A Study In Scarlet Arthur Conan Doyle

CHAPTER II. The Science Of Deduction

  We met next day as he had arranged, and inspectedthe rooms at No. 221b, Baker Street, ofwhich he had spoken at our meeting. They consistedof a couple of comfortable bed-rooms and asingle large airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished,and illuminated by two broad windows. So desirablein every way were the apartments, and somoderate did the terms seem when divided betweenus, that the bargain was concluded upon thespot, and we at once entered into possession. Thatvery evening I moved my things round from the hotel,and on the following morning Sherlock Holmesfollowed me with several boxes and portmanteaus.For a day or two we were busily employed in unpackingand laying out our property to the bestadvantage. That done, we gradually began to settledown and to accommodate ourselves to our newsurroundings.   

  Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to livewith. He was quiet in his ways, and his habits wereregular. It was rare for him to be up after ten atnight, and he had invariably breakfasted and goneout before I rose in the morning. Sometimes hespent his day at the chemical laboratory, sometimesin the dissecting-rooms, and occasionally in longwalks, which appeared to take him into the lowestportions of the City. Nothing could exceed hisenergy when the working fit was upon him; butnow and again a reaction would seize him, andfor days on end he would lie upon the sofa in thesitting-room, hardly uttering a word or moving amuscle from morning to night. On these occasionsI have noticed such a dreamy, vacant expressionin his eyes, that I might have suspected him of beingaddicted to the use of some narcotic, had notthe temperance and clean.  

  As the weeks went by, my interest in him andmy curiosity as to his aims in life, gradually deepenedand increased. His very person and appearancewere such as to strike the attention of the mostcasual observer. In height he was rather over sixfeet, and so excessively lean that he seemed to beconsiderably taller. His eyes were sharp and piercing,save during those intervals of torpor to which Ihave alluded; and his thin, hawk-like nose gave hiswhole expression an air of alertness and decision.His chin, too, had the prominence and squarenesswhich mark the man of determination. His handswere invariably blotted with ink and stained withchemicals, yet he was possessed of extraordinarydelicacy of touch, as I frequently had occasion to observewhen I watched him manipulating his fragilephilosophical instruments.  

  The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody,when I confess how much this man stimu-8lated my curiosity, and how often I endeavoured tobreak through the reticence which he showed on allthat concerned himself. Before pronouncing judgment,however, be it remembered, how objectlesswas my life, and how little there was to engage myattention. My health forbade me from venturingout unless the weather was exceptionally genial,and I had no friends who would call upon me andbreak the monotony of my daily existence. Underthese circumstances, I eagerly hailed the little mysterywhich hung around my companion, and spentmuch of my time in endeavouring to unravel it.

  He was not studying medicine. He had himself,in reply to a question, confirmed Stamford'sopinion upon that point. Neither did he appear to have pursued any course of reading which might fithim for a degree in science or any other recognizedportal which would give him an entrance into the learned world. Yet his zeal for certain studies was remarkable, and within eccentric limits his knowledgewas so extraordinarily ample and minute that his observations have fairly astounded me. Surely no man would work so hard or attain such preciseinformation unless he had some definite end in view. Desultory readers are seldom remarkable forthe exactness of their learning. No man burdens his mind with small matters unless he has somevery good reason for doing so.  

  His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of contemporary literature, philosophy and politics he appeared to know next to nothing. Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired in the naivest way who he might be and what he haddone. My surprise reached a climax, however,when I found incidentally that he was ignorant of the Copernican Theory and of the compositionof the Solar System. That any civilized human being in this nineteenth century should not be aware that the earth travelled round the sun appeared to be to me such an  extraordinary fact that I could hardly realize it.