The Redacted Sherlock Holmes - Volume 4 Page 8

  The father said, “My son overheard you talking about a rat and expressed curiosity in your conversation.”

  The son broke in: “I have written some sketches for a book about a family where the son is transformed into a monstrous-” and he paused, looking for the English word before he said the German, “‘Ungeziefer,’”

  “If you look in a dictionary, the word means ‘vermin,’,” said the elder man.

  “My father here called my friends ‘Ungeziefer’ or ‘vermin,’” explained the son, “and I want to portray a world where a son with a tyrannical father turns into ‘vermin’.”

  “I did not call your friends, ‘Ungeziefer’ or ‘vermin,’” said the father, perhaps not entirely convincingly. “I said they were ‘unziemend’. That means, I thought they were unsuitable for a family of our standing. And I stick by my opinion. Even you are not keen on them half the time. You are constantly moaning about that hunch-backed one and how he pushes you to make changes to your writings.”

  “When you got so loud, father, I merely wanted to illustrate to you that I can make perfectly good sense of what I hear. I heard these two English gentlemen discussing a rat. And I did hear you call my friends ‘vermin.’”

  “You don’t even know what ‘vermin’ means. And nor does anyone else, it is such a vague term. Is it an insect, or a worm, or a rat, or some other pestilent infestation?” The older man turned to us. “My son is writing something which will bring shame to our house. I think it is about our family.”

  “I did not say it was about our family. Or that it is not. The surname of the character turned into vermin is Samsa, not Kafka. Samsa means ‘little Samuel’ whereas Kafka means ‘jackdaw’ in Czech, so, in spite of the similarity of sound, there is a difference in meaning. His first name is Gregor and there is no one in our family with that name. And the main character is a travelling salesman just as you once were, father. So, you are not necessarily the father figure in my story, although, given what Herr Dr Freud said to us at our consultation yesterday, who knows who is the son, who is the father, and who is the verminous beast?”

  The younger Kafka broke off into another shrill laugh which again taxed my nerves. It was a while before he continued.

  “And, you are right. Physically, my creature bears a resemblance to my friend and tamperer with my manuscripts, Max Brod. And you will note, father, that Brod is not in our family at all.” He paused and looked at us. “My friend Brod is also a writer and has a twisted spine.”

  The pair broke off into another lengthy altercation in German, which I now listened to more closely, although it concluded with the elder Kafka repeating the phrase “meschuggener Ritoch” to his son over and over again in a crescendo. I think the elder Herr Kafka saw the baffled look on my face and he turned to me. “Meschuggener is a Yiddish word of Hebrew origin,” he explained. “It means ‘mad.’ We German speakers are a minority in Prague and, as Jews, my son and I belong to a minority among German speakers. We often resort to a different tongue.”

  “And Ritoch?” I asked.

  “I don’t think you need to understand the word’s meaning to understand the word’s meaning,” broke in the younger Kafka. He looked out of the window of the train even though it was dark outside before turning again to his father. “And we are much better off than our ancestors ever were,” he added dourly, before turning again to look at the black window. “This is my country and I would defend it if it came to it.”

  “Who knows what may happen in the future?” said the elder Kafka. “As a minority inside a minority we are always vulnerable. Why don’t you write about that?”

  “Maybe I will. Or maybe I already have.”

  “Sir,” said Holmes to the father, “surely your son can write about whatever he likes.”

  “Not if it brings shame on the family and his writings are guaranteed to do that.”

  “But it is clear that I am not writing about the family,” interjected the young Kafka. “Or not necessarily,” he added, slightly evasively.

  “Then what are you writing about?” asked his father.

  “My dear sirs,” interrupted Holmes. “We are talking about words on a page. Surely it must be clear what you are writing about. My friend here says I know nothing about literature, but I know enough that words on a page will have a clear meaning even if he romanticises some of the events rather than expressing them in a way that has appeal to the logical mind. I take the view myself that everything should be presented as it is.”

  The young Kafka fixed us with a far-away gaze. “In my view, beauty is merely the beginning of the terrible, which we can bear only because it calmly disdains from destroying us.” He smiled when he saw our startled look at his departure from everyday language. “Not my words, but such sayings are common in my writing circle in Prague.” He went on. “They explain what I do with the everyday. It is a natural thing for a reader to seek his own reality in my works, no matter what my text says. So,” he turned to his father, “our Rabbi, Judah ben Ilai, said all the prophets had a vision of God as though seen through nine mirrors and that is how I write. My reader can find his own reality through however many mirrors he chooses to use.”

  The quote from a rabbinical text seemed to calm the elder Kafka and eventually the two men went to the buffet car.

  I waited for the commencement of Holmes’s narrative but he sat back in his seat, puffing thoughtfully at his pipe. “Well, with a story from the younger Herr Kafka about the verminous Samsa, I fear, Watson, you will not, after all, be able to make more than a passing mention of the Giant Rat of Sumatra in your works. I suspect the same applies to the story of Isadora Persano and his madness arising from a worm unknown to man. No matter how you might tell your version of the stories, I fear people might conclude you are drawing on Herr Kafka’s imagination once it is published.”

