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amado1OK!
Earlier this year, I read David Gerrold's "The Case of the Green Carnation," where Holmes and Watson delicately attempt to help poor Oscar Wilde out. I gave the book a high-star review, 4 or 5, and thought at the time that I honestly couldn't expect better. But Mary Pagones blew old Dave out of the water.
"A Study in Scarlet Marquis" is rigorously researched, packed with witty whipcrack dialogue, and is laced with a tragic tenderness all throughout -- Oscar Wilde's suicidal decision to go to trial is treated with heartbreaking sympathy; Holmes' and Watson's relationship with Francis Douglas makes me ACHE; and ofc the barely-spoken love between Holmes and Watson is the whole book's underlying emotional thread. Besides that, the prose is totally electric and all the descriptions just pop off the page.
About Oscar Wilde: I've always been fond of him. The first time I read him was when I found a Dover Thrift Edition of Dorian Gray in this Christian bookshop as a kid -- instantly it became my favorite book. I didn't even understand half of what was going on in the narrative but I adored it. Since reading "De Profundis," I've become a bit sensitive to portrayals of Wilde as a ridiculous, pretentious fop -- there's an element of this at play in David Gerrold's work. Holmes and Watson are the steady, respectable, totally discreet homosexuals; Wilde is the faintly disgusting poseur who comes across as reckless, whiny.
But that's not the case with Mary Pagones. Oscar Wilde is portrayed sensitively, affectionately -- aging, and terrifying aware of his age, his impending ugliness, his blackened teeth; hitched to a beautiful, coarse creature who can't hope to match him intellectually and treats him with profound cruelty and hints of true-to-life abuse. His devotion to Alfred seems self-aware, resigned, and suicidal. Watson and Holmes watch him go down with a sympathy and sadness -- and deep affection -- that infects the reader. And although Watson and Holmes are much better at disguising their homosexuality, the author makes it clear that they're no better than Oscar for that, and their efforts and fears do nothing to really protect them in the end.
OK, that's my general review XD Now here's a general overview of the plot:
It started with Watson and Holmes on vacation in the English countryside, where they hear of a deadly accident at a nearby hunting party. They arrive to examine the body, a young man (and real-life historical figure) named Francis Douglas, who has clearly committed suicide. Francis' companions refuse to believe it and Watson and Holmes agree that it would be unkind to force them to admit it. They allow the coroner to mark Francis' death down as an accident.
During this scene, it becomes clear that Watson and Holmes have met Francis before and are deeply saddened by his death.
In the next chapter, the narrative jumps back a few years, to the first time Holmes and Watson met Francis -- then a nervous wreck with his nails bitten brutally short. Francis is working as a personal secretary to Archibald Primrose, the 5th Earl of Rosebery and future Prime Minister. At first Holmes and Watson think Francis must be here because of Rosebery, but no -- it's about Francis' beautiful younger brother, Lord Alfred Douglas. Alfred, nicknamed Bosie, is dating Oscar Wilde, and has recently gotten "poor Oscar" into some trouble.
Basically, when Oscar wrote a lavishly affectionate letter to Bosie, Bosie slipped the letter into his coat pocket. Later that same night, Bosie hired a young male prostitute (there are rumors he never actually slept with Wilde, considering him too old and fat), and lent the boy his coat. The boy found the incriminating letter in the pocket, stole it, and is now using it to blackmail Wilde for the outrageous sum of 60 pounds, which is far outside Wilde's budget -- despite his posturing as an extravagant gentleman, he's viciously broke, and spends all his money appeasing Bosie's aristocratic tastes.
Francis is worried out of his mind. His father, the Marquess of Queensbury, is totally insane and abusive to both boys -- even Francis, his favorite. If this evidence gets out that Bosie and Oscar are really in a relationship, the Marquess might do something drastic. Holmes and Watson agree to visit Wilde, where Holmes gently suggests that Wilde just publish the letter himself and call it a prose sonnet.
The problem seems solved, but Bosie continues to be reckless, and the Marquess' feverish desire to ruin his own sons only grows. Soon it spreads to Francis as well -- because Rosebery has a habit of picking up handsome young male secretaries and then firing them when they get married. Francis admits to Holmes that he and Rosebery are indeed together, and he doesn't know what to do. It's an impossible situation. His father is determined to prove Rosebery is sodomizing his son -- and that Wilde is sodomizing the other. The Marquess doesn't care that in doing so, he'll ruin the reputation of both Douglas boys. In fact, that might be exactly what the Marquess wants; he seems to deliberately sabotage both sons no matter what steps they take in life. He punishes Alfred for being idle the same way he punishes Francis for taking a job.
While Holmes and Watson try to save Wilde from one Douglas boy and the other Douglas boy from himself, they also quietly deal with their own problems -- cruel bickering where a moody Holmes insults Watson's writing, hitting on a sore spot; Holmes' addiction to cocaine; Mycroft's increasingly frequent visits and his warnings that they need to live separately, try to be less conspicuous, and even the ramifications of Watson's stories and their various fabrications. Most notably, in this story, Watson made up the Reichenbach Falls; yes, Holmes really did leave him there, and no, Holmes didn't tell him why, but there was no Professor Moriarty, no dramatic fall to the death. Holmes simply left. Officially, in Watson's stories, Holmes is still dead, and they're living off royalties from Holmes' research papers and paltry detective fees. But everyone in London knows Holmes is alive because they can see him and Watson walking down the street daily, arm in arm. The question is, when will Holmes let Watson resurrect him? And the tension lies in Watson's writing, Holmes' discomfort with how they're portrayed, both of their unease with the lies about Watson's marriage and their relationship.
There's an excellent scene about midway through the book where Watson visits a doctor. At first we think he's going there to get his leg checked up; ever since Chapter 1, the author's been mentioning Watson's war wound and its stiffness, deliberately setting us up for this moment imo. But Watson is really there to talk about Holmes. He discusses Holmes' mood swings -- dark depressive phases that last for days, where he can get really cruel; wild upswings where he doesn't sleep for an entire week. Work helps keep him steady; cocaine makes the mood swings worse.
For a little while, Watson and the doctor politely discuss how cocaine negatively impacts someone like Holmes, and then the doctor takes a hard swerve: his prescription is for Holmes and Watson to leave England entirely. Go to France, where the social climate is kinder. Live openly and happily. Watson's cheeks burn but he goes numb and quietly says that they can't do that; Holmes loves London more than he loves any man.
