Chapitre 17: The Art of Seduction and Disillusionment (1/3)
I was still a young man when I first met Sherlock Holmes, although I did not feel that way. I felt, in fact, that youth and many of my other uncertain virtues had been burned and rendered out of me by the combined actions of fever and the Indian sun. I felt myself a piteous creature to a great extent but was tired of seeing the same thoughts reflected in the eyes of others. Despite my best pretenses, I was all but a broken man.
Thus I was immediately attracted to Holmes'overwhelming disinterest in me, and it was a great boon during the first few weeks of my native convalescence. I needed company without bother, and Holmes provided that. It was somewhat inconvenient when this same distant quality began to have an altogether different effect. The traumatized and trammeled soil of my spirit began to nurture strange seeds of curiosity. Holmes remained enigmatic, but even during those early days he was obviously remarkable -- and to be honest, I have always harbored a strange attraction to people with an aloof nature. Reading Freud I could only suppose that the peculiar behavior of my dissolute father had some influence there.
So it was that on a particular afternoon, well into the long trek towards evening, Holmes and I were both sitting at the fireplace and at our ease. I was belatedly reading the morning newspaper. Holmes was staring fixedly at some point just above the mantelpiece with an expression of mild consternation. He had been doing this for the better part of an hour, and so I was driven to assume that he was thinking over some matter more-or-less unrelated to the direction of his gaze.
Suddenly, as if some puppeteer had found a new use for him, Holmes sprang to his feet.
"Where concentration will not serve, distraction might," he declared. "Are you inclined to hear a little music, Watson? A reputable quartet is playing…"
He was already heading for the door, not out of an assumption that I was with him, so much as indifference either way. Indeed, I had hardly left our rooms since entering them, but the idea appealed on this occasion. Given that I was wearing neither shoes nor vest I called after him.
"If you want company you shall have to wait a minute."
Not considering that a foregone conclusion, I waited until I saw him stop and turn before levering myself out of the deep-set armchair that I favored. He conspicuously consulted his pocket watch as I made my relatively brief preparations.
Holmes remained uncommunicative during our sojourn. Despite his declaration, I imagine his mind was returning to whatever had occupied it before. We took a cab to the small opera house on Cleve Street, one that I was guiltily pleased not to have to pay for given the current state of my finances. Holmes strode within and I drifted in his wake, not taking more trouble than was necessary to keep him in sight. I was further surprised that he purchased my ticket.
"As the evening is largely for my benefit…" he explained.
I imagine he had come into some money, as he was not much given to largess. He chose seats near the back wall of the small theatre. As the concert was sparsely attended, he could have chosen a better position, acoustically speaking. In my role as guest, I could not complain about his choice, yet I did ponder its meaning.
It seemed to me that Holmes, in seeming to do little more than stare complacently ahead as the musicians tuned their instruments, was actually keeping a rather close eye upon a couple sitting a few rows ahead and to the side of us. In fact, we were seated in one of the few places that would allow a clear view of them.
The lady sat closer to us, her slender neck and delicate features displayed in one-quarter profile. The gentleman was not easy to see beyond her. My impression was that he was holding the lady's hand, but otherwise not obviously solicitous, but there was a subtle quality of interaction between them that suggested a bond more intimate than their relative postures might suggest. I wondered what Holmes's interest might be. In the lady, in the gentleman even; it did not seem likely either way.
As the program began Holmes seemed to put the audience entirely out of his mind, and I also put my musings aside. I must admit I found it rather charming the way Holmes lost himself in the music, his slender fingers waving slowly in response. It was not something I expected given his habitual reserve. I suppose it was as well that he sat where Holmes own manner of enjoyment distracted no one but me. I was rather afraid that I was spending too much time watching Holmes, and so closed my eyes and attempted to attend to the music. Such a strategy might have been more successful if I were more devoted to baroque music. As it was, after a while its plodding tones sent me straight to sleep.
I awoke with a start and took some time to determine where I was. It was quiet and the last patrons were just leaving the main auditorium. Holmes had his arm draped over the back of his seat. He was looking over me toward the central aisle, but my impression was that he had been watching me. This was the first time that it occurred to me that my quiet appreciation of my new room-mate might not be entirely in vain, and this was not entirely a comfortable proposition.
"You should have woken me," I said.
"I should, perhaps, not have brought you out with me. You have some way to go before you are entirely recovered."
I made a dismissive sound. "We had best go before they lock the doors."
I did not want to be spoken of as some kind of weakling, even if it was not too far from the truth.
"If you are so hale perhaps we could walk back?" Holmes asked.
"Certainly," I replied.
The cold air felt refreshing, and although walking on the uneven cobbles made my leg ache I was surprised to find how much I enjoyed being out and about again. Holmes was an undemanding companion and did not set too fast a pace. We were almost at Baker Street when he broke the silence.
"What did you think of the couple sitting ahead of us?" Holmes asked suddenly.
"They seemed happy together."
"Do you think he is still wooing her?"
"I think they have reached an agreement already."
Holmes was silent again and I wondered again what his interest in the pair was.
"They were only holding hands," Holmes mused.
"Well, limited to public meetings, what else can they do? But there is an art to holding hands."
"Is there?" he replied with a slightly mocking tone.
"Certainly," I replied. "Let me show you. He did not hold her hand like this, with his hand over hers." I took his hand to demonstrate. "Nor even with their palms together like this… The gentleman's fingers lay over the top of her hand so than his thumb lay concealed in her palm. So that without any outward sign the palm of his thumb can move over the underside of her hand. It is a wonder that holding hands is considered a polite gesture, given how sensitive our hands are."
I demonstrated by moving my rough-skinned thumb along the crease of Holmes' palm and down towards the base of his fingers. He seemed to be paying attention to what I was saying, and his attention is something of a mixed blessing, given its intensity. I dropped his hand rather suddenly, and rather suspect that I might have blushed.
The awkward moment passed as we reached the door to our rooms. I walked up first and prepared to continue up to my room. Holmes stood next to the door into the sitting room. I looked down only briefly and saw him stepping through, looking contemplatively at the palm of his own hand.
#
Holmes smiled in faint satisfaction and set his hand down upon the vacant desk. He felt the varnish, tacky in the summer heat, against his palm. When he had a moment like this he tried to hold on to it for a while. He felt at peace, he felt calm and content; it was about as close to happiness as he ever came. He closed his eyes and stood, feeling the light from the bow window against his face and hearing the house creak and settle as the same sun hit its wooden frame.
Ironically it was Watson's wedding day. The fact could not be held long at bay. Holmes contemplated failing to attend. He had refused any official role, and he had refused to even promise to attend. His absence might caste something of a pall over events for Watson, yet he must be used now to making allowances… But it would not do. Holmes retired to his bedchamber, where Mrs. Hudson had hung his freshly pressed morning suit.
He maintained a sensation of distant stoicism as he went through the ritual of dressing. As he fixed his second cufflink he wondered what to do next, as there was still an hour until eleven. He determined to walk a little, somewhere quiet to maintain his mood. It was as fine a state of mind as could be aspired to, under the circumstances.
A passing cab took him to the park, to St. John's Wood. He had it wait whilst he walked amongst the trees, breathing in the relatively smog-less air.
"I can do this," he told himself. "I can."
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone