The Delusion by Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley @ Serpentine North

Black and trans

Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley is Black and was born a man before transitioning to become a woman. She is, therefore, part of the Black Trans and Queer community. From these bare facts you might have predicted that she would do paintings or photos or portraits of her community; what you could not possibly have predicted is that she would convert the clean and antiseptic space of the Serpentine North Gallery into a darkened, blood-red, Hammer House of Horror setting for a series of interactive, post-apocalyptic video games!

Installation view of the atrium of first room of the Delusion by Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley @ Serpentine North (photo by the author)

Layout

The Serpentine North Gallery is made up of four corridors which form a square and, running between the east and west corridors, two parallel oblong rooms or spaces. You can see a diagram of the layout on page 3 of the exhibition guide. (Incidentally, the PDF of the guide has different pagination from the physical handout which you pick up at the show, so PDF page 2 contains pages 2 and 3 of the hard copy handout, PDF page 4 contains pages 4 and 5, PDF page 4 contains pages 6 and 7, and so on. My page references refer to the online PDF version.)

From this guide you’ll see that each of the corridors has been partitioned off by heavy, blood-red velvet curtains and given a theme and a name. Thus the first space you enter from the main entrance is titled ‘Terms and Conditions’ which does what it says on the tin, and gives a wordy explanation of what you are about to see and how you should behave.

Interactivity and inactivity

It’s as soon as this first room that things begin to go a bit awry because the instructions are quite extensive, in fact too extensive to read and process. Visitors are told not to be afraid to speak out loud, to share our experiences with other visitors, to freely question and discuss what we see. Trouble is, this is an art gallery and decades of visiting art galleries have taught everybody to shuffle silently from one artefact to another, maintain a respectful silence and not touch anything for fear of setting off alarms.

In other words her entire intent to create a fun, interactive experience is heavily curtailed by the type of location and name (art exhibition) which we’re in.

TL;DR

Next is the problem that there’s so much information. It’s only now as I write this, days later, sifting through my photos, carefully reading and rereading the instructions and studying the gallery diagram, that I can even begin to understand all the options and activities. At the time, I was visiting with three others who wanted to hurry on and see everything, with the result that none of us properly read the instructions, with the result that none of us knew what was going on.

The digital age has an acronym for this situation: tl;dr which is short for ‘too long, didn’t read’ which exactly sums up our experience.

So: if you’re thinking of going I strongly recommend that you read and study the Visitor Guide beforehand.

Border pictures

The east and west corridors are titled ‘Border’ though I couldn’t figure out why. They each contain a series of illustrations on the walls, black and white depictions of what look to be horror monsters with speech bubbles coming out of their mouths. These nearly but didn’t quite make sense. For example:

‘We lie to your face and tell you what you see is just what they deserve.’

This struck me as a riddle and I spent a minute or two trying to figure out who the ‘we’ is, who ‘you’ refers to, and who the ‘they’ are who deserve whatever it is they’re getting… before I gave up.

There are about 20 of these black and white illustrations and I could see that they’re all good, liberal satire on death and violence and armies or something, but beyond that my response was the same: puzzlement, then giving up.

Installation view of The Delusion by Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley @ Serpentine North (photo by the author)

(Now, days later, studying the Visitor Guide, I see that reproductions of all of them are available on pages 14 and 15.)

Slot machines

More obviously striking, in each of the two border corridors there are several human-sized objects which have the same kind of presence as slot machines only dressed up in fabric and with a TV-style video screen at the top. I’ve no idea what these were meant to be so enjoyed the disjunction between soft, flowing fabric and cold glass screen. My gallery partner enjoyed the nice designs.

Installation view of The Delusion by Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley @ Serpentine North showing one of the dressed-up-video screens (photo by the author)

To give a sense of scale and context, here’s a shot of one of the corridors with a couple of these slot-machines-in-dresses, along with puzzled visitors.

Installation view of The Delusion by Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley @ Serpentine North showing one of the ‘Borders’ (photo by the author)

I still don’t know whether the messages on these screens were static or changing or whether they were games we were meant to interact with, or anything. TL;DR.

Safe room

At the end of the first corridor you walk through some of the heavy, blood-red velvet curtains into a quiet room containing a trio of monster-themed bean bags, a big comfortable curving sofa and cushions, with sets of bookshelves to either side. Here are the funny bean bags.

Installation view of The Delusion by Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley @ Serpentine North showing the monster-themed bean bags (photo by the author)

And here’s a wider angle of the same room, showing the sofa and the bookshelves on either side.

Installation view of The Delusion by Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley @ Serpentine North showing the comfy sofa (photo by the author)

And here’s a shot of just the sofa, capturing the bloodstained coffee table in the middle and the gruesome horror picture at the back.

Installation view of The Delusion by Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley @ Serpentine North showing the comfy sofa (photo by the author)

Woke books

The books made me smile, they were so obviously well-intended woke titles about being Black and Queer and Trans with some feminist tomes thrown in (‘Queer Print in Europe’, ‘Cyberfeminism’, ‘A Racial History of Trans Identity’, ‘Kill All Normies: Online Culture Wars’). In other words, exactly the same titles as you get at pretty much every contemporary art exhibition, the same titles you get in the ICA bookshop, the Whitechapel Gallery bookshop, the Barbican bookshop – amusing examples of the artworld’s narrow groupthink.

And I laughed out loud when I saw a volume by James Baldwin. No reflection on him, he’s a great writer – it just amuses me the way he’s become the Mother Theresa or Mahatma Gandhi of so much contemporary art. A massive photo of him and several quotes stood at the entrance to the Barbican’s massive exhibition about Masculinity; on one visit to the Photographers’ Gallery I found a quote from him on the wall of the 4th floor gallery and on the wall of the print room, and so on. Through no fault of his own, Baldwin has become Mr Ubiquity. Mr rent-a-quote.

But it struck me that the real significance of these books is as indication of how text heavy this exhibition is. All the promotion blurb about it claims that it’s interactive and, on a superficial level, it is; but at a deeper and much more obvious level, it is highly pedagogical. All I mean is that you have to read a hell of a lot of instructions to get anything out of it, and what you’re meant to be getting out of it is ‘debate’ about trans and LGBTQ+ and Black issues, so these books are by way of being extensions of the exhibition, indicators of its fundamentally preachy, propagandistic intent.

(And now I have hours to study the visitor guide, I realise there’s a full reading list on page 11.)

The sofa cushions

We went just after Christmas so the gallery was nice and quiet and there was space to sit on the sofa for a nice rest. All it lacked was a nice cup of tea to go with. Only by accident did my friends realise that each of the sofa cushions (you can see four of them in the photo above) had instructions stitched onto them. More interactive things to do. Instructions included:

‘Hand this to someone and ask: what worries you about the future?’

‘Hand this to someone and ask: what’s a lesson you learned the hard way?

And my friends actually did this, handing each other the cushions and asking and answering these questions. Sweet.

The games

Game 1 – ‘I Didn’t Realise You Thought That’ (2025)

OK, so the several wordy and confusing blurbs at the start of the show promised interactive games, so where are they? One of them is one of the slot-machine-in-a-dress type objects in a corridor which has a handle. I didn’t even realise it was there till after we’d left and my friends mentioned it. Like everything to do with the show it has complicated and wordy instructions which I’ll quote in full to give you a flavour:

INSTRUCTIONS

PLACE YOUR HANDS ON THE DOOR HANDLE. WHEN CHARACTERS APPROACH THE DOOR LISTEN TO WHAT THEY SAY. OPEN THE DOOR TO LET THEM IN. CLOSE THE DOOR TO KEEP THEM OUT. SHOUT YOUR OPINIONS AND ANSWERS. YOU CONTROL THE BORDER TO THIS SPACE. CHOOSE CAREFULLY. WHAT KIND OF VIEWS WILL YOU LET IN? BE HONEST

HOW TO PLAY

During gameplay, animated characters will approach the doors, asking to be let in. Based on each character’s appearance and statements, players must decide whether to open or close the door—or the ‘border’—to allow them entry.

ABOUT THIS GAME

In order to build ‘safe’ communities, this game asks you to make judgments about who is allowed into your space and who is kept out. In today’s digital world, life is often shaped by updated forms of exclusion reinforced by algorithms. The rapid speed of decision-making in this game mirrors the speed, pressure and reactive ‘hot takes’ that dominate our online lives.

Inspired by empathy-based games such as ‘Papers, Please’ (2013), in which players take the role of a border-control officer, this game asks us to reflect on how our values shape the lives of others and whether we are truly thinking for ourselves or simply following instructions.

See what I mean by ‘wordy’? Reading this now in peace and quiet at home and with plenty of time, I understand the instructions and the aim. At the time 1) I didn’t even notice it was a game 2) I didn’t hear anyone ‘shouting their opinions or answers’. It is an art exhibition, Danielle, a type of space where visitors are always told to be quiet and respectful and not touch anything.

Installation view of The Delusion by Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley @ Serpentine North showing visitors reading the wordy instructions to, and very much not interacting with, the game ‘I Didn’t Realise You Thought That’ (photo by the author)

Game 2 – ‘I Can’t Move With You’ (2025)

The other two games are in the tunnel rooms between the outer corridors, each entered by the same heavy velvet curtains. To be honest moving in and out of these curtained spaces was an enjoyable experience in itself, reminiscent of visits to fairground attractions or playing hide and seek when a child. All this is helped by the way the room is completely dark except for a lurid blood-red light shining on the table, as per a horror movie.

This second game is titled ‘I Can’t Move With You’ and is a table like those used in seances or with Ouija boards. The idea is you and four or five other sit at the table and respond to statements which appear on the huge video screen facing it.

Installation view of The Delusion by Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley @ Serpentine North showing the table for the game ‘I Can’t Move With You’ (photo by the author)

Since I’ve quoted the first game’s instructions in full, I might as well do the same for this one. Feel free to skip.

INSTRUCTIONS

PLACE YOUR HANDS FLAT ON THE TABLE. TILT THE TABLE TOGETHER TO MOVE. WORK WITH THOSE AROUND YOU. COORDINATE. COOPERATE. COMMUNICATE. HOW WELL CAN YOU WORK TOGETHER? BE HONEST.

HOW TO PLAY

Take a seat around ‘The Unifier’. Using the table as the controller, players must cooperate and work together to win the game. Move a ball through maze-like levels, navigating obstacles and bumping into non-playable characters to advance. Tilt the table in different directions to guide the ball. The more the group cooperates, the easier it becomes.

ABOUT THIS GAME

This game is a homage to both ouija boards—or ‘spirit boards’, believed to convey messages from spirits—and the classic marble-platformer ‘Monkey Ball’ (2001), which popularised the game mechanic of tilting a level to control a ball. Circular gathering spaces—from the Greek Agora to King Arthur’s Round Table to the United Nations—have long symbolised representation, inclusion and diplomacy. In this game, the tilting table becomes a metaphor for negotiation, cooperation and collective action.

Since I visited with three friends, this might have been fun to play except for one tiny problem – it was broken. A visitor assistant explained that the link between the table and the video screen wasn’t working. As an expert in IT I asked whether they’d tried turning it off and turning it back on again. Then I left, smiling at the thought that if you build an entire display around IT and digital tech you should be prepared for the kind of IT issues which afflict all other IT and digital tech i.e. it frequently breaks, won’t load properly, needs to be constantly upgraded etc etc.

Game 3 – ‘I Don’t Know If I Can be Honest In Front of You’ (2025)

In the second of the two through-rooms is the third game, ‘I Don’t Know If I Can be Honest In Front of You’ and this was both 1) working and 2) easy enough to grasp in outline. Facing a massive digital screen are three ‘guns’ on stands, whose muzzles are, for arty reasons, have household lampshades clipped to them. You stand behind your gun, finger on trigger, and fire at stuff on the screen. I actually did this for a few minutes and balls from my gun appeared to impact on what I think were floating signs or images. I had no idea what I was doing or why and so, after a few minutes of pointless firing, went to find my friends. Only now, days later, do I have time and leisure to read the elaborate instructions and understand what the game was about.

INSTRUCTIONS

PLACE YOUR HANDS ON THE LAMP. TURN THE LAMP TO AIM. PULL THE TRIGGER TO COLLECT AND CAST VOTES. ANSWER THE QUESTIONS OUT LOUD. AIM CAREFULLY. WHAT YOU CHOOSE WILL BE A REFLECTION OF YOUR VIEWS. A REFLECTION OF HOW YOU THINK. A REFLECTION OF WHO YOU ARE. WHAT VIEWS DO YOU HOLD? BE HONEST.

HOW TO PLAY

Lamp-shaped guns—’the validators’—are this game’s controller. Each controller is represented by a reticle on screen. The game unfolds through a series of questions, using the language of voting: players decide what to shoot, or who to censor, with each shot they take.

As usual, there is a vast amount of text and commentary on her own game.

ABOUT THIS GAME

This game invites players to take their turn on the soapbox, drawing on the history of public debate at Hyde Park’s famous Speakers’ Corner, established in the mid-19th century. Speakers’ Corner is one of the last surviving site of over 100 original public spaces for free speech in London. Over the years, speakers have included Jamaican political activist Marcus Garvey, British Black Panthers leader Altheia Jones-LeCointe and members of the Suffragettes.

Hyde Park was also the site of the Tyburn Gallows (c. 1196–1783), hosting tens of thousands of public executions, along with the final speeches of the condemned. The game references 1990s first-person shooter arcade games such as ‘The House of the Dead’ (1997) and one of the artist’s personal favourites, ‘Doom’ (1993)—a point-and-shoot, rail shooter with mounted guns and a fixed movement path. ‘Doom’ caused a media sensation on release, sparking congressional hearings over its alleged use of violence—but it also inspired a fan-driven ‘modding revolution’—with players creating their own modified versions of the game, making alterations to its content, creating new features and building on top of the developer’s original design. This game challenges players to think critically about judgement, censorship and power in both historical and contemporary contexts

I had no idea what it was about so didn’t have a clue that it was supposedly registering votes on ‘opinions’ and so no idea what they were meant to be opinions about. You’re apparently supposed to answer the questions out loud but I was in the room for 4 or 5 minutes taking photos and I didn’t hear anyone say anything. As to the idea that the game ‘challenges players to think critically about judgement, censorship and power in both historical and contemporary contexts’, this is so wildly inapt and irrelevant to my own experience of the thing, that it, too, made me laugh out loud.

In passing I note the extremely selective and self-referential nature of Brathwaite-Shirley’s list of topics addressed at Speakers’ Corner i.e. Marcus Garvey, the Black Panthers and the Suffragettes. I think speakers may also have addressed issues like the existence of God, pacifism, trade union rights, socialism and communism, the campaign for nuclear disarmament and many more. As an old school left-winger I never cease to be amazed at how narrowly focused on the same three or four issues woke culture is (gender and race and refugees) to the exclusion of hundreds of other social and political issues, and this exhibition does nothing to alter that perception, indeed only confirms it.

Summary of the games

‘Let’s have the difficult conversations,’ Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley bravely writes, but the experience of me and my three friends (all women, all feminists) was they didn’t even realise the games were meant to be triggering ‘conversations’ about anything. None of us realised the first game was even a game, the second game was broken, and the third game felt like a standard ‘shoot-’em-up’ attraction and, when nothing much seemed to be exploding, we all got bored and wandered off.

If any of this is meant to prompt ‘candid conversations’ and ‘exchanges of opinions’ about ‘difficult subjects’ then I think they scored 0 out of 10. More broadly, Serpentine claim that the show is:

a multiplayer immersive experience run on game engines that explores themes of polarisation, censorship and social connection… that allows people to work through difficult emotions and feelings… the project invites participants to pause, discuss, and reconnect… the exhibition will encourage open discussions, shared reflections, and ways to engage with some of the most challenging sociopolitical issues we face today…

This all reads brilliantly, doesn’t it? But none of it happened.

The work is not about what’s in the games, it’s about what comes out of people’s mouths, enabling new connections and conversations in real-time.

‘Out of people’s mouths’? But I didn’t hear anyone ‘shouting’ their opinions or engaging ‘with some of the most challenging sociopolitical issues we face today’ – all I heard was people asking each other if this was a game and how it worked or if it was working at all.

It felt like Brathwaite-Shirley was asking far, far too much of visitors to a gallery, completely unprepared for the barrage of instructions and requirements for her complicated and advanced games.

She writes as if everyone was match fit to give sophisticated responses to games which none of us even understood. And even if we had understood them, does she seriously expect that English people would ‘shout’ their views about controversial social issues in front of complete strangers? The English? Has she met anyone from England before, the shyest people in the world? And English art gallery-goers? Has she been to an art gallery before? The kind of people who visit them are respectful, quiet and petrified of touching anything in case they set off an alarm. To expect them all to behave like excitable teenagers playing with familiar games in the comfort of their games rooms, yelling out opinions and commands and comments. shows a hilarious lack of understanding of your average gallery goer and/or an extraordinary level of self-centred delusion.

The Delusion

Speaking of which, it’s only now, days after visiting it, that I have time to figure out what the title of the exhibition actually means.

The entire thing is not so much Hammer House of Horror as I first thought, but is apparently themed around a post-apocalyptic world which was shaped by a single catastrophic event – ‘the Day of Division’. In this imagined future, society has broken into closed, dogmatic factions, each clinging to its own version of truth, community and survival. All of which I take to be a satire on the present day when, as we know, social media promised to bring us all together into communities of interest but has in fact driven huge wedges throughout society dividing people into toxic, hate-filled factions. Well done, social media.

There also appear to be different characters in this world, some of them reversions of characters Brathwaite-Shirley devised for previous games, and for a graphic novel she wrote – although even with the Visitor Guide in front of me, I can’t quite figure out who these are. (On closer examination, I think they’re described on page 10).

There are also, apparently, ‘loops’. Loops?

YOU CAN EXPERIENCE THE EXHIBITION THROUGH THREE DIFFERENT EMOTIONAL STATES, CALLED ‘DELUSION LOOPS’. EACH LOOP PRESENTS SCENARIOS INSPIRED BY THE EMOTIONAL STATES OF HOPE, FEAR AND HATE.

WHICH LOOP COMES NEXT DEPENDS ON HOW VISITORS INTERACT WITH THE GAMES WITHIN THE EXHIBITION SPACE.

EACH LOOP IS ACCOMPANIED BY ITS OWN SOUNDSCAPE, DIFFERENT VERSIONS OF THE GAMES AND CHANGING ELEMENTS IN THE GALLERY ENVIRONMENT.

Reads well, doesn’t it, but I didn’t notice any of these at the time and now, days later, still have no idea what it was supposed to mean in practice.

Promotional video

This video is better than most gallery promo videos because it is long enough for the artist to explain her motivation, and for other voices to explain how the games were developed, tested and deployed.

Thoughts

Watching the teams in this video apparently playing the games with great enjoyment is rather irritating because I strongly suspect everyone filmed had had the games fully explained to them, or were playing with members of the production team who could explain and give tips, and so helped each other learn get proficient at them. Like games in real life. Under those circumstances, they look like a lot of fun. But not so much if you’ve just wandered in off the street and haven’t a clue what’s going on. So my conclusions would be:

1. For visitors If you’re thinking of visiting this exhibition, read the full Visitor Guide beforehand, study the instructions for the games, and watch this and any other related videos, so that you get the most out of your visit.

2. To Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley and the Serpentine Gallery If you want random visitors who’ve wandered in out of Hyde Park or read a paragraph or two about the show on your website, to understand and get the most out of this exhibition, then please provide 1) clearer signage about where the games are, and 2) much, much, much clearer instructions about how to play them, how to understand them, and what kind of conversations they’re meant to be prompting.


Related links

Related reviews

Trouble for Lucia by E.F. Benson (1939)

‘I won’t give up the morning shopping. Besides, one learns all the news then. Why, it would be worse than not having the wireless! I should be lost without it.’
(Georgie Pillson, like all the Mapp and Lucia characters, gaga for gossip)

Only a few minutes ago some catastrophic development seemed likely, and Tilling’s appetite for social catastrophe was keen…
(The endless thirst for gossip)

Her eye had that gimlet-like aspect, which betokened a thirst for knowledge.
(What happened? Any news? What’s the latest?)

Endless interpretations could be put on this absorbing incident…
(Summary of Benson’s technique)

Lucia… went down to the High Street for her marketing. Her mind resembled a modern army attended by an air force and all appliances. It was ready to scout and skirmish, to lay an ambush, to defend or to attack an enemy with explosives from its aircraft or poison gas.
(The unrelenting battle for social supremacy which is the books’ subject)

‘There’s nothing that stings so much as contemptuous oblivion. I have often found that.’
(Lucia’s revenge)

‘Trouble for Lucia’ is a 1939 comic novel written by E.F. Benson. It is the sixth and final novel in the ever-popular Mapp and Lucia series. As you know by now, the novels are set in the town of Tilling, a thinly disguised version of Rye on the Sussex coast where Benson himself lived (and, like his fictional heroine Lucia, served as mayor).

The novels give minute descriptions of the petty rivalries and jealousies among a tiny cohort of characters, the comedy deriving from the discrepancy between the intense triviality of the tiny events described, and the po-faced earnestness of Benson’s treatment. It struck me this could be symbolised by the rich Wyses’ who own an enormous Rolls Royce complete with chauffeur but only ever use it to drive the 50 yards from their house to Lucia’s house, or the 100 yards down to the High Street to go shopping.

The lead characters are Mrs Emmeline ‘Lucia’ Lucas, her long-time friend, lieutenant and piano duet partner, Georgie Pillson, and her bitter rival for supremacy of Tilling’s social scene, Elizabeth Mapp. At one point Georgie says of Lucia that:

That was her real métier, to render the trivialities of life intense for others.

in a phrase which could be Benson describing his own subject matter.

Cast

  • Emmeline ‘Lucia’ Lucas, now Pillson (since she married Georgie, in the preceding novel)
    • Grosvenor – her maid
    • Chapman – her chauffeur (I was puzzled whether this was a mistake; the chauffeur is called Cadman in all the other novels)
    • Mrs Simpson – the lady she hires to be her secretary
  • Georgie Pillson – her camp husband, ‘He and his petit point, and his little cape, and his old-maidish ways…’
    • Foljambe – his peerless parlour-maid and valet
  • Elizabeth Mapp-Flint – Lucia’s longstanding enemy
  • Major Benjamin ‘Benjy’ Mapp-Flint – Elizabeth’s long-suffering husband, plays golf every day, given to sneaking off to have a few whiskeys whenever his wife’s back is turned
  • Godiva ‘Diva’ Plaistow – along with gay Irene, the only single woman in the set; speaks in telegraphese: ‘Lovely to see you after all this long time. Tea going on. A few friends’ or ‘Two of your councillors here just now. Shillings. Didn’t charge them. Advertisement’; during the course of this novel she sets up a successful tea rooms
    • Janet – her maid
    • Paddy – her Irish terrier
  • ‘quaint’ Irene Coles – the unshockable lesbian painter – I was staggered to learn in this novel for the first time that she is only 25 years old! (page 196) I thought she was middle-aged like all the others…
    • Lucy, her 6-foot-tall maid
  • Mr Algernon’s Wyse – rich, owner of a Rolls Royce
  • Mrs Susan Wyse MBE – fat, her ‘immense bulk’, ‘Susan’s great watery smile spread across her face’
  • Amelia, Contessa di Faraglione – Algernon’s sister, married an Italian count, makes occasional flying visits to Tilling where she’s always hugely amused by the tittle tattle
  • The Reverend Kenneth Bartlett – vicar, addicted to speaking a weird combination of Highland Scots and Elizabethan English so as to be barely comprehensible
  • Evie Bartlett – his mousey wife; ‘Evie emitted the mouse-like squeak which denoted intense private amusement’
  • Olga Bracely – the internationally renowned opera singer, ‘a dream of beauty with her brilliant colouring and her high, arched eyebrows’, who appeared in the first and third novels but has been on a world tour; in those books Georgie was deeply in love with her
  • Cortese – the Italian composer
  • Dorothy – Cortese’s English wife
  • Lady ‘Poppy’ Sheffield – owner of rundown Sheffield Castle, the cause of so much trouble in the final part of the novel, develops an amusing crush on Georgie
  • Miss Susan Leg – real name of the world-famous novelist, Rudolph da Vinci
  • Mr Rice – the poulterer
  • Mr Twistevant – the grocer
  • Mr McConnell – editor of the Hampshire Argus in which a lot of these shenanigans are reported
  • Mr Fergus – the dentist
  • Inspector Morrison – of the Tilling police

Plots and storylines

‘Trouble for Lucia’ takes up very soon after where its predecessor left off. To the reader’s amazement, in the preceding novel, ‘Lucia’s Progress’, the forceful widow Mrs Emmeline ‘Lucia’ Lucas had married her long-time friend, lieutenant and piano duet partner, Georgie Pillson, thus becoming Mrs Pillson.

She had also made herself the most eminent person in the town of Tilling through a string of charitable donations, to the local church, the local hospital, the cricket and football clubs, until she was finally nominated first woman Mayor of Tilling. (For the biographically minded, Benson himself served as Mayor of Rye between 1934 and 1937 so a lot of the detail of council business and formal costume is presumably based on first-hand knowledge.)

This final novel opens at this point: it is October and Lucia’s nomination to Mayor is confirmed but she hasn’t yet taken up office, she’s due to do that in a month’s time. So she’s fussing about related problems. When she’s mayor should she continue to do her own shopping in the high street?

She shares with Georgie her plans: to make Tilling a centre of intellectual and artistic activity, to help the poor, to clear away the old slums, an end to overcrowding, pasteurisation of milk, strict censorship of films, benches in sunny corners, flower boxes in windows, affordable concerts of first-rate music. All very admirable.

Meanwhile, Georgie is offended that no place might be found for him at her inaugural dinner, which is usually restricted to the Corporation, the aldermen, other councillors and so on; until Lucia comes up with a seating suggestion for him. He has bought a red velvet jacket specially, to mark his new status. Lucia has engaged a shorthand and typewriting secretary, a Mrs Simpson, in readiness for her mayoral work.

Today’s gossip: Diva wants to convert her house into a café; Iris has been refused permission by the council to cover her house with a fresco depicting an immense naked woman standing on shell representing motherhood; Susan Wyse has sat on her own pet budgerigar and squashed it flat.

Everyone Lucia and Georgie meet in the High Street asks who she is going to choose to be her Mayoress, and all the usual suspects are soon vying for the post, appealing directly like Diva or getting their partners to send begging letters. This wave of appeals coincides with a dinner and bridge evening Lucia holds at which the different parties make their pitches.

Typically muted comedy as Georgie, immensely proud of the new red velvet jacket he’s ordered, is dismayed to find Mr Wyse turning up in a similar velvet jacket but of sapphire blue. As Diva puts it:

‘Aren’t the Tilling boys getting dressy?’

But Lucia has decided. She will have Elizabeth as her mayoress and invites her round to tell her so. Within an hour Elizabeth has told everyone. Her version is that Lucia begged her to take the post. Lucia doesn’t lower herself to tell the truth which is that Elizabeth had been loitering round her house all day, gagging for the job. And the reality is that Lucia, although she doesn’t put it like this, would, in Lyndon B. Johnson’s words, rather have Elizabeth inside the tent pissing out, than outside the tent pissing in.

Irene’s photo

Irene is outside her house enjoying the sun and making sketches for her fresco when Elizabeth hoves into view, fresh from Lucia telling her she’ll be her mayoress. Flush with enthusiasm she happily adopts a silly pose for Irene to sketch and take a photo of. But when she goes on to boast of how Lucia begged her to take the role, Irene (a passionate fan of Lucia) knows she’s lying and despises her. When Lucia comes by later on, and tells the true account of the interview, Irene’s suspicions are confirmed and she tells Lucia she will send the photo of Elizabeth in a silly pose to the newspaper, the Hampshire Argus, purporting to be a serious image of the new mayoress.

When the paper uses the disrespectful photo of Elizabeth in their story about the mayoress appointment, Liz and husband Major Flint are furious and Flint sets off for the newspaper offices with a riding-whip which he promises his wife he’ll horsewhip the editor with. But 1) while he waits he has a few nips of the newspaper’s hospitality scotch and 2) the editor turns out to be an imposingly massive man. Combine the two and the result is that a tipsy major not only ends up having a nice chat with Mr McConnell, but brings him home to Grebe (the cottage where Elizabeth and Benjy live) for dinner!

But the repercussions haven’t finished. Drunk Benjy Flint left his riding-whip at the newspaper offices so Elizabeth calls by to collect it. On the way home she stops at Diva’s place, where Diva is testing her tea offering on a few guests (Evie, the Padre and Georgie). Here she 1) puts a brave face on the Benjy-visiting-the-Chronicle story (claiming not to have seen the silly photo of herself, though all present know she has). But 2) she puts the riding-whip down for the duration and it is swiftly grabbed by Diva’s dog Paddy who (unseen by everyone) takes it outside and chews it to pieces. So that when Elizabeth rises to leave she can’t find it anywhere, searches high and low and leaves in high dudgeon. Only later does Diva spot the shiny silver cap of the riding-whip in her garden, attached to some chewed remains and realise her dog has destroyed it. So she guiltily buries the silver cap in her back garden and hopes the whole thing will blow over.

This is typical of how Benson takes the most trivial incidents and spools them into low-key, mildly amusing but very endearing comedy. It’s too low-key to be called farce (which is frantic and extreme), it’s more like charming amusement. And in this particular case, it’s not over yet because the issue of the riding-whip is destined to crop up later in the book…

Mayoring day

The great day arrives and Lucia is inducted as mayor of Tilling amid much pomp and ceremony. Later on she takes the first tea at Diva’s new tea rooms although, as she insists, purely in a personal capacity, as Mrs Pillson – mustn’t lower the dignity of her high office! After tea she and her friends repair to the back room to play bridge (which the characters are all addicted to) while actual paying customers arrive in the front.

Then the mayoral banquet in the evening. Not all the local dignitaries attend, but Lucia makes a fine speech and even gets to play her signature tune, the slow movement from Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, on the piano, to respectful applause. That night she tells a tired Georgie she is determined that a new era in Tilling’s history is about to begin.

The new era

Lucia plunges into teaching herself about planning regulations and zoning policy and scads of other local government concerns. She becomes ‘excruciatingly didactic’, insisting on sharing every particle of her new knowledge with Georgie whose eyes glaze over. Elizabeth is a pest, phoning her bright and early every day: ‘Anything I can do for you, dear Worship?’ she asked. ‘Always at your service.’

She takes to referring to Lucia as ‘dear Worship’, to her face and to all their friends, to the latter’s intense irritation.

The new parsimony

Now that Lucia is mayor, she believes she needs to set an example of frugality and restraint. She orders her maid Grosvenor to prepare more humble meals at home (mutton hash and treacle tart). And decides to set an example to the general population by giving up gambling in the form of the little bets she and her friends have on their bridge games (threepence per hundred points).

In both these Puritan moves she is, of course, under the delusion that anybody in the general population either knows or cares what she does in her private life, but the bridge decision, in particular, upsets her friends. The harmless little stakes they place on their bridge games are what give them their zest and they resent Lucia’s high-handedness. As Diva puts it:

‘She may be Mayor but she isn’t Mussolini.’

The unintended consequences of Lucia ceasing to play bridge for money are 1) all the games when she invites guests round at a stroke become boring and flat, and so 2) the others start inviting Georgie alone to their games, without killjoy Lucia, because he resists Lucia’s new rule and continues to gamble. All of a sudden he finds himself invited everywhere without Lucia. In addition, 3) the group as a whole finds it most congenial to go to Diva’s for tea then cards afterwards. None of the bother of hosting and providing refreshments, and everyone pays their own way. Thus Diva’s cafe becomes a new social haunt, not only for the bridge set but with the town at large, and she’s soon coining it.

The council election

An election approaches for a vacancy on the town council. I don’t understand how, but apparently Elizabeth can stand for this as well as being mayoress. So Lucia persuades Georgie that he must stand against her (Elizabeth). The campaign is briskly described and then the announcement from the steps of the town hall in a howling gale: Elizabeth got 805 votes, Georgie is humiliated with just 421. It is universally seen as a humiliation for Lucia.

Budgie spirituality

I mentioned that right at the start there was gossip about whether large Susan Wyse accidentally sat on her pet budgerigar and squashed it to death. Answer: yes. I neglected to mention that, in a ghoulish development, she attached the wings and body to a hat as decoration (you have to remember how ornate many ladies’ hats were in the 1920s and ’30s). But this theme persists because Susan becomes convinced that she is in touch with the spirit of the dead bird and starts to have budgie séances.

The twist is that, on the afternoon before Lucia is invited to such a séance, Mr Wyse himself appears at her door, explains how his wife is becoming obsessed with the séances, has lost interest in all other activities, and spends hours mulling over the voluminous automatic writings which are generated at each session. Now since the sessions focus round a little shrine to the dead (and reassembled and stuffed) budgie placed on the séance table, Mr Wyse has gone to the subterfuge of stealing the bird when his wife was otherwise busy, wrapping it up, and has brought it to Lucia to hide. Which she agrees to do.

Cut to that evening when Lucia and Georgie arrive at the Wyse house, Starling Cottage. It is of course all ludicrous. Susan is a large lady and is wearing a white dress and a wreath in her hair so she looks like an immense Ophelia. The lights are low and the room is full of incense. In the event Lucia decides to play along, saying the can feel the little bird’s wings fluttering against her cheek and then, just before Susan goes to open the shrine, declares she feels an immense manifestation: ‘Blue Birdie has left us altogether!’ Which is just what Susan discovers when she opens the doors of the little ‘shrine’: the bird has gone. Lucia piles on the deceit, claiming that the bird has spent enough time in the temporal plane and has now decided to depart forever to the spiritual plane and what a good thing that is, leaving Susan puzzled and sad at the loss of her new hobby.

Bicycling

Talking of hobbies, Lucia and Georgie take up a new one, bicycling. They get trainers from the bicycle shop to jog along beside them holding the bicycles upright until they’ve gained enough confidence. Then they feel confident enough to go for trial runs along the flat wet sand of the beach, which has wide enough space for turning, until they’ve mastered that manoeuvre.

And so the grand day comes when they are ready to cycle in unison down to the High Street. Here they encounter the seven or eight people in their circle who are all dazzled by their skills and cycling quickly becomes the new fad of the town. The comic climax comes when Lucia and Georgie decide to be adventurous and cycle out from the town to the country, which first entails going down the steep Landgate Street. Lucia quickly hits such speed that she panics and, instead of pulling her brake rings her bell. When a policeman steps out in front to block the way she’s going far too fast to stop and so, in the manner of an Ealing Comedy, at the last minute he has to leap out of the way. She only narrowly makes the gap between a van and a pedestrian and runs along the flat for some way before finally trundling to a halt.

Next day the Inspector of Police calls to say that one of his officers spotted a female riding a bike at dangerous speed and the bicycle shop confirmed it had recently been sold to her address. Lucia confesses straightaway, insists on signing a summons issued to herself. At the next court sessions she tries a couple of cases with fellow magistrates, before announcing that she needs to take her place in the court, and coming before them as a plaintiff. She pleads guilty to dangerous cycling and is fined 20 shillings. Far from triggering the public shame which Elizabeth hoped for, this little scandal has the opposite effect, with the people of Tilling quietly proud to have such a spirited female mayor, and cycling becomes even more fashionable. Very sweetly:

It became fashionable to career up and down the High Street after dark, when traffic was diminished, and the whole length of it resounded with tinkling bells and twinkled with bicycle lamps.

It’s notable that fat rich Susan Wyse buys a grown-up tricycle, making her an amusing figure, trundling up and down the high street.

Olga Braceley

Back in the first novel in the series, ‘Queen Lucia’, we met the opera singer Olga Bracely who visited and then, for a season, moved into the novel’s setting, the village of Riseholme. She popped up again in ‘Lucia in London’, on both occasions ruffling Georgie’s gay heart and making him fall head-over-heels in love with her.

Now Georgie receives a letter saying she is back again, after an extensive world tour performing in the modern opera Lucrezia composed by the Italian composer Cortese, and she is writing to invite him and Lucia to Covent Garden Opera House for a gala performance.

The trouble is that Lucia has arranged a series of public lectures, starting and ending with ones given by herself, and one of these clashes with the gala night. For once, the worm turns. Georgie has gotten fed up with her municipal obsessions, and insists he will go to the gala night, with or without Lucia which gives Lucia pause.

Public lectures

Back to Lucia’s plan to raise the tone with a series of public lectures. It’s quietly amusing that none of the celebrities she improbably invited (John Gielgud, Sir Henry Wood) can attend and, in fact, not even many Tillingites buy tickets, so she ends up having to give out hundreds of ‘complimentary’ tickets.

Lucia gives the first lecture, on Shakespearian drama, using Lady Macbeth’s soliloquy to demonstrate the simplicity of Shakespeare, no sets, hardly any props, just extreme force of personality and situation. It’s effective, as well as comic moments (the torch she intends to place under her face once the house lights go out, fails to work first time).

The saga of the Major’s riding-whip

Major Flint’s lecture is all about shooting tigers in India, with some tigerskins dramatically hanging on the wall. But remember I mentioned the riding-whip earlier, now it recurs. Because Elizabeth and Benjy have had the leather goods man in town create a new one. This is due to a sequence of small farcical events, namely:

  • Georgie offers to help Diva plant tulip bulbs for the spring and as he is digging a hole for the third or fourth one digs up the silver head of the famous riding-whip; realising what it is, he quietly pockets it and gets on with his gardening
  • for the next few days he carries it round in his jacket pocket pondering how it got reduced from whip to silver caps
  • one day he is rooting around in his pockets and accidentally spills it onto the table where neither he nor Lucia notices it (‘It fell noiselessly on the piece of damp sponge which Mrs Simpson always preferred to use for moistening postage-stamps, rather than the less genteel human tongue.’)
  • later the same day Elizabeth comes for a visit to Mallards, spots the cap lying on Lucia’s the stamp sponge and quickly pockets it, taking it home and is just as puzzled as Georgie was as to a) how it got reduced to just the cap and b) what it’s doing in Lucia’s house when she thought she’d left it at Diva’s

But Elizabeth determines to puzzle her enemies and this is why she gets the leather goods man to knock up a complete replica of the original riding-whip and then has Major Flint very visibly brandish it during his lecture and even make it the centrepiece of one of his stories about biffing a fearsome tiger with it. To the great puzzlement of Lucia, Georgie and Diva.

Irene’s allegorical painting

Meanwhile, remember that when Elizabeth came swanning past Irene on the way from Lucia having told her she was going to choose her to be her mayoress, and that Irene made her pose in a boisterous pose (like a skater with one arm stretched in front of her and the other stretched out behind)? And how she sent the photo to the newspaper which published it and made Irene a laughing stock?

Well, Irene continued on to use this photo of Elizabeth as the model for a sort of parody of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus, updated to mock the Victorians, with large Miss Map, dressed in Victorian costume, as Venus, with a parody of Major Flint, in full uniform, lounging in the clouds and blowing a great gale of wind which is propelling Elizabeth across the waves towards Tilling in the distance. Well Irene finishes this satirical masterpiece and sends it to the Royal Academy of Art annual competition, no less, which is not only chosen to be included in, but becomes the hit of the season! Irene’s painting is reproduced in a number of national newspapers, including The Times and the Daily Mirror!

Mapp and Benjy go up to London and see it 3 times in one day and come back glowing with fame. Lucia is bitterly jealous and wishes now that it was she who Irene had satirised, seeing as how it’s brought Elizabeth national fame!

More of the Major’s riding-whip

To partly get her own back, Lucia hatches a plan to do with the famous riding-whip. Like Diva and Georgie Lucia was mystified how the Major produced his riding-whip onstage when they knew it had been reduced to a silver cap and buried in Diva’s garden. So Lucia hatches a slightly bizarre plan. She goes to the leather goods shop and asks the man to make a perfect replica of the Major’s riding-whip, using the silver cap, which he hands over a day or two later. Lucia then wedges it in the climbers outside her window in order to weather it, where it will be assailed by wind and rain and birds and insects and generally weathered and aged.

When she thinks it’s looking worn and used, she extracts it, wraps it up and takes it with her to the next bridge session at Diva’s place. She gets there earlier than the others and, while Diva’s off serving customers, slips it behind the crockery cupboard in the bridge room. There follows a long game of bridge during which tempers (as usual) fray, not least because of Lucia’s barely concealed jealousy of Elizabeth’s great Painting Triumph.

But when the game is finally concluded and everyone is getting their things to leave, she says she can’t find her umbrella and gets Georgie to agree that maybe it fell behind the crockery cupboard and together they pull the wardrobe forward and… out falls the Major’s missing riding-whip!! This plunges Diva into even deeper confusion as well as embarrassing but also puzzling Elizabeth and the Major.

Georgie is as puzzled as anyone by this mysterious turn of events, as well he might be, but when, on the way home, he asks Lucia to let him into the secret meaning of her hiding the fake Benjy riding-whip in Diva’s house, she refuses to tell him and this makes Georgie genuinely cross.

‘You’re too tarsome,’ said Georgie crossly. ‘And it isn’t fair. Diva told you how she buried the silver cap, and I told you how I dug it up, and you tell us nothing. Very miserly!’

For the first time dawned on me that, what with his frustration at her endless yakking about municipal affairs, what with her mysterious behaviour in this and other incidents, what with the reappearance of his old flame Olga — is Benson setting us up for Georgie to leave Lucia?

Chapter 8. To London

Regarding Olga’s gala concert, Lucia gives in to Georgie and rearranges the schedule of public lectures. So Lucia and Georgie go up to London 1) to see Irene’s famous picture at the Academy, and then 2) on to Covent Garden Opera House to see Olga sing in Lucrezia.

(In an interesting aside, on page 155, the narrator tells us it was only three years ago that Georgie met and fell in love with Olga Bracely, as described in the first novel in the series, ‘Queen Lucia’. Since that novel was published in 1920 and this one was published a generation later, in 1939, the narrative asks us to accept the rather ludicrous notion that all the events which have occurred in the intervening 4 novels – 19 years apart – have taken place in just three years. I’m betting Benson never meant people to take this literally, it’s merely a gesture towards explaining why, despite the passage of so much time ‘in the real world’, his characters don’t appear to age.)

That night, in bed in his London hotel room, Georgie can’t get Olga out of his head and for the first time admits that he feels trapped in Tilling and by marriage to Lucia.

Next day he goes to meet Olga for lunch at the Ritz. She adores him and he is thrilled but then Lucia arrives and kills the spirit. The lunch is also attended by the same ‘your grace’ as the night before, who Olga casually introduces as ‘Poppy Sheffield’ and who affably chats. Olga tells them she is going down to Riseholme for a week and invites them to come and stay with her. When Lucia says she is far too busy infuriates Georgie so much that she is forced to concede that maybe she could spare a short weekend. But it isn’t the only thing that angers Georgie. When the Italian composer arrives at the end of dinner, Lucia, terrified of being humiliated all over again (by having it shown that she can speak hardly any Italian), insists that she and Georgie are busy and must leave. Georgie acquiesces but is furious at being forced to leave the lunch and the company of the woman he still carries a torch for.

Next evening Lucia meets up with the ladies for bridge and milks her London experiences. During the opera, a large grand lady (‘a large lady, clad in a magnificent tiara, but not much else’) and diminutive escort had been introduced into their box (the box reserved for guests of the main singer i.e. Olga) by the attendant who referred to her as ‘Your Grace’. This woman held completely aloof from Lucia, in fact the latter only finds out her name (Lady Sheffield) by asking the attendant after the show.

But the presence of Lady Sheffield in her box is reported in the next day’s edition of The Times so that by the time Lucia holds a bridge party the following evening (for ‘Mr. Wyse and Diva, (Susan being indisposed) the Mapp-Flints and the Padre and Evie’) they are dying to know more. This allows Lucia to skate dismissively quickly over seeing Irene’s famous painting at the Academy and tell outrageous lies about how she is on first-name terms with Lady Sheffield (‘poor Poppy Sheffield’), knows all about her little foibles (‘she simply lives off dressed crab and black coffee’), awing the Tilling ladies with her snobbish showing-off. But once again, Georgie is not impressed.

Back to Riseholme

Next morning Georgie and Lucia drive to Riseholme. In many ways it’s a shock to be back here. Lucia left it behind in the fourth novel, ‘Mapp and Lucia’, but it feels like an age ago. And for some reason, I’d forgotten how genuinely patronising and condescending she could be. It’s as if simply stepping out the car in Riseholme transforms her back to the painful snob she was in the early books.

Olga gave a garden-party in her honour in the afternoon, and Lucia was most gracious to all her old friends, in the manner of a Dowager Queen who has somehow come into a far vaster kingdom, but who has a tender remembrance of her former subjects, however humble, and she had a kind word for them all.

When everyone’s left, Lucia loftily dismisses the place as a vegetating backwater, but Georgie bristles and delivers a summary of the exciting developments in the place, providing a neat summary of most of the charming old characters we haven’t heard of for three books. (I always liked deaf old Mrs Antrobus who wielded an ear trumpet and had to be pushed everywhere in a bath-chair. I’d like to be pushed everywhere in a bath-chair. All this walking around under your own steam is much over-rated.)

Lucia infuriates Georgie and Olga with her endlessly boasting and humblebragging about how much work she has to do as mayor, but how rewarding it is to serve. But when Olga announces that the Italian composer Cortese will be coming tomorrow night, with his lovely wife, Lucia is struck with terror that, once again, she will be found out and humiliated. Benson puts it more bluntly than I’ve seen in any of the previous books, having Lucia admit to herself that she can’t speak Italian and knows next to nothing about music.

‘If only I could bring myself to say that I can neither speak nor understand Italian, and know nothing about music!’ thought Lucia. ‘But I can’t after all these years. It’s wretched to run away like this, but I couldn’t bear it.’

This has never been so explicitly stated before, nor has Lucia’s voice been so bluntly referred to as ‘her superior, drawling voice.’

Anyway, to escape the looming humiliation of meeting Cortese, Lucia tells Olga she must leave on Sunday evening to return to Tilling. But when Olga begs Georgie to stay, he simply says yes. Lucia wasn’t expecting him to say this, but Georgie is fed up of being bossed around by the impossible woman.

Chapter 9. The Lady Sheffield fiasco

There then follows something approaching real farce in its complexity.

For a start, ten minutes before she sets off for Tilling Cortese arrives and it turns out that his wife is English and has told him to speak only in English so he can learn it. In other words, Lucia would not have been humiliated and so she need not have fled so precipitately.

Not only that, but Cortese has arrived with the first act of his new opera, for Olga to try out. So Lucia is missing this incredible private world premiere opportunity.

And not only that but it turns out that Cortese’s English wife, Dorothy, is cousin to Lady Sheffield and, half an hour after Lucia’s left, Lady Sheffield phones up and invites cousin, Cortese, Olga and all to drive over to her place, Sheffield Castle, the next evening for dinner and stay the night. During the call there is a misunderstanding because the cousin tells Lady Sheffield that a guest of Olga’s is the mayor of Tilling, and the old lady mistakenly thinks this refers to Georgie, who she remembers meeting at Covent Garden, then for lunch at the Ritz, and took rather a fancy to, him and his stylish Van Dyck beard.

So next morning Georgie phones Lucia in Tilling and tells her the exciting news that they’ve all been invited to Lady Sheffield’s castle (‘A Norman tower. A moat. It was in Country Life not long ago’). Lucia is thrilled for him, and pleased when he goes out of h is way to explain that Lady Sheffield was pleased at the thought of seeing the Mayor of Tilling again (both of them misunderstanding Lady Sheffield’s misunderstanding that the Mayor is Georgie). But, as Lucia’s day wears on, and she has little if any work to do, she is bitten by the desire to join the party. What’s more, won’t it be a lovely surprise for everyone if she just turns up out of the blue and unannounced!

And so she asks her deputy to stand in for her, gives her secretary Mrs Simpson the rest of the day off (making sure to tell her why i.e. she’s going to stay at Lady Sheffield’s, with the result that the news spreads like wildfire around Tilling). After lunch she packs her things, brings the car round and is about to set off when there’s a phone call. It’s a servant from Sheffield Castle phoning ‘the mayor’ to tell her that her Grace has been taken ill and has cancelled the party. Lucia thinks quickly and wheedles the woman on the phone, telling her she still wants to come, not for dinner but just to check that Her Grace is alright. The servant goes away to convey this to her Ladyship, and returns with the reply that Her Grace would be delighted to see the Mayor, but the rest of the party has been cancelled. Neither of them realise the old lady is mistaking ‘the Mayor’ for Georgie.

She puts down the phone and finalises her packing. Just as she’s leaving the phone rings again but, scared that it will be Lady S ringing to cancel, she ignores it. What she doesn’t realise it that it’s Georgie phoning to say that, since the party has been cancelled, he and Olga are going to motor back to Tilling, for Olga to stay a few days.

So on the same afternoon that Lucia sets off for the long drive across England to Castle Sheffield on a doomed mission, Georgie and Olga are driving in exactly the opposite direction, from the heart of England to the South Coast. Both are to be surprised.

When Lucia finally arrives at Sheffield Castle she is, of course, surprised to find it dark and not lit up as for a party. A reluctant servant shows her into the courtyard and the first disappointment is that the whole place is overgrown, dirty and weed infested. The second one is that Lady Sheffield is dozing on a bench and when she awakes, asks who Lucia is. When Lucia answers ‘the mayor of Tilling’ Lady S says ‘No you’re not’ and Lucia realises her mistake. All along Lady Sheffield just wanted to spend some solo time with Georgie, who she’d taken a fancy to!

