CONTENTS
Chapter I Mr. Sherlock Holmes 1
Chapter II The Curse of the Baskervilles 9
Chapter III The Problem 23
Chapter IV Sir Henry Baskerville 34
Chapter V Three Broken Threads 48
Chapter VI Baskerville Hall 61
Chapter VII The Stapletons of Merripit House 73
Chapter VIII First Report of Dr. Watson 89
Chapter IX Second Report of Dr. WatsonThe Light upon the Moor 98
Chapter X Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson 118
Chapter XI The Man on the Tor 130
Chapter XII Death on the Moor 145
Chapter XIII Fixing the Nets 160
Chapter XIV The Hound of the Baskervilles 174
Chapter XV A Retrospection 187
內容試閱：
The Curse of the Baskervilles
“I have in my pocket a manuscript,”
said Dr. James Mortimer.
“I observed it as you entered the
room,” said Holmes.
“It is an old manuscript.”
“Early eighteenth century, unless it
is a forgery.”
“How can you say that, sir?”
“You have presented an inch or two of
it to my examination all the time that you have been talking. It would be a
poor expert who could not give the date of a document within a decade or so.
You may possibly have read my little monograph upon the subject. I put that at
1730.”
“The exact date is 1742.” Dr. Mortimer
drew it from his breast-pocket. “This family paper was committed to my care by
Sir Charles Baskerville, whose sudden and tragic death some three months ago
created so much excitement inDevonshire. I
may say that I was his personal friend as well as his medical attendant. He was
a strong-minded man, sir, shrewd, practical, and as unimaginative as I am
myself. Yet he took this document very seriously, and his mind was prepared for
just such an end as did eventually overtake him.”
Holmes stretched out his hand for the
manuscript and flattened it upon his knee.
“You will observe, Watson, the
alternative use of the long s and the short. It is one of several indications
which enabled me to fix the date.”
I looked over his shoulder at the
yellow paper and the faded script. At the head was written: “Baskerville Hall,”
and below, in large, scrawling figures: “1742.”
“It appears to be a statement of some
sort.”
“Yes, it is a statement of a certain
legend which runs in the Baskerville family.”
“But I understand that it is something
more modern and practical upon which you wish to consult me?”
“Most modern. A most practical,
pressing matter, which must be decided within twenty-four hours. But the
manuscript is short and is intimately connected with the affair. With your
permission I will read it to you.”
Holmes leaned back in his chair,
placed his finger-tips together, and closed his eyes, with an air of
resignation. Dr. Mortimer turned the manuscript to the light and read in a
high, cracking voice the following curious, old-world narrative:
“Of the origin
of the Hound of the Baskervilles there have been many statements, yet as I come
in a direct line from Hugo Baskerville, and as I had the story from my father,
who also had it from his, I have set it down with all belief that it occurred
even as is here set forth. And I would have you believe, my sons, that the same
Justice which punishes sin may also most graciously forgive it, and that no ban
is so heavy but that by prayer and repentance it may be removed. Learn then
from this story not to fear the fruits of the past, but rather to be
circumspect in the future, that those foul passions whereby our family has
suffered so grievously may not again be loosed to our undoing.
“Know then that
in the time of the Great Rebellion the history of which by the learned Lord
Clarendon I most earnestly commend to your attention this Manor of Baskerville
was held by Hugo of that name, nor can it be gainsaid that he was a most wild,
profane, and godless man. This, in truth, his neighbours might have pardoned,
seeing that saints have never flourished in those parts, but there was in him a
certain wanton and cruel humour which made his name a byword through the West.
It chanced that this Hugo came to love if, indeed, so dark a passion may be
known under so bright a name the daughter of a yeoman who held lands near the
Baskerville estate. But the young maiden, being discreet and of good repute,
would ever avoid him, for she feared his evil name. So it came to pass that one
Michaelmas this Hugo, with five or six of his idle and wicked companions, stole
down upon the farm and carried off the maiden, her father and brothers being
from home, as he well knew. When they had brought her to the Hall the maiden
was placed in an upper chamber, while Hugo and his friends sat down to a long
carouse, as was their nightly custom. Now, the poor lass upstairs was like to
have her wits turned at the singing and shouting and terrible oaths which came
up to her from below, for they say that the words used by Hugo Baskerville,
when he was in wine, were such as might blast the man who said them. At last in
the stress of her fear she did that which might have daunted the bravest or
most active man, for by the aid of the growth of ivy which covered and still
covers the south wall she came down from under the eaves, and so homeward
across the moor, there being three leagues betwixt the Hall and her father’s
farm.
