Authors Magazine May 2015 by Authors Magazine

Table of Contents Photo Credit: aerodrome/GARETH SMIT

Cover Story: Dianne Awerbuck

Poetry: Isabel Ndlovu

Varsity Slot: Tshiamo Mahloele

High Schooler: Raeesha Khan

Columnist: Minah Sindane Bloem

Short Story of The Month: Scandal In Bohemia

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Photo Credit: www.timeslive.co.za

South African novelist, Diane Awerbuck’s novel, Gardening at Night, won the 2004 Commonwealth Writers' Prize, best first book (Africa and the Caribbean), and was shortlisted for the International Dublin IMPAC Award. In 2011, her collection of short stories, Cabin Fever and novel, Home Remedies, were both published by Random House Struik. Shortlisted for the Caine Prize in 2014, and winning the Short Story Day Africa competition the same year, her bibliography is one to be envied. Authors Magazine chatted with Diane about her achievements……

Author

Diane Awerbuck

1. What was your favourite story as a child? When I was little I liked to be frightened. There was a story called “Ntombinde who loved adventure” that I’ve never been able to find again. It scared the hell out of me. Later I found that almost every culture has a legend about a snake-man, or a snake-woman. That’s how I came to write the short story, “Mami Wata”. 2. Did you set out to become an author? I am really a teacher (English and History). I wrote my first novel, “Gardening at Night”, while I was teaching full-time. I still don’t make a living from fiction, and very few authors – not only in South Africa, but in the world – earn enough from their own writing to pay the bills. But that’s also not always a terrible thing: your occupation provides you with material, so you get the chance to write what you know. 3. Your recent novel, “Home Remedies”, involves a museum. Do you think museums are still relevant to society today? Museums are often the only places where people can still connect meaningfully with their cultures. I am always impressed by the really old stuff from, say, a hundred thousand years ago that places Africa at the centre of modern development (homo sapiens sapiens). This is where it all happened. Seeing the jewellery from Blombos Cave, or understanding the ideas behind the trancedancing communities, fascinates me. Especially in urban centres, we lose sight of the fact that we are just the latest incarnations of a very long line of thinking, loving, conflicted creatures. Places like the McGregor Museum in Kimberley are highly relevant today. Just recently, the municipality dug up a secret graveyard by mistake when they were laying pipes. The graves belonged to unnamed black workers from the diamond compounds from the 1880s and 1890s – ordinary guys, but their injuries and clothes and so on were analysed by the museum archaeologists and other forensic scientists. It’s real, hard, first-hand evidence that tells us how people lived, instead of the propaganda we get from our politicians. It sets the historical record straight.

4. Can you still recall your first visit to a museum? What was it like? I grew up in Kimberley, and we had school outings to the McGregor Museum. I remember seeing that they were propping the doors open with rocks engraved with rock art – stuff that is now, quite literally, priceless. Often we only care when it’s too late. 5. Do you set yourself daily writing goals? Nope. When I’m in the zone, I’m in the zone. I don’t believe in writer’s block. But I do have a writing partner, Alex Latimer, so we do have to work on each other’s content when it arrives in the inbox! 6. How did you come to the title "Home Remedies"? I like titles that have multiple meanings. In this case, a literal home remedy is something you can make yourself to cure your ailment – like gargling with salt if your throat is sore. But it’s also an emotional remedy: I’m interested in how people recover from trauma, how they take care of themselves mentally, how they heal. That’s the important thing: not what happened to you, but how you pick yourself up afterwards and start again, how that disaster or attack can make you a fighter. And the other meaning is that there should also be cures FOR home life: When you get sick of the dynamics of living with other people, you should have strategies that help you get away from them, like going for a walk. That works for me. 7. In your perspective, why do you think fewer people read today? I don’t think there are fewer readers: I think they’re reading differently. Even the way we read physically has changed over the last generation. People who do a lot of computerbased based activities are evolving. Our eyes are so used to webpages that they no longer automatically read long lines of text from left to right (or right to left), but move more in a square – looking at the banner first, then the top left column, and so on. But the book format will never die.

