MY FIRST LITERARY SUCCESS
New Outlook--James Payn--Genesis of Holmes--“A Study in
Scarlet”--“Micah Clarke”--Disappointments--Andrew Lang--Cornhill
Dinner--Oscar Wilde--His Criticism of Himself--“The White Company.”
During the years before my marriage I had from time to time written
short stories which were good enough to be marketable at very small
prices--£4 on an average--but not good enough to reproduce. They are
scattered about amid the pages of “London Society,” “All the Year
Round,” “Temple Bar,” “The Boy’s Own Paper,” and other journals. There
let them lie. They served their purpose in relieving me a little of
that financial burden which always pressed upon me. I can hardly have
earned more than £10 or £15 a year from this source, so that the idea
of making a living by it never occurred to me. But though I was not
putting out I was taking in. I still have note-books full of all sorts
of knowledge which I acquired during that time. It is a great mistake
to start putting out cargo when you have hardly stowed any on board. My
own slow methods and natural limitations made me escape this danger.
After my marriage, however, my brain seems to have quickened and both
my imagination and my range of expression were greatly improved. Most
of the short stories which appeared eventually in my “Captain of the
Polestar” were written in those years from 1885 to 1890. Some of them
are perhaps as good honest work as any that I have done. What gave
me great pleasure and for the first time made me realize that I was
ceasing to be a hack writer and was getting into good company was
when James Payn accepted my short story “Habakuk Jephson’s Statement”
for “Cornhill.” I had a reverence for this splendid magazine with its
traditions from Thackeray to Stevenson and the thought that I had won
my way into it pleased me even more than the cheque for £30, which
came duly to hand. It was, of course, anonymous,--such was the law of
the magazine--which protects the author from abuse as well as prevents
his winning fame. One paper began its review by the phrase “‘Cornhill’
opens its new number with a story which would have made Thackeray turn
in his grave.” A dear old gentleman who knew me hurried across the road
to show me the paper with these cheering words. Another, more gracious,
said “‘Cornhill’ begins the New Year with an exceedingly powerful story
in which we seem to trace the hand of the author of ‘The New Arabian
Nights’.” It was great praise, but something less warm, which came
straight to my own address, would have pleased me better.
I soon had two other stories in the “Cornhill”--“John Huxford’s Hiatus”
and “The Ring of Thoth.” I also penetrated the stout Scottish barrier
of “Blackwood” with a story, “The Physiologist’s Wife,” which was
written when I was under the influence of Henry James. But I was still
in the days of very small things--so small that when a paper sent me
a woodcut and offered me four guineas if I would write a story to
correspond I was not too proud to accept. It was a very bad woodcut and
I think that the story corresponded all right. I remember writing a New
Zealand story, though why I should have written about a place of which
I knew nothing I cannot imagine. Some New Zealand critic pointed out
that I had given the exact bearings of the farm mentioned as 90 miles
to the east or west of the town of Nelson, and that in that case it was
situated 20 miles out on the floor of the Pacific Ocean. These little
things will happen. There are times when accuracy is necessary and
others where the idea is everything and the place quite immaterial.
It was about a year after my marriage that I realized that I could
go on doing short stories for ever and never make headway. What is
necessary is that your name should be on the back of a volume. Only so
do you assert your individuality, and get the full credit or discredit
of your achievement. I had for some time from 1884 onwards been engaged
upon a sensational book of adventure which I had called “The Firm
of Girdlestone,” which represented my first attempt at a connected
narrative. Save for occasional patches it is a worthless book, and,
like the first book of everyone else, unless he is a great original
genius, it was too reminiscent of the work of others. I could see it
then, and could see it even more clearly later. When I sent it to
publishers and they scorned it I quite acquiesced in their decision
and finally let it settle, after its periodical flights to town, a
dishevelled mass of manuscript at the back of a drawer.
I felt now that I was capable of something fresher and crisper and more
workmanlike. Gaboriau had rather attracted me by the neat dovetailing
of his plots, and Poe’s masterful detective, M. Dupin, had from boyhood
been one of my heroes. But could I bring an addition of my own? I
thought of my old teacher Joe Bell, of his eagle face, of his curious
ways, of his eerie trick of spotting details. If he were a detective
he would surely reduce this fascinating but unorganized business to
something nearer to an exact science. I would try if I could get this
effect. It was surely possible in real life, so why should I not make
it plausible in fiction? It is all very well to say that a man is
clever, but the reader wants to see examples of it--such examples as
Bell gave us every day in the wards. The idea amused me. What should I
call the fellow? I still possess the leaf of a notebook with various
alternative names. One rebelled against the elementary art which gives
some inkling of character in the name, and creates Mr. Sharps or Mr.
