Seance for a Vampire

One

It was the last day of June 1880 when I left Harvard with my head filled with the anticipation of a thrilling journey into the plains, hills, and valleys of Iowa and Minnesota in the company of my brother, Elliott. A vacation was exactly what I needed, having just completed arduous scholarly pursuits at college. I relished the thought of spending time in the great out-of-doors, especially because I was planning further scholarship in the study of law at Columbia. I was also, at this time, on the verge of marriage, a prospect which delighted me, although my photograph taken in my senior year at Harvard by J. Notman of boston indicates that I was a very serious-minded young man – jaw firmly and determinedly set, the eyes unflinching, the straight nose, all bespeaking a youth of purpose. Yet the sideburns, coming very near to being muttonchop whiskers, indicate the real Roosevelt behind that sombre visage. Not rakish, precisely, but adventuresome, beyond question.

I had thoroughly enjoyed Harvard, which I had entered in the fall of 1876, and I was confident that it did me good. I had earned a Phi beta Kappa key. I had spent a good deal of my time in studying scientific matters because when I entered college I was devoted to out-of-doors natural history. My ambition at the time was to be a scientific man of the Audubon, or Wilson, or baird, or Coues type. Much of this interest had been tolerated in me by my father, who had told me I would have to make my own way in the world and if that meant a scientific career, I could do so. before he died, he impressed upon me the need to be serious about my intentions. He warned that the comfortable financial situation in which he left me should not be an excuse for me to approach scientific matters as a dilettante. He also told me that if I was not going to earn money, I should even things up by not spending it. Unfortunately, Harvard disappointed me in my aims. The outdoor naturalist and observer of nature was ignored in the curriculum and biology was treated as purely a science of the laboratory and the microscope. While I was quite disappointed, I was also resolved to pursue my interests on my own, if necessary. As a result, I spent a good deal of time teaching myself by whatever means I could find. It proved difficult and I began to resign myself to giving up science as a career.

While my own scientific explorations were to leave me disappointed in terms of my own career, they were to bring me into contact with a young man residing in London, England, to whom science was also a passion and for whom the structured formalities of university science had also proved a disappointment. How I came to know this remarkable fellow is important because of subsequent events shared by the two of us, so I will devote some time here to relating how it came to pass that there had developed by the middle of the year 1880 a friendship, albeit by correspondence, between myself, Theodore Roosevelt, and Mr Sherlock Holmes.

That I should undertake a friendship through the post was not unusual for me. The writing of letters had been one of the most important contacts with the outside world in my boyhood. I had the misfortune to be a weak and sickly child. I suffered terribly from asthma and often had to be taken away on trips to find a place where I could breathe. One of my memories is of my father walking up and down the room with me in his arms at night when I was a very small person, and of sitting up in bed gasping, with my father and mother trying to help me. I went very little to school, and never to public schools because of my illnesses. I studied under tutors in the grand old house wherein I had been born on October 27, 1858, at 28 East Twentieth Street in Manhattan. It was during my childhood in that house that I developed both my interest in natural history and my penchant for keeping diaries and writing letters. I did not consider it unusual to write to strangers, such as the authors of books I had read, or to interesting personalities I encountered in newspapers or magazines.

As a habitual writer of unsolicited letters to persons I found fascinating, I quite naturally decided to write a letter to the author of a very interesting monograph which I came across in my independent readings in the library at Harvard. The work was titled: Upon the Distinction between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccos: An Enumeration of 140 Forms of Cigar, Cigarette and Pipe Tobacco, with Coloured Plates Illustrating the Difference in the Ash. Its author was listed as Mr Sherlock Holmes. The address of the publisher was in London, England, and it was to that address that I sent a brief note expressing my admiration for the author’s science. The response from Mr Holmes was astounding in that its author presumed on the basis of my very brief note to provide an amazingly accurate biographical sketch of myself.

