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MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
der-engined in those days and very much at the mercy of the
wind. We went up at Hendon – May 25, 1911, the date – but
the machine was a heavy bi-plane, and though it went down
wind like a swallow it was more serious when we turned and
found, looking down, that the objects below us were stationary
or even inclined to drift backwards. However, we got back to
the fi eld at last, and I think the pilot was as relieved as I. What
impressed me most was the terrible racket of the propeller,
comparing so unfavourably with the delicious calm of the balloon journey.
There is one form of sport in which I have, I think, been
able to do some practical good, for I can claim to have been the
fi rst to introduce skis into the Grisons division of Switzerland,
or at least to demonstrate their practical utility as a means of
getting across in winter from one valley to another. It was in
1894 that I read Nansen’s account of his crossing of Greenland, and thus became interested in the subject of ski-ing.
It chanced that I was compelled to spend that winter in the
Davos valley, and I spoke about the matter to Tobias Branger,
a sporting tradesman in the village, who in turn interested his
brother. We sent for skis from Norway, and for some weeks
afforded innocent amusement to a large number of people
who watched our awkward movements and complex tumbles.
The Brangers made much better progress than I. At the end of
a month or so we felt that we were getting more expert, and
determined to climb the Jacobshorn, a considerable hill just
opposite the Davos Hotel. We had to carry our unwieldy skis
upon our backs until we had passed the fi r trees which line its
slopes, but once in the open we made splendid progress, and
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ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
had the satisfaction of seeing the fl ags in the village dipped
in our honour when we reached the summit. But it was only
in returning that we got the full fl avour of ski-ing. In ascending you shuffl e up by long zigzags, the only advantage of your
footgear being that it is carrying you over snow which would
engulf you without it. But coming back you simply turn your
long toes and let yourself go, gliding delightfully over the gentle slopes, fl ying down the steeper ones, taking an occasional
cropper, but getting as near to fl ying as any earth-bound man
can. In that glorious air it is a delightful experience.
Encouraged by our success with the Jacobshorn, we determined to show the utility of our accomplishment by opening
up communications with Arosa, which lies in a parallel valley
and can only be reached in winter by a very long and roundabout railway journey. To do this we had to cross a high pass,
and then drop down on the other side. It was a most interesting journey, and we felt all the pride of pioneers as we arrived
in Arosa.
I have no doubt that what we did would seem absurdly
simple to Norwegians or others who were apt at the game,
but we had to fi nd things out for ourselves and it was sometimes rather terrifying. The sun had not yet softened the snow
on one sharp slope across which we had to go, and we had to
stamp with our skis in order to get any foothold. On our left
the snow slope ended in a chasm from which a blue smoke or
fog rose in the morning air. I hardly dared look in that direction, but from the corner of my eye I saw the vapour of the
abyss. I stamped along and the two gallant Switzers got on my
left, so that if I slipped the shock would come upon them. We
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MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
had no rope by which we could link up. We got across all right
and perhaps we exaggerated the danger, but it was not a pleasant experience.
Then I remember that we came to an absolute precipice,
up which no doubt the path zig-zags in summer. It was not of
course perpendicular, but it seemed little removed from it, and
it had just slope enough to hold the snow. It looked impassable,
but the Brangers had picked up a lot in some way of their own.
They took off their skis, fastened them together with a thong,
and on this toboggan they sat, pushing themselves over the
edge, and going down amid a tremendous spray of fl ying snow.
When they had reached safety they beckoned to me to follow.
I had done as they did, and was sitting on my skI preparatory
to launching myself when a fearsome thing happened, for my
skI shot from under me, fl ew down the slope, and vanished in
huge bounds among the snow mounds beyond. It was a nasty
moment, and the poor Brangers stood looking up at me some
hundreds of feet below me in a dismal state o f mind. However,
there was no possible choice as to what to do, so I did it. I let
myself go over the edge, and came squattering down, with legs
and arms extended to check the momentum. A minute later
I was rolling covered with snow at the feet of my guides, and
my skis were found some hundreds of yards away, so no harm
was done after all.
I remember that when we signed the hotel register Tobias
Branger fi lled up the space after my name, in which the new
arrival had to describe his profession, by the word “Sportesmann,” which I took as a compliment. It was at any rate more
pleasant than the German description of my golf clubs, which
373
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
went astray on the railway and turned up at last with the offi cial description of “Kinderspieler” (child’s toys) attached to
them. To return to the skis they are no doubt in very general
use, but I think I am right in saying that these and other excursions of ours fi rst demonstrated their possibilities to the people
of the country and have certainly sent a good many thousands
of pounds since then into Switzerland. If my rather rambling
career in sport has been of any practical value to any one, it is
probably in this matter, and also, perhaps, in the opening up
of miniature rifl e-ranges in 1901, when the idea was young in
this country, and when my Hindhead range was the pioneer
and the model for many others.
