LITTLE CLASSICS
EDITED BY
ROSSITER JOHNSON
STORIES OF
TRAGEDY
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1914
COPYRIGHT, 1874, BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE _Edgar Allan Poe_ 7
THE LAUSON TRAGEDY _J. W. DeForest_ 56
THE IRON SHROUD _William Mudford_ 108
THE BELL-TOWER _Herman Melville_ 128
THE KATHAYAN SLAVE _Emily C. Judson_ 149
THE STORY OF LA ROCHE _Henry Mackenzie_ 165
THE VISION OF SUDDEN DEATH _Thomas De Quincey_ 182
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE.
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE.
“What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when
he hid himself among women, although puzzling questions, are
not beyond all conjecture.”—SIR THOMAS BROWNE.
The mental features discoursed of as the analytical are, in themselves,
but little susceptible of analysis. We appreciate them only in their
effects. We know of them, among other things, that they are always to
their possessor, when inordinately possessed, a source of the liveliest
enjoyment. As the strong man exults in his physical ability, delighting
in such exercises as call his muscles into action, so glories the analyst
in moral activity which disentangles. He derives pleasure from even the
most trivial occupations bringing his talent into play. He is fond of
enigmas, of conundrums, of hieroglyphics; exhibiting in his solutions
of each a degree of acumen which appears to the ordinary apprehension
preternatural. His results, brought about by the very soul and essence of
method, have, in truth, the whole air of intuition.
The faculty of re-solution is possibly much invigorated by mathematical
study, and especially by that highest branch of it which, unjustly,
and merely on account of its retrograde operations, has been called,
as if _par excellence_, analysis. Yet to calculate is not in itself to
analyze. A chess-player, for example, does the one, without effort at
the other. It follows that the game of chess, in its effects upon mental
character, is greatly misunderstood. I am not now writing a treatise, but
simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by observations very much
at random; I will, therefore, take occasion to assert that the higher
powers of the reflective intellect are more decidedly and more usefully
tasked by the unostentatious game of draughts than by all the elaborate
frivolity of chess. In this latter, where the pieces have different and
_bizarre_ motions, with various and variable values, what is only complex
is mistaken (a not unusual error) for what is profound. The _attention_
is here called powerfully into play. If it flag for an instant, an
oversight is committed, resulting in injury or defeat. The possible moves
being not only manifold, but involute, the chances of such oversights are
multiplied; and in nine cases out of ten, it is the more concentrative
rather than the more acute player who conquers. In draughts, on the
contrary, where the moves are _unique_ and have but little variation,
the probabilities of inadvertence are diminished, and the mere attention
being left comparatively unemployed, what advantages are obtained by
either party are obtained by superior _acumen_. To be less abstract: Let
us suppose a game of draughts where the pieces are reduced to four kings,
and where, of course, no oversight is to be expected. It is obvious that
here the victory can be decided (the players being at all equal) only
by some _recherché_ movement, the result of some strong exertion of the
intellect. Deprived of ordinary resources, the analyst throws himself
into the spirit of his opponent, identifies himself therewith, and not
unfrequently sees thus, at a glance, the sole methods (sometimes indeed
absurdly simple ones) by which he may seduce into error or hurry into
miscalculation.
Whist has long been noted for its influence upon what is termed the
calculating power; and men of the highest order of intellect have
been known to take an apparently unaccountable delight in it, while
eschewing chess as frivolous. Beyond doubt there is nothing of a
similar nature so greatly tasking the faculty of analysis. The best
chess-player in Christendom _may_ be little more than the best player
of chess; but proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in all
these more important undertakings where mind struggles with mind. When
I say proficiency, I mean that perfection in the game which includes a
comprehension of _all_ the sources whence legitimate advantage may be
derived. These are not only manifold, but multiform, and lie frequently
among recesses of thought altogether inaccessible to the ordinary
understanding. To observe attentively is to remember distinctly; and,
so far, the concentrative chess-player will do very well at whist;
while the rules of Hoyle (themselves based upon the mere mechanism of
the game) are sufficiently and generally comprehensible. Thus to have
a retentive memory, and to proceed by “the book,” are points commonly
regarded as the sum total of good playing. But it is in matters beyond
the limits of mere rule that the skill of the analyst is evinced. He
makes in silence a host of observations and inferences. So, perhaps,
do his companions; and the difference in the extent of the information
obtained lies not so much in the validity of the inference as in the
quality of the observation. The necessary knowledge is that of _what_ to
observe. Our player confines himself not at all; nor, because the game is
the object, does he reject deductions from things external to the game.
