When Poe wrote his immortal Dupin tales, the name “Detective”
stories had not been invented; the detective of fiction not having
been as yet discovered. And the title is still something of a
misnomer, for many narratives involving a puzzle of some sort,
though belonging to the category which I wish to discuss, are
handled by the writer without expert detective aid. Sometimes the
puzzle solves itself through operation of circumstance; sometimes
somebody who professes no special detective skill happens upon the
secret of its mystery; once in a while some venturesome genius has
the courage to leave his enigma unexplained. But ever since
Gaboriau created his Lecoq, the transcendent detective has been in
favor; and Conan Doyle’s famous gentleman analyst has given him a
fresh lease of life, and reanimated the stage by reverting to the
method of Poe. Sherlock Holmes is Dupin redivivus, and mutatus
mutandis; personally he is a more stirring and engaging companion,
but so far as kinship to probabilities or even possibilities is
concerned, perhaps the older version of him is the more
presentable. But in this age of marvels we seem less difficult to
suit in this respect than our forefathers were.
The fact is, meanwhile, that, in the riddle story, the detective
was an afterthought, 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. Riddle-story writers in general,
however, encounter the obvious embarrassment that their detective
is obliged to lavish so much attention on the professional services
which the exigencies of the tale demand of him, that he has very
little leisure to expound his own personal equation—the rather
since the attitude of peering into a millstone is not, of itself,
conducive to elucidations of oneself; the professional endowment
obscures all the others. We ordinarily find, therefore, our author
dismissing the individuality of his detective with a few strong
black-chalk outlines, and devoting his main labor upon what he
feels the reader will chiefly occupy his own ingenuity with,—
namely, the elaboration of the riddle itself. Reader and writer
sit down to a game, as it were, with the odds, of course,
altogether on the latter’s side,—apart from the fact that a writer
sometimes permits himself a little cheating. It more often happens
that the detective appears to be in the writer’s pay, and aids the
deception by leading the reader off on false scents. Be that as it
may, the professional sleuth is in nine cases out of ten a dummy by
malice prepense; and it might be plausibly argued that, in the
interests of pure art, that is what he ought to be. But genius
always finds a way that is better than the rules, and I think it
will be found that the very best riddle stories contrive to drive
character and riddle side by side, and to make each somehow enhance
the effect of the other.—The intention of the above paragraph will
be more precisely conveyed if I include under the name of detective
not only the man from the central office, but also anybody whom the
writer may, for ends of his own, consider better qualified for that
function. The latter is a professional detective so far as the
exigencies of the tale are concerned, and what becomes of him after
that nobody need care,—there is no longer anything to prevent his
becoming, in his own right, the most fascinating of mankind.
But in addition to the dummyship of the detective, or to the cases
in which the mere slip of circumstance takes his place, there is
another reason against narrowing our conception of the riddle story
to the degree which the alternative appellation would imply. And
that is, that it would exclude not a few of the most captivating
riddle stories in existence; for in De Quincey’s “Avenger,” for
example, the interest is not in the unraveling of the web, but in
the weaving of it. The same remark applies to Bulwer’s “Strange
Story”; it is the strangeness that is the thing. There is, in
short, an inalienable charm in the mere contemplation of mystery
and the hazard of fortunes; and it would be a pity to shut them out
from our consideration only because there is no second-sighted
conjurer on hand to turn them into plain matter of fact.
Yet we must not be too liberal; and a ghost story can be brought
into our charmed and charming circle only if we have made up our
minds to believe in the ghosts; otherwise their introduction would
not be a square deal. It would not be fair, in other words, to
propose a conundrum on a basis of ostensible materialism, and then,
when no other key would fit, to palm off a disembodied spirit on
us. Tell me beforehand that your scenario is to include both
worlds, and I have no objection to make; I simply attune my mind to
the more extensive scope. But I rebel at an unheralded ghostland,
and declare frankly that your tale is incredible. And I must
confess that I would as lief have ghosts kept out altogether; their
stories make a very good library in themselves, and have no need to
tag themselves on to what is really another department of fiction.
