The Fifth Heart (18 page)

J
ames read into the night. The authorial and plot idiocies continued to accrue. But here and there, James did see elements of the
Sherlock Holmes character
which reminded him of the man he’d met thirteen days earlier and with whom he’d dined that night. And he began to understand, dimly, the attraction of these “adventures” to educated friends of his such as Edmund Gosse. The heart of
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
lay not in the clumsy “adventures”—which never struck James as that adventurous—but rather in the friendship between Holmes and Watson, their breakfasts together, the foggy days shared indoors by the crackling fire, and Mrs. Hudson coming and going with her food trays and messages from the world. Holmes and Watson lived in a
Boys’ Adventure
universe and, like Peter Pan, and despite Watson’s rather confused mentions of being married, neither of them ever grew up.

In “The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor”—which, like so many of the other Holmesian “adventures”, was no adventure at all, but just a vulgar domestic misunderstanding in the flimsy guise of a mystery—a certain “Lord Robert St. Simon” of high-birth visits 221 B Baker Street to seek advice and Holmes is instantly rude to him. Besides botching the title and crying “Good-day, Lord St. Simon” rather than the proper “Lord Robert” or “Lord Robert St. Simon”, Holmes immediately insults his guest and client.

Henry James had to stop himself at the last minute from marking the following passage in Clara’s book with pencil or pen. Lord Robert, who has been left at the altar by an American bride, is speaking:

What utter bombast
, thought James. Any gentleman with a shred of discretion might have mentioned similar
details
in another case, but would never be so indiscreet as to mention the
name
of another client—especially not a royal one.

It was all a reverse snobbery that James had heard from Holmes—or at least from the man downstairs who might be pretending to be Sherlock Holmes in the same penumbra of insanity that led him to
pretend
that he was Holmes pretending to be explorer Jan Sigerson—and it led, along with so many other clues both in these “adventures” and in James’s time with the detective, to one conclusion: Sherlock Holmes was no gentleman. He was simply someone gifted in disguises who had been play-acting for years at being a gentleman—cultivating the casual dress, bored air, and upper-class educated accents of a true gentleman, but never showing the soul of one.

* * *

The last story in
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
—read with the window open because of a growing warmth in the air and with moths batting at the lamp—made the usually staid Henry James stifle his laughter with his hand over his mouth. It would not do to have the Hays’ servants—or perhaps the other guest down the hall—hear gout-ridden Henry James laughing aloud after midnight.

The final story in the collection was “The Adventure of the Copper Beeches” and it was a fitting finale, since it included all of the authorial sloppiness, logical idiocies, and Holmesian blunders that made the other stories all but unreadable. Here they were gathered into a primary mass of one sensationalist writer’s execrable laziness.

The story starts with an attractive but far-too-familiar young lady—a stranger to Holmes and Watson but one acting as if she were already an intimate of the detective—a certain Violet Hunter, appearing one morning and demanding the Great Detective’s advice on an earth-shattering matter: should she take a well-paying job as governess for the son of an immensely fat man named Jephro Rucastle.

Mr. Rucastle’s interview with her was “odd” because he declared himself and his wife as “faddy” and said her employment would require her to wear a certain dress “Or to sit here, or sit there, that would not be offensive to you?”

Miss Hunter declares herself shocked to hear of the idea of her wearing certain clothing—although all domestic servants and many governesses of the era were required to do so—and the warnings of orders “to sit here, or sit there” were foolish for Rucastle to mention if he had dark intentions; the lord and lady of households routinely ordered their domestics and governesses around.

Then Mr. Rucastle informed Violet Hunter that she would have to cut her lovely and luxuriant hair short. At this outrageous condition, Miss Hunter turned down the job offer but kept thinking about the high salary and after a few days came close to changing her mind. Then a letter arrived from Rucastle, still insisting on the cut-hair and wearing of certain clothes as a condition, but raising her proposed salary to thirty pounds a quarter: a fortune for a governess, especially one with the admittedly limited education and experience of Miss Violet Hunter.

“Then what in Hades are you doing wasting this detective’s time in asking for advice
if you’ve already decided?
” softly hissed Henry James in the moth-circling night.

With the certainty of the machineries of plotting thudding and racketing along, drowning all logic and careful introspection, the telegram “which we eventually received came late one night” . . .

This wasn’t a telegram; it was a royal summons. So naturally Holmes and Watson are thundering toward Winchester in a morning train. In this sequence, the interesting part, from what James’s brother William would have called “a psychological perspective”, was this rather amazing outburst from Holmes as he looks at the peaceful English countryside beyond London and comments upon the bucolic homes and cottages:

Henry James had lived in England long enough to know that this was pure twaddle. There were certainly instances of crime and domestic brutality in any picturesque village or cottage, but none of the wanton crime, neglect, and lack of law that Holmes here states—absurdly—would be so quickly reported and corrected, with punishment invariably handed out, in the slums and tenements of London. Indeed, the cruelty of Henry James’s favorite city was known to all of its urban inhabitants.

