Sherlock Holmes complete collection by sir arthur conan doyle

A Study In Scarlet: Chapter 2 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. Theyconsisted of a couple of [20] comfortable bedrooms and a single large airysitting-room, cheerfully furnished, and illuminated by two broadwindows. So desirable in every way were the apartments, and somoderate did the terms seem when divided between us, that the bargainwas concluded upon the spot, and we at once entered into possession.That very evening I moved my things round from the hotel, and on thefollowing morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes andportmanteaus. For a day or two we were busily employed in unpackingand laying out our property to the best advantage. That done, wegradually began to settle down and to accommodate ourselves to our newsurroundings.Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with. He was quiet inhis ways, and his habits were regular. It was rare for him to be up after tenat night, and he had invariably breakfasted and gone out before I rose inthe morning. Sometimes he spent his day at the chemical laboratory,sometimes in the dissecting-rooms, and occasionally in long walks, whichappeared to take him into the lowest portions of the city. Nothing couldexceed his energy when the working fit was upon him; but now and againa reaction would seize him, and for days on end he would lie upon thesofa in the sitting-room, hardly uttering a word or moving a muscle frommorning to night. On these occasions I have noticed such a dreamy,vacant expression in his eyes, that I might have suspected him of beingaddicted to the use of some narcotic, had not the temperance andcleanliness of his whole life forbidden such a notion.As the weeks went by, my interest in him and my curiosity as to hisaims in life gradually deepened and increased. His very person andappearance were such as to strike the attention of the most casualobserver. In height he was rather over six feet, and so excessively leanthat he seemed to be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp andpiercing, save during those intervals of torpor to which I have alluded;and his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an air of alertnessand decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and squareness whichmark the man of determination. His hands were invariably blotted withink and stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed of extraordinarydelicacy of touch, as I frequently had occasion to observe when I watchedhim 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 endeavouredto break through the reticence which he showed on all that concernedhimself. Before pronouncing judgment, however, be it remembered howobjectless was my life, and how little there was to engage my attention.My health forbade me from venturing out unless the weather wasexceptionally genial, and I had no friends who would call upon me andbreak the monotony of my daily existence. Under these circumstances, Ieagerly hailed the little mystery which hung around my companion, andspent 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 tohave pursued any course of reading which might fit him for a degree inscience or any other recognized portal which would give him an entranceinto the learned world. Yet his zeal for certain studies was remarkable,and within eccentric limits his knowledge was so extraordinarily ampleand minute that his observations have fairly astounded me. Surely no manwould work so hard or attain such precise information unless he had somedefinite end in view. Desultory readers are seldom [21] remarkable for theexactness of their learning. No man burdens his mind with small mattersunless he has some very good reason for doing so.His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of contemporaryliterature, philosophy and politics he appeared to know next to nothing.Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired in the naivest way who hemight be and what he had done. My surprise reached a climax, however,when I found incidentally that he was ignorant of the Copernican Theoryand of the composition of the Solar System. That any civilized humanbeing in this nineteenth century should not be aware that the earthtravelled round the sun appeared to me to be such an extraordinary factthat I could hardly realize it."You appear to be astonished," he said, smiling at my expression ofsurprise. "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 islike a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as youchoose. 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, orat best is jumbled up with a lot of other things, so that he has a difficultyin laying his hands upon it. Now the skilful workman is very carefulindeed as to what he takes into his brain-attic. He will have nothing butthe tools which may help him in doing his work, but of these he has alarge assortment, and all in the most perfect order. It is a mistake to thinkthat that little room has elastic walls and can distend to any extent.Depend upon it there comes a time when for every addition of knowledgeyou forget something that you knew before. It is of the highestimportance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing out the usefulones.""But the Solar System!" I protested."What the deuce is it to me?" he interrupted impatiently: "you say thatwe 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, butsomething in his manner showed me that the question would be anunwelcome one. I pondered over our short conversation, however, andendeavoured to draw my deductions from it. He said that he wouldacquire no knowledge which did not bear upon his object. Therefore allthe knowledge which he possessed was such as would be useful to him. Ienumerated in my own mind all the various points upon which he hadshown me that he was exceptionally well informed. I even took a penciland jotted them down. I could not help smiling at the document when Ihad completed it. It ran in this way:Sherlock Holmes-his limits1. 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. Knowledge of Geology.-Practical, but limited. Tells at a glancedifferent soils from each other. After walks has [22] shown mesplashes upon his trousers, and told me by their colour andconsistence in what part of London he had received them.7. Knowledge of Chemistry.-Profound.8. " " Anatomy.-Accurate, but unsystematic.9. " " Sensational Literature.-Immense. He appears toknow 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 Ican only find what the fellow is driving at by reconciling all theseaccomplishments, and discovering a calling which needs them all," I saidto myself, "I may as well give up the attempt at once."