A Scandal in Bohemia: Chapter 1, part 19

jɔː ˈʃɔː ðət ʃi ˈhæzn̩t ˈsent ɪt ˈjet

aɪm ˈʃɔː

ən ˈwaɪ

bɪˈkəʒ ʃiz ˈsed | ðət ʃid ˈsend ɪt ɒn ðə ˈdeɪ | wen ðə bɪˈtrəʊðl̩ wəz ˈpʌblɪkli prəˈkleɪmd || ˈðætl̩ bi ˈneks ˈmʌndeɪ

ˈəʊ | ˈðen wi hæv ˈθriː ˈdeɪz | ˈjet | ˈsed ˈhəʊmz wɪð ə ˈjɔːn || ˈðæts ˈveri ˈfɔːʧənət | əz aɪv ˈwʌn ɔː ˈtuː ˈmætəz əv ɪmˈpɔːtn̩s | tə ˈlʊk ˈɪntu | ˈʤʌst ˈæp ˈprezn̩t ||

ˈsɜːtn̩li || juːl ˈfaɪm mi ət ðə ˈlæŋəm | ˈʌndə ðə ˈneɪm ə ðə ˈkaʊnt vɒŋ ˈkræm

ðən aɪ ʃl̩ ˈdrɒp ju ə ˈlaɪn | tə ˈleʧu ˈnəʊ | ˈhau wi prəˈɡres

ˈpreɪ ˈduː ˈsəʊ || aɪ ʃl̩ bi ˈɔːl æŋˈzaɪəti

ˈðen | ˈæz tə ˈmʌni

ju ˈhæv ˈkɑːt ˈblɑːnʃ

ˈæbsəˈluːtli

aɪ ˈtel ju | ðət aɪɡ ˈɡɪv ˈwʌn ə ðə ˈprɒvɪnsɪz əv maɪ ˈkɪŋdəm | tə ˈhæv ˈðæt ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf

“You are sure that she has not sent it yet?”

“I am sure.”

“And why?”

“Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next Monday.”

“Oh, then we have three days yet,” said Holmes with a yawn. “That is very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance to look into just at present. Your Majesty will, of course, stay in London for the present?”

“Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under the name of the Count Von Kramm.”

“Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress.”

“Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety.”

“Then, as to money?”

“You have carte blanche.”

“Absolutely?”

“I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom to have that photograph.”

A Scandal in Bohemia: Chapter 1, part 18

ˈhəʊmz ˈlɑːft || ɪts ˈkwaɪt ə ˈprɪti ˈlɪtl̩ ˈprɒbləm ˈsed ˈhiː

bət ə ˈveri ˈsɪəriəs ˈwʌn | tə ˈmiː rɪˈtɜːn ðə ˈkɪŋ | rɪˈprəʊʧfl̩i

ˈveri ɪnˈdiːd | ən ˈwɒt dəʒ ʃi prəˈpəʊz tə ˈduː wɪð ðə ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf

tə ˈruːɪm mi

bət ˈhaʊ

aɪm əˈbaʊt tə bi ˈmærid

ˈsəʊ aɪv ˈhɜːd

tə kləˈtɪldə ˈlɒpmən | ˈvɒn ˈsæk ˈmenɪŋən | ˈsekən ˈdɔːtər | əv ðə ˈkɪŋ əv ˈskændəˈneɪvjə || ju ˈmeɪ ˈnəʊ ðə ˈstrɪk ˈprɪnsəpl̩z | əv ɜː ˈfæmli || ʃiːz həˈself ðə ˈveri ˈsəʊl əv ˈdelɪkəsi || ə ˈʃædəʊ əv ə ˈdaʊt | ˈæz tə ˈmaɪ ˈkɒndʌkt | wəb ˈbrɪŋ ðə ˈmætə tu ən ˈend

ən ˈaɪriːn ˈædlə

ˈθretn̩z tə ˈsen ðəm ðə ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf || ən ʃiːl ˈduː ɪt || aɪ ˈnəʊ ðət ʃil ˈduː ɪt || ˈjuː ˈdəʊnt ˈnəʊ ˈhɜː | bət ʃi hæz ə ˈsəʊl əv ˈstiːl || ʃi ˈhæz ðə ˈfeɪs | əv ðə ˈməʊst ˈbjuːtəfl̩ əv ˈwɪmɪn | ən ðə ˈmaɪnd | əv ðə ˈməʊst ˈrezəluːt əv ˈmen || ˈrɑːðə ðən aɪ ʃəb ˈmæri əˈnʌðə ˈwʊmən | ðər ə ˈnəʊ ˈleŋkθs | tə ˈwɪʧ ʃi ˈwʊɡŋ̩ ˈɡəʊ | ˈnʌn

Holmes laughed. “It is quite a pretty little problem,” said he.