A pleasing souvenir of my work on Rifl e Clubs is to be
found in the Conan Doyle Cup, which was presented by my
friend Sir John Langman, and is still shot for every year at Bisley by civilian teams.
On the whole as I look back there is no regret in my mind
for the time that I have devoted to sport. It gives health and
strength, but above all it gives a certain balance of mind without which a man is not complete. To give and to take, to accept
success modestly and defeat bravely, to fi ght against odds, to
stick to one’s point, to give credit to your enemy and value
your friend – these are some of the lessons which true sport
should impart.
CHAPTER XXV
TO THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS
IN 1914
Baseball – Parkman – Ticon deroga – Prairie Towns – Procession of Ceres – Relics of the Past – A Moose – Prospects for
Emigrants – Jasper Park – The Great Divide – Algonquin Park.
IN 1914, with little perception of how near we were to the
greatest event of the world’s history, we accepted an invitation from the Canadian Government to inspect the National
Reserve at Jasper Park in the Northern Rockies. The Grand
Trunk Railway (Canadian) made matters easy for us by generously undertaking to pass us over their system and to place
a private car at our disposal. This proved to be a gloriously
comfortable and compact little home consisting of a parlour,
a dining-room and a bedroom. It belonged to Mr. Chamberlin,
the president of the line, who allowed us the use of it. Full of
anticipation we started off in May upon our long and pleasant journey. Our fi rst point was New York, where we hoped to
put in a week of sight-seeing, since my wife had never been to
America. Then we were to go North and meet our kind hosts
of Canada. At the Plaza Hotel of New York we found ourselves
375
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
in pleasant quarters for a hectic week. Here are a few impressions.
We went to see a baseball game at New York – a fi rst-class
match, as we should say – or “some ball,” as a native expert
described it. I looked on it all with the critical but sympathetic
eyes of an experienced though decrepit cricketer. The men
were fi ne fellows, harder looking than most of our professionals – indeed they train continually, and some of the teams had
even before the days of prohibition to practise complete abstinence, which is said to show its good results not so much
in physical fi tness as in the mental quickness which is very
essential in the game. The catching seemed to me extraordinarily good, especially the judging of the long catches by the
“bleachers,” as the outfi elds who are far from any shade are
called. The throwing in is also remarkably hard and accurate,
and, if applied to cricket, would astonish some of our batsmen.
The men earn anything from £1,000 to £1,500 in the season.
This money question is a weak point of the game, as it is among
our own Soccer clubs, since it means that the largest purse has
the best team, and there is no necessary relation between the
player and the place he plays for. Thus we looked upon New
York defeating the Philadelphia Athletics, but there was no
more reason to suppose that New York had actually produced
one team than that Philadelphia had produced the other. For
this reason the smaller matches, such as are played between
local teams or colleges, seem to me to be more exciting, as they
do represent something defi nite.
The pitcher is the man who commands the highest salary
and has mastered the hardest part of the game. His pace is re-
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MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
markable, far faster, I should say, than any bowling; but of course
it is a throw, and as such would not be possible in the cricket
fi eld. I had one uneasy moment when I was asked in Canada to
take the bat and open a baseball game. The pitcher, fortunately
was merciful, and the ball came swift but true. I steadied myself
by trying to imagine that it was a bat which I held in my grasp
and that this was a full toss, which asked to be hit over the
ropes. Fortunately, I got it fairly in the middle and it went on its
appointed way, whizzing past the ear of a photographer, who
expected me to pat it. I should not care to have to duplicate the
performance – nor would the photographer.
I took the opportunity when I was in New York to inspect
the two famous prisons, The Tombs and Sing Sing. The Tombs
is in the very heart of the city, and a gloomy, ill-boding place
it is when seen from without. Within it is equally dismal.
I walked round in a somewhat shamefaced way, for it makes
you feel so when you encounter human suffering which you
cannot relieve. Warders and prisoners seemed however to
be cheerful enough, and there was an off-hand way of doing
things which seemed strange after our rigid methods. A Chinese prisoner, for example, was standing at the bottom of the
lift, and I heard the warder shout through the tube, “Have you
got room for another Chink in number three?” I had a talk
with one strange Englishman who was barred in like a wild
beast. He spoke of the various prisons, of which he had a wide
acquaintance, exactly as if they were hotels which he was recommending or condemning. “Toronto is a very poor show. The
food is bad. I hope I may never see Toronto Gaol again. Detroit
is better. I had quite a pleasant time in Detroit.” And so on. He
377
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
spoke and looked like a gentleman, but I could quite imagine,
in spite of his genial manner, that he was a dangerous crook.