Lady Sheffield makes it crystal clear that she was looking forward to a quiet evening with a handsome male companion, not a middle-aged snobbish woman. She is most disappointed. This really is a test of Lucia’s mettle and she rises to the occasion. She persuades Lady Sheffield to show her round her home, snapping away on the camera she’s brought with her to record the heady social party which turns out not to exist.

But after barely an hour of this (in fact 45 minutes) Lady Sheffield is visibly tired and escorts Lucia to the door, shaking her hand, thanking her for coming and politely but firmly getting rid of her. What to do? It is still the middle of the evening. She toys with staying at the local inn but realises Foljambe, the maid who’s come with her, would give her away. Best to brazen it out and return to Tilling. So they have dinner at the inn and then set off on the long drive home, arriving at 10.30m back at Mallards. Reflecting on what a busy day she’s had, Benson has Lucia make an uncharacteristically up-to-date literary reference:

‘Quite like that huge horrid book by Mr. James Joyce, which all happens in one day,’ she reflected, as she stepped out of the car.

The Olga surprise

As she steps out of the car, Lucia is astonished to hear the sound of piano and of Olga singing in her house. She waits till she’s finished and then enters the garden room. Georgie is astonished but, strange to say, relieved. Having spent to long with Olga he was troubled by his old feelings for her. Lucia’s return will help him to return to superficial politeness. Olga, for her part, is tickled by Lucia’s absence and return: she finds Lucia a hilarious person. When Lucia in her pompous superior way goes on to congratulate her for her performance of the Prayer from Lucrezia, Olga restrains herself from saying she was actually singing some Berlioz.

It was only by strong and sustained effort that Olga restrained herself from howling with laughter.

So they chat gaily, have a few sandwiches and then, it being well past 11, they all go to bed.

The affair misapprehension

But the ramifications are far from complete. Because the next morning everyone in Tilling sees Georgie proudly squiring round town the gorgeous, lipsticked Olga. Heads turn and tongues wag. Soon everyone knows that he had her to stay at Mallards the second Lucia was away. Surprisingly, people aren’t moralistic but nod in sympathy. Diva goes so far as to say it must be hard for Georgie, living among so many ‘old hags’. To their surprise, the ladies of Tilling see Georgie in a new light, as a red-blooded Lothario.

Unaware of the impact all this has had, Lucia (who, as we saw, came home the previous evening i.e. there was never any hanky panky) phones round her friends, strongly gives the impression she has only just returned from Sheffield Castle, and invites everyone to dinner that evening.

The beauty fad

Olga is so ravishing and cosmopolitan that the old ladies (or ‘hags’ as Diva calls them) set about beautifying themselves with comic results, trying to hide from each other the little packets they set about buying in the chemist’s shop, and turning up at Lucia’s dinner looking grotesque (p.191). Here’s an extensive quote, to give the full comic effect.

Evie’s finger nails looked as if she had pinched them all, except one, in the door, causing the blood to flow freely underneath each. She had forgotten about that one, and it looked frost-bitten. Elizabeth and Benjy came next: Elizabeth’s cheeks were like the petals of wild roses, but she had not the nerve to incarnadine her mouth, which, by contrast, appeared to be afflicted with the cyanosis which precedes death. Diva, on the other hand, had been terrified at the aspect of blooming youth which rouge gave her, and she had wiped it off at the last moment, retaining the Cupid’s bow of a vermilion mouth, and two thin arched eyebrows in charcoal. Susan, wearing the Order of the British Empire, had had her grey hair waved, and it resembled corrugated tin roofing: Mr. Wyse and Georgie wore their velvet suits. It took them all a few minutes to get used to each other, for they were like butterflies which had previously only known each other in the caterpillar or chrysalis stage, and they smiled and simpered like new acquaintances in the most polite circles, instead of old and censorious friends.

Olga, when she appears, effortlessly outclasses them all. Over dinner they all babble to get her attention. There is no bridge, but Lucia insists Georgie does a little dance with her to Olga’s accompaniment and when she turns she sees all of them staring at her with their tongues hanging out like dogs that want to go for a walk, and so she gives in and sings for them.

Chapter 10. The Poppy and Olga crisis

The fad for wearing make-up endures. Lucia commissions Irene to paint her portrait. To my astonishment Irene tells her she is 25 years old! (page 196)

But when Irene says how much she admired Lucia for being so daring and so modern as to spend the night away (at Lady Sheffield’s) in order to give her husband and her lover (Georgie and Olga) a night of passion together, Lucia is genuinely horrified at how everyone must be interpreting those events. She realises she has to put the record straight. She has to confess to Irene that she did not spend the night at Sheffield Castle but, having driven all the way there, found Lady Sheffield unwell, had some tea and a little tour, and then drove home, arriving in time to find Olga serenading Georgie. And then everyone went off to their own bedrooms. Irene is disappointed:

‘Darling, what a disappointment!’ said Irene. ‘It would have been so colossal of you. And what a comedown for poor Georgie. Just an old maid again.’

Soon the disappointing news is spread all round town and Tillingites feel let down. ‘Everything had been so exciting and ducal and compromising, and there was really nothing left of it…’ As Mapp puts it:

‘Worship let it be widely known that she was staying the night with Poppy, and then she skulks back, doesn’t appear at all next morning to make us think that she was still away–‘

The annual Tilling art exhibition

The annual Tilling art exhibition comes round and all the characters donate works typical of them (Elizabeth and Georgie’s rival watercolours). Since you ask, they are:

  • Elizabeth – ‘A misty morning on the Marsh’ she likes mist because the climatic conditions absolutely prohibited defined draughtsmanship
  • Georgie – ‘A sunny morning on the Marsh’ with sheep and dykes and clumps of ragwort very clearly delineated
  • Mr Wyse – one of his still-life studies of a silver tankard, a glass of wine and a spray of nasturtiums
  • Diva – a still life of two buns and a tartlet on a plate
  • Susan Wyse – a mystical picture of a budgerigar with a halo above its head and rays of orange light emanating from its wings

But the show is, of course, dominated by Irene’s famous allegory of Elizabeth and Benjy and her new portrait of Lucia. She has depicted Lucia in her home, with the piano, an art set, municipal boxes of papers and various other adjuncta of her character. Unfortunately it makes her look like the auctioneer at a jumble sale. Lucia tries to grandiosely donate it to the Council to hang in the town hall but Elizabeth is now a councillor (as well as mayoress) and she sways the other councillors (who can’t make head or tail of it) not to.

But Elizabeth doesn’t have it her own way because Irene, reviewing her allegory, decides it is too pale and insipid, especially given the Tilling ladies new penchant for wearing make-up. And so after the first hang, Irene adds some rouge and a line of lipstick to Elizabeth’s portrait, scandalising Miss Mapp. She goes round to beg Lucia use her influence on Irene to get her to remove the additions.

August rents and the arrival of Miss Leg

August comes round again, the season when all our characters rent out their homes and move into smaller properties to turn a little profit. Miss Mapp rents hers out to a Miss Susan Leg, who turns out to be none other than the world-famous novelist, Rudolph da Vinci. (Elizabeth and Benjy have temporarily moved into the house of the vicar who has gone with his wife on holiday to Scotland.)

Immediately Mapp and Lucia start fighting over who will own and influence Miss Legg and Elizabeth gets a good head start since Leg is renting her property, showing her round town, introducing everyone (with her own comments) and then hosting a dinner where she comprehensively rubbishes her rival.

However, the tide turns as Miss Leg turns out not to be so obliging. She fiercely dislikes the famous Botticelli portrait but, ironically, raves over the Lucia portrait. She offends half the people Mapp proudly introduces her to as being pushy and vulgar. When Elizabeth rings up Lucia to ask her to get access (in the town hall) to the Corporation plate and let Miss L sign the visitors’ book, Lucia apologises but says it’s impossible. Suddenly Elizabeth finds she’s hitched her wagon to a falling star.

And by the same token, it dawns on Miss Leg that she might have made a mistake. After a few days she draws the conclusion that maybe the Lucia that Elizabeth has spent so much time defaming is, in fact, the key to Tilling, and so she pays Lucia a solo visit. Lucia expected this and is set up with Georgie to receive her, playing the piano, art works on display, and so on, in order to create the best impression. Miss Leg perceives Lucia’s snobbery and artistic pretensions but can also see she is the Top Dog of Tilling and so likely to provide the best copy for a writer like herself.

Lucia lays on tea and buns and then plays a trump card, ringing up the town hall and instructing the Serjeant on duty to get the corporate plate and visitors’ book out for Miss Leg to sign, thus demonstrating her clout. Then she invites her to dinner with the gang, carefully excluding Elizabeth and Benjy, so that Miss Leg is shown who runs the Real Tilling. Miss L has a delightful evening, by the end of which she and Lucia are on first name terms (her name is Susan).

Chapter 11. More blows

1. Georgie and Olga leave This is a surprise. The narrative doesn’t follow them, but Georgie and Olga go for a week’s holiday at Le Touquet (on the north French coast). The tongues which wagged about their (erroneous) night of passion together, wag all over again.

2. The council reject Lucia’s portrait Second shock is that the council art committee chaired by Elizabeth decides not to buy the portrait of Lucia done by Irene and not to hang it in the town hall. This is a real blow to Lucia’s pride and prestige, and she goes home grinding with envy that the Mapp Botticelli painting is going on display at a big London gallery and then is likely to be bought by an American millionaire, while the portrait of her will simply come home to her house, with the same kind of status as Diva’s wretched watercolours.

3. Lady Sheffield publicly doesn’t know who Lucia is The third blow is that she sets off down the hill to put a brave face on the portrait debacle when who should she almost bump into getting into her posh car, but Lady Sheffield. But it’s bad, very bad, because 1) although Lucia goes to shake her hand, Lady Sheffield has no idea who she is and has to be elaborately reminded, and even then reveals out loud that she only met invited Lucia to her castle because she thought she was handsome Georgie. But worse, 2) Elizabeth is with her, Elizabeth witnesses first hand this excruciating encounter, and double worse, her Grace has just emerged from Diva’s tearooms where Elizabeth will have manipulated the situation to make it perfectly plain to all her Tilling friends that Lady S had no idea who Lucia was, and she was the opposite of a bosom friend.

Lucia is fearless as ever and invites her Grace up to her simple abode to view the photographs she took, but it turns out that her ladyship is also catching the ferry across the Channel, planning to go and stay with Georgie and Olga. Lucia squeezes in an invitation for her to come and stay on her way back. Maybe. Please. And her Ladyship climbs into her car and is gone, leaving Lucia standing distraught with smirking Elizabeth.

Lucia is committed and so has to go on, into the tea rooms, and face all the ladies who’ve just witnessed Lady Sheffield’s complete ignorance of her. She puts on her very best face, and braves their sarcasm, but she is mortally wounded.

Making her tea as brief as possible, Lucia returns home a stricken animal and this is new. Suddenly Lucia acquires something like actual depth. In all of these novels she and the other characters have been comic mannequins, puppets put through never-ending series of humiliations which they outface with heroic chutzpah but this novel is the first one which has anything like depth. For the first time you feel genuinely sorry for Lucia, something the reader never has before. And she feels sorry for herself.

Surely some malignant Power, specially dedicated to the service of her discomfiture, must have ordained the mishaps (and their accurate timing) of this staggering afternoon: the malignant Power was a master of stage-craft. Who could stand up against a relentless tragedian? Lucia could not, and two tears of self-pity rolled down her cheeks. She was much surprised to feel their tickling progress, for she had always thought herself incapable of such weakness, but there they were. The larger one fell on to her blotting-pad, and she dashed the smaller aside.

She pulls herself together, of course, but it’s a very rare moment of something like psychological realism. For a moment we glimpse the Samuel Beckett bleakness which is lurking beneath the endless backbiting and rivalry.

And then, finally, a break. She is playing the piano when the phone rings and guess who it is? Lady Sheffield! She missed her boat, will catch the one tomorrow, and remembers Lucia’s hurried invitation, and now wants to take her up on it: may she come and stay the night? To say Lucia is overwhelmed with relief is an understatement. She rings for Grosvenor and they hurriedly get the place ready, and Lady S does indeed arrive, have a little supper, spend the night, then get up early the next morning and leave.

Lucia can’t wait till marketing hour, when all the ladies mingle in the High street, but she is down there as soon as possible, and very calmly tells Elizabeth who came to stay last night. Elizabeth immediately pops into Diva’s tearoom, tells her but ridicules the whole thing as a desperate attempt to save face.

As it happens, Elizabeth and Benjy have invited Lucia to dine with them that evening. She goes but doesn’t understand why they keep changing the subject whenever she mentions Poppy Sheffield, but there you go, they’re odd people, and after dinner they play bridge as usual. It’s only on her walk home that the truth hits her: they don’t believe her. All her ‘friends’ think she made up the entire story of Poppy coming to stay. Indeed, seen one way, her coming late and leaving early and being seen by no-one is worse than if she’d never come at all.

Once again Lucia is plunged into real ‘misery’ and once again the reader is struck. These ‘troubles’ are the real thing, are really biting into her character.

Quite suddenly Lucia knew that she had no more force left in her. She could only just manage a merry laugh.

Chapter 12. Lucia’s low point

Very unlike her, Lucia is so demoralised that she can’t face going out the next morning. The day after is Sunday and she attends church and puts on a brave face but again, after the service, confronts Elizabeth’s scepticism and for once, and very unlike her, Lucia loses her temper and delivers a series of cutting ripostes to each of her ‘friends’.

At that precise moment there took possession of Lucia an emotion to which hitherto she had been a stranger, namely sheer red rage. In all the numerous crises of her career her brain had always been occupied with getting what she wanted and with calm triumph when she got it, or with devising plans to extricate herself from tight places and with scaring off those who had laid traps for her. Now all such insipidities were swept away; rage at the injustice done her thrilled every fibre of her being, and she found the sensation delicious.

Georgie returns

Next morning she drives to Seaport (presumably a fictional name) to meet Georgie off the boat back from Le Touquet. She is delighted to see him but so is the reader; in his absence she hasn’t been herself at all. All this plunging into misery and tears of vexation are very unlike her and threaten the rationale of the whole series, which is how comically unsinkable she is, the comedy lies in her ability to bounce back from every kind of humiliation and setback.

With Georgie’s return we enter the final end phases of the narrative. Lucia tells Georgie everything that has happened, in full unvarnished detail and Georgie refreshes her with his sympathy and support. In exchange Georgie tells us that Poppy Lady Sheffield was a pain at Le Touquet. She insisted on sitting right next to Georgie on the sofa and at meal times touching his hand and generally coming on to him. Olga thought it was hilarious, which wasn’t much help.

At which point he springs the news that Poppy said she’d like to stop over at Lucia’s for a couple of days on her way back. Lucia leaps out of her chair. Salvation! Yes! If Lady Sheffield stays for a few days, then all her friends will be poked in the eye. They’ll have to admit it’s true. And at that moment a telegram arrives confirming the request.

Georgie is horrified. If Poppy’s coming he’ll leave but Lucia begs him not to go and he reluctantly acquiesces.

Lucia’s revenge

And so Lucia has her revenge. Poppy Lady Sheffield does indeed come to stay with her the following evening and the next day Lucia makes quite sure to take her for a stroll through Tilling at marketing hour. Lucia and Georgie debate whether to invite her friends for tea or dinner. Georgie is all for ignoring them both nights but Lucia ponders and concludes that the best revenge would be to rise above all the slights and sarcasm she’d received and invite them as if nothing had happened.

‘There’s nothing that stings so much as contemptuous oblivion. I have often found that.’

She will adopt a policy of what Benson amusing calls ‘vindictive forgiveness’. Although she doesn’t lower herself to call them in person, She gets Foljambe to ring them all to apologise for the short notice and ask if they’d like to pop round for dinner that evening. The last little burst of comedy comes from the way all of them had other appointments, often with each other, and how they all worm out of them with weasel words, but then all arrive at Lucia’s realising how they’d lied to each other.

Poppy is late coming down and all the guests have arrived and are trying to control their excitement at meeting a real live Duchess. For a moment I thought Benson might pull one last comic trick and have her having expired in Lucia’s spare bedroom, but nothing that dramatic happens in Benson (well, not very often) and instead Lady Sheffield makes a modest but dramatic entrance and the evening is a great success. The last touch of comedy is that Poppy still fancies Georgie, insists on sitting next to him, touching his hand more than necessary and tries, after dinner, to go for a walk with him in the garden until Lucia hastens to Georgie’s rescue and fetches them both back indoors. But overall:

A most distinguished suavity prevailed, and though the party lacked the gaiety and lightness of the Olga-festival, its quality was far more monumental.

And so, after the genuine trials and tribulations of the last few chapters, the novel, and the series, ends on a quiet but firm note of Lucia triumphant.

Thoughts

This one feels different from the previous five M&L novels. Long though they all are, the preceding five stick to the same superficial equable tone throughout. Lots happens – the novels, after all, consist of long series of events, often fairly disconnected, one incident after another with rarely what you’d call an overarching ‘plot’ – but the tone rarely varies from one of amused and charming social satire.

But as I’ve indicated, all that changes in this one. In the last few chapters, Lucia is genuinely humiliated, experiences real ‘misery’ and, for the one and only time in all six novels, loses her temper. For the 30 or 40 pages in question, the novel hints at something like real psychological depth, more depth and ‘realism’ than we’ve previously seen before, as I’ve summarised, ending abruptly with Lucia’s unqualified triumph. But you’re left wondering how deliberate this was. Did Benson even know he was doing it, giving his character, right at the end of her history, more depth and genuine feeling than in the previous 1,000 pages? It feels not because the ending, when it comes, when Lucia is redeemed in those last few pages, feels incredibly abrupt. It just ends.


Credit

‘Trouble for Lucia’ by E.F. Benson was published by Hutchinson in 1939. Page references are to the 1992 Black Swan paperback edition.

Related links

Mapp and Lucia reviews

Queen Lucia by E.F. Benson (1920)

The hours of the morning between breakfast and lunch were the time which the inhabitants of Riseholme chiefly devoted to spying on each other.
(Chapter 4)

‘Any news?’ he asked.
(Riseholme’s catchphrase, Chapter 9)

Georgie explained the absence of his sisters and the advent of an atrocious dog.
‘He’s very fierce,’ he said, ‘but he likes jam.’
(Chapter 5)

When an irremediable annoyance has absolutely occurred, the only possible thing for a decent person to do is to take it as lightly as possible.
(Chapter 6)

‘Come into my house instantly, and we’ll drink vermouth. Vermouth always makes me brilliant unless it makes me idiotic, but we’ll hope for the best.’
(High-spirited Olga, Chapter 11)

E.F. Benson

‘Queen Lucia’ is a 1920 comic novel written by Edward Frederick (E.F.) Benson. Born in 1867, Benson came from a very pukka family; when he was born, his father was headmaster of Wellington School (in Somerset) and went on to become the Archbishop of Canterbury. He was a prolific writer of popular comic fiction, with a side line in ghost stories. His breakthrough novel was ‘Dodo’, back in 1893 when he was 26, a satire on the composer and militant suffragette, Ethel Smyth. But he is best remembered for the series of six Mapp and Lucia novels which began 27 years later.

Queen Lucia

‘Queen Lucia’ is the first of six novels in the popular Mapp and Lucia series depicting provincial, posh, snobbish ladies and their struggles for social dominance in their tiny village communities. It was Benson’s first popular hit since ‘Dodo’ a generation earlier and established a new subject and manner which he successfully mined for the rest of his career, in the six novels and two stories which make up the series.

The ‘queen’ in question is Emmeline Lucas, who thinks of herself as the social queen of the quaint Elizabethan village of Riseholme, a hotbed of pretentious would-be arts and culture enthusiasts. Symptomatic of her pretentious approach is the way she refers to herself, Emmeline Lucas, as Lucia and her husband Philip, a retired barrister, as Peppino.

Though Mrs Lucas’s parents had bestowed the name of Emmeline on her, it was not to be wondered at that she was always known among the more intimate of her subjects as Lucia, pronounced, of course, in the Italian mode – La Lucia, the wife of Lucas; and it was as ‘Lucia mia’ that her husband hailed her.

Lucia has a best friend, the foppish, forty-year old George ‘Georgie’ Pillson, her aide-de-camp, her ‘faithful lieutenant’ in the endless war for cultural supremacy of Riseholme:

Lucia put on the far-away look which she reserved for the masterpieces of music, and for Georgie’s hopeless devotion (p.265)

He dyes his hair, passes the time with embroidery or pastel drawing, and accompanies dear Lucia on her piano duets. While Lucia’s chief rival in these genteel conflicts is her ‘friend’, Daisy Quantock (husband, Robert), enthusiastic devotee of every passing fad.

Riseholme

This deliberately quaint little village has a high street, a duck pond, a pub – ‘that undoubtedly Elizabethan hostelry, the Ambermere Arms’ – and a village green where its inhabitants circulate every morning avid for gossip. When the story opens the undisputed monarch of this little domain is Lucia.

Riseholme might perhaps according to the crude materialism of maps, be included in the kingdom of Great Britain, but in a more real and inward sense it formed a complete kingdom of its own, and its queen was undoubtedly Mrs Lucas, who ruled it with a secure autocracy pleasant to contemplate at a time when thrones were toppling, and imperial crowns whirling like dead leaves down the autumn winds.

Like everything else in the book, the self-obsession of Riseholme is extraordinarily exaggerated. Early on Lucia returns from a trip to London and when her husband asks about it, the resulting dialogue reveals that they really genuinely consider London a kind of hopeless backwater, compared to Riseholme, which is where true art and creativity and integrity flourish:

‘And how was London?’ he asked in the sort of tone in which he might have enquired after the health of a poor relation, who was not likely to recover. She smiled rather sadly.
‘Terrifically busy about nothing… I think this Riseholme life with its finish and its exquisiteness spoils one for other places. London is like a railway-junction: it has no true life of its own. There is no delicacy, no appreciation of fine shades. Individualism has no existence there; everyone gabbles together, gabbles and gobbles…’

Later on, when the classical singer Olga Bracely announces that she is buying a cottage in the village with the declaration that it is a charming ‘backwater’, Georgie believes she can only say such a thing because she hasn’t yet realised that Riseholme is the centre of the universe.

True, she had said that she was coming here because it was so ideally lazy a backwater, but Georgie did not take that seriously. She would soon see what Riseholme was when its life poured down in spate, whirling her punt along with it. (p.127)

And that is exactly what she comes to believe by the end of the novel:

‘Oh, it’s all so delicious!’ she said. ‘I never knew before how terribly interesting little things were. It’s all wildly exciting, and there are fifty things going on just as exciting. Is it all of you who take such a tremendous interest in them that makes them so absorbing, or is it that they are absorbing in themselves, and ordinary dull people, not Riseholmites, don’t see how exciting they are? Tommy Luton’s measles: the Quantocks’ secret: Elizabeth’s lover! And to think that I believed I was coming to a backwater.’ (p.259)

Gossip

The inhabitants of Riseholme live for gossip, are gluttonous for news. Every morning they circulate on the village green, bumping into each other and fiercely competitive to possess and impart the latest gossip in what Benson jocosely calls the village ‘parliaments’.

The hours of the morning between breakfast and lunch were the time which the inhabitants of Riseholme chiefly devoted to spying on each other. They went about from shop to shop on household businesses, occasionally making purchases which they carried away with them in little paper parcels with convenient loops of string, but the real object of these excursions was to see what everybody else was doing, and learn what fresh interests had sprung up like mushrooms during the night. (p.58)

And he who corners a piece of gossip (as Georgie often does), seethes with self-congratulation and happiness, and a glorious sense of superiority, and spends ages deciding who to share it with to maximum effect.

Georgie felt very much like a dog with a bone in his mouth, who only wants to get away from all the other dogs and discuss it quietly. It is safe to say that never in twenty-four hours had so many exciting things happened to him. He had ordered a toupée, he had been looked on with favour by a Guru, all Riseholme knew that he had had quite a long conversation with Lady Ambermere and nobody in Riseholme, except himself, knew that Olga Bracely was going to spend two nights here.

Lucia

Mrs Emmeline Lucas refers to herself as Lucia. She is a fantastic epitome of 1920s intellectual snobbery for whom speaking Italian is the quintessence of civilisation. She is obsessed by Beethoven, the first movement of whose Moonlight sonata she practices over and over again.

Lucia’s husband made his pile as a barrister in London. He is now retired and writes prose poems, is the author of two slim volumes, ‘Flotsam’ and ‘Jetsam’, printed:

not of course in the hard business-like establishment of London, but at ‘Ye Sign of ye Daffodil’, on the village green, where type was set up by hand, and very little, but that of the best, was printed.

