by Anita Janda
She was waiting for my answer.
Do I think Holmes is happy? Well, do I?
I cast about frantically for something neutral to say about Holmes and the pursuit of happiness, but all my thoughts led directly to cocaine. Holmes would like, I know, to believe himself above such mundane considerations as mere earthly happiness, an artist content to live for his art, but in that case I think he should be above such mundane considerations as mere earthly unhappiness, and that I know he is not. He can tolerate anything but boredom, or so he says. Boredom, the common lot of mankind, and rather more common for Sherlock Holmes than for the rest of us.
The entire topic of Holmes and happiness is fraught with apparent contradictions. Once possessed of a worthy problem (perhaps I should say, once possessed by a worthy problem), he seems happy enough, I suppose. Assuming that one can be quite tense with happiness. And that this happy nervous tension is sufficient recompense for the overwhelming weariness of the rest of it.
What I remember best from our years together are the frequent, lengthy bouts of determined inanition that he would enliven with a little morphine or a little cocaine, just often enough to keep the medical man in me, not to mention the potential friend, perpetually on edge. It was calculated to a hair’s-breadth and I can only hope that my marriage and consequent removal from Baker Street came early enough for him to be able to give it up now that I am no longer on hand to shock and impress. I have lately felt justified in that hope by the amount of time he manages to spend with us. I see no sign of the indulgence in his eyes and of course I know better than to think he would abuse Mrs Watson’s hospitality so.
I must not discuss this with Mary.
I imagined myself telling her that happiness is too static an expression to sit comfortably on his face, which specializes in the more mercurial emotions of impatience, excitement, frustration and irritation, but I gave it up. She has sat across from him often enough these past few months to know how whey-faced he is. If only she could see how flattering it is that Holmes should seek us out like this! It is a great compliment to her, and to the marriage that we have made between us, that he can take his ease here. The pure clarity of vision forced on him by his analytical gifts unfits him, practically speaking, for the emotional rigours of normal social interaction. It must be as difficult for Holmes to close his eyes to the sordid undercurrents of ordinary family life as it is for those of us gifted with normal hearing to ignore a factory whistle. For years it was his habit to protect himself from the strain of inconsequential conversation by repairing to our rooms for literally weeks on end…
I must not discuss his morphinism with Mary.
I could feel myself beginning to panic. The need to protect my friend warred with my inability to dissemble before my wife. I could find nothing whatever that it was safe for me to say, no red herring to offer in propitiation of her curiosity.
“I agree with you,” Mary said softly.
I waited for more, reflecting that it is difficult to argue with a woman who agrees with you.
“You are so thoughtful of Mr Holmes.”
It is even more difficult to argue with a woman who admires you. I began to relax. She stroked my moustache. Arguing was now out of the question.
“That is why I have invited Miss Hughes to tea tomorrow.”
I struggled briefly. There was a non sequitur here somewhere, if only I could find it.
“You remember Miss Hughes, John. Celia Hughes, my particular friend from school?”
I had never met Miss-Hughes-my-particular-friend-from-school, but I had heard of her. How I had heard of her! She was beautiful, was Miss Hughes. And clever, far more clever than my Mary. Miss Hughes had the most splendid ideas, none of which I understood very well. They were pranks well enough, but the point of the pranks always seemed to elude me. Mary would abandon her story in mid-stream, saying vaguely that it was a very good joke on the geography mistress, who would talk of America in the most condescending way.
“I shall look forward to meeting her,” I said carefully. My relief at having been delivered from the conversational shoals of Holmes’s cocaine crisis lent my voice a passable imitation of sincerity for which I was momentarily grateful. Momentarily, I say, because Mary’s next words, said in all innocence, shattered my peace completely.
“Mr Holmes and Celia may deal very well together.”
“Holmes? Sherlock Holmes?” My voice cracked as the full enormity of the situation burst upon my brain.
