View source for Great Writers. Whom Conan Doyle Has Met

''Great Writers'' is an article written by a journalist of [[The Sydney Morning Herald]] (Australia) on 17 november 1920.


__TOC__


== Editions ==

* in ''[[The Sydney Morning Herald]]'' (17 november 1920 [AU])
* in ''[[The Argus]] (Melbourne)'' (20 november 1920 [AU]) as ''Great Writers. Conan Doyle's Reminiscences''


== Great Writers (17 november 1920) ==
[[File:The-sydney-morning-herald-1920-11-17-p10-great-writers.jpg|thumb|180px|right|[[The Sydney Morning Herald]] (17 november 1920)]]

'''WHOM CONAN DOYLE HAS MET.'''

'''AUTHOR'S REMINISCENCES.'''

'''NEW LITERARY ERA.'''

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who was a guest, with his wife, at the luncheon, of the New South Wales Institute of Journalists yesterday at Farmer's, delighted the large company with reminiscences of British leaders of literature whom he had met.

The only difference he could, ever see, he said, between the literary man and the journalist was that the literary man took care to get the credit for what he did and the journalist was usually done out of the credit of his work. (Laughter.) There was a cry in England to-day that literature had come to a sort of dead end, and that we could not see where the successors of the present successful writers were to be found. But that cry had frequently been heard. He had a distinct recollection that it was very loud in 1885 or 1886, when it was said that now that Thackeray and Dickens and the other great men had passed no one could see similar men coming on as their successors. But looking back now with the prophetic knowledge which came when one looked back, what did they see. They saw a little boy running about Allahabad, a precocious boy, a perfect nuisance to everyone, who mixed among the soldiers and remembered what they said. At the same time a young fellow came down to Southsea, and was serving behind a draper's counter. It was just possible that he, living in Southsea, had been in that draper's shop and seen that young fellow with pallid face made more pallid by the fact that he continued his studies in the evening, when he might have been taking the fresh air. Then there was also a lanky Irishman knocking about in London, a poor man, and a vegetarian - (laughter) - or whom nobody took much notice. At the same time another poor boy came down from a little Scotch village and started writing fugitive articles in a Nottinghamshire paper, and was then advised to go to London, where his stories of his village life began to appear in the "St. James's Gazette," These four men, then, were there - Rudyard Kipling, H. G. Wells, Shaw, and Barrie - (applause) - and nobody knew they were there. And so at the present moment there might be some insignificant young men fighting their way up towards fame who would perhaps surpass the feats of those who had so admirably upheld the dignity and splendour of British literature in the present generation.

'''NEW PROPHETS.'''

"It seems to me that we were right in thinking that the great writers had gone," Sir Arthur commented. "In the works of Dickens, Thackeray, and Sir Walter Scott these particular forms of art did reach an ideal which will probably never be reached again; but for the men of imaginations there has been opened a completely new field. These men of whom I have just been talking are far more than writers; they are more in the nature of old bards and seers and prophets of the tribe." (Applause.) Kipling stood for Imperialism, and had made it a sentiment; and when they recalled in those days of terrible crisis his lines-

Who stands if freedom falls?<br />
Who lives if England dies?

they felt that the last word on tho subject had been said. (Applause.) Again, It was not Wells the writer of whom they thought chiefly, but Wells the prophet, the sociologist, whose opinion was valued in every crisis of national affairs. Shaw did not stand for plays, but for a broad and unconventional view of life. Galsworthy, again, was not only a playwright, but a great exponent of humanitarianism, a philosopher. These men were leaders of the race. (Applause.)

'''HIS MEETING WITH MEREDITH.'''

He had met some of those leaders - Thomas Hardy, who still lived, and George Meredith - (applause) - not only a great writer, but the most successful talker he had ever listened to.

"I won Meredith's esteem in the most extraordinary manner," Sir Arthur related. "He asked me to lunch at his own little house, at Box Hill After looking at me a little, he asked, 'Do you think, if I sent for a large bottle of Burgundy, you could drink the whole of if." In those days I was not daunted by trifles. (Laughter.) I was like the man who hated to see a bottle with anything in it, and I intimated that I thought there would be no insuperable difficulty. (Laughter.) He sent for the Burgundy, and the maid brought it into the room, a cobwebby bottle of old vintage. I drank it with great relish, while Meredith watched me with considerable interest. When he said, 'I was really glad to see you drink that bottle!' I intimated that if over he required similar help I should be ready to assist him. (Laughter.) He told me that he had laid down the cellar of wines, but that the doctors had forbidden him to touch alcohol, and,' he went on, 'when I invite someone to lurch he usually drinks one glass, and there is that priceless stuff which I have taken such trouble to put there absolutely wasted.' (Laughter.) I was thus able to form a friendship with the old gentleman, which lasted, I am proud to say, as long as he lived.

