<1> A SEQUEL TO 'THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE' Es giebt eine Reihe idealischer Begebenheiten, die der Wirklichkeit parallel lauft. Selten fallen sie zusammen. Menschen und Zufalle modificeren gewohnlich die idealische Begebenheit, so dass sie unvollkommem erscheint, und ihre Folgen gleichfalls unvollkommen sind. So bei der Reformation; statt des Protestantismus kam das Lutherthum hervor. There are ideal series of events which run parallel with the real ones. They rarely coincide. Men and circumstances generally modify the ideal train of events, so that it seems imperfect, and its consequences are equally imperfect. Thus with the Reformation; instead of Protestantism came Lutheranism. --NOVALIS. There are few persons, even among the calmest thinkers, who have not occasionally been startled into a vague yet thrilling half-credence in the supernatural, by of so seemingly marvellous a character that, as coincidences, the intellect has <1> Upon the original publication of , the foot-notes now appended were considered unnecessary; but the lapse of several years since the tragedy upon which the tale is based, renders it expedient to give them, and also to say a few words in explanation of the general design. A young girl, , was murdered in the vicinity of New York; and although her death occasioned an intense and long-enduring excitement, the mystery attending it had remained unsolved at the period when the present paper was written and published (November, 1842). Herein, under pretence of relating the fate of a Parisian , the author has followed, in minute detail, the essential, while merely paralleling the inessential, facts of the real murder of Mary Rogers. Thus all argument upon the fiction is applicable to the truth; and the investigation of the truth was the object. was composed at a distance from the scene of the atrocity, and with no other means of investigation than the newspapers afforded. Thus much escaped the writer of which he could have availed himself had he been upon the spot and visited the localities. It may not be improper to record, nevertheless, that the confessions of persons (one of them the Madame Deluc of the narrative), made, at different periods, long subsequent to the publication, confirmed, in full, not only the general conclusion, but absolutely the chief hypothetical details by which that conclusion was attained.
been unable to receive them. Such sentiments--for the half- credences of which I speak have never the full force of --such sentiments are seldom thoroughly stifled unless by reference to the doctrine of chance, or, as it is technically termed, the Calculus of Probabilities. Now this Calculus is, in its essence, purely mathematical; and thus we have the anomaly of the most rigidly exact in science applied to the shadow and spirituality of the most intangible in speculation. The extraordinary details which I am now called upon to make public, will be found to form, as regards sequences of time, the primary branch of a series of scarcely intelligible , whose secondary or concluding branch will be recognized by all readers in the late murder of MARY CECILIA ROGERS, at New York. When, in an article entitled, , I endeavoured, about a year ago, to depict some very remarkable features in the mental character of my friend, the Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin, it did not occur to me that I should ever resume the subject. This depicting of character constituted my design; and this design was thoroughly fulfilled in the wild train of circumstances brought to instance Dupin's idiosyncrasy. I might have adduced other examples, but I should have proven no more. Late events, however, in their surprising development, have startled me into some further details, which will carry with them the air of extorted confession. Hearing what I have lately heard, it would be indeed strange should I remain silent in regard to what I both heard and saw long ago. Upon the winding up of the tragedy involved in the deaths of Madame L'Espanaye and her daughter, the Chevalier dismissed the affair at once from his attention, and relapsed into his old habits of moody reverie. Prone, at all times, to abstraction, I readily fell in with his humour; and continuing to occupy our chambers in the Faubourg Saint Germain, we gave the Future to the winds, and slumbered tranquillity in the Present, weaving the dull world around us into dreams. But these dreams were not altogether uninterrupted. It may readily be supposed that the part played by my friend, in the drama at the Rue Morgue, had not failed of its impression upon
the fancies of the Parisian police. With its emissaries, the name of Dupin had grown into a household word. The simple character of those inductions by which he had disentangled the mystery never having been explained even to the Prefect, or to any other individual than myself, of course it is not surprising that the affair was regarded as little less than miraculous, or that the Chevalier's analytical abilities acquired for him the credit of intuition. His frankness would have led him to disabuse every inquirer of such prejudice; but his indolent humour forbade all further agitation of a topic whose interest to himself had long ceased. It thus happened that he found himself the cynosure of the political eyes; and the cases were not few in which attempt was made to engage his services at the Prefecture. One of the most remarkable instances was that of the murder of a young girl named Marie Roget. This event occurred about two years after the atrocity in the Rue Morgue. Marie, whose Christian and family name will at once arrest attention from their resemblance to those of the unfortunate 'cigar-girl', was the only daughter of the widow Estelle Roget. The father had died during the child's infancy, and from the period of his death, until within eighteen months before the assassination which forms the subject of our narrative, the mother and daughter had dwelt together in the Rue Pavee Saint Andree;<1> Madame there keeping a , assisted by Marie. Affairs went on thus until the latter had attained her twenty-second year, when her great beauty attracted the notice of a perfumer, who occupied one of the shops in the basement of the Palais Royal, and whose custom lay chiefly among the desperate adventurers infesting that neighbourhood. Monsieur Le Blanc<2> was not unaware of the advantages to be derived from the attendance of the fair Marie in his perfumery; and his liberal proposals were accepted eagerly by the girl, although with somewhat more of hesitation by Madame. The anticipations of the shopkeeper were realized, and his rooms soon became notorious through the charms of the sprightly . She had been in his employ about a year, when her <1>Nassau Street. <2>Anderson.
admirers were thrown into confusion by her sudden disappearance from the shop. Monsieur Le Blanc was unable to account for her absence, and Madame Roget was distracted with anxiety and terror. The public papers immediately took up the theme, and the police were upon the point of making serious investigations, when, one morning, after the lapse of a week, Marie, in good health, but with a somewhat saddened air, made her reappearance at her usual counter in the perfumery. All inquiry, except that of a private character, was, of course, immediately hushed. Monsieur Le Blanc professed total ignorance, as before. Marie, with Madame, replied to all questions, that the last week had been spent at the house of a relation in the country. Thus the affair died away, and was generally forgotten; for the girl, ostensibly to relieve herself from the impertinence of curiosity, soon bade a final adieu to the perfumer, and sought the shelter of her mother's residence in the Rue Pavee Saint Andree. It was about five months after this return home, that her friends were alarmed by her sudden disappearance for the second time. Three days elapsed, and nothing was heard of her. On the fourth her corpse was found floating in the Seine,<1> near the shore which is opposite the Quartier of the Rue Saint Andree, and at a point not very far distant from the secluded neighbourhood of the Barriere du Roule.<2> The atrocity of this murder (for it was at once evident that murder had been committed), the youth and beauty of the victim, and, above all, her previous notoriety, conspired to produce intense excitement in the minds of the sensitive Parisians. I can call to mind no similar occurrence producing so general and intense an effect. For several weeks, in the discussion of this one absorbing theme, even the momentous political topics of the day were forgotten. The Prefect made unusual exertions; and the powers of the whole Parisian police were, of course, tasked to the utmost extent. Upon the first discovery of the corpse, it was not supposed that the murderer would be able to elude, for more than a very brief <1>The Hudson. <2>Weehawken.
period, the inquisition which was immediately set on foot. It was not until the expiration of a week that it was deemed necessary to offer a reward; and even then this reward was limited to a thousand francs. In the meantime the investigation proceeded with vigour, if not always with judgment, and numerous individuals were examined to no purpose; while, owing to the continual absence of all clue to the mystery, the popular excitement greatly increased. At the end of the tenth day it was thought advisable to double the sum originally proposed; and, at length, the second week having elapsed without leading to any discoveries, and the prejudice which always exists in Paris against the police having given vent to itself in several serious , the Prefect took it upon himself to offer the sum of twenty thousand francs 'for the conviction of the assassin', or, if more than one should prove to have been implicated, 'for the conviction of any one of the assassins'. In the proclamation setting forth this reward, a full pardon was promised to any accomplice who should come forward in evidence against his fellow; and to the whole was appended, wherever it appeared, the private placard of a committee of citizens, offering ten thousand francs, in addition to the amount proposed by the Prefecture. The entire reward thus stood at no less than thirty thousand francs, which will be regarded as an extraordinary sum when we consider the humble condition of the girl, and the great frequency, in large cities, of such atrocities as the one described. No one doubted now that the mystery of this murder would be immediately brought to light. But although, in one or two instances, arrests were made which promised elucidation, yet nothing was elicited which could implicate the parties suspected; and they were discharged forthwith. Strange as it may appear, the third week from the discovery of the body had passed, and passed without any light being thrown upon the subject, before even a rumour of the events which had so agitated the public mind reached the ears of Dupin and myself. Engaged in researches which had absorbed our whole attention, it had been nearly a month since either of us had gone abroad, or received a visitor, or more than glanced at the leading political articles in one of the daily papers. The first intelligence of the murder was brought us
by G----, in person. He called upon us early in the afternoon of the thirteenth of July 18--, and remained with us until late in the night. He had been piqued by the failure of all his endeavours to ferret out the assassins. His reputation--so he said with a peculiarly Parisian air--was at stake. Even his honour was concerned. The eyes of the public were upon him; and there was really no sacrifice which he would not be willing to make for the development of the mystery. He concluded a somewhat droll speech with a compliment upon what he was pleased to term the of Dupin, and made him a direct and certainly a liberal proposition, the precise nature of which I do not feel myself at liberty to disclose, but which has no bearing upon the proper subject of my narrative. The compliment my friend rebutted as best he could, but the proposition he accepted at once, although its advantages were altogether provisional. This point being settled, the Prefect broke forth at once into explanations of his own views, interspersing them with long comments upon the evidence; of which latter we were not yet in possession. He discoursed much and, beyond doubt, learnedly; while I hazarded an occasional suggestion as the night wore drowsily away. Dupin, sitting steadily in his accustomed arm-chair, was the embodiment of respectful attention. He wore spectacles, during the whole interview; and an occasional glance beneath their green glasses sufficed to convince me that he slept not the less soundly, because silently, throughout the seven or eight leaden-footed hours which immediately preceded the departure of the Prefect. In the morning, I procured, at the Prefecture, a full report of all the evidence elicited, and, at the various newspaper offices, a copy of every paper in which, from first to last, had been published any decisive information in regard to this sad affair. Freed from all that was positively disproved, the mass of information stood thus: Marie Roget left the residence of her mother, in the Rue Pavee St Andree, about nine o'clock in the morning of Sunday, June the twenty-second, 18--. In going out, she gave notice to a Monsieur Jacques St Eustache,<1> and to him only, of her intention to spend the day with an aunt, who resided in the Rue des Dromes. The Rue <1>Payne.
des Dromes is a short and narrow but populous thoroughfare, not far from the banks of the river, and at a distance of some two miles, in the most direct course possible, from the of Madame Roget. St Eustache was the accepted suitor of Marie, and lodged, as well as took his meals, at the . He was to have gone for his betrothed at dusk, and to have escorted her home. In the afternoon, however, it came on to rain heavily; and, supposing that she would remain at her aunt's (as she had done under similar circumstances before), he did not think it necessary to keep his promise. As night drew on, Madame Roget (who was an infirm old lady, seventy years of age) was heard to express a fear 'that she should never see Marie again'; but this observation attracted little attention at the time. On Monday it was ascertained that the girl had not been to the Rue des Dromes; and when the day elapsed without tidings of her, a tardy search was instituted at several points in the city and its environs. It was not, however, until the fourth day from the period of her disappearance that anything satisfactory was ascertained respecting her. On this day (Wednesday, the twenty- fifth of June) a Monsieur Beauvais,<1> who, with a friend, had been making inquiries for Marie near the Barriere du Roule, on the shore of the Seine which is opposite the Rue Pavee St Andree, was informed a corpse had just been towed ashore by some fishermen, who had found it floating in the river. Upon seeing the body, Beauvais, after some hesitation, identified it as that of the perfumery girl. His friend recognized it more promptly. The face was suffused with dark blood, some of which issued from the mouth. No foam was seen, as in the case of the merely drowned. There was no discoloration in the cellular tissue. About the throat were bruises and impressions of fingers. The arms were bent over on the chest, and were rigid. The right hand was clenched; the left partially open. On the left wrist were two circular excoriations, apparently the effect of ropes, or of a rope in more than one volution. A part of the right wrist, also, was much chafed, as well as the back throughout its extent, but more especially at the shoulder-blades. In bringing the body to the shore the <1>Crommelin.
fishermen had attached to it a rope, but none of the excoriations had been effected by this. The flesh of the neck was much swollen. There were no cuts apparent, or bruises which appeared the effect of blows. A piece of lace was found tied so tightly around the neck as to be hidden from sight; it was completely buried in the flesh, and was fastened by a knot which lay just under the left ear. This alone would have sufficed to produce death. The medical testimony spoke confidently of the virtuous character of the deceased. She had been subjected, it said, to brutal violence. The corpse was in such condition when found that there could have been no difficulty in its recognition by friends. The dress was much torn and otherwise disordered. In the outer garment, a slip, about a food wide, had been torn upward from the bottom hem to the waist, but not torn off. It was wound three times around the waist, and secured by a sort of hitch in the back. The dress immediately beneath the frock was of fine muslin; and from this a slip eighteen inches wide had been torn entirely out-- torn very evenly and with great care. It was found around her neck, fitting loosely, and secured with a hard knot. Over this muslin slip and the slip of lace the strings of a bonnet were attached, the bonnet being apprehended. The knot by which the strings of the bonnet were fastened was not a lady's, but a slip or sailor's knot. After the recognition of the corpse, it was not, as usual, taken to the Morgue (this formality being superfluous), but hastily interred not far from the spot at which it was brought ashore. Through the exertions of Beauvais, the matter was industriously hushed up, as far as possible; and several days had elapsed before any public emotion resulted. A weekly paper,<1> however, at length took up the theme; the corpse was disinterred, and a re-examination instituted; but nothing was elicited beyond what has been already noted. The clothes, however, were now submitted to the mother and friends of the deceased and fully identified as those worn by the girl upon leaving home. Meantime, the excitement increased hourly. Several individuals were arrested and discharged. St Eustache fell especially under <1>The New York .
suspicion; and he failed, at first, to give an intelligible account of his whereabouts during the Sunday on which Marie left home. Subsequently, however, he submitted to Monsieur G----, affidavits, accounting satisfactorily for every hour of the day in question. As time passed and no discovery ensued, a thousand contradictory rumours were circulated, and journalists busied themselves in . Among these, the one which attracted the most notice, was the idea that Marie Roget still lived--that the corpse found in the Seine was that of some other unfortunate. It will be proper that I submit to the reader some passages which embody the suggestion alluded to. These passages are translations from ,<1> a paper conducted, in general, with much ability. 'Mademoiselle Roget left her mother's house on Sunday morning, June the twenty-second, 18--, with the ostensible purpose of going to see her aunt, or some other connection in the Rue des Dromes. From that hour, nobody is proved to have seen her. There is no trace or tidings of her at all. . . . There has no person, whatever, come forward, so far, who saw her at all, on that day, after she left her mother's door. . . . Now, though we have no evidence that Marie Roget was in the land of the living after nine o'clock on Sunday, June the twenty-second, we have proof that, up to that hour, she was alive. On Wednesday noon, at twelve, a female body was discovered afloat on the shore of the Barriere du Roule. This was, even if we presume that Marie Roget was thrown into the river within three hours after she left her mother's house, only three days from the time she left her home--three days to an hour. But it is folly to suppose that the murder, if murder was committed on her body, could have been consummated soon enough to have enabled her murderers to throw the body into the river before midnight. Those who are guilty of such horrid crimes choose darkness rather than light. . . . Thus we see that if the body found in the river that of Marie Roget, it could only have been in the water two and a half days, or three at the outside. All experience has shown that drowned bodies, or bodies thrown into the water immediately after death by violence, require from six to <1>The New York , edited by H. Hastings Weld, Esq.
ten days for sufficient decomposition to take place to bring them to the top of the water. Even where a cannon is fired over a corpse, and it rises before, at least, five or six days' immersion, it sinks again, if let alone. Now, we ask what was there in this case to cause a departure from the ordinary course of nature? . . . if the body had been kept in its mangled state on shore until Tuesday night, some trace would be found on shore of the murderers. It is a doubtful point, also, whether the body would be so soon afloat, even were it thrown in after having been dead two days. And, furthermore, it is exceedingly improbable that any villains who had committed such a murder as is here supposed, would have thrown the body in without weight to sink it, when such a precaution could have so easily been taken.' The editor here proceeds to argue that the body must have been in water 'not three days merely, but, at least, five times three days', because it was so far decomposed that Beauvais had great difficulty in recognizing it. This latter point, however, was fully disproved. I continued the translation: 'What, then, are the facts on which M. Beauvais says that he has no doubt the body was that of Marie Roget? He ripped up the gown sleeve, and says he found marks which satisfied him of the identity. The public generally supposed those marks to have consisted of some description of scars. He rubbed the arm and found upon it--something as indefinite, we think, as can readily be imagined--as little conclusive as finding an arm in the sleeve. M. Beauvais did not return that night, but sent word to Madame Roget, at seven o'clock, on Wednesday evening, that an investigation was still in progress respecting her daughter. If we allow that Madame Roget, from her age and grief, could not go over (which is allowing a great deal), there certainly must have been some one who would have thought it worth while to go over and attend the investigation, if they thought the body was that of Marie. Nobody went over. There was nothing said or heard about the matter in the Rue Pavee St Andree, that reached even the occupants of the same building. M St Eustache, the lover and intended husband of Marie, who boarded in her mother's house, deposes that he did not hear of the discovery of the body of his intended until the next morning, when M. Beauvais came into his
chamber and told him of it. For an item of news like this, it strikes us it was very coolly received.' In this way the journal endeavoured to create the impression of an apathy on the part of the relatives of Marie, inconsistent with the supposition that these relatives believed the corpse to be hers. Its insinuations amount to this; that Marie, with the connivance of her friends, had absented herself from the city for reasons involving a charge against her chastity; and that these friends upon the discovery of a corpse in the Seine, somewhat resembling that of the girl, had availed themselves of the opportunity to impress the public with the belief of her death. But was again over-hasty. It was distinctly proved that no apathy, such as was imagined, existed; that the old lady was exceedingly feeble, and so agitated as to be unable to attend to any duty; that St Eustache, so far from receiving the news coolly, was distracted with grief, and bore himself so frantically, that M. Beauvais prevailed upon a friend and relative to take charge of him, and prevent his attending the examination at the disinterment. Moreover, although it was stated by , that the corpse was re-interred at public expense, that an advantageous offer of private sepulture was absolutely declined by the family, and that no member of the family attended the ceremonial;--although, I say, all this was asserted by in furtherance of the impression it designed to convey--yet this was satisfactorily disproved. In a subsequent number of the paper, an attempt was made to throw suspicion upon Beauvais himself. The editor says: 'Now, then, a change comes over the matter. We are told that, on one occasion, while a Madame B---- was at Madame Roget's house, M. Beauvais, who was going out, told her that a was expected there, and that she, Madame B----, must not say anything to the until he returned, but let the matter be for him. . . . In the present posture of affairs M. Beauvais appears to have the whole matter locked up in his head. A single step cannot be taken without M. Beauvais, for go which way you will, you run against him. . . . For some reason he determined that nobody shall have anything to do with the proceedings but himself, and he has elbowed the male relatives out of the way, according to their representations, in a very singular manner. He seems
to have been very much averse to permitting the relatives to see the body.' By the following fact, some colour was given to the suspicion thus thrown upon Beauvais. A visitor at his office, a few days prior to the girl's disappearance, and during the absence of its occupant, had observed a in the key-hole of the door, and the name '' inscribed upon a slate which hung near at hand. The general impression, so far as we were enabled to glean it from the newspapers, seemed to be, that Marie had been the victim of a of desperadoes--that by these she had been borne across the river, maltreated, and murdered. ,<1> however, a print of extensive influence, was earnest in combating this popular idea. I quote a passage or two from its columns: 'We are persuaded that pursuit has hitherto been on a false scent so far as it has been directed to the Barriere du Roule. It is impossible that a person so well known to thousands as this young woman was, should have passed three blocks without someone having seen her; and any one who saw her would have remembered it, for she interested all who knew her. It was when the streets were full of people, when she went out. . . . It is impossible that she could have gone to the Barriere du Roule, or to the Rue des Dromes, without being recognized by a dozen persons; yet no one has come forward who saw her outside her mother's door, and there is no evidence except the testimony concerning her , that she did go out at all. Her gown was torn, bound round her, and tied; and by that the body was carried as a bundle. If the murder had been committed at the Barriere du Roule, there would have been no necessity for any such arrangement. The fact that the body was found floating near the Barriere is no proof as to where it was thrown into the water. . . . A piece of one of the unfortunate girl's petticoats, two feet long and one foot wide, was torn out and tied under her chin around the back of her head, probably to prevent screams. This was done by fellows who had no pocket-handkerchief.' A day or two before the Prefect called upon us, however, some important information reached the police, which seemed to over- <1>New York .
throw, at least, the chief portion of 's argument. Two small boys, sons of a Madame Deluc, while roaming among the woods near the Barriere du Roule, chanced to penetrate a close thicket, within which were three or four large stones, forming a kind of seat with a back and footstool. On the upper stone lay a white petticoat; on the second, a silk scarf. A parasol, gloves, and a pocket-handkerchief were also here found. The handkerchief bore the name 'Marie Roget'. Fragments of dress were discovered on the brambles around. The earth was trampled, the bushes were broken, and there was every evidence of a struggle. Between the thicket and the river, the fences were found taken down, and the ground bore evidence of some heavy burthen having been dragged along it. A weekly paper, ,<1> had the following comments upon this discovery--comments which merely echoed the sentiment of the whole Parisian press: 'The things had all evidently been there at least three or four weeks; they were all mildewed down hard with the action of the rain, and stuck together from mildew. The grass had grown around and over some of them. The silk on the parasol was strong, but the threads of it were run together within. The upper part, where it had been doubled and folded, was all mildewed and rotten, and tore on its being opened. . . . The pieces of her frock torn out by the bushes were about three inches wide and six inches long. One part was the hem of the frock, and it had been mended; the other piece was part of the skirt, not the hem. They looked like strips torn off, and were on the thorn bush, about a foot from the ground. . . . There can be no doubt, therefore, that the spot of this appalling outrage has been discovered.' Consequent upon this discovery, new evidence appeared. Madame Deluc testified that she keeps a roadside inn not far from the bank of the river, opposite the Barriere du Roule. The neighbourhood is secluded--particularly so. It is the usual Sunday resort of blackguards from the city, who cross the river in boats. About three o'clock, in the afternoon of the Sunday in question, a young girl arrived at the inn accompanied by a young man of dark <1>Philadelphia , edited by C. L. Peterson, Esq.
complexion. The two remained here for some time. On their departure, they took the road to some thick woods in the vicinity. Madame Deluc's attention was called to the dress worn by the girl, on account of its resemblance to one worn by a deceased relative. A scarf was particularly noticed. Soon after the departure of the couple, a gang of miscreants made their appearance, behaved boisterously, ate and drank without making payment, followed in the route of the young man and girl, returned to the inn about dusk, and re-crossed the river as if in great haste. It was soon after dark, upon this same evening, that Madame Deluc, as well as her eldest son, heard the screams of a female in the vicinity of the inn. The screams were violent but brief. Madame D. recognized not only the scarf which was found in the thicket, but the dress which was discovered upon the corpse. An omnibus driver, Valence,<1> now also testified that he saw Marie Roget cross a ferry on the Seine, on the Sunday in question. He, Valence, knew Marie, and could not be mistaken in her identity. The articles found in the thicket were fully identified by the relatives of Marie. The items of evidence and information thus collected by myself, from the newspapers, at the suggestion of Dupin, embraced only one more point--but this was a point of seemingly vast consequence. It appears that, immediately after the discovery of the clothes as above described, the lifeless or nearly lifeless body of St Eustache, Marie's betrothed, was found in the vicinity of what all now supposed the scene of the outrage. A phial labelled 'laudanum', and emptied, was found near him. His breath gave evidence of the poison. He died without speaking. Upon his person was found a letter, briefly stating his love for Marie, with his design of self-destruction. 'I need scarcely tell you,' said Dupin, as he finished the perusal of my notes, 'that this is a far more intricate case than that of the Rue Morgue; from which it differs in one important respect. This is an , although an atrocious, instance of crime. There is nothing peculiarly about it. You will observe that, for this reason, the mystery has been considered easy, when for this <1>Adam.
reason, it should have been considered difficult of solution. Thus, at first, it was thought unnecessary to offer a reward. The myrmidons of G---- were able at once to comprehend how and why such an atrocity committed. They could picture to their imaginations a mode--many modes,--and a motive--many motives; and because it was not impossible that either of these numerous modes and motives have been the actual one, they have taken it for granted that one of them . But the ease with which these variable fancies were entertained, and the very plausibility which each assumed, should have been understood as indicative rather of the difficulties than of the facilities which must attend elucidation. I have therefore observed that it is by prominences above the plane of the ordinary, that reason feels her way, if at all, in her search for the true, and that the proper question in cases such as this is not so much "what has occurred?" as "what has occurred that has never occurred before?" In the investigations at the house of Madame L'Espanaye,<1> the agents of G---- were discouraged and confounded by that very which, to a properly regulated intellect, would have afforded the surest omen of success; while this same intellect might have been plunged in despair at the ordinary character of all that met the eye in the case of the perfumery-girl, and yet told of nothing but easy triumph to the functionaries of the Prefecture. 'In the case of Madame L'Espanaye and her daughter, there was, even at the beginning of our investigation, no doubt that murder had been committed. The idea of suicide was excluded at once. Here, too, we are freed, at the commencement, from all supposition of self-murder. The body found at the Barriere du Roule was found under such circumstances as to leave us no room for embarrassment upon this important point. But it has been suggested that the corpse discovered is not that of the Marie Roget for the conviction of whose assassin, or assassins, the reward is offered, and respecting whom, solely, our agreement has been arranged with the Prefect. We both know this gentleman well. It will not do to trust him too far. If, dating our inquiries from the <1>See .
body found, and then tracing a murderer, we yet discover this body to be that of some other individual than Marie; or if, starting from the living Marie, we find her, yet find her unassassinated--in either case we lose our labour; since it is Monsieur G---- with whom we have to deal. For our own purpose, therefore, if not for the purpose of justice, it is indispensable that our first step should be the determination of the identity of the corpse with the Marie Roget who is missing. 'With the public the arguments of have had weight; and that the journal itself is convinced of their importance would appear from the manner in which it commences one of its essays upon the subject--"Several of the morning papers of the day," it says, "speak of the article in Monday's ." To me, this article appears conclusive of little beyond the zeal of its inditer. We should bear in mind that, in general, it is the object of our newspapers rather to create a sensation--to make a point--than to further the cause of truth. The latter end is only pursued when it seems coincident with the former. The print which merely falls in with ordinary opinion (however well founded this opinion may be) earns for itself no credit with the mob. The mass of the people regard as profound only him who suggests of the general idea. In ratiocination, not less than in literature, it is the which is the most immediately and the most universally appreciated. In both, it is of the lowest order of merit. 'What I mean to say is, that it is the mingled epigram and melodrame of the idea, that Marie Roget still lives, rather than any true plausibility in this idea, which have suggested it to , and secured it a favourable reception with the public. Let us examine the heads of this journal's argument; endeavouring to avoid the incoherence with which it is originally set forth. 'The first aim of the writer is to show, from the brevity of the interval between Marie's disappearance and the finding of the floating corpse, that this corpse cannot be that of Marie. The reduction of this interval to its smallest possible dimension, becomes thus, at once, an object with the reasoner. In the rash pursuit of this object, he rushes into mere assumption at the outset. "It is folly to suppose," he says, "that the murder, if
murder was committed on her body, could have been consummated soon enough to have enabled her murderers to throw the body into the river before midnight." We demand at once, and very naturally, ? Why is it folly to suppose that the murder was committed after the girl's quitting her mother's house? Why is it folly to suppose that the murder was committed at any given period of the day? There have been assassinations at all hours. But, had the murder taken place at any moment between nine o'clock in the morning of Sunday and a quarter before midnight, there would still have been time enough "to throw the body into the river before midnight". This assumption, then, amounts precisely to this--that the murder was not committed on Sunday at all--and, if we allow to assume this, we may permit it any liberties whatever. The paragraph beginning "It is folly to suppose that the murder, etc.," however it appears as printed in , may be imagined to have existed actually in the brain of the inditer: "It is folly to suppose that the murder, if murder was committed on the body, could have been committed soon enough to have enabled her murderers to throw the body into the river before midnight; it is folly, we say, to suppose all this, and to suppose at the same time (as we are resolved to suppose), that the body was thrown in until midnight"--a sentence sufficiently inconsequential in itself, but not so utterly preposterous as the one printed. 'Were it my purpose,' continued Dupin, 'merely to against this passage of argument, I might safely leave it where it is. It is not, however, with that we have to do, but with the truth. The sentence in question has but one meaning, as it stands; and this meaning I have fairly stated; but it is material that we go behind the mere words for an idea which these words have obviously intended, and failed to convey. It was the design of the journalists to say that at whatever period of the day or night of Sunday this murder was committed, it was improbable that the assassins would have ventured to bear the corpse to the river before midnight. And herein lies, really, the assumption of which I complain. It is assumed that the murder was committed at such a position, and under such circumstances, that to the river became necessary. Now, the
assassination might have taken place upon the river's brink, or on the river itself; and thus, the throwing the corpse in the water might have been resorted to at any period of the day or night, as the most obvious and most immediate mode of disposal. You will understand that I suggest nothing here as probable, or as coincident with my own opinion. My design, so far, has no reference to the of the case. I wish merely to caution you against the whole tone of , by calling your attention to its character at the outset. 'Having prescribed thus a limit to suit its own preconceived notions; having assumed that, if this were the body of Marie, it could have been in the water but a very brief time, the journal goes on to say: '"All experience has shown that drowned bodies, or bodies thrown into the water immediately after death by violence, require from six to ten days for sufficient decomposition to take place to bring them to the top of the water. Even when a cannon is fired over a corpse, and it rises before at least five or six days' immersion, it sinks again if let alone." 'These assertions have been tacitly received by every paper in Paris, with the exception of .<1> This latter print endeavours to combat that portion of the paragraph which has reference to "drowned bodies" only, by citing some five or six instances in which the bodies of individuals known to be drowned were found floating after the lapse of less time than is insisted upon by . But there is something excessively unphilosophical in the attempt, on the part of , to rebut the general assertion of , by a citation of particular instances militating against that assertion. Had it been possible to adduce fifty instead of five examples of bodies found floating at the end of two or three days, these fifty examples could still have been properly regarded only as exceptions to rule, until such time as the rule itself should be confuted. Admitting the rule (and this does not deny, insisting merely upon its exceptions), the argument of is suffered to remain in full force; for this argument does not pretend to involve more than a ques- <1>The New York , edited by Col. Stone.
