Summer Lightning by P.G. Wodehouse (1929)

She bent over the spaniel. A keen observer might have noted a defensiveness in her manner. She looked like a girl preparing to cope with an aunt.

He was the sort of man who would have tried to cheer Napoleon up by talking about the Winter Sports at Moscow.

From somewhere in his system he contrived to dig up and fasten on his face an ingratiating smile.

I sniffed the dog’s breath and it was like opening the kitchen door of a Soho chophouse on a summer night.

Few things have such a tonic effect on a young man accustomed to be a little heavy on waking in the morning as the discovery that he has stolen a prize pig overnight.

She looked like something that might have occurred to Ibsen in one of his less frivolous moments.

Plot summary

Having sacked his capable secretary, the Efficient Rupert Baxter, Lord Emsworth has hired posh, drawling Hugo Carmody  to be his replacement. Lord Emsworth’s sister, Lady Constance Keeble, strongly disapproves of Hugo’s lazy, half-hearted approach (which Lord Emsworth actively welcomes) and would disapprove even more if she knew that Hugo is in love with her niece, Millicent (daughter of her and Lord Emsworth’s deceased brother, Lancelot Threepwood). Lady Constance wishes Millicent would accept her nephew, Ronald ‘Ronnie’ Fish, as a suitable suitor. And Millicent is herself jealous when she hears that Hugo had, until meeting her, been going round London with a chorus girl named Sue Brown.

Meanwhile, staying in Biarritz with his mother, Ronnie has met a charming American girl named Miss Schoonmaker. But although everyone thinks she’s very eligible (i.e. rich) Ronnie is in fact in love with the same chorus girl, Sue Brown, back in London. He and Hugo both took a shine to her when they were co-owners of a West End nightclub which (quickly) went bust. Trouble is that this Sue Brown has been attracting attention from other suitors, not least a hateful little man, a private investigator named P. Frobisher Pilbeam, making Ronnie very jealous.

Trouble crops up when, after going for a drive, Ronnie and Sue return to his apartment to discover Lady Constance on the doorstep. Knowing she’d go bananas if she found him gallivanting with a chorus girl, Ronnie improvises and introduces Sue as Miss Schoonmaker, the eligible American he met in Biarritz. Lady Constance is pleased he’s squiring a millionaire’s daughter and departs for tea at Claridge’s. At which point Sue points out that Ronnie’s really dug a hole for himself because this Miss Schoonmaker has been invited to stay at Blandings, at which point Lady Constance will discover that he lied!

Added into the mix is the fact that Constance and Lord Emsworth’s disreputable brother, The Honourable Galahad ‘Gally’ Threepwood, has also come to stay at Blandings to finish writing his memoirs. Since he has led a thoroughly scandalous life, these promise to be very entertaining apart from the fact that he appears to be setting down disreputable stories about just about everyone in his generation, including all Lord Emsworth’s and Lady Constance’s friends – when it’s published they’ll become social pariahs for giving him the facilities to finish the wretched thing.

Which is why Lady Constance secretly writes a letter to the super-efficient old secretary, Rupert Baxter, begging him to come back and resolve the situation. Not to put too fine a point on it, she wants him to steal Gally’s manuscript. ‘Mr Baxter, you are my only hope!’

Meanwhile Ronnie, having arrived at Blandings, is desperately seeking some way of extracting the money held for him in trust by his uncle, ahead of his 25th birthday. He wants the money so he can marry Sue. In desperation he comes up with a wizard wheeze: how about if he kidnaps his uncle’s pride and joy, the enormous prize-winning pig Empress of Blandings, made it disappear for a few days, driving his uncle frantic, and then discovered and returned it, thus securing his uncle’s eternal gratitude? What a great plan. What could possibly go wrong? Well for a start, what could go wrong is (once he’s carried out the plan) if Lord Emsworth proceeds to hire a detective from London to come down and find his missing pig! And not any old detective, but the very same P. Frobisher Pilbeam who carries a torch for Sue Brown.

When Hugo goes up to town to put the proposition of finding the missing pig to Pilbeam, he takes the opportunity to look up old Sue and invite her out dancing. She agrees but they both need to keep it hushed up from their respective partners, Ronnie who has become convinced Sue is seeing someone else, and Millicent who is sure Hugo is still in love with this Sue woman.

Hugo takes Sue to a club named Mario’s and they dance a bit. When he goes to make a phone call, his place is taken by the oily Pilbeam creep. He’s been tailing them and now wants to press his suit to Sue. But at the same moment, big strong Ronnie has arrived. He’d driven up to London to check up on Sue, the doorman at her apartment block told him Sue had gone out to this nightclub, and Ronnie arrived just in time to see her sharing a table with oily Pilbeam and draw completely the wrong conclusion, that he is her boyfriend. He makes to attack Pilbeam but a waiter, then two, then three, then a whole crowd of waiters get in the way and Ronnie tries to punch them all before an enormous doorman arrives, immobilises him and hands him over to the police.

Next morning he’s had up in front of a judge who very handily only fines him £5. Driving him back to his hotel, Hugo tries to tell him that Sue was at the club with him, Hugo, but Ronnie thinks he’s just doing the decent thing to protect her. When Hugo drops Ronnie the latter spies Sue and storms off. When Sue arrives Hugo tells her that Pilbeam had rung up Millicent at Blanding and told her that her fiancé was out dancing with another woman, with the result that she called him and called off their engagement.

So both couples (Ronnie-Sue, Hugo-Millicent) are in disarray. This is when Sue has her Big Plan. Lady Constance already thinks she’s this Miss Schoonmaker. Why doesn’t she announce she’s taking up the invitation and coming down to Blandings now, today? Once there she will be on the spot to set Ronnie straight and regain his heart. And Millicent, once she sees Ronnie engaged to her, Sue, will realise that Hugo really was only friends with her (Sue) and will let Hugo off. What could go wrong? Hugo objects that the real Miss Schoonmaker might turn up at any moment, but Sue points out that Ronnie had already sent her a few telegrams telling her scarlet fever had broken out at Blandings and she must keep away. So she heads off to Blandings to arrive as an honoured guest.

Meanwhile, on the pig front, Gally has become irrationally convinced that the pig thief must be Lord Emsworth’s rival, Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parslow of Matchingham Hall. They confront him about it which he, of course, vehemently denies and they eventually leave, with Gally threatening to include every disreputable story he can think of about Sir Gregory in his book.

Cut to Sir Gregory turning up on the doorstep of the Argus Enquiry Agency and telling Pilbeam he is terrified about what Gally is going to write about him and asking him to get his hands on the manuscript and destroy it. Pilbeam is hesitant because how is he going to get into Blandings? But Sir Gregory makes him think again when he rather rashly offers him £500 to destroy the manuscript and Pilbeam has a brainwave. He checks that this is the same Blandings where the pig has been stolen, and then explains that Hugo Carmody had been to see him to ask him to look for the missing pig. At the time he turned the job down with some scorn but now he realises that if he accepts the pig job, it will be his entrée to the castle. And once in and pretending to investigate the pig thing, in reality he can take the first opportunity to get into Gally’s study and pinch the manuscript.

Going along with this, Sir Gregory suggests that he invite Lady Constance, Lord Emsworth and Gally over to his for a reconciliation dinner. That will get Gally out of the house for Pilbeam to find and pinch the manuscript.

So now there are two young men on a mission to nick it, Baxter and Pilbeam.

When Lady Constance announces to a startled Lord Emsworth that Sir Gregory has invited them to dinner, he refuses, but is surprised when Gally of all people says that, on the contrary, they should go.  As soon as Lady Constance has left, Gally explains why. They will go to dinner with Sir Gregory, pretend to accept his olive branch, but then steal his pig in revenge!

So you get the picture. It’s a country house farce, combining a pair of love stories featuring fake identities, jealousies and misunderstandings; along with not one but two pig kidnappings fraught with comic complications; and then the cack-handed attempts to steal the notorious manuscript by not one but two notoriously inept young men. Enjoy!

Cast

  • Clarence, ninth Earl of Emsworth – ‘a long, lean, stringy man of about sixty’, in Sue’s eyes ‘a long, stringy man of mild and benevolent aspect’
    • Beach – his butler
    • James – a footman
    • Thomas – another footman
  • Hugo Carmody – Lord Emsworth’s secretary, tall, languid, expert on the saxophone and in love with…
  • Miss Millicent – Lord Emsworth’s niece, daughter of his late brother, Lancelot Threepwood – ‘a tall, fair girl with soft blue eyes and a face like the Soul’s Awakening. Her whole appearance radiated wholesome innocence’
  • Lady Constance Keeble – Lord Emsworth’s sister, ‘a woman of still remarkable beauty, with features cast in a commanding mould and fine eyes’
  • The Honourable Galahad ‘Gally’ Threepwood – brother of the Earl of Emsworth and Lady Constance – come to Blandings to write his memoirs – ‘a short, trim, dapper little man of the type one associates automatically in one’s mind with checked suits, tight trousers, white bowler hats, pink carnations and race-glasses bumping against the left hip’ – Number One in the Thriftless Aristocrats series written about by Pilbeam in his Society Spice days
  • Ronald ‘Ronnie’ Fish – self-consciously short, Lord Emsworth’s nephew, Eton and Cambridge – he and Hugo ran a nightclub called the Hot Spot, just off Bond Street – now going out with Sue Brown, see below (Miles Fish, Ronnie’s father, had been the biggest fool in the Brigade of Guards)
  • Lady Julia Fish – Ronald’s mother, doesn’t appear in the book (‘In this chronicle the Lady Julia Fish, relict of the late Major-General Sir Miles Fish, C.B.O. of the Brigade of Guards, has made no appearance’)
  • Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parslow of Matchingham Hall – 52, neighbouring landowner and rival in prize flower, vegetable and pig competitions – fat, terrified of being exposed in Gally’s memoirs, especially the notorious story about him and the prawns!
  • Mr Mortimer Mason – stout senior partner in the firm of Mason and Saxby, Theatrical Enterprises, Ltd – employer of…
  • Sue Brown – chorus girl – ‘a tiny thing, mostly large eyes and a wide, happy smile. She had a dancer’s figure and in every movement of her there was Youth’ – who Ronnie Fish is desperately in love with – her mother was a chorus girl
  • Mac, the guardian of the stage door at the Regal Theatre in Shaftesbury Avenue, weighs 17 stone (!)
  • Rupert Baxter – also know as The Efficient Baxter, Lord Emsworth’s former secretary, ‘a swarthy complexioned young man with a supercilious expression’
  • P. Frobisher Pilbeam – owner of the Argus Enquiry Agency, one-time editor of the society gossip magazine Society Spice – his ‘eyes were too small and too close together and he marcelled his hair in a manner distressing to right-thinking people’ – in Ronnie’s eyes, a ‘reptilian looking squirt with narrow eyes and his hair done in ridges’
  • Pirbright – Lord Emsworth’s new pig man

Thoughts

It’s long and farcically complicated, with many funny moments, but I didn’t like ‘Summer Lightning’ as much as any of the Jeeves and Wooster novels or as much as ‘Leave It To Psmith’. The Psmith book took a while to get started, bumbling around with the three young women who’d been at school together but once Psmith himself entered the story, he galvanised it with his distinct kind of carefree upper class behaviour and absurdist flights of fantasy. He really stands out as a character as do, in their ways, Jeeves and Wooster.

By contrast none of the characters in this novel stand out so vividly. Hugo Carmody is a watered-down version of posh twit Bertie Wooster just as the butler Beach is on the way to but doesn’t have the omnicompetence of Jeeves. Addle-brained Lord Emsworth is always funny but his sister Constance doesn’t have the vivid presence of either of Bertie’s terrible aunts, loud Aunt Dahlia or the feared Aunt Agatha.


Credit

‘Summer Lightning’ by P.G. Wodehouse was published in 1929 by Herbert Jenkins. I read it online.

Related links

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The Code of the Woosters by P.G. Wodehouse (1938)

The sinister affair of Gussie Fink-Nottle, Madeline Bassett, old Pop Bassett, Stiffy Byng, the
Rev HP (‘Stinker’) Pinker, the eighteenth-century cow-creamer and the small brown leather-covered notebook.
(Bertie summarises the plot at the beginning)

‘Man and boy, Jeeves,’ I said, breaking a thoughtful silence which had lasted for about eighty-seven
miles, ‘I have been in some tough spots in my time, but this one wins the mottled oyster.’
(and the plot hasn’t really kicked in yet)

‘Travel is highly educational, sir.’
‘I can’t do with any more education. I was full up years ago.’
(Servant and Master repartee)

‘Good old blackmail ! You can’t beat it. I’ve always said so and I always shall. It works like magic in an emergency.’
(Aunt Dahlia proving what a good egg she is)

‘Didn’t you tell me once that the Code of the Woosters was “Never let a pal down”?’
(Stiffy explaining the title of the book)

‘The Code of the Woosters’ is the third full-length novel to feature Bertie Wooster and his valet Jeeves.

The Jeeves and Wooster narratives come in two forms: in the 1920s Wodehouse published about 35 J&W short stories; thereafter he switched to novels and wrote 11 novels (from 1934 to the last one, in 1974). What’s interesting is the way the novels refer back to events in the short stories. It’s as if the short stories defined a sort of palette of colours, which he then invoked in the larger canvases of the novels. To be less pretentious, the novels regularly refer back to incidents featured in the stories, say something like ‘Remember old so-and-so; it was him I was involved with in the adventure of the so-and-so’. Thus at various points Bertie, the posh dim narrator, reminds us:

  • that his Aunt Dahlia edits a lady’s magazine to which he once contributed an article (as told in ‘Clustering Round Young Bingo’)
  • that Madeline Bassett’s father is a judge who once fined him £5 for disorderly conduct (as told in ‘Without The Option’)
  • of the occasion when Gussie Fink-Nottle gave a speech at a school prize-giving while very drunk (in the previous novel in the series, ‘Right Ho, Jeeves”))
  • (twice) of the time Roberta Wickham persuaded him to sneak into the bedroom of a fellow guest at a country house and puncture his hot-water bottle with a darning-needle on the end of a stick (‘Jeeves and the Yule-Tide Spirit’)
  • of the time when the American millionaire J. Washburn Stoker kidnapped Bertie who escaped by blacking up with boot polish to pretend to be part of a minstrel party (‘Thank You, Jeeves’)
  • the time a temporary replacement for Jeeves named Brinkley, tried to attack Bertie with a carving knife then set fire to his cottage (‘Thank You, Jeeves’)
  • the time Bertie had to look after his Aunt Agatha’s dog (‘Jeeves and the Dog McIntosh’)
  • the time Bertie saved the Cabinet Minister A.B. Filmer from a wild swan (‘Jeeves and the Impending Doom’)

The effect is very much to create a world of its own, full of references to a fairly small number of characters in its orbit. Bertie himself is made to notice the fact:

It bore out what I often say—viz, that it’s a small world.

Except that it is very much not a small world. It is a very big world with over 8 billion people in it who mostly speak languages you and I can’t speak, and hold values and beliefs we can’t relate to. Which is why it’s so comfy and reassuring to retreat to a small, hermetically sealed and safe place like WoosterWorld.

The cup of tea on arrival at a country house is a thing which, as a rule, I particularly enjoy. I like the crackling logs, the shaded lights, the scent of buttered toast, the general atmosphere of leisured cosiness.

Nothing wrong with that. Highfalutin’ critics like to claim that fiction engages with the world, subverts this or that power structure etc, missing the obvious point that sitting in a quiet room or train or plane, quietly reading a novel is more or less the opposite of engaging with the world.

The Mixture as Before

When Somerset Maugham published a volume of short stories in 1936 The Times rather rudely described it as ‘the mixture as before’. This nettled Maugham so much that he titled his next short story The Mixture As Before. The same could be said of Wodehouse’s Jeeves and Wooster novels. He had established a set of comic conventions for the series, including:

Bertie struggles to find the right word

  • There was a brief and—if that’s the word I want—pregnant silence.
  • A confirmed recluse you would have called him, if you had happened to know the word.
  • She made what I believe is known as a moue…. Is it moue?.. Shoving out the lips, I mean, and drawing them quickly back again.
  • ‘What? Incredulous!’
    ‘Incredible, sir.’
    ‘Thank you, Jeeves. Incredible!’
  • ‘Spode, qua menace… is it qua?’
    ‘Yes, sir. Quite correct.’
    ‘I thought so.’

Bertie struggles with classic quotes

‘You remember that fellow you’ve mentioned to me once or twice, who let something wait upon something? You know who I mean the cat chap.’
‘Macbeth, sir, a character in a play of that name by the late William Shakespeare. He was described as letting ‘I dare not’ wait upon ‘I would, ‘like the poor cat i’ th’ adage.’
‘Well, that’s how it is with me. I wabble, and I vacillate—if that’s the word?’
‘Perfectly correct, sir.’

The joke in this one is you have to know that ‘The Sensitive Plant’ is the name of a poem by the Romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, the kind of thing soppy Madeline knows and Bertie is clueless about.

‘I remembered something Jeeves had once called Gussie–’A sensitive plant, what?’
‘Exactly. You know your Shelley, Bertie.’
‘Oh, am I?’

Shelley crops up again later on:

After what Gussie had said, I ought to have been expecting Stiffy, of course. Seeing an Aberdeen terrier, I should have gathered that it belonged to her. I might have said to myself : If Scotties come, can Stiffy be far behind?

Which is a reference to Shelley’s well-known poem, ‘Ode to the West Wind’, the line being ‘If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?’ Mind you, Bertie can pull off the big quotes when he wants to; in a previous novel he referred to Keats’s sonnet ‘On First Looking Into Chapman’s Homer and he goes to town on the key lines here.

Pop Bassett, like the chap in the poem which I had to write out fifty times at school for introducing a white mouse into the English Literature hour, was plainly feeling like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken, while Aunt Dahlia and Constable Oates resembled respectively stout Cortez staring at the Pacific and all his men looking at each other with a wild surmise, silent upon a peak in Darien.

And it’s not just Bertie who struggles with classic quotes and has to be put right by Jeeves. Here’s Stiffy struggling to remember the right name of a literary character:

You remind me of Carter Patterson… no, that’s not it… Nick Carter… no, not Nick Carter… Who does Mr Wooster remind me of, Jeeves?’
‘Sidney Carton, miss.’
‘That’s right. Sidney Carton.’

That would be the Sidney Carton who ends up being the hero of Charles Dickens’ novel ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ by offering to lay down his life to be executed by the French revolutionaries so that the male lead of the story, Charles Darnay, can escape. Not that Bertie sees him as the hero. Later on he reflects:

I drew no consolation from the fact that Stiffy Byng thought me like Sidney Carton. I had never met the chap, but I gathered that he was somebody who had taken it on the chin to oblige a girl, and to my mind this was enough to stamp him as a priceless ass.

Jeeves’s literary quotes

It feels slightly new that Jeeves recites famous literary quotations in their entirety, not prompted by Bertie, with the comic intention of showing that Bertie hasn’t a clue what he’s on about. Mostly from Shakespeare because it’s a fair bet that Wodehouse’s original audience should have known their Shakespeare:

‘I quite understand, sir. And thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, and enterprises of great pitch and moment in this regard their currents turn awry and lose the name of action.’
‘Exactly. You take the words out of my mouth.’
(Shakespeare: Hamlet)

‘Childe Roland to the dark tower came, sir,’ said Jeeves, as we alighted, though what he meant I hadn’t an earthly.
(Shakespeare: King Lear)

I remember Jeeves saying to me once, apropos of how you can never tell what the weather’s going to do, that full many a glorious morning had he seen flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye and then turn into a rather nasty afternoon.
(The italicised phrase is from Shakespeare, Sonnet 33)

Jeeves and clothes

In almost all the stories, right at the start Jeeves and Bertie have a falling out over an item of clothing, there follows the long complicated narrative, and by the end of the story Bertie is so grateful to him for solving everything that he gives in. Not in this one. But there are still some choice ‘clothes moments’. Bertie is getting dressed for dinner when Jeeves advises a quarter inch adjustment in the trousers, prompting Bertie to say:

‘There are moments, Jeeves, when one asks oneself “Do trousers matter?”‘
‘The mood will pass, sir.’

In this case, the plan which starts the story, Jeeves’s wish which Bertie categorically refuses but then, by the end of the complex series of events, finds himself exhaustedly acquiescing in, is the idea of going on a cruise.

The comic strategy of stating the obvious

I call her a ghastly girl because she was a ghastly girl. The Woosters are chivalrous, but they can speak their minds.

The antique shop in the Brompton Road proved, as foreshadowed, to be an antique shop in the Brompton Road.

I spoke with satirical bitterness, and I should have thought that anyone could have seen that satirical bitterness was what I was speaking with.

He had been looking like a man who had missed the finer shades, and he still looked like a man who had missed the finer shades.

Clash of registers

It’s a tried and tested comic trope to have two characters who speak in different registers – the straight man who expresses things in a high-falutin pretentious style, and then the comic who puts it in the crudest demotic. Jeeves and Wooster embody a variation on this comic trope. Bertie expresses something in his poshboy slang and then Jeeves repeats the same idea but expressed in his refined, restrained, verbosely intellectual manner. The result = comic contrast.

‘You agree with me that the situation is a lulu?’
‘Certainly a somewhat sharp crisis in your affairs would appear to have been precipitated, sir.’

The village constable

Speaking of registers, Wodehouse briefly gives the village constable a comic accent, the tone of the officious provincial copper.

‘I was proceeding along the public highway,’ he began, in a slow, measured tone, as if he were giving evidence in court, ‘and the dorg leaped at me in a verlent manner. I was zurled from my bersicle.’

Abbreviations

Either a) trimming a word of a few syllables or b) paring it right back to the first letter. Sometimes a little hard to follow.

Trimmed

And now it was plain that he was hep.

I uttered an exclamash.

That is the posish, I fear.

I had managed to put in two or three hours’ sleep in my cubicle, and that, taken in conjunction with the healing flow of persp. in the hot room and the plunge into the icy tank, had brought the roses back to my cheeks to no little extent.

The gravity of the situash had at last impressed itself upon her.

It was entirely owing to Stiffy that I found myself in my present predic.

One letter

I told the man to take me to the nearest Turkish bath. It is always my practice to linger over a Turkish b.

That sojourn of mine in the T. bath had done much to re-establish the mens sana in corpore
what-not.

I sank into a c. and passed an agitated h. over the b.

‘Let me explain, aged r.’

I sank into the chair which she had vacated, and mopped the b.

The sight of Gussie and Madeline Bassett sitting side by side at the other end of the table turned the food to ashes in my m.

‘You’re talking absolute rot,’ she said, but it was with a quaver in the v.

I turned on the h. again.

Kipling was right. D. than the m. No getting round it.

I proceeded to work off the pent-up f’s.

I let out a mirthless l.

Formulaic phraseology

Homer is famous for coining poetic phrases or formulas to describe common objects (rosy-fingered dawn, wine-coloured sea) and Wodehouse does something similar by devising humorous phrases for common elements in Bertie’s life. They’re a sort of Metonymy which is ‘a figure of speech where a word or phrase is replaced by another’, in this instance by related adjectives but shorn of the expected noun – so in that respect also a kind of abbreviation.

I was able to imbibe about a fluid ounce of the hot and strengthening before he spoke. [tea]

Her eyes were misty with the unshed, and about the size of soup plates. [tears]

Inappropriate

Related to which is using inappropriate terminology, often using phrases normally used to describe inanimate objects to people, as if from sales brochures advertising houses or cars.

I looked round. Those parted lips… Those saucerlike eyes… That slender figure, drooping slightly at the hinges

For Madeline Bassett was undeniably of attractive exterior—slim, svelte, if that’s the word, and bountifully equipped with golden hair and all the fixings.

Slang phrases

Sometimes Bertie uses phrases which may reflect the slang of his class but are obscure to us.

In that shop, on the other hand, he had given the impression of a man who has found the blue bird. [?]

After that exhibition of his at the prizegiving, she handed Gussie the mitten. [dumped him]

The news of the betrothal was, therefore, conveyed to him by letter, and I imagine that the dear girl must have hauled up her slacks about me in a way that led him to suppose that what he was getting was a sort of cross between Robert Taylor and Einstein. [boasted]

‘Suppose old Bassett does find that book, what do you think will ensue?’ I could answer that one. ‘He would immediately put the bee on the wedding.’ [cancel]

‘Consult Jeeves, you mean?’ I shook the lemon. [head]

Stiffy’s map, as a rule, tends to be rather grave and dreamy. [face]

I can testify that when you are riding [a bicycle] without your hands, privacy and a complete freedom from interruption are of the essence. The merest suggestion of an unexpected Scottie connecting with the ankle-bone, at such a time, and you swoop into a sudden swerve. And, as everybody knows, if the hands are not firmly on the handlebars, a sudden swerve spells a smeller.

The nibs [higher-ups, those in authority, clever ones, superiors]

‘Ha!’ said Spode, and biffed off with a short, sharp laugh. [left, walked away]

I got into the full soup and fish, and was immediately conscious of a marked improvement. [evening dress]

Brass rags had been parted by the young couple… [they’d broken up]

I racked the bean. [head, brain, mind]

‘Who do you think you are, coming strolling into a girl’s bedroom, sticking on dog about the right way and the wrong way of pinching helmets?’

I lit a cigarette and proceeded to stress the moral lesson to be learned from all this rannygazoo.

Aunt Dahlia’s insults

In the second novel it became noticeable how Aunt Dahlia lost no opportunity to cheerfully insult Bertie and the pattern continues here. She calls him:

  • ‘Hello, ugly’
  • my little chickadee
  • young hound

What feels new is that Bertie feels confident enough to bandy friendly nicknames right back at her, to her face calling her:

  • aged relative
  • my fluttering old aspen
  • my dear old mysterious hinter
  • old ancestor
  • old flesh and blood
  • old thicker than water
  • My dear old faulty reasoner
  • my misguided old object

Jeeves’s wisdom

‘We are as little children, frightened of the dark, and Jeeves is the wise nurse who takes us by the hand and–’,
‘Switches the light on?’
‘Precisely.’

Sir Roderick Spode

Rather surprisingly, this Sir Roderick Spode turns out to be leader of a Fascist party i.e. is a satire on the real-world English fascist leader, Oswald Mosely.

‘Don’t you ever read the papers ? Roderick Spode is the founder and head of the Saviours of Britain, a Fascist organization better known as the Black Shorts. His general idea, if he doesn’t get knocked on the head with a bottle in one of the frequent brawls in which he and his followers indulge, is to make himself a Dictator.’