When I left him he said: “Well, bye-bye! Sorry you have to go!
We can’t all be out and about, can we?”
In the same week I went to Sing Sing, the State Penitentiary,
which is some twenty miles from the city on the banks of the
Hudson. It is an ancient building, dating from the middle of last
century, and it certainly should be condemned by a rich and
prosperous community. By a strange coincidence the convicts
were having one of their few treats in the year that day, and
I was able to see them all assembled together in the great hall,
listening to a music-hall troupe from New York. Poor devils, all
the forced, vulgar gaiety of the songs and the antics of half-clad
women must have provoked a terrible reaction in their minds.
Many of them had, I observed, abnormalities of cranium or of
features which made it clear that they were not wholly responsible for their actions. There was a good sprinkling of coloured
men among them. Here and there I noticed an intelligent and
even a good face. One wondered how they got there.
I was locked up afterwards in one of the cells – seven feet by
four – and I was also placed in the electrocution chair, a very
ordinary, stout, cane-bottomed seat, with a good many sinister
wires dangling round it. I had a long talk with the Governor,
who seemed in himself to be a humane man, but terribly hampered by the awful building which he had to administer.
One morning of early June “my Lady Sunshine” and I –
(if I may be allowed to quote the charmingly appropriate
name which the New York Press had given to my wife) left
New York for Parkman Land, which I had long wished to ex-
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MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
plore. We were glad to get away as we had been considerably
harassed by the ubiquitous and energetic American reporter.
This individual is really, in nine cases out of ten, a very
good fellow, and if you will treat him with decent civility
he will make the best of you with the public. It is absurd for
travellers to be rude to him, as is too often the attitude of the
wandering Briton. The man is under orders from his paper,
and if he returns without results it is not a compliment upon
his delicacy which will await him. He is out to see you and
describe you, and if he fi nds you an ill-tempered, cantankerous curmudgeon, he very naturally says so and turns out some
excellent spicy reading at your expense. The indignant Briton
imagines that this is done in revenge. The reporter would not
be human if it did not amuse him to do it, but it very often
represents the exact impression which the vituperative traveller has made upon the pressman, himself as often as not an
overworked and highly-strung man.
Reminiscences of interviews are occasionally amusing.
I can remember that on my previous visit I was approached
one night by an interviewer in a very marked state of intoxication. He was so drunk that I wondered what in the world he
would make of his subject, and I bought his paper next day to
see. To my amusement I found that I had made the worst possible impression upon him. He had found no good in me at all.
He may even have attributed to me his own weakness, like the
Scotch toper who said: “Sandy drank that hard that by the end
of the evening I couldn’t see him.”
To return to Parkman Land. I am surprised to fi nd how few
Americans and fewer Canadians there are who appreciate that
379
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
great historian at his true worth. I wonder whether any man
of letters has ever devoted himself to a task with such wholehearted devotion as Parkman. He knew the old bloody frontier
as Scott knew the border marches. He was soaked in New England tradition. He prepared himself for writing about Indians
by living for months in their wigwams.
He was intimate with old French life, and he spent some
time in a religious house that he might catch something of the
spirit which played so great a part in the early history of Canada.
On the top of all this he had the well-balanced, unprejudiced
mind of the great chronicler, and he cultivated a style which
was equally removed from insipidity and from affectation. As to
his industry and resolution, they are shown by the fact that he
completed his volumes after he had been stricken by blindness.
It is hard to name any historian who has such an equipment as
this. From his “Pioneers of the New World” to his “Conspiracy
of Pontiac” I have read his twelve volumes twice over, and put
some small refl ection of them into my “Refugees.”
We explored not only the beautiful tragic Lake George,
but also its great neighbour Lake Champlain, almost as full of
historical reminiscence. Upon this, level with the head of the
smaller lake, stood Ticonderoga, the chief seat of the French
Canadian power. Some fi ve miles separate it from Lake George,
up which the British came buzzing whenever they were strong
enough to do so. Once in front of the palisades of Ticonderoga,
they met with heavy defeat, and yet once again, by the valour
of the newly-enrolled Black Watch, they swept the place off
the map. I wonder if Stevenson had actually been there before
he wrote his eerie haunting ballad – the second fi nest of the
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