by Неизвестный
Goodbye, dear. There is a good time coming down here. We have everyone’s good name and respect and affection from not a few, without as far as I know an enemy so we are bound to succeed.
Conan Doyle continued to make a favourable impression upon the Literary & Scientific Society, and was shortly elected to its council. He was not the main speaker at the January meeting he attended with Connie, but its keynote address, ‘Archaeological and Antiquarian Notes of Hampshire’, must have appealed to the man who would set his medieval novel The White Company there.
Then suddenly, Conan Doyle said in Memories and Adventures, he found himself ‘a unit in the British Army’ without even having to leave home:
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… 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 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.
It brought Conan Doyle into closer contact, in fact, with men who served as models for literary characters ranging from Dr Watson (‘In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the army’) to Sherlock Holmes’s would-be killer Colonel Sebastian Moran, no more savage-looking than Sir Anthony Home, V.C.
to Mary Doyle SOUTHSEA, FEBRUARY 1884
You will see by the enclosed that I am starting in a new line as Instructor to her Majesty’s forces. Of course the appointment is an honorary one but I go in for keeping my name before the public.
Connie went off on Saturday as Auntie wrote to say she wished her then. I gave her 30/—including her ticket to London. If there is any deficit no doubt Auntie will make it up. I want the boy to load himself with plunder when he is there—They ought to send a lot to this great unfurnished house. Mrs Smith will mend the stockings when the boy comes. My dear, if we possibly could we would have the case in in a moment. It is a fine article of furniture but it is a case of cubic feet & inches. It is over 10 feet long without any break or possibility of separating it but we shall make our back room our best one soon, and then it will be where it deserves to be.
Cassells wrote down asking me to write a story about Dr Price the Druidical madman. I went at it furiously and finished it in 3 days. It went up this morning & will do, I think.* I also have a commission from them for any sort of story. Then I have ideas about the strange circumstances connected with the death of John Barrington Cowles which may do for Cornhill. I have sent ‘The Midnight Visitor’ to Temple Bar but hear nothing. John Smith I am rewriting—so altogether you must confess I am busy tending my little literary sprouts and making them into cabbages.
Connie has left a great name behind her, ‘her beauty is only equalled by the sweetness of her manners’, was one opinion I heard yesterday (from a lady).
‘Connie wears her hair down her back in a thick plait, like the cable of a man of war,’ he reported to Lottie: ‘She is exceedingly pretty with a high cold keep-your-hands-off sort of expression. She seemed to enjoy herself very much and was much grieved to go. I took her to one dance while she was here, and I kept her continually on the trot.’
As he struggled to balance the demands of his practice and his writing, Conan Doyle fell ill with a malaria-like sickness he attributed to his time in West Africa. Too ill to sit, he made light of the situation so his mother would not be alarmed at the sight of his unsteady handwriting.
to Mary Doyle SOUTHSEA, FEBRUARY 1884
Don’t be in the least disturbed by the fact of my indicting this epistle from bed. I have had a slight return of my old African fever but that passed away very nicely leaving behind a few slight bladder symptoms for which I am mollycoddling myself. They are not of the least importance but it is just as well to get rid of them as soon as possible. Besides there is not much business just now and I find I can write my rough copies very much more fluently in bed—so there I lie, like an oriental potentate with my books, pencils, papers &c.and scribble muchly. When patient time comes (6 P.M.) I wash, dress, go down, & interview all comers. I think if I went in exclusively for literature I should spend half my time in bed—my ideas really seem to flow better. Now don’t imagine I am really seedy or anything of the sort. I will be as well as ever in a day or two. Pike has been looking after me, and I am bound to say no brother could have been kinder. I shall make him some little present when I am flush.
The boy is looking wonderfully well. We were all pleased (all means about 20 intimates) to read the dashing account of the run in the Field and to see the young man’s name figuring so prominently.* Albeit I hate the sight of a horse, I was much interested in the account and should much like to have seen Mr Burrow’s long jump. By the way I saw the longest jump on record, you know—at the Birmingham Agricultural Show where a horse ran away, jumped over the crowd, 6 deep, and over an open carriage with people in it behind—33 feet from hind feet to hind feet.
I am thinking of publishing my opera collecta or the pick of them if Smith Elder & Co see their way to it. What think you of ‘Twilight Tales’ for a name. You see it would have a double meaning—not only as being tales suitable for the gloaming, but as treating of the strange twilight land between the natural and the absolutely supernatural (animal magnetism—mesmerism—and these other acknowledged powers play a large part in them). Such tales as ‘The Captain of the Pole-Star’ ‘The Winning Shot’ ‘Habakuk’ ‘John Barrington Cowles’ (which I am writing just now) & others would justify the title. Still horrible but not supernatural are ‘The Gully of Bluemansdyke’ ‘The Silver Hatchet’ ‘My Friend the Murderer’ ‘The Bloodstone’ (Cassell’s Sat. Mag.). And then in a lighter strain comes ‘The Heiress of Glenmahowley’ ‘Bones’ ‘The Derby Sweepstakes’ ‘The Little Square Box’ ‘In Search of a Ghost’ (December Lond. Soc.). ‘Professor von Spee’s Xmas Eve’ und so weiter. By the way did you ever read ‘Gentlemanly Joe’ in May All the Year Round. It seemed to be a favourite with everyone.
