Dr. A. Conan Doyle (report 13 november 1894)
Dr. A. Conan Doyle is an article published in The Yonkers Statesman on 13 november 1894.
Report of the lecture "Readings and Reminiscences" given by Arthur Conan Doyle on 12 november 1894 evening at John Kendrick Bangs' home (Yonkers, USA).
Report
DR. A. CONAN DOYLE.
Reminiscences and Readings by the Famous Author, at the Yonkers Lawn Tennis Club House — Large and Cultured Audience.
In the ball-room of the Yonkers Lawn Tennis Club House, on Monday evening, Dr. A. Conan Doyle, the celebrated author, lectured before an audience that comprised a large representation of the fashion and culture of this city.
At half-past 8 o'clock, when Dr. Doyle and John Kendrick Bangs, who is President of the Club and also a literary light of considerable magnitude, stepped upon the palm-bedecked platform, there was an outburst of applause. President Bangs said:
Among the many esteemed privileges I have had as a resident of Yonkers, I know of none that has given me greater pleasure than is afforded by this privilege of introducing to you Dr. A. Conan Doyle. A long and wordy introduction in behalf of one so well known to many through his stories, would be greatly out of place. It would remind me of a certain friend, who, some time ago, invited me to dinner, saying he had two very fine canvas back ducks. I sat down, and went through four or five different courses, and at last exclaimed: "Please bring on the ducks!" I fear, should I continue, that you will say: "Please bring on the ducks!"
Dr. Doyle is tall and heavily built, has a pleasant face, and dark smooth hair, and wears a moustache. His voice is deep and strong. He shows the diffidence of one who evidently does not fancy talking about himself. He spoke for an hour and a quarter — but the time could have been doubled, so far as the delighted audience was concerned. Frequent were the interruptions by laughter or applause.
It is not the most satisfactory thing to stand on a platform and talk about one's own work,
began the lecturer, yet perhaps something I have written has come in your way, and a kind of friendship has sprung up between us.
I well remember my first acquaintance with a literary man. It was at my father's house in Edinburg, where I was born. My father was an artist. I remember, one evening, when I was very small, there came into our home a man whom I distinctly remember to be of gigantic size. His voice filled the place, and long after I had gone to bed I could hear him roaring in conversation with my father. That man was William Makepeace Thackeray. I am fortunate to say that I sat upon his knee.
I owe to my mother much of this faculty of a well-told tale. She had a remarkable gift in that respect. If I could only thrill a person with a tale as she could! I had a desire to write stories when quite young. It broke out at the age of 6. My first story was written on foolscap, in what is termed a "large round hand," about four words to a line, and it was illustrated with pen-and-ink sketches. There was a man in it, and a tiger. They began separately, but they got badly mixed when the tiger met the man. I then discovered that it was very easy to get people into trouble in this way, but difficult to get them safely out of it.
In my early school days I was a great reader of books. I remember that the directors of a certain free library passed a resolution for my especial benefit, that no person should be allowed to change his book more than three times in a day. It was with great satisfaction, then, that I would settle down for an hour with a favorite book, and I would half realize that I was the hero the writer of the book was telling about.
We lose that interest when we grow older. In youth it is you who suffer and weep and triumph with the hero of the tale ; it is you who, with your Kentucky rifle, ramble through the wild forest. I remember that in my youthful fancy I had fought with pirates on the Pacific Ocean ; I had crossed the Rocky Mountains ; as for the number of Indians I slew, in England, they would fill a graveyard.
I can remember the delight I experienced over the purchase of a 30-volume edition of the Waverley novels with my own money, when I had neither a cricket bat nor football of my own. It is a good thing for a boy to have good books at his elbow. I always took a deep interest in the different characters in the books. I remember that I was punished for reading a story in school with my school-book open before me. I developed a faculty for looking at one thing while pretending I was looking at another. So my real education was going on beneath my desk, rather than on top of it.
