II STORIES OF MYSTERY AND FANTASY

The Purloined Letter.—Edgar Allan Poe

The Monkey’s Paw.—W. W. Jacobs

The fact is ... that, in the riddle story, the detective was an after-thought, or, more accurately, a deus ex machina to make the story go. The riddle had to be unriddled; and who could do it so naturally and readily as a detective? The detective, as Poe saw him, was a means to this end; and it was only afterwards that writers perceived his availability as a character. Lecoq accordingly becomes a figure in fiction, and Sherlock, while he was as yet a novelty, was nearly as attractive as the complications in which he involved himself.—Julian Hawthorne, Introduction to The Lock and Key Library.

The literature of ghosts is very ancient. In visions of the night, and in the lurid vapors of mystic incantations, figures rise and smile, or frown and disappear. The Witch of Endor murmurs her spell, and “an old man cometh up, and he is covered with a mantle.” Macbeth takes a bond of fate, and from Hecate’s caldron, after the apparition of an armed head and that of a bloody child, “an apparition of a child crowned, with a tree in his hand, rises.” The wizard recounts to Lochiel his warning vision, and Lochiel departs to his doom. There are stories of the Castle of Otranto and of The Three Spaniards, and the infinite detail of “singular experiences,” which make our conscious daily life the frontier and border-land of an impinging world of mystery.—George William Curtis, Introduction to Modern Ghosts.

STORIES OF MYSTERY AND FANTASY

Even more deeply seated and elemental than our love for the mysterious is our passion for undertaking its solution. It is this, doubtless, that challenges us to match our wits with the clever rogues of fiction, and to pit our resources of detection against the forces seen and unseen which play in tales of the weird, the mysterious, and the unexplained.

Such stories readily fall into two classes, with as many sub-sorts as the invention of man may compass—those which are soluble and those which are not. Of the former, the detective story is the more common, followed at no very great distance by the tale which seems to involve the supernatural, but whose mystery transpires quite plainly in the end. Of the latter are all those inexplicable wonder-fictions dealing with shapes that haunt the dream-dusk, the whole shadow-land of wraiths and spirits and presences and immaterialities which cross the borders of experience at the call of fantasy. They are all the inheritance of the credulous age in which romance was born, and few of us are so engirded with the armor of stoicism that we cannot enjoy their gathering goose-flesh and creeping spinal chill. Hawthorne and Poe and Irving were masters here.

The processes of inductive reasoning by which Voltaire’s Zadig reconstructed actual occurrences from trivial clues have developed into modern detective stories of uncounted variety, in which the criminal is hunted down by a professional sleuth. Then, too, the “clever amateur” often takes a hand in the game, and even accident plays at times, until there is no end to the possible combinations growing out of pure reasoning employed to unravel the tangle.

Much the same processes are employed to discover the pseudo-supernatural mystery, like Fitz-James O’Brien’s solved ghost-story, “What Was It? A Mystery.” But when we enter the domain of the unexplained, the story tends to become a study of fear and of pure mystery, like Marion Crawford’s “The Upper Berth,” and “The Damned Thing,” by Ambrose Bierce.

Poe was the great American originator of the detective story, and to-day his “Purloined Letter,” reproduced here in full, “The Mystery of Marie Rogêt,” and “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” are unsurpassed.

POE AND HIS WRITINGS

Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston, January 19, 1809. His father, of a good Maryland family, was an actor, and his mother an actress of English extraction. Both parents dying before Edgar was three, he, with his brother William and sister Rosalie, was left homeless in Richmond, where each found a protector. Mrs. Allan adopted Edgar, giving him his middle name, and bestowing at the same time every opportunity that wealth could offer. He was sent to school at Stoke Newington, England, attended a private school in Richmond, and entered the University of Virginia, but remained there less than a year, for his reckless and erratic temperament champed under the restraints of routine. He was placed in Mr. Allan’s counting-room, but ran away to enlist in the United States Army as “Edgar Allan Perry.” After the death of Mrs. Allan, her husband secured Poe’s discharge from the army and his appointment to West Point as a cadet, July 1, 1830; but after six months Poe contrived to be dismissed. He had already published his poems successfully, so he went to New York, in the early part of 1831, to begin his professional literary life. For four years—1833 to 1837—he wrote brilliantly for The Southern Literary Messenger, in Baltimore. Then he went successively to New York and Philadelphia, where he worked on various literary enterprises for six years. In 1844 he returned to New York, and became assistant to N. P. Willis, in whose journal, The Mirror, “The Raven” appeared in 1845. Poe’s literary reputation was now established both in America and abroad, most of his masterpieces having been created during the turbulent years of his wanderings. In 1835 he had been married to Virginia Clemm, his cousin, and her early death in 1847 broke his spirit. His health had already succumbed to his morbid temperament—which magnified every sorrow of his chaotic career—and to the excesses of drugs and drink. He died most unhappily, October 7, 1849, at the age of forty—a master spirit pitifully wrecked before his prime.

Poe was a remarkable poet, essayist, critic, and short-story writer. “The Raven,” “Lenore,” “Ulalume,” “The Bells,” “Annabel Lee,” “Israfel,” and “To One in Paradise” are among his best poems. Probably the greatest of his stories are, “MS. Found in A Bottle,” “The Assignation,” “Ligeia,” “The Murders in The Rue Morgue,” “The Mystery of Marie Rogêt,” “A Descent into The Maelstrom,” “The Masque of The Red Death,” “The Pit and the Pendulum,” “The Gold Bug,” “The Black Cat,” “The Cask of Amontillado,” “The Fall of the House of Usher,” first published in Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine, September, 1839—and “The Purloined Letter,” first published in The Gift, an “annual,” in 1845.

Poe was the greatest conscious artist that American literature has ever known. He not only looked backward upon his own work and, as did Stevenson, clearly traced the operations of his mind in its production, but he built up a structure of literary theory which has been powerfully attacked, indeed, but whose walls remain substantially whole to-day. To his constructive criticism of the short-story is directly due its present advanced form, for while current practice has widely departed from Poe’s morbid, gloomy, extravagant themes and formal, abundant diction, his stories are still unsurpassed for vigor, atmosphere, invention, and thrill, and his laws of composition are read everywhere with the respect due authority.

Edgar Allan Poe, The Assignation.

Had you lived a generation later, honor, wealth, applause, success in Europe and at home, would all have been yours.—Andrew Lang, Letters to Dead Authors.

There are literary evolutionists who, in their whim of seeing in every original writer a copy of some predecessor, have declared that Hawthorne is derived from Tieck, and Poe from Hoffmann.... If the adjective American has any meaning at all, it qualifies Poe and Hawthorne. They were American to the core. They both revealed the curious sympathy with Oriental moods of thought which is often an American characteristic. Poe, with his cold logic and his mathematical analysis, and Hawthorne, with his introspective conscience and his love of the subtle and the invisible, are representative of phases of American character not to be mistaken by any one who has given thought to the influence of nationality.... Nothing better of its kind has ever been done than the “Pit and the Pendulum,” or than the “Fall of the House of Usher” (which has been compared aptly with Browning’s “Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came” for its power of suggesting intellectual desolation). Nothing better of its kind has ever been done than the “Gold Bug,” or than the “Purloined Letter,” or than the “Murders in the Rue Morgue.”—Brander Matthews, The Philosophy of the Short-story.

The conception of gloomy terror which impregnates “The House of Usher” is as complete as the idea of medieval chivalry underlying Ivanhoe.... To be sure, the terror in his stories, so he said in his preface to the Tales of the Grotesque and the Arabesque, was “not of Germany, but of the soul....” Yet one can readily believe that his Roderick in “The House of Usher,” who pored over books which had the “character of phantasm,” Morella, who was interested in the transcendentalism of Schelling and Fichte, Ægæus, whom “the realities of the world affected—as visions,” are all identical with the Young Poe when he freed his mind and later his fancy in the fields where Novalis sought the blue flower and all the German romanticists wandered.... To say that Poe was a creature of German influence would be absurd. To say that German thought and fancy were sympathetic to his genius, would be putting it too mildly. Between these extremes the truth must lie.—H. S. Canby, The Short Story in English.

FURTHER REFERENCES FOR READING ON POE

Prose Writers of America, Rufus W. Griswold (1870); Short Studies of American Authors, Thomas W. Higginson (1880); Letters to Dead Authors, Andrew Lang (1886); Criticisms on Contemporary Thought, Richard H. Hutton (1894); American Lands and Letters, Donald G. Mitchell (1897-99); Life of Edgar Allan Poe, R. H. Stoddard (1899); Poe and Some of His Critics, C. W. Hubner (1906); Life of Edgar Allan Poe, Personal and Literary, George E. Woodberry (1909); Edgar Allan Poe, A Critical Study, Arthur Ransome (1910).

THE PURLOINED LETTER

Nil sapientiae odiosius acumina nimio.—Seneca.

(Nothing is more odious to wisdom than too great acumen.)

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

Formal Introduction.