Ferrets. First it was Sherringford Holmes; then it was Sherlock Holmes.
He could not tell his own exploits, so he must have a commonplace
comrade as a foil--an educated man of action who could both join in the
exploits and narrate them. A drab, quiet name for this unostentatious
man. Watson would do. And so I had my puppets and wrote my “Study in
Scarlet.”
I knew that the book was as good as I could make it, and I had high
hopes. When “Girdlestone” used to come circling back with the precision
of a homing pigeon, I was grieved but not surprised, for I acquiesced
in the decision. But when my little Holmes book began also to do the
circular tour I was hurt, for I knew that it deserved a better fate.
James Payn applauded but found it both too short and too long, which
was true enough. Arrowsmith received it in May, 1886, and returned it
unread in July. Two or three others sniffed and turned away. Finally,
as Ward, Lock & Co. made a specialty of cheap and often sensational
literature, I sent it to them.
“Dear Sir,” they said,--“We have read your story and are pleased with
it. We could not publish it this year as the market is flooded at
present with cheap fiction, but if you do not object to its being held
over till next year, we will give you £25 for the copyright.
“Yours faithfully
“WARD, LOCK & CO.”
“_Oct. 30, 1886._”
It was not a very tempting offer, and even I, poor as I was, hesitated
to accept it. It was not merely the small sum offered, but it was the
long delay, for this book might open a road for me. I was heart-sick,
however, at repeated disappointments, and I felt that perhaps it was
true wisdom to make sure of publicity, however late. Therefore I
accepted, and the book became “Beeton’s Xmas Annual” of 1887. Ward Lock
made a wonderful bargain, for they not only had their Christmas number
but they brought out numerous editions of the book, and finally they
even had the valuable cinema rights for this paltry payment. I never at
any time received another penny for it from this firm, so I do not feel
that I need be grateful even if it so chanced that they cleared my path
in life.
Having a long wait in front of me before this book could appear,
and feeling large thoughts rise within me, I now determined to test
my powers to the full, and I chose a historical novel for this end,
because it seemed to me the one way of combining a certain amount of
literary dignity with those scenes of action and adventure which were
natural to my young and ardent mind. I had always felt great sympathy
for the Puritans, who, after all, whatever their little peculiarities,
did represent political liberty and earnestness in religion. They
had usually been caricatured in fiction and art. Even Scott had not
drawn them as they were. Macaulay, who was always one of my chief
inspirations, had alone made them comprehensible--the sombre fighters,
with their Bibles and their broadswords. There is a great passage
of his--I cannot quote it verbally--in which he says that after
the Restoration if ever you saw a carter more intelligent than his
fellows, or a peasant who tilled his land better, you would be likely
to find that it was an old pikeman of Cromwell’s. This, then, was my
inspiration in “Micah Clarke,” where I fairly let myself go upon the
broad highway of adventure. I was well up in history, but I spent some
months over details and then wrote the book very rapidly. There are
bits of it, the picture of the Puritan household, and the sketch of
Judge Jeffreys, which I have never bettered. When it was finished early
in 1888 my hopes ran high and out it went on its travels.
But, alas! although my Holmes booklet was out, and had attracted
some little favourable comment, the door still seemed to be barred.
James Payn had first peep, and he began his letter of rejection with
the sentence “How can you, can you, waste your time and your wits
writing historical novels!” This was depressing after a year of work.
Then came Bentley’s verdict: “It lacks in our opinion the one great
necessary point for fiction, i.e. interest; and this being the case
we do not think it could ever become popular with libraries and the
general public.” Then Blackwood had its say: “There are imperfections
which would militate against success. The chances of the book proving
a popular success do not seem to be strong enough to warrant us in
publishing it.” There were others even more depressing. I was on the
point of putting the worn manuscript into hospital with its mangled
brother “Girdlestone” when as a last resource, I sent it to Longmans,
whose reader, Andrew Lang, liked it and advised its acceptance. It was
to “Andrew of the brindled hair,” as Stevenson called him, that I owe
my first real opening, and I have never forgotten it. The book duly
appeared in February, 1889, and though it was not a boom book it had
extraordinarily good reviews, including one special one all to itself
by Mr. Prothero in the “Nineteenth Century,” and it has sold without
intermission from that day to this. It was the first solid corner-stone
laid for some sort of literary reputation.
