Chapter Chapter 2 · Part I - The Science Of Deduction.

. Part I - The Science Of Deduction.

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 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

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 answer? Right,

sir.”

He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in a salute, and was

gone.