Between the Thames and the Tiber (13 page)

Holmes reference to my somewhat inexperienced ear failed to offend me, for I had, after so many years, grown accustomed to his cutting words and had learned to ignore them. I continued to prod him about the violin.

“But surely you could have chosen a career as a musician had you wished.”

“No, Watson. A certain talent is present, no doubt, from the French blood inherited from my maternal ancestors, the Vernets. But I became aware early on that I had just enough of this talent to play well but not, unfortunately, supremely well. It has always been my judgement that one’s life should be devoted to what one can do at the very limits of one’s capabilities, the determination of which should occupy the better part of one’s youth. It was during the early period of my life that I came to know that I could not reach the highest peaks of musicianship, no matter how much a strong inner desire suggested such a possibility. In music, the hands, the brain, the will, all must be at one. My character I judged to be other. Rather than a single talent, mine was a group of talents that, skillfully employed, could be put to a supreme use: the struggle against the criminal. And so, I abandoned any notion of a life of music and devoted myself to the exploitation to the fullest of my greatest talents: observation and deduction. Thus, I created, almost single-handedly, the profession of consulting detective.”

“But surely, Holmes, you could have been mistaken about your musicianship. It is a road not taken, its end unknown. Who knows, had you tried, you might one day have become the greatest of living virtuosi.”

“I make few errors, Watson. In my line of work, I can ill afford them. I will admit, however, that youth can often mistake its path and that judgement of one’s own gifts is at best a difficult one. My original determination, however, may be confirmed once again by experiences in the future. Indeed, our next client may provide us with the occasion.”

“And who might that be?” I asked.

“I am expecting a distinguished guest this morning, Watson, who may need our services. You will recognize him instantly. It is through individuals like him, who have reached the highest rung of artistry possible, that one can evaluate, or re-evaluate one’s talents whatever they might be.”

“Very well, Holmes, I look forward to meeting him. I trust you plan to keep his identity secret until he appears—for drama’s sake no doubt.”

“Precisely, old boy. Now go about your business until Mrs. Hudson announces his arrival.”

It was impossible for me to concentrate on my picayune business matters now that Holmes had alluded to a special visitor. As we waited, I mused for a moment, reviewing mentally those cases that I had shared with him during the early days of our friendship. Our most recent case had come to us a few months earlier from the Andaman Islands, and I entitled it “The Sign of Four” in my chronicles. This adventure also provided for me a wonderful woman, Miss Mary Morstan, who was to become my bride in a few months.

As I stared into space, Holmes’s face broke into my reverie. After my marriage, I thought, we would see far less of each other, since the happiness of my domestic life and a growing medical practise would give me little time to look in upon my dear friend. I would follow his exploits as well as I could through the London press. In that way I would learn of his whereabouts. Sadly, I thought, his adventures would remain quite unknown to me.

“Perhaps, Watson,” he broke in, “in the interest of adding to your already voluminous files about me, you should have an account of my recent journey to France. It was a visit to Montpellier to do research on a host of new poisons that have entered the criminal market. There was no adventure in this, the journey being free of those lurid elements which you continue to relate in your popular accounts of my comings and goings, and it may not serve your purposes. Here, however, are the results of my research, dedicated to you, my dear friend, soon to depart for the land of domestic bliss.”

His voice was free of the usual sarcasm that accompanied his words when he uttered such sentimental thoughts. He leaned forward in his chair and handed me a substantial tome entitled “Poisons and Their Criminal Uses. A Monograph Submitted to the
Sûretè
of France by Sherlock Holmes.”

I was deeply touched by his gift and he saw my eyes mist over.

“Do not worry, Watson, I shall be here, and I promise you that I shall take no one new into our quarters. You are free therefore to come and go as you please. And I hope you will find the free time to come. I have already told Mrs. Hudson of the arrangement and she concurs. While we await our visitor, perhaps I should explain to you the reasoning that took me to France.”

I wiped my eyes, and muttered a hoarse, “Go on, old boy.”

