is better than any they get at the German Embassy,' and before Lord Arthur
had got over his surprise at being recognised, he found himself seated in the back− room,
sipping the most delicious Marcobrunner out of a pale yellow hock−glass marked with the
Imperial monogram, and chatting in the friendliest manner possible to the famous
conspirator.
'Explosive clocks,' said Herr Winckelkopf, 'are not very good things for foreign
exportation, as, even if they succeed in passing the Custom House, the train service is so
irregular, that they usually go off before they have reached their proper destination. If,
however, you want one for home use, I can supply you with an excellent article, and
guarantee that you will he satisfied with the result. May I ask for whom it is intended? If it is
for the police, or for any one connected with Scotland Yard, I am afraid I cannot do anything
for you. The English detectives are really our best friends, and I have always found that by
relying on their stupidity, we can do exactly what we like. I could not spare one of them.'
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER V 25
'I assure you,' said Lord Arthur, 'that it has nothing to do with the police at all. In fact,
the clock is intended for the Dean of Chichester.'
'Dear me! I had no idea that you felt so strongly about religion, Lord Arthur. Few young
men do nowadays.'
'I am afraid you overrate me, Herr Winckelkopf,' said Lord Arthur, blushing. 'The fact
is, I really know nothing about theology.'
'It is a purely private matter then?'
'Purely private.'
Herr Winckelkopf shrugged his shoulders, and left the room, returning in a few minutes
with a round cake of dynamite about the size of a penny, and a pretty little French clock,
surmounted by an ormolu figure of Liberty trampling on the hydra of Despotism.
Lord Arthur's face brightened up when he saw it. 'That is just what I want,' he cried,
'and now tell me how it goes off.'
'Ah! there is my secret,' answered Herr Winckelkopf, contemplating his invention with a
justifiable look of pride; 'let me know when you wish it to explode, and I will set the
machine to the moment.'
'Well, to−day is Tuesday, and if you could send it off at once − '
'That is impossible; I have a great deal of important work on hand for some friends of
mine in Moscow. Still, I might send it off to− morrow.'
'Oh, it will be quite time enough!' said Lord Arthur politely, 'if it is delivered
to−morrow night or Thursday morning. For the moment of the explosion, say Friday at noon
exactly. The Dean is always at home at that hour.'
'Friday, at noon,' repeated Herr Winckelkopf, and he made a note to that effect in a large
ledger that was lying on a bureau near the fireplace.
'And now,' said Lord Arthur, rising from his seat, 'pray let me know how much I am in
your debt.'
'It is such a small matter, Lord Arthur, that I do not care to make any charge. The
dynamite comes to seven and sixpence, the clock will be three pounds ten, and the carriage
about five shillings. I am only too pleased to oblige any friend of Count Rouvaloff's.'
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER V 26
'But your trouble, Herr Winckelkopf?'
'Oh, that is nothing! It is a pleasure to me. I do not work for money; I live entirely for
my art.'
Lord Arthur laid down 4 pounds, 2s. 6d. on the table, thanked the little German for his
kindness, and, having succeeded in declining an invitation to meet some Anarchists at a
meat−tea on the following Saturday, left the house and went off to the Park.
For the next two days he was in a state of the greatest excitement, and on Friday at
twelve o'clock he drove down to the Buckingham to wait for news. All the afternoon the
stolid hall−porter kept posting up telegrams from various parts of the country giving the
results of horse−races, the verdicts in divorce suits, the state of the weather, and the like,
while the tape ticked out wearisome details about an all−night sitting in the House of
Commons, and a small panic on the Stock Exchange. At four o'clock the evening papers
came in, and Lord Arthur disappeared into the library with the Pall mall, the ST. JAMES'S,
the Globe, and the Echo, to the immense indignation of Colonel Goodchild, who wanted to
read the reports of a speech he had delivered that morning at the Mansion House, on the
subject of South African Missions, and the advisability of having black Bishops in every
province, and for some reason or other had a strong prejudice against the Evening
news. None of the papers, however, contained even the slightest allusion to Chichester, and
Lord Arthur felt that the attempt must have failed. It was a terrible blow to him, and for a
time he was quite unnerved. Herr Winckelkopf, whom he went to see the next day was full
of elaborate apologies, and offered to supply him with another clock free of charge, or with
a case of nitro−glycerine bombs at cost price. But he had lost all faith in explosives, and
Herr Winckelkopf himself acknowledged that everything is so adulterated nowadays, that
even dynamite can hardly be got in a pure condition. The little German, however, while
admitting that something must have gone wrong with the machinery, was not without hope
that the clock might still go off, and instanced the case of a barometer that he had once sent
to the military Governor at Odessa, which, though timed to explode in ten days, had not
done so for something like three months. It was quite true that when it did go off, it merely
succeeded in blowing a housemaid to atoms, the Governor having gone out of town six
weeks before, but at least it showed that dynamite, as a destructive force, was, when under
the control of machinery, a powerful, though a somewhat unpunctual agent. Lord Arthur
was a little consoled by this reflection, but even here he was destined to disappointment, for
two days afterwards, as he was going upstairs, the Duchess called him into her boudoir, and
showed him a letter she had just received from the Deanery.
'Jane writes charming letters,' said the Duchess; 'you must really read her last. It is quite
as good as the novels Mudie sends us.'
Lord Arthur seized the letter from her hand. It ran as follows:−
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER V 27
THE Deanery, Chichester, 27TH MAY.
My Dearest Aunt,
Thank you so much for the flannel for the Dorcas Society, and also for the gingham. I
quite agree with you that it is nonsense their wanting to wear pretty things, but everybody is
so Radical and irreligious nowadays, that it is difficult to make them see that they should not
try and dress like the upper classes. I am sure I don't know what we are coming to. As papa
has often said in his sermons, we live in an age of unbelief.
We have had great fun over a clock that an unknown admirer sent papa last Thursday. It
arrived in a wooden box from London, carriage paid, and papa feels it must have been sent
by some one who had read his remarkable sermon, 'Is Licence Liberty?' for on the top of the
clock was a figure of a woman, with what papa said was the cap of Liberty on her head. I
didn't think it very becoming myself, but papa said it was historical, so I suppose it is all
right. Parker unpacked it, and papa put it on the mantelpiece in the library, and we were all
sitting there on Friday morning, when just as the clock struck twelve, we heard a whirring
noise, a little puff of smoke came from the pedestal of the figure, and the goddess of Liberty
fell off, and broke her nose on the fender! Maria was quite alarmed, but it looked so
ridiculous, that James and I went off into fits of laughter, and even papa was amused. When
we examined it, we found it was a sort of alarum clock, and that, if you set it to a particular
hour, and put some gunpowder and a cap under a little hammer, it went off whenever you
wanted. Papa said it must not remain in the library, as it made a noise, so Reggie carried it
away to the schoolroom, and does nothing but have small explosions all day long. Do you
think Arthur would like one for a wedding present? I suppose they are quite fashionable in
London. Papa says they should do a great deal of good, as they show that Liberty can't last,
but must fall down. Papa says Liberty was invented at the time of the French Revolution.
How awful it seems!
I have now to go to the Dorcas, where I will read them your most instructive letter. How
true, dear aunt, your idea is, that in their rank of life they should wear what is unbecoming. I
must say it is absurd, their anxiety about dress, when there are so many more important
things in this world, and in the next. I am so glad your flowered poplin turned out so well,
and that your lace was not torn. I am wearing my yellow satin, that you so kindly gave me,
at the Bishop's on Wednesday, and think it will look all right. Would you have bows or not?
Jennings says that every one wears bows now, and that the underskirt should be frilled.
Reggie has just had another explosion, and papa has ordered the clock to be sent to the
stables. I don't think papa likes it so much as he did at first, though he is very flattered at
being sent such a pretty and ingenious toy. It shows that people read his sermons, and profit
by them.
Papa sends his love, in which James, and Reggie, and Maria all unite, and, hoping that
Uncle Cecil's gout is better, believe me, dear aunt, ever your affectionate niece,
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER V 28
Jane Percy.
PS. − Do tell me about the bows. Jennings insists they are the fashion.
Lord Arthur looked so serious and unhappy over the letter, that the Duchess went into
fits of laughter.
'My dear Arthur,' she cried, 'I shall never show you a young lady's letter again! But what
shall I say about the clock? I think it is a capital invention, and I should like to have one
myself.'
'I don't think much of them,' said Lord Arthur, with a sad smile, and, after kissing his
mother, he left the room.
When he got upstairs, he flung himself on a sofa, and his eyes filled with tears. He had
done his best to commit this murder, but on both occasions he had failed, and through no
fault of his own. He had tried to do his duty, but it seemed as if Destiny herself had turned
traitor. He was oppressed with the sense of the barrenness of good intentions, of the futility
of trying to be fine. Perhaps, it would be better to break off the marriage altogether. Sybil
would suffer, it is true, but suffering could not really mar a nature so noble as hers. As for
himself, what did it matter? There is always some war in which a man can die, some cause
to which a man can give his life, and as life had no pleasure for him, so death had no terror.
Let Destiny work out his doom. He would not stir to help her.
At half−past seven he dressed, and went down to the club. Surbiton was there with a
party of young men, and he was obliged to dine with them. Their trivial conversation and
idle jests did not interest him, and as soon as coffee was brought he left them, inventing
some engagement in order to get away. As he was going out of the club, the hall−porter
handed him a letter. It was from Herr Winckelkopf, asking him to call down the next
evening, and look at an explosive umbrella, that went off as soon as it was opened. It was
the very latest invention, and had just arrived from Geneva. He tore the letter up into
fragments. He had made up his mind not to try any more experiments. Then he wandered
down to the Thames Embankment, and sat for hours by the river. The moon peered through
a mane of tawny clouds, as if it were a lion's eye, and innumerable stars spangled the hollow
vault, like gold dust powdered on a purple dome. Now and then a barge swung out into the
turbid stream, and floated away with the tide, and the railway signals changed from green to
scarlet as the trains ran shrieking across the bridge. After some time, twelve o'clock boomed
from the tall tower at Westminster, and at each stroke of the sonorous bell the night seemed
to tremble. Then the railway lights went out, one solitary lamp left gleaming like a large
ruby on a giant mast, and the roar of the city became fainter.
At two o'clock he got up, and strolled towards Blackfriars. How unreal everything
looked! How like a strange dream! The houses on the other side of the river seemed built out
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER V 29
of darkness. One would have said that silver and shadow had fashioned the world anew. The
huge dome of St. Paul's loomed like a bubble through the dusky air.
As he approached Cleopatra's Needle he saw a man leaning over the parapet, and as he
came nearer the man looked up, the gas−light falling full upon his face.
It was Mr. Podgers, the cheiromantist! No one could mistake the fat, flabby face, the
gold−rimmed spectacles, the sickly feeble smile, the sensual mouth.
Lord Arthur stopped. A brilliant idea flashed across him, and he stole softly up behind.
In a moment he had seized Mr. Podgers by the legs, and flung him into the Thames. There
was a coarse oath, a heavy splash, and all was still. Lord Arthur looked anxiously over, but
could see nothing of the cheiromantist but a tall hat, pirouetting in an eddy of moonlit water.
After a time it also sank, and no trace of Mr. Podgers was visible. Once he thought that he
caught sight of the bulky misshapen figure striking out for the staircase by the bridge, and a
horrible feeling of failure came over him, but it turned out to be merely a reflection, and
when the moon shone out from behind a cloud it passed away. At last he seemed to have
realised the decree of destiny. He heaved a deep sigh of relief, and Sybil's name came to his
lips.
'Have you dropped anything, sir?' said a voice behind him suddenly.
He turned round, and saw a policeman with a bull's−eye lantern.
'Nothing of importance, sergeant,' he answered, smiling, and hailing a passing hansom,
he jumped in, and told the man to drive to Belgrave Square.
For the next few days he alternated between hope and fear. There were moments when
he almost expected Mr. Podgers to walk into the room, and yet at other times he felt that
Fate could not be so unjust to him. Twice he went to the cheiromantist's address in West
Moon Street, but he could not bring himself to ring the bell. He longed for certainty, and
was afraid of it.
Finally it came. He was sitting in the smoking−room of the club having tea, and
listening rather wearily to Surbiton's account of the last comic song at the Gaiety, when the
waiter came in with the evening papers. He took up the ST. JAMES'S, and was listlessly
turning over its pages, when this strange heading caught his eye:
Suicide Of a cheiromantist.
He turned pale with excitement, and began to read. The paragraph ran as follows:
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER V 30
Yesterday morning, at seven o'clock, the body of Mr. Septimus R. Podgers, the eminent
cheiromantist, was washed on shore at Greenwich, just in front of the Ship Hotel. The
unfortunate gentleman had been missing for some days, and considerable anxiety for his
safety had been felt in cheiromantic circles. It is supposed that he committed suicide under
the influence of a temporary mental derangement, caused by overwork, and a verdict to that
effect was returned this afternoon by the coroner's jury. Mr. Podgers had just completed an
elaborate treatise on the subject of the Human Hand, that will shortly be published, when it
will no doubt attract much attention. The deceased was sixty−five years of age, and does not
seem to have left any relations.
Lord Arthur rushed out of the club with the paper still in his hand, to the immense
amazement of the hall−porter, who tried in vain to stop him, and drove at once to Park Lane.
Sybil saw him from the window, and something told her that he was the bearer of good
news. She ran down to meet him, and, when she saw his face, she knew that all was well.
'My dear Sybil,' cried Lord Arthur, 'let us be married to−morrow!'
'You foolish boy! Why, the cake is not even ordered!' said Sybil, laughing through her
tears.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER V 31
CHAPTER VI
W
HEN the wedding took place, some three weeks later, St. Peter's was crowded with a
perfect mob of smart people. The service was read in the most impressive manner by the
Dean of Chichester, and everybody agreed that they had never seen a handsomer couple than
the bride and bridegroom. They were more than handsome, however − they were happy.
Never for a single moment did Lord Arthur regret all that he had suffered for Sybil's sake,
while she, on her side, gave him the best things a woman can give to any man − worship,
tenderness, and love. For them romance was not killed by reality. They always felt young.
Some years afterwards, when two beautiful children had been born to them, Lady
Windermere came down on a visit to Alton Priory, a lovely old place, that had been the
Duke's wedding present to his son; and one afternoon as she was sitting with Lady Arthur
under a lime−tree in the garden, watching the little boy and girl as they played up and down
the rose−walk, like fitful sunbeams, she suddenly took her hostess's hand in hers, and said,
'Are you happy, Sybil?'
'Dear Lady Windermere, of course I am happy. Aren't you?'
'I have no time to be happy, Sybil. I always like the last person who is introduced to me;
but, as a rule, as soon as I know people I get tired of them.'
'Don't your lions satisfy you, Lady Windermere?'
'Oh dear, no! lions are only good for one season. As soon as their manes are cut, they
are the dullest creatures going. Besides, they behave very badly, if you are really nice to
them. Do you remember that horrid Mr. Podgers? He was a dreadful impostor. Of course, I
didn't mind that at all, and even when he wanted to borrow money I forgave him, but I could
not stand his making love to me. He has really made me hate cheiromancy. I go in for
telepathy now. It is much more amusing.'
'You mustn't say anything against cheiromancy here, Lady Windermere; it is the only
subject that Arthur does not like people to chaff about. I assure you he is quite serious over
it.'
'You don't mean to say that he believes in it, Sybil?'
'Ask him, Lady Windermere, here he is'; and Lord Arthur came up the garden with a
large bunch of yellow roses in his hand, and his two children dancing round him.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER VI 32
'Lord Arthur?'
'Yes, Lady Windermere.'
'You don't mean to say that you believe in cheiromancy?'
'Of course I do,' said the young man, smiling.
'But why?'
'Because I owe to it all the happiness of my life,' he murmured, throwing himself into a
wicker chair.
'My dear Lord Arthur, what do you owe to it?'
'Sybil,' he answered, handing his wife the roses, and looking into her violet eyes.
'What nonsense!' cried Lady Windermere. 'I never heard such nonsense in all my life.'
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER VI 33
CHAPTER I
W
HEN Mr. Hiram B. Otis, the American Minister, bought Canterville Chase, every
one told him he was doing a very foolish thing, as there was no doubt at all that the place
was haunted. Indeed, Lord Canterville himself, who was a man of the most punctilious
honour, had felt it his duty to mention the fact to Mr. Otis when they came to discuss terms.
'We have not cared to live in the place ourselves,' said Lord Canterville, 'since my
grandaunt, the Dowager Duchess of Bolton, was frightened into a fit, from which she never
really recovered, by two skeleton hands being placed on her shoulders as she was dressing
for dinner, and I feel bound to tell you, Mr. Otis, that the ghost has been seen by several
living members of my family, as well as by the rector of the parish, the Rev. Augustus
Dampier, who is a Fellow of King's College, Cambridge. After the unfortunate accident to
the Duchess, none of our younger servants would stay with us, and Lady Canterville often
got very little sleep at night, in consequence of the mysterious noises that came from the
corridor and the library.'
'My Lord,' answered the Minister, 'I will take the furniture and the ghost at a valuation. I
come from a modern country, where we have everything that money can buy; and with all
our spry young fellows painting the Old World red, and carrying off your best actresses and
prima−donnas, I reckon that if there were such a thing as a ghost in Europe, we'd have it at
home in a very short time in one of our public museums, or on the road as a show.'
'I fear that the ghost exists,' said Lord Canterville, smiling, 'though it may have resisted
the overtures of your enterprising impresarios. It has been well known for three centuries,
since 1584 in fact, and always makes its appearance before the death of any member of our
family.'
'Well, so does the family doctor for that matter, Lord Canterville. But there is no such
thing, sir, as a ghost, and I guess the laws of Nature are not going to be suspended for the
British aristocracy.'
