Near
the end of my previous post about the veiled allusion to Sense & Sensibility I recently discovered in Arthur Conan Doyle’s
first Sherlock Holmes story, A Study in
Scarlet, I posted thusly:
“And
finally, speaking of Sherlock Holmes, I leave in the realm of enjoyable
speculation the question of whether the following passage is another Doylesian
wink at this diabolical word-game:
"Precisely so," answered Holmes.
"Now would you mind going down and fetching that poor little DEVIL of a TERRIER which
has been bad so long, and which the landlady wanted you to put out of its pain
yesterday."
Did Doyle mean for us to misread that as ‘poor
LITTLE DEVIL of a FERRIER’?”
When
I reread my post after sleeping on it, I realized that there was a second broad
wink at S&S in Holmes’ description of the doomed terrier, beyond the Lucy
Ferrars/ Lucifer allusion I had already spotted. My subconscious had in the interim detected
that Holmes’s comment also “points” to the following memorable inanity spoken
by Sir John Middleton:
"And
is that all you can say for him?" cried Marianne, indignantly. "But
what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his pursuits, his
talents, and genius?"
Sir
John was rather puzzled. "Upon my soul," said he, "I do not know
much about him as to all that. But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and
has got the nicest LITTLE BLACK BITCH of a POINTER I ever saw. Was she out with
him today?"
But
Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr. Willoughby's
pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his mind. “
“poor
little devil of a terrier” and “little black bitch of a pointer”-- just a coincidental
echo? It turns out to be yet another significant clue left for the sharp elf Janeite
reader by the clever Conan Doyle --the tip of a further allusive Austenian iceberg.
I.e., there’s a fully dramatized episode in Scarlet
depicting a “meet-cute rescue then whirlwind courtship of risk-taking romantic
heroine & her doting parent by dashing hunter hero” –sound familiar? In
place of Willoughby, Marianne and Mrs. Dashwood, Doyle gives us Lucy Ferrier (and
father John) swept away from a dangerous stampede into the saddle and heart of Jefferson
Hope.
And Doyle
does it up bigtime—he echoes that episode in S&S in a dozen ways---in situation,
in theme, and in keywords. To give you the full flavor of the extent of the 27
year old Doyle’s veiled allusion to Austen, I will quote the relevant passage
in Scarlet, showing the echoed
keywords in ALL CAPS and situations in italics.
It will be obvious to you by the end that this was no coincidence! At the
end, I’ll also post the echoed passages in Chapters 10-11 in S&S, for ease
of reference.
First,
from A Study in Scarlet:
“It
was not the father, however, who first discovered that the child had developed
into the woman. It seldom is in such cases. That mysterious change is too
subtle and too gradual to be measured by dates. Least of all does the maiden
herself know it until the tone of a voice or the touch of a hand sets her heart
thrilling within her, and she learns, with a mixture of pride and of fear, that
a new and a larger nature has awoken within her. There are few who cannot
recall that day and remember the one
little incident which heralded the dawn of a new life. In the case of LUCY
FERrier the occasion was serious enough in itself, apart from its future
influence on her destiny and that of many besides.
It
was a warm June morning, and the Latter Day Saints were as busy as the bees
whose hive they have chosen for their emblem. In the fields and in the streets
rose the same hum of human industry. Down the dusty high roads defiled long
streams of heavily-laden mules, all heading to the west, for the gold fever had
broken out in California, and the Overland Route lay through the City of the
Elect. There, too, were droves of sheep and bullocks coming in from the
outlying pasture lands, and trains of tired immigrants, men and horses equally
weary of their interminable journey. Through all this motley assemblage,
threading her way with the skill of an accomplished rider, there galloped LUCY
FERrier, her fair face FLUSHED WITH THE EXERCISE and her long chestnut hair
floating out behind her. She had a commission from her father in the City, and
was dashing in as she had done many a time before, with all the FEARLESSNESS of
youth, thinking only of her task and how it was to be performed. The
travel-stained adventurers gazed after her in astonishment, and even the
unemotional Indians, journeying in with their pelties, relaxed their accustomed
stoicism as they marvelled at the BEAUTY of the PALE-FACED maiden.
