We met next day as he had arranged, and inspected the rooms at No.
221b, 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 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 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.