At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 18—, I was enjoying the twofold luxury of meditation and a meerschaum, in company with my friend C. Auguste Dupin,Dupin appears as the detective in Poe’s other mystery stories, “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” and “The Mystery of Marie Rogêt.” Au troisième—third flight, or fourth floor. in his little back library, or book closet, au troisième, No. 33 Rue Dunôt, Faubourg St. Germain. For one hour at least we had maintained a profound silence; while each, to any casual observer, might have seemed intently and exclusively occupied with the curling eddies of smoke that oppressed the atmosphere of the chamber. Compare this story with Sardou’s “A Scrap of Paper.”For myself, however, I was mentally discussing certain topics which had formed matter for conversation between us at an earlier period of the evening; I mean the affair of the Rue Morgue, and the mystery attending the murder of Marie Rogêt. I looked upon it, therefore, as something of a coincidence,G—— also appears in “The Mystery of Marie Rogêt.” when the door of our apartment was thrown open and admitted our old acquaintance, Monsieur G——, the Prefect of the Parisian police.

Careless English.

2. We gave him a hearty welcome; for there was nearly half as much of the entertaining as of the contemptible about the man, and we had not seen him for several years. We had been sitting in the dark, and Dupin now arose for the purpose of lighting a lamp, but sat down again, without doing so, upon G——'s saying that he had called to consult us, or rather to ask the opinion of my friend, about some official business which had occasioned a great deal of trouble.

3. “If it is any point requiring reflection,” observed Dupin, as he forbore to enkindle the wick, “we shall examine it to better purpose in the dark.”

Later writers of detective stories follow Poe’s lead in showing contempt for police officials.

4. “That is another of your odd notions,” said the Prefect, who had a fashion of calling everything “odd” that was beyond his comprehension, and thus lived amid an absolute legion of “oddities.”

5. “Very true,” said Dupin, as he supplied his visitor with a pipe, and rolled towards him a comfortable chair.

6. “And what is the difficulty now?” I asked. “Nothing more in the assassination way, I hope?”

7. “Oh, no; nothing of that nature. The fact is, the business is very simple, indeed, and I make no doubt that we can manage it sufficiently well ourselves; but then I thought Dupin would like to hear the details of it, because it is so excessively odd.”

8. “Simple and odd,” said Dupin.

Poe makes G—— to serve as a foil for Dupin, while the narrator plays Watson to Dupin’s Sherlock—but Poe came first!

9. “Why, yes; and not exactly that, either. The fact is, we have all been a good deal puzzled because the affair is so simple, and yet baffles us altogether.”

Forecast of denouement. Note how this point is emphasized.

10. “Perhaps it is the very simplicity of the thing which puts you at fault,” said my friend.

11. “What nonsense you do talk!” replied the Prefect, laughing heartily.

12. “Perhaps the mystery is a little too plain,” said Dupin.

13. “Oh, good Heavens! who ever heard of such an idea?”

14. “A little too self-evident.”

Later imitators freely use this scheme of the superior pose of the police.

15. “Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! ho!” roared our visitor, profoundly amused. “Oh, Dupin, you will be the death of me yet!”

16. “And what, after all, is the matter on hand?” I asked.

This device has since been much overworked.

17. “Why, I will tell you,” replied the Prefect, as he gave a long, steady, and contemplative puff, and settled himself in his chair. “I will tell you in a few words; but, before I begin, let me caution you that this is an affair demanding the greatest secrecy, and that I should most probably lose the position I now hold were it known that I confided it to any one.”

Lengthy Introduction Ends. Note that this is one unified story, with much philosophising, but no minor episodes.

18. “Proceed,” said I.

19. “Or not,” said Dupin.

20. “Well, then; I have received personal information from a very high quarter that a certain document of the last importance has been purloined from the royal apartments. The individual who purloined it is known; this beyond a doubt; The foundation laid; SUMMARY OF PROBLEM. he was seen to take it. It is known, also, that it still remains in his possession.”

21. “How is this known?” asked Dupin.

Development of problem.

22. “It is clearly inferred,” replied the Prefect, “from the nature of the document, and from the non-appearance of certain results which would at once arise from its passing out of the robber’s possession; that is to say, from his employing it as he must design in the end to employ it.”

23. “Be a little more explicit,” I said.

24. “Well, I may venture so far as to say that the paper gives its holder a certain power in a certain quarter where such power is immensely valuable.” The Prefect was fond of the cant of diplomacy.

25. “Still I do not quite understand,” said Dupin.

Importance of problem.

26. “No? well; the disclosure of the document to a third person, who shall be nameless, would bring in question the honor of a personage of most exalted station; and this fact gives the holder of the document an ascendency over the illustrious personage whose honor and peace are so jeopardized.”

Philosophy of problem.

27. “But this ascendency,” I interposed, “would depend upon the robber’s knowledge of the loser’s knowledge of the robber. Who would dare—”

28. “The thief,” said G——, “is the Minister D——, who dares all things, those unbecoming as well as those becoming a man. Unique situation: the thief is known.The method of the theft was not less ingenious than bold. The document in question—a letter, to be frank—had been received by the personage robbed while alone in the royal boudoir. During its perusal she was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of the other exalted personage, from whom especially it was her wish to conceal it. Method and circumstances of the theft related. After a hurried and vain endeavor to thrust it in a drawer, she was forced to place it, open as it was, upon a table. The address, however, was uppermost, and, the contents thus unexposed, the letter escaped notice.See note on ¶115, p. 104. At this juncture enters the Minister D——. His lynx eye immediately perceives the paper, recognizes the handwriting of the address, observes the confusion of the personage addressed, and fathoms her secret. After some business transactions, hurried through in his ordinary manner, he produces a letter somewhat similar to the one in question, opens it, pretends to read it, and then places it in close juxtaposition to the other. Again he converses for some fifteen minutes upon the public affairs.Note “the”. At length in taking leave he takes also from the table the letter to which he had no claim. Its rightful owner saw, but of course dared not call attention to the act, in the presence of the third personage, who stood at her elbow. The minister decamped, leaving his own letter—one of no importance—upon the table.”

29. “Here, then,” said Dupin to me, “you have precisely what you demand to make the ascendency complete—the robber’s knowledge of the loser’s knowledge of the robber.”

Results of theft.

30. “Yes,” replied the Prefect; “and the power thus attained has, for some months past, been wielded, for political purposes, to a very dangerous extent. The personage robbed is more thoroughly convinced, every day, of the necessity of reclaiming her letter. End of statement of case as a problem.But this, of course, cannot be done openly. In fine, driven to despair, she has committed the matter to me.”

Character development. Satire supports his attitude toward the police.

31. “Than whom,” said Dupin, amid a perfect whirlwind of smoke, “no more sagacious agent could, I suppose, be desired, or even imagined.”

Character delineation.

32. “You flatter me,” replied the Prefect; “but it is possible that some such opinion may have been entertained.”

33. “It is clear,” said I, “as you observe, that the letter is still in possession of the minister; since it is this possession, and not any employment of the letter, which bestows the power. With the employment the power departs.”

Attempts at recovery of the purloined letter. Second stage of the plot.

34. “True,” said G——, “and upon this conviction I proceeded. My first care was to make thorough search of the minister’s hotel; and here my chief embarrassment lay in the necessity of searching without his knowledge. Beyond all things, I have been warned of the danger which would result from giving him reason to suspect our design.”

Au fait—to the point; therefore, at home.

35. “But,” said I, “you are quite au fait in these investigations. The Parisian police have done this thing often before.”

36. “Oh, yes; and for this reason I did not despair. The habits of the minister gave me, too, a great advantage. He is frequently absent from home all night. His servants are by no means numerous. They sleep at a distance from their master’s apartment, and being chiefly Neapolitans, are readily made drunk. I have keys, as you know, with which I can open any chamber or cabinet in Paris. For three months, a night has not passed during the greater part of which I have not been engaged, personally, in ransacking the D—— Hotel. My honor is interested, and, to mention a great secret, the reward is enormous. So I did not abandon the search until I had become fully satisfied that the thief is a more astute man than myself. I fancy that I have investigated every nook and corner of the premises in which it is possible that the paper can be concealed.”

37. “But is it not possible,” I suggested, “that although the letter may be in possession of the minister, as it unquestionably is, he may have concealed it elsewhere than upon his own premises?”

Inferential reasoning.

38. “This is barely possible,” said Dupin. “The present peculiar condition of affairs at court, and especially of those intrigues in which D—— is known to be involved, would render the instant availability of the document—its susceptibility of being produced at a moment’s notice—a point of nearly equal importance with its possession.”

39. “Its susceptibility of being produced?” said I.

Note the distinction.

40. “That is to say, of being destroyed,” said Dupin.

41. “True,” I observed; “the paper is clearly then upon the premises. As for its being upon the person of theA just inference. minister, we may consider that as out of the question.”

42. “Entirely,” said the Prefect. “He has been twice waylaid, as if by footpads, and his person rigorously searched under my own inspection.”

43. “You might have spared yourself this trouble,” said Dupin. “D——, I presume, is not altogether a fool, and, if not, must have anticipated these waylayings as a matter of course.”

