Hi Diddle Dee an Actor’s Life for Me

A One-Man Play

by

Rick Scheideman

The play features the actor enacting aspects of the script, and also calling on audience members to participate in the action.

Warnie

The play is “Shadowlands.” It depicts the poignant relationship between C. S. Lewis, the internationally famous author and lecturer, with Helen Davidman, nicknamed Joy an American writer. In the scene that precedes the one below, a group of professors are enjoying a late supper in the private dinning room of Magdalen College,. Lewis is the topic of the evening, chided for the relationship he has with this outspoken American woman.

I had played the Lewis in two stage separate productions of Shadowlands that is the foundation for this one man play that I call, “Joy and Jack: The Journey of C. S. Lewis.”

Lewis: (Enters stage left and sits reading a newspaper) Did I tell you, Warnie, I’ve decided to marry Joy

Warnie is supposed to answer, “No Jack, I didn’t.” Then I would respond with, “Yes, it seemed like a good idea.” This did not happen because Warnie was not on stage.

C.S. Lewis: (Worried about Warnie’s absence continue newspaper) Yes, yes, I’ve decided to marry Joy.

I’m feel panic. Can I play the entire scene without Warnie?

C.S. Lewis: (Improvise with asides) Well now, where is that brother of mine? Good heavens! He’s always late. Probably out in the garden.

C.S. Lewis: (Calling out) “Warnie? Warnie! Warnie!!”.

C.S. Lewis: “Warrrrrrrnieeee!!!!”

Warnie enters stage right and briskly walks to his chair, sits, picks up a book, and begins to read.

Warnie: (Casually) Yes, Jack.

Later the stage manager explained that the actor playing Warnie had been trading stories about a fetching young actress. When the stage manager located him, she screamed a whisper, “You’re an idiot!” How thankful I was the he had arrived. I had no more ways to cry out, “Warnie!”)

The Up and Down Mustache

I was smitten by a one-man performance of “Sam Clemens and the Real Mark Twain,” performed by Cliff Jewell. His craft held the audience spellbound for two hours. Sometime later Cliff and I became friends. Once I asked him if I could perform the production he had adapted from several of Twain’s writings including “Life on the Mississippi,” and “Autobiography,” Graciously, he said yes. Since then I have enjoyed 25 plus years performing, “Sam Clemens and the Real Mark Twain”.

I performed “Sam Clemens and the Real Mark Twain” on a regular basis at the Pioneer Inn on Maui. The management provided a dressing room for me in an unused hotel room on the second floor that looked down upon the open air courtyard where I would perform. The set consisted of a table, desk chair, bookcase, side table, and a rocking chair. I pile of props in disarray littered every space with ashtrays, pipes, cigars, tobacco, letters, books, pens, and the like.

Twain: (Preparing makeup and talking to himself) It’s late. I’ve been wasting time, I have to be careful to get this right. (Makeup being applied). Now for the piece de resistance, the handmade mustache. (Looking in the mirror) Something’s wrong. (Puts on glasses). It’s upside down, and, what, inside out! What the hell?

Stage Manager: (Phone rings) “Five-minute call, Rick. The place full. Ready.”

Twain: “No. No, stall Joel! I’m not ready.”

Stage Manager: What’s wrong?

Twain: This frickin’ mustache is all screwed up.

Stage Manager: How long should I wait?

Twain: (Beginsto remove it) I don’t know. Look for me in the wings before you make the announcements. Make sure I’m there.

Stage Manager: Okay.

Twain: (Phone rings again) How long? The audience is restless. Hurry up. When are you coming down?

Twain: Damn it, I don’t know Joel. Just delay.

When I finish I’m in a dither. I run down stairs to the stage, and slow down as I enter catching my breath. I’m totally distracted because now one side of mustache is blowing in the wind. It will be a first act with my handkerchief often on the left side of my upper lip).

Slap the the Lion

Henry: (Staggers after a slap) “What the hell!

“The Lion in Winter” is the quintessential tale of a dysfunctional family. Henry II, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Henry II and odd ball sons, John, Geoffrey, and Richard have gathered at Christmastide. Henry has freed is wife Eleanor from her house arrest. His son’s vie for the crown, while Henry frets about who will replace him. Will it be his youngest son John the man-boy, Geoffrey the machine, or the brave but sexually conflicted Richard the Lionheart. Then there is Alais Henry’s latest in a long line of mistresses. He takes mixed pleasure in her.

When I acted the role of Henry. I knew no one in the cast. Wendy took on Eleanor with a vengence. She kept cold distance toward me. I concluded that Wendy’s dislike of me was a Method actor’s approach to character. She expressed her passive-aggressive hatred of her husband, my Henry, on and off stage. I attempted to win her over to me as a person, but to no avail. Fine, I applauded her professionalism.

There are actors who begin rehearsals as plain vanilla, but by opening night they have transformed into a mocha-chocolate chip swirl. Other actors have an engaging, if unremarkable peach flavor at the outset, and remain peachy when the curtain falls on the final performance. Wendy’s tasted unsweetened for the duration.

A word about stage ettiquite. When actors experiment with physical action that contacts ther acting partner, they are to ask permission from their partner. For example an actor might ask, “Is it okay if I kiss you before after this line?”

Near the finale of “The Lion in Winter,” Eleanor and Henry engaaged in a deadly game of sarcasm, wit, threat, reason, deceit, hate, and rage. The conflict circles around who will be king.

Eleanor: You don’t want Richard, and you don’t want John?

Henry: You’ve grasped it.

Eleanor: All right let me have it. Level me.

Henry: (Savoring each syllable) A new wife.

Eleanor’s next line was supposed to be, with utter disma “Oh.”

She did not deliver the line nor the emotion. Instead she slapped me full force that left a red palm-print on my face. It felt much more likeWendy’s slap than Eleanor’s.

HenryL (staggering) What the hell!

That line didn’t come from the script either.

Annie’s Rifle

I enjoyed the role of Chief Sitting Bull in the musical “Annie Get Your Gun.” It was fun. I would spend an hour-and-a-half on makeup, wig, a buckskin, and feathered headdress. I loved Sitting Bull. Night after night I made comic speeches, sprawled on the floor doing a snake dances, and dressed in a tuxedo to dance with Annie Oakley.

In the musical’s final scene all the character are onstage. The climax involves the second shooting contest between Annie and Frank Butler who found a spark for each other, but their competition kept them apart. In the first contest they tied. Now was second contest where Chief Sitting Bull is to give Annie a gun tampered with so she will lose the contest, but win Frank.

As the contest is about to begin, Annie goes to grab her rifle and I offer her jimmied gun that will assure the outcome.

Chief Sitting Bull: “Get a man with this gun.

Annie: (Shakes her head) No.

Chief Sitting Bull: Annie, get a man with this gun!

She is supposed smile with understanding, but her reactions the opposite.

Annie: No, Mr. Bull, not now. Not now!).

Something is dreadfully wrong. I realize with distress that Annie and Frank haven’t yet had the first contest where they tie. I’ve jumped three pages.

Sitting Bull: (Barely a whisper). Okay, Annie.

The cast knows what I’ve done. I’m mortified. I grip the rifle with white knuckles, and wait out the three pages. When the cue line comes, I offer Annie the altered rifle with over the top energy.

Sitting Bull: Annie, get this man with this gun.

Sitting Bull’s Beads

Here’s another surprise for the Chief. This scene includes Charlie, the Wild West Show manager; Sitting Bull, Buffalo Bill and Annie.

Charlie: You like her Chief?

Sitting Bull: Good girl! Good girl!

Buffalo Bill: You hear that, Annie? He likes you.

Sitting Bull: More than like. Sitting Bull want to make Annie Oakley his daughter! Give you Indian name, “Watana Cecilla.” It means, “Little Sure Shot.” (Takes necklace from around his neck.) Here are teeth of many bears.

I enact ceremonial dancing and chanting. Annie stands transfixed. I stop and face her. Slowly, and with great care, I remove the weighty beads and bear’s teeth from over my long black braided wig. I put the necklace over Annie’s head and move it down to her neck. As I had done every night, I make sure it’s secure with a tiny tug, but this time the necklace breaks in an explosion. Bear’s teeth, and red, blue, and green beads of different sizes roll in all directions over the stage.

Sitting Bull: Ah, look many beads on ground.

The audience murmurs.

Sitting Bull: Yes, many, many bear teeth. Many, many beads. We are blessed. The great bear has blessed us. Let us gather all these blessings. Let us pick up all the beads and teeth.

The the audience begins to laugh until they fill the theater.. Chief Sitting Bull scurries down on hands and knees to collect these rolling blessings. Annie stuffs handfuls in her pockets that I give her. Charlie and Buffalo Bill look on with sympathy, Actually, they gaze with suppressed giggles. Mercifully, the curtain falls, though the laughter lingers accompanied by applause.

