DOYLE, Arthur Conan - A Scandal in Bohemia

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A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA

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A Scandal in Bohemia

By Arthur Conan Doyle

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A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA

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she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she

eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene

Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced

mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a

lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a

gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer -- excellent for draw- ing the veil from men's

motives and actions. But for the trained teasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely

adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental

results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more

disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and that

woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and ques- tionable memory. I had seen little of Holmes lately.

My marriage had drifted us away from each other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centred

interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master of his own establishment, were

sufficient to absorb all my attention, while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole

Bohemian soul, remained in our lodg- ings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating

from week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsi- ness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his

own keen nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his immense

faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in following out those clues, and clearing up those

mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From time to time I heard some

vague account of his doings: of his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing

up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, and finally of the mission which he had

accomplished so delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland. Beyond these signs of his

activity, however, which I merely shared with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of my former

friend and companion. One night -- it was on the twentieth of March, 1888 -- I was returning from a

journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil practice), when my way led me through Baker Street.

As I passed the well-remembered door, which must always be associ- ated in my mind with my wooing,

and with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again,

and to know how he was employing his extraordi- nary powers. His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as

I looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette against the blind. He was pacing the

room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. To me, who

knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their own story. He was at work again. He had

risen out of his drug-created dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new problem. I rang the bell and

was shown up to the chamber which had formerly been in part my own. His manner was not effusive. It

seldom was; but he was glad, I think, to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye, he

waved me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and indicated a spirit case and a gasogene in the

corner. Then he stood before the fire and looked me over in his singular introspective fashion. "Wedlock

suits you," he remarked. "I think, Watson, that you have put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you."

"Seven!" I answered. "Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more, I fancy, Watson. And

in practice again, I observe. You did not tell me that you intended to go into harness." "Then, how do you

know?" "I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting yourself very wet lately, and that

you have a most clumsy and careless servant girl?" "My dear Holmes," said I, "this is too much. You would

certainly have been burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true that I had a country walk on

Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess, but as I have changed my clothes I can't imagine how you

deduce it. As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her notice, but there, again, I fail to

see how you work it out." He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands together. "It is

simplicity itself," said he; "my eyes tell me that on the inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight

strikes it, the leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they have been caused by someone

who has very carelessly scraped round the edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it. Hence,

you see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile weather, and that you had a particularly

malignant boot- slitting specimen of the London slavey. As to your practice, if a gentleman walks into my

rooms smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate of silver upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on

the right side of his top-hat to show where he has secreted his stethoscope, I must be dull, indeed, if I do

not pronounce him to be an active member of the medical profession." I could not help laughing at the ease

with which he explained his process of deduction. "When I hear you give your reasons," I remarked, "the

A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA

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thing always appears to me to be so ridicu- lously simple that I could easily do it myself, though at each

successive instance of your reasoning I am baffled until you explain your process. And yet I believe that

my eyes are as good as yours." "Quite so," he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing himself down

into an armchair. "You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear. For example, you have fre-

quently seen the steps which lead up from the hall to this room." "Frequently." "How often?" "Well, some

hundreds of times." "Then how many are there?" "How many? I don't know." "Quite so! You have not

observed. And yet you have seen. That is just my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps,

because I have both seen and observed. By the way, since you are interested in these little problems, and

since you are good enough to chronicle one or two of my trifling experi- ences, you may be interested in

this." He threw over a sheet of thick, pink-tinted note-paper which had been lying open upon the table. "It

came by the last post," said he. "Read it aloud." The note was undated, and without either signature or

address. "There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight o'clock [it said], a gentleman who desires

to consult you upon a matter of the very deepest moment. Your recent services to one of the royal houses

of Europe have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted with matters which are of an importance

which can hardly be exagger- ated. This account of you we have from all quarters re- ceived. Be in your

chamber then at that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor wear a mask. "This is indeed a mystery," I

remarked. "What do you imagine that it means?" "I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorize

before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. But

the note itself. What do you deduce from it?" I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it

was written. "The man who wrote it was presumably well to do," I remarked, endeavouring to imitate my

companion's processes. "Such paper could not be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong

and stiff." "Peculiar -- that is the very word," said Holmes. "It is not an English paper at all. Hold it up to

the light." I did so, and saw a large "E" with a small "g," a "P," and a large "G" with a small "f" woven into

the texture of the paper. "What do you make of that?" asked Holmes. "The name of the maker, no doubt; or

his monogram, rather." "Not at all. The 'G' with the small 't' stands for 'Gesell- schaft,' which is the German

for 'Company.' It is a customary contraction like our 'Co.' 'P,' of course, stands for 'Papier.' Now for the

'Eg.' Let us glance at our Continental Gazetteer." He took down a heavy brown volume from his shelves.

"Eglow, Eglonitz -- here we are, Egria. It is in a German-speaking country -- in Bohemia, not far from

Carlsbad. 'Remarkable as being the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous glass-factories

and paper-mills.' Ha, ha, my boy, what do you make of that?" His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue

triumphant cloud from his cigarette. "The paper was made in Bohemia," I said. "Precisely. And the man

who wrote the note is a German. Do you note the peculiar construction of the sentence -- 'This ac- count of

you we have from all quarters received.' A Frenchman or Russian could not have written that. It is the

German who is so uncourteous to his verbs. It only remains, therefore, to dis- cover what is wanted by this

German who writes upon Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And here he

comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve all our doubts." As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses'

hoofs and grating wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes whistled. "A pair,

by the sound," said he. "Yes," he continued, glancing out of the window. "A nice little brougham and a pair

of beauties. A hundred and fifty guineas apiece. There's money in this case, Watson, if there is nothing

else." "I think that I had better go, Holmes." "Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my

Boswell. And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it." "But your client --" "Never

mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes. Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and

give us your best attention." A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in the

passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a loud and authoritative tap. "Come in!" said

Holmes. A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six inches in height, with the chest

and limbs of a Hercules. His dress was rich with a richness which would, in England, be looked upon as

akin to bad taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and fronts of his double-

breasted coat, while the deep blue cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined with flame-

coloured silk and secured at the neck with a brooch which consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which

extended halfway up his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur, completed the

impression of barbaric opulence which was suggested by his whole appearance. He carried a broad-

brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore across the upper part of his face, extending down past the

cheekbones, a black vizard mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand was

still raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of the face he appeared to be a man of strong character,

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