44. “Not altogether a fool,” said G——; “but then he’s a poet, which I take to be only one remove from a fool.”

45. “True,” said Dupin, after a long and thoughtful whiff from his meerschaum, “although I have been guilty of certain doggerel myself.”

46. “Suppose you detail,” said I, “the particulars of your search.”

The thoroughness of the search tends to interest the reader in the problem as a difficult one.

47. “Why, the fact is, we took our time, and we searched everywhere. I have had long experience in these affairs. I took the entire building, room by room, devoting the nights of a whole week to each. We examined, first, the furniture of each apartment. We opened every possible drawer; and I presume you know that, to a properly trained police agent, such a thing as a secret drawer is impossible. On Poe’s “police methods” most modern detective writers have drawn for material. Any man is a dolt who permits a ‘secret’ drawer to escape him in a search of this kind. The thing is so plain. There is a certain amount of bulk—of space—to be accounted for in every cabinet. Then we have accurate rules. The fiftieth part of a line could not escape us. After the cabinets we took the chairs. The cushions we probed with the fine long needles you have seen me employ. From the tables we removed the tops.”

48. “Why so?”

Doubtless the narrator speaks.

49. “Sometimes the top of a table, or other similarly arranged piece of furniture, is removed by the person wishing to conceal an article; then the leg is excavated, the article deposited within the cavity, and the top replaced. The bottoms and tops of bed-posts are employed in the same way.”

50. “But could not the cavity be detected by sounding?” I asked.

Note improper shifting of tenses in question and answer.

51. “By no means, if, when the article is deposited, a sufficient wadding of cotton be placed around it. Besides, in our case we were obliged to proceed without noise.”

52. “But you could not have removed—you could not have taken to pieces all articles of furniture in which it would have been possible to make a deposit in the manner you mention. A letter may be compressed into a thin spiral roll, not differing much in shape or bulk from a large knitting-needle, and in this form it might be inserted into the rung of a chair, for example. You did not take to pieces all the chairs?”

Note how ingeniously Poe weaves his knowledge of detective methods into the actual search of the story.

53. “Certainly not; but we did better—we examined the rungs of every chair in the hotel, and indeed, the jointings of every description of furniture, by the aid of a most powerful microscope. Had there been any traces of recent disturbance we should not have failed to detect it instantly. A single grain of gimlet-dust, for example, would have been as obvious as an apple. Any disorder in the gluing—any unusual gaping in the joints—would have sufficed to insure detection.”

54. “I presume you looked to the mirrors, between the boards and the plates, and you probed the beds and the bed-clothes, as well as the curtains and carpets?”

55. “That, of course; and when we had absolutely completed every particle of the furniture in this way, then we examined the house itself. We divided its entire surface into compartments, which we numbered, so that none might be missed; then we scrutinized each individual square inch throughout the premises including the two houses immediately adjoining, with the microscope, as before.”

This seems to be a break in the chain of probability, as G—— has already carefully explained how he was able to go over D——'s house with impunity.

56. “The two houses adjoining!” I exclaimed; “you must have had a great deal of trouble.”

57. “We had; but the reward offered is prodigious.”

58. “You include the grounds about the houses?”

59. “All the grounds are paved with brick. They gave us comparatively little trouble. We examined the moss between the bricks, and found it undisturbed.”

60. “You looked among D——'s papers, of course, and into the books of the library?”

Note unusual word.

61. “Certainly; we opened every package and parcel; we not only opened every book, but we turned over every leaf in each volume, not contenting ourselves with a mere shake, according to the fashion of some of our police officers. We also measured the thickness of every book-cover, with the most accurate admeasurement, and applied to each the most jealous scrutiny of the microscope. Had any of the bindings been recently meddled with, it would have been utterly impossible that the fact should have escaped observation. Some five or six volumes, just from the hands of the binder, we carefully probed, longitudinally, with the needles.”

62. “You explored the floors beneath the carpets?”

63. “Beyond doubt. We removed every carpet, and examined the boards with the microscope.”

64. “And the paper on the walls?”

65. “Yes.”

66. “You looked into the cellars?”

67. “We did.”

Dupin would not have said this.

68. “Then,” I said, “you have been making a miscalculation, and the letter is not on the premises, as you suppose.”

First Deduction Rejected.

69. “I fear you are right there,” said the Prefect. “And now, Dupin, what would you advise me to do?”

Third Stage of Plot.

70 “To make a thorough research of the premises.”

71. “That is absolutely needless,” replied G——. “I am not more sure that I breathe than I am that the letter is not at the Hotel.”

Preparation for denouement.

72. “I have no better advice to give you,” said Dupin. “You have, of course, an accurate description of the letter?”

Attempt to mislead reader.

73. “Oh, yes.” And here the Prefect, producing a memorandum-book, proceeded to read aloud a minute account of the internal, and especially of the external, appearance of the missing document. Soon after finishingNote the patronizing “good gentleman.” the perusal of this description, he took his departure, more entirely depressed in spirits than I had ever known the good gentleman before.

74. In about a month afterwards he paid us another visit, and found us occupied very nearly as before. He took a pipe and a chair, and entered into some ordinary conversation. At length I said:

75. “Well, but G——, what of the purloined letter? I presume you have at last made up your mind that there is no such thing as overreaching the minister?”

76. “Confound him, say I—yes; I made the reëxamination, however, as Dupin suggested—but it was all labor lost, as I knew it would be.”

77. “How much was the reward offered, did you say?” asked Dupin.

78. “Why, a very great deal—a very liberal reward—I don’t like to say how much precisely; but one thing I will say, that I wouldn’t mind giving my individual check for fifty thousand francs to any one who would obtain me that letter. The fact is, it is becoming of more and more importance every day; and the reward has been lately doubled. If it were trebled, however, I could do no more than I have done.”

79. “Why, yes,” said Dupin drawlingly, between the whiffs of his meerschaum, “I really—think, G——, you have not exerted yourself—to the utmost in this matter. You might—do a little more, I think, eh?”

80. “How?—in what way?”

Fourth Stage of Plot. Illustrative anecdote of Dr. John Abernethy, the English surgeon.

81. “Why [puff, puff], you might [puff, puff] employ counsel in the matter, eh? [puff, puff, puff] Do you remember the story they tell of Abernethy?”

82. “No; hang Abernethy!”

83. “To be sure! hang him and welcome. But once upon a time, a certain rich miser conceived the design of sponging upon this Abernethy for a medical opinion. Getting up, for this purpose, an ordinary conversation in a private company, he insinuated his case to the physician as that of an imaginary individual.”

84. “‘We will suppose,’ said the miser, ‘that his symptoms are such and such; now, doctor, what would you have directed him to take?’”

85. “‘Take!’ said Abernethy, ‘why, take advice, to be sure.’”

86. “But,” said the Prefect, a little discomposed, “I am perfectly willing to take advice, and to pay for it. I would really give fifty thousand francs to any one who would aid me in the matter.”

Minor Climax.

87. “In that case,” replied Dupin, opening a drawer, and producing a check-book, “you may as well fill me up a check for the amount mentioned. When you have signed it, I will hand you the letter.”

Character delineation.

88. I was astounded. The Prefect appeared absolutely thunderstricken. For some minutes he remained speechless and motionless, looking incredulously at my friend with open mouth, and eyes that seemed starting from their sockets; then, apparently recovering himself in some measure, he seized a pen, and after several pauses and vacant stares, finally filled up and signed a check for fifty thousand francs, and handed it across the table to Dupin. Climax. The latter examined it carefully and deposited it in his pocket; then, unlocking an escritoire, took thence a letter and gave it to the Prefect.The plot seems to end here, for long reasoning and explanation follow. There is, however, a second climax as Dupin’s story reaches its denouement. This functionary grasped it in a perfect agony of joy, opened it with a trembling hand, cast a rapid glance at its contents, and then, scrambling and struggling to the door, rushed at length unceremoniously from the room and from the house, without having uttered a syllable since Dupin had requested him to fill up the check.

89. When he had gone, my friend entered into some explanations.

First Stage of Dupin’s Account. This account places Dupin’s methods in artistic contrast with those of the Prefect.

90. “The Parisian police,” he said, “are exceedingly able in their way. They are persevering, ingenious, cunning, and thoroughly versed in the knowledge which their duties seem chiefly to demand. Thus, when G—— detailed to us his mode of searching the premises at the Hotel D——, I felt entire confidence in his having made a satisfactory investigation—so far as his labors extended.”

91. “So far as his labors extended?” said I.

Not a precise statement.

92. “Yes,” said Dupin. “The measures adopted were not only the best of their kind, but carried out to absolute perfection. Had the letter been deposited within the range of their search, these fellows would, beyond a question, have found it.”