Soggy Albert

In the theater we affirm in all circumstances that “the show must go on.” One example serves.

It was another “An Evening with Albert Einstein.” I arrived early to set up furniture, props, sound and lights.. Blue skies throughout the day assured a delightful evening in the outdoor theater. However, during the set-up heavy clouds swept down from the mountains The air grew heavy.

I asked Mark, the venues manager, “Think it will rain, Mark.” He answered with confidence, “Nah, I don’t think so. Maybe a few sprinkles, but the wind’s not up.” We look to the northwest where storms gather. “Okay, Mark, this is your place. You decide.” Mark affirms, “I think we be okay. Let’s go for it.””

Halfway through the first act a few sprinkles ride a slight wind. No worries. In ten minutes it’s a very light rain. Three folks take cover under a tree. It sort of agitated me. I think, “Come on people, you call this rain? Other people look at me with a question in their look My Einstein shrugs. Suddenly, it’s a waterfall and everybody runs for the inadequate shelter of the trees. Everyone excerpt me. Einstein keeps up the monologue.

With one part of my mind I deliver lines. With other part Igrasp at alternatives. I get an idea. Albert yells out.

Albert: Vel now, look at that rain here. More and more. Science tells us we should be dry. Come on zen and pick up your chairs and go up under zat cute little gazebo over there. Come on now. Ja, zat’s good. Oops, be careful zer, madam.. Somevone give a hand to zat lady, please.

Though the gazebo is crowded folks, are in a jolly mood. I’m drenched, but continue in the rain keeping on with an improvised patter.

Albert: Vel now, here ve all are. All comfy and dry, Vell, all of you are comfy, but me, I am a little damp behind ze ears, Ja, but you know it vill tame my crazy hair.

Then it strikes me that I can’t remember where I am in the play. I go on making up lines trying to figure out where to pick up. I grab a vague line in desperation. It’s not the right one, but it’s in the neighborhood. It jogs my memory, and I jump back to where I left off. The audience caught up just as I had.

Spaghetti Versus Twain

Hana Hou means “until we meet again,” in Hawaiian. It is the name of the only restaurant in village of Haiku. They serve a variety of fare including the local dish called a mixed plate: two scoops of white rice, macaroni salad, and an entrée that might fish, chicken or pork).

But tonight it is spaghetti and meatballs for a dinner theater performance of Mark Twain. The setting is comfortable, and I feel confident as the play moves along.

Then disaster strikes the second row of tables. The server carried in a large tray with the main dish. As he lifted up the first dish from the metal tray it toppled on three guests soaking them in tomato sauce, sausages, and slippery pasta. Several people next to them and in front them received a smaller portion.

My mind flew into alternatives: 1. Run away quickly. 2. Stand in the corner and wait until all was cleared. 3. Or, start making up comments.

TWAIN: Well now, look at that. Come on everyone take a good look at what just happened. Ain’t that something? (He yells) Hey there now, all you out there in the kitchen. Bring out some rags, and a change of clothing for our guests. Well, maybe just some towels, some moist, some dry. We’ll set this all to rights as quick as a jumping frog..

TWAIN: (Looking down at splattered guest) Well ma’am, that really ain’t too bad. No, not bad at all. That red color is kinda becoming with your yellow dress.

TWAIN: (Cleaning mostly completed) Alright now, let’s get back to my silly business. But first lets give a sincere clapping of hands. The staff was admirable in a few moments they cleaned up this disgusting mess, They even supplied us with fresh napkins, but suppose a few of you will pass on the spaghetti.

Tricks of the Trade

Crying onstage

Many sit spellbound when an actor sheds real tears on stage.. “How does she do it?” we wonder. “It is surely a sign of a master actor,” From the Greeks to the present ,a variety of techniques have been used to create performance tears.

Shakespeare provides strategies for tears. In “The Comedy of Errors,” Adriana explains that she will, “Put my finger in my eye and weep.” Young Henry V’s friend and mentor Falstaff, wants to tear up Henry as he improvises a speech. He asks for a cup of sack. He pours this fortified wine into his eyes to bring forth tears.

Here are other methods to induce crying.

Recall an experience that brought emotional pain like the day your dog died, or you failed school typing class. Then through that sense memory, the feelings you felt, tears my fall. Or, keep your eyes wide open until you feel tears. Then there’s re-creating the bodily feelings of crying. Some actors sparsely apply menthol under their eyes. The list goes on.

Of course, there are actors who can tear up at will. There are also many regular folks who can do the same. It doesn’t seem to have anything to do with talent. Excellence in acting is not spouting tears at a moments notice, the craft is for an actor the play the reality of the character honestly.

Criticism and Compliments

As an actor I don’t hear criticism unless people walk out when I’m performing, or frown and whisper pointing in my direction. Compliments are honest and well meant, but sometimes, at least from a performers perspective, off the mark.

After one show an older couple came up to me and said, “We enjoyed you performance so much. You were fantastic. I thanked her. Her husband went on, “It was great. You know we the “Shadowlands” movie with Anthony Hopkins. I just have to say that you were better than Anthony Hopkins. I responded with, “That’s very kind of you to say. Inside I say, “Anthony Hopkins is a renowned actor, winner of an Academy Award, and numerous other honors. Get real. I stood in front of 30 of you in this tiny theater.”

After another show, I returned to the stage to talk a group of people. They like to take photos alongside a friend or a spouse. Fine by me.

An enthused man approached me with praise. I thanked him. He went on, “You know what? I want you to come to Portland and do what you did here tonight. I have close connections with the executive director of the performance center there, and I know he put together a huge audience for you. You were just outstanding. More people need to see you.

I thank him and said it would be great to perform in Portland. He said, “No, no it will be great for us. Your great. I’ll be in touch with you as soon as I get back to Portland.” I never heard from him.

An actor is thankful for encouragement, and can learn from criticism.

Audience on Stage

Sometimes someone attracts attention directly or indirectly. In the midst of another Twain performance, I noticed a young woman entranced, not by me, but by her tablet. I carried on for a few more lines, but then I couldn’t help myself. With a boldness I often regret, I strolled over and stood in front of her. She didn’t notice. With Southern charm I greeted her, “Hello Miss.” She didn’t stir. I tapped her shoulder. She raised her eyes in my direction. He face was blank.I smiled and commented.

Twain: My goodness, what is that contraption you are holding in your hands. I have never have seen such an implement. (Take the tablet) Never in my lifetime have I witnessed progress in the making.”

Deftly I pushed the off button and returned it to her silent dismay.

Some folks have no trouble catching up on their sleep when I perform. It may be the case of a husband whose wife has dragged him to the theater, for culture. The Old Man and the Sea provided one such occasion. I found it remarkable that with all my ranting and raving, as Santiogo, thefellow sat with his mouth wide open mouth, and shut eyelids He looked fallen into a kind of oblivion. I have used this strategy on occasion. I sidled modulated my volume and pitch and let myself go.

Santiago: Fish, I will stay with you until I am dead.”

He woke with a start, and looked around. Despite his embarrassment, he fell back to sleep in five-minutes time. I let him be.

By far the most incredulous audience member to join me occurred at the closing of the C. S. Lewis piece. After his wife’s death, and his stepson’s overwhelming sorrow, Lewis takes a seat in his rocking chair, and speaks with halting words, and tears of memory about the aching loss of his beloved wife, Joy;

Lewis: “I went to my wardrobe this morning looking for my old brown jacket. You’d carried out one of your purges. I find I can live with the pain after all. The pain now is part of the happiness. Only shadows Joy.”

The lights begin a slow fade. Lewis rocks in silence. In various parts of the audience sniffling is heard, and quiet sighing. A cell phone rings. The moment shattered. The phone is turned off or even mufled. It rings seven time. I counted. A male voice answers, “Hey. Hi. I’m watching a play right now. I’ll call you back later.” We are all stunned as light continues its fade to black I sat stunned with some in anger. Then the lights pop up for bows. I looked into the audience with tears in my eyes, and bowed my head. The audience gave me a standing ovation.

Now What Do I Do?

A Twain Jump

Twain: I can see the farm yet with perfect clearness. I see it’s details, all it’s belongings. Along outside the front fence ran the country road, dusty in summertime and a good place for snakes. When they were rattlesnakes or puff adders we killed them. When they were black snakes or racers we fled without shame. When they were house snakes or garters carried them home and put them in Aunt Patsy’s workbasket. She was prejudice against snakes, and always when she put basket on her lap and they began to climb out it, it disordered her mind . . . The river ice was breaking up. Jim and I were pretty scared and we went springing from cake to cake. It took about a half-hour but at last we arrived on home side of the river.

Ooops. I had jumped from Act I to Act II. What to do. Well, back to Aunt Patsy.

Twain: (Returning to Act) Yes sir-ee, ole Miss. Patsy put the basket in her lap and the snakes began to climb out of it. She was always cold toward bats too and could not bear them. Yet, I think a bat is as friendly a bird as there is.