tion of the of the body having risen to the surface in less than three days; and this probability will be in favour of position until the instances so childishly adduced shall be sufficient in number to establish an antagonistical rule. 'You will see at once that all argument upon this head should be urged, if at all, against the rule itself; and for this end we must examine the of the rule. Now the human body, in general, is neither much lighter nor much heavier than the water of the Seine; that is to say, the specific gravity of the human body, in its natural condition, is about equal to the bulk of fresh water which it displaces. The bodies of fat and fleshy persons, with small bones, and of women generally, are lighter than those of the lean and large-boned, and of men; and the specific gravity of the water of a river is somewhat influenced by the presence of the tide from the sea. But, leaving this tide out of question, it may be said that few human bodies will sink at all, even in fresh water, . Almost any one, falling into a river, will be enabled to float, if he suffer the specific gravity of the water fairly to be adduced in comparison with his own--that is to say, if he suffer his whole person to be immersed, with as little exception as possible. The proper position for one who cannot swim, is the upright position of the walker on land, with the head thrown fully back, and immersed; the mouth and nostrils alone remaining above the surface. Thus circumstanced, we shall find that we float without difficulty and without exertion. It is evident, however, that the gravities of the body, and of the bulk of water displaced, are very nicely balanced, and that a trifle will cause either to preponderate. An arm, for instance, uplifted from the water, and thus deprived of its support, is an additional weight sufficient to immerse the whole head, while the accidental aid of the smallest piece of timber will enable us to elevate the head so as to look about. Now, in the struggles of one unused to swimming, the arms are invariably thrown upward, while an attempt is made to keep the head in its usual perpendicular position. The result is the immersion of the mouth and nostrils, and the inception, during efforts to breathe while beneath the surface, of water into the lungs. Much is also received into the stomach, and the whole body becomes heavier by the difference between the weight of the air
originally distending these cavities, and that of the fluid which now fills them. This difference is sufficient to cause the body to sink, as a general rule; but is insufficient in the cases of individuals with small bones and an abnormal quantity of flaccid or fatty matter. Such individuals float even after drowning. 'The corpse, being supposed at the bottom of the river, will there remain until, by some means, its specific gravity again becomes less than that of the bulk of water which it displaces. This effect is brought about by decomposition, or otherwise. The result of decomposition is the generation of gas, distending the cellular tissues and all the cavities, and giving the appearance which is so horrible. When this distension has so far progressed that the bulk of the corpse is materially increased without a corresponding increase of or weight, its specific gravity becomes less than that of the water displaced, and it forthwith makes its appearance at the surface. But decomposition is modified by innumerable circumstances--is hastened or retarded by innumerable agencies; for example, by the heat or cold of the season, by the mineral impregnation or purity of the water, by its depth or shallowness, by its currency or stagnation, by the temperament of the body, by its infection or freedom from disease before death. Thus it is evident that we can assign no period, with anything like accuracy, at which the corpse shall rise through decomposition. Under certain conditions this result would be brought about within an hour; under others it might not take place at all. There are chemical infusions by which the animal frame can be preserved from corruption; the bichloride of mercury is one. But, apart from decomposition, there may be, and very usually is, a generation of gas within the stomach, from the acetous fermentation of vegetable matter (or within other cavities from other causes), sufficient to induce a distension which will bring the body to the surface. The effect produced by the firing of a cannon is that of simple vibration. This may either loosen the corpse from the soft mud or ooze in which it is embedded, thus permitting it to rise when other agencies have already prepared it for so doing: or it may overcome the tenacity of some putrescent portions of the cellular tissues, allowing the cavities to distend under the influence of the gas.
'Having thus before us the whole philosophy of this subject, we can easily test by it the assertions of . "All experience shows," says this paper, "that drowned bodies, or bodies thrown into the water immediately after death by violence, require from six to ten days for sufficient decomposition to take place to bring them to the top of the water. Even when a cannon is fired over a corpse, and it rises before at least five or six days' immersion, it sinks again if let alone." 'The whole of this paragraph must now appear a tissue of inconsequence and incoherence. All experience does show that "drowned bodies" from six to ten days for sufficient decomposition to take place to bring them to the surface. Both science and experience show that the period of their rising is, and necessarily must be, indeterminate. If, moreover, a body has risen to the surface through firing of cannon, it will "sink again is let alone", until decomposition has so far progressed as to permit the escape of the generated gas. But I wish to call your attention to the distinction which is made between "drowned bodies", and "bodies thrown into water immediately after death by violence". Although the writer admits the distinction, he yet includes them all in the same category. I have shown how it is that the body of a drowning man becomes specifically heavier than its bulk of water, and that he would not sink at all, except for the struggle by which he elevates his arms above the surface, and his gasps for breath while beneath the surface--gasps which supply by water the place of the original air in the lungs. But these struggles and these gasps would not occur in the body "thrown into the water immediately after death by violence". Thus, in the latter instance, --a fact of which is evidently ignorant. When decomposition had proceeded to a very great extent--when the flesh had in a great measure left the bones- -then, indeed, but not then, should we lose sight of the corpse. 'And now what are we to make of the argument, that the body found could not be that of Marie Roget, because, three days only having elapsed, this body was found floating? If drowned, being a woman, she might never have sunk; or, having sunk, might have reappeared in twenty-four hours or less. But no one supposes her to have been drowned; and, dying before being thrown into the
river, she might have been found floating at any period afterward whatever. '"But," says , "if the body had been kept in its mangled state on shore until Tuesday night, some trace would be found on shore of the murderers." Here it is at first difficult to perceive the intention of the reasoner. He means to anticipate what he imagines would be an objection to his theory--viz.: that the body was kept on shore two days, suffering rapid decomposition- - rapid than if immersed in water. He supposes that, had this been the case, it have appeared at the surface on the Wednesday, and thinks that under such circumstances it could have so appeared. He is accordingly in haste to show that it kept on shore; for, if so, "some trace would be found on shore of the murderers." I presume you smile at the . You cannot be made to see how the mere of the corpse on the shore could operate to of the assassins. Nor can I. '"And furthermore it is exceedingly improbable," continues our journal, "that any villains who had committed such a murder as is here supposed, would have thrown the body in without weight to sink it, when such a precaution could have so easily been taken." Observe, here, the laughable confusion of thought! No one--not even --disputes the murder committed . The marks of violence are too obvious. It is our reasoner's object merely to show that this body is not Marie's. He wishes to prove that is not assassinated--not that the corpse was not. Yet his observation proves only the latter point. Here is a corpse without weight attached. Murderers, casting it in, would not have failed to attach a weight. Therefore it was not thrown in by murderers. This is all which is proved, if anything is. The question of identity is not even approached, and has been at great pains merely to gainsay now what it has admitted only a moment before. "We are perfectly convinced," it says, "that the body found was that of a murdered female." 'Nor is this the sole instance, even in this division of his subject, where our reasoner unwittingly reasons against himself. His evident object, I have already said, is to reduce, as much as possible, the interval between Marie's disappearance and the finding of the corpse. Yet we find him the point that no person saw the
girl from the moment of her leaving her mother's house. "We have no evidence," he says, "that Marie Roget was in the land of the living after nine o'clock on Sunday, June the twenty-second." As his argument is obviously an one, he should, at least, have left this matter out of sight; for had any one been known to see Marie, say on Monday, or on Tuesday, the interval in question would have been much reduced, and, by his own ratiocination, the probability much diminished of the corpse being that of the . It is, nevertheless, amusing to observe that insists upon its point in the full belief of its furthering its general argument. 'Re-peruse now that portion of this argument which has reference to the identification of the corpse by Beauvais. In regard to the upon the arm, has been obviously disingenuous. M. Beauvais, not being an idiot, could never have urged in identification of the corpse, simply . No arm is hair. The of the expression of is a mere perversion of the witness' phraseology. He must have spoken of some in this hair. It must have been a peculiarity of colour, of quantity, of length, or of situation. '"Her foot," says the journal, "was small"--so are thousands of feet. Her garter is no proof whatever--nor is her shoe--for shoes and garters are sold in packages. The same may be said of the flowers in her hat. One thing upon which M. Beauvais strongly insists is, that the clasp of the garter found had been set back to take it in. This amounts to nothing; for most women find it proper to take a pair of garters home and fit them to the size of the limbs they are to encircle, rather than to try them in the store where they purchase." Here it is difficult to suppose the reasoner in earnest. Had M. Beauvais, in his search for the body of Marie, discovered a corpse corresponding in general size and appearance to the missing girl, he would have been warranted (without reference to the question of habiliment at all) in forming an opinion that his search had been successful. If, in addition to the point of general size and contour, he had found upon the arm a peculiar hairy appearance which he had observed upon the living Marie, his opinion might have been justly strengthened; and the increase of positiveness might well have been in the ratio of the peculiarity, or unusualness
of the hairy mark. If the feet of Marie being small, those of the corpse were also small, the increase of probability that the body was that of Marie would not be an increase in a ratio merely arithmetical, but in one highly geometrical, or accumulative. Add to all this shoes such as she had been known to wear upon the day of her disappearance, and, although these shoes may be "sold in packages", you so far augment the probability as to verge upon the certain. What, of itself, would be no evidence of identity, becomes, through its corroborative position, proof most sure. Give us then, flowers in the hat corresponding to those worn by the missing girl, and we seek for nothing further. If only flower, we seek for nothing further--what then if two or three, or more? Each successive one is multiple evidence--proof not to proof, but by hundreds or thousands. Let us now discover, upon the deceased, garters such as the living used, and it is almost folly to proceed. But these garters are found to be tightened, by the setting back of a clasp, in just such a manner as her own had been tightened by Marie shortly previous to her leaving home. It is now madness or hypocrisy to doubt. What says in respect to this abbreviation of the garters being an unusual occurrence, shows nothing beyond its own pertinacity in error. The elastic nature of the clasp-garter is self- demonstration of the of the abbreviation. What is made to adjust itself, must of necessity require foreign adjustment but rarely. It must have been by an accident, in its strictest sense, that these garters of Marie needed the tightening described. They alone would have amply established her identity. But it is not that the corpse was found to have the garters of the missing girl, or found to have her shoes, or her bonnet, or the flowers of her bonnet, or her feet, or a peculiar mark upon the arm, or her general size and appearance--it is that the corpse had each, and . Could it be proved that the editor of entertained a doubt, under the circumstances, there would be no need, in his case, of a commission . He has thought it sagacious to echo the small talk of the lawyers, who, for the most part, content themselves with echoing the rectangular precepts of the courts. I would here observe that very much of what is rejected as evidence by a court is the best of evidence to the intellect. For
the court, guided itself by the general principles of evidence--the recognized and principles--is averse from swerving at particular instances. And this steadfast adherence to principle, with rigorous disregard of the conflicting exception, is a sure mode of attaining the of attainable truth, in any long sequence of time. The practice, , is therefore philosophical; but it is not the less certain that it engenders vast individual error.<1> 'In respect to the insinuations levelled at Beauvais, you will be willing to dismiss them in a breath. You have already fathomed the true character of this good gentleman. He is a , with much of romance and little of wit. Any one so constituted will readily so conduct himself, upon occasion of excitement, as to render himself liable to suspicion on the part of the over-acute, or the ill-disposed. M. Beauvais (as it appears from your notes) had some personal interviews with the editor of , and offended him by venturing an opinion that the corpse, notwithstanding the theory of the editor, was, in sober fact, that of Marie. "He persists," says the paper, "in asserting the corpse to be that of Marie, but cannot give a circumstance, in addition to those which we have commented upon, to make others believe." Now, without re-adverting to the fact that stronger evidence "to make others believe", could have been adduced, it may be remarked that a man may very well be understood to believe, in a case of this kind, without the ability to advance a single reason for the belief of a second party. Nothing is more vague than impressions of individual identity. Each man recognizes his neighbour, yet there are few instances in which any one is prepared for his recognition. The editor of had no right to be offended at M. Beauvais' unreasoning belief. 'The suspicious circumstances which invest him, will be found to tally much better with my hypothesis of , <1>'A theory based on the qualities of an object, will prevent its being unfolded according to its objects; and he who arranges topics in reference to their causes, will cease to value them according to their results. Thus the jurisprudence of every nation will show that, when law becomes a science and a system, it ceases to be justice. The errors into which a blind devotion to of classification has led the common law, will be seen by observing how often the legislature has been obliged to come forward to restore the equity its scheme had lost.' --.
than with the reasoner's suggestion of guilt. Once adopting the more charitable interpretation, we shall find no difficulty in comprehending the rose in the key-hole; the "Marie" upon the slate; the "elbowing the male relatives out of the way"; the "aversion to permitting them to see the body"; the caution given to Madame B---, that she must hold no conversation with the until his (Beauvais') return; and, lastly, his apparent determination, "that nobody should have anything to do with the proceedings except himself". It seems to me unquestionable that Beauvais was a suitor of Marie's; that she coquetted with him; and that he was ambitious of being thought to enjoy her fullest intimacy and confidence. I shall say nothing more upon this point; and, as the evidence fully rebuts the assertion of , touching the matter of on the part of the mother and other relatives--an apathy inconsistent with the supposition of their believing the corpse to be that of the perfumery-girl--we shall now proceed as if the question of were settled to our perfect satisfaction.' 'And what,' I here demanded, 'do you think of the opinions of ?' 'That, in spirit, they are far more worthy of attention than any which have been promulgated upon the subject. The deductions from the premises are philosophical and acute; but the premises, in two instances, at least, are founded in imperfect observation. wishes to intimate that Marie was seized by some gang of low ruffians not far from her mother's door. "It is impossible," it urges, "that a person so well known to thousands as this young woman was, should have passed three blocks without some one having seen her." This is the idea of a man long resident in Paris--a public man--and one whose walks to and fro in the city have been mostly limited to the vicinity of the public offices. He is aware that he seldom passes so far as a dozen blocks from his own , without being recognized and accosted. And, knowing the extent of his personal acquaintance with others, and of others with him, he compares his notoriety with that of the perfumery-girl, finds no great difference between them, and reaches at once the conclusion that she, in her walks, would be equally liable to recognition with himself in his. This could only be the case were her walks of the same unvarying methodical
character, and within the same of limited region as are his own. He passes to and fro, at regular intervals, within a confined periphery, abounding in individuals who are led to observation of his person through interest in the kindred nature of his occupation with their own. But the walks of Marie may, in general, be supposed discursive. In this particular instance, it will be understood as most probable that she proceeded upon a route of more than average diversity, from her accustomed ones. The parallel which we imagine to have existed in the mind of would only be sustained in the event of the two individuals traversing the whole city. In this case, granting the personal acquaintances to be equal, the chances would be also equal that an equal number of personal rencontres would be made. For my own part, I should hold it not only as possible, but as far more than probable, that Marie might have proceeded, at any given period, by any one of the many routes between her own residence and that of her aunt, without meeting a single individual whom she knew, or by whom she was known. In viewing this question in its full and proper light, we must hold steadily in mind the great disproportion between the personal acquaintances of even the most noted individual in Paris, and the entire population of Paris itself. 'But whatever force there may still appear to be in the suggestion of , will be much diminished when we take into consideration at which the girl went abroad. "It was when the streets were full of people," says , "that she went out." But not so. It was nine o'clock in the morning. Now at nine o'clock of every morning in the week, , the streets in the city are, it is true, thronged with people. At nine on Sunday, the populace are chiefly within doors . No observing person can have failed to notice the peculiarly deserted air of the town, from about eight until ten on the morning of every Sabbath. Between ten and eleven the streets are thronged, but not at so early a period as that designated. 'There is another point at which there seems a deficiency of on the part of . "A piece," it says, "of one of the unfortunate girl's petticoats, two feet long, and one
foot wide, was torn out and tied under her chin, and around the back of her head, probably to prevent screams. This was done by fellows who had no pocket-handkerchief." Whether this idea is or is not well founded, we will endeavour to see hereafter; but by "fellows who have no pocket-handkerchiefs", the editor intends the lowest class of ruffians. These, however, are the very description of people who will always be found to have handkerchiefs even when destitute of shirts. You must have had occasion to observe how absolutely indispensable, of late years, to the thorough blackguard, has become the pocket-handkerchief.' 'And what are we to think,' I said, 'of the article in ?' 'That it is a vast pity its inditer was not born a parrot--in which case he would have been the most illustrious parrot of his race. He has merely repeated the individual items of the already published opinion; collecting them, with a laudible industry, from this paper and from that. "The things had all been there," he says, "at least three or four weeks, and there can be that the spot of this appalling outrage has been discovered." The facts here re-stated by are very far indeed from removing my own doubts upon this subject, and we will examine them more particularly hereafter in connection with another division of the theme. 'At present we must occupy ourselves with other investigations. You cannot fail to have remarked the extreme laxity of the examination of the corpse. To be sure, the question of identity was readily determined, or should have been; but there were other points to be ascertained. Had the body been in any respect ? Had the deceased any articles of jewellery about her person upon leaving home? if so, had she any when found? These are important questions utterly untouched by the evidence; and there are others of equal moment, which have met with no attention. We must endeavour to satisfy ourselves by personal inquiry. The case of St Eustache must be re-examined. I have no suspicion of this person; but let us proceed methodically. We will ascertain beyond a doubt the validity of the in regard to his whereabouts on the Sunday. Affidavits of this character are readily made matter of mystification. Should there be nothing wrong here, however, we will dismiss St Eustache from our investigations. His suicide, however, corroborative of suspicion,
were there found to be deceit in the affidavits, is, without such deceit, in no respect an unaccountable circumstance, or one which need cause us to deflect from the line of ordinary analysis. 'In that which I now propose, we will discard the interior points of this tragedy, and concentrate our attention upon its outskirts. Not the least usual error in investigations such as this is the limiting of inquiry to the immediate, with total disregard of the collateral or circumstantial events. It is the malpractice of the courts to confine evidence and discussion to the bounds of apparent relevancy. Yet experience has shown, and a true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger, portion of truth arises from the seemingly irrelevant. It is through the spirit of this principle, if not precisely through its letter, that modern science has resolved to . But perhaps you do not comprehend me. The history of human knowledge has so uninterruptedly shown that to collateral, or incidental, or accidental events we are indebted for the most numerous and valuable discoveries, that it has at length become necessary, in prospective view of improvement, to make not only large, but the largest, allowances for inventions that shall arise by chance, and quite out of the range of ordinary expectation. It is no longer philosophical to base upon what has been a vision of what is to be. is admitted as a portion of the substructure. We make chance a matter of absolute calculation. We subject the unlookedfor and unimagined to the mathematical of the schools. 'I repeat that it is more than fact that the portion of all truth has sprung from the collateral; and it is but in accordance with the spirit of the principle involved in this fact that I would divert inquiry, in the present case, from the trodden and hitherto unfruitful ground of the event itself to the contemporary circumstances which surround it. While you ascertain the validity of the affidavits, I will examine the newspapers more generally than you have as yet done. So far, we have only reconnoitred the field of investigation; but it will be strange, indeed, if a comprehensive survey, such as I propose, of the public prints will not afford us some minute points which shall establish a for inquiry.' In pursuance of Dupin's suggestion, I made scrupulous examination of the affair of the affidavits. The result was a firm
conviction of their validity, and of the consequent innocence of St Eustache. In the meantime my friend occupied himself, with what seemed to me a minuteness altogether objectless, in a scrutiny of the various newspaper files. At the end of a week he placed before me the following extracts: 'About three years and a half ago, a disturbance very similar to the present was caused by the disappearance of this same Marie Roget from the of Monsieur Le Blanc, in the Palais Royal. At the end of a week, however, she re-appeared at her customary , as well as ever, with the exception of a slight paleness not altogether usual. It was given out by Monsieur Le Blanc and her mother that she had merely been on a visit to some friend in the country; and the affair was speedily hushed up. We presume that the present absence is a freak of the same nature, and that, at the expiration of a week or, perhaps, of a month, we shall have her among us again.' --, Monday, June 23.<1> 'An evening journal of yesterday refers to a former mysterious disappearance of Mademoiselle Roget. It is well known that, during the week of her absence from Le Blanc's , she was in the company of a young naval officer much noted for his debaucheries. A quarrel, it is supposed, providentially led to her return home. We have the name of the Lothario in question, who is at present stationed in Paris, but for obvious reasons forbear to make it public.' --, Tuesday morning, June 24.<2> 'An outrage of the most atrocious character was perpetrated near this city the day before yesterday. A gentleman, with his wife and daughter, engaged about dusk, the services of six young men, who were idly rowing a boat to and fro near the banks of the Seine, to convey him across the river. Upon reaching the opposite shore the three passengers stepped out, and had proceeded so far as to be beyond the view of the boat, when the daughter discovered that she had left in it her parasol. She returned for it, was seized by the gang, carried out into the stream, gagged, brutally treated, and finally taken to the shore at a point not far from that at which she had originally entered the boat with her parents. The <1>New York . <2>New York .
villains have escaped for the time, but the police are upon their trail, and some of them will soon be taken.' --, June 25.<1> 'We have received one or two communications, the object of which is to fasten the crime of the late atrocity upon Mennais;<2> but as this gentleman has been fully exonerated by a legal inquiry, and as the arguments of our several correspondents appear to be more zealous than profound, we do not think it advisable to make them public.' --, June 28.<3> 'We have received several forcibly written communications, apparently from various sources, and which go far to render it a matter of certainty that the unfortunate Marie Roget has become a victim of one of the numerous bands of blackguards which infest the vicinity of the city upon Sunday. Our own opinion is decidedly in favour of this supposition. We shall endeavour to make room for some of these arguments hereafter.' ----Tuesday, June 30.<4> 'On Monday, one of the bargemen connected with the revenue service saw an empty boat floating down the Seine. Sails were lying in the bottom of the boat. The bargeman towed it under the barge office. The next morning it was taken from thence without the knowledge of any of the officers. The rudder is now at the barge office.' --, Thursday, June 26.<5> Upon reading these various extracts, they not only seemed to me irrelevant, but I could perceive no mode in which any one of them could be brought to bear upon the matter in hand. I waited for some explanation from Dupin. 'It is not my present opinion,' he said, 'to upon the first and second of these extracts. I have copied them chiefly to show you the extreme remissness of the police, who, as far as I can understand from the Prefect, have not troubled themselves, in any respect, with an examination of the naval officer alluded to. Yet it <1>New York . <2>Mennais was one of the parties originally suspected and arrested, but discharged through total lack of evidence. <3>New York . <4>New York . <5>New York .
is mere folly to say that between the first and second disappearance of Marie there is no connection. Let us admit the first elopement to have resulted in a quarrel between the lovers, and the return home of the betrayed. We are now prepared to view a second (if we that an elopement has again taken place) as indicating a renewal of the betrayer's advances, rather than as the result of new proposals by a second individual--we are prepared to regard it as a "making up" of the old , rather than as the commencement of a new one. The chances are ten to one, that he who had once eloped with Marie would again propose an elopement, rather than that she to whom proposals of elopement had been made by one individual, should have them made to her by another. And here let me call your attention to the fact, that the time elapsing between the first ascertained and the second supposed elopement is a few months more than the general period of the cruises of our men-of-war. Had the lover been interrupted in his first villainy by the necessity of departure to sea, and had he seized the first moment of his return to renew the base designs not yet altogether accomplished--or not yet altogether accomplished ? Of all these things we know nothing. 'You will say, however, that, in the second instance, there was elopement as imagined. Certainly not--but are we prepared to say that there was not the frustrated design? Beyond St Eustache, and perhaps Beauvais, we find no recognized, no open, no honourable suitors of Marie. Of none other is there anything said. Who, then, is the secret lover, of whom the relatives () know nothing, but whom Marie meets upon the morning of Sunday, and who is so deeply in her confidence, that she hesitates not to remain with him until the shades of the evening descend, amid the solitary groves of the Barriere du Roule? Who is that secret lover, I ask, of whom, at least, of the relatives know nothing? And what means the singular prophecy of Madame Roget on the morning of Marie's departure--"I fear that I shall never see Marie again." 'But if we cannot imagine Madame Roget privy to the design of elopement, may we not at least suppose this design entertained by the girl? Upon quitting home, she gave it to be understood that she
was about to visit her aunt in the Rue des Dromes, and St Eustache was requested to call for her at dark. Now, at first glance, this fact strongly militates against my suggestion;--but let us reflect. That she meet some companion, and proceed with him across the river, reaching the Barriere du Roule at so late an hour as three o'clock in the afternoon, is known. But in consenting so to accompany this individual (), she must have thought of her expressed intention when leaving home, and of the surprise and suspicion aroused in the bosom of her affianced suitor, St Eustache, when, calling for her, at the hour appointed, in the Rue des Dromes, he should find that she had not been there, and when, moreover, upon returning to the with this alarming intelligence, he should become aware of her continued absence from home. She must have thought of these things, I say. She must have foreseen the chagrin of St Eustache, the suspicion of all. She could not have thought of returning to brave this suspicion; but the suspicion becomes a point of trivial importance to her, if we suppose her intending to return. 'We may imagine her thinking thus--"I am to meet a certain person for the purpose of elopement, or for certain other purposes known only to myself. It is necessary that there be no chance of interruption--there must be a sufficient time given us to elude pursuit--I will give it to be understood that I shall visit and spend the day with my aunt at the Rue des Dromes--I will tell St Eustache not to call for me until dark--in this way, my absence from home for the longest possible period, without causing suspicion or anxiety, will be accounted for, and I shall gain more time than in any other manner. If I bid St Eustache call for me at dark, he will be sure not to call before; but if I wholly neglect to bid him call, my time for escape will be diminished, since it will be expected that I return the earlier, and my absence will the sooner excite anxiety. Now, if it were my design to return --if I had in contemplation merely a stroll with the individual in question--it would not be my policy to bid St Eustache call; for, calling, he will be to ascertain that I have played him false--a fact of which I might keep him for ever in ignorance, by leaving home without notifying him of my intention, by returning before dark,
and by then stating that I had been to visit my aunt in the Rue des Dromes. But, as it is my design to return--or not for some weeks--or not until certain concealments are effected--the gaining of time is the only point about which I need give myself any concern." 'You have observed, in your notes, that the most general opinion in relation to this sad affair is, and was from the first, that the girl had been the victim of a of blackguards. Now, the popular opinion, under certain conditions, is not to be disregarded. When arising of itself--when manifesting itself in a strictly spontaneous manner--we should look upon it as analogous with that which is the idiosyncrasy of the individual man of genius. In ninety-nine cases from the hundred I would abide by its decision. But it is important that we find no palpable traces of . The opinion must be rigorously ; and the distinction is often exceedingly difficult to perceive and to maintain. In the present instance, it appears to me that this "public opinion", in respect to a , has been superinduced by the collateral event which is detailed in the third of my extracts. All Paris is excited by the discovered corpse of Marie, a girl young, beautiful, and notorious. This corpse is found, bearing marks of violence, and floating in the river. But it is now made known that, at the very period, or about the very period, in which it is supposed that the girl was assassinated, an outrage similar in nature to that endured by the deceased, although less in extent, was perpetrated, by a gang of young ruffians, upon the person of a second young female. Is it wonderful that the one known atrocity should influence the popular judgment in regard to the other unknown? This judgment awaited direction, and the known outrage seemed so opportunely to afford it! Marie, too, was found in the river; and upon this very river was this known outrage committed? The connection of the two events had about it so much of the palpable that the true wonder would have been a of the populace to appreciate and to seize it. But, in fact, the one atrocity, known to be so committed, is, if anything, evidence that the other, committed at a time nearly coincident, was so committed. It would have been a miracle, indeed, if, while a gang of ruffians were perpetrating, at a given locality, a most unheard-of wrong,
there should have been another similar gang, in a similar locality, in the same city, under the same circumstances, with the same means and appliances, engaged in a wrong of precisely the same aspect, at precisely the same period of time! Yet in what, if not in this marvellous train of coincidence, does the accidentally opinion of the populace call upon us to believe? 'Before proceeding further, let us consider the supposed scene of the assassination, in the thicket at the Barriere du Roule. This thicket, although dense, was in the close vicinity of a public road. Within were three or four large stones forming a kind of seat with a back and a footstool. On the upper stone was discovered a white petticoat; on the second, a silk scarf. A parasol, gloves, and a pocket-handkerchief were also here found. The handkerchief bore the name "Marie Roget". Fragments of dress were seen on the branches around. The earth was trampled, the bushes were broken, and there was every evidence of a violent struggle. 'Notwithstanding the acclamation with which the discovery of this thicket was received by the press, and the unanimity with which it was supposed to indicate the precise scene of the outrage, it must be admitted that there was some very good reason for doubt. That it the scene, I may or I may not believe--but there was excellent reason for doubt. Had the scene been, as suggested, in the neighbourhood of the Rue Pavee St Andree, the perpetrators of the crime, supposing them still resident in Paris, would naturally have been stricken with terror at the public attention thus acutely directed into the proper channel; and, in certain classes of minds, there would have arisen, at once, a sense of the necessity of some exertion to redivert the attention. And thus, the thicket of the Barriere du Roule having been already suspected, the idea of placing the articles where they were found, might have been naturally entertained. There is no real evidence, although so supposes, that the articles discovered had been more than a few days in the thicket; while there is much circumstantial proof that they could not have remained there, without attracting attention, during the twenty days elapsing between the fatal Sunday and the afternoon upon which they were found by the boys. "They were all down hard," says , adopting the opinions of its predecessors, "with the action
of the rain and stuck together from . The grass had grown around and over some of them. The silk of the parasol was strong, but the threads of it were run together within. The upper part, where it had been doubled and folded, was all and rotten, and tore on being opened." In respect to the grass having "grown around and over some of them", it is obvious that the fact could only have been ascertained from the words, and thus from the recollections, of two small boys; for these boys removed the articles and took them home before they had been seen by a third party. But the grass will grow, especially in warm and damp weather (such as was that of the period of the murder), as much as two or three inches in a single day. A parasol lying upon a newly turfed ground, might, in a single week, be entirely concealed from sight by the upspringing grass. And touching that upon which the editor of so pertinaciously insists, that he employs the words no less than three times in the brief paragraph just quoted, is he really unaware of the nature of this ? Is he to be told that it is one of many classes of , of which the most ordinary feature is its upspringing and decadence within twenty-four hours? 'Thus we see, at a glance, that what has been most triumphantly adduced in support of the idea that the articles had been "for at least three or four weeks" in the thicket, is most absurdly null as regards any evidence of that fact. On the other hand, it is exceedingly difficult to believe that these articles could have remained in the thicket specified for a longer period than a single week--for a longer period than from one Sunday to the next. Those who know anything of the vicinity of Paris, know the extreme difficulty of finding , unless at a great distance from its suburbs. Such a thing as an unexplored or even an unfrequently visited recess, amid its woods or groves, is not for a moment to be imagined. Let any one who, being at heart a lover of nature, is yet chained by duty to the dust and heat of this great metropolis--let any such one attempt, even during the week-days, to slake his thirst for solitude amid the scenes of natural loveliness which immediately surround us. At every second step, he will find the growing charm dispelled by the voice and personal intrusion of some ruffian or party of carousing blackguards. He will seek privacy amid the
densest foliage all in vain. Here are the very nooks where the unwashed most abound--here are the temples most desecrate. With sickness of the heart the wanderer will flee back to the polluted Paris as to a less odious because less incongruous sink of pollution. But if the vicinity of the city is so beset during the working days of the week, how much more so on the Sabbath! It is now especially that, released from the claims of labour, or deprived of the customary opportunities of crime, the town blackguard seeks the precincts of the town, not through love of the rural, which in his heart he despises, but by way of escape from the restraints and conventionalities of society. He desires less the fresh air and the green trees, than the utter of the country. Here at the roadside inn, or beneath the foliage of the woods, he indulges, unchecked by any eye except those of his boon companions, in all the mad excess of a counterfeit hilarity--the joint offspring of liberty and of rum. I say nothing more than what must be obvious to every dispassionate observer, when I repeat that the circumstance of the articles in question having remained undiscovered, for a longer period than from one Sunday to another, in thicket in the immediate neighbourhood of Paris, is to be looked upon as little less than miraculous. 'But there are not wanting other grounds for the suspicion that the articles were placed in the thicket with the view of diverting attention from the real scene of the outrage. And, first, let me direct your notice to the of the discovery of the articles. Collate this with the date of the fifth extract made by myself from the newspapers. You will find that the discovery followed, almost immediately, the urgent communications sent to the evening paper. These communications, although various, and apparently from various sources, tended all to the same point-- viz., the directing of attention to a as the perpetrators of the outrage, and to the neighbourhood of the Barriere du Roule as its scene. Now, here, of course, the situation is not that, in consequence of these communications, or of the public attention by them directed, the articles were found by the boys; but the suspicion might and may well have been, that the articles were not found by the boys, for the reason that the articles had not before been in the thicket; having been deposited there only at so late a period as at
the date, or shortly prior to the date of the communications, by the guilty authors of these communications themselves. 'This thicket was a singular--an exceedingly singular one. It was unusually dense. Within its natural walled enclosure were three extraordinary stones, . And this thicket, so full of art, was in the immediate vicinity, , of the dwelling of Madame Deluc, whose boys were in the habit of closely examining the shrubberies about them in search of the bark of the sassafras. Would it be a rash wager--a wager of one thousand to one--that a never passed over the heads of these boys without finding at least one of them ensconced in the umbrageous hall, and enthroned upon its natural throne? Those who would hesitate at such a wager, have either never been boys themselves, or have forgotten the boyish nature. I repeat--it is exceedingly hard to comprehend how the articles could have remained in this thicket undiscovered, for a longer period than one or two days; and that thus there is good ground for suspicion, in spite of the dogmatic ignorance of , that they were, at a comparatively late date, deposited where found. But there are still other and stronger reasons for believing them so deposited, than any which I have as yet urged. And, now, let me beg your notice to the highly artificial arrangement of the articles. On the stone lay a white petticoat; on the , a silk scarf; scattered around, were a parasol, gloves, and a pocket-handkerchief bearing the name "Marie Roget". Here is just such an arrangement as would be made by a not- over-acute person wishing to dispose the articles . But it is by no means a natural arrangement. I should rather have looked to see the things lying on the ground and trampled under foot. In the narrow limits of that bower, it would have been scarcely possible that the petticoat and scarf should have retained a position upon the stones, when subjected to the brushing to and fro of many struggling persons. "There was evidence," it is said, "of a struggle; and the earth was trampled, the bushes were broken,"--but the petticoat and the scarf are found deposited as if upon shelves. "The pieces of the frock torn out by the bushes were about three inches wide and six inches long. One part was the hem
of the frock, and it had been mended. They ." Here, inadvertently, has employed an exceedingly suspicious phrase. The pieces, as described, do indeed "look like strips torn off"; but purposely and by hand. It is one of the rarest of accidents that a piece is "torn off", from any garment such as is now in question, by the agency . From the very nature of such fabrics, a thorn or nail becoming tangled in them, tears them rectangularly-- divides them into two longitudinal rents, at right angles with each other, and meeting at an apex where the thorn enters--but it is scarcely possible to conceive the piece "torn off". I never so knew it, nor did you. To tear a piece from such fabric, two distinct forces, in different directions, will be, in almost every case, required. If there be two edges to the fabric--if, for example, it be a pocket-handkerchief, and it is desired to tear from it a slip, then, and then only, will the one force serve the purpose. But in the present case the question is of a dress, presenting but one edge. To tear a piece from the interior, where no edge is presented, could only be effected by a miracle through the agency of thorns, and no thorn could accomplish it. But, even where an edge is presented, two thorns will be necessary, operating, the one in two distinct directions, and the other in one. And this in the supposition that the edge is unhemmed. If hemmed, the matter is nearly out of the question. We thus see the numerous and great obstacles in the way of pieces being "torn off" through the simple agency of "thorns"; yet we are required to believe not only that one piece but that many have been so torn. "And one part," too, "!" Another piece was "",--that is to say, was torn completely out, through the agency of thorns, from the unedged interior of the dress! These, I say, are things which one may well be pardoned for disbelieving; yet, taken collectedly, they form, perhaps, less of reasonable ground for suspicion, than the one startling circumstance of the articles having been left in this thicket at all, by any who had enough precaution to think of removing the corpse. You will not have apprehended me rightly, however, if you suppose it my design to this thicket as the scene of the outrage. There might have been a wrong , or, more possibly, an accident at Madame Deluc's. But, in fact, this is a point of
minor importance. We are not engaged in an attempt to discover the scene, but to produce the perpetrators of the murder. What I have adduced, notwithstanding the minuteness with which I have adduced it, has been with the view, first, to show the folly of the positive and headlong assertions of , but secondly and chiefly, to bring you, by the most natural route, to further contemplation of the doubt whether this assassination has, or has not, been the work of a . 'We will resume this question by mere allusion to the revolting details of the surgeon examined at the inquest. It is only necessary to say that his published , in regard to the number of the ruffians, have been properly ridiculed as unjust and totally baseless, by all the reputable anatomists of Paris. Not that the matter have been as inferred, but that there was no ground for the inference:--was there not much for another? 'Let us now reflect upon "the traces of a struggle"; and let me ask what these traces have been supposed to demonstrate. A gang. But do they not rather demonstrate the absence of a gang? What could have taken place--what struggle so violent and so enduring as to have left its "traces" in all directions-- between a weak and defenceless girl and the of ruffians imagined? The silent grasp of a few rough arms and all would have been over. The victim must have been absolutely passive at their will. You will here bear in mind that the arguments used against the thicket as the scene, are applicable, in chief part, only against it as the scene of an outrage committed by . If we imagine but violator, we can conceive, and thus only conceive, the struggle of so violent and so obstinate a nature as to have left the "traces" apparent. 'And again. I have already mentioned the suspicion to be excited by the fact that the articles in question were suffered to remain in the thicket where discovered. It seems almost impossible that these evidences of guilt should have been accidentally left where found. There was sufficient presence of mind (it is supposed) to remove the corpse; and yet a more positive evidence than the corpse itself (whose features might have been quickly obliterated by decay), is allowed to lie conspicuously in the scene of the outrage--I allude to the handkerchief with the of the
deceased. If this was accident, it was not the accident . We can imagine it only the accident of an individual. Let us see. An individual has committed the murder. He is alone with the ghost of the departed. He is appalled by what lies motionless before him. The fury of his passion is over, and there is abundant room in his heart for the natural awe of the deed. His is none of that confidence which the presence of numbers inevitably inspires. He is with the dead. He trembles and is bewildered. Yet there is a necessity for disposing of the corpse. He bears it to the river, and leaves behind him the other evidences of his guilt; for it is difficult, if not impossible, to carry all the burthen at once, and it will be easy to return for what is left. But in his toilsome journey to the water his fears redouble within him. The sounds of life encompass his path. A dozen times he hears or fancies he hears the step of an observer. Even the very lights from the city bewilder him. Yet, in time, and by long and frequent pauses of deep agony, he reaches the river's brink, and disposes of his ghastly charge-- perhaps through the medium of a boat. But what treasure does the world hold--what threat of vengeance could it hold out-- which would have power to urge the return of that lonely murderer over that toilsome and perilous path, to the thicket and its blood- chilling recollections? He returns , let the consequences be what they may. He not return if he would. His sole thought is immediate escape. He turns his back upon those dreadful shrubberies, and flees as from the wrath to come. 'But how with a gang? Their number would have inspired them with confidence; if, indeed, confidence is ever wanting in the breast of the arrant blackguard; and of arrant blackguards alone are the supposed ever constituted. Their number, I say, would have prevented the bewildering and unreasoning terror which I have imagined to paralyse the single man. Could we suppose an oversight in one, or two, or three, this oversight would have been remedied by a fourth. They would have left nothing behind them; for their number would have enabled them to carry at once. There would have been no need of . 'Consider now the circumstance that, in the outer garment of the corpse when found, "a slip, about a foot wide, had been torn upward from the bottom hem to the waist, wound three times
round the waist, and secured by a sort of hitch in the back". This was done with the obvious design of affording by which to carry the body. But would any of men have dreamed of resorting to such an expedient? To three or four, the limbs of the corpse would have afforded not only a sufficient, but the best possible, hold. The device is that of a single individual; and this brings us to the fact that "between the thicket and the river the rails of the fences were found taken down, and the ground bore evident traces of some heavy burden having been dragged along it"! But would a of men have put themselves to the superfluous trouble of taking down a fence, for the purpose of dragging through it a corpse which they might have any fence in an instant? Would a of men have so a corpse at all as to have left evident of the dragging? 'And here we must refer to an observation of ; an observation upon which I have already, in some measure, commented. "A piece," says this journal, "of one of the unfortunate girl's petticoats was torn out and tied under her chin, and around the back of her head, probably to prevent screams. This was done by fellows who had no pocket-handkerchiefs." 'I have before suggested that a genuine blackguard is never a pocket-handkerchief. But it is not to this fact that I now specially advert. That it was not through want of a handkerchief for the purpose imagined by , that this bandage was employed, is rendered apparent by the handkerchief left in the thicket; and that the object was not "to prevent screams" appears, also, from the bandage having been employed in preference to what would so much better have answered the purpose. But the language of the evidence speaks of the strip in question as "found round the neck, fitting loosely, and secured with a hard knot". These words are sufficiently vague, but differ materially from those of . The slip was eighteen inches wide, and therefore, although of muslin, would form a strong band when folded or rumpled longitudinally. And thus rumpled it was discovered. My inference is this. The solitary murderer, having borne the corpse for some distance (whether from the thicket or elsewhere) by means of the bandage around its middle, found the weight, in this mode of procedure, too much for his
strength. He resolved to drag the burthen--the evidence goes to show that it dragged. With this object in view, it became necessary to attach something like a rope to one of the extremities. It could be best attached about the neck, where the head would prevent its slipping off. And now the murderer bethought him, unquestionably, of the bandage about the loins. He would have used this, but for its volution about the corpse, the which embarrassed it, and the reflection that it had not been "torn off" from the garment. It was easier to tear a new slip from the petticoat. He tore it, made it fast about the neck, and so his victim to the brink of the river. That this "bandage", only attainable with trouble and delay, and but imperfectly answering its purpose--that this bandage was employed , demonstrates that the necessity for its employment sprang from circumstances arising at a period when the handkerchief was no longer attainable--that is to say, arising, as we have imagined, after quitting the thicket (if the thicket it was), and on the road between the thicket and the river. 'But the evidence, you will say, of Madame Deluc (!) points especially to the presence of a in the vicinity of the thicket, at or about the epoch of the murder. This I grant. I doubt if there were not a gangs, such as described by Madame Deluc, in and about the vicinity of the Barriere du Roule at the period of this tragedy. But the gang which has drawn upon itself the pointed animadversion, although the somewhat tardy and very suspicious evidence of Madame Deluc, is the gang which is represented by that honest and scrupulous old lady as having eaten her cakes, and swallowed her brandy, without putting themselves to the trouble of making her payment. ? 'But what the precise evidence of Madame Deluc? "A gang of miscreants made their appearance, behaved boisterously, ate and drank without making payment, followed in the route of the young man and the girl, returned to the inn , and re- crossed the river as if in great haste." 'Now, this "great haste" very possibly seemed haste in the eyes of Madame Deluc, since she dwelt lingeringly and lamentingly upon her violated cakes and ale,--cakes and ale for
which she might still have entertained a faint hope of compensation. Why, otherwise, since it was , should she make a point of the ? It is no cause for wonder, surely, that a gang of blackguards should make to get home when a wide river is to be crossed in small boats, when storm impends, and when night 'I say ; for the night had . It was only that the indecent haste of these "miscreants" offended the sober eyes of Madame Deluc. But we are told that it was upon this very evening that Madame Deluc, as well as her eldest son, "heard the screams of a female in the vicinity of the inn". And in what words does Madame Deluc designate the period of the evening at which these screams were heard? "It was ," she says. But "soon dark" is at least ; and "" is as certainly daylight. Thus it is abundantly clear that the gang quitted the Barriere du Roule to the screams overheard (?) by Madame Deluc. And although, in all the many reports of the evidence, the relative expressions in question are distinctly and invariably employed just as I have employed them in this conversation with yourself, no notice whatever of the gross discrepancy has, as yet, been taken by any of the public journals, or by any of the myrmidons of police. 'I shall add but one to the arguments against ; but this has, to my own understanding at least, a weight altogether irresistible. Under the circumstances of large reward offered, and full pardon to any king's evidence, it is not to be imagined, for a moment, that some member of of low ruffians, or of any body of men, would not long ago have betrayed his accomplices. Each one of a gang, so placed, is not so much greedy of reward, or anxious for escape, as . He betrays eagerly and early that . That the secret has not been divulged is the very best of proof that it is, in fact, a secret. The horrors of this dark deed are known only to , or two, living human beings, and to God. 'Let us sum up now the meagre yet certain fruits of our long analysis. We have attained the idea either of a fatal accident under the roof of Madame Deluc, or of a murder perpetrated in the thicket at the Barriere du Roule, by a lover, or at least by an
intimate and secret associate of the deceased. The associate is of swarthy complexion. This complexion, the "hitch" in the bandage, and the "sailor's knot" with which the bonnet-ribbon is tied, point to a seaman. His companionship with the deceased--a gay but not abject young girl--designates him as above the grade of the common sailor. Here the well-written and urgent communications to the journals are much in the way of corroboration. The circumstance of the first elopement, as mentioned by , tends to blend the idea of this seaman with that of the "naval officer" who is first known to have led the unfortunate into crime. 'And here, most fitly, comes the consideration of the continued absence of him of the dark complexion. Let me pause to observe that the complexion of this man is dark and swarthy; it was no common swarthiness which constituted the point of resemblance, both as regards Valence and Madame Deluc. But why is this man absent? Was he murdered by the gang? If so, why are there only of the assassinated ? The scene of the two outrages will naturally be supposed identical. And where is his corpse? The assassins would most probably have disposed of both in the same way. But it may be said that this man lives, and is deterred from making himself known through dread of being charged with the murder. This consideration might be supposed to operate upon him now--at this late period--since it has been given in evidence that he was seen with Marie, but it would have had no force at the period of the deed. The first impulse of an innocent man would have been to announce the outrage, and to aid in identifying the ruffians. This would have suggested. He had been seen with the girl. He had crossed the river with her in an open ferry-boat. The denouncing of the assassins would have appeared, even to an idiot, the surest and sole means of relieving himself from suspicion. We cannot suppose him, on the night of the fatal Sunday, both innocent himself and incognizant of an outrage committed. Yet only under such circumstances is it possible to imagine that he would have failed, if alive, in the denouncement of the assassins. 'And what means are ours of attaining the truth? We shall find these means multiplying and gathering distinctness as we proceed. Let us sift to the bottom this affair of the first elopement. Let
us know the full history of "the officer", with his present circumstances, and his whereabouts at the precise period of the murder. Let us carefully compare with each other the various communications sent to the evening paper, in which the object was to inculpate . This done, let us compare these communications, both as regards style and MS, with those sent to the morning paper, at a previous period, and insisting so vehemently upon the guilt of Mennais. And, all this done, let us again compare these various communications with the known MSS of the officer. Let us endeavour to ascertain, by repeated questionings of Madame Deluc and her boys, as well as of the omnibus-driver, Valence, something more of the personal appearance and bearing of the "man of dark complexion". Queries, skilfully directed, will not fail to elicit, from some of these parties, information on this particular point (or upon others)--information which the parties themselves may not even be aware of possessing. And let us now trace picked up by the bargeman on the morning of Monday the twenty-third of June, and which was removed from the barge-office, without the cognizance of the officer in attendance, and , at some period prior to the discovery of the corpse. With a proper caution and perseverance we shall infallibly trace this boat; for not only can the bargeman who picked it up identify it, but the . The rudder would not have been abandoned without inquiry, by one altogether at ease in heart. And here let me pause to insinuate a question. There was no of the picking up of this boat. It was silently taken to the barge- office, and as silently removed. But its owner or employer--how he, at so early a period on Tuesday morning, to be informed, without the agency of advertisement, of the locality of the boat taken up on Monday, unless we imagine some connection with the --some personal permanent connection leading to cognizance of its minute interests--its petty local news? 'In speaking of the lonely assassin dragging his burden to the shore, I have already suggested the probability of his availing himself . Now we are to understand that Marie Roget precipitated from a boat. This would naturally have been the case. The corpse could not have been trusted to the shallow waters
of the shore. The peculiar marks on the back and shoulders of the victim tell of the bottom ribs of a boat. That the body was found without weight is also corroborative of the idea. If thrown from the shore a weight would have been attached. We can only account for its absence by supposing the murderer to have neglected the precaution of supplying himself with it before pushing off. In the act of consigning the corpse to the water he would unquestionably have noticed his oversight; but then no remedy would have been at hand. Any risk would have been preferred to a return to that accursed shore. Having rid himself of his ghastly charge, the murderer would have hastened to the city. There, at some obscure wharf, he would have leaped on land. But the boat, would he have secured it? He would have been in too great haste for such things as securing a boat. Moreover, in fastening it to the wharf, he would have felt as if securing evidence against himself. His natural thought would have been to cast from him, as far as possible, all that held connection with his crime. He would not only have fled from the wharf, but he would have cast it adrift. Let us pursue our fancies.-- In the morning, the wretch is stricken with unutterable horror at finding that the boat has been picked up and detained at a locality which he is in the daily habit of frequenting--at a locality, perhaps, which his duty compels him to frequent. The next night, , he removes it. Now is that rudderless boat? Let it be one of our first purposes to discover. With the first glimpse we obtain of it, the dawn of our success shall begin. This boat shall guide us, with a rapidity which will surprise even ourselves, to him who employed it in the midnight of the fatal Sabbath. Corroboration will rise upon corroboration, and the murderer will be traced.' [For reasons which we shall not specify, but which to many readers will appear obvious, we have taken the liberty of here omitting, from the MSS placed in our hands, such portion as details the of the apparently slight clue obtained by Dupin. We feel it advisable only to state, in brief, that the result desired was brought to pass; and that the Prefect fulfilled punctually, although with reluctance, the terms of his compact with the
Chevalier. Mr Poe's article concludes with the following words. --.<1> It will be understood that I speak of coincidences and . What I have said above upon this topic must suffice. In my own heart there dwells no faith in praeter-nature. That Nature and its God are two, no man who thinks will deny. That the latter, creating the former, can, at will, control or modify it, is also unquestionable. I say 'at will'; for the question is of will, and not, as the insanity of logic has assumed, of power. It is not that the Deity modify his laws, but that we insult him in imagining a possible necessity for modification. In their origin these laws were fashioned to embrace contingencies which lie in the Future. With God all is . I repeat, then, that I speak of these things only as of coincidences. And further: in what I relate it will be seen that between the fate of the unhappy Mary Cecilia Rogers, so far as that fate is known, and the fate of one Marie Roget up to a certain epoch in her history, there has existed a parallel in the contemplation of whose wonderful exactitude the reason becomes embarrassed. I say all this will be seen. But let it not for a moment be supposed that, in proceeding with the sad narrative of Marie from the epoch just mentioned, and in tracing to its the mystery which enshrouded her, it is my covert design to hint at an extension of the parallel, or even to suggest that the measures adopted in Paris for the discovery of the assassin of a , or measures founded in any similar ratiocination, would produce any similar result. For, in respect to the latter branch of the supposition, it should be considered that the most trifling variation in the facts of the two cases might give rise to the most important miscalculations, by diverting thoroughly the two courses of events; very much as, in arithmetic, an error which, in its own individuality, may be inappreciable, produces at length, by dint of multiplication at all points of the process, a result enormously at variance with truth. And, in regard to the former branch, we must not fail to hold in view that the very Calculus of Probabilities to which I have <1>.
referred, forbids all idea of the extension of the parallel,--
forbids it with a positiveness strong and decided just in
proportion as this parallel has been already long-drawn and exact.
This is one of those anomalous propositions which, seemingly,
appealing to thought altogether apart from the mathematical, is yet
one which only the mathematician can fully entertain. Nothing, for
example, is more difficult than to convince the merely general
reader that the fact of sixes having been thrown twice in
succession by a player at dice, is sufficient cause for betting the
largest odds that sixes will not be thrown in the third attempt.
A suggestion to this effect is usually rejected by the intellect at
once. It does not appear that the two throws which have been
completed, and which lie now absolutely in the Past, can have
influence upon the throw which exists only in the Future. The
chance for throwing sixes seems to be precisely as it was at any
ordinary time--that is to say, subject only to the influence of the
various other throws which may be made by the dice. And this is a
reflection which appears so exceedingly obvious that attempts to
controvert it are received more frequently with a derisive smile
than with anything like respectful attention. The error here
involved--a gross error redolent of mischief--I cannot pretend to
expose within the limits assigned me at present; and with the
philosophical it needs no exposure. It may be sufficient here to
say that it forms one of an infinite series of mistakes which arise
in the path of Reason through her propensity for seeking truth .
============
Internet Wiretap Edition of
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM by EDGAR ALLAN POE
From "The Works of Edgar Allan Poe: Tales Vol I",
J. B. Lippincott Co, Copyright 1895.
This text is placed into the Public Domain (May 1993).
The Pit and the Pendulum.
Impia tortorum longas hic turba furores
Sanguinis innocui non satiata, aluit.
Sospite nunc patria, fracto nunc funeris antro,
Mors ubi dira fuit vita salusque patent.
[Quatrain composed for the gates of a market
to be erected upon the site of the Jacobin Club
House in Paris.]
I WAS sick, sick unto death, with that long
agony, and when they at length unbound
me, and I was permitted to sit, I felt that
my senses were leaving me. The sentence, the dread
sentence of death, was the last of distinct accentua-
tion which reached my ears. After that, the sound
of the inquisitorial voices seemed merged in one
dreamy indeterminate hum. It conveyed to my
soul the idea of REVOLUTION, perhaps from its associa-
tion in fancy with the burr of a mill-wheel. This
only for a brief period, for presently I heard no more.
Yet, for a while, I saw, but with how terrible an ex-
aggeration! I saw the lips of the black-robed judges.
They appeared to me white -- whiter than the sheet
upon which I trace these words -- and thin even to
grotesqueness; thin with the intensity of their ex-
pression of firmness, of immovable resolution, of
stern contempt of human torture. I saw that the
decrees of what to me was fate were still issuing
from those lips. I saw them writhe with a deadly
locution. I saw them fashion the syllables of my
name, and I shuddered, because no sound succeeded.
I saw, too, for a few moments of delirious horror,
the soft and nearly imperceptible waving of the
sable draperies which enwrapped the walls of the
apartment; and then my vision fell upon the seven
tall candles upon the table. At first they wore the
aspect of charity, and seemed white slender angels
who would save me: but then all at once there
came a most deadly nausea over my spirit, and I felt
every fibre in my frame thrill, as if I had touched
the wire of a galvanic battery, while the angel forms
became meaningless spectres, with heads of flame,
and I saw that from them there would be no help.