Lucia considers herself responsible for turning Riseholme from a labourers’ village into a palace of culture. Her tea parties, performances on the pianoforte, her dinners, her tableaux featuring classical characters, are all legendary in the village.

Lucia lives in three cottages which she and Philip bought, knocked together, festooned with period features, and named ‘the Hurst’. Behind it is the Shakespeare Garden where only flowers mentioned in Shakespeare plays are grown. All the bedrooms are named after Shakespearian characters of plays, Hamlet, Othello, Midsummer Night’s Dream.

One of Lucia’s characteristics is her ‘silvery laugh’ with which, more often than not, she tries to laugh off yet another humiliation.

Queens, thrones and wars

The thing is that the metaphor of Lucia being queen of Riseholme is not a casual, peripheral joke. It is central to the book’s conception and the narrative abounds with metaphors of wars, campaigns, strategies, calls to arms and so on, from large events such as a garden party, right down to the individual cut and thrust of dialogue.

The competition for cultural supremacy is absolutely unremitting and colours all the thoughts of all the characters all the time. Eventually this comes to seem bizarre, almost surreal. Thus when the newcomer, Olga Bracely, threatens to become the new cultural supremo of the village, Lucia reacts:

Lucia had not determined on this declaration of war without anxious consideration. But it was quite obvious to her that the enemy was daily gaining strength, and therefore the sooner she came to open hostilities the better, for it was equally obvious to her mind that Olga was a pretender to the throne she had occupied for so long. It was time to mobilise, and she had first to state her views and her plan of campaign to the chief of her staff. (p.204)

You see how the entire thing is couched in military metaphors? They sprinkle the text:

Then with poor generalship, Lucia altered her tactics, and went up to the Village Green…

With the eye of the true general, he saw that he could most easily break the surrounding cordon by going off in the direction of Colonel Boucher…

By this time Georgie had got a tolerable inkling of the import of all this. It was not at present to be war; it was to be magnificent rivalry, a throwing down perhaps of a gauntlet, which none would venture to pick up. (p.165)

During dinner, according to Olga’s plan of campaign, the conversation was to be general, because she hated to have two conversations going on when only four people were present, since she found that she always wanted to join in the other one. (p.181)

Really it was rather magnificent, and it was war as well; of that there could not be the slightest doubt. (p.205)

The mock heroic

The entire thing is a peculiarly English, domestic example of the mock heroic. According to the Wikipedia article:

Mock-heroic or mock-epic works are typically satires or parodies that mock the elevated style of Classical stereotypes of heroes and heroic literature. Typically, mock-heroic works by either putting a fool in the role of the hero or painting trivial subjects in heroic style.

That is exactly what happens here. Every new nugget of village gossip, every plan for a tea party or dinner, even down to individual conversational gambits, are all described as if they’re campaigns from the Napoleonic wars, major battles complete with battle plans, strategies and tactics. Here’s a little exchange which epitomises the mock heroic use of war metaphors:

Mrs Quantock, still impotently rebelling, resorted to the most dire weapon in her armoury, namely, sarcasm.
‘Perhaps, darling Lucia,’ she said, ‘it would be well to ask my Guru if he has anything to say to your settlings. England is a free country still, even if you happen to have come from India.’
Lucia had a deadlier weapon than sarcasm, which was the apparent unconsciousness of there having been any. For it is no use plunging a dagger into your enemy’s heart, if it produces no effect whatever on him. (p.73)

In a couple of places Benson breaks cover, as it were, and actually cites the classics almost in the manner of Homer et al:

Her passion, like Hyperion’s, had lifted her upon her feet, and she stood there defying the whole of the advanced class, short and stout and wholly ridiculous… (p.137)

Her whole scheme flashed completely upon her, even as Athene sprang full-grown from the brain of Zeus. (p.213)

He waited rather hopefully for their return, for Peppino, he felt sure, was bored with this Achilles-attitude of sitting sulking in the tent. (p.242)

Gay and camp

Benson was gay though, necessarily in the society of his time, concealed it. But as homosexual art and practice have been more openly celebrated over recent decades, critics have more openly discussed the camp aspect of the novels. Camp is, in a sense, a variety of mock heroic. Classic camp makes mountains out of molehills, wildly over-reacts to the trivial, simply adores those new shoes, ear-rings etc, just loves that haircut, simply worships the new Madonna look etc.

This gay aspect of the book is most obvious in the character of the self-involved Georgie, ostensibly devoted to Queen Lucia while all the time bitchily conspiring against her, fussing about his hair and toupee, worrying about his precious heirlooms. Critics have, predictably, seen Georgie as a humorous self-portrait.

Georgie (he was Georgie or Mr Georgie, never Pillson to the whole of Riseholme) was not an obtrusively masculine sort of person. Such masculinity as he was possessed of was boyish rather than adult, and the most important ingredients in his nature were feminine. He had, in common with the rest of Riseholme, strong artistic tastes, and in addition to playing the piano, made charming little water-colour sketches, many of which he framed at his own expense and gave to friends, with slightly sentimental titles, neatly printed in gilt letters on the mount. ‘Golden Autumn Woodland’, ‘Bleak December’, ‘Yellow Daffodils’, ‘Roses of Summer’ were perhaps his most notable series…

On a broader view, it’s possible to argue that the preening middle-aged ladies who dominate the narrative – Lucia, Daisy Quantock – are more gay men than straight women. This is the view of my wife who’s loved these novels since she was a student and impressed me by saying she’d never believed Benson’s older ladies were women at all; that they always seemed, to her, obviously gay stereotypes.

This is a subject I’m not expert enough to judge, but am just noting this view.

Plot synopsis

The narrative consists of a series of farcical episodes in which the Lucia’s extravagant artistic snobbery and battle for cultural control of the little village is repeatedly called into question, eclipsed, re-established and so on. These episodes are:

Mrs Quantock’s Guru

Mrs Quantock is a creature of fads. As the novel begins she is at the tail end of a fad for Christian Science. There is a great deal of secret comings and goings, investigated by nosy Georgie, before it is revealed that she has discovered a Guru, a Brahmin from Benares, who communes with spirit guides and practices meditation, stands on one leg in her garden, adopts complicated poses and positions (which he calls Yoga), teaches calming breathing and so on.

Mrs Q’s fussy faddishness is funny in itself, what turns it into Mapp and Lucia gold is the way that Lucia sets about annexing this new addition to Riseholme’s rich cultural life, persuading the Guru to come and stay with her, holding a lavish party to introduce him to the rest of the village, and setting up daily Yoga sessions for those interested in improving their spirituality.

The complexities of the discovery of the Guru, and his annexation by Lucia, are accompanied by a thousand and one little micro-aggressions between Lucia and Mrs Quantock who is, understandably, furious that her pet star has been hijacked.

Which makes it all the funnier when Georgie’s tomboy sisters, Ursula and Hermione, on a visit to Riseholme, recognise the high-souled spiritual adviser as none other than one of the cooks from the Calcutta Restaurant in Bedford Street, London, where the sisters often have lunch. He recognised them in the same moment they recognised him, and bolted indoors. The next morning he has disappeared and so have choice belongings from the homes of Lucia and Mrs Q. But again, rather than admit they have been duped, both ladies prefer to draw a veil of silence over the episode, not report the thefts to the police, and give out that the Guru had been called away on his endless spiritual odyssey.

Olga Bracely

In the same way, Benson creates a great deal of mystery and obfuscation about the next incident, which is the arrival of the noted soprano opera singer Olga Bracely in the village. At first she comes for a brief stay, but then confesses to Georgie that she has been thinking of buying a little bolthole miles from the hectic capital, before, amid various secretive hustling and bustling, she buys a cottage on the green and throws herself into village life.

This has all kinds of comic consequences. For a start Olga is bracingly candid as befits a girl who was born and raised, so she tells us, in an orphanage in Brixton (a mile or so from where I’m writing these words). It is a typical Mapp and Lucia joke that Olga tells the local lady of the manor and competitive snob, Lady Ambermere, that she belongs to the Surrey Bracelys seeing as ‘Brixton is on the Surrey side’ i.e. the south or Surrey side of the River Thames (p.101).

Both Lucia and Mrs Quantock valiantly compete for Olga’s affections and but she is stronger than either of them. Her arrival is like an earthquake in the small self-satisfied community or, as Benson puts it with characteristic hyperbole:

In the old days this could never have happened for everything devolved round one central body. Now with the appearance of this other great star, all the known laws of gravity and attraction were upset. (p.171)

Olga manages to make a fool of Lucia in particular on several memorable occasions.

The string quartet

On one occasion Olga invites a string quartet to play, and invites the villagers to her house to hear them. Lucia mistakenly thinks Olga has hired the quartet from the nearby town of Brinton, of which she has a very poor opinion. Therefore, when the performance has finished, she very loudly praises it but laments that it is not up to the standard of her favourite group, the Spanish Quartet – to which Olga artlessly replies that they are the Spanish quartet! (p.193) Everybody in the village overhears Lucia’s mortifying humiliation and Mrs Quantock emits a squeal of mirth. In Benson’s hilariously hyperbolical diction, this subversion of Lucia amounts to an almost Bolshevik revolution:

In that fell moment the Bolshevists laid bony fingers on the sceptre of her musical autocracy! (p.194)

The comedy then derives from Lucia’s desperate attempts to roll back from this humiliation.

Signor Cortese

Signor Cortese is an eminent Italian composer who has just completed a new opera, ‘Lucretia’, and writes to Olga, the noted opera singer, asking if he can come and visit her, play it for her and interest her in taking the part.

In her innocence Olga wonders who to invite for dinner with him and settles on Lucia and Peppino, because they refer to each other by Italian pet names and are always dropping Italian phrases into their conversation. They are a little intimidated by the invitation but spend some time brushing up their Dante in preparation.

But the dinner ends up being a howling humiliation because, upon being introduced, the composer lets fly a volley of Italian at Licia and Peppino, neither of whom have a clue what he’s saying. Cortese instantly realises this and courteously switches to his poor English, but the damage is done and Lucia’s reputation for Italian is destroyed in front of all the other guests in the most high profile way imaginable.

She knew that, as an Italian conversationalist, neither she nor Peppino had a rag of reputation left them. (p.197)

And the whole village will be informed and ridicule her:

The story would be all over Riseholme next day, and she felt sure that Mrs Weston, that excellent observer and superb reporter, had not failed to take it all in, and would not fail to do justice to it. Blow after blow had been rained upon her palace door, it was little wonder that the whole building was a-quiver. (p.198)

Princess Popoffski

The last major episode is the arrival in the village of a medium and clairvoyant, ‘Princess Popoffski’. She is another discovery of Mrs Quantock’s, who met her in a vegetarian restaurant in London. But this doesn’t stop her moving in and becoming a Riseholme sensation.

Spiritualism, and all things pertaining to it, swept over Riseholme like the amazing growth of some tropical forest, germinating and shooting out its surprising vegetation, and rearing into huge fantastic shapes. In the centre of this wonderful jungle was a temple, so to speak, and that temple was the house of Mrs Quantock…

This represents a setback to Lucia’s rule. She has been a lifelong sceptic and sniffs at mediums, séances and so on, but is badly left behind as the Princess becomes all the rage. Everyone else (Georgie, Olga, Lady Amblemere) attends the séances and feels the table knocking and witnesses ghostly ectoplasm materialising into the form of a character from ancient Egypt or ‘Amadeo’, who claims to be a Florentine and know Dante quite well.

Lucia is subject to a score of snubs and petty humiliations and micro-aggressions before the inevitable happens, and the Princess is revealed as a fraud. But not to everyone. Only to the Quantocks. When the princess goes back to London for a break, Daisy discovers she’s left behind a trunk which contains some of her props. Quite separately, Robert Quantock discovers an item in the newspaper describing the arrest of the Princess for fraud – he promptly buys up every newspaper in the Riseholme newsagents, especially Todd’s News which had a big feature on it, and burns them all.

The guilty husband and wife decide to hush the whole thing up. The other lead characters, particularly Georgie, suspect something is afoot, but can’t figure out what. Towards the end of the novel, Daisy and Robert discuss the case and consider inviting the convicted fraud Princess Popoffski back to Riseholme, treat her with all sincerity taking her at face value, purely to pull a tremendous confidence trick on the rest of the village! Consider it but then, reluctantly, decide to be safe rather than sorry…

Cast

  • Mrs Emmeline Lucas aka Queen Lucia
  • Philip ‘Peppino’ Lucas – husband, retired barrister, author of prose poems
  • Georgie Pillson – Lucia’s best friend, ‘her gentleman-in-waiting when she was at home, and her watch-dog when she was not’ – plays with piano with Lucia and makes charming little water-colour sketches – ‘his mother had been a Bartlett and a second cousin of her deceased husband’:
    • Dicky – George’s handsome young chauffeur
    • Foljambe – his very pretty parlour-maid who valeted him
  • Georgie’s two plain strapping sisters, Hermione and Ursula aka Hermy and Ursy – ‘they liked pigs and dogs and otter-hunting and mutton-chops’:
    • Tipsipoozie, a lean Irish terrier
  • Mr Holroyd – the barber who manages Georgie’s wig
  • Mrs Daisy Quantock
  • Robert Quantock – her husband
  • Rush the grocer
  • the Guru
  • Lady Embermere – local gentry, widowed
  • Miss Lyall – her companion – ‘This miserable spinster, of age so obvious as to be called not the least uncertain, was Lady Ambermere’s companion, and shared with her the glories of The Hall.. her head was inclined with a backward slope on her neck, and her mouth was invariably a little open shewing long front teeth, so that she looked rather like a roast hare sent up to table with its head on’
  • Olga Bracely – the prima-donna
  • Mr Shuttleworth – Olga’s accompanist and husband
  • Colonel Jacob Boucher with his two snorting bull-dogs
    • Atkinson, his man
  • Mrs Jane Weston in her bath-chair
    • pushed by her gardener boy, Henry Luton
    • Elizabeth, her parlour maid
  • Mrs Antrobus – with her ham-like face and her ear-trumpet
  • the two Miss Antrobuses – Piggy and Goosie (p.113)
  • Mr Rumbold – the vicar

Comic phrasing

For such a comic writer, Benson rarely comes up with comic one-liners or zingers. The humour derives almost entirely from the ludicrous attitudes of all the characters, which are treated with such deadpan seriousness, and the basic worldview of the novel, which is intrinsically comic. But there are exceptions:

Mrs Lucas often spent some of her rare leisure moments in the smoking-parlour, playing on the virginal that stood in the window, or kippering herself in the fumes of the wood-fire.
(Chapter 1)

The doorbell:

By the side of this fortress-door hung a heavy iron bell-pull, ending in a mermaid. When first Mrs Lucas had that installed, it was a bell-pull in the sense that an extremely athletic man could, if he used both hands and planted his feet firmly, cause it to move, so that a huge bronze bell swung in the servants’ passage and eventually gave tongue (if the athlete continued pulling) with vibrations so sonorous that the white-wash from the ceiling fell down in flakes.
(Chapter 1)

‘Oh, I wonder if you can keep a secret?’
‘Yes,’ said Georgie. He probably had never kept one yet, but there was no reason why he shouldn’t begin now.
(Chapter 7)

Lucia’s garden-parties were scheduled from four to seven and half-an-hour before the earliest guest might be expected, she was casting an eagle eye over the preparations which today were on a very sumptuous scale. The bowls were laid out in the bowling alley, not because anybody in Hightums dresses was the least likely to risk the stooping down and the strong movements that the game entailed, but because bowls were Elizabethan.
(Chapter 7)

Chunky prose style

Over the past few weeks I’ve read a number of Agatha Christie novels and got used to her streamlined prose. Part of what makes Christie so readable was her development of a pared-back functional prose style.

Benson is the complete opposite. His prose is a hangover from the over-stuffed Victorian era, with long sentences packed with multiple clauses which create a very cluttered effect. At least one intention is that these elaborate periods to capture the complexity and subtlety of the rivalries and backstabbing which characterise the mental life of all Riseholme’s inhabitants.

There’s something comic about long sentences at the best of times, the piling up of details and clauses create a sense of cluttered absurdity.

Now the departing guests in their Hightums, lingering on the village green a little, and being rather sarcastic about the utter failure of Lucia’s party, could hardly help seeing Georgie and Olga emerge from his house and proceed swiftly in the direction of The Hurst, and Mrs Antrobus who retained marvellous eyesight as compensation for her defective hearing, saw them go in, and simultaneously thought that she had left her parasol at The Hurst.

A sentence like this also dramatises the way the whole of this little community focuses round the village green where everyone is spying on everyone else’s movements and continually deciphering and interpreting them, a hive of obsessive observation.

Stunt

The word ‘stunt’ crops up a lot in Christie (and F. Scott Fitzgerald) in the 1920s, to indicate a scam or schtick or technique or method. It was clearly a modish word and as such it crops up in Benson, too.

She had read the article in the encyclopaedia about Yoga right through again this morning, and had quite made up her mind, as indeed her proceedings had just shown, that Yoga was, to put it irreverently, to be her August stunt.
(Chapter 5)

Cat

I’ve got used, in the novels of Agatha Christie, to the use of the word ‘cat’ to denote a bitchy woman, and also the quality of bitchiness itself. Same here. Benson makes it the subject of a little joke passage. Lucia has made a comment to Olga about the forthcoming engagement of old Colonel Boucher and Mrs Weston, remembering how long ago she and Robert were engaged – which on the face of it sounds like sympathy but also subtly hints at how old the middle-aged couple are:

This might have been tact, or it might have been cat. That Peppino and she sympathised as they remembered their beautiful time was tact, that it was so long ago was cat. Altogether it might be described as a cat chewing tact. (p.196)

Summary

Very funny. Having skewered some of the popular fads of the day (Christian Science, Indian gurus, spiritualism) one wonders what was left for Benson to satirise in the sequels. Well, there’s only one way to find out…


Credit

‘Queen Lucia’ by E.F. Benson was published by Hutchinson in July 1920. Page references are to the 1984 Black Swan paperback edition.

Related links

Mapp and Lucia reviews

Dumb Witness by Agatha Christie (1937)

‘They don’t understand – old people don’t… they can’t… They don’t know what it is to live!’
(young Theresa, Chapter 2)

‘Let me tell you that no matter is finished with until Hercule Poirot ceases to concern himself with it!’
(Poirot telling off Hastings, Chapter 6)

‘The dog hunts rabbits. Hercule Poirot hunts murderers.’
(Poirot to Hastings, Chapter 9)

‘If one is going to tell a lie at all, it might as well be an artistic lie, a romantic lie, a convincing lie!’
(Poirot justifying fibbing to the people he interviews, Chapter 10)

‘Always trouble after a death, anyway. A man or woman is hardly cold in their coffin before most of the mourners are scratching each other’s eyes out.’
(Miss Peabody, Chapter 10)

‘The various characters in our drama begin to emerge more clearly. In some ways it resembles, does it not, a novelette of olden days. The humble companion, once despised, is raised to affluence and now plays the part of lady bountiful.’
(Poirot acknowledging the hackneyed quality of many of Christie’s plots and characters, Chapter 12)

‘There is something in the depths there – yes, there is something! I swear it, by my faith as Hercule Poirot, I swear it!’
(The conviction that motivates the investigations of not only Poirot but the independent investigators in all her other murder mysteries, Chapter 18)

Dumb Witness

‘Dumb Witness’ is the 17th Hercule Poirot book, the 14th novel (given that the 17 include 2 books of short stories and a play). Interestingly, it is the last one to feature and, indeed be narrated by, his sidekick Captain Hastings, until the final Poirot novel, ‘Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case’ in 1975, a gap of nearly 40 years.

It’s notable because Hastings’s narrative only starts in Chapter 5, the first four chapter having been told by a third-party omniscient narrator, a combining of the two types of narrator which we had previously encountered in ‘The A.B.C. Murders’.

Christie was an restless experimenter not only with the form of her novels, but also the form of her murders. There is a relentless experimenting or playing with who the murderer turns out to be throughout the stories. The experiment in this one is having the murdered person dead and buried months before Poirot is even involved. So instead of being on the spot or arriving at the crime scene the next day, and interviewing everyone for a day or two before briskly revealing the murderer, this is more in the manner of a cold case, months old and, crucially, nobody thinks it was a murder. Everyone thinks an old lady passed away in a perfectly ordinary way, after a series of illnesses and accidents, and left her money to her companion. Bit odd, maybe, but nothing to see here, and the world has moved on.

So why does Poirot get involved or suspect anything untoward? Because, as in numerous previous novels, Poirot is roped in via a letter from the deceased. But the start of the mystery is that she, the deceased, Miss Emily Arundell, died in May and yet Poirot doesn’t receive the letter asking him to come and visit her till nearly two months later, 28 June – and the letter was dated 17 April. Hmm. Puzzling.

Setup

‘Dumb Witness’ is an amusing and entertaining portrait of the clash between the generations in the kind of traditional Victorian family which Christie herself grew up in.

In Miss Arundell’s day, women took second place. Men were the important members of society.

The old-fashioned character of 70-something Miss Arundell is persuasively, lovingly and entertainingly described. Miss Arundell is the doughty old representative of a grand family, the last survivor of five children to long-dead General Arundell, whose drunken binges were kept well hidden from the outside world.

The first four chapters describe her giving a house party for her three closest relatives: Charles and Theresa (brother and sister, children of Miss A’s brother Thomas) and Bella (daughter of Miss A’s sister, Arabella). In these opening scenes we learn how all three of them badly need the fortune Miss A is sitting on i.e. have plenty of motive to bump her off. In fact Charles freely admits telling her to her face that her tightness with money would lead to someone ‘bumping her off’.

These opening chapters are slow and detailed and entertaining and I was just starting to really like Miss Arundell’s character when the fifth chapter jumps us forward a couple of months to the June morning when Poirot opens the letter from her saying she is worried about a family affair and would like to consult him – except that, upon enquiring, Hastings and Poirot discover that Miss Arundell died a month ago, the will was read, she left her entire fortune to her lady companion, Miss Lawson (much to the anger of the three young relatives) and that the fine old Victorian house where the opening chapters are set, Littlegreen House, is up for sale.

If the fears Miss Arundell expressed in her letter to Poirot are justified, if someone was trying to murder her, if she was indeed murdered, then the case has not only gone completely cold but also nobody else, none of the authorities, even think a murder has been committed. Poirot has to first find the evidence that there even has been a murder, before he can think about trying to find the culprit.

All of which explains why I described it as being a characteristically interesting experiment in the form of the detective novel and the type of murder.

So, as you might expect, Poirot and Hastings head off to Market Basing, where they pretend to be interesting in buying the house in order to be given a tour by the servants (who have agreed to stay on and maintain it till it is sold), discreetly pumping them for information along the way. They then interview everyone they can find in the town, namely Miss Arundell’s contemporary, the acid-tongued Miss Peabody, staid young Dr Donaldson, and the two spiritualist sisters, Miss Julia and Miss Isabel Tripp, close friends of the companion who inherited Miss A’s fortune, Miss Minnie Lawson.

Then it’s back to London to interview the younger generation – Charles and Bella and Theresa – in a bid to understand whether a murder did in fact take place and, if so, who committed it…

It seems too obvious to suspect that Miss Lawson, the person who gained most, was the culprit. More like Christie is the notion that one of the aggrieved three younger relatives tried to pull off a complicated plot which backfired and left Miss Lawson the beneficiary. Or is it a double bluff, and the apparently dim, ineffectual Miss Lawson was in fact a cunning mastermind?

First of all we have to accompany Poirot as he delves deeper into bitter grievances and poisonous enmities of yet another Christie family which turns out to be at war with itself.

