Dr. Doyle (article 21 october 1894)
Dr. Doyle is an article published in The Sunday News-Tribune on 21 october 1894.
Dr. Doyle
Author of "Sherlock Holmes" is Here.
The Man Who Invented a New Type of Detective.
Half Hour's Chat With A. Conan Doyle.
What the Famous Writer Looks and Talks Like,
With Some Articles of His Literary Creed.
Dr. Doyle Somewhat Amazed by His Watch.
Dr. A. Conan Doyle's manners are hard and brisk. Touring this country, delivering lectures, he arrived at Detroit yesterday and went to the Russell House. He is to give his lecture on "Readings and Reminiscences" at the Church of Our Father Monday evening. Dr. Doyle is known to the literary world as one of the greatest novelists of the day, and especially as the inventor of that wonderful metaphysical detective, Sherlock Holmes. But Dr. Doyle does not set great store on that portion of his reputation, derived from the character of Sherlock Holmes. In a fit of desperation at continued references to Sherlock, the good doctor committed a deed that for brutality and causelessness is without a parallel in the literary world.
He deliberately caused Sherlock Holmes to die.
"I had to do it in self-defense,"
said Dr. Doyle yesterday. "I was bored to death, you know; I was tired of that sort of thing, anyway."
By this Dr. Doyle meant that he did not value the "detective" idea in fiction and had passed it in the milestones of his literary advancement.
In order to appreciate Dr. Doyle's personality It is quite necessary for one to understand that the trend of Dr. Doyle's intellect is not in the direction of sentiment. He has that sort of mentality which sets the greatest worth on those circumstances which betray the largest element of common sense. You need but to come into the presence of this brisk, bustling man to conclude that he resolves every fact into its antecedent causes and deduces therefrom some rule for the conduct of life. With minds such as his the disposition is to-ward seeking the primitive elements, of squaring, ruling and measuring the world, leaving nothing to blind chance, and, above all, to be sensible, straight-forward and metaphysically logical. He is a lover of the logical, the concrete and the mathematical; you realize that by his conversation, terse, abrupt, clear cut and always coherent He refers each event to its philosophical category. He is an analyst of that school of metaphysicians who pass on from cause to effect.
Sherlock Holmes' Death.
While he was talking yesterday he ran around the room at times; at others he looked nervously at his watch; he was not guilty of discourtesy: it wag his method, for which he has nothing to blame except that splendid physique, with its overflowing spirits. That fierce, animal energy is as characteristic of Dr. Doyle as repose might be of some successful social queen; and he who, studying the man, overlooks or neglects to allow therefor, will find that his perspective will be at variance.
Dr. Doyle engaged his big, strong hands in the somewhat difficult masculine task of folding a soft white neck. lie under the bands of a turn-down collar. The tie had been marked in black ink at one end, "A. Conan Doyle." Dr. Doyle put on that cravat so Indifferently that the laundry mark showed over his vest. His apologies were that he was dressing to go to dinner, but he declared that he had an hour at his disposal and was pleased to meet newspaper men. Dr. Doyle speaks in a mulled voice, words runnin over each other in a fashion that would be the despair of a shorthand writer. Whether his accent — bold, guttural and orotund — was Scotch, Irish or English, or a blending of the three, was not easy to determine, Dr. Doyle must impress many a visitor as always speaking though he were issuing commands. He fumbled through his trunks and revealed, for one thing, a white woolen sweater, which might have suggested to a Sherlock Holmes that the doctor still took that golf and cricket exercise which had developed those wonderful legs, as hard as iron bands, as rugged as gnarled oak — whose very rotundity insisted on being in evidence, especially when he leaned over, making his gray trousers quite skin-tight.
"Is Sherlock Holmes really dead?" was asked.
"Yes, I am very sure of it,"
the doctor replied, with a laugh. "Holmes certainly lived long enough. A man who was the hero of eighty-six different stories ought to be ready for death."
Dr. Doyle does not highly consider detective stories as specimens of literary skill. So, in his Sherlock Holmes tales hit off a new idea.
A New Detective.
His conception was that of a clever, lily-handed, thought-encumbered philosopher, who reached extraordinary results in a simple fashion. Sherlock Holmes was a detective who hated, hay, despised a revolver. He would sit calmly in his study and say: "Lord Brassy is in poor circumstances, Watson." "How so?" his faithful friend, Dr. Watson, would venture.
"Oh," responded Holmes, "In passing along the street today, I noticed that Lord Brassy wore shoes that had been resoled." That incident of poverty, derived from patched shoes, is thoroughly Sherlockesque.
"But it was Micah Clark,"
Dr. Doyle observed, "that opened the door to literary success."
"You found a publisher easily?"
"No; it was first printed in 1888; one publisher, at least, told me that the book lacked only one thing to make it a success."
"And that was?"
"Interest."
By this time Dr. Doyle had fully dressed himself in his handsome suit of soft grey material. He took a last peep in the glass. He had to bend to see himself, although the mirror was at the usual distance from the floor. Then it was that the massive proportions of the doctor's physique appeared to advantage. Dr. Doyle's face has the full florid color of the typical Londoner. His forehead is broad and high, and is marked by that fulness, over the eyes, which ordinary mortals ascribe to signify the seat of the faculty of observation. His eyes are large in size and gray in color. He wears a vigorous yellow mustache. His hair is brown, but. under the gaslight it shines tawny. He wears no jewelry. He is modest, for he says, himself:
"I do not read the American papers much. Whenever I come to a town, the reporters see me, and write about me, you know; and it is not pleasant for a fellow to be always reading about himself."
Dr. Doyle's opinions as to the sphere of woman in fiction are of such anarchistic tendencies that they will doubtless cause resentment to fall upon his head from many bookish people.
As to Literary Heroines.
"How about the heroines of your story?" was suggested.
"I have never seen a woman's character treated successfully,"
said the doctor quickly. "I am not satisfied with anything in that line within the entire reaches of literature."
"Isn't that a remarkable statement to come from you?"
"I shouldn't wonder."
"What author do you think has been least successful in depicting women?"
Without a moment's hesitation Dr. Doyle answered in his hearty, welcoming voice:
"Sir Walter Scott."
"And what author, then, has been nearest successful in your opinion?"
Again in a flash the doctor responded:
"George Meredith."
"You are not able to understand women?"
"No, are you? Do you know anyone who is able to understand them? It is different with men, though."
"Yes?"
"Men and beasts, you know, and we can understand them; anyone can understand men; there is something to men."
"Your stories are more men's than women's stories?"
"I shouldn't wonder."
"Among short story writers whom do you place first?"
"Kipling."
"Jerome K. Jerome?"
"He is a pure humorist; he is very near the head."
"Robert Barr?"
"The coming short story writer, in my opinion. Comparisons are invidious: but I should say he is already among the first six."
"Have any degrees been conferred on you by universities, in recognition of your merits?"
"No."
"You know that Holmes has just died
"Yes; a great man that; but I believe he must have valued his work as a physician more highly than he did his reputation as an author. He was the discoverer of remedies for the cure of a fever peculiar to women; he saved at least 10,000 lives; that was a grand work; as for me, I would consider that higher than mere book writing."
Dr. Doyle, the literary lion of the day, glanced nervously at his watch; his time had expired.
JOHN HUBERT GREUSEL.
