CHAPTER I

This ebook was transcribed by Les Bowler.

[Picture: An Original Wrapper of “Edwin Drood” Designed by Charles

Allston Collins. (By permission of Messrs. Chapman & Hall)]

THE PROBLEM OF

‘EDWIN DROOD’

A STUDY IN THE METHODS OF DICKENS

BY

W. ROBERTSON NICOLL

* * * * *

HODDER AND STOUGHTON

LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO

* * * * *

PRINTED IN 1912

* * * * *

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

THE EARL OF ROSEBERY

K.G.

CONTENTS

PAGE

PREFACE ix

INTRODUCTION xvii

PART I.—THE MATERIALS FOR A SOLUTION

CHAPTER I

THE TEXT OF ‘EDWIN DROOD’ 3

CHAPTER II

EXTERNAL TESTIMONIES 20

NOTES FOR THE NOVEL 56

CHAPTER III

THE ILLUSTRATIONS ON THE WRAPPER 69

CHAPTER IV

THE METHODS OF DICKENS 82

PART II.—ATTEMPT AT A SOLUTION

CHAPTER V

WAS EDWIN DROOD MURDERED? 109

CHAPTER VI

WHO WAS DATCHERY? 141

CHAPTER VII

OTHER THEORIES 177

CHAPTER VIII

HOW WAS ‘EDWIN DROOD’ TO END? 184

BIBLIOGRAPHY 203

PREFACE

The first serious discussion of _The Mystery of Edwin Drood_ came from

the pen of the astronomer, Mr. R. A. Proctor. Mr. Proctor wrote various

essays on the subject. One appears in his _Leisure Readings_, included

in Messrs. Longmans’ ‘Silver Library.’ A second was published in 1887,

and entitled _Watched by the Dead_. There were, I believe, in addition

some periodical articles by Mr. Proctor; these I have not seen. Mr.

Proctor modified certain positions in his earlier essay included in

_Leisure Readings_, so that the paper must not be taken as representative

of his final views. Whatever may be thought of Mr. Proctor’s theory, all

will admit that he devoted much care and ingenuity to the study, and that

he had an exceptional knowledge of Dickens’s books.

In 1905 Mr. Cuming Walters published his _Clues to Dickens’s Mystery of

Edwin Drood_. The _Athenæum_ expressed its conviction ‘that in these

hundred pages or so he has found the clue, the main secret which had

baffled all previous investigators, and so has secured permanent

association with one of the immortals.’ Mr. Cuming Walters’s book was

immediately followed by Mr. Andrew Lang’s _The Puzzle of Dickens’s Last

Plot_. In this Mr. Lang adopted with modifications the theory of Mr.

Proctor. The subject continued to interest this lamented author to the

end of his life. He wrote many letters and articles on the theme, coming

ultimately to the conclusion that Dickens did not know himself how his

story was to be ended.

In 1910 Professor Henry Jackson of Cambridge published a volume, _About

Edwin Drood_. It is a work of sterling merit, and particularly valuable

for its study of the chronology of the story. Dr. Jackson was the first

to examine the manuscript in a scholarly way, and to give some of the

chief results. His conclusions are in the main those of Mr. Cuming

Walters, but they are supported by fresh arguments and criticisms.

There have been many articles on the subject, particularly in that

excellent periodical, the _Dickensian_, edited by Mr. B. W. Matz. Of

this magazine it may be said that every number adds something to our

knowledge of the great author.

By far the most successful attempt to finish the book is that of Gillan

Vase, which was published in 1878. It is the only continuation worth

looking at.

Among the best of the periodical contributions are those by Dr. M. R.

James of Cambridge, published in the _Academy_, and in the _Cambridge

Review_. The papers of Mr. G. F. Gadd in the _Dickensian_ deserve

special praise. In the _Bookman_ Mr. B. W. Matz, whose knowledge of

Dickens is unsurpassed, has declared for the view that Edwin Drood was

murdered, but has not committed himself to any theory of Datchery.

I should not have been justified in publishing this volume if I had been

able to add no new material. But I venture to think it will be found

that while I have freely used the arguments and the discoveries of

previous investigators, I have made a considerable addition to the

stores. In particular, I have brought out the fact that Forster declined

to accept Dickens’s erasures in the later proofs, and I have printed the

passages which Dickens meant to have omitted. The effect of the

omissions is also traced to a certain extent, though not fully. The more

one studies them, the more significant they appear.

I have printed completely for the first time the Notes and Plans for the

novel. I have also published some notes on the manuscript based on a

careful examination. These notes are not by any means complete, but they

include perhaps the more important facts. Through the kindness of Miss

Bessie Hatton and Mr. B. W. Matz I have been able to give an account of

the unacted play by Charles Dickens the younger and Joseph Hatton on

_Edwin Drood_.

I have also put together for the first time the external evidence on the

subject. It is particularly important that this evidence should be read

in full, and much of it is now inaccessible to the general reader. In

the discussion of the main problems it will, I believe, be found that

certain new arguments have been brought forward. In particular I ask

attention to the quotations from the Bancroft _Memoirs_ and from _No

Name_. I have also given certain studies of the methods of Dickens which

may be useful.

I have to acknowledge with warm thanks the kindness of Mr. Hugh Thomson

in sending me his reading of the Wrapper.

It will thus, I hope, be found that the study is a contribution to the

subject, and not a mere repetition or paraphrase of what has been

advanced.

I have made no attempt at summarising the novel. No one can possibly

attack the problem with any hope of success who has not read the book

over and over again. A hasty perusal will serve no purpose. The

fragment deserves and repays the very closest study.

There are questions that have been raised and arguments that have been

stated which are not mentioned here. This is not because of ignorance.

I have read, I believe, practically all that has been published on the

theme. What I have omitted is matter that seems to me trivial or

irrelevant.

While fully believing in the accuracy of the conclusions I have reached,

I desire to avoid dogmatism. There is always the possibility that a

writer may be diverted from his purpose. He may come to difficulties he

cannot surmount. The fact that scholarly students of Dickens have come

to different conclusions is a fact to be taken into account.

My thanks are due to Lord Rosebery for kindly accepting the dedication of

the volume. Lord Rosebery is, however, in no way responsible for my

arguments or my conclusions.

In preparing this study I have had the constant assistance and counsel of

my accomplished colleague, Miss Jane T. Stoddart. Miss Stoddart’s

accuracy and learning and acuteness have been of the greatest use to me,

and there is scarcely a chapter in the volume which does not owe much to

her.

Mr. J. H. Ingram has most kindly furnished me with information about Poe.

Mr. Clement Shorter has allowed me to use his very valuable collection of

newspaper articles.

Mr. B. W. Matz has very courteously answered some inquiries, and he has

permitted me to use his valuable bibliography.

Messrs. Chapman & Hall have kindly given me permission to use the

Wrapper, etc.

Mr. Cuming Walters has been so kind as to read the proofs.

If there are those who think that the problem does not deserve

consideration, I am not careful to answer them. It is a problem which

will be discussed as long as Dickens is read. Those who believe that

Dickens is the greatest humorist and one of the greatest novelists in

English literature, are proud to make any contribution, however

insignificant, to the understanding of his works. Mr. Gladstone, in his

‘Essay on the Place of Homer in Education,’ mentions the tradition of

Dorotheus, who spent the whole of his life in endeavouring to elucidate

the meaning of a single word in Homer. Without fully justifying this use

of time, we may agree in Mr. Gladstone’s general conclusion ‘that no

exertion spent upon any of the classics of the world, and attended with

any amount of real result, is thrown away.’

BAY TREE LODGE, HAMPSTEAD,

_Sept._ 1912.

INTRODUCTION

The three mysteries of _Edwin Drood_ are thus stated by Mr. Cuming

Walters:

‘The first mystery, partly solved by Dickens himself, is the fate of

Edwin Drood. Was he murdered?—if so, how and by whom, and where was his

body hidden? If not, how did he escape, and what became of him, and did

he reappear?

‘The second mystery is—Who was Mr. Datchery, the “stranger who appeared

in Cloisterham” after Drood’s disappearance?

‘The third mystery is—Who was the old opium woman, called the Princess

Puffer, and why did she pursue John Jasper?’

It is with the first two of these mysteries that this book is concerned.

In the concluding chapter some hints are offered as to the third, but in

my opinion there are no sufficient materials for any definite answer.

The problem before us is to decide with one half of Dickens’s book in our

possession what the course of the other half was likely to be.

It is important to lay stress upon this. An able reviewer in the

_Athenæum_, 1st April 1911, says: ‘The book is still in its infancy. Its

predecessor, _Our Mutual Friend_, attained to some sixty-seven chapters,

_Great Expectations_ to fifty-nine, _Bleak House_ to sixty-six. There is

no strain on probability in supposing that _Edwin Drood_ might, in

happier circumstances, have reached something like these proportions.’

The fact is that the book was to be completed in twelve numbers, and we

have six.

In the first part of this volume I have dealt with the materials for a

solution.

In the second part, I have used the materials and the internal evidence

of the book, and attempted an answer to the questions.

