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CHAPTER XXII
HE YEARS BETWEEN
THE WARS
Constantinople – A Strange Creature – The Night of Power – Dorando – Dramatic Adventures – Psychic Experience –
The Congo Agit ation – Olympic Games – Divorce Reform –
Speculation.
YEARS of peaceful work followed my marriage, broken
only by two journeys to the Mediterranean, in the course of
which we explored some out-of-the-way portions of Greece,
and visited Egypt, where I found hardly one single man left of
all the good fellows whom I had once known. In the course of
our travels we visited Constantinople, looking at the great guns
in the forts on the Dardanelles, with little thought of all the
British lives which were to be sacrifi ced upon those low, dark,
heather-clad hills which slope down to the Northern shore. In
Constantinople we attended the weekly selamlik of Abdul Hamid, and saw him with his dyed beard and the ladies of his harem as they passed down to their devotions. It was an incredible
sight to Western eyes to see the crowd of offi cers and offi cials,
many of them fat and short of wind, who ran like dogs behind
his carriage in the hope that they might catch the Imperial eye.
It was Ramadan, and the old Sultan sent me a message that he
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ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
had read my books and that he would gladly have seen me had
it not been the Holy month. He interviewed me through his
Chamberlain and presented me with the Order of the Medjedie, and, what was more pleasing to me, he gave the Order
of the Chevekat to my wife. As this is the Order of Compassion, and as my wife ever since she set foot in Constantinople
had been endeavouring to feed the horde of starving dogs who
roamed the streets, no gift could have been more appropriate.
We were admitted secretly and by very special favour into
the great Mosque of Sophia during the sacred festival which is
known as the Night of Power. It was a most marvellous spectacle as from the upper circle of pillared arches we looked
down upon 60,000 lighted lamps and 12,000 worshippers,
who made, as they rose and fell in their devotions, a sound
like the wash of the sea. The priests in their high pulpits were
screaming like seagulls, and fanaticism was in the air. It was at
this moment that I saw a woman – I will not call her a lady –
young and fl ighty, seat herself jauntily on the edge of the stone
parapet, and look down at the 12,000 men who were facing us.
No unbeliever should be tolerated there, and a woman was the
abomination of abominations. I heard a low deep growl and
saw fi erce bearded faces looking up. It only needed one fi ery
spirit to head the rush and we should have been massacred –
with the poor consolation that some of us at least had really
asked for it. However, she was pulled down, and we made our
way as quickly and as quietly as possible out of a side door.
It was time, I think.
One curious incident of our journey stands out in my
memory. We were steaming past Aegina on a lovely day with
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MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
calm water around us. The captain, a courteous Italian, had
allowed us to go upon the bridge, and we – my wife and I –
were looking down into the transparent depths when we both
clearly saw a creature which has never, so far as I know, been
described by Science. It was exactly like a young ichthyosaurus,
about 4 feet long, with thin neck and tail, and four marked
side-fl ippers. The ship had passed it before we could call any
other observer. I was interested to notice that Admiral Anstruther in the “Evening News” some years later described,
and drew, an exactly similar creature which he had seen under
water off the Irish coast. This old world has got some surprises
for us yet.
Here and there, as I look back at those long and happy
years, some particular episode fl ashes vividly into my memory.
I do not often do journalistic work – why should one poach
upon the preserves of others? – but on the occasion of the
Olympic Games of 1908 I was tempted, chiefl y by the offer
of an excellent seat, to do the Marathon Race for the “Daily
Mail.” It was certainly a wonderful experience, for it will be
known to history as the Dorando Race. Perhaps a few short
paragraphs from my description may even now recapture the
thrill of it. The huge crowd – some 50,000 people – were all
watching the entrance to the stadium, the dark gap through
which the leader must appear. Then –
“At last he came. But how different from the exultant victor
whom we expected! Out of the dark archway there staggered
a little man, with red running-drawers, a tiny boy-like creature. He reeled as he entered and faced the roar of the applause.
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ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
Then he feebly turned to the left and wearily trotted round the
track. Friends and encouragers were pressing round him.
“Suddenly the whole group stopped. There were wild gesticulations. Men stooped and rose again. Good heavens! he has
fainted; is it possible that even at this last moment the prize
may slip through his fi ngers? Every eye slides round to that
dark archway. No second man has yet appeared. Then a great
sigh of relief goes up. I do not think in all that great assembly
any man would have wished victory to be torn at the last instant from this plucky little Italian. He has won it. He should
have it.