Bertie clarifies an important element:

‘By the way, when you say ‘ shorts,’ you mean ‘ shirts,’ of course.’
‘No. By the time Spode formed his association, there were no shirts left. He and his adherents wear black shorts.’
‘Footer bags, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘How perfectly foul.’
‘Yes.’
‘Bare knees?’
‘Bare knees.’
‘Golly!’
‘Yes.’

Spode is a huge, threatening bully right up to the moment when Bertie discovers he has a dark secret and threatens to reveal it – at which point he becomes oilily sycophantic i.e. like all bullies, can be instantly deflated. When pressed, right at the end of the novel, Jeeves reveals Spode’s guilty secret: it is that he moonlights as a designer of women’s underclothing and is the uncredited owner of the emporium in Bond Street known as Eulalie Soeurs. Would ruin his reputation as a manly Fascist if that ever came out. A ludicrous puncture of his sub-Mussolinian braggadocio.

Plot

This third Jeeves and Wooster novel feels longer and even more insanely complicated than its predecessors. Wodehouse has this reputation for comedy and I start off loving the tone and characters but do rather find that halfway through the novels they begin to seem quite long, and the blizzard of farcically improbable twists and turns does, eventually, become quite wearing. I’m always very relieved as I enter the final furlongs.

As briefly as I can:

Uncle Tom Travers is a collector of silverware and has his eye on a fine silver cow creamer at an antique shop on the Brompton Road. His wife, Bertie Wooster’s Aunt Dahlia, wants Tom not to buy it, as she needs to touch him for money to fund her magazine, Milady’s Boudoir, particularly as she has just signed up an expensive lady novelist to write some articles for it.

In the event the cow creamer is purchased by Sir Watkyn Bassett, the odious magistrate who fined Bertie £5 for drunkenly stealing a policeman’s helmet a few years earlier, and who has now retired to his country estate, Totleigh Towers. This Bassett has a daughter, soppy Madeline Bassett, who’s still in love with the hopeless newt-fancier, Bertie’s friend Gussie Fink-Nottle, who Sir Watkyn thoroughly disapproves of. At the same time, Bassett’s niece, Stephanie ‘Stiffy’ Byng, who lives at the Towers, is in love with the local curate, another old college pal of Bertie’s, one Harold ‘Stinker’ Pinker. Another guest of Sir Watkyns is a giant of a man called Roderick Spode—leader of a silly fascist organisation called the Black Shorts—who takes an instant dislike to Bertie when he happens to bump into him in the Brompton Road antique shop, and keeps a fierce and jealous eye over Stephanie Byng. There’s one last element which is that Gussie, a guest at Totleigh Towers, has been keeping a notebook containing very unflattering portraits of both Bassett and Spode.

Right. That’s a summary of the cast and main issues. The ball gets rolling when Bertie is summoned to Totleigh by a telegram from Madeline, asking his help to sort out her troubled engagement to Gussie; but he has simultaneously been instructed to get his hands on the silver cow creamer, in order to placate her husband Tom. Then Stiffy arbitrarily decides to test her boyfriend Harold’s devotion to her, by demanding that he knock off and steal the helmet of the local constable, Oates, because she thinks he’s been beastly to her beloved dog, Bartholomew. Then Gussie stupidly manages to lose the notebook full of incriminating descriptions of Bassett and Spode.

For an impressive 300 pages, Wodehouse manages to wring every conceivable variation on these themes, having all the couples fall out with each other, make impossible demands, threaten Bertie, while the silver cow, the notebook and the policeman’s helmet all get stolen, stolen again, hidden, found, searched for, accompanied by all manner of threats and blackmail between various characters far too complicated to set down in detail.

In the end it is Jeeves who saves the day, managing to blackmail both Sir Watkyn (with a suit for malicious libel and damages) and Spode (with revealing his guilty secret) into acquiescing in the marriages of the two young couples, and releasing Bertie from the various charges he faced. This is because, at various points, Bertie is angrily accused of stealing all the two central objects – the cow creamer and the policemen’s helmet – which he keeps being caught red-handed with because the actual thieves (Aunt Dahlia and Stiffy, respectively) dump them on him at incriminating moments – anyway, once all the comic complications have been utterly wrung out of the plot, Jeeves manages to get Bertie cleared of all charges, in return for which, as I mentioned above, Bertie acquiesces in Jeeves’s wish to go for a big cruise.

Cast

  • Bertie Wooster – narrator of the stories, amusingly dim upper-class layabout
  • Jeeves – his suave and hyper-intelligent valet
  • Aunt Dahlia aka Mrs Dahlia Travers
  • Uncle Tom Travers – her husband, famous for his delicate digestion, and (newly introduced in this novel) a keen silverware collector:

This uncle is a bird who, sighting a nephew, is apt to buttonhole him and become a bit informative on the subject of sconces and foliation, not to mention scrolls, ribbon wreaths in high relief and gadroon borders, and it seemed to me that silence was best.

  • Anatole – their legendary cook, from Provence
  • Gussie Fink-Nottle – ‘a fish-faced pal of mine who, on reaching man’s estate, had buried himself in the country and devoted himself entirely to the study of newts’
  • Madeline Bassett – ‘A droopy, soupy, sentimental exhibit, with melting eyes and a cooing voice and the most extraordinary views on such things as stars and rabbits’
  • Sir Watkyn Bassett, CBE – retired judge, father of Madeline, residing at Totleigh Towers, Totleigh-in-the-Wold, Gloucestershire
    • Butterfield – his butler
  • Sir Roderick Spode – guest of Sir Watkyn’s and leader of the Fascist organisation, the Saviours of England; according to Bertie a ‘Big chap with a small moustache and the sort of eye that can open an oyster at sixty paces’
  • Pomona Grindle – popular novelist – funny how popular novelists like Wodehouse or Agatha Christie, enjoy putting fictional popular novelists into their novels to satirise
  • Miss Stephanie Byng aka Stiffy – Madeline’s cousin, who lives at Totleigh Towers
    • Bartholomew – her dog
  • Constable Oates – the local policeman
  • Harold Pinker aka Stinker Pinker – village curate who Stiffy’s engaged to – ‘a large, lumbering, Newfoundland puppy of a chap—full of zeal, yes—always doing his best, true, but never quite able to make the grade; a man, in short, who if there was a chance of bungling an enterprise and landing himself in the soup, would snatch at it’

The Junior Ganymede club

The Junior Ganymede is a club for gentlemen’s personal gentlemen in Curzon Street, to which Jeeves has belonged for some years. Under Rule Eleven, every new member is required to supply the club with full information regarding his employer. This not only provides entertaining reading, but serves as a warning to members who may be contemplating taking service with gentlemen who fall short of the ideal.

Menus

I have often lamented that in the majority of Great Literature people regularly have meals, lunches and dinners, but the author never tells you what they ate, which is extremely frustrating. In this book there’s a rare mention of a complete menu of a country house dinner:

  • Grade A soup (content unknown)
  • a toothsome fish (species unknown)
  • a salmi of game which
  • asparagus
  • a jam omelette
  • some spirited sardines on toast

A jam omelette?

On aunts

One minute aunts are the bane of his life:

‘If I had my life to live again, Jeeves, I would start it as an orphan without any aunts. Don’t they put aunts in Turkey in sacks and drop them in the Bosphorus?’
‘Odalisques, sir, I understand. Not aunts.’
‘Well, why not aunts ? Look at the trouble they cause in the world. I tell you, Jeeves, and you may quote me as saying this—Behind every poor, innocent, harmless blighter who is going down for the third time in the soup, you will find, if you look carefully enough, the aunt who shoved him into it.’

But on the other hand:

‘I should have known better than to doubt Aunt Dahlia. Aunts always know. It’s a sort of intuition.’

Why so many aunts? And why are aunts such figures of fun? Aunts dominate almost all the J&W stories and crop up in many others outside the series. They are also prominent in works by other popular authors as figures of fun, such as Agatha Christie. Why? Two big reasons.

1. Because aunts are parent replacements. They are parents but without the strict control of parents. They are representatives of the older and so, in theory, controlling generation, the generation which should bridle and control the young, but without any of an actual parent’s actual legal responsibilities and duties. This is partly why they’re figures of fun: they’re parents but stripped of all actual parental authority.

2. Because they’re female. A hundred years ago fathers were figures with total legal control over their children until they reached the age of 21, as well as dominating moral and psychological power. An uncle is a male authority figure from the parental generation but, typically, stripped of responsibility, is classically considered a more approachable and sympathetic figure, someone you can turn to for help and advice, maybe. Whereas an aunt is two times removed from the figure of authority being a) not the legal guardian and b) a female, and so one step removed from the classically male patriarchal authority role.

Why are they funny, exactly? Tradition

P.S. Mind you, the whole point of the 1920s was the widespread feeling that the younger generation scorned parental control, something Bertie himself comments on:

A glance at her [Madeline] was enough to tell one that she belonged to that small group of girls who still think a parent should have something to say about things…

Bertie on girls and women

This aunt is a formidable old creature, when stirred.

Earnest Americans, academics and feminists have plenty of ammunition to denounce Bertie – and through him, Wodehouse – as a misogynist. Certainly he misses no opportunity to roll his eyes about women, and the underlying premise of the stories is his morbid fear of ever losing his bachelor status and getting hitched to a woman. I read it, I’m aware of it, but I read it as a comic trope, like Bertie’s own stupidity, his heedless drunkenness, like Jeeves’s Godlike omniscience, like the bad-tempered old judge, the priceless chef, and so on. They’re all stereotypes. But for the record I’ll record some of the grosser incidences.

I stared at the young pill, appalled at her moral code, if you could call it that. You know, the more I see of women, the more I think that there ought to be a law. Something has got to be done about this sex, or the whole fabric of Society will collapse, and then what silly asses we shall all look.

When you really read many of these comments them, you realise the real victim of them is Bertie, because any time he expresses any opinion about anything, he reveals what a dimwit he is.

‘I am implying nothing derogatory to your cousin Madeline, when I say that the idea of being united to her in the bonds of holy wedlock is one that freezes the gizzard. The fact is in no way to her discredit. I should feel just the same about marrying many of the world’s noblest women. There are certain females whom one respects, admires, reveres, but only from a distance. If they show any signs of attempting to come closer, one is prepared to fight them off with a blackjack.

If you wanted to take a feminist line, I suppose you could say that, no matter how humorously intended, the anti-women sentiments which are found throughout Wodehouse’s works are just one more brick in the huge wall of misogynistic patriarchy which dominated British society until late in the 20th century and can, of course, still be found in many places. I.e. the humorous context doesn’t count, or doesn’t invalidate the essentially negative attitude. Whether funny or not, it’s still negative.

‘You know, Jeeves,’ I said, ‘when you really start to look into it, it’s perfectly amazing how the opposite sex seems to go out of its way to snooter me. You recall Miss Wickham and the hot-water bottle?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And Gwladys what-was-her-name, who put her boy friend with the broken leg to bed in my flat?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And Pauline Stoker, who invaded my rural cottage at dead of night in a bathing suit?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What a sex! What a sex, Jeeves! But none of that sex, however deadlier than the male, can be ranked in the same class with this Stiffy.’

Or:

‘She wasn’t kidding. She meant business. She was fully aware that she was doing something which even by female standards was raw, but she didn’t care. The whole fact of the matter is that all this modem emancipation of women has resulted in them getting it up their noses and not giving a damn what they do. It was not like this in Queen Victoria’s day. The Prince Consort would have had a word to say about a girl like Stiffy, what?’

It’s a literally humourless interpretation, but I’m sympathetic to it…

Bertie and Sherlock and Hercule

In my review of the previous novel, ‘Right Ho, Jeeves’, I pointed out the surprisingly large influence on Wodehouse of Sherlock Holmes, so much so that Bertie refers to his adventures as ‘cases’ and the people who come to him and Jeeves for help as ‘clients’. And very obviously the entire idea of a partnership solving problems, one of whom is the super-intelligent problem-solver while the other is his dim sidekick (i.e. Jeeves and Wooster), obviously echoes Holmes and Watson.

The Holmes influence is toned down in this novel so that there’s only one reference to Watson and one to Holmes. Instead what surprised me is that Wodehouse chucks in a reference to Hercule Poirot! It’s an interesting indication of how Christie’s detective had penetrated so deeply into popular culture that he could be jokily referenced in other popular fiction.

I mean, imagine how some unfortunate Master Criminal would feel, on coming down to do a murder at the old Grange, if he found that not only was Sherlock Holmes putting in the weekend there, but Hercule Poirot, as well!

But in fact there’s more to it than that. Wodehouse deliberately drops a number of Christie references throughout the novel, turning the text itself into a sort of Christie-esque mystery.

Bertie is reading a murder mystery

To while away the time I pulled the arm-chair up and got out the mystery story I had brought with me from London. As my researches in it had already shown me, it was a particularly good one, full of crisp clues and meaty murders and I was soon absorbed.

And the novel even gives him clues what to do, as when he’s looking for the hidden notebook and the mystery he’s reading has the detective recommend looking on top of the suspect’s wardrobe.

Comparison with thrillers: Here’s Bertie recruiting Jeeves to help him write out a summary of the situation:

‘I think it would help if we did what they do in the thrillers. Do you ever read thrillers?’
‘Not very frequently, sir.’
‘Well, there’s always a bit where the detective, in order to clarify his thoughts, writes down a list of suspects, motives, times when, alibis, clues and what not. Let us try this plan. Take pencil and paper, Jeeves, and we will assemble the facts. Entitle the thing ‘ Wooster, B.—position of.’

That’s exactly what Poirot does in many of his stories.

Adversary Earlier there’d been a passing reference in a telegram. Bertie had described Bassett being suspicious of him as:

like ambassador finding veiled woman snooping round safe containing secret treaty.

This is precisely what happens in one of Christie’s early spy adventures, The Secret Adversary.

Fiddling Further, in chapter 4 while wondering what to do, Gussie stands at the mantlepiece and fiddles with a statuette on it. This is exactly what Poirot does in many of the Christie stories, rearranging bits and bobs on mantlepieces or desks under the influence of his symmetry obsessive compulsive disorder.

Little grey cells And it becomes unquestionable that Wodehouse is parodying Poirot when a moment later:

He pondered, frowning. Then the little grey cells seemed to stir.

This phrase is copyright Poirot, occurs in all the stories, and lays any doubt to rest.

Psychology Christie was at pains to distinguish Poirot from Holmes in all sorts of ways but one is to make Poirot focus not on material clues but on analysing the psychology of the murderer. Well, it’s no coincidence that throughout this novel Bertie, and others, insist on Jeeves’s superior reading of psychology. It is clearly meant to align him with Christie’s Poirot.

  • In these delicate matters of psychology [Jeeves] never errs.
  • ‘I think we can find one [a solution], sir, if we approach the matter from the psychological angle.’
    ‘Oh, psychological?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘The psychology of the individual?’
    ‘Precisely, sir.’
  • ‘Jeeves,’ I explained to Stiffy, who, of course, knew the man only slightly, scarcely more, indeed, than as a silent figure that had done some smooth potato-handing when she had lunched at my flat, ‘is and always has been a whale on the psychology of the individual. He eats it alive.’

Gooseflesher Incidentally, Bertie converts the thriller into his own poshboy argot and refers to it as a gooseflesher.

Comic phrases

About seven feet in height, and swathed in a plaid ulster which made him look about six feet across, he caught the eye and arrested it. It was as if Nature had intended to make a gorilla, and had changed its mind at the last moment.

I had described Roderick Spode to the butler as a man with an eye that could open an oyster at sixty paces, and it was an eye of this nature that he was directing at me now. He looked like a Dictator on the point of starting a purge.

‘Oh, Bertie,’ she said, in a low voice like beer trickling out of a jug, ‘you ought not to be here.’

She looked at me like someone who has just solved the crossword puzzle with a shrewd ‘Emu’ in the top right-hand corner.

Stiffy stood for a moment looking after him a bit yearningly, like a girl who wished that she had half a brick handy.

I turned to Aunt Dahlia, who was making noises like a motorbicycle in the background.

Animal similes

He paused, and swallowed convulsively, like a Pekingese taking a pill.

The Dictator had to shove his oar in. He asked if he should call a policeman, and old Bassett’s eyes gleamed for a moment. Being a magistrate makes you love the idea of calling policemen. It’s like a tiger tasting blood.

I turned to Gussie, who was now looking like a bewildered halibut.

He gave me a hard stare. The eyes behind the spectacles were cold. He looked like an annoyed turbot.

Old Bassett had been listening to these courtesies with a dazed expression on the map—gulping a bit from time to time, like a fish that has been hauled out of a pond on a bent pin and isn’t at all sure it is equal to the pressure of events.

I now gazed at him hopefully, like a seal awaiting a bit of fish.

However, the last female had no sooner passed through the door than Gussie, who had been holding it open, shot after her like a diving duck and did not return.

He was staring incredulously, like one bitten by a rabbit.

She snorted like a bison at the water-trough.

Old Bassett, who had gone into a coma again, came out of it and uttered a sound like the death-rattle of a dying duck.

There came the sound of furniture being dragged away, and presently the door opened and his head emerged cautiously, like that of a snail taking a look round after a thunderstorm.

I don’t say I didn’t leave my chair like a jackrabbit that has sat on a cactus.

The Drones club

Wodehouse’s fictitious Drones Club was located in Dover Street, off Piccadilly. A drone is a male bee that does no work and lives off the labour of others so the name is a satire on the 1920s stereotype of rich, idle young men. The Drones Club appears in not just the Jeeves and Wooster stories, but the Psmith and Blandings series, as well as others. Members mentioned in this book are:

  • Bertie
  • Freddie Widgeon
  • Bingo Little
  • Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright
  • Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps
  • Oofy Prosser

Addresses

Bertie’s address:

Bertram Wooster
Berkeley Mansions
Berkeley Square
London

Aunt Dahlia’s address:

Mrs Dahlia Travers
47 Charles Street
Berkeley Square
London.


Credit

‘The Code of the Woosters’ was published in 1938 by Herbert Jenkins. I read it online.

Related links

Related reviews

This lax post-war world

She was naming the Price of the Papers. In other words, after being blackmailed by an aunt at breakfast, I was now being blackmailed by a female crony before dinner. Pretty good going, even for this lax post-war world.

Death of a Ghost by Margery Allingham (1934)

‘I’ve told him that I’ll outlive him if I have to die to do it.’
(John Lafcadio, the painter and humourist)

‘I agree with Max entirely,’ she said. ‘Too many people imagine they know something about Art.’
(Donna Beatrice, the voice of the art snob)

‘I don’t like that type, though. Exhibitionists they’re called, aren’t they?’
(The early days of popular psychology)

‘Very lowerin’ to the locality,’ said Mr Pudney, adding darkly, ‘artists mean models.’
(The popular view)

Campion looked down at her. The world was reeling. This was the last development he had expected, the last eventuality for which he had been prepared.
(Allingham’s characteristically over-wrought tone)

‘I don’t know why I’ve come to you, Albert. I don’t know what I expect you to do,’ she burst out suddenly.
(Well, probably solve the case, as he usually does)

Margery Allingam’s first Albert Campion novel overflows with facetious high spirits and melodrama, it’s a ridiculously pulp adventure told in a breathless style. Jumping to this, the sixth one (once she got going she wrote them very quickly, sometimes two a year) I was struck by how wordy and pompous her style had become, so pompous that it often teeters on incoherence.

The chief deterrent to private killing, he reflected, was probably the ingrained superstitious fear of the responsibility of ending a human life, but in a man of Max’s inordinate conceit this objection could no doubt be swept away by being decided a necessity.

It makes sense, but only just, and only if the reader does a little work to help it along.

The gentle procession of ordinary life swept them all along, and it began to seem as unlikely that violence would ever again assail Lafcadio’s household as it had done on that Saturday evening when he and Belle had discussed the morrow’s reception.

‘Assail’? ‘Morrow’?

His naturally picturesque appearance was considerably exaggerated by his latest sartorial fad, consisting somewhat astonishingly of a fully coloured Victorian fancy waistcoat. This gallant vestment was without question a thing of beauty.

‘Gallant vestment’?

Five minutes later, as they sat round sipping out of the famous crackleware cups mentioned in so many books of reminiscence, the sensation of calamity which had returned to Mr Campion as he came up the staircase burst into his fullest mind.

‘Fullest mind’?

When one considered Max Fustian’s appearance it was all the more extraordinary that his personality, exotic and fantastic as it was, should never have overstepped the verge into the ridiculous.

‘Overstepped the verge’? I found collecting these dubious phrases far more interesting than the supposed plot.

Max shrugged his shoulders, a gesture almost contortionate, but having made his protest he gave way gracefully.

At the moment her pallor was almost startling, and her eyes beneath her thick brows were burning with nothing less than ferocity.

She bustled off, leaving a tang of schoolmistress in the air.

Looking at the newcomer, Mr Campion felt again a liking for this naïve, friendly spirit who regarded the world as an odd sort of party upon which he had dropped in by mistake.

Today, in a little old forgotten corner of our wonderful London, the ghost of a great artist, thought by some to be the greatest artist of our time, entertains the glass of fashion and the mould of form for the eighth time in a twelve-year programme.

‘The mould of form’?

Mrs Potter wondered if the beads of sweat had rolled down under her fringe. The chattering old gossip seemed to have become a fiend possessed of super-human insight in the power to wrest truth from its well.

‘Super-human insight in the power to wrest truth from its well’?

The scene he indicated was amusing. Donna Beatrice was talking volubly to Max Fustian. Knowing her, Mr Campion shuddered to think of the matter of her discourse.

At moments like this I think Allingham is trying to sound elegant and sophisticated to match the upper-class Bohemian setting of the story, and her sentences superficially have the structure and feel of sophistication – until you actually read what she’s written, at which point the effect vanishes.

The theory that the art of conversation has died out in modern times is either a gross misrepresentation of the facts or an Olympian criticism of quality alone. Three quarters of the gathering seemed to be talking loudly, not so much with the strain of one trying to capture an audience, but with the superb flow of the man who knows all creation is trying to hear him.

He came up to Belle, who greeted him with that delight which was half her charm.

Belle seemed loath to speak, but Donna Beatrice sailed in with an eagerness that was frankly uncharitable.

Or take this phrase which doesn’t quite make sense, is not quite grammatically accurate.

A few of the die-hard school of manners clung to their standards and talked together quietly, affecting not to have noticed this second disturbance…

Surely it should be something like ‘A few members of the die-hard school of manners…’ And what about this odd and clunky phrasing?

He was still undecided on his course of action and never remembered finding himself in a similar quandary.

And anyway, these attempts at mellifluous urbanity are only a veneer. Continually breaking through is Allingham’s more habitual tone of melodrama and hyperbole:

The little woman in the tight purple dress was staring at him, her yellow face a mask of horror.

She began to sob noisily, great gulping animal sounds which whipped the already jolted nerves of the company to the point of agony.

The Belle Darling whom Lafcadio had loved, protected, and leant upon was beaten to her knees by the deluge of horror poured down upon her.

He hurried over to Belle, who was standing in her place by the door, superbly gallant and unruffled in the nightmare crisis.

It took Max just those three seconds to get across the room and seize the girl by the arms, while the shocked silence in the room deepened into a growing perception of horror.

Campion noticed with growing concern, there was a new note in the general air of frustration and despair which was his general atmosphere: the high thin note of alarm.

Mr Campion was prepared for the worst, and her words sent a thrill of horror down his spine.

It’s this silly tone of Gothic melodrama which appeals to Allingham’s fans but puts my teeth on edge. And it’s not even convincingly written melodrama. As a writer, she seems to have only a shaky grasp of her sentence structure. She is frequently clumsy and clunky.

Looking at him posturing in the dusty sunlight, it occurred to her that it was really remarkable that he should not appear very ridiculous. She thought also that this was certainly not the case.

The moment was one of drama, and those minds which had hastily dismissed Rosa-Rosa’s outburst as a regrettable, hysterical, or drunken incident suddenly wheeled round to face the half-formed fear which had secretly assailed them all.

She went on, still leaning heavily on the doctor’s arm, while they listened to her breathlessly with that sinking of the heart and faint sense of nausea which always comes just before the worst is told.

Everything is overlit and over-wrought:

He dreaded the meeting with the family. Belle, he knew, looked to him for comfort, and in the circumstances he had very little to offer her. The cold air of calamity had permeated the whole household.

This tottering, unsteady melodramatic tone really, really makes you appreciate Agatha Christie’s brisk professional prose style all the more. Christie, too, of course, has sudden murders, shocked hostesses, stunned guests and whatnot. But she uses crisp short sentences which are so much more effective at a) drawing you in and b) painting the scene, even when she herself is being dramatic.

The noise drew nearer. It consisted of shrill cries and protests in a woman’s voice. The door at the end of the dining-car burst open. Mrs Hubbard burst in. (Murder on the Orient Express)

Less is more.

Plot summary

The plot? It is March 1930 and we are in the household of the long-dead artist John Lafcadio who, back in the 1890s, was considered the greatest artist in Britain. Now, 19 years after his death (in 1911), his house, his artist’s studio in Little Venice, and his memory are kept alive by his circle, which includes his widow (Belle Lafcadio), a former model (Donna Beatrice), his paint mixer (Fred Rennie), the art dealer and critic who’s made a career out of writing books about him (Max Fustian), his grand-daughter the tempestuous Linda (25), who’s in love with handsome Tom Dacre (37), who’s just returned from Italy with a brainless model in tow (Rosa-Rosa Rosini), and half a dozen others.

Before his death, Lafcadio had a humorous idea which was to stash away 12 completed and impressive paintings and, ten years after his death, have his widow release them, one a year, with a formal unveiling party before each one is sent to the Royal Academy Summer exhibition.

The novel opens with a couple of chapters introducing us, in Allingham’s usual wordy manner, to the dozen or so members of the Lafcadio household, and hinting at their various jealousies and resentments – all witnessed by the mysterious Albert Campion, who is an old friend of the widow’s.

But then we get onto The Murder: at the height of the very posh reception for this year’s posthumous Lafcadio painting (attended by a bishop, an ambassador and sundry other society nobs) the lights in the studio go out (because they’re on a meter) and a young man, Thomas Dacre – himself an artist and recently returned from Italy with a stunning if brainless model in tow – is stabbed to death with a pair of ornamental scissors.

Campion was outside in the corridor popping another sixpence in the electric meter. When the lights go back on he returns to an exhibition room in uproar. That is the murder. Whodunnit?

Campion’s friend from Scotland Yard, Inspector Stanislaus Oates, is called in, interviews all the guests, and quickly concludes that the Lafcadio household, with its collection of haunted old women, former models and hangers-on, is like a lunatic asylum.

It’s all so different from Agatha Christie. Christie’s novels are so pared back that they sometimes feel like engineer or architect’s designs for a novel. There is a tremendous clarity, and also repetitiveness, to the way Poirot calls in all the suspects of the murder on the Orient Express or on the Nile steamship, one by one, discovering (almost) everything about their background and character and relationship with the deceased. It’s like a diagram with certain key pieces missing which the reader is invited to fill in. And all told in a prose style which became more clipped and functionally effective as she grew into her style.

Allingham is completely different. Her plots are as confusing and clumsy as her prose style. There’s a murder and a relatively small group of suspects but the explanation of who, why and what, is extremely muddy and confused. The impulsive grand-daughter, Linda, was engaged to the murdered man and furious to discover he married his Italian model in Italy. Campion discovers that one of the old ladies in the household, Lisa, in a fit of anger had attacked the widow, Belle, with a pair of scissors leaving permanent scars. But somehow neither of these stories feel very compelling.

Campion’s involvement feels arbitrary and episodic. Poirot is called in by the cops to help. Campion seems to happen to be hanging around because he’s an old friend of the family. Is that his connection in all of his crime novels? It feels very tangential and arbitrary.

I didn’t understand why the police investigation was slowly dropped (was it because the presence of an ambassador at the reception would have embarrassed the Foreign Office?) The narrative implies that the murder enquiry is simply dropped. but surely that’s improbable.

So I wasn’t much puzzled about the crime and the so-called mystery. I was much more puzzled by Allingham’s strange, clumsy, round-the-houses, mystifying treatment of it. I found it hard to stop reading Agatha Christie novels, whereas I found it a real struggle to finish Margery Allingham’s books, they’re unsatisfying on so many levels.

There’s a second murder, Mrs Potter, the harmless long-suffering wife of failed artist Tennyson Potter. She has no value in herself but clearly saw or knows something which can identify the murderer, and so she has to go. And so Chapter 15 opens:

Mr Campion knew that Max Fustian had killed Mrs Potter as soon as he saw him that evening. He did not arrive at this conclusion by the decent process of quiet, logical deduction, nor yet by the blinding flash of glorious intuition, but by the shoddy, untidy process halfway between the two by which one usually gets to know things.

‘The shoddy, untidy process’ – used to the clarity of Christie’s murder mysteries, I think it’s the scrappy untidiness of Allingham’s books which I find tiresome and frustrating.

Cast

  • John ‘Johnnie’ Lafcadio – deceased painter, eminent in the 1890s
  • Mrs Belle Lafcadio – his widow, approaching 70, kindly, intelligent, always described as ‘plump’
  • Donna Beatrice, real name Harriet Pickering – ‘a lady who had caused a certain amount of flutter in artistic circles in 1900’ – ‘a widow with a small income and an infinite capacity for sitting still and looking lovely’ – nowadays uses a hearing aid – into psychomancy and auras etc
  • Lisa Cappella – model for such famous Lafcadio paintings as Clytemnestra and the Girl at the Pool, now much reduced as an old servant
  • Max Fustian – art dealer, owner of the Salmon Galleries in Bond Street, and critic who’s built a career writing eight books about Lafcadio’s work – ‘He was small, dark, pale, with a blue jowl and a big nose. His eyes, which were bright and simian, peered out from cavernous sockets, so dark as to appear painted. His black hair was ungreased and cut into a conventional shock which had just sufficient length to look like a wig. He was dressed, too, with the same mixture of care and unconventionality. His double-breasted black coat was slightly loose, and his soft black tie flowed from beneath his white silk collar… He was forty, but looked younger and appreciated his good fortune’
    • Isidore Levy – the astute, thickset gentleman who helped manage Max Fustian’s Bond Street business
    • Mr Green – teenage boy who packs the art works
  • Tennyson Potter – failed artist, inventor of engraving on red sandstone which never caught on – ‘a thin red melancholy face whose wet pale eyes were set too close together above the pinched bridge of an enormous nose’ – ‘His thin red face with its enormous nose and watery eyes…’
  • Mrs Claire Potter – ‘a little, dowdy woman with iron-grey bobbed hair, capable hands, and an air of brisk practicalness which stamped her at once as one of those efficient handmaids-of-all-work to the arts who are capable of undertaking any little commission from the discovery of a Currier & Ives to the chaperoning of a party of society-girl students across Europe’
  • Lisa Capella, discovered by Lafcadio on the slopes outside Veccia one morning in 1884, had been brought by him to England, where she occupied the position of principal model until her beauty passed, when she took up the household duties for Belle, to whom she was deeply attached. Now, at the age of sixty-five, she looked much older, a withered, rather terrible old woman with a wrinkled brown face, quick, dark, angry eyes, and very white hair scraped back from her forehead. She was dressed completely in black, the dead and clinging folds which enveloped her only relieved by a gold chain and brooch’
  • Linda – John Lafcadio’s granddaughter, daughter of Belle’s only son, killed at Gallipoli in 1916 – ‘a strongly made, tempestuous young woman of twenty-five who bore a notable resemblance to her grandfather’ – engaged to…
  • Thomas Dacre – ‘a man of great ability, thirty-seven years old, unrecognized and obsessed by his own shortcomings, resembled a battered, careworn edition of the Apollo Belvedere in horn-rimmed spectacles. He was one of that vast army of young men who had had five all-important years cut out of their lives by the war, and who bitterly resented the fact without altogether realizing it. Dacre’s natural disbelief in himself had been enhanced by severe shell-shock, which had left him capable of making any sacrifice to the furtherance of his creature comforts
  • Rosa-Rosa Rosini – beautiful young woman Dacre has brought back from Italy to be a model – Linda is furious because she thinks he’s married her in Italy – ‘the figure of a John gipsy and the face of a fiend’ – ‘Like all natural models she moved very little and then only to drop from one attitude into another, which she held with remarkable faithfulness’ – ‘Rosa-Rosa had another of the perfect model’s peculiarities; she was unbelievably stupid. She had been trained not to think, lest her roving fancy should destroy the expression she was holding. For the best part of her life, therefore, her mind remained a complete blank’ – connected to a London crime family, the Rosinis, based around Saffron Hill
  • Fred Rennie – plucked as a child from a working class background by Lafcadio and taught to be his colour mixer, still lives and pursues his alchemical trade in the converted coach house
  • Brigadier General Sir Walter Fyvie
  • Bernard, bishop of Mould
  • Albert Campion
  • Sir Gordon Woodthorpe – that eminent society physician’ who attends the dead body
  • Inspector Stanislaus Oates – Campion’s most reliable contact at Scotland Yard – always fiddling with his moustache
  • Constable Bainbridge –
  • Downing – plain clothes policeman
  • Matt D’Urfey – friend of murdered Tommy – ‘loosely but strongly built, wide of shoulder and narrow of hip, with faded hair, a big characterful nose, and shy dancing blue eyes’ – does ‘pen drawings’
  • Sir Edgar Berwick – the politician and client of Fustian’s – ‘an oldish man, large and remarkably dignified. His skin was pink and his natural expression belligerent. At the moment he looked important and extremely wise. He also appeared to be aware of the fact’
  • Miss Florence Cunninghame – ‘was plump, ladylike, elderly, and quite remarkably without talent. Her tweed coat and skirt, silk blouse and pull-on hat might have belonged to any provincial schoolmistress. She had money of her own and an insatiable passion for painting water-colours’
  • Young Dr Fettes – ‘a quiet, square young man with bushy black hair growing low down over his forehead and the gift of looking blank without appearing foolish’
  • Dr Derrick – his assistant, ‘a sandy-haired young man with a blue suspicious eye’
  • Derek Fayre – ‘the cartoonist, whose bitter, slightly obscene drawings appeared occasionally in the more highbrow weeklies’
  • William Pudney – landlord of the White Lion pub in the Essex village of Heronhoe – ‘a spare, pink, youngish man with a masterpiece of an accent which betrayed at once both his ambitions in this direction and his complete lack of the ear by which to attain them’
  • Lady du Vallon – ‘a crisp little woman with sharp eyes and red elf-locks’
  • Sir Gervaise Pelley – the Cellini authority
  • Bee Birch – the militant painter of athletes
  • Joseph – ‘the pontifical head waiter’ of Savarini’s, the fashionable restaurant of the moment
  • Chatters – doorman of Campion’s club Chatters
  • Braybridge – police psychiatrist

The mysterious Mr Campion

Very few people knew much about Mr Campion. In the first place, that was not his name. The majority of his friends and acquaintances knew vaguely that he was the younger son of some personage, who had taken up the adventurous calling of an unofficial investigator and universal uncle at first as a hobby and finally as a career. His successes were numerous, but for the best reasons in the world he remained in the background and avoided publicity like the plague. (Chapter 4)

Aspects of Campion

Long thin legs. Long fingers. Pales eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses.

The pale young man in the horn-rimmed spectacles remained unusually serious.

Mr Campion regarded her mildly through his enormous spectacles.

He stood for a moment looking at the cottage and then stepped forward, his lank figure casting a very small shadow in the bright cold sunlight.

His character:

Albert Campion wandered into the room looking his usual vacant, affable self.

Mr Campion had a gentle, kindly personality and was possessed of infinite patience.

Mr Campion… had the wit to make a study of men without considering himself a connoisseur of humanity…

Complicating:

In the last case they had worked on together, Mr Campion’s fantastic theory had been correct, and the inspector, who was a superstitious man in spite of his calling, had begun to regard his friend as a sort of voodoo who by his mere presence transformed the most straightforward cases into tortuous labyrinths of unexpected events.

This is exactly the same accusation made by Inspector Japp against Hercule Poirot in novel after novel. That everywhere he goes, simple cases become tortuously complicated. Christie even uses the same word.

‘It was odd, very odd, that the room should smell – as it did, perfectly fresh.’
‘So that’s what you were getting at!’ Japp sighed. ‘Always have to get at things in such a tortuous way.’ (Murder in the Mews, Chapter 10)

One sentence epitomises the transformation in Campion’s character from the high-voiced, facetious poseur of the first novel and this later one:

Campion was as earnest as he had ever been. The vacuity had vanished from his face, leaving him unexpectedly capable.

Truisms

I’ve noted in my Christie reviews how it’s part of the tradition of ‘the Novel’ to drop wise sayings and apothegms about human nature into their narratives, in the way that Bible quotes and Christian sayings comforted pre-modern generations. Both the narrator and characters can, at the drop of a hat, launch into sententious generalisations about human nature, men, women etc etc.

Outrage, combining as it does shock, anger, reproach, and helplessness, is perhaps the most unmanageable, the most demoralizing, of all the emotions.

When the habitually even-tempered suddenly fly into a passion, that explosion is apt to be more impressive than the outburst of the most violent amongst us.

Miss Cunninghame went on with the dreadful eagerness of one who has broken the ice of a difficult subject.

But I came to think these kinds of wisdom generalisations perhaps have another motive, which is to flatter the reader into thinking themselves wise. ‘Yes, yes, you nod, I knew that about human nature. People this, people that, of course of course.’ Although even this aspect of the novel Allingham struggles with:

Campion was prepared for a painful experience, but even so the sight which Mr Potter presented as he sat up in the big Italian bed, propped by the glistening pillows, had in it that element of the unexpectedly shocking which is the very essence of embarrassment.

Which is the very essence of incoherence.

As the sensation died away and the atmosphere of Little Venice subsided once more into a false peace the younger man at any rate experienced the sensations of a maiden lady who sees the burglar’s boots below the curtain as the last of the neighbours troop back to their homes after the false alarm…

The drunk chapter

Credit where credit’s due, though. The second half of the novel deserves a review of its own because in it Allingham develops an interesting idea, which is then the basis for a surprisingly effective chapter / passage / scene.

This is that about half-way through the story, Campion becomes convinced that Max Fustian, the preening egotistical art dealer, is the killer. His motivation is a clever scam the reader didn’t see coming and is, unlike most Christie plots, both ingenious but also plausible.

And the sequence it leads up to is this: Campion gathers evidence from various sources strongly suggesting Fustian is responsible but, in conversation with Inspector Oates, agree there is no actual hard evidence. He will have to be caught in the act of his next murder. And with this in mind Campion drops broad hints to Fustian that he both knows he is the murderer, and understands his (very profitable) motive. In his suave smooth way, Fustian invites Campion out for the evening to discuss the matter.

First of all he asks him to join him at a book launch, where Fustian makes a big point of being loudly dressed and making loud remarks and being seen with Campion, presumably to establish what good pals they are. Then at the end of the reception invites him back to his apartment in Baker Street, and offers him a cocktail, while he gets dressed for dinner. Campion suspects the cocktail is drugged, especially after Fustian makes a big point of adding a ‘special’ cherry to it.

But it’s when Fustian then takes him on to dinner at London’s most fashionable restaurant, Savarini’s, that what I’m talking about really kicks off. Fustian gets him drunk, really drunk, howlingly drunk, by lavishing on him a rare and precious wine which must not be consumed after you’ve drunk gin, knowing that Campion downed a number of gin-based cocktails at the book launch, and back at his flat.

It’s an ingenious plan because his alibi is that he’s seen wining and dining Campion, the best of friends, as his alibi. But what makes the chapter, chapter 24, really notable, is the extended description of Campion’s drunkenness seen through his own eyes, as he blunders out of the restaurant, Fustian steer him to his club (in order for there to be plenty of witnesses to his howling drunkenness) before steering him through the West End and down into a tube station at maximum rush hour and right to the front of a packed platform, so that he is drunkenly teetering right on the edge as the Tube train comes hurtling into the station, and he feels Fustian behind him, right behind him, waiting for just the right moment to accidentally on purpose push him in front of the hurtling train.

This extended passage is really good, very effective at what it sets out to do, genuinely gripping – maybe because Allingham drops all pretence of fine writing and witty sayings, dodgy generalisations about human nature and all the rest of the affectations which mar her usual style, and just focuses on this one thing, describing a drunk’s progress through the West End in a compelling way.


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Lord Edgware Dies by Agatha Christie (1933)

I am afraid that I have got into the habit of averting my attention whenever Poirot mentions his little grey cells. I have heard it all so often before.
(Captain Hastings tiring of Poirot – and he had another 24 novels and 30 years still to go)

‘I understood that you were an investigator of – crime, M. Poirot?’
‘Of problems, Lord Edgware. There are problems of crime, certainly. There are other problems.’ (Chapter 4)

‘Hastings, I would give a great deal to know what is behind that affair. There is something – I swear there is something.’
(The ‘there’s more to this than meets the eye’ trope, Chapter 4)

Poirot related the steps we had taken and the conclusion we had. (simple description of the theory-making that most of the books mostly consist of, Chapter 16)

‘The butler! Really, you surprise me.’ (one of the story’s many red herrings, Chapter 17)

It would awaken suspicion in an oyster. (Chapter 8)

Poirot made sympathetic noises, somewhat suggestive of a hen laying an egg. (Chapter 17)

‘Sorry, M. Poirot.’ He wiped his eyes. ‘But you did look for all the world like a dying duck in a thunderstorm.’ (Chapter 22)

‘Lord Edgware Dies’ is Agatha Christie’s seventh Hercule Poirot novel. It is once again narrated by his comically dense sidekick, Captain Hastings, who Poirot routinely insults and mocks but who he also needs to help him solve his cases, as he at one point explains (see below).

Setup

One morning George Alfred St. Vincent Marsh, fourth Baron Edgware, is found dead in the study of his home near Regent’s Park. He had been stabbed in the neck from behind while he was sitting at his desk. The doctor says he was stabbed the evening before. On that evening the butler had locked up because he thought the master had gone to bed.

Both his butler and maid testify that earlier on the fateful evening they saw Lord Edgeware’s disaffected wife, the famous American actress Jane Wilkinson, arrive, go into his study, spend some time with him, then sweep out. Now Jane stands to benefit from the murder since she inherits Edgeware’s fortune so she becomes suspect number one.

The only trouble is that she has a watertight alibi: she was at a dinner party hosted by Sir Montagu Corner out in Chiswick in the company of a dozen others, for the whole evening.

Now, the narrative had opened with Poirot and Hastings at the theatre attending a performance by the noted American female impressionist Carlotta Adams, which included an utterly convincing impersonation of Jane Wilkinson, her walk, and accent and mannerisms. Aha.

There’s lots of other clutter and confusion about the case so it takes Poirot a few hours to realise that it wasn’t Wilkinson who the butler and maid saw going into Lord Edgware’s study, it was Carlotta, impersonating Wilkinson. Someone paid Carlotta to do an impersonation of Wilkinson, dress like her, walk like her and visit her husband during the hours when the murder was committed, in order to implicate her.

As soon as Poirot realises this, he realises that Carlotta herself is in danger from the real murderer and races in a taxi with Hastings to her rooms but arrives too late. Carlotta herself has been found dead that same morning, apparently from an overdose of the sleeping draught, veronal.

We learn that earlier on the fatal evening, Wilkinson had been loudly telling her friends that she was too tired to go to Lord Corner’s dinner. Only at the last minute did she change her mind and decide to go.

So someone in Wilkinson’s close personal circle was under the impression she would be at home alone all evening, so that if they paid Carlotta to impersonate her visiting Edgware, and then somehow murdered Edgware soon afterwards, the guilt would fall very clearly on Wilkinson. She would be convicted for the crime and the inheritance would go to someone else depending, as always, on the precise terms of Edgware’s will.

Two people obviously stand to gain, namely 1) Miss Geraldine, Edgware’s daughter by his first wife (who ran off and left him) and who, Poirot discovers, hated her father with a passion; or his nephew, Captain Ronald Marsh, a ne’er-do-well who, in the standard way, led a dissolute lifestyle, had run up gambling debts, who had asked his uncle for a loan a few months earlier but had instead had his allowance cut off, so was bubbling with anger and revenge.

But the plan had gone awry because of Jane’s whimsical impetuousness i.e. changing her mind at the last minute and going to Corner’s dinner, contrary to everything she has been telling her friends. This is why the murderer’s plan had gone horribly wrong.

There is another major factor I haven’t mentioned yet. This is that, on the day Lord Edgware was murdered, Poirot had actually been to see him. At dinner after the theatre where they’d watched Carlotta perform, the night before, Poirot and Hastings had ended up at the same restaurant (the Savoy) as Jane Wilkinson (who had been at the same performance and so watched herself being lampooned) and she came over to their table. She introduced herself and, after initial chat, had asked Poirot if she could commission him for a simple task: could he go see Lord Edgware and persuade him to grant her, Wilkinson, a divorce. She has hated her marriage to Edgware who she describes as a sadistic monster, and has tried countless lawyers and arguments, but all have fallen on deaf ears.

So the next day Poirot and Hastings go to visit Edgware which gives us a sense of the man himself and the strange atmosphere of his household. I’m not sure how much Christie could say, just how much she was hampered by the censorship of the day, but the strong implication is that Edgware was a pervert: 1) his bookshelves are packed with classics of sadism and medieval torture; 2) his butler is an improbably beautiful young man (shades of Oscar Wilde and Dorian Grey); and 3) as they depart Hastings casts a glance back into his study and sees Edgware has an extraordinary primal expression of rage on his face.

That suave, smiling face was transformed. The lips were drawn back from the teeth in a snarl, the eyes were alive with fury and an almost insane rage. (Chapter 4)

Poirot concludes:

‘I fancy that he is very near the border line of madness, Hastings. I should imagine he practises many curious vices and that beneath his frigid exterior he hides a deep-rooted instinct of cruelty.’ (Chapter 4)

Anyway, personal impressions aside, the remarkable thing about the visit is that, far from putting obstacles in their way, Edgware immediately agrees to divorce Wilkinson and goes on to say that he wrote her a letter to that effect six months earlier. Both Poirot and Hastings are flabbergasted and so is Wilkinson when they report back to her. What had changed his previously obstructive attitude, and who had been concealing it from Wilkinson i.e. did someone intercept the letter he wrote her?

As usual with my Christie reviews, I’ll stop summarising there, just as the text enters the world of theories and speculations, as not only Poirot and Hastings develop theories, but so does Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard, not to mention secondary characters such as Miss Geraldine, as Captain Marsh (who now inherits the title Lord Edgware), Wilkinson’s former lover Bryan Martin, and so on and so on.

The text consists of visits to all these secondary characters, the new information and clues they provide, and the ever-changing theories they trigger among the investigators. until the reader is thoroughly confused and Poirot dramatically pulls the rabbit out of the hat and (in what Hastings calls his ‘lecture’ voice) reveals whodunnit and how.

Cast

  • Jane Wilkinson, Lady Edgeware — talented young American actress well known in London; impulsive and supremely egotistical, knowing or caring nothing for anyone else, for example, supremely disinterested in who murdered her husband or why; she lives at the Savoy Hotel
    • Ellis, her maid ‘a neat middle-aged woman, with glasses and primly arranged grey hair’
  • Carlotta Adams – ‘an American girl with the most amazing talent for single-handed sketches, unhampered by make-up or scenery’; ‘Soft, dark hair, eyes a rather colourless pale blue, pale face, and a mobile, sensitive mouth. A face that you liked but that you would find it hard to know again, if you were to meet her, say, in different clothes.’
    • Alice Bennett – Carlotta’s servant, who finds her dead in bed the morning after Lord Edgware is murdered
  • Miss Jenny Driver – friend of Carlotta’s, runs a hat shop in Moffatt Street, just off Bond Street, named Genevieve. ‘A small vivacious creature with flaming red hair’, ‘She was a pugilistic little creature. She reminded me in some ways of a fox terrier’
  • Bryan Martin – movie star, ‘a tall, extremely good-looking man, of the Greek god type’, at one time Jane Wilkinson’s boyfriend, but now she’s moved onto the rich Lord Merton
  • The Duke of Merton – ‘A young man of monkish tendencies, a violent Anglo-Catholic, he was reported to be completely under the thumb of his mother, the redoubtable dowager duchess. His life was austere in the extreme. He collected Chinese porcelain and was reputed to be of aesthetic tastes. He was supposed to care nothing for women’ – ‘twenty-seven years of age. He was hardly prepossessing in appearance, being thin and weedy. He had nondescript hair, going bald at the temples, a small, bitter mouth and vague, dreamy eyes. There were several crucifixes in the room and various religious works of art. A wide shelf of books seemed to contain nothing but theological works. He looked far more like a weedy young haberdasher than like a duke.’
  • Lord Edgeware – ‘a tall man of about fifty. He had dark hair streaked with grey, a thin face and a sneering mouth. He looked bad-tempered and bitter. His eyes had a queer, secretive look about them.’ “I enjoy the macabre. I always have. My taste is peculiar.”
  • Alton, Lord Edgeware’s butler – ‘one of the handsomest young men I have ever seen. Tall, fair, he might have posed to a sculptor for Hermes or Apollo. Despite his good looks, there was something vaguely effeminate that I disliked about the softness of his voice’
  • Miss Carroll – Lord Edgware’s secretary, ‘a pleasant, efficient-looking woman of about forty-five. Her fair hair was turning grey, and she wore pince-nez, through which a pair of shrewd blue eyes gleamed out on us.’
  • Miss Geraldine Marsh, LE’s daughter – ‘a tall, slender girl, with dark hair and a white face’, ‘tall, thin, white-faced girl, with her big haunting black eyes’
  • Captain Ronald Marsh – Lord Edgware’s nephew, ‘extravagant. Got into debt. There was some other trouble’ – inherits the title on his uncle’s death
  • Mr Widburn – ‘a tall, cadaverous man’ visiting London who’s know Lord E and also Sir Montague Corner
  • Mrs Widburn – ‘a plump, fair, gushing soul’
  • Mr Moxon – Wilkinson’s solicitor
  • Dr Heath – doctor who attended on Carlotta, ‘a fussy elderly man somewhat vague in manner’
  • Sir Montagu Corner – whose dinner party Jane Wilkinson attended the evening her husband was murdered. ‘He had a distinctly Jewish cast of countenance, very small, intelligent black eyes and a carefully arranged toupee. He was a short man—five foot eight at most’
  • Donald Ross – an actor they meet at Sir Montagu’s house, ‘a young fellow of about twenty-two, with a pleasant face and fair hair’
  • Corner’s butler – ‘a tall, middle-aged man of ecclesiastical appearance’
  • The taxi driver – ‘an old man with a ragged moustache and spectacles. He had a hoarse, self-pitying voice’

Poirot’s approach

‘Do you not know, my friend, that each one of us is a dark mystery, a maze of conflicting passions and desires and aptitudes? Mais oui, c’est vrai. One makes one’s little judgments – but nine times out of ten, one is wrong.’ (Chapter 1)

Poirot’s process has two parts, which can be summarised as:

  1. order and method – do all the facts fit into the theory?
  2. psychology – even if your theory corresponds with all the facts, do the actions ascribed to people match their psychology; are they psychologically plausible?

1. Order and method

Throughout the story Poirot is sharply contrasted with hapless Inspector Japp. Japp displays indefatigable energy, rushing all over the place, insisting on interviewing not only the major characters but tracking down peripheral figures no matter how marginally connected with the key events. In fact Poirot does his fair share of interviewing, too, but Christie is at pains to show how, having once assembled the key facts, Poirot spends just as much time in reflection, on pondering a narrative which takes account of all the facts, no matter how inconvenient.

‘I have noticed that, when we work on a case together, you are always urging me on to physical action, Hastings. You wish me to measure footprints, to analyse cigarette ash, to prostrate myself on my stomach for the examination of detail. You never realize that by lying back in an armchair, with the eyes closed, one can come nearer to the solution of any problem. One sees then with the eyes of the mind.’ (Chapter 1)

On several occasions we see Japp excitedly outlining his theory of events to Poirot and when Hastings or Poirot point out facts which don’t fit the narrative, Japp simply ignores them, sweeps them aside, says he’ll sort them out later.

POIROT: You think that covers all the facts?
JAPP: Well, naturally there are a lot of things we don’t know yet. It’s a good working hypothesis to go on with… (Chapter 16)

Japp skimps and settles for second best, a good enough fit:

‘Pity there’s no apparent motive, but a little spade work will soon bring it to light, I expect.’

‘No, I’m more than ever convinced it was the Adams girl. I’ve got nothing to prove it as yet, though…’

But it’s precisely these kinds of facts, the inconvenient details, the details which don’t fit and which Japp ignores, which Poirot spends his time sitting in an armchair revolving over and over in his mind till he can integrate them into a finished story.

‘There is something here I do not comprehend…’ (Chapter 25)

This is what he means by his much repeated mantra of reducing all the evidence to order and method.