She
had reached the outskirts of the city when she found the road blocked by a
great drove of cattle, driven by a half-dozen wild-looking herdsmen from the
plains. In her IMPATIENCE she endeavoured
to pass this obstacle by pushing her horse into what appeared to be a gap.
Scarcely had she got fairly into it, however, before the beasts closed in
behind her, and she found herself completely imbedded in the moving stream of
fierce-eyed, long-horned bullocks. Accustomed
as she was to deal with cattle, she was not alarmed at her situation, but took
advantage of every opportunity to urge her horse on in the hopes of pushing her
way through the cavalcade. Unfortunately the horns of one of the creatures,
EITHER BY ACCIDENT OR DESIGN, came in
violent contact with the flank of the mustang, and excited it to madness. In an
instant it reared up upon its hind legs with a snort of rage, and pranced and
tossed in a way that would have unseated any but a most skilful rider. The
situation was full of peril. Every plunge of the excited horse brought it
against the horns again, and goaded it to fresh madness. It was all that the
girl could do to keep herself in the saddle, yet A SLIP would mean a terrible
death under the hoofs of the unwieldy and terrified animals. Unaccustomed to
sudden emergencies, her head began to swim, and her grip upon the bridle to
relax. Choked by the rising cloud of dust and by the steam from the struggling
creatures, she might have abandoned her efforts in despair, but for a kindly
voice at her elbow which assured HER of ASSISTANCE. At the same moment a sinewy brown hand caught the frightened horse by
the curb, and forcing a way through the drove, soon brought her to the
outskirts.
"You're not hurt, I hope,
miss," said her PRESERVER, respectfully.
She
looked up at his dark, fierce face, and laughed saucily. "I'm awful
frightened," she said, naively; "whoever would have thought that
Poncho would have been so scared by a lot of cows?"
"Thank
God you kept your seat," the other said earnestly. He was a tall,
savage-looking young fellow, mounted on a powerful roan horse, and clad in the rough dress of a HUNTER,
with a long RIFLE slung over his shoulders. "I guess you are the daughter
of John Ferrier," he remarked, "I
SAW YOU RIDE DOWN FROM HIS HOUSE. When you see him, ask him if he remembers
the Jefferson Hopes of St. Louis. If he's the same Ferrier, my father and he
were pretty thick."
"Hadn't you better come and
ask yourself?" she asked, DEMURELY.
The
young fellow seemed pleased at the suggestion, and his DARK EYES SPARKLED with pleasure. "I'll do so," he
said, "we've been in the mountains for two months, and are not over and
above in visiting condition. He must take us as he finds us."
"He
has a good deal to thank you for, and so have I," she answered, "he's
awful fond of me. If those cows had jumped on me he'd have never got over
it."
"Neither
would I," said her companion.
"You!
Well, I don't see that it would make much matter to you, anyhow. You ain't even
a friend of ours."
The
young HUNTER's dark face grew so gloomy over this remark that Lucy Ferrier
laughed aloud.
"There,
I didn't mean that," she said; "of
course, you are a friend now. You must come and see us. Now I must push
along, or father won't trust me with his business any more. Good-bye!"
"Good-bye,"
he answered, raising his broad sombrero, and bending over her little hand. She
wheeled her mustang round, gave it a cut with her riding-whip, and darted away
down the broad road in a rolling cloud of dust.
Young
Jefferson Hope rode on with his companions, gloomy and taciturn.…When she had
vanished from his sight, he realized that a crisis had come in his life, and
that neither silver speculations nor any other questions could ever be of such
importance to him as this new and all-absorbing one. The love which had sprung
up in his heart was not the sudden, changeable fancy of a boy, but rather the
wild, fierce passion of a man of strong will and imperious temper. He had been
accustomed to succeed in all that he undertook. He swore in his heart that he
would not fail in this if human effort and human perseverance could render him
successful.