And then there stole into my fancy, like a rich
musical note, the thought of what sweet rest there
must be in the grave. The thought came gently
and stealthily, and it seemed long before it attained
full appreciation; but just as my spirit came at length
properly to feel and entertain it, the figures of the
judges vanished, as if magically, from before me;
the tall candles sank into nothingness; their flames
went out utterly; the blackness of darkness super-
ened; all sensations appeared swallowed up in a mad
rushing descent as of the soul into Hades. Then
silence, and stillness, and night were the universe.
I had swooned; but still will not say that all of
consciousness was lost. What of it there remained
I will not attempt to define, or even to describe; yet
all was not lost. In the deepest slumber -- no! In
delirium -- no! In a swoon -- no! In death -- no!
Even in the grave all was not lost. Else there is no
immortality for man. Arousing from the most pro-
found of slumbers, we break the gossamer web of
some dream. Yet in a second afterwards (so frail
may that web have been) we remember not that we
have dreamed. In the return to life from the swoon
there are two stages; first, that of the sense of mental
or spiritual; secondly, that of the sense of physical
existence. It seems probable that if, upon reaching
the second stage, we could recall the impressions of
the first, we should find these impressions eloquent
in memories of the gulf beyond. And that gulf is,
what? How at least shall we distinguish its shadows
from those of the tomb? But if the impressions of
what I have termed the first stage are not at will
recalled, yet, after long interval, do they not come
unbidden, while we marvel whence they come? He
who has never swooned is not he who finds strange
palaces and wildly familiar faces in coals that glow;
is not he who beholds floating in mid-air the sad
visions that the many may not view; is not he who
ponders over the perfume of some novel flower; is
not he whose brain grows bewildered with the mean-
ing of some musical cadence which has never before
arrested his attention.
Amid frequent and thoughtful endeavours to re-
member, amid earnest struggles to regather some
token of the state of seeming nothingness into which
my soul had lapsed, there have been moments when
I have dreamed of success; there have been brief,
very brief periods when I have conjured up remem-
brances which the lucid reason of a later epoch
assures me could have had reference only to that
condition of seeming unconsciousness. These sha-
dows of memory tell indistinctly of tall figures that
lifted and bore me in silence down -- down -- still
down -- till a hideous dizziness oppressed me at the
mere idea of the interminableness of the descent.
They tell also of a vague horror at my heart on ac-
count of that heart's unnatural stillness. Then comes
a sense of sudden motionlessness throughout all
things; as if those who bore me (a ghastly train!)
had outrun, in their descent, the limits of the limit-
less, and paused from the wearisomeness of their toil.
After this I call to mind flatness and dampness; and
then all is MADNESS -- the madness of a memory which
busies itself among forbidden things.
Very suddenly there came back to my soul motion
and sound -- the tumultuous motion of the heart,
and in my ears the sound of its beating. Then a
pause in which all is blank. Then again sound,
and motion, and touch, a tingling sensation per-
vading my frame. Then the mere consciousness
of existence, without thought, a condition which
lasted long. Then, very suddenly, THOUGHT, and shud-
dering terror, and earnest endeavour to comprehend
my true state. Then a strong desire to lapse into
insensibility. Then a rushing revival of soul and a
successful effort to move. And now a full memory
of the trial, of the judges, of the sable draperies, of
the sentence, of the sickness, of the swoon. Then
entire forgetfulness of all that followed; of all that
a later day and much earnestness of endeavour have
enabled me vaguely to recall.
So far I had not opened my eyes. I felt that I
lay upon my back unbound. I reached out my
hand, and it fell heavily upon something damp
and hard. There I suffered it to remain for many
minutes, while I strove to imagine where and what
I could be. I longed, yet dared not, to employ my
vision. I dreaded the first glance at objects around
me. It was not that I feared to look upon things
horrible, but that I grew aghast lest there should be
NOTHING to see. At length, with a wild desperation
at heart, I quickly unclosed my eyes. My worst
thoughts, then, were confirmed. The blackness of
eternal night encompassed me. I struggled for
breath. The intensity of the darkness seemed to
oppress and stifle me. The atmosphere was intoler-
ably close. I still lay quietly, and made effort to
exercise my reason. I brought to mind the inquisi-
torial proceedings, and attempted from that point
to deduce my real condition. The sentence had
passed, and it appeared to me that a very long
interval of time had since elapsed. Yet not for a
moment did I suppose myself actually dead. Such
a supposition, notwithstanding what we read in fic-
tion, is altogether inconsistent with real existence;
-- but where and in what state was I? The con-
demned to death, I knew, perished usually at the
auto-da-fes, and one of these had been held on the
very night of the day of my trial. Had I been re-
manded to my dungeon, to await the next sacrifice,
which would not take place for many months?
This I at once saw could not be. Victims had been
in immediate demand. Moreover my dungeon, as
well as all the condemned cells at Toledo, had stone
floors, and light was not altogether excluded.
A fearful idea now suddenly drove the blood in
torrents upon my heart, and for a brief period I once
more relapsed into insensibility. Upon recovering,
I at once started to my feet, trembling convulsively
in every fibre. I thrust my arms wildly above and
around me in all directions. I felt nothing; yet
dreaded to move a step, lest I should be impeded by
the walls of a TOMB. Perspiration burst from every
pore, and stood in cold big beads upon my forehead.
The agony of suspense grew at length intolerable,
and I cautiously moved forward, with my arms ex-
tended, and my eyes straining from their sockets, in
the hope of catching some faint ray of light. I pro-
ceeded for many paces, but still all was blackness and
vacancy. I breathed more freely. It seemed evident
that mine was not, at least, the most hideous of
fates.
And now, as I still continued to step cautiously
onward, there came thronging upon my recollection
a thousand vague rumours of the horrors of Toledo.
Of the dungeons there had been strange things
narrated -- fables I had always deemed them -- but
yet strange, and too ghastly to repeat, save in a
whisper. Was I left to perish of starvation in this
subterranean world of darkness; or what fate per-
haps even more fearful awaited me? That the re-
sult would be death, and a death of more than
customary bitterness, I knew too well the character
of my judges to doubt. The mode and the hour
were all that occupied or distracted me.
My outstretched hands at length encountered
some solid obstruction. It was a wall, seemingly of
stone masonry -- very smooth, slimy, and cold. I
followed it up; stepping with all the careful distrust
with which certain antique narratives had inspired
me. This process, however, afforded me no means
of ascertaining the dimensions of my dungeon; as I
might make its circuit, and return to the point
whence I set out, without being aware of the fact,
so perfectly uniform seemed the wall. I therefore
sought the knife which had been in my pocket when
led into the inquisitorial chamber, but it was gone;
my clothes had been exchanged for a wrapper of
coarse serge. I had thought of forcing the blade
in some minute crevice of the masonry, so as to
identify my point of departure. The difficulty,
nevertheless, was but trivial, although, in the dis-
order of my fancy, it seemed at first insuperable. I
tore a part of the hem from the robe, and placed
the fragment at full length, and at right angles to
the wall. In groping my way around the prison, I
could not fail to encounter this rag upon completing
the circuit. So, at least, I thought, but I had not
counted upon the extent of the dungeon, or upon
my own weakness. The ground was moist and
slippery. I staggered onward for some time, when
I stumbled and fell. My excessive fatigue induced
me to remain prostrate, and sleep soon overtook me
as I lay.
Upon awaking, and stretching forth an arm, I
found beside me a loaf and a pitcher with water. I
was too much exhausted to reflect upon this circum-
stance, but ate and drank with avidity. Shortly
afterwards I resumed my tour around the prison,
and with much toil came at last upon the fragment
of the serge. Up to the period when I fell I had
counted fifty-two paces, and upon resuming my
walk I had counted forty-eight more, when I
arrived at the rag. There were in all, then, a
hundred paces; and, admitting two paces to the
yard, I presumed the dungeon to be fifty yards in
circuit. I had met, however, with many angles in
the wall, and thus I could form no guess at the shape
of the vault, for vault I could not help supposing it
to be.
I had little object -- certainly no hope -- in these
researches, but a vague curiosity prompted me to
continue them. Quitting the wall, I resolved to
cross the area of the enclosure. At first I proceeded
with extreme caution, for the floor although seem-
ingly of solid material was treacherous with slime.
At length, however, I took courage and did not
hesitate to step firmly -- endeavouring to cross in as
direct a line as possible. I had advanced some ten
or twelve paces in this manner, when the remnant
of the torn hem of my robe became entangled be-
tween my legs. I stepped on it, and fell violently
on my face.
In the confusion attending my fall, I did not
immediately apprehend a somewhat startling cir-
cumstance, which yet, in a few seconds afterward,
and while I still lay prostrate, arrested my attention.
It was this: my chin rested upon the floor of the
prison, but my lips, and the upper portion of my
head, although seemingly at a less elevation than
the chin, touched nothing. At the same time, my
forehead seemed bathed in a clammy vapour, and
the peculiar smell of decayed fungus arose to my
nostrils. I put forward my arm, and shuddered to
find that I had fallen at the very brink of a circular
pit, whose extent of course I had no means of ascer-
taining at the moment. Groping about the masonry
just below the margin, I succeeded in dislodging a
small fragment, and let it fall into the abyss. For
many seconds I hearkened to its reverberations as
it dashed against the sides of the chasm in its de-
scent; at length there was a sullen plunge into
water, succeeded by loud echoes. At the same
moment there came a sound resembling the quick
opening, and as rapid closing of a door overhead,
while a faint gleam of light flashed suddenly through
the gloom, and as suddenly faded away.
I saw clearly the doom which had been prepared
for me, and congratulated myself upon the timely
accident by which I had escaped. Another step be-
fore my fall, and the world had seen me no more
and the death just avoided was of that very char-
acter which I had regarded as fabulous and frivolous
in the tales respecting the Inquisition. To the
victims of its tyranny, there was the choice of death
with its direst physical agonies, or death with its
most hideous moral horrors. I had been reserved
for the latter. By long suffering my nerves had
been unstrung, until I trembled at the sound of my
own voice, and had become in every respect a fitting
subject for the species of torture which awaited me.
Shaking in every limb, I groped my way back to
the wall -- resolving there to perish rather than risk
the terrors of the wells, of which my imagination
now pictured many in various positions about the
dungeon. In other conditions of mind I might have
had courage to end my misery at once by a plunge
into one of these abysses; but now I was the veriest
of cowards. Neither could I forget what I had read
of these pits -- that the SUDDEN extinction of life
formed no part of their most horrible plan.
Agitation of spirit kept me awake for many long
hours; but at length I again slumbered. Upon
arousing, I found by my side, as before, a loaf and a
pitcher of water. A burning thirst consumed me,
and I emptied the vessel at a draught. It must have
been drugged, for scarcely had I drunk before I
became irresistibly drowsy. A deep sleep fell upon
me -- a sleep like that of death. How long it lasted
of course I know not; but when once again I un-
closed my eyes the objects around me were visible.
By a wild sulphurous lustre, the origin of which I
could not at first determine, I was enabled to see the
extent and aspect of the prison.
In its size I had been greatly mistaken. The
whole circuit of its walls did not exceed twenty-five
yards. For some minutes this fact occasioned me
a world of vain trouble; vain indeed -- for what
could be of less importance, under the terrible cir-
cumstances which environed me than the mere
dimensions of my dungeon? But my soul took a
wild interest in trifles, and I busied myself in en-
deavours to account for the error I had committed
in my measurement. The truth at length flashed
upon me. In my first attempt at exploration I had
counted fifty-two paces up to the period when I
fell; I must then have been within a pace or two of
the fragment of serge; in fact I had nearly per-
formed the circuit of the vault. I then slept, and
upon awaking, I must have returned upon my steps,
thus supposing the circuit nearly double what it
actually was. My confusion of mind prevented
me from observing that I began my tour with the
wall to the left, and ended it with the wall to the
right.
I had been deceived too in respect to the shape
of the enclosure. In feeling my way I had found
many angles, and thus deduced an idea of great
irregularity, so potent is the effect of total darkness
upon one arousing from lethargy or sleep! The
angles were simply those of a few slight depressions
or niches at odd intervals. The general shape of
the prison was square. What I had taken for mas-
onry seemed now to be iron, or some other metal
in huge plates, whose sutures or joints occasioned
the depression. The entire surface of this metallic
enclosure was rudely daubed in all the hideous and
repulsive devices to which the charnel superstition
of the monks has given rise. The figures of fiends
in aspects of menace, with skeleton forms and other
more really fearful images, overspread and disfigured
the walls. I observed that the outlines of these
monstrosities were sufficiently distinct, but that the
colours seemed faded and blurred, as if from the
effects of a damp atmosphere. I now noticed the
floor, too, which was of stone. In the centre
yawned the circular pit from whose jaws I had es-
caped; but it was the only one in the dungeon.
All this I saw indistinctly and by much effort, for
my personal condition had been greatly changed dur-
ing slumber. I now lay upon my back, and at full
length, on a species of low framework of wood. To
this I was securely bound by a long strap resembling
a surcingle. It passed in many convolutions about
my limbs and body, leaving at liberty only my head,
and my left arm to such extent that I could by dint
of much exertion supply myself with food from an
earthen dish which lay by my side on the floor. I
saw to my horror that the pitcher had been re-
moved. I say to my horror, for I was consumed
with intolerable thirst. This thirst it appeared to
be the design of my persecutors to stimulate, for the
food in the dish was meat pungently seasoned.
Looking upward, I surveyed the ceiling of my
prison. It was some thirty or forty feet overhead, and
constructed much as the side walls. In one of its
panels a very singular figure riveted my whole at-
tention. It was the painted figure of Time as he is
commonly represented, save that in lieu of a scythe
he held what at a casual glance I supposed to be the
pictured image of a huge pendulum, such as we see
on antique clocks. There was something, however,
in the appearance of this machine which caused me
to regard it more attentively. While I gazed di-
rectly upward at it (for its position was immediately
over my own), I fancied that I saw it in motion.
In an instant afterward the fancy was confirmed.
Its sweep was brief, and of course slow. I watched
it for some minutes, somewhat in fear but more in
wonder. Wearied at length with observing its dull
movement, I turned my eyes upon the other objects
in the cell.
A slight noise attracted my notice, and looking
to the floor, I saw several enormous rats traversing
it. They had issued from the well which lay just
within view to my right. Even then while I gazed,
they came up in troops hurriedly, with ravenous
eyes, allured by the scent of the meat. From this
it required much effort and attention to scare them
away.
It might have been half-an-hour, perhaps even
an hour (for I could take but imperfect note of
time) before I again cast my eyes upward. What
I then saw confounded and amazed me. The sweep
of the pendulum had increased in extent by nearly
a yard. As a natural consequence, its velocity was
also much greater. But what mainly disturbed me
was the idea that it had perceptibly DESCENDED. I
now observed, with what horror it is needless to
say, that its nether extremity was formed of a cres-
cent of glittering steel, about a foot in length from
horn to horn; the horns upward, and the under
edge evidently as keen as that of a razor. Like a
razor also it seemed massy and heavy, tapering from
the edge into a solid and broad structure above. It
was appended to a weighty rod of brass, and the
whole HISSED as it swung through the air.
I could no longer doubt the doom prepared for me
by monkish ingenuity in torture. My cognisance
of the pit had become known to the inquisitorial
agents -- THE PIT, whose horrors had been destined
for so bold a recusant as myself, THE PIT, typical of
hell, and regarded by rumour as the Ultima Thule
of all their punishments. The plunge into this pit
I had avoided by the merest of accidents, and I knew
that surprise or entrapment into torment formed an
important portion of all the grotesquerie of these
dungeon deaths. Having failed to fall, it was no
part of the demon plan to hurl me into the abyss,
and thus (there being no alternative) a different and
a milder destruction awaited me. Milder! I half
smiled in my agony as I thought of such application
of such a term.
What boots it to tell of the long, long hours of
horror more than mortal, during which I counted
the rushing oscillations of the steel! Inch by inch
-- line by line -- with a descent only appreciable at
intervals that seemed ages -- down and still down it
came! Days passed -- it might have been that many
days passed -- ere it swept so closely over me as to
fan me with its acrid breath. The odour of the
sharp steel forced itself into my nostrils. I prayed
-- I wearied heaven with my prayer for its more
speedy descent. I grew frantically mad, and strug-
gled to force myself upward against the sweep of
the fearful scimitar. And then I fell suddenly calm
and lay smiling at the glittering death as a child at
some rare bauble.
There was another interval of utter insensibility;
it was brief, for upon again lapsing into life there
had been no perceptible descent in the pendulum.
But it might have been long -- for I knew there were
demons who took note of my swoon, and who could
have arrested the vibration at pleasure. Upon my
recovery, too, I felt very -- oh! inexpressibly -- sick
and weak, as if through long inanition. Even amid
the agonies of that period the human nature craved
food. With painful effort I outstretched my left
arm as far as my bonds permitted, and took posses-
sion of the small remnant which had been spared
me by the rats. As I put a portion of it within my
lips there rushed to my mind a half-formed thought
of joy -- of hope. Yet what business had I with
hope? It was, as I say, a half-formed thought --
man has many such, which are never completed.
I felt that it was of joy -- of hope; but I felt also
that it had perished in its formation. In vain I
struggled to perfect -- to regain it. Long suffering
had nearly annihilated all my ordinary powers of
mind. I was an imbecile -- an idiot.
The vibration of the pendulum was at right angles
to my length. I saw that the crescent was designed
to cross the region of the heart. It would fray the
serge of my robe; it would return and repeat its
operations -- again -- and again. Notwithstanding
its terrifically wide sweep (some thirty feet or more)
and the hissing vigour of its descent, sufficient to
sunder these very walls of iron, still the fraying of
my robe would be all that, for several minutes, it
would accomplish; and at this thought I paused. I
dared not go farther than this reflection. I dwelt
upon it with a pertinacity of attention -- as if, in so
dwelling, I could arrest HERE the descent of the steel.
I forced myself to ponder upon the sound of the
crescent as it should pass across the garment -- upon
the peculiar thrilling sensation which the friction of
cloth produces on the nerves. I pondered upon all
this frivolity until my teeth were on edge.
Down -- steadily down it crept. I took a frenzied
pleasure in contrasting its downward with its
lateral velocity. To the right -- to the left -- far
and wide -- with the shriek of a damned spirit! to
my heart with the stealthy pace of the tiger! I
alternately laughed and howled, as the one or the
other idea grew predominant.
Down -- certainly, relentlessly down! It vibrated
within three inches of my bosom! I struggled
violently -- furiously -- to free my left arm. This
was free only from the elbow to the hand. I could
reach the latter, from the platter beside me to my
mouth with great effort, but no farther. Could I
have broken the fastenings above the elbow, I
would have seized and attempted to arrest the
pendulum. I might as well have attempted to
arrest an avalanche!
Down -- still unceasingly -- still inevitably down!
I gasped and struggled at each vibration. I shrunk
convulsively at its very sweep. My eyes followed
its outward or upward whirls with the eagerness of
the most unmeaning despair; they closed them-
selves spasmodically at the descent, although death
would have been a relief, O, how unspeakable!
Still I quivered in every nerve to think how slight
a sinking of the machinery would precipitate that
keen glistening axe upon my bosom. It was hope
that prompted the nerve to quiver -- the frame to
shrink. It was HOPE -- the hope that triumphs on
the rack -- that whispers to the death-condemned
even in the dungeons of the Inquisition.
I saw that some ten or twelve vibrations would
bring the steel in actual contact with my robe, and
with this observation there suddenly came over my
spirit all the keen, collected calmness of despair.
For the first time during many hours, or perhaps
days, I THOUGHT. It now occurred to me that the
bandage or surcingle which enveloped me was
UNIQUE. I was tied by no separate cord. The first
stroke of the razor-like crescent athwart any portion
of the band would so detach it that it might be un-
wound from my person by means of my left hand.
But how fearful, in that case, the proximity of the
steel! The result of the slightest struggle, how
deadly! Was it likely, moreover, that the minions
of the torturer had not foreseen and provided for
this possibility! Was it probable that the bandage
crossed my bosom in the track of the pendulum?
Dreading to find my faint, and, as it seemed, my
last hope frustrated, I so far elevated my head as to
obtain a distinct view of my breast. The surcingle
enveloped my limbs and body close in all directions
save SAVE IN THE PATH OF THE DESTROYING CRESCENT.
Scarcely had I dropped my head back into its
original position when there flashed upon my mind
what I cannot better describe than as the unformed
half of that idea of deliverance to which I have pre-
viously alluded, and of which a moiety only floated
indeterminately through my brain when I raised
food to my burning lips. The whole thought was
now present -- feeble, scarcely sane, scarcely definite,
but still entire. I proceeded at once, with the
nervous energy of despair, to attempt its execution.
For many hours the immediate vicinity of the
low framework upon which I lay had been literally
swarming with rats. They were wild, bold, raven-
ous, their red eyes glaring upon me as if they
waited but for motionlessness on my part to make
me their prey. "To what food," I thought, "have
they been accustomed in the well?"
They had devoured, in spite of all my efforts to
prevent them, all but a small remnant of the con-
tents of the dish. I had fallen into an habitual
see-saw or wave of the hand about the platter; and
at length the unconscious uniformity of the move-
ment deprived it of effect. In their voracity the
vermin frequently fastened their sharp fangs in my
fingers. With the particles of the oily and spicy
viand which now remained, I thoroughly rubbed
the bandage wherever I could reach it; then, rais-
ing my hand from the floor, I lay breathlessly still.
At first the ravenous animals were startled and
terrified at the change -- at the cessation of move-
ment. They shrank alarmedly back; many sought
the well. But this was only for a moment. I had
not counted in vain upon their voracity. Observ-
ing that I remained without motion, one or two of
the boldest leaped upon the frame-work and smelt
at the surcingle. This seemed the signal for a
general rush. Forth from the well they hurried in
fresh troops. They clung to the wood, they overran
it, and leaped in hundreds upon my person. The
measured movement of the pendulum disturbed
them not at all. Avoiding its strokes, they busied
themselves with the annointed bandage. They
pressed, they swarmed upon me in ever accumu-
lating heaps. They writhed upon my throat; their
cold lips sought my own; I was half stifled by their
thronging pressure; disgust, for which the world
has no name, swelled my bosom, and chilled with
heavy clamminess my heart. Yet one minute and
I felt that the struggle would be over. Plainly I
perceived the loosening of the bandage. I knew
that in more than one place it must be already
severed. With a more than human resolution I
lay STILL.
Nor had I erred in my calculations, nor had I en-
dured in vain. I at length felt that I was FREE. The
surcingle hung in ribands from my body. But the
stroke of the pendulum already pressed upon my
bosom. It had divided the serge of the robe. It
had cut through the linen beneath. Twice again
it swung, and a sharp sense of pain shot through
every nerve. But the moment of escape had arrived.
At a wave of my hand my deliverers hurried tumul-
tously away. With a steady movement, cautious,
sidelong, shrinking, and slow, I slid from the em-
brace of the bandage and beyond the reach of the
scimitar. For the moment, at least I WAS FREE.
Free! and in the grasp of the Inquisition! I had
scarcely stepped from my wooden bed of horror
upon the stone floor of the prison, when the motion
of the hellish machine ceased and I beheld it drawn
up by some invisible force through the ceiling.
This was a lesson which I took desperately to heart.
My every motion was undoubtedly watched. Free!
I had but escaped death in one form of agony to be
delivered unto worse than death in some other.
With that thought I rolled my eyes nervously
around on the barriers of iron that hemmed me in.
Something unusual -- some change which at first I
could not appreciate distinctly -- it was obvious had
taken place in the apartment. For many minutes
of a dreamy and trembling abstraction I busied my-
self in vain, unconnected conjecture. During this
period I became aware, for the first time, of the
origin of the sulphurous light which illumined the
cell. It proceeded from a fissure about half-an-inch
in width extending entirely around the prison at
the base of the walls which thus appeared, and were
completely separated from the floor. I endeavoured,
but of course in vain, to look through the aperture.
As I arose from the attempt, the mystery of the
alteration in the chamber broke at once upon my
understanding. I have observed that although the
outlines of the figures upon the walls were sufficiently
distinct, yet the colours seemed blurred and in-
definite. These colours had now assumed, and were
momentarily assuming, a startling and most intense
brilliancy, that give to the spectral and fiendish por-
traitures an aspect that might have thrilled even
firmer nerves than my own. Demon eyes, of a wild
and ghastly vivacity, glared upon me in a thousand
directions where none had been visible before, and
gleamed with the lurid lustre of a fire that I could
not force my imagination to regard as unreal.
UNREAL! -- Even while I breathed there came to
my nostrils the breath of the vapour of heated iron!
A suffocating odour pervaded the prison! A deeper
glow settled each moment in the eyes that glared at
my agonies! A richer tint of crimson diffused it-
self over the pictured horrors of blood. I panted '
I gasped for breath! There could be no doubt of
the design of my tormentors -- oh most unrelenting!
oh, most demoniac of men! I shrank from the
glowing metal to the centre of the cell. Amid the
thought of the fiery destruction that impended, the
idea of the coolness of the well came over my soul
like balm. I rushed to its deadly brink. I threw
my straining vision below. The glare from the en-
kindled roof illumined its inmost recesses. Yet, for
a wild moment, did my spirit refuse to comprehend
the meaning of what I saw. At length it forced --
it wrestled its way into my soul -- it burned itself in
upon my shuddering reason. O for a voice to speak!
-- oh, horror! -- oh, any horror but this! With a
shriek I rushed from the margin and buried my
face in my hands -- weeping bitterly.
The heat rapidly increased, and once again I
looked up, shuddering as if with a fit of the ague.
There had been a second change in the cell -- and
now the change was obviously in the FORM. As be-
fore, it was in vain that I at first endeavoured to
appreciate or understand what was taking place.
But not long was I left in doubt. The inquisi-
torial vengeance had been hurried by my two-fold
escape, and there was to be no more dallying with
the King of Terrors. The room had been square.
I saw that two of its iron angles were now acute --
two consequently, obtuse. The fearful difference
quickly increased with a low rumbling or moaning
sound. In an instant the apartment had shifted
its form into that of a lozenge. But the alteration
stopped not here -- I neither hoped nor desired it
to stop. I could have clasped the red walls to my
bosom as a garment of eternal peace. "Death," I
said "any death but that of the pit!" Fool! might
I not have known that INTO THE PIT it was the object
of the burning iron to urge me? Could I resist its
glow? or if even that, could I withstand its pres-
sure? And now, flatter and flatter grew the lozenge,
with a rapidity that left me no time for contempla-
tion. Its centre, and of course, its greatest width,
came just over the yawning gulf. I shrank back --
but the closing walls pressed me resistlessly on-
ward. At length for my seared and writhing body
there was no longer an inch of foothold on the firm
floor of the prison. I struggled no more, but the
agony of my soul found vent in one loud, long, and
final scream of despair. I felt that I tottered upon
the brink -- I averted my eyes --
There was a discordant hum of human voices!
There was a loud blast as of many trumpets! There
was a harsh grating as of a thousand thunders! The
fiery walls rushed back! An outstretched arm
caught my own as I fell fainting into the abyss.
It was that of General Lasalle. The French army
had entered Toledo. The Inquisition was in the
hands of its enemies.
END.
============
The Purloined Letter
Nil sapientiae odiosius acumine nimio.--Seneca
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, in his
little back library, or book-closet, au troisiŠme, No. 33 Rue
Dun“t, 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. 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 Rogˆt.
I looked upon it, therefore, as something of a coincidence, when
the door of our apartment was thrown open and admitted our old
acquaintance, Monsieur G----, the Prefect of the Parisian police.
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.
"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."
"That is another one of your odd notions," said the Prefect, who
had the fashion of calling everything "odd" that was beyond his
comprehension, and thus lived amid an absolute legion of
"oddities."
"Very true," said Dupin, as he supplied his visitor with a pipe,
and rolled toward him a comfortable chair.
"And what is the difficulty now?" I asked. "Nothing more in the
assassination way I hope?"
"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."
"Simple and odd," said Dupin.
"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."
"Perhaps it is the very simplicity of the thing which puts you at
fault," said my friend.
"What nonsense you do talk!" replied the Prefect, laughing
heartily.
"Perhaps the mystery is a little too plain," said Dupin.
"Oh, good heavens! who ever heard of such an idea?"
"A little too self-evident."
"Ha! ha! ha!--ha! ha! ha!--ho! ho! ho!" roared our visitor,
profoundly amused, "oh, Dupin, you will be the death of me yet!"
"And what, after all, is the matter on hand?" I asked.
"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."
"Proceed," said I.
"Or not," said Dupin.
"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; that beyond a doubt; he was seen to take
it. It is known, also, that it still remains in his possession."
"How is this known?" asked Dupin.
"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."
"Be a little more explicit," I said.
"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.
"Still I do not quite understand," said Dupin.
