The ‘better things’ included the historical novels he loved so much, after having been raised on the works of Sir Walter Scott. His first breakthrough came with a historical novel called Micah Clarke in 1889, and in 1891 his tale of the Middle Ages, The White Company, helped to convince him that he could give up medicine for writing. In books like these he believed that he was writing enduring literature, and he expected to achieve critical success—particularly with his 1906 novel Sir Nigel, a prequel to The White Company, the two of which, taken together, he believed formed a new and lasting contribution to the national saga.
Yet most critics saw them as merely tales of adventure, and not as entertaining as Sherlock Holmes, or as the picaresque Brigadier Gerard stories about the Napoleonic wars, or as Professor Challenger in pioneering science-fiction tales like The Lost World. It chafed Conan Doyle greatly, but in fact he had been true to a sentiment that he had expressed in an 1894 interview: ‘We talk so much about art that we tend to forget what this art was ever invented for. It was to amuse mankind—to help the sick and the dull and the weary. If Scott and Dickens have done this for millions, they have done well by their art.’
EDITING CONAN DOYLE’S LETTERS
Conan Doyle, like Dr Watson, had a tendency to be careless with dates. Of the many hundreds of letters written to his mother over more than fifty years, only a handful were dated. It was a daunting, at times maddening, task to determine the chronology of the letters based on stationery, return addresses (when present), and internal evidence. ‘The novel goes well,’ he often wrote, but which novel? ‘I have written a fine story’, but which story? ‘Many thanks for the birthday wishes’, but which birthday? Sherlock Holmes himself might have found it a three-pipe problem, and we would not be surprised to find the occasional letter out of place.
Conan Doyle was also careless with spelling and punctuation, a boyhood habit that persisted to some degree his entire life. Except where important for purposes of clarity, we have let spelling and punctuation errors stand as they appear in his letters.
Whenever possible Conan Doyle has been allowed to speak for himself. Many important things in his life occurred outside the compass of these letters. For the most part, the interconnective narrative we have provided tries not to stray from the spirit and content of what Conan Doyle himself chose to convey in his letters, in order to reflect as far as possible the weight and emphasis he gave the matters that he chose to report. But readers should keep in mind that his actual interests and activities and associations were even broader and more numerous than the many referred to here.
Conan Doyle lived at home with his family while attending Edinburgh University in the late 1870s and early 1880s, and therefore had no occasion to write letters describing, among many other striking features of a medical student’s life, his remarkable instructor Dr Joseph Bell, who helped inspire the character of Sherlock Holmes. In this instance, and in others, the void has been filled with other accounts from Conan Doyle’s own pen, so as to extend the fabric of personal narrative wherever possible.
Some liberties have been taken in editing the letters for publication. Shirley Nicholson points out in her book A Victorian Household (Stroud, UK: Sutton, 1994) that Victorians were constantly concerned for, indeed vocal about, their health. Conan Doyle, though living an active, robust, in fact athletic life, was no exception. From boyhood he claimed to suffer from neuralgia, and his letters constantly report head colds and sore throats. We have left intact enough variations on ‘I have a cold’ and ‘I have one of my throats’ to give the idea, but have stricken many more for fear of exhausting the reader’s patience. Similarly, Conan Doyle often conveyed tedious financial information to his mother in his letters, with scrupulous attention to the status and outlook of their investments. We have let many such references stand, but only the most single-minded reader would wish for all of them.
Finally, these letters do not solve all the mysteries about Conan Doyle’s life. It seems evident that the eight-year-old boy was not sent away to school in order to protect him from a drunken father—but Charles Doyle still remains a misty figure about whom scholars would wish to know more. The letters provide more information about the turbulent influence of Dr Bryan Charles Waller, who became part of the household in Edinburgh for a time in the 1870s—but nowhere near as much as students of Conan Doyle’s life would wish. And while Conan Doyle’s investigation of psychic phenomena and spiritualism began when he was a struggling doctor in Southsea in the early 1880s, he told his apparently unsympathetic mother next to nothing about it until 1916, when he finally embraced Spiritualism to fill the religious vacuum in his life.
Whatever gaps remain, these letters will allow Conan Doyle’s admirers to come to know him as never before—as a boy and a man, a physician and a writer, a public figure and a private person. For many readers past and present, Sherlock Holmes is a far more vivid presence on the literary landscape than the versatile and intriguing man who created him. Now, perhaps for the first time, Conan Doyle himself emerges whole from the shadows of Baker Street, as distinctive and memorable as any of his literary creations.
Conan Doyle at the age of 6, drawn by his uncle Richard Doyle
*His son Adrian, who exerted a considerable sway over his father’s early biographers, insisted that his grandmother was, very grandly, ‘The Ma’am’. In fact, Conan Doyle seldom addressed letters to his mother as ‘Dearest Ma’am’; the term he used most frequently by far was ‘Mam’—and after that, ‘Mammie’.
*We are indebted to Philip G. Bergem of St Paul, Minnesota, on whose invaluable reference work The Family and Residences of Arthur Conan Doyle (St Paul, MN: Picardy Place Press, 2003) we have relied heavily throughout this book.
‘You have talents enough and we have every reason to hope that you mean to make the most of them.’
—FATHER REGINALD COLLEY, STONYHURST COLLEGE, 1876
Arthur Conan Doyle’s literary turn of mind showed itself early. In 1864, not yet five years old, he took up a pencil to craft a thirty-six-word story involving a Bengal tiger and a hunter armed with ‘knife, gun and pistle’. Recalling the story later, he said he had ‘remarked to my mother with precocious wisdom that it was easy to get people into scrapes, but not so easy to get them out again.’ But she was impressed enough with his effort to report it to Michael Conan, Arthur’s great-uncle and godfather. A distinguished journalist in Paris, his surname had been added to theirs at christening to form the compound name Conan Doyle, which Arthur and Annette alone among the seven children bore.
When Arthur met his godfather years later, at the end of his schooling, he found Michael Conan to be ‘an intellectual Irishman of the type which originally founded the Sinn Fein movement,’ he reported in Memories and Adventures: ‘He was as keen on heraldry and genealogy as my mother, and he traced his descent in some circuitous way from the Dukes of Brittany, who were all Conans.’ Upon meeting ‘this dear old volcanic Irishman’ whose sister had been Conan Doyle’s paternal grandmother,