8. What recently published book of another author was incredibly hard to put down for you? “The Chicken Thief”, by Fiona Leonard. This book should take over the world. It’s brilliant. 9. How do you balance home life and your writing life? My kids are at school, and I work from home. There is no balance. I do what I have to do. I try to walk a lot, and take breaks so I don’t ruin my eyesight. 10. In your writing, do you start with a title in mind or a story in mind? How do you see it? I have a hard time creating a totally new universe, the way Sarah Lotz, Lauren Beukes or Thando Mgqolozana can do. I tend to use an idea from a real-life situation. But I change the names! 11. How do you refresh yourself to stay creative? It’s not something I can control, luckily. The ideas are always there. I just write them down. 12. If you could change anything about SA publishing industry, what would that be? Books should not have VAT charged on them. They should be cheaper, available more freely. But it does force us to think better, and find ways around our dinosaur of a system. There are great sites such as Fundza that already use mobile apps, organisations such as Short Story Day Africa that seems to find a lot of talent across the continent, and projects like Book Dash, that get books to the people who need them most. Books teach us that another life is possible. 13. What are you currently working on? I’ve just finished the first draft of a cowboy-apocalypse novel with Alex Latimer, called “South”, and more short stories. So much to write.

14. The month of May is Mother’s Day……what are your thoughts on the significance and relevance of Mother’s Day and family life overall? I'm pretty useless at this stuff, I'm afraid. The ideas I'm most concerned with right now are about independence, doing things for ourselves, and not letting the people we voted into power get away with behaving badly. Being a mother is a lot like being a responsible citizen, and being a writer means being twice as watchful. In terms of Mother's Day, we should really be celebrating Grandmother's Day. Statistically, these women carry the carry the entire country on their old shoulders. Absentee fathers and selfish mothers are the true shame of our society. When even the most basic family unit is dysfunctional, how can we hope that the larger institutions will do the right thing?

EXTRACT... No one went into Peers Cave anymore. The enchantmentof the dark place was gone, the many potential adventures sharpened into just one that would hurt, a flint shard beside a body. Joanna could see the gateway between the rocks from wherever she was in the Valley. At first she had used the cave for navigation. Now, aimless, she searched for it by habit. She always thought of the story her mother had read her about Ntunjambili, a great rock that had been split by lightning. It had started with the little Zulu twins whose parents had hidden them at birth. When the bad luck babies were discovered, the village tried to drown them – drown them – in the uThukela. The story had spoken loudly and persistently to the six-year-old Joanna. Demana and Demazana’s mother and father had been persuaded to give them back to the ancestors, hadn’t they? And not just that – tried to drown them. Joanna had looked carefully at her father that night when he emerged from his study to test his new jokes on them. She couldn’t imagine him trying to hold her under the water. There was nothing remotely murderous about him. When he checked on her in the bath, he only said,“Come on, Jo-Jo. The soap isn’t even wet! Face, fanny, feet.”

EXTRACT... But they had survived, the Zulu twins. They had, but others hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t: lucky Demana and Demazana. The rivers were full of people who had come to unlucky ends. Their bones rolled along the beds; beneath the water there were spirit-villages and cattle and crops, like the Langebaan fossils. The twins were saved by the Nunus, the Little People who were the guardians of small things. The orphans were spirited away to the Nunusâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; home, Ntunjambili. Inside it they found animals that had been caught in traps, birds and insects with broken legs, lonely souls in need of recovery. The kindly Nunus gave them shelter and told the twins that all sad hearts were mended there. Fat Joanna sat at her PC and whispered the words to herself. All sad hearts are mended here. They would make a fantastic tattoo if she could just think of a place that wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have stretchmarks on it. The books said they would fade to silvery lines, but hers were still angry and purple. Time passed. The twins ministered to the sick creatures, who grew well and left. The boy and his sister began to forget their near-drowning, and to regret leaving their parents. They appeared again to their father, the sad man who came daily to the river to mourn. They took pity on him, and listened when he persuaded them to go back with him. 16

EXTRACT... But the twins didn’t belong with their family. Their mother’s love, starved of its food, had grown thin, and one night the two children slipped out from their parents’ hut. They stole back to Ntunjambili, where the Nunus were waiting for them. When they saw the twins coming, the creatures called out, “Come in, Demana and Demazana! We have been lonely without you.” It still made Joanna want to cry. Where was that book? She had to dig it out and read it to James. Of course she would. She would call up the romance of Ntunjambili wherever she was; she could make it happen. Because it was magic, but not the sort that could be summoned up. It was the other kind of magic, the one that heals and serves because it is merciful and because it pays attention. It was not the kind of love that Jan had for her. A few days ago she had seen him in the mirror, looking at the roll that squeezed out from under her bra strap.

