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Las aventuras de Sherlock Holmes
A Scandal in Bohemia
Capítulo 1, Página 1
To
Sherlock
Holmes,
she
is
always
the
woman.
I
rarely
heard
him
call
her
by
any
other
name.
In
his
view,
she
overshadows
and
dominates
all
other
women.
It
wasn't
because
he
felt
anything
like
love
for
Irene
Adler.
Emotions,
especially
that
one,
were
distasteful
to
his
cold,
precise,
yet
wonderfully
balanced
mind.
I
believe
he
was
the
most
perfect
machine
for
reasoning
and
observing
that
the
world
has
ever
seen,
but
as
a
lover,
he
would
have
been
in
the
wrong
role.
He
only
talked
of
softer
emotions
with
mockery
and
disdain.
They
were
excellent
for
an
observer—great
for
uncovering
people's
motives
and
actions.
But
for
a
trained
reasoner
to
let
such
feelings
into
his
finely
tuned
temperament
was
to
introduce
a
distracting
factor
that
could
cast
doubt
on
all
his
mental
conclusions.
Grit
in
a
sensitive
instrument,
or
a
crack
in
one
of
his
high-power
lenses,
would
not
be
more
disturbing
than
a
strong
emotion
in
a
nature
like
his.
Yet,
there
was
only
one
woman
for
him,
and
that
woman
was
the
late
Irene
Adler,
of
uncertain
and
questionable
memory.
I
hadn't
seen
much
of
Holmes
lately.
My
marriage
had
caused
us
to
drift
apart.
My
own
happiness,
and
the
home-centered
interests
that
arise
when
a
man
first
becomes
master
of
his
own
house,
were
enough
to
occupy
all
my
attention.
Meanwhile,
Holmes,
who
hated
all
forms
of
society
with
his
Bohemian
soul,
stayed
in
our
lodgings
on
Baker
Street,
buried
in
his
old
books,
alternating
between
cocaine
and
ambition,
the
lethargy
of
the
drug,
and
the
fierce
energy
of
his
keen
nature.
He
was
still
deeply
interested
in
the
study
of
crime
and
used
his
great
skills
and
extraordinary
powers
of
observation
to
follow
clues
and
solve
mysteries
that
the
official
police
had
given
up
on.
Occasionally,
I
heard
vague
accounts
of
his
activities:
his
summons
to
Odessa
for
the
Trepoff
murder
case,
his
resolution
of
the
tragic
Atkinson
brothers'
case
in
Trincomalee,
and
finally,
the
delicate
and
successful
mission
for
the
ruling
family
of
Holland.
Beyond
these
signs
of
his
activity,
which
I
only
shared
with
all
the
readers
of
the
daily
press,
I
knew
little
about
my
former
friend
and
companion.
One
night—on
the
twentieth
of
March,
1888—I
was
returning
from
a
visit
to
a
patient
(as
I
had
returned
to
civilian
practice),
and
my
route
took
me
through
Baker
Street.
As
I
passed
the
familiar
door,
which
I
always
associated
with
my
courtship
and
the
dark
events
of
the
Study
in
Scarlet,
I
felt
a
strong
desire
to
see
Holmes
again
and
learn
how
he
was
using
his
extraordinary
talents.
His
rooms
were
brightly
lit,
and
as
I
looked
up,
I
saw
his
tall,
thin
figure
pass
twice
as
a
dark
silhouette
against
the
window
blind.
He
was
pacing
the
room
quickly
and
eagerly,
with
his
head
lowered
and
his
hands
clasped
behind
him.
To
me,
who
knew
his
every
mood
and
habit,
his
posture
and
manner
told
their
own
story.
He
was
working
again.
He
had
risen
from
his
drug-induced
dreams
and
was
hot
on
the
trail
of
some
new
problem.
I
rang
the
bell
and
was
shown
up
to
the
room
that
had
once
partly
been
mine.
His
manner
wasn't
effusive.
It
rarely
was,
but
I
think
he
was
glad
to
see
me.
With
hardly
a
word,
but
with
a
kind
look,
he
waved
me
to
an
armchair,
tossed
over
his
cigar
case,
and
pointed
to
a
spirit
case
and
a
gasogene
in
the
corner.
Then
he
stood
before
the
fire
and
looked
at
me
in
his
unique
introspective
way.
“Marriage
suits
you,”
he
remarked.
“I
think,
Watson,
that
you've
gained
seven
and
a
half
pounds
since
I
last
saw
you.”
“Seven!”
I
replied.
“Indeed,
I
thought
it
might
be
a
bit
more.
Just
a
little
more,
I
fancy,
Watson.
And
you're
practicing
again,
I
notice.
You
didn't
tell
me
you
planned
to
return
to
work.”
“How
do
you
know?”
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Las aventuras de Sherlock Holmes — B2 Inglés | Cuentana