Posts Tagged ‘Arthur Conan Doyle’

Holmes’ final problems

As is well known, Conan Doyle killed off his creation Sherlock Holmes in the story “The Final Problem” in 1893, but, due, it is claimed, to public pressure, but more, I suspect, because he missed writing these stories, brought him back to life again ten years later in “The Empty House”. The resurrection isn’t s ingenious as is often claimed: there was, after all, no body recovered from the Reichenbach Falls, into which Holmes was supposed to have fallen, locked in deadly combat with Professor Moriarty; and this makes me wonder whether Conan Doyle wanted all along to keep up his sleeve the option of bringing Holmes back at some later date. He tested out the waters, as it were, two years before “The Empty House” with The Hound of the Baskervilles – a story that had presumably taken place before the incident at the Reichenbach Falls – and its spectacular success indicated there was still a strong public appetite for Holmes & Watson. And so, in 1903, back to life Holmes came – not in stories that had taken place before his presumed death, but in the here-and-now. And to the delight of Holmesians both then and now, “The Empty House” was followed in the Strand magazine by twelve others, and afterwards published together in The Return of Sherlock Holmes.

There are those, it must be said, who feel that Holmes wasn’t quite the same after the resurrection – that the earlier stories are superior to what followed. I think this is palpable nonsense. The best stories in this collection are among the finest in the entire canon – “The Priory School”, “The Six Napoleons”, “The Abbey Grange”, etc.; and, looking through the thirteen titles, there doesn’t seem to me to be a single weak link – certainly nothing as weak as, say “A Case of Identity” (in the first collection The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes), or “The Stockbroker’s Clerk” (which is effectively an inferior re-run of “The Red-Headed League”) in the second collection, The Memoirs. Indeed, The Return of Sherlock Holmes may well be the finest and most consistently inspired of the five collections.

However, it is much harder, it seems to me, to defend the fifth ad final collection, The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes. After The Return, instead of publishing planned sets, Conan Doyle wrote and published these stories more sporadically – much as fancy took him. His Last Bow, published in 1917, is a collection of seven of these stories, along with the earlier story “The Cardboard Box”, one of the very finest of the entire canon. (This story had been published in the Strand magazine as early as January 1893, but Conan Doyle had omitted it from the collection The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, deeming it unsuitable for younger readers.) With the possible exception of “The Dying Detective”, every single story in His Last Bow seems to me a masterpiece, and two of them – “The Devil’s Foot” and “The Bruce-Partington Plans” – seem to me quite exceptional. The collection wraps up with the title story, “His Last Bow”, a tale of Holmes, now approaching old age, lending his talents to the British secret services, and foiling an espionage attempt on the eve of the First World War.

But despite the title of the last story, Conan Doyle, it seems, couldn’t stop writing about Holmes and Watson. Between 1921 and 1927, twelve more stories were published in Strand, and these, collected together in The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes, gave us, most finally and most definitively, his last last bow. And this final collection, it must be admitted, is harder to defend than the earlier collections had been. However, when you’re a fan, you’re a fan, and even the least of these stories is of interest. And, reading them over recently, I found them far more interesting than I had remembered.

Let us admit first of all – and get it over with – that there are a number of weak stories here. There are two stories here narrated by Holmes himself (“The Blanched Soldier” and “The Lion’s Mane”), and neither of these can be counted great successes. Holmes being the narrator isn’t really new: in two of the stories in The Memoirs (“The Gloria Scott” and “The Musgrave Ritual”), while Watson had provided the narrative framework, it was Holmes who had narrated the bulk of the story, and his storytelling there was certainly better than it is here. Furthermore, the two cases here are solved not by detection, but by Holmes having retained some esoteric facts at the back of his encyclopaedic mind.

“The Mazarin Stone” too, is weak. Conan Doyle was, it seems, attempting to emulate stage productions, so the whole thing emerges as a conversation piece, with the entire exposition, development and denouement all taking place in the same set (Holmes’ front room in 221b Baker Street), and in the time it takes to read the story. It doesn’t really come off, I’m afraid.

“The Three Garridebs” is an inferior re-hash of “The Stockbroker’s Clerk”, which is itself an inferior re-hash of “The Red-Headed League”; but it’s hard to regret this story, especially given the rare moment of tenderness Holmes displays for Watson when his friend is wounded by a gunshot. And while “The Veiled Lodger” doesn’t really display any detection work, it is redeemed by a genuinely interesting and thrilling backstory. And also by this delicious passage:

The discretion and high sense of professional honour which have always distinguished my friend are still at work in the choice of these memoirs, and no confidence will be abused. I deprecate, however, in the strongest way the attempts which have been made lately to get at and to destroy these papers. The source of these outrages is known, and if they are repeated, I have Mr Holmes’s authority for saying that the whole story concerning the politician, the lighthouse, and the trained cormorant will be given to the public. There is at least one reader who will understand.

Throughout this collection, there are tantalising references to other cases – most memorably near the start of “The Sussex Vampire”, where we are told of the case of the Giant Rat of Sumatra – “a story for which the world is not yet prepared”. Heard melodies are sweet, as the poet said, but those unheard are sweeter.

The one story in this collection I find hard to defend is “The Three Gables”. The story itself is pretty thin; and while we are accustomed to Holmes taking the law into his hands and letting the criminal off, it is hard to see why he does so in this case. And it is harder still to defend some of the comments made by Holmes to Steve Dixie – comments which, certainly by modern standards, can only be regarded as racist. (And the fact that Steve Dixie is a vicious thug hardly excuses Holmes’ comments.) Of course, they were different times, and the standards of what is acceptable have changed, but it’s nonetheless disappointing, especially given how warmly appreciative both Holmes and Watson had been of racial tolerance and of racial integration in the earlier (and rather touching) story “The Yellow Face”. If I had to lose just one story in the canon, this, I fear, would be it.

But the other stories in this collection I would strongly defend. “The Retired Colourman” and “Shoscombe Old Place” may not be Holmes and Watson at their best, but they are fine stories nonetheless. (In “Shoscombe Old Place”, Conan Doyle leads Holmes and Watson, quite successfully, I think, into the regions of Gothic horror.) And the much reviled “The Creeping Man” seems to me a splendid science fiction story: it is quite clearly a nod towards Stevenson’s Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, and, while the science in the story may not exactly be watertight (any more than in Stevenson’s story), it is worth it if only for Holmes’ rather melancholy observation “When one tries to rise above Nature, one is liable to fall beneath it”.

But I’ve kept the three best ones till the last. If “The Creeping Man” is Conan Doyle’s riff on Jekyll and Hyde, “The Sussex Vampire” is clearly a response to Bram Stoker’s Dracula. And it’s a superb story. As in some other stories that hint at the supernatural (The Hound of the Baskervilles, “The Devil’s Foot”), the truth is entirely rational: Holmes (unlike his creator) will not have it any other way:

“Rubbish, Watson, rubbish! What have we to do with walking corpses who can only be held in their grave by stakes driven through their hearts? It’s pure lunacy.”

But even without the supernatural, Conan Doyle communicates powerfully an atmosphere of fear and of mystery, and this story would not have been out of place in any of the earlier collections. Neither would “The Illustrious Client”, in which Holmes is up against a truly formidable opponent, and which has one of the most thrilling denouements in the entire canon. But best of all, probably, is “Thor Bridge”: reading this intriguing story, with its ingenious solution, it’s like being back in old times again. Place this story in any of the earlier collections, and it would still stand out as one of the best.

So a mixed bag, all in all, and even though, overall, it doesn’t quite match up to the earlier collections, no self-respecting Holmesian would be without it.

There were no more comebacks after this one: this was, most definitely, the final curtain. We needn’t repine: this was the right place to stop. With the possible exception of “The Three Gables” – and even that I think I’d be sorry to lose – there’s not a single one of these fifty-six short stories (and four novels) that I would want to be without. Why? Oh, I don’t know … There are certain things that defy explanation.

Sherlock Holmes and the deerstalker

This post is really only for Sherlock Holmes fans. (That is, fans of the Conan Doyle stories: I have to add this rider as there seem nowadays to be many who describe themselves as Sherlock Holmes fans, but who appear neither to have read nor are interested in reading the stories.)  It’s not that you can’t read this post if you’re not a fan – we like to think we’re inclusive on this blog – but I’ll be delving here into Holmesian matters so esoteric and arcane, that those less than obsessed with these stories may well be thinking to themselves “What a sad git!”

Now the preliminaries are over with, let us begin.

Dear fellow anoraks,

Whose invention was the deerstalker? Conan Doyle never mentions the deerstalker explicitly, but near the start of the story “Silver Blaze” (Dec, 1892) we do get this:

“… Sherlock Holmes, with his sharp, eager face framed in his ear-flapped travelling-cap …”

Although not explicitly mentioned, it’s obvious what Conan Doyle meant. And Sidney Paget obliged, illustrating “Silver Blaze” with the now iconic picture of Holmes and Watson sitting in a railway carriage, with Holmes dressed in an Inverness cape and deerstalker hat.