Very many thanks for the cheque! There must be some subtle sympathy between us for you always seem to know when I am hard up without my telling you. It was invaluable just now. Whenever I am better I go to London and A.A. tells me she has 6 rosewood chairs—a sofa—and a table for me, so I shall carry some booty back with me. There are several insurance cases in London and I want to push Insurance very hard this month so as to get as much as possible towards the rent for next month. I have got 3 nice engravings of hers in the Consulting Room. Also I have had that picture you sent me of Papa’s nicely framed. I have now in the Consulting Room 16 pictures hung—including 9 Charles Doyles—which 16 pictures I value at something over £100. Ha! Madam, see what a great thief you have for a son.
No I never got poor John Smith, I am going to rewrite him from memory, but my hands are very full just now.
‘Door John Smith’ refers to the manuscript of a novel with a ‘personal-social-political complexion’, The Narrative of John Smith. No sooner did he dispatch it to a publisher than it went missing in the post, ‘and from that day to this no word has ever been heard of it,’ he claimed. ‘Of course it was the best thing I ever wrote. Who ever lost a manuscript that wasn’t? But I must in all honesty confess that my shock at its disappearance would be as nothing to my horror if it were suddenly to appear again—in print.’*
to Mary Doyle SOUTHSEA, FEBRUARY 1884
By the way Burton, I hear, is writing a novel in which I am one of the principal characters—which I tell him is done in order to make sure of one subscriber to his book.†
to Mary Doyle SOUTHSEA, MARCH 2, 1884
As I have a clear half hour I think I can’t do better than let you know how the world goes with us and thank you for your last cheery letter. I have been hard at work at my stories, as you will see from the list here of ones actually done and gone.
The Bloodstone
(Cassell’s Sat. Journ) Published and paid for. £2.17.0.
Barrington Cowles Sent also to Cassells—a long seven or eight pound story (if they take it).
Our Midnight Visitor. Accepted by Temple Bar—will be ten or twelve pounds but will come just too late for the rent at end of month.
A Day on the Island. Accepted by the Photographic Journal. That will be thirty bob or so at the end of the month.
The Man with the Mattock. A fine thirty page sensational hairraiser and vitality absorber. Sent off to Cornhill tonight. Will probably come back but is sure of a berth somewhere.*
That is good work—all done in less than six weeks except the Temple Bar one. As to the rent on the 24th the Gresham owe me seven guineas payable on the 20th, so it will be odd if I can’t scrape the odd three together. I have some thirty pound at the very least owing me from medicine too, so bar accidents & disappointments I should do well. I should like to help the girls in their expences. Rent taxes & insurance take a lot out of me—but I have ceased to grudge the latter for when I had this little touch lately—which at one time, I don’t mind telling you now, looked very nasty indeed—it was very soothing to know that I should swindle the Company if I went wrong. I am as well now as ever I was in my life—so my chance of realising £1100 looks very fishy.
I am sure I inherit my storytelling from you, dear. Why not dash something off and try the Family Herald or Leisure Hour or Bow Bells. They are easy of admittance, comparatively, and pay quite well enough. If you can write as you tell stories you would do well.†
Am very busy just now—up all last night. No, I can hardly graduate this year. Money and time are alike short. About October next I might have a holiday in Edinburgh and take my Moral Phil.
On Easter Monday, April 14, Conan Doyle and Innes walked four miles to see a review of sixteen thousand volunteer soldiers on Portsdown Hill, a long chalk bluff with forts guarding Portsmouth’s shipyards. One newspaper estimated the crowd of spectators at one hundred thousand, and Conan Doyle described for his mother the manner in which some of the onlookers inadvertently became swept up in the action.
to Mary Doyle SOUTHSEA, APRIL 1884
We are en fete down here—the streets are full of uniforms, linesmen, marines, artillery, blue jackets, cavalrymen, grey clad London highlanders with woodcock crests, grey coloured rifles, black rifles, blue volunteer artillery, dark volunteer engineers—all with banderole and haversack, rifle and water bottle, ready to go anywhere and do anything—more particularly to drink as far as appearances go. The streets have triumphal arches across them, flags flutter from every window, and we are all in a highly patriotic and exemplary condition. It seems as far as I can learn that we are besieged, a column of our friends are marching from Fareham on the west to our relief. The enemy’s main body however which lies to the north, in a very vindictive and reprehensible manner detaches three columns and sends them down to intercept our relievers. At twelve o’clock on Monday comes the dread moment, though of course the forces have been on the move since Thursday. At that time however comes the terrible denouement. The enemy meet our friends and proceed to murder them wholesale. In the midst of this bloodthirsty business our garrison of 8000 men make a sortie and confusion becomes worse confounded. The battle rages furiously. Blank cartridges fly about in every direction. Riflemen expose themselves with a reckless dare devilry which fills the spectators with awe, and which if done in actual warfare would ensure a premature interview with their creator—and then the wild hurlyburly dies away and we all go home to tea. It seems I am to have no visitors after all, unless Reg turns up at the 11th hour.
I am writing at the 3 vol novel now—plot is done and first chapter, so it is fairly started. I have out now
Our Midnight Visitor— Temple Bar
Barrington Cowles— Cassell’s
Mysteries of London Growler— “
Photographic Article
Modern Arctic Discovery— Good Words
Man with the Mattock— Longman’s
Of these the first four are actually accepted. The others I know not of, but hope for the best. None have been paid for.
Goodbye, dearest, am off for a big walk to see our citizen soldiers.
to Mary Doyle SOUTHSEA, APRIL 1884
The tide of battle has rolled over us, the rival armies have disappeared, and on the field of carnage the foul bird flaps its heavy wings over the empty ginger beer bottle. While it lasted we had a great carnival. On the Saturday night Reg Hoare turned up, and he has been by my side during the fray. We had a capital view of the proceedings (which I shall probably report to the Brit. Journ. Phot) and enjoyed his visit much. He was astonished at the improvements which 6 months had wrought in the house—and six months ago he was equally surprised at the results of the preceding half year, and I venture to prophesy that he will undergo the same emotion on his next visit—All of which is a sign of healthy progress for after all furniture and house fittings are the best sort of capital for me at present and will give me best interest. How sayest thou? He went off yesterday and carried the boy off with him (R.R.H. paying all X’s)—so if you have any communications to address to your younger male you will find him in the neighbourhood of Aston. I enclose his school bill—It is my unhappy fate to be the messenger of bills, but no matter the time will come.
Your last letter did me good. I think that if I had a wife who could sympathize and stimulate as you do I would be a better man. Sometimes I am confident, at others very distrustful. I know I can write small stories in a taking way, but am I equal to a prolonged effort—can I extend a plot without weakening it—can I preserve the identity of a character throughout—these are the questions which vex me. I feel that my first chapter is good as average 3 vols go and I am well on with the second, but time will show whether I have good staying power. Anyway your letters act as a tonic and do me much good.
As to the opera collecta I shall, as I get money, get all my contributions and then apply to the various Editors for permission to use them. I don’t think Hogg would refuse me, for they are doing him no good now. I counted up the other day £126 which I had taken from literature—which is good for short stories.
By the way I am a teatotaller—I have taken the pledge for three months & mean keeping it too. The cricket season has begun, and I play in the Portsmouth eleven. In our first match against the Royal Engineers I made 27 and in our second—which was yesterday—against the United Service aided by a well known Nottingham bowler named Scotton, I made 11, so my average is very good.
Conan Doyle had come to realize that he could write short stories forever and never make any headway. ‘What is necessary,’ he concluded, ‘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.’ The three-decker novel upon which he pinned his hopes would be called The Firm of Girdlestone, whose Thomas Dimsdale, a medical student at Edinburgh University, seeks employment aboard an African trading vessel.
But while the story had interested him at the time, said Conan Doyle later, ‘I have never heard that it had the same effect upon anyone else
afterwards.’
to Mary Doyle SOUTHSEA
It is high time that you had some news from Southsea for we have been very silent of late. So have you—but I can quite understand that the presence of those two bouncing young ladies will take up all your time. Things are dull here—weather, trade, spirits and all things else. Nobody seems to have any money—and I am no exception to the general rule. Thank heavens I am owed about three or four times as much as I owe—yet it seems hard to have so much out and not be able to get it in. I have sent warning letters however to a few of the oldest offenders, telling them that I shall put their accounts into the hands of my solicitor. The novel keeps us somewhat poor also, because I write at it instead of working at what would bring in quicker but smaller returns. Still after all, in spite of the temporary discomfort of being short I have much to congratulate myself upon. The house is full of valuable furniture, which is all paid for and my own. Two years ago my name was unknown, and now I can say with confidence that it is better known and I hope respected in the town than that of any professional man of five years standing. When I see all my friends here whom I first knew a year or so ago stationary and exactly as they were, while such a great difference has come over my fortunes in the same time, I recognize that I have had great good luck.