A Sherlock Holmes Parody on the Failure of Jane Anniecontributed to the Archive by Robert Morrison
'The Adventure of the Two Collaborators', written on the fly-leaves of A Window in Thrums, was first published in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's autobiography Memories and Adventures, [Hodder and Stoughton, London, 1924].
The following introductory note by Conan Doyle is excerpted from its serial publication in Collier's Weekly, (which included an additional paragraph).
"James Barrie is one of my oldest literary friends, and I knew him within a year or two of the time when we both came to London. He had just written his Window in Thrums, and I, like all the world, acclaimed it. When I was lecturing in Scotland in 1893 he invited me to Kirriemuir, when I stayed some days with his family - splendid types of the folk who have made Scotland great. His father was a fine fellow, but his mother was wonderful with a head and a heart - rare combinations - which made me class her with my own mother.
Great as are Barrie's plays - and some of them I think are very great - I wish he had never written a line for the theatre. The glamour of it and the - to him - easy success have diverted from literature the man with the purest style of his age. Plays are always ephemeral, however good, and are limited to a few, but Barrie's unborn books might have been an eternal and a universal asset of British literature.
Barrie and I had one unfortunate venture together, in which I may say that the misfortune was chiefly mine, since I had really nothing to do with the matter, and yet shared all the trouble. However, I should have shared the honour and profit in case of success, so that I have no right to grumble. The facts were that Barrie had promised Mr D'Oyly Carte that he would provide the libretto of a light opera for the Savoy. This was in the Gilbert days, when such a libretto was judged by a very high standard. It was an extraordinary commission for him to accept, and I have never yet been able to understand why he did so, unless, like Alexander, he wanted fresh worlds to conquer.
I was brought into the matter because Barrie's health failed on account of some family bereavement. I had an urgent telegram from him at Aldeburgh, and going there I found him very worried because he had bound himself by this contract, and he felt in his present state unable to go forward with it. There were to be two acts, and he had written the first one, and had the rough scenario of the second, with the complete sequence of events - if one may call it a sequence. Would I come in with him and help him to complete it as part author? Of course I was very happy to serve him in any way. My heart sank, however, when, after giving the promise, I examined the work. The only literary gift which Barrie has not got is the sense of poetic rhythm, and the instinct for what is permissible in verse. Ideas and wit were there in abundance. But the plot itself was not strong, though the dialogue and the situations also were occasionally excellent. I did my best and wrote the lyrics for the second act, and much of the dialogue, but it had to take the predestined shape. The result was not good, and on the first night I felt inclined, like Charles Lamb, to hiss it from my box. The opera, Jane Annie, was one of the few failures in Barrie's brilliant career. However, the actual comradeship of production was very amusing and interesting, and our failure was mainly painful to us because it let down the producer and the cast. We were well abused by the critics, but Barrie took it all in the bravest spirit, and I still retain the comic verses of consolation which I received from him next morning.
There followed a parody on Holmes, a gay gesture of resignation over the failure which we had encountered, written on the fly leaves of one of his books.
This parody, the best of all the numerous parodies, may be taken as an example not only of the author's wit but of his debonair courage, for it was written immediately after our joint failure which at the moment was a bitter thought for both of us. There is indeed nothing more miserable than a theatrical failure, for you feel how many others who have backed you have been affected by it. It was, I am glad to say, my only experience of it, and I have no doubt that Barrie could say the same.
It ran thus:
To A. Conan Doyle, from his friend J. M. Barrie
The Adventure of the Two Collaborators
In bringing to a close the adventures of my friend Sherlock Holmes I am perforce reminded that he never, save on the occasion which, as you will now hear, brought his singular career to an end, consented to act in any mystery which was concerned with persons who made a livelihood by their pen.
'I am not particular about the people I mix among for business purposes,' he would say, 'but at literary characters I draw the line.'