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Sidney Paget’s illustration for “Silver Blaze”

However, there is more to it than that. Just over a year earlier, Paget had drawn a very similar picture, again showing Holmes in his deerstalker (though not, I think, the Inverness cape), for “The Boscombe Valley Mystery” (Oct, 1891). And, as far as I am aware, the deerstalker is not mentioned, directly or indirectly, either in “The Boscombe Valley Mystery”, or in any of the earlier stories.

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Sidney Paget’s illustration for “the Boscombe Valley Mystery”

So, the absence of any evidence to the contrary leads me to deduce that the deerstalker was indeed Sidney Paget’s invention, and that, rather than the illustrator following the author, as is usually the case, here, it was Conan Doyle following his illustrator by giving Holmes the deerstalker in “Silver Blaze”.

And also, as far as I can remember, Conan Doyle never mentions, nor even describes anything that could resemble, the Inverness cape. That too, it appears, was Sidney Paget’s invention.

Of course, there was nothing particularly unusual about a deerstalker in those days. Gentlemen often wore it, especially when out hunting. (Which, in effect, is what Sherlock Holmes was doing.) The deerstalker was one of several items of headwear that Paget had drawn for Holmes. But, curiously, those other items of headgear (including, once, a top hat) haven’t remained in the popular imagination: it is the image of the deerstalker that has stuck – to such an extent that one cannot even think of such a hat without picturing Sherlock Holmes.

For this, I think we have primarily to thank William Gillette, the American actor who, in 1899, adapted Holmes for the stage, and played the character over 1000 times. (He also played Holmes in a silent film in 1916.) It was he who popularised the Inverness cape and the deerstalker that Paget had introduced, and had added to it the curly pipe, which appears nowhere either in Conan Doyle’s text nor in Paget’s illustrations. Indeed, in “The Red-Headed League”, the pipe is described as “black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird”; and whenever Paget drew Holmes with a pipe (as in the picture below illustrating “The Man with the Twisted Lip”), he invariably drew it as a straight pipe.

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Sidney Paget’s illustration for “The Man with the Twisted Lip”

Later, of course, came the Basil Rathbone-Nigel Bruce films, and the deerstalker, Inverness cape, and curly pipe became synonymous with Holmes. And that image remains. Even Jeremy Brett – perhaps now the most widely seen Sherlock Holmes on screen – donning various items of headgear other than the deerstalker has failed to dent this popular image.

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Now, those of you who aren’t Holmes fans but who have, despite my advice, read this far, may well be thinking to themselves “So what?” Well, so nothing, really. It’s just that I’m something of an anorak in these matters, and, as I sit on my patio this sunny Sunday afternoon, a drink in one hand and a book of Sherlock Holmes stories in the other, these, rather than more profound questions concerning the nature of our lives, are matters I find myself musing upon. Perhaps, if I put a bit of effort into it, I could develop this stub of a post into something more of general interest, and reflect upon how myths develop in the popular imagination, and upon how creations of the imagination, once created, assume a life independent of the creator; and so on. Well, yes, maybe. But I am enjoying this summer afternoon on my patio too much right now to go into all that. Some other time, maybe.

Now back to “The Red Circle”…

Holmes, Watson, and the Hound from Hell

What this blog needs is a bit of controversy. We haven’t had any for quite some time now. So here goes:

The Hound of the Baskervilles would have been better had it not been a Sherlock Holmes story.

There, I’ve said it. If, by tomorrow, the below-the-line comments section isn’t full of “disgusted-from-Tunbridge-Wells” messages, I shall be…

Well, I don’t know what I shall be, to be honest. Disappointed, I suppose. But to have finished that sentence with “disappointed” seemed terribly anti-climactic, and, as any guide to effective writing should tell you, when you don’t know what to write next, stick in an ellipsis. Never fails.

But, shocking or not, it is true: Conan Doyle should have kept Holmes out of The Hound of the Baskervilles. The novel was serialised between 1901 and 1902 – that is, some eight years after he had killed Holmes off in “The Final Problem” in 1893, and shortly before he brought Holmes back to life again in “The Empty House” (which was published only a few months after the last  instalment of The Hound of  the Baskervilles). Perhaps Conan Doyle brought Holmes and Watson into the Baskervilles story as a sort of trial run, as it were, to get himself into practice for the stories he knew were to come. But, I can’t help feeling, it was a wrong decision, and rather spoils what could otherwise have been one of the very finest of supernatural stories.

There are at least a couple of other stories in the canon that seem to promise the supernatural, without delivering on it: “The Devil’s Foot”, and “The Sussex Vampire” readily come to mind. (Although, in fairness, it has to be said that the rational explanation in “The Devil’s Foot” – one of the very finest entries in the canon – is as terrifying as anything the supernatural genre might have to offer.) Holmes himself is, as is to be expected from the possessor of so rational a mind, scathing about the very concept of the supernatural. As he says in “The Sussex Vampire”:

“Rubbish, Watson, rubbish! What have we to do with walking corpses who can only be held in their grave by stakes driven through their hearts? It’s pure lunacy.”