He called on John Ferrier that
night, and many times again,
until his face was a familiar one at the
farm-house. John, cooped up in the valley, and absorbed in his work, had
had little chance of learning the news of the outside world during the last
twelve years. All this Jefferson Hope was able to tell him, and in a style
which INTERESTED Lucy as well as her father. He had been a pioneer in
California, and could narrate many a strange tale of fortunes made and fortunes
lost in those wild, halcyon days. He had been a scout too, and a trapper, a
silver explorer, and a ranchman. Wherever stirring adventures were to be had,
Jefferson Hope had been there in search of them. He soon became a favourite with the old farmer, who spoke eloquently of
his virtues. On such occasions, Lucy was silent, but her BLUSHING cheek and her
BRIGHT, HAPPY EYES, showed only too clearly that her young heart was no longer
her own. Her honest father may not have observed these symptoms, but they
were assuredly not thrown away upon the man who had won her affections.
It
was a summer evening when he came galloping down the road and pulled up at the
gate. She was at the doorway, and came down to meet him. He threw the bridle
over the fence and strode up the pathway.
"I am off, Lucy," he said, taking her two hands in
his, and gazing tenderly down into her face; "I won't ask you to come with
me now, but will you be ready to come when I am here again?"
"And
when will that be?" she asked, BLUSHING and laughing.
"A couple of months at the
outside. I will
come and claim you then, my darling. There's no one who can stand between
us."
"And
how about father?" she asked.
"He
has given his consent, provided we get these mines working all right. I have no
fear on that head."
"Oh,
well; of course, if you and father have arranged it all, there's no more to be
said," she whispered, with her cheek against his broad breast.
"Thank
God!" he said, hoarsely, stooping and kissing her. "It is settled,
then. The longer I stay, the harder it
will be to go. They are waiting for me at the cañon. Good-bye, my own
darling—good-bye. In two months you shall see me."
He
tore himself from her as he spoke, and, flinging himself upon his horse,
galloped furiously away, never even looking round, as though afraid that his resolution might fail him if he took one
glance at what he was leaving. She stood at the gate, gazing after him
until he vanished from her sight. Then she walked back into the house, the
happiest girl in all Utah. “ END QUOTE
FROM A Study in Scarlet
So,
what might Doyle have meant by this extensive echoing of Austen’s Willoughby
and Marianne in Jefferson Hope and Lucy, when viewed alongside his echoing the
name of Lucy (Steele) Ferrars as well?
For
starters, it’s very interesting to me that Jefferson’s and Lucy’s fathers were
once very close, and that Jefferson was aware of that, and was observing Lucy
unknown to her---which is why he is there to rescue her from the stampede. That
suggests to me that Doyle recognized, in 1886, what I first realized in 2002, which
is that Willoughby was already watching (stalking) Marianne, which is why he
was there to scoop her up right after
she fell in the rain. And, I’ve also long believed that the Dashwoods,
Willoughbys, Jennings, and Steeles are all related via a complicated backstory
in S&S, so it seems to me that Doyle was hinting at that as well. In short,
my hypothesis is that Doyle makes explicit in Scarlet what he recognized was implicit in S&S.
And
second, it’s fascinating to think about Scarlet
as a very skeptical meditation on Marianne’s marriage to Brandon. Marianne almost
dies of heartbreak over Willoughby, and death from heartbreak is exactly what
happens to Lucy Ferrier when Jefferson is prevented from marrying her (by edict
of Brigham Young himself), and she is forced to marry a Mormon man she doesn’t
love. Was Doyle suspicious—as not a few Janeites are—of Marianne’s abrupt turnabout
and acceptance of Brandon as husband, and of the harsh financial realities
driving that outcome?
What
do you think? Put on your Sherlock Holmes deerskin cap, and
see what else you can detect. ;)
Cheers,
ARNIE
@JaneAustenCode
on Twitter
Relevant
passages in S&S, Chapters 9-10:
“They
set off. Marianne had at first the advantage, but a false step brought her
suddenly to the ground; and Margaret, unable to stop herself to ASSIST HER, was
involuntarily hurried along, and reached the bottom in safety. A gentleman carrying a GUN, with two pointers
playing round him, was passing up the hill and within a few yards of Marianne,
when her ACCIDENT happened. He put down his gun and ran to HER ASSISTANCE. She
had raised herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in her fall,
and she was scarcely able to stand. The gentleman offered his services; and
perceiving that her MODESTY declined what her situation rendered necessary,
took her up in his arms without farther delay, and carried her down the hill.
