Dan Simmons - The Fifth Heart

“You see, I dreamed that I was born and grew up and was a pilot on the Mississippi, gentlemen,” said Clemens, his voice little more than a whisper. “I dreamed that I was a miner and journalist in Nevada and a pilgrim in the good ship Quaker City and wrote a very popular book about those travels abroad and that I had a wife and children, yes, and went with them to live in a villa just outside of Florence . . . and this dream goes on and on and on, and sometimes it seems so real that I almost believe it is real. But there is no way to tell . . . no way to tell , Mr. Holmes, Mr. James, my dear Howells . . . for if one applied tests, then they would be part of the dream, too, and so would simply aid in the deceit. I wish I knew . . . I wish I knew . . .” Clemens looked down and, for a terrible moment, James thought he might be weeping.

“Knew what, Sam?” asked Howells.

Clemens looked up at them and his eyes were dry. Distant, with a tired and haunted look, but dry. “I wish I knew whether it all was a dream or real,” he said.

“Livy is real,” said Howells. “You have that indisputable point of reality to cling to when the black dog and blue devils try to pull you down.”

“Livy . . . Olivia,” said Clemens and nodded. “I wrote, not long ago, about Adam and Eve . . . about how Adam had no name for this new creature taken from his rib and how he became bewildered by all these new events over which he had no control. He resented her, you see. She was an intrusion on the placid perfection of his life alone in the Garden.

“But after years passed, I had Adam change his mind. ‘I see that I was mistaken about Eve in the beginning,’ he says. ‘For it is better to live outside the Garden with her than inside it without her.’ ”

James thought that Clemens was finished with his long digression, but the humorist cleared his throat and said, “When Eve finally dies, after centuries with Adam, I have Adam carve her headstone on wood and on that slab of wood he has carved—‘Where she was, there was Paradise’.”

Clemens looked around with an expression of embarrassment. “Well, we are discussing Mr. Holmes’s reality and identity, gentlemen. Mr. Holmes . . .”

He looked directly at the detective.

“Mr. Holmes, you will have an identity as long as there are deerstalker caps and magnifying glasses in the world.” Clemens pantomimed holding the handle of a magnifying glass.

Howells chuckled.

“Oh, dear God,” moaned Holmes. He folded his hands into fists and set his fists on his knees.

“The artist for The Strand , the artist who draws versions of me,” said Holmes, “is named Sidney Paget. I have never had the dubious pleasure of making his acquaintance and he, in turn, has never set eyes on me. I have never allowed my photograph or a photogravure to appear in any newspaper, no matter how major the crime might have been or how clever the apprehension of the criminals. Paget has only the vaguest idea, through Watson’s stories, of what I look like or how I dress.

“Since The Strand had originally intended Sidney’s older brother Walter to be the illustrator of the stories, perhaps Walter Paget’s only consolation is that his younger brother uses him as his model for me. That is, for the detective Sherlock Holmes as illustrated in The Strand .”

Holmes struck his walking stick hard against the wooden floor of the balcony. “I do own a soft, two-flapped cap like that but hardly wear it constantly as the Paget illustrations would have it. And yes, I do , upon occasion, travel in a wool, caped traveling overcoat, but so do thousands of other English gentlemen when leaving the city. And here is the magnifying glass I use to examine dust, ash, particles, fibers, and other minute clues . . .” Holmes reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a tiny magnifying lens with no handle; it was black rimmed and thick, the sort of glass one would use to magnify tiny details on a large map.

Clemens and Howells were laughing at Holmes’s outburst, and James could not help it, he also chuckled.

“Well,” said Clemens as Holmes sat silent, leaning on his stick, “I only wish I had a trademark like your deerstalker hat, caped coat, and magnifying glass, Mr. Holmes. God knows I do love being known and recognized. Providence and Presbyterians please forgive me, I live for recognition and for my own insignificant little bit of fame. Life is short enough, is my belief, without passing through it unnoticed by the multitudes. If you hadn’t become known for your deerstalker cap, Mr. Holmes, perhaps I would be wearing one myself. I do so enjoy standing out in a crowd.”

“Go about a German or American city in a deerstalker,” said Howells, “and you will stand out in an asylum.”

James chuckled again. Sherlock Holmes said, “Wear white.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Clemens. He was preparing a new cigar.

“Wear a white suit . . . but with your regular black shoes,” said Holmes.

“I wear white suits from time to time every summer,” said Clemens, puffing the cigar to a glow. “A lovely, comfortable white-linen suit. And, yes, with my regular black shoes, which is a mortal sin and unspeakable faux pas at Newport and at several clubs to which I have been invited. But, alas, I am only one white suit amidst thousands as the temperatures soar and the season of white suits rolls round.”

“Wear them in the winter,” said Holmes. “Year-round.”

“Year-round?” repeated Clemens, looking to Howells who only smiled and shrugged. “They will put me in an asylum if I start doing that.”

“With your notoriety . . . fame I should say . . .” said Holmes, “and with your mane of white hair, it will be seen as an attractive eccentricity, a whim of a great and amusing man. You will stand out in every crowd, at least from September to May. The white suit shall become, one could say, your signature in society. Behold, Mark Twain cometh.”

Clemens laughed along with the rest of them, but there was a calculating look in his eye.

Henry James, allowing himself to get into the mood of the moment—which was very rare for him—said, “If anyone asks why you wear white linen suits all winter, Mr. Clemens, tell them that cleanliness is paramount for you and that you have become aware that men’s black suits merely hide the dirt and soot. How many weeks or months—or years—go between cleanings of those dark suits? No, sir . . . you will not be part of that suspiciously dark crowd. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, you can say, and Mark Twain is next to his white linen suit.”

This time Clemens threw his head back and roared with the others.

Howells stayed in Hartford with Clemens as the humorist made his afternoon round of visits and had dinner with old Connecticut friends who might just have money to invest or loan. James and Holmes took the afternoon train back to New York where they would catch the evening train to Washington.

“Henry Adams will be home in a very few days,” said James after they had made the connection in New York. “I’m a trifle curious how you will present yourself to him . . . the intrepid Norwegian explorer Jan Sigerson or the consulting London detective Sherlock Holmes. Of course, you and John Hay have three or four days to decide the better course.”

Holmes was reading a small guide to Chicago that he had picked up at a Grand Central Station kiosk, but now he looked up at James sitting across from him. “I’m afraid Hay and I have no more time to discuss such things. Mr. Adams is returning today—almost certainly before you and I arrive at Mr. Hay’s home.”

James blinked rapidly. “But John Hay said . . . the servants said . . . everyone said.” He calmed himself and leaned on his stick. “Are you sure of this, Mr. Holmes?”