“Thank God, he is on his feet again – the little red legs
going incoherently, but drumming hard, driven by a supreme
will within. There is a groan as he falls once more and a cheer
as he staggers to his feet. It is horrible, and yet fascinating,
this struggle between a set purpose and an utterly exhausted
frame. Again, for a hundred yards, he ran in the same furious
and yet uncertain gait. Then again he collapsed, kind hands
saving him from a heavy fall.
“He was within a few yards of my seat. Amid stooping fi gures and grasping hands I caught a glimpse of the haggard,
yellow face, the glazed, expressionless eyes, the lank black hair
streaked across the brow. Surely he is done now. He cannot
rise again.
“From under the archway has darted the second runner,
Hayes, Stars and Stripes on his breast, going gallantly, well
within his strength. There is only twenty yards to do if the Italian can do it. He staggered up, no trace of intelligence upon
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his set face, and again the red legs broke into their strange
automatic amble.
“Will he fall again? No, he sways, he balances, and then he
is through the tape and into a score of friendly arms. He has
gone to the extreme of human endurance. No Roman of the
prime ever bore himself better than Dorando of the Olympic
of 1908. The great breed is not yet extinct.”
Of course the prize went to the American, as his rival had
been helped, but the sympathy of the crowd, and I am sure of
every sporting American present, went out to the little Italian.
I not only wrote Dorando up, but I started a subscription for
him in the “Daily Mail,” which realized over £300 – a fortune
in his Italian village – so that he was able to start a baker’s
shop, which he could not have done on an Olympic medal.
My wife made the presentation in English, which he could not
understand; he answered in Italian, which we could not understand; but I think we really did understand each other all
the same.
There is no denying that the American team were very unpopular in London, though the unpopularity was not national, for the stadium was thick with American fl ags. Everyone
admitted that they were a splendid lot of athletes, but they
were not wisely handled and I saw with my own eyes that they
did things which would not have been tolerated if done by
an English team in New York. However, there may well have
been some want of tact on both sides, and causes at work of
which the public knew nothing. When I consider the Dunraven Yacht race, and then these Olympic Games, I am by no
means assured that sport has that international effect for good
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ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
which some people have claimed for it. I wonder whether any
of the old Grecian wars had their real origin in the awards at
Olympia. I may add that we had a dozen or so of the American
boys down to “Windlesham,” where we had a very pleasant
day together. I found them all excellent fellows. I put up a billiard Olympic prize, and one of them bore it off with him. The
whole incident was very pleasant.
My work for a few years after my marriage ran largely in
the direction of drama, and if it was not lucrative it at least
provided us with a good deal of amusement and excitement.
In the case of one venture this excitement became a little too
poignant, though all ended well in the end. I had dramatized
“Rodney Stone” under the name of “The House of Temperley,”
with all the ring scenes and prize fi ghts included, and treated
in the most realistic fashion. We had an excellent boxing instructor who took one of the smaller parts and who not only
fought himself but trained the others to a remarkable degree
of skill. So realistic was it that when on the fi rst night the bully, Berks, after a long encounter, went down with a crash from
a fi ne raking uppercut, there was an involuntary groan from
the whole house, which meant as clearly as could be, “There
now, you have killed a man for our amusement.” It was really
incredibly well done and I could never have believed that such
scenes could be so cleverly faked, though it was not always
done with impunity, for Rex Davies, who played Gloucester
Dick, assured me that he lost a tooth and broke both a fi nger
and a rib during his engagement. The play itself was unequal,
but was so very novel and sensational in its best scenes that it
should have been a considerable success. I found no manager
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MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
who would take the risk, and I had myself to take the AdelphI Theatre for a six months’ lease, at a rent which with the
Company worked out at about £600 a week. As on the top of
this the production cost about £2,000, it will be seen that I was
plunging rather deep.
And luck did not favour us. The furore for boxing had not
yet set in. Ladies were afraid to come, and imagined it would
be a brutal spectacle. Those who did come were exhilarated beyond measure, but the prejudice still weighed heavily against
us. Then there came one of those theatrical slumps when everything goes wrong, and fi nally King Edward died and that
killed it outright. It was a very serious situation. I still had the
theatre upon my hands. I might sublet it, or I might not. If I did
not, the expense was simply ruinous.
It was under these circumstances that, as I have already said,
I wrote and rehearsed “The Speckled Band” in record time, and
so saved the situation. The real fault of this play was that in
trying to give Holmes a worthy antagonist I overdid it and produced a more interesting personality in the villain. The terrible
ending was also against it. However, it was a considerable success and saved a diffi cult – almost a desperate – situation.
Yet another theatrical venture was my “Fires of Fate,” some
of which is certainly the best dramatic work that I have ever
done. It was unlucky, as it was produced in a very hot summer.