93. I merely laughed, but he seemed quite serious in all that he said.

94. “The measures, then,” he continued, “were good in their kind, and well executed; their defect lay in their being inapplicable to the case, and to the man. A certain set of highly ingenious resources are, with the Prefect, a sort of Procrustean bed to which he forcibly adapts his designs. But he perpetually errs by being too deep or too shallow for the matter in hand; and many a schoolboy is a better reasoner than Illustrative anecdote. he. I knew one about eight years of age, whose success at guessing in the game of ‘even and odd’ attracted universal admiration. This game is simple, and is played with marbles. One player holds in his hand a number of these toys, and demands of another whether that number is even or odd. If the guess is right, the guesser wins one; if wrong, he loses one. The boy to whom I allude won all the marbles of the school. Of course he had some principle of guessing; and this lay in mere observation and admeasurement of the astuteness of his Joint inductive-deductive method of reasoning. opponents. For example an arrant simpleton is his opponent, and, holding up his closed hand asks, ‘Are they even or odd?’ Our schoolboy replies, ‘Odd,’ and loses; but upon the second trial he wins, for he then says to himself, ‘The simpleton had them even upon the first trial, and his amount of cunning is just sufficient to make him have them odd upon the second; I will therefore guess odd;’ he guesses odd, and wins. Now, with a simpleton a degree above the first, he would have reasoned thus: ‘This fellow finds that in the first instanceInductive reasoning. I guessed odd, and in the second he will propose to himself, upon the first impulse, a simple variation from even to odd, as did the first simpleton; but then a second thought will suggest that this is too simple a variation, and finally he will decide upon putting it even as before. I will therefore guess even;’ he guesses even, and wins. Now this mode of reasoning in the schoolboy, whom his fellows term ‘lucky’—what, in its last analysis, is it?”

Reduced to untechnical language.

95. “It is merely,” I said, “an identification of the reasoner’s intellect with that of his opponent.”

96. “It is,” said Dupin; “and, upon inquiring of the boy by what means he effected the thorough identification in which his success consisted, I received answer as follows: ‘When I wish to find out how wise, or how stupid, or how good, or how wicked is any one, or what are his thoughts at the moment, I fashion the expression of my face, as accurately as possible,Compare with Barrie’s statement on p. 217. in accordance with the expression of his, and then wait to see what thoughts or sentiments arise in my mind or heart, as if to match or correspond with the expression.’ This response of the schoolboy lies at the 1 and 2, French authors and moralists; 3, astute Italian statesman; 4, Italian thinker. bottom of all the spurious profundity which has been attributed to Rochefoucauld, to La Bruyère, to Machiavelli, and to Campanella.”

97. “And the identification,” I said, “of the reasoner’s intellect with that of his opponent’s, depends, if I understand you aright, upon the accuracy with which the opponent’s intellect is admeasured.”

Analysis. Observe how fond Poe is of long paragraphs.

98. “For its practical value it depends upon this,” replied Dupin, “and the Prefect and his cohort fail so frequently, first, by default of this identification, and secondly, by ill-admeasurement, or rather through non-admeasurement, of the intellect with which they are engaged. They consider only their own ideas of ingenuity; and, in searching for anything hidden, advert only to the modes in which they would have hidden it. They are right in this much—that their own ingenuity is a faithful representative of that of the mass; but when the cunning of the individual felon is diverse in character from their own, the felon foils them, of course. This always happens when it is above their own, and very usually when it is below. They have no Astute comment. variation of principle in their investigations; at best, when urged by some unusual emergency, by some extraordinary reward, they extend or exaggerate their old modes of practice, without touching their principles. What, for example, in this case of D——, has been done to vary the principle of action? What is all this Note the length of this paragraph. boring, and probing, and sounding, and scrutinizing with the microscope, and dividing the surface of the building into registered square inches—what is it all but an exaggeration of the application of the one principle or set of principles of search, which are based upon the one set of notions regarding human ingenuity, to which the Prefect, in the long routine of his duty, has been accustomed? Do you not see he has taken it for granted that all men proceed to conceal a letter—not exactly in a gimlet-hole bored in a chair leg—but, at least, in some out of the way hole or A cumbersomely long sentence. corner suggested by the same tenor of thought which would urge a man to secrete a letter in a gimlet-hole bored in a chair leg? And do you not see, also, that such recherchés nooks for concealment are adapted only for ordinary occasions and would be adopted only byRecherchés—carefully sought out. ordinary intellects; for, in all cases of concealment, a disposal of the article concealed—a disposal of it in this recherché manner—is, in the very first instance, presumable and presumed; and thus its discovery depends, not at all upon the acumen, but altogether upon the mere care, patience, and determination of the seekers; and where the case is of importance—or, what amounts to the same thing in policial eyes, when the reward is of magnitude—the qualities in question have never been known to fail. You will now understand what I meant in suggesting that, had the purloined letter been hidden anywhere within the limits of the Prefect’s examination—in other words, had the principle of its concealment Note force of “hidden.” been comprehended within the principles of the Prefect, its discovery would have been a matter altogether beyond question. This functionary, however, has been thoroughly mystified; and the remote source of his defeat lies in the supposition that the minister is a fool because he has acquired renown as a poet. All fools “The undistributed middle” is a form of logical fallacy. are poets; this the Prefect feels; and he is merely guilty of a non distributio medii in thence inferring that all poets are fools.”

Note the following series of unusual statements.

99. “But is this really the poet?” I asked. “There are two brothers, I know; and both have attained reputation in letters. The minister, I believe, has written learnedly on the Differential Calculus. He is a mathematician and no poet.”

100. “You are mistaken; I know him well; he is both. As poet and mathematician he would reason well; as mere mathematician he could not have reasoned at all, and thus would have been at the mercy of the Prefect.”

101. “You surprise me,” I said, “by these opinions, which have been contradicted by the voice of the world. You do not mean to set at naught the well-digested idea of centuries. The mathematical reason has long been regarded as the reason par excellence.”

“It may be said that every public idea, every received convention, is a piece of stupidity, for it has suited the greater number.”—Nicolas Chamfort.

102. “‘Il y a à parier,’” replied Dupin, quoting from Chamfort, “‘que toute idée publique, toute convention reçue, est une sottise, car elle a convenu au plus grand nombre.’ The mathematicians, I grant you, have done their best to promulgate the popular error to which you allude, and which is none the less an error for its promulgation as truth. With an art worthy a better cause, for example, they have insinuated the term ‘analysis’ into application to This whole section of the story triumphs notwithstanding its undue length of learned discussion and its formal diction. It must be admitted that in these respects the present-day short-story is in advance of Poe. A number of paragraphs here fail to advance the narration as fiction. algebra. The French are the originators of this practical deception; but if a term is of any importance—if words derive any value from applicability—then ‘analysis’ conveys ‘algebra,’ about as much as, in Latin, ‘ambitus’ implies ‘ambition,’ ‘religio,’ ‘religion,’ or ‘homines honesti,’ a set of honorable men.”

103. “You have a quarrel on hand, I see,” said I, “with some of the algebraists of Paris; but proceed.”

104. “I dispute the availability, and thus the value of that reason which is cultivated in any especial form other than the abstractly logical. I dispute, in particular, the reason educed by mathematical study. Unusual form. Throughout, note Poe’s unusual choice of words. The mathematics are the science of form and quantity; mathematical reasoning is merely logic applied to observation upon form and quantity. The great error lies in supposing that even the truths of what is called pure algebra are abstract or general truths. And this error is so egregious that I am confounded at the universality with which it has been received. Mathematical axioms are not axioms of general truth. What is true of relation—of form and quantity—is often grossly false in regard to morals, for example. In this latter As a piece of pure reasoning this long treatise is not without its defects, but it does bring out—though too laboriously to please—the point at which Dupin is driving. science it is very usually untrue that the aggregated parts are equal to the whole. In chemistry, also, the axiom fails. In the consideration of motive it fails; for two motives, each of a given value, have not, necessarily, a value when united equal to the sum of their values apart. There are numerous other mathematical truths which are only truths within the limits of relation. But the mathematician argues, from his finite truths, through habit, as if they were of an absolutely general applicability—as the world indeed imagines them to be. Jacob Bryant.Bryant, in his very learned ‘Mythology,’ mentions an analogous source of error, when he says that ‘although the Pagan fables are not believed, yet we forget ourselves continually, and make inferences from them as existing realities.’ He speaks figuratively. With the algebraists, however, who are Pagans themselves, the ‘Pagan fables’ are believed and the inferences are made, not so much through lapse of memory as through an unaccountable addling of the brains. In short, I never yet encountered the mere mathematician who could be trusted out of equal roots, or one who did not clandestinely hold it as a point of his faith A striking satire. that x² + px was absolutely and unconditionally equal to q. Say to one of these gentlemen, by way of experiment, if you please, that you believe occasions may occur where x² + px is not altogether equal to q, More satire. and, having made him understand what you mean, get out of his reach as speedily as convenient, for beyond doubt he will endeavor to knock you down.”

Note the force of “last.”

