About ten months ago, a brief dispatch and invitation
landed in my in-box from some very good people residing in the heartland. I
was, and am, touched that they would think of me as one to deliver a keynote
address to celebrate the gift of a new collection to the Saint Louis Public
Library. So, before I go any further, I want to thank the planning committee
for “Holmes in the Heartland,” and ask that they stand and be recognized: Rob
Nunn, Stacey Bregenzer, Joe Eckrich, Mary Schroeder, Randy Getz, Tassy Hayden,
Paul Schroeder, and Nellie Brown. Thank you for inviting me to be a part of
this celebration, and for all you’ve already done to make it such a success!
We know, from The
Sign of Four, that Holmes’ use of a recently published gazetteer—volumes he
viewed “as the very latest authority,”—would have made him cognizant of Native
American history. Thus, I’m certain he would appreciate a notice that this
weekend’s events take place on the ancestral lands of the Chickasaw, Miami,
Osage, Illinois, Ioway, Missouria, Otoe, and Quapaw peoples. It is good for us
to remember and respect those who came before us.
Before I dive into that pool that makes up the balance of
my remarks, I want to acknowledge a very special individual, beloved by you in
St. Louis, the Heartland, and by many around the world: the late Gordon Speck.
Gordon was a very good friend of the University of Minnesota, a frequent
attendee at our conferences, and a material supporter of the Collections. I
miss him greatly, and wish to dedicate this talk to the memory of this good and
gentle man. Peace to his memory. May we keep it forever green.
In my early conversations with the planning committee, I
was invited to speak on the importance of library collections. This was later
refined by the theme for this conference, “A Curious Collection,” and the
freedom to take this theme whichever way I desired for my talk.
Let me begin, then, where tradition dictates all such
ramblings should begin: with a quotation from the Canon. “A curious
collection,” comes near the beginning of “The Musgrave Ritual.” Here Dr. Watson
makes an authorial confession that the Master’s “papers were my great crux” and
that Holmes “had a horror of destroying documents, especially those which were
connected with his past cases.” At the same time, the good doctor observed that
“it was only once in every year or two that he [Holmes] would muster energy to
docket and arrange them.” As a curator, I might observe that this is hardly the
way to run a library or archive. True, we have our own backlogs of collections
in need of processing, arrangement, and description. Some of you know this only
too well. But still, I shudder to think about all these papers piled about the
Baker Street flat “until,” as Watson informs us, “every corner of the room was
stacked with bundles of manuscript which were on no account to be burned, and
which could not be put away save by their owner.” To his credit, Watson “ventured
to suggest to [Holmes] that, as he had finished pasting extracts into his
common-place book, he might employ the next two hours in making our room a
little more habitable.” It was a perfect proposal, one that any archivist would
gladly accept.
If only we curators might do what they did, by the comfort
of a warm fire on a cold winter’s night, squatting upon a stool, papers spread
across the floor, as Watson’s narrative portrays. But fire codes and
professional practice don’t allow for such a pleasing ambience in which to
peruse personal papers. We stick to well-lighted rooms and sturdy tables. We do
find such perusal extremely interesting and informative as we process a
collection, so I’m somewhat at odds with Holmes as he alights from his chair
and “with a rather rueful face” sets “off to his bedroom, from which he
returned presently pulling a large tin box behind him.” It is clearly a task
he’d rather put aside. But I’ll thank him for storing at least some of his
papers in the bedroom, in a somewhat fire retardant container, as opposed to
the stacks of odd-sized boxes found in the many attics and basements I’ve
ventured into on my various adventures in retrieving our cultural heritage.
Like Holmes and Watson, we’ll ignore the piles of papers
surrounding us at 221B, and concentrate on the bundles in front of us. One
almost wants to offer Watson a handkerchief, for all the drooling he’ll do as
Holmes lifts bundle after red-taped bundle from this curious (and curiously spacious)
tin box. In our case, the bundles are this gloriously new St. Louis Sherlockian
Research Library and the container is the St. Louis Public Library Rare Books
Room. Does anyone wish for a handkerchief?