Twain: Yes sir-ee, ole Miss. Patsy put the basket in her lap and the snakes began to climb out of it. She was always cold toward bats too and could not bear them. Yet, I think a bat is as friendly a bird as there is.”

The Old Man and the Sea

Hemingway’s Santiago has hooked a big fish. From the bow of the skiff he looks out at the line to the place where it disappears into a cobalt sea.

Santiago: (Looking out0 He’s headed north. The current will set him far to the eastward. If he goes down I can kill him. (Vocal and physical action) Ah, Senior. God help me.

Unseen by the audience, I have pulled a cloth handkerchief from my from pocket underneath me. One side of the cloth is white, the other is soaked in stage blood to show the audience how bad Santiago is hurt. I wrap and tie the cloth across my palm and tie it. Santiago wrenches over on to his back, and holds his hand up for the audience responds to the blood soaked cloth. I look at the cloth. There is no blood. I have tied the bandage upside down. Only the white side is showing.

Santiago: (Improvise lines Ah, Senior, my hand. The fish has ruined me. There will be such blood.

I writhe back on my belly flip the handkerchief to the blood soaked side and try. I can’t. I stuff it back in my pocket and carry on.

The Blind Actor

As I have matured, I have seen less well in the dark. I was playing Henry “inBecket.” The staging was done in an arena configuration where the audience faces the stage on four sides with stadium seating. Exits and entrances had to occur behind the seats.

In one scene I had to go around the back of the seats in order to make an entrance on the opposite side of the stage. The cross wash in the dark. In dress rehearsal I had made it around without incident, but on opening night I tripped and fell flat on my face. Dazed I continued my trip around the back of the seating and entered late. The lights were up. I was limping.

From then on when I entered or exited in the dark, the stage manager was there. She thrust her arms out towards me, mine toward her. I could see nothing. She grabbed my hands leading me and around to my entrance. It was a trust exercise I’ll will never forget, nor feel deep gratitude.

Fighting and An Evening with Albert Einstein

Einstein: (Telling a story) As a boy I was not speaking at the level I supposed to. They thought I was mentally retarded. My mother took me all over to see specialists. My father took me to school to ask the headmaster what I should study for. The headmaster said, “It does not really matter Herr Einstein, you son Albert shall never succeed at anything.”

As I continued on, there was a little noise behind me up in the balcony. No problem. A people looked around and turned back to the stage. I continued on with a little more emphasis to gain back some attention. The noise grew. More heads lifted up. It sounded to me like children playing. I tried hard to lasso the audience’s attention. But they were gone. I could hear footsteps stairs to the balcony. There some outbursts like swearing. So, I left the words of the script.

Einstein: Ach. Well, good. I see you all noticed my little experiment. I was testing sound velocity. (Turn to the blackboard chalk and scribble a fanciful formula). You see I want to know the how various wave lengths of sound are affected by the new paint on the walls of the walls of this auditorium. Not let me see, where was. I didn’t know where I was because my little improvised experiment got me off track. So I simply asked the audience.

Einstein: Does anybody know where I was? Amazingly someone did. We all laughed and I finished the scene.

A Coat on the Floor

A new house manager inserted himself in the Dylan Thomas show. Here’s what the set looked like . I was sitting stage left (point out stage left). There was a desk and chair there over there stage right. My coat was hanging from the back of the chair. Earlier I had noticed that I hadn’t put it on straight and it fell off on to the floor.

I noticed a few eyes turned toward the desk. I looked too. There was Ron, the new house manager putting my coat back up on the back of the chair. He saw me as I saw him.

Thomas: Well, there’s Ron. Thank you so much dear Ron. You keeping this old place spic and span. We all laughed. Ron fled.

The Bassoon of 1776

I love the musical 1776. I directed it a few years ago. The music was full of energy and engaged audiences as well as me. The musical director had assembled an orchestra that included a bassoon. Great. This will bring a wonderful fullness to these memorable songs. When we began run-throughs I noticed a problem, the bassoon. I spoke to the musical director who was also a good friend.

Me: Hey Ken, can I talk to you for a minute?

Ken: Sure, what’s up?Me:

Me: The bassoon.

Ken: Yeah, I know. I’ve worked with him. I think he’ll.

Me: Maybe. But his intonation . . .?

Ken: He’ll get it.

Me: Ten days to go. And he squeaks or squawks whatever it is.

Ken: He needs new reeds.

Me: You sure he’s gonna be okay?

Ken: Yeah.

A few days later after the second dress rehearsal and everyone had left the theatre except Ken and me. He walked toward me.

Ken: I know. I know. He’s gone. I asked him, then told him.

He seemed relieved.The musical, minus the bassoon brought the house down.

A Gel from the Sky

A gel is a thin translucent sheet of colored plastic consisting many hues that is placed in the front of the lens of a lighting instrument. That’s where the colors come from on the stage. The gels fit into a metal gel frame.

This particular production of “Hamlet” was set in the mid-sixties men in grey flannel shirts, and some women wth pill box hats. Laureates was giving an important speech about his sister Ophelia. In the midst of his speech a gel frame fell from the one of the lights on a bar above the stage. It landed a couple of feet from where Lauretes was holding forth. He didn’t notice, and finished his monologue. When he picked up his briefcase, he walked to the gel frame, and knelt down opening it. He placed the gel inside, stood, and walked off the stage to a warm applause.

Misdirected Directors

The are basically three styles of directors, autocratic, laissez faire, and democratic. Of course, there are other approaches, Often directors are a mix of several styles.

Autocratic directors know exactly what they want, and how to get it. They rarely change the plan One technique they use is called a line reading. A line reading is when a director reads a line, or several lines exactly the way, she wants the actor to speak the line. In other words, the director performs the line for the actor to imitate. She knows. She dictates.

Me: (As an autocratic director) Let’s do a line reading with a volunteer.

Understandably, many beginning actors strongly desire a line reading. Experienced actors, likewise understandably, vehemently do not.

Another group of directors lean toward the laissez faire approach which actors. In this style, the director and the actors participate equally in every aspect of the play: script analysis, blocking, characterization, and so forth. Rehearsals can go on for months.

Me: (As a laissez faire director) I need a volunteer to help me demonstrate this style of direction.

Finally, there is the democratic approach These directors interact in a creative partnership with actors. They guide, but don’t dictate. They appreciate, but don’t coddle. The involve actors in the process, but lead.

Me: (Another volunteer) Here’s a sample of the democratic approach.

I have known all three and there nuanced combinations.

Silent Captain Cat

Here’s what I did. I gazed hopelessly at Rosie Probert, then turned to Mr. Mog Edwards. I looked back at Rosie, an eternity-of-time look, and once again to Mr. Mog Edwards. Then I exited the stage

In 1954, the BBC commissioned Welsh poet Dylan Thomas to write a script for a radio program. He called it Under Milk Wood. Later Thomas adapted the script for the stage,

The drama centers around a day in the life of a number of characters of a fictional Welsh fishing village. Actors play many parts

One character I played was Captain Cat. Tired and blind he is tormented by dreams of his drowned shipmates. He shares a scene with Rosie Probert,his lost love, and Mr. Mog Edward, the local draper,

Rosie asks Captain Cat a question. I wasn’t listening. A wide silence ensued. That’s when my gaze, (remember he is a blind Captain), at Rosie and Mr. Mog. I could not remember my own name. That’s when I departed.

The stage manager met me on the other side of the curtain. Before she could say anything, I whispered,” I cannot remember a single, solitary line.

She shushed me, and lifted up her script pointing, not at what I had missed, but where I would be when she led me back to the stage. She gave me a gentle nudge and stepped

into the two-some who had gallantly made up a dialogue. They hoped for my return. I did, and the scene ended.

In the dressing room after the bows, The stage manaager told me that no one in the audience knew what had happened. The event became part of that theater’s lore. Everyone laughed, except me.

The End

Dr.Watson

By Rick Scheideman

Setting: A cottage in the hills of the Costwolds in south-central England. Watson often spends his days in a potting shed he built and added on to over the years. The shed is situated between an imaginary flower garden stage left, and, likewise, a vegetable garden stage right. Down stage are three large window opened with a view down a hill into a large pasture. Horses graze there. The audience views the action of the play through these imaginary windows.

Beyond the vegetable garden, stage right, stands the sturdy, if worn, main house. A smaller window provides a view toward the house. Vines climb the north wall. Below the gardens are shade and fruit trees. Several beehives buzz with activity in the center of the flower garden.

the potting shed reveals a comfy clutter.

On the workbench are: a vase of flowers, tea pot, cup and saucer, cream pitcher, dried out out apple, and a plate with the remnants of a pasty. There are books, notes, paper, writing implements, pipes, tobacco, ashtray, matches, letter opener etc. In reality, it is a potting shed become a study. There are blankets and clothing strewn about chairs. It is a an unkempt place.

