We met next day as he had arranged, and inspected
the rooms at
No. 22lB, Baker Street, of which he had spoken at
our meeting.
They consisted of a couple of comfortable bedrooms
and a single
large airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished, and
illuminated by
two broad windows. So desirable in every way were
the apart-
ments, and so moderate did the terms seem when divided
be-
tween us, that the bargain was concluded upon the
spot, and we
at once entered into possession. That very evening
I moved my
things round from the hotel, and on the following
morning
Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and
portman-
teaus. For a day or two we were busily employed in
unpacking
and laying out our property to the best advantage.
That done, we
gradually began to settle down and to accommodate
ourselves to
our new surroundings.
Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to
live with. He was
quiet in his ways, and his habits were regular. It
was rare for him
to be up after ten at night, and he had invariably
breakfasted and
gone out before I rose in the morning. Sometimes he
spent his
day at the chemical laboratory, sometimes in the dissecting-
rooms, and occasionally in long walks, which appeared
to take
him into the lowest portions of the city. Nothing
could exceed
his energy when the working fit was upon him; but
now and
again a reaction would seize him, and for days on
end he would
lie upon the sofa in the sitting-room, hardly uttering
a word or
moving a muscle from morning to night. On these occasions
I
have noticed such a dreamy, vacant expression in his
eyes, that I
might have suspected him of being addicted to the
use of some
narcotic, had not the temperance and cleanliness of
his whole life
forbidden such a notion.
As the weeks went by, my interest in him and
my curiosity as
to his aims in life gradually deepened and increased.
His very
person and appearance were such as to strike the attention
of the
most casual observer. In height he was rather over
six feet, and
so excessively lean that he seemed to be considerably
taller. His
eyes were sharp and piercing, save during those intervals
of
torpor to which I have alluded; and his thin, hawk-like
nose gave
his whole expression an air of alertness and decision.
His chin,
too, had the prominence and squareness which mark
the man of
determination. His hands were invariably blotted with
ink and
stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed of extraordinary
delicacy of touch, as I frequently had occasion to
observe when I
watched him manipulating his fragile philosophical
instruments.
The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody,
when I
confess how much this man stimulated my curiosity,
and how
often I endeavoured to break through the reticence
which he
showed on all that concerned himself. Before pronouncing
judg-
ment, however, be it remembered how objectless was
my life,
and how little there was to engage my attention. My
health
forbade me from venturing out unless the weather was
exception-
ally genial, and I had no friends who would call upon
me and
break the monotony of my daily existence. Under these
circum-
stances, I eagerly hailed the little mystery which
hung around my
companion, and spent much of my time in endeavouring
to
unravel it.
He was not studying medicine. He had himself,
in reply to a
question, confirmed Stamford's opinion upon that point.
Neither
did he appear to have pursued any course of reading
which might
fit him for a degree, in science or any other recognized
portal
which would give him an entrance into the learned
world. Yet
his zeal for certain studies was remarkable, and within
eccentric
limits his knowledge was so extraordinarily ample
and minute
that his observations have fairly astounded me. Surely
no man
would work so hard or attain such precise information
unless he
had some definite end in view. Desultory readers are
seldom
remarkable for the exactness of their learning. No
man burdens
his mind with small matters unless he has some very
good reason
for doing so.
His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge.
Of con-
temporary literature, philosophy and politics he appeared
to know
next to nothing. Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he
inquired
in the naivest way who he might be and what he had
done. My
surprise reached a climax, however, when I found incidentally
that he was ignorant of the Copernican Theory and
of the compo-
sition of the Solar System. That any civilized human
being in
this nineteenth century should not be aware that the
earth trav-
elled round the sun appeared to me to be such an extraordinary
fact that I could hardly realize it.
"You appear to be astonished," he said, smiling
at my ex-
pression of surprise. "Now that I do know it I shall
do my best
to forget it."
"To forget it!"
"You see," he explained, "I consider that a
man's brain
originally is like a little empty attic, and you have
to stock it
with such furniture as you choose. A fool takes in
all the lumber
of every sort that he comes across, so that the knowledge
which
might be useful to him gets crowded out, or at best
is jumbled up
with a lot of other things, so that he has a difficulty
in laying his
hands upon it. Now the skilful workman is very careful
indeed as
to what he takes into his brain-attic. He will have
nothing but the
tools which may help him in doing his work, but of
these he has
a large assortment, and all in the most perfect order.