Before taking a brief peek at the Sherlockian Research
Collection, I want to congratulate and celebrate those who made it possible.
Dr. Mary Schroeder, her husband Art, and members of The Practical Preservers of
Sherlockiana began their adventure in Lebanon, Illinois. Many of you know this
“origin” story and played a role in it, in Illinois and later here in St. Louis.
What I wish to do as a visitor and fellow practitioner is to lift you up in
recognition and say “well done!” I can imagine what joy you had in the hunt for
items, of celebrating each new addition to the collection, and of your unceasing
view toward the future. This was a collection for your enjoyment and use, for
sure, but you forever remembered those who would come after you, those future
generations of students and faculty and interested readers. You planted a seed,
confident that others would water those seeds and delight in the harvest. So
again I say, “Well done!”
At the same time, it is probably a good and proper time to
acknowledge your sorrow, unspoken though it may be. Sorrow for those moments at
Illinois’ first established institution of higher education when you saw your
collection, and all the efforts it took to create it, pushed aside in the
library for newer materials, and relegated to some backroom shelves, far from
view. Sorrow in the passing of friends, now beyond the Reichenbach, who helped
make your dream a reality. Sorrow in wondering if anyone in the future might,
or might not, be able to taste the fruits of your labors, or to put it in terms
a Musgrave might ponder: to understand the ritual. Sorrow in the fact that my
professional colleagues at another institution of higher education would not,
or could not offer the kind of service and care such a collection deserves.
And yet, you did what Sherlockians always do. You kept
forever green the memory of the Master. The game was still afoot. You did not
give into despair, did not lose hope. Instead, you found a new home for this
special collection. And so I say to you, staff members and friends of the St.
Louis Public Library, “Well done, and Thank You!” Thank you for opening your
doors and giving a home to the Sherlockian Research Collection in the Rare Books
& Manuscripts Room. Thank you for skillfully stewarding this collection,
for cataloging it, conserving it, promoting it, and doing all those things that
libraries and library staff are good at in making such a collection accessible
and valued by the community.
As a librarian (and Sherlockian), I can’t resist
investigating another library’s catalog. A simple search in the St. Louis
catalog using the keyword “Sherlock” reveals 576 item groups. I looked through
each of those 576 groups. It is an impressive and welcoming group of materials
you’ve gathered around Mr. Holmes, not only in the Rare Books collection, but
in other areas of your collections as well. Here, indeed, is a selection of
materials both broad and deep that promise worthy support for any research
endeavor, or hours of pleasurable reading, viewing, or listening. I know you
celebrated the dedication of the St. Louis Sherlockian Research Collection in
February. I want to help keep that celebration going.
[At this point I presented the St. Louis folks with three volumes produced in Minnesota, to be added to their collection: the Norwegian Explorers Omnibus, The Missing Misadventures of Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes: The Detective and the Collector--Essays on the John Bennett Shaw Collection. I also invited them to send us their "want list" with the promise that the Minnesota Sherlock Holmes Collections would try to fill in some of their gaps from our duplicates.]
As they sat and pondered the curious tin box in “The
Musgrave Ritual,” Holmes, “with mischievous eyes,” observed “that if you knew
all that I had in this box you would ask me to pull some [cases] out instead of
putting others in.” I have been the curator of the Sherlock Holmes Collections
at the University of Minnesota for twenty years. Less mischievously than
Holmes, but with a point or two in mind, and in the same “tender, caressing
sort of way” as the Master, allow me to pull out a few adventures from my own box
of memories, this one not made of tin, but an oaken chest, richly carved with
Norwegian runes.