'You are certainly very natural in America,' answered Lord Canterville, who did not
quite understand Mr. Otis's last observation, 'and if you don't mind a ghost in the house, it is
all right. Only you must remember I warned you.'
A few weeks after this, the purchase was completed, and at the close of the season the
Minister and his family went down to Canterville Chase. Mrs. Otis, who, as Miss Lucretia
R. Tappan, of West 53rd Street, had been a celebrated New York belle, was now a very
handsome, middle−aged woman, with fine eyes, and a superb profile. Many American ladies
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER I 35
on leaving their native land adopt an appearance of chronic ill−health, under the impression
that it is a form of European refinement, but Mrs. Otis had never fallen into this error. She
had a magnificent constitution, and a really wonderful amount of animal spirits. Indeed, in
many respects, she was quite English, and was an excellent example of the fact that we have
really everything in common with America nowadays, except, of course, language. Her
eldest son, christened Washington by his parents in a moment of patriotism, which he never
ceased to regret, was a fair−haired, rather good−looking young man, who had qualified
himself for American diplomacy by leading the German at the Newport Casino for three
successive seasons, and even in London was well known as an excellent dancer. Gardenias
and the peerage were his only weaknesses. Otherwise he was extremely sensible. Miss
Virginia E. Otis was a little girl of fifteen, lithe and lovely as a fawn, and with a fine
freedom in her large blue eyes. She was a wonderful amazon, and had once raced old Lord
Bilton on her pony twice round the park, winning by a length and a half, just in front of the
Achilles statue, to the huge delight of the young Duke of Cheshire, who proposed for her on
the spot, and was sent back to Eton that very night by his guardians, in floods of tears. After
Virginia came the twins, who were usually called 'The Stars and Stripes,' as they were
always getting swished. They were delightful boys, and with the exception of the worthy
Minister the only true republicans of the family.
As Canterville Chase is seven miles from Ascot, the nearest railway station, Mr. Otis
had telegraphed for a waggonette to meet them, and they started on their drive in high
spirits. It was a lovely July evening, and the air was delicate with the scent of the pine−
woods. Now and then they heard a wood pigeon brooding over its own sweet voice, or saw,
deep in the rustling fern, the burnished breast of the pheasant. Little squirrels peered at them
from the beech−trees as they went by, and the rabbits scudded away through the brushwood
and over the mossy knolls, with their white tails in the air. As they entered the avenue of
Canterville Chase, however, the sky became suddenly overcast with clouds, a curious
stillness seemed to hold the atmosphere, a great flight of rooks passed silently over their
heads, and, before they reached the house, some big drops of rain had fallen.
Standing on the steps to receive them was an old woman, neatly dressed in black silk,
with a white cap and apron. This was Mrs. Umney, the housekeeper, whom Mrs. Otis, at
Lady Canterville's earnest request, had consented to keep on in her former position. She
made them each a low curtsey as they alighted, and said in a quaint, old−fashioned manner,
'I bid you welcome to Canterville Chase.' Following her, they passed through the fine Tudor
hall into the library, a long, low room, panelled in black oak, at the end of which was a large
stained−glass window. Here they found tea laid out for them, and, after taking off their
wraps, they sat down and began to look round, while Mrs. Umney waited on them.
Suddenly Mrs. Otis caught sight of a dull red stain on the floor just by the fireplace and,
quite unconscious of what it really signified, said to Mrs. Umney, 'I am afraid something has
been spilt there.'
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER I 36
'Yes, madam,' replied the old housekeeper in a low voice, 'blood has been spilt on that
spot.'
'How horrid,' cried Mrs. Otis; 'I don't at all care for blood− stains in a sitting−room. It
must be removed at once.'
The old woman smiled, and answered in the same low, mysterious voice, 'It is the blood
of Lady Eleanore de Canterville, who was murdered on that very spot by her own husband,
Sir Simon de Canterville, in 1575. Sir Simon survived her nine years, and disappeared
suddenly under very mysterious circumstances. His body has never been discovered, but his
guilty spirit still haunts the Chase. The blood−stain has been much admired by tourists and
others, and cannot be removed.'
'That is all nonsense,' cried Washington Otis; 'Pinkerton's Champion Stain Remover and
Paragon Detergent will clean it up in no time,' and before the terrified housekeeper could
interfere he had fallen upon his knees, and was rapidly scouring the floor with a small stick
of what looked like a black cosmetic. In a few moments no trace of the blood−stain could be
seen.
'I knew Pinkerton would do it,' he exclaimed triumphantly, as he looked round at his
admiring family; but no sooner had he said these words than a terrible flash of lightning lit
up the sombre room, a fearful peal of thunder made them all start to their feet, and Mrs.
Umney fainted.
'What a monstrous climate!' said the American Minister calmly, as he lit a long cheroot.
'I guess the old country is so overpopulated that they have not enough decent weather for
everybody. I have always been of opinion that emigration is the only thing for England.'
'My dear Hiram,' cried Mrs. Otis, 'what can we do with a woman who faints?'
'Charge it to her like breakages,' answered the Minister; 'she won't faint after that'; and
in a few moments Mrs. Umney certainly came to. There was no doubt, however, that she
was extremely upset, and she sternly warned Mr. Otis to beware of some trouble coming to
the house.
'I have seen things with my own eyes, sir,' she said, 'that would make any Christian's
hair stand on end, and many and many a night I have not closed my eyes in sleep for the
awful things that are done here.' Mr. Otis, however, and his wife warmly assured the honest
soul that they were not afraid of ghosts, and, after invoking the blessings of Providence on
her new master and mistress, and making arrangements for an increase of salary, the old
housekeeper tottered off to her own room.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER I 37
CHAPTER II
T
HE storm raged fiercely all that night, but nothing of particular note occurred. The
next morning, however, when they came down to breakfast, they found the terrible stain of
blood once again on the floor. 'I don't think it can be the fault of the Paragon Detergent,' said
Washington, 'for I have tried it with everything. It must be the ghost.' He accordingly rubbed
out the stain a second time, but the second morning it appeared again. The third morning
also it was there, though the library had been locked up at night by Mr. Otis himself, and the
key carried upstairs. The whole family were now quite interested; Mr. Otis began to suspect
that he had been too dogmatic in his denial of the existence of ghosts, Mrs. Otis expressed
her intention of joining the Psychical Society, and Washington prepared a long letter to
Messrs. Myers and Podmore on the subject of the Permanence of Sanguineous Stains when
connected with Crime. That night all doubts about the objective existence of phantasmata
were removed for ever.
The day had been warm and sunny; and, in the cool of the evening, the whole family
went out for a drive. They did not return home till nine o'clock, when they had a light
supper. The conversation in no way turned upon ghosts, so there were not even those
primary conditions of receptive expectation which so often precede the presentation of
psychical phenomena. The subjects discussed, as I have since learned from Mr. Otis, were
merely such as form the ordinary conversation of cultured Americans of the better class,
such as the immense superiority of Miss Fanny Davenport over Sarah Bernhardt as an
actress; the difficulty of obtaining green corn, buckwheat cakes, and hominy, even in the
best English houses; the importance of Boston in the development of the world−soul; the
advantages of the baggage check system in railway travelling; and the sweetness of the New
York accent as compared to the London drawl. No mention at all was made of the
supernatural, nor was Sir Simon de Canterville alluded to in any way. At eleven o'clock the
family retired, and by half−past all the lights were out. Some time after, Mr. Otis was
awakened by a curious noise in the corridor, outside his room. It sounded like the clank of
metal, and seemed to be coming nearer every moment. He got up at once, struck a match,
and looked at the time. It was exactly one o'clock. He was quite calm, and felt his pulse,
which was not at all feverish. The strange noise still continued, and with it he heard
distinctly the sound of footsteps. He put on his slippers, took a small oblong phial out of his
dressing−case, and opened the door. Right in front of him he saw, in the wan moonlight, an
old man of terrible aspect. His eyes were as red burning coals; long grey hair fell over his
shoulders in matted coils; his garments, which were of antique cut, were soiled and ragged,
and from his wrists and ankles hung heavy manacles and rusty gyves.
'My dear sir,' said Mr. Otis, 'I really must insist on your oiling those chains, and have
brought you for that purpose a small bottle of the Tammany Rising Sun Lubricator. It is said
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER II 38
to be completely efficacious upon one application, and there are several testimonials to that
effect on the wrapper from some of our most eminent native divines. I shall leave it here for
you by the bedroom candles, and will be happy to supply you with more should you require
it.' With these words the United States Minister laid the bottle down on a marble table, and,
closing his door, retired to rest.
For a moment the Canterville ghost stood quite motionless in natural indignation; then,
dashing the bottle violently upon the polished floor, he fled down the corridor, uttering
hollow groans, and emitting a ghastly green light. Just, however, as he reached the top of the
great oak staircase, a door was flung open, two little white−robed figures appeared, and a
large pillow whizzed past his head! There was evidently no time to be lost, so, hastily
adopting the Fourth Dimension of Space as a means of escape, he vanished through the
wainscoting, and the house became quite quiet.
On reaching a small secret chamber in the left wing, he leaned up against a moonbeam
to recover his breath, and began to try and realise his position. Never, in a brilliant and
uninterrupted career of three hundred years, had he been so grossly insulted. He thought of
the Dowager Duchess, whom he had frightened into a fit as she stood before the glass in her
lace and diamonds; of the four housemaids, who had gone off into hysterics when he merely
grinned at them through the curtains of one of the spare bedrooms; of the rector of the
parish, whose candle he had blown out as he was coming late one night from the library, and
who had been under the care of Sir William Gull ever since, a perfect martyr to nervous
disorders; and of old Madame de Tremouillac, who, having wakened up one morning early
and seen a skeleton seated in an arm−chair by the fire reading her diary, had been confined
to her bed for six weeks with an attack of brain fever, and, on her recovery, had become
reconciled to the Church, and broken off her connection with that notorious sceptic
Monsieur de Voltaire. He remembered the terrible night when the wicked Lord Canterville
was found choking in his dressing−room, with the knave of diamonds half−way down his
throat, and confessed, just before he died, that he had cheated Charles James Fox out of
50,000 pounds at Crockford's by means of that very card, and swore that the ghost had made
him swallow it. All his great achievements came back to him again, from the butler who had
shot himself in the pantry because he had seen a green hand tapping at the window pane, to
the beautiful Lady Stutfield, who was always obliged to wear a black velvet band round her
throat to hide the mark of five fingers burnt upon her white skin, and who drowned herself at
last in the carp−pond at the end of the King's Walk. With the enthusiastic egotism of the true
artist he went over his most celebrated performances, and smiled bitterly to himself as he
recalled to mind his last appearance as 'Red Ruben, or the Strangled Babe,' his Debut as
'Gaunt Gibeon, the Blood−sucker of Bexley Moor,' and the Furore he had excited one
lovely June evening by merely playing ninepins with his own bones upon the lawn−tennis
ground. And after all this, some wretched modern Americans were to come and offer him
the Rising Sun Lubricator, and throw pillows at his head! It was quite unbearable. Besides,
no ghosts in history had ever been treated in this manner. Accordingly, he determined to
have vengeance, and remained till daylight in an attitude of deep thought.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER II 39
CHAPTER III
T
HE next morning when the Otis family met at breakfast, they discussed the ghost at
some length. The United States Minister was naturally a little annoyed to find that his
present had not been accepted. 'I have no wish,' he said, 'to do the ghost any personal injury,
and I must say that, considering the length of time he has been in the house, I don't think it is
at all polite to throw pillows at him' − a very just remark, at which, I am sorry to say, the
twins burst into shouts of laughter. 'Upon the other hand,' he continued, 'if he really declines
to use the Rising Sun Lubricator, we shall have to take his chains from him. It would be
quite impossible to sleep, with such a noise going on outside the bedrooms.'
For the rest of the week, however, they were undisturbed, the only thing that excited
any attention being the continual renewal of the blood−stain on the library floor. This
certainly was very strange, as the door was always locked at night by Mr. Otis, and the
windows kept closely barred. The chameleon−like colour, also, of the stain excited a good
deal of comment. Some mornings it was a dull (almost Indian) red, then it would be
vermilion, then a rich purple, and once when they came down for family prayers, according
to the simple rites of the Free American Reformed Episcopalian Church, they found it a
bright emerald−green. These kaleidoscopic changes naturally amused the party very much,
and bets on the subject were freely made every evening. The only person who did not enter
into the joke was little Virginia, who, for some unexplained reason, was always a good deal
distressed at the sight of the blood−stain, and very nearly cried the morning it was
emerald−green.
The second appearance of the ghost was on Sunday night. Shortly after they had gone to
bed they were suddenly alarmed by a fearful crash in the hall. Rushing downstairs, they
found that a large suit of old armour had become detached from its stand, and had fallen on
the stone floor, while, seated in a high−backed chair, was the Canterville ghost, rubbing his
knees with an expression of acute agony on his face. The twins, having brought their pea−
shooters with them, at once discharged two pellets on him, with that accuracy of aim which
can only be attained by long and careful practice on a writing−master, while the United
States Minister covered him with his revolver, and called upon him, in accordance with
Californian etiquette, to hold up his hands! The ghost started up with a wild shriek of rage,
and swept through them like a mist, extinguishing Washington Otis's candle as he passed,
and so leaving them all in total darkness. On reaching the top of the staircase he recovered
himself, and determined to give his celebrated peal of demoniac laughter. This he had on
more than one occasion found extremely useful. It was said to have turned Lord Raker's wig
grey in a single night, and had certainly made three of Lady Canterville's French
governesses give warning before their month was up. He accordingly laughed his most
horrible laugh, till the old vaulted roof rang and rang again, but hardly had the fearful echo
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER III 40
died away when a door opened, and Mrs. Otis came out in a light blue dressing−gown. 'I am
afraid you are far from well,' she said, 'and have brought you a bottle of Dr. Dobell's
tincture. If it is indigestion, you will find it a most excellent remedy.' The ghost glared at her
in fury, and began at once to make preparations for turning himself into a large black dog, an
accomplishment for which he was justly renowned, and to which the family doctor always
attributed the permanent idiocy of Lord Canterville's uncle, the Hon. Thomas Horton. The
sound of approaching footsteps, however, made him hesitate in his fell purpose, so he
contented himself with becoming faintly phosphorescent, and vanished with a deep
churchyard groan, just as the twins had come up to him.
On reaching his room he entirely broke down, and became a prey to the most violent
agitation. The vulgarity of the twins, and the gross materialism of Mrs. Otis, were naturally
extremely annoying, but what really distressed him most was, that he had been unable to
wear the suit of mail. He had hoped that even modern Americans would be thrilled by the
sight of a Spectre In Armour, if for no more sensible reason, at least out of respect for their
national poet Longfellow, over whose graceful and attractive poetry he himself had whiled
away many a weary hour when the Cantervilles were up in town. Besides, it was his own
suit. He had worn it with great success at the Kenilworth tournament, and had been highly
complimented on it by no less a person than the Virgin Queen herself. Yet when he had put
it on, he had been completely overpowered by the weight of the huge breastplate and steel
casque, and had fallen heavily on the stone pavement, barking both his knees severely, and
bruising the knuckles of his right hand.
For some days after this he was extremely ill, and hardly stirred out of his room at all,
except to keep the blood−stain in proper repair. However, by taking great care of himself, he
recovered, and resolved to make a third attempt to frighten the United States Minister and
his family. He selected Friday, the 17th of August, for his appearance, and spent most of that
day in looking over his wardrobe, ultimately deciding in favour of a large slouched hat with
a red feather, a winding−sheet frilled at the wrists and neck, and a rusty dagger. Towards
evening a violent storm of rain came on, and the wind was so high that all the windows and
doors in the old house shook and rattled. In fact, it was just such weather as he loved. His
plan of action was this. He was to make his way quietly to Washington Otis's room, gibber
at him from the foot of the bed, and stab himself three times in the throat to the sound of
slow music. He bore Washington a special grudge, being quite aware that it was he who was
in the habit of removing the famous Canterville blood−stain, by means of Pinkerton's
Paragon Detergent. Having reduced the reckless and foolhardy youth to a condition of abject
terror, he was then to proceed to the room occupied by the United States Minister and his
wife, and there to place a clammy hand on Mrs. Otis's forehead, while he hissed into her
trembling husband's ear the awful secrets of the charnel−house. With regard to little
Virginia, he had not quite made up his mind. She had never insulted him in any way, and
was pretty and gentle. A few hollow groans from the wardrobe, he thought, would be more
than sufficient, or, if that failed to wake her, he might grabble at the counterpane with
palsy−twitching fingers. As for the twins, he was quite determined to teach them a lesson.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER III 41
The first thing to be done was, of course, to sit upon their chests, so as to produce the stifling
sensation of nightmare. Then, as their beds were quite close to each other, to stand between
them in the form of a green, icy−cold corpse, till they became paralysed with fear, and
finally, to throw off the winding−sheet, and crawl round the room, with white bleached
bones and one rolling eye−ball, in the character of 'Dumb Daniel, or the Suicide's Skeleton,'
a ROLE in which he had on more than one occasion produced a great effect, and which he
considered quite equal to his famous part of 'Martin the Maniac, or the Masked Mystery.'
