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Title: Memories and Adventures
Author: Doyle, Arthur Conan
Language: English
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MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
[Illustration: ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.
_Nelson Evans, Los Angeles._
_Taken in America, 1923._]
MEMORIES AND
ADVENTURES
BY
SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
[Illustration]
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1924
_Copyright, 1924_,
BY ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
_All rights reserved_
Published September, 1924
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I EARLY RECOLLECTIONS 1
Extraction--“H.B.”--Four Remarkable Brothers
--My Mother’s Family Tree--An Unrecognized
Genius--My First Knockout--Thackeray--The
Fenians--Early Reading--My First Story.
II UNDER THE JESUITS 8
The Preparatory School--The Mistakes of Education
--Spartan Schooling--Corporal Punishment--
Well-known School Fellows--Gloomy Forecasts--
Poetry--London Matriculation--German School--A
Happy Year--The Jesuits--Strange Arrival in Paris.
III RECOLLECTIONS OF A STUDENT 17
Edinburgh University--A Sad Disappointment--
Original of Professor Challenger--Of Sherlock
Holmes--Deductions--Sheffield--Ruyton--Birmingham
--Literary Aspirations--First Accepted Story--
My Father’s Death--Mental Position--Spiritual
Yearnings--An Awkward Business.
IV WHALING IN THE ARCTIC OCEAN 29
The _Hope_--John Gray--Boxing--The Terrible
Mate--Our Criminal--First Sight of a Woman--A
Hurricane--Dangers of the Fishing--Three
Dips in the Arctic--The Idlers’ Boat--Whale
Taking--Glamour of the Arctic--Effect of Voyage.
V THE VOYAGE TO WEST AFRICA 42
The _Mayumba_--Fearful Weather--An Escape
--Hanno’s Voyage--Atlantis--A Land of Death--
Blackwater Fever--Missionaries--Strange
Fish--Danger of Luxury--A Foolish Swim--The
Ship on Fire--England Once More.
VI MY FIRST EXPERIENCES IN PRACTICE 52
A Strange Character--His Honeymoon--His Bristol
Practice--Telegram from Plymouth--Six
Amusing Weeks--A Deep Plot--My Southsea Venture
--Furnishing on the Cheap--The Plot Explodes.
VII MY START AT SOUTHSEA 59
A Strange Life--Arrival of My Brother--I Buy Up
a Shop--Cheap Servants--Queer Patients--Dangers
of Medical Practice--Income Tax Joke--My
Marriage--Tragedy in My House--A New Phase.
VIII MY FIRST LITERARY SUCCESS 67
New Outlook--James Payn--Genesis of Holmes--“A
Study in Scarlet”--“Micah Clarke”--Disappointments
--Andrew Lang--Cornhill Dinner--Oscar Wilde--
His Criticism of Himself--“The White Company.”
IX PULLING UP THE ANCHOR 77
Psychic Studies--Experiments in Telepathy--My
First Séances--A Curious Test--General Drayson
--Opinion on Theosophy--A. P. Sinnett--W. T.
Stead--Journey to Berlin--Koch’s Treatment
--Brutality of Bergmann--Malcolm Morris--
Literary Society--Political Work--Arthur
Balfour--Our Departure.
X THE GREAT BREAK 88
Vienna--A Specialist in Wimpole Street--The
Great Decision--Norwood--“The Refugees”
--Reported Death of Holmes.
XI SIDELIGHTS ON SHERLOCK HOLMES 96
“The Speckled Band”--Barrie’s Parody on Holmes
--Holmes on the Films--Methods of Construction
--Problems--Curious Letters--Some Personal
Cases--Strange Happenings.
XII NORWOOD AND SWITZERLAND 111
Psychic Research Society--Psychic Leanings
--Literary Circles in London--Young Writers
--Henry Irving--A Great Blow--Davos--“Brigadier
Gerard”--Major Pond--American Lecturing
in 1894--First Lecture--Anti-British
Wave--Answer to Prayer.
XIII EGYPT IN 1896 121
Life in Egypt--Accident--The Men Who Made
Egypt--Up the Nile--The Salt Lakes--Adventure
in the Desert--The Coptic Monastery--Colonel
Lewis--A Surprise.
XIV ON THE EDGE OF A STORM 130
The Storm Centre--To the Frontier--Assouan
--Excited Officers--With the Press Men--A
Long Camel Ride--Night Marches--Halfa--Gwynne
of the “Morning Post”--Anley--A Sudden
Voyage--Apricots and Rousseau.
XV AN INTERLUDE OF PEACE 140
Hindhead--“A Duet”--A Haunted House--A
Curious Society--Preternatural Powers--The
Little Doctor--The Shadow of Africa.
XVI THE START FOR SOUTH AFRICA 148
The Black Week--Volunteering--The Langman
Hospital--The Voyage--Bloemfontein--Sir
Claude de Crespigny--The Epidemic--Advance
to the Water Works.
XVII DAYS WITH THE ARMY 160
Pole-Carew--Tucker--Snipers--The Looted Farm--
Taking of Brandfort--Artillery Engagement--
Advance of the Guards--The Wounded Scout--The
Dead Australian--Return.
XVIII FINAL EXPERIENCES IN SOUTH AFRICA 174
Military Jealousies--Football--Cracked Ribs--
A Mutiny--De Wet--A Historian under Difficulties
--Pretoria--Lord Roberts--With the Boers--
Memorable Operation--Altercation.
XIX AN APPEAL TO THE WORLD’S OPINION 184
Misrepresentation--A Sudden Resolve--Reginald
Smith--A Week’s Hard Work--“The Cause
and Conduct of the War”--Translations--German
Letter--Complete Success--Surplus.
XX MY POLITICAL ADVENTURES 195
Central Edinburgh--A Knock-out--The Border
Burghs--Tariff Reform--Heckling--Interpolations
--Defeat--Reflections.
XXI THE YEARS BETWEEN THE WARS 204
“History of the War”--Sir Oliver Lodge--
Military Arguments--“Sir Nigel”--The Edalji
Case--Crowborough--The Oscar Slater Case.
XXII THE YEARS BETWEEN THE WARS 222
Constantinople--The Night of Power--A Strange
Creature--Dorando--Dramatic Adventures--The
Congo Agitation--Olympic Games--Divorce
Reform--Psychic Experience--Speculation.
XXIII SOME NOTABLE PEOPLE 236
President Roosevelt--Lord Balfour--Mr. Asquith
--Lord Haldane--George Meredith--Rudyard
Kipling--James Barrie--Henry Irving--Bernard
Shaw--R. L. S.--Grant Allen--James
Payn--Henry Thompson--Royalty.
XXIV SOME RECOLLECTIONS OF SPORT 262
Racing--Shooting--A Fish Story--Boxing--Past
and Present--Carpentier and France--The Reno
Fight--Football--Golf with the Sirdar--Billiards
--Cricket--W. G. Grace--Queer Experiences
--Tragic Matches--Humiliation--Success
in Holland--Barrie’s Team--A Precedent--Motor
Accidents--Prince Henry Tour--Aviation--The
Balloon and the Aeroplane--Ski--Over
a Precipice--Rifle Shooting.
XXV TO THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS IN 1914 287
Baseball--Parkman--Ticonderoga--Prairie Towns
--Procession of Ceres--Relics of the Past--A
Moose--Prospects for Emigrants--Jasper Park--
The Great Divide--Algonquin Park.
XXVI THE EVE OF WAR 304
The Prologue of Armageddon--The “Prince Henry”
Race--Bernhardi--“England and the Next
War”--“Danger”--General Sir H. Wilson--The
Channel Tunnel--Naval Defects--Rubber
Collars--Mines--Willie Redmond.
XXVII A REMEMBRANCE OF THE DARK YEARS 323
Nightmares of the Morning--The Civilian Reserve
--The Volunteers--Domestic Life in War Time--
German Prisoners--Cipher to Our Prisoners--Sir
John French--Empress Eugenie--Miracle
Town--Armour--Our Tragedy.
XXVIII EXPERIENCES ON THE BRITISH FRONT 335
Lord Newton--How I Got Out--Sir W. Robertson--The
Destroyer--First Experience of Trenches--Ceremony
at Bethune--Mother--The Ypres
Salient--Ypres--The Hull Territorial--General
Sir Douglas Haig--Artillery Duel--Kingsley--Major
Wood--Paris.
XXIX EXPERIENCES ON THE ITALIAN FRONT 353
The Polite Front--Udine--Under Fire--Carnic
Alps--Italia Irredenta--Trentino--The Voice
of the Holy Roman Empire.
XXX EXPERIENCES ON THE FRENCH FRONT 360
A Dreadful Reception--Robert Donald--Clemenceau
--Soissons Cathedral--The Commandant’s
Cane--The Extreme Outpost--Adonis--General
Henneque--Cyrano in the Argonne--Tir
Rapide--French Canadian--Wound Stripes.
XXXI BREAKING THE HINDENBURG LINE 373
Lloyd George--My Second Excursion--The Farthest
German Point--Sir Joseph Cook--Night
before the Day of Judgment--The Final Battle--
On a Tank--Horrible Sight--Speech to Australians
--The Magic Carpet.
XXXII THE PSYCHIC QUEST 387
ILLUSTRATIONS
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE _Frontispiece_
PAGE
MY MOTHER AT 17 12
STEAM-WHALER _Hope_ 36
STAFF OF THE LANGMAN HOSPITAL 156
LADY CONAN DOYLE 222
THE FAMILY IN THE WILDS OF CANADA 298
KINGSLEY CONAN DOYLE 350
ON THE FRENCH FRONT 364
CHAPTER I
EARLY RECOLLECTIONS
Extraction--“H. B.”--Four Remarkable Brothers--My Mother’s Family
Tree--An Unrecognized Genius--My First Knockout--Thackeray--The
Fenians--Early Reading--My First Story.
I was born on May 22, 1859, at Picardy Place, Edinburgh, so named
because in old days a colony of French Huguenots had settled there. At
the time of their coming it was a village outside the City walls, but
now it is at the end of Queen Street, abutting upon Leith Walk. When
last I visited it, it seemed to have degenerated, but at that time the
flats were of good repute.
My father was the youngest son of John Doyle, who under the _nom de
crayon_ of “H. B.” made a great reputation in London from about 1825 to
1850. He came from Dublin about the year 1815 and may be said to be the
father of polite caricature, for in the old days satire took the brutal
shape of making the object grotesque in features and figure. Gilray and
Rowlandson had no other idea. My grandfather was a gentleman, drawing
gentlemen for gentlemen, and the satire lay in the wit of the picture
and not in the misdrawing of faces. This was a new idea, but it has
been followed by most caricaturists since and so has become familiar.
There were no comic papers in those days, and the weekly cartoon of
“H. B.” was lithographed and distributed. He exerted, I am told, quite
an influence upon politics, and was on terms of intimacy with many of
the leading men of the day. I can remember him in his old age, a very
handsome and dignified man with features of the strong Anglo-Irish,
Duke of Wellington stamp. He died in 1868.
My grandfather was left a widower with a numerous family, of which
four boys and one girl survived. Each of the boys made a name for
himself, for all inherited the artistic powers of their father. The
elder, James Doyle, wrote “The Chronicles of England,” illustrated
with coloured pictures by himself--examples of colour-printing which
beat any subsequent work that I have ever seen. He also spent thirteen
years in doing “The Official Baronage of England,” a wonderful monument
of industry and learning. Another brother was Henry Doyle, a great
judge of old paintings, and in later years the manager of the National
Gallery in Dublin, where he earned his C.B. The third son was Richard
Doyle, whose whimsical humour made him famous in “Punch,” the cover of
which with its dancing elves is still so familiar an object. Finally
came Charles Doyle, my father.
The Doyle family seem to have been fairly well-to-do, thanks to my
grandfather’s talents. They lived in London in Cambridge Terrace. A
sketch of their family life is given in “Dicky Doyle’s Diary.” They
lived up to their income, however, and it became necessary to find
places for the boys. When my father was only nineteen a seat was
offered him in the Government Office of Works in Edinburgh, whither he
went. There he spent his working life, and thus it came about that I,
an Irishman by extraction, was born in the Scottish capital.
The Doyles, Anglo-Norman in origin, were strong Roman Catholics. The
original Doyle, or D’Oil, was a cadet-branch of the Staffordshire
Doyles, which has produced Sir Francis Hastings Doyle and many other
distinguished men. This cadet shared in the invasion of Ireland and
was granted estates in County Wexford, where a great clan rose of
dependants, illegitimate children and others, all taking the feudal
lord’s name, just as the de Burghs founded the clan of Burke. We can
only claim to be the main stem by virtue of community of character and
appearance with the English Doyles and the unbroken use of the same
crest and coat-of-arms.
My forbears, like most old Irish families in the south, kept to the
old faith at the Reformation and fell victims to the penal laws in
consequence. These became so crushing upon landed gentry that my
great-grandfather was driven from his estate and became a silk-mercer
in Dublin, where “H. B.” was born. This family record was curiously
confirmed by Monsignor Barry Doyle, destined, I think, for the highest
honours of the Roman Church, who traces back to the younger brother of
my great-grandfather.
I trust the reader will indulge me in my excursion into these family
matters, which are of vital interest to the family, but must be tedious
to the outsider. As I am on the subject, I wish to say a word upon my
mother’s family, the more so as she was great on archaeology, and had,
with the help of Sir Arthur Vicars, Ulster King of Arms, and himself a
relative, worked out her descent for more than five hundred years, and
so composed a family tree which lies before me as I write and on which
many of the great ones of the earth have roosted.
Her father was a young doctor of Trinity College, William Foley, who
died young and left his family in comparative poverty. He had married
one Katherine Pack, whose death-bed--or rather the white waxen thing
which lay upon that bed--is the very earliest recollection of my life.
Her near relative--uncle, I think--was Sir Denis Pack, who led the
Scottish brigade at Waterloo. The Packs were a fighting family, as was
but right since they were descended in a straight line from a major in
Cromwell’s army who settled in Ireland. One of them, Anthony Pack, had
part of his head carried off at the same battle, so I fear it is part
of our family tradition that we lose our heads in action. His brain was
covered over by a silver plate and he lived for many years, subject
only to very bad fits of temper, which some of us have had with less
excuse.
But the real romance of the family lies in the fact that about the
middle of the seventeenth century the Reverend Richard Pack, who was
head of Kilkenny College, married Mary Percy, who was heir to the Irish
branch of the Percys of Northumberland. By this alliance we all connect
up (and I have every generation by name, as marked out by my dear
mother) with that illustrious line up to three separate marriages with
the Plantagenets. One has, therefore, some strange strains in one’s
blood which are noble in origin and, one can but hope, are noble in
tendency.
But all this romance of ancestry did not interfere with the fact that
when Katherine Pack, the Irish gentlewoman, came in her widowhood
to Edinburgh, she was very poor. I have never been clear why it was
Edinburgh for which she made. Having taken a flat she let it be known
that a paying-guest would be welcome. Just at this time, 1850 or
thereabouts, Charles Doyle was sent from London with a recommendation
to the priests that they should guard his young morals and budding
faith. How could they do this better than by finding him quarters with
a well-born and orthodox widow? Thus it came about that two separate
lines of Irish wanderers came together under one roof.
I have a little bundle of my father’s letters written in those
days, full of appreciation of the kindness which he met with and
full, also, of interesting observations on that Scottish society,
rough, hard-drinking and kindly, into which he had been precipitated
at a dangerously early age, especially for one with his artistic
temperament. He had some fine religious instincts, but his environment
was a difficult one. In the household was a bright-eyed, very
intelligent younger daughter, Mary, who presently went off to France
and returned as a very cultivated young woman. The romance is easily
understood, and so Charles Doyle in the year 1855 married Mary Foley,
my mother, the young couple still residing with my grandmother.
Their means were limited, for his salary as a Civil Servant was not
more than about £240. This he supplemented by his drawings. Thus
matters remained for practically all his life, for he was quite
unambitious and no great promotion ever came his way. His painting was
done spasmodically and the family did not always reap the benefit,
for Edinburgh is full of water-colours which he had given away. It is
one of my unfulfilled schemes to collect as many as possible and to
have a Charles Doyle exhibition in London, for the critics would be
surprised to find what a great and original artist he was--far the
greatest, in my opinion, of the family. His brush was concerned not
only with fairies and delicate themes of the kind, but with wild and
fearsome subjects, so that his work had a very peculiar style of its
own, mitigated by great natural humour. He was more terrible than Blake
and less morbid than Wiertz. His originality is best shown by the fact
that one hardly knows with whom to compare him. In prosaic Scotland,
however, he excited wonder rather than admiration, and he was only
known in the larger world of London by pen and ink book-illustrations
which were not his best mode of expression. The prosaic outcome was
that including all his earnings my mother could never have averaged
more than £300 a year on which to educate a large family. We lived in
the hardy and bracing atmosphere of poverty and we each in turn did our
best to help those who were younger than ourselves. My noble sister
Annette, who died just as the sunshine of better days came into our
lives, went out at a very early age as a governess to Portugal and
sent all her salary home. My younger sisters, Lottie and Connie, both
did the same thing; and I helped as I could. But it was still my dear
mother who bore the long, sordid strain. Often I said to her, “When you
are old, Mammie, you shall have a velvet dress and gold glasses and sit
in comfort by the fire.” Thank God, it so came to pass. My father, I
fear, was of little help to her, for his thoughts were always in the
clouds and he had no appreciation of the realities of life. The world,
not the family, gets the fruits of genius.
Of my boyhood I need say little, save that it was Spartan at home
and more Spartan at the Edinburgh school where a tawse-brandishing
schoolmaster of the old type made our young lives miserable. From the
age of seven to nine I suffered under this pock-marked, one-eyed rascal
who might have stepped from the pages of Dickens. In the evenings home
and books were my sole consolation, save for week-end holidays. My
comrades were rough boys and I became a rough boy, too. If there is any
truth in the idea of reincarnation--a point on which my mind is still
open--I think some earlier experience of mine must have been as a stark
fighter, for it came out strongly in youth, when I rejoiced in battle.
We lived for some time in a _cul de sac_ street with a very vivid
life of its own and a fierce feud between the small boys who dwelt on
either side of it. Finally it was fought out between two champions, I
representing the poorer boys who lived in flats and my opponent the
richer boys who lived in the opposite villas. We fought in the garden
of one of the said villas and had an excellent contest of many rounds,
not being strong enough to weaken each other. When I got home after
the battle, my mother cried, “Oh, Arthur, what a dreadful eye you
have got!” To which I replied, “You just go across and look at Eddie
Tulloch’s eye!”
I met a well-deserved setback on one occasion when I stood forward to
fight a bootmaker’s boy, who had come into our preserve upon an errand.
He had a green baize bag in his hand which contained a heavy boot, and
this he swung against my skull with a force which knocked me pretty
well senseless. It was a useful lesson. I will say for myself, however,
that though I was pugnacious I was never so to those weaker than myself
and that some of my escapades were in the defence of such. As I will
show in my chapter on Sport, I carried on my tastes into a later period
of my life.
One or two little pictures stand out which may be worth recording.
When my grandfather’s grand London friends passed through Edinburgh
they used, to our occasional embarrassment, to call at the little flat
“to see how Charles is getting on.” In my earliest childhood such a
one came, tall, white-haired and affable. I was so young that it seems
like a faint dream, and yet it pleases me to think that I have sat on
Thackeray’s knee. He greatly admired my dear little mother with her
grey Irish eyes and her vivacious Celtic ways--indeed, no one met her
without being captivated by her.
Once, too, I got a glimpse of history. It was in 1866, if my dates are
right, that some well-to-do Irish relatives asked us over for a few
weeks, and we passed that time in a great house in King’s County. I
spent much of it with the horses and dogs, and became friendly with the
young groom. The stables opened on to a country road by an arched gate
with a loft over it. One morning, being in the yard, I saw the young
groom rush into the yard with every sign of fear and hastily shut and
bar the doors. He then climbed into the loft, beckoning to me to come
with him. From the loft window we saw a gang of rough men, twenty or
so, slouching along the road. When they came opposite to the gate they
stopped and looking up shook their fists and cursed at us. The groom
answered back most volubly. Afterwards I understood that these men
were a party of Fenians, and that I had had a glimpse of one of the
periodical troubles which poor old Ireland has endured. Perhaps now, at
last, they may be drawing to an end.
During these first ten years I was a rapid reader, so rapid that some
small library with which we dealt gave my mother notice that books
would not be changed more than twice a day. My tastes were boylike
enough, for Mayne Reid was my favourite author, and his “Scalp Hunters”
my favourite book. I wrote a little book and illustrated it myself in
early days. There was a man in it and there was a tiger who amalgamated
shortly after they met. I 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, which is surely the experience of every writer of
adventures.
CHAPTER II
UNDER THE JESUITS
The Preparatory School--The Mistakes of Education--Spartan
Schooling--Corporal Punishment--Well-known School Fellows--Gloomy
Forecasts--Poetry--London Matriculation--German School--A Happy
Year--The Jesuits--Strange Arrival in Paris.
I was in my tenth year when I was sent to Hodder, which is the
preparatory school for Stonyhurst, the big Roman Catholic public school
in Lancashire. It was a long journey for a little boy who had never
been away from home before, and I felt very lonesome and wept bitterly
upon the way, but in due time I arrived safely at Preston, which was
then the nearest station, and with many other small boys and our
black-robed Jesuit guardians we drove some twelve miles to the school.
Hodder is about a mile from Stonyhurst, and as all the boys there are
youngsters under twelve, it forms a very useful institution, breaking a
lad into school ways before he mixes with the big fellows.
I had two years at Hodder. The year was not broken up by the frequent
holidays which illuminate the present educational period. Save for
six weeks each summer, one never left the school. On the whole, those
first two years were happy years. I could hold my own both in brain
and in strength with my comrades. I was fortunate enough to get under
the care of a kindly principal, one Father Cassidy, who was more human
than Jesuits usually are. I have always kept a warm remembrance of
this man and of his gentle ways to the little boys--young rascals many
of us--who were committed to his care. I remember the Franco-German
War breaking out at this period, and how it made a ripple even in our
secluded back-water.
From Hodder I passed on to Stonyhurst, that grand mediæval
dwelling-house which was left some hundred and fifty years ago to the
Jesuits, who brought over their whole teaching staff from some college
in Holland in order to carry it on as a public school. The general
curriculum, like the building, was mediæval but sound. I understand it
has been modernized since. There were seven classes--elements, figures,
rudiments, grammar, syntax, poetry and rhetoric--and you were allotted
a year for each, or seven in all--a course with which I faithfully
complied, two having already been completed at Hodder. It was the usual
public school routine of Euclid, algebra and the classics, taught in
the usual way, which is calculated to leave a lasting abhorrence of
these subjects. To give boys a little slab of Virgil or Homer with
no general idea as to what it is all about or what the classical age
was like, is surely an absurd way of treating the subject. I am sure
that an intelligent boy could learn more by reading a good translation
of Homer for a week than by a year’s study of the original as it is
usually carried out. It was no worse at Stonyhurst than at any other
school, and it can only be excused on the plea that any exercise,
however stupid in itself, forms a sort of mental dumb-bell by which one
can improve one’s mind. It is, I think, a thoroughly false theory. I
can say with truth that my Latin and Greek, which cost me so many weary
hours, have been little use to me in life, and that my mathematics have
been no use at all. On the other hand, some things which I picked up
almost by accident, the art of reading aloud, learned when my mother
was knitting, or the reading of French books, learned by spelling
out the captions of the Jules Verne illustrations, have been of the
greatest possible service. My classical education left me with a horror
of the classics, and I was astonished to find how fascinating they were
when I read them in a reasonable manner in later years.
Year by year, then, I see myself climbing those seven weary steps and
passing through as many stages of my boyhood. I do not know if the
Jesuit system of education is good or not; I would need to have tried
another system as well before I could answer that. On the whole it
was justified by results, for I think it turned out as decent a set
of young fellows as any other school would do. In spite of a large
infusion of foreigners and some disaffected Irish, we were a patriotic
crowd, and our little pulse beat time with the heart of the nation.
I am told that the average of V.C.’s and D.S.O.’s now held by old
Stonyhurst boys is very high as compared with other schools. The Jesuit
teachers have no trust in human nature, and perhaps they are justified.
We were never allowed for an instant to be alone with each other, and
I think that the immorality which is rife in public schools was at a
minimum in consequence. In our games and our walks the priests always
took part, and a master perambulated the dormitories at night. Such a
system may weaken self-respect and self-help, but it at least minimizes
temptation and scandal.
The life was Spartan, and yet we had all that was needed. Dry bread
and hot well-watered milk were our frugal breakfast. There was a
“joint” and twice a week a pudding for dinner. Then there was an odd
snack called “bread and beer” in the afternoon, a bit of dry bread
and the most extraordinary drink, which was brown but had no other
characteristic of beer. Finally, there was hot milk again, bread,
butter, and often potatoes for supper. We were all very healthy on this
_régime_, on Fridays. Everything in every way was plain to the verge
of austerity, save that we dwelt in a beautiful building, dined in a
marble-floored hall with minstrels’ gallery, prayed in a lovely church,
and generally lived in very choice surroundings so far as vision and
not comfort was concerned.
Corporal punishment was severe, and I can speak with feeling as I think
few, if any, boys of my time endured more of it. It was of a peculiar
nature, imported also, I fancy, from Holland. The instrument was a
piece of india-rubber of the size and shape of a thick boot sole. This
was called a “Tolley”--why, no one has explained, unless it is a Latin
pun on what we had to bear. One blow of this instrument, delivered with
intent, would cause the palm of the hand to swell up and change colour.
When I say that the usual punishment of the larger boys was nine on
each hand, and that nine on one hand was the absolute minimum, it will
be understood that it was a severe ordeal, and that the sufferer could
not, as a rule, turn the handle of the door to get out of the room in
which he had suffered. To take twice nine upon a cold day was about
the extremity of human endurance. I think, however, that it was good
for us in the end, for it was a point of honour with many of us not
to show that we were hurt, and that is one of the best trainings for a
hard life. If I was more beaten than others it was not that I was in
any way vicious, but it was that I had a nature which responded eagerly
to affectionate kindness (which I never received), but which rebelled
against threats and took a perverted pride in showing that it would not
be cowed by violence. I went out of my way to do really mischievous and
outrageous things simply to show that my spirit was unbroken. An appeal
to my better nature and not to my fears would have found an answer at
once. I deserved all I got for what I did, but I did it because I was
mishandled.
I do not remember any one who attained particular distinction among my
school-fellows, save Bernard Partridge of “Punch,” whom I recollect
as a very quiet, gentle boy. Father Thurston, who was destined to be
one of my opponents in psychic matters so many years later, was in
the class above me. There was a young novice, too, with whom I hardly
came in contact, but whose handsome and spiritual appearance I well
remember. He was Bernard Vaughan, afterwards the famous preacher. Save
for one school-fellow, James Ryan--a remarkable boy who grew into a
remarkable man--I carried away no lasting friendship from Stonyhurst.
It was only in the latest stage of my Stonyhurst development that I
realized that I had some literary streak in me which was not common to
all. It came to me as quite a surprise, and even more perhaps to my
masters, who had taken a rather hopeless view of my future prospects.
One master, when I told him that I thought of being a civil engineer,
remarked, “Well, Doyle, you may be an engineer, but I don’t think you
will ever be a civil one.” Another assured me that I would never do
any good in the world, and perhaps from his point of view his prophecy
has been justified. The particular incident, however, which brought
my latent powers to the surface depended upon the fact that in the
second highest class, which I reached in 1874, it was incumbent to
write poetry (so called) on any theme given. This was done as a dreary
unnatural task by most boys. Very comical their wooings of the muses
used to be. For one saturated as I really was with affection for
verse, it was a labour of love, and I produced verses which were poor
enough in themselves but seemed miracles to those who had no urge in
that direction. The particular theme was the crossing of the Red Sea by
the Israelites and my effort from--
“Like pallid daisies in a grassy wood,
So round the sward the tents of Israel stood”;
through--
“There was no time for thought and none for fear,
For Egypt’s horse already pressed their rear.”
down to the climax--
“One horrid cry! The tragedy was o’er,
And Pharaoh with his army seen no more,”--
was workmanlike though wooden and conventional. Anyhow, it marked what
Mr. Stead used to call a signpost, and I realized myself a little. In
the last year I edited the College magazine and wrote a good deal of
indifferent verse. I also went up for the Matriculation examination of
London University, a good all-round test which winds up the Stonyhurst
curriculum, and I surprised every one by taking honours, so after all
I emerged from Stonyhurst at the age of sixteen with more credit than
seemed probable from my rather questionable record.
Early in my career there, an offer had been made to my mother that my
school fees would be remitted if I were dedicated to the Church. She
refused this, so both the Church and I had an escape. When I think,
however, of her small income and great struggle to keep up appearances
and make both ends meet, it was a fine example of her independence of
character, for it meant paying out some £50 a year which might have
been avoided by a word of assent.
[Illustration: MY MOTHER, AT 17.
_Drawn by Richard Doyle, July 1854._]
I had yet another year with the Jesuits, for it was determined that
I was still too young to begin any professional studies, and that I
should go to Germany and learn German. I was despatched, therefore,
to Feldkirch, which is a Jesuit school in the Vorarlberg province of
Austria, to which many better-class German boys are sent. Here the
conditions were much more humane and I met with far more human kindness
than at Stonyhurst, with the immediate result that I ceased to be a
resentful young rebel and became a pillar of law and order.
I began badly, however, for on the first night of my arrival I was kept
awake by a boy snoring loudly in the dormitory. I stood it as long as
I could, but at last I was driven to action. Curious wooden compasses
called _bett-scheere_, or “bed-scissors,” were stuck into each side of
the narrow beds. One of these I plucked out, walked down the dormitory,
and, having spotted the offender, proceeded to poke him with my stick.
He awoke and was considerably amazed to see in the dim light a large
youth whom he had never seen before--I arrived after hours--assaulting
him with a club. I was still engaged in stirring him up when I felt
a touch on my shoulder and was confronted by the master, who ordered
me back to bed. Next morning I got a lecture on free-and-easy English
ways, and taking the law into my own hands. But this start was really
my worst lapse and I did well in the future.
It was a happy year on the whole. I made less progress with German
than I should, for there were about twenty English and Irish boys who
naturally balked the wishes of their parents by herding together. There
was no cricket, but there were toboganning and fair football and a
weird game--football on stilts. Then there were the lovely mountains
round us, with an occasional walk among them. The food was better than
at Stonyhurst and we had the pleasant German light beer instead of
the horrible swipes of Stonyhurst. One unlooked-for accomplishment I
acquired, for the boy who played the big brass bass instrument in the
fine school band had not returned, and, as a well-grown lad was needed,
I was at once enlisted in the service. I played in public--good music,
too, “Lohengrin,” and “Tannhäuser,”--within a week or two of my first
lesson, but they pressed me on for the occasion and the Bombardon, as
it was called, only comes in on a measured rhythm with an occasional
run, which sounds like a hippopotamus doing a step-dance. So big was
the instrument that I remember the other bandsmen putting my sheets and
blankets inside it and my surprise when I could not get out a note. It
was in the summer of 1876 that I left Feldkirch, and I have always had
a pleasant memory of the Austrian Jesuits and of the old schools.
Indeed I have a kindly feeling towards all Jesuits, far as I have
strayed from their paths. I see now both their limitations and their
virtues. They have been slandered in some things, for during eight
years of constant contact I cannot remember that they were less
truthful than their fellows, or more casuistical than their neighbours.
They were keen, clean-minded earnest men, so far as I knew them, with a
few black sheep among them, but not many, for the process of selection
was careful and long. In all ways, save in their theology, they were
admirable, though this same theology made them hard and inhuman upon
the surface, which is indeed the general effect of Catholicism in its
more extreme forms. The convert is lost to the family. Their hard,
narrow outlook gives the Jesuits driving power, as is noticeable in the
Puritans and all hard, narrow creeds. They are devoted and fearless and
have again and again, both in Canada, in South America and in China,
been the vanguard of civilization to their own grievous hurt. They
are the old guard of the Roman Church. But the tragedy is that they,
who would gladly give their lives for the old faith, have in effect
helped to ruin it, for it is they, according to Father Tyrrell and the
modernists, who have been at the back of all those extreme doctrines
of papal infallibility and Immaculate Conception, with a general
all-round tightening of dogma, which have made it so difficult for the
man with scientific desire for truth or with intellectual self-respect
to keep within the Church. For some years Sir Charles Mivart, the last
of Catholic Scientists, tried to do the impossible, and then he also
had to leave go his hold, so that there is not, so far as I know,
one single man of outstanding fame in science or in general thought
who is a practising Catholic. This is the work of the extremists and
is deplored by many of the moderates and fiercely condemned by the
modernists. It depends also upon the inner Italian directorate who
give the orders. Nothing can exceed the uncompromising bigotry of
the Jesuit theology, or their apparent ignorance of how it shocks
the modern conscience. I remember that when, as a grown lad, I heard
Father Murphy, a great fierce Irish priest, declare that there was sure
damnation for every one outside the Church, I looked upon him with
horror, and to that moment I trace the first rift which has grown into
such a chasm between me and those who were my guides.
On my way back to England I stopped at Paris. Through all my life
up to this point there had been an unseen granduncle, named Michael
Conan, to whom I must now devote a paragraph. He came into the family
from the fact that my father’s father (“H. B.”) had married a Miss
Conan. Michael Conan, her brother, had been editor of “The Art Journal”
and was a man of distinction, an intellectual Irishman of the type
which originally founded the Sinn Fein movement. 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; indeed
Arthur Conan was the ill-fated young Duke whose eyes were put out,
according to Shakespeare, by King John. This uncle was my godfather,
and hence my name Arthur Conan.
He lived in Paris and had expressed a wish that his grandnephew and
godson, with whom he had corresponded, should call _en passant_. I ran
my money affairs so closely, after a rather lively supper at Strasburg,
that when I reached Paris I had just twopence in my pocket. As I could
not well drive up and ask my uncle to pay the cab I left my trunk at
the station and set forth on foot. I reached the river, walked along
it, came to the foot of the Champs Élysées, saw the Arc de Triomphe in
the distance, and then, knowing that the Avenue Wagram, where my uncle
lived, was near there, I tramped it on a hot August day and finally
found him. I remember that I was exhausted with the heat and the
walking, and that when at the last gasp I saw a man buy a drink of what
seemed to be porter by handing a penny to a man who had a long tin on
his back, I therefore halted the man and spent one of my pennies on a
duplicate drink. It proved to be liquorice and water, but it revived
me when I badly needed it, and it could not be said that I arrived
penniless at my uncle’s, for I actually had a penny.
So, for some penurious weeks, I was in Paris with this dear old
volcanic Irishman, who spent the summer day in his shirt-sleeves, with
a little dicky-bird of a wife waiting upon him. I am built rather on
his lines of body and mind than on any of the Doyles. We made a true
friendship, and then I returned to my home conscious that real life was
about to begin.
CHAPTER III
RECOLLECTIONS OF A STUDENT
Edinburgh University--A Sad Disappointment--Original of Professor
Challenger--Of Sherlock Holmes--Deductions--Sheffield--Ruyton--
Birmingham--Literary Aspirations--First Accepted Story--My Father’s
Death--Mental Position--Spiritual Yearnings--An Awkward Business.
When I returned to Edinburgh, with little to show, either mental or
spiritual, for my pleasant school year in Germany, I found that the
family affairs were still as straitened as ever. No promotion had come
to my father, and two younger children, Innes, my only brother, and
Ida, had arrived to add to the calls upon my mother. Another sister,
Julia, followed shortly afterwards. But Annette, the eldest sister, had
already gone out to Portugal to earn and send home a fair salary, while
Lottie and Connie were about to do the same. My mother had adopted the
device of sharing a large house, which may have eased her in some ways,
but was disastrous in others.
Perhaps it was good for me that the times were hard, for I was wild,
full-blooded, and a trifle reckless, but the situation called for
energy and application, so that one was bound to try to meet it.
My mother had been so splendid that we could not fail her. It had
been determined that I should be a doctor, chiefly, I think, because
Edinburgh was so famous a centre for medical learning. It meant another
long effort for my mother, but she was very brave and ambitious where
her children were concerned, and I was not only to have a medical
education, but to take the University degree, which was a larger matter
than a mere licence to practise. When I returned from Germany I found
that there was a long list of bursaries and scholarships open for
competition. I had a month in which to brush up my classics and then I
went in for these, and was informed a week later that I had won the
Grierson bursary of £40 for two years. Great were the rejoicings and
all shadows seemed to be lifting. But on calling to get the money I was
informed that there had been a clerical error, and that this particular
bursary was only open to arts students. As there was a long list of
prizes I naturally supposed that I would get the next highest, which
was available for medicals. The official pulled a long face and said:
“Unfortunately the candidate to whom it was allotted has already drawn
the money.” It was manifest robbery, and yet I, who had won the prize
and needed it so badly, never received it, and was eventually put off
with a solatium of £7, which had accumulated from some fund. It was
a bitter disappointment and, of course, I had a legal case, but what
can a penniless student do, and what sort of college career would he
have if he began it by suing his University for money? I was advised
to accept the situation, and there seemed no prospect of accepting
anything else.
So now behold me, a tall strongly-framed but half-formed young man,
fairly entered upon my five years’ course of medical study. It can be
done with diligence in four years, but there came, as I shall show, a
glorious interruption which held me back for one year. I entered as a
student in October 1876, and I emerged as a Bachelor of Medicine in
August 1881. Between these two points lies one long weary grind at
botany, chemistry, anatomy, physiology, and a whole list of compulsory
subjects, many of which have a very indirect bearing upon the art of
curing. The whole system of teaching, as I look back upon it, seems
far too oblique and not nearly practical enough for the purpose in
view. And yet Edinburgh is, I believe, more practical than most other
colleges. It is practical, too, in its preparation for life, since
there is none of the atmosphere of an enlarged public school, as is the
case in English Universities, but the student lives a free man in his
own rooms with no restrictions of any sort. It ruins some and makes
strong men of many. In my own case, of course, this did not apply,
since my family lived in the town, and I worked from my own home.
There was no attempt at friendship, or even acquaintance, between
professors and students at Edinburgh. It was a strictly business
arrangement by which you paid, for example, four guineas for Anatomy
lectures and received the winter course in exchange, never seeing
your professor save behind his desk and never under any circumstances
exchanging a word with him. They were remarkable men, however, some
of these professors, and we managed to know them pretty well without
any personal acquaintance. There was kindly Crum Brown, the chemist,
who sheltered himself carefully before exploding some mixture, which
usually failed to ignite, so that the loud “Boom!” uttered by the class
was the only resulting sound. Brown would emerge from his retreat with
a “Really, gentlemen!” of remonstrance, and go on without allusion to
the abortive experiment. There was Wyville Thomson, the zoologist,
fresh from his _Challenger_ expedition, and Balfour, with the face and
manner of John Knox, a hard rugged old man, who harried the students in
their exams, and was in consequence harried by them for the rest of the
year. There was Turner, a fine anatomist, but a self-educated man, as
was betrayed when he used to “take and put this structure on the handle
of this scalpel.” The most human trait that I can recall of Turner was
that upon one occasion the sacred quadrangle was invaded by snowballing
roughs. His class, of whom I was one, heard the sounds of battle
and fidgeted in their seats, on which the Professor said: “I think,
gentlemen, your presence may be more useful outside than here,” on
which we flocked out with a whoop, and soon had the quadrangle clear.
Most vividly of all, however, there stands out in my memory the squat
figure of Professor Rutherford with his Assyrian beard, his prodigious
voice, his enormous chest and his singular manner. He fascinated and
awed us. I have endeavoured to reproduce some of his peculiarities in
the fictitious character of Professor Challenger. He would sometimes
start his lecture before he reached the classroom, so that we would
hear a booming voice saying: “There are valves in the veins,” or some
other information, when the desk was still empty. He was, I fear, a
rather ruthless vivisector, and though I have always recognized that a
minimum of painless vivisection is necessary, and far more justifiable
than the eating of meat as a food, I am glad that the law was made more
stringent so as to restrain such men as he. “Ach, these Jarman Frags!”
he would exclaim in his curious accent, as he tore some poor amphibian
to pieces. I wrote a students’ song which is still sung, I understand,
in which a curious article is picked up on the Portobello beach and
each Professor in turn claims it for his department. Rutherford’s verse
ran:
Said Rutherford with a smile,
“It’s a mass of solid bile,
And I myself obtained it, what is more,
By a stringent cholagogue
From a vivisected dog,
And I lost it on the Portobello Shore.”
If the song is indeed still sung it may be of interest to the present
generation to know that I was the author.
But the most notable of the characters whom I met was one Joseph Bell,
surgeon at the Edinburgh Infirmary. Bell was a very remarkable man in
body and mind. He was thin, wiry, dark, with a high-nosed acute face,
penetrating grey eyes, angular shoulders, and a jerky way of walking.
His voice was high and discordant. He was a very skilful surgeon, but
his strong point was diagnosis, not only of disease, but of occupation
and character. For some reason which I have never understood he
singled me out from the drove of students who frequented his wards and
made me his out-patient clerk, which meant that I had to array his
out-patients, make simple notes of their cases, and then show them in,
one by one, to the large room in which Bell sat in state surrounded
by his dressers and students. Then I had ample chance of studying his
methods and of noticing that he often learned more of the patient by
a few quick glances than I had done by my questions. Occasionally the
results were very dramatic, though there were times when he blundered.
In one of his best cases he said to a civilian patient: “Well, my man,
you’ve served in the army.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Not long discharged?”
“No, sir.”
“A Highland regiment?”
“Aye, sir.”
“A non-com. officer.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Stationed at Barbados?”
“Aye, sir.”
“You see, gentlemen,” he would explain, “the man was a respectful man
but did not remove his hat. They do not in the army, but he would
have learned civilian ways had he been long discharged. He has an
air of authority and he is obviously Scottish. As to Barbados, his
complaint is elephantiasis, which is West Indian and not British.” To
his audience of Watsons it all seemed very miraculous until it was
explained, and then it became simple enough. It is no wonder that after
the study of such a character I used and amplified his methods when in
later life I tried to build up a scientific detective who solved cases
on his own merits and not through the folly of the criminal. Bell took
a keen interest in these detective tales and even made suggestions
which were not, I am bound to say, very practical. I kept in touch with
him for many years and he used to come upon my platform to support me
when I contested Edinburgh in 1901.
When I took over his out-patient work he warned me that a knowledge
of Scottish idioms was necessary and I, with the confidence of youth,
declared that I had got it. The sequel was amusing. On one of the
first days an old man came who, in response to my question, declared
that he had a “bealin’ in his oxter.” This fairly beat me, much to
Bell’s amusement. It seems that the words really mean an abscess in the
arm-pit.
Speaking generally of my University career I may say that though I
took my fences in my stride and balked at none of them, still I won
no distinction in the race. I was always one of the ruck, neither
lingering nor gaining--a 60 per cent man at examinations. There were,
however, some reasons for this which I will now state.
It was clearly very needful that I should help financially as quickly
as possible, even if my help only took the humble form of providing
for my own keep. Therefore I endeavoured almost from the first to
compress the classes for a year into half a year, and so to have some
months in which to earn a little money as a medical assistant, who
would dispense and do odd jobs for a doctor. When I first set forth to
do this my services were so obviously worth nothing that I had to put
that valuation upon them. Even then it might have been a hard bargain
for the doctor, for I might have proved like the youth in “Pickwick”
who had a rooted idea that oxalic acid was Epsom salts. However, I had
horse sense enough to save myself and my employer from any absolute
catastrophe. My first venture, in the early summer of ’78, was with a
Dr. Richardson, running a low-class practice in the poorer quarters of
Sheffield. I did my best, and I dare say he was patient, but at the
end of three weeks we parted by mutual consent. I went on to London,
where I renewed my advertisements in the medical papers, and found a
refuge for some weeks with my Doyle relatives, then living at Clifton
Gardens, Maida Vale. I fear that I was too Bohemian for them and they
too conventional for me. However, they were kind to me, and I roamed
about London for some time with pockets so empty that there was little
chance of idleness breeding its usual mischief. I remember that there
were signs of trouble in the East and that the recruiting sergeants,
who were very busy in Trafalgar Square, took my measure in a moment and
were very insistent that I should take the shilling. There was a time
when I was quite disposed to do so, but my mother’s plans held me back.
I may say that late in the same year I did volunteer as a dresser for
the English ambulances sent to Turkey for the Russian War, and was on
the Red Cross list, but the collapse of the Turks prevented my going
out.
Soon, however, there came an answer to my advertisement: “Third
year’s student, desiring experience rather than remuneration,
offers his services, &c., &c.” It was from a Dr. Elliot living in a
townlet in Shropshire which rejoiced in the extraordinary name of
“Ruyton-of-the-eleven-towns.” It was not big enough to make one town,
far less eleven. There for four months I helped in a country practice.
It was a very quiet existence and I had a good deal of time to myself
under very pleasant circumstances, so that I really trace some little
mental progress to that period, for I read and thought without
interruption. My medical duties were of a routine nature save on a few
occasions. One of them still stands out in my memory, for it was the
first time in my life that I ever had to test my own nerve in a great
sudden emergency. The doctor was out when there came a half-crazed
messenger to say that in some rejoicings at a neighbouring great house
they had exploded an old cannon which had promptly burst and grievously
injured one of the bystanders. No doctor was available, so I was the
last resource. On arriving there I found a man in bed with a lump of
iron sticking out of the side of his head. I tried not to show the
alarm which I felt, and I did the obvious thing by pulling out the
iron. I could see the clean white bone, so I could assure them that the
brain had not been injured. I then pulled the gash together, staunched
the bleeding, and finally bound it up, so that when the doctor did at
last arrive he had little to add. This incident gave me confidence and,
what is more important still, gave others confidence. On the whole I
had a happy time at Ruyton, and have a pleasing memory of Dr. Elliot
and his wife.
After a winter’s work at the University my next assistantship was a
real money-making proposition to the extent of some two pounds a month.
This was with Dr. Hoare, a well-known Birmingham doctor, who had a
five-horse City practice, and every working doctor, before the days of
motors, would realize that this meant going from morning to night. He
earned some three thousand a year, which takes some doing, when it is
collected from 3_s._ 6_d._ visits and 1_s._ 6_d._ bottles of medicine,
among the very poorest classes of Aston. Hoare was a fine fellow,
stout, square, red-faced, bushy-whiskered and dark-eyed. His wife was
also a very kindly and gifted woman, and my position in the house was
soon rather that of a son than of an assistant. The work, however,
was hard and incessant, and the pay very small. I had long lists of
prescriptions to make up every day, for we dispensed our own medicine,
and one hundred bottles of an evening were not unknown. On the whole I
made few mistakes, though I have been known to send out ointment and
pill boxes with elaborate directions on the lid and nothing inside. I
had my own visiting list, also, the poorest or the most convalescent,
and I saw a great deal, for better or worse, of very low life. Twice
I returned to this Birmingham practice and always my relations with
the family became closer. At my second visit my knowledge had greatly
extended and I did midwifery cases, and the more severe cases in
general practice as well as all the dispensing. I had no time to spend
any money and it was as well, for every shilling was needed at home.
It was in this year that I first learned that shillings might be earned
in other ways than by filling phials. Some friend remarked to me that
my letters were very vivid and surely I could write some things to
sell. I may say that the general aspiration towards literature was
tremendously strong upon me, and that my mind was reaching out in
what seemed an aimless way in all sorts of directions. I used to be
allowed twopence for my lunch, that being the price of a mutton pie,
but near the pie shop was a second-hand book shop with a barrel full
of old books and the legend “Your choice for 2_d._” stuck above it.
Ofter the price of my luncheon used to be spent on some sample out of
this barrel, and I have within reach of my arm as I write these lines,
copies of Gordon’s Tacitus, Temple’s works, Pope’s Homer, Addison’s
Spectator and Swift’s works, which all came out of the twopenny box.
Any one observing my actions and tastes would have said that so strong
a spring would certainly overflow, but for my own part I never dreamed
I could myself produce decent prose, and the remark of my friend, who
was by no means given to flattery, took me greatly by surprise. I
sat down, however, and wrote a little adventure story which I called
“The Mystery of the Sassassa Valley.” To my great joy and surprise it
was accepted by “Chambers’ Journal,” and I received three guineas.
It mattered not that other attempts failed. I had done it once and I
cheered myself by the thought that I could do it again. It was years
before I touched “Chambers’” again, but in 1879 I had a story, “The
American’s Tale,” in “London Society,” for which also I got a small
cheque. But the idea of real success was still far from my mind.
During all this time our family affairs had taken no turn for the
better, and had it not been for my excursions and for the work of
my sisters we could hardly have carried on. My father’s health had
utterly broken, he had to retire to that Convalescent Home in which
the last years of his life were spent, and I, aged twenty, found myself
practically the head of a large and struggling family. My father’s life
was full of the tragedy of unfulfilled powers and of undeveloped gifts.
He had his weaknesses, as all of us have ours, but he had also some
very remarkable and outstanding virtues. A tall man, long-bearded, and
elegant, he had a charm of manner and a courtesy of bearing which I
have seldom seen equalled. His wit was quick and playful. He possessed,
also, a remarkable delicacy of mind which would give him moral courage
enough to rise and leave any company which talked in a manner which
was coarse. When he passed away a few years later I am sure that
Charles Doyle had no enemy in the world, and that those who knew him
best sympathized most with the hard fate which had thrown him, a man
of sensitive genius, into an environment which neither his age nor
his nature was fitted to face. He was unworldly and unpractical and
his family suffered for it, but even his faults were in some ways the
result of his developed spirituality. He lived and died a fervent son
of the Roman Catholic faith. My mother, however, who had never been a
very devoted daughter of that great institution, became less so as life
progressed, and finally found her chief consolation in the Anglican
fold.
This brings me to my own spiritual unfolding, if such it may be
called, during those years of constant struggle. I have already in my
account of the Jesuits shown how, even as a boy, all that was sanest
and most generous in my nature rose up against a narrow theology and
an uncharitable outlook upon the other great religions of the world.
In the Catholic Church to doubt anything is to doubt everything, for
since it is a vital axiom that doubt is a mortal sin when once it has,
unbidden and unappeasable, come upon you, everything is loosened and
you look upon the whole wonderful interdependent scheme with other
and more critical eyes. Thus viewed there was much to attract--its
traditions, its unbroken and solemn ritual, the beauty and truth of
many of its observances, its poetical appeal to the emotions, the
sensual charm of music, light and incense, its power as an instrument
of law and order. For the guidance of an unthinking and uneducated
world it could in many ways hardly be surpassed, as has been shown in
Paraguay, and in the former Ireland where, outside agrarian trouble,
crime was hardly known. All this I could clearly see, but if I may
claim any outstanding characteristic in my life, it is that I have
never paltered or compromised with religious matters, that I have
always weighed them very seriously, and that there was something in
me which made it absolutely impossible, even when my most immediate
interests were concerned, to say anything about them save that which
I, in the depth of my being, really believed to be true. Judging it
thus by all the new knowledge which came to me both from my reading
and from my studies, I found that the foundations not only of Roman
Catholicism but of the whole Christian faith, as presented to me in
nineteenth century theology, were so weak that my mind could not build
upon them. It is to be remembered that these were the years when
Huxley, Tyndall, Darwin, Herbert Spencer and John Stuart Mill were our
chief philosophers, and that even the man in the street felt the strong
sweeping current of their thought, while to the young student, eager
and impressionable, it was overwhelming. I know now that their negative
attitude was even more mistaken, and very much more dangerous, than the
positive positions which they attacked with such destructive criticism.
A gap had opened between our fathers and ourselves so suddenly and
completely that when a Gladstone wrote to uphold the Gadarene swine, or
the six days of Creation, the youngest student rightly tittered over
his arguments, and it did not need a Huxley to demolish them. I can
see now very clearly how deplorable it is that manifest absurdities
should be allowed to continue without even a footnote to soften them
in the sacred text, because it has the effect that what is indeed
sacred becomes overlaid, and one can easily be persuaded that what is
false in parts can have no solid binding force. There are no worse
enemies of true religion than those who clamour against all revision
or modification of that strange mass of superbly good and questionable
matter which we lump all together into a single volume as if there were
the same value to all of it. It is not solid gold, but gold in clay,
and if this be understood the earnest seeker will not cast it aside
when he comes upon the clay, but will value the gold the more in that
he has himself separated it.
It was, then, all Christianity, and not Roman Catholicism alone, which
had alienated my mind and driven me to an agnosticism, which never for
an instant degenerated into atheism, for I had a very keen perception
of the wonderful poise of the universe and the tremendous power of
conception and sustenance which it implied. I was reverent in all
my doubts and never ceased to think upon the matter, but the more I
thought the more confirmed became my non-conformity. In a broad sense
I was a Unitarian, save that I regarded the Bible with more criticism
than Unitarians usually show. This negative position was so firm that
it seemed to me to be a terminus; whereas it proved only a junction on
the road of life where I was destined to change from the old well-worn
line on to a new one. Every materialist, as I can now clearly see, is
a case of arrested development. He has cleared his ruins, but has not
begun to build that which would shelter him. As to psychic knowledge, I
knew it only by the account of exposures in the police courts and the
usual wild and malicious statements in the public press. Years were
to pass before I understood that in that direction might be found the
positive proofs which I constantly asserted were the only conditions
upon which I could resume any sort of allegiance to the unseen. I must
have definite demonstration, for if it were to be a matter of faith
then I might as well go back to the faith of my fathers. “Never will
I accept anything which cannot be proved to me. The evils of religion
have all come from accepting things which cannot be proved.” So I said
at the time and I have been true to my resolve.
I would not give the impression that my life was gloomy or morbidly
thoughtful because it chanced that I had some extra cares and some
worrying thoughts. I had an eager nature which missed nothing in the
way of fun which could be gathered, and I had a great capacity for
enjoyment. I read much. I played games all I could. I danced, and I
sampled the drama whenever I had a sixpence to carry me to the gallery.
On one occasion I got into a row which might have been serious. I was
waiting on the gallery steps with a great line of people, the shut
door still facing us. There were half a dozen soldiers in the crowd and
one of these squeezed a girl up against the wall in such a way that she
began to scream. As I was near them I asked the man to be more gentle,
on which he dug his elbow with all his force into my ribs. He turned on
me as he did so, and I hit him with both hands in the face. He bored
into me and pushed me up into the angle of the door, but I had a grip
of him and he could not hit me, though he tried to kick me in cowardly
fashion with his knee. Several of his comrades threatened me, and one
hit me on the head with his cane, cracking my hat. At this moment
luckily the door opened and the rush of the crowd carried the soldiers
on, one sympathetic corporal saying, “Take your breath, sir! Take your
breath!” I threw my man through the open door and came home, for it was
clearly asking for trouble if I remained. It was a good escape from an
awkward business.
And now I come to the first real outstanding adventure in my life,
which is worthy of a fresh chapter and of a more elaborate treatment.
CHAPTER IV
WHALING IN THE ARCTIC OCEAN
The _Hope_--John Gray--Boxing--The Terrible Mate--Our Criminal--First
Sight of a Woman--A Hurricane--Dangers of the Fishing--Three Dips
in the Arctic--The Idlers’ Boat--Whale Taking--Glamour of the
Arctic--Effect of Voyage.
It was in the _Hope_, under the command of the well-known whaler, John
Gray, that I paid a seven months’ visit to the Arctic Seas in the year
1880. I went in the capacity of surgeon, but as I was only twenty years
of age when I started, and as my knowledge of medicine was that of an
average third year’s student, I have often thought that it was as well
that there was no very serious call upon my services.
It came about in this way. One raw afternoon in Edinburgh, whilst I
was sitting reading hard for one of those examinations which blight
the life of a medical student, there entered to me one Currie, a
fellow-student with whom I had some slight acquaintance. The monstrous
question which he asked drove all thought of my studies out of my head.
“Would you care,” said he, “to start next week for a whaling cruise?
You’ll be surgeon, two pound ten a month and three shillings a ton oil
money.”
“How do you know I’ll get the berth?” was my natural question.
“Because I have it myself. I find at this last moment that I can’t go,
and I want to get a man to take my place.”
“How about an Arctic kit?”
“You can have mine.”
In an instant the thing was settled, and within a few minutes the
current of my life had been deflected into a new channel.
In little more than a week I was in Peterhead, and busily engaged, with
the help of the steward, in packing away my scanty belongings in the
locker beneath my bunk on the good ship _Hope_.
I speedily found that the chief duty of the surgeon was to be the
companion of the captain, who is cut off by the etiquette of the
trade from anything but very brief and technical talks with his other
officers. I should have found it intolerable if the captain had been
a bad fellow, but John Gray of the _Hope_ was a really splendid man,
a grand seaman and a serious-minded Scot, so that he and I formed a
comradeship which was never marred during our long _tête-à-tête_. I
see him now, his ruddy face, his grizzled hair and beard, his very
light blue eyes always looking into far spaces, and his erect muscular
figure. Taciturn, sardonic, stern on occasion, but always a good just
man at bottom.
There was one curious thing about the manning of the _Hope_. The man
who signed on as first mate was a little, decrepit, broken fellow,
absolutely incapable of performing the duties. The cook’s assistant, on
the other hand, was a giant of a man, red-bearded, bronzed, with huge
limbs, and a voice of thunder. But the moment that the ship cleared the
harbour the little, decrepit mate disappeared into the cook’s galley,
and acted as scullery-boy for the voyage, while the mighty scullery-boy
walked aft and became chief mate. The fact was, that the one had the
certificate, but was past sailoring, while the other could neither read
nor write, but was as fine a seaman as ever lived; so, by an agreement
to which everybody concerned was party, they swapped their berths when
they were at sea.
Colin McLean, with his six foot of stature, his erect, stalwart figure,
and his fierce, red beard, pouring out from between the flaps of his
sealing-cap, was an officer by natural selection, which is a higher
title than that of a Board of Trade certificate. His only fault was
that he was a very hot-blooded man, and that a little would excite him
to a frenzy. I have a vivid recollection of an evening which I spent in
dragging him off the steward, who had imprudently made some criticism
upon his way of attacking a whale which had escaped. Both men had had
some rum, which had made the one argumentative and the other violent,
and as we were all three seated in a space of about seven by four, it
took some hard work to prevent bloodshed. Every now and then, just as
I thought all danger was past, the steward would begin again with his
fatuous, “No offence, Colin, but all I says is that if you had been a
bit quicker on the fush----” I don’t know how often this sentence was
begun, but never once was it ended; for at the word “fush” Colin always
seized him by the throat, and I Colin round the waist, and we struggled
until we were all panting and exhausted. Then when the steward had
recovered a little breath he would start that miserable sentence once
more, and the “fush” would be the signal for another encounter. I
really believe that if I had not been there the mate would have hurt
him, for he was quite the angriest man that I have ever seen.
There were fifty men upon our whaler, of whom half were Scotchmen
and half Shetlanders, whom we picked up at Lerwick as we passed. The
Shetlanders were the steadier and more tractable, quiet, decent, and
soft-spoken; while the Scotch seamen were more likely to give trouble,
but also more virile and of stronger character. The officers and
harpooners were all Scotch, but as ordinary seamen, and especially as
boatmen, the Shetlanders were as good as could be wished.
There was only one man on board who belonged neither to Scotland
nor to Shetland, and he was the mystery of the ship. He was a tall,
swarthy, dark-eyed man, with blue-black hair and beard, singularly
handsome features, and a curious, reckless sling of his shoulders when
he walked. It was rumoured that he came from the south of England, and
that he had fled thence to avoid the law. He made friends with no one,
and spoke very seldom, but he was one of the smartest seamen in the
ship. I could believe from his appearance that his temper was Satanic,
and that the crime for which he was hiding may have been a bloody one.
Only once he gave us a glimpse of his hidden fires. The cook--a very
burly, powerful man--the little mate was only assistant--had a private
store of rum, and treated himself so liberally to it that for three
successive days the dinner of the crew was ruined. On the third day
our silent outlaw approached the cook with a brass saucepan in his
hand. He said nothing, but he struck the man such a frightful blow that
his head flew through the bottom and the sides of the pan were left
dangling round his neck. The half-drunken, half-stunned cook talked of
fighting, but he was soon made to feel that the sympathy of the ship
was against him, so he reeled back, grumbling, to his duties while the
avenger relapsed into his usual moody indifference. We heard no further
complaints of the cooking.
I have spoken of the steward, and as I look back at that long voyage,
during which for seven months we never set foot on land, the kindly
open face of Jack Lamb comes back to me. He had a beautiful and
sympathetic tenor voice, and many an hour have I listened to it with
its accompaniment of rattling plates and jingling knives, as he cleaned
up the dishes in his pantry. He had a great memory for pathetic and
sentimental songs, and it is only when you have not seen a woman’s
face for six months that you realize what sentiment means. When Jack
trilled out “Her bright smile haunts me still,” or “Wait for me at
Heaven’s Gate, sweet Belle Mahone,” he filled us all with a vague sweet
discontent which comes back to me now as I think of it. To appreciate
a woman one has to be out of sight of one for six months. I can well
remember that as we rounded the north of Scotland on our return we
dipped our flag to the lighthouse, being only some hundreds of yards
from the shore. A figure emerged to answer our salute, and the excited
whisper ran through the ship, “It’s a wumman!” The captain was on the
bridge with his telescope. I had the binoculars in the bows. Every one
was staring. She was well over fifty, short skirts and sea boots--but
she was a “wumman.” “Anything in a mutch!” the sailors used to say, and
I was of the same way of thinking.
However, all this has come before its time. It was, I find by my log,
on February 28 at 2 p.m. that we sailed from Peterhead, amid a great
crowd and uproar. The decks were as clean as a yacht, and it was very
unlike my idea of a whaler. We ran straight into bad weather and the
glass went down at one time to 28.375, which is the lowest reading
I can remember in all my ocean wanderings. We just got into Lerwick
Harbour before the full force of the hurricane broke, which was so
great that lying at anchor with bare poles and partly screened we were
blown over to an acute angle. If it had taken us a few hours earlier
we should certainly have lost our boats--and the boats are the life of
a whaler. It was March 11 before the weather moderated enough to let
us get on, and by that time there were twenty whalers in the bay, so
that our setting forth was quite an occasion. That night and for a day
longer the _Hope_ had to take refuge in the lee of one of the outlying
islands. I got ashore and wandered among peat bogs, meeting strange,
barbarous, kindly people who knew nothing of the world. I was led back
to the ship by a wild, long-haired girl holding a torch, for the peat
holes make it dangerous at night--I can see her now, her tangled black
hair, her bare legs, madder-stained petticoat, and wild features under
the glare of the torch. I spoke to one old man there who asked me the
news. I said, “The Tay bridge is down,” which was then a fairly stale
item. He said, “Eh, have they built a brig over the Tay?” After that I
felt inclined to tell him about the Indian Mutiny.
What surprised me most in the Arctic regions was the rapidity with
which you reach them. I had never realized that they lie at our very
doors. I think that we were only four days out from Shetland when we
were among the drift ice. I awoke one morning to hear the bump, bump of
the floating pieces against the side of the ship, and I went on deck
to see the whole sea covered with them to the horizon. They were none
of them large, but they lay so thick that a man might travel far by
springing from one to the other. Their dazzling whiteness made the sea
seem bluer by contrast, and with a blue sky above, and that glorious
Arctic air in one’s nostrils, it was a morning to remember. Once on one
of the swaying, rocking pieces we saw a huge seal, sleek, sleepy, and
imperturbable, looking up with the utmost assurance at the ship, as if
it knew that the close time had still three weeks to run. Further on we
saw on the ice the long human-like prints of a bear. All this with the
snowdrops of Scotland still fresh in our glasses in the cabin.
I have spoken about the close time, and I may explain that, by an
agreement between the Norwegian and British Governments, the subjects
of both nations are forbidden to kill a seal before April 3. The reason
for this is that the breeding season is in March, and if the mothers
should be killed before the young are able to take care of themselves,
the race would soon become extinct. For breeding purposes the seals
all come together at a variable spot, which is evidently pre-arranged
among them, and as this place can be anywhere within many hundreds of
square miles of floating ice, it is no easy matter for the fisher to
find it. The means by which he sets about it are simple but ingenious.
As the ship makes its way through the loose ice-streams, a school
of seals is observed travelling through the water. Their direction
is carefully taken by compass and marked upon the chart. An hour
afterwards perhaps another school is seen. This is also marked. When
these bearings have been taken several times, the various lines upon
the chart are prolonged until they intersect. At this point, or near
it, it is likely that the main pack of the seals will be found.
When you do come upon it, it is a wonderful sight. I suppose it is the
largest assembly of creatures upon the face of the world--and this
upon the open icefields hundreds of miles from the Greenland coast.
Somewhere between 71 deg. and 75 deg. is the rendezvous, and the
longitude is even vaguer; but the seals have no difficulty in finding
the address. From the crow’s nest at the top of the main-mast, one
can see no end of them. On the furthest visible ice one can still see
that sprinkling of pepper grains. And the young lie everywhere also,
snow-white slugs, with a little black nose and large dark eyes. Their
half-human cries fill the air; and when you are sitting in the cabin of
a ship which is in the heart of the seal-pack, you would think you were
next door to a monstrous nursery.
The _Hope_ was one of the first to find the seal-pack that year, but
before the day came when hunting was allowed, we had a succession of
strong gales, followed by a severe roll, which tilted the floating ice
and launched the young seals prematurely into the water. And so, when
the law at last allowed us to begin work, Nature had left us with very
little work to do. However, at dawn upon the third, the ship’s company
took to the ice, and began to gather in its murderous harvest. It is
brutal work, though not more brutal than that which goes on to supply
every dinner-table in the country. And yet those glaring crimson pools
upon the dazzling white of the icefields, under the peaceful silence
of a blue Arctic sky, did seem a horrible intrusion. But an inexorable
demand creates an inexorable supply, and the seals, by their death,
help to give a living to the long line of seamen, dockers, tanners,
curers, triers, chandlers, leather merchants, and oil-sellers, who
stand between this annual butchery on the one hand, and the exquisite,
with his soft leather boots, or the savant, using a delicate oil for
his philosophical instruments, upon the other.
I have cause to remember that first day of sealing on account of the
adventures which befell me. I have said that a strong swell had arisen,
and as this was dashing the floating ice together the captain thought
it dangerous for an inexperienced man to venture upon it. And so, just
as I was clambering over the bulwarks with the rest, he ordered me
back and told me to remain on board. My remonstrances were useless,
and at last, in the blackest of tempers, I seated myself upon the top
of the bulwarks, with my feet dangling over the outer side, and there
I nursed my wrath, swinging up and down with the roll of the ship.
It chanced, however, that I was really seated upon a thin sheet of
ice which had formed upon the wood, and so when the swell threw her
over to a particularly acute angle, I shot off and vanished into the
sea between two ice-blocks. As I rose, I clawed on to one of these,
and soon scrambled on board again. The accident brought about what I
wished, however, for the captain remarked that as I was bound to fall
into the ocean in any case, I might just as well be on the ice as on
the ship. I justified his original caution by falling in twice again
during the day, and I finished it ignominiously by having to take to
my bed while all my clothes were drying in the engine-room. I was
consoled for my misfortunes by finding that they amused the captain to
such an extent that they drove the ill-success of our sealing out of
his head, and I had to answer to the name of “the great northern diver”
for a long time thereafter. I had a narrow escape once through stepping
backwards over the edge of a piece of floating ice while I was engaged
in skinning a seal. I had wandered away from the others, and no one saw
my misfortune. The face of the ice was so even that I had no purchase
by which to pull myself up, and my body was rapidly becoming numb in
the freezing water. At last, however, I caught hold of the hind flipper
of the dead seal, and there was a kind of nightmare tug-of-war, the
question being whether I should pull the seal off or pull myself on.
At last, however, I got my knee over the edge and rolled on to it. I
remember that my clothes were as hard as a suit of armour by the time I
reached the ship, and that I had to thaw my crackling garments before I
could change them.
This April sealing is directed against the mothers and young. Then, in
May, the sealer goes further north, and about latitude 77 deg. or 78
deg. he comes upon the old male seals, who are by no means such easy
victims. They are wary creatures, and it takes good long-range shooting
to bag them. Then, in June, the sealing is over, and the ship bears
away further north still, until in the 79th or 80th degree she is in
the best Greenland whaling latitudes. There we stayed for three months
or so, with very varying fortunes, for though we pursued many whales,
only four were slain.
There are eight boats on board a whaler, but it is usual to send out
only seven, for it takes six men to man each, so that when seven are
out no one is left on board save the so-called “idlers” who have not
signed to do seaman’s work at all. It happened, however, that aboard
the _Hope_ the idlers were rather a hefty crowd, so we volunteered to
man the odd boat, and we made it, in our own estimation at least, one
of the most efficient, both in sealing and in whaling. The steward, the
second engineer, the donkey-engine man, and I were the oars, with a
red-headed Highlander for harpooner and the handsome outlaw to steer.
Our tally of seals was high, and in whaling we were once the lancing
and once the harpooning boat, so our record was good. So congenial
was the work to me that Captain Gray was good enough to offer to make
me harpooner as well as surgeon, with the double pay, if I would come
with him on a second voyage. It is well that I refused, for the life is
dangerously fascinating.
[Illustration: STEAM-WHALER “HOPE.”]
It is exciting work pulling on to a whale. Your own back is turned to
him, and all you know about him is what you read upon the face of the
boat-steerer. He is staring out over your head, watching the creature
as it swims slowly through the water, raising his hand now and again
as a signal to stop rowing when he sees that the eye is coming round,
and then resuming the stealthy approach when the whale is end on. There
are so many floating pieces of ice, that as long as the oars are quiet
the boat alone will not cause the creature to dive. So you creep slowly
up, and at last you are so near that the boat-steerer knows that you
can get there before the creature has time to dive--for it takes some
little time to get that huge body into motion. You see a sunken gleam
in his eyes, and a flush in his cheeks, and it’s “Give way, boys! Give
way, all! Hard!” Click goes the trigger of the big harpoon gun, and
the foam flies from your oars. Six strokes, perhaps, and then with
a dull greasy squelch the bows run upon something soft, and you and
your oars are sent flying in every direction. But little you care for
that, for as you touched the whale you have heard the crash of the gun,
and know that the harpoon has been fired point-blank into the huge,
lead-coloured curve of its side. The creature sinks like a stone, the
bows of the boat splash down into the water again, but there is the
little red Jack flying from the centre thwart to show that you are
fast, and there is the line whizzing swiftly under the seats and over
the bows between your outstretched feet.
And this is the great element of danger--for it is rarely indeed that
the whale has spirit enough to turn upon its enemies. The line is
very carefully coiled by a special man named the line-coiler, and it
is warranted not to kink. If it should happen to do so, however, and
if the loop catches the limbs of any one of the boat’s crew, that man
goes to his death so rapidly that his comrades hardly know that he has
gone. It is a waste of fish to cut the line, for the victim is already
hundreds of fathoms deep.
“Haud your hand, mon,” cried the harpooner, as a seaman raised his
knife on such an occasion. “The fush will be a fine thing for the
widdey.” It sounds callous, but there was philosophy at the base of it.
This is the harpooning, and that boat has no more to do. But the
lancing, when the weary fish is killed with the cold steel, is a more
exciting because it is a more prolonged experience. You may be for half
an hour so near to the creature that you can lay your hand upon its
slimy side. The whale appears to have but little sensibility to pain,
for it never winces when the long lances are passed through its body.
But its instinct urges it to get its tail to work on the boats, and
yours urges you to keep poling and boat-hooking along its side, so as
to retain your safe position near its shoulder. Even there, however, we
found on one occasion that we were not quite out of danger’s way, for
the creature in its flurry raised its huge-side-flapper and poised it
over the boat. One flap would have sent us to the bottom of the sea,
and I can never forget how, as we pushed our way from under, each of
us held one hand up to stave off that great, threatening fin--as if
any strength of ours could have availed if the whale had meant it to
descend. But it was spent with loss of blood, and instead of coming
down the fin rolled over the other way, and we knew that it was dead.
Who would swap that moment for any other triumph that sport can give?
The peculiar other-world feeling of the Arctic regions--a feeling so
singular that if you have once been there the thought of it haunts
you all your life--is due largely to the perpetual daylight. Night
seems more orange-tinted and subdued than day, but there is no great
difference. Some captains have been known to turn their hours right
round out of caprice, with breakfast at night and supper at ten in
the morning. There are your twenty-four hours, and you may carve them
as you like. After a month or two the eyes grow weary of the eternal
light, and you appreciate what a soothing thing our darkness is. I can
remember as we came abreast of Iceland, on our return, catching our
first glimpse of a star, and being unable to take my eyes from it,
it seemed such a dainty little twinkling thing. Half the beauties of
Nature are lost through over-familiarity.
Your sense of loneliness also heightens the effect of the Arctic
Seas. When we were in whaling latitudes it is probable that, with the
exception of our consort, there was no vessel within 800 miles of
us. For seven long months no letter and no news came to us from the
southern world. We had left in exciting times. The Afghan campaign
had been undertaken, and war seemed imminent with Russia. We returned
opposite the mouth of the Baltic without any means of knowing whether
some cruiser might not treat us as we had treated the whales. When we
met a fishing-boat at the north of Shetland our first inquiry was as
to peace or war. Great events had happened during those seven months:
the defeat of Maiwand and the famous march of Roberts from Cabul to
Candahar. But it was all haze to us; and, to this day, I have never
been able to get that particular bit of military history straightened
out in my own mind.
The perpetual light, the glare of the white ice, the deep blue of the
water, these are the things which one remembers most clearly, and the
dry, crisp, exhilarating air, which makes mere life the keenest of
pleasures. And then there are the innumerable sea-birds, whose call is
for ever ringing in your ears--the gulls, the fulmars, the snow-birds,
the burgomasters, the loons, and the rotjes. These fill the air, and
below, the waters are for ever giving you a peep of some strange new
creature. The commercial whale may not often come your way, but his
less valuable brethren abound on every side. The finner shows his 90
feet of worthless tallow, with the absolute conviction that no whaler
would condescend to lower a boat for him. The mis-shapen hunchback
whale, the ghost-like white whale, the narwhal, with his unicorn horn,
the queer-looking bottle-nose, the huge, sluggish, Greenland shark, and
the terrible killing grampus, the most formidable of all the monsters
of the deep,--these are the creatures who own those unsailed seas. On
the ice are the seals, the saddle-backs, the ground seals and the huge
bladdernoses, 12 feet from nose to tail, with the power of blowing
up a great blood-red football upon their noses when they are angry,
which they usually are. Occasionally one sees a white Arctic fox upon
the ice, and everywhere are the bears. The floes in the neighbourhood
of the sealing-ground are all criss-crossed with their tracks--poor
harmless creatures, with the lurch and roll of a deep-sea mariner. It
is for the sake of the seals that they come out over those hundreds
of miles of ice; and they have a very ingenious method of catching
them, for they will choose a big icefield with just one blow-hole for
seals in the middle of it. Here the bear will squat, with its powerful
forearms crooked round the hole. Then, when the seal’s head pops up,
the great paws snap together, and Bruin has got his luncheon. We used
occasionally to burn some of the cook’s refuse in the engine-room
fires, and the smell would, in a few hours, bring up every bear for
many miles to leeward of us.
Though twenty or thirty whales have been taken in a single year in
the Greenland seas, it is probable that the great slaughter of last
century has diminished their number until there are not more than a few
hundreds in existence. I mean, of course, of the right whale, for the
others, as I have said, abound. It is difficult to compute the numbers
of a species which comes and goes over great tracts of water and among
huge icefields, but the fact that the same whale is often pursued by
the same whaler upon successive trips shows how limited their number
must be. There was one, I remember, which was conspicuous through
having a huge wart, the size and shape of a beehive, upon one of the
flukes of its tail. “I’ve been after that fellow three times,” said the
captain, as we dropped our boats. “He got away in ’71. In ’74 we had
him fast, but the harpoon drew. In ’76 a fog saved him. It’s odds that
we have him now!” I fancied that the betting lay rather the other way
myself, and so it proved, for that warty tail is still thrashing the
Arctic seas for all that I know to the contrary.
I shall never forget my own first sight of a right whale. It had
been seen by the look-out on the other side of a small icefield, but
had sunk as we all rushed on deck. For ten minutes we awaited its
reappearance, and I had taken my eyes from the place, when a general
gasp of astonishment made me glance up, and there was the whale _in
the air_. Its tail was curved just as a trout’s is in jumping, and
every bit of its glistening lead-coloured body was clear of the water.
It was little wonder that I should be astonished, for the captain,
after thirty voyages, had never seen such a sight. On catching it we
discovered that it was very thickly covered with a red, crab-like
parasite, about the size of a shilling, and we conjectured that it was
the irritation of these creatures which had driven it wild. If a man
had short, nailless flippers, and a prosperous family of fleas upon his
back, he would appreciate the situation.
Apart from sport, there is a glamour about those circumpolar regions
which must affect everyone who has penetrated to them. My heart goes
out to that old, grey-headed whaling captain who, having been left
for an instant when at death’s door, staggered off in his night gear,
and was found by nurses far from his house and still, as he mumbled,
“pushing to the norrard.” So an Arctic fox, which a friend of mine
endeavoured to tame, escaped, and was caught many months afterwards
in a gamekeeper’s trap in Caithness. It was also pushing norrard,
though who can say by what strange compass it took its bearings? It
is a region of purity, of white ice and of blue water, with no human
dwelling within a thousand miles to sully the freshness of the breeze
which blows across the icefields. And then it is a region of romance
also. You stand on the very brink of the unknown, and every duck that
you shoot bears pebbles in its gizzard which come from a land which the
maps know not. It was a strange and fascinating chapter of my life.
I went on board the whaler a big, straggling youth, I came off it a
powerful, well-grown man. I have no doubt that my physical health
during my whole life has been affected by that splendid air, and
that the inexhaustible store of energy which I have enjoyed is to
some extent drawn from the same source. It was mental and spiritual
stagnation, or even worse, for there is a coarsening effect in so
circumscribed a life with comrades who were fine, brave fellows, but
naturally rough and wild. However I had my health to show for it, and
also more money than I had ever possessed before. I was still boyish in
many ways, and I remember that I concealed gold pieces in every pocket
of every garment, that my mother might have the excitement of hunting
for them. It added some fifty pounds to her small exchequer.
Now I had a straight run in to my final examination, which I passed
with fair but not notable distinction at the end of the winter session
of 1881. I was now a Bachelor of Medicine and a Master of Surgery,
fairly launched upon my professional career.
CHAPTER V
THE VOYAGE TO WEST AFRICA
The _Mayumba_--Fearful Weather--An Escape--Hanno’s Voyage--
Atlantis--A Land of Death--Blackwater Fever--Missionaries--Strange
Fish--Danger of Luxury--A Foolish Swim--The Ship on Fire--England once
more.
It had always been my intention to take a voyage as ship’s surgeon
when I had taken my degree, as I could in this way see something of
the world, and at the same time earn a little of the money which I so
badly needed if I were ever to start in practice for myself. When a
man is in the very early twenties he will not be taken seriously as a
practitioner, and though I looked old for my age, it was clear that I
had to fill in my time in some other way. My plans were all exceedingly
fluid, and I was ready to join the Army, Navy, Indian Service or
anything which offered an opening. I had no reason to think that I
would find a billet upon a passenger ship and had nearly forgotten that
I had my name down, when I suddenly received a telegram telling me
to come to Liverpool and to take medical charge of the African Steam
Navigation Company’s _Mayumba_, bound for the West Coast. In a week I
was there, and on October 22, 1881, we started on our voyage.
The _Mayumba_ was a trim little steamer of about 4,000 tons--a giant
after my experience in the 200-ton whaler. She was built for commerce,
carrying mixed cargoes to the coast and coming back with palm oil in
puncheons, palm nuts in bulk, ivory and other tropical products. What
with whale oil and palm oil there certainly seemed to be something
greasy about my horoscope. There was room for twenty or thirty
passengers, and it was for their behoof that I was paid some £12 a
month.
It was well that we were seaworthy, for we put out in a violent gale,
which became so bad as we emerged from the Mersey that we were forced
into Holyhead for the night. Next day, in vile and thick weather,
with a strong sea running, we made our way down the Irish Sea. I shall
always believe that I may have saved the ship from disaster, for as I
was standing near the officer of the watch I suddenly caught sight of a
lighthouse standing out in a rift in the fog. It was on the port side
and I could not imagine how any lighthouse could be on the port side
of a ship which was, as I knew, well down on the Irish coast. I hate
to be an alarmist, so I simply touched the mate’s sleeve, pointed to
the dim outline of the lighthouse, and said: “Is that all right?” He
fairly jumped as his eye lit upon it and he gave a yell to the men at
the wheel and rang a violent signal to the engine-room. The lighthouse,
if I remember right, was the Tuskar, and we were heading right into a
rocky promontory which was concealed by the rain and fog.
I have been lucky in my captains, for Captain Gordon Wallace was one
of the best, and we have kept in touch during the later years. Our
passengers were mostly for Madeira, but there were some pleasant
ladies bound for the Coast, and some unpleasant negro traders whose
manners and bearing were objectionable, but who were patrons of the
line and must, therefore, be tolerated. Some of these palm oil chiefs
and traders have incomes of many thousands a year, but as they have no
cultivated tastes they can only spend their money on drink, debauchery
and senseless extravagance. One of them, I remember, had a choice
selection of the demi-monde of Liverpool to see him off.
The storms followed us all the way down the Channel and across the
Bay, which is normal, I suppose, at such a time of year. Everyone
was seasick, so as doctor I had some work to do. However, before we
reached Madeira we ran into fine weather and all our troubles were soon
forgotten. One never realizes the comfort of a dry deck until one has
been ankle-deep for a week. I missed the sea-boots and rough-and-ready
dress of the whaler, for when one is in blue serge and gilt buttons one
does not care to take a ducking. Just as we thought, however, that we
were all right a worse gale than ever broke over us, the wind luckily
being behind us, so that it helped us on our way. With jib, trysail
and main staysail, which was as much as we could stand, we lurched
and staggered, swept every now and then by the big Atlantic combers,
which were phosphorescent at night, so that flames of liquid fire came
coursing down the decks. Very glad we were when after a week of storm
we saw the rugged peaks of Porto Sancto, an outlier of Madeira, and
finally came to anchor in Funchal Bay. It was dark when we reached our
moorings and it was good to see the lights of the town, and the great
dark loom of the hills behind it. A lunar rainbow spanned the whole
scene, a rare phenomenon which I have never seen before or since.
Teneriffe was our next stopping-place, Santa Cruz being the port of
call. In those days it did a great trade in cochineal, which was
derived from an insect cultivated on the cacti. When dried they
furnished the dye, and a packet of the creatures averaged £350 at
that time, but now I suppose that the German aniline dyes have killed
the trade as completely as whaling has been killed by the mineral.
A day later we were at Las Palmas, capital of Grand Canary, whence,
looking back, we had a fine view of the famous Teneriffe Peak some 60
miles away. Leaving Las Palmas we were in the delightful region of the
northeast trade-winds, the most glorious part of the ocean, seldom
rough, yet always lively, with foam-capped seas and a clear sky. Day by
day it grew hotter, however, and when we lost the Trades, and sighted
the Isle de Los off the Sierra Leone coast, I began to realize what the
Tropics meant. When you feel your napkin at meals to be an intolerable
thing, and when you find that it leaves a wet weal across your white
duck trousers, then you know that you really have arrived.
On November 9 we reached Freetown, the capital of Sierra Leone, our
first port of call upon the African Main--a lovely spot but a place of
death. Here our ladies left us, and indeed it was sad to see them go,
for female lives are even shorter than male upon the coast. I speak of
the days of malaria and blackwater fever, before Ronald Ross and others
had done their great work of healing and prevention. It was a truly
dreadful place in the early eighties, and the despair which reigned in
the hearts of the white people made them take liberties with alcohol
which they would not have dared to take in a healthier place. A year’s
residence seemed to be about the limit of human endurance. I remember
meeting one healthy-looking resident who told me that he had been there
three years. When I congratulated him he shook his head. “I am a doomed
man. I have advanced Bright’s disease,” said he. One wondered whether
the colonies were really worth the price we had to pay.
From Sierra Leone we steamed to Monrovia, which is the capital of the
negro republic of Liberia, which, as the name implies, was founded
mainly by escaped slaves. So far as I could see it was orderly enough,
though all small communities which take themselves seriously have a
comic aspect. Thus at the time of the Franco-German War, Liberia is
said to have sent out its single Customs boat, which represented its
official Navy, and stopped the British mail-ship in order to send word
to Europe that it did not intend to interfere in the matter.
It is a very monotonous view, for whether it is the Ivory Coast or
the Gold Coast, or the Liberian shore, it always presents the same
features--burning sunshine, a long swell breaking into a white line
of surf, a margin of golden sand, and then the low green bush, with
an occasional palm tree rising above it. If you have seen a mile, you
have seen a thousand. As I write now, these ports at which we stopped,
Grand Bassam, Cape Palmas, Accra, Cape Coast Castle, all form the
same picture in my mind. One incident only I can remember. At some
small village, the name of which I have forgotten, there came off a
tall young Welshman in a state of furious excitement; his niggers had
mutinied and he was in fear of his life. “There they are waiting for
me!” he cried, and pointed to a dusky group upon the distant beach. We
offered to take him on, but he could not leave his property, so all we
could do was to promise to send a gunboat up from Cape Coast Castle.
I have often wondered how such people got on after the German menace
compelled us to draw in all our outlying fleets.
This coast is dotted at night with native fires, some of them of great
extent, arising no doubt from their habit of burning the grass. It is
interesting that in Hanno’s account of his journey down the coast--the
only piece of Carthaginian literature which has reached us--he talks
also of the fires which he saw at night. As he speaks of gorillas it is
probable that he got as far as the Gaboon, or south of the Line. He
saw great volcanic activity, and the remains of it is still visible at
Fernando Po, which is almost all volcanic. In Hanno’s time, however,
the hills were actually spouting fire and the country was a sea of
flame, so that he dare not set foot on shore. I have wondered sometimes
whether the last cataclysm at Atlantis may not have been much later
than we think. The account of Plato puts it at about 9000 B.C., but it
may well have been a gradual thing and the last spasm have been that
of which Hanno saw the traces. All this activity which he described is
exactly opposite the spot where the old continent was supposed to have
been.
Our ships have rough-and-ready ways as they jog down the coast. Once we
moved on while a hundred native visitors were still on board. It was
funny to see them dive off and make for their canoes. One of them had a
tall hat, an umbrella, and a large coloured picture of the Saviour--all
of which he had bought at the trading booths which the men rig up in
the forecastle. These impedimenta did not prevent him from swimming
to his boat. At another minor port, since we were pressed for time,
we simply threw our consignment of barrel staves overboard, knowing
that soon or late they would wash up on the beach, though how the real
owner could make good his claim to them I do not know. Occasionally the
native scores in this game. Some years ago, before Dahomey was annexed
by the French, the captain took the oil casks on board at Whydah by
means of a long rope and a donkey engine, an ingenious way of avoiding
the surf, which came to a sudden stop when a company of the famous
Amazons appeared and threatened to fire upon the ship if they did not
pay their dues to the surf boats in the ordinary fashion.
I had myself to pay my dues to the climate, for on November 18 I find
an eloquent gap in my diary. We had reached Lagos, and there, rolling
in a greasy swell off that huge lagoon, the germ or the mosquito or
whatever it was reached me and I was down with a very sharp fever. I
remember staggering to my bunk and then all was blotted out. As I was
myself doctor there was no one to look after me and I lay for several
days fighting it out with Death in a very small ring and without a
second. It speaks well for my constitution that I came out a victor.
I remember no psychic experience, no vision, no fears, nothing save a
nightmare fog from which I emerged as weak as a child. It must have
been a close call, and I had scarcely sat up before I heard that
another victim who got it at the same time was dead.
A week later found me, convalescent and full of energy once more, up
the Bonny River, which certainly never got its name from the Scotch
adjective, for it is in all ways hateful with its brown smelling stream
and its mango swamps. The natives were all absolute savages, offering
up human sacrifices to sharks and crocodiles. The captain had heard the
screams of the victims and seen them dragged down to the water’s edge,
while on another occasion he had seen the protruding skull of a man who
had been buried in an ant-heap. It is all very well to make game of the
missionaries, but how could such people ever be improved if it were not
for the labours of devoted men?
We called at Fernando Po, and later at Victoria, a lovely little
settlement upon the Main, with the huge peak of the Cameroons rising
behind it. A dear homely Scotch lassie was playing the part of
missionary there, and if she did not evangelize she at least civilized,
which is more important. It lies in a beautiful bay studded with
islands and well wooded all round. For some reason the whole style of
the scenery changes completely here, and it is the more welcome after
the thousand miles of monotony to the north. All this land went, for
some reason, to Germany later, and has now reverted to the French,
who are not, as a rule, good Colonial neighbours. I went ashore at
Victoria, and I cannot forget my thrill when what I thought was a
good-sized blue bird passed me and I found that it was a butterfly.