“Yes, dear, of course.” She looked at me in wonder. “Mr Holmes and Celia. What have we been talking of all afternoon?”
What, indeed. Clearly, the question was rhetorical. I debated answering it anyway.
“John, are you sickening with something? You have been very quiet this past hour and you hardly touched your mutton. Here, let me feel your brow. I can postpone the tea party…”
Choosing the moment, as always, with a fine disregard for my own best interests, I stood firmly upon my dignity, reminded her that I am after all a doctor (“I will let you know when I am ‘sickening with something,’ Mary”) and stalked off to my study, where I have beguiled these two hours past scribbling this journal entry and achieving an amused resignation to tomorrow’s social event, which promises to be something quite out of the common way.
I wonder how Holmes will take it.
Chapter 12
Holmes is not taking it well, and I begin to wonder why I ever thought he would. Of course, in my own defense I may say that I never thought it would go so far. One little tea party, I thought, and Mary will see her mistake. Holmes is a bachelor more by definition and design than by circumstance or inclination, anyone can see that.
Except, apparently, my wife.
Mary has approached the problem of Holmes’s domestic happiness with a single-minded obliquity of purpose that would bring a Caesar to his knees. This is not going to be easy. I emerged from my study that first evening all prepared to forgive her, only to find that she was the one whose feelings had been hurt.
“I don’t understand you, John.” Stitch, stitch, stitch.
“I should have thought you would be pleased by my concern.”
“All I want is your happiness.”
“If you feel that you can not abide the thought of a visit from my friend Celia in your home, then there is no more to be said.” Stitch, stitch, stitch, snip.
I prefer not to recall my side of this particular argument. It was hopeless from the beginning. I strove to take the philosophic view. I reminded myself that I had preserved my silence regarding my friend’s battle with his unhealthy habit, at considerable personal cost: Mary’s feelings were definitely hurt. One little tea party, I told myself. Surely it was not too much to ask that Holmes give up an hour of his time in the interest of preserving what was after all no secret of mine. Perhaps it is Destiny, I told myself. Holmes and Miss Hughes were destined to meet; they were made for each other; Holmes is grown weary of his solitary life.
I did not believe it for a moment. On a sudden I found myself wondering how Mary would contrive his invitation. We did not normally see Holmes until the shank of the evening, and then only when the fit for company was upon him; he came when it pleased him to come, knowing he was welcome. What pretext would she offer my friend the consulting detective? With that thought, my capitulation was assured. I would not have missed this for the world. Never let the sun set on a quarrel, I told myself solemnly. We made it up.
“So you will see to it that Mr Holmes arrives promptly tomorrow?”
And quarrelled again.
And made it up. We compromised: neither of us would take any steps to secure Holmes’s presence at this event, prompt or otherwise. She was my own Mary again.
By morning she had it all worked out. Celia would come to tea tomorrow, as planned, and would with my permission (a nice touch, that) be invited to pass the following week with us, during which time Holmes would be bound to put in an appearance. By only inviting one of t
he two parties to be introduced, we would ensure an easy, informal atmosphere for their introduction.
I suppose she had to tell her friend Celia something.
By the end of breakfast, it was positively providential that circumstances had fallen out in just this way. Poor Celia was come to the end of her engagement as governess to Master Edward Sternbridge and was in consequence a bit mopish. She had no reason to be as cast down as she was, she said so herself in her letter. Certainly it was good news that her charge was fit enough to return to school, it had been understood from the beginning that this was a temporary measure, the Sternbridges were ever so grateful for her help, but there it was: she was mopish. The prospect of a week with us, in the soot and fog of a London tight in the grip of the worst winter since 1866, with the tempting prospect of Sherlock Holmes, bachelor, on the horizon, would set her up finely.
“It will be something for her to look forward to, John.”
Quite so. I was in no hurry for the ordeal, myself.