105. “I mean to say,” continued Dupin, while I merely laughed at his last observations, “that if the minister had been no more than a mathematician the Prefect would have been under no necessity of giving me this check. I knew him, however, as both mathematician and poet, and my measures were adapted to his capacity with reference to the circumstances by which he was surrounded. A return from the special argument to the practical. Application of the foregoing principles. I knew him as courtier, too, and as a bold intriguant. Such a man, I considered, could not fail to be aware of the ordinary policial modes of action. He could not have failed to anticipate—and events have proved that he did not fail to anticipate—the waylayings to which he was subjected. He must have foreseen, I reflected, the secret investigations of his premises. A difficult point explained. His frequent absences from home at night, which were hailed by the Prefect as certain aids to his success, I regarded only as ruses, to afford opportunity for thorough search to the police, and thus the sooner to impress them with the conviction to which G——, in fact, Note the unusual use of “to,” instead of “at.” did finally arrive—the conviction that the letter was not upon the premises. I felt, also, that the whole train of thought, which I was at some pains in detailing to you just now, concerning the invariable principle of policial action in searches for articles concealed—I felt that this whole Is this probable? train of thought would necessarily pass through the mind of the minister. It would imperatively lead him to despise all the ordinary nooks of concealment. Compare ¶95.He could not, I reflected, be so weak as not to see that the most intricate and remote recess of his hotel would be as open as his commonest closets to the eyes, to the probes, to the gimlets, and to the microscopes of the Prefect. I saw, in fine, that he would be driven, as a matter of course, to simplicity, if not deliberately induced to it as a matter of choice. You will remember, perhaps, how desperately the Prefect laughed when I suggested, upon our Key. Compare ¶10. first interview, that it was just possible this mystery troubled him so much on account of its being so very self-evident.”

106. “Yes,” said I, “I remember his merriment well. I really thought he would have fallen into convulsions.”

A return to philosophising.

107. “The material world,” continued Dupin, “abounds with very strict analogies to the immaterial; and thus some color of truth has been given to the rhetorical dogma, that metaphor, or simile, may be made to strengthen an argument, as well as to embellish a description. The principle of the vis inertiæ, Force of inertia. for example, seems to be identical in physics and metaphysics. It is not more true in the former, that a large body is with more difficulty set in motion than a smaller one, and that its subsequent momentum is commensurate with this difficulty, than it is, in the latter, that intellects of the vaster capacity, while more forcible, more constant, and more eventful in their movements than those of inferior grade, are yet the less readily moved, and more embarrassed and full of hesitation in the first few steps of their progress. This inquiry is the heart of the inference. Again: have you ever noticed which of the street signs over the shop doors are the most attractive of attention?”

108. “I have never given the matter a thought,” I said.

Illustrative example.

109. “There is a game of puzzles,” he resumed, “which is played upon a map. One party playing requires another to find a given word—the name of town, river, state, or empire—any word, in short, upon the motley and perplexed surface of the chart. Note the diction. A novice in the game generally seeks to embarrass his opponents by giving them the most minutely lettered names; but the adept selects such words as stretch in large characters from one end of the chart to the other. These, like the over-largely lettered signs and placards of the street, escape observation by dint of being excessively obvious; and here the physical oversight is precisely analogous with the moral inapprehension by which the intellect suffers to pass unnoticed those considerations which are too obtrusively and too palpably self-evident. But Compare ¶94 and ¶98. this is a point, it appears, somewhat above or beneath the understanding of the Prefect. He never once thought it probable, or possible, that Summary of ”accusation” against the Prefect’s sagacity. the minister had deposited the letter immediately beneath the nose of the whole world, by way of best preventing any portion of that world from perceiving it.

Note the alliteration.

110. “But the more I reflected upon the daring, dashing, and discriminating ingenuity of D——; upon the fact that the document must always have been at hand, if he intended to use it to good purpose; and upon the decisive evidence, obtained by the Prefect, that it was not hidden within the limits of that dignitary’s ordinary search—the more satisfied Climax of Dupin’s inferential reasoning. I became that, to conceal this letter, the minister had resorted to the comprehensive and sagacious expedient of not attempting to conceal it at all.

Beginning of Real Plot. Incident of Dupin’s Story. From this point the narration is free from the formalities of expression which mar the central section of the story. These, however, were a characteristic of Poe and his era.

111. “Full of these ideas, I prepared myself with a pair of green spectacles, and called one fine morning, quite by accident, at the ministerial hotel. I found D—— at home, yawning, lounging, and dawdling, as usual, and pretending to be in the last extremity of ennui. He is, perhaps, the most really energetic humanNote the use of “now.” being now alive—but that is only when nobody sees him.

112. “To be even with him, I complained of my weak eyes, and lamented the necessity of the spectacles, under cover of which I cautiously and thoroughly surveyed the whole apartment, while seemingly intent only upon the conversation of my host.

113. “I paid especial attention to a large writing-table near which he sat, and upon which lay confusedly some miscellaneous letters and other papers, with one or two musical instruments and a few books. Here, however, after a long and very deliberate scrutiny, I saw nothing to excite particular suspicion.

Dupin’s reasoning sustained.

114. “At length my eyes, in going the circuit of the room, fell upon a trumpery filigree card-rack of paste-board, that hung dangling, by a dirty blue ribbon, from a little brass knob just beneath the middle of the mantelpiece. In this rack, which had three or four compartments, were five or six visiting cards and a solitary letter. This last was much soiled and crumpled. It was torn nearly in two, across the middle—as if a design, in the first instance, to tear it entirely up as worthless had been altered, or stayed, in the second. It had a large black seal, bearing the D—— cipher very conspicuously, and was addressed, in a diminutive female hand, to D——, the minister himself. It was thrust carelessly, and even, as it seemed, contemptuously, into one of the uppermost divisions of the rack.

Throughout, Poe used punctuation more freely than is now the custom.

115. “No sooner had I glanced at this letter than I concluded it to be that of which I was in search. To be sure, it was, to all appearance, radically different from the one of which the Prefect had read us so minute a description. Here the seal was large and black, with the D—— cipher; there it was small and red, with the ducal arms of the S—— family. Here the address, to the minister, was diminutive and feminine; there, the superscription, to a certain royal personage, was markedly bold and decided; the size alone formed a point of correspondence.It was the custom in earlier times simply to fold a letter, seal it with a wafer, and address it on the back, which was allowed to remain otherwise blank. This accounts for there being no reference to an envelope, and also for the refolding of the letter. But, then, the radicalness of these differences, which was excessive; the dirt, the soiled and torn condition of the paper, so inconsistent with the true methodical habits of D——, and so suggestive of a design to delude the beholder into an idea of the worthlessness of the document; these things, together with the hyper-obtrusive situation of this document, full in the view of every visitor, and thus exactly in accordance with the conclusions to which I had previously arrived; these things, I say, were strongly corroborative of suspicion, in one who came with the intention to suspect.

116. “I protracted my visit as long as possible, and while I maintained a most animated discussion with the minister, upon a topic which I knew well had never failed to interest and excite him, I kept my attention really riveted upon the letter. In this examination, I committed to memory its external appearance and arrangement in the rack; and also fell, at length, upon a discovery which set at rest whatever trivial doubt I might have entertained. Note use of “fold” and its derivatives. In scrutinizing the edges of the paper, I observed them to be more chafed than seemed necessary. They presented the broken appearance which is manifested when a stiff paper, having been once folded and pressed with a folder, is refolded in a reversed direction, in the same creases or edges which had formed the original fold. This discovery was sufficient. It was clear to me that the letter had been turned, as a glove, inside out, re-directed, and re-sealed.A good device. I bade the minister good-morning, and took my departure at once, leaving a gold snuff-box upon the table.

Apparent Full Climax.

117. “The next morning I called for the snuff-box, when we resumed, quite eagerly, the conversation of the preceding day. While thus engaged, however, a loud report, as if of a pistol, was heard immediately beneath the windows of the hotel, and was succeeded by a series of fearful screams, and the shoutings of a mob. D—— rushed to a casement, threw it open, and looked out. In the meantime, I stepped to the card-rack, took the letter, put it in my pocket, and replaced it by a facsimile (so far as regards externals) which I had carefully prepared at my lodgings—imitating the D—— cipher very readily by means of a seal formed of bread.

Concluding explanations.

118. “The disturbance in the street had been occasioned by the frantic behavior of a man with a musket. He had fired it among a crowd of women and children. It proved, however, to have been without ball, and the fellow was suffered to go his way as a lunatic or a drunkard.Note how the climax of Dupin’s story also serves as the climax of the Prefect’s earlier statement of the problem and his efforts to solve it. When he had gone, D—— came from the window, whither I had followed him immediately upon securing the object in view. Soon afterwards I bade him farewell. The pretended lunatic was a man in my own pay.”

119. “But what purpose had you,” I asked, “in replacing the letter by a facsimile? Would it not have been better, at the first visit, to have seized it openly and departed?”

In the interest in Dupin’s reasoning and its results we have lost sight of the real importance of the letter.

