I see that I have alluded above to his powers upon the violin. Thesewere very remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other accomplishments.That he could play pieces, and difficult pieces, I knew well, becauseat my request he has played me some of Mendelssohn's Lieder, and otherfavourites. When left to himself, however, he would seldom produce anymusic or attempt any recognized air. Leaning back in his arm-chair ofan evening, he would close his eyes and scrape carelessly at the fiddlewhich was thrown across his knee. Sometimes the chords were sonorous andmelancholy. Occasionally they were fantastic and cheerful. Clearly theyreflected the thoughts which possessed him, but
whether the music aidedthose thoughts, or whether the playing was simply the result of a whimor fancy was more than I could determine. I might have rebelled againstthese exasperating solos had it not been that he usually terminated themby playing in quick succession a whole series of my favourite airs as aslight compensation for the trial upon my patience.
During the first week or so we had no callers, and I had begun to thinkthat my companion was as friendless a man as I was myself. Presently,however, I found that he had many acquaintances, and those in the mostdifferent classes of society. There was one little sallow rat-faced,dark-eyed fellow who was introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade, and who camethree or four times in a single week. One morning a young girl called,fashionably dressed, and stayed for half an hour or more. The sameafternoon brought a grey-headed, seedy visitor, looking like a Jewpedlar, who appeared to me to be much excited, and who was closelyfollowed by a slip-shod elderly woman. On another occasion an oldwhite-haired gentleman had an interview with my companion; and onanother a railway porter in his velveteen uniform. When any of thesenondescript individuals put in an appearance, Sherlock Holmes used tobeg 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 haveto use this room as a place of business," he said, "and these peopleare my clients." Again I had an opportunity of asking him a point blankquestion, and again my delicacy prevented me from forcing another man toconfide in me. I imagined at the time that he had some strong reason fornot alluding to it, but he soon dispelled the idea by coming round tothe subject of his own accord.
It was upon the 4th of March, as I have good reason to remember, that Irose somewhat earlier than usual, and found that Sherlock Holmes had notyet finished his breakfast. The landlady had become so accustomed to mylate habits that my place had not been laid nor my coffee prepared. Withthe unreasonable petulance of mankind I rang the bell and gave a curtintimation that I was ready. Then I picked up a magazine from the tableand attempted to while away the time with it, while my companion munchedsilently at his toast. One of the articles had a pencil mark at theheading, and I naturally began to run my eye through it.
Its somewhat ambitious title was "The Book of Life," and it attempted toshow how much an observant man might learn by an accurate and systematicexamination of all that came in his way. It struck me as being aremarkable mixture of shrewdness and of absurdity. The reasoning wasclose and intense, but the deductions appeared to me to be far-fetchedand exaggerated. The writer claimed by a momentary expression, a twitchof 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 onetrained to observation and analysis. His conclusions were as infallibleas so many propositions of Euclid. So startling would his results appearto the uninitiated that until they learned the processes by which he hadarrived at them they might well consider him as a necromancer.
"From a drop of water," said the writer, "a logician could infer thepossibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard ofone or the other. So all life is a great chain, the nature of which isknown 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 acquiredby long and patient study nor is life long enough to allow any mortalto attain the highest possible perfection in it. Before turning tothose moral and mental aspects of the matter which present the greatestdifficulties, let the enquirer begin by mastering more elementaryproblems. Let him, on meeting a fellow-mortal, learn at a glance todistinguish the history of the man, and the trade or profession towhich he belongs. Puerile as such an exercise may seem, it sharpens thefaculties of observation, and teaches one where to look and what to lookfor. By a man's finger nails, by his coat-sleeve, by his boot, by histrouser knees, by the callosities of his forefinger and thumb, by hisexpression, by his shirt cuffs--by each of these things a man's callingis plainly revealed. That all united should fail to enlighten thecompetent enquirer in any case is almost inconceivable."
