The Portrait of Mr. W. H. by Oscar Wilde
I HAD been dining with Erskine in his pretty little house in
Birdcage Walk, and we were sitting in the library over our coffee
and cigarettes, when the question of literary forgeries happened to
turn up in conversation. I cannot at present remember how it was
that we struck upon this somewhat curious topic, as it was at that
time, but I know that we had a long discussion about Macpherson,
Ireland, and Chatterton, and that with regard to the last I
insisted that his so-called forgeries were merely the result of an
artistic desire for perfect representation; that we had no right to
quarrel with an artist for the conditions under which he chooses to
present his work; and that all Art being to a certain degree a mode
of acting, an attempt to realise one's own personality on some
imaginative plane out of reach of the trammelling accidents and
limitations of real life, to censure an artist for a forgery was to
confuse an ethical with an aesthetical problem.
Erskine, who was a good deal older than I was, and had been
listening to me with the amused deference of a man of forty,
suddenly put his hand upon my shoulder and said to me, 'What would
you say about a young man who had a strange theory about a certain
work of art, believed in his theory, and committed a forgery in
order to prove it?'
'Ah! that is quite a different matter,' I answered.
Erskine remained silent for a few moments, looking at the thin grey
threads of smoke that were rising from his cigarette. 'Yes,' he
said, after a pause, 'quite different.'
There was something in the tone of his voice, a slight touch of
bitterness perhaps, that excited my curiosity. 'Did you ever know
anybody who did that?' I cried.
'Yes,' he answered, throwing his cigarette into the fire, - 'a
great friend of mine, Cyril Graham. He was very fascinating, and
very foolish, and very heartless. However, he left me the only
legacy I ever received in my life.'
'What was that?' I exclaimed. Erskine rose from his seat, and
going over to a tall inlaid cabinet that stood between the two
windows, unlocked it, and came back to where I was sitting, holding
in his hand a small panel picture set in an old and somewhat
tarnished Elizabethan frame.
It was a full-length portrait of a young man in late sixteenthcentury
costume, standing by a table, with his right hand resting
on an open book. He seemed about seventeen years of age, and was
of quite extraordinary personal beauty, though evidently somewhat
effeminate. Indeed, had it not been for the dress and the closely
cropped hair, one would have said that the face with its dreamy
wistful eyes, and its delicate scarlet lips, was the face of a
girl. In manner, and especially in the treatment of the hands, the
picture reminded one of Francois Clouet's later work. The black
velvet doublet with its fantastically gilded points, and the
peacock-blue background against which it showed up so pleasantly,
and from which it gained such luminous value of colour, were quite
in Clouet's style; and the two masks of Tragedy and Comedy that
hung somewhat formally from the marble pedestal had that hard
severity of touch - so different from the facile grace of the
Italians - which even at the Court of France the great Flemish
master never completely lost, and which in itself has always been a
characteristic of the northern temper.
'It is a charming thing,' I cried, 'but who is this wonderful young
man, whose beauty Art has so happily preserved for us?'
'This is the portrait of Mr. W. H.,' said Erskine, with a sad
smile. It might have been a chance effect of light, but it seemed
to me that his eyes were quite bright with tears.
'Mr. W. H.!' I exclaimed; 'who was Mr. W. H.?'
'Don't you remember?' he answered; 'look at the book on which his
hand is resting.'
'I see there is some writing there, but I cannot make it out,' I
'Take this magnifying-glass and try,' said Erskine, with the same
sad smile still playing about his mouth.
I took the glass, and moving the lamp a little nearer, I began to
spell out the crabbed sixteenth-century handwriting. 'To the onlie
begetter of these insuing sonnets.' . . . 'Good heavens!' I cried,
'is this Shakespeare's Mr. W. H.?'
'Cyril Graham used to say so,' muttered Erskine.
'But it is not a bit like Lord Pembroke,' I answered. 'I know the
Penshurst portraits very well. I was staying near there a few
'Do you really believe then that the sonnets are addressed to Lord
Pembroke?' he asked.
'I am sure of it,' I answered. 'Pembroke, Shakespeare, and Mrs.
Mary Fitton are the three personages of the Sonnets; there is no
doubt at all about it.'
'Well, I agree with you,' said Erskine, 'but I did not always think
so. I used to believe - well, I suppose I used to believe in Cyril
Graham and his theory.'
'And what was that?' I asked, looking at the wonderful portrait,
which had already begun to have a strange fascination for me.
'It is a long story,' said Erskine, taking the picture away from me
- rather abruptly I thought at the time - 'a very long story; but
if you care to hear it, I will tell it to you.'
'I love theories about the Sonnets,' I cried; 'but I don't think I
am likely to be converted to any new idea. The matter has ceased
to be a mystery to any one. Indeed, I wonder that it ever was a
'As I don't believe in the theory, I am not likely to convert you
to it,' said Erskine, laughing; 'but it may interest you.'
'Tell it to me, of course,' I answered. 'If it is half as
delightful as the picture, I shall be more than satisfied.'
'Well,' said Erskine, lighting a cigarette, 'I must begin by
telling you about Cyril Graham himself. He and I were at the same
house at Eton. I was a year or two older than he was, but we were
immense friends, and did all our work and all our play together.
There was, of course, a good deal more play than work, but I cannot
say that I am sorry for that. It is always an advantage not to
have received a sound commercial education, and what I learned in
the playing fields at Eton has been quite as useful to me as
anything I was taught at Cambridge. I should tell you that Cyril's
father and mother were both dead. They had been drowned in a
horrible yachting accident off the Isle of Wight. His father had
been in the diplomatic service, and had married a daughter, the
only daughter, in fact, of old Lord Crediton, who became Cyril's
guardian after the death of his parents. I don't think that Lord
Crediton cared very much for Cyril. He had never really forgiven
his daughter for marrying a man who had not a title. He was an
extraordinary old aristocrat, who swore like a costermonger, and
had the manners of a farmer. I remember seeing him once on Speechday.
He growled at me, gave me a sovereign, and told me not to
grow up "a damned Radical" like my father. Cyril had very little
affection for him, and was only too glad to spend most of his
holidays with us in Scotland. They never really got on together at
all. Cyril thought him a bear, and he thought Cyril effeminate.