‘Miss Peabody tells us that Charles Arundell would murder his grandmother for twopence. Miss Lawson says that Mrs Tanios would murder any one if her husband told her to do so. Dr Tanios says that Charles and Theresa are rotten to the core, and he hints that their mother was a murderess and says apparently carelessly that Theresa is capable of murdering any one in cold blood. They have a pretty opinion of each other, all these people!’ (Chapter 18)

Cast

  • Miss Emily Arundell of Littlegreen House in the little country town of Market Basing, well over seventy, the last of a family of five
  • Bob – her wire-haired terrier
  • Miss Wilhelmina ‘Minnie’ Lawson – her paid companion (and lackey), very interested in seances and clairvoyancy etc. Emily doesn’t think much of her: ‘Poor Minnie! Emily Arundell looked at her companion with mingled affection and contempt. She had had so many of these foolish, middle-aged women to minister to her – all much the same, kind, fussy, subservient and almost entirely mindless’ – and: ‘She is a fool,’ said Aunt Emily, ‘but she is a faithful soul. And I really believe she is devoted to me. She cannot help her lack of brains’

Miss Arundell has three surviving relations:

  • Bella Biggs – ‘Emily Arundell’s niece, had married a Greek, Dr Jacob Tanios. And Emily Arundell’s people, who were what is known as “all service people,” simply did not marry Greeks’ – Bella ‘was a good woman – a devoted wife and mother, quite exemplary in behavior – and extremely dull!’ — In Miss Arundell’s mind a Greek was ‘almost as bad as an Argentine or a Turk’ – Bella had money of her own but Tanios has lost it through speculations – now they want money to pay for the education of their children, Mary and Edward and John
  • Theresa – beautiful and grand, engaged to young Dr Donaldson – ‘Theresa’s clothes were expensive, slightly bizarre, and she herself had an exquisite figure’ – she wants Miss A’s money to continue funding her lifestyle but also free Donaldson to do his research – ‘[Miss Arundell] had no control over Theresa since the latter had come into her own money at the age of twenty-one. Since then the girl had achieved a certain notoriety. Her picture was often in the papers. She belonged to a young, bright, go-ahead set in London – a set that had freak parties and occasionally ended up in the police courts’
  • Charles – ‘tall and good-looking with his slightly mocking manner… charming though he was, was not to be trusted’ – Charles wants Miss A’s money to pay his numerous debts
  • Dr Tanios – a big, bearded, jolly-looking man, married to Bella, but a) has lost most of her money on bad speculations and b) is controlling
  • Dr Rex Donaldson – assistant to Market Basing’s established old doctor, ‘a fair-haired young man with a solemn face and pince-nez’, fiancé of Theresa, clever but ineffectual

Others

  • Caroline Peabody – another older lady from a ‘good’ family, shares the same Victorian values as Miss Arundell: ‘They had known each other for considerably over fifty years. Miss Peabody knew of certain regrettable lapses in the life of General Arundell, Emily’s father. She knew just precisely what a shock Thomas Arundell’s marriage had been to his sisters. She had a very shrewd idea of certain troubles connected with the younger generation. But no word had ever passed between the two ladies on any of these subjects. They were both upholders of family dignity, family solidarity, and complete reticence on family matters’
  • Julia and Isabel Tripp – friends of Minnie, spiritualists, vegetarians etc
  • Dr Grainger – Emily’s doctor: ‘a man of sixty odd. His face was thin and bony with an aggressive chin, bushy eyebrows, and a pair of very shrewd grey eyes’
  • Mr Gabler – estate agent: ‘a grey-haired, middle-aged man entered with a rush. His eye, a militant one, swept over us with a gleam.’
  • Miss Jenkins – can’t-be-bothered assistant in the estate agent’s
  • Ellen – the elderly house-parlour-maid,
  • Annie – the cook
  • Mr Lonsdale – local vicar
  • Mr Purvis – the family lawyer, ‘a big, solidly built man with white hair and a rosy complexion. He had a little the look of a country squire. His manner was courteous but reserved’
  • the gardener – ‘a big, rugged old man’
  • local chemist – ‘a middle-aged man of a chatty disposition’
  • Nurse Carruthers – nursed Miss Arundell in her final illness, ‘a sensible-looking, middle-aged woman’

Good humoured, amiable knowledge of life, or the kind of lives her characters lead. Thus the old lady’s bantering relationship with her doctor:

Emily Arundell replied with spirit – she and old Dr Grainger were allies of long standing. He bullied and she defied – they always got a good deal of pleasure out of each other’s company! (Chapter 4)

Poirot’s method

Christie repeats the basics of Poirot’s method.

‘As you say – a regrettable failure to employ order and method in the mental processes, and without order and method, Hastings –’
‘Quite so,’ I interrupted hastily. ‘Little grey cells practically non-existent.’ (Chapter 5)

Suspect everyone.

Mon ami, you know my suspicious nature! I believe nothing that any one says unless it can be confirmed or corroborated… “He says”, “she says”, “they say”. Bah! what does that mean? Nothing at all. It may be absolute truth. It may be useful falsehood. Me, I deal only with facts.’ (Chapter 12)

He hates talk of intuition or instinct. These are nothing but the accumulated insights of order and method.

‘Instinct! You know how I dislike that word. “Something seems to tell me” – that is what you infer. Jamais de la vie! Me, I reason. I employ the little grey cells.’ (Chapter 5)

‘You have the mistaken idea implanted in your head that a detective is necessarily a man who puts on a false beard and hides behind a pillar! The false beard, it is vieux jeu, and shadowing is only done by the lowest branch of my profession. The Hercule Poirots, my friend, need only to sit back in a chair and think.’ (Chapter 6)

The importance of psychology

‘Do not neglect the psychology – that is important. The character of the murder – implying as it does a certain temperament in the murderer – that is an essential clue to the crime.’
‘I can’t consider the character of the murderer if I don’t know who the murderer is!’
‘No, no, you have not paid attention to what I have just said. If you reflect sufficiently on the character – the necessary character of the murder – then you will realize who the murderer is!’
(Chapter 22)

Thinking

‘Then think, Hastings – think. Lie back in your chair, close the eyes, employ the little grey cells.’ (Chapter 25)

How to soften up your interviewee

I have often had occasion to notice how, where a direct question would fail to elicit a response, a false assumption brings instant information in the form of a contradiction. (Chapter 7)

Discussions of death and such matters do more to unlock the human tongue than any other subject. Poirot was in a position to ask questions that would have been regarded with suspicious hostility twenty minutes earlier. (Chapter 8)

Poirotisms

As far as I know I’ve coined the term ‘Poirotism’ for the occasions when Christie mocks her creation by having him mangle a well-known English proverb or saying. For some reason ‘Dumb Witness’ is particularly rich in Poirotisms.

‘On the contrary, my friend, ‘any old lie,’ as you put it, would not do. Not with a lawyer. We should be – how do you say it? – thrown out with the flea upon the ear.’ (Chapter 13)

‘The only thing is – I am afraid.’
‘Afraid? Of what?’
He said gravely: ‘Of disturbing the dogs that sleep. That is one of your proverbs, is it not?’
(Chapter 18)

‘It is true that I am pig-headed – that is your expression, I think? Yes, definitely I have the head of the pig,’ said my friend meditatively. (Chapter 21)

Poirot patted her reassuringly on the shoulder. ‘It was the narrow squeak – yes?’ (Chapter 26)

‘Bien,’ said Poirot, rising with the check in his hand. ‘We have done our part. Now it is on the knees of the gods.’ (Chapter 26)

‘She is not one who wishes to wash the dirty linen in public, as the saying goes.’ (Chapter 29)

Poirot and Hastings bicker like an old married couple

Poirot to Hastings:

‘This conversation has occurred on previous occasions. You are about to say that it is not playing the game. And my reply is that murder is not a game.’ (Chapter 15)

Hastings is confused:

‘You know, Poirot, I don’t quite understand all this.’
‘If you will pardon my saying so, Hastings, you do not understand at all!’ (Chapter 25)

Foreignness

Much is made of how the older generation of posh ladies don’t like or trust foreigners, specifically the Greek doctor, Tanios, who Miss Arundell’s niece Bella has married. Animosity against and distrust of him run through the story like a silver thread.

Bella had married a foreigner – and not only a foreigner – but a Greek. In Miss Arundell’s prejudiced mind a Greek was almost as bad as an Argentine or a Turk. The fact that Dr Tanios had a charming manner and was said to be extremely able in his profession only prejudiced the old lady slightly more against him. She distrusted charm and easy compliments.

Or as Miss Peabody puts it:

‘His manners are really delightful. But I don’t trust foreigners. They’re so artful!’ (Chapter 15)

Here’s the housekeeper, Ellen:

‘Miss Bella’s husband, the foreign doctor, he went out and got her a bottle of something, but although she thanked him very politely she poured it away and that I know for a fact! And I think she was right. You don’t know where you are with these foreign things.’ (Chapter 20)

Even Hastings is prey to glib stereotypes about swarthy Mediterranean types:

I must say that my first sight of Dr Tanios was rather a shock. I had been imbuing him in my mind with all sorts of sinister attributes. I had been picturing to myself a dark bearded foreigner with a swarthy aspect and a sinister cast of countenance. Instead, I saw a rotund, jolly, brown-haired, brown-eyed man… (Chapter 17)

Poirot mocks Hastings for his xenophobia:

‘You found him an agreeable man, open-hearted, good-natured, genial. Attractive in spite of your insular prejudice against the Argentines, the Portuguese and the Greeks – a thoroughly congenial personality?’ (Chapter 18)

This of course echoes and amplifies the fact that Poirot himself is a foreigner and outsider in England, although he can see it both ways i.e. sometimes he feels an outside to the class system, posh public school diction about ‘playing the game’, about the intricacies of the aristocracy, and so on. But other times he is able to use his outsiderness, as when he soothes Bella’s irritation at old Miss Arundell for mistrusting her husband.

‘As you say, elderly ladies distrust foreigners sometimes,’ said Poirot. ‘I am sure they think that English doctors are the only doctors in the world. Insularity accounts for a lot.’ (Chapter 16)

Abroad was far away

But it’s as well to remind ourselves that 1936 was not 2025: there were far fewer means of travel, planes were expensive, cruise ships time consuming, and so travel abroad was a luxury, a rarity. Hence the atmosphere of exoticness and luxury which trails around her stories set on the Blue Train or Orient Express or Rhodes. As demonstrated by this statement by Dr Tanios which was, presumably, unremarkable in its day:

‘Yes, indeed. I am very fond of my wife.’ There was a rich tenderness in his voice. ‘I always feel it was so brave of her to marry me – a man of another race – to come out to a far country – to leave all her own friends and surroundings.’ (Chapter 23)

Nobody would think of moving to Greece as a brave action, leaving friends and family for ‘a man of another race’ nowadays.

Sherlock

There is always at least one reference to Sherlock Holmes in every one of her novels. It’s compulsory. Here there are two.

‘Poirot, I – the humble Watson – am going to hazard a deduction.’
‘Enchanted, my friend. What is it?’
I struck an attitude and said pompously: ‘You have received this morning one letter of particular interest!’
‘You are indeed the Sherlock Holmes! Yes, you are perfectly right.’ (Sherlock Holmes)

And she mentions the incident of the dog in the night-time, again.

‘Well, out with it. What’s the interesting point? I suppose, like the “incident of the dog in the night-time”, the point is that there is no interesting point!’ (Chapter 5)

In praise of things Victorian

The sympathetic descriptions of old Miss Arundell take in an appreciation of her old-fashioned habits and values, the Victorian values Christie herself (born 1890) was brought up amidst in her late-Victorian childhood and, to some extent, an affectionate portrait of her mother and her lady friends and their generation. Anyway, the book has notably more references to Victoriana of various types than any of her earlier books.

‘She has made her bed and she must lie on it.’ And having uttered this final Victorian pronouncement she went on: ‘I am going to the village now…’ (Chapter 1)

But her sensible, shrewd, Victorian mind would not admit that for a moment. There was no foolish optimism about the Victorians. (Chapter 3)

This room was definitely Victorian. A heavy mahogany dining-table, a massive sideboard of almost purplish mahogany with great clusters of carved fruit, solid leather-covered dining-room chairs. On the wall hung what were obviously family portraits.

In especial, one big jar with a lid on it seemed to attract him. It was not, I fancy, a particularly good bit of china. A piece of Victorian humour – it had on it a rather crude picture of a bulldog sitting outside a front door with a mournful expression on its face. (Chapter 8)

Morton Manor proved to be an ugly substantial house of the Victorian period. (Chapter 10)

[Miss Peabody] She chuckled – a rich Victorian fruity chuckle. (Chapter 10)

‘He’s a dear little doggie…’

Personally I don’t like dogs. Out on country walks I’ve been terrorised, chased and bitten by them, and seen small children scared out of their wits by huge barking animals, to have anything but fear and aversion to them. Plus the dog poo everywhere. And the streets reeking of dog pee whenever it rains.

But I appreciate that tens of millions of people love dogs, including Christie, and this book is by way of being a tribute to doggy love in the shape of the charismatic wire-haired terrier named Bob, old Miss Arundell’s pet, who everyone claimed to love and play ball with.

I’ve mentioned the two narrators – the third-person narrator who opens the novel and then Captain Hastings who takes over – but in a jokey way there’s a third voice, because Christie spends some time imagining what Bob the dog is saying, via his barks and expression. Thus:

The bushes were thin at that point and the dog could be easily seen. He was a wire-haired terrier, somewhat shaggy as to coat. His feet were planted wide apart, slightly to one side, and he barked with an obvious enjoyment of his own performance that showed him to be actuated by the most amiable motives.
‘Good watchdog, aren’t I?’ he seemed to be saying. ‘Don’t mind me! This is just my fun! My duty too, of course. Just have to let ’em know there’s a dog about the place! Deadly dull morning. Quite a blessing to have something to do. Coming into our place? Hope so. It’s durned dull. I could do with a little conversation.’ (Chapter 6)

Or:

[Poirot] stopped and patted Bob. ‘Brave chien, va! You loved your mistress.’
Bob responded amiably to these overtures and hopeful of a little play went and fetched a large piece of coal. For this he was reproved and the coal removed from him. He sent me a glance in search of sympathy.
‘These women,’ it seemed to say. ‘Generous with the food, but not really sportsmen!’ (Chapter 8)

Christie also appreciated the savage violence of dogs, although I imagine the following is intended to be humorous and charming:

Then we strolled off in the direction of Littlegreen House. When we rang the bell. Bob immediately answered the challenge. Dashing across the hall, barking furiously, he flung himself against the front door.
‘I’ll have your liver and your lights’ [note 1] he snarled. ‘I’ll tear you limb from limb! I’ll teach you to try and get into this house! Just wait until I get my teeth into you.’ (Chapter 20)

Everyone thinks their dog is a sweety, and when it barks its head off at small children or the postman or terrifies cows or savages sheep, it’s always ‘playing’, right up till the moment when it rips a baby’s face off. Ellen the housekeeper makes the usual dog owner’s excuses:

‘He makes such a noise and rushes at people so it frightens them [but] he’s quite all right, really.’

For dog owners and lovers, their beast frightening the living daylights out of people is just fine. They don’t mean it, really.

Anyway, what with all this emphasis on Bob the dog (not a very imaginative name, is it?) and his involvement in the first suspicious incident i.e. Miss Arundell supposedly tripping over his rubber ball and falling down the stairs and nearly breaking her neck, and with the cover of the book featuring a big picture of a wire-haired terrier, I for a long time thought that Bob would turn out to be the dumb witness of the title – that somehow something the dog did would provide the key which unlocks the case. So it was very disappointing to reach the end of the book and find out this wasn’t the case.

Note 1: incidentally, in that quotation, ‘lights’ is a butcher’s term meaning ‘the lungs of an animal, typically pigs, sheep, or other livestock.’

House prices

Here’s the estate agent’s details for Littlegreen House:

‘Period house of character: four reception rooms, eight bed and dressing rooms, usual offices, commodious kitchen premises, ample outbuildings, stables etc. Main water, old-world gardens, inexpensive upkeep, amounting in all to three acres, two summer-houses, etc. Price £2,850 or nearest offer.’

Bargain.


Credit

‘Dumb Witness’ by Agatha Christie was published in 1937 by the Collins Crime Club.

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The Sittaford Mystery by Agatha Christie (1931)

The Major blushed like a girl.
(Chapter 1)

There were all the usual laughs, whispers, stereotyped remarks.
(Chapter 2)

‘I think,’ said Inspector Narracott deliberately, ‘that there’s a lot more in this case than meets the eye.’ (Chapter 4)

‘It’s always what you don’t expect in this life that happens, isn’t it, Mr Narracott?’
(The wisdom of Mrs Belling, landlady of the Three Crowns, Chapter 6)

‘That’s a rum go,’ ejaculated the Superintendent.
(Middle class slang, Chapter 10)

‘A lot of chuckleheads the police are, and so I’ve said before now.’
(Working class slang, Mrs Belling, Chapter 12)

Mr Curtis thoughtfully removed an aged pipe from the right side of his mouth to the left side. ‘Women,’ he said, ‘talk a lot.’
(One of the oldest tropes in literature, the hen-pecked husband, Chapter 13)

‘I hate a slobbering female,’ said Miss Percehouse. ‘I like one who gets up and does things.’
(No-nonsense old spinster Miss P, Chapter 17)

She paused, lost in thought. Two very different theories stretched out in opposite directions.
(Emily Trefusis, who emerges as the intellectual heroine of the story, Chapter 17)

‘Brian,’ said Emily thoughtfully, ‘is – well, a person to be reckoned with. He is rather unscrupulous, I should think, and if he wanted anything, I don’t think he would let ordinary conventional standards stand in his way. He’s not plain tame English.’
(Christie’s comic view of her compatriots, Chapter 25)

‘Never part with information unnecessarily. That’s my rule,’ said Inspector Narracott.
(Wise words, Chapter 26)

‘It just shows,’ said Charles, ‘that you never know.’
(Chapter 25)

Freelance detectives

Indeed, you never do know about people’s private lives and secret motivations… except that, in Agatha Christie novels and others of her ilk, in fact you do know. You very much do find out whodunnit, who was jealous of who, who fancied who, as well as a hundred and one other loose ends which by the story’s conclusion are all tied up neatly with a bow.

After a pleasurable day or two of being teased about the mystery, and trying to work it out from the plethora of clues packed into the narrative whodunnit – in the last chapter all is revealed, all is explained, there is closure for everyone, including the reader.

From one point of view, the main thing which distinguishes Christie’s books is who does the revealing and explaining. She is, of course, famous for the series of novels featuring Hercule Poirot as investigator, and the separate series featuring Miss Jane Marple in the same role. But alongside these she published 20 or so novels throughout her career without one of her two star sleuths – detective and crime novels which instead featured freelancers, amateurs, people caught up in a murder situation who find they have a gift for investigation, for interviewing people, for putting evidence together, and developing their own theories.

The Sittaford Mystery is one such ‘freelance’ detective story and the spirited amateur who emerges as its heroine is the wife of the initial suspect, a clever and very determined young woman named Emily Trefusis.

The background

The village of Sittaford is situated on the edge of Dartmoor. It is mid-winter and the moor and village are both deep in snow. The village is dominated by Sittaford House which was built ten years ago by Captain Joseph Trevelyan after he retired from the Royal Navy. He is wealthy and built his big house right on the shoulder of the moor under the shadow of Sittaford Beacon. He had purchased a large tract of land on which he first built the big house with all modern conveniences, then he had built six small bungalows, each in a quarter acre of ground, along the lane leading from the house down to the small village. The cottages are inhabited thus:

  • Number 1 – Major Burnaby, Trevelyan’s oldest friend and sporting partner
  • Number 2 – Captain Wyatt ‘a tall thin man with a very brown complexion, bloodshot eyes and grey hair. He was propped up with a crutch on one side’
    • Wyatt’s miserable-looking native servant, Abdul, ‘a tall Indian in a turban’
  • Number 3 – Mr Rycroft, a dapper little gentleman whose cottage is stuffed with books about ornithology and criminology
  • Number 4 – stern, strict Miss Caroline Percehouse, ‘a spinster of uncertain years and temper who had come down here to die… six years ago’ but has revived in the clear moorland air
    • currently being visited by her empty-headed young nephew, Ronnie Garfield
  • Number 5 – Curtis, retired gardener at Sittaford House, with his garrulous wife Mrs Curtis, who lets rooms to outsiders
  • Number 6 – Mr Duke, a shy retiring man with a military manner that nobody knows anything about

The village itself consists of three picturesque but dilapidated cottages, a forge, and a combined post office and sweet shop. The nearest town is Exhampton, six miles away. The nearest city is Exeter, a train ride away.

The setup

A few months before the story commences Captain Trevelyan was contacted by an estate agent acting on behalf of a colonial widow, one Mrs Willett from South Africa, who was looking for an isolated country house and had always had an interest in mysterious Dartmoor. Through the estate agent she made a very generous offer to Captain Trevelyan, a rather greedy man, and so the deal was done whereby Mrs Willett and her grown-up daughter Violet, leased Sittaford Hall for the winter while the Captain moved into a bungalow into Exhampton, six miles away.

The village is a small place and pretty much everyone gossiped and speculated about Mrs Willett’s real reasons for moving to such an isolated spot.

The séance

Meanwhile Mrs W and her daughter set about trying to make herself popular with the locals, hosting dinners and teas. On the Friday night in question they invite four local middle class characters to tea, being Captain Trevelyan’s long-standing friend, Major Burnaby, Mr Rycroft, Mr Ronnie Garfield and Mr Duke. Afterwards they go to play bridge but six is too many so someone playfully suggests they hold a séance.

So they select a small round table, turn the lights off, sit round it holding hands, amid much joking and irony and scoffing until – as always happens in fictions like this – the table really does begin to move and really indicates that a spirit from the other side wishes to speak to them.

The murder

Long story short, the message that comes through is that Captain Trevelyan is dead, murdered! Someone looks at their watch and sees that the time is precisely 5.25pm.

This breaks up the séance but also upsets his old friend Major Burnaby who, after some fretting, announces that he is setting off the six miles to Exhampton. He insists he will walk there because a) he is fit as a fiddle and despises cars etc b) it’s coming on to snow again and the road is already impassable to vehicles.

A few hours later, about 8pm, in the middle of the blizzard which has arrived as forecast, Major Burnaby arrives at Captain Trevelyan’s rented house, Hazelmoor. When nobody answers the door, he fetches the local police and the local doctor, Dr Warren a doctor and they enter the house through the open study window at the back. Here they find Captain Trevelyan’s dead body on the floor. Dr Warren estimates the time of death at between 5 and 6 pm. the cause of death is a fracture of the base of the skull and the implement is one of the long sand-filled draught excluders used around the house, which is full of sand.

Who murdered Captain Trevelyan, and why, and what on earth has a séance got to do with it? It takes 200 pages for the reader to find out but along the way two notable things happen: 1) the reader is introduced to an extraordinary number of characters who each have complicated backstories, often with secrets and lies of their own; 2) as already stated, although a detective inspector, Inspector Narracott is put on the case, and proceeds with admirable efficiency, his work is paralleled by the rise of the novel’s heroine, tough, committed and clever young Emily Trefusis.

Who she? Well the police quickly find out that on the day of his murder Captain Trevelyan had been visited by the eldest son of his hard-up sister Jennifer, one James Pearson. Soon after the estimated time of the murder this young man packed his bags at the local hotel and hurriedly caught a train out of town. It doesn’t take long to realise that he had a motive (he had come to see his uncle to beg him to help support his mother; plus he [James] was a beneficiary of Trevelyan’s will; plus a few enquiries reveal that he had been embezzling his employer’s money to fund speculations and had recently lost money) and the opportunity (he had gone to see Trevelyan at or very close to the time of the murder).

So the police arrest, charge and imprison James. But they hadn’t counted on James’s fiancée, Emily, who immediately devotes herself to proving her beloved’s innocence. When she arrives in Sittaford she quickly discovers a journalist from a national newspaper is in the town to hand over the prize for winning a national quiz competition to Major Burnaby. This young man, Charles Enderby, is overjoyed to be on the spot of a true-life murder mystery and sets about boosting his profile by cabling his editor back in London that he will get all kinds of exclusives.

This enthusiasm, plus the fact that she is very attractive, allows Emily to quickly size him up and realise that the can manipulate and use Charles for her own ends, something he half-consciously collaborates in as he starts to fall in love with her – or so he thinks. Here she is buttering him up something rotten.

‘One can’t do anything without a man. Men know so much, and are able to get information in so many ways that are simply impossible to women.’
‘Well – I – yes, I suppose that is true,’ said Mr Enderby complacently. (Chapter 11)

Cast

Here’s the vast cast list. Following the twists and turns of the backstories of a dozen or more of them become a full-time and quite demanding activity.

