September 3, 2025 • 27 mins
Dive into the haunting world of The Lost Stradivarius (1895) by J. Meade Falkner, where a seemingly ordinary violin transforms into a vessel of obsession and spectral secrets. When a wealthy young heir discovers this exquisite Stradivarius hidden away in his college rooms, he finds himself drawn into a mysterious melody that awakens the ghost of its former owner. As his fascination deepens, he embarks on a chilling journey across England and Italy, exploring themes of family love, aristocratic depravity, and the tragic consequences of unchecked desire. This captivating tale weaves together the supernatural and the seductive power of music.
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Speaker 1 (00:02):
Chapter fifteen of The Lost Stratabarius. This is a LibriVox recording.
All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more
information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. Recording
by Ralph Snelson. The Lost Stratubarius by John Mead Faulkner,
(00:24):
Chapter fifteen. The next morning, my health and strength were
entirely restored to me, but my brother, on the contrary,
seemed weak and exhausted from his efforts of the previous night.
Our return journey to the Villa de Angelus had passed
in complete silence. I had been too much perturbed to
question him on the many points relating to the strange
(00:46):
events as to which I was still completely in the dark,
and he, on his side, had shown no desire to
afford me any further information. When I saw him the
next morning, he exhibited signs of great weakness, and, in
response to an effort on my part to obtain some
explanation of the discovery of Adrian Temple's body, avoided an
(01:09):
immediate reply, promising to tell me all he knew. After
our return to Worth Maltravers, I pondered over the last
terrifying episode very frequently in my own mind, and as
I thought more deeply of it all, it seemed to
me that the outlines of some evil history were piece
by piece developing themselves, that I had almost within my
(01:31):
grasped the clue that would make all plain, and that
had eluded me so long In that dim story Adrian Temple,
the music of the Gagliarda, my brother's fatal passion for
the violin, all seemed to have some mysterious connection and
to have conspired in working John's mental and physical ruin.
(01:52):
Even the stratibarius violin bore a part in the tragedy, becoming,
as it were, an actively malignant spirit, though I could
not explain how, and was yet entirely unaware of the
manner in which it had come into my brother's possession.
I found that John was still resolved on an immediate
return to England. His weakness, it is true, led me
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to entertain doubts as to how he would support so
long a journey, But at the same time I did
not feel justified in using any strong efforts to dissuade
him from his purpose. I reflected that the more wholesome
air and associations of England would certainly reinvigorate both body
and mind, and that any extra strain brought about by
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the journey would soon be repaired by the comforts and
watchful care with which we could surround him at Worth Maltravers.
So the first week in October saw us once more,
with our faces set towards England. A very comfortable swinging
bed or hammock had been arranged for John in the
traveling carriage, and we determined to avoid fatigue as much
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as possible by dividing our journey into very short stages.
My brother seemed to have no intention of giving up
the bilad Angelis. It was left complete with its luxurious furniture,
and with all his servants under the care of an
Italian Maggiore Duomo. I felt that, as John's state of
health forbade his entertaining any hope of an immediate return thither,
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it would have been much better to close entirely his
Italian house. But his great weakness made it impossible for
him to undertake the effort such a course would involve.
And even if my own ignorance of the Italian tongue
had not stood in the way, I was far too
eager to get my invalid back to Worth to feel
inclined to import any further delay, while I should myself
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adjust matters which were, after all comparatively trifling. As Parnum
was now ready to discharge his usual duties of valet,
and as my brother seemed quite content that he should
do so, Raphael was of course to be left behind.
The boy I had quite won my heart by his
sweet manners, combined with his evident affection to his master,
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and in making him understand that he was now to
leave us, I offered him a present of a few
pounds as a token of my esteem. He refused, however,
to touch this money, and shed tears when he learned
that he was to be left in Italy, and begged,
with many protestations of devotion, that he might be allowed
to accompany us to England. My heart was not proof
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against his entreaties, supported by so many signs of attachment,
and it was agreed therefore that he should at least
attend us as far as Worth. Maltravers. John showed no
surprise at the boy being with us. Indeed, I never
thought it necessary to explain that I had originally purposed
to leave him behind. Our journey, though necessarily prolonged by
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the shortness of its stages, was safely accomplished. John bore
it as well as I could have hoped, and though
his body showed no signs of increased vigor, his mind
I think, improved in tone at any rate. For a time.
From the evening on which he had shown me the
terrible discovery in the Via del Giardino, he seemed to
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have laid aside something of his care and depression. He
now exhibited little trace of the moroseness and selfishness which
had of late so marred his character. And though he
naturally felt severely at times the fatigue of travel, yet
we had no longer to dread any relapse into that
state of lethargy or stupor which had so often baffled
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every effort to counteract it. At Posilipo, some feeling of
superstitious aversion had prompted me to give orders that the
Stratibarius violin should be left behind at Pasilipo, But before parting,
my brother asked for it and insisted that it should
be brought with him, though I had never heard him
play a note on it for many weeks. He took
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an entry in all the petty episodes of travel, and
certainly appeared to derive more entertainment from the journey than
was to have been anticipated in his feeble state of health.