At half−past ten he heard the family going to bed. For some time he was disturbed by
wild shrieks of laughter from the twins, who, with the light−hearted gaiety of schoolboys,
were evidently amusing themselves before they retired to rest, but at a quarter past eleven all
was still, and, as midnight sounded, he sallied forth. The owl beat against the window panes,
the raven croaked from the old yew−tree, and the wind wandered moaning round the house
like a lost soul; but the Otis family slept unconscious of their doom, and high above the rain
and storm he could hear the steady snoring of the Minister for the United States. He stepped
stealthily out of the wainscoting, with an evil smile on his cruel, wrinkled mouth, and the
moon hid her face in a cloud as he stole past the great oriel window, where his own arms
and those of his murdered wife were blazoned in azure and gold. On and on he glided, like
an evil shadow, the very darkness seeming to loathe him as he passed. Once he thought he
heard something call, and stopped; but it was only the baying of a dog from the Red Farm,
and he went on, muttering strange sixteenth−century curses, and ever and anon brandishing
the rusty dagger in the midnight air. Finally he reached the corner of the passage that led to
luckless Washington's room. For a moment he paused there, the wind blowing his long grey
locks about his head, and twisting into grotesque and fantastic folds the nameless horror of
the dead man's shroud. Then the clock struck the quarter, and he felt the time was come. He
chuckled to himself, and turned the corner; but no sooner had he done so, than, with a
piteous wail of terror, he fell back, and hid his blanched face in his long, bony hands. Right
in front of him was standing a horrible spectre, motionless as a carven image, and monstrous
as a madman's dream! Its head was bald and burnished; its face round, and fat, and white;
and hideous laughter seemed to have writhed its features into an eternal grin. From the eyes
streamed rays of scarlet light, the mouth was a wide well of fire, and a hideous garment, like
to his own, swathed with its silent snows the Titan form. On its breast was a placard with
strange writing in antique characters, some scroll of shame it seemed, some record of wild
sins, some awful calendar of crime, and, with its right hand, it bore aloft a falchion of
gleaming steel.
Never having seen a ghost before, he naturally was terribly frightened, and, after a
second hasty glance at the awful phantom, he fled back to his room, tripping up in his long
winding−sheet as he sped down the corridor, and finally dropping the rusty dagger into the
Minister's jack−boots, where it was found in the morning by the butler. Once in the privacy
of his own apartment, he flung himself down on a small pallet−bed, and hid his face under
the clothes. After a time, however, the brave old Canterville spirit asserted itself, and he
determined to go and speak to the other ghost as soon as it was daylight. Accordingly, just as
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER III 42
the dawn was touching the hills with silver, he returned towards the spot where he had first
laid eyes on the grisly phantom, feeling that, after all, two ghosts were better than one, and
that, by the aid of his new friend, he might safely grapple with the twins. On reaching the
spot, however, a terrible sight met his gaze. Something had evidently happened to the
spectre, for the light had entirely faded from its hollow eyes, the gleaming falchion had
fallen from its hand, and it was leaning up against the wall in a strained and uncomfortable
attitude. He rushed forward and seized it in his arms, when, to his horror, the head slipped
off and rolled on the floor, the body assumed a recumbent posture, and he found himself
clasping a white dimity bed−curtain, with a sweeping− brush, a kitchen cleaver, and a
hollow turnip lying at his feet! Unable to understand this curious transformation, he clutched
the placard with feverish haste, and there, in the grey morning light, he read these fearful
words:−
YE Olde ghoste
Ye Onlie True and Originale Spook. Beware of Ye Imitationes. All others are
Counterfeite.
The whole thing flashed across him. He had been tricked, foiled, and outwitted! The old
Canterville look came into his eyes; he ground his toothless gums together; and, raising his
withered hands high above his head, swore, according to the picturesque phraseology of the
antique school, that when Chanticleer had sounded twice his merry horn, deeds of blood
would be wrought, and Murder walk abroad with silent feet.
Hardly had he finished this awful oath when, from the red−tiled roof of a distant
homestead, a cock crew. He laughed a long, low, bitter laugh, and waited. Hour after hour
he waited, but the cock, for some strange reason, did not crow again. Finally, at half−past
seven, the arrival of the housemaids made him give up his fearful vigil, and he stalked back
to his room, thinking of his vain hope and baffled purpose. There he consulted several books
of ancient chivalry, of which he was exceedingly fond, and found that, on every occasion on
which his oath had been used, Chanticleer had always crowed a second time. 'Perdition seize
the naughty fowl,' he muttered, 'I have seen the day when, with my stout spear, I would have
run him through the gorge, and made him crow for me an 'twere in death!' He then retired to
a comfortable lead coffin, and stayed there till evening.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER III 43
CHAPTER IV
T
HE next day the ghost was very weak and tired. The terrible excitement of the last
four weeks was beginning to have its effect. His nerves were completely shattered, and he
started at the slightest noise. For five days he kept his room, and at last made up his mind to
give up the point of the blood−stain on the library floor. If the Otis family did not want it,
they clearly did not deserve it. They were evidently people on a low, material plane of
existence, and quite incapable of appreciating the symbolic value of sensuous phenomena.
The question of phantasmic apparitions, and the development of astral bodies, was of course
quite a different matter, and really not under his control. It was his solemn duty to appear in
the corridor once a week, and to gibber from the large oriel window on the first and third
Wednesday in every month, and he did not see how he could honourably escape from his
obligations. It is quite true that his life had been very evil, but, upon the other hand, he was
most conscientious in all things connected with the supernatural. For the next three
Saturdays, accordingly, he traversed the corridor as usual between midnight and three
o'clock, taking every possible precaution against being either heard or seen. He removed his
boots, trod as lightly as possible on the old worm−eaten boards, wore a large black velvet
cloak, and was careful to use the Rising Sun Lubricator for oiling his chains. I am bound to
acknowledge that it was with a good deal of difficulty that he brought himself to adopt this
last mode of protection. However, one night, while the family were at dinner, he slipped into
Mr. Otis's bedroom and carried off the bottle. He felt a little humiliated at first, but
afterwards was sensible enough to see that there was a great deal to be said for the invention,
and, to a certain degree, it served his purpose. Still, in spite of everything, he was not left
unmolested. Strings were continually being stretched across the corridor, over which he
tripped in the dark, and on one occasion, while dressed for the part of 'Black Isaac, or the
Huntsman of Hogley Woods,' he met with a severe fall, through treading on a butter−slide,
which the twins had constructed from the entrance of the Tapestry Chamber to the top of the
oak staircase. This last insult so enraged him, that he resolved to make one final effort to
assert his dignity and social position, and determined to visit the insolent young Etonians the
next night in his celebrated character of 'Reckless Rupert, or the Headless Earl.'
He had not appeared in this disguise for more than seventy years; in fact, not since he
had so frightened pretty Lady Barbara Modish by means of it, that she suddenly broke off
her engagement with the present Lord Canterville's grandfather, and ran away to Gretna
Green with handsome Jack Castleton, declaring that nothing in the world would induce her
to marry into a family that allowed such a horrible phantom to walk up and down the terrace
at twilight. Poor Jack was afterwards shot in a duel by Lord Canterville on Wandsworth
Common, and Lady Barbara died of a broken heart at Tunbridge Wells before the year was
out, so, in every way, it had been a great success. It was, however, an extremely difficult
'make−up,' if I may use such a theatrical expression in connection with one of the greatest
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER IV 44
mysteries of the supernatural, or, to employ a more scientific term, the higher−natural world,
and it took him fully three hours to make his preparations. At last everything was ready, and
he was very pleased with his appearance. The big leather riding−boots that went with the
dress were just a little too large for him, and he could only find one of the two horse−pistols,
but, on the whole, he was quite satisfied, and at a quarter past one he glided out of the
wainscoting and crept down the corridor. On reaching the room occupied by the twins,
which I should mention was called the Blue Bed Chamber, on account of the colour of its
hangings, he found the door just ajar. Wishing to make an effective entrance, he flung it
wide open, when a heavy jug of water fell right down on him, wetting him to the skin, and
just missing his left shoulder by a couple of inches. At the same moment he heard stifled
shrieks of laughter proceeding from the four−post bed. The shock to his nervous system was
so great that he fled back to his room as hard as he could go, and the next day he was laid up
with a severe cold. The only thing that at all consoled him in the whole affair was the fact
that he had not brought his head with him, for, had he done so, the consequences might have
been very serious.
He now gave up all hope of ever frightening this rude American family, and contented
himself, as a rule, with creeping about the passages in list slippers, with a thick red muffler
round his throat for fear of draughts, and a small arquebuse, in case he should be attacked by
the twins. The final blow he received occurred on the 19th of September. He had gone
downstairs to the great entrance−hall, feeling sure that there, at any rate, he would be quite
unmolested, and was amusing himself by making satirical remarks on the large Saroni
photographs of the United States Minister and his wife, which had now taken the place of
the Canterville family pictures. He was simply but neatly clad in a long shroud, spotted with
churchyard mould, had tied up his jaw with a strip of yellow linen, and carried a small
lantern and a sexton's spade. In fact, he was dressed for the character of 'Jonas the Graveless,
or the Corpse−Snatcher of Chertsey Barn,' one of his most remarkable impersonations, and
one which the Cantervilles had every reason to remember, as it was the real origin of their
quarrel with their neighbour, Lord Rufford. It was about a quarter past two o'clock in the
morning, and, as far as he could ascertain, no one was stirring. As he was strolling towards
the library, however, to see if there were any traces left of the blood−stain, suddenly there
leaped out on him from a dark corner two figures, who waved their arms wildly above their
heads, and shrieked out 'BOO!' in his ear.
Seized with a panic, which, under the circumstances, was only natural, he rushed for the
staircase, but found Washington Otis waiting for him there with the big garden−syringe; and
being thus hemmed in by his enemies on every side, and driven almost to bay, he vanished
into the great iron stove, which, fortunately for him, was not lit, and had to make his way
home through the flues and chimneys, arriving at his own room in a terrible state of dirt,
disorder, and despair.
After this he was not seen again on any nocturnal expedition. The twins lay in wait for
him on several occasions, and strewed the passages with nutshells every night to the great
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER IV 45
annoyance of their parents and the servants, but it was of no avail. It was quite evident that
his feelings were so wounded that he would not appear. Mr. Otis consequently resumed his
great work on the history of the Democratic Party, on which he had been engaged for some
years; Mrs. Otis organised a wonderful clam−bake, which amazed the whole county; the
boys took to lacrosse, euchre, poker, and other American national games; and Virginia rode
about the lanes on her pony, accompanied by the young Duke of Cheshire, who had come to
spend the last week of his holidays at Canterville Chase. It was generally assumed that the
ghost had gone away, and, in fact, Mr. Otis wrote a letter to that effect to Lord Canterville,
who, in reply, expressed his great pleasure at the news, and sent his best congratulations to
the Minister's worthy wife.
The Otises, however, were deceived, for the ghost was still in the house, and though
now almost an invalid, was by no means ready to let matters rest, particularly as he heard
that among the guests was the young Duke of Cheshire, whose grand−uncle, Lord Francis
Stilton, had once bet a hundred guineas with Colonel Carbury that he would play dice with
the Canterville ghost, and was found the next morning lying on the floor of the card−room in
such a helpless paralytic state, that though he lived on to a great age, he was never able to
say anything again but 'Double Sixes.' The story was well known at the time, though, of
course, out of respect to the feelings of the two noble families, every attempt was made to
hush it up; and a full account of all the circumstances connected with it will be found in the
third volume of Lord Tattle's Recollections of the prince regent and his friends. The
ghost, then, was naturally very anxious to show that he had not lost his influence over the
Stiltons, with whom, indeed, he was distantly connected, his own first cousin having been
married En secondes noces to the Sieur de Bulkeley, from whom, as every one knows, the
Dukes of Cheshire are lineally descended. Accordingly, he made arrangements for appearing
to Virginia's little lover in his celebrated impersonation of 'The Vampire Monk, or, the
Bloodless Benedictine,' a performance so horrible that when old Lady Startup saw it, which
she did on one fatal New Year's Eve, in the year 1764, she went off into the most piercing
shrieks, which culminated in violent apoplexy, and died in three days, after disinheriting the
Cantervilles, who were her nearest relations, and leaving all her money to her London
apothecary. At the last moment, however, his terror of the twins prevented his leaving his
room, and the little Duke slept in peace under the great feathered canopy in the Royal
Bedchamber, and dreamed of Virginia.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER IV 46
CHAPTER V
A
FEW days after this, Virginia and her curly−haired cavalier went out riding on
Brockley meadows, where she tore her habit so badly in getting through a hedge, that, on her
return home, she made up her mind to go up by the back staircase so as not to be seen. As
she was running past the Tapestry Chamber, the door of which happened to be open, she
fancied she saw some one inside, and thinking it was her mother's maid, who sometimes
used to bring her work there, looked in to ask her to mend her habit. To her immense
surprise, however, it was the Canterville Ghost himself! He was sitting by the window,
watching the ruined gold of the yellowing trees fly through the air, and the red leaves
dancing madly down the long avenue. His head was leaning on his hand, and his whole
attitude was one of extreme depression. Indeed, so forlorn, and so much out of repair did he
look, that little Virginia, whose first idea had been to run away and lock herself in her room,
was filled with pity, and determined to try and comfort him. So light was her footfall, and so
deep his melancholy, that he was not aware of her presence till she spoke to him.
'I am so sorry for you,' she said, 'but my brothers are going back to Eton to−morrow,
and then, if you behave yourself, no one will annoy you.'
'It is absurd asking me to behave myself,' he answered, looking round in astonishment at
the pretty little girl who had ventured to address him, 'quite absurd. I must rattle my chains,
and groan through keyholes, and walk about at night, if that is what you mean. It is my only
reason for existing.'
'It is no reason at all for existing, and you know you have been very wicked. Mrs.
Umney told us, the first day we arrived here, that you had killed your wife.'
'Well, I quite admit it,' said the Ghost petulantly, 'but it was a purely family matter, and
concerned no one else.'
'It is very wrong to kill any one,' said Virginia, who at times had a sweet Puritan
gravity, caught from some old New England ancestor.
'Oh, I hate the cheap severity of abstract ethics! My wife was very plain, never had my
ruffs properly starched, and knew nothing about cookery. Why, there was a buck I had shot
in Hogley Woods, a magnificent pricket, and do you know how she had it sent up to table?
However, it is no matter now, for it is all over, and I don't think it was very nice of her
brothers to starve me to death, though I did kill her.'
'Starve you to death? Oh, Mr. Ghost, I mean Sir Simon, are you hungry? I have a
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER V 47
sandwich in my case. Would you like it?'
'No, thank you, I never eat anything now; but it is very kind of you, all the same, and
you are much nicer than the rest of your horrid, rude, vulgar, dishonest family.'
'Stop!' cried Virginia, stamping her foot, 'it is you who are rude, and horrid, and vulgar,
and as for dishonesty, you know you stole the paints out of my box to try and furbish up that
ridiculous blood−stain in the library. First you took all my reds, including the vermilion, and
I couldn't do any more sunsets, then you took the emerald−green and the chrome−yellow,
and finally I had nothing left but indigo and Chinese white, and could only do moonlight
scenes, which are always depressing to look at, and not at all easy to paint. I never told on
you, though I was very much annoyed, and it was most ridiculous, the whole thing; for who
ever heard of emerald−green blood?'
'Well, really,' said the Ghost, rather meekly, 'what was I to do? It is a very difficult thing
to get real blood nowadays, and, as your brother began it all with his Paragon Detergent, I
certainly saw no reason why I should not have your paints. As for colour, that is always a
matter of taste: the Cantervilles have blue blood, for instance, the very bluest in England; but
I know you Americans don't care for things of this kind.'
'You know nothing about it, and the best thing you can do is to emigrate and improve
your mind. My father will be only too happy to give you a free passage, and though there is
a heavy duty on spirits of every kind, there will be no difficulty about the Custom House, as
the officers are all Democrats. Once in New York, you are sure to be a great success. I know
lots of people there who would give a hundred thousand dollars to have a grandfather, and
much more than that to have a family Ghost.'
'I don't think I should like America.'
'I suppose because we have no ruins and no curiosities,' said Virginia satirically.
'No ruins! no curiosities!' answered the Ghost; 'you have your navy and your manners.'
'Good evening; I will go and ask papa to get the twins an extra week's holiday.'
'Please don't go, Miss Virginia,' he cried; 'I am so lonely and so unhappy, and I really
don't know what to do. I want to go to sleep and I cannot.'
'That's quite absurd! You have merely to go to bed and blow out the candle. It is very
difficult sometimes to keep awake, especially at church, but there is no difficulty at all about
sleeping. Why, even babies know how to do that, and they are not very clever.'
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER V 48
'I have not slept for three hundred years,' he said sadly, and Virginia's beautiful blue
eyes opened in wonder; 'for three hundred years I have not slept, and I am so tired.'
Virginia grew quite grave, and her little lips trembled like rose− leaves. She came
towards him, and kneeling down at his side, looked up into his old withered face.
'Poor, poor Ghost,' she murmured; 'have you no place where you can sleep?'
'Far away beyond the pine−woods,' he answered, in a low dreamy voice, 'there is a little
garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there are the great white stars of the hemlock
flower, there the nightingale sings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold,
crystal moon looks down, and the yew−tree spreads out its giant arms over the sleepers.'
Virginia's eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in her hands.
'You mean the Garden of Death,' she whispered.
'Yes, Death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses
waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to−morrow. To
forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace. You can help me. You can open for me the portals
of Death's house, for Love is always with you, and Love is stronger than Death is.'
Virginia trembled, a cold shudder ran through her, and for a few moments there was
silence. She felt as if she was in a terrible dream.
Then the Ghost spoke again, and his voice sounded like the sighing of the wind.
'Have you ever read the old prophecy on the library window?'
'Oh, often,' cried the little girl, looking up; 'I know it quite well. It is painted in curious
black letters, and it is difficult to read. There are only six lines:
When a golden girl can win Prayer from out the lips of sin, When the barren almond
bears, And a little child gives away its tears, Then shall all the house be still And peace
come to Canterville.
