Arthur Conan Doyle. At some point I may—or may not—discuss the source of my information about this period and these men, but for now the simple truth and short version are that I know more about most of Holmes’s and James’s three-month stay in America in 1893 from Sherlock Holmes’s point-of-view than James’s. I don’t know all of his thoughts—I do not have that power over or insight into either character, either
man
—but I do have more information on Holmes’s actions during these weeks than I know of anyone else’s in this narrative, and, from that, any competent narrator should be able to guess or intuit or deduce or simply imagine many of his thoughts.
But if the reader is not already overly estranged by this temporary shift in our focus, your narrator will do his best to keep the number of points-of-view to two while working diligently to keep those two viewpoints from hopping back and forth like the proverbial grasshopper in the very real skillet.
* * *
The buffet in the sunny breakfast room was smaller than last night’s long mahogany sideboard in the dining room, but its groaning nature was comparable. Artfully arranged on delicate china and in silver chafing dishes were the makings for full English breakfasts, light French breakfasts, astounding American breakfasts, and, of course, presumably because Jan Sigerson was supposed to be Norwegian, smoked salmon and slivers of whitefish, a salmon-omelette, pickled herring, and English cucumbers—supposedly a London favorite of visiting Norwegians—mixed in with red and green peppers. John Hay—or, to be more precise, John Hay’s cook—had somehow provided Syltetøy, a Norwegian sweet jelly, to go with the morning breads. With the French, Swiss, and American cheeses were Jarlsberg, gouda, Norwegia, Nøkkelost, Pultost, and grunost, a very sweet Norwegian cheese made from goat’s milk. (Holmes had tried grunost once and that, he’d decided at once, had been more than enough experience with the cloying goo.)
Sherlock Holmes filled his plate with bits of English, American, and Norwegian breakfasts—although a French croissant and Turkish-strong coffee were his usual breakfast when he was at 221 B Baker Street—and enjoyed his morning conversation with John and Clara Hay.
The 44-year-old Mrs. Hay, Holmes saw at once, had long since passed Henry James’s somewhat unkind description of “solid”, had—probably in her mid- to late-30s—passed through and beyond the category of “matronly” and was now set firmly in a thickset, multiple-chinned sort of upper-class glory that would probably stay with her until her last years. It did not seem to diminish John Hay’s delight in her (Holmes remembered James saying that she was “solid” when Hay fell in love with her and seemed to revel in it) and, in truth, Holmes still saw Clara Hay’s beauty in the perfection of her clothing, the gleam of a perfect but modest jewel on one soft finger of her pudgy hand, the coruscations of her perfectly set hair, her near-flawless complexion, and a lustrous quality to her wide, bright eyes that no amount of “tucking into her victuals” would probably ever erase.
Also, Clara Hay was a pleasant, caring person and a wonderful hostess. Holmes—especially in his strange, wild-haired, fiercely mustached Sigerson persona—could tell that almost at once. Her voice was a pleasant contralto and, when Clara Hay was in a position where listening was called for (such as after asking Mr. Sigerson a question), she actually
listened
. Holmes knew how rare this gift was of being patient enough actually to listen and immediately saw why Mrs. John Hay, “Clara” to so many hundreds of her close friends (in that bold American way where people in society actually used each other’s Christian names without that English fear that they would be mistaken for a servant), would be the indispensable hostess for a capital city such as Washington.
When Holmes
man
—but I do have more information on Holmes’s actions during these weeks than I know of anyone else’s in this narrative, and, from that, any competent narrator should be able to guess or intuit or deduce or simply imagine many of his thoughts.
But if the reader is not already overly estranged by this temporary shift in our focus, your narrator will do his best to keep the number of points-of-view to two while working diligently to keep those two viewpoints from hopping back and forth like the proverbial grasshopper in the very real skillet.
* * *
The buffet in the sunny breakfast room was smaller than last night’s long mahogany sideboard in the dining room, but its groaning nature was comparable. Artfully arranged on delicate china and in silver chafing dishes were the makings for full English breakfasts, light French breakfasts, astounding American breakfasts, and, of course, presumably because Jan Sigerson was supposed to be Norwegian, smoked salmon and slivers of whitefish, a salmon-omelette, pickled herring, and English cucumbers—supposedly a London favorite of visiting Norwegians—mixed in with red and green peppers. John Hay—or, to be more precise, John Hay’s cook—had somehow provided Syltetøy, a Norwegian sweet jelly, to go with the morning breads. With the French, Swiss, and American cheeses were Jarlsberg, gouda, Norwegia, Nøkkelost, Pultost, and grunost, a very sweet Norwegian cheese made from goat’s milk. (Holmes had tried grunost once and that, he’d decided at once, had been more than enough experience with the cloying goo.)
Sherlock Holmes filled his plate with bits of English, American, and Norwegian breakfasts—although a French croissant and Turkish-strong coffee were his usual breakfast when he was at 221 B Baker Street—and enjoyed his morning conversation with John and Clara Hay.
The 44-year-old Mrs. Hay, Holmes saw at once, had long since passed Henry James’s somewhat unkind description of “solid”, had—probably in her mid- to late-30s—passed through and beyond the category of “matronly” and was now set firmly in a thickset, multiple-chinned sort of upper-class glory that would probably stay with her until her last years. It did not seem to diminish John Hay’s delight in her (Holmes remembered James saying that she was “solid” when Hay fell in love with her and seemed to revel in it) and, in truth, Holmes still saw Clara Hay’s beauty in the perfection of her clothing, the gleam of a perfect but modest jewel on one soft finger of her pudgy hand, the coruscations of her perfectly set hair, her near-flawless complexion, and a lustrous quality to her wide, bright eyes that no amount of “tucking into her victuals” would probably ever erase.
Also, Clara Hay was a pleasant, caring person and a wonderful hostess. Holmes—especially in his strange, wild-haired, fiercely mustached Sigerson persona—could tell that almost at once. Her voice was a pleasant contralto and, when Clara Hay was in a position where listening was called for (such as after asking Mr. Sigerson a question), she actually
listened
. Holmes knew how rare this gift was of being patient enough actually to listen and immediately saw why Mrs. John Hay, “Clara” to so many hundreds of her close friends (in that bold American way where people in society actually used each other’s Christian names without that English fear that they would be mistaken for a servant), would be the indispensable hostess for a capital city such as Washington.
When Holmes
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