EXTRACT... There was a song that the Zulu twins had sung to enter the rock when they passed back and forth between the worlds: Ilitsha li ka Ntunjambili, Ilitsha li ka Ntunjambili, Ngivulele ngingene. Alivulwanga abantu; Livulwa yezinkonjane, Zona zindiza phezulu. Ngibulele ngingene. Rock of two arches, Rock of two arches, Open and let me in. It is not opened by man; It is opened by the swallows, Those that fly above. Open and let me in. Joanna hummed it, putting a tune to the English words. Maybe one of these days I’ll go up to Peers Cave and see for myself, she thought. It’s not like I have anything else to do. Last week in the storms she had looked up and seen a couple on the ledge outside, the man in a blue windbreaker that was flapping in the rain. They looked like the last people in the world or – take the clothes and hiking boots away – like the people who had always lived there, time-travellers keeping an eye on the traffic, wondering where the eland had gone. There were two of them, and no one else, and they belonged. 19

hird year Psychology student Tshiamo Mahloele admits that reading has not always been high in her hings to doâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; list. However, following a close encounter with her Associate Professor, well respected analyst nd author, Xolela Mangcu, her thoughts on that have completely changed. She tells Authors why agerness to learn is her biggest gift to herselfâ&#x20AC;Ś

hoto Credit: KJB Productions

Tshiamo Mahloele

Photo Credit: KJB Productions

Authors: When did you decide, okay look, I need to read more? Tshiamo: Last year I did a second year sociology course which was convened by Xolela Mangcu; a professor, writer. Google says: “he is a non-resident Senior Fellow at the Brookings Institution in Washington D.C. He was Executive Director of the Human Sciences Research Council and has held fellowships at Harvard University; the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and the Rockefeller Foundation. He also chairs the prestigious Sunday Times Alan Paton Awards”. During the lectures, he would mention all of the above mentioned points so casually like it wasn’t a big deal… it was. It was a very big deal. Still is if you ask me. 26

Authors: Okay so your interest in Mangcu’s work is peeked, what next? Photo Credit: KJB Productions

Tshiamo: I started reading his book ‘The Arrogance of Power’ about 2 weeks ago. It’s a book based on South Africa’s Leadership Meltdown, and I only started reading it because for once, I actually enjoyed going to a 9h00am lecture (something I never thought would happen) and listening to my lecturer speak. Instead of just sitting there for 45 minutes with the words going in one ear and out the other without sticking. He seemed to know everything about black consciousness, the pan Africanist movement and authors, the people who fought for equality, and what their thoughts were. I found this wildly interesting because this is not something you hear about (or maybe it’s just me, so I should speak singularly) when teachers usually speak of SA’s 27 history in high school.

Authors: Do you think maybe high school should have taught you more? Photo Credit: KJB Productions

Tshiamo: It was disappointing to me that I had to wait to get to varsity and stumble upon this whole wealth of SA’s history that I had (sadly) never heard about. It’s almost always about apartheid as a broad topic; never really (for lack of a better word) the nitty gritties of it. So I told myself that during my holidays I would read his books- a goal that I totally forgot about until this year. I was walking to submit something and I saw a flyer on the wall: Xolela Mangcu- Biko: A Life. And I knew that if I didn’t start right then, then I never would...