“Very well, then, here is the case, or rather the reasons for my visit to France. It was to write a book about poisons, the one you hold in your hand.”

He did not move from his chair, but sat motionless. For a moment, and for but a moment, I could almost see his great brain as it scrutinized events and characters, thus bringing forth the detailed observations and deductions that led him to his inevitable conclusions.

“After we disposed of Jonathan Small, you will recall that I had little to occupy my time, and so I decided to spend a month in the south of France. There, in a cottage that belongs to a distant cousin, I continued some of the chemical researches that had been delayed because of my active professional life. My interest was in a number of poisons that I felt must be described in detail if criminal investigations were to be more successful.

“You have recorded already my constant dabblings with poisons and other toxins, and my knowledge of what you have termed sensational literature, by which phrase I assume you meant the history of crime. My historical knowledge, together with the recent results of my many experiments, I finally put down in this monograph published in France through the good offices of a friend in the
Sûretè
. Written under my name, it caused a bit of an uproar within criminological circles since it pointed to the increasing use of obscure but deadly poisons as a more and more common weapon of inducing death. I chose to publish the work in France, because my historical researches had traced the use of poison in modern Europe back to the late-seventeenth-century Poison Affair at the French court, in which several notables were involved. The poisons used by Marie Madeleine d’Aubray, marquise de Brunvillers, and by Catherine La Voisin, to dispatch many at the court of Louis the Fourteenth, were nearly all new at the time and the more difficult to detect because of their very recent appearance in Europe. The line between medicine and poison is a fine one, Watson, and my monograph showed how murder had been made easier by the recent increase in the number of substances now available from our colonies in India and Africa. The most common of these were of course the various strychnine poisons that were made from the seeds of the strychnos nux vomica, a plant native to India. These and others mimic many diseases and if given over long periods of time produce long suffering and, finally, death.”

I recalled as he spoke that he remained in France for about eight weeks before his return to London only two days before. His stay in Paris was far longer than he had planned, due largely to the publication of the monograph, and he did not arrive in London until almost the end of January.

“Two days ago, while you were out, dear Watson, I was informed by Mrs. Hudson that a monk, probably of the Roman Church, wished to see me. He had appeared suddenly and unannounced. She had gathered from his broken English that it was a matter of the gravest urgency, and judging by his excited gestures, she felt that I had best see him at once. I, unfortunately, was not here either, and so our prospective client left, saying that he would return at the same time the following day.” And so he had, for there was a sudden knock at our door, unmistakably that of our landlady, and Holmes nodded, asking that she show our guest in immediately.

When he entered, I was a bit taken aback, for I recognized him instantly. Still tall, though slightly bent and much older now than I remembered, there was no mistaking the dramatic figure, the powerful face, the aquiline nose, the famous moles on the cheeks, and the long snow-white hair that reached his shoulders. He wore the long black frock of the monk, and a black velvet cape over his tall frame.

“Welcome, Monsieur Abbé,” said Holmes in French, “I am rarely honoured by so distinguished a visitor. And this is my colleague, Dr. Watson. I think you will find the chair near the window the most comfortable. Please sit down.”

“I need your immediate help, Monsieur Holmes,” said the monk, continuing in French.

“I am at your service, Monsieur Liszt. I assume that you have learned of me through—”

“The King of Bohemia, my good friend, and most recently through friends in the French
Sûretè
, where you are held in the highest esteem. The King has often recounted to me—and to very few others—the successful outcome of your intervention in his affairs, an intervention that saved his marriage and throne. And now I turn to you for help, not for myself, at least not directly, but for my daughter, Cosima, more than anyone, and for her husband, who has been my close friend for many years.”

Holmes paused briefly to light his pipe. He looked at me directly as he said, “You know as well as I, Watson, that one does not have to be an avid follower of music and musicians to know of whom Monsieur Liszt speaking.”