  • Captain Joseph Trevelyan – confirmed old bachelor, owner of Sittaford House which he has rented to Mrs Willett and her daughter, while he moves into a cottage (named Hazelmoor) in the nearest town, Exhampton, ‘known as a woman hater’, doesn’t like his habits upset
  • Hazelmoor’s owner Miss Larpent. Middle-aged woman, she’s gone to a boarding house at Cheltenham for the winter
  • Evans – long-term cook and handyman for Captain Trevelyan, ‘retired naval chap. Ugly customer in a scrap’, ‘a short thick-set man. He had very long arms and a habit of standing with his hands half clenched. He was clean shaven with small, rather pig-like eyes, yet he had a look of cheerfulness and efficiency that redeemed his bulldog appearance’. Evans has recently married…
  • Rebecca Belling, now Mrs Evans, daughter of the local pub landlady
  • Major Burnaby – Captain Trevelyan’s old friend and sports partner, nowadays more into crosswords and acrostics, lives at Number 1 the cottages, gruff, bluff, ‘naturally a silent man’, sceptical about the séance which he thinks is stuff and nonsense
  • Mrs Willett – ‘a tall woman with a rather silly manner – but her physiognomy was shrewd rather than foolish. She was inclined to overdress, had a distinct Colonial accent…’ ‘a fashionable sort of woman. Dressed up to the nines’
  • Miss Violet – her daughter, very nervous. In Burnaby’s view ‘Pretty girl – scraggy, of course – they all were nowadays. What was the good of a woman if she didn’t look like a woman? Papers said curves were coming back. About time too’
  • Mr Ryecroft – ‘a little, elderly, dried-up man’, ‘an enthusiast on birds’. Member of the Psychical Research Society, lives in Number 3 the Cottages – ‘You must forgive me, Miss Trefusis, I am deeply interested in the study of crime. A fascinating study. Ornithology and criminology are my two subjects’
  • Mr Ronald Garfield – ‘a fresh-coloured, boyish young man’, according to his bed-ridden Aunt, Mrs Percehouse, ‘a good lad in his way, but pitifully weak’
  • Mr Duke – a recent arrival, just bought the last of the six bungalows, Number 6, in September. He is ‘a big man, very quiet and devoted to gardening’
  • Elmer – ‘the proprietor of the sole car in the place, an aged Ford, hired at a handsome price by those who wished to go into Exhampton’
  • Constable Graves – local policeman
  • Dr Warren – lives almost next door to the police station, first to examine the body and declare time of death
  • Inspector Narracott – ‘a very efficient officer. He had a quiet persistence, a logical mind and a keen attention to detail which brought him success where many another man might have failed’
  • Sergeant Pollock of the Exhampton police
  • Superintendent Maxwell – Narracott’s superior
  • Mrs Belling – proprietor of the Three Crowns. ‘Mrs Belling was fat and excitable, and so voluble that there was nothing to be done but to listen patiently until such time as the stream of conversation should dry up’ (note Christie’s mockery of several gabby old women in this novel, as in its predecessor, The Murder at the Vicarage)
  • James Pearson – down from London on a flying visit, soon to be questioned and arrested
  • Young male estate agent at Messrs. Williamson, ‘You learn never to be surprised at anything in the house business’
  • Mr Kirkwood – partner in Messrs. Walters & Kirkwood, Trevelyan’s solicitors, co-executor of his will, ‘an elderly man with a benign expression’
  • Charles Enderby – reporter for the Daily Wire come down to Exhampton to award Major Burnaby a cheque for £5,000
  • Mrs Jennifer Gardner – Captain Trevelyan’s sister, lives in Exeter at The Laurels – ‘A tall, rather commanding woman came into the room. She had an unusual looking face, broad about the brows, and black hair with a touch of grey at the temples, which she wore combed straight back from her forehead.’.. ‘Character – that was what it was. Aunt Jennifer had about enough character for two and three quarter people instead of one’
  • Captain Robert Gardner – Aunt Jennifer’s husband, was invalided out of the army after the war with shell shock which has paralysed all his limbs (allegedly)
    • Beatrice – her ‘slipshod’ maid
    • Nurse Davis – nurse for bed-ridden Captain Gardner
  • Mary Pearson, Trevelyan’s other sister, mother of three adult children i.e. Trevelyan’s nephews and niece
  • James, 28 – ‘good-looking, indeed handsome, if you took no account of the rather weak mouth and the irresolute slant of the eyes. He had a haggard, worried look and an air of not having had much sleep of late.’ In the opinion of Emily his fiancée: ‘Dear Jim, dear, sweet, boyish, helpless, impractical Jim. So utterly to be depended on to do the wrong thing at the wrong moment.’
  • Emily Trefusis – ‘a very exceptional kind of young woman. She was not strikingly beautiful, but she had a face which was arresting and unusual, a face that having once seen you could not forget. There was about her an atmosphere of common sense, savoir-faire, invincible determination and a most tantalizing fascination’… ‘This business-like and attractive girl.’
  • Sylvia, 25 – ‘small and fair and anaemic looking, with a worried and harassed expression. Her voice had that faintly complaining note in it which is about the most annoying sound a human voice can contain.’ Sylvia is married to:
  • Martin Dering – ‘You may have read his books. He’s a moderately successful author’
  • Brian – out in Australia, in Inspector Narracott’s view ‘a hot-tempered, high-handed young man’
  • Mrs Curtis – occupies Number 5 the Cottages; rents out rooms. ‘A small, thin, grey haired woman, energetic and shrewish in disposition.’
  • Curtis – former gardener at Sittaford House, ‘a rather gruff looking grey-haired old man’
  • Miss Caroline Percehouse – lives at Number 4 The Cottages, ‘a spinster of uncertain years and temper who had come down here to die, according to Mrs Curtis, six years ago’. ‘An elderly lady with a thin wrinkled face and with one of the sharpest and most interrogative noses that Emily had ever seen.’ Despite or because of this, Emily comes to respect her insight and judgement.
    • Ronald Garfield is her useless nincompoop nephew; she is his Aunt Caroline
  • Captain Wyatt – occupant of Number 2 the Cottages with an Indian servant – ‘The Captain’s habit of letting off a revolver at real or imaginary cats was a sore trial to his neighbours.’ ‘The young men of the present day make me sick,’ said Captain Wyatt. ‘What’s the good of them?’ [sounding remarkably like D.H. Lawrence]
  • Amos Parker – greengrocer at Exhampton, supplies Sittaford
  • Mrs Hibbert at the post office
  • Mr Pound, the blacksmith
  • Mr Dacres – Emily’s solicitor, who is undertaking Jim’s defence

Long list isn’t it, and there’s barely a person in it who doesn’t turn out to have their own secrets and backstories which, when either Inspector Narracott or Charles Enderby or Emily Trefusis stumble upon, deduce or discover them doesn’t, for a portion of the narrative, make them seem like a possible suspect.

It’s like a child’s kaleidoscope where the steady arrival of new facts and discoveries continually changes the investigators’ hypotheses, and overturn or modify any the reader might have been devising. In this sense the stories are very dynamic, presenting a constantly shifting landscape of theories and interpretations.

Emily Trefusis

In the Chief Constable’s opinion, ‘a managing young woman’, and ‘a young woman who prided herself on being sharper than other people’, Emily quite quickly emerges as the heroine of the book. She is absolutely determined to clear her fiancé’s name and so throws her impressive intellect and redoubtable willpower into solving the mystery of the murder.

‘We shall find something,’ said Emily. ‘I always find something.’
Mr Enderby could well believe that. Emily had the kind of personality that soars triumphantly over all obstacles. (Chapter 11)

‘We’ll assume that it is true,’ said Emily firmly. ‘I am sure that in detection of crime you mustn’t be afraid to assume things.’ (Chapter 15)

Bonding with Miss Percehouse.

‘Here is someone,’ thought Emily, ‘who goes straight to the point and means to have her own way and bosses everybody she can. Just like me only I happen to be rather good-looking and she has to do it all by force of character.’ (Chapter 17)

Mrs Curtis’s view:

‘A deep one – and one that can twist all the men round her little finger.’ (Chapter 21)

And, as I’ve mentioned, Emily does twist poor Charles Enderby entirely round her little finger in order to get him onto her team and working to free her fiancé.

Emily’s theory of ‘angle of attack’

I didn’t entirely understand this but the phrase is repeated and Emily herself uses it to describe her approach.

She wished with all her heart that she had met the dead man even if only once. It was so hard to get an idea of people you had never seen. You had to rely on other people’s judgment, and Emily had never yet acknowledged that any other person’s judgment was superior to her own. Other people’s impressions were no good to you. They might be just as true as yours but you couldn’t act on them. You couldn’t, as it were, use another person’s angle of attack. (Chapter 16)

She had no intention of allowing any angle of attack to remain unexplored. (Chapter 16)

As she investigates more i.e. sets out to meet and interview everyone in the village, everyone who knew the captain, and his extended family, Emily develops a ‘system’ not a million miles from Hercule Poirot’s similar systematicness (except Poirot keeps everything in his head):

At the moment she felt disinclined for anything but solitude. She wanted to sort out and arrange her own ideas. She went up to her own room, and taking pencil and notepaper she set to work on a system of her own. (Chapter 17)

And:

And then deliberately she set herself to think out things from the beginning, going over every detail that she knew herself or had learned by hearsay from other people. She considered every actor in the drama and outside the drama. (Chapter 26)

Elsewhere she justifies her freelance approach to Charles.

‘All public things are much better done by the police. It’s private and personal things like listening to Mrs Curtis and picking up a hint from Miss Percehouse and watching the Willetts – that’s where we score.’ (Chapter 25)

The ‘relying on’ stunt

‘Stunt’ occurs a lot in the 1920s, indicating a scam or schtick or technique or method. A little way into the novel Emily stumbles on a clever way to manipulate the men around her. This is to tell them that she is only a helpless lickle ickle girly and she is so grateful that she’s found a big strong man like them to rely on – at which point no self-respecting man can fail to ruffle up his chest feathers, feeling flattered that he is coming to the rescue of this damsel in distress. Works every time. And gets funnier with every repetition.

To Charles Enderby:

‘That’s just what I mean to do,’ said Emily with a complete lack of truth, ‘It’s so wonderful to have someone you can really rely on.’ (Chapter 11)

To Mr Ryecroft:

‘It’s so wonderful,’ she said, using the phrase that in the course of her short life she had found so effectual, ‘to feel that there’s someone on whom one can really rely.’ (Chapter 16)

To Inspector Narracott:

‘How men do stick together,’ went on Emily looking over the telegrams. ‘Poor Sylvia. In some ways I really think that men are beasts. That’s why,’ she added, ‘it’s so nice when one finds a man on whom one can really rely.’ (Chapter 27)

And not just on men. here she is buttering up bed-ridden Captain Gardner’s nurse:

‘How splendid,’ said Emily. ‘It must be wonderful for Aunt Jennifer to feel she has somebody upon whom she can rely.’
‘Oh, really,’ said the Nurse simpering, ‘you are too kind.’
(Chapter 20)

Ronnie Garfield’s theory

Ronnie is an impecunious Bertie Wooster type of upper-class twit. At one point he is given his own dim-witted ‘theory’, regarding the third cousin, Brian Pearson, who everyone thinks disappeared off to Australia years earlier.

‘Fellows that go off to the Colonies are usually bad hats. Their relations don’t like them and push them out there for that reason. Very well then – there you are. The bad hat comes back, short of money, visits wealthy uncle in the neighbourhood of Christmas time, wealthy relative won’t cough up to impecunious nephew – and impecunious nephew bats him one. That’s what I call a theory. (Chapter 23)

Bookish

Here, as in all her novels, I’m getting used to Christie regularly having her characters describe how they feel as if they’re living in a detective novel, or how things resemble (or don’t) similar scenes you read about in books.

‘What a scoop it would be,’ said Mr Enderby, ‘if you and I discovered the real murderer. The crime expert of the Daily Wire – that’s the way I should be described. But it’s too good to be true,’ he added despondently. ‘That sort of thing only happens in books.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Emily, ‘it happens with me.’
(Chapter 11)

‘Just like a sixpenny [crime novel] I got at Woolworth’s the other day, ‘The Syringa Murders’ it was called. And do you know what led them to find the real murderer, Miss? Just a bit of common sealing wax.’
(The chambermaid at the Three Crowns, Chapter 12)

‘I know what you’re thinking. Like in books there ought to be some little incident that I should remember that would be a clue. Well, I’m sorry, but there isn’t any such thing.’
(Chapter 15)

They went up the small path and entered the cottage. The interior was charming. Bookcases lined the walls. Emily went from one to the other glancing curiously at the titles of the books. One section dealt with occult phenomena, another with modern detective fiction, but by far the greater part of the bookcases was given up to criminology and to the world’s famous trials.
(Chapter 16)

‘Yes, Miss Trefusis, I see exactly what you mean. You’ll understand that contrary to the popular belief in novels it is extremely difficult to fix the time of death accurately.’
(Dr Warren, Chapter 18)

‘But then you know what the police are – always butting in on the wrong tack. At least that’s what it says in detective novels.’
(Ronnie again, Chapter 21)

‘Of course,’ said Emily, ‘the person it ought to be is Abdul. It would be in a book. He’d be a Lascar really, and Captain Trevelyan would have thrown his favourite brother overboard in a mutiny – something like that.’
(Chapter 25)

‘It’s generally understood in books, he said, ‘that the police are intent on having a victim and don’t in the least care if that victim is innocent or not as long as they have enough evidence to convict him. That’s not the truth, Miss Trefusis, it’s only the guilty man we want.’
(Inspector Narracott, Chapter 26)

She took each drawer out and felt behind it. In detective stories there was always an obliging scrap of paper. But evidently in real life one could not expect such fortunate accidents…
(Chapter 28)

Plus what I’ve come to realise is the obligatory reference to Sherlock Holmes which crops up in pretty much every Agatha Christie novel.

‘I say, are you doing any sleuthing? If so, can I help? Be the Watson to your Sherlock, or anything of that kind?’
(Upper-class twit Ronnie Garfield, Chapter 21)

Stereotypes

As discussed in earlier reviews, there’s not a lot of point picking out stereotypical and (nowadays insulting) generalisations about gender and ethnicity because detective stories like these are made out of stereotypes. Every character is a type as broad and recognisable as the types in Pilgrim’s Progress or Restoration comedy or Sheridan – the crusty old Royal Navy bachelor, the keen-as-mustard newspaper reporter, the worried mother and nervous daughter, the solid dependable doctor, and so on and so on.

It’s the familiarity of these types which is such a large part of the enjoyment. It’s like the types you meet in pantomime or sitcoms, utterly predictable and therefore reassuring and amusing. It’s so relaxing not having to cope with the complexities and unreadability of real life, and instead slip into a smooth and totally understandable world of reassuringly familiar caricatures. Obviously lots of them harbour secrets and one of them is a murderer but it really doesn’t matter, because everything will be revealed and explained and competently put to rest.

Gabby old women

The book before this, ‘The Murder at the Vicarage’ and in this one, Christie makes a big deal out of several older female characters who can’t stop talking, namely Mrs Curtis:

Left to his own devices Charles Enderby did not relax his efforts. To familiarize himself with life as lived in Sittaford village he had only to turn on Mrs Curtis much as you would turn on the tap of a hydrant. Listening slightly dazed to a stream of anecdote, reminiscence, rumours, surmise and meticulous detail he endeavoured valiantly to sift the grain from the chaff. He then mentioned another name and immediately the force of the water was directed in that direction. (Chapter 21)

‘It’s almost a disease the way that woman talks,’ said [Mrs Willett]. (Chapter 21)

‘That chattering magpie of a woman, Mrs Curtis. She’s clean and she’s honest, but her tongue never stops, and she pays no attention to whether you listen or whether you don’t.’ (Chapter 28)

All complemented by Mrs Curtis’s pantomime lack of self awareness:

‘Curtis will be wanting his tea and that’s a fact,’ said Mrs Curtis without moving. ‘I was never one to stand about gossiping.’ (Chapter 21)

Pushing back

But sometimes Christie enjoys pushing back against expectations. Thus in ‘The Murder at the Vicarage’ Miss Marple is a rebuttal of all the tired clichés the pompous male policemen spout against a) women and b) old women, in particular.

And so Emily Trefusis feels similarly unexpected. To me she feels like she’s kicking back against clichés about ‘young women today’ etc. In this she is linked to and Lady Eileen ‘Bundle’ Brent in the wonderfully entertaining The Secret of Chimneys and its sequel, The Seven Dials Mystery. This is why Mrs Percehouse’s opinion seems more than usually important:

‘I hate a slobbering female,’ said Miss Percehouse. ‘I like one who gets up and does things.’ (Chapter 17)

In their different ways, Bundle, Marple and Emily are just such women.

He-man

Crops up in various texts from the period. Was obviously a newish slogan or catchphrase in the 1920s.

‘I think path digging will be your only sport.’
‘I’ve been at it all the morning.’
‘Oh! you he-man!’
‘Don’t laugh at me. I’ve got blisters all over my hands.’
(Miss Violet teasing Ronnie Garfield, Chapter 1)

Woman hater

Trevelyan is described by several characters as a ‘woman hater’. Mrs Willett has no time for this description.

‘I’ve known dozens of men like it. They are called women haters and all sorts of silly things, and really all the time it’s only shyness. If I could have got at him,’ said Mrs Willett with determination, ‘I’d soon have got over all that nonsense. That sort of man only wants bringing out.’ (Chapter 14)

I’d like to see her have a go at Andrew Tate.

The press

In a deceptively comic way Christie shows how mendacious and distorting the English press are. All the complexity of human life has to be cramped and chopped up to fit newspaper stereotypes. Thus young Charles Enderby is comically open with Emily about how he’s rewritten their conversations to suit the medium’s requirements.

‘Er – I hope you don’t mind, I have just posted off an interview with you?’
‘Oh! that’s all right,’ said Emily mechanically. ‘What have you made me say?’
‘Oh, the usual sort of things people like to hear,’ said Mr Enderby. ‘Our special representative records his interview with Miss Emily Trefusis, the fiancée of Mr James Pearson who has been arrested by the police and charged with the murder of Captain Trevelyan – Then my impression of you as a high-spirited, beautiful girl.’
‘Thank you,’ said Emily.
‘Shingled,’ went on Charles.
‘What do you mean by shingled?’
‘You are,’ said Charles.
‘Well, of course I am,’ said Emily. ‘But why mention it?’
‘Women readers always like to know,’ said Charles Enderby. ‘It was a splendid interview. You’ve no idea what fine womanly touching things you said about standing by your man, no matter if the whole world was against him… I put in a very good bit about Captain Trevelyan’s sea career and just a hint at foreign idols looted and a possibility of a strange priest’s revenge – only a hint you know.’
(Chapter 17)

Christie had had personal experience of the Press’s commitment to lying and distorting people’s actions and words in order to produce copy that sells newspapers during the famous incident of her disappearance in 1928. All things considered, it’s striking how mild her satire on the Press is. Later she has her cops give a more considered view:

‘What was he doing there? Enderby, I mean?’
‘You know what journalists are,’ said Narracott, ‘always nosing round. They’re uncanny.’
‘They are a darned nuisance very often,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘Though they have their uses too.’ (Chapter 24)

Height

Christie doesn’t like gabbing women but she has a penchant for tall characters. Tall is good.

Mrs Willett covertly, that she did not look a fool. She was a tall woman with a rather silly manner – but her physiognomy was shrewd rather than foolish… (Chapter 1)

Inspector Narracott was a very efficient officer. He had a quiet persistence, a logical mind and a keen attention to detail which brought him success where many another man might have failed.
He was a tall man with a quiet manner, rather far away grey eyes, and a slow soft Devonshire voice. (Chapter 4)

‘Violet.’ He had hardly noticed the girl who had followed her in, and yet, she was a very pretty girl, tall and fair with big blue eyes. (Chapter 14)

This was a young man not more than twenty-four or five years of age. Tall, good-looking and determined, with none of the hunted criminal about him. (Chapter 22)

Premise

I’ll sign off with another version of that cliché quoted at the top.

‘But one never knows. He’s no fool, that fellow, whatever else he is.’
‘No, he’s an intelligent sort of chap.’
‘His story seems straightforward enough,’ went on the Inspector.
‘Perfectly clear and above board. Still, as I say, one never knows…’ (Chapter 5)

You never know, you never know… until the final chapters of the novel where all is revealed and then… we all know, light is shed in all the dark corners, the culprit is arrested, all the other anomalies and mysteries are cleared up, and we all achieve complete closure, all in time for bed.


Credit

‘The Sittaford Mystery’ by Agatha Christie was published by the Collins Crime Club in 1931.

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‘Always dropping in – dropping in – too much dropping in. If I don’t choose to see anyone for a week, or a month, or a year, that’s my business.’ (Captain Wyatt)

Blithe Spirit by Noel Coward (1941)

‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy, Mrs Condomine.’
(Madame Arcati the medium, humorously quoting Hamlet in Blithe Spirit, Act 2, scene 2)

Blithe Spirit, first staged in 1941, has turned out to be one of Noel Coward’s most popular and regularly revived plays. From my reading of half a dozen of the others I’d hazard a guess that this is because it’s actually about something. ‘Hay Fever’, ‘Easy Virtue’, ‘Private Lives’, ‘Design for Living’, ‘Present Laughter’ – if they’re about anything, it’s farcical arguments and misunderstandings based around people’s fractious love lives; whereas Blithe Spirit has an interesting and genuinely comic premise.

This is that a medium, one Madame Arcati, who a group of cynical upper middle-class types have invited round to hold a séance amid much joking and banter, turns out to everyone’s amazement to be real. There is an afterlife, the spirits of the dead do live on there, and people called mediums can get in touch with them.

But the comic premise goes further than that. The lead male character – witty, cynical Charles Condomine who hosts the séance – lost his first wife, Elvira, seven years ago (to be clear: she died: in a comic detail we are told she laughed so hard at a BBC radio programme that she dropped dead of a heart attack).

He has subsequently married the fragrant and sensible Ruth. But when the medium, Madame Arcati, succeeds in getting in touch with the ‘other world’, guess who’s waiting there to transmit a message to the living? His first wife, Elvira!

His first hint of it is when the medium’s ‘contact’, a girl called Daphne, insists on picking out the record of an Irving Berlin song, ‘Always’, to put on the gramophone to help set the mood. Charles starts a bit, because that was one of Elvira’s favourite songs. But then, once the lights are turned low and Madame Arcati has gone into a trance, Charles insists that he can hear Elvira talking to him, even though no-one else can.

This freaks him out so much that he leaps up and turns the lights on, to reveal Madame Arcati unconscious and flat on her back. To backtrack a bit and explain the plot more fully:

Brief synopsis

Act 1

Scene 1. Setup and arrival of the guests

Charles Condomine is a successful novelist. While dressing for dinner, he and his second wife, Ruth, discuss his first wife, Elvira, who died young, seven years earlier. They also fuss about the new maid, Edith, who is gauche and over-keen, always racing hither and thither and constantly having to be told to calm down and walk.

Charles has invited round for dinner a local couple, Dr and Mrs Bradman. When the guests assemble they make jokes about the third guest who hasn’t yet arrived, for Charles has invited a local eccentric, Madame Arcati, who claims to be a medium. He explains that he’s invited her in order to get background information and colour for a novel he’s planning to write about a fake medium. Madame Arcati arrives, all clattering ‘barbaric’ jewellery.

(As Philip Hoare points out in his excellent biography of Coward, the playwright’s lesbians are often dressed ‘barbarically’ i.e. in modernist necklaces, bangles, patterns and designs. In addition it is made to appear outlandishly eccentric that Madame A likes cycling everywhere. In addition she is given to schoolgirl pep talks: ‘mustn’t give up hope–chin up–never day die’. Coward is quoted in the Hoare biography as saying that as her part grew and grew as he thought up funnier and funnier aspects of her character.)

So now the guests are all assembled they settle down to dinner and the scene closes.

Scene 2. The séance

After dinner the characters prepare to hold the seance. The character of Madame Arcati and her preposterous profession are rich in comic details: such as how the best ‘contacts’ in the other world are children, although Indians are also good. Unless they get over-excited, in which case they go off ‘into their own tribal language’ and are unintelligible.

Madame Arcati’s contact is called Daphne and is ‘rising seven’ years old. Contacts respond well to music and Daphne has a fondness for the songs of Irving Berlin (Madame A drolly remarks that ‘She likes a tune she can hum’). Rifling through Charles’s collection, Madame comes across ‘Always’ by Berlin.

After a lot more palaver, as described above, Madame A raises the ghost of Elvira whose voice only Charles can hear. When he leaps to his feet and turns the lights on Madame A is unconscious on her back. The doctor helps bring her round and after further chat, she leaves. As she does so Elvira appears to us, onstage, dressed in grey with grey make-up on face and flesh, although not seen by anyone else. After some more sceptical chat, Dr and Mrs Bradman also leave.

So now there’s just Charles, Ruth and ghost Elvira onstage. What quickly emerges is that only Charles can see or hear Elvira. Elvira is exactly as selfish and imperious as she was in life and soon she and Charles are bickering like characters in all Coward’s other plays. The cleverness or conceit of this play is that Ruth can only hear Charles’s part of the dialogue. So when he says something rude and sharp to Elvira, Ruth thinks he’s talking to her and gets understandably upset and then cross.

So although the premise is novel enough, the actual meat of the play is like all Coward’s other plays in that the only way the characters can relate to each other is through arguing and bickering and telling each other to shut up.

  • CHARLES: Shut up.
  • CHARLES: Be quiet, Elvira.
  • RUTH: Stop talking like that, Charles.
  • CHARLES: Be quiet, she’s doing her best.
  • RUTH: Be quiet, you’ll ruin everything.
  • CHARLES: Do shut up darling, you’ll make everything worse.
  • CHARLES: Don’t be childish, Elvira.
  • ELVIRA: Don’t call me your child.
  • CHARLES: For heaven’s sake don’t snivel.
  • CHARLES: I’m sick of these insults, please go away.

ELVIRA: Oh Charles.
CHARLES: Shut up!

And Coward’s favourite word, idiotic.