"Meredith talked exactly as he wrote, in that peculiar style which seemed affected, but was only part of himself. One day, when the maid brought in a sort of jelly, which shivered as she walked, he exclaimed, 'Methinks the jelly is treacherous as the Trojan Horse!" (Laughter.) I don't know what the maid thought of it, but it seemed to me a rather good example of Meredithian style."

'''HIS FIRST NOTICE.'''

Sir Arthur mentioned two men who were going as he came - Sir Walter Besant and James Payn. The first was not a great writer, but he was a most unselfish man, who did more good for the literary profession than any man who ever lived. "James Payn," he went on, "refused my first novel with contumely. I dare say he was perfectly right; but afterward, he accepted some of my work, and my first story, 'Hab-ak-kuk Jephson's Statement,' appeared in the 'Cornhill' over my name. One of my patients, waving a newspaper from the other side of the street next day, called out, 'Have you seen what the papers say of your story?" I braced myself to appear as modest as I could, turned to the article, and read: "The "Cornhill" begins this month with a story which would have made Thackeray turn in his grave!'" (Laughter.)

He was just too late to know Wilkie Collins, but he remembered the end of Charles Reade, who was peculiarly quarrelsome, and, becoming possessed of the idea that some people were trying to do him out of his property, displayed across the house a placard with the words "Naboth's Vineyard." (Laughter.) Another writer of whom he thought a great deal, in spite of all that had occurred, was poor Oscar Wilde, who ought to have been hurried to a consulting-room instead of a gaol. (Applause.) He remembered the vivid impression Oscar Wilde made upon his mind.

"When I was just beginning an American delegate came over to get stories cheap from young authors. (Laughter.) He first invited us to dinner, and the business came after. Wilde was one of the authors, and I was another. I wrote 'The Sign of Four,' and Wilde wrote 'The Picture of Dorian Grey.'"

He remembered how fascinating Wilde's conversation was, and the little stories with which he illustrated his observations. Taking La Rochefoucauld's maxim, "The good fortune of our friends is occasionally rather painful to us," Wilde proceeded to illustrate this by a parable of an anchorite who successfully resisted the temptations of a number of small devils as he walked across the plains of Palestine, but gave way to a horrible scowl when the old devil, watching the failure of the others, stepped up and whispered in his ear, "Your brother has just been made Bishop of Alexandria!"

Sir Arthur prefaced his address with mention of a pleasant surprise he had received upon entering the room, in meeting an old patient. Mr. Walter Jeffrey.

Mr. Jeffrey's comment, amid laughter, was that ho believed he was cured on that occasion by faith-healing. He had cured himself on frequent occasions since by reading "Sherlock Holmes."

The chairman (Mr. A. M'Cay, vice-president of the Institute), proposed the health of Messrs. H. R. Denison and Walter Jeffrey, two of the Australian delegates at the Press Conference, who briefly responded.

Sir Arthur and Lady Doyle are to be the guests of the Millions Club at luncheon at Sargent's in Market-street on Monday next.



== Great Writers (20 november 1920) ==
[[File:The-argus-1920-11-20-p7-great-writers.jpg|thumb|180px|right|[[The Argus]] (20 november 1920)]]

'''CONAN DOYLE'S REMINISCENCES.'''

("SYDNEY MORNING HERALD," NOV. 17.)

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle who was a guest, with his wife, at the luncheon of the New South Wales Institute of Journalists yesterday at Farmer's, delighted the large company with reminiscences of British leaders of literature whom he had met.

The only difference he could ever see, he said, between the literary man and the journalist was that the literal man took care to get the credit for what he did and the journalist was usually done out of the credit of his work. (Laughter.) There was a cry in England today that literature had come to a sort of dead end, and that we could not see where the successors of the present successful writers were to be found. But that cry had frequently been heard. He had a distinct recollection that it was said loud in 1885 or 1886, when it was said that now that Thackeray and Dickens and the other great men had passed no one could see similar men coming on as their successors.

