"The Inner Room" is a poem by Arthur Conan Doyle, first published in his 1898 poetry collection Songs of Action.[1] Unlike most of Doyle's poetry, the poem is "a deeply personal, highly introspective effort,"[2] which has been interpreted as "describing the various battles within [Doyle's] mind."[3]
The poem describes Doyle's "inner room" - his own brain or soul - as being inhabited by several different individuals. In Doyle's own words, these "describ[e] our multiplex personality."[4] Discussing the poem, Doyle's biographer Daniel Stashower observes that Doyle "conceived of his own personality as a 'motley company' of conflicting impulses, each represented by a different character - a soldier, a priest, an agnostic - and all of them struggling for control of his soul."[5] Another biographer, Martin Booth, describes this "intensely serious" poem as "fascinating, for it lays bare the powers that [Doyle] believes were in him, eternally fighting to get the upper hand on his soul."[6]
The poem's fifth stanza introduces "a stark-faced fellow, / Beetle-browed, / Whose black soul shrinks away / From a lawyer-ridden day, / And has thoughts he dare not say / Half avowed." Stashower describes this as "quite possibly the most personal and revealing line Conan Doyle ever wrote," perhaps reflecting the difficulties of Doyle's personal life in the mid-1890s.[7]
"At the end of the poem, Doyle resigns himself to what he is."[8] He suggests that none of the competing personalities will prevail over the others. Instead, "if each shall have his day, / I shall swing and I shall sway / In the same old weary way / As before."
There's one who is a soldier Bluff and keen;Single-minded, heavy-fisted, Rude of mien.He would gain a purse or stake it,He would win a heart or break it,He would give a life or take it, Conscience-clean.
And near him is a priest Still schism-whole;He loves the censer-reek And organ-roll.He has leanings to the mystic,Sacramental, eucharistic;And dim yearnings altruistic Thrill his soul.
There's another who with doubts Is overcast;I think him younger brother To the last.Walking wary stride by stride,Peering forwards anxious-eyed,Since he learned to doubt his guide In the past.
And 'mid them all, alert, But somewhat cowed,There sits a stark-faced fellow, Beetle-browed,Whose black soul shrinks awayFrom a lawyer-ridden day,And has thoughts he dare not say Half avowed.
There are others who are sitting, Grim as doom,In the dim ill-boding shadow Of my room.Darkling figures, stern or quaint,Now a savage, now a saint,Showing fitfully and faint Through the gloom.
And those shadows are so dense, There may beMany - very many - more Than I see.They are sitting day and nightSoldier, rogue, and anchorite;And they wrangle and they fight Over me.
If the stark-faced fellow win, All is o'er!If the priest should gain his will I doubt no more!But if each shall have his day,I shall swing and I shall swayIn the same old weary way As before.