Dr. Conan Doyle on Fiction (report 25 november 1893)
Dr. Conan Doyle on Fiction is an article published in The Evening Telegraph (Dundee) on 25 november 1893.
Report of a lecture "Facts about Fiction" given by Arthur Conan Doyle on 24 november 1893 at the Kinnaird Hall (Dundee, UK).
Dr. Conan Doyle on Fiction
PRESENT DAY WRITERS.
The third of the Armitstead course of lectures was delivered last night in the Kinnaird Hall, Dundee, by Dr A. Conan Doyle, his subject being "Facts about Fiction." The fame of "Sherlock Holmes" is in everybody's mouth, and the audience which assembled last night to see and hear him has seldom been exceeded in magnitude in Dundee. Long before the hour fixed for the lecture every available seat was occupied, and the main door had to be closed upon several hundreds of persons disappointed in obtaining a seat. Principal Peterson presided, and among those on the platform were Dr Conan Doyle, Lord Provost Low, Dr Sinclair, Bailie Macdonald ; Provost Scott, Newport ; ex-Provost Moneur, ex-Bailie John Robertson, ex-Bailie Ferrier, the Rev. D. B. Cameron, the Rev. John Reid, the Rev. Father Butti, the Rev. Father Holder, Dr J. W. Miller, Dr Duncan, Dr Adam Wilson ; Messrs J. C. Buist, R. G. Kennedy, Henry M'Grady, John Maclauchlan, W. B. Wilson, W. C. Leng, Charles Ower, W. D. Latto, Andrew Stewart, John Mees, &c. The Chairman, in his introductory remarks, said that such a varied record as that possessed by Dr Doyle, achieved in so wonderfully short a time, would give any man a claim to high rank among contemporary writers of fiction, and he was sure that their reception of Dr Doyle would be all the more warm and all the more appreciative because of the fortunate accident which many people were supposed to cherish to the end of their lives that he was born in our own country of Scotland. (Applause.)
BRITAIN'S GREATEST GLORY.
Dr Conan Doyle, who was enthusiastically received, explained at the outset that he would restrict his lecture to the fiction of the present day, and would further curtail it by treating only of the work of the younger writers — those whose work might possibly have reached maturity by the commencement of the coming century. It was an obvious consideration that in the literature of our country lay the most permanent of its glories. Other nations had been rich and had become poor; other nations had founded great empires and had lost them; but in our literature we had something which we could not lose — it was a permanent asset. It was, he thought, interesting to take stock of it from time to time, and to see how far any work was being done which might possibly rank with that of our great predecessors. But there was nothing more difficult to assess than the work of one's own generation. One was so near to it that one had no prospect by which one might judge it, and it was particularly difficult in the case of the younger men, because with them promise had to be taken into account almost as much as performance, and, unhappily, the history of literature was largely a history of unredeemed promises. Still, there were certain qualities which were inherent to greatness, and he would endeavour to show that these were not entirely wanting in the work of some of the very youngest generation of authors. In surveying the fiction of the day it was impossible to deny that they had no living writers at the present time who could at all be said to hold the same place in popular estimation that either Dickens or Thackeray held in the last generation. No doubt in Thomas Hardy and also in George Meredith they had two writers of very great power, but it would be idle for him to claim for them any position at all commensurate with that of their great predecessors. On the other hand, if, name for name, writers now might compare unfavourably with those who
CAST A LUSTRE.
upon the first half of the Victorian era, it was none the less the fact that fiction, as an art, had improved during that time; that writers had a more clear conception of the laws which governed their art; and that, if very great writers were wanting, the average possibly remained as high as ever. The growth of our British Empire had, among other things, had an excellent effect, in his opinion, on the younger school of writers by broadening their sympathies and rendering them less insular in their ideas. It was wonderful how cosmopolitan our literature had become, and that in a comparatively short time; and the tendency was becoming more accentuated from year to year. The influence came from without as well as from within, for not only were the minds of men stimulated by this vast expansion of the Anglo-Celtic race, but all over the Empire these scattered colonies and dependencies had each begun to produce a literature of its own, following in tone and tendency that of the mother country, and yet reproducing some signs, some local colour, from the spot which gave it birth. As examples, he pointed to the writings of Olive Schreiner, Robert Louis Stevenson, Rider Haggard, Rolf Boldrewood, [unreadable word], Robert Barr, and Gilbert Parker. To him (Dr Doyle) there was something majestic, and even touching, in these Anglo-Saxon voices so far separated telling each other of their own joys and sorrows, and in that vast interchange of confidences, that "calling of deep to deep," all through our huge world-wide Empire. (Applause.) With such influences at work, it was not too much to hope that
OUR LITERATURE IN THE FUTURE.