120. “D——,” replied Dupin, “is a desperate man, and a man of nerve. His hotel, too, is not without attendants devoted to his interest. Had I made the wild attempt you suggest I might never have left the ministerial presence alive. The good people of Paris might have heard of me no more. But I had an object apart from these considerations. You know my political prepossessions. In this matter I act as a partisan of the lady concerned. For eighteen months the minister has had her in his power. She has now him in hers—since, being unaware that the letter is not in his possession, he will proceed with his exactions as if it was.Is “was” correct? Thus will he inevitably commit himself at once to his political destruction. His downfall, too, will not be more precipitate than awkward. The descent to Avernus (the fabled entrance to the Infernal Regions) is easy. It is all very well to talk about the facilis descensus Averni; but in all kinds of climbing, as Catalani said of singing, it is far more easy to get up than to come down. In the present instance I have no sympathy—at least no pity—for him who descends. He is that monstrum horrendum, an unprincipled man of genius. I confess, Monster to be shuddered at. however, that I should like very well to know the precise character of his thoughts, when, being defied by her whom the Prefect terms ‘a certain personage,’ he is reduced to opening the letter which I left for him in the card-rack.”

121. “How? Did you put anything particular in it?”

Real Climax.

122. “Why, it did not seem altogether right to leave the interior blank—that would have been insulting. D——, at Vienna, once did me an evil turn, which I told him, quite good-humoredly, I should remember. So, as I knew he would feel some curiosity in regard to the identity of the person who had outwitted him, I thought it a pity not to give him a clew. He is well acquainted with my MS., and I just copied into the middle of the blank sheet the words:—

A design so baleful, if not worthy of Atreus, is worthy of Thyestes.

‘——Un dessein si funeste, S’il n’est digne d’Atrée, est digne de Thyeste.’

They are to be found in Crébillon’s ‘Atrée.’”

JACOBS AND HIS WRITINGS

William Wymark Jacobs was born in London, September 8, 1863, the son of William Gage Jacobs. He was educated at private schools, and entered the employ of the Post Office Savings Bank at sixteen. Four years later he secured a regular clerkship there. He began his literary career at the age of twenty-one with a contribution to the Blackfriars Magazine, a publication conducted by the clerks at the Post Office, and from that he was led to contributing articles to various London papers, though he retained his Civil Service position until 1899. His remarkable acquaintance with nautical subjects, and characters of the coasting trade and seaport wharves, was acquired during several years spent in Wapping, while his father was wharfinger there, as during that period the younger Jacobs was brought into contact with many seamen and wharf hands, and came to know many of them very well. In 1900 he married Agnes Eleanor Williams. Some of Jacobs’ most popular collections of stories are Many Cargoes; More Cargoes; Short Cruises; Odd Craft; Captains All; Light Freights; and The Lady of the Barge. His longer stories include A Master of Craft, Dialstone Lane; Salthaven, and At Sunwich Port.

Mr. Jacobs is known mostly by his delightfully quaint and humorous character delineations of river, shore, and sea-faring folk. The remarkable short-story given herewith, however, is of a very different sort and discloses a mastery of the weird, of the supernatural, which is not surpassed in the whole short-story field. With a sureness of character-drawing which is nothing short of amazing in a humorist, he outlines scene and actors, and when the crises are reached—so completely is all visualized—we are able to infer the swift-moving climax with scarce the need of a word. “The Monkey’s Paw” is one of the most dramatically poignant stories of the supernatural ever written, and invites us to a closer study of its gifted and versatile author.

It [a sea-life] is a man’s life. It teaches self-restraint and discipline and the art of governing men. It is a fine, healthy life that breeds men. All that I mean to say is that distance lends enchantment to the view, and that the essential romance and comedy of the life of those who go down to the sea in ships are intensified in the perspective of years.—W. W. Jacobs, London Daily Chronicle.

Londoners, in particular, should hail him with applause, for he has done more than make them laugh; he has added character to their river. Henceforward no one who has read Many Cargoes will look at a passing barge with an apathetic gaze. He will see before him not merely a vehicle of porterage, but a hot-bed of liquorish and acceptable sarcasm.—Academy (London).

Mr. Jacobs has two great gifts: one is the power to place a simple-minded man in a corner, excite our sympathies for him, magnify his embarrassments, and keep us engrossed all the time.... But we do not consider that herein lies Mr. Jacobs’s special distinction.... It is in his eye for character, his knowledge of a certain kind of human nature, his genius for the little touches, as we prefer to call them, that Mr. Jacobs stands out so notably. No one now writing can manage the little touches as Mr. Jacobs can, at once so naturally, so truthfully, so usefully, and so joyously.... None of them actually helps the plot, but every one of them is so much added to the characters and conditions of the story.—Ibid.

We cannot think of any other books with which to compare Mr. Jacobs’s, because there are none just like them. To-day a number of the best and brightest English and American writers seem to be getting their inspiration from the sea.... Each one of these has his own particular field, and in presenting the humour of the sailor’s life and environment no one approaches Mr. Jacobs.—Bookman (New York).

We are acquainted with one pronounced pessimist, who maintains defiantly and aggressively that he never reads anything in the nature of modern fiction. “Except, of course,” he adds, “the short stories of W. W. Jacobs, which certainly make me laugh....” We are inclined to believe that there are a number of men who are of the same mind in regard to the work of Mr. Jacobs. Yet we do not think that his most ardent admirer, after having laid aside one of his books for three days, would be able to give more than the vaguest description of the tales contained therein. To this rule there are, however, several exceptions. “The Monkey’s Paw,” as grewsome a story as has appeared for years, was one.—Ibid.

FURTHER REFERENCES FOR READING ON JACOBS

Sketch of W. W. Jacobs, Current Literature, vol. 26, 117; His Work, Academy, vol. 52, 496; Living Age, vol. 218, 366; Strand, vol. 16, 676; W. W. Jacobs, Book News, vol. 19; The Little Touches (Review of A Master of Craft), Academy, vol. 59; A New Humorist, Spectator, vol. 78; More Cargoes (Review), Public Opinion, vol. 25; The Skipper’s Wooing (Review), Saturday Review, vol. 84.

FOR ANALYSIS

THE MONKEY’S PAW[19]

BY W. W. JACOBS

I

Without, the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlour of Laburnam Villa the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. Father and son were at chess, the former, who possessed ideas about the game involving radical changes, putting his king into such sharp and unnecessary perils that it even provoked comment from the white-haired old lady knitting placidly by the fire.

2. “Hark at the wind,” said Mr. White, who having seen a fatal mistake after it was too late, was amiably desirous of preventing his son from seeing it.

3. “I’m listening,” said the latter, grimly surveying the board as he stretched out his hand. “Check.”

4. “I should hardly think that he’d come to-night,” said his father, with his hand poised over the board.

5. “Mate,” replied the son.

6. “That’s the worst of living so far out,” bawled Mr. White, with sudden and unlooked-for violence; “of all the beastly, slushy, out-of-the-way places to live in, this is the worst. Pathway’s a bog, and the road’s a torrent. I don’t know what people are thinking about. I suppose because only two houses in the road are let, they think it doesn’t matter.”

7. “Never mind, dear,” said his wife, soothingly; “perhaps you’ll win the next one.”

8. Mr. White looked up sharply, just in time to intercept a knowing glance between mother and son. The words died away on his lips, and he hid a guilty grin in his thin grey beard.

9. “There he is,” said Herbert White, as the gate banged to loudly and heavy footsteps came toward the door.

10. The old man rose with hospitable haste, and opening the door, was heard condoling with the new arrival. The new arrival also condoled with himself, so that Mrs. White said, “Tut, tut!” and coughed gently as her husband entered the room, followed by a tall, burly man, beady of eye and rubicund of visage.

11. “Sergeant-Major Morris,” he said, introducing him.

12. The sergeant-major shook hands, and taking the proffered seat by the fire, watched contentedly while his host got out whiskey and tumblers and stood a small copper kettle on the fire.

13. At the third glass his eyes got brighter, and he began to talk, the little family circle regarding with eager interest this visitor from distant parts, as he squared his broad shoulders in the chair and spoke of wild scenes and doughty deeds; of wars and plagues and strange peoples.

14. “Twenty-one years of it,” said Mr. White, nodding at his wife and son. “When he went away he was a slip of a youth in the warehouse. Now look at him.”

15. “He don’t look to have taken much harm,” said Mrs. White, politely.

16. “I’d like to go to India myself,” said the old man, “just to look round a bit, you know.”

17. “Better where you are,” said the sergeant-major, shaking his head. He put down the empty glass, and sighing softly, shook it again.

18. “I should like to see those old temples and fakirs and jugglers,” said the old man. “What was that you started telling me the other day about a monkey’s paw or something, Morris?”

19. “Nothing,” said the soldier, hastily. “Leastways nothing worth hearing.”

20. “Monkey’s paw?” said Mrs. White, curiously.

21. “Well, it’s just a bit of what you might call magic, perhaps,” said the sergeant-major, offhandedly.

22. His three listeners leaned forward eagerly. The visitor absentmindedly put his empty glass to his lips and then set it down again. His host filled it for him.

23. “To look at,” said the sergeant-major, fumbling in his pocket, “it’s just an ordinary little paw, dried to a mummy.”

24. He took something out of his pocket and proffered it. Mrs. White drew back with a grimace, but her son, taking it, examined it curiously.