He examines the countenance of his partner, comparing it carefully with
that of each of his opponents. He considers the mode of assorting the
cards in each hand; often counting trump by trump, and honor by honor,
through the glances bestowed by their holders upon each. He notes every
variation of face as the play progresses, gathering a fund of thought
from the differences in the expression of certainty, of surprise, of
triumph, or chagrin. From the manner of gathering up a trick he judges
whether the person taking it can make another in the suit. He recognizes
what is played through feint, by the air with which it is thrown upon the
table. A casual or inadvertent word; the accidental dropping or turning
of a card, with the accompanying anxiety or carelessness in regard to
its concealment; the counting of the tricks, with the order of their
arrangement; embarrassment, hesitation, eagerness, or trepidation,—all
afford, to his apparently intuitive perception, indications of the true
state of affairs. The first two or three rounds having been played, he is
in full possession of the contents of each hand, and thenceforward puts
down his cards with as absolute a precision of purpose as if the rest of
the party had turned outward the faces of their own.
The analytical power should not be confounded with simple ingenuity; for
while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often
remarkably incapable of analysis. The constructive or combining power,
by which ingenuity is usually manifested, and to which the phrenologists
(I believe erroneously) have assigned a separate organ, supposing it a
primitive faculty, has been so frequently seen in those whose intellect
bordered otherwise upon idiocy, as to have attracted general observation
among writers on morals. Between ingenuity and the analytic ability there
exists a difference far greater, indeed, than that between the fancy and
the imagination, but of a character very strictly analogous. It will be
found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly
imaginative never otherwise than analytic.
The narrative which follows will appear to the reader somewhat in the
light of a commentary upon the propositions just advanced.
Residing in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of 18—, I
there became acquainted with a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin. This young
gentleman was of an excellent, indeed of an illustrious family, but, by
a variety of untoward events, had been reduced to such poverty that the
energy of his character succumbed beneath it, and he ceased to bestir
himself in the world, or to care for the retrieval of his fortunes. By
courtesy of his creditors, there still remained in his possession a small
remnant of his patrimony; and, upon the income arising from this, he
managed, by means of a rigorous economy, to procure the necessaries of
life, without troubling himself about its superfluities. Books, indeed,
were his sole luxuries, and in Paris these are easily obtained.
Our first meeting was at an obscure library in the Rue Montmartre,
where the accident of our both being in search of the same very rare
and very remarkable volume brought us into closer communion. We saw
each other again and again. I was deeply interested in the little
family history which he detailed to me with all that candor a Frenchman
indulges whenever mere self is the theme. I was astonished, too, at the
vast extent of his reading; and, above all, I felt my soul enkindled
within me by the wild fervor and the vivid freshness of his imagination.
Seeking in Paris the objects I then sought, I felt that the society of
such a man would be to me a treasure beyond price; and this feeling I
frankly confided to him. It was at length arranged that we should live
together during my stay in the city; and as my worldly circumstances were
somewhat less embarrassed than his own, I was permitted to be at the
expense of renting, and furnishing in a style which suited the rather
fantastic gloom of our common temper, a time-eaten and grotesque mansion,
long deserted through superstitions into which we did not inquire, and
tottering to its fall in a retired and desolate portion of the Faubourg
St. Germain.
Had the routine of our life at this place been known to the world, we
should have been regarded as madmen,—although, perhaps, as madmen of a
harmless nature. Our seclusion was perfect. We admitted no visitors.
Indeed, the locality of our retirement had been carefully kept a secret
from my own former associates; and it had been many years since Dupin had
ceased to know or be known in Paris. We existed within ourselves alone.
It was a freak of fancy in my friend (for what else shall I call it?) to
be enamored of the night for her own sake; and into this _bizarrerie_, as
into all his others, I quietly fell; giving myself up to his wild whims
with a perfect _abandon_. The sable divinity would not herself dwell
with us always; but we could counterfeit her presence. At the first dawn
of the morning we closed all the massy shutters of our old building;
lighted a couple of tapers which, strongly perfumed, threw out only the
ghastliest and feeblest of rays. By the aid of these we then busied our
souls in dreams,—reading, writing, or conversing, until warned by the
clock of the advent of the true Darkness. Then we sallied forth into the
streets, arm and arm, continuing the topics of the day, or roaming far
and wide until a late hour, seeking, amid the wild lights and shadows
of the populous city, that infinity of mental excitement which quiet
observation can afford.
At such times I could not help remarking and admiring (although from
his rich ideality I had been prepared to expect it) a peculiar analytic
ability in Dupin. He seemed, too, to take an eager delight in its
exercise,—if not exactly in its display,—and did not hesitate to confess
the pleasure thus derived. He boasted to me, with a low chuckling laugh,
that most men, in respect to himself, wore windows in their bosoms,
and was wont to follow up such assertions by direct and very startling
proofs of his intimate knowledge of my own. His manner at these moments
was frigid and abstract; his eyes were vacant in expression; while his
voice, usually a rich tenor, rose into a treble which would have sounded
petulantly but for the deliberateness and entire distinctness of the
enunciation. Observing him in these moods, I often dwelt meditatively
upon the old philosophy of the Bi-Part Soul, and amused myself with the
fancy of a double Dupin,—the creative and the resolvent.
Let it not be supposed, from what I have just said, that I am detailing
any mystery, or penning any romance. What I have described in the
Frenchman was merely the result of an excited, or perhaps of a diseased
intelligence. But of the character of his remarks at the periods in
question an example will best convey the idea.