Tshiamo Mahloele

Authors: why specifically The Arrogance of Power? Tshiamo: I chose this specific book to start with because I’m doing a political philosophy course this semester; where we’re learning about the authority of democracy; justifying the state; liberty; the idea of equality; distributive justice; the true meaning of life (which Plato makes very very confusing) and power (Thomas Hobbes- where you have to read each chapter thrice to BEGIN to understand what you THINK he’s trying to say… *laughs*). And because we’re learning about all these different political topics through different philosophers eyes, whom I really just don’t understand 70% of the time, I thought reading The Arrogance of Power would atleast make the history of South African politics a little easier to understand and (hopefully) more interesting.. And honestly, I think it’s mad cool that I get to read a book by an old lecturer of mine, someone I’ve actually met! And even cooler that he actually knows some of the people that he lectures about people! I mean, for your lecturer to casually be like “One day, I went to Mandela’s house for tea and he told me that…” that was pretty cool. But what really won me over and kept me reading this book was the disbelief I felt when I read the first few lines of the introduction, which reads: “South Africa does not have a tradition of presidential histories. As a result we have no body of knowledge about the sources and limitations of presidential authority. We know hardly anything about the temperaments of the men who have occupied the highest public office in the land or 29 what informs their decision-making.”

Authors: An incredibly bold statement, from face value, how true do you think that is? Tshiamo: He was right, well about me anyways, I didn’t know anything about SA’s leadership except what I heard on the radio and what I was taught. Nothing more. And that really is not a lot. I’m turning 21 soon, this is the kind of stuff that I should be reading about and making a real effort to know more about. Not vampires who fall inlove with humans (no judgement, I love the Twilight Saga); but reading about SA’s leadership history from someone that I greatly admire is a much better use of my time. And (surprisingly enough) as hard as Thomas Hobbes’ book is to understand, I learnt about ‘felicity’ and figured out that that’s the actual reason I love reading. Authors: Go on… Tshiamo: He says that happiness is more in the ability to achieve the ends than in achieving the ends themselves. Authors: That being said, in your words, why do you love reading? Tshiamo: I have found great happiness in reading books; not for the sake of that feeling of accomplishment after finishing a book, but rather from the actual enjoyment of reading that book in that moment.

Raeesah Khan Young Raeesah Khan started to show a keen interest in stories at the age of three, when her parents would read her bedtime stories like the Ugly Duckling, The Lion King, Hansel and Gretel, The Little Mermaid. Now, the twelve year old Wendywood primary student has read over 200 books and shows no signs of stopping soonâ&#x20AC;Ś 33

Authors: Hi Raeesah, we have heard such great things about you. How old are you? Raeesah: On the 10th July I am turning 13. Authors: What would you say your favourite book is? Raeesah: I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t really have a favourite, but I think The Artemis Fowl series of books are one of my favourites. I generally prefer fiction. Authors: What is your favourite part about reading? Raeesah: I get to go to another world and far away places. Authors: What is your impression of the Harry Potter books? Raeesah: I love the Harry potter books, I have read all seven. Harry potter books are now set work books at schools so I get to read them again! We are currently reading the first one which is Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone. 34

Authors: Do you think your peers read as much as you Raeesah? Raeesah: No not at all. My age mates do not read as much as I do, they are mostly playing and talking. But I take my book with me everywhere I go. Even when we are travelling in the car. Authors: If there was one character from the many books you have read, that you could make real, who would that be? Raeesah: Artemis Fowl , he is a boy genius and hacks into the pentagon. I would love to meet him. Authors: Lately people, old and young have begun reading books off of Ipads and Tablets, what is your take on that? Raeesah: Reading from an Ipad or anything like that would not be the same as reading from a real book. I like the feel and smell of books.

Authors: A lot of children, including myself, are often intimidated by the size of book, you have read so many big books, are you never intimidated by the page count? Raeesah: I never get intimidated by the size of a book, I just read it. Sometimes I read so much that my mom has to take away my reading light when it gets too late at night. Authors: School schedules are so busy, where do you even find the time to read, in between homework and after school activities? Raeesah: I get tired, but the minute I pick up a book, exhaustion from school just goes away. Authors: What is your favourite subject at school and do you know what you want to be when you grow up? Raeesah: My favourite subject is Natural Science because I want to be a 36 marine biologist when I grow

Authors: What are you currently reading? Raeesah: I am halfway through Young Sherlock, Red Leech, by Andrew Lane. Authors: What do you think about the concept of diary or journal keeping? Raeesah: I think it is a good idea, but I am not very good at keeping a diary, but my sister, Farzana is. Authors: How would you say reading has helped you? Raeesah: Reading has broadened my vocabulary, helped widen my imagination, taught me how to understand different things, lessons and helps me think logically. I think thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a difference between reading and just getting through the pages.

