Читать книгу Arthur Conan Doyle: A Life in Letters - Daniel Stashower, Исмаил Шихлы - Страница 81

Its such fun—whenever I am hard up for a quotation I invent a few lines of doggerel, and prefix it by ‘as the poet sings’, or something of that sort. The lines are bad of course but I am not responsible for that, that’s the poets publisher’s look out. Thus the last lines of my essay are

‘It is said that a mother ever loves best the most distorted and deformed in her children, but I trust the saying does not apply to the feelings of an author towards his literary child, otherwise it bodes ill for this poor foundling. I cannot however conclude better than in quoting those cheering lines of the poet (?)

‘Fail or succeed, the man is blessed, ‘who when his task is o’er

‘Can say that he has done his best, ‘angels can do no more’

Tell Lottie to write at once; she ought never to put off till tomorrow what she can possibly put off till the day after. Many examples have been known, Lottie, of little boys who have driven into London tired and weary, with not more than a check [sic] for a few thousands in their pockets, and by steady work, and sticking consistently to that proverb, they have been able in a few years to leave London as fine prosperous beggars. So there is a chance for you yet, my dear.

Finally the day approached for him and other Stonyhurst boys in their final year to travel to London for a week of comprehensive University of London matriculation exams, ones which would play an important role in their being admitted to universities. It was a tense time for Conan Doyle, now sixteen years old, for much depended upon the outcome if he was to finish his education, join a profession, and support the family as he wished.

‘My noble sister Annette, who died just as the sunshine of better days came into our lives,’ he wrote in Memories and Adventures, ‘went out at a very early age as a governess to Portugal and sent all her salary home. My younger sisters, Lottie and Connie, both did the same thing; and I helped as I could. But it was still my dear mother who bore the long, sordid strain. Often I said to her, ‘When you are old, Mammie, you shall have a velvet dress and gold glasses and sit in comfort by the fire.’ Thank God, it so came to pass.’