We were strolling one night down a long dirty street, in the vicinity of
the Palais Royal. Being both, apparently, occupied with thought, neither
of us had spoken a syllable for fifteen minutes at least. All at once
Dupin broke forth with these words:—
“He is a very little fellow, that’s true, and would do better for the
_Théâtre des Variétés_.”
“There can be no doubt of that,” I replied unwittingly, and not at first
observing (so much had I been absorbed in reflection) the extraordinary
manner in which the speaker had chimed in with my meditations. In an
instant afterward I recollected myself, and my astonishment was profound.
“Dupin,” said I, gravely, “this is beyond my comprehension. I do not
hesitate to say that I am amazed, and can scarcely credit my senses. How
was it possible you should know I was thinking of—” Here I paused, to
ascertain beyond a doubt whether he really knew of whom I thought.
—“of Chantilly,” said he; “why do you pause? You were remarking to
yourself that his diminutive figure unfitted him for tragedy.”
This was precisely what had formed the subject of my reflections.
Chantilly was a _quondam_ cobbler of the Rue St. Denis, who, becoming
stage-mad, had attempted the _rôle_ of Xerxes, in Crébillon’s tragedy so
called, and been notoriously Pasquinaded for his pains.
“Tell me, for Heaven’s sake,” I exclaimed, “the method—if method there
is—by which you have been enabled to fathom my soul in this matter.” In
fact, I was even more startled than I would have been willing to express.
“It was the fruiterer,” replied my friend, “who brought you to the
conclusion that the mender of soles was not of sufficient height for
Xerxes _et id genus omne_.”
“The fruiterer!—you astonish me,—I know no fruiterer whomsoever.”
“The man who ran up against you as we entered the street: it may have
been fifteen minutes ago.”
I now remembered that, in fact, a fruiterer, carrying upon his head a
large basket of apples, had nearly thrown me down, by accident, as we
passed from the Rue C—— into the thoroughfare where we stood; but what
this had to do with Chantilly I could not possibly understand.
There was not a particle of _charlatânerie_ about Dupin. “I will
explain,” he said, “and that you may comprehend all clearly, we will
first retrace the course of your meditations, from the moment in which
I spoke to you until that of the _rencontre_ with the fruiterer in
question. The larger links of the chain run thus,—Chantilly, Orion, Dr.
Nichols, Epicurus, stereotomy, the street stones, the fruiterer.”
There are few persons who have not, at some period of their lives,
amused themselves in retracing the steps by which particular conclusions
of their own minds have been attained. The occupation is often full
of interest; and he who attempts it for the first time is astonished
by the apparently illimitable distance and incoherence between the
starting-point and the goal. What, then, must have been my amazement when
I heard the Frenchman speak what he had just spoken, and when I could not
help acknowledging that he had spoken the truth! He continued:—
“We had been talking of horses, if I remember aright, just before leaving
the Rue C——. This was the last subject we discussed. As we crossed into
this street, a fruiterer, with a large basket upon his head, brushing
quickly past us, thrust you upon a pile of paving-stones collected at a
spot where the causeway is undergoing repair. You stepped upon one of the
loose fragments, slipped, slightly strained your ankle, appeared vexed
or sulky, muttered a few words, turned to look at the pile, and then
proceeded in silence. I was not particularly attentive to what you did;
but observation has become with me, of late, a species of necessity.
“You kept your eyes upon the ground,—glancing, with a petulant
expression, at the holes and ruts in the pavement (so that I saw you
were still thinking of the stones), until we reached the little alley
called Lamartine, which has been paved, by way of experiment, with the
overlapping and riveted blocks. Here your countenance brightened up, and
perceiving your lips move, I could not doubt that you murmured the word
‘stereotomy,’ a term very affectedly applied to this species of pavement.
I knew that you could not say to yourself ‘stereotomy,’ without being
brought to think of atomies, and thus of the theories of Epicurus; and
since, when we discussed this subject not very long ago, I mentioned to
you how singularly, yet with how little notice, the vague guesses of that
noble Greek had met with confirmation in the late nebular cosmogony,
I felt that you could not avoid casting your eyes upward to the great
_nebula_ in Orion, and I certainly expected that you would do so. You did
look up; and I was now assured that I had correctly followed your steps.
But in that bitter _tirade_ upon Chantilly, which appeared in yesterday’s
_Musée_, the satirist, making some disgraceful allusions to the cobbler’s
change of name upon assuming the buskin, quoted a Latin line about which
we have often conversed. I mean the line,
‘Perdidit antiquum litera prima sonum.’
I had told you that this was in reference to Orion, formerly written
Urion; and, from certain pungencies connected with this explanation, I
was aware that you could not have forgotten it. It was clear, therefore,
that you would not fail to combine the two ideas of Orion and Chantilly.
That you did combine them I saw by the character of the smile which
passed over your lips. You thought of the poor cobbler’s immolation.