"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 ascendancy over the illustrious personage
whose honor and peace are so jeopardized."
"But this ascendancy," I interposed, "would depend upon the
robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber. Who
would dare--"
"The thief," said G., "is the Minister D----, who dares all
things, those unbecoming as well as those becoming a man. 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. After a hurried and vain endeavor to thrust it in a drawer,
she was forced to place it, open it was, upon a table. The
address, however, was uppermost, and, the contents thus
unexposed, the letter escaped notice. 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. At length, in taking leave, he
takes also from the table the letter to which he has no claim.
Its rightful owner saw, but, of course, dared not call attention
to the act, in the presence of the third person who stood at her
elbow. The minister decamped; leaving his own letter--of no
importance--upon the table."
"Here, then," said Dupin to me, "you have precisely what you
demand to make the ascendancy complete--the robber's knowledge of
the loser's knowledge of the robber."
"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.
But this, of course, cannot be done openly. In fine, driven to
despair, she has committed the matter to me."
"Than whom," said Dupin, amid a perfect whirlwind of smoke, "no
more sagacious agent could, I suppose, be desired, or even
imagined."
"You flatter me," replied the Prefect; "but it is possible that
some such opinion may have been entertained."
"It is clear," said I, "as you observe, that the letter is still
in the 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."
"True," said G.; "and upon this conviction I proceeded. My first
care was to make a 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."
"But," said I, "you are quite au fait in these investigations.
The parisian police have done this thing often before."
"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 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."
"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?"
"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 moments notice--a point of nearly equal importance
with its possession."
"Its susceptibility of being produced?" said I.
"That is to say, of being destroyed," said Dupin.
"True," I observed; "the paper is clearly then upon the premises.
As for its being upon the person of the minister, we may consider
that as out of the question."
"Entirely," said the Prefect. "He has been twice waylaid, as if
by footpads, and his person rigidly searched for my own
inspection."
"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."
"Not altogether a fool," said G., "but then he is a poet, which I
take to be only one removed from a fool."
"True," said Dupin, after a long and thoughtful whiff from his
meerschaum, "although I have been guilty of certain doggerel
myself."
"Suppose you detail," said I, "the particulars of your search."
"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. 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 ling needles you
have seen me employ. From the tables we removed the tops."
"Why so?"
"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
bedposts are employed in the same way."
"But could not the cavity be detected by sounding?" I asked.
"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."
"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?"
"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 gap in the joints--would
have sufficed to insure detection."
"I presume you looked to the mirrors, between the boards and the
plates, and you probed the beds and the bedclothes, as well as
the curtains and carpets."
"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."
"The two houses adjoining!" I exclaimed; "you must have had a
great deal of trouble."
"We had; but the reward offered is prodigious."
"You included the grounds about the houses?"
"All the grounds are paved with brick. They give us comparatively
little trouble. We examined the moss between the bricks, and
found it undisturbed."
"You looked among D----'s papers, of course, and into the books
of the library?"
"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."
"You explored the floors beneath the carpets?"
"Beyond doubt. We removed every carpet, and examined the boards
with the microscope."
"And the paper on the walls?"
"Yes."
"You looked into the cellars?"
"We did."
"Then," I said, "you have been making a miscalculation, and the
letter is not upon the premises, as you suppose."
"I fear you are right there," said the Prefect. "And now, Dupin,
what would you advise me to do?"
"To make a thorough research of the premises."
"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."
"I have no better advice to give you," said Dupin. "You have, of
course, an accurate description of the letter?"
"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 finishing the perusal of this description, he took his
departure, more entirely depressed in spirits than I have ever
known the good gentleman before.
In about a month afterward he paid 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:
"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?"
"Confound him, say I--yes; I made the re-examination, however, as
Dupin suggested--but it was all labor lost, as I knew it would
be."
"How much was the reward offered, did you say?" asked Dupin.
"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 could 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."
"Why, yes," said Dupin, drawlingly, between the whiffs of his
meerschaum, "I really--think, G., you have not exerted
yourself--to the utmost in the matter. You might--do a little
more, I think, eh?"
"How?--in what way?"
"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?"
"No; hang Abernethy!"
"To be sure! hang him and welcome. But, once upon a time, a
certain rich miser conceived the design of spunging 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.
"'We will suppose,' said the miser, 'that his symptoms are such
and such; now, doctor, what would you have directed him to take?'
"'Take!' said Abernethy, 'why, take advice, to be sure.'"
"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."
"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."
I was astonished. The Prefect appeared absolutely
thunder-stricken. For some minutes he remained speechless and
motionless, looking incredulously at my friend with open mouth,
and eyes that seemed startling 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. The latter examined it carefully and
deposited it in his pocket-book; then, unlocking an escritoire,
took thence a letter and gave it to the Prefect. 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.
When he had gone, my friend entered into some explanations.
"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."
"So far as his labors extended?" said I.
"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."
I merely laughed--but he seemed quite serious in all that he
said.
"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
school-boy is a better reasoner than 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
opponents. For example, an arrant simpleton is his opponent, and,
holding up his closed hand, asks, 'Are they even or odd?' Our
school-boy 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 instance 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 school-boy,
whom his fellows termed 'lucky,'--what, in its last analysis, is
it?"
"It is merely," I said, "an identification of the reasoner's
intellect with that of his opponent."
"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, 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 school-boy
lies at the bottom of all the spurious profundity which has been
attributed to Rochefoucault, to La Bougive, to Machiavelli, and
to Campanella."
"And the identification," I said, "of the reasoner's intellect
with that of his opponent, depends, if I understand you aright,
upon the accuracy with which the opponent's intellect is
admeasured."
"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 any thing 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
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 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 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 recherch‚s nooks for concealment ar adapted only for
ordinary occasions, and would be adopted by ordinary intellects;
for, in all cases of concealment, a disposal of the article
concealed--a disposal in this recherch‚ 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 the
political eyes, when the reward is of magnitude,--the qualities
in question have never been known to fail. You will now
understand what I mean 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
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 are poets; this the Prefect feels; and he is merely guilty
of a non distributio medii in thence inferring that all poets are
fools."
"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."
"You are mistaken; I know him well; he is both. As a poet and as
a mathematician, he would reason well; as a mere mathematician,
he could not have reasoned at all, and thus would have been at
the mercy of the Prefect."
"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 ideas of centuries. The mathematical
reason has long been regarded as the reason par excellence."
"'Il y a … parier,'" replied Dupin, quoting from Chamfort, "'que
toute id‚e publique, toute convention re‡ue, est une sottise, cor
elle a convenue 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 algebra. The French are the originators of this
particular 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."
"You have a quarrel on hand, I see," said I, "with some of the
algebraists of Paris; but proceed."
"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. 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 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. 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.' 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 would be trusted out of
equal roots, or one who did not clandestinely hold it as a point
of his faith 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 when x2 + px
is not altogether equal to q, 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.
"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. I knew
him as a courtier, too, and as a bold intriguant. Such a man, I
considered, could not fail to be aware of the ordinary political
modes of action. He could not fail to be anticipate--and events
have proved 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. 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 sooner to impress
them with the conviction to which G----, in fact, 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 political action in searches for articles
concealed--I felt that this whole 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. 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 first interview, that it was
just possible this mystery troubled him so much on account of its
being so very self-evident."
"Yes," said I, "I remember his merriment well. I really thought
he would have fallen into convulsions."
"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 inertiae, for example, seems
to be identical in physics and metaphysics. It is not more true
in the former, than 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. Again: have you ever noticed which of the street
signs, over the shop doors, are the most attractive of
attention?"
"I have never given the matter a thought," I said.
"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. 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 this is a point,
it appears, somewhat above or beneath the understanding of the
Prefect. He never once thought it probable, or possible, that 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.
"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 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.
"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
human being now alive--but that is only when nobody sees him.
"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.
"I paid especial attention to a large writing-table near where 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.
"At length my eyes, in going the circuit of the room, fell upon a
trumpery filigree card-rack of pasteboard, 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. The 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.
"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 to us
so minute a description. Here the seal was large and black, with the
D---- cipher; there it was small and read, 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. 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 hyperobtrusive
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.
"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
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. 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. I bade the minister good-morning, and
took my departure at once, leaving a gold snuff-box upon the
table.
"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 large 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 terrified
mod. 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 fac-simile, (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.
"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. When he had gone, D---- came from the window, whither I
had followed him immediately upon securing the object in view.
Soon afterward I bade him farewell. The pretended lunatic was a
man in my own pay."
"But what purpose had you," I asked, "in replacing the letter by
a fac-simile? Would it not have been better, at the first visit,
to have seized it openly, and departed?"
"D----," replied Dupin, "is a desperate man, and a man of nerve.
His hotel, too, is not without attendants devoted to his
interests. 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.
Thus will he inevitably commit himself, at once, to his political
destruction. His downfall, too, will not be more precipitate than
awkward. 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, 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."
"How? did you put any thing particular in it?"
"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, that 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--
"'---- ----Un dessein si funeste,
S'il n'est digne d'Atr‚e, est digne de Thyeste.'
They are to be found in Cr‚billon's 'Atr‚e.'"
============
The Spectacles
Many years ago, it was the fashion to ridicule the idea of
'love at first sight'; but those who think, not less than those
who feel deeply, have always advocated its existence. Modern
discoveries, indeed, in what may be termed ethical magnetism or
magneto-aesthetics, render it probable that the most natural,
and, consequently, the truest and most intense of the human
affections are those which arise in the heart as if by electric
sympathy--in a word, that the brightest and most enduring of the
psychal fetters are those which are riveted by a glance. The
confession I am about to make will add another to the already
almost innumerable instances of the truth of the position.
My story requires that I should be somewhat minute. I am
still a very young man--not yet twenty-two years of age. My
name, at present, is a very usual and rather plebeian one--
Simpson. I say 'at present'; for it is only lately that I have
been so called--having legislatively adopted this surname within
the last year, in order to receive a large inheritance left me by
a distant male relative, Adolphus Simpson, Esq. The bequest was
conditioned upon my taking the name of the testator--the family,
not the Christian name; my Christian name is Napoleon Bonaparte--
or, more properly, these are my first and middle appellations.
I assumed the name, Simpson, with some reluctance, as in my
true patronym, Froissart, I felt a very pardonable pride--
believing that I could trace a descent from the immortal author
of the Chronicles. While on the subject of names, by-the-by, I
may mention a singular coincidence of sound attending the names
of some of my immediate predecessors. My father was a Monsieur
Froissart, of Paris. His wife--my mother, whom he married at
fifteen--was a Mademoiselle Croissart, eldest daughter of
Croissart the banker; whose wife, again, being only sixteen when
married, was the eldest daughter of one Victor Voissart.
Monsieur Voissart, very singularly, had married a lady of similar
name--a Mademoiselle Moissart. She, too, was quite a child when
married; and her mother, also, Madame Moissart, was only fourteen
when led to the altar. These early marriages are usual in
France. Here, however, are Moissart, Voissart, Croissart, and
Froissart, all in the direct line of descent. My own name,
though, as I say, became Simpson, by act of Legislature and with
so much repugnance on my part, that, at one period, I actually
hesitated about accepting the legacy with the useless and
annoying proviso attached.
As to personal endowments, I am by no means deficient. On
the contrary, I believe that I am well made, and possess what
nine-tenths of the world would call a handsome face. In height I
am five feet eleven. My hair is black and curling. My nose is
sufficiently good. My eyes are large and grey; and although, in
fact, they are weak to a very inconvenient degree, still no
defect in this regard would be suspected from their appearance.
The weakness itself, however, has always much annoyed me, and I
have resorted to every remedy--short of wearing glasses. Being
youthful and good-looking, I naturally dislike these, and have
absolutely refused to employ them. I know nothing, indeed, which
so disfigures the countenance of a young person, or so impresses
every feature with an air of demureness, if not altogether of
sanctimoniousness and of age. An eye-glass, on the other hand,
has a savour of downright foppery and affectation. I have
hitherto managed as well as I could without either. But
something too much of these merely personal details, which, after
all, are of little importance. I will content myself with
saying, in addition, that my temperament is sanguine, rash,
ardent, enthusiastic--and that all my life I have been a devoted
admirer of the women.
One night last winter I entered a box at the P---- Theatre,
in company with a friend, Mr Talbot. It was an opera night, and
the bills presented a very rare attraction, so that the house was
excessively crowded. We were in time, however, to obtain the
front seats which had been reserved for us, and into which, with
some little difficulty, we elbowed our way.
For two hours my companion, who was a musical fanatico, gave
his undivided attention to the stage; and, in the meantime, I
amused myself by observing the audience, which consisted, in
chief part, of the very elite of the city. Having satisfied
myself upon this point, I was about turning my eyes to the prima
donna, when they were arrested and riveted by a figure in one of
the private boxes which had escaped my observation.
If I live a thousand years I can never forget the intense
emotion with which I regarded this figure. It was that of a
female, the most exquisite I had ever beheld. The face was so
far turned towards the stage that, for some minutes, I could not
obtain a view of it,--but the form was divine; no other word can
sufficiently express its magnificent proportion--and even the
term 'divine' seems ridiculously feeble as I write it.
The magic of a lovely form in woman--the necromancy of
female gracefulness--was always a power which I had found it
impossible to resist; but here was grace personified, incarnate,
the beau ideal of my wildest and most enthusiastic visions. The
figure, almost all of which the construction of the box permitted
to be seen, was somewhat above the medium height, and nearly
approached, without positively reaching, the majestic. Its
perfect fulness and tournure were delicious. The head, of which
only the back was visible, rivalled in outline that of the Greek
Psyche, and was rather displayed than concealed by an elegant cap
of gaze aerienne, which put me in mind of the ventum textilem of
Apuleius. The right arm hung over the balustrade of the box, and
thrilled every nerve of my frame with its exquisite symmetry.
Its upper portion was draperied by one of the loose open sleeves
now in fashion. This extended but little below the elbow.
Beneath it was worn an under one of some frail material, close-
fitting, and terminated by a cuff of rich lace, which fell
gracefully over the top of the hand revealing only the delicate
fingers, upon one of which sparkled a diamond ring, which I at
once saw was of extraordinary value. The admirable roundness of
the wrist was well set off by a bracelet which encircled it, and
which also was ornamented and clasped by a magnificent aigrette
of jewels,--telling, in words that could not be mistaken, at once
of the wealth and fastidious taste of the wearer.
I gazed at this queenly apparition for at least half an
hour, as if I had been suddenly converted to stone; and, during
this period, I felt the full force and truth of all that has been
said or sung concerning 'love at first sight'. My feelings were
totally different from any which I had hitherto experienced, in
the presence of even the most celebrated specimens of female
loveliness. An unaccountable, and what I am compelled to
consider a magnetic, sympathy of soul for soul, seemed to rivet,
not only my vision, but my whole powers of thought and feeling,
upon the admirable object before me. I saw--I felt--I knew that
I was deeply, madly, irrevocably in love--and this even before
seeing the face of the person beloved. So intense, indeed, was
the passion that consumed me, that I really believed it would
have received little if any abatement had the features, yet
unseen, proved of merely ordinary character; so anomalous is the
nature of the only true love--of the love at first sight--and so
little really dependent is it upon the external conditions which
only seem to create and control it.
While I was thus wrapped in admiration of this lovely
vision, a sudden disturbance among the audience caused her to
turn her head partially towards me, so that I beheld the entire
profile of the face. Its beauty even exceeded my anticipations--
and yet there was something about it which disappointed me
without my being able to tell exactly what it was. I said
'disappointed', but this is not altogether the word. My
sentiments were at once quieted and exalted. They partook less
of transport and more of calm enthusiasm--of enthusiastic repose.
This state of feeling arose, perhaps, from the Madonna-like and
matronly air of the face; and yet I at once understood that it
could not have arisen entirely from this. There was something
else--some mystery which I could not develop--some expression
about the countenance which slightly disturbed me while it
greatly heightened my interest. In fact, I was just in that
condition of mind which prepares a young and susceptible man for
any act of extravagance. Had the lady been alone, I should
undoubtedly have entered her box and accosted her at all hazards;
but, fortunately, she was attended by two companions--a
gentleman, and a strikingly beautiful woman, to all appearances a
few years younger than herself.
I revolved in my mind a thousand schemes by which I might
obtain, hereafter, an introduction to the elder lady, or, for the
present, at all events, a more distinct view of her beauty. I
would have removed my position to one nearer her own, but the
crowded state of the theatre rendered this impossible; and the
stern decrees of Fashion had, of late, imperatively prohibited
the use of the opera-glass, in a case such as this, even had I
been so fortunate as to have one with me--but I had not--and was
thus in despair.
At length I bethought me of applying to my companion.
'Talbot,' I said, 'you have an opera-glass. Let me have
it.'
'An opera-glass!--no!--what do you suppose I would be doing
with an opera-glass?' Here he turned impatiently towards the
stage.
'But, Talbot,' I continued, pulling him by the shoulder,
'listen to me, will you? Do you see the stage-box?--there!--no,
the next.-- Did you ever behold as lovely a woman?'
'She is very beautiful, no doubt,' he said.
'I wonder who she can be?'
'Why, in the name of all that is angelic, don't you know who
she is? "Not to know her argues yourself unknown." She is the
celebrated Madame Lalande--the beauty of the day par excellence,
and the talk of the whole town. Immensely wealthy too--a widow--
and a great match--has just arrived from Paris.'
'Do you know her?'
'Yes--I have the honour.'
'Will you introduce me?'
'Assuredly--with the greatest pleasure; when shall it be?'
'To-morrow, at one, I will call upon you at B----'s.'
'Very good; and now do hold your tongue, if you can.'
In this latter respect I was forced to take Talbot's advice;
for he remained obstinately deaf to every further question or
suggestion, and occupied himself exclusively for the rest of the
evening with what was transacting upon the stage.
In the meantime I kept my eyes riveted on Madame Lalande,
and at length had the good fortune to obtain a full front view of
her face. It was exquisitely lovely: this, of course, my heart
had told me before, even had not Talbot fully satisfied me upon
the point--but still the unintelligible something disturbed me.
I finally concluded that my senses were impressed by a certain
air of gravity, sadness, or, still more properly, of weariness,
which took something from the youth and freshness of the
countenance, only to endow it with a seraphic tenderness and
majesty, and thus, of course, to my enthusiastic and romantic
temperament, with an interest tenfold.
While I thus feasted my eyes, I perceived, at last, to my
great trepidation, by an almost imperceptible start on the part
of the lady, that she had become suddenly aware of the intensity
of my gaze. Still, I was absolutely fascinated, and could not
withdraw it, even for an instant. She turned aside her face, and
again I saw only the chiselled contour of the back portion of the
head. After some minutes, as if urged by curiosity to see if I
was still looking, she gradually brought her face again around
and again encountered my burning gaze. Her large dark eyes fell
instantly, and a deep blush mantled her cheek. But what was my
astonishment at perceiving that she not only did not a second
time avert her head, but that she actually took from her girdle a
double eye-glass--elevated it--adjusted it--and then regarded me
through it, intently and deliberately, for the space of several
minutes.
Had a thunderbolt fallen at my feet I could not have been
more thoroughly astounded--astounded only--not offended or
disgusted in the slightest degree; although an action so bold in
any other woman would have been likely to offend or disgust. But
the whole thing was done with so much quietude--so much
nonchalance--so much repose--with so evident an air of the
highest breeding, in short--that nothing of mere effrontery was
perceptible, and my sole sentiments were those of admiration and
surprise.
I observed that, upon her first elevation of the glass, she
had seemed satisfied with a momentary inspection of my person,
and was withdrawing the instrument, when, as if struck by a
second thought, she resumed it, and so continued to regard me
with fixed attention for the space of several minutes--for five
minutes, at the very least, I am sure.
This action, so remarkable in an American theatre, attracted
very general observation, and gave rise to an indefinite
movement, or buzz, among the audience, which, for a moment,
filled me with confusion, but produced no visible effect upon the
countenance of Madame Lalande.
Having satisfied her curiosity--if such it was--she dropped
the glass, and quietly gave her attention again to the stage; her
profile now being turned towards myself, as before. I continued
to watch her unremittingly, although I was fully conscious of my
rudeness in so doing. Presently I saw the head slowly and
slightly change its position; and soon I became convinced that
the lady, while pretending to look at the stage was, in fact,
attentively regarding myself. It is needless to say what effect
this conduct, on the part of so fascinating a woman, had upon my
excitable mind.
Having thus scrutinized me for perhaps a quarter of an hour,
the fair object of my passion addressed the gentleman who
attended her, and, while she spoke, I saw distinctly, by the
glances of both, that the conversation had reference to myself.
Upon its conclusion, Madame Lalande again turned towards the
stage, and, for a few minutes, seemed absorbed in the
performances. At the expiration of this period, however, I was
thrown into an extremity of agitation by seeing her unfold, for
the second time, the eye-glass which hung at her side, fully
confront me as before, and, disregarding the renewed buzz of the
audience, survey me, from head to foot, with the same miraculous
composure which had previously so delighted and confounded my
soul.
This extraordinary behaviour, by throwing me into a perfect
fever of excitement--into an absolute delirium of love--served
rather to embolden than to disconcert me. In the mad intensity
of my devotion, I forgot everything but the presence and the
majestic loveliness of the vision which confronted my gaze.
Watching my opportunity, when I thought the audience were fully
engaged with the opera, I at length caught the eyes of Madame
Lalande, and, upon the instant, made a slight but unmistakable
bow.
She blushed very deeply--then averted her eyes--then slowly
and cautiously looked around, apparently to see if my rash action
had been noticed--then leaned over towards the gentleman who sat
by her side.
I now felt a burning sense of the impropriety I had
committed, and expected nothing less than instant exposure; while
a vision of pistols upon the morrow floated rapidly and
uncomfortably through my brain. I was greatly and immediately
relieved, however, when I saw the lady merely hand the gentleman
a play-bill, without speaking; but the reader may form some
feeble conception of my astonishment--of my profound amazement--
my delirious bewilderment of heart and soul--when, instantly
afterward, having again glanced furtively around, she allowed her
bright eyes to set fully and steadily upon my own, and then, with
a faint smile, disclosing a bright line of her pearly teeth, made
two distinct, pointed, and unequivocal affirmative inclinations
of the head.
It is useless, of course, to dwell upon my joy--upon my
transport--upon my illimitable ecstasy of heart. If ever man was
mad with excess of happiness, it was myself at that moment. I
loved. This was my first love--so I felt it to be. It was love
supreme--indescribable. It was 'love at first sight'; and at
first sight, too, it had been appreciated and returned.
Yes, returned. How and why should I doubt it for an
instant? What other construction could I possibly put upon such
conduct, on the part of a lady so beautiful--so wealthy--
evidently so accomplished--of so high breeding--of so lofty a
position in society--in every regard so entirely respectable as I
felt assured was Madame Lalande? Yes, she loved me--she returned
the enthusiasm of my love, with an enthusiasm as blind--as
uncompromising--as uncalculating--as abandoned--and as utterly
unbounded as my own! These delicious fancies and reflections,
however, were now interrupted by the falling of the drop-curtain.
The audience rose; and the usual tumult immediately supervened.
Quitting Talbot abruptly, I made every effort to force my way
into closer proximity with Madame Lalande. Having failed in
this, on account of the crowd, I at length gave up the chase, and
bent my steps homeward; consoling myself for my disappointment in
not having been able to touch even the hem of her robe, by the
reflection that I should be introduced by Talbot, in due form,
upon the morrow.
This morrow at last came; that is to say, a day finally
dawned upon a long and weary night of impatience; and then the
hours until 'one' were snail-paced, dreary, and innumerable. But
even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end, and there came an
end to this long delay. The clock struck. As the last echo
ceased, I stepped into B----'s and inquired for Talbot.
'Out!' said the footman--Talbot's own.
'Out!' I replied, staggering back half a dozen paces--'let
me tell you, my fine fellow, that this thing is thoroughly
impossible and impracticable; Mr Talbot is not out. What do you
mean?'
'Nothing, sir; only Mr Talbot is not in. That's all. He
rode over to S----, immediately after breakfast, and left word
that he would not be in town again for a week.'
I stood petrified with horror and rage. I endeavoured to
reply, but my tongue refused its office. At length I turned on
my heel, livid with wrath, and inwardly consigning the whole
tribe of the Talbots to the innermost regions of Erebus. It was
evident that my considerate friend, il fanatico, had quite
forgotten his appointment with myself--had forgotten it as soon
as it was made. At no time was he a very scrupulous man of his
word. There was no help for it; so smothering my vexation as
well as I could, I strolled moodily up the street, propounding
futile inquiries about Madame Lalande to every male acquaintance
I met. By report she was known, I found, to all--to many by
sight--but she had been in town only a few weeks, and there were
very few, therefore, who claimed her personal acquaintance.
These few, being still comparatively strangers, could not, or
would not, take the liberty of introducing me through the
formality of a morning call. While I stood thus, in despair,
conversing with a trio of friends upon the all-absorbing subject
of my heart, it so happened that the subject itself passed by.
'As I live, there she is!' cried one.
'Surprisingly beautiful!' exclaimed a second.
'An angel upon earth!' ejaculated a third.
I looked; and in an open carriage which approached us,
passing slowly down the street, saw the enchanting vision of the
opera, accompanied by the younger lady who had occupied a portion
of her box.
'Her companion also wears remarkably well,' said the one of
my trio who had spoken first.
'Astonishingly,' said the second, 'still quite a brilliant
air; but art will do wonders. Upon my word, she looks better
than she did at Paris five years ago. A beautiful woman still;--
don't you think so, Froissart?--Simpson, I mean.'
'Still!' said I, 'and why shouldn't she be? But compared
with her friend she is as a rushlight to the evening star--a
glow-worm to Antares.'
'Ha! ha! ha!--why Simpson, you have an astonishing tact at
making discoveries--original ones, I mean.' And here we
separated, while one of the trio began humming a gay vaudeville,
of which I caught only the lines--
Ninon, Ninon, Ninon a bas--
A bas Ninon De L'Enclos!
During this little scene, however, one thing had served
greatly to console me, although it fed the passion by which I was
consumed. As the carriage of Madame Lalande rolled by our group,
I had observed that she recognized me; and more than this, she
had blessed me, by the most seraphic of all imaginable smiles,
with no equivocal mark of the recognition.
As for an introduction, I was obliged to abandon all hope of
it, until such time as Talbot should think proper to return from
the country. In the meantime I perseveringly frequented every
reputable place of public amusement; and, at length, at the
theatre, where I first saw her, I had the supreme bliss of
meeting her, and of exchanging glances with her once again. This
did not occur, however, until the lapse of a fortnight. Every
day, in the interim, I had inquired for Talbot at his hotel, and
every day had been thrown into a spasm of wrath by the
everlasting 'Not come home yet' of his footman.
Upon the evening in question, therefore, I was in a
condition little short of madness. Madame Lalande, I had been
told, was a Parisian--had lately arrived from Paris--might she
not suddenly return?--return before Talbot came back--and might
she not be thus lost to me for ever? The thought was too
terrible to bear. Since my future happiness was at issue, I
resolved to act with a manly decision. In a word, upon the
breaking up of the play, I traced the lady to her residence,
noted the address, and the next morning sent her a full and
elaborate letter, in which I poured out my whole heart.
I spoke boldly, freely--in a word, I spoke with passion. I
concealed nothing--not even of my weakness. I alluded to the
romantic circumstances of our first meeting--even to the glances
which had passed between us. I went so far as to say that I felt
assured of her love; while I offered this assurance, and my own
intensity of devotion, as two excuses for my otherwise
unpardonable conduct. As a third, I spoke of my fear that she
might quit the city before I could have the opportunity of a
formal introduction. I concluded the most wildly enthusiastic
epistle ever penned, with a frank declaration of my worldly
circumstances--of my affluence--and with an offer of my heart and
of my hand.
In an agony of expectation I awaited the reply. After what
seemed the lapse of a century it came.
Yes, actually came. Romantic as all this may appear, I
really received a letter from Madame Lalande--the beautiful, the
wealthy, the idolized Madame Lalande. Her eyes--her magnificent
eyes, had not belied her noble heart. Like a true Frenchwoman,
as she was, she had obeyed the frank dictates of her reason--the
generous impulses of her nature--despising the conventional
pruderies of the world. She had not scorned my proposals. She
had not sheltered herself in silence. She had not returned my
letter unopened. She had even sent me, in reply, one penned by
her own exquisite fingers. It ran thus:
Monsieur Simpson vill pardonne me for not compose de
butefull tong of his contree so vell as might. It is only de
late dat I am arrive, and not yet ave de opportunite for to--
l'etudier.
Vid dis apologie for the maniere, I vill now say dat,
helas!--Monsieur Simpson ave guess but de too true. Need I say
de more? Helas! am I not ready speak de too moshe?