To the incidents of the evening spent in the Via
del Giardino, he made no allusion of any kind, nor
did I, for my part, wish to renew memories of
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so unpleasant a nature. His only reference occurred one Sunday evening,
as we were passing a small graveyard near Genoa. The
scene apparently turned his thoughts to that subject, and he
told me that he had taken measures before leaving Naples
to ensure that the remains of Adrian Temple should be
decently interred in the cemetery of Santa Bibiana. His words
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set me thinking again, and unsatisfied curiosity prompted me strongly
to inquire of him how he had convinced himself that
the skeleton at the foot of the stairs was indeed
that of Adrian Temple. But I restrained myself, partly from
a reliance on his promise that he would one day
explain the whole story to me, and partly being very
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reluctant to mar the enjoyment of the peaceful scenes through
which we were passing by the introduction of any subjects
so jarring and painful as those to which I have alluded.
We reached London at last, and here we stopped a
few days to make some necessary arrangements before going down
to Worth Maltravers. I had urged upon John during the
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journey that immediately on his arrival in London he should
obtain the best English medical advice as to his own help.
Though he at first demured, saying that nothing more was
to be done, and that he was perfectly satisfied with
the medicine given him by Doctor Baravelli, which he continued
to take. Yet by constant entreaty I prevailed upon him
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to accede to so reasonable a request. Doctor Frobisher, considered
at that time the first living authority on diseases of
the brain and nurse, saw him on the morning after
our arrival. He was good enough to speak with me
at some length after seeing my brother, and to give
me many hints and recipes whereby I might be better
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enabled to nurse the invalid. Sir John's condition, he said,
was such as to excite serious anxiety. There was indeed
no brain mischief of any kind to be discovered, but
his lungs were in a state of advanced disease, and
there were signs of grave heart affection. Yet he did
not bid me to despair, but said that with careful nursing,
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life might certainly be prolonged, and even some measure of
health in time restored. He asked me more than once
if I knew of any trouble or worry that preyed
upon Sir John's mind. Were their financial difficulties, had he
been subjected to any mental shock, had he received any
severe fright to all this, I could only reply in
(08:56):
the negative. At the same time, I told Doctor Frowisher
as much of John's history as I considered pertinent to
the question. He shook his head gravely and recommended that
Sir John should remain for the present in London under
his own constant supervision. To this, of course, my brother
would by no means consent. He was eager to proceed
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at once to his own house, saying that if necessary,
we could return again to London for Christmas. It was
therefore agreed that we should go down to Worth Moultravers.
At the end of the week, Parnhum had already left
us for Worth in order that he might have everything
ready against his master's return, And when we arrived we
found all in perfect order for our reception. A small
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morning room next to the library, with a pleasant south
aspect and opening on to the terrace, had been prepared
for my brother's use, so that he might avoid the
fatigue of mounting stairs, which doctor Frobisher considered very prejudicial
in his present condition. We had also purchased in London
a chair fitted with wheels, which enabled him to be moved, or,
(10:03):
if he were feeling equal to the exertion, to move
himself without difficulty from room to room. His health I
think improved very gradually, it is true, but still sufficiently
to inspire me with hope that he might yet be
spared to us of the state of his mind or thoughts.
I knew little, but I could see that he was
at times a prey to nervous anxiety. This showed itself
(10:27):
in the harassed look which his pale face often wore,
and in his marked dislike to being left alone. He
derived I think a certain pleasure from the quietude and
monotony of his life at Worth, and perhaps also from
the consciousness that he had about him loving and devoted hearts.
I say hearts for every servant at Worth was attached
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to him, remembering the great consideration and courtesy of his
earlier years, and grieving to see his youthful and once
vigorous frame reduced to so sad a strait. Books he
never read himself, and even the charm of Rafael's reading
seemed to have lost its power. Though he never tired
of hearing the boy sing, and liked to have him
(11:12):
sit by his chair, even when his eyes were shut
and he was apparently asleep. His general health seemed to
me to change, but little, either for better or worse.
Doctor Frobisher had led me to expect some such a sequel.
I had not concealed from him that I had at
times entertained suspicions as to my brother's sanity, but he
(11:34):
had assured me that they were totally unfounded, that Sir
John's brain was as clear as his own. At the
same time, he confessed that he could not account for
the exhausted vitality of his patient, a condition which he
would under ordinary circumstances have attributed to excessive study or
severe trouble. He had urged upon me the pressing necessity
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for complete rest and for much sleep. My brother never
even incidentally referred to his wife, his child, or to
missus Temple, who constantly wrote to me from Royston, sending
kind messages to John, and asking how he did These
messages I never dared to give him, fearing to agitate
him or retard his recovery by diverting his thoughts into
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channels which must necessarily be of a painful character. That
he should never even mention her name or that of
Lady Maltravers led me to wonder sometimes if one of
those curious freaks of memory which occasionally accompany a severe illness,
had not entirely blotted out from his mind the recollection
of his marriage and of his wife's death. He was
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unable to consider any affairs of business, and the management
of the estate remained as it had done for the
last two years, in the hands of our excellent agent,
mister Baker. But one evening in the early part of December,
he sent Raphael about nine o'clock saying he wished to
speak to me. I went to his room and without
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any warning, he began at once, you never show me
my boy, now, Sophy, he must be grown a big child,
and I should like to see him. Much startled by
so unexpected a remark, I replied that the child was
at Royston under the care of missus Temple, but that
I knew that if it pleased him to see Edward,
she would be glad to bring him down to Worth.