But I don't know what they mean.'
'They mean,' he said sadly, 'that you must weep for me for my sins, because I have no
tears, and pray with me for my soul, because I have no faith, and then, if you have always
been sweet, and good, and gentle, the Angel of Death will have mercy on me. You will see
fearful shapes in darkness, and wicked voices will whisper in your ear, but they will not
harm you, for against the purity of a little child the powers of Hell cannot prevail.'
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER V 49
Virginia made no answer, and the Ghost wrung his hands in wild despair as he looked
down at her bowed golden head. Suddenly she stood up, very pale, and with a strange light
in her eyes. 'I am not afraid,' she said firmly, 'and I will ask the Angel to have mercy on you.'
He rose from his seat with a faint cry of joy, and taking her hand bent over it with
old−fashioned grace and kissed it. His fingers were as cold as ice, and his lips burned like
fire, but Virginia did not falter, as he led her across the dusky room. On the faded green
tapestry were broidered little huntsmen. They blew their tasselled horns and with their tiny
hands waved to her to go back. 'Go back! little Virginia,' they cried, 'go back!' but the Ghost
clutched her hand more tightly, and she shut her eyes against them. Horrible animals with
lizard tails, and goggle eyes, blinked at her from the carven chimney−piece, and murmured
'Beware! little Virginia, beware! we may never see you again,' but the Ghost glided on more
swiftly, and Virginia did not listen. When they reached the end of the room he stopped, and
muttered some words she could not understand. She opened her eyes, and saw the wall
slowly fading away like a mist, and a great black cavern in front of her. A bitter cold wind
swept round them, and she felt something pulling at her dress. 'Quick, quick,' cried the
Ghost, 'or it will be too late,' and, in a moment, the wainscoting had closed behind them, and
the Tapestry Chamber was empty.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER V 50
CHAPTER VI
A
BOUT ten minutes later, the bell rang for tea, and, as Virginia did not come down,
Mrs. Otis sent up one of the footmen to tell her. After a little time he returned and said that
he could not find Miss Virginia anywhere. As she was in the habit of going out to the garden
every evening to get flowers for the dinner−table, Mrs. Otis was not at all alarmed at first,
but when six o'clock struck, and Virginia did not appear, she became really agitated, and
sent the boys out to look for her, while she herself and Mr. Otis searched every room in the
house. At half−past six the boys came back and said that they could find no trace of their
sister anywhere. They were all now in the greatest state of excitement, and did not know
what to do, when Mr. Otis suddenly remembered that, some few days before, he had given a
band of gypsies permission to camp in the park. He accordingly at once set off for Blackfell
Hollow, where he knew they were, accompanied by his eldest son and two of the
farm−servants. The little Duke of Cheshire, who was perfectly frantic with anxiety, begged
hard to be allowed to go too, but Mr. Otis would not allow him, as he was afraid there might
be a scuffle. On arriving at the spot, however, he found that the gypsies had gone, and it was
evident that their departure had been rather sudden, as the fire was still burning, and some
plates were lying on the grass. Having sent off Washington and the two men to scour the
district, he ran home, and despatched telegrams to all the police inspectors in the county,
telling them to look out for a little girl who had been kidnapped by tramps or gypsies. He
then ordered his horse to be brought round, and, after insisting on his wife and the three boys
sitting down to dinner, rode off down the Ascot Road with a groom. He had hardly,
however, gone a couple of miles when he heard somebody galloping after him, and, looking
round, saw the little Duke coming up on his pony, with his face very flushed and no hat. 'I'm
awfully sorry, Mr. Otis,' gasped out the boy, 'but I can't eat any dinner as long as Virginia is
lost. Please, don't be angry with me; if you had let us be engaged last year, there would
never have been all this trouble. You won't send me back, will you? I can't go! I won't go!'
The Minister could not help smiling at the handsome young scapegrace, and was a good
deal touched at his devotion to Virginia, so leaning down from his horse, he patted him
kindly on the shoulders, and said, 'Well, Cecil, if you won't go back I suppose you must
come with me, but I must get you a hat at Ascot.'
'Oh, bother my hat! I want Virginia!' cried the little Duke, laughing, and they galloped
on to the railway station. There Mr. Otis inquired of the station−master if any one answering
the description of Virginia had been seen on the platform, but could get no news of her. The
station−master, however, wired up and down the line, and assured him that a strict watch
would be kept for her, and, after having bought a hat for the little Duke from a linen−draper,
who was just putting up his shutters, Mr. Otis rode off to Bexley, a village about four miles
away, which he was told was a well−known haunt of the gypsies, as there was a large
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER VI 51
common next to it. Here they roused up the rural policeman, but could get no information
from him, and, after riding all over the common, they turned their horses' heads homewards,
and reached the Chase about eleven o'clock, dead−tired and almost heart−broken. They
found Washington and the twins waiting for them at the gate−house with lanterns, as the
avenue was very dark. Not the slightest trace of Virginia had been discovered. The gypsies
had been caught on Brockley meadows, but she was not with them, and they had explained
their sudden departure by saying that they had mistaken the date of Chorton Fair, and had
gone off in a hurry for fear they might be late. Indeed, they had been quite distressed at
hearing of Virginia's disappearance, as they were very grateful to Mr. Otis for having
allowed them to camp in his park, and four of their number had stayed behind to help in the
search. The carp−pond had been dragged, and the whole Chase thoroughly gone over, but
without any result. It was evident that, for that night at any rate, Virginia was lost to them;
and it was in a state of the deepest depression that Mr Otis and the boys walked up to the
house, the groom following behind with the two horses and the pony. In the hall they found
a group of frightened servants, and lying on a sofa in the library was poor Mrs. Otis, almost
out of her mind with terror and anxiety, and having her forehead bathed with eau−de−
cologne by the old housekeeper. Mr. Otis at once insisted on her having something to eat,
and ordered up supper for the whole party. It was a melancholy meal, as hardly any one
spoke, and even the twins were awestruck and subdued, as they were very fond of their
sister. When they had finished, Mr. Otis, in spite of the entreaties of the little Duke, ordered
them all to bed, saying that nothing more could be done that night, and that he would
telegraph in the morning to Scotland Yard for some detectives to be sent down immediately.
Just as they were passing out of the dining−room, midnight began to boom from the clock
tower, and when the last stroke sounded they heard a crash and a sudden shrill cry; a
dreadful peal of thunder shook the house, a strain of unearthly music floated through the air,
a panel at the top of the staircase flew back with a loud noise, and out on the landing,
looking very pale and white, with a little casket in her hand, stepped Virginia. In a moment
they had all rushed up to her. Mrs. Otis clasped her passionately in her arms, the Duke
smothered her with violent kisses, and the twins executed a wild war−dance round the
group.
'Good heavens! child, where have you been?' said Mr. Otis, rather angrily, thinking that
she had been playing some foolish trick on them. 'Cecil and I have been riding all over the
country looking for you, and your mother has been frightened to death. You must never play
these practical jokes any more.'
'Except on the Ghost! except on the Ghost!' shrieked the twins, as they capered about.
'My own darling, thank God you are found; you must never leave my side again,'
murmured Mrs. Otis, as she kissed the trembling child, and smoothed the tangled gold of her
hair.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER VI 52
'Papa,' said Virginia quietly, 'I have been with the Ghost. He is dead, and you must
come and see him. He had been very wicked, but he was really sorry for all that he had
done, and he gave me this box of beautiful jewels before he died.'
The whole family gazed at her in mute amazement, but she was quite grave and serious;
and, turning round, she led them through the opening in the wainscoting down a narrow
secret corridor, Washington following with a lighted candle, which he had caught up from
the table. Finally, they came to a great oak door, studded with rusty nails. When Virginia
touched it, it swung back on its heavy hinges, and they found themselves in a little low
room, with a vaulted ceiling, and one tiny grated window. Imbedded in the wall was a huge
iron ring, and chained to it was a gaunt skeleton, that was stretched out at full length on the
stone floor, and seemed to be trying to grasp with its long fleshless fingers an old−fashioned
trencher and ewer, that were placed just out of its reach. The jug had evidently been once
filled with water, as it was covered inside with green mould. There was nothing on the
trencher but a pile of dust. Virginia knelt down beside the skeleton, and, folding her little
hands together, began to pray silently, while the rest of the party looked on in wonder at the
terrible tragedy whose secret was now disclosed to them.
'Hallo!' suddenly exclaimed one of the twins, who had been looking out of the window
to try and discover in what wing of the house the room was situated. 'Hallo! the old withered
almond−tree has blossomed. I can see the flowers quite plainly in the moonlight.'
'God has forgiven him,' said Virginia gravely, as she rose to her feet, and a beautiful
light seemed to illumine her face.
'What an angel you are!' cried the young Duke, and he put his arm round her neck and
kissed her.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER VI 53
CHAPTER VII
F
OUR days after these curious incidents a funeral started from Canterville Chase at
about eleven o'clock at night. The hearse was drawn by eight black horses, each of which
carried on its head a great tuft of nodding ostrich−plumes, and the leaden coffin was covered
by a rich purple pall, on which was embroidered in gold the Canterville coat−of−arms. By
the side of the hearse and the coaches walked the servants with lighted torches, and the
whole procession was wonderfully impressive. Lord Canterville was the chief mourner,
having come up specially from Wales to attend the funeral, and sat in the first carriage along
with little Virginia. Then came the United States Minister and his wife, then Washington
and the three boys, and in the last carriage was Mrs. Umney. It was generally felt that, as she
had been frightened by the ghost for more than fifty years of her life, she had a right to see
the last of him. A deep grave had been dug in the corner of the churchyard, just under the
old yew−tree, and the service was read in the most impressive manner by the Rev. Augustus
Dampier. When the ceremony was over, the servants, according to an old custom observed
in the Canterville family, extinguished their torches, and, as the coffin was being lowered
into the grave, Virginia stepped forward and laid on it a large cross made of white and pink
almond−blossoms. As she did so, the moon came out from behind a cloud, and flooded with
its silent silver the little churchyard, and from a distant copse a nightingale began to sing.
She thought of the ghost's description of the Garden of Death, her eyes became dim with
tears, and she hardly spoke a word during the drive home.
The next morning, before Lord Canterville went up to town, Mr. Otis had an interview
with him on the subject of the jewels the ghost had given to Virginia. They were perfectly
magnificent, especially a certain ruby necklace with old Venetian setting, which was really a
superb specimen of sixteenth−century work, and their value was so great that Mr. Otis felt
considerable scruples about allowing his daughter to accept them.
'My lord,' he said, 'I know that in this country mortmain is held to apply to trinkets as
well as to land, and it is quite clear to me that these jewels are, or should be, heirlooms in
your family. I must beg you, accordingly, to take them to London with you, and to regard
them simply as a portion of your property which has been restored to you under certain
strange conditions. As for my daughter, she is merely a child, and has as yet, I am glad to
say, but little interest in such appurtenances of idle luxury. I am also informed by Mrs. Otis,
who, I may say, is no mean authority upon Art − having had the privilege of spending
several winters in Boston when she was a girl − that these gems are of great monetary worth,
and if offered for sale would fetch a tall price. Under these circumstances, Lord Canterville,
I feel sure that you will recognise how impossible it would be for me to allow them to
remain in the possession of any member of my family; and, indeed, all such vain gauds and
toys, however suitable or necessary to the dignity of the British aristocracy, would be
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER VII 54
completely out of place among those who have been brought up on the severe, and I believe
immortal, principles of republican simplicity. Perhaps I should mention that Virginia is very
anxious that you should allow her to retain the box as a memento of your unfortunate but
misguided ancestor. As it is extremely old, and consequently a good deal out of repair, you
may perhaps think fit to comply with her request. For my own part, I confess I am a good
deal surprised to find a child of mine expressing sympathy with mediaevalism in any form,
and can only account for it by the fact that Virginia was born in one of your London suburbs
shortly after Mrs. Otis had returned from a trip to Athens.'
Lord Canterville listened very gravely to the worthy Minister's speech, pulling his grey
moustache now and then to hide an involuntary smile, and when Mr. Otis had ended, he
shook him cordially by the hand, and said, 'My dear sir, your charming little daughter
rendered my unlucky ancestor, Sir Simon, a very important service, and I and my family are
much indebted to her for her marvellous courage and pluck. The jewels are clearly hers, and,
egad, I believe that if I were heartless enough to take them from her, the wicked old fellow
would be out of his grave in a fortnight, leading me the devil of a life. As for their being
heirlooms, nothing is an heirloom that is not so mentioned in a will or legal document, and
the existence of these jewels has been quite unknown. I assure you I have no more claim on
them than your butler, and when Miss Virginia grows up I daresay she will be pleased to
have pretty things to wear. Besides, you forget, Mr. Otis, that you took the furniture and the
ghost at a valuation, and anything that belonged to the ghost passed at once into your
possession, as, whatever activity Sir Simon may have shown in the corridor at night, in point
of law he was really dead, and you acquired his property by purchase.'
Mr. Otis was a good deal distressed at Lord Canterville's refusal, and begged him to
reconsider his decision, but the good−natured peer was quite firm, and finally induced the
Minister to allow his daughter to retain the present the ghost had given her, and when, in the
spring of 1890, the young Duchess of Cheshire was presented at the Queen's first
drawing−room on the occasion of her marriage, her jewels were the universal theme of
admiration. For Virginia received the coronet, which is the reward of all good little
American girls, and was married to her boy−lover as soon as he came of age. They were
both so charming, and they loved each other so much, that every one was delighted at the
match, except the old Marchioness of Dumbleton, who had tried to catch the Duke for one
of her seven unmarried daughters, and had given no less than three expensive dinner−parties
for that purpose, and, strange to say, Mr. Otis himself. Mr. Otis was extremely fond of the
young Duke personally, but, theoretically, he objected to titles, and, to use his own words,
'was not without apprehension lest, amid the enervating influences of a pleasure−loving
aristocracy, the true principles of republican simplicity should be forgotten.' His objections,
however, were completely overruled, and I believe that when he walked up the aisle of St.
George's, Hanover Square, with his daughter leaning on his arm, there was not a prouder
man in the whole length and breadth of England.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER VII 55
The Duke and Duchess, after the honeymoon was over, went down to Canterville
Chase, and on the day after their arrival they walked over in the afternoon to the lonely
churchyard by the pine−woods. There had been a great deal of difficulty at first about the
inscription on Sir Simon's tombstone, but finally it had been decided to engrave on it simply
the initials of the old gentleman's name, and the verse from the library window. The Duchess
had brought with her some lovely roses, which she strewed upon the grave, and after they
had stood by it for some time they strolled into the ruined chancel of the old abbey. There
the Duchess sat down on a fallen pillar, while her husband lay at her feet smoking a cigarette
and looking up at her beautiful eyes. Suddenly he threw his cigarette away, took hold of her
hand, and said to her, 'Virginia, a wife should have no secrets from her husband.'
'Dear Cecil! I have no secrets from you.'
'Yes, you have,' he answered, smiling, 'you have never told me what happened to you
when you were locked up with the ghost.'
'I have never told any one, Cecil,' said Virginia gravely.
'I know that, but you might tell me.'
'Please don't ask me, Cecil, I cannot tell you. Poor Sir Simon! I owe him a great deal.
Yes, don't laugh, Cecil, I really do. He made me see what Life is, and what Death signifies,
and why Love is stronger than both.'
The Duke rose and kissed his wife lovingly.
'You can have your secret as long as I have your heart,' he murmured.
'You have always had that, Cecil.'
'And you will tell our children some day, won't you?'
Virginia blushed.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER VII 56
PART 3 − The sphinx without a SECRET
O
NE afternoon I was sitting outside the Cafe de la Paix, watching the splendour and
shabbiness of Parisian life, and wondering over my vermouth at the strange panorama of
pride and poverty that was passing before me, when I heard some one call my name. I turned
round, and saw Lord Murchison. We had not met since we had been at college together,
nearly ten years before, so I was delighted to come across him again, and we shook hands
warmly. At Oxford we had been great friends. I had liked him immensely, he was so
handsome, so high−spirited, and so honourable. We used to say of him that he would be the
best of fellows, if he did not always speak the truth, but I think we really admired him all the
more for his frankness. I found him a good deal changed. He looked anxious and puzzled,
and seemed to be in doubt about something. I felt it could not be modern scepticism, for
Murchison was the stoutest of Tories, and believed in the Pentateuch as firmly as he
believed in the House of Peers; so I concluded that it was a woman, and asked him if he was
married yet.
'I don't understand women well enough,' he answered.
'My dear Gerald,' I said, 'women are meant to be loved, not to be understood.'
'I cannot love where I cannot trust,' he replied.
'I believe you have a mystery in your life, Gerald,' I exclaimed; 'tell me about it.'
'Let us go for a drive,' he answered, 'it is too crowded here. No, not a yellow carriage,
any other colour − there, that dark green one will do'; and in a few moments we were trotting
down the boulevard in the direction of the Madeleine.
'Where shall we go to?' I said.
'Oh, anywhere you like!' he answered − 'to the restaurant in the Bois; we will dine there,
and you shall tell me all about yourself.'
'I want to hear about you first,' I said. 'Tell me your mystery.'
He took from his pocket a little silver−clasped morocco case, and handed it to me. I
opened it. Inside there was the photograph of a woman. She was tall and slight, and
strangely picturesque with her large vague eyes and loosened hair. She looked like a
CLAIRVOYANTE, and was wrapped in rich furs.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
PART 3 − The sphinx without a SECRET 57
'What do you think of that face?' he said; 'is it truthful?'
