Sherlock Holmes: Hounds of the Baskervilles – 8First Report of Dr. Watson's first report

<h1 class="pgc-h-arrow-right">First Report of Dr. Watson</h1>

<h1 class="pgc-h-arrow-right" > Dr. Watson's first report</h1>

From this point onward I will follow the course of events by transcribing my own letters to Mr. Sherlock Holmes which lie before me on the table. One page is missing, but otherwise they are exactly as written and show my feelings and suspicions of the moment more accurately than my memory, clear as it is upon these tragic events, can possibly do.

Henceforth, I shall, according to the events of the events, transcribe the letters which I have written to Mr. Sherlock Holmes on the table before me. Although one of them has been lost, I believe that what I am writing now is in no way different from the facts. I remember these tragic events very well, but these letters always give a more accurate account of my feelings and doubts at the time.

Baskerville Hall, October 13th.

Sent from Baskerville Manor on October 13

My dear Holmes:

My dear Sherlock Holmes,

My previous letters and telegrams have kept you pretty well up to date as to all that has occurred in this most God-forsaken corner of the world. The longer one stays here the more does the spirit of the moor sink into one's soul, its vastness, and also its grim charm. When you are once out upon its bosom you have left all traces of modern England behind you, but, on the other hand, you are conscious everywhere of the homes and the work of the prehistoric people. On all sides of you as you walk are the houses of these forgotten folk, with their graves and the huge monoliths which are supposed to have marked their temples. As you look at their gray stone huts against the scarred hillsides you leave your own age behind you, and if you were to see a skin-clad, hairy man crawl out from the low door fitting a flint-tipped arrow on to the string of his bow, you wouid feel that his presence there was more natural than your own. The strange thing is that they should have lived so thickly on what must always have been most unfruitful soil. I am no antiquarian, but I could imagine that they were some unwarlike and harried race who were forced to accept that which none other would occupy.

My previous letters and telegrams must have kept you informed in time of what was happening in this most desolate corner. The longer a person stays here, the deeper the appearance of the moor will penetrate into your soul, it is so vast, with such terrible magic. As soon as you reach the center of the moor, you will not see the slightest trace of modern England: on the other hand, you can see the houses and the fruits of the labor of the prehistoric people everywhere. As you walk, surrounded by the houses of these forgotten people, as well as their graves and large stone pillars, which may indicate where their temples are. When you see the huts made of gray rock on the mottled hillside, you will forget the time you are in now, and if you see a fur-clad man crawling out of the low doorway, with the arrow of the flint arrow on the bowstring, you will feel that his appearance is much more natural than your own presence here. It was strange that in this land, which had always been the most barren, they would live so densely. I am not an archaeologist, but I can imagine that they are a ravaged race that does not like to fight, and is forced to accept a place that no one wants to live in.

All this, however, is foreign to the mission on which you sent me and will probably be very uninteresting to your severely practical mind. I can still remember your complete indifference as to whether the sun moved round the earth or the earth round the sun. Let me, therefore, return to the facts concerning Sir Henry Baskerville.

Obviously, these are all things that have nothing to do with the tasks you sent me here to carry out, and they can be tedious to the most pragmatic people like you. I remember your indifference when it came to the question of whether the sun revolves around the earth or the earth revolves around the sun. Let me return to the matter of Sir Henry Baskerville.

If you have not had any report within the last few days it is because up to to-day there was nothing of importance to relate. Then a very surprising circumstance occurred, which I shall tell you in due course. But, first of all, I must keep you in touch with some of the other factors in the situation.

If you didn't receive any reports the other day, it's because nothing important has happened that is worth reporting. But then something very surprising happened, and I will report it to you now. First of all, I have to give you some idea of some other relevant factors in the whole situation.