So far, you had been stooping in your gait; but now I saw you draw
yourself up to your full height. I was then sure that you reflected
upon the diminutive figure of Chantilly. At this point I interrupted
your meditations to remark that as, in fact, he _was_ a very little
fellow,—that Chantilly,—he would do better at the _Théâtre des Variétés_.”
Not long after this, we were looking over an evening edition of the
_Gazette des Tribunaux_, when the following paragraphs arrested our
attention:—
“EXTRAORDINARY MURDERS.—This morning, about three o’clock, the
inhabitants of the Quartier St. Roch were aroused from sleep by a
succession of terrific shrieks, issuing, apparently, from the fourth
story of a house in the Rue Morgue, known to be in the sole occupancy of
one Madame L’Espanaye, and her daughter, Mademoiselle Camille L’Espanaye.
After some delay, occasioned by a fruitless attempt to procure admission
in the usual manner, the gateway was broken in with a crow-bar, and
eight or ten of the neighbors entered, accompanied by two _gendarmes_.
By this time the cries had ceased; but, as the party rushed up the first
flight of stairs, two or more rough voices, in angry contention, were
distinguished, and seemed to proceed from the upper part of the house.
As the second landing was reached, these sounds, also, had ceased, and
everything remained perfectly quiet. The party spread themselves, and
hurried from room to room. Upon arriving at a large back chamber in the
fourth story (the door of which, being found locked, with the key inside,
was forced open), a spectacle presented itself which struck every one
present not less with horror than with astonishment.
“The apartment was in the wildest disorder,—the furniture broken and
thrown about in all directions. There was only one bedstead; and from
this the bed had been removed, and thrown into the middle of the floor.
On a chair lay a razor besmeared with blood. On the hearth were two or
three long and thick tresses of gray human hair, also dabbled in blood,
and seeming to have been pulled out by the roots. Upon the floor were
found four Napoleons, an ear-ring of topaz, three large silver spoons,
three smaller of _métal d’Alger_, and two bags, containing nearly four
thousand francs in gold. The drawers of a bureau, which stood in one
corner, were open, and had been, apparently, rifled, although many
articles still remained in them. A small iron safe was discovered under
the bed (not under the bedstead). It was open, with the key still in the
door. It had no contents beyond a few old letters, and other papers of
little consequence.
“Of Madame L’Espanaye no traces were here seen; but an unusual quantity
of soot being observed in the fireplace, a search was made in the
chimney, and (horrible to relate!) the corpse of the daughter, head
downward, was dragged therefrom, it having been thus forced up the narrow
aperture for a considerable distance. The body was quite warm. Upon
examining it, many excoriations were perceived, no doubt occasioned by
the violence with which it had been thrust up and disengaged. Upon the
face were many severe scratches, and upon the throat dark bruises and
deep indentations of finger-nails, as if the deceased had been throttled
to death.
“After a thorough investigation of every portion of the house without
further discovery, the party made its way into a small paved yard in the
rear of the building, where lay the corpse of the old lady, with her
throat so entirely cut that, upon an attempt to raise her, the head fell
off. The body, as well as the head, was fearfully mutilated, the former
so much so as scarcely to retain any semblance of humanity.
“To this horrible mystery there is not as yet, we believe, the slightest
clew.”
The next day’s paper had these additional particulars:—
“THE TRAGEDY IN THE RUE MORGUE.—Many individuals have been examined in
relation to this most extraordinary and frightful affair” [the word
_affaire_ has not yet, in France, that levity of import which it conveys
with us], “but nothing whatever has transpired to throw light upon it. We
give below all the material testimony elicited.
“_Pauline Dubourg_, laundress, deposes that she has known both the
deceased for three years, having washed for them during that period. The
old lady and her daughter seemed on good terms,—very affectionate towards
each other. They were excellent pay. Could not speak in regard to their
mode or means of living. Believed that Madame L. told fortunes for a
living. Was reputed to have money put by. Never met any persons in the
house when she called for the clothes or took them home. Was sure that
they had no servant in employ. There appeared to be no furniture in any
part of the building, except in the fourth story.
“_Pierre Moreau_, tobacconist, deposes that he has been in the habit of
selling small quantities of tobacco and snuff to Madame L’Espanaye for
nearly four years. Was born in the neighborhood, and has always resided
there. The deceased and her daughter had occupied the house in which the
corpses were found for more than six years. It was formerly occupied by
a jeweller, who under-let the upper rooms to various persons. The house
was the property of Madame L. She became dissatisfied with the abuse of
the premises by her tenant, and moved into them herself, refusing to let
any portion. The old lady was childish. Witness had seen the daughter
some five or six times during the six years. The two lived an exceedingly
retired life,—were reputed to have money. Had heard it said among the
neighbors that Madame L. told fortunes; did not believe it. Had never
seen any person enter the door except the old lady and her daughter, a
porter once or twice, and a physician some eight or ten times.
“Many other persons, neighbors, gave evidence to the same effect. No one
was spoken of as frequenting the house. It was not known whether there
were any living connections of Madame L. and her daughter. The shutters
of the front windows were seldom opened. Those in the rear were always
closed, with the exception of the large back room, fourth story. The
house was a good house, not very old.
