James Malcolm Rymer meets Arthur Conan Doyle: The Hound of the Baskervilles; Or, the Bloody Curse at the Hall

I am currently teaching James Malcolm Rymer's (er, maybe) Varney, the Vampyre.   And, of course, I am teaching Sherlock Holmes.  Rymer's prose style sets new records for word inflation.  Although his paragraphs are usually quite short, his characters engage in meaningless dialogue, repeat themselves (and other people) endlessly, and inject vapidities everywhere, all in the name of getting each installment to the right length.  Conan Doyle, by contrast, is most economical with his language.  The Rymer/Conan Doyle combination on my teaching schedule has led me to contemplate a proposition that may or may not be brought on by delirium: how would Rymer have written The Hound of the Baskervilles? I offer a sample below.

***

My dear--very dear--quite precious, in fact--friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes--he of whose exploits I have written in many a narrative, which you may purchase at the nearest bookstall to peruse amidst the noise and bustle of your railway commute--my dear friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, as I was saying, who normally slept the sleep of the dead until all hours of the day, unless he he had burnt the midnight oil and thus remained awake until the glorious sun's rising heralded the dawn, was eating toast and jam.  I, who lacked toast and jam and, in any event, preferred marmalade, contemplated the cane that lay before me.

"It is a cane," said Holmes.

"A cane?"

"A cane."

"Indeed."

"Your thoughts?" Holmes inquired.

"About the lack of marmalade?"

"True, I had deduced that you were displeased about the marmalade by the peculiar shifting motions you were making with your feet.  But I meant the cane."

"The cane?"

Holmes sighed.  "The cane."

"I believe it has an owner."

"Excellent, Watson--excellent."

"Its owner is a doctor."

"True, true."

"A wealthy and highly-vaunted doctor."

"Amazing.  A wealthy and highly-vaunted doctor?"

"A wealthy and highly-vaunted doctor."

"Watson!"

"Yes?"

"You are brilliant."

"Holmes!"

"Yes?"

"Finally, you agree!"

Holmes smirked.  "Pray continue."

My self-love now considerably inflated, I continued.  "He is fond of perambulation."

"Perambulation?"

"Walking."

"Thank you, Watson," Holmes said, rolling his eyes, "the word is in my vocabulary."

"As the engraving upon the cane attests, our doctor has been gifted this fine cane from the local hunt, which no doubt appreciated his skill in patching up the broken heads of its members."

Holmes arched one fine eyebrow, stretched out an immaculately-trousered leg, and tapped his right index finger against the table, thereby dangerously jostling the toast and jam.  "Watson, you have out-scintillated yourself on this fine morning. I am impressed.  Impressed, I say.  Impressed!"

"I am glad to hear it, Holmes.  Glad.  Very glad."

"You are, of course, three-quarters in error, but I am impressed, all the same."

"I am glad--wait, three-quarters in error?"

"Three-quarters."

"Not two-thirds? Or perhaps one-half?"

"Neither two-thirds nor one-half."

I deflated.  Manly tears sprang to my half-lidded eyes.  I turned away, weeping, and attempted to console myself by smashing Holmes' pipe-rack to the ground.  Holmes, no doubt distraught at the loss of his pipes--a calabash not among them, despite the wicked misrepresentations of that mountebank William Gillette--nevertheless sprang to my side with offers of coffee, fresh eggs, and toast and jam (but no marmalade).

"No, no, Watson--no--no! Forgive me--forgive! I meant not to cause you such stabs of pain."

I sobbed incoherently. 

"Watson!" Holmes cried, nudging with one booted foot at the shattered remnants of his treasured smoking paraphernalia.  "Watson!"

My skin paled.  I swayed, then swooned to the ground, overwhelmed.  My chest heaved--my eyes closed--my heart hammered.  Dimly, I heard the rustling sounds of our good landlady's skirts, before I was revived by a wholesome splatter of marmalade across my face...

 

 

 

Comments

[Mr Punch]

I suppose that for works serialized as penny dreadfuls rather than in magazines, prescribed length rather than word count as such is what mattered? In any case, it's ... impressive that Varney is longer than War and Peace.