Mrs. Hudson, the landlady of Sherlock Holmes, was a longsufferingwoman. Not only was her first-floor flat invaded at allhours by throngs of singular and often undesirable characters buther remarkable lodger showed an eccentricity and irregularity inhis life which must have sorely tried her patience. His incredibleuntidiness, his addiction to music at strange hours, his occasionalrevolver practice within doors, his weird and often malodorousscientific experiments, and the atmosphere of violence and dangerwhich hung around him made him the very worst tenant in London.
On the other hand, his payments were princely. I have no doubtthat the house might have been purchased at the price whichHolmes paid for his rooms during the years that I was with him.
The landlady stood in the deepest awe of him and never daredto interfere with him, however outrageous his proceedingsmight seem. She was fond of him, too, for he had a remarkablegentleness and courtesy in his dealings with women. He dislikedand distrusted the sex, but he was always a chivalrous opponent.
Knowing how genuine was her regard for him, I listened earnestlyto her story when she came to my rooms in the second year of mymarried life and told me of the sad condition to which my poorfriend was reduced.
“He’s dying, Dr. Watson,” said she. “For three days he has beensinking, and I doubt if he will last the day. He would not let me geta doctor. This morning when I saw his bones sticking out of hisface and his great bright eyes looking at me I could stand no moreof it. ‘With your leave or without it, Mr. Holmes, I am going fora doctor this very hour,’ said I. ‘Let it be Watson, then,’ said he. Iwouldn’t waste an hour in coming to him, sir, or you may not seehim alive.”
I was horrified for I had heard nothing of his illness. I neednot say that I rushed for my coat and my hat. As we drove back Iasked for the details.
“There is little I can tell you, sir. He has been working at a casedown at Rotherhithe, in an alley near the river, and he has broughtthis illness back with him. He took to his bed on Wednesdayafternoon and has never moved since. For these three days neitherfood nor drink has passed his lips.”
“Good God! Why did you not call in a doctor?”
“He wouldn’t have it, sir. You know how masterful he is. I didn’tdare to disobey him. But he’s not long for this world, as you’ll seefor yourself the moment that you set eyes on him.”
He was indeed a deplorable spectacle. In the dim light of afoggy November day the sick room was a gloomy spot, but it wasthat gaunt, wasted face staring at me from the bed which sent achill to my heart. His eyes had the brightness of fever, there wasa hectic flush upon either cheek, and dark crusts clung to his lips;the thin hands upon the coverlet twitched incessantly, his voicewas croaking and spasmodic. He lay listlessly as I entered theroom, but the sight of me brought a gleam of recognition to hiseyes.
“Well, Watson, we seem to have fallen upon evil days,” said hein a feeble voice, but with something of his old carelessness ofmanner.
“My dear fellow!” I cried, approaching him.
“Stand back! Stand right back!” said he with the sharpimperiousness which I had associated only with moments of crisis.
“If you approach me, Watson, I shall order you out of the house.”
“But why?”
“Because it is my desire. Is that not enough?”
Yes, Mrs. Hudson was right. He was more masterful than ever.
It was pitiful, however, to see his exhaustion.
“I only wished to help,” I explained.
“Exactly! You will help best by doing what you are told.”
“Certainly, Holmes.”
He relaxed the austerity of his manner.
“You are not angry?” he asked, gasping for breath.
Poor devil, how could I be angry when I saw him lying in such aplight before me?
“It’s for your own sake, Watson,” he croaked.
“For my sake?”
“I know what is the matter with me. It is a coolie disease fromSumatra—a thing that the Dutch know more about than we,though they have made little of it up to date. One thing only iscertain. It is infallibly deadly, and it is horribly contagious.”
He spoke now with a feverish energy, the long hands twitchingand jerking as he motioned me away.
“Contagious by touch, Watson—that’s it, by touch. Keep yourdistance and all is well.”
“Good heavens, Holmes! Do you suppose that such aconsideration weighs with me for an instant? It would not affectme in the case of a stranger. Do you imagine it would prevent mefrom doing my duty to so old a friend?”
Again I advanced, but he repulsed me with a look of furiousanger.
“If you will stand there I will talk. If you do not you must leavethe room.”
I have so deep a respect for the extraordinary qualities of Holmesthat I have always deferred to his wishes, even when I leastunderstood them. But now all my professional instincts werearoused. Let him be my master elsewhere, I at least was his in asick room.
“Holmes,” said I, “you are not yourself. A sick man is but a child,and so I will treat you. Whether you like it or not, I will examineyour symptoms and treat you for them.”
He looked at me with venomous eyes.
“If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not, let me at leasthave someone in whom I have confidence,” said he.
“Then you have none in me?”
“In your friendship, certainly. But facts are facts, Watson, and,after all, you are only a general practitioner with very limitedexperience and mediocre qualifications. It is painful to have to saythese things, but you leave me no choice.”
I was bitterly hurt.
“Such a remark is unworthy of you, Holmes. It shows me veryclearly the state of your own nerves. But if you have no confidencein me I would not intrude my services. Let me bring Sir JasperMeek or Penrose Fisher, or any of the best men in London. Butsomeone you must have, and that is final. If you think that Iam going to stand here and see you die without either helpingyou myself or bringing anyone else to help you, then you havemistaken your man.”