CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
SECOND PERIOD
FIRST NARRATIVE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
SECOND NARRATIVE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
THIRD NARRATIVE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
FOURTH NARRATIVE
FIFTH NARRATIVE
SIXTH NARRATIVE
I
II
III
IV
V
SEVENTH NARRATIVE
EIGHTH NARRATIVE
EPILOGUE
I
II
III
PROLOGUE
THE STORMING OF SERINGAPATAM (1799):
_(Extracted from a Family Paper.)_
I
I address these lines—written in India—to my relatives in England.
My object is to explain the motive which has induced me to refuse the
right hand of friendship to my cousin, John Herncastle. The reserve
which I have hitherto maintained in this matter has been misinterpreted
by members of my family whose good opinion I cannot consent to forfeit.
I request them to suspend their decision until they have read my
narrative. And I declare, on my word of honour, that what I am now
about to write is, strictly and literally, the truth.
The private difference between my cousin and me took its rise in a
great public event in which we were both concerned—the storming of
Seringapatam, under General Baird, on the 4th of May, 1799.
In order that the circumstances may be clearly understood, I must
revert for a moment to the period before the assault, and to the
stories current in our camp of the treasure in jewels and gold stored
up in the Palace of Seringapatam.
II
One of the wildest of these stories related to a Yellow Diamond—a
famous gem in the native annals of India.
The earliest known traditions describe the stone as having been set in
the forehead of the four-handed Indian god who typifies the Moon.
Partly from its peculiar colour, partly from a superstition which
represented it as feeling the influence of the deity whom it adorned,
and growing and lessening in lustre with the waxing and waning of the
moon, it first gained the name by which it continues to be known in
India to this day—the name of THE MOONSTONE. A similar superstition was
once prevalent, as I have heard, in ancient Greece and Rome; not
applying, however (as in India), to a diamond devoted to the service of
a god, but to a semi-transparent stone of the inferior order of gems,
supposed to be affected by the lunar influences—the moon, in this
latter case also, giving the name by which the stone is still known to
collectors in our own time.
The adventures of the Yellow Diamond begin with the eleventh century of
the Christian era.
At that date, the Mohammedan conqueror, Mahmoud of Ghizni, crossed
India; seized on the holy city of Somnauth; and stripped of its
treasures the famous temple, which had stood for centuries—the shrine
of Hindoo pilgrimage, and the wonder of the Eastern world.
Of all the deities worshipped in the temple, the moon-god alone escaped
the rapacity of the conquering Mohammedans. Preserved by three
Brahmins, the inviolate deity, bearing the Yellow Diamond in its
forehead, was removed by night, and was transported to the second of
the sacred cities of India—the city of Benares.
Here, in a new shrine—in a hall inlaid with precious stones, under a
roof supported by pillars of gold—the moon-god was set up and
worshipped. Here, on the night when the shrine was completed, Vishnu
the Preserver appeared to the three Brahmins in a dream.
The deity breathed the breath of his divinity on the Diamond in the
forehead of the god. And the Brahmins knelt and hid their faces in
their robes. The deity commanded that the Moonstone should be watched,
from that time forth, by three priests in turn, night and day, to the
end of the generations of men. And the Brahmins heard, and bowed before
his will. The deity predicted certain disaster to the presumptuous
mortal who laid hands on the sacred gem, and to all of his house and
name who received it after him. And the Brahmins caused the prophecy to
be written over the gates of the shrine in letters of gold.
One age followed another—and still, generation after generation, the
successors of the three Brahmins watched their priceless Moonstone,
night and day. One age followed another until the first years of the
eighteenth Christian century saw the reign of Aurungzebe, Emperor of
the Moguls. At his command havoc and rapine were let loose once more
among the temples of the worship of Brahmah. The shrine of the
four-handed god was polluted by the slaughter of sacred animals; the
images of the deities were broken in pieces; and the Moonstone was
seized by an officer of rank in the army of Aurungzebe.
Powerless to recover their lost treasure by open force, the three
guardian priests followed and watched it in disguise. The generations
succeeded each other; the warrior who had committed the sacrilege
perished miserably; the Moonstone passed (carrying its curse with it)
from one lawless Mohammedan hand to another; and still, through all
chances and changes, the successors of the three guardian priests kept
their watch, waiting the day when the will of Vishnu the Preserver
should restore to them their sacred gem. Time rolled on from the first
to the last years of the eighteenth Christian century. The Diamond fell
into the possession of Tippoo, Sultan of Seringapatam, who caused it to
be placed as an ornament in the handle of a dagger, and who commanded
it to be kept among the choicest treasures of his armoury. Even then—in
the palace of the Sultan himself—the three guardian priests still kept
their watch in secret. There were three officers of Tippoo’s household,
strangers to the rest, who had won their master’s confidence by
conforming, or appearing to conform, to the Mussulman faith; and to
those three men report pointed as the three priests in disguise.
III
So, as told in our camp, ran the fanciful story of the Moonstone. It
made no serious impression on any of us except my cousin—whose love of
the marvellous induced him to believe it. On the night before the
assault on Seringapatam, he was absurdly angry with me, and with
others, for treating the whole thing as a fable. A foolish wrangle
followed; and Herncastle’s unlucky temper got the better of him. He
declared, in his boastful way, that we should see the Diamond on his
finger, if the English army took Seringapatam. The sally was saluted by
a roar of laughter, and there, as we all thought that night, the thing
ended.
Let me now take you on to the day of the assault.
My cousin and I were separated at the outset. I never saw him when we
forded the river; when we planted the English flag in the first breach;
when we crossed the ditch beyond; and, fighting every inch of our way,
entered the town. It was only at dusk, when the place was ours, and
after General Baird himself had found the dead body of Tippoo under a
heap of the slain, that Herncastle and I met.
We were each attached to a party sent out by the general’s orders to
prevent the plunder and confusion which followed our conquest. The
camp-followers committed deplorable excesses; and, worse still, the
soldiers found their way, by an unguarded door, into the treasury of the
Palace, and loaded themselves with gold and jewels. It was in the court
outside the treasury that my cousin and I met, to enforce the laws of
discipline on our own soldiers. Herncastle’s fiery temper had been, as
I could plainly see, exasperated to a kind of frenzy by the terrible
slaughter through which we had passed. He was very unfit, in my
opinion, to perform the duty that had been entrusted to him.
There was riot and confusion enough in the treasury, but no violence
that I saw. The men (if I may use such an expression) disgraced
themselves good-humouredly. All sorts of rough jests and catchwords
were bandied about among them; and the story of the Diamond turned up
again unexpectedly, in the form of a mischievous joke. “Who’s got the
Moonstone?” was the rallying cry which perpetually caused the
plundering, as soon as it was stopped in one place, to break out in
another. While I was still vainly trying to establish order, I heard a
frightful yelling on the other side of the courtyard, and at once ran
towards the cries, in dread of finding some new outbreak of the pillage
in that direction.
I got to an open door, and saw the bodies of two Indians (by their
dress, as I guessed, officers of the palace) lying across the entrance,
dead.
A cry inside hurried me into a room, which appeared to serve as an
armoury. A third Indian, mortally wounded, was sinking at the feet of a
man whose back was towards me. The man turned at the instant when I
came in, and I saw John Herncastle, with a torch in one hand, and a
dagger dripping with blood in the other. A stone, set like a pommel, in
the end of the dagger’s handle, flashed in the torchlight, as he turned
on me, like a gleam of fire. The dying Indian sank to his knees,
pointed to the dagger in Herncastle’s hand, and said, in his native
language—“The Moonstone will have its vengeance yet on you and yours!”
He spoke those words, and fell dead on the floor.
Before I could stir in the matter, the men who had followed me across
the courtyard crowded in. My cousin rushed to meet them, like a madman.
“Clear the room!” he shouted to me, “and set a guard on the door!” The
men fell back as he threw himself on them with his torch and his
dagger. I put two sentinels of my own company, on whom I could rely, to
keep the door. Through the remainder of the night, I saw no more of my
cousin.
Early in the morning, the plunder still going on, General Baird
announced publicly by beat of drum, that any thief detected in the
fact, be he whom he might, should be hung. The provost-marshal was in
attendance, to prove that the General was in earnest; and in the throng
that followed the proclamation, Herncastle and I met again.
He held out his hand, as usual, and said, “Good morning.”
I waited before I gave him my hand in return.
“Tell me first,” I said, “how the Indian in the armoury met his death,
and what those last words meant, when he pointed to the dagger in your
hand.”
“The Indian met his death, as I suppose, by a mortal wound,” said
Herncastle. “What his last words meant I know no more than you do.”
I looked at him narrowly. His frenzy of the previous day had all calmed
down. I determined to give him another chance.
“Is that all you have to tell me?” I asked.
He answered, “That is all.”
I turned my back on him; and we have not spoken since.
IV
I beg it to be understood that what I write here about my cousin
(unless some necessity should arise for making it public) is for the
information of the family only. Herncastle has said nothing that can
justify me in speaking to our commanding officer. He has been taunted
more than once about the Diamond, by those who recollect his angry
outbreak before the assault; but, as may easily be imagined, his own
remembrance of the circumstances under which I surprised him in the
armoury has been enough to keep him silent. It is reported that he
means to exchange into another regiment, avowedly for the purpose of
separating himself from _me_.
Whether this be true or not, I cannot prevail upon myself to become his
accuser—and I think with good reason. If I made the matter public, I
have no evidence but moral evidence to bring forward. I have not only
no proof that he killed the two men at the door; I cannot even declare
that he killed the third man inside—for I cannot say that my own eyes
saw the deed committed. It is true that I heard the dying Indian’s
words; but if those words were pronounced to be the ravings of
delirium, how could I contradict the assertion from my own knowledge?
Let our relatives, on either side, form their own opinion on what I
have written, and decide for themselves whether the aversion I now feel
towards this man is well or ill founded.
