Chapter 6 Section VI

"Harvard professors don't commit murder." The then president of Harvard University, who testified in court immediately after Holmes finished his statement, said such a defense for Webster. Dr. Parkman's murder took place in the laboratory while Holmes was teaching in the classroom above.Both the murderer and the victim were friends of Holmes, which made him torn between knowing who to grieve for.When Holmes was in class, the students laughed as usual, and Professor Webster could not hear the sound of Professor Webster chopping up the corpse. "A pious man, a man whose whole family feared God..."

The pastor, with a look of mourning on his face, spoke in a high-pitched voice about the promises of heaven.To pass the time, Holmes observed the group of celebrities and dignitaries who attended the funeral one by one, and they all nodded to Holmes one by one, because there were several celebrities standing beside Holmes—the New England Saints, Fireside poets.By whatever name they are called, they are the first-rate writers in this country.Standing on one side of the Holmes family was Lowell, who was idly twirling his tusk-like beard until Fanny Lowell tugged at his sleeve; on the other side was Fields, the The resounding figure bows his head, his beard pointing to the ground, as if in deep thought, and beside him stands his angelic, rosy, elegant young wife.

Those who look at the three men of letters try in vain to find the best of them all.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, who had indeed intended to accompany his friend to Mount Auburn, thought of going out for a walk, but at last changed his mind, and stayed by the fire as usual.It could be said that there was very little in this world that could attract Longfellow out of his Craigie house.For years he had been obsessed with that book, and now that it was coming out, he had to give it his all.Besides that, Longfellow feared that if he went to Mount Auburn the Healys would be left alone and the stars would surround him.Whenever Longfellow appeared on the streets of Cambridge, the adults whispered to each other, the children fell into his arms, and passers-by took off their hats to pay tribute. People crowded into the church at the same time.

Pastor Yang's eulogy was drawing to a close, and low whispers sounded from the quiet cemetery.Holmes brushed the thin yellow leaves off his velvet collar, and wandering, one by one, at the heavy faces of the mourners, he saw that Elisha Talbot, Cambridge's most famous clergyman, was obviously disturbed by Young's speech. Such ardent admiration was deeply irritating; and it is needless to say what he had in mind at this point was what he would have spoken if he had come to be Healy's pastor.The widow Healy was visibly restrained, something Holmes admired--widows who cry at funerals tend to find new loves when their dead husbands are still alive.Holmes inadvertently caught sight of Mr. Kurtz, who, asserting his position as the Chief of Police, savagely moved up to Widow Healy and pulled her aside.Evidently, he was trying to convince her of something.They turned to the topic in a few words, and it can be seen that the two had already discussed it, and now they are just repeating; Director Kurtz is more like reminding her to pay attention to something, and the widow nodded to show her obedience.Why, but she looks rather awkward, Holmes thought.A stone fell to the ground in Kurtz's heart, and he let out a long sigh of relief. The wind god Aeolus might also be jealous after seeing him.

Lowell carefully told Holmes how vivid his translation of "Divine Comedy" was from the several translations Longfellow showed him. "He was born for it, Holmes." Longfellow translated Paradise first, then Purgatory, and finally. "Translate from back to front?" Holmes asked when he heard the interest. Lowell nodded and said with a smile: "I dare say my dear Longfellow wants to figure out heaven first before dedicating himself to hell." "I never finished it, never read the one about Satan," Holmes commented. "Purgatory and Paradise are music, hope, and you feel like you're floating toward God. But it's almost It's a medieval nightmare, brutal and terrifying! Alexander the Great should have slept on it."

"Dante's Inferno is part of the underworld, and part of our world. We should not hide from it," Lowell said, "but face it. We must always probe the depths of hell in this life." Lowell also persuaded Fields to help translate the Divine Comedy.Although the publisher was not a student of Italian, he was quite fluent in the language.As for the aged George Washington Green, who gave Longfellow his first copy of the Divine Comedy when he and Longfellow traveled through the Italian countryside thirty years ago, now, as soon as he leaves Rhode Island and enters the city, Come, I will stop by Longfellow and comment on Longfellow's translation work.It was Fields, the man most in need of a schedule, who proposed that every Wednesday night the club meet in the study at Craigie Hall; For the Dante Club, although Holmes himself often called it a "séance," and he assumed that if you read the Divine Comedy attentively, you'd see Dante in person by Longfellow's fireplace.

In the lobby of the police station in Courthouse Square, Nicholas Ray stared at a page in his notebook for a long time, stopping now and then to squint up at the gas lamp.A man with a bushy beard and an indigo uniform stood quietly at his desk, shaking a small paper bag as if it were a baby. "Are you Sergeant Ray? I'm Sergeant Stoweather. Don't interrupt me." The man took a step forward and extended a memorable hand. "No matter what others say, I feel brave to be number one in America A black cop man is brave. What are you writing about?" "Can I help you, Sergeant?" Ray asked.

"Maybe, maybe. Didn't you go around the police station looking for that devilish beggar who jumped out of the window? I caught him in." Ray turned to look at Kurtz's office, the door was still closed.Sergeant Stoweather took a blueberry pie from a paper bag and stuffed it into his mouth as he chatted with Ray. "Do you remember where you noticed him?" Ray asked. "Yes. We got orders to go out and look for those suspicious-looking guys. The hotel, the bar. By the way, the South Boston Coach Station, which is where I went because I knew there were a few pickpockets. The beggar was drooping Sitting on a stool with my head crossed, half asleep, but shaking like a shofar, or something like that."

"Do you know him?" Ray asked. Stoweather chewed and said, "There's always a lot of bastards and pickpockets coming and going in carriages. But none I'm familiar with. To tell the truth, I don't know what the wrong muscle is, so I caught him in." Yes. It seems that this person does not have any malicious intentions." Lei was taken aback when he heard this, and quickly asked, "What prompted you to arrest him?" "That bloody beggar threw himself into the trap!" Stoweather blurted out without thinking, squirting a little pie crust onto his beard. "He watched me round up a few hooligans, yes, and then he ran up to me with his hands held out to his chest like he wanted to be handcuffed and charged with a bloody murder! So I thought to myself, God sent him here for me to take him into the police station. That bloody fool. Everything is God's will, I think so. What do you say, officer?"

Apart from running away, Lei really couldn't imagine what the window jumper wanted to do. "Didn't he say anything along the way? What was he doing? Talking to anyone else? Reading a newspaper? Reading a book?" Stoweather shrugged. "I didn't notice. Do you really want to find out what made him jump out of the window, officer?" Stoweather asked. "In my experience, sometimes enough is enough. Dig deep." "But he died in the police station, Sergeant Stoweather," Ray said. "Probably in his mind, he thought he was somewhere else, a dangerous place far away from us."

That's not something Stoweather could grasp. "I wish I knew more about the poor guy, really." In 1865, there were rumors in Cambridge that Longfellow could accurately guess the time of the arrival of the long-awaited or never-before-seen guests, so he appeared outside his big golden house built in the colonial era in person. meet.Rumors, of course, were often disappointing, and it was usually the poet's servant who greeted guests at the gates of Craigie's house.In recent years, Longfellow hadn't had the heart to receive any visitors at all. But this afternoon, Longfellow had done his country courtesy. Fields' carriage had just driven towards the carriageway of Craigie's house, and he had already stood on the front steps to greet him.Holmes, leaning against the carriage window, saw from a long distance, before the carriage turned into the carriageway between the snow-covered hedges, the imposing figure, exactly as the poet was in the public mind.This image has been perpetuated, and following the unexpected death of Fanny Longfellow, the public seemed determined to see the poet as a god sent to take charge of humanity, and admirers managed to cast him as a collection of geniuses A permanent image with the victim. On a chair by the fireplace sat a frail, goateed scholar, with his head bowed, intently reading an oversized manuscript.Holmes greeted him and said, "My dear Green, you are the most energetic one we have here. How is your health?" "Much better, much better, thank you, Dr. Holmes. Unfortunately, not yet good enough to attend Judge Healy's funeral." They generally called George Washington Green "the old man", but actually He was sixty years old, but the retired pastor and historian suffered from chronic illness and looked decades older than his actual age.But every week he commuted by train from East Greenwich, Rhode Island, to attend Wednesday night meetings at the Craigie House with as much enthusiasm as he did a guest lecture or was invited to write a history of the American Revolutionary War. "Longfellow, have you gone?" "Unfortunately, my dear Mr. Green, I did not go either," said Longfellow.When Fanny Longfellow was buried at Mount Auburn, Longfellow was ill in bed and did not attend the funeral, and he has been much less there since. "But I'm sure there will be a lot of people there, right?" "Oh, quite a lot, Longfellow." Holmes put his hand on his chest thoughtfully. "The eulogy is very beautiful and well done." "I'm afraid it should be said that there were unreasonably many people present," said Lowell, coming in from the library with a few books, ignoring Holmes' answer, and addressing Longfellow. "Old Healy was very self-aware," Holmes noted mildly, "knowing that his arena of operation was the courts, not the savage politics." "Holmes! You can't say that." Lowell's tone was a bit domineering. "Lowell." Fields looked directly at him. "Think we've all become slave hunters." Lowell grabbed Holmes's words and pressed him step by step. "Will you rule weakly like Healy, Holmes? If it's up to you to choose." , will you handcuff that boy Simmons and send him back to the plantation? Say it, Holmes." "We must honor this bereaved family," Holmes said calmly to the half-deaf Mr. Green.Green nodded politely. Longfellow glanced at the Alan Willard clock, which he liked, not so much because it was beautiful and accurate, but because the hands seemed to move more slowly than other clocks. "It's time," he said softly. Everyone immediately quieted down.Longfellow drew down the green shutters.Holmes dimmed the lights while the others helped to insert a row of candles.The candles flickered and the fire flickered.The five scholars sat down on the chairs that had already been placed, and sat in a circle in this small study. Besides them, there was also Trapp in the study-Longfellow's chubby Scottish terrier . Longfellow opened a drawer, produced a sheaf of papers, and distributed to the guests some pages of the Divine Comedy in Italian, together with proofs of his own translation.Fire, lamps and candles are subtly intertwined, and the light is on and off. The handwriting written by Longfellow on the proof is about to fly, and it seems that Dante's verses come to life under the gaze of his eyes.The meeting at the Dante Club began with Longfellow reciting the first lines of the Divine Comedy, in Italian so beautifully that Holmes listened to it every time. Halfway through my life, I got lost in a dark forest.