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SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
(1859-1930)
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A Tragedy
The Inner Room
The Old Huntsman
The Passing
A TRAGEDY
Who's that walking on the moorland?
Who's that moving on the hill?
They are passing 'mid the bracken,
But the shadows grow and blacken
And I cannot see them clearly on the hill.
Who's that calling on the moorland?
Who's that crying on the hill?
Was it bird or was it human,
Was it child, or man, or woman,
Who was calling so sadly on the hill?
Who's that running on the moorland?
Who's that flying on the hill?
He is there – and there again,
But you cannot see him plain,
For the shadow lies so darkly on the hill.
What's that lying in the heather?
What's that lurking on the hill?
My horse will go no nearer,
And I cannot see it clearer,
But there's something that is lying on the hill.
THE INNER ROOM
It is mine – the little chamber,
Mine alone.
I had it from my forbears
Years agone.
Yet within its walls I see
A most motley company,
And they one and all claim me
As their own.
There's one who is a soldier
Bluff and keen;
Single-minded, heavy-fisted,
Rude of mien.
He would gain a purse or stake it,
He would win a heart or break it,
He would give a life or take it,
Conscience-clean.
And near him is a priest
Still schism-whole;
He loves the censer-reek
And organ-roll.
He has leanings to the mystic,
Sacramental, eucharistic;
And dim yearnings altruistic
Thrill his soul.
There's another who with doubts
Is overcast;
I think him younger brother
To the last.
Walking wary stride by stride,
Peering forwards anxious-eyed,
Since he learned to doubt his guide
In the past.
And 'mid them all, alert,
But somewhat cowed,
There sits a stark-faced fellow,
Beetle-browed,
Whose black soul shrinks away
From a lawyer-ridden day,
And has thoughts he dare not say
Half avowed.
There are others who are sitting,
Grim as doom,
In the dim ill-boding shadow
Of my room.
Darkling figures, stern or quaint,
Now a savage, now a saint,
Showing fitfully and faint
Through the gloom.
And those shadows are so dense,
There may be
Many – very many – more
Than I see.
They are sitting day and night
Soldier, rogue, and anchorite;
And they wrangle and they fight
Over me.
If the stark-faced fellow win,
All is o'er!
If the priest should gain his will,
I doubt no more!
But if each shall have his day,
I shall swing and I shall sway
In the same old weary way
As before.
THE OLD HUNTSMAN
There's a keen and grim old huntsman
On a horse as white as snow;
Sometimes he is very swift
And sometimes he is slow.
But he never is at fault,
For he always hunts at view
And he rides without a halt
After you.
The huntsman's name is Death,
His horse's name is Time;
He is coming, he is coming
As I sit and write this rhyme;
He is coming, he is coming,
As you read the rhyme I write;
You can hear the hoofs' low drumming
Day and night.
You can hear the distant drumming
As the clock goes tick-a-tack,
And the chiming of the hours
Is the music of his pack.
You may hardly note their growling
Underneath the noonday sun,
But at night you hear them howling
As they run.
And they never check or falter
For they never miss their kill;
Seasons change and systems alter,
But the hunt is running still.
Hark! the evening chime is playing,
O'er the long grey town it peals;
Don't you hear the death-hound baying
At your heels?
Where is there an earth or burrow?
Where a cover left for you?
A year, a week, perhaps to-morrow
Brings the Huntsman's death halloo!
Day by day he gains upon us,
And the most that we can claim
Is that when the hounds are on us
We die game.
And somewhere dwells the Master,
By whom it was decreed;
He sent the savage huntsman,
He bred the snow-white steed.
These hounds which run for ever,
He set them on your track;
He hears you scream, but never
Calls them back.
He does not heed our suing,
We never see his face;
He hunts to our undoing,
We thank him for the chase.
We thank him and we flatter,
We hope – because we must –
But have we cause? No matter!
Let us trust!
THE PASSING
It was the hour of dawn,
When the heart beats thin and small,
The window glimmered grey,
Framed in a shadow wall.
And in the cold sad light
Of the early morningtide,
The dear dead girl came back
And stood by his bedside.
The girl he lost came back;
He saw her flowing hair;
It flickered and it waved
Like a breath in frosty air.
As in a steamy glass,
Her face was dim and blurred;
Her voice was sweet and thin,
Like the calling of a bird.
"You said that you would come,
You promised not to stay;
And I have waited here,
To help you on the way.
"I have waited on,
But still you bide below;
You said that you would come,
And oh, I want you so!
"For half my soul is here,
And half my soul is there,
When you are on the earth
And I am in the air.
"But on your dressing-stand
There lies a triple key;
Unlock the little gate
Which fences you from me.
"Just one little pang,
Just one throb of pain,
And then your weary head
Between my breasts again."
In the dim unhomely light
Of the early morningtide,
He took the triple key
And he laid it by his side.
A pistol, silver chased,
An open hunting knife,
A phial of the drug
Which cures the ill of life.
He looked upon the three,
And sharply drew his breath:
"Now help me, oh my love,
For I fear this cold grey death."
She bent her face above,
She kissed him and she smiled;
She soothed him as a mother
May soothe a frightened child.
"Just that little pang, love,
Just a throb of pain,
And then your weary head
Between my breasts again."
He snatched the pistol up,
He pressed it to his ear;
But a sudden sound broke in,
And his skin was raw with fear.
He took the hunting knife,
He tried to raise the blade;
It glimmered cold and white,
And he was sore afraid.
He poured the potion out,
But it was thick and brown;
His throat was sealed against it,
And he could not drain it down.
He looked to her for help,
And when he looked – behold!
His love was there before him
As in the days of old.
He saw the drooping head,
He saw the gentle eyes;
He saw the same shy grace of hers
He had been wont to prize.
She pointed and she smiled,
And lo! he was aware
Of a half-lit bedroom chamber
And a silent figure there.
A silent figure lying
A-sprawl up on a bed,
With a silver-mounted pistol
Still clotted to his head.
And as he downward gazed,
Her voice came full and clear,
The homely tender voice
Which he had loved to hear:
"The key is very certain,
The door is sealed to none.
You did it, oh, my darling!
And you never knew it done.
"When the net was broken,
You thought you felt its mesh;
You carried to the spirit
The troubles of the flesh.
"And are you trembling still, dear?
Then let me take your hand;
And I will lead you outward
To a sweet and restful land.
"You know how once in London
I put my griefs on you;
But I can carry yours now –
Most sweet it is to do!
"Most sweet it is to do, love,
And very sweet to plan
How I, the helpless woman,
Can help the helpful man.
"But let me see you smiling
With the smile I know so well;
Forget the world of shadows,
And the empty broken shell.
"It is the worn-out garment
In which you tore a rent;
You tossed it down, and carelessly
Upon your way you went.
"It is not
you, my sweetheart,
For you are here with me.
That frame was but the promise of
The thing that was to be –
"A tuning of the choir
Ere the harmonies begin;
And yet it is the image
Of the subtle thing within.
"There's not a trick of body,
There's not a trait of mind,
But you bring it over with you,
Ethereal, refined,
"But still the same; for surely
If we alter as we die,
You would be you no longer,
And I would not be I.
"I might be an angel,
But not the girl you knew;
You might be immaculate,
But that would not be you.
"And now I see you smiling,
So, darling, take my hand;
And I will lead you outward
To a sweet and pleasant land,
"Where thought is clear and nimble,
Where life is pure and fresh,
Where the soul comes back rejoicing
From the mud-bath of the flesh.
"But still that soul is human,
With human ways, and so
I love my love in spirit,
As I loved him long ago."
So with hands together
And fingers twining tight,
The two dead lovers drifted
In the golden morning light.
But a grey-haired man was lying
Beneath them on a bed,
With a silver-mounted pistol
Still clotted to his head.
