The Moonstone
birthday night. If we can next revive, or nearly revive, the domestic
circumstances which surrounded you; and if we can occupy your mind
again with the various questions concerning the Diamond which formerly
agitated it, we shall have replaced you, as nearly as possible in the
same position, physically and morally, in which the opium found you
last year. In that case we may fairly hope that a repetition of the
dose will lead, in a greater or lesser degree, to a repetition of the
result. There is my proposal, expressed in a few hasty words. You shall
now see what reasons I have to justify me in making it.”
He turned to one of the books at his side, and opened it at a place
marked by a small slip of paper.
“Don’t suppose that I am going to weary you with a lecture on
physiology,” he said. “I think myself bound to prove, in justice to
both of us, that I am not asking you to try this experiment in
deference to any theory of my own devising. Admitted principles, and
recognised authorities, justify me in the view that I take. Give me
five minutes of your attention; and I will undertake to show you that
Science sanctions my proposal, fanciful as it may seem. Here, in the
first place, is the physiological principle on which I am acting,
stated by no less a person than Dr. Carpenter. Read it for yourself.”
He handed me the slip of paper which had marked the place in the book.
It contained a few lines of writing, as follows:—
“There seems much ground for the belief, that _every_ sensory
impression which has once been recognised by the perceptive
consciousness, is registered (so to speak) in the brain, and may be
reproduced at some subsequent time, although there may be no
consciousness of its existence in the mind during the whole
intermediate period.”
“Is that plain, so far?” asked Ezra Jennings.
“Perfectly plain.”
He pushed the open book across the table to me, and pointed to a
passage, marked by pencil lines.
“Now,” he said, “read that account of a case, which has—as I believe—a
direct bearing on your own position, and on the experiment which I am
tempting you to try. Observe, Mr. Blake, before you begin, that I am
now referring you to one of the greatest of English physiologists. The
book in your hand is Doctor Elliotson’s _Human Physiology_; and the
case which the doctor cites rests on the well-known authority of Mr.
Combe.”
The passage pointed out to me was expressed in these terms:—
“Dr. Abel informed me,” says Mr. Combe, “of an Irish porter to a
warehouse, who forgot, when sober, what he had done when drunk; but,
being drunk, again recollected the transactions of his former state of
intoxication. On one occasion, being drunk, he had lost a parcel of
some value, and in his sober moments could give no account of it. Next
time he was intoxicated, he recollected that he had left the parcel at
a certain house, and there being no address on it, it had remained
there safely, and was got on his calling for it.”
“Plain again?” asked Ezra Jennings.
“As plain as need be.”
He put back the slip of paper in its place, and closed the book.
“Are you satisfied that I have not spoken without good authority to
support me?” he asked. “If not, I have only to go to those bookshelves,
and you have only to read the passages which I can point out to you.”
“I am quite satisfied,” I said, “without reading a word more.”
“In that case, we may return to your own personal interest in this
matter. I am bound to tell you that there is something to be said
against the experiment as well as for it. If we could, this year,
exactly reproduce, in your case, the conditions as they existed last
year, it is physiologically certain that we should arrive at exactly
the same result. But this—there is no denying it—is simply impossible.
We can only hope to approximate to the conditions; and if we don’t
succeed in getting you nearly enough back to what you were, this
venture of ours will fail. If we do succeed—and I am myself hopeful of
success—you may at least so far repeat your proceedings on the birthday
night, as to satisfy any reasonable person that you are guiltless,
morally speaking, of the theft of the Diamond. I believe, Mr. Blake, I
have now stated the question, on both sides of it, as fairly as I can,
within the limits that I have imposed on myself. If there is anything
that I have not made clear to you, tell me what it is—and if I can
enlighten you, I will.”
“All that you have explained to me,” I said, “I understand perfectly.
But I own I am puzzled on one point, which you have not made clear to
me yet.”
“What is the point?”
“I don’t understand the effect of the laudanum on me. I don’t
understand my walking downstairs, and along corridors, and my opening
and shutting the drawers of a cabinet, and my going back again to my
own room. All these are active proceedings. I thought the influence of
opium was first to stupefy you, and then to send you to sleep.”
“The common error about opium, Mr. Blake! I am, at this moment,
exerting my intelligence (such as it is) in your service, under the
influence of a dose of laudanum, some ten times larger than the dose
Mr. Candy administered to you. But don’t trust to my authority—even on
a question which comes within my own personal experience. I anticipated
the objection you have just made: and I have again provided myself with
independent testimony which will carry its due weight with it in your
own mind, and in the minds of your friends.”
He handed me the second of the two books which he had by him on the
table.
“There,” he said, “are the far-famed _Confessions of an English Opium
Eater_! Take the book away with you, and read it. At the passage which
I have marked, you will find that when De Quincey had committed what he
calls ‘a debauch of opium,’ he either went to the gallery at the Opera
to enjoy the music, or he wandered about the London markets on Saturday
night, and interested himself in observing all the little shifts and
bargainings of the poor in providing their Sunday’s dinner. So much for
the capacity of a man to occupy himself actively, and to move about
from place to place under the influence of opium.”
“I am answered so far,” I said; “but I am not answered yet as to the
effect produced by the opium on myself.”
“I will try to answer you in a few words,” said Ezra Jennings. “The
action of opium is comprised, in the majority of cases, in two
influences—a stimulating influence first, and a sedative influence
afterwards. Under the stimulating influence, the latest and most vivid
impressions left on your mind—namely, the impressions relating to the
Diamond—would be likely, in your morbidly sensitive nervous condition,
to become intensified in your brain, and would subordinate to
themselves your judgment and your will exactly as an ordinary dream
subordinates to itself your judgment and your will. Little by little,
under this action, any apprehensions about the safety of the Diamond
which you might have felt during the day would be liable to develop
themselves from the state of doubt to the state of certainty—would
impel you into practical action to preserve the jewel—would direct your
steps, with that motive in view, into the room which you entered—and
would guide your hand to the drawers of the cabinet, until you had
found the drawer which held the stone. In the spiritualised
intoxication of opium, you would do all that. Later, as the sedative
action began to gain on the stimulant action, you would slowly become
inert and stupefied. Later still you would fall into a deep sleep. When
the morning came, and the effect of the opium had been all slept off,
you would wake as absolutely ignorant of what you had done in the night
as if you had been living at the Antipodes. Have I made it tolerably
clear to you so far?”
“You have made it so clear,” I said, “that I want you to go farther.
You have shown me how I entered the room, and how I came to take the
Diamond. But Miss Verinder saw me leave the room again, with the jewel
in my hand. Can you trace my proceedings from that moment? Can you
guess what I did next?”
“That is the very point I was coming to,” he rejoined. “It is a
question with me whether the experiment which I propose as a means of
vindicating your innocence, may not also be made a means of recovering
the lost Diamond as well. When you left Miss Verinder’s sitting-room,
with the jewel in your hand, you went back in all probability to your
own room——”
“Yes? and what then?”
“It is possible, Mr. Blake—I dare not say more—that your idea of
preserving the Diamond led, by a natural sequence, to the idea of
hiding the Diamond, and that the place in which you hid it was
somewhere in your bedroom. In that event, the case of the Irish porter
may be your case. You may remember, under the influence of the second
dose of opium, the place in which you hid the Diamond under the
influence of the first.”
It was my turn, now, to enlighten Ezra Jennings. I stopped him, before
he could say any more.
“You are speculating,” I said, “on a result which cannot possibly take
place. The Diamond is, at this moment, in London.”
He started, and looked at me in great surprise.
“In London?” he repeated. “How did it get to London from Lady
Verinder’s house?”
“Nobody knows.”
“You removed it with your own hand from Miss Verinder’s room. How was
it taken out of your keeping?”
“I have no idea how it was taken out of my keeping.”
“Did you see it, when you woke in the morning?”
“No.”
“Has Miss Verinder recovered possession of it?”
“No.”
“Mr. Blake! there seems to be something here which wants clearing up.
May I ask how you know that the Diamond is, at this moment, in London?”
I had put precisely the same question to Mr. Bruff when I made my first
inquiries about the Moonstone, on my return to England. In answering
Ezra Jennings, I accordingly repeated what I had myself heard from the
lawyer’s own lips—and what is already familiar to the readers of these
pages.
He showed plainly that he was not satisfied with my reply.
“With all deference to you,” he said, “and with all deference to your
legal adviser, I maintain the opinion which I expressed just now. It
rests, I am well aware, on a mere assumption. Pardon me for reminding
you, that your opinion also rests on a mere assumption as well.”
The view he took of the matter was entirely new to me. I waited
anxiously to hear how he would defend it.
“_I_ assume,” pursued Ezra Jennings, “that the influence of the
opium—after impelling you to possess yourself of the Diamond, with the
purpose of securing its safety—might also impel you, acting under the
same influence and the same motive, to hide it somewhere in your own
room. _You_ assume that the Hindoo conspirators could by no possibility
commit a mistake. The Indians went to Mr. Luker’s house after the
Diamond—and, therefore, in Mr. Luker’s possession the Diamond must be!
Have you any evidence to prove that the Moonstone was taken to London
at all? You can’t even guess how, or by whom, it was removed from Lady
Verinder’s house! Have you any evidence that the jewel was pledged to
Mr. Luker? He declares that he never heard of the Moonstone; and his
bankers’ receipt acknowledges nothing but the deposit of a valuable of
great price. The Indians assume that Mr. Luker is lying—and you assume
again that the Indians are right. All I say, in differing with you,
is—that my view is possible. What more, Mr. Blake, either logically, or
legally, can be said for yours?”
It was put strongly; but there was no denying that it was put truly as
well.
“I confess you stagger me,” I replied. “Do you object to my writing to
Mr. Bruff, and telling him what you have said?”
“On the contrary, I shall be glad if you will write to Mr. Bruff. If we