‘But come, let us walk along the Embankment. I wish to arrange my ideas with order and method.’ (Chapter 4)

Japp thinks you must be always doing, finding, interviewing, examining the site etc – but he doesn’t devote nearly enough energy to reflecting on the evidence that he finds. His over-abundant energy is directly linked to his impatient, slapdash approach to theory. As the novel progressed I began to notice how many times they face off about this:

POIROT: You have a furious energy, Japp. It amazes me.
JAPP: Yes, you’re getting lazy. You just sit here and think! What you call employing the little grey cells. No good; you’ve got to go out to things. They won’t come.
(Chapter 17)

And Poirot to Japp:

‘You have the confidence—always the confidence! You never stop and say to yourself: ‘Can it be so?’ You never doubt—or wonder. You never think, “This is too easy!”’

2. Psychological consistency

Even when he and Hastings have devised a theory or narrative which accounts for most of the facts, there’s a last major stumbling block or test which is: do the actions ascribed to people in the theoretical model fit what we know about them? Are they psychologically plausible?

On numerous occasions the narrative perfectly matches what they know of the events, but Poirot still resists closure because he is convinced that so-and-so may be a thief but is not a murderer. Not only the facts must be explained by the theory, but the theory must match the psychology of the actors, as observed and analysed by Poirot. Over the years this has become the most interesting part, for him.

‘The psychology of character is interesting,’ returned Poirot, unmoved. ‘One cannot be interested in crime without being interested in psychology. It is not the mere act of killing; it is what lies behind it that appeals to the expert.’ (Chapter 1)

It’s this insistence on a believable psychology which separates Poirot most from the police. The police are only looking for enough evidence to secure a conviction whereas Poirot wants all the evidence plus psychological plausibility. And it’s this which he means when he refers to his much repeated phrase of employing the ‘little grey cells’ of the brain to solve a crime, rather than a magnifying glass or fingerprints.

‘At such moments the brain should be working feverishly, not sinking into sluggish repose. The mental activity — it is so interesting, so stimulating! The employment of the little grey cells is a mental pleasure. They and they only can be trusted to lead one through fog to the truth.’ (Chapter 1)

Poirot sings the power of the human brain:

‘Yes, yes, we can know. We shall know! The power of the human brain, Hastings, is almost unlimited.’ (Chapter 26)

Although that said, there are moments when Poirot’s egotism takes over and his claims to psychological expertise sound ridiculous.

‘Yes, Madame la Duchesse, I understand very well. I comprehend the mother’s heart. No one comprehends it better than I, Hercule Poirot.’ (Chapter 19)

It’s because all the facts have to fit together and the psychology of the players has to be right, that Poirot is so hard to please, hence his many laments on the same lines:

‘This seems the plain sailing and the above board. But there is something wrong. Somewhere or other, Hastings, there is a fact that escapes us. It all fits together, it is as I imagined it, and yet, my friend, there is something wrong.’ (Chapter 20)

As Japp is quick to complain:

‘The truth is you like things to be difficult. Here’s your own theory proved, and even that does not satisfy you. You are an odd sort of cove… Nothing ever satisfies you.’ (Chapter 20)

And:

‘He’s always been fond of having things difficult. A straightforward case is never good enough for him. No, it’s got to be tortuous.’ (Chapter 22)

3. Withholding his hand

I suppose there’s one final aspect to it all, which is that Poirot plays his cards very close to his chest, close as an oyster’, as Japp puts it. He doesn’t give much away and waits till the last minute to make his Big Reveal. To some extent this is just a function of the detective story as a genre, which strings people along until it’s quite ready to give up its secrets.

‘I wish you’d tell me what your theory – or your little idea – is?’
Poirot shook his head gently.
‘That is another rule. The detective never tells.’ (Chapter 17)

Poirot’s OCD

‘We will go round at once, my friend,’ he said; and, lovingly brushing an imagined speck of dust from his hat, he put it on his head. (Chapter 11)

Poirot’s obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD) is obviously assigned to him as a physical correlative of the mental obsession by which everything, every fact and observation and detail, must fit into the theory, with no discrepancies, nothing left out, nothing ruining the finished pattern of the story. It’s a simple enough device but, if anything, it’s noticeable how little she mentions it, only 3 or 4 times in this novel.

He greeted us both heartily. ‘Just going to have breakfast, I see. Not got the hens to lay square eggs for you yet, M. Poirot?’ This was an illusion to a complaint from Poirot as to the varying sizes of the eggs which had offended his sense of symmetry. (Chapter 5)

Old married couple

Hastings moans about Poirot like his wife, as if they are a married couple who get on each other’s nerves. This is humorous or, after a while, a bit tiresome, depending on taste.

Japp groaned. I felt a sneaking sympathy with him. Poirot can be intensely irritating at times. (Chapter 5)

I have a horror of doing anything conspicuous. The only thing that affects Poirot is the possibility of the damp or the heat affecting the set of his famous moustache.
(Chapter 10)

Poirot has the most irritating habit of joking at the wrong moment. (Chapter 12)

For example, it is obviously meant to be comic that he has had enough, more than enough, of listening to Poirot going on and on about the importance of ‘the little grey cells’, in fact he’s heard it so often that he thinks he will go mad if he has to hear it one more time.

I had fear an allusion to the little grey cells and was thankful to be spared it. (Chapter 3)

‘My questions, mon ami, are psychological. The little grey cells of the brain—’
‘Poirot,’ I said desperately. I felt that I must stop him at all costs. I could not bear to hear it all over again. (Chapter 14)

Hastings’s weakness for young ladies

As entirely predictable as Poirot’s catchphrases, his immense self-regard and stroking his moustaches, is Captain Hasting’s weakness for attractive young women. Considering that he’s married (he got married (he got married in the second Poirot novel, The Murder on the Links) and considerably older than these young women, it is all in questionable taste. Here he is finding himself haunted by a brief glimpse of Miss Geraldine in Lord Edgware’s house.

I recalled the startled face of the girl who had stood in the doorway. I could still see those burning dark eyes in the white face. That momentary glimpse had made a great impression on me. (Chapter 12)

And here is Poirot, just as predictably mocking his friend’s weakness.

‘You have always the tender heart, Hastings. Beauty in distress upsets you every.’ (Chapter 14)

And:

‘For the last hour I have been in a ladies’ beauty parlour. There was a girl there with auburn hair who would have captured your susceptible heart at once.’ (Chapter 25)

Hastings’s usefulness

And yet for all his mocking, Poirot needs Hastings to help him function, and this novel contains the fullest explanation yet of why:

‘No human being should learn from another. Each individual should develop his own powers to the uttermost, not try to imitate those of someone else. I do not wish you to be a second and inferior Poirot, I wish you to be the supreme Hastings. And you are the supreme Hastings. In you, Hastings, I find the normal mind almost perfectly illustrated.’
‘I’m not abnormal, I hope,’ I said.
‘No, no. You are beautifully and perfectly balanced. In you sanity is personified. Do you realise what that means to me? When the criminal sets out to do a crime his first effort is to deceive. Whom does he seek to deceive? The image in his mind is that of the normal man. There is probably no such thing actually —it is a mathematical abstraction. But you come as near to realizing it as is possible. There are moments when you have flashes of brilliance, when you rise above the averse, moments (I hope you will pardon me) when you descend to curious depths of obtuseness, but, take it all for all, you are amazingly normal. Eh bien, how does this profit me? Simply in this way. As in a mirror I see reflected in your mind exactly what the criminal wishes me to believe. That is terrifically helpful and suggestive.’ (Chapter 14)

And his stupidity

There are examples too many to mention where Poirot does or says something and Hastings thinks he’s losing it, barking up the wrong tree, is getting old and losing his powers. In every case, it is Hastings who is wrong. Here’s an example. They ask Jane Wilkinson’s maid, Ellis, to come for an interview. Half way through:

His hand, running aimlessly along the mantelshelf, caught a vase of roses and it toppled over. The water fell on Ellis’s face and head. I had seldom known Poirot clumsy, and I could deduce from it that he was in a great state of mental perturbation.

By this stage we have learned that whenever Hastings concludes anything, it is wrong. Poirot, of course, spilled the vase onto Ellis to that, in the confusion, he could swap her glasses for a pair found near the body of the murdered Carlotta. I.e. it was a cunning plan which Hastings completely misunderstood.

One major challenge with reading the Poirot novels is putting up with the fact that Hastings is meant to know him better than anyone, spends decades in his company, observes him in calm or stressful situations thousands of times, and yet continually, from start to end of every novel, completely misunderstands and misinterprets everything that Poirot does.

The text’s bookishness

‘Nothing here,’ Japp was saying. And Poirot replied with a smile: ‘Alas! not the cigarette ash —nor the footprint —nor a lady’s glove—nor even a lingering perfume! Nothing that the detective of fiction so conveniently finds.’ (Chapter 7)

‘The police are always made out to be as blind as bats in detective stories,’ said Japp with a grin. (Chapter 7)

‘I called to see my uncle yesterday morning. Why? To ask for money. Yes, lick your lips over that. And I went away without getting any. And that same evening — that very same evening — Lord Edgware dies. Good title that, by the way. Lord Edgware Dies. Look well on a bookstall.’
(The wastrel nephew, Captain Marsh, Chapter 13)

‘I always find alibis very enjoyable,’ he remarked. ‘Whenever I happen to be reading a detective story I sit up and take notice when the alibi comes along.’ (Chapter 13)

‘You are like someone who reads the detective story and who starts guessing each of the characters in turn without rhyme or reason.’ (Chapter 14)

‘”Having no reason to fear the truth,” as the heroes in books always say.’ (Ronnie Marsh, Chapter 21)

‘I see, Holmes,’ I remarked, ‘that you have tracked the ambassadorial boots.’ (Chapter 25)

Or pulp:

‘You could have knocked me over with a feather when he stepped up to the man and said: “I believe you,” for all the world as though he were acting in a romantic melodrama.’ (Japp describing Poirot’s behaviour, in Chapter 22)

Poirot’s rum Baba

We went to a little restaurant in Soho where he was well known, and there we had a delicious omelette, a sole, a chicken and a Baba au Rhum of which Poirot was inordinately fond.
(Chapter 14)

Bon mots

Sir Montagu was the type of man to whom intelligence consisted of the faculty of listening to his own remarks with suitable attention.

Dope

Drugs played a big part in the novel before this one, ‘Peril End House’, in which a major character, Frederica ‘Freddie’ Rice, is a recovering drug addict, introduced to it by her hardened addict husband (‘He was completely debased. He was a drug fiend. He taught me to take drugs. I have been fighting the habit ever since I left him’); and chocolates laced with cocaine nearly kill off the lead character, Magdala ‘Nick’ Buckley.

Drugs aren’t nearly so central here, but are casually mentioned. When the actor, Donald Ross, discusses Carlotta’s death, he says he read in the newspaper that she overdosed.

‘You knew Carlotta Adams, did you not?’
‘No. I saw her death announced in the paper tonight. Overdose of some drug or other. Idiotic the way all these girls dope.’ (Chapter 15)

And:

‘There’s been a mention in the papers of the little gold box with the ruby initials. Some reporter wrote it up. He was doing an article on the prevalence of dope-taking among young actresses. Sunday paper romantic stuff.’

Cocaine: moral panics about drugs (and sex) are always with us.

Christie’s butlers

I think it’s in ‘The Seven Dials Mystery’ that there are three different butlers – rulers of three different posh houses, each depicted with Christie’s droll sense of humour – and they alerted me to look out for the butlers in all her books – not as important contributors to the plot, but for adding to the comedy and humorous tone of the stories. Lord Montagu’s butler is ‘a tall, middle-aged man of ecclesiastical appearance’ and later:

The butler inclined his head and withdrew, pontifical to the last. (Chapter 15)

It’s against this backdrop of old, discreet, almost invisible family retainers, that Lord Edgware’s butler, young and Adonis-like, shines out all the more vividly (and suspiciously).

Antisemitism?

I’ve highlighted the slurs or questionable descriptions of Jewish characters which litter Christie’s novels. This is no exception. Sir Montagu Corner is one.

I looked with some interest at Sir Montagu Corner. He had a distinctly Jewish cast of countenance, very small, intelligent black eyes and a carefully arranged toupee. He was a short man—five foot eight at most, I should say. His manner was affected to the last degree…

As we sipped [brandy] Sir Montagu discoursed. He spoke of Japanese prints, of Chinese lacquer, of Persian carpets, of the French impressionists, of modem music and of the theories of Einstein. Then he sat back and smiled at us beneficently. He had evidently thoroughly enjoyed his performance. In the dim light looked like some genie of medieval days. All round the room were exquisite examples of art and culture.

And now, Sir Montagu,’ said Poirot. ‘I will trespass on your kindness no longer but will come to the object of my visit.’ Sir Montagu waved a curious claw-like hand.
‘There is no hurry. Time is infinite.’

‘Claw-like hand’? I take the point that Montagu is a caricature, like all Christie’s characters, in this case an oddity, an eccentric, a super-refined millionaire who has retired from the city to his suburban retreat where he lives in a rarefied atmosphere of luxury and aesthetic perfection, a detective story Des Esseintes. But still… there is a noticeable anti-Jewish vibe in all her novels. Here’s Inspector Japp:

‘Captain Marsh now, his lordship as now is. He’s got a motive sticking out a yard. A bad record too. Hard up and none too scrupulous over money. What’s more he had a row with his uncle yesterday morning. He told me that himself, as a matter of fact, which rather takes the taste out of it. Yes, he’d be a likely customer. But he’s got an alibi for yesterday evening. He was at the opera with the Dortheimers. Rich Jews. Grosvenor Square.’

Why mention that they’re Jews? Because he’s just being factual, painting details, in the same way he didn’t really have to specify Grosvenor Square. But it’s there. Like an occasional nudge in the ribs and knowing smile.

Clichés and stereotypes

But then her books are made out of stereotypes and tropes, of all kinds of types, genders, ethnicities.

In ‘Peril At End House’, old Sir Matthew Seton is said to be ‘the second richest man in England’. I laughed out loud when I read in this story that Jane Wilkinson’s inamorato, Lord Merton, is ‘one of the richest men in England’. Nothing but the best for Agatha. Well, if you’re going to have rich people, they might as well be stereotypical rich people.

It’s yet another reminder of how the stories are assembled from a relatively limited range of stock types and scenarios (the old millionaire, the resentful daughter, the wastrel son, the contested will, and so on and so on). What’s so impressive is the way Christie managed to recombine the same 20 or so stock types and stereotypes over a career spanning nearly 60 years.

The fiend!

Hard to pick the top cliché where so many jostle for attention, but one which stood out in the previous one in the series, ‘Peril at End House’, is the way Christie gets Poirot to hype up the murderer, to make them out to be a Moriarty, a Napoleon of crime, a Satan, a fiend in human form etc. It happens in the final stretches of the novel as a deliberate and obvious way of ramping up the tension, excitement and entertainment. If you succumb to it, that is. In ‘Peril’ we had:

‘Oh! the devil! The clever, cruel devil! To think of that! Ah, but he has genius, this man, genius!’ (Peril at End House, Chapter 17)

Here Poirot melodramatically declares:

‘The murderer, see you, Hastings, is as cunning as a tiger and as relentless.’ (Chapter 26)

Recycling

In ‘Peril at End House’ Hastings is shocked when Poirot reads someone else’s private correspondence.

‘Poirot,’ I cried, scandalised. ‘You really can’t do that. It isn’t playing the game.’
‘I am not playing a game, mon ami.’ His voice rang out suddenly harsh and stern. ‘I am hunting down a murderer.’ (Chapter 13)

Exactly the same reaction here, when Poirot reads a letter Lord Merton is writing.

‘It’s not – not playing the game.’
‘I do not play games. You know that. Murder is not a game. It is serious.’ (Chapter 18)


Credit

‘Lord Edgware Dies’ by Agatha Christie was published in 1933 by the Collins Crime Club.

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Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf (1925)

Why did she suddenly feel, for no reason that she could discover, desperately unhappy?

‘Mrs Dalloway’ feels like a significantly better, fuller, more complete and significant novel than ‘Jacob’s Room’. But maybe that’s because it’s much more traditional and easier to read.

I powerfully disliked ‘Jacob’s Room’ because it felt, to me, packed with barely contained unhappiness and occasional hysteria, which I found badly triggering i.e. triggered the same feelings in me. ‘Mrs Dalloway’ contains some of the same technical tricks as Jacob, but feels much, much more contained and controlled and accessible.

Continuities between Jacob and this include:

  • it’s set in London with an obsessive attention to the precise geography of the city and the exact routes taken by the main protagonists
  • a large cast of secondary characters, often passersby or people just on the streets or parks or shops of London who the main characters momentarily notice, who pop up for a brief mention then disappear forever
  • unexpected segues or jumps between scenes which neither begin nor end in a conventional way

But what makes it significantly easier than Jacob, is 1) there are far fewer lead characters, just 4 or 5 and 2) we get to know them in much, much more detail than in Jacob. Jacob went out of its way to omit any explanation of characters’ backgrounds and relationships to each other, leaving the reader in a permanent sense of frustration and bewilderment. Its extreme fragmentation and continual hopping about from one fragmented scene to another was its main artistic aim. By contrast, in ‘Dalloway’ there’s just a handful of characters and everything about their backstories is explained at great length. We get to know and walk around the characters. In this respect it is a far more conventional, ‘ordinary’ and accessible novel than its predecessor.

Main cast

The action of the novel follows one day in the life of its characters, a Wednesday in June 1923. Each of the main characters has some business to carry out and so the novel follows them going about their tasks, lightly jumping from one to another.

1. Mrs Clarissa Dalloway

Wife of Richard Dalloway, a Conservative MP. Just entering her 52nd year. Has a daughter, Elizabeth, 17 and serious. Lives in a lovely town house in Mayfair, complete with maids etc, notably Lucy. Was raised in a country house, Bourton, in Gloucestershire. When her father, old Mr Parry, Justin Parry, died, the house went to her brother, Herbert. A neighbour sees:

A charming woman, Scrope Purvis thought her (knowing her as one does know people who live next door to one in Westminster); a touch of the bird about her, of the jay, blue-green, light, vivacious, though she was over fifty, and grown very white since her illness. (p.2)

Mrs Kilman sees:

her small pink face, her delicate body, her air of freshness and fashion

She thinks of herself as having:

a narrow pea-stick figure; a ridiculous little face, beaked like a bird’s. That she held herself well was true; and had nice hands and feet; and dressed well, considering that she spent little. But often now this body she wore (she stopped to look at a Dutch picture), this body, with all its capacities, seemed nothing — nothing at all. She had the oddest sense of being herself invisible; unseen; unknown… (p.7)

When a wave of depression flows over her at not being invited to Lady Brunton’s, she feels ‘herself suddenly shrivelled, aged, breastless’ (p.26). She is essentially talentless: she has no gift for writing or talking, can’t play the piano, doesn’t follow her husband’s political campaigns, is astonishingly ignorant (she doesn’t know what the equator is) (p.107).

She knew nothing; no language, no history; she scarcely read a book now, except memoirs in bed…

Not that she was striking; not beautiful at all; there was nothing picturesque about her; she never said anything specially clever… (p.66)

She has the frigid anti-passion of her class and gender and especially of her author (I say this having read Victoria Glendinning’s biography of Leonard Woolf which shows that theirs was a sexless marriage, probably never consummated, because Virginia became hysterical every time the subject of sex was even raised, let alone moved towards.) ‘Horrible passion! she thought. Degrading passion!’ Her main activity in life is bringing disparate people together at her parties. She really enjoys doing this and enjoys her life.

In people’s eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June. (p.2)

How unbelievable death was! — that it must end; and no one in the whole world would know how she had loved it all!

Bravo to Woolf for not making her heroine a writer, poet, painter etc but a fairly ordinary upper-middle-class woman with few if any talents. She is therefore (in an admittedly narrow, upper class way) a sort of everywoman.

Task: Clarissa is organising things for a big party she’s hosting that evening.

2. Richard Dalloway

Clarissa’s husband is a conscientious Conservative MP, not top drawer material, never likely to make the Cabinet.

He was a thorough good sort; a bit limited; a bit thick in the head; yes; but a thorough good sort. Whatever he took up he did in the same matter-of-fact sensible way; without a touch of imagination, without a spark of brilliancy, but with the inexplicable niceness of his type. He ought to have been a country gentleman—he was wasted on politics. He was at his best out of doors, with horses and dog… (p.65)

He is invited to luncheon with Lady Bruton, along with their old friend, the pompous Hugh Whitbread.

3. Peter Walsh

Clarissa has known since a boy. He’s six months older than her. He was always unconventional, got kicked out of Oxford for being a Socialist. Back in the 1890s when they were young, he proposed to Clarissa who turned him down. Years later he returns from India (where he’s been for 5 years, 1918 to 1923) and turns up unannounced at the Dalloway house. He is back in London to organise a divorce from his wife because he has fallen in love with a major’s wife, Daisy, aged just 24 i.e. less than half his age. Foolish man.

Task: Walsh has an appointment to see the lawyers Messrs. Hooper and Grateley of Lincoln’s Inn about his divorce.

4. Septimus Warren Smith

The outsider, completely outside the network of Clarissa’s friends and family which mostly dominates the text. Septimus is aged about thirty, pale-faced, beak-nosed, wearing brown shoes and a shabby overcoat. He is a shell-shocked World War One veteran who talks to himself and threatens suicide to his terrified, long-suffering wife Lucrezia.

Task: at noon Septimus and Lucrezia have an appointment with the Harley Street nerve specialist Sir William Bradshaw.

Lucrezia Warren Smith

Long-suffering wife of Septimus. Looks after him all day and shepherds him to the Harley Street appointment, then back to their rented room.

Secondary characters

Sally Seton

Unconventional woman Clarissa fell in love with and kissed back in the 1890s (p.30). And turns up out of the blue at Clarissa’s party. And is changed utterly. Clarissa compares their youthful hijinks with the plump conventional woman she’s become.

She smoked cigars,… she ran down the passage to fetch her sponge bag, without a stitch of clothing on her, and Ellen Atkins asked, ‘What if the gentlemen had met her?’ But everybody forgave her. She stole a chicken from the larder because she was hungry in the night; she smoked cigars in her bedroom; she left a priceless book in the punt. But everybody adored her (except perhaps Papa). It was her warmth; her vitality — she would paint, she would write. Old women in the village never to this day forgot to ask after ‘your friend in the red cloak who seemed so bright.’ She accused Hugh Whitbread, of all people (and there he was, her old friend Hugh, talking to the Portuguese Ambassador), of kissing her in the smoking-room to punish her for saying that women should have votes. Vulgar men did, she said. And Clarissa remembered having to persuade her not to denounce him at family prayers — which she was capable of doing with her daring, her recklessness, her melodramatic love of being the centre of everything and creating scenes, and it was bound, Clarissa used to think, to end in some awful tragedy; her death; her martyrdom; instead of which she had married, quite unexpectedly, a bald man with a large buttonhole who owned, it was said, cotton mills at Manchester. And she had five boys! (p.161)

Aunt Helena

Old Mr Parry’s sister, so Clarissa’s aunt (p.28), now in her 80s and with one glass eye. A great traveller in India in the 1860s and a keen watercolorist of rare orchids (p.158).

Tertiary characters

Scrope Purvis – neighbour in Westminster.

Sir John Buckhurst – venerable judge, caught up in the traffic jam in Brook Street (p.13).

Dr Holmes – physician to Septimus Smith who insists there’s nothing physically wrong with him.

Large, fresh coloured, handsome, flicking his boots, looking in the glass, he brushed it all aside — headaches, sleeplessness, fears, dreams — nerve symptoms and nothing more, he said.

(Compare and contrast the physician who shows up to pronounce Leonard Bast dead at the end of E.M. Forster’s novel Howards End, and the useless doctor who misdiagnoses the daughter with terrible consequences in D.H. Lawrence’s story England, My England. Doctors generally get a bad rap in the fiction of this period.)

Mr Brewer – managing clerk at Sibleys and Arrowsmiths, auctioneers, valuers, land and estate agents, Septimus’s boss.

Lady Millicent Bruton – invites Richard Dalloway to lunch, but not Clarissa, upsetting her.

Miss Milly Brush (40) – Lady Bruton’s secretary, ‘knobbed, scraped, angular, and entirely without feminine charm’ (p.90).

Perkins – Lady Bruton’s servant (?) (p.91).

Miss Pym shop assistant at Mulberry’s the florists, hands always red (p.9).

Edgar J. Watkiss, a workman carrying a roll of lead piping round his arm (p.11).

Mrs Sarah Bletchley with her baby in her arms.

Mrs Emily Coates – passerby in Pall Mall.

Mr Bowley – appears in Jacob’s Room.

Maisie Johnson – freshly arrived from Edinburgh, encounters Septimus and Lucrezia in Regents Park.

Mrs. Dempster – worn-out old lady in Regents Park observes Maisie’s interaction with the Smiths.

The unknown young woman who Peter spots in Trafalgar Square, is suddenly infatuated with and follows north till she disappears into a house in Bloomsbury, leaving him feeling deflated.

The elderly nurse with a pram in Regent’s Park, sat knitting on the bench where Peter comes to rest and falls asleep.

Miss Isobel Pole – lectures about Shakespeare, Septimus attended and developed a crush on her, wrote her letters and poems and stalked her.

Mrs Filmer – older woman living in same boarding house as Septimus and Lucrezia.

Agnes the serving girl in the Smiths’ boarding house.

Sir William Bradshaw – Harley Street physician, calm recommender of a sense of proportion (p.87).

Lady William Bradshaw – wife, fusses about her son at Eton and her hobbies, namely:

Large dinner-parties every Thursday night to the profession; an occasional bazaar to be opened; Royalty greeted; too little time, alas, with her husband, whose work grew and grew; a boy doing well at Eton; she would have liked a daughter too; interests she had, however, in plenty; child welfare; the after-care of the epileptic, and photography… (p.80)

Doris Kilman – Kicked out of her school for her German ancestry during the war, Richard came across Miss Kilman and hired her as a history tutor for Elizabeth. Over 40, embarrassingly poor, ‘heavy, ugly, commonplace’, she had a mighty religious conversion 2 years and 3 months ago (109). Now when she comes Clarissa isn’t sure how much of their time is history and how much is religious zeal.

Rev. Edward Whittaker whose sermon converted Miss Kilman.

Mr Fletcher – retired, of the Treasury, ‘neat as a new pin’, worshipper in Westminster Abbey

Mrs Gorham – widow of the famous K.C., worshipper in Westminster Abbey

Mrs Burgess – a good sort and no chatterbox, who Peter confides in about his affair, advises that while he’s away in England, hopefully Daisy will come to her senses.

Old Joseph Breitkopf – a frequent guest at Bourton who liked singing Brahms but didn’t have any voice.