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, because atmy 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 armchair of anevening, he would close his eyes and scrape carelessly at the fiddle whichwas 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 whim or 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, darkeyed 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 gray-headed, seedy visitor, looking like a Jewpeddler, who appeared to me to be much excited, and who was closelyfollowed by a slipshod elderly woman. On another occasion an old whitehaired gentleman had an interview with my companion; and on another, arailway porter in his velveteen uniform. When any of these nondescriptindividuals put in an appearance, Sherlock Holmes used to beg for the useof the sitting-room, and I would retire to my bedroom. He alwaysapologized to me for putting me to this inconvenience. "I have to use thisroom 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, andagain my delicacy prevented me from forcing another man to confide inme. I imagined at the time that he had some strong reason for not alludingto it, but he soon dispelled the idea by coming round to the subject of hisown accord. It was upon the 4th of March, as I have good reason to remember, that Irose [23] somewhat earlier than usual, and found that Sherlock Holmeshad not yet finished his breakfast. The landlady had become soaccustomed to my late habits that my place had not been laid nor mycoffee prepared. With the unreasonable petulance of mankind I rang thebell and gave a curt intimation that I was ready. Then I picked up amagazine from the table and attempted to while away the time with it,while my companion munched silently at his toast. One of the articles hada pencil mark at the heading, and I naturally began to run my eye throughit.Its somewhat ambitious title was "The Book of Life," and it attemptedto show how much an observant man might learn by an accurate andsystematic examination 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 fetched andexaggerated. The writer claimed by a momentary expression, a twitch of amuscle 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 toobservation and analysis. His conclusions were as infallible as so manypropositions of Euclid. So startling would his results appear to theuninitiated that until they learned the processes by which he had arrived atthem 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 of oneor the other. So all life is a great chain, the nature of which is knownwhenever we are shown a single link of it. Like all other arts, the Scienceof Deduction and Analysis is one which can only be acquired by long andpatient study, nor is life long enough to allow any mortal to attain thehighest possible perfection in it. Before turning to those moral and mentalaspects of the matter which present the greatest difficulties, let theinquirer begin by mastering more elementary problems. Let him, onmeeting a fellow-mortal, learn at a glance to distinguish the history of theman, and the trade or profession to which he belongs. Puerile as such anexercise may seem, it sharpens the faculties of observation, and teachesone where to look and what to look for. By a man's finger-nails, by hiscoat-sleeve, by his boots, by his trouser-knees, by the callosities of hisforefinger and thumb, by his expression, by his shirt-cuffs-by each ofthese things a man's calling is plainly revealed. That all united should failto enlighten the competent inquirer 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 eggspoon 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. It isevidently the theory of some armchair lounger who evolves all these neatlittle paradoxes in the seclusion of his own study. It is not practical. Ishould like to see him clapped down in a third-class carriage on theUnderground, 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 thearticle, I wrote it myself.""You!""Yes; I have a turn both for observation and for deduction. The theorieswhich I have expressed there, and which appear to you to be sochimerical, are really [24] 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. Herein 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 putthem on the right scent. They lay all the evidence before me, and I amgenerally able, by the help of my knowledge of the history of crime, to setthem straight. There is a strong family resemblance about misdeeds, andif you have all the details of a thousand at your finger ends, it is odd ifyou can't unravel the thousand and first. Lestrade is a well-knowndetective. He got himself into a fog recently over a forgery case, and thatwas what brought him here.""And these other people?""They are mostly sent on by private inquiry agencies. They are allpeople 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 myfee.""But do you mean to say," I said, "that without leaving your room youcan unravel some knot which other men can make nothing of, althoughthey have 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 our firstmeeting, 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 I arrived atthe conclusion without being conscious of intermediate steps. There weresuch steps, however. The train of reasoning ran, 'Here is a gentleman of amedical 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 isnot the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are fair. He has undergonehardship and sickness, as his haggard face says clearly. His left arm hasbeen injured. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner. Where in thetropics could an English army doctor have seen much hardship and gothis arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.' The whole train of thoughtdid 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 meof Edgar Allan Poe's Dupin. I had no idea that such individuals did existoutside 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, inmy opinion, Dupin was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his ofbreaking in on his friends' thoughts with an apropos remark after aquarter of an hour's silence is really very showy and superficial. He hadsome analytical genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such aphenomenon as Poe appeared to imagine."[25] "Have you read Gaboriau's works?" I asked. "Does Lecoq come upto your idea of a detective?"Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. "Lecoq was a miserablebungler," he said, in an angry voice; "he had only one thing torecommend him, and that was his energy. That book made me positivelyill. The question was how to identify an unknown prisoner. I could havedone it in twenty-four hours. Lecoq took six months or so. It might bemade a textbook for detectives 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," I saidto 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 natural talentto the detection of crime which I have done. And what is the result? Thereis no crime to detect, or, at most, some bungling villainy with a motive sotransparent that even a Scotland Yard official can see through 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 had a largeblue 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 verifyhis guess."The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man whomwe were watching caught sight of the number on our door, and ran rapidlyacross the roadway. We heard a loud knock, a deep voice below, andheavy steps ascending the stair."For Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, stepping into the room andhanding my friend the letter.Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit out of him. He littlethought of this when he made that random shot. "May I ask, my lad," Isaid, 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 mycompanion."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