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He seemed gratified with this idea, and begged me to
ask her to do so, desiring that his respect should
be at the same time conveyed to her. I almost
ventured at that moment to recall his lost wife to
his thoughts by saying that his child resembled her strongly,
for your likeness at that time and even now, my
dear Edward to your poor mother was very marked. But
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my courage failed me, and his talk soon reverted to
an earlier period, comparing the mildness of the month to
that of the first winter which we spent at Eton.
His thoughts, however, must I fancy of return for a
moment to the days when he first met your mother?
For he suddenly asked, where is Gaskell? Why does he
(14:08):
never come to see me? This brought quite a new
idea to my mind. I fancied it might do my
brother much good to have by him so sensible and
true a friend as I knew mister Gaskell to be.
The latter's address had fortunately not slipped from my memory,
and I put all scruples aside, and wrote by the
(14:28):
next mail to him, setting forth my brother's sad condition,
saying that I had heard John mention his name, and
begging him on my own account, to be so good
as to help us, if possible, and come to us
in this hour of trial. Though he was so far
off as Westmoreland, mister Gaskell's generosity brought him at once
to our aid, and within a week he was installed
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at Worth Maltravers, sleeping in the library, where we had
arranged a bed at his own desire, so that he
might be near his sick friend. His presence was of
the utmost assistance to us all. He treated John at
once with the tenderness of a woman and the firmness
of a clever and strong man. They sat constantly together
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in the mornings, and mister Gaskell told me John had
not shown with him the same reluctance to talk freely
of his married life. As he had discovered with me
the tenor of his communications. I cannot guess, nor did
I ever ask, but I knew that mister Gaskell was
much affected by them. John even amused himself now at
(15:34):
times by having mister Baker into his rooms of a morning,
that the management of the estate might be discussed with
his friend. And he also expressed his wish to see
the family solicitor, as he desired to draw his will.
Thinking that any diversion of this nature could not but
be beneficial to him, we sent to Dorster for our solicitor,
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mister Jeffreys, who together with his clerk, spent three nights
at Worth and drew up a testament for my brother.
So time went on, and the year was drawing to
a close. It was Christmas Eve, and I had gone
to bed shortly after twelve o'clock, having an hour earlier
bid good night to John and mister Gaskell. The long
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habit of watching with or being in charge of an
invalid at night had made my ears extraordinarily quick to
apprehend even the slightest murmur. It must have been, I think,
near three in the morning when I found myself awake
and conscious of some unusual sound. It was low and
far off, but I knew instantly what it was, and
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felt a choking sensation of fear and horror, as if
an icy hand had gripped my throat. On recognizing the
air of the gagliarda. It was being played on the violin,
and a long way off. But I knew that tune
too well to permit of my having any doubt on
the subject. Any trouble or fear becomes, as you will
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some day learn, my dear nephew, immensely intensified and exaggerated
at night. It is so, I suppose, because our nerves
are in an excited condition, and our brain not sufficiently
awake to give a due account of our foolish imaginations.
I have myself many times lain awake, wrestling in thought
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with difficulties which, in the hours of darkness seemed insurmountable,
but with the dawn resolved themselves into merely trivial inconveniences.
So on this night, as I sat up in bed,
looking into the dark, with the sound of that melody
in my ears, it seemed as if something too terrible
for words had happened, as though the evil spirit which
(17:44):
we had hoped was exercised, had returned with others sevenfold
more wicked than himself, and taken up his abode again
with my lost brother. The memory of another night rushed
to my mind, when Constance had called me from my
bed at Royston, and we had stolen together down the
moonlit passages, with the lilt of that wicked music vibrating
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on the still summer air. Poor Constance, she was in
her grave now, yet her troubles at least were over,
but here as by some bitter irony, instead of carol
or sweet symphony. It was the gagliarda that woke me
from my sleep on Christmas morning. I flung my dressing
gown about me and hurried through the corridor and down
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the stairs which led to the lower story and my
brother's room. As I opened my bedroom door, the violin
ceased suddenly in the middle of a bar. Its last
sound was not a musical note, but rather a horrible scream,
such as I pray I may never hear again. It
was a sound such as a wounded beast might hutter.
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There is a picture I have seen of Blake's showing
the soul of a strong wicked man leaving his body
at death. The spirit is flying out through the window
with awful stay, baring eyes, aghast at the desolation into
which it is going. If in the agony of dissolution,
such a lost soul could utter a cry, it would,
I think, sound like the wail which I heard from
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the violin that night. Instantly all was in absolute stillness.
The passages were silent and ghostly in the faint light
of my candle. But as I reached the bottom of
the stairs, I heard the sound of other footsteps, and
mister Gaskell met me. He was fully drafted and had
evidently not been to bed. He took me kindly by
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the hand, and said, I feared you might be alarmed
by the sound of music. John has been walking in
his sleep. He had taken out his violin and was
playing on it in a trance. Just as I reached him,
something in it gave way, and the discord caused by
the slackened strings roused him at once. He is awake
now and has returned to bed. Control your alarm, for
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his sake and your own. It is better that he
should not know you have been awakened. Rest my hand
and spoke a few more reassuring words, and I went
back to my room, still much agitated, and yet feeling
half ashamed for having shown so much anxiety with so
little reason. That Christmas morning was one of the most
beautiful that I ever remember. It seemed as though Summer
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was so loath to leave our sunny Dorset coast that
she came back on this day to bid us adieu
before her final departure. I had risen early and had
partaken of the sacrament at our little church. Doctor Butler
had recently introduced this early service, and though any alteration
of time honored customs in such matters might not otherwise
(20:37):
have met with my approval, I was glad to avail
myself of the privilege on this occasion, as I wished
in any case to spend the later morning with my brother.
