Last December, all my sites got taken out by pharma-hackers. I’m doing my best to restore this site to the best of my abilities—moving to WordPress.com for extra security. I don’t trust quite a lot of my backups, so this all will be done little by little as I re-build.

On the upside, this means that you’ll get regular posts for quite some time, even if they’re oldies (I hope they’re goodies as well).

What’s coming up next, both from the archives and upcoming plans?

• Older essays that don’t appear on Spontaneous ∂erivation.

• The Sherlock Holmes Redux—a review of the original canon, the BBC Radio 4 series directed by Bert Coules, and (when possible) the Granada series starring Jeremy Brett.

• Thoughts on the more recent and modern BBC series Sherlock.

• Some book reviews.

• Snarking.

I’m going to make it back from my personal Reichenbach.

Truth to tell, the radio show can get a bit boring if you’ve recently read the text, but there are gems of extra scenes and slightly altered story flow to still yet improve on Doyle’s words:

• There are great additions to the first scene between Holmes and Watson. When mocking Watson’s (poor man) efforts with the romance in Study, Holmes quotes from “The Flower of Utah” to great effect. Poor, poor Watson, but a great show for the dialogue. Holmes additionally points out that Watson is intentionally distracting him from his cocaine with the puzzle of the watch.

• Small’s story is, like Drebber’s and Stangerson’s in Study, more tightly integrated with the main plot from the very start.

• Throughout Watson is more observant and interactive with Holmes and Morstan than in the original Sign, a welcome improvement that calls back to Watson’s more expanded role in Study.

• Watson has to poke Holmes out of his stupor when Morstan first arrives with the case, which is rather more realistic than Holmes being completely on the ball as in the original.

• The romance between Watson and Morstan is better developed, with more scenes and more evidence that she feels a similar infatuation with Watson earlier on, eliminating any Watson creepiness from the original.

• Thaddeus is quite obviously nicer in this version.

But there’s a glaring omission: Holmes’ boxing recollections with the man on guard of Pondicherry Lane. In fact, the scene is entirely removed, which is a shame, as no doubt there would be an amusing interpretation on Clive Merrison’s part.

One thing that’s not omitted is the racism. This is both good and bad; good, because there’s no white-washing of the text, unlike recent cases with classics like Huckleberry Finn, so it’s not disrespectful of history; yet bad as well, because… well… among the “improvements” is increased racism in terms of how Tonga speaks, or rather, doesn’t. Not even in a made-up lingo, he’s instead presented as a dumb savage, less than even a Wookie. This is disappointing and painful to listen to, as well as not making much sense. Tonga may never have spoken in the original, but we don’t assume Small was mute all that time he never showed on stage, either, and Tonga basically was pushed off-stage after he appeared, rather quickly….

As with Study, I think that despite this aforementioned bad storytelling, overall this adaptation thus far is a strong work. We’ll see how Part 2 fares, but I expect nothing but the best… save for that one unfortunate aspect.

I really didn’t care about Small, and his story just made me hate him. The other characters reacted the same way, including the now listless Holmes, and everything else, well, it’s all a line of greed leading to grief and so on. Small’s pitched the jewels into the river because he’s a hypocrite, and gods. Watson is happy about this, of course, but at least doesn’t mention it again.

A note: the story is at least about a man who starts out prejudiced against dark people (for admittedly good reason, due to the racism against white people where he spent a major part of his life) and then treats them as any other person. That at least is admirable, but killing a merchant in cold blood, and everything else is not.

Instead of Small’s backstory, the most interesting part of this chapter is… well… the sad scene at the end where Holmes apparently feels utterly rejected by Watson’s decision to marry Morstan and, worse yet, considers this to perhaps be “the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods.” Why, Watson? Holmes gives “a most dismal groan” and says, “I feared as much.” He’s losing his only friend, someone who he has grown to depend on as a partner in his cases, and indeed the only partner who actually respects him in the midst of sneering policemen taking all the credit.