To reach Old Calabar we had to steam for 60 miles up the Old Calabar
River, the channel lying so near the shore that we brushed the trees
on one side. I lay in wait with my rifle, but though I saw the swirl
of several alligators none emerged. Old Calabar seemed the largest
and most prosperous place we had visited, but here also the hand of
death was over all, and it was “eat, drink, and be merry” for the old
and unsatisfactory reason. Here again we met one of these young lady
pioneers of civilization. Civilization is the better, but it is a stern
and dreadful call which summons a woman to such a work.
Getting a canoe, I ascended the river for several miles to a place
called Creektown. Dark and terrible mangrove swamps lay on either side
with gloomy shades where nothing that is not horrible could exist.
It is indeed a foul place. Once in an isolated tree, standing in a
flood, I saw an evil-looking snake, worm-coloured and about 3 feet
long. I shot him and saw him drift down stream. I learned later in life
to give up killing animals, but I confess that I have no particular
compunctions about that one. Creektown is in native territory, and the
King sent down a peremptory order that we should report ourselves to
him, but as it sounded ominous and might mean a long delay we got our
paddles out and were soon back in British waters.
I had a curious experience one morning. A large ribbon-shaped fish,
about 3 or 4 feet long, came up and swam upon the surface near the
ship. Having my gun handy, I shot it. I don’t think five seconds could
have elapsed before another larger and thicker fish--a big catfish, I
should say--darted up from the depths, seized the wounded fish by the
middle, and dragged it down. So murderous is the food-search, and so
keen the watch in Nature! I saw something similar in the mixed tank of
an aquarium once, where a fish stunned himself by swimming against the
glass front, and was instantly seized and devoured by his neighbour. A
strange fish to which I was introduced at Calabar was the electrical
torpedo fish. It is handed to you in an earthenware saucer--a quiet
little drab creature about 5 inches long--and you are asked to tickle
its back. Then you learn exactly how high you can jump.
The death-like impression of Africa grew upon me. One felt that the
white man with his present diet and habits was an intruder who was
never meant to be there, and that the great sullen brown continent
killed him as one crushes nits. I find in my diary:
“Oh Africa, where are the charms
That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in Old England on alms
Than be rich in that terrible place.”
The life aboard ship, however, was an easy and, in some ways, a
luxurious one--too luxurious for a young man who had his way to make
in the world. Premature comfort is a deadly enervating thing. I
remember considering my own future--I stood upon the poop with a raging
thunderstorm around me--and seeing very clearly that one or two more
such voyages would sap my simple habits and make me unfit for the hard
struggle which any sort of success would need. The idea of success in
literature had never crossed my mind. It was still of medicine only
that I thought, but I knew by my Birmingham experience how long and
rough a path it was for those who had no influence and could not afford
to buy. Then and there I vowed that I would wander no more, and that
was surely one of the turning-points of my life. A “Wander-Jahr” is
good, but two “Wander-Jahre” may mean damnation--and it is hard to
stop. I find that on the same day of fruitful meditation I swore off
alcohol for the rest of the voyage. I drank quite freely at this period
of my life, having a head and a constitution which made me fairly
immune, but my reason told me that the unbounded cocktails of West
Africa were a danger, and with an effort I cut them out. There is a
certain subtle pleasure in abstinence, and it is only socially that it
is difficult. If we were all abstainers as a matter of course, like the
real Mahomedans, none of us would ever miss it.
I did a mad thing at Cape Coast Castle, for, in a spirit either of
bravado or pure folly, I swam round the ship--or at least for some
length along her and back again. I suppose it was the consideration
that black folk go freely into the water which induced me to do it. For
some reason white folk do not share the same immunity. As I was drying
myself on deck I saw the triangular back fin of a shark rise to the
surface. Several times in my life I have done utterly reckless things
with so little motive that I have found it difficult to explain them to
myself afterwards. This was one of them.
The most intelligent and well-read man whom I met on the Coast was
a negro, the American Consul at Monrovia. He came on with us as a
passenger. My starved literary side was eager for good talk, and it
was wonderful to sit on deck discussing Bancroft and Motley, and then
suddenly realize that you were talking to one who had possibly been a
slave himself, and was certainly the son of slaves. He had thought a
good deal about African travel. “The only way to explore Africa is to
go without arms and with few servants. You would not like it in England
if a body of men came armed to the teeth and marched through your land.
The Africans are quite as sensitive.” It was the method of Livingstone
as against the method of Stanley. The former takes the braver and
better man.
This negro gentleman did me good, for a man’s brain is an organ for
the formation of his own thoughts and also for the digestion of other
people’s, and it needs fresh fodder. We had, of course, books aboard
the ship, but neither many nor good. I cannot trace that I made any
mental or spiritual advancement during the voyage, but I added one more
experience to my chaplet, and I suppose it all goes to some ultimate
result in character or personality. I was a strong full-blooded young
man, full of the joy of life, with nothing of what Oliver Wendell
Holmes calls “pathological piety and tuberculous virtues.” I was a man
among men. I walked ever among pitfalls and I thank all ministering
angels that I came through, while I have a softened heart for those who
did not.
Our voyage home--oil-gathering from port to port on the same but
reversed route--was uneventful until the very last stride, when just as
we were past Madeira the ship took fire. Whether it was the combustion
of coal dust has never been determined, but certainly the fire broke
out in the bunkers, and as there was only a wooden partition between
these bunkers and a cargo of oil, we were in deadly danger. For the
first day we took it lightly, as a mere smoulder, and for a second and
third day we were content to seal the gratings as far as possible, to
play down on it with the hose, and to shift the coal away from the
oil. On the fourth morning, however, things took a sudden turn for the
worse. I copy from my log book:
“January 9. I was awakened early in the morning by the purser, Tom
King, poking his head in at my door and informing me that the ship was
in a blaze, and that all hands had been called and were working down
below. I got my clothes on, but when I came on deck nothing was to be
seen of it save thick volumes of smoke from the bunker ventilators,
and a lurid glow down below. I offered to go down, but there seemed
to be as many working as could be fitted in. I was then asked to call
the passengers. I waked each in turn, and they all faced the situation
very bravely and coolly. One, a Swiss, sat up in his bunk, rubbed his
eyes, and in answer to my remark: ‘The ship is on fire!’ said: ‘I have
often been on ships that were on fire.’ ‘Splendide mendax’--but a good
spirit! All day we fought the flames, and the iron side of the ship
was red-hot at one point. Boats were prepared and provisioned and no
doubt at the worst we could row or sail them to Lisbon, where my dear
sisters would be considerably surprised if their big brother walked in.
However, we are getting the better of it, and by evening those ominous
pillars of smoke were down to mere wisps. So ends an ugly business!”
On January 14 we were in Liverpool once more, and West Africa was but
one more of the cinema reels of memory. It is, I am told, very much
improved now in all things. My old friend and cricket companion, Sir
Fred. Guggisberg, is Governor at Accra and has asked me to see the old
ground under very different auspices. I wish I could, but the sands
still run and there is much to be done.
CHAPTER VI
MY FIRST EXPERIENCES IN PRACTICE
A Strange Character--His Honeymoon--His Bristol Practice--Telegram
from Plymouth--Six Amusing Weeks--A Deep Plot--My Southsea
Venture--Furnishing on the Cheap--The Plot Explodes.
I have now come to the temporary end of my voyages, which were to be
renewed in years to come, and I have reached the time when, under very
curious circumstances, I endeavoured to establish myself in medical
practice. In a book written some years afterwards called “The Stark
Munro Letters,” I drew in very close detail the events of the next
few years, and there the curious reader will find them more clearly
and fully set out than would be to scale in these pages. I would only
remark, should any reader reconstruct me or my career from that book,
that there are some few incidents there which are imaginary, and that,
especially, the whole incident of the case of a lunatic and of Lord
Saltire in Chapter IV occurred to a friend and not to myself. Otherwise
the whole history of my association with the man whom I called
Cullingworth, his extraordinary character, our parting and the way in
which I was left to what seemed certain ruin, were all as depicted.
I will here simply give the essentials of the story, and retain the
fictitious name.
In my last year of study at Edinburgh I formed a friendship with this
remarkable student. He came of a famous medical family, his father
having been a great authority upon zymotic disease. He came also of a
famous athletic stock, and was a great Rugby forward himself, though
rather handicapped by the Berserk fury with which he would play. He
was up to international form, and his younger brother was reckoned
by good judges to be about the best forward who ever donned the
rose-embroidered jersey of England.
Cullingworth was as strong mentally as physically. In person he was
about 5 ft. 9 in. in height, perfectly built, with a bulldog jaw,
bloodshot deep-set eyes, overhanging brows, and yellowish hair as
stiff as wire, which spurted up above his brows. He was a man born for
trouble and adventure, unconventional in his designs and formidable in
his powers of execution--a man of action with a big but incalculable
brain guiding the action. He died in early middle age, and I understand
that an autopsy revealed some cerebral abnormality, so that there was
no doubt a pathological element in his strange explosive character.
For some reason he took a fancy to me, and appeared to attach an undue
importance to my advice.
When I met him first he had just indulged in one of his wild escapades,
which ended usually in a fight or in a transitory appearance in a
police court, but on this occasion was more serious and permanent.
He had run off with a charming young lady and married her, she being
a ward in Chancery and under age. However, the deed was done and
all the lawyers in the world could not undo it, though they might
punish the culprit. He told me how he and the lady had gone over a
Bradshaw with the intention that when they came on a station of which
neither of them had ever heard, they would make for that place and
spend their honeymoon there. They came therefore upon some awful
name, Clodpole-in-the-Marsh or something of the kind, and there
they sojourned in the village inn. Cullingworth stained his yellow
hair black, but the stain took in some places and not in others,
so that he looked as if he had escaped from Barnum’s show. What
Clodpole-in-the-Marsh could have thought of such an extraordinary
couple I cannot imagine, and it is probably the one occasion on which
it ever buzzed. I cannot think of any surer way of getting publicity
than that which Cullingworth took to avoid detection. In London they
would have been perfectly unobserved. I remember that for years
Cullingworth’s hair presented curious iridescent tints which were the
remains of his disguise.
He brought his bride safely to Edinburgh, where they hired a flat and
lived in it without furnishing it save for the absolutely needful.
I have dined with them there on an apple dumpling, seated on a pile
of thick volumes as there was no chair. We introduced them to a few
friends, did what we could for the lonely lady, and finally they
drifted off, and for a time we heard no more.
Just before I started for Africa I got a long telegram from
Cullingworth imploring me to go to Bristol as he needed my advice.
I was in Birmingham and I set forth at once. When I reached Bristol
he conducted me to a fine mansion, and there poured out his tale of
woe. He had started in great style, hoping to rally the remains of
his father’s patients, but his money had run out, he was dunned by
his tradespeople, there were no patients, and what was he to do? We
had a joyous riotous time for two days, for there was an exuberant
atmosphere about the man which rose above all trouble. The only advice
I could give was that he should make a composition with his creditors.
I heard afterwards that he assembled them, addressed them in a long and
emotional speech, reduced them almost to tears with his picture of the
struggles of a deserving young man, and finally got a unanimous vote of
confidence from them with full consent that he should pay at his own
leisure. It was the sort of thing that he would do, and tell the story
afterwards with a bull’s roar of laughter which could be heard down the
street.
When I had been back a couple of months from Africa, I received another
telegram--he always telegraphed and never wrote--which ran in some such
way as this: “Started here last June. Colossal success. Come down by
next train if possible. Plenty of room for you. Splendid opening.” The
telegram was stamped Plymouth. A second even more explosive telegram
upbraided me for delay and guaranteed me £300 the first year. This
looked like business, so off I went.
The events of the next six weeks, in the late spring and early
summer of 1882, were more fitted for some rollicking novel than for
the sober pages of a veracious chronicle. The conditions which I
found at Plymouth were incredible. In a short time this man, half
genius and half quack, had founded a practice worth several thousand
pounds of ready money in the year. “Free consultations but pay for
your medicine,” was his slogan, and as he charged a good price for
the latter it worked out all the same in the end. The mere words
“Free Consultations” attracted crowds. He used drugs in a heroic
and indiscriminate manner which produced dramatic results but at
an unjustifiable risk. I remember one instance where dropsy had
disappeared before a severe dose of croton oil in a way that set all
the gossips talking. People flocked into the town from 20 and 30 miles
round, and not only his waiting rooms, but his stairs and his passages,
were crammed. His behaviour to them was extraordinary. He roared and
shouted, scolded them, joked them, pushed them about, and pursued
them sometimes into the street, or addressed them collectively from
the landing. A morning with him when the practice was in full blast
was as funny as any pantomime and I was exhausted with laughter. He
had a well-worn volume on Medical Jurisprudence which he pretended
was the Bible, and he swore old women on it that they would drink no
more tea. I have no doubt he did a great deal of good, for there was
reason and knowledge behind all that he did, but his manner of doing
it was unorthodox in the extreme. His wife made up the prescriptions
at a pigeon-hole at the end of a passage and received the price which
was marked on the label carried down by the patient. Every evening
Cullingworth walked back to his great residential house upon the Hoe,
bearing his bag of silver, his coat flying, his hat on the back of his
head, and his great fangs grinning up at every doctor whose disgusted
face showed at a window.
Cullingworth had rigged me up a room, furnished with one table and
two chairs, in which I could take surgical or other cases which he
did not care to handle. I fear that my professional manners were very
unexciting after his more flamboyant efforts, which I could not imitate
even if I would. I had, however, a steady dribble of patients, and it
looked as if I might build something up. I went up country once, and
operated upon an old fellow’s nose which had contracted cancer through
his holding the bowl of a short clay pipe immediately beneath it. I
left him with an aristocratic, not to say supercilious organ, which was
the wonder of the village, and might have been the foundation of my
fame.
But there were other influences at work, and the threads of fate were
shooting out at strange unexpected angles. My mother had greatly
resented my association with Cullingworth. Her family pride had been
aroused, and justly as I can now see, though my wanderings had left
me rather too Bohemian and careless upon points of etiquette. But I
liked Cullingworth and even now I can’t help liking him--and I admired
his strong qualities and enjoyed his company and the extraordinary
situations which arose from any association with him. This resistance
upon my part, and my defence of my friend, annoyed my mother the more,
and she wrote me several letters of remonstrance which certainly dealt
rather faithfully with his character as it appeared to her. I was
careless of my papers and these letters were read both by Cullingworth
and his wife. I do them no injustice in saying this, for they finally
admitted it. Apparently he imagined--he was a man of strange suspicions
and secret plottings--that I was a party to such sentiments, whereas
they were actually called forth by my defence of him. His manner
changed, and more than once I caught his fierce grey eyes looking
furtively at me with a strange sullen expression, so much so that I
asked him what was the matter. He was actually scheming my ruin, which
would be nothing financially, since I had nothing to lose, but would be
much both to my mother and me if it touched my honour.
One day he came to me and told me that he thought my presence
complicated his practice and that we had better part. I agreed in all
good humour, assuring him that I had not come to hurt him and that I
was very grateful for what he had done, even if it came to nothing.
He then strongly advised me to go into practice myself. I replied
that I had no capital. He answered that he would see to that, that he
would allow me a pound a week until I got my feet under me, and that
I could repay it at leisure. I thanked him warmly, and after looking
at Tavistock I finally decided that Portsmouth would be a good place,
the only reason being that I knew the conditions at Plymouth, and
Portsmouth seemed analogous. I boarded an Irish steamer, therefore,
and about July of 1882 I started off by sea, with one small trunk
containing all my earthly possessions, to start practice in a town in
which I knew no single soul. My cash balance was under £10, and I knew
not only that I had to meet all present expenses upon this, but that
I had to furnish a house upon it. On the other hand the weekly pound
should easily cover all personal needs, and I had the devil-may-care
optimism of youth as to the future.
When I arrived at Portsmouth I went into lodgings for a week. On the
very first night, with that curious faculty for running into dramatic
situations which has always been with me, I became involved in a street
fight with a rough who was beating (or rather kicking) a woman. It was
a strange start, and after I began my practice one of the first people
to whom I opened my door was this very rascal. I don’t suppose he
recognized me, but I could have sworn to him. I emerged from the fray
without much damage, and was very glad to escape some serious scandal.
It was the second time that I had got knocked about in defence of
beauty in distress.
I spent a week in marking down the unoccupied houses, and finally
settled at £40 a year into Bush Villa, which a kindly landlord has
now called Doyle House. I was terrified lest the agent should ask
for a deposit, but the name of my C.B. uncle as reference turned
the scale in my favour. Having secured the empty house and its key,
I went down to a sale in Portsea and for about £4 secured quite a
lot of second-hand--possibly tenth-hand--furniture. It met my needs
and enabled me to make one room possible for patients with three
chairs, a table and a central patch of carpet. I had a bed of sorts
and a mattress upstairs. I fixed up the plate which I had brought
from Plymouth, bought a red lamp on tick, and fairly settled down
in receipt of custom. When all was done I had a couple of pounds in
hand. Servants, of course, were out of the question, so I polished my
own plate every morning, brushed down my front, and kept the house
reasonably clean. I found that I could live quite easily and well on
less than a shilling a day, so I could hold out for a long period.
I had at this time contributed several stories to “London Society,”
a magazine now defunct, but then flourishing under the editorship of
a Mr. Hogg. In the April, 1882, number I had a story, now happily
forgotten, called “Bones,” while in the preceding Christmas number I
had another, “The Gully of Bluemansdyke,” both of them feeble echoes
of Bret Harte. These, with the stories already mentioned, made up my
whole output at this time. I explained to Mr. Hogg how I was situated,
and wrote for him a new tale for his Christmas number entitled “My
Friend the Murderer.” Hogg behaved very well and sent me £10, which
I laid by for my first quarter’s rent. I was not so pleased with him
when, years later, he claimed the full copyright of all these immature
stories, and published them in a volume with my name attached. Have
a care, young authors, have a care, or your worst enemy will be your
early self!
It was as well that I had that £10, for Cullingworth, having learned
that I was fairly committed, with my lease signed, now hurled his
thunderbolt, which he thought would crush me. It was a curt letter--not
a telegram for a wonder--in which he admitted that my letters had been
read, expressed surprise that such a correspondence should have gone
on while I was under his roof, and declared that he could have nothing
more to do with me. He had, of course, no real grievance, but I am
quite willing to admit that he honestly thought he had. But his method
of revenge was a strange example of the schemings of a morbid mind.
For a moment I was staggered. But my boats were burned and I must go
forward. I sent back a derisive reply to Cullingworth, and put him out
of my head for ever--indeed, I heard of him no more until some five
years later I read the news of his premature death. He was a remarkable
man and narrowly escaped being a great one. I fear that he lived up to
his great income and left his wife but poorly off.
CHAPTER VII
MY START AT SOUTHSEA
A Strange Life--Arrival of my Brother--I Buy up a Shop--Cheap
Servants--Queer Patients--Dangers of Medical Practice--Income Tax
Joke--My Marriage--Tragedy in my House--A New Phase.
What with cleaning up, answering the bell, doing my modest shopping,
which was measured in pennies rather than shillings, and perfecting
my simple household arrangements, the time did not hang heavily upon
my hands. It is a wonderful thing to have a house of your own for the
first time, however humble it may be. I lavished all my care upon
the front room to make it possible for patients. The back room was
furnished with my trunk and a stool. Inside the trunk was my larder,
and the top of it was my dining-room table. There was gas laid on, and
I rigged a projection from the wall by which I could sling a pan over
the gas jet. In this way I cooked bacon with great ease, and became
expert in getting a wonderful lot of slices from a pound. Bread, bacon
and tea, with an occasional saveloy--what could man ask for more? It is
(or was) perfectly easy to live well upon a shilling a day.
I had obtained a fair consignment of drugs on tick from a wholesale
house and these also were ranged round the sides of the back room. From
the very beginning a few stray patients of the poorest class, some of
them desirous of novelty, some disgruntled with their own doctors,
the greater part owing bills and ashamed to face their creditor, came
to consult me and consume a bottle of my medicine. I could pay for
my food by the drugs I sold. It was as well, for I had no other way
of paying for it, and I had sworn not to touch the ten golden pieces
which represented my rent. There have been times when I could not buy a
postage stamp and my letters have had to wait, but the ten golden coins
still remained intact.
It was a busy thoroughfare, with a church on one side of my house and
an hotel on the other. The days passed pleasantly enough, for it was
a lovely warm autumn, and I sat in the window of my consulting-room
screened by the rather dingy curtain which I had put up, and watched
the passing crowd or read my book, for I had spent part of my
scanty funds on making myself a member of a circulating library.
In spite of my sparse food, or more probably on account of it, I
was extraordinarily fit and well, so that at night when all hope of
patients was gone for that day I would lock up my house and walk many
miles to work off my energy. With its imperial associations it is a
glorious place and even now if I had to live in a town outside London
it is surely to Southsea, the residential quarter of Portsmouth, that
I would turn. The history of the past carries on into the history of
to-day, the new torpedo-boat flies past the old _Victory_ with the same
white ensign flying from each, and the old Elizabethan culverins and
sakers can still be seen in the same walk which brings you to the huge
artillery of the forts. There is a great glamour there to any one with
the historic sense--a sense which I drank in with my mother’s milk.
It had never entered my head yet that literature might give me a
career, or anything beyond a little casual pocket money, but already
it was a deciding factor in my life, for I could not have held on, and
must have either starved or given in but for the few pounds which Mr.
Hogg sent me, for they enabled all other smaller sums to be spent in
nourishment. I have wondered sometimes as I look back that I did not
contract scurvy, for most of my food was potted, and I had no means of
cooking vegetables. However, I felt no grievance at the time nor any
particular perception that my mode of life was unusual, nor indeed any
particular anxiety about the future. At that age everything seems an
adventure--and there was always the novel pleasure of the house.
Once I had a moment of weakness during which I answered an
advertisement which asked for a doctor to attend coolies in the tea
gardens of the Terai. I spent a few unsettled days waiting for an
answer, but none came and I settled down once more to my waiting and
hoping. I had one avenue of success open of which I could not avail
myself. My Catholic relatives had sent me introductions to the Bishop
and I was assured that there was no Catholic doctor in the town. My
mind, however, was so perfectly clear and I had so entirely broken away
from the old faith that I could not possibly use it for material ends.
I therefore burned the letter of introduction.
As the weeks passed and I had no one with whom to talk I began to think
wistfully of the home circle at Edinburgh, and to wonder why, with my
eight-roomed house, one or more of them should not come to keep me
company. The girls were already governessing or preparing to do so, but
there was my little brother Innes. It would relieve my mother and yet
help me if he could join me. So it was arranged, and one happy evening
the little knicker-bockered fellow, just ten years old, joined me as
my comrade. No man could have had a merrier and brighter one. In a few
weeks we had settled down to a routine life, I having found a good
day-school for him. The soldiers of Portsmouth were already a great joy
to him, and his future career was marked out by his natural tastes, for
he was a born leader and administrator. Little did I foresee that he
would win distinction in the greatest of all wars, and die in the prime
of his manhood--but not before he knew that complete victory had been
attained. Even then our thoughts were very military, and I remember how
we waited together outside the office of the local paper that we might
learn the result of the bombardment of Alexandria.
Turning over some old papers after these pages were written I came upon
a letter written in straggling schoolboy script by my little brother
to his mother at home which may throw an independent light upon those
curious days. It is dated August 16, 1882. He says:
“The patients are crowding in. We have made three bob this week. We
have vaxenated a baby and got hold of a man with consumtion, and to-day
a gipsy’s cart came up to the door selling baskets and chairs so we
determined not to let the man ring as long as he liked. After he had
rong two or three times Arthur yelled out at the pitch of his voice, Go
a way but the man rang again so I went down to the door and pulled open
the letter box and cried out go a way. The man began to swere at me and
say that he wanted to see Arthur. All this time Arthur thought that the
door was open and was yelling Shut that door. Then I came upstairs and
told Arthur what the man had said so Arthur went down and opened the
door and found out that the gipsy’s child had measles.... After all we
got sixpence out of them and that is all ways something.”
I remember the incident well, and certainly my sudden change of tone
from the indignant householder, who is worried by a tramp, to my best
bedside manner in the hopes of a fee, must have been very amusing. My
recollection is, however, that it was the Gipsy who got sixpence out of
us.
For some time Innes and I lived entirely alone, doing the household
tasks between us, and going long walks in the evening to keep ourselves
fit. Then I had a brain-wave and I put an advertisement in the evening
paper that a groundfloor was to let in exchange for services. I had
numerous applicants in reply, and out of them I chose two elderly women
who claimed to be sisters--a claim which they afterwards failed to
make good. When once they were installed we became quite a civilized
household and things began to look better. There were complex quarrels,
however, and one of the women left. The other soon afterwards followed
suit. As the first woman had seemed to me to be the most efficient, I
followed her up and found that she had started a small shop. Her rent
was weekly, so that was easily settled, but she talked gloomily about
her stock. “I will buy everything in your shop,” I said in a large way.
It cost me exactly seventeen and sixpence, and I was loaded up for many
months with matches, cakes of blacking and other merchandise. From then
onwards our meals were cooked for us, and we became in all ways normal.
Month followed month and I picked up a patient here and a patient there
until the nucleus of a little practice had been formed. Sometimes it
was an accident, sometimes an emergency case, sometimes a newcomer
to the town or one who had quarrelled with his doctor. I mixed with
people so far as I could, for I learned that a brass plate alone will
never attract, and people must see the human being who lies in wait
behind it. Some of my tradespeople gave me their custom in return for
mine, and mine was so small that I was likely to have the best of the
bargain. There was a grocer who developed epileptic fits, which meant
butter and tea to us. Poor fellow, he could never have realized the
mixed feelings with which I received the news of a fresh outbreak.
Then there was a very tall, horse-faced old lady with an extraordinary
dignity of bearing. She would sit framed in the window of her little
house, like the picture of a _grande dame_ of the old régime. But
every now and again she went on a wild burst, in the course of which
she would skim plates out of the window at the passers-by. I was the
only one who had influence over her at such times, for she was a
haughty, autocratic old person. Once she showed an inclination to skim
a plate at me also, but I quelled her by assuming a gloomy dignity as
portentous as her own. She had some art treasures which she heaped upon
me when she was what we will politely call “ill,” but claimed back
again the moment she was well. Once when she had been particularly
troublesome I retained a fine lava jug, in spite of her protests, and I
have got it yet.
It is well that medical practice has its humorous side, for it has much
to depress one. Most men never use their reasoning power at all on the
religious side, but if they did they would find it difficult sometimes
to reconcile the sights which a physician sees with the idea of a
merciful providence. If one loses the explanation that this life is a
spiritual chastening for another, and thinks that death ends all, and
that this is our one experience, then it is impossible to sustain the
goodness or the omnipotence of God. So I felt at the time, and it made
me a Materialist, but now I know well that I was judging a story on the
strength of one chapter.
Let me give an example. I was called in by a poor woman to see her
daughter. As I entered the humble sitting-room there was a small cot
at one side, and by the gesture of the mother I understood that the
sufferer was there. I picked up a candle and walking over I stooped
over the little bed, expecting to see a child. What I really saw was
a pair of brown sullen eyes, full of loathing and pain, which looked
up in resentment to mine. I could not tell how old the creature was.
Long thin limbs were twisted and coiled in the tiny couch. The face was
sane but malignant. “What is it?” I asked in dismay when we were out of
hearing. “It’s a girl,” sobbed the mother. “She’s nineteen. Oh! if God
would only take her!” What a life for both! And how hard to face such
facts and accept any of the commonplace explanations of existence!
Medical life is full of dangers and pitfalls, and luck must always play
its part in a man’s career. Many a good man has been ruined by pure
bad luck. On one occasion I was called in to a lady who was suffering
from what appeared to be dyspepsia of a rather severe type. There was
absolutely nothing to indicate anything more serious. I therefore
reassured the family, spoke lightly of the illness, and walked home to
make up a bismuth mixture for her, calling on one or two other cases on
the way. When I got home I found a messenger waiting to say that the
lady was dead. This is the sort of thing which may happen to any man
at any time. It did not hurt me, for I was too lowly to be hurt. You
can’t ruin a practice when there is no practice. The woman really had a
gastric ulcer, for which there is no diagnosis; it was eating its way
into the lining of her stomach, it pierced an artery after I saw her,
and she bled to death. Nothing could have saved her, and I think her
relatives came to understand this.
I made £154 the first year, and £250 the second, rising slowly to £300,
which in eight years I never passed, so far as the medical practice
went. In the first year the Income Tax paper arrived and I filled it
up to show that I was not liable. They returned the paper with “Most
unsatisfactory” scrawled across it. I wrote “I entirely agree” under
the words, and returned it once more. For this little bit of cheek I
was had up before the assessors, and duly appeared with my ledger under
my arm. They could make nothing, however, out of me or my ledger, and
we parted with mutual laughter and compliments.
In the year 1885 my brother left me to go to a public school in
Yorkshire. Shortly afterwards I was married. A lady named Mrs. Hawkins,
a widow of a Gloucestershire family, had come to Southsea with her son
and daughter, the latter a very gentle and amiable girl. I was brought
into contact with them through the illness of the son, which was of
a sudden and violent nature, arising from cerebral meningitis. As
the mother was very awkwardly situated in lodgings, I volunteered to
furnish an extra bedroom in my house and give the poor lad, who was
in the utmost danger, my personal attention. His case was a mortal
one, and in spite of all I could do he passed away a few days later.
Such a death under my own roof naturally involved me in a good deal
of anxiety and trouble--indeed, if I had not had the foresight to ask
a medical friend to see him with me on the day before he passed away,
I should have been in a difficult position. The funeral was from my
house. The family were naturally grieved at the worry to which they
had quite innocently exposed me, and so our relations became intimate
and sympathetic, which ended in the daughter consenting to share my
fortunes. We were married on August 6, 1885, and no man could have had
a more gentle and amiable life’s companion. Our union was marred by
the sad ailment which came after a very few years to cast its shadow
over our lives, but it comforts me to think that during the time when
we were together there was no single occasion when our affection was
disturbed by any serious breach or division, the credit of which lies
entirely with her own quiet philosophy, which enabled her to bear with
smiling patience not only her own sad illness, which lasted so long,
but all those other vicissitudes which life brings with it. I rejoice
to think that though she married a penniless doctor, she was spared
long enough to fully appreciate the pleasure and the material comforts
which worldly success was able to bring us. She had some small income
of her own which enabled me to expand my simple housekeeping in a way
which gave her from the first the decencies, if not the luxuries, of
life.
In many ways my marriage marked a turning-point in my life. A bachelor,
especially one who had been a wanderer like myself, drifts easily into
Bohemian habits, and I was no exception. I cannot look back upon those
years with any spiritual satisfaction, for I was still in the valley of
darkness. I had ceased to butt my head incessantly against what seemed
to be an impenetrable wall, and I had resigned myself to ignorance
upon that which is the most momentous question in life--for a voyage
is bleak indeed if one has no conception to what port one is bound. I
had laid aside the old charts as useless, and had quite despaired of
ever finding a new one which would enable me to steer an intelligible
course, save towards that mist which was all that my pilots, Huxley,
Mill, Spencer and others, could see ahead of us. My mental attitude is
correctly portrayed in “The Stark Munro Letters.” A dim light of dawn
was to come to me soon in an uncertain fitful way which was destined in
time to spread and grow brighter.
Up to now the main interest of my life lay in my medical career. But
with the more regular life and the greater sense of responsibility,
coupled with the natural development of brainpower, the literary
side of me began slowly to spread until it was destined to push the
other entirely aside. Thus a new phase had begun, part medical, part
literary, and part philosophical, which I shall deal with in another
chapter.
CHAPTER VIII
MY FIRST LITERARY SUCCESS
New Outlook--James Payn--Genesis of Holmes--“A Study in
Scarlet”--“Micah Clarke”--Disappointments--Andrew Lang--Cornhill
Dinner--Oscar Wilde--His Criticism of Himself--“The White Company.”
During the years before my marriage I had from time to time written
short stories which were good enough to be marketable at very small
prices--£4 on an average--but not good enough to reproduce. They are
scattered about amid the pages of “London Society,” “All the Year
Round,” “Temple Bar,” “The Boy’s Own Paper,” and other journals. There
let them lie. They served their purpose in relieving me a little of
that financial burden which always pressed upon me. I can hardly have
earned more than £10 or £15 a year from this source, so that the idea
of making a living by it never occurred to me. But though I was not
putting out I was taking in. I still have note-books full of all sorts
of knowledge which I acquired during that time. It is a great mistake
to start putting out cargo when you have hardly stowed any on board. My
own slow methods and natural limitations made me escape this danger.
After my marriage, however, my brain seems to have quickened and both
my imagination and my range of expression were greatly improved. Most
of the short stories which appeared eventually in my “Captain of the
Polestar” were written in those years from 1885 to 1890. Some of them
are perhaps as good honest work as any that I have done. What gave
me great pleasure and for the first time made me realize that I was
ceasing to be a hack writer and was getting into good company was
when James Payn accepted my short story “Habakuk Jephson’s Statement”
for “Cornhill.” I had a reverence for this splendid magazine with its
traditions from Thackeray to Stevenson and the thought that I had won
my way into it pleased me even more than the cheque for £30, which
came duly to hand. It was, of course, anonymous,--such was the law of
the magazine--which protects the author from abuse as well as prevents
his winning fame. One paper began its review by the phrase “‘Cornhill’
opens its new number with a story which would have made Thackeray turn
in his grave.” A dear old gentleman who knew me hurried across the road
to show me the paper with these cheering words. Another, more gracious,
said “‘Cornhill’ begins the New Year with an exceedingly powerful story
in which we seem to trace the hand of the author of ‘The New Arabian
Nights’.” It was great praise, but something less warm, which came
straight to my own address, would have pleased me better.
I soon had two other stories in the “Cornhill”--“John Huxford’s Hiatus”
and “The Ring of Thoth.” I also penetrated the stout Scottish barrier
of “Blackwood” with a story, “The Physiologist’s Wife,” which was
written when I was under the influence of Henry James. But I was still
in the days of very small things--so small that when a paper sent me
a woodcut and offered me four guineas if I would write a story to
correspond I was not too proud to accept. It was a very bad woodcut and
I think that the story corresponded all right. I remember writing a New
Zealand story, though why I should have written about a place of which
I knew nothing I cannot imagine. Some New Zealand critic pointed out
that I had given the exact bearings of the farm mentioned as 90 miles
to the east or west of the town of Nelson, and that in that case it was
situated 20 miles out on the floor of the Pacific Ocean. These little
things will happen. There are times when accuracy is necessary and
others where the idea is everything and the place quite immaterial.
It was about a year after my marriage that I realized that I could
go on doing short stories for ever and never make headway. What is
necessary is that your name should be on the back of a volume. Only so
do you assert your individuality, and get the full credit or discredit
of your achievement. I had for some time from 1884 onwards been engaged
upon a sensational book of adventure which I had called “The Firm
of Girdlestone,” which represented my first attempt at a connected
narrative. Save for occasional patches it is a worthless book, and,
like the first book of everyone else, unless he is a great original
genius, it was too reminiscent of the work of others. I could see it
then, and could see it even more clearly later. When I sent it to
publishers and they scorned it I quite acquiesced in their decision
and finally let it settle, after its periodical flights to town, a
dishevelled mass of manuscript at the back of a drawer.
I felt now that I was capable of something fresher and crisper and more
workmanlike. Gaboriau had rather attracted me by the neat dovetailing
of his plots, and Poe’s masterful detective, M. Dupin, had from boyhood
been one of my heroes. But could I bring an addition of my own? I
thought of my old teacher Joe Bell, of his eagle face, of his curious
ways, of his eerie trick of spotting details. If he were a detective
he would surely reduce this fascinating but unorganized business to
something nearer to an exact science. I would try if I could get this
effect. It was surely possible in real life, so why should I not make
it plausible in fiction? It is all very well to say that a man is
clever, but the reader wants to see examples of it--such examples as
Bell gave us every day in the wards. The idea amused me. What should I
call the fellow? I still possess the leaf of a notebook with various
alternative names. One rebelled against the elementary art which gives
some inkling of character in the name, and creates Mr. Sharps or Mr.
Ferrets. First it was Sherringford Holmes; then it was Sherlock Holmes.
He could not tell his own exploits, so he must have a commonplace
comrade as a foil--an educated man of action who could both join in the
exploits and narrate them. A drab, quiet name for this unostentatious
man. Watson would do. And so I had my puppets and wrote my “Study in
Scarlet.”
I knew that the book was as good as I could make it, and I had high
hopes. When “Girdlestone” used to come circling back with the precision
of a homing pigeon, I was grieved but not surprised, for I acquiesced
in the decision. But when my little Holmes book began also to do the
circular tour I was hurt, for I knew that it deserved a better fate.
James Payn applauded but found it both too short and too long, which
was true enough. Arrowsmith received it in May, 1886, and returned it
unread in July. Two or three others sniffed and turned away. Finally,
as Ward, Lock & Co. made a specialty of cheap and often sensational
literature, I sent it to them.
“Dear Sir,” they said,--“We have read your story and are pleased with
it. We could not publish it this year as the market is flooded at
present with cheap fiction, but if you do not object to its being held
over till next year, we will give you £25 for the copyright.
“Yours faithfully
“WARD, LOCK & CO.”
“_Oct. 30, 1886._”
It was not a very tempting offer, and even I, poor as I was, hesitated
to accept it. It was not merely the small sum offered, but it was the
long delay, for this book might open a road for me. I was heart-sick,
however, at repeated disappointments, and I felt that perhaps it was
true wisdom to make sure of publicity, however late. Therefore I
accepted, and the book became “Beeton’s Xmas Annual” of 1887. Ward Lock
made a wonderful bargain, for they not only had their Christmas number
but they brought out numerous editions of the book, and finally they
even had the valuable cinema rights for this paltry payment. I never at
any time received another penny for it from this firm, so I do not feel
that I need be grateful even if it so chanced that they cleared my path
in life.
Having a long wait in front of me before this book could appear,
and feeling large thoughts rise within me, I now determined to test
my powers to the full, and I chose a historical novel for this end,
because it seemed to me the one way of combining a certain amount of
literary dignity with those scenes of action and adventure which were
natural to my young and ardent mind. I had always felt great sympathy
for the Puritans, who, after all, whatever their little peculiarities,
did represent political liberty and earnestness in religion. They
had usually been caricatured in fiction and art. Even Scott had not
drawn them as they were. Macaulay, who was always one of my chief
inspirations, had alone made them comprehensible--the sombre fighters,
with their Bibles and their broadswords. There is a great passage
of his--I cannot quote it verbally--in which he says that after
the Restoration if ever you saw a carter more intelligent than his
fellows, or a peasant who tilled his land better, you would be likely
to find that it was an old pikeman of Cromwell’s. This, then, was my
inspiration in “Micah Clarke,” where I fairly let myself go upon the
broad highway of adventure. I was well up in history, but I spent some
months over details and then wrote the book very rapidly. There are
bits of it, the picture of the Puritan household, and the sketch of
Judge Jeffreys, which I have never bettered. When it was finished early
in 1888 my hopes ran high and out it went on its travels.
But, alas! although my Holmes booklet was out, and had attracted
some little favourable comment, the door still seemed to be barred.
James Payn had first peep, and he began his letter of rejection with
the sentence “How can you, can you, waste your time and your wits
writing historical novels!” This was depressing after a year of work.
Then came Bentley’s verdict: “It lacks in our opinion the one great
necessary point for fiction, i.e. interest; and this being the case
we do not think it could ever become popular with libraries and the
general public.” Then Blackwood had its say: “There are imperfections
which would militate against success. The chances of the book proving
a popular success do not seem to be strong enough to warrant us in
publishing it.” There were others even more depressing. I was on the
point of putting the worn manuscript into hospital with its mangled
brother “Girdlestone” when as a last resource, I sent it to Longmans,
whose reader, Andrew Lang, liked it and advised its acceptance. It was
to “Andrew of the brindled hair,” as Stevenson called him, that I owe
my first real opening, and I have never forgotten it. The book duly
appeared in February, 1889, and though it was not a boom book it had
extraordinarily good reviews, including one special one all to itself
by Mr. Prothero in the “Nineteenth Century,” and it has sold without
intermission from that day to this. It was the first solid corner-stone
laid for some sort of literary reputation.
British literature had a considerable vogue in the United States
at this time for the simple reason that there was no copyright and
they had not to pay for it. It was hard on British authors, but far
harder on American ones, since they were exposed to this devastating
competition. Like all national sins it brought its own punishment not
only to American authors, who were guiltless, but to the publishers
themselves, for what belongs to everyone belongs practically to no one,
and they could not bring out a decent edition without being at once
undersold. I have seen some of my early American editions which might
have been printed on the paper that shopmen use for parcels. One good
result, however, from my point of view was that a British author, if he
had anything in him, soon won recognition in America, and afterwards,
when the Copyright Act was passed, he had his audience all ready for
him. My Holmes book had met with some American success and presently
I learned that an agent of Lippincott’s was in London and that he
wished to see me, to arrange for a book. Needless to say that I gave my
patients a rest for a day and eagerly kept the appointment.
Once only before had I touched the edge of literary society. That
was when “Cornhill” was turned into a fully illustrated journal, an
experiment which failed for it was quickly abandoned. The change was
celebrated by a dinner at the Ship, at Greenwich, to which I was
invited on the strength of my short contributions. All the authors
and artists were there, and I remember the reverence with which I
approached James Payn, who was to me the warden of the sacred gate. I
was among the first arrivals, and was greeted by Mr. Smith, the head
of the firm, who introduced me to Payn. I loved much of his work and
waited in awe for the first weighty remark which should fall from his
lips. It was that there was a crack in the window and he wondered
how the devil it had got there. Let me add, however, that my future
experience was to show that there was no wittier or more delightful
companion in the world. I sat next to Anstey that night, who had just
made a most deserved hit with his “Vice Versa,” and I was introduced to
other celebrities, so that I came back walking on air.
Now for the second time I was in London on literary business.
Stoddart, the American, proved to be an excellent fellow, and had two
others to dinner. They were Gill, a very entertaining Irish M.P., and
Oscar Wilde, who was already famous as the champion of æstheticism.
It was indeed a golden evening for me. Wilde to my surprise had read
“Micah Clarke” and was enthusiastic about it, so that I did not feel a
complete outsider. His conversation left an indelible impression upon
my mind. He towered above us all, and yet had the art of seeming to be
interested in all that we could say. He had delicacy of feeling and
tact, for the monologue man, however clever, can never be a gentleman
at heart. He took as well as gave, but what he gave was unique. He
had a curious precision of statement, a delicate flavour of humour,
and a trick of small gestures to illustrate his meaning, which were
peculiar to himself. The effect cannot be reproduced, but I remember
how in discussing the wars of the future he said: “A chemist on each
side will approach the frontier with a bottle”--his upraised hand and
precise face conjuring up a vivid and grotesque picture. His anecdotes,
too, were happy and curious. We were discussing the cynical maxim that
the good fortune of our friends made us discontented. “The devil,”
said Wilde, “was once crossing the Libyan Desert, and he came upon a
spot where a number of small fiends were tormenting a holy hermit. The
sainted man easily shook off their evil suggestions. The devil watched
their failure and then he stepped forward to give them a lesson. ‘What
you do is too crude,’ said he. ‘Permit me for one moment.’ With that he
whispered to the holy man, ‘Your brother has just been made Bishop of
Alexandria.’ A scowl of malignant jealousy at once clouded the serene
face of the hermit. ‘That,’ said the devil to his imps, ‘is the sort of
thing which I should recommend.’”
The result of the evening was that both Wilde and I promised to write
books for “Lippincott’s Magazine”--Wilde’s contribution was “The
Picture of Dorian Grey,” a book which is surely upon a high moral
plane, while I wrote “The Sign of Four,” in which Holmes made his
second appearance. I should add that never in Wilde’s conversation did
I observe one trace of coarseness of thought, nor could one at that
time associate him with such an idea. Only once again did I see him,
many years afterwards, and then he gave me the impression of being
mad. He asked me, I remember, if I had seen some play of his which
was running. I answered that I had not. He said: “Ah, you must go. It
is wonderful. It is genius!” All this with the gravest face. Nothing
could have been more different from his early gentlemanly instincts. I
thought at the time, and still think, that the monstrous development
which ruined him was pathological, and that a hospital rather than a
police court was the place for its consideration.
When his little book came out I wrote to say what I thought of it. His
letter is worth reproducing, as showing the true Wilde. I omit the
early part in which he comments on my own work in too generous terms.
“Between me and life there is a mist of words always. I throw
probability out of the window for the sake of a phrase, and the chance
of an epigram makes me desert truth. Still I do aim at making a work
of art, and I am really delighted that you think my treatment subtle
and artistically good. The newspapers seem to me to be written by the
prurient for the Philistine. I cannot understand how they can treat
‘Dorian Grey’ as immoral. My difficulty was to keep the inherent moral
subordinate to the artistic and dramatic effect, and it still seems to
me that the moral is too obvious.”
Encouraged by the kind reception which “Micah Clarke” had received from
the critics, I now determined upon an even bolder and more ambitious
flight. It seemed to me that the days of Edward III constituted the
greatest epoch in English History--an epoch when both the French and
the Scottish Kings were prisoners in London. This result had been
brought about mainly by the powers of a body of men who were renowned
through Europe but who had never been drawn in British literature, for
though Scott treated in his inimitable way the English archer, it was
as an outlaw rather than as a soldier that he drew him. I had some
views of my own, too, about the Middle Ages which I was anxious to
set forth. I was familiar with Froissart and Chaucer and I was aware
that the famous knights of old were by no means the athletic heroes
of Scott, but were often of a very different type. Hence came my two
books “The White Company,” written in 1889, and “Sir Nigel,” written
fourteen years later. Of the two I consider the latter the better book,
but I have no hesitation in saying that the two of them taken together
did thoroughly achieve my purpose, that they made an accurate picture
of that great age, and that as a single piece of work they form the
most complete, satisfying and ambitious thing that I have ever done.
All things find their level, but I believe that if I had never touched
Holmes, who has tended to obscure my higher work, my position in
literature would at the present moment be a more commanding one. The
work needed much research and I have still got my notebooks full of
all sorts of lore. I cultivate a simple style and avoid long words so
far as possible, and it may be that this surface of ease has sometimes
caused the reader to underrate the amount of real research which lies
in all my historical novels. It is not a matter which troubles me,
however, for I have always felt that justice is done in the end, and
that the real merit of any work is never permanently lost.
I remember that as I wrote the last words of “The White Company” I
felt a wave of exultation and with a cry of “That’s done it!” I hurled
my inky pen across the room, where it left a black smudge upon the
duck’s-egg wall-paper. I knew in my heart that the book would live
and that it would illuminate our national traditions. Now that it has
passed through fifty editions I suppose I may say with all modesty that
my forecast has proved to be correct. This was the last book which I
wrote in my days of doctoring at Southsea, and marks an epoch in my
life, so I can now hark back to some other phases of my last years at
Bush Villa before I broke away into a new existence. I will only add
that “The White Company” was accepted by “Cornhill,” in spite of James
Payn’s opinion of historical novels, and that I fulfilled another
ambition by having a serial in that famous magazine.
A new phase of medical experience came to me about this time, for
I suddenly found myself a unit in the British Army. The operations
in the East had drained the Medical Service, and it had therefore
been determined that local civilian doctors should be enrolled for
temporary duty of some hours a day. The terms were a guinea a day,
and a number of us were tempted to volunteer where there were only
a few vacancies. When I was called before the Board of Selection a
savage-looking old army doctor who presided barked out, “And you,
sir--what are you prepared to do?” To which I answered, “Anything.” It
seems that the others had all been making bargains and reservations, so
my wholehearted reply won the job.
It brought me into closer contact with the savage-looking medico, who
proved to be Sir Anthony Home, V.C.--an honour which he had won in the
Indian Mutiny. He was in supreme charge, and as he was as fierce in
speech and in act as in appearance, everyone was terrified of him. On
one occasion I had told the orderly to draw a man’s tooth, knowing that
he was a very much more skilful dentist than I. I was on my way home
when I was overtaken by an excited soldier who told me that Sergeant
Jones was being court-martialled and would certainly lose his stripes
because he had done a minor operation. I hurried back and on entering
the room found Sir Anthony glaring at the unhappy man, while several
other orderlies stood round awaiting their own turn. Sir Anthony’s
glare was transferred to me when I said that whatever the Sergeant
had done was by my express order. He grunted, banged the book he was
holding, and broke up the meeting. He seemed a most disagreeable old
man, and yet when I was married shortly afterwards he sent me a most
charming message wishing me good fortune. Up to then I had never had
anything from him save a scowl from his thick eyebrows, so I was
most agreeably surprised. Soon afterwards the pressure ceased and we
civilians were all dismissed.
CHAPTER IX
PULLING UP THE ANCHOR
Psychic Studies--Experiments in Telepathy--My First Séances--A Curious
Test--General Drayson--Opinion on Theosophy--A. P. Sinnett--W.
T. Stead--Journey to Berlin--Koch’s Treatment--Brutality of
Bergmann--Malcolm Morris--Literary Society--Political Work--Arthur
Balfour--Our Departure.
It was in these years after my marriage and before leaving Southsea
that I planted the first seeds of those psychic studies which were
destined to revolutionize my views and to absorb finally all the
energies of my life. I had at that time the usual contempt which the
young educated man feels towards the whole subject which has been
covered by the clumsy name of Spiritualism. I had read of mediums
being convicted of fraud, I had heard of phenomena which were opposed
to every known scientific law, and I had deplored the simplicity and
credulity which could deceive good, earnest people into believing
that such bogus happenings were signs of intelligence outside our own
existence. Educated as I had been during my most plastic years in the
school of medical materialism, and soaked in the negative views of all
my great teachers, I had no room in my brain for theories which cut
right across every fixed conclusion that I had formed. I was wrong
and my great teachers were wrong, but still I hold that they wrought
well and that their Victorian agnosticism was in the interests of the
human race, for it shook the old iron-clad unreasoning Evangelical
position which was so universal before their days. For all rebuilding
a site must be cleared. There were two separate Victorian movements
towards change, the one an attempt to improve the old building and make
it good enough to carry on--as shown in the Oxford and High Church
development, the other a knocking down of ruins which could only end
in some fresh erection springing up. As I have shown my own position
was that of a respectful materialist who entirely admitted a great
central intelligent cause, without being able to distinguish what that
cause was, or why it should work in so mysterious and terrible a way in
bringing its designs to fulfilment.
From my point of view the mind (and so far as I could see the
soul, which was the total effect of all the hereditary or personal
functionings of the mind) was an emanation from the brain and entirely
physical in its nature. I saw, as a medical man, how a spicule of bone
or a tumour pressing on the brain would cause what seemed an alteration
in the soul. I saw also how drugs or alcohol would turn on fleeting
phases of virtue or vice. The physical argument seemed an overpowering
one. It had never struck me that the current of events might really
flow in the opposite direction, and that the higher faculties could
only manifest themselves imperfectly through an imperfect instrument.
The broken fiddle is silent and yet the musician is the same as ever.
The first thing which steadied me and made me reconsider my position
was the question of telepathy, which was already being discussed by
William Barrett and others, even before the appearance of Myers’
monumental work on “Human Personality”--the first book which devoted
to these psychic subjects the deep study and sustained brain power
which they demand. It may, in my opinion, take a permanent place in
human literature like the “Novum Organum” or “The Descent of Man” or
any other great root-book which has marked a date in human thought.
Having read some of the evidence I began to experiment in thought
transference, and I found a fellow-researcher in Mr. Ball, a well-known
architect in the town. Again and again, sitting behind him, I have
drawn diagrams, and he in turn has made approximately the same figure.
I showed beyond any doubt whatever that I could convey my thought
without words.
But if I could verify such conclusions up to six feet I could not
well doubt them when they gave me the evidence that the same results
could be obtained at a distance. With an appropriate subject, and some
undefined sympathy between the two individuals, it was independent of
space. So the evidence seemed to show. I had always sworn by science
and by the need of fearless following wherever truth might lie. It
was clear now that my position had been too rigid. I had compared the
thought-excretion of the brain to the bile-excretion of the liver.
Clearly this was untenable. If thought could go a thousand miles and
produce a perceptible effect then it differed entirely not only in
degree but in kind from any purely physical material. That seemed
certain, and it must involve some modification of my old views.
About this time (1886) the family of a General whom I attended
professionally became interested in table turning and asked me to come
and check their results. They sat round a dining-room table which
after a time, their hands being upon it, began to sway and finally got
sufficient motion to tap with one leg. They then asked questions and
received answers, more or less wise and more or less to the point. They
were got by the tedious process of reciting the alphabet and writing
down the letter which the tap indicated. It seemed to me that we were
collectively pushing the table, and that our wills were concerned in
bringing down the leg at the right moment. I was interested but very
sceptical. Some of these messages were not vague platitudes but were
definite and from dead friends of the family, which naturally impressed
them greatly, though it had not the same effect upon me, since I did
not know them. I have the old records before me as I write. “Don’t tell
the girls when you see them, but they will talk about me. Kiss my baby
for me. I watch her always. Francie.” This was the style of message,
mixed up with a good many platitudes. We held twenty or more of such
meetings, but I never received anything evidential to my own address,
and I was very critical as to the whole proceedings.
None the less there was a problem to be solved and I went on with
its solution, reading the pros and the cons, and asking advice from
those who had experience, especially from General Drayson, a very
distinguished thinker and a pioneer of psychic knowledge, who lived
at that time at Southsea. I had known Drayson first as an astronomer,
for he had worked out a revolutionary idea by which there is a fatal
mistake in our present idea as to the circle which is described in
the heavens by the prolonged axis of the earth. It is really a wider
circle round a different centre, and this correction enables us to
explain several things now inexplicable, and to make astronomy a more
exact science, with certain very important reactions upon geology and
the recurrent glacial epochs, the exact date of which could be fixed.
His views impressed me much at the time, and several books upholding
them have appeared since his death, notably “Draysoniana” by Admiral
de Horsey. If he makes good, as I think he will, Drayson will make a
great permanent name. His opinion therefore was not negligible upon any
subject, and when he told me his views and experiences on Spiritualism
I could not fail to be impressed, though my own philosophy was far too
solid to be easily destroyed. I was too poor to employ professional
mediums, and to work on such subjects without a medium is as if one
worked at astronomy without a telescope. Once only an old man with some
reputed psychic power came for a small fee and gave us a demonstration.
He went into a loud-breathing trance to the alarm of his audience, and
then gave each of us a test. Mine was certainly a very remarkable one,
for it was “Do not read Leigh Hunt’s book.” I was hesitating at the
time whether I should read his “Comic Dramatists of the Restoration”
or not, for on the one hand it is literature and on the other the
treatment repelled me. This then was a very final and excellent test
so far as telepathy went, but I would not fully grant that it was
more. I was so impressed, however, that I wrote an account of it to
“Light,” the psychic weekly paper, and so in the year 1887 I actually
put myself on public record as a student of these matters. That was
thirty-seven years ago, as I write, so I am a very senior student now.
From that time onwards I read and thought a great deal, though it was
not until the later phase of my life that I realized whither all this
was tending. This question I will treat in a final section by itself,
so that those to whom it is of less interest can avoid it.
I was deeply interested and attracted for a year or two by Theosophy,
because while Spiritualism seemed at that time to be chaos so far
as philosophy went, Theosophy presented a very well thought-out and
reasonable scheme, parts of which, notably reincarnation and Karma,
seemed to offer an explanation for some of the anomalies of life.
I read Sinnett’s “Occult World” and afterwards with even greater
admiration I read his fine exposition of Theosophy in “Esoteric
Buddhism,” a most notable book. I also met him, for he was an old
friend of General Drayson’s, and I was impressed by his conversation.
Shortly afterwards, however, there appeared Dr. Hodgson’s report
upon his investigation into Madame Blavatsky’s proceedings at Adyar,
which shook my confidence very much. It is true that Mrs. Besant has
since then published a powerful defence which tends to show that
Hodgson may have been deceived, but the subsequent book “A Priestess
of Isis” which contains many of her own letters leaves an unpleasant
impression, and Sinnett’s posthumous work seems to show that he also
had lost confidence. On the other hand Colonel Olcott shows that the
woman undoubtedly had real psychic powers, whatever their source. As
to Spiritualism it seems to have only interested her in its lower
phenomenal aspect. Her books show extraordinary erudition and capacity
for hard work, even if they represent the transfer of other people’s
conclusions, as they frequently do. It would be unjust, however,
to condemn the old wisdom simply because it was introduced by this
extraordinary and volcanic person. We have also had in our branch of
the occult many dishonest mediums, but we have hastened to unveil them
where we could do so, and Theosophy will be in a stronger position when
it shakes off Madame Blavatsky altogether. In any case it could never
have met my needs for I ask for severe proof, and if I have to go back
to unquestioning faith I should find myself in the fold from which I
wandered.
My life had been a pleasant one with my steadily-increasing literary
success, my practice, which was enough to keep me pleasantly occupied,
and my sport, which I treat in a later chapter. Suddenly, however,
there came a development which shook me out of my rut, and caused an
absolute change in my life and plans. One daughter, Mary, had been born
to us, our household was a happy one, and as I have never had personal
ambitions, since the simple things of life have always been the most
pleasant to me, it is possible that I should have remained in Southsea
permanently but for this new episode in my life. It arose when in 1890
Koch announced that he had discovered a sure cure for consumption and
that he would demonstrate it upon a certain date in Berlin.
A great urge came upon me suddenly that I should go to Berlin and
see him do so. I could give no clear reason for this but it was an
irresistible impulse and I at once determined to go. Had I been a
well-known doctor or a specialist in consumption it would have been
more intelligible, but I had, as a matter of fact, no great interest
in the more recent developments of my own profession, and a very
strong belief that much of the so-called progress was illusory.
However, at a few hours’ notice I packed up a bag and started off
alone upon this curious adventure. I had had an interchange of letters
with Mr. W. T. Stead over some matter and I called upon him at the
“Review of Reviews” office as I passed through London to ask him if
he could give me an introduction to Koch or to Dr. Bergmann, who was
to give the demonstration. Mr. Stead was very amiable to this big
unknown provincial doctor, and he gave me a letter for the British
Ambassador--Sir Edward Malet, if I remember right--and for Mr. Lowe,
“The Times” correspondent. He also asked me to do a character sketch
of Koch for him, adding that he would have Count Mattei as a feature
of his magazine this month and Koch the next. I said, “Then you will
have the greatest man of science and the greatest quack in Europe
following each other.” Stead glared at me angrily, for it seems that
the Mattei treatment with its blue electricity and the rest of it was
at that moment his particular fad. However, we parted amiably and all
through his life we kept in distant touch, though we came into sharp
collision at the time of the Boer war. He was a brave and honest man,
and if he was impulsive at times it was only the sudden outflame of
that fire which made him the great force for good that he was. In
psychic knowledge he was a generation before his time, though his mode
of expressing it may sometimes have been injudicious.
I went on to Berlin that night and found myself in the Continental
express with a very handsome and courteous London physician bound upon
the same errand as myself. We passed most of the night talking and I
learned that his name was Malcolm Morris and that he also had been
a provincial doctor, but that he had come to London and had made a
considerable hit as a skin specialist in Harley Street. It was the
beginning of a friendship which endured.
Having arrived at Berlin the great thing was to be present at
Bergmann’s demonstration, which was to be next day at twelve. I went
to our Ambassador, was kept long waiting, had a chilly reception and
was dismissed without help or consolation. Then I tried “The Times”
correspondent, but he could not help me either. He and his amiable wife
showed me every courtesy and invited me to dinner that night. Tickets
were simply not to be had and neither money nor interest could procure
them. I conceived the wild idea of getting one from Koch himself and
made my way to his house. While there I had the curious experience of
seeing his mail arrive--a large sack full of letters, which was emptied
out on the floor of the hall, and exhibited every sort of stamp in
Europe. It was a sign of all the sad broken lives and wearied hearts
which were turning in hope to Berlin. Koch remained a veiled prophet,
however, and would see neither me nor any one else. I was fairly at my
wit’s ends and could not imagine how I could attain my end.
Next day I went down to the great building where the address was to be
given and managed by bribing the porter to get into the outer Hall.
The huge audience was assembling in a room beyond. I tried further
bribing that I might be slipped in, but the official became abusive.
People streamed past me, but I was always the waiter at the gate.
Finally every one had gone in and then a group of men came bustling
across, Bergmann, bearded and formidable, in the van, with a tail of
house surgeons and satellites behind him. I threw myself across his
path. “I have come a thousand miles,” said I. “May I not come in?” He
halted and glared at me through his spectacles. “Perhaps you would like
to take my place,” he roared, working himself up into that strange
folly of excitement which seems so strange in the heavy German nature.
“That is the only place left. Yes, yes, take my place by all means. My
classes are filled with Englishmen already.” He fairly spat out the
word “Englishmen” and I learned afterwards that some recent quarrel
with Morel MacKenzie over the illness of the Emperor Frederick had
greatly incensed him. I am glad to say that I kept my temper and my
polite manner, which is always the best shield when one is met by
brutal rudeness. “Not at all,” I said. “I would not intrude, if there
was really no room.” He glared at me again, all beard and spectacles,
and rushed on with his court all grinning at the snub which the
presumptuous Englishman had received. One of them lingered, however--a
kindly American. “That was bad behaviour,” said he. “See here! If you
meet me at four this afternoon I will show you my full notes of the
lecture, and I know the cases he is about to show, so we can see them
together to-morrow.” Then he followed on.
So it came about that I attained my end after all, but in a roundabout
way. I studied the lecture and the cases, and I had the temerity to
disagree with every one and to come to the conclusion that the whole
thing was experimental and premature. A wave of madness had seized the
world and from all parts, notably from England, poor afflicted people
were rushing to Berlin for a cure, some of them in such advanced stages
of disease that they died in the train. I felt so sure of my ground and
so strongly about it that I wrote a letter of warning to “The Daily
Telegraph,” and I rather think that this letter was the very first
which appeared upon the side of doubt and caution. I need not say that
the event proved the truth of my forecast.
Two days later I was back in Southsea, but I came back a changed man.
I had spread my wings and had felt something of the powers within me.
Especially I had been influenced by a long talk with Malcolm Morris, in
which he assured me that I was wasting my life in the provinces and had
too small a field for my activities. He insisted that I should leave
general practice and go to London. I answered that I was by no means
sure of my literary success as yet, and that I could not so easily
abandon the medical career which had cost my mother such sacrifices and
myself so many years of study. He asked me if there was any special
branch of the profession on which I could concentrate so as to get away
from general practice. I said that of late years I had been interested
in eye work and had amused myself by correcting refractions and
ordering glasses in the Portsmouth Eye Hospital under Mr. Vernon Ford.
“Well,” said Morris, “why not specialize upon the eye? Go to Vienna,
put in six months’ work, come back and start in London. Thus you will
have a nice clean life with plenty of leisure for your literature.” I
came home with this great suggestion buzzing in my head and as my wife
was quite willing and Mary, my little girl, was old enough now to be
left with her grandmother, there seemed to be no obstacle in the way.
There were no difficulties about disposing of the practice, for it was
so small and so purely personal that it could not be sold to another
and simply had to dissolve.
The Portsmouth Literary and Scientific Society gave me a God-speed
banquet. I have many pleasant and some comic reminiscences of this
Society, of which I had been secretary for several years. We kept
the sacred flame burning in the old city with our weekly papers and
discussions during the long winters. It was there I learned to face
an audience, which proved to be of the first importance for my life’s
work. I was naturally of a very nervous, backward, self-distrustful
disposition in such things and I have been told that the signal that
I was about to join in the discussion was that the whole long bench
on which I sat, with every one on it, used to shake with my emotion.
But once up I learned to speak out, to conceal my trepidations, and to
choose my phrases. I gave three papers, one on the Arctic seas, one
on Carlyle and one on Gibbon. The former gave me a quite unmerited
reputation as a sportsman, for I borrowed from a local taxidermist
every bird and beast that he possessed which could conceivably find
its way into the Arctic Circle. These I piled upon the lecture table,
and the audience, concluding that I had shot them all, looked upon me
with great respect. Next morning they were back with the taxidermist
once more. We had some weird people and incidents at these debates.
I remember one very learned discussion on fossils and the age of
the strata, which was ended by a cadaverous major-general of the
Evangelical persuasion who rose and said in a hollow voice that all
this speculation was vain, and indeed incomprehensible, since we knew
on an authority which could not possibly be questioned that the world
was made exactly five thousand eight hundred and ninety years ago. This
put the lid on the debate and we all crept home to bed.
My political work also caused me to learn to speak. I was what was
called a Liberal-Unionist, that is, a man whose general position was
Liberal, but who could not see his way to support Gladstone’s Irish
Policy. Perhaps we were wrong. However, that was my view at the time. I
had a dreadful first experience of platform speaking on a large scale,
for at a huge meeting at the Amphitheatre the candidate, Sir William
Crossman, was delayed, and to prevent a fiasco I was pushed on at a
moment’s notice to face an audience of 3,000 people. It was one of the
tight corners of my life. I hardly knew myself what I said, but the
Irish part of me came to my aid and supplied me with a torrent of more
or less incoherent words and similes which roused the audience greatly,
though it read to me afterwards more like a comic stump speech than a
serious political effort. But it was what they wanted and they were
mostly on their feet before I finished. I was amazed when I read it
next day, and especially the last crowning sentence which was: “England
and Ireland are wedded together with the sapphire wedding ring of the
sea, and what God has placed together let no man pluck asunder.” It was
not very good logic but whether it was eloquence or rodomontade I could
not even now determine.
I was acting Secretary when Mr. Balfour came down to address a great
meeting and, as such, when the Hall was full, I waited on the curb
outside to receive him. Presently his carriage drove up and out he
stepped, tall, thin and aristocratic. There were two notorious artisans
of the other side waiting for him and I warned them not to make
trouble. However, the moment Balfour appeared one of them opened a
huge mouth with the intention of emitting a howl of execration. But it
never got out, for I clapped my hand pretty forcibly over the orifice
while I held him by the neck with the other hand. His companion hit me
on the head with a stick, and was promptly knocked down by one of my
companions. Meanwhile Balfour got safely in, and we two secretaries
followed, rather dishevelled after our adventure. I met Lord Balfour
several times in after life but I never told him how I once had my hat
smashed in his defence.
What with the Literary Society and the politicians I left a gap behind
me in Portsmouth and so did my wife, who was universally popular for
her amiable and generous character. It was a wrench to us to leave so
many good friends. However, towards the end of 1890 the die was cast,
and we closed the door of Bush Villa behind us for the last time. I had
days of privation there, and days of growing success during the eight
long years that I had spent in Portsmouth. Now it was with a sense of
wonderful freedom and exhilarating adventure that we set forth upon the
next phase of our lives.
CHAPTER X
THE GREAT BREAK
Vienna--A Specialist in Wimpole Street--The Great
Decision--Norwood--“The Refugees”--Reported Death of Holmes.
We set forth upon a bitter winter day at the close of 1890 with every
chance of being snowed up on our long trek. We got through all right,
however, and found ourselves in Vienna, arriving on a deadly cold
night, with deep snow under foot and a cutting blizzard in the air. As
we looked from the station the electric lights threw out the shining
silver drift of snow flakes against the absolute darkness of the sky.
It was a gloomy, ominous reception, but half an hour afterwards when we
were in the warm cosy crowded tobacco-laden restaurant attached to our
hotel we took a more cheerful view of our surroundings.
We found a modest _pension_ which was within our means, and we put in
a very pleasant four months, during which I attended eye lectures at
the Krankenhaus, but could certainly have learned far more in London,
for even if one has a fair knowledge of conversational German it is
very different from following accurately a rapid lecture filled with
technical terms. No doubt “has studied in Vienna” sounds well in a
specialist’s record, but it is usually taken for granted that he has
exhausted his own country before going abroad, which was by no means
the case with me. Therefore, so far as eye work goes, my winter was
wasted, nor can I trace any particular spiritual or intellectual
advance. On the other hand I saw a little of gay Viennese society. I
received kind and welcome hospitality from Brinsley Richards, “The
Times” correspondent, and his wife, and I had some excellent skating.
I also wrote one short book, “The Doings of Raffles Haw,” not a
very notable achievement, by which I was able to pay my current
expenses without encroaching on the very few hundred pounds which were
absolutely all that I had in the world. This money was invested on the
advice of a friend, and as it was almost all lost--like so much more
that I have earned--it is just as well that I was never driven back
upon it.
With the spring my work at Vienna had finished, if it can be said to
have ever begun, and we returned via Paris, putting in a few days there
with Landolt, who was the most famous French oculist of his time. It
was great to find ourselves back in London once more with the feeling
that we were now on the real field of battle, where we must conquer or
perish, for our boats were burned behind us. It is easy now to look
back and think that the issue was clear, but it was by no means so at
the time, for I had earned little, though my reputation was growing. It
was only my own inward conviction of the permanent merits of “The White
Company,” still appearing month by month in “Cornhill,” which sustained
my confidence. I had come through so much in the early days at Southsea
that nothing could alarm me personally, but I had a wife and child now,
and the stern simplicity of life which was possible and even pleasant
in early days was now no longer to be thought of.
We took rooms in Montague Place, and I went forth to search for some
place where I could put up my plate as an oculist. I was aware that
many of the big men do not find time to work out refractions, which
in some cases of astigmatism take a long time to adjust when done by
retinoscopy. I was capable in this work and liked it, so I hoped that
some of it might drift my way. But to get it, it was clearly necessary
that I should live among the big men so that the patient could be
easily referred to me. I searched the doctors’ quarters and at last
found suitable accommodation at 2 Devonshire Place, which is at the top
of Wimpole Street and close to the classical Harley Street. There for
£120 a year I got the use of a front room with part use of a waiting
room. I was soon to find that they were both waiting rooms, and now I
know that it was better so.
Every morning I walked from the lodgings at Montague Place, reached my
consulting room at ten and sat there until three or four, with never
a ring to disturb my serenity. Could better conditions for reflection
and work be found? It was ideal, and so long as I was thoroughly
unsuccessful in my professional venture there was every chance of
improvement in my literary prospects. Therefore when I returned to the
lodgings at tea-time I bore my little sheaves with me, the first fruits
of a considerable harvest.
A number of monthly magazines were coming out at that time, notable
among which was “The Strand,” then as now under the editorship of
Greenhough Smith. Considering these various journals with their
disconnected stories it had struck me that a single character running
through a series, if it only engaged the attention of the reader, would
bind that reader to that particular magazine. On the other hand, it
had long seemed to me that the ordinary serial might be an impediment
rather than a help to a magazine, since, sooner or later, one missed
one number and afterwards it had lost all interest. Clearly the ideal
compromise was a character which carried through, and yet instalments
which were each complete in themselves, so that the purchaser was
always sure that he could relish the whole contents of the magazine. I
believe that I was the first to realize this and “The Strand Magazine”
the first to put it into practice.
Looking round for my central character I felt that Sherlock Holmes,
whom I had already handled in two little books, would easily lend
himself to a succession of short stories. These I began in the long
hours of waiting in my consulting room. Greenhough Smith liked them
from the first, and encouraged me to go ahead with them. My literary
affairs had been taken up by that king of agents, A. P. Watt, who
relieved me of all the hateful bargaining, and handled things so well
that any immediate anxiety for money soon disappeared. It was as well,
for not one single patient had ever crossed the threshold of my room.
I was now once more at a crossroads of my life, and Providence, which
I recognize at every step, made me realize it in a very energetic and
unpleasant way. I was starting off for my usual trudge one morning
from our lodgings when icy shivers passed over me, and I only got
back in time to avoid a total collapse. It was a virulent attack of
influenza, at a time when influenza was in its deadly prime. Only three
years before my dear sister Annette, after spending her whole life on
the family needs, had died of it at Lisbon at the very moment when my
success would have enabled me to recall her from her long servitude.
Now it was my turn, and I very nearly followed her. I can remember
no pain or extreme discomfort, and no psychic experiences, but for a
week I was in great danger, and then found myself as weak as a child
and as emotional, but with a mind as clear as crystal. It was then,
as I surveyed my own life, that I saw how foolish I was to waste my
literary earnings in keeping up an oculist’s room in Wimpole Street,
and I determined with a wild rush of joy to cut the painter and to
trust for ever to my power of writing. I remember in my delight taking
the handkerchief which lay upon the coverlet in my enfeebled hand, and
tossing it up to the ceiling in my exultation. I should at last be my
own master. No longer would I have to conform to professional dress or
try to please any one else. I would be free to live how I liked and
where I liked. It was one of the great moments of exultation of my
life. The date was in August, 1891.
Presently I was about, hobbling on a stick and reflecting that if I
lived to be eighty I knew already exactly how it would feel. I haunted
house-agents, got lists of suburban villas, and spent some weeks, as
my strength returned, in searching for a new home. Finally I found a
suitable house, modest but comfortable, isolated and yet one of a row.
It was 12 Tennison Road, South Norwood. There we settled down, and
there I made my first effort to live entirely by my pen. It soon became
evident that I had been playing the game well within my powers and that
I should have no difficulty in providing a sufficient income. It seemed
as if I had settled into a life which might be continuous, and I little
foresaw that an unexpected blow was about to fall upon us, and that we
were not at the end, but really at the beginning, of our wanderings.
I could not know this, however, and I settled down with a stout
heart to do some literary work worthy of the name. The difficulty of
the Holmes work was that every story really needed as clear-cut and
original a plot as a longish book would do. One cannot without effort
spin plots at such a rate. They are apt to become thin or to break.
I was determined, now that I had no longer the excuse of absolute
pecuniary pressure, never again to write anything which was not as good
as I could possibly make it, and therefore I would not write a Holmes
story without a worthy plot and without a problem which interested my
own mind, for that is the first requisite before you can interest any
one else. If I have been able to sustain this character for a long
time and if the public find, as they will find, that the last story is
as good as the first, it is entirely due to the fact that I never, or
hardly ever, forced a story. Some have thought there was a falling off
in the stories, and the criticism was neatly expressed by a Cornish
boatman who said to me, “I think, sir, when Holmes fell over that
cliff, he may not have killed himself, but all the same he was never
quite the same man afterwards.” I think, however, that if the reader
began the series backwards, so that he brought a fresh mind to the last
stories, he would agree with me that, though the general average may
not be conspicuously high, still the last one is as good as the first.
I was weary, however, of inventing plots and I set myself now to do
some work which would certainly be less remunerative but would be more
ambitious from a literary point of view. I had long been attracted
by the epoch of Louis XIV and by those Huguenots who were the French
equivalents of our Puritans. I had a good knowledge of the memoirs
of that date, and many notes already prepared, so that it did not
take me long to write “The Refugees.” It has stood the acid test of
time very well, so I may say that it was a success. Soon after its
appearance it was translated into French, and my mother, herself a
great French scholar, had the joy when she visited Fontainebleau to
hear the official guide tell the drove of tourists that if they really
wanted to know about the Court of the great monarch, they would find
the clearest and most accurate account in an Englishman’s book, “The
Refugees.” I expect the guide would have been considerably astonished
had he then and there been kissed by an elderly English lady, but it
was an experience which he must have narrowly missed. I used in this
book, also, a great deal which was drawn from Parkman, that great but
neglected historian, who was in my opinion the greatest serious writer
that America has produced.
There was an amusing episode connected with “The Refugees,” when it was
read aloud in some strict Irish convent, the innocent Reverend Mother
having mistaken my name and imagined that I was a canon, and therefore
of course a holy man. I am told that the reading was a tremendous
success and that the good sisters rejoiced that the mistake was not
found out until the story was completed. My first name has several
times led to mistakes, as when, at a big dinner at Chicago, I was asked
to say Grace, as being the only ecclesiastic present. I remember that
at the same dinner one of the speakers remarked that it was a most
sinister fact that though I was a doctor no _living_ patient of mine
had ever yet been seen.
During this Norwood interval, I was certainly working hard, for besides
“The Refugees” I wrote “The Great Shadow,” a booklet which I should put
near the front of my work for merit, and two other little books on a
very inferior plane--“The Parasite” and “Beyond the City.” The latter
was of a domestic type unusual for me. It was pirated in New York just
before the new Copyright Act came into force, and the rascal publisher
thinking that a portrait--any sort of portrait--of the author would
look well upon the cover, and being quite ignorant of my identity, put
a very pretty and over-dressed young woman as my presentment. I still
preserve a copy of this most flattering representation. All these books
had some decent success, though none of it was remarkable. It was still
the Sherlock Holmes stories for which the public clamoured, and these
from time to time I endeavoured to supply. At last, after I had done
two series of them I saw that I was in danger of having my hand forced,
and of being entirely identified with what I regarded as a lower
stratum of literary achievement. Therefore as a sign of my resolution
I determined to end the life of my hero. The idea was in my mind when
I went with my wife for a short holiday in Switzerland, in the course
of which we saw there the wonderful falls of Reichenbach, a terrible
place, and one that I thought would make a worthy tomb for poor
Sherlock, even if I buried my banking account along with him. So there
I laid him, fully determined that he should stay there--as indeed for
some years he did. I was amazed at the concern expressed by the public.
They say that a man is never properly appreciated until he is dead,
and the general protest against my summary execution of Holmes taught
me how many and how numerous were his friends. “You Brute” was the
beginning of the letter of remonstrance which one lady sent me, and I
expect she spoke for others besides herself. I heard of many who wept.
I fear I was utterly callous myself, and only glad to have a chance of
opening out into new fields of imagination, for the temptation of high
prices made it difficult to get one’s thoughts away from Holmes.
That Sherlock Holmes was anything but mythical to many is shown by the
fact that I have had many letters addressed to him with requests that I
forward them. Watson has also had a number of letters in which he has
been asked for the address or for the autograph of his more brilliant
confrère. A press-cutting agency wrote to Watson asking whether Holmes
would not wish to subscribe. When Holmes retired several elderly
ladies were ready to keep house for him and one sought to ingratiate
herself by assuring me that she knew all about bee-keeping and could
“segregate the queen.” I had considerable offers also for Holmes if he
would examine and solve various family mysteries. Once the offer--from
Poland--was that I should myself go, and my reward was practically
left to my own judgment. I had judgment enough, however, to avoid it
altogether.
I have often been asked whether I had myself the qualities which I
depicted, or whether I was merely the Watson that I look. Of course I
am well aware that it is one thing to grapple with a practical problem
and quite another thing when you are allowed to solve it under your
own conditions. I have no delusions about that. At the same time a man
cannot spin a character out of his own inner consciousness and make it
really life-like unless he has some possibilities of that character
within him--which is a dangerous admission for one who has drawn
so many villains as I. In my poem “The Inner Room,” describing our
multiplex personality, I say:
“There are others who are sitting,
Grim as doom,
In the dim ill-boding shadow
Of my room.
Darkling figures, stern or quaint,
Now a savage, now a saint,
Showing fitfully and faint
In the gloom.”
Among those figures there may perhaps be an astute detective also, but
I find that in real life in order to find him I have to inhibit all the
others and get into a mood when there is no one in the room but he.
Then I get results and have several times solved problems by Holmes’
methods after the police have been baffled. Yet I must admit that in
ordinary life I am by no means observant and that I have to throw
myself into an artificial frame of mind before I can weigh evidence and
anticipate the sequence of events.
CHAPTER XI
SIDELIGHTS ON SHERLOCK HOLMES
“The Speckled Band”--Barrie’s Parody on Holmes--Holmes on the
Films--Methods of Construction--Problems--Curious Letters--Some
Personal Cases--Strange Happenings.
I may as well interrupt my narrative here in order to say what may
interest my readers about my most notorious character.
The impression that Holmes was a real person of flesh and blood may
have been intensified by his frequent appearance upon the stage. After
the withdrawal of my dramatization of “Rodney Stone” from a theatre
upon which I held a six months’ lease, I determined to play a bold and
energetic game, for an empty theatre spells ruin. When I saw the course
that things were taking I shut myself up and devoted my whole mind to
making a sensational Sherlock Holmes drama. I wrote it in a week and
called it “The Speckled Band” after the short story of that name. I do
not think that I exaggerate if I say that within a fortnight of the
one play shutting down I had a company working upon the rehearsals
of a second one, which had been written in the interval. It was a
considerable success. Lyn Harding, as the half epileptic and wholly
formidable Doctor Grimesby Rylott, was most masterful, while Saintsbury
as Sherlock Holmes was also very good. Before the end of the run I
had cleared off all that I had lost upon the other play, and I had
created a permanent property of some value. It became a stock piece and
is even now touring the country. We had a fine rock boa to play the
title-rôle, a snake which was the pride of my heart, so one can imagine
my disgust when I saw that one critic ended his disparaging review by
the words “The crisis of the play was produced by the appearance of
a palpably artificial serpent.” I was inclined to offer him a goodly
sum if he would undertake to go to bed with it. We had several snakes
at different times, but they were none of them born actors and they
were all inclined either to hang down from the hole in the wall like
inanimate bell-pulls, or else to turn back through the hole and get
even with the stage carpenter who pinched their tails in order to make
them more lively. Finally we used artificial snakes, and every one,
including the stage carpenter, agreed that it was more satisfactory.
This was the second Sherlock Holmes play. I should have spoken about
the first, which was produced very much earlier, in fact at the time of
the African war. It was written and most wonderfully acted by William
Gillette, the famous American. Since he used my characters and to some
extent my plots, he naturally gave me a share in the undertaking, which
proved to be very successful. “May I marry Holmes?” was one cable which
I received from him when in the throes of composition. “You may marry
or murder or do what you like with him,” was my heartless reply. I was
charmed both with the play, the acting and the pecuniary result. I
think that every man with a drop of artistic blood in his veins would
agree that the latter consideration, though very welcome when it does
arrive, is still the last of which he thinks.
Sir James Barrie paid his respects to Sherlock Holmes in a rollicking
parody. It was really a gay gesture of resignation over the failure
which we had encountered with a comic opera for which he undertook to
write the libretto. I collaborated with him on this, but in spite of
our joint efforts, the piece fell flat. Whereupon Barrie sent me a
parody on Holmes, written on the fly leaves of one of his books. It ran
thus:--
THE ADVENTURE OF THE TWO COLLABORATORS
In bringing to a close the adventures of my friend Sherlock Holmes I
am perforce reminded that he never, save on the occasion which, as you
will now hear, brought his singular career to an end, consented to act
in any mystery which was concerned with persons who made a livelihood
by their pen. “I am not particular about the people I mix among for
business purposes,” he would say, “but at literary characters I draw
the line.”
We were in our rooms in Baker Street one evening. I was (I remember)
by the centre table writing out “The Adventure of the Man without a
Cork Leg” (which had so puzzled the Royal Society and all the other
scientific bodies of Europe), and Holmes was amusing himself with
a little revolver practice. It was his custom of a summer evening
to fire round my head, just shaving my face, until he had made a
photograph of me on the opposite wall, and it is a slight proof of
his skill that many of these portraits in pistol shots are considered
admirable likenesses.
I happened to look out of the window, and perceiving two gentlemen
advancing rapidly along Baker Street asked him who they were. He
immediately lit his pipe, and, twisting himself on a chair into the
figure 8, replied:
“They are two collaborators in comic opera, and their play has not
been a triumph.”
I sprang from my chair to the ceiling in amazement, and he then
explained:
“My dear Watson, they are obviously men who follow some low calling.
That much even you should be able to read in their faces. Those little
pieces of blue paper which they fling angrily from them are Durrant’s
Press Notices. Of these they have obviously hundreds about their
person (see how their pockets bulge). They would not dance on them if
they were pleasant reading.”
I again sprang to the ceiling (which is much dented), and shouted:
“Amazing! but they may be mere authors.”
“No,” said Holmes, “for mere authors only get one press notice a week.
Only criminals, dramatists and actors get them by the hundred.”
“Then they may be actors.”
“No, actors would come in a carriage.”
“Can you tell me anything else about them?”
“A great deal. From the mud on the boots of the tall one I perceive
that he comes from South Norwood. The other is as obviously a Scotch
author.”
“How can you tell that?”
“He is carrying in his pocket a book called (I clearly see) ‘Auld
Licht Something.’ Would any one but the author be likely to carry
about a book with such a title?”
I had to confess that this was improbable.
It was now evident that the two men (if such they can be called) were
seeking our lodgings. I have said (often) that my friend Holmes seldom
gave way to emotion of any kind, but he now turned livid with passion.
Presently this gave place to a strange look of triumph.
“Watson,” he said, “that big fellow has for years taken the credit for
my most remarkable doings, but at last I have him--at last!”
Up I went to the ceiling, and when I returned the strangers were in
the room.
“I perceive, gentlemen,” said Mr. Sherlock Holmes, “that you are at
present afflicted by an extraordinary novelty.”
The handsomer of our visitors asked in amazement how he knew this, but
the big one only scowled.
“You forget that you wear a ring on your fourth finger,” replied Mr.
Holmes calmly.
I was about to jump to the ceiling when the big brute interposed.
“That Tommy-rot is all very well for the public, Holmes,” said he,
“but you can drop it before me. And, Watson, if you go up to the
ceiling again I shall make you stay there.”
Here I observed a curious phenomenon. My friend Sherlock Holmes
_shrank_. He became small before my eyes. I looked longingly at the
ceiling, but dared not.
“Let us cut the first four pages,” said the big man, “and proceed to
business. I want to know why----”
“Allow me,” said Mr. Holmes, with some of his old courage. “You want
to know why the public does not go to your opera.”
“Exactly,” said the other ironically, “as you perceive by my shirt
stud.” He added more gravely, “And as you can only find out in one way
I must insist on your witnessing an entire performance of the piece.”
It was an anxious moment for me. I shuddered, for I knew that if
Holmes went I should have to go with him. But my friend had a heart
of gold. “Never,” he cried fiercely, “I will do anything for you save
that.”
“Your continued existence depends on it,” said the big man menacingly.
“I would rather melt into air,” replied Holmes, proudly taking another
chair. “But I can tell you why the public don’t go to your piece
without sitting the thing out myself.”
“Why?”
“Because,” replied Holmes calmly, “they prefer to stay away.”
A dead silence followed that extraordinary remark. For a moment the
two intruders gazed with awe upon the man who had unravelled their
mystery so wonderfully. Then drawing their knives----
Holmes grew less and less, until nothing was left save a ring of smoke
which slowly circled to the ceiling.
The last words of great men are often noteworthy. These were the last
words of Sherlock Holmes: “Fool, fool! I have kept you in luxury for
years. By my help you have ridden extensively in cabs, where no author
was ever seen before. _Henceforth you will ride in buses!_”
The brute sunk into a chair aghast.
The other author did not turn a hair.
_To A. Conan Doyle,
from his friend
J. M. Barrie._
This parody, the best of all the numerous parodies, may be taken as an
example not only of the author’s wit but of his debonnaire courage,
for it was written immediately after our joint failure which at the
moment was a bitter thought for both of us. There is indeed nothing
more miserable than a theatrical failure, for you feel how many others
who have backed you have been affected by it. It was, I am glad to say,
my only experience of it, and I have no doubt that Barrie could say the
same.
Before I leave the subject of the many impersonations of Holmes I may
say that all of them, and all the drawings, are very unlike my own
original idea of the man. I saw him as very tall--“over 6 feet, but so
excessively lean that he seemed considerably taller,” said “A Study
in Scarlet.” He had, as I imagined him, a thin razor-like face, with
a great hawks-bill of a nose, and two small eyes, set close together
on either side of it. Such was my conception. It chanced, however,
that poor Sidney Paget who, before his premature death, drew all the
original pictures, had a younger brother whose name, I think, was
Walter, who served him as a model. The handsome Walter took the place
of the more powerful but uglier Sherlock, and perhaps from the point of
view of my lady readers it was as well. The stage has followed the type
set up by the pictures.
Films of course were unknown when the stories appeared, and when these
rights were finally discussed and a small sum offered for them by a
French Company it seemed treasure trove and I was very glad to accept.
Afterwards I had to buy them back again at exactly ten times what I had
received, so the deal was a disastrous one. But now they have been done
by the Stoll Company with Eille Norwood as Holmes, and it was worth
all the expense to get so fine a production. Norwood has since played
the part on the stage and won the approbation of the London public. He
has that rare quality which can only be described as glamour, which
compels you to watch an actor eagerly even when he is doing nothing. He
has the brooding eye which excites expectation and he has also a quite
unrivalled power of disguise. My only criticism of the films is that
they introduce telephones, motor cars and other luxuries of which the
Victorian Holmes never dreamed.
People have often asked me whether I knew the end of a Holmes story
before I started it. Of course I do. One could not possibly steer
a course if one did not know one’s destination. The first thing is
to get your idea. Having got that key idea one’s next task is to
conceal it and lay emphasis upon everything which can make for a
different explanation. Holmes, however, can see all the fallacies of
the alternatives, and arrives more or less dramatically at the true
solution by steps which he can describe and justify. He shows his
powers by what the South Americans now call “Sherlockholmitos,” which
means clever little deductions which often have nothing to do with
the matter in hand, but impress the reader with a general sense of
power. The same effect is gained by his offhand allusion to other
cases. Heaven knows how many titles I have thrown about in a casual
way, and how many readers have begged me to satisfy their curiosity as
to “Rigoletto and his abominable wife,” “The Adventure of the Tired
Captain,” or “The Curious Experience of the Patterson Family in the
Island of Uffa.” Once or twice, as in “The Adventure of the Second
Stain,” which in my judgment is one of the neatest of the stories, I
did actually use the title years before I wrote a story to correspond.