The singular beauty of the early hours and the tranquilizing
effect of the solemn service brought back serenity to my
mind and effectually banished from it all memories of the
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preceding night. Mister Gaskell met me in the hall on
my return, and, after greeting me kindly with the established
compliments of the day, inquired after my health, and hoped
that the disturbance of my slumber on the previous night
had not affected me, And joyously he had good news
for me. John seemed decidedly better, was already dressed, and desired,
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as it was Christmas morning, that we would take our
breakfast with him in his room. To this, as you
may imagine, I readily assented. Our breakfast party passed off
with much content and even with some quiet humor, John
sitting in his easy chair at the head of the
table and wishing us the compliments of the season. I
(21:45):
found laid in my place a letter from Missus Temple,
greeting us all for she knew mister Gaskell was at Worth,
and saying that she hoped to bring little Edward to
us at the new year. My brother seemed much pleased
at the prospect of seeing his son, and though perhaps
it was only imagination, I fancied he was particularly gratified
(22:06):
that Missus Temple herself was to pay us a visit.
She had not been to Worth since the death of
Lady Maltraver's. Before we had finished breakfast, the sun beat
on the panes with an unusual strength and brightness. His
rays cheered us all, and it was so warm that
John first opened the windows and then wheeled his chair
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on to the walk outside. Mister Gaskell brought him a
hat and mufflers, and we sat with him on the terrace,
basking in the sun. The sea was still and glassy
as a mirror, and the channel lay stretched before us
like a floor of moving gold. A rose or two
still hung against the house, and the sun's rays reflected
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from the red sandstone gave us a December morning more
mild and genial than many June days that I have
known in the north. We sat for some minutes without speaking,
immersed in our reflection and in the exquisite beauty of
the scene. The stillness was broken by the bells of
the parish church, ringing for the morning service. There were
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two of them, and their sound, familiar to us from childhood,
seemed like the voices of old friends. John looked at
me and said, with a sigh, I should like to
go to church. It is long since I was there.
You and I have always been on Christmas morning. Sophy
and Constance would have wished it had she been with us.
(23:29):
His words, so unexpected and tender, filled my eyes with tears,
not tears of grief, but of deep thankfulness to see
my loved one turning once more to the old ways.
It was the first time I had heard him speak
of Constance and that sweet name with the infinite pathos
of her death, and of the spectacle of my brother's weakness.
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So overcame me that I could not speak. I only
pressed his hand and nodded. Mister Gaskell, who had turned
away for a minute, said he thought John would take
no harm in attending the morning service, provided the church
were warm. On this point I could reassure him, having
found it properly heated even in the early morning. Mister
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Gaskell was to push John's chair, and I ran off
to put on my cloak, with my heart full of
profound thankfulness for the signs of returning grace so mercifully
vouchsafed to our dear sufferer on this happy day. I
was ready dressed and had just entered the library when
mister Gaskell stepped hurriedly through the window from the terrace.
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John has fainted, he said, Run for some smelling salts
and call Parnum. There was a scene of hurried alarm,
giving place ere long to a terrified despair Parnhum mounted
a horse and set off at a wild gallop to
Swanage to fetch doctor Bruton. But an hour before he returned,
we knew the worst. My brother was beyond the aid
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of the physician. His wrecked life had reached a sudden term.
I have, now, dear Edward, completed the brief narrative of
some of the facts attending the latter years of your
father's life. The motive which has induced me to commit
them to writing has been a double one. I am
anxious to give effect, as far as may be, to
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the desire expressed most strongly to mister Gaskell by your
father that you should be put in possession of these
facts on your coming of age, And for my part,
I think it better that you should thus hear the
plain truth from me, lest you should be at the
mercy of haphazard reports which might at any time reach
you from ignorant or interested sources. Some of the circumstances
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were so remarkable that it is scarcely possible to suppose
that they were not known and most probably frequently discussed,
in so large an establishment as that of Worth Moutrobber's.
I even have reason to believe that exaggerated and absurd
stories were current at the time of Sir John's death,
and I should be grieved to think that such foolish
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tales might by any chance reach your ear without your
having any sure means of discovering where the truth lay.
God knows how grievous it has been to me to
set down on paper some of the facts that I
have here narrated. You, as a dutiful son, will reverence
the name even of a father whom you never knew.
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But you must remember that his sister did more. She
loved him with a single hearted devotion, and it still
grieves her to the quick to write anything which may
seem to detract from his memory. Only, above all things,
let us speak the truth. Much of what I have
told you needs, I feel further explanation, but this I
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cannot give, for I do not understand the circumstances. Mister Gaskell,
your guardian, will, I believe, add to this account a
few notes of his own, which may tend to elucidate
some points, as he is in possession of certain facts
of which I am still ignorant. End of Chapter fifteen
Chapter fifteen of The Lost Stratabarius. This is a LibriVox recording.