Time: A Saturday morning in early spring 1922.

Lighting: Early morning Light stream. Light changes over the course of the play to clouds and rain..

Music: Instrumental music at the rise, curtain, and to mark some transitions.

Act 1

(Watson mutters counting bee stings and daubing them with lotion) Damnit! Does a beekeeper acquire this many stings. (He counts) 13. No look 14. Here, three more. The lotion ridiculous. Not bit analgesic Aid. Ah, but one pain-killer brings relief. (He dumps a small plant and dirt from a Mason jar, reaches under the table for a bottle, and pours himself a drink) Scotch. Not any Scotch. Not at all. This is Glen Dronach. When I was of 16-years of age, maybe earlier, my father intoduced me to Glen Dronach. From that day to this, I turn nose and pallet to any other libation. Friends, fifty-two years of my pleasure. Consider the tradition. The Glen Dronach distillery opened its doors in 1826. World wars, economic depressions, and idiot politicians could not slow production.

(He consider the stings) I feel embarrassed by these pickles. Thank heaven Hudson isn’t here to notice. Truth be known, Holmes is the cause. I've only begun as a beekeeper. A fortnight ago I wrote him my interest of interest. He posted a monograph on the precision beekeeping

First, he explained how one can keep the bees at bay while working among the hives. Sherlock outlined the process, but left out the basic ingredient placed the smoker. I assumed he knew I would know what would work best. Flour. I load the belows-like smoker with sifted flour. He knew I would assume that it would be flour. (as Holmes) “Elementary.”

Disaster The flour agitated the swarm. The results. (Watson again shows the swelling stings as he wipes the flour on his hands and face).

On the back of the last page of the document, Holmes scrawled, "Of course, my dear Watson, you must have deduced from the start the the fuel for the smoker are compressed wood pellets. I would suggest a one kilo bag to begin with." It was not the first of Holmesian tricks, but the mildest.

Hudson is my only grandchild. He and his mother, my daughter Rose, reside on the outskirts of London in Richmond-upon-Thames.

Often the boy, Lord, 14-years old now, calls on me around 10:00 of a Saturday morning. We enjoy a proper cup of tea, biscuits, and if Mrs. Gannymeade is of a passable mood, a pasty. We talk. We laugh. More often than not asks for an anecdote from the cases Mr. Sherlock Homes and Dr. Watson persued. Not today. Today the boy and I have somber business at 4:30 PM.

The boy favors Ronald, his father. Ronald fought and died at the Somme Valley in France in 1914. A terrible business. The child was 4 at the time. His mother, Rose grieved without consolation. Ronald was the love of her life. So many women alone with children in tow. Her mother and I wrapped our arms around her every step of the way/

Rose delighted Mary and me from day one. On my knees. would peer at her in the Moses Basket, I believe you call it a bassinette.

(He sings) “Rosy, Rosy smiles like a poesy [He sings],” As she grew older, we shared a comfy chair. Rosey would lean against my chest for story-time. She giggled with anticipation. Just after her 2nd birthday Alfred Moffat published his, Little Songs of Long Ago. We sang to together herfavorites, "London Bridge," and “Curly Locks." The latter described my daughter's hair, cruly and blond.

Later I added, East of the Sun, West of the Moon. These tales brought shivers to my little one. Jorgen Mae collected these Norwegien tales, and I must confess of a few wintery chills down my sping.

Then came Macqao et Cosmage. Rosey began to learn French, through these page. We gazed at the pictures over and over parsing out the story and its meaning. She accomplished fluency in grammar school. The book is considered to be a masterpiece of book illustration. Edy Legrand’s book became a classic in his own lifetime. As a teen, Rosey wrote a synopsis, "On a paradisiacal island, Macao and Cosmage live in love and harmony with nature - he knows they are black. But one day a ship appears on the horizon. The island is discovered and the two are inundated by the vortrex civilization. Their idyllic existence in harmony with nature comes to an abrupt end. Finally they turn their backs on progress and repair to the last unspoiled corner of the island.”

More often than not, I would make up stories, and create voices for all of the characters. Our favorite I plagerized from Heidi, Johanna Sypri tale of Heidi and her grandfather living the adventures of a Swiss village high in the Alps. With aplogies to Miss Sypri, I extemporized new stories concerning the doings Heidi. I developed a character, Jean Pierre. He had moved to Heidi's village from Champery small town in the canton of Vallais. The boy had been transplanted to Heidi's village after the death of his parents.

Heidi was 10-years old when the first story unfolded. One narrative led to another and another. Heidi, Jean Pierre, and Grandfather became real for Rosy and me. Jean Pierre played out the adventures of a boy. He was sleuth, raconteur, snoop, friend, and rescuer. He never revealed his weakneses. He solved crimes, sometimes real or sometimes imagined. Once a rhubarb pie went missing from the open window of Frau Eberlein’s chalet. Another time the latch of the pastor’s pigpen mysteriously had fallen left open. Pigs squealed of freedom awakening the sleeping village. When Jean Pierre caught a lad of 7 smoking behind the creamery he dragged the weeping boy home to a sure spanking at his father's paddle. When Rosey became upset his ruthless pursuit, he reminded her,

(as Jean Pierre's) "A minor offense could lead an offender to greater misdeeds later; perhaps a life of crime. She listened wide-eyed.

Perhaps these imaginative tales gave foundation to record the cases of Holmes. No longer fancy, but journalism.

As she grew older, Rosy would question the consistency of my narrative, and giggle at my bluster. She caught me many times, my first editor.

Rosy asked those perplexing questions that children so unabashedly ask. In later years after marriage and Rose, I only missed bedtimes when Holmes beckoned and Mary encouaged.

Mary and I gardened spring, summer, and fall. Rosy-girl grew with the garden. When old enough her hands found the soil. In spring, the three of us mulched the rectangular beds, and then planted seeds and seedlings. The gravel paths of white and grey pebbles separated flowers from vegetable plots. A solitary trail of crushed red rocks led to an orchard. Low hedges lined the gravel paths. In the garden’s prime, we tended seven beds of flowers and ten of vegetables. Flowers found their place based upon the necessaries of shade, sunlight, soil composition, and drainage. My favorite, a trellis, arched over the front door. My favorite smelled white jasmine all through summer. But now, without the attention of us three, the forlorn jasmine wilted and died. Eons have fled from that time. But the scent remains me remains in my nostrils, unchanged.

Weeds won the gardens, but for two rows. I’ve managed to cobble out of th chaos a plot of flowers, and one of vegetables. Potatoes, leeks, a bit of kale and chard accompany my humble meals when Mrs. Gannymeade is not here. Yet in those season fruits and vegetables graced our table oughout the seasons: fresh, dried, or preserved. The greenhouse grew cucumbers in winter along with mushrooms popped up in a corner of dim light. Concerning the flowers I have managed to coax a few magnolia, larkspur, zinnia, and daffod. Three rose bushes fight it out outside my door her in the potting shed. Fussy lavender only remains a scented memory.

Forty-one years ago, I steam-bent arches from cherry wood for numerous trellises in the garden. My trellises hid behind vines of clematis, wisteria, and morning glories. The trellises all disapeared with ages. But for the naked one leaning at the front door.

(He stands and peers out he window) Look there. Low clouds. A freshening wind from northeast. Autumn is in the offing. Soon the pleasure of roses will falter. Soon installing myself on that wooden bench will bring shivers. While I can, the sun will warm my neck as I read out there. Don’t know that you can see the from where you are. I can. Twenty-three years ago, I applied a scalpel to the oak back of the bench. Inside the heart shape grew the initials MMW + JHW. Mary Morstan Watson + James Hamish Watson.

(He falls agains the table scattering debris) Good God! I've done it again! Not only that, do you see a single solitary biscuit? No pasties. An empty tea teapot. And stuff a'scatter. This place is domiciled by a train wreck. Tea refill Mrs. Gannymeade? No pasties! The housekeeper

Mrs. Gannymeade set out this morning for a Cornish farm near to Port Issac. Her birth and childhood still occupied by her aged mother and brother who never left. Cornwall you ask? Look at a map of England. Cornwall is a county on England’s rugged southwestern tip. It forms a peninsula encompassing wild moorland and hundreds of sandy beaches, culminating at the promontory Land’s End.

Cornish folk consider themselves sovereign. Don’t they all? Mary and I enjoyed two memorable holidays at Port Issac. I discovered pasties. A Cornwallish concoction. Made of a flaky crust is folded in half and pinched around the edges. Filings include chunks of beef, lamb, and chicken with all manner of vegetables. The pinched edges bake to sunset gold. Spices add various savory tasts depending according to various village traditions like: dried sage or cranberry, dill, chives, and even mint. Pasty pleasure continues with me to this day.

(He considers his unkempt appearance and rebuttons his sweater etc). Good god, I look a sight. (Considers the results of his fussing, then continues).

