The Cure for Loneliness

From “The Poems of John H. Watson”
Reprinted By M. Vernet
The Missing Years

The Cure for Loneliness

The rain on the roof makes a tinny sound
Like thousands of pins on the way to the ground.
I can not nap or work or eat
While thousands of pins may endanger my feet.

The wind whines and calls my name.
If I do sometimes answer I am not to blame.
I need to hear the sound of my own voice
Responding to my name, I have no choice.

Lonely thoughts and lonely nights
Echo in darkness and dim all the lights.
Surrounded by people the wind’s all I hear.
You are not whispering in my ear.

So alone in the midst of a crowd
I want to shout and cry out loud.
But all I seem to do is disappear
Into the background when people are near.

I suppose the cure for loneliness
Is to gather courage and befriend the friendless.
But courage fails when you are away
I’ll just talk to the wind for one more day.

The Letters of M. Vernet – June – Lucioles, Phospheresence, and Photographs

June 14, 2014

Ma Chere MoMo,

I have been so busy! The “Cigale & Veteran Parade and Pique-Nique,” has evolved into quite an event! It will be in August when the cigales are sure to be nice and loud. The Orange Veterans are always stopping by with flowers, herbs, homemade sausages, tapenades, and early vegetables. I have not had to go to market in two weeks! They are delightful gentlemen. The harmas has such roses hidden here and there. I have been trimming them and they have rewarded me with plentiful blooms for my bees. And last night I saw the first Lucioles (Fireflies). There are so many here, making the night full of light and glowing love.

Marianna Vernet the bride-to-be, has been very busy also. She returned to Serignan with her trousseau and her wedding gown, but sadly, leaving her sister Michelle behind. The trip to Paris was a long one back then, about 600 miles and taking more than a week. After her trip her diary was full of intricate wedding plans and finances. She next mentions Sherlock and John in November of 1883.

.oOOo.

November 16, 1883

We have changed the date of the Wedding yet again! Sherlock of all people pointed out that Winter would not be the best time for family to travel as the roads might be in bad condition. I pouted a good two days before I gave in and Henri’s daughter baked me a chocolate cake. After that I could not even fake being disappointed. She is my Darling! The new date is March 15th 1884. Seems like so far in the future, when now there is an autumn crispness in the air.

Sherlock and John have been very busy and I think quite content the past few months. The boys have been tending the bees, and somehow made their honey crop taste like chocolate mint. It is amazing. They will not tell me how they did it, but I know Henri knows, and I will get the information out of him somehow. I have my ways! The boys are also very interested in Photography. They met a scientist named Edmond Becquerel and his son Henri while in Paris. They have asked John to come to Paris to work with them on their research into light, phosphorescence, and capturing the energy of the sun. John had been reading about their work in the French Journals he reads to practice his French.  The Becquerels have been hoping to meet a doctor that would be willing to do research on the effects of “light” on the human body. It sounds like strange Gothic tales to me. Sherlock has tried to explain it to me and I can see how important it could be to the future. In the meantime my boys have been taking very blurry photographs of everything under the sun. They have yet to take a nice portrait. But John promises me he will learn to take a Wedding portrait before the big day. John also promised me he would not decide about the Becquerel’s offer till I am married and settled. I think Sherlock is considering Papa’s offer of working for the Secret Service as well. Men like Sherlock and John can not be expected to live a quiet life for long. But I will treasure this time with them and always remember the last days of my maidenhood spent with my dear brother and his dear John.

.oOOo.

Well, that is all for today. The sun has gone down and the Lucioles have begun their luminous flight. Are they lighting the night where you are MoMo? I miss you!

Cordialement, Marianna

London Is My Queen

Attention!!! Sherlock Holmes Fans!!!
MoMo has a new article published called:
Art in the Blood – The Heritage of Holmes
Read about Sherlock Holmes’ genealogy !
See his Maternal Family Tree!
Visit
theunsolvedmysteriesofsherlockholmes.wordpress.com
Thank You!
.oOOo.

From “The Poems of John H. Watson”
Reprinted By M. Vernet
The Missing Years 1883 – 1886

London Is My Queen

London is my Queen.
Her voice fills my dreams.
Foggy eves; Merry days
Wish I never went away.
London is my Queen.

When I was just a lad
I traveled with my Dad,
On a ship with sails so vast,
A crow’s nest on its mast.
I watched the titanic sea,
Saw dolphins swimming free.
On the horizon Australia’s shore,
A white haven of ancient lore.

But London is my Queen,
Her voice fills my dreams.
Foggy eves; Merry days
Wish I never went away.
London is my Queen.

When I became a man
I went to Afghanistan.
Although my stay was brief,
And ended all in grief,
I remember a waterfall
Green gardens behind a wall.
Luscious fruit and growing vines,
A Shepard girl, graceful and kind.