“_Isidore Musèt_, _gendarme_, deposes that he was called to the house
about three o’clock in the morning, and found some twenty or thirty
persons at the gateway, endeavoring to gain admittance. Forced it
open, at length, with a bayonet,—not with a crow-bar. Had but little
difficulty in getting it open, on account of its being a double or
folding gate, and bolted neither at bottom nor top. The shrieks were
continued until the gate was forced, and then suddenly ceased. They
seemed to be screams of some person (or persons) in great agony; were
loud and drawn out, not short and quick. Witness led the way up stairs.
Upon reaching the first landing, heard two voices in loud and angry
contention; the one a gruff voice, the other much shriller,—a very
strange voice. Could distinguish some words of the former, which was
that of a Frenchman. Was positive that it was not a woman’s voice. Could
distinguish the words _sacré_ and _diable_. The shrill voice was that of
a foreigner. Could not be sure whether it was the voice of a man or of a
woman. Could not make out what was said, but believed the language to be
Spanish. The state of the room and of the bodies was described by this
witness as we described them yesterday.
“_Henri Duval_, a neighbor, and by trade a silversmith, deposes that
he was one of the party who first entered the house. Corroborates the
testimony of Musèt in general. As soon as they forced an entrance, they
reclosed the door to keep out the crowd, which collected very fast,
notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. The shrill voice, this witness
thinks, was that of an Italian. Was certain it was not French. Could not
be sure that it was a man’s voice. It might have been a woman’s. Was not
acquainted with the Italian language. Could not distinguish the words,
but was convinced by the intonation that the speaker was an Italian. Knew
Madame L. and her daughter. Had conversed with both frequently. Was sure
that the shrill voice was not that of either of the deceased.
“_—— Odenheimer_, _restaurateur_. This witness volunteered his testimony.
Not speaking French, was examined through an interpreter. Is a native of
Amsterdam. Was passing the house at the time of the shrieks. They lasted
for several minutes,—probably ten. They were long and loud, very awful
and distressing. Was one of those who entered the building. Corroborated
the previous evidence in every respect but one. Was sure that the shrill
voice was that of a man,—of a Frenchman. Could not distinguish the words
uttered. They were loud and quick, unequal, spoken apparently in fear as
well as in anger. The voice was harsh,—not so much shrill as harsh. Could
not call it a shrill voice. The gruff voice said repeatedly, _sacré_,
_diable_, and once _mon Dieu._
“_Jules Mignaud_, banker, of the firm of Mignaud et Fils, Rue Deloraine.
Is the elder Mignaud. Madame L’Espanaye had some property. Had opened
an account with his banking-house in the spring of the year —— (eight
years previously). Made frequent deposits in small sums. Had checked for
nothing until the third day before her death, when she took out in person
the sum of 4,000 francs. This sum was paid in gold, and a clerk sent home
with the money.
“_Adolphe Le Bon_, clerk to Mignaud et Fils, deposes that on the day in
question, about noon, he accompanied Madame L’Espanaye to her residence
with the 4,000 francs, put up in two bags. Upon the door being opened,
Mademoiselle L. appeared, and took from his hands one of the bags, while
the old lady relieved him of the other. He then bowed and departed. Did
not see any person in the street at the time. It is a by-street, very
lonely.
“_William Bird_, tailor, deposes that he was one of the party who entered
the house. Is an Englishman. Has lived in Paris two years. Was one of the
first to ascend the stairs. Heard the voices in contention. The gruff
voice was that of a Frenchman. Could make out several words, but cannot
now remember all. Heard distinctly _sacré_ and _mon Dieu_. There was a
sound at the moment as if of several persons struggling,—a scraping and
scuffling sound. The shrill voice was very loud,—louder than the gruff
one. Is sure that it was not the voice of an Englishman. Appeared to be
that of a German. Might have been a woman’s voice. Does not understand
German.
“Four of the above-named witnesses, being recalled, deposed that the
door of the chamber in which was found the body of Mademoiselle L. was
locked on the inside when the party reached it. Everything was perfectly
silent,—no groans or noises of any kind. Upon forcing the door no person
was seen. The windows, both of the back and front room, were down, and
firmly fastened from within. A door between the two rooms was closed,
but not locked. The door leading from the front room into the passage
was locked, with the key on the inside. A small room in the front of
the house, on the fourth story, at the head of the passage, was open,
the door being ajar. This room was crowded with old beds, boxes, and so
forth. These were carefully removed and searched. There was not an inch
of any portion of the house which was not carefully searched. Sweeps
were sent up and down the chimneys. The house was a four-story one, with
garrets (_mansardes_). A trap-door on the roof was nailed down very
securely,—did not appear to have been opened for years. The time elapsing
between the hearing of the voices in contention and the breaking open
of the room door was variously stated by the witnesses. Some made it as
short as three minutes, some as long as five. The door was opened with
difficulty.
