EN + ES
Escuchar
294
Las aventuras de Sherlock Holmes
The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
Capítulo 12, Página 1
“To
the
man
who
loves
art
for
its
own
sake,”
remarked
Sherlock
Holmes,
tossing
aside
the
advertisement
sheet
of
The
Daily
Telegraph,
“it
is
frequently
in
its
least
important
and
lowliest
manifestations
that
the
keenest
pleasure
is
to
be
derived.
It
is
pleasant
to
me
to
observe,
Watson,
that
you
have
so
far
grasped
this
truth
that
in
these
little
records
of
our
cases
which
you
have
been
good
enough
to
draw
up,
and,
I
am
bound
to
say,
occasionally
to
embellish,
you
have
given
prominence
not
so
much
to
the
many
causes
célèbres
and
sensational
trials
in
which
I
have
figured
but
rather
to
those
incidents
which
may
have
been
trivial
in
themselves,
but
which
have
given
room
for
those
faculties
of
deduction
and
of
logical
synthesis
which
I
have
made
my
special
province.”
“And
yet,”
said
I,
smiling,
“I
cannot
quite
hold
myself
absolved
from
the
charge
of
sensationalism
which
has
been
urged
against
my
records.”
“You
have
erred,
perhaps,”
he
observed,
taking
up
a
glowing
cinder
with
the
tongs
and
lighting
with
it
the
long
cherry-wood
pipe
which
was
wont
to
replace
his
clay
when
he
was
in
a
disputatious
rather
than
a
meditative
mood—“you
have
erred
perhaps
in
attempting
to
put
colour
and
life
into
each
of
your
statements
instead
of
confining
yourself
to
the
task
of
placing
upon
record
that
severe
reasoning
from
cause
to
effect
which
is
really
the
only
notable
feature
about
the
thing.”
“It
seems
to
me
that
I
have
done
you
full
justice
in
the
matter,”
I
remarked
with
some
coldness,
for
I
was
repelled
by
the
egotism
which
I
had
more
than
once
observed
to
be
a
strong
factor
in
my
friend’s
singular
character.
“No,
it
is
not
selfishness
or
conceit,”
said
he,
answering,
as
was
his
wont,
my
thoughts
rather
than
my
words.
“If
I
claim
full
justice
for
my
art,
it
is
because
it
is
an
impersonal
thing—a
thing
beyond
myself.
Crime
is
common.
Logic
is
rare.
Therefore
it
is
upon
the
logic
rather
than
upon
the
crime
that
you
should
dwell.
You
have
degraded
what
should
have
been
a
course
of
lectures
into
a
series
of
tales.”
It
was
a
cold
morning
of
the
early
spring,
and
we
sat
after
breakfast
on
either
side
of
a
cheery
fire
in
the
old
room
at
Baker
Street.
A
thick
fog
rolled
down
between
the
lines
of
dun-coloured
houses,
and
the
opposing
windows
loomed
like
dark,
shapeless
blurs
through
the
heavy
yellow
wreaths.
Our
gas
was
lit
and
shone
on
the
white
cloth
and
glimmer
of
china
and
metal,
for
the
table
had
not
been
cleared
yet.
Sherlock
Holmes
had
been
silent
all
the
morning,
dipping
continuously
into
the
advertisement
columns
of
a
succession
of
papers
until
at
last,
having
apparently
given
up
his
search,
he
had
emerged
in
no
very
sweet
temper
to
lecture
me
upon
my
literary
shortcomings.
“At
the
same
time,”
he
remarked
after
a
pause,
during
which
he
had
sat
puffing
at
his
long
pipe
and
gazing
down
into
the
fire,
“you
can
hardly
be
open
to
a
charge
of
sensationalism,
for
out
of
these
cases
which
you
have
been
so
kind
as
to
interest
yourself
in,
a
fair
proportion
do
not
treat
of
crime,
in
its
legal
sense,
at
all.
The
small
matter
in
which
I
endeavoured
to
help
the
King
of
Bohemia,
the
singular
experience
of
Miss
Mary
Sutherland,
the
problem
connected
with
the
man
with
the
twisted
lip,
and
the
incident
of
the
noble
bachelor,
were
all
matters
which
are
outside
the
pale
of
the
law.
But
in
avoiding
the
sensational,
I
fear
that
you
may
have
bordered
on
the
trivial.”
“The
end
may
have
been
so,”
I
answered,
“but
the
methods
I
hold
to
have
been
novel
and
of
interest.”
||
||
Las aventuras de Sherlock Holmes — C1 Inglés | Cuentana