I examined it carefully. It seemed to me the face of some one who had a secret, but
whether that secret was good or evil I could not say. Its beauty was a beauty moulded out of
many mysteries − the beauty, in fact, which is psychological, not plastic − and the faint
smile that just played across the lips was far too subtle to be really sweet.
'Well,' he cried impatiently, 'what do you say?'
'She is the Gioconda in sables,' I answered. 'Let me know all about her.'
'Not now,' he said; 'after dinner,' and began to talk of other things.
When the waiter brought us our coffee and cigarettes I reminded Gerald of his promise.
He rose from his seat, walked two or three times up and down the room, and, sinking into an
armchair, told me the following story:−
'One evening,' he said, 'I was walking down Bond Street about five o'clock. There was a
terrific crush of carriages, and the traffic was almost stopped. Close to the pavement was
standing a little yellow brougham, which, for some reason or other, attracted my attention.
As I passed by there looked out from it the face I showed you this afternoon. It fascinated
me immediately. All that night I kept thinking of it, and all the next day. I wandered up and
down that wretched Row, peering into every carriage, and waiting for the yellow brougham;
but I could not find Ma belle inconnue, and at last I began to think she was merely a dream.
About a week afterwards I was dining with Madame de Rastail. Dinner was for eight
o'clock; but at half−past eight we were still waiting in the drawing−room. Finally the servant
threw open the door, and announced Lady Alroy. It was the woman I had been looking for.
She came in very slowly, looking like a moonbeam in grey lace, and, to my intense delight, I
was asked to take her in to dinner. After we had sat down, I remarked quite innocently, «I
think I caught sight of you in Bond Street some time ago, Lady Alroy.» She grew very pale,
and said to me in a low voice, «Pray do not talk so loud; you may be overheard.» I felt
miserable at having made such a bad beginning, and plunged recklessly into the subject of
the French plays. She spoke very little, always in the same low musical voice, and seemed as
if she was afraid of some one listening. I fell passionately, stupidly in love, and the
indefinable atmosphere of mystery that surrounded her excited my most ardent curiosity.
When she was going away, which she did very soon after dinner, I asked her if I might call
and see her. She hesitated for a moment, glanced round to see if any one was near us, and
then said, «Yes; to−morrow at a quarter to five.» I begged Madame de Rastail to tell me
about her; but all that I could learn was that she was a widow with a beautiful house in Park
Lane, and as some scientific bore began a dissertation on widows, as exemplifying the
survival of the matrimonially fittest, I left and went home.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
PART 3 − The sphinx without a SECRET 58
'The next day I arrived at Park Lane punctual to the moment, but was told by the butler
that Lady Alroy had just gone out. I went down to the club quite unhappy and very much
puzzled, and after long consideration wrote her a letter, asking if I might be allowed to try
my chance some other afternoon. I had no answer for several days, but at last I got a little
note saying she would be at home on Sunday at four and with this extraordinary postscript:
«Please do not write to me here again; I will explain when I see you.» On Sunday she
received me, and was perfectly charming; but when I was going away she begged of me, if I
ever had occasion to write to her again, to address my letter to «Mrs. Knox, care of
Whittaker's Library, Green Street.» «There are reasons,» she said, «why I cannot receive
letters in my own house.»
'All through the season I saw a great deal of her, and the atmosphere of mystery never
left her. Sometimes I thought that she was in the power of some man, but she looked so
unapproachable, that I could not believe it. It was really very difficult for me to come to any
conclusion, for she was like one of those strange crystals that one sees in museums, which
are at one moment clear, and at another clouded. At last I determined to ask her to be my
wife: I was sick and tired of the incessant secrecy that she imposed on all my visits, and on
the few letters I sent her. I wrote to her at the library to ask her if she could see me the
following Monday at six. She answered yes, and I was in the seventh heaven of delight. I
was infatuated with her: in spite of the mystery, I thought then − in consequence of it, I see
now. No; it was the woman herself I loved. The mystery troubled me, maddened me. Why
did chance put me in its track?'
'You discovered it, then?' I cried.
'I fear so,' he answered. 'You can judge for yourself.'
'When Monday came round I went to lunch with my uncle, and about four o'clock found
myself in the Marylebone Road. My uncle, you know, lives in Regent's Park. I wanted to get
to Piccadilly, and took a short cut through a lot of shabby little streets. Suddenly I saw in
front of me Lady Alroy, deeply veiled and walking very fast. On coming to the last house in
the street, she went up the steps, took out a latch−key, and let herself in. «Here is the
mystery,» I said to myself; and I hurried on and examined the house. It seemed a sort of
place for letting lodgings. On the doorstep lay her handkerchief, which she had dropped. I
picked it up and put it in my pocket. Then I began to consider what I should do. I came to
the conclusion that I had no right to spy on her, and I drove down to the club. At six I called
to see her. She was lying on a sofa, in a tea−gown of silver tissue looped up by some strange
moonstones that she always wore. She was looking quite lovely. «I am so glad to see you,»
she said; «I have not been out all day.» I stared at her in amazement, and pulling the
handkerchief out of my pocket, handed it to her. «You dropped this in Cumnor Street this
afternoon, Lady Alroy,» I said very calmly. She looked at me in terror but made no attempt
to take the handkerchief. «What were you doing there?» I asked. «What right have you to
question me?» she answered. «The right of a man who loves you,» I replied; «I came here to
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
PART 3 − The sphinx without a SECRET 59
ask you to be my wife.» She hid her face in her hands, and burst into floods of tears. «You
must tell me,» I continued. She stood up, and, looking me straight in the face, said, «Lord
Murchison, there is nothing to tell you.» − «You went to meet some one,» I cried; «this is
your mystery.» She grew dreadfully white, and said, «I went to meet no one.» − «Can't you
tell the truth?» I exclaimed. «I have told it,» she replied. I was mad, frantic; I don't know
what I said, but I said terrible things to her. Finally I rushed out of the house. She wrote me a
letter the next day; I sent it back unopened, and started for Norway with Alan Colville. After
a month I came back, and the first thing I saw in the Morning post was the death of Lady
Alroy. She had caught a chill at the Opera, and had died in five days of congestion of the
lungs. I shut myself up and saw no one. I had loved her so much, I had loved her so madly.
Good God! how I had loved that woman!'
'You went to the street, to the house in it?' I said.
'Yes,' he answered.
'One day I went to Cumnor Street. I could not help it; I was tortured with doubt. I
knocked at the door, and a respectable− looking woman opened it to me. I asked her if she
had any rooms to let. «Well, sir,» she replied, «the drawing−rooms are supposed to be let;
but I have not seen the lady for three months, and as rent is owing on them, you can have
them.» − «Is this the lady?» I said, showing the photograph. «That's her, sure enough,» she
exclaimed; «and when is she coming back, sir?» − «The lady is dead,» I replied. «Oh sir, I
hope not!» said the woman; «she was my best lodger. She paid me three guineas a week
merely to sit in my drawing−rooms now and then.» «She met some one here?» I said; but
the woman assured me that it was not so, that she always came alone, and saw no one.
«What on earth did she do here?» I cried. «She simply sat in the drawing−room, sir, reading
books, and sometimes had tea,» the woman answered. I did not know what to say, so I gave
her a sovereign and went away. Now, what do you think it all meant? You don't believe the
woman was telling the truth?'
'I do.'
'Then why did Lady Alroy go there?'
'My dear Gerald,' I answered, 'Lady Alroy was simply a woman with a mania for
mystery. She took these rooms for the pleasure of going there with her veil down, and
imagining she was a heroine. She had a passion for secrecy, but she herself was merely a
Sphinx without a secret.'
'Do you really think so?'
'I am sure of it,' I replied.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
PART 3 − The sphinx without a SECRET 60
He took out the morocco case, opened it, and looked at the photograph. 'I wonder?' he
said at last.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
PART 3 − The sphinx without a SECRET 61
PART 4 − The model MILLIONAIRE
U
NLESS one is wealthy there is no use in being a charming fellow. Romance is the
privilege of the rich, not the profession of the unemployed. The poor should be practical and
prosaic. It is better to have a permanent income than to be fascinating. These are the great
truths of modern life which Hughie Erskine never realised. Poor Hughie! Intellectually, we
must admit, he was not of much importance. He never said a brilliant or even an ill− natured
thing in his life. But then he was wonderfully good− looking, with his crisp brown hair, his
clear−cut profile, and his grey eyes. He was as popular with men as he was with women and
he had every accomplishment except that of making money. His father had bequeathed him
his cavalry sword and a HISTORY Of the peninsular war in fifteen volumes. Hughie hung
the first over his looking−glass, put the second on a shelf between RUFF'S Guide and
BAILEY'S Magazine, and lived on two hundred a year that an old aunt allowed him. He
had tried everything. He had gone on the Stock Exchange for six months; but what was a
butterfly to do among bulls and bears? He had been a tea−merchant for a little longer, but
had soon tired of pekoe and souchong. Then he had tried selling dry sherry. That did not
answer; the sherry was a little too dry. Ultimately he became nothing, a delightful,
ineffectual young man with a perfect profile and no profession.
To make matters worse, he was in love. The girl he loved was Laura Merton, the
daughter of a retired Colonel who had lost his temper and his digestion in India, and had
never found either of them again. Laura adored him, and he was ready to kiss her shoe−
strings. They were the handsomest couple in London, and had not a penny−piece between
them. The Colonel was very fond of Hughie, but would not hear of any engagement.
'Come to me, my boy, when you have got ten thousand pounds of your own, and we
will see about it,' he used to say; and Hughie looked very glum in those days, and had to go
to Laura for consolation.
One morning, as he was on his way to Holland Park, where the Mertons lived, he
dropped in to see a great friend of his, Alan Trevor. Trevor was a painter. Indeed, few
people escape that nowadays. But he was also an artist, and artists are rather rare. Personally
he was a strange rough fellow, with a freckled face and a red ragged beard. However, when
he took up the brush he was a real master, and his pictures were eagerly sought after. He had
been very much attracted by Hughie at first, it must be acknowledged, entirely on account of
his personal charm. 'The only people a painter should know,' he used to say, 'are people who
are Bete and beautiful, people who are an artistic pleasure to look at and an intellectual
repose to talk to. Men who are dandies and women who are darlings rule the world, at least
they should do so.' However, after he got to know Hughie better, he liked him quite as much
for his bright, buoyant spirits and his generous, reckless nature, and had given him the
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
PART 4 − The model MILLIONAIRE 62
permanent Entree to his studio.
When Hughie came in he found Trevor putting the finishing touches to a wonderful
life−size picture of a beggar−man. The beggar himself was standing on a raised platform in
a corner of the studio. He was a wizened old man, with a face like wrinkled parchment, and
a most piteous expression. Over his shoulders was flung a coarse brown cloak, all tears and
tatters; his thick boots were patched and cobbled, and with one hand he leant on a rough
stick, while with the other he held out his battered hat for alms.
'What an amazing model!' whispered Hughie, as he shook hands with his friend.
'An amazing model?' shouted Trevor at the top of his voice; 'I should think so! Such
beggars as he are not to be met with every day. A trouvaille, MON Cher; a living
Velasquez! My stars! what an etching Rembrandt would have made of him!'
'Poor old chap!' said Hughie, 'how miserable he looks! But I suppose, to you painters,
his face is his fortune?'
'Certainly,' replied Trevor, 'you don't want a beggar to look happy, do you?'
'How much does a model get for sitting?' asked Hughie, as he found himself a
comfortable seat on a divan.
'A shilling an hour.'
'And how much do you get for your picture, Alan?'
'Oh, for this I get two thousand!'
'Pounds?'
'Guineas. Painters, poets, and physicians always get guineas.'
'Well, I think the model should have a percentage,' cried Hughie, laughing; 'they work
quite as hard as you do.'
'Nonsense, nonsense! Why, look at the trouble of laying on the paint alone, and standing
all day long at one's easel! It's all very well, Hughie, for you to talk, but I assure you that
there are moments when Art almost attains to the dignity of manual labour. But you mustn't
chatter; I'm very busy. Smoke a cigarette, and keep quiet.'
After some time the servant came in, and told Trevor that the framemaker wanted to
speak to him.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
PART 4 − The model MILLIONAIRE 63
'Don't run away, Hughie,' he said, as he went out, 'I will be back in a moment.'
The old beggar−man took advantage of Trevor's absence to rest for a moment on a
wooden bench that was behind him. He looked so forlorn and wretched that Hughie could
not help pitying him, and felt in his pockets to see what money he had. All he could find was
a sovereign and some coppers. 'Poor old fellow,' he thought to himself, 'he wants it more
than I do, but it means no hansoms for a fortnight'; and he walked across the studio and
slipped the sovereign into the beggar's hand.
The old man started, and a faint smile flitted across his withered lips. 'Thank you, sir,'
he said, 'thank you.'
Then Trevor arrived, and Hughie took his leave, blushing a little at what he had done.
He spent the day with Laura, got a charming scolding for his extravagance, and had to walk
home.
That night he strolled into the Palette Club about eleven o'clock, and found Trevor
sitting by himself in the smoking−room drinking hock and seltzer.
'Well, Alan, did you get the picture finished all right?' he said, as he lit his cigarette.
'Finished and framed, my boy!' answered Trevor; 'and, by the bye, you have made a
conquest. That old model you saw is quite devoted to you. I had to tell him all about you −
who you are, where you live, what your income is, what prospects you have − '
'My dear Alan,' cried Hughie, 'I shall probably find him waiting for me when I go home.
But of course you are only joking. Poor old wretch! I wish I could do something for him. I
think it is dreadful that any one should be so miserable. I have got heaps of old clothes at
home − do you think he would care for any of them? Why, his rags were falling to bits.'
'But he looks splendid in them,' said Trevor. 'I wouldn't paint him in a frock coat for
anything. What you call rags I call romance. What seems poverty to you is picturesqueness
to me. However, I'll tell him of your offer.'
'Alan,' said Hughie seriously, 'you painters are a heartless lot.'
'An artist's heart is his head,' replied Trevor; 'and besides, our business is to realise the
world as we see it, not to reform it as we know it. A chacun son metier. And now tell me
how Laura is. The old model was quite interested in her.'
'You don't mean to say you talked to him about her?' said Hughie.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
PART 4 − The model MILLIONAIRE 64
'Certainly I did. He knows all about the relentless colonel, the lovely Laura, and the
10,000 pounds.'
'You told that old beggar all my private affairs?' cried Hughie, looking very red and
angry.
'My dear boy,' said Trevor, smiling, 'that old beggar, as you call him, is one of the
richest men in Europe. He could buy all London to−morrow without overdrawing his
account. He has a house in every capital, dines off gold plate, and can prevent Russia going
to war when he chooses.'
'What on earth do you mean?' exclaimed Hughie.
'What I say,' said Trevor. 'The old man you saw to−day in the studio was Baron
Hausberg. He is a great friend of mine, buys all my pictures and that sort of thing, and gave
me a commission a month ago to paint him as a beggar. QUE VOULEZ−VOUS? La
fantaisie D'UN Millionnaire! And I must say he made a magnificent figure in his rags, or
perhaps I should say in my rags; they are an old suit I got in Spain.'
'Baron Hausberg!' cried Hughie. 'Good heavens! I gave him a sovereign!' and he sank
into an armchair the picture of dismay.
'Gave him a sovereign!' shouted Trevor, and he burst into a roar of laughter. 'My dear
boy, you'll never see it again. Son affaire C'EST L'ARGENT DES AUTRES.'
'I think you might have told me, Alan,' said Hughie sulkily, 'and not have let me make
such a fool of myself.'
'Well, to begin with, Hughie,' said Trevor, 'it never entered my mind that you went
about distributing alms in that reckless way. I can understand your kissing a pretty model,
but your giving a sovereign to an ugly one − by Jove, no! Besides, the fact is that I really
was not at home to−day to any one; and when you came in I didn't know whether Hausberg
would like his name mentioned. You know he wasn't in full dress.'
'What a duffer he must think me!' said Hughie.
'Not at all. He was in the highest spirits after you left; kept chuckling to himself and
rubbing his old wrinkled hands together. I couldn't make out why he was so interested to
know all about you; but I see it all now. He'll invest your sovereign for you, Hughie, pay you
the interest every six months, and have a capital story to tell after dinner.'
'I am an unlucky devil,' growled Hughie. 'The best thing I can do is to go to bed; and,
my dear Alan, you mustn't tell any one. I shouldn't dare show my face in the Row.'
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
PART 4 − The model MILLIONAIRE 65
'Nonsense! It reflects the highest credit on your philanthropic spirit, Hughie. And don't
run away. Have another cigarette, and you can talk about Laura as much as you like.'
However, Hughie wouldn't stop, but walked home, feeling very unhappy, and leaving
Alan Trevor in fits of laughter.
The next morning, as he was at breakfast, the servant brought him up a card on which
was written, 'Monsieur Gustave Naudin, De la part de m. le Baron Hausberg.' 'I suppose he
has come for an apology,' said Hughie to himself; and he told the servant to show the visitor
up.
An old gentleman with gold spectacles and grey hair came into the room, and said, in a
slight French accent, 'Have I the honour of addressing Monsieur Erskine?'
Hughie bowed.
'I have come from Baron Hausberg,' he continued. 'The Baron − '
'I beg, sir, that you will offer him my sincerest apologies,' stammered Hughie.
'The Baron,' said the old gentleman with a smile, 'has commissioned me to bring you
this letter'; and he extended a sealed envelope.
On the outside was written, 'A wedding present to Hugh Erskine and Laura Merton,
from an old beggar,' and inside was a cheque for 10,000 pounds.
When they were married Alan Trevor was the best man, and the Baron made a speech at
the wedding breakfast.
'Millionaire models,' remarked Alan, 'are rare enough; but, by Jove, model millionaires
are rarer still!'