“_Alfonzo Garcio_, undertaker, deposes that he resides in the Rue Morgue.
Is a native of Spain. Was one of the party who entered the house. Did not
proceed up stairs. Is nervous, and was apprehensive of the consequences
of agitation. Heard the voices in contention. The gruff voice was that of
a Frenchman. Could not distinguish what was said. The shrill voice was
that of an Englishman,—is sure of this. Does not understand the English
language, but judges by the intonation.
“_Alberto Montani_, confectioner, deposes that he was among the first to
ascend the stairs. Heard the voices in question. The gruff voice was that
of a Frenchman. Distinguished several words. The speaker appeared to be
expostulating. Could not make out the words of the shrill voice. Spoke
quick and unevenly. Thinks it the voice of a Russian. Corroborates the
general testimony. Is an Italian. Never conversed with a native of Russia.
“Several witnesses, recalled, here testified that the chimneys of all
the rooms on the fourth story were too narrow to admit the passage of a
human being. By ‘sweeps’ were meant cylindrical sweeping-brushes, such
as are employed by those who clean chimneys. These brushes were passed up
and down every flue in the house. There is no back passage by which any
one could have descended while the party proceeded up stairs. The body of
Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was so firmly wedged in the chimney that it could
not be got down until four or five of the party united their strength.
“_Paul Dumas_, physician, deposes that he was called to view the bodies
about daybreak. They were both then lying on the sacking of the bedstead
in the chamber where Mademoiselle L. was found. The corpse of the young
lady was much bruised and excoriated. The fact that it had been thrust
up the chimney would sufficiently account for these appearances. The
throat was greatly chafed. There were several deep scratches just below
the chin, together with a series of livid spots which were evidently
the impression of fingers. The face was fearfully discolored, and the
eyeballs protruded. The tongue had been partially bitten through. A
large bruise was discovered upon the pit of the stomach, produced,
apparently, by the pressure of a knee. In the opinion of M. Dumas,
Mademoiselle L’Espanaye had been throttled to death by some person or
persons unknown. The corpse of the mother was horribly mutilated. All
the bones of the right leg and arm were more or less shattered. The left
_tibia_ much splintered, as well as all the ribs of the left side. Whole
body dreadfully bruised and discolored. It was not possible to say how
the injuries had been inflicted. A heavy club of wood, or a broad bar of
iron, a chair, any large, heavy, and obtuse weapon, would have produced
such results, if wielded by the hands of a very powerful man. No woman
could have inflicted the blows with any weapon. The head of the deceased,
when seen by witness, was entirely separated from the body, and was also
greatly shattered. The throat had evidently been cut with some very sharp
instrument,—probably with a razor.
“_Alexandre Etienne_, surgeon, was called with M. Dumas to view the
bodies. Corroborated the testimony, and the opinions of M. Dumas.
“Nothing further of importance was elicited, although several other
persons were examined. A murder so mysterious, and so perplexing in all
its particulars, was never before committed in Paris,—if indeed a murder
has been committed at all. The police are entirely at fault,—an unusual
occurrence in affairs of this nature. There is not, however, the shadow
of a clew apparent.”
The evening edition of the paper stated that the greatest excitement
still continued in the Quartier St. Roch; that the premises in question
had been carefully researched, and fresh examinations of witnesses
instituted, but all to no purpose. A postscript, however, mentioned
that Adolphe Le Bon had been arrested and imprisoned, although nothing
appeared to criminate him, beyond the facts already detailed.
Dupin seemed singularly interested in the progress of this affair,—at
least so I judged from his manner, for he made no comments. It was only
after the announcement that Le Bon had been imprisoned, that he asked me
my opinion respecting the murders.
I could merely agree with all Paris in considering them an insoluble
mystery. I saw no means by which it would be possible to trace the
murderer.
“We must not judge of the means,” said Dupin, “by this shell of an
examination. The Parisian police, so much extolled for _acumen_, are
cunning, but no more. There is no method in their proceedings, beyond
the method of the moment. They make a vast parade of measures; but, not
unfrequently, these are so ill adapted to the objects proposed, as to put
us in mind of Monsieur Jourdain’s calling for his _robe-de-chambre—pour
mieux entendre la musique_. The results attained by them are not
unfrequently surprising, but, for the most part, are brought about by
simple diligence and activity. When these qualities are unavailing, their
schemes fail. Vidocq, for example, was a good guesser and a persevering
man. But, without educated thought, he erred continually by the very
intensity of his investigations. He impaired his vision by holding the
object too close. He might see, perhaps, one or two points with unusual
clearness, but in so doing he necessarily lost sight of the matter as a
whole. Thus there is such a thing as being too profound. Truth is not
always in a well. In fact, as regards the more important knowledge, I
do believe that she is invariably superficial. The depth lies in the
valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where she is
found. The modes and sources of this kind of error are well typified in
the contemplation of the heavenly bodies. To look at a star by glances,
to view it in a sidelong way, by turning toward it the exterior portions
of the _retina_ (more susceptible of feeble impressions of light than
the interior), is to behold the star distinctly, is to have the best
appreciation of its lustre,—a lustre which grows dim just in proportion
as we turn our vision _fully_ upon it. A greater number of rays actually
fall upon the eye in the latter case, but in the former there is the more
refined capacity for comprehension. By undue profundity we perplex and
enfeeble thought; and it is possible to make even Venus herself vanish
from the firmament by a scrutiny too sustained, too concentrated, or too
direct.