“But a very serious one to me,” returned the King reproachfully.

“Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the photograph?”

“To ruin me.”

“But how?”

“I am about to be married.”

“So I have heard.”

“To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of the King of Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles of her family. She is herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a doubt as to my conduct would bring the matter to an end.”

“And Irene Adler?”

“Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I know that she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a soul of steel. She has the face of the most beautiful of women, and the mind of the most resolute of men. Rather than I should marry another woman, there are no lengths to which she would not go—none.”

A Scandal in Bohemia: Chapter 1, part 17

prɪˈsaɪsli ˈsəʊ || bət ˈhaʊ

ˈwɒz ðər ə ˈsiːkrəp ˈmærɪʤ

ˈnʌn

ˈnəʊ ˈliːɡl̩ ˈpeɪpəz | ɔː səˈtɪfəkəts

ˈnʌn

ðen aɪ ˈfeɪl tə ˈfɒləu jɔː ˈmæʤəsti || ɪf ˈðɪs ˈjʌŋ ˈpɜːsn̩ | ʃəb prəˈʤuːs ɜː ˈletəz | fə ˈblækmeɪlɪŋ | ɔːr ˈʌðə ˈpɜːpəsɪz | ˈhaʊ ɪʒ ʃi tə ˈpruːv ðeər ˈɔːθenˈtɪsəti

ðəz ðə ˈraɪtɪŋ

ˈpuː ˈpuː || ˈfɔːʤəri

maɪ ˈpraɪvɪt ˈnəʊp ˈpeɪpə

ˈstəʊlən

maɪ ˈəʊn ˈsiːl

ˈɪməteɪtɪd

maɪ ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf

ˈbɔːt

wi wə ˈbəʊθ ɪn ðə ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf

ˈəʊ ˈdɪə || ˈðæts ˈveri ˈbæd || jɔː ˈmæʤəsti hæz ɪnˈdiːɡ kəˈmɪtɪd ən ˈɪndɪˈskreʃn̩

aɪ wəz ˈmæd | ɪnˈseɪn

juv ˈkɒmprəmaɪzʤəˈself ˈsɪəriəsli

aɪ wəz ˈəʊnli ˈkraʊm ˈprɪns ˈðen || aɪ wəz ˈjʌŋ || aɪ ˈæm bət ˈθɜːti ˈnaʊ

ɪp ˈmʌs bi rɪˈkʌvəd

wiv ˈtraɪd n̩ ˈfeɪld

jɔː ˈmæʤəsti məs ˈpeɪ || ɪp ˈmʌs bi ˈbɔːt

ʃi ˈwɪl ˈnɒt ˈsel

ˈstəʊlən ˈðen

ˈfaɪv əˈtemps əv biːm ˈmeɪd || ˈtwaɪs ˈbɜːɡləz ɪm maɪ ˈpeɪ | ˈrænsækt ɜː ˈhaʊs || ˈwʌns wi daɪˈvɜːtɪd ɜː ˈlʌɡɪʤ | wen ʃi ˈtrævl̩d || ˈtwaɪʃ ʃiz ˈbiːn ˈweɪˈleɪd || ðəz biːn ˈnəʊ rɪˈzʌlt

ˈnəʊ ˈsaɪn əv ɪt

ˈæbsəˈluːtli ˈnʌn

“Precisely so. But how—”

“Was there a secret marriage?”

“None.”

“No legal papers or certificates?”

“None.”

“Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young person should produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to prove their authenticity?”

“There is the writing.”

“Pooh, pooh! Forgery.”

“My private note-paper.”

“Stolen.”

“My own seal.”

“Imitated.”

“My photograph.”

“Bought.”

“We were both in the photograph.”

“Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed committed an indiscretion.”

“I was mad—insane.”

“You have compromised yourself seriously.”

“I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am but thirty now.”

“It must be recovered.”

“We have tried and failed.”

“Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought.”

“She will not sell.”

“Stolen, then.”

“Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked her house. Once we diverted her luggage when she travelled. Twice she has been waylaid. There has been no result.”

“No sign of it?”

“Absolutely none.”