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PART 4 − The model MILLIONAIRE 66
CHAPTER I
I
HAD been dining with Erskine in his pretty little house in Birdcage Walk, and we
were sitting in the library over our coffee and cigarettes, when the question of literary
forgeries happened to turn up in conversation. I cannot at present remember how it was that
we struck upon this somewhat curious topic, as it was at that time, but I know that we had a
long discussion about Macpherson, Ireland, and Chatterton, and that with regard to the last I
insisted that his so−called forgeries were merely the result of an artistic desire for perfect
representation; that we had no right to quarrel with an artist for the conditions under which
he chooses to present his work; and that all Art being to a certain degree a mode of acting,
an attempt to realise one's own personality on some imaginative plane out of reach of the
trammelling accidents and limitations of real life, to censure an artist for a forgery was to
confuse an ethical with an aesthetical problem.
Erskine, who was a good deal older than I was, and had been listening to me with the
amused deference of a man of forty, suddenly put his hand upon my shoulder and said to
me, 'What would you say about a young man who had a strange theory about a certain work
of art, believed in his theory, and committed a forgery in order to prove it?'
'Ah! that is quite a different matter,' I answered.
Erskine remained silent for a few moments, looking at the thin grey threads of smoke
that were rising from his cigarette. 'Yes,' he said, after a pause, 'quite different.'
There was something in the tone of his voice, a slight touch of bitterness perhaps, that
excited my curiosity. 'Did you ever know anybody who did that?' I cried.
'Yes,' he answered, throwing his cigarette into the fire, − 'a great friend of mine, Cyril
Graham. He was very fascinating, and very foolish, and very heartless. However, he left me
the only legacy I ever received in my life.'
'What was that?' I exclaimed. Erskine rose from his seat, and going over to a tall inlaid
cabinet that stood between the two windows, unlocked it, and came back to where I was
sitting, holding in his hand a small panel picture set in an old and somewhat tarnished
Elizabethan frame.
It was a full−length portrait of a young man in late sixteenth− century costume, standing
by a table, with his right hand resting on an open book. He seemed about seventeen years of
age, and was of quite extraordinary personal beauty, though evidently somewhat effeminate.
Indeed, had it not been for the dress and the closely cropped hair, one would have said that
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER I 68
the face with its dreamy wistful eyes, and its delicate scarlet lips, was the face of a girl. In
manner, and especially in the treatment of the hands, the picture reminded one of Francois
Clouet's later work. The black velvet doublet with its fantastically gilded points, and the
peacock−blue background against which it showed up so pleasantly, and from which it
gained such luminous value of colour, were quite in Clouet's style; and the two masks of
Tragedy and Comedy that hung somewhat formally from the marble pedestal had that hard
severity of touch − so different from the facile grace of the Italians − which even at the
Court of France the great Flemish master never completely lost, and which in itself has
always been a characteristic of the northern temper.
'It is a charming thing,' I cried, 'but who is this wonderful young man, whose beauty Art
has so happily preserved for us?'
'This is the portrait of Mr. W. H.,' said Erskine, with a sad smile. It might have been a
chance effect of light, but it seemed to me that his eyes were quite bright with tears.
'Mr. W. H.!' I exclaimed; 'who was Mr. W. H.?'
'Don't you remember?' he answered; 'look at the book on which his hand is resting.'
'I see there is some writing there, but I cannot make it out,' I replied.
'Take this magnifying−glass and try,' said Erskine, with the same sad smile still playing
about his mouth.
I took the glass, and moving the lamp a little nearer, I began to spell out the crabbed
sixteenth−century handwriting. 'To the onlie begetter of these insuing sonnets.' . . . 'Good
heavens!' I cried, 'is this Shakespeare's Mr. W. H.?'
'Cyril Graham used to say so,' muttered Erskine.
'But it is not a bit like Lord Pembroke,' I answered. 'I know the Penshurst portraits very
well. I was staying near there a few weeks ago.'
'Do you really believe then that the sonnets are addressed to Lord Pembroke?' he asked.
'I am sure of it,' I answered. 'Pembroke, Shakespeare, and Mrs. Mary Fitton are the three
personages of the Sonnets; there is no doubt at all about it.'
'Well, I agree with you,' said Erskine, 'but I did not always think so. I used to believe −
well, I suppose I used to believe in Cyril Graham and his theory.'
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CHAPTER I 69
'And what was that?' I asked, looking at the wonderful portrait, which had already
begun to have a strange fascination for me.
'It is a long story,' said Erskine, taking the picture away from me − rather abruptly I
thought at the time − 'a very long story; but if you care to hear it, I will tell it to you.'
'I love theories about the Sonnets,' I cried; 'but I don't think I am likely to be converted
to any new idea. The matter has ceased to be a mystery to any one. Indeed, I wonder that it
ever was a mystery.'
'As I don't believe in the theory, I am not likely to convert you to it,' said Erskine,
laughing; 'but it may interest you.'
'Tell it to me, of course,' I answered. 'If it is half as delightful as the picture, I shall be
more than satisfied.'
'Well,' said Erskine, lighting a cigarette, 'I must begin by telling you about Cyril
Graham himself. He and I were at the same house at Eton. I was a year or two older than he
was, but we were immense friends, and did all our work and all our play together. There
was, of course, a good deal more play than work, but I cannot say that I am sorry for that. It
is always an advantage not to have received a sound commercial education, and what I
learned in the playing fields at Eton has been quite as useful to me as anything I was taught
at Cambridge. I should tell you that Cyril's father and mother were both dead. They had been
drowned in a horrible yachting accident off the Isle of Wight. His father had been in the
diplomatic service, and had married a daughter, the only daughter, in fact, of old Lord
Crediton, who became Cyril's guardian after the death of his parents. I don't think that Lord
Crediton cared very much for Cyril. He had never really forgiven his daughter for marrying
a man who had not a title. He was an extraordinary old aristocrat, who swore like a
costermonger, and had the manners of a farmer. I remember seeing him once on Speech−
day. He growled at me, gave me a sovereign, and told me not to grow up «a damned
Radical» like my father. Cyril had very little affection for him, and was only too glad to
spend most of his holidays with us in Scotland. They never really got on together at all.
Cyril thought him a bear, and he thought Cyril effeminate. He was effeminate, I suppose, in
some things, though he was a very good rider and a capital fencer. In fact he got the foils
before he left Eton. But he was very languid in his manner, and not a little vain of his good
looks, and had a strong objection to football. The two things that really gave him pleasure
were poetry and acting. At Eton he was always dressing up and reciting Shakespeare, and
when we went up to Trinity he became a member of the A.D.C. his first term. I remember I
was always very jealous of his acting. I was absurdly devoted to him; I suppose because we
were so different in some things. I was a rather awkward, weakly lad, with huge feet, and
horribly freckled. Freckles run in Scotch families just as gout does in English families. Cyril
used to say that of the two he preferred the gout; but he always set an absurdly high value on
personal appearance, and once read a paper before our debating society to prove that it was
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CHAPTER I 70
better to be good− looking than to be good. He certainly was wonderfully handsome. People
who did not like him, Philistines and college tutors, and young men reading for the Church,
used to say that he was merely pretty; but there was a great deal more in his face than mere
prettiness. I think he was the most splendid creature I ever saw, and nothing could exceed
the grace of his movements, the charm of his manner. He fascinated everybody who was
worth fascinating, and a great many people who were not. He was often wilful and petulant,
and I used to think him dreadfully insincere. It was due, I think, chiefly to his inordinate
desire to please. Poor Cyril! I told him once that he was contented with very cheap triumphs,
but he only laughed. He was horribly spoiled. All charming people, I fancy, are spoiled. It is
the secret of their attraction.
'However, I must tell you about Cyril's acting. You know that no actresses are allowed
to play at the A.D.C. At least they were not in my time. I don't know how it is now. Well, of
course, Cyril was always cast for the girls' parts, and when As you like it was produced he
played Rosalind. It was a marvellous performance. In fact, Cyril Graham was the only
perfect Rosalind I have ever seen. It would be impossible to describe to you the beauty, the
delicacy, the refinement of the whole thing. It made an immense sensation, and the horrid
little theatre, as it was then, was crowded every night. Even when I read the play now I can't
help thinking of Cyril. It might have been written for him. The next term he took his degree,
and came to London to read for the diplomatic. But he never did any work. He spent his
days in reading Shakespeare's Sonnets, and his evenings at the theatre. He was, of course,
wild to go on the stage. It was all that I and Lord Crediton could do to prevent him. Perhaps
if he had gone on the stage he would be alive now. It is always a silly thing to give advice,
but to give good advice is absolutely fatal. I hope you will never fall into that error. If you
do, you will be sorry for it.
'Well, to come to the real point of the story, one day I got a letter from Cyril asking me
to come round to his rooms that evening. He had charming chambers in Piccadilly
overlooking the Green Park, and as I used to go to see him every day, I was rather surprised
at his taking the trouble to write. Of course I went, and when I arrived I found him in a state
of great excitement. He told me that he had at last discovered the true secret of
Shakespeare's Sonnets; that all the scholars and critics had been entirely on the wrong tack;
and that he was the first who, working purely by internal evidence, had found out who Mr.
W. H. really was. He was perfectly wild with delight, and for a long time would not tell me
his theory. Finally, he produced a bundle of notes, took his copy of the Sonnets off the
mantelpiece, and sat down and gave me a long lecture on the whole subject.
'He began by pointing out that the young man to whom Shakespeare addressed these
strangely passionate poems must have been somebody who was a really vital factor in the
development of his dramatic art, and that this could not be said either of Lord Pembroke or
Lord Southampton. Indeed, whoever he was, he could not have been anybody of high birth,
as was shown very clearly by the 25th Sonnet, in which Shakespeare contrasting himself
with those who are «great princes' favourites,» says quite frankly −
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CHAPTER I 71
Let those who are in favour with their stars Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.
And ends the sonnet by congratulating himself on the mean state of him he so adored.
Then happy I, that love and am beloved Where I may not remove nor be removed.
This sonnet Cyril declared would be quite unintelligible if we fancied that it was
addressed to either the Earl of Pembroke or the Earl of Southampton, both of whom were
men of the highest position in England and fully entitled to be called «great princes»; and he
in corroboration of his view read me Sonnets Cxxiv. and CXXV., in which Shakespeare tells
us that his love is not «the child of state,» that it «suffers not in smiling pomp,» but is
«builded far from accident.» I listened with a good deal of interest, for I don't think the point
had ever been made before; but what followed was still more curious, and seemed to me at
the time to dispose entirely of Pembroke's claim. We know from Meres that the Sonnets had
been written before 1598, and Sonnet CIV. informs us that Shakespeare's friendship for Mr.
W. H. had been already in existence for three years. Now Lord Pembroke, who was born in
1580, did not come to London till he was eighteen years of age, that is to say till 1598, and
Shakespeare's acquaintance with Mr. W. H. must have begun in 1594, or at the latest in
1595. Shakespeare, accordingly, could not have known Lord Pembroke till after the Sonnets
had been written.
'Cyril pointed out also that Pembroke's father did not die till 1601; whereas it was
evident from the line,
You had a father; let your son say so,
that the father of Mr. W. H. was dead in 1598. Besides, it was absurd to imagine that
any publisher of the time, and the preface is from the publisher's hand, would have ventured
to address William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, as Mr. W. H.; the case of Lord Buckhurst
being spoken of as Mr. Sackville being not really a parallel instance, as Lord Buckhurst was
not a peer, but merely the younger son of a peer, with a courtesy title, and the passage in
ENGLAND'S Parnassus, where he is so spoken of, is not a formal and stately dedication,
but simply a casual allusion. So far for Lord Pembroke, whose supposed claims Cyril easily
demolished while I sat by in wonder. With Lord Southampton Cyril had even less difficulty.
Southampton became at a very early age the lover of Elizabeth Vernon, so he needed no
entreaties to marry; he was not beautiful; he did not resemble his mother, as Mr. W. H. did −
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
and, above all, his Christian name was Henry, whereas the punning sonnets (CXXXV.
and CXLIII.) show that the Christian name of Shakespeare's friend was the same as his own
− WILL.
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CHAPTER I 72
'As for the other suggestions of unfortunate commentators, that Mr. W. H. is a misprint
for Mr. W. S., meaning Mr. William Shakespeare; that «Mr. W. H. all» should be read «Mr.
W. Hall»; that Mr. W. H. is Mr. William Hathaway; and that a full stop should be placed
after «wisheth,» making Mr. W. H. the writer and not the subject of the dedication, − Cyril
got rid of them in a very short time; and it is not worth while to mention his reasons, though
I remember he sent me off into a fit of laughter by reading to me, I am glad to say not in the
original, some extracts from a German commentator called Barnstorff, who insisted that Mr.
W. H. was no less a person than «Mr. William Himself.» Nor would he allow for a moment
that the Sonnets are mere satires on the work of Drayton and John Davies of Hereford. To
him, as indeed to me, they were poems of serious and tragic import, wrung out of the
bitterness of Shakespeare's heart, and made sweet by the honey of his lips. Still less would
he admit that they were merely a philosophical allegory, and that in them Shakespeare is
addressing his Ideal Self, or Ideal Manhood, or the Spirit of Beauty, or the Reason, or the
Divine Logos, or the Catholic Church. He felt, as indeed I think we all must feel, that the
Sonnets are addressed to an individual, − to a particular young man whose personality for
some reason seems to have filled the soul of Shakespeare with terrible joy and no less
terrible despair.
'Having in this manner cleared the way as it were, Cyril asked me to dismiss from my
mind any preconceived ideas I might have formed on the subject, and to give a fair and
unbiassed hearing to his own theory. The problem he pointed out was this: Who was that
young man of Shakespeare's day who, without being of noble birth or even of noble nature,
was addressed by him in terms of such passionate adoration that we can but wonder at the
strange worship, and are almost afraid to turn the key that unlocks the mystery of the poet's
heart? Who was he whose physical beauty was such that it became the very corner−stone of
Shakespeare's art; the very source of Shakespeare's inspiration; the very incarnation of
Shakespeare's dreams? To look upon him as simply the object of certain love− poems is to
miss the whole meaning of the poems: for the art of which Shakespeare talks in the Sonnets
is not the art of the Sonnets themselves, which indeed were to him but slight and secret
things − it is the art of the dramatist to which he is always alluding; and he to whom
Shakespeare said −
Thou art all my art, and dost advance As high as learning my rude ignorance,
he to whom he promised immortality,
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men, −
was surely none other than the boy−actor for whom he created Viola and Imogen, Juliet
and Rosalind, Portia and Desdemona, and Cleopatra herself. This was Cyril Graham's
theory, evolved as you see purely from the Sonnets themselves, and depending for its
acceptance not so much on demonstrable proof or formal evidence, but on a kind of spiritual
and artistic sense, by which alone he claimed could the true meaning of the poems be
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER I 73
discerned. I remember his reading to me that fine sonnet −
How can my Muse want subject to invent, While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my
verse Thine own sweet argument, too excellent For every vulgar paper to rehearse? O, give
thyself the thanks, if aught in me Worthy perusal stand against thy sight; For who's so dumb
that cannot write to thee, When thou thyself dost give invention light? Be thou the tenth
Muse, ten times more in worth Than those old nine which rhymers invocate; And he that
calls on thee, let him bring forth Eternal numbers to outlive long date −
and pointing out how completely it corroborated his theory; and indeed he went through
all the Sonnets carefully, and showed, or fancied that he showed, that, according to his new
explanation of their meaning, things that had seemed obscure, or evil, or exaggerated,
became clear and rational, and of high artistic import, illustrating Shakespeare's conception
of the true relations between the art of the actor and the art of the dramatist.
'It is of course evident that there must have been in Shakespeare's company some
wonderful boy−actor of great beauty, to whom he intrusted the presentation of his noble
heroines; for Shakespeare was a practical theatrical manager as well as an imaginative poet,
and Cyril Graham had actually discovered the boy−actor's name. He was Will, or, as he
preferred to call him, Willie Hughes. The Christian name he found of course in the punning
sonnets, Cxxxv. and CXLIII.; the surname was, according to him, hidden in the seventh line
of the 20th Sonnet, where Mr. W. H. is described as −
A man in hew, all Hews in his controwling.
'In the original edition of the Sonnets «Hews» is printed with a capital letter and in
italics, and this, he claimed, showed clearly that a play on words was intended, his view
receiving a good deal of corroboration from those sonnets in which curious puns are made
on the words «use» and «usury.» Of course I was converted at once, and Willie Hughes
became to me as real a person as Shakespeare. The only objection I made to the theory was
that the name of Willie Hughes does not occur in the list of the actors of Shakespeare's
company as it is printed in the first folio. Cyril, however, pointed out that the absence of
Willie Hughes's name from this list really corroborated the theory, as it was evident from
Sonnet Lxxxvi. that Willie Hughes had abandoned Shakespeare's company to play at a rival
theatre, probably in some of Chapman's plays. It is in reference to this that in the great
sonnet on Chapman, Shakespeare said to Willie Hughes −
But when your countenance fill'd up his line, Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine
−
the expression «when your countenance filled up his line» referring obviously to the
beauty of the young actor giving life and reality and added charm to Chapman's verse, the
same idea being also put forward in the 79th Sonnet −
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CHAPTER I 74
Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, My verse alone had all thy gentle grace; But now
my gracious numbers are decay'd, And my sick Muse doth give another place;
and in the immediately preceding sonnet, where Shakespeare says −
Every alien pen has got my USE And under thee their poesy disperse,
the play upon words (use=Hughes) being of course obvious, and the phrase «under thee
their poesy disperse,» meaning «by your assistance as an actor bring their plays before the
people.»