There are some questions concerned with particular stories which turn
up periodically from every quarter of the globe. In “The Adventure of
the Priory School” Holmes remarks in his offhand way that by looking at
a bicycle track on a damp moor one can say which way it was heading.
I had so many remonstrances upon this point, varying from pity to
anger, that I took out my bicycle and tried. I had imagined that the
observations of the way in which the track of the hind wheel overlaid
the track of the front one when the machine was not running dead
straight would show the direction. I found that my correspondents were
right and I was wrong, for this would be the same whichever way the
cycle was moving. On the other hand the real solution was much simpler,
for on an undulating moor the wheels make a much deeper impression
uphill and a more shallow one downhill, so Holmes was justified of his
wisdom after all.
Sometimes I have got upon dangerous ground where I have taken risks
through my own want of knowledge of the correct atmosphere. I have, for
example, never been a racing man, and yet I ventured to write “Silver
Blaze,” in which the mystery depends upon the laws of training and
racing. The story is all right, and Holmes may have been at the top of
his form, but my ignorance cries aloud to heaven. I read an excellent
and very damaging criticism of the story in some sporting paper,
written clearly by a man who _did_ know, in which he explained the
exact penalties which would have come upon every one concerned if they
had acted as I described. Half would have been in jail and the other
half warned off the turf for ever. However, I have never been nervous
about details, and one must be masterful sometimes. When an alarmed
Editor wrote to me once: “There is no second line of rails at that
point,” I answered, “I make one.” On the other hand, there are cases
where accuracy is essential.
I do not wish to be ungrateful to Holmes, who has been a good friend
to me in many ways. If I have sometimes been inclined to weary of
him it is because his character admits of no light or shade. He is a
calculating machine, and anything you add to that simply weakens the
effect. Thus the variety of the stories must depend upon the romance
and compact handling of the plots. I would say a word for Watson also,
who in the course of seven volumes never shows one gleam of humour or
makes one single joke. To make a real character one must sacrifice
everything to consistency and remember Goldsmith’s criticism of Johnson
that “he would make the little fishes talk like whales.”
I do not think that I ever realized what a living actual personality
Holmes had become to the more guileless readers, until I heard of the
very pleasing story of the char-à-bancs of French schoolboys who, when
asked what they wanted to see first in London, replied unanimously that
they wanted to see Mr. Holmes’ lodgings in Baker Street. Many have
asked me which house it is, but that is a point which for excellent
reasons I will not decide.
There are certain Sherlock Holmes stories, apocryphal I need not say,
which go round and round the press and turn up at fixed intervals with
the regularity of a comet.
One is the story of the cabman who is supposed to have taken me to
an hotel in Paris. “Dr. Doyle,” he cried, gazing at me fixedly,
“I perceive from your appearance that you have been recently at
Constantinople. I have reason to think also that you have been at Buda,
and I perceive some indication that you were not far from Milan.”
“Wonderful. Five francs for the secret of how you did it?” “I looked at
the labels pasted on your trunk,” said the astute cabby.
Another perennial is of the woman who is said to have consulted
Sherlock. “I am greatly puzzled, sir. In one week I have lost a motor
horn, a brush, a box of golf balls, a dictionary and a bootjack. Can
you explain it?” “Nothing simpler, madame,” said Sherlock. “It is
clear that your neighbour keeps a goat.”
There was a third about how Sherlock entered heaven, and by virtue of
his power of observation at once greeted Adam but the point is perhaps
too anatomical for further discussion.
I suppose that every author receives a good many curious letters.
Certainly I have done so. Quite a number of these have been from
Russia. When they have been in the vernacular I have been compelled to
take them as read, but when they have been in English they have been
among the most curious in my collection.
There was one young lady who began all her epistles with the words
“Good Lord.” Another had a large amount of guile underlying her
simplicity. Writing from Warsaw, she stated that she had been bedridden
for two years, and that my novels had been her only, etc., etc. So
touched was I by this flattering statement that I at once prepared an
autographed parcel of them to complete the fair invalid’s collection.
By good luck, however, I met a brother author on the same day to whom
I recounted the touching incident. With a cynical smile, he drew an
identical letter from his pocket. His novels had also been for two
years her only, etc., etc. I do not know how many more the lady had
written to; but if, as I imagine, her correspondence had extended to
several countries, she must have amassed a rather interesting library.
The young Russian’s habit of addressing me as “Good Lord” had an even
stranger parallel at home which links it up with the subject of this
article. Shortly after I received a knighthood, I had a bill from a
tradesman which was quite correct and businesslike in every detail save
that it was made out to Sir Sherlock Holmes. I hope that I can stand
a joke as well as my neighbours, but this particular piece of humour
seemed rather misapplied and I wrote sharply upon the subject.
In response to my letter there arrived at my hotel a very repentant
clerk, who expressed his sorrow at the incident, but kept on repeating
the phrase, “I assure you, sir, that it was bonâ fide.”
“What do you mean by bonâ fide?” I asked.
“Well, sir,” he replied, “my mates in the shop told me that you had
been knighted, and that when a man was knighted he changed his name,
and that you had taken that one.”
I need not say that my annoyance vanished, and that I laughed as
heartily as his pals were probably doing round the corner.
A few of the problems which have come my way have been very similar to
some which I had invented for the exhibition of the reasoning of Mr.
Holmes. I might perhaps quote one in which that gentleman’s method of
thought was copied with complete success. The case was as follows: A
gentleman had disappeared. He had drawn a bank balance of £40 which
was known to be on him. It was feared that he had been murdered for
the sake of the money. He had last been heard of stopping at a large
hotel in London, having come from the country that day. In the evening
he went to a music-hall performance, came out of it about ten o’clock,
returned to his hotel, changed his evening clothes, which were found in
his room next day, and disappeared utterly. No one saw him leave the
hotel, but a man occupying a neighbouring room declared that he had
heard him moving during the night. A week had elapsed at the time that
I was consulted, but the police had discovered nothing. Where was the
man?
These were the whole of the facts as communicated to me by his
relatives in the country. Endeavouring to see the matter through the
eyes of Mr. Holmes, I answered by return mail that he was evidently
either in Glasgow or in Edinburgh. It proved later that he had, as a
fact, gone to Edinburgh, though in the week that had passed he had
moved to another part of Scotland.
There I should leave the matter, for, as Dr. Watson has often shown,
a solution explained is a mystery spoiled. At this stage the reader
can lay down the book and show how simple it all is by working out the
problem for himself. He has all the data which were ever given to me.
For the sake of those, however, who have no turn for such conundrums, I
will try to indicate the links which make the chain. The one advantage
which I possessed was that I was familiar with the routine of London
hotels--though I fancy it differs little from that of hotels elsewhere.
The first thing was to look at the facts and separate what was certain
from what was conjecture. It was _all_ certain except the statement of
the person who heard the missing man in the night. How could he tell
such a sound from any other sound in a large hotel? That point could be
disregarded, if it traversed the general conclusions.
The first clear deduction was that the man had meant to disappear.
Why else should he draw all his money? He had got out of the hotel
during the night. But there is a night porter in all hotels, and it is
impossible to get out without his knowledge when the door is once shut.
The door is shut after the theatre-goers return--say at twelve o’clock.
Therefore, the man left the hotel before twelve o’clock. He had come
from the music-hall at ten, had changed his clothes, and had departed
with his bag. No one had seen him do so. The inference is that he had
done it at the moment when the hall was full of the returning guests,
which is from eleven to eleven-thirty. After that hour, even if the
door were still open, there are few people coming and going so that he
with his bag would certainly have been seen.
Having got so far upon firm ground, we now ask ourselves why a man who
desires to hide himself should go out at such an hour. If he intended
to conceal himself in London he need never have gone to the hotel at
all. Clearly then he was going to catch a train which would carry him
away. But a man who is deposited by a train in any provincial station
during the night is likely to be noticed, and he might be sure that
when the alarm was raised and his description given, some guard or
porter would remember him. Therefore, his destination would be some
large town which he would reach as a terminus where all his fellow
passengers would disembark and where he would lose himself in the
crowd. When one turns up the time-table and sees that the great Scotch
expresses bound for Edinburgh and Glasgow start about midnight, the
goal is reached. As for his dress-suit, the fact that he abandoned it
proved that he intended to adopt a line of life where there were no
social amenities. This deduction also proved to be correct.
I quote such a case in order to show that the general lines of
reasoning advocated by Holmes have a real practical application to
life. In another case, where a girl had become engaged to a young
foreigner who suddenly disappeared, I was able, by a similar process of
deduction, to show her very clearly both whither he had gone and how
unworthy he was of her affections.
On the other hand, these semi-scientific methods are occasionally
laboured and slow as compared with the results of the rough-and-ready,
practical man. Lest I should seem to have been throwing bouquets either
to myself or to Mr. Holmes, let me state that on the occasion of a
burglary of the village inn, within a stone-throw of my house, the
village constable, with no theories at all, had seized the culprit
while I had got no further than that he was a left-handed man with
nails in his boots.
The unusual or dramatic effects which lead to the invocation of Mr.
Holmes in fiction are, of course, great aids to him in reaching a
conclusion. It is the case where there is nothing to get hold of
which is the deadly one. I heard of such a one in America which would
certainly have presented a formidable problem. A gentleman of blameless
life starting off for a Sunday evening walk with his family, suddenly
observed that he had forgotten something. He went back into the house,
the door of which was still open, and he left his people waiting for
him outside. He never reappeared, and from that day to this there has
been no clue as to what befell him. This was certainly one of the
strangest cases of which I have ever heard in real life.
Another very singular case came within my own observation. It was
sent to me by an eminent London publisher. This gentleman had in his
employment a head of department whose name we shall take as Musgrave.
He was a hardworking person, with no special feature in his character.
Mr. Musgrave died, and several years after his death a letter was
received addressed to him, in the care of his employers. It bore the
postmark of a tourist resort in the west of Canada, and had the note
“Conflfilms” upon the outside of the envelope, with the words “Report
Sy” in one corner.
The publishers naturally opened the envelope as they had no note of
the dead man’s relatives. Inside were two blank sheets of paper. The
letter, I may add, was registered. The publisher, being unable to make
anything of this, sent it on to me, and I submitted the blank sheets
to every possible chemical and heat test, with no result whatever.
Beyond the fact that the writing appeared to be that of a woman there
is nothing to add to this account. The matter was, and remains, an
insoluble mystery. How the correspondent could have something so secret
to say to Mr. Musgrave and yet not be aware that this person had been
dead for several years is very hard to understand--or why blank sheets
should be so carefully registered through the mail. I may add that I
did not trust the sheets to my own chemical tests, but had the best
expert advice without getting any result. Considered as a case it was a
failure--and a very tantalizing one.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes has always been a fair mark for practical
jokers, and I have had numerous bogus cases of various degrees of
ingenuity, marked cards, mysterious warnings, cypher messages, and
other curious communications. It is astonishing the amount of trouble
which some people will take with no object save a mystification. Upon
one occasion, as I was entering the hall to take part in an amateur
billiard competition, I was handed by the attendant a small packet
which had been left for me. Upon opening it I found a piece of ordinary
green chalk such as is used in billiards. I was amused by the incident,
and I put the chalk into my waistcoat pocket and used it during the
game. Afterward, I continued to use it until one day, some months
later, as I rubbed the tip of my cue the face of the chalk crumbled
in, and I found it was hollow. From the recess thus exposed I drew out
a small slip of paper with the words “From Arsene Lupin to Sherlock
Holmes.”
Imagine the state of mind of the joker who took such trouble to
accomplish such a result.
One of the mysteries submitted to Mr. Holmes was rather upon the
psychic plane and therefore beyond his powers. The facts as alleged are
most remarkable, though I have no proof of their truth save that the
lady wrote earnestly and gave both her name and address. The person,
whom we will call Mrs. Seagrave, had been given a curious secondhand
ring, snake-shaped, and dull gold. This she took from her finger at
night. One night she slept with it on and had a fearsome dream in which
she seemed to be pushing off some furious creature which fastened its
teeth into her arm. On awakening, the pain in the arm continued, and
next day the imprint of a double set of teeth appeared upon the arm,
with one tooth of the lower jaw missing. The marks were in the shape of
blue-black bruises which had not broken the skin.
[Illustration]
“I do not know,” says my correspondent, “what made me think the ring
had anything to do with the matter, but I took a dislike to the thing
and did not wear it for some months, when, being on a visit, I took to
wearing it again.” To make a long story short, the same thing happened,
and the lady settled the matter for ever by dropping her ring into
the hottest corner of the kitchen range. This curious story, which
I believe to be genuine, may not be as supernatural as it seems. It
is well known that in some subjects a strong mental impression does
produce a physical effect. Thus a very vivid nightmare dream with the
impression of a bite might conceivably produce the mark of a bite.
Such cases are well attested in medical annals. The second incident
would, of course, arise by unconscious suggestion from the first. None
the less, it is a very interesting little problem, whether psychic or
material.
Buried treasures are naturally among the problems which have come
to Mr. Holmes. One genuine case was accompanied by a diagram here
reproduced. It refers to an Indiaman which was wrecked upon the South
African coast in the year 1782. If I were a younger man, I should be
seriously inclined to go personally and look into the matter.
The ship contained a remarkable treasure, including, I believe, the
old crown regalia of Delhi. It is surmised that they buried these near
the coast, and that this chart is a note of the spot. Each Indiaman in
those days had its own semaphore code, and it is conjectured that the
three marks upon the left are signals from a three-armed semaphore.
Some record of their meaning might perhaps even now be found in the old
papers of the India Office. The circle upon the right gives the compass
bearings. The larger semi-circle may be the curved edge of a reef or of
a rock. The figures above are the indications how to reach the X which
marks the treasure. Possibly they may give the bearings as 186 feet
from the 4 upon the semi-circle. The scene of the wreck is a lonely
part of the country, but I shall be surprised if sooner or later, some
one does not seriously set to work to solve the mystery--indeed at the
present moment there is a small company working to that end.
I must now apologise for this digressive chapter and return to the
orderly sequence of my career.
CHAPTER XII
NORWOOD AND SWITZERLAND
Psychic Research Society--Psychic Leanings--Literary Circles in
London--Young Writers--Henry Irving--A Great Blow--Davos--“Brigadier
Gerard”--Major Pond--American Lecturing in 1894--First
Lecture--Anti-British Wave--Answer to Prayer.
The chief event of our Norwood life was the birth of my son Kingsley,
who lived to play a man’s part in the Great War, and who died shortly
after its conclusion. My own life was so busy that I had little time
for religious development, but my thoughts still ran much upon psychic
matters, and it was at this time that I joined the Psychical Research
Society, of which I am now one of the senior members. I had few psychic
experiences myself, and my material philosophy, as expressed in the
“Stark Munro Letters,” which were written just at the end of the
Norwood period, was so strong that it did not easily crumble. Yet as
year by year I read the wonderful literature of psychic science and
experience, I became more and more impressed by the strength of the
Spiritualist position and by the levity and want of all dignity and
accurate knowledge which characterized the attitude of their opponents.
The religious side of the matter had not yet struck me, but I felt
more and more that the case for the phenomena vouched for by such
men as Sir William Crookes, Barrett, Russel Wallace, Victor Hugo and
Zöllner was so strong that I could see no answer to their exact record
of observations. “It is incredible but it is true,” said Crookes, and
the aphorism seemed to exactly express my dawning convictions. I had a
weekly impulse from the psychic paper, “Light,” which has, I maintain,
during its long career and up to the present day, presented as much
brain to the square inch as any journal published in Great Britain.
My pleasant recollection of those days from 1880 to 1893 lay in my
first introduction, as a more or less rising author, to the literary
life of London. It is extraordinary to remember that at that time
there was a general jeremiad in the London press about the extinction
of English literature, and the assumed fact that there were no rising
authors to take the place of those who were gone. The real fact is that
there was a most amazing crop, all coming up simultaneously, presenting
perhaps no Dickens or Thackeray, but none the less so numerous and many
sided and with so high an average of achievement that I think they
would match for varied excellence any similar harvest in our literary
history. It was during the years roughly from 1888 to 1893 that Rudyard
Kipling, James Stephen Phillips, Watson, Grant Allen, Wells, Barrie,
Bernard Shaw, H. A. Jones, Pinero, Marie Corelli, Stanley Weyman,
Anthony Hope, Hall Caine, and a whole list of others were winning their
spurs. Many of these I met in the full flush of their youth and their
powers. Of some of them I will speak more fully later. As to the old
school they were certainly somewhat of a declension, and the newcomers
found no very serious opposition in gaining a hearing. Wilkie Collins,
Trollope, George Eliot and Charles Reade had passed. I have always been
a very great admirer of the last, who was really a great innovator as
well as a most dramatic writer, for it was he who first introduced
realism and founded his stories upon carefully arranged documents. He
was the literary father of Zola. George Eliot has never appealed to me
much, for I like my effects in a less leisurely fashion; but Trollope
also I consider to be a very original writer, though I fancy he
traces his ancestry through Jane Austen. No writer is ever absolutely
original. He always joins at some point onto that old tree of which he
is a branch.
Of the literary men whom I met at that time my most vivid recollections
are of the group who centred round the new magazine, “The Idler,” which
had been started by Jerome K. Jerome, who had deservedly shot into fame
with his splendidly humorous “Three Men in a Boat.” It has all the
exuberance and joy of life which youth brings with it, and even now if
I have ever time to be at all sad, which is seldom enough, I can laugh
away the shadows when I open that book. Jerome is a man who, like most
humorists, has a very serious side to his character, as all who have
seen “The Third Floor Back” will acknowledge, but he was inclined to be
hotheaded and intolerant in political matters, from pure earnestness of
purpose, which alienated some of his friends. He was associated in the
editorship of “The Idler” with Robert Barr, a volcanic Anglo- or rather
Scot-American, with a violent manner, a wealth of strong adjectives,
and one of the kindest of natures underneath it all. He was one of
the best raconteurs I have ever known, and as a writer I have always
felt that he did not quite come into his own. George Burgin, like some
quaint gentle character from Dickens, was the sub-editor, and Barrie,
Zangwill, and many other rising men were among the contributors who
met periodically at dinner. I was not unfaithful to “The Strand,” but
there were some contributions which they did not need, and with these I
established my connection with “The Idler.” It was at this time and in
this way that I met James Barrie, of whom I shall have more to say when
I come to that chapter which treats of some eminent and interesting men
whom I have known.
Two isolated facts stand out in my memory during that time at Norwood.
One was that there seemed to be an imminent danger of war with France
and that I applied for the Mediterranean war-correspondentship of
the “Central News,” guessing that the chief centre of activity and
interest would be in that quarter. I got the appointment and was all
ready to start, but fortunately the crisis passed. The second was my
first venture in the drama. I had written a short story called “A
Straggler of ’15,” which had seemed to me to be a moving picture of
an old soldier and his ways. My own eyes were moist as I wrote it and
that is the surest way to moisten those of others. I now turned this
into a one-act play, and, greatly daring, I sent it to Henry Irving, of
whose genius I had been a fervent admirer ever since those Edinburgh
days when I had paid my sixpence for the gallery night after night to
see him in “Hamlet” and “The Lyons Mail.” To my great delight I had a
pleasing note from Bram Stoker, the great man’s secretary, offering me
£100 for the copyright. It was a good bargain for him, for it is not
too much to say that Corporal Gregory Brewster became one of his stock
parts and it had the enormous advantage that the older he got the more
naturally he played it. The house laughed and sobbed, exactly as I had
done when I wrote it. Several critics went out of their way to explain
that the merit lay entirely with the great actor and had nothing to do
with the indifferent play, but as a matter of fact the last time I saw
it acted it was by a real corporal from a military camp in the humble
setting of a village hall and it had exactly the same effect upon the
audience which Irving produced at the Lyceum. So perhaps there was
something in writing after all, and certainly every stage effect was
indicated in the manuscript. I would add that with his characteristic
largeness in money matters Irving always sent me a guinea for each
performance in spite of his purchase of the copyright. Henry Irving the
son carried on the part and played it, in my opinion, better than the
father. I can well remember the flush of pleasure on his face when I
uttered the word “better” and how he seized my hand. I have no doubt
it was trying for his great powers to be continually belittled by
their measurement with those of his giant father, to whom he bore so
remarkable a physical resemblance. His premature death was a great loss
to the stage, as was that of his brother Lawrence, drowned with his
wife in the great Canadian river of the same name as himself.
I now come to the great misfortune which darkened and deflected our
lives. I have said that my wife and I had taken a tour in Switzerland.
I do not know whether she had over-taxed herself in this excursion,
or whether we encountered microbes in some inn bedroom, but the fact
remains that within a few weeks of our return she complained of pain
in her side and cough. I had no suspicion of anything serious, but
sent for the nearest good physician. To my surprise and alarm he told
me when he descended from the bedroom that the lungs were very gravely
affected, that there was every sign of rapid consumption and that he
thought the case a most serious one with little hope, considering her
record and family history, of a permanent cure. With two children, aged
four and one, and a wife who was in such deadly danger, the situation
was a difficult one. I confirmed the diagnosis by having Sir Douglas
Powell down to see her, and I then set all my energy to work to save
the situation. The home was abandoned, the newly bought furniture was
sold, and we made for Davos in the High Alps where there seemed the
best chance of killing this accursed microbe which was rapidly eating
out her vitals.
And we succeeded. When I think that the attack was one of what is
called “galloping consumption,” and that the doctors did not give more
than a few months, and yet that we postponed the fatal issue from 1893
to 1906, I think it is proof that the successive measures were wise.
The invalid’s life was happy too, for it was necessarily spent in
glorious scenery. It was seldom marred by pain, and it was sustained
by that optimism which is peculiar to the disease, and which came
naturally to her quietly contented nature.
As there were no particular social distractions at Davos, and as our
life was bounded by the snow and fir which girt us in, I was able to
devote myself to doing a good deal of work and also to taking up with
some energy the winter sports for which the place is famous. Whilst
there I began the Brigadier Gerard series of stories, founded largely
upon that great book, “The Memoirs of General Marbot.” This entailed
a great deal of research into Napoleonic days, and my military detail
was, I think, very accurate--so much so that I had a warm letter of
appreciation from Archibald Forbes, the famous war correspondent, who
was himself a great Napoleonic and military student. Before the end of
the winter we were assured that the ravages of the disease had been
checked. I dared not return to England, however, for fear of a relapse,
so with the summer we moved on to Maloja, another health resort at the
end of the Engadine valley, and there we endeavoured to hold all we had
won--which, with occasional relapses, we succeeded in doing.
My sister Lottie, free at last from the work which she had so bravely
done, had now joined us. Connie, the younger sister, had come back from
Portugal earlier, and had joined us at Norwood, where she had met and
eventually married E. W. Hornung the novelist. Of Hornung I will speak
later. In the meantime Lottie’s presence and the improvement of the
invalid, which was so marked that no sudden crisis was thought at all
possible, gave me renewed liberty of action. Before the catastrophe
occurred I had given some lectures on literature at home, and the work
with its movement and bustle was not distasteful to me. Now I was
strongly pressed to go to America on the same errand, and in the late
autumn of 1894 I set out on this new adventure.
My brother Innes, he who had shared my first days in Southsea, had
since passed through Richmond Public School, and afterwards the
Woolwich Academy, so that he was now just emerging as a subaltern. As
I needed some companion, and as I thought that the change would do him
good, I asked him to come with me to the States. We crossed on the
ill-fated German liner _Elbe_, which a very short time afterwards was
sunk in collision with a collier in the North Sea. Already I observed
evidence of that irrational hatred of the British which in the course
of twenty years was to lead to so terrific a result involving the
destruction of the German Empire. I remember that on some fête day
on board, the saloon was thickly decorated with German and American
flags without one single British one, though a fair proportion of
the passengers were British. Innes and I then and there drew a Union
Jack and stuck it up aloft, where its isolation drew attention to our
grievance.
Major Pond was my impresario in America, and a quaint character he was.
He seemed the very personification of his country, huge, loose limbed,
straggling, with a goat’s beard and a nasal voice. He had fought in the
Civil War and been mixed up with every historical American event of his
lifetime.
He was a good, kind fellow and we formed a friendship which was never
broken. He met us in the docks, and carried us off to a little hotel
beside the Aldine Club, a small literary club, in which we had our
meals.
I have treated America and my impression of that amazing and perplexing
country in later pages of these memoirs, when I visited it under more
detached conditions. At present it was all hard work with little
time for general observations. Pond had fixed me up a pretty hard
schedule, but on the other hand I had bargained to get back to Davos
in time to spend Christmas with my wife, so that there was a limit
to my servitude. My first reading was given in a fashionable Baptist
Church, which was the usual launching slip for Pond’s new lecturers.
We had walked from the retiring room and were just coming in sight of
the audience when I felt something tickle my ear. I put up my hand and
found that my collar was undone, my tie had fallen off, and my stud,
the first cause of all the trouble, had disappeared. Standing there,
on the edge of the platform, Pond dragged out his own stud. I replaced
everything, and sailed on quite as I should be, while Pond retired to
refit. It is strange, and possibly more than coincidence, how often one
is prevented at the last moment from making some foolish appearance in
public.
The readings went very well and the audience was generous in applause.
I have my own theory of reading, which is that it should be entirely
disassociated from acting and should be made as natural and also as
audible as possible. Such a presentment is, I am sure, the less tiring
for an audience. Indeed I read to them exactly as in my boyhood I used
to read to my mother. I gave extracts from recent British authors,
including some work of my own, and as I mixed up the grave and the gay
I was able to keep them mildly entertained for an hour. Some papers
maintained that I could not read at all, but I think that what they
really meant was that I did not act at all. Others seemed to endorse my
method. Anyhow I had an excellent first reception and Pond told me that
he lay smiling all night after it. He had no difficulty afterwards in
booking as many engagements as he could fit into the time. I visited
every town of any size between Boston in the north and Washington in
the south, while Chicago and Milwaukee marked my western limit.
Sometimes I found that it took me all my time to fit in the
engagements, however fast I might travel. Once, for example, I lectured
at Daly’s Theatre in New York at a matinée, at Princeton College the
same evening, some 50 miles away, and at Philadelphia next afternoon.
It was no wonder that I got very tired--the more so as the exuberant
hospitality in those pre-prohibition days was enough in itself to take
the energies out of the visitor. It was all done in kindness, but it
was dangerous for a man who had his work to do. I had one little break
when I paid a pleasant visit to Rudyard Kipling, of which I shall
speak later. Bar those few days I was going hard all the time, and it
is no wonder that I was so tired out that I kept to my bunk most of the
way from New York to Liverpool.
My memories are the confused ones of a weary man. I recall one amusing
incident when as I bustled on to the stage at Daly’s Theatre I tripped
over the wooden sill of the stage door, with the result that I came
cantering down the sloping stage towards the audience, shedding books
and papers on my way. There was much laughter and a general desire for
an encore.
Our visit was marred by one of those waves of anti-British feeling
which sweep occasionally over the States, and which emanate from their
own early history, every grievance being exaggerated and inflamed by
the constant hostility of Irish pressmen and politicians. It all seems
very absurd and contemptible to the travelling Briton, because he is
aware how entirely one-sided it is, and how welcome, for example,
is the American flag in every British public display. This was not
known by the home-staying American, and probably he imagined that his
own country was treated as rudely by us as ours by his. The Dunraven
yacht race had given additional acerbity to this chronic ill-feeling,
and it was very active at the time of our visit. I remember that a
banquet was given to us at a club at Detroit at which the wine flowed
freely, and which ended by a speech by one of our hosts in which he
bitterly attacked the British Empire. My brother and I, with one or
two Canadians who were present, were naturally much affronted, but we
made every allowance for the lateness of the evening. I asked leave,
however, to reply to the speech, and some of those who were present
have assured me that they have never forgotten what I said. In the
course of my remarks I said: “You Americans have lived up to now within
your own palings, and know nothing of the real world outside. But now
your land is filled up, and you will be compelled to mix more with
the other nations. When you do so you will find that there is only
one which can at all understand your ways and your aspirations, or
will have the least sympathy. That is the mother country which you are
now so fond of insulting. She is an Empire, and you will soon be an
Empire also, and only then will you understand each other, and you will
realize that you have only one real friend in the world.” It was only
two or three years later that there came the Cuban war, the episode of
Manila Bay where the British Commander joined up with the Americans
against the Germans, and several other incidents which proved the truth
of my remarks.
A writer of average income is bound to lose pecuniarily upon a lecture
tour, even in America, unless he prolongs it very much and works very
hard indeed. By losing I do not mean that he is actually out of pocket,
but that he could have earned far more if he had never gone outside
his own study. In my own case I found after our joint expenses were
paid that there was about £1,000 over. The disposal of this money
furnished a curious example of the power of prayer, which, as Mr. S.
S. McClure has already narrated it, I have no delicacy in telling. He
tells how he was endeavouring to run his magazine, how he was down to
his last farthing, how he dropped on his knees on the office floor to
pray for help, and how on the same day an Englishman who was a mere
acquaintance walked into the office, and said: “McClure, I believe in
you and in the future of your magazine,” and put down £1,000 on the
table. A critic might perhaps observe that under such circumstances
to sell 1,000 shares at face value was rather hard upon the ignorant
and trusting buyer. For a long time I could clearly see the workings
of Providence as directed towards Sam McClure, but could not quite
get their perspective as regards myself, but I am bound to admit that
in the long run, after many vicissitudes, the deal was justified both
ways, and I was finally able to sell my holding twenty years later at a
reasonable advance. The immediate result, however, was that I returned
to Davos with all my American earnings locked up, and with no actual
visible result of my venture.
The Davos season was in full blast when I returned, and my wife was
holding her own well. It was at this time, in the early months of 1895,
that I developed ski-running in Switzerland as described in my chapter
on Sport. We lingered late at Davos, so late that I was able to lay out
a golf course, which was hampered in its start by the curious trick the
cows had of chewing up the red flags. From Davos we finally moved to
Caux, over the lake of Geneva, where for some months I worked steadily
at my writing. With the autumn I visited England, leaving the ladies
at Caux, and it was then that events occurred which turned our road of
life to a new angle.
CHAPTER XIII
EGYPT IN 1896
Life in Egypt--Accident--The Men Who Made Egypt--Up the Nile--The Salt
Lakes--Adventure in the Desert--The Coptic Monastery--Colonel Lewis--A
Surprise.
The wretched microbe which had so completely disorganized our lives,
and which had produced all the sufferings so patiently borne, now
seemed to be latent, and it was hoped that if we spent a winter in
Egypt the cure might be complete. During this short visit to England,
whither I had to rush every now and again in order to adjust my
affairs, I met Grant Allen at luncheon, and he told me that he had also
suffered from consumption and that he had found his salvation in the
soil and air of Hindhead in Surrey. It was quite a new idea to me that
we might actually live with impunity in England once more, and it was a
pleasant thought after resigning oneself to a life which was unnatural
to both of us at foreign health resorts. I acted very promptly, for
I rushed down to Hindhead, bought an admirable plot of ground, put
the architectural work into the hands of my old friend and fellow
psychic researcher, Mr. Ball of Southsea, and saw the builder chosen
and everything in train before leaving England in the autumn of 1895.
If Egypt was a success, we should have a roof of our own to which to
return. The thought of it brought renewed hope to the sufferer.
I then set forth, picked up my wife and my sister Lottie at Caux and
took them on by easy stages through Italy, stopping a few days at Rome,
and so to Brindisi, where we picked up a boat for Egypt. Once at Cairo
we took up our quarters at the Mena Hotel, in the very shadow of the
Pyramids, and there we settled down for the winter. I was still doing
the Brigadier Gerard stories at the time, which required a good deal of
historical research, but I had brought my materials with me, and all I
lacked was the energy, which I found it most difficult to find in that
enervating land.
On the whole it was a pleasant winter and led up to a most unforeseen
climax. I ascended the Great Pyramid once, and was certainly never
tempted to do so again, and was content to watch the struggles of
the endless drove of tourists who attempted that uncomfortable and
useless feat. There was golf of sorts and there was riding. I was
still an immature horseman, but I felt that only practice would help
me, so I set forth upon weird steeds provided by the livery stables
opposite. As a rule they erred on the side of dulness, but I have a
very vivid recollection of one which restored the average. If my right
eyelid droops somewhat over my eye it is not the result of philosophic
brooding, but it is the doing of a black devil of a horse with a
varminty head, slab-sided ribs and restless ears. I disliked the look
of the beast, and the moment I threw my leg over him he dashed off as
if it were a race. Away we went across the desert, I with one foot in
the stirrup, holding on as best I might. It is possible I could have
kept on until he was weary, but he came suddenly on cultivated land
and his forelegs sank in a moment over his fetlocks. The sudden stop
threw me over his head, but I held on to the bridle, and he, pawing
about with his front hoofs, struck me over the eye, and made a deep
star-shaped wound which covered me with blood. I led him back and a
pretty sight I presented as I appeared before the crowded verandah!
Five stitches were needed, but I was thankful, for very easily I might
have lost my sight.
My wife was well enough now to join in society, while my sister was
just at an age to enjoy it, so that we saw a little of the very jovial
life of Cairo, though the fact that Mena is some seven miles out, on
the most monotonous road in the world, saved us from any excess. It was
always a task to get in and out, so that only a great temptation would
draw us. I joined in male society, however, a good deal and learned
to know many of those great men who were shaping the new destinies of
Egypt. I sketched some of them at the time in two paragraphs which may
be quoted.
“There is a broad and comfortable sofa in the hall of the Turf Club,
and if you sit there about luncheon time you will see a fair sprinkling
of Anglo-Egyptians, men who have helped to make, and are still helping
to make, the history of our times. You have a view of the street from
where you are, and perhaps in the brilliant sunshine a carriage flies
past with two running syces before it and an English coachman upon
the box. Within, one catches a glimpse of a strong florid face with a
close-cropped soldierly grey moustache, the expression good-humoured
and inscrutable. This is Lord Cromer, whom Egypt has changed from a
major of gunners to a peer of the realm, while he in turn has changed
it from a province of the East to one of the West. One has but to look
at him to read the secret of his success as a diplomatist. His clear
head, his brave heart, his physical health, and his nerves of iron are
all impressed upon you even in that momentary glance at his carriage.
And that lounging ennuyé attitude is characteristic also--most
characteristic at this moment, when few men in the world can have more
pressing responsibility upon their shoulders. It is what one could
expect from the man who at the most critical moment of recent Egyptian
history is commonly reported to have brought diplomatic interviews to
an abrupt conclusion with the explanation that the time had come for
his daily lawn-tennis engagement. It is no wonder that so strong a
representative should win the confidence of his own countrymen, but
he has made as deep an impression upon the native mind, which finds
it difficult under this veiled Protectorate of ours to estimate the
comparative strength of individuals. ‘Suppose Khedive tell Lord Cromer
go, Lord Cromer go?’ asked my donkey-boy, and so put his chocolate
finger upon the central point of the whole situation.
“But this is a digression from the Turf Club, where you are seated
upon a settee in the hall and watching the Englishmen who have done so
much to regenerate Egypt. Of all the singular experiences of this most
venerable land, surely this rebuilding at the hands of a little group
of bustling, clear-headed Anglo-Saxons is the most extraordinary. There
are Garstin and Wilcocks, the great water captains who have coaxed
the Nile to right and to left, until the time seems to be coming when
none of its waters will ever reach the Mediterranean at all. There is
Kitchener, tall and straight, a grim silent soldier, with a weal of a
Dervish bullet upon his face. There you may see Rogers, who stamped
out the cholera, Scott, who reformed the law, Palmer, who relieved the
over-taxed fellaheen, Hooker, who exterminated the locusts, Wingate,
who knows more than any European of the currents of feeling in the
Soudan--the same Wingate who reached his arm out a thousand miles
and plucked Slatin out of Khartoum. And beside him the small man
with the yellow-brown moustache and the cheery, ruddy face is Slatin
himself, whose one wish in the world now is to have the Khalifa at his
sword-point--that Khalifa at whose heels he had to run for so many
weary years.”
Shortly after the opening of the New Year of 1896 we went in one
of Cook’s boats up the river, getting as far as the outposts of
civilization at Wady Halfa. The banks in the upper reaches were not
too safe, as raiders on camels came down at times, but on the water
one was secure from all the chances of Fate. At the same time I
thought that the managers of these tours took undue risks, and when I
found myself on one occasion on the rock of Abousir with a drove of
helpless tourists, male and female, nothing whatever between us and the
tribesmen, and a river between us and the nearest troops, I could not
but think what an appalling situation would arise if a little troop of
these far-riding camel men were to appear. We had four negro soldiers
as an escort, who would be helpless before any normal raiding party. It
was the strong impression which I there received which gave me the idea
of taking a group of people of different types and working out what the
effect of so horrible an experience would be upon each. This became
“The Tragedy of the Korosko,” published in America as “A Desert Drama”
and afterwards dramatized with variations as “The Fires of Fate.” All
went well as a matter of fact, but I thought then, and experienced
British officers agreed with me, that it was unjustifiable. As the
whole frontier force was longing for an excuse to advance, I am not
sure that they would not have welcomed it if the Dervishes had risen to
the ground bait which every week in the same place was laid in front of
them.
I do not know how many temples we explored during that tour, but they
seemed to me endless, some dating back to the mists of antiquity
and some as recent as Cleopatra and the Roman period. The majestic
continuity of Egyptian History seems to be its most remarkable feature.
You examine the tombs of the First Dynasty at Abydos and there you see
carved deep in the stone the sacred hawk, the goose, the plover, the
signs of Horus and Osiris, of Upper and Lower Egypt. These were carved
long before the Pyramids were built and can hardly be less ancient than
4000 B.C. Then you inspect a temple built by the Ptolemies, after the
date of Alexander the Great, and there you see the same old symbols cut
in the same old way. There is nothing like this in the world. The Roman
and the British Empires are mushrooms in comparison. Judged by Egyptian
standards the days of Alfred the Great would be next door to our own,
and our customs, symbols and way of thinking the same. The race seems
to have petrified, and how they could do so without being destroyed by
some more virile nation is hard to understand.
Their arts seem to have been high but their reasoning power in many
ways contemptible. The recent discovery of the King’s tomb near
Thebes--I write in 1924--shows how wonderful were their decorations
and the amenities of their lives. But consider the tomb itself. What
a degraded intelligence does it not show! The idea that the body, the
old outworn greatcoat which was once wrapped round the soul, should at
any cost be preserved is the last word in materialism. And the hundred
baskets of provisions to feed the soul upon its journey! I can never
believe that a people with such ideas could be other than emasculated
in their minds--the fate of every nation which comes under the rule of
a priesthood.
It had been suggested that I should go out to the Salt Lakes in the
Desert some 50 miles from Cairo, and see the old Coptic Monastery
there. Those ancient monasteries, the abode alternately of saints
and perverts--we saw specimens of each--have always aroused my keen
interest, dating as they do to very early days of Christianity. Indeed,
their date is often unknown, but everything betokens great age and the
spirit which founded them seems to have been that of the hermits who in
the third and fourth centuries swarmed in these wildernesses.
Leaving my wife at Mena, I went with Colonel Lewis of the Egyptian
army, an excellent companion and guide. On arriving at a wayside
station, we found a most amazing vehicle awaiting us, a sort of circus
coach, all gilding and frippery. It proved to be the coach of State
which had been prepared for Napoleon III on the chance that he would
come to open the Suez Canal. It was surely a good bit of work, for here
it was still strong and fit, but absurdly out of place in the majestic
simplicity of the Libyan Desert.
Into this we got and set forth, the only guide being wheel-marks across
the sand which in some of the harder places were almost invisible.
The great sand waste rolled in yellow billows all around us, and far
behind us the line of green trees marked the course of the Nile. Once
a black dot appeared which, as it grew nearer, proved to be some sort
of Oriental on foot. As he came up to us he opened a blackened mouth,
pointed to it, and cried, “Moya! Moya!” which means water. We had none
and could only point encouragingly to the green belt behind us, on
which with a curse he staggered upon his way.
A surprising adventure befell us, for the heavens suddenly clouded
over and rain began to fall, an almost unknown thing in those parts.
We lumbered on, however, with our two horses, while Colonel Lewis, who
was keen on getting fit, ran behind. I remember saying to him that
in my wildest dreams I never thought that I should drive across the
Libyan Desert in an Emperor’s coach with a full colonel as carriage
dog. Presently in the fading light the horses slowed down, the Nubian
driver descended, and began alternately scanning the ground and
making gestures of despair. We realized then that he had lost the
tracks and therefore that we had no notion where we were, though we
had strong reasons to believe that we were to the south of the route.
The difficulty was to know which was north and which south. It was an
awkward business since we had no food or water and could see no end to
our troubles. The further we moved the deeper we should be involved.
Night had closed in, and I was looking up at the drifting scud above
us when in the chink of two clouds I saw for an instant a cluster of
stars, and made sure that they were the four wheels of Charles’s Wain.
I am no astronomer, but I reasoned that this constellation would lie
to the north of us, and so it proved, for when we headed that way,
examining the ground every hundred yards or so with matches, we came
across the track once more.
Our adventures, however, were not over, and it was all like a queer
dream. We had great difficulty in keeping the track in the darkness,
and the absurd coach lumbered and creaked while we walked with lanterns
ahead of it. Suddenly to our joy we saw a bright light in the gloom. We
quickened our pace, and came presently to a tent with a florid-bearded
man seated outside it beside a little table where he was drawing by
the light of a lamp. The rain had cleared now, but the sky was still
overcast. In answer to our hail this man rather gruffly told us that
he was a German surveyor at work in the desert. He motioned with his
hand when we told him whither we were bound, and said it was close by.
After leaving him we wandered on, and losing the tracks we were again
very badly bushed. It seemed an hour or two before to our joy we saw a
light ahead and prepared for a night’s rest at the halfway house, which
was our immediate destination. But when we reached the light what we
saw was a florid bearded man sitting outside a small tent with a lamp
upon a table. We had moved in a circle. Fresh explanations--and this
time we really did keep to the track and reached a big deserted wooden
hut, where we put up the horses, ate some cold food, and tumbled, very
tired, into two of the bunks which lined it.
The morrow made amends for all. It broke cold and clear and I have
seldom felt a greater sense of exhilaration than when I awoke and
walking out before dressing saw the whole endless desert stretching
away on every side of me, yellow sand and black rock, to the blue
shimmering horizon. We harnessed up and within a few hours came on the
Natron Lake, a great salt lake, with a few scattered houses at one end
where the workers dry out and prepare the salt. A couple of miles off
was the lonely monastery which we had come to see--less lonely now, but
before the salt works were established one of the most inaccessible
places one could imagine. It consisted of a huge outer wall, which
seemed to be made of hardened clay. It had no doors or windows save
one little opening which could be easily defended against the prowling
Arabs, but I fear the garrison would not be very stout-hearted, for it
was said to be the fear of military service which caused many of the
monks to discover that they had a vocation. On being admitted I was
conscious that we were not too welcome, though the military title of my
companion commanded respect. We were shown round the inner courtyard,
where there were palm trees and a garden, and then round the scattered
houses within the wall. Near the latter there was, I remember, a barrel
full of some substance which seemed to me, both by look and feel, to be
rounded pieces of some light stone, and I asked if it were to hurl down
at the Arabs if they attacked the door. It proved to be the store of
bread for the Monastery. We were treated to wine, which was sweet tent
wine, which is still used, I believe, in the Holy Communion, showing
how straight our customs come from the East. The Abbot seemed to me to
be a decent man, but he complained of illness and was gratified when I
overhauled him thoroughly, percussed his chest, and promised to send
him out some medicine from Cairo. I did so, but whether it ever reached
my remote patient I never learned. Some of the brothers, however,
looked debauched, and there was a general air of nothing-to-do, which
may have been deceptive but which certainly impressed me that day.
As I looked from the walls and saw the desert on all sides, unbroken
save for one blue corner of the salt lake, it was strange to consider
that this was all which these men would ever see of the world, and to
contrast their fate with my own busy and varied existence. There was
a library, but the books were scattered on the floor, all of them old
and some no doubt rare. Since the discovery of the “Codex Sinaiticus”
I presume that all these old Coptic libraries have been examined by
scholars, but it certainly seemed to me that there might be some
valuable stuff in that untidy heap.
Next evening Colonel Lewis and I were back in Cairo. We heard no news
upon the way, and we had reached the Turf Club and were in the cloak
room washing our hands before dinner when some man came in and said:
“Why, Lewis, how is it you are not with your brigade?”
“My brigade!”
“Have you been away?”
“Yes, at the Natron Lakes.”
“Good Heavens! Have you heard nothing?”
“No.”
“Why, man, war is declared. We are advancing on Dongola. The whole army
is concentrating on the frontier, and you are in command of an advanced
brigade.”
“Good God!” Lewis’s soap splashed into the water, and I wonder he did
not fall plump on the floor. Thus it was that we learned of the next
adventure which was opening up before both us and the British Empire.
CHAPTER XIV
ON THE EDGE OF A STORM
The Storm Centre--To the Frontier--Assouan--Excited Officers--With
the Press Men--A Long Camel Ride--Night Marches--Halfa--Gwynne of the
“Morning Post”--Anley--A Sudden Voyage--Apricots and Rousseau.
It is impossible to be near great historical events and not to desire
to take part in them, or at the least to observe them. Egypt had
suddenly become the storm centre of the world, and chance had placed me
there at that moment. Clearly I could not remain in Cairo, but must get
up by hook or by crook to the frontier. It was March and the weather
would soon be too warm for my wife, but she was good enough to say that
she would wait with my sister until April if I would promise to return
by then. At that time the general idea was that some great event would
at once occur, though looking back one can see that that was hardly
possible. Anyhow I had a great urge to go South.
There was only one way to do it. The big morning papers had their men
already upon the spot. But it was less likely that the evening papers
were provided. I cabled to the “Westminster Gazette” asking to be made
their honorary correspondent _pro tem._ I had a cable back assenting.
Armed with this I approached the proper authority, and so within a day
or two I was duly appointed and everything was in order.
I had to make my own way up and I had to get together some sort of
kit. The latter was done hurriedly and was of fearsome quality. I
bought a huge revolver of Italian make with a hundred cartridges, an
ugly unreliable weapon. I bought also a water bottle, which was made
of new resinous wood and gave a most horrible flavour of turpentine to
everything put into it. It was like drinking varnish, but before I got
back there were times when I was ready to drink varnish or anything
else that was damp.
With a light khaki coat, riding breeches, a small valise, and the
usual Christmas tree hung round me, I started off from Cairo by train
to Assiout, where a small river boat was waiting. It was filled with
officers going to the front, and we had a pleasant few days journeying
to Assouan together. There were, I remember, several junior officers
who have since made names in the world, Maxwell (now General Sir John
Maxwell) and Hickman, who also rose to the top. There was a young
cavalry lieutenant also, one Smythe, who seemed to me to be too gentle
and quiet for such rough work as lay ahead. The next time I heard of
him was when he was gazetted for the Victoria Cross. In soldiering
there is nothing more deceptive than appearances. Your fierce,
truculent man may always have a yellow streak where the gentle student
has a core of steel. There lay one of the many mistakes which the
Germans made later in judging those “unwarlike islanders” the British.
The great question at the opening of the campaign was whether the
native fellah troops would stand. The five negro battalions were as
good as could be, but the record of the eight or nine Egyptian ones
was not reassuring. The Arab of the Soudan is a desperate fanatic
who rushes to death with the frenzy of a madman, and longs for close
quarters where he can bury his spear in the body of his foeman, even
though he carries several bullets in him before he reaches him. Would
the Egyptians stand such onslaughts as these? It was thought improbable
that they would, and so British battalions, the Connaughts, the
Staffords and others, were brought up to stiffen their battle line.
One great advantage the native soldiers had--and without it their case
would have been hopeless--and that was that their officers were among
the picked men of the British Army. Kitchener would have none but the
unmarried, for it was to be a wholehearted and if need be a desperate
service, and, as the pay and life were good, he could accept or reject
as he chose, so that his leaders were splendid. It was curious to see
their fair faces and flaxen moustaches under the red tarbooshes, as
they marched at the side of their men.
The relations between these officers and their men were paternal. If
an officer of black troops came to Cairo he would go back with a
pillow case stuffed with candies for his men. The Egyptians were more
inscrutable, less sporting and less lovable, but none the less their
officers were very loyal to them, and bitterly resented the distrust
shown by the rest of the army. One British officer at some early battle
seized the enemy’s flag and cried: “Well, the English shall not have
this anyhow.” It is this spirit, whether in Egypt or in India, which
makes the British officer an ideal leader of native troops. Even at the
great Indian Mutiny they would not hear a word against their men until
they were murdered by them.
At Assouan we were held up for a week, and no one was allowed to go
further. We were already well within the radius of the Arab raiders,
for in the last year they had struck even further north. The desert
is like the sea, for if you have the camels, which correspond to the
ships, your blow may fall anywhere and your attack is not suspected
until the moment that you appear. The crowd of British officers who
were waiting seemed little worried by any such possibility and were as
unconcerned as if it was a Cook’s tour and not a particularly dangerous
expedition--so dangerous that of the last army which went South, that
of Hicks Pasha, hardly one single man was ever seen again. Only once
did I see them really excited. I had returned to the hotel which was
the general head-quarters, and as I entered the hall I saw a crowd of
them all clustering round the notice board to read a telegram which
had just been suspended. They were on the toes of their spurred boots,
with their necks outstretched and every sign of quivering and eager
interest. “Ah,” thought I, “at last we have got through the hide of
these impenetrable men. I suppose the Khalifa is coming down, horse,
foot, and artillery, and that we are on the eve of battle.” I pushed my
way in, and thrust my head among all the bobbing sun-helmets. It was
the account of the Oxford and Cambridge Boat-race.
I was struck by the splendid zeal of every one. It was an inspiration.
Hickman had been full of combative plans all the way on the boat.
When we arrived there was a message for him to go down to Keneh and
buy camels. Here was a drop down for a man all on fire for action.
“It is quite right,” said he, when I condoled with him. “The force
must have camels. I am the man to buy them. We all work for one
end.” Self-abnegation of this sort is general. The British officer at
his best is really a splendid fellow, a large edition of the public
schoolboy, with his cheery slang overlying a serious purpose which
he would usually die rather than admit. I heard of three of them at
rail-end, all doing essential work and all with a degree of fever on
them which might well have excused them from work altogether. Every
evening each of them dropped a dollar into a hat, they then all took
their temperatures and the highest got the pool.
Assouan is at the foot of the Cataract, which extends for some 30
miles, and everything has to be transhipped and taken on a narrow toy
railway to be reloaded on fresh steamers at Shellal. It was a huge
task and I remember sympathizing with Captain Morgan, who with fatigue
parties of Egyptians and chain gangs of convicts was pushing the
stuff through. Morgan had sold me a horse once and was shy of me in
consequence, but he soon saw that I bore no grudge. _Caveat emptor!_
I already saw in him those qualities of organization which made him a
real factor both in the Boer and in the European war. He has just died
a general and full of honours. I remember seeing the 7th Egyptians
after a long gruelling desert march working at those stores until they
were so played out that it took four of them to raise a sixty-pound
biscuit box.
The big pressmen had now arrived--“Where the carcass is there shall
the eagles, etc.”--and I had luckily made friends with them, so it was
determined that we should all go on together. There were five of us who
started out, led by Knight of the “Falcon,” representing “The Times,”
and looking not unlike a falcon himself. He was a great man, tall and
muscular, a famous yachtsman and treasure-seeker, traveller, fighter
and scholar. He had just left the French in Madagascar. Next came
Scudamore of the “Daily News,” small, Celtic, mercurial, full of wit
and go. He was a great purchaser of camels, which were of course all
paid for by the paper, so that when Robinson, the editor of the “Daily
News,” heard of the Boer war his first comment was, “Well, thank God,
there are no camels in South Africa.” It was a study in Eastern ways to
see Scudamore buying camels, and I learned from him how it is done.
An Arab leads up the absurd-looking creature. You look deprecatingly
at the beast--and you cannot take a better model than the creature’s
own expression as it looks at you. You ask how much is wanted for it.
The owner says £16. You then give a shriek of derision, sweep your arm
across as if to wave him and his camel out of your sight for ever, and
turning with a whisk you set off rapidly in the other direction. How
far you go depends upon the price asked. If it is really very high,
you may not get back for your dinner. But as a rule a hundred yards
or so meet the case, and you shape your course so as to reach the
camel and its owner. You stop in front of them and look at them with a
disinterested and surprised look to intimate that you wonder that they
should still be loitering there. The Arab asks how much you will give.
You answer £8. Then it is his turn to scream, whisk round, and do his
hundred yards, his absurd chattel with its horn-pipey legs trotting
along behind him. But he returns to say that he will take fourteen, and
off you go again with a howl and a wave. So the bargaining goes on, the
circles continually shortening, until you have settled upon the middle
price.
But it is only when you have bought your camel that the troubles
begin. It is the strangest and most deceptive animal in the world. Its
appearance is so staid and respectable that you cannot give it credit
for the black villany that lurks within. It approaches you with a
mildly interested and superior expression, like a patrician lady in a
Sunday school. You feel that a pair of glasses at the end of a fan is
the one thing lacking. Then it puts its lips gently forward, with a
far-away look in its eyes, and you have just time to say, “The pretty
dear is going to kiss me,” when two rows of frightful green teeth clash
in front of you, and you give such a backward jump as you could never
have hoped at your age to accomplish. When once the veil is dropped,
anything more demoniacal than the face of a camel cannot be conceived.
No kindness and no length of ownership seem to make them friendly. And
yet you must make allowances for a creature which can carry 600 lb. for
20 miles a day, and ask for no water and little food at the end of it.
This, however, is digression. The other pressmen were Beaman of the
“Standard,” fresh from Constantinople, and almost an Eastern in his
ways, and Julian Corbett, representing the “Pall Mall,” a gentle and
amiable man who was destined later to be the naval historian of the
Great War. Like myself he was an amateur among professionals, and had
to return within a given date to Cairo.
As it was clear that nothing important could take place instantly, we
determined to do part of the journey by road. A force of cavalry was
going up, and we were ordered to join them and use them as an escort,
but we thought we would be happier on our own, and so we managed to
lose the Egyptians. There was some risk in our lonely journey along
the right bank of the river with our left flank quite unprotected,
but on the other hand the dust of a great body of horsemen would be
insufferable. Therefore we set forth one evening, mounted upon our
camels, with baggage camels in attendance, and quite a retinue of
servants. In four or five days we reached Korosko, where we got boats
which took us to the frontier at Wady Halfa, while the camels and
servants came on by land.
I shall never forget those days, or rather those nights, for we rose at
two in the morning and our longest march was before or during the dawn.
I am still haunted by that purple velvet sky, by those enormous and
innumerable stars, by the half-moon which moved slowly above us, while
our camels with their noiseless tread seemed to bear us without effort
through a wonderful dream world. Scudamore had a beautiful rolling
baritone voice, and I can still hear it in my memory as it rose and
fell in the still desert air. It was a wonderful vision, an intermezzo
in real life, broken only once by my performing the unusual feat of
falling off a camel. I have taken many tosses off horses, but this was
a new experience. You have no proper saddle, but are seated upon a
curved leather tray, so that when my brute suddenly threw himself down
on his fore-knees--he had seen some green stuff on the path--I shot
head foremost down his neck. It was like coming down a hose pipe in
some acrobatic performance, and I reached the ground rather surprised
but otherwise none the worse.
One or two pictures rise in mind. One was of some strange aquatic
lizard--not a crocodile--lying on a sand bank. I cracked off my Italian
revolver, which was more likely to hurt me than the lizard, and I saw
the strange beast writhe into the stream. Once again, as I settled my
couch at night, I saw a slug-like creature, with horned projections,
the length about 18 inches, which moved away and disappeared. It was
a death adder--the sort perhaps which took Cleopatra to her fathers.
Then again we went into a ruined hut to see if we could sleep there.
In the dim light of our candle we saw a creature which I thought was a
mouse rush round and round the floor, close to the wall. Then suddenly
to my amazement it ran right up the wall and down again on to the
floor. It was a huge spider, which now stood waving its fore-legs at
us. To my horror Scudamore sprang into the air, and came down upon it,
squashing it into a square foot of filth. This was the real tarantula,
a dangerous creature, and common enough in such places.
Yet another picture comes very clearly back to me. For some reason we
had not started in the night, and the early dawn found us still resting
in our small camp in a grove of palm trees near the path which led
along the bank of the Nile. I awoke, and, lying in my blankets, I saw
an amazing man riding along this path. He was a Negroid Nubian, a huge,
fierce, hollow-cheeked creature, with many silver ornaments upon him.
A long rifle projected over his back and a sword hung from his side. A
more sinister barbaric figure one could not imagine, and he was exactly
the type of those Mahdi raiders against whom we had been warned. I
never like to be an alarmist, especially among men who had seen much
of war or danger, so I said nothing, but I managed to stir one of my
companions, who sighted the newcomer with a muttered “My God!” The man
rode past us and on northwards, never glancing at our grove. I have no
doubt that he was really one of our own native tribesmen, for we had
some in our pay; but had he been the other thing our fate would have
been sealed. I wrote a short story, “The Three Correspondents,” which
was suggested by the incident.
A strange wooden-faced Turkish soldier, Yussuf Bey, in the Egyptian
service, commanding the troops at Korosko, had us up in audience, gave
us long pink glasses of raspberry vinegar, and finally saw us on board
the boat which in a day or two deposited us on the busy river-bank of
Wady Halfa, where the same military bustle prevailed as we had left
behind us at Assouan.
Halfa lies also at the base of a cataract, and again all the stuff
had to be transhipped and sent on thirty miles by a little track to
Sarras. I walked the first day to the small station where the track
began and I saw a tall officer in a white jacket and red tarboosh, who
with a single orderly was superintending the work and watching the
stores pass into the trucks. He turned a fierce red face upon me and I
saw that it was Kitchener himself, the Commander of the whole army. It
was characteristic of the man that he did not leave such vital things
to chance, or to the assurance of some subordinate, but that he made
sure so far as he could with his own eyes that he really had the tools
for the job that lay before him. Learning who I was--we had met once
before on the racecourse at Cairo--he asked me to dinner in his tent
that night, when he discussed the coming campaign with great frankness.
I remember that his chief-of-staff--Drage, I think, was the name--sat
beside me and was so completely played out that he fell asleep between
every course. I remember also the amused smile with which Kitchener
regarded him. You had to go all out when you served such a master.
One new acquaintance whom I made in those days was Herbert Gwynne, a
newly-fledged war correspondent, acting, if I remember right, for the
“Chronicle.” I saw that he had much in him. When I heard of him next
he was Reuter’s man in the Boer War, and not very long afterwards he
had become editor of the “Morning Post,” where he now is. Those days
in Halfa were the beginning of a friendship of thirty years, none the
less real because we are both too busy to meet. One of the joys of the
hereafter is, I think, that we have time to cultivate our friends.
I was friendly also with a very small but gallant officer, one Anley,
who had just joined the Egyptian Army. His career was beginning and
I foresaw that he would rise, but should have been very surprised
had I known how we should meet again. I was standing in the ranks
by the roadside as a private of Volunteers in the Great War when a
red-tabbed, brass-hatted general passed. He looked along our ranks,
his gaze fastened on me, and lo, it was Anley. Surprised out of all
military etiquette, he smiled and nodded. What is a private in the
ranks to do when a general smiles and nods? He can’t formally stand to
attention or salute. I fear that what I did was to close and then open
my left eye. That was how I learned that my Egyptian captain was now a
war brigadier.
We pushed on to Sarras and had a glimpse of the actual outpost of
civilization, all sandbags and barbed wire, for there was a Mahdi
post at no distance up the river. It was wonderful to look south and
to see distant peaks said to be in Dongola, with nothing but savagery
and murder lying between. There was a whiff of real war in the little
fortress but no sign of any actual advance.
Indeed, I had the assurance of Kitchener himself that there was no use
my waiting and that nothing could possibly happen until the camels
were collected--many thousands of them. I contributed my own beast to
the army’s need since I had no further use for it, and Corbett and I
prepared to take our leave. We were warned that our only course was to
be on the look out and take a flying jump on to any empty cargo boat
which was going down stream. This we did one morning, carrying our
scanty belongings. Once on board we learned that there was no food and
that the boat did not stop for several days. The rope had not been cast
off, so I rushed to the only shop available, a Greek store of a type
which springs up like mushrooms on the track of an army. They were sold
out save for tinned apricots, of which I bought several tins. I rushed
back and scrambled on board as the boat cast off. We managed to get
some Arab bread from the boatmen, and that with the apricots served us
all the way. I never wish to see a tinned apricot so long as I live.
I associate their cloying sweetness with Rousseau’s “Confessions,” a
French edition of which came somehow into my hands and was my only
reading till I saw Assouan once more. Rousseau also I never wish to
read again.
So that was the end of our frontier adventure. We had been on the edge
of war but not in it. It was disappointing, but it was late in April
before I reached Cairo and the heat was already becoming too much for
an invalid. A week later we were in London, and I remember that, as I
sat as a guest at the Royal Academy Banquet on May 1 of that year, I
saw upon my wrists the ragged little ulcers where the poisonous jiggers
which had burrowed into my skin while I lay upon the banks of the Nile
were hatching out their eggs under the august roof of Burlington House.
CHAPTER XV
AN INTERLUDE OF PEACE
Hindhead--“A Duet”--A Haunted House--A Curious Society--Preternatural
Powers--The Little Doctor--The Shadow of Africa.
When we returned to England I found that the house in which we
hoped that the cure would be completed was not yet ready. It was a
considerable mansion planned upon a large scale, so that it was not
surprising that it had taken some time to build. We were compelled to
take a furnished house at Haslemere until the early months of 1897,
when we moved up to Moorlands, a boarding house on Hindhead close to
the site of my building. There we spent some happy and busy months
until the house was ready in the summer. I had taken up riding, and
though I was never a great horseman I was able from that time onwards
to get a good deal of health and pleasure out of it, for in that woody,
healthy country there are beautiful rides in every direction, and
the hunting, in which I joined, was at least picturesque. About June
we moved into the new house, which I called Undershaw--a new word, I
think, and yet one which described it exactly in good Anglo-Saxon,
since it stood under a hanging grove of trees.
I have said little, during these years spent in the quest of health,
concerning my literary production. The chief book which I had written
since “The Refugees” was a study of the Regency with its bucks and
prizefighters. I had always a weakness for the old fighting men and
for the lore of the prize-ring, and I indulged it in this novel. At
the time boxing had not gained the popular vogue which I have been
told that this very book first initiated, and I can never forget the
surprise of Sir George Newnes when he found out what the new serial
was about. “Why that subject of all subjects upon earth?” he cried.
However, I think that the readers of “The Strand” found that I had not
chosen badly, and the book is one which has held a permanent place as a
picture of those wild old days. I wrote a considerable number of short
tales during those years, and finally in 1898 a domestic study, “A
Duet,” which was an attempt at quite a different form of literature--a
picture in still life, as it were. It was partly imaginative and partly
founded upon early experiences of my own and of friends. It led, I
remember, to a public bickering with a man who has done good work as
a critic, Dr. Robertson Nicoll. He took exception to some passage in
the book, which he had every right to do. But he wrote at that time
for six or seven papers, under different names, so that it appeared as
if a number of critics were all condemning me when it was really only
one. I thought I had a grievance, and said so with such vehemence that
he stated that he did not know whether to answer me in print or in the
law courts. However, it all blew over and we became very good friends.
Another book of those days was “Uncle Bernac,” which I never felt
to be satisfactory, though I venture to claim that the two chapters
which portray Napoleon give a clearer picture of him than many a long
book has done, which is natural enough, since they are themselves the
quintessence of a score of books.
So much for my work. I had everything in those few years to make a
man contented, save only the constant illness of my partner. And yet
my soul was often troubled within me. I felt that I was born for
something else, and yet I was not clear what that something might be.
My mind felt out continually into the various religions of the world. I
could no more get into the old ones, as commonly received, than a man
could get into his boy’s suit. I still argued on materialist lines. I
subscribed to the Rationalist Association and read all their literature
carefully, but it was entirely destructive and one cannot permanently
live on that alone. Besides, I was sure enough of psychic phenomena to
be aware that there was a range of experience there which was entirely
beyond any rational explanation, and that therefore a system which
ignored a great body of facts, and was incompatible with them, was
necessarily an imperfect system. On the other hand, convinced as I was
of these abnormal happenings, and that intelligence, high or low, lay
behind them, I by no means understood their bearing. I still confused
the knocking at the door with the friend outside, or the ringing of the
bell with the telephone message. Sometimes I had the peace of despair,
when one felt that one could never possibly arrive at any conclusions
save negative ones, and then again some fresh impulse of the soul would
start one upon a new quest. In every direction, I reached out, but
never yet with any absolute satisfaction. I should have been relieved
from all my troubles could I have given heartfelt adhesion to any form
of orthodoxy--but my reason always barred the way.
During all the Egyptian and other periods of our exile I had never
ceased to take the psychic subject very seriously, to read eagerly
all that I could get, and from time to time to organize séances which
gave indifferent but not entirely negative results, though we had no
particular medium to help us. The philosophy of the subject began
slowly to unfold, and it was gradually made more feasible, not only
that life carried on, enclosed in some more tenuous envelope, but that
the conditions which it encountered in the beyond were not unlike those
which it had known here. So far I had got along the road, but the
overwhelming and vital importance of it all had not yet been borne in
upon me.
Now and then I had a psychic experience somewhat outside the general
run of such events. One of these occurred when I was at Norwood in
1892 or 1893. I was asked by the Society of Psychic Research whether I
would join a small committee to sit in and report upon a haunted house
at Charmouth in Dorchester. I went down accordingly together with a
Dr. Scott and Mr. Podmore, a man whose name was associated with such
investigations. I remember that it took us the whole railway journey
from Paddington to read up the evidence as to the senseless noises
which had made life unendurable for the occupants, who were tied by a
lease and could not get away. We sat up there two nights. On the first
nothing occurred. On the second Dr. Scott left us and I sat up with Mr.
Podmore. We had, of course, taken every precaution to checkmate fraud,
putting worsted threads across the stairs, and so on.
In the middle of the night a fearsome uproar broke out. It was like
some one belabouring a resounding table with a heavy cudgel. It was
not an accidental creaking of wood, or anything of that sort, but a
deafening row. We had all doors open, so we rushed at once into the
kitchen, from which the sound had surely come. There was nothing
there--doors were all locked, windows barred, and threads unbroken.
Podmore took away the light and pretended that we had both returned to
our sitting-room, going off with the young master of the house, while
I waited in the dark in the hope of a return of the disturbance. None
came--or ever did come. What occasioned it we never knew. It was of the
same character as all the other disturbances we had read about, but
shorter in time. But there was a sequel to the story. Some years later
the house was burned down, which may or may not have a bearing upon the
sprite which seemed to haunt it, but a more suggestive thing is that
the skeleton of a child about ten years old was dug up in the garden.
This I give on the authority of a relation of the family who were so
plagued. The suggestion was that the child had been done to death there
long ago, and that the subsequent phenomena of which we had one small
sample were in some way a sequence to this tragedy. There is a theory
that a young life cut short in sudden and unnatural fashion may leave,
as it were, a store of unused vitality which may be put to strange
uses. The unknown and the marvellous press upon us from all sides. They
loom above us and around us in undefined and fluctuating shapes, some
dark, some shimmering, but all warning us of the limitations of what
we call matter, and of the need for spirituality if we are to keep in
touch with the true inner facts of life.
I was never asked for a report of this case, but Podmore sent one
in, attributing the noises to the young man, though as a fact he was
actually sitting with us in the parlour when the tumult broke out. A
confederate was possible, though we had taken every step to bar it,
but the explanation given was absolutely impossible. I learned from
this, what I have often confirmed since, that while we should be most
critical of all psychic assertions, if we are to get at the truth,
we should be equally critical of all negatives and especially of
so-called “exposures” in this subject. Again and again I have probed
them and found them to depend upon prejudice or upon an imperfect
acquaintance with psychic law.
This brings me to another curious experience which occurred about
this time, probably in 1898. There was a small doctor dwelling near
me, small in stature, and also, I fear, in practice, whom I will call
Brown. He was a student of the occult, and my curiosity was aroused
by learning that he had one room in his house which no one entered
except himself, as it was reserved for mystic and philosophic purposes.
Finding that I was interested in such subjects, Dr. Brown suggested
one day that I should join a secret society of esoteric students. The
invitation had been led up to by a good deal of preparatory inquiry.
The dialogue between us ran somewhat thus:
“What shall I get from it?”
“In time, you will get powers.”
“What sort of powers?”
“They are powers which people would call supernatural. They are
perfectly natural, but they are got by knowledge of deeper forces of
nature.”
“If they are good, why should not every one know them?”
“They would be capable of great abuse in the wrong hands.”
“How can you prevent their getting into wrong hands?”
“By carefully examining our initiates.”
“Should I be examined?”
“Certainly.”
“By whom?”
“The people would be in London.”
“Should I have to present myself?”
“No, no, they would do it without your knowledge.”
“And after that?”
“You would then have to study.”
“Study what?”
“You would have to learn by heart a considerable mass of material. That
would be the first thing.”
“If this material is in print, why does it not become public property?”
“It is not in print. It is in manuscript. Each manuscript is carefully
numbered and trusted to the honour of a passed initiate. We have never
had a case of one going wrong.”
“Well,” said I, “it is very interesting and you can go ahead with the
next step, whatever it may be.”
Some little time later--it may have been a week--I awoke in the very
early morning with a most extraordinary sensation. It was not a
nightmare or any prank of a dream. It was quite different from that,
for it persisted after I was wide awake. I can only describe it by
saying that I was tingling all over. It was not painful, but it was
queer and disagreeable, as a mild electric shock would be. I thought at
once of the little doctor.
In a few days I had a visit from him. “You have been examined and
you have passed,” said he with a smile. “Now you must say definitely
whether you will go on with it. You can’t take it up and drop it. It is
serious, and you must leave it alone or go forward with a whole heart.”
It began to dawn upon me that it really was serious, so serious
that there seemed no possible space for it in my very crowded and
pre-occupied life. I said as much, and he took it in very good part.
“Very well,” said he, “we won’t talk of it any more unless you change
your mind.”
There was a sequel to the story. A month or two later, on a pouring
wet day, the little doctor called, bringing with him another medical
man whose name was familiar to me in connection with exploration and
tropical service. They sat together beside my study fire and talked.
One could not but observe that the famous and much-travelled man was
very deferential to the little country surgeon, who was the younger of
the two.
“He is one of my initiates,” said the latter to me. “You know,” he
continued, turning to his companion, “Doyle nearly joined us once.” The
other looked at me with great interest and then at once plunged into a
conversation with his mentor as to the wonders he had seen and, as I
understood, actually done. I listened amazed. It sounded like the talk
of two lunatics. One phrase stuck in my memory.
“When first you took me up with you,” said he, “and we were hovering
over the town I used to live in, in Central Africa, I was able for the
first time to see the islands out in the lake. I always knew they
were there, but they were too far off to be seen from the shore. Was
it not extraordinary that I should first see them when I was living in
England?”
“Yes,” said Brown, smoking his pipe and staring into the fire. “We had
some fun in those days. Do you remember how you laughed when we made
the little steamboat and it ran along the upper edge of the clouds?”
There were other remarks as wild. “A conspiracy to impress a
simpleton,” says the sceptic. Well, we can leave it at that if the
sceptic so wills, but I remain under the impression that I brushed
against something strange, and something which I am not sorry that I
avoided. It was not Spiritualism and it was not Theosophy, but rather
the acquisition of powers latent in the human organization, after the
alleged fashion of the old gnostics or of some modern fakirs in India,
though some doubtless would spell fakirs with an “e.” One thing I am
very sure of, and that is that morals and ethics have to keep pace with
knowledge, or all is lost. The Maori cannibals had psychic knowledge
and power, but were man-eaters none the less. Christian _ethics_ can
never lose its place whatever expansion our psychic faculties may
enjoy. But Christian theology can and will.
To return to the little doctor, I came across him again, as psychic
as ever, in Portland, Oregon, in 1923. From what I learned I should
judge that the powers of the Society to which he belonged included
that of loosening their own etheric bodies, in summoning the etheric
bodies of others (mine, for example) and in making thought images (the
steamboat) in the way that we are assured is possible by will-power.
But their line of philosophy or development is beyond me. I believe
they represent a branch of the Rosicrucians.
All seemed placid at this time. My wife was holding her own in winter
as well as in summer. The two children, Mary and Kingsley, were passing
through the various sweet phases of human development, and brought
great happiness into our lives. The country was lovely. My life was
filled with alternate work and sport. As with me so with the nation.
They were years of prosperity and success. But the shadow of South
Africa was falling upon England, and before it passed my personal
fortunes, as well as so many more, were destined to be involved in it.
I had a deep respect for the Boers and some fear of their skill at
arms, their inaccessible situation, and their sturdy Teutonic tenacity.
I foresaw that they would be a most dangerous enemy, and I watched
with horror the drift of events which from the time of the ill-judged
Jameson Raid never ceased to lead to open war. It was almost a relief
when at last it came and we could clearly see the magnitude of our
task. And yet few people understood it at the time. On the very eve of
war I took the chair at a dinner to Lord Wolseley at the Authors’ Club
and he declared that we could send two divisions to Africa. The papers
next day were all much exercised as to whether such a force was either
possible to collect or necessary to send. What would they have thought
had they been told that a quarter of a million men, a large proportion
of them cavalry, would be needed before victory could be won. The early
Boer victories surprised no one who knew something of South African
history, and they made it clear to every man in England that it was
not a wine glass but a rifle which one must grasp if the health of the
Empire was to be honoured.
CHAPTER XVI
THE START FOR SOUTH AFRICA
The Black Week--Volunteering--The Langman Hospital--The Voyage--
Bloemfontein--Sir Claude de Crespigny--The Epidemic--Advance to the
Water Works.
From December 10 to 17, 1899, was the black week for England. In that
week General Gatacre lost a battle at Stormberg, Lord Methuen lost
one at Magersfontein and General Buller lost one at Colenso. The
three together would not have made more than a minor action in the
great war to come, but at the time it seemed portentous. There were
ominous stirrings on the Continent also and rumours of a coalition. It
was lucky for us that the German fleet was not yet in being and that
our own was able to keep the ring, or we should soon have had some
Lafayette in South Africa with perhaps a Yorktown to follow. However,
it was bad enough as it was, but the nation as usual rose splendidly to
the occasion, and every one hastened to do what they could. Hence it
was that I found myself early one morning at Hounslow--if I remember
right--standing in a long queue of men who were waiting to enlist in
the Middlesex Yeomanry. I had one or two friends in the regiment and
hence my choice.
The Colonel, a grizzled soldier, sat behind a deal table in an orderly
room and dealt swiftly with the applicants. He had no idea who I was,
but seeing a man of forty before him he intimated that I surely did
not intend to go into the ranks. I said that I was prepared to take a
commission. He asked if I could ride and shoot. I said that I could
do both in moderation. He asked if I had had military experience. I
said that I had led an adventurous life and seen a little of military
operations in the Soudan, which was stretching it about as far as it
would go. Two white lies are permitted to a gentleman, to screen a
woman, or to get into a fight when the fight is a rightful one. So I
trust I may be forgiven.
However the Colonel would only put me on his waiting list, took my
name, still without recognizing me, and passed on to the next case. I
departed somewhat crestfallen and unsettled, not knowing whether I had
heard the last of the matter or not. Almost immediately afterwards,
however, I received an offer which took me out in a capacity which was
less sporting but probably in my case and at my age a good deal more
useful. This came from my friend John Langman, whose son Archie I had
known well in Davos days. Langman was sending out a hospital of fifty
beds at his own expense to Africa, and had already chosen his staff
of surgeons but not his personnel. Archie Langman was to go with the
Hospital as general manager. Langman’s idea was that I should help
him to choose the personnel, that I should be a supplementary medico,
and that I should exercise a general supervision over the whole in an
unofficial capacity. To all this I agreed and spent a week at his house
at Stanhope Terrace choosing from many candidates those who seemed the
most likely. On the whole they proved to be a worthy choice. There were
many things to be done, and in the middle of them I received a note
reopening the question of the Yeomanry, but by this time I was entirely
committed to the Langman Hospital.
When we were complete we were quite a good little unit, but our
weakness was unfortunately at the head. Dr. O’Callaghan had been a
personal friend of Langman’s and had thus got the senior billet, but
he was in truth an excellent gynæcologist, which is a branch of the
profession for which there seemed to be no immediate demand. He was a
man too who had led a sedentary life and was not adapted, with all the
will in the world, for the trying experience which lay before us. He
realized this himself and returned to England after a short experience
of South African conditions. We were compelled to have one military
chief, as a bond with the War Office, and this proved to be one Major
Drury, a most amusing Irishman who might have come right out of Lever.
To leave the service and to “marry a rich widow with a cough” was, he
said, the height of his ambition. He was a very pleasant companion in
civil life, but when it came to duties which needed tact and routine
he was rather too Celtic in his methods, and this led to friction and
occasional rows in which I had to sustain the point of view of Mr.
Langman. I have no doubt he thought me an insubordinate dog, and I
thought him--well, he has passed away now, and I remember him best as a
very amusing companion.
Under O’Callaghan and Drury were two really splendid younger surgeons,
Charles Gibbs and Scharlieb, the latter the son of the well-known
lady doctor. They were as good as they could be. Then we had our
ward-masters, cooks, stewards, storekeepers, and finally some fifteen
to twenty orderlies. Altogether we numbered just fifty men, and were
splendidly fitted out by the generosity of Mr. Langman.
A month or two passed before we could get away, and I remember one
amusing incident which occurred during that time. I had spent a good
deal of thought over the problem how best to attack men who lay
concealed behind cover. My conclusions were that it was useless to fire
at them direct, since, if they knew their business, very little of them
would be vulnerable. On the other hand, if one could turn a rifle into
a portable howitzer and drop a bullet with any sort of rough general
accuracy within a given area, then it seemed to me that life would
hardly be possible within that area. If, for example, the position was
20,000 square yards in size, and 20,000 rifles were dropping bullets
upon it, each square yard would sooner or later be searched and your
mark would be a whole prostrate or crouching body. What I was really
evolving, though I could not know it, was the machine gun barrage of
dropping or vertical fire as practised in the Great War. My principles
were absolutely right and have not even yet received their full
application. I wrote an article to “The Times” explaining my views, but
so far as I know it had no results.
Meanwhile I was practising how to turn a rifle into a howitzer. I
fastened a large needle at the end of a thread to the back sight. When
the gun pointed straight up in the air the needle swung down across the
stock and I marked the spot. Then the idea was to tilt the gun slowly
forward, marking advances of 200, 400 and so on in the range, so that
you had a dial marked on the stock and could always by letting the
needle fall across the correct mark on the dial drop the bullet within
a certain distance.
But the crux was to discover the exact ranges. To do this I went down
to Frensham Pond and, standing among the reeds and tilting the gun
very slightly forward, I pulled the trigger. The bullet very nearly
fell upon my own head. I could not locate it, but I heard quite a loud
thud. But what amazed me, and still amazes me, was the time it took. I
counted fifty seconds on my watch between the discharge and the fall. I
don’t wonder if the reader is incredulous. I feel incredulous also, but
such is the fact as I recorded it.
My idea was to mark the bullet splashes on the calm water of the lake,
but though I fired and fired at various angles not a splash could I
see. Finally a little man who may have been an artist broke in upon my
solitude.
“Do you want to know where those bullets are going?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Then I can tell you, sir, for they have been dropping all round _me_.”
I felt that unless my howitzer was to claim its first victim on the
spot I had better stop. It was clear that the light bullet with so
heavy a charge went so high into the atmosphere that one lost all
command over it. Twice the weight and half the charge would have served
my purpose better. Then came other calls and I could never work it out,
but I am very sure that with a little care in detail I could have got a
converging fire which would have cleared any kopje in South Africa.
As I was convinced that the idea was both practical and much needed I
communicated full particulars to the War Office. Here is the letter I
had in reply.
WAR OFFICE,
_Feb. 16, 1900_.
SIR,--
With reference to your letter concerning an appliance for adapting
rifles to high angle fire I am directed by the Secretary of State for
War to inform you that he will not trouble you in the matter.
I am, Sir, Your Obedient Servant,
(Signature illegible),
Director General of Ordnance.
Thus, whether my invention was nonsense or whether it was, as I
believe, radical and epoch-making, I was given no chance to explain or
to illustrate it. As I remarked in “The Times:” “No wonder that we find
the latest inventions in the hands of our enemies rather than ourselves
if those who try to improve our weapons meet with such encouragement
as I have done.” Our traditions were carried on in the Great War, for
Pomeroy, the inventor of the inflammable bullet which brought down the
Zeppelins, was about to return to New Zealand in despair, and it was,
as I am assured, private and not official bullets which first showed
how valuable was his discovery and forced a belated acceptance by the
War Office.
At last our time drew near. My wife had gone to Naples, where it was
hoped that the warmer climate would complete her cure. My affairs were
all settled up. I was to go as an unpaid man, and I contributed my
butler Cleeve, a good intelligent man for the general use, paying him
myself. In this way I retained my independence and could return when I
felt that the time had come--which, as events turned out, proved to be
very valuable to me.
We were reviewed by the old Duke of Cambridge in some drill-hall in
London. There befell me on this occasion one of those quaint happenings
which seem to me to have been more common in my life than in that of
most other men. We were drawn up in our new khaki uniforms, and wearing
our tropical helmets, for the Royal Duke’s inspection. If we had been
asked to form fours we should have broken down completely, but luckily
we were placed in double line and so we remained. I was standing in
front on the right flank. With my eyes fixed rigidly before me I was
still able out of the corner of them to be aware that the old Duke,
with his suite, was coming across to begin at my end. Presently he
halted in front of me, and stood motionless. I remained quite rigid,
looking past him. He continued to stand, so near me that I could hear
and almost feel his puffy breath. “What on earth!” I wondered, but I
gave no sign. At last he spoke. “What is this?” he asked. Then louder,
“What is this?” and finally, in a sort of ecstasy, “What _is_ it?” I
never moved an eyelash, but one of a group of journalists upon my
right went into hysterical but subdued laughter. There was whispering
among the suite, something was explained, and the funny old man passed
on. But did ever Lever in his maddest moment represent that his hero on
the first day of wearing uniform should have such an experience with
the ex-Commander-in-Chief of the British army and the uncle of the
Queen?
It seems that what was worrying the dear old gentleman--he was about
eighty at the time--was that my tunic buttons had no mark upon them, a
thing which he had never seen in Her Majesty’s Army. Even a crown or a
star would do, but no mark at all completely upset him, for he was a
great stickler for correct military clothing. So, of course, was King
Edward. A friend of mine at a ball in India (royalty being present) was
swooped down upon by a very agitated aide-de-camp who began: “His Royal
Highness desires me to say ...” and went on to point out some defect
in his dress kit. My friend answered: “I will mention the matter to my
tailor,” which was, I think, an admirable way of quietly putting the
matter into its true perspective.
On this occasion we officers all filed up to be presented and the
old Duke made amends by blurting out some very kindly things, for it
seems that he greatly approved of my wooden soldier attitude, in spite
of my reprehensible buttons. He had a day of agitations, for on the
top of the buttons one of the curtains of the hotel took fire during
our luncheon at Claridge’s, and there was great excitement for a few
moments. He made, I remember, an extremely indiscreet speech in which
he said: “They turned me off because they said I was too old, but old
as I am I wouldn’t have been such a fool as to----” and then he strung
off a number of things which Lord Wolseley, his successor, was supposed
to have done. The press was merciful and did not report.
We sailed on February 28, 1900, from Tilbury, in the chartered
transport _Oriental_, carrying with us a mixed lot of drafts, and
picking up the Royal Scots Militia at Queenstown, where a noisy
Irishwoman threw a white towel on board, crying, “You may be afther
finding it useful.” The Scots were a rather rough crowd with a number
of territorial magnates, Lord Henry Scott, Lord Tewkesbury, Lord
Newport, Lord Brackley and others among their officers. Colonel Garstin
of the Middlesex was in general command of the whole of us. The
monotony of the three weeks’ voyage was broken only by a cricket match
at the Cape de Verdes, by a lecture on the war which I delivered on
deck under a tropical moon to all hands, and to an enteric inoculation,
which was voluntary but should have been compulsory, for even as it was
it saved many lives, and I am not sure that my own was not among them.
The Great War has shown for ever how effective this treatment is. We
lost more from enteric than from the bullet in South Africa, and it is
sad to think that nearly all could have been saved had Almroth Wright’s
discovery been properly appreciated. His brother was on board, I
remember--an officer of Sappers--and took the virus particularly badly,
though all of us were quite bad enough, for the right dose had not yet
been accurately determined.
On the evening of March 21 we reached Capetown and found the bay full
of shipping. There were fifty large steamers at anchor--mostly empty.
Some of us had a run ashore, but we had some trouble getting on board
again, for there was a big swell and the little tug dare not come quite
alongside. We had to jump therefore from the paddle-box as the roll
favoured us, landing on a hanging ladder, where a quartermaster seized
us. To some people such a feat is easy, while others evidently regarded
it with horror, and I wondered that we escaped from having some
tragedy. The only real mishap was a strange one. A row of soldier faces
was looking down on us over the bulwarks, when I saw the grin upon one
of them change to a look of horrible agony and he gave a wild scream.
He still remained standing, but several men ran towards him, and then
he disappeared. Only afterwards did I learn that a huge iron bar had in
some way fallen upon his foot, pinning him to the place. He fainted as
they disengaged him, and was carried below with his bones crushed.
I spent next day ashore, with the Mount Nelson Hotel as my
head-quarters. It was full of a strange medley of wounded officers,
adventuresses and cosmopolitans. Kitchener came down and cleared it out
shortly afterwards, for the syrens were interfering with his fighting
men. The general war news was very good. Paardeburg had been fought,
Lord Roberts had made his way to Bloemfontein and Kimberley had been
relieved by French, whose immediate return to head off Cronje was one
of the inspired incidents of the war. It was a consolation to find that
Boers really could be captured in large numbers, for their long run of
successes while the conditions were in their favour was getting badly
upon the public nerves and a legendary sort of atmosphere was beginning
to build up around them.
Some money had been given me for charitable purposes when I was in
London, so I went down to the camp of the Boer prisoners to see if I
could spend some of it. It was a racecourse, pent in with barbed wire,
and they were certainly a shaggy, dirty, unkempt crowd but with the
bearing of free men. There were a few cruel or brutal faces, some of
them half caste, but most were good honest fellows and the general
effect was formidable. There were some who were maned like lions. I
afterwards went into the tents of the sick Boers. Several were sitting
sullenly round and one was raving in delirium, saying something in his
frenzy which set all the others laughing in a mirthless way. One man
sat in a corner with a proud dark face and brooding eagle eyes. He
bowed with grave courtesy when I put down some money for cigarettes. A
Huguenot, or I am mistaken.
We had been waiting for orders and now we suddenly left Capetown on
March 26, reaching East London on the 28th. There we disembarked,
and I was surprised to find Leo Trevor, of amateur theatrical fame,
acting as transport officer. In spite of his efforts (I hope it was
not through them) our hospital stuff was divided between two trains,
and when we reached Bloemfontein after days of travel we found that
the other half had wandered off and was engulfed in the general chaos.
There were nights of that journey which I shall never forget--the great
train roaring through the darkness, the fires beside the line, the dark
groups silhouetted against the flames, the shouts of “Who are you?” and
the crash of voices as our mates cried back, “The Camerons,” for this
famous regiment was our companion. Wonderful is the atmosphere of war.
When the millennium comes the world will gain much, but it will lose
its greatest thrill.
It is a strange wild place, the veldt, with its vast green plains and
peculiar flat-topped hills, relics of some extraordinary geological
episode. It is poor pasture--a sheep to two acres--so it must always
be sparsely inhabited. Little white farms, each with its eucalyptus
grove and its dam, were scattered over it. When we crossed the Free
State border by a makeshift bridge, beside the ruins of the old one, we
noticed that many of these little houses were flying the white flag.
Every one seemed very good-humoured, burghers and soldiers alike, but
the guerilla war afterwards altered all that.
It was April 2, and 5 a.m. when we at last reached the capital of the
Free State, and were dumped down outside the town in a great green
expanse covered with all sorts of encampments and animals. There was
said to be a large force of Boers close to the town, and they had cut
up one of our columns a few days before at Sanna’s Post. Some troops
were moving out, so I, with Gwynne whom I had known in Egypt, and that
great sportsman, Claude de Crespigny, set forth to see what we could,
an artilleryman lending me his led horse. There was nothing doing,
however, for it was Brother Boer’s way never to come when you wanted
him and always when you didn’t. Save for good company, I got nothing
out of a long hot day.