It is a
mistake to think that that little room has elastic
walls and can
distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes
a time when
for every addition of knowledge you forget something
that you
knew before. It is of the highest importance, therefore,
not to
have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones."
"But the Solar System!" I protested.
"What the deuce is it to me?" he interrupted
impatiently:
"you say that we go round the sun. If we went round
the moon it
would not make a pennyworth of difference to me or
to my
work."
I was on the point of asking him what that
work might be, but
something in his manner showed me that the question
would be
an unwelcome one. I pondered over our short conversation
however, and endeavoured to draw my deductions from
it. He
said that he would acquire no knowledge which did
not bear
upon his object. Therefore all the knowledge which
he possessed
was such as would be useful to him. I enumerated in
my own
mind all the various points upon which he had shown
me that he
was exceptionally well informed. I even took a pencil
and jotted
them down. I could not help smiling at the document
when I had
completed it. It ran in this way:
Sherlock Holmes -- his limits
1. Knowledge of Literature.
-- Nil.
2. "
" Philosophy. -- Nil.
3. "
" Astronomy. -- Nil.
4. "
" Politics. -- Feeble.
5. "
" Botany. -- Variable.
Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons generally.
Knows nothing of practical gardening.
6. Knowledge of Geology.
-- Practical, but limited.
Tells at a glance different soils from each other.
After walks has shown me splashes upon his trou-
sers, and told me by their colour and consistence in
what part of London he had received them.
7. Knowledge of Chemistry.
-- Profound.
8. "
" Anatomy. -- Accurate, but unsystematic
9. "
" Sensational Literature. -- Immense.
He appears to know every detail of every horror
perpetrated in the century.
10. Plays the violin well.
11. Is an expert singlestick
player, boxer, and swordsman.
12. Has a good practical knowledge
of British law.
When I had got so far in my list I threw it
into the fire in
despair. "If I can only find what the fellow is driving
at by
reconciling all these accomplishments, and discovering
a calling
which needs them all," I said to myself, "I may as
well give up
the attempt at once."
I see that I have alluded above to his powers
upon the violin.
These were very remarkable, but as eccentric as all
his other
accomplishments. That he could play pieces, and difficult
pieces,
I knew well, because at my request he has played me
some of
Mendelssohn's Lieder, and other favourites. When left
to him-
self, however, he would seldom produce any music or
attempt
any recognized air. Leaning back in his armchair of
an evening,
he would close his eyes and scrape carelessly at the
fiddle which
was thrown across his knee. Sometimes the chords were
sono-
rous and melancholy. Occasionally they were fantastic
and cheer-
ful. Clearly they reflected the thoughts which possessed
him, but
whether the music aided those thoughts, or whether
the playing
was simply the result of a whim or fancy, was more
than I could
determine. I might have rebelled against these exasperating
solos
had it not been that he usually terminated them by
playing in
quick succession a whole series of my favourite airs
as a slight
compensation for the trial upon my patience.
During the first week or so we had no callers,
and I had begun
to think that my companion was as friendless a man
as I was
myself. Presently, however, I found that he had many
acquaint-
ances, and those in the most different classes of
society. There
was one little sallow, rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow,
who was
introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade, and who came three
or four
times in a single week. One morning a young girl called,
fash-
ionably dressed, and stayed for half an hour or more.
The same
afternoon brought a gray-headed, seedy visitor, looking
like a
Jew peddler, who appeared to me to be much excited,
and who
was closely followed by a slipshod elderly woman.
On another
occasion an old white-haired gentleman had an interview
with
my companion; and on another, a railway porter in
his velveteen
uniform. When any of these nondescript individuals
put in an
appearance, Sherlock Holmes used to beg for the use
of the
sitting-room, and I would retire to my bedroom. He
always
apologized to me for putting me to this inconvenience.
"I have
to use this room as a place of business," he said,
"and these
people are my clients." Again I had an opportunity
of asking
him a point-blank question, and again my delicacy
prevented me
from forcing another man to confide in me. I imagined
at the
time that he had some strong reason for not alluding
to it, but he
soon dispelled the idea by coming round to the subject
of his
own accord.