Events

‘Jacob’s Room’ was divided into 14 distinct chapters. ‘Mrs Dalloway’ doesn’t have any chapters or parts. From time to time there’s just a break in the text, which indicates a new scene or time:

10am

Mrs Dalloway is walking across Green Park towards the florists. She bumps into her old friend Hugh Whitbread. She walks along Piccadilly and into the shop window of Hatchards. She crosses into Bond Street and walks up to her florists, Mulberry’s. A car backfires in the street outside. Various passersby stop and notice. The road is blocked and we meet the shell-shocked war veteran Septimus Smith.

Ripple of excitement among passersby about who is inside the car (which has curtains over its windows), the Prime Minister, the Prince of Wales. The narrative takes us down the Mall to the crowd outside Buckingham Palace including, in Woolf’s usual manner, a clutch of casual bystanders who she bothers to name – shawled Moll Pratt with her flowers on the pavement, Mrs Emily Coates, Sarah Bletchley with babe in arms, little Mr Bowley.

All of them then witness something strange which is an airplane flying low over central London and emitting smoke as if writing letters in the air. In classic modernist confusion nobody can agree what the letters spell.

Cut to: Lucrezia sitting next to her depressed husband Septimus Smith in Regents Park. Her feelings of desperate loneliness now her husband is mad.

Maisie Johnson, a young woman freshly arrived from Edinburgh, asks them the way to Regents Park tube and thinks them a very strange couple. Mrs Dempster who has lunch in the park and feeds the squirrels observes their interaction. The plane eventually flies off, giving a few moments thought to a Mr Bentley mowing his lawn in Greenwich. A seedy-looking nondescript man carrying a leather bag hesitates at the entrance to St. Paul’s Cathedral. Woolf’s novels are packed with these inconsequential moments from random strangers’ lives. In fact she theorises it a bit, attributing this affinity with complete strangers to Clarissa:

Odd affinities she had with people she had never spoken to, some woman in the street, some man behind a counter… (p.135)

Presumably this flitting between snippets of random strangers’ lives was part of the modernism which discombobulated the book’s first readers. All I can say is I took it in my stride and enjoyed this bird’s eye overview of London and random people doing random activities. A hundred years later the technique is thoroughly assimilated.

Clarissa arrives home, discovers her husband has been invited to luncheon with Lady Millicent Bruton, and is jealous. This triggers a wave of memories, her childhood at the family home at Bourton, her wooing by Peter Walsh. But much more she remembers her close friendship with the unconventional Sally Seton which ended with the latter kissing her (p.30).

She is awoken from her revery when the doorbell rings and it’s Peter Walsh, out of the blue. They sit and reminisce. He tells her he’s come back to organise a divorce so he can marry a woman (unfortunately, herself married) Daisy.

Their conversation is just becoming personal, and Clarissa is allowing herself to feel something for this silly loveable man, when the door opens and her daughter, Elizabeth walks in. Walsh had been pacing up and down and now he simply says ‘Goodbye’ and leaves the room, and their densely emotional conversation simply ends.

Reeling, Peter walks along Victoria Street and into Whitehall where he sees a procession of Boy Scouts leaving memorials at the Cenotaph.

11.30am

He is in Trafalgar Square looking at the statues. In a peculiar passage, he sees an attractive woman crossing the road and ends up following her, trailing her, fantasising about starting a completely new life with her, across Piccadilly, up Regents Street, across Oxford Street, up Great Portland Street, and off into a side street where she goes into a house.

The fantasy bursts, and he continues up towards Regents Park, dawdles till he finds a park bench with a nurse sitting on it, knitting, sits down and slowly falls asleep. Starts snoring.

He wakes with a start and painfully remembers the stay at Bourton, in the early 1890s, when he declared his love to Clarissa and she not only rejected him but very visibly fell in love with another guest, simple dashing young Richard Dalloway.

These memories are interrupted when the little girl who’s with the nanny accidentally runs into Lucrezia as she walks miserably with her husband. This takes us into 4 or 5 pages describing Smith’s worsening mental illness, delusions of grandeur (the secrets of the universe), hearing voices, seeing his dead friend Evans in unexpected places.

Peter is now up and walk and walks past the miserable Smiths sitting on their park bench. He is reflecting on the ship journey back to England, being struck that women now openly apply face powder and lipstick, something nobody did in his day.

He remembers how much he dislikes Clarissa’s old friend Hugh Whitbread, an utterly conventional pompous ass who married the Right Honourable Evelyn someone and has a post at Court; how conventional Richard Dalloway is; his disapproval of Shakespeare’s Sonnets for being disreputable etc. How much he still likes Clarissa, her sense of life and comedy, her sense of duty, always running round helping people; how, now into his 50s, he just doesn’t need people any more.

Exiting the Park he hears and sees an ancient crone singing for money. She is a kind of pivot because we also see her through Lucrezia’s eyes and the narrative switches to describing Lucrezia’s story, how she met Septimus. He had fallen in love with the lecturer in Shakespeare, Miss Isabel Pole, working at Sibleys and Arrowsmiths, auctioneers, valuers, land and estate agents. He was one of the first to volunteer and served the full four years. He became very close to his officer, Evans, who was killed just before the Armistice. Now he hears Evans talking to him from behind trees and park benches.

The end of the war found Septimus in Milan, billetted with an innkeeper whose two daughters made hats. Lucrezia was the younger. They fell in love and married and came back to London, took rooms in Tottenham Court Road, and Septimus slowly became more (mentally) ill. He talks openly about killing himself and wonders how to do it most effectively.

Twelve noon (p.82)

The sound of Big Ben (which, I realise, tolls through the book on the hour, every hour). Septimus and Lucrezia have an appointment with Sir William Bradshaw, nerve specialist, in Harley Street. Woolf mocks Bradshaw and his pathetically inadequate advice to Septimus to cultivate a proper sense of ‘proportion’. To achieve this, Bradshaw says he’ll arrange for Septimus to be sent to a rest home, a care home (nobody uses the word asylum). Although presented sweetly, this obviously has a coercive element and leads onto a peculiar couple of pages where Woolf claims that, the (pathetically inadequate) concept of ‘proportion’ is accompanied by a ‘sister’ concept, ‘Conversion’. This is obscure but seems to refer to compulsion, to forcing his patients to acquiesce in his diagnoses, with the implication that he will be forced to go to this home (asylum). This sense of being forced against his will, plays a crucial role in the climax of Septimus’s story.

Like all contemporary physicians, Bradshaw knows nothing about the workings of the brain and central nervous system.

One thirty (p.90)

According to a clock in nearby Oxford Street where is walking Hugh Whitbread, 55, respected holder of a position at Court, ‘unbearably pompous’. He, too, has been invited to luncheon with Lady Bruton and arrives on the doorstep of her house in Brook Street at the same moment as Richard Dalloway.

She talks of this and that and mentions that Peter Walsh is back in England. But it turns out she has invited them both there simply because she needs their help writing a letter to The Times about her hobby horse, encouraging the emigration of the ‘surplus population’ to the colonies, specifically Canada. Hugh is a gluttonous creep in many respects but in this, writing formal letters in the style of the Establishment, he is outstanding and does a great job, developing and refining it at Lady Bruton’s instructions. Then lunch is over and the two men depart.

But a wind is blowing up Brook Street and for some indefinable reason they find it difficult to part and end up together going into a jewellers’s shop where Hugh buys a necklace for his wife, Evelyn. Talk of Peter Walsh has reminded him of his wooing of Clarissa and suddenly he wants to buy her a present. Lacking judgement of jewellery, in the blink of an eye he has bought some red and white roses and strides through Green Park towards their house, intending to give them to her and tell her he loves her.

Scholars think the Dalloways live in Great College Street, Westminster, though this is nowhere made explicit.

3pm (p.103)

Big Ben sounds the hour as Dalloway enters his house, surprising Clarissa. He gives her the roses but can’t quite bring himself to tell her he loves her. He quickly leaves to attend a committee, concerned with Armenian survivors of the genocide though Clarissa, characteristically, can’t remember whether it’s Armenians or Albanians.

Miss Kilman emerges from being cloistered with Elizabeth. She was hired as a history tutor for Elizabeth but during the war had a religious conversion. We get the story of her conversion. Now she and Elizabeth emerge to go shopping. There is a momentary standoff between Clarissa and Miss Kilman which Clarissa ends by laughing. They exit.

3.30pm (p.112)

Clarissa watches the old lady opposite laboriously climb her stairs and thinks that, that is life.

Meanwhile, Mrs Kilman is infuriated beyond measure by the way Mrs Dalloway laughed at her, seething with hatred for her dim, philistine privilege. She and Elizabeth go to the Army and Navy Story (to buy a petticoat) and then have tea and a chocolate eclair. Woolf gives us Miss Kilman’s thoughts which are almost as demented as Septimus’s in her seething anger at being ugly and poor and clumsy.

Miss Kilman goes into Westminster Abbey to share her misery with God and some other sniffling worshippers. Elizabeth, 17, loves being out in the busy streets and takes a bus down the Strand, across into Fleet Street and bravely ventures towards St Paul’s Cathedral, all the way thinking a confused, immature 17-year-old girl’s thoughts about what she might do when she grows up.

The passing backwards and forwards of omnibuses is a link to the Smiths, Septimus lying on the sofa in their lodgings while Lucrezia tries to fix a hat at their table, a hat for Mrs Filmers’ married daughter, Mrs Peters. For half an hour he comes out of his madness and actively helps Rezia design the little hat and she is deliriously happy but then Mrs Filmer’s grand-daughter arrives to deliver the paper, and Rezia gives her a sweet then accompanies her back to her flat, leaving Septimus by himself, and he has tremors of relapse.

When she comes back he suggests she gets out all his mad writings, the letters and poems and diagrams and drawings, and burns them all, but she wants to keep them, sorts them and ties them with string.

At this point the indefatigable Dr Holmes arrives downstairs and Rezia runs down to head him off but he insists on blundering up to see his ‘perfectly well’ patient, which triggers a panic attack. Because Septimus associates the doctors with Sr William’s air of polite coercion, of being confined to an asylum.

So as soon as hears Holmes’s voice, Septimus quickly considers various methods of suicide and, as Dr Holmes enters the room, throws himself out the window and down onto the area railings. So that he is impaled on the railings. Yuk.

What happens next is odd because instead of having hysterics, Rezia is given a sweet drink by the doctor and feels relaxed and has happy visions, presumably a powerful tranquilliser. And it isn’t made clear whether Septimus is dead or badly or lightly injured. Mystery.

The ambulance carrying Septimus whizzes past Peter Walsh out walking and he’s struck by how civilised the notion of the traffic pulling aside to let is pass is, after the chaos of the Orient (i.e. India). Peter reacts a bit deliriously, with a hint of the Woolf madness, which is disguised as his temperamental over-susceptibility.

6pm (p.137)

Peter arrives back at his hotel, a sad sterile place, his mind awash with memories of Clarissa on his many visits to Bourton. He is upset when these fantasies are punctured by a one-line note she’s had sent round which simply says ‘Heavenly to see you!’ So conventional, so middle-aged and disappointing. And he reflects on his affair with Daisy, her mad love for him, his jealousy, the whole thing utterly inappropriate and disreputable, as he gets dressed for Clarissa’s party. No wonder she married Richard.

He goes down to the hotel dining room where he is shy and sits at a table by himself. After dinner he gets into conversation with the Morris family, being old Mr Morris, young Charles Morris, Mrs Morris and Miss Elaine Morris.

Evening falls over the city. Peter realises he’ll go to the party simply because he wants a gossip and to hear the latest talk about the future of India. As night falls the streets light up and fill with lively young people. Peter prides himself at not being at the Oriental Club surrounded by harrumphing old bloaters, but sitting on a cane chair outside his hotel near the Tottenham Court Road enjoying the sense of youth and possibility.

He pays a penny for an evening paper, reads the cricket scores, then leaves it on the table and sets off walking through Bloomsbury, heading south and west to Westminster and a lovely description of people stepping out their houses and into cabs, of windows lighting up, the sound of gramophones through windows on this hot June evening, till he arrives at Clarissa’s house and braces himself.

The servants, Lucy bustling about front of house and Mrs Walker, the very harassed cook and old Mrs Barnett, Ellen Barnett, helping the grand ladies off with their cloaks. Mr Wilkins a sort of butler/announcer, hired specially for parties.

Clarissa is terrified that the party is not going well, people are not mingling, are standing around tutting about the draught (Peter desperately wishes he hadn’t come, he knows nobody). But then more guests arrive and it starts to go. Clarissa stands at the main door to the drawing room greeting them all as they’re announced by Wilkins. Lady Bruton has come and Clarissa is genuinely relieved. Then she is amazed that Sally Seton has gatecrashed, happened to be in London, heard about it etc. She is now Lady Rosseter with five strapping sons!

And then the Prime Minister, an amusingly non-descript little man. Peter Walsh, an outsider from India, is appalled at the snobbery of the English, and then amused to see pompous Hugh Whitbread dancing attendance like a toady. And then he is touched with how old but gracious Clarissa looks in her green dress, effortlessly managing her guests. And there’s pages of her dealing with each of these guests, maybe based on real people (?), certainly an interesting variety.

Coincidentally (it’s a small world; well it’s a big world actually, but fiction is a small world) Sir William Bradshaw arrives, with his wife. He’s the pompously expensive nerve doctor who was so fundamentally useless to Septimus, and who Lucrezia was so relieved to escape. Interestingly, Clarissa once went to him with a problem and had the same experience, being impressed by his tone and dignity, but everso relieved to escape back out onto the street. Lady B explains they are late because they were just leaving when someone rang up Sir William to tell him a sad case of his had just killed himself (p.162).

Aha. So Septimus succeeded in killing himself. I was wondering whether I’d have to look it up on the internet to find out what happened (as I had to Google it to find out what happened at the end of ‘Jacob’s Room’).

News of this death affects her badly and Clarissa withdraws into a little side room. She feels it has a special message, is meant as an act of defiance. (Surely in this we can hear Woolf defending madness and suicidal ideations as something more than just illness, but a rebellion, a defiance, suicide as a kind of treasure).

And Clarissa’s response is to find Sr William somehow, obscurely, evil. When she met him professionally she felt the evil of compulsion in him, forcing his patients at their most vulnerable time. It awakens in her a deep terror:

Then (she had felt it only this morning) there was the terror; the overwhelming incapacity, one’s parents giving it into one’s hands, this life, to be lived to the end, to be walked with serenely; there was in the depths of her heart an awful fear.

Because:

Somehow it was her disaster — her disgrace. It was her punishment… She felt somehow very like him — the young man who had killed himself. She felt glad that he had done it; thrown it away. (p.165)

Mad though this sounds, I know exactly what she means. It feels profoundly true.

Meanwhile Sally and Peter sit together and have a long chat about old times. He is 53, she is 55. This I found very moving because I’m about their age and at parties have sat and talked to friends I met at university when we were 20 and full of dreams and now look at each other, grey and middle-aged and worried about our children. That feeling comes over very well indeed.

And Peter confides that he never got over his love for Clarissa, the rest of his life was a throwing-himself-away. Sally sympathises and insists she comes to stay with him in her huge house in Manchester and meet her husband, a vastly wealthy mine owner who started out a working man himself and brought himself up by his shoestraps.

And they both watch young Elizabeth, looking radiant, walk over to her doting father who tells her how beautiful she is. Sally says she’s getting up to go and talk to them. And then the novel ends on a kind of bombshell, which I shall quote in its entirety. Sally leaves him and:

‘I will come,’ said Peter, but he sat on for a moment. What is this terror? what is this ecstasy? he thought to himself. What is it that fills me with extraordinary excitement?
It is Clarissa, he said.
For there she was.

Nothing will happen between them, we know too much about them to sentimentally think that. But it is like colour in the composition of a painting. It ends on a tremendous upbeat of something we have come to realise is much more potent than love or memory, something much deeper.

It really is about as beautiful and moving as a novel can possibly be.

Thoughts

1. ‘Mrs Dalloway’ is not at all the avant-garde, modernist text I’d been led to believe, but a remarkably conventional, normal novel, easy to read and understand.

2. Mrs Dalloway is a posh, upper-class wife of a Conservative MP, a classic lady who lunches, it’s not clear that she’s ever done a day’s work in her life, just orders around her servants and suppliers. As such she has 0% of my sympathy. My sympathies are always with people who work for a living and not the parasitic upper classes which throng so much classic bourgeois fiction. But not having much sympathy for her doesn’t at all prevent me from appreciating the craft and beauty of the novel.

3. As you know I had a severe abreaction to Jacob’s Room, a book which gave me a powerful sense of mental illness barely controlled. It is symptomatic of this book’s greater sense of control and order that the mental illness is still there but has been channelled into just one character, isolated and delimited, as it were. Still that figure is a major player, the opposite pole to Clarissa, Septimus Smith. Into this character Woolf was able to pour all her demons, the voices talking in her head, and the calm and practical planning how to kill yourself.

The whole world was clamouring: Kill yourself, kill yourself, for our sakes. But why should he kill himself for their sakes? Food was pleasant; the sun hot; and this killing oneself, how does one set about it, with a table knife, uglily, with floods of blood — by sucking a gaspipe? He was too weak; he could scarcely raise his hand. Besides, now that he was quite alone, condemned, deserted, as those who are about to die are alone, there was a luxury in it, an isolation full of sublimity; a freedom which the attached can never know. Holmes had won of course; the brute with the red nostrils had won. But even Holmes himself could not touch this last relic straying on the edge of the world, this outcast, who gazed back at the inhabited regions, who lay, like a drowned sailor, on the shore of the world.

A note in the Oxford University Press edition of ‘Mrs Dalloway’ tells me that Woolf suffered mental collapses in 1895, 1904 and 1913 to 1915; that she tried to kill herself in 1895 (aged 13) and again in 1913 (aged 31). In 1922 when she felt another attack coming on, she went to see a Harley Street specialist who was, predictably, useless.

So the novel dramatises her two states – being a posh sensitive woman in London, and being mentally ill unto making practical plans to commit suicide – in its two central characters. It is a bipolar book.

And the two halves are brought together in the climactic party in a very complex, moving, disturbing, but sympathetic way, as Clarissa sorts through her complex response to Lady William’s mention of Septimus’s suicide. It is really a wonderfully complex working of a stricken subject and her horrible experiences into a beautiful work of art.


Credit

‘Mrs Dalloway’ by Virginia Woolf was first published by the Hogarth Press in May 1925. References are to the 2004 Vintage paperback edition.

Related links

The Virginia Woolf Society holds a DallowayDay event on the Saturday before or after the third Wednesday in June.

Related reviews

Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime and Other Stories by Oscar Wilde (1891)

This is a collection of four short comedy mystery stories that Oscar Wilde wrote and published in magazines from 1887, before bringing them together in this volume in 1891. They showcase:

  1. Wilde’s favoured milieu and subject i.e. the upperest of the English upper classes
  2. whose conversation is littered with smart, politely cynical banter and witty bons mots
  3. his aptness, given half a chance, to slip into the purplest of purple prose, likely to reference precious jewels and the pink fingers of dawn and the glories of Greece etc
  4. his just-as-frequent tendency to slip into the over-egged tones of Victorian melodrama

1. Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime

This brilliant comic story exemplifies all four aspects of Wilde’s fiction.

1. It is set among the highest of high London Society, opening at a wonderful party being given by Lady Windermere at her London mansion, Bentinck House, which gives Wilde the opportunity to introduce a series of caricatures of the upper classes, but also the ‘straight’ hero of the story, dashing young Lord Savile.

2. The tone of frivolous banter, elegant badinage based on paradox and wit is established right at the start:

‘But surely that is tempting Providence, Gladys.’
‘My dear Duchess, surely Providence can resist temptation by this time.’

‘No one cares about distant relatives nowadays,’ said Lady Windermere. ‘They went out of fashion years ago.’

3. After having his palm read, Lord Arthur wanders the streets of London till dawn, when he encounters carters coming in from the countryside piled high with fruit and veg for Covent Garden:

and the great piles of vegetables looked like masses of jade against the morning sky, like masses of green jade against the pink petals of some marvellous rose. Lord Arthur felt curiously affected, he could not tell why. There was something in the dawn’s delicate loveliness that seemed to him inexpressibly pathetic, and he thought of all the days that break in beauty, and that set in storm…

After several attempts to carry out the pre-destined murder fail, a gloomy Lord Arthur:

wandered down to the Thames Embankment, and sat for hours by the river. The moon peered through a mane of tawny clouds, as if it were a lion’s eye, and innumerable stars spangled the hollow vault, like gold dust powdered on a purple dome. Now and then a barge swung out into the turbid stream, and floated away with the tide, and the railway signals changed from green to scarlet as the trains ran shrieking across the bridge. After some time, twelve o’clock boomed from the tall tower at Westminster, and at each stroke of the sonorous bell the night seemed to tremble. Then the railway lights went out, one solitary lamp left gleaming like a large ruby on a giant mast, and the roar of the city became fainter.

At two o’clock he got up, and strolled towards Blackfriars. How unreal everything looked! How like a strange dream! The houses on the other side of the river seemed built out of darkness. One would have said that silver and shadow had fashioned the world anew. The huge dome of St. Paul’s loomed like a bubble through the dusky air.

Like a painting by Whistler, isn’t it? If only London was actually like that.

And then there’s Wilde’s tendency to reference all things Greek as a marker of beauty. Here’s a description of Sybil Merton:

The small, exquisitely-shaped head drooped slightly to one side, as though the thin, reed-like throat could hardly bear the burden of so much beauty; the lips were slightly parted, and seemed made for sweet music; and all the tender purity of girlhood looked out in wonder from the dreaming eyes. With her soft, clinging dress of crêpe-de-chine, and her large leaf-shaped fan, she looked like one of those delicate little figures men find in the olive-woods near Tanagra*; and there was a touch of Greek grace in her pose and attitude.

4. And closely related to the passages about rose-coloured dawn are the equal and opposite passages of over-ripe melodrama which thrill themselves with big words like Murder and Horror and Fate and Destiny and Doom!

Looking at him, one would have said that Nemesis had stolen the shield of Pallas, and shown him the Gorgon’s head. He seemed turned to stone, and his face was like marble in its melancholy. He had lived the delicate and luxurious life of a young man of birth and fortune, a life exquisite in its freedom from sordid care, its beautiful boyish insouciance; and now for the first time he became conscious of the terrible mystery of Destiny, of the awful meaning of Doom.

The plot

As to the plot: Lord Arthur Savile is a young, rich man about town (‘he was very wealthy himself, having come into all Lord Rugby’s property when he came of age’). He is engaged to the fragrant Sybil Merton. At Lady Windermere’s party he has his palm read by her latest discovery, a cheiromantist, a short, fat, sickly man named Septimus Podgers. (Wilde’s astonishing snobbery is on such open display that many readers fail to even notice it.)

It was Mr. Podgers, the cheiromantist! No one could mistake the fat, flabby face, the gold-rimmed spectacles, the sickly feeble smile, the sensual mouth.

Stunned by what he hears he stumbles out of the party and spends the night’s wandering the streets of London in horror, for Mr Podgers has predicted that Lord Savile will commit a murder!!

The joke, the comic conceit of the whole story, is that Lord Savile is made to (ironically) decide it is his Duty to commit this murder and so get it out of the way before he can marry his fiancée. It is a suave and satirical inversion of what most people would regard as their ‘duty’, characteristic of Wilde’s love of inverting conventional values or sentiments:

Many men in his position would have preferred the primrose path of dalliance to the steep heights of duty; but Lord Arthur was too conscientious to set pleasure above principle…he recognised none the less clearly where his duty lay, and was fully conscious of the fact that he had no right to marry until he had committed the murder…For a moment he had a natural repugnance against what he was asked to do, but it soon passed away. His heart told him that it was not a sin, but a sacrifice; his reason reminded him that there was no other course open…and he felt no hesitation about doing his duty.

Since Duty compels him to murder someone he sets to the task with energy and makes a list of possible victims:

He accordingly made out a list of his friends and relatives on a sheet of notepaper, and after careful consideration, decided in favour of Lady Clementina Beauchamp, a dear old lady who lived in Curzon Street, and was his own second cousin by his mother’s side.

From this point onwards the text revels in the multiple paradoxes thrown up by a charming gentleman having decided that Duty obliges him to murder a relative. For example, he disdains to do it by hand, being both a gentleman but also wishing to avoid the publicity attendant on such an act, and definitely not wanting to be lionised at one of Lady Windermere’s parties.

So he consults some textbooks on poison at his club then strolls down St James’s to a famous chemists who he easily persuades to make a pill of aconitine, a strong poison, claiming it is to put down a dog with rabies. Then he visits Lady Clem and gives her the pill as a gift, contained in a charming silver bonbonierre, claiming it will cure her heartburn. She is touched and promises to take it next time she has an attack.

Proud of having done his duty, Lord Savile goes abroad till Lady Clem dies, holidaying with his brother Lord Surbiton in Venice (of which Wilde takes the time to show off his knowledge, specifically of the top hotels and restaurants).

When he gets news that Lady Clem has died he feels the warmth and pride of a man who has Done His Duty and returns to London to resume his engagement to Sybil. Lady Clem has left Lord Savile her house in Curzon Street and, when he is clearing it out along with Sybil, she comes across the bonbonniere! Disaster! Lady Clem died a natural death, he did not murder her at all! He is back to square one in his plan to fulfil Mr Podgers’ prediction.

Recovering from his bitter disappointment, Lord Arthur determines to act like a man and so decides to blow up his uncle, the Dean of Chichester. He goes to see a Russian he’s met, a Count who’s over here researching Peter the Great’s spell in England, who writes him a letter of introduction to a famous bomb maker who specialises in making explosive clocks. The comedy derives from the extreme politeness and formality of the conversation between the lord and the bomb-maker.

‘The clock is intended for the Dean of Chichester.’
‘Dear me! I had no idea that you felt so strongly about religion, Lord Arthur. Few young men do nowadays.’
‘I am afraid you overrate me, Herr Winckelkopf,’ said Lord Arthur, blushing. ‘The fact is, I really know nothing about theology.’

Arthur duly sends an ornate clock containing a timed bomb to his uncle (anonymously, of course) but then hears nothing on the day it’s due to go off and a few days later his mother receives a letter from the Dean’s daughter describing the funny little present they’d been sent which gave a funny fizzing then a little pop, prompting the statue of freedom on its top to fall off and break its nose in the fireplace. So much for explosives!

A note on Ian Small’s annotations

I read the stories in the Penguin Complete Short Fiction volume, which is edited by Ian Small. Unlike the feminist academic who edited the OUP’s edition of the Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, Small doesn’t take every opportunity to tick off his author for being a member of the patriarchy who erases female presence, or scold his male readers for their toxic masculinity, which is a refreshing change.