And my prattling on and on about the past---Gads! Enough! You want to know more of Holmes than me, don’t you? Hmmm, maybe not. We shared some 20-some-years. Perhaps “shared,” overstates. I wrote his exploits continuosly, yet, despite all that, he remains a mystery to me. He kept off balance with explanations, pranks, erudition, pride, rare humility, and criticism of which my person received the brunt. Inspector Lestrade took some gaff, but incomparable to mine. (laughts good heartedly)

One example serves. One drizzly afternoon the hearth glowed with comfort. Just a hint of unacknowledged companionship warmed me. We sat ensconced in our chairs reading. Holmes smoked a pipe reeking of cheap shag tobacco. Chokingly malodorous. To overcome that foul air, I attempted to enjoy a cigar of enviable reputation. Impossible. My only solution was two fingers of Glen Dronach.

At one point I laid my book across my lap, and posed a question to Holmes. Irritation crossed his countenance. I repeated the question, and explained that I wanted to know how he had solved our recent case. He scowled. Then he condescended with impatience. His recitation felt like a university don talking to a 10-year old. At the conclusion, I shook my head and laughed with admiration at his logical precision. He turned back in brusque impatience. But that’s not the end of the narrative.

The next morning Sherlock Holmes disappeared. Not really surprising if you knew him well. After three weeks of intense inquiry about his usual haunts, befuddled, I gave up on his whereabouts. He would turn up. Though, in time, his absence became overlong and evoked my concern.

Neither hide nor hair of him for two months. On one particular morning, as had become my morning routine, with precision I read paper for clue of his whereabouts. My eye fell upon a diminutive article buried among the trivia of he back pages. I was shocked. It seemed the French government had retained the services of one Mr. Sherlock Holmes in a case of international intrigue. I was surprised, releived, angry, and urprisingly jealous.. He was in France, for heaven’s sake. He’d been adventure. A few days later, a blustery April gale rattled the door and as suddenly as he had disappeared, Holmes burst into the room. Without a glance in my direction, he strode to the window. As if mesmerized he stared out. Then he turned. His eyes locked on mine as he sat.

(an aside to the audience) Mary, with a sly smile, found long gabby. I expect you do too. Right. To continue. Holmes broke his gaze, stared at me, and spoke in measured tones.

(as Holmes). “Moriarty is the Napoleon of crime, Watson. He is organizer of half that is evil. Nearly all crime that is undetected in London has his touch. He is a genius. He has cognitive powers of the first order. He is like a spider, motionless, yet controlling a thousand radiations. He himself rarely takes a role his own plans. Even as he was caught by Scotland Yard, arrested, tried, and facing the gallows, a progression he planned. And thus he escaped four days ago.”

(as Watson) Holmes also conceived a plan. He assured me characteristic confidence that Moriarity would be hanged, period. Holmes declared that this adventure would be “our pursuit.” The dour expression on my face did not faze him. I continued rankled by his solo foray into France. (with resignation), Alas, when he turned his hand to a plan he turned to me as well. I agreed to accompany him.

He imparted but one step of his plan. We were to meet the next morning at Victoria Station. I wrestled with my pillow through the night. As a result, I overslept, arriving a whiskers breath before our 6:12 A.M. departure. In vain, I searched among the mass of travelers for the lithe figure of my friend. The travelers diminished as the took to the train. I concluded that I must board the train. He might be in the dinning car, or even now sprinting from a handsome. Holmes seemed to time his arrivals to coinside with the last possible moment. A porter interrupted my worries. He was assisting a decrepit Italian priest with his luggage. They were banging all manner of satchels, open bags, leather cases, and an empty bird cage into my compartment. Irreligous words mumbled forth from this holy man Without a tip or so much of a thank you from the priest, porter departed, grumbling.

I pressed against the glass and looked side to side. The platform berefit. I knocked my head against the window in protest. Only this priest! I shut my eyes, and attempted Holmes’ breathing exercises. The whistle shrieked. The train gave an unpleasant jerk and slowly began to pick up speed without Holmes. Steam wisped passed my window. It was then that I heard his voice.

(as Holmes) “My dear Watson can you not condescend to say good morning to a humble priest?”

The costume had fallen to the floor. The beard and aquiline nose lay on the seat beside him. The aged ecclesiastic faced me with wrinkles smoothed. The lips had ceased to mumble. The dull eyes filled with fire. The drooping figure had expanded into Holmes. Had he not been the foremost consulting detective in all of Britain, most certainly he would have been its consummate actor.

(as Watson) “Good heavens man,” I sputtered my surprise.

Holmes explained. In the advantage of disguise, he had spied out Moriarty following me to Victoria Station. Holmes assured me we could elude the him. His complex plan unfolded in the next few days. We embarked and disembarked from seven different trains. Three involved backtracking, and two included overnights in out-of-the-way lodgings. After these maneuvers, Holmes stated that Moriarity would likely not find us. But he was not all that convincing. Finally, we arrived in Dover for the next ship bound for Calais.

Dover was the first deep water port in England. Ships could dock at low tide as well as high. And I finally relaxed from free of too many trains. I relished a relaxed passage. It was not to be. Halfway across the Channel, a gale blew down from the northeas. Not a few of our compatriots leaned over the rail. Presently, I joined their company. But Holmes enjoyed an array of kippers, pickled beets, biscuits, and cups of tea. His meal was accompanied by the foul stench of his pipe which caused no small grief to my churning organs.

Once in France we boarded a southbound train. Destination? Holmes was silent on the matter until we crossed the frontier into Switzerland.

(as Holmes) “Bernese Oberland,” Holmes said absently. He was pensive.

Though headlong into a dangerous mission, I felt the high places! Be it Snowdon in Wales, or the Lake District in the northwest of England, mountains invigorate my spirit. As a youth, I had hiked the French speaking Alps of the Mont Blanc massif with my father. A magical holiday. My only familiarity with the Bernese Oberland came through a travel brochure. With spring winning over winter, I spied out gentian and edelweiss. Snow-melt revived the grasses. Cows in free pastures clanged from bells heavy around their necks. With a smile, I turned to Holmes. A shadow crossed his face. I turned away.

The air smelled of coal smoke as the train slowed. A veil of steam obscured the view. Once off the train, we stood at outskirts of the village Meiringen. The nearnes of the Alps shimmered above the chalet rooftops. Holmes had secured rooms for each of us at the Pension Alpenblick, a vintage wooden chalet. With bags in hand we trudged the 3 kilometers to our lodging at the place where the gravel road ended. Sweat stung my eyes. A peek at a trailhead sign announced the trail to Reichenbach Falls. Having never heard of them, I paid no mind. The sun had begun its decline behind The Glugghaus, a peak Holmes summarily pointed out. Alpine glow bathed the mountain’s face. Though weary, my senses were delighted. More delightful, however, was the prospect of meal of sauerbraten and a stein of a local beer.

(an aside, he rubs his arms and looks about him) I’m shivery. The stove-fire died. Blankets. (he wraps up). Now Hudson, my grandson, did I mention him earlier? He would keep the coals hot. Yet, dear lad, he never draws attention to the casualties of my aging.

His enthusiasm reminds me of the Baker Street Irregulars. That’s what Holmes called those boys. Now and then they assisted us as spies and procurers. They attended to their avocation with both passion and expertise.

By trade they were street sweepers. The offal of horses, the mud, and the garbage fouled the dresses of worthy ladies as they attempted to cross the streets. From this unpleasantness the necessity of sweepers arose. At filthy street crossings, they cleared a path with vigorous shovels, then brooms. Specific crossings were claimed by sweepers who had long worked them. Gentleman paid them a weekly stipend to clear the way for their womenfolk. We added to the coffers of the Baker Street Irregulars with our sleuthing employment.

(reaches for a singular biscuit. He tries to pour tea). Empty tea pot. (brushes crumbs from his clothes). Nothing but dried biscuit. (He tries to eat it. But spit it out). I am adrift.. Ah, of gotten far afield haven’t I? Yes, yes, Switzerland and Moriarity.

After dinner and more than one too many toasts, we retired to our chilly rooms. Horsehair filled the solid mattresses that warmed each of us with a puff. A puff you ask? Well now, a puff is a comforter stuffed with the down of an eider duck. Light of feel, and heavy of warmth. At first light, I delighted in the prospect of the sumptuous breakfast and was not disappointed. When the last pot of tea stood empty, Holmes suggested a leisurely walk up the trail to the Reichenbach Falls. Your remember, do you, the trail sign I saw the afternoon before? “Leisurely” and “stroll” are laughable if the memory wasn’t so painful. opposite of my experience. It’s unending steepness, log and boulder littered narrowness, And long. Did I mention unending. No words can express . . . dear lord in heaven!