EUGENIE LALANDE
This noble-spirited note I kissed a million times, and
committed no doubt, on its account, a thousand other
extravagances that have now escaped my memory. Still Talbot
would not return. Alas! could he have formed the even vaguest
idea of the suffering his absence had occasioned his friend,
would not his sympathizing nature have flown immediately to my
relief? Still, however, he came not. I wrote. He replied. He
was detained by urgent business--but would shortly return. He
begged me not to be impatient--to moderate my transports--to read
soothing books--to drink nothing stronger than Hock--and to bring
the consolations of philosophy in my aid. The fool! if he could
not come himself, why, in the name of everything rational, could
he not have enclosed me a letter of presentation? I wrote him
again, entreating him to forward one forthwith. My letter was
returned by that footman, with the following endorsement in
pencil. The scoundrel had joined his master in the country:
Left S---- yesterday, for parts unknown--did not say where--
or when be back--so thought best to return letter, knowing your
handwriting, and as how you is always, more or less, in a hurry.
Yours sincerely,
STUBBS
After this, it is needless to say, that I devoted to the
infernal deities both master and valet:--but there was little use
in anger, and no consolation at all in complaint.
But I had yet a resource left, in my constitutional
audacity. Hitherto it had served me well, and I now resolved to
make it avail me to the end. Besides, after the correspondence
which had passed between us, what act of mere informality could I
commit, within bounds, that ought to be regarded as indecorous by
Madame Lalande? Since the affair of the letter, I had been in
the habit of watching her house, and thus discovered that, about
twilight, it was her custom to promenade, attended only by a
negro in livery, in a public square overlooked by her windows.
Here, amid the luxuriant and shadowing groves, in the grey gloom
of a sweet midsummer evening, I observed my opportunity and
accosted her.
The better to deceive the servant in attendance, I did this
with the assured air of an old and familiar acquaintance. With a
presence of mind truly Parisian, she took the cue at once, and,
to greet me, held out the most bewitchingly little of hands. The
valet at once fell into the rear, and now, with hearts full to
overflowing, we discoursed long and unreservedly of our love.
As Madame Lalande spoke English even less fluently than she
wrote it, our conversation was necessarily in French. In this
sweet tongue, so adapted to passion, I gave loose to the
impetuous enthusiasm of my nature, and, with all the eloquence I
could command, besought her to consent to an immediate marriage.
At this impatience she smiled. She urged the old story of
decorum--that bug-bear which deters so many from bliss until the
opportunity for bliss has for ever gone by. I had most
imprudently made it known among my friends, she observed, that I
desired her acquaintance--thus that I did not possess it--thus,
again, there was no possibility of concealing the date of our
first knowledge of each other. And then she adverted, with a
blush, to the extreme recency of this date. To wed immediately
would be improper--would be indecorous--would be outre. All this
she said with a charming air of naivete which enraptured while it
grieved and convinced me. She went even so far as to accuse me,
laughingly, of rashness--of imprudence. She bade me remember
that I really even knew not who she was--what were her prospects,
her connections, her standing in society. She begged me, but
with a sigh, to reconsider my proposal, and termed my love an
infatuation--a will o' the wisp--a fancy or fantasy of the
moment, a baseless and unstable creation rather of the
imagination than of the heart. These things she uttered as the
shadows of the sweet twilight gathered darkly and more darkly
around us--and then, with a gentle pressure of her fairy-like
hand, overthrew in a single sweet instant, all the argumentative
fabric she had reared.
I replied as best I could--as only a true lover can. I
spoke at length, and perseveringly of my devotion, of my passion-
-of her exceeding beauty, and of my own enthusiastic admiration.
In conclusion, I dwelt, with convincing energy, upon the perils
that encompass the course of love--that course of true love that
never did run smooth--and thus deduced the manifest danger of
rendering that course unnecessarily long.
This latter argument seemed finally to soften the rigour of
her determination. She relented; but there was yet an obstacle,
she said, which she felt assured I had not properly considered.
This was a delicate point--for a woman to urge, especially so; in
mentioning it, she saw that she must make a sacrifice of her
feelings; still, for me, every sacrifice should be made. She
alluded to the topic of age. Was I aware--was I fully aware of
this discrepancy between us? That the age of the husband should
surpass by a few years--even by fifteen or twenty--the age of the
wife, was regarded by the world as admissible, and indeed, as
even proper: but she had always entertained the belief that the
years of the wife should never exceed in number those of the
husband. A discrepancy of this unnatural kind gave rise, too
frequently, alas! to a life of unhappiness. Now she was aware
that my own age did not exceed two and twenty; and I, on the
contrary, perhaps was not aware that the years of my Eugenie
extended very considerably beyond that number.
About all this there was a nobility of soul--a dignity of
candour--which delighted--which enchanted me--which eternally
riveted my chains. I could scarcely restrain the excessive
transport which possessed me.
'My sweetest Eugenie,' I cried, 'what is all this about
which you are discoursing? Your years surpass in some measure my
own. But what then? The customs of the world are so many
conventional follies. To those who love as ourselves, in what
respect differs a year from an hour? I am twenty-two, you say;
granted: indeed, you may as well call me, at once, twenty-three.
Now you yourself, my dearest Eugenie, can have numbered no more
than--can have numbered no more than--no more than--than--than--
than--'
Here I paused for an instant, in the expectation that Madame
Lalande would interrupt me by supplying her true age. But a
Frenchwoman is seldom direct, and has always, by way of answering
to an embarrassing query, some little practical reply of her own.
In the present instance, Eugenie, who for a few moments past had
seemed to be searching for something in her bosom, at length let
fall upon the grass a miniature, which I immediately picked up
and presented to her.
'Keep it!' she said, with one of her most ravishing smiles.
'Keep it for my sake--for the sake of her whom it too
flatteringly represents. Besides, upon the back of the trinket
you may discover, perhaps, the very information you seem to
desire. It is now, to be sure, growing rather dark--but you can
examine it at your leisure in the morning. In the meantime, you
shall be my escort home to-night. My friends are about holding a
little musical levee. I can promise you, too, some good singing.
We French are not nearly so punctilious as you Americans, and I
shall have no difficulty in smuggling you in, in the character of
an old acquaintance.'
With this, she took my arm, and I attended her home. The
mansion was quite a fine one, and, I believe, furnished in good
taste. Of this latter point, however, I am scarcely qualified to
judge; for it was just dark as we arrived; and in American
mansions of the better sort lights seldom, during the heat of
summer, make their appearance at this, the most pleasant period
of the day. In about an hour after my arrival, to be sure, a
single shaded solar lamp was lit in the principal drawing-room;
and this apartment, I could thus see, was arranged with unusual
good taste and even splendour; but two other rooms of the suite,
and in which the company chiefly assembled, remained, during the
whole evening, in a very agreeable shadow. This is a well-
conceived custom, giving the party at least a choice of light or
shade, and one which our friends over the water could not do
better than immediately adopt.
The evening thus spent was unquestionably the most delicious
of my life. Madame Lalande had not overrated the musical
abilities of her friends; and the singing I here heard I had
never heard excelled in any private circle out of Vienna. The
instrumental performers were many and of superior talents. The
vocalists were chiefly ladies, and no individual sang less than
well. At length, upon a peremptory call for 'Madame Lalande', she
arose at once, without affectation or demur, from the chaise
longue upon which she had sat by my side, and, accompanied by one
or two gentlemen and her female friend of the opera, repaired to
the piano in the main drawing-room. I would have escorted her
myself, but felt that, under the circumstances of my introduction
to the house, I had better remain unobserved where I was. I was
thus deprived of the pleasure of seeing, although not of hearing,
her sing.
The impression she produced upon the company seemed
electric--but the effect upon myself was something even more. I
know not how adequately to describe it. It arose in part, no
doubt, from the sentiment of love with which I was imbued; but
chiefly from my conviction of the extreme sensibility of the
singer. It is beyond the reach of art to endow either air or
recitative with more impassioned expression than was hers. Her
utterance of the romance in Othello--the tone with which she gave
the words 'Sul mio sasso', in the Capuletti--is ringing in my
memory yet. Her lower tones were absolutely miraculous. Her
voice embraced three complete octaves, extending from the
contralto D to the D upper soprano, and, though sufficiently
powerful to have filled the San Carlos, executed, with the
minutest precision, every difficulty of vocal composition--
ascending and descending scales, cadences, or fiorituri. In the
finale of the Sonambula, she brought about a most remarkable
effect at the words:
Ah! non guinge uman pensiero
Al contento one' io son piena.
Here, in imitation of Malibran, she modified the original
phrase of Bellini, so as to let her voice descend to the tenor G,
when, by a rapid transition, she struck the G above the treble
stave, springing over an interval of two octaves.
Upon rising from the piano after these miracles of vocal
execution, she resumed her seat by my side; when I expressed to
her, in terms of the deepest enthusiasm, my delight at her
performance. Of my surprise I said nothing, and yet was I most
unfeignedly surprised; for a certain feebleness, or rather a
certain tremulous indecision of voice in ordinary conversation,
had prepared me to anticipate that, in singing, she would not
acquit herself with any remarkable ability.
Our conversation was now long, earnest, uninterrupted, and
totally unreserved. She made me relate many of the earlier
passages of my life, and listened with breathless attention to
every word of the narrative. I concealed nothing--felt that I
had a right to conceal nothing--from her confiding affection.
Encouraged by her candour upon the delicate point of her age, I
entered, with perfect frankness, not only into a detail of my
many minor vices, but made full confession of those moral and
even of those physical infirmities, the disclosure of which, in
demanding so much higher a degree of courage, is so much surer an
evidence of love. I touched upon my college indiscretions--upon
my extravagances--upon my carousals--upon my debts--upon my
flirtations. I even went so far as to speak of a slightly hectic
cough with which, at one time, I had been troubled--of a chronic
rheumatism--of a twinge of hereditary gout--and, in conclusion,
of the disagreeable and inconvenient, but hitherto carefully
concealed, weakness of my eyes.
'Upon this latter point,' said Madame Lalande, laughingly,
'you have been surely injudicious in coming to confession; for
without the confession, I take it for granted that no one would
have accused you of the crime. By the by,' she continued, 'have
you any recollection--' and here I fancied that a blush, even
through the gloom of the apartment, became distinctly visible
upon her cheek--'have you any recollection, mon cher ami, of this
little ocular assistant which now depends from my neck?'
As she spoke, she twirled in her fingers the identical
double eye-glass, which had so overwhelmed me with confusion at
the opera.
'Full well--alas! do I remember it,' I exclaimed, pressing
passionately the delicate hand which offered the glasses for my
inspection. They formed a complex and magnificent toy, richly
chased and filigreed, and gleaming with jewels which, even in the
deficient light, I could not help perceiving were of high value.
'Eh bien! mon ami,' she resumed with a certain empressement
of manner that rather surprised me--'Eh bien! mon ami, you have
earnestly besought of me a favour which you have been pleased to
denominate priceless. You have demanded of me my hand upon the
morrow. Should I yield to your entreaties--and, I may add, to
the pleadings of my own bosom--would I not be entitled to demand
of you a very--a very little boon in return?'
'Name it!' I exclaimed with an energy that had nearly drawn
upon us the observation of the company, and restrained by their
presence alone from throwing myself impetuously at her feet.
'Name it, my beloved, my Eugenie, my own!--name it!--but, alas!
it is already yielded ere named.'
'You shall conquer, then, mon ami,' said she, 'for the sake
of the Eugenie whom you love, this little weakness which you have
at last confessed--this weakness more moral than physical--and
which, let me assure you, is so unbecoming the nobility of your
real nature--so inconsistent with the candour of your usual
character--and which, if permitted further control, will
assuredly involve you, sooner or later, in some very disagreeable
scrape. You shall conquer, for my sake, this affectation which
leads you, as you yourself acknowledge, to the tacit or implied
denial of your infirmity of vision. For, this infirmity you
virtually deny, in refusing to employ the customary means for its
relief. You will understand me to say, then, that I wish you to
wear spectacles:--ah, hush!--you have already consented to wear
them, for my sake. You shall accept the little toy which I now
hold in my hand, and which, though admirable as an aid to vision,
is really of no immense value as a gem. You perceive that, by a
trifling modification thus--or thus--it can be adapted to the
eyes in the form of spectacles, or worn in the waistcoat pocket
as an eye-glass. It is in the former mode, however, and
habitually, that you have already consented to wear it for my
sake.'
This request--must I confess it?--confused me in no little
degree. But the condition with which it was coupled rendered
hesitation, of course, a matter altogether out of the question.
'It is done!' I cried, with all the enthusiasm that I could
muster at the moment. 'It is done--it is most cheerfully agreed.
I sacrifice every feeling for your sake. To-night I wear this
dear eye-glass, as an eye-glass, and upon my heart; but with the
earliest dawn of that morning which gives me the pleasure of
calling you wife, I will place it upon my--upon my nose,--and
there wear it ever afterward, in the less romantic, and less
fashionable, but certainly in the more serviceable, form, which
you desire.'
Our conversation now turned upon the details of our
arrangements for the morrow. Talbot, I learned from my
betrothed, had just arrived in town. I was to see him at once,
and procure a carriage. The soiree would scarcely break up
before two; and by this hour the vehicle was to be at the door;
when, in the confusion occasioned by the departure of the
company, Madame L. could easily enter it unobserved. We were
then to call at the house of a clergyman who would be in waiting;
there to be married, drop Talbot, and proceed on a short tour to
the East; leaving the fashionable world at home to make whatever
comments upon the matter it thought best.
Having planned all this, I immediately took leave, and went
in search of Talbot, but, on the way, I could not refrain from
stepping into a hotel, for the purpose of inspecting the
miniature; and this I did by the powerful aid of the glasses.
The countenance was a surpassingly beautiful one! Those large
luminous eyes!--that proud Grecian nose!--those dark luxuriant
curls!--'Ah!' said I, exultingly to myself, 'this is indeed the
speaking image of my beloved!' I turned the reverse, and
discovered the words--'Eugenie Lalande--aged twenty-seven years
and seven months.'
I found Talbot at home, and proceeded at once to acquaint
him with my good fortune. He professed excessive astonishment,
of course, but congratulated me most cordially, and proffered
every assistance in his power. In a word, we carried out our
arrangements to the letter; and at two in the morning, just ten
minutes after the ceremony, I found myself in a close carriage
with Madame Lalande--with Mrs. Simpson, I should say--and driving
at a great rate out of town, in a direction north-east by north,
half-north.
It had been determined for us by Talbot, that, as we were to
be up all night, we should make our first stop at C----, a
village about twenty miles from the city, and there get an early
breakfast and some repose, before proceeding upon our route. At
four, precisely, therefore, the carriage drew up at the door of
the principal inn. I handed my adored wife out, and ordered
breakfast forthwith. In the meantime we were shown into a small
parlour, and sat down.
It was now nearly if not altogether daylight; and, as I
gazed, enraptured, at the angel at my side, the singular idea
came, all at once, into my head, that this was really the very
first moment since my acquaintance with the celebrated loveliness
of Madame Lalande, that I had enjoyed a near inspection of that
loveliness by daylight at all.
'And now, mon ami,' said she, taking my hand, and so
interrupting this train of reflection, 'and now, mon cher ami,
since we are indissolubly one--since I have yielded to your
passionate entreaties, and performed my portion of our agreement-
-I presume you have not forgotten that you also have a little
favour to bestow--a little promise which it is your intention to
keep. Ah! let me see! Let me remember! Yes; full easily do I
call to mind the precise words of the dear promise you made to
Eugenie last night. Listen! You spoke thus: "It is done!--it is
most cheerfully agreed! I sacrifice every feeling for your sake.
To-night I wear this dear eye-glass, as an eye-glass, and upon my
heart; but with the earliest dawn of that morning which gives me
the privilege of calling you wife, I will place it upon my--upon
my nose,--and there wear it ever afterward, in the less romantic,
and less fashionable, but certainly in the more serviceable,
form, which you desire." These were the exact words, my beloved
husband, were they not?'
'They were,' I said; 'you have an excellent memory; and
assuredly, my beautiful Eugenie, there is no disposition of my
part to evade the performance of the trivial promise they imply.
See! Behold? They are becoming--rather--are they not?' And
here, having arranged the glasses in the ordinary form of
spectacles, I slipped them gingerly in their proper position;
while Madame Simpson, adjusting her cap, and folding her arms,
sat bolt upright in her chair, in a somewhat stiff and prim, and
indeed, in a somewhat undignified position.
'Goodness gracious me!' I exclaimed, almost at the very
instant that the rim of the spectacles had settled upon my nose--
'
Son coeur est un luth suspendu;
Sitot qu'on le touche il resonne.
DE BERANGER
During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the
autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the
heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a
singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself,
as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the
melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was--but, with the
first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom
pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was
unrelieved by any of that half-pleasureable, because poetic,
sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest
natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the
scene before me--upon the mere house, and the simple landscape
features of the domain--upon the bleak walls--upon the vacant
eye-like windows--upon a few rank sedges--and upon a few white
trunks of decayed trees--with an utter depression of soul which I
can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the
after-dream of the reveller upon opium--the bitter lapse into
everyday life--the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was
an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart--an unredeemed
dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could
torture into aught of the sublime. What was it--I paused to
think--what was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of
the House of Usher? It was a mystery all insoluble; nor could I
grapple with the shadowy fancies that crowded upon me as I
pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory
conclusion, that while, beyond doubt, there combinations
of very simple natural objects which have the power of thus
affecting us, still the analysis of this power lies among
considerations beyond our depth. It was possible, I reflected,
that a mere different arrangement of the particulars of the
scene, of the details of the picture, would be sufficient to
modify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity for sorrowful
impression; and, acting upon this idea, I reined my horse
to the precipitous brink of a black and lurid tarn that lay in
unruffled lustre by the dwelling, and gazed down--but with a
shudder even more thrilling than before--upon the remodelled and
inverted images of the grey sedge, and the ghastly tree-stems,
and the vacant and eye-like windows.
Nevertheless, in this mansion of gloom I now proposed to
myself a sojourn of some weeks. Its proprietor, Roderick Usher,
had been one of my boon companions in boyhood; but many years had
elapsed since our last meeting. A letter, however, had lately
reached me in a distant part of the country--a letter from him--
which, in its wildly importunate nature, had admitted of no other
than a personal reply. The MS gave evidence of nervous
agitation. The writer spoke of acute bodily illness--of a mental
disorder which oppressed him--and of an earnest desire to see me,
as his best, and indeed his only personal friend, with a view of
attempting, by the cheerfulness of my society, some alleviation
of his malady. It was the manner in which all this, and much
more, was said--it was the apparent that went with his
request--which allowed me no room for hesitation; and I
accordingly obeyed forthwith what I still considered a very
singular summons.
Although, as boys, we had been even intimate associates, yet
I really knew little of my friend. His reserve had been always
excessive and habitual. I was aware, however, that his very
ancient family had been noted, time out of mind, for a peculiar
sensibility of temperament, displaying itself, through long ages,
in many works of exalted art, and manifested, of late, in
repeated deeds of munificent yet unobtrusive charity, as well as
in a passionate devotion to the intricacies, perhaps even more
than to the orthodox and easily recognizable beauties, of musical
science. I had learned, too, the very remarkable fact, that the
stem of the Usher race, all time-honoured as it was, had put
forth, at no period, any enduring branch; in other words, that
the entire family lay in the direct line of descent, and had
always, with very trifling and very temporary variation, so lain.
It was this deficiency, I considered, while running over in
thought the perfect keeping of the character of the premises with
the accredited character of the people, and while speculating
upon the possible influence which the one, in the long
lapse of centuries, might have exercised upon the other--it was
this deficiency, perhaps, of collateral issue, and the consequent
undeviating transmission, from sire to son, of the patrimony with
the name, which had, at length, so identified the two as to merge
the original title of the estate in the quaint and equivocal
appellation of the 'House of Usher'--an appellation which seemed
to include, in the minds of the peasantry who used it, both the
family and the family mansion.
I have said that the sole effect of my somewhat childish
experiment--that of looking down within the tarn--had been to
deepen the first singular impression. There can be no doubt that
the consciousness of the rapid increase of my suspersition--for
why should I not so term it?--served mainly to accelerate the
increase itself. Such, I have long known, is the paradoxical law
of all sentiments having terror as a basis. And it might have
been for this reason only, that, when I again uplifted my eyes to
the house itself, from its image in the pool, there grew in my
mind a strange fancy--a fancy so ridiculous, indeed, that I but
mention it to show the vivid force of the sensations which
oppressed me. I had so worked upon my imagination as really to
believe that about the whole mansion and domain there hung an
atmosphere peculiar to themselves and their immediate vicinity--
an atmosphere which had no affinity with the air of heaven, but
which had reeked up from the decayed trees, and the grey wall,
and the silent tarn--a pestilent and mystic vapour, dull,
sluggish, faintly discernible, and leaden-hued.
Shaking off from my spirit what have been a dream,
I scanned more narrowly the real aspect of the building. Its
principal feature seemed to be that of an excessive antiquity.
The discoloration of ages had been great. Minute
overspread the whole exterior, hanging in a fine tangled web-work
from the eaves. Yet all this was apart from any extraordinary
dilapidation. No portion of the masonry had fallen; and there
appeared to be a wild inconsistency between its still perfect
adaptation of parts, and the crumbling condition of the
individual stones. In this there was much that reminded me of
the specious totality of old woodwork which has rotted for long
years in some neglected vault, with no disturbance from the
breath of the external air. Beyond this indication of
extensive decay, however, the fabric gave little token of
instability. Perhaps the eye of a scrutinizing observer might
have discovered a barely perceptible fissure, which, extending
from the roof of the building in front, made its way down the
wall in a zigzag direction, until it became lost in the sullen
waters of the tarn.
Noticing these things, I rode over a short causeway to the
house. A servant in waiting took my horse, and I entered the
Gothic archway of the hall. A valet, of stealthy step, thence
conducted me, in silence, through many dark and intricate
passages in my progress to the of his master. Much
that I encountered on the way contributed, I know not how, to
heighten the vague sentiments of which I have already spoken.
While the objects around me--while the carvings of the ceilings,
the sombre tapestries of the walls, the ebon blackness of the
floors, and the phantasmagoric armorial trophies which rattled as
I strode, were but matters to which, or to such as which, I had
been accustomed from my infancy--while I hesitated not to
acknowledge how familiar was all this--I still wondered to find
how unfamiliar were the fancies which ordinary images were
stirring up. On one of the staircases, I met the physician of
the family. His countenance, I thought, wore a mingled
expression of low cunning and perplexity. He accosted me with
trepidation and passed on. The valet now threw open a door and
ushered me into the presence of his master.
The room in which I found myself was very large and lofty.
The windows were long, narrow, and pointed, and at so vast a dis-
tance from the black oaken floor as to be altogether inaccessible
from within. Feeble gleams of encrimsoned light made their way
through the trellised panes, and served to render sufficiently
distinct the more prominent objects around; the eye, however,
struggled in vain to reach the remoter angles of the chamber, or
the recesses of the vaulted and fretted ceiling. Dark draperies
hung upon the walls. The general furniture was profuse,
comfortless, antique, and tattered. Many books and musical
instruments lay scattered about, but failed to give any vitality
to the scene. I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow.
An air of stern, deep, and irredeemable gloom hung over and
pervaded all.
Upon my entrance, Usher rose from a sofa on which he had
been lying at full length, and greeted me with a vivacious warmth
which had much in it, I at first thought, of an overdone
cordiality--of the constrained effort of the man of
the world. A glance, however, at his countenance, convinced me
of his perfect sincerity. We sat down; and for some moments,
while he spoke not, I gazed upon him with a feeling half of pity,
half of awe. Surely, man had never before so terribly altered,
in so brief a period, as had Roderick Usher! It was with
difficulty that I could bring myself to admit the identity of the
wan being before me with the companion of my early boyhood. Yet
the character of his face had been at all times remarkable. A
cadaverousness of complexion; an eye large, liquid, and luminous
beyond comparison; lips somewhat thin and very pallid, but of a
surpassing beautiful curve; a nose of a delicate Hebrew model,
but with a breadth of nostril unusual in similar formations; a
finely-moulded chin, speaking, in its want of prominence, of a
want of moral energy; hair of a more than web-like softness and
tenuity; these features, with an inordinate expansion above the
regions of the temple, made up altogether a countenance not
easily to be forgotten. And now in the mere exaggeration of the
prevailing character of these features, and of the expression
they were wont to convey, lay so much of change that I doubted to
whom I spoke. The now ghastly pallor of the skin, and the now
miraculous lustre of the eye, above all things startled and even
awed me. The silken hair, too, had been suffered to grow all
unheeded, and as, in its wild gossamer texture, it floated rather
than fell about the face, I could not, even with effort, connect
its arabesque expression with any idea of simple humanity.
In the manner of my friend I was at once struck with an
incoherence--an inconsistency; and I soon found this to arise
from a series of feeble and futile struggles to overcome an
habitual trepidancy--an excessive nervous agitation. For
something of this nature I had indeed been prepared, no less by
his letter, than by reminiscences of certain boyish traits, and
by conclusions deduced from his peculiar physical conformation
and temperament. His action was alternately vivacious and
sullen. His voice varied rapidly from a tremulous indecision
(when the animal spirits seemed utterly in abeyance) to
that species of energetic concision--that abrupt, weighty,
unhurried, and hollow-sounding enunciation--that leaden, self-
balanced and perfectly modulated guttural utterance, which may be
observed in the lost drunkard, or the irreclaimable eater of
opium, during the periods of his most intense excitement.
It was thus that he spoke of the object of my visit, of his
earnest desire to see me, and of the solace he expected me to
afford him. He entered, at some length, into what he conceived
to be the nature of his malady. It was, he said, a
constitutional and a family evil, and one for which he despaired
to find a remedy--a mere nervous affection, he immediately added,
which would undoubtedly soon pass off. It displayed itself in a
host of unnatural sensations. Some of these, as he detailed
them, interested and bewildered me; although, perhaps, the terms,
and the general manner of the narration had their weight. He
suffered much from a morbid acuteness of the senses; the most
insipid food was alone endurable; he could wear only garments of
certain texture; the odours of all flowers were oppressive; his
eyes were tortured by even a faint light; and there were but
peculiar sounds, and these from stringed instruments, which did
not inspire him with horror.
To an anomalous species of terror I found him a bounden
slave. 'I shall perish,' said he, 'I perish in this
deplorable folly. Thus, thus, and not otherwise, shall I be
lost. I dread the events of the future, not in themselves, but
in their results. I shudder at the thought of any, even the most
trivial, incident, which may operate upon this intolerable
agitation of soul. I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger,
except in its absolute effect--in terror. In this unnerved--in
this pitiable condition--I feel that the period will sooner or
later arrive when I must abandon life and reason together, in
some struggle with the grim phantasm, FEAR.'
I learned, moreover, at intervals, and through broken and
equivocal hints, another singular feature of his mental
condition. He was enchained by certain superstitious impressions
in regard to the dwelling which he tenanted, and whence, for many
years, he had never ventured forth--in regard to an influence
whose supposititious force was conveyed in terms too shadowy here
to be re-stated--an influence which some peculiarities in the
mere form and substance of his family mansion, had, by
dint of long sufferance, he said, obtained over his spirit--an
effect which the of the grey walls and turrets, and
of the dim tarn into which they all looked down, had, at length,
brought about upon the of his existence.
He admitted, however, although with hesitation, that much of
the peculiar gloom which thus afflicted him could be traced to a
more natural and far more palpable origin--to the severe and
long-continued illness--indeed to the evidently approaching dis-
solution--of a tenderly beloved sister--his sole companion for
long years--his last and only relative on earth. 'Her decease,'
he said, with a bitterness which I can never forget, 'would leave
him (him the hopeless and the frail) the last of the ancient race
of the Ushers.' While he spoke, the Lady Madeline (for so was
she called) passed slowly through a remote portion of the
apartment, and, without having noticed my presence, disappeared.
I regarded her with an utter astonishment not unmingled with
dread--and yet I found it impossible to account for such
feelings. A sensation of stupor oppressed me, as my eyes
followed her retreating steps. When a door, at length, closed
upon her, my glance sought instinctively and eagerly the
countenance of the brother--but he had buried his face in his
hands, and I could only perceive that a far more than ordinary
wanness had overspread the emaciated fingers through which
trickled many passionate tears.
The disease of the Lady Madeline had long baffled the skill
of her physicians. A settled apathy, a gradual wasting away of
the person, and frequent although transient affections of a
partially cataleptical character, were the unusual diagnosis.
