DarqueDante/test2 · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 74

"You reasoned it out beautifully," I exclaimed in unfeigned
admiration. "It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true."

"It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning. "Alas! I already feel
it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape
from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to
do so."

"And you are a benefactor of the race," said I.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some
little use," he remarked. "'L'homme c'est rien--l'oeuvre c'est tout,'
as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand."






A CASE OF IDENTITY

"My dear fellow," said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of
the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, "life is infinitely
stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would
not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of
existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover
over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the
queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the
plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events,
working through generations, and leading to the most outré results,
it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen
conclusions most stale and unprofitable."

"And yet I am not convinced of it," I answered. "The cases which come
to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and vulgar
enough. We have in our police reports realism pushed to its extreme
limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed, neither
fascinating nor artistic."

"A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a
realistic effect," remarked Holmes. "This is wanting in the police
report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the platitudes of
the magistrate than upon the details, which to an observer contain
the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend upon it, there is
nothing so unnatural as the commonplace."

I smiled and shook my head. "I can quite understand your thinking
so." I said. "Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser and
helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout three
continents, you are brought in contact with all that is strange and
bizarre. But here"--I picked up the morning paper from the
ground--"let us put it to a practical test. Here is the first heading
upon which I come. 'A husband's cruelty to his wife.' There is half a
column of print, but I know without reading it that it is all
perfectly familiar to me. There is, of course, the other woman, the
drink, the push, the blow, the bruise, the sympathetic sister or
landlady. The crudest of writers could invent nothing more crude."

"Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument," said
Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it. "This is the
Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged in clearing
up some small points in connection with it. The husband was a
teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the conduct complained of
was that he had drifted into the habit of winding up every meal by
taking out his false teeth and hurling them at his wife, which, you
will allow, is not an action likely to occur to the imagination of
the average story-teller. Take a pinch of snuff, Doctor, and
acknowledge that I have scored over you in your example."

He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in the
centre of the lid. Its splendour was in such contrast to his homely
ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon it.

"Ah," said he, "I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks. It
is a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return for my
assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers."

"And the ring?" I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which
sparkled upon his finger.

"It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in
which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it
even to you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two of my
little problems."

"And have you any on hand just now?" I asked with interest.

"Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of interest.
They are important, you understand, without being interesting.
Indeed, I have found that it is usually in unimportant matters that
there is a field for the observation, and for the quick analysis of
cause and effect which gives the charm to an investigation. The
larger crimes are apt to be the simpler, for the bigger the crime the
more obvious, as a rule, is the motive. In these cases, save for one
rather intricate matter which has been referred to me from
Marseilles, there is nothing which presents any features of interest.
It is possible, however, that I may have something better before very
many minutes are over, for this is one of my clients, or I am much
mistaken."

"You reasoned it out beautifully," I exclaimed in unfeigned

admiration. "It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true."

"It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning. "Alas! I already feel

it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape

from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to

do so."

"And you are a benefactor of the race," said I.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some

little use," he remarked. "'L'homme c'est rien--l'oeuvre c'est tout,'

as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand."

A CASE OF IDENTITY

"My dear fellow," said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of

the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, "life is infinitely

stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would

not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of

existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover

over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the

queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the

plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events,

working through generations, and leading to the most outré results,

it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen

conclusions most stale and unprofitable."

"And yet I am not convinced of it," I answered. "The cases which come

to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and vulgar

enough. We have in our police reports realism pushed to its extreme

limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed, neither

fascinating nor artistic."

"A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a

realistic effect," remarked Holmes. "This is wanting in the police

report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the platitudes of

the magistrate than upon the details, which to an observer contain

the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend upon it, there is

nothing so unnatural as the commonplace."

I smiled and shook my head. "I can quite understand your thinking

so." I said. "Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser and

helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout three

continents, you are brought in contact with all that is strange and

bizarre. But here"--I picked up the morning paper from the

ground--"let us put it to a practical test. Here is the first heading

upon which I come. 'A husband's cruelty to his wife.' There is half a

column of print, but I know without reading it that it is all

perfectly familiar to me. There is, of course, the other woman, the

drink, the push, the blow, the bruise, the sympathetic sister or

landlady. The crudest of writers could invent nothing more crude."

"Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument," said

Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it. "This is the

Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged in clearing

up some small points in connection with it. The husband was a

teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the conduct complained of

was that he had drifted into the habit of winding up every meal by

taking out his false teeth and hurling them at his wife, which, you

will allow, is not an action likely to occur to the imagination of

the average story-teller. Take a pinch of snuff, Doctor, and

acknowledge that I have scored over you in your example."

He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in the

centre of the lid. Its splendour was in such contrast to his homely

ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon it.

"Ah," said he, "I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks. It

is a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return for my

assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers."

"And the ring?" I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which

sparkled upon his finger.

"It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in

which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it

even to you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two of my

little problems."

"And have you any on hand just now?" I asked with interest.

"Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of interest.

They are important, you understand, without being interesting.

Indeed, I have found that it is usually in unimportant matters that

there is a field for the observation, and for the quick analysis of

cause and effect which gives the charm to an investigation. The

larger crimes are apt to be the simpler, for the bigger the crime the

more obvious, as a rule, is the motive. In these cases, save for one

rather intricate matter which has been referred to me from

Marseilles, there is nothing which presents any features of interest.

It is possible, however, that I may have something better before very

many minutes are over, for this is one of my clients, or I am much

mistaken."