Nevertheless, when a ghost story is told with the consummate art of
a Miss Wilkins, and of one or two others on our list, consistency
in this regard ceases to be a jewel; art proves irresistible. As
for adventure stories, there is a fringe of them that comes under
the riddle-story head; but for the most part the riddle story
begins after the adventures have finished. We are to contemplate a
condition, not to watch the events that ultimate in it. Our
detective, or anyone else, may of course meet with haps and mishaps
on his way to the solution of his puzzle; but an astute writer will
not color such incidents too vividly, lest he risk forfeiting our
preoccupation with the problem that we came forth for to study. In
a word, One thing at a time!
The foregoing disquisition may seem uncalled for by such rigid
moralists as have made up their minds not to regard detective, or
riddle stories, as any part of respectable literature at all. With
that sect, I announce at the outset that I am entirely out of
sympathy. It is not needed to compare “The Gold Bug” with
“Paradise Lost”; nobody denies the superior literary stature of the
latter, although, as the Oxford Senior Wrangler objected, “What
does it prove?” But I appeal to Emerson, who, in his poem of “The
Mountain and the Squirrel,” states the nub of the argument, with
incomparable felicity, as follows:—you will recall that the two
protagonists had a difference, originating in the fact that the
former called the latter “Little Prig.” Bun made a very sprightly
retort, summing up to this effect:—
“Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut.”
Andes and Paradises Lost are expedient and perhaps necessary in
their proper atmosphere and function; but Squirrels and Gold Bugs
are indispensable in our daily walk. There is as fine and as true
literature in Poe’s Tales as in Milton’s epics; only the elevation
and dimensions differ. But I would rather live in a world that
possessed only literature of the Poe caliber, than shiver in one
echoing solely the strains of the Miltonian muse. Mere human
beings are not constructed to stand all day a-tiptoe on the misty
mountain tops; they like to walk the streets most of the time and
sit in easy chairs. And writings that picture the human mind and
nature, in true colors and in artistic proportions, are literature,
and nobody has any business to pooh-pooh them. In fact, I feel as
if I were knocking down a man of straw. I look in vain for any
genuine resistance. Of course “The Gold Bug” is literature; of
course any other story of mystery and puzzle is also literature,
provided it is as good as “The Gold Bug,”—or I will say, since
that standard has never since been quite attained, provided it is a
half or a tenth as good. It is goldsmith’s work; it is Chinese
carving; it is Daedalian; it is fine. It is the product of the
ingenuity lobe of the human brain working and expatiating in
freedom. It is art; not spiritual or transcendental art, but solid
art, to be felt and experienced. You may examine it at your
leisure, it will be always ready for you; you need not fast or
watch your arms overnight in order to understand it. Look at the
nice setting of the mortises; mark how the cover fits; how smooth
is the working of that spring drawer. Observe that this bit of
carving, which seemed mere ornament, is really a vital part of the
mechanism. Note, moreover, how balanced and symmetrical the whole
design is, with what economy and foresight every part is fashioned.
It is not only an ingenious structure, it is a handsome bit of
furniture, and will materially improve the looks of the empty
chambers, or disorderly or ungainly chambers that you carry under
your crown. Or if it happen that these apartments are noble in
decoration and proportions, then this captivating little object
will find a suitable place in some spare nook or other, and will
rest or entertain eyes too long focused on the severely sublime and
beautiful. I need not, however, rely upon abstract argument to
support my contention. Many of the best writers of all time have
used their skill in the inverted form of story telling, as a glance
at our table of contents will show; and many of their tales depend
for their effect as much on character and atmosphere as on the play
and complication of events.
The statement that a good detective or riddle story is good in art
is supported by the fact that the supply of really good ones is
relatively small, while the number of writers who would write good
ones if they could, and who have tried and failed to write them, is
past computation. And one reason probably is that such stories,
for their success, must depend primarily upon structure—a sound
and perfect plot—which is one of the rare things in our
contemporary fiction. Our writers get hold of an incident, or a
sentiment, or a character, or a moral principle, or a hit of
technical knowledge, or a splotch of local color, or even of a new
version of dialect, and they will do something in two to ten
thousand words out of that and call it a short story. Magazines
may be found to print it—for there are all manner of magazines;
but nothing of that sort will serve for a riddle story. You cannot
make a riddle story by beginning it and then trusting to luck to
bring it to an end. You must know all about the end and the middle
before thinking, even, of the beginning; the beginning of a riddle
story, unlike those of other stories and of other enterprises, is
not half the battle; it is next to being quite unimportant, and,
moreover, it is always easy. The unexplained corpse lies weltering
in its gore in the first paragraph; the inexplicable cipher
presents its enigma at the turning of the opening page. The writer
who is secure in the knowledge that he has got a good thing coming,
and has arranged the manner and details of its coming, cannot go
far wrong with his exordium; he wants to get into action at once,
and that is his best assurance that he will do it in the right way.
But O! what a labor and sweat it is; what a planning and trimming;
what a remodeling, curtailing, interlining; what despairs succeeded
by new lights, what heroic expedients tried at the last moment, and
dismissed the moment after; what wastepaper baskets full of
futilities, and what gallant commencements all over again! Did the
reader know, or remotely suspect, what terrific struggles the
writer of a really good detective story had sustained, he would
regard the final product with a new wonder and respect, and read it
all over once more to find out how the troubles occurred. But he
will search in vain; there are no signs of them left; no, not so
much as a scar. The tale moves along as smoothly and inevitably as
oiled machinery; obviously, it could not have been arranged
otherwise than it is; and the wise reader is convinced that he
could have done the thing himself without half trying. At that,
the weary writer smiles a bitter smile; but it is one of the spurns
that patient merit of the unworthy takes. Nobody, except him who
has tried it, will ever know how hard it is to write a really good
detective story. The man or woman who can do it can also write a
good play (according to modern ideas of plays), and possesses force
of character, individuality, and mental ability. He or she must
combine the intuition of the artist with the talent of the master
mechanic, but will seldom be a poet, and will generally care more
for things and events than for fellow creatures. For, although the
story is often concerned with righting some wrong, or avenging some
murder, yet it must be confessed that the author commonly succeeds
better in the measure of his ruthlessness in devising crimes and
giving his portraits of devils an extra touch of black. Mercy is
not his strong point, however he may abound in justice; and he will
not stickle at piling up the agony, if thereby he provides
opportunity for enhancing the picturesqueness and completeness of
the evil doer’s due.
But this leads me to the admission that one charge, at least, does
lie against the door of the riddle-story writer; and that is, that
he is not sincere; he makes his mysteries backward, and knows the
answer to his riddle before he states its terms. He deliberately
supplies his reader, also, with all manner of false scents, well
knowing them to be such; and concocts various seeming artless and
innocent remarks and allusions, which in reality are diabolically
artful, and would deceive the very elect. All this, I say, must be
conceded; but it is not unfair; the very object, ostensibly, of the
riddle story is to prompt you to sharpen your wits; and as you are
yourself the real detective in the case, so you must regard your
author as the real criminal whom you are to detect. Credit no
statement of his save as supported by the clearest evidence; be
continually repeating to yourself, “Timeo Danaos et dona
ferentes,”—nay, never so much as then. But, as I said before,
when the game is well set, you have no chance whatever against the
dealer; and for my own part, I never try to be clever when I go up
against these thimble-riggers; I believe all they tell me, and
accept the most insolent gold bricks; and in that way I
occasionally catch some of the very ablest of them napping; for
they are so subtle that they will sometimes tell you the truth
because they think you will suppose it to be a lie. I do not wish
to catch them napping, however; I cling to the wisdom of ignorance,
and childishly enjoy the way in which things work themselves out—
the cul-de-sac resolving itself at the very last moment into a
promising corridor toward the outer air. At every rebuff it is my
happiness to be hopelessly bewildered; and I gape with admiration
when the Gordian knot is untied. If the author be old-fashioned
enough to apostrophize the Gentle Reader, I know he must mean me,
and docilely give ear, and presently tumble head-foremost into the
treacherous pit he has digged for me. In brief, I am there to be
sold, and I get my money’s worth. No one can thoroughly enjoy
riddle stories unless he is old enough, or young enough, or, at any
rate, wise enough to appreciate the value of the faculty of being
surprised. Those sardonic and omniscient persons who know
everything beforehand, and smile compassionately or scornfully at
the artless outcries of astonishment of those who are uninformed,
may get an ill-natured satisfaction out of the persuasion that they
are superior beings; but there is very little meat in that sort of
happiness, and the uninformed have the better lot after all.
I need hardly point out that there is a distinction and a
difference between short riddle stories and long ones—novels. The
former require far more technical art for their proper development;
the enigma cannot be posed in so many ways, but must be stated once
for all; there cannot be false scents, or but a few of them; there
can be small opportunity for character drawing, and all kinds of
ornament and comment must be reduced to their very lowest terms.