Hitherto she had steadily borne up against the pressure of her
malady, and had not betaken herself finally to bed; but, on the
closing in of the evening of my arrival at the house, she
succumbed (as her brother told me at night with inexpressible
agitation) to the prostrating power of the destroyer; and I
learned that the glimpse I had obtained of her person would thus
probably be the last I should obtain--that the lady, at least
while living, would be seen by me no more.
For several days ensuing, her name was unmentioned by either
Usher or myself; and during this period I was busied in earnest
endeavours to alleviate the melancholy of my friend. We
painted and read together; or I listened, as if in a dream, to
the wild improvisations of his speaking guitar. And thus, as a
closer and still closer intimacy admitted me more unreservedly
into the recesses of his spirit, the more bitterly did I perceive
the futility of all attempt at cheering a mind from which
darkness, as if an inherent positive quality, poured forth upon
all objects of the moral and physical universe, in one unceasing
radiation of gloom.
I shall ever bear about me a memory of the many solemn hours
I thus spent alone with the master of the House of Usher. Yet I
should fail in any attempt to convey an idea of the exact
character of the studies, or of the occupations, in which he
involved me, or led me the way. An excited and highly
distempered ideality threw a sulphureous lustre over all. His
long improvised dirges will ring for ever in my ears. Among
other things, I hold painfully in mind a certain singular
perversion and amplification of the wild air of the last waltz of
Von Weber. From the paintings over which his elaborate fancy
brooded, and which grew, touch by touch, into vagueness at which
I shuddered the more thrillingly, because I shuddered knowing not
why;--from these paintings (vivid as their images now are before
me) I would in vain endeavour to educe more than a small portion
which should lie within the compass of merely written words. By
the utter simplicity, by the nakedness of his designs, he
arrested and overawed attention. If ever mortal painted an idea,
that mortal was Roderick Usher. For me at least--in the
circumstances then surrounding me--there arose out of the pure
abstractions which the hypochondriac contrived to throw upon his
canvas, an intensity of intolerable awe, no shadow of which felt
I ever yet in the contemplation of the certainly glowing yet too
concrete reveries of Fuseli.
One of the phantasmagoric conceptions of my friend,
partaking not so rigidly of the spirit of abstraction, may be
shadowed forth, although feebly, in words. A small picture
presented the interior of an immensely long and rectangular vault
or tunnel, with low walls, smooth, white, and without
interruption or device. Certain accessory points of the design
served well to convey the idea that this excavation lay at an
exceeding depth below the surface of the earth. No outlet was
observed in any portion of its vast extent, and no torch,
or other artificial source of light was discernible; yet a flood
of intense rays rolled throughout, and bathed the whole in a
ghastly and inappropriate splendour.
I have just spoken of that morbid condition of the auditory
nerve which rendered all music intolerable to the sufferer, with
the exception of certain effects of stringed instruments. It
was, perhaps, the narrow limits to which he thus confined himself
upon the guitar, which gave birth, in great measure, to the
fantastic character of the performances. But the fervid of his could not be so accounted for.
They must have been, and were, in the notes, as well as in the
words of his wild fantasies (for he not unfrequently accompanied
himself with rhymed verbal improvisations), the result of that
intense mental collectedness and concentration to which I have
previously alluded as observable only in particular moments of
the highest artificial excitement. The words of one of these
rhapsodies I have easily remembered. I was, perhaps, the more
forcibly impressed with it, as he gave it, because, in the under
or mystic current of its meaning, I fancied that I perceived, and
for the first time, a full consciousness on the part of Usher, of
the tottering of his lofty reason upon her throne. The verses,
which were entitled 'The Haunted Palace', ran very nearly, if not
accurately, thus:
I
In the greenest of our valleys,
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace--
Radiant palace--reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion--
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair.
II
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow;
(This--all this--was in the olden
Time long ago)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odour went away.
III
Wanderers in that happy valley
Through two luminous windows saw
Spirits moving musically
To a lute's well tuned law,
Round about a throne, where sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.
IV
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.
V
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate;
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)
And, round about his home, the glory
That blushed and bloomed
Is but a dim-remembered story,
Of the old time entombed.
VI
And travellers now within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows, see
Vast forms that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;
While, like a rapid ghastly river,
Through the pale door,
A hideous throng rush out forever,
And laugh--but smile no more.
I well remember that suggestions arising from this ballad,
led us into a train of thought wherein there became manifest an
opinion of Usher's which I mention not so much on account of its
novelty (for other men1 have thought thus), as on account of the
pertinacity with which he maintained it. This opinion, in its
general form, was that of the sentience of all vegetable things.
But, in his disordered fancy, the idea had assumed a more daring
character, and trespassed, under certain conditions, upon the
kingdom of inorganization. I lack words to express the full
extent, or the earnest of his persuasion. The
belief, however, was connected (as I have previously hinted) with
the grey stones of the home of his forefathers. The conditions
of the sentience had been here, he imagined, fulfilled in the
method of collocation of these stones--in the order of their
arrangement, as well as in that of the many which
overspread them, and of the decayed trees which stood around--
above all, in the long undisturbed endurance of this arrangement,
and in its reduplication in the still waters of the tarn. Its
evidence--the evidence of the sentience--was to be seen, he said,
(and I here started as he spoke) in the gradual yet certain
condensation of an atmosphere of their own about the waters and
the walls. The result was discoverable, he added, in that
silent, yet importunate and terrible influence which for
centuries had moulded the destinies of his family, and which made
what I now saw him--what he was. Such opinions need no
comment, and I will make none.
Our books--the books which, for years, had formed no small
portion of the mental existence of the invalid--were, as might be
supposed, in strict keeping with this character of phantasm. We
pored together over such works as the
of Gresset; the of Machiavelli; the of
1 Watson, Dr Percival, Spallanzani, and especially the Bishop of
Landaff.
Swedenborg; the by
Holberg; the of Robert Flud, of Jean D'Indagine,
and of De la Chambre; the of
Tieck; and the by Campanella. One favourite
volume was a small octavo edition of the , by the Dominican Eymeric de Gironne; and there
were passages in , about the old African Satyrs
and Aegipans, over which Usher would sit dreaming for hours. His
chief delight, however, was found in the perusal of an
exceedingly rare and curious book in quarto Gothic--the manual of
a forgotten church--the .
I could not help thinking of the wild ritual of this work,
and of its probable influence upon the hypochondriac, when, one
evening, having informed me abruptly that the Lady Madeline was
no more, he stated his intention of preserving her corpse for a
fortnight (previously to its final interment), in one of the
numerous vaults within the main walls of the building. The
worldly reason, however, assigned for this singular proceeding,
was one which I did not feel at liberty to dispute. The brother
had been led to his resolution (so he told me) by consideration
of the unusual character of the malady of the deceased, of
certain obtrusive and eager inquiries on the part of her medical
men, and of the remote and exposed situation of the burial-ground
of the family. I will not deny that when I called to mind the
sinister countenance of the person whom I met upon the staircase,
on the day of my arrival at the house, I had no desire to oppose
what I regarded as at best but a harmless, and by no means an
unnatural, precaution.
At the request of Usher, I personally aided him in the
arrangements for the temporary entombment. The body having been
encoffined, we two alone bore it to its rest. The vault in which
we placed it (and which had been so long unopened that our
torches, half smothered in its oppressive atmosphere, gave us
little opportunity for investigation) was small, damp, and
entirely without means of admission for light; lying, at great
depth, immediately beneath that portion of the building in which
was my own sleeping apartment. It had been used, apparently, in
remote feudal times, for the worst purpose of a donjon-keep, and,
in later days, as a place of deposit for powder, or some
other highly combustible substance, as a portion of its floor,
and the whole interior of a long archway through which we reached
it, were carefully sheathed with copper. The door, of massive
iron, had been, also, similarly protected. Its immense weight
caused an unusually sharp grating sound, as it moved upon its
hinges.
Having deposited our mournful burden upon tressels within
this region of horror, we partially turned aside the yet
unscrewed lid of the coffin, and looked upon the face of the
tenant. A striking similitude between the brother and sister now
first arrested my attention; and Usher, divining, perhaps, my
thoughts, murmured out some few words from which I learned that
the deceased and himself had been twins, and that sympathies of a
scarcely intelligible nature had always existed between them.
Our glances, however, rested not long upon the dead--for we could
not regard her unawed. The disease which had thus entombed the
lady in the maturity of youth, had left, as usual in all maladies
of a strictly cataleptical character, the mockery of a faint
blush upon the bosom and the face, and that suspiciously
lingering smile upon the lip which is so terrible in death. We
replaced and screwed down the lid, and, having secured the door
of iron, made our way, with toil, into the scarcely less gloomy
apartments of the upper portion of the house.
And now, some days of bitter grief having elapsed, an
observable change came over the features of the mental disorder
of my friend. His ordinary manner had vanished. His ordinary
occupations were neglected or forgotten. He roamed from chamber
to chamber with hurried, unequal, and objectless step. The
pallor of his countenance had assumed, if possible, a more
ghastly hue--but the luminousness of his eye had utterly gone
out. The once occasional huskiness of his tone was heard no
more; and a tremulous quaver, as if of extreme terror, habitually
characterized his utterance. There were times, indeed, when I
thought his unceasingly agitated mind was labouring with some
oppressive secret, to divulge which he struggled for the
necessary courage. At times, again, I was obliged to resolve all
into the mere inexplicable vagaries of madness, for I beheld him
gazing upon vacancy for long hours, in an attitude of the
profoundest attention, as if listening to some imaginary
sound. It was no wonder that his condition terrified--that it
infected me. I felt creeping upon me, by slow yet certain
degrees, the wild influences of his own fantastic yet impressive
superstitions.
It was, especially, upon retiring to bed late in the night
of the seventh or eighth day after the placing of the Lady
Madeline within the donjon, that I experienced the full power of
such feelings. Sleep came not near my couch--while the hours
waned and waned away. I struggled to reason off the nervousness
which had dominion over me. I endeavoured to believe that much,
if not all of what I felt, was due to the bewildering influence
of the gloomy furniture of the room--of the dark and tattered
draperies, which, tortured into motion by the breath of a rising
tempest, swayed fitfully to and fro upon the walls, and rustled
uneasily about the decorations of the bed. But my efforts were
fruitless. An irrepressible tremor gradually pervaded my frame;
and, at length, there sat upon my very heart an incubus of
utterly causeless alarm. Shaking this off with a gasp and a
struggle, I uplifted myself upon the pillows, and, peering
earnestly within the intense darkness of the chamber, hearkened--
I know not why, except that an instinctive spirit prompted me--to
certain low and indefinite sounds which came, through the pauses
of the storm, at long intervals, I knew not whence. Overpowered
by an intense sentiment of horror, unaccountable yet unendurable,
I threw on my clothes with haste (for I felt that I should sleep
no more during the night), and endeavoured to arouse myself from
the pitiable condition into which I had fallen, by pacing rapidly
to and fro through the apartment.
I had taken but few turns in this manner, when a light step
on an adjoining staircase arrested my attention. I presently
recognized it as that of Usher. In an instant afterwards he
rapped, with a gentle touch, at my door, and entered, bearing a
lamp. His countenance was, as usual, cadaverously wan--but,
moreover, there was a species of mad hilarity in his eyes--an
evidently restrained in his whole demeanour. His
air appalled me--but anything was preferable to the solitude
which I had so long endured, and I even welcomed his presence as
a relief.
'And you have not seen it?' he said abruptly, after having
stared about him for some moments in silence--'you have
not then seen it?--but, stay! you shall.' Thus speaking, and
having carefully shaded his lamp, he hurried to one of the
casements, and threw it freely open to the storm.
The impetuous fury of the entering gust nearly lifted us
from our feet. It was, indeed, a tempestuous yet sternly
beautiful night, and one wildly singular in its terror and its
beauty. A whirlwind had apparently collected its force in our
vicinity; for there were frequent and violent alterations in the
direction of the wind; and the exceeding density of the clouds
(which hung so low as to press upon the turrets of the house) did
not prevent our perceiving the lifelike velocity with which they
flew careering from all points against each other, without
passing away into the distance. I say that even their exceeding
density did not prevent our perceiving this--yet we had no
glimpse of the moon or stars--nor was there any flashing forth of
the lightning. But the under surfaces of the huge masses of
agitated vapour, as well as all terrestrial objects immediately
around us, were glowing in the unnatural light of a faintly
luminous and distinctly visible gaseous exhalation which hung
about and enshrouded the mansion.
'You must not--you shall not behold this!' said I,
shudderingly, to Usher, as I led him, with a gentle violence,
from the window to a seat. 'These appearances, which bewilder
you, are merely electrical phenomena not uncommon--or it may be
that they have their ghastly origin in the rank miasma of the
tarn. Let us close this casement;--the air is chilling and
dangerous to your frame. Here is one of your favourite romances.
I will read, and you shall listen;--and so we will pass away this
terrible night together.'
The antique volume which I had taken up was the of Sir Launcelot Canning; but I had called it a favourite
of Usher's more in sad jest than in earnest; for, in truth, there
is little in its uncouth and unimaginative prolixity which could
have had interest for the lofty and spiritual ideality of my
friend. It was, however, the only book immediately at hand; and
I indulged a vague hope that the excitement which now agitated
the hypochondriac, might find relief (for the history of mental
disorder is full of similar anomalies) even in the extremeness of
the folly which I should read. Could I have judged, indeed, by
the wild overstrained air of vivacity with which he
hearkened, or apparently hearkened, to the words of the tale, I
might well have congratulated myself upon the success of my
design.
I had arrived at that well-known portion of the story where
Ethelred, the hero of the Trist, having sought in vain for
peaceable admission into the dwelling of the hermit, proceeds to
make good an entrance by force. Here, it will be remembered, the
words of the narrative run thus:
'And Ethelred, who was by nature of a doughty heart, and who
was now mighty withal, on account of the powerfulness of the wine
which he had drunken, waited no longer to hold parley with the
hermit, who, in sooth, was of an obstinate and maliceful turn,
but, feeling the rain upon his shoulders, and fearing the rising
of the tempest, uplifted his mace outright, and, with blows, made
quickly room in the plankings of the door for his gauntleted
hand; and now pulling therewith sturdily, he so cracked, and
ripped, and tore all asunder, that the noise of the dry and
hollow-sounding wood alarmed and reverberated throughout the
forest.'
At the termination of this sentence I started, and for a
moment, paused; for it appeared to me (although I at once
concluded that my excited fancy had deceived me)--it appeared to
me that, from some very remote portion of the mansion, there
came, indistinctly, to my ears, what might have been, in its
exact similarity of character, the echo (but a stifled and dull
one certainly) of the very cracking and ripping sound which Sir
Launcelot had so particularly described. It was, beyond doubt,
the coincidence alone which had arrested my attention; for, amid
the rattling of the sashes of the casements, and the ordinary
commingled noises of the still increasing storm, the sound, in
itself, had nothing, surely, which should have interested or
disturbed me. I continued the story:
'But the good champion Ethelred, now entering within the
door, was sore enraged and amazed to perceive no signal of the
maliceful hermit; but, in the stead thereof, a dragon of a scaly
and prodigious demeanour, and of a fiery tongue, which sate in
guard before a palace of gold, with a floor of silver; and upon
the wall there hung a shield of shining brass with this legend
enwritten--
Who entered herein, a conquerer hath bin;
Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win;
and Ethelred uplifted his mace, and struck upon the head of the
dragon, which fell before him, and gave up his pesty breath, with
a shriek so horrid and harsh, and withal so piercing, that
Ethelred had fain to close his ears with his hands against the
dreadful noise of it, the like whereof was never before heard.'
Here again I paused abruptly, and now with a feeling of wild
amazement--for there could be no doubt whatever that, in this
instance, I did actually hear (although from what direction it
proceeded I found it impossible to say) a low and apparently
distant, but harsh, protracted, and most unusual screaming or
grating sound--the exact counterpart of what my fancy had already
conjured up for the dragon's unnatural shriek as described by the
romancer.
Oppressed, as I certainly was, upon the occurrence of the
second and most extraordinary coincidence, by a thousand
conflicting sensations, in which wonder and extreme terror were
predominant, I still retained sufficient presence of mind to
avoid exciting, by any observation, the sensitive nervousness of
my companion. I was by no means certain that he had noticed the
sounds in question; although, assuredly, a strange alteration
had, during the last few minutes, taken place in his demeanour.
From a position fronting my own, he had gradually brought round
his chair, so as to sit with his face to the door of the chamber;
and thus I could but partially perceive his features, although I
saw that his lips trembled as if he were murmuring inaudibly.
His head had dropped upon his breast--yet I knew that he was not
asleep, from the wide and rigid opening of the eye as I caught a
glance of it in profile. The motion of his body, too, was at
variance with this idea--for he rocked from side to side with a
gentle yet constant and uniform sway. Having rapidly taken
notice of all this, I resumed the narrative of Sir Launcelot,
which thus proceeded:
'And now, the champion, having escaped from the terrible
fury of the dragon, bethinking himself of the brazen shield, and
of the breaking up of the enchantment which was upon it, removed
the carcass from out of the way before him, and approached valorously over the silver pavement of the castle to where
the shield was upon the wall; which in sooth tarried not for his
full coming, but fell down at his feet upon the silver floor,
with a mighty great and terrible ringing sound.'
No sooner had these syllables passed my lips, than--as if a
shield of brass had indeed, at the moment, fallen heavily upon a
floor of silver--I became aware of a distinct, hollow, metallic,
and clangorous, yet apparently muffled reverberation. Completely
unnerved, I leaped to my feet; but the measured rocking movement
of Usher was undisturbed. I rushed to the chair in which he sat.
His eyes were bent fixedly before him, and throughout his whole
countenance there reigned a stony rigidity. But, as I placed my
hand upon his shoulder, there came a strong shudder over his
whole person; a sickly smile quivered about his lips; and I saw
that he spoke in a low, hurried, and gibbering murmur, as if
unconscious of my presence. Bending closely over him, I at
length drank in the hideous import of his words.
'Not hear it?--yes, I hear it, and heard it. Long-
-long--long--many minutes, many hours, many days, have I heard
it--yet I dared not--oh, pity me, miserable wretch that I am!--I
dared not--I not speak! ! Said I not that my senses were acute? I tell
you that I heard her first feeble movements in the hollow coffin.
I heard them--many, many days ago--yet I dared not--! And now--to-night--Ethelred--ha! ha!--the breaking
of the hermit's door, and the death-cry of the dragon, and the
clangour of the shield!--say, rather, the rending of her coffin,
and the grating of the iron hinges of her prison, and her
struggles within the coppered archway of the vault! Oh whither
shall I fly? Will she not be here anon? Is she not hurrying to
upbraid me for my haste? Have I not heard her footsteps on the
stair? Do I not distinguish that heavy and horrible beating of
her heart? MADMAN!' here he sprang furiously to his feet, and
shrieked out his syllables, as if in the effort he was giving up
his soul--'MADMAN! I TELL YOU THAT SHE NOW STANDS WITHOUT THE
DOOR!'
As if in the superhuman energy of his utterance there had
been found the potency of a spell--the huge antique panels to
which the speaker pointed, threw slowly back, upon the instant,
their ponderous and ebony jaws. It was the work of the
rushing gust--but then without those doors there DID stand the
lofty and enshrouded figure of the Lady Madeline of Usher. There
was blood upon her white robes, and the evidence of some bitter
struggle upon every portion of her emaciated frame. For a moment
she remained trembling and reeling to and fro upon the threshold,
then, with a low moaning cry, fell heavily inward upon the person
of her brother, and in her violent and now final death-agonies,
bore him to the floor a corpse, and a victim to the terrors he
had anticipated.
From that chamber, and from that mansion, I fled aghast.
The storm was still abroad in all its wrath as I found myself
crossing the old causeway. Suddenly there shot along the path a
wild light, and I turned to see whence a gleam so unusual could
have issued; for the vast house and its shadows were alone behind
me. The radiance was that of the full, setting, and blood-red
moon which now shone vividly through that once barely-discernible
fissure of which I have before spoken as extending from the roof
of the building, in a zigzag direction, to the base. While I
gazed, this fissure rapidly widened--there came a fierce breath
of the whirlwind--the entire orb of the satellite burst at once
upon my sight--my brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls rushing
asunder--there was a long tumultuous shouting sound like the
voice of a thousand waters--and the deep and dank tarn at my feet
closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of the 'HOUSE OF
USHER'.
=========
What say of it? what say of CONSCIENCE grim,
That spectre in my path?
CHAMBERLAYNE'S
Let me call myself, for the present, William Wilson. The fair
page now lying before me need not be sullied with my real
appellation. This has been already too much an object for the
scorn--for the horror--for the detestation of my race. To the
uttermost regions of the globe have not the indignant winds bruited
its unparalleled infamy? Oh, outcast of all outcasts most
abandoned!--to the earth art thou not forever dead? to its honours,
to its flowers, to its golden aspirations?--and a cloud, dense,
dismal, and limitless, does it not hang eternally between thy hopes
and heaven?
I would not, if I could, here or to-day, embody a record of my
later years of unspeakable misery, and unpardonable crime. This
epoch--these later years--took unto themselves a sudden elevation
in turpitude, whose origin alone it is my present purpose to
assign. Men usually grow base by degrees. From me, in an instant,
all virtue dropped bodily as a mantle. From comparatively trivial
wickedness I passed, with the stride of a giant, into more than the
enormities of an Elah-Gabalus. What a chance--what one event
brought this evil thing to pass, bear with me while I relate.
Death approaches; and the shadow which foreruns him has thrown a
softening influence over my spirit. I long, in passing through the
dim valley, for the sympathy--I had nearly said for the pity--of my
fellow-men. I would fain have them believe that I have been, in
some measure, the slave of circumstances beyond human control. I
would wish them to seek out for me, in the details I am about to
give, some little oasis of amid a wilderness of error.
I would have them allow--what they cannot refrain from allowing--
that, although temptation may have erewhile existed as great, man
was never , at least, tempted before--certainly, never fell. And is it therefore that he has never thus suffered?
Have I not indeed been living in a dream? And am I not now dying
a victim to the horror and the mystery of the wildest of all
sublunary visions?
I am the descendant of a race whose imaginative and easily
excitable temperament has at all times rendered them remarkable;
and, in my earliest infancy, I gave evidence of having fully
inherited the family character. As I advanced in years it was more
strongly developed; becoming, for many reasons, a cause of serious
disquietude to my friends, and of positive injury to myself. I
grew self-willed, addicted to the wildest caprices, and a prey to
the most ungovernable passions. Weak-minded, and beset with
constitutional infirmities akin to my own, my parents could do but
little to check the evil propensities which distinguished me. Some
feeble and ill-directed efforts resulted in complete failure on
their part, and, of course, in total triumph on mine.
Thenceforward my voice was a household law; and at an age when few
children have abandoned their leading-strings, I was left to the
guidance of my own will, and became, in all but name, the master of
my own actions.
My earliest recollections of a school-life, are connected with
a large, rambling, Elizabethan house, in a misty-looking village of
England, where were a vast number of gigantic and gnarled trees,
and where all the houses were excessively ancient. In truth, it
was a dream-like and spirit-soothing place, that venerable old
town. At this moment, in fancy, I feel the refreshing chilliness
of its deeply-shadowed avenues, inhale the fragrance of its
thousand shrubberies, and thrill anew with undefinable delight, at
the deep hollow note of the church-bell, breaking, each hour, with
sullen and sudden roar, upon the stillness of the dusky atmosphere
in which the fretted Gothic steeple lay imbedded and asleep.
It gives me, perhaps, as much of pleasure as I can now in any
manner experience, to dwell upon minute recollections of the school
and its concerns. Steeped in misery as I am--misery, alas! only
too real--I shall be pardoned for seeking relief, however slight
and temporary, in the weakness of a few rambling details. These,
moreover, utterly trivial, and even ridiculous in themselves,
assume, to my fancy, adventitious importance, as connected with a
period and a locality when and where I recognize the first
ambiguous monitions of the destiny which afterwards so fully
overshadowed me. Let me then remember.
The house, I have said, was old and irregular. The grounds
were extensive, and a high and solid brick wall, topped with
a bed of mortar and broken glass, encompassed the whole. This
prison-like rampart formed the limit of our domain; beyond it we
saw but thrice a week--once every Saturday afternoon, when,
attended by two ushers, we were permitted to take brief walks in a
body through some of the neighbouring fields--and twice during
Sunday, when we were paraded in the same formal manner to the
morning and evening service in the one church of the village. Of
this church the principal of our school was pastor. With how deep
a spirit of wonder and perplexity was I wont to regard him from our
remote pew in the gallery, as, with step solemn and slow, he
ascended the pulpit! This reverend man, with countenance so
demurely benign, with robes so glossy and so clerically flowing,
with wig so minutely powdered, so rigid and so vast,--could this be
he who, of late, with sour visage, and in snuffy habiliments,
administered, ferule in hand, the Draconian laws of the academy?
Oh, gigantic paradox, too utterly monstrous for solution!
At an angle of the ponderous wall frowned a more ponderous
gate. It was riveted and studded with iron bolts, and surmounted
with jagged iron spikes. What impression of deep awe did it
inspire! It was never opened save for the three periodical
egressions and ingressions already mentioned; then, in every creak
of its mighty hinges, we found a plenitude of mystery--a world of
matter for solemn remark, or for more solemn meditation.
The extensive enclosure was irregular in form, having many
capacious recesses. Of these, three or four of the largest
constituted the play-ground. It was level, and covered with fine
hard gravel. I well remember it had no trees, nor benches, nor
anything similar within it. Of course it was in the rear of the
house. In front lay a small parterre, planted with box and other
shrubs; but through this sacred division we passed only upon rare
occasions indeed--such as a first advent to school or final
departure thence, or perhaps, when a parent or friend having called
for us, we joyfully took our way home for the Christmas or
Midsummer holidays.
But the house!--how quaint an old building was this!--to me
how veritably a place of enchantment! There was really no end to
its windings--to its incomprehensible subdivisions. It was
difficult at any given time, to say with certainty upon which of
its two stories one happened to be. From each room to every
other there were sure to be found three or four steps either in
ascent or descent. Then the lateral branches were innumerable--
inconceivable--and so returning in upon themselves, that our most
exact ideas in regard to the whole mansion were not very far
different from those with which we pondered upon infinity. During
the five years of my residence here, I was never able to ascertain
with precision, in what remote locality lay the little sleeping
apartment assigned to myself and some eighteen or twenty other
scholars.
The school-room was the largest in the house--I could not help
thinking, in the world. It was very long, narrow, and dismally
low, with pointed Gothic windows and a ceiling of oak. In a remote
and terror-inspiring angle was a square enclosure of eight or ten
feet, comprising the , 'during hours', or our principal,
the Reverend Dr Bransby. It was a solid structure, with massy
door, sooner than open which in the absence of the 'Dominie', we
would all have willingly perished by the .
In other angles were two other similar boxes, far less reverenced,
indeed, but still greatly matters of awe. One of these was the
pulpit of the 'classical' usher, one of the 'English and
mathematical'. Interspersed about the room, crossing and
recrossing in endless irregularity, were innumerable benches and
desks, black, ancient, and time-worn, piled desperately with much-
bethumbed books, and so beseamed with initial letters, names at
full length, grotesque figures, and other multiplied efforts of the
knife, as to have entirely lost what little of original form might
have been their portion in days long departed. A huge bucket with
water stood at one extremity of the room, and a clock of stupendous
dimensions at the other.
Encompassed by the massy walls of this venerable academy, I
passed, yet not in tedium or disgust, the years of the third
lustrum of my life. The teeming brain of childhood requires no
external world of incident to occupy or amuse it; and the
apparently dismal monotony of a school was replete with more
intense excitement than my riper youth has derived from luxury, or
my full manhood from crime. Yet I must believe that my first
mental development had in it much of the uncommon--even much of the
. Upon mankind at large the events of very early
existence rarely leave in mature age any definite impression.
All is grey shadow--a weak and irregular remembrance--an indistinct
regathering of feeble pleasures and phantasmagoric pains. With me
this is not so. In childhood I must have felt with the energy of
a man what I now find stamped upon memory in lines as vivid, as
deep, and as durable as the of the Carthaginian
medals.
Yet in fact--in the fact of the world's view--how little was
there to remember! The morning's awakening, the nightly summons to
bed; the connings, the recitations; the periodical half-holidays,
and perambulations; the play-ground, with its broils, its pastimes,
its intrigues;--these, by a mental sorcery long forgotten, were
made to involve a wilderness of sensation, a world of rich
incident, a universe of varied emotion, of excitement the most
passionate and spirit-stirring. '!'
