Kitabı oku: «Lost Diaries», sayfa 3
VII
FROM THE DIARY OF MRS JAMES LEE'S HUSBAND
October 1. – At last the heat wave is over. It's the first day we have been able to breathe for months.
Just as I was coming back from my morning walk, Hilda leant out of the window, and suggested I could climb up into her room like Romeo. I said I preferred the door. Hilda shut the window with a bang and was cross all through luncheon.
"Rissoles again," I said to Hilda, "you know I hate hashed meat." She said: "I know I can't give you the food you get at the Grand Hotel." That's because I went to Deauville last week.
October 5. – We lit a fire for the first time last night. Hilda said she felt cold. I thought it was rather stuffy. She said: "Do light the fire," and went out of the room. I lit it, and it smoked. This chimney always does smoke at first. When she came back she said: "What have you done?" I said: "I've lit the fire; you asked me to." She said: "But not all that wood at once, and you ought to have pushed the wood back." For the rest of the evening she complained of the heat and the smoke, although we had the window open in the dining room and the smoke had all disappeared after a few moments.
October 7. – It's very windy. Went for a walk on the cliffs. Back through the fields. Saw a rabbit and a magpie. Wish I had had a gun.
I said to Hilda that the sea was striped to leeward like a snake, and olive-coloured, but on the weather side it was spotted with wind. Hilda said: "You are very observant about the weather." This was a hit at me and the fire. Little things rankle in her mind.
Afterwards she was sorry she had said this and she said: "What fun we shall have here in winter." I don't think it's a winter place myself, but I want to stay here till I've finished my poem. I'm getting on with it.
October 8. – I read out to Hilda a lyric I had just finished. It's to come in the Second Canto when Lancelot says good-bye to Princess Asra. The situation is roughly that the Princess bullies him and he gets sick of it and goes – and then, of course, she's sorry, when it's too late. He sings the song as he's going. She overhears it. I was rather pleased with it. Hilda said: "Oh! of course I know I worry you with my attentions." What this had got to do with the poem I can't think. It was all because last night, when I was working, Hilda came into my room and said: "Are you warm enough?" and I said "Yes," rather absent-mindedly, as I was in the middle of my work. Ten minutes later she looked in again and asked me if I wanted some beer, and I said "No," without looking up. Then very soon afterwards she came in a third time, and asked me if I was sure I wasn't cold, and whether I wouldn't have the fire lit. Rather snappishly – because it is a bore to be interrupted just when one's on the verge of getting an idea fixed – I said "No."
I'm afraid this hurt her feelings.
October 9. – Since Hilda has given up her sketching she has nothing to do. I was very busy this afternoon finishing my weekly article in time for the post. She rushed into the room and said didn't I think a butterfly settling on a jock was the ultimate symbol of love and the mind of man? I said I thought she was very probably right. Heavens knows what she meant. Women's minds move by jerks, one never knows what they'll say next. They're so irrelevant.
October 10. – It's blowing a gale. Stuck in the poem. Hilda says it's cynical. I don't know what she means. She says she didn't know I was so bitter. I said: "It's only a kind of fairy tale." She said: "Yes; but that makes it worse." "But it's only an ordinary love story," I said. She said: "Of course I know nothing can go on being the same. It can no doubt be better, but not the same as it was before." "But Princess Asra is only an incident in my poem," I said. Hilda said nothing, but after a time she asked me whether I thought that was the meaning of the moan of the wind. I have no idea what she meant by "that." She is very cryptic sometimes.
October 11. – Lovely day. The sun came out and I suggested that I should take a holiday, and that we should go and have a picnic on the rocks. I was afraid Hilda might have something against the plan – one never knows. But she didn't. On the contrary she seemed delighted. She made a hamper and I carried it down to the rocks. We caught shrimps and threw stones into the sea just like children. I think Hilda enjoyed herself. On the way home, I asked her why she didn't go on with her drawing. I really think it's a great pity she has given it up. She has real talent. She said: "I will if you wish it." I said: "Of course I don't want you to do it, if you don't like; but I do think it's a pity to waste such a very real talent." She said: "I quite understand," and sighed. I wonder what she was thinking of. Hilda is absurdly modest. She draws extremely well, especially figures.
