What are you talking about?” she spoke up with spirit. Irving went on as though he hadn’t heard.
“I will not have him in this theatre, and I will not produce his revolting plays, And if he publishes any more drivel about the way we do things here, I will thrash him personally.”
“Henry,” she protested, looking anxiously around him at us and smiling nervously, “this is not the time or the place–”
“Let him stay at the Court with Granville Barker, where he belongs,” Irving grumbled, calming somewhat. “Where they all belong. I don’t want him or his plays here. Is that understood?” *[This reference to the Court Theatre is mystifying as it anticipates events by many years. Perhaps Watson’s memory plays him false here. Then again, it may be this editor’s mistake as the water damage suffered by the manuscript is particularly severe at this point. Nonetheless, it does look like “the Court with Granville Barker,” etcetera]
“Yes, Henry,” said she meekly. “Come along and let’s leave these gentlemen to their business.”
This recalled the actor to himself and he turned to us with another bow.
“I apologise for my outburst, gentlemen. I know I am sometimes carried away. The theatre in this country will go in one of two directions shortly, and I feel quite strongly about which it’s to be,”
He spoke simply and with such evident feeling that, strangers to his ideas, we lowered our heads, embarrassed and, I think, moved by the display of raw emotion,
“Come, Henry.” He allowed her to lead him from the room, a wearying Titan, I thought, following a Dresden shepherdess, herself no longer young.
Alone now with the composer, we turned and faced him.
NINE
SULLIVAN
‘Were you really sent ‘round by Bernard Shaw?” Sullivan began testily when the door was closed. “Why is he meddling in this? The man’s an infernal busybody, and aside from his knowledge of music, I find him utterly depraved.”
“He did not engage us specifically in the matter of Miss Rutland,” Holmes acknowledged, moving forward and pulling up one of the large chairs, “but rather in connection with the murder of Jonathan McCarthy.”
Wincing at another spasm, the composer screwed himself ‘round in his seat and faced the detective.
“That makes still less sense, if I may say so, since they detested each other.”
“A great many people appear to have disliked Jonathan McCarthy, that is certain.”
“Granted, granted. Shaw’s tongue may be wicked, but he always addresses himself to the issues. McCarthy was a parasite, preying on art and artists, which is not the same thing.” He started to rise, gave another gasp, and fell back in his chair, doubled over and clutching at his side as though he wished to remove it in one savage haul. His pince-nez slid from his nose and dangled wildly by its black ribbon, inches from the floor.
“You are seriously ill!” I cried, rushing forward. For several moments he was unable to answer but lay gasping in his chair, like a fish out of water. I opened his tie for him and removed his collar. I perceived the kitchen Ellen Terry had spoken of and hastened to it for some water, which I brought back to him. He swallowed it in awkward gulps.
“Thank you.”
“You are too ill to continue this interview,” I stated, drawing a black look across the table from Holmes.
Sir Arthur sat up siowly. Something that resembled a smile stretched itself taut across his face. “Ill? I am dying. These kidney stones are working their way with me and will shortly make an end.” He shrugged feebly and replaced his pincenez. “When the pain disappears, I go to Monte Carlo and relax; when it returns, I work to forget it. I am in London, working; ergo, it is back.” *[Sullivan succumbed to his ailment five years later]
“Can you continue talking?” Holmes enquired reluctantly.
“I can and I will, provided you establish the importance of your questions.” Sullivan rallied and
“I will not have him in this theatre, and I will not produce his revolting plays, And if he publishes any more drivel about the way we do things here, I will thrash him personally.”
“Henry,” she protested, looking anxiously around him at us and smiling nervously, “this is not the time or the place–”
“Let him stay at the Court with Granville Barker, where he belongs,” Irving grumbled, calming somewhat. “Where they all belong. I don’t want him or his plays here. Is that understood?” *[This reference to the Court Theatre is mystifying as it anticipates events by many years. Perhaps Watson’s memory plays him false here. Then again, it may be this editor’s mistake as the water damage suffered by the manuscript is particularly severe at this point. Nonetheless, it does look like “the Court with Granville Barker,” etcetera]
“Yes, Henry,” said she meekly. “Come along and let’s leave these gentlemen to their business.”
This recalled the actor to himself and he turned to us with another bow.
“I apologise for my outburst, gentlemen. I know I am sometimes carried away. The theatre in this country will go in one of two directions shortly, and I feel quite strongly about which it’s to be,”
He spoke simply and with such evident feeling that, strangers to his ideas, we lowered our heads, embarrassed and, I think, moved by the display of raw emotion,
“Come, Henry.” He allowed her to lead him from the room, a wearying Titan, I thought, following a Dresden shepherdess, herself no longer young.
Alone now with the composer, we turned and faced him.
NINE
SULLIVAN
‘Were you really sent ‘round by Bernard Shaw?” Sullivan began testily when the door was closed. “Why is he meddling in this? The man’s an infernal busybody, and aside from his knowledge of music, I find him utterly depraved.”
“He did not engage us specifically in the matter of Miss Rutland,” Holmes acknowledged, moving forward and pulling up one of the large chairs, “but rather in connection with the murder of Jonathan McCarthy.”
Wincing at another spasm, the composer screwed himself ‘round in his seat and faced the detective.
“That makes still less sense, if I may say so, since they detested each other.”
“A great many people appear to have disliked Jonathan McCarthy, that is certain.”
“Granted, granted. Shaw’s tongue may be wicked, but he always addresses himself to the issues. McCarthy was a parasite, preying on art and artists, which is not the same thing.” He started to rise, gave another gasp, and fell back in his chair, doubled over and clutching at his side as though he wished to remove it in one savage haul. His pince-nez slid from his nose and dangled wildly by its black ribbon, inches from the floor.
“You are seriously ill!” I cried, rushing forward. For several moments he was unable to answer but lay gasping in his chair, like a fish out of water. I opened his tie for him and removed his collar. I perceived the kitchen Ellen Terry had spoken of and hastened to it for some water, which I brought back to him. He swallowed it in awkward gulps.
“Thank you.”
“You are too ill to continue this interview,” I stated, drawing a black look across the table from Holmes.
Sir Arthur sat up siowly. Something that resembled a smile stretched itself taut across his face. “Ill? I am dying. These kidney stones are working their way with me and will shortly make an end.” He shrugged feebly and replaced his pincenez. “When the pain disappears, I go to Monte Carlo and relax; when it returns, I work to forget it. I am in London, working; ergo, it is back.” *[Sullivan succumbed to his ailment five years later]
“Can you continue talking?” Holmes enquired reluctantly.
“I can and I will, provided you establish the importance of your questions.” Sullivan rallied and
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