Although I attach no sort of credit to the fantastic Indian legend of
the gem, I must acknowledge, before I conclude, that I am influenced by
a certain superstition of my own in this matter. It is my conviction,
or my delusion, no matter which, that crime brings its own fatality
with it. I am not only persuaded of Herncastle’s guilt; I am even
fanciful enough to believe that he will live to regret it, if he keeps
the Diamond; and that others will live to regret taking it from him, if
he gives the Diamond away.
THE STORY
FIRST PERIOD
THE LOSS OF THE DIAMOND (1848)
_The Events related by Gabriel Betteredge, house-steward in the service
of Julia, Lady Verinder._
CHAPTER I
In the first part of _Robinson Crusoe_, at page one hundred and
twenty-nine, you will find it thus written:
“Now I saw, though too late, the Folly of beginning a Work before we
count the Cost, and before we judge rightly of our own Strength to go
through with it.”
Only yesterday, I opened my _Robinson Crusoe_ at that place. Only this
morning (May twenty-first, eighteen hundred and fifty), came my lady’s
nephew, Mr. Franklin Blake, and held a short conversation with me, as
follows:—
“Betteredge,” says Mr. Franklin, “I have been to the lawyer’s about
some family matters; and, among other things, we have been talking of
the loss of the Indian Diamond, in my aunt’s house in Yorkshire, two
years since. Mr. Bruff thinks as I think, that the whole story ought,
in the interests of truth, to be placed on record in writing—and the
sooner the better.”
Not perceiving his drift yet, and thinking it always desirable for the
sake of peace and quietness to be on the lawyer’s side, I said I
thought so too. Mr. Franklin went on.
“In this matter of the Diamond,” he said, “the characters of innocent
people have suffered under suspicion already—as you know. The memories
of innocent people may suffer, hereafter, for want of a record of the
facts to which those who come after us can appeal. There can be no
doubt that this strange family story of ours ought to be told. And I
think, Betteredge, Mr. Bruff and I together have hit on the right way
of telling it.”
Very satisfactory to both of them, no doubt. But I failed to see what I
myself had to do with it, so far.
“We have certain events to relate,” Mr. Franklin proceeded; “and we
have certain persons concerned in those events who are capable of
relating them. Starting from these plain facts, the idea is that we
should all write the story of the Moonstone in turn—as far as our own
personal experience extends, and no farther. We must begin by showing
how the Diamond first fell into the hands of my uncle Herncastle, when
he was serving in India fifty years since. This prefatory narrative I
have already got by me in the form of an old family paper, which
relates the necessary particulars on the authority of an eye-witness.
The next thing to do is to tell how the Diamond found its way into my
aunt’s house in Yorkshire, two years ago, and how it came to be lost in
little more than twelve hours afterwards. Nobody knows as much as you
do, Betteredge, about what went on in the house at that time. So you
must take the pen in hand, and start the story.”
In those terms I was informed of what my personal concern was with the
matter of the Diamond. If you are curious to know what course I took
under the circumstances, I beg to inform you that I did what you would
probably have done in my place. I modestly declared myself to be quite
unequal to the task imposed upon me—and I privately felt, all the time,
that I was quite clever enough to perform it, if I only gave my own
abilities a fair chance. Mr. Franklin, I imagine, must have seen my
private sentiments in my face. He declined to believe in my modesty;
and he insisted on giving my abilities a fair chance.
Two hours have passed since Mr. Franklin left me. As soon as his back
was turned, I went to my writing-desk to start the story. There I have
sat helpless (in spite of my abilities) ever since; seeing what
Robinson Crusoe saw, as quoted above—namely, the folly of beginning a
work before we count the cost, and before we judge rightly of our own
strength to go through with it. Please to remember, I opened the book
by accident, at that bit, only the day before I rashly undertook the
business now in hand; and, allow me to ask—if _that_ isn’t prophecy,
what is?
I am not superstitious; I have read a heap of books in my time; I am a
scholar in my own way. Though turned seventy, I possess an active
memory, and legs to correspond. You are not to take it, if you please,
as the saying of an ignorant man, when I express my opinion that such a
book as _Robinson Crusoe_ never was written, and never will be written
again. I have tried that book for years—generally in combination with a
pipe of tobacco—and I have found it my friend in need in all the
necessities of this mortal life. When my spirits are bad—_Robinson
Crusoe_. When I want advice—_Robinson Crusoe_. In past times when my
wife plagued me; in present times when I have had a drop too
much—_Robinson Crusoe_. I have worn out six stout _Robinson Crusoes_
with hard work in my service. On my lady’s last birthday she gave me a
seventh. I took a drop too much on the strength of it; and _Robinson
Crusoe_ put me right again. Price four shillings and sixpence, bound in
blue, with a picture into the bargain.
Still, this don’t look much like starting the story of the Diamond—does
it? I seem to be wandering off in search of Lord knows what, Lord knows
where. We will take a new sheet of paper, if you please, and begin over
again, with my best respects to you.