Ouch!!
Eventually, the narrative takes us back to Francis' suicide, which hurts DEEPLY now, because we've seen how he met Holmes and Watson, watched their friendship develop, grew to genuinely like this kid -- a closeted gay kid, the responsible older son, doomed to constantly cover for and protect his flamboyantly open younger brother. When Francis is rejected by Rosebery and forced to marry a woman, he kills himself, and that night, we see Holmes and Watson processing the suicide in a lovely, subtle, achingly sad scene in their hotel.
Anyway, here's my highlights -- a mix of shippy Holmes/Watson moments and examples of the snappy dialogue.
*****
Francis: "But the fact my brother is younger?"
Holmes: "Younger brothers never trouble themselves over elder brothers. I know, because I am the younger of two brothers and I never trouble myself over mine."
I flinched slightly, despite Holmes's bantering tone. Many years ago, I had lost my own eldest brother to drink. I never spoke of him, though still wore his watch. Once, Holmes had used his powers to deduce my painful family history. It made me irrationally angry at the time. I knew when Holmes was following a chain of logic, he seldom thought of the pain his observations might cause the listener. Holmes met my gaze, then looked away.
*****
Francis: "I see I have no need to speak in euphemisms. Thank God for that. The word amongst those who know is that the two of you are--"
Holmes: "Sympathetic. But just the facts, please. I know you have not come here for sympathy."
*****
Holmes and I walked to the Savoy together, for our appointment with Oscar Wilde. I was glad of the activity after a long morning sitting at my desk, although my arm and leg began to throb the last quarter of our stroll. The change in my gait would have been imperceptible to most, but Holmes slowed his pace, and took my arm. I apologized; he tutted me silent.
*****
Holmes: "Of course, the best advice would be to find a friend who does not leave compromising letters in the pockets of impecunious male prostitutes. But love biases the judgement."
"I think mine has survived," I said, quietly.
*****
"I think I am bleeding again." Holmes had removed his gloves. One of his sticking plasters had migrated. He put his thumb in his mouth, and I smiled at the incongruity of the image.
*****
"I shall join you in going to bed shortly," he said. "Goodnight, Watson."
I stared at the syringe.
"You said you only took drugs when you were bored, and you do have a client -- Drumlanrig," I protested.
"Of all the things I have ever said, Watson, why is that sentence -- and only that sentence -- the one you can quote verbatim?" he said.
In the dimness of this light, he looked as young as when I had first met him, I thought. The fact that he seemed so untouched by all the world's vices, as well as his own, made me feel ludicrous. "As a physician--"
"As a physician, you would acknowledge conventional medical opinion would characterize Wilde as a diseased man, correct?"
"Now, Holmes, of course, that is absurd, but..."
"Then permit my own rationality to dictate what I do, and spare me your quotes from the latest edition of The Lancet."
*****
"Oscar would do anything for Bosie except one thing -- attach his name to bad prose," said Drumlanrig.
*****
(While Holmes and Wilde are monopolizing conversation, particularly Holmes)
Without lifting my heel from the floor, I very gently pressed my toe into the thinner leather of my companion's boot.
"Mr. Wilde wishes to dine soon," I murmured.
*****
"Once again, let us all breathe a sigh of relief Holmes turned his talents to preventing rather than committing crimes," I interrupted, gently taking his hand and sitting him down as discretely as possible.
*****
"I agree that is serious, unnatural. What did his physician say?" I asked.
"Watson is delicately asking if Rosebery is using drugs," said Holmes, dryly. He lit another cigarette and moved to the window, presumably to stare at the comings and goings of the city outside.
"It was not unknown for him to take cocaine to stay awake, and morphine at night to help him sleep," said Drumlanrig, quietly. "Even before the business with my father."
"My friend knows the signs of addictions quite well," said Holmes.
*****
Mycroft: "You do know Wilde has bestowed the same kind of solid silver cigarette case upon half the rent boys in London, Sherlock?"
Sherlock: "Of course, and I was beginning to feel left out."
*****
"Mycroft, you may abuse me all you like, you have earned that privilege, but I shall ask you to leave if you raise your voice to Watson again." Holmes sat down beside me, did not touch me, but did drape his arm over the back of the settee we shared.
*****
"There are some things neither your fists nor your wit can get you out of, Sherlock. I can still remember the day you were nearly expelled from school and I was summoned from university to save you. There you stood, upbraiding the headmaster about his irrationality as if he were sitting in the dock, not you. It was particularly galling since I was quite aware you were certainly capable of not being caught."
"You know I detest rugby. What else was I supposed to do during the hour? I can never resist an experiment. Your past reputation at that school was always beyond reproach, Mycroft. I told you he was cleverer than myself, didn't I, Watson?"
"I think the headmaster was more surprised you had a friend at all, as was I. You have met John Gray. Next time, I shall bring him here so he can tell you himself how unwise it is to become involved with a man as indiscreet as Wilde. It was monstrous for Wilde to so obviously base the name of his infamous protagonist upon Gray. Wilde knew all too well how hard Gray has fought to gain respectability and his current position."
"John Gray has a fine mind and is always welcome here, whatever the reason," said Holmes.
"Follow his example. Avoid Wilde and his set. I am concerned not only for you, Sherlock, but also for Dr. Watson."
"Holmes's interests and mine are one and the same," I said, quickly.
"I thought you might say something like that, Doctor. One flesh, one jail cell, it's all the same to the both of you. I'm no hypocrite or prude, Sherlock, but I must advice you not to commit career seppuku. I don't understand you. Most of the time you behave as if you couldn't bear the company of a stray cat, and then ... What was that young man's name? The one you met at university after his bulldog savaged your ankle?"
"You know how bored I become when I lie about."
"Couldn't you study...or something?"
"Really, Mycroft. It was only my ankle that was hurt."
"Sherlock--"
"Victor Trevor was devoted to sport, quite a different sort than myself. But we had subjects in common, and for similar reasons, he was as friendless as I."
"Yes, forgive me, you both had some tastes in common, evidently," said Mycroft Holmes.