One of these, concerning which I have said little, is the escaped convict upon the moor. There is strong reason now to believe that he has got right away, which is a considerable relief to the lonely householders of this district. A fortnight has passed since his flight, during which he has not been seen and nothing has been heard of him. It is surely inconceivable that he could have held out upon the moor during all that time. Of course, so far as his concealment goes there is no difficulty at all. Any one of these stone huts would give him a hiding-place. But there is nothing to eat unless he were to catch and slaughter one of the moor sheep. We think, therefore, that he has gone, and the outlying farmers sleep the better in consequence.

One of them was the fugitive in the moor that I rarely talked about. It is now entirely credible that he has run away, which is a great relief for the scattered inhabitants of the district. It had been two weeks since he had escaped, during which time no one had seen him or heard anything about him. It is indeed hard to imagine that he could always stay in the moor during this time. Of course, if he were to look at the problem of hiding alone, he would have no difficulty, and any small stone house could serve as his hiding place. But unless he could hunt the sheep in the moor, he would have nothing to eat. So we think he has escaped, and the peasants who live in the distance can sleep a little more peacefully.

We are four able-bodied men in this household, so that we could take good care of ourselves, but I confess that I have had uneasy moments when I have thought of the Stapletons. They live miles from any help. There are one maid, an old manservant, the sister, and the brother, the latter not a very strong man. They would be helpless in the hands of a desperate fellow like this Notting Hill criminal if he could once effect an entrance. Both Sir Henry and I were concerned at their situation, and it was suggested that Perkins the groom should go over to sleep there, but Stapleton would not hear of it.

We live here with four strong men, so we can take good care of ourselves. But frankly, when I think of Stapleton's family, I feel uneasy in my heart. They lived in a place of isolation within a few miles, with only a maid, an old manservant and two of them, and the brother was not a very strong man. If this fugitive from Nauting Mountain had broken through the door and fallen into the hands of such a lifeless fellow, they would have been really helpless. Sir Henry and I were very concerned about their situation, and had suggested that Marv Perkins go to sleep with them, but Stapleton disagreed.

The fact is that our friend, the baronet, begins to display a considerable interest in our fair neighbour. It is not to be wondered at, for time hangs heavily in this lonely spot to an active man like him, and she is a very fascinating and beautiful woman. There is something tropical and exotic about her which forms a singular contrast to her cool and unemotional brother. Yet he also gives the idea of hidden fires. He has certainly a very marked influence over her, for I have seen her continually glance at him as she talked as if seeking approbation for what she said. I trust that he is kind to her. There is a dry glitter in his eyes and a firm set of his thin lips, which goes with a positive and possibly a harsh nature. You would find him an interesting study.

In fact, our friend, the baronet, has begun to show considerable interest in our female neighbour. This was not surprising, for for such an active person as he was bored in such a lonely place, and she was a very beautiful woman. In her, there was a tropical exoticism, a peculiar contrast to her brother's coldness and unsentimentality, but he also made people feel that there was a fiery emotion lurking in his heart. He must have the power to control her, for I had seen her constantly looking at him during conversations, as if everything she said required his consent. I'm sure he treated her well. His eyes were sparkling and his lips were thin and firm, and these characteristics often showed an assertive and possibly rough character. I think you must have found him an interesting subject of study.

He came over to call upon Baskerville on that first day, and the very next morning he took us both to show us the spot where the legend of the wicked Hugo is supposed to have had its origin. It was an excursion of some miles across the moor to a place which is so dismal that it might have suggested the story. We found a short valley between rugged tors which led to an open, grassy space flecked over with the white cotton grass. In the middle of it rose two great stones, worn and sharpened at the upper end until they looked like the huge corroding fangs of some monstrous beast. In every way it corresponded with the scene of the old tragedy. Sir Henry was much interested and asked Stapleton more than once whether he did really believe in the possibility of the interference of the supernatural in the affairs of men. He spoke lightly, but it was evident that he was very much in earnest. Stapleton was guarded in his replies, but it was easy to see that he said less than he might, and that he would not express his whole opinion out of consideration for the feelings of the baronet. He told us of similar cases, where families had suffered from some evil influence, and he left us with the impression that he shared the popular view upon the matter.

