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 bedrooms 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 me to be 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:
- Knowledge of Literature.--Nil.
- Philosophy.--Nil.
- Astronomy.--Nil.
- Politics.--Feeble.
- Botany.--Variable. Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons
generally. Knows nothing of practical gardening.
- Knowledge of 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.
- Knowledge of Chemistry.--Profound.
- Anatomy.--Accurate, but unsystematic.
- Sensational Literature.--Immense. He appears to know every
detail of every horror perpetrated in the century.
- Plays the violin well.
- Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman.
- 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 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 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 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 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 inquirer 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 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 revealed. 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 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," 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 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 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 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 answer?
Right, sir."
He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in salute, and
was gone.
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