As per usual, Holmes quickly left me behind. He employed an alpenstock to vault trail-blocking obstacles. He strode in rhythm with a tune he sang with vigor. “Blow the Candle Out.” Can you imagine a bawdy folksong. (he sings with rising fervor).

I like your well behaviour

And this I often say

I cannot rest contented

When I am far away.

The roads they are so muddy

We cannot walk about

So roll me in your arms love

And blow the candles out.

(He coyly smiles) Now how did I know that ditty? Soldiering days.

But soon the Holmes’s voice drifted as his lead gained ahead expoentially. And for myself, I felt familiar pains. Shoulder. The left leg. Ancient wounds. My athleticism had abandoned me long ago. When Holmes disappeared into the thicket above, I slowed to a reasonably pace. An hour later I rounded a corner, Holmes stood with a wry smile. Smoke curled from his pipe. He leaned against a wooden sign that pointed toward the falls. The sign was unnecessary. The unseen tumult roared. Holmes turned and strolled to the noise. I followed. In a few minutes the trail ended and he peered down into the cataract. I stood safely behind him. Sound, smell, light changes mesmerized me. The spell broke by a voice crying out.

(as innkeeper’s son) “Herr Doctor! Herr Doctor! A message for you Herr Doctor Watson!”

The innkeeper’s son sprinted toward us waving an envelope. I could barely discern the handwritten note inside. I parsed out from a hurried hand that a young English lady, accompanied by her father, had arrived at the inn shortly after our hike began. She suffered from the final stage of consumption. Instead of spending her remaining days in London, her wish was to be with her eldest sister in Luzern. But, the sick woman had experienced a hemorrhage as the train pulled into Meiringen. Her condition was desperate.

The boy had been at the milking stool when young woman’s father rushed in to the barn with his note to summon Dr. Watson at once. The lad told the father that I was on a hike to the Falls.

“I know, cried the man. Find him then. Go! Go, her insisted in a tremulous voice.

I was uneasy to leave Holmes. He smiled with a single nod down the trail. I searched his face. Inscrutable. (as Holmes) “Off with you then.” I followed the boy back to our lodging.

“Innkeeper! Fritz! Hey there Fritz! Fritz!” I cried out and leapt up the steps two at a time

The proprietor banged open the screen door incredulous at my cries. I wheezed,

“Is she still alive?”

His brow furrowed. I insisted,

“Your son brought this message to me from her father.” I pulled out the envelope from my shirt pocket, and waved it before his eyes.

(as each of the characters) The innkeeper shook his head and responded, “I don’t understand.”

”You what? You don’t understand? Is there is not an English woman here dying of consumption?”

“What are you talking about?”

”Here look. This envelope bears the imprint of your Alpenblick pension!”

Fritz paused, tugged at his beard, and spoke to his son. (as Fritz) “Who gave you this?” He implored.

“The Englishman with the mustaches; the father of the sick lady.”

“There is no sick woman here, Fritz puzzled, this is verruct, insane.”

(A pause, then Watson understands) “Moriarity!”

I bounded down the stairs, and ran up the trail. I felt no exhaustion. The pains that had previously impeded me had vanished. All thoughts fled, but for Holmes. Holmes had vanished. No sign of him. But, no, (pointing) his alpine-stock. There, leaned against a rock outcropping. I looked about. I shouted his name across the river. I yelled up the rocks, back down the path where I had just ascended. yelled across to the other side of the river. I screamed into the maelstrom. I cried out again and again, “Holmes! Holmes!” Nothing. I crumpled on the damp ground, and wept unashamedly. When I came to myself, I rose. There were two sets of boot prints apart from mine. They faced each other at several poing. Then scuffed mightily in the moist dirt. Finally, those two sets of prints ended at the edge of the precipice.

I turned away, stunned. I chanced to look up the wall of where where the alpenstock had lain. A glint struck my eye. Something was wedged within a fissure of the rock. I reached up and grabbed hold of a silver cigarette case, the case that Holmes never left behind. Never. I opened it. A single paper. I read, (as himself) “My dear Watson.” His penmanship was firm and clear as though it had been written in his study.

(as Holmes) “My dear Watson. I write this missive awaiting James Moriarity. He has followed us here as I suspected. I am determined to rid society of the brilliant psychopath. No final act of my profession could be more congenial to me than this.”

Villagers attempted to recover the bodies. They rappeled both sides of the cataract, then attempted to drag to bottom pool with grappling hooks. Hopeless. If the rocks had not torn Holmes and Moriarity assunder with their fall, they would have drowned under the whirlpool of maelstrom. They had perished together. Sherlock Holmes, the world’s foremost consulting detective, and my friend, and was dead.

For months following the loss of Holmes, a compelling habit consumed me. Daily I scanned newspaper accounts of murders and mayhem. I puzzled out solutions to these crimes. Odd. In fantasy, I emulated Holmes. A memorial, I suppose. Or more, a catharsis. Perhaps healing arose from those problem-solving forays. It brought memories of the halcyon days of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Comforted. I endeavored to keep something of him alive.

One shivery autumn morning, I walked down Baker Street for the morning paper. Standing in the shadows of an entryway to a bookstore, an unkempt bookseller hawked used volumes. He accosted me with eccenstric gesticulations. He waved a book under my nose, The Habits and Habitats of Winged Creatures of Northeastern Finland with Pencil Drawings by the Author.

“No!” I replied firmly and turned brisquely toward home.

The next day Mrs. Hudson interrupted my breakfast. She ushered into the room that same filthy bookseller I’d seen on the street. Without explation he yelped out, “The Habits and Habitation of Winged Creatures of The Chinese Steppes with Illustrations by the Author.” He bade me to consider the illustrations, the binding, the ragged gilt edges. I haven’t the foggest reason, but took the book in hand, and turned my back for the window light. Several pages revealed cross-hatched drawings of the most amateurish sort. I read beneath one of the drawings, “I turned back to usher him out. Sherlock Holmes stood before me. As before, the disguise lay in a heap at his feet.

Holmes shouted,

(as Holmes) “Watson, my dear man!”

I fainted dead away. Never had I fainted before. I awoke insensible. Holmes towerd above me wearing his ironic smile. He grasped my hand and raised me to my feet. I gripped his arm and felt the sinewy reality of my friend. Holmes smile a wry smile.

“Good God,” I croaked.

(as Holmes) “My dear Watson, at vague moments during the past three years, I have taken up pen to explain, but I feared you might be tempted, out of unbridled emotion, to betray my secret. But, a fortnight ago, while you were out, I climbed Mrs’ Hudson’s stairs and found myself in my old armchair. I thought how grand it would be if I could enjoy a pipe and violin, and contemplete face of Watson.”

Holmes told his story. He had augmented his expertise as a swimmer with deep excercises at the feet of a Hindu yogi. His breath holding capacity rose to six-minutes and 32-seconds. Parenthetically, he added that he was determined to break the seven-minute mark. With sobriety he added, (as Holmes) Moriarity is no more. After this Sherlock adventured about the Continent. His identity remained disguised as he surrepitisously solved crimes in many nations.

But why had he tortured me? Abandoned me to dangle in grief? He rose to the window. Tall, spare of figure, keen of face, a face that I could not scrutinize. I exploded a torren to anger, relief, frustation, gratitude, and fury all over again. I forgave him. My allegiance had staggered, but once again found its balance.

Act 2

How, in heaven’s name, did I encounter this inscrutable Sherlock Holmes? Like all else Sherlockian was as odd as it was provocative. How could it be otherwise? But first, I shall retreat back before Holmes.

When I was a young man took a medical degree at The London School of Medicine and Dentistry. Bright and immature mixed in me. And ambition. Further training at Netley in surgery prepared me for a medical practice in hospital. But restlessness consumed me. I dreaded the repitition of London hospitals, the complaints of hypchondriacs, the inflated egos of senior physicians. So, I joined the British Army as a commisioned doctor.

I had enjoyed as a student---the raucous rugby club, all night card games, beautiful women, and a pint or two. I longed for the colorful. My first posting as a medical officer sent me to the battle of the Second Anglo-Afghan War of 1880. I was shot. This how it happened. While on triage duty during the battle for Maiwanton, a bullet pierced through the left shoulder. Here. A fragment broke off and lodged in my right knee. There it remains to alert me of weather changes. You notice the limp? After five months in hospital I was pensioned out of the Army. I bandied about for three or four years---Paris, Rome, Prague, Copenhagen, then a longer stay in the west of Ireland. Family ties. In the end, I gravitated back to London. Aye and what a time it was. Indeed, the riotious memories bring a smile to this day.

Then the crash. After six weeks of luxurious hotels, swank restaurants, and gifts for the feminine companions at my arm, my Army separation funds had evaporated. Poof! Necessity moved me to search a smallish flat with a water closet at the end of the hallway. I knew that the guest list at such a room would include bugs that would delight an entomologist. A despaired at envitable vermin I should have to share a home. My swagger morphed into a slump. Down to my last pound, I stopped by my usual tobacconist. I received messages there. The proprietor hand me a slip of paper. An old army had seen me on the street. He whizzed by in a taxi, a young woman by his side. They were late for the opera. Later he scribbled out a note for the tobacconist to give to me.