October 12. – Hilda has begun drawing again. I am delighted. She began copying the cast of a hand; but I suggested to her that it would be far more interesting for her to draw a real hand from nature. So she got a little girl from the village to sit for her. I am delighted. It gives her an occupation, and I really am very busy just now. After all, we came here so as not to be disturbed – to be away from people and interruptions; and I find that in the last two months I have got through less work than I did in London in June. I must make up for lost time. I can't get on with the poem. I think I shall leave it for a time. I should immensely like Hilda's opinion on what ought to happen next. She can be of the greatest help and use when she chooses. Unfortunately she has taken one of those unreasonable and entirely unaccountable dislikes to this poem, and no argument is of the slightest use. It's no good even mentioning it. I shall leave it for a time and go on with my other work. It is most unfortunate that Hilda should look upon it in this light, especially as she doesn't even know what the subject is; but she has taken an episode – in fact, one little song – as symbolic of the whole. But then logic never was Hilda's strong point.
October 13. – Hilda is getting on very well with the hand. She seems to enjoy it, which is the great thing.
October 24. – Have been too busy all these last days thinking, even to write my diary. Believe I have at last really got an idea for the poem. Shall begin to-morrow. Have not dared mention it to Hilda. Fortunately she is still utterly absorbed in her drawing.
October 27. – Great disappointment. Last night Hilda said it was no good concealing things any longer, and that one must look facts in the face. I had no idea what she meant. Then she said she had noticed for some time past how bored I was here, and how I was longing to get rid of her. Nothing I could say would persuade her of the contrary. I tried to explain that I had been searching for a new idea and that this had no doubt made me appear more absent-minded than usual. She said: "I am not going to worry you any longer. I am going to set you free." And to my intense surprise she announced that she had booked a berth on the steamer for the day after to-morrow. I knew that argument wouldn't be of any use, so I gave in at once. It is most disappointing just as I had got an idea I wanted to consult her about.
October 29. – On board the steamer Queen Marguerite. Saw Hilda off. She insisted on going and refused to argue. Deeply regret she is leaving. Hilda is the only woman I ever met who remains tidy even on a steamer. The sea-air suits her. It has done her a world of good, and it's a great pity she is leaving so soon – she says it's for good; but that, of course, is ridiculous.
VIII
FROM THE DIARY OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
Baker Street, January 1. – Starting a diary in order to jot down a few useful incidents which will be of no use to Watson. Watson very often fails to see that an unsuccessful case is more interesting from a professional point of view than a successful case. He means well.
January 6. – Watson has gone to Brighton for a few days, for change of air. This morning quite an interesting little incident happened which I note as a useful example of how sometimes people who have no powers of deduction nevertheless stumble on the truth for the wrong reason. (This never happens to Watson, fortunately.) Lestrade called from Scotland Yard with reference to the theft of a diamond and ruby ring from Lady Dorothy Smith's wedding presents. The facts of the case were briefly these: On Thursday evening such of the presents as were jewels had been brought down from Lady Dorothy's bedroom to the drawing-room to be shown to an admiring group of friends. The ring was amongst them. After they had been shown, the jewels were taken upstairs once more and locked in the safe. The next morning the ring was missing. Lestrade, after investigating the matter, came to the conclusion that the ring had not been stolen, but had either been dropped in the drawing-room, or replaced in one of the other cases; but since he had searched the room and the remaining cases, his theory so far received no support. I accompanied him to Eaton Square to the residence of Lady Middlesex, Lady Dorothy's mother.