might be not less, but more brilliant than it had been in the past; that it might come to resemble the tropical tree whose branches curved down to the ground and then took root, so that the mother trunk came in time to be surrounded by many others as thick and as strong as itself. (Applause.) The lecturer passed on to analyse the writings of the leading novelists of the day. Meredith and Hardy, although representing two of the most vital forces in fiction, had been before the public too long to come fairly within the category of his remarks. If the last generation of authors were all very largely under the influence of Dickens it was not less true that those now rising were all strongly affected by Robert Louis Stevenson. He was one of the very few British authors who had been equally successful in the short story and in the long. At the outset Stevenson was deeply under the influence of Meredith; and here the lecturer incidentally remarked that, speaking generally, every author was more or less under the influence of another author. People spoke of originality in authors, but they might as well talk of originality in potatoes — (laughter) — because everything must have a germ or seed from which to spring. It was no detriment to Stevenson to say that at the outset he was strongly under the influence of Meredith, and that his style, which had been so much admired, was very largely Meredith and water. (Laughter.) Stevenson’s work marked the reaction against the abuse of love in fiction, a reaction which went too far when it entirely shut out the most picturesque half of humanity. (Laughter.) There was no man with a
STRONGER INDIVIDUALITY.
and yet no man suppressed himself more completely when he set himself down to tell a tale. No man ever had a more delicate perception of the meaning of words than Stevenson. He and Meredith had really infused fresh blood into English letters. (Applause.) A writer who struck a deeper note than Stevenson and touched it in a style hardly inferior was Miss Olive Schreiner, the author of the "Story of an African Farm." It was one of the greatest books a woman had ever written. (Applause.) If ever a writer used her heart for an ink-pot it was that one. (Applause.) There had never been such accurate drawing of our own home types as within the last generation, and within the last few years Scotland had produced in Mr J. M. Barrie — (loud applause) — a writer who had so keen an insight into the character of her people, so sympathetic a touch in drawing their joys and their sorrows, and so kindly a hand in touching their little weaknesses, that, in Dr Doyle's opinion, his work would be handed down in this country with the pride of national possession. (Loud applause.) His style was a model of what style should be. There was a magnificent simplicity about it, but simplicity which was the outcome of the highest art. To the man who had such a wide range of humour and pathos there was a brilliant future in store, and he had already done work some of which would live. (Applause.) After referring briefly to Quiller Couch — another writer of the highest promise — Dr Doyle went on to treat of Rudyard Kipling, on whom he passed a high eulogium. One was carried off one's feet by the rush and go of his writing. One might feel one was looking at the matter from a most preposterous point of view, and it was sure to be one's own point of view as long as one was reading the story. His charming enthusiasm, his
FULL-BLOODED VIRILITY.
his sympathy with all that was most dear to the British heart — these were the things which won them and made them forget all that was on the other side. They had never had anything like him before. He was British, and yet there was something about him which was not British — some touch of the gorgeous East. He was like a vivid Indian orchid among our homely, quiet roses. (Applause.) He had been and was a political force, and had brought India nearer than the Suez Canal did. Since Dickens there had been no man who showed such promise at so early an age. The lecturer thereafter made brief reference to the productions of Maartens and John Reid — whose work promised great things — and adverted, in conclusion, to Jerome K. Jerome, who, he said, had never had that hearty recognition from the critics which he had long had at the hands of the public. (Applause.) Dr Doyle illustrated his criticisms of each of the writers mentioned with choice extracts from their works. They must not look on fiction as a mere pastime. It was one of the most vital influences in the world. It was what the people mostly read, and what they read they thought, and what they thought they did. It moulded the character and the actions of men. When one thought of what a single good novel could do, of the thousands of weary hours that it had lightened to the sad-hearted, of the sick men who had been cheered up by it, of the spent business men whose thoughts had been turned into other channels, it was, he thought, doubtful whether there was any other field of human effort by which one might confer greater benefit upon one’s fellowmen. (Applause.) If they could but follow the ultimate effects of a single good book, such as "Ivanhoe" or the "Pickwick Papers," they would recognise that the novelist had some claim to rank with the philanthropist; and they would agree with him that a man could have no higher aim and no nobler ambition than that of lightening by one featherweight the load of care which weighed down so many lives. (Loud applause.)
The Chairman proposed a vote of thanks to Dr Doyle, remarking that after the eloquent lecture to which they had listened there would be something of a run on the Free Library within the next few weeks. (Laughter.) He would take leave to tell Dr Doyle that they considered him a champion story-teller. (Applause.)
On the motion of Mr A. J. Buist, a vote of thanks was awarded to the Chairman, and the meeting terminated.
