WE met next day as he had arranged, and inspected the rooms at No. 221B, {5}
Baker Street, of which he had spoken at our meeting. They consisted of a couple
of comfortable bed-rooms and a single large airy sitting-room, cheerfully
furnished, and illuminated by two broad windows. So desirable in every way were
the apartments, and so moderate did the terms seem when divided between 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 portmanteaus. 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
judgment, 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 exceptionally genial, and I had no friends who would call upon
me and break the monotony of my daily existence. Under these circumstances, 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 contemporary 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 composition of the Solar
System. That any civilized human being in this nineteenth century should not be
aware that the earth travelled round the sun appeared to be to me such an
extraordinary fact that I could hardly realize it.
"You appear to be astonished," he said, smiling at my expression 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. Geology.
-- Practical, but limited. Tells at a glance different soils from each other.
After walks has shown me splashes upon his trousers, and told me by their colour
and consistence in what part of London he had received them. 7. 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
himself, however, he would seldom produce any music or attempt any recognized
air. Leaning back in his arm-chair of an evening, he would close his eyes and
scrape carelessly at the fiddle which was thrown across his knee. Sometimes the
chords were sonorous and melancholy. Occasionally they were fantastic and
cheerful. 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 acquaintances, 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, fashionably dressed, and stayed for half
an hour or more. The same afternoon brought a grey-headed, seedy visitor,
looking like a Jew pedlar, who appeared to me to be much excited, and who was
closely followed by a slip-shod 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 bed-room. 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 unreasonable 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 difficulties, let the enquirer begin by mastering more
elementary problems. 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 boot, 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 revealed. That all united
should fail to enlighten the competent enquirer 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 egg spoon 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 arm-chair lounger who evolves all these neat little paradoxes in
the seclusion 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," Sherlock 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 practical 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 detectives 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. I 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 Afghanistan.' 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 Allen 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 genius, 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 miserable 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 text-book 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 villany 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 answer? Right, sir."
He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in a salute, and was gone.
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