SIDELIGHTS ON SHERLOCK HOLMES
“The Speckled Band”--Barrie’s Parody on Holmes--Holmes on the
Films--Methods of Construction--Problems--Curious Letters--Some
Personal Cases--Strange Happenings.
I may as well interrupt my narrative here in order to say what may
interest my readers about my most notorious character.
The impression that Holmes was a real person of flesh and blood may
have been intensified by his frequent appearance upon the stage. After
the withdrawal of my dramatization of “Rodney Stone” from a theatre
upon which I held a six months’ lease, I determined to play a bold and
energetic game, for an empty theatre spells ruin. When I saw the course
that things were taking I shut myself up and devoted my whole mind to
making a sensational Sherlock Holmes drama. I wrote it in a week and
called it “The Speckled Band” after the short story of that name. I do
not think that I exaggerate if I say that within a fortnight of the
one play shutting down I had a company working upon the rehearsals
of a second one, which had been written in the interval. It was a
considerable success. Lyn Harding, as the half epileptic and wholly
formidable Doctor Grimesby Rylott, was most masterful, while Saintsbury
as Sherlock Holmes was also very good. Before the end of the run I
had cleared off all that I had lost upon the other play, and I had
created a permanent property of some value. It became a stock piece and
is even now touring the country. We had a fine rock boa to play the
title-rôle, a snake which was the pride of my heart, so one can imagine
my disgust when I saw that one critic ended his disparaging review by
the words “The crisis of the play was produced by the appearance of
a palpably artificial serpent.” I was inclined to offer him a goodly
sum if he would undertake to go to bed with it. We had several snakes
at different times, but they were none of them born actors and they
were all inclined either to hang down from the hole in the wall like
inanimate bell-pulls, or else to turn back through the hole and get
even with the stage carpenter who pinched their tails in order to make
them more lively. Finally we used artificial snakes, and every one,
including the stage carpenter, agreed that it was more satisfactory.
This was the second Sherlock Holmes play. I should have spoken about
the first, which was produced very much earlier, in fact at the time of
the African war. It was written and most wonderfully acted by William
Gillette, the famous American. Since he used my characters and to some
extent my plots, he naturally gave me a share in the undertaking, which
proved to be very successful. “May I marry Holmes?” was one cable which
I received from him when in the throes of composition. “You may marry
or murder or do what you like with him,” was my heartless reply. I was
charmed both with the play, the acting and the pecuniary result. I
think that every man with a drop of artistic blood in his veins would
agree that the latter consideration, though very welcome when it does
arrive, is still the last of which he thinks.
Sir James Barrie paid his respects to Sherlock Holmes in a rollicking
parody. It was really a gay gesture of resignation over the failure
which we had encountered with a comic opera for which he undertook to
write the libretto. I collaborated with him on this, but in spite of
our joint efforts, the piece fell flat. Whereupon Barrie sent me a
parody on Holmes, written on the fly leaves of one of his books. It ran
thus:--
THE ADVENTURE OF THE TWO COLLABORATORS
In bringing to a close the adventures of my friend Sherlock Holmes I
am perforce reminded that he never, save on the occasion which, as you
will now hear, brought his singular career to an end, consented to act
in any mystery which was concerned with persons who made a livelihood
by their pen. “I am not particular about the people I mix among for
business purposes,” he would say, “but at literary characters I draw
the line.”
We were in our rooms in Baker Street one evening. I was (I remember)
by the centre table writing out “The Adventure of the Man without a
Cork Leg” (which had so puzzled the Royal Society and all the other
scientific bodies of Europe), and Holmes was amusing himself with
a little revolver practice. It was his custom of a summer evening
to fire round my head, just shaving my face, until he had made a
photograph of me on the opposite wall, and it is a slight proof of
his skill that many of these portraits in pistol shots are considered
admirable likenesses.
I happened to look out of the window, and perceiving two gentlemen
advancing rapidly along Baker Street asked him who they were. He
immediately lit his pipe, and, twisting himself on a chair into the
figure 8, replied:
“They are two collaborators in comic opera, and their play has not
been a triumph.”
I sprang from my chair to the ceiling in amazement, and he then
explained:
“My dear Watson, they are obviously men who follow some low calling.
That much even you should be able to read in their faces. Those little
pieces of blue paper which they fling angrily from them are Durrant’s
Press Notices. Of these they have obviously hundreds about their
person (see how their pockets bulge). They would not dance on them if
they were pleasant reading.”
I again sprang to the ceiling (which is much dented), and shouted:
“Amazing! but they may be mere authors.”
“No,” said Holmes, “for mere authors only get one press notice a week.
Only criminals, dramatists and actors get them by the hundred.”
“Then they may be actors.”
“No, actors would come in a carriage.”
“Can you tell me anything else about them?”
“A great deal. From the mud on the boots of the tall one I perceive
that he comes from South Norwood. The other is as obviously a Scotch
author.”
“How can you tell that?”
“He is carrying in his pocket a book called (I clearly see) ‘Auld
Licht Something.’ Would any one but the author be likely to carry
about a book with such a title?”
I had to confess that this was improbable.
It was now evident that the two men (if such they can be called) were
seeking our lodgings. I have said (often) that my friend Holmes seldom
gave way to emotion of any kind, but he now turned livid with passion.
Presently this gave place to a strange look of triumph.
“Watson,” he said, “that big fellow has for years taken the credit for
my most remarkable doings, but at last I have him--at last!”
Up I went to the ceiling, and when I returned the strangers were in
the room.
“I perceive, gentlemen,” said Mr. Sherlock Holmes, “that you are at
present afflicted by an extraordinary novelty.”
The handsomer of our visitors asked in amazement how he knew this, but
the big one only scowled.
“You forget that you wear a ring on your fourth finger,” replied Mr.
Holmes calmly.
I was about to jump to the ceiling when the big brute interposed.
“That Tommy-rot is all very well for the public, Holmes,” said he,
“but you can drop it before me. And, Watson, if you go up to the
ceiling again I shall make you stay there.”
Here I observed a curious phenomenon. My friend Sherlock Holmes
_shrank_. He became small before my eyes. I looked longingly at the
ceiling, but dared not.
“Let us cut the first four pages,” said the big man, “and proceed to
business. I want to know why----”
“Allow me,” said Mr. Holmes, with some of his old courage. “You want
to know why the public does not go to your opera.”
“Exactly,” said the other ironically, “as you perceive by my shirt
stud.” He added more gravely, “And as you can only find out in one way
I must insist on your witnessing an entire performance of the piece.”
It was an anxious moment for me. I shuddered, for I knew that if
Holmes went I should have to go with him. But my friend had a heart
of gold. “Never,” he cried fiercely, “I will do anything for you save
that.”
“Your continued existence depends on it,” said the big man menacingly.
“I would rather melt into air,” replied Holmes, proudly taking another
chair. “But I can tell you why the public don’t go to your piece
without sitting the thing out myself.”
“Why?”
“Because,” replied Holmes calmly, “they prefer to stay away.”
A dead silence followed that extraordinary remark. For a moment the
two intruders gazed with awe upon the man who had unravelled their
mystery so wonderfully. Then drawing their knives----
Holmes grew less and less, until nothing was left save a ring of smoke
which slowly circled to the ceiling.
The last words of great men are often noteworthy. These were the last
words of Sherlock Holmes: “Fool, fool! I have kept you in luxury for
years. By my help you have ridden extensively in cabs, where no author
was ever seen before. _Henceforth you will ride in buses!_”
The brute sunk into a chair aghast.
The other author did not turn a hair.
_To A. Conan Doyle,
from his friend
J. M. Barrie._
This parody, the best of all the numerous parodies, may be taken as an
example not only of the author’s wit but of his debonnaire courage,
for it was written immediately after our joint failure which at the
moment was a bitter thought for both of us. There is indeed nothing
more miserable than a theatrical failure, for you feel how many others
who have backed you have been affected by it. It was, I am glad to say,
my only experience of it, and I have no doubt that Barrie could say the
same.
Before I leave the subject of the many impersonations of Holmes I may
say that all of them, and all the drawings, are very unlike my own
original idea of the man. I saw him as very tall--“over 6 feet, but so
excessively lean that he seemed considerably taller,” said “A Study
in Scarlet.” He had, as I imagined him, a thin razor-like face, with
a great hawks-bill of a nose, and two small eyes, set close together
on either side of it. Such was my conception. It chanced, however,
that poor Sidney Paget who, before his premature death, drew all the
original pictures, had a younger brother whose name, I think, was
Walter, who served him as a model. The handsome Walter took the place
of the more powerful but uglier Sherlock, and perhaps from the point of
view of my lady readers it was as well. The stage has followed the type
set up by the pictures.
Films of course were unknown when the stories appeared, and when these
rights were finally discussed and a small sum offered for them by a
French Company it seemed treasure trove and I was very glad to accept.
Afterwards I had to buy them back again at exactly ten times what I had
received, so the deal was a disastrous one. But now they have been done
by the Stoll Company with Eille Norwood as Holmes, and it was worth
all the expense to get so fine a production. Norwood has since played
the part on the stage and won the approbation of the London public. He
has that rare quality which can only be described as glamour, which
compels you to watch an actor eagerly even when he is doing nothing. He
has the brooding eye which excites expectation and he has also a quite
unrivalled power of disguise. My only criticism of the films is that
they introduce telephones, motor cars and other luxuries of which the
Victorian Holmes never dreamed.
People have often asked me whether I knew the end of a Holmes story
before I started it. Of course I do. One could not possibly steer
a course if one did not know one’s destination. The first thing is
to get your idea. Having got that key idea one’s next task is to
conceal it and lay emphasis upon everything which can make for a
different explanation. Holmes, however, can see all the fallacies of
the alternatives, and arrives more or less dramatically at the true
solution by steps which he can describe and justify. He shows his
powers by what the South Americans now call “Sherlockholmitos,” which
means clever little deductions which often have nothing to do with
the matter in hand, but impress the reader with a general sense of
power. The same effect is gained by his offhand allusion to other
cases. Heaven knows how many titles I have thrown about in a casual
way, and how many readers have begged me to satisfy their curiosity as
to “Rigoletto and his abominable wife,” “The Adventure of the Tired
Captain,” or “The Curious Experience of the Patterson Family in the
Island of Uffa.” Once or twice, as in “The Adventure of the Second
Stain,” which in my judgment is one of the neatest of the stories, I
did actually use the title years before I wrote a story to correspond.
There are some questions concerned with particular stories which turn
up periodically from every quarter of the globe. In “The Adventure of
the Priory School” Holmes remarks in his offhand way that by looking at
a bicycle track on a damp moor one can say which way it was heading.
I had so many remonstrances upon this point, varying from pity to
anger, that I took out my bicycle and tried. I had imagined that the
observations of the way in which the track of the hind wheel overlaid
the track of the front one when the machine was not running dead
straight would show the direction. I found that my correspondents were
right and I was wrong, for this would be the same whichever way the
cycle was moving. On the other hand the real solution was much simpler,
for on an undulating moor the wheels make a much deeper impression
uphill and a more shallow one downhill, so Holmes was justified of his
wisdom after all.
Sometimes I have got upon dangerous ground where I have taken risks
through my own want of knowledge of the correct atmosphere. I have, for
example, never been a racing man, and yet I ventured to write “Silver
Blaze,” in which the mystery depends upon the laws of training and
racing. The story is all right, and Holmes may have been at the top of
his form, but my ignorance cries aloud to heaven. I read an excellent
and very damaging criticism of the story in some sporting paper,
written clearly by a man who _did_ know, in which he explained the
exact penalties which would have come upon every one concerned if they
had acted as I described. Half would have been in jail and the other
half warned off the turf for ever. However, I have never been nervous
about details, and one must be masterful sometimes. When an alarmed
Editor wrote to me once: “There is no second line of rails at that
point,” I answered, “I make one.” On the other hand, there are cases
where accuracy is essential.
I do not wish to be ungrateful to Holmes, who has been a good friend
to me in many ways. If I have sometimes been inclined to weary of
him it is because his character admits of no light or shade. He is a
calculating machine, and anything you add to that simply weakens the
effect. Thus the variety of the stories must depend upon the romance
and compact handling of the plots. I would say a word for Watson also,
who in the course of seven volumes never shows one gleam of humour or
makes one single joke. To make a real character one must sacrifice
everything to consistency and remember Goldsmith’s criticism of Johnson
that “he would make the little fishes talk like whales.”