THE NEW LITERARY ERA.

But looking back now with the prophetic knowledge which came when one looked back, what did they see? They sawa little boy running about Allahabad, a precocious boy, a perfect nuisance to everyone, who mixed among the soldiers and remembered what they said. At the same time a young fellow came down to Southsea, and was serving behind a draper's counter. It was just possible that he, living in Southsea, had been in that draper's shop and seen that young fellow with pallid face and made more pallid by the fact that he continued his studies in the evening, which he might have been taking the fresh air. Then there was also a lanky Irishman knocking about in London, a poor man, and a vegetarian - (laughter) - of whom nobody took much notice. At the same time another poor boy came down from a little Scotch village and began writing fugitive articles in a Nottinghamshire paper, and was then advised to go to London, where his stones of his village life began to appear in the "St. James's Gazette." These four men, then, were there - Rudyard Kipling, H. G. Wells, Shaw, and Barrie - (applause) - and nobody knew they were there. And so at the present moment there might be some insignificant young men fighting their way up towards fame who would perhaps surpass the feats of those who had so admirably upheld the dignity and splendour of British literature in the present generation.

'''HIS MEETING WITH MEREDITH.'''

He had met some of these leaders - Thomas Hardy, who still lived, and George Meredith - (applause) - not only a great writer, but the most successful talker he had ever listened to.

"I won Meredith's esteem in the most extraordinary manner," Sir Arthur related. "He asked me to lunch at his own little house at Box Hill. After looking at me a little, he asked, 'Do you think, if I sent for a large bottle of Burgundy, you could drink the whole of it?' In those days I was not daunted by trifles. (Laughter.) I was like the man who hated to see a bottle with anything in it, and I intimated that I thought there would be no insuperable difficulty. (Laughter.) He sent for the Burgundy, and the maid brought it into the room, a cobwebby bottle of old vintage. I drank it with great relish, while Meredith watched me with considerable interest. When he said, 'I was really glad to see you drink that bottle!' I intimated that if ever he required similar help I should be ready to assist him. (Laughter.) He told me that he had laid down the cellar of wines, but that the doctors had forbidden him to touch alcohol, and,' he went on, 'when I invite someone to lunch he usually drinks one glass, and there is that priceless stuff which I have taken such trouble to put there absolutely wasted.' (Laughter.) I was thus able to form a friendship with the old gentleman, which lasted, I am proud to say, as long as he lived.

"Meredith talked exactly as he wrote, in that peculiar style which seemed affected, but was only part of himself. One day, when the maid brought in a sort of jelly, which shivered as she walked, he exclaimed, 'Methinks the jelly is treacherous as the Trojan Horse!' (Laughter.) I don't know what the maid thought of it, but it seemed to me a rather good example of Meredith style."

'''HIS FIRST NOTICE.'''

Sir Arthur mentioned two men who were going as he came - Sir Walter Besant and James Payn. The first was not a great writer, but he was a most unselfish man, who did more good for the literary profession than any man who ever lived. "James Payn," he went on, "refused my first novel with contumely. I dare say he was perfectly right; but afterwards he accepted some of my work, and my first story, 'Hub-ak-kuk Jephson's Statement,' appeared in the 'Cornhill' over my name. One of my patients, waving a newspaper from the other side of the street next day, called out, 'Have you soon what the papers say of your story?' I braced myself to appear as modest as I could, turned to the article, and read: The 'Cornhill' begins this month with a story which would have made Thackeray turn in his grave!'" (Laughter.)

He was just too late to know Wilkie Collins, but he remembered the end of Charles Reade, who was peculiarly quarrelsome, and, becoming possessed of the idea that some people were trying to do him out of his property, displayed across the house a placard with the words "Naboth's Vineyard" (Laughter.) Another writer,of whom he thought a great deal, in spite of all that had occurred, was poor Oscar Wilde, who ought to have been hurried to a consulting-room instead of a gaol. (Applause.) He remembered the vivid impression Oscar Wilde made upon his mind.

"When I was just beginning an American can delegate came over to get stories cheap from young authors. (Laughter.) He first invited us to dinner, and the business came after. Wilde was one of the authors and I was another. I wrote 'The Sign of Four,' and Wilde wrote 'The Picture of Dorian Grey.'" 




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