What struck Henry James in this silly outburst of the literary Sherlock Holmes was twofold:

First, it was not an English attitude about the city versus country. In fact, it was decidedly “un-English”. French, perhaps, Russian, possibly, but never English.

Second, James could all but hear his brother William’s strong voice saying—“This is a sort of confession from the man’s own background, Harry. A psychological plea for help and understanding. Something very dark and painful happened to this man in the country sometime in his past—a countryside he was not used to, being a former city slum-dweller perhaps—and his subconscious now loathes and fears the very idea of bucolic quiet and those stretches of peaceful darkness between the country homes and cottages. It would be very interesting to explore the basis for this man’s deep fears.”

* * *

Henry James occasionally lectured on great writers, but should he ever give a symposium on Ludicrous Writing, he would use as his text the rest of “The Adventure of the Copper Beeches”:

Miss Hunter—her hair now cropped short in a way that reminded James, with a pang, of his teenaged cousin, now deceased, Minnie Temple posing as Hamlet for them after a serious illness had caused her hair to be roughly shorn—meets Holmes and Watson at the Black Swan Hotel (evidently she is a governess who has no problem leaving her young charge, the Rucastles’ only child—a son, Edward, described only as having “a huge and oversized head” and of being “evil”—at any time of the day or night).

Indeed, other than her ascertaining that the odd-looking boy is evil, there is no mention of Miss Hunter’s governess duties or interactions with the boy. The Rucastles have informed Violet Hunter that their daughter—who looked very much like Violet Hunter—had died of “brain fever” (which was the reason for the daughter’s shortened hair), and now Hunter informs a solicitous Holmes and Watson that she has been made to sit in front of a bow window (with her back to the window, of course) in the dead daughter’s dress and laugh aloud at Mr. Rucastle’s endless trove of amusing anecdotes. When Violet secreted a small mirror into her handkerchief to look out the window behind her, she saw a young man standing at the fence to the property, staring intently at her back. But the humorless Mrs. Rucastle noticed the mirror, exclaimed that there was an intruder on the property, and demanded that Violet wave him away before they immediately lowered the blinds. Miss Hunter then easily unlocks a “locked drawer” in a chest of drawers in her room and finds a coil of hair that has precisely the color and texture of her own when it had been long.

As established forever in such gothic tales as
Jane Eyre
, there was the inevitable locked room—in fact, an entire locked wing—which Miss Violet Hunter was told to avoid. Naturally, she soon finds a key (inevitably, conveniently) left in the lock there and explores the empty, dusty wing . . . empty save for one room which is also locked, with the iron headboard from a bed used as bars across it. She does not have time to go inside.

Mr. Rucastle almost immediately learns of her transgression and threatens to feed her to the large mastiff, called Carlo, that he orders the single manservant, named Toller, to loose from the kennel to prowl the grounds at night. Toller, it seems, has drunk himself into oblivion that very afternoon. Holmes immediately announces that she must lock Mrs. Toller in the cellar that evening and that he and Dr. Watson, carrying his trusty service revolver, will be at Copper Beeches at seven p.m.

Holmes has stated that it is obvious that Mr. Rucastle has imprisoned his still-living daughter—Judy—in the locked room for some nefarious reason, probably about an inheritance he wants to control, and the three adventurers have soon broken through the locks and bedstead grille and flung open the door, only to find . . .

Here Henry James cannot resist the soft laughter that overcame him. “A clever and dangerous man . . .” who for some reason found it necessary to bring a tall ladder to his own home, cross the roof, and drop through a skylight to retrieve a young woman from a room to which he had the keys and could easily unlock and walk in—and take his daughter out the normal way should he need to—any time he chose. This was typical of Holmes’s “deductions” and—James thought—it was typically asinine.

The end of the story was almost apologetically
pro forma:
Rucastle appears: “You villain!” cries Holmes. “Where is your daughter?” Then Rucastle rushes out to free Carlo, the giant mastiff, who we know from Mr. Toller’s two days of reported drunkenness—has not been fed for two days. Our trio hears “the baying of a hound”—another authorial idiocy, James notes tiredly. Although Henry James prefers small dogs, lap dogs suitable for parlors, such as dachshunds, he’s been around all breeds of dogs enough at other people’s country homes to know that mastiffs—which are usually quite gentle around people—are incapable of “baying”. Growling, perhaps. Roaring from the chest when threatened, perhaps. But baying, never. That ability to “bay” belongs to the “hounds” group of canines—and a mastiff is not a hound.