(as Peter Stamford) “I’d love a chat, old boy. Meet me at the Eagle Thursday next? Regards, Peter.”

Thursday next I strolled through double doors of the Eagle into the smoky odor of welcome. I acted as a man without a care. I sat in the warmth of a fire. A pint in hand, Peter Stamford approached. We shook hands, hugged with back slapping, and sat. After grousing Army talk, I confessed the vacuum in my pocket book, and deplorable lodgings projects and the vacuum in my pocket book. He looked at me with sympathy.

Stamford paused in thought. He explained that an acquaintance of his was seeking a gentleman to divide the cost of commodious rooms at 221B Baker Street. Stamford cautioned, however, that this one Sherlock Holmes possessed an array of eccentricities. None the less, based on my dire need, Stamford encouraged a meeting. He would contact Holmes. He asked if I could meet with themthe following week: same day, same hour, same pub. My appointment book was void commitments.

A week later, Stamford met me outside the Eagle. With a nod and a wink, he led me inside. We took our seats, ordered Hors d'oeuvre, a pint apiece. We spoke casually, but began out of the reminisces. Uncomfortable silences. Furtive glances at our time pieces. After more than an hour, a tall, slender, quick- paced gentleman approached us with an air of indifference. He offered no apology and no hand shake. His eyes penetrated my frustration.

(as Holmes) “How are you then doctor? Wound mended by now, of course”

Stamford smiled at at his glass. Holmes gripped my hand with a strength for which I would not have given him credit.

(as Holmes)“You were and Army doctor. You’ve been invlalided home from Afghanistan, were you not?” You joined the forces in India with the 5th Northumblander Fusileirs and saw service in the Anglo-Afgahn War. You have a bullet wound in your left shoulder and you limp from a wound to your left leg. I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic - quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think? The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221-B Baker Street. Afternoon. (Holmes sits).

(as Watson) How in heaven’s name did you know all that?”

(as Holmes) “Elementary, Doctor, observation”.

I had not the slightest notion of what he meant. Had not Peter place his hand over mine and smiled, I would have diagnosed Holmes insane, and departed post-haste.

Sherlock Holmes me asked a terse succession of questions. I answered with less than short replies. At the conclusion, Holmes summarized my shortcomings. Then he enumerated a list potential disasters should we become co-occupants. He looked directly into my eyes,

(as Holmes) “None the less, Watson, the problem is solved.”

We shared the 221-B Baker Street rooms for twenty three years under the unflagging patience of our landlady, Mrs. Hudson.

(He stands) I need a good stretch. Forgive me. An aching stiffness. Shoulder. Leg. And know the knee. 10-days ago I remembered the warm up excercises we used in rugby. I pulled the hamstring muscle near the left knee. Bursitis. Bursa are small sacks that cushion bones, muscles, and tendions near joints, like the knee joint. Bursitis occurs when bursa become inflamed. No remedy, but rest. Too many injuries and too many birthdays. Forgive my doctor-babble. And yet . . . (He struggles to rise. He attempts some stretches, but stumbles and causes pots to fly, the spilling of dirt, tea pot, cup, etc. He slips to the ground). (He laughs) Maybe a tiny bit premature for exercises.

(He regains his chair) Now here’s a stretch for your imagination. Once I was a star on the rugby pitch. I played the scrum-half. Not just played received the most valuable player award in the Army’s championship match in India. The lads couldn’t believe a Rupert who was also a doctor, possessed the fierceness of a wild boar. (As aside) A Rupert is slang officers often came from the upper classes.

You’ve heard of rugby. But, I doubt you know a thing about it. (He looks at his pocket watch) Let me just give you a glimpse of the scrum-half’s duties. That position I played. (a wry smile).

(He demonstrates with articles on the potting bench)

Understand now, that the scrum-half is the link between the forwards and the backs-----a demanding position to say the least. Strength of heart, lung, and limb as well as a keen mind and agression are the pre-requisites for success. As a lad, in rain, heat, mud, snow, I never neglected daily jogs about the pitch, as well as sprints, and log tossing. I developed a regimen of calisthenics that would challenge an Olympian. Ah well, that may be going a bit too far. Be that as it may, the scrum-half must possess speed, awareness, and lightening quick reactions. I did.

Holmes was not a rugby man. Not an athlete of any stripe. Though his he possessed strengthed and coordination the surprised me. He commented only once about my passion.

(as Holmes) “Clearly, you received no further prizes after Afghanistan.”

Thereafter, I broached no further talk of rugby with the man.

Over the years together his cognitive powers astounded me: His knowledge encyclopedic; his intuition a shock; and the precision of his deductions as accurate as they were novel. He was the most methodical person I have ever known. In dress he affected impeccable taste, and when needed he trotted out courtly manners. Yet he was, without peer, the most untidy of men. His sloppiness drove me to distraction. It was a perpetual conflict between us. I had endured slovenly tent-mates in the Army, no one prepared me for Holmes.

Consider this: the man littered cigars, in various stages of use, on the water closed, the kitchen table, the ice box, a cubby where the keys were kept, on and on and on. His vile shag tobacoo found a home in the toe end of a Persian slipper hung from the mantle; correspondence, opened or unopened, strewn piled across his desk, the side table, dining table, and the floor. He slung his clothes where ever he happened to take them off. Then the books referencing natural history, physics, eastern and western philosophy, chemistry, geography, case studies found themselves backwards on the shelves, or piled in mountains on the floor. They hid under his bed, and my bedd too. Most gentlemen agree that target practice with pistol is a healthy open-air pastime. Holmes more flexible than that. When bored or depressed he lounged on the divan he raised his Lancaster pistol and shot holes in the opposite wall.

I sought refuge in long walks.

Holmes proclaimed himself as the first private consulting detective in the British Empire. No doubt in my mind that his self-acclaimed title was accurate. As such, Holmes exprised little use of the police. Dective Tobias Gregson stood out as the only exception. All the rest fell under his unwavering epithet. Simply stated that they were,

(As Holmes) “. . . unprofessional, uncreative, bumbling morons.”

Not limited to the police, Holmes disdain encompassed most of civilization. Thus, I asked myself, “Who am I to this man?” This man of brilliance was also a man who distanced himself from everyone with arrogance. His criticism of me at times was ruthless.

(He considers the potting shed and himself)) I fear Sherlock’s untidy ways have fallen to me. Mary would have had none this mess. Our home excuded comfort, yet neat as a pin. Forgive me while I tidy up. (he attends to his appearance and the bench top). See any improvements? Thought not.

(He continues to clean up) Mary dear accepted my proposal of marriage the moment I offered my hand. I asked for her hand less than a month after our first meeing. Gossips have falsely concluded from my narratives that I married six times. Wong! Wrong! Wrong! When I wrote about the various cases that occupied Holmes and me, I was not concerned with the facts of my personal life. I found it refreshing to invent fictional details. Believe me, Mary was and is the only love of my life.

Mary was light-haired. Her skin, soft with a healthy touch, and without blemish. Strong of body and merry of heart, she was. Her eyes moderated by mood from blue to grey-green. The years were kind to her.

Our first glimpse of each other occurred when she entered 221B Baker Street on 14 August,1888. Mary brought a case of grave concern to Holmes and me. It involved dual problems, First, was the unsolved disappearance of her father, Captain Arthur Morstan ten years previously. The second part was that each year since then she had received a large pearl on the anniversary of her father’s disappearance from an anonymous donor. The case confounded me. Not for Holmes. After a terse investigation he deduced the solution. A, by-the-by, I wrote of this intrigue I which I named, “The Case of Four”. If you haven’t read it, I recommend it to you.

Clearly, in defense of being clueless, my attention was not on pearls or or a disapearing father, but on his daughter Mary. Holmes’s critical huff summarized his opinion of my courtship of Mary Morstan. But in time, despite himself, Mary charmed him, and they became good friends.

In fine weather, Mary and I delighted in afternoon carriage rides. Holmes always hailed a Brougham. Though teeth jarring, it was efficient, and a reasonably priced four-wheeler. However, my fiancé fancied a Hansom. It jostled on two wheels. Unlike other carriages, the driver sat behind treating passengers to a forward view. Not long after Mary’s passing, rubber wheels replaced the harsh bumps of older models. She would have loved that.

Mary’s one vanity was hats. Our closets brimmed with hat boxes. Neatly arranged, of course. She created her own hats. Though often asked, she would not sell a one. Her outing hat amazed me. The conglomeration festooned with flowers, feathers, lace, netting, multiple colors, and for a conclusion a small decorative bird tucked in the right side. When we walked hand-in-hand or buggied about the countryside, I would flash a wink at that silent warbler.