All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more
information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. Recording
by Ralph Snelson. The Lost Stratubarius by John Mead Faulkner,
(00:24):
Chapter fifteen. The next morning, my health and strength were
entirely restored to me, but my brother, on the contrary,
seemed weak and exhausted from his efforts of the previous night.
Our return journey to the Villa de Angelus had passed
in complete silence. I had been too much perturbed to
question him on the many points relating to the strange
(00:46):
events as to which I was still completely in the dark,
and he, on his side, had shown no desire to
afford me any further information. When I saw him the
next morning, he exhibited signs of great weakness, and, in
response to an effort on my part to obtain some
explanation of the discovery of Adrian Temple's body, avoided an
(01:09):
immediate reply, promising to tell me all he knew. After
our return to Worth Maltravers, I pondered over the last
terrifying episode very frequently in my own mind, and as
I thought more deeply of it all, it seemed to
me that the outlines of some evil history were piece
by piece developing themselves, that I had almost within my
(01:31):
grasped the clue that would make all plain, and that
had eluded me so long In that dim story Adrian Temple,
the music of the Gagliarda, my brother's fatal passion for
the violin, all seemed to have some mysterious connection and
to have conspired in working John's mental and physical ruin.
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Even the stratibarius violin bore a part in the tragedy, becoming,
as it were, an actively malignant spirit, though I could
not explain how, and was yet entirely unaware of the
manner in which it had come into my brother's possession.
I found that John was still resolved on an immediate
return to England. His weakness, it is true, led me
(02:14):
to entertain doubts as to how he would support so
long a journey, But at the same time I did
not feel justified in using any strong efforts to dissuade
him from his purpose. I reflected that the more wholesome
air and associations of England would certainly reinvigorate both body
and mind, and that any extra strain brought about by
(02:36):
the journey would soon be repaired by the comforts and
watchful care with which we could surround him at Worth Maltravers.
So the first week in October saw us once more,
with our faces set towards England. A very comfortable swinging
bed or hammock had been arranged for John in the
traveling carriage, and we determined to avoid fatigue as much
(02:57):
as possible by dividing our journey into very short stages.
My brother seemed to have no intention of giving up
the bilad Angelis. It was left complete with its luxurious furniture,
and with all his servants under the care of an
Italian Maggiore Duomo. I felt that, as John's state of
health forbade his entertaining any hope of an immediate return thither,
(03:21):
it would have been much better to close entirely his
Italian house. But his great weakness made it impossible for
him to undertake the effort such a course would involve.
And even if my own ignorance of the Italian tongue
had not stood in the way, I was far too
eager to get my invalid back to Worth to feel
inclined to import any further delay, while I should myself
(03:43):
adjust matters which were, after all comparatively trifling. As Parnum
was now ready to discharge his usual duties of valet,
and as my brother seemed quite content that he should
do so, Raphael was of course to be left behind.
The boy I had quite won my heart by his
sweet manners, combined with his evident affection to his master,
(04:07):
and in making him understand that he was now to
leave us, I offered him a present of a few
pounds as a token of my esteem. He refused, however,
to touch this money, and shed tears when he learned
that he was to be left in Italy, and begged,
with many protestations of devotion, that he might be allowed
to accompany us to England. My heart was not proof
(04:30):
against his entreaties, supported by so many signs of attachment,
and it was agreed therefore that he should at least
attend us as far as Worth. Maltravers. John showed no
surprise at the boy being with us. Indeed, I never
thought it necessary to explain that I had originally purposed
to leave him behind. Our journey, though necessarily prolonged by
(04:54):
the shortness of its stages, was safely accomplished. John bore
it as well as I could have hoped, and though
his body showed no signs of increased vigor, his mind
I think, improved in tone at any rate. For a time.
From the evening on which he had shown me the
terrible discovery in the Via del Giardino, he seemed to
(05:17):
have laid aside something of his care and depression. He
now exhibited little trace of the moroseness and selfishness which
had of late so marred his character. And though he
naturally felt severely at times the fatigue of travel, yet
we had no longer to dread any relapse into that
state of lethargy or stupor which had so often baffled
(05:37):
every effort to counteract it. At Posilipo, some feeling of
superstitious aversion had prompted me to give orders that the
Stratibarius violin should be left behind at Pasilipo, But before parting,
my brother asked for it and insisted that it should
be brought with him, though I had never heard him
play a note on it for many weeks. He took
(05:59):
an entry in all the petty episodes of travel, and
certainly appeared to derive more entertainment from the journey than
was to have been anticipated in his feeble state of health.
To the incidents of the evening spent in the Via
del Giardino, he made no allusion of any kind, nor
did I, for my part, wish to renew memories of
(06:20):
so unpleasant a nature. His only reference occurred one Sunday evening,
as we were passing a small graveyard near Genoa. The
scene apparently turned his thoughts to that subject, and he
told me that he had taken measures before leaving Naples
to ensure that the remains of Adrian Temple should be
decently interred in the cemetery of Santa Bibiana. His words
(06:44):
set me thinking again, and unsatisfied curiosity prompted me strongly
to inquire of him how he had convinced himself that
the skeleton at the foot of the stairs was indeed
that of Adrian Temple. But I restrained myself, partly from
a reliance on his promise that he would one day
explain the whole story to me, and partly being very
(07:06):
reluctant to mar the enjoyment of the peaceful scenes through
which we were passing by the introduction of any subjects
so jarring and painful as those to which I have alluded.
