CHAPTER I

by Wilkie Collins · 2026-03-31

I realized, though it was too late, the foolishness of starting a project without considering the cost and without accurately assessing my own ability to see it through.

Just yesterday, I opened my copy of *Robinson Crusoe* to that very passage. Then, this morning—May 21, 1850—my lady’s nephew, Mr. Franklin Blake, came by and we had a brief conversation that went like this:

“Betteredge,” he said, “I’ve been to the lawyer’s about some family matters, and among other things, we discussed the loss of the Indian Diamond from my aunt’s house in Yorkshire two years ago. Mr. Bruff agrees with me that the whole story needs to be documented for the sake of truth—and the sooner, the better.”

Not quite understanding where he was headed, and always thinking it best to stay on the lawyer’s good side for the sake of peace, I nodded in agreement. Mr. Franklin continued.

“In this matter of the Diamond,” he explained, “innocent people have already been unfairly suspected, as you know. If we don’t record the facts now, the memories of these innocent people might suffer in the future. There’s no doubt that our strange family story needs to be told. Mr. Bruff and I believe we’ve found the right way to tell it.”

That was surely satisfying for both of them, but I couldn’t see how I fit into this plan.

“We have certain events to recount,” Mr. Franklin went on, “and there are people involved in those events who can tell them. Starting from these straightforward facts, we should each write the story of the Moonstone in turn, based on our personal experiences. We need to begin with how the Diamond came into my uncle Herncastle’s possession while he was in India fifty years ago. I already have that part written down in an old family document, which includes the necessary details from an eyewitness. The next step is to explain how the Diamond ended up in my aunt’s house in Yorkshire two years ago and how it was lost in just over twelve hours. Nobody knows more about what happened in the house during that time than you do, Betteredge, so you need to take the pen and start the story.”

That’s how I learned my role in the matter of the Diamond. If you’re curious about my response, I’ll tell you that I did what you would probably have done in my position. I humbly claimed that I was unfit for the task—and yet, deep down, I felt confident that I could do it if I just gave myself a fair chance. Mr. Franklin, I suspect, saw right through my modesty. He wasn’t convinced and insisted I give my abilities a shot.

Two hours have passed since Mr. Franklin left me. As soon as he was gone, I sat down at my writing desk to begin the story. But here I am, stuck (despite my supposed abilities), thinking about what Robinson Crusoe said—namely, the folly of starting a project without counting the cost and without a clear understanding of my own strength to finish it. Remember, I randomly opened the book to that passage just the day before I rashly took on this task; and I can’t help but wonder—if that isn’t a sign, what is?

I’m not superstitious; I’ve read a lot of books in my time and consider myself somewhat of a scholar. Even at seventy, my memory is sharp, and my legs still work just fine. Don’t mistake my words for those of an ignorant man when I say that a book like *Robinson Crusoe* has never been written and probably never will be again. I’ve turned to that book for years—usually while enjoying a pipe of tobacco—and it has been a reliable friend through all of life’s ups and downs. When I’m feeling low—*Robinson Crusoe*. When I need advice—*Robinson Crusoe*. In the past, when my wife annoyed me; in the present, when I’ve had one too many drinks—*Robinson Crusoe*. I’ve worn out six sturdy copies of *Robinson Crusoe* through hard use. On my lady’s last birthday, she gifted me a seventh. I celebrated a bit too much because of it, and *Robinson Crusoe* set me straight again. Priced at four shillings and sixpence, bound in blue, with a picture to boot.

Still, this doesn’t seem like a proper start to the story of the Diamond, does it? I feel like I’m wandering off in search of who knows what, in who knows where. Let’s take a fresh sheet of paper, if you don’t mind, and start over, with my best regards to you.