On the first day he came to visit Baskerville, and the next morning he led the two of us to the site of the legend of the debauchery. It took several miles to get there in the moor, and the place was so desolate and miserable that it was likely to make people feel the scene and make up the story. We found a short ravine in the middle of two rocky hills, and after walking along the ravine, we came to an open and grassy clearing with white cotton grass everywhere. In the middle of the clearing stood two large stones, the top of which had been weathered to a pointed shape, much like the worn fangs of some huge beast. This scene does indeed correspond to the tragic scene of the old times in the legend. Sir Henry was intrigued, and more than once asked Stapleton if he really believed that demons might interfere in human affairs. When he spoke, he seemed careless on the surface, but it was obvious that he was very serious in his heart. Stapleton replied very carefully, and it was easy to see that he was trying to say as little as possible, as if he was reluctant to express his opinion in its entirety, given the effects of baron's sentiments. He said something similar to us, that some families had been harassed by demons, so he made us feel that he thought about it the same way as the average person.

On our way back we stayed for lunch at Merripit House, and it was there that Sir Henry made the acquaintance of Miss Stapleton. From the first moment that he saw her he appeared to be strongly attracted by her, and I am much mistaken if the feeling was not mutual. He referred to her again and again on our walk home, and since then hardly a day has passed that we have not seen something of the brother and sister. They dine here to-night, and there is some talk of our going to them next week. One would imagine that such a match would be very welcome to Stapleton, and yet I have more than once caught a look of the strongest disapprobation in his face when Sir Henry has been paying some attention to his sister. He is much attached to her, no doubt, and would lead a lonely life without her, but it would seem the height of selfishness if he were to stand in the way of her making so brilliant a marriage. Yet I am certain that he does not wish their intimacy to ripen into love, and I have several times observed that he has taken pains to prevent them from being tete-a-tete. By the way, your instructions to me never to allow Sir Henry to go out alone will become very much more onerous if a love affair were to be added to our other difficulties. My popularity would soon suffer if I were to carry out your orders to the letter.

On the way home, we had lunch at Mellippi, where Sir Henry and Miss Stapleton met. He seemed to be strongly attracted to her as soon as he saw her, and I dare say that this admiration came from both sides. On our way home, he also mentioned her again and again. From that day on, we saw their siblings almost every day. When they were having dinner here tonight, they talked about us coming to them next week. One must have thought that such a couple would have been welcomed by Stapleton, but I have seen more than once that whenever Sir Henry paid even a slight gaze at his sister, Stapleton's face showed a great deal of disgust. He was undoubtedly very fond of her, and without her his life would have been very lonely, but it would be too selfish for him to hinder her from such a beautiful marriage because of this. I'm sure he doesn't want their intimate feelings to develop into love, and I've found many times that he's tried his best to avoid giving them the opportunity to be alone and secretly talking. Well, you have instructed me never to allow Sir Henry to go out alone, but it is much more difficult to add to our other difficulties the question of love. If I were to carry out your orders resolutely and thoroughly, I would probably become undesirable.

The other day -- Thursday, to be more exact -- Dr. Mortimer lunched with us. He has been excavating a barrow at Long Down and has got a prehistoric skull which fills him with great joy. Never was there such a single-minded enthusiast as he! The Stapletons came in afterwards, and the good doctor took us all to the yew alley at Sir Henry's request to show us exactly how everything occurred upon that fatal night. It is a long, dismal walk, the yew alley, between two high walls of clipped hedge, with a narrow band of grass upon either side. At the far end is an old tumble-down summer-house. Halfway down is the moorgate, where the old gentleman left his cigar-ash. It is a white wooden gate with a latch. Beyond it lies the wide moor. I remembered your theory of the affair and tried to picture all that had occurred. As the old man stood there he saw something coming across the moor, something which terrified him so that he lost his wits and ran and ran until he died of sheer horror and exhaustion. There was the long, gloomy tunnel down which he fled. And from what? A sheep-dog of the moor? Or a spectral hound, black, silent, and monstrous? Was there a human agency in the matter? Did the pale, watchful Barrymore know more than he cared to say? It was all dim and vague, but always there is the dark shadow of crime behind it.