The first tale might be entitled, “The Adventure of the
Unexpected Filming.” It began within the first few months of my career at
Minnesota. I’d already survived my first Sherlockian conference, “Founders’
Footprints,” a fiftieth anniversary celebration of the Norwegian Explorers of
Minnesota held in early August 1998. Now, as snows flew and we readied
ourselves to open the beautiful and state-of-the art Elmer L. Andersen Library,
I found myself on the end of a media request from our local public television
station that made me a bit nervous. The station broadcast a weekly news
program, “NewsNight Minnesota,” which aired on Friday evening. Ever looking for
a story, as news organizations are wont to do, they were interested in getting
a glimpse of the new library, but particularly, to find out about the Sherlock
Holmes Collections. I’d been on the job about a year and was still
investigating the Collections. I did not consider myself a Sherlockian. I’d
read the Canon, watched Basil Rathbone as a kid, and considered myself a Jeremy
Brett fan. But that was it. I was a babe in the woods. Experiencing a bit of
“imposture syndrome” — that “psychological pattern in which an individual
doubts their accomplishments, and has a persistent internalized fear of being
exposed as a ‘fraud,’” I called out for help from someone who has become a dear
friend: Julie McKuras, long-time editor of the Collections newsletter, and at
that particular moment in time, president of our local scion society, The
Norwegian Explorers of Minnesota.
Innocently, I asked Julie if she’d be present during the
interview with Ken Stone, one of the NewsNight anchors. I needed a backstop,
someone who would correct me if I misspoke, and someone who, frankly, knew a
lot more about the world of Holmes than I did. In my mind, she was the perfect
choice. With some hesitation, she agreed to come to the library on the day of filming,
on one condition: that she would not appear in front of the camera. I readily
and eagerly agreed and set to work preparing for the interview.
When Ken and his cameraman arrived, it quickly became clear
that they wished to have Julie on screen, regardless of her protestations. I do
not recall how much of a fight she put up, but in the end—and out of the
kindness of her heart—she realized that I really could use some help. Ken
wanted an opening shot of the two of us walking down the long drive that leads
to the massive doors below the Mississippi River bluff that are the entrance to
the Andersen Library underground caverns. The cameraman set his tripod above
the drive to capture our stroll down to the doors. Queued by Ken, Julie and I
slowly made our way down the drive, snowflakes dancing in the air above. As we
neared the door, I turned to Julie and uttered a phrase that has entered our
collective memory: “Well, at least your hair looks nice.”
Her hair really did look nice! And she was perfect on camera.
The takeaway from this adventure, for me, was this: Mr. Holmes and Dr.
Watson—and library collections about them—create bonds for life. There is no
friendship like a Sherlockian friendship. Treasure them for all they are worth.
[If you wish, you can view our performance online. It is
preserved in the Twin Cities Public Broadcasting Service video archive—TPT as
the channel is known to us locally. Broadcast on February 5, 2001 according to
the website (I think the date is incorrect, and that it really occurred in
early 2000, given that the Hubbs family gift referred to in the broadcast was
given in December 1999), you can find the program segment “It Is Elementary” archive
link here.]
My second adventure, lovingly lifted from my oaken chest,
might be entitled “The Adventure of the Young Schoolboy.” Social media, my
calendar, and a December 2008 issue of the Collections newsletter inform me
that we can place this particular tale in the autumn of 2008.
On October 24th of that year I received an
e-mail note from Mary Gallagher that began: “Hello, I am writing with interest
in making an appointment to visit the Sherlock Holmes collection. My son, who
is seven, is a devoted fan of Sherlock Holmes and he would love to visit the
collection with me.” After a few more email exchanges, we settled on a Saturday
morning in late November.
Our young schoolboy was probably at a height of four feet
something. He arrived for the tour in the company of his father and
grandfather. This was Soren, our schoolboy, in costume, complete with
deerstalker and Inverness cape. I got a hint, very early on, of how sharp Soren
was and how knowledgeable he was of the stories. I had barely opened a volume
of the Strand when Soren exclaimed
(having seen one of the Paget illustrations) “that’s from ‘The Musgrave
Ritual’” (which, indeed, it was). I discovered that Soren’s grandfather had a copy
of all the stories as they originally appeared in the Strand, and that this was Soren’s entree into the world of Holmes.
After viewing some of our treasures from the
Collections—each devoured and commented on by Soren—we walked over to Wilson
Library to see the late Allen Mackler’s recreation of the 221B Sitting Room, a
gift we received from Allen’s estate. Soren
was completely energized by the sight of the Sitting Room. Every object
fascinated him, from flasks and bottles on the chemical table, to the gasogene
tucked in a corner, to volumes on each bookcase. He wanted to know how each
item was acquired and what linked each piece with a Canonical tale. Although,
on this latter point, it was clear to me—based on our earlier viewing of items
from the Collections—that he knew the stories inside and out. He was a dynamo,
eating and breathing the stories at every moment possible. Spying cigars in the
coal scuttle, or correspondence jackknifed to the mantle, or shag tobacco in a
Persian slipper was child’s play to him. Each new discovery brought further
delight. Each view of the room recalled another adventure.
I was charmed by Soren. The words of thanks I received from
him and his parents came from the bottom of their hearts. I was thrilled to be
a part of his introduction to our little corner of the Sherlockian universe. He
was welcomed into the community.
And then, as happens in life, I moved on to other things. November
melted into April and I busied myself with various summer projects and steadied
myself for the looming academic year—while sneaking a final few days of
vacation. And then Soren’s mother called.
Soren, she explained on the phone, wished to visit the
Sitting Room again. He wanted to “psych” himself up for the coming school year,
and this was the best way he knew how to do it. Would I be so kind as to show
him the Sitting Room, if I had some time? The answer to her question was an
emphatic “yes!” Of course, I’d be delighted to show Soren the Sitting Room! And
so, on a warm August day, I accompanied Soren from Andersen Library to the
Sitting Room. As with his earlier visit, he was in costume. This time he wore City
attire. Imagine Jeremy Brett from early episodes in the series; tie, coat, and
waistcoat. This was a new incarnation rendered perfectly by Soren. You should
have seen the looks on student and staff faces as we made our way through the
halls toward the library. He was the cutest thing this side of Whitehall. (He’d
probably blush now if he heard my description.)
As before, the Sitting Room intrigued him. He felt
inspiration through each item and by the energy and knowledge employed by Allen
Mackler years earlier in its construction. Somewhere in the family archives are
pictures from the day, and from his earlier visit. (You can see some of these
in the December 2008 Collections newsletter.) I know Soren treasures those
photographs as much as I treasure memories from those two very special visits.
He is now much taller than me, grown wise in
years—especially those spent during a two year sojourn in Switzerland with his
family. I have many things to cherish from my friendship with Soren, but here’s
one especially appropriate for today: libraries—and the collections they
hold—inspire us. They move us to new heights, provoke further thoughts, and
stimulate us to action. Soren has an open invitation, as do you, to return to
libraries and their special collections again and again. It is an invitation
worth accepting.
So, a university vice president walks into a bar. No, it’s
not the opening line to a joke, but, rather, to my last tale, my third
adventure. I am somewhat reluctant to share this with you, for it is precious
to me. Not reluctant or precious the way Gollum was in The Lord of the Rings (to name another literary universe I
sometimes inhabit), but in the sense of something so dear, so revelatory, that
to bring it to light in some way diminishes its wonder or power. For it is a
powerful story. Call it The Adventure of a Profound Encounter.