But London is my Queen,
Her voice fills my dreams.
Foggy eves; Merry days
Wish I never went away.
London is my Queen.

Oh, Lady Paris fair!
I am always happy there.
Her open heart and laughing eyes
Pull this Englishman inside.
Springtime sun and sudden showers
Gives a wondrous look to her Eiffel Tower.
Who could not cheer and clap their hands
For the joyous beauties that dance the can-can.

But London is my Queen,
Her voice fills my dreams.
Foggy eves; Merry days
Wish I never went away.
London is my Queen.

London streets are filled with crowds,
Horse hooves on cobbles, cabbies loud.
Londoners calling in their favorite form
Of English, proud of where they were born.
London’s North-side, South-side, East and West,
All bring a certain warmth to my breast.
I would be happy, never more to roam,
If I could but return to London my home.

London is my Queen.
Her voice fills my dreams.
Foggy eves; Merry days
Wish I never went away.
London is my Queen.

Absinthe Memory 1883

From ” The Poems of John H. Watson”
Reprinted By M. Vernet
The Missing Years 1883 – 1886

Absinthe Memory 1883

Alone in Paris I found a cafe’
On a quiet street and made my way
Inside to order an aperitif.
Something smooth and a little sweet.

I asked the proprietor what I should have,
He grabbed a bottle and with a laugh.
Poured me a glass of Absinthe
Also known as “The Green Fairy”.

I observed the glass and its green contents
And the pleasant smile of my new friend.
What harm could such a little drink do
To a man like me whose paid his dues?

I brought the glass to my lips
And lingered over the first sweet sip.
It tasted of licorice and something more,
Something I had never tasted before.

It gave me a sudden fiery glow,
And I felt myself floating, steady and slow.
I drank it all up and asked for another.
My new friend looked at me with wonder.

The second glass was like the first,
It did not quite quench my thirst.
Too parched to speak, I pointed instead.
The barkeep nodded then shook his head.

The third glass came and I drained it dry,
I thought I would give conversation a try.
But when I looked up my friend had wings!
I wiped my eyes, I was seeing things.

The wings were green and sparkled like wine.
Some where close a bell did chime.
Then all of the patrons in the cafe’
Took out little bagpipes and started to play.

They all sprouted wings, including me.
I suddenly thought it just could not be!
A cafe’ in Paris, fairies with wings,
Who wanted me to dance and sing?

Well, who am I to decline a chance
To entertain Parisians with a Scottish dance?
I proceeded to do a Highland Fling,
And after that I do not remember a thing.

I woke the next morning in my own bed
With the strangest pain on top of my head.
My friends had thankfully tracked me down,
And got me home before a second round.

I stumbled to the kitchen barely awake.
Bemused friends offered me coffee and cake.
Sipping my coffee, I opened my eyes,
I swear I saw fairies waving goodbye!

The Letters of M. Vernet – May – Parades, Green Eyed Dragons, and Absinthe

May 23, 2014

Ma Chere MoMo,

L’aventure de la cigales, is continuing! The Orange Veterans now want to have a parade when they bring the cannon to my harmas. There are six of them and they love parades. So I am now hosting a patriotic parade, pique-nique and cannon experiment. Oh, well, how many people could possibly come. Twenty? I can handle that. You must send me your potato salad recipe. I remember having it at your Memorial Day BBQ and bonfire . Is that soon? I have lost track of American Holidays, they move around so much. But I remember that salad. Marianna Vernet-Fabre is not having an easy time planning her wedding day, I can sympathize.

OoOo

July 19, 1883

I am so worried I can hardly write. I wish I were home with my Darling in Serignan, and not in this overwhelming city! Oh, Paris is beautiful and I do love her, but she makes me anxious. I am such a little country mouse!

John and Sherlock had a huge argument last night, and John walked out. Sherlock was so jealous of Michelle, and John was angry that Sherlock didn’t trust him enough to let him have other friends. Other female friends. I could see both sides. Chelle is acting like Chelle, charming, loving and not the least bit worried about her actions. She is a free spirit and a free thinker, she has no wish for settling down or even having an affair. L’artiste. She leaves a trail of broken hearts behind her. She told me she likes John more than the others, but considers him a brother-in-law. A Vernet. To be honored and loved.
She does not believe in marriage certificates. Only the bond of the heart is real, she has said. So, she is furious at Sherlock for being jealous.

And here I sit with three angry and very emotional companions, surrounded by samples of fabric, lace and ribbons. And worried sick about dear John wandering about Paris by himself. He doesn’t know the language and has not fully recovered from his illness. I shudder to think of what could happen to him.