“My studies of science,” wrote Mr Holmes, “have gone into areas that have never been fully realised, especially in the realm of deducing facts by observation. For example, I know from your letter that you have had considerable trouble with your eyes in the past, that you are an outdoorsman, your father has some wealth, that he has been very indulgent of your rebelliousness in terms of choosing a life’s work, and that at the time you wrote to me you were seated with the late afternoon sun to your back and that you were wearing a blue jacket and were penning your letter at the university library.” Anticipating my amazement, Holmes went on to explain these startling statements. “Your eye trouble is evident in the very careful penmanship which is produced by someone who has learned to write by bending very close to the paper – a habit developed at a time of troubled vision which has, I assume, been corrected, though the habit of bending over so far persists along with the careful writing. The business of being an outdoorsman I deduce from both your stated interest in natural science and the fact that your penmanship is hurried, indicating restlessness at being cooped up in a room. That your family has some wealth is obvious enough, inasmuch as you are a student at Harvard, which I know to be an institution of some distinction and some cost to its students. because you are a native New Yorker, you would have chosen a school closer to home if expenses had been a problem. I surmise that your father’s wealth comes from business interests which you do not share, given your stated interest in natural science; ergo, your father must be a very tolerant man to permit you to pursue science when he would probably prefer you to follow him in his business. That you chose not to indicates rebelliousness. As for your blue suit, a strand of fiber was adhered to the writing paper. On the location of the sun to your back and that it was a late afternoon sun, I make these deductions on the basis of a slight blotting of the paper by your hand, unnoticed because of a waning light as you wrote. That you did your penmanship in the library I deduce from the fact that the nib of your pen was quite worn–the type found in library ink stands – and that you wrote regarding my monograph on tobaccos which you had read at the library in question. All quite elementary, you see.”

It may seem superfluous to state that I could not resist continuing to correspond with a young man of such unusual and amazing talents. In my next letter to him I went on at some length in praise of his abilities, to which he responded, “The science of deduction and analysis is one which can only be acquired by long and patient study, yet, from a drop of water a logician could infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard of one or the other. All of life is a great chain, the nature of which is known whenever we are shown a single link of it. by a man’s fingernails, by his coat-sleeve, by his boots, by his trouser-knees, by the callosities of his forefinger and thumb, by his expression, by his shirt-cuffs – by each of these things a man’s calling is plainly revealed. That all united should fail to enlighten the competent inquirer in any case is almost inconceivable. To illustrate some of this, I am taking the liberty of sending you further writings on the study of footprints and the dating of documents. If you are interested, I have other writings which I would be happy to send to you. In your latest letter you seem to have implied that my deductions in your case were little more than a clever trick, but I assure you, Mr Roosevelt, that I am in earnest. In fact, I am beginning to earn my living with these skills as a consulting detective. I believe I am the only one in the world.”

Thus began a regular exchange of letters between myself at Harvard and Mr Holmes, who was residing in lodgings on Montague Street in London. The letters revealed a remarkable mind and a great talent for the career which he had chosen to pursue. They also revealed a man of surprises, the greatest of which was his announcement that he had undertaken the study of acting, theatrical makeup, and costuming because, as he put it, “I have need of these skills in my work.” He wrote of a decision to go on the stage for a time as a member of a troupe of Shakespearean players under Mr Michael Sasanoff. “I have quite a flair for this acting business,” he wrote. Subsequently, he added that the Sasanoff troupe would be touring America and that he would be appearing in New York beginning in January 1880. “I trust you will come to see me,” he said. Still later, in a note from a hotel in Union Square, Manhattan, he wrote, “Your latest letter indicates you will pass through New York on your way West after your graduation. I hope you will come to see my Malvolio in Twelfth Night. I am arranging for a pair of tickets for you for the evening performance, Friday, July 2. by the way, my stage name is William Escott, a private joke which I will explain when, at last, we meet. Holmes.”

An evening at the theatre was something that I infrequently appreciated, but I looked forward to the production of Twelfth Night with the anticipation of seeing Mr Holmes as a performer prior to meeting him, at last, in person. My eagerness was increased when I decided to make a test of Mr Holmes’s abilities as a detective by the device of inviting a young acquaintance of mine to attend the theatre with me.

I chose as my companion Mr Wilson Hargreave, himself a detective with the New York Police Department.

Just as I gave Holmes no clue that my companion would be a detective, neither did I let Hargreave know the real identity or the real profession of the man we were to greet backstage.

It would be, I expected, a delightful evening of discovery for all.