British literature had a considerable vogue in the United States
at this time for the simple reason that there was no copyright and
they had not to pay for it. It was hard on British authors, but far
harder on American ones, since they were exposed to this devastating
competition. Like all national sins it brought its own punishment not
only to American authors, who were guiltless, but to the publishers
themselves, for what belongs to everyone belongs practically to no one,
and they could not bring out a decent edition without being at once
undersold. I have seen some of my early American editions which might
have been printed on the paper that shopmen use for parcels. One good
result, however, from my point of view was that a British author, if he
had anything in him, soon won recognition in America, and afterwards,
when the Copyright Act was passed, he had his audience all ready for
him. My Holmes book had met with some American success and presently
I learned that an agent of Lippincott’s was in London and that he
wished to see me, to arrange for a book. Needless to say that I gave my
patients a rest for a day and eagerly kept the appointment.
Once only before had I touched the edge of literary society. That
was when “Cornhill” was turned into a fully illustrated journal, an
experiment which failed for it was quickly abandoned. The change was
celebrated by a dinner at the Ship, at Greenwich, to which I was
invited on the strength of my short contributions. All the authors
and artists were there, and I remember the reverence with which I
approached James Payn, who was to me the warden of the sacred gate. I
was among the first arrivals, and was greeted by Mr. Smith, the head
of the firm, who introduced me to Payn. I loved much of his work and
waited in awe for the first weighty remark which should fall from his
lips. It was that there was a crack in the window and he wondered
how the devil it had got there. Let me add, however, that my future
experience was to show that there was no wittier or more delightful
companion in the world. I sat next to Anstey that night, who had just
made a most deserved hit with his “Vice Versa,” and I was introduced to
other celebrities, so that I came back walking on air.
Now for the second time I was in London on literary business.
Stoddart, the American, proved to be an excellent fellow, and had two
others to dinner. They were Gill, a very entertaining Irish M.P., and
Oscar Wilde, who was already famous as the champion of æstheticism.
It was indeed a golden evening for me. Wilde to my surprise had read
“Micah Clarke” and was enthusiastic about it, so that I did not feel a
complete outsider. His conversation left an indelible impression upon
my mind. He towered above us all, and yet had the art of seeming to be
interested in all that we could say. He had delicacy of feeling and
tact, for the monologue man, however clever, can never be a gentleman
at heart. He took as well as gave, but what he gave was unique. He
had a curious precision of statement, a delicate flavour of humour,
and a trick of small gestures to illustrate his meaning, which were
peculiar to himself. The effect cannot be reproduced, but I remember
how in discussing the wars of the future he said: “A chemist on each
side will approach the frontier with a bottle”--his upraised hand and
precise face conjuring up a vivid and grotesque picture. His anecdotes,
too, were happy and curious. We were discussing the cynical maxim that
the good fortune of our friends made us discontented. “The devil,”
said Wilde, “was once crossing the Libyan Desert, and he came upon a
spot where a number of small fiends were tormenting a holy hermit. The
sainted man easily shook off their evil suggestions. The devil watched
their failure and then he stepped forward to give them a lesson. ‘What
you do is too crude,’ said he. ‘Permit me for one moment.’ With that he
whispered to the holy man, ‘Your brother has just been made Bishop of
Alexandria.’ A scowl of malignant jealousy at once clouded the serene
face of the hermit. ‘That,’ said the devil to his imps, ‘is the sort of
thing which I should recommend.’”
The result of the evening was that both Wilde and I promised to write
books for “Lippincott’s Magazine”--Wilde’s contribution was “The
Picture of Dorian Grey,” a book which is surely upon a high moral
plane, while I wrote “The Sign of Four,” in which Holmes made his
second appearance. I should add that never in Wilde’s conversation did
I observe one trace of coarseness of thought, nor could one at that
time associate him with such an idea. Only once again did I see him,
many years afterwards, and then he gave me the impression of being
mad. He asked me, I remember, if I had seen some play of his which
was running. I answered that I had not. He said: “Ah, you must go. It
is wonderful. It is genius!” All this with the gravest face. Nothing
could have been more different from his early gentlemanly instincts. I
thought at the time, and still think, that the monstrous development
which ruined him was pathological, and that a hospital rather than a
police court was the place for its consideration.
When his little book came out I wrote to say what I thought of it. His
letter is worth reproducing, as showing the true Wilde. I omit the
early part in which he comments on my own work in too generous terms.