About the year 1878 I wrote a little story, and sent it to a certain publisher. I expected it would come back to me, but the editor accepted it, and the small check that came instead was the bounty that placed me in the ranks of literature. For ten years I wrote short stories as a sort of pastime, without making any great success, In the meantime I had sailed into the Arctic seas, and I had traveled on the west coast of Africa. I also took my degree, and began to practice. Nevertheless, literary work was nearer to my heart, although I had never earned from it as much as $250 a year.
A bad practice in England — even more so than in America — is the publishing of stories anonymously. My name was as unknown after ten years as when I first started to write short stories. Probably, it was on that account that I escaped much criticism ; still, it is far better to suffer the criticism, and be known. My Cornhill story was spoken of in a London paper as "a story that would have made Thackeray turn in his grave." I then thought that criticism had fallen into a deplorable state of decay. Next I wrote a sensational novel. It was very incoherent and disjointed. The publishers said they could see no merit in it ; and as I look back at it, I agree with them. At last it found its way into print.
At about this time there came to me one who has proved to be quite a friend — Sherlock Holmes. A detective story is a primitive kind of literature, nevertheless it affords a good field for a dramatic setting. It appeared to me that by such a tale one might be able to develop that which at the start seemed almost incredible. My Professor furnished valuable material for my purpose. He was able, at a glance, to tell what disease a man had, also what were his habits, his trade, his circumstances.
It was Poe who first invented the detective in literature. It may go to the length of sensationalism, and yet it holds its claim. The philosophy of trifles may be illustrated by the story of Watson's watch, wherein a watch was banded to the famous detective, with the request that he tell the character and habits of its late owner. Dr. Doyle then gave a reading from "Sherlock Holmes."
It is superficial enough,
he continued, yet not absolutely so. It is easy to see how such conclusions could be drawn from appearances when it is explained to you. I have been among people who expected me to know all about a person from the button on his coat. But I am really absent-minded, and never would notice trifles unless my attention was directly called to them. I have received letters from people in many parts of the world, asking me to come and solve some mystery for them. I did not know there were so many mysteries in existence. Though not sharp myself, I believe a man, by attending to details, might be able to do such work.
As you may not know, Sherlock Holmes came to his end, at last, when he opposed a villain more than his equal for sharpness. It was about time. Holmes had supplied twenty stories ; yet, when I found out how popular he had been, I almost regretted allowing him to come to his end. I have received letters requesting locks of his hair, and one for a photograph of him at different ages.
A romancer should learn to be broad hearted, knowing that in every creed there are noble characters as well as ignoble ones. I once had some difficulty in getting published a historical romance. The publishers said it lacked one thing, and that was "interest." After my dog-eared manuscript came back from periodical trips to town, I wondered that some fellow did not drop in and offer me $10 for the whole batch of them.
Dr. Doyle made a passing reference to some of his novels, including "Micah Clarke," "The White Company," and "The Refugees." "The Refugees" was prompted by the interest and admiration I had for your great country. Hawthorne, Parkman, Irving and Cooper were my guides. All the different types of character seem to have been intensified by their crossing the water. I took the liberty of transporting two typical Americans and introducing them in Court life in France, and I reversed the thing by putting two European characters in Southern Canada.
Strange as it may seem, after I had finished delivering a lecture in Boston, recently, a gentleman came to me, and proved, by documentary evidence, that he had an ancestor answering to the name of one of my characters, Captain Ephraim Savage, who lived in the very year I referred to in my tale.
The lecturer gave a reading from his latest story, "The Lord of Chateau Noir." It deals with an old French nobleman whose son was murdered in the Franco-German War ; and with a German Colonel who visits his castle for the purpose of stopping depredations by the Lord and his followers.
In concluding, Dr. Doyle spoke of literature as a profession. There is a certain fascination about literature that one cannot suppress. When he feels that he has brought cheer to a single heart, it makes up for the selling of his nervous system and for the criticisms of men.
Very hearty was the applause bestowed by the audience as the speaker bowed his adieus.
