“A Gentle Little White Mouse”: The Reader as Dr. Watson

As part of our discussion of “The Final Problem” and “The Empty House” at our May meeting, member Christine Ellis shared this insightful analysis of how the reader shares Watson’s point of view in these stories and other Canonical cases we’ve discussed recently. Enjoy!

Watson Has a Mouse in His Pocket: Dr. Watson, Our Alter Ego
by Christine Ellis

Watson personifies the reader’s ability to sit in 221B and participate in the delicious conversations around the fire or at the chemistry table. With a revolver in pocket, we climb into the hansom and are off on another adventure. In the moment, Watson is us, and we are Watson—or at least, an invisible mouse carried in his pocket, seeing and hearing what he sees and hears.

In “The Red-Headed League,” we all know that Jabez Wilson’s job is a scam, but why? In “The Twisted Lip,” we are merely called out in the middle of the night by Kate Whitney to bring her husband Isa back from the opium den on Upper Swandam Lane. This part of the adventure is easy-peasy, of course. It is when we meet Holmes in the opium den that the evening takes a turn, and we dash away in a tall dog-cart, rushing back to Neville St. Clair’s house. Where, mostly in the dark, we sleep, while Holmes smokes his pipe until twenty past four. He awakens us, and off we go to Scotland Yard.  Holmes announces that we “are now standing in the presence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe.”  Oh, really? The mouse, like Watson, still has no idea what’s going on, but the adventure is thrilling, and, of course, all is soon made clear.

Now, on to our adventures for this meeting, “The Final Problem” and “The Empty House.” These stories together create a wonderful synopsis of the mouse in Watson’s pocket. We are in our own lodgings, not at 221B Baker Street. It is late at night when Holmes comes knocking.

“The Final Problem” has a series of events we must obey to the letter. Dispatch luggage by a trusted messenger unaddressed to Victoria; send for a hansom, taking neither the first or second; drive to the Strand end of the Lower Arcade; hand the address to the cabman; have fare ready; dash through the Arcade, timing our arrival for quarter past nine. We will find a small brougham waiting, with a coachman in a heavy black cloak with a red collar, and reach Victoria in time for the Continental Express. Enter the second first-class carriage from the front for our rendezvous. Wow, how much more mysterious can this be? We learn much about  the Napoleon of Crime, Professor Moriarty. We go from Canterbury to Newhaven, over to Dieppe, then into Switzerland via Luxembourg and Basle.

On the way, Holmes gets a telegram from the London police and declares that Moriarty intends to devote his whole energies to revenging himself upon Holmes, and that Watson (and we) really should return to England.  Well, we refuse to do that. So it’s on to the Valley of the Rhone, Leuk, Gemmi Pass, Interlaken, then Meiringen. Holmes confesses again and again that if society was freed from Professor Moriarty, he would cheerfully bring his own career to a conclusion. We get to the Englischer Hof and settle in, making plans to hike over to Rosenlaui. By now we should be very concerned for our safety. Rocks are falling out of the sky. Holmes talks of life’s ending. Still, we head out on this lonely hike. Is anyone else feeling just a little bit edgy? Or even more?

When the boy comes running up the hill with a note for Watson, he—though not we—believes the excuse and runs back down the hill.  Stupid, stupid fool! I challenge you to come up with an incident in the canon when Watson was any more the fool than he was that day!

Now, three years later, “The Empty House.” Watson turns over the facts of the Honourable Robert Adair’s murder in a locked room, coming to no conclusions. We are in our lodgings, late at night, when there is a knock at the door.  This time, it’s an old book-collector whom we met earlier in the day. And, well, come to find out it’s none other than Mr. Sherlock Holmes.  After we recover from our first and only faint: “Now, my dear fellow, if I may ask for your co-operation, a hard and dangerous might’s work is in front of us.”  Aw, this is normal again. The mouse will accompany the pair on one more adventure.

“But We Have Learned a Good Deal, You Perceive”: What the Heck is “Deal”?

Deal table, circa 1900
(This took a fair amount of Googling, since the algorithm thinks you intend the commercial meaning of “deal.”)

When the group discussed “The Man with the Twisted Lip” at our last meeting, it was the second Holmes case we’d read in a row (following “The Red-Headed League”) to feature the kind of wood called “deal.” In REDH, it was the material of some cheap furniture in the League offices; in TWIS, it made up the box that held the building bricks Mr. Neville St. Clair had bought for his son. It will crop up again for us next month in “The Empty House,” in which we learn that Holmes conducted his chemical researches on a “deal-topped table.” But what in the world is “deal”?

The question intrigued NMSOBC member Ken Meltsner (“The Hiding-Place Under the Carpet”), himself an amateur woodworker. Despite the minor handicap of originally believing that the blocks, and not the box holding them, were made of deal, he put together a PowerPoint presentation about the matter, which we will now share here.

As a newcomer to making such presentations, Ken began by explaining how he decided on his topic, using some spousal advice from your humble Gazetteer:

He followed by explaining what deal wood was (essentially, cheap planks of softwood), what it is now, and the origin of the word.

And, in this addendum, noted his original error, which answers the question he raised as to why the bricks would be made of deal, since blocks are usually made of hardwood.

So, despite a misreading, some interesting and useful background information for modern-day Americans trying to make sense of Watson’s accounts.

Sidelights on the Britannica

Volumes of the Encyclopædia Britannica (9th edition, 1875–1889) on a shelf.
Joi Ito via Wikimedia Commons

As part of our discussion of “The Red-Headed League” at our March meeting, we had a brief presentation on the story’s MacGuffin, the Encyclopaedia Britannica. We hope you’ll find it as interesting as we did.

Notes on the Encyclopaedia Britannica
by Janice M. Eisen

The Encyclopaedia Britannica was the English-language encyclopedia in print for the longest time: 244 years. The final printed edition, sadly, was issued in 2010.

It was first published between 1768 and 1771 in Edinburgh, in 3 volumes. It was born out of a period known as the Scottish Enlightenment, which also featured Adam Smith’s The Wealth of Nations, Sir Walter Scott’s novels, Robert Burns’ poetry, and David Hume’s philosophy.

Sherlock (and Jabez) would have used the landmark 9th edition, which was issued in 25 volumes (the 25th being the index) from 1875–1889. This edition is known as the “Scholar’s Edition” because it’s, well, the most scholarly; it is also noted for its wide range of contributors and literary style. There were roughly 1,100 contributors, including such prominent experts as James Clerk Maxwell, Algernon Swinburne, Matthew Arnold, Sir James Frazer, Edward Everett Hale, William Jevons, Baron Kelvin (of the temperature scale), Andrew Lang, Henry Cabot Lodge, William Morris, Alfred Russel Wallace, and Robert Louis Stevenson (one of whose contributions, an article about Robert Burns, was unenthusiastic and thus never printed). Thomas Huxley both contributed and was the general advisor on science. More than 70 of the contributors were from the United States and about 60 from the Continent; they also included a few Canadians and Australians and one New Zealander. A handful of the contributors were women; this edition was the first to include a significant article about women (“Women, Law Relating to”). Evolution was listed for the first time but treated as a still-controversial subject. Oddly, no biographies of living persons were included.

For the 9th edition, the Britannica adopted a controversial scientific approach to cultural topics. There was something of a kerfuffle over the articles on religion written by William Robertson Smith, a professor of theology at the Free Church College in Edinburgh and an intellectual prodigy who mastered advanced scientific and mathematical topics. He was the first contributor to the Britannica to address the historical interpretation of the Bible.

This edition had the Britannica’s first English-born editor-in-chief, Thomas Spencer Baynes, a professor of logic, metaphysics, and English literature at St. Andrews, who worked on it until his death in 1887. Smith’s controversial religious articles—in particular, his assertion that the Bible was not historically accurate—caused him to lose his teaching position in 1881, and he was immediately hired to be joint editor-in-chief, taking sole charge after Baynes’s death.

The 9th edition was much more luxurious than the 8th, with thick boards, high-quality leather bindings, premier paper, and production that took advantage of the latest technological advances, particularly the new ability to print large graphic illustrations on the same pages with the text, instead of only on separate copperplates. Roughly 8,500 sets were sold in Britain, a more than respectable number, but it was wildly popular in the States. Authorized sets for the US market were sold by Scribner’s and Little, Brown; they were identical to the British edition except for the title pages and of the same high quality. These publishers sold 45,000 such sets at $9 per volume. (This was a lot of money; while direct comparison is difficult, it would be well over $150 today.)

Americans also bought several hundred thousand cheaply produced pirated copies (because US law did not yet protect foreign copyrights). One Joseph M. Stoddart paid a spy in Britannica’s own print shop in Edinburgh to steal the proofreader’s copies and send them by fastest mail to him in Philadelphia, so he was able to publish his version simultaneously with the official one and for only $5 per volume. A court decision actually upheld his right to do so. Other pirates sold their versions even more cheaply. Finally, in 1896, Scribner’s, which had managed to copyright some of the articles, obtained court orders to shut down bootleg operations, including melting down their printing plates. Publishers got around this by rewriting the articles that Scribner’s had copyrighted.

Because Americans loved the Britannica so much, in 1901 all rights to publish it were acquired by a group of American businessmen, which left some lingering resentment among Britons, even a century later.

George Bernard Shaw claimed to have read the complete 9th edition, except for the science articles, during visits to the British Museum.

The encyclopedia’s appearance in “The Red-Headed League” was highlighted by the Lord Mayor of London at the celebration of the Britannica’s bicentennial in 1968.

Doyle biographer Charles Higham said that the use of the Britannica in the story serves as a sociological mirror of the times, confirming “the view of the upper middle class that the working orders were simply dolts.”

We’re told that Jabez Wilson wrote on the letter A. Presuming that he skipped the preface, he would have begun: “A, the first symbol of every Indo-European alphabet, denotes also the primary vowel sound.”

He tells Holmes that he got at least through “Attica,” making him astonishingly diligent. The first two volumes, A–Anatomy and Anaxagoras–ATH, contain over 1,600 pages of text (though some space is taken up by illustrations). The article on “Attica” is on pages 57–60 of Vol. 3. Wilson says he hoped soon to get to the Bs, which don’t start until p. 173.

Thomas L. Stix once calculated, based on the average page of the Britannica, that Wilson would have written 6,419,616 words. This seems a rather impossible amount to have copied out in 20 hours a week for eight weeks. There is at least one more mystery featuring the Britannica: Ruth Rendell wrote a mystery in which Vol. 8 was the murder weapon.

I’ll end with a poem by our eminent friend Christopher Morley:

Epitaph on the Proofreader of the Encyclopaedia Britannica
Majestic tomes, you are the tomb
Of Aristides Edward Bloom,
Who labored, from the world aloof,
In reading every page of proof.

From A to And, from Aus to Bis
Enthusiasm still was his;
From Cal to Cha, from Cha to Con
His soft-lead pencil still went on.

But reaching volume Fra to Gib,
He knew at length that he was sib
To Satan; and he sold his soul
To reach the section Pay to Pol.

Then Pol to Ree, and Shu to Sub
He staggered on, and sought a pub.
And just completing Vet to Zym,
The motor hearse came round for him.
He perished, obstinately brave:
They laid the Index on his grave.

Join the Red-Headed League with this Trivia Quiz

Jabez Wilson copying out the Encyclopaedia Britannica.

We’re revisiting old favorites in our story choices for this year, which meant our March meeting was devoted to “The Red-Headed League.” Here’s the quiz we took, which is not about the story, but inspired by it. Every answer in the quiz is the title of an entry in the 9th edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica that Mr. Jabez Wilson had definitely copied out; in other words, they are all found between A and Attica (which is the furthest entry he specifically mentions) and were considered important enough to get entries. Some are easy, but a few are tricky. If you want to take it the way the folks at the meeting did, then consult no references. You can find the answers here.

REDH Encyclopaedia Britannica Trivia Quiz

by Janice M. Eisen
All answers are the names of entries in the 9th edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica that Jabez Wilson copied before the dissolution of the League.

Each correct answer is worth 2 points; if a question asks for multiple answers, each one is worth 2 points. There is also a bonus question worth an additional  5 points, for a maximum of 35 points.
  1. This animal’s name translates into English as “ground-pig.”
  2. These three men, all members of the same family, played roles in U.S. history of the 18th and early 19th centuries important enough to earn all of them Britannica entries. (3 answers)
  3. This type of weapon plays an crucial role in both “The Final Problem” and “The Empty House.”
  4. These two U.S. states were still only territories when the 9th edition was published. (2 answers)
  5. The assassination of one of these would be the spark setting off a worldwide calamity.
  6. A young lady from this town had her praises sung by many a young man involved in that calamity.
  7. This Roman Emperor is best known for a classic work of philosophy. [Note: Because the ancient Romans had complicated and obscure naming conventions, his listing was alphabetized in the Britannica under a different name from the one he is best known by.]
  8. This French town gave its name to a type of wool tapestry, behind one of which a Shakespearean hero thought he was killing a rat.
  9. Some Sherlockian scholars argue that certain of the later Holmes stories were actually written by the Literary Agent, not by Dr. Watson; in other words, they would move them from the Canon into the ______________________________.
  10. “The wind cried and sobbed like a child in the chimney” is an example of this literary device, also known as personification.
    • For 5 bonus points, identify which of the Master’s adventures included this poetic flourish of Watson’s.
  11. The miners in Vermissa Valley would have been familiar with this fossil fuel.
  12. Not the family who made Holmes’s violin, but the last name of a family of Italian luthiers of equivalent greatness.

Please do not post answers in the comments, although requests for clarification are OK.