Minah SindaneBloem

Five birds are sitting on a telephone wire. Two decide to fly south. How many are left? Most people would say three. Actually, all five are left. You see, deciding to fly isn’t the same as doing it. If a bird really wants to go somewhere, it is going to point itself to the right direction, jump off the wire, flap its wings, and keep flapping until it gets there. So it is with most things. Good intentions aren’t enough. It’s not what we want, say or think that makes things happen; it’s what we do. I frequently think of writing thank you, birthday and congratulatory notes. Unfortunately only a sad few of these good sentiments ever make it to paper. Still, if I don’t look too closely, I can delude myself into thinking that based on my good thoughts I am a gracious and grateful person. A truer and less admirable picture of my character is drawn by my actions. In the end, we either do or don’t do. We either make the time to do the things we want to and should do or we make excuses. Have you ever received a sms (short message service) on your cellular phone from a “friend” saying I miss you? Dah! I have received such messages before. Why don’t you call if you really miss me? At least you will hear my voice. The best sms I have received is the one that says: “not calling you does not mean I don’t miss you”. Yeah right! You might be having a book or books in your mind that you want to write. You can see them in your mind’s eye – you know the title of the book; you know the cover, you know the number of chapters and the heading of each chapter. You even know the number of pages that the book is going to consist of. 42

You know the pictures which are going to appear in that book. You can actually read the raving reviews about your book. You know who is going to publish the book. You can even see the book launch. You see yourself on the television screen being interviewed about the book. You have a number of radio interviews lined up for you. The sad thing about this is that the book only exist in your mind, a good start though. Is it fair for us to call you an author without us seeing the physical book itself? Is it fair to think that my friend is missing me even if she is not calling me? The bulk of my reading is personal development books. I love reading on the human potential. I have learnt, through these books, that talking and not doing will not take you far. There is a beautiful Setswana proverb saying “molomo o tshela noka e tletse”. The direct translation is “a mouth can cross a full river”. It simply means talk is cheap. I can talk about the fact that I can swim over the other side but doing it might prove difficult. How long have you been postponing to write to the world? Sales people know this phenomenon very well. When sold a particular gadget, a person will exclaim how he loves this gadget and that he will buy it. The salesperson takes the details of the enthusiastic person to make a follow up call. The first call the person confirms he really wants this gadget but money is a bit of a challenge. On the second call the person is still waiting for money from who knows who. The third time you call the person no longer answers your call because he is not interested in that gadget. A sale is lost. While one thinks that there are many written books in the world, I guess that there are many more unwritten books. Please go ahead and give us that book. 44

THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES BY SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA - PART 1

To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observerâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;excellent for drawing the veil from menâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory. I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away from each other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centred interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master of his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention, while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street,buried among his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition, 48

the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in following out those clues, and clearing up those mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From time to time I heard some vague account of his doings: of his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland. Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely shared with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of my former friend and companion. One nightâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;it was on the twentieth of March, 1888â&#x20AC;&#x201D;I was returning from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil practice), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the well-remembered door, which must always be associated in my mind with my wooing, and with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as I looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. To me, who knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their own story. He was at work again. He had risen out of his drug-created dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new problem. I rang the bell and was shown up to the chamber which had formerly been in part my own. 49

His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad, I think, to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye, he waved me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and indicated a spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he stood before the fire and looked me over in his singular introspective fashion. “Wedlock suits you,” he remarked. “I think, Watson, that you have put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you.” “Seven!” I answered. “Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more, I fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did not tell me that you intended to go into harness.” “Then, how do you know?” “I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and careless servant girl?” “My dear Holmes,” said I, “this is too much. You would certainly have been burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true that I had a country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess, but as I have changed my clothes I can’t imagine how you deduce it. As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her notice, but there, again, I fail to see how you work it out.” He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands together.