*****
"You are being absurd; even Dr. Watson is bemused by that untruth. 'Vain as a girl about your gifts,' he once wrote. He does know you well. But leave off Wilde's lot. I will say you and Dr. Watson at least have been discrete to a point."
"Better part of valor and all that," I couldn't resist saying.
"Still, don't you at least think the two of you should go through the appearance of having separate residences? A confirmed bachelor living alone might escape comment, but two men living together for years long after they can clearly afford to do otherwise begins to look intentional. For God's sake, the two of you were holding hands in one of those horrible illustrations in The Strand."
"Arm in arm," I corrected. "The illustrations are not mine, of course. They are composed by--"
"But you approve them! Your work suggests them."
"We lived apart for a fair amount of time, Mycroft, and this arrangement suits us. Without me, Watson will be in danger of developing an artistic temperament," said Holmes.
"I might feel the urge to write really serious historical fiction," I said.
*****
"Incidentally, I have noticed neither of you will call me Francis or Drummy, nor do you call yourselves by your Christian names in my presence. Oscar found your habit quite amusing..."
"I despise public schoolboy nicknames, no offense meant to Your Lordship or Your Lordship's brother," said Holmes.
"I notice you always refer to your employer by his honorific," I said.
"It is always best to reduce the chance of any unconscious slips of the tongue."
"As we have found," I said. "Given we are often in the presence of the official police force."
*****
"When you began living together did you know at first?"
"That he was a private consulting detective? No."
He laughed. "Now, I went to Harrow. It's a common joke that a school tie from Harrow is a sign you were another man's bitch at some point in your life." He finished his brandy. Tonight he had been drinking far more than usual. "Thank God not everyone is like Bosie and Oscar. Oscar worships Bosie. But Bosie has never really been terribly attracted to Oscar. Bosie only really desires beautiful youths. Oscar is really not his sort at all, much as he loves to bask in the glow of Oscar's literary fame. I think that is why, in part, Oscar puts up with Bosie's follies and abuse. He is apologizing for not being young and beautiful himself."
*****
When Holmes appeared again, lying on the sofa, he looked even more gaunt and haggard than usual. "You may be interested to know I met Lord Rosebery. He is a standoffish, suspicious man. He of course made no mention of Mycroft's asking me to rid him of the troublesome Marquess. But even under the best of circumstances, I can see how a secretary with the warmth of Drumlanrig would be helpful. Rosebery is eloquent and intelligent, but manages to offend many allies with his aloof manner."
"It is helpful to have an obliging assistant to apologize for a lack of certain social graces," I said. "Even if said assistant is less brilliant than his master."
*****
"A prominent scar may befit a professional pugilist," I said, "but little suits a London gentleman of your class and gravity."
"You flatter me, Watson. I am neither a gentleman by society's standards nor a beauty at this point in my life, but I still possess enough small personal vanity in my middle age to accept your aid. I do not wish to frighten you every morning over our coffee, eggs, and toast."
*****
"Cocaine can amplify the mood swings of a man already prone to violent shifts in temperament," said Dr. Agar.
"Precisely." I felt Dr. Agar's inquisitive eyes boring into mine, and looked at my hands to relieve the shame I felt. I entered dangerous territory. "One morning, his stupor was so heavy, he did not wake. I had to pour cold water on his face. His breathing was shallow. His pulse was faint. He did not revive for a long time. Then he laughed, said it was my nature to be concerned about nothing." Speaking about being in the same bedroom with Holmes made my own face flush fire.
****
"You have called Mr. Holmes a reasoning machine in print, but it sounds like you know him to be a man of strong emotions."
"What do you advise?" I asked.
"I would advise both of you to go to France, Dr. Watson."
"Do you mean a holiday? Changing the environs of the addict can make it easier for him to live without the drug?" My voice sounded tighter than I had intended.
"It can. But that is not quite what I meant. It is what I always advise to men in Mr. Holmes's situation. I have known many wracked by mysterious psychosomatic complaints. A more open climate in, say, France is very congenial to their health, and their symptoms evaporate. Of course, giving up any addiction produces some unpleasant sensations, but I do not think your friend will find them impossible to tolerate, given his constitution. France does not legislate against human nature. He does speak the language, does he not?"
I had recovered enough to respond in the same clinical manner, "He does. Some of his people are from France." Good God, what was I thinking to come here? I could never hide what I thought or felt. Even Holmes would know of this meeting, once I skulked back to our rooms.
*****
I dreaded my return to Baker Street, but I knew that to delay my journey would provoke comment, so I walked straight home. Even as I did, I felt raw, exposed, and unmasked, oddly enough more so than I did when walking with Holmes. It was absurd, I knew. Sometimes I felt more obvious to the world even than Wilde, for all his posturing, for all his Dorian Grays. A true artist is a good liar, and I, as my friend always told me, was a terrible liar.
*****
I felt a strange stab of melancholy. How I hated the hours of twilight before tea. Oh, my leg ached, horribly. "I wish you would speak more often about your Tibetan adventures," I eventually managed.
"Nothing is more irritating than a white man holding forth on his half-informed opinions of the East, Watson." Holmes took up his violin.
"But you have studied its wisdom, which is more than most Englishmen have done," I said.
"Ah, but what did I learn? I am still unenlightened. I had nothing wise to say to that woman (Constance Wilde). I only noticed her mismatched gloves."
T__T
*****
"Lord Alfred wrote to your own wife when you tried to end the relationship. Does that not seem monstrous to you?" I asked.
"What, did not Mr. Holmes write to you when you were married, Doctor?"
"That was different," I said. "It was for professional reasons. Not to be manipulative."
"Come at once if convenient, if not, come anyway?" asked Wilde. "Was that not one of Mr. Holmes's favorite phrases to summon you, his dear friend -- the happily married, respectable doctor?"
I looked to Holmes for some apt response, but for once, he was silenced. I must confess, after years of being unable to accomplish this feat so handily, I enjoyed the display, although I hated being the source of his discomfiture.
*****
Holmes reached forth to pour himself an additional cup of coffee, exposing an arm clearly studded with the pink pockmarks from his morning's ablutions -- and many others.
*****
"I have assured my friend I am far more disagreeable to live with in my unadulterated state. Something so enhancing to my mental capacities cannot be entirely bad."
I colored. If he really believed that, I knew there was no hope of me ever weaning him off of the drug.