  I think Holmes saw my downcast face at being denied both the story of the giant rat and the worm unknown to man. He patted me kindly on the shoulder and said, “In spite of the twisted spine of the younger Herr Kafka’s friend, I do not see why you should not publish the story of the Sussex Vampire for all that you may need to withhold it for a few years. It is only you and I who know the possible link between a man with a hunchback and a monster vermin.”

  He sat back in his seat and puffed reflectively on his pipe before continuing, “But tonight’s discussion with the Kafkas has given me more insights into how we all see reality. Mr Kafka Senior has seen a story which he feels is about him and it may be or it may not. Others may see it differently and Mr Kafka Junior himself seems to have little idea what it is about other than what the words say on the page. Our conversation, rather than eliminating the impossible to leave the however improbable truth, seems to have done nothing more than to raise new possibilities.”

  There was a long pause and I knew better than to interrupt Holmes’s train of thought. At length, he continued, “Even the artist may not know what is in his work. Indeed, and, as you saw with our friend Mr Elgar, the artist can be persuaded to see things in his work that may or may not be there. Even in literature, the most referential art-form of all, the process is still through a glass darkly.”

  3. An Elucidation

  In February 1934, Elgar passed away. Since the première of his Enigma Variations, he had been showered with honours and was a baronet, held the Order of Merit and was a member of the Royal Victorian Order. Nevertheless, the composer’s faith meant that it was to a simple low mass in his memory at Worcester’s Anglican Cathedral to which Holmes and I were invited. My relations with Holmes in the 1930s were distant but cordial - my readers will know of several investigations we had already been involved with at this time.

  In the train back from Worcester to London, from where Holmes was to continue his journey to his cottage on the Downs, I taxed him with what the melody was that was the counter-melody to the theme
which Elgar had marked as “Enigma”.

  “It can’t hurt now that Elgar has gone to his grave,” I urged. “After all,” I added, “you finally allowed me to publish the case of the Sussex Vampire ten years ago, even though our encounter with the Kafkas in 1910 caused you to ask me to delay it.”

  As my reader will be aware, the world of music obtrudes into several of the narratives of which I have passed notes to Pearson.

  “I will speak a little,” said my friend, looking at me out of the familiar clear eyes and puffing at a cigar, “as long as you agree that your musical stories, which are even more inconsequential than the rest of your works, should not appear until well after my death. I wish to be known as the supreme consulting detective rather than someone who dabbles in music and psychology.”

  At my nod of assent, my friend continued.

  “Although I play the violin at a level which would have enabled me to make a career out of my skills, I had not thought - before Elgar sought our help - how a composer might exploit his work effectively. You will recall that after Elgar played us his theme, I pointed out the link to his name and the theme’s derivation from another theme.”

  I nodded again and Holmes continued.

  “After Elgar had gone, I then played through a number of pieces by François Couperin - only one of which had remained popular after its creator’s life time. My playing confirmed to me that that piece was of no greater merit than others by Couperin and that it was the undecrypted name, Les Barricades Mystérieuses, attached to it that had kept it in the repertoire while the others were long forgotten. I concluded that the way to make Elgar’s work appeal to non-specialists was to attach an open-ended story to it.”

  “But why did you not tell Elgar that?”

  “As you saw, Elgar adored whimsy of all sorts and the Enigma Variations form a piece of music full of all sorts of puzzles. But he revealed item by item all the bits of whimsy that he had put into it.”

  “Perhaps you could explain.”

  “He made the opening notes of the theme part of his calling card, he revealed the identities of all the people who had inspired the variations. He disclosed the attributes he was mimicking - sometimes, in my view, quite cruelly, as the attributes were not always flattering to the person portrayed. In one case, he even described in detail what the music is about - to be precise, the initials of one George Sinclair are attached to the tenth variation, which is extremely rumbustious. Elgar disclosed that he had been inspired not by the owner, but by the owner’s dog, which fell into the River Wye and then emerged from the torrent with a loud bark. In Elgar’s words, ‘Sinclair said to me, “Set that to music!” So, I did. Here it is.’”

  “Pray continue.”

  “It is rather like the vermin story which Herr Kafka told us about on the journey to Prague and which has just been translated into English. That work too has a complex title which was missed by the translator, who called the work Metamorphosis in English. In the German, young Herr Kafka used a word which means ‘transformation’ for the change of Samsa into the word that Kafka uses - an ‘Ungeziefer’ or verminous beast. The rest of Samsa’s family also goes through a transformation as they deal with their changed circumstances. And the content is even stranger because, although the meaning of the words of the text is clear, each reader must seek his own meaning to the plot as the transformation of man to a verminous beast is outside our human experience.”

  “Herr Kafka Junior seemed very vague on what any of his work meant when he was on the train with us.”

  “And he went to his grave ten years ago very vague as to what his works mean although, as we saw, his father seemed to find a meaning clearly enough. But quite apart from the constant questioning that his works invite the reader to engage in, their extraordinary subject matter would have ensured that they remain of interest to a wider public, even if they do not always read them.”

