Conan Doyle's The Hound of the Baskervilles (review may 1902)
Conan Doyle's "The Hound of the Baskervilles" is a review written by Arthur Bartlett Maurice published in The Bookman (US version) in may 1902.
Review
Conan Doyle's "The Hound of the Baskervilles." *
A page at the beginning of The Hound of the Baskervilles contains the following note:
- MY DEAR ROBINSON:
- It was your account of a West Country legend which first suggested the idea of this little tale to my mind.
- For this, and for the help which you gave me in its evolution, all thanks.
- Yours most truly,
- A. CONAN DOYLE.
- Yours most truly,
When the subject of this story was first discussed in literary and publishing circles in London there prevailed the idea that Mr. Fletcher Robinson had in hand a story to which Dr. Doyle was lending some assistance, his name, and the character of Sherlock Holmes. A little later it was being said that Dr. Doyle and Mr. Robinson were in collaboration on this new Sherlock Holmes story. Finally the first instalment of the tale itself appeared as being the work of Dr. Doyle alone. Allusion to Mr. Fletcher Robinson was made only in a foot-note, in which the reputed writer courteously, but rather vaguely, thanked Mr. Robinson for one or two hints and suggestions that had been of some value to him in the writing of the story. Just what the meaning of all this was, just how much Mr. Robinson did contribute to the inception and the working out of The Hound of the Baskervilles, the reviewer is neither inclined nor prepared to say. Only there is in this book much that is materially different from the former work of Dr. Doyle in his detective stories, and the methods of Sherlock Holmes here are not entirely the methods of the astute, intellectual reasoner who ran Jefferson Hope to earth in The Study in Scarlet, and who by his systematic study of the records of Lloyds was able to connect the voyages of the Lone Star and the crimes of the Ku-Klux-Klan in The Five Orange Pips.
Although there is no intention here of telling the story of The Hound of the Baskervilles, it is necessary, in order to contrast the old methods of Sherlock Holmes with the new, to say something about those opening chapters in which the mystery is built up to arouse and baulk the curiosity of the reader. In a scene which is marred by a good deal of the byplay of the science of deduction in its worst form — a scene which seems to have been introduced for the purpose of proving to you rather defiantly that it is really the Sherlock Holmes of old — Holmes and Dr. Watson are shown talking together in their rooms in Upper Baker Street. There enters a certain Dr. Mortimer, a West Country practitioner. He is seeking the counsel of the great detective on a matter that is strange and delicate, and he begins his story by referring to the recent death of Sir Charles Baskerville, the head of the well-known North Devon family of Baskervilles, a man of great wealth and charity, whom the narrator has known well both personally and professionally. Sir Charles's death had been a peculiar one. He had gone out from Baskerville Hall late one night to walk up and down the Yew Alley, and it was at the end of this alley that his dead body was found some hours later. A drunken horse-dealer, who had been passing across the moor that night, had declared that he had heard cries, and there were several other attendant suspicious circumstances. A point that was afterward of use to Sherlock Holmes was that Sir Charles's footsteps "altered their character from the time that he passed the moor gate, and that he appeared from thence onward to have been walking upon his toes." But there were no signs of violence, and the coroner's jury had decided that death was the result of some long-standing organic disease. Such were the facts as known to Dr. Mortimer. He then took up the telling of that weird and uncanny legend of a remote day — the legend of the Hound of the Baskervilles — to which the story owes its fascination and its horror. Back somewhere in the seventeenth century there had been a Sir Hugo Baskerville, the wildest and crudest and most evil of all who had borne the Baskerville name. One Michaelmas, in company with five or six of his dissolute companions, he carried off the daughter of a neighbouring yeoman, and having brought her to Baskerville Hall, placed her in an upper chamber, while Hugo and his friends sat down to their nightly carouse. The maid, driven mad with fear at the sound of the oaths and shouting, escaped from her window by the aid of the growth of ivy, and started homeward across the moor. When Hugo learned of her flight, he became like one possessed of a devil, and swore that he would render that very night his body and soul to the Powers of Evil if he might overtake her. Then rushing from the room, he loosed his hounds, gave them the scent, and followed them himself on horseback. His comrades, starting in pursuit, soon came upon a shepherd crazed with fear who had indeed seen the unhappy maiden with the hounds upon her track. "But I have seen more than that," said he, "for Hugo Baskerville passed me on his black mare, and there ran mute behind him such a hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at my heels." The drunken squires cursed the shepherd and rode onward ; but soon there came across the moor Sir Hugo's mare with trailing bridle and empty saddle. A great fear came over the revellers ; they huddled close together, and it was only the three boldest who rode forward.
The moon was shining bright upon the clearing, and there in the centre lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen, dead of fear and of fatigue. But it was not the sight of her body, nor yet was it that of the body of Hugo Baskerville lying near her, which raised the hair upon the heads of these three dare-devil roysterers, but it was that, standing over Hugo, and plucking at his throat, there stood a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal eye has rested upon. And even as they looked, the thing tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life, still screaming, across the moor. One, it is said, died that very night of what he had seen, and the other twain were but broken men for the rest of their days.
Such was the legend of the Baskervilles, a wild tale preserved through the years by the peasantry of the moors, and given a peculiar horror by the wild nature of the country, and above all by the many strange and sometimes inexplicable form in which death had overtaken successive generations of the Baskervilles. The legend had come to prey upon the mind of each successive head of the house; on Sir Charles's mind it had so preyed as to strain his nervous system almost to the breaking point. He would not venture out upon the moor at night, and in countless conversations with his friend and medical adviser spoke of being constantly haunted by the idea of some ghastly presence. It was this that led Mortimer, after the death, to supplement the investigations of the local officials. The latter had found no footprints but those of Sir Charles ; Mortimer had found others — the footprint of a gigantic hound.
It is from this narrative, told by Dr. Mortimer, combining as it does the supernatural and the real, that Sherlock Holmes begins his work. From that point until the tale begins to draw near its close, the reader is constantly confronted by some new false clue or some seemingly inexplicable episode. Sir Charles had been himself childless and the eldest of three brothers. It is to the son of the second brother that the estate and wealth descends. The third brother, Roger Baskerville, was the black sheep of the family. He was obliged to leave England, and died in Central America. Thus briefly are we told of the family affairs, which begin to have importance only when the story is nearing its conclusion. The heir, young Sir Henry Baskerville, has been years away from home, farming in Canada. Recalled to England after the death of his uncle, he reaches London the day of Dr. Mortimer's consultation with Sherlock Holmes. Soon after his arrival several curious little things happen to him. One of his shoes, a new one, is stolen from his room at the hotel ; then returned, and an old one purloined in its place. Holmes and Watson follow him at a distance, and find that he is being shadowed by a black-bearded man in a hansom cab. A mysterious message is sent him, warning him if he values his life and his reason to keep away from the moor. In the treatment of this letter Dr. Doyle has shown us Sherlock Holmes at his very best — that Holmes whose deductions not only astound but convince. The message of warning has been formed by the expedient of pasting printed words upon a half sheet of foolscap paper. To be exact, it runs: "As you value your life or your reason, keep away from the moor." The word moor only was printed in ink. Holmes looks at it attentively, and then after a word or two to Mortimer and Sir Henry, turns to Watson, and asks for a copy of the Times of the day before.
"It is here in the corner."
"Might I trouble you for it, the inside page, please, with the leading articles?" He glanced swiftly over it, running his eyes up and down the columns. "Capital article this on free trade. Permit me to give you an extract from it: 'You may be cajoled into imagining that your own special trade or your own industry will be encouraged by a protective tariff, but it stands to reason that such legislation must, in the long run, keep away wealth from the country, diminish the value of our imports, and lower the general conditions of life in this island.' What do you think of that, Watson?" cried Holmes, in high glee, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. "Don't you think that is an admirable sentiment?"
Dr. Mortimer looked at Holmes with an air of professional interest, and Sir Henry Baskerville turned a pair of puzzled, dark eyes upon me.
"I don't know much about the tariff and things of that kind," said he; "but it seems to me that we've got a bit off the trail so far as that note was concerned."
"On the contrary, I think we are particularly hot upon the trail, Sir Henry. Watson here knows more about my methods than you do, but I fear that even he has not quite grasped the significance."
"No; I confess that I see no connection."
"And yet, my dear Watson, there is so very close a connection that the one is extracted out of the other. 'You,' 'your,' 'your,' 'life,' 'reason,' 'value,' 'keep away,' 'from the.' Don't you see now whence these words have been taken? If any possible doubt remains, it is settled by the fact that 'keep away' and 'from the' are cut out in one piece."
Here we have a touch of the old Sherlock Holmes of his best days. Ability to distinguish the type of one great newspaper from that of another would undoubtedly be one of Holmes's professional qualifications. It is all very striking and very plausible. At other times, however, the Holmes of this story is not nearly so happy.
In fact, throughout the greater part of the tale, Holmes is but a comparatively small factor. He is baulked in London by the cunning of the black-bearded man in the hansom cab, who recognises him and sends back a derisive message. Not one of his schemes results in any practical success. The narrative shifts from London to North Devon. Watson goes to Baskerville Hall with Sir Henry as a sort of personal guard, and also to describe what is going in weekly letters to Holmes, who remains in London. Mystery is piled on to mystery. False clues are introduced at every turn. A most dangerous convict escaped, and, hiding on the moor, heightens the horror of the situation. When one read this story in its serial form there was some thing picturesque and thrilling in the very absence and silence of Holmes. To the reader, as to Watson, everything is vague, dark, inexplicable ; we feel that it is Holmes in London who is picking up thread after thread, searching among musty archives for certain odds and ends of social history that shall elucidate it all, and rivet the incongruous links into a complete chain. This impression was admirably maintained throughout the greater part of the tale ; but when Holmes actually does appear, our belief in his infallibility and in his resemblance to the Holmes of Dr. Doyle's earlier stories is severely shaken. He has done practically nothing, and whatever acumen has been shown has been on the part of phlegmatic, stolid Watson. Even at the end of the narrative itself, at the supreme moment for which all had been waiting, we find that he has only partially guessed; and in that last chapter in which he endeavours to trace for Watson the chain of reasoning by which he reached the heart of the mystery, his explanations are woefully unsatisfactory and insufficient. As a story of mystery and horror, The Hound of the Baskervilles is a success; for Sherlock Holmes, the Master of the Science of Deduction, whose creator has proclaimed him the peer of Dupin and of Lecoq, it is a debacle.
- Arthur Bartlett Maurice.
(*) The Hound of the Baskervilles. By A. Conan Doyle. New York: McClure, Phillips and Company.
