Basil | Page 3

consider it loss of time, and worse, to offer any further explanation of
my motives, than the sufficient explanation which I have given already.
I do not address myself to them in this book, and shall never think of
addressing myself to them in any other.
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Those words formed part of the original introduction to this novel. I
wrote them nearly ten years since; and what I said then, I say now.
"Basil" was the second work of fiction which I produced. On its
appearance, it was condemned off-hand, by a certain class of readers,
as an outrage on their sense of propriety. Conscious of having designed
and written, my story with the strictest regard to true delicacy, as
distinguished from false--I allowed the prurient misinterpretation of
certain perfectly innocent passages in this book to assert itself as
offensively as it pleased, without troubling myself to protest against an
expression of opinion which aroused in me no other feeling than a
feeling of contempt. I knew that "Basil" had nothing to fear from
pure-minded readers; and I left these pages to stand or fall on such
merits as they possessed. Slowly and surely, my story forced its way
through all adverse criticism, to a place in the public favour which it
has never lost since. Some of the most valued friends I now possess,
were made for me by "Basil." Some of the most gratifying recognitions
of my labours which I have received, from readers personally strangers
to me, have been recognitions of the purity of this story, from the first
page to the last. All the indulgence I need now ask for "Basil," is
indulgence for literary defects, which are the result of inexperience;
which no correction can wholly remove; and which no one sees more
plainly, after a lapse of ten years, than the writer himself.
I have only to add, that the present edition of this book is the first
which has had the benefit of my careful revision. While the incidents of
the story remain exactly what they were, the language in which they are

told has been, I hope, in many cases greatly altered for the better.
WILKIE COLLINS.
Harley Street, London, July, 1862.
BASIL.
PART I.
I.
WHAT am I now about to write?
The history of little more than the events of one year, out of the
twenty-four years of my life.
Why do I undertake such an employment as this?
Perhaps, because I think that my narrative may do good; because I hope
that, one day, it may be put to some warning use. I am now about to
relate the story of an error, innocent in its beginning, guilty in its
progress, fatal in its results; and I would fain hope that my plain and
true record will show that this error was not committed altogether
without excuse. When these pages are found after my death, they will
perhaps be calmly read and gently judged, as relics solemnized by the
atoning shadows of the grave. Then, the hard sentence against me may
be repented of; the children of the next generation of our house may be
taught to speak charitably of my memory, and may often, of their own
accord, think of me kindly in the thoughtful watches of the night.
Prompted by these motives, and by others which I feel, but cannot
analyse, I now begin my self-imposed occupation. Hidden amid the far
hills of the far West of England, surrounded only by the few simple
inhabitants of a fishing hamlet on the Cornish coast, there is little fear
that my attention will be distracted from my task; and as little chance
that any indolence on my part will delay its speedy accomplishment. I
live under a threat of impending hostility, which may descend and

overwhelm me, I know not how soon, or in what manner. An enemy,
determined and deadly, patient alike to wait days or years for his
opportunity, is ever lurking after me in the dark. In entering on my new
employment, I cannot say of my time, that it may be mine for another
hour; of my life, that it may last till evening.
Thus it is as no leisure work that I begin my narrative--and begin it, too,
on my birthday! On this day I complete my twenty-fourth year; the first
new year of my life which has not been greeted by a single kind word,
or a single loving wish. But one look of welcome can still find me in
my solitude--the lovely morning look of nature, as I now see it from the
casement of my room. Brighter and brighter shines out the lusty sun
from banks of purple, rainy cloud; fishermen are spreading their nets to
dry on the lower declivities of the