*****
But it was too late. Holmes's reflexes were sharper than mine, and I suddenly felt his hand upon my eyes, shielding my gaze from the splintering slivers of glass in the air.
The shot had pierced the window before us and the glass had shattered in a blinding, beautiful, and terrifying burst of sound and color. There was something magnificent in the destruction, however awful, of something as apparently unassailable as the window of one of the finest dining establishments in Knightsbridge. "You might benefit from some lessons from your brother, Lord Alfred," said Holmes tranquilly, drawing back from me once the danger was over. "Or Dr. Watson." He brushed the glittering dust from my suit jacket, then his own.
*****
"Watson was a soldier," said Holmes dryly. "And has bragged of his experience with women on several continents."
"Holmes was once engaged. Sober," I snapped, more than slightly mortified by my friend's description of myself, even though I had written it. My marriage may not have been quite as picturesque as I made out in print, but nor was it as ugly as it sounded right now.
*****
"I do not wish to be the source of a quarrel between the two of you. I see that I am," said Drumlanrig.
"It was I who was in the wrong," said Holmes. His voice was tight, as if he was cross with himself for letting any emotion affect his composure when a client was sitting in his consulting room. "I must beg both of your forgiveness. You, most particularly, Drumlanrig, as Watson is accustomed to my moods."
*****
"We might be able to dispose of any physical evidence for you," mused Holmes.
"No, no, no more burglary," said Drumlanrig.
"We would be delighted," I said. "We really need to get out more together, it's been ages since we even went to a concert."
*****
One of Francis' friends after the suicide: "I heard the rumors. Even so, well, lots of chaps do that sort of thing at school, and it never really means anything, does it?"
"Yes, it really is all quite meaningless," said Holmes.
T__T
*****
"Something like this cannot be read in the cut of a man's coat or the cracks on his shoe leather, Holmes," I said.
"You make my celebrated gifts sound very useless right now. Vain as a girl, indeed." For the whole grisly day, Holmes had been detached and masterful, the thinking machine capable of analyzing emotion, seemingly feeling nothing. For the first time I saw a crack.
"Holmes. I did not mean..."
"When I saw Drumlanrig's handwriting -- how the words sloped downward to the corner of the page, how the crosses on the Ts sloppily passed through other letters, the uneven pressure -- I was immediately alarmed," he said. "This was a man who worked as a secretary, of ascetic habits, whose customary handwriting I would expect to be faultless in appearance. His was the handwriting of a man who had," Holmes cleared his throat, "quite given up. Combined with the fact he would be one of a shooting party..." He shrugged.
My friend locked the door of our room, sat back down, and lit a cigarette. I put my hand on his shoulder, and he put his free hand on mine. The shadows cast by the dim lighting made his face appear even more cadaverous than usual.
"This young man is dead, but I am all too well aware of the fact that to use my powers to reveal the truth would only bring misery, rather than ease it. Watson, I must ask you. Do you ever wish I had not returned."
"Returned from where?"
"From Switzerland. Tibet. Anywhere."
"Holmes! What a question."
"It sometimes seems, when I am in an introspective mood, I have been selfish. I often wonder if you would have been happier in my absence. Married again. You would certainly have led an easier life. I am well aware my habits and inclinations make me poor company. My few, previous attempts at intimacy were not particularly successful. They were brief and unfulfilling, and I did not understand why. I, who have always prided myself on my understanding. I am strange even amongst strange men."
"I am afraid I cannot agree you are best suited to being alone."
*****
"If I was wrong to try and spare you the daily pain of being with a man such as myself, it was you who biased my judgement."
"Forgive me if I have at any time biased your judgement."
"You have to an excruciating degree, and for that I cannot forgive you," Holmes said.
"I must put on a light." I turned on the gas. "I am waiting for you to say it makes no difference whether I can see or not, given how blind I am in drawing inferences."
"I am sure I will say something very like, when I read The Strand. I will be wearing a much more elegant suit than I am at present. You will write some nonsense like you were surprised to see a rare flicker of tenderness or so much of my heart. Of course, the public will believe you."
*****
"For God's sake, Holmes, you are not to blame. Don't you always say to look at things as they are, neither worse nor better?"
"This case had features which biased my judgement," he said. "I thought Drumlanrig was a stronger man."
"But he was, Holmes. He was. This was not due to weakness."
*****
Holmes stood and began rifling through our baggage.
"Not tonight," I said.
"I understand your concern. If I overdose, you will eventually run out of old material and have to conclude your series."
"Holmes, my nerves are too strained for your gallows humor."
"I'm afraid that is the only sense of humor I possess." He sat down beside me again, morocco (syringe and cocaine) case in hand.
"Don't be absurd."
Cradling the case, he leaned back, closed his eyes. His bony knees, like mine, were covered in mud from kneeling on the ground before the ruins of what was once Drumlanrig. I waited for him to do ... what he did, and I flinched, because here, there was no way to get away from the sight, as there was at Baker Street. But he remained motionless.
"Watson, I have one more thing to ask you. I know at times ... you have been in a great deal of pain. I saw you were in a great deal of pain today. Yet you have never taken morphine or cocaine, not in the many years we have been together. Even when you have admonished me, you have never said, 'Look how I suffer, and yet it is you who have the needle beside you right now.'"
It took me a moment to respond. "Holmes, there are many kinds of pain, and I would not say mine is worse.
Holmes shoved the case back into his Gladstone bag, untouched.
He kicked off his shoes and stretched out on one of the beds. "Remember to make the other bed look like you've slept in it before you turn in, there's a good fellow. You forgot last time we were away, and I was careless, too. What an eyeful of an expression I had over my porridge the following morning from that innkeeper's wife."
******
I have many other highlights, but I'll stop there. This is probably the most affecting scene in the novel for me -- this, and the very end, where Holmes and Watson attend the auction of Oscar Wilde's personal possessions. Holmes, a bit of a hoarder himself, is deeply affected by the callous auctioning of Oscar's beloved books (as was I, when I first learned about it). But the only item he himself bids on is Oscar Wilde's writing desk, as a gift to Watson.
The scene above, right after Francis Douglas' death, is another favorite of mine -- the subtlety of Holmes's tears is what makes it for me.
Earlier this year, I read David Gerrold's "The Case of the Green Carnation," where Holmes and Watson delicately attempt to help poor Oscar Wilde out. I gave the book a high-star review, 4 or 5, and thought at the time that I honestly couldn't expect better. But Mary Pagones blew old Dave out of the water.
"A Study in Scarlet Marquis" is rigorously researched, packed with witty whipcrack dialogue, and is laced with a tragic tenderness all throughout -- Oscar Wilde's suicidal decision to go to trial is treated with heartbreaking sympathy; Holmes' and Watson's relationship with Francis Douglas makes me ACHE; and ofc the barely-spoken love between Holmes and Watson is the whole book's underlying emotional thread. Besides that, the prose is totally electric and all the descriptions just pop off the page.
About Oscar Wilde: I've always been fond of him. The first time I read him was when I found a Dover Thrift Edition of Dorian Gray in this Christian bookshop as a kid -- instantly it became my favorite book. I didn't even understand half of what was going on in the narrative but I adored it. Since reading "De Profundis," I've become a bit sensitive to portrayals of Wilde as a ridiculous, pretentious fop -- there's an element of this at play in David Gerrold's work. Holmes and Watson are the steady, respectable, totally discreet homosexuals; Wilde is the faintly disgusting poseur who comes across as reckless, whiny.
But that's not the case with Mary Pagones. Oscar Wilde is portrayed sensitively, affectionately -- aging, and terrifying aware of his age, his impending ugliness, his blackened teeth; hitched to a beautiful, coarse creature who can't hope to match him intellectually and treats him with profound cruelty and hints of true-to-life abuse. His devotion to Alfred seems self-aware, resigned, and suicidal. Watson and Holmes watch him go down with a sympathy and sadness -- and deep affection -- that infects the reader. And although Watson and Holmes are much better at disguising their homosexuality, the author makes it clear that they're no better than Oscar for that, and their efforts and fears do nothing to really protect them in the end.
OK, that's my general review XD Now here's a general overview of the plot:
It started with Watson and Holmes on vacation in the English countryside, where they hear of a deadly accident at a nearby hunting party. They arrive to examine the body, a young man (and real-life historical figure) named Francis Douglas, who has clearly committed suicide. Francis' companions refuse to believe it and Watson and Holmes agree that it would be unkind to force them to admit it. They allow the coroner to mark Francis' death down as an accident.
During this scene, it becomes clear that Watson and Holmes have met Francis before and are deeply saddened by his death.
In the next chapter, the narrative jumps back a few years, to the first time Holmes and Watson met Francis -- then a nervous wreck with his nails bitten brutally short. Francis is working as a personal secretary to Archibald Primrose, the 5th Earl of Rosebery and future Prime Minister. At first Holmes and Watson think Francis must be here because of Rosebery, but no -- it's about Francis' beautiful younger brother, Lord Alfred Douglas. Alfred, nicknamed Bosie, is dating Oscar Wilde, and has recently gotten "poor Oscar" into some trouble.
Basically, when Oscar wrote a lavishly affectionate letter to Bosie, Bosie slipped the letter into his coat pocket. Later that same night, Bosie hired a young male prostitute (there are rumors he never actually slept with Wilde, considering him too old and fat), and lent the boy his coat. The boy found the incriminating letter in the pocket, stole it, and is now using it to blackmail Wilde for the outrageous sum of 60 pounds, which is far outside Wilde's budget -- despite his posturing as an extravagant gentleman, he's viciously broke, and spends all his money appeasing Bosie's aristocratic tastes.
Francis is worried out of his mind. His father, the Marquess of Queensbury, is totally insane and abusive to both boys -- even Francis, his favorite. If this evidence gets out that Bosie and Oscar are really in a relationship, the Marquess might do something drastic. Holmes and Watson agree to visit Wilde, where Holmes gently suggests that Wilde just publish the letter himself and call it a prose sonnet.
The problem seems solved, but Bosie continues to be reckless, and the Marquess' feverish desire to ruin his own sons only grows. Soon it spreads to Francis as well -- because Rosebery has a habit of picking up handsome young male secretaries and then firing them when they get married. Francis admits to Holmes that he and Rosebery are indeed together, and he doesn't know what to do. It's an impossible situation. His father is determined to prove Rosebery is sodomizing his son -- and that Wilde is sodomizing the other. The Marquess doesn't care that in doing so, he'll ruin the reputation of both Douglas boys. In fact, that might be exactly what the Marquess wants; he seems to deliberately sabotage both sons no matter what steps they take in life. He punishes Alfred for being idle the same way he punishes Francis for taking a job.
While Holmes and Watson try to save Wilde from one Douglas boy and the other Douglas boy from himself, they also quietly deal with their own problems -- cruel bickering where a moody Holmes insults Watson's writing, hitting on a sore spot; Holmes' addiction to cocaine; Mycroft's increasingly frequent visits and his warnings that they need to live separately, try to be less conspicuous, and even the ramifications of Watson's stories and their various fabrications. Most notably, in this story, Watson made up the Reichenbach Falls; yes, Holmes really did leave him there, and no, Holmes didn't tell him why, but there was no Professor Moriarty, no dramatic fall to the death. Holmes simply left. Officially, in Watson's stories, Holmes is still dead, and they're living off royalties from Holmes' research papers and paltry detective fees. But everyone in London knows Holmes is alive because they can see him and Watson walking down the street daily, arm in arm. The question is, when will Holmes let Watson resurrect him? And the tension lies in Watson's writing, Holmes' discomfort with how they're portrayed, both of their unease with the lies about Watson's marriage and their relationship.
There's an excellent scene about midway through the book where Watson visits a doctor. At first we think he's going there to get his leg checked up; ever since Chapter 1, the author's been mentioning Watson's war wound and its stiffness, deliberately setting us up for this moment imo. But Watson is really there to talk about Holmes. He discusses Holmes' mood swings -- dark depressive phases that last for days, where he can get really cruel; wild upswings where he doesn't sleep for an entire week. Work helps keep him steady; cocaine makes the mood swings worse.
For a little while, Watson and the doctor politely discuss how cocaine negatively impacts someone like Holmes, and then the doctor takes a hard swerve: his prescription is for Holmes and Watson to leave England entirely. Go to France, where the social climate is kinder. Live openly and happily. Watson's cheeks burn but he goes numb and quietly says that they can't do that; Holmes loves London more than he loves any man.
Ouch!!
Eventually, the narrative takes us back to Francis' suicide, which hurts DEEPLY now, because we've seen how he met Holmes and Watson, watched their friendship develop, grew to genuinely like this kid -- a closeted gay kid, the responsible older son, doomed to constantly cover for and protect his flamboyantly open younger brother. When Francis is rejected by Rosebery and forced to marry a woman, he kills himself, and that night, we see Holmes and Watson processing the suicide in a lovely, subtle, achingly sad scene in their hotel.
Anyway, here's my highlights -- a mix of shippy Holmes/Watson moments and examples of the snappy dialogue.
*****
Francis: "But the fact my brother is younger?"
Holmes: "Younger brothers never trouble themselves over elder brothers. I know, because I am the younger of two brothers and I never trouble myself over mine."
I flinched slightly, despite Holmes's bantering tone. Many years ago, I had lost my own eldest brother to drink. I never spoke of him, though still wore his watch. Once, Holmes had used his powers to deduce my painful family history. It made me irrationally angry at the time. I knew when Holmes was following a chain of logic, he seldom thought of the pain his observations might cause the listener. Holmes met my gaze, then looked away.
*****
Francis: "I see I have no need to speak in euphemisms. Thank God for that. The word amongst those who know is that the two of you are--"
Holmes: "Sympathetic. But just the facts, please. I know you have not come here for sympathy."
*****
Holmes and I walked to the Savoy together, for our appointment with Oscar Wilde. I was glad of the activity after a long morning sitting at my desk, although my arm and leg began to throb the last quarter of our stroll. The change in my gait would have been imperceptible to most, but Holmes slowed his pace, and took my arm. I apologized; he tutted me silent.
*****
Holmes: "Of course, the best advice would be to find a friend who does not leave compromising letters in the pockets of impecunious male prostitutes. But love biases the judgement."
"I think mine has survived," I said, quietly.
*****
"I think I am bleeding again." Holmes had removed his gloves. One of his sticking plasters had migrated. He put his thumb in his mouth, and I smiled at the incongruity of the image.
*****
"I shall join you in going to bed shortly," he said. "Goodnight, Watson."
I stared at the syringe.
"You said you only took drugs when you were bored, and you do have a client -- Drumlanrig," I protested.
"Of all the things I have ever said, Watson, why is that sentence -- and only that sentence -- the one you can quote verbatim?" he said.
In the dimness of this light, he looked as young as when I had first met him, I thought. The fact that he seemed so untouched by all the world's vices, as well as his own, made me feel ludicrous. "As a physician--"
"As a physician, you would acknowledge conventional medical opinion would characterize Wilde as a diseased man, correct?"
"Now, Holmes, of course, that is absurd, but..."
"Then permit my own rationality to dictate what I do, and spare me your quotes from the latest edition of The Lancet."
*****
"Oscar would do anything for Bosie except one thing -- attach his name to bad prose," said Drumlanrig.
*****
(While Holmes and Wilde are monopolizing conversation, particularly Holmes)
Without lifting my heel from the floor, I very gently pressed my toe into the thinner leather of my companion's boot.
"Mr. Wilde wishes to dine soon," I murmured.
*****
"Once again, let us all breathe a sigh of relief Holmes turned his talents to preventing rather than committing crimes," I interrupted, gently taking his hand and sitting him down as discretely as possible.
*****
"I agree that is serious, unnatural. What did his physician say?" I asked.
"Watson is delicately asking if Rosebery is using drugs," said Holmes, dryly. He lit another cigarette and moved to the window, presumably to stare at the comings and goings of the city outside.
"It was not unknown for him to take cocaine to stay awake, and morphine at night to help him sleep," said Drumlanrig, quietly. "Even before the business with my father."
"My friend knows the signs of addictions quite well," said Holmes.
*****
Mycroft: "You do know Wilde has bestowed the same kind of solid silver cigarette case upon half the rent boys in London, Sherlock?"
Sherlock: "Of course, and I was beginning to feel left out."
*****
"Mycroft, you may abuse me all you like, you have earned that privilege, but I shall ask you to leave if you raise your voice to Watson again." Holmes sat down beside me, did not touch me, but did drape his arm over the back of the settee we shared.
*****
"There are some things neither your fists nor your wit can get you out of, Sherlock. I can still remember the day you were nearly expelled from school and I was summoned from university to save you. There you stood, upbraiding the headmaster about his irrationality as if he were sitting in the dock, not you. It was particularly galling since I was quite aware you were certainly capable of not being caught."
"You know I detest rugby. What else was I supposed to do during the hour? I can never resist an experiment. Your past reputation at that school was always beyond reproach, Mycroft. I told you he was cleverer than myself, didn't I, Watson?"
"I think the headmaster was more surprised you had a friend at all, as was I. You have met John Gray. Next time, I shall bring him here so he can tell you himself how unwise it is to become involved with a man as indiscreet as Wilde. It was monstrous for Wilde to so obviously base the name of his infamous protagonist upon Gray. Wilde knew all too well how hard Gray has fought to gain respectability and his current position."
"John Gray has a fine mind and is always welcome here, whatever the reason," said Holmes.
"Follow his example. Avoid Wilde and his set. I am concerned not only for you, Sherlock, but also for Dr. Watson."
"Holmes's interests and mine are one and the same," I said, quickly.
"I thought you might say something like that, Doctor. One flesh, one jail cell, it's all the same to the both of you. I'm no hypocrite or prude, Sherlock, but I must advice you not to commit career seppuku. I don't understand you. Most of the time you behave as if you couldn't bear the company of a stray cat, and then ... What was that young man's name? The one you met at university after his bulldog savaged your ankle?"
"You know how bored I become when I lie about."
"Couldn't you study...or something?"
"Really, Mycroft. It was only my ankle that was hurt."
"Sherlock--"
"Victor Trevor was devoted to sport, quite a different sort than myself. But we had subjects in common, and for similar reasons, he was as friendless as I."
"Yes, forgive me, you both had some tastes in common, evidently," said Mycroft Holmes.
*****
"You are being absurd; even Dr. Watson is bemused by that untruth. 'Vain as a girl about your gifts,' he once wrote. He does know you well. But leave off Wilde's lot. I will say you and Dr. Watson at least have been discrete to a point."
"Better part of valor and all that," I couldn't resist saying.
"Still, don't you at least think the two of you should go through the appearance of having separate residences? A confirmed bachelor living alone might escape comment, but two men living together for years long after they can clearly afford to do otherwise begins to look intentional. For God's sake, the two of you were holding hands in one of those horrible illustrations in The Strand."
"Arm in arm," I corrected. "The illustrations are not mine, of course. They are composed by--"
"But you approve them! Your work suggests them."
"We lived apart for a fair amount of time, Mycroft, and this arrangement suits us. Without me, Watson will be in danger of developing an artistic temperament," said Holmes.
"I might feel the urge to write really serious historical fiction," I said.
*****
"Incidentally, I have noticed neither of you will call me Francis or Drummy, nor do you call yourselves by your Christian names in my presence. Oscar found your habit quite amusing..."
"I despise public schoolboy nicknames, no offense meant to Your Lordship or Your Lordship's brother," said Holmes.
"I notice you always refer to your employer by his honorific," I said.
"It is always best to reduce the chance of any unconscious slips of the tongue."
"As we have found," I said. "Given we are often in the presence of the official police force."
*****
"When you began living together did you know at first?"
"That he was a private consulting detective? No."
He laughed. "Now, I went to Harrow. It's a common joke that a school tie from Harrow is a sign you were another man's bitch at some point in your life." He finished his brandy. Tonight he had been drinking far more than usual. "Thank God not everyone is like Bosie and Oscar. Oscar worships Bosie. But Bosie has never really been terribly attracted to Oscar. Bosie only really desires beautiful youths. Oscar is really not his sort at all, much as he loves to bask in the glow of Oscar's literary fame. I think that is why, in part, Oscar puts up with Bosie's follies and abuse. He is apologizing for not being young and beautiful himself."
*****
When Holmes appeared again, lying on the sofa, he looked even more gaunt and haggard than usual. "You may be interested to know I met Lord Rosebery. He is a standoffish, suspicious man. He of course made no mention of Mycroft's asking me to rid him of the troublesome Marquess. But even under the best of circumstances, I can see how a secretary with the warmth of Drumlanrig would be helpful. Rosebery is eloquent and intelligent, but manages to offend many allies with his aloof manner."
"It is helpful to have an obliging assistant to apologize for a lack of certain social graces," I said. "Even if said assistant is less brilliant than his master."
*****
"A prominent scar may befit a professional pugilist," I said, "but little suits a London gentleman of your class and gravity."
"You flatter me, Watson. I am neither a gentleman by society's standards nor a beauty at this point in my life, but I still possess enough small personal vanity in my middle age to accept your aid. I do not wish to frighten you every morning over our coffee, eggs, and toast."
*****
"Cocaine can amplify the mood swings of a man already prone to violent shifts in temperament," said Dr. Agar.
"Precisely." I felt Dr. Agar's inquisitive eyes boring into mine, and looked at my hands to relieve the shame I felt. I entered dangerous territory. "One morning, his stupor was so heavy, he did not wake. I had to pour cold water on his face. His breathing was shallow. His pulse was faint. He did not revive for a long time. Then he laughed, said it was my nature to be concerned about nothing." Speaking about being in the same bedroom with Holmes made my own face flush fire.
****
"You have called Mr. Holmes a reasoning machine in print, but it sounds like you know him to be a man of strong emotions."
"What do you advise?" I asked.
"I would advise both of you to go to France, Dr. Watson."
"Do you mean a holiday? Changing the environs of the addict can make it easier for him to live without the drug?" My voice sounded tighter than I had intended.
"It can. But that is not quite what I meant. It is what I always advise to men in Mr. Holmes's situation. I have known many wracked by mysterious psychosomatic complaints. A more open climate in, say, France is very congenial to their health, and their symptoms evaporate. Of course, giving up any addiction produces some unpleasant sensations, but I do not think your friend will find them impossible to tolerate, given his constitution. France does not legislate against human nature. He does speak the language, does he not?"
I had recovered enough to respond in the same clinical manner, "He does. Some of his people are from France." Good God, what was I thinking to come here? I could never hide what I thought or felt. Even Holmes would know of this meeting, once I skulked back to our rooms.
*****
I dreaded my return to Baker Street, but I knew that to delay my journey would provoke comment, so I walked straight home. Even as I did, I felt raw, exposed, and unmasked, oddly enough more so than I did when walking with Holmes. It was absurd, I knew. Sometimes I felt more obvious to the world even than Wilde, for all his posturing, for all his Dorian Grays. A true artist is a good liar, and I, as my friend always told me, was a terrible liar.
*****
I felt a strange stab of melancholy. How I hated the hours of twilight before tea. Oh, my leg ached, horribly. "I wish you would speak more often about your Tibetan adventures," I eventually managed.
"Nothing is more irritating than a white man holding forth on his half-informed opinions of the East, Watson." Holmes took up his violin.
"But you have studied its wisdom, which is more than most Englishmen have done," I said.
"Ah, but what did I learn? I am still unenlightened. I had nothing wise to say to that woman (Constance Wilde). I only noticed her mismatched gloves."
T__T
*****
"Lord Alfred wrote to your own wife when you tried to end the relationship. Does that not seem monstrous to you?" I asked.
"What, did not Mr. Holmes write to you when you were married, Doctor?"
"That was different," I said. "It was for professional reasons. Not to be manipulative."
"Come at once if convenient, if not, come anyway?" asked Wilde. "Was that not one of Mr. Holmes's favorite phrases to summon you, his dear friend -- the happily married, respectable doctor?"
I looked to Holmes for some apt response, but for once, he was silenced. I must confess, after years of being unable to accomplish this feat so handily, I enjoyed the display, although I hated being the source of his discomfiture.
*****
Holmes reached forth to pour himself an additional cup of coffee, exposing an arm clearly studded with the pink pockmarks from his morning's ablutions -- and many others.
*****
"I have assured my friend I am far more disagreeable to live with in my unadulterated state. Something so enhancing to my mental capacities cannot be entirely bad."
I colored. If he really believed that, I knew there was no hope of me ever weaning him off of the drug.