  “But how does this relate to how you carried out your commission to promote Elgar’s work?”

  “Kafka’s work will continue to inspire curiosity even in those who have not read it and fascination in those who do. Although its text is clear, its meaning is not and that will intrigue the generations. And, as Elgar pointed out, interest among the wider public in the sort of music he wrote is very limited and remunerative commissions hard to come by. By creating a secret about his work, I was able to ensure that his Enigma Variations achieved a wider following than it would otherwise have done.”

  “And what has that to do with your withholding the name of the second melody from Elgar?”

  “At some point, Elgar would have run out of secrets about his work to disclose. This would have meant that his work would have had to make its way in the world solely on its musical merits. These merits are considerable, but anything that increases interest in a work is to be encouraged. A puzzle in the work which Elgar talked about but could not provide an explanation for - although he would not admit to this incapacity - is a good one.”

  “You are a master of the art of promotion!” I exclaimed. “So was there in fact a theme from which Elgar’s theme was derived?”

  “You ask, I think, more than I am prepared to be definitive about. Some have already suggested ‘Auld Lang Syne’ as the theme, while others propose ‘Rule Britannia’. Someday someone will pick up the Mozart reference that Elgar himself inserted, although no one has yet. My own view on first hearing the melody of the theme with its rather transparent reference to Elgar’s name was that he was drawing on a tune which proceeded with successions of pairs of notes - like the syllables of his names. You have that succession at the beginning of the theme on which I think the variations are based.”

  I waited for Holmes to continue but he sat silent.

  “And the tune is?” I asked at length.

  “Music is in the ear of the listener and others will have a different view, just as you and I had a different picture arising from the little piece by Couperin. But I called it a dark secret and that was because it called to my mind another well-known piece that opens with successions of paired notes, like Elgar’s original theme, and it has a dark subject mixed with light. On the third of the sets of paired notes in the tune I am thinking of, there is a small climax as though shouting out the name Edward Elgar. There may be nothing to it, but the tune I had in mind is ‘All Through the Night.’”

  A Note by Orlando Pearson

  (written in 1946, re-edited prior to final publication)

  I received Dr Watson’s notes on this case in June 1934.

  I have received notes of numerous cases from Dr Watson which he does not wish to have published in his lifetime. I have edited them and will arrange for them to be passed back to Watson’s son, Edward, whose intention is to arrange for them to be deposited at the public record office in Kew.

  Before doing so, I felt it was incumbent on me to set out what is known about the Enigma Variations and to set out arguments on whether the tune behind the enigma is in fact “All Through the Night”.

  The first thing to state is that the main details laid out above conform to what is known about Elgar:

  He placed the word “Enigma” over the first six bars of the Enigma Variations;

  He heard the Gospel reading from “Paul’s Letter to the Corinthians” using the word “aenigmate” or “through a glass darkly” just as he was putting the finishing touches to his score;

  He never disclosed what the word “Enigma” referred to, though he did say, quoting Holmes, that it was a dark secret which must remain unguessed and that it was so obvious it was surprising no one had realised what it was.

  Sworn to secrecy by Dr Watson and so unable to consult with any musician, I took it upon myself to see how plausible “All Through the Night” (or “Ar had y nos” in the Welsh original) is as the “Enigma” theme and would advise the following:

  The
tune first appeared in print in 1794, so before Elgar wrote his Variations. I knew the tune instantly when I read Dr Watson’s text, so I believe it passes the twin tests of being written before Elgar wrote his piece and of being sufficiently well known;

  It does open with successions of paired notes which fit the rhythm of the syllables in Edward Elgar’s name. The only other well-known tunes that occur to me that do the same thing are “Men of Harlech” and “The Song of the Volga Boatmen.” It is thus rhythmically quite unusual;

  The three most famous Variation pieces before Elgar’s works all have associations with sleep. Bach’s Goldberg Variations were written to help the Russian ambassador to the Saxon Court to sleep, the Diabelli Variations include a direct quote from “Notte e giorno faticar” (Labouring night and day) from Don Giovanni, while the tune on which Brahms based his St. Antony Variations is normally described as coming from a serenade (evening piece) attributed to Haydn. It is only fair to point out that the “Haydn” piece was actually called a Feldpartita - a suite to be played outside.

  “All Through the Night” is a lullaby and so fits well with the night/sleep thread of the above three pieces.

  The literal translation of the original Welsh text (see below) of “All Through the Night” recalls Paul’s “Aenigmate” letter:

  All the stars’ twinkles say / All through the night, / This is the way to the realm of glory, / All through the night. / Darkness is another light / That exposes true beauty / The Heavenly family in peace / All through the night.

  “Till now I have been seeing though a glass darkly, but now we see each other face to face”.

  Finally, I would suggest people listen first to “All Through the Night” in the first link below and then listen to the phrases following 29:40 of the second link. I believe the section from 29:40 is a variant of the old Welsh song.

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G2_lq2A3Yr4