Instead, Small writes a sensible introduction which places Wilde’s shorter fiction in the overall context of his career, and his notes are lovely: he chooses just the right words and phrases to annotate and the notes themselves are useful and informative. He is particularly illuminating about recurring themes of Wilde’s; for example, the minor detail that Wilde repeatedly has his characters mock American novels. In other notes he points out that:

Names

Wilde had to be careful about names so as to avoid libel; this meant he often recycled fictional names, most obviously in Lord Savile’s Crime which a) features a Lady Windermere, later to be used as the central character of the play, and b) names the protagonist’s fiancée Sybil, just like the fiancée in Dorian Gray.

Jokes

Wilde recycles not just names but jokes, one liners from these stories reappearing in the plays.

Cosmopolitan

Late-Victorian High Society was characterised by easy movement between the worlds of high politics, high society, the arts and so on, something any reader of the fiction of the period notices.

The geography of London

was highly meaningful in Wilde’s fiction: the kind of High Society Wilde depicts lived in Mayfair or St James’s (Lord Savile lives in Belgrave Square, Sybil lives at her father’s house in Park Lane): all other parts of London were less high class and carried meanings, thus Bayswater was a newly built neighbourhood aimed at the new middle classes, Soho was associated with prostitution, the East End was universally associated not just with poverty but with violent crime and even, down at the waterfront docks, drugs i.e. opium dens set up by Chinese sailors.

Meals

In the same spirit, meals are an important indicator of class in Wilde: for Lord Arthur ‘tea’ denotes high tea, taken at 4pm and consisting of tea and, maybe, cucumber sandwiches; he humorously turns down an invitation from some Russian anarchists to a meat tea, which, as the name suggests, involved cold or hot meat and was a much more lower class habit.

The Morning Post

The Times may have been the British Empire’s newspaper of record, but the Morning Post contained all the Society gossip and so was the newspaper most of Wilde’s characters read, in order to read about themselves, their parties and their affairs; it features in Lord Arthur Savile and the Sphinx.

Cigarettes

Smoking cigarettes was a marker of modern ‘decadence’: smart young men and ‘fast’ women smoked cigarettes, by contrast with their parents who didn’t smoke at all, or reassuring uncles who smoked trusty old pipes:

After breakfast [Lord Arthur] flung himself down on a divan, and lit a cigarette.

The telephone

Incidentally, speaking of ‘modern’ I was struck that Lord Savile telephones to his stables to have his hansom prepared; impressively hi-tech for 1887.

Russian revolutionary politics

A hot topic in the 1880s; Wilde dealt with the subject at length twice, once in his essay on The Soul of Man Under Socialism which takes as its starting point the writings of the Russian anarchist Peter Kropotkin; and once in his early and unsuccessful play, Vera or the Nihilists (premiered New York 1883) which is entirely about Russian revolutionaries.

The French revolution

was in the news because of its centenary in 1889, to commemorate which France had just sent the United States the Statue of Liberty.

Tanagra

Small explains the reference to Tanagra in the passage about Sybil Merton by explaining that in the last decades of the 19th century small and beautifully proportioned statuettes from the 4th and 3rd centuries BC were found at Tanagra, a village in Greece.

2. The Canterville Ghost

A brilliant comedy ghost story, it is also about the contrast and/or culture war between Americans and English, specifically American millionaires buying up Britain. In this case it’s the American Minister, Hiram B. Otis, who buys Canterville Chase, ancestral home of the Canterville family. Lord Canterville warns him about the family ghost to which Otis replies with American can-do confidence aka money:

‘My Lord…I come from a modern country, where we have everything that money can buy; and with all our spry young fellows painting the Old World red, and carrying off your best actresses and prima-donnas, I reckon that if there were such a thing as a ghost in Europe, we’d have it at home in a very short time in one of our public museums, or on the road as a show.’

Ian Small has a useful note pointing out that Americans are in several places in Wilde’s writing described as ‘natural’ or ‘painfully natural’, by contrast with the fastidious European super-sophistication which he thinks of himself as representing.

Mrs. Otis, who, as Miss Lucretia R. Tappan, of West 53rd Street, had been a celebrated New York belle, was now a very handsome, middle-aged woman, with fine eyes, and a superb profile. Many American ladies on leaving their native land adopt an appearance of chronic ill-health, under the impression that it is a form of European refinement, but Mrs. Otis had never fallen into this error. She had a magnificent constitution, and a really wonderful amount of animal spirits.

So it’s a story of other-worldly spirits versus animal spirits. So Mrs and Mrs Otis, their eldest son Washington, 15-year-old Miss Virginia E. Otis and the twin boys catch a train to Ascot, are transported the seven miles to Canterville on a waggonette and are received by the family housekeeper, the lugubrious Mrs Umney, who they have agreed to keep on.

The animal spirits are almost immediately on display as Mrs Umney points out in a solemn whisper the patch of red on the library carpet which is:

the blood of Lady Eleanore de Canterville, who was murdered on that very spot by her own husband, Sir Simon de Canterville, in 1575.

Taking no nonsense Mr Otis whips out a stick of Pinkerton’s Champion Stain Remover and Paragon Detergent and after a few moments of hard rubbing, has completely removed the centuries-old stain. Mrs Umney faints with shock, There is a loud burst of thunder overhead. Mr Otis lights up a long cheroot. The Yanks are here.

But the blood stains keep returning, day after day, despite being cleaned away, despite Mr Otis locking the library door and taking the key to bed with him. A few nights later he is woken by the clanking of chains and opens the door to find a ghost clanking along the hallway. Mr Otis’s phlegmatic response is to ask him to keep the noise down and, indeed, has brought from his beside a bottle of Tammany Rising Sun Lubricator. Outraged, the ghost storms off down the hallway, only to be ambushed at the top of the great oak staircase by the twins who throw a pillow at his head.

The Canterville ghost is outraged. He reviews the great achievements of his career i.e. scaring various housemaids and visiting clergy out of their wits before deciding:

It was quite unbearable…no ghosts in history had ever been treated in this manner. Accordingly, he determined to have vengeance, and remained till daylight in an attitude of deep thought.

But all his attempts to scare the natural Americans fail, even when he decides to emit his ‘celebrated peal of demoniac laughter.’ All that happens is Mrs Otis rushes out into the hall offering him a spoonful of Mr. Dobell’s tincture, which is a great cure for indigestion.

Mortified he makes up his mind to put on a truly terrifying display and Wilde describes his preparations with ironic humour. However, the ghost, dressed to horrify, has barely turned the corner into the Otis family’s sleeping quarters before he spies a truly terrifying sight, turns tail and flees. It is, in fact, a fake ghost knocked up by the incorrigible twins.

Sir Simon is a very conscientious ghost and he is obliged to make certain appearances at certain times and places, so he continues to do so but he finds himself so frightened of the Americans that he willingly uses the Tammany Rising Sun Lubricator to silence his squeaking chains and takes to wearing slippers so as not to wake anyone. In a final attempt to scare the twins, the ghost dresses up in yet another costume and in the middle of the night slowly pushes open their bedroom door – only for a jug full of water balanced on top of the door to fall on his head, giving him a nasty chill.

One afternoon the quiet and soulful daughter, Miss Virginia E. Otis, comes across the ghost alone and sad in the Tapestry Chamber. He doesn’t even try to frighten her but pours out his troubles and woes and she is touched and moved to tears. Isn’t there some escape from this job, she asks. Only if you help me fulfil the prophecy carved in the library window, which is 6 lines of verse effectively saying the ghost can only be saved by a golden girl who gives away her tears.

And the ghost takes Virginia through a secret passage in the wood panelling. With the result that she is late for dinner and then doesn’t appear all evening. Increasingly worried, Mr Otis remembers he gave some gypsies permission to camp on his land. When they go to check the gypsy camp they find it hurriedly vacated and this triggers them sending telegrams to all the local police offices and riding to Ascot station to ask the stationmaster to send messages all along the line asking if a 15-year-old American girl has been seen.

All a wild goose-chase, because later that night with a crash and bang Virginia emerges from the secret panelling to the huge relief of her family (and her young boyfriend, the little Duke of Cheshire). She explains that the ghost is well and truly dead, that he repented his sins, and that she wept for him and that saved his soul. Now all that remains is a skeleton in a secret dungeon.

The final section of the story describes the grand formal burial of Sir Simon’s skeleton in the Canterville plot, and the discussion between Otis and the Lord about who should have ownership of the casket of jewels the ghost gave to Virginia. Lord Canterville insists it is here. And so she wears them at her wedding to the young Duke of Cheshire and when the happy couple are presented to Queen Victoria in 1890.

Commentary

The central gag is drawn out, namely the notion that the ghost does its best to scare the Yanks who remain perfectly indifferent and only promote wonderful American products. This scene or motif is repeated about six times, the essential repetition of the ghost’s attempts and the Americans’ debunking of it concealed by the brio with which Wilde comes up with identities and disguises which the ghost adopts.

The end passages become sentimental. Young Virginia really is close to becoming an angel. And when she attributes the ghost’s ultimate atonement and salvation, nobody questions her.

And then it ends, as almost story ever told, with the happy marriage of Virginia and her Duke. Those damn Yanks, coming over here, stealing our most eligible bachelors. This also is a recurring motif and joke in Wilde’s plays.

3. The Sphinx Without a Secret: an etching

Very short, barely 6 pages in the Penguin edition. Ian Small’s notes tell us that The Sphinx was 1) a nickname Wilde gave to his friend Ada Leverson; 2) was the title of one of his best poems; 3) the sub-title was an example of Wilde’s habit of sub-titling texts or poems in terms of other art forms, generally art or music, very much in the manner of Whistler who called his paintings after genres of music, for example, nocturnes etc.

The plot

The narrator is sitting in a cafe in Paris watching the world go by when he is hailed by Lord Murchison, a good friend from years ago at Oxford. But the man seems anxious and harried. They hail a horse-drawn cab and go to a restaurant in the Bois de Boulogne. After they have eaten, Lord Murchison tells his story.

He shows the narrator a photo of an attractive woman with large vague eyes and wrapped in rich furs. One evening he was walking down Bond Street when he glimpsed a beautiful face in a carriage window. Her beauty haunted him. Next day he walked up and down Rotten Row seeking her, to no avail.

A week later he is dining at Lady Rastail’s when to his utter amazement the woman arrives as a guest and is introduced as Lady Alroy. Murchison takes her into dinner and tries to make conversation, but she is timid, almost anxious. When he mentions having seen her in Bond Street she tells him to hush. He asks if he may pay a call on her next day, she agrees, but when he does so the butler informs him she has gone out. Puzzled, he writes her a letter from his club and she replies agreeing to another meeting, at which she begs him not to write to her at her home.

What the devil is going on? It has the claustrophobic, gnomic secrecy of a Sherlock Holmes story (this story was published in the same year as the first Sherlock Holmes novel, A Study in Scarlet, 1887).

He is taking a short cut between Regent’s Park and Piccadilly when he spots her in a rough quarter of low streets, veiled, hurrying along to the last house in a shabby row and letting herself in with a key. When he calls on her that evening, he explains that he saw her but she refuses to explain her strange behaviour. He had nerved himself to propose marriage, he had become so infatuated by her, but instead finds himself becoming angry and eventually raging at her, before storming out and then going abroad with a friend.

A month later he returns and reads in the Morning Post that she caught a chill at the opera and died. So he goes along to the house he saw her enter; he quizzes the landlady, who simply replies that Lady Alroy had indeed rented the drawing room, liked to arrive wearing a veil and… ‘met someone?’ cries Murchison, anxiously. ‘Not at all,’ the landlady replies. She simply sat and read books and occasionally had tea…

So, back in the present, this is the story he tells the narrator and asks what the devil it all means? The narrator calmly tells him: nothing. She had a fondness for melodrama. She read novels. She liked to fancy herself the heroine of one of them, dress up, slip around the shabbier streets of central London. She was acting in a play of her own devising. There was no secret. She was a sphinx without a secret.

4. The Model Millionaire

A charming little short story about philanthropy and love. It opens with a little flurry of Wildean epigrams. Having read Ian Small’s introduction I now know that Wilde’s texts sometimes actually began as sets of epigrams on a particular topic which he then set out to link together with argumentation or fictional narrative. Thus the painter character pronounces:

Unless one is wealthy there is no use in being a charming fellow.

Romance is the privilege of the rich, not the profession of the unemployed.

The poor should be practical and prosaic.

It is better to have a permanent income than to be fascinating.

After this brief flurry of apothegms, the text settles down to be a sort of fairy story. Young Hughie Erskine is ‘wonderfully good-looking, with his crisp brown hair, his clear-cut profile, and his grey eyes’ but absolutely hopeless at finding a job or a career with the result that he is practically penniless (apart from the two hundred a year that an old aunt allowed him.)

He is in love with Laura Merton, ‘the daughter of a retired Colonel who had lost his temper and his digestion in India’.

They were the handsomest couple in London, and had not a penny-piece between them.

The colonel refuses to consider Hughie as a son-in-law unless he can rustle up £10,000 to support Laura, which he hasn’t the slightest chance of doing. One day Hughie drops in to the home of his friend, Alan Trevor the painter. Alan is painting a beggar, a strikingly picturesque old man.

He was a wizened old man, with a face like wrinkled parchment, and a most piteous expression. Over his shoulders was flung a coarse brown cloak, all tears and tatters; his thick boots were patched and cobbled, and with one hand he leant on a rough stick, while with the other he held out his battered hat for alms.

They discuss painting and Alan says he’ll get 2,000 guineas for his painting. When Alan is called out of the room Hughie is so overcome with pity for the knackered old man that he goes over and gives him the last sovereign in his pocket. The man smiles strangely and says thank you. When Alan returns to the room, Hughie, by now embarrassed at his own generosity, takes his leave.

That evening Hughie bumps into Alan at his club, the Palette Club and they get talking about the old tramp. Alan says he asked lots of questions about Hughie so Alan told him all about his beloved Laura Merton, about the obdurate colonel, the £10,000 requirement and all the rest of it.

It’s only now that Hughie reveals that he slipped the old man a sovereign which prompts Alan to burst out laughing. For ‘the old beggar’ is really Baron Hausberg, the richest man in Europe.

‘He could buy all London to-morrow without overdrawing his account. He has a house in every capital, dines off gold plate, and can prevent Russia going to war when he chooses.’

He asked to be painted in the guise of the poorest of the poor and so Alan, to indulge the whim of a multi-millionaire, lent him a ragged old suit he picked up in Spain. Hughie is mortified to realise what a fool he’s made of himself.

Next morning his servant announces a visitor. Monsieur Gustave Naudin, de la part de M. le Baron Hausberg. Clearly a notary or lawyer, this visitor hands Hughie an envelope containing a cheque for £10,000. His generosity of heart has been rewarded. The story cuts to a swift two-line conclusion. Hughie and Laura are married. Alan Trevor was the best man, and the Baron made a speech at the wedding breakfast. And concludes with a Wildean mot.

‘Millionaire models,’ remarked Alan, ‘are rare enough; but, by Jove, model millionaires are rarer still!’

More Ian Small insights

In his introduction, Ian Small points out that the 1880s saw a great widening of the reading public as a result of 1) new developments in print technology which made printing books and magazines cheaper 2) an explosion in the size of the reading public due to increased education, crystallised by the 1870 Education Act. One of the consequences was a dramatic growth in genre fiction, most notably ghost stories, detective stories and fairy tales. He then shows how Wilde, still desperate to make a living, lost no time in trying at his hand at each of them, fairy tales in the volume titled The Happy Prince, a ghost story in The Canterville Ghost, a murder story in Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime.

Parody

But what is immediately obvious is that Wilde tried his hand at all these genres in the form of parodies. He elegantly inverts the fictional values associated with each genre. Thus the fairy tales are not very reassuring and tend to highlight people’s greed. The ghost in Canterville completely fails to scare the Americans. The murder in Savile is not committed at the start of the story, but forms the ironically logical conclusion of the story.

Small thinks the stories ‘subvert’ Victorian morality but that’s not quite right. At the end of Savile and Millionaire the young lovers get happily married. In Canterville the only sensitive, imaginative member of the Otis family saves the soul of a sinner and reconciles him with God. In Millionaire a spontaneous act of kindness is handsomely rewarded. Surely nothing could be more conventional or piously Victorian than these outcomes?

Inversion of values

It’s more accurate to say that the journeys to these conclusions are unorthodox. They turn the conventions of their genres, especially Canterville and Savile, on their heads. Not only that but the inversion tends to be at the expense of social values. In Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime the joke is that Arthur feels duty bound to commit the murder the cheiromancer has predicted for the sake of his fiancée. The moral inversion at the centre of the story mocks society’s values. And it foregrounds the conflict between Morality and Social Convention which is a, arguably the, central theme of Wilde’s works.

Disguise

Parody of genres and inversion of social values are joined by a third recurring theme, which is disguise and concealment. This is the theme of the two short and slight stories in the volume. In Sphinx Lady Alroy maintains a secret, wears a veil, whips up an air of melodrama around herself, which turns out to be utterly baseless and empty. It is not the ‘secret’ that matters: there is no secret; it is the performance, it is the play-acting which matters, which gives her her identity.

Millionaire is a lesser example, although it still centres on the figure of a fabulously rich multi-millionaire masquerading as a homeless beggar. Putting the actual plots to one side for a moment, both stories share the same fundamental structure whereby the majority of the narrative is driven by a subterfuge, a disguise and a bit of play-acting, which is then revealed.


Related links

Oscar Wilde reviews

The short stories of Arthur Conan Doyle

Arthur Conan Doyle (1859 to 1930) wrote some hundred and twenty short stories, excluding the 56 Sherlock Holmes stories and the 17 or so Brigadier Gerard stories. The excellent Société Sherlock Holmes de France website estimates the total number of all Conan Doyle’s fictions as 239, for he also wrote some 20 short novels. His first story was published when he was 20, the last when he was 70.

For boys

The overall affect is rip-roaring adventures for boys. None of them are really for adults, none of them have much psychology, much interiority, and the plots – though superficially gripping – are all wound up in a brisk few final paras. They anticipate hundreds of adventure movies and comics and graphic novels. They are short and punchy and great fun.

Reassuring

Even the horror and science fiction stories, though they ostensibly deal with the bizarre and grotesque, are ultimately reassuring because there is never any doubt as to the good sense and decency of the narrator(s). It is always a man and he is always soundly for the Empire and the natural fair play of the British, innately superior to all other nations and divinely ordained to rule vast tracts of the world and over their occasionally troublesome natives (and, quite often, over the great unwashed back here in Blighty).

Many of the stories exemplify that specially British sense of justice and fairmindedness which, in the mind of Imperialists, justified, indeed demanded, our Imperial role and which, similarly, justified the existence of a landed aristocracy with its Justices of the Peace, Lord Lieutenants and whatnot.

(For a thorough depiction of this deeply conservative worldview see my review of Andrew Young’s biography of Lord Salisbury, Prime Minister 1886 to 1892 and 1895 to 1902.)

G.M. Young, historian of the Victorian era, writes about ‘the most precious element in Victorian civilisation, its robust and masculine sanity’, and Conan Doyle is a kind of quintessence of this, a charmingly unreflective, unquestioning, untroubled supporter of everything British.

Conan Doyle comes over as everyone’s favourite uncle, full of rattling good stories and anecdotes – but nobody for a minute takes any of his opinions seriously. He is Mr Chips.

Magazines

The stories were written for money to be published in the impressively wide variety of magazines which flourished in the 1890s. They were reprinted in numerous subsequent collections. One of the collections was titled Round the Fire Stories and that perfectly captures the Boy Scout ambience of so many of them.

The 1880s and 90s were a golden age of little magazines, created to feed the appetite of the middle and lower classes who had been taught to read as a result of the 1870 Education Act and its sequels, who, due to the wealth-creating effect of the Second Industrial Revolution, increasingly had the means to buy cheap titles.

Conan Doyle’s most effective outlet was the Strand magazine (established 1891), packed with articles, news and stories by leading writers of the day, all for the bargain price of one shilling in which he continued to publish to the end of his career.

These magazines demanded sensational storylines, glamorous protagonists, short, sharp doses of the mysterious, the macabre, the haunting or the humorous, and this well-defined format and sensation-seeking audience should be kept in mind when reading Conan Doyle’s stories.

Themes

Patriotism

‘I do not go so far as to say that the English are more honest than any other nation, but I have found them more expensive to buy.’ (The Lost Special)

‘He was a villain, but he was a Briton!’ said the captain, at last. ‘He lived like a dog, but, by God, he died like a man!’ (The Slapping Sal)

No more striking example could be given of the long arm and steel hand of the British law than that within a few months this mixed crew, Sclavonian, negro, Manila men, Norwegian, Turk and Frenchman, gathered on the shore of the distant Argentine, were all brought face to face at the Central Criminal Court in the heart of London town. (The Tragedy of Flowery Land)

The British Empire

The colonies, especially Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, are the playground of white men – the justification of the Empire goes without saying i.e. that native peoples should have their land taken and their goods stolen doesn’t occur. See Doyle’s good-humoured and open-handed pamphlets justifying the Second Boer War, which simply don’t consider the possibility that the British might have been motivated solely by power politics and greed. In The Green Flag even mutinous Irish republicans, when faced with the fuzzy wuzzies, turn out to be the stoutest defenders of the British Empire.

London

‘…now gradually overtaken and surrounded by the red brick tentacles of the London octopus.’

London is always growing, throwing out ever-expanding avenues of redbrick terraces. The ones so many of us still live in to this day.

Women

Chivalry is the way the patriarchy, men, reassured themselves that they deserved to be in charge, that it was OK to keep women in powerless subjugation. Chivalry was men’s reply to women demanding the vote or control of their own lives: look, we defer to you in everything sweet ladies, why on earth would you need the vote?

‘Ladies are in danger of losing their privileges when they usurp the place of the other sex. They cannot claim both.’ (Doctors of Hoyland)

Women in Conan Doyle are tall, stately, and the most beautiful woman in England. Defending their ‘honour’ is the motivation for quite a few of the stories.

Diamonds

Diamonds seem to be the treasure and currency of choice, the bigger the better, and feature in his very first story, The Mystery of Sasassa Valley as well as The Stone of Boxman’s Drift, Our Midnight Visitor, The Club-Footed Grocer.

Comedy

A constant throughout is Conan Doyle’s bluff good humour. Rising to overt comedy in the GP reminiscences and Brigadier Gerard stories, or just lying low, purring in the background. Constantly, pervasively there is his confidence and solidity, as ubiquitous as his splendid Edwardian moustache.

Crime

Crime of the most sensational and puzzling sort, of course, for example, The Story of the Lost Special or The Story of the Lost Watches.

Sensation

The stories were published in popular magazines which often contained sensational news or features. The stories take this tone from their surroundings. Nothing is subtle or underplayed. Everything is the most sensational scandal in London or England or the world.

Stanniford, the banker! I remembered the name at once. His flight from the country some seven years before had been one of the scandals and sensations of the time. (The Sealed Room)

Such was the position of affairs when, upon the evening of Monday, June 21st, there came a fresh development which changed what had been a mere village scandal into a tragedy which arrested the attention of the whole nation. (The Black Doctor)

It’s the same breathless sensationalism which characterises the Holmes stories and give them their delightful, thrilling sense of (utterly spurious) importance.

Scandal

Scandal and the fear of scandal is a motivation in these and the Holmes stories to a degree which is hard for us to understand. The reputation of upper middle class people was so important that they were willing to kill or die to preserve it. Just the hint that some misbehaviour in a former life abroad might revisit someone in respectable England causes numerous Conan Doyle protagonists to drop dead of horror. The Jew’s Breastplate is a particularly preposterous example of a story driven by this ludicrous sentiment.

Secret societies

Secret societies flourished in the 1880s and 1890s. They merged in the public mind with terrorist groups such as nihilists, anarchists, Fenians, even the violent suffragettes. They are routinely offered as explanations when some crime, especially a murder, goes unsolved and were so familiar a subject that Conan Doyle can make a comic story about a chemist who is mistakenly invited to give a lecture about dynamite to a group of nihilists.

Murder

Plenty of people get murdered and the murders are horrible and yet, in some difficult-to-define way, romantic and exciting. They upset the characters – but they don’t upset us, because they are so transparently the engines of a rattling good yarn.

Horror

The great horror trope of the pale ghastly face at the window occurs in scores of the stories – Uncle Jeremy’s Household, A Pastoral Horror – and melodramatic horror is one of the commonest emotions: ‘… and she realized, with a thrill of horror, that what she had taken to be a glove was the hand of a man, who was prostrate upon the floor.’

And now I come to that portion of my story which fills me even now with a shuddering horror when I think of it (The Striped Chest)

This could be the epigraph to many of the collected stories.

The 1880s

The Mystery of Sasassa Valley (September 1879)

‘Tell it? Oh, certainly; but it is a longish story and a very strange one; so fill up your glass again, and light another cigar, while I try to reel it off.’

The opening words sets the tone for the entire oeuvre. Jack Turnbull as an old man recalls how he and Lucky Tom Donahue, two young lawyers who packed in study to emigrate to South Africa, took their cue from a native tale of a haunted valley and discovered the weird glowing was given off not by demons but by diamonds!

The American’s Tale (December 1880)

“Deuced rum yarn!” said young Sinclair. Hard core Western redneck Jefferson Adams regales a posh English literary club with a tall tale about a feud in 1870s Arizona between cool Brit called Scott and short-fused Alabama Joe which ends with Joe being eaten alive by a giant Venus flytrap plant!

A Night Among the Nihilists (April 1881)

‘By the way,’ he remarked, as we smoked a cigar over our wine, ‘we should never have known you but for the English labels on your luggage.’

Robinson, a clerk in a corn merchant’s, is sent to Russia to open up trade with a major landowner. There is a mix-up and he is introduced into a secret society of Nihilists and saved just as he is rumbled, when the police burst in!

That Little Square Box (December 1881)

‘Dick was just the man I wanted; kindly and shrewd in his nature, and prompt in his actions, I should have no difficulty in telling him my suspicions, and could rely upon his sound sense to point out the best course to pursue. Since I was a little lad in the second form at Harrow, Dick had been my adviser and protector.’

The narrator is a nervous, solitary, literary type who, when he boards the ship from Boston to London, overhears two foreign men whispering about a secret box and when to set it off, thinks he is hearing anarchist/terrorists. In fact, they are releasing racing pigeons!