25. “And what is there special about it?” inquired Mr. White as he took it from his son, and having examined it, placed it upon the table.

26. “It had a spell put on it by an old fakir,” said the sergeant-major, “a very holy man. He wanted to show that fate ruled people’s lives, and that those who interfered with it did so to their sorrow. He put a spell on it so that three separate men could each have three wishes from it.”

27. His manner was so impressive that his hearers were conscious that their light laughter jarred somewhat.

28. “Well, why don’t you have three, sir?” said Herbert White, cleverly.

29. The soldier regarded him in the way that middle age is wont to regard presumptuous youth. “I have,” he said, quietly, and his blotchy face whitened.

30. “And did you really have the three wishes granted?” asked Mrs. White.

31. “I did,” said the sergeant-major, and his glass tapped against his strong teeth.

32. “And has anybody else wished?” persisted the old lady.

33. “The first man had his three wishes. Yes,” was the reply; “I don’t know what the first two were, but the third was for death. That’s how I got the paw.”

34. His tones were so grave that a hush fell upon the group.

35. “If you’ve had your three wishes, it’s no good to you now, then, Morris,” said the old man at last. “What do you keep it for?”

36. The soldier shook his head. “Fancy, I suppose,” he said, slowly. “I did have some idea of selling it, but I don’t think I will. It has caused enough mischief already. Besides, people won’t buy. They think it’s a fairy tale, some of them; and those who do think anything of it want to try it first and pay me afterward.”

37. “If you could have another three wishes,” said the old man, eyeing him keenly, “would you have them?”

38. “I don’t know,” said the other. “I don’t know.”

39. He took the paw, and dangling it between his forefinger and thumb, suddenly threw it upon the fire. White, with a slight cry, stooped down and snatched it off.

40. “Better let it burn,” said the soldier, solemnly.

41. “If you don’t want it, Morris,” said the other, “give it to me.”

42. “I won’t,” said his friend doggedly. “I threw it on the fire. If you keep it, don’t blame me for what happens. Pitch it on the fire again like a sensible man.”

43. The other shook his head and examined his new possession closely. “How do you do it?” he inquired.

44. “Hold it up in your right hand and wish aloud,” said the sergeant-major, “but I warn you of the consequences.”

45. “Sounds like the Arabian Nights,” said Mrs. White, as she rose and began to set the supper. “Don’t you think you might wish for four pairs of hands for me?”

46. Her husband drew the talisman from his pocket, and then all three burst into laughter as the sergeant-major, with a look of alarm on his face, caught him by the arm.

47. “If you must wish,” he said, gruffly, “wish for something sensible.”

48. Mr. White dropped it back in his pocket, and placing chairs, motioned his friend to the table. In the business of supper the talisman was partly forgotten, and afterward the three sat listening in an enthralled fashion to a second installment of the soldier’s adventures in India.

49. “If the tale about the monkey’s paw is not more truthful than those he has been telling us,” said Herbert, as the door closed behind their guest, just in time for him to catch the last train, “we shan’t make much out of it.”

50. “Did you give him anything for it, father?” inquired Mrs. White, regarding her husband closely.

51. “A trifle,” said he, colouring slightly. “He didn’t want it, but I made him take it. And he pressed me again to throw it away.”

52. “Likely,” said Herbert, with pretended horror. “Why, we’re going to be rich, and famous and happy. Wish to be an emperor, father, to begin with; then you can’t be hen-pecked.”

53. He darted round the table, pursued by the maligned Mrs. White armed with an antimacassar.

54. Mr. White took the paw from his pocket and eyed it dubiously. “I don’t know what to wish for, and that’s a fact,” he said, slowly. “It seems to me I’ve got all I want.”

55. “If you only cleared the house, you’d be quite happy, wouldn’t you?” said Herbert, with his hand on his shoulder. “Well, wish for two hundred pounds, then; that’ll just do it.”

56. His father, smiling shamefacedly at his own credulity, held up the talisman, as his son, with a solemn face, somewhat marred by a wink at his mother, sat down at the piano and struck a few impressive chords.

57. “I wish for two hundred pounds,” said the old man distinctly.

58. A fine crash from the piano greeted the words, interrupted by a shuddering cry from the old man. His wife and son ran toward him.

59. “It moved,” he cried, with a glance of disgust at the object as it lay on the floor.

60. “As I wished, it twisted in my hand like a snake.”

61. “Well, I don’t see the money,” said his son as he picked it up and placed it on the table, “and I bet I never shall.”

62. “It must have been your fancy, father,” said his wife, regarding him anxiously.

63. He shook his head. “Never mind, though; there’s no harm, but it gave me a shock all the same.”

64. They sat down by the fire again while the two men finished their pipes. Outside, the wind was higher than ever, and the old man started nervously at the sound of a door banging up-stairs. A silence unusual and depressing settled upon all three, which lasted until the old couple rose to retire for the night.

65. “I expect you’ll find the cash tied up in a big bag in the middle of your bed,” said Herbert, as he bade them good-night, “and something horrible squatting up on top of the wardrobe watching you as you pocket your ill-gotten gains.”

66. He sat alone in the darkness, gazing at the dying fire, and seeing faces in it. The last face was so horrible and so simian that he gazed at it in amazement. It got so vivid that, with a little uneasy laugh, he felt on the table for a glass containing a little water to throw over it. His hand grasped the monkey’s paw, and with a little shiver he wiped his hand on his coat and went up to bed.

II

67. In the brightness of the wintry sun next morning as it streamed over the breakfast table he laughed at his fears. There was an air of prosaic wholesomeness about the room which it had lacked on the previous night, and the dirty, shrivelled little paw was pitched on the sideboard with a carelessness which betokened no great belief in its virtues.

68. “I suppose all old soldiers are the same,” said Mrs. White. “The idea of our listening to such nonsense! How could wishes be granted in these days? And if they could, how could two hundred pounds hurt you, father?”

69. “Might drop on his head from the sky,” said the frivolous Herbert.

70. “Morris said the things happened so naturally,” said his father, “that you might if you so wished attribute it to coincidence.”

71. “Well, don’t break into the money before I come back,” said Herbert as he rose from the table. “I’m afraid it’ll turn you into a mean, avaricious man, and we shall have to disown you.”

72. His mother laughed, and following him to the door, watched him down the road; and returning to the breakfast table, was very happy at the expense of her husband’s credulity. All of which did not prevent her from scurrying to the door at the postman’s knock, nor prevent her from referring somewhat shortly to retired sergeant-majors of bibulous habits when she found that the post brought a tailor’s bill.

73. “Herbert will have some more of his funny remarks, I expect, when he comes home,” she said, as they sat at dinner.

74. “I dare say,” said Mr. White, pouring himself out some beer; “but for all that, the thing moved in my hand; that I’ll swear to.”

75. “You thought it did,” said the old lady soothingly.

76. “I say it did,” replied the other. “There was no thought about it; I had just—What’s the matter?”

77. His wife made no reply. She was watching the mysterious movements of a man outside, who, peering in an undecided fashion at the house, appeared to be trying to make up his mind to enter. In mental connection with the two hundred pounds, she noticed that the stranger was well dressed, and wore a silk hat of glossy newness. Three times he paused at the gate, and then walked on again. The fourth time he stood with his hand upon it, and then with sudden resolution flung it open and walked up the path. Mrs. White at the same moment placed her hands behind her, and hurriedly unfastening the strings of her apron, put that useful article of apparel beneath the cushion of her chair.

78. She brought the stranger, who seemed ill at ease, into the room. He gazed at her furtively, and listened in a preoccupied fashion as the old lady apologized for the appearance of the room, and her husband’s coat, a garment which he usually reserved for the garden. She then waited as patiently as her sex would permit, for him to broach his business, but he was at first strangely silent.

79. “I—was asked to call,” he said at last, and stooped and picked a piece of cotton from his trousers. “I come from Maw and Meggins.”

80. The old lady started. “Is anything the matter?” she asked, breathlessly. “Has anything happened to Herbert? What is it? What is it?”

81. Her husband interposed. “There, there, mother,” he said, hastily. “Sit down, and don’t jump to conclusions. You’ve not brought bad news, I’m sure, sir;” and he eyed the other wistfully.

82. “I’m sorry—” began the visitor.

83. “Is he hurt?” demanded the mother, wildly.

84. The visitor bowed in assent. “Badly hurt,” he said, quietly, “but he is not in any pain.”

85. “Oh, thank God!” said the old woman, clasping her hands. “Thank God for that! Thank—”

86. She broke off suddenly as the sinister meaning of the assurance dawned upon her and she saw the awful confirmation of her fears in the other’s averted face. She caught her breath, and turning to her slower-witted husband, laid her trembling old hand upon his. There was a long silence.

87. “He was caught in the machinery,” said the visitor at length in a low voice.

88. “Caught in the machinery,” repeated Mr. White, in a dazed fashion, “yes.”

89. He sat staring blankly out at the window, and taking his wife’s hand between his own, pressed it as he had been wont to do in their old courting-days nearly forty years before.