He was effeminate, I suppose, in some things, though he was a very
good rider and a capital fencer. In fact he got the foils before
he left Eton. But he was very languid in his manner, and not a
little vain of his good looks, and had a strong objection to
football. The two things that really gave him pleasure were poetry
and acting. At Eton he was always dressing up and reciting
Shakespeare, and when we went up to Trinity he became a member of
the A.D.C. his first term. I remember I was always very jealous of
his acting. I was absurdly devoted to him; I suppose because we
were so different in some things. I was a rather awkward, weakly
lad, with huge feet, and horribly freckled. Freckles run in Scotch
families just as gout does in English families. Cyril used to say
that of the two he preferred the gout; but he always set an
absurdly high value on personal appearance, and once read a paper
before our debating society to prove that it was better to be goodlooking
than to be good. He certainly was wonderfully handsome.
People who did not like him, Philistines and college tutors, and
young men reading for the Church, used to say that he was merely
pretty; but there was a great deal more in his face than mere
prettiness. I think he was the most splendid creature I ever saw,
and nothing could exceed the grace of his movements, the charm of
his manner. He fascinated everybody who was worth fascinating, and
a great many people who were not. He was often wilful and
petulant, and I used to think him dreadfully insincere. It was
due, I think, chiefly to his inordinate desire to please. Poor
Cyril! I told him once that he was contented with very cheap
triumphs, but he only laughed. He was horribly spoiled. All
charming people, I fancy, are spoiled. It is the secret of their
'However, I must tell you about Cyril's acting. You know that no
actresses are allowed to play at the A.D.C. At least they were not
in my time. I don't know how it is now. Well, of course, Cyril
was always cast for the girls' parts, and when AS YOU LIKE IT was
produced he played Rosalind. It was a marvellous performance. In
fact, Cyril Graham was the only perfect Rosalind I have ever seen.
It would be impossible to describe to you the beauty, the delicacy,
the refinement of the whole thing. It made an immense sensation,
and the horrid little theatre, as it was then, was crowded every
night. Even when I read the play now I can't help thinking of
Cyril. It might have been written for him. The next term he took
his degree, and came to London to read for the diplomatic. But he
never did any work. He spent his days in reading Shakespeare's
Sonnets, and his evenings at the theatre. He was, of course, wild
to go on the stage. It was all that I and Lord Crediton could do
to prevent him. Perhaps if he had gone on the stage he would be
alive now. It is always a silly thing to give advice, but to give
good advice is absolutely fatal. I hope you will never fall into
that error. If you do, you will be sorry for it.
'Well, to come to the real point of the story, one day I got a
letter from Cyril asking me to come round to his rooms that
evening. He had charming chambers in Piccadilly overlooking the
Green Park, and as I used to go to see him every day, I was rather
surprised at his taking the trouble to write. Of course I went,
and when I arrived I found him in a state of great excitement. He
told me that he had at last discovered the true secret of
Shakespeare's Sonnets; that all the scholars and critics had been
entirely on the wrong tack; and that he was the first who, working
purely by internal evidence, had found out who Mr. W. H. really
was. He was perfectly wild with delight, and for a long time would
not tell me his theory. Finally, he produced a bundle of notes,
took his copy of the Sonnets off the mantelpiece, and sat down and
gave me a long lecture on the whole subject.
'He began by pointing out that the young man to whom Shakespeare
addressed these strangely passionate poems must have been somebody
who was a really vital factor in the development of his dramatic
art, and that this could not be said either of Lord Pembroke or
Lord Southampton. Indeed, whoever he was, he could not have been
anybody of high birth, as was shown very clearly by the 25th
Sonnet, in which Shakespeare contrasting himself with those who are
"great princes' favourites," says quite frankly -
Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.
And ends the sonnet by congratulating himself on the mean state of
him he so adored.
Then happy I, that love and am beloved
Where I may not remove nor be removed.
This sonnet Cyril declared would be quite unintelligible if we
fancied that it was addressed to either the Earl of Pembroke or the
Earl of Southampton, both of whom were men of the highest position
in England and fully entitled to be called "great princes"; and he
in corroboration of his view read me Sonnets CXXIV. and CXXV., in
which Shakespeare tells us that his love is not "the child of
state," that it "suffers not in smiling pomp," but is "builded far
from accident." I listened with a good deal of interest, for I
don't think the point had ever been made before; but what followed
was still more curious, and seemed to me at the time to dispose
entirely of Pembroke's claim. We know from Meres that the Sonnets
had been written before 1598, and Sonnet CIV. informs us that
Shakespeare's friendship for Mr. W. H. had been already in
existence for three years. Now Lord Pembroke, who was born in
1580, did not come to London till he was eighteen years of age,
that is to say till 1598, and Shakespeare's acquaintance with Mr.
W. H. must have begun in 1594, or at the latest in 1595.
Shakespeare, accordingly, could not have known Lord Pembroke till
after the Sonnets had been written.
'Cyril pointed out also that Pembroke's father did not die till
1601; whereas it was evident from the line,
You had a father; let your son say so,
that the father of Mr. W. H. was dead in 1598. Besides, it was
absurd to imagine that any publisher of the time, and the preface
is from the publisher's hand, would have ventured to address
William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, as Mr. W. H.; the case of Lord
Buckhurst being spoken of as Mr. Sackville being not really a
parallel instance, as Lord Buckhurst was not a peer, but merely the
younger son of a peer, with a courtesy title, and the passage in
ENGLAND'S PARNASSUS, where he is so spoken of, is not a formal and
stately dedication, but simply a casual allusion. So far for Lord
Pembroke, whose supposed claims Cyril easily demolished while I sat
by in wonder. With Lord Southampton Cyril had even less
difficulty. Southampton became at a very early age the lover of
Elizabeth Vernon, so he needed no entreaties to marry; he was not
beautiful; he did not resemble his mother, as Mr. W. H. did -
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
and, above all, his Christian name was Henry, whereas the punning
sonnets (CXXXV. and CXLIII.) show that the Christian name of
Shakespeare's friend was the same as his own - WILL.
'As for the other suggestions of unfortunate commentators, that Mr.
W. H. is a misprint for Mr. W. S., meaning Mr. William Shakespeare;
that "Mr. W. H. all" should be read "Mr. W. Hall"; that Mr. W. H.
is Mr. William Hathaway; and that a full stop should be placed
after "wisheth," making Mr. W. H. the writer and not the subject of
the dedication, - Cyril got rid of them in a very short time; and
it is not worth while to mention his reasons, though I remember he
sent me off into a fit of laughter by reading to me, I am glad to
say not in the original, some extracts from a German commentator
called Barnstorff, who insisted that Mr. W. H. was no less a person
than "Mr. William Himself." Nor would he allow for a moment that
the Sonnets are mere satires on the work of Drayton and John Davies
of Hereford. To him, as indeed to me, they were poems of serious
and tragic import, wrung out of the bitterness of Shakespeare's
heart, and made sweet by the honey of his lips. Still less would
he admit that they were merely a philosophical allegory, and that
in them Shakespeare is addressing his Ideal Self, or Ideal Manhood,
or the Spirit of Beauty, or the Reason, or the Divine Logos, or the
Catholic Church. He felt, as indeed I think we all must feel, that
the Sonnets are addressed to an individual, - to a particular young
man whose personality for some reason seems to have filled the soul
of Shakespeare with terrible joy and no less terrible despair.
'Having in this manner cleared the way as it were, Cyril asked me
to dismiss from my mind any preconceived ideas I might have formed
on the subject, and to give a fair and unbiassed hearing to his own
theory. The problem he pointed out was this: Who was that young
man of Shakespeare's day who, without being of noble birth or even
of noble nature, was addressed by him in terms of such passionate
adoration that we can but wonder at the strange worship, and are
almost afraid to turn the key that unlocks the mystery of the
poet's heart? Who was he whose physical beauty was such that it
became the very corner-stone of Shakespeare's art; the very source
of Shakespeare's inspiration; the very incarnation of Shakespeare's
dreams? To look upon him as simply the object of certain lovepoems
is to miss the whole meaning of the poems: for the art of
which Shakespeare talks in the Sonnets is not the art of the
Sonnets themselves, which indeed were to him but slight and secret
things - it is the art of the dramatist to which he is always
alluding; and he to whom Shakespeare said -
Thou art all my art, and dost advance
As high as learning my rude ignorance,
he to whom he promised immortality,
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men, -
was surely none other than the boy-actor for whom he created Viola
and Imogen, Juliet and Rosalind, Portia and Desdemona, and
Cleopatra herself. This was Cyril Graham's theory, evolved as you
see purely from the Sonnets themselves, and depending for its
acceptance not so much on demonstrable proof or formal evidence,
but on a kind of spiritual and artistic sense, by which alone he
claimed could the true meaning of the poems be discerned. I
remember his reading to me that fine sonnet -
How can my Muse want subject to invent,
While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;
For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thyself dost give invention light?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to outlive long date -
and pointing out how completely it corroborated his theory; and
indeed he went through all the Sonnets carefully, and showed, or
fancied that he showed, that, according to his new explanation of
their meaning, things that had seemed obscure, or evil, or
exaggerated, became clear and rational, and of high artistic
import, illustrating Shakespeare's conception of the true relations
between the art of the actor and the art of the dramatist.
'It is of course evident that there must have been in Shakespeare's
company some wonderful boy-actor of great beauty, to whom he
intrusted the presentation of his noble heroines; for Shakespeare
was a practical theatrical manager as well as an imaginative poet,
and Cyril Graham had actually discovered the boy-actor's name. He
was Will, or, as he preferred to call him, Willie Hughes. The
Christian name he found of course in the punning sonnets, CXXXV.
and CXLIII.; the surname was, according to him, hidden in the
seventh line of the 20th Sonnet, where Mr. W. H. is described as -
A man in hew, all HEWS in his controwling.
'In the original edition of the Sonnets "Hews" is printed with a
capital letter and in italics, and this, he claimed, showed clearly
that a play on words was intended, his view receiving a good deal
of corroboration from those sonnets in which curious puns are made
on the words "use" and "usury." Of course I was converted at once,
and Willie Hughes became to me as real a person as Shakespeare.
The only objection I made to the theory was that the name of Willie
Hughes does not occur in the list of the actors of Shakespeare's
company as it is printed in the first folio. Cyril, however,
pointed out that the absence of Willie Hughes's name from this list
really corroborated the theory, as it was evident from Sonnet
LXXXVI. that Willie Hughes had abandoned Shakespeare's company to
play at a rival theatre, probably in some of Chapman's plays. It
is in reference to this that in the great sonnet on Chapman,
Shakespeare said to Willie Hughes -
But when your countenance fill'd up his line,
Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine -
the expression "when your countenance filled up his line" referring
obviously to the beauty of the young actor giving life and reality
and added charm to Chapman's verse, the same idea being also put
forward in the 79th Sonnet -
Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace;
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd,
And my sick Muse doth give another place;
and in the immediately preceding sonnet, where Shakespeare says -
Every alien pen has got my USE
And under thee their poesy disperse,
the play upon words (use=Hughes) being of course obvious, and the
phrase "under thee their poesy disperse," meaning "by your
assistance as an actor bring their plays before the people."
'It was a wonderful evening, and we sat up almost till dawn reading
and re-reading the Sonnets. After some time, however, I began to
see that before the theory could be placed before the world in a
really perfected form, it was necessary to get some independent
evidence about the existence of this young actor, Willie Hughes.
If this could be once established, there could be no possible doubt
about his identity with Mr. W. H.; but otherwise the theory would
fall to the ground. I put this forward very strongly to Cyril, who
was a good deal annoyed at what he called my Philistine tone of
mind, and indeed was rather bitter upon the subject. However, I
made him promise that in his own interest he would not publish his
discovery till he had put the whole matter beyond the reach of
doubt; and for weeks and weeks we searched the registers of City
churches, the Alleyn MSS. at Dulwich, the Record Office, the papers
of the Lord Chamberlain - everything, in fact, that we thought
might contain some allusion to Willie Hughes. We discovered
nothing, of course, and every day the existence of Willie Hughes
seemed to me to become more problematical. Cyril was in a dreadful
state, and used to go over the whole question day after day,
entreating me to believe; but I saw the one flaw in the theory, and
I refused to be convinced till the actual existence of Willie
Hughes, a boy-actor of Elizabethan days, had been placed beyond the
reach of doubt or cavil.
'One day Cyril left town to stay with his grandfather, I thought at
the time, but I afterwards heard from Lord Crediton that this was
not the case; and about a fortnight afterwards I received a
telegram from him, handed in at Warwick, asking me to be sure to
come and dine with him that evening at eight o'clock. When I
arrived, he said to me, "The only apostle who did not deserve proof
was St. Thomas, and St. Thomas was the only apostle who got it." I
asked him what he meant. He answered that he had not merely been
able to establish the existence in the sixteenth century of a boyactor
of the name of Willie Hughes, but to prove by the most
conclusive evidence that he was the Mr. W. H. of the Sonnets. He
would not tell me anything more at the time; but after dinner he
solemnly produced the picture I showed you, and told me that he had
discovered it by the merest chance nailed to the side of an old
chest that he had bought at a farmhouse in Warwickshire. The chest
itself, which was a very fine example of Elizabethan work, he had,
of course, brought with him, and in the centre of the front panel
the initials W. H. were undoubtedly carved. It was this monogram
that had attracted his attention, and he told me that it was not
till he had had the chest in his possession for several days that
he had thought of making any careful examination of the inside.
One morning, however, he saw that one of the sides of the chest was
much thicker than the other, and looking more closely, he
discovered that a framed panel picture was clamped against it. On
taking it out, he found it was the picture that is now lying on the
sofa. It was very dirty, and covered with mould; but he managed to
clean it, and, to his great joy, saw that he had fallen by mere
chance on the one thing for which he had been looking. Here was an
authentic portrait of Mr. W. H., with his hand resting on the
dedicatory page of the Sonnets, and on the frame itself could be
faintly seen the name of the young man written in black uncial
letters on a faded gold ground, "Master Will. Hews."
'Well, what was I to say? It never occurred to me for a moment
that Cyril Graham was playing a trick on me, or that he was trying
to prove his theory by means of a forgery.'
'But is it a forgery?' I asked.
'Of course it is,' said Erskine. 'It is a very good forgery; but
it is a forgery none the less. I thought at the time that Cyril
was rather calm about the whole matter; but I remember he more than
once told me that he himself required no proof of the kind, and
that he thought the theory complete without it. I laughed at him,
and told him that without it the theory would fall to the ground,
and I warmly congratulated him on the marvellous discovery. We
then arranged that the picture should be etched or facsimiled, and
placed as the frontispiece to Cyril's edition of the Sonnets; and
for three months we did nothing but go over each poem line by line,
till we had settled every difficulty of text or meaning. One
unlucky day I was in a print-shop in Holborn, when I saw upon the
counter some extremely beautiful drawings in silver-point. I was
so attracted by them that I bought them; and the proprietor of the
place, a man called Rawlings, told me that they were done by a
young painter of the name of Edward Merton, who was very clever,
but as poor as a church mouse. I went to see Merton some days
afterwards, having got his address from the printseller, and found
a pale, interesting young man, with a rather common-looking wife -
his model, as I subsequently learned. I told him how much I
admired his drawings, at which he seemed very pleased, and I asked
him if he would show me some of his other work. As we were looking
over a portfolio, full of really very lovely things, - for Merton
had a most delicate and delightful touch, - I suddenly caught sight
of a drawing of the picture of Mr. W. H. There was no doubt
whatever about it. It was almost a FACSIMILE - the only difference
being that the two masks of Tragedy and Comedy were not suspended
from the marble table as they are in the picture, but were lying on
the floor at the young man's feet. "Where on earth did you get
that?" I said. He grew rather confused, and said - "Oh, that is
nothing. I did not know it was in this portfolio. It is not a
thing of any value." "It is what you did for Mr. Cyril Graham,"
exclaimed his wife; "and if this gentleman wishes to buy it, let
him have it." "For Mr. Cyril Graham?" I repeated. "Did you paint
the picture of Mr. W. H.?" "I don't understand what you mean," he
answered, growing very red. Well, the whole thing was quite
dreadful. The wife let it all out. I gave her five pounds when I
was going away. I can't bear to think of it now; but of course I
was furious. I went off at once to Cyril's chambers, waited there
for three hours before he came in, with that horrid lie staring me
in the face, and told him I had discovered his forgery. He grew
very pale and said - "I did it purely for your sake. You would not
be convinced in any other way. It does not affect the truth of the
theory." "The truth of the theory!" I exclaimed; "the less we talk
about that the better. You never even believed in it yourself. If
you had, you would not have committed a forgery to prove it." High
words passed between us; we had a fearful quarrel. I dare say I
was unjust. The next morning he was dead.'
'Dead!' I cried,
'Yes; he shot himself with a revolver. Some of the blood splashed
upon the frame of the picture, just where the name had been
painted. By the time I arrived - his servant had sent for me at
once - the police were already there. He had left a letter for me,
evidently written in the greatest agitation and distress of mind.'
'What was in it?' I asked.
'Oh, that he believed absolutely in Willie Hughes; that the forgery
of the picture had been done simply as a concession to me, and did
not in the slightest degree invalidate the truth of the theory;
and, that in order to show me how firm and flawless his faith in
the whole thing was, he was going to offer his life as a sacrifice
to the secret of the Sonnets. It was a foolish, mad letter. I
remember he ended by saying that he intrusted to me the Willie
Hughes theory, and that it was for me to present it to the world,
and to unlock the secret of Shakespeare's heart.'
'It is a most tragic story,' I cried; 'but why have you not carried
out his wishes?'
Erskine shrugged his shoulders. 'Because it is a perfectly unsound
theory from beginning to end,' he answered.
'My dear Erskine,' I said, getting up from my seat, 'you are
entirely wrong about the whole matter. It is the only perfect key
to Shakespeare's Sonnets that has ever been made. It is complete
in every detail. I believe in Willie Hughes.'
'Don't say that,' said Erskine gravely; 'I believe there is
something fatal about the idea, and intellectually there is nothing
to be said for it. I have gone into the whole matter, and I assure
you the theory is entirely fallacious. It is plausible up to a
certain point. Then it stops. For heaven's sake, my dear boy,
don't take up the subject of Willie Hughes. You will break your
heart over it.'
'Erskine,' I answered, 'it is your duty to give this theory to the
world. If you will not do it, I will. By keeping it back you
wrong the memory of Cyril Graham, the youngest and the most
splendid of all the martyrs of literature. I entreat you to do him
justice. He died for this thing, - don't let his death be in
Erskine looked at me in amazement. 'You are carried away by the
sentiment of the whole story,' he said. 'You forget that a thing
is not necessarily true because a man dies for it. I was devoted
to Cyril Graham. His death was a horrible blow to me. I did not
recover it for years. I don't think I have ever recovered it. But
Willie Hughes? There is nothing in the idea of Willie Hughes. No
such person ever existed. As for bringing the whole thing before
the world - the world thinks that Cyril Graham shot himself by
accident. The only proof of his suicide was contained in the
letter to me, and of this letter the public never heard anything.
To the present day Lord Crediton thinks that the whole thing was
'Cyril Graham sacrificed his life to a great Idea,' I answered;
'and if you will not tell of his martyrdom, tell at least of his
'His faith,' said Erskine, 'was fixed in a thing that was false, in
a thing that was unsound, in a thing that no Shakespearean scholar
would accept for a moment. The theory would be laughed at. Don't
make a fool of yourself, and don't follow a trail that leads
nowhere. You start by assuming the existence of the very person
whose existence is the thing to be proved. Besides, everybody
knows that the Sonnets were addressed to Lord Pembroke. The matter
is settled once for all.'
'The matter is not settled!' I exclaimed. 'I will take up the
theory where Cyril Graham left it, and I will prove to the world
that he was right.'
'Silly boy!' said Erskine. 'Go home: it is after two, and don't
think about Willie Hughes any more. I am sorry I told you anything
about it, and very sorry indeed that I should have converted you to
a thing in which I don't believe.'
'You have given me the key to the greatest mystery of modern
literature,' I answered; 'and I shall not rest till I have made you
recognise, till I have made everybody recognise, that Cyril Graham
was the most subtle Shakespearean critic of our day.'
As I walked home through St. James's Park the dawn was just
breaking over London. The white swans were lying asleep on the
polished lake, and the gaunt Palace looked purple against the palegreen
sky. I thought of Cyril Graham, and my eyes filled with
IT was past twelve o'clock when I awoke, and the sun was streaming
in through the curtains of my room in long slanting beams of dusty
gold. I told my servant that I would be at home to no one; and
after I had had a cup of chocolate and a PETIT-PAIN, I took down
from the book-shelf my copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets, and began to
go carefully through them. Every poem seemed to me to corroborate
Cyril Graham's theory. I felt as if I had my hand upon
Shakespeare's heart, and was counting each separate throb and pulse
of passion. I thought of the wonderful boy-actor, and saw his face
in every line.
Two sonnets, I remember, struck me particularly: they were the
53rd and the 67th. In the first of these, Shakespeare,
complimenting Willie Hughes on the versatility of his acting, on
his wide range of parts, a range extending from Rosalind to Juliet,
and from Beatrice to Ophelia, says to him -
What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one hath, every one, one shade,
And you, but one, can every shadow lend -
lines that would be unintelligible if they were not addressed to an
actor, for the word 'shadow' had in Shakespeare's day a technical
meaning connected with the stage. 'The best in this kind are but
shadows,' says Theseus of the actors in the MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S
DREAM, and there are many similar allusions in the literature of
the day. These sonnets evidently belonged to the series in which
Shakespeare discusses the nature of the actor's art, and of the
strange and rare temperament that is essential to the perfect
stage-player. 'How is it,' says Shakespeare to Willie Hughes,
'that you have so many personalities?' and then he goes on to point
out that his beauty is such that it seems to realise every form and
phase of fancy, to embody each dream of the creative imagination -
an idea that is still further expanded in the sonnet that
immediately follows, where, beginning with the fine thought,
O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which TRUTH doth give!
Shakespeare invites us to notice how the truth of acting, the truth
of visible presentation on the stage, adds to the wonder of poetry,
giving life to its loveliness, and actual reality to its ideal
form. And yet, in the 67th Sonnet, Shakespeare calls upon Willie
Hughes to abandon the stage with its artificiality, its false mimic
life of painted face and unreal costume, its immoral influences and
suggestions, its remoteness from the true world of noble action and
Ah, wherefore with infection should he live
And with his presence grace impiety,
That sin by him advantage should achieve
And lace itself with his society?
Why should false painting imitate his cheek,
And steal dead seeming of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek
Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?
It may seem strange that so great a dramatist as Shakespeare, who
realised his own perfection as an artist and his humanity as a man
on the ideal plane of stage-writing and stage-playing, should have
written in these terms about the theatre; but we must remember that
in Sonnets CX. and CXI. Shakespeare shows us that he too was
wearied of the world of puppets, and full of shame at having made
himself 'a motley to the view.' The 111th Sonnet is especially
O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
That did not better for my life provide
Than public means which public manners breeds.
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,
And almost thence my nature is subdued
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand:
Pity me then and wish I were renew'd -
and there are many signs elsewhere of the same feeling, signs
familiar to all real students of Shakespeare.
One point puzzled me immensely as I read the Sonnets, and it was
days before I struck on the true interpretation, which indeed Cyril
Graham himself seems to have missed. I could not understand how it
was that Shakespeare set so high a value on his young friend
marrying. He himself had married young, and the result had been
unhappiness, and it was not likely that he would have asked Willie
Hughes to commit the same error. The boy-player of Rosalind had
nothing to gain from marriage, or from the passions of real life.
The early sonnets, with their strange entreaties to have children,
seemed to me a jarring note. The explanation of the mystery came
on me quite suddenly, and I found it in the curious dedication. It
will be remembered that the dedication runs as follows:-
TO THE ONLIE BEGETTER OF
THESE INSUING SONNETS
MR. W. H. ALL HAPPINESSE
AND THAT ETERNITIE
OUR EVER-LIVING POET
Some scholars have supposed that the word 'begetter' in this
dedication means simply the procurer of the Sonnets for Thomas
Thorpe the publisher; but this view is now generally abandoned, and
the highest authorities are quite agreed that it is to be taken in
the sense of inspirer, the metaphor being drawn from the analogy of
physical life. Now I saw that the same metaphor was used by
Shakespeare himself all through the poems, and this set me on the
right track. Finally I made my great discovery. The marriage that
Shakespeare proposes for Willie Hughes is the marriage with his
Muse, an expression which is definitely put forward in the 82nd
Sonnet, where, in the bitterness of his heart at the defection of
the boy-actor for whom he had written his greatest parts, and whose
beauty had indeed suggested them, he opens his complaint by saying
I grant thou wert not married to my Muse.
The children he begs him to beget are no children of flesh and
blood, but more immortal children of undying fame. The whole cycle
of the early sonnets is simply Shakespeare's invitation to Willie
Hughes to go upon the stage and become a player. How barren and
profitless a thing, he says, is this beauty of yours if it be not
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
You must create something in art: my verse 'is thine, and BORN of
thee'; only listen to me, and I will 'BRING FORTH eternal numbers
to outlive long date,' and you shall people with forms of your own
image the imaginary world of the stage. These children that you
beget, he continues, will not wither away, as mortal children do,
but you shall live in them and in my plays: do but -
Make thee another self, for love of me,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
I collected all the passages that seemed to me to corroborate this
view, and they produced a strong impression on me, and showed me
how complete Cyril Graham's theory really was. I also saw that it
was quite easy to separate those lines in which he speaks of the
Sonnets themselves from those in which he speaks of his great
dramatic work. This was a point that had been entirely overlooked
by all critics up to Cyril Graham's day. And yet it was one of the
most important points in the whole series of poems. To the Sonnets
Shakespeare was more or less indifferent. He did not wish to rest
his fame on them. They were to him his 'slight Muse,' as he calls
them, and intended, as Meres tells us, for private circulation only
among a few, a very few, friends. Upon the other hand he was
extremely conscious of the high artistic value of his plays, and
shows a noble self-reliance upon his dramatic genius. When he says
to Willie Hughes:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in ETERNAL LINES to time thou grow'st:
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee; -
the expression 'eternal lines' clearly alludes to one of his plays
that he was sending him at the time, just as the concluding couplet
points to his confidence in the probability of his plays being
always acted. In his address to the Dramatic Muse (Sonnets C. and
CI.), we find the same feeling.
Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
he cries, and he then proceeds to reproach the Mistress of Tragedy
and Comedy for her 'neglect of Truth in Beauty dyed,' and says -
Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?
Excuse not silence so, for 't lies in thee
To make him much outlive a gilded tomb
And to be praised of ages yet to be.
Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how
To make him seem long hence as he shows now.
It is, however, perhaps in the 55th Sonnet that Shakespeare gives
to this idea its fullest expression. To imagine that the 'powerful
rhyme' of the second line refers to the sonnet itself, is to
mistake Shakespeare's meaning entirely. It seemed to me that it
was extremely likely, from the general character of the sonnet,
that a particular play was meant, and that the play was none other
but ROMEO AND JULIET.
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone besmear'd with sluttish time.
When wasteful wars shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgement that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.
It was also extremely suggestive to note how here as elsewhere
Shakespeare promised Willie Hughes immortality in a form that
appealed to men's eyes - that is to say, in a spectacular form, in
a play that is to be looked at.
For two weeks I worked hard at the Sonnets, hardly ever going out,
and refusing all invitations. Every day I seemed to be discovering
something new, and Willie Hughes became to me a kind of spiritual
presence, an ever-dominant personality. I could almost fancy that
I saw him standing in the shadow of my room, so well had
Shakespeare drawn him, with his golden hair, his tender flower-like
grace, his dreamy deep-sunken eyes, his delicate mobile limbs, and
his white lily hands. His very name fascinated me. Willie Hughes!
Willie Hughes! How musically it sounded! Yes; who else but he
could have been the master-mistress of Shakespeare's passion, (1)
the lord of his love to whom he was bound in vassalage, (2) the
delicate minion of pleasure, (3) the rose of the whole world, (4)
the herald of the spring (5) decked in the proud livery of youth,
(6) the lovely boy whom it was sweet music to hear, (7) and whose
beauty was the very raiment of Shakespeare's heart, (8) as it was
the keystone of his dramatic power? How bitter now seemed the
whole tragedy of his desertion and his shame! - shame that he made
sweet and lovely (9) by the mere magic of his personality, but that
was none the less shame. Yet as Shakespeare forgave him, should
not we forgive him also? I did not care to pry into the mystery of
His abandonment of Shakespeare's theatre was a different matter,
and I investigated it at great length. Finally I came to the
conclusion that Cyril Graham had been wrong in regarding the rival
dramatist of the 80th Sonnet as Chapman. It was obviously Marlowe
who was alluded to. At the time the Sonnets were written, such an
expression as 'the proud full sail of his great verse' could not
have been used of Chapman's work, however applicable it might have
been to the style of his later Jacobean plays. No: Marlowe was
clearly the rival dramatist of whom Shakespeare spoke in such
laudatory terms; and that
Affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
was the Mephistopheles of his DOCTOR FAUSTUS. No doubt, Marlowe
was fascinated by the beauty and grace of the boy-actor, and lured
him away from the Blackfriars Theatre, that he might play the
Gaveston of his EDWARD II. That Shakespeare had the legal right to
retain Willie Hughes in his own company is evident from Sonnet
LXXXVII., where he says:-
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
The CHARTER OF THY WORTH gives thee releasing;
My BONDS in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
AND SO MY PATENT BACK AGAIN IS SWERVING.
Thyself thou gayest, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gavest it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgement making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.
But him whom he could not hold by love, he would not hold by force.
Willie Hughes became a member of Lord Pembroke's company, and,
perhaps in the open yard of the Red Bull Tavern, played the part of
King Edward's delicate minion. On Marlowe's death, he seems to
have returned to Shakespeare, who, whatever his fellow-partners may
have thought of the matter, was not slow to forgive the wilfulness
and treachery of the young actor.
How well, too, had Shakespeare drawn the temperament of the stageplayer
! Willie Hughes was one of those
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone.
He could act love, but could not feel it, could mimic passion
without realising it.
In many's looks the false heart's history
Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange,
but with Willie Hughes it was not so. 'Heaven,' says Shakespeare,
in a sonnet of mad idolatry -
Heaven in thy creation did decree
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;
Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be,
Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell.
In his 'inconstant mind' and his 'false heart,' it was easy to
recognise the insincerity and treachery that somehow seem
inseparable from the artistic nature, as in his love of praise that
desire for immediate recognition that characterises all actors.
And yet, more fortunate in this than other actors, Willie Hughes
was to know something of immortality. Inseparably connected with
Shakespeare's plays, he was to live in them.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read,
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse,
When all the breathers of this world are dead.
There were endless allusions, also, to Willie Hughes's power over
his audience - the 'gazers,' as Shakespeare calls them; but perhaps
the most perfect description of his wonderful mastery over dramatic
art was in A LOVER'S COMPLAINT, where Shakespeare says of him:-
In him a plenitude of subtle matter,
Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives,
Of burning blushes, or of weeping water,
Or swooning paleness; and he takes and leaves,
In either's aptness, as it best deceives,
To blush at speeches rank, to weep at woes,
Or to turn white and swoon at tragic shows.
So on the tip of his subduing tongue,
All kind of arguments and questions deep,
All replication prompt and reason strong,
For his advantage still did wake and sleep,
To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep.
He had the dialect and the different skill,
Catching all passions in his craft of will.
Once I thought that I had really found Willie Hughes in Elizabethan
literature. In a wonderfully graphic account of the last days of
the great Earl of Essex, his chaplain, Thomas Knell, tells us that
the night before the Earl died, 'he called William Hewes, which was
his musician, to play upon the virginals and to sing. "Play," said
he, "my song, Will Hewes, and I will sing it to myself." So he did
it most joyfully, not as the howling swan, which, still looking
down, waileth her end, but as a sweet lark, lifting up his hands
and casting up his eyes to his God, with this mounted the crystal
skies, and reached with his unwearied tongue the top of highest
heavens.' Surely the boy who played on the virginals to the dying
father of Sidney's Stella was none other but the Will Hews to whom
Shakespeare dedicated the Sonnets, and who he tells us was himself
sweet 'music to hear.' Yet Lord Essex died in 1576, when
Shakespeare himself was but twelve years of age. It was impossible
that his musician could have been the Mr. W. H. of the Sonnets.
Perhaps Shakespeare's young friend was the son of the player upon
the virginals? It was at least something to have discovered that
Will Hews was an Elizabethan name. Indeed the name Hews seemed to
have been closely connected with music and the stage. The first
English actress was the lovely Margaret Hews, whom Prince Rupert so
madly loved. What more probable than that between her and Lord
Essex's musician had come the boy-actor of Shakespeare's plays?
But the proofs, the links - where were they? Alas! I could not
find them. It seemed to me that I was always on the brink of
absolute verification, but that I could never really attain to it.
From Willie Hughes's life I soon passed to thoughts of his death.
I used to wonder what had been his end.
Perhaps he had been one of those English actors who in 1604 went
across sea to Germany and played before the great Duke Henry Julius
of Brunswick, himself a dramatist of no mean order, and at the
Court of that strange Elector of Brandenburg, who was so enamoured
of beauty that he was said to have bought for his weight in amber
the young son of a travelling Greek merchant, and to have given
pageants in honour of his slave all through that dreadful famine
year of 1606-7, when the people died of hunger in the very streets
of the town, and for the space of seven months there was no rain.
We know at any rate that ROMEO AND JULIET was brought out at
Dresden in 1613, along with HAMLET and KING LEAR, and it was surely
to none other than Willie Hughes that in 1615 the death-mask of
Shakespeare was brought by the hand of one of the suite of the
English ambassador, pale token of the passing away of the great
poet who had so dearly loved him. Indeed there would have been
something peculiarly fitting in the idea that the boy-actor, whose
beauty had been so vital an element in the realism and romance of
Shakespeare's art, should have been the first to have brought to
Germany the seed of the new culture, and was in his way the
precursor of that AUFKLARUNG or Illumination of the eighteenth
century, that splendid movement which, though begun by Lessing and
Herder, and brought to its full and perfect issue by Goethe, was in
no small part helped on by another actor - Friedrich Schroeder -
who awoke the popular consciousness, and by means of the feigned
passions and mimetic methods of the stage showed the intimate, the
vital, connection between life and literature. If this was so -
and there was certainly no evidence against it - it was not
improbable that Willie Hughes was one of those English comedians
(MIMAE QUIDAM EX BRITANNIA, as the old chronicle calls them), who
were slain at Nuremberg in a sudden uprising of the people, and
were secretly buried in a little vineyard outside the city by some
young men 'who had found pleasure in their performances, and of
whom some had sought to be instructed in the mysteries of the new
art.' Certainly no more fitting place could there be for him to
whom Shakespeare said, 'thou art all my art,' than this little
vineyard outside the city walls. For was it not from the sorrows
of Dionysos that Tragedy sprang? Was not the light laughter of
Comedy, with its careless merriment and quick replies, first heard
on the lips of the Sicilian vine-dressers? Nay, did not the purple
and red stain of the wine-froth on face and limbs give the first
suggestion of the charm and fascination of disguise - the desire
for self-concealment, the sense of the value of objectivity thus
showing itself in the rude beginnings of the art? At any rate,
wherever he lay - whether in the little vineyard at the gate of the
Gothic town, or in some dim London churchyard amidst the roar and
bustle of our great city - no gorgeous monument marked his restingplace.
His true tomb, as Shakespeare saw, was the poet's verse,
his true monument the permanence of the drama. So had it been with
others whose beauty had given a new creative impulse to their age.
The ivory body of the Bithynian slave rots in the green ooze of the
Nile, and on the yellow hills of the Cerameicus is strewn the dust
of the young Athenian; but Antinous lives in sculpture, and
Charmides in philosophy.
AFTER three weeks had elapsed, I determined to make a strong appeal
to Erskine to do justice to the memory of Cyril Graham, and to give
to the world his marvellous interpretation of the Sonnets - the
only interpretation that thoroughly explained the problem. I have
not any copy of my letter, I regret to say, nor have I been able to
lay my hand upon the original; but I remember that I went over the
whole ground, and covered sheets of paper with passionate
reiteration of the arguments and proofs that my study had suggested
to me. It seemed to me that I was not merely restoring Cyril
Graham to his proper place in literary history, but rescuing the
honour of Shakespeare himself from the tedious memory of a
commonplace intrigue. I put into the letter all my enthusiasm. I
put into the letter all my faith.
No sooner, in fact, had I sent it off than a curious reaction came
over me. It seemed to me that I had given away my capacity for
belief in the Willie Hughes theory of the Sonnets, that something
had gone out of me, as it were, and that I was perfectly
indifferent to the whole subject. What was it that had happened?
It is difficult to say. Perhaps, by finding perfect expression for
a passion, I had exhausted the passion itself. Emotional forces,
like the forces of physical life, have their positive limitations.
Perhaps the mere effort to convert any one to a theory involves
some form of renunciation of the power of credence. Perhaps I was
simply tired of the whole thing, and, my enthusiasm having burnt
out, my reason was left to its own unimpassioned judgment. However
it came about, and I cannot pretend to explain it, there was no
doubt that Willie Hughes suddenly became to me a mere myth, an idle
dream, the boyish fancy of a young man who, like most ardent
spirits, was more anxious to convince others than to be himself
As I had said some very unjust and bitter things to Erskine in my
letter, I determined to go and see him at once, and to make my
apologies to him for my behaviour. Accordingly, the next morning I
drove down to Birdcage Walk, and found Erskine sitting in his
library, with the forged picture of Willie Hughes in front of him.
'My dear Erskine!' I cried, 'I have come to apologise to you.'
'To apologise to me?' he said. 'What for?'
'For my letter,' I answered.
'You have nothing to regret in your letter,' he said. 'On the
contrary, you have done me the greatest service in your power. You
have shown me that Cyril Graham's theory is perfectly sound.'
'You don't mean to say that you believe in Willie Hughes?' I
'Why not?' he rejoined. 'You have proved the thing to me. Do you
think I cannot estimate the value of evidence?'
'But there is no evidence at all,' I groaned, sinking into a chair.
'When I wrote to you I was under the influence of a perfectly silly
enthusiasm. I had been touched by the story of Cyril Graham's
death, fascinated by his romantic theory, enthralled by the wonder
and novelty of the whole idea. I see now that the theory is based
on a delusion. The only evidence for the existence of Willie
Hughes is that picture in front of you, and the picture is a
forgery. Don't be carried away by mere sentiment in this matter.
Whatever romance may have to say about the Willie Hughes theory,
reason is dead against it.'
'I don't understand you,' said Erskine, looking at me in amazement.
'Why, you yourself have convinced me by your letter that Willie
Hughes is an absolute reality. Why have you changed your mind? Or
is all that you have been saying to me merely a joke?'
'I cannot explain it to you,' I rejoined, 'but I see now that there
is really nothing to be said in favour of Cyril Graham's
interpretation. The Sonnets are addressed to Lord Pembroke. For
heaven's sake don't waste your time in a foolish attempt to
discover a young Elizabethan actor who never existed, and to make a
phantom puppet the centre of the great cycle of Shakespeare's
'I see that you don't understand the theory,' he replied.
'My dear Erskine,' I cried, 'not understand it! Why, I feel as if
I had invented it. Surely my letter shows you that I not merely
went into the whole matter, but that I contributed proofs of every
kind. The one flaw in the theory is that it presupposes the
existence of the person whose existence is the subject of dispute.
If we grant that there was in Shakespeare's company a young actor
of the name of Willie Hughes, it is not difficult to make him the
object of the Sonnets. But as we know that there was no actor of
this name in the company of the Globe Theatre, it is idle to pursue
the investigation further.'
'But that is exactly what we don't know,' said Erskine. 'It is
quite true that his name does not occur in the list given in the
first folio; but, as Cyril pointed out, that is rather a proof in
favour of the existence of Willie Hughes than against it, if we
remember his treacherous desertion of Shakespeare for a rival
We argued the matter over for hours, but nothing that I could say
could make Erskine surrender his faith in Cyril Graham's
interpretation. He told me that he intended to devote his life to
proving the theory, and that he was determined to do justice to
Cyril Graham's memory. I entreated him, laughed at him, begged of
him, but it was of no use. Finally we parted, not exactly in
anger, but certainly with a shadow between us. He thought me
shallow, I thought him foolish. When I called on him again his
servant told me that he had gone to Germany.
Two years afterwards, as I was going into my club, the hall-porter
handed me a letter with a foreign postmark. It was from Erskine,
and written at the Hotel d'Angleterre, Cannes. When I had read it
I was filled with horror, though I did not quite believe that he
would be so mad as to carry his resolve into execution. The gist
of the letter was that he had tried in every way to verify the
Willie Hughes theory, and had failed, and that as Cyril Graham had
given his life for this theory, he himself had determined to give
his own life also to the same cause. The concluding words of the
letter were these: 'I still believe in Willie Hughes; and by the
time you receive this, I shall have died by my own hand for Willie
Hughes's sake: for his sake, and for the sake of Cyril Graham,
whom I drove to his death by my shallow scepticism and ignorant
lack of faith. The truth was once revealed to you, and you
rejected it. It comes to you now stained with the blood of two
lives, - do not turn away from it.'
It was a horrible moment. I felt sick with misery, and yet I could
not believe it. To die for one's theological beliefs is the worst
use a man can make of his life, but to die for a literary theory!
It seemed impossible.
I looked at the date. The letter was a week old. Some unfortunate
chance had prevented my going to the club for several days, or I
might have got it in time to save him. Perhaps it was not too
late. I drove off to my rooms, packed up my things, and started by
the night-mail from Charing Cross. The journey was intolerable. I
thought I would never arrive. As soon as I did I drove to the
Hotel l'Angleterre. They told me that Erskine had been buried two
days before in the English cemetery. There was something horribly
grotesque about the whole tragedy. I said all kinds of wild
things, and the people in the hall looked curiously at me.
Suddenly Lady Erskine, in deep mourning, passed across the
vestibule. When she saw me she came up to me, murmured something
about her poor son, and burst into tears. I led her into her
sitting-room. An elderly gentleman was there waiting for her. It
was the English doctor.
We talked a great deal about Erskine, but I said nothing about his
motive for committing suicide. It was evident that he had not told
his mother anything about the reason that had driven him to so
fatal, so mad an act. Finally Lady Erskine rose and said, George
left you something as a memento. It was a thing he prized very
much. I will get it for you.
As soon as she had left the room I turned to the doctor and said,
'What a dreadful shock it must have been to Lady Erskine! I wonder
that she bears it as well as she does.'
'Oh, she knew for months past that it was coming,' he answered.
'Knew it for months past!' I cried. 'But why didn't she stop him?
Why didn't she have him watched? He must have been mad.'
The doctor stared at me. 'I don't know what you mean,' he said.
'Well,' I cried, 'if a mother knows that her son is going to commit
suicide - '
'Suicide!' he answered. 'Poor Erskine did not commit suicide. He
died of consumption. He came here to die. The moment I saw him I
knew that there was no hope. One lung was almost gone, and the
other was very much affected. Three days before he died he asked
me was there any hope. I told him frankly that there was none, and
that he had only a few days to live. He wrote some letters, and
was quite resigned, retaining his senses to the last.'
At that moment Lady Erskine entered the room with the fatal picture
of Willie Hughes in her hand. 'When George was dying he begged me
to give you this,' she said. As I took it from her, her tears fell
on my hand.
The picture hangs now in my library, where it is very much admired
by my artistic friends. They have decided that it is not a Clouet,
but an Oudry. I have never cared to tell them its true history.
But sometimes, when I look at it, I think that there is really a
great deal to be said for the Willie Hughes theory of Shakespeare's
(1) Sonnet xx. 2.
(2) Sonnet xxvi. 1.
(3) Sonnet cxxvi. 9.
(4) Sonnet cix. 14.
(5) Sonnet i. 10.
(6) Sonnet ii. 3.
(7) Sonnet viii. 1.
(8) Sonnet xxii. 6.
(9) Sonnet xcv. 1.