That day—or more precisely, Thursday—Mortimer dined with us, and he was overjoyed to find an ancient tomb in the Changgang area and found a skull of a prehistoric man. I have never seen such a single-minded and enthusiastic person as him! Then the Stepton brothers and sisters also came, and at Sir Henry's request, the well-meaning doctor led us to the water pine passage and explained to us the whole story of what had happened on the night of Sir Charles's death. The walk was long and dull, sandwiched between two rows of tall, cut hedges, with a narrow meadow on each side of the path and an old, dilapidated pavilion at the end. The small door that opened to the moor was in the middle, where the old gentleman had left cigar soot, a white wooden door with latches, and the vast moor outside. I remember your opinion on this, and I tried to imagine in my mind the reality of all that had happened. Presumably when the old man was standing there, he saw something running toward him through the moor, and the thing frightened him and ran in panic until he died of fear and exhaustion. He was running along that long, eerie alley. But why did he run? Just because of a sheepdog on the moor? Or did you see a big black hound that didn't make a sound? Is someone tricking it on? Was it the white and alert Barrymore who was hiding what he knew? It all seemed confusing, but I always felt that there was a shadow of evil behind the scenes.

One other neighbour I have met since I wrote last. This is Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who lives some four miles to the south of us. He is an elderly man, red-faced, white-haired, and choleric. His passion is for the British law, and he has spent a large fortune in litigation. He fights for the mere pleasure of fighting and is equally ready to take up either side of a question, so that it is no wonder that he has found it a costly amusement. Sometimes he will shut up a right of way and defy the parish to make him open it. At others he will with his own hands tear down some other man's gate and declare that a path has existed there from time immemorial, defying the owner to prosecute him for trespass. He is learned in old manorial and communal rights, and he applies his knowledge sometimes in favour of the villagers of Fernworthy and sometimes against them, so that he is periodically either carried in triumph down the village street or else burned in effigy, according to his latest exploit. He is said to have about seven lawsuits upon his hands at present, which will probably swallow up the remainder of his fortune and so draw his sting and leave him harmless for the future. Apart from the law he seems a kindly, good-natured person, and I only mention him because you were particular that I should send some description of the people who surround us. He is curiously employed at present, for, being an amateur astronomer, he has an excellent telescope, with which he lies upon the roof of his own house and sweeps the moor all day in the hope of catching a glimpse of the escaped convict. If he would confine his energies to this all would be well, but there are rumours that he intends to prosecute Dr. Mortimer for opening a grave without the consent of the next of kin because he dug up the neolithic skull in the barrow on Long Down. He helps to keep our lives from being monotonous and gives a little comic relief where it is badly needed.

Since the last time I wrote to you, I have met another neighbor, Mr. Frankland of Ryford Manor, who lives about four miles south of us. He was an elder, with a ruddy complexion, silvery hair, and a short temperament. He had a penchant for English law and spent a great deal of property on litigation. The reason why he argues with people is only to get the pleasure of litigation, and as for which side of the problem he stands on, it is all the same, and it is no wonder that he feels that this is really a costly plaything. Sometimes he cut off a road and openly rebelled against the diocese's order to open it; sometimes he demolished the gates of others with his own hands, claiming that this place had been a passage a long time ago, refuting the infringement lawsuit brought against him by the original owner. He was well versed in the old caiyi and public rights laws, and he sometimes used his knowledge to defend the interests of the inhabitants of the village of Fernworthy, but sometimes against them. Therefore, according to what he had done, he was sometimes triumphantly lifted up through the streets of the village, and sometimes burned by people as straw men. It is said that he still has seven outstanding lawsuits in his hands, and perhaps these lawsuits will swallow up his remaining property. At that point, he will no longer be able to harm anyone like a wasp that has been plucked out of its stinger. If the legal issues are left aside, he seems to be an amiable person. I'm just mentioning him, because you've specifically told me that you should send you some descriptions of the situation of the people around you. He was now inexplicably busy, an amateur astronomer with a great telescope, and he would lie on his roof all day long, using it to look up at the moor, hoping to spot the fugitive. If he had spent all his energies on this matter, then everything would have been peaceful, but according to rumors, he was now trying to accuse Dr. Mortimer of digging a grave without the consent of the deceased's close relatives. Because Mortimer excavated the skull of a Neolithic man from the ancient tomb in Changgang. This Mr. Frankland really helps to break the monotony of our lives and gives us some entertaining little fun in times of urgent need.