The Gully of Bluemansdyke: A True Colonial Story (December 1881)

‘The two men lapsed into silence for some time, moodily staring into the glow of the fire, and pulling at their short clays.’

New Zealand in the 1850s. A posse is formed to hunt down seven men who bushwhacked the young sons of two old-timers. A paean to the rugged spirit of the emigrant colonial trooper. Trooper Braxton and his capture of the Bluemansdyke murderers. The Australia stories are linked.

Bones, The April Fool of Harvey’s Sluice (April 1882)

Comic tale. ‘

Boss, with the keen power of calculation which had made him the finest cricketer at Rugby in his day, had caught the rein immediately below the bit, and clung to it with silent concentration.’

Another tale of derring-do in the New Zealand outback, but lightened with romance and humour, as two English miners, posh John ‘Boss’ Morgan and herculean Abe ‘Bones’ Durton save the life of pretty young Miss Carrie Sinclair who transforms the life of mining shanty Harvey’s Sluice.

‘With these few broken words the strangely assorted friends shook hands and looked lovingly into each other’s eyes.’

Reminiscent of Paint Your Wagon. Climaxes with a big shootout as the pals save Miss Sinclair from bushrangers.

Our Derby Sweepstakes (May 1882)

Two men compete for the hand of the fair Miss Eleanor Montague and decide the winner of the Derby will win her hand. Told in 1st person by Eleanor in an impersonation of a Victorian airhead.

That Veteran (September 1882)

Very amusing. A gentleman on a walking holiday in Wales pulls into an inn where he is regaled with stories of the Crimean War and a soldier’s career by one sergeant Turnbull until his head is swimming and he passes out. The soldier is a fake, a criminal, who has drugged him and stolen his watch.

My Friend the Murderer (December 1882)

A further New Zealand story: the prison doctor narrator (Conan Doyle/Watson) hears the life story of Maloney, the Bluemansdyke murderer who escaped the rope by turning queen’s evidence and had sundry adventures trying to escape revengers as he fled to Australia, England, France and then back to Oz where he finally dies in a bar brawl.

The Captain of the Polestar (January 1883)

‘Being an extract from the singular journal of John McAlister Ray, student of medicine’. He is the doctor on the Polestar which travels unwisely far into the northern, Arctic ice fields, supposedly in search of whales, but in fact driven by the haunted captain Nicholas Craigie who is pursuing the phantom of his murdered sweetheart which flees across the ice.

See an interesting article about the story’s origins in Conan Doyle’s actual Arctic voyage aboard the whaler Hope.

Gentlemanly Joe (March 1883)

The narrator is a young man working at a bank along with four other blue-bloods and the vulgar, jumped-up son of a bookie who they ironically name Gentlemanly Joe. They mercilessly rib him, especially when he falls in love with little Miss Cissy who is in fact engaged to one of them. Then comes the night of the great fire when the Newsome house burns down and it is big strong Gentlemanly Joe who breaks down the door and rescues Miss Cissy. Though she marries her fiancée she and the others will never forget Gentlemanly Joe!

The Winning Shot (July 1883)

A genuinely eerie supernatural story. One Octavius Gaster arrives at a charming upper class household in Dartmoor where Lottie Underwood is due to marry her sweetheart. He casts clouds over the gathering, defends spiritualism, has a newspaper cutting implicating him in black magic, falls in love with Lottie, which leads to a fight with Charley and he is evicted. Then the great shooting match between soldiers at locals where Gaster turns up and, at the climax of the match, appears to make Charley shoot through a phantasm of himself, killing himself. The spookiest thing is that after weeks of delirium Lottie is seen getting into a train with him.

Selecting a Ghost (December 1883)

Comic story told by a preposterously pretentious narrator Mr d’Odd, a successful grocer who has bought a big old house and now wants a ghost to go with it so he asks his brother-in-law in London to find one, resulting in a crook from London coming down and pretending to be a purveyor of ghosts who audition for him as he drinks some magic potion. When he awakes, he has of course been robbed.

The Silver Hatchet (December 1883)

‘On the 3rd of December 1861, Dr. Otto von Hopstein, Regius Professor of Comparative Anatomy of the University of Budapest, and Curator of the Academical Museum, was foully and brutally murdered within a stone-throw of the entrance to the college quadrangle.’

Then another victim is found. Then the friendship of two medical students who stumble across a silver-handled ax and, as he holds it, one goes homicidally mad. They are arrested it and the police inspector handling it also becomes homicidal. It is cursed:

‘Ever evil, never good, Reddened with a loved one’s blood.’

The inclusion of the students makes it seem like the short melodramatic plot of an Austrian operetta.

An Exciting Christmas Eve or, My Lecture on Dynamite (December 1883)

Odd tone of tale about a short bespectacled Herr Doctor Otto von Spee to whom lots of accidents occur, the final one being kidnapped on Christmas Eve to deliver a lecture on gunpowder to a secret, presumably revolutionary, society which climaxes with some sample guncotton being detonated and Dr von Spee escaping.

J. Habakuk Jephson’s Statement (January 1884)

Remarkably powerful fiction which claims to be a true account of what happened on the Marie Celeste (discovered drifting December 1873): the boat is slowly taken over by an evil half-caste – Mr. Septimius Goring – who along with two black sailors murders all the white crew and passengers, steering to a remote African settlement where he lords it over the natives instead of to Portugal. When the natives see the lucky charm an old slave gave him in America their superstitious reverence forces Goring to set Jephson adrift and so be picked up by a passing ship.

The Heiress of Glenmahowley (January 1884)

First person narrative. Bob Elliott and John Vereker are two unsuccessful lawyers marooned in a pub in the west of Ireland, passing the time being unpleasantly racist about the locals when the publican tells them of a local widow who is fabulously wealthy and her beautiful young daughter the heiress. Comedy as both men pretend not to be interested but next day climb over the big spiked wall, tumbling into the ditch and scrambling through briars to try to woo and win the beauty. It is made plain he English narrator is a pompous preening twerp.

The Blood-Stone Tragedy: A Druidical Story (February 1884)

The narrator begins to discuss the recent case of Williams the druid when the other man in the railway carriage says, Hush, don’t mention the word, it might wake my sleeping wife. And then proceeds to tell the story of how his then fiancée got lost in the mountains and fell into the clutches of a maniac who thinks he is a druid and plans to sacrifice her at midnight.

John Barrington Cowles (April 1884)

Longer and more psychologically penetrating than usual: the narrator’s friend falls for an ice cold beauty who is associated with two men who went mad, with cruelty to her dog, with tyranny over her mother, the daughter of a soldier in India who indulged in black magic. She beats a mesmerist at a public lecture and then, at the height of their engagement, she reveals something hideous to John Barrington Cowles. He raves that she is a werewolf. He goes down with brain fever and then is taken by the narrator to the Isle of May to recover. One night with a storm approaching, JBC hears her calling and runs to his death over a cliff.

The Cabman’s Story: the Mysteries of a London ‘Growler’ (May 1884)

A London cabbie tells a few of his colourful experiences like carrying a corpse, and carrying a forger. Nice ventriloquism of the cabbie, similar to My Friend The Murderer.

The Tragedians (August 1884)

Young Mr Barker the narrator enters the happy life of the Latour family in Paris, the widowed Madame, young Rose and brother Henry the would-be actor. In another part of town the famous actor and seducer of women, Lablas, wins at cards and plans the abduction of Rose. Barker and the brothers are walking home late when they encounter Lablas and accomplices abducting Rose. Fight. Broken up with the promise of a duel. And, as Henry had just got the role of Laertes opposite Hamlet, the duel is fought for real onstage in a scene which rises to real intensity and power.

Crabbe’s Practice (December 1884)

Pure comedy as two medical students cook up a fake drowning and electrical resuscitation to boost Crabbe’s practice.

The Man from Archangel (January 1885)

1st person narrator. Lonely young scientist John M’Vittie inherits money and a barren stretch of property in Scotland to which he moves to carry out his obscure experiments. One stormy night a schooner is shipwrecked on the shore and, out of character, he rows out and saves a beautiful young damsel who doesn’t speak English. Days later a tall, brown-faced, red-shirted, leather-booted pirate-type comes snooping claiming the woman is his bride. But she hates him. He and his crew kidnapped her from her wedding.

The Lonely Hampshire Cottage (May 1885)

3rd person. Very moody landlord John Ranter is advised by his doctor to retire and moves to a remote cottage where he beats his wife and is a byword. Then a strange sailor appears, walking to Southampton, in need of a bed for the night. Ranter offers it and slowly unravels that the stranger has struck it rich in California and bears dollars and gold. In the middle of the night he creeps up the stairs to murder him but is caught by the stranger who reveals himself as Ranter’s runaway son.

The Great Keinplatz Experiment (July 1885)

Professor von Baumgarten is an expert on mesmerism and spiritualism and carries out an experiment with his daughter’s fiancé and his student, Fritz von Hartmann, to see if souls leave the body during hypnosis. They do, but re-enter the wrong bodies, the professor’s soul entering the student’s body and vice versa, with hilarious consequences. Played for laughs, this reminded me of a Laurel and Hardy short.

The Parson of Jackman’s Gulch (December 1885)

1853 in this rough mining settlement 150 miles from Ballarat when a pastor arrives and wins over the miners by reading the Bible whenever they blaspheme. His campaign climaxes with the first ever sermon in the back of the pub where he proceeds to lock them in and reveal himself to be the noted bushranger Conky Jim while his partners rob the assay office of its entire haul of gold.

The Fate of the Evangeline (December 1885)

1st person. John Vincent Gibbs reveals the true story behind the loss of the ‘Evangeline’, namely that, rejected in love he had become an anchorite on a remote Scottish island when who should turn up but his erstwhile fiancée, mercenary father and calculating suitor, all of whom he overhears, before swimming out to the yacht Miss Lucy is sleeping aboard, cutting the painter and absconding with her. The schooner is run down in the Irish Sea by a freighter bound for Australia where they make a new life and, ultimately, write this ‘true account’. Quotes the Scotsman quoting Edgar Allen Poe’s detective, C. Auguste Dupin, on the necessity of eliminating the impossible etc.

Touch and Go: A Midshipman’s Story (April 1886)

1st person. It is 1868 and the narrator was a lad of 14 back on the banks of the river Clyde from his first journey as a seaman. He, his sister and cousin fool old Jock their minder and take a sailing boat out for a pleasure run alone and on impulse decide to sail to the mouth of the river where a storm pushes them out into the Irish Sea. Caught in heavy waters they are like to drown when they are rescued by a steam launch, dried and slept and dropped on the beach of the Isle of Man.

Cyprian Overbeck Wells : A Literary Mosaic (December 1886)

1st person. Humorous: the narrator Smith fancies himself a writer and after 10 years a clerk leaves his job to write a masterpiece, decides to read all English literature to give himself a boost: then one night hallucinates a tableful of the great novelists who proceed to tell a story in tag.

Uncle Jeremy’s Household (February 1887)

1st person. Long one. Student Hugh Lawrence goes to Dunklethwaite House in Yorkshire to stay with his friend John Thurston who is staying with old eccentric, poetry-obsessed Uncle Jeremy and the nanny, Miss Warrender, an attractive Indian young woman, orphan of a famous Indian chief, and Uncle J’s amanuensis, the tall creepy Copperthorne. Hugh becomes curious about the troubled relationship between secretary and nanny and puzzled by her sometimes savage demeanour until one night, he overhears their conversation in the greenhouse and discovers she is the daughter of a Thuggee leader, worships a goddess of murder, killed her adopted father’s daughter and the little girl Uncle J had adopted; and now they both plan to murder old Uncle J as the secretary has got himself named in the will. In the end a) Miss Warrender escapes having b) tasked a wandering Indian stranger in the village to murder Copperthorne.

The Stone of Boxman’s Drift (December 1887)

3rd person. The early 1870s in the Vaal valley near Kimberley, South Africa, barren land except for the diamonds and therefore wild prospectors from all over the world.

Headley Dean, with his crisp, neatly-trimmed hair and beard, his quick, glancing eyes, and his nervous, impulsive ways, had something of the Celt, both in his appearance and in his manner. Eager, active, energetic, he gave the impression of a man who must succeed in the world, but who might be a little unscrupulous in his methods of doing so. Big Bill, on the other hand, quiet, unimpressionable, and easy-going, with a sweeping yellow beard and open Saxon countenance, may have had a stronger and deeper nature than his partner, but was inferior to him in fertility of resource, and in decision of character in all the minor matters of life.

A morality tale whereby the Celt comes over selfish and greedy when they find a huge carbuncle. In their struggle it bounces into a bottomless pit. The dim Saxon reveals he had found it earlier and placed it for the Celt to discover, who is then covered in guilt and shame.

John Huxford’s Hiatus (June 1888)

John works in a cork factory in Brisport which is forced to close down by competition from south America. He is offered a job in Canada and leaves his weeping fiancée, promising to write. Within days of arriving he is attacked and beaten over the head in a low dive. He recovers but has amnesia. He rises by hard work to be a rich man and, upon hearing Devon voices down at the docks, suddenly remembers everything. He sails over the sea and is reunited with his sweetheart who has stayed true to him these past seventy years.

The 1890s

The Ring of Thoth (January 1890)

Third person. An Egyptologist in the Louvre stumbles upon a 4,000 year old Egyptian who discovered the secret of eternal life and now is going to end his life in the arms of his mummified love.

A Physiologist’s Wife (September 1890)

3rd person. Social comedy/satire in which cold-hearted rationalist and scientist Professor Ainslie Grey marries one Mrs. O’James. A younger colleague is due to marry his daughter, until he meets the new Mrs Grey and is stunned to realise she is his first wife from Australia who ran off and left him and was drowned in a shipwreck. In fact she didn’t take the boat but came to England to start a new life. Cold rationalist Professor tells them to go be happy and reunited. He dies of a broken heart.

A Pastoral Horror (December 1890)

1st person. Murder in a beautiful Alpine valley. An Englishman awaiting the outcome of a bankruptcy case in England has moved to the isolated village of Laden where he is witness to several gruesome murders of peasants. The one other educated man in the village is the curé, Father Verhagen. So imagine everyone’s horror when it turns out to be him, going insane.

The Surgeon of Gaster Fell (December 1890)

1st person. 1885. James Upperton moves to an isolated cottage on the Yorkshire Moors to study but becomes embroiled with several mysterious people, Miss Cameron, the Italianate beautiful young woman staying in the boarding house he puts up in, and the self-styled surgeon of Gaster Fell who is the only neighbour, who warns him to bolt his door at night and who he sees cruelly mistreating a wizened old man. One stormy night his front door creaks open and a ghastly evil figure is revealed by lightning. Chased off by another man. In the cold light of day it turns out the old man is clinically and violently insane and being ‘cared’ for by his son and daughter, the surgeon and mysterious young lady.

Our Midnight Visitor (February 1891)

1st person. A long atmospheric story set on the small isle of Uffan near Arran. The scenery and mood painted very well in the style of Robert Louis Stevenson. A stranger appears, a wealthy American calling himself Digby, dropped by his yacht who comes to stay with young MacDonald and his bad-tempered father. The narrator’s suspicions mount until a newspaper cutting reveals that Digby is Frenchman who has stolen a fabulous diamond and is on the run.

A Straggler of ’15 (March 1891)

A patriotic portrait of Corporal Gregory Brewster, last survivor of the battle of Waterloo. Superpatriotic and vivid description of working class Chatham. This was turned into a play, as describe in Andrew Lycett’s biography of Doyle.

The Voice of Science (March 1891)

3rd person. Drawing room comedy as Mrs Esdaile’s son Rupert takes advantage of the new ‘phonograph’ to record a message listing the conquests and cheating of his sister Rose’s fiancé, Captain Beesley, who mysteriously runs out the French windows and down the drive never to be seen again.

The Colonel’s Choice (July 1891)

Colonel Bolsover marries young Miss Hilda Thornton despite rumours and the attempt of friends to dissuade him. Several years of happiness follow but then Captain Tresillian appears from India and, in a confrontation scene, he reveals that he and Hilda were engaged but he was penniless. A fire breaks out at Melrose Lodge and the colonel saves his wife then nobly steps into the flames to give her a better life.

A Sordid Affair (November 1891)

A hymn to honest working women. Mrs Raby is trying hard to support her ex-drunk husband by dressmaking. She makes a beautiful dress for a posh client but her husband steals it, pawns it and gets blind drunk, forcing Mrs Raby to spend all her savings buying the original dress from its Bond Street shop in order to keep her promise to her client. Then she recovers her husband from the gutter and takes him home.

Oh, blind, angelic, foolish love of woman! Why should men demand a miracle while you remain upon earth?

A False Start (December 1891)

3rd person. Comedy about young Dr Horace Wilkinson who has several false starts of first patients including the gas man and an impoverished gypsy before he called quite by mistake to the house of the local millionaire. Turns out to be a comedy case of mistaken identity in which Wilkinson shines nobly.

Out of the Running (January 1892)

Pretty young Dolly, farmer’s daughter, has two suitors Adam and Elias and in a number of scenes we meet them and hear her mother’s opinion about which one to take. Dolly thinks it is Adam leaves a dog rose on her window sill every morning and so accepts him. There is an accident with the hayrick which crushes the orphan inarticulate farmhand Bill. Next morning, unable to walk, he crawls to her window to leave another rose sprig and is found there dead. Dolly distraught. Hardy territory.

The Great Brown-Pericord Motor (March 1892)

3rd person. Short, grotesque story of two inventors who fall out over a flying machine they’ve created. They fight and one is killed in the struggle. Pericord attaches Brown’s body to the machine and sends it off out to sea, then goes mad. ‘He walked swiftly down the stair and was quickly reabsorbed into the flood of comfortless clammy humanity which ebbed and flowed along the Strand.’

De Profundis (March 1892)

Strange and gruesome. Starts with a hymn to the British Empire and its insatiable need for British men. Then the tale of John Vansittart a planter from Ceylon who visits the narrator, goes staying with his friends, marries suddenly but just before departing comes down with smallpox. He sails early and is due to be met by his wife and friend at Falmouth; the ship goes on to Madeira and JV appears in a vision to the narrator out of the calm Atlantic waves…

A Regimental Scandal (May 1892)

A tale of our fine men in the Army, specifically rich Major Errington who tries to help Colonel Lovell when his shares crash by cheating against himself at cards – until it is revealed. Far from being a scandal this is a hymn to how jolly decent the British Army is.

A Question of Diplomacy (summer 1892)

Comedy. The Foreign Secretary, laid up with gout, is outwitted by his wife who arranges for his daughter’s fiancé to get a position in Tangiers and for the daughter to accompany him and for them to get married asap, all against the FS’s wishes.

Lot No.249 (September 1892)

At an old Oxford college a fat evil undergraduate has been conducting experiments, bringing a 4,000 year old mummy back to life, and increasingly using it to terrorise his enemies – before a steady young sporting chap steps in and stops it.

Jelland’s Voyage (November 1892)

Henry Jelland and Willy McEvoy get into serious debt in a trading port in Japan, and steal the money from their employer who’s on a long trip. When he unexpectedly returns they steal more money to buy a yacht, which is then pursued by the irate employer until the men shoot themselves but their empty yacht is then carried by storm into the wastes of the Pacific.

The Los Amigos Fiasco (December 1892)

A very short light-hearted comic-horror piece about a town which tries to execute a man with electricity by increasing the voltage, but only succeed in giving him superhuman life.

The Green Flag (June 1893)

The Irish Question:

For Irish regiments have before now been disaffected, and have at a distance looked upon the foe as though he might, in truth, be the friend; but when they have been put face on to him, and when their officers have dashed to the front with a wave and halloo, those rebel hearts have softened and their gallant Celtic blood has boiled with the mad Joy of the fight, until the slower Britons have marvelled that they ever could have doubted the loyalty of their Irish comrades.

In faraway Sudan a British force is overcome by attacking dervishes, the square collapses, things are going badly, when the Republican leader Dennis Connolly unexpectedly rallies the Irish contingent and dies saving the day. Propaganda how even dissidents within rally to the Empire when faced with opponents from without.

The Slapping Sal (August 1893)

An 18th century yarn.

‘He was a villain, but he was a Briton!” said the captain, at last. “He lived like a dog, but, by God, he died like a man!’

A British man o’war is struggling against a more powerful French ship but is saved by the mutineers of another British boat, the Slapping Sal and their fierce leader Hairy Hudson who turned out to be a true Brit.

The Case of Lady Sannox (November 1893)

A dashing surgeon is having an affair with a high society lady, is called late at night to operate on the wife of a Turkish merchant; he horribly disfigures the woman, then it is revealed it is his high-born lover and the merchant her husband who has taken a horrific revenge.

The Lord of Château Noir (July 1894)

During the Franco-Prussian War a French aristocrat terrorises a Prussian officer in vengeance for his dead son.

Round The Red Lamp (1894)

A collection 15 stories themed around medicine, the red lamp being the sign of a GP.

A Medical Document (October 1894)

Three old doctors – a GP, a surgeon and an alienist – sit around discussing eerie cases. There’s passing reference to the way popular fiction uses very rare or vague conditions (‘brain fever’) but rarely actually common diseases (typhoid). And how fiction rarely uses those outbreaks of vice which are so common. I think he’s talking about sex.

Behind the Times (October 1894)

Comic, warm-hearted memoir of an old-fashioned doctor way behind modern scientific times, but with a magical healing touch and bedside manner.

His First Operation (October 1894)

Comic, warm-hearted memoir of a young student attending his first operation and fainting.

The Third Generation (October 1894)

Seasoned Dr Horace Selby is visited by Sir Francis Norton who, it quickly transpires, is infected with syphilis. He explains the taint comes from his hard-living Regency grandfather. He is due to marry the following week. The doctor suggests creating a sudden reason to go abroad and cancel the nuptials. But next morning Dr Selby reads that the noble aristocrat has thrown himself under the wheels of a heavy dray and died, in order to spare the damsel and kill the hereditary taint. True Brit.

Sweethearts (October 1894)

The doctor in a seaside town meets an old man on a bench who wastes and declines over three consecutive days. Finally he reveals it is because he is waiting for his wife, his childhood sweetheart, to return. I wonder whether Conan Doyle’s readers found this sickly sweet, or lapped it up.

The Curse of Eve (October 1894)

The nondescript life of Robert Johnson, gentleman’s outfitter, is turned upside down when his wife begins her labour. He chase all over town for one doctor, and then again for a second opinion. After an all-night vigil, his son is delivered.

Lives had come and lives had gone, but the great machine was still working out its dim and tragic destiny.

The Doctors of Hoyland (October 1894)

Dr James Ripley of Hoyland in Hampshire is astonished when a lady doctor moves to the town. Quickly she establishes herself a practice and ends up treating Ripley himself after he fractures his leg falling from a carriage. His initial sexist resistance to a female doctor is completely overcome by close experience of her ability and he inevitably falls in love with her. Thankfully, Conan Doyle foresees the utter hopelessness of such a resolution and has her remaining devoted to Science, departing for further education in Paris, leaving the country doctor sadder and wiser.

The Surgeon Talks (October 1894)

Like A Medical Document this consists of paragraph-long anecdotes: how they removed the ear from the wrong patient; how most people receive the diagnosis of impending death nobly etc. The woman who hides her cancer form her husband.

‘…Besides, [a doctor] is forced to be a good man. It is impossible for him to be anything else. How can a man spend his whole life in seeing suffering bravely borne and yet remain a hard or a vicious man? It is a noble, generous, kindly profession, and you youngsters have got to see that it remains so.’

The Parasite (December 1894)

‘He has to thank his phlegmatic Saxon temperament for it. I am black and Celtic, and this hag’s clutch is deep in my nerves.’

A Foreign Office Romance (December 1894)

Introduces the figure of the comically garrulous old Frenchman who would mutate into Brigadier Gerard. Here he is named Alphonse Lacour, assistant to the French ambassador who is finalising a treaty with the English Foreign Secretary when a messenger arrives to say the French have handed over Egypt i.e. lost their bargaining power; at which Alphonse kidnaps the messenger and drives him up and down in a carriage reciting the Koran until it is too late, the treaty is signed, and Alphonse flees back to France a national hero.

The Recollections of Captain Wilkie (January 1895)

On a train an experienced doctor carries out some Holmesian analysis of the man sitting opposite. He reveals himself to be a reformed professional thief and recounts a number of his adventures. The collection-of-anecdotes story.

The Three Correspondents (1896)

Incredibly Kiplingey. Three newspaper correspondents riding through the heat of Egypt to join the army. Racial stereotypes:

‘Mortimer was Saxon—slow, conscientious, and deliberate; Scott was Celtic—quick, happy-go-lucky, and brilliant. Mortimer was the more solid, Scott the more attractive. Mortimer was the deeper thinker, Scott the brighter talker.’

And Anerley the nube. They are attacked by four Arabs who they shoot, Anerley is wounded. But it is he who finds the Arabs’ camel and beats his colleagues back to the telegraph station to send a famous despatch to his paper.

Tales of the High Seas: I. The Governor of St. Kitt’s (January 1897)

Set in the early 18th century, time of pirates in the Caribbean and among all the pirates the most feared and savage is Captain Sharkey. Captain Scarrow of the ship Morning Star is told that: a) Sharkey is captured and due to hang next morning, b) ordered to take the governor of St Kitts back to London.

The governor is duly rowed out the next morning and off they set and he proves a jovial guest who can hold his liquor and tell a good yarn. Having crossed the Atlantic to Beachy Head he rips off his disguise to realise that he is Captain Sharkey, who had cut the governor’s throat and stolen his clothes! With his loyal mate he departs on the only seaworthy boat left and Scarrow watches them commandeer a fishing barque and disappear.

Tales of the High Seas: II. The Two Barques (March 1897)

Stephen Craddock, an American Puritan gone bad, volunteers to the governor of Kingston to lead an expedition to trap Sharkey when his boat is reported as drydocked on a remote island, with a similar boat painted to look the same. Doubles. Craddock and crew go hunting for him ashore for several days, then return to their own ship, only to find it is Sharkey’s own Happy Delivery. They imprison him and sail to Kingston where they are greeted as victorious heroes and are about to capture the governor and leading citizens, when heroic Craddock breaks free of his bonds, dives into the sea, and raises the alarm before being shot and drowned by Sharkey.

Tales of the High Seas: III. The Voyage of Copley Banks (May 1897)

Captain Sharkey murdered Copley Banks’s wife and two children. He plans his revenge, hiring a crew of wrong ‘uns and himself becoming a pirate then fast friends with Sharkey before tricking him aboard his ship, tying him to the muzzle of a gun and booby trapping it all with gunpowder. Boom! End of Captain Sharkey.

