The Unknown Notes of Dr Watson About the Travels of Sherlock Holmes, ch. 3
Title: The Unknown Notes of Dr Watson About the Travels of Sherlock Holmes
Аuthor: tanchouz
Translator: med_cat
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes, ACD-verse
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Mrs Hudson
Summary: A real friend will always find a way to cheer up the person who is dear to him. And it is not his fault if that person draws entirely unexpected conclusions from such an attempt.
Warnings: AU in that Holmes had visited India during his hiatus. Also, there is a discussion of the Aghori sect and death rituals (somewhat graphic) and there is also an unfavourable view of Buddhism.
Word count: 2,629
Translator's Notes: this is NOT my story. It was originally written in Russian for a fest “Our Birthday Present for Mr Brett” for Nov. 3, 2011 in the 221b comm on diary.ru. I liked the story and asked the author for permission to translate into English and post on English-language fanfic comms, which the author kindly granted.
Cross-posting to
watsons_woes,
violinandwatch, and great_tales
Mods, can I please have two tags: "translator: med_cat" and "author: tanchouz"? Thanks!
The distraught expression on our landlady’s face, when she came out to meet me, convinced me more than any words could have that my uneasy premonitions were beginning to come true.
“What happened, Mrs Hudson?” I inquired after greeting her.
“Oh, Dr Watson!” and she started nervously wringing her hands. “This bust in the sitting room…”
“Why, what has happened to it?”
“That’s just it, absolutely nothing has happened to it. It has been standing there all day, and I would be happy if something did happen to it so that it would disappear from this house.”
“Come now, Mrs Hudson,” I said reproachfully. “You yourself had said that it was a very handsome bust and were displeased when the bullet spoiled it.”
“Yes, but Mr Holmes!”
“Yes?” I halted.
“He put it in the most prominent place in the sitting room and forbade me to carry it away. I can’t enter the room because that head with a hole in its forehead makes such a dismal impression upon me. And it’s the first thing I see when I open the door. The head looks at me as if it were alive.”
“And did you tell Mr Holmes about it?”
“Of course I did.”
“So what was his response?”
“He threatened to make an outline of the bust in bullets on the wall, should I remove the bust. And we have just finished renovating! I got up the courage to point out to him that you will also be displeased by this thing being in the sitting room. And do you know what he said to me in return?”
“What was it?”
“That you could not be displeased because you and this bust-why, the very idea!-embody the same concept, and that’s why you ought to feel friendly sympathy towards it.”
“What concept?” I asked glumly.
“He said you would know.”
“Yes…about the impermanence of everything on earth…” I muttered, feeling the anxiety mount within me. I and this bust?..
“About the impermanence?!” Mrs Hudson indignantly threw up her hands. “What impermanence could he possibly talk about, when I even put the tobacco in his Persian slipper when he returned! Although you know my attitude toward such habits…”
“He was referring to more…large-scale phenomena, Mrs Hudson,” I said in a conciliating tone of voice. “Never doubt it, he valued your care very highly.”
Somewhat mollified, Mrs Hudson shook her head.
“It’s all because of his travels abroad. It’s an unheard-of thing, truly, going to Tibet where nobody even has any idea how to properly brew a cup of tea!”
“Actually, in Tibet, the local residents have a fairly good idea how,” I smiled slightly despite the mounting anxiety. “Strangely enough, they mastered that art much earlier than we did.”
“All the same,” Mrs Hudson answered, stubbornly. “Do you know what my aunt used to say, when people started conversing in her presence about such travelers and other vagabonds who presumptuously criss-cross the globe?”
“What then?”
“ ‘Let’s not criss-cross the globe.’ She detested such individuals, never left England herself, lived to be ninety and died in her own bed. And although I believe that she did go to the extremes a little in her last few years, there is a kernel of truth in her words.
Knowing that Mrs Hudson has many relatives, I cut the conversation short as quickly as I politely could, fearing that the reminiscences about the aunt would be followed by a flood of similar stories, and I was completely not in the mood to listen to them. Mentally I was already in the sitting room, where my friend, who experienced some morbid desire for contemplating the torn-apart forehead of his wax bust was intending, most likely, to become immersed in one of his most dangerous moods. An idea came to me that this new Holmes, who appeared to me so unexpectedly, did in fact remain the the same person he was before our parting-with the same peculiarities and habits. He was new only to me.