I carried it at my own expense through the two impossible holiday months, but when Lewis Waller, who played the hero, returned from a provincial tour to London, he’ was keen on some
new play and my “Fires” were never really burned out. I fancy
sometimes that they might even now fl ame up again if given
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ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
a chance. I stage managed most of this play myself, and with
curious results. There are certain dramatic conventionalities
which can only be broken through by one who is not himself
an actor. There was a scene where a number of helpless tourists, men and women, were brutally ill-treated by Arabs. The
brutality in rehearsal was conventional. I made the Arabs get
imitation whips and cudgels and really savage the poor travellers. The effect was novel and appalling. There was a young
Welsh offi cer in the front of the stalls who was a friend of my
brother’s. He held both the V.C. and the D.S.O. So stirred was
he by the sight that he could hardly be restrained from clambering on to the stage in order to help the unhappy tourists.
The end of that act, when the drove of bleeding captives are
led away and you hear the monotonous song of the Arabs as
they march, and you see Lewis Waller, who has been left for
dead, struggle up on his elbow and signal across the Nile for
assistance, was one which brought the whole house to its feet.
Such moments to a dramatist give a thrill of personal satisfaction such as the most successful novelist never can feel. There
is no more subtle pleasure if you are really satisfi ed with your
work than to sit in the shadow of a box and watch not the play
but the audience.
I had one other dramatic venture, “Brigadier Gerard,”
which also was mildly successful. In fact, I have never known
failure on the stage save in the case of the unfortunate “Jane
Annie.” Lewis Waller played the Brigadier and a splendid dashing Hussar he made. It was a glorious performance. I remember
that in this play also I ran up against the conventionalities of
the stage. I had a group of Hussar offi cers, the remnants of the
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MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
regiment which had gone through Napoleon’s last campaign.
When it came to the dress rehearsal, I found them, to my horror, dressed up in brand new uniforms of chestnut and silver.
“Good heavens!” I cried. “This is not a comic opera!” “What do
you want done?” asked Waller. “Why,” said I, “these men are
warriors, not ballet dancers. They have been out in all weathers day and night for months. Every scrap of truth goes out of
the play if they appear like that.” The uniforms had cost over
a hundred pounds, but I covered them with mud and dust and
tore holes in them. The result was that, with begrimed faces,
I got a band of real Napoleonic soldiers. Waller himself insisted on retaining his grease paint and his nice new clothes,
but I am sure every man in the audience, if not every woman,
would have liked him better as I had made the others. Poor
Willie Waller! There was some strange and wonderful blood
in his veins. He was a glorious fellow, and his premature death
a great blow to our stage. What virility! What a face and fi gure!
They called him the “Flappers’ idol,” and it refl ects credit on
the fl apper, for where could she fi nd a less sickly and more
manly type? He caught his fatal illness in serving the soldiers.
One of his greatest possessions was his voice. He came down to
“Windlesham” once, and as he was reciting in the music-room
that wonderful resonant voice chanced to catch the exact note
which corresponded to the curve of all the glass lampshades on
the walls. They all started thrilling as a wine-glass does when it
is touched. I could quite believe after that, that matter could be
disintegrated by sound if the sound were strong enough. I am
not clear what blood ran in Waller’s veins, Hebrew or Basque
or both. I only know that it went to make a very wonderful
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ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
man. His intense feeling about everything that he did was one
of his characteristics and no doubt a cause of his success. It did
not carry him far in golf, however. I remember hearing him
as he approached the last tee mutter, “God, give me one good
drive.” I fear, however, that the betting was against it.
In 1910 a fresh task opened up before me. It arose from my
being deeply moved by reading some of the evidence concerning the evil rule, not of Belgium, but of the King of the Belgians in the Congo. I examined this evidence carefully before
I accepted it, and I assured myself that it was supported by fi ve
British Consuls and by Lord Cromer, as well as by travellers
of many races, Belgian, French, American, Swedish and others.
An attempt has been made since to minimize the facts and to
pretend that Roger Casement had been at the back of the agitation for sinister purposes of his own. This contention is quite
untenable and the evidence for the atrocities is overwhelming
and from very many sources, the Belgians themselves being
among the best witnesses. I put in some two years working with
Mr. Morel and occasionally lecturing in the country upon this
question, and it was certainly the efforts of the Congo Association which we represented, that eventually brought the question to the notice of that noble man King Albert which meant
setting it right so that the colony is now, so far as I know, very
well managed. Casement, whom I shall always regard as a fi ne
man affl icted with mania, has met his tragic end, and Morel’s
views upon the war have destroyed the feelings which I had
for him, but I shall always maintain that they both did noble
work in championing the wrongs of those unhappy and helpless negroes. My own book “The Crime of the Congo,” which
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