I do not think that I ever realized what a living actual personality
Holmes had become to the more guileless readers, until I heard of the
very pleasing story of the char-à-bancs of French schoolboys who, when
asked what they wanted to see first in London, replied unanimously that
they wanted to see Mr. Holmes’ lodgings in Baker Street. Many have
asked me which house it is, but that is a point which for excellent
reasons I will not decide.
There are certain Sherlock Holmes stories, apocryphal I need not say,
which go round and round the press and turn up at fixed intervals with
the regularity of a comet.
One is the story of the cabman who is supposed to have taken me to
an hotel in Paris. “Dr. Doyle,” he cried, gazing at me fixedly,
“I perceive from your appearance that you have been recently at
Constantinople. I have reason to think also that you have been at Buda,
and I perceive some indication that you were not far from Milan.”
“Wonderful. Five francs for the secret of how you did it?” “I looked at
the labels pasted on your trunk,” said the astute cabby.
Another perennial is of the woman who is said to have consulted
Sherlock. “I am greatly puzzled, sir. In one week I have lost a motor
horn, a brush, a box of golf balls, a dictionary and a bootjack. Can
you explain it?” “Nothing simpler, madame,” said Sherlock. “It is
clear that your neighbour keeps a goat.”
There was a third about how Sherlock entered heaven, and by virtue of
his power of observation at once greeted Adam but the point is perhaps
too anatomical for further discussion.
I suppose that every author receives a good many curious letters.
Certainly I have done so. Quite a number of these have been from
Russia. When they have been in the vernacular I have been compelled to
take them as read, but when they have been in English they have been
among the most curious in my collection.
There was one young lady who began all her epistles with the words
“Good Lord.” Another had a large amount of guile underlying her
simplicity. Writing from Warsaw, she stated that she had been bedridden
for two years, and that my novels had been her only, etc., etc. So
touched was I by this flattering statement that I at once prepared an
autographed parcel of them to complete the fair invalid’s collection.
By good luck, however, I met a brother author on the same day to whom
I recounted the touching incident. With a cynical smile, he drew an
identical letter from his pocket. His novels had also been for two
years her only, etc., etc. I do not know how many more the lady had
written to; but if, as I imagine, her correspondence had extended to
several countries, she must have amassed a rather interesting library.
The young Russian’s habit of addressing me as “Good Lord” had an even
stranger parallel at home which links it up with the subject of this
article. Shortly after I received a knighthood, I had a bill from a
tradesman which was quite correct and businesslike in every detail save
that it was made out to Sir Sherlock Holmes. I hope that I can stand
a joke as well as my neighbours, but this particular piece of humour
seemed rather misapplied and I wrote sharply upon the subject.
In response to my letter there arrived at my hotel a very repentant
clerk, who expressed his sorrow at the incident, but kept on repeating
the phrase, “I assure you, sir, that it was bonâ fide.”
“What do you mean by bonâ fide?” I asked.
“Well, sir,” he replied, “my mates in the shop told me that you had
been knighted, and that when a man was knighted he changed his name,
and that you had taken that one.”
I need not say that my annoyance vanished, and that I laughed as
heartily as his pals were probably doing round the corner.
A few of the problems which have come my way have been very similar to
some which I had invented for the exhibition of the reasoning of Mr.
Holmes. I might perhaps quote one in which that gentleman’s method of
thought was copied with complete success. The case was as follows: A
gentleman had disappeared. He had drawn a bank balance of £40 which
was known to be on him. It was feared that he had been murdered for
the sake of the money. He had last been heard of stopping at a large
hotel in London, having come from the country that day. In the evening
he went to a music-hall performance, came out of it about ten o’clock,
returned to his hotel, changed his evening clothes, which were found in
his room next day, and disappeared utterly. No one saw him leave the
hotel, but a man occupying a neighbouring room declared that he had
heard him moving during the night. A week had elapsed at the time that
I was consulted, but the police had discovered nothing. Where was the
man?