Good company is always one of the solaces of a campaign. I ran across
many old friends, some soldiers, some medicos, some journalists.
Knight of the “Falcon” had, alas, been hit in an early battle and was
in hospital. Julian Ralph, a veteran American correspondent, Bennett
Burleigh the rugged old war horse, queer little Melton Prior who looked
like the prim headmaster of a conventional school, dark-eyed Donohue
of the “Chronicle,” Paterson the Australian, of Snowy River fame, they
were a wonderful set of men. I had little time to enjoy their society,
however, for among the miles of loaded trucks which lay at the endless
sidings I had to my great joy discovered the missing half of our
equipment and guided a fatigue party down to it. All day we laboured
and before evening our beds were up and our hospital ready for duty.
Two days later wagons of sick and wounded began to disgorge at our
doors and the real work had begun.
[Illustration: STAFF OF THE LANGMAN HOSPITAL, SOUTH AFRICA, 1900.]
We had been given the cricket field as our camp and the fine pavilion
as our chief ward. Others were soon erected, for we had plenty of
tents--one each for our own use and a marquee for the mess. We were
ready for any moderate strain, but that which was put upon us was
altogether beyond our strength and for a month we had a rather awful
time. The first intimation of trouble came to me in a simple and
dramatic way. We had a bath in the pavilion and I had gone up to it
and turned the tap, but not a drop of water appeared, though it had
been running freely the night before. This small incident was the first
intimation that the Boers had cut the water supply of the town, which
caused us to fall back upon the old wells, which in turn gave rise to
an outbreak of enteric which cost us 5,000 lives. The one great blot
in Lord Roberts’ otherwise splendid handling of the campaign was, in
my opinion, that he did not buzz out at once with every man he could
raise, and relieve the water works, which were only 20 miles away.
Instead of this he waited for his army to recuperate, and so exposed
them to the epidemic. However, it is always easy to be wise after the
event.
The outbreak was a terrible one. It was softened down for public
consumption and the press messages were heavily censored, but we lived
in the midst of death--and death in its vilest, filthiest form. Our
accommodation was for fifty patients, but 120 were precipitated upon
us, and the floor was littered between the beds with sick and often
dying men. Our linen and utensils were never calculated for such a
number, and as the nature of the disease causes constant pollution,
and this pollution of the most dangerous character and with the
vilest effluvia, one can imagine how dreadful was the situation. The
worst surgical ward after a battle would be a clean place compared to
that pavilion. At one end was a stage with the scene set for “H.M.S.
Pinafore.” This was turned into latrines for those who could stagger
so far. The rest did the best they could, and we did the best we could
in turn. But a Verestschagin would have found a subject in that awful
ward, with the rows of emaciated men, and the silly childish stage
looking down upon it all. In the very worst of it two nursing sisters
appeared among us, and never shall I forget what angels of light they
appeared, or how they nursed those poor boys, swaddling them like
babies and meeting every want with gentle courage. Thank God, they both
came through safe.
Four weeks may seem a short time in comfort, but it is a very long
one under conditions such as those, amid horrible sights and sounds
and smells, while a haze of flies spread over everything, covering
your food and trying to force themselves into your mouth--every one of
them a focus of disease. It was bad enough when we had a full staff,
but soon the men began to wilt under the strain. They were nearly all
from the Lancashire cotton mills, little, ill-nourished fellows but
with a great spirit. Of the fifteen twelve contracted the disease and
added to the labours of the survivors. Three died. Fortunately we of
the staff were able to keep going, and we were reinforced by a Dr.
Schwartz of Capetown. The pressure was great, but we were helped by the
thought that the greater the work the more we proved the necessity of
our presence in Africa. Above all, our labours were lightened by the
splendid stuff that we had for patients. It was really glorious to see
the steady patience with which they bore their sufferings. The British
soldier may grouse in days of peace, but I never heard a murmur when he
was faced with this loathsome death.
Our hospital was no worse off than the others, and as there were many
of them the general condition of the town was very bad. Coffins were
out of the question, and the men were lowered in their brown blankets
into shallow graves at the average rate of sixty a day. A sickening
smell came from the stricken town. Once when I had ridden out to get
an hour or two of change, and was at least six miles from the town
the wind changed and the smell was all around me. You could smell
Bloemfontein long before you could see it. Even now if I felt that low
deathly smell, compounded of disease and disinfectants, my heart would
sink within me.
At last there came the turn. The army had moved on. Hospitals up the
line absorbed some of the cases. Above all the water works had been
retaken, and with hardly any resistance. I went out with the force
which was to retake it, and slept for the night in a thin coat under
a wagon, an experience which left me colder than I can ever remember
being in my life--a cold which was not only on the surface, but like
some solid thing within you. Next morning there was every prospect of
a battle, for we had been shelled the night before and it looked as
if the position would be held, so Ian Hamilton, who commanded, made a
careful advance. However, there was no resistance, and save for some
figures watching us from distant hills there was no sign of the enemy.
He had slipped away in the night.
In the advance we passed over the Drift at Sanna’s Post where the
disaster had occurred some weeks before. The poor artillery horses were
still lying in heaps where they had been shot down, and the place was
covered with every kind of litter--putties, cholera belts, haversacks,
and broken helmets. There were great numbers of Boer cartridge papers
which were all marked “Split Bullets. Manufactured for the Use of the
British Government, London.” What the meaning of this was, or where
they came from, I cannot imagine, for certainly our fellows had always
the solid Lee-Metford bullet, as I can swear after inspecting many a
belt. It sounded like some ingenious trick to excuse atrocities, and
yet on the whole the Boer was a fair and good-humoured fighter until
near the close of the war.
The move of Hamilton’s was really the beginning of the great advance,
and having cleared the water works he turned north and became the right
wing of the army. On his left was Tucker’s 7th Division, then Kelly
Kenny’s 6th Division, Pole-Carew’s 1st Division, including the Guards,
and finally a great horde of mounted infantry, including the Yeomanry,
the Colonial and the Irregular Corps. This was the great line which set
forth early in May to sweep up from Bloemfontein to Pretoria. Things
had become more quiet at the hospital and presently Archie Langman and
I found a chance to get away and to join the army at the first stage
of its advance. I wrote our experience out while it was still fresh in
my mind, and the reader will forgive me if I reproduce some of this,
as it is likely to be more vivid and more detailed than the blurred
impression now left in my memory after more than twenty years.
CHAPTER XVII
DAYS WITH THE ARMY
Pole-Carew--Tucker--Snipers--The Looted Farm--Taking of
Brandfort--Artillery Engagement--Advance of the Guards--
The Wounded Scout--The Dead Australian--Return.
Stand in the pass at Karee, and look north in the clear fresh morning
air! Before you lies a great plain, dull green, with white farmhouses
scattered here and there. One great donga slashes it across. Distant
hills bound it on all sides, and at the base of those in front, dimly
seen, are a line of houses and a steeple. This is Brandfort, ten miles
off, and we are advancing to attack it.
The troops are moving forward, line after line of red faces and khaki,
with rumbling columns of guns. Two men sit their horses beside us on
a knoll, and stare with their glasses at the distant houses. Gallant
figures both of them; the one spruce, debonnaire, well-groomed, with
laughing eyes and upward-curved moustache, a suggestion of schoolboy
mischief about his handsome face; the other, grim, fierce, all nose
and eyebrow, white scales of sun-dried skin hanging from his brick-red
face. The first is Pole-Carew, General of Division; the second is
Brigadier Stephenson. We are finding our men, and these are among them.
Here is another man worth noting. You could not help noting him if
you tried. A burly, broad-shouldered man, with full, square, black
beard over his chest, his arm in a sling, his bearing a medieval
knight-errant. It is Crabbe, of the Grenadier Guards. He reins his
horse for an instant while his Guardsmen stream past him.
“I’ve had my share--four bullets already. Hope I won’t get another
to-day.”
“You should be in hospital.”
“Ah, there I must venture to disagree with you.” He rides on with his
men.
Look at the young officers of the Guards, the dandies of Mayfair. No
carpet soldiers, these, but men who have spent six months upon the
veldt, and fought from Belmont to Bloemfontein. Their walk is dainty,
their putties are well rolled--there is still the suggestion of the
West End.
If you look with your glasses on the left you may see movement on the
farthest skyline. That is Hutton’s Mounted Infantry, some thousands of
them, to turn the flank of any resistance. As far as you can see to
the right is Tucker’s Division. Beyond that again are Ian Hamilton’s
Mounted Infantry and French’s Cavalry. The whole front is a good thirty
miles, and 35,000 men go to the making of it.
Now we advance over the great plain, the infantry in extended order,
a single company covering half a mile. Look at the scouts and the
flankers--we should not have advanced like that six months ago. It is
not our additional numbers so much as our new warcraft which makes us
formidable. The big donga is only 2,000 yards off now, so we halt and
have a good look at it. Guns are unlimbered--just as well to be ready.
Pole-Carew rides up like a schoolboy on a holiday.
“Who’s seen old Tucker?” I hear him say, with his glasses to his eyes.
He had sent a message to the scouts. “There now, look at that aide
of mine. He has galloped along the donga to see if any Boers are in
it. What right had he to do that? When I ask him he will say that he
thought I was there.... Halloa, you, sir, why don’t you come back
straight?”
“I did, sir.”
“You didn’t. You rode along that donga.”
“I thought you were there, sir.”
“Don’t add lying to your other vices.”
The aide came grinning back. “I was fired at, but I dare not tell the
old man.”
Rap! Rap! Rap! Rifles in front. Every one pricks up his ears. Is it the
transient sniper or the first shot of a battle? The shots come from the
farmhouse yonder. The 83rd Field Battery begin to fidget about their
guns. The officer walks up and down and stares at the farmhouse. From
either side two men pull out lines of string and give long, monotonous
cries. They are the range-finders. A gunner on the limber is deep in a
sixpenny magazine, absorbed, his chin on his hand.
“Our scouts are past the house,” says an officer.
“That’s all right,” says the major.
The battery limbers up and the whole force advances to the farmhouse.
Off-saddle and a halt for luncheon.
Halloa! Here are new and sinister developments. A Tommy drives a smart
buggy and pair out of the yard, looted for the use of the army. The
farm is prize of war, for have they not fired at our troops? They
could not help the firing, poor souls, but still this sniping must be
discouraged. We are taking off our gloves at last over this war. But
the details are not pretty.
A frightened girl runs out.
“Is it right that they kill fowls?” Alas! the question is hardly worth
debating, for the fowls are dead. Erect and indignant, the girl drives
in her three young turkeys. Men stare at her curiously, but she and her
birds are not molested.
Here is something worse. A fat white pig all smothered in blood runs
past. A soldier meets it, his bayonet at the charge. He lunges and
lunges again, and the pig screams horribly. I had rather see a man
killed. Some are up in the loft throwing down the forage. Others root
up the vegetables. One drinks milk out of a strange vessel, amid the
laughter of his comrades. It is a grotesque and medieval scene.
The General rides up, but he has no consolation for the women. “The
farm has brought it upon itself.” He rides away again.
A parson rides up. “I can’t imagine why they don’t burn it,” says he.
A little Dutch boy stares with large, wondering grey eyes. He will tell
all this to his grandchildren when we are in our graves.
“War is a terrible thing,” says the mother, in Dutch. The Tommies, with
curious eyes, cluster round the doors and windows, staring in at the
family. There is no individual rudeness.
One Kaffir enters the room. “A Kaffir!” cries the girl, with blazing
eyes.
“Yes, a Kaffir,” says he defiantly--but he left.
“They won’t burn the house, will they?” cries the mother.
“No, no,” we answer; “they will not burn the house.”
We advance again after lunch, the houses and steeple much nearer.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Cannon at last!
But it is far away, over at Tucker’s side. There are little white puffs
on the distant green hills. Those are shells bursting. If you look
through your glasses you will see--eight miles off--a British battery
in action. Sometimes a cloud of dust rises over it. That is a Boer
shell which has knocked up the dust. No Boers can be seen from here.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
It becomes monotonous. “Old Tucker is getting it hot!” Bother old
Tucker, let us push on to Brandfort.
On again over the great plain, the firing dying away on the right. We
have had a gun knocked off its wheels and twelve men hit over there.
But now Hutton’s turning movement is complete, and they close in on the
left of Brandfort. A pom-pom quacks like some horrid bird among the
hills. Our horse artillery are banging away. White spurts of shrapnel
rise along the ridge. The leading infantry bend their backs and quicken
their pace. We gallop to the front, but the resistance has collapsed.
The mounted men are riding forward and the guns are silent. Long,
sunlit hills stretch peacefully before us.
I ride through the infantry again. “The bloody blister on my toe has
bust.” “This blasted water-bottle!” Every second man has a pipe between
his parched lips.
The town is to the right, and two miles of plain intervene. On the
plain a horseman is rounding up some mares and foals. I recognize him
as I pass--Burdett-Coutts--a well-known figure in society. Mr. Maxwell
of the “Morning Post” suggests that we ride to the town and chance it.
“Our men are sure to be there.” No sign of them across the plain, but
we will try. He outrides me, but courteously waits, and we enter the
town together. Yes, it’s all right; there’s a Rimington Scout in the
main street--a group of them, in fact.
A young Boer, new caught, stands among the horsemen. He is
discomposed--not much. A strong, rather coarse face; well-dressed;
might appear, as he stands, in an English hunting-field as a young
yeoman farmer.
“Comes of being fond of the ladies,” said the Australian sergeant.
“Wanted to get her out of the town,” said the Boer.
Another was brought up. “I’d have got off in a minute,” says he.
“You’d have got off as it was if you had the pluck of a louse,” says
his captor. The conversation languished after that.
In came the Staff, galloping grandly. The town is ours.
A red-headed Irish-American is taken on the kopje. “What the hell is
that to you?” he says to every question. He is haled away to gaol--a
foul-mouthed blackguard.
We find the landlady of our small hotel in tears--her husband in gaol,
because a rifle has been found. We try to get him out, and succeed. He
charges us 4_s._ for half a bottle of beer, and we wonder whether we
cannot get him back into gaol again.
“The house is not my own. I find great burly men everywhere,” he cries,
with tears in his eyes. His bar is fitted with pornographic pictures to
amuse our simple farmer friends--not the first or the second sign which
I have seen that pastoral life and a Puritan creed do not mean a high
public morality.
We sit on the stoep and smoke in the moonlight.
There comes a drunken inhabitant down the main street. A dingy Tommy
stands on guard in front.
“Halt! Who goes there?”
“A friend.”
“Give the countersign!”
“I’m a free-born Englishman!”
“Give the countersign!”
“I’m a freeborn----” With a rattle the sentry’s rifle came to his
shoulder and the moon glinted on his bayonet.
“Hi, stop!” cries a senior Correspondent. “You Juggins, you’ll be shot!
Don’t fire, sentry!”
Tommy raised his rifle reluctantly and advanced to the man. “What shall
I do with him, sir?” he asked the Correspondent.
“Oh, what you like!” He vanished out of history.
I talk politics with Free Staters. The best opening is to begin, in
an inquiring tone, “Why did you people declare war upon us?” They
have got into such an injured-innocence state that it comes quite as
a shock to them when they are reminded that they were the attackers.
By this Socratic method one attains some interesting results. It is
evident that they all thought they could win easily, and that they are
very bitter now against the Transvaal. They are mortally sick of the
war; but, for that matter, so are most of the British officers. It has
seemed to me sometimes that it would be more judicious, and even more
honourable, if some of the latter were less open about the extent to
which they are “fed-up.” It cannot be inspiriting for their men. At the
same time there would be a mutiny in the Army if any conditions short
of absolute surrender were accepted--and in spite of their talk, if
a free pass were given to-day, I am convinced that very few officers
would return until the job was done.
Our railway engineers are great. The train was in Brandfort next
day, in spite of broken bridges, smashed culverts, twisted metals,
every sort of wrecking. So now we are ready for another twenty miles
Pretoriawards. The Vet River is our goal this time, and off we go with
the early morning.
Another great green plain, with dotted farms and the huge khaki column
slowly spreading across it. The day was hot, and ten miles out the
Guards had about enough. Stragglers lay thick among the grass, but the
companies kept their double line formation, and plodded steadily along.
Ten miles sounds very little, but try it in the dust of a column on a
hot day, with a rifle over your shoulder, a 100 rounds of ammunition, a
blanket, a canteen, an empty water-bottle, and a dry tongue.
A grey-bearded padre limped bravely beside his men.
“No, no,” says he, when offered my horse. “I must not spoil my record.”
The men are silent on the march; no band, no singing. Grim and sullen,
the column flows across the veldt. Officers and men are short in their
tempers.
“Why don’t you,” etc., etc., bleats a subaltern.
“Because I never can hear what you say,” says the corporal.
They halt for a midday rest, and it seems to me, as I move among
them, that there is too much nagging on the part of the officers.
We have paid too much attention to the German military methods. Our
true model should have been the American, for it is what was evolved
by the Anglo-Celtic race in the greatest experience of war which the
Anglo-Celtic race has ever had.
On we go again over that great plain. Is there anything waiting for
us down yonder where the low kopjes lie? The Boers have always held
rivers. They held the Modder. They held the Tugela. Will they hold the
Vet? Halloa, what’s this?
A startled man in a night-cap on a dapple-grey horse. He gesticulates.
“Fifty of them--hot corner--lost my helmet.” We catch bits of his talk.
But what’s that on the dapple-grey’s side? The horse is shot through
the body. He grazes quietly with black streaks running down the reeking
hair.
“A West Australian, sir. They shot turble bad, for we were within fifty
yards before they loosed off.”
“Which kopje?”
“That one over yonder.”
We ride forward, and pass through the open ranks of the Guards’
skirmishers. Behind us the two huge naval guns are coming majestically
up, drawn by their thirty oxen, like great hock-bottles on wheels. In
front a battery has unlimbered. We ride up to the side of it. Away in
front lies a small, slate-roofed farm beside the kopje. The Mounted
Infantry have coalesced into one body and are moving towards us.
“Here’s the circus. There is going to be a battle,” was an infantry
phrase in the American War. Our circus was coming in, and perhaps the
other would follow.
The battery (84th R.F.A.) settles down to its work.
Bang! I saw the shell burst on a hillside far away. “3,500,” says
somebody. Bang! “3,250,” says the voice. Bang! “3,300.” A puff shoots
up from the distant grey roof as if their chimney were on fire. “Got
him that time!”
The game seems to us rather one-sided, but who is that shooting in the
distance?
“Wheeeeee”--what a hungry whine, and then a dull muffled “Ooof!” Up
goes half a cartload of earth about one hundred yards ahead of the
battery. The gunners take as much notice as if it were a potato.
“Wheeeeeee--ooof!” Fifty yards in front this time.
“Bang! Bang!” go the crisp English guns.
“Wheeeeee--ooof!” Fifty yards behind the battery. They’ll get it next
time as sure as fate. Gunners go on unconcernedly. “Wheeeeee--ooof!”
Right between the guns, by George! Two guns invisible for the dust.
Good heavens, how many of our gunners are left? Dust settles, and they
are all bending and straining and pulling the same as ever.
Another shell and another, and then a variety, for there comes a shell
which breaks high up in the air--wheeeeee--tang--with a musical,
resonant note, like the snapping of a huge banjo-string, and a quarter
of an acre of ground spurted into little dust-clouds under the
shrapnel. The gunners take no interest in it. Percussion or shrapnel,
fire what you will, you must knock the gun off its wheels or the man
off his pins before you settle the R.F.A.
But every shell is bursting true, and it is mere luck that half the
battery are not down. Once only did I see a man throw back his head
a few inches as a shell burst before him. The others might have been
parts of an automatic machine. But the officer decided to shift the
guns--and they are shifted. They trot away for half a mile to the right
and come into action again.
The lonely hero is the man to be admired. It is easy to be collectively
brave. A man with any sense of proportion feels himself to be such a
mite in the presence of the making of history that his own individual
welfare seems for the moment too insignificant to think of. The unit is
lost in the mass. But now we find ourselves alone on the plain with the
battery away to the right. The nerves of the novice are strung up by
the sound of the shells, but there is something of exhilaration in the
feeling also.
There is a fence about 200 yards off, and to this we tether our horses,
and we walk up and down trying with our glasses to spot where the Boer
guns are. We have suspicions, but nothing more. Our gunners may know,
but we do not feel confident about it. Surely the stealthy lurking gun
is worth six guns which stand bravely forth in the open. These farmers
have taught our riflemen their business, and they bid fair to alter
the artillery systems of the world as well. Our guns and theirs are
like a fight between a blind man and one who can see.
An artillery colonel is wandering loose, and we talk. He has no job of
his own, so he comes, like the coachman on a holiday, to watch some
other man’s guns at work. A shell falls some distance short of us.
“The next one,” says the colonel, “will go over our heads. Come and
stand over here.” I do so, with many mental reservations. Wheeeeeeee----
“Here it comes!” says the colonel. “Here I go!” think I. It burst on
our level, but 40 yards to the right. I secure a piece as a souvenir.
“Shall we wait for another?” I began to be sorry that I met the colonel.
But a new sensation breaks upon us. Looking back we see that two
monster naval guns are coming into action not fifty yards from our
tethered horses, which stand in a dead line before their huge muzzles.
We only just got them clear in time. Bang! the father of all the bangs
this time, and a pillar of white smoke with a black heart to it on the
farther hill. I can see some riders like ants, going across it--Boers
on the trek. Our men take the huge brass cartridge-case out of the gun.
“Can I have that?”
“Certainly,” says the lieutenant.
I tie it on to my saddle, and feel apologetic towards my long-suffering
horse. The great gun roars and roars and the malignant spouts of smoke
rise on the farthest hill.
A line of infantry in very open order comes past the great guns, and I
advance a little way with them. They are Scots Guards. The first line
goes forward, the second is halted and lying down.
“That’s right! Show where you are!” cries the second line, derisively.
I seem to have missed the point, but the young officer in the first
line is very angry.
“Hold your tongues!” he shouts, with his red face looking over his
shoulder. “Too many orders. No one gives orders but me.” His men lie
down. The sun is sinking low, and it is evident that the contemplated
infantry assault will not come off. One of the great naval shells
passes high over our heads. It is the sound of a distant train in a
tunnel.
A man canters past with a stretcher over his shoulder. His bay horse
lollops along, but the stretcher makes him look very top-heavy. He
passes the guns and the infantry, and rides on along the edge of a
maize field. He is half a mile out now, heading for the kopje. Every
instant I expect to see him drop from his horse. Then he vanishes in a
dip of the ground.
After a time the stretcher appears again.
This time two men are carrying it, and the horseman rides beside. I
have bandages in my pocket, so I ride forward also.
“Has a surgeon seen him?”
“No, sir.” They lay the man down. There is a handkerchief over his face.
“Where is it?”
“His stomach and his arm.” I pull up his shirt, and there is the Mauser
bullet lying obvious under the skin. It has gone round instead of
penetrating. A slit with a pen-knife would extract it, but that had
better be left for chloroform and the field hospital. Nice clean wound
in the arm.
“You will do very well. What is your name?”
“Private Smith, sir. New Zealander.” I mention my name and the Langman
Hospital at Bloemfontein.
“I’ve read your books,” says he, and is carried onwards.
There has been a lull in the firing and the sun is very low. Then after
a long interval comes a last Boer shell. It is an obvious insult, aimed
at nothing, a derisive good-night and good-bye. The two naval guns put
up their long necks and both roared together. It was the last word of
the Empire--the mighty angry voice calling over the veldt. The red rim
had sunk and all was purple and crimson, with the white moon high in
the west. What had happened? Who had won? Were other columns engaged?
No one knew anything or seemed to care. But late at night as I lay
under the stars I saw on the left front signal flashes from over the
river, and I knew that Hutton was there.
So it proved, for in the morning it was over the camp in an instant
that the enemy had gone. But the troops were early afoot. Long before
dawn came the weird, muffled tapping of the drums and the crackling of
sticks as the camp-kettles were heated for breakfast. Then with the
first light we saw a strange sight. A monstrous blister was rising
slowly from the veldt. It was the balloon being inflated--our answer
to the lurking guns. We would throw away no chances now, but play
every card in our hand--another lesson which the war has driven into
our proud hearts. The army moved on, with the absurd windbag flapping
over the heads of the column. We climbed the kopjes where the enemy had
crouched, and saw the litter of empty Mauser cases and the sangars so
cunningly built. Among the stones lay a packet of the venomous-looking
green cartridges still unfired. They talk of poison, but I doubt it.
Verdigris would be an antiseptic rather than a poison in a wound. It
is more likely that it is some decomposition of the wax in which the
bullets are dipped. Brother Boer is not a Bushman after all. He is a
tough, stubborn fighter, who plays a close game, but does not cheat.
We say good-bye to the army, for our duty lies behind us and theirs
in front. For them the bullets, for us the microbes, and both for
the honour of the flag. Scattered trails of wagons, ambulance carts,
private buggies, impedimenta of all kinds, radiate out from the army.
It is a bad drift, and it will be nightfall before they are all over.
We pass the last of them, and it seems strange to emerge from that
great concourse and see the twenty miles of broad, lonely plain which
lies between us and Brandfort. We shall look rather foolish if any Boer
horsemen are hanging about the skirts of the army.
We passed the battlefield of last night, and stopped to examine the
holes made by the shells. Three had fallen within ten yards, but the
ant-heaps round had not been struck, showing how harmless the most
severe shell fire must be to prostrate infantry. From the marks in the
clay the shells were large ones--forty-pounders, in all probability.
In a little heap lay the complete kit of a Guardsman--his canteen,
water-bottle, cup, even his putties. He had stripped for action with a
vengeance. Poor devil, how uncomfortable he must be to-day!
A Kaffir on horseback is rounding up horses on the plain. He gallops
towards us--a picturesque, black figure on his shaggy Basuto mount. He
waves his hand excitedly towards the east.
“Englishman there--on veldt--hurt--Dutchman shoot him.” He delivers his
message clearly enough.
“Is he alive?” He nods.
“When did you see him?” He points to the sun and then farther east.
About two hours ago apparently.
“Can you take us there?” We buy him for 2_s._, and all canter off
together.
Our road is through maize fields and then out on to the veldt. By
Jove, what’s that? There _is_ a single black motionless figure in the
middle of that clearing. We gallop up and spring from our horses. A
short muscular, dark man is lying there with a yellow, waxen face,
and a blood-clot over his mouth. A handsome man, black-haired, black
moustached, his expression serene--No. 410 New South Wales Mounted
Infantry--shot, overlooked and abandoned. There are evident signs that
he was not alive when the Kaffir saw him. Rifle and horse are gone.
His watch lies in front of him, dial upwards, run down at one in the
morning. Poor chap, he had counted the hours until he could see them no
longer.
We examine him for injuries. Obviously he had bled to death. There is a
horrible wound in his stomach. His arm is shot through. Beside him lies
his water-bottle--a little water still in it, so he was not tortured by
thirst. And there is a singular point. On the water-bottle is balanced
a red chess pawn. Has he died playing with it? It looks like it. Where
are the other chessmen? We find them in a haversack out of his reach.
A singular trooper this, who carries chessmen on a campaign. Or is it
loot from a farmhouse? I shrewdly suspect it.
We collect the poor little effects of No. 410--a bandolier, a
stylographic pen, a silk handkerchief, a clasp-knife, a Waterbury
watch, £2 6_s._ 6_d._ in a frayed purse. Then we lift him, our hands
sticky with his blood, and get him over my saddle--horrible to see how
the flies swarm instantly on to the saddle-flaps. His head hangs down
on one side and his heels on the other. We lead the horse, and when
from time to time he gives a horrid dive we clutch at his ankles. Thank
Heaven, he never fell. It is two miles to the road, and there we lay
our burden under a telegraph post. A convoy is coming up, and we can
ask them to give him a decent burial. No. 410 holds one rigid arm and
clenched fist in the air. We lower it, but up it springs menacing,
aggressive. I put his mantle over him; but still, as we look back, we
see the projection of that raised arm. So he met his end--somebody’s
boy. Fair fight, open air, and a great cause--I know no better death.
A long, long ride on tired horses over an endless plain. Here and there
mounted Kaffirs circle and swoop. I have an idea that a few mounted
police might be well employed in our rear. How do we know what these
Kaffirs may do among lonely farms held by women and children? Very
certain I am that it is not their own horses which they are rounding up
so eagerly.
Ten miles have passed, and we leave the track to water our horses at
the dam. A black mare hard-by is rolling and kicking. Curious that she
should be so playful. We look again, and she lies very quiet. One more
has gone to poison the air of the veldt. We sit by the dam and smoke.
Down the track there comes a Colonial corps of cavalry--a famous corps,
as we see when our glasses show us the colour of the cockades. Good
heavens, will we never have sense beaten into us? How many disasters
and humiliations must we endure before we learn how to soldier? The
regiment passes without a vanguard, without scouts, without flankers,
in an enemy’s country intersected by dongas. Oh, for a Napoleon who
might meet such a regiment, tear the epaulettes of the colonel from his
shoulders, Stellenbosch him instantly without appeal or argument. Only
such a man with such powers can ever thoroughly reorganize our army.
Another six miles over the great plain. Here is a small convoy, with
an escort of militia, only a mile or two out from Brandfort. They are
heading wrong, so we set them right. The captain in charge is excited.
“There are Boers on that hill!” The hill is only half a mile or so away
on our left; so we find the subject interesting. “Kaffirs!” we suggest.
“No, no, mounted men with bandoliers and rifles. Why, there they are
now.” We see moving figures, but again suggest Kaffirs. It ends by our
both departing unconvinced. We thought the young officer jumpy over his
first convoy, but we owe him an apology, for next morning we learned
that the Mounted Infantry had been out all night chasing the very men
whom we had seen. It is likely that the accidental presence of the
convoy saved us from a somewhat longer journey than we had intended.
A day at Brandfort, a night in an open truck, and we were back at the
Café Enterique, Boulevard des Microbes, which is our town address.
CHAPTER XVIII
FINAL EXPERIENCES IN SOUTH AFRICA
Military Jealousies--Football--Cracked Ribs--A Mutiny--De Wet--A
Historian under Difficulties--Pretoria--Lord Roberts--With the
Boers--Memorable Operation--Altercation.
Military men are more full of jealousies and more prone to divide into
cliques than any set of men whom I have met. South Africa was rent with
their quarrels, and one heard on every side of how General This was
daggers drawn with General That. But the greatest cleavage of all was
between the Roberts men and the Buller men. The former were certainly
very bitter against the reliever of Ladysmith, and the comments about
the difference between his evening telegrams and those of next morning
were painful to hear. I had, however, less sympathy, as Buller was a
coarse-fibred man, though a brave soldier. Several authentic anecdotes
pointed to this want of perception. When, for example, he entered
Ladysmith the defenders saved up a few cakes and other luxuries for the
day of their release. These they laid before Buller at the welcoming
lunch. “I thought you were a starving city,” said he, looking round at
them. This story I heard from several men who claimed to speak with
knowledge as well as bitterness. It would have been sad had Buller’s
long meritorious, hard-fighting career gone down in clouds, but it
cannot be denied that in the French, or I think in any other service,
he could not have survived Colenso. The strange speech which he made
at a London luncheon after the war proved, I think, that his mind had
lost something of its grip of realities. Roberts, as usual, played the
noblest possible part in this unhappy controversy. “I shall handle
Buller with all possible tenderness,” he said to one of his Staff, and
he lived up to his words.
I found the hospital on my return to be in a very improved condition.
I fell ill myself, however, though it was not serious enough to
incapacitate me. I still think that if I had not been inoculated I
should at that time have had enteric, and there was surely something
insidious in my system, for it was a good ten years before my digestion
had recovered its tone. My condition was not improved by a severe
bruising of the ribs caused by a foul in one of the inter-hospital
football matches which we had organized in order to take the minds of
the men from their incessant work. Charles Gibbs strapped me up with
plaster, as in a corset, but I was getting too old for rough handling
which I could have smiled at in my youth.
One quaint memory of those days rises before me. There was a sharp
quarrel between Drury, our Military C.O. representing routine
discipline, and our cooks and servants representing civilian ideas
of liberty. It was mishandled and had reached such a point when I
returned from the army that the men were on absolute strike, the work
was disorganized and the patients were suffering. Drury was breathing
fire and fury, which only made the men more obdurate. It really looked
as if there might be a considerable scandal, and I felt that it was
just such a case as Mr. Langman would have wished me to handle. I asked
leave of Major Drury, therefore, that I might take the matter up, and
he was, I fancy, very glad that I should, for he was at the end of his
resources, and a public exposure of a disorganized unit means also a
discredited Commander. I therefore sat behind the long mess table, and
had the six ringleaders before me, all standing in a line with sullen
mutiny in their faces. I talked to them gently and quietly, saying
that I was in some sense responsible for them, since several of them
had been enlisted by me. I sympathized with them in all they had gone
through, and said that all our nerves had been a little overstrained,
but that Duty and Discipline must rise above our bodily weakness. No
doubt their superiors also had been strained and some allowance must
be made on both sides. I then took a graver tone. “This matter is just
going forward for court martial and I have intervened at the last
instant. You clearly understand your own position. You have disobeyed
orders on active service in the presence of the enemy. There is only
one punishment possible for such an offence. It is death.” Six pairs
of eyes stared wildly in front of me. Having produced my effect I went
into their grievances, promised that they should be considered, and
demanded an apology to Major Drury as the condition for doing anything
further. They were six chastened men who filed out of the marquee, the
apology was forthcoming, and there were no more troubles in the camp.
An anxiety came to us about this time from a very unexpected cause, for
Archie Langman, who had been my good comrade in my visit to the army,
went off again, trekking up country with the Imperial Yeomanry and ran
right into the arms of De Wet, who had just raided the line and won a
small victory at a place called Roodeval. The famous guerilla leader
was stern but just, and he treated the hospital men with consideration,
so that Archie returned none the worse for his adventure. But there was
a bad day or two for me between our learning of his capture and of his
release.
The army had got forward with little fighting, and Pretoria was in our
hands. It seemed to all of us that the campaign was over and that only
cleaning-up remained to be done. I began to consider my own return
to Europe, and there were two potent influences which drew me, apart
from the fact that the medical pressure no longer existed. The first
was that I had during all this time continued to write the History
of the War, drawing my material very often from the eye-witnesses to
these events. But there was a good deal which could only be got at the
centre, and therefore if my book was to be ready before that of my
rivals it was necessary for me to be on the spot. The second was that
a political crisis and a general election were coming on, and it was
on the cards that I might be a candidate. I could not, however, leave
Africa until I had seen Pretoria, so, with some difficulty, I obtained
leave and was off on the much-broken and precarious railway on June 22.
That journey was certainly the strangest railway journey of my life.
From minute to minute one never knew what would happen. I was in the
good company of Major Hanbury Williams, Lord Milner’s Secretary, who
allowed me to share his special carriage, and we had with us a little
alert man named Amery, then unknown to fame, but now deservedly in
the seats of the mighty. There were others but I have forgotten them.
When the train stopped in the middle of the veldt, which it continually
did, one never knew whether it was for five minutes or for five hours,
as did actually occur, and as it went on again without warning one had
to sit tight. We met a down train with its windows shattered and heard
that twenty folk had been injured in a Boer ambuscade. Every hour we
expected to be attacked. Once during one of our long halts we saw a
horseman come cantering over the great green expanse. We got out to
see and interview him. He was a tall, slab-sided fellow, unarmed, but
with a rakish debonnaire look to him. He said he was a loyal British
farmer, but I had no doubt in my own mind that he was a Boer scout who
wanted to see what our train was carrying. He sat easy in his saddle
for some little time, chatting with us, and then suddenly wheeled his
grey horse round and galloped away. Some way further down the line we
saw a farm burning, and a fringe of our irregulars riding round it. I
was told that it was one of De Wet’s farms and that it was a punishment
for cutting the line. The whole scene might have been in the Middle
Ages--say a company of Moss troopers on a raid over the English border.
When we came to the place of the Roodeval disaster, where our
Derbyshire militia had been sadly cut up by De Wet, the train had to
stop, for the line was under repair, and we were able to go over the
ground. The place was littered with shells for the heavy guns taken
from some looted train. Then there were acres covered with charred
or partly charred letters, blowing about in the wind, for De Wet had
burned the mail bags--one of his less sportsmanlike actions. Napoleon
went one better, however, on a certain occasion when he published an
intercepted British mail, which led to a British reprisal of the same
sort, not at all conducive to the peace of families. I picked up one
letter which fluttered up to me, and I read in rough handwriting, “I
hope you have killed all them Boers by now,” with many x (kisses)
underneath. Among other things were some of the band instruments,
across which De Wet had driven his heavy wagons.
It gave me a strange thrill when I looked out early one morning at
a deserted platform and saw the word Pretoria printed upon a board.
Here we were at last at the very centre of all things. The Transvaal
Hotel was open and for several days it was my head-quarters while I
examined men and things. One of my first tasks was to see Lord Roberts,
who desired to interview me on account of some sensational articles by
Burdett-Coutts which had appeared in the London Press upon the state of
the hospitals. Of course that state had in many cases, possibly in all,
been awful, but the reason lay in the terrible and sudden emergency.
Every one had done his best to meet it and had met it to a surprising
degree, but cases of hardship were numerous all the same. This I
explained to Lord Roberts--and also to the Royal Commission in London.
As an unpaid independent volunteer my words may have had more weight
than those of some far greater authority who was personally involved.
I can see Roberts now as he sat behind a small desk in his room. His
face looked red and engorged, but that was due no doubt to his life in
the sun. He was urbane and alert, reminding me at once of our former
meeting in London. His light blue eyes were full of intelligence and
kindness, but they had the watery look of age. Indeed, I can hardly
remember in all military history a case where a man over seventy had
been called out from retirement to conduct so arduous a campaign, and
it was his conception of the fine flank march to Paardeburg which had
actually beaten the Boers, however long they might keep up appearances
of resistance. We had a short vivid talk and I never saw him again
until he came to my own house at Hindhead to inspect my rifle range in
1902.
Of Lord Kitchener I saw nothing at Pretoria, but on one occasion a big
man on a huge bay horse went past me at a hard gallop on the veldt and
as he passed he waved his hand, and I knew it was the famous soldier.
He had been under a cloud since Paardeburg, and indeed it is hard to
see how his tactics can be justified, since he attacked the Boers
and lost some 2,000 men, when they were headed off and were bound to
surrender in any case. There may be reasons unknown to a civilian, but
I have heard soldiers speak warmly about it, for some of the attackers
were mounted troops who had to gallop to the edge of the donga,
and could do nothing when they got there. Colonel Hannay actually
registered some protest before obeying the orders in which he and many
of his men met their death. However, it was to Kitchener that all men
turned now when the organization of the lines of communication was
the vital point, and that rather than actual battle was his forte. I
have been told by some who have been in action with him that he became
nervously restless and impatient in a fight, while Roberts, on the
other hand, became cooler and more quiet the greater the danger grew.
In organization, however, Kitchener was inhuman in his cool accuracy.
“Regret to report great dynamite explosion. Forty Kaffirs killed,”
was the report of one officer. “Do you need more dynamite?” was the
answering telegram from Lord Kitchener.
There was a bench outside my hotel on which a group of old bearded
burghers used to smoke their pipes every day. I went down and sat
among them with my Boer pipe filled with the best Magaliesburg. I
said nothing, so soon they began to make advances, speaking excellent
English in rough guttural fashion. Botha was not far from the town, and
it was notorious that spies took him out the news every night. These
old fellows were clearly a collecting station, so I thought it would be
useful to give them something to ponder. After conversational remarks
one of them said: “Tell us, Mister, when are we to have peace?” They
were under the impression that the whole British nation was longing for
peace, and it was this which encouraged the resistance. “Oh,” said I,
“I hope not for a long time yet.” They all looked at each other, and
then the spokesman said: “Why do you say that, Mister?” “Well, it’s
this way,” said I. “This country, you see, is going to be a British
Colony. It would be very awkward for us to have a Colony which was full
of dangerous men. We couldn’t kill them then, could we? They would be
fellow-citizens and under the law’s protection, the same as we. Our
only chance is to kill them now, and that’s what we will do if we have
the time.” The old fellows all grunted and puffed furiously at their
pipes, but they could find no answer. Possibly some version of the
matter may have reached the point I was aiming at.
Our longest excursion from Pretoria was to Waterval, whither Bennett
Burleigh took me in his Cape cart. Once we got quite close to a Boer
patrol, about a dozen horsemen. Burleigh could not believe that they
were actually the enemy until I pointed out that several of the horses
were white, which was hardly ever known in our service. He then
examined them with his glass, and found I was right. They were clearly
on some quest of their own, for they took no notice of us, though they
could easily have cut us off. Our drive took us to the great prison
camp where so many British and Colonial soldiers had a humiliating
experience. The prisoners had only got free a week or two before,
and the whole place, many acres in size, was covered with every sort
of souvenir. I contented myself with a Boer carbine which had been
broken by a British prisoner, a band triangle, a half-knitted sock,
the knitting needles being made from the barbed wire, and a set of leg
fetters from the camp gaol. A tunnel had been bored just before the
general delivery by some captive Hussars. It was a wonderful work,
considering that it was done chiefly with spoons, and it had just been
finished when relief came. I descended into it, and was photographed by
Burleigh as I emerged. I daresay many of my friends have copies of it
still, with my inscription: “Getting out of a hole, like the British
Empire.”
I spent a day in Johannesburg, walking its deserted streets and
seeing its great mines now dead or at least in suspended animation.
I descended one of the deep mines, the Robinson, but as the hoisting
machinery was out of order, and we had to walk in darkness down
hundreds (it seemed thousands) of slippery wooden steps, with buckets,
which did the draining, clanking past one’s ear, it was certainly an
over-rated amusement. We got the usual tips as to which mines were
going to boom--on all of which I acted, and all of which proved to be
wrong.
On July 4, after an uneventful journey, which proved in itself that
our grip was tightening upon the country, I found myself back in
the Langman Hospital again. Times were quiet there, though another
of our poor orderlies had just died of erysipelas, which had broken
out in the wards--not traumatic erysipelas, but a variety which
came without apparent cause. I mention the fact because enteric had
been so universal that there really seemed no other disease, and
this was the only appearance of any other ailment. If the army had
all been inoculated, this would, I think, have been absolutely the
healthiest war on record. Of surgical cases we had few, but I remember
one operation which is perhaps rather technical for discussion and
yet stands out very clearly in my memory. It was performed upon the
Dutch military attaché with the Boers, who was picked up wounded and
paralyzed after some engagement. A shrapnel bullet had broken one of
his cervical vertebræ, the bone pressed on the nerves, and they had
ceased to function. Watson Cheyne of London was the operator. He had
cut down on the bone with a free incision and was endeavouring with a
strong forceps to raise the broken arch of bone, when an amazing thing
happened. Out of the great crimson cleft there rose a column of clear
water 2 feet high, feathering at the top like a little palm tree, which
gradually dwindled until it was only a few inches long, and finally
disappeared. I had, I confess, no idea what it was, and I think many
of the assembled surgeons were as taken aback as I was. The mystery
was explained by Charles Gibbs, my mentor in such matters, who said
that the cerebro-spinal fluid, which is usually a mere moistening round
the cord, had been greatly stimulated and increased by the pressure
of the broken bone. It had finally distended the whole sheath. The
forceps had punctured a small hole in the sheath and then the fluid had
been pressed through and shot into the air as I had seen it. Perhaps
the release was too sudden, for the patient died shortly after he was
removed from the table.
Charles Gibbs is still in practice, and senior surgeon of Charing Cross
Hospital, but he will forgive me if I remind him that his pupil did
once score over him. One of my enteric patients was obviously dying and
kept murmuring that he would like some solid food. Of course the first
law in treating enteric is, or was, that diet must be fluid, as the
intestine is ulcerated and puncture of it means death by peritonitis.
I said to Gibbs: “Do you consider that this man is sure to die?” “He
is certainly as bad as he can be,” said Gibbs. “Well then,” said I,
“I propose to give him a solid meal.” Gibbs shook his head and was
shocked. “It is a great responsibility you take.” “What’s the odds,”
I asked, “if he has to die anyhow?” “Well, it’s just the difference
whether you kill him or the disease does.” “Well, I’ll take the
chance,” said I--and I did so. A year or so later I was attending a
public meeting at Edinburgh when the following letter, which I copy
from my book of curiosities, was handed up to me.
128, ROYAL ROAD,
KENNINGTON PARK,
LONDON, S.E.
_October 1, 1900._
SIR,--
As one who was under your care at Bloemfontein in “Langman’s Hospital”
I hope you will forgive me in taking the liberty of wishing you
success at Edinburgh. I am actuated in this not only by political
principles but by the fact that I (and others) owe my life to your
kindness and care. You may not remember me, Sir, but I can assure you
the remembrance of you is written in my mind and can never be removed.
Again wishing you success and hoping you will pardon this liberty,
I remain, Sir,
Yours obediently,
(Pte.) M. HANLON, C.I.V.
M. Hanlon was my enteric patient and he had never looked back from the
day he had that square meal. But I don’t say it was an example for the
family practitioner to copy.
On July 11 I went on board the _Briton_ at Capetown and we sailed for
England once more. I called upon Sir Alfred Milner before I left, and
found him a very much older man than when only a few years before I had
met him on the eve of his African experience. His hair was grizzled and
his shoulders bowed, but his brave heart was as steadfast as ever, nor
did it ever fail until his hard and thankless task was done. He made
one error, I think, when he desired to keep South Africa under martial
law when the war was over, but who could have done better, or as well,
under the intolerable conditions which he had to face?
It was a remarkable passenger list on the _Briton_, and a very joyous
voyage. The Duke of Norfolk and his brother Lord Edward Talbot were two
of the most cheery people on the ship. It was a weird sight to see the
senior Baron of England and a lumpy Hollander sitting face to face on
a spar, and slashing each other with bladders to see which could knock
off the other. Blood told, if I remember right. Then there was Sir John
Willoughby, of Jameson Raid fame, Lady Sarah Wilson from Mafeking, the
Duke of Marlborough, Lady Arthur Grosvenor, the Hon. Ivor Guest and
many famous soldiers. Especially was I fortunate in my friendship with
Fletcher Robinson and with Nevinson, which was cemented by this closer
association. Only one cloud marred the serenity of that golden voyage.
There was a foreign officer on board, whose name I will not mention,
who had been with the Boers and who talked with great indiscretion as
to his experiences and opinions. He stated in my presence that the
British had habitually used Dum-Dum bullets, on which I lost my temper
and told him he was a liar. I must say that he behaved very well, for
after thinking it over he saw that he was in the wrong and he sent
down my friend Robinson to my cabin with a query as to whether I would
accept an apology. I answered that I would not, since it was the army,
and not me, which had been insulted. In an hour Robinson reappeared
with the following letter, which ended what might have been a serious
incident.
DEAR SIR,--
Allow me to tell you that I regret lively what I said about expanding
bullets--which I said but after hear saying evidence I request you to
let everybody know that I strongly wish on the contrary that I desire
to be on best terms with every Englishman and beg you for that to be
my interpreter.
Yours very truly.
The first days of August saw me in London once more, and soon all that
strange episode--the green expanse of the veldt, the flat-topped hills,
the enteric wards--had become the vision of a dream.
CHAPTER XIX
AN APPEAL TO THE WORLD’S OPINION
Misrepresentation--A Sudden Resolve--Reginald Smith--A Week’s Hard
Work--“The Cause and Conduct of the War”--Translations--German
Letter--Complete Success--Surplus.
One of the most pleasing and complete episodes in my life was connected
with the pamphlet which I wrote upon the methods and objects of our
soldiers in South Africa. It was an attempt to stem the extraordinary
outbreak of defamation which had broken out in every country--or nearly
every country, in Europe, and which had attained such a height that it
really seemed that on this absolutely fictitious basis might be built
up a powerful political combination which would involve us in a serious
war.
I can well remember the inception of my enterprise! The date was
January 7, 1902. The day was a Tuesday. Sir Henry Thompson was holding
that evening one of those charming “octave” dinners at which it was
my occasional privilege to attend, and I was going up to town from
Hindhead to keep the engagement. Sitting alone in a carriage I read
the foreign correspondence of “The Times.” In a single column there
were accounts of meetings in all parts of Europe--notably one of some
hundreds of Rhineland clergymen--protesting against our brutalities to
our enemies. There followed a whole column of extracts from foreign
papers, with grotesque descriptions of our barbarities. To any one who
knew the easygoing British soldier or the character of his leaders the
thing was unspeakably absurd; and yet, as I laid down the paper and
thought the matter over, I could not but admit that these Continental
people were acting under a generous and unselfish motive which was
much to their credit. How could they help believing those things, and,
believing them was it not their duty by meeting, by article, by any
means, to denounce them? Could we accuse them of being credulous? Would
we not be equally so if all our accounts of any transaction came from
one side, and were supported by such journalists and, above all, such
artists as lent their pens and pencils, whether venally or not, to the
Boer cause? Of course we would. And whose fault was it that our side
of the question was not equally laid before the jury of the civilized
world? Perhaps we were too proud, perhaps we were too negligent--but
the fact was obvious that judgment was being given against us by
default. How _could_ they know our case? Where could they find it? If
I were asked what document they could consult, what could I answer?
Blue-books and State papers are not for the multitude. There were books
like Fitz-Patrick’s “Transvaal from Within” or E. T. Cook’s “Rights and
Wrongs”; but these were expensive volumes, and not readily translated.
Nowhere could be found a statement which covered the whole ground in
a simple fashion. Why didn’t some Briton draw it up? And then like a
bullet through my head, came the thought, “Why don’t you draw it up
yourself?”
The next instant I was on fire with the idea. Seldom in my life have I
been so conscious of a direct imperative call which drove every other
thought from the mind. If I were a humble advocate, it was all the
better, since I could have no axe to grind. I was fairly well posted
in the facts already, as I had written an interim history of the war.
I had seen something of the campaign, and possessed many documents
which bore upon the matter. My plans widened every instant. I would
raise money from the public and by the sale of the book at home. With
this I would translate it into every language. These translations
should be given away wholesale. Every professor, every clergyman, every
journalist, every politician, should have one put under his nose in
his own language. In future, if they traduced us, they could no longer
plead ignorance that there was another side to the question. Before I
reached London all my programme was sketched out in my head. There was
no item of it, I may add, which was not eventually carried through.
Fortune was my friend. I have said that I was dining that night with
Sir Henry Thompson. My neighbour at dinner was a gentleman whose name
I had not caught. My mind being full of the one idea, my talk soon
came round to it, and instead of my neighbour being bored, my remarks
were received with a courteous and sympathetic attention which caused
me to make even greater demands upon his patience. Having listened from
the soup to the savoury (often has my conscience rebuked me since), he
ended by asking me mildly how I proposed to raise the money for these
wide-reaching schemes. I answered that I would appeal to the public.
He asked me how much would suffice. I answered that I could make a
start with £1,000. He remarked that it would take much more than that.
“However,” he added, “if £1,000 would go any way towards it, I have no
doubt that sum could be got for you.” “From whom?” I asked. He gave
me his name and address and said: “I have no doubt that if you carry
out the scheme on the lines you suggest, I could get the money. When
you have done your work, come to me, and we will see how it is best to
proceed.” I promised to do so, and thanked him for his encouragement.
Sir Eric Barrington of the Foreign Office was the name of this fairy
godfather.
This was my first stroke of good luck. A second came next morning. I
had occasion to call upon the publishing house of Smith, Elder & Co.,
over some other business, and during the interview I told Mr. Reginald
Smith the plan that I had formed. Without a moment’s hesitation he
placed the whole machinery of his world-wide business at my disposal,
without payment of any kind. From that moment he became my partner in
the enterprise, and I found his counsel at every stage of as great
help to me as the publishing services which he so generously rendered.
Not only did he save heavy costs to the fund, but he arranged easily
and successfully those complex foreign transactions which the scheme
entailed.
That morning I called at the War Office and was referred by them to the
Intelligence Department, where every information which they possessed
was freely put at my disposal. I then wrote to “The Times” explaining
what I was trying to do, and asking those who sympathized with my
object to lend me their aid. Never was an appeal more generously or
rapidly answered. My morning post on the day after brought me 127
letters, nearly all of which contained sums drawn from every class of
the community, varying from the £50 of Lord Rosebery to the half-crown
of the widow of a private soldier. Most of the remittances were
accompanied by letters which showed that, however they might pretend in
public to disregard it, the attitude of the foreign critics had really
left a deep and bitter feeling in the hearts of our people.
It was on January 9 that I was able to begin my task. On the 17th I
had finished it. When the amount of matter is considered, and the
number of researches and verifications which it entailed, I need not
say that I had been absorbed in the work, and devoted, I dare say,
sixteen hours a day to its accomplishment. So far as possible I kept my
individual opinions in the background, and made a more effective case
by marshalling the statements of eye-witnesses, many of them Boers, on
the various questions of farm-burnings, outrages, concentration camps,
and other contentious subjects. I made the comments as simple and as
short as I could, while as to the accuracy of my facts, I may say that,
save as to the exact number of farmhouses burned, I have never heard of
one which has been seriously questioned. It was a glad day for me when
I was able to lay down my pen with the feeling that my statement was as
full and as effective as it was in me to make it.
Meanwhile the subscriptions had still come steadily in, until nearly
£1,000 more had been banked by the time that the booklet was finished.
The greater number of contributions were in small sums from people who
could ill afford it. One notable feature was the number of governesses
and others residing abroad whose lives had been embittered by their
inability to answer the slanders which were daily uttered in their
presence. Many of these sent their small donations. A second pleasing
feature was the number of foreigners resident in England who supported
my scheme, in the hope that it would aid their own people to form a
juster view. From Norwegians alone I received nearly £50 with this
object. If Britain’s own children too often betrayed her at a crisis of
her fate, she found at least warm friends among the strangers within
her gates. Another point worth noting was that a disproportionate
sum was from clergymen, which was explained by several of them as
due to the fact that since the war began they had been pestered by
anti-national literature, and took this means of protesting against it.
The proofs having been printed, I sent them to my Foreign Office friend
as I had promised, and presently received an invitation to see him. He
expressed his approval of the work, and handed me a banknote for £500,
at the same time explaining that the money did not come from him. I
asked if I might acknowledge it as from an anonymous donor--“The donor
would not object,” said my friend. So I was able to head my list with
“A Loyal Briton,” who contributed £500. I daresay the Secret Service
knew best whence the money came.
By this time the banking account had risen to some two thousand pounds,
and we were in a position to put our foreign translations in hand. The
British edition had in the meantime been published, the distribution
being placed in the hands of Messrs. Newnes, who gave the enterprise
whole-hearted aid. The book was retailed at sixpence, but as it was
our desire that the sale should be pushed it was sold to the trade
at about threepence. The result was to leave the main profit of the
enterprise in the hands of the retailer. The sale of the pamphlet was
very large--in fact, I should imagine that it approached a record in
the time. Some 250,000 copies were sold in Great Britain very quickly,
and about 300,000 within a couple of months. This great sale enabled us
to add considerably to the fund by the accumulation of the small rebate
which had been reserved upon each copy. Our financial position was very
strong, therefore, in dealing with the foreign translations.
The French edition was prepared by Professor Sumichrast of Harvard
University, who was a French-Canadian by birth. This gentleman
patriotically refused to take any payment for his work, which was
admirably done. It was published without difficulty by Galignani,
and several thousands were given away where they would do most good,
in France, Belgium, and Switzerland. Twenty thousand copies of this
edition were printed.
The German edition was a more difficult matter. No German publisher
would undertake it, and the only courtesy which we met with in that
country was from Baron von Tauchnitz, who included the volume in his
well-known English library. Our advances were met with coldness, and
occasionally with insult. Here, for example, is a copy of an extreme
specimen of the kind of letter received.
_January, 1902._
MESSRS. SMITH, ELDER & CO.,--
GENT,--Doyle’s book makes the impression as if it was ordered or
influenced by the English Jingo party.
Now, you know, this English war party (as well as the English officers
and soldiers in Transvaal) are contempted by the whole civilised world
as coward scoundrels and vile brutes who murder women and children.
It would be for me, as an importer of English literature to Germany,
Austria and Russia, in the highest degree imprudent to do anything
that could awake the suspicion I was in connection with so despised a
party.
I have shown your letter to several persons. Nobody was inclined to
take up the matter.
There is a mixture of venom and smugness about this epistle which gives
it a high place in my collection. In spite of rebuffs, however, I found
an Anglo-German publishing house in Berlin to undertake the work, and
with the assistance of Herr Curt von Musgrave, who gave me an excellent
translation, I was able to work off more than one very large edition,
which had a perceptible effect in modifying the tone of that portion
of the German press which was open to reason. Altogether 20,000 copies
were distributed in the Fatherland and German-speaking Austria.
I remember one whimsical incident at this time. Somewhat tired, after
the book was in the press, I went down to Seaford for a rest. While
there, a message reached me that a Pan-German officer of Landwehr had
come over to London, and desired to see me. I wired that I could not
come up, but that I should be happy to see him if he came down. Down he
came accordingly, a fine, upstanding, soldierly man, speaking excellent
English. The German proofs had passed through his hands, and he was
much distressed by the way in which I had spoken of the hostility which
his countrymen had shown us, and its effect upon our feelings towards
them. We sat all day and argued the question out. His great point, as
a Pan-German, was that some day both Germany and Britain would have to
fight Russia--Britain for India, and Germany perhaps for the Baltic
Provinces. Therefore they should keep in close touch with each other. I
assured him that at the time the feeling in this country was much more
bitter against Germany than against Russia. He doubted it. I suggested
as a test that he should try the question upon any ’bus driver in
London as a fair index of popular opinion. He was very anxious that
I should modify certain paragraphs, and I was equally determined not
to do so, as I was convinced they were true. Finally, when he left me
on his return to London he said, “Well, I have come 800 miles to see
you, and I ask you now as a final request that in the translation you
will allow the one word ‘Leider’ (‘Alas’) to be put at the opening of
that paragraph.” I was perfectly ready to agree to this. So he got one
word in exchange for 1,600 miles of travel, and I think it was a very
sporting venture.
One charming incident connected with this German translation was that
a small group of Swiss (and in no country had we such warm-hearted
friends as among the minority in Switzerland) were so keen upon the
cause that they had a translation and an edition of their own, with
large print and maps. It was published independently at Zurich, Dr.
Angst, the British Consul in that town, helping to organize it.
Amongst other good friends who worked hard for the truth, and exposed
themselves to much obloquy in doing so, were Professor Naville, the
eminent Egyptologist of Geneva, and Monsieur Talichet, the well-known
editor of the “Bibliothèque Universelle” of Lausanne, who sacrificed
the circulation of his old-established magazine in upholding our cause.
So much for the French and German editions. The American and Canadian
had arranged themselves. There remained the Spanish, Portuguese,
Italian, Hungarian, and Russian, all of which were rapidly prepared and
circulated without a hitch, save that in the case of the Russian, which
was published at Odessa, the Censor suppressed it at the last instant.
We were successful, however, in getting his veto removed. In each of
these countries several thousands of the booklet were given away. In
every case we found a larger sale for these foreign editions than we
expected, arising no doubt from the eagerness of English residents
abroad to make their neighbours understand our position.
The Dutch edition was a stumbling-block. This gallant little nation
felt a most natural sympathy for their kinsfolk in arms against us,
and honestly believed that they had been very badly used. We should
certainly have felt the same. The result was that we were entirely
unable to find either publisher or distributor. The greater the
opposition the more obvious was the need for the book, so Mr. Reginald
Smith arranged that a large edition should be printed here, and sent
direct to all leaders of Dutch opinion. I believe that out of some
5,000 copies not more than twenty were sent back to us.
The Norwegian edition also presented some difficulties which were
overcome by the assistance of Mr. Thomassen of the “Verdensgang.” This
gentleman’s paper was entirely opposed to us, but in the interests
of fair play he helped me to get my book before the public. I hope
that some relaxation in his attitude towards us in his paper may have
been due to a fuller comprehension of our case, and a realization of
the fact that a nation does not make great sacrifices extending over
years for an ignoble cause. One other incident in connection with the
Norwegian edition is pleasant for me to recall. I had prefaced each
Continental version with a special foreword, designed to arrest the
attention of the particular people whom I was addressing. In this case,
when the book was going to press in Christiania, the preface had not
arrived from the translator (the accomplished Madame Brockmann), and
as she lived a hundred miles off, with all the passes blocked by a
phenomenal snow-storm, it looked as if it must be omitted. Finally,
however, my short address to the Scandinavian people was heliographed
across from snow-peak to snow-peak, and so found its way to the book.
There was one other language into which the book needed to be
translated, and that was the Welsh, for the vernacular press of the
Principality was almost entirely pro-Boer, and the Welsh people had
the most distorted information as to the cause for which their
fellow-countrymen fought so bravely in the field. The translation
was done by Mr. W. Evans, and some 10,000 copies were printed for
distribution through the agency of the Cardiff “Western Mail.” This
finished our labours. Our total output was 300,000 of the British
edition, about 50,000 in Canada and the United States, 20,000 in
Germany, 20,000 in France, 5,000 in Holland, 10,000 in Wales, 8,000
in Hungary, 5,000 in Norway and Sweden, 3,500 in Portugal, 10,000 in
Spain, 5,000 in Italy, and 5,000 in Russia. There were editions in
Tamil and Kanarese, the numbers of which I do not know. In all, I have
seen twenty different presentments of my little book. The total sum
at our disposal amounted to about £5,000, of which, speaking roughly,
half came from subscriptions and the other half was earned by the book
itself.
It was not long before we had the most gratifying evidence of the
success of these efforts. There was a rapid and marked change in the
tone of the whole Continental press, which may have been a coincidence,
but was certainly a pleasing one. In the case of many important organs
of public opinion there could, however, be no question of coincidence,
as the arguments advanced in the booklet and the facts quoted were
cited in their leading articles as having modified their former
anti-British views. This was the case with the “Tagblatt,” of Vienna,
whose London representative, Dr. Maurice Ernst, helped me in every way
to approach the Austrian public. So it was also with the “National
Zeitung” in Berlin, the “Independance Belge” in Brussels, and many
others. In the greater number of cases, however, it was unreasonable to
suppose that a journal would publicly eat its own words, and the best
result for which we could hope was that which we often attained, an
altered and less acrimonious tone.
Mr. Reginald Smith and I now found ourselves in the very pleasant
position of having accomplished our work so far as we could do it,
and yet of having in hand a considerable sum of money. What were we
to do with it? To return it to subscribers was impossible, and indeed
at least half of it would have to be returned to ourselves since it
had been earned by the sale of the book. I felt that the subscribers
had given me a free hand with the money, to use it to the best of my
judgment for national aims.
Our first expense was in immediate connection with the object in
view, for we endeavoured to supplement the effect of the booklet by
circulating a large number of an excellent Austrian work, “Recht und
Unrecht im Burenkrieg,” by Dr. Ferdinand Hirz. Six hundred of these
were distributed where they might do most good.
Our next move was to purchase half a dozen very handsome gold cigarette
cases. On the back of each was engraved, “From Friends in England to a
Friend of England.” These were distributed to a few of those who had
stood most staunchly by us. One went to the eminent French publicist,
Monsieur Yves Guyot, a second to Monsieur Talichet of Lausanne, a
third to Mr. Sumichrast, and a fourth to Professor Naville. By a happy
coincidence the latter gentleman happened to be in this country at the
time, and I had the pleasure of slipping the small souvenir into his
hand as he put on his overcoat in the hall of the Athenæum Club. I have
seldom seen anyone look more surprised.
There remained a considerable sum, and Mr. Reginald Smith shared my
opinion that we should find some permanent use for it, and that this
use should bring benefit to natives of South Africa. We therefore
forwarded £1,000 to Edinburgh University, to be so invested as to give
a return of £40 a year, which should be devoted to the South African
student who acquitted himself with most distinction. There are many
Afrikander students at Edinburgh, and we imagined that we had hit upon
a pleasing common interest for Boer and for Briton; but I confess
that I was rather amazed when at the end of the first year I received
a letter from a student expressing his confidence that he would win
the bursary, and adding that there could be no question as to his
eligibility, as he was a full-blooded Zulu.
The fund, however, was by no means exhausted, and we were able to make
contributions to the Civilian Rifleman’s movement, to the Union Jack
Club, to the Indian famine, to the Japanese nursing, to the Irish old
soldiers’ institute, to the fund for distressed Boers, and to many
other deserving objects. These donations varied from fifty guineas to
ten. Finally we were left with a residuum which amounted to £309 0_s._
4_d._ Mr. Reginald Smith and I sat in solemn conclave over this sum,
and discussed how it might best be used for the needs of the Empire.
The fourpence presented no difficulty, for we worked it off upon the
crossing sweeper outside, who had helped to relieve Delhi. Nine pounds
went in tobacco for the Chelsea veterans at Christmas. There remained
the good round sum of £300. We bethought us of the saying that the
safety of the Empire might depend upon a single shot from a twelve-inch
gun, and we devoted the whole amount to a magnificent cup, to be shot
for by the various ships of the Channel Squadron, the winner to hold
it for a single year. The stand of the cup was from the oak timbers
of the _Victory_, and the trophy itself was a splendid one in solid
silver gilt. By the kind and judicious co-operation of Admiral Sir
Percy Scott, the Inspector of Target Practice, through whose hands the
trophy passed to the Senior Admiral afloat, Sir Arthur Wilson, V.C., in
command of the Channel Squadron, all difficulties were overcome and the
cup was shot for that year, and has since produced, I am told, great
emulation among the various crews. Our one condition was that it should
not be retained in the mess-room, but should be put out on the deck
where the winning bluejackets could continually see it. I learn that
the _Exmouth_ came into Plymouth Harbour with the cup on the top of her
fore turret.
The one abiding impression left upon my mind by the whole episode
is that our Government does not use publicity enough in stating and
defending its own case. If a private individual could by spending
£3,000 and putting in a month’s work make a marked impression upon the
public opinion of the world, what could be done by a really rich and
intelligent organization? But the first requisite is that you should
honestly have a just cause to state. Who is there outside England who
really knows the repeated and honest efforts made by us to settle the
eternal Irish question and hold the scales fair between rival Irishmen?
We certainly do, as a great Frenchman said, “defend ourselves very
badly.” If we let cases go by default how can we imagine that the
verdict can be in our favour?
CHAPTER XX
MY POLITICAL ADVENTURES
Central Edinburgh--A Knock-out--The Border Burghs--Tariff
Reform--Heckling--Interpolations--Defeat--Reflections.
I have twice stood for Parliament, though if anyone were to ask me my
real reasons for doing so I should find it difficult to give them an
intelligible answer. It certainly was from no burning desire to join
that august assembly, for in each case I deliberately contested seats
which every expert considered to be impossible, and though on one
occasion I very nearly proved the experts to be wrong, my action is
none the less a sign that I had no great wish to be at the head of the
poll, for other and easier seats had been offered me. In the case of
Central Edinburgh, for which I stood in the 1900 election, there may
have been some sentimental call, for it was the section of the city
where I was educated and where much of my boyhood was spent. It was
said to be the premier Radical stronghold of Scotland, and to carry
it would be a fine exploit, for though I was a good deal of a Radical
myself in many ways, I knew that it would be a national disgrace and
possibly an imperial disaster if we did not carry the Boer War to
complete success, and that was the real issue before the electors.
I believe that Providence one way or another gets a man’s full powers
out of him, but that it is essential that the man himself should
co-operate to the extent of putting himself in the way of achievement.
Give yourself the chance always. If it is so fated, you will win
through. If your path lies elsewhere, then you have got your sign
through your failure. But do not put yourself in the position later in
life of looking back and saying, “Perhaps I might have had a career
there had I tried.” Deep in my bones I felt that I was on earth for
some big purpose, and it was only by trying that I could tell that the
purpose was not political, though I could never imagine myself as
fettered to a party or as thinking that all virtues lay with one set of
men.
My political work was not wasted. I stood in the two most heckling
constituencies in Scotland, and through that odious and much-abused
custom I gained a coolness on the platform and a disregard for
interruption and clamour, which have stood me in good stead since.
Indeed, I hold that it was to fashion me more perfectly for my ultimate
work that I was twice passed through this furnace. I remember that
once at Hawick my soldier brother came to see how I was getting on,
and was struck by the effect which I had upon my audience. “It would
be strange, Arthur,” said he, “if your real career should prove to
be political and not literary.” “It will be neither. It will be
religious,” said I. Then we looked at each other in surprise and both
burst out laughing. The answer seemed quite absurd and pointless,
for no remote possibility of such a thing suggested itself. It was a
curious example of that unconscious power of prophecy which is latent
within us.
I had hardly landed from South Africa when I flung myself into
the Edinburgh contest. Mr. Cranston, later Sir Robert Cranston, a
well-known citizen, was my chairman. When I arrived a small meeting
was held, and I, a weary man, listened while it was gravely debated,
with much weighing of pros and cons, what my view was to be on each of
the vital questions. Finally it was all settled to their satisfaction
and written down, preparatory to forming the election address. I
had listened with some amusement, and when it was all over I said:
“Gentlemen, may I ask who is going to honour these promises that you
are making?” “Why, you, of course,” said they. “Then I think it would
be better if I made them,” said I, and, crumpling up their document,
I picked up a pen and wrote out my own views and my own address. It
was well received and would have won the election against enormous
odds--some thousands of votes at the last trial--were it not for a very
unexpected intervention.
Those who remember the election will bear me out that it was an
exciting affair. My opponent was a Mr. Brown, a member of Nelson’s
publishing firm, which had large works in the constituency. I was fresh
from the scene of war and overflowing with zeal to help the army, so
I spared myself in no way. I spoke from barrels in the street or any
other pedestal I could find, holding many wayside meetings besides my
big meetings in the evening, which were always crowded and uproarious.
There was nothing which I could have done and did not do. My opponent
was not formidable, but I had against me an overwhelming party
machine with its registered lists, and record of unbroken victory.
It was no light matter to change the vote of a Scotsman, and many
of them would as soon think of changing their religion. One serious
mischance occurred. I was determined to do and say nothing which I
did not heartily mean, and this united Ireland, North and South, for
the first time in history. The Irish vote was considerable, so that
this was important. The South quarrelled with me because, though I
favoured some devolution, I was not yet converted to Home Rule. The
North was angry because I was in favour of a Catholic University for
Dublin. So I had no votes from Ireland. When I went down to hold a
meeting in a hall in the Cowgate, which is the Irish quarter, I was
told that it had been arranged to break my platform up. This seems
to have been true, but fortunately I got on good human terms with my
audience, and indeed moved some of them to tears, by telling them of
the meeting between the two battalions of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers
at Ladysmith. So it happened that when a sinister-looking figure, a
local horse-slaughterer, appeared on the edge of the stage, he was
received in silence. He moved slowly across and said something about
free speech. I felt that if I or my people were violent there would be
a riot, so I simply said: “Trot along, sonny, trot along!” He did trot
along and disappeared on the other side of the stage. After the transit
of this sinister star, and my temporary eclipse, all went well to the
end.
As the day of the election approached, it became more and more evident
that I was getting dangerous, but I was knocked out--fortunately for
myself, as I now discern--by a curious interference. There was an
Evangelical fanatic named Plimmer living at Dunfermline who thought it
his special mission in life to keep Roman Catholic candidates out of
Parliament. Therefore at the eleventh hour, the very night before the
voting, the whole district was placarded with big sheets to say that
I was a Roman Catholic, that I had been educated by Jesuits, and in
fact that my whole candidature was an attack upon Kirk and Covenant and
Lesser Catechism and everything dear to the Scottish heart. It was very
cleverly done, and of course this fanatic alone could not have paid
the expenses, though I cannot believe that Mr. Brown knew anything of
the matter. My unhappy supporters saw crowds of workmen reading these
absurd placards and calling out, “I’ve done with him!” As it was I very
narrowly missed the seat, being only beaten by a few hundred votes.
The question of an appeal came along, but the thing was so clever that
it really was difficult to handle, since it was true enough that I had
been educated by Jesuits and yet absurdly untrue that this education
influenced my present frame of mind. Therefore we had to leave it alone.
Looking back, I am inclined to look upon Mr. Plimmer as one of the
great benefactors of my life. He altered the points at the last moment
and prevented me from being shunted on to a side-line which would
perhaps have taken me to a dead end. I could never have been a party
man, and there seems no place under our system for anyone else. At the
moment I was a little sore, and I wrote a letter to the “Scotsman”
which defined my religious position as it was then, and caused, I
believe, no little comment. I had the following letter from Sir John
Boraston, who was the party organizer. The first sentence refers to the
possibility of lodging a legal protest.
6 GREAT GEORGE STREET,
WESTMINSTER,
LONDON, S.W.
_October 18, 1900._
DEAR DR. DOYLE,--
Probably your Edinburgh advisers are right, but it is undoubtedly a
misfortune that the perpetrators of attacks such as that which was
made upon you should be allowed to go unpunished.
Your fight was indeed a phenomenal one, and you have the consolation
of knowing that if you did not actually win a seat for yourself, you
did materially contribute to the Liberal Unionist victories in two
other Edinburgh constituencies--this is generally admitted.
I am sure you will feel that your first entry into active political
life promises a full measure of success at no distant date, and I hope
I may see you again before long to talk matters over.
Yours very truly,
(_Sgd._) JOHN BORASTON.
I had no further urge to try political adventures, but when the
Tariff Reform election of 1905 came round I felt that I should make
some sacrifice for the faith that was in me. Mr. “Tommy” Shaw, as he
was called--now Lord Shaw--was one of the most energetic Radicals in
Scotland, and was reputed to be most firmly established in his seat,
which was called “The Border Burghs,” consisting of the small towns
of Hawick, Galashiels and Selkirk, all of them engaged in the woollen
trade, and all of them hard hit by German competition. It seemed to me
that if there was a good field anywhere for Mr. Joseph Chamberlain’s
views on a protective tariff it should be there, where an open market
had caused such distress and loss. My reasoning was sound enough,
but I had not reckoned upon the innate conservatism of the Scottish
character, which cannot readjust its general principles to meet the
particular case--a noble trait, but occasionally an unpractical one.
Party politics are not a divine law, but simply a means to an end,
which must adjust itself as the end varies.
This time I really expended a good deal of work as well as money upon
the attempt, for if you stand for others besides yourself you have no
choice but to work up to the last pound of steam. I might have added
my neck to the other things which I risked, for in an endeavour to
get into comradeship with the people I joined in what is known as the
“common-riding” at Hawick, where a general holiday is proclaimed while
the bounds of the common are ridden over and defined. Part of the
proceedings was that each mounted man had to gallop full-split down the
high road over a measured course of half a mile or so, the burghers
lining the way and helping one by waving sticks and umbrellas. I was
mounted on a hunter which I had never seen before, and which was full
of spirit. Fortunately this monstrous road performance came off late
in the afternoon, and I had taken some of the spirit out of him by our
ride round the common. I do not profess to be a great horseman, and I
certainly nearly made the acquaintance of the Hawick turnpike. Sooner
or later some one will be killed at that game, and horses must be lamed
every year. Afterwards an interminable ballad was recited with a sort
of jingling chorus to which all who are near the reciter keep time
with their feet. As it would seem unsympathetic not to join in, I also
kept time with the rhythm, and was amused and amazed when I got back
to London to see in the papers that I had danced a hornpipe in public
before the electors. Altogether I had no desire to face another Hawick
common-riding.
The trouble in dealing with a three-town constituency, each town very
jealous of the others, is that whatever you do has to be done thrice
or you give offence. I was therefore heartily sick of the preparation
and only too pleased when the actual election came off. I thought then,
and I think now, that a sliding tariff, if only as an instrument for
bargaining, would be altogether to our interest in this country, and
would possibly cause some of our rivals to cease closing their markets
to us, while they freely use the open market which we present. I still
think that Chamberlain’s whole scheme was an admirable one, and that
it was defeated by a campaign of misrepresentation and actual lying,
in which Chinese labour and dear food played a chief part. I stood
among the ruins of a dismantled factory in the Border Burghs and I
showed how it had been destroyed by German competition, and how while
we let their goods in free they were levying taxes on ours and spending
the money so gained upon warships with which we might some day have
to reckon. The answer to my arguments consisted largely of coloured
cartoons of Chinamen working in chains in the mines of the Transvaal,
and other nonsense of the sort. I worked very hard, so hard that on the
last night of the election I addressed meetings in each of the three
towns, which, as they are separated by many miles of hilly roads, is
a feat never done, I understand, before or since. However, it was of
no avail and I was beaten, though I believe I am right in saying that
the party showed a less decrease of votes than in any constituency in
Scotland. The thing which annoyed me most about the election was that
my opponent, Tommy Shaw, only appeared once, so far as I remember, in
the constituency, and did everything by deputy, so that I found myself
like a boxer who is punching his rival’s second instead of himself
all the time. I had the melancholy satisfaction of noting that the
Radical chairman who was so engrossed in the wrongs of Chinamen in the
Transvaal went into liquidation within a few months, giving as his
reason the pressure of foreign competition in the woollen trade.
It is a vile business this electioneering, though no doubt it is
chastening in its effects. They say that mud-baths are healthy
and purifying, and I can compare it to nothing else. This applies
particularly, I think, to Scotland, where the art of heckling has been
carried to extremes. This asking of questions was an excellent thing
so long as it was honest in its desire to know the candidate’s opinion
upon a public measure. But the honest questions are the exception and
the unfortunate man is baited by all sorts of senseless trick questions
from mischievous and irresponsible persons, which are designed to annoy
him and make him seem foolish or ignorant. Some reform is badly needed
in this matter. Often, after a speech of an hour, I had an hour of
questions, one more absurd than another. The press records will show,
I hope, that I held my own, for I knew my subject well, and by this
time I had had a good schooling on the platform. Sometimes I countered
heavily. I remember one robust individual coming down with a carefully
prepared question which he shouted from the back of the hall. I had
been speaking of retaliation in commercial tariffs, and his question
was: “Mister Candidate, how do you reconcile retaliation with the
Sermon on the Mount?” I answered: “We cannot in life always reach the
highest ideals. Have _you_ sold all and given to the poor?” The man was
locally famous as having done nothing of the sort, and there was a howl
of delight at my answer which fairly drove him out of the hall.
There is a peculiar dry Scottish wit which is very effective when you
get it on your side. I remember one solemn person who had a loaf
on the end of a pole which he protruded towards me, as if it were a
death’s-head, from the side box of the theatre in which I spoke. The
implication was, I suppose, that I would raise the price of bread. It
was difficult to ignore the thing and yet puzzling how to meet it, but
one of my people in broad Doric cried: “Tak’ it hame and eat it!” which
quite spoilt the effect. Usually these interpolations are delivered in
a dreamy impersonal sort of voice. When, in talking of the Transvaal
War, I said with some passion, “Who is going to pay for this war?” a
seedy-looking person standing against the side wall said, “I’m no’
carin’!” which made both me and the audience laugh. Again I remember my
speech being quite interrupted by a joke which was lost upon me. I had
spoken of the self-respect and decent attire of American factory hands.
“Gang and look at Broon’s,” said the dreamy voice. I have never yet
learned whether Brown’s factory was famous for tidiness or the reverse,
but the remark convulsed the audience.
The Radicals used to attend my meetings in great numbers, so that
really, I think, they were often hostile audiences which I addressed.
Since their own candidate held hardly any meetings I was the only fun
to be had. Before the meeting the packed house would indulge in cries
and counter-cries with rival songs and slogans, so that as I approached
the building it sounded like feeding-time at the Zoo. My heart often
sank within me as I listened to the uproar, and I would ask myself what
on earth I meant by placing myself in such a position. Once on the
platform, however, my fighting blood warmed up, and I did not quail
before any clamour. It was all a great education for the future, though
I did not realize it at the time, but followed blindly where some
strange inward instinct led me on. What tired me most was the personal
liberties taken by vulgar people, which is a very different thing from
poor people, whom I usually find to be very delicate in their feelings.
I take a liberty with no man, and there is something in me which rises
up in anger if any man takes a liberty with me. A candidate cannot say
all he thinks on this matter, or his party may suffer. I was always on
my guard lest I should give offence in this way, and I well remember
how on one occasion I stood during a three days’ campaign a good many
indignities with exemplary patience. I was on edge, however, and as
luck would have it, at the very last moment, as I stood on the platform
waiting for the London train, one of my own people, an exuberant young
bounder, came up with a loud familiar greeting and squeezed my right
hand until my signet ring nearly cut me. It opened the sluice and out
came a torrent of whaler language which I had hoped that I had long ago
forgotten. The blast seemed to blow him bodily across the platform, and
formed a strange farewell to my supporters.
Thus ended my career in politics. I could say with my friend Kendrick
Bangs: “The electors have returned me--to the bosom of my family.” A
very pleasant constituency it is. I had now thoroughly explored that
path, and had assured myself that my life’s journey did not lie along
it. And yet I was deeply convinced that public service was waiting
for me somewhere. One likes to feel that one has some small practical
influence upon the affairs of one’s time, but I encourage myself by the
thought that though I have not been a public man, yet my utterances in
several pamphlets and numerous letters in the Press, may have had more
weight with the public since I was disassociated from any political
interest which could sway my judgment.
CHAPTER XXI
THE YEARS BETWEEN THE WARS
“History of the War”--Sir Oliver Lodge--Military Arguments--“Sir
Nigel”--The Edalji Case--Crowborough--The Oscar Slater Case.
When I returned from South Africa, I found that my wife had improved in
health during her stay at Naples, and we were able to settle down once
more at Hindhead, where, what with work, cricket, and hunting, I had
some pleasant years. A few pressing tasks were awaiting me, however.
Besides the barren contest at Edinburgh I had done a history of the
war, but the war still continued, and I had to modify it and keep it up
to date in successive editions, until in 1902 it took final shape. I
called it “The Great Boer War,” not because I thought the war “great”
in the scale of history, but to distinguish it from the smaller Boer
War of 1881. It had the good fortune to please both friend and foe,
for there was an article from one of the Boer leaders in “Cornhill”
commending its impartial tone. It has been published now by Nelson in
a cheap edition, and shows every sign of being the permanent record of
the campaign. No less than £27,000 was spent upon an Official History,
but I cannot find that there was anything in it which I had not already
chronicled, save for those minute details of various forces which clog
a narrative. I asked the chief official historian whether my book had
been of use to him, and he very handsomely answered that it had been
the spine round which he built.
This history, which is a large-sized book, is not to be confused with
the pamphlet “The Cause and Conduct of the War in South Africa,” which
was a small concise defence of the British position. The inception and
result of this I have already described. I have no doubt that it was to
the latter that my knighthood, and my appointment as Deputy-Lieutenant
of Surrey, both of which occurred in 1902, were due.
I remember that on going down to Buckingham Palace to receive the
accolade, I found that all who were waiting for various honours were
herded into funny little pens, according to their style and degree,
there to await their turn. It chanced that Professor Oliver Lodge, who
was knighted on the same morning, was penned with me, and we plunged
at once into psychic talk, which made me forget where I was, or what I
was there for. Lodge was really more advanced and certain in his views
than I was at that time, but I was quite sure about the truth of the
phenomena, and only doubtful whether some alternative explanation might
be found for a discarnate intelligence as the force at the back of
them. This possibility I weighed for years before the evidence forced
me to the Spiritist conclusion. But when, among the cloud of lies with
which we are constantly girt, I read that Lodge and I were converted
to our present views by the death of our respective sons, my mind goes
back very clearly to that exchange of thought in 1902. At that time we
had both studied the subject for many years.
Among the many congratulations which I had on my knighthood there
were few which I valued more highly than that of my old comrade, H.
A. Gwynne, who knew so much about South African affairs. He was good
enough to say: “I look upon your work during this terrible South
African business as quite equal to that of a successful general.” This
may well be the exaggeration of friendship, but it is at least pleasing
to know that those who were in a position to judge did not look upon me
as a mere busybody who butts in without due cause.
There is one incident at this period which comes back to my memory, and
seems very whimsical. I had taken a course of muscular development with
Mr. Sandow, the strong man, and in that way had formed an acquaintance
with him. In the winter of 1901 Mr. Sandow had a laudable desire to
do something for the British wounded, and with that idea he announced
a competition at the Albert Hall. He was himself to show feats of
strength and then there was to be a muster of strong men who should
exhibit their proportions and receive prizes. There were to be three
prizes, a golden statue about two feet high, a silver replica, and
a bronze. Sandow asked Lawes the sculptor and myself to be the two
judges, he being referee.
It proved to be a very big event. The Albert Hall was crowded. There
were eighty competitors, each of whom had to stand on a pedestal,
arrayed only in a leopard’s skin. Lawes and I put them up ten at a
time, chose one here and one there, and so gradually reduced the number
until we only had six left. Then it became excessively difficult, for
they were all perfectly developed athletes. Finally the matter was
simplified by three extra prizes, and then we got down to the three
winners, but had still to name their order, which was all-important
since the value of the three prizes was so very different. The three
men were all wonderful specimens, but one was a little clumsy and
another a little short, so we gave the valuable gold statue to the
middle one, whose name was Murray, and who came from Lancashire. The
vast audience was very patient during our long judgment, and showed
that it was in general agreement. After the meeting Sandow had invited
the prize-winners, the judges and a chosen company to a late supper,
which was very sumptuous, with champagne flowing freely. When we had
finished it was early in the morning. As I left the place of banquet
I saw in front of me the winning athlete going forth into the London
night with the big golden statue under his arm. I had seen that he was
a very simple countryman, unused to London ways, so I overtook him and
asked him what his plans were. He confided to me that he had no money,
but he had a return ticket to Bolton or Blackburn, and his idea was to
walk the streets until a train started for the North. It seemed to me
a monstrous thing to allow him to wander about with his treasure at
the mercy of any murderous gang, so I suggested that he should come
back with me to Morley’s Hotel, where I was residing. We could not get
a cab, and it seemed to me more grotesque than anything of Steven’s
London imaginings, that I should be wandering round at three in the
morning in the company of a stranger who bore a great golden statue of
a nude figure in his arms. When at last we reached the hotel I told the
night porter to get him a room, saying at the same time, “Mind you are
civil to him, for he has just been declared to be the strongest man in
England.” This went round the hotel, and I found that in the morning
he held quite a reception, all the maids and waiters paying homage
while he lay in bed with his statue beside him. He asked my advice
as to selling it, for it was of considerable value and seemed a white
elephant to a poor man. I told him he should open a gymnasium in his
native town and have the statue exhibited as an advertisement. This he
did, and I believe he has been very successful.
A post-African task was the building up of rifle clubs, for I was
enormously impressed by the power of the rifle as shown in the recent
war. A soldier was no longer a specialized creature, but every brave
man who could hold a rifle-barrel straight was a dangerous man. I
founded the Undershaw Club, which was the father of many others, and
which was inspected by Lord Roberts, Mr. Seeley and other great men.
Within a year or two England was dotted with village clubs, though I
fear that few of them still hold their own.
I was so struck by the factors in modern warfare and I had thought so
much about them in Africa that I wrote about them with some freedom and
possibly even with some bitterness, so that I speedily found myself
involved in hot controversy with Colonel Lonsdale Hale, “The Times”
expert, and also with Colonel Maude, a well-known military writer.
Perhaps as a civilian I should have expressed my views in a more
subdued way, but my feelings had been aroused by the conviction that
the lives of our men, and even the honour of our country, had been
jeopardized by the conservatism of the military and that it would so
happen again unless more modern views prevailed. I continued to advance
my theories for the next ten years, and I have no doubt, when I judge
them by the experience of the Great War, that in the main I was right.
The points which I made were roughly as follows:
That the rifle (or machine-gun, which is a modified rifle) is the
supreme arbiter in war, and that therefore everything must be
sacrificed to concentrate upon that.
That the only place for swords, lances and all the frippery of the past
was a museum. Bayonets also are very questionable.
That cavalry could not divide their allegiance between rifle and sword
since entirely different ground and tactics are needed for each, the
swordsman looking for level sward, the rifleman looking for cover.
Therefore all cavalry should at once become Mounted Rifles.
That the very heaviest guns of our fortresses or battleships would be
transported by road and used in the field in our next campaign.
That field guns must take cover exactly as riflemen do.
That the Yeomanry, a very expensive force, should be turned into a
Cyclist organization.
In view of the fine work done by the Yeomanry, especially in the
Eastern deserts, I should reconsider the last item, and the bayonet
question is debatable, but all the rest will stand. I stressed the fact
also that the period of military training is placed too high, and that
an excellent army could be rapidly vamped up if you had the right men.
This also was proved by the war.