* * *
Miss Hughes proved to be a taking little thing, with masses of soft, silky hair foaming above her heart-shaped face. How do they make their hair do that? Mary has never been able to explain it to me properly. I know I gave her a very thorough grounding in the mechanics of the flying buttress that time she asked me whether that cathedral was quite safe. I hardly think “Hairpins” is sufficient to return the favour. Mary’s elbow was in my ribs. I made haste to pass the plate of cakes, inadvertently tipping several of them into our guest’s lap. I suspect that this trifling accident lay behind Mary’s remark later that evening to the effect that if Holmes were only half as impressed with Miss Hughes as I was, next week should go off very well. Sometimes there is no pleasing Mary.
I had been agreeably surprised to find no sign of Miss Hughes’s self-confessed mopishness in either her manners or her conversation, which were uniformly as pleasing as her very pleasing person. Since I was still of the opinion that the historic meeting of Holmes and Hughes would offer significantly more in the way of consolation to the spirits in the offing than at the dock, I was naturally pleased to make the acquaintance of a Miss Hughes who was prepared to be cheerful going into the experiment. She was pretty, she was sweet-tempered (she forgave me for the cakes immediately), she was well-informed for a woman, and she was interested in anything and everything. I felt that Mary had done very well by my friend in that first essay, little though I expected to come of it. She was altogether charming.
I think Mary should have felt complimented by my reaction.
I promised myself that I would do what I could to make the anticipatory portion of the coming week a success. With any luck at all, Holmes would not put in an appearance until Tuesday or Wednesday.
In fact, it was Thursday before our uninvited but hardly unexpected guest happened upon the party in his honour. If my calculations are correct, that means that we had then passed three very comfortable evenings together discussing matters of general interest (the state of modern medicine, the politics of the Indian situation, and various sporting events). We were in a fair way to bringing a fourth such evening to a contented close when there came a decisive knock at the door. I reached for my medical bag, hoping for the best—a difficult confinement or a simple household accident, perhaps. But it was Holmes, smelling of nicotine and creosote, as usual. At least, the nicotine was as usual. The second component of the aroma was as likely to be formaldehyde or sulphuric acid as creosote. His collar was awry, his suit looked as if he’d slept in it (at a guess, because he had), and his waistcoat had two buttons missing. Fortunately, he is not a heavy-bearded man. I could feel Mary’s palms itching to set him to rights.
Within moments of his arrival, all of the awkwardness inherent in the situation had boiled over. I was immediately aware that far from providing us with an easy, informal atmosphere, Mary’s stratagem had given me, at any rate, a pale and panicky sensation I can only describe as stage-fright. I felt over-rehearsed and under-prepared all at the same time and as Mary stumbled over the necessary introductions, I knew I was not alone in my predicament. Holmes looked at us narrowly—a most unpleasant sensation—before favouring Miss Hughes with a nod. As I may possibly have mentioned in passing, Holmes is not a convivial man. It was with a very real sense of relief that I watched her engage him in conversation.
“Mrs Watson tells me you have an interest in the unusual, Mr Holmes.”
Did he say, “And the beautiful, Miss Hughes”? No, he did not. He helped himself liberally to my whisky, ignoring the gasogene. That night he took his whisky straight. “So do many men, Miss Hughes.”
Celia glanced at Mary. And persevered. “But a professional interest, Mr Holmes?”
“Touché, Miss Hughes.”
She looked puzzled, as well she might. Charmingly puzzled, I thought. Holmes sighed softly and resigned himself to the pleasures of a little instruction.
“‘Touché,’ Miss Hughes, is a fencing term which signifies that your practice partner has brought his foil, the button which protects the point, into sufficient proximity to some vital organ, the heart for example, to have won the match.”
“Not your heart, I think, Mr Holmes,” she said sweetly.
After that, conversation was a trifle strained. Holmes left even before he decently could, while Miss Hughes showed a marked propensity to linger over her sherry, which mystified me until Mary caught my eye.