  • RUTH: Charles, how can you be so idiotic?
  • RUTH: Sit down for God’s sake and don’t be idiotic.
  • CHARLES: How can I control myself in the face of your idiotic damned stubbornness?
  • CHARLES: Don’t be idiotic.
  • RUTH: And now, owing to your idiotic inefficiency, we find ourselves in the most mortifying position.

Coward is so aware of the issue that even he himself uses the word ‘bickering’ to describe everyone’s behaviour.

CHARLES: I wish you two would stop bickering for one moment.

ELVIRA: When I think what might have happened if I’d succeeded in getting you to the other world after all – it makes me shudder, it does honestly… It would be nothing but bickering and squabbling for ever and ever and ever.

And all this bickering, as in all Coward’s other plays, tends towards what I’ve called the futility point, the moment when one or both participants in the argument just give up even trying to communicate to the other.

  • RUTH: It’s no use arguing any more.
  • CHARLES: It doesn’t matter, Ruth… We’ll say no more about it.
  • CHARLES: There is nothing to be gained by continuing this discussion.

So in this early phase of Elvira’s haunting the comedy, if it works as comedy, comes from Ruth’s bewilderment at Charles’s unexplained remarks, while there is equal comedy in Charles’s frustration at his inability to make Ruth understand or believe that his first wife has returned from the dead to haunt him.

RUTH: I am not going to stay here arguing any longer.
ELVIRA: Hooray!
CHARLES: Shut up!
RUTH [incensed]: How dare you speak to me like that!
CHARLES: Listen, Ruth, please listen.
RUTH: I will not listen tom any more of this nonsense. I am going up to bed now, I’ll leave you to turn out the lights. I shan’t be asleep – I’m too upset. So you can come in and say goodnight to me if you feel like it.
ELVIRA: That’s big of her, I must say.
CHARLES: Be quiet!

From this little excerpt you can see how what I’ve described as bickering isn’t an incidental feature of the dialogue, it is absolutely central to Coward’s method, the core of his idea of drama, and, if acted correctly, the source of most of the alleged comedy.

There is another thread of comedy which is that Elvira is comically banal and under-excited about being dead or the afterlife. We get no confirmation of whether there’s a heaven or hell, or the Big Question – whether there’s a God, and his Son is Jesus etc. None of that kind of detail. This is a comedy after all. Instead she talks like a blasé Mayfair cocktail party character, can’t really remember any of the details but has gossip about various characters in the afterlife. Thus we learn that Joan of Arc is really ‘a lot of fun’ while Merlin bores everyone with the same old party tricks. So the afterlife sounds exactly like a Noel Coward 1920s cocktail party.

Elvira has only the vaguest sense of where she was and thinks she’s appeared to haunt Charles because she was ‘summoned’ though he swears to her and Ruth that he never summoned anyone. This is an important plot point which we’ll return to.

Meanwhile, Ruth refuses to believe Elvira is there, is instead convinced that Charles is drunk and storms off to bed leaving Charles to recriminate with Elvira.

Act 2

Scene 1

The next morning at breakfast Ruth tells Charles he behave abominably to her the night before and was disgustingly drunk. As you might expect, this quickly degenerates into another Coward slanging match, with both spouses dragging up stories about flings or affairs they had with other people. Charles is given speeches declaring his exasperation with women and claims Ruth is always trying to boss him around (‘You boss and bully and order me about’). This is an important theme, maybe the central theme of the play, which has given rise to predictable accusations of misogyny (see below).

They carry on the argument through and after breakfast and are sitting in armchairs when Elvira walks in through the French windows. Charles is again shocked and starts arguing with Elvira, which Ruth misinterprets as more abuse of her until… Charles persuades Elvira to prove to Ruth that she exists. She does this by moving a bowl of flowers around the room to prove her existence. Ruth thinks it must be a trick, then becomes hysterical, fearing that she’s going mad, while Elvira picks up a chair and waltzes with it. When Ruth tries to escape through the French windows Elvira slams them in her face. When Elvira smashes a vase, Ruth goes into hysterics. End of scene 1.

Scene 2

Later the same day, Ruth has invited Madame Arcati to tea. She has accepted Elvira’s existence, to the extent of casually mentioning that her husband is off driving the ghost for an outing to Folkestone.

In the midst of a lot of banter it emerges that Ruth has invited Madame Arcati round with the simple wish of wanting her to get rid of Elvira, to send her back to ‘dematerialise’ her. But when Ruth admits that Charles didn’t believe she was a real medium and only invited her round to take notes on ‘the tricks of the trade’, offended Madame Arcati leaves in a huff.

Enter Charles and ghost Elvira. Ruth accepts and understands the distinction between when Charles is talking to her (Ruth) and when he’s talking to Elvira. In fact she asks questions of Elvira directly and asks Charles to report back her answers, which he does tactfully since many of Elvira’s replies are barbed and aggressive. When Ruth reports that Madame Arcati doesn’t think she can dematerialise Elvira, the latter crows in triumph: she will spend the rest of her life with her beloved Charles!

But the conversation degenerates and Ruth says next day she’s going up to London to the Psychical Research Society to see if they can help, and if they can’t she’ll go to see the Archbishop of Canterbury, and she slams out of the room (again).

Charles and Elvira have a relatively civilised conversation and he says he’s going off to dress for dinner and exits. The scene ends with some comic business when Elvira puts the record of ‘Always’ on the gramophone and is dancing round to it when Edith the gawky maid comes in, turns the gramophone off and files the record away, at which Elvira takes it out and puts it back on the gramophone – with the result that Edith runs out the room screaming.

Worth mentioning that this is a tried and tested Coward strategy, of having one song be repeatedly played and mentioned throughout a play, so that at the end of the evening the audience would come out humming it. In this play it’s Berlin’s song ‘Always’, compare Coward’s use of his own song, ‘Someday I’ll Find You’, in Private Lives.

Scene 3

A few days later, in the same drawing room, Ruth is talking to Mrs Bradman because the doctor has popped round to have a look at Charles’s arm, which he appears to have sprained. The doctor says he’s a bit worried about Charles because during his inspection, he kept letting fly irrelevant remarks. Of course Ruth and the audience know these were aimed at Elvira, of whose existence Dr B knows nothing. Also, Edith seems to have had an accident and fallen, on the same day.

At this point Charles enters with his arm in a sling. He’s insisting he drive into Folkestone but the doctor advises against it. Ruth knows the Folkestone trip is because Elvira wants to go to the cinema. Charles sees the doctor out while Elvira teases Ruth by throwing rose stems at her from a vase.

When Charles returns Ruth tells him she’s convinced Elvira is trying to kill him. This explains the recent accidents: Edith fell down the stairs and banged her head because the whole of the top stair was covered in axle grease, while Charles had the accident on the ladder which hurt his arm because the ladder had been sawed nearly in two. Why? So Charles will pass over into the spirit world and be Elvira’s forever.

Ruth convinces Charles she’s right and they are discussing what to do, whether Madame Arcati can do anything, when Elvira sweeps in again. Charles alerts Ruth to the fact, and they change the subject. Although she still can’t see or hear Elvira, Ruth tells her off for making her husband drive her to Folkestone that evening, and storms out (again).

Charles and Elvira engage in some more banter and bickering about how poor Ruth’s taste in household furnishing is etc. This is padding to cover time because when Elvira asks Charles can’t they go into Folkestone now, he casually says no, because Ruth’s taken the car to go and see the vicar.

At this news Elvira leaps out of her chair and becomes extremely agitated, repeating ‘Oh God oh God’. Charles begins to suspect something about the car, then suddenly realises that Elvira has sabotaged it. He is just accusing her of it when the phone rings. He picks it up and we only hear his side of the conversation but it’s something about an accident down by the bridge.

And at this moment the door swings open and Elvira steps back in horror, then shields her head from blows and cries out, ‘Ruth, stop it’.

Clearly 1) Elvira did sabotage the car 2) Ruth crashed it and was killed 3) she has ‘passed over’ and now exists on the same spectral plane as Elvira where 4) she is attacking her. And on this bombshell the scene ends.

It is an important plot point that the audience, and Charles, at this point cannot see Ruth. But there’s no doubt that she’s died and come back from the dead.

Act 3

Scene 1

It is a few days later. Presumably there’s been a funeral for Ruth etc. Charles is waiting by the fire and Madame Arcati is shown in. She offers her condolences but is spookily aware that Elvira had something to do with Ruth’s death. Elvira appears – note that even Madame Arcati can’t see her and has to have Charles point out to her where she is and what she’s saying.

Part of the comedy is that Madame Arcati is as gleeful as a child that Elvira has returned. She asks for proof and Elvira blows on her ear which makes Madame A cackle with pleasure.

Elvira, for her part, is fed up, she hates Ruth being on her plane because she’s endlessly taunting her. She now wants to be exorcised or dematerialised. Charles asks Madame A to step into the dining room for a moment because he wants to talk to Elvira. This, of course, turns into an argument, with them both taunting each other with the affairs they had during their marriage, she with Guy Henderson and Captain Bracegirdle, he with Cynthia Cheviot.

As this bickering makes them both really miserable Elvira begs Charles to call Madame Arcati back into the room., She comes and there’s a lot of palaver and stage business with salt and pepper and herbs as she lays everything out for her dematerialisation. She claims to be following a formula from Edmondson’s Witchcraft and its Byways.

She puts music on the gramophone, turns off the lights and asks her contact on the other side to tap the table for messages, but the tapping gets stronger and stronger until Madame Arcati falls over, pulling the table on top of her.

When Charles switches the lights on and pulls the table off her and revives Madame Arcati, he points out that Elvira is still here, nothing happened to her, but Madame Arcati insists that something happened, and at that moment the figure of Ruth, herself as grey as Elvira, sweeps in through the French windows. I think that up till this moment she had been an unearthly presence. So I think what’s happened is that Madame Arcati’s spell has backfired and fully invoked or materialised her to the same level as Elvira.

Now Charles has two angry ex-wives to cope with. End of scene.

Scene 2

It’s a few hours later and the room is in disarray with various objects (crystal ball, Ouija board) arranged to give the impression that a variety of further spells and incantations (‘the most humiliating hocus-pocus’) have been tried and all failed. Madame Arcati is fast asleep on the sofa.

The two women ghosts are exhausted and humiliated. They complain that they’ve had to sit through no fewer than five séances and innumerable spells and have completely failed to dematerialise.

What begins to develop or become clear is the division between Charles and the two women. Elvira and Ruth have buried the hatchet and are now in league against him, joining common cause in finding him boorish and unhelpful. And he finds himself outnumbered and exasperated with him. It’s now that he delivers what in one sense is the play’s defining line (and the defining line of so many Coward plays):

CHARLES: I wish you two would stop bickering for one moment.

So the ghosts goad Charles into waking Madam Arcati up for one last try. It is that this point that a key fact is discovered: All the women (Elvira, Ruth and Madame A) have been insisting it was Charles who called them into being: the two ghost women recall answering an overwhelming call for them to appear in the Condomine house. Suddenly Madame A has a brainwave. She grabs her crystal ball and sees something white, like a bandage. She scampers round, waves a bunch of garlic, makes cabbalistic signs and chants a spell.

And into the room comes Edith, the scatty servant. Wearing a white bandage round her head. She asks Charles why he called her but of course he didn’t – Madame Arcati did! At first she pretends she can’t see the two ghosts but soon makes a slip and they realise that she can. It was her. She has the gift. She is a Natural.

Madame Arcati swiftly hypnotises Edith and tells her she knows what she has to do i.e. reverse her call to Ruth and Elvira. So Madame A gets Edith to softly sing ‘Always’ (remember what I said about Coward cannily threading a theme song throughout many of his plays?) Sensing they are about to disappear, both Ruth and Elvira hurry to get in some last messages to Charles but their voices fade and then disappear.

Hooray! Madame A wakes Edith from her trance and Charles gives her a pound for her troubles. For a split second there is a moment of naughtiness, because Edith can’t remember how she got there or what’s just happened, and for a moment she misinterprets the pound to mean that she’s been taken advantage off and she runs out the room squealing.

Charles, rather like the confirmed misogynist Henry Higgins in Pygmalion, doesn’t understand, though the audience – or some of the audience – does.

Charles is hugely relieved and is effusively thanking Madame A when she utters words of caution. She tells him to pack his bags and leave. Why on earth? And Madame A explains that… they may still be here! Even though he can’t see or hear them… the house may still be haunted. She gives him a parting warning to pack his bags and go far away (while she herself is packing up all her paraphernalia) and then she takes her leave.

Charles is alone onstage, pondering. Tempting fate, he starts to talk to Elvira and Ruth, teasing them, telling them how happy he is to be free of them, and of women generally in his life. At which the vase on the mantelpiece falls to the floor. Of course! They are still here!

So: he takes the opportunity to let rip: first he tells Elvira that he knew about her affairs all along, what she didn’t know about was him and Paula Westlake! Then he turns to Ruth and says he was faithful to her but was being alienated by her increasingly domineering behaviour and it was only a matter of time… at which the clock strikes sixteen!

He bids them both goodbye as a sofa cushion is thrown at him, ducks it and tells them they’re welcome to smash up the house as much as they like – as the curtains are pulled up and down, the gramophone lid opens and shuts, the overmantel shakes. He eggs them on, telling Ruth to give Elvira a hand, as a statuette on the bookshelf falls down, and as he makes his amused exit all hell breaks loose, with vases falling, the curtains falling, the gramophone playing ‘Always’ speeded up, the overmantel collapsing, the curtain rod crashing down and anything else the director can think of.

THE END

Misogyny

In his biography Hoare quotes a woman director as saying the play is very funny but the ending reeks of misogyny. Certainly the last couple of pages where he delights in getting rid of the two ghosts, and then taunts them, have a certain fierceness. A series of remarks about being free of women climaxes with this little peroration.

CHARLES: You said in one of your more acid moments, Ruth, that I had been hag-ridden all my life! How right you were – but now I’m free Ruth dear, not only of Mother and Elvira and Mrs Winthrop Llewellyn, but free of you too and I should like to take this farewell opportunity of saying I’m enjoying it immensely!

Not Andrew Tate, is it, but it is the conclusion of a distinct trend in the play. Why does this play and not most of his others display this tone? Maybe it comes from something in Coward’s attitude. But maybe it’s simpler, maybe it’s simply the logical conclusion of the tendency of the of the characters, implicit in the initial setup, maybe Coward followed the logic of the basic scenario and Charles’s gratitude to be rid of the two haunters is comic vehemence.

Movie version

‘Blithe Spirit’ was promptly made into a movie, released in 1945, directed by David Lean who Coward had collaborated with on another adaptation of a recent play, ‘This Happy Breed’. The film starred two of the main actors from the original stage production, namely Kay Hammond as Elvira and Margaret Rutherford as Madame Arcati. Constance Cummings played Ruth and Rex Harrison stepped into Coward’s shoes to play Charles.

Out of the country during the filming, Coward was less happy with the result than with Lean’s version of ‘This Happy Breed’, thinking it too static and stagey. Watching it, you can’t help agreeing, despite the film version’s attempts to get out of the living room at every opportunity, with several scenes driving along in a car or at Madame Arcati’s house.

The general clunkiness is driven home by the film’s drastic departure from the play’s ending. The play ends with Charles swanning off abroad, leaving the women smashing up his house in frustration. The film ends with Charles merrily driving down towards the bridge where Ruth crashed, while the ghosts watch smiling, because they’ve sabotaged the car, again. The car crashes and seconds later Charles plonks down on the bridge beside his two ex-wives. In the play, man triumphs, two women left fuming. In the film, the two women win. No doubt this sounded like a funny idea in the script conferences, but the clumsy clunkiness with which it’s shot, the lack of any punchline and the film’s abrupt ending, all leave you with an impression of clumsiness.

Coward’s negative opinion was reflected in the film’s lack of box office success – but it has subsequently come to be valued for its Technicolor photography and Oscar-winning visual effects.


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Love and Mr Lewisham: The Story of a Very Young Couple by H.G. Wells (1900)

It was nonsense this being in love; there wasn’t such a thing as love outside of trashy novelettes.
(18-year-old Lewisham trying to talk himself out of his infatuation, Love and Mr Lewisham, page 31)

Wells took a deal of trouble writing this novel and was 33 when it was published. The protagonist, Mr G. E. Lewisham, is transparently based on Wells himself.

The story opens with Lewisham, aged 18 and teaching at a private school in provincial Surrey, exactly as Wells had done at that age. He aspires to win a scholarship to the Normal School of Science, South Kensington and subjects himself to a rigorous study regime, just as Wells did. Sure enough, Lewisham gets his scholarship to go and study in London, meets all kinds of interesting people, and falls in love, exactly as Wells did. In other words, this is an extremely autobiographical novel.

Considering this, it’s surprisingly amused by and even condescending to its hero, who is depicted as a clumsy, shy, naive poltroon.

Lewisham pretended not to hear and blushed vividly. He often wished he did not blush quite so much, seeing he was a man of one-and-twenty.

Also odd is the way that, at the start, we only get a couple of pages of his revision schedule, his daily rota of Latin, French, Physics and Mathematics, before he is distracted looking out the window at a pretty girl, Ethel Henderson and whoosh, we are whisked off into the mindset of an immature love affair.

In fact this happens throughout: we are told how hard working and studious Lewisham is but this learning is never described, whereas every flicker of feeling, every quiver about his various love affairs is described in great detail. This is a shame, frankly I’d be more interested in his serious studies than in his immature love affairs. This is especially true when he gets to London and the Normal School of Science. In real life Wells was taught by the great Thomas Henry Huxley and it was the era when Darwin’s theory of evolution had revolutionised all aspects of the life sciences as well as giving rise to all kinds of philosophical and cultural ideas such as eugenics, selective breeding, the forced evolution of man, the notion of a hierarchy of races with white men at the pinnacle and so on. So it is a great disappointment that none of these vivid and controversial ideas appear in the book. Instead the plot is derailed or sidelined into a load of nonsense about mediums and spiritualism.

And the style is odd. Wells apparently laboured long and hard over the book but the result feels arch and contrived, like eating a pillow. I’ve just read War of the Worlds and a good deal of the impact of his early scientific romances was down to his no-nonsense, factual descriptions which get right to the point. By contrast, here, in striving for some kind of social comedy, Wells’s style feels arch and contrived. Because so little really happens he has to pump it up, generally with unfortunate attempts at humour.

Mr. Bonover, having fully matured a Hint suitable for the occasion, dropped it in the afternoon, while Lewisham was superintending cricket practice.

It is characterised throughout by a contrived overworking of phraseology which I found wearing:

His once eminent discretion, though overthrown, still made muffled protests at the afternoon’s enterprise … Curiosity boarded Lewisham and carried him after the briefest struggle.

The tone is facetious throughout where facetious is defined as ‘an attempt to be funny or to appear clever’ or ‘implying dubious or ill-timed attempts at wit or humour’. I can imagine that what gave him trouble wasn’t the plot or characterisation so much as this aspect of it, getting the narrator’s attitude towards his characters right. Wells clearly wants to show us that now, at the ripe old age of 33, he has a wise and sage attitude towards his younger self and the foibles of youth, whether it be Lewisham’s immature puppy love or his immature puppy socialism. But by so continually looking down on his characters, albeit with warm indulgence, he ultimately removes any meaning from his hero’s tribulations. For me, the facetiousness is silly and undermines your engagement with the narrative.

I can see why more profound writers like Joyce or Woolf looked down on him.

Plot

So the story starts with Mr Lewisham is an 18-year-old teacher at Whortley Proprietary School, Whortley, Sussex. His wages are forty pounds a year, out of which he has to give fifteen shillings a week during term time to lodge with Mrs. Munday, at the little shop in the West Street.

He insists on being referred to as Mr Lewisham and addressed as Sir because he is, of course, only a few months older than the oldest boys in the school, indicative of his general immaturity.

A big deal is made in the opening pages of his commitment to Study, with h is small bedroom festooned with notes and papers on the wide variety of subjects he is cramming, with a view to taking further exams and qualifications, and the tight timetable he applies himself to from the minute he wakes up.

But barely has all this been explained than he is distracted by the sight of a pretty woman out the window. He has seen her at the regular church service he attends with the boys and now sees her again in the street.

Long story short he bumps into this pretty young woman on several occasions and falls in love with her. She is called Ethel Henderson. The crucial moment comes when he sees her scribbling on some piece of paper which then blows away in the wind and he rushes to retrieve for her. It turns out, incongruously, to be some lines that he had assigned a boy at the school and which she is writing out for him (?). This is because she is staying with the mother of this boy, a Mrs Frobisher, and offered to write out the lines as a favour. On a typically rash impulse, Lewisham offers to rescind the punishment of the lines and Ethel is everso grateful.

Lewisham takes to (pathetically) hanging round outside the Frobisher house just in order to catch a glimpse of Ethel through the windows.

The climax of this provincial puppy love is that they go for a walk around the village and surrounding countryside which goes on much longer than it ought to, well past teatime and into the evening. Nothing naughty happens except that it is a magical walk and both the young couple feel entranced, but her late arrival back at Mrs Frobisher’s house causes a scandal which gets all round the village and back to the school headmaster, Mr Bonnover, who Lewisham had already offended by refusing to supervise a sports lesson that afternoon in order to meet with Ethel. In this way ‘Love’ is directly antagonistic to Lewisham’s ambitions and to his Career.

All this is conveyed in novel’s facetious light-heartedness. The chapter describing it is titled ‘The Scandalous Ramble’ and is written thus:

His once eminent discretion, though overthrown, still made muffled protests at the afternoon’s enterprise.

Another reason they both felt so passionately about the walk is that Ethel is scheduled to go back to London within a few days i.e. it is their last chance to be together. Sometimes the facetious phraseology comes off:

And off these two young people went together in a highly electrical state

And continues to mock his characters:

The things they discovered and told each other that afternoon down by the river! – that spring was wonderful, young leaves beautiful, bud scales astonishing things, and clouds dazzling and stately! – with an air of supreme originality! And their naive astonishment to find one another in agreement upon these novel delights!

Quite clearly we are intended to find all this amusing and sweet. Their immaturity is emphasised again and again:

Going out of Immering they began to talk of the future. And for the very young lover there is no future but the immediate future.

Some of it made me smile:

‘And are you really going away from here to be an amanuensis?’ he said, and started her upon the theme of herself, a theme she treated with a specialist’s enthusiasm. (p.37)

Anyway this rash and foolish behaviour (going for a long walk after teatime) has repercussions. The scandal gets back to the school but what’s worse is the headmaster realising that Lewisham refused to help out at the school in order to go for this scandalous walk and so (I think) he’s fired. Either that or it is made clear that his position is untenable and he has to leave at the end of the next term.

Still in the first flush of Love, Lewisham is disappointed that he only receives one letter from Ethel after her return to London. The narrator archly tells us that she addresses him as simply ‘Dear’ because she had forgotten his first name. This and the reference to wittering on about herself being her favourite subject all point towards her shallowness.

Two and a half years later

Anyway, the start of chapter 8 tells us, rather abruptly, that it is two and a half years later, Lewisham applied for various jobs and didn’t get any but was delighted when his application to study at the Normal School of Science, South Kensington, was accepted.

With this leap forward in time, Lewisham is now 21 years old and trying to be A Man. He is in his third year of study at the Normal School of Science in South Kensington. We are introduced to a variety of his fellow students including Smithers and Bletherley, and go up in the lift with him to the top of the building which is where Zoology is taught. It would have been interesting to learn more about his studies and the syllabus of the 1890s but instead much more emphasis is placed on the fact that he’s become a Socialist, driven by his discomfort at seeing the way, in London, that really wretched starving poverty exists only a few streets away from rows of shops packed with middle class shoppers.

Socialism

Thus he sports a Red Tie, gets into pointless arguments with his uncle (a deep-dyed conservative, pages 56 to 57) and reads the Commonweal (which, as Simon James’s excellent notes tell us, was a weekly educational paper published by William Morris’s Socialist League from 1885 to 1895). He even presents a paper about Socialism to the student Debating Society. All this is described with the book’s characteristic facetiousness:

He happened upon ‘Progress and Poverty’ just then, and some casual numbers of the ‘Commonweal’, and it was only too easy to accept the theory of cunning plotting capitalists and landowners, and faultless, righteous, martyr workers. He became a Socialist forthwith. The necessity to do something at once to manifest the new faith that was in him was naturally urgent. So he went out and (historical moment) bought that red tie! (p.53)

But it’s Love which, once again, rears its ugly head. Love and spiritualism, neither of which I’m very interested in but both of which were, presumably, subjects of great interest in the late 1890s.

For months after The Scandalous Walk, Lewisham had hoped for more letters from Ethel but none arrive. Then he moved to London, got caught up in lots of new experiences and hard work and slowly forgot about her.