Sherlock and Michelle has gone looking for him. But of course they first had to have a row that woke half of Paris. Luckily not my elderly cousin or we would all be on the street. I started to cry, I was so worried, then they both got flustered and settled down. The green-eyed dragon sulked away and they reached an understanding. Then they went into the night to search for John. And I am left to watch for him here and keep him here until morning, if he returns.

July 20,1883

Thank the Lord, John is back safe and sound. But he does have a black eye, seemingly caused by a bit too much Absinthe, and a misunderstanding of the phrase that describes it “la fee verte”. [the green fairy]

Sherlock and Michelle brought him in about four a.m.  They were able to talk things out and make up, but not before joining John in a drink or two.  John was most apologetic to me in the worst French I have ever heard. I was furious, but when he said I was like an oyster claw to him. I had to laugh.

I find it hard to stay mad at John, but I am determined to be very cross with my sister and brother. A bride-to-be should be protected and nurtured by her family. I shall have them all make it up to me by helping choose the dreaded lace, and with an expensive dinner with only mineral water to drink.

OoOo

I wish you a Happy Memorial Day! Toast a marshmallow and think of Sherlock and John.. and me!

Cordialement, Marianna

The Wild Bird

From “The Poems of John H. Watson”
Reprinted By M. Vernet
The Missing Years 1883 – 1886

The Wild Bird

There’s a little wild bird in an ancient city,
Where artists paint their canvas pretty.
Their brilliant brushes do not have the skill
To capture the essence of her airy free will.

Strong as iron girders she grows,
Yet yielding when Summer breezes blow.
Her face turned ever towards the sun,
Yet reflects the moon when night’s begun.

Over the city rooftops she flies.
She joyfully trills a blithe song and tries
To stay aloft above the crowd,
With hearts so cold and shouts so loud.

And when she alights on solid ground
Peace rests where ever she is found.
Do not try to hold her,  she will fly away,
You will not hear her sing for many a day

But if you fly within her sight
She will take you on a wondrous flight.
Feathers glistening, heart beating fast
You will know this little wild bird at last.

The Trousseau

From “The Poems of John H. Watson”
Reprinted By M. Vernet
The Missing Years 1883 – 1886

The Trousseau

To Paris and shopping we must go
With a bride-to-be and a two horse team,
Set on granting wishes and dreams.
On our way to buy a wedding trousseau.

No rain! We must have sun, you know,
The bride-to-be must not be upset,
Or she may cancel the whole thing yet.
On our way to buy a wedding trousseau.

My mind’s on the horses and the road
But the others are talking of lace.
I wipe my brow and quicken the pace.
On our way to buy a wedding trousseau.

The bride-to-be has turned white as snow
As they talk of wedding nights.
The innocent thing was shaking with fright!
On our way to buy a wedding trousseau.

I pulled back the horses with a “whoa”
And I tried to belay her fear
“You now know more than your husband, my dear!”
On our way to buy a wedding trousseau.

The Letters of M. Vernet — May — Trousseau, Travel, and a Wild Bird Sings

May 14, 2014

Ma Chere MoMo,

I have good news! There is a Veterans group in Orange who has a cannon they are allowed to use for their special meetings. And the gentleman are considering loaning their cannon to me for my experiment. Their only request is that I provide them with a pique-nique lunch. They are quite excited! I so wish you could be here, I need another scientific mind to watch the cigales since I have the feeling I will be watching out for the Veterans! Marianna Vernet-Fabre is going shopping in Paris. How exciting that would have been!

OoOo

July 2, 1883

My sister is taking me to Paris to buy my trousseau, and order my Wedding gown! Michelle knows Paris very well, but fancy clothes and gowns? Not her specialty. Now if I needed to know where to get cafe’ and pastry at two am, that she would know. But she does live with an elderly Vernet cousin, who will know just where to go. We were having dinner with Sherlock and John, (Chelle is quite taken with our Poet Doctor), I was bemoaning my country ways and Chelle’s Bohemian lifestyle. How would we ever find someone who would know fine fabrics and good stitching and find what we needed at a good price? All of our eyes at the same time fell on Sherlock! He laughed and agreed to come, but only if John came too. And so the four of us are off to Paris next week. Michelle has been singing like a little Serin bird. I wonder why?

July 12, 1883

We have arrived safely in Paris, the sun shone on us all the way and John proved to be a good driver, although he is a city boy. Paris is just as pretty as ever and in honor of Bastille day on the 14th, she is dressed up in all her Summer finery. There are flags and flowers everywhere. And everyone is getting ready for great feasts and a festive parade.