And now, having brought you up to date in the escaped convict, the Stapletons, Dr. Mortimer, and Frankland, of Lafter Hall, let me end on that which is most important and tell you more about the Barrymores, and especially about the surprising development of last night.

Now, you have been introduced in time to the fugitive, Stapleton, Doctor Mortimer, and Frankland of Lyft Manor. Let me conclude with some of the most important things about Barrymore, including the startling things that happened last night.

First of all about the test telegram, which you sent from London in order to make sure that Barrymore was really here. I have already explained that the testimony of the postmaster shows that the test was worthless and that we have no proof one way or the other. I told Sir Henry how the matter stood, and he at once, in his downright fashion, had Barrymore up and asked him whether he had received the telegram himself. Barrymore said that he had.

The first is a tentative telegram from yours from London to confirm whether Barrymore was really here. As I have explained to you, the words of the postmaster general show that the trial was fruitless, and we have proved nothing. I told Sir Henry the truth, but he immediately summoned Barrymore directly and asked him if he had personally received the telegram. Barrymore said yes.

"Did the boy deliver it into your own hands?" asked Sir Henry.

"Did the child give it to you personally?" Sir Henry asked.

Barrymore looked surprised, and considered for a little time.

Barrymore seemed surprised, and he thought about it for a moment.

"No," said he, "I was in the box-room at the time, and my wife brought it up to me."

"No," he said, "I was in the upstairs cabin, and my wife had brought it to me. ”

"Did you answer it yourself?"

"Was it the telegram you personally returned?"

"No; I told my wife what to answer and she went down to write it."

"No, I told my wife how to answer, and she went downstairs and wrote."

In the evening he recurred to the subject of his own accord.

That night, Barrymore brought up the issue again.

"I could not quite understand the object of your questions this morning, Sir Henry," said he. "I trust that they do not mean that I have done anything to forfeit your confidence?"

"I don't quite understand what your purpose in asking that question this morning, Sir Henry," he said, "I suppose you are asking me that way, that I am not saying that I have done something to cause you to lose trust in me, right?" ”

Sir Henry had to assure him that it was not so and pacify him by giving him a considerable part of his old wardrobe, the London outfit having now all arrived.

Sir Henry was compelled to reassure him that he had no intention of doing so, and gave him most of his old clothes to reassure him. Because the new purchases in London have now all been shipped.

Mrs. Barrymore is of interest to me. She is a heavy, solid person, very limited, intensely respectable, and inclined to be puritanical. You could hardly conceive a less emotional subject. Yet I have told you how, on the first night here, I heard her sobbing bitterly, and since then I have more than once observed traces of tears upon her face. Some deep sorrow gnaws ever at her heart. Sometimes I wonder if she has a guilty memory which haunts her, and sometimes I suspect Barrymore of being a domestic tyrant. I have always felt that there was something singular and questionable in this man's character, but the adventure of last night brings all my suspicions to a head.

Mrs. Barrymore caught my attention, she was born fat and strong, very restrained, extremely respectable, almost with Puritanic sternness, and it is hard to imagine a person who is more emotional than her. But I told you that on the first night I came here, I heard her cry sadly, and since then I have seen more than once with tear marks on her face, and deep sorrow eating away at her heart. Sometimes I wondered if she had any guilt in her heart; sometimes I suspected that Barrymore might be a tyrant of the family. I always felt that there was something particularly suspicious about this man's personality, but last night's adventure dispelled all my doubts.