I remember a debate which I attended as to the proper arms and use
of cavalry. The cavalry were there in force, all manner of gallant
fellows, moustached and debonnaire, inclined to glare at those who
would disarm them. Sir Taubman-Goldie was in the chair. Three of us,
all civilians, upheld the unpopular view that they should lose all
their glory and become sombre but deadly riflemen. It is curious now
to record that the three men were Erskine Childers, Lionel Amery and
myself. Childers was shot at dawn as a traitor to Ireland as well as
to Britain, Amery became First Lord of the Admiralty, and I write this
memoir. I remember Amery’s amusing comparison when he twitted the
cavalry with wishing to retain the _arme blanche_ simply because their
Continental antagonists would have it. “If you fight a rhinoceros,” he
said, “you don’t want to tie a horn on your nose.” It is an interesting
commentary upon this discussion that on one morning during the war
there were duels between two separate squadrons of British and German
cavalry. The first two squadrons, who were Lancers, rode through
each other’s ranks twice with loss on either side and no conclusive
result. In the second case German Lancers charged British Hussars, who
dismounted, used their carbines, and simply annihilated the small force
which attacked them.
When my immediate preoccupations after the war had been got rid of,
I settled down to attempt some literary work upon a larger and more
ambitious scale than the Sherlock Holmes or Brigadier Gerard stories
which had occupied so much of my time. The result was “Sir Nigel,” in
which I reverted to the spacious days of the “White Company,” and used
some of the same characters. “Sir Nigel” represents in my opinion my
high-water mark in literature, and though that mark may be on sand,
still an author knows its comparative position to the others. It
received no particular recognition from critics or public, which was,
I admit, a disappointment to me. In England versatility is looked upon
with distrust. You may write ballad tunes or you may write grand opera,
but it cannot be admitted that the same man may be master of the whole
musical range and do either with equal success.
In 1906 my wife passed away after the long illness which she had borne
with such exemplary patience. Her end was painless and serene. The
long fight had ended at last in defeat, but at least we had held the
vital fort for thirteen years after every expert had said that it was
untenable. For some time after these days of darkness I was unable to
settle to work, until the Edalji case came suddenly to turn my energies
into an entirely unexpected channel.
It was in the year 1907 that this notorious case took up much of
my time, but it was not wasted, as it ended, after much labour, in
partially rectifying a very serious miscarriage of justice. The
facts of the case were a little complex and became more so as the
matter proceeded. George Edalji was a young law student, son of the
Reverend S. Edalji, the Parsee Vicar of the parish of Great Wyrley,
who had married an English lady. How the Vicar came to be a Parsee,
or how a Parsee came to be the Vicar, I have no idea. Perhaps some
Catholic-minded patron wished to demonstrate the universality of the
Anglican Church. The experiment will not, I hope, be repeated, for
though the Vicar was an amiable and devoted man, the appearance of a
coloured clergyman with a half-caste son in a rude, unrefined parish
was bound to cause some regrettable situation.
But no one could have foreseen how serious that situation would
become. The family became the butt of certain malicious wags in the
neighbourhood and were bombarded with anonymous letters, some of them
of the most monstrous description. There was worse, however, to come. A
horrible epidemic of horse-maiming had broken out, proceeding evidently
from some blood-lusting lunatic of Sadic propensities. These outrages
continued for a long time, and the local police were naturally much
criticized for doing nothing. It would have been as well had they
continued to do nothing, for they ended by arresting George Edalji
for the crime, the main evidence being that there were signs that the
writer of the anonymous letters knew something about the crimes, and
that it was thought that young Edalji had written the anonymous letters
which had plagued his family so long. The evidence was incredibly weak,
and yet the police, all pulling together and twisting all things to
their end, managed to get a conviction at the Stafford Quarter Sessions
in 1903. The prisoner was sentenced to seven years’ penal servitude.
There were some murmurs among discerning people at the time, and Mr.
Voules, of “Truth,” has an honourable record for having kept some sort
of agitation going, but nothing practical was done until the unhappy
youth had already served three years of his sentence. It was late in
1906 that I chanced to pick up an obscure paper called “The Umpire,”
and my eye caught an article which was a statement of his case, made by
himself. As I read, the unmistakable accent of truth forced itself upon
my attention and I realized that I was in the presence of an appalling
tragedy, and that I was called upon to do what I could to set it right.
I got other papers on the case, studied the original trial, went up to
Staffordshire and saw the family, went over the scene of the crimes
and finally wrote a series of articles on the case, which began in the
“Daily Telegraph” of January 12, 1907. As I bargained that they should
be non-copyright they were largely transferred to other papers, sold
for a penny at street-curbs and generally had a very wide circulation,
so that England soon rang with the wrongs of George Edalji.
These wrongs would have been almost comic had they not had so tragic
an upshot. If the whole land had been raked, I do not think that it
would have been possible to find a man who was so unlikely, and indeed
so incapable, of committing such actions. He was of irreproachable
character. Nothing in his life had ever been urged against him. His
old schoolmaster with years of experience testified to his mild and
tractable disposition. He had served his time with a Birmingham
solicitor, who gave him the highest references. He had never shown
traits of cruelty. He was so devoted to his work that he had won the
highest honours in the legal classes, and he had already at the age of
twenty-seven written a book upon Railway Law. Finally he was a total
abstainer, and so blind that he was unable to recognize any one at the
distance of six yards. It was clear that the inherent improbability of
such a man committing a long succession of bloody and brutal crimes was
so great that it could only be met by the suggestion of insanity. There
had never, however, been any indication even of eccentricity in George
Edalji. On the contrary, his statements of defence were measured and
rational, and he had come through a series of experiences which might
well have unhinged a weaker intellect.
The original theory at the trial had been that Edalji had committed
the particular mutilations with which he was charged some time in the
evening. This line of attack broke down completely, and he was able
to advance a certain _alibi_. In the middle of the case, therefore,
the police prosecution shifted its ground and advanced the new theory
that it was done in the early hours of the morning. George Edalji, as
it happened, slept in the same room as his father, the parish vicar.
The latter is a light sleeper and is accustomed, as many people are,
to assure privacy by turning the key of his room. He swore that George
never left the room during the night. This may not constitute an
absolute _alibi_ in the eye of the law, but it is difficult to imagine
anything nearer to one unless a sentinel had been placed outside the
door all night. It is so near an _alibi_ that nothing but the most
cogent considerations could shake it, but far from there being any
such considerations, the case was such a thing of threads and patches
that one cannot imagine how any sane jury could have accepted it, even
though the defence was weakly conducted. So bad was this defence that
in the whole trial no mention, so far as I could ascertain, was ever
made of the fact that the man was practically blind, save in good
light, while between his house and the place where the mutilation was
committed lay the full breadth of the London and North-Western Railway,
an expanse of rails, wires and other obstacles, with hedges to be
forced on either side, so that I, a strong and active man, in broad
daylight found it a hard matter to pass.
What aroused my indignation and gave me the driving force to carry
the thing through was the utter helplessness of this forlorn little
group of people, the coloured clergyman in his strange position, the
brave blue-eyed, grey-haired wife, the young daughter, baited by
brutal boors and having the police, who should have been their natural
protectors, adopting from the beginning a harsh tone towards them and
accusing them, beyond all sense and reason, of being the cause of
their own troubles and of persecuting and maligning themselves. Such
an exhibition, sustained, I am sorry to say, by Lord Gladstone and all
the forces of the Home Office, would have been incredible had I not
actually examined the facts.
The articles caused a storm of indignation through the country.
“Truth,” Sir George Lewis and other forces joined in the good work.
A committee was formed by the Government to examine and report. It
consisted of Sir Arthur Wilson, the Hon. John Lloyd Wharton and Sir
Albert de Rutzen. Their finding, which came to hand in June, was a
compromise document, for though they were severe upon the condemnation
of Edalji and saw no evidence which associated him with the crime, they
still clung to the theory that he had written the anonymous letters,
that he had therefore been himself contributory to the miscarriage of
justice, and that for this reason all compensation for his long period
of suffering should be denied him.
It was a wretched decision, and the Law Society at the prompting of
Sir George Lewis showed what they thought of it by at once readmitting
Edalji to the roll of solicitors with leave to practise, which they
would never have done had they thought him capable of dishonourable
conduct. But the result stands. To this day this unfortunate man, whose
humble family has paid many hundreds of pounds in expenses, has never
been able to get one shilling of compensation for the wrong done. It
is a blot upon the record of English Justice, and even now it should
be wiped out. It is to be remembered that the man was never tried for
writing the letters--a charge which could not have been sustained--so
that as the matter stands he has got no redress for three years of
admitted false imprisonment, on the score that he did something else
for which he has never been tried. What a travesty of Justice! The
“Daily Telegraph” got up a subscription for him which ran to some
£300. The first use that he made of the money was to repay an old aunt
who had advanced the funds for his defence. He came to my wedding
reception, and there was no guest whom I was prouder to see.
So far, my work had been satisfactory. Where I caused myself great
trouble was that in my local exploration at Wyrley I had come
across what seemed to me a very direct clue as to both the writer,
or rather writers, of the letters, and also of the identity of the
mutilator--though the latter word may also have been in the plural. I
became interested, the more so as the facts were very complex and I had
to do with people who were insane as well as criminal. I have several
letters threatening my life in the same writing as those which assailed
the Edaljis--a fact which did not appear to shake in the least the Home
Office conviction that George Edalji had written them all. Mentally I
began to class the Home Office officials as insane also. The sad fact
is that officialdom in England stands solid together, and that when you
are forced to attack it you need not expect justice, but rather that
you are up against an unavowed Trade Union the members of which are not
going to act the blackleg to each other, and which subordinates the
public interest to a false idea of loyalty. What confronts you is a
determination to admit nothing which inculpates another official, and
as to the idea of punishing another official for offences which have
caused misery to helpless victims, it never comes within their horizon.
Even now, after the lapse of so many years, I can hardly think with
patience of the handling of this case.
The mistake that I made, so far as my own interests were concerned, was
that having got on the track of the miscreant I let the police and
the Home Office know my results before they were absolutely completed.
There was a strong _primâ facie_ case, but it needed the goodwill and
co-operation of the authorities to ram it home. That co-operation was
wanting, which was intelligible, in the case of the local police,
since it traversed their previous convictions and conclusions, but was
inexcusable in the Home Office. The law officers of the Crown upheld
their view that there was not a _primâ facie_ case, but I fear that
consciously or unconsciously the same trade union principle was at
work. Let me briefly state the case that the public may judge. I will
call the suspect “X.” I was able to show:
1. That “X” had shown a peculiar knife or horse-lancet to some one
and had stated that this knife did the crimes. I had this knife in my
possession.
2. That this knife or a similar knife must have been used in _some_ of
the crimes, as shown by the shallow incision.
3. That “X” had been trained in the slaughter-yard and the cattle-ship,
and was accustomed to brutal treatment of animals.
4. That he had a clear record both of anonymous letters and of
destructive propensities.
5. That his writing and that of his brother exactly fitted into the two
writings of the anonymous letters. In this I had strong independent
evidence.
6. That he had shown signs of periodical insanity, and that his
household and bedroom were such that he could leave unseen at any hour
of the night.
There were very many corroborative evidences, but those were the main
ones, coupled with the fact that when “X” was away for some years the
letters and outrages stopped, but began again when he returned. On the
other hand, when Edalji was put in prison the outrages went on the same
as before.
It will hardly be believed that after I had laid these facts before
the Home Office they managed to present the House of Commons with the
official legal opinion that there was not a _primâ facie_ case, while
a high official of the Government said to me: “I see no more evidence
against these two brothers than against myself and my brother.”
The points I mention are taken from the paper I laid before the law
officers of the Crown, which lies before me as I write, so the facts
are exactly as stated.
I had one letter in sorrow and also in anger from the Staffordshire
police complaining that I should be libelling this poor young man whose
identity could easily be established.
I do not know what has become of “X” or how often he has been convicted
since, but on the last occasion of which I have notes the magistrate
said in condemning him to six months’ imprisonment with hard labour:
“His character was extremely bad, he having been convicted of arson, of
stealing on three occasions and of damage. On his own confession he had
committed a deliberate and cruel theft from his aged mother and it was
impossible to overlook the seriousness of the case.” So much for the
inoffensive youth whom I had libelled! But what about Edalji’s three
years of gaol?
On September 18, 1907, I married Miss Jean Leckie, the younger daughter
of a Blackheath family whom I had known for years, and who was a dear
friend of my mother and sister. There are some things which one feels
too intimately to be able to express, and I can only say that the years
have passed without one shadow coming to mar even for a moment the
sunshine of my Indian summer which now deepens to a golden autumn. She
and my three younger children with the kindly sympathy of my two elder
ones have made my home an ideally happy one.
My wife’s people had a house at Crowborough, and there they had gone
to reside. As they were very attached I thought it would be a happy
arrangement not to separate them, so I bought a house close by, named
“Windlesham.” As I paid for it by a sum of money which I recovered
after I had been unjustly defrauded of it, my friends suggested
“Swindlesham” as a more appropriate name. Thus it came about that in
1907 I left Undershaw, Hindhead, after ten years’ residence, and moved
myself and my belongings to the highlands of Sussex, where I still
dwell in the few months of settled life which give me a rest between my
wanderings.
Very soon after my marriage, having just got clear of the Edalji case,
I became entangled in that of Oscar Slater. The one was in a way the
cause of the other, for since I was generally given credit for having
got Edalji out of his troubles, it was hoped by those who believed that
Slater’s condemnation was a miscarriage of justice that I might be able
to do the same for him. I went into the matter most reluctantly, but
when I glanced at the facts, I saw that it was an even worse case than
the Edalji one, and that this unhappy man had in all probability no
more to do with the murder for which he had been condemned than I had.
I am convinced that when on being convicted he cried out to the judge
that he never knew that such a woman as the murdered woman existed he
was speaking the literal truth.
In one respect the Oscar Slater case was not so serious as the Edalji
one, because Slater was not a very desirable member of society. He had
never, so far as is known, been in trouble as a criminal, but he was a
gambler and adventurer of uncertain morals and dubious ways--a German
Jew by extraction, living under an alias. Edalji, on the other hand,
was a blameless youth. But in another aspect Slater’s case was worse
than that of Edalji, since the charge was murder. He was very nearly
hanged, and finally the life sentence was actually carried out, so that
the wrong was never righted and at the present moment the unfortunate
man is in gaol. It is a dreadful blot upon the administration of
justice in Scotland, and such judicial crimes are not, I am convinced,
done with impunity even to the most humble. Somehow--somewhere, there
comes a national punishment in return.
The case was roughly this: an elderly woman, Miss Gilchrist, was done
to death most brutally in her flat, while her servant-maid, Helen
Lambie, was absent for ten minutes on an errand. Her head was beaten
to pieces by some hard instrument. The neighbours were alarmed by
the noise, and one of them, together with the maid, actually saw the
murderer, a young man, leave the flat and pass him at the door. The
police description at the time was by no means in agreement with
Slater’s appearance. Robbery did not appear to be the motive of the
crime, for nothing was missing unless it was a single diamond brooch.
On the other hand, a box of papers had been broken into and left in
disorder. The date was December 21, 1908.
And now comes the great fact which is admitted by all, and which makes
the whole case wildly improbable if not utterly impossible. It was
thought that a diamond brooch had been taken. It was found out that a
diamond brooch had also been pawned by the Bohemian Slater, who had
started for America. Was it not clear that he was the murderer? New
York was warned. Slater was arrested and in due time was returned to
Glasgow. Then came the fiasco. It was found beyond all doubt that the
brooch in question had been in Slater’s possession for years, and that
it had nothing to do with Miss Gilchrist at all.
This should have been the end of the case. It was too preposterous to
suppose that out of all the folk in Glasgow the police had arrested
the right man by pure chance--for that was what it amounted to. But
the public had lost its head, and so had the police. If the case had
completely gone to pieces surely it could be reconstructed in some
fresh form. Slater was poor and friendless. He had lived with a woman,
which shocked Scotch morality. As one writer boldly said in the press:
“Even if he did not do it, he deserved to be condemned, anyhow.” A case
was made up in the most absurd manner. A half-crown card of tools was
found in his box with the sort of tools which are found on such cards.
The frail hammer was evidently the instrument which had beaten in the
woman’s skull. The handle might have been cleaned. Then surely there
had been blood on it. The police description was already amended so as
to be nearer to Slater. He, a sallow, dark-haired Jew, was picked out
by witnesses from among a group of fair Scotsmen. Some one had been
seen waiting in the street for some nights before. This some one was
variously described by many witnesses. Some descriptions would fit
Slater, some were his very opposite. The people who saw the murderer
leave thought it might be Slater, but were not sure. The chief witness,
Adams, was very short-sighted and had not his glasses. A clear _alibi_
was proved by Slater, but as his mistress and his servant girl were
the witnesses, it was not allowed. Whom could he produce save the
inmates of his house? No attempt was ever made to show that Slater had
any connection with Miss Gilchrist, or with the maid, Lambie, and as
Slater was really a stranger in Glasgow, it was impossible to see how
he could have known anything about this retired old maid. But he was
not too well defended, while Mr. Ure, the Advocate-General of Scotland,
prosecuting for the State, thundered away in a most violent speech in
which several statements were made, uncorrected by Judge Guthrie, which
were very inexact, and which must have powerfully swayed the jury.
Finally, the Crown got a conviction by nine votes to six (five “not
proven”)--which, of course, would have meant a new trial in England,
and the wretched foreigner was condemned to death. The scaffold was
actually erected, and it was only two mornings before his execution
that the order came which prevented a judicial murder. As it was, the
man became a convict--and is one still.
It is an atrocious story, and as I read it and realized the wickedness
of it all, I was moved to do all I could for the man. I was aided by
the opinion of Sir Herbert Stephen, who read the evidence and declared
that there was not even a _primâ facie_ case against the man. I,
therefore, started a newspaper agitation and wrote a small book with an
account of the whole matter. The consciences of some people responded,
and finally we got up sufficient pressure to induce the Government to
appoint a Commissioner, Sheriff Miller, to examine the case. It was all
to no purpose, and the examination was a farce. The terms of reference
were so narrow that the conduct of the police was entirely excluded,
which was really the very thing at issue, since we held that where
their original evidence failed them, they had strained many points in
trying to build up a case and to obtain a verdict. It was also decided
that evidence should not be on oath. The result was that there was no
result nor could there be with such limitations. None the less, some
fresh evidence was put forward which further weakened the already very
weak case for the prosecution. For example, at the trial it had been
stated that Slater, on reaching Liverpool from Glasgow, had gone to a
Liverpool hotel under a false name, as if he were trying to throw the
police off his track. It was shown that this was not true, and that he
had signed the register with his own Glasgow name. I say his Glasgow
name, for he had several pseudonyms in the course of his not too
reputable career, and, as a fact, he took his actual passage under a
false name, showing that he intended to make a clear start in America.
He was, according to his own account, pursued by some woman--probably
his lawful wife--and this covering of tracks was to escape this
huntress. The fact that he used his own name at the hotel showed that
the new name was for American rather than for British use, and that he
had no fear of Glasgow pursuit.
We could do no more, and there the matter rested. There was a very
ugly aftermath of the case, which consisted of what appeared to be
persecution of Mr. Trench, a detective who had given evidence at
the inquiry which told in favour of our view. A charge was shortly
afterwards made against both him and a solicitor, Mr. Cook, who had
been conspicuous upon Slater’s side, which might well have ruined them
both. As it was, it caused them great anxiety and expense. There had
been a most unpleasant political flavour to the whole proceedings;
but on this occasion the case came before a Conservative Judge, Mr.
Scott Dickson, who declared that it should never have been brought
into court, and dismissed it forthwith with contempt. It is a curious
circumstance that as I write, in 1924, Judge Guthrie, Cook, Trench,
Helen Lambie, Miller and others have all passed on. But Slater still
remains, eating out his heart at Peterhead.
One strange psychic fact should be mentioned which was brought to my
notice by an eminent English K.C. There was a Spiritualist circle which
used to meet at Falkirk, and shortly after the trial messages were
received by it which purported to come from the murdered woman. She was
asked what the weapon was which had slain her. She answered that it
was an iron box-opener. Now I had pondered over the nature of certain
wounds in the woman’s face, which consisted of two cuts with a little
bridge of unbroken skin between. They might have been caused by the
claw end of a hammer, but on the other hand, one of the woman’s eyes
had been pushed back into her brain, which could hardly have been done
by a hammer, which would have burst the eyeball first. I could think
of no instrument which would meet the case. But the box-opener would
exactly do so, for it has a forked end which would make the double
wound, and it is also straight so that it might very well penetrate to
the brain, driving the eye in front of it. The reader will reasonably
ask why did not the Spiritualists ask the name of the criminal. I
believe that they did and received a reply, but I do not think that
such evidence could or should ever be used or published. It could only
be useful as the starting point of an inquiry.
* * * * *
There was one intervention during those years to which I look back with
satisfaction, and that was my protest against the King’s Oath before
the Coronation of King Edward. The Oath was actually changed, and
though my protest may have had no effect upon that historic fact, it
was none the less the first letter in “The Times” upon the subject.
It ran thus:
SIR,--
Surely Colonel Sandys and the members of the Protestant Reformation
Society should, looking at the matter simply from their own point of
view, recognize that the surest way to strengthen any creed is, as
the whole history of the world has proved, to persecute it. And it is
mere juggling with words to attempt to show that it is anything other
than persecution to hold up the Roman Catholic faith to obloquy in the
Coronation Oath, while every other creed, Christian or non-Christian,
is left unassailed. Is it not a shocking thing that, while Roman
Catholic chapels throughout the whole Empire are still draped in black
for a deceased Monarch, his successor should be compelled by law to
insult the most intimate convictions of these same mourners?
And is it not a most narrow and foolish policy, unworthy of this
tolerant age, that a young King should be forced to offend the
feelings of great numbers of Irishmen, Canadians and other subjects?
I feel sure that, apart from Catholics, the great majority of
broad-minded thinkers of any or of no denomination in this country are
of opinion that the outcry of fanatics should be disregarded, and that
all creeds should receive the same courteous and respectful treatment
so long as their adherents are members of the common Empire. To bring
these medieval rancours to an end would indeed be an auspicious
opening of a new reign.
Yours faithfully,
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.
CHAPTER XXII
THE YEARS BETWEEN THE WARS
Constantinople--The Night of Power--A Strange
Creature--Dorando--Dramatic Adventures--The Congo Agitation--Olympic
Games--Divorce Reform--Psychic Experience--Speculation.
Years of peaceful work followed my marriage, broken only by two
journeys to the Mediterranean, in the course of which we explored some
out-of-the-way portions of Greece, and visited Egypt, where I found
hardly one single man left of all the good fellows whom I had once
known. In the course of our travels we visited Constantinople, looking
at the great guns in the forts on the Dardanelles, with little thought
of all the British lives which were to be sacrificed upon those low,
dark, heather-clad hills which slope down to the Northern shore. In
Constantinople we attended the weekly selamlik of Abdul Hamid, and saw
him with his dyed beard and the ladies of his harem as they passed
down to their devotions. It was an incredible sight to Western eyes to
see the crowd of officers and officials, many of them fat and short
of wind, who ran like dogs behind his carriage in the hope that they
might catch the Imperial eye. It was Ramadan, and the old Sultan sent
me a message that he had read my books and that he would gladly have
seen me had it not been the Holy month. He interviewed me through his
Chamberlain and presented me with the Order of the Medjedie, and,
what was more pleasing to me, he gave the Order of the Chevekat to my
wife. As this is the Order of Compassion, and as my wife ever since
she set foot in Constantinople had been endeavouring to feed the horde
of starving dogs who roamed the streets, no gift could have been more
appropriate.
[Illustration: LADY CONAN DOYLE, 1920.
_Sterling, Melbourne._]
We were admitted secretly and by very special favour into the great
Mosque of Sophia during the sacred festival which is known as the Night
of Power. It was a most marvellous spectacle as from the upper circle
of pillared arches we looked down upon 60,000 lighted lamps and
12,000 worshippers, who made, as they rose and fell in their devotions,
a sound like the wash of the sea. The priests in their high pulpits
were screaming like seagulls, and fanaticism was in the air. It was at
this moment that I saw a woman--I will not call her a lady--young and
flighty, seat herself jauntily on the edge of the stone parapet, and
look down at the 12,000 men who were facing us. No unbeliever should
be tolerated there, and a woman was the abomination of abominations.
I heard a low deep growl and saw fierce bearded faces looking up. It
only needed one fiery spirit to head the rush and we should have been
massacred--with the poor consolation that some of us at least had
really asked for it. However, she was pulled down, and we made our way
as quickly and as quietly as possible out of a side door. It was time,
I think.
One curious incident of our journey stands out in my memory. We were
steaming past Ægina on a lovely day with calm water around us. The
captain, a courteous Italian, had allowed us to go upon the bridge, and
we--my wife and I--were looking down into the transparent depths when
we both clearly saw a creature which has never, so far as I know, been
described by Science. It was exactly like a young ichthyosaurus, about
4 feet long, with thin neck and tail, and four marked side-flippers.
The ship had passed it before we could call any other observer. I was
interested to notice that Admiral Anstruther in the “Evening News” some
years later described, and drew, an exactly similar creature which he
had seen under water off the Irish coast. This old world has got some
surprises for us yet.
Here and there, as I look back at those long and happy years, some
particular episode flashes vividly into my memory. I do not often
do journalistic work--why should one poach upon the preserves of
others?--but on the occasion of the Olympic Games of 1908 I was
tempted, chiefly by the offer of an excellent seat, to do the Marathon
Race for the “Daily Mail.” It was certainly a wonderful experience, for
it will be known to history as the Dorando Race. Perhaps a few short
paragraphs from my description may even now recapture the thrill of it.
The huge crowd--some 50,000 people--were all watching the entrance to
the stadium, the dark gap through which the leader must appear. Then--
“At last he came. But how different from the exultant victor whom we
expected! Out of the dark archway there staggered a little man, with
red running-drawers, a tiny boy-like creature. He reeled as he entered
and faced the roar of the applause. Then he feebly turned to the left
and wearily trotted round the track. Friends and encouragers were
pressing round him.
“Suddenly the whole group stopped. There were wild gesticulations. Men
stooped and rose again. Good heavens! he has fainted; is it possible
that even at this last moment the prize may slip through his fingers?
Every eye slides round to that dark archway. No second man has yet
appeared. Then a great sigh of relief goes up. I do not think in all
that great assembly any man would have wished victory to be torn at the
last instant from this plucky little Italian. He has won it. He should
have it.
“Thank God, he is on his feet again--the little red legs going
incoherently, but drumming hard, driven by a supreme will within.
There is a groan as he falls once more and a cheer as he staggers to
his feet. It is horrible, and yet fascinating, this struggle between
a set purpose and an utterly exhausted frame. Again, for a hundred
yards, he ran in the same furious and yet uncertain gait. Then again he
collapsed, kind hands saving him from a heavy fall.
“He was within a few yards of my seat. Amid stooping figures and
grasping hands I caught a glimpse of the haggard, yellow face, the
glazed, expressionless eyes, the lank black hair streaked across the
brow. Surely he is done now. He cannot rise again.
“From under the archway has darted the second runner, Hayes, Stars and
Stripes on his breast, going gallantly, well within his strength. There
is only twenty yards to do if the Italian can do it. He staggered up,
no trace of intelligence upon his set face, and again the red legs
broke into their strange automatic amble.
“Will he fall again? No, he sways, he balances, and then he is through
the tape and into a score of friendly arms. He has gone to the extreme
of human endurance. No Roman of the prime ever bore himself better than
Dorando of the Olympic of 1908. The great breed is not yet extinct.”
Of course the prize went to the American, as his rival had been
helped, but the sympathy of the crowd, and I am sure of every sporting
American present, went out to the little Italian. I not only wrote
Dorando up, but I started a subscription for him in the “Daily Mail,”
which realized over £300--a fortune in his Italian village--so that he
was able to start a baker’s shop, which he could not have done on an
Olympic medal. My wife made the presentation in English, which he could
not understand; he answered in Italian, which we could not understand;
but I think we really did understand each other all the same.
There is no denying that the American team were very unpopular in
London, though the unpopularity was not national, for the stadium was
thick with American flags. Everyone admitted that they were a splendid
lot of athletes, but they were not wisely handled and I saw with my
own eyes that they did things which would not have been tolerated if
done by an English team in New York. However, there may well have
been some want of tact on both sides, and causes at work of which the
public knew nothing. When I consider the Dunraven Yacht race, and then
these Olympic Games, I am by no means assured that sport has that
international effect for good which some people have claimed for it. I
wonder whether any of the old Grecian wars had their real origin in the
awards at Olympia. I may add that we had a dozen or so of the American
boys down to “Windlesham,” where we had a very pleasant day together.
I found them all excellent fellows. I put up a billiard Olympic prize,
and one of them bore it off with him. The whole incident was very
pleasant.
My work for a few years after my marriage ran largely in the direction
of drama, and if it was not lucrative it at least provided us with a
good deal of amusement and excitement. In the case of one venture this
excitement became a little too poignant, though all ended well in the
end. I had dramatized “Rodney Stone” under the name of “The House of
Temperley,” with all the ring scenes and prize fights included, and
treated in the most realistic fashion. We had an excellent boxing
instructor who took one of the smaller parts and who not only fought
himself but trained the others to a remarkable degree of skill. So
realistic was it that when on the first night the bully, Berks, after
a long encounter, went down with a crash from a fine raking uppercut,
there was an involuntary groan from the whole house, which meant
as clearly as could be, “There now, you have killed a man for our
amusement.” It was really incredibly well done and I could never have
believed that such scenes could be so cleverly faked, though it was
not always done with impunity, for Rex Davies, who played Gloucester
Dick, assured me that he lost a tooth and broke both a finger and a rib
during his engagement. The play itself was unequal, but was so very
novel and sensational in its best scenes that it should have been a
considerable success. I found no manager who would take the risk, and
I had myself to take the Adelphi Theatre for a six months’ lease, at a
rent which with the Company worked out at about £600 a week. As on the
top of this the production cost about £2,000, it will be seen that I
was plunging rather deep.
And luck did not favour us. The furore for boxing had not yet set
in. Ladies were afraid to come, and imagined it would be a brutal
spectacle. Those who did come were exhilarated beyond measure, but
the prejudice still weighed heavily against us. Then there came one
of those theatrical slumps when everything goes wrong, and finally
King Edward died and that killed it outright. It was a very serious
situation. I still had the theatre upon my hands. I might sublet it, or
I might not. If I did not, the expense was simply ruinous.
It was under these circumstances that, as I have already said, I wrote
and rehearsed “The Speckled Band” in record time, and so saved the
situation. The real fault of this play was that in trying to give
Holmes a worthy antagonist I overdid it and produced a more interesting
personality in the villain. The terrible ending was also against it.
However, it was a considerable success and saved a difficult--almost a
desperate--situation.
Yet another theatrical venture was my “Fires of Fate,” some of which
is certainly the best dramatic work that I have ever done. It was
unlucky, as it was produced in a very hot summer. I carried it at my
own expense through the two impossible holiday months, but when Lewis
Waller, who played the hero, returned from a provincial tour to London,
he was keen on some new play and my “Fires” were never really burned
out. I fancy sometimes that they might even now flame up again if given
a chance. I stage managed most of this play myself, and with curious
results. There are certain dramatic conventionalities which can only be
broken through by one who is not himself an actor. There was a scene
where a number of helpless tourists, men and women, were brutally
ill-treated by Arabs. The brutality in rehearsal was conventional.
I made the Arabs get imitation whips and cudgels and really savage
the poor travellers. The effect was novel and appalling. There was a
young Welsh officer in the front of the stalls who was a friend of my
brother’s. He held both the V.C. and the D.S.O. So stirred was he by
the sight that he could hardly be restrained from clambering on to the
stage in order to help the unhappy tourists. The end of that act, when
the drove of bleeding captives are led away and you hear the monotonous
song of the Arabs as they march, and you see Lewis Waller, who has been
left for dead, struggle up on his elbow and signal across the Nile for
assistance, was one which brought the whole house to its feet. Such
moments to a dramatist give a thrill of personal satisfaction such as
the most successful novelist never can feel. There is no more subtle
pleasure if you are really satisfied with your work than to sit in the
shadow of a box and watch not the play but the audience.
I had one other dramatic venture, “Brigadier Gerard,” which also was
mildly successful. In fact, I have never known failure on the stage
save in the case of the unfortunate “Jane Annie.” Lewis Waller played
the Brigadier and a splendid dashing Hussar he made. It was a glorious
performance. I remember that in this play also I ran up against the
conventionalities of the stage. I had a group of Hussar officers,
the remnants of the regiment which had gone through Napoleon’s last
campaign. When it came to the dress rehearsal, I found them, to my
horror, dressed up in brand new uniforms of chestnut and silver. “Good
heavens!” I cried. “This is not a comic opera!” “What do you want
done?” asked Waller. “Why,” said I, “these men are warriors, not ballet
dancers. They have been out in all weathers day and night for months.
Every scrap of truth goes out of the play if they appear like that.”
The uniforms had cost over a hundred pounds, but I covered them with
mud and dust and tore holes in them. The result was that, with begrimed
faces, I got a band of real Napoleonic soldiers. Waller himself
insisted on retaining his grease paint and his nice new clothes, but I
am sure every man in the audience, if not every woman, would have liked
him better as I had made the others. Poor Lewis Waller! There was some
strange and wonderful blood in his veins. He was a glorious fellow, and
his premature death a great blow to our stage. What virility! What a
face and figure! They called him the “Flappers’ idol,” and it reflects
credit on the flapper, for where could she find a less sickly and more
manly type. He caught his fatal illness in serving the soldiers. One of
his greatest possessions was his voice. He came down to “Windlesham”
once, and as he was reciting in the music-room that wonderful resonant
voice chanced to catch the exact note which corresponded to the curve
of all the glass lampshades on the walls. They all started thrilling
as a wine-glass does when it is touched. I could quite believe after
that, that matter could be disintegrated by sound if the sound were
strong enough. I am not clear what blood ran in Waller’s veins, Hebrew
or Basque or both. I only know that it went to make a very wonderful
man. His intense feeling about everything that he did was one of his
characteristics and no doubt a cause of his success. It did not carry
him far in golf, however. I remember hearing him as he approached the
last tee mutter, “God, give me _one_ good drive.” I fear, however, that
the betting was against it.
In 1910 a fresh task opened up before me. It arose from my being deeply
moved by reading some of the evidence concerning the evil rule, not of
Belgium, but of the King of the Belgians in the Congo. I examined this
evidence carefully before I accepted it, and I assured myself that it
was supported by five British Consuls and by Lord Cromer, as well as
by travellers of many races, Belgian, French, American, Swedish and
others. An attempt has been made since to minimize the facts and to
pretend that Roger Casement had been at the back of the agitation for
sinister purposes of his own. This contention is quite untenable and
the evidence for the atrocities is overwhelming and from very many
sources, the Belgians themselves being among the best witnesses. I put
in some two years working with Mr. Morel and occasionally lecturing in
the country upon this question, and it was certainly the efforts of
the Congo Association which we represented, that eventually brought
the question to the notice of that noble man King Albert which meant
setting it right so that the colony is now, so far as I know, very well
managed. Casement, whom I shall always regard as a fine man afflicted
with mania, has met his tragic end, and Morel’s views upon the war have
destroyed the feelings which I had for him, but I shall always maintain
that they both did noble work in championing the wrongs of those
unhappy and helpless negroes. My own book “The Crime of the Congo,”
which was translated into all European languages, had also, I hope,
some influence towards that end.
In the early summer of 1912 I had a telegram from Lord Northcliffe
which let me in for about as much trouble as any communication which I
have ever received. It was to the effect that Britain must regain her
place among the athletic nations which had been temporarily eclipsed
by the Olympic Games at Stockholm, and that I was the one man in Great
Britain who could rally round me the various discordant forces which
had to be united and used. This was very complimentary, but it was Lord
Northcliffe’s sole contribution to the matter for a very long time, and
I was left to my own devices entirely in carrying out a complex task.
So badly co-ordinated were Northcliffe’s papers that I had some of them
actually attacking me while I was working on their chief’s suggestion.
When I examined I found chaos. On the one hand was the British Olympic
Committee, a most sound and respectable body, under Lord Desborough. In
some way they had lost touch with press and public and were generally
in disfavour, though really they had done their best. On the other
hand was “The Times,” which had worked itself into a fury about the
misdeeds of the Committee, and had set a tone which poisoned the
whole press against them. Lord Northcliffe would have nothing to do
with anything which emanated from the Committee; the Committee defied
Lord Northcliffe. It was clear that this had to be cleared up as a
preliminary, and the matter took enough diplomacy to have settled the
Balkan question. I called upon the Committee and suggested that an
independent body be formed on which they could be represented. To this
they agreed. I then called on “The Times” and said: “You are no longer
dealing with the old Olympic Committee, but with a new body. Do you
agree to this?” Yes, that was all in order. I may have omitted the
trifling fact that the new body did not yet exist. I then asked Mr.
Studd, the famous cricketer of old and head of the Polytechnic to help
me to form the new body. We soon had a very effective one, including
several leading athletes and Lord Forster, now Governor-General of
Australia. I served, of course, on the Committee, and soon we were in
touch with every one and all promised to go smoothly.
But presently a huge mistake was made. I don’t wish to represent
myself as the fount of all wisdom, and no doubt I make as many slips
as my fellows, but that particular one would never have been made had
I been present, but I was called away and was out of the country at
that crucial Committee meeting. It had been already determined that
an appeal to the public over all our names should be issued. The
amount had not been discussed, but in my own mind I had thought that
£10,000 would suffice. I was horrified, therefore, when I returned
from my holiday to find that they had appealed for £100,000. The sum
was absurd, and at once brought upon us from all sides the charge
of developing professionalism. My position was very difficult. If I
protested now it would go far to ruin the appeal. After all it might
succeed. I could only fall into line with the others and do my best
for the sake of the cause to defend a policy which I looked upon as
mistaken. We actually collected about £7,000, and finally, as we found
that the general feeling was either hostile or apathetic, we handed
over this sum to the Olympic Committee. Then came the war, and so in
any case our labour was in vain, for the Games were to be in Berlin
in 1916. We were all playing another game by then. This matter was
spread over a year of my life and was the most barren thing that I
ever touched, for nothing came of it, and I cannot trace that I ever
received one word of thanks from any human being. I was on my guard
against Northcliffe telegrams after that.
I remember one curious episode about that time. I was staying in a
Northumberland Avenue Hotel, and I walked out at night in pensive mood,
strolling down the Embankment and watching the great dark river with
the gleam of the lights upon it. Suddenly a man passed me, walking very
rapidly and muttering in an incoherent way. He gave me an impression of
desperation and I quickened my pace and followed him. With a rush he
sprang up on the parapet and seemed to be about to throw himself into
the river. I was just in time to catch his knees and to pull him down.
He struggled hard to get up, but I put my arm through his and led him
across the road. There I reasoned with him and examined into the cause
of his troubles. He had had some domestic quarrel, I believe, but his
main worry was his business, which was that of a baker. He seemed a
respectable man and the case seemed genuine, so I calmed him down, gave
him such immediate help as I could, and made him promise to return home
and to keep in touch with me afterwards.
When the excitement of the incident was over, I had grave doubts as
to whether I had not been the victim of a clever swindler. I was
considerably relieved, therefore, to get a letter a few days later,
giving name and address, and obviously genuine. I lost sight of the
case after that.
Another matter which preoccupied me much in the years before the war,
and preoccupies me still, is the Reform of our Divorce Laws. I was
president of the Reform Union for ten years and have only just vacated
the position in order to make room for a far more efficient successor
in Lord Birkenhead. I am quite alive to all the arguments of our
opponents, and quite understand that laxity in the marriage tie is an
evil, but I cannot understand why England should lag behind every other
Protestant country in the world, and even behind Scotland, so that
unions which are obviously disgusting and degrading are maintained in
this country while they can be dissolved in our Colonies or abroad.
As to morality I cannot, I fear, admit that our morality here is in
the least better than in Scandinavia, Holland or Germany, where they
have more rational laws. I think that in some States in America they
have pushed Divorce to an extreme, but even in America I should say
that married happiness and morality generally are quite as high as
with us. The House of Lords has shown itself to be more liberal in
this matter than the Commons, possibly because the latter have a fear
of organized Church influence in their constituencies. It is one of
several questions which makes me not sorry to see Labour, with its
larger outlook, in power for a time in this country. Our marriage laws,
our land laws, the cheapening of justice and many other things have
long called out for reform, and if the old parties will not do it then
we must seek some new one which will.
During these long and happy years, when the smooth current of our
national life was quietly sliding toward Niagara, I did not lose my
interest in psychic matters, but I cannot say that I increased my grasp
of the religious or spiritual side of the subject. I read, however,
and investigated whenever the chance arose. A gentleman had arranged
a series of psychical séances in a large studio in North London, and
I attended them, the mediums being Cecil Husk and Craddock. They left
a very mixed impression upon my mind, for in some cases, I was filled
with suspicion and in others I was quite sure that the result was
genuine. The possibility that a genuine medium may be unscrupulous and
that when these very elusive forces fail to act he may simulate them
is one which greatly complicates the whole subject, but one can only
concentrate upon what one is sure is true and try to draw conclusions
from that. I remember that many sheeted ghosts walked about in the
dim light of a red lamp on these occasions, and that some of them
came close to me, within a foot of my face, and illuminated their
features by the light of a phosphorescent slate held below them. One
splendid Arab, whom the medium called Abdullah, came in this fashion.
He had a face like an idealized W. G. Grace, swarthy, black-bearded
and dignified, rather larger than human. I was looking hard at this
strange being, its nose a few inches from my own, and was wondering
whether it could be some very clever bust of wax, when in an instant
the mouth opened and a terrific yell was emitted. I nearly jumped out
of my chair. I saw clearly the gleaming teeth and the red tongue. It
certainly seemed that he had read my thought and had taken this very
effective way of answering it.
Some of the excitements of my life during these and the subsequent
years were due to financial entanglements which arose from a certain
speculative element in my own nature, depending rather upon the love of
adventure than upon any hope of gain. If when I earned money I had dug
a hole in the garden and buried it there I should be a much richer man
to-day. I can hardly blame the punter on the racecourse when I remember
the outside chances which I have taken in the past in every possible
form of speculation. But I have the advantage over the mere gambler in
this, that every pound of my money went to develop something or other
and lined the pocket of the working man, who, by the way, when he
grumbles over the profits of the Capitalist never even alludes to his
losses. If a balance sheet were struck it would be interesting to see
what, if any, is the exact margin of profit.
It is true that sometimes I have indulged in a pure gamble but never
for any sum which would hurt me. I have painful memories of a guano
island off South Africa on which our treasure seekers were not even
allowed to land, though every bird’s nest was rumoured to contain a
diamond. The Spanish galleon in the bay of Tobermory also took treasure
rather than gave it, and the return for my shares was a lump of glass
and a rusted bar. That was more than ever I had from certain spots
in Kalgurli and Coolgardie and other alleged goldbearers, which have
nearly all been gold consumers so far as I am concerned. I fear some of
those mines were like that legendary one where the manager, getting a
cable which ordered him to start crushing, replied, “I have nothing to
crush until you return samples.”
I have played my involuntary part also in the development of the Rand
and Rhodesia, from those early and unsophisticated days when I misread
the quotation and meaning to invest £60 was faced next morning with a
bill for £900. Occasionally it is true that I backed a winner, but as
a rule I must confess that I was not judicious in my selections.
But it was at home that I expended myself most freely. I saw the
enormous possibilities of Kent coal, which even now are not fully
understood; but I did not sufficiently weigh the impossibilities, which
are that an enterprise can be successful which is wildly financed and
extravagantly handled. I and many others lost our money sinking the
shafts which may bring fortunes to our successors. I even descended
1,000 feet through the chalk to see with my own eyes that the coal was
_in situ_. It seems to have had the appearance and every other quality
of coal save that it was incombustible, and when a dinner was held by
the shareholders which was to be cooked by local coal, it was necessary
to send out and buy something which would burn. There were, however,
lower strata which were more sensitive to heat. Besides Kent Coal I
lost very heavily in running a manufacturing plant in Birmingham, into
which I was led by those successive stages in which you are continually
trying to save what you have already invested until the situation
becomes so serious that you drop it in terror. We turned from bicycles
to munitions during the war, and actually worked hard the whole four
years, with a hundred artisans making needful war material, without
ever declaring a penny of dividend. This, I should think, must be a
record, and at least no one could call us profiteers. The firm was
eventually killed dead by the successive strikes of the moulders and
the miners. It is amazing how one set of workmen will ruin another set
without apparently any remonstrance from the sufferers. Another bad egg
was a sculpture machine for architectural work, which really had great
possibilities, but we could not get the orders. I was chairman of this
company, and it cost me two years of hard work and anxiety, ending up
by my paying the balance out of my own pocket, so that we might wind
up in an honourable way. It was a dismal experience with many side
adventures attached to it, which would make a sensational novel.
Such are some of the vicissitudes which cannot be disregarded in a
retrospect of life, for they form a very integral and absorbing part
of it. I have had my ill luck and I have had my good. Amid the latter
I count the fact that I have been for twenty-one years a director of
Raphael Tuck & Co., without the least cloud to darken the long and
pleasant memory. I have also been for many years chairman of Besson’s
famous brass instrument firm. I think a man should know all sides of
life, and he has missed a very essential side if he has not played his
part in commerce. In investments, too, I would not imply that I have
always been unfortunate. My speculative adventures are over, and I can
at least say that unless the British Empire goes down I shall be able
to retain enough for our modest needs.
CHAPTER XXIII
SOME NOTABLE PEOPLE
President Roosevelt--Lord Balfour--Mr. Asquith--Lord Haldane--George
Meredith--Rudyard Kipling--James Barrie--Henry Irving--Bernard
Shaw--R. L. S.--Grant Allen--James Payn--Henry Thompson--Royalty.
When I have chanced during my life to come in contact with notable
people, I have often made some short record at the time of what they
said and how they impressed me. It is difficult, however, to use these
notes for publication when you happen to have been a guest, and it can
only be done, I think, by using one’s judgment and never consciously
harming one’s host. If every one were altogether silent upon such
occasions the most pleasing side of great contemporaries would never be
chronicled, for the statesman in slippers is a very much more human and
lovable person than the politician on the platform.
Among the great men that I have known President Roosevelt occupied a
prominent place. He was not a big, nor, so far as one could see, a
powerful man, but he had tremendous dynamic force and an iron will
which may account for his reputation as an athlete. He had all the
simplicity of real greatness, speaking his mind with great frankness
and in the clearest possible English. He had in him a great deal of
the boy, a mischievous, adventurous, high-spirited boy, with a deep,
strong, thoughtful manhood in the background. We were present, my
wife and I, at the Guildhall when he made his memorable speech about
Egypt, in which he informed a gathering, which contained the Foreign
Secretary, Sir Edward Grey, and many of our Cabinet, that we should
either rule more strictly or clear out altogether. It was, of course, a
most unwarrantable intrusion into our affairs, but it was a calculated
indiscretion, and very welcome, I believe, to those who were dealing
with Egypt. As he made his way through the dense crowd afterwards he
passed me and said with a grin: “I say, I let them have it that time,
didn’t I?” There was the mischievous boy coming out.
He had a quick blunt wit which showed itself often in his metaphors. He
spoke to me, I remember, of some one who had a nine guinea-pig-power
brain. One of his entourage told me how the President had been awakened
once to address some prairie folk at a wayside station. “They have come
sixty miles to see you,” said his secretary. “They would have come a
hundred to see a cat with two heads,” said the ruffled President.
I met him once at a small luncheon party at the invitation of Lord Lee,
who had soldiered with him in Cuba. He was extremely talkative--in
fact, I can hardly remember anyone else saying anything. Thinking
it over afterwards I concluded that two ideas were running through
his mind, and every now and then coming to the surface. They were
formidable ideas, and may have been some temporary wave of feeling, but
they were certainly in his thoughts. The one was that there would be
another civil war in the States. The second, that if you had the farmer
class on your side they presented the best military material. From this
I gathered that it was not a geographical but an economic struggle that
was in his mind. _Absit omen_, but great men are often pessimists, and
the Duke of Wellington was deeply convinced that Britain could not long
survive his death.
When Roosevelt was shot I sent him a cable to express that sympathy
which every Englishman felt. I have his answer before me, written only
a day or so after the event:
MERCY HOSPITAL,
CHICAGO,
_October 19, 1912_.
DEAR MR. DOYLE,--
Many thanks for your kind message of sympathy. As you know, a bullet
wound is rather a serious thing, but all conditions seem to be
favourable, and I hope in a few days we will all be relieved from
anxiety.
Sincerely yours,
THEODORE ROOSEVELT.
It is typewritten, but signed by his own hand. I do not think that a
more brave and detached letter was ever written by a sufferer.
Roosevelt was a very loud hearty man, with a peculiar wild-beast toothy
grin, and an explosive habit of slapping his hand down for emphasis.
I jotted down a few of his _obiter dicta_ after our conversation. He
had no good word for Henry James. “He is not a whole man. All that
subtlety is really decadence.” He was very virile, not to say heroic in
his views. “A man should guard particularly against being led from his
duty, especially a dangerous duty, by his women. I guess a woman would
have had a bad time if she had tried to lead Leonidas from the pass.”
Of the German Emperor he said that he was jealous of the King’s dog at
the King’s funeral because he attracted the more notice. Altogether he
was one of the raciest talkers I have ever met.
Among the occasional great ones of earth whom I have met there is
hardly anyone who stands out more clearly than Arthur Balfour, with
his willowy figure, his gentle intellectual face, and, as I read it,
his soul of steel. I should think that of all men of our day he was
the last who would be turned from any path which he had deliberately
taken, but, on the other hand, he was capable of standing a most
unconscionable time at the place where paths divide, for his mind was
so subtle and active that he would always see the two sides of every
question and waver between them. He could never have been a pioneer.
The occasion of our first meeting was a most ridiculous one. Old
Lord Burnham, the first of his line, had invited me down to his
country house at Beaconsfield--a wonderful house which had been built
originally by Waller, the Royalist poet. Burke had lived close by,
and the dagger which, in a melodramatic moment, he threw upon the
floor of the house, in order to show the dangers of French Republican
propaganda, is still on exhibition. I can remember the party well,
though nearly all of them are now on the farther side. I see Lady
Dorothy Nevill with her mittened hands and her prim pussy-cat manner,
retailing gossip about Disraeli’s flirtations. Sir Henry James walks
under the trees with bended head, talking to the rising barrister who
is destined as Lord Reading to be Viceroy of India. Lady Cleveland,
mother of Lord Rosebery, is listening with her old face wreathed in
smiles to Lady Dorothy’s scandal. Young Harry Irving looks unutterably
bored as Lord Burnham explains golf to him, bending his head over to
get a glimpse of the ball round the curve of his goodly waistcoat. Mr.
Asquith stands smiling beside them. As one looks back they seem all to
have been shadows in a world of shadow.
Lord Burnham’s hobby was Turkish baths, and he had an excellent one
in the front of the house, the drying room being the first door on
the right as one entered, and being a simple sitting-room as far as
appearance went. With his usual kind hospitality Lord Burnham had urged
me to try his bath, and having done so I was placed, arrayed in a long
towel, and with another towel screwed round my head, in the drying
room. Presently the door opened, and entered Arthur Balfour, Prime
Minister of England. He knew nothing of the house or its ways, and I
can remember the amazement with which he gazed at me. Lord Burnham
following at his heels introduced me, and I raised the towel on my
head. There were no explanations, and I felt that he went away with the
impression that this was my usual costume.
I did not see him after that week-end--he kept his room, I remember,
until midday on the Sunday--until some years later when, after heavy
domestic loss, I was endeavouring to collect myself again in a little
inn near Dunbar. He heard of my presence, and in his kindness sent a
car over from Whittinghame, only a few miles away, with a request that
I should come over for a couple of days. There was present his brother,
Gerald Balfour, a man with a beautifully refined face and manner,
not unlike that of Andrew Lang. His wife is the famous Lady Betty
Balfour, the daughter of Lord Lytton. When one thinks of that group of
inter-allied families--the Balfours, Cecils, Sedgwicks, and Lyttons--it
seems a sort of nerve ganglion of British life. There was also Lady
Frances Balfour, who was a daughter of the Duke of Argyle, and not
unlike him, as I can remember him. Her husband was Arthur Balfour’s
brother, an architect and antiquary, while another brother was Colonel
of the London Scottish. Finally, there was Miss Alice Balfour, a very
sweet and gentle intellectual person, who was my actual hostess.
I found Arthur Balfour in great spirits because he had just won a golf
medal at North Berwick. He seemed as pleased as any schoolboy, and
his sister told me that no political success ever gave him the keen
pleasure which he had from his golf victory. He was an average player,
orthodox in style, and about 10 or 12 in handicap. He proved to be a
charming host, for he was a good listener, seeming to be really eager
to hear your opinion, laughed heartily at small provocation, and talked
always very frankly and modestly of himself. After my long solitude I
was more loquacious, I remember, than is my way, but he bore it with
good humour.
Every night--or at least on the Sunday night--the whole staff of the
large rambling establishment, maids and grooms, some twenty in all,
came in for prayers, which were read by the head of the house. It was
fine to hear groom and statesman praying humbly together that they be
forgiven the sins of the day, and merging all earthly distinctions in
the presence of that which is above us all.
He was very interesting when he spoke of the outrage which the Russian
fleet had committed when, on their way to Japan, they opened fire
at the British trawlers on the Dogger Bank. It was curious to hear
his gentle voice and to note his listless impersonal manner while he
spoke in this fashion: “I was very angry, really very angry about that
affair. If our fleet had been at home I should have been inclined
to have stopped them in the Straits. Of course, one would not do
that unless one had overpowering force, so as to avoid bloodshed and
save the Russian face. Their Ambassador called that morning and gave
complete assurances, or really I should have had to do something. He
got himself into trouble with his own Government, who felt that he had
given away their case.”
I asked him how Cabinet Councils were worked. He said that they voted
upon points and went by majorities, unless it was a vital thing, when
of course the dissenters must resign.
I observed in his character a very great horror of cowardice. Nothing
seemed to arouse such scorn in him. He grew quite red, I remember, as
he spoke of Lord George Sackville, and recalled that though he had
been broken and should have been shot at the Battle of Minden in 1759,
he was none the less Minister of War during the American campaign. He
was also, as I reminded him, a most debauched man; and the murder of
his mistress, Miss Reay, the actress, by her true lover, the clergyman
Hackman, was one of the _causes célèbres_ of that century.
I shall always carry away the memory of that visit--a bright gleam in
a dark passage of life. I see very clearly the old house, the huge
broken tree outside, inside which a State conspiracy was once hatched,
the fine library with its wealth of French memoirs, and above all the
remarkable man who stood for so much in the life of the country. I was
not at that time so convinced of the primary importance of psychic
things as I became later, and I regret it, as this would have been my
one opportunity to explore a knowledge which at that time was certainly
greater than my own. Years later, when the fight was heavy upon me, and
when I was almost alone in the polemical arena, I wrote to Mr. Balfour,
and charged him with sharing all my convictions and yet leaving me to
defend them single-handed. His answer was: “Surely my opinions upon
this subject are already sufficiently well known,” which is surely an
admission that I was right in my description of them, and yet was not
much of a prop to me in my time of need.
I cast my mind back to other statesmen whom I have known, and Mr.
Asquith’s kindly personality comes into my memory. I remember playing
a round of golf with him once--and a very bad player he was--but
his conversation as we went round was plus four. He was a naturally
sweet-natured man, but under that gentleness there lay judgment and
firmness, as was shown at the great crisis of history. He never said
too much, but what he did say he lived up to. In conducting us safely
through those first two years of war he did that for which he has never
had sufficient credit, and the more light we have had since, the more
clear it has been that Lord Kitchener and he were really doing all
that men could do, in munition work and all other ways. Because he
had the solid Yorkshire stolidity, more nervous and excitable people
thought that he did not take the war sufficiently seriously, while the
constant lies about the pro-German tendencies of his wife increased
the evil impression. We owe him a reparation which is second only to
that which is due to Lord Haldane.
And that is indeed a heavy one. If one man could be named who was
absolutely indispensable to victory it was Haldane. He it was who built
up the whole splendid weapon which flashed so swiftly from its sheath,
and which Germany was so amazed to find directed at its breast as it
rushed forward upon its furious course. He could not work miracles; he
could not introduce conscription when a candidate with such a programme
would have been chased from the hustings; he could not prepare the
public mind in some dramatic way which would have precipitated the very
crash which there was still some chance of avoiding. But all we had
he gave us--the eight divisions which saved France, the Territorials
who carried on the good work until the new armies were ready and the
Officers’ Training Corps, which strengthened us where we should have
been fatally weak. There has never been so foolish and ungrateful a
clamour as that which has been raised against Haldane. I remember that
when he took the chair for me in the first war lecture which I gave in
London there were cries of “Traitor!” from people, chiefly women, among
the audience. I had never seen Haldane before, and have never seen him
since, so I have no personal bias in the matter, but I am proud that it
was in my first volume of the “History of the War,” published in 1915,
that I first put forward the unpopular view which will now be more
fully accepted.
With George Meredith I had several interesting connections. I have the
greatest possible admiration for him at his best, while his worst is
such a handicap that I think it will drag four-fifths of his work to
oblivion. If his own generation finds him hard to understand, what will
our descendants make of him? He will be a cult among a few--a precious
few in every sense. And yet I fully recognize that his was the most
active original brain and the most clever pen of any man, novelist or
otherwise, of my time. Knowing this well, it is strange that I can
see so limited a future for him. His subtle and intricate mind seemed
unable to realize the position of the plain outsiders who represent the
world. He could not see how his stained-glass might be less effective
than the plain transparent substance as a medium for vision. The first
requisite is to be intelligible. The second is to be interesting.
The third is to be clever. Meredith enormously filled the third, but
he was unequal upon the other two. Hence he will never, in spite of
the glories of “Richard Feverel” be on an equality with Dickens or
Thackeray, who filled all three. He had simply no idea how his words
would strike a less complex mind. I remember that once in the presence
of Barrie, Quiller-Couch and myself, he read out a poem which he had
inscribed “To the British Working-Man” in the “Westminster Gazette.” I
don’t know what the British working-man made of it, but I am sure that
we three were greatly puzzled as to what it was about.
I had written some articles on his work, which had been one of my
youthful cults, and that led to his inviting me to see him at his villa
at Box Hill--the first of several such visits. There had been a good
deal in the papers about his health, so that I was surprised when, as
I opened the garden gate, a slight but robust gentleman in a grey suit
and a red tie swung out of the hall door and came singing loudly down
the path. I suppose he was getting on to seventy at the time but he
looked younger, and his artistic face was good to the eye. Greeting me
he pointed to a long steep hill behind the house and said: “I have just
been up to the top for a walk.” I looked at the sharp slope and said:
“You must be in good trim to do it.” He looked angry and said: “That
would be a proper compliment to pay to an octogenarian.” I was a little
nettled by his touchiness, so I answered: “I understood that I was
talking to an invalid.” It really seemed as if my visit would terminate
at the garden gate, but presently he relented, and we soon became quite
friendly.
He had in his youth been a judge of wine, and had still a reverence for
a good vintage, but unfortunately some nervous complaint from which
he suffered had caused the doctors to prohibit it absolutely. When
lunch came round he asked me with a very earnest air whether I could
undertake to drink a whole bottle of Burgundy. I answered that I saw
no insuperable difficulty. A dusty old bottle was tenderly carried
up, which I disposed of, Meredith taking a friendly interest in its
dispatch. “The fact is,” said he, “I love my wine, and my little cellar
was laid down with care and judgment, so that when some guest comes and
drinks a glass and wastes the rest of the bottle it goes to my heart.
It really did me good to see you enjoy that one.” I need not say that I
intimated that I was always prepared to oblige.
His conversation was extraordinarily vivid and dramatic, uttered in
a most vehement tone. It may have been artificial, and it may have
been acting, but it was very arresting and entertaining. The talk got
upon Napoleon’s Marshals, and you would have thought that he knew them
intimately, and he did Murat’s indignation at being told to charge
_au bout_, as if he ever charged any other way, in a fashion which
would have brought down the house. Every now and then he brought out
a Meredithian sentence which sounded comic when applied to domestic
matters. When the jelly swayed about as the maid put it on the table
he said: “The jelly, Mary, is as treacherous as the Trojan Horse.” He
laughed when I told him how my groom, enlisted as a waiter for some
special dinner, said, “Huddup, there,” to the jelly under similar
circumstances.
After lunch we walked up a steep path to the little chalet or
summerhouse where he used to write. He wished to read me a novel which
he had begun twenty years before, but which he had not had the heart
to go on with. I liked it greatly--and we roared with laughter at his
description of an old sea-dog who turned up the collar of his coat when
he went into action as if the bullets were rain. He said that my hearty
enjoyment encouraged him to go on with it, and it has since appeared as
the “Amazing Marriage,” but whether I really had anything to do with it
I do not know. I should be proud to think so.
The nervous complaint from which he suffered caused him to fall down
occasionally. As we walked up the narrow path to the chalet I heard him
fall behind me, but judged from the sound that it was a mere slither
and could not have hurt him. Therefore I walked on as if I had heard
nothing. He was a fiercely proud old man, and my instincts told me that
his humiliation in being helped up would be far greater than any relief
I could give him. It was certainly a nice point to decide.
George Meredith’s religious convictions were very difficult to decide.
He certainly had no glimmering so far as I could see of any psychic
element in life, and I should imagine that on the whole he shared the
opinions of his friend, John Morley, which were completely negative.
And yet I remember his assuring me that prayer was a very necessary
thing, and that one should never abandon prayer. “Who rises from prayer
a better man, his prayer is granted,” says the Aphorist in “Richard
Feverel.” How far these positions can be harmonized I do not know. I
suppose that one may say that God is unknown, and yet rear a mental
temple to the unknown God.
Rudyard Kipling I know far less than I should, considering how deeply I
admire his writings, and that we live in the same country; but we are
both absorbed in work, and both much away from home, which may explain
it. I can well remember how eagerly I bought his first book, “Plain
Tales,” in the old Southsea days, when buying a book was a rare strain
upon my exchequer. I read it with delight, and realized not only that
a new force had arisen in literature, but that a new method of story
writing had appeared which was very different from my own adherence
to the careful plot artfully developed. This was go-as-you-please
take-it-or-leave-it work, which glowed suddenly up into an incandescent
phrase or paragraph, which was the more effective for its sudden
advent. In form his stories were crude, and yet in effect--which, after
all, is everything--they were superb. It showed me that methods could
not be stereotyped, and that there was a more excellent way, even if it
were beyond my reach. I loved the “Barrack Room Ballads” also, and such
poems as “The Bolivar,” “East and West,” and above all the badly named
“L’Envoi” became part of my very self. I always read the last one aloud
to my little circle before we start on any fresh expedition, because it
contains the very essence of travel, romance, and high adventure.
I saw Kipling most nearly in his very early days when he lived at
Brattleboro, a little village in Vermont, in a chivalrous desire to
keep his newly married wife in touch with her own circle. In 1894, as I
have recorded, there was a good deal of tail-twisting going on in the
States, and Kipling pulled a few feathers out of the Eagle’s tail in
retaliation, which caused many screams of protest, for the American
was far more sensitive to such things than the case-hardened Briton.
I say “was,” for I think as a nation with an increased assurance of
their own worth and strength they are now more careless of criticism.
The result at the time was to add oil to flames, and I, as a passionate
believer in Anglo-American union, wrote to Kipling to remonstrate. He
received my protest very good-humouredly, and it led to my visit to his
country home. As a matter of fact, the concern shown in America, when
the poet lay at death’s door a few years later, showed that the rancour
was not very deep. Perhaps he was better known at that time in America
than in England, for I remember sitting beside a bushman in London, who
bowed his red face to my ear and said: “Beg your pardon, sir, but ’oo
is this ’ere Kilpin?”
I had two great days in Vermont, and have a grateful remembrance of
Mrs. Kipling’s hospitality. The poet read me “McAndrew’s Hymn,” which
he had just done, and surprised me by his dramatic power which enabled
him to sustain the Glasgow accent throughout, so that the angular
Scottish greaser simply walked the room. I had brought up my golf clubs
and gave him lessons in a field while the New England rustics watched
us from afar, wondering what on earth we were at, for golf was unknown
in America at that time. We parted good friends, and the visit was an
oasis in my rather dreary pilgrimage as a lecturer.
My glimpses of Kipling since then have been few and scattered, but
I had the pleasure several times of meeting his old father, a most
delightful and lovable person, who told a story quite as well as his
famous son. As the mother was also a very remarkable woman, it is no
wonder that he carried such a cargo.
James Barrie is one of my oldest literary friends, and I knew him
within a year or two of the time when we both came to London. He
had just written his “Window in Thrums,” and I, like all the world,
acclaimed it. When I was lecturing in Scotland in 1893 he invited
me to Kirriemuir, when I stayed some days with his family--splendid
types of the folk who have made Scotland great. His father was a fine
fellow, but his mother was wonderful with a head and a heart--rare
combinations--which made me class her with my own mother. Kirriemuir
could by no means understand Barrie’s success, and looked upon their
great son as an inexplicable phenomenon. They were acutely aware,
however, that tourists were arriving from all parts to see the place
on account of Barrie’s books. “I suppose you have read them,” I said
to the wife of the local hotel man. “Aye, I’ve read them, and steep,
steep, weary work it was,” said she. She had some theory that it was a
four-horse coach which her good man was running, and not the books at
all which accounted for the boom.
Great as are Barrie’s plays--and some of them I think are very great--I
wish he had never written a line for the theatre. The glamour of it
and the--to him--easy success have diverted from literature the man
with the purest style of his age. Plays are always ephemeral, however
good, and are limited to a few, but Barrie’s unborn books might have
been an eternal and a universal asset of British literature. He has
the chaste clarity which is the great style, which has been debased
by a generation of wretched critics who have always confused what is
clear with what is shallow, and what is turbid with what is profound.
If a man’s thought is precise, his rendering of it is precise, and
muddy thoughts make obscure paragraphs. If I had to make my choice
among modern stylists, I should pick Barrie for the lighter forms of
expression and our British Winston Churchill for the more classical.
Barrie’s great play--one of the finest in the language--is of course
“The Admirable Crichton.” I shall always hope that I had a hand in the
fashioning of it. I say this not in complaint but in satisfaction, for
we all drop seeds into each other, and seldom know whence they come. We
were walking together on the Heath at Kirriemuir when I said: “I had a
quaint thought in the night, Barrie. It was that a king was visiting
India and was wrecked on the way on some island far from the track of
ships. Only he and one rather handy sailor were saved. They settled
down to spend their lives together. Of course the result would be that
the sailor would become the king and the king the subject.” We chuckled
over the idea, and when Crichton appeared, I seemed to see the fine
plant which had grown from the tiny seed.
Barrie and I had one unfortunate venture together, in which I may say
that the misfortune was chiefly mine, since I had really nothing to
do with the matter, and yet shared all the trouble. However, I should
have shared the honour and profit in case of success, so that I have no
right to grumble. The facts were that Barrie had promised Mr. D’Oyley
Carte that he would provide the libretto of a light opera for the
Savoy. This was in the Gilbert days, when such a libretto was judged
by a very high standard. It was an extraordinary commission for him to
accept, and I have never yet been able to understand why he did so,
unless, like Alexander, he wanted fresh worlds to conquer. On this
occasion, however, he met with a disastrous repulse, and the opera,
“Jane Annie,” to which I alluded in an early chapter, was one of the
few failures in his brilliant career.
I was brought into the matter because Barrie’s health failed on account
of some family bereavement. I had an urgent telegram from him at
Aldburgh, and going there I found him very worried because he had bound
himself by this contract, and he felt in his present state unable to
go forward with it. There were to be two acts, and he had written the
first one, and had the rough scenario of the second, with the complete
sequence of events--if one may call it a sequence. Would I come in with
him and help him to complete it as part author? Of course I was very
happy to serve him in any way. My heart sank, however, when, after
giving the promise, I examined the work. The only literary gift which
Barrie has not got is the sense of poetic rhythm, and the instinct for
what is permissible in verse. Ideas and wit were in abundance. But
the plot itself was not strong though the dialogue and the situations
also were occasionally excellent. I did my best and wrote the lyrics
for the second act, and much of the dialogue, but it had to take
the predestined shape. The result was not good. However, the actual
comradeship of production was very amusing and interesting, and our
failure was mainly painful to us because it let down the producer and
the cast. We were well abused by the critics, but Barrie took it all in
the bravest spirit.
I find, in looking over my papers, a belated statement of account from
Barrie which is good reading.
IN ACCOUNT WITH J. M. BARRIE.
_Why._ _Cause of delay._ _Remarks._
A £1 Lent at Station. Object moving too fast. Doyle _says_ he
lent it.
B £12 Jane Annie Moving or swaying Better late than
on Tour. of Kodak. never.
C £30 6_s._ 4_d._ Failure to pull cord. Doyle gets 2/5 of
Heaven knows. a penny beyond
his share.
Our associations were never so closely renewed, but through all my
changing life I have had a respect and affection for Barrie which were,
I hope, mutual. How I collaborated with him at cricket as well as at
work is told in my chapter on Sport.
Henry Irving is one of the other great men whom I have met at close
quarters, for his acting of Gregory Brewster brought us in contact.
When he was producing “Coriolanus” he came down to Hindhead and used
to drop in of an evening. He was fond of a glass of port--indeed, he
was one of the four great men who were stated (probably untruly) by the
Hon. G. Russell to drink a bottle each night--being the only trait which
these great men had in common. The others, I remember, were Tennyson,
Gladstone and Moses Montefiori, and the last I believe was really true.
Like all bad habits, it overtook the sinner at last, and he was cut off
at the age of 116.
Irving had a curious dry wit which was occasionally sardonic and
ill-natured. I can well believe that his rehearsals were often the
occasion for heart-burnings among the men and tears among the ladies.
The unexpectedness of his remarks took one aback. I remember when my
friend Hamilton sat up with me into the “wee sma’ hours” with the
famous man, he became rather didactic on the subject of the Deity or
the Universe or some other tremendous topic, which he treated very
solemnly, and at great length. Irving sat with his intense eyes riveted
upon the speaker’s face, which encouraged Hamilton to go on and on.
When at last he had finished, Irving remarked: “_What_ a low comedian
you would have made!” He wound up his visit by giving me his copy of
“Coriolanus” with all his notes and stage directions--a very precious
relic.
Many visions of old times rise before my eyes as I write, but my book
would lose all proportion should I dwell upon them. I see Henley, the
formidable cripple, a red-bearded, loud-voiced buccaneer of a man who
could only crawl, for his back appeared to be broken. He was a great
poet and critic who seemed to belong to the roaring days of Marlowe
of the mighty line and the pothouse fray. I see Haggard too, first
as the young spruce diplomatist, later as the worn and bearded man
with strange vague tendencies to mysticism. Shaw, too, I see with the
pleasant silky voice and the biting phrase. It was strange that all
the mild vegetables which formed his diet made him more pugnacious
and, I must add, more uncharitable than the carnivorous man, so that
I have known no literary man who was more ruthless to other people’s
feelings. And yet to meet him was always to like him. He could not
resist a bitter jest or the perverted pleasure of taking up an
unpopular attitude. As an example I remember Henry Irving telling me
that when Shaw was invited to his father’s funeral he wrote in reply:
“If I were at Westminster Henry Irving would turn in his grave, just as
Shakespeare would turn in his grave were Henry Irving at Stratford.” I
may not have it verbally exact, but that was near enough. It was the
kind of outrageous thing that he would say. And yet one can forgive him
all when one reads the glorious dialogue of some of his plays. He seems
subhuman in emotion and superhuman in intellect.
Shaw was always a thorn in Irving’s side, and was usually the one
jarring note among the chorus of praise which greeted each fresh
production. At a first night at the Lyceum--those wonderful first
nights which have never been equalled--the lanky Irishman with his
greenish face, his red beard, and his sardonic expression must have
been like the death’s-head at the banquet to Irving. Irving ascribed
this animosity to Shaw’s pique because his plays were not accepted, but
in this I am sure that he did an injustice. It was simply that contrary
twist in the man which makes him delight in opposing whatever anyone
else approved. There is nothing constructive in him, and he is bound to
be in perpetual opposition. No one for example was stronger for peace
and for non-militarism than he, and I remember that when I took the
chair at a meeting at Hindhead to back up the Tsar’s peace proposals at
The Hague, I thought to myself as I spied Shaw in a corner of the room:
“Well, this time at any rate he must be in sympathy.” But far from
being so he sprang to his feet and put forward a number of ingenious
reasons why these proposals for peace would be disastrous. Do what you
could he was always against you.
Perhaps it is no bad thing to have the other point of view continually
stated, and the British stand that sort of thing better than other
nations. Had Shaw said in America what he said in England about the war
whilst it was in progress he would have been in personal danger. There
were times, however, when his queer contrary impulses became perfectly
brutal in their working. One was at the time of the _Titanic_ disaster,
when he deliberately wrote a letter at a time when the wounds were raw,
overwhelming every one concerned with bitter criticism. I was moved
to write a remonstrance, and we had a sharp debate in public, which
did not in any way modify our kindly personal relations. I can recall
a smaller but even more unjustifiable example of his sour nature when
he was staying at Hindhead. A garden-party had been got up for some
charity, and it included the woodland scenes of “As You Like It,” which
were done by amateurs, and very well done too. Shaw with no provocation
wrote a whole column of abuse in the local paper, spattering all
the actors and their performance with ridicule, and covering them
with confusion, though indeed they had nothing to be ashamed of. One
mentions these things as characteristic of one side of the man, and
as a proof, I fear, that the adoption by the world of a vegetarian
diet will not bring unkind thoughts or actions to an end. But with it
all Shaw is a genial creature to meet, and I am prepared to believe
that there is a human kindly side to his nature though it has not been
presented to the public. It took a good man to write “Saint Joan.”
Wells, too, I have known long, and indeed I must have often entered the
draper’s shop in which he was employed at Southsea, for the proprietor
was a patient of mine. Wells is one of the great fruits which popular
education has given us, since he came, as he is proud to state, from
the heart of the people. His democratic frankness and complete absence
of class feeling are occasionally embarrassing. I remember his asking
me once if I had played cricket at Liphook. I said that I had. He
said: “Did you notice an old fellow who acts as professional and
ground-keeper?” I said that I had. “That was my father,” said Wells. I
was too much surprised to answer, and could only congratulate myself
that I had made no unpleasant comments before I knew the identity of
the old man.
I have always had my doubts as to those elaborate forecasts of the
future in which Wells indulges. He has, it is true, made a couple
of good shots which have already materialized in the tanks and in
the machine which would deliver news in our own houses. But he has
never shown any perception of the true meaning of the psychic, and
for want of it his history of the world, elaborate and remarkable as
it was, seemed to me to be a body without a soul. However, this also
may be given him, and it will make his equipment complete. I remember
discussing the matter with him, when George Gissing, Hornung, he and I
foregathered in Rome early in this century, but apparently my words had
no effect.
Willie Hornung, my brother-in-law, is another of my vivid memories. He
was a Dr. Johnson without the learning but with a finer wit. No one
could say a neater thing, and his writings, good as they are, never
adequately represented the powers of the man, nor the quickness of his
brain. These things depend upon the time and the fashion, and go flat
in the telling, but I remember how, when I showed him the record of
some one who claimed to have done 100 yards under ten seconds, he said:
“It is a sprinter’s error.” Golf he could not abide, for he said it was
“unsportsmanlike to hit a sitting ball.” His criticism upon my Sherlock
Holmes was: “Though he might be more humble, there is no police like
Holmes.” I think I may claim that his famous character Raffles was a
kind of inversion of Sherlock Holmes, Bunny playing Watson. He admits
as much in his kindly dedication. I think there are few finer examples
of short-story writing in our language than these, though I confess I
think they are rather dangerous in their suggestion. I told him so
before he put pen to paper, and the result has, I fear, borne me out.
You must not make the criminal a hero.
Jerome, too, is an old friend. He is an adventurous soul, and at one
time started a four-in-hand. I remember sitting on the top of it,
and when one of the leaders turned right round and took a good look
at the driver I thought it was time to get down. Maxwell also is an
old friend. He is, of course, the son of Miss Braddon, who married a
publisher of that name. I respect him for doing a man’s work in the war
when, though he was fifty years of age, and had led a sedentary life,
he volunteered for a fighting battalion, a credit which he shares with
A. E. W. Mason. Maxwell’s work has always greatly appealed to me, and I
have long looked upon him as the greatest novelist that we possess.
I never met Robert Louis Stevenson in the flesh, though I owe so much
to him in the literary spirit. Never can I forget the delight with
which I read those early stories of his in the “Cornhill,” before I
knew the name of the author. I still think that “The Pavilion on the
Links” is one of the great short stories of the world, though there
were alterations in the final form which were all for the worse, and
showed prudery upon the part of the publishers. Stevenson’s last year
at Edinburgh University must have just about coincided with my first
one, and Barrie must also have been in that grey old nest of learning
about the year 1876. Strange to think that I probably brushed elbows
with both of them in the crowded portal.
From his far-away home in Samoa he seemed to keep a quick eye upon
literary matters in England, and I had most encouraging letters from
him in 1893 and 1894. “O frolic fellow-spookist” was his curious term
of personal salutation in one of these, which showed that he shared
my interest in psychic research but did not take it very seriously.
I cannot guess how at that time he had detected it, though I was
aware that he had himself in early days acted as secretary to a
psychic research or rather to a Spiritualist society in Edinburgh,
which studied the remarkable mediumship of Duguid. His letters to me
consisted of kind appreciation of my work. “I have a great talent for
compliment,” he said, “accompanied by a hateful, even a diabolic,
frankness.” He had been retailing some of my Sherlock Holmes yarns
to his native servants--I should not have thought that he needed to
draw upon anyone else--and he complained to me in a comical letter of
the difficulty of telling a story when you had to halt every moment
to explain what a railway was, what an engineer was, and so forth.
He got the story across in spite of all difficulties, and, said he,
“If you could have seen the bright feverish eyes of Simite you would
have tasted glory.” But he explained that the natives took everything
literally, and that there was no such thing as an imaginary story for
them. “I, who write this, have had the indiscretion to perpetuate a
trifling piece of fiction, ‘The Bottle Imp.’ Parties who come up to
visit my mansion, after having admired the ceiling by Vanderputty and
the tapestry by Gobbling, manifest towards the end a certain uneasiness
which proves them to be fellows of an infinite delicacy. They may be
seen to shrug a brown shoulder, to roll up a speaking eye, and at last
the secret bursts from them: ‘Where is the bottle?’” In another letter
he said that as I had written of my first book in the “Idler” he also
would do so. “I could not hold back where the white plume of Conan
Doyle waved in front of me.” So, at least, I may boast that it is to me
that the world owes the little personal sketch about “Treasure Island”
which appeared in that year. I cannot forget the shock that it was to
me when driving down the Strand in a hansom cab in 1896 I saw upon a
yellow evening poster “Death of Stevenson.” Something seemed to have
passed out of my world.
I was asked by his executors to finish the novel “St. Ives,” which he
had left three-quarters completed, but I did not feel equal to the
task. It was done, however, and, I understand, very well done, by
Quiller-Couch. It is a desperately difficult thing to carry on another
man’s story, and must be a more or less mechanical effort. I had one
experience of it when my neighbour at Hindhead, Grant Allen, was on
his death-bed. He was much worried because there were two numbers of
his serial, “Hilda Wade,” which was running in “The Strand” magazine,
still uncompleted. It was a pleasure for me to do them for him, and
so relieve his mind, but it was difficult collar work, and I expect
they were pretty bad. Some time afterwards a stranger, who evidently
confused Allen and me, wrote to say that his wife had given him a baby
girl, and that in honour of me he was calling her Hilda Wade. He was
really nearer the truth than appeared at first sight.
I well remember that death-bed of Grant Allen’s. He was an agnostic
of a type which came very near atheism, though in his private life
an amiable and benevolent man. Believing what he did, the approach
of death must have offered rather a bleak prospect, and as he had
paroxysms of extreme pain the poor fellow seemed very miserable. I
had often argued the case with him, I from a Theistic and he from a
negative point of view, but I did not intrude my opinions or disturb
his mind at that solemn moment. Death-bed changes, though some clergy
may rejoice in them, are really vain things. His brain, however,
was as clear as ever, and his mind was occupied with all manner of
strange knowledge, which he imparted in the intervals of his pain, in
the curious high nasal voice which was characteristic. I can see him
now, his knees drawn up to ease internal pain, and his long thin nose
and reddish-grey goatee protruding over the sheet, while he croaked
out: “Byzantine art, my dear Doyle, was of three periods, the middle
one roughly coinciding with the actual fall of the Roman Empire. The
characteristics of the first period----” and so on, until he would
give a cry, clasp his hands across his stomach, and wait till the pain
passed before resuming his lecture. His dear little wife nursed him
devotedly, and mitigated the gloom of those moments which can be made
the very happiest in life if one understands what lies before one. One
thinks, as a contrast, of Dr. Hodgson’s impatient cry, “I can hardly
wait for death!”
Grant Allen’s strong opinions in print, and a certain pleasure he
took in defending outside positions, gave quite a false view of his
character, which was gentle and benignant. I remember his coming to
a fancy dress ball which we gave in the character of a Cardinal, and
in that guise all the quiet dignity of the man seemed to come out and
you realized how much our commonplace modern dress disguises the real
man. He used to tell with great amusement how a couple, who afterwards
became close friends, came first to call, and how as they waited on the
doorstep the wife said to the husband: “Remember, John, if he openly
blasphemes, I leave the room.” He had, I remember, very human relations
with the maids who took a keen interest in their employer’s scientific
experiments. On one occasion these were connected with spiders, and the
maid rushed into the drawing-room and cried: “Oh, sir, Araminta has got
a wasp.” Araminta was the name given to the big spider which he was
observing at the time.
Grant Allen had no actual call to write fiction, but his brain was
agile enough to make some sort of job of anything to which it turned.
On the other hand, as a popular scientist he stood alone, or shared
the honour with Samuel Laing. His only real success in fiction was the
excellent short story “John Creedy,” where he combined science with
fiction, with remarkable results.
At the time when I and so many others turned to letters there was
certainly a wonderful vacancy for the new-comer. The giants of old
had all departed. Thackeray, Dickens, Charles Reade and Trollope were
memories. There was no great figure remaining save Hardy. The rising
novelist was Mrs. Humphry Ward, who was just beginning her career
with “Robert Elsmere,” the first of that series of novels which will
illuminate the later Victorian era more clearly than any historian ever
can do. I think it was Hodgkin who said, when he read “Count Robert of
Paris”: “Here have I been studying Byzantium all my life, and I never
understood it until this blessed Scotch lawyer came along.” That is the
special prerogative of imagination. Trollope and Mrs. Ward have the
whole Victorian civilization dissected and preserved.
Then there were Meredith, unintelligible to most, and Walter Besant.
There was Wilkie Collins, too, with his fine stories of mystery, and
finally there was James Payn.
Payn was much greater than his books. The latter were usually rather
mechanical, but to get at the real man one has to read such articles
as his “Literary Reminiscences,” and especially his “Backwater of
Life.” He had all that humorous view which Nature seems to give as a
compensation to those whose strength is weak. Had Payn written only
essays he would have rivalled Charles Lamb. I knew him best in his
latter days, when he was crippled with illness, and his poor fingers
so twisted with rheumatic arthritis that they seemed hardly human. He
was intensely pessimistic as to his own fate. “Don’t make any mistake,
Doyle, death is a horrible thing--horrible! I suffer the agonies of the
damned!” But five minutes later he would have his audience roaring with
laughter, and his own high treble laugh would be the loudest of all.
His own ailments were frequently a source of mirth. I remember how he
described the breaking of a blood-vessel in Bournemouth and how they
carried him home on a litter. He was dimly conscious of the fir-woods
through which he passed. “I thought it was my funeral, and that they
had done me well in the matter of plumes.” When he told a story he was
so carried away by his sense of humour that he could hardly get the end
out, and he finished up in a kind of scream. An American had called
upon him at some late hour and had discoursed upon Assyrian tablets. “I
thought they were something to eat,” he screamed. He was an excellent
whist player, and the Baldwin Club used to send three members to his
house on certain days so that the old fellow should not go without his
game. This game was very scientific. He would tell with delight how he
asked some novice: “Do you play the penultimate?” To which the novice
answered: “No--but my brother plays the American organ.”
Many of my generation of authors had reason to love him, for he was
a human and kindly critic. His writing however, was really dreadful.
It was of him that the story was told that an author handed one of
his letters to a chemist for a test. The chemist retired for a time
and then returned with a bottle and demanded half a crown. Better
luck attended the man who received an illegible letter from a railway
director. He used it as a free pass upon the line. Payn used to joke
about his own writing, but it was a very real trouble when one could
not make out whether he had accepted or rejected one’s story. There
was one letter in which I could only read the words “infringement of
copyright.” He was very funny when he described the work of the robust
younger school. “I have received a story from ----” he said, “5,000
words, mostly damns.”
I knew Sir Henry Thompson, the famous surgeon, very well, and was
frequently honoured by an invitation to his famous octave dinners,
at which eight carefully chosen male guests were always the company.
They always seemed to me to be the most wonderful exhibitions of
unselfishness, for Thompson was not allowed any alcohol, or anything
save the most simple viands. Possibly, however, like Meredith and the
bottle of burgundy, he enjoyed some reflex pleasure from the enjoyment
of others. He had been a wonderful _viveur_ and judge of what was what,
and I fear that I disappointed him, for I was much more interested
in the conversation than the food, and it used to annoy me when some
argument was interrupted in order to tell us that it was not ordinary
ham but a Westphalian wild boar that we were eating and that it had
been boiled in wine for precisely the right time prescribed by the best
authorities. But it was part of his wonderful unselfish hospitality to
make his guests realize exactly what it was that was set before them. I
have never heard more interesting talk than at these male gatherings,
for it is notorious that though ladies greatly improve the appearance
of a feast they usually detract from the quality of the talk. Few men
are ever absolutely natural when there are women in the room.
There was one special dinner, I fancy it was the hundredth of the
series, which was particularly interesting as the Prince of Wales, now
George V, was one of the eight, and gave us a most interesting account
of the voyage round the world from which he had just returned. Of the
rest of the company I can only recall Sir Henry Stanley, the traveller,
and Sir Crichton Browne. Twenty years later I met the King when he
visited a trade exhibition, and I attended as one of the directors of
Tuck’s famous postcard firm. He at once said: “Why, I have not seen
you since that pleasant dinner when you sat next to me at Sir Henry
Thompson’s.” It seemed to me to be a remarkable example of the royal
gift of memory.
I have not often occupied a chair among the seats of the mighty. My
life has been too busy and too pre-occupied to allow me to stray far
from my beaten path. The mention of the Prince, however, reminds me
of the one occasion when I was privileged to entertain--or to attempt
to entertain--the present Queen. It was at a small dinner to which I
was invited by the courtesy of Lord Midleton whose charming wife, once
Madeleine Stanley, daughter of Lady Helier, I could remember since her
girlhood. Upon this occasion the Prince and Princess came in after
dinner, the latter sitting alone at one end of the room with a second
chair beside her own, which was occupied successively by the various
gentlemen who were to be introduced to her. I was led up in due course,
made my bow, and sat down at her request. I confess that I found it
heavy going at first, for I had heard somewhere that Royalty has to
make the first remark, and had it been the other way there was such a
gulf between us that I should not have known where to begin. However
she was very pleasant and gracious and began asking me some questions
about my works which brought me on to very easy ground. Indeed, I
became so interested in our talk that I was quite disappointed when
Mr. John Morley was led up, and I realized that it was time for me to
vacate the chair.
There was another amusing incident on that eventful evening. I had been
asked to take in Lady Curzon, whose husband, then Viceroy of India, had
been unable to attend. The first couple had passed in and there was
a moment’s hesitation as to who should go next, but Lady Curzon and
I were nearest the door, so possibly with some little encouragement
from the lady we filed through. I thought nothing of the incident
but some great authority upon these matters came to me afterwards in
great excitement. “Do you know,” he said, “that you have established a
precedent and solved one of the most difficult and debatable matters
of etiquette that has ever caused ill-feeling in British Society.”
“The Lord Chancellor and the College of Heralds should be much obliged
to you, for you have given them a definite lead. There has never been
so vexed a question as to whether a Vice-reine when she is away from
the country where she represents royalty shall take precedence over
a Duchess. There was a Duchess in the room, but you by your decided
action have settled the matter for ever.” So who shall say that I have
done nothing in my life?
Of the distinguished lights of the law whom I have met from time to
time I think that Sir Henry Hawkins--then become Lord Bampton--made
the most definite impression. I met him at a week-end gathering
at Cliveden, when Mr. Astor was our host. On the first night at
dinner, before the party had shaken down into mutual acquaintance,
the ex-judge, very old and as bald as an ostrich egg, was seated
opposite, and was wreathed with smiles as he made himself agreeable
to his neighbour. His appearance was so jovial that I remarked to the
lady upon my left: “It is curious to notice the appearance of our
_vis-à-vis_ and to contrast it with his reputation,” alluding to his
sinister record as an inexorable judge. She seemed rather puzzled by
my remark, so I added: “Of course you know who he is.” “Yes,” said
she, “his name is Conan Doyle and he writes novels.” I was hardly
middle-aged at the time and at my best physically, so that I was amused
at her mistake, which arose from some confusion in the list of guests.
I put my dinner card up against her wine-glass, so after that we got to
know each other.
Hawkins was a most extraordinary man, and so capricious that one
never knew whether one was dealing with Jekyll or with Hyde. It was
certainly Hyde when he took eleven hours summing up in the Penge case,
and did all a man could do to have all four of the prisoners condemned
to death. Sir Edward Clarke was so incensed at his behaviour on this
occasion that he gave notice when Hawkins retired from the bench that
if there were the usual complimentary ceremonies he would protest. So
they were dropped.
I might, on the other hand, illustrate the Jekyll side of him by a
story which he told me with his own lips. A prisoner had a pet mouse.
One day the brute of a warder deliberately trod upon it. The prisoner
caught up his dinner knife and dashed at the warder, who only just
escaped, the knife stabbing the door as it closed behind him. Hawkins
as judge wanted to get the man off, but the attempt at murder was
obvious and the law equally clear. What was he to do? In his charge to
the jury he said: “If a man tries to kill another in a way which is on
the face of it absurd, it becomes a foolish rather than a criminal act.
If, for example, a man in London discharged a pistol to hurt a man in
Edinburgh, we could only laugh at such an offence. So also when a man
stabs an iron-plated door while another man is at the other side of it
we cannot take it seriously.” The jury, who were probably only too glad
to follow such a lead, brought in a verdict of “Not guilty.”
Another distinguished man of the law who left a very clear impression
upon my mind was Sir Francis Jeune, afterwards Lord St. Helier. I
attended several of Lady Jeune’s famous luncheon parties, which were
quite one of the outstanding institutions of London, like Gladstone’s
breakfasts in the last quarter of the nineteenth century. I am indebted
to this lady for very many kind actions. Her husband always impressed
me with his gentle wisdom and with his cultivated taste. He told me
that if every copy of Horace were destroyed he thought that he could
reconstruct most of it from memory. He presided over the Divorce
Courts, and I remember upon one occasion I said to him: “You must have
a very low opinion of human nature, Sir Francis, since the worst side
of it is for ever presented towards you.” “On the contrary,” said he
very earnestly, “my experience in the Divorce Courts has greatly raised
my opinion of humanity. There is so much chivalrous self-sacrifice, and
so much disposition upon the part of every one to make the best of a
bad business that it is extremely edifying.” This view seemed to me to
be worth recording.
CHAPTER XXIV
SOME RECOLLECTIONS OF SPORT
Racing--Shooting--A Fish Story--Boxing--Past and Present--Carpentier
and France--The Reno Fight--Football--Golf with the
Sirdar--Billiards--Cricket--W. G. Grace--Queer Experiences--Tragic
Matches--Humiliation--Success in Holland--Barrie’s Team--A
Precedent--Motor Accidents--Prince Henry Tour--Aviation--The Balloon
and the Aeroplane--Ski--Over a Precipice--Rifle Shooting.
It is here--before we approach what Maxwell has called “The Great
Interruption”--that I may perhaps break my narrative in order to
interpolate a chapter upon the general subject of my experiences of
sport, which have taken up an appreciable part of my life, added
greatly to its pleasure, and which can be better treated as a whole
than recounted seriatim. It may best be fitted in at this spot as my
sporting life one way and another may be said to have reached its modest
zenith about that time.
As one grows old one looks back at one’s career in sport as a thing
completed. Yet I have at least held on to it as long as I could, for
I played a hard match of Association football at forty-four, and I
played cricket for ten years more. I have never specialized, and have
therefore been a second-rater in all things. I have made up for it
by being an all-rounder, and have had, I dare say, as much fun out
of sport as many an adept. It would be odd if a man could try as
many games as I for so many years without having some interesting
experiences or forming a few opinions which would bear recording and
discussion.
And first of all let me “damn the sins I have no mind to” by recording
what most of my friends will regard as limitation. I never could look
upon flat-racing as a true sport. Sport is what a man does, not what a
horse does. Skill and judgment are shown, no doubt, by the professional
jockeys, but I think it may be argued that in nine cases out of ten
the best horse wins, and would have equally won, could his head be
kept straight, had there been a dummy on his back. But making every
allowance on the one side, for what human qualities may be called
forth, and for any improvement of the breed of horses (though I am told
that the same pains in other directions would produce infinitely more
fruitful and generally useful results), and putting on the other side
the demoralization from betting, the rascality among some book-makers,
and the collection of undesirable characters brought together by a race
meeting, I cannot avoid the conclusion that the harm greatly outweighs
the good from a broadly national point of view. Yet I recognize,
of course, that it is an amusement which lies so deeply in human
nature--the oldest, perhaps, of all amusements which have come down to
us--that it must have its place in our system until the time may come
when it will be gradually modified, developing, perhaps, some purifying
change, as prize-fighting did when it turned to contests with the
gloves.
I have purposely said “flat-racing,” because I think a stronger case,
though not, perhaps, an entirely sound one, could be made out for
steeplechasing. Eliminate the mob and the money, and then, surely,
among feats of human skill and hardihood there are not many to match
that of the winner of a really stiff point-to-point, while the man
who rides at the huge barriers of the Grand National has a heart for
anything. As in the old days of the ring, it is not the men nor the
sport, but it is the followers who cast a shadow on the business. Go
down to Waterloo and meet any returning race train, if you doubt it.
If I have alienated half my readers by my critical attitude to the
Turf, I shall probably offend the other half by stating that I cannot
persuade myself that we are justified in taking life as a pleasure.
To shoot for the pot must be right, since man must feed, and to kill
creatures which live upon others (the hunting of foxes, for example)
must also be right, since to slay one is to save many; but the rearing
of birds in order to kill them, and the shooting of such sensitive and
inoffensive animals as hares and deer, cannot, I think, be justified.
I must admit that I shot a good deal before I came to this conclusion.
Perhaps the fact, while it prevents my assuming any airs of virtue,
will give my opinion greater weight, since good shooting is still
within my reach, and I know nothing more exhilarating than to wait on
the borders of an autumn-tinted wood, to hear the crackling advance
of beaters, to mark the sudden whirr and the yell of “Mark over,” and
then, over the topmost branches, to see a noble cock pheasant whizzing
down wind at a pace which pitches him a 100 yards behind you when you
have dropped him. But when your moment of exultation is over, and
you note what a beautiful creature he is and how one instant of your
pleasure has wrecked him, you feel that you had better think no longer
if you mean to slip two more cartridges into your gun and stand by for
another. Worse still is it when you hear the child-like wail of the
wounded hare. I should think that there are few sportsmen who have not
felt a disgust at their own handiwork when they have heard it. So, too,
when you see the pheasant fly on with his legs showing beneath him as
sign that he is hard hit. He drops into the thick woods and is lost to
sight. Perhaps it is as well for your peace of mind that he should be
lost to thought also.
Of course, one is met always by the perfectly valid argument that the
creatures would not live at all if it were not for the purposes of
sport, and that it is presumably better from their point of view that
they should eventually meet a violent death than that they should never
have existed. No doubt this is true. But there is another side of the
question as to the effect of the sport upon ourselves--whether it does
not blunt our own better feelings, harden our sympathies, brutalize our
natures. A coward can do it as well as a brave man; a weakling can do
it as well as a strong man. There is no ultimate good from it. Have we
a moral right then, to kill creatures for amusement? I know many of the
best and most kind-hearted men who do it, but still I feel that in a
more advanced age it will no longer be possible.
And yet I am aware of my own inconsistency when I say I am in sympathy
with fishing, and would gladly have a little if I knew where to get
it. And yet, is it wholly inconsistent? Is a cold-blooded creature of
low organization like a fish to be regarded in the same way as the
hare which cries out in front of the beagles, or the deer which may
carry the rifle bullet away in its side? If there is any cruelty it
is surely of a much less degree. Besides, is it not the sweet solitude
of Nature, the romantic quest, rather than the actual capture which
appeals to the fisherman? One thinks of the stories of trout and salmon
which have taken another fly within a few minutes of having broken away
from a former one, and one feels that their sense of pain must be very
different from our own.
I once had the best of an exchange of fishing stories, which does not
sound like a testimonial to my veracity. It was in a Birmingham inn,
and a commercial traveller was boasting of his success. I ventured to
back the weight of the last three fish which I had been concerned in
catching against any day’s take of his life-time. He closed with the
bet and quoted some large haul, 100 lbs. or more. “Now, sir,” he asked
triumphantly, “what was the weight of your three fish?” “Just over 200
tons,” I answered. “Whales?” “Yes, three Greenland whales.” “I give you
best,” he cried; but whether as a fisherman, or as a teller of fish
stories, I am not sure. As a matter of fact, I had only returned that
year from the Arctic seas, and the three fish in question were, in
truth, the last which I had helped to catch.
My experiences during my Arctic voyage both with whales and bears I
have already touched upon, so I will not refer to them again, though it
was the greatest period of sport which has ever come my way.
I have always been keen upon the noble old English sport of boxing,
and, though of no particular class myself, I suppose I might describe
my form as that of a fair average amateur. I should have been a better
man had I taught less and learned more, but after my first tuition I
had few chances of professional teaching. However, I have done a good
deal of mixed boxing among many different types of men, and had as
much pleasure from it as from any form of sport. It stood me in good
stead aboard the whaler. On the very first evening I had a strenuous
bout with the steward, who was an excellent sportsman. I heard him
afterwards, through the partition of the cabin, declare that I was “the
best sur-r-r-geon we’ve had, Colin--he’s blacked my ee.” It struck me
as a singular test of my medical ability, but I dare say it did no
harm.
I remember when I was a medical practitioner going down to examine
a man’s life for insurance in a little Sussex village. He was the
gentleman farmer of the place, and a most sporting and jovial soul. It
was a Saturday, and I enjoyed his hospitality that evening, staying
over till Monday. After breakfast it chanced that several neighbours
dropped in, one of whom, an athletic young farmer, was fond of the
gloves. Conversation soon brought out the fact that I had a weakness
in the same direction. The result was obvious. Two pairs of gloves
were hunted from some cupboard, and in a few minutes we were hard at
it, playing light at first and letting out as we warmed. It was soon
clear that there was no room inside a house for two heavy-weights, so
we adjourned to the front lawn. The main road ran across the end of it,
with a low wall of just the right height to allow the village to rest
its elbows on it and enjoy the spectacle. We fought several very brisk
rounds, with no particular advantage either way, but the contest always
stands out in my memory for its queer surroundings and the old English
picture in which it was set. It is one of several curious bye-battles
in my career. I recollect another where another man and I, returning
from a ball at five of a summer morning, went into his room and fought
in our dress clothes several very vigorous rounds as a wind-up to the
evening’s exercise.
They say that every form of knowledge comes useful sooner or later.
Certainly my own experience in boxing and my very large acquaintance
with the history of the prize-ring found their scope when I wrote
“Rodney Stone.” No one but a fighting man would ever, I think, quite
understand or appreciate some of the detail. A friend of mine read the
scene where Boy Jim fights Berks to a prize-fighter as he lay in what
proved to be his last illness. The man listened with growing animation
until the reader came to the point where the second advises Boy Jim,
in technical jargon, how to get at his awkward antagonist. “That’s it!
By God, he’s got him!” shouted the man in the bed. It was an incident
which gave me pleasure when I heard it.
I have never concealed my opinion that the old prize-ring was
an excellent thing from a national point of view--exactly as
glove-fighting is now. Better that our sports should be a little too
rough than that we should run a risk of effeminacy. But the ring
outlasted its time. It was ruined by the villainous mobs who cared
nothing for the chivalry of sport or the traditions of British fair
play as compared with the money gain which the contest might bring.
Their blackguardism drove out the good men--the men who really did
uphold the ancient standards, and so the whole institution passed into
rottenness and decay. But now the glove contests carried on under the
discipline of the National Sporting or other clubs perpetuate the noble
old sport without a possibility of the more evil elements creeping
into it once more. An exhibition of hardihood without brutality, of
good-humoured courage without savagery, of skill without trickery, is,
I think, the very highest which sport can give. People may smile at the
mittens, but a twenty-round contest with four-ounce gloves is quite as
punishing an ordeal as one could wish to endure. There is as little
room for a coward as in the rougher days of old, and the standard of
endurance is probably as high as in the average prize-fight.
One wonders how our champions of to-day would have fared at the
hands of the heroes of the past. I know something of this end of the
question, for I have seen nearly all the great boxers of my time, from
J. L. Sullivan down to Tommy Burns, Carpentier, Bombardier Wells,
Beckett and that little miracle Jimmy Wilde. But how about the other
end--the men of old? Wonderful Jem Mace was the only link between them.
On the one hand, he was supreme in the ’sixties as a knuckle-fighter;
on the other, he gave the great impetus to glove-fighting in America,
and more especially in Australia, which has brought over such champions
as Frank Slavin and Fitz-simmons, who, through Mace’s teaching, derive
straight from the classic line of British boxers. He of all men might
have drawn a just comparison between the old and the new. But even
his skill and experience might be at fault, for it is notorious that
many of the greatest fighters under the old régime were poor hands
with the mittens. Men could bang poor Tom Sayers all round the ring
with the gloves, who would not have dared to get over the ropes had he
been without them. I have seen Mace box, and even when over sixty it
is wonderful how straight was his left, how quick his feet, and how
impregnable his guard.
After the Great War, one can see that those of us who worked for the
revival of boxing wrought better than we knew, for at the supreme test
of all time--the test which has settled the history of the future--it
has played a marked part. I do not mean that a man used his fists in
the war, but I mean--and every experienced instructor will, I am sure,
endorse it--that the combative spirit and aggressive quickness gave us
the attacking fire and helped especially in bayonet work. But it was
to our allies of France that the chief advantage came. I believe that
Carpentier, the boxer, did more to win the war for France than any
other man save the actual generals or politicians. The public proof
that a Frenchman could be at the very head of his class, as Ledoux was
also at a lighter weight, gives a physical self-respect to a nation
which tinges the spirit of every single member of it. It was a great
day for France when English sports, boxing, Rugby football and others
came across to them, and when a young man’s ideal ceased to be amatory
adventure with an occasional duel. England has taught Europe much, but
nothing of more value than this.
To return to my own small experiences of the game, I might have had one
very notable one, for I was asked to referee the great contest when the
champions of the white and black races fought for what may prove to be
almost the last time.
My first intimation was a cable followed by the following letter:--
NEW YORK,
_December 9, 1909_.
MY DEAR SIR,--
I hope you will pardon the liberty I took as a stranger in cabling
to you asking if you would act at the championship battle between
Jeffries and Johnson. The fact is that when the articles were
signed recently your name was suggested for referee, and Tex
Rickard, promoter of the fight, was greatly interested, as were many
others. I believe it will interest you to know that the opinion was
unanimous that you would do admirably in the position. In a voting
contest several persons sent in your name as their choice. Believe
me among sporting men of the best class in America you have many
strong admirers; your splendid stories of the ring, and your avowed
admiration for the great sport of boxing have made you thousands of
friends.
It was because of this extremely friendly feeling for you in America
that I took the liberty of cabling to you. I thank you for your reply.
It would indeed rejoice the hearts of the men in this country if you
were at the ring side when the great negro fighter meets the white man
Jeffries for the world’s championship.
I am, my dear Sir,
Yours sincerely,
IRVING JEFFERSON LEWIS,
Managing Editor _New York Morning Telegraph_.
I was much inclined to accept this honourable invitation, though my
friends pictured me as winding up with a revolver at one ear and a
razor at the other. However, the distance and my engagements presented
a final bar.
If boxing is the finest single man sport, I think that Rugby football
is the best collective one. Strength, courage, speed and resource are
great qualities to include in a single game. I have always wished that
it had come more my way in life, but my football was ruined, as many a
man’s is, by the fact that at my old school they played a hybrid game
peculiar to the place, with excellent points of its own, but unfitting
the youngster for any other. All these local freak games, wall games,
Winchester games, and so on are national misfortunes, for while our
youths are wasting their energies upon them--those precious early
energies which make the instinctive players--the young South African or
New Zealander is brought up on the real universal Rugby, and so comes
over to pluck a few more laurel leaves out of our depleted wreath. In
Australia I have seen in Victoria a hybrid, though excellent game of
their own, but they have had the sense in other parts to fall into
line, and are already taking the same high position which they hold in
other branches of sport. I hope that our headmasters will follow the
same course.
In spite of my wretched training I played for a short time as a forward
in the Edinburgh University team, but my want of knowledge of the game
was too heavy a handicap. Afterwards I took to Association, and played
first goal and then back for Portsmouth, when that famous club was an
amateur organization. Even then we could put a very fair team in the
field, and were runners-up for the County Cup the last season that I
played. In the same season I was invited to play for the county. I was
always too slow, however, to be a really good back, though I was a long
and safe kick. After a long hiatus I took up football again in South
Africa and organized a series of inter-hospital matches in Bloemfontein
which helped to take our minds away from enteric. My old love treated
me very scurvily, however, for I received a foul from a man’s knee
which buckled two of my ribs and brought my games to a close. I have
played occasionally since, but there is no doubt that as a man grows
older a brisk charge shakes him up as it never did before. Let him
turn to golf, and be thankful that there is still one splendid game
which can never desert him. There may be objections to the “Royal and
Ancient”--but a game which takes four miles of country for the playing
must always have a majesty of its own.
Personally I was an enthusiastic, but a very inefficient golfer--a ten
at my best, and at my worst outside the pale of all decent handicaps.
But surely it is a great testimony to the qualities of a game when a
man can be both enthusiastic and inefficient. It is a proof at least
that a man plays for the game’s sake and not for personal kudos. Golf
is the coquette of games. It always lures one on and always evades one.
Ten years ago I thought I had nearly got it. I hope so to-day. But my
scoring cards will show, I fear, that the coquette has not yet been
caught. The elderly lover cannot hope to win her smile.
I used in my early golfing days to practise on the very rudimentary
links in front of the Mena Hotel, just under the Pyramids. It was
a weird course, where, if you sliced your ball, you might find it
bunkered in the grave of some Rameses or Thothmes of old. It was here,
I believe, that the cynical stranger, after watching my energetic
but ineffectual game, remarked that he had always understood that
there was a special tax for excavating in Egypt. I have a pleasant
recollection of Egyptian golf in a match played with the late Sirdar,
then head of the Intelligence Department. When my ball was teed I
observed that his negro caddie pointed two fingers at it and spat,
which meant, as I was given to understand, that he cursed it for the
rest of the game. Certainly I got into every hazard in the course,
though I must admit that I have accomplished that when there was
no Central African curse upon me. Those were the days before the
reconquest of the Soudan, and I was told by Colonel Wingate--as he
then was--that his spies coming down from Omdurman not infrequently
delivered their messages to him while carrying his golf clubs, to avoid
the attention of the Calipha’s spies, who abounded in Cairo. On this
occasion the Sirdar beat me well, but with a Christian caddie I turned
the tables on him at Dunbar, and now we have signed articles to play
off the rubber at Khartoum, no cursing allowed. When that first match
was played we should as soon have thought of arranging to play golf in
the moon.
Every now and then I give up the game in disgust at my own
incompetence, but only to be lured on once more. Hunting in an old desk
I came upon an obituary which I had written for my game at some moment
of special depression. It ran, “Sacred to the memory of my golf. It was
never strong, being permanently afflicted with a deformed stance and
an undeveloped swing. After long weakness cheerfully borne it finally
succumbed, and was buried in the eighteenth hole, regretted by numerous
caddies.” However it is out and about once more, none the worse for
this premature interment.
There is said to be a considerable analogy between golf and billiards,
so much so that success in the one generally leads to success in the
other. Personally, I have not found it so, for though I may claim, I
suppose, to be above the average amateur at billiards, I am probably
below him in golf. I have never quite attained the three-figure break,
but I have so often topped the eighty, and even the ninety, that I have
lived in constant hope. My friend, the late General Drayson, who was
a great authority on the game, used to recommend that every player
should ascertain what he called his “decimal,” by which he meant how
many innings it took him, whether scoring or not, to make 100. The
number, of course, varies with the luck of the balls and the mood of
the player; but, taken over a dozen or twenty games, it gives a fair
average idea of the player’s form, and a man by himself can in this way
test his own powers. If, for example, a player could, on an average,
score 100 in twenty innings then his average would be five, which is
very fair amateur form. If a man finds his “decimal” rise as high as
ten over a sequence of games, he may be sure that he can hold his
own against most players that he is likely to meet. I daresay my own
decimal when I was in practise would be from six to eight.
I was never good enough for the big matches, and though I once went in
for the Amateur championship it was not out of any illusions about my
game, but because I was specially asked to do so, as it was advisable
to strengthen the undoubted amateur element in the contest. By the luck
of a bye, and by beating a player who was about my own form, I got into
the third round, when I ran across Mr. Evans, who eventually reached
the final with my scalp as well as several others at his girdle. I
made 650 against his 1,000, which, as I was not helped by a bad fall
from a motor bike a few days before, was as much as I could expect.
Forty-two off the red was my best effort. Surely billiards is the king
of all indoor games, and should have some writer who would do for it
in prose what John Nyren did for cricket. I have never seen any worthy
appreciation of its infinite varieties from the forcing losing hazard
which goes roaring into a top pocket with a clash upon the rail, to
the feather stroke so delicate that it is only the quiver of reflected
light upon the object ball which shows that it has indeed been struck.
Greatest of all is the ball heavily loaded with side which drifts down
the long cushion and then is sucked against every apparent law into the
pocket as though it were the centre of a whirlpool. Mr. E. V. Lucas is
one who could do it with discernment.
I have one funny recollection of billiards, when I wandered into some
small hotel in a South-Coast watering place, and for want of something
to do played the marker. He was a pompous person in a frock coat with
a very good opinion of his own game, which was really ruined by a
habit he had of jerking. I won the match, which was not difficult to
do, and then I thought it a kindness to point out to the man how he
could improve his game. He took this badly, however, and hinted that
he allowed gentlemen who played him to get the better of him. This in
turn annoyed me, so I said: “Look here. I will come in after dinner
and you can show all you can do, and you shall have a sovereign if you
win.” After dinner his game was worse than ever, while I had amazing
luck and made the 100 in about three shots. As I put on my coat and was
leaving the room the queer little fellow sidled up to me and said: “I
beg pardon, sir, but is your name Roberts?”
My earliest recollection of cricket is not a particularly pleasant one.
When I was a very small boy at a preparatory school I was one of a
group of admirers who stood around watching a young cricketer who had
just made his name hitting big hits off the school bowlers. One of the
big hits landed on my knee-cap and the cricketer in his own famous arms
carried me off to the school infirmary. The name, Tom Emmett, lingers
in my memory, though it was some years before I appreciated exactly
what he stood for in the game. I think, like most boys, I would rather
have been knocked down by a first-class cricketer than picked up by a
second-rater.
That was the beginning of my acquaintance with a game which has on the
whole given me more pleasure during my life than any other branch of
sport. I have ended by being its victim, for a fast bowler some years
ago happened to hit me twice in the same place under my left knee,
which has left a permanent weakness. I have had as long an inning as
one could reasonably expect, and carry many pleasant friendships and
recollections away with me.
I was a keen cricketer as a boy, but in my student days was too
occupied to touch it. Then I took it up again, but my progress was
interrupted by work and travel. I had some cause, therefore, to hold
on to the game as I had lost so much of it in my youth. Finally, I
fulfilled a secret ambition by getting into the fringe of first-class
cricket, though rather, perhaps, through the good nature of others
than my own merits. However, I can truly say that in the last season
when I played some first-class cricket, including matches against Kent,
Derbyshire, and the London County, I had an average of thirty-two for
those games, so I may claim to have earned my place. I was more useful,
however, in an amateur team, for I was a fairly steady and reliable
bowler, and I could generally earn my place in that department, while
with the M.C.C. the professional talent is usually so strong that the
amateur who fails in batting and is not a particularly good field has
no chance of atoning with the ball. Yet even with the M.C.C. I have
occasionally had a gleam of success. Such a one came some years ago,
when the team presented me with a little silver hat for getting three
consecutive clean-bowled wickets against the Gentlemen of Warwick.
One of my victims explained his downfall by assuring me that he had
it thoroughly in his head that I was a left-handed bowler, and when
the ball came from my right hand he was too bewildered to stop it. The
reason is not so good as that of an artist who, when I had bowled him
out, exclaimed: “Who can play against a man who bowls in a crude pink
shirt against an olive-green background?”
A bowler has many days when everything is against him, when a hard,
smooth wicket takes all the spin and devil out of him, when he goes all
round and over the wicket, when lofted balls refuse to come to hand,
or, if they do come, refuse to stay. But, on the other hand, he has his
recompense with many a stroke of good fortune. It was in such a moment
that I had the good luck to get the wicket of W. G. Grace, the greatest
of all cricketers.
W. G. had his speedy revenge. There was nothing more childlike and
bland than that slow, tossed-up bowling of his, and nothing more subtle
and treacherous. He was always on the wicket or about it, never sent
down a really loose ball, worked continually a few inches from the leg,
and had a perfect command of length. It was the latter quality which
was my downfall. I had made some thirty or forty, and began to relax
in the deep respect with which I faced the Doctor’s deliveries. I had
driven him for four, and jumped out at him again the next ball. Seeing
my intention, as a good bowler does, he dropped his ball a foot or
two shorter. I reached it with difficulty, but again I scored four.
By this time I was very pleased with myself, and could see no reason
why every one of these delightful slows should not mean a four to me.
Out I danced to reach the next one on the half volley. It was tossed a
little higher up in the air, which gave the delusion that it was coming
right up to the bat, but as a matter of fact it pitched well short of
my reach, broke sharply across and Lilley, the wicket-keeper, had my
bails off in a twinkling. One feels rather cheap when one walks from
the middle of the pitch to the pavilion, longing to kick oneself for
one’s own foolishness all the way. I have only once felt smaller, and
that was when I was bowled by A. P. Lucas, by the most singular ball
that I have ever received. He propelled it like a quoit into the air to
a height of at least 30 feet, and it fell straight and true on to the
top of the bails. I have often wondered what a good batsman would have
made of that ball. To play it one would have needed to turn the blade
of the bat straight up, and could hardly fail to give a chance. I tried
to cut it off my stumps, with the result that I knocked down my wicket
and broke my bat, while the ball fell in the midst of this general
chaos. I spent the rest of the day wondering gloomily what I ought to
have done--and I am wondering yet.
I have had two unusual experiences upon Lord’s ground. One was that I
got a century in the very first match that I played there. It was an
unimportant game, it is true, but still the surprising fact remained.
It was a heavy day, and my bat, still encrusted with the classic mud,
hangs as a treasured relic in my hall. The other was less pleasant and
even more surprising. I was playing for the Club against Kent, and
faced for the first time Bradley, who was that year one of the fastest
bowlers in England. His first delivery I hardly saw, and it landed
with a terrific thud upon my thigh. A little occasional pain is one
of the chances of cricket, and one takes it as cheerfully as one can,
but on this occasion it suddenly became sharp to an unbearable degree.
I clapped my hand to the spot, and found to my amazement that I was
on fire. The ball had landed straight on a small tin vesta box in my
trousers pocket, had splintered the box, and set the matches ablaze.
It did not take me long to turn out my pocket and scatter the burning
vestas over the grass. I should have thought this incident unique, but
Alec Hearne, to whom I told it, assured me that he had seen more than
one accident of the kind. W. G. was greatly amused. “Couldn’t get you
out--had to set you on fire!” he cried, in the high voice which seemed
so queer from so big a body.
There are certain matches which stand out in one’s memory for their
peculiar surroundings. One was a match played against Cape de Verde at
that island on the way to South Africa. There is an Atlantic telegraph
station there with a large staff, and they turn out an excellent
eleven. I understand that they played each transport as it passed,
and that they had defeated all, including the Guards. We made up a
very fair team, however, under the captaincy of Lord Henry Scott, and
after a hard fight we defeated the islanders. I don’t know how many of
our eleven left their bones in South Africa; three at least--Blasson,
Douglas Forbes (who made our top score), and young Maxwell Craig never
returned. I remember one even more tragic match in which I played
for the Incogniti against Aldershot Division a few months before the
African War. The regiments quartered there were those which afterwards
saw the hardest service. Major Ray, who made the top score, was killed
at Magersfontein. Young Stanley, who went in first with me, met his
death in the Yeomanry. Taking the two teams right through, I am sure
that half the men were killed or wounded within two years. How little
we could have foreseen it that sunny summer day!
It is dangerous when an old cricketer begins to reminisce, because so
much comes back to his mind. He has but to smell the hot rubber of a
bat handle to be flooded with memories. They are not always glorious. I
remember three ladies coming to see me play against one of the Bedford
schools. The boys politely applauded as I approached the wicket. A very
small boy lobbed up the first ball which I played at. It went up into
the air, and was caught at point by the very smallest boy I have ever
seen in decent cricket. It seemed to me about a mile as I walked back
from the wicket to the pavilion. I don’t think those three ladies ever
recovered their confidence in my cricketing powers.
As a set-off to this confession of failure let me add a small instance
of success, where by “taking thought” I saved a minor international
match. It was at the Hague in 1892, and the game was a wandering
British team against Holland. The Dutch were an excellent sporting lot,
and had one remarkable bowler in Posthuma, a left-hander, who had so
huge a break with his slow ball that it was not uncommon for him to
pitch the ball right outside the matting on which we played and yet
bring it on to the wicket. We won our various local matches without
much difficulty, but we were aware that we should have a stiff fight
with United Holland, the more so as Dutch hospitality was almost as
dangerous to our play as Dutch cricket.
So it proved, and we were in the position that with four wickets in
hand they had only fifteen runs to make with two batsmen well set. I
had not bowled during the tour, for as we were a scratch team, mostly
from the schoolmaster class, we did not know each other’s capacity.
Seeing, however, that things were getting desperate, I went the length
of asking our skipper to give me a chance.
I had observed that the batsmen had been very well taught by their
English professional, and that they all played in most orthodox fashion
with a perfectly straight bat. That was why I thought I might get them
out. I brought every fielder round to the off, for I felt that they
would not think it correct to pull, and I tossed up good length balls
about a foot on the off side. It came off exactly as I expected. The
pro. had not told them what to do with that particular sort of tosh,
and the four men were all caught for as many runs by mid-off or cover.
The team in their exultation proceeded to carry me into the pavilion,
but whether it was my sixteen stone or the heat of the weather, they
tired of the job midway and let me down with a crash which shook the
breath out of me--so Holland was avenged. I played against them again
when they came to England, and made sixty-seven, but got no wickets,
for they had mastered the off-side theory.
Some of my quaintest cricket reminiscences are in connection with
J. M. Barrie’s team--the “Allah-Akbarries,” or “Lord help us” as we
were called. We played in the old style, caring little about the game
and a good deal about a jolly time and pleasant scenery. Broadway,
the country home of Mr. Navarro and his wife, formerly Mary Anderson,
the famous actress, was one of our favourite haunts, and for several
years in succession we played the Artists there. Bernard Partridge,
Barrie, A. E. W. Mason, Abbey the Academician, Blomfield the architect,
Marriott Watson, Charles Whibley, and others of note took part, and
there were many whimsical happenings, which were good fun if they were
not good cricket. I thought all record of our games had faded from
human ken, but lately a controversy was raised over Mr. Armstrong,
the Australian captain, bowling the same man from opposite ends on
consecutive overs. This led to the following paragraph in a Birmingham
paper, which, I may say, entirely exaggerates my powers but is
otherwise correct.
“BARRIE AND ARMSTRONG.
“I am not surprised that in the matter of Mr. Armstrong’s conduct
in bowling two consecutive overs from different ends, no reference
has been made to the important precedent which on a similar occasion
Sir James Barrie failed to establish (writes a correspondent of
the “Nation”). The occasion was his captaincy (at Broadway, in
Worcestershire) of an eleven of writers against a strong team of
alleged artists. The circumstances were these. One side had compiled
seventy-two runs, chiefly, if not wholly, contributed by Sir Arthur
Conan Doyle.
“The sun-worshippers had thereupon responded with an equal number
of runs for the loss of all but their last wicket. The ninth wicket
had fallen to the last ball of Sir Arthur’s over, the other eight
having succumbed to the same performer, then in his prime. Actuated,
apparently, by the belief that Sir Arthur was the only bowler of his
side capable of taking or reaching a wicket, even in Worcestershire,
Sir James thereupon put him on at the opposite end.
“Before, however, he could take a practice ball, a shout was heard
from the artists’ pavilion, and the nine unengaged players were seen
issuing from it to contest our captain’s decision. After an exciting
contest, it was ultimately given in their favour, with the result
that the first ball of the new bowler was hit for two, assisted by
overthrows, and the innings and match were won by the artists.”
Of Barrie’s team I remember that it was printed at the bottom of our
cards that the practice ground was in the “National Observer” office.
Mr. Abbey, the famous artist, usually captained against Barrie, and it
was part of the agreement that each should have a full pitch to leg
just to start his score. I remember my horror when by mistake I bowled
a straight first ball to Abbey, and so broke the unwritten law as
well as the wicket. Abbey knew nothing of the game, but Barrie was no
novice. He bowled an insidious left-hand good length ball coming from
leg which was always likely to get a wicket.
Talking of bowling, I have twice performed the rare feat of getting all
ten wickets. Once it was against a London Club, and once I ran through
the side of a Dragoon Regiment at Norwich. My best performance at Lords
was seven wickets for fifty-one against Cambridgeshire in 1904.
Of fencing my experience has been limited, and yet I have seen enough
to realize what a splendid toughening exercise it is. I nearly had an
ugly mishap when practising it. I had visited a medical man in Southsea
who was an expert with the foils, and at his invitation had a bout with
him. I had put on the mask and glove, but was loath to have the trouble
of fastening on the heavy chest plastron. He insisted, however, and his
insistence saved me from an awkward wound, for, coming in heavily upon
a thrust, his foil broke a few inches from the end, and the sharp point
thus created went deeply into the pad which covered me. I learned a
lesson that day.
On the whole, considering the amount of varied sport which I have done,
I have come off very well as regards bodily injury. One finger broken
at football, two at cricket (one after the other in the same season),
the disablement of my knee--that almost exhausts it. Though a heavy
man and quite an indifferent rider, I have never hurt myself in a fair
selection of falls in the hunting field and elsewhere. Once, as I have
narrated, when I was down, the horse kicked me over the eye with his
forefoot, but I got off with a rather ragged wound, though it might
have been very much more serious.
Indeed, when it comes to escapes, I have had more than my share of
luck. One of the worst was in a motor accident, when the machine,
which weighed over a ton, ran up a high bank, threw me out on a gravel
drive below, and then, turning over, fell on top of me. The steering
wheel projected slightly from the rest, and thus broke the impact and
undoubtedly saved my life, but it gave way under the strain, and the
weight of the car settled across my spine just below the neck, pinning
my face down on the gravel, and pressing with such terrific force as to
make it impossible to utter a sound. I felt the weight getting heavier
moment by moment, and wondered how long my vertebræ could stand it.
However, they did so long enough to enable a crowd to collect and the
car to be levered off me. I should think there are few who can say that
they have held up a ton weight across their spine and lived unparalyzed
to talk about it. It is an acrobatic feat which I have no desire to
repeat.
There is plenty of sport in driving one’s own motor and meeting the
hundred and one unexpected roadside adventures and difficulties which
are continually arising. These were greater a few years ago, when
motors were themselves less solidly and accurately constructed, drivers
were less skilled, and frightened horses were more in evidence. No
invention of modern civilization has done so much for developing a
man’s power of resource and judgment as the motor. To meet and overcome
a sudden emergency is the best of human training, and if a man is his
own driver and mechanician on a fairly long journey he can hardly fail
to have some experience of it.
I well remember in the early days of motoring going up to Birmingham
to take delivery of my new twelve horse-power Wolseley. I had invested
in the sort of peaked yachting cap which was considered the correct
badge of the motorist in those days, but as I paced the platform of
New Street Station a woman removed any conceit I might have over my
headgear, by asking me peremptorily how the trains ran to Walsall.
She took me for one of the officials. I got the car safely home,
and no doubt it was a good car as things went at that time, but the
secret of safe brakes had not yet been discovered, and my pair used
to break as if they were glass. More than once I have known what it
is to steer a car when it is flying backwards under no control down
a winding hill. Looking back at those days it seems to me that I was
under the car nearly as much as on the top of it, for every repair
had to be done from below. There were few accidents from smashing my
differential, seizing my engines, and stripping my gears, which I have
not endured. It was a chain-driven machine, and I can well remember
one absurd incident when the chain jumped the cogs and fell off. We
were on a long slope of 3 miles and ran on with the engine turned off
quite unconscious of what had occurred. When we reached level ground
the car naturally stopped, and we got out, opened the bonnet, tested
the electricity, and were utterly puzzled as to what was amiss, when a
yokel in a cart arrived waving our motive power over his head. He had
picked it up on the road.
Our descendants will never realize the terror of the horses at this
innovation, nor the absurd scenes which it caused. On one occasion
I was motoring down a narrow lane in Norfolk, with my mother in the
open tonneau. Coming round a curve we came upon two carts, one behind
the other. The leading horse, which had apparently never seen a motor
before, propped his forelegs out, his ears shot forward, his eyes
stared rigidly and then in a moment he whirled round, ran up the bank,
and tried to escape behind his comrade. This he could have done but
for the cart, which he also dragged up the bank. Horse and cart fell
sideways on the other horse and cart, and there was such a mixture that
you could not disentangle it. The carts were full of turnips and these
formed a top dressing over the interlaced shafts and the struggling
horses. I sprang out and was trying to help the enraged farmer to get
something right end up, when I glanced at my own car which was almost
involved in the pile. There was my dear old mother sitting calmly
knitting in the midst of all the chaos. It was really like something in
a dream.
My most remarkable motor car experience was when I drove my own sixteen
horse-power Dietrich-Lorraine in the International Road Competition
organized by Prince Henry of Prussia in 1911. This affair is discussed
later, when I come to the preludes of war. I came away from it with
sinister forebodings. The impression left on my mind by the whole
incident is shown by the fact that one of the first things I did when I
got to London was to recommend a firm of which I am director to remove
a large sum which it had lying in Berlin. I have no doubt that it would
have continued to lie there and that we might have lost it. As to the
contest itself it ended in a British victory, which was owing to the
staunch way in which we helped each other when in difficulties, while
the Germans were more a crowd of individuals than a team. Their cars
were excellent and so was their driving. My own little car did very
well and only dropped marks at Sutton Bank in Yorkshire, that terrible
hill, one in three at one point, with a hair-pin bend. When we finally
panted out our strength I put my light-weight chauffeur to the wheel,
ran round, and fairly boosted her up from behind, but we were fined so
many marks for my leaving the driving wheel. Not to get up would have
meant three times the forfeit, so my tactics were well justified.
No doubt the coming science of aviation will develop the same qualities
as motor driving to an even higher degree. It is a form of sport in
which I have only aspirations and little experience. I had one balloon
ascent in which we covered some 25 miles and ascended 6,000 feet,
which was so delightful an expedition that I have always been eager
for another and a longer one. A man has a natural trepidation the
first time he leaves the ground, but I remember that, as I stood by
the basket with the gas-bag swinging about above me and the assistants
clinging to the ropes, some one pointed out an elderly gentleman
and said: “That is the famous Mr. So-and-So, the aeronaut.” I saw a
venerable person and I asked how many ascents he had made. “About
a thousand,” was the answer. No eloquence or reasoning could have
convinced me so completely that I might get into the basket with a
cheerful mind, though I will admit that for the first minute or so
one feels very strange, and keeps an uncommonly tight grip of the
side-ropes. This soon passes, however, and one is lost in the wonder of
the prospect and the glorious feeling of freedom and detachment. As in
a ship, it is the moment of nearing land once more which is the moment
of danger--or, at least, of discomfort; but beyond a bump or two, we
came to rest very quietly in the heart of a Kentish hop-field.
I had one aeroplane excursion in rather early days, but the experience
was not entirely a pleasant one. Machines were under-engined in those
days and very much at the mercy of the wind. We went up at Hendon--May
25, 1911, the date--but the machine was a heavy bi-plane, and though it
went down wind like a swallow it was more serious when we turned and
found, looking down, that the objects below us were stationary or even
inclined to drift backwards. However, we got back to the field at last,
and I think the pilot was as relieved as I. What impressed me most was
the terrible racket of the propeller, comparing so unfavourably with
the delicious calm of the balloon journey.
There is one form of sport in which I have, I think, been able to
do some practical good, for I can claim to have been the first to
introduce skis into the Grisons division of Switzerland, or at least
to demonstrate their practical utility as a means of getting across in
winter from one valley to another. It was in 1894 that I read Nansen’s
account of his crossing of Greenland, and thus became interested in
the subject of ski-ing. It chanced that I was compelled to spend that
winter in the Davos valley, and I spoke about the matter to Tobias
Branger, a sporting tradesman in the village, who in turn interested
his brother. We sent for skis from Norway, and for some weeks afforded
innocent amusement to a large number of people who watched our awkward
movements and complex tumbles. The Brangers made much better progress
than I. At the end of a month or so we felt that we were getting more
expert, and determined to climb the Jacobshorn, a considerable hill
just opposite the Davos Hotel. We had to carry our unwieldy skis upon
our backs until we had passed the fir trees which line its slopes, but
once in the open we made splendid progress, and had the satisfaction of
seeing the flags in the village dipped in our honour when we reached
the summit. But it was only in returning that we got the full flavour
of ski-ing. In ascending you shuffle up by long zig-zags, the only
advantage of your footgear being that it is carrying you over snow
which would engulf you without it. But coming back you simply turn your
long toes and let yourself go, gliding delightfully over the gentle
slopes, flying down the steeper ones, taking an occasional cropper, but
getting as near to flying as any earth-bound man can. In that glorious
air it is a delightful experience.
Encouraged by our success with the Jacobshorn, we determined to show
the utility of our accomplishment by opening up communications with
Arosa, which lies in a parallel valley and can only be reached in
winter by a very long and roundabout railway journey. To do this we had
to cross a high pass, and then drop down on the other side. It was a
most interesting journey, and we felt all the pride of pioneers as we
arrived in Arosa.
I have no doubt that what we did would seem absurdly simple to
Norwegians or others who were apt at the game, but we had to find
things out for ourselves and it was sometimes rather terrifying. The
sun had not yet softened the snow on one sharp slope across which
we had to go, and we had to stamp with our skis in order to get any
foothold. On our left the snow slope ended in a chasm from which a
blue smoke or fog rose in the morning air. I hardly dared look in that
direction, but from the corner of my eye I saw the vapour of the abyss.
I stamped along and the two gallant Switzers got on my left, so that if
I slipped the shock would come upon them. We had no rope by which we
could link up. We got across all right and perhaps we exaggerated the
danger, but it was not a pleasant experience.
Then I remember that we came to an absolute precipice, up which no
doubt the path zigzags in summer. It was not of course perpendicular,
but it seemed little removed from it, and it had just slope enough to
hold the snow. It looked impassable, but the Brangers had picked up
a lot in some way of their own. They took off their skis, fastened
them together with a thong, and on this toboggan they sat, pushing
themselves over the edge, and going down amid a tremendous spray of
flying snow. When they had reached safety they beckoned to me to
follow. I had done as they did, and was sitting on my skis preparatory
to launching myself when a fearsome thing happened, for my skis shot
from under me, flew down the slope, and vanished in huge bounds among
the snow mounds beyond. It was a nasty moment, and the poor Brangers
stood looking up at me some hundreds of feet below me in a dismal state
of mind. However, there was no possible choice as to what to do, so I
did it. I let myself go over the edge, and came squattering down, with
legs and arms extended to check the momentum. A minute later I was
rolling covered with snow at the feet of my guides, and my skis were
found some hundreds of yards away, so no harm was done after all.
I remember that when we signed the hotel register Tobias Branger
filled up the space after my name, in which the new arrival had to
describe his profession, by the words “Sportes-mann,” which I took
as a compliment. It was at any rate more pleasant than the German
description of my golf clubs, which went astray on the railway and
turned up at last with the official description of “Kinderspieler”
(child’s toys) attached to them. To return to the skis they are no
doubt in very general use, but I think I am right in saying that these
and other excursions of ours first demonstrated their possibilities to
the people of the country and have certainly sent a good many thousands
of pounds since then into Switzerland. If my rather rambling career
in sport has been of any practical value to any one, it is probably
in this matter, and also, perhaps, in the opening up of miniature
rifle-ranges in 1901, when the idea was young in this country, and when
my Hindhead range was the pioneer and the model for many others.
A pleasing souvenir of my work on Rifle Clubs is to be found in the
Conan Doyle Cup, which was presented by my friend Sir John Langman, and
is still shot for every year at Bisley by civilian teams.
On the whole as I look back there is no regret in my mind for the time
that I have devoted to sport. It gives health and strength but above
all it gives a certain balance of mind without which a man is not
complete. To give and to take, to accept success modestly and defeat
bravely, to fight against odds, to stick to one’s point, to give credit
to your enemy and value your friend--these are some of the lessons
which true sport should impart.
CHAPTER XXV
TO THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS IN 1914
Baseball--Parkman--Ticonderoga--Prairie Towns--Procession of
Ceres--Relics of the Past--A Moose--Prospects for Emigrants--Jasper
Park--The Great Divide--Algonquin Park.
In 1914, with little perception of how near we were to the greatest
event of the world’s history, we accepted an invitation from the
Canadian Government to inspect the National Reserve at Jasper Park in
the Northern Rockies. The Grand Trunk Railway (Canadian) made matters
easy for us by generously undertaking to pass us over their system and
to place a private car at our disposal. This proved to be a gloriously
comfortable and compact little home, consisting of a parlour, a
dining-room and a bedroom. It belonged to Mr. Chamberlin, the president
of the line, who allowed us the use of it. Full of anticipation we
started off in May upon our long and pleasant journey. Our first point
was New York, where we hoped to put in a week of sight-seeing, since my
wife had never been to America. Then we were to go North and meet our
kind hosts of Canada. At the Plaza Hotel of New York we found ourselves
in pleasant quarters for a hectic week. Here are a few impressions.
We went to see a baseball game at New York--a first-class match, as we
should say--or “some game,” as a native expert described it. I looked
on it all with the critical but sympathetic eyes of an experienced
though decrepit cricketer. The men were fine fellows, harder looking
than most of our professionals--indeed they train continually, and
some of the teams had even before the days of prohibition to practise
complete abstinence, which is said to show its good results not so
much in physical fitness as in the mental quickness which is very
essential in the game. The catching seemed to me extraordinarily good,
especially the judging of the long catches near the “bleachers,” as
the outfields which are far from any shade are called. The throwing
in is also remarkably hard and accurate, and, if applied to cricket,
would astonish some of our batsmen. The men earn anything from £1,000
to £1,500 in the season. This money question is a weak point of the
game, as it is among our own Soccer clubs, since it means that the
largest purse has the best team, and there is no necessary relation
between the player and the place he plays for. Thus we looked upon
New York defeating the Philadelphia Athletics, but there was no more
reason to suppose that New York had actually produced one team than
that Philadelphia had produced the other. For this reason the smaller
matches, such as are played between local teams or colleges, seem to me
to be more exciting, as they do represent something definite.
The pitcher is the man who commands the highest salary and has mastered
the hardest part of the game. His pace is remarkable, far faster, I
should say, than any bowling; but of course it is a throw, and as such
would not be possible in the cricket field. I had one uneasy moment
when I was asked in Canada to take the bat and open a baseball game.
The pitcher, fortunately, was merciful, and the ball came swift but
true. I steadied myself by trying to imagine that it was a bat which
I held in my grasp and that this was a full toss, which asked to be
hit over the ropes. Fortunately, I got it fairly in the middle and it
went on its appointed way, whizzing past the ear of a photographer,
who expected me to pat it. I should not care to have to duplicate the
performance--nor would the photographer.
I took the opportunity when I was in New York to inspect the two famous
prisons, The Tombs and Sing Sing. The Tombs is in the very heart of
the city, and a gloomy, ill-boding place it is when seen from without.
Within it is equally dismal. I walked round in a somewhat shamefaced
way, for it makes you feel so when you encounter human suffering which
you cannot relieve. Warders and prisoners seemed however to be cheerful
enough, and there was an off-hand way of doing things which seemed
strange after our rigid methods. A Chinese prisoner, for example,
was standing at the bottom of the lift, and I heard the warder shout
through the tube, “Have you got room for another Chink in number
three?” I had a talk with one strange Englishman who was barred in like
a wild beast. He spoke of the various prisons, of which he had a wide
acquaintance, exactly as if they were hotels which he was recommending
or condemning. “Toronto is a very poor show. The food is bad. I hope
I may never see Toronto Gaol again. Detroit is better. I had quite
a pleasant time in Detroit.” And so on. He spoke and looked like a
gentleman, but I could quite imagine, in spite of his genial manner,
that he was a dangerous crook. When I left him he said: “Well, bye-bye!
Sorry you have to go! We can’t all be out and about, can we?”
In the same week I went to Sing Sing, the State Penitentiary, which
is some twenty miles from the city on the banks of the Hudson. It is
an ancient building, dating from the middle of last century, and it
certainly should be condemned by a rich and prosperous community. By a
strange coincidence the convicts were having one of their few treats in
the year that day, and I was able to see them all assembled together in
the great hall, listening to a music-hall troupe from New York. Poor
devils, all the forced, vulgar gaiety of the songs and the antics of
half-clad women must have provoked a terrible reaction in their minds!
Many of them had, I observed, abnormalities of cranium or of features
which made it clear that they were not wholly responsible for their
actions. There was a good sprinkling of coloured men among them. Here
and there I noticed an intelligent and even a good face. One wondered
how they got there.
I was locked up afterwards in one of the cells--seven feet by four--and
I was also placed in the electrocution chair, a very ordinary, stout,
cane-bottomed seat, with a good many sinister wires dangling round it.
I had a long talk with the Governor, who seemed in himself to be a
humane man, but terribly hampered by the awful building which he had to
administer.
One morning of early June “my Lady Sunshine” and I--(if I may be
allowed to quote the charmingly appropriate name which the New York
Press had given to my wife) left New York for Parkman Land, which
I had long wished to explore. We were glad to get away as we had
been considerably harassed by the ubiquitous and energetic American
reporter.
This individual is really, in nine cases out of ten, a very good
fellow, and if you will treat him with decent civility he will make
the best of you with the public. It is absurd for travellers to be
rude to him, as is too often the attitude of the wandering Briton. The
man is under orders from his paper, and if he returns without results
it is not a compliment upon his delicacy which will await him. He is
out to see you and describe you, and if he finds you an ill-tempered,
cantankerous curmudgeon, he very naturally says so and turns out some
excellent spicy reading at your expense. The indignant Briton imagines
that this is done in revenge. The reporter would not be human if it
did not amuse him to do it, but it very often represents the exact
impression which the vituperative traveller has made upon the pressman,
himself as often as not an overworked and highly-strung man.
Reminiscences of interviews are occasionally amusing. I can remember
that on my previous visit I was approached one night by an interviewer
in a very marked state of intoxication. He was so drunk that I wondered
what in the world he would make of his subject, and I bought his paper
next day to see. To my amusement I found that I had made the worst
possible impression upon him. He had found no good in me at all. He may
even have attributed to me his own weakness, like the Scotch toper who
said: “Sandy drank that hard that by the end of the evening I couldn’t
see him.”
To return to Parkman Land. I am surprised to find how few Americans
and fewer Canadians there are who appreciate that great historian at
his true worth. I wonder whether any man of letters has ever devoted
himself to a task with such whole-hearted devotion as Parkman. He knew
the old bloody frontier as Scott knew the border marches. He was soaked
in New England tradition. He prepared himself for writing about Indians
by living for months in their wigwams. He was intimate with old French
life, and he spent some time in a religious house that he might catch
something of the spirit which played so great a part in the early
history of Canada. On the top of all this he had the well-balanced,
unprejudiced mind of the great chronicler, and he cultivated a style
which was equally removed from insipidity and from affectation. As
to his industry and resolution, they are shown by the fact that he
completed his volumes after he had been stricken by blindness. It is
hard to name any historian who has such an equipment as this. From his
“Pioneers of the New World” to his “Conspiracy of Pontiac” I have read
his twelve volumes twice over, and put some small reflection of them
into my “Refugees.”
We explored not only the beautiful, tragic Lake George, but also
its great neighbour Lake Champlain, almost as full of historical
reminiscence. Upon this, level with the head of the smaller lake,
stood Ticonderoga, the chief seat of the French Canadian power. Some
five miles separate it from Lake George, up which the British came
buzzing whenever they were strong enough to do so. Once in front of
the palisades of Ticonderoga, they met with heavy defeat, and yet once
again, by the valour of the newly-enrolled Black Watch, they swept the
place off the map. I wonder if Stevenson had actually been there before
he wrote his eerie haunting ballad--the second finest of the sort, in
my opinion, in our literature. It is more than likely, since he spent
some time in the neighbouring Adirondacks. Pious hands were restoring
the old fort of Ticonderoga, much of which has been uncovered. All day
we skirted Lake Champlain, into which the old French explorer first
found his way, and where he made the dreadful mistake of mixing in
Indian warfare, which brought the whole bloodthirsty vendetta of the
five nations upon the young French settlements. Up at the head of the
lake we saw Plattsburg, where the Americans gained a victory in the war
of 1812. The sight of these battle-fields, whether they mark British
or American successes, always fills me with horror. If the war of
1776 was, as I hold, a glorious mistake, that of 1812 was a senseless
blunder. Had neither occurred, the whole of North America would now
be one magnificent undivided country, pursuing its own independent
destiny, and yet united in such unblemished ties of blood and memory to
the old country that each could lean at all times upon the other. It is
best for Britishers, no doubt, that we should never lean upon anything
bigger than ourselves. But I see no glory in these struggles, and
little wisdom in the statesmen who waged them. Among them they split
the race from base to summit, and who has been the gainer? Not Britain,
who was alienated from so many of her very best children. Not America,
who lost Canada and had on her hands a civil war which a United Empire
could have avoided. Ah well, there is a controlling force somewhere,
and the highest wisdom is to believe that all things are ordered for
the best.
About evening we crossed the Canadian frontier, the Richelieu River,
down which the old Iroquois scalping parties used to creep, gleaming
coldly in the twilight. There is nothing to show where you have crossed
that border. There is the same sort of country, the same cultivation,
the same plain wooden houses. Nothing was changed save that suddenly I
saw a little old ensign flying on a gable, and it gives you a thrill
when you have not seen it for a time.
It is not until one has reached the Prairie country that the traveller
meets with new conditions and new problems. He traverses Ontario
with its prosperous mixed farms and its fruit-growing villages, but
the general effect is the same as in Eastern America. Then comes the
enormous stretch of the Great Lakes, those wonderful inland seas, with
great ocean-going steamers. We saw the newly built _Noronic_, destined
altogether for passenger traffic, and worthy to compare, both in
internal fittings and outward appearance, with many an Atlantic liner.
The Indians looked in amazement at La Salle’s little vessel. I wondered
what La Salle and his men would think of the _Noronic_! For two days
in great comfort we voyaged over the inland waters. They lay peaceful
for our passage, but we heard grim stories of winter gusts and of ships
which were never heard of more. It is not surprising that there should
be accidents, for the number of vessels is extraordinary, and being
constructed with the one idea of carrying the maximum of cargo, they
appeared to be not very stable. I am speaking now of the whale-back
freight carriers and not of the fine passenger service, which could not
be beaten.
I have said that the number of vessels is extraordinary. I have been
told that the tonnage passing through Sault Ste. Marie, where the lakes
join, is greater than that of any port in the world. All the supplies
and manufactures for the West move one way, while the corn of the
great prairie, and the ores from the Lake Superior copper and iron
mines move the other. In the Fall there comes the triumphant procession
of the harvest. Surely in more poetic days banners might have waved
and cymbals clashed, and priests of Ceres sung their hymns in the
vanguard, as this flotilla of mercy moved majestically over the face
of the waters to the aid of hungry Europe. However, we have cut out
the frills, to use the vernacular, though life would be none the worse
could we tinge it a little with the iridescence of romance.
We stopped at Sault Ste. Marie, the neck of the hour-glass between the
two great lakes of Huron and Superior. There were several things there
which are worthy of record. The lakes are of a different level, and
the lock which avoids the dangerous rapids is on an enormous scale;
but, beside it, unnoticed save by those who know where to look and what
to look for, there is a little stone-lined cutting no larger than an
uncovered drain--it is the detour by which for centuries the voyageurs,
trappers, and explorers moved their canoes round the Sault or fall on
their journey to the great solitudes beyond. Close by it is one of
the old Hudson Bay log forts, with its fireproof roof, its loop-holed
walls, and every other device for Indian fighting. Very small and mean
these things look by the side of the great locks and the huge steamers
within them. But where would locks and steamers have been had these
others not taken their lives in their hands to clear the way?
The twin cities of Fort William and Port Arthur, at the head of Lake
Superior, form the most growing community of Canada. They call them
twin cities, but I expect, like their Siamese predecessors, they will
grow into one. Already the suburbs join each other, though proximity
does not always lead to amalgamation or even to cordiality, as in
the adjacent towns of St. Paul and Minneapolis. When the little
American boy was asked in Sunday school who persecuted Saint Paul,
he “guessed it was Minneapolis.” But in the case of Fort William and
Port Arthur they are so evidently interdependent that it is difficult
to believe that they will fail to coalesce; when they do, I am of
opinion that they may grow to be a Canadian Chicago, and possibly
become the greatest city in the country. All lines converge there,
as does all the lake traffic, and everything from East to West must
pass through it. If I were a rich man and wished to become richer,
I should assuredly buy land in the twin cities. Though they lie in
the very centre of the broadest portion of the continent, the water
communications are so wonderful that an ocean-going steamer from
Liverpool or Glasgow can now unload at their quays.
The grain elevators of Fort William are really majestic erections, and
with a little change of their construction might be æsthetic as well.
Even now the huge cylinders into which they are divided look at a
little distance not unlike the columns of Luxor. This branch of human
ingenuity has been pushed at Fort William to its extreme. The last word
has been said there upon every question covering the handling of grain.
By some process, which is far beyond my unmechanical brain, the stuff
is even divided automatically according to its quality, and there are
special hospital elevators where damaged grain can be worked up into a
more perfect article.
By the way, it was here, while lying at a steamship wharf on the very
edge of the city, that I first made the acquaintance of one of the
original inhabitants of Canada. A cleared plain stretched from the ship
to a wood some hundreds of yards off. As I stood upon deck I saw what
I imagined to be a horse wander out of the wood and begin to graze in
the clearing. The creature seemed ewe-necked beyond all possibility,
and looking closer I saw to my surprise that it was a wild hornless
moose. Could anything be more characteristic of the present condition
of Canada--the great mechanical developments of Fort William within
gunshot of me on one side, and this shy wanderer of the wilderness on
the other? In a few years the dweller in the great city will read of
my experience with the same mixture of incredulity and surprise with
which we read the occasional correspondent’s whose grandfather shot a
woodcock in Maida Vale.
The true division between the East and West of Canada is not the Great
Lakes, which are so valuable as a waterway, but lies in the 500 miles
of country between the Lakes and Winnipeg. It is barren, but beautiful,
covered with forest which is not large enough to be of value as lumber.
It is a country of rolling plains covered with low trees with rivers
in the valleys. The soil is poor. It is really a problem what to do
with this belt, which is small according to Canadian distance, but is
none the less broader than the distance between London and Edinburgh.
Unless minerals are found in it, I should think that it will be to
Canada what the Highlands of Scotland are to Britain--a region set
apart for sport because it has no other economic use. The singular
thing about this barren tree-land is that it quite suddenly changes to
the fertile prairie at a point to the east of Winnipeg. I presume that
there is some geological reason, but it was strange to see the fertile
plain run up to the barren woods with as clear a division as there is
between the sea and the shore.
And now one reaches the west of Winnipeg and that prairie which
means so much both to Canada and to the world. It was wonderfully
impressive to travel swiftly all day from the early summer dawn to the
latest evening light, and to see always the same little clusters of
houses, always the same distant farms, always the same huge expanse
stretching to the distant skyline, mottled with cattle, or green with
the half-grown crops. You think these people are lonely. What about
the people beyond them and beyond them again, each family in its rude
barracks in the midst of the 160 acres which form the minimum farm?
No doubt they are lonely, and yet there are alleviations. When men
or women are working on their own property and seeing their fortune
growing, they have pleasant thoughts to bear them company. It is the
women, I am told, who feel it most, and who go prairie-mad. Now they
have rigged telephone circles which connect up small groups of farms
and enable the women to relieve their lives by a little friendly
gossip, when the whole district thrills to the news that Mrs. Jones
has been in the cars to Winnipeg and bought a new bonnet. At the worst
the loneliness of the prairie can never, one would think, have the
soul-killing effect of loneliness in a town. “There is always the wind
on the heath, brother.” Besides, the wireless has now arrived, and that
is the best friend of the lonely man.
Land is not so easily picked up by the emigrant as in the old days,
when 160 acres beside the railroad were given away free. There was
still in 1914 free land to be had, but it was in the back country.
However, this back country of to-day is always liable to be opened
up by the branch railway lines to-morrow. On the whole, however, it
seems to be more economical, if the emigrant has the money, to buy
a partially developed well-situated farm than to take up a virgin
homestead. That is what the American emigrants do who have been pouring
into the country, and they know best the value of such farms, having
usually come from exactly similar ones just across the border, the only
difference being that they can get ten acres in Canada for the price
of one in Minnesota or Iowa. They hasten to take out their papers of
naturalization, and make, it is said, most excellent and contented
citizens. Their energy and industry are remarkable. A body of them had
reached the land which they proposed to buy about the time that we were
in the West; they had come over the border with their wagons, their
horses, and their ploughs. Being taken to the spot by the land agent,
the leader of the party tested the soil, cast a rapid glance over the
general prairie, and then cried: “I guess this will do, boys. Get off
the ploughs.” The agent who was present told me that they had broken
an acre of the prairie before they slept that night. These men were
German Lutherans from Minnesota, and they settled in the neighbourhood
of Scott. The gains on the farms are very considerable. It is not
unusual for a man to pay every expense which he has incurred, including
the price of the land, within the first two years. After that, with
decent luck, he should be a prosperous man, able to bring up a family
in ease and comfort. If he be British, and desires to return to the
Old Country, it should not be difficult for him to save enough in
ten or twelve years to make himself, after selling his farm, more or
less independent for life. That is, as it seems to me, an important
consideration for many people who hesitate to break all the old ties
and feel that they are leaving their motherland for ever.
So much about farms and farming. I cannot see how one can write about
this western part and avoid the subject which is written in green and
gold from sky to sky. There is nothing else. Nowhere is there any sign
of yesterday--not a cairn, not a monument. Life has passed here, but
has left no footstep behind. But stay, the one thing which the old
life still leaves is just this one thing--footsteps. Look at them in
the little narrow black paths which converge to the water--little dark
ruts which wind and twist. Those are the buffalo runs of old. Gone
are the Cree and Blackfoot hunters who shot them down. Gone, too, the
fur-traders who bought the skins. Chief Factor MacTavish, who entered
into the great Company’s service as a boy, spent his life in slow
promotion from Fort This to Fort That, and made a decent Presbyterian
woman of some Indian squaw, finally saw with horror in his old age that
the world was crowding his wild beasts out of their pastures. Gone
are the great herds upon which both Indian hunter and fur-trader were
parasitical. Indian, trader and buffalo all have passed, and here on
the great plains are these narrow runways as the last remaining sign of
a vanished world.
Edmonton is the capital of the western side of the prairie, even as
Winnipeg is of the eastern. I do not suppose the average Briton has the
least conception of the amenities of Winnipeg. He would probably be
surprised to hear that the Fort Garry Hotel there is nearly as modern
and luxurious as any hotel in Northumberland Avenue. There were no such
luxuries in 1914 in Edmonton. The town was in a strangely half-formed
condition, rude and raw, but with a great atmosphere of energy, bustle,
and future greatness. With its railway connections and waterways it is
bound to be a large city. At the time of our visit the streets were
full of out-of-works, great husky men, some of them of magnificent
physique, who found themselves at a loss, on account of cessations in
railroad construction. They told me that they would soon be reabsorbed,
but meantime the situation was the rudest object-lesson in economics
that I have ever witnessed. Here were these splendid men, ready and
willing to work. Here was a new country calling in every direction for
labour. How come the two things to be even temporarily disconnected?
There could be but one word. It was want of capital. And why was the
capital wanting? Why was the work of the railroads held up? Because the
money market was tight in London--London which finds, according to the
most recent figures, 73 per cent of all the moneys with which Canada is
developed. Such was the state of things. What will amend it? How can
capital be made to flow into the best channels? By encouragement and
security and the hope of good returns. I never heard of any system of
socialism which did not seem to defeat the very object which it had at
heart. And yet it was surely deplorable that the men should be there,
and that the work should be there, and that none could command the link
which would unite them.
A line of low distant hills broke the interminable plain which has
extended with hardly a rising for 1,500 miles. Above them was, here and
there, a peak of snow. Shades of Mayne Reid, they were the Rockies--my
old familiar Rockies! Have I been here before? What an absurd question,
when I lived here for about ten years of my life in all the hours of
dreamland. What deeds have I not done among Redskins and trappers and
grizzlies within their wilds! And here they were at last glimmering
bright in the rising morning sun. At least, I have seen my dream
mountains. Most boys never do.
Jasper Park is one of the great national playgrounds and health resorts
which the Canadian Government with great wisdom has laid out for the
benefit of the citizens. When Canada has filled up and carries a large
population, she will bless the foresight of the administrators who
took possession of broad tracts of the most picturesque land and put
them for ever out of the power of the speculative dealer. The National
Park at Banff has for twenty years been a Mecca for tourists. That at
Algonquin gives a great pleasure-ground to those who cannot extend
their travels beyond Eastern Canada. But this new Jasper Park is the
latest and the wildest of all these reserves. Some years ago it was
absolute wilderness, and much of it impenetrable. Now, through the
energy of Colonel Rogers, trails have been cut through it in various
directions, and a great number of adventurous trips into country which
is practically unknown can be carried out with ease and comfort. The
packer plays the part of a dragoman in the East, arranging the whole
expedition, food, cooking, and everything else on inclusive terms; and
once in the hands of a first-class Rocky Mountain packer, a man of
the standing of Fred Stephens or the Otto Brothers, the traveller can
rely upon a square deal and the companionship of one whom he will find
to be a most excellent comrade. There is no shooting in the park--it is
a preserve for all wild animals--but there is excellent fishing, and
everywhere there are the most wonderful excursions, where you sleep at
night under the stars upon the balsamic fir branches which the packer
gathers for your couch. I could not imagine an experience which would
be more likely to give a freshet of vitality when the stream runs thin.
For a week we lived the life of simplicity and nature.
[Illustration: THE FAMILY IN THE WILDS OF CANADA.]
The park is not as full of wild creatures as it will be after a few
years of preservation. The Indians who lived in this part rounded up
everything that they could before moving to their reservation. But even
now, the bear lumbers through the brushwood, the eagle soars above the
lake, the timber wolf still skulks in the night, and the deer graze in
the valleys. Above, near the snow-line, the wild goat is not uncommon,
while at a lower altitude are found the mountain sheep. On the last
day of our visit the rare cinnamon bear exposed his yellow coat upon a
clearing within a few hundred yards of the village. I saw his clumsy
good-humoured head looking at me from over a dead trunk, and I thanked
the kindly Canadian law which has given him a place of sanctuary.
What a bloodthirsty baboon man must appear to the lower animals! If
any superhuman demon treated us exactly as we treat the pheasants, we
should begin to reconsider our views as to what is sport.
The porcupine is another creature which abounded in the woods. I did
not see any, but a friend described an encounter between one and his
dog. The creature’s quills are detachable when he wishes to be nasty,
and at the end of the fight it was not easy to say which was the dog
and which the porcupine.
Life in Jasper interested me as an experience of the first stage
of a raw Canadian town. It will certainly grow into a considerable
place, but at that time, bar Colonel Rogers’ house and the station,
there were only log-huts and small wooden dwellings. Christianity was
apostolic in its simplicity and in its freedom from strife--though
one has to go back remarkably early in apostolic times to find those
characteristics. Two churches were being built, the pastor in each
case acting also as head mason and carpenter. One, the corner-stone of
which I had the honour of laying, was to be used in turn by several
Nonconformist bodies. To the ceremony came the Anglican parson, grimy
from his labours on the opposition building, and prayed for the
well-being of his rival. The whole function, with its simplicity and
earnestness, carried out by a group of ill-clad men standing bareheaded
in a drizzle of rain, seemed to me to have in it the essence of
religion. As I ventured to remark to them, Kikuyu and Jasper can give
some lessons to London.
We made a day’s excursion by rail to the Tête Jaune Cache, which is
across the British Columbian border and marks the watershed between
East and West. Here we saw the Fraser, already a formidable river,
rushing down to the Pacific. At the head of the pass stands the village
of the railway workers, exactly like one of the mining townships of
Bret Harte, save that the bad man is never allowed to be too bad. There
is a worse man in a red serge coat and a Stetson hat, who is told off
by the State to look after him, and does his duty in such fashion that
the most fire-eating desperado from across the border falls into the
line of law. But apart from the gunman, this village presented exactly
the same queer cabins, strange signs, and gambling rooms which the
great American master has made so familiar to us.
And now we were homeward bound! Back through Edmonton, back through
Winnipeg, back through that young giant, Fort William--but not back
across the Great Lakes. Instead of that transit we took train, by the
courtesy of the Canadian Pacific, round the northern shore of Superior,
a beautiful wooded desolate country, which, without minerals, offers
little prospect for the future. Some 200 miles north of it, the Grand
Trunk, that enterprising pioneer of empire, has opened up another line
which extends for a thousand miles, and should develop a new corn and
lumber district. Canada is like an expanding flower; wherever you look
you see some fresh petal unrolling.
We spent three days at Algonquin Park. This place is within easy
distance of Montreal or Ottawa, and should become a resort of British
fishermen and lovers of nature. After all, it is little more than a
week from London, and many a river in Finland takes nearly as long
to reach. There is good hotel accommodation, and out of the thousand
odd lakes in this enormous natural preserve one can find all sorts
of fishing, though the best is naturally the most remote. I had no
particular luck myself, but my wife caught an eight-pound trout, which
Mr. Bartlett, the courteous superintendent of the park, mounted, so
as to confound all doubters. Deer abound in the park, and the black
bear is not uncommon, while wolves can often be heard howling in the
night-time.
What will be the destiny of Canada? Some people talk as if it were
in doubt. Personally, I have none upon the point. Canada will remain
exactly as she is for two more generations. At the end of that time
there must be reconsideration of the subject, especially on the part of
Great Britain, who will find herself with a child as large as herself
under the same roof.
I see no argument for the union of Canada with the United States. There
is excellent feeling between the two countries, but they could no more
join at this period of their history than a great oak could combine
with a well-rooted pine to make one tree. The roots of each are far too
deep. It is impossible.
Then there is the alternative of Canada becoming an independent nation.
That is not so impossible as a union with the States, but it is in the
last degree improbable. Why should Canada wish her independence? She
has it now in every essential. But her first need is the capital and
the population which will develop her enormous territory and resources.
This capital she now receives from the Mother-Country to the extent in
1914 of 73 per cent, the United States finding 14 per cent, and Canada
herself the remaining 13. Her dependence upon the Mother-Country for
emigrants, though not so great as her financial dependence, is still
the greatest from any single source. Besides all this, she has the
vast insurance policy, which is called the British Navy, presented to
her for nothing--though honour demands some premium from her in the
future--and she has the British diplomatic service for her use unpaid.
Altogether, looking at it from the material side, Canada’s interests
lie deeply in the present arrangement. But there is a higher and more
unselfish view which works even more strongly in the same direction.
Many of the most representative Canadians are descendants of those
United Empire Loyalists who in 1782 gave up everything and emigrated
from the United States in order to remain under the flag. Their
imperialism is as warm or warmer than our own. And everywhere there is
a consciousness of the glory of the empire, its magnificent future, and
the wonderful possibilities of these great nations all growing up under
the same flag with the same language and destinies. This sentiment
joins with material advantages, and will prevent Canada from having any
aspiration towards independence.
Yes, it will remain exactly as it is for the remainder of this century.
At the end of that time her population and resources will probably
considerably exceed those of the Mother Land, and problems will arise
which our children’s children may have some difficulty in solving. As
to the French-Canadian, he will always be a conservative force--let
him call himself what he will. His occasional weakness for flying
the French flag is not to be resented, but is rather a pathetic and
sentimental tribute to a lost cause, like that which adorns every year
the pedestal of Charles at Whitehall.
I had some presentiment of coming trouble during the time we were in
Canada, though I never imagined that we were so close to the edge of
a world-war. One incident which struck me forcibly was the arrival
at Vancouver of a ship full of Sikhs who demanded to be admitted to
Canada. This demand was resisted on account of the immigration laws.
The whole incident seemed to me to be so grotesque--for why should
sun-loving Hindoos force themselves upon Canada--that I was convinced
some larger purpose lay behind it. That purpose was, as we can now see,
to promote discord among the races under the British flag. There can be
no doubt that it was German money that chartered that ship.
I had several opportunities of addressing large and influential
Canadian audiences, and I never failed to insist upon the sound state
of the home population. The Canadians judge us too often by our
ne’er-do-weels and remittance men, who are the sample Englishmen
who come before them. In defence even of these samples it should be
stated that they bulked very large in the first Canadian Division. I
told the Canadians of our magnificent Boy Scout movement, and also
of the movement of old soldiers to form a national guard. “A country
where both the old and the young can start new, unselfish, patriotic
movements is a live country,” I said, “and if we are tested we will
prove just as good as ever our fathers were.” I did not dream how near
the test would be, how hard it would press, or how gloriously it would
be met.
And now I turn to the war, the physical climax of my life as it must
be of the life of every living man and woman. Each was caught as a
separate chip and swept into that fearsome whirlpool, where we all
gyrated for four years, some sinking for ever, some washed up all
twisted and bent, and all of us showing in our souls and bodies some
mark of the terrible forces which had controlled us so long. I will
show presently how the war reacted upon me, and also, if one may speak
without presumption, how in a minute way I in turn reacted upon the
war.
CHAPTER XXVI
THE EVE OF WAR
The Prologue of Armageddon--The “Prince Henry”
Race--Bernhardi--“England and the Next War”--“Danger”--General
Sir H. Wilson--The Channel Tunnel--Naval Defects--Rubber
Collars--Mines--Willie Redmond.
For a long time I never seriously believed in the German menace.
Frequently I found myself alone, in a company of educated Englishmen,
in my opinion that it was non-existent--or at worst greatly
exaggerated. This conclusion was formed on two grounds. The first was,
that I knew it to be impossible that we could attack Germany save in
the face of monstrous provocation. By the conditions of our government,
even if those in high places desired to do such a thing, it was utterly
impracticable, for a foreign war could not be successfully carried
on by Great Britain unless the overwhelming majority of the people
approved of it. Our foreign, like our home, politics are governed
by the vote of the proletariat. It would be impossible to wage an
aggressive war against any Power if the public were not convinced of
its justice and necessity. For this reason we could not attack Germany.
On the other hand, it seemed to be equally unthinkable that Germany
should attack us. One failed to see what she could possibly hope to
gain by such a proceeding. She had enemies already upon her eastern and
western frontiers, and it was surely unlikely that she would go out
of her way to pick a quarrel with the powerful British Empire. If she
made war and lost it, her commerce would be set back and her rising
colonial empire destroyed. If she won it, it was difficult to see where
she could hope for the spoils. We could not give her greater facilities
for trade than she had already. We could not give her habitable white
colonies, for she would find it impossible to take possession of them
in the face of the opposition of the inhabitants. An indemnity she
could never force from us. Some coaling stations and possibly some
tropical colonies, of which latter she already possessed abundance,
were the most that she could hope for. Would such a prize as that be
worth the risk attending such a war? To me it seemed that there could
be only one answer to such a question.
I am still of the same opinion. But unhappily the affairs of nations
are not always regulated by reason, and occasionally a country may
be afflicted by a madness which sets all calculations at defiance.
Then, again, I had looked upon the matter too much as between Great
Britain and Germany. I had not sufficiently considered the chance of
our being drawn in against our will in order to safeguard Belgium,
or in order to stop the annihilation of France. It was so perfectly
clear that Britain by her treaty obligations, and by all that is human
and honourable, would fight if Belgium were invaded, that one could
not conceive Germany taking such a step with any other expectation.
And yet what we could not conceive is exactly what happened, for it
is clear that the delusions as to our degeneration in character had
really persuaded the Germans that the big cowardly fellow would stand
by with folded arms and see his little friend knocked about by the
bully. The whole idea showed an extraordinary ignorance of the British
psychology, but absurd as it was, it was none the less the determining
influence at the critical moment of the world’s history. The influence
of the lie is one of the strangest problems of life--that which is not
continually influences that which is. Within one generation imagination
and misrepresentation have destroyed the Boer republics and Imperial
Germany.
One of my most remarkable pre-war experiences, which influenced my
mind deeply, was my participation in the amateur motor race called
the Prince Henry Competition. It was rather a reliability test than
a race, for the car had to go some 150 miles a day on an average at
its own pace, but marks were taken off for all involuntary stoppages,
breakdowns, accidents, etc. Each owner had to drive his own car, and
I had entered my little sixteen horse-power landaulette. There were
about forty British cars and fifty German, so that the procession was a
very considerable one. Starting from Homburg, the watering-place, our
route ran through North Germany, then by steamer to Southampton, up to
Edinburgh and back to London by devious ways.
The competition had been planned in Germany, and there can be no doubt
in looking back that a political purpose underlay it. The idea was to
create a false entente by means of sport, which would react upon the
very serious political development in the wind, namely, the occupation
of Agadir on the south-west coast of Morocco, which occurred on our
second day out. As Prince Henry, who organized and took part in the
competition, was also head of the German Navy, it is of course obvious
that he knew that the _Panther_ was going to Agadir, and that there was
a direct connection between the two events, in each of which he was a
leading actor. It was a clumsy bit of stage management and could not
possibly have been effective.
The peculiarity of the tour was that each car had an officer of the
army or navy of the other nation as a passenger, to check the marks.
Thus my wife and I had the enforced company for nearly three weeks of
Count Carmer, Rittmeister of Breslau Cuirassiers, who began by being
stiff and inhuman, but speedily thawed and became a very good fellow.
The arrangements were very peculiar. Some British paper--the “Mail” if
I remember right--had stated that the Competition was really a device
to pass a number of German officers through Great Britain in order to
spy out the land. I think there may have been some truth in this, as
our good Count when we reached London went off to a hotel down in the
East End, which seemed a curious thing for a wealthy Junker to do.
This criticism seems to have annoyed the Kaiser, and he said--or so it
was reported--that none but junior officers should go as observers.
I should think that ours was the senior of the lot, and the others
were mostly captains and lieutenants. On the other hand, the British
Government, out of compliment to Prince Henry, had appointed the very
best men available as observers. If there had been a sudden crisis over
Agadir, and Germany had impounded us all, it would have been a national
disaster and would have made a difference in a European war. Speaking
from an imperfect memory, I can recall that we had General Grierson,
Charles Munro, Rawlinson, I think, Captain--now General--Swinton of
Tanks fame, Delme Ratcliffe, Colonel--now General--Holman, Major--now
General--Thwaites, and many other notables both of the Army and Navy.
From the first relations were strained. There was natural annoyance
when these senior officers found that their opposite numbers were
youngsters of no experience. Then, again, at Cologne and Munster I
understand that the German military did not show the proper courtesies,
and certainly the hospitality which the whole party received until we
reached England was negligible. The Germans themselves must have felt
ashamed of the difference. Personally the competitors were not a bad
set of fellows, though there were some bounders among them. We were not
all above criticism ourselves.
Of the Competition itself little need be said, as I have treated the
sporting side of it elsewhere. Some of the Germans seemed to me to be
a little mad, for they seemed consumed by the idea that it was a race,
whereas it mattered nothing who was at the head of the procession
or who at the tail, so long as you did the allotted distance in the
allotted time. I saw a German bound into his car after some stoppage:
“How many ahead? Three Englishmen! Forwards! Forwards!” he cried. They
barged into each other, dashed furiously round corners, and altogether
behaved in a wild fashion, while our sedate old fellows pursued their
course in a humdrum fashion and saved their marks. There were, however,
some good fellows among the Germans. I have not forgotten how one of
them, anonymously, used to place flowers in my wife’s corner every
morning.
But as an attempt at an entente it was a great failure. The British
officer who was compelled to spend weeks with a carload of Germans
was not expansive and refused to be digested. Some of the Germans,
too, became disagreeable. I saw a large German car--they were all Benz
and Mercédès, generally 70-80 horse-power--edge a little British car
right off the road on to the grass track beside it. The driver of the
British car was a pretty useful middle-weight boxer, but he kept his
temper or there might have been trouble. There was very little love
lost on either side, though I, as one of the few German-speaking
competitors, did my very best to bring about a more cordial atmosphere.
But war was in the air. Both sides spoke of it. Several of the British
officers were either of the Intelligence branch, or had special German
experience, and they were unanimous about it. My attempts towards peace
were rejected. “The only thing I want to do with these people is to
fight them,” said Colonel Holman. “Same here,” said the officer with
him. It was a deep antagonism on either side. They were not only sure
of the war, but of the date. “It will be on the first pretext after the
Kiel Canal is widened.” The Kiel Canal was finished in June, 1914, and
war came in August, so that they were not far wrong. There was some
little German chaff on the subject. “Wouldn’t you like one of these
little islands?” I heard a German say as we steamed out past Heligoland
and the Frisian Belt.
It was this experience which first made me take the threat of war
seriously, but I could have persuaded myself that I was misled, had it
not been that I read soon afterwards Bernhardi’s book “Germany and the
Next War.” I studied it carefully and I put my impression of it into
print in an article called “England and the Next War,” which appeared
in the “Fortnightly Review” in the summer of 1913. It lies before me
now, as I write, and it is interesting to see how, as I projected my
mind and my imagination over the possibilities of the future, I read
much aright and some little wrong.
I began by epitomizing Bernhardi’s whole argument, and showing that,
however we might disagree with it, we were bound to take it seriously,
since he was undoubtedly a leader of a certain class of thought in his
own country--that very military class which was now predominant. I
demurred at his assumption that the German Army in equal numbers must
overcome the French. “It is possible,” I remarked, “that even so high
an authority as General Bernhardi has not entirely appreciated how
Germany has been the teacher of the world in military matters and how
thoroughly her pupils have responded to that teaching. That attention
to detail, perfection of arrangement for mobilization, and careful
preparation which have won German victories in the past may now be
turned against her, and she may find that others can equal her in her
own virtues.” I then examined Bernhardi’s alleged grievances against
Great Britain, and showed how baseless they were, and how little
they could hope to gain by victory. I quoted one poisonous sentence:
“Even English attempts at a _rapprochement_ must not blind us to the
real situation. We may at most use them to delay the necessary and
inevitable war until we may fairly imagine that we have some prospect
of success.” “This last sentence,” I remarked, “must come home to some
of us who have worked in the past for a better feeling between the two
countries.”
I then gave an epitome of Bernhardi’s plan of campaign as outlined in
charming frankness in his volume, and I sketched out how far we were
in a position to meet it and what were the joints in our armour. My
general conclusions may be given as follows:--
1. That invasion was not a serious danger and that the thought of it
should not deflect our plans.
2. That if invasion becomes impossible then any force like the
Territorials unless it is prepared to go abroad becomes useless.
3. That we should not have conscription save as a very last resource,
since it is against the traditions of our people.
4. That our real danger lay in the submarine and in the airship, which
could not be affected by blockade.
In discussing the submarine I said: “What exact effect a swarm of
submarines, lying off the mouth of the Channel and the Irish Sea, would
produce upon the victualling of these islands is a problem which is
beyond my conjecture. Other ships besides the British would be likely
to be destroyed, and international complications would probably follow.
I cannot imagine that such a fleet would entirely, or even to a very
large extent, cut off our supplies. But it is certain that they would
have the effect of considerably raising the price of whatever did reach
us. Therefore, we should suffer privation, though not necessarily
such privation as would compel us to make terms. From the beginning
of the war every home source would naturally be encouraged, and it is
possible that before our external supplies were seriously decreased,
our internal ones might be well on the way to make up the deficiency.”
This did, I think, roughly outline the actual course of events.
5. That the submarines would affect military operations should we send
a force to France or Belgium.
6. That therefore the Channel Tunnel was a vital necessity.
7. That all unnecessary expenses should be at once cut down, so that
British credit should stand at its highest when the strain came.
These are only the general conclusions. The article attracted some
attention, but I do not suppose that it had any actual influence upon
the course of events. To reinforce it I wrote an imaginary episode
called “Danger” in the “Strand Magazine,” to show how even a small
Power might possibly bring us to our knees by the submarine. It was
singularly prophetic, for not only did it outline the actual situation
as it finally developed, but it contained many details, the zig-zagging
of the merchant ships, the use of submarine guns, the lying for the
night on sandy bottoms, and so forth--exactly as they occurred. The
article was sent round in proof to a number of high naval officers,
mostly retired, for their opinions. I am afraid that the printed
results, which I will not be so cruel as to quote, showed that it
was as well they _were_ retired, since they had no sense of the
possibilities of the naval warfare of the future.
One result of my “Fortnightly” article was that General Henry Wilson,
late Chief of the Staff College as he then was, desired to see me
to cross-question me, and a meeting was arranged at the house of
Colonel Sackville-West, Major Swinton being also present. There, after
luncheon, General Wilson machine-gunned me with questions for about an
hour. He was fierce and explosive in his manner, and looked upon me, no
doubt, as one of those pestilential laymen who insist upon talking of
things they don’t understand. As I could give reasons for my beliefs, I
refused to be squashed, and when the interview was over I went straight
down to the Athenæum Club and wrote it all down from memory. It makes
such curious reading that I give it exactly as I reported it that day,
in dialogue, with one or two comments from Colonel Sackville-West.
After saying with some asperity that I had made many statements
which I could not substantiate, and so might give the public far too
optimistic a view of the position, he said: “Why do you say that we
would never pay an indemnity to Germany?”
A. C. D. It is a matter of individual opinion. I go upon history and
upon the spirit of our people.
GEN. W. Had not France equal spirit in 1870? How is it that they paid
an indemnity?
A. C. D. Because Germany was sitting on top of them, and she had to pay
to get from under.
GEN. W. Why may she not sit on top of us?
A. C. D. Because we live on an island and she cannot occupy us in the
same way.
COLONEL S.-W. I believe a little pressure on London would cause us to
pay an indemnity.
A. C. D. The man who suggested it would get hanged.
COLONEL S.-W. They would hang the man who made the war.
A. C. D. No, they would back him but hang the traitor.
GEN. W. You say that they would gain nothing by war. What about the
carrying trade of the world?
A. C. D. The carrying trade depends on economic questions and upon
geographical situation. For example, the Norwegians, who have no fleet,
are one of the principal carriers.
GEN. W. At least they could starve us out if they held the seas.
A. C. D. Well, that is where my tunnel would come in; but of course I
am entirely with you as to the need of holding the seas.
GEN. W. Well, now, you admit that we must go to the help of France?
A. C. D. Certainly.
GEN. W. But what can six divisions do?
A. C. D. Well, my point is that six divisions with a tunnel are better
than six divisions without a tunnel.
COLONEL S.-W. If we have a tunnel we must have a force worth sending to
send through it.
A. C. D. If you are going to couple the tunnel with compulsory service,
you will get neither one nor the other.
GEN. W. I think, so far as submarines go, that the British patrols
would make it a very desperate service. Some desperate man might get
his boat through.
A. C. D. Some desperate man might command a flotilla and get it through.
GEN. W. Many things seem possible theoretically which cannot be done
in practice, but no doubt there is a danger there. In your view the
Territorials are simply a support for the fighting Army?
A. C. D. Yes.
GEN. W. But they are too untrained to go into action.
A. C. D. They would be reserves and have time to train.
GEN. W. Your idea of troops coming back in case of a raid through the
tunnel is impossible. You could not withdraw troops in that way from
their positions.
A. C. D. Well, with all respect, I do not believe either in a raid or
in an invasion.
GEN. W. A war with Germany would be short and sharp--seven months would
see it finished.
A. C. D. You mean, no doubt, the continental part. I could imagine the
naval part lasting ten years.
COLONEL S.-W. If your fleet was crushed, you would have to give in.
A. C. D. A fleet can never be annihilated as an army is. There always
remain scattered forces which can go on fighting. I don’t think we need
give in because the fleet is crushed.
