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_.)