We were out in all weathers. In summer, the warmth drew a faint line of moisture on her upper lip. Winter brought fog and chills. We bundled up against the wind. In the city, the smells of fish, hot bread, and sweets fetched up my coins for a treat. Mary always overpaid the street sweepers.

We settled into the pleasures of domestic life with the purchase of a cottage outside the city. I carried on a small practice there in a small addition to the house. I saw Holmes on occasion. Mary encouraged me assist him with a case. She was not jealous. She was secure in our love. Now and then, he summoned me when his investigations demanded my aid. Mary knew my heart. She was pleased when I was happy.

Emotions in general, and romance in particular, repelled Sherlock Holmes. His gifts of reason and perception produced the most perfect deductive machine the world has seen. But he fled “entanglements” as he called them. He would not suffer emotional intrusions to affect his highly tuned instrument.

(He manages to swallow three pills without liquid). Pardon me. For the heart, for digestion. But for age there is no pharmaceutical.

Mary passed from my company in budding springtime, April 18th. She has never left my heart. She brightened every morning, comforted every evening. We loved with calm passion. Never was I the same man from the moment I met her, nor after she left me. I scarce remember the details of the months of aimlessness that followed her death.

One mid-winter’s afternoon staring out of the window of the cottage senseless to the gray canopy and soot encrusted so, I pictured Sherlock Holmes. A solitary tear made a pathway down my right cheek. I grabbed my coat and opened the door for a cab to call at 221-B Baker Street. Perchance to find solace. Perhaps the company of my friend.

(to audience) You ask me, “Watson, old man, you received so little from him, why in heaven’s name did you return?” Well, that question begs another, namely, “What did Holmes think of me?” Just so.

I climbed the stairs and opened the parlor door. Holmes glanced up from his book and then condinued reading. Holmes was unphased. I tossed my coat on the table, and took my chair. It was as if I had just been to the tobacconists for the papers. As if I had never absented myself. Holmes was a man of habits. I suppose I was one of them. I suppose that from the first, I occupied a niche like his violin, or the Meerchaum hand-carved pipe. I was useful. When, at the outset of a case, he commanded, “Come on, Watson!” He relied on my help. Sometimes errands. Sometimes foreboding missions. He would ask my opinion, and then, of course, demolish it. But now and then his wry smile hinted of appreciation. I guess was a whetstone for the knife-edge his thought. We sat in quiet.

After a few moments, Holmes leaned back in his chair, snapped open his cigarette case, struck a match, and ruminated.

(as Holmes) Watson, I am bound to say that in your writing narratives of my achievements, you have underrated you own abilities. It may not be that you are luminous, but you are a conductor of light. Some people, without possessing genius, have a remarkable power of stimulating it. I confess, my dear fellow that I am very much in your debt.

I was shocked. Pleasantly. Usually, my narratives drew out his ire. He did not. He criticized that I sentimentalized. That my words llacked precision. His pride demanded that I record the details of his rational prowess with cool objectivity. I know my slowness of mind irritated Holmes. He took pleasure in correcting my errors and then setting forth the obvious course and conclusion. At times I felt oppressed by my failures. Yet, I am sure he needed me. Did he miss me over the years with Mary? Surely he missed me. Mustn’t he have?

(stands distracted and putters about) Demons possessed Holmes. His addictions were grievous. Sometimes he cloaked his habit in deception, sometimes with a flagrant air. Either way he satisfied his cravings. He would take a small cylindrical bottle from the corner of the mantle-piece, and a syringe from its Moroccan case. He rolled up his shirt cuff. With delicate fingers he adjusted needle and filled the syringe. His eyes stared at his scarred forearm. He thrust the point, pressed down the piston, returned the machinery to its place, and slid into his velvet armchair with a sigh. I had witnessed this performance many times, but had never had grown accustomed to it.

On the contrary, my conscience revolted at the ritual---though without rebuke. Over and over I vowed to confront him. I couldn’t. His nonchalance, his certitude that opiods stimulants aided his cognition. I was wont not to confront him.

One afternoon, I could no longer be silent. Holmes rose to gather the paraphernalia. I inquired,

“Which is it today the morphine or the cocaine?”

He raised an eyebrow,

(as Holmes) “Cocaine, a seven percent solution. Would you care to try it?”

(Watson as himself) “Not a bit of it! My health is too valuable. To abuse yourself in such a deplorable manner is idiotic and suicidal”.

(as Holmes) “An unsupportable assumption. Granted, perhaps a minor physical drawbacks. But in balance, I receive clarity, stimulation, and complete relaxation. The value of which side-effects pale into insignificance.”

(Watson as himself) “Rubbish.” I countered. “You not only drive yourself to ruination and besides you hurt the ones who, who,” I faltered to finish, “who love you.”

Holmes was not offended. After the injection, he sat up, and put his finger-tips together.

(as Holmes) “My mind rebels at stagnation. I enter boundless depression. Give me stimulation. Give me work. Give me an obtuse cryptogram; the most intricate analyses, and I breathe freely in my element. I have created my own profession, the only unofficial consulting detective in the world. Cocaine and morphinw are amiable companions between campaigns.”

Despite habitual rationalizations, in time he did permit me to wean him from the use of narcotics. He discovered that the high dulled his abilities. So that absolutely nothing would get in the way of his work, including drug-induced relief. So too, you must understand that his decision do exclude drugs was in line with his exclusion religion, romance, emotional excess, beauty; anything and anyone that interfered with the machinations of his mind to unravel complexities, and refreshment of a case solved. Except. Except for a moment I witnessed during a case I called, “The Adventure of the Naval Treaty.”

(He hunkers down with focus) The central character of the intrique revolved around a student acquintance mine at Caius College, Oxford. He sought our help. Sickly at college, he remained so in mid-life. When Holmes and I visited him at his county home his anxiety debilitated him. We entered the glassed walled music room where he lay on a couch. His head rested on his fiancée pillowed lap. She stroked his forehead with a scented handkerchief.

Percy Phelps recounted his hopeless dilemma. His uncle had secured a position for him of upmost importance in the Foreign Office. Yesterday had been given the duty of copying a classified military document. It was late at night when, nearing the completion of his task, he stepped out of the office. The tele had rung. The security sargeant informed him that the tea he had ordered steamed on the front desk. When he re-entered the office the document was gone. Tears filled his eyes. He barely could explain that this paper in the hands of the wrong people would result in a war of international proportion.

As the distraught man continued, Holmes stood. He wandered past the piano. A slender vase sat on a table beneath the window. In it was a single white rose. He touched a petal. He lifted the rose to his nose with a light touch. He searched the flower’s details. Then Holmes interrupted my interrogation. Gazing at the flower he spoke.

(as Holmes) “Our highest assurance of the goodness of Providence seems to me to rest in the flowers. All other things, our powers, our desires, our food are really necessary only for our existence in the first place. But this rose is extra. Its smell and its color are an embellishment of life, not a condition of it. It is only goodness is that it gives extras. So I say again, we have much to hope from the flowers.”

Often this man surprised me, but never more than at this moment.

(Watson stands) The next afternoon in the ambiance of tobacco, books, and brandy, Holmes predicted,

(As Holmes) “East wind coming, Watson.”

(As himself) “I think not, Holmes, too warm.”

(As Holmes) “Good old Watson! You are the one fixed buoy in a changing sea. There’s an east wind coming all the same. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of us may shiver in its path. But it’s heaven’s own blast, and a cleaner, stronger will lie ‘neath the sunrise when the storm has cleared.”

Why did I stay alongside him? Why scratch pen to paper stories of our adventures? At first I created the tales of Sherlock Holmes to record his brilliance for posterity. Then to intrigue and entertain an ever increasing readership devoted to his capers. Now I realize that more than anything, I wanted reveal the man to myself. Now I know, I wrote to understand myself.

In my stories of this extraordinary, contradictory man, I told my own story. And in that telling the war wounds of my soul healed; compassion rose in me for victims, and a burden for justice. Yet more than mercy and righty, here arose in me gifts of beauty. And the reality of love. Rose, Hudson, and my Mary. And perhaps most of all in the man who understood a rose.

(Takes up the bottle of salve and dabs). Holmes and I lost contact through the years. He had taken up residence in the country, a small farm on the South Downs. His companions became bees. He wrote a book on bees. A month ago a mutual friend posted me a copy.

(rises to leave) I am now also a recluse. This afternoon I am summoned to an occasion from which I cannot, nor do wish to, absent myself. I will stand with Hudson to bid adieu to Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

To a man of few acquantances, I was his best friend. (Exits up, then stops, returns, and picks up a book from the potting table)

(With a grin) His magnum opus, “A Practical Handbook on the Habits and Habitats of Bees with Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen.”

(as Holmes) “The games afoot, Watson!”

“Indeed, Holmes, indeed!”

(Curtain)