And yet it may seem a small matter in itself. You are aware that I am not a very sound sleeper, and since I have been on guard in this house my slumbers have been lighter than ever. Last night, about two in the morning, I was aroused by a stealthy step passing my room. I rose, opened my door, and peeped out. A long black shadow was trailing down the corridor. It was thrown by a man who walked softly down the passage with a candle held in his hand. He was in shirt and trousers, with no covering to his feet. I could merely see the outline, but his height told me that it was Barrymore. He walked very slowly and circumspectly, and there was something indescribably guilty and furtive in his whole appearance.

Maybe the thing itself is trivial. You know, I'm a person who doesn't sleep very deeply, and because I'm always alert in this house, my sleep is even more unsteady than usual. Last night, at about two o'clock after midnight, I was awakened by the sound of footsteps sneaking past outside the house. I climbed up, opened my door, and peeked out to see a long black shadow projected on the floor of the hallway. It was a figure with a candle in his hand, walking gently down the aisle, shirt and trousers, barefoot. I could only see the outline of his body, but from his figure I could tell that this man was Barrymore. He walked slowly, cautiously, and from his whole appearance, there was an indescribable sneaky look.

I have told you that the corridor is broken by the balcony which runs round the hall, but that it is resumed upon the farther side. I waited until he had passed out of sight and then I followed him. When I came round the balcony he had reached the end of the farther corridor, and I could see from the glimmer of light through an open door that he had entered one of the rooms. Now, all these rooms are unfurnished and unoccupied so that his expedition became more mysterious than ever. The light shone steadily as if he were standing motionless. I crept down the passage as noiselessly as I could and peeped round the corner of the door.

I told you that the corridor that surrounded the hall was cut off by a section of balcony, but on the other side of the balcony it went on. I waited until he was gone before following him again, and as I approached the balcony he had reached the end of the distant corridor, and I saw the light coming out of an open door and knew he had entered a room. Since these rooms are now neither furnished nor occupied, his behavior has become even more mysterious. The light was steady, as if he were standing motionless, and I crept along the hallway as quietly as possible, peeking into the house from the door.

Barrymore was crouching at the window with the candle held against the glass. His profile was half turned towards me, and his face seemed to be rigid with expectation as he stared out into the blackness of the moor. For some minutes he stood watching intently. Then he gave a deep groan and with an impatient gesture he put out the light. Instantly I made my way back to my room, and very shortly came the stealthy steps passing once more upon their return journey. Long afterwards when I had fallen into a light sleep I heard a key turn somewhere in a lock, but I could not tell whence the sound came. What it all means I cannot guess, but there is some secret business going on in this house of gloom which sooner or later we shall get to the bottom of. I do not trouble you with my theories, for you asked me to furnish you only with facts. I have had a long talk with Sir Henry this morning, and we have made a plan of campaign founded upon my observations of last night. I will not speak about it just now, but it should make my next report interesting reading.

Barrymore bent over the window, holding a candle, leaning against the window glass, the side of his head half facing me, his face looking serious with anxiety as he stared into the pitch-black moor. He stood there intently for a few minutes, then he sighed deeply and extinguished the candle with an impatient gesture. I immediately went back to my room, and it didn't take long for the sound of footsteps sneaking back. Much later, just as I was about to fall asleep, I heard the sound of a lock being twisted somewhere, but I couldn't tell where the sound came from. I can't guess what it all means, but I think there's a secret going on in this gloomy house that we'll get out of here sooner or later. I don't want to bother you with my opinion, because you asked me to provide only the facts. I had a long conversation with Sir Henry this morning, and on the basis of the observations I made last night, we have made an action plan. I'm not going to talk about it yet, but it will certainly make my next report interesting to read.