GEN. W. You don’t suppose that the Englishman is a better soldier by
nature than the Frenchman or the German?
A. C. D. At least he is a volunteer.
GEN. W. How would that affect the matter?
A. C. D. I think he would rally better if he were beaten. There would
be no end to his resistance, like the North in the American War.
GEN. W. Don’t you think, if war were declared with Germany, that the
public, fearing an invasion, would clamour against any regular troops
going abroad at all?
A. C. D. I think the public would leave it to the War Office. In the
South African War they allowed our troops to go 6,000 miles away, and
yet there was a danger of a European coalition.
COLONEL S.-W. But our Navy was supreme then.
A. C. D. Not against a coalition.
GEN. W. When Cervera’s fleet got loose, the Americans would not allow
their troops to embark.
COLONEL S.-W. Even the Pacific coast was terrified.
A. C. D. Well, surely that is the _reductio ad absurdum_.
COLONEL S.-W. Still, the fact remains.
GEN. W. If we could send fifteen divisions we could stop a war.
A. C. D. But that means compulsory service.
GEN. W. Why not?
A. C. D. Because I am convinced that you could not get it. I have twice
stood for Parliament, and I am sure no candidate would have a chance on
such a platform.
GEN. W. Our descendants will say, “Well, you saw the danger, and yet
you made no effort.”
A. C. D. Well, we have doubled our estimates. Surely that is an effort
and must represent power somewhere.
We parted quite good friends, but the General’s evident desire to
rope me in as a compulsory-service man was vain. I venture to think
that Lord Roberts’ efforts in that direction were a great mistake,
and that if he had devoted the same great energy to the line of least
resistance, which was the Territorial force, we could have had half a
million in the ranks when war broke out.
From the time that I was convinced by my experiences at the Prince
Henry race and by carefully reading German literature that a war was
really brewing, I naturally began to speculate as to the methods of
attack and of defence. I have an occasional power of premonition,
psychic rather than intellectual, which exercises itself beyond my
own control, and which when it really comes is never mistaken. The
danger seems to be that my own prejudice or reasonings may interfere
with it. On this occasion I saw as clearly as possible what the course
of a naval war between England and Germany would be. I had no doubt
at all that our greatest danger--a desperately real one--was that
they would use their submarines in order to sink our food ships, and
that we might be starved into submission. Even if we won every fleet
action, this unseen enemy would surely bring us to our knees. It all
worked out in exact detail in my mind--so much so that Admiral Capelle
mentioned my name afterwards in the Reichstag, and said that only I had
accurately seen the economic form which the war would assume. This was
perhaps true, so far as the economic side went, but Sir Percy Scott
had spoken with far more authority than I on the growing power of the
submarines in warfare.
I was made very uneasy by this line of thought, and all the more so
because I asked several naval officers for some reassurance and could
get none. One of them, I remember, said that it was all right because
we should put a boom across the Channel, which seemed to me like saying
that you could keep eels from going down a river by laying a plank
across it. Among others I spoke to Captain Beatty, as he then was,
whom I met at a week-end party at Knole, and though he could give me
no reassurance about submarines he impressed me by his vivid and alert
personality, and I felt that a Navy with such men in command was safe
enough where fighting was concerned. It could not, however, fill the
platter if there was no loaf to place upon it. I pondered the matter,
and could only see three palliatives, and no cure.
The first was to encourage home growth by a bonus or by a tariff. But
here our accursed party politics barred the way, as I had learned only
too clearly after spending a thousand pounds in fighting the Hawick
Burghs in order to get some form of agricultural protection.
The second was to meet submarines by submarine food-carriers. I think
that this may prove the final solution, but the ships were not yet
planned, far less launched.
The third and most obvious was the Channel Tunnel, or tunnels for
preference. I had supported this scheme for years, and felt that as
a nation we had made fools of ourselves over it, exactly as we did
over the Suez Canal. If we were an island the size of the Wight such
timidity would be intelligible, but the idea of a great country being
invaded through a hole in the ground twenty-seven miles long seemed
to me the most fantastic possible, while the practical use of the
tunnel both for trade and for tourists was obvious. But now I saw
that far more serious issues were at stake, for if we were held up by
submarines, and if France was either neutral or our ally, we could land
all the Eastern portion of our supplies, which is not inconsiderable,
at Marseilles and so run them safely to London without breaking bulk.
When I put this forward in the press some military critic said: “But
if the submarines could hold up the Channel they could hold up the
Mediterranean also.” This did not seem a good argument, because Germany
was the possible enemy and it had no port in the Mediterranean, while
the radius of submarine action at that time was not great enough to
allow them to come so far. So strongly did I feel about the need for a
Channel Tunnel in view of the coming war that I remember writing three
memoranda and sending one to the Army, one to the Navy, and one to the
Council of Imperial Defence. Of course I got no satisfaction of any
kind, but Captain--now General--Swinton, who was acting as secretary
to the latter body, told me that he had read my paper and that it had
“set him furiously thinking.” I wrote to Lord Northcliffe also, without
avail. I felt as if, like Solomon Eagle, I could go through London with
a burning brazier on my head, if I could only get people to understand
the need of the tunnel. The whole discussion had taken the utterly
impossible and useless turn towards compulsory service, and the things
which were practical and vital were being missed.
I spoke in public about the tunnel when I could, and on one occasion,
just a year before the war, I raised a discussion in “The Times,” Mr.
Ronald McNeill giving me an opening by declaring in the House that
the project was a crazy one. There was also about that time a meeting
in the City at the Cannon Street Hotel, where a very influential body
of men supported the scheme. My speech, as reported next day in “The
Times” in a very condensed form, ran thus:
“Sir A. Conan Doyle said there were possibilities in a future war that
rendered it a matter of vital national importance that the tunnel
should be constructed without delay. The danger was that we were
getting five-sixths of our food supplies from abroad, and submarine
craft were developing remarkable qualities which were not generally
realized. They were able to avoid a blockade squadron, and to pass
under a patrol line of torpedo-boats without their existence being even
suspected. If they were sent to the line of our commerce and told to
sink a ship, they would torpedo that ship for a certainty. What would
be the condition of our food supplies if there were twenty-five hostile
submarines off the Kent coast and twenty-five in the Irish Channel? The
price of food would reach an almost prohibitive figure. The Military
Correspondent of ‘The Times’ was a great opponent of the Channel Tunnel
and was always running it down and mocking at it. But the other day
he wrote an article on the Mediterranean, and, forgetting the Channel
Tunnel, he said: ‘We must remember that more than half the food supply
of this country now comes from the Mediterranean.’ If it came through
the Mediterranean, and if it got to Marseilles and we had the Channel
Tunnel, it was only a matter of management to get it through to London.”
The Military Correspondent of “The Times,” who was presumably Colonel
Repington, had an article next day deriding the scheme, and making
light of my picture of submarines in the Channel. Well, we have
lived to see them, and I wish my argument had proved less sound.
Colonel Repington has proved himself so clear-sighted an observer and
commentator in the last war that he can be forgiven if, for once, he
was on the wrong side; but if the Channel Tunnel had been put in hand
at once after that meeting and rushed to completion, I wonder if it
would be an exaggeration to say that a hundred million pounds would
have been saved, while what it would have meant in evacuating wounded
and in communications in stormy weather could not be represented in
words. Imagine the convenience and saving of time and labour when
munitions could be started at Woolwich and landed at Amiens without a
break.
It has been argued that if the tunnel had been built the first swoop of
the Germans would have brought them to the end of it and it would have
been destroyed. But this will not bear examination, for it is based on
the idea that we should have left the end unprotected. It would as a
matter of fact have been the most natural fortress in the world, the
strongest and the strangest, for it would be the only fortress where
you could increase or withdraw your garrison at will, and introduce any
supplies at any time you might desire. A very few forts and trenches on
those convenient chalk slopes with their wide, smooth fields of fire,
would hold the tunnel. In stretching their right wing as far as Amiens
the Germans were very nearly cut off, and it was by a very great effort
that Von Kluck saved it. If instead of Amiens he had reached Calais
with sufficient forces for a siege he would have been unable to get
away. An argument based upon the supposition that we should leave the
mouth of the tunnel in Picardy as unprotected as the mouth of a coal
mine in Kent is surely an unsound one. Now, in 1924, they are talking
of building the tunnel. I wonder what our descendants will think of the
whole business--probably what we think of the men who opposed the Suez
Canal.
It is a most singular thing that our Navy, with so many practical and
clever men in it, with a genius like Winston Churchill at the head, and
another genius like Lord Fisher in continual touch, did not realize,
until faced with actual results, some of the most important and surely
most obvious points in connection with naval warfare. It came, I
suppose, from the iron bonds of tradition, and that there were so many
things to supervise, but the fact remains that a perfectly overwhelming
case could be made out against the higher brain department of our
senior service. A war with Germany was anticipated, and, as the public
imagined, was prepared for, but save for the ship-building programme,
which left us a narrow margin of safety, and for the concentration
of our distant squadrons into British waters and the elimination of
many useless craft which consumed good crews, what evidence is there
of foresight? It was known, for example, that Scapa Flow and Cromarty
were the two possible anchorages of the Fleet in a long-distance
blockade, and yet no attempt had been made to mount guns or to net the
entrances, so that for months there was a possibility of a shattering
disaster; and Jellicoe, with the prudence which always distinguished
him, had to put to sea every night lest his fleet should present a
sitter to a torpedo attack. We showed intelligence in sticking always
to the heavier guns, but our mines were wretchedly inefficient, our
range-finders were very inferior, and our shells proved to have less
penetrating and explosive force.
But the worst thing of all was the utter want of imagination shown in
picturing the conditions of modern naval warfare, which must surely
be done before just preparation can be made. It was clear that the
effect of armour protection on one side, and of the mine and the
torpedo on the other, would mean that if the ship floated there would
be little loss of life, but that she was very likely to sink, in which
case the whole crew would go. Therefore provision must be made for
the saving of every one on board. The authorities, however, seem to
have completely underrated the dangers of the mine and torpedo, and
centred their attention upon the surface naval action, where boats,
being inflammable, would be a danger and where in any case they would
probably be shot to pieces before the end of the fight. The pre-war
idea was to throw the boats and every other wooden object overboard
before the action began.
The very first day of naval warfare showed the importance of the mine,
as on August 5 the Germans laid a minefield outside the mouth of the
Thames which nearly blew up their own returning Ambassador, Prince
Lichnowsky, and did actually cause the destruction of one of our light
vessels, the _Amphion_. It was clear that one of the great dangers of
the sea lay in this direction, and it soon became equally clear that
nothing had been done to think out some defence. Foresight would have
anticipated this situation and would have set the brains of the younger
naval officers at work devising some remedy. As a matter of fact the
real solution had been roughly indicated by Colonel Repington in
“Blackwood’s Magazine” some four years before, in which he spoke of a
device called “the otter” used by poachers for gathering up lines, and
suggested that something of the sort would gather up the lines to which
mines are attached. After three years of war, and very many preventable
losses, including the great battleship _Audacious_, the splendid
auxiliary cruiser _Laurentic_ with six millions in gold on board, and
many other fine vessels, the cure was found in the paravane, which was
an adaptation of “the otter.” After its adoption ships could cruise
over a minefield with little fear of injury, and our squadrons were no
longer confined to the narrow lanes which had been swept clear.
I was from the beginning greatly impressed by this danger, and I wrote
early in the war both to the papers and the Admiralty, but my device
was crude and clumsy compared to what was actually done. My idea was
something like a huge trident or toasting fork which could be hauled up
on the bows when the waters were safe, but could be pushed forward and
dipped down in front when there was danger, so as to explode any mine
before the ship could actually reach it. Such an apparatus would be
better than nothing, but still I quite admit that it was an inadequate
solution of the problem. But at least it was an attempt--and no other
attempt was visible for years afterwards.
But the particular instance of mines was a small consideration beside
the huge permanent incredible fact that while it was clear that a
battleship could suddenly go down like a kettle with a hole in it,
dragging a thousand men down with it, there was no provision by which
the lives of these men could be saved. It was really unbelievable until
there came the terrible example when the three cruisers, _Hogue_,
_Aboukir_, and _Cressy_, were all put down in a single day. A young
German lieutenant with twenty men had caused us more loss than we
suffered at Trafalgar. To learn how the helpless men had nowhere
to turn, and how they clung on to floating petrol tins as their
only safety, should have been terrible reading to those whose want
of foresight had brought about such a situation. It was a dreadful
object-lesson, and there seemed no reason why it should not be often
repeated. I had already commented in the press upon the situation
which would arise in a general action, with ships sinking all round
and no boats. I suggested that it might be possible to drop the boats
before battle and to have them in tow of a steam launch which could
bring them up if needed. Of course I saw all the difficulties and
dangers of such a course, but if one took the word of the sailors that
the boats were a danger on board then I could think of no other way
of working it. When I wrote about it, several naval critics, notably
Commander Jane, rapped me hard over the knuckles, and deplored the
intrusion of landsmen into matters of which they knew nothing. But
when this great catastrophe occurred, I realized that the protection
must be individual rather than collective, and that one must ventilate
the thing in public with such warmth that the authorities would be
compelled to do something. If wooden boats were impossible, what about
India-rubber collars which would at least hold the poor fellows above
the waves until some help could reach them? I opened an agitation in
several papers, notably the “Daily Mail” and the “Daily Chronicle,” and
within a very few days--either _post hoc_ or _propter hoc_--there was a
rush order for a quarter of a million collars which could be blown out
by the men themselves, and which were henceforth to be part of their
vital equipment. The “Hampshire Telegraph,” the best informed of naval
papers, said:
“The Navy has to thank Sir Conan Doyle for the new life-saving
apparatus the Admiralty are supplying. Some weeks ago he asked if
it was not possible to manufacture a simple and easily inflatable
life-belt, and, thanks to the enterprise of a rubber-manufacturing
firm, a swimming collar is now being supplied to the men of the fleet
in the North Sea as fast as they can be turned out. The apparatus is
exceedingly simple. It is made of rubber, enclosed in a stout web
casing, and weighs complete under three ounces. It can be carried
in the pocket and can be inflated in position round a man’s neck in
about ten seconds. Its effect is to keep the man’s head above water
indefinitely. There is little doubt that this swimming collar will
result in the saving of many lives, and the Admiralty are to be
congratulated upon the promptitude with which they have adopted the
suggestion of Sir Conan Doyle.”
I was by no means satisfied with this, however; for, however useful in
calm water on a summer day, it was clear that men would soon perish
by exhaustion in a rough winter sea, and the collars would only
prolong their agony. If wooden boats took up too much room and were
inflammable, how about India-rubber collapsible boats? I wrote in the
“Daily Mail”:
“We can spare and replace the ships. We cannot spare the men. They
_must_ be saved, and this is how to save them. There is nothing so
urgent as this. We can view all future disasters with equanimity if
the ship’s company has only a fair chance for its life.” Of course
one recognized that there were some situations where nothing would
avail. The _Formidable_, which was torpedoed near Plymouth on January
1, 1915, was a case in point. Captain Miller, of the Brixham trawler
which rescued seventy men, said to the “Daily Mail” representative that
I was doing a national work in my efforts to get better life-saving
appliances for the men of the Navy. He remarked that in calm weather
collapsible boats would be of use, but they could not possibly have
lived in the seas which were breaking over the _Formidable’s_ whaler.
The weather here was exceptional, and one cannot hope to provide for
every case.
The final result of the agitation was the provision of collars, of
safety waistcoats, and (as I believe) of a better supply of boats.
I need hardly say that I never received a word of acknowledgment
or thanks from the Admiralty. One is not likely to be thanked by a
Government department for supplementing its work. But it may be that
some poor seaman struggling in the water sent me his good wish, and
those are the thanks that I desired. There was nothing in the war which
moved me more than the thought of the helpless plight of these gallant
men who were sacrificed when they could so easily have been saved.
Like every man with Irish blood in his veins, I was deeply moved by the
tragedy of Ireland during the war--her fine start, the want of tact
with which it was met, her sad relapse, and finally her failure to rise
to the great world crisis.
A letter which I value very much is one which I received from Major
William Redmond just before his lamented death. What an abyss of evil
Ireland would have been saved from had the spirit of this letter been
the inspiration upon which she acted!
18.12.16.
DEAR SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE,--
It was very good of you to write to me and I value very much the
expression of your opinion. There are a great many Irishmen to-day who
feel that out of this War we should try and build up a new Ireland.
The trouble is men are so timid about meeting each other half-way.
It would be a fine memorial to the men who have died so splendidly,
if we could over their graves build up a bridge between the North and
South. I have been thinking a lot about this lately in France--no one
could help doing so when one finds that the two sections from Ireland
are actually _side_ by _side_ holding the trenches! No words--not even
your own--could do justice to the splendid action of the new Irish
soldiers. They never have flinched. They never give trouble, and they
are steady and sober. Had poor Kettle lived he would have given the
world a wonderful account of things out there. I saw a good deal of
Kettle, and we had many talks of the Unity we both hoped would come
out of the War. I have been an extreme Nationalist all my life, and if
others as extreme, perhaps, on the other side will only come half-way,
then I believe, impossible as it may seem, we should be able to hit
upon a plan to satisfy the Irish sentiment and the Imperial sentiment
at one and the same time. I am sure you can do very much, as you
already have done, in this direction. I am going back for Christmas
with the men I have become attached very deeply to during the last two
years.
With many thanks for your letter,
Yours very truly,
WILLIAM REDMOND.
Major.
If this letter, even now, were posted up by the Free State and Northern
Governments at every cross-roads of Ireland the spirit of Willie
Redmond might heal the wounds of the unhappy country.
CHAPTER XXVII
A REMEMBRANCE OF THE DARK YEARS
Nightmares of the Morning--The Civilian Reserve--The
Volunteers--Domestic Life in War Time--German Prisoners--Cipher to our
Prisoners--Sir John French--Empress Eugenie--Miracle Town--Armour--Our
Tragedy.
I can never forget, and our descendants can never imagine, the strange
effect upon the mind which was produced by seeing the whole European
fabric drifting to the edge of the chasm with absolute uncertainty
as to what would happen when it toppled over. Military surprises,
starvation, revolution, bankruptcy--no one knew what so unprecedented
an episode would produce. It was all so evidently preventable, and yet
it was so madly impossible to prevent it, for the Prussians had stuck
their monkey-wrench into the machinery and it would no longer work. As
a rule one has wild dreams and wakes to sanity, but on those mornings I
left sanity when I woke and found myself in a world of nightmare dreams.
On August 4, when war seemed assured, I had a note from Mr. Goldsmith,
a plumber in the village: “There is a feeling in Crowborough that
something should be done.” This made me laugh at first, but presently
I thought more seriously of it. After all, Crowborough was one of
a thousand villages, and we might be planning and acting for all.
Therefore I had notices rapidly printed. I distributed them and put
them at road corners, and the same evening (August 4) we held a village
meeting and started the Volunteers, a force which soon grew to 200,000
men.
The old Volunteers had become extinct when the Territorials had been
organized some ten or twelve years before. But this new force which
I conceived was to be a universal one, where every citizen, young
and old, should be trained to arms--a great stockpot into which the
nation could dip and draw its needs. We named ourselves the Civilian
Reserve. No one, I reflected, could be the worse in such days for
being able to drill and to shoot, or for being assembled in organized
units. Government was too preoccupied to do anything, and we must show
initiative for ourselves. After I had propounded my scheme, I signed
the roll myself, and 120 men did the same. Those were the first men in
the Volunteer Force. Next evening we assembled at the drill-hall, found
out who could drill us, chose our non-commissioned officers and set to
work to form ourselves into an efficient company. Gillette, my American
actor friend, had got stranded in England, and he was an interested
spectator on this occasion. For the time being I took command.
I had notified the War Office what we had done and asked for official
sanction. We were careful not to stand in the way of recruiting and
determined to admit none who could reasonably join up at once. When the
plan began to work I wrote a description of our methods to “The Times.”
As a consequence I received requests for our rules and methods from
1,200 towns and villages. My secretary and I worked all day getting
these off, and in many cases the inquiries led to the formation of
similar companies.
For about a fortnight all went well. We drilled every day, though we
had no weapons. At the end of that time there came a peremptory order
from the War Office: “All unauthorized bodies to be at once disbanded.”
Unquestioning and cheerful obedience is the first law in time of war.
The company was on parade. I read out the telegram and then said:
“Right turn! Dismiss!” With this laconic order the Civilian Reserve
dissolved for ever.
But it had a speedy and glorious resurrection. There was a central body
in London with some remote connection with the old Volunteer Force.
Lord Desborough was chairman of this, and there could not have been a
better man. The Government put the formation of a Volunteer Force into
the charge of this committee, to which I was elected. Mr. Percy Harris
was the secretary and showed great energy. I wrote to all the 1,200
applicants referring them to this new centre, and we, the Crowborough
body, now became the Crowborough Company of the Sixth Royal Sussex
Volunteer Regiment. That we were the first company in the country was
shown by the “Volunteer Gazette” when a prize was awarded for this
distinction. Under its new shape Captain St. Quintin, who had been a
soldier, became our leader, and Mr. Gresson and Mr. Druce, both of them
famous cricketers, our lieutenants. Goldsmith was one of the sergeants,
and I remained a full private for four years of war, and an extra
half-year before we were demobilized. Our ranks fluctuated, for as the
age limit of service gradually rose we passed many men into the regular
Army, but we filled up with new recruits, and we were always about a
hundred strong. Our drill and discipline were excellent, and when we
received our rifles and bayonets we soon learned to use them, nor were
our marching powers contemptible when one remembers that many of the
men were in the fifties and even in the sixties. It was quite usual for
us to march from Crowborough to Frant, with our rifles and equipment,
to drill for a long hour in a heavy marshy field, and then to march
back, singing all the way. It would be a good fourteen miles, apart
from the drill.
I have very pleasant recollections of that long period of service. I
learned to know my neighbours who stood in the same ranks, and I hope
that they also learned to know me as they could not otherwise. We had
frequent camps, field days and inspections. On one occasion 8,000 of us
were assembled, and I am bound to say that I have never seen a finer
body of men, though they were rather of the police-constable than of
the purely military type. The spirit was excellent, and I am sure that
if we had had our chance we should have done well in action. But it
was hard to know how to get the chance save in case of invasion. We
were the remaining pivots of national life, and could only be spared
for short periods or chaos would follow. But a week or two in case
of invasion was well within our powers, and such a chance would have
been eagerly hailed. No doubt our presence enabled the Government to
strip the country of regular troops far more than they would have
dared otherwise to do. Twice, as Repington’s “Memoirs” show, there was
a question of embodying us for active service, but in each case the
emergency passed.
I found the life of a private soldier a delightful one. To be led
and not to lead was most restful, and so long as one’s thoughts were
bounded by the polishing of one’s buttons and buckles, or the cleansing
of one’s rifle, one was quietly happy. In that long period I shared
every phase of my companions’ life. I have stood in the queue with
my pannikin to get a welcome drink of beer, and I have slept in a
bell-tent on a summer night with a Sussex yokel blissfully snoring upon
each of my shoulders. Sometimes amusing situations arose. I remember
a new adjutant arriving and reviewing us. When he got opposite to me
in his inspection, his eyes were caught by my South African medal.
“You have seen service, my man,” said he. “Yes, sir,” I answered.
He was a little cocky fellow who might well have been my son so far
as age went. When he had passed down the line, he said to our C.O.,
St. Quintin: “Who is that big fellow on the right of the rear rank?”
“That’s Sherlock Holmes,” said C.O. “Good Lord!” said the adjutant, “I
hope he does not mind my ‘My manning’ him!” “He just loves it,” said
St. Quintin, which showed that he knew me.
The other big factor which covered the whole period of the war,
and some time after it, was my writing the History of the European
campaign, which I published volume by volume under the name of
“The British Campaign in France and Flanders.” My information was
particularly good, for I had organized a very extensive correspondence
with the generals, who were by no means anxious for self-advertisement,
but were, on the other hand, very keen that the deeds of their
particular troops should have full justice done them. In this way I was
able to be the first to describe in print the full battle-line with
all the divisions, and even brigades in their correct places from Mons
onwards to the last fight before the Armistice. When I think what a
fuss was made in the old days when any Correspondent got the account of
a single Colonial battle before his comrades, it is amazing to me that
hardly a single paper ever commented, in reviewing these six successive
volumes, upon the fact that I was really the only public source of
supply of accurate and detailed information. I can only suppose that
they could not believe it to be true. I had no help but only hindrance
from the War Office, and everything I got was by means which were
equally open to anyone else who took the trouble to organize them. Of
course, I was bowdlerized and blue-pencilled by censors, but still the
fact remains that a dozen great battle-lines were first charted by me.
I have since read the official account so far as it has gone, and find
little to change in my own, though the German and French records are
now available to broaden the picture. For the moment war literature is
out of fashion, and my war history, which reflects all the passion and
pain of those hard days, has never come into its own. I would reckon
it the greatest and most undeserved literary disappointment of my life
if I did not know that the end is not yet and that it may mirror those
great times to those who are to come.
For the rest I had a great deal of literary propaganda work to do. Once
it was the “To Arms!” pamphlet written in conjunction with Mr. Smith,
soon to become Lord Birkenhead. Once again it was an appeal for our
ill-used prisoners. Sometimes Norway, sometimes South America, always
the United States, needed treatment. As to my special missions, those I
treat in separate chapters.
There are many small but very important details of domestic life during
the war which have never been properly described, and could indeed
best be described by a woman, for they were usually an invasion of
her department. Our descendants will never realize how we were all
registered and docketed and rationed, so that the State could give the
least to and take the most from each of us. One had food-cards for
practically everything, and the card only entitled you to get your
meagre portion if it was to be had. Often it wasn’t. I have been at a
great lunch with half the grandees of the land, and the Prime Minister
to speak. The fare was Irish stew and rice-pudding.
What could man ask for more, but it will need another war to bring it
round again. There was a pleasing uncertainty about all meals. There
was always a sense of adventure and a wonder whether you would really
get something. It all made for appetite. Then there were the darkened
windows, the sharp knocking of the police if the blind emitted any
light, the vexatious summons for very small offences, the pulling down
of every blind on the railway trains. At night one never knew what
evil bird was flying overhead or what foul egg would be dropped. Once,
as we sat in the theatre at Eastbourne, the whirr of a Zeppelin was
heard above us. Half the audience slipped out, the lights were put
out, and the play was finished with candles on the stage. When I was
lecturing in London the same thing happened, and I finished my lecture
in the dark.
Every one found themselves doing strange things. I was not only a
private in the Volunteers, but I was a signaller and I was for a
time number one of a machine gun. My wife started a home for Belgian
refugees in Crowborough. My son was a soldier, first, last, and all
the time. My daughter Mary gave herself up altogether to public work,
making shells at Vickers and afterwards serving in a canteen. If I may
quote a passage from my history: “Grotesque combinations resulted from
the eagerness of all classes to lend a hand. An observer has described
how a peer and a prize-fighter worked on the same bench at Woolwich,
while titled ladies and young girls from cultured homes earned sixteen
shillings a week at Erith and boasted in the morning of the number
of shell-cases which they had turned, and finished in their hours of
night-shift. Truly it had become a national war. Of all its memories
none will be stranger than those of the peaceful middle-aged civilians
who were seen eagerly reading books of elementary drill in order to
prepare themselves to meet the most famous soldiers in Europe, or of
the schoolgirls and matrons who donned blue blouses and by their united
work surpassed the output of the great death factories of Essen.”
Every house had its vegetable garden and every poor man his allotment,
that we might at the worst exist until we could win our peace. The want
of sugar and the limitation of tea were the worst privations. My wife,
greatly helped by a faithful servant, Jakeman, did wonders in saving
food, and we always lived well within our legal rations. This did not
save us once from a police raid, because some tea, sent us as a present
from India, had arrived. We had already distributed a good deal of it,
however, to our less fortunate neighbours, so we came well out of the
matter.
I have one singular memory in having to guard German prisoners at
work. The Volunteers had a turn at this work, and we spent the night at
Lewes Prison. In the early morning, dark and misty, we were mustered,
and five prisoners handed over to each of us. Mine worked on a farm
some four miles from the town, and thither I had to march them, walking
behind them with my rifle on my shoulder. When I had reached the lonely
country road, I thought I would get into human touch with these poor
slouching wretches, who were still in their stained grey uniforms,
and wearing their service caps with the bright red bands which formed
a wonderful advertisement of the excellence of German dyes. I halted
them, drew them up, and asked them their nationality. Three were from
Wurtemburg and two from Prussia. I asked the Wurtemburgers how long
they had been prisoners. They said, “Fourteen months.” “Then,” said I,
“you were taken by the Canadians at Ypres upon such and such a date.”
They were considerably astonished, since I was simply a second-line
Tommy from their point of view. Of course, I had the details of the
war very clearly in my mind, and I knew that our one big haul of
Wurtemburgers had been on that occasion. To this day they must wonder
how I knew. I shall not forget that day, for I stood for eight hours
leaning on a rifle, amid drizzling rain, while in a little gap of the
mist I watched those men loading carts with manure. I can answer for
it that they were excellent workers, and they seemed civil, tractable
fellows as well.
It was in 1915 that I managed to establish a secret correspondence
with the British prisoners at Magdeburg. It was not very difficult
to do, and I dare say others managed it as well as I, but it had the
effect of cheering them by a little authentic news, for at that time
they were only permitted to see German newspapers. It came about in
this way. A dear friend of my wife’s, Miss Lily Loder Symonds, had a
brother, Captain Willie Loder Symonds, of the Wiltshires, who had been
wounded and taken in the stand of the 7th Brigade on the evening before
Le Cateau. He was an ingenious fellow and had written home a letter
which passed the German censor, because it seemed to consist in the
description of a farm, but when read carefully it was clear that it was
the conditions of himself and his comrades which he was discussing. It
seemed to me that if a man used such an artifice he would be prepared
for a similar one in a letter from home. I took one of my books,
therefore, and beginning with the third chapter--I guessed the censor
would examine the first--I put little needle-pricks under the various
printed letters until I had spelled out all the news. I then sent the
book and also a letter. In the letter I said that the book was, I
feared, rather slow in the opening, but that from Chapter III onwards
he might find it more interesting. That was as plain as I dared to make
it. Loder Symonds missed the allusion altogether, but by good luck he
showed the letter to Captain the Hon. Rupert Keppel, of the Guards, who
had been taken at Landrecies. He smelled a rat, borrowed the book, and
found my cipher. A message came back to his father, Lord Albemarle,
to the effect that he hoped Conan Doyle would send some more books.
This was sent on to me, and of course showed me that it was all right.
From that time onwards every month or two I pricked off my bulletin,
and a long job it was. Finally, I learned that the British papers were
allowed for the prisoners, so that my budget was superfluous. However,
for a year or two I think it was some solace to them, for I always made
it as optimistic as truth would allow--or perhaps a little more so,
just to get the average right.
I had some dealings with General French, but only one interview with
him. No one can help feeling a deep respect for the soldier who
relieved Kimberley and headed off Cronje, or for the man who bore the
first hard thrust of the German spear.
My only interview with the General was at the Horse Guards, when he
talked very clearly about the military position, though most of what
he said as to the changes which modern tactics and heavy guns had
caused was rather self-evident. “Your problem always is how to pass
the wire and the machine guns. There is no way round. What is the good
of talking of invading Austria from the south? You will find the same
wire and the same machine guns. We may as well face it in Flanders as
anywhere else.” This talk was shortly after Loos, when he had returned
from the Army and was at the head of Home Defence. “If you want any
point looked up for your history, mind you let me know and I will see
that it is done.” This sounded very nice to me, who was in a perpetual
state of wanting to know; but as a matter of fact I took it as a mere
empty phrase, and so it proved when a week or two later I put it to the
test. It was a simple question, but I never got any clear answer.
One pleasing incident occurred in 1917, when a Hull steam trawler
which had been named after me, under the able handling of Skipper
Addy and Lieutenant McCabe of the Naval Reserve, had an action with a
heavily armed modern submarine, the fight lasting for some hours. The
_Conan Doyle_ was acting as flagship of a little group of trawlers,
and though their guns were popguns compared with that of the German,
they so peppered him that he was either sunk or took flight--anyhow,
he vanished under the water. The little boat sent me its ship’s bell
as a souvenir of the exploit, and I sent some small remembrances in
exchange. It was a fine exploit, and I was proud to be connected with
it, even in so remote a way.
I have in my war chapters expressed my admiration for General Haig. On
one occasion I called upon Lady Haig, when she was administering some
private hospital at Farnborough. It was, so far as I could understand,
one wing of the Empress Eugenie’s house, and the Empress invited me to
lunch. There were present also Prince Victor Napoleon and his wife,
who was, I think, a daughter of my old aversion, Leopold, King of the
Belgians and Overlord of the Congo. The Empress interested me deeply--a
historical relic whom one would expect to study in old pictures and
memoirs, yet there she was moving and talking before me. If Helen
launched a thousand ships, Eugenie, by all accounts, did far more.
Indeed, if the first German War was really from her inspiration, as
Zola insists, she was at the root of all modern history. In spite of
her great age, her face and figure preserved the lines of elegance
and breed, the features clearly cut, the head set proudly upon the
long neck. I glanced into her sitting-room as I passed the open door
and noticed that she was engaged upon an enormous jig-saw puzzle, a
thousand pieces if there were one. Children’s toys engaged the mind
which once played with Empires. There is surely something fatal in
that Spanish blood with its narrow fanatical religion and its masterful
intolerance, magnificent but mediæval like the Church which inspires it.
She talked very freely with me and in the most interesting manner.
It was surprising to see how fresh her mind was, and what curious
information she had at her command. She told me, for example, that
tetanus in France depended very much upon what soil had got into the
wound, while that in turn depended upon what manures had been used for
the soil--thus the percentage of tetanus cases would be quite different
in a vine-growing district and in one where ordinary crops were
cultivated. She spoke seriously about the war, but was confident as
to the ultimate result. This graceful, withered flower in its strange
setting was one of the outstanding memories of those days.
All sorts of queer odd jobs came to me as to many others in the war.
I was, of course, prepared always to do absolutely anything which was
suggested, though the suggestions were sometimes not very reasonable.
One must not argue, but simply put one’s whole weight, for what it
is worth, into the scrum. Once I was directed to go up to Scotland
and write up the great new munition works at Gretna, as the public
needed reassurance upon the point. Pearson, the younger brother of
Lord Cowdray, had built them, and they certainly deserved the name of
“Miracle Town,” which I gave them in my article. The great difficulty
always was to give our own people what they wanted and yet not to give
the Germans that which they wanted also. Winston Churchill’s remarkable
memoirs--the best, in my opinion, of all the war books--have shown
how heavily this pressed in high quarters. His volume is certainly a
wonderful vindication of his term of office, and it was a loss to the
country when he left it.
Churchill was very open to ideas and sympathetic to those who were
trying for some ideal. I had pondered much over armour for the troops,
and he commented on it in an inspiring letter, in which he said that
the bullet-proof man and the torpedo-proof ship were our two great
objects. I worked a good deal upon the question of shields, and wrote
several articles about it in “The Times” and other papers, but the
forces against us were strong. When I saw Mr. Montague on the subject
at the Ministry of Munitions, he said: “Sir Arthur, there is no use
your arguing here, for there is no one in the building who does not
know that you are right. The whole difficulty lies in making the
soldiers accept your views.”
One has, of course, to be reasonable on the point, and to admit that
there is a limit to what a man can carry, and that greater weight
means slower movement, and therefore longer exposure. That is fully
granted. But when the helmet in actual practice was found so useful,
why should it not be supplemented by steel shoulder-guards, since the
helmet might actually guide the bullets down on to the shoulders? And
why not a plastron over the heart? The vital points in a man’s anatomy
are not really so numerous. If many a life was saved by a buckle or a
cigarette-case, why should such protection not be systematized? And
why in trench warfare should not strong breastplates be kept for the
temporary use of any troops in the front line? I experimented with my
own service rifle upon steel plates, and I was surprised to find how
easy it was at twenty paces to turn a bullet. I am convinced that very
many lives would have been saved had my views been adopted, and that
the men in the hour of danger would have been only too glad to carry
that part of their equipment.
The Tank, however, was a device which carried the armour and the men
also, so that it was an extension of these ideas. We can never be
grateful enough to the men who thought out the Tank, for I have no
doubt at all that this product of British brains and British labour
won the war, which would otherwise have ended in a peace of mutual
exhaustion. Churchill, D’Eyncourt, Tritton, Swinton and Bertie
Stern,--these were in sober fact, divide the credit as you may, the men
who played a very essential part in bringing down the giant.
Our household suffered terribly in the war. The first to fall was my
wife’s brother, Malcolm Leckie, of the Army Medical Service, whose
gallantry was so conspicuous that he was awarded a posthumous D.S.O.
While he was actually dying himself, with shrapnel in his chest, he
had the wounded to his bedside and bandaged them. Then came the turn
of Miss Loder Symonds, who lived with us and was a beloved member of
the family. Three of her brothers were killed and the fourth wounded.
Finally, on an evil day for us, she also passed on. Then two brave
nephews, Alec Forbes and Oscar Hornung, went down with bullets through
the brain. My gallant brother-in-law, Major Oldham, was killed by a
sniper during his first days in the trenches. And then finally, just
as all seemed over, I had a double blow. First it was my Kingsley, my
only son by the first marriage, one of the grandest boys in body and
soul that ever a father was blessed with. He had started the war as a
private, worked up to an acting captaincy in the 1st Hampshires, and
been very badly wounded on the Somme. It was pneumonia which slew him
in London, and the same cursed plague carried off my soldier brother
Innes, he who had shared my humble strivings at Southsea so many
years ago. A career lay before him, for he was only forty and already
Adjutant-General of a corps, with the Legion of Honour, and a great
record of service. But he was called and he went like the hero he was.
“You do not complain at all, sir,” said the orderly. “I am a soldier,”
said the dying General. Thank God that I have since found that the
gates are not shut, but only ajar, if one does show earnestness in the
quest. Of all these that I have mentioned, there is but one from whom I
have been unable to obtain clear proof of posthumous existence.
CHAPTER XXVIII
EXPERIENCES ON THE BRITISH FRONT
Lord Newton--How I Got Out--Sir W. Robertson--The Destroyer--First
Experience of Trenches--Ceremony at Bethune--Mother--The Ypres
Salient--Ypres--The Hull Territorial--General Sir Douglas
Haig--Artillery Duel--Kingsley--Major Wood--Paris.
I had naturally wished to get out to the British front and to see
things for myself. And yet I had scruples also, for when soldiers
are doing a difficult job mere spectators and joy-riders are out of
place. I felt what a perfect nuisance they must be, and hesitated to
join them. On the other hand, I had surely more claims than most,
since I was not only compiling a history of the campaign, but was
continually writing in the press upon military subjects. I made up my
mind, therefore, that I was justified in going, but I had as yet no
opportunity.
However, it came along in a very strange way. It was in the early
summer of 1916 that I had a note from Lord Newton, saying that he
wished to see me at the Foreign Office. I could not conceive what he
wanted to see me about, but of course I went. Lord Newton seemed to
be doing general utility work which involved the interests of our
prisoners in Germany, as well as press arrangements, missions, etc. The
former alone would be enough for anyone, and he was exposed to severe
criticism for not being sufficiently zealous in the cause. “Newton, the
Teuton,” sang the prisoners, a parody on “Gilbert, the Filbert,” one of
the idiotic popular songs of pre-war days. However, I am convinced that
he really did his very best, and that his policy was wise, for if it
came to an interchange of revenge and barbarity between Germany and us,
there was only one in it. There is no use starting a game in which you
are bound to be beaten. Winston Churchill had tried it in the case of
the submarine officers, with the result that thirty of our own picked
officers had endured much in their prisons and the policy had to be
reconsidered.
Lord Newton is a wit and has a humorous face which covers a good deal
of solid capacity. He plunged instantly into the business on hand.
“It is the Italian army,” said he. “They want a bit of limelight. We
propose to send several fellows on short missions to write them up.
Your name has been mentioned and approved. Will you go?”
I never thought more quickly in my life than on that occasion. I had no
plan when I entered the room, since I was ignorant of the proposition,
but I saw my opening in a flash.
“No,” said I.
Lord Newton looked surprised.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Because I should be in a false position,” I answered. “I have nothing
to compare them with. I have not even seen the British front yet. How
absurd it would be for me to approve or to condemn when they could
reasonably ask me what I knew about the matter!”
“Would you go if that were set right?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Then I don’t think there will be an insuperable difficulty.”
“Well, if you can arrange that, I am entirely at your disposal.”
“By the way,” said he, “if you go to the front, and especially to the
Italian front, a uniform will be essential. What have you a right to
wear?”
“I am a private in the Volunteers.”
He laughed.
“I think you would be shot at sight by both armies,” said he. “You
would be looked upon as a rare specimen. I don’t think that would do.”
I had a happy thought.
“I am a deputy-lieutenant of Surrey,” said I. “I have the right to wear
a uniform when with troops.”
“Excellent!” he cried. “Nothing could be better. Well, you will hear
from me presently.”
I went straight off to my tailor, who rigged me up in a wondrous khaki
garb which was something between that of a Colonel and a Brigadier,
with silver roses instead of stars or crowns upon the shoulder-straps.
As I had the right to wear several medals, including the South African,
the general effect was all right, but I always felt a mighty impostor,
though it was certainly very comfortable and convenient. I was still
a rare specimen, and quite a number of officers of three nations made
inquiry about my silver roses. A deputy-lieutenant may not be much in
England, but when translated into French--my French anyhow--it has an
awe-inspiring effect, and I was looked upon by them as an inscrutable
but very big person with a uniform all of his own.
It was in May when I had my meeting with Lord Newton, and towards the
end of the month I received a pass which would take me to the British
lines. I remember the solicitude of my family, who seemed to think that
I was going on active service. To quiet their kindly anxieties I said:
“My dears, I shall be held in the extreme rear, and I shall be lucky if
ever I see a shell burst on the far horizon.” The sequel showed that my
estimate was nearly as mistaken as theirs.
I had had some correspondence with General Robertson, and had dedicated
my History of the war to him, so much was I impressed with the splendid
work he had done behind the line in the early days, when Cowans and
he had as much strain and anxiety from their position in the wings as
any of those who were in the limelight of the stage. He was, as it
happened, going over to France, and he sent me a note to ask whether
I would like to share his private compartment on the train and then
use his destroyer instead of the ordinary steamer. Of course I was
delighted. General Robertson is a sturdy, soldierly, compact man, with
a bull-dog face and looks as if he might be obstinate and even sullen
if crossed. Such men are splendid if they keep their qualities for the
enemy, but possibly dangerous if they use them on their associates.
Certainly Robertson had a great deal of fighting to do at home as well
as abroad, and was in the latter days of the war in constant conflict
with the authorities, and with an open feud against the Prime Minister,
but it is hard to say who was right. Perhaps, if it were not for the
pressure which Robertson, Repington and others exercised, it would
have been more difficult to raise those last few hundred thousand men
who saved us in 1918. Like so many big men, his appearance was most
deceptive, and though he looked every inch the soldier, there was
nothing to show that great capacity for handling a large business,
which would surely have put him at the head of any commercial concern
in the country. There was a Cromwellian touch in him which peeped out
in occasional religious allusions. He was very engrossed in papers and
figures, and I hardly had a word with him between London and Newhaven.
We went straight on to the destroyer and she cast off her moorings
within a few minutes. The Channel crossing was a great experience for
me, and I stood on the bridge all the time looking about for traces
of war--which were not numerous. Just under the bridge stood a sturdy
seaman in pea jacket and flapped cap, an intent, crouching, formidable
figure, with his hand on the crank of a quick-firing gun. He never
relaxed, and for the whole hour, as we tore across, his head, and
occasionally his gun, was slowly traversing from right to left. The
captain, a young lieutenant whose name I have forgotten, told me what
hellish work it was in the winter, though perhaps “hellish” is not
the _mot juste_ for that bitterly cold vigil. His ship was called the
_Zulu_. Shortly afterwards it was blown up, as was its consort the
_Nubian_, but as two of the halves were still serviceable, they stuck
them together and made one very good ship, the _Zubian_. You can’t
beat the British dockyard any more than you can the British Navy which
it mothers. That evening we ran through some twenty miles of Northern
France, and wound up at the usual guesthouse, where I met several
travelling Russians. Colonel Wilson, a dark, quiet, affable man, who
had the thorny job of looking after the press, and Brig.-General
Charteris, a pleasant, breezy, fresh-complexioned soldier, head of the
British Intelligence Department, joined us at dinner. Everything was
quite comfortable, but at the same time properly plain and simple.
There is nothing more hateful than luxury behind a battle-line. Next
day I had a wonderful twelve hours in contact with the soldiers all the
time, and I will take some account of it from the notes I made at the
time, but now I can expand them and give names more freely.
The crowning impression which I carried away from that wonderful
day was the enormous imperturbable confidence of the Army and its
extraordinary efficiency in organization, administration, material, and
personnel. I met in one day a sample of many types, an army commander,
a corps commander, two divisional commanders, staff officers of many
grades, and, above all, I met repeatedly the two very great men whom
Britain has produced, the private soldier and the regimental officer.
Everywhere and on every face one read the same spirit of cheerful
bravery. Even the half-mad cranks whose absurd consciences prevented
them from barring the way to the devil seemed to me to be turning into
men under the prevailing influence. I saw a batch of them, neurotic and
largely bespectacled, but working with a will by the roadside. There
was no foolish bravado, no underrating of a dour opponent, but a quick,
alert, confident attention to the job in hand which was an inspiration
to the observer.
“Get out of the car. Don’t let it stay here. It may be hit.” These
words from a staff officer gave you the first idea that things were
going to happen. Up to then you might have been driving through the
black country in the Walsall district with the population of Aldershot
let loose upon its dingy roads. “Put on this shrapnel helmet. That hat
of yours would infuriate the Boche”--this was an unkind allusion to my
uniform. “Take this gas mask. You won’t need it, but it is a standing
order. Now come on!”
We crossed a meadow and entered a trench. Here and there it came to
the surface again where there was dead ground. At one such point an
old church stood, with an unexploded shell sticking out of the wall.
A century hence folk may journey to see that shell. Then on again
through an endless cutting. It was slippery clay below. I had no nails
in my boots, an iron pot on my head, and the sun above me. I remember
that walk. The telephone wires ran down the side. Here and there
large thistles and other plants grew from the clay walls, so immobile
had been our lines. Occasionally there were patches of untidiness.
“Shells,” said the officer laconically. There was a racket of guns
before us and behind, especially behind, but danger seemed remote with
all these Bairnsfather groups of cheerful Tommies at work around us. I
passed one group of grimy, tattered boys. A glance at their shoulders
showed me that they were of a public-school battalion, the 20th Royal
Fusiliers. “I thought you fellows were all officers now,” I remarked.
“No, sir, we like it better so.” “Well, it will be a great memory for
you. We are all in your debt.”
They saluted, and we squeezed past them. They had the fresh brown faces
of boy cricketers. But their comrades were men of a different type,
with hard, strong, rugged features, and the eyes of men who have seen
strange sights. These were veterans, men of Mons, and their young pals
of the public schools had something to live up to.
Up to this we only had two clay walls to look at. But now our
interminable and tropical walk was lightened by the sight of a British
aeroplane sailing overhead. Numerous shrapnel bursts were all around
it, but she floated on serenely, a thing of delicate beauty against the
blue background. Now another passed--and yet another. All the morning
we saw them circling and swooping, and never a sign of a Boche. They
told me it was nearly always so--that we held the air, and that the
Boche intruder, save at early morning, was a rare bird. “We have never
met a British aeroplane which was not ready to fight,” said a captured
German aviator. There was a fine, stern courtesy between the airmen on
either side, each dropping notes into the other’s aerodromes to tell
the fate of missing officers. Had the whole war been fought by the
Germans as their airmen conducted it (I do not speak, of course, of the
Zeppelin murderers), a peace would eventually have been more easily
arranged.
And now we were there--in what was surely the most wonderful spot in
the world--the front firing trench, the outer breakwater which held
back the German tide. How strange that this monstrous oscillation
of giant forces, setting in from east to west, should find their
equilibrium across this particular meadow of Flanders. “How far?” I
asked. “One hundred and eighty yards,” said my guide. “Pop!” remarked
a third person just in front. “A sniper,” said my guide; “take a look
through the periscope.” I did so. There was some rusty wire before
me, then a field sloping slightly upwards with knee-deep grass, and
ragged dock and fennel and nettles, then rusty wire again, and a red
line of broken earth. There was not a sign of movement, but sharp eyes
were always watching us, even as these crouching soldiers around me
were watching them. There were dead Germans in the grass before us.
You need not see them to know that they were there. A wounded soldier
sat in a corner nursing his leg. Here and there men popped out like
rabbits from dug-outs and mine-shafts. Others sat on the fire-step or
leaned smoking against the clay wall. Who would dream, who looked at
their bold, careless faces, that this was a front line, and that at any
moment it was possible that a grey wave might submerge them? With all
their careless bearing, I noticed that every man had his gas mask and
his rifle within easy reach.
A mile of front trenches and then we were on our way back down that
weary walk. Then I was whisked off upon a ten-mile drive. There was a
pause for lunch at Corps Head-quarters, and after it we were taken to
a medal presentation in the market square of Bethune. Generals Munro,
Haking, and Landon, famous fighting soldiers all three, were the
British representatives. Munro, with a ruddy face, all brain above, all
bulldog below; Haking, pale, distinguished, intellectual; Landon, a
pleasant genial country squire. An elderly French General stood beside
them. British infantry kept the ground. In front were about fifty
Frenchmen in civil dress of every grade of life, workmen and gentlemen,
in a double rank. They were all so wounded that they were back in civil
life, but to-day they were to have some solace for their wounds. They
leaned heavily on sticks, their bodies twisted and maimed, but their
faces were shining with pride and joy. The French General drew his
sword and addressed them. One caught words like “honneur” and “patrie.”
They leaned forward on their crutches, hanging on every syllable which
came hissing and rasping from under that heavy white moustache. Then
the medals were pinned on. One poor lad was terribly wounded and needed
two sticks. A little girl ran out with some flowers. He leaned forward
and tried to kiss her, but the crutches slipped and he nearly fell
upon her. It was a pitiful but beautiful little scene.
Next the British candidates marched up one by one for their medals,
hale, hearty men, brown and fit. There was a smart young officer of
Scottish Rifles; and then a selection of Worcesters, Welsh Fusiliers
and Scots Fusiliers, with one funny little Highlander, a tiny figure
with a soup-bowl helmet, a grinning boy’s face beneath it, and a
bedraggled uniform. “Many acts of great bravery”--such was the record
for which he was decorated. Even the French wounded smiled at his
quaint appearance, as they did at another Briton who had acquired
the chewing-gum habit, and came up for his medal as if he had been
called suddenly in the middle of his dinner, which he was still
endeavouring to bolt. Then came the end, with the National Anthem. The
British battalion formed fours and went past. To me that was the most
impressive sight of any. They were the Queen’s West Surreys, a veteran
battalion of the great Ypres battle. What grand fellows! As the order
came, “Eyes right,” and all those fierce, dark faces flashed round at
us I felt the might of the British infantry, the intense individuality
which is not incompatible with the highest discipline. Much they had
endured, but a great spirit shone from their faces. I confess that as I
looked at those brave English lads, and thought of what we owed to them
and to their like who have passed on, I felt more emotional than befits
a Briton in foreign parts. How many of them are left alive to-day!
Now the ceremony was ended, and once again we set out for the front.
It was to an artillery observation post just opposite the Loos Salient
that we were bound. In an hour I found myself, together with a
razor-keen young artillery observer and an excellent old sportsman of
a Russian prince, jammed into a very small space, and staring through
a slit at the German lines. In front of us lay a vast plain, scarred
and slashed, with bare places at intervals, such as you see where
gravel pits break a green common. Not a sign of life or movement, save
some wheeling crows. And yet down there, within a mile or so, was the
population of a city. Far away a single train was puffing at the back
of the German lines. We were here on a definite errand. Away to the
right, nearly three miles off, was a small red house, dim to the eye
but clear in the glasses, suspected as a German post. It was to go
up this afternoon. The gun was some distance away, but I heard the
telephone directions. “‘Mother’ will soon do her in,” remarked the
gunner boy cheerfully. “Mother” was the name of the gun. “Give her
five six three four,” he cried through the ’phone. “Mother” uttered
a horrible bellow from somewhere on our right. An enormous spout of
smoke rose ten seconds later from near the house. “A little short,”
said our gunner. “Two and a half minutes left,” added a little small
voice, which represented another observer at a different angle. “Raise
her seven five,” said our boy encouragingly. “Mother” roared more
angrily than ever. “How will that do?” she seemed to say. “One and a
half right,” said our invisible gossip. I wondered how the folk in the
house were feeling as the shells crept ever nearer. “Gun laid, sir,”
said the telephone. “Fire!” I was looking through my glass. A flash of
fire on the house, a huge pillar of dust and smoke--then it settled,
and an unbroken field was there. The German post had gone up. “It’s a
dear little gun,” said the officer boy. “And her shells are reliable,”
remarked a senior behind us. “They vary with different calibres, but
‘Mother’ never goes wrong.” The German line was very quiet. “Pourquoi
ne repondent ils pas?” asked the Russian prince. “Yes, they are quiet
to-day,” answered the senior. “But we get it in the neck sometimes.”
We were all led off to be introduced to “Mother,” who sat, squat and
black, amid twenty of her grimy children who waited upon her and fed
her. A dainty eater was “Mother,” and nothing served her but the best
and plenty of it. But she was important and as the war progressed it
became more and more evident that in spite of that upstart family of
quick-firers it was really the only big, heavy, well-established gun
which could flatten out a road to the Rhine.
I had the great joy that night of seeing my brother Innes, who had
been promoted to Colonel, and was acting as Assistant Adjutant-General
of the 24th Division, the Head-quarters of which were at Bailleul,
where I dined at mess and occupied a small lodging in the town, which
was about six miles from the front. One more experience wound up that
wonderful day. That night we took a car after dark and drove north, and
ever north, until at a late hour we halted and climbed a hill in the
darkness. Below was a wonderful sight. Down on the flats, in a huge
semicircle, lights were rising and falling. They were very brilliant,
going up for a few seconds and then dying down. Sometimes a dozen were
in the air at one time. There were the dull thuds of explosions and an
occasional rat-tat-tat. I have seen nothing like it, but the nearest
comparison would be an enormous ten-mile railway station in full swing
at night, with signals winking, lamps waving, engines hissing and
carriages bumping. It was a terrible place, a place which will live
as long as military history is written, for it was the Ypres Salient.
What a salient too! A huge curve, as outlined by the lights, needing
only a little more to be an encirclement. Something caught the rope as
it closed, and that something was the British soldier. But it was a
perilous place by day and by night. Never shall I forget the impression
of ceaseless, malignant activity which was borne in upon me by the
white, winking lights, the red sudden flares, and the horrible thudding
noises in that place of death beneath me.
* * * * *
In old days we had a great name as organizers. Then came a long period
when we deliberately adopted a policy of individuality and “go as you
please.” Now once again in our sore need we had called on all our power
of administration and direction. And it had not deserted us. We still
had it in a supreme degree. Even in peace time we have shown it in that
vast, well-oiled, swift-running noiseless machine called the British
Navy. But our powers had risen with the need of them. The expansion
of the Navy was a miracle, the management of the transport a greater
one, the formation of the new Army the greatest of all time. To get the
men was the least of the difficulties. To put them in the field, with
everything down to the lid of the last field saucepan in its place,
that was the marvel. The tools of the gunners and of the sappers, to
say nothing of the knowledge of how to use them, were in themselves
a huge problem. But it had all been met and mastered. So don’t let us
talk too much about the muddling of the War Office. It has become just
a little ridiculous.
I was the guest at Head-quarters of a divisional General, Capper,
brother of the heroic leader of the 7th Division, who might truly be
called one of the two fathers of the British flying force, for it
was he, with Templer, who laid the first foundations from which so
great an organization has arisen. My morning was spent in visiting
two fighting brigadiers, Mitford and Jelf, cheery weather-beaten
soldiers, respectful, as all our soldiers are, of the prowess of the
Hun, but serenely confident that we could beat him. In company with
one of them I ascended a hill, the reverse slope of which was swarming
with cheerful infantry in every stage of _déshabille_, for they were
cleaning up after the trenches. Once over the slope we advanced with
some care, and finally reached a certain spot from which we looked down
upon the German line. It was an observation post, about 1,000 yards
from the German trenches, with our own trenches between us. We could
see the two lines, sometimes only a few yards, as it seemed, apart,
extending for miles on either side. The sinister silence and solitude
were strangely dramatic. Such vast crowds of men, such intensity of
feeling, and yet only that open rolling country-side, with never a
movement in its whole expanse.
In the afternoon my brother drove me to the Square at Ypres. It was
the city of a dream, this modern Pompeii, destroyed, deserted and
desecrated, but with a sad, proud dignity which made you involuntarily
lower your voice as you passed through the ruined streets. It was
a more considerable place than I had imagined, with many traces of
ancient grandeur. No words can describe the absolute splintered wreck
that the Huns had made of it. The effect of some of the shells had been
grotesque. One boiler-plated water tower, a thing 40 or 50 feet high,
was actually standing on its head like a great metal top. There was not
a living soul in the place save a few pickets of soldiers, and a number
of cats which had become fierce and dangerous. Now and then a shell
still fell, but the Huns probably knew that the devastation was already
complete.
We stood in the lonely grass-grown Square, once the busy centre of
the town, and we marvelled at the beauty of the smashed cathedral and
the tottering Cloth Hall beside it. Surely at their best they could
not have looked more wonderful. If they were preserved even so, and
if a heaven-inspired artist were to model a statue of Belgium in
front, Belgium with one hand pointing to the treaty by which Prussia
guaranteed her safety and the other to the sacrilege behind her, it
would make the most impressive group in the world. It was an evil day
for Belgium when her frontier was violated, but it was a worse one for
Germany. I venture to prophesy that it will be regarded by history as
the greatest military as well as political error that has ever been
made. Had the great guns that destroyed Liège made their first breach
at Verdun, what chance was there for Paris? Those few weeks of warning
and preparation saved France, and left Germany, like a weary and
furious bull, tethered fast in the place of trespass and waiting for
the inevitable pole-axe.
We were glad to get out of the place, for the gloom of it lay as heavy
upon our hearts as the shrapnel helmets did upon our heads. Both were
lightened as we sped back past empty and shattered villas to where,
just behind the danger line, the normal life of rural Flanders was
carrying on as usual. A merry sight helped to cheer us, for scudding
down wind above our heads came a Boche aeroplane, with two British at
her tail barking away with their machine guns, like two swift terriers
after a cat. They shot rat-tat-tatting across the sky until we lost
sight of them in the heat haze over the German line.
The afternoon saw us on the Sharpenburg, from which many a million will
gaze in days to come, for from no other point can so much be seen. It
was a spot forbid, but a special permit took us up, and the sentry on
duty, having satisfied himself of our bona-fides, proceeded to tell us
tales of the war in a pure Hull dialect which might have been Chinese
for all that I could understand. That he was a “Terrier” and had nine
children were the only facts I could lay hold of. But I wished to be
silent and to think--even, perhaps, to pray. Here, just below my feet,
were the spots which our dear lads, three of them my own kith, had
sanctified with their blood. Here, fighting for the freedom of the
world, they cheerily gave their all. On that sloping meadow to the left
of the row of houses on the opposite ridge the London Scottish fought
to the death on that grim November morning when the Bavarians reeled
back from their shot-torn line. That plain away on the other side of
Ypres was the place where the three grand Canadian brigades, first of
all men, stood up to the damnable gases of the Hun. Down yonder was
Hill 60, that blood-soaked kopje. The ridge over the fields was held
by the cavalry against two army corps, and there where the sun struck
the red roof among the trees I could just see Gheluvelt, a name for
ever to be associated with Haig and the most vital battle of the war.
As I turned away I was faced by my Hull Territorial, who still said
incomprehensible things. I looked at him with other eyes. He had fought
on yonder plain. He had slain Huns, and he had nine children. Could any
one better epitomize the duties of a good citizen in days like these? I
could have found it in my heart to salute him had I not known that it
would have shocked him and made him unhappy.
Next day, it was June 1, I left my brother’s kindly care. I had fears
for him, for he was much overworked and worried as Adjutant-Generals of
busy divisions are likely to be. However, he was never one to admit it
or to pity himself, and he begged me to carry the cheeriest report back
to his wife. It was a great pleasure to me that so many officers took
me aside to say how efficient he was, and how popular. He would not
have wished me to say it were he alive, but I can leave it on record
now.
Yesterday had been full, but the next day was not less so, for I had
been asked (or ordered) to lunch at the General Head-quarters at
Montreuil, the funny old town on a hill which I had learned to know
well in days of peace. As we drove down a winding drive I saw two
officers walking towards us. The younger of them stooped and beat the
ground with his stick, from which we gathered that we were to go slow
and raise no dust. We rightly conjectured that so curt an order could
only come from the Chief’s own aide. We saluted as we passed and
carried away an impression of a heavy moustache and of abstracted blue
eyes.
I had a very much more definite impression when he came back presently,
and we were all shown into the dining room. I should certainly put
Douglas Haig, as I saw him that day, among the handsomest men I have
ever known. He was not tall, but he was upright and well proportioned
with every sign of strength and activity. But his face was remarkable
for beauty and power. His eyes were very full and expressive, devoid of
the fierceness of Kitchener and yet with quite as much determination.
But the long powerful jaw was the feature which spoke particularly of
that never-to-be-beaten quality which saved the army when the line was
broken in the first Ypres battle and was destined to save it again in
April, 1918, when he gave out his “back to the wall” order of the day.
He was courteous but not talkative at lunch. After lunch he took me
into a side room where he showed me the line of the divisions on the
map, saying that I could remember but should not take notes, which
was rather maddening. Then we had a long talk over the coffee, but
there were several present and nothing intimate was said. He must be
worried to death with casual visitors, but still I suppose he need not
invite all of them to Head-quarters. He had, I thought, a truly British
distrust of foreigners. “He is the worst foreigner I have met yet,” he
said, speaking of some Italian General. His kind heart was shown when I
said that my son was in the line. He gave a curt order, and then nodded
and smiled. “You’ll see him to-morrow,” said he.
I naturally heard a good deal about our Generalissimo, besides what I
actually saw. I think that he had some of the traits of Wellington,
though since the war he has concerned himself with the fortunes of
his comrades-in-arms a great deal more than the Iron Duke seems ever
to have troubled himself to do. But in other things the parallel is
close. Haig is not a game-playing man, though fond of horse exercise.
Neither was the Duke. Both were abstemious with wine and tobacco. Both
were reserved, reticent and had no magnetic connection with those under
them. Neither Haig nor the Duke were human figures to the soldiers,
nor were they often if ever seen by them, and yet in each case there
was the same confidence in their judgment. Haig was a very serious man,
he seldom joked and did not meet a joke half way, so that his mess
was the dullest in France. I have known a staff officer apply for an
exchange so weary was he of this oppressive atmosphere. All this could
equally have been said of the Duke. But these are trivialities compared
to the great main fact that each brought rare qualities to the service
of their country at critical moments of the world’s history. There was
only one other man who might have filled Haig’s place, and that man was
the conqueror of Palestine.
Extraordinary are the contrasts of war. Within three hours of leaving
the quiet atmosphere of the Head-quarters Château I was present at what
in any other war would have been looked upon as a brisk engagement.
As it was it would certainly figure in one of our desiccated reports
as an activity of the artillery. The noise as we struck the line at
this new point showed that the matter was serious, and indeed we had
chosen the spot because it had been the storm centre of the last week.
The method of approach chosen by our experienced guide was in itself
a tribute to the gravity of the affair. As one comes from the settled
order of Flanders into the actual scene of war, the first sign of it
is one of the stationary, sausage-shaped balloons, a chain of which
marks the ring in which the great wrestlers are locked. We passed under
this, ascended a hill, and found ourselves in a garden where for a
year no feet save those of wanderers like ourselves had stood. There
was a wild, confused luxuriance of growth more beautiful to my eye
than anything which the care of man can produce. One old shell-hole
of vast diameter had filled itself with forget-me-nots, and appeared
as a graceful basin of light blue flowers, held up as an atonement to
Heaven for the brutalities of man. Through the tangled bushes we crept,
then across a yard--“Please stoop and run as you pass this point”--and
finally to a small opening in a wall, whence the battle lay not so much
before as beside us. For a moment we had a front seat at the great
world-drama, God’s own problem play, working surely to its magnificent
end. One felt a sort of shame to crouch here in comfort, a useless
spectator, while brave men down yonder were facing that pelting shower
of iron.
There was a large field on our left rear, and the German gunners
had the idea that there was a concealed battery therein. They were
systematically searching for it. A great shell exploded in the top
corner, but got nothing more solid than a few tons of clay. You could
read the mind of Gunner Fritz. “Try the lower corner!” said he, and up
went the earth-cloud once again. “Perhaps it’s hid about the middle.
I’ll try.” Earth again, and nothing more. “I believe I was right the
first time after all,” said hopeful Fritz. So another shell came
into the top corner. The field was full of pits as a Gruyère cheese,
but Fritz got nothing by his perseverance. Perhaps there never was
a battery there at all. One effect he obviously did attain. He made
several other British batteries exceedingly angry. “Stop that tickling,
Fritz!” was the burden of their cry. Where they were we could no more
see than Fritz could, but their constant work was very clear along the
German line. We appeared to be using more shrapnel and the Germans more
high explosives, but that may have been just the chance of the day. The
Vimy Ridge was on our right, and before us was the old French position,
with the Labyrinth of terrible memories and the long hill of Lorette.
When, the year before last, the French, in a three weeks’ battle,
fought their way up that hill, it was an exhibition of sustained
courage which even their military annals can seldom have beaten.
[Illustration: KINGSLEY CONAN DOYLE.]
Next day we travelled through Acheux and hit the British line once
more to the east of that place. Our official chauffeur had had his
instructions, and so had other people, with the result that as we swung
into the broad main street of a village--Mailly, I think, was the
name--there was a tall young officer standing with his back turned.
He swung round at the noise of the car, and it was my boy Kingsley
with his usual jolly grin upon his weather-stained features. The long
arm of G.H.Q. had stretched out and plucked him out of a trench, and
there he was. We had an hour’s talk in a field, for there was nowhere
else to go. He was hard and well and told me that all was nearly ready
for a big push at the very part of the line where his battalion, the
1st Hampshires, was stationed. This was the first intimation of
the great Somme battle, on the first day of which every officer of
the Hampshires without exception was killed or wounded. I learned
afterwards that before the battle for ten nights running Kingsley
crept out to the German wire and stuck up crosses, where he found the
wire uncut, which were brown towards the enemy and white towards the
British, as a guide to the gunners. He lay on his face sometimes with
the machine guns firing just above him. For this service Colonel Palk
thanked him warmly and said he should certainly have a decoration, but
Palk and both majors were killed and no recommendations went forward.
Two shrapnel bullets in the neck were all Kingsley got out of the
battle, and two months on his back in a hospital. However, he was not
a medal hunter and I never heard him complain, nor would he wear his
wound badges until he was compelled.
An hour later I met another member of my household, for my Secretary,
Major Wood of the 5th Sussex Territorials, was Town Major of
Beauquesne, where I found him at the convenient hour of lunch. He had
done nearly two years of hard active service, which was pretty good for
a civilian of fifty, and had led his company at Festubert and other
engagements. He was now using his excellent powers of organization
and administration in making Beauquesne a well-ordered village, as
later he made Doullens a well-ordered town. I expect that the British
administration will remain as a wonderful legend of sanitation and
cleanliness in many of these French towns of the North-East.
After inspecting Major Wood’s work I went on to Amiens with him and he
packed me into the train to Paris, the first part of my task thoroughly
done so far as time would permit. I came away with a deep sense of the
difficult task which lay before the Army, but with an equally deep one
of the ability of those men to do all that soldiers can be called upon
to perform. But I saw no end to the war.
I had two days in Paris--a very dead and alive Paris, such a Paris
as has seldom or never been seen before, with darkened streets and
the shops nearly all closed. I stayed at the Hotel Crillon, where
were a few Russian and British officers. It was extraordinary the
difference which the public made between the two. A British officer
was disregarded, while a Russian General--I took a walk with one--was
looked upon with an adulation which was quite comic. Men came up and
made a low obeisance before him. And yet it was our Army, our purse,
our factories, above all our Navy, which were saving the situation
both for France and Russia, to whom we were bound by no alliance.
There was certainly not much sign of appreciation or gratitude. It is
a very singular thing how the whole world alternately leans upon and
depreciates the British Empire.
CHAPTER XXIX
EXPERIENCES ON THE ITALIAN FRONT
The Polite Front--Udine--Under Fire--Carnic Alps--Italia
Irredenta--Trentino--The Voice of the Holy Roman Empire.
Two days later I found myself, after an uneventful journey, at Padua
on my way to the Italian front. The Italian front seemed to have
politely come back to meet me, for I was awakened in the night by a
tremendous dropping of bombs, with the rattle of anti-aircraft guns.
I thought I was as safe in bed as anywhere, and so it proved. Little
damage was done, but Padua and the other Italian cities were having a
bad time, and it was a one-sided arrangement, since the Italians can do
nothing without injuring their own kith and kin across the border. This
dropping of explosives on the chance of hitting one soldier among fifty
victims was surely the most monstrous development of the whole war, and
was altogether German in its origin. If international law cannot now
stamp it out, the next war will send the people flying to the caves and
calling upon the mountains to cover them, even as was foretold.
I arrived at last at Udine, the capital of the Friulian Province,
where were the Italian Head-quarters--a funny little town with a huge
mound in the centre, which looked too big to be artificial, but was
said to have been thrown up by Attila. My recommendation was to the
British Mission, which was headed by Brig.-General Delme-Radcliffe,
a bluff, short-spoken and masterful British soldier, who received
me with hospitality. The Mission owned a white house on the edge of
the town. On the second floor under a window which proved to be that
of my bedroom there was a long dark smear on the whitewashed wall.
“That’s the stomach of a baker,” said the soldier-servant with a grin.
I thought it was a joke on his part, but it was literally true, for
a bomb a few days before had blown the man to bits as he passed the
house, and had plastered bits of him on the stonework. The ceiling of
my bedroom was full of holes from that or some other explosion.
There was some tendency at this time to cavil at the Italians and to
wonder why they did not make more impression upon the Austrians. As a
matter of fact they were faced by the same barbed wire and machine-gun
problem which had held up every one else. I soon saw, when I was
allowed next morning to get to the front, that the conditions were
very like those of Flanders in a more genial climate and in all ways
less aggravated. I had been handed over to the Italian Intelligence
people, who were represented by a charmingly affable nobleman, Colonel
the Marquis Barbariche, and Colonel Claricetti. These two introduced
me at once to General Porro, chief of the Staff, a brown, wrinkled,
walnut-faced warrior, who showed me some plans and did what he could to
be helpful.
It was about a seven miles drive from Udine before we reached the
nearest point of the trenches. From a mound an extraordinary view could
be got of the Austrian position, the general curve of both lines being
marked, as in Flanders, by the sausage balloons which float behind
them. The Isonzo, which had been so bravely carried by the Italians,
lay in front of me, a clear blue river, as broad as the Thames at
Hampton Court. In a hollow to my left were the roofs of Gorizia, the
town which the Italians were endeavouring to take. A long desolate
ridge, the Carso, extended to the south of the town, and stretched
down nearly to the sea. The crest was held by the Austrians, and the
Italian trenches had been pushed within fifty yards of them. A lively
bombardment was going on from either side, but so far as the infantry
went there was none of that constant malignant petty warfare with
which we were familiar in Flanders. I was anxious to see the Italian
trenches, in order to compare them with our British methods, but save
for the support and communication trenches I was courteously but firmly
warned off.
Having got this general view of the position, I was anxious in the
afternoon to visit Monfalcone, which is the small dockyard captured
from the Austrians on the Adriatic. My kind Italian officer guides did
not recommend the trip, as it was part of their great hospitality to
shield their guest from any part of that danger which they were always
ready to incur themselves. The only road to Monfalcone ran close to
the Austrian position at the village of Ronchi, and afterwards kept
parallel to it for some miles. I was told that it was only on odd
days that the Austrian guns were active in this particular section,
so determined to trust to luck that this might not be one of them. It
proved, however, to be one of the worst on record, and we were not
destined to see the dockyard to which we started.
The civilian cuts a ridiculous figure when he enlarges upon small
adventures which may come his way--adventures which the soldier endures
in silence as part of his everyday life. On this occasion, however, the
episode was all our own, and had a sporting flavour in it which made
it dramatic. I know now the feeling of tense expectation with which
the driven grouse whirrs onwards towards the butt. I have been behind
the butt before now, and it is only poetic justice that I should see
the matter from the other point of view. As we approached Ronchi we
could see shrapnel breaking over the road in front of us, but we had
not yet realized that it was precisely for vehicles that the Austrians
were waiting, and that they had the range marked down to a yard. We
went down the road all out at a steady fifty miles an hour. The village
was near, and it seemed that we had got past the place of danger. We
had, in fact, just reached it. At this moment there was a noise as if
the whole four tyres had gone simultaneously, a most terrific bang in
our very ears, merging into a second sound like a reverberating blow
upon an enormous gong. As I glanced up I saw three clouds immediately
above my head, two of them white and the other of a rusty red. The air
was full of flying metal, and the road, as we were told afterwards by
an observer, was all churned up by it. The metal base of one of the
shells was found plumb in the middle of the road just where our motor
had been. It was our pace that saved us. The motor was an open one, and
the three shells burst, according to one of my Italian companions, who
was himself an artillery officer, about ten metres above our heads.
They threw forward, however, and we, travelling at so great a pace,
shot from under. Before they could get in another we had swung round
the curve and under the lee of a house. The good Colonel wrung my hand
in silence. They were both distressed, these good soldiers, under the
impression that they had led me into danger. As a matter of fact it
was I who owed them an apology, since they had enough risks in the way
of business without taking others in order to gratify the whim of a
visitor.
Our difficulties were by no means over. We found an ambulance lorry
and a little group of infantry huddled under the same shelter, with
the expression of people who had been caught in the rain. The road
beyond was under heavy fire as well as that by which we had come. Had
the Ostro-Boches dropped a high explosive upon us they would have had
a good mixed bag. But apparently they were only out for fancy shooting
and disdained a sitter. Presently there came a lull and the lorry moved
on, but we soon heard a burst of firing which showed that they were
after it. My companions had decided that it was out of the question for
us to finish our excursion. We waited for some time, therefore, and
were able finally to make our retreat on foot, being joined later by
the car. So ended my visit to Monfalcone, the place I did not reach. I
hear that two 10,000-ton steamers were left on the stocks there by the
Austrians, but were disabled before they retired. Their cabin basins
and other fittings were adorning the Italian dug-outs.
My second day was devoted to a view of the Italian mountain warfare
in the Carnic Alps. Besides the two great fronts, one of defence
(Trentino) and one of offence (Isonzo), there were very many smaller
valleys which had to be guarded. The total frontier line is over 400
miles, and it had all to be held against raids if not invasions. It
was a most picturesque business. Far up in the Roccolana Valley I
found the Alpini outposts, backed by artillery which had been brought
into the most wonderful positions. They had taken 8-inch guns where a
tourist could hardly take his knapsack. Neither side could ever make
serious progress, but there were continual duels, gun against gun,
or Alpini against Jaeger. In a little wayside house was the brigade
Head-quarters, and here I was entertained to lunch. It was a scene that
I shall remember. They drank to England. I raised my glass to _Italia
irredenta_--might it soon be redenta. They all sprang to their feet
and the circle of dark faces flashed into flame. They keep their souls
and emotions, these people. I trust that ours may not become atrophied
by self-suppression.
The last day spent on the Italian front was in the Trentino. From
Verona a motor drive of about twenty-five miles takes one up the valley
of the Adige, and past a place of evil augury for the Austrians, the
field of Rivoli. Finally, after a long drive of winding gradients,
always beside the Adige, we reached Ala, where we interviewed the
Commander of the sector, a man who has done splendid work during the
recent fighting. “By all means you can see my front. But no motor car,
please. It draws fire, and others may be hit besides you.” We proceeded
on foot, therefore, along a valley which branched at the end into two
passes. In both very active fighting had been going on, and as we came
up the guns were baying merrily, waking up most extraordinary echoes
in the hills. It was difficult to believe that it was not thunder.
There was one terrible voice that broke out from time to time in the
mountains--the angry voice of the Holy Roman Empire. When it came all
other sounds died down into nothing. It was--so I was told--the master
gun, the vast 42-centimetre giant which brought down the pride of Liège
and Namur. The Austrians had brought one or more from Innsbruck. The
Italians assure me, however, as we have ourselves discovered, that in
trench work beyond a certain point the size of the guns makes little
matter.
We passed a burst dug-out by the roadside where a tragedy had occurred
recently, for eight medical officers were killed in it by a single
shell. There was no particular danger in the valley, however, and the
aimed fire was all going across us to the fighting lines in the two
passes above us. That to the right, the Valley of Buello, has seen some
of the worst of the fighting. These two passes form the Italian left
wing which has held firm all through. So has the right wing. It is only
the centre which has been pushed in by the concentrated fire.
When we arrived at the spot where the two valleys forked we were
halted, and were not permitted to advance to the front trenches which
lay upon the crests above us. There were about 1,000 yards between
the adversaries. I have seen types of some of the Bosnian and Croatian
prisoners, men of poor physique and intelligence, but the Italians
speak with chivalrous praise of the bravery of the Hungarians and of
the Austrian Jaeger. Some of their proceedings disgusted them, however,
and especially the fact that they used Russian prisoners to dig
trenches under fire. There is no doubt of this, as some of the men were
recaptured and were sent on to join their comrades in France. On the
whole, however, it may be said that in the Austro-Italian war there was
nothing which corresponded with the extreme bitterness of our Western
conflict. The presence or absence of the Hun makes all the difference.
It was a moment of depression at the Trentino front, as there had been
a set back. I may flatter myself when I think that even one solitary
figure in a British uniform striding about them was good at that
particular time to their eyes. They read of allies, but they never saw
any. If they had, we might have been spared the subsequent disaster at
Caporetto. Certainly I was heartily welcomed there, and surrounded all
the time by great mobs of soldiers, who imagined, I suppose, that I was
some one of importance.
That night found me back at Verona, and next morning I was on my way
to Paris with sheaves of notes about the Italian soldiers which would,
I hoped, make the British public more sympathetic towards them. I was
told afterwards by the Foreign Office that my mission had been an
unmixed success.
I have one other association with the Italian front which I may include
here. It is embalmed in the Annals of the Psychic Research Society.
I have several times in my life awakened from sleep with some strong
impressions of knowledge gained still lingering in my brain. In one
case, for example, I got the strange name Nalderu so vividly that I
wrote it down between two stretches of insensibility and found it on
the outside of my cheque book next morning. A month later I started
for Australia in the S.S. _Naldera_ of which I had then never heard.
In this particular Italian instance I got the word Piave, absolutely
ringing in my head. I knew it as a river some seventy miles to the
rear of the Italian front and quite unconnected with the war. None the
less the impression was so strong that I wrote the incident down and
had it signed by two witnesses. Months passed and the Italian battle
line was rolled back to the Piave, which became a familiar word. Some
said it would go back further. I was sure it would not. I argued that
if the abnormal forces, whatever they may be, had taken such pains
to impress the matter upon me, it must needs be good news which they
were conveying, since I had needed cheering at the time. Therefore I
felt sure that some great victory and the turning point of the war
would come on the Piave. So sure was I that I wrote to my friend Mr.
Lacon Watson, who was on the Italian front, and the incident got into
the Italian press. It could have nothing but a good effect upon their
morale. Finally it is a matter of history how completely my impression
was justified, and how the most shattering victory of the whole war was
gained at that very spot.
There is the fact, amply proved by documents and beyond all possible
coincidence. As to the explanation some may say that our own
subconscious self has power of foresight. If so it is a singularly dead
instinct, seldom or never used. Others may say that our “dead” can see
further than we, and try when we are asleep and in spiritual touch with
us, to give us knowledge and consolation. The latter is my own solution
of the mystery.
CHAPTER XXX
EXPERIENCES ON THE FRENCH FRONT
A Dreadful Reception--Robert Donald--Clemenceau--Soissons
Cathedral--The Commandant’s Cane--The Extreme Outpost--Adonis--General
Henneque--Cyrano in the Argonne--Tir Rapide--French Canadian--Wound
Stripes.
When I got back to Paris I had a dreadful reception, for as I
dismounted from the railway car a British military policeman in his
flat red cap stepped up to me and saluted.
“This is bad news, sir,” said he.
“What is it?” I gasped.
“Lord Kitchener, sir. Drowned!”
“Good God!” I cried.
“Yes, sir.” Suddenly the machine turned for a moment into a human
being. “Too much talking in this war,” he said, and then in a moment
was his stiff formal self again, and bustled off in search of deserters.
Kitchener dead! The words were like clods falling on my heart. One
could not imagine him dead, that centre of energy and vitality. With
a heavy spirit I drove back to my old quarters at the Hotel Crillon,
fuller than ever of red-epauletted, sword-clanking Russians. I could
have cursed them, for it was in visiting their rotten, crumbling
country that our hero had met his end.
At the hotel I met by appointment Mr. Robert Donald, editor of the
“Daily Chronicle,” which paper had been publishing my articles. Donald,
a fine, solid Scot, had the advantage of talking good French and being
in thorough touch with French conditions. With him I called upon M.
Clemenceau, who had not at that time played any conspicuous part in the
war, save as a violent critic. He lived modestly in a small house which
showed that he had not used his power in the State and in journalism
to any unfair personal advantage. He entered, a swarthy, wrinkled,
white-haired man, with the face of a crabbed bulldog, and a cloth cap
upon his head. He reminded me of old “Jem” Mace the bruiser, as I
remember him in his final phase. His eyes looked angry, and he had a
truculent, mischievous smile. I was not impressed by the judgment he
showed in our conversation, if a squirt on one side and Niagara on the
other can be called conversation. He was railing loudly at the English
rate of exchange between the franc and the pound, which seemed to me
very like kicking against the barometer. Mr. Donald, who is a real
authority upon finance, asked him whether France was taking the rouble
at its face value; but the roaring voice, like a strong gramophone with
a blunt needle, submerged all argument. Against Joffre he roared his
reproaches, and intimated that he had some one else up his sleeve who
could very soon bring the war to an end. A volcano of a man, dangerous
sometimes to his friends, and sometimes to his foes. Let me acknowledge
that I did not at the time recognize that he would ever be the opposite
number to Lloyd George, and that the pair would lead us to victory.
Donald had arranged that he and I should visit the French lines in the
Argonne, which was as near as we could get to Verdun, where the battle
was at its height. There were a few days to spare, however, and in the
meantime I got a chance of going to the Soissons front, along with Leo
Maxse, editor of the “National Review,” and a M. Chevillon, who had
written an excellent book on British co-operation in the war. Maxse, a
dark little man, all nerves and ginger, might well plume himself that
he was one of those who had foreseen the war and most loudly demanded
preparation. Chevillon was a grey-bearded father-of-a-family type, and
could speak English, which promoted our closer acquaintance, as my
French is adventurous but not always successful. A captain of French
Intelligence, a small, silent man, took the fourth place in the car.
When our posterity hear that it was easy to run out from Paris to the
line, to spend a full day on the line, and to be back again in Paris
for dinner, it will make them appreciate how close a thing was the war.
We passed in the first instance the Woods of Villars Cotteret, where
the Guards had turned upon the German van on September 1, 1914. Eighty
Guardsmen were buried in the village cemetery, among them a nephew of
Maxse’s, to whose tomb we now made pious pilgrimage. Among the trees
on either side of the road I noticed other graves of soldiers, buried
where they had fallen.
Soissons proved to be a considerable wreck, though it was far from
being an Ypres. But the cathedral would, and will, make many a
patriotic Frenchman weep. These savages cannot keep their hands off
a beautiful church. Here, absolutely unchanged through the ages, was
the spot where St. Louis had dedicated himself to the Crusade. Every
stone of it was holy. And now the lovely old stained-glass strewed the
floor, and the roof lay in a huge heap across the central aisle. A dog
was climbing over it as we entered. No wonder the French fought well.
Such sights would drive the mildest man to desperation. The abbé, a
good priest, with a large humorous face, took us over his shattered
domain. When I pointed out the desecration of the dog he shrugged his
shoulders and said: “What matter? It will have to be reconsecrated,
anyhow.” He connived at my gathering up some splinters of the rich old
stained-glass as souvenirs for my wife. He was full of reminiscences of
the German occupation of the place. One of his personal anecdotes was
indeed marvellous. It was that a lady in the local ambulance had vowed
to kiss the first French soldier who re-entered the town. She did so,
and it proved to be her husband. The abbé was a good, kind, truthful
man--but he had a humorous face.
A walk down a ruined street brought one to the opening of the
trenches. There were marks upon the walls of the German occupation,
“Berlin-Paris,” with an arrow of direction, adorning one corner. At
another the 76th Regiment had commemorated the fact that they were
there in 1870 and again in 1914. If the Soissons folk are wise, they
will keep these inscriptions as reminders to the rising generation. I
could imagine, however, that their inclination will be to whitewash,
fumigate, and forget.
A sudden turn among some broken walls took one into the communication
trench. Our guide was a Commandant of the Staff, a tall, thin man with
hard, grey eyes and a severe face. It was the more severe towards us,
as I gathered that he had been deluded into the belief that only about
one out of six of our soldiers went to the trenches. For the moment
he was not friends with the English. As we went along, however, we
gradually got on better terms, we discovered a twinkle in the hard,
grey eyes, and the day ended with an exchange of walking-sticks between
him and me and a renewal of the Entente. May my cane grow into a
marshal’s baton!
A charming young artillery subaltern was our guide in that maze of
trenches, and we walked and walked and walked, with a brisk exchange
of compliments between the “75’s” of the French and the “77’s” of the
Germans going on high over our heads. The trenches were boarded at the
sides, and had a more permanent look than those of Flanders. Presently
we met a fine, brown-faced, upstanding boy, as keen as a razor, who
commanded this particular section. A little farther on a helmeted
captain of infantry, who was an expert sniper, joined our little party.
Now we were at the very front trench. I had expected to see primeval
men, bearded and shaggy. But the “Poilus” have disappeared. The men
around me were clean and dapper to a remarkable degree. I gathered,
however, that they had their internal difficulties. On one board I read
an old inscription: “He is a Boche, but he is the inseparable companion
of a French soldier.” Above was a rude drawing of a louse.
I was led to a cunning loop-hole, and had a glimpse through it of a
little framed picture of French countryside. There were fields, a road,
a sloping hill beyond with trees. Quite close, about thirty or forty
yards away, was a low, red-tiled house. “They are there,” said our
guide. “That is their outpost. We can hear them cough.” Only the guns
were coughing that morning, so we heard nothing; but it was certainly
wonderful to be so near to the enemy and yet in such peace. I suppose
wondering visitors from Berlin were brought up also to hear the French
cough. Modern warfare has certainly some extraordinary sides.
Then we were shown all the devices which a year of experience
had suggested to the quick brains of our Allies. Every form of
bomb, catapult, and trench mortar was ready to hand. Every method
of cross-fire had been thought out to an exact degree. There was
something, however, about the disposition of a machine gun which
disturbed the Commandant. He called for the officer of the gun. His
thin lips got thinner and his grey eyes more austere as we waited.
Presently there emerged an extraordinarily handsome youth, dark as
a Spaniard, from some rabbit hole. He faced the Commandant bravely,
and answered back with respect but firmness. “Pourquoi?” asked the
Commandant, and yet again “Pourquoi?” Adonis had an answer for
everything. Both sides appealed to the big captain of snipers, who
was clearly embarrassed. He stood on one leg and scratched his chin.
Finally the Commandant turned away angrily in the midst of one of
Adonis’ voluble sentences. His face showed that the matter was not
ended. War is taken very seriously in the French Army, and any sort of
professional mistake is very quickly punished. Many officers of high
rank had been broken by the French during the war. There was no more
forgiveness for the beaten General than there was in the days of the
Republic when the delegate of the National Convention, with a patent
portable guillotine, used to drop in at Head-quarters to support a more
vigorous offensive.
It had come on to rain heavily, and we were forced to take refuge in
the dug-out of the sniper. Eight of us sat in the deep gloom huddled
closely together. The Commandant was still harping upon that ill-placed
machine gun. He could not get over it. My imperfect ear for French
could not follow all his complaints, but some defence of the offender
brought forth a “Jamais! Jamais! Jamais!” which was rapped out as if
it came from the gun itself. There were eight of us in an underground
burrow, and some were smoking. Better a deluge than such an atmosphere
as that. But if there was a thing upon earth which the French officer
shied at it was rain and mud. The reason is that he was extraordinarily
natty in his person. His charming blue uniform, his facings, his brown
gaiters, boots and belts were always just as smart as paint. He was
the dandy of the European War. I noticed officers in the trenches with
their trousers carefully pressed.