Then passing through the garden, the gate of which had been left open by
Margaret, he bore her directly into the house, whither Margaret was just
arrived, and quitted not his hold till he had seated her in a chair in the
parlour.
Elinor
and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance, and while the eyes of
both were fixed on him with an evident wonder and a secret admiration which
equally sprung from his appearance, he apologized for his intrusion by relating
its cause, in a manner so frank and so graceful that his person, which was
uncommonly handsome, received additional charms from his voice and expression.
Had he been even old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of Mrs.
Dashwood would have been secured by any act of attention to her child; but the
influence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an INTEREST to the action which
came home to her feelings. She thanked him again and again; and, with a
sweetness of address which always attended her, invited him to be seated. But
this he declined, as he was dirty and wet. Mrs. Dashwood then begged to know to
whom she was obliged. His name, he replied, was Willoughby, and his present
home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him the honour of
calling tomorrow to enquire after Miss Dashwood. The honour was readily
granted, and he then departed, to make himself still more INTERESTING, in the
midst of a heavy rain.
His
manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the theme of
general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised against Marianne
received particular spirit from his exterior attractions.— Marianne herself had
seen less of his person than the rest, for the confusion which CRIMSONED over
her face, on his lifting her up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him
after their entering the house. But she had seen enough of him to join in all
the admiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned her
praise. His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for the
hero of a favourite story; and in his carrying her into the house with so
little previous formality, there was a rapidity of thought which particularly
recommended the action to her. Every circumstance belonging to him was
INTERESTING. His name was good, his residence was in their favourite village,
and she soon found out that of all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most
becoming. Her imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain
of a sprained ankle was disregarded.
Sir
John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather that morning
allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne's ACCIDENT being related to him,
he was eagerly asked whether he knew any gentleman of the name of Willoughby at
Allenham.
"Willoughby!"
cried Sir John; "what, is HE in the country? That is good news however; I
will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on Thursday."
"You
know him then," said Mrs. Dashwood.
"Know
him! to be sure I do. Why, he is down here every year."
"And
what sort of a young man is he?"
"As
good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent shot, and
there is not a bolder rider in England."
"And
is that all you can say for him?" cried Marianne, indignantly. "But
what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his pursuits, his
talents, and genius?"
Sir
John was rather puzzled.
"Upon
my soul," said he, "I do not know much about him as to all THAT. But
he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and
has got the nicest LITTLE BLACK BITCH of a POINTER I ever saw. Was she out
with him today?"
But
Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr. Willoughby's
pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his mind. “
"But
who is he?" said Elinor. "Where does he come from? Has he a house at
Allenham?"
On
this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he told them that
Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the country; that he resided there
only while he was visiting the old lady at Allenham Court, to whom he was
related, and whose possessions he was to inherit; adding, "Yes, yes, he is
very well worth catching I can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little
estate of his own in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give
him up to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss
Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will be
jealous, if she does not take care."
"I
do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile,
"that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of MY
daughters towards what you call CATCHING him. It is not an employment to which
they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich.
I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young
man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible."
"He
is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived," repeated Sir John.
"I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced from
eight o'clock till four, without once sitting down."
"Did he indeed?" cried
Marianne with SPARKLING EYES, "and with elegance, with spirit?"
"Yes;
and he was up again at eight to ride to covert."
"That
is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever be his pursuits,
his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of
fatigue."
"Aye,
aye, I see how it will be," said Sir John, "I see how it will be. You
will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor Brandon."
"That
is an expression, Sir John," said Marianne, warmly, "which I
particularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit is
intended; and 'setting one's cap at a man,' or 'making a conquest,' are the
most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their
construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its
ingenuity."
Sir
John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as heartily as if he
did, and then replied,
"Ay,
you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other. Poor Brandon! he
is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth setting your cap at, I can
tell you, in spite of all this tumbling about and spraining of ankles."