A Scandal in Bohemia: Chapter 1, part 16

ðə ˈfæks ə ˈbriːfli ˈðiːz | ˈsʌm ˈfaɪv ˈjɪəz əˈɡəʊ | ˈʤɔːrɪŋ ə ˈleŋkθi ˈvɪzɪt tə ˈwɔːsɔː | aɪ ˈmeɪd ði əˈkweɪntəns | əv ðə ˈwel ˈnəʊn ədˈvenʧərəs | ˈaɪriːn ˈædlə || ðə ˈneɪm ɪz ˈnəʊ ˈdaʊt fəˈmɪljə tə ju

ˈkaɪndli ˈlʊk ər ˈʌp | ɪm maɪ ˈɪndeks ˈdɒktə ˈmɜːməd ˈhəʊmz | wɪðˈaʊt ˈəʊpnɪŋ ɪz ˈaɪz || fə ˈmeni ˈjɪəz | hid əˈdɒptɪd ə ˈsɪstəm | əv ˈdɒkɪtɪŋ ˈɔːl ˈpærəɡrɑːfs | kənˈsɜːnɪŋ ˈmen ən ˈθɪŋz | ˈsəʊ ðət ɪt wəz ˈdɪfəkl̩t | tə ˈneɪm ə ˈsʌbʤekt ɔːr ə ˈpɜːsn̩ | ɒn ˈwɪʧ i ˈkʊdn̩ ət ˈwʌns ˈfɜːnɪʃ ˈɪnfəˈmeɪʃn̩ || ɪn ˈðɪs ˈkeɪs | aɪ ˈfaʊnd ɜː baɪˈɒɡrəfi | ˈsæmwɪʤd ɪm bɪˈtwiːn | ˈðæt əv ə ˈhiːbruː ˈræbaɪ | ən ˈðæt əv ə ˈstɑːf kəˈmɑːndə | hud ˈrɪtn̩ ə ˈmɒnəɡrɑːf | ɒn ðə ˈdiːp ˈsiː ˈfɪʃɪz

ˈlep ˈmiː ˈsiː ˈsed ˈhəʊmz || [m̥m] || ˈbɔːn ɪn ˈnjuː ˈʤɜːzi | ɪn ðə ˈjɪər ˈeɪtiːn ˈfɪfti ˈeɪt || kənˈtrɑːltəʊ | [m̥m] || lə ˈskɑːlə | [m̥m] || ˈpriːmə ˈdɒnə | ɪmˈpɪəriəl ˈɒprər əv ˈwɔːsɔː | ˈjes || rɪˈtaɪəd frəm ˈɒpəˈrætɪk ˈsteɪʤ | ˈhɑː || ˈlɪvɪŋ ɪn ˈlʌndən | ˈkwaɪt ˈsəʊ || jɔː ˈmæʤəsti | ˈæz aɪ ˈʌndəˈstænd ɪt | bɪˈkeɪm ɪnˈtæŋɡl̩d wɪð ˈðɪs ˈjʌŋ ˈpɜːsn̩ | ˈrəʊt ə sm̩ ˈkɒmprəmaɪzɪŋ ˈletəz | ən ɪz ˈnaʊ dɪˈzaɪərəs | əv ˈɡetɪŋ ˈðəʊz ˈletəz ˈbæk

“The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you.”

“Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor,” murmured Holmes without opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system of docketing all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was difficult to name a subject or a person on which he could not at once furnish information. In this case I found her biography sandwiched in between that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff-commander who had written a monograph upon the deep-sea fishes.

“Let me see!” said Holmes. “Hum! Born in New Jersey in the year 1858. Contralto—hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw—yes! Retired from operatic stage—ha! Living in London—quite so! Your Majesty, as I understand, became entangled with this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, and is now desirous of getting those letters back.”

A Scandal in Bohemia: Chapter 1, part 15

ˈwaɪ ɪnˈdiːd ˈmɜːməd ˈhəʊmz || jɔː ˈmæʤəsti ˈhædn̩ ˈspəʊkən | bɪˈfɔːr aɪ wəz əˈweə | ðət aɪ wəz əˈdresɪŋ ˈvɪlhelm ˈɡɒtsraɪk ˈsɪɡɪsmənd ˈvɒn ˈɔːmstaɪn | ˈɡræn ˈʤuːk əv ˈkæsl̩ ˈfelstaɪn | ən həˈredətri ˈkɪŋ əv bəˈhiːmiə

bəʧu kən ˈʌndəˈstænd ˈsed ɑː ˈstreɪnʤ ˈvɪzɪtə | ˈsɪtɪŋ ˈdaʊn ˈwʌns ˈmɔːr | əm ˈpɑːsɪŋ ɪz ˈhænd | ˈəʊvər ɪz ˈhaɪ ˈwaɪt ˈfɔːhed | ju kən ˈʌndəˈstænd | ðət aɪm ˈnɒt əˈkʌstəmd | tə ˈduːɪŋ sʌʧ ˈbɪznəs | ɪm maɪ ˈəʊm ˈpɜːsn̩ || jet ðə ˈmætə wəz ˈsəʊ ˈdeləkət | ðət aɪ ˈkʊɡŋ̩ kənˈfaɪd ɪt tu ən ˈeɪʤənt | wɪðˈaʊp ˈpʊtɪŋ maɪˈself ɪn ɪz ˈpaʊə || aɪv ˈkʌm ˈɪŋkɒɡˈniːtəʊ | frəm ˈprɑːɡ | fə ðə ˈpɜːpəs əv kənˈsʌltɪŋ ju