“It is simplicity itself,” said he; “my eyes tell me that on the inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it, the leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they have been caused by someone who has very carelessly scraped round the edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it. Hence, you see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile weather, and that you had a particularly malignant boot-slitting specimen of the London slavey. As to your practice, if a gentleman walks into my rooms smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate of silver upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on the right side of his top-hat to show where he has secreted his stethoscope, I must be dull, indeed, if I do not pronounce him to be an active member of the medical profession.” I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained his process of deduction. “When I hear you give your reasons,” I remarked, “the thing always appears to me to be so ridiculously simple that I could easily do it myself, though at each successive instance of your reasoning I am baffled until you explain your process. And yet I believe that my eyes are as good as yours.” “Quite so,” he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing himself down into an armchair. “You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the steps which lead up from the hall to this room.”

“Frequently.” “How often?” “Well, some hundreds of times.” “Then how many are there?” “How many? I don’t know.” “Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That is just my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps, because I have both seen and observed. By the way, since you are interested in these little problems, and since you are good enough to chronicle one or two of my trifling experiences, you may be interested in this.” He threw over a sheet of thick, pink-tinted notepaper which had been lying open upon the table. “It came by the last post,” said he. “Read it aloud.” The note was undated, and without either signature or address. “There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight o’clock,” it said, “a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter of the very deepest moment. Your recent services to one of the royal houses of Europe have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted with matters which are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated. This account of you we have from all quarters received. Be in your chamber then at that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor wear a mask.” “This is indeed a mystery,” I remarked. “What do you imagine that it means?”

“I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorise before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. But the note itself. What do you deduce from it?” I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was written. “The man who wrote it was presumably well to do,” I remarked, endeavouring to imitate my companion’s processes. “Such paper could not be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong and stiff.” “Peculiar—that is the very word,” said Holmes. “It is not an English paper at all. Hold it up to the light.” I did so, and saw a large “E” with a small “g,” a “P,” and a large “G” with a small “t” woven into the texture of the paper. “What do you make of that?” asked Holmes. “The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather.” “Not at all. The ‘G’ with the small ‘t’ stands for ‘Gesellschaft,’ which is the German for ‘Company.’ It is a customary contraction like our ‘Co.’ ‘P,’ of course, stands for ‘Papier.’ Now for the ‘Eg.’ Let us glance at our Continental Gazetteer.” He took down a heavy brown volume from his shelves. “Eglow, Eglonitz—here we are, Egria. It is in a German-speaking country—in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. ‘Remarkable as being the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous glass-factories and paper-mills.’ Ha, ha, my boy, what do you make of that?” His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue triumphant cloud from his cigarette.

“The paper was made in Bohemia,” I said. “Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you note the peculiar construction of the sentence—‘This account of you we have from all quarters received.’ A Frenchman or Russian could not have written that. It is the German who is so uncourteous to his verbs. It only remains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by this German who writes upon Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve all our doubts.” As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses’ hoofs and grating wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes whistled. “A pair, by the sound,” said he. “Yes,” he continued, glancing out of the window. “A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties. A hundred and fifty guineas apiece. There’s money in this case, Watson, if there is nothing else.” “I think that I had better go, Holmes.” “Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell. And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it.” “But your client—” “Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes. Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention.” A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in the passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a loud and authoritative tap. “Come in!” said Holmes. 54

A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress was rich with a richness which would, in England, be looked upon as akin to bad taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and fronts of his doublebreasted coat, while the deep blue cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined with flame-coloured silk and secured at the neck with a brooch which consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended halfway up his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur, completed the impression of barbaric opulence which was suggested by his whole appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore across the upper part of his face, extending down past the cheekbones, a black vizard mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand was still raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of the face he appeared to be a man of strong character, with a thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight chin suggestive of resolution pushed to the length of obstinacy. “You had my note?” he asked with a deep harsh voice and a strongly marked German accent. “I told you that I would call.” He looked from one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to address. “Pray take a seat,” said Holmes. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases. Whom have I the honour to address?”

