A LIFE STRANGER THAN FICTION

'My dear fellow,' said Sherlock Holmes, as we sat on either side of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, 'life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent.'

As I'm slowly reading my way through the works of Arthur Conan Doyle, I'm finding some to be a pleasure and others....well, not so much. Fortunately, the most recent, The Stark Munro Letters, proved to be among the former rather than the latter. This volume of actual experiences disguised as fictional letters is fascinating. At first, the nature and exploits of the Cullingworth character seemed too fantastical to be easily believed but yet, according to Doyle, the text is a faithful rendering of the truth of the matter as he explained in his autobiography, Memories and Adventures:

In a book written some years afterwards called "The Stark Munro Letters," I drew in very close detail the events of the next few years, and there the curious reader will find them more clearly and fully set out than would be to scale in these pages. I would only remark, should any reader reconstruct me or my career from that book, that there are some few incidents there which are imaginary, and that, especially, the whole incident of the case of a lunatic and of Lord Saltire in Chapter IV occurred to a friend and not to myself. Otherwise the whole history of my association with the man whom I called Cullingworth, his extraordinary character, our parting and the way in which I was left to what seemed certain ruin, were all as depicted.

I actually enjoyed the book more once the Cullingworth period passed. As always, Doyle's story of his early days in practice, with its forced penury and his answers to it, is interesting to me. I admire his resilience and creativity. While reading letter XIII, I found myself somewhat fascinated by his eating habits in those early days. A healthy 22-23 year old man would be hard pressed to thrive on this diet:

I think that I have brought economy down to its finest point. No doubt, for a short spell I could manage to live on a couple of pence a day; but what I am doing now is not to be a mere spurt, but my regular mode of life for many a month to come. My tea and sugar and milk (Swiss) come collectively to one penny a day. The loaf is at twopence three-farthings, and I consume one a day. My dinner consists in rotation of one third of a pound of bacon, cooked over the gas (twopence halfpenny), or two saveloys (twopence), or two pieces of fried fish (twopence), or a quarter of an eightpenny tin of Chicago beef (twopence). Any one of these, with a due allowance of bread and water, makes a most substantial meal. Butter I have discarded for the present. My actual board therefore comes well under sixpence a day, but I am a patron of literature to the extent of a halfpenny a day, which I expend upon an evening paper; for with events hurrying on like this in Alexandria, I cannot bear to be without the news. Still I often reproach myself with that halfpenny, for if I went out in the evening and looked at the placards I might save it, and yet have a general idea of what is going on. Of course, a halfpenny a night sounds nothing, but think of a shilling a month! Perhaps you picture me as bloodless and pulled down on this diet! I am thin, it is true, but I never felt more fit in my life. So full of energy am I that I start off sometimes at ten at night and walk hard until two or three in the morning. I dare not go out during the day, you see, for fear that I should miss a patient.

I had to look up the definition of saveloy; apparently these sausages are still popular today. I could not find how the sizes in Doyle's time compare to the common ones available today.  I tried to find an image or size description for the tin of Chicago beef but I didn't have any luck. From looking at photos of early tinned meats, I think the package would have been about the size of a 12 oz Spam can today but I can't be sure. Either way, I doubt his serving was more than 3-4 ounces. He mentions forgoing butter, and makes no mention of any vegetables. He is making do with his "due allowance of bread and water" but he is not eating very much. And he is walking four to five hours at night. It hard to imagine the natural strength of a constitution that could manage to work all day, and walk half the night, on so little fuel.

He was a strong man but that time of sacrifice certainly made an impression on him for such detail to be included in this book of larger-than-life characters and unexpected events as well as the many pages discussing the meaning of the universe and how man's religions have shaped his world. Heady stuff to be wrapped around a discussion of bacon, sausage, fried fish and tinned beef.

I remember reading of these diets and budgets in his letters. I've just started Memories and Adventures and I'm curious to read what he writes about this time period in that volume; I expect this period of managed hunger will be discussed along with a few other things that are stranger than fiction.

Even if I were not already interested in his life, the preface of Memories & Adventures would draw me in:

I have had a life which, for variety and romance, could, I think, hardly be exceeded. I have known what it was to be a poor man and I have known what it was to be fairly affluent. I have sampled every kind of human experience. I have known many of the most remarkable men of my time. I have had a long literary career after a medical training which gave me the M.D. of Edinburgh. I have tried my hand at very many sports, including boxing, cricket, billiards, motoring, football, aeronautics and skiing, having been the first to introduce the latter for long journeys into Switzerland. I have travelled as Doctor to a whaler for seven months in the Arctic and afterwards in the West Coast of Africa. I have seen something of three wars, the Soudanese, the South African and the German. My life has been dotted with adventures of all kinds. Finally I have been constrained to devote my latter years to telling the world the final result of thirty-six years' study of the occult, and in endeavouring to make it realize the overwhelming importance of the question. In this mission I have already travelled more than 50,000 miles and addressed 300,000 people, besides writing seven books upon the subject. Such is the life which I have told in some detail in my Memories and Adventures.

Arthur Conan Doyle.
Crowborough,
June, 1924.

Certainly this sounds more like fiction than fact ("Who does this except in the movies?") but when his life is looked at in detail, the preface seems a little understated. Yes, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, "life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent."

WORK IS THE BEST ANTIDOTE TO SORROW 

Sherlock Holmes was standing and smiling at me across my study table.

In some manner he had learned of my own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was shown in his manner rather than in his words. 'Work is the best antidote to sorrow, my dear Watson,' said he, 'and I have a piece of work for us both to-night which, if we can bring it to a successful conclusion, will in itself justify a man's life on this planet.' In vain I begged him to tell me more. 'You will hear and see enough before morning,' he answered. 'We have three years of the past to discuss. Let that suffice until half past nine, when we start upon the notable adventure of the empty house.' It was indeed like old times when, at that hour, I found myself seated beside him in a hansom, my revolver in my pocket and the thrill of adventure in my heart.--"The Adventure of the Empty House"

Like many Sherlockians, I've often found Arthur Conan Doyle's treatment of the reunion of Holmes and Watson in "The Adventure of the Empty House" to be a bit unbelievable if I'm being kind, or a whole lot ridiculous if I'm not. However the scene contains one of those lines from the canon that is always memorable: "Work is the best antidote to sorrow, my dear Watson."

When I was new to Doyle and the work, I blithely assumed the sorrow reference meant the death of Mary Morstan for Watson, perhaps written by Doyle after the death of his first wife, Louisa. I was, of course, wrong about all of it.

The matter of Watson's wives is beyond my scope here but certainly from my reading with the Sherlockian Chronologists Guild I know we can not be sure we are talking about Watson's wife much less specifically Mary Morstan. We are not talking about Doyle's response to the death of his wife either. "The Adventure of the Empty House" first published in Collier's magazine in September 1903 (US) and in The Strand Magazine in October 1903 (UK). Louisa Doyle died July 4, 1906.

After reading closely about Doyle's first marriage, I've come to believe that perhaps he would not have written the scene with as much emotional recklessness if he had been writing after the death of his wife.

In Teller of Tales, Daniel Stashower explains how Doyle reacted to the death of his wife:

"...as his wife was laid to rest in Hindhead, the cumulative stresses of the thirteen-year illness sent Conan Doyle to his lowest ebb. Tortured by insomnia, he grew weak and listless. His work ceased. The intestinal complaint of his South Africa days returned to plague him. He carried flowers to his wife's grave and spent dark hours alone with his thoughts. It would be months before he roused himself."

Despite the months of darkness he endured, Doyle did take his own advice. Towards the end of 1906 he threw himself into the George Edalji case, working tirelessly to help the man. The work helped restore him. By September 1907 he was ready to marry again.

He was ready to go on, just as Watson was ready to forget the previous three years, forgive Holmes for the deception, and return to the game, with "...the thrill of adventure in my heart."

Why this rumination on grief and work today? Our household has suffered a loss this week and grief abounds at the moment. Several times in the last three days I've told myself "'work is the best antidote to sorrow' so you might as well get on with it."

Several days ago, before, I planned to write here about the effects of the chronology of Watson's wife/wives on my own work but my heart wasn't in it today. Today seems to be about just one memorable line. 

Hopefully I'll soon feel like returning to the game, with a thrill of adventure in my heart.