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Please Continue Your Most
Interesting Statement
It’s difficult to imagine a world
without Sherlock Holmes. But what if Arthur Conan Doyle had had a busier medical
practice? Would he have had the time to write? And if he had, and his first major success had come
with Micah Clarke, would he have even thought to create Holmes? Doyle
was never as enamoured of the detective as he was of his historical stories,
and it’s unlikely the Baker Street sleuth would exist were it not for the
doldrums he experienced at his Southsea practice.
Alternatively, what if
Doyle was ill and never went to dinner with the editor of Lippincott’s
Magazine? The Sign of Four might never have been written and Micah
Clarke would stand alone as a mildly interesting example of nineteenth
century sensationalistic prose, a footnote in academic textbooks. And if
neither of these two novels had been published, what would Doyle have written
for The Strand? Brigadier Gerard a few years before his time? Professor
Challenger two decades early? Perhaps we would have got Sherlock Holmes,
perhaps not.
But this book is about what
we have got. Four novels. Fifty-six short stories. The so-called ‘sacred
texts’. The Penguin editions sit next to me as I write this, in a little pile
11cm high, and I think Doyle would laugh if he knew the reverence people show
to them. He was as good as he could be, but he was, when all is said and done,
just a jobbing writer. A highly professional writer, but a jobbing one
nonetheless. His Holmes was an entertainment, a diversion, a character he
devoted just enough time to, and no more. His real interests lay elsewhere. He
loved his romanticised historical fiction, exemplified
by Rodney Stone. He loved his wives. He loved his country. He cared
passionately about social justice and parity between the sexes. He championed
the underdog. He believed in fairies.
If Doyle was still alive
and you happened to mention Sherlock Holmes to him, I imagine that he would
raise his eyebrows and say, ‘Oh yes, him. Now, let’s talk about
something interesting.’ Which should make us all the more grateful that we have
such a rich legacy to look back on. The stories are (for the most part)
beautifully crafted little tales, full of character, incident and revelation.
Holmes is not an identikit set of characteristics, as has sometimes been
claimed, and Watson is far from boring. Quite simply, they are real people
caught up in real dramas. What is more, the bond of friendship between them is
utterly believable, utterly right. Holmes needs Watson as much as Watson
needs Holmes. They are mutually dependent – as all real friendships should be.
One tense, intellectual, artistic; the other quiet, stable, sensible. They are
like a comfortably married couple – only without the sex. Yes, even though they
strolled along arm in arm once, please note their relationship is purely platonic;
don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
There
have been many attempts to fathom why these stories are so popular. Reading
them again in one fell swoop for this guide I was struck by the number of
similar themes:
-
Holmes and Watson are rarely in danger (neither is ever
imprisoned, tied up, kidnapped etc.).
-
The good
guys are obvious from the start (except, oddly enough, in the four novels).
-
Holmes
invariably says, ‘I have never seen such a singular case,’ or words to that
effect.
-
The gender
of letter writers is always obvious.
-
Most of
the crimes boil down to relationship problems (usually involving a ménage à
trois).
-
The
murders are often hastily covered-up accidents or the result of crime
passionel.
-
The
obvious culprit is always innocent.
-
Holmes
invariably takes the law into his own hands.
-
The
criminal, once discovered, normally says, in effect, ‘It’s a fair cop’, and
explains all.
These elements are part of a formula that makes the Sherlock Holmes stories so
engaging. Familiarity breeds contempt, but it can also equally engender
affection. Who but a robot does not feel a warm glow as Holmes stares out of
the window at the glowering clouds, Watson glances through a medical journal,
and the soft footfall of their next client is heard upon the stair? Who does
not feel a strange thrill as the aforesaid client describes the mystery and
Holmes interrupts to ask one of his peculiar questions? Ah, you think, he’s
onto it already. You sit back and let the story unfold around you, safe in the
knowledge that the Great Detective is never wrong. (Well, hardly ever.)
Odd, then, that so much
controversy rages over such gently absorbing stories. Sherlock Holmes aficionados have been debating
for decades the dating of the stories, the precise location of 221B Baker Street, the number of Watson’s marriages, the Christian names of the (three?)
Moriartys, the cause of Holmes’ misogyny, the disappearance of Watson’s dog…
the list of niggling inconsistencies goes ever on. Papers have been written,
books published, speeches made. And we’re still no closer to the truth. Which
is, as I’ve said, that Doyle was a jobbing writer and the internal continuity
of stories written over a period of forty years just did not interest him. And
why should it?
If you visit Baker Street, you’ll find a block of luxury apartments
now straddling the famous 221B address, where the former Abbey National
building once stood (it covered 215–229). But just down the street is the Sherlock Holmes Museum at the fictional 221B (actually
239). There you can curl up in front of a roaring fire with a deerstalker
perched on your head while a young and attractive Mrs Hudson snaps your
picture. And opposite you’ll find
a bright, friendly shop selling Sherlock Holmes memorabilia. You can witness at
first hand the genuine props
from the Granada TV series, guided by a chap in a grey ulster and deerstalker.
It’s all so damned… British. So whether you’re new to the whole
business, whether you’ve only seen a few Basil Rathbone films (and there’s nothing
wrong with that) or whether you’re one of those who play ‘The Great Game’ and
think Sherlock Holmes is real, I hope this short book provides a decent
introduction to this quintessentially British phenomenon.
Sixty stories, millions of
readers, three centuries of enjoyment.
Cheers, Sir Arthur. Thank
goodness you weren’t very busy.
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Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Arthur Conan Doyle (‘Conan’ derived from his great-uncle Michael Conan, a distinguished journalist) was born on 22 May 1859 at 11 Picardy Place, Edinburgh, the son of Charles Altamont Doyle and Mary (née Foley) and the second of ten children, of whom seven survived. Doyle’s father was a civil servant and artist, and his grandfather John Doyle was known as the caricaturist ‘HB’. His brothers were also creative: Henry became the manager of the National Gallery in Dublin, James wrote The Chronicle of England and Richard, better known as ‘Dicky Doyle’, was a cover designer for Punch magazine.
In 1868 Doyle attended the Jesuit preparatory school of Hodder in Lancashire for two years, before spending a further seven at Stonyhurst. It was here that he rejected Catholicism in favour of agnosticism. At 16 he did a further year in a Jesuit school at Feldkirch in the Austrian Tyrol (where he lapped up tales by Edgar Allan Poe) before returning to his birthplace to study medicine at Edinburgh University from 1876 to 1881.
His first published piece, a letter entitled Gelseminum as a Poison, appeared in the British Medical Journal of 20 September 1879. It detailed the effect of the drug on his own system. His first (uncredited) short story, The Mystery of Sasassa Valley,was published in the popular Chambers Edinburgh Journal in October that year.
In 1880, Doyle sailed to the Arctic Circle as an unqualified surgeon on the 400-ton Greenland whaling ship Hope. A year later he graduated from Edinburgh University as Bachelor of Medicine and Master of Surgery, and attempted to replicate the su...