Ch. 10:
Marianne's PRESERVER, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision, styled
Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to make his personal
enquiries. He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with more than politeness; with a
kindness which Sir John's account of him and her own gratitude prompted; and
every thing that passed during the visit tended to assure him of the sense,
elegance, mutual affection, and domestic comfort of the family to whom ACCIDENT
had now introduced him. Of their personal charms he had not required a second
interview to be convinced.
….Willoughby,
on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their acquaintance, which an
evident wish of improving it could offer. He came to them every day. To enquire after Marianne was at first his
excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave greater
kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased to be possible,
by Marianne's perfect recovery. She was confined for some days to the house;
but never had any confinement been less irksome. Willoughby was a young man of
good abilities, quick imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate
manners. He was exactly formed to engage Marianne's heart, for with all this,
he joined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was
now roused and increased by the example of her own, and which recommended him
to her affection beyond every thing else.
His
society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. They read, they talked,
they sang together; his musical talents were considerable; and he read with all
the sensibility and spirit which Edward had unfortunately wanted.
In
Mrs. Dashwood's estimation he was as faultless as in Marianne's; and Elinor saw
nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which he strongly resembled and
peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too much what he thought on every
occasion, without attention to persons or circumstances. In hastily forming and
giving his opinion of other people, in sacrificing general politeness to the
enjoyment of undivided attention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting
too easily the forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution which
Elinor could not approve, in spite of all that he and Marianne could say in its
support.
Marianne
began now to perceive that the desperation which had seized her at sixteen and
a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy her ideas of perfection, had
been rash and unjustifiable. Willoughby was all that her fancy had delineated
in that unhappy hour and in every brighter period, as capable of attaching her;
and his behaviour declared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his
abilities were strong.
Her
mother too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of their marriage had
been raised, by his prospect of riches, was led before the end of a week to
hope and expect it; and secretly to congratulate herself on having gained two
such sons-in-law as Edward and Willoughby.
Colonel
Brandon's partiality for Marianne, which had so early been discovered by his
friends, now first became perceptible to Elinor, when it ceased to be noticed
by them.”
[MUCH
LATER, in Chapter 44]
A
heavy scene however awaited me, before I could leave Devonshire;—I was engaged
to dine with you on that very day; some apology was therefore necessary for my
breaking this engagement. But whether I should write this apology, or deliver
it in person, was a point of long debate. To see Marianne, I felt, would be
dreadful, and I even doubted whether I could see her again, and keep to my
resolution. In that point, however, I undervalued my own magnanimity, as the
event declared; for I went, I saw her, and saw her miserable, and left her
miserable—and left her hoping never to see her again."
"Why
did you call, Mr. Willoughby?" said Elinor, reproachfully; "a note
would have answered every purpose.— Why was it necessary to call?"
"It
was necessary to my own pride. I could not bear to leave the country in a
manner that might lead you, or the rest of the neighbourhood, to suspect any part
of what had really passed between Mrs. Smith and myself—and I resolved
therefore on calling at the cottage, in my way to Honiton. The sight of your
dear sister, however, was really dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, I found
her alone. You were all gone I do not know where. I had left her only the
evening before, so fully, so firmly resolved within my self on doing right! A
few hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and I remember how happy,
how gay were my spirits, as I walked from the cottage to Allenham, satisfied
with myself, delighted with every body! But in this, our last interview of
friendship, I approached her with a sense of guilt that almost took from me the
power of dissembling. Her sorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret, when I
told her that I was obliged to leave Devonshire so immediately—I never shall
forget it—united too with such reliance, such confidence in me!—Oh, God!—what a
hard-hearted rascal I was!"
They
were both silent for a few moments. Elinor first spoke.
"Did
you tell her that you should soon return?"
"I
do not know what I told her," he replied, impatiently; "less than was
due to the past, beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more than was
justified by the future. I cannot think of it.—It won't do.—Then came your dear
mother to torture me farther, with all her kindness and confidence. Thank
Heaven! it DID torture me. I was miserable. Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an
idea of the comfort it gives me to look back on my own misery…”