“You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour and discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you alone.” I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into my chair. “It is both, or none,” said he. “You may say before this gentleman anything which you may say to me.” The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then I must begin,” said he, “by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of that time the matter will be of no importance. At present it is not too much to say that it is of such weight it may have an influence upon European history.” “I promise,” said Holmes. “And I.” “You will excuse this mask,” continued our strange visitor. “The august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you, and I may confess at once that the title by which I have just called myself is not exactly my own.” “I was aware of it,” said Holmes dryly. “The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal and seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein, hereditary kings of Bohemia.” “I was also aware of that,” murmured Holmes, settling himself down in his armchair and closing his eyes. 56

Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid, lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him as the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic client. “If your Majesty would condescend to state your case,” he remarked, “I should be better able to advise you.” The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. “You are right,” he cried; “I am the King. Why should I attempt to conceal it?” “Why, indeed?” murmured Holmes. “Your Majesty had not spoken before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of CasselFelstein, and hereditary King of Bohemia.” “But you can understand,” said our strange visitor, sitting down once more and passing his hand over his high white forehead, “you can understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to an agent without putting myself in his power. I have come incognito from Prague for the purpose of consulting you.” “Then, pray consult,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more. “The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the wellknown adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you.” 57

“Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor,” murmured Holmes without opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system of docketing all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was difficult to name a subject or a person on which he could not at once furnish information. In this case I found her biography sandwiched in between that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff-commander who had written a monograph upon the deep-sea fishes. “Let me see!” said Holmes. “Hum! Born in New Jersey in the year 1858. Contralto—hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw—yes! Retired from operatic stage—ha! Living in London—quite so! Your Majesty, as I understand, became entangled with this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, and is now desirous of getting those letters back.” “Precisely so. But how—” “Was there a secret marriage?” “None.” “No legal papers or certificates?” “None.” “Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young person should produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to prove their authenticity?” “There is the writing.” “Pooh, pooh! Forgery.” “My private note-paper.” “Stolen.” “My own seal.” “Imitated.” 58

“My photograph.” “Bought.” “We were both in the photograph.” “Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed committed an indiscretion.” “I was mad—insane.” “You have compromised yourself seriously.” “I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am but thirty now.” “It must be recovered.” “We have tried and failed.” “Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought.” “She will not sell.” “Stolen, then.” “Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked her house. Once we diverted her luggage when she travelled. Twice she has been waylaid. There has been no result.” “No sign of it?” “Absolutely none.” Holmes laughed. “It is quite a pretty little problem,” said he. “But a very serious one to me,” returned the King reproachfully. “Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the photograph?” “To ruin me.” “But how?” “I am about to be married.” “So I have heard.” 59

“To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of the King of Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles of her family. She is herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a doubt as to my conduct would bring the matter to an end.” “And Irene Adler?” “Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I know that she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a soul of steel. She has the face of the most beautiful of women, and the mind of the most resolute of men. Rather than I should marry another woman, there are no lengths to which she would not go—none.” “You are sure that she has not sent it yet?” “I am sure.” “And why?” “Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next Monday.” “Oh, then we have three days yet,” said Holmes with a yawn. “That is very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance to look into just at present. Your Majesty will, of course, stay in London for the present?” “Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under the name of the Count Von Kramm.” “Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress.” “Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety.”

“Then, as to money?” “You have carte blanche.” “Absolutely?” “I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom to have that photograph.” “And for present expenses?” The King took a heavy chamois leather bag from under his cloak and laid it on the table. “There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in notes,” he said. Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his note-book and handed it to him. “And Mademoiselle’s address?” he asked. “Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John’s Wood.” Holmes took a note of it. “One other question,” said he. “Was the photograph a cabinet?” “It was.” “Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust that we shall soon have some good news for you. And good-night, Watson,” he added, as the wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street. “If you will be good enough to call to-morrow afternoon at three o’clock I should like to chat this little matter over with you.”

SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA - PART 1