“Between me and life there is a mist of words always. I throw
probability out of the window for the sake of a phrase, and the chance
of an epigram makes me desert truth. Still I do aim at making a work
of art, and I am really delighted that you think my treatment subtle
and artistically good. The newspapers seem to me to be written by the
prurient for the Philistine. I cannot understand how they can treat
‘Dorian Grey’ as immoral. My difficulty was to keep the inherent moral
subordinate to the artistic and dramatic effect, and it still seems to
me that the moral is too obvious.”
Encouraged by the kind reception which “Micah Clarke” had received from
the critics, I now determined upon an even bolder and more ambitious
flight. It seemed to me that the days of Edward III constituted the
greatest epoch in English History--an epoch when both the French and
the Scottish Kings were prisoners in London. This result had been
brought about mainly by the powers of a body of men who were renowned
through Europe but who had never been drawn in British literature, for
though Scott treated in his inimitable way the English archer, it was
as an outlaw rather than as a soldier that he drew him. I had some
views of my own, too, about the Middle Ages which I was anxious to
set forth. I was familiar with Froissart and Chaucer and I was aware
that the famous knights of old were by no means the athletic heroes
of Scott, but were often of a very different type. Hence came my two
books “The White Company,” written in 1889, and “Sir Nigel,” written
fourteen years later. Of the two I consider the latter the better book,
but I have no hesitation in saying that the two of them taken together
did thoroughly achieve my purpose, that they made an accurate picture
of that great age, and that as a single piece of work they form the
most complete, satisfying and ambitious thing that I have ever done.
All things find their level, but I believe that if I had never touched
Holmes, who has tended to obscure my higher work, my position in
literature would at the present moment be a more commanding one. The
work needed much research and I have still got my notebooks full of
all sorts of lore. I cultivate a simple style and avoid long words so
far as possible, and it may be that this surface of ease has sometimes
caused the reader to underrate the amount of real research which lies
in all my historical novels. It is not a matter which troubles me,
however, for I have always felt that justice is done in the end, and
that the real merit of any work is never permanently lost.
I remember that as I wrote the last words of “The White Company” I
felt a wave of exultation and with a cry of “That’s done it!” I hurled
my inky pen across the room, where it left a black smudge upon the
duck’s-egg wall-paper. I knew in my heart that the book would live
and that it would illuminate our national traditions. Now that it has
passed through fifty editions I suppose I may say with all modesty that
my forecast has proved to be correct. This was the last book which I
wrote in my days of doctoring at Southsea, and marks an epoch in my
life, so I can now hark back to some other phases of my last years at
Bush Villa before I broke away into a new existence. I will only add
that “The White Company” was accepted by “Cornhill,” in spite of James
Payn’s opinion of historical novels, and that I fulfilled another
ambition by having a serial in that famous magazine.
A new phase of medical experience came to me about this time, for
I suddenly found myself a unit in the British Army. The operations
in the East had drained the Medical Service, and it had therefore
been determined that local civilian doctors should be enrolled for
temporary duty of some hours a day. The terms were a guinea a day,
and a number of us were tempted to volunteer where there were only
a few vacancies. When I was called before the Board of Selection a
savage-looking old army doctor who presided barked out, “And you,
sir--what are you prepared to do?” To which I answered, “Anything.” It
seems that the others had all been making bargains and reservations, so
my wholehearted reply won the job.
It brought me into closer contact with the savage-looking medico, who
proved to be Sir Anthony Home, V.C.--an honour which he had won in the
Indian Mutiny. He was in supreme charge, and as he was as fierce in
speech and in act as in appearance, everyone was terrified of him. On
one occasion I had told the orderly to draw a man’s tooth, knowing that
he was a very much more skilful dentist than I. I was on my way home
when I was overtaken by an excited soldier who told me that Sergeant
Jones was being court-martialled and would certainly lose his stripes
because he had done a minor operation. I hurried back and on entering
the room found Sir Anthony glaring at the unhappy man, while several
other orderlies stood round awaiting their own turn. Sir Anthony’s
glare was transferred to me when I said that whatever the Sergeant
had done was by my express order. He grunted, banged the book he was
holding, and broke up the meeting. He seemed a most disagreeable old
man, and yet when I was married shortly afterwards he sent me a most
charming message wishing me good fortune. Up to then I had never had
anything from him save a scowl from his thick eyebrows, so I was
most agreeably surprised. Soon afterwards the pressure ceased and we
civilians were all dismissed.