And it all ends on some of the saddest notes in the canon—perhaps the saddest:

“The division seems rather unfair,” I remarked. “You have done all the work in thsi business. I get a wife out of it, Jones gets the credit, pray what remains for you?”

“For me,” said Sherlock Holmes, “there still remains the cocaine-bottle.” And he stretched his long white hand up for it.

No matter what you feel about Holmes’ and/or Watson’s orientation, they have a friendship and a kind of codependency on Holmes’ end at the very least. To see them breaking up like this is almost tear-worthy. I was wrong about Holmes teasing Watson about The Sign of Four post-publication. There can be nothing but bitterness here.

Here’s an implication to really make you cry: while embarking on a case during Watson’s absence from his life, while which Watson admits he had barely contacted Holmes at all, Holmes must have turned to say, “Watson, please remain,” only to remember that Watson is no longer there.

How about another one: Holmes has gotten used to having somebody to talk to about all kinds of things, even seems to have picked up study of literature and other sciences and things that formerly he would have scoffed at as not being worth his attention as a crime detective, only to have that somebody leave and never send letters or telegrams or drop in or anything for a long time. How lonely the nights must have suddenly been, and even playing the violin would remind him that there’s nobody to play the occasional airs for.

Or how about a third one: Holmes no longer has anybody to temper his need for cocaine while off a case. And cocaine really does affect the mind and body. He’s probably taking quite a lot of it, all told. With the new emptiness of his life, which he had only just gotten used to no longer having, how much more would he want to take cocaine to get away from it all?

*sadface forever*

This chapter is thus a mix of “we read it so you don’t have to” and “must read”.

Anyways. *sniff*

Next time: BBC Radio 4′s adaptation of The Sign of Four, followed by the Granada series’ mixed adaptation.

Watson takes the treasure to Morstan’s and Forrester’s lodgings, opens the box anyways with a poker, and discovers the box is empty. Declares his deep and undying love for Morstan (isn’t this all a bit soon still?) and she reciprocates, now that they are both in reach of each other, seeing as she’ll never become one of the upper class rich.

It’d be much sweeter if it weren’t rather soon, and I can see where the arguments come for why there might be an element of deception on Watson’s part in the story—if we’re going to play “The Game”—of getting away from Holmes however he can, possibly to keep their honor, whether or not they had a relationship or one or the other wanted a relationship or whatnot ((Men living together, whatever will the world come to? Whatever, Victorian Age.)). Still, you could counter-argue that if this were the case, Watson could have simply moved out, so his motivation must have been love, or possibly lust, depending on how much you think he womanizes based on the canon.

Short and to the point, which can only mean one thing: huge info dump next chapter. Oy.

Be that as it may, here’s a chance to glance at Manic!Holmes:

Our meal was a merry one. Holmes could talk exceedingly well when he chose, and that night he did choose. He appeared to be in a state of nervous exaltation. I have never known him so brilliant. He spoke on a quick succession of subjects—on miracle plays, on mediæval poetry, on Stradivarius violins, on the Buddhism of Ceylon, and on the warships of the future—handling each as though he had made a special study of it.

My thoughts run as follows:

• Gosh, Holmes has sure been reading up on things; note also his various quotes of works of literature from previous chapters, a distinct contrast to the “Knowledge of Literature: nil” in A Study in Scarlet.

• Warships of the future. So Holmes was interested in Science Fiction, basically. That’s so cool.

• I think Holmes is a bit manic. Brilliant, but manic. And by turns, terribly depressed. There are diagnoses other than manic-depression aka bipolar disorder, but we’ll leave it at that.

• It’s cool that Holmes took a look into Buddhism, despite being thoroughly Christian. Of course, Watson doesn’t tell us what Holmes actually said, so that might be a bit optimistic.

I think I’ve spotted why Holmes’ deductions aren’t boring when they could easily have been written so: it’s because his deductions not only advance the story, but because they’re told in the manner of a story. By necessity they reconstruct events and motivations, putting them into a logical order, often with a proper beginning and a proper ending—in other words, they’re stories, particularly in this chapter.