So, a university vice president walks into a bar. This
particular vice president—we’ll call him Bob—was acquainted, for whatever
reason, with a bartender by the name of Jim at one of our campus hotels. (Actually,
the site of our last triennial conferences.) Over the course of conversation,
no doubt aided by drink, vice president Bob learned from bartender Jim of Jim’s
granddaughter’s interest in Sherlock Holmes. Her name is Haley and at the time
of this story was fifteen years old. Bob, being the good administrator he was,
knew about the Sherlock Holmes Collections in the University Libraries and
before too long, put me in contact with Grandpa Jim to arrange a tour of the
Collections for his granddaughter, Haley.
I discovered that Jim cared deeply for his granddaughter
and her education, and that Haley lived and breathed Sherlock Holmes. We set a Saturday
in May as our date for the tour. Because Jim cared so deeply for his
granddaughter, I wanted to make this a special day for both of them. Little did
I know, or could imagine, how special the day would become.
All was ready on that Saturday afternoon when Jim, Haley,
and her two friends, Rebecca and Danielle, arrived in the midst of a rain
shower. I hadn’t anticipated Haley’s two friends so their appearance threw me
off a bit. As we introduced ourselves, I found out that all three girls were in
the ninth grade. A little voice whispered, as if in warning, inside my head:
“remember what you were like in ninth grade.” It was clear that these girls were
good friends and enjoyed each other’s company, although, to my mind, Rebecca
and Danielle were a bit merciless in their teasing Haley. They kept on and on
about how much Haley was “in” to Sherlock, mocking her while at the same time
expressing their own disinterest and bewilderment. They didn’t know, and were
mystified, why someone could get so excited about a literary character.
I took them first to our suite and then to the reading
room, where we had Dorothy Rowe Shaw’s miniature replica of the 221B London
flat on display, along with some Sherlockian figurines, artwork, and reference
books. Haley immediately gravitated to the figurines and, camera in hand
(having first asked permission) began to take pictures. Rebecca and Danielle continued
their playful banter, but their kidding didn’t seem to matter too much to
Haley. In her gracefulness, she wanted her friends to share in the excitement. Haley
then discovered some of the Holmes reference and coffee table books and, paging
through them, told her friends about the significance of this or that item as seen
on each page.
From there we moved to the 221B miniature, studying the
intricacies of its design and creation, while Haley drew links between items in
each room and their Canonical appearance. Her depth of knowledge—the imprint
that Doyle’s sixty stories made on her own being—deeply impressed me. More
books and artwork followed, and with each one, a little more conversation and
observation. Some Frederic Dorr Steele drawings momentarily stunned Haley. But
she quickly rebounded and spoke of both him and his Collier’s covers in a knowledgeable fashion.
From there we moved into a more rarified atmosphere. While
Haley sat down at a nearby table, I snatched an item from the nearby cart and
placed it in front of her: one of our four copies of the Beeton’s Christmas Annual from 1887, the first time a Holmes story
appeared in print. Haley knew about the Beeton’s,
but she’d never seen one before. She was nearly overwhelmed, but recovered
enough to take a few pictures and make a few comments. By this time, Rebecca
and Danielle, subdued by all they’d seen and yet not totally comprehending what
they’d seen, sat quietly to the side. Grandpa Jim took it all in without
comment.
And then it happened. I asked: “What is your favorite
Holmes story?” Haley replied, “The Hound
of the Baskervilles.” Quietly, without notice or fanfare, I took one of our
manuscript leaves from The Hound and
put it in front of her on the table. All of a sudden, here she was,
face-to-face with a page—a manuscript page—from her favorite—and Doyle’s
best-known—Sherlock Holmes adventure, written in Doyle’s own hand. She started
to cry. I got choked up, too, but in my Scandinavian way kept it inside. Grandpa
Jim, somewhat concerned, silently moved toward his granddaughter. Rebecca and
Danielle, their teasing now a thing of the past, grew exceedingly still and in
a nearly silent whisper asked: “Why are you crying?”
In that moment—that oh so brief but memorable
moment—something seismic and sincere happened. We were all “in” to Sherlock
Holmes, even Grandpa Jim.