[Illustration: ON THE FRENCH FRONT.
_From Left_: “CYRANO”; A. CONAN DOYLE; MR. ROBERT DONALD; GENERAL
HENNEQUE.]
The rain had now stopped, and we climbed from our burrow. Again we were
led down that endless line of communication trench, again we stumbled
through the ruins, again we emerged into the street where our cars
were awaiting us. Above our heads the sharp artillery duel was going
merrily forward. The French were firing three or four to one, which had
been my experience at every point I had touched upon the Allied front.
Thanks to the extraordinary zeal of the French workers, especially of
the French women, and to the clever adoption of machinery by their
engineers, their supplies were abundant.
Our next expedition carried us to Chalons, where the Huns of old met
disaster. From Chalons we drove some twenty miles to St. Menehould,
and learned that the trenches were about ten miles north. On this
expedition there were Donald and I with an extraordinary Spaniard,
half Don Quixote, half Gipsy troubadour, flat hatted and clad in brown
corduroy, with a single arm, having, as we heard, lost the other in
some broil. As he spoke no tongue but his own we were never on terms
with him.
The front at the sector which we struck was under the control of
General Henneque of the 10th Division. A fine soldier this, and Heaven
help Germany if he and his division had invaded it, for he was, as one
could see at a glance, a man of iron who had been goaded to fierceness
by all that his beloved country had endured. He was a man of middle
size, swarthy, hawk-like, very abrupt in his movements, with two
steel-grey eyes, which were the most searching that mine have ever met.
His hospitality and courtesy to us were beyond all bounds, but there is
another side to him, and it is one which it were wiser not to provoke.
In person he took us to his lines, passing through the usual shot-torn
villages behind them. Where the road dipped down into the great forest
there was one particular spot which was visible to the German artillery
observers. The General mentioned it at the time, but his remark seemed
to have no personal interest. We understood it better on our return in
the evening.
We then found ourselves in the depths of the woods--primeval woods
of oak and beech in the deep clay soil that the great oak loves.
There had been rain, and the forest paths were ankle deep in mire.
Everywhere, to right and left, soldiers’ faces, hard and rough from
a year of open air, gazed up at us from their burrows in the ground.
Presently an alert, blue-clad figure, stood in the path to greet us.
It was the Colonel of the sector. He was ridiculously like Cyrano
de Bergerac as depicted by the late M. Coquelin, save that his nose
was of more moderate proportion. The ruddy colouring, the bristling,
feline, full-ended moustache, the solidity of pose, the backward tilt
of the head, the general suggestion of the bantam cock, were all there
facing us as he stood amid the leaves in the sunlight. Gauntlets and
a long rapier--nothing else was wanting. Something had amused Cyrano.
His moustache quivered with suppressed mirth and his blue eyes were
demurely gleaming. Then the joke came out. He had spotted a German
working-party, his guns had concentrated on it, and afterwards he had
seen the stretchers go forward. A grim joke, it may seem. But the
French saw this war from a different angle to us. If we had had the
Boche sitting on our heads for two years, and were not quite sure
whether we could ever get him off again, we should get Cyrano’s point
of view.
We passed in a little procession among the French soldiers, and viewed
their multifarious arrangements. For them we were a little break
in a monotonous life, and they formed up in lines as we passed. My
own British uniform and the civilian dresses of my two companions
interested them. As the General passed these groups, who formed
themselves up in perhaps a more familiar manner than would have
been usual in the British service, he glanced kindly at them with
those singular eyes of his, and once or twice addressed them as “Mes
enfants.” One might conceive that all was “go as you please” among
the French. So it was as long as you went in the right way. When you
strayed from it you knew it. As we passed a group of men standing on a
low ridge which overlooked us there was a sudden stop. I gazed round.
The General’s face was steel and cement. The eyes were cold and yet
fiery, sunlight upon icicles. Something had happened. Cyrano had sprung
to his side. His reddish moustache had shot forward beyond his nose,
and it bristled out like that of an angry cat. Both were looking up
at the group above us. One wretched man detached himself from his
comrades and sidled down the slope. No skipper and mate of a Yankee
blood boat could have looked more ferociously at a mutineer. And yet
it was all over some minor breach of discipline which was summarily
disposed of by two days of confinement. Then in an instant the faces
relaxed, there was a general buzz of relief, and we were back at “Mes
enfants” again.
Trenches are trenches, and the main specialty of those in the Argonne
were that they were nearer to the enemy. In fact, there were places
where they interlocked, and where the advanced posts lay cheek by jowl
with a good steel plate to cover both cheek and jowl. We were brought
to a sap-head where the Germans were at the other side of a narrow
forest road. Had I leaned forward with extended hand and a Boche done
the same we could have touched. I looked across, but saw only a tangle
of wire and sticks. Even whispering was not permitted in those forward
posts.
When we emerged from these hushed places of danger Cyrano took us all
to his dug-out, which was a tasty little cottage carved from the side
of a hill and faced with logs. He did the honours of the humble cabin
with the air of a seigneur in his château. There was little furniture,
but from some broken mansion he had extracted an iron fire-back, which
adorned his grate. It was a fine, mediæval bit of work, with Venus, in
her traditional costume, in the centre of it. It seemed the last touch
in the picture of the gallant virile Cyrano. I only met him this once,
nor shall I ever see him again, yet he stands a thing complete within
my memory. Always in the cinema of memory he will walk the leafy paths
of the Argonne, his fierce eyes searching for the Boche workers, his
red moustache bristling over their annihilation. He seems a figure out
of the past of France.
That night we dined with yet another type of the French soldier,
General Antoine, who commanded the corps of which my friend had one
division. Each of these French generals had a striking individuality of
his own which I wish I could fix upon paper. Their only common point
was that each seemed to be a rare good soldier. The Corps General
was Athos with a touch of d’Artagnan. He was well over 6 feet high,
bluff, jovial, with huge, upcurling moustache, and a voice that would
rally a regiment. It was a grand figure, which should have been done
by Van Dyck, with lace collar, hand on sword, and arm akimbo. Jovial
and laughing was he, but a stern and hard soldier was lurking behind
the smiles. His name has appeared in history, and so has Humbert’s,
who ruled all the army of which the other corps is a unit. Humbert was
a Lord Roberts figure, small, wiry, quick-stepping, all steel and
elastic, with a short, upturned moustache, which one could imagine as
crackling with electricity in moments of excitement like a cat’s fur.
What he does or says is quick, abrupt, and to the point. He fires his
remarks like pistol shots at this man or that. Once to my horror he
fixed me with his hard little eyes and demanded; “Sherlock Holmes,
est ce qu’il est un soldat dans l’armée Anglaise?” The whole table
waited in an awful hush. “Mais, mon general,” I stammered, “il est trop
vieux pour service.” There was general laughter, and I felt that I had
scrambled out of an awkward place.
And talking of awkward places, I had forgotten about that spot upon
the road whence the Boche observer could see our motor-cars. He had
actually laid a gun upon it, the rascal, and waited all the long day
for our return. No sooner did we appear upon the slope than a shrapnel
shell burst above us, but somewhat behind me, as well as to the left.
Had it been straight the second car would have got it, and there might
have been a vacancy in one of the chief editorial chairs in London. The
General shouted to the driver to speed up, and we were soon safe from
the German gunners. One got perfectly immune to noises in these scenes,
for the guns which surrounded you made louder crashes than any shell
which burst about you. It is only when you actually saw the cloud over
you that your thoughts came back to yourself, and that you realized
that in this wonderful drama you might be a useless super, but none the
less you were on the stage and not in the stalls.
Next morning we were down in the front trenches again at another
portion of the line. Far away on our right, from a spot named the
Observatory, we could see the extreme left of the Verdun position and
shells bursting on the Fille Morte. To the north of us was a broad
expanse of sunny France, nestling villages, scattered châteaux, rustic
churches, and all as inaccessible as if it were the moon. It was a
terrible thing this German bar--a thing unthinkable to Britons. To
stand on the edge of Yorkshire and look into Lancashire feeling that
it was in other hands, that our fellow-countrymen were suffering there
and waiting, waiting for help, and that we could not, after two years,
come a yard nearer to them--would it not break our hearts? Could I
wonder that there was no smile upon the grim faces of those Frenchmen!
But when the bar was broken, when the line swept forward, when French
bayonets gleamed on those uplands and French flags broke from those
village spires--ah, what a day that was! Men died that day from the
pure delirious joy of it.
Yet another type of French General took us round this morning! He, too,
was a man apart, an unforgettable man. Conceive a man with a large,
broad, good-humoured face, and two placid, dark, seal’s eyes which
gazed gently into yours. He was young, and had pink cheeks and a soft
voice. Such was one of the most redoubtable fighters of France, this
General of Division Dupont. His former Staff officers told me something
of the man. He was a philosopher, a fatalist, impervious to fear, a
dreamer of distant dreams amid the most furious bombardment. The weight
of the French assault upon the terrible Labyrinth fell at one time
upon the brigade which he then commanded. He led them day after day
gathering up Germans with the detached air of the man of science who
is hunting for specimens. In whatever shell-hole he might chance to
lunch he had his cloth spread and decorated with wild flowers plucked
from the edge. I wrote of him at the time: “If Fate be kind to him, he
will go far.” As a matter of fact, before the end of the war he was one
of the most influential members of the General Staff, so my prophetic
power was amply vindicated.
From the Observatory we saw the destruction of a German trench. There
had been signs of work upon it, so it was decided to close it down. It
was a very visible brown streak a thousand yards away. The word was
passed back to the “75’s” in the rear. There was a “tir rapide” over
our heads. My word, the man who stands fast under a “tir rapide,” be
he Boche, French or British, is a man of mettle! The mere passage of
the shells was awe-inspiring, at first like the screaming of a wintry
wind, and then thickening into the howling of a pack of wolves. The
trench was a line of terrific explosions. Then the dust settled down
and all was still. Where were the ants who had made the nest? Were they
buried beneath it? Or had they got from under? No one could say.
There was one little gun which fascinated me, and I stood for some time
watching it. Its three gunners, enormous helmeted men, evidently loved
it, and touched it with a swift but tender touch in every movement.
When it was fired it ran up an inclined plane to take off the recoil,
rushing up and then turning and rattling down again upon the gunners
who were used to its ways. The first time it did it, I was standing
behind it, and I don’t know which jumped quickest--the gun or I.
French officers above a certain rank develop and show their own
individuality. In the lower grades the conditions of service enforce a
certain uniformity. The British officer is a British gentleman first,
and an officer afterwards. The Frenchman is an officer first, though
none the less the gentleman stands behind it. One very strange type
we met, however, in these Argonne Woods. He was a French-Canadian who
had been a French soldier, had founded a homestead in far Alberta, and
had now come back of his own will, though a naturalized Briton, to the
old flag. He spoke English of a kind, the quality and quantity being
equally extraordinary. It poured from him and was, so far as it was
intelligible, of the woolly Western variety. His views on the Germans
were the most emphatic we had met. “These Godam sons of”--well, let
us say “Canines!” he would shriek, shaking his fist at the woods to
the north of him. A good man was our compatriot, for he had a very
recent Legion of Honour pinned upon his breast. He had been put with
a few men on Hill 285, a sort of volcano stuffed with mines, and was
told to telephone when he needed relief. He refused to telephone, and
remained there for three weeks. “We sit like one rabbit in his hall,”
he explained. He had only one grievance--there were many wild boars
in the forest, but the infantry were too busy to get them. “The Godam
Artillaree he get the wild pig!” Out of his pocket he pulled a picture
of a frame house with snow round it, and a lady with two children on
the stoep. It was his homestead at Trochu, seventy miles north of
Calgary.
It was the evening of the third day that we turned our faces towards
Paris once more. It was my last view of the French. The roar of their
guns went far with me upon my way. I wrote at the time: “Soldiers of
France, farewell! In your own phrase, I salute you! Many have seen you
who had more knowledge by which to judge your manifold virtues, many
also who had more skill to draw you as you are, but never one, I am
sure, who admired you more than I. Great was the French soldier, under
Louis the Sun-King, great too under Napoleon, but never was he greater
than to-day.”
But in spite of all their bravery only two things saved France, her
field guns and the intervention of England. Surely she should have a
reckoning with her pre-war military authorities. Imagine unwarlike
Britain, protected by the sea, and yet having a high standard of
musketry, heavy guns with every division, and khaki uniforms, while
warlike France, under the very shadow of Germany, had poor musketry,
primeval uniforms and no heavy guns. As to her early views of
strategy they were lamentable. Every British critic, above all Lord
Kitchener, knew that the attack would swing round through Belgium.
France concentrated all her preparation upon the Eastern frontier. It
was clear also that the weaker power should be on the defensive and
so bring her enemy by heavier losses down to her own weight. France
attacked and broke herself in an impossible venture. There should have
been a heavy reckoning against some one. The fate of England as well as
of France was imperilled by the false estimates of the French General
Staff.
One small visible result of my journey was the establishment of wound
stripes upon the uniforms of the British. I had been struck by this
very human touch among the French, which gave a man some credit and
therefore some consolation for his sufferings. I represented the
matter when I came back. Lest I seem to claim more than is true, I
append General Robertson’s letter. The second sentence refers to that
campaign for the use of armour which I had prosecuted so long, and with
some success as regards helmets, though there the credit was mostly due
to Dr. Saleeby, among civilians. The letter runs thus:
WAR OFFICE,
_August 14, 1916_.
Many thanks for sending me a copy of your little book. I will
certainly see what can be done in regard to armour. You will remember
that I took your previous tip as regards badges for wounded men.
Yours very truly,
W. R. ROBERTSON.
CHAPTER XXXI
BREAKING THE HINDENBURG LINE
Lloyd George--My Second Excursion--The Farthest German Point--Sir
Joseph Cook--Night before the Day of Judgment--The Final Battle--On a
Tank--Horrible Sight--Speech to Australians--The Magic Carpet.
I find in my diary that the Prime Minister, Mr. Lloyd George, invited
me to breakfast in April, 1917. Some third person was, I understand, to
have been present, but he did not arrive, so that I found myself alone
in the classic dining room of No. 10, Downing Street, while my host
was finishing his toilet. Presently he appeared, clad in a grey suit,
smart and smiling, with no sign at all that he bore the weight of the
great European War upon his shoulders. Nothing could have been more
affable or democratic, for there was no servant present, and he poured
out the tea, while I, from a side table, brought the bacon and eggs
for both. He had certainly the Celtic power of making one absolutely
at one’s ease, for there was no trace at all of pomp or ceremony--just
a pleasant, smiling, grey-haired but very virile gentleman, with
twinkling eyes and a roguish smile. No doubt there are other aspects,
but that is how he presented himself that morning.
He began by talking about the great loss which the country had
sustained in Lord Kitchener’s death, speaking of him in a very kindly
and human way. At the same time he was of opinion that long tropical
service and the habit of always talking down to subordinates had had
some effect upon his mind and character. He was a strange mixture of
rather morose inactivity and sudden flashes of prevision which amounted
to genius. He was the only man who had clearly foreseen the length
of the war, and but for Turkey, Bulgaria, and other complications he
probably overstated it at three years. There were times when he became
so dictatorial as to be almost unbearable, and he had to be reminded
at a Cabinet Council by Lloyd George himself that he was in the
presence of twenty men who were his peers, and that he could not refuse
them information or act above their heads. I confess that it struck
me as very natural that a big man with vital knowledge in his brain
should hesitate in a world crisis to confide it to twenty men, and
probably twenty wives, each of whom was a possible leak. In spite of
his genius Kitchener was not accessible to new ideas. He could not see
clearly why such enormous munitions were necessary. He opposed tanks.
He was against the Irish and Welsh separate divisions. He refused
the special flags which the ladies had worked for these divisions.
He was as remote from sentiment as a steam hammer, and yet he was
dealing with humans who can be influenced by sentiment. He obstructed
in many things, particularly in the Dardanelles. On the other hand,
his steps in organizing the new armies were splendid, though he had
attempted--vainly--to do away with the Territorials, another example
of his blindness to the practical force of sentiment. Miss Asquith
had said of him, “If he is not a great man he is a great poster,” and
certainly no one else could have moved the nation to such a degree,
though the long series of provocations from the Germans had made us
very receptive and combative.
Lloyd George was justly proud of the splendid work of the Welsh
Division at the front. He had been to Mametz Wood, the taking of which
had been such a bloody, and also such a glorious, business. He listened
with interest to an account which I was able to give him of some
incidents in that fight, and said that it was a beautiful story. He had
arranged for a Welsh painter to do the scene of the battle.
He was interested to hear how I had worked upon my history, and
remarked that it was probably better done from direct human documents
than from filed papers. He asked me whether I had met many of the
divisional Generals, and on my saying that I had, he asked me if any
had struck me as outstanding among their fellows. I said I thought they
were a fine level lot, but that in soldiering it was impossible to say
by mere talk or appearance who was the big man at a pinch. He agreed.
He seemed to have a particular feeling towards General Tom Bridges, of
the 19th Division, and shortly afterwards I noticed that he was chosen
for the American mission.
I talked to him about my views as to the use of armour, and found him
very keen upon it. He is an excellent listener, and seems honestly
interested in what you say. He said he had no doubt that in the problem
of armour lay the future of warfare, but how to carry it was the crux.
He said that the soldiers always obstructed the idea--which was my
experience also--with a few notable exceptions. I mentioned General
Watts of the 7th Division as being interested in armour, and he agreed
and seemed to know all about Watts who, though a “dug-out,” was one of
the finds of the war.
He was much excited about the revolution in Russia, news of which had
only just come through. The Guards had turned, and that meant that
all had turned. The Tsar was good but weak. The general character
and probable fate of the Tsarina were not unlike those of Marie
Antoinette--in fact, the whole course of events was very analogous
to the French Revolution. “Then it will last some years and end in a
Napoleon,” said I. He agreed. The revolt, he said, was in no sense
pro-German. The whole affair had been Byzantine, and reminded one of
the old histories.
As I left he came back to armour, and said that he was about to see
some one on that very subject. When I was in the hall it struck me that
a few definite facts which I had in my head would be useful in such an
interview, so, to the surprise of the butler, I sat down on the hall
chair and wrote out on a scrap of paper a few headings which I asked
him to give the Prime Minister. I don’t know if they were of any use. I
came away reassured, and feeling that a vigorous virile hand was at the
helm.
I had not expected to see any more actual operations of the war, but
early in September, 1918, I had an intimation from the Australian
Government that I might visit their section of the line. Little did I
think that this would lead to my seeing the crowning battle of the war.
It was on September 26 that we actually started, the party consisting
of Sir Joseph Cook, Naval Minister of the Australian Commonwealth,
Commander Latham, his aide-de-camp, who in civil life is a rising
barrister of Melbourne, and Mr. Berry, soon to be Sir William Berry,
proprietor of the “Sunday Times.” We crossed in a gale of wind, with
a destroyer sheeted in foam on either side of the leave boat, each of
us being obliged to wear life-belts. Several American newspaper men
were on board, one of them an old friend, Bok, of the “Ladies’ Home
Journal.” It was too late to continue our journey when we got across,
so we stayed at an inn that night, and were off to the Australian line
at an early hour in the morning, our way lying through Abbeville and
Amiens. The latter place was nearly deserted and very badly knocked
about, far more so than I had expected.
The enemy had, as we knew, been within seven miles of Amiens--it was
the Australian line which held the town safe, and the allied cause from
desperate peril if not ruin. It did not surprise us, therefore, that we
soon came upon signs of fighting. A little grove was shown us as the
absolute farthest ripple of the advanced German wave. A little farther
on was the sheltered town of Villers Brettoneux, with piles of empty
cartridge cases at every corner to show where snipers or machine guns
had lurked. A little farther on a truly monstrous gun--the largest I
have ever seen--lay near the road, broken into three pieces. It was
bigger to my eyes than the largest on our battleships, and had been
brought up and mounted by the Germans just before the tide had turned,
which was on July 5. In their retreat they had been compelled to blow
it up. A party of British Guardsmen were standing round it examining
it, and I exchanged a few words with them. Then we ran on through
ground which was intensely interesting to me, as it was the scene of
Gough’s retreat, and I had just been carefully studying it at home.
There was the Somme on our left, a very placid, slow-moving stream, and
across it the higher ground where our III Corps had been held up on
the historical August 8, the day which made Ludendorff realize, as he
himself states, that the war was lost. On the plain over which we were
moving the Australian and Canadian Divisions had swept, with the tanks
leading the British line, as Boadicea’s chariots did of old. Though I
had not been over the ground before, I had visualized it so clearly in
making notes about the battle that I could name every hamlet and locate
every shattered church tower. Presently a hill rose on the left, which
I knew to be Mount St. Quentin, the taking of which by the Australians
was one of the feats of the war. It had been defended by picked troops,
including some of the Prussian Guards, but they were mostly taken or
killed, though a flanking attack by the British Yeomanry Division had
something to do with the result.
The old walled town of Peronne, sacred for ever to Sir Walter, Quentin
Durward, and the archers of the Scots Guards, lay before us, almost
if not quite surrounded by the river, the canal, and broad moats. It
seemed an impossible place to take, which is of course the greatest
possible trap in modern warfare, since something occurring fifty miles
away may place troops behind you and cut you off. Here our long drive
finished, and we were handed over to the care of Colonel Bennett
commanding the camp, a tall, bluff warrior who, if he had doffed his
khaki and got into a velvet tunic, would have been the exact image of
the veteran warrior in Scott’s novel. He was indeed a veteran, having
fought, if I remember right, not only in South Africa, but even in the
Australian Suakim contingent.
A little wooden hut was put at our disposal, and there we slept, Sir
Joseph Cook and I, with a small partition between us. I was bitterly
cold, and so I can tell was he, for I could hear him tossing about just
as I did for warmth. We had neither of us made the discovery that you
may pile all the clothes you like on the top of you, but so long as
there is only one layer of canvas beneath you, you are likely to be
cold. We don’t usually realize that the mattress is also part of the
bed-clothes. We both got little sleep that night.
Next morning, September 28, we were off betimes, for we had much to
see, the old town for one thing, which I vowed I would visit again in
time of peace. We descended Mount St. Quentin and saw ample evidence
of the grim struggle that had occurred there. There were many rude
graves, some of them with strange inscriptions. One of them, I was
told, read: “Here lies a German who met two diggers.” The Australian
Tommy was of course universally known as a digger. They make a rough,
valiant, sporting but rude-handed crew. They went through the prisoners
for loot, and even the officers were ransacked. Colonel Bennett told
me that a Colonel of the Germans was impudent when he came into his
presence, so Bennett said: “Mend your manners, or I will hand you over
to the diggers!” They were waiting outside the tent for just such a
chance. One German had an iron cross which was snatched from him by
an Australian. The German shaped up to the man in excellent form and
knocked him down. The other Australians were delighted, gave him back
his cross, and made him quite a hero. I expect the looter had been an
unpopular man.
The younger Australian officers were all promoted from the ranks, and
many of them had their own ideas about English grammar. Bennett told
me that he tried to get the reports better written. One subaltern had
reported: “As I came round the traverse I met a Bosch and we both
reached for our guns, but he lost his block and I got him.” Bennett
returned this for emendation. It came back: “As I came round the
traverse I met a German, and we both drew our automatic pistols, but
he lost his presence of mind and I shot him.” I think I like the first
style best.
I lunched that day at the Head-quarters of Sir John Monash, an
excellent soldier who had done really splendid work, especially since
the advance began. Indeed, it was his own action on July 5 which
turned the tide of retreat. He showed that the long line of fighting
Jews which began with Joshua still carries on. One of the Australian
Divisional Generals, Rosenthal, was also a Jew, and the Head-quarters
Staff was full of eagle-nosed, black-haired warriors. It spoke well
for them and well also for the perfect equality of the Australian
system, which would have the best man at the top, be he who he might.
My brother was acting as Assistant Adjutant-General to General Butler
with the III British Corps on the left of the Australians, and they had
kindly wired for him, so that I had the joy of having him next me at
lunch, and he invited me to join the Head-quarters mess of his corps
for dinner.
It was a wonderful experience that dinner. The great advance was to be
next morning, when it was hoped that the Hindenburg Line, which was
practically the frontier of Germany, would be carried. There were only
six who dined in that little farm-house messroom: Butler himself with
hard composed face, his head of sappers, head of gunners, my brother,
the first and second Staff officers, a little group of harassed and
weary men. Yet there was no word of the huge drama upon the edge of
which we were standing. Every now and then a telephone tinkled in
the next room, a Staff officer rose, there were a few short words, a
nod, and the incident was closed. It was a wonderful example of quiet
self-control. I said to my brother, when we were alone: “Don’t you
think I am out of the picture at such a moment talking about such
frivolous things?” “For God’s sake keep on at it,” he said. “It is just
what they need. Give their brains something new.” So I tried to do so
and we had a memorable evening.
I shall never forget the drive back of ten miles in a pitch-dark
night, with not a gleam anywhere save that far aloft two little gold
points glimmered now and again, like the far-off headlights of a motor
transferred suddenly to the heavens. These were British aeroplanes, so
lit to distinguish them from the German marauders. The whole eastern
horizon was yellow-red with gun-fire, and the distant roar of the
artillery preparation was like the Atlantic surge upon a rock-bound
coast. Along the road no lights were permitted, and several times out
of the black a still blacker gloom framed itself into some motor-lorry
with which only our cries saved a collision. It was wonderful and
awesome, the eve of the day of judgment when Germany’s last solid
defence was to be smashed, and she was to be left open to that
vengeance which she had so long provoked.
We were awakened early, part of our party getting away to some point
which they imagined would be more adventurous than that to which we
seniors should be invited, though in the sequel it hardly proved so.
They saw much, however, and one of them described to me how one of the
first and saddest sights was that of eighteen splendid young Americans
lying dead and lonely by the roadside, caught in some unlucky shell
burst. Mr. Cook, Commander Latham, and I had been placed under the
charge of Captain Plunket, a twice-wounded Australian officer, who
helped us much during the varied adventures of our exciting day.
The general programme of attack was already in our minds. Two American
divisions, the 27th and 30th, one from New York, the other from the
South, were to rush the front line. The Australian divisions were
then to pass over or through them and carry the battle-front forward.
Already, as we arrived on the battle-field, the glad news came back
that the Americans had done their part, and that the Australians had
just been unleashed. Also that the Germans were standing to it like men.
As our car threaded the crowded street between the ruins of Templeux
we met the wounded coming back, covered cars with nothing visible save
protruding boots, and a constant stream of pedestrians, some limping,
some with bandaged arms and faces, some supported by Red Cross men,
a few in pain, most of them smiling grimly behind their cigarettes.
Amid them came the first clump of prisoners, fifty or more, pitiable
enough, and yet I could not pity them, the weary, shuffling, hang-dog
creatures, with no touch of nobility in their features or their bearing.
The village was full of Americans and Australians, extraordinarily
like each other in type. One could well have lingered, for it was all
of great interest, but there were even greater interests ahead, so
we turned up a hill, left our car, which had reached its limit, and
proceeded on foot. The road took us through a farm, where a British
anti-aircraft battery stood ready for action. Then we found open plain,
and went forward, amid old trenches and rusty wire, in the direction of
the battle.
We had now passed the heavy gun positions, and were among the field
guns, so that the noise was deafening. A British howitzer battery
was hard at work, and we stopped to chat with the Major. His crews
had been at it for six hours, but were in great good humour, and
chuckled mightily when the blast of one of their guns nearly drove in
our ear-drums, we having got rather too far forward. The effect was
that of a ringing box on the exposed ear--with which valediction we
left our grinning British gunners and pushed on to the east, under a
screaming canopy of our own shells. The wild, empty waste of moor was
broken by a single shallow quarry or gravel-pit, in which we could
see some movement. In it we found an advanced dressing station, with
about a hundred American and Australian gunners and orderlies. There
were dug-outs in the sides of this flat excavation, and it had been an
American battalion Head-quarters up to a few hours before. We were now
about 1,000 yards from the Hindenburg Line, and I learned with emotion
that this spot was the Egg Redoubt, one of those advanced outposts of
General Gough’s army which suffered so tragic and glorious a fate in
that great military epic of March 21--one of the grandest in the whole
war. The fact that we were now actually standing in the Egg Redoubt
showed me, as nothing else could have done, how completely the ground
had been recovered, and how the day of retribution was at hand.
We were standing near the eastward lip of the excavation, and looking
over it, when it was first brought to our attention that it took two
to make a battle. Up to now we had seen only one. Now two shells burst
in quick succession forty yards in front of us, and a spray of earth
went into the air. “Whizz-bangs,” remarked our soldier-guide casually.
Personally, I felt less keenly interested in their name than in the
fact that they were there at all.
We thought we had done pretty well to get within 1,000 yards of the
famous line, but now came a crowning bit of good fortune, for an
Australian gunner captain, a mere lad, but a soldier from his hawk’s
eyes to his active feet, volunteered to rush us forward to some coign
of vantage known to himself. So it was Eastward Ho! once more, still
over a dull, barren plain sloping gently upwards, with little sign of
life. Here and there was the quick fluff of a bursting shell, but at a
comfortable distance. Suddenly ahead of us a definite object broke the
skyline. It was a Tank, upon which the crew were working with spanners
and levers, for its comrades were now far ahead, and it would fain
follow. This, it seems, was the grandstand which our young gunner had
selected. On to the top of it we clambered--and there, at our very
feet, and less than 500 yards away, was the rift which had been torn a
few hours before in the Hindenburg Line. On the dun slope beyond it,
under our very eyes, was even now being fought a part of that great
fight where at last the children of light were beating down into the
earth the forces of darkness. It was there. We could see it. And yet
how little there was to see!
The ridge was passed, and the ground sloped down, as dark and heathy
as Hindhead. In front of us lay a village. It was Bellicourt. The
Hindenburg position ran through it. It lay quiet enough, and with the
unaided eye one could see rusty red fields of wire in front of it. But
the wire had availed nothing, nor had the trench that lurked behind it,
for beyond it, beside the village of Nauroy, there was a long white
line, clouds of pale steam-like vapour spouting up against a dark,
rain-sodden sky. “The Boche smoke barrage,” said our guide. “They are
going to counter-attack.” Only this, the long, white, swirling cloud
upon the dark plain told of the strife in front of us. With my glasses
I saw what looked like Tanks, but whether wrecked or in action I could
not say. There was the battle--the greatest of battles--but nowhere
could I see a moving figure. It is true that all the noises of the pit
seemed to rise from that lonely landscape, but noise was always with
us, go where we would.
The Australians were ahead where that line of smoke marked their
progress. In the sloping fields, which at that point emerged out of
the moor, the victorious Americans, who had done their part, were
crouching. It was an assured victory upon which we gazed, achieved so
rapidly that we were ourselves standing far forward in ground which
had been won that day. The wounded had been brought in, and I saw no
corpses. On the left the fight was very severe, and the Germans, who
had been hidden in their huge dug-outs, were doing their usual trick of
emerging and cutting off the attack. So much we gathered afterwards,
but for the moment it was the panorama before us which was engrossing
all our thoughts.
Suddenly the German guns woke up. I can but pray that it was not our
group which drew their fire upon the half-mended tank. Shell after
shell fell in its direction, all of them short, but creeping forward
with each salvo. It was time for us to go. If any man says that without
a call of duty he likes being under aimed shell-fire, he is not a man
whose word I would trust. Some of the shells burst with a rusty-red
outflame, and we were told that they were gas shells. I may say that
before we were admitted on to the battle-field at all, we were ushered
one by one into a room where some devil’s pipkin was bubbling in the
corner, and were taught to use our gas-masks by the simple expedient of
telling us that if we failed to acquire the art then and there a very
painful alternative was awaiting us.
We made our way back, with no indecent haste, but certainly without
loitering, across the plain, the shells always getting rather nearer,
until we came to the excavation. Here we had a welcome rest, for our
good gunner took us into his cubby-hole of a dug-out, which would at
least stop shrapnel, and we shared his tea and dried beef, a true
Australian soldier’s meal.
The German fire was now rather heavy, and our expert host explained
that this meant that he had recovered from the shock of the attack,
had reorganized his guns, and was generally his merry self once more.
From where we sat we could see heavy shells bursting far to our rear,
and there was an atmosphere of explosion all round us, which might have
seemed alarming had it not been for the general chatty afternoon-tea
appearance of all these veteran soldiers with whom it was our privilege
to find ourselves. A group of sulky-looking German prisoners sat in a
corner, while a lank and freckled Australian soldier, with his knee
sticking out of a rent in his trousers, was walking about with four
watches dangling from his hand, endeavouring vainly to sell them. Far
be it from me to assert that he did not bring the watches from Sydney
and choose this moment for doing a deal in them, but they were heavy
old Teutonic time-pieces, and the prisoners seemed to take a rather
personal interest in them.
As we started on our homeward track we came, first, upon the British
battery which seemed to be limbering up with some idea of advancing,
and so lost its chance of administering a box on our other ear. Farther
still we met our friends of the air guns, and stopped again to exchange
a few impressions. They had nothing to fire at, and seemed bored to
tears, for the red, white and blue machines were in full command of
the sky. Soon we found our motor waiting in the lee of a ruined house,
and began to thread our way back through the wonderfully picturesque
streams of men--American, Australian, British, and German--who were
strung along the road.
And then occurred a very horrible incident. One knew, of course, that
one could not wander about a battle-field and not find oneself sooner
or later involved in some tragedy, but we were now out of range of any
but heavy guns, and their shots were spasmodic. We had halted the car
for an instant to gather up two German helmets which Commander Latham
had seen on the roadside, when there was a very heavy burst close ahead
round a curve in the village street. A geyser of red brick-dust flew up
into the air. An instant later our car rounded the corner. None of us
will forget what we saw. There was a tangle of mutilated horses, their
necks rising and sinking. Beside them a man with his hand blown off was
staggering away, the blood gushing from his upturned sleeve. He was
moving round and holding the arm raised and hanging, as a dog holds an
injured foot. Beside the horses lay a shattered man, drenched crimson
from head to foot, with two great glazed eyes looking upwards through a
mask of blood. Two comrades were at hand to help, and we could only go
upon our way with the ghastly picture stamped for ever upon our memory.
The image of that dead driver might well haunt one in one’s dreams.
Once through Templeux and on the main road for Peronne things became
less exciting, and we drew up to see a column of 900 prisoners pass
us. Each side of the causeway was lined by Australians, with their
keen, clear-cut, falcon faces, and between lurched these heavy-jawed,
beetle-browed, uncouth louts, new caught and staring round with
bewildered eyes at their debonnaire captors. I saw none of that relief
at getting out of it which I have read of; nor did I see any signs
of fear, but the prevailing impression was an ox-like stolidity and
dullness. It was a herd of beasts, not a procession of men. It was
indeed farcical to think that these uniformed bumpkins represented
the great military nation, while the gallant figures who lined the
road belonged to the race which they had despised as being unwarlike.
Time and Fate between them have a pretty sense of humour. One of them
caught my eye as he passed and roared out in guttural English, “The old
Jairman is out!” They were the only words I heard them speak. French
cavalry troopers, stern, dignified, and martial, rode at either end of
the bedraggled procession.
They were great soldiers, these Australians. I think they would admit
it themselves, but a spectator is bound to confirm it. There was a
reckless dare-devilry, combined with a spice of cunning, which gave
them a place of their own in the Imperial ranks. They had a great
advantage too, in having a permanent organization, the same five
divisions always in the same corps, under the same chief. It doubled
their military value--and the same applied equally, of course, to
the Canadians. None the less, they should not undervalue their
British comrades or lose their sense of proportion. I had a chance of
addressing some 1,200 of them on our return that evening, and while
telling them all that I thought of their splendid deeds, I ventured to
remind them that 72 per cent of the men engaged and 76 per cent of the
casualties were Englishmen of England.
I think that now, in these after-war days, the whole world needs to
be reminded of this fact as well as the Australians did. There has
been, it seems to me, a systematic depreciation of what the glorious
English, apart from the British, soldiers did. England is too big to be
provincial, and smaller minds sometimes take advantage of it. At the
time some of the Australian papers slanged me for having given this
speech to their soldiers, but I felt that it needed saying, and several
of their officers thanked me warmly, saying that as they never saw
anything save their own front, they were all of them losing their sense
of proportion. I shall not easily forget that speech, I standing on a
mound in the rain, the Australian soldiers with cloaks swathed round
them like brigands, and half a dozen aeroplanes, returning from the
battle, circling overhead, evidently curious as to what was going on.
It seems to me now like some extraordinary dream.
Such was my scamper to the Australian front. It was as if some huge
hand had lifted me from my study table, placed me where I could see
what I was writing about, and then within four days laid me down once
more before the familiar table, with one more wonderful experience
added to my record.
And then at last came the blessed day of Armistice. I was in a staid
London hotel at eleven o’clock in the morning, most prim of all the
hours of the day, when a lady, well-dressed and conventional, came
through the turning doors, waltzed slowly round the hall with a flag
in either hand, and departed without saying a word. It was the first
sign that things were happening. I rushed out into the streets, and of
course the news was everywhere at once. I walked down to Buckingham
Palace and saw the crowds assembling there, singing and cheering. A
slim, young girl had got elevated on to some high vehicle, and was
leading and conducting the singing as if she was some angel in tweeds
just dropped from a cloud. In the dense crowd I saw an open motor
stop with four middle-aged men, one of them a hard-faced civilian,
the others officers. I saw this civilian hack at the neck of a whisky
bottle and drink it raw. I wish the crowd had lynched him. It was the
moment for prayer, and this beast was a blot on the landscape. On the
whole the people were very good and orderly. Later more exuberant
elements got loose. They say that it was when the Australian wounded
met the War Office flappers that the foundations of solid old London
got loosened. But we have little to be ashamed of, and if ever folk
rejoiced we surely had the right to do so. We did not see the new
troubles ahead of us, but at least these old ones were behind. And we
had gained an immense reassurance. Britain had not weakened. She was
still the Britain of old.
CHAPTER XXXII
THE PSYCHIC QUEST
I have not obtruded the psychic question upon the reader, though it
has grown in importance with the years, and has now come to absorb
the whole energy of my life. I cannot, however, close these scattered
memories of my adventures in thought and action without some reference,
however incomplete, to that which has been far the most important
thing in my life. It is the thing for which every preceding phase, my
gradual religious development, my books, which gave me an introduction
to the public, my modest fortune, which enables me to devote myself
to unlucrative work, my platform work, which helps me to convey the
message, and my physical strength, which is still sufficient to stand
arduous tours and to fill the largest halls for an hour and a half with
my voice, have each and all been an unconscious preparation. For thirty
years I have trained myself exactly for the rôle without the least
inward suspicion of whither I was tending.
I cannot in the limited space of a chapter go into very lengthy detail
or complete argument upon the subject. It is the more unnecessary
since I have already in my psychic volumes outlined very clearly how I
arrived at my present knowledge. Of these volumes the first and second,
called respectively “The New Revelation” and “The Vital Message,” show
how gradual evidence was given me of the continuation of life, and how
thorough and long were my studies before I was at last beaten out of
my material agnostic position and forced to admit the validity of the
proofs.
In the days of universal sorrow and loss, when the voice of Rachel was
heard throughout the land, it was borne in upon me that the knowledge
which had come to me thus was not for my own consolation alone, but
that God had placed me in a very special position for conveying it to
that world which needed it so badly.
I found in the movement many men who saw the truth as clearly as I did;
but such was the clamour of the “religious,” who were opposing that
which is the very essence of living religion, of the “scientific,”
who broke the first laws of Science by pronouncing upon a thing which
they had not examined, and of the Press, who held up every real or
imaginary rascality as being typical of a movement which they had
never understood, that the true men were abashed and shrank from the
public exposition of their views. It was to combat this that I began a
campaign in 1916 which can only finish when all is finished.
One grand help I had. My wife had always been averse from my psychic
studies, deeming the subject to be uncanny and dangerous. Her own
experiences soon convinced her to the contrary, for her brother, who
was killed at Mons, came back to us in a very convincing way. From that
instant she threw herself with all the whole-hearted energy of her
generous nature into the work which lay before us.
A devoted mother, she was forced often to leave her children; a lover
of home, she was compelled to quit it for many months at a time;
distrustful of the sea, she joyfully shared my voyages. We have now
travelled a good 50,000 miles upon our quest. We have spoken face to
face with a quarter of a million of people. Her social qualities,
her clear sanity, her ardent charity, and her gracious presence upon
the platforms all united with her private counsel and sympathy, have
been such an aid to me that they have turned my work into a joy. The
presence of our dear children upon our journeys has also lightened them
for both of us.
I began our public expositions of the subject by three years of
intermittent lecturing in my country, during which period I visited
nearly every town of importance, many of them twice and thrice.
Everywhere I found attentive audiences, critical, as they should be,
but open to conviction. I roused antagonism only in those who had not
heard me, and there were demonstrations outside the doors, but never
in the halls. I cannot remember a single interruption during that long
series of addresses. It was interesting to notice how I was upheld,
for though I was frequently very weary before the address, and though
my war lectures had often been attended by palpitation of the heart, I
was never once conscious of any fatigue during or after a lecture upon
psychic subjects.
On August 13, 1920, we started for Australia. In proportion to her
population she had lost almost as heavily as we during the war, and
I felt that my seed would fall upon fruitful ground. I have written
all details of this episode in my “Wanderings of a Spiritualist,” in
which the reader will find among other things some evidences of that
preternatural help which went with us in our journeys. I addressed
large audiences in all the big towns of Australia and New Zealand. An
unfortunate shipping strike prevented me from reaching Tasmania, but
otherwise the venture was an unalloyed success. Contrary to expectation
I was able to pay all the expenses of our large party (we were seven)
and to leave a balance behind me to help the successor whom I might
choose.
At the end of March, 1921, we were back in Paris again, where, greatly
daring, I lectured in French upon psychic subjects. Our stay at home
was not a very long one, for urgent invitations had come from America,
where the Spiritual movement had fallen into a somewhat languishing
state. On April 1, 1922, our whole party started for the States. What
happened to us I have recorded in “Our American Adventure.” Suffice
it to say that the trip was very successful, and that from Boston to
Washington, and from New York to Chicago, I spoke in all the larger
cities and brought about a great revival of interest in the subject. We
were back in England at the beginning of July, 1922.
I was by no means satisfied about America, however, as we had not
touched the great West, the land of the future. Therefore we set forth
again in March, 1923, getting back in August. Our adventures, which
were remarkable upon the psychic side, are recorded in “Our Second
American Adventure.” When I returned from that journey I had travelled
55,000 miles in three years, and spoken to quarter of a million of
people. I am still unsatisfied, however, for the Southern States of the
Union have not been touched, and it is possible that we may yet make a
journey in that direction.
I have placed on record our experiences, and no doubt they have little
interest at the moment for the general public, but the day will come,
and that speedily, when people will understand that this proposition
for which we are now fighting is far the most important thing for two
thousand years in the history of the world, and when the efforts of
the pioneers will have a very real interest to all who have sufficient
intelligence to follow the progress of human thought.
I am only one of many working for the cause, but I hope that I may
claim that I brought into it a combative and aggressive spirit which
it lacked before, and which has now so forced it upon public attention
that one can hardly pick up a paper without reading some comment upon
it. If some of these papers are hopelessly ignorant and prejudiced,
it is not a bad thing for the cause. If you have a bad case, constant
publicity is a misfortune, but if you have a good one, its goodness
will always assert itself, however much it may be misrepresented.
Many Spiritualists have taken the view that since we know these
comforting and wonderful things, and since the world chooses not to
examine the evidence, we may be content with our own happy assurance.
This seems to me an immoral view.
If God has sent a great new message of exceeding joy down to earth,
then it is for us, to whom it has been clearly revealed, to pass it
on at any cost of time, money and labour. It is not given to us for
selfish enjoyment, but for general consolation. If the sick man turns
from the physician, then it cannot be helped, but at least the healing
draught should be offered.
The greater the difficulty in breaking down the wall of apathy,
ignorance and materialism, the more is it a challenge to our manhood to
attack and ever attack in the same bulldog spirit with which Foch faced
the German lines.
I trust that the record of my previous life will assure the reader that
I have within my limitations preserved a sane and balanced judgment,
since I have never hitherto been extreme in my views, and since what I
have said has so often been endorsed by the actual course of events.
But never have I said anything with the same certainty of conviction
with which I now say that this new knowledge is going to sweep the
earth and to revolutionize human views upon every topic save only on
fundamental morality, which is a fixed thing.
All modern inventions and discoveries will sink into insignificance
beside those psychic facts which will force themselves within a few
years upon the universal human mind.
The subject has been obscured by the introduction of all sorts of side
issues, some of interest but not vital, others quite irrelevant. There
is a class of investigator who loves to wander round in a circle, and
to drag you with him if you are weak enough to accept such guidance.
He trips continually over his own brains, and can never persuade
himself that the simple and obvious explanation is also the true one.
His intellect becomes a positive curse to him, for he uses it to avoid
the straight road and to fashion out some strange devious path which
lands him at last in a quagmire, whilst the direct and honest mind has
kept firmly to the highway of knowledge. When I meet men of this type,
and then come in contact with the lowly congregations of religious
Spiritualists, I think always of Christ’s words when He thanked God
that He had revealed these things to babes and withheld them from the
wise and the prudent. I think also of a dictum of Baron Reichenbach:
“There is a scientific incredulity which exceeds in stupidity the
obtuseness of the clodhopper.”
But what I say in no way applies to the reasonable researcher whose
experiences are real stepping-stones leading to his fixed conclusion.
There must to every man be this novitiate in knowledge. The matter is
too serious to be taken without due intellectual conviction.
It must not be imagined that I entirely deny the existence of fraud.
But it is far less common than is supposed, and as for its being
universal, which is the theory of the conjurers and some other critics,
such an opinion is beyond reason or argument. In an experience with
mediums which has been excelled by very few living men, and which has
embraced three continents, I have not encountered fraud more than three
or four times.
There is conscious and unconscious fraud, and it is the existence of
the latter which complicates the question so badly. Conscious fraud
usually arises from a temporary failure of real psychic power, and
a consequent attempt to replace it by an imitation. Unconscious
fraud comes in that curious halfway state which I have called the
“half-trance condition” when the medium seems normal, and yet is
actually hardly responsible for his actions.
At such a time the process by which his personality leaves his body
seems to have set in, and his higher qualities have already passed, so
that he can apparently no longer inhibit the promptings received from
the suggestion of those around him, or from his own unchecked desires.
Thus one will find mediums doing stupid and obvious things which expose
them to the charge of cheating. Then if the observer disregards these
and waits, the true psychic phenomena of unmistakable character will
follow as he sinks more deeply into trance.
This was, I gather, noticeable in the case of Eusapia Paladino, but I
have seen it with several others. In those cases where a medium has
left the cabinet, and is found wandering about among the sitters,
as has happened with Mrs. Corner, with Madame d’Esperance, and with
Craddock--all of them mediums who have given many proofs of their real
powers--I am convinced that the very natural supposition that they are
fraudulent is really quite a mistaken one.
When, on the other hand, it is found that the medium has introduced
false drapery or accessories, which has sometimes occurred, we are in
the presence of the most odious and blasphemous crime which a human
being can commit.
People ask me, not unnaturally, what it is which makes me so perfectly
certain that this thing is true. That I am perfectly certain is surely
demonstrated by the mere fact that I have abandoned my congenial and
lucrative work, left my home for long periods at a time, and subjected
myself to all sorts of inconveniences, losses, and even insults, in
order to get the facts home to the people.
To give all my reasons would be to write a book rather than a chapter,
but I may say briefly that there is no physical sense which I possess
which has not been separately assured, and that there is no conceivable
method by which a spirit could show its presence which I have not on
many occasions experienced. In the presence of Miss Besinnet as medium
and of several witnesses I have seen my mother and my nephew, young
Oscar Hornung, as plainly as ever I saw them in life--so plainly that I
could almost have counted the wrinkles of the one and the freckles of
the other.
In the darkness the face of my mother shone up, peaceful, happy,
slightly inclined to one side, the eyes closed. My wife upon my right
and the lady upon my left both saw it as clearly as I did. The lady had
not known my mother in life but she said, “How wonderfully like she is
to her son,” which will show how clear was the detail of the features.
On another occasion my son came back to me. Six persons heard his
conversation with me, and signed a paper afterwards to that effect.
It was in his voice and concerned itself with what was unknown to
the medium, who was bound and breathing deeply in his chair. If the
evidence of six persons of standing and honour may not be taken, then
how can any human fact be established?
My brother, General Doyle, came back with the same medium, but on
another occasion. He discussed the health of his widow. She was a
Danish lady, and he wanted her to use a masseur in Copenhagen. He gave
the name. I made inquiries and found that such a man did exist. Whence
came this knowledge? Who was it who took so close an interest in the
health of this lady? If it was not her dead husband then who was it?
All fine-drawn theories of the subconscious go to pieces before the
plain statement of the intelligence, “I am a spirit. I am Innes. I am
your brother.”
I have clasped materialized hands.
I have held long conversations with the direct voice.
I have smelt the peculiar ozone-like smell of ectoplasm.
I have listened to prophecies which were quickly fulfilled.
I have seen the “dead” glimmer up upon a photographic plate which no
hand but mine had touched.
I have received through the hand of my own wife, notebooks full of
information which was utterly beyond her ken.
I have seen heavy articles swimming in the air, untouched by human
hand, and obeying directions given to unseen operators.
I have seen spirits walk round the room in fair light and join in the
talk of the company.
I have known an untrained woman, possessed by an artist spirit, to
produce rapidly a picture, now hanging in my drawing-room, which few
living painters could have bettered.
I have read books which might have come from great thinkers and
scholars, and which were actually written by unlettered men who acted
as the medium of the unseen intelligence, so superior to his own. I
have recognized the style of a dead writer which no parodist could have
copied, and which was written in his own handwriting.
I have heard singing beyond earthly power, and whistling done with no
pause for the intake of breath.
I have seen objects from a distance projected into a room with closed
doors and windows.
If a man could see, hear, and feel all this, and yet remain unconvinced
of unseen intelligent forces around him, he would have good cause to
doubt his own sanity. Why should he heed the chatter of irresponsible
journalists, or the head-shaking of inexperienced men of science, when
he has himself had so many proofs? They are babies in this matter, and
should be sitting at his feet.
It is not, however, a question to be argued in a detached and
impersonal way, as if one were talking of the Baconian theory or the
existence of Atlantis. It is intimate, personal, and vital to the last
degree.
A closed mind means an earthbound soul, and that in turn means future
darkness and misery. If you know what is coming, you can avoid it. If
you do not, you run grave risk. Some Jeremiah or Savonarola is needed
who will shriek this into the ears of the world. A new conception of
sin is needed. The mere carnal frailties of humanity, the weaknesses of
the body, are not to be lightly condoned, but are not the serious part
of the human reckoning. It is the fixed condition of mind, narrowness,
bigotry, materialism--in a word, the sins not of the body, but of the
spirit, which are the real permanent things, and condemn the individual
to the lower spheres until he has learnt his lesson.
We know this from our rescue circles when these poor souls come back
to bewail their errors and to learn those truths which they might have
learnt here, had their minds not been closed by apathy or prejudice.
The radical mistake which science has made in investigating the subject
is that it has never troubled to grasp the fact that it is not the
medium who is producing the phenomena. It has always treated him as
if he were a conjurer, and said, “Do this or do that,” failing to
understand that little or nothing comes _from_ him, but all or nearly
all comes _through_ him. I say “nearly” all, for I believe that some
simple phenomena, such as the rap, can within limits be produced by the
medium’s own will.
It is this false view of science which has prevented sceptics from
realizing that a gentle and receptive state of mind on the part of
sitters and an easy natural atmosphere for the medium are absolutely
essential in order to produce harmony with the outside forces.
If in the greatest of all séances, that of the upper room on the day
of Pentecost, an aggressive sceptic had insisted upon test conditions
of his own foolish devising, where would the rushing wind and the
tongues of fire have been? “All with one accord,” says the writer of
the Acts of the Apostles, and that is the essential condition. I have
sat with saintly people, and I too have felt the rushing wind, seen
the flickering tongues and heard the great voice, but how could such
results come where harmony did not reign?
That is the radical mistake which science has made. Men know well that
even in her own coarse, material work the presence of a scrap of metal
may upset the whole balance of a great magnetic installation, and yet
they will not take the word of those who are in a position to speak
from experience that a psychic condition may upset a psychic experiment.
But indeed when we speak of science in this connection it is a
confusion of thought. The fact that a man is a great zoologist like
Lankester, or a great physicist like Tyndall or Faraday, does not
give his opinion any weight in a subject which is outside his own
specialty. There is many an unknown Smith and Jones whose twenty years
of practical work have put him in a far stronger position than that
of these intolerant scientists; while as to the real Spiritualist
leaders, men of many experiences and much reading and thought, it is
they who are the real scientific experts who are in a position to
teach the world. One does not lose one’s judgment when one becomes a
Spiritualist. One is as much a researcher as ever, but one understands
better what it is that one is studying and how to study it.
This controversy with bumptious and ignorant people is a mere passing
thing which matters nothing. The real controversy, which does matter
very much, is with the Continental school who study ectoplasm and other
semi-material manifestations, but who have not got the length of seeing
independent spirit behind them. Richet, Schrenck-Notzing and other
great investigators are still in this midway position, and Flammarion
is little more advanced. Richet goes the length of admitting that he
has assured himself by personal observation of the materialized form
that it can walk and talk and leave moulds of its hands. So far he has
gone. And yet even now he clings to the idea that these phenomena may
be the externalization of some latent powers of the human body and mind.
Such an explanation seems to me to be the desperate defence of the last
trench by one of those old-time materialists, who say with Brewster:
“Spirit is the last thing which we will concede,” adding as their
reason “it upsets the work of fifty years.” It is hard when a man has
taught all his life that the brain governs spirit to have to learn
after all that it may be spirit which acts independently of the human
brain. But it is their super-materialism which is the real difficulty
with which we now have to contend.
And what is the end of it all?
I have no idea. How could those who first noted the electric twitching
of muscles foresee the Atlantic cable or the arc lamp? Our information
is that some great shock is coming shortly to the human race which will
finally break down its apathy, and which will be accompanied by such
psychic signs that the survivors will be unable any longer to deny the
truths which we preach.
The real meaning of our movement will then be seen, for it will become
apparent that we have accustomed the public mind to such ideas, and
provided a body of definite teaching, both scientific and religious, to
which they can turn for guidance.
As to the prophecy of disaster, I admit that we have to be on our
guard. Even the Christ circle was woefully deceived, and declared
confidently that the world would not survive their own generation.
Various creeds, too, have made vain predictions of the end of the world.
I am keenly aware of all this, and also of the difficulty in reckoning
time when seen from the other side. But, making every allowance for
this, the information upon the point has been so detailed, and has
reached me from so many entirely independent sources, that I have been
forced to take it seriously, and to think that some great watershed of
human experience may be passed within a few years--the greatest, we are
told, that our long-suffering race has yet encountered.
People who have not gone into the subject may well ask, “But what do
you get out of it? How are you the better?” We can only answer that
all life has changed to us since this definite knowledge has come. No
longer are we shut in by death. We are out of the valley and up on the
ridge, with vast clear vistas before us.
Why should we fear a death which we know for certain is the doorway to
unutterable happiness?
Why should we fear our dear ones’ death if we can be so near to them
afterwards?
Am I not far nearer to my son than if he were alive and serving in
that Army Medical Service which would have taken him to the ends of
the earth? There is never a month, often never a week, that I do not
commune with him. Is it not evident that such facts as these change the
whole aspect of life, and turn the grey mist of dissolution into a rosy
dawn?
You may say that we have already all these assurances in the Christian
revelation. It is true, and that is why we are not anti-Christian so
long as Christianity is the teaching of humble Christ and not of his
arrogant representatives.
Every form of Christianity is represented in our ranks, often by
clergymen of the various denominations. But there is nothing precise
in the definitions of the other world as given in the holy writings.
The information we have depicts a heaven of congenial work and of
congenial play, with every mental and physical activity of life carried
on to a higher plane--a heaven of art, of science, of intellect, of
organization, of combat with evil, of home circles, of flowers, of wide
travel, of sports, of the mating of souls, of complete harmony. This is
what our “dead” friends describe.
On the other hand we hear from them, and sometimes directly, of the
hells, which are temporary spheres of purification. We hear of the
mists, the darkness, the aimless wanderings, the mental confusion, the
remorse.
“Our condition is horrible,” wrote one of them to me recently at a
séance. These things are real and vivid and provable to us. That is why
we are an enormous force for the resuscitation of true religion, and
why the clergy take a heavy responsibility when they oppose us.
The final result upon scientific thought is unthinkable, save that
the sources of all force would be traced rather to spiritual than to
material causes.
In religion one can perhaps see a little more clearly. Theology and
dogma would disappear.
People would realize that such questions as the number of persons in
God, or the process of Christ’s birth, have no bearing at all upon the
development of man’s spirit, which is the sole object of life.
All religions would be equal, for all alike produce gentle, unselfish
souls who are God’s elect. Christian, Jew, Buddhist, and Mohammedan
would shed their distinctive doctrines, follow their own high teachers
on a common path of morality, and forget all that antagonism which has
made religion a curse rather than a blessing to the world.
We shall be in close touch with other-world forces, and knowledge will
supersede that faith which has in the past planted a dozen different
signposts to point in as many different directions.
Such will be the future, so far as I can dimly see it, and all this
will spring from the seed which now we tend and water amid the cold
blasts of a hostile world.
Do not let it be thought that I claim any special leadership in
this movement. I do what I can, but many others have done what they
could--many humble workers who have endured loss and insult, but who
will come to be recognized as the modern Apostles. For my part, I can
only claim that I have been an instrument so fashioned that I have
had some particular advantages in getting this teaching across to the
people.
That is the work which will occupy, either by voice or pen, the
remainder of my life. What immediate shape it will take I cannot say.
Human plans are vain things, and it is better for the tool to lie
passive until the great hand moves it once more.
INDEX
“Admirable Crichton, The,” Barrie, 247
“Adventure of the Priory School, The,” 102
“Adventure of the Second Stain, The,” 102
“Adventure of the Tired Captain, The,” 102
Aeroplane, the author’s one experience in an, 283
Algonquin Park, Canada, 300-301
Allen, Grant, and his unfinished “Hilda Wade”, 254-255;
his agnosticism and his last days, 255;
as a popular scientist, 256
“All the Year Round,” contributions to, 67
“Amazing Marriage, The,” Meredith, 244
Amery, Lionel, 208
Ancestry, 1-4
Antoine, General, 367, 368
Arctic, seven months in the, on a whaler, 29-41
Armistice Day, 386
Armour, suggestions during World War for use of, for troops, 332-333
Asquith, 241
Athletics, work in the interest of, 229-231
Australian sector of the front, a visit to the, 375-386
“Backwater of Life,” Payn, 256
Balfour, Arthur James, first meeting with, 238-239;
his home at Whittinghame, 239-241;
abhorrence of cowardice, 240;
interest in psychic matters, 241
Ball, Mr., experiments in thought transference with, 78
Balloon ascension, delights of a, 282-283
Bampton, Lord, conflicting characteristics of, 260
Barrett, William, and telepathy, 78
Barrie, Sir James M., parody on Sherlock Holmes, 97-100;
a visit with, at Kirriemuir, 246-247;
dramatic work, 247;
his “The Admirable Crichton”, 247;
an unfortunate dramatic venture with, 248-249
Barrington, Sir Eric, 186
Baseball, opinion of the game of, 287-288
Bell, Professor Joseph, 20-21;
Sherlock Holmes based on, 69
Bergmann, Doctor, and the demonstration of the Koch cure, 82, 83
Berlin, demonstration of the Koch cure in, 82-84
“Beyond the City,” 93
Billiards, the supposed analogy between golf and, 271;
ascertaining one’s “decimal” in, 272;
experiences with the game, 272-273
Birkenhead, Lord, 231
“Blackwoods,” contributions to, 68
Blavatsky, Madame, 81
Boer War, the shadow of the, 147;
first reverses of the, 148;
organizing the Langman Hospital for the, 149-154;
press correspondents in the, 156;
days with the army in the, 160-173;
dum-dum bullets in the, 159, 183
Books, favourite, in boyhood, 7
Boxing, keen relish for the manly art of, 265;
some experiences in, 265-266;
from the national point of view, 266-267;
champions of old and of to-day compared, 267;
its influence in France, 268
Boyhood days, 5-7
“Boy’s Own Paper, The,” contributions to, 67
“Brigadier Gerard” stories, 115, 121;
dramatization of, 227-228
“British Campaign in France and Flanders, The,” 326-327
British Olympic Committee, 229
British front in the World War, on the, 335-352
Brown, Professor Crum, 19
Buller, Sir Redvers H., 174
Burnham, Lord, 238, 239
“Bush Villa,” Southsea, 75, 87
Business, unfortunate and fortunate ventures in, 234-235
Butler, General, dinner at head-quarters of the Third Corps with, 379
Cambridge, Duke of, 152, 153
Canada, a trip through, in 1914, 287, 292-303
Capetown, South Africa, 154
“Captain of the Polestar,” 67
Carnic Alps, the warfare in the, 356-357
Cassidy, Father, the kindly principal at Hodder, 8
“Cause and Conduct of the War in South Africa, The,” inception of the
idea of writing, 184;
financing the scheme, 185-188;
the several translations of, 188-192;
beneficial effect of publication of, 192;
disposition of surplus earnings of, 192-194; 204
Caux, Switzerland, 120
“Chambers’ Journal” accepts author’s first story, 24
Channel Tunnel, 311, 312;
feasibility and value of a, 314-317
Childers, Erskine, 208
Christian faith, author’s changing views of the, 26-27
Churchill, Winston, 317, 332, 335
Civilian Reserve, formation of the, 323;
disbandment, 324
Classics, early distaste and later fondness for the, 9
Clemenceau, Georges, 360-361
Collins, Wilkie, 256
Conan, Michael, author’s granduncle and godfather, 15, 16
Conan, Miss. _See_ DOYLE, MRS. JOHN
_Conan Doyle_, the steam trawler, in the World War, 331
Congo Association, work for the amelioration of conditions in the
Belgian Congo, 228-229
Constantinople, a visit to, 222
“Cornhill,” contributions to, 67, 68, 75; 89
Coronation Oath, protest against form of, 220-221
Corporal punishment in school days, 5, 10
Cricket, early recollections of, 273;
getting into first-class, 273-275;
two unusual experiences at, 275-276;
some memorable matches, 276-277;
with J. M. Barrie’s team, 278-279;
creditable records in bowling, 279
“Crime of the Congo, The,” 229
Cromer, Lord, impressions of, 123
Crowborough, removal to, 215
Crowborough Company, Sixth Royal Sussex Volunteer Regiment, 324-329
Cullingworth, Doctor, friendship with, at Edinburgh University, 52;
strange character of, 52-54;
author’s association with, 54-58
“Curious Experience of the Patterson Family in the Island of Uffa,” 102
Curzon, Lady, establishing a precedent in etiquette with, 259
“Daily Telegraph, The,” article on the Koch cure in, 84
“Danger,” article in “The Strand Magazine,” 310
Davos, Switzerland, 115, 119, 120
“Desert Dream, A,” 124
“Dicky Doyle’s Diary,” 2
Divorce laws, work for reform in the, 231-232
Doctor, determination to become a, 17
“Doings of Raffles Haw, The,” 88
Donald, Robert, of the “Daily Chronicle,” 360-361
Dorando and the great Marathon Race of 1908, 223-225
“Dorian Grey,” Wilde, 73, 74
Doyle, Annette, author’s sister, 5, 17;
death of, 91
Doyle, Arthur Conan, birth, 1;
ancestry, 1-4;
boyhood days, 5-7;
the preparatory school at Hodder, 8;
the Jesuit public school at Stonyhurst, 8-12;
school-mates, 11;
first evidence of a literary streak, 11-12;
a year at school in Austria, 12-14;
feeling toward the Jesuits, 14-15;
first visit to Paris, 15-16;
adopts medicine as a profession, 17;
enters Edinburgh University Medical School, 18;
college life, 18-21;
outside work in spare time, 21-24;
first story accepted by “Chambers’,” 24;
his father’s characteristics, 24-25;
his spiritual unfolding and the Catholic Church, 25-27;
a whaling voyage in the Arctic Ocean, 29-41;
the ship’s company on the _Hope_, 30-32;
hunting seals, 33-36;
physical development, 41;
ship’s surgeon on the _Mayumba_ to West Africa, 42-51;
experiences on the West Coast, 45-50;
fire at sea, 50-51;
professional association with an eccentric character, 52-58;
in practice at Southsea, 59-61;
joined by his brother Innes, 61-62;
comedy and tragedy in practice, 62-64;
marriage, 64-66;
developing literary interests, 67-68;
genesis of “Sherlock Holmes,” 69-70;
“Micah Clarke,” 71;
James Payn, Oscar Wilde and others, 72-74;
“The White Company,” 74-75;
first ventures in psychic studies, 77-81;
birth of daughter Mary, 81;
the Koch tuberculosis cure, 81-84;
and W. T. Stead, 82;
advice from Malcolm Morris, 84-85;
first public speaking, 85-86;
leaving Portsmouth, 87;
a winter in Vienna, 88-89;
as an eye specialist in London, 89-90;
contributions to the magazines, 90;
virulent influenza, 90-91;
literature for a livelihood, 91;
“The Refugees,” 92-93;
and the death of Sherlock Holmes, 93-94;
sidelights on Sherlock Holmes, 96-110;
ventures in the drama, 96-97;
collaboration with Sir James Barrie, 97;
and Barrie’s parody on Holmes, 97-100;
fact and fiction regarding Sherlock Holmes, 100-110;
birth of his son Kingsley, 111;
joins the Psychical Research Society, 111;
and the literary life of London, 111-113;
“A Straggler of ’15” and Henry Irving, 113-114;
serious illness of Mrs. Doyle, 114-115;
to Davos, Switzerland, 115;
beginning of the “Brigadier Gerard” stories, 115;
lecturing tour in the United States, 116-119;
a strenuous winter, 117-118;
anti-British feeling in the States, 118;
back to Davos and Caux, 119-120;
locating in Hindhead, 121;
to Egypt in winter of 1896, 121;
some notable men in Egypt, 122-124;
a trip to the Salt Lakes, 125-128;
the war against the Mahdi, 130;
to the front as correspondent pro-tem., 130-138;
incidents of the trip, 131-137;
dinner with Kitchener, 137;
return from the frontier, 138;
the house in Hindhead, 140;
literary work, 140-141;
religious unrest, 141-142;
psychic experiences, 142-143;
and the little Doctor, 144-146;
the shadow of South Africa, 146-147;
the Boer War of 1899, 148;
early reverses, 148;
and the Langman Hospital service, 149-150;
experiments with rifle fire, 150-152;
and the Duke of Cambridge, 152-153;
in South Africa, 153-154;
inoculation for enteric fever, 154;
Boer prisoners, 155;
locating the hospital in Bloemfontein, 155-157;
outbreak of enteric fever, 157-159;
dum-dum bullets, 159;
days at the front with the army, 159-170;
return to the hospital, 170-173;
temporary illness, 174-175;
quelling a mutiny in the unit, 175-176;
to Pretoria and Johannesburg, 176-180;
interview with Lord Roberts, 178;
an unusual surgical operation, 181;
return to England, 182-183;
misrepresentation concerning England and the Boer War, 184;
an appeal to World Opinion, 184-194;
and “The Cause and Conduct of the War in South Africa,” 187-188;
translations and distribution of the pamphlet, 188-192;
success of the undertaking, 192-194;
experiences in politics, 195-203;
writes “The Great Boer War,” 204;
and the accolade of Knighthood, 205;
interest in rifle clubs, 207-208;
on the use of cavalry in war, 208;
completion of “Sir Nigel,” 209;
death of Mrs. Doyle, 209;
and the Edalji Case, 209-215;
second marriage, 215;
removal to Crowborough, 215;
and the Oscar Slater Case, 216-220;
protests the form of the Coronation Oath, 220-221;
visits Egypt, Constantinople and Greece, 222-223;
the Marathon Race of 1908, 223-225;
and the evil administration of the Belgian Congo, 228;
work in the interest of athletics in England, 229-231;
and reform of the Divorce Laws, 231-232;
continued interest in psychic matters, 232;
ventures in speculation, 233-235;
acquaintance with some notable people, 236-261;
impressions of Theodore Roosevelt, 236-238;
and Arthur James Balfour, 238-241;
Asquith and Lord Haldane, 241-242;
visit with George Meredith, 242-245;
acquaintance with Kipling, 245-246;
friendship with Sir James M. Barrie, 246-249;
and Sir Henry Irving, 249-250;
on George Bernard Shaw, 250-251;
long acquaintance with H. G. Wells, 251-252;
and his brother-in-law, William Hornung, 252;
correspondence with Stevenson, 253-254;
and Grant Allen, 255-256;
appreciation of James Payn, 256-257;
dinners with Sir Henry Thompson, 258;
settling a question of etiquette, 259;
impressions of Sir Henry Hawkins, 260-261;
and Sir Francis Jeune, 261;
recollections of sport, 262-286;
views on flat-racing and steeplechasing, 262-263;
on hunting for pleasure, 263-264;
a liking for fishing, 264-265;
on the noble sport of boxing, 265-268;
and the Jeffries-Johnson fight, 268-269;
love for Rugby football, 269-270;
and the game of golf, 270-271;
the lure of billiards, 271-273;
recollections of cricket, 273-279;
some motoring experiences, 280-282;
ski-ing in Switzerland, 283-285;
a trip to the Canadian Rockies in 1914, 287-300;
in New York, 287-289;
through the land of Parkman, 289-292;
on the wonders of Western Canada, 292-298;
in Jasper and Algonquin Parks, 298-301;
on the destiny of Canada, 301-302;
disbelief in the German menace, 304-305;
participates in the Prince Henry Competition, 305-308;
effect of Bernhardi’s writings on, 308;
“England and the Next War” by, 308-310;
interviewed by General Henry Wilson, 310-313;
meditations on methods of attack and defence, 313-314;
urges building of Channel Tunnel, 314-317;
on the lack of foresight in the Admiralty, 317-319;
suggests life-saving devices for the Navy, 319-321;
a letter from William Redmond, 321;
organizing the Volunteers, 323-324;
in the Sixth Royal Sussex Volunteer Regiment, 324-326;
on the writing of “The British Campaign in France and Flanders,”
326-327;
conditions in England during the World War, 327-328;
communications with British prisoners, 329-330;
luncheon with the Empress Eugenie, 331-332;
suggests individual armour for troops, 332-333;
heavy losses of his kith and kin in the War, 333-334;
to the British front in 1916, 335-352;
crossing to France with General Robertson, 337-338;
a trip through the trenches, 339-341;
a medal presentation in Bethune, 341-342;
in an observation post, 342-343;
a meeting with his brother Innes, 343;
the Ypres Salient at night, 344;
the destruction and desolation in Ypres, 345-346;
on the Sharpenburg, 346-347;
luncheon with Sir Douglas Haig, 347-349;
an artillery duel at close quarters, 349-350;
meets his son Kingsley at Mailly, 350;
two days in Paris, 351-352;
a mission to the Italian front, 353-359;
attempts to reach Monfalcone, 354-356;
in the Carnic Alps, 356-357;
a day in the Trentino, 357-358;
a spiritual intimation of the victory on the Piave, 358-359;
effect of the death of Kitchener, 360;
an interview with Clemenceau, 360-361;
on the French front, 361-371
in Soissons, 362;
through the French trenches, 362-365;
in the front line, 367;
the saviours of France, 371;
breakfast and an interesting talk with Lloyd George, 373-375;
a visit to the Australian front, 375-385;
a second meeting with his brother Innes, 378-379;
breaking the Hindenburg Line, 380-383;
in London on Armistice Day, 386;
the psychic quest, 387-399;
public expositions of his psychic belief, 388-390;
belief in the universality of the spiritual knowledge, 390-392;
tangible evidence for his faith, 392-393;
on the mistakes of science in investigations, 395-396;
personal assurance in his spiritual belief, 397-398;
as to the future, 398-399
Doyle, Mrs. Arthur Conan (_née_ Hawkins), 64;
marriage, 65; 85, 87;
development of a serious malady, 114;
to Switzerland in search of health, 115, 119;
a winter in Egypt, 121, 122, 130;
in Naples, 152; 204;
death of, 209
Doyle, Mrs. Arthur Conan (_née_ Leckie), marriage, 215;
Sultan confers Order of Chevekat on, 222;
home for Belgian refugees during the World War, 328;
psychic interests and activities of, 388
Doyle, Monsignor Barry, 2-3
Doyle, Charles, author’s father, born in London, 2;
enters Government Office of Works, Edinburgh, 2;
marriage, 4;
talent as an artist, 4-5; 17, 24;
characteristics of, 25;
death of, 25;
his religious faith, 25
Doyle, Mrs. Charles, author’s mother, 3;
marriage, 4;
early struggles of married life, 5, 12;
declines to dedicate son to the Church, 12; 17;
her changing religious faith, 25; 41, 55, 92
Doyle, Connie, author’s sister, 5, 17, 115
Doyle, Henry, author’s uncle, manager of the National Gallery, Dublin, 2
Doyle, Ida, author’s sister, 17
Doyle, Innes, author’s brother, 17;
joins brother in Portsmouth, 61;
letter to his mother, 61-62;
accompanies author on American lecturing tour, 116;
death of, 334; 343, 347, 378
Doyle, James, author’s uncle, 1;
literary and artistic ability of, 1-2
Doyle, John, author’s grandfather, reputation as a cartoonist, 1;
personal appearance of, 1;
his family, 1-2
Doyle, Mrs. John, author’s grandmother, 15
Doyle, Julia, author’s sister, 17
Doyle, Kingsley Conan, author’s son, birth of, 111;
death of, 334; 350, 351
Doyle, Lottie, author’s sister, 5, 17, 115, 121
Doyle, Mary, author’s daughter, 81, 85;
activities during the World War, 328
Doyle, Richard, author’s uncle, his whimsical humour, 2
Doyle, Sir Francis Hastings, 2
Drama, first venture in the, 113
Drayson, General, a pioneer in psychic studies, 79;
and spiritualism, 80
Drury, Major, 149, 175
“Duet, A,” 141
Dum-Dum bullets in the Boer War, 159, 183
Dupont, General, 369
Edalji, George, a victim of the miscarriage of justice, 209-215
Edinburgh, birthplace and boyhood home of author, 1;
political activities in, in 1900, 195, 196-199
Edinburgh University Medical School, the author a student in, 18-21
Edmonton, Canada, 297
Egypt, a winter in, with Mrs. Doyle, 121-139;
men of note in, 122-124;
the temples and tombs of, 124-128;
the war against the Mahdi, 130-139
“England and the Next War,” the author’s article in the “Fortnightly,”
308-310;
result of publication of, 310-313
Enteric fever, inoculation for, 154;
in the Boer War, 157-159
“Esoteric Buddhism,” Sinnett, 81
Eugenie, Empress, 331-332
Feldkirch, Austria, a year in the Jesuit school at, 13-14
Fencing, limited experience in, 279
Fenians, first glimpse of the, 6-7
“Fires of Fate, The,” 124, 226-227
“Firm of Girdlestone, The,” 68
Fishing, a liking for the art of, 264-265
Foley, Mary. _See_ DOYLE, MRS. CHARLES
Foley, William, author’s grandfather, 3
Foley, Mrs. William, author’s grandmother, 3-4
Football, the best collective sport, 269-270
Fort William, Ontario, 293, 294
France, Bernhardi’s opinion of the soldiers of, 308;
the Channel Tunnel and, 315;
typical soldiers of, 363-367, 369;
the saviours of, 371
Franco-German War, 8
French, General, Sir John, 330, 331
George, Lloyd, 361;
breakfast and an interesting talk with, 373;
his estimate of Lord Kitchener, 373-374;
and the subject of armour, 375;
on the revolution in Russia, 375
Germany, author’s disbelief in possible trouble with, 304-305;
Bernhardi as a representative of thought in, 308
“Germany and the Next War,” Bernhardi, 308
Gibbs, Doctor Charles, 150, 175, 181-182
Golf, the fascination of, 270;
in Egypt, 270-271;
an obituary to the author’s, 271
Gray, Captain John, of the whaling ship, the _Hope_, 29, 30
“Great Boer War, The,” 204
Great Lakes, through the, 292
“Great Shadow, The,” 93
Gwynne, H. A., 137;
in South Africa, 156; 205
“Habakuk Jephson’s Statement,” 67
Haig, General Sir Douglas, 331, 347;
luncheon with, 348;
personal appearance and traits of, 348-349
Haldane, Lord, 242
Hamilton, Sir Ian, 159
Hawkins, Miss. _See_ DOYLE, MRS. ARTHUR CONAN (_née_ HAWKINS)
Hawkins, Sir Henry. _See_ BAMPTON, LORD
Henneque, General, 365, 366
“Hilda Wade,” Allen, completed by author, 254-255
Hindenburg Line, the, 379, 381;
the break in the, 382
Hindhead, locating in, 121; 224
“History of the War” (World), 242
Hodder, two years in preparatory school at, 8
Home, Sir Anthony, 76
_Hope_, the Arctic whaling ship the, 29, 30, 33, 34, 36
Hornung, William, the author’s brother-in-law, 115;
brilliant in repartee, 252
“House of Temperley, The,” dramatization of “Rodney Stone” 225-226
“Human Personality,” Myers, influence on the study of psychics, 78
Humbert, General, 368
Hunting for sport unjustified, 263-264;
its effects on our better instincts, 264
“Idler, The,” contributions to, 112-113
Influenza, virulent attack of, 91
“Inner Room, The,” 94-95
Ireland, founding of the Doyle family in, 2;
early visit to, 6-7
Irving, Sir Henry, 113-114;
acquaintance with, 249;
Bernard Shaw and, 250
Irving, Henry, the younger, 114
Italy, at the front in, 353-358;
difficulties of the terrain in, 354, 356-358
“Jane Annie,” in collaboration with Barrie, 248
Jasper Park, Canada, 287, 298-300
Jerome, Jerome K., 112, 253
Jesuits, school life under the, 8-12;
in Austria with the, 12-13;
author’s feeling for and opinion of the, 14-15
Jeune, Sir Francis, 261
“John Creedy,” Allen, 256
“John Huxford’s Hiatus,” 68
Kipling, Rudyard, 118;
the charm of his writing, 245;
in his Brattleboro home, 245-246
Kitchener, 123, 131, 137, 138, 178, 179, 241;
death of, 360;
Lloyd George’s estimate of, 373-374
Knighthood, receiving the accolade of, 204-205
Koch, Doctor, and his so-called cure for consumption, 81, 83
Lang, Andrew, favourable opinion of “Micah Clarke,” 71
Langman, Archie, 149;
captured and released by De Wet, 176
Langman, John, 149
Langman Hospital, service with the, in the Boer War, 147-183
Leckie, Jean. _See_ DOYLE, MRS. ARTHUR CONAN, _née_ LECKIE
Lecturing tour in America, 116-119
Lewis, Colonel, of the Egyptian army, 126-129
“Light,” contributes article to, 80; 111
“Lippincott’s Magazine,” contribution to, 73
“Literary Reminiscences,” Payn, 256
Literary work, 67, 90
Literature, first knowledge of talent for, 11-12;
first attempts in, 24
Lodge, Sir Oliver, 205
London, residence in, 89;
literary life in, 1880-1893, 111-113
McClure, S. S., 119
McLean, Colin, acting mate of the _Hope_, 30
Maloja, Switzerland, 115
Maxse, Leo, 361
Maxwell, W. B., 253, 262
_Mayumba_, S. S., to West Africa on the, as surgeon, 42;
life aboard the, 49;
on fire at sea, 50-51
Medical practice, Plymouth, 54-56;
Portsmouth, 57-87
Medicine, determines on the study of, 17-18;
first experiences in practice of, 22-24
Meredith, George, talents and shortcomings of, 242, 243;
a visit to, at Box Hill, 243-244;
his brilliant conversation, 244;
religious convictions, 245; 256
“Micah Clarke,” author’s first historical novel, 71
Milner, Sir Alfred, 182
Mind, opinion on the nature of the, 78
“Miracle Town,” 332
Monash, General Sir John, luncheon at head-quarters of Australian
troops with, 378
Monfalcone, Italy, perilous attempt to reach, 354-356
Morris, Doctor Malcolm, 82, 84-85
Motoring, a disagreeable experience in, 280;
fascination of, 280;
accidents and humorous incidents when, 281;
an international competition in, 282
“Mystery of the Sassassa Valley, The,” the author’s first adventure
story, 24
Navy, lack of foresight in the, 317-318;
protection from mines for, 318-319;
safety devices for crews, 319-321
Newton, Lord, 335, 336, 337
New York, a week in, 287-289
Nile, a trip up the river, 124-125
Northcliffe, Lord, 229, 231, 315
Norwood, home in, 91, 111, 113;
leaving, 115
O’Callaghan, Doctor, 149
“Occult World,” Sinnett, 81
Olympic Games, of 1908, 223-225
Pack, Sir Denis, 3
Pack, Katherine, author’s grandmother. _See_ FOLEY, MRS. WILLIAM
Pack, Reverend Richard, 3
Padua, Italy, 353
Paget, Sidney, original illustrator of “Sherlock Holmes,” 101
“Parasite, The,” 93
Paris, first visit to, 15-16; 89;
during the World War, 351, 352
Parkman, Francis, author’s opinion of, 93;
preparation for his life work, 290;
the charm of his style and his work, 290-291
Parliament, unsuccessful attempts to enter, 195-203
“Pavilion on the Links, The,” Stevenson, 253
Payn, James, 67, 69, 71, 72, 75;
his humorous view of life, 256-257;
a kindly critic, 257
“Physiologist’s Wife, The,” 68
Piave River, psychic revelation regarding the, 358-359
Picardy Place, Edinburgh, birthplace of author in, 1
Plymouth, associated with Doctor Cullingworth in, 54-56
Podmore, Mr., psychic experience with, 142-143
Poetry, early attempts in, 11-12
Politics, first entry in, 86;
two unsuccessful efforts in, 195-203
Pond, Major, manages author’s lecturing tour in America, 116
Port Arthur, Ontario, 293
Portsmouth, in practice in, 55-87
Portsmouth Literary and Scientific Society, the, 85
Pretoria, South Africa, 176, 178
Prince Henry Competition, the so-called motor race, 305-307
Public speaking, first attempts at, 85;
in political campaigns, 86
Psychic, studies, early contempt for, 77;
author’s materialistic viewpoint in, 77;
nature of the mind and soul, 78;
influence of telepathy on, 78;
table turning, 79;
growing interest in, 111;
researches and experiences, 142-146;
séances, 232;
the later quest, 387-399
Psychical Research Society, member of, 111
Racing, author’s lack of interest in flat-, 262-263
Rationalist Association, 141
Reading, early taste for, 7
Redmond, Major William, 321-322
“Refugees, The,” 92, 93, 140-141
Reichenbach, Falls of, the tomb of Sherlock Holmes, 93-94
Reid, Mayne, a favourite author in boyhood, 7
Repington, Colonel, 316, 318, 325, 337
“Richard Feverel,” Meredith, 243, 245
Rifle, value of the, as an arm, 207-208
Rifle clubs, formation of, 207, 285
“Rights and Wrongs,” Cook, 185
“Ring of Thoth, The,” 68
“Robert Elsmere,” Ward, 256
Roberts, Lord, 157, 174, 178, 207, 313
Robertson, General William, 337, 338
Rocky Mountains, first view of the, 298
“Rodney Stone,” 96, 225, 266
Roman Catholic faith, author’s family and the, 2;
author’s changing views of the, 25-27
Roosevelt, President Theodore, recollections and impressions of, 236-238
Rosicrucians, 146
Rugby football. _See_ FOOTBALL
Russia, Lloyd George on the revolution in, 375
Rutherford, Professor, 19
Sackville-West, Colonel, and the interview with General Henry Wilson,
310-313
“St. Ives,” unfinished by Stevenson, 254
Sandow, Eugene, 205, 206
Sanna’s Post, in the Boer War, 159
Sault Ste. Marie, 292-293
“Scalp Hunters,” a favourite book in boyhood, 7
Scharlieb, Doctor, 150
School days, early, 5-7;
at Hodder, 8;
at Stonyhurst, 8-12
Seals, in the Arctic in the close season, 33-34;
and the open season, 34-35
Sharpenburg, the view from the, 346-347
Shaw, George Bernard, 250;
and Henry Irving, 250;
controversial spirit of, 250-251;
peculiar characteristics of, 251
“Sherlock Holmes,” the origin of the character of, 69;
interest of the public in character of, 92, 93;
concern of public at death of, 94;
letters addressed to, 94;
sidelights on character of, 96-110;
dramatizations of the character, 96-97;
Barrie’s parody of, 97-100;
author’s original conception of, 100-101;
film productions of, 101
“Sign of Four, The,” 73
“Silver Blaze,” 102
“Sir Nigel,” 75, 209
Ski-ing, experiences in, 283-285
Slater, Oscar, a victim of the miscarriage of justice, 216-220
Smith, Reginald, 186, 191, 193, 194
Society for Psychic Research, 142-143
Soissons, the ruins of the cathedral of, 362
Sophia, Mosque of, 222-223
Soul, opinion on the nature of the, 78
South Africa, shadow of war in, 146-147;
arrival in, 154;
first impressions of, 155-156;
pamphlets on British methods and objects in, 184-194
“Speckled Band, The,” 96, 226
Speculation, ventures in, 233-234
Spiritualism, 80, 81
Sport, some recollections of and reflections on, 262-286
“Stark Munro Letters, The,” based on first experiences in medical
practice, 52; 66, 111
Stead, W. T., 82
Steeplechasing, more of a true sport than flat-racing, 263
Stevenson, Robert Louis, the influence of, on author, 253;
correspondence with, 253-254;
the unfinished “St. Ives” by, 254
Stonyhurst, the great Jesuit school at, 8;
the seven years at, 9-12
“Strand Magazine, The,” 90
“Straggler of ’15, A,” 113;
dramatization of, 113-114
“Study in Scarlet,” 69-70, 100
Submarine, possible effect on England in warfare of the, 309-310, 313,
314
Switzerland, visits, 93;
to, for Mrs. Doyle’s health, 115, 119, 120
Symonds, Lily Loder, 334
Symonds, Captain William Loder, 329, 330
Tank, its influence on the World War, 333;
viewing a battle from the top of a, 381-382
Tariff Reform, in election of 1905, 199-203
Telepathy, first experiments in, 78
“Temple Bar,” contributions to, 67
Territorials, the, 309, 312, 323
Thackeray, William Makepeace, 6
Theosophy, interest in, 80, 81
Thompson, Sir Henry, 184, 185;
and his famous “octave” dinners, 258
Thought transference, experiments in, 78
“Three Correspondents, The,” 136
“Three Men in a Boat,” Jerome, 112
Thurston, Father, 11
Ticonderoga, Fort, 291
“To Arms,” in collaboration, 327
“Tragedy of the Korosko, The,” 124
“Transvaal From Within,” Fitz-Patrick, 185
Trentino, in the, during the World War, 357-358
Udine, the Italian head-quarters town, 353
“Uncle Bernac,” 141
“Undershaw,” the home in Hindhead, 140
University of Edinburgh, studies medicine at, 17-18, 21;
graduates from, 41
Vaughan, Bernard, 11
Vicars, Sir Arthur, 3
Vienna, a winter of study in, 88-89
Volunteer Force, formation of, at outbreak of the World War, 324
Waller, Lewis, 227, 228
Ward, Mrs. Humphry, and the life of the Victorian era, 256
Watt, A. P., 90
Wells, H. G., democratic frankness of, 251, 252;
forecasts of the future, 252
West African Coast, voyage to the, 42-51
“Westminster Gazette,” honorary correspondent in Egypt for the, 130-139
Whaling in the Arctic, 29-41
“White Company, The,” 74;
author’s opinion of, 75;
its success, 75; 89
Wilde, Oscar, favourable opinion of “Micah Clarke,” 73;
as a conversationalist, 73;
letter from, 74
Wilson, General Henry, interview with, after publication of “England
and the Next War,” 310-313
“Windlesham,” the home in Crowborough, 215
“Window in Thrums, A,” Barrie, 246
Winnipeg, Canada, 294, 295, 297
World War, prologue of the, 304-322;
formation of the Volunteer Force at opening of, 324;
conditions in England during the, 327-328;
on the British front in the, 335-352;
the Italian front in the, 353-359;
a visit to the French front, 361-371;
the Australian sector of the line, 375-386
Wound stripes, on British uniforms, 371
Ypres Salient, the, at night, 344; 345-346
Transcriber’s Note
Obvious printer’s errors and typos have been silently corrected.
Legitimate variations in spelling and grammar have been retained. The
line “(signature illegible)” on page 151 is presented here as it was in
the printed text.
In this txt file, text in _italics_ is marked by underscores.
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