The sitting room was quiet. Holmes was still sitting in the chair which used to be considered mine, as if he never got up from it since our conversation in the early morning. He was absently swinging his foot, rifling through some notes from his files, and he smiled politely as I entered the room but did not look up at me.
“Well, Watson, I see you decided to spend this evening with me after all. Thurston will be disappointed,” he said, just as in the old days.
“How do you know about Thurston?” I asked, surprised, sitting down in the second chair and avoiding looking at the bust, which indeed was arrogantly looking on, as if it were alive, from its high stand upon the table. “I don’t see the slightest clue which would have allowed you to find out that he invited me to visit the club tonight.”
“You are right. I simply overheard what the messenger told Mrs Hudson downstairs.”
“She did not give me any such message.”
“Is that so? Then what did you talk to her about for such a long time?”
“Didn’t you overhear it?”
“Only in passing. Something about how they brew tea in Tibet. It’s awfully disgusting, Watson. They add butter and salt to their tea. If one is not accustomed to it, the taste seems simply revolting, although I can tell you from experience that the resulting drink restores one’s strength very well.”
It seemed to me that the time has come to use the method of I came up with earlier today in my old flat to improve Holmes’ mood.
“Listen, my dear fellow,” I began, “don’t you think that in your faraway travels you have lost the edge of your deductive abilities? You spend your time eavesdropping on messengers, you are interested not in complicated crimes which require a sharp mind but in Buddhist monks and sinister hermits who devour corpses. I’m afraid that Adair’s case would exhaust the remnants of your strength.”
Holmes looked at me sharply. Then he shifted his gaze on the object which I had brought with me and was now holding in my hands.
“So that’s why you needed this worn volume…” he muttered.
“Well, what is it you want of me?” he asked in a deliberately disinterested tone of voice. “For me to demonstrate my abilities at the drop of a hat, just as if I were a trained dog?”
I was somewhat taken aback. I meant for my plan to look like a friendly joke, not a mockery. But it was too late to turn back now, and so I handed him the book.
Holmes took the volume, which had seen better days, its title half-covered by a coffee stain, ran his finger along the narrow oblong hole slightly off center of the first page and extending through the next several pages, opened the book in the middle, and frowned quizzically after having read a few phrases.
“Where did you get this?”
“Let’s consider it a clue from the crime scene. What can you tell me about its owner?”
Holmes laid the book aside and crossed his arms over his chest.
“I am currently not inclined to idle pastimes which have no practical use.”
“In your opinion, contemplating a bust with a bullet through its head is of great practical use?”
“Yes, very much so. Because it does not allow me to forget myself and to become a prisoner of empty illusions again.”
“And in my opinion, you have already so much forgotten yourself in this pastime that it might end in something which I absolutely cannot allow to happen.”
Holmes’ face twitched, and he said,
“Don’t speak like this, Watson.”
“Like what?”
“As if you actually…All right, give it to me,” and he extended his hand, although the book lay quite within his reach.
“About which of the two owners did you want to learn more?” he asked, chuckling, after some time, making me experience such a familiar sensation. This mixed feeling of surprise, excitement, and some annoyance at my own slowness--I was deprived of it for many years, but it immediately awakened as soon as Holmes started his game.
Holmes chuckled again, having correctly appraised my questioning silence, which stood in for my usual delighted exclamation this time. He applied himself to the book, this time carefully leafing through it and running his finger along the pages, stopping at some passages and reading attentively. Once, he brought the open book very close to his face and inhaled deeply. Then he pulled his magnifying glass from the pocket of his dressing-gown and carefully examined some of the illustrations.
Having closed the volume, he lowered it to his knees and said,
“Well then. Neatly cut pages-every one of them-and a few which have been repaired with paste so carefully that it’s almost unnoticeable-all that is from the first owner. He wasn’t rich, since he acquired fairly inexpensive books, printed on newsprint, and endeavoured to keep the book in good condition, so as not to have to buy a new one.
This first owner had read this book more than once and each time with great interest, which we can tell bu those small indentations on the pages-you know, people do this-bend the edge of the page toward themselves slightly, place its corner on the next page, and press down to straighten the paper. This man loved his book and wouldn’t have left such marks on it deliberately. He did it mechanically, not even realising he was doing it, because he was engrossed by reading. He was so engrossed by it, in fact, that sometimes he did not even notice that ash was sifting down from his cigar.
