The detective-story which Poe invented sharply differentiates itself
from the earlier tales of mystery, and also from the later narratives
in which actual detectives figure incidentally. Perhaps the first of
these tales of mystery is Walpole's 'Castle of Otranto,' which appears
to us now clumsy enough, with its puerile attempts to excite terror. The
romances of Mrs. Radcliffe are scarcely more solidly built--indeed, the
fatigue of the sophisticated reader of to-day when he undertakes the
perusal of these old-fashioned and long-winded chronicles may be
ascribed partly to the flimsiness of the foundation which is supposed to
support the awe-inspiring super-structure. Godwin's 'Caleb Williams' is
far more firmly put together; and its artful planning called for
imagination as well as mere invention. In the 'Edgar Huntley' of Charles
Brockden Brown the veil of doubt skilfully shrouds the unsuspected and
the unsuspecting murderer who did the evil deed in his
sleep--anticipating the somnambulist hero of Wilkie Collins's
'Moonstone.'
The disadvantages of this mystery-mongering have been pointed out by Poe
with his wonted acuteness in his criticism of 'Barnaby Rudge.' After
retelling the plot of Dickens's contorted narrative, and after putting
the successive episodes into their true sequence, Poe asserted that "the
thesis of the novel may thus be regarded as based upon curiosity," and
he declared that "every point is so arranged as to perplex the reader
and whet his desire for elucidation." He insisted "that the secret be
well kept is obviously necessary," because if it leaks out "against the
author's will, his purposes are immediately at odds and ends." Then he
remarked that altho "there can be no question that ... many points ...
which would have been comparatively insipid even if given in full detail
in a natural sequence, are endued with the interest of mystery; but
neither can it be denied that a vast many more points are at the same
time deprived of all effect, and become null, through the impossibility
of comprehending them without the key." In other words, the novelist has
chosen to sacrifice to the fleeting interest which is evoked only by
wonder the more abiding interest which is aroused by the clear
perception of the inter-play of character and motive. Poe suggested that
even 'Barnaby Rudge'--in spite of its author's efforts to keep secret
the real springs of action which controlled the characters--if taken up
a second time by a reader put into possession of all that had been
concealed, would be found to possess quadruple brilliance, "a brilliance
unprofitably sacrificed at the shrine of the keenest interest of mere
mystery."
Dickens was not the last novelist of note to be tempted and to fall
into this snare. In the 'Disciple,' and again in 'André Cornélis' M.
Paul Bourget was lured from the path of psychologic analysis into the
maze of mystery-mongering; but he had the tact to employ his secrets to
excite interest only in the beginning of what were, after all, studies
from life, each of them setting forth the struggle of a man with the
memory of his crime. In the 'Wreckers' Stevenson and his young
collaborator attempted that "form of police novel or mystery-story which
consisted in beginning your yarn anywhere but at the beginning, and
finishing it anywhere but at the end." They were attracted by its
"peculiar interest when done, and the peculiar difficulties that attend
its execution." They were "repelled by that appearance of insincerity
and shallowness of tone which seems its inevitable drawback," because
"the mind of the reader always bent to pick up clews receives no
impression of reality or life, rather of an airless, elaborate
mechanism; and the book remains enthralling, but insignificant, like a
game of chess, not a work of human art." They hoped to find a new way of
handling the old tale of mystery, so that they might get the profit
without paying the price. But already in his criticism of 'Barnaby
Rudge' had Poe showed why disappointment was unavoidable, because the
more artfully the dark intimations of horror are held out, the more
certain it is that the anticipation must surpass the reality. No matter
how terrific the circumstances may be which shall appear to have
occasioned the mystery, "still they will not be able to satisfy the mind
of the reader. He will surely be disappointed."
Even Balzac, with all his mastery of the novelist's art, lost more than
he gained when he strove to arouse the interest of his readers by an
appeal to their curiosity. His mystery-mongering is sometimes perilously
close to blatant sensationalism and overt charlatanry; and he seems to
be seeking the bald effect for its own sake. In the 'Chouans,' and again
in the 'Ténébreuse Affaire,' he has complicated plots and counterplots
entangled almost to confusion, but the reader "receives no impression of
reality or life" even if these novels cannot be dismist as empty
examples of "airless, elaborate mechanism."
The members of the secret police appearing in these stories have all a
vague likeness to Vidocq, whose alleged memoirs were published in 1828,
a few years before the author of the 'Human Comedy' began to deal with
the scheming of the underworld. Balzac's spies and his detectives are
not convincing, despite his utmost effort; and we do not believe in
their preternatural acuteness. Even in the conduct of their intrigues
we are lost in a murky mistiness. Balzac is at his best when he is
arousing the emotions of recognition; and he is at his worst when he
sinks to evoking the emotions of surprize.