It was upon the 4th of March, as I have good
reason to
remember, that I rose somewhat earlier than usual,
and found
that Sherlock Holmes had not yet finished his breakfast.
The
landlady had become so accustomed to my late habits
that my
place had not been laid nor my coffee prepared. With
the unrea-
sonable petulance of mankind I rang the bell and gave
a curt
intimation that I was ready. Then I picked up a magazine
from
the table and attempted to while away the time with
it, while my
companion munched silently at his toast. One of the
articles had
a pencil mark at the heading, and I naturally began
to run my eye
through it.
Its somewhat ambitious title was "The Book
of Life," and it
attempted to show how much an observant man might
learn by
an accurate and systematic examination of all that
came in his
way. It struck me as being a remarkable mixture of
shrewdness
and of absurdity. The reasoning was close and intense,
but the
deductions appeared to me to be far fetched and exaggerated.
The writer claimed by a momentary expression, a twitch
of a
muscle or a glance of an eye, to fathom a man's inmost
thoughts.
Deceit, according to him, was an impossibility in
the case of one
trained to observation and analysis. His conclusions
were as
infallible as so many propositions of Euclid. So startling
would
his results appear to the uninitiated that until they
learned the
processes by which he had arrived at them they might
well
consider him as a necromancer.
"From a drop of water," said the writer, "a
logician could
infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara
without having
seen or heard of one or the other. So all life is
a great chain, the
nature of which is known whenever we are shown a single
link
of it. Like all other arts, the Science of Deduction
and Analysis
is one which can only be acquired by long and patient
study, nor
is life long enough to allow any mortal to attain
the highest
possible perfection in it. Before turning to those
moral and
mental aspects of the matter which present the greatest
difficul-
ties, let the inquirer begin by mastering more elementary
prob-
lems. Let him, on meeting a fellow-mortal, learn at
a glance to
distinguish the history of the man, and the trade
or profession to
which he belongs. Puerile as such an exercise may
seem, it
sharpens the faculties of observation, and teaches
one where to
look and what to look for. By a man's finger-nails,
by his
coat-sleeve, by his boots, by his trouser-knees, by
the callosities
of his forefinger and thumb, by his expression, by
his shirt-
cuffs -- by each of these things a man's calling is
plainly re-
vealed. That all united should fail to enlighten the
competent
inquirer in any case is almost inconceivable."
"What ineffable twaddle!" I cried, slapping
the magazine
down on the table; "I never read such rubbish in my
life."
"What is it?" asked Sherlock Holmes.
"Why, this article," I said, pointing at it
with my eggspoon as
I sat down to my breakfast. "I see that you have read
it since
you have marked it. I don't deny that it is smartly
written. It
irritates me, though. It is evidently the theory of
some armchair
lounger who evolves all these neat little paradoxes
in the seclu-
sion of his own study. It is not practical. I should
like to see him
clapped down in a third-class carriage on the Underground,
and
asked to give the trades of all his fellow-travellers.
I would lay a
thousand to one against him."
"You would lose your money," Holmes remarked
calmly.
"As for the article, I wrote it myself."
"You!"
"Yes; I have a turn both for observation and
for deduction.
The theories which I have expressed there, and which
appear to
you to be so chimerical, are really extremely practical
-- so prac-
tical that I depend upon them for my bread and cheese."
"And how?" I asked involuntarily.
"Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose
I am the only one
in the world. I'm a consulting detective, if you can
understand
what that is. Here in London we have lots of government
detec-
tives and lots of private ones. When these fellows
are at fault,
they come to me, and I manage to put them on the right
scent.
They lay all the evidence before me, and I am generally
able, by
the help of my knowledge of the history of crime,
to set them
straight. There is a strong family resemblance about
misdeeds,
and if you have all the details of a thousand at your
finger ends,
it is odd if you can't unravel the thousand and first.
Lestrade is a
well-known detective. He got himself into a fog recently
over a
forgery case, and that was what brought him here."
"And these other people?"
"They are mostly sent on by private inquiry
agencies. They
are all people who are in trouble about something
and want a
little enlightening. I listen to their story, they
listen to my
comments, and then I pocket my fee."
"But do you mean to say," I said, "that without
leaving your
room you can unravel some knot which other men can
make
nothing of, although they have seen every detail for
themselves?"
"Quite so. l have a kind of intuition that
way. Now and again
a case turns up which is a little more complex. Then
I have to
bustle about and see things with my own eyes. You
see I have a
lot of special knowledge which I apply to the problem,
and
which facilitates matters wonderfully. Those rules
of deduction
laid down in that article which aroused your scorn
are invaluable
to me in practical work. Observation with me is second
nature.
You appeared to be surprised when I told you, on our
first
meeting, that you had come from Afghanistan."
"You were told, no doubt."
"Nothing of the sort. I knew you came from
Afghanistan.
From long habit the train of thoughts ran so swiftly
through my
mind that I arrived at the conclusion without being
conscious of
intermediate steps. There were such steps, however.
The train of
reasoning ran, 'Here is a gentleman of a medical type,
but with
the air of a military man. Clearly an army doctor,
then. He has
just come from the tropics, for his face is dark,
and that is not
the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are fair.
He has
undergone hardship and sickness, as his haggard face
says clearly.
His left arm has been injured. He holds it in a stiff
and unnatural
manner. Where in the tropics could an English army
doctor have
seen much hardship and got his arm wounded? Clearly
in Af-
ghanistan.' The whole train of thought did not occupy
a second.
I then remarked that you came from Afghanistan, and
you were
astonished."
"It is simple enough as you explain it," I
said, smiling. "You
remind me of Edgar Allan Poe's Dupin. I had no idea
that such
individuals did exist outside of stories."
Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. "No
doubt you think
that you are complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin,"
he
observed. "Now, in my opinion, Dupin was a very inferior
fellow. That trick of his of breaking in on his friends'
thoughts
with an apropos remark after a quarter of an hour's
silence is
really very showy and superficial. He had some analytical
ge-
nius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a phenomenon
as
Poe appeared to imagine."
"Have you read Gaboriau's works?" I asked.
"Does Lecoq
come up to your idea of a detective?"
Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. "Lecoq
was a misera-
ble bungler," he said, in an angry voice; "he had
only one thing
to recommend him, and that was his energy. That book
made me
positively ill. The question was how to identify an
unknown
prisoner. I could have done it in twenty-four hours.
Lecoq took
six months or so. It might be made a textbook for
detectives to
teach them what to avoid."
I felt rather indignant at having two characters
whom I had
admired treated in this cavalier style. I walked over
to the
window and stood looking out into the busy street.
"This fellow
may be very clever," I said to myself, "but he is
certainly very
conceited."
"There are no crimes and no criminals in these
days," he
said, querulously. "What is the use of having brains
in our
profession? I know well that I have it in me to make
my name
famous. No man lives or has ever lived who has brought
the
same amount of study and of natural talent to the
detection of
crime which I have done. And what is the result? There
is no
crime to detect, or, at most, some bungling villainy
with a
motive so transparent that even a Scotland Yard official
can see
through it."
I was still annoyed at his bumptious style
of conversation. I
thought it best to change the topic.
"I wonder what that fellow is looking for?"
I asked, pointing
to a stalwart, plainly dressed individual who was
walking slowly
down the other side of the street, looking anxiously
at the
numbers. He had a large blue envelope in his hand,
and was
evidently the bearer of a message.
"You mean the retired sergeant of Marines,"
said Sherlock
Holmes.
"Brag and bounce!" thought I to myself. "He
knows that I
cannot verify his guess."
The thought had hardly passed through my mind
when the
man whom we were watching caught sight of the number
on our
door, and ran rapidly across the roadway. We heard
a loud
knock, a deep voice below, and heavy steps ascending
the stair.
"For Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, stepping
into the room
and handing my friend the letter.
Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit
out of him. He
little thought of this when he made that random shot.
"May I
ask, my lad," I said, in the blandest voice, "what
your trade
may be?"
"Commissionaire, sir," he said, gruffly. "Uniform
away for
repairs."
"And you were?" I asked, with a slightly malicious
glance at
my companion.
"A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry,
sir. No an-
swer? Right, sir."
He clicked his heels together, raised his hand
in salute, and
was gone. |
