The Greek Interpreter
During my long and intimate acquaintance with Mr. Sherlock Holmes I had never heard him refer to his relations, and hardly ever to his own early life. This reticence upon his part had increased the somewhat inhuman effect which he produced upon me, until sometimes I found myself regarding him as an isolated phenomenon, a brain without a heart, as deficient in human sympathy as he was pre-eminent in intelligence. His aversion to women and his disinclination to form new friendships were both typical of his unemotional character, but not more so than his complete suppression of every reference to his own people. I had come to believe that he was an orphan with no relatives living, but one day, to my very great surprise, he began to talk to me about his brother.
One of the most striking realisations which has occurred as I have been reading the lovely Wordworth edition of The Best of Sherlock Holmes( I love all the pictures!) is that many of the tales seem to end discordantly despite their proffered resolution. In this Conan Doyle, or should we say Dr Watson, seem rather abrupt and not unlike several contemprary writers who bring their narratives to a stop rather than an end. This story is a powerful illustration of this idea and this tale actually leaves the reader feeling that the instability of the world described seems barely healed by the intervention of Holmes. The separateness of Holmes and his lack of ‘tribe’ in terms of affiliation render him truly extraordinary, yet for all his pwoers,the world continues along its chaotic, self-interested way. I suppose what I mean is that this tale( and others) leaves some sediment of dissatisfaction lingering in the mind of the reader and perhaps this is part of the power of Holmes- that he is not omnipotent andthat he is in fact a curiosity who can be marginalised.