The moment passed, Haley snapped pictures of the manuscript,
I pulled more things from a cart, and still more pictures were taken before we
descended into the caverns for the second part of our tour. After a brisk walk
through our subterranean expanse, we settled ourselves in the Holmes
Collections. Up and down the aisles we went, pulling items from trays, chatting
about Holmes and the collectors who made this all possible. Before long, it was
time to return to the surface and the end of our tour.
As she got ready to leave, Haley gave me a big hug and told
me that I was “her newest best friend.” She also stated, in no uncertain terms:
“I want your job.” I replied that if she played her cards right and studied
hard, I’d be retiring about the time she finished graduate school.
She’s come to visit me a time or two since her first visit.
She and Grandpa Jim—and anyone else for that matter—have a standing invitation
to come back to see and work with the Collections.
There’s a postscript to this final adventure. I didn’t know
it at the time, but Haley was struggling in school; she was an average student
at best. A few days after their visit, I received a note from vice president
Bob. “I saw Jim last night,” his note began, “and he said that the visit was
all Haley was talking about. She also said she now wants to go college, will
study harder, and that she is determined to be a librarian.” Through the
grapevine I later found out that Haley’s grades improved from primarily Cs to
As and Bs. It was on this day that I knew, without a doubt, that I was in the
right place, doing the right work, for the right reasons. It was a profound
affirmation of my calling, of my vocation. Talk about a transformative visit!
In “The Musgrave Ritual” Holmes reminds the biographically
inclined Watson that not all those lovingly bundled tin-boxed cases were a success,
but that there were “some pretty little problems among them.” We have our
inspiring days, the riddling or puzzling days, and also those days that are
just the pits. You will have those kinds of days as you use and nurture this
special collection, or to borrow from another genre: the good, the bad, and the
ugly. Just remember: do not follow the example of Brunton the butler and get
trapped in the “so under.”
The game is afoot! As you enjoy each other’s company in the
companionship of Holmes and Watson, you also know this: that we can never
forget those high days of discovery; never neglect the ritual; never forget our
calling. For it is the experience, the ritual, and the calling that in the end
lead to promise. It is to keep forever green the memory of the Master. I give
this to you as a charge. To you who so faithfully and diligently formed what is
now the St. Louis Sherlockian Research Collection; and to you who work and move
within the St. Louis Public Library: remember your history; remember your
rituals; remember your calling; remember the future. They will serve you well.
Finally, let me leave you with a thought that comes from a
colleague, Michael Suarez, at the University of Virginia. In one of the most
influential talks I ever heard at a professional conference, Suarez spoke of
the library as a place that asks us profound questions about our humanity and
our endeavors. To enter a library, step into its stacks, vaults, meeting rooms,
or galleries is to step onto hallowed ground, into a place that opens itself for
a consideration of the eternal or holy. “The library,” Suarez stated, “is a
sacred place because it is...where I go to situate my humanity.”
I know this to be true, as do you, because of what a little
library not far from here in Ferguson did during a time of turmoil. Inside the
Ferguson library, a sign gave testimony to this truth. It read: “During
difficult times, the library is a quiet oasis where we can catch our breath,
learn, and think about what to do next.” For us, it might mean spending a quiet
evening with Holmes.
As his arm dove down to the bottom of the chest to retrieve
a small wooden box containing “a crumpled piece of paper, an old-fashioned
brass key, a peg of wood with a ball of string attached to it, and three rusty
old disks of metal,” Holmes asked the good doctor, “Well, my boy, what do you
make of this lot?” “It is, replied Watson, “a curious collection.” A curious
and precious collection, indeed. With such a crowning collection as this—the
St. Louis Sherlockian Research Collection—in such a special place as this, what
adventures might we expect? What sparks might we observe in the dark hollows of
our hands as we investigate these formerly hidden jewels? My mind and spirit reverberate
and delight in the possibilities.
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