Here, indeed, as everywhere, genius will have its way; and while a
merely talented writer would deem it impossible to tell the story
of “The Gold Bug” in less than a volume, Poe could do it in a few
thousand words, and yet appear to have said everything worth
saying. In the case of the Sherlock Holmes tales, they form a
series, and our previous knowledge of the hero enables the writer
to dispense with much description and accompaniment that would be
necessary had that eminent personage been presented in only a
single complication of events. Each special episode of the great
analyst’s career can therefore be handled with the utmost economy,
and yet fill all the requirements of intelligent interest and
comprehension. But, as a rule, the riddle novel approaches its
theme in a spirit essentially other than that which inspires the
short tale. We are given, as it were, a wide landscape instead of
a detailed genre picture. The number of the dramatis personae is
much larger, and the parts given to many of them may be very small,
though each should have his or her necessary function in the
general plan. It is much easier to create perplexity on these
terms; but on the other hand, the riddle novel demands a power of
vivid character portrayal and of telling description which are not
indispensable in the briefer narrative. A famous tale, published
perhaps forty years ago, but which cannot be included in our
series, tells the story of a murder the secret of which is
admirably concealed till the last; and much of the fascination of
the book is due to the ability with which the leading character,
and some of the subordinate ones, are drawn. The author was a
woman, and I have often marveled that women so seldom attempt this
form of literature; many of them possess a good constructive
faculty, and their love of detail and of mystery is notorious.
Perhaps they are too fond of sentiment; and sentiment must be
handled with caution in riddle stories. The fault of all riddle
novels is that they inevitably involve two kinds of interest, and
can seldom balance these so perfectly that one or the other of them
shall not suffer. The mind of the reader becomes weary in its
frequent journeys between human characters on one side the
mysterious events on the other, and would prefer the more single-
eyed treatment of the short tale. Wonder, too, is a very tender
and short-lived emotion, and sometimes perishes after a few pages.
Curiosity is tougher; but that too may be baffled too long, and end
by tiring of the pursuit while it is yet in its early stages. Many
excellent plots, admirable from the constructive point of view,
have been wasted by stringing them out too far; the reader
recognizes their merit, but loses his enthusiasm on account of a
sort of monotony of strain; he wickedly turns to the concluding
chapter, and the game is up. “The Woman in White,” by Wilkie
Collins, was published about 1860, I think, in weekly installments,
and certainly they were devoured with insatiable appetite by many
thousands of readers. But I doubt whether a book of similar merit
could command such a following to-day; and I will even confess that
I have myself never read the concluding parts, and do not know to
this day who the woman was or what were the wrongs from which she
so poignantly suffered.
The tales contained in the volumes herewith offered are the best
riddle or detective stories in the world, according to the best
judgment of the editors. They are the product of writers of all
nations; and translation, in this case, is less apt to be
misleading than with most other forms of literature, for a mystery
or a riddle is equally captivating in all languages. Many of the
good ones—perhaps some of the best ones—have been left out,
either because we missed them in our search, or because we had to
choose between them and others seemingly of equal excellence, and
were obliged to consider space limitations which, however
generously laid out, must have some end at last. Be that as it
may, we believe that there are enough good stories here to satisfy
the most Gargantuan hunger, and we feel sure that our volumes will
never be crowded off the shelf which has once made room for them.
If we have, now and then, a little transcended the strict
definition of the class of fiction which our title would promise,
we shall nevertheless not anticipate any serious quarrel with our
readers; if there be room to question the right of any given story
to appear in this company, there will be all the more reason for
accepting it on its own merits; for it had to be very good indeed
in order to overcome its technical disqualification. And if it did
not rightfully belong here, there would probably be objections as
strong to admitting it in any other collection. Between two or
more stools, it would be a pity to let it fall to the ground; so
let it be forgiven, and please us with whatever gift it has.
In many cases where copyrights were still unexpired, we have to
express our acknowledgments to writers and publishers who have
accorded us the courtesy of their leave to reproduce what their
genius or enterprise has created and put forth. To our readers we
take pleasure in presenting what we know cannot fail to give them
pleasure—a collection of the fruits of the finest literary
ingenuity and nicest art accessible to the human mind. Gaudeat,
non caveat emptor!