July 15, 1883

Oh! What a day and night I had! We watched the parade with all of Paris. The Soldiers looked magnificent in their brightly colored uniforms. John enjoyed the parade, but when he told me his uniform was the color of sand, he seemed a little sad. But Michelle cheered us all up with a lovely pique-nique with her friends. Sherlock was like a celebrity. He basked in their praise and told amazing stories in French, which left John out a little. But John was surrounded by Michelle and some of her friends who wanted John to recite a poem. After a glass or two of wine he recited a beautiful one about a wild bird. I am sure this wild bird is Michelle. In the evening the City of Light was in her glory. Michelle took us to Pigalle’s, an open-air cafe’ and cabaret in Place Pigalle. I’m afraid my fiance’ would not have approved of my seeing the cancan dancers, but I had to peek. Michelle and John stayed to watch all of the show, but Sherlock ushered me outside at the best part. I had a little too much wine I’m afraid, and although I protested, I was glad when my big brother Sherlock took me for coffee and chocolate cake. I adore him. We had a lovely chat after the coffee refreshed me. We talked mostly about John and Michelle.

OoOo

Mon amie, I wish we were not so far apart. I would take you to Paris and we could try to find Pigalle’s and the cancan dancers. Someday, someday.

Cordialement, Marianna

Let The Bells Be Tolled

From “The Poems of John H. Watson”
Reprinted By M. Vernet
The Missing Years 1883 – 1886

Let the Bells Be Tolled

You kissed me at the cafe’ this morning
Before you sipped your hot coffee.
You gave me not a moments warning.
You seemed quite oblivious to me.

A moment later, absorbed in the paper
You munched on a piece of bread.
Dumbfounded, I hoped sooner or later
You would look up or move your head.

I stroked my now blushing cheek
Still warm from its brief encounter.
I felt so strange, so fragile and weak.
Your kiss forced me to ponder.

Had the love we shared become so bold
That kisses need not be stolen?
Shout the news! Let the bells be tolled!
For a love too strong to be broken!

The Letters of M. Vernet — April — The Legacy of a Violin

April 26, 2014

Ma Chere MoMo,

Mari, Vedette and her sisters have all read Marianna’s diary and I have just put it down. I’m afraid all thoughts of work have vanished, disparu! I am transported back in time. I must give you a little information about the rest of Marianna’s family mentioned in the diary.

Honore’ you know. He was married to a beautiful girl from Avignon named Simone Jadin. Simone was brought up in an orphanage run by the Holy Sisters. The only thing she had of her father’s was her name and an inexpensive violin. Simone could not read music but she taught herself to play and she sang like an angel. She worked odd jobs in a cafe’ and sometimes played and sang for the customers. She was not strong in body, but she made up for it in strength of character. She began to notice a certain Detective would always seem to be around when a drunken customer got too friendly. She called Honore’ her “Agent Special” He liked it. He asked her to marry him before he even held her hand. Simone loved Honore’ and their life together. She got all the excitement she needed from Honore’s tales about his work. She played love songs she wrote for him when he was downhearted, and that was all he needed.

Simone and Honore’ had three children ( although Honore’ used to say “3 French 2 English” for he always included Sherlock and Mycroft in his family and he loved confusing his neighbors). They had twins, a girl Michelle and a boy Michel. Marianna was the youngest.

Michel had a great love for animals, especially horses. He taught Mycroft and Sherlock to ride, and how to care for their steeds afterwards. Sherlock loved brushing down the horses and always seemed to end up brushing all three horses whenever they rode. Mycroft and Michel were the same age and often left little brother behind, but Sherlock preferred Marianna’s company anyway. When Michel studied Veterinary Medicine at Universite’ Montpellier, Sherlock sometimes accompanied him. Michel taught him safety and the scientific method at the laboratory.

Michelle was unique. She was the Artist in the family, but for Vernets, that was to be expected and considered very normal. She studied art in Paris and lived with a Vernet Parisian cousine. She was outspoken, her art was modern, and her opinions before their time. She signed her work M. Vernet and had been known on occasion to wear pants! She was the essence of La Boheme. But at home she was just “Chelle”. Sherlock and Marianna loved when she was home for she led them on mighty adventures.

Simone died in 1880. She had Tuberculous for years and finally lost her battle. Simone had taught young Sherlock how to hold and play the violin. She loved to tell how he played “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” perfectly the very first day. She was very proud when Sherlock formalized his musical education and learned to read and write music. When she was ill Sherlock would spend hours with her jotting down her tunes in a music book he bought in London. She was so happy to see her little compositions, written in Sherlock’s classical hand, in the handsome leather clad book.

Sherlock played her composition “The Laughter of Love” at the funeral. It made Honore’ smile through his tears. Honore’ wanted Sherlock to have Simone’s violin. But he refused, saying he would need it at home to play Simone’s songs for Honore’ whenever he visited. Marianna was pleased to hear Sherlock call her home his home too. She insisted he take the music book. She said Simone would have loved to hear her tunes played on Sherlock’s violin and that maybe somehow, she would hear him and smile.

This is a long letter, and I am tres fatigue’. We will dream of violin music tonight, non?

Cordialement, Marianna