Alice Heydinger

But the narrative resumes on the day that he first takes an interest in a fellow student, Alice Heydinger, who’s older than him. The Victoria and Albert Museum is a recurring setting for his moody thoughts about love, as it is just next door to the college he’s attending. It’s here that he shares with Miss Heydinger his (totally preposterous) ambition to be some kind of Martin Luther figure for Socialism and she enthusiastically supports him.

‘I say,’ said Lewisham quite suddenly. ‘You do put—well—courage into a chap. I shouldn’t have done that Socialism paper if it hadn’t been for you.’ He turned round and stood leaning with his back to the [statue of ] Moses, and smiling at her. ‘You do help a fellow,’ he said.
That was one of the vivid moments of Miss Heydinger’s life. She changed colour a little. ‘Do I?’ she said, standing straight and awkward and looking into his face, ‘I’m … glad.’ (p.p.60)

It’s meant to be funny but it’s perilously close to being sad, these poor, naive saps with no idea about love or life, no idea about the hard financial realities of marriage and work. The signature note is, as always, an effortful facetiousness which we are meant to find charming.

So it was Lewisham enrolled his first ally in the cause of the red tie – of the red tie and of the Greatness that was presently to come. (p.62)

Spiritualism

And then, by an effortful contrivance, the gross subject of spiritualism suddenly invades the narrative, like the Titanic being rudely interrupted by the iceberg. By a contrived coincidence one of the older students at the school is a Mr Lagune and he is a firm believer in spiritualism and séances. Somehow the topic comes up in conversation in the college common room, with Mr Smithers condemning the whole thing as ‘rot and imposture’, the others being less hasty. As to this Mr Lagune, he was:

a grizzled little old man with a very small face and very big grey eyes, who had been standing listlessly at one of the laboratory windows until the discussion caught him. He wore a brown velvet jacket and was reputed to be enormously rich. His name was Lagune. He was not a regular attendant, but one of those casual outsiders who are admitted to laboratories that are not completely full. (p.63)

Anyway it eventuates in Mr Lagune inviting them all to come to a séance at his house. So Lewisham, Heydinger, Smithers and Bletherley dutifully turn up at the impressive mansion, complete with spacious hallway and stylish fittings – Lagune obviously is rich.

They are ushered into a room and introduced to the medium, a Mr Chaffery, but what stuns Lewisham is that seated next to him is none other than Ethel, his puppy love from those years ago in Whortley. The séance is very vividly described but it degenerates into chaos when sceptical Smithers grabs hold of one of the spooky pieces of ectoplasm, the lights go up and Chaffery is pretty much exposed as a fraud. More to the point, it seems to Lewisham in the confusion, as if his puppy lover Ethel is an assistant in the deceit.

After this debacle Lewisham walks Heydinger to Chelsea station. She, older and more cultured, says it all reminds him of Mr Sludge the Medium and then has to explain that this is the title of a poem by Robert Browning. But Lewisham is distant and distracted and Heydinger suddenly feels terribly alone and depressed (p.73). She knows he’s not present but can’t know it’s because he is completely distracted by this sudden revelation of Ethel as a fraudster’s assistant.

Cut to Ethel’s point of view. She comes from a poor family. When her father died her mother took in lodgers. One of these was Mr Chaffery the fake medium, and her mother ended up marrying him, making him her step-father. Through him, Ethel secured a job working as assistant to Mr Lagune in his capacity as author of numerous works of bogus philosophy:

the witless, meandering imitation of philosophy that occupied his life… Behind Ethel was the great man’s desk with its green-shaded electric light, and littered with proofs and copies of Hesperus, ‘A Paper for Doubters’, which, with her assistance, he edited, published, compiled, wrote, and (without her help) paid for and read. (p.75)

She is miserably unhappy at the trap life has landed her in and doubly unhappy that she has been revealed as a fraudster’s assistant to the only man she’s ever cared for, but also incurred the anger of Lagune who, believe it or not, didn’t realise that Chaffery was a fake.

All this is explained to Lewisham when, to her surprise, he appears outside Lagune’s office in Chelsea at closing time, 5pm, and offers to walk her across Chelsea Bridge, beside Battersea Park and so up into the network of terraces at the Clapham Junction end of Clapham Common. Despite her protestations he says he’ll escort her like this every evening.

Lagune returns to the college common room and toughs it out. He admits there was a fake element but then weaves a clever argument pointing out that many of the students’ science lecturers in fact fake their experiments and results in order to prove to the students something they know is true.

True to his word, Lewisham does indeed meet Ethel every day after work and walk her via various routes to ‘the corner of a side road in Clapham, a road of little yellow houses with sunk basements and tawdry decorations of stone’ (p.85).

Wells leaves no mistaking that Ethel comes from a dingy lower-class background, the sordidness of her garrulous mother marrying an indigent fraud, their life in a dingy little house, all very depressing. Only Ethel’s beauty and vivaciousness keeps him coming back to meet her every day. For an impressive 67 evenings in a row he walks her home.

As Christmas approaches Lewisham dips into his small savings (he inherited £100 from his mum) and buys her a ring. She daren’t wear it for the scandal it will cause at home so wears it on a chain close to her heart. On Christmas Eve ‘these absurd young people’ as he calls them, walk 16 miles through shopping-mad London. He takes her for a meal, their first together, it is quietly emphasised that he knows nothing about cuts of meat or wine, how could he?

Cut to Miss Heydinger’s point of view. Unfortunately on one of their walks to Clapham, Ethel and Lewisham were spotted by Heydinger out with a friend, who maliciously pointed them out. From that moment Heydinger is consumed with jealousy but also frustration. She wants to give her life meaning by dedicating it to a Great Man and thought all Lewisham’s talk about Socialism meant he was the one. Yet now he’s squandering all his potential on a silly shop girl. She feels her life is empty and meaningless and bursts into tears. She becomes so depressed she misses classes at the college for three weeks and fails her exams.

Cut back to Lewisham because, for the first time in his life, he doesn’t come top in the exams, he merely heads the second class. So we find him in the Raphael Gallery at the V&A, reflecting. The time he has spent walking Ethel home has consumed half his evenings, the evenings he used to spend pitilessly studying. He reflects coolly on their circumstances: he is poor, she is even poorer, surely they have no future. Meanwhile, the walks mean that ‘his scientific career, but the Debating Society, the political movement, all his work for Humanity’ are all suffering (note the humorous exaggeration). He’ll just have to tell her no more walking home.

Obviously Ethel is upset and simply doesn’t understand why, if he spends all day learning, he has to study in the evenings, something I remember having to painstakingly explain to my parents, neither of whom went to college. Lewisham writes her letters but they are in the ‘South Kensington’ style which seems to imply that the science students prided themselves in avoiding all that romantic blether. Their brevity upsets Ethel.

Meanwhile Alice notices Lewisham’s sudden renewed commitment to study, arriving early, leaving late and no more walking shop girls home.

Except that at the next meeting of the ‘Friends of Progress’, the group of like-minded young students who supported Lewisham’s paper about socialism, Lewisham is galvanised by his old friend Dunkerley’s vision of a couple being a man and a woman who wage the great struggle of life together, as partners and equals. In his enthusiasm he insults the man who hosts these get-togethers, Parkson, by exploding in irritation at his maundering on about Pure Love and showing him a photo of a very plain young woman who he insists is the embodiment of Pure Love.

Rudely leaving Parkson standing on a street corner, Lewisham hares off towards Clapham but as he nears Ethel’s he sees two figures in the fog, Ethel and Mr Chaffery, pass by. My God! She’s gone back to helping the old fraud! And, indeed, next day in the common room Mr Lagune confirms that they are now experimenting on Ethel to see if she has clairvoyant powers i.e. can see into the future. Lewisham is incensed.

Next evening he is there to meet Ethel again and they walk to Clapham. Here, up on the common, they have a consequential conversation. When Lewisham tells her she must not be a party to these frauds she explains that if she leaves Lagune’s employ, Chaffrey insists she will have to go to the country to be a companion to his sister, a fate worse than death, and bursts into tears.

Fired up by the memory of Dunkerley’s rhetoric about true lovers against the world, Lewisham says well there is only one solution: they must get married!

Suddenly the world opened out in reality to her as sometimes it had opened out to her in wistful dreams. And she quailed before it. She dropped her eyes from his. She became a fellow-conspirator. ‘But, how — ?’ ‘I will think how. Trust me!’ (p.112)

Famous last words. In the event Lewisham is overcome with foolish enthusiasm and spends the next week finding rented rooms to move into and organising the cheapest wedding possible at a registry office. The service is as simple as can be with a cleaner called in to be a witness, then they take a broken-down old cab to the new rooms. The landlady, Mrs Gadow (German) bows them in, the servant brings some chops and then they are left alone to commence married life together!

They feel brave and magnificent! Two against the world! There is absolutely no indication that they have sex. For this couple, just holding hands a daring adventure, and Lewisham wastes his days in the college library dreaming up baby names for her. On the second evening they go for a walk to the Serpentine:

‘We are Fighting the World,’ he said, finding great satisfaction in the thought. ‘All the world is against us – and we are fighting it all.’
‘We will not be beaten,’ said Ethel.
‘How could we be beaten – together?’ said Lewisham. ‘For you I would fight a dozen worlds.’ (p.124)

It is only on page 128 that we finally find out what Lewisham’s Christian names are, namely George Edgar, as the marriage licence is read out by Ethel’s stepfather i.e. Mr Chamfrey. The nervous newly-weds have to face the her mother and stepfather sooner or later. In the event it is an shabby little occasion, with Mrs C serving up some bread, rough cheese and small beer while Mr Chamfrey turns out, not to give Lewisham the telling-off he deserves, but to be a plausible old rogue. He disconcerts Lewisham by freely admitting that he is a fraud and going on to insist that he is a master or fraudulence, has invented whole new tricks for taking in gullible spiritualists. Worse, he gives all this a pseud-philosophical justification by asserting that LIES are the very basis of civilised society, that:

that Honesty is essentially an anarchistic and disintegrating force in society, that communities are held together and the progress of civilisation made possible only by vigorous and sometimes even, violent Lying; that the Social Contract is nothing more or less than a vast conspiracy of human beings to lie to and humbug themselves and one another for the general Good. Lies are the mortar that bind the savage Individual man into the social masonry. (p.134)

Chamfrey instantly becomes the most interesting and amusing thing in the book, vastly more entertaining than weedy Lewisham, sad spinsterish Lucy or shallow Ethel. He proceeds to give a page or more of fiery cynicism, going on to state that everyone’s lives are compromised by the slaves who produce our foods and manufactured goods and keep our lives ticking along so we can get up on our hinds legs and pontificate about virtue and honour. Lewisham is bowled over and half seduced.

Their honeymoon period comes to an end after precisely one week when they are presented with their bill by Mrs Gadow and are shocked at the way all the little extras (such as coal for the fire) build up. Lewisham does some swift calculations and realises that he will burn through his inheritance in half a year. So that day, instead of cramming hard for the next exams, he spends looking at situations vacant in educational magazines and also finding out more about the market for typists (for Ethel). The reality is people need jobs.

They spend the evening applying for lots of jobs although Lewisham for the first time notices that her spelling is erratic and her punctuation primitive. He thinks he’ll be able to correct and educate her. Thus the first cracks appear. All the while he fails to revise for the botany exam he is to sit the next day.

There is a comic chapter where he visits a ‘scholastic agent’ and discovers all the swank of the students at South Kensington means absolutely nothing in the real world. Has he got a degree? No. Is he Church of England? No. Does he excel at games he can teach? No. Can he teach geography, divinity, art, shorthand, cooking, French? No. Well, the best he can hope for is £60 a year as a resident teacher. A Cambridge graduate would be happy to get £80 resident.

The agency man is sympathetic and slowly Lewisham finds himself conceding that he might, at a pinch, ‘teach’ some of these subjects. But that turns out to be the nicest agency. The next ones he tries are more upper crust and snobbishly look down on him. As to the public schools, not interested in science: ‘classics and good games’, that’s all they’re interested in, ‘good games, good form’ dontcha know? (p.151).

Wells makes some serious points such as the lack of teacher training in Britain (unlike the USA and Germany, already overtaking Britain in this as so many other things) which he campaigned for. In its way, this is the most interesting chapter in the book, shining a light on the amateurish shambles of British education.

In terms of plot, tired after a day trudging from one agency to another, Lewisham gets home and unleashes a diatribe against bishops and Christian authorities who demand that a man formally subscribe to beliefs he doesn’t actually hold, criticises the many Christian officials who don’t really believe any more, but hold the keys to all the top jobs in the land – only to discover that Ethel is a Christian (well, her superficial definition of one) and is shocked that he isn’t. Suddenly, at the end of a day when his realistic chances of getting a job have almost vanished, he discovers that there is this vast intellectual gulf between him and his new wife. Oh dear.

Ethel is cheered because she has received a smart letter from an author, a ‘Mr Lucas Holderness, the author of ‘The Furnace of Sin’ and other stories’, saying he will send her the manuscript of his novel to type up but first he needs references or, failing them, a deposit of one guinea. Thinking it cheap, Lewisham sends a guinea by reply and neither of them ever hear from Lucas Holderness again.

They argue. He comes to hate the stupid novelettes she reads. She is bored in the little room with no-one to talk to when he goes to college, so invites her mother round, who ends up spending all day every day with her. Job prospects recede. There is one last exam for him to get his degree and he knows he’s done badly. He’s told none of his fellow students he’s married, at first for the secret glamour of it, then from increasing shame.

At the end of the exam he is accosted by Miss Heydinger who tries to be helpful and supportive (she knows nothing about the secret marriage) but Lewisham is angry and rude. She invites him to walk with her through Kensington Gardens but he rudely says he has to get to Chelsea. They shake hands and say goodbye and he walks away leaving her puzzled at his coldness.

Six months later

Lewisham has got some work at the lowest end of temporary teaching. The narrative resumes on the day when they have a massive row. They argue all the time about lack of money, lack of space, her cluttering the place with trashy novels, but the bite of this argument comes from her rage that he now regularly receives letters from Miss Heydinger. This opens the door to deeper levels of resentment when he says he never shows her the letters because she wouldn’t understand the issues they discuss, such as socialism, the redemption of mankind, all the high hopes of his student days.

The series of emotions Lewisham passes through from irritation via losing his temper, to realising he’s in the wrong and getting even more angry, storming out, heading to the Kensington Library in a bitter fury, studying, having elevenses, calming down, becoming more regretful then remorseful. He acutely describes:

He knew now that he loved her, and his recent rage, his hostility, his condemnation of her seemed to him the reign of some exterior influence in his mind. He thought incredulously of the long decline in tenderness that had followed the first days of their delight in each other, the diminution of endearment, the first yielding to irritability, the evenings he had spent doggedly working, resisting all his sense of her presence. ‘One cannot always be love-making,’ he had said, and so they were slipping apart. Then in countless little things he had not been patient, he had not been fair. He had wounded her by harshness, by unsympathetic criticism… (p.173)

Ring any bells? In a similarly clichéd and predictable way Lewisham casts around for some way to make amends as he walks past a flower shop. Flowers! A huge bunch of roses! He goes in, buys and arranges to have them sent to her at their rooms at 6pm. The reader has a very strong premonition of disaster.

Sure enough the roses are not delivered and Lewisham returns to find Ethel still coldly furious. Somehow, without the roses, all Lewisham’s good intentions disappear, he finds he can’t put into words his sorrow and remorse. So nothing is said and the damage carries on. They have the most stilted dinner ever. The front doorbell rings and Lewisham is sure it is the roses but it isn’t, it’s Mr Chaffery.

Oblivious to the tense atmosphere Chaffery makes himself at home, lights a cigar, and delivers another long-winded lecture of pseudo-philosophy on the secret of happiness which starts by dividing the world of men into three types, happy men, knaves and fools. Alas, this time round his lecture is boring and preposterous, unlike the riveting cynicism of his first lecture.

Anyway, during this time the roses did arrive, but Lewisham only suspects this because he is stuck listening to bloody Chaffery when the front door bell rings and Ethel goes to answer it. She reappears in the room with no visible emotion. Only after Chaffery has finally left, does Lewisham go into the bedroom and is astonished to discover the roses did arrive and Ethel stuffed them under the valance of the bed.

She his them! Why? Because she thought they came from someone else! Lewisham guesses that it is the immature ‘poet’ who’s been sending her his poems to type up. Good grief! His realisation that she’s been carrying on with someone else; her realisation that he knows. She can’t find anything to say. Terrible scene. He says unforgivable things, calls her shallow and stupid, calls their marriage ‘accursed’, says it signalled the end of all his hopes and dreams. they never ought to have married, it has ruined his life, and on and on.

He tells her he is leaving forever, their marriage is over, wrestles his suitcase from under the bed, takes it and his valise into the other room and slams the door. He spends hours packing as his anger slowly fades. Everything is so silent from the bedroom he becomes alarmed. Eventually tiptoes to the door, sees her body motionless on the bed, is struck by a terrible fear, goes over calls her name, she starts back to life, she bursts into explanations of why she was kind to the wretched poet for him, because she knew they needed the money, didn’t know who the flowers had come from, didn’t know what to do with them – while Lewisham, for the second time in one day, is overwhelmed with their first love and fondness and calls himself a heel and a brute for being so cruel to her.

And thus, we suspect, a pattern is setting in. A few days later Lewisham returns from working at a miserable crammer to find Mrs Chaffery there, and she and Ethel crying. Chaffery has done a bunk and stolen what he could carry. Seems like Lagune was about to expose him. Chaffery left a long, pompous, self-justifying letter but what it boils down to, is Lewisham is now going to have to support Ethel’s mother, too.

In fact, as they discuss it, it becomes plain they will quit the rented rooms of Frau Gadow and all move into the dingy house in Clapham. This is laid out to take two lodgers but Lewisham says they will in turn buy out the lease of the house and sell it, with a view to moving to a smaller place not requiring lodgers. And this will be his life. In less than a year all his grand dreams of eminent career and being the Martin Luther of socialism have utterly vanished and shrunk down to a crappy job, a stupid wife and a grisling baggage of a mother-in-law.

When at last Mrs. Chaffery, after a violent and tearful kissing and blessing of them both – they were ‘good dear children,’ she said – had departed, Mr. and Mrs. Lewisham returned into their sitting-room. Mrs. Lewisham’s little face was enthusiastic. ‘You’re a Trump,’ she said, extending the willing arms that were his reward. (p.194)

Does that mean sex? Is that Edwardian code for sex? Is his reward for shouldering all this responsibility, sex? The thing is, in the complete absence of any mention of the sexual side of this or any other marriage from this era, a huge and vital psychological element is missing. It is all disembodied emotions and feelings and an utter gap where the physical life should be, where modern accounts might talk about make-up sex and so on.

Anyway, looked at dispassionately, what a joke his life has turned out to be.

The thing took him suddenly as being laughable; and he laughed. His laugh marked an epoch. Never before had Lewisham laughed at any fix in which he had found himself! The enormous seriousness of adolescence was coming to an end; the days of his growing were numbered. It was a laugh of infinite admissions. (p.198)

It is even more laughable when he goes to visit Mr Lagune. Here he discovers the remarkable fact that, all the time Chaffery has been conducting experiments in hypnotism and clairvoyance on a young lady, he has in fact been hypnotising Lagune with the intention of robbing him. And when he discovered that Lagune has as much as £500 in his current account he hypnotised Lagune into signing a blank check then using post-hypnotic suggestion to make him forget all about it, and fled the country with the ‘young lady’. Never too late to start anew.

More to the point, from the perspective of the book as a Bildungsroman or story of a protagonist’s growth and maturing, with Chaffery’s flight:

he realised more vividly than he had ever done before the narrow range of his experience, the bounds of his imagination. These people also – with grey hair and truncated honour – had their emotions. (p.197)

So many people, and all with their own stories, feelings, convictions and grievances. The sheer weight of them is overwhelming. No wonder we spend most of our lives ignoring most other people. It’s just too much information to take in.

Losing Miss Heydinger

The penultimate chapter sees Lewisham making an appointment to see Miss Heydinger in Battersea Park and there, shamefacedly, telling her he is married, was married before the final exams when she was so solicitous for him. And…and his wife wants her to stop writing to him. She doesn’t understand that they’re letters about Socialism and Humanity (because she’s too stupid) all she knows is it hurts her and Lewisham has pledged to stop hurting her.

Obviously she’s very upset but it’s more complicated than that. It’s not that she loves him, as such, it’s that she has geared herself to support him, to be the woman behind the man who will do great things. And so it’s not just losing a relationship it’s losing the entire meaning she has given her life. She stares into the distance her face white with grief.

She tries to seduce him back to her vision, saying Ethel doesn’t need to know and for a few minutes he is swayed and begins to think, well what harm would it do? But a moment’s reflection tells him she would find out sooner or later and the hurt would be all the more unhealable. No, he is resolute, he needs to simplify his life. And as he stumblingly pours this out Miss Heydinger’s face gets whiter and whiter until she stands up, shakes his hand, says goodbye and stalks off.

Resignation

In the final chapter they have settled into a new house, one of a terrace sloping down towards the Junction. And he and Ethel have an inarticulate moment. She comes across him holding the Schema which he so carefully wrote out in those far-distant days at Whortley, now yellowed and curled. And she is sympathetic to his lost dreams and ambitions, but he mans up and reassures her that was all childish play. The adult world is work and strife. She goes downstairs to make dinner with her mum, leaving Lewisham to stare out the window at the first stars. Somewhere in the mix, rather obscurely, there’s been a garbled reference to the Baby, the Child, so I think we are to take it that Ethel is pregnant and Lewisham is enjoying the prospective glow of fatherhood.

By these last pages you feel as if you have been on an emotional rollercoaster and lived an intense life. it ends a much better book than the beginning and a lot of the middle. Some kind of crabbed wisdom.

Thoughts

The introduction to the Penguin Classics edition, by Professor Gillian Beer, makes a number of useful points, but I particularly liked two of them:

1. The ending – the protagonist’s acceptance of a life of poverty and insignificance – is the weakest part, possibly because it departs most from Wells’s own life. Wells married young to a woman who lacked his intellect and ambition and after just two years ran off with a student of his with whom he had a much better intellectual rapport. Thus Lewisham’s early ambitions and the agonies of his love for Ethel are all based on Wells’s experience, but the total capitulation at the end is the opposite of what happened and so comes over as thin, undramatised and unconvincing.

2. On the face of it a sort of Bildungsroman (‘a novel that deals with the formative years of the main character, and in particular, with the character’s psychological development and moral education’) Love and Mr Lewisham is surely just as much, or more, an affectionate, sympathetic description of ordinary humdrum lives, a portrait of the little people, the pokey constricted lives of the numberless millions who thronged London’s streets.

Simon’s lessons

Don’t let puppy love interfere with your studies. There will be plenty of time for ‘love’ later, but only one opportunity to gain the qualifications you’re going to need to secure a decent life.

Don’t get married until you’re settled in a career and confident of job and income.

Marry someone your intellectual and educational equal or you’ll end up having to either educate them up to yours – which is doomed to failure, sounds like condescension and causes resentment – or sink to their level – which crushes the soul and breeds regrets.

Humour

I’m being harsh on Wells’s facetious humour. If you relax, quite a lot of it is drolly funny.

All the Friends wore red ties except Bletherley, who wore an orange one to show that he was aware of Art… (p.102)

He and Ethel have a huge row at the end of which:

He hesitated with the door half closed, then opened it wide and slammed it vehemently. Thereby the world was warned of the justice of his rage, and so he passed with credit into the street. (p.170)

Old books, old prose

I prefer to read older books because the prose is more interesting than most contemporary writers’ styles. I enjoy the surprise and mystery of older writers’ unexpected phraseology, peculiar turns of phrase and fugitive meanings. When Lewisham and friends attend the séance:

Smithers coughed, one might imagine with a warning intention.

Isn’t that a great phrase, ‘with a warning intention’, a phrase which makes you stop and ponder its several possible interpretations. And then the whole thing is given added ambiguity with the casual insertion of ‘one might imagine’. Who is the one in question? Would one be imagining correctly? There are only nine words in this sentence and yet how pregnant with meaning and mystery. That kind of thing pretty much never happens in modern writing which a thousand creative writing courses have thrashed all colour, juice and interest out of. Here are some other random phrases which caught my eye and provided moments of colour and curiousness.

She had stopped crying, she was one huge suspense, not daring even to look at his face. (p.77)

A pause of further moral descent, and a whack against an obstacle. (p.149)

He stared hostility for a space. (p.167)

Mrs. Chaffery, with a keen eye to Lewisham’s behaviour, nodded tearfully over an experienced handkerchief. Lewisham grasped the essentials of the situation forthwith, and trembled on the brink of an expletive. (p.191)


Credit

Love and Mr Lewisham by H.G. Wells was published in 1900 by Harper Brothers. References are to the 2005 Penguin Classics paperback edition.

Related links

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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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