Sherlock Holmes is among the most famous characters ever created, known to literate folks around the globe. But while the creation of the cerebral sleuth was testament to Conan Doyle’s skill, in some ways the crucial invention was not Sherlock, but Dr. Watson.
Consider that Sherlock was not the first of his type, being preceded by Edgar Allan Poe’s C. Auguste Dupin and Emile Gaboriau’s Monsieur Lecoq, although the Englishman was to have many more appearances in print than either. Consider, too, that while the “world’s first consulting detective” has successors as famous as Hercule Poirot and Nero Wolfe, none has been able to dethrone him.
Why? I think the touch of genius was in the presentation of the detective and that Conan Doyle picked the ideal character as his narrator. Watson is intelligent—but not imaginative. He is observant of emotions and human reactions but weak on physical details. He is humane and sensible, a good doctor and a good man. If a little dull compared to Sherlock, Watson proves well worth the great detective’s trust. He is reliable in a pinch. And so we believe him.
As we do another dull, reliable, unimaginative narrator who helped an almost exactly contemporary novella to world-wide fame and cultural status. I refer to Mr. Utterson, the really boring lawyer who narrates the first part of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Conan Doyle’s fellow Edinburgh Scot, Robert Louis Stevenson. By the time we realize that this upright, laconic, down-to-Earth bastion of the legal profession is telling us a totally bizarre and improbable tale, we have long since surrendered our disbelief.
Whether or not Conan Doyle picked up a cue from Mr. Utterson, Dr. Watson similarly makes Sherlock Holmes plausible, while standing in for the reader who may not see what is elementary to Holmes, either. Watson asks the questions the reader needs answered but he also adds far more to the narrative. His forthright opinions and honest geniality are a foil for the often deliberately cryptic Holmes. At the same time, his role as narrator enables Holmes to be just as mysterious as he likes.
Consider for a minute how different the stories would be—and I think how much less attractive—had their creator settled on Holmes as a first person narrator. If the detective was reporting what he was observing, the reader could hardly be kept in suspense. Watson, who is often mystified by the detective’s peculiar method, describes Holmes’s actions but misses his insights, thus keeping us mystified and intrigued, too.
And then Watson is a much nicer person. He is fascinated by his friend but by no means blind to his vanity and arrogance, traits which on constant display would no doubt be irritating. But they are not on constant display. As readers we have to do with Watson, who, while he will never solve the cases, leavens the calculations, the obsession with data and the rather cold-bloodedness of his companion. In the process, he creates the atmosphere which is one of the charms of the stories.
Holmes, of course, does not approve. He rebuked Watson’s first attempt, a small pamphlet composed to see that he received credit for a difficult case (A Study in Scarlet), as an attempt to insert romance into the exact science of detection. This is a fault as great as “…if you had worked a love story or an elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid.”
Watson, no doubt thinking of the mysterious deaths, wild frontier adventures, the exotic habits of the Mormon pioneers and the lover’s revenge that marked the case, protests that “the romance was there”. To which Sherlock replies, “Some facts should be suppressed” and claims that the only point that deserved mention was his “analytical reasoning”.
No wonder Watson feels a bit hard done by and notes not only his friend’s egotism but spots the “small vanity” under his “quiet and didactic manner”. Too much of Sherlock Holmes would not be a good thing.
Of course, Conan Doyle could, like that other great master of eccentrics, Charles Dickens, have favored an omniscient narrator and given us Holmes uncut, so to speak. This tack, however, loses the great advantage of companionship. Prior to Watson, the consulting detective had useful acquaintances like the Baker Street Irregulars and Toby’s owner, but they are acquaintances, not friends. Sherlock keeps the Irregulars at some little distance, by preference negotiating with Wiggins, their leader, and instructing the rest to remain downstairs. He communicates with Mr. Sherman only when he needs the dog. Holmes is liked and admired but lacks the loyal, but not uncritical, support of a real friend like Watson.
Minus Watson we would lose another of the charms of the stories, the atmosphere of masculine coziness created by the rooms in Baker Street. The litter of books and papers, tobacco smoke, Holmes’s laboratory, the cheerful fire, the fine breakfasts and dinners produced by the efficient but mostly invisible Mrs. Hudson are in sharp contrast to the London weather without, almost uniformly foggy and chilly with driving rain a distinct possibility.
Here is a comfortable life without many of the frictions of daily living. There are no domestic dramas—except maybe the good doc’s attempts to moderate Holmes’s drug consumption—few responsibilities, no boss and no nine-to-five. It’s ideal really and all it needs is a nice case of murder, blackmail, or reckless endangerment to make life sweet.
The Sherlock Holmes stories have charm, atmosphere, the joys of friendship, plus the mental stimulation and occasional dangers of detection. No wonder the stories have lasted, but don’t give all the credit to Holmes.