The Striped Chest (July 1897)

Captain Barclay and mate Allardyce go aboard a Portuguese barque which has foundered in a storm. It is abandoned except for a corpse they find. They carry to portable cargo aboard their ship, including an enormously heavy chest which has a note on saying, Don’t open. The second mate, overcome by greed, is discovered dead with his head cloven in like the corpse on the wreck. As the first mate goes to open it Captain Allardyce pulls him back just as a mechanism springs out to crush his head. This is a genuinely atmospheric and powerful story.

The Fiend of the Cooperage (October 1897)

Mr Meldrum, skipper of the private yacht The Cooperage, puts into an island off Sierra Leone where two Brits are maintaining a trading outpost (compare with Conrad’s An Outcast of the Islands). The nautical terms and atmosphere of the island very well described. But something evil is haunting the island, scaring the negro servants, and stealing away a man every third day… Meldrum and Dr Spelling stay up all night in a tropical thunderstorm to find out what…

The New Catacomb (1898)

Two archaeologists in Rome, one of them a dashing bounder just returned from a failed elopement with an English girl. His colleague takes him at night to a new catacomb then traps him there; for he had loved the girl he had ‘ruined’.

The Confession (January 1898)

She looked down at the grating, and shrank in terror from the sight. A convulsed face was looking out at her, framed in that little square of oak. Two terrible eyes looked out of it—two eyes so full of hungry longing and hopeless despair that all the secret miseries of thirty years flashed into that one glance.

Very short. A Jesuit priest accidentally reunited with his long-lost love who has herself taken the veil, and they bemoan the doomed love affair which separated them.

The Story of the Beetle-Hunter (June 1898)

This and the following stories make a set in the Strand of longish, factual stories about mysterious crimes, Holmes stories without Holmes. An unemployed doctor answers an advert in the Standard and goes for an interview with Lord Linchfield who requires a strong man with a good knowledge of beetles. They go by train to Pangbourne to Delamere Court, home of tall eccentric beetle expert Sir Thomas Rossiter. In the middle of the night Rossiter sneaks into their bedroom and attacks the dummy figure in the bed. They are able to accost him and show that he is subject to mad fits, as his wife had claimed.

The Story of The Man with the Watches (July 1898)

A long puzzle concerning that could almost be a Holmes mystery. A man and lady enter a train to Manchester, having refused to enter a carriage with a bearded man smoking. At Manchester all three are gone, and a young man no-one can account for is found shot dead. The article describes the various theories of police detectives before quoting a long letter form one of the protagonists which explains what happened. It is one of Doyle’s favourite tropes, the ‘revenge from overseas’. A Holmes story without Holmes.

The King of the Foxes (July 1898)

The setting is a crew of old fox hunters telling yarns and one tells the story of Wat Danbury, whose doctor had told him to lay off alcohol before he began hallucinating, who goes an epic hunt, finally being the only rider left as he enters spooky woods to find himself confronted by a monster giant fox, the king of foxes, killing the hounds. He flees home and never touches a drop again.

The Story of The Lost Special (August 1898)

‘It is one of the elementary principles of practical reasoning, that when the impossible has been eliminated the residuum, however improbable, must contain the truth.’

A foreigner hires a special train from Liverpool to Manchester. it never arrives but vanishes into thin air. As in The Man with the Watches the story takes the form of an official report, collating the puzzling crime and then revealing the unriddling solution.

The Story of the Sealed Room (September 1898)

‘It was in the course of one of these aimless rambles that I first met Felix Stanniford, and so led up to what has been the most extraordinary adventure of my lifetime.’

Lawyer sees a young man nearly run over by a cab and helps him into his decayed big house. Discovers his father was the banker who ruined lots of people and disappeared. There is one room sealed shut which the absconded father wrote the son not to open till he was 21. A few months later the young man arrives at that age and the lawyer is present at the unsealing of the door where they find the father’s body, dead these seven years. He committed suicide in shame but didn’t want his poorly wife to know.

The Story of the Black Doctor (October 1898)

Another very detailed and forensic crime mystery which the narrator examines in detail, weighing all the evidence in the mysterious murder of the dark-skinned doctor of Bishop’s Crossing near Liverpool. A Holmes story without Holmes.

The Story of The Club-Footed Grocer (November 1898)

‘With every fresh incident I felt that I was moving in an atmosphere of mystery and peril…’

Stephen is invited by letter to visit his disreputable uncle who used to be a ship’s chandler in Stepney but was attacked and beaten and, when the attacker was gaoled, moved to a remote cottage in the Lake District. Thence Stephen goes to discover the pirate has been released from gaol, gathered his crew and is besieging the uncle. There’s a showdown in which the uncle leaps to his death and the stolen diamonds are – cunningly – discovered to be hidden in his club foot boot heel.

The Brazilian Cat (December 1898)

The protagonist visits his cousin, Everard King, at his country pile where he has housed his large collection of Brazilian flora and fauna, especially the prize exhibit, a huge black puma. Despite warnings from the collector’s wife, the protagonist allows himself to be locked in to the animal’s cage. He manages to survive and when evil Everard returns in the morning it is he and not the protagonist who is killed. And as a result, the protagonist inherits the land, house and title.

The Retirement of Signor Lambert (December 1898)

A grim and sadistic story in which, like The Case of Lady Sannox, a jealous husband arranges the disfigurement of a lover; in this case the strong-minded self-made man Sir William Sparter discovers a letter from his wife to a celebrated tenor, Signor Lambert. He teaches himself about neck anatomy, goes to the tenor’s house, chloroforms him and permanently damages his vocal cords.

A Shadow Before (December 1898)

‘Before’ meaning before the Franco-Prussian War. We are in Ireland, 1870, and City financier (i.e. gambler) John Worlington Doddshorse, ordered by his doctor to treat the stress of incipient bankruptcy, stumbles across the biggest horse fair in the land. He sees two different men in the hotel opening lengthy telegrams which appear to be in code. Then witnesses them paying way over the odds for the horses brought to sale. He telegrams his colleague in the City – sells all French and German stocks – there’s going to be a war.

The Story of The Japanned Box (January 1899)

The old crumbling Thorpe Place in the Malverns in the heart of England, where the narrator goes as tutor to the children of old weathered Sir John Bollamore. He was a hellraiser in his youth but reformed by his sweet wife who died. But the narrator hears a woman’s voice coming from his rooms, and so do the servants. He thinks Sir John a reprobate and hypocrite until he falls asleep in an alcove of the room (ah, that old ruse, like the narrator of The Ring of Thoth) and accidentally sees Sir John open and play a phonograph of his dying wife’s voice.

The Story of The Jew’s Breastplate (February 1899)

Preposterous chauvinist tosh in which a young curator is given responsibility for a museum of antiquities only to receive an anonymous letter warning that it might be burgled. Which it duly is the the urim and thurim breastplate of the ancient Hebrews tampered with. The narrator lies in wait with the young curator and they are astonished to discover it is the eminent archaeologist and former curator, Professor Andreas, who is damaging the breastplate. Why? Because his daughter is in love with a cad who had already stolen the jewels and the former curator is ham-fistedly tying to replace them in order to prevent a ‘scandal’, shame and disgrace.

The Story of B.24 (March 1899)

Cast entirely as a written submission to a court of appeal, it is from a burglar who is tempted to burgle the grand house of Lord Mannering but discovers Lady Mannering waiting to aid and abet him so furious is her hatred of her husband and she then proceeds to stab him to death and blame the burglar.

A True Story of the Tragedy of Flowery Land (March 1899)

Grim unrelenting account of the mutiny of rebellious Malays aboard a British barque, they murder the captain and captain’s brother and first mate and Chinaman, pilot the ship to South America, scuttle it and go ashore. Nonetheless they are betrayed and end up standing in a London court and are hanged.

The Story of the Latin Tutor aka The Usher of Lea House School (April 1899)

The narrator gets a job at a dodgy sounding school in Hampstead and is astonished at the rudeness with which the only other master treats the Head. Things come to a head when he hears them fighting and intrudes, only to discover the repellent master is the Head’s son!

The Story of The Brown Hand (May 1899)

After a successful career in India a surgeon retires to England where he is haunted by the ghost of an Indian whose hand he promised to keep safe after having to amputate it. the hand was lost in a fire. the ghostly Indian searches for it every night. The protagonist goes to a surgeon in the East End and obtains a hand recently amputated from an Indian sailor and returns with it to the country house where the ghostly Indian finds it, politely bows to the surgeon, and departs for ever. Which is why the protagonist is made the surgeon’s heir.

The Croxley Master (October to December 1899)

A long and very persuasive account of a poor but educated doctor’s assistant, starved of funds, who is persuaded to take part in a boxing match against the local champion. If the plot is contrived the writing conveys real atmosphere. Depiction of the mining community reminds me of DH Lawrence whose first novel, The White Peacock, was published only 12 years later.

‘Work was struck at one o’clock at the coal-pits and the iron-works, and the fight was arranged for three. From the Croxley Furnaces, from Wilson’s Coal-pits, from the Heartsease Mine, from the Dodd Mills, from the Leverworth Smelters the workmen came trooping, each with his fox-terrier or his lurcher at his heels. Warped with labour and twisted by toil, bent double by week-long work in the cramped coal galleries or half-blinded with years spent in front of white-hot fluid metal, these men still gilded their harsh and hopeless lives by their devotion to sport. It was their one relief, the only thing which could distract their minds from sordid surroundings, and give them an interest beyond the blackened circle which enclosed them. Literature, art, science, all these things were beyond their horizon; but the race, the football match, the cricket, the fight, these were things which they could understand, which they could speculate upon in advance and comment upon afterwards. Sometimes brutal, sometimes grotesque, the love of sport is still one of the great agencies which make for the happiness of our people. It lies very deeply in the springs of our nature, and when it has been educated out, a higher, more refined nature may be left, but it will not be of that robust British type which has left its mark so deeply on the world. Every one of these raddled workers, slouching with his dog at his heels to see something of the fight, was a true unit of his race.’

The 1900s

The Debut of Bimbashi Joyce (January 1900)

Sent out to command one of the front line garrisons in south Egypt against incursions by the Mahdists, young Joyce is taken in by a wandering Arab who they nearly torture to get him to speak and turns out to be the senior head of intelligence in disguise. They all joke about it over a fine meal then cigars. No irony when Doyle writes that, in riposte to the successes of fanatical Islam, ‘ten years of silent work in Cairo, and then all was ready, and it was time for civilisation to take a trip south once more, travelling as her wont is in an armoured train.’

Playing with Fire (March 1900)

Account of a séance including an artist who had been painting a unicorn. At the height of the séance the ectoplasm forms a unicorn which goes rampaging through the house!

An Impression of the Regency (August 1900)

A brief powerful vignette of the Prince Regent and his gross companions larking about when the mad George III bursts in, lowing like an animal, to appal them all.

The Leather Funnel (1902)

The narrator visits a friend in Paris who suggests objects which have witnessed powerful scenes affect our dreams. As an experiment the narrator sleeps with a battered leather funnel by his bed and has a nightmare of a woman being tried and then beginning a course of water torture. Screaming himself awake, his friend shows the historical documents proving he has witnessed the torture of the Marquise de Brinvilliers, a real historical woman, a poisoner and murder!

There’s a hiatus in my list of Conan Doyle’s short stories between 1902 and 1908, as this is a period when he wrote and published six Brigadier Gerard stories as well as 13 Holmes stories (which I’ve reviewed elsewhere) and two novels, Waterloo and Sir Nigel. Then:

The Pot of Caviare (1908)

Set during the Boxer Rebellion (overlapped with the Boer War 1899 to 1901) in the absurd little legation of Ichau where a handful of white men and woman hold out against the encroaching fanatics. The American professor tells the German colonel about the last time he survived a siege because he was a doctor but he was forced to witness rape and torture. Never again. They both realise the relief column is delayed three days. Almost certainly they will be overrun. The colonel bids the professor put arsenic in the prized caviar. The others think it is a celebration dinner. They all eat it and die but, in is dying moments the professor hears the shots of the relief column which does arrive to save them!

The Silver Mirror (August 1908)

Classic diary format. A boring accountant is set a demanding task of combing 20 big ledgers to find evidence against a forger but, as the work intensifies he begins to feel he is going mad because he starts to see visions in the big old mirror he keeps on his side table. Each night the same scene emerges from a mist, assuming steadily clearer shape and showing some atrocity from remote history…

The Home-Coming (December 1909)

The first of the historical stories. 528 AD in Constantinople. 10 year old Leon is the daughter of the Empress Theodora, her love child who she abandoned at a monastery before rising to become consort to the great Emperor Justinian. When the old Abbot brings Leon to Constantinople the wicked eunuch sees his chance to control the Empress, and she must make a cruel choice…

The Lord of Falconbridge (August 1909)

1818. Tom Cribb has retired from prize fighting to become a publican but his son is in the fancy. A strange woman enters and offers the son £50 to train for a fight. Despite misgivings Tom Spring trains, then is instructed by the woman to catch a stagecoach to Tonbridge where he is taken to a remote country house. Here walks the brutish husband of the mystery woman and it is he she wishes Tom to fight, and so they fight, Tom eventually overcoming the brute. He is abandoned by the fair lady but rescued by the landlord of the pub he change coaches in, a devoted fan of the fancy.

The 1910s

The Terror of Blue John Gap (August 1910)

Dr John Hardcastle is on a rest cure in Derbyshire, and finds out the hard way that local lore about a monster inhabiting a deep ancient cavern is in fact true.

In 1911 Conan Doyle published a collection bringing together a number of historical tales, The Last Galley: Impressions and Tales. His interest in history is stimulating, even if he used the different settings for more or less the same tales of derring-do and romance. In the preface he wrote:

It has seemed to me that there is a region between actual story and actual history which has never been adequately exploited. I could imagine, for example, a work dealing with some great historical epoch, and finding its interest not in the happenings to particular individuals, their adventures and their loves, but in the fascination of the actual facts of history themselves. These facts might be coloured with the glamour which the writer of fiction can give, and fictitious characters and conversations might illustrate them; but none the less the actual drama of history and not the drama of invention should claim the attention of the reader. I have been tempted sometimes to try the effect upon a larger scale; but meanwhile these short sketches, portraying various crises in the story of the human race, are to be judged as experiments in that direction.

Fine words, but what they mean in practice is Doyle selects tableaux from the past which form an improving picture, in which noble sentiments may be vapoured forth. His ‘history’ stories are the equivalent of the luxuriously smug, hyper-realistic paintings of the late Victorian Olympians such as Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Sir Frederick Leighton and Albert Moore. They are pre-Modern in that there is no threat to the narrator’s psyche, to his sturdy Edwardian values. No matter how gruesome or bloody the events described, they are profoundly unthreatening. This is their main selling point and appeal, as it is of the Holmes stories.

The link with contemporary art is also pointed by the way the stories are, mostly, illustrated by fine late-Victorian and Edwardian illustrators who depict a world of tall, manly men and lovely chaste Victorian women, threatened by stunted foreign or working class villains.

The Last Galley (November 1910)

146 BC. Boy scout tableau of the final Phoenician galley returning to Carthage after the fleet has been destroyed by Rome. Watched by Carthaginians from their terrace, one of them has met a strange prophetess in the Land of Tin (Cornwall) who predicted that the Romans would succeed Carthage as Queen of the Sea but that people form her own island would, in time, become rulers of a great empire. It ends with the Romans destroying and sowing salt into the ruins of Carthage, and with the same message as Kipling’s Islanders:

And they understood too late that it is the law of heaven that the world is given to the hardy and to the self-denying, whilst he who would escape the duties of manhood will soon be stripped of the pride, the wealth, and the power, which are the prizes which manhood brings.

Through the Mists I: The Coming of the Huns (November 1910)

Unusually detailed impression of the Christian heresies of the mid-fourth century, the Donatists, Arians and Trinitarians, is the backdrop to a Greek leaving his city to go be a hermit in the mountains beyond the river Dniester where, one day, he witnesses the arrival of the Huns. He kills a Hun who enters his cave then rides in a frenzy to the nearest Roman outpost to warn them.

Through the Mists II: The First Cargo (1910)

A Roman who’s remained behind in Britain writes to one who’s returned to Italy to describe his first meeting with the Saxons who British king Vortigern has invited to come and defend them. There is strong racial stereotyping as the narrator contrasts the strong, practical, democratic Saxons with the weak-minded, impetuous, unwarlike Britons (who will go on to become the Welsh and Cornish).

The Last of the Legions (December 1910)

The last Roman governor receives the order to leave (410) and then, ironically receives a deputation of Britons calling for independence. When they learn that they suddenly are going to become independent the beg the Romans to stay but it is too late. A parable on the various movements demanding independence from the British empire i.e. Ireland, India.

Through the Mists III: The Red Star (January 1911)

630 in Constantinople, three successful merchants reminisce, and one remembers being on a long caravan trail through Arabia when they meet the caravan of Mohammed and his followers and how he stays up all night listening to the charismatic leader. Interesting insight into how 1911 saw the Prophet.

The Contest (March 1911)

A comic story of Nero who set sail to Greece with an army of supporters to compete in singing competitions and is bested by a peasant goatherd who, however, is hustled off by his friends. A canny courtier tells Nero it was none other than the great god Pan in disguise which pleases the megalomaniac.

An Iconoclast (March 1911)

The year 92 in the reign of the Emperor Domitian in Rome. Senator Emilius Flaccus returns from boozing with the emperor to find his priceless statue has been damaged by a fanatical Christian. When the emperor arrives Flaccus decides to show him mercy and release Datus from his chains if he will only pray to the statue. But once again he attacks it, to the emperor’s amusement.

The Blighting of Sharkey (April 1911)

1720. Return to the antihero wicked pirate Jack Sharkey from the three Tales of the High Seas from 1897. The crew are mutinying when a rich merchantman is seen and boarded. They kill all the passengers except a fine Spanish maiden but back in Sharkey’s cabin she strokes them all with her leprous hand. This clinches the crew’s decision to mutiny and they set Sharkey and the girl adrift in an open boat.

Through the Veil (April 1911)

A decent married Scottish man and wife are shown round he recent excavations of a Roman fort and later that night they both dream powerfully that they are participants in the storming of the fort by Picts some 1800 years previously.

Giant Maximin (July 1911)

210 AD. The fate of the eight-foot giant Theckla told in three scenes: who sees the Roman Army marching by and runs down to join it, becoming the bodyguard of the Emperor; 25 years later who is there when the Army mutinies against the emperor Alexander and is unexpectedly proclaimed emperor himself; who fails to cultivate Rome and the politicians and loses the love of the army as it starves, and so is killed by the very legionaries who raised him to the purple.

One Crowded Hour (A Pirate Of The Land) (August 1911)

A light dash of social history. On the Eastbourne-Tunbridge road one Sunday night a masked man holds up three cars, taking the slim pickings of a don’t-you-know posh young chap, of two screechy actresses, and then he assaults a rich man in a big Daimler beating him insensible before stealing everything of value. Next morning the dashed young chap walks into the morning room of Sir Henry Hailworthy, of Walcot Old Place, Deputy-Lieutenant of the county and accuses him of being the highway robber. He admits it. The first two robberies were to disguise the third one, of a loathsome City spiv who diddled him out of his savings. The dashed young chap shakes his hand and agrees to forget about it. The title refers to the poem and the usually staid, respectable Deputy Lord Lieutenant and JP quotes it to express his excitement at pretending to be a highway robber.

Most of 1912 was taken up with the serialisation in the Strand of the great adventure novel, The Lost World.

The Fall of Lord Barrymore (December 1912)

Very entertaining story about London man about town Sir Charles Tregellis during the Regency. His sophisticated nephew appears and promises to do down his rival about town, the thuggish Lord Barrymore. And proceeds to do it. Told with great wit and gusto!

The spring of 1913 was taken up with the serialisation of the novella The Poison Belt.

How It Happened (September 1913)

Haunting short account of a man who is in an early car crash, recalling the lead-up to it and then, in the final sentences, realising he is dead!

Borrowed Scenes (September 1913)

A peculiar squib which seems to be satirising the style and the character of the contemporary author George Borrow.

The Horror of the Heights (November 1913)

Brilliantly gripping account of Captain Joyce-Armstrong, an airman who flies higher than any man before him and discovers the upper atmosphere is inhabited by vast jellyfish-like monsters.

Danger! being the Log of Captain Sirius (July 1914)

A strange and disturbing story. The Captain Sirius works for a ‘small country’ which offends Britain which issues an ultimatum. He persuades his king to let him take his eight submarines and destroy British merchant navy, thus starving her. Predicts German tactics in both World Wars – but why was it published within days of the Great War breaking out?

As the Great War began, for September 1914 to May 1915, Conan Doyle was serialising the last of the four Sherlock Holmes novellas, the Valley of Fear.

The Prisoner’s Defence (January 1916)

An intense melodrama set in the present day, during the War. An officer is charged with murdering a beautiful woman but refuses to defend himself. Only a month later does he read out a prepared statement. He was in love with tall French blonde. On leave she pushed him so hard, he was indiscreet and mentioned an Allied offensive. Later he discovers she has written it all up and is posting it to her control: she is a German spy! They lock her in a room and he goes to alert the cops but on his return she tears past him on her motorbike (!). He shoots his revolver and kills her. The prisoner’s defence rests.

In 1917 Doyle published only one story, the Holmes spy tale His Last Bow.

Three of Them (April 1918)

After 3 and a half years of war, Conan Doyle could only bring himself to write five ‘stories’ which are really just chats between a kindly middle aged dad and his three adorable middle class children, Laddie, Dimples and Baby. If you were in a cynical mood the tweeness of these little sketches might make you puke. They certainly capture a fantasy of professional upper middle class living. The titles sum them up. I. A Chat About Children, Snakes and Zebus (April). II. About cricket (April) III. Speculations [about God and the Devil] (July). IV. The Leatherskin Tribe (August). V. About Naughtiness and Frogs and Historical Pictures (December).

‘Oh, Daddy, come and talk about cricket!’ Daddy was pulled on the side of the bed, and the white figure dived between the sheets. ‘Yes; tell us about cwicket!’ came a cooing voice from the corner. Dimples was sitting up in his cot.

A Point of View (December 1918)

An odd short squib wherein an American journalist, staying at an English country house, writes a piece wondering why any self-respecting man would be a servant. At a later stay the valet this was based on takes exception and makes it very plain that servants have self-respect and deserve respect: ‘I wish you would make them understand that an English servant can give good and proper service and yet that he’s a human bein’ after all.’

The 1920s

The Bully of Brocas Court (November 1921)

1878. Bareknuckle fighting has been outlawed but special rings and gloves not come in. Sir Fred Milburn is despatched to London to find someone who can stand up to Farrier-Sergeant Burton. He chooses the London fighter Alf Stevens. They are returning to Luton when their coach is stopped by an oddly-dressed pair of men in a dark dell who challenge them to a fight. So they fight and it’s honours even when they hear a howling from the woods and clear off. Later, at an inn, the landlord says they were fighting the ghosts of Tom Hickman and Joe Rowe, both killed in a carriage accident in the 1820s.

The Nightmare Room (December 1921)

A room is all Victorian sumptuous rugs and curtains at one end, completely bare at the other, with a divan upon which a beautiful but immoral woman is lounging. In bursts her husband declaring he knows about her affair with young Douglas; she must choose one of them. In bursts Douglas and the husband produces poison: Let’s play cards for her, old man. All written in the highest pitch of melodrama with everyone gasping or turning white. In the final line the director steps forward and shouts, Cut! It was all a scene from a movie 🙂

The Lift (June 1922)

Flight-Commander Stangate with his sweetheart has a premonition of evil. They ascend the big funfair lift with a motley crew of civilians. It jams 500 feet up. The wild-eyed bearded engineer reveals, from the girders, that he has arranged for it to plummet to their deaths as a sign to this wicked generation. At the last minute Stangate kicks down the wooden walls of the lift and helps the passengers onto the girders just as the madmen jumps into it and the cable snaps!

The Centurion (October 1922)

[Being the fragment of a letter from Sulpicius Balbus, Legate of the Tenth Legion, to his uncle, Lucius Piso, in his villa near Baiæ, dated The Kalends of the month of Augustus in the year 824 of Rome.] wherein he witnesses the siege and fall of Jerusalem, 70AD, and then talks to a centurion who was there when Jesus was crucified.

A Point of Contact (October 1922)

Tyre. 1100BC. In the noble stereotypes to which we are accustomed, Doyle paints a tableau, the moment when King David of the Israelites, come to buy building material for Jerusalem, meets Odysseus, refitting his ship before sailing on to Troy.

One of these men was clearly by his face and demeanour a great chieftain. His strongly-marked features were those of a man who had led an adventurous life, and were suggestive of every virile quality from brave resolve to desperate execution. His broad, high brow and contemplative eyes showed that he was a man of wisdom as well as of valour.

Billy Bones (December 1922)

One more in the twee three of Them series about Daddy and his three adorable children, Laddie, Dimples and Baby. Written as practical advice to daddies about how to create a Treasure Hunt.

The years 1923 to 1928 were taken up with a reduced turnover of 11 Sherlock Holmes stories and a couple of Professor Challenger novellas.

Spedegue’s Dropper (October 1928)

The Death Voyage (September 1929)

A long and detailed counterfactual in which Doyle envisions the Kaiser not abdicating but travelling to Kiel to inspire his Navy to set out for a final epic battle against the joint British and American fleets. What a strange story. And, like so many Great War fictions, it had to wait 11 years to be born.

The Last Resource (August 1930)

Kid Wilson is an American gangster in hiding in Soho. Late one night he tells his English crook hosts about an American town whose citizens form a committee, tell the chief of police to go away for a few days, round up all the crooks in town and machine gun them to death in a dance hall. It was only a dream 🙂 Interesting though, that that’s the kind of solution which people invoked to the out-of-control gangster violence of the Prohibition era.

The End of Devil Hawker (August 1930)

Back to the Regency period and another boxing story.

It was in these very rooms of Cribb that this little sketch of those days opens, where, as on a marionette stage, I would try to show you what manner of place it was and what manner of people walked London in those full-blooded, brutal and virile old days.

The Parish Magazine (1930)

Very funny light-hearted story set in the present day of a printer who is persuaded to publish an addendum to the parish magazine. Only when he receives letters from outraged local worthies and their lawyers does he actually read it and realise it is full of scandalous allegations and innuendoes about half the parish. After a sleepless night he is called to a mysterious meeting which turns out to be of the ‘Rotherheath Society of Bright Young People’ who have, in fact, not sent it out, fabricated the outraged letters to him, and did it all as a practical joke.

It is very fitting that his last published story should be one which continued to show the jovial good-humour which makes Conan Doyle such a good companion.


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