We were in, our rooms in Baker Street one evening. I was (I remember) by the centre table writing out 'The Adventure of the Man without a Cork Leg' (which had so puzzled the Royal Society and all the other scientific bodies of Europe), and Holmes was amusing himself with a little revolver practice. It was his custom of a summer evening to fire round my head, just shaving my face, until he had made a photograph of me on the opposite wall, and it is a slight proof of his skill that many of these portraits in pistol shots are considered admirable likenesses.
I happened to look out of the window, and perceiving two gentlemen advancing rapidly along Baker Street asked him who they were. He immediately lit his pipe, and, twisting himself on a chair into the figure 8, replied:
'They are two collaborators in comic opera, and their play has not been a triumph.'
I sprang from my chair to the ceiling in amazement, and he then explained:
'My dear Watson, they are obviously men who follow some low calling. That much even you should be able to read in their faces. Those little pieces of blue paper which they fling angrily from them are Durrant's Press Notices. Of these they have obviously hundreds about their person (see how their pockets bulge). They would not dance on them if they were pleasant reading.'
I again sprang to the ceiling (which is much dented), and shouted: 'Amazing! but they may be mere authors.'
'No,' said Holmes, 'for mere authors only get one press notice a week. Only criminals, dramatists and actors get them by the hundred.'
'Then they may be actors.'
'No, actors would come in a carriage.'
'Can you tell me anything else about them?'
'A great deal. From the mud on the boots of the tall one I perceive that he comes from South Norwood. The other is as obviously a Scotch author.'
'How can you tell that?'
'He is carrying in his pocket a book called (I clearly see) "Auld Licht Something". Would any one but the author be likely to carry about a book with such a title?'
I had to confess that this was improbable.
It was now evident that the two men (if such they can be called) were seeking our lodgings. I have said (often) that my friend Holmes seldom gave way to emotion of any kind, but he now turned livid with passion. Presently this gave place to a strange look of triumph.
'Watson,' he said, 'that big fellow has for years taken the credit for my most remarkable doings, but at last I have him - at last!'
Up I went to the ceiling, and when I returned the strangers were in the room.
'I perceive, gentlemen,' said Mr Sherlock Holmes, 'that you are at present afflicted by an extraordinary novelty.'
The handsomer of our visitors asked in amazement how he knew this, but the big one only scowled.
'You forget that you wear a ring on your fourth finger,' replied Mr Holmes calmly.
I was about to jump to the ceiling when the big brute interposed.
'That Tommy-rot is all very well for the public, Holmes,' said he, 'but you can drop it before me. And, Watson, if you go up to the ceiling again I shall make you stay there.'
Here I observed a curious phenomenon. My friend Sherlock Holmes shrank. He became small before my eyes. I looked longingly at the ceiling, but dared not.
'Let us cut the first four pages,' said the big man, 'and proceed to business. I want to know why -'
'Allow me,' said Mr Holmes, with some of his old courage. 'You want to know why the public does not go to your opera.'
'Exactly,' said the other ironically, 'as you perceive by my shirt stud.' He added more gravely, 'And as you can only find out in one way I must insist on your witnessing an entire performance of the piece.'
It was an anxious moment for me. I shuddered, for I knew that if Holmes went I should have to go with him. But my friend had a heart of gold. 'Never, he cried fiercely, 'I will do anything for you save that.'
'Your continued existence depends on it,' said the big man menacingly.
'I would rather melt into air,' replied Holmes, proudly taking another chair. 'But I can tell you why the public don't go to your piece without sitting the thing out myself.'
'Because,' replied Holmes calmly, 'they prefer to stay away.'
A dead silence followed that extraordinary remark. For a moment the two intruders gazed with awe upon the man who had unravelled their mystery so wonderfully. Then drawing their knives -
Holmes grew less and less, until nothing was left save a ring of smoke which slowly circled to the ceiling.
The last words of great men are often noteworthy. These were the last words of Sherlock Holmes: 'Fool, fool! I have kept you in luxury for years. By my help you have ridden extensively in cabs, where no author was ever seen before. Henceforth you will ride in buses!'
The brute sunk into a chair aghast.
The other author did not turn a hair."
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