For Holmes to have been forced to concede that the supernatural is indeed a real force would have been to concede defeat. That, in itself, is not a problem: there are many stories in which Holmes is actually wrong, and is defeated. But this particular defeat would have taken the stories into a different direction: it would have pulled them towards the genre of the supernatural story, rather than the tale of detection. And while Conan Doyle was certainly no slouch with supernatural stories, he obviously preferred to keep the Sherlock Homes stories very much on the this-worldly side rather than the other-worldly. Which meant that the apparently supernatural elements had to be explained away at the end with rational explanations. And in the case of The Hound of the Baskervilles, these rational explanations, while eliminating the supernatural, do, I’m afraid, lend the ending of the novel a certain unfortunate resemblance to Scooby Doo.

There’s also a problem with the villain. When it comes to enemies and antagonists, Conan Doyle had created some of the finest and more memorable, but the villain in The Hound of the Baskervilles (I won’t name him, in case anyone reading this has not yet had the pleasure of reading the novel) is not amongst them: he is utterly unremarkable. It’s almost as if Conan Doyle had put in so much in creating an aura of supernatural evil, he didn’t seem to have much imagination to spare in creating a comparable picture of mere human evil. To find compelling pictures of human evil it is to the other Sherlock Holmes stories we must go.

And, it seems to me, all the many adaptations of this story, even the best of them, suffer from these shortcomings of the novel. Never have I seen an adaptation with a memorable villain; and the ending, with all those rational explanations, has always seemed to me disappointing. I am still awaiting an adaptation that changes Conan Doyle’s ending, and actually makes the Hound  from Hell a diabolic manifestation of evil rather than merely a big dog with a mask; and where, at the end, Holmes is forced to concede that a rational mind such as his could only take one so far, and that there are certain domains of experience that are beyond his ken. Why no adaptation has yet tried this, I really am not sure.

That the novel so effortlessly (and so deservedly) holds its place as a classic despite all this is a testament to just how damn good it is. My first reading of this remains one of my happiest memories: I was 11 years old, and had checked this book out of the children’s section of Bishopbriggs public  library, not really knowing  what to expect, and oh! – the hours I spent avidly reading and re-reading that book up in my room while my parents thought I was profitably employed doing my homework! Nowadays, in the midst of all the various everyday stresses and pressures – the very existence of which I hadn’t even suspected at that age – I find that memories of reading those stories for the first time, as well, of course, as the stories themselves, help sustain and nourish. Odd, I know, but there it is.

The book splits itself into three parts. In the first part, set in London, we are unmistakably in the world of detective fiction: there are those marvellous deductions Holmes makes in the first chapter merely from observing a walking stick (all those years away from writing Holmes and Watson stories had  not diminished Conan Doyle’s mastery of this kind of thing); there’s that anonymous warning note made from newspaper cuttings, the mysterious missing boot, the strange man with the beard trailing them in the hansom cab … it’s all gripping stuff. And, of course, there’s that old document narrating the tale of Sir Hugo Baskerville, who brings the curse down on the family: here, Conan Doyle goes into the realms of folklore, and conjures up a splendid ripping yarn that could stand as an independent short story in its own right. But then, the scene changes, and we find ourselves in a very different fictional world. We’re in Dartmoor now: the thick mist swirls outside, over the moors, and over the deadly Grimpen Mire, as the Hound howls dementedly like a creature hot from Hell itself … It held me spellbound as a boy, and it doesn’t require much suspension of disbelief on my part to be held spellbound by it all over again, even in my now advancing years. The tone changes again in the final section of the book back towards the detective story it always set out to be – rather unfortunately, in my opinion – but no matter: it’s still good stuff, and nothing, absolutely nothing, could spoil what had come before.

Last week, I was in the Bracknell branch of Waterstones during lunchtime, and I got into a conversation with a lady who was looking at the Sherlock Holmes books. She was looking for an edition of these stories as a tenth birthday present for her granddaughter. I am not sure why, but it fair gladdened my heart, so it did, and a broad grin spread involuntarily across my face. We chatted a bit about the stories, I made a few recommendations about the various editions available, and I felt unaccountably happy for the rest of the day. How wonderful, I felt, to be that age, and to be reading those stories for the first time!

Well, now that this post, which I had started off intending to be controversial, has descended into yet another affectionate and nostalgic wallow, I suppose I had better stop. I suppose John le Carré was right when he observed “Nobody writes of Holmes and Watson without love”. I guess my edgy and controversial post had best wait till another time