90. “He was the only one left to us,” he said, turning gently to the visitor. “It is hard.”

91. The other coughed, and rising, walked slowly to the window. “The firm wished me to convey their sincere sympathy with you in your great loss,” he said, without looking round. “I beg that you will understand I am only their servant and merely obeying orders.”

92. There was no reply; the old woman’s face was white, her eyes staring, and her breath inaudible; on the husband’s face was a look such as his friend the sergeant might have carried into his first action.

93. “I was to say that Maw and Meggins disclaim all responsibility,” continued the other. “They admit no liability at all, but in consideration of your son’s services, they wish to present you with a certain sum as compensation.”

94. Mr. White dropped his wife’s hand, and rising to his feet, gazed with a look of horror at his visitor. His dry lips shaped the words. “How much?”

95. “Two hundred pounds,” was the answer.

96. Unconscious of his wife’s shriek, the old man smiled faintly, put out his hands like a sightless man, and dropped, a senseless heap, to the floor.

III

97. In the huge new cemetery, some two miles distant, the old people buried their dead, and came back to a house steeped in shadow and silence. It was all over so quickly that at first they could hardly realize it, and remained in a state of expectation as though of something else to happen—something else which was to lighten this load, too heavy for old hearts to bear.

98. But the days passed, and expectation gave place to resignation—the hopeless resignation of the old, sometimes miscalled, apathy. Sometimes they hardly exchanged a word, for now they had nothing to talk about, and their days were long to weariness.

99. It was about a week after that the old man, waking suddenly in the night, stretched out his hand and found himself alone. The room was in darkness, and the sound of subdued weeping came from the window. He raised himself in bed and listened.

100. “Come back,” he said, tenderly. “You will be cold.”

101. “It is colder for my son,” said the old woman, and wept afresh.

102. The sound of her sobs died away on his ears. The bed was warm, and his eyes heavy with sleep. He dozed fitfully, and then slept until a sudden wild cry from his wife awoke him with a start.

103. “The paw!” she cried wildly. “The monkey’s paw!”

104. He started up in alarm. “Where? Where is it? What’s the matter?”

105. She came stumbling across the room toward him. “I want it,” she said, quietly. “You’ve not destroyed it?”

106. “It’s in the parlour, on the bracket,” he replied marvelling. “Why?”

107. She cried and laughed together, and bending over, kissed his cheek.

108. “I only just thought of it,” she said, hysterically. “Why didn’t I think of it before? Why didn’t you think of it?”

109. “Think of what?” he questioned.

110. “The other two wishes,” she replied, rapidly. “We’ve only had one.”

111. “Was not that enough?” he demanded, fiercely.

112. “No,” she cried, triumphantly; “we’ll have one more. Go down and get it quickly, and wish our boy alive again.”

113. The man sat up in bed and flung the bed-clothes from his quaking limbs. “Good God, you are mad!” he cried, aghast.

114. “Get it,” she panted; “get it quickly, and wish—Oh, my boy, my boy!”

115. Her husband struck a match and lit the candle. “Get back to bed,” he said, unsteadily. “You don’t know what you are saying.”

116. “We had the first wish granted,” said the old woman, feverishly; “why not the second?”

117. “A coincidence,” stammered the old man.

118. “Go and get it and wish,” cried his wife, quivering with excitement.

119. The old man turned and regarded her, and his voice shook. “He has been dead ten days, and besides he—I would not tell you else, but—I could only recognize him by his clothing. If he was too terrible for you to see then, how now?”

120. “Bring him back,” cried the old woman, and dragged him toward the door. “Do you think I fear the child I have nursed?”

121. He went down in the darkness, and felt his way to the parlour, and then to the mantelpiece. The talisman was in its place, and a horrible fear that the unspoken wish might bring his mutilated son before him ere he could escape from the room seized upon him, and he caught his breath as he found that he had lost the direction of the door. His brow cold with sweat, he felt his way round the table, and groped along the wall until he found himself in the small passage with the unwholesome thing in his hand.

122. Even his wife’s face seemed changed as he entered the room. It was white and expectant, and to his fears seemed to have an unnatural look upon it. He was afraid of her.

123. “Wish!” she cried in a strong voice.

124. “It is foolish and wicked,” he faltered.

125. “Wish!” repeated his wife.

126. He raised his hand. “I wish my son alive again.”

127. The talisman fell to the floor, and he regarded it fearfully. Then he sank trembling into a chair as the old woman, with burning eyes, walked to the window and raised the blind.

128. He sat until he was chilled with the cold, glancing occasionally at the figure of the old woman peering through the window. The candle-end, which had burned below the rim of the china candle-stick, was throwing pulsating shadows on the ceilings and walls, until, with a flicker larger than the rest, it expired. The old man, with an unspeakable sense of relief at the failure of the talisman, crept back to his bed, and a minute or two afterward the old woman came silently and apathetically beside him.

129. Neither spoke, but lay silently listening to the ticking of the clock. A stair creaked, and a squeaky mouse scurried noisily through the wall. The darkness was oppressive, and after lying for some time screwing up his courage, he took the box of matches, and striking one, went downstairs for a candle.

130. At the foot of the stairs the match went out, and he paused to strike another; and at the same moment a knock, so quiet and stealthy as to be scarcely audible, sounded on the front door.

131. The matches fell from his hand and spilled in the passage. He stood motionless, his breath suspended until the knock was repeated. Then he turned and fled swiftly back to his room, and closed the door behind him. A third knock sounded through the house.

132. “What’s that?” cried the old woman, starting up.

133. “A rat,” said the old man in shaking tones—“a rat. It passed me on the stairs.”

134. His wife sat up in bed listening. A loud knock resounded through the house.

135. “It’s Herbert!” she screamed, “It’s Herbert!”

136. She ran to the door, but her husband was before her, and catching her by the arm, held her tightly.

137. “What are you going to do?” he whispered hoarsely.

138. “It’s my boy; it’s Herbert!” she cried, struggling mechanically. “I forgot it was two miles away. What are you holding me for? Let go. I must open the door.”

139. “For God’s sake don’t let it in,” cried the old man, trembling.

140. “You’re afraid of your own son,” she cried, struggling. “Let me go. I’m coming, Herbert; I’m coming.”

141. There was another knock, and another. The old woman with a sudden wrench broke free and ran from the room. Her husband followed to the landing, and called after her appealingly as she hurried downstairs. He heard the chain rattle back and the bottom bolt drawn slowly and stiffly from the socket. Then the old woman’s voice, strained and panting.

142. “The bolt,” she cried, loudly. “Come down. I can’t reach it.”

143. But her husband was on his hands and knees groping wildly on the floor in search of the paw. If he could only find it before the thing outside got in. A perfect fusillade of knocks reverberated through the house, and he heard the scraping of a chair as his wife put it down in the passage against the door. He heard the creaking of the bolt as it came slowly back, and at the same moment he found the monkey’s paw, and frantically breathed his third and last wish.

144. The knocking ceased suddenly, although the echoes of it were still in the house. He heard the chair drawn back, and the door opened. A cold wind rushed up the staircase, and a long loud wail of disappointment and misery from his wife gave him courage to run down to her side, and then to the gate beyond. The street lamp flickering opposite shone on a quiet and deserted road.

SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS FOR STUDY

1. Does it add to the interest of a story, for you, when you are baffled by its mystery up to the very end?

2. What author’s detective stories do you consider the best? Why?

3. If possible, secure a copy of Voltaire’s “Zadig,” and write a short paper on Zadig’s reasoning.

4. Does the introduction of an element of the supernatural increase or lessen the interest of a story, for you?

5. Write about two-hundred words comparing (a) the work of Poe’s Dupin with Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes; (b) with that of any other fictional detective—Chesterton’s Father Brown, for example.

6. Explain what is meant by inductive reasoning.

7. Select from some magazine (a) a good detective story, and (b) a good story of the unexplained, or supernatural. (c) Discuss the relative merits of each.

8. Do you prefer Jacobs as a writer of humorous stories of sea-faring folk or as a writer of the weird?

9. Which of Poe’s stories do you like best, and why?

TEN REPRESENTATIVE STORIES OF MYSTERY AND FANTASY

“The Horla,” Guy de Maupassant, translated in Modern Ghosts.

“The Lost Duchess,” Anonymous, in The Lock and Key Library.

“The Golden Ingot,” Fitz-James O’Brien, in The Lock and Key Library.

“The Gold Bug,” Edgar Allan Poe, in Tales.

“The Black Spaniel,” Robert Hichens, in volume of same title.

“The Upper Berth,” F. Marion Crawford, in Short-Story Classics, American.

“The Adventure of the Dancing Men,” A. Conan Doyle, in The Return of Sherlock Holmes.

“The Venus of Ille,” Prosper Mérimée, translated in Little French Masterpieces.

“The Pavilion on the Links,” Robert Louis Stevenson, in New Arabian Nights.

“The Damned Thing,” Ambrose Bierce, in Short-Story Classics, American.

FOOTNOTES: