The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 5. Robert Louis Stevenson
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ruler of an empire. The gulf, sir, is below; and the true learned arts – those which alone are safe from the competition of insurgent laymen – are those which give his title to the artisan.”
“This is a very pompous fellow,” said Challoner in the ear of his companion.
“He is immense,” said Somerset.
Just then the door of the divan was opened, and a third young fellow made his appearance, and rather bashfully requested some tobacco. He was younger than the others; and, in a somewhat meaningless and altogether English way, he was a handsome lad. When he had been served, and had lighted his pipe and taken his place upon the sofa, he recalled himself to Challoner by the name of Desborough.
“Desborough, to be sure,” cried Challoner. “Well, Desborough, and what do you do?”
“The fact is,” said Desborough, “that I am doing nothing.”
“A private fortune, possibly?” inquired the other.
“Well, no,” replied Desborough, rather sulkily. “The fact is that I am waiting for something to turn up.”
“All in the same boat!” cried Somerset. “And have you, too, one hundred pounds?”
“Worse luck,” said Mr. Desborough.
“This is a very pathetic sight, Mr. Godall,” said Somerset: “three futiles.”
“A character of this crowded age,” returned the salesman.
“Sir,” said Somerset, “I deny that the age is crowded; I will admit one fact, and one fact only: that I am futile, that he is futile, and that we are all three as futile as the devil. What am I? I have smattered law, smattered letters, smattered geography, smattered mathematics; I have even a working knowledge of judicial astrology; and here I stand, all London roaring by at the street’s end, as impotent as any baby. I have a prodigious contempt for my maternal uncle; but without him, it is idle to deny it, I should simply resolve into my elements like an unstable mixture. I begin to perceive that it is necessary to know some one thing to the bottom – were it only literature. And yet, sir, the man of the world is a great feature of this age; he is possessed of an extraordinary mass and variety of knowledge; he is everywhere at home; he has seen life in all its phases; and it is impossible but that this great habit of existence should bear fruit. I count myself a man of the world, accomplished, cap-à-pie. So do you, Challoner. And you, Mr. Desborough?”
“Oh yes,” returned the young man.
“Well, then, Mr. Godall, here we stand, three men of the world, without a trade to cover us, but planted at the strategic centre of the universe (for so you will allow me to call Rupert Street), in the midst of the chief mass of people, and within earshot of the most continuous chink of money on the surface of the globe. Sir, as civilised men, what do we do? I will show you. You take in a paper?”
“I take,” said Mr. Godall solemnly, “the best paper in the world, the Standard.”
“Good,” resumed Somerset. “I now hold it in my hand, the voice of the world, a telephone repeating all men’s wants. I open it, and where my eye first falls – well, no, not Morrison’s Pills – but here, sure enough, and but a little above, I find the joint that I was seeking; here is the weak spot in the armour of society. Here is a want, a plaint, an offer of substantial gratitude: ’Two Hundred Pounds Reward. – The above reward will be paid to any person giving information as to the identity and whereabouts of a man observed yesterday in the neighbourhood of the Green Park. He was over six feet in height, with shoulders disproportionately broad, close shaved, with black moustaches, and wearing a sealskin great-coat.’ There, gentlemen, our fortune, if not made, is founded.”
“Do you then propose, dear boy, that we should turn detectives?” inquired Challoner.
“Do I propose it? No, sir,” cried Somerset. “It is reason, destiny, the plain face of the world, that commands and imposes it. Here all our merits tell; our manners, habit of the world, powers of conversation, vast stores of unconnected knowledge, all that we are and have builds up the character of the complete detective. It is, in short, the only profession for a gentleman.”
“The proposition is perhaps excessive,” replied Challoner; “for hitherto I own I have regarded it as of all dirty, sneaking, and ungentlemanly trades, the least and lowest.”
“To defend society?” asked Somerset; “to stake one’s life for others? to deracinate occult and powerful evil? I appeal to Mr. Godall. He, at least, as a philosophic looker-on at life, will spit upon such philistine opinions. He knows that the policeman, as he is called upon continually to face greater odds, and that both worse equipped and for a better cause, is in form and essence a more noble hero than the soldier. Do you, by any chance, deceive yourself into supposing that a general would either ask or expect, from the best army ever marshalled, and on the most momentous battlefield, the conduct of a common constable at Peckham Rye?”1
“I did not understand we were to join the force,” said Challoner.
“Nor shall we. These are the hands; but here – here, sir, is the head,” cried Somerset. “Enough; it is decreed. We shall hunt down this miscreant in the sealskin coat.”
“Suppose that we agreed,” retorted Challoner, “you have no plan, no knowledge; you know not where to seek for a beginning.”
“Challoner!” cried Somerset, “is it possible that you hold the doctrine of Free Will? And are you devoid of any tincture of philosophy, that you should harp on such exploded fallacies? Chance, the blind Madonna of the Pagan, rules this terrestrial bustle; and in Chance I place my sole reliance. Chance has brought us three together; when we next separate and go forth our several ways, Chance will continually drag before our careless eyes a thousand eloquent clues, not to this mystery only, but to the countless mysteries by which we live surrounded. Then comes the part of the man of the world, of the detective born and bred. This clue, which the whole town beholds without comprehension, swift as a cat, he leaps upon it, makes it his, follows it with craft and passion, and from one trifling circumstance divines a world.”
“Just so,” said Challoner; “and I am delighted that you should recognise these virtues in yourself. But in the meanwhile, dear boy, I own myself incapable of joining. I was neither born nor bred as a detective, but as a placable and very thirsty gentleman; and, for my part, I begin to weary for a drink. As for clues and adventures, the only adventure that is ever likely to occur to me will be an adventure with a bailiff.”
“Now there is the fallacy,” cried Somerset. “There I catch the secret of your futility in life. The world teems and bubbles with adventure; it besieges you along the streets; hands waving out of windows, swindlers coming up and swearing they knew you when you were abroad, affable and doubtful people of all sorts and conditions begging and truckling for your notice. But not you: you turn away, you walk your seedy mill round, you must go the dullest way. Now here, I beg of you, the next adventure that offers itself, embrace it in with both your arms; whatever it looks, grimy or romantic, grasp it. I will do the like; the devil is in it, but at least we shall have fun; and each in turn we shall narrate the story of our fortunes to my philosophic friend of the divan, the great Godall, now hearing me with inward joy. Come, is it a bargain? Will you, indeed, both promise to welcome every chance that offers, to plunge boldly into every opening, and, keeping the eye wary and the head composed, to study and piece together all that happens? Come, promise: let me open to you the doors of the great profession of intrigue.”
“It is not much in my way,” said Challoner, “but, since you make a point of it, amen.”
“I don’t mind promising,” said Desborough, “but nothing will happen to me.”
“O faithless ones!” cried Somerset. “But at least I have your promises; and Godall, I perceive, is transported with delight.”
“I promise myself at least much pleasure from your various narratives,” said the salesman, with the customary calm polish of his manner.
“And now, gentlemen,” concluded Somerset, “let us separate. I
Hereupon the Arabian author enters on one of his digressions. Fearing, apparently, that the somewhat eccentric views of Mr. Somerset should throw discredit on a part of truth, he calls upon the English people to remember with more gratitude the services of the police; to what unobserved and solitary acts of heroism they are called; against what odds of numbers and of arms, and for how small a reward, either in fame or money: matter, it has appeared to the translators, too serious for this place.