Most of the chapter is taken up by an action scene that would be worthy in any steampunk novel: steamboats chasing each other fleetly down the river. It has everything a chase scene needs, including an inconvenient merchant vessel intercepting the police ship. I vaguely remember the Granada production of this scene, and it was nowhere near as good as the personal movie I constructed in my head. In fact, it was damn near atrocious, with really slow boats at a gangly pace. Here it’s much more of a race, with the coals steaming hot and lights flickering in the evening gloom, and eventual grounding of the launches.

However, I must say, Watson: “the sight of this savage, distorted creature” HELLO WATSON THAT IS A MEMBER OF THE HUMAN RACE YOU GIT.

Anyways. They manage to shoot the small black man almost before he shoots poisoned darts at them. He almost got them, and it is a bit shocking. On the upside, they’ve got Small, and they’ve got the treasure box.

Next time: *sadface*

We’re also introduced to Holmes’ sexism, which will remain unchallenged for some while (beyond the end of this book, even though he recognizes Morstan’s abilities):

“I would not tell them too much,” said Holmes. “Women are never to be entirely trusted—not the best of them.”

I did not pause to argue over this atrocious statement.

It is atrocious indeed, an unjust generalization and stereotyping of women. You’d think Holmes would recognize that such a prejudice goes against his supposed nature of non-prejudice and pristine judgement, but oh well.

Following this sexism, we get some good old Victorian Unfortunate Implications from Mrs. Forrester: “An injured lady, half a million in treasure, a black cannibal, and a wooden-legged ruffian. They take the place of the conventional dragon or wicked earl.” To me, it’s odd she doesn’t refer to the non-cannibalistic others as, say, a white injured lady or a white wooden-legged ruffian. Why not “a ferocious cannibal” to fit in with the pattern of adjective-noun? Why must the cannibal be referred to as black before anything else?

You may wonder why this is disturbing to me. The fact is that too often in that age (and even in our own), blacks are thought of as uncivilized and naturally bad, so it seems she’s using that meaning here, and it’s as bad as Holmes saying that all women can’t be trusted. Both sentiments are rather disappointing (though I believe it’s intentional characterization in the case of the former) and the latter breaks an otherwise good pattern.

Let’s get to more pleasant bits of the chapter, like how Morstan doesn’t desire the treasure as much as Thaddeus Sholto. Noble again, a good match for the nobility of Watson. I already know they’re getting together at the end, but it’s good to see that it’s not simply dropping out of the sky without motivation for both parties.

The best parts of the chapter are Athelney Jones’ humblement and final release of innocent parties, and Holmes’ tendency to prank other people when he’s acting out a personage to cover a case unbeknownst. That Jones knows when to be humble probably tosses my unorthodox theory of blackmail aside, which I’m glad of, to tell the truth. Although there’s a strange bit of hypocrisy: Jones tells Watson that Holmes would have made a good officer, and he doesn’t care who knows it, but he certainly didn’t act that way at all a few chapters earlier. Hmph, I say, even if Holmes thinks well enough of Jones to invite him to dinner.

By the way, there’s a rather cute callback to Toby getting confused with the source of the creosote rather than the actual murderer, and with Holmes own confusion on the “scent”; it’s after their natures, but they right themselves in the end. All I can say is “Awwwww.”

ETA: And how could I miss this line from Holmes after he gets dinner all arranged for everybody: “Watson, you have never yet recognized my merits as a housekeeper.”

What. Hahahaha. That’s so awesome. And thus a thousand Holmes/Watson fics were born.

I’m amused by how Holmes gets information out of the son of Mordecai Smith (the steam launch owner with a pretty cool name):

“Dear little chap!” said Holmes strategically. ((Snort.)) “What a rosy-cheeked young rascal! Now, Jack, is there anything you would like?”

The youth pondered for a moment.

“I’d like a shillin’,” said he.

“Nothing you would like better?”

“I’d like two shillin’ better,” the prodigy answered after some thought.