“As for these murders, let us enter into some examinations for ourselves,
before we make up an opinion respecting them. An inquiry will afford us
amusement” [I thought this an odd term, so applied, but said nothing],
“and, besides, Le Bon once rendered me a service for which I am not
ungrateful. We will go and see the premises with our own eyes. I know
G——, the Prefect of Police, and shall have no difficulty in obtaining the
necessary permission.”
The permission was obtained, and we proceeded at once to the Rue Morgue.
This is one of those miserable thoroughfares which intervene between the
Rue Richelieu and the Rue St. Roch. It was late in the afternoon when we
reached it, as this quarter is at a great distance from that in which we
resided. The house was readily found; for there were still many persons
gazing up at the closed shutters, with an objectless curiosity, from
the opposite side of the way. It was an ordinary Parisian house, with
a gateway, on one side of which was a glazed watch-box, with a sliding
panel in the window, indicating a _loge de concierge_. Before going in,
we walked up the street, turned down an alley, and then, again turning,
passed in the rear of the building,—Dupin, meanwhile, examining the
whole neighborhood, as well as the house, with a minuteness of attention
for which I could see no possible object.
Retracing our steps, we came again to the front of the dwelling, rang,
and, having shown our credentials, were admitted by the agents in charge.
We went up stairs,—into the chamber where the body of Mademoiselle
L’Espanaye had been found, and where both the deceased still lay. The
disorders of the room had, as usual, been suffered to exist. I saw
nothing beyond what had been stated in the _Gazette des Tribunaux_. Dupin
scrutinized everything,—not excepting the bodies of the victims. We then
went into the other rooms, and into the yard; a _gendarme_ accompanying
us throughout. The examination occupied us until dark, when we took our
departure. On our way home my companion stepped in for a moment at the
office of one of the daily papers.
I have said that the whims of my friend were manifold, and that _Je les
ménagais_,—for this phrase there is no English equivalent. It was his
humor, now, to decline all conversation on the subject of the murder,
until about noon the next day. He then asked me, suddenly, if I had
observed anything _peculiar_ at the scene of the atrocity.
There was something in his manner of emphasizing the word “peculiar”
which caused me to shudder, without knowing why.
“No, nothing _peculiar_,” I said; “nothing more, at least, than we both
saw stated in the paper.”
“The _Gazette_,” he replied, “has not entered, I fear, into the unusual
horror of the thing. But dismiss the idle opinions of this print. It
appears to me that this mystery is considered insoluble, for the very
reason which should cause it to be regarded as easy of solution,—I mean
for the _outré_ character of its features. The police are confounded
by the seeming absence of motive,—not for the murder itself,—but for
the atrocity of the murder. They are puzzled, too, by the seeming
impossibility of reconciling the voices heard in contention, with
the facts that no one was discovered up stairs but the assassinated
Mademoiselle L’Espanaye, and that there were no means of egress without
the notice of the party ascending. The wild disorder of the room; the
corpse thrust, with the head downward, up the chimney; the frightful
mutilation of the body of the old lady,—these considerations, with those
just mentioned, and others which I need not mention, have sufficed to
paralyze the powers, by putting completely at fault the boasted acumen
of the government agents. They have fallen into the gross but common
error of confounding the unusual with the abstruse. But it is by these
deviations from the plane of the ordinary, that reason feels its way, if
at all, in its search for the true. In investigations such as we are now
pursuing, it should not be so much asked ‘what has occurred,’ as ‘what
has occurred that has never occurred before.’ In fact, the facility with
which I shall arrive, or have arrived, at the solution of this mystery,
is in the direct ratio of its apparent insolubility in the eyes of the
police.”
I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment.
“I am now awaiting,” continued he, looking toward the door of our
apartment,—“I am now awaiting a person who, although perhaps not
the perpetrator of these butcheries, must have been in some measure
implicated in their perpetration. Of the worst portion of the crimes
committed, it is probable that he is innocent. I hope that I am right
in this supposition; for upon it I build my expectation of reading the
entire riddle. I look for the man here—in this room—every moment. It is
true that he may not arrive; but the probability is that he will. Should
he come, it will be necessary to detain him. Here are pistols; and we
both know how to use them when occasion demands their use.”
I took the pistols, scarcely knowing what I did, or believing what I
heard, while Dupin went on, very much as if in a soliloquy. I have
already spoken of his abstract manner at such times. His discourse was
addressed to myself; but his voice, although by no means loud, had that
intonation which is commonly employed in speaking to some one at a great
distance. His eyes, vacant in expression, regarded only the wall.
“That the voices heard in contention,” he said, “by the party upon the
stairs, were not the voices of the women themselves, was fully proved by
the evidence. This relieves us of all doubt upon the question whether
the old lady could have first destroyed the daughter, and afterward
have committed suicide. I speak of this point chiefly for the sake of
method; for the strength of Madame L’Espanaye would have been utterly
unequal to the task of thrusting her daughter’s corpse up the chimney as
it was found; and the nature of the wounds upon her own person entirely
precludes the idea of self-destruction. Murder, then, has been committed
by some third party; and the voices of this third party were those heard
in contention. Let me now advert, not to the whole testimony respecting
these voices, but to what was _peculiar_ in that testimony. Did you
observe anything peculiar about it?”
I remarked that, while all the witnesses agreed in supposing the gruff
voice to be that of a Frenchman, there was much disagreement in regard to
the shrill, or, as one individual termed it, the harsh voice.
“That was the evidence itself,” said Dupin, “but it was not the
peculiarity of the evidence. You have observed nothing distinctive. Yet
there _was_ something to be observed. The witnesses, as you remark,
agreed about the gruff voice; they were here unanimous. But in regard to
the shrill voice, the peculiarity is, not that they disagreed, but that,
while an Italian, an Englishman, a Spaniard, a Hollander, and a Frenchman
attempted to describe it, each one spoke of it as that _of a foreigner_.
Each is sure that it was not the voice of one of his own countrymen.
Each likens it, not to the voice of an individual of any nation with
whose language he is conversant, but the converse. The Frenchman supposes
it the voice of a Spaniard, and ‘might have distinguished some words
_had he been acquainted with the Spanish_.’ The Dutchman maintains it
to have been that of a Frenchman; but we find it stated that, ‘_not
understanding French, this witness was examined through an interpreter_.’
The Englishman thinks it the voice of a German, and ‘_does not understand
German_.’ The Spaniard ‘is sure’ that it was that of an Englishman,
but ‘judges by the intonation’ altogether, ‘_as he has no knowledge
of the English_.’ The Italian believes it the voice of a Russian, but
‘_has never conversed with a native of Russia_.’ A second Frenchman
differs, moreover, with the first, and is positive that the voice was
that of an Italian; but, _not being cognizant of that tongue_, is, like
the Spaniard, ‘convinced by the intonation.’ Now, how strangely unusual
must that voice have really been, about which such testimony as this
_could_ have been elicited!—in whose _tones_, even, denizens of the five
great divisions of Europe could recognize nothing familiar! You will
say that it might have been the voice of an Asiatic, of an African.
Neither Asiatics nor Africans abound in Paris; but, without denying
the inference, I will now merely call your attention to three points.
The voice is termed by one witness ‘harsh rather than shrill.’ It is
represented by two others to have been ‘quick and _unequal_.’ No words—no
sounds resembling words—were by any witness mentioned as distinguishable.
“I know not,” continued Dupin, “what impression I may have made, so
far, upon your own understanding; but I do not hesitate to say that
legitimate deductions even from this portion of the testimony—the portion
respecting the gruff and shrill voices—are in themselves sufficient to
engender a suspicion which should give direction to all further progress
in the investigation of the mystery. I said ‘legitimate deductions’; but
my meaning is not thus fully expressed. I designed to imply that the
deductions are the _sole_ proper ones, and that the suspicion arises
_inevitably_ from them as the single result. What the suspicion is,
however, I will not say just yet. I merely wish you to bear in mind
that, with myself it was sufficiently forcible to give a definite form—a
certain tendency—to my inquiries in the chamber.
“Let us now transport ourselves, in fancy, to this chamber. What shall
we first seek here? The means of egress employed by the murderers. It
is not too much to say that neither of us believes in preternatural
events. Madame and Mademoiselle L’Espanaye were not destroyed by spirits.
The doers of the deed were material, and escaped materially. Then how?
Fortunately, there is but one mode of reasoning upon the point, and that
mode _must_ lead us to a definite decision. Let us examine, each by each,
the possible means of egress. It is clear that the assassins were in the
room where Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was found, or at least in the room
adjoining, when the party ascended the stairs. It is then only from these
two apartments that we have to seek issues. The police have laid bare the
floors, the ceilings, and the masonry of the walls, in every direction.
No _secret_ issues could have escaped their vigilance. But, not trusting
to _their_ eyes, I examined with my own. There were, then, _no_ secret
issues. Both doors leading from the rooms into the passage were securely
locked, with the keys inside. Let us turn to the chimneys. These,
although of ordinary width for some eight or ten feet above the hearths,
will not admit, throughout their extent, the body of a large cat. The
impossibility of egress, by means already stated, being thus absolute, we
are reduced to the windows. Through those of the front room no one could
have escaped without notice from the crowd in the street. The murderers
_must_ have passed, then, through those of the back room. Now, brought
to this conclusion in so unequivocal a manner as we are, it is not our
part, as reasoners, to reject it on account of apparent impossibilities.
It is only left for us to prove that these apparent ‘impossibilities’
are, in reality, not such.