In truth, the ardour, the enthusiasm, and the imperiousness of
my disposition, soon rendered me a marked character among my
schoolmates, and by slow, but natural gradations, gave me an
ascendancy over all not greatly older than myself;--over all with
a single exception. This exception was found in the person of a
scholar, who, although no relation, bore the same Christian and
surname as myself;--a circumstance, in fact, little remarkable;
for, notwithstanding a noble descent, mine was one of those every-
day appellations which seem, by prescriptive right, to have been,
time out of mind, the common property of the mob. In this
narrative I have therefore designated myself as William Wilson,--a
fictitious title not very dissimilar to the real. My namesake
alone, of those who in school phraseology constituted 'our set',
presumed to compete with me in the studies of the class--in the
sports and broils of the play-ground--to refuse implicit belief in
my assertions, and submission to my will--indeed, to interfere with
my arbitrary dictation in any respect whatsoever. If there is on
earth a supreme and unqualified despotism, it is the despotism of
a master mind in boyhood over the less energetic spirits of its
companions.
Wilson's rebellion was to me a source of the greatest
embarrassment;--the more so as, in spite of the bravado with which
in public I made a point of treating him and his pretensions, I
secretly felt that I feared him, and could not help thinking the
equality which he maintained so easily with myself, a proof
of his true superiority; since not to be overcome cost me a
perpetual struggle. Yet this superiority--even this equality--was
in truth acknowledged by no one but myself; our associates, by some
unaccountable blindness, seemed not even to suspect it. Indeed,
his competition, his resistance, and especially his impertinent and
dogged interference with my purposes, were not more pointed than
private. He appeared to be destitute alike of the ambition which
urged, and of the passionate energy of mind which enabled me to
excel. In his rivalry he might have been supposed actuated solely
by a whimsical desire to thwart, astonish, or mortify myself;
although there were times when I could not help observing, with a
feeling made up of wonder, abasement, and pique, that he mingled
with his injuries, his insults, or his contradictions, a certain
most inappropriate, and assuredly most unwelcome of manner. I could only conceive this singular
behaviour to arise from a consummate self-conceit assuming the
vulgar air of patronage and protection.
Perhaps it was this latter trait in Wilson's conduct,
conjoined with our identity of name, and the mere accident of our
having entered the school upon the same day, which set afloat the
notion that we were brothers, among the senior classes in the
academy. These do not usually inquire with much strictness into
the affairs of their juniors. I have before said, or should have
said, that Wilson was not, in the most remote degree, connected
with my family. But assuredly if we been brothers we must
have been twins; for, after leaving Dr Bransby's, I casually
learned that my namesake was born on the nineteenth of January,
1813--and this is a somewhat remarkable coincidence; for the day is
precisely that of my own nativity.
It may seem strange that in spite of the continual anxiety
occasioned me by the rivalry of Wilson, and his intolerable spirit
of contradiction, I could not bring myself to hate him altogether.
We had, to be sure, nearly every day a quarrel in which, yielding
me publicly the palm of victory, he, in some manner, contrived to
make me feel that it was he who had deserved it; yet a sense of
pride on my part, and a veritable dignity on his own, kept us
always upon what are called 'speaking terms', where there were many points of strong congeniality in our tempers, operating to
awake in me a sentiment which our position alone, perhaps,
prevented from ripening into friendship. It is difficult, indeed,
to define, or even to describe, my real feelings towards him. They
formed a motley and heterogeneous admixture;--some petulant
animosity, which was not yet hatred, some esteem, more respect,
much fear, with a world of uneasy curiosity. To the moralist it
will be unnecessary to say, in addition, that Wilson and myself
were the most inseparable of companions.
It was no doubt the anomalous state of affairs existing
between us, which turned all my attacks upon him (and they were
many, either open or covert) into the channel of banter or
practical joke (giving pain while assuming the aspect of mere fun)
rather than into a more serious and determined hostility. But my
endeavours on this head were by no means uniformly successful, even
when my plans were the most wittily concocted; for my namesake had
much about him, in character, of that unassuming and quiet
austerity which, while enjoying the poignancy of its own jokes, has
no heel of Achilles in itself, and absolutely refuses to be laughed
at. I could find, indeed, but one vulnerable point, and that,
lying in a personal peculiarity, arising, perhaps, from
constitutional disease, would have been spared by any antagonist
less at his wit's end than myself--my rival had a weakness in the
faucial or guttural organs, which precluded him from raising his
voice at any time . Of this defect I
did not fail to take what poor advantage lay in my power.
Wilson's retaliations in kind were many; and there was one
form of his practical wit that disturbed me beyond measure. How
his sagacity first discovered at all that so petty a thing would
vex me, is a question I never could solve; but, having discovered,
he habitually practised the annoyance. I had always felt aversion
to my uncourtly patronymic, and its very common, if not plebeian
praenomen. The words were venom in my ears; and when, upon the day
of my arrival, a second William Wilson came also to the academy, I
felt angry with him for bearing the name, and doubly disgusted with
the name because a stranger bore it, who would be the cause of its
two-fold repetition, who would be constantly in my presence, and
whose concerns, in the ordinary routine of the school
business, must inevitably, on account of the detestable
coincidence, be often confounded with my own.
The feeling of vexation thus engendered grew stronger with
every circumstance tending to show resemblance, moral or physical,
between my rival and myself. I had not then discovered the
remarkable fact that we were of the same age; but I saw that we
were of the same height, and I perceived that we were even
singularly alike in general contour of person and outline of
feature. I was galled, too, by the rumour touching a relationship,
which had grown current in the upper forms. In a word, nothing
could more seriously disturb me (although I scrupulously concealed
such disturbance), than any allusion to a similarity of mind,
person, or condition existing between us. But, in truth, I had no
reason to believe that (with the exception of the matter of
relationship, and in the case of Wilson himself) this similarity
had ever been made a subject of comment, or even observed at all by
our schoolfellows. That observed it in all its bearings,
and as fixedly as I, was apparent; but that he could discover in
such circumstances so fruitful a field of annoyance, can only be
attributed, as I said before, to his more than usual penetration.
His cue, which was to perfect an imitation of myself, lay both
in words and in actions; and most admirably did he play his part.
My dress it was an easy matter to copy; my gait and general manner
were, without difficulty, appropriated; in spite of his
constitutional defect, even my voice did not escape him. My louder
tones were, of course, unattempted, but then the key, it was
identical; .
How greatly this most exquisite portraiture harassed me (for
it could not justly be termed a caricature), I will not now venture
to describe. I had but one consolation--in the fact that the
imitation, apparently, was noticed by myself alone, and that I had
to endure only the knowing and strangely sarcastic smiles of my
namesake himself. Satisfied with having produced in my bosom the
intended effect, he seemed to chuckle in secret over the sting he
had inflicted, and was characteristically disregardful of the
public applause which the success of his witty endeavours might
have so easily elicited. That the school, indeed, did not feel his
design, perceive its accomplishment, and participate in his
sneer, was, for many anxious months, a riddle I could not resolve.
Perhaps the of his copy rendered it not so readily
perceptible; or, more possibly, I owed my security to the masterly
air of the copyist, who, disdaining the letter (which in a painting
is all the obtuse can see), gave but the full spirit of his
original for my individual contemplation and chagrin.
I have already more than once spoken of the disgusting air of
patronage which he assumed toward me, and of his frequent officious
interference with my will. This interference often took the
ungracious character of advice; advice not openly given, but hinted
or insinuated. I received it with a repugnance which gained
strength as I grew in years. Yet, at this distant day, let me do
him the simple justice to acknowledge that I can recall no occasion
when the suggestions of my rival were on the side of those errors
or follies so usual to his immature age and seeming inexperience;
that his moral sense, at least, if not his general talents and
worldly wisdom, was far keener than my own; and that I might, to-
day, have been a better, and thus a happier man, had I less
frequently rejected the counsels embodied in those meaning whispers
which I then but too cordially hated and too bitterly despised.
As it was, I at length grew restive in the extreme under his
distasteful supervision, and daily resented more and more openly
what I considered his intolerable arrogance. I have said that, in
the first years of our connection as schoolmates, my feelings in
regard to him might have been easily ripened into friendship: but,
in the latter months of my residence at the academy, although the
intrusion of his ordinary manner had, beyond doubt, in some
measure, abated, my sentiments, in nearly similar proportion,
partook very much of positive hatred. Upon one occasion he saw
this, I think, and afterwards avoided, or made a show of avoiding
me.
It was about the same period, if I remember aright, that, in
an altercation of violence with him, in which he was more than
usually thrown off his guard, and spoke and acted with an openness
of demeanour rather foreign to his nature, I discovered, or fancied
I discovered, in his accent, his air, and general appearance, a
something which first startled, and then deeply interested me, by
bringing to mind dim visions of my earliest infancy--wild,
confused, and thronging memories of a time when memory herself was
yet unborn. I cannot better describe the sensation which oppressed
me than by saying that I could with difficulty shake off the belief
of my having been acquainted with the being who stood before me, at
some epoch very long ago--some point of the past even infinitely
remote. The delusion, however, faded rapidly as it came; and I
mention it at all but to define the day of the last conversation I
there held with my singular namesake.
The huge old house, with its countless subdivisions, had
several large chambers communicating with each other, where slept
the greater number of the students. There were, however (as must
necessarily happen in a building so awkwardly planned), many little
nooks or recesses, the odds and ends of the structure; and these
the economic ingenuity of Dr Bransby had also fitted up as
dormitories; although, being the merest closets, they were capable
of accommodating but a single individual. One of these small
apartments was occupied by Wilson.
One night, about the close of my fifth year at the school, and
immediately after the altercation just mentioned, finding every one
wrapped in sleep, I arose from bed, and, lamp in hand, stole
through a wilderness of narrow passages from my own bedroom to that
of my rival. I had long been plotting one of those ill-natured
pieces of practical wit at his expense in which I had hitherto been
so uniformly unsuccessful. It was my intention, now, to put my
scheme in operation, and I resolved to make him feel the whole
extent of the malice with which I was imbued. Having reached his
closet, I noiselessly entered, leaving the lamp, with a shade over
it, on the outside. I advanced a step, and listened to the sound
of his tranquil breathing. Assured of his being sleep, I returned,
took the light, and with it again approached the bed. Close
curtains were around it, which, in the prosecution of my plan, I
slowly and quietly withdrew, when the bright rays fell vividly upon
the sleeper, and my eyes, at the same moment, upon his countenance.
I looked;--and a numbness, an iciness of feeling instantly pervaded
my frame. My breast heaved, my knees tottered, my whole spirit
became possessed with an objectless yet intolerable horror.
Gasping for breath, I lowered the lamp in still nearer proximity to
the face. Were these-- the lineaments of William
Wilson? I saw, indeed, that they were his, but I shook as if with
a fit of the ague in fancying they were not. What there
about them to confound me in this manner? I gazed;--while my brain
reeled with a multitude of incoherent thoughts. Not thus he
appeared--assuredly not --in the vivacity of his waking
hours. The same name! the same contour of person! the same day of
arrival at the academy! And then his dogged and meaningless
imitation of my gait, my voice, my habits, and my manner! Was it,
in truth, within the bounds of human possibility, that was the result, merely, of the habitual practice of this
sarcastic imitation? Awestricken, and with a creeping shudder, I
extinguished the lamp, passed silently from the chamber, and left
at once, the halls of that old academy, never to enter them again.
After a lapse of some months, spent at home in mere idleness,
I found myself a student at Eton. The brief interval had been
sufficient to enfeeble my remembrance of the events at Dr
Bransby's, or at least to effect a material change in the nature of
the feelings with which I remembered them. The truth--the tragedy-
-of the drama was no more. I could now find room to doubt the
evidence of my senses; and seldom called up the subject at all but
with wonder at the extent of human credulity, and a smile at the
vivid force of the imagination which I hereditarily possessed.
Neither was this species of scepticism likely to be diminished by
the character of the life I led at Eton. The vortex of thoughtless
folly into which I there so immediately and so recklessly plunged,
washed away all but the froth of my past hours, engulfed at once
every solid or serious impression, and left to memory only the
veriest levities of a former existence.
I do not wish, however, to trace the course of my miserable
profligacy here--a profligacy which set at defiance the laws, while
it eluded the vigilance of the institution. Three years of folly,
passed without profit, had but given me rooted habits of vice, and
added, in a somewhat unusual degree, to my bodily stature, when,
after a week of soulless dissipation, I invited a small party of
the most dissolute students to a secret carousal in my chambers.
We met at a late hour of the night; for our debaucheries were to be
faithfully protracted until morning. The wine flowed freely, and
there were not wanting other and perhaps more dangerous
seductions; so that the grey dawn had already faintly appeared in
the east, while our delirious extravagance was at its height.
Madly flushed with cards and intoxication, I was in the act of
insisting upon a toast of more than wonted profanity, when my
attention was suddenly diverted by the violent, although partial
unclosing of the door of the apartment, and by the eager voice of
a servant from without. He said that some person, apparently in
great haste, demanded to speak with me in the hall.
Wildly excited with wine, the unexpected interruption rather
delighted than surprised me. I staggered forward at once, and a
few steps brought me to the vestibule of the building. In this low
and small room there hung no lamp; and now no light at all was
admitted, save that of the exceedingly feeble dawn which made its
way through the semi-circular window. As I put my foot over the
threshold, I became aware of the figure of a youth about my own
height, and habited in a white kerseymere morning frock, cut in the
novel fashion of the one I myself wore at the moment. This the
faint light enabled me to perceive; but the features of his face I
could not distinguish. Upon my entering he strode hurriedly up to
me, and, seizing me by the arm with a gesture of petulant
impatience, whispered the words 'William Wilson!' in my ear.
I grew perfectly sober in an instant.
There was that in the manner of the stranger, and in the
tremulous shake of his uplifted finger, as he held it between my
eyes and the light, which filled me with unqualified amazement; but
it was not this which so violently moved me. It was the pregnancy
of solemn admonition in the singular, low, hissing utterance; and,
above all, it was the character, the tone, , of those
few, simple, and familiar, yet syllables, which came
with a thousand thronging memories of by-gone days, and struck upon
my soul with the shock of a galvanic battery. Ere I could recover
the use of my senses he was gone.
Although this event failed not of a vivid effect upon my
disordered imagination, yet was it evanescent as vivid. For some
weeks, indeed, I busied myself in earnest inquiry, or was wrapped
in a cloud of morbid speculation. I did not pretend to disguise
from my perception the identity of the singular individual who thus
perseveringly interfered with my affairs, and harassed me
with his insinuated counsel. But who and what was this Wilson?--
and whence came he?--and what were his purposes? Upon neither of
these points could I be satisfied; merely ascertaining, in regard
to him, that a sudden accident in his family had caused his removal
from Dr Bransby's academy on the afternoon of the day in which I
myself had eloped. But in a brief period I ceased to think upon
the subject; my attention being all absorbed in a contemplated
departure for Oxford. Thither I soon went; the uncalculating
vanity of my parents furnishing me with an outfit and annual
establishment, which would enable me to indulge at will in the
luxury already so dear to my heart,--to vie in profuseness of
expenditure with the haughtiest heirs of the wealthiest earldoms in
Great Britain.
Excited by such appliances to vice, my constitutional
temperament broke forth with redoubled ardour, and I spurned even
the common restraints of decency in the mad infatuation of my
revels. But it were absurd to pause in the details of my
extravagance. Let it suffice, that among spendthrifts I out-
Heroded Herod, and that, giving name to a multitude of novel
follies, I added no brief appendix to the long catalogue of vices
then usual in the most dissolute university of Europe.
It could hardly be credited, however, that I had, even here,
so utterly fallen from the gentlemanly estate, as to seek
acquaintance with the vilest arts of the gambler by profession,
and, having become an adept in his despicable science, to practise
it habitually as a means of increasing my already enormous income
at the expense of the weak-minded among my fellow-collegians.
Such, nevertheless, was the fact. And the very enormity of this
offence against all manly and honourable sentiment proved, beyond
doubt, the main if not the sole reason of the impunity with which
it was committed. Who, indeed, among my most abandoned associates,
would not rather have disputed the clearest evidence of his senses,
than have suspected of such courses, the gay, the frank, the
generous William Wilson--the noblest and most liberal commoner at
Oxford--him whose follies (said his parasites) were but the follies
of youth and unbridled fancy--whose errors but inimitable whim--
whose darkest vice but a careless and dashing extravagance?
I had been now two years successfully busied in this way, when
there came to the university a young nobleman,
Glendinning--rich, said reports, as Herodes Atticus--his riches,
too, as easily acquired. I soon found him of weak intellect, and,
of course, marked him as a fitting subject for my skill. I
frequently engaged him in play, and contrived, with the gambler's
usual art, to let him win considerable sums, the more effectually
to entangle him in my snares. At length, my schemes being ripe, I
met him (with the full intention that this meeting should be final
and decisive) at the chambers of a fellow-commoner (Mr Preston),
equally intimate with both, but who, to do him justice, entertained
not even a remote suspicion of my design. To give him a better
colouring, I had contrived to have assembled a party of some eight
or ten, and was solicitously careful that the introduction of cards
should appear accidental, and originate in the proposal of my
contemplated dupe himself. To be brief upon a vile topic, none of
the low finesse was omitted, so customary upon similar occasions
that it is a just matter for wonder how any are still found so
besotted as to fall its victim.
We had protracted our sitting far into the night, and I had at
length effected the manoeuvre of getting Glendinning as my sole
antagonist. The game, too, was my favourite . The rest
of the company, interested in the extent of our play, had abandoned
their own cards, and were standing around us as spectators. The , who had been induced by my artifices in the early part of
the evening, to drink deeply, now shuffled, dealt, or played, with
a wild nervousness of manner for which his intoxication, I thought,
might partially, but could not altogether account. In a very short
period he had become my debtor to a large amount, when, having
taken a long draught of port, he did precisely what I had been
coolly anticipating--he proposed to double our already extravagant
stakes. With a well-feigned show of reluctance, and not until
after my repeated refusal had seduced him into some angry words
which gave a colour of to my compliance, did I finally
comply. The result, of course, did but prove how entirely the prey
was in my toils; in less than an hour he had quadrupled his debt.
For some time his countenance had been losing the florid tinge lent
it by the wine; but now, to my astonishment, I perceived that it had grown to a pallor truly fearful. I say to my
astonishment. Glendinning had been represented to my eager
inquiries as immeasurably wealthy; and the sums which he had as yet
lost, although in themselves vast, could not, I supposed, very
seriously annoy, much less so violently affect him. That he was
overcome by the wine just swallowed, was the idea which most
readily presented itself; and, rather with a view to the
preservation of my own character in the eyes of my associates, than
from any less interested motive, I was about to insist,
peremptorily, upon a discontinuance of the play, when some
expressions at my elbow from among the company, and an ejaculation
evincing utter despair on the part of Glendinning, gave me to
understand that I had effected his total ruin under circumstances
which, rendering him an object for the pity of all, should have
protected him from the ill offices even of a fiend.
What now might have been my conduct it is difficult to say.
The pitiable condition of my dupe had thrown an air of embarrassed
gloom over all; and, for some moments, a profound silence was
maintained, during which I could not help feeling my cheeks tingle
with the many burning glances of scorn or reproach cast upon me by
the less abandoned of the party. I will even own that an
intolerable weight of anxiety was for a brief instant lifted from
my bosom by the sudden and extraordinary interruption which ensued.
The wide, heavy folding doors of the apartment were all at once
thrown open, to their full extent, with a vigorous and rushing
impetuosity that extinguished, as if by magic, every candle in the
room. Their light, in dying, enabled us just to perceive that a
stranger had entered, about my own height, and closely muffled in
a cloak. The darkness, however, was now total; and we could only
that he was standing in our midst. Before any one of us
could recover from the extreme astonishment into which this
rudeness had thrown all, we heard the voice of the intruder.
'Gentlemen,' he said in a low, distinct, and never-to-be-
forgotten which thrilled to the very marrow of my
bones, 'Gentlemen, I make no apology for this behaviour, because in
this behaving, I am but fulfilling a duty. You are, beyond doubt,
uninformed of the true character of the person who has to-night won
at a large sum of money from Lord Glendinning. I
will therefore put you upon an expeditious and decisive plan of
obtaining this very necessary information. Please to examine, at
your leisure, the inner linings of the cuff of his left sleeve, and
the several little packages which may be found in the somewhat
capacious pockets of his embroidered morning wrapper.'
While he spoke, so profound was the stillness that one might
have heard a pin drop upon the floor. In ceasing, he departed at
once, and as abruptly as he had entered. Can I--shall I describe
my sensations?--must I say that I felt all the horrors of the
damned? Most assuredly I had little time given for reflection.
Many hands roughly seized me upon the spot, and lights were
immediately re-procured. A search ensued. In the lining of my
sleeve were found all the court cards essential in , and,
in the pockets of my wrapper, a number of packs, facsimiles of
those used at our sittings, with the single exception that mine
were of the species called, technically, ; the honours
being slightly convex at the ends, the lower cards slightly convex
at the sides. In this disposition, the dupe who cuts, as
customary, at the length of the pack, will invariably find that he
cuts his antagonist an honour; while the gambler, cutting at the
breadth, will, as certainly, cut nothing for his victim which may
count in the records of the game.
Any burst of indignation upon this discovery would have
affected me less than the silent contempt, or the sarcastic
composure, with which it was received.
'Mr Wilson,' said our host, stooping to remove from beneath
his feet an exceedingly luxurious cloak of rare furs, 'Mr Wilson,
this is your property.' (The weather was cold; and, upon quitting
my own room, I had thrown a cloak over my dressing-wrapper, putting
it off upon reaching the scene of play.) 'I presume it is
superreogatory to seek here' (eyeing the folds of the garment with
a bitter smile) 'for any farther evidence of your skill. Indeed,
we have had enough. You will see the necessity, I hope, of
quitting Oxford--at all events, of quitting instantly my chambers.'
Abased, humbled to the dust as I then was, it is probable that
I should have resented this galling language by immediate personal
violence, had not my whole attention been at the moment arrested by
the fact of the most startling character. The cloak which I had
worn was of a rare description of fur; how rare, how extravagant- ly costly, I shall not venture to say. Its fashion, too, was of
my own fantastic invention; for I was fastidious to an absurd
degree of coxcombry, in matter of this frivolous nature. When,
therefore, Mr Preston reached me that which he had picked up upon
the floor, and near the folding doors of the apartment, it was with
an astonishment nearly bordering upon terror, that I perceived my
own already hanging on my arm (where I had no doubt unwittingly
placed it), and that the one presented me was but its exact
counterpart in every, in even the minutest possible particular.
The singular being who had so disastrously exposed me, had been
muffled, I remembered, in a cloak; and none had been worn at all by
any of the members of our party with the exception of myself.
Retaining some presence of mind, I took the one offered me by
Preston, placed it, unnoticed, over my own, left the apartment with
a resolute scowl of defiance; and, next morning ere dawn of day,
commenced a hurried journey from Oxford to the continent, in a
perfect agony of horror and of shame.
. My evil destiny pursued me as if in
exultation, and proved, indeed, that the exercise of its mysterious
dominion had as yet only begun. Scarcely had I set foot in Paris
ere I had fresh evidence of the detestable interest taken by this
Wilson in my concerns. Years flew, while I experienced no relief.
Villain!--at Rome, with how untimely, yet with how spectral an
officiousness, stepped he in between me and my ambition! At
Vienna, too--at Berlin--and at Moscow! Where, in truth, had I bitter cause to curse him within my heart? From his
inscrutable tyranny did I at length flee, panic-stricken, as from
a pestilence; and to the very ends of the earth .
And again, and again, in secret communion with my own spirit,
would I demand the questions 'Who is he?--whence came he?--and what
are his objects?' But no answer was there found. And then I
scrutinized, with a minute scrutiny, the forms, and the methods,
and the leading traits of his impertinent supervision. But even
here there was very little upon which to base a conjecture. It was
noticeable, indeed, that, in no one of the multiplied instances in
which he had of late crossed my path, had he so crossed it except
to frustrate those schemes, or to disturb those actions, which, if
fully carried out, might have resulted in bitter mischief.
Poor justification this, in truth, for an authority so imperiously
assumed! Poor indemnity for natural rights of self-agency so
pertinaciously, so insultingly denied!
I had also been forced to notice that my tormentor, for a very
long period of time (while scrupulously and with miraculous
dexterity maintaining his whim of an identity of apparel with
myself) had so contrived it, in the execution of his varied
interferences with my will, that I saw not, at any moment, the
features of his face. Be Wilson what he might, , at least,
was but the veriest of affectation, or of folly. Could he, for an
instant, have supposed that, in my admonisher at Eton--in the
destroyer of my honour at Oxford,--in him who thwarted my ambition
at Rome, my revenge at Paris, my passionate love at Naples, or what
he falsely termed my avarice in Egypt,--that in this, my arch-enemy
and evil genius, I could fail to recognize the William Wilson of my
school-boy days,--the namesake, the companion, the rival,--the
hated and dreaded rival at Dr Bransby's? Impossible! But let me
hasten to the last eventful scene of the drama.
Thus far I had succumbed supinely to this imperious
domination. The sentiments of deep awe with which I habitually
regarded the elevated character, the majestic wisdom, the apparent
omnipresence and omnipotence of Wilson, added to a feeling of even
terror, with which certain other traits in his nature and
assumptions inspired me, had operated, hitherto, to impress me with
an idea of my own utter weakness and helplessness, and to suggest
an implicit, although bitterly reluctant submission to his
arbitrary will. But, of late days, I had given myself up entirely
to wine; and its maddening influence upon my hereditary temper
rendered me more and more impatient of control. I began to
murmur,--to hesitate,--to resist. And was it only fancy which
induced me to believe that, with the increase of my own firmness,
that of my tormentor underwent a proportional diminution? Be this
as it may, I now began to feel the inspiration of a burning hope,
and at length nurtured in my secret thoughts a stern and desperate
resolution that I would submit no longer to be enslaved.
It was at Rome, during the Carnival of 18--, that I attended
a masquerade in the palazzo of the Neapolitan Duke Di Broglio. I
had indulged more freely than usual in the excesses of the wine- table; and now the suffocating atmosphere of the crowded rooms
irritated me beyond endurance. The difficulty, too, of forcing my
way through the mazes of the company contributed not a little to
the ruffling of my temper; for I was anxiously seeking (let me not
say with what unworthy motive) the young, the gay, the beautiful
wife of the aged and doting Di Broglio. With a too unscrupulous
confidence she had previously communicated to me the secret of the
costume in which she would be habited, and now, having caught a
glimpse of her person, I was hurrying to make my way into her
presence.-- At this moment I felt a light hand placed upon my
shoulder, and that ever-remembered, low, damnable
within my ear.
In an absolute frenzy of wrath, I turned at once upon him who
had thus interrupted me, and seized him violently by the collar.
He was attired, as I had expected, in a costume altogether similar
to my own; wearing a Spanish cloak of blue velvet, begirt about the
waist with a crimson belt sustaining a rapier. A mask of black
silk entirely covered his face.
'Scoundrel!' I said, in a voice husky with rage, while every
syllable I uttered seemed as new fuel to my fury, 'scoundrel!
imposter! accursed villain! you shall not--you not dog me
unto death! Follow me, or I stab you where you stand!'--and I
broke my way from the ballroom into a small ante-chamber adjoining-
-dragging him unresistingly with me as I went.
Upon entering, I thrust him furiously from me. He staggered
against the wall, while I closed the door with an oath, and
commanded him to draw. He hesitated but for an instant; then, with
a slight sigh, drew in silence, and put himself upon his defence.
The contest was brief indeed. I was frantic with every
species of wild excitement, and felt within my single arm the
energy and power of a multitude. In a few seconds I forced him by
sheer strength against the wainscoting, and thus, getting him at
mercy, plunged my sword, with brute ferocity, repeatedly through
and through his bosom.
At that instant some person tried the latch of the door. I
hastened to prevent an intrusion, and then immediately returned to
my dying antagonist. But what human language can adequately
portray astonishment, horror which possessed me
at the spectacle then presented to view? The brief moment
in which I averted my eyes had been sufficient to produce,
apparently, a material change in the arrangements at the upper or
farther end of the room. A large mirror,--so at first it seemed to
me in my confusion--now stood where none had been perceptible
before; and, as I stepped up to it in extremity of terror, mine own
image, but with features all pale and dabbled in blood, advanced to
meet me with a feeble and tottering gait.
Thus it appeared, I say, but was not. It was my antagonist--
it was Wilson, who then stood before me in the agonies of his
dissolution. His mask and cloak lay, where he had thrown them,
upon the floor. Not a thread in all his raiment--not a line in all
the marked and singular lineaments of his face which was not, even
in the most absolute identity, !
It was Wilson; but he spoke no longer in a whisper, and I
could have fancied that I myself was speaking while he said:
'