Chapter 2. The Curse Of The Baskervilles

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

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

“It is an old manuscript.”

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

“How can you say that, sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles there

have been many statements, yet as I come in a direct

line from Hugo Baskerville, and as I had the story from

my father, who also had it from his, I have set it down

with all belief that it occurred even as is here set

forth. And I would have you believe, my sons, that the

same Justice which punishes sin may also most graciously

forgive it, and that no ban is so heavy but that by prayer

and repentance it may be removed. Learn then from this

story not to fear the fruits of the past, but rather to

be circumspect in the future, that those foul passions

whereby our family has suffered so grievously may not

again be loosed to our undoing.

“Know then that in the time of the Great Rebellion (the

history of which by the learned Lord Clarendon I most

earnestly commend to your attention) this Manor of

Baskerville was held by Hugo of that name, nor can it be

gainsaid that he was a most wild, profane, and godless

man. This, in truth, his neighbours might have pardoned,

seeing that saints have never flourished in those parts,

but there was in him a certain wanton and cruel humour

which made his name a by-word through the West. It

chanced that this Hugo came to love (if, indeed, so dark

a passion may be known under so bright a name) the daughter

of a yeoman who held lands near the Baskerville estate.

But the young maiden, being discreet and of good repute,

would ever avoid him, for she feared his evil name. So

it came to pass that one Michaelmas this Hugo, with five

or six of his idle and wicked companions, stole down upon

the farm and carried off the maiden, her father and

brothers being from home, as he well knew. When they had

brought her to the Hall the maiden was placed in an upper

chamber, while Hugo and his friends sat down to a long

carouse, as was their nightly custom. Now, the poor lass

upstairs was like to have her wits turned at the singing

and shouting and terrible oaths which came up to her from

below, for they say that the words used by Hugo Baskerville,

when he was in wine, were such as might blast the man who

said them. At last in the stress of her fear she did that

which might have daunted the bravest or most active man,

for by the aid of the growth of ivy which covered (and

still covers) the south wall she came down from under the

eaves, and so homeward across the moor, there being three

leagues betwixt the Hall and her father’s farm.

“It chanced that some little time later Hugo left his

guests to carry food and drink—with other worse things,

perchance—to his captive, and so found the cage empty

and the bird escaped. Then, as it would seem, he became

as one that hath a devil, for, rushing down the stairs

into the dining-hall, he sprang upon the great table,

flagons and trenchers flying before him, and he cried

aloud before all the company that he would that very

night render his body and soul to the Powers of Evil if

he might but overtake the wench. And while the revellers

stood aghast at the fury of the man, one more wicked or,

it may be, more drunken than the rest, cried out that

they should put the hounds upon her. Whereat Hugo ran

from the house, crying to his grooms that they should

saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and giving the

hounds a kerchief of the maid’s, he swung them to the

line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the moor.

“Now, for some space the revellers stood agape, unable

to understand all that had been done in such haste. But

anon their bemused wits awoke to the nature of the deed

which was like to be done upon the moorlands. Everything

was now in an uproar, some calling for their pistols,

some for their horses, and some for another flask of

wine. But at length some sense came back to their crazed

minds, and the whole of them, thirteen in number, took

horse and started in pursuit. The moon shone clear above

them, and they rode swiftly abreast, taking that course

which the maid must needs have taken if she were to reach

her own home.

“They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the

night shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to

him to know if he had seen the hunt. And the man, as

the story goes, was so crazed with fear that he could

scarce speak, but at last he said that he had indeed seen

the unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track. ‘But

I have seen more than that,’ said he, ‘for Hugo Baskerville

passed me upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind

him such a hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at

my heels.’ So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd

and rode onward. But soon their skins turned cold, for

there came a galloping across the moor, and the black

mare, dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing

bridle and empty saddle. Then the revellers rode close

together, for a great fear was on them, but they still

followed over the moor, though each, had he been alone,

would have been right glad to have turned his horse’s

head. Riding slowly in this fashion they came at last

upon the hounds. These, though known for their valour

and their breed, were whimpering in a cluster at the

head of a deep dip or goyal, as we call it, upon the

moor, some slinking away and some, with starting hackles

and staring eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them.

“The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you

may guess, than when they started. The most of them

would by no means advance, but three of them, the boldest,

or it may be the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal.

Now, it opened into a broad space in which stood two of

those great stones, still to be seen there, which were

set by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old.

The moon was shining bright upon the clearing, and there

in the centre lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen,

dead of fear and of fatigue. But it was not the sight

of her body, nor yet was it that of the body of Hugo

Baskerville lying near her, which raised the hair upon

the heads of these three dare-devil roysterers, but it

was that, standing over Hugo, and plucking at his throat,

there stood a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped

like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal

eye has rested upon. And even as they looked the thing

tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it

turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the

three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life, still

screaming, across the moor. One, it is said, died that

very night of what he had seen, and the other twain were

but broken men for the rest of their days.

“Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound

which is said to have plagued the family so sorely ever

since. If I have set it down it is because that which

is clearly known hath less terror than that which is but

hinted at and guessed. Nor can it be denied that many

of the family have been unhappy in their deaths, which

have been sudden, bloody, and mysterious. Yet may we

shelter ourselves in the infinite goodness of Providence,

which would not forever punish the innocent beyond that

third or fourth generation which is threatened in Holy

Writ. To that Providence, my sons, I hereby commend

you, and I counsel you by way of caution to forbear from

crossing the moor in those dark hours when the powers of

evil are exalted.

“[This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John,

with instructions that they say nothing thereof to their

sister Elizabeth.