While we were engaged in searching the drawing-room, Lestrade uttered a cry of triumph and produced the ring from the lining of the arm-chair. I told him he might enjoy the triumph, but that the matter was not quite so simple as he seemed to think. A glance at the ring had shown me not only that the stones were false, but that the false ring had been made in a hurry. To deduce the name of its maker was of course child's play. Lestrade or any pupil of Scotland Yard would have taken for granted it was the same jeweller who had made the real ring. I asked for the bridegroom's present, and in a short time I was interviewing the jeweller who had provided it. As I thought, he had made a ring, with imitation stones (made of the dust of real stones), a week ago, for a young lady. She had given no name and had fetched and paid for it herself. I deduced the obvious fact that Lady Dorothy had lost the real ring, her uncle's gift, and, not daring to say so, had had an imitation ring made. I returned to the house, where I found Lestrade, who had called to make arrangements for watching the presents during their exhibition.
I asked for Lady Dorothy, who at once said to me:
"The ring was found yesterday by Mr Lestrade."
"I know," I answered, "but which ring?"
She could not repress a slight twitch of the eyelids as she said: "There was only one ring."
I told her of my discovery and of my investigations.
"This is a very odd coincidence, Mr Holmes," she said. "Some one else must have ordered an imitation. But you shall examine my ring for yourself." Where-upon she fetched the ring, and I saw it was no imitation. She had of course in the meantime found the real ring.
But to my intense annoyance she took it to Lestrade and said to him:
"Isn't this the ring you found yesterday, Mr Lestrade?"
Lestrade examined it and said, "Of course it is absolutely identical in every respect."
"And do you think it is an imitation?" asked this most provoking young lady.
"Certainly not," said Lestrade, and turning to me he added: "Ah! Holmes, that is where theory leads one. At the Yard we go in for facts."
I could say nothing; but as I said good-bye to Lady Dorothy, I congratulated her on having found the real ring. The incident, although it proved the correctness of my reasoning, was vexing as it gave that ignorant blunderer an opportunity of crowing over me.
January 10. – A man called just as Watson and I were having breakfast. He didn't give his name. He asked me if I knew who he was. I said, "Beyond seeing that you are unmarried, that you have travelled up this morning from Sussex, that you have served in the French Army, that you write for reviews, and are especially interested in the battles of the Middle Ages, that you give lectures, that you are a Roman Catholic, and that you have once been to Japan, I don't know who you are."
The man replied that he was unmarried, but that he lived in Manchester, that he had never been to Sussex or Japan, that he had never written a line in his life, that he had never served in any army save the English Territorial force, that so far from being a Roman Catholic he was a Freemason, and that he was by trade an electrical engineer – I suspected him of lying; and I asked him why his boots were covered with the clayey and chalk mixture peculiar to Horsham; why his boots were French Army service boots, elastic-sided, and bought probably at Valmy; why the second half of a return ticket from Southwater was emerging from his ticket-pocket; why he wore the medal of St Anthony on his watch-chain; why he smoked Caporal cigarettes; why the proofs of an article on the Battle of Eylau were protruding from his breast-pocket, together with a copy of the Tablet; why he carried in his hand a parcel which, owing to the untidy way in which it had been made (an untidiness which, in harmony with the rest of his clothes, showed that he could not be married) revealed the fact that it contained photographic magic lantern slides; and why he was tattooed on the left wrist with a Japanese fish.
"The reason I have come to consult you will explain some of these things," he answered.
"I was staying last night at the Windsor Hotel, and this morning when I woke up I found an entirely different set of clothes from my own. I called the waiter and pointed this out, but neither the waiter nor any of the other servants, after making full enquiries, were able to account for the change. None of the other occupants of the hotel had complained of anything being wrong with their own clothes.
"Two gentlemen had gone out early from the hotel at 7.30. One of them had left for good, the other was expected to return.
"All the belongings I am wearing, including this parcel, which contains slides, belong to someone else.
"My own things contained nothing valuable, and consisted of clothes and boots very similar to these; my coat was also stuffed with papers. As to the tattoo, it was done at a Turkish bath by a shampooer, who learnt the trick in the Navy."
The case did not present any features of the slightest interest. I merely advised the man to return to the hotel and await the real owner of the clothes, who was evidently the man who had gone out at 7.30.
This is a case of my reasoning being, with one partial exception, perfectly correct. Everything I had deduced would no doubt have fitted the real owner of the clothes.
Watson asked rather irrelevantly why I had not noticed that the clothes were not the man's own clothes.
A stupid question, as the clothes were reach-me-downs which fitted him as well as such clothes ever do fit, and he was probably of the same build as their rightful owner.
January 12. – Found a carbuncle of unusual size in the plum-pudding. Suspected the makings of an interesting case. But luckily, before I had stated any hypothesis to Watson – who was greatly excited – Mrs Turner came in and noticed it and said her naughty nephew Bill had been at his tricks again, and that the red stone had come from a Christmas tree. Of course, I had not examined the stone with my lens.
IX
FROM THE DIARY OF THE EMPEROR TITUS
Titus reginam Berenicem … cui etiam nuptias pollicitus ferebatur … statim ab urbe demisit invitus invitam. – TACITUS.
Rome, Monday. – The eruption at Vesuvius does not after all appear to have been greatly exaggerated, as I at first had thought on receiving Pliny's graphic letter. One never can quite trust literary men when facts are in question. It is clear that I missed a very fine and interesting spectacle. In fact I have lost a day. Good phrase, that. Must try and bring it in some time or other.
Tuesday. – I fear there is no doubt of Berenice's growing unpopularity. It is tiresome, as I was hoping that the marriage might take place soon – quietly. She insists on wearing a diadem – which is unnecessary; and her earrings – made of emeralds and gold cupids – are too large. She asked me, to-day, if I didn't think she resembled the Rose of Sharon. I said I supposed she meant the rose of Paestum. She said, "Ah! You've never read the Song of Songs." I said I had read all Sappho. She said, "It's not by Sappho, it's by Solomon." I had no idea King Solomon wrote.
Wednesday. – Berenice has asked some of her relations to stay with her. They arrived this morning. Her mother, her sister, her younger brother, and her cousin. They are very conversational. They chatter together like parrots or cockatoos. They are also insatiably inquisitive. Talked finance with Paulinus. He says that the Treasury is practically empty. Nobody in the palace appears to have any ready money. When the usual crowd of beggars came to the palace this evening for their daily allowance I had to send them away. It was the first time, Paulinus remarked, that I had let a day go by without making a gift. "Yes," I answered, "I have lost a day." The phrase, I am glad to say, was heard by everybody. I afterwards borrowed a little money from Berenice's brother, who made no difficulties. He is a nice, generous lad, if a little talkative, but then we all of us have our faults. Berenice's mother loses no opportunity of asking when the wedding day is to be. Most awkward. I temporised.
Thursday. – Berenice's relations have spread the news in the Court, by telling it to one of the matrons in strict confidence, that I am about to marry Berenice almost immediately. This is most unfortunate. The news has created a sensation, and they all say that such a match would be more than unpopular amongst the people. Berenice has not mentioned it herself. Lost heavily at dice yesterday. Accepted the offer of Berenice's brother to lend me a lump sum, instead of constantly borrowing small coins. I have no doubt that is the wiser course.
Thursday, a week later. – The strain on my purse is terrible. Had, of course, to subscribe largely to the Pompeii and Herculaneum fund, also to the pestilence relief, also to the Flavian Amphitheatre fund. Borrowed another lump sum from Berenice's brother. He is certainly very good-natured. Berenice's mother again referred to the marriage question. I said this was an unlucky month for marriages. "Not if you are born in December," she answered. Unfortunately I was born in December.
Friday. – Do not know where to turn for money. Do not always want to be borrowing from Berenice's brother. Somehow or other it makes them all so familiar. Given the circumstances, and the extreme unpopularity of their presence here, it is awkward. Besides, it is a shame to trade on the good-nature of a youth. Have sold all the decorations of the Imperial residence and devoted a portion of the proceeds to the Relief Fund. Some one spread the rumour among the dear people that I had devoted the whole of the money to the Relief Fund. I cannot think how these rumours get about.