And so Holmes parts with his two shillings and gets even more information from Mrs. Smith by pretending that he’s looking for a steam boat and, basically, playing down his intelligence, just about playing dumb. “How could you possibly tell that it was the wooden-legged man who came in the night I don’t quite understand how you can be so sure.” Indeed. Or this:

“Ah! She’s not that old green launch with a yellow line, very broad in the beam?”

“No, indeed. She’s as trim a little thing as any on the river. She’s been fresh painted, black with two red streaks.”

Holmes handles other people “of that sort” by making sure they don’t know that their information is important, or else they’ll clam up. For a classist society as that, it’s too true—angering the wrong people may land you in the street, and in Victorian England that’s pretty close to a death sentence for someone without connections.

I don’t hold out much hope for poor Mr. Smith. It doesn’t sound like he’ll survive an encounter with the murderers, even if one of them is apparently not as murderous as the other, possibly by a long shot.

While Holmes shoots down Watson’s suggestions of following the trail of the Aurora themselves, he also says this about Athelney Jones:

He is not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would injure him professionally.

Say what? Arresting everybody in the house and throwing them into gaol, sneering at any path that’s not his own, doesn’t seem like something a good person would do. Holmes is either very kind, entirely possible in his early incarnations, or else he’s being blackmailed by Jones. Perhaps one of Jones’ “flashes of brilliance” led him to discover this information, whatever it was. I’m well aware this is more or less an Epileptic Trees theory, but it still amuses me. At least Jones’ antics will lead everyone to think that all the detectives on the case are on the absolute wrong trail—and the article in the paper the next day (“Mr. Jones’s well-known technical knowledge and his powers of minute observation” O RLY?) confirms it. Holmes and Watson are lucky they weren’t caught up in Jones’ arresting spree.

A side note: how can a wire be sent to Wiggins of the Baker Street Irregulars, who are all street urchins? I suppose there must be special arrangements set up, or perhaps they’re not all street urchins; I’d be interested in hearing about that particular story. The origins of the Baker Street Irregulars when Holmes was still in University, I like the sound of that.

Another note: Watson’s love is no longer creepy to me. “True, if I found [the treasure], it would probably put her forever beyond my reach. Yet it would be a petty and selfish love which would be influenced by such a thought as that.” He is a noble man, after all. Now I want to see him and Morstan get together. And possibly solve crimes.

A third note (I love how meaty this chapter is, it’s a damn sight better than just about everything from A Study in Scarlet): Holmes says, “I have a curious constitution. I never remember feeling tired by work, though idleness exhausts me completely.” It sounds like something someone could use to diagnose Holmes with… something. I don’t know what, though. Probably lots of things; psychology is not a hard science.

And now we arrive at the thing I was hoping would be delayed: the matter of Small’s companion, the Islander, who may well be the fourth in the sign of four. Watson wonders if it was a savage Indian. WHAT. JUST NO, WATSON, NO. “Hardly that,” says Holmes, which relieves me a bit, until he drags out the gazetteer volume that describes the people of the Andaman Islands. It says, among other things about cannibalism and ferociousness, “So intractable and fierce are they, that all the efforts of the British officials have failed to win them over in any degree.” Yes, people take so kindly to foreign powers attempting to colonize them. </sarcasm> It makes me wonder how much of that article is real, and how much imagined/prejudiced. That Holmes out and out believes what he reads make me really incredulous. JUST NO, HOLMES, NO.

It’s disappointing. “Justified” by the ignorance of 19th century England, yes, but incredibly disappointing to look at from the 21st century, especially since we are not yet beyond all that shit. However, because of the greatness of the rest of the material, and because we should look racism in the eye and say, “Yes, that was racist, and it did happen, let’s not let it happen again,” this chapter still rates a Must Read.

We end with some sweetness to wash out that bad taste as a concerned Holmes tells Watson to lie down and let him soothe him to sleep with the violin. Awwww.

After the angelic fashion of women, she had borne trouble with a calm face as long as there was someone weaker than herself to support, and I had found her bright and placid by the side of the frightened housekeeper.

That doesn’t sound like a purely womanly characteristic, or even mostly womanly. Both men and women do this—being supportive of someone in need, in spite of one’s own fears and trauma, really comes quite naturally and may not necessarily be purely Samaratin in nature. Confusing at best, sexist at worst, but I suppose some like the romantic element.

Truly, I feel for Watson when he compares himself as a half-pay surgeon to Morstan’s possible level-up to Ultimate Heiress. He holds back because he doesn’t want to take advantage of her emotional state—which is a far nobler tact than most people would have were they in his place. Definitely no creepy stalking Edward Cullen antics here, and let’s hope it stays that way.

And as for Mrs. Cecil Forrester… well, it’s quite a warm scene when Morstan returns home:

She opened the door herself, a middle-aged, graceful woman, and it gave me joy to see how tenderly her arm stole round the other’s waist and how motherly was the voice in which she greeted her. She was clearly no mere paid dependant but an honoured friend.

Awww. The world surely needs Morstan and Forrester stories.

Now we get to the obtaining of Toby, the mongrel bloodhound, from Pinchin Lane. Mr. Sherman’s house is lovely beyond belief, and reminds me again of a Terry Pratchett character (Red Crescent, I think, from Feet of Clay, though Crescent speaks rather differently than Sherman):

“Step in, sir. Keep clear of the badger, for he bites. Ah, naughty, naughty; would you take a nip at the gentlemen?” This to a stoat which thrust its wicked head and red eyes between the bars of its cage. “Don’t mind that, sir; it’s only a slowworm. It hain’t got no fangs, so I gives it the run o’ the room, for it keeps the beetles down.”

I am amused and in love with the previous chapter and this one.

Meanwhile, Sergeant Colon has arrested everybody save for Holmes.

I’m not sure what the card hanging from Holmes’ neck is for, but watching him spryly climb up and around the roof is real entertainment, especially when he comes to a rather high point where the murdererous assistant leapt down, wonders if he’ll make it, and then goes down the rainpipe anyways.

Doyle doesn’t completely ignore Watson’s game leg or pretend it doesn’t exist, I notice. This is good and relatively realistic: the pain when the weather’s bad. This is weird: a six-mile trudge presents no problems, although it’s implied that it merely presents no problems at that time and he still limps. At another time, Watson might well have been incapacitated. But Watson wants adventure, is my impression, so he’ll ignore and not write about any pain.

Toby follows the scent of the creosote one of the murderous team accidentally stepped in, Holmes gives an accounting of what must have happened with Jonathan Small, Arthur Morstan, Sholto Sr. There must have been someone else too, else why “the sign of the four”?

And then Toby leads them to a barrel of creosote, instead of continuing down the scent of the murderers, and Holmes and Watson have a good laugh.

This and the previous chapter are quintessential Holmes fiction. Lovely when it works. Let’s hope this keeps up, and I suspect it will, though there’s probably some misrepresentation trouble at the end, given how the titles of the chapters are laid out (“The Death of the Islander” is the one I’m eyeing).

The other interesting aspect of this chapter is how much of the formula for almost all later stories is set down here, unlike in A Study in Scarlet:

• Holmes’ intense method of investigation, often compared to the actions of a bloodhound hot on the scent: “so swift, silent, and furtive were his movements, like those of a trained bloodhound picking out a scent…”

• Medical conclusions drawn by Watson (who, unlike Holmes, is not skilled with any other kind of deduction; not a bad character trait or a dumb one, just that compared to Holmes, Watson looks duller in comparison except where medicine is concerned). ((I believe these show up less often as the canon wears on, contributing to an impression of, years later, loss of interest on Watson’s part.))

• Hilarious and/or frustrating interruption by the local bumbling police force, depending on how Doyle wants to play it. ((Jones falls firmly into the “and” category.))

• The immortal line, “How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?”

• Watson’s assurance that he wants to embark on adventure, no matter how much it touches his nerves: “I give you my word that this succession of strange surprises to-night has shaken my nerve completely. I should like, however, to see the matter through with you, now that I have got so far.” ((This is definitely mentioned less and less in later canon stories.))

• Holmes’ assurance that he would love Watson’s assistance: “Your presence will be of great service to me.” ((Later on, when Holmes is in Jerk Mode, sometimes meant sarcastically.))

It’s by no means boring, but will become a comforting pattern when mysteries start to slide into the weird—somehow that makes me think of a more genteel Doctor Who. Sonic screwdrivers and patter, or investigating like a bloodhound and logical deduction; they’re grounding principles when the fictional world tilts. In this respect, it’s perhaps why the best stories in the Holmes canon often cover the weirdest spectacles, the difference between “Adventure of the Speckled Band” and “The Stock-broker’s Clerk”, if you will.

Now, getting back to Athelney Jones. Man, is he EVER so much worse than Lestrade or Gregson. He brings to mind Sergeant Colon from Terry Pratchett’s Discworld books more than anything else, and his demeanor and actions are just… wow.

“Oh, come, now, come! Never be ashamed to own up. But what is all this? Bad business! Bad business! ((The repeat is verbatim from the canon. Jones really is that… something.)) Stern facts here—no room for theories. How lucky that I happened to be out at Norwood over another case! I was at the station when the message arrived. What d’you think the man died of?”

Damn, man, do your own work, especially if you’re going to spend the rest of your presence in this chapter putting down Holmes’ methods.

My favorite Sergeant Colon Inspector Athelney Jones quotes:

• “Ha! I have a theory. These flashes come upon me at times.”

• “His appearance is—well, not attractive.”

• “You see that I am weaving my web round Thaddeus.”

• “The card is some hocus-pocus—a blind, as like as not.”

• “Don’t promise too much, Mr. Theorist, don’t promise too much!”

At least Sergeant Colon didn’t sneer. Though apparently Jones does indeed have flashes of intelligence for reals, rarely, though I think perhaps Holmes gives him too much credit. Holmes says of him, “Il n’y a pas des sots si incommodes que ceux qui ont de l’esprit!“, or, “There are no fools so troublesome as those with some wit!” ((From Michael Shapiro’s Language Lore article, Discontinuous Lexica, which quotes from this particular chapter for examples.))

Oh, right, the plot. Getting to that. Holmes needs a dog and Morstan needs to go home since it’s been a long night, and so Watson is going to run both errands while Holmes interviews the servants and deals with Jones’… zeal. I’m pretty sure Holmes got the short end of that stick.

It’s amusing how Holmes manages to get the party past the distrustful servant McMurdo: by his popularity as a local amateur boxer. Yes, Holmes engages in an athletic pursuit that involves punching the other guy’s lights out. He’s apparenty quite a good boxer, too,

“Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” roared the prize-fighter. “God’s truth! how could I have mistook you? If instead o’ standin’ there so quiet you had just stepped up and given me that cross-hit of yours under the jaw, I’d ha’ known you without a question. Ah, you’re one that has wasted your gifts, you have! You might have aimed high, if you had joined the fancy.”

Otherwise McMurdo probably would have thrown the group out with a sneer. It’s quite a contrast to the usual “cold, calculating detective”. Just imagine Holmes, hot and sweaty and half-naked in a Victorian arena, and… oh wait.

Never mind.

Man, guards sure are lenient in these RPGs.

Afterwards, we get treated to a long, long paragraph about Watson and Morstan finding comfort holding each other’s hand in this whirlwind of a situation, what with the murder by rictus-causing poison, the intense weirdness of event surrounding possibly becoming the richess woman in Britain, etc. While this all does still seem rather soon, at least Watson’s affections are visibly returned by Morstan, preventing any creepy Watson-as-stalker vibe from manifesting. It’s even touching.

Next chapter, the story kicks it into even higher gear as Holmes explains his various actions here and investigation of the murder scene continues, with possible hicks and giggles when Lestrade, Jones, or Gregson show up.