These were the whole of the facts as communicated to me by his
relatives in the country. Endeavouring to see the matter through the
eyes of Mr. Holmes, I answered by return mail that he was evidently
either in Glasgow or in Edinburgh. It proved later that he had, as a
fact, gone to Edinburgh, though in the week that had passed he had
moved to another part of Scotland.
There I should leave the matter, for, as Dr. Watson has often shown,
a solution explained is a mystery spoiled. At this stage the reader
can lay down the book and show how simple it all is by working out the
problem for himself. He has all the data which were ever given to me.
For the sake of those, however, who have no turn for such conundrums, I
will try to indicate the links which make the chain. The one advantage
which I possessed was that I was familiar with the routine of London
hotels--though I fancy it differs little from that of hotels elsewhere.
The first thing was to look at the facts and separate what was certain
from what was conjecture. It was _all_ certain except the statement of
the person who heard the missing man in the night. How could he tell
such a sound from any other sound in a large hotel? That point could be
disregarded, if it traversed the general conclusions.
The first clear deduction was that the man had meant to disappear.
Why else should he draw all his money? He had got out of the hotel
during the night. But there is a night porter in all hotels, and it is
impossible to get out without his knowledge when the door is once shut.
The door is shut after the theatre-goers return--say at twelve o’clock.
Therefore, the man left the hotel before twelve o’clock. He had come
from the music-hall at ten, had changed his clothes, and had departed
with his bag. No one had seen him do so. The inference is that he had
done it at the moment when the hall was full of the returning guests,
which is from eleven to eleven-thirty. After that hour, even if the
door were still open, there are few people coming and going so that he
with his bag would certainly have been seen.
Having got so far upon firm ground, we now ask ourselves why a man who
desires to hide himself should go out at such an hour. If he intended
to conceal himself in London he need never have gone to the hotel at
all. Clearly then he was going to catch a train which would carry him
away. But a man who is deposited by a train in any provincial station
during the night is likely to be noticed, and he might be sure that
when the alarm was raised and his description given, some guard or
porter would remember him. Therefore, his destination would be some
large town which he would reach as a terminus where all his fellow
passengers would disembark and where he would lose himself in the
crowd. When one turns up the time-table and sees that the great Scotch
expresses bound for Edinburgh and Glasgow start about midnight, the
goal is reached. As for his dress-suit, the fact that he abandoned it
proved that he intended to adopt a line of life where there were no
social amenities. This deduction also proved to be correct.
I quote such a case in order to show that the general lines of
reasoning advocated by Holmes have a real practical application to
life. In another case, where a girl had become engaged to a young
foreigner who suddenly disappeared, I was able, by a similar process of
deduction, to show her very clearly both whither he had gone and how
unworthy he was of her affections.
On the other hand, these semi-scientific methods are occasionally
laboured and slow as compared with the results of the rough-and-ready,
practical man. Lest I should seem to have been throwing bouquets either
to myself or to Mr. Holmes, let me state that on the occasion of a
burglary of the village inn, within a stone-throw of my house, the
village constable, with no theories at all, had seized the culprit
while I had got no further than that he was a left-handed man with
nails in his boots.
The unusual or dramatic effects which lead to the invocation of Mr.
Holmes in fiction are, of course, great aids to him in reaching a
conclusion. It is the case where there is nothing to get hold of
which is the deadly one. I heard of such a one in America which would
certainly have presented a formidable problem. A gentleman of blameless
life starting off for a Sunday evening walk with his family, suddenly
observed that he had forgotten something. He went back into the house,
the door of which was still open, and he left his people waiting for
him outside. He never reappeared, and from that day to this there has
been no clue as to what befell him. This was certainly one of the
strangest cases of which I have ever heard in real life.
Another very singular case came within my own observation. It was
sent to me by an eminent London publisher. This gentleman had in his
employment a head of department whose name we shall take as Musgrave.
He was a hardworking person, with no special feature in his character.
Mr. Musgrave died, and several years after his death a letter was
received addressed to him, in the care of his employers. It bore the
postmark of a tourist resort in the west of Canada, and had the note
“Conflfilms” upon the outside of the envelope, with the words “Report
Sy” in one corner.