ðem ˈpreɪ kənˈsʌlt ˈsed ˈhəʊmz | ˈʃʌtɪŋ ɪz ˈaɪz ˈwʌns ˈmɔː

“Why, indeed?” murmured Holmes. “Your Majesty had not spoken before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of Bohemia.”

“But you can understand,” said our strange visitor, sitting down once more and passing his hand over his high white forehead, “you can understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to an agent without putting myself in his power. I have come incognito from Prague for the purpose of consulting you.”

“Then, pray consult,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.

A Scandal in Bohemia: Chapter 1, part 14

jul ɪkˈskjuːz ˈðɪs ˈmɑːsk | kənˈtɪnjuːd ɑː ˈstreɪnʤ ˈvɪzɪtə || ði ɔːˈɡʌs ˈpɜːsn̩ hu ɪmˈplɔɪz mi | ˈwɪʃɪz ɪz ˈeɪʤənt tə bi ʌnˈnəʊn tə ju | ən aɪ meɪ kənˈfes ət ˈwʌns | ðət ðə ˈtaɪtl̩ baɪ ˈwɪʧ aɪv ʤəs ˈkɔːlb məˈself | ɪz ˈnɒt ɪɡˈzækli maɪ ˈəʊn

aɪ wəz əˈweər əv ɪt ˈsed ˈhəʊmz ˈdraɪli

ðə ˈsɜːkəmstænsɪz ər əv ˈɡreɪt ˈdeləkəsi | ən ˈevri prɪˈkɔːʃn̩ ˈhæs tə bi ˈteɪkən | tə ˈkwenʧ wɒp ˈmaɪk ˈɡrəʊ | tə biː ən ɪˈmens ˈskændl̩ | ən ˈsɪəriəsli ˈkɒmprəmaɪz | ˈwʌn ə ðə ˈreɪnɪŋ ˈfæmliz əv ˈjɔːrəp || tə ˈspiːk ˈpleɪnli | ðə ˈmætər ˈɪmpləkeɪts | ðə ˈɡreɪt ˈhaʊs əv ˈɔːmstaɪn | həˈredətri ˈkɪŋz əv bəˈhiːmiə

aɪ wəz ˈɔːlsəʊ əˈweər əv ˈðæt ˈmɜːməd ˈhəʊmz | ˈsetlɪŋ ɪmself ˈdaʊn ɪn ɪz ˈɑːmʧeər | əŋ ˈkləʊzɪŋ ɪz ˈaɪz

ɑː ˈvɪzɪtə ˈɡlɑːns wɪð ˈsʌm əˈpærənt səˈpraɪz | ət ðə ˈlæŋɡwɪd ˈlaʊnʤɪŋ ˈfɪɡər əv ðə ˈmæn | hu əb bin ˈnəʊ ˈdaʊt dɪˈpɪktɪd ˈtuː ɪm | əz ðə ˈməʊst ɪnˈsaɪsɪv ˈriːznər | əm ˈməʊst ˈenəˈʤetɪk ˈeɪʤənt ɪn ˈjɔːrəp || ˈhəʊmz ˈsləʊli riːˈəʊpənd ɪz ˈaɪz | ən ˈlʊkt ɪmˈpeɪʃn̩tli ət ɪz ʤaɪˈɡæntɪk ˈklaɪənt

ɪf jɔː ˈmæʤəsti ˈwʊd ˈkɒndəˈsend tə ˈsteɪʧɔː ˈkeɪs i rɪˈmɑːkt | aɪ ʃəb bi ˈbetər ˈeɪbl̩ tu ədˈvaɪz ju

ðə ˈmæn ˈspræŋ frəm ɪz ˈʧeər | əm ˈpeɪst ˈʌp ən ˈdaʊn ðə ˈruːm | ɪn ˈʌŋkənˈtrəʊləbl̩ ˈæʤəˈteɪʃn̩ || ˈðen | wɪð ə ˈʤesʧər əv ˈdespəˈreɪʃn̩ | hi ˈtɔː ðə ˈmɑːsk frəm ɪz ˈfeɪs | ən ˈhɜːld ɪt əˈpɒn ðə ˈɡraʊnd || jɔː ˈraɪt i ˈkraɪd | aɪ ˈæm ðə ˈkɪŋ || ˈwaɪ ʃəd aɪ əˈtemt tə kənˈsiːl ɪt