It seemed my presence was no longer required.
Chapter 13
Eight days. I have eight days to deliver a story, “an adventure of not less than 6,000 or more than 9,000 words” to the editor of the Strand Magazine, or stand in violation of my contract. Eight days and not an idea in my head apart from this business of Holmes’s mysterious partiality for the single state, which partiality seems less mysterious to me all the time. You would think there was a scandal in Bohemianism, to hear Mary tell it. I can remember when all she wanted was to see me happy. Now all she wants is to see Holmes happy, that is to say, “to see Mr Holmes settled.” It is not the same thing. Holmes is easily the most settled man of my acquaintance. Why can’t she see how unsettling all of this is?
I have to keep reminding myself that it is for his sake that I am watching Mary plan her plans and plot her plots. I have an obligation to preserve his secret and no way to do that save by accepting Mary’s construction of the situation. Meanwhile, the campaign to relieve Holmes of the burden of his bachelorhood divides its attentions and multiplies its effects, evolving at such a breakneck pace that I cannot think how to combat it.
“Do you think Mr Holmes is happy?” is as unanswerable today, shining grimly in her eyes, as it was when she first raised it above a month ago. The mortifying fact that however unhappy he was then he is far less happy now, fairly trembles in the air between us. It cannot remain unspoken forever.
“Mary… Dearest.” My arms are about her waist and I am nuzzling her cheek. “Can’t you be satisfied with making one man perfectly happy? Now, for instance?”
She melts against me (Mary never says very much in my fantasies) and I know that Holmes is safe and all is well between the Watsons again. It is the perfect line and I am justly proud of it, but the casting is all wrong. What if she should laugh? Mary has had some very strange reactions lately.
At least with Holmes I know where I am. His reactions are logical: he hasn’t dropped in on us of an evening since his impromptu sparring match with Miss Hughes ended in a technical knockout in the opening round. After last night, I know better than to expect that he will suddenly reinstate the habit or, for that matter, willingly accept a concert ticket from me for years. Miss Blish took care of that. As for my dropping in on him, it is impossible. Mary is my responsibility; I can’t go there empty-handed; I need a plan. For all I know to the contrary, Holmes may be constrained by the same consideration. This is not going to be easy.
In a matter of a few short weeks, we have gone from private embarrassment at home to public embarrassment
at the theatre. I do not call it progress, but then I do not pretend to have my wife’s intuition for these things. Her view of the matter has been different from mine from the beginning.
“I hope you are not feeling badly about this evening, John? I promise you, I thought it went very well for a first attempt and so does Celia. It is not as though Mr Holmes had been expecting to meet a Miss Hughes here this evening…”
I was too quick for her that time. Snatching up the buttonhook, I began furiously on my boots and did not look up until the danger had been averted. I have grown very fond of that buttonhook lately.
“Frankly, I am disappointed in Celia. They might have had quite a pleasant conversation had she resisted the impulse to take him up in that very unbecoming way. In a man whose intentions are so uniformly of the best, I had hoped she might make some small allowance for an awkwardness that is never coarse or vulgar. Well, no matter. Clumsiness is not inexcusable, but it was perhaps a little optimistic of me to expect it to appeal to Celia, of all women. I shall do better next time. The important thing is, Mr Holmes spoke to her, for several minutes in fact. That must be accounted a gain. It is more, certainly, than I hoped for when I first broached the subject with Celia…”
I can only say that it did not seem like much of a gain to me, considering the nature of their conversation. Besides, I knew Holmes well enough to be reasonably certain that he would not speak to her again.
There have been times when my (mis)understanding of a situation has been sufficient to justify even Holmes’s opinion of my deductive abilities. This was one of those times. I had put my trust in Watson’s Law of Emotional Inertia: bodies at rest tend to stay at rest, I comforted myself. I forgot that the law of inertia has a second part: bodies in motion tend to stay in motion. And I haven’t had a restful moment since.