The publishers naturally opened the envelope as they had no note of
the dead man’s relatives. Inside were two blank sheets of paper. The
letter, I may add, was registered. The publisher, being unable to make
anything of this, sent it on to me, and I submitted the blank sheets
to every possible chemical and heat test, with no result whatever.
Beyond the fact that the writing appeared to be that of a woman there
is nothing to add to this account. The matter was, and remains, an
insoluble mystery. How the correspondent could have something so secret
to say to Mr. Musgrave and yet not be aware that this person had been
dead for several years is very hard to understand--or why blank sheets
should be so carefully registered through the mail. I may add that I
did not trust the sheets to my own chemical tests, but had the best
expert advice without getting any result. Considered as a case it was a
failure--and a very tantalizing one.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes has always been a fair mark for practical
jokers, and I have had numerous bogus cases of various degrees of
ingenuity, marked cards, mysterious warnings, cypher messages, and
other curious communications. It is astonishing the amount of trouble
which some people will take with no object save a mystification. Upon
one occasion, as I was entering the hall to take part in an amateur
billiard competition, I was handed by the attendant a small packet
which had been left for me. Upon opening it I found a piece of ordinary
green chalk such as is used in billiards. I was amused by the incident,
and I put the chalk into my waistcoat pocket and used it during the
game. Afterward, I continued to use it until one day, some months
later, as I rubbed the tip of my cue the face of the chalk crumbled
in, and I found it was hollow. From the recess thus exposed I drew out
a small slip of paper with the words “From Arsene Lupin to Sherlock
Holmes.”
Imagine the state of mind of the joker who took such trouble to
accomplish such a result.
One of the mysteries submitted to Mr. Holmes was rather upon the
psychic plane and therefore beyond his powers. The facts as alleged are
most remarkable, though I have no proof of their truth save that the
lady wrote earnestly and gave both her name and address. The person,
whom we will call Mrs. Seagrave, had been given a curious secondhand
ring, snake-shaped, and dull gold. This she took from her finger at
night. One night she slept with it on and had a fearsome dream in which
she seemed to be pushing off some furious creature which fastened its
teeth into her arm. On awakening, the pain in the arm continued, and
next day the imprint of a double set of teeth appeared upon the arm,
with one tooth of the lower jaw missing. The marks were in the shape of
blue-black bruises which had not broken the skin.
[Illustration]
“I do not know,” says my correspondent, “what made me think the ring
had anything to do with the matter, but I took a dislike to the thing
and did not wear it for some months, when, being on a visit, I took to
wearing it again.” To make a long story short, the same thing happened,
and the lady settled the matter for ever by dropping her ring into
the hottest corner of the kitchen range. This curious story, which
I believe to be genuine, may not be as supernatural as it seems. It
is well known that in some subjects a strong mental impression does
produce a physical effect. Thus a very vivid nightmare dream with the
impression of a bite might conceivably produce the mark of a bite.
Such cases are well attested in medical annals. The second incident
would, of course, arise by unconscious suggestion from the first. None
the less, it is a very interesting little problem, whether psychic or
material.
Buried treasures are naturally among the problems which have come
to Mr. Holmes. One genuine case was accompanied by a diagram here
reproduced. It refers to an Indiaman which was wrecked upon the South
African coast in the year 1782. If I were a younger man, I should be
seriously inclined to go personally and look into the matter.
The ship contained a remarkable treasure, including, I believe, the
old crown regalia of Delhi. It is surmised that they buried these near
the coast, and that this chart is a note of the spot. Each Indiaman in
those days had its own semaphore code, and it is conjectured that the
three marks upon the left are signals from a three-armed semaphore.
Some record of their meaning might perhaps even now be found in the old
papers of the India Office. The circle upon the right gives the compass
bearings. The larger semi-circle may be the curved edge of a reef or of
a rock. The figures above are the indications how to reach the X which
marks the treasure. Possibly they may give the bearings as 186 feet
from the 4 upon the semi-circle. The scene of the wreck is a lonely
part of the country, but I shall be surprised if sooner or later, some
one does not seriously set to work to solve the mystery--indeed at the
present moment there is a small company working to that end.
I must now apologise for this digressive chapter and return to the
orderly sequence of my career.