#medieval plays

"On 30 August 1889 at a dinner party in the Langham Hotel given by Joseph M. Stoddart (1845-1921), managing editor of Lippincott's Magazine (Philadelphia), Arthur Conan Doyle met Oscar Wilde. At this legendary meeting, both men came away, promising to submit stories to the publication. There is really no record of what was discussed. Wilde went on to pen a salacious, and controversial tale in the Faustian tradition of a man who trades his soul for immortality, and Doyle of course, wrote The Sign of Four.

On the surface, the narrative of SIGN is pretty straight-forward. A young woman comes to Holmes for help, about the disappearance of her father and the appearance of mysterious jewels. Watson steps up, as usual, to assist Holmes with the case, facing off in the story with thieves and murderers. Pretty standard Doyle. But beneath the surface, lies romance, desperation, revenge and intense heartbreak. Woven into the narrative of The Sign of Four is also a Faustian tale. There is a very rich thread of Subtext and References mixed throughout that speaks not just to the epic play, but also the writer, Johann Von Goethe, and his experiences. There are direct quotes, parallels of the narration, direct tie-ins through other pieces of Literature. Even the clouds are in on it.

It is my theory that Arthur Conan Doyle made use of the epic in SIGN, as a homage to Goethe, a possible signal to Wilde (maybe an in-joke or Literary nod? Perhaps a challenge) plus other writers that he admired, also, perhaps to really imprint upon those who wish to see, the underlying story between Watson & Holmes. To help with context, I have included excerpts from Nekomuse, who does excellent work at stripping away the overlaying narrative, and bring better focus to the dialogue between Holmes & Watson. Hennessey's book focuses on some of Arthur Conan Doyle's supposed philosophical and literary influences. I attempt to take a closer look at what he has found and see how well it fit's with my own research. I hope the reader will find much to enjoy in this work."

O! Thou art not a ‘tis. Thou art not what. Thou art a thee. O: who’s it, who’s it, who’s it ye be? Come, little-fellow, little night-man, Little sea-sailor—sail toward me! What man art thou, prithee, that contrivest the raft-rider my eyes see? O, keep him from crevasses, this conduit castalion-ing— You who done dashed him and dipped him deep-drawingly: Don’t do and drown him in the river with dropsy! Don’t ensteep in a ewer the floater who faces the font of fresh-brookly; Ferry Man, ferry the frail fellow afloat fortunately! Go, little gossamer, may the Giver hull you helpfully Out from the gruel do the ground of this hurricane in-drenchedly. Leak from the lake meshed, make it mock-waterly! O, osiers: ogle! Ogle, and opine with me, the story of: The man who plummeted in the pail of the ‘plash of the pool of sea! Snow-broth, don’t steal him! As he rolls in the rosewater, rinse royally, Submerged like King Tantalus, tantalized by the sea! Tow him away from the tow, which would drown him so regally! Wade with the water drops in the water-flow which is yesty! Toward the wharf, waterside, would I have thee.

O! Thou art a man-babe—now I see thee; Broken, broken, broken—by a Bilbo at sea! Contagion, like a vapor, vexing thestily; Canvas-climber, can I, can I save you, thee who hurts half such as ye? Infirm-indigent-of-Illyria: I want to help you, Who’s crestfallen inland opportunely! Sailor—may I save you; for you’re ill impossibly? Seafarer, or sea-fighter? I know not which, which, which one you be… You sea-swallowed seeker, sick-fallen: sing your story straight-out, now to me! O! You’re too sick, too sick, too sick, too sick to sing such a song to me.

I know, I know what I’ll do: I’ll take you back to the city Tonight, tonight, when no one will be watching; From the reeds, you will ride on my back till we wash you sad-thing. Take you, we will make you cut out thy coughing. Un-mar the dirt and pitch from you— So you become a most beauteous thing! Mothers don’t know, what mothers won’t know, For mothers will sleep, sleep; and we’ll wend soundlessly! For mothers would whine, and mothers would woe, And woe: you’ve had causelessly— You innocent boy, whom the spirited sea Coughed up to the girl who was fishing for He Who eats the fish we send through vassals who tax us, violently! I wish well the woman who drowned your body to the body of the sea! I wail word by wind on waves for the woman who waits for word of her wasted-he Why she bid you, “Bye,” I’ll never know. How sad we know her, you’ll never again see. Everyone needs their Mum. Every Mum needs her He. Every Town needs its King. Every Land needs its Sea.

Come: we go! We go—far from whence you’ve come—to the place in the city Where mothers do dwell with their children, whom we must pity. Perhaps thou art the man —perhaps thou art the man Sent to us to warn us when the next flood would be— Art thou the man—art thou the man—sent to tether the tides of history? Art thou that man, art thou that mine whom my wishes would send toward me The woman who walks by the willows, with her linens and there is oft-washing, Whilst wishing for the man, whilst wishing for the fish, whilst fishing for the wish-man Who will welcome her away from the willows, where she must always, always be—