Essays on a Time and Place a Companion to the Exhibit
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Essays on a Time and Place A Companion to the Exhibit Upper Cascade of the Reichenbach William Henry Bartlett Introduction In keeping with the theme of this year’s triennial Holmes conference—Sherlock Holmes Through Time and Place—this exhibit focuses on a small point in time, a precise place, and a pair of remarkable scholar- collectors. The time is the 1950s; the place is the Reichenbach Falls and the nearby Swiss village of Me- iringen; the scholar-collectors are Dr. Philip S. Hench and his wife, Mary Kahler Hench. Nobel laureate and Mayo Clinic physician Dr. Philip S. Hench and his wife, Mary Kahler Hench, devel- oped a significant collection of Sherlockiana. Together, they explored the life, times, and places of Sher- lock Holmes, including the area near Meiringen and the Reichenbach—site of the epic struggle between Holmes and his nemesis, Professor Moriarty. Here you will see some of the material gathered by Dr. and Mrs. Hench as they researched the locales associated with Holmes and the story of "The Final Problem." Together, and with the help of Holmesians in London and Minneapolis, they helped create what is today a travel destination for Holmes enthusiasts. Two essays are offered to attendees of this year’s conference as a companion piece to the exhibit. The first, by Dr. Philip S. Hench, is from Exploring Sherlock Holmes, a volume published by The Norwegian Explorers at the Sumac Press in 1957. The second, by Julie McKuras, originally appeared in The Sherlock Holmes Journal, Summer 2000. Our thanks to The Norwegian Explorers and The Sherlock Holmes Soci- ety of London for permission to reprint these two essays. Taken together, the pieces by Hench and McKuras help to put the exhibit into a larger context. They ex- plain the good doctor’s fascination with Meiringen and the Reichenbach Falls; they document a collabora- tive effort between Minneapolis and London in conceiving and erecting a lasting monument; and they demonstrate the continuing affinity and affection found in the membership of each society. It is a rich his- tory, full of warm and enduring friendships. Long may these bonds remain, strengthened by the gathering of friends. Timothy J. Johnson E. W. McDiarmid Curator of the Sherlock Holmes Collections Curator of Special Collections and Rare Books University of Minnesota 1 OF VIOLENCE AT MEIRINGEN by Philip S. Hench AFTER THE INTERNATIONAL Congress on Rheumatic Diseases which was held in 1953 at Geneva, Switzerland, Mrs. Hench and I decided suddenly to rest a while at Wengen, which we had visited some twenty-seven years previously. High on a mountainside, this lovely little resort faces what is, surely, some of the world’s most majestic scenery — the lovely Lauterbrunnen Valley and the lofty peaks of the Eiger, Monch, and Jungfrau. Feeling again the lure of peaks and pinnacles, we took that remarkable little rail- road which corkscrews upward inside the mountains to reach its terminus, “the highest railroad station in all Europe.” Adjoining it there is a charming little hotel which is also (except for its one-windowed-face) within the mountain. The visitor to the Jungfrau-Joch has spread before him an unforgettable, breath-taking vista of Alpine grandeurs. But, although I thrilled to it as before, for me there was, near by, an even greater attraction, a 330-foot waterfall less than twenty miles straightaway from the Jungfrau. Placed only 2,755 feet above sea level and dwarfed by the mountain range behind it, nevertheless this waterfall also has beauty and grandeur. But not therefrom does it derive its special dignity. Its “place” in the world is unique because it was here, at the Reichenbach Falls near Meiringen, that Sherlock Holmes, one of “the best and wisest men . ever known,” risked (and nearly lost) his life so as to rid the world of that veritable “Napoleon of Crime,” Professor James Moriarty. LET NO ONE FORGET Of Meiringen — calm and kind is its present (1957), and may its life be ever serene. But let no placid future, however long, rob this village or the world of its memories of “Meiringen 1891.” That was the year of tragic destiny: twice during that fateful year a violence occurred at Meiringen which made the heart stop. For their new year of 1891 the 2,500 inhabitants of Meiringen expected nothing but the usual order of things: its “normal” seasons: some kind, some hard; planting and harvest, and the small mathe- matics of womb and tomb. And so it was, quiet and normal, until May. When, late on Sunday, May 3, Peter Steiler the elder, landlord of the Englischer Hof, welcomed the two genteel hikers, he sensed no prelude to violence. What they required of him were “simples”: solid meals, and a clean room with good beds for a sound