'It was a wonderful evening, and we sat up almost till dawn reading and re−reading the
Sonnets. After some time, however, I began to see that before the theory could be placed
before the world in a really perfected form, it was necessary to get some independent
evidence about the existence of this young actor, Willie Hughes. If this could be once
established, there could be no possible doubt about his identity with Mr. W. H.; but
otherwise the theory would fall to the ground. I put this forward very strongly to Cyril, who
was a good deal annoyed at what he called my Philistine tone of mind, and indeed was
rather bitter upon the subject. However, I made him promise that in his own interest he
would not publish his discovery till he had put the whole matter beyond the reach of doubt;
and for weeks and weeks we searched the registers of City churches, the Alleyn MSS. at
Dulwich, the Record Office, the papers of the Lord Chamberlain − everything, in fact, that
we thought might contain some allusion to Willie Hughes. We discovered nothing, of
course, and every day the existence of Willie Hughes seemed to me to become more
problematical. Cyril was in a dreadful state, and used to go over the whole question day after
day, entreating me to believe; but I saw the one flaw in the theory, and I refused to be
convinced till the actual existence of Willie Hughes, a boy−actor of Elizabethan days, had
been placed beyond the reach of doubt or cavil.
'One day Cyril left town to stay with his grandfather, I thought at the time, but I
afterwards heard from Lord Crediton that this was not the case; and about a fortnight
afterwards I received a telegram from him, handed in at Warwick, asking me to be sure to
come and dine with him that evening at eight o'clock. When I arrived, he said to me, «The
only apostle who did not deserve proof was St. Thomas, and St. Thomas was the only
apostle who got it.» I asked him what he meant. He answered that he had not merely been
able to establish the existence in the sixteenth century of a boy− actor of the name of Willie
Hughes, but to prove by the most conclusive evidence that he was the Mr. W. H. of the
Sonnets. He would not tell me anything more at the time; but after dinner he solemnly
produced the picture I showed you, and told me that he had discovered it by the merest
chance nailed to the side of an old chest that he had bought at a farmhouse in Warwickshire.
The chest itself, which was a very fine example of Elizabethan work, he had, of course,
brought with him, and in the centre of the front panel the initials W. H. were undoubtedly
carved. It was this monogram that had attracted his attention, and he told me that it was not
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER I 75
till he had had the chest in his possession for several days that he had thought of making any
careful examination of the inside. One morning, however, he saw that one of the sides of the
chest was much thicker than the other, and looking more closely, he discovered that a
framed panel picture was clamped against it. On taking it out, he found it was the picture
that is now lying on the sofa. It was very dirty, and covered with mould; but he managed to
clean it, and, to his great joy, saw that he had fallen by mere chance on the one thing for
which he had been looking. Here was an authentic portrait of Mr. W. H., with his hand
resting on the dedicatory page of the Sonnets, and on the frame itself could be faintly seen
the name of the young man written in black uncial letters on a faded gold ground, «Master
Will. Hews.»
'Well, what was I to say? It never occurred to me for a moment that Cyril Graham was
playing a trick on me, or that he was trying to prove his theory by means of a forgery.'
'But is it a forgery?' I asked.
'Of course it is,' said Erskine. 'It is a very good forgery; but it is a forgery none the less.
I thought at the time that Cyril was rather calm about the whole matter; but I remember he
more than once told me that he himself required no proof of the kind, and that he thought the
theory complete without it. I laughed at him, and told him that without it the theory would
fall to the ground, and I warmly congratulated him on the marvellous discovery. We then
arranged that the picture should be etched or facsimiled, and placed as the frontispiece to
Cyril's edition of the Sonnets; and for three months we did nothing but go over each poem
line by line, till we had settled every difficulty of text or meaning. One unlucky day I was in
a print−shop in Holborn, when I saw upon the counter some extremely beautiful drawings in
silver−point. I was so attracted by them that I bought them; and the proprietor of the place, a
man called Rawlings, told me that they were done by a young painter of the name of Edward
Merton, who was very clever, but as poor as a church mouse. I went to see Merton some
days afterwards, having got his address from the printseller, and found a pale, interesting
young man, with a rather common−looking wife − his model, as I subsequently learned. I
told him how much I admired his drawings, at which he seemed very pleased, and I asked
him if he would show me some of his other work. As we were looking over a portfolio, full
of really very lovely things, − for Merton had a most delicate and delightful touch, − I
suddenly caught sight of a drawing of the picture of Mr. W. H. There was no doubt whatever
about it. It was almost a FACSIMILE − the only difference being that the two masks of
Tragedy and Comedy were not suspended from the marble table as they are in the picture,
but were lying on the floor at the young man's feet. «Where on earth did you get that?» I
said. He grew rather confused, and said − «Oh, that is nothing. I did not know it was in this
portfolio. It is not a thing of any value.» «It is what you did for Mr. Cyril Graham,»
exclaimed his wife; «and if this gentleman wishes to buy it, let him have it.» «For Mr. Cyril
Graham?» I repeated. «Did you paint the picture of Mr. W. H.?» «I don't understand what
you mean,» he answered, growing very red. Well, the whole thing was quite dreadful. The
wife let it all out. I gave her five pounds when I was going away. I can't bear to think of it
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER I 76
now; but of course I was furious. I went off at once to Cyril's chambers, waited there for
three hours before he came in, with that horrid lie staring me in the face, and told him I had
discovered his forgery. He grew very pale and said − «I did it purely for your sake. You
would not be convinced in any other way. It does not affect the truth of the theory.» «The
truth of the theory!» I exclaimed; «the less we talk about that the better. You never even
believed in it yourself. If you had, you would not have committed a forgery to prove it.»
High words passed between us; we had a fearful quarrel. I dare say I was unjust. The next
morning he was dead.'
'Dead!' I cried,
'Yes; he shot himself with a revolver. Some of the blood splashed upon the frame of the
picture, just where the name had been painted. By the time I arrived − his servant had sent
for me at once − the police were already there. He had left a letter for me, evidently written
in the greatest agitation and distress of mind.'
'What was in it?' I asked.
'Oh, that he believed absolutely in Willie Hughes; that the forgery of the picture had
been done simply as a concession to me, and did not in the slightest degree invalidate the
truth of the theory; and, that in order to show me how firm and flawless his faith in the
whole thing was, he was going to offer his life as a sacrifice to the secret of the Sonnets. It
was a foolish, mad letter. I remember he ended by saying that he intrusted to me the Willie
Hughes theory, and that it was for me to present it to the world, and to unlock the secret of
Shakespeare's heart.'
'It is a most tragic story,' I cried; 'but why have you not carried out his wishes?'
Erskine shrugged his shoulders. 'Because it is a perfectly unsound theory from
beginning to end,' he answered.
'My dear Erskine,' I said, getting up from my seat, 'you are entirely wrong about the
whole matter. It is the only perfect key to Shakespeare's Sonnets that has ever been made. It
is complete in every detail. I believe in Willie Hughes.'
'Don't say that,' said Erskine gravely; 'I believe there is something fatal about the idea,
and intellectually there is nothing to be said for it. I have gone into the whole matter, and I
assure you the theory is entirely fallacious. It is plausible up to a certain point. Then it stops.
For heaven's sake, my dear boy, don't take up the subject of Willie Hughes. You will break
your heart over it.'
'Erskine,' I answered, 'it is your duty to give this theory to the world. If you will not do
it, I will. By keeping it back you wrong the memory of Cyril Graham, the youngest and the
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CHAPTER I 77
most splendid of all the martyrs of literature. I entreat you to do him justice. He died for this
thing, − don't let his death be in vain.'
Erskine looked at me in amazement. 'You are carried away by the sentiment of the
whole story,' he said. 'You forget that a thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for
it. I was devoted to Cyril Graham. His death was a horrible blow to me. I did not recover it
for years. I don't think I have ever recovered it. But Willie Hughes? There is nothing in the
idea of Willie Hughes. No such person ever existed. As for bringing the whole thing before
the world − the world thinks that Cyril Graham shot himself by accident. The only proof of
his suicide was contained in the letter to me, and of this letter the public never heard
anything. To the present day Lord Crediton thinks that the whole thing was accidental.'
'Cyril Graham sacrificed his life to a great Idea,' I answered; 'and if you will not tell of
his martyrdom, tell at least of his faith.'
'His faith,' said Erskine, 'was fixed in a thing that was false, in a thing that was unsound,
in a thing that no Shakespearean scholar would accept for a moment. The theory would be
laughed at. Don't make a fool of yourself, and don't follow a trail that leads nowhere. You
start by assuming the existence of the very person whose existence is the thing to be proved.
Besides, everybody knows that the Sonnets were addressed to Lord Pembroke. The matter is
settled once for all.'
'The matter is not settled!' I exclaimed. 'I will take up the theory where Cyril Graham
left it, and I will prove to the world that he was right.'
'Silly boy!' said Erskine. 'Go home: it is after two, and don't think about Willie Hughes
any more. I am sorry I told you anything about it, and very sorry indeed that I should have
converted you to a thing in which I don't believe.'
'You have given me the key to the greatest mystery of modern literature,' I answered;
'and I shall not rest till I have made you recognise, till I have made everybody recognise, that
Cyril Graham was the most subtle Shakespearean critic of our day.'
As I walked home through St. James's Park the dawn was just breaking over London.
The white swans were lying asleep on the polished lake, and the gaunt Palace looked purple
against the pale− green sky. I thought of Cyril Graham, and my eyes filled with tears.
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CHAPTER II
I
T was past twelve o'clock when I awoke, and the sun was streaming in through the
curtains of my room in long slanting beams of dusty gold. I told my servant that I would be
at home to no one; and after I had had a cup of chocolate and a PETIT−PAIN, I took down
from the book−shelf my copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets, and began to go carefully through
them. Every poem seemed to me to corroborate Cyril Graham's theory. I felt as if I had my
hand upon Shakespeare's heart, and was counting each separate throb and pulse of passion. I
thought of the wonderful boy−actor, and saw his face in every line.
Two sonnets, I remember, struck me particularly: they were the 53rd and the 67th. In
the first of these, Shakespeare, complimenting Willie Hughes on the versatility of his acting,
on his wide range of parts, a range extending from Rosalind to Juliet, and from Beatrice to
Ophelia, says to him −
What is your substance, whereof are you made, That millions of strange shadows on
you tend? Since every one hath, every one, one shade, And you, but one, can every shadow
lend −
lines that would be unintelligible if they were not addressed to an actor, for the word
'shadow' had in Shakespeare's day a technical meaning connected with the stage. 'The best in
this kind are but shadows,' says Theseus of the actors in the Midsummer NIGHT'S
Dream, and there are many similar allusions in the literature of the day. These sonnets
evidently belonged to the series in which Shakespeare discusses the nature of the actor's art,
and of the strange and rare temperament that is essential to the perfect stage−player. 'How is
it,' says Shakespeare to Willie Hughes, 'that you have so many personalities?' and then he
goes on to point out that his beauty is such that it seems to realise every form and phase of
fancy, to embody each dream of the creative imagination − an idea that is still further
expanded in the sonnet that immediately follows, where, beginning with the fine thought,
O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which
Truth doth give!
Shakespeare invites us to notice how the truth of acting, the truth of visible presentation
on the stage, adds to the wonder of poetry, giving life to its loveliness, and actual reality to
its ideal form. And yet, in the 67th Sonnet, Shakespeare calls upon Willie Hughes to
abandon the stage with its artificiality, its false mimic life of painted face and unreal
costume, its immoral influences and suggestions, its remoteness from the true world of noble
action and sincere utterance.
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CHAPTER II 79
Ah, wherefore with infection should he live And with his presence grace impiety, That
sin by him advantage should achieve And lace itself with his society? Why should false
painting imitate his cheek, And steal dead seeming of his living hue? Why should poor
beauty indirectly seek Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?
It may seem strange that so great a dramatist as Shakespeare, who realised his own
perfection as an artist and his humanity as a man on the ideal plane of stage−writing and
stage−playing, should have written in these terms about the theatre; but we must remember
that in Sonnets CX. and CXI. Shakespeare shows us that he too was wearied of the world of
puppets, and full of shame at having made himself 'a motley to the view.' The 111th Sonnet
is especially bitter:−
O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide, The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
That did not better for my life provide Than public means which public manners breeds.
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, And almost thence my nature is subdued To
what it works in, like the dyer's hand: Pity me then and wish I were renew'd −
and there are many signs elsewhere of the same feeling, signs familiar to all real
students of Shakespeare.
One point puzzled me immensely as I read the Sonnets, and it was days before I struck
on the true interpretation, which indeed Cyril Graham himself seems to have missed. I could
not understand how it was that Shakespeare set so high a value on his young friend
marrying. He himself had married young, and the result had been unhappiness, and it was
not likely that he would have asked Willie Hughes to commit the same error. The
boy−player of Rosalind had nothing to gain from marriage, or from the passions of real life.
The early sonnets, with their strange entreaties to have children, seemed to me a jarring note.
The explanation of the mystery came on me quite suddenly, and I found it in the curious
dedication. It will be remembered that the dedication runs as follows:−
TO The onlie begetter of
These Insuing sonnets
MR. W. H. All happinesse
AND That eternitie
Promised
BY
OUR EVER−LIVING Poet
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CHAPTER II 80
Wisheth
THE WELL−WISHING
Adventurer in
Setting
Forth.
T. T.
Some scholars have supposed that the word 'begetter' in this dedication means simply
the procurer of the Sonnets for Thomas Thorpe the publisher; but this view is now generally
abandoned, and the highest authorities are quite agreed that it is to be taken in the sense of
inspirer, the metaphor being drawn from the analogy of physical life. Now I saw that the
same metaphor was used by Shakespeare himself all through the poems, and this set me on
the right track. Finally I made my great discovery. The marriage that Shakespeare proposes
for Willie Hughes is the marriage with his Muse, an expression which is definitely put
forward in the 82nd Sonnet, where, in the bitterness of his heart at the defection of the
boy−actor for whom he had written his greatest parts, and whose beauty had indeed
suggested them, he opens his complaint by saying −
I grant thou wert not married to my Muse.
The children he begs him to beget are no children of flesh and blood, but more immortal
children of undying fame. The whole cycle of the early sonnets is simply Shakespeare's
invitation to Willie Hughes to go upon the stage and become a player. How barren and
profitless a thing, he says, is this beauty of yours if it be not used:−
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies, Where all the treasure of thy lusty days, To say,
within thine own deep−sunken eyes, Were an all−eating shame and thriftless praise.
You must create something in art: my verse 'is thine, and Born of thee'; only listen to
me, and I will 'BRING Forth eternal numbers to outlive long date,' and you shall people
with forms of your own image the imaginary world of the stage. These children that you
beget, he continues, will not wither away, as mortal children do, but you shall live in them
and in my plays: do but −
Make thee another self, for love of me, That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
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CHAPTER II 81
I collected all the passages that seemed to me to corroborate this view, and they
produced a strong impression on me, and showed me how complete Cyril Graham's theory
really was. I also saw that it was quite easy to separate those lines in which he speaks of the
Sonnets themselves from those in which he speaks of his great dramatic work. This was a
point that had been entirely overlooked by all critics up to Cyril Graham's day. And yet it
was one of the most important points in the whole series of poems. To the Sonnets
Shakespeare was more or less indifferent. He did not wish to rest his fame on them. They
were to him his 'slight Muse,' as he calls them, and intended, as Meres tells us, for private
circulation only among a few, a very few, friends. Upon the other hand he was extremely
conscious of the high artistic value of his plays, and shows a noble self−reliance upon his
dramatic genius. When he says to Willie Hughes:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor
shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in Eternal lines to time thou grow'st: So
long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee; −
the expression 'eternal lines' clearly alludes to one of his plays that he was sending him
at the time, just as the concluding couplet points to his confidence in the probability of his
plays being always acted. In his address to the Dramatic Muse (Sonnets C. and CI.), we find
the same feeling.
Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long To speak of that which gives thee all
thy might? Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song, Darkening thy power to lend
base subjects light?
he cries, and he then proceeds to reproach the Mistress of Tragedy and Comedy for her
'neglect of Truth in Beauty dyed,' and says −
Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb? Excuse not silence so, for 't lies in thee
To make him much outlive a gilded tomb And to be praised of ages yet to be. Then do thy
office, Muse; I teach thee how To make him seem long hence as he shows now.
It is, however, perhaps in the 55th Sonnet that Shakespeare gives to this idea its fullest
expression. To imagine that the 'powerful rhyme' of the second line refers to the sonnet
itself, is to mistake Shakespeare's meaning entirely. It seemed to me that it was extremely
likely, from the general character of the sonnet, that a particular play was meant, and that the
play was none other but Romeo and juliet.
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone besmear'd with
sluttish time. When wasteful wars shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of
masonry, Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn The living record of your
memory. 'Gainst death and all−oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still
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CHAPTER II 82
find room Even in the eyes of all posterity That wear this world out to the ending doom. So,
till the judgement that yourself arise, You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.
It was also extremely suggestive to note how here as elsewhere Shakespeare promised
Willie Hughes immortality in a form that appealed to men's eyes − that is to say, in a
spectacular form, in a play that is to be looked at.
For two weeks I worked hard at the Sonnets, hardly ever going out, and refusing all
invitations. Every day I seemed to be discovering something new, and Willie Hughes
became to me a kind of spiritual presence, an ever−dominant personality. I could almost
fancy that I saw him standing in the shadow of my room, so well had Shakespeare drawn
him, with his golden hair, his tender flower−like grace, his dreamy deep−sunken eyes, his
delicate mobile limbs, and his white lily hands. His very name fascinated me. Willie
Hughes! Willie Hughes! How musically it sounded! Yes; who else but he could have been
the master−mistress of Shakespeare's passion, (1) the lord of his love to whom he was bound
in vassalage, (2) the delicate minion of pleasure, (3) the rose of the whole world, (4) the
herald of the spring (5) decked in the proud livery of youth, (6) the lovely boy whom it was
sweet music to hear, (7) and whose beauty was the very raiment of Shakespeare's heart, (8)
as it was the keystone of his dramatic power? How bitter now seemed the whole tragedy of
his desertion and his shame! − shame that he made sweet and lovely (9) by the mere magic
of his personality, but that was none the less shame. Yet as Shakespeare forgave him, should
not we forgive him also? I did not care to pry into the mystery of his sin.