We reached London at last, and here we stopped a
few days to make some necessary arrangements before going down
to Worth Maltravers. I had urged upon John during the
(07:28):
journey that immediately on his arrival in London he should
obtain the best English medical advice as to his own help.
Though he at first demured, saying that nothing more was
to be done, and that he was perfectly satisfied with
the medicine given him by Doctor Baravelli, which he continued
to take. Yet by constant entreaty I prevailed upon him
(07:50):
to accede to so reasonable a request. Doctor Frobisher, considered
at that time the first living authority on diseases of
the brain and nurse, saw him on the morning after
our arrival. He was good enough to speak with me
at some length after seeing my brother, and to give
me many hints and recipes whereby I might be better
(08:11):
enabled to nurse the invalid. Sir John's condition, he said,
was such as to excite serious anxiety. There was indeed
no brain mischief of any kind to be discovered, but
his lungs were in a state of advanced disease, and
there were signs of grave heart affection. Yet he did
not bid me to despair, but said that with careful nursing,
(08:35):
life might certainly be prolonged, and even some measure of
health in time restored. He asked me more than once
if I knew of any trouble or worry that preyed
upon Sir John's mind. Were their financial difficulties, had he
been subjected to any mental shock, had he received any
severe fright to all this, I could only reply in
(08:56):
the negative. At the same time, I told Doctor Frowisher
as much of John's history as I considered pertinent to
the question. He shook his head gravely and recommended that
Sir John should remain for the present in London under
his own constant supervision. To this, of course, my brother
would by no means consent. He was eager to proceed
(09:16):
at once to his own house, saying that if necessary,
we could return again to London for Christmas. It was
therefore agreed that we should go down to Worth Moultravers.
At the end of the week, Parnhum had already left
us for Worth in order that he might have everything
ready against his master's return, And when we arrived we
found all in perfect order for our reception. A small
(09:40):
morning room next to the library, with a pleasant south
aspect and opening on to the terrace, had been prepared
for my brother's use, so that he might avoid the
fatigue of mounting stairs, which doctor Frobisher considered very prejudicial
in his present condition. We had also purchased in London
a chair fitted with wheels, which enabled him to be moved, or,
(10:03):
if he were feeling equal to the exertion, to move
himself without difficulty from room to room. His health I
think improved very gradually, it is true, but still sufficiently
to inspire me with hope that he might yet be
spared to us of the state of his mind or thoughts.
I knew little, but I could see that he was
at times a prey to nervous anxiety. This showed itself
(10:27):
in the harassed look which his pale face often wore,
and in his marked dislike to being left alone. He
derived I think a certain pleasure from the quietude and
monotony of his life at Worth, and perhaps also from
the consciousness that he had about him loving and devoted hearts.
I say hearts for every servant at Worth was attached
(10:50):
to him, remembering the great consideration and courtesy of his
earlier years, and grieving to see his youthful and once
vigorous frame reduced to so sad a strait. Books he
never read himself, and even the charm of Rafael's reading
seemed to have lost its power. Though he never tired
of hearing the boy sing, and liked to have him
(11:12):
sit by his chair, even when his eyes were shut
and he was apparently asleep. His general health seemed to
me to change, but little, either for better or worse.
Doctor Frobisher had led me to expect some such a sequel.
I had not concealed from him that I had at
times entertained suspicions as to my brother's sanity, but he
(11:34):
had assured me that they were totally unfounded, that Sir
John's brain was as clear as his own. At the
same time, he confessed that he could not account for
the exhausted vitality of his patient, a condition which he
would under ordinary circumstances have attributed to excessive study or
severe trouble. He had urged upon me the pressing necessity
(11:56):
for complete rest and for much sleep. My brother never
even incidentally referred to his wife, his child, or to
missus Temple, who constantly wrote to me from Royston, sending
kind messages to John, and asking how he did These
messages I never dared to give him, fearing to agitate
him or retard his recovery by diverting his thoughts into
(12:19):
channels which must necessarily be of a painful character. That
he should never even mention her name or that of
Lady Maltravers led me to wonder sometimes if one of
those curious freaks of memory which occasionally accompany a severe illness,
had not entirely blotted out from his mind the recollection
of his marriage and of his wife's death. He was
(12:40):
unable to consider any affairs of business, and the management
of the estate remained as it had done for the
last two years, in the hands of our excellent agent,
mister Baker. But one evening in the early part of December,
he sent Raphael about nine o'clock saying he wished to
speak to me. I went to his room and without
(13:01):
any warning, he began at once, you never show me
my boy, now, Sophy, he must be grown a big child,
and I should like to see him. Much startled by
so unexpected a remark, I replied that the child was
at Royston under the care of missus Temple, but that
I knew that if it pleased him to see Edward,
she would be glad to bring him down to Worth.
(13:24):
He seemed gratified with this idea, and begged me to
ask her to do so, desiring that his respect should
be at the same time conveyed to her. I almost
ventured at that moment to recall his lost wife to
his thoughts by saying that his child resembled her strongly,
for your likeness at that time and even now, my
dear Edward to your poor mother was very marked. But
(13:47):
my courage failed me, and his talk soon reverted to
an earlier period, comparing the mildness of the month to
that of the first winter which we spent at Eton.
His thoughts, however, must I fancy of return for a
moment to the days when he first met your mother?
For he suddenly asked, where is Gaskell? Why does he
(14:08):
never come to see me? This brought quite a new
idea to my mind. I fancied it might do my
brother much good to have by him so sensible and
true a friend as I knew mister Gaskell to be.
The latter's address had fortunately not slipped from my memory,
and I put all scruples aside, and wrote by the
(14:28):
next mail to him, setting forth my brother's sad condition,
saying that I had heard John mention his name, and
begging him on my own account, to be so good
as to help us, if possible, and come to us
in this hour of trial. Though he was so far
off as Westmoreland, mister Gaskell's generosity brought him at once
to our aid, and within a week he was installed
(14:51):
at Worth Maltravers, sleeping in the library, where we had
arranged a bed at his own desire, so that he
might be near his sick friend. His presence was of
the utmost assistance to us all. He treated John at
once with the tenderness of a woman and the firmness
of a clever and strong man. They sat constantly together
(15:13):
in the mornings, and mister Gaskell told me John had
not shown with him the same reluctance to talk freely
of his married life. As he had discovered with me
the tenor of his communications. I cannot guess, nor did
I ever ask, but I knew that mister Gaskell was
much affected by them. John even amused himself now at
(15:34):
times by having mister Baker into his rooms of a morning,
that the management of the estate might be discussed with
his friend. And he also expressed his wish to see
the family solicitor, as he desired to draw his will.
Thinking that any diversion of this nature could not but
be beneficial to him, we sent to Dorster for our solicitor,
(15:56):
mister Jeffreys, who together with his clerk, spent three nights
at Worth and drew up a testament for my brother.
So time went on, and the year was drawing to
a close. It was Christmas Eve, and I had gone
to bed shortly after twelve o'clock, having an hour earlier
bid good night to John and mister Gaskell. The long
(16:18):
habit of watching with or being in charge of an
invalid at night had made my ears extraordinarily quick to
apprehend even the slightest murmur. It must have been, I think,
near three in the morning when I found myself awake
and conscious of some unusual sound. It was low and
far off, but I knew instantly what it was, and
(16:40):
felt a choking sensation of fear and horror, as if
an icy hand had gripped my throat. On recognizing the
air of the gagliarda. It was being played on the violin,
and a long way off. But I knew that tune
too well to permit of my having any doubt on
the subject. Any trouble or fear becomes, as you will
(17:02):
some day learn, my dear nephew, immensely intensified and exaggerated
at night. It is so, I suppose, because our nerves
are in an excited condition, and our brain not sufficiently
awake to give a due account of our foolish imaginations.
I have myself many times lain awake, wrestling in thought
(17:23):
with difficulties which, in the hours of darkness seemed insurmountable,
but with the dawn resolved themselves into merely trivial inconveniences.
So on this night, as I sat up in bed,
looking into the dark, with the sound of that melody
in my ears, it seemed as if something too terrible
for words had happened, as though the evil spirit which
(17:44):
we had hoped was exercised, had returned with others sevenfold
more wicked than himself, and taken up his abode again
with my lost brother. The memory of another night rushed
to my mind, when Constance had called me from my
bed at Royston, and we had stolen together down the
moonlit passages, with the lilt of that wicked music vibrating
(18:06):
on the still summer air. Poor Constance, she was in
her grave now, yet her troubles at least were over,
but here as by some bitter irony, instead of carol
or sweet symphony. It was the gagliarda that woke me
from my sleep on Christmas morning. I flung my dressing
gown about me and hurried through the corridor and down
(18:29):
the stairs which led to the lower story and my
brother's room. As I opened my bedroom door, the violin
ceased suddenly in the middle of a bar. Its last
sound was not a musical note, but rather a horrible scream,
such as I pray I may never hear again. It
was a sound such as a wounded beast might hutter.
(18:49):
There is a picture I have seen of Blake's showing
the soul of a strong wicked man leaving his body
at death. The spirit is flying out through the window
with awful stay, baring eyes, aghast at the desolation into
which it is going. If in the agony of dissolution,
such a lost soul could utter a cry, it would,
I think, sound like the wail which I heard from
(19:12):
the violin that night. Instantly all was in absolute stillness.
The passages were silent and ghostly in the faint light
of my candle. But as I reached the bottom of
the stairs, I heard the sound of other footsteps, and
mister Gaskell met me. He was fully drafted and had
evidently not been to bed. He took me kindly by
(19:32):
the hand, and said, I feared you might be alarmed
by the sound of music. John has been walking in
his sleep. He had taken out his violin and was
playing on it in a trance. Just as I reached him,
something in it gave way, and the discord caused by
the slackened strings roused him at once. He is awake
now and has returned to bed. Control your alarm, for
(19:55):
his sake and your own. It is better that he
should not know you have been awakened. Rest my hand
and spoke a few more reassuring words, and I went
back to my room, still much agitated, and yet feeling
half ashamed for having shown so much anxiety with so
little reason. That Christmas morning was one of the most
beautiful that I ever remember. It seemed as though Summer
(20:17):
was so loath to leave our sunny Dorset coast that
she came back on this day to bid us adieu
before her final departure. I had risen early and had
partaken of the sacrament at our little church. Doctor Butler
had recently introduced this early service, and though any alteration
of time honored customs in such matters might not otherwise
(20:37):
have met with my approval, I was glad to avail
myself of the privilege on this occasion, as I wished
in any case to spend the later morning with my brother.
The singular beauty of the early hours and the tranquilizing
effect of the solemn service brought back serenity to my
mind and effectually banished from it all memories of the
(21:00):
preceding night. Mister Gaskell met me in the hall on
my return, and, after greeting me kindly with the established
compliments of the day, inquired after my health, and hoped
that the disturbance of my slumber on the previous night
had not affected me, And joyously he had good news
for me. John seemed decidedly better, was already dressed, and desired,
(21:25):
as it was Christmas morning, that we would take our
breakfast with him in his room. To this, as you
may imagine, I readily assented. Our breakfast party passed off
with much content and even with some quiet humor, John
sitting in his easy chair at the head of the
table and wishing us the compliments of the season. I
(21:45):
found laid in my place a letter from Missus Temple,
greeting us all for she knew mister Gaskell was at Worth,
and saying that she hoped to bring little Edward to
us at the new year. My brother seemed much pleased
at the prospect of seeing his son, and though perhaps
it was only imagination, I fancied he was particularly gratified
(22:06):
that Missus Temple herself was to pay us a visit.
She had not been to Worth since the death of
Lady Maltraver's. Before we had finished breakfast, the sun beat
on the panes with an unusual strength and brightness. His
rays cheered us all, and it was so warm that
John first opened the windows and then wheeled his chair
(22:27):
on to the walk outside. Mister Gaskell brought him a
hat and mufflers, and we sat with him on the terrace,
basking in the sun. The sea was still and glassy
as a mirror, and the channel lay stretched before us
like a floor of moving gold. A rose or two
still hung against the house, and the sun's rays reflected
(22:48):
from the red sandstone gave us a December morning more
mild and genial than many June days that I have
known in the north. We sat for some minutes without speaking,
immersed in our reflection and in the exquisite beauty of
the scene. The stillness was broken by the bells of
the parish church, ringing for the morning service. There were
(23:08):
two of them, and their sound, familiar to us from childhood,
seemed like the voices of old friends. John looked at
me and said, with a sigh, I should like to
go to church. It is long since I was there.
You and I have always been on Christmas morning. Sophy
and Constance would have wished it had she been with us.
(23:29):
His words, so unexpected and tender, filled my eyes with tears,
not tears of grief, but of deep thankfulness to see
my loved one turning once more to the old ways.
It was the first time I had heard him speak
of Constance and that sweet name with the infinite pathos
of her death, and of the spectacle of my brother's weakness.
(23:50):
So overcame me that I could not speak. I only
pressed his hand and nodded. Mister Gaskell, who had turned
away for a minute, said he thought John would take
no harm in attending the morning service, provided the church
were warm. On this point I could reassure him, having
found it properly heated even in the early morning. Mister
(24:12):
Gaskell was to push John's chair, and I ran off
to put on my cloak, with my heart full of
profound thankfulness for the signs of returning grace so mercifully
vouchsafed to our dear sufferer on this happy day. I
was ready dressed and had just entered the library when
mister Gaskell stepped hurriedly through the window from the terrace.
(24:33):
John has fainted, he said, Run for some smelling salts
and call Parnum. There was a scene of hurried alarm,
giving place ere long to a terrified despair Parnhum mounted
a horse and set off at a wild gallop to
Swanage to fetch doctor Bruton. But an hour before he returned,
we knew the worst. My brother was beyond the aid
(24:54):
of the physician. His wrecked life had reached a sudden term.
I have, now, dear Edward, completed the brief narrative of
some of the facts attending the latter years of your
father's life. The motive which has induced me to commit
them to writing has been a double one. I am
anxious to give effect, as far as may be, to
(25:15):
the desire expressed most strongly to mister Gaskell by your
father that you should be put in possession of these
facts on your coming of age, And for my part,
I think it better that you should thus hear the
plain truth from me, lest you should be at the
mercy of haphazard reports which might at any time reach
you from ignorant or interested sources. Some of the circumstances
(25:39):
were so remarkable that it is scarcely possible to suppose
that they were not known and most probably frequently discussed,
in so large an establishment as that of Worth Moutrobber's.
I even have reason to believe that exaggerated and absurd
stories were current at the time of Sir John's death,
and I should be grieved to think that such foolish
(26:01):
tales might by any chance reach your ear without your
having any sure means of discovering where the truth lay.
God knows how grievous it has been to me to
set down on paper some of the facts that I
have here narrated. You, as a dutiful son, will reverence
the name even of a father whom you never knew.
(26:21):
But you must remember that his sister did more. She
loved him with a single hearted devotion, and it still
grieves her to the quick to write anything which may
seem to detract from his memory. Only, above all things,
let us speak the truth. Much of what I have
told you needs, I feel further explanation, but this I
(26:43):
cannot give, for I do not understand the circumstances. Mister Gaskell,
your guardian, will, I believe, add to this account a
few notes of his own, which may tend to elucidate
some points, as he is in possession of certain facts
of which I am still ignorant. End of Chapter fifteen
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