sleep. Easy guests: the one was friendly for an Eng- lishman; the other was more restrained, almost silent except for his few orders and for those two brief re- marks. What were they? Oh, yes. “This is not, I suppose, the only stairway,” and later at the conclusion of dinner: “Danke, Herr Steiler, a very good meal, the only British-type meal you’ve served today, I fancy.” (Come to think of it, had they been questions or mere pleasantries?) AT THE FALLS, SOMETHING HORRIBLE The next day Herr Steiler was a bit surprised to find that his guests were in no hurry to be off, sur- prised because most Englishmen on vacation, come Mondays, were up and away early. Instead, the thin- ner one had taken quite a morning’s walk, one which had carried him not only along the streets near by, but on a full circuit of Meiringen. Near midday, however, they told Herr Steiler they would be leaving that afternoon, whereupon they asked of the different roads: of the one which led eastward toward the Susten, and of the other which branched off southeast to the Grimsel Pass and Furka. But he suggested an alternative, the mountain road which led to Rosenlaui, a little hamlet at the foot of the Wettern Alps. “And on the way you must take a small detour which begins halfway up the lower hills and brings 2 you to the Falls of Reichenbach. On no account should you permit yourselves to pass them up, because those falls, meine Herren, are sehr gröss und schön, much finer than our near-by Alpbach Falls. Mehr . uh . dramatisch. Ja, und für mich etwas schrecklich.” Etwas schrecklich . somewhat horrible: an inadvertent, prophetic understatement of the later events of that day! Of them, nothing more need be said here, not to those of us upon whose hearts the brief, yet exact, chronicle of Watson placed so grievous a burden for ten long years. If there was a violence at Me- iringen that day, there was also justice, the which, when it finally became known, led to grim satisfaction, and to quiet and discreet rejoicing which continues to this day. FIRE SHATTERS THE PEACE OF THE HASLITHAL During those early months of 1891 the valley land was sometimes waterlogged, hydropic. But soon the Haslithal was green and growing. Later there were summer days when the heated soil, like the lips of its owners, would have welcomed a cooling compress of snow. That fall the valley knew again the radi- ance of a Swiss autumn. But, all too soon, the fiery foliage disappeared, and with it most of the tourists. In their place sudden gusts of chilling wind visited the valley on an irregular schedule, like grim messengers sent ahead to make reservations for winter’s imperious visitation. At such times the wooden, roof- thatched homes of Meiringen could no longer capture enough heat from the day, and so, during the night warming house-fires burned, carefully tended and banked. Now let me specify a particular time late in 1891 — to be exact, Sunday, October 25. The night had been calm, and as the Sabbath’s dawn approached, there was, at first, no unseemly wind to disperse prematurely the thin ribbons of smoke which rose from the occupied homes and inns. But about sunrise a breeze reached Meiringen, coming through and above the Aareschlucht, that fantastic erosion made by the Aare River. Soon it was no longer a breeze, but an east wind rising. Then quickly, disaster struck. Some- where in the eastern part of town a conscientious housewife had arisen early to cook for her family those extras which help to make Sundays special. Potatoes, dropped into a deep layer of melted fats, were bumping gently over a fire. Boiling over suddenly, the fat was really “in the fire.” In a flash the whole house was ablaze: gone forever was its thin, orderly column of chimney smoke. The house became a mass of fire, and the fire became a fury, a windblown demon, a Loge who danced in frenzy to spread and de- stroy. And when it was over, much of the village of Meiringen was in ruins, burned to the ground. “But how lucky that everyone escaped”! so it was thought until someone remembered in sudden an- guish one particular place, a lonesome little refuge for an elderly man who lived alone — and blind. Rushing there belatedly, they found the little house burned to ashes. Here, alas, the tables were turned, for now it was they who could not see him, not ’till they searched the ashes. Mercifully, only that one life was lost, but the work of a thousand “lives” was suddenly gone, for, of the town’s 250 buildings, about half were destroyed completely. POSTLUDE: ONE PHOENIX, ONE MISSING CORPSE And so, forget who may, Meiringen will never lose its memory of that tragic year, that Monday in May when a stranger disappeared within a boiling mass of spray and spume, or that Sunday in October when a neighbor disappeared amidst the swirling flames and smoke of the burning village.