PART I.—THE MATERIALS FOR A SOLUTION

CHAPTER I—THE TEXT OF EDWIN DROOD

The materials for the solution of the ‘Edwin Drood’ problems must first

of all be found in the text of the unfinished volume. Hitherto it has

not been observed that the book we have is not precisely what it was when

Dickens left it. Three parts had been issued by Dickens himself. After

his death the remaining three parts were issued by John Forster. Dickens

had corrected his proofs up to and including chapter xxi. The succeeding

chapters xxii. and xxiii. are untouched. I discovered to my great

surprise on examining the proofs in the Forster Collection that Forster

had in every case ignored Dickens’s erasures, and had replaced all the

omitted passages in the text. Thus it happens that we do not read the

book as Dickens intended us to read it. We have passages which on

consideration he decided not to print. It is unnecessary to criticise

the action of Forster, but it seems clear that he should at least have

given warning to the reader. I now print the passages erased by Dickens

and restored by Forster.

* * * * *

SENTENCES AND PARTS OF SENTENCES ERASED BY DICKENS

In Chapter XVII.:—

_an eminent public character_, _once known to fame as Frosty faced

Fogo_,

* * * * *

_by_, _always_, _as it seemed_, _on errands of antagonistically

snatching something from somebody_, _and never giving anything to

anybody_.

* * * * *

‘_Sir_,’ _said Mr. Honeythunder_, _in his tremendous voice_, _like a

schoolmaster issuing orders to a boy of whom he had a bad opinion_,

‘_sit down_.’

_Mr. Crisparkle seated himself_.

_Mr. Honeythunder having signed the remaining few score of a few

thousand circulars_, _calling upon a corresponding number of families

without means to come forward_, _stump up instantly_, _and be

Philanthropists_, _or go to the Devil_, _another shabby stipendiary

Philanthropist_ (_highly disinterested_, _if in earnest_) _gathered

these into a basket and walked off with them_.

* * * * *

_when they were alone_,

* * * * *

_Mr. Crisparkle rose_; _a little heated in the face_, _but with

perfect command of himself_.

‘_Mr. Honeythunder_,’ _he said_, _taking up the papers referred to_:

‘_my being better or worse employed than I am at present is a matter

of taste and opinion_. _You might think me better employed in

enrolling myself a member of your Society_.’

‘_Ay_, _indeed_, _sir_!’ _retorted Mr. Honeythunder_, _shaking his

head in a threatening manner_. ‘_It would have been better for you

if you had done that long ago_!’

‘_I think otherwise_.’

‘_Or_,’ _said Mr. Honeythunder_, _shaking his head again_, ‘_I might

think one of your profession better employed in devoting himself to

the discovery and punishment of guilt than in leaving that duty to be

undertaken by a layman_.’

* * * * *

‘_Perhaps I expect to retain it still_?’ _Mr. Crisparkle returned_,

_enlightened_; ‘_do you mean that too_?’

‘_Well_, _sir_,’ _returned the professional Philanthropist_, _getting

up and thrusting his hands down into his trousers pockets_, ‘_I don’t

go about measuring people for caps_. _If people find I have __any

about me that fit ’em_, _they can put ’em on and wear ’em_, _if they

like_. _That’s their look out_: _not mine_.’

* * * * *

_It seems a little hard to be so tied to a stake_, _and innocent_;

_but I don’t complain_.’

‘_And you must expect no miracle to help you_, _Neville_,’ _said Mr.

Crisparkle_, _compassionately_.

‘_No_, _sir_, _I know that_.

* * * * *

_and that of course I am guiding myself by the advice of such a

friend and helper_. _Such a good friend and helper_!’

_He took the fortifying hand from his shoulder_, _and kissed it_.

_Mr. Crisparkle beamed at the books_, _but not so brightly as when he

had entered_.

* * * * *

_But they were as serviceable as they were precious to Neville

Landless_.

* * * * *

‘_I don’t think so_,’ _said the Minor Canon_. ‘_There is duty to be

done here_; _and there are womanly feeling_, _sense_, _and courage

wanted here_.’

‘_I meant_,’ _explained Neville_, ‘_that the surroundings are so dull

and unwomanly_, _and that Helena can have no suitable friend or

society here_.’

‘_You have only to remember_,’ _said Mr. __Crisparkle_, ‘_that you

are here yourself_, _and that she has to draw you into the

sunlight_.’

_They were silent for a little while_, _and then Mr. Crisparkle began

anew_.

‘_When we first spoke together_, _Neville_, _you told me that your

sister had risen out of the disadvantages of your past lives as

superior to you as the tower of Cloisterham Cathedral is higher than

the chimneys of Minor Canon Corner_. _Do you remember that_?’

‘_Right well_!’

‘_I was inclined to think it at the time an enthusiastic flight_.

_No matter what I think it now_. _What I would emphasise is_, _that

under the head of Pride your sister is a great and opportune example

to you_.’

‘_Under all heads that are included in the composition of a fine

character_, _she is_.’

‘_Say so_; _but take this one_.’

* * * * *

_She can dominate it even when it is wounded through her sympathy

with you_.

* * * * *

_Every day and hour of her life since Edwin Drood’s disappearance_,

_she has faced malignity and folly—for you—as only a brave nature

well directed can_. _So it will be with her to the end_.

* * * * *

_which knows no shrinking_, _and can get no mastery over her_.’

* * * * *

_as she is a truly brave woman_,’

* * * * *

_As Mr. Grewgious had to turn his eye up considerably before he could

see the chambers_, _the phrase was to be taken figuratively and not

literally_.

* * * * *

‘_A watch_?’ _repeated Mr. Grewgious musingly_.

* * * * *

‘_I entertain a sort of fancy for having him under my eye to-night_,

_do you know_?’

* * * * *

In Chapter XVIII.

* * * * *

‘_indeed_, _I have no doubt that we could suit you that far_,

_however particular you might be_.

* * * * *

_with a general impression on his mind that Mrs. Tope’s was somewhere

very near it_, _and that_, _like the children in the game of hot

boiled beans and very good butter_, _he was warm in his search when

he saw the Tower_, _and cold when he didn’t see it_.

_He was getting very cold indeed when_. ‘_Until_’ _is put in here_.

* * * * *

‘_Indeed_?’ _said Mr. Datchery_, _with a second look of some

interest_.

* * * * *

_Mr. Datchery_, _taking off his hat to give that shock of white hair

of his another shake_, _seemed quite resigned_, _and betook himself

whither he had been directed_.

* * * * *

_Perhaps Mr. Datchery had heard something of what had occurred there

last winter_?

_Mr. Datchery had as confused a knowledge of the event in question_,

_on trying to recall it_, _as he well could have_. _He begged Mrs.

Tope’s pardon when she found it incumbent on her to correct him in

every detail of his summary of the facts_, _but pleaded that he was

merely a single buffer getting through life upon his means as idly as

he could_, _and that so many people were so constantly making away

with so many other people_, _as to render it difficult for a buffer

of an easy temper to preserve the circumstances of the several cases

unmixed in his mind_.

* * * * *

‘_Might I ask His Honour_,’ _said Mr. Datchery_, ‘_whether that

gentleman we have just left is the gentleman of whom I have heard in

the neighbourhood as being much afflicted by the loss of a nephew_,

_and concentrating his life on avenging the loss_?’

‘_That is the gentleman_. _John Jasper_, _sir_.’

‘_Would His Honour allow me to inquire whether there are strong

suspicions of any one_?’

‘_More than suspicions_, _sir_,’ _returned Mr. Sapsea_; ‘_all but

certainties_.’

‘_Only think now_!’ _cried Mr. Datchery_.

‘_But proof_, _sir_, _proof must be built up stone by stone_,’ _said

the Mayor_. ‘_As I say_, _the end crowns the work_. _It is not

enough that Justice should be morally certain_; _she must be

immorally certain—legally_, _that is_.’

‘_His Honour_,’ _said Mr. Datchery_, ‘_reminds me of the nature of

the law_. _Immoral_. _How true_!’

‘_As I say_, _sir_,’ _pompously went on the Mayor_, ‘_the arm of the

law is a strong arm_, _and a long arm_. _That is the way I put it_.

_A strong arm and a long arm_.’

‘_How forcible_!—_And yet_, _again_, _how true_!’ _murmured Mr.

Datchery_.

‘_And without betraying what I call the secrets of the

prison-house_,’ _said Mr. Sapsea_; ‘_the secrets of the prison-house

is the term I used on the bench_.’

‘_And what other term than His Honour’s would express it_?’ _said Mr.

Datchery_.

‘_Without_, _I say_, _betraying them_, _I predict to you_, _knowing

the iron will of the gentleman we have just left_ (_I take the bold

step of calling it __iron_, _on account of its strength_), _that in

this case the long arm will reach_, _and the strong arm will strike_.

_This is our Cathedral_, _sir_. _The best judges are pleased to

admire it_, _and the best among our townsmen own to being a little

vain of it_.’

_All this time Mr. Datchery had walked with his hat under his arm_,

_and his white hair streaming_.

* * * * *

In the next sentence the word _now_ is struck out.

* * * * *

‘He had an odd momentary appearance upon him of having forgotten his

hat, when Mr. Sapsea _now_ touched it.’

* * * * *

‘_I shall come_. _Master Deputy_, _what do you owe me_?’

‘_A job_.’

‘_Mind you pay me honestly with the job of showing me Mr. Durdles’s

house when I want to go there_.’

* * * * *

In Chapter XX.:—

* * * * *

‘_Yes_, _you may be sure that the stairs are fireproof_,’ _said Mr.

Grewgious_, ‘_and that any outbreak of the devouring element would be

perceived and suppressed by the watchmen_.’

* * * * *

In Chapter XXI.:—

_I wished at the time that you had come to me_; _but now I think it

best that you did as you did_, _and came to your guardian_.’

‘_I did think of you_,’ _Rosa told him_; ‘_but Minor Canon Corner was

so near him_—’

‘_I understand_. _It was quite natural_.’

* * * * *

‘_Have you settled_,’ _asked Rosa_, _appealing to them both_, ‘_what

is to be done for Helena and her brother_?’

‘_Why really_,’ _said Mr. Crisparkle_, ‘_I am in great perplexity_.

_If even Mr. Grewgious_, _whose head is much longer than mine_, _and

who is a whole night’s cogitation in advance of me_, _is undecided_,

_what must I be_!’

* * * * *

_Am I agreed with generally in the views I take_?’

‘_I entirely coincide with them_,’ _said Mr. Crisparkle_, _who had

been very attentive_.

‘_As I have no doubt I should_,’ _added Mr. Tartar_, _smiling_, ‘_if

I understood them_.’

‘_Fair and softly_, _sir_,’ _said Mr. Grewgious_; ‘_we shall fully

confide in you directly_, _if you will favour us with your

permission_.’

* * * * *

_I begin to understand to what you tend_,’ _said __Mr. Crisparkle_,

‘_and highly approve of your caution_.’

‘_I needn’t repeat that I know nothing yet of the why and

wherefore_,’ _said Mr. Tartar_; ‘_but I also understand to what you

tend_, _so let me say at once that my chambers are freely at your

disposal_.’

THE MANUSCRIPT

I make also a few notes based on a careful examination of the manuscript.

Certain passages are rewritten, and the result pasted over the original

page. These passages have been noted. Also certain sentences have been

altered in form, sometimes by the substitution of one word for another,

and sometimes by the addition of words. It is not necessary to give

every example, but a few may be noted.

Towards the end of the second chapter the passage beginning ‘I have been

taking opium for a pain,’ including the long paragraph which follows, has

been entirely rewritten and pasted on.

In the description of the Landlesses in chapter vi. Dickens made certain

changes. As the sentence stands now it reads as follows: ‘An unusually

handsome lithe young fellow, and an unusually handsome lithe girl; much

alike; both very dark, and very rich in colour; she of almost the gipsy

type; something untamed about them both; a certain air upon them of

hunter and huntress; yet withal a certain air of being the objects of the

chase, rather than the followers.’

As originally written it read thus: ‘A handsome young fellow, and a

handsome girl; both dark and rich in colour; she quite gipsy like;

something untamed about them both; a certain air upon them of hunter and

huntress; yet a certain air of being the objects of the chase, rather

than the followers.’

In chapter vii., where Neville is speaking of his sister, as we have the

passage it reads: ‘In a last word of reference to my sister, sir (we are

twin children), you ought to know, to her honour, that nothing in our

misery ever subdued her, though it often cowed me. When we ran away from

it (we ran away four times in six years, to be soon brought back and

cruelly punished), the flight was always of her planning and leading.

Each time she dressed as a boy, and showed the daring of a man. I take

it we were seven years old when we first decamped; but I remember, when I

lost the pocket-knife with which she was to have cut her hair short, how

desperately she tried to tear it out, or bite it off.’

The original version ran thus: ‘In reference to my sister, sir (we are

twin children), you ought to know, to her honour, that nothing in our

misery ever cowed her, though it often cowed me. When we ran away from

it (we ran away four times in five years, to be very soon brought back

and punished), the flight was always of her planning. Each time she

dressed as a boy, and showed the daring of a man. I take it we were

eight years old when we first decamped; but I remember, when I lost the

pocket-knife with which she was to have cut her hair short, that she

tried to tear it out, or bite it off.’

At the beginning of chapter xviii. we read of the stranger in

Cloisterham: ‘Being buttoned up in a tightish blue surtout.’ This was

originally: ‘Being dressed in a tightish blue surtout.’ A little further

on in the same paragraph we have: ‘He stood with his back to the empty

fireplace.’ Dickens originally wrote: ‘He stood with his back to the

fireplace.’ In the next paragraph ‘His shock of white hair’ was

originally ‘His shock of long white hair.’

In the same chapter, when Datchery and the boy are standing looking at

Jasper’s rooms we have the following sentence: ‘“Indeed?” said Mr.

Datchery, with a second look of some interest.’ This was originally

written: ‘“Indeed?” said Mr. Datchery, with an appearance of interest.’

In the final proofs this passage was entirely struck out. On the next

page we have this sentence: ‘Mr. Datchery, taking off his hat to give

that shock of white hair of his another shake, seemed quite resigned, and

betook himself whither he had been directed.’ The original version ran

thus: ‘Mr. Datchery, taking off his hat and giving his shock of white

hair another shake, was quite resigned, and betook himself whither he had

been directed.’

A little further on in the same chapter, when Datchery first goes into

Jasper’s room we have: ‘“I beg pardon,” said Mr. Datchery, making a leg

with his hat under his arm.’ This was originally written, “I beg

pardon,” said Mr. Datchery, hat in hand.’

In the last paragraph of this chapter we have: ‘Said Mr. Datchery to

himself that night, as he looked at his white hair in the gas-lighted

looking-glass over the coffee-room chimney-piece at the Crozier, and

shook it out: “For a single buffer, of an easy temper, living idly on his

means, I have had a rather busy afternoon!”’ This was originally

written: ‘Said Mr. Datchery to himself that night as he looked at his

white hair in the gas-lighted looking-glass over the coffee-room

chimney-piece at the Crozier: “Well, for a single buffer of an easy

temper, living idly on his means, I have had rather a busy afternoon!”’

In chapter xx., when Grewgious is talking about Bazzard we have the

following: ‘“No, he goes his way, after office hours. In fact, he is off

duty here, altogether, just at present; and a firm downstairs, with which

I have business relations, lend me a substitute. But it would be

extremely difficult to replace Mr. Bazzard.”’ Originally Dickens wrote:

‘“No, he goes his ways after office hours. In fact, he is off duty at

present; and a firm downstairs with which I have business relations, lend

me a substitute. But it would be difficult to replace Mr. Bazzard.”’

Chapter xxii. is much corrected, and the whole of the second paragraph is

rewritten and pasted on. Chapter xxiii. is also a good deal corrected.

Near the beginning we have the following: ‘The Cathedral doors have

closed for the night; and the Choir-master, on a short leave of absence

for two or three services, sets his face towards London.’ This was

originally written: ‘The Cathedral doors have closed for the night; and

the Choir-master, on leave of absence for a few days, sets his face

towards London.’

The passage beginning: ‘But she goes no further away from it than the

chair upon the hearth,’ and the next two paragraphs are entirely

rewritten and pasted on, and the following sentences are cancelled: ‘“So

far I might a’most as well have never found out how to set you talking,”

is her commentary. “You are too sleepy to talk too plain. You hold your

secrets right you do!”’ A little further on we have: ‘“Halloa!” he cries

in a low voice, seeing her brought to a standstill: “who are you looking

for?”’ This was originally ‘“Halloa!” cries this gentleman, “who are you

looking for?”’

On the next page we have: ‘With his uncovered gray hair blowing about.’

Dickens originally wrote: ‘With his gray hair blowing about.’

On the same page, when Datchery and the opium woman are talking together

Dickens puts in the following sentence about opium as an afterthought:

‘“And it’s like a human creetur so far, that you always hear what can be

said against it, but seldom what can be said in its praise.”’

A little further on we have: ‘Mr. Datchery stops in his counting, finds

he has counted wrong, shakes his money together, and begins again.’

Originally we had: ‘Mr. Datchery stops in his counting, finds he has

counted wrong, and begins again.’ Very near the end of this chapter we

have: ‘At length he rises, throws open the door of a corner cupboard, and

refers to a few uncouth chalked strokes on its inner side.’ Dickens

first wrote: ‘At length he rises, throws open the door of a corner

cupboard, and refers to a few chalked strokes on its inner side.’

CHAPTER II—EXTERNAL TESTIMONIES

We now proceed to give such external testimony as exists of the plans and

intentions of Dickens. The chief authority is, of course, the _Life_ by

Forster. We have in addition the testimony of Madame Perugini, whose

first husband, Charles Allston Collins, designed the wrapper. To this we

add the testimony of Charles Dickens the younger as conveyed to his

sister. Through the kindness of Miss Bessie Hatton I have been able to

read the text of the unacted play written by Joseph Hatton and Charles

Dickens the younger on _The Mystery of Edwin Drood_. We have also the

important letter of Sir Luke Fildes, who was chosen by Dickens to

illustrate the story. It seems essential to any complete consideration

of the subject that these testimonies should be given in full, and this

is the more necessary because some of them are now not readily at hand.

JOHN FORSTER’S TESTIMONY

Dickens in 1868 had been alarming his friends and exhausting himself by

his public Readings. When he was in America on his last Reading tour he

had made a profit of about £20,000. He entered into an agreement with

Messrs. Chappell to give a final course of Readings in this country, from

which he expected to receive an additional £13,000. The strain of his

work in America had manifestly told upon him. ‘There was manifest

abatement of his natural force, the elasticity of bearing was impaired,

and the wonderful brightness of eye was dimmed at times.’ Unfavourable

and alarming symptoms of nerve mischief were also noted, but he drew

lavishly on his reserve strength, and thinking that a new excitement was

needed he chose the _Oliver Twist_ murder, one of the most trying of his

public recitals. He suffered ‘thirty thousand shocks to the nerves’

going to Edinburgh. His Readings and his journeyings exacted from him

the most terrible physical exertion, but no warnings could arrest his

course till his physicians peremptorily ordered him to desist. Even

then, however, he resumed his Readings at a later date.

In this condition of mental and bodily fatigue Dickens began his last

book. I print almost in full the relative passages from Forster.

The last book undertaken by Dickens was to be published in

illustrated monthly numbers, of the old form, but to close with the

twelfth. It closed, unfinished, with the sixth number, which was

itself underwritten by two pages.

His first fancy for the tale was expressed in a letter in the middle

of July. ‘What should you think of the idea of a story beginning in

this way?—Two people, boy and girl, or very young, going apart from

one another, pledged to be married after many years—at the end of the

book. The interest to arise out of the tracing of their separate

ways, and the impossibility of telling what will be done with that

impending fate.’ This was laid aside; but it left a marked trace on

the story as afterwards designed, in the position of Edwin Drood and

his betrothed.

I first heard of the later design in a letter dated ‘Friday, the 6th

of August 1869,’ in which, after speaking, with the usual unstinted

praise he bestowed always on what moved him in others, of a little

tale he had received for his journal, he spoke of the change that had

occurred to him for the new tale by himself. ‘I laid aside the fancy

I told you of, and have a very curious and new idea for my new story.

Not a communicable idea (or the interest of the book would be gone),

but a very strong one, though difficult to work.’ The story, I

learnt immediately afterward, was to be that of the murder of a

nephew by his uncle; the originality of which was to consist in the

review of the murderer’s career by himself at the close, when its

temptations were to be dwelt upon as if, not he, the culprit, but

some other man, were the tempted. The last chapters were to be

written in the condemned cell, to which his wickedness, all

elaborately elicited from him as if told of another, had brought him.

Discovery by the murderer of the utter needlessness of the murder for

its object, was to follow hard upon commission of the deed; but all

discovery of the murderer was to be baffled till towards the close,

when, by means of a gold ring which had resisted the corrosive

effects of the lime into which he had thrown the body, not only the

person murdered was to be identified, but the locality of the crime

and the man who committed it. So much was told to me before any of

the book was written; and it will be recollected that the ring, taken

by Drood to be given to his betrothed only if their engagement went

on, was brought away with him from their last interview. Rosa was to

marry Tartar, and Crisparkle the sister of Landless, who was himself,

I think, to have perished in assisting Tartar finally to unmask and

seize the murderer.

Nothing had been written, however, of the main parts of the design

excepting what is found in the published numbers; there was no hint

or preparation for the sequel in any notes of chapters in advance;

and there remained not even what he had himself so sadly written of

the book by Thackeray also interrupted by death. The evidence of

matured designs never to be accomplished, intentions planned never to

be executed, roads of thought marked out never to be traversed, goals

shining in the distance never to be reached, was wanting here. It

was all a blank. Enough had been completed nevertheless to give

promise of a much greater book than its immediate predecessor. ‘I

hope his book is finished,’ wrote Longfellow, when the news of his

death was flashed to America. ‘It is certainly one of his most

beautiful works, if not the most beautiful of all. It would be too

sad to think the pen had fallen from his hand, and left it

incomplete.’ Some of its characters are touched with subtlety, and

in its descriptions his imaginative power was at its best. Not a

line was wanting to the reality, in the most minute local detail, of

places the most widely contrasted; and we saw with equal vividness

the lazy cathedral town and the lurid opium-eater’s den. Something

like the old lightness and buoyancy of animal spirits gave a new

freshness to the humour; the scenes of the child-heroine and her

luckless betrothed had both novelty and nicety of character in them;

and Mr. Grewgious in chambers with his clerk and the two waiters, the

conceited fool Sapsea, and the blustering philanthropist

Honeythunder, were first-rate comedy. Miss Twinkleton was of the

family of Miss La Creevy; and the lodging-house keeper, Miss

Billickin, though she gave Miss Twinkleton but a sorry account of her

blood, had that of Mrs. Todgers in her veins. ‘I was put in early

life to a very genteel boarding-school, the mistress being no less a

lady than yourself, of about your own age, or it may be some years

younger, and a poorness of blood flowed from the table which has run

through my life.’ Was ever anything better said of a school-fare of

starved gentility?

The last page of _Edwin Drood_ was written in the châlet in the

afternoon of his last day of consciousness; and I have thought there

might be some interest in a facsimile of the greater part of this

final page of manuscript that ever came from his hand, at which he

had worked unusually late in order to finish the chapter. It has

very much the character, in its excessive care of correction and

interlineation, of all his later manuscripts; and in order that

comparison may be made with his earlier and easier method, I place

beside it a portion of a page of the original of _Oliver Twist_. His

greater pains and elaboration of writing, it may be mentioned, become

first very obvious in the later parts of _Martin Chuzzlewit_; but not

the least remarkable feature in all his manuscripts is the accuracy

with which the portions of each representing the several numbers are

exactly adjusted to the space the printer has to fill. Whether

without erasure or so interlined as to be illegible, nothing is

wanting, and there is nothing in excess. So assured had the habit

become, that we have seen him remarking upon an instance the other

way, in _Our Mutual Friend_, as not having happened to him for thirty

years. Certainly the exceptions had been few and unimportant; but

_Edwin Drood_ more startlingly showed him how unsettled the habit he

most prized had become, in the clashing of old and new pursuits.

‘When I had written’ (22nd of December 1869), ‘and, as I thought,

disposed of the first two numbers of my story, Clowes informed me to

my horror that they were, together, _twelve printed __pages too

short_! Consequently I had to transpose a chapter from number two to

number one, and remodel number two altogether. This was the more

unlucky, that it came upon me at the time when I was obliged to leave

the book, in order to get up the Readings’ (the additional twelve for

which Sir Thomas Watson’s consent had been obtained); ‘quite gone out

of my mind since I left them off. However, I turned to it and got it

done, and both numbers are now in type. Charles Collins has designed

an excellent cover.’ It was his wish that his son-in-law should have

illustrated the story; but this not being practicable, upon an

opinion expressed by Mr. Millais which the result thoroughly

justified, choice was made of Mr. S. L. Fildes.

Forster goes on to explain as follows the discovery of the manuscript

containing the passage ‘How Mr. Sapsea Ceased to be a Member of the Eight

Club.’ This is to be found in every edition of _Edwin Drood_, but

Forster’s remarks are important and must be reproduced:

This reference to the last effort of Dickens’s genius had been

written as it thus stands, when a discovery of some interest was made

by the writer. Within the leaves of one of Dickens’s other

manuscripts were found some detached slips of his writing, on paper

only half the size of that used for the tale, so cramped, interlined,

and blotted as to be nearly illegible, which on close inspection

proved to be a scene in which Sapsea the auctioneer is introduced as

the principal figure, among a group of characters new to the story.

The explanation of it perhaps is, that, having become a little

nervous about the course of the tale, from a fear that he might have

plunged too soon into the incidents leading on to the catastrophe,

such as the Datchery assumption in the fifth number (a misgiving he

had certainly expressed to his sister-in-law), it had occurred to him

to open some fresh veins of character incidental to the interest,

though not directly part of it, and so to handle them in connection

with Sapsea as a little to suspend the final development even while

assisting to strengthen it. Before beginning any number of a serial,

he used, as we have seen in former instances, to plan briefly what he

intended to put into it chapter by chapter; and his first number-plan

of _Drood_ had the following: ‘Mr. Sapsea. Old Tory jackass.

Connect Jasper with him. (He will want a solemn donkey by and by)’;

which was effected by bringing together both Durdles and Jasper, for

connection with Sapsea, in the matter of the epitaph for Mrs.

Sapsea’s tomb. The scene now discovered might in this view have been

designed to strengthen and carry forward that element in the tale;

and otherwise it very sufficiently expresses itself. It would supply

an answer, if such were needed, to those who have asserted that the

hopeless decadence of Dickens as a writer had set in before his

death. Among the lines last written by him, these are the very last

we can ever hope to receive; and they seem to me a delightful

specimen of the power possessed by him in his prime, and the rarest

which any novelist can have, of revealing a character by a touch.

Here are a couple of people, Kimber and Peartree, not known to us

before, whom we read off thoroughly in a dozen words; and as to

Sapsea himself, auctioneer and mayor of Cloisterham, we are face to

face with what before we only dimly realised, and we see the solemn

jackass, in his business pulpit, playing off the airs of Mr. Dean in

his Cathedral pulpit, with Cloisterham laughing at the impostor.’

MADAME PERUGINI’S TESTIMONY

Madame Perugini’s article appeared in the _Pall Mall Magazine_ for June

1906. The title is ‘Edwin Drood and the Last Days of Charles Dickens, by

his younger daughter Kate Perugini.’ Madame Perugini begins by

summarising the evidence of Forster as already given. She proceeds to

make the following instructive comments. It will be observed also that

she makes no additions to the external evidence, particularly on the

vexed question of the wrapper:

_The Mystery of Edwin Drood_ is a story, or, to speak more correctly,

the half of a story, that has excited so much general interest and so

many speculations as to its ultimate disclosures, that it has given

rise to various imaginary theories on the part of several clever

writers; and to much discussion among those who are not writers, but

merely fervent admirers and thoughtful readers of my father’s

writings. All these attach different meanings to the extraordinary

number of clues my father has offered them to follow, and they are

even more keen at the present day than they were when the book made

its first appearance to find their way through the tangled maze and

arrive at the very heart of the mystery. Among the numerous books,

pamphlets, and articles that have been written upon _Edwin Drood_,

there are some that are extremely interesting and well worth

attention, for they contain many clever and possible suggestions, and

although they do not entirely convince us, yet they add still more to

the almost painful anxiety we all feel in wandering through the

lonely precincts of Cloisterham Cathedral, or along the banks of the

river that runs through Cloisterham town and leads to the Weir of

which we are told in the story.

In following these writers to the end of their subtle imaginings as

to how the mystery might be solved, we may sometimes be inclined to

pause for an instant and ask ourselves whether my father did not

perhaps intend his story to have an ending less complicated, although

quite as interesting, as any that are suggested. We find ourselves

turning to John Forster’s _Life of Charles Dickens_ to help us in our

perplexity, and this is what we read in his chapter headed ‘Last

Book.’ Mr. Forster begins by telling us that _Edwin Drood_ was to be

published in twelve illustrated monthly parts, and that it closed

prematurely with the sixth number, which was itself underwritten by

two pages; therefore my father had exactly six numbers and two pages

to write when he left his little châlet in the shrubbery of Gad’s

Hill Place on 8th June 1870, to which he never returned. Mr. Forster

goes on to say: ‘His first fancy for the tale was expressed in July

(meaning the July of 1869), in a letter which runs thus:

‘“What should you think of the idea of a story beginning in this

way?—Two people, boy and girl, or very young, going apart from one

another, pledged to be married after many years—at the end of the

book. The interest to arise out of the tracing of their separate

ways and the impossibility of telling what will be done with that

impending fate.”’

This idea my father relinquished, although he left distinct traces of

it in his tale; and in a letter to Mr. Forster, dated 6th August

1869, tells him:

‘I laid aside the fancy I told you of, and have a very curious and

new idea for my new story. Not a communicable idea (or the interest

of the book would be gone), but a very strong one, though difficult

to work.’

Mr. Forster then says that he immediately afterwards learnt that the

story was to be ‘the murder of a nephew by his uncle’; the

originality of which was to consist in the review of the murderer’s

career by himself at the close, when its temptations were to be dwelt

upon as if not he, the culprit, but some other man, were the tempted.

The last chapters were to be written in the condemned cell, to which

his wickedness, all elaborately elicited from him as if told of

another, had brought him. Discovery by the murderer of the utter

needlessness of the murder for its object, was to follow hard upon

commission of the deed; but all discovery of the murderer was to be

baffled till towards the close, when, by means of a gold ring which

had resisted the corrosive effects of the lime into which he had

thrown the body, not only the person murdered was to be identified,

but the locality of the crime and the man who committed it.’

Mr. Forster adds a little information as to the marriages at the

close of the book, and makes use of the expression ‘I think’ in

speaking of Neville Landless, as though he were not quite certain of

what he remembered concerning him. This ‘I think’ has been seized

upon by some of Mr. Forster’s critics, who appear to argue that

because he did not clearly recollect one detail of the story he may

therefore have been mistaken in the whole. But we see for ourselves

that Mr. Forster is perfectly well informed as to the nature of the

plot, and the fate of the two principal characters concerned, the

murdered and the murderer; and the only thing upon which he is not

positive is the ending of Neville Landless, to which he confesses in

the words ‘I think,’ thus making his testimony to the more important

facts the more impressive. If we have any doubts as to whether Mr.

Forster correctly stated what he was told, we have only to turn to

the story of _Edwin Drood_, and we find, as far as it goes, that his

statement is entirely corroborated by what we read in the book.

If those who are interested in the subject will carefully read what I

have quoted, they will not be able to detect any word or hint from my

father that it was upon the Mystery alone that he relied for the

interest and originality of his idea. The originality was to be

shown, as he tells us, in what we may call the psychological

description the murderer gives us of his temptations, temperament,

and character, as if told by another; and my father speaks openly of

the ring to Mr. Forster. Moreover, he refers to it often in his

story, and we all recognise it, whatever our other convictions may

be, as the instrument by which Jasper’s wickedness and guilt are to

be established in the end. I do not mean to imply that the mystery

itself had no strong hold on my father’s imagination; but, greatly as

he was interested in the intricacies of that tangled skein, the

information he voluntarily gave to Mr. Forster, from whom he had

withheld nothing for thirty-three years, certainly points to the fact

that he was quite as deeply fascinated and absorbed in the study of

the criminal Jasper, as in the dark and sinister crime that has given

the book its title. And he also speaks to Mr. Forster of the murder

of a nephew by an uncle. He does not say that he is uncertain

whether he shall save the nephew, but has evidently made up his mind

that the crime is to be committed. And so he told his plot to Mr.

Forster, as he had been accustomed to tell his plots for years past;

and those who knew him must feel it impossible to believe that in

this, the last year of his life, he should suddenly become underhand,

and we might say treacherous, to his old friend, by inventing for his

private edification a plot that he had no intention of carrying into

execution. This is incredible, and the nature of the friendship that

existed between Mr. Forster and himself makes the idea unworthy of

consideration.

Mr. Forster was devotedly attached to my father, but as years passed

by this engrossing friendship made him a little jealous of his

confidence, and more than a little exacting in his demands upon it.

My father was perfectly aware of this weakness in his friend, and

although the knowledge of it made him smile at times, and even joke

about it when we were at home and alone, he was always singularly

tenderhearted where Mr. Forster was concerned, and was particularly

careful never to wound the very sensitive nature of one who, from the

first moment of their acquaintance, had devoted his time and energy

to making my father’s path in life as smooth as so intricate a path

could be made. In all business transactions Mr. Forster acted for

him, and generally brought him through these troubles triumphantly,

whereas, if left to himself, his impetuosity and impatience might

have spoilt all chances of success; while in all his private troubles

my father instinctively turned to his friend, and even when not

invariably following his advice, had yet so much confidence in his

judgment as to be rendered not only uneasy but unhappy if Mr. Forster

did not approve of the decision at which he ultimately arrived. From

the beginning of their friendship to the end of my father’s life the

relations between the two friends remained unchanged; and the notion

that has been spread abroad that my father wilfully misled Mr.

Forster in what he told him of the plot of _Edwin Drood_ should be

abandoned, as it does not correspond with the knowledge of those who

understood the dignity of my father’s character, and were also aware

of the perfectly frank terms upon which he lived with Mr. Forster.

If my father again changed his plan for the story of _Edwin Drood_

the first thing he would naturally do would be to write to Mr.

Forster and inform him of the alteration. We might imagine for an

instant that he would perhaps desire to keep the change as a surprise

for his friend, but what I have just stated with regard to Mr.

Forster’s character renders this supposition out of the question, as

my father knew for a certainty that his jealousy would debar him from

appreciating such a surprise, and that he would in all probability

strongly resent what he might with justice be allowed to consider as

a piece of unnecessary caution on my father’s part. That he did not

write to Mr. Forster to tell him of any divergence from his second

plan for the book we all know, and we know also that my eldest

brother, Charles, positively declared that he had heard from his

father’s lips that Edwin Drood was dead. Here, therefore, are two

very important witnesses to a fact that is still doubted by those who

never met my father, and were never impressed by the grave sincerity

with which he would have given this assurance.

It is very often those who most doubt Mr. Forster’s accuracy on this

point who are in the habit of turning to his book when they are in

the search of facts to establish some theory of their own; and they

do not hesitate to do this, because they know that whatever views

they may hold upon the work itself, or the manner in which it is

written, absolute truth is to be found in its pages. Why should they

refuse, therefore, to believe a statement made upon one page of his

three volumes, when they willingly and gratefully accept the rest if

it is to their interest to do so? This is a difficult question to

answer, but it is not without importance when we are discussing the

subject of _Edwin Drood_. On pages 425 and 426 of the third volume

of Mr. Forster’s _Life_ is to be found the simple explanation of my

father’s plot for his story, as given to him by my father himself.

It is true that Mr. Forster speaks from remembrance, but how often

does he not speak from remembrance, and yet how seldom are we

inclined to doubt his word? Only here, because what he tells us does

not exactly fit in with our preconceived views as to how the tale

shall be finished, are we disposed to quarrel with him, for the

simple reason that we flatter ourselves we have discovered a better

ending to the book than the one originally intended for it by the

author. And so we put his statement aside and ignore it, while we

grope in the dark for a thing we shall never find; and we obstinately

refuse to allow even the little glimmer of light my father has

himself thrown upon the obscurity to help us in our search. It was

not, I imagine, for the intricate working out of his plot alone that

my father cared to write this story; but it was through his wonderful

observation of character, and his strange insight into the tragic

secrets of the human heart, that he desired his greatest triumph to

be achieved.

I do not write upon these things because I have any fresh or

startling theories to offer upon the subject of _Edwin Drood_. I

cannot say that I am without my own opinions, but I am fully

conscious that after what has been already so ably said, they would

have but little interest for the general public; so I shrink from

venturing upon any suggestions respecting the solution of my father’s

last book. My chief object in writing is to remind the readers of

this paper that there are certain facts connected with this story

that cannot lightly be put aside, and these facts are to be found in

John Forster’s _Life of Charles Dickens_, and in the declaration made

by my brother Charles. Having known both Mr. Forster and my brother

intimately, I cannot for a moment believe that either of them would

speak or write that which he did not know to be strictly true; and it

is on these grounds alone that I think I have a right to be heard

when I insist upon the assertion that Edwin Drood was undoubtedly

murdered by his uncle Jasper. As to the unravelling of the mystery,

and the way in which the murder was perpetrated, we are all at

liberty to have our own views, seeing that no explanations were as

yet arrived at in the story; but we should remember that only vague

speculations can be indulged in when we try to imagine them for

ourselves.

It has been pointed out, and very justly, that although Jasper

removed the watch, chain, and scarf-pin from Edwin’s body, there

would possibly remain on it money of some kind, keys, and the metal

buttons on his clothes, which the action of the quicklime could not

destroy, and by which his identity would be made known. This has

been looked upon as an oversight, a mere piece of forgetfulness on my

father’s part. But remembering, as I do very well, what he often

said, that the most clever criminals were constantly detected through

some small defect in their calculations, I cannot but think it most

probable that this was not an oversight, but was intended to lead up

to the pet theory that he so frequently mentioned whenever a murder

case was brought to trial. After reading _Edwin Drood_ many times,

as most of us have read it, we must, I think, come to the conclusion

that not a word of this tale was written without full consideration;

that in this story at least my father left nothing to chance, and

that therefore the money, and the buttons, were destined to take

their proper place in the book, and might turn out to be a weak spot

in Jasper’s well-arranged and complicated plot, _the_ weak spot my

father insisted upon, as being inseparable from the commission of a

great crime, however skilfully planned. The keys spoken of need not

be taken seriously into account, for Edwin was a careless young

fellow, and it is not unreasonable to suppose that he did not always

carry them upon his person; he was staying with his uncle, and he may

have left them in the portmanteau, which was most likely at the time

of the murder lying unfastened in his room, with the key belonging to

it in the lock. It would be unfair to suggest that my father wrote

unadvisedly of this or that, for he had still the half of his story

to finish, and plenty of time, as he thought, in which to gather up

the broken threads and weave them into a symmetrical and harmonious

whole, which he was so eminently capable of completing.

That my father’s brain was more than usually clear and bright during

the writing of _Edwin Drood_, no one who lived with him could

possibly doubt; and the extraordinary interest he took in the

development of this story was apparent in all that he said or did,

and was often the subject of conversation between those who anxiously

watched him as he wrote, and feared that he was trying his strength

too far. For although my father’s death was sudden and unexpected,

the knowledge that his bodily health was failing had been for some

time too forcibly brought to the notice of those who loved him, for

them to be blind to the fact that the book he was now engaged in, and

the concentration of his devotion and energy upon it, were a tax too

great for his fast-ebbing strength. Any attempt to stay him,

however, in work that he had undertaken was as idle as stretching

one’s hands to a river and bidding it cease to flow; and beyond a few

remonstrances now and again urged, no such attempt was made, knowing

as we did that it would be entirely useless. And so the work sped

on, carrying with it my father’s few remaining days of life, and the

end came all too soon, as it was bound to come, to one who never

ceased to labour for those who were dear to him, in the hope of

gaining for them that which he was destined never to enjoy. And in

my father’s grave lies buried the secret of his story.

The scene of the Eight Club, which Mr. Forster discovered after his

death, in which there figure two new characters, Mr. Peartree and Mr.

Kimber, bears no relation as we read it to the unfolding of the plot;

and although the young man Poker, who is also introduced in this

fragment for the first time, seems to be of more significance, we see

too little of him to be certain that we may not already have made his

acquaintance. In Mr. Sapsea my father evidently took much pleasure,

and we are here reminded of the note made for him in the first

number-plan of _Edwin Drood_: ‘Mr. Sapsea. Old Tory jackass.

Connect Jasper with him. (He will want a solemn donkey by and by.)’

My father also wanted the solemn donkey, and not only brought him in

for the purposes of his story, but because, as in the case of ‘the

Billickin,’ he took delight in dwelling upon the absurdities of the

character.

As to the cover of _Edwin Drood_, that has been the subject of so

much discussion there is very little to tell. It was designed and

drawn by Mr. Charles A. Collins, my first husband. The same reasons

that prevented me from teasing my father with questions respecting

his story made me refrain from asking any of Mr. Collins; but from

what he said I certainly gathered that he was not in possession of my

father’s secret, although he had made his designs from my father’s

directions. There are a few things in this cover that I fancy have

been a little misunderstood. In the book only Jasper and Neville

Landless are described as dark young men. Edwin Drood is fair, and

so is Crisparkle. Tartar is burnt by the sun; but when Rosa asks

‘the Unlimited head chambermaid’ at the hotel in Furnival’s Inn if

the gentleman who has just called is dark, she replies:

‘No, Miss, more of a brown gentleman.’

‘You are sure not with black hair?’ asked Rosa, taking courage.

‘Quite sure of that, Miss. Brown hair and blue eyes.’

Now in a drawing it would be difficult to make a distinction between

the fair hair of Edwin and the slightly darker hair of Tartar; and in

the picture, where we see a girl—Rosa we imagine her to be—seated in

a garden, the young man at her feet is, I feel pretty sure, intended

for Tartar. Edwin it cannot be, nor Neville, as has been supposed,

for he was decidedly dark. Besides this, Neville would not have told

his affection to Rosa, for Helena was far too quick-witted not to

understand from Rosa’s first mention of Tartar that she is already in

love with him, and she would have warned and saved the brother to

whom she was so ardently attached from making any such confession.

The figure is not intended for Jasper, because we know that Jasper

did not move from the sun-dial in the scene where he declares his mad

passion for Rosa, and Jasper had black hair and whiskers. And,

again, the drawing cannot be meant to represent Helena and

Crisparkle, for the young man is not in clerical dress. The figures

going up the stairs are still more difficult to make out; but there

can be little doubt that the active higher one is the same young man

we see at Rosa’s feet, and must therefore be Tartar. Of the

remaining two, one may be Crisparkle, although there is still no

clerical attire, and the other either Grewgious or Neville, though

the drawing certainly bears but little resemblance to either of those

characters.

The lower and middle picture is, of course, the great scene of the

book; but whether the young man standing calm, and inexorable as

Fate, is intended to be the ghost of Edwin as seen by Jasper in his

half-dazed and drugged condition, or whether it is Helena dressed as

Datchery, as one writer has ingeniously suggested (although there are

reasons in the story against the supposition that Helena is Datchery,

and many to support the theory that the ‘old buffer’ is

Bazzard),—these are puzzles that will never be cleared up, except to

the minds of those who have positively determined that they hold the

clue to the mystery, and can only see its interpretation from one

point of view. The girl’s figure with streaming hair, in the picture

where the word ‘Lost’ is written, has been supposed to represent Rosa

after her parting from Edwin; but it may more likely, I think,

indicate some scene in the book which has yet to be described in the

story. This is another enigma; but my father, it may be presumed,

intended to puzzle his readers by the cover, and he had every

legitimate right to do so, for had his meaning been made perfectly

clear ‘the interest of the book would be gone.’ Some surprise has

been expressed because Mr. Forster did not ask Mr. Collins for the

meaning of his designs; but if he already knew the plot, why should

he seek information from Mr. Collins? particularly as my father may

have told him that he had not disclosed the secret of his story to

his illustrators, for I believe I am right in affirming that Mr. Luke

Fildes was no better informed as to the plan of the book than was Mr.

Collins.

* * * * *

I am unfortunately not acquainted with much that has been written

about _Edwin Drood_, for the story was so painfully associated with

my father’s death and the sorrow of that time that after first

reading it I could never bear to look into the book again till about

two months ago, when I found myself obliged to do so; and then my

thoughts flew back to the last occasion when my father mentioned it

in my hearing.

. . . . .

There is one other fact connected with my father and _Edwin Drood_

that I think my readers would like to know, and I must be forgiven if

I again speak from my own experience in order to relate it. Upon

reading the book once more, as I have already told, after an interval

of a great number of years, the story took such entire possession of

me that for a long time I could think of nothing else; and one day,

my aunt, Miss Hogarth, being with me, I asked her if she knew

anything more definite than I did as to how the ending was to be

brought about. For I should explain that when my father was

unusually reticent we seldom, if ever, attempted to break his silence

by remarks or hints that might lead him to suppose that we were

anxious to learn what he had no doubt good reasons for desiring to

keep from us. And we made it a point of honour among ourselves

never, in talking to him on the subject of _Edwin Drood_, to show the

impatience we naturally felt to arrive at the end of so engrossing a

tale.

My aunt said that she knew absolutely nothing, but she told me that

shortly before my father’s death, and after he had been speaking of

some difficulty he was in with his work, without explaining what it

was, she found it impossible to refrain from asking him, ‘I hope you

haven’t really killed poor Edwin Drood?’ To which he gravely

replied, ‘I call my book the Mystery, not the History, of Edwin

Drood.’ And that was all he would answer. My aunt could not make

out from the reply, or from his manner of giving it, whether he

wished to convey that the Mystery was to remain a mystery for ever,

or if he desired gently to remind her that he would not disclose his

secret until the proper time arrived for telling it. But I think his

words are so suggestive, and may carry with them so much meaning,

that I offer them now, with my aunt’s permission, to those who take a

delight in trying to unravel the impenetrable secrets of a story that

has within its sadly shortened pages a most curious fascination, and

is ‘gifted with invincible force to hold and drag.’

THE TESTIMONY OF CHARLES DICKENS THE YOUNGER

I have quoted from Madame Perugini’s statement the words: ‘We know also

that my elder brother Charles positively declared that he had heard from

his father’s lips that Edwin Drood was dead.’ I proceed to corroborate

the statement by giving here a brief account of the play by Joseph Hatton

and Charles Dickens.

The importance of this play as a witness to Dickens’s intentions is shown

in an article by Joseph Hatton which appeared in the _People_ on 19th

November 1905. Mr. Hatton explains that about the year 1880, in a

conversation, he sketched out his idea of the play up to the crucial

point. Dickens had a play in his mind when he wrote the story, and it

was said that he had thought of Dion Boucicault as his collaborator in

his work for the stage. After the death of Dickens, Boucicault had a

mind to write the play and invent his own conclusion to the story, but

afterwards gave it up. Mr. Hatton, in a conversation with Mr. Luke

Fildes, saw Dickens’s possible conclusion, but did not attempt to gather

up the broken threads. ‘Consulting his son, Charles, to whom I offered

my sketch, I found that his father had revealed to him sufficient of the

plot to clearly indicate how the story was to end. We agreed to write

the play. Much of the son’s version of the finale was proved by the

instructions which the author had given to the illustrator in regard to

certain of the unpublished and unwritten chapters. And so Dickens the

younger and I fell to work and wrote the play of _Edwin Drood_ for the

Princess’s Theatre.’ He goes on to explain that the piece was cast, and

a great point made of the authoritative conclusion of the story, thus

clearing up something of the mystery which was part of its title. But

Mr. Harry Jackson, the stage manager, did not like the play, and it was

left unacted. Years after, Dickens had a hope that Mr. Willard would

undertake the play, but this expectation was not fulfilled. Dickens

consoled himself by saying that next to the pleasure of having a good

play acted was the pleasure of writing it, and for the rest he took the

incident as one of the ‘little ironies’ of his life.

The play as it lies before me is in four Acts. The first is made up of

conversations between the Landlesses, Mrs. Crisparkle, Septimus

Crisparkle, Rosa and Edwin. These are practically repeated from the

book. Grewgious and Jasper then come on the scene, the novel being

closely followed in their conversation. The second Act is made up of

conversations also mainly reproduced from the book between Helena and

Rosa, Jasper and Crisparkle. Grewgious comes on in the second Scene

where Edwin and Rosa decide to be brother and sister. There follow in

the third Scene the talks between Jasper and Durdles. Edwin talks to the

opium woman, and Jasper appears with the scarf on his arm. So far there

is practically nothing that is not taken directly from Dickens. The

third Act opens with a conversation between Septimus and Mrs. Crisparkle

as to the guilt of Landless. Helena and Neville appear protesting

innocence. Grewgious tells Jasper about the breaking of the engagement

between Edwin and Rosa. Jasper makes love to Rosa. In the concluding

Act the scene is laid in the opium den in London: ‘Dark,

poverty-stricken. Fourpost bedstead, chair, table, candlestick, set well

down so as to allow good space for vision later on, light up a little,

when Opium Sal lights candle shortly after Jasper’s entrance. For

details see Fildes’s picture in book. Opium Sal discovered moving about

in a witch-like kind of way.’ Jasper enters and tells Sal that a man

followed him to the door. She lights the opium pipe for him, and then

questions him.

He says at last: ‘Hush! the journey’s made! It’s over!’

SAL. Is it over so soon?

JASPER. I must sleep that vision off. It is the poorest of all. No

struggle, no consciousness of peril, no entreaty, and yet I never saw

_that_ before!

SAL. See what, deary?

JASPER. Look at it! Look what a poor miserable thing it is! _That_

must be real. It’s over.

(_He has accompanied this incoherence with some wild unmeaning

gestures_; _but they trail off into the progressive inaction of

stupor_, _and he lies like a log upon the bed_. _The_ WOMAN

_attempts to rouse him as before_, _but finding him past rousing

__for the time_, _she slowly gets upon her feet with an air of

disappointment_, _flicks his face with her hand savagely_, _and then

flings a rug over_ JASPER.)

(_Both_ SAL _and_ JASPER _now being perfectly quiet_, _the back of

scene is illuminated_, _showing the scene exactly as at end of Act

II_. _The candle is out in the Opium Den_, _leaving front part of

stage dark_. _The brightest light in vision is from_ JASPER’S

_window_, _leaving other parts of scene slightly in shadow but

sufficiently light for action to be seen_. _It is to be carefully

noted that all the persons on in the Vision Scene should wear list

shoes_, _so that they make no noise in moving about_, _and that the

Stage Manager should insist upon perfect quiet behind the stage and

at the wings_. _The actors_, _too_, _speak in rather a measured_,

_monotonous tone_. _Crowd later on in Vision to be grouped and

drilled from this point of view_.)

(_The Scene being well open_, _there is a flash of lightning_, _and a

peal of thunder_, _followed after a short pause by a burst of merry

laughter from_ JASPER’S _room_, _the voices of_ DROOD _and_ NEVILLE

_being audible_. _They come down to door_, JASPER _with them_,

_without his hat_.)

Edwin, Jasper, and Neville are talking. Edwin says he will walk with

Neville as far as the river and have a look at the storm. Neville and

Jasper exchange good-nights, and Edwin says: ‘Don’t go to bed, Jack, I

won’t be long.’

(JASPER _in response waves hand_. _Pause_. _Then re-enters house_,

_closes door_. _Goes upstairs_. _Puts light out_, _and is seen for

a moment at window_. _Flash of lightning_, _peal of thunder_.

_Pause_. JASPER _comes out with hat on head_, _the black silk scarf

on arm_. _Comes out cautiously_, _closing door after him and looks

round_, _and warily goes to crypt_; _finds door locked and takes key

from his pocket with which he opens it_, _and pushes door wide open_.

_Creeps off in the direction_ NEVILLE _and_ EDWIN _have gone_.

_Pause_. _Weak flash of lightning and peal of thunder_. JASPER

_returns crouching_, _and hides within shadow of wall_. _Re-enter_

EDWIN DROOD _from where exit was made_. _He looks up at_ JASPER’S

_window_.)

Ah, too bad; he has gone to bed and has put his light out.

(JASPER _rushes upon_ EDWIN _from behind_, _seizes him_, _whips

scarf_, _which he has previously been twisting into rope-like shape_,

_round his head and neck_, _and proceeds to strangle him_. _There is

a fierce struggle for a few seconds_. _Nearly on the point of

death_, EDWIN _gets free of_ JASPER, _sees his assailant_, _and

thinks_ JASPER _is there to help him_.)

EDWIN. Jack! Jack! Save me! They are killing me! (Flings himself

into JASPER’S arms.)

JASPER. Save you, yes!

(_Deliberately tightens scarf_, _strikes_ EDWIN, _and kills him_.

_Flash of lightning and peal of thunder_, _as_ EDWIN _falls lifeless

at_ JASPER’S _feet_. _Pause_.)

JASPER (_a little overcome physically_, _and jerking out his

sentences gasping_, _but with intense ferocity_). You poor fool.

You’ll boast no more. (_Spurning body with his foot_.) Ah! ah! ah!

(_Laughs wildly_.) He’s gone. The fellow-traveller has gone for

ever, gone down, into the everlasting abyss! Hush! (_Listens_.)

Durdles? No, opium mixed with his liquor keeps that other fool

quiet. (_Listens again_, _and looks cautiously round—distant

low-moaning peal of thunder_.) Only the storm wearing itself out!

Ah! ah! ah! (_Looking at body_.) You’ve seen the last of the storm,

weak, self-satisfied fool! Come (wildly seizing the body, and

dragging it towards crypt), come—to your marriage bed (_drags body_).

Come—to sleep with Death!

(_Exit with body into crypt_.)

(_Slow music_. _Short pause_. _Re-enter_ JASPER _from crypt_, _and

as he does so gauze clouds begin to darken scene_. JASPER _locks

crypt_, _puts key in his pocket_, _crosses_, _crouching and

creeping_, _looking behind him fearfully_, _and enters his own

house_, _with flash of lightning_, _peal of thunder_, _the very last

of the storm_. _By this time gauze clouds nearly darken the scene_.

_Double on bed moves_. OPIUM SAL _rises restlessly_, _once more

leans over bed_, _and begins to talk while the actor representing_

JASPER_ returns to his place on bed_.)

SAL. Troubled dreams, deary! Troubled dreams. Have you been taking

the journey again? Was it pleasant, and what did you do to

fellow-traveller, eh?

JASPER (_speaking in a dreamy way_). That’s how the journey was

made—that’s how I like to make it. But there’s something more. I

never saw that before; what is it? (_Fearfully_, _falls asleep

again_.)

(SAL _wearily resumes her attitude of rest with her arms on bed_,

_and the Vision Scene goes on_. DURDLES _appears beckoning off_,

_unlocks crypt and enters_. _As he does so_ GREWGIOUS _and_ ROSA

_come on from direction indicated by_ DURDLES’S _beckoning_, _all the

others in scene coming from the same place_. ROSA _clings to her

guardian’s arm_. _They stop in centre of stage opposite crypt_,

_looking towards door_. NEVILLE _and_ HELENA _follow_. _They join_

GREWGIOUS _and_ ROSA. CRISPARKLE _and_ OPIUM SAL’S _Double come on_.

OPIUM SAL’S _Double is pointing towards_ ROSA _and others_, _and_

CRISPARKLE _joins the group_. _The Double now stands near wing and

beckons off_. _Townspeople come on and make group_, _Double at their

head_, _she pointing towards crypt_; _they all look in that

direction_. DURDLES _comes to door_, _beckons_ GREWGIOUS, _who goes

in after_ DURDLES _to crypt_. _Groups now move a step or two nearer

to entrance of crypt_. _Slight pause_. ROSA _clings to_ HELENA;

NEVILLE _in dumb show whispers anxiously to_ HELENA _and_ ROSA, _as

if to reassure and comfort them_. HELENA _stands proudly but

anxious_; ROSA _droopingly_.)

GREW. (_standing just outside crypt door_, _and addressing himself

to_ CRISPARKLE). Keep the women back; this is no place for them.

Edwin Drood has been foully murdered!

(_Sensation in crowd_, _not indicated by noise_, _but dumb show_.

ROSA _staggers_. NEVILLE _catches her in his arms_. JASPER _moves

and groans in his sleep_. DURDLES _comes out of crypt_, _plucks_

GREWGIOUS _by the sleeve_, _and holds up_ JASPER’S _long black

scarf_.)

CRIS. Jasper’s scarf!

(JASPER again groans on bed.)

Where is Jasper?

(_Goes to door of_ JASPER’S _house and knocks_. _This knocking must

be made right at back of stage_.)

GREW. It is no good knocking there. The murderer of Edwin Drood

will be found in London!

(_Sensation as before in crowd_. CRISPARKLE _still knocks_, _and

between knocks faint rapping is heard at door of opium den_, _and_

JASPER _tosses about on bed_, _then starts up with a cry_, _the

Vision disappearing the moment he stands on the floor_.)

JASPER (_starting as if at what he has seen_). No, no. It’s a lie!

(_Knocking at opium den door becomes louder_.)

(_Turning to_ SAL, _who is now at other end of room_.) What’s that?

SAL. They wants to come in.

JASPER. Who wants to come in?

(_Knocking is louder and louder_.)

SAL. Why, the perlice.

JASPER. The police! Damnation! The man who followed me here

to-night! Then it’s all true. Durdles has found the body in spite

of all my precautions, and I am lost. (Rushes wildly about room.)

Is there no escape? Where’s the window?

SAL. There ain’t no winder, deary.

JASPER. Then I’m trapped like a wolf in a cage. You filthy hag,

this is your doing.

(_Seizes candlestick on stool to strike her_; _she crouches down_.

_Knocking at door now so fierce as to arrest his attention_, _and he

turns towards it_, _weapon in his hand_.)

(_Voice at door_. Open in the Queen’s name!)

(JASPER _drops stool or whatever he has seized upon to attack_ SAL

_with_, _staggers back_, _tears open his shirt-sleeve_, _where a

small phial is seen fastened to left wrist_, _drags it from his wrist

and holds it convulsively in right hand_, _as door is violently burst

open_.)

(_Enter_ Inspector of Police, _handcuffs in hand_, DURDLES, NEVILLE,

CRISPARKLE, and GREWGIOUS.)

GREW. (_to_ Officer, _pointing to_ JASPER). There is your prisoner.

JASPER. Never! Do you think I was not prepared for this always!

(_Takes poison_, _and flings phial down_.) Now I defy you! Hush! I

did kill him! Ha! ha! The fellow-traveller! Yes. For love. For a

mad wild passion. Killed him as I would have killed you and you—as I

would have swept you all from the path that led to her. Ha! ha! what

fools you were not to see it, not to see my love, how it burned, how

it consumed me. She knew it! Rosa knew it. (_Then speaking as

though none but he and_ ROSA _were present_.) Rosa! Rosa! My Rosa!

Come! You must! You shall! (_Wildly_.) Back! Back! She’s mine I

tell you! (_Passes hand over eyes_, _and staggers_, _then once more

half realises the situation_.) What’s that? (_Looks round_, _and

sees_ NEVILLE.) You here! You who think to reap the harvest for

which I have sold my soul to hell! Vile wretch! I’ll kill you!

(_Rushes to_ NEVILLE, _who stands forward_. _In act of raising arm

to strike him_, JASPER _is seized with death spasm_, _trembles_,

_shudders_, _and_, _flinging up arms_, _falls dead_. _Picture_:

OPIUM SAL _crouching still in fear_, _Officer_, GREWGIOUS, DURDLES,

NEVILLE, _and_ CRISPARKLE _near the body_.)

END OF DRAMA

THE TESTIMONY OF SIR LUKE FILDES

A reviewer in the _Times_ Literary Supplement, 27th October 1905, wrote:

‘Nor do we attach much importance to any of the hints Dickens dropped,

whether to John Forster, to any member of his family, or to either of his

illustrators. He was very anxious that his secret should not be guessed,

and the hints which he dropped may very well have been intentionally

misleading.’ This called forth the following letter from Sir Luke

Fildes:

TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES

Sir,—In an article entitled ‘The Mysteries of Edwin Drood’ in your

issue of to-day, the writer, speculating on the various theories

advanced as solutions of the mystery, ventures to say:—

‘Nor do we attach much importance to any of the hints Dickens

dropped, whether to John Forster, to any member of his family, or to

either of his illustrators. He was very anxious that his secret

should not be guessed, and the hints which he dropped may very well

have been intentionally misleading.’

I know that Charles Dickens was very anxious that his secret should

not be guessed, but it surprises me to read that he could be thought

capable of the deceit so lightly attributed to him.

The ‘hints he dropped’ to me, his sole illustrator—for Charles

Collins, his son-in-law, only designed the green cover for the

monthly parts, and Collins told me he did not in the least know the

significance of the various groups in the design; that they were

drawn from instructions personally given by Charles Dickens, and not

from any text—these ‘hints’ to me were the outcome of a request of

mine that he would explain some matters, the meaning of which I could

not comprehend, and which were for me, his illustrator,

embarrassingly hidden.

I instanced in the printers’ rough proof of the monthly part sent to

me to illustrate where he particularly described John Jasper as

wearing a neckerchief of such dimensions as to go twice round his

neck; I called his attention to the circumstance that I had

previously dressed Jasper as wearing a little black tie once round

the neck, and I asked him if he had any special reasons for the

alteration of Jasper’s attire, and, if so, I submitted I ought to

know. He, Dickens, appeared for the moment to be disconcerted by my

remark, and said something meaning he was afraid he was ‘getting on

too fast’ and revealing more than he meant at that early stage, and

after a short silence, cogitating, he suddenly said, ‘Can you keep a

secret?’ I assured him he could rely on me. He then said, ‘I must

have the double necktie! It is necessary, for Jasper strangles Edwin

Drood with it.’

I was impressed by his earnestness, as indeed, I was at all my

interviews with him—also by the confidence which he said he reposed

in me, trusting that I would not in any way refer to it, as he feared

even a chance remark might find its way into the papers ‘and thus

anticipate his “mystery”’; and it is a little startling, after more

than thirty-five years of profound belief in the nobility of

character and sincerity of Charles Dickens, to be told now that he

probably was more or less of a humbug on such occasions.—I am, Sir,

yours obediently,

LUKE FILDES.

HARROGATE, _October_ 27.

NOTES FOR THE NOVEL

I give here the notes which Dickens made for his novel. These are

partly quoted by Professor Jackson in his book, _About Edwin Drood_,

but are now for the first time printed complete.

_Friday_, _Twentieth August_ 1869

Gilbert Alfred.

Edwin.

Jasper Edwyn.

Michael Oswald.

The Loss of James Wakefield. Arthur.

Edwyn. Selwyn.

Edgar.

Mr. Honeythunder.

Mr. Honeyblast.

James’s Disappearance. The Dean.

Mrs. Dean.

FLIGHT AND PURSUIT. Miss Dean.

SWORN TO AVENGE IT.

ONE OBJECT IN LIFE.

A KINSMAN’S DEVOTION.

THE TWO KINSMEN.

The Loss of Edwyn Brood.

The Loss of Edwin Brude.

The Mystery in the Drood Family.

The Loss of Edwyn Drood.

The Flight of Edwyn Drood. Edwin Drood in hiding.

The Loss of Edwin Drude.

The Disappearance of Edwin Drood.

The Mystery of Edwin Drood.

Dead? or Alive?

Opium-Smoking.

Touch the key-note.

‘When the wicked man—’

The Uncle & Nephew.

‘Pussy’s’ Portrait.

_You won’t take warning then_?

Dean. Mr. Jasper.

Minor Canon, Mr. Crisparkle.

Uncle & Nephew. Verger.

Gloves for the Nuns’ House. Peptune.

Churchyard. _Change to Tope_.

CATHEDRAL TOWN RUNNING THROUGHOUT.

Inside the Nuns’ House.

Miss Twinkleton and her double existence.

Mrs. Tisher.

Rosebud.

The affianced young people. _Every love scene after is a quarrel more or

less_.

Mr. Sapsea. Old Tory Jackass.

His Wife’s Epitaph.

Jasper and the Keys.

Durdles down in the crypt and among the graves. His dinner bundle.

(_MYSTERY OF EDWIN DROOD_.—_NO. I_.)

CHAPTER I

THE DAWN

change title to THE DAWN.

opium smoking and Jasper.

Lead up to Cathedral.