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Part Three: John Watson
My heart sank within a few
minutes of meeting Jonathan Daniels. I had been hoping to find an attractive but
vacuous chap who would soon bore Holmes to tears. But this fellow was no
empty-headed beauty. He was intelligent and good natured, with a careless sort
of charm.
I studied him from across the table. At the moment, he was
explaining to Holmes why he found Marlowe’s Jew of Malta less offensive
than Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice.
“You’ve taken leave of
your senses,” Holmes was telling him. “According to Marlowe, Jews have nothing
better to do than poison a whole convent’s worth of
nuns.”
“Precisely—Marlowe’s charges are so ludicrous that they become
farcical,” Daniels retorted, grinning. “Besides, Marlowe despises his Christian
characters too. He hates everyone equally. But Shakespeare gives us far more
plausible characters…and so the problems with Merchant cut much
deeper.”
I knew from Holmes that Daniels was himself a Jew. Holmes had
also told me that he was an American. I had been sorry to learn that: Americans,
with their reputation for frank, open manners—not to mention boundless energy
and ambition—never failed to captivate my friend.
“Would you play
Shylock, given the chance?” I asked Daniels, forcing myself to take part in the
conversation.
“Oh, I’d like nothing better,” he admitted. “But I’d hope
for an understanding director.”
Despite my best efforts, I found myself
smiling in response. “One who wouldn’t force you to play Shylock as if he were
Fagin from Oliver Twist?”
He laughed. “Just so!”
“I
understand that Dickens repented, somewhat, of his vicious portrayal of Jews in
that novel,” Holmes commented.
Daniels shrugged. “So they say. The later
editions weren’t quite as offensive…and he gave us an amiable nod in Our
Mutual Friend.”
The conversation turned from there. Daniels asked me
about my practice and my experiences in Afghanistan. He seemed genuinely
interested, but that might have been a polite act.
Holmes must have told
him that I had served in the war; I certainly hadn’t mentioned it. My name,
then, had come up in their private conversations. I was uncertain what to make
of that.
At length the discussion came back around to The Merchant of
Venice. Holmes steered it that way, apparently because he enjoyed watching
Daniels wrestle with the implications of the play.
“And I despise
Jessica,” Daniels was saying. “She abandons her religion without a twinge of
conscience, just to marry that Lorenzo fellow—”
“Would it have been worse
if she abandoned her faith for the stage?” Holmes asked with an air of
innocence.
Daniels glared at him, but he couldn’t stop himself from
flashing Holmes an appreciative grin. “An excellent point,” he owned. “I would
like Jessica much better if she didn’t remind me of myself.”
They
continued talking, but I stopped following them. I was too shocked. Holmes had
just made a cutting and deeply personal remark to Daniels—a remark that nothing
but a long-standing friendship, or an intimate relationship, could
excuse.
And there was, of course, no long-standing friendship.
Was
I making too much of it? Holmes is hardly a master of tact. And Daniels had
taken the remark in good part. But somehow that fact made the remark seem more
damning. Why should Daniels accept such a remark from anyone but an old
friend…or a lover?
“Is there not some Reformed movement in your
religion?” Holmes was asking as I forced myself back to the
conversation.
“Reform movement,” Daniels corrected. “Yes, but that’s not
the Judaism I was raised with—and it wouldn’t satisfy my parents, believe me. It
would be like asking devout Catholic parents to be happy that their child had
joined the Church of England or, heaven forbid, the Anabaptists.”
Holmes
smiled. “I’ve known some Catholic parents who would be happier with the
Anabaptists than the Church of England.”
Even I managed a laugh at that,
but it was a half-hearted effort. Holmes glanced at me with concern, but I
purposely looked away, turning my attention back to Daniels.
At length
the evening ended. It had not been a disaster; on the surface, it seemed nothing
more than a pleasant outing among friends. Holmes and Daniels had, of course,
behaved with perfect propriety. No one watching them would have suspected
anything.
After Daniels took his leave of us, Holmes and I hired a cab to
return us to Baker Street. We were silent for the entire journey. I was too
caught up in a tangle of fears to make sensible conversation.
Some of
those fears, I’m ashamed to admit, had jealousy at their root. I had so long
been Holmes’ chief companion that I found myself reluctant to share his company.
Nor did I care to imagine the intimate knowledge Daniels might have of my
friend. But I also feared for Holmes. Did he understand what he was
risking?
Holmes turned to me as we walked into our rooms. “You had best
say what’s on your mind, old chap,” he advised me. “Do you dislike Daniels that
much?”
“No,” I answered. “In fact, he’s impossible to dislike.” I paused
in order to look him in the eye. “Holmes, do you know what you’re about? This
could ruin you.”
The words were out of my mouth before I could reclaim
them. But perhaps that was for the best—why should we not be honest with one
another?
For a long moment, Holmes seemed frozen. “Yes,” he managed at
last. “I know what I’m about.” He looked away from me as he fumbled for his
cigarette case. “Will you be packing your bags?”
“Of course not,” I said.
“Do you think so little of me?”
He looked me in the face again. “On the
contrary, I think the world of you, Watson. And I—I would not do anything that
would jeopardize our friendship.”
I inhaled sharply at that, wondering if
he was willing to break off this affair with Daniels simply because it worried
me.
“There is nothing you could do to jeopardize our friendship,” I said
at last, giving him what I hoped was a comforting smile. “Just…just be
careful.”
He favored me with a wan, grateful smile in return—and neither
of us said anything further. For now, the matter was closed.
Part
Four
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