He had favourite passages which he valued especially highly-note how easily the book falls open on some of the pages…Ah, what have we here? ‘He was gliding on the ice, making spasmodic attempts at smiling, but every lineament of his face denoted suffering…’ A rather expressive illustration. That’s Phiz, of course-a stout middle-aged gentleman on skates. What’s here? A courtship scene…Also rather comical, judging by the illustration. And this-simply absurd-some kind of ‘Ode to a dying frog’. Hmm...yes. Well, at least here one can definitely observe the tendency of this man to choose the humourous scenes and reread them, obviously with enjoyment. But not only the humorous ones. Here the book also opens easily. But the story is a rather gloomy one, even judging by the title alone- ‘Manuscript of a madman.’ What kind of people like this sort of stories? People who don’t mind a bit of excitement, who possess a lively imagination, which depicts the rest of the events for them, enhancing the effect of what they’d read.
Only two chapters in this book contain underlining and even exclamation points penciled in in the margins. This chapter is the first, and in it, judging by the title, author introduces new characters-young medical students. Good heavens, what dialogues! ‘Nothing stimulates appetite better than dissecting corpses…’ ‘We chipped in to get a corpse…can’t find anybody who’d take its head…’ They even eat whilst they’re doing that. All of this might seem amusing to one of your surgeon colleagues, Watson. And the other chapter is the description of the party of the same medical students with similar conversations about unusual occurrences during operations. We can conclude that this man has a connection to medicine and surgery.
And here’s another illustration-the scene of some duel. Look-dueling pistols are drawn fairly accurately. But if you look more closely, it becomes obvious that somebody found the illustration not quite accurate, and in that he was quite right, and considered it necessary to add some details to the drawing himself. He did it very neatly, in pencil, so that it’s almost unnoticeable. Nonetheless, who else could have done such a thing if not a man who knows weaponry and couldn’t bear to see it drawn incorrectly?
So what is he like, the first owner? A not very wealthy man with a sense of humour and a lively imagination. He also has a connection to medicine, smokes cigars and knows his weaponry. But that is not yet all.
He is fond of literature and considers it to be a good remedy for ennui caused by life’s tribulations. This book lacks a clear and dynamic plot. Rather, it is composed of everyday sketches, descriptions of home amusements, hunting, dinners, observations of different events in life. An excellent way for some people to distract themselves from gloomy thoughts and forget their troubles for a time. Look what I found here,” and Holmes extended a small piece of paper towards me. “Do you see this? This kind of paper is used to write funeral announcements. Somebody in his circle had died, and he was writing them himself, although usually women fulfil that role…”
Holmes fell silent. Then he picked the book up again and looked at the light through the hole in the book’s cover. He sharply snapped the book shut and tossed it onto the table. I sat as if mesmerised by such a detailed report about the fist owner and now it was as if I’d just come to.
“That is wonderful, Holmes,” I said cautiously. “And what do you think about…” and halted, seeing my friend’s expression. He snatched the book up again.
“Now about the second owner,” he said through gritted teeth. “There’s a stain from spilled coffee on the cover. And the coffee had been spilled more than once. Traces of burns, as if something hot had been touching the cover. Scratches. The first owner would have never treated this object in such a manner and would not have allowed the accidentally spilled coffee to leave a stain. That means the book has changed owners. This second person did not read this book. If you open it, you won’t find any traces of coffee, the pages have been much better preserved than the cover. This book lay in a place where other objects which see daily use are kept-cups, pipes-and, judging by the traces of soot on the cover, this place was the mantelpiece. Not the best place for an object which is associated with pleasant memories. Why then did he put it there and why did he treat it so contemptuously?
The reason is that he has no fondness for this sort of literature. Any other book might have been in the place of this one. He simply did not notice it. The most interesting question is this-how did this book come to him? What made its first owner part with it for the sake of a man who was so indifferent to the fact of having it or not that he affixed his correspondence to it with a jackknife?
Do you not find, Watson, that this second owner is quite an unpleasant individual? Not inclined to being tidy, with peculiar habits and absolutely uncaring about other people’s feelings. Not many people would agree to tolerate such a person,” Holmes was looking straight into my eyes with such an expression as if he were saying something totally different from what I was actually hearing.
“It is not surprising that this person is alone. And he needn’t complain that the only friend he’d had now chose the society of another person. And he needn’t entertain empty illusions about how everything might have been different.”
Handing me the book, which I took as if in a dream, Holmes sharply leant back in his armchair and turned away.
I sat as if thunderstruck. I had been certain that he would not remember.