Doyle, Arthur Conan. The Original Illustrated Sherlock Holmes. “Reproduced from the original publication in The Strand Magazine with the classic illustrations by Sidney Paget.” Edison, New Jersey: Castle Books, [after 1954]. Internet Archive version of a copy donated by Friends of the San Francisco Library. http://www.victorianweb.org/art/illustration/pagets/4.html

“You will excuse this mask,” continued our strange visitor. “The august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you, and I may confess at once that the title by which I have just called myself is not exactly my own.”

“I was aware of it,” said Holmes dryly.

“The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal and seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein, hereditary kings of Bohemia.”

“I was also aware of that,” murmured Holmes, settling himself down in his armchair and closing his eyes.

Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid, lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him as the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic client.

“If your Majesty would condescend to state your case,” he remarked, “I should be better able to advise you.”

The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. “You are right,” he cried; “I am the King. Why should I attempt to conceal it?”

A Scandal in Bohemia: Chapter 1, part 13

ju ˈhæb maɪ ˈnəʊt i ˈɑːst | wɪð ə ˈdiːp ˈhɑːʃ ˈvɔɪs | ən ə ˈstrɒŋli ˈmɑːk ˈʤɜːmən ˈæksn̩t || aɪ ˈtəʊlʤu ðət aɪɡ ˈkɔːl || hi ˈlʊk frəm ˈwʌn tə ði ˈʌðər əv əs | əz ˈɪf ʌnˈsɜːtn̩ | ˈwɪʧ tu əˈdres

ˈpreɪ ˈteɪk ə ˈsiːt ˈsed ˈhəʊmz || ˈðɪs ɪz maɪ ˈfrend əŋ ˈkɒliːɡ | ˈdɒktə ˈwɒtsn̩ | huz əˈkeɪʒn̩li ˈɡʊd ɪˈnʌf | tə ˈhelp mi ɪm maɪ ˈkeɪsɪz || ˈhuːm əv aɪ ði ˈɒnə tu əˈdres

ju meɪ əˈdres mi | əz ðə ˈkaʊnt ˈvɒŋ ˈkræm | ə bəˈhiːmiən ˈnəʊbl̩mən || aɪ ˈʌndəˈstænd | ðət ˈðɪs ˈʤentl̩mən | jɔː ˈfrend | ɪz ə ˈmæn əv ˈɒnər ən dɪˈskreʃn̩ | hum aɪ meɪ ˈtrʌst | wɪð ə ˈmætər ə ðə ˈməʊst ɪkˈstriːm ɪmˈpɔːtn̩s || ˈɪf ˈnɒt | aɪ ʃəb ˈmʌʧ prɪˈfɜː | tə kəˈmjuːnəkeɪt wɪð ju əˈləʊn

aɪ ˈrəʊz tə ˈɡəʊ | bət ˈhəʊmz ˈkɔːp mi baɪ ðə ˈrɪst | əm ˈpʊʃ mi ˈbæk ɪntə maɪ ˈʧeə || ɪts ˈbəʊθ ɔː ˈnʌn ˈsed ˈhiː || ju meɪ ˈseɪ bɪˈfɔː ˈðɪs ˈʤentl̩mən | ˈeniθɪŋ wɪʧ ju meɪ ˈseɪ tə ˈmi

ðə ˈkaʊnt ˈʃrʌɡd ɪz ˈbrɔːd ˈʃəʊldəz || ˈðen aɪ məs bɪˈɡɪn ˈsed ˈhiː | baɪ ˈbaɪndɪŋ ju ˈbəʊθ | tu ˈæbsəluːt ˈsiːkrəsi | fə ˈtuː ˈjɪəz ||

aɪ ˈprɒmɪs ˈsed ˈhəʊmz

ənd ˈaɪ

“You had my note?” he asked with a deep harsh voice and a strongly marked German accent. “I told you that I would call.” He looked from one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to address.

“Pray take a seat,” said Holmes. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases. Whom have I the honour to address?”

“You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour and discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you alone.”

I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into my chair. “It is both, or none,” said he. “You may say before this gentleman anything which you may say to me.”

The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then I must begin,” said he, “by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of that time the matter will be of no importance. At present it is not too much to say that it is of such weight it may have an influence upon European history.”

“I promise,” said Holmes.

“And I.”