*****
But it was too late. Holmes's reflexes were sharper than mine, and I suddenly felt his hand upon my eyes, shielding my gaze from the splintering slivers of glass in the air.
The shot had pierced the window before us and the glass had shattered in a blinding, beautiful, and terrifying burst of sound and color. There was something magnificent in the destruction, however awful, of something as apparently unassailable as the window of one of the finest dining establishments in Knightsbridge. "You might benefit from some lessons from your brother, Lord Alfred," said Holmes tranquilly, drawing back from me once the danger was over. "Or Dr. Watson." He brushed the glittering dust from my suit jacket, then his own.
*****
"Watson was a soldier," said Holmes dryly. "And has bragged of his experience with women on several continents."
"Holmes was once engaged. Sober," I snapped, more than slightly mortified by my friend's description of myself, even though I had written it. My marriage may not have been quite as picturesque as I made out in print, but nor was it as ugly as it sounded right now.
*****
"I do not wish to be the source of a quarrel between the two of you. I see that I am," said Drumlanrig.
"It was I who was in the wrong," said Holmes. His voice was tight, as if he was cross with himself for letting any emotion affect his composure when a client was sitting in his consulting room. "I must beg both of your forgiveness. You, most particularly, Drumlanrig, as Watson is accustomed to my moods."
*****
"We might be able to dispose of any physical evidence for you," mused Holmes.
"No, no, no more burglary," said Drumlanrig.
"We would be delighted," I said. "We really need to get out more together, it's been ages since we even went to a concert."
*****
One of Francis' friends after the suicide: "I heard the rumors. Even so, well, lots of chaps do that sort of thing at school, and it never really means anything, does it?"
"Yes, it really is all quite meaningless," said Holmes.
T__T
*****
"Something like this cannot be read in the cut of a man's coat or the cracks on his shoe leather, Holmes," I said.
"You make my celebrated gifts sound very useless right now. Vain as a girl, indeed." For the whole grisly day, Holmes had been detached and masterful, the thinking machine capable of analyzing emotion, seemingly feeling nothing. For the first time I saw a crack.
"Holmes. I did not mean..."
"When I saw Drumlanrig's handwriting -- how the words sloped downward to the corner of the page, how the crosses on the Ts sloppily passed through other letters, the uneven pressure -- I was immediately alarmed," he said. "This was a man who worked as a secretary, of ascetic habits, whose customary handwriting I would expect to be faultless in appearance. His was the handwriting of a man who had," Holmes cleared his throat, "quite given up. Combined with the fact he would be one of a shooting party..." He shrugged.
My friend locked the door of our room, sat back down, and lit a cigarette. I put my hand on his shoulder, and he put his free hand on mine. The shadows cast by the dim lighting made his face appear even more cadaverous than usual.
"This young man is dead, but I am all too well aware of the fact that to use my powers to reveal the truth would only bring misery, rather than ease it. Watson, I must ask you. Do you ever wish I had not returned."
"Returned from where?"
"From Switzerland. Tibet. Anywhere."
"Holmes! What a question."
"It sometimes seems, when I am in an introspective mood, I have been selfish. I often wonder if you would have been happier in my absence. Married again. You would certainly have led an easier life. I am well aware my habits and inclinations make me poor company. My few, previous attempts at intimacy were not particularly successful. They were brief and unfulfilling, and I did not understand why. I, who have always prided myself on my understanding. I am strange even amongst strange men."
"I am afraid I cannot agree you are best suited to being alone."
*****
"If I was wrong to try and spare you the daily pain of being with a man such as myself, it was you who biased my judgement."
"Forgive me if I have at any time biased your judgement."
"You have to an excruciating degree, and for that I cannot forgive you," Holmes said.
"I must put on a light." I turned on the gas. "I am waiting for you to say it makes no difference whether I can see or not, given how blind I am in drawing inferences."
"I am sure I will say something very like, when I read The Strand. I will be wearing a much more elegant suit than I am at present. You will write some nonsense like you were surprised to see a rare flicker of tenderness or so much of my heart. Of course, the public will believe you."
*****
"For God's sake, Holmes, you are not to blame. Don't you always say to look at things as they are, neither worse nor better?"
"This case had features which biased my judgement," he said. "I thought Drumlanrig was a stronger man."
"But he was, Holmes. He was. This was not due to weakness."
*****
Holmes stood and began rifling through our baggage.
"Not tonight," I said.
"I understand your concern. If I overdose, you will eventually run out of old material and have to conclude your series."
"Holmes, my nerves are too strained for your gallows humor."
"I'm afraid that is the only sense of humor I possess." He sat down beside me again, morocco (syringe and cocaine) case in hand.
"Don't be absurd."
Cradling the case, he leaned back, closed his eyes. His bony knees, like mine, were covered in mud from kneeling on the ground before the ruins of what was once Drumlanrig. I waited for him to do ... what he did, and I flinched, because here, there was no way to get away from the sight, as there was at Baker Street. But he remained motionless.
"Watson, I have one more thing to ask you. I know at times ... you have been in a great deal of pain. I saw you were in a great deal of pain today. Yet you have never taken morphine or cocaine, not in the many years we have been together. Even when you have admonished me, you have never said, 'Look how I suffer, and yet it is you who have the needle beside you right now.'"
It took me a moment to respond. "Holmes, there are many kinds of pain, and I would not say mine is worse.
Holmes shoved the case back into his Gladstone bag, untouched.
He kicked off his shoes and stretched out on one of the beds. "Remember to make the other bed look like you've slept in it before you turn in, there's a good fellow. You forgot last time we were away, and I was careless, too. What an eyeful of an expression I had over my porridge the following morning from that innkeeper's wife."
******
I have many other highlights, but I'll stop there. This is probably the most affecting scene in the novel for me -- this, and the very end, where Holmes and Watson attend the auction of Oscar Wilde's personal possessions. Holmes, a bit of a hoarder himself, is deeply affected by the callous auctioning of Oscar's beloved books (as was I, when I first learned about it). But the only item he himself bids on is Oscar Wilde's writing desk, as a gift to Watson.
The scene above, right after Francis Douglas' death, is another favorite of mine -- the subtlety of Holmes's tears is what makes it for me.
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Date: 2023-09-28 11:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-09-29 04:48 pm (UTC)