"What ineffable twaddle!" I cried, slapping the magazine down on thetable, "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 satdown to my breakfast. "I see that you have read it since you have markedit. I don't deny that it is smartly written. It irritates me though. Itis evidently the theory of some arm-chair lounger who evolves all theseneat little paradoxes in the seclusion of his own study. It is notpractical. I should like to see him clapped down in a third classcarriage on the Underground, and asked to give the trades of all hisfellow-travellers. I would lay a thousand to one against him."
"You would lose your money," Sherlock Holmes remarked calmly. "As forthe article I wrote it myself."
"You!"
"Yes, I have a turn both for observation and for deduction. Thetheories which I have expressed there, and which appear to you to be sochimerical are really extremely practical--so practical that I dependupon 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 theworld. I'm a consulting detective, if you can understand what that is.Here in London we have lots of Government detectives and lots of privateones. When these fellows are at fault they come to me, and I manage toput them on the right scent. They lay all the evidence before me, and Iam generally able, by the help of my knowledge of the history ofcrime, to set them straight. There is a strong family resemblance aboutmisdeeds, and if you have all the details of a thousand at your fingerends, it is odd if you can't unravel the thousand and first. Lestradeis a well-known detective. He got himself into a fog recently over aforgery case, and that was what brought him here."
"And these other people?"
"They are mostly sent on by private inquiry agencies. They areall people who are in trouble about something, and want a littleenlightening. I listen to their story, they listen to my comments, andthen I pocket my fee."
"But do you mean to say," I said, "that without leaving your room youcan unravel some knot which other men can make nothing of, although theyhave seen every detail for themselves?"
"Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way. Now and again a caseturns up which is a little more complex. Then I have to bustle about andsee things with my own eyes. You see I have a lot of special knowledgewhich I apply to the problem, and which facilitates matters wonderfully.Those rules of deduction laid down in that article which aroused yourscorn, are invaluable to me in practical work. Observation with me issecond nature. You appeared to be surprised when I told you, on ourfirst meeting, that you had come from Afghanistan."
"You were told, no doubt."
"Nothing of the sort. I _knew_ you came from Afghanistan. From longhabit the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind, that Iarrived at the conclusion without being conscious of intermediate steps.There were such steps, however. The train of reasoning ran, 'Here is agentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a military man. Clearlyan army doctor, then. He has just come from the tropics, for his face isdark, and that is not the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists arefair. He has undergone hardship and sickness, as his haggard face saysclearly. His left arm has been injured. He holds it in a stiff andunnatural manner. Where in the tropics could an English army doctor haveseen much hardship and got his arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.' Thewhole train of thought did not occupy a second. I then remarked that youcame from Afghanistan, and you were astonished."
"It is simple enough as you explain it," I said, smiling. "You remindme of Edgar Allen Poe's Dupin. I had no idea that such individuals didexist outside of stories."
Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. "No doubt you think that you arecomplimenting me in comparing me to Dupin," he observed. "Now, in myopinion, Dupin was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his of breakingin on his friends' thoughts with an apropos remark after a quarter ofan hour's silence is re
ally very showy and superficial. He had someanalytical genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a phenomenon asPoe appeared to imagine."
"Have you read Gaboriau's works?" I asked. "Does Lecoq come up to youridea 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, andthat was his energy. That book made me positively ill. The question washow to identify an unknown prisoner. I could have done it in twenty-fourhours. Lecoq took six months or so. It might be made a text-book fordetectives to teach them what to avoid."
I felt rather indignant at having two characters whom I had admiredtreated in this cavalier style. I walked over to the window, and stoodlooking out into the busy street. "This fellow may be very clever," Isaid 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 knowwell that I have it in me to make my name famous. No man lives or hasever lived who has brought the same amount of study and of naturaltalent to the detection of crime which I have done. And what is theresult? There is no crime to detect, or, at most, some bungling villainywith a motive so transparent that even a Scotland Yard official can seethrough it."
I was still annoyed at his bumptious style of conversation. I thought itbest to change the topic.
"I wonder what that fellow is looking for?" I asked, pointing to astalwart, plainly-dressed individual who was walking slowly down theother side of the street, looking anxiously at the numbers. He hada large blue envelope in his hand, and was evidently the bearer of amessage.
"You mean the retired sergeant of Marines," said Sherlock Holmes.