Saturday, a week later. – This has been a most expensive fortnight. Have had to do a lot of entertaining, and I regret to say I have been once more obliged to borrow a lump sum from Berenice's brother. How I shall ever be able to pay him back the gods alone know! Had the news of my marriage unofficially announced, followed immediately by a semi-official and ambiguous denial, made to see what effect the news would have among the public. Paulinus says the impression produced was deplorable. The Romans cannot, he says, forget that Berenice is a queen. Of course they can't, if she will wear a crown. People say, he says, that even Nero and Caligula avoided offending public opinion on this point. They refer also to Julius Cæsar's action on the Lupercal. There is no doubt that such a course will ensure me a lasting unpopularity. But what is to be done? Berenice's relations talk of the marriage as a matter of course. I have practically promised marriage. Berenice herself says nothing, but her silence is eloquent. Her brother becomes more and more familiar, and presses me to accept further loans. I do my best to refuse, and I have made a vow that the lump sum which he lent me to-day shall be positively the last one.
Monday. – Paulinus tells me that the Senate have decided to present me with a monster petition against my marriage. Since it is obviously impossible – owing to the strong feeling raised and the present excited state of popular opinion – I have resolved to anticipate events, and I have given leave to Paulinus to contradict officially the rumours of my impending marriage. He is to add (unofficially) that Berenice is shortly leaving Rome for change of air; and that she will probably spend the summer months in her charming villa on the Dead Sea. In the meantime I have got to break the news to Berenice before to-morrow morning. Antiochus, the king of Commagene, arrived here this morning. More expense!
Monday night, later. – The crisis is partially over. It has been extremely painful. Berenice at first was incredulous. Then she was upset, and left me, threatening to kill herself. I sent Paulinus to try and calm her. She then said she would leave Rome without setting eyes on me again, and state her reasons in an open letter which she would issue for private circulation only. This, of course, would have been most undesirable. Her mother and sister backed her up, and threw up at me the example of Antony, taunting me with cowardice, of being afraid of the Senate, and of outraging the dignity of a family, royal in rank, and of immemorial lineage. (Berenice is directly descended from King Solomon on her mother's side.) Finally, Berenice's brother came to me and said that as he would shortly be leaving Rome he would be obliged if I could pay him back the trifling loans he had favoured me with. He brought a list of them. He charges interest. It is a tradition, he says, in his family, to charge 90 per cent, interest on Royal loans. He said that he was quite willing to apply to the Senate, if the reimbursement in any way incommoded me. This was a great shock to me. Immediate repayment was and is impossible. The marriage is equally impossible. I told Berenice frankly that I could not remain in Rome as Emperor and the husband of a foreign Queen. She said, "But why shouldn't I be Empress?" Woman-like, she missed the point. I said I was willing to follow her to her villa and renounce all claim to the Empire. Having offered her this alternative, I summoned Antiochus, who is an old friend of hers, to be the arbiter. As soon as the facts were put before him I left them and Antiochus had a lengthy interview with Berenice in private. I was convinced this was the best course. At the end of it, Berenice generously refused to accept my sacrifice, and while renouncing all idea of self-slaughter or retaliation announced her intention of leaving Rome. But those loans! and their terrible interest! that matter is still unsettled!
Tuesday. – All has been settled. Antiochus has lent me the whole sum due to Berenice's brother, and a handsome margin for my personal use. I restored the interest and capital of the loan to Berenice's brother. Said farewell to the family before the whole Court, and handed Berenice's brother a fine gold chain as a slight token of my esteem. "This," he said, "is too much." "No man," I answered, "should leave his prince's presence dissatisfied." Hereupon the whole Court murmured applause, and by a slight gesture I indicated that the audience was at an end. Berenice, alas! left Rome at noon, escorted by Antiochus, who is to spend the summer with her in Palestine. To-day I can say in all conscientiousness that I have not lost a day; but it seems to me that I have lost everything else that there is to lose in this life.
