A Study in Scarlet is where we first meet Mr. Sherlock Holmes. And Watson is hardly a fan at first.
A Study in Scarlet
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
…
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
- 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.”
…