Indeed, I thought to myself, even an unmusical person such as I knew of those of whom he spoke. Liszt, his daughter Cosima, and her husband, the German composer Wagner, were the subject of constant gossip and the object of endless attacks by pamphleteers and the lower forms of the press, both in Germany and the rest of Europe. Holmes himself kept a large file on musicians, one in which Wagner and his circle figured prominently.

Addressing our guest, Holmes said, “Please continue, Monsieur Liszt. If I believe that I can be of help, I shall be so gladly.”

His guest paused for a moment, struggling with his choice of words.

“Then let me explain, Monsieur Holmes. I believe Richard Wagner is in great danger, and I fear for his life. We have known each other for many years. We first met in Paris over forty years ago, and while we have had careers that often placed us far apart, we have never lost touch. Since he married my daughter Cosima in 1870, his children are now my grandchildren, and I have made it part of my life to visit with his family as often as my work permits. I was not a good father, Monsieur Holmes, neither to Cosima, nor to her brothers and sisters. My habits are well known, but, seasoned by age perhaps, I have attempted to make amends, at least to Cosima, by spending time with little Siegfried and his sisters, the Wagner children. I adore them and wish them every happiness.

“But Wagner himself, as long as I have known him,” he continued, “has possessed a very difficult character. A person of strange moods and abrupt changes in character, one never knew whether he would be jovial or morose. Plagued all his life by financial worries, seeing enemies everywhere, his creative genius always found itself subject to his powerful but destructive emotions. Because he is so difficult, I at first opposed Cosima’s association with him. I preferred frankly the less talented but steadier Hans von Bülow. Even after she left him to live with Wagner, I opposed their marriage, and I advised von Bülow not to grant a divorce. But after I saw Cosima and realized how happy she was with Richard, I finally relented. She told me that she had made her life very complicated by marrying Wagner, but he was the joy of her life, just as Hans, her first husband, was her life’s sorrow, and her children her life’s work. Richard, himself, never seemed happier than after their marriage.”

“Within this happiness,” said Holmes,” there must be something that you find troubling, Monsieur Liszt, otherwise you would not be here. Please tell me what it is.”

“I shall explain, Monsieur Holmes. In brief, it is this: for no apparent reason, Wagner’s health has deteriorated rapidly in the last several years, so rapidly that I have begun to suspect an external cause. Considering his enormous success as a composer and the familial happiness that he shares with his wife and children, there is no reason for this decline and for the number of maladies with which he has been afflicted. He was a vigorous man in his youth, and except for his youthful excesses, he has been a man of abstemious habits. He is, through the influence of Schopenhauer, a kind of Buddhist,
un bouddhiste allemand
, as they say, who has led the quiet life of a composer.”

“Then there is,” Holmes interjected, “as I have long suspected, no truth behind all the rumours and wild tales associated with him—and about you, Monsieur Abbé, I might add.”

The Abbé laughed. “Monsieur Holmes, the public desires this kind of tale. It is what fills the concert halls and pays our way. The public does not understand artistic creation in the slightest. It cannot comprehend in the least what effort and time is involved just to produce a finished score, let alone conceive it. We are not all Mozarts. Even the shortest of my
études
has taken hours not just to compose, but merely to write out clearly for the printer. The years of hard labor that go into the creation of works such as
Lohengrin
or even of some of my more modest efforts, such as
Les Préludes
, leave little time for the wild life. We lead, Monsieur Holmes, the most bourgeois of lives in order to generate the passion necessary to create the music of the future, as Wagner himself has characterized it.”

Holmes watched Liszt carefully as he stood up and paced across the room. His face, that of a true Magyar, showed the greatest concern.

“I have spent several months with the Wagners over the last year, Monsieur Holmes, and I have seen the steady decline of my friend Richard. His nights are sleepless. He cannot find rest, he is tormented by fierce dreams, spasms of the muscles, deep pain through his joints and severe nocturnal hallucinations. He has all but given up composing. I have just left them. They are in Venice, a place that Wagner finds congenial. Richard is ill, very ill, and he does not follow his doctors’ orders. I was alarmed at how he looked at Christmas. It was then that I thought that something was very wrong, that there might be an external cause.”