The shortage of what may ironically (considering the era under discussion) be termed old-fashioned detective stories should come as a surprise to no one. After Poe failed to inspire a raft of followers, magazine editors saw no urgent need to induce others to follow in his footsteps, so, as inevitable as crime itself seems to be, writers avoided this new and unrewarded literary genre.
In France, detective fiction had achieved popularity at the hands of Émile Gaboriau, whose series character, Monsieur Lecoq, a member of the Sûreté, appeared in numerous novels and short stories in the 1860s and 1870s. Lecoq’s adventures were closely patterned after the real-life career of Eugène François Vidocq, whose four-volume Memoires (1828–1829) contained far more fiction than actual memoir. Lecoq was the first significant detective of fiction to employ disguises to shadow a suspect, develop the use of plaster to make casts of footprints, and even invent a test to determine when a bed had been slept in. The success of Gaboriau’s books encouraged scores of French hacks to produce books about detectives, all of whom had the same high level of frenetic activity as Lecoq, scurrying around to find clues, chase suspects, and even engage in physical confrontations.
It was not until 1887 and Arthur Conan Doyle’s creation of Sherlock Holmes in England that the pure cerebral methodology of Dupin was combined with the energy of Lecoq to give the public a detective about whom it wanted to read stories on a regular basis. And, it should be noted, even then it was not an instantaneous response, as the first novel, A Study in Scarlet, was followed in 1890 by The Sign of Four without a noticeable stir in the reading public. It was not until July 1891, with the publication of the first Holmes short story, “A Scandal in Bohemia,” in the Strand Magazine, that a large readership was found, and the publication of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (1892) sealed the deal.
Inevitably, the staggering success of Holmes brought out copycats who attempted to emulate the formula that Doyle so successfully maintained. A somewhat eccentric detective, his slightly dim sidekick, a sensational crime, a baffled police department, and a startling denouement based on keen observation and brilliant deductive reasoning—that was the formula. It had all been invented by Poe, as already noted, but Dupin was not nearly as interesting as Holmes, nor were the hundreds of detectives who followed in his wake.
The sudden popularity of mystery fiction induced many writers to try their hands at it. Some, predictably, were the ungifted who would produce, on demand, whatever editors were looking for to fill the pages of their magazines, gift annuals, and newspapers. This sort of pedestrian writing, in every genre and of every type, has a long history that has caused the destruction of uncountable evergreens to produce the paper on which so much undistinguished prose was offered to a largely undiscerning public.
However, many first-rate authors took their pens in hand and decided that they, too, could add something worthwhile to the genre. While this was more true in the twentieth century, after the literary genre had been established for a while, it also pertained in the previous century, when such luminaries as Mark Twain, Frank Stockton, Jack London, Edith Wharton, Ambrose Bierce, Stephen Crane, and Ellen Glasgow produced short stories involving crime, mystery, and murder. Curiously, so did such highly successful writers of books for young readers as L. Frank Baum, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, and Louisa May Alcott.
All of these authors, major contributors to American letters in the 1800s, will be found in this collection. Some of their stories will be familiar to many readers and have enjoyed the success of being often reprinted and anthologized.
There also rest between these covers authors whose works were unheralded in their own lifetimes and whose names have receded into the unforgiving, vast darkness of time. Their names and the stories they wrote are unknown to all but a few antiquarians, just as they have been for a century or more. Obscure or not, they have much to recommend them, even if they do not quite sparkle to the same degree as their more famous contemporaries. They still have good stories to tell, and the best of them crack open a door for a peek at another time and people who otherwise would not have been met.
This anthology covers virtually the entire nineteenth century, offering the best work in the mystery genre produced during those years. The range is from the greatest and most famous writers of the century to the most obscure. The length varies from a short-short of less than two pages to works that might almost qualify as novellas. Every type of mystery is included, from crime to detective to suspense to riddle, and from humorous to blindingly dark.
A great deal more crime fiction was produced in the twentieth century than in the nineteenth, and much of it may well be superior to all but the best of that earlier era. Still, the later works could not have been produced without the groundbreaking creativity of the earliest practitioners of this demanding form. The stories in this collection are more than pioneering efforts being offered merely to illustrate the roots of the genre. They are superb examples of American fiction that will endure as long as stories are told and written, and as long as they are heard and read.
Otto Penzler
January 2014
1824
WASHINGTON IRVING
The Story of the Young Robber
Noted for their charm and simplicity, the stories, sketches, and full-length books by WASHINGTON IRVING (1783–1859) earned him the title of “Father of American Literature,” as the first author of significance to marry American literature with the literature of the world. His life abroad, mainly in Spain, Italy, and England, heavily influenced his work in the formative years of nineteenth-century America.
The easy grace of his narratives and their gentle humor endeared him to the reading public, and he enjoyed great success with such works as A History of New-York (under the byline Diedrich Knickerbocker, 1809), generally regarded as the first American work of humorous fiction, and especially The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Esq. (1819–1820), which contained the immortal tales known by all American schoolchildren, “Rip Van Winkle” and “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.”
In 1824 he wrote Tales of a Traveller under the Geoffrey Crayon byline, hoping to recreate the success of The Sketch Book, though some elements are very different in tone and this is now regarded as a minor work. While his early stories were noted for their sentimental, romantic views of life and (the word cries out to be used again) their charm, many of the little sketches in Tales of a Traveller are downright shocking, especially “The Story of the Young Robber.” Whereas Irving’s many warm and kindly stories of love and marriage portrayed lovely young maidens and their suitors in syrupy, conventional terms of ethereal, pure devotion and bliss, the unfortunate heroine and the young man who loves her in this short tale appear to have been pulled from the pages of the most melodramatic examples of gothic horror.
The titular character narrates the story in the first person with a peculiar detachment that belies the violence and tragedy that it depicts. The chapter of Tales of a Traveller titled “The Story of the Young Robber” actually contains more than one tale, but this episode is complete as offered here. It is not a detective story in any way, nor even a mystery, but it is a crime story of such unusual brutality that it cannot be surprising to know that it, like so many of Irving’s stories, influenced many American writers of the nineteenth century.
“