“It chanced that
some little time later Hugo left his guests to carry food and drink—with other
worse things, perchance—to his captive, and so found the cage empty and the
bird escaped. Then, as it would seem, he became as one that hath a devil, for,
rushing down the stairs into the dining-hall, he sprang upon the great table,
flagons and trenchers flying before him, and he cried aloud before all the
company that he would that very night render his body and soul to the Powers of
Evil if he might but overtake the wench.
And while the revellers stood aghast at the fury of the man, one more
wicked or, it may be, more drunken than the rest, cried out that they should
put the hounds upon her. Whereat Hugo ran from the house, crying to his grooms
that they should saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and giving the hounds a
kerchief of the maid’s, he swung them to the line, and so off full cry in the
moonlight over the moor.
“Now, for some
space the revellers stood agape, unable to understand all that had been done in
such haste. But anon their bemused wits awoke to the nature of the deed which
was like to be done upon the moorlands.
Everything was now in an uproar, some calling for their pistols, some
for their horses, and some for another flask of wine. But at length some sense
came back to their crazed minds, and the whole of them, thirteen in number,
took horse and started in pursuit. The moon shone clear above them, and they
rode swiftly abreast, taking that course which the maid must needs have taken
if she were to reach her own home.
“They had gone a
mile or two when they passed one of the night shepherds upon the moorlands, and
they cried to him to know if he had seen the hunt. And the man, as the story
goes, was so crazed with fear that he could scarce speak, but at last he said
that he had indeed seen the unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track.
‘But I have seen more than that,’ said he, ‘for Hugo Baskerville passed me upon
his black mare, and there ran mute behind him such a hound of hell as God
forbid should ever be at my heels.’ So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd
and rode onward. But soon their skins
turned cold, for there came a galloping across the moor, and the black mare,
dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing bridle and empty saddle. Then the revellers
rode close together, for a great fear was on them, but they still followed over
the moor, though each, had he been alone, would have been right glad to have
turned his horse’s head. Riding slowly
in this fashion they came at last upon the hounds. These, though known for
their valour and their breed, were whimpering in a cluster at the head of a
deep dip or goyal, as we call it, upon the moor, some slinking away and some,
with starting hackles and staring eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them.
“The company had
come to a halt, more sober men, as you may guess, than when they started. The
most of them would by no means advance, but three of them, the boldest, or it
may be the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal. Now, it opened into a
broad space in which stood two of those great stones, still to be seen there,
which were set by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old. The moon was
shining bright upon the clearing, and there in the centre lay the unhappy maid
where she had fallen, dead of fear and of fatigue. But it was not the sight of
her body, nor yet was it that of the body of Hugo Baskerville lying near her,
which raised the hair upon the heads of these three dare-devil roysterers, but
it was that, standing over Hugo, and plucking at his throat, there stood a foul
thing, a great, black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any hound
that ever mortal eye has rested upon. And even as they looked the thing tore
the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it turned its blazing eyes and
dripping jaws upon them, the three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life,
still screaming, across the moor. One, it is said, died that very night of what
he had seen, and the other twain were but broken men for the rest of their
days.
“Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound which is said to
have plagued the family so sorely ever since. If I have set it down it is
because that which is clearly known hath less terror than that which is but
hinted at and guessed. Nor can it be denied that many of the family have been
unhappy in their deaths, which have been sudden, bloody, and mysterious. Yet
may we shelter ourselves in the infinite goodness ofProvidence, which would not forever punish
the innocent beyond that third or fourth
generation which is threatened in Holy Writ. To thatProvidence, my sons, I hereby commend you,
and I counsel you by way of caution to forbear from crossing the moor in those
dark hours when the powers of evil are exalted.
“[This from Hugo
Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John, with instructions that they say
nothing thereof to their sister Elizabeth.]”
When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading
this singular narrative he pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and stared
across at Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The latter yawned and tossed the end of his
cigarette into the fire.
“Well?” said he.
“Do you not find it interesting?”
“To a collector of fairy tales.”
Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper
out of his pocket.
“Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something a
little more recent. This is the Devon County Chronicle of May 14th of this
year. It is a short account of the facts elicited at the death of Sir Charles
Baskerville which occurred a few days before that date.”
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