His abandonment of Shakespeare's theatre was a different matter, and I investigated it at
great length. Finally I came to the conclusion that Cyril Graham had been wrong in
regarding the rival dramatist of the 80th Sonnet as Chapman. It was obviously Marlowe who
was alluded to. At the time the Sonnets were written, such an expression as 'the proud full
sail of his great verse' could not have been used of Chapman's work, however applicable it
might have been to the style of his later Jacobean plays. No: Marlowe was clearly the rival
dramatist of whom Shakespeare spoke in such laudatory terms; and that
Affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
was the Mephistopheles of his Doctor faustus. No doubt, Marlowe was fascinated by
the beauty and grace of the boy−actor, and lured him away from the Blackfriars Theatre, that
he might play the Gaveston of his Edward ii. That Shakespeare had the legal right to retain
Willie Hughes in his own company is evident from Sonnet LXXXVII., where he says:−
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, And like enough thou know'st thy
estimate: The Charter of thy worth gives thee releasing; My BONDS in thee are all
determinate. For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? And for that riches where is my
deserving? The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, And so my patent back again is
swerving. Thyself thou gayest, thy own worth then not knowing, Or me, to whom thou
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CHAPTER II 83
gavest it, else mistaking; So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, Comes home again, on
better judgement making. Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter, In sleep a king, but
waking no such matter.
But him whom he could not hold by love, he would not hold by force. Willie Hughes
became a member of Lord Pembroke's company, and, perhaps in the open yard of the Red
Bull Tavern, played the part of King Edward's delicate minion. On Marlowe's death, he
seems to have returned to Shakespeare, who, whatever his fellow−partners may have
thought of the matter, was not slow to forgive the wilfulness and treachery of the young
actor.
How well, too, had Shakespeare drawn the temperament of the stage− player! Willie
Hughes was one of those
That do not do the thing they most do show, Who, moving others, are themselves as
stone.
He could act love, but could not feel it, could mimic passion without realising it.
In many's looks the false heart's history Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles
strange,
but with Willie Hughes it was not so. 'Heaven,' says Shakespeare, in a sonnet of mad
idolatry −
Heaven in thy creation did decree That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;
Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be, Thy looks should nothing thence but
sweetness tell.
In his 'inconstant mind' and his 'false heart,' it was easy to recognise the insincerity and
treachery that somehow seem inseparable from the artistic nature, as in his love of praise
that desire for immediate recognition that characterises all actors. And yet, more fortunate in
this than other actors, Willie Hughes was to know something of immortality. Inseparably
connected with Shakespeare's plays, he was to live in them.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have, Though I, once gone, to all the world
must die: The earth can yield me but a common grave, When you entombed in men's eyes
shall lie. Your monument shall be my gentle verse, Which eyes not yet created shall
o'er−read, And tongues to be your being shall rehearse, When all the breathers of this world
are dead.
There were endless allusions, also, to Willie Hughes's power over his audience − the
'gazers,' as Shakespeare calls them; but perhaps the most perfect description of his
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CHAPTER II 84
wonderful mastery over dramatic art was in A LOVER'S Complaint, where Shakespeare
says of him:−
In him a plenitude of subtle matter, Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives, Of
burning blushes, or of weeping water, Or swooning paleness; and he takes and leaves, In
either's aptness, as it best deceives, To blush at speeches rank, to weep at woes, Or to turn
white and swoon at tragic shows.
* * * * * * * *
So on the tip of his subduing tongue, All kind of arguments and questions deep, All
replication prompt and reason strong, For his advantage still did wake and sleep, To make
the weeper laugh, the laugher weep. He had the dialect and the different skill, Catching all
passions in his craft of will.
Once I thought that I had really found Willie Hughes in Elizabethan literature. In a
wonderfully graphic account of the last days of the great Earl of Essex, his chaplain, Thomas
Knell, tells us that the night before the Earl died, 'he called William Hewes, which was his
musician, to play upon the virginals and to sing. «Play,» said he, «my song, Will Hewes, and
I will sing it to myself.» So he did it most joyfully, not as the howling swan, which, still
looking down, waileth her end, but as a sweet lark, lifting up his hands and casting up his
eyes to his God, with this mounted the crystal skies, and reached with his unwearied tongue
the top of highest heavens.' Surely the boy who played on the virginals to the dying father of
Sidney's Stella was none other but the Will Hews to whom Shakespeare dedicated the
Sonnets, and who he tells us was himself sweet 'music to hear.' Yet Lord Essex died in 1576,
when Shakespeare himself was but twelve years of age. It was impossible that his musician
could have been the Mr. W. H. of the Sonnets. Perhaps Shakespeare's young friend was the
son of the player upon the virginals? It was at least something to have discovered that Will
Hews was an Elizabethan name. Indeed the name Hews seemed to have been closely
connected with music and the stage. The first English actress was the lovely Margaret Hews,
whom Prince Rupert so madly loved. What more probable than that between her and Lord
Essex's musician had come the boy−actor of Shakespeare's plays? But the proofs, the links −
where were they? Alas! I could not find them. It seemed to me that I was always on the
brink of absolute verification, but that I could never really attain to it.
From Willie Hughes's life I soon passed to thoughts of his death. I used to wonder what
had been his end.
Perhaps he had been one of those English actors who in 1604 went across sea to
Germany and played before the great Duke Henry Julius of Brunswick, himself a dramatist
of no mean order, and at the Court of that strange Elector of Brandenburg, who was so
enamoured of beauty that he was said to have bought for his weight in amber the young son
of a travelling Greek merchant, and to have given pageants in honour of his slave all through
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CHAPTER II 85
that dreadful famine year of 1606−7, when the people died of hunger in the very streets of
the town, and for the space of seven months there was no rain. We know at any rate that
Romeo and juliet was brought out at Dresden in 1613, along with Hamlet and King
lear, and it was surely to none other than Willie Hughes that in 1615 the death−mask of
Shakespeare was brought by the hand of one of the suite of the English ambassador, pale
token of the passing away of the great poet who had so dearly loved him. Indeed there
would have been something peculiarly fitting in the idea that the boy−actor, whose beauty
had been so vital an element in the realism and romance of Shakespeare's art, should have
been the first to have brought to Germany the seed of the new culture, and was in his way
the precursor of that Aufklarung or Illumination of the eighteenth century, that splendid
movement which, though begun by Lessing and Herder, and brought to its full and perfect
issue by Goethe, was in no small part helped on by another actor − Friedrich Schroeder −
who awoke the popular consciousness, and by means of the feigned passions and mimetic
methods of the stage showed the intimate, the vital, connection between life and literature. If
this was so − and there was certainly no evidence against it − it was not improbable that
Willie Hughes was one of those English comedians (MIMAE Quidam ex britannia, as the
old chronicle calls them), who were slain at Nuremberg in a sudden uprising of the people,
and were secretly buried in a little vineyard outside the city by some young men 'who had
found pleasure in their performances, and of whom some had sought to be instructed in the
mysteries of the new art.' Certainly no more fitting place could there be for him to whom
Shakespeare said, 'thou art all my art,' than this little vineyard outside the city walls. For was
it not from the sorrows of Dionysos that Tragedy sprang? Was not the light laughter of
Comedy, with its careless merriment and quick replies, first heard on the lips of the Sicilian
vine−dressers? Nay, did not the purple and red stain of the wine−froth on face and limbs
give the first suggestion of the charm and fascination of disguise − the desire for
self−concealment, the sense of the value of objectivity thus showing itself in the rude
beginnings of the art? At any rate, wherever he lay − whether in the little vineyard at the
gate of the Gothic town, or in some dim London churchyard amidst the roar and bustle of
our great city − no gorgeous monument marked his resting− place. His true tomb, as
Shakespeare saw, was the poet's verse, his true monument the permanence of the drama. So
had it been with others whose beauty had given a new creative impulse to their age. The
ivory body of the Bithynian slave rots in the green ooze of the Nile, and on the yellow hills
of the Cerameicus is strewn the dust of the young Athenian; but Antinous lives in sculpture,
and Charmides in philosophy.
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CHAPTER II 86
CHAPTER III
A
FTER three weeks had elapsed, I determined to make a strong appeal to Erskine to do
justice to the memory of Cyril Graham, and to give to the world his marvellous
interpretation of the Sonnets − the only interpretation that thoroughly explained the problem.
I have not any copy of my letter, I regret to say, nor have I been able to lay my hand upon
the original; but I remember that I went over the whole ground, and covered sheets of paper
with passionate reiteration of the arguments and proofs that my study had suggested to me.
It seemed to me that I was not merely restoring Cyril Graham to his proper place in literary
history, but rescuing the honour of Shakespeare himself from the tedious memory of a
commonplace intrigue. I put into the letter all my enthusiasm. I put into the letter all my
faith.
No sooner, in fact, had I sent it off than a curious reaction came over me. It seemed to
me that I had given away my capacity for belief in the Willie Hughes theory of the Sonnets,
that something had gone out of me, as it were, and that I was perfectly indifferent to the
whole subject. What was it that had happened? It is difficult to say. Perhaps, by finding
perfect expression for a passion, I had exhausted the passion itself. Emotional forces, like
the forces of physical life, have their positive limitations. Perhaps the mere effort to convert
any one to a theory involves some form of renunciation of the power of credence. Perhaps I
was simply tired of the whole thing, and, my enthusiasm having burnt out, my reason was
left to its own unimpassioned judgment. However it came about, and I cannot pretend to
explain it, there was no doubt that Willie Hughes suddenly became to me a mere myth, an
idle dream, the boyish fancy of a young man who, like most ardent spirits, was more anxious
to convince others than to be himself convinced.
As I had said some very unjust and bitter things to Erskine in my letter, I determined to
go and see him at once, and to make my apologies to him for my behaviour. Accordingly,
the next morning I drove down to Birdcage Walk, and found Erskine sitting in his library,
with the forged picture of Willie Hughes in front of him.
'My dear Erskine!' I cried, 'I have come to apologise to you.'
'To apologise to me?' he said. 'What for?'
'For my letter,' I answered.
'You have nothing to regret in your letter,' he said. 'On the contrary, you have done me
the greatest service in your power. You have shown me that Cyril Graham's theory is
perfectly sound.'
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CHAPTER III 87
'You don't mean to say that you believe in Willie Hughes?' I exclaimed.
'Why not?' he rejoined. 'You have proved the thing to me. Do you think I cannot
estimate the value of evidence?'
'But there is no evidence at all,' I groaned, sinking into a chair. 'When I wrote to you I
was under the influence of a perfectly silly enthusiasm. I had been touched by the story of
Cyril Graham's death, fascinated by his romantic theory, enthralled by the wonder and
novelty of the whole idea. I see now that the theory is based on a delusion. The only
evidence for the existence of Willie Hughes is that picture in front of you, and the picture is
a forgery. Don't be carried away by mere sentiment in this matter. Whatever romance may
have to say about the Willie Hughes theory, reason is dead against it.'
'I don't understand you,' said Erskine, looking at me in amazement. 'Why, you yourself
have convinced me by your letter that Willie Hughes is an absolute reality. Why have you
changed your mind? Or is all that you have been saying to me merely a joke?'
'I cannot explain it to you,' I rejoined, 'but I see now that there is really nothing to be
said in favour of Cyril Graham's interpretation. The Sonnets are addressed to Lord
Pembroke. For heaven's sake don't waste your time in a foolish attempt to discover a young
Elizabethan actor who never existed, and to make a phantom puppet the centre of the great
cycle of Shakespeare's Sonnets.'
'I see that you don't understand the theory,' he replied.
'My dear Erskine,' I cried, 'not understand it! Why, I feel as if I had invented it. Surely
my letter shows you that I not merely went into the whole matter, but that I contributed
proofs of every kind. The one flaw in the theory is that it presupposes the existence of the
person whose existence is the subject of dispute. If we grant that there was in Shakespeare's
company a young actor of the name of Willie Hughes, it is not difficult to make him the
object of the Sonnets. But as we know that there was no actor of this name in the company
of the Globe Theatre, it is idle to pursue the investigation further.'
'But that is exactly what we don't know,' said Erskine. 'It is quite true that his name does
not occur in the list given in the first folio; but, as Cyril pointed out, that is rather a proof in
favour of the existence of Willie Hughes than against it, if we remember his treacherous
desertion of Shakespeare for a rival dramatist.'
We argued the matter over for hours, but nothing that I could say could make Erskine
surrender his faith in Cyril Graham's interpretation. He told me that he intended to devote
his life to proving the theory, and that he was determined to do justice to Cyril Graham's
memory. I entreated him, laughed at him, begged of him, but it was of no use. Finally we
parted, not exactly in anger, but certainly with a shadow between us. He thought me
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER III 88
shallow, I thought him foolish. When I called on him again his servant told me that he had
gone to Germany.
Two years afterwards, as I was going into my club, the hall−porter handed me a letter
with a foreign postmark. It was from Erskine, and written at the Hotel d'Angleterre, Cannes.
When I had read it I was filled with horror, though I did not quite believe that he would be
so mad as to carry his resolve into execution. The gist of the letter was that he had tried in
every way to verify the Willie Hughes theory, and had failed, and that as Cyril Graham had
given his life for this theory, he himself had determined to give his own life also to the same
cause. The concluding words of the letter were these: 'I still believe in Willie Hughes; and
by the time you receive this, I shall have died by my own hand for Willie Hughes's sake: for
his sake, and for the sake of Cyril Graham, whom I drove to his death by my shallow
scepticism and ignorant lack of faith. The truth was once revealed to you, and you rejected
it. It comes to you now stained with the blood of two lives, − do not turn away from it.'
It was a horrible moment. I felt sick with misery, and yet I could not believe it. To die
for one's theological beliefs is the worst use a man can make of his life, but to die for a
literary theory! It seemed impossible.
I looked at the date. The letter was a week old. Some unfortunate chance had prevented
my going to the club for several days, or I might have got it in time to save him. Perhaps it
was not too late. I drove off to my rooms, packed up my things, and started by the
night−mail from Charing Cross. The journey was intolerable. I thought I would never arrive.
As soon as I did I drove to the Hotel l'Angleterre. They told me that Erskine had been buried
two days before in the English cemetery. There was something horribly grotesque about the
whole tragedy. I said all kinds of wild things, and the people in the hall looked curiously at
me.
Suddenly Lady Erskine, in deep mourning, passed across the vestibule. When she saw
me she came up to me, murmured something about her poor son, and burst into tears. I led
her into her sitting−room. An elderly gentleman was there waiting for her. It was the English
doctor.
We talked a great deal about Erskine, but I said nothing about his motive for
committing suicide. It was evident that he had not told his mother anything about the reason
that had driven him to so fatal, so mad an act. Finally Lady Erskine rose and said, George
left you something as a memento. It was a thing he prized very much. I will get it for you.
As soon as she had left the room I turned to the doctor and said, 'What a dreadful shock
it must have been to Lady Erskine! I wonder that she bears it as well as she does.'
'Oh, she knew for months past that it was coming,' he answered.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER III 89
'Knew it for months past!' I cried. 'But why didn't she stop him? Why didn't she have
him watched? He must have been mad.'
The doctor stared at me. 'I don't know what you mean,' he said.
'Well,' I cried, 'if a mother knows that her son is going to commit suicide − '
'Suicide!' he answered. 'Poor Erskine did not commit suicide. He died of consumption.
He came here to die. The moment I saw him I knew that there was no hope. One lung was
almost gone, and the other was very much affected. Three days before he died he asked me
was there any hope. I told him frankly that there was none, and that he had only a few days
to live. He wrote some letters, and was quite resigned, retaining his senses to the last.'
At that moment Lady Erskine entered the room with the fatal picture of Willie Hughes
in her hand. 'When George was dying he begged me to give you this,' she said. As I took it
from her, her tears fell on my hand.
The picture hangs now in my library, where it is very much admired by my artistic
friends. They have decided that it is not a Clouet, but an Oudry. I have never cared to tell
them its true history. But sometimes, when I look at it, I think that there is really a great deal
to be said for the Willie Hughes theory of Shakespeare's Sonnets.
Footnotes:
(1) Sonnet xx. 2. (2) Sonnet xxvi. 1. (3) Sonnet cxxvi. 9. (4) Sonnet cix. 14. (5) Sonnet
i. 10. (6) Sonnet ii. 3. (7) Sonnet viii. 1. (8) Sonnet xxii. 6. (9) Sonnet xcv. 1.
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
CHAPTER III 90
Table Of Content
PART 1 − LORD ARTHUR SAVILE'S CRIME
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
PART 2 − THE CANTERVILLE GHOST
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
PART 3 − THE SPHINX WITHOUT A SECRET
PART 4 − THE MODEL MILLIONAIRE
PART 5 − THE PORTRAIT OF MR. W. H.
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
Table Of Content 91
About Phoenix Editions
Why Phoenix Editions?
With the already available tools, converting files to eBook formats is not a big task. You can
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Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
About Phoenix Editions 93
What is a Phoenix Edition
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Phoenix Edition of a Acrobat file:
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime etc
What is a Phoenix Edition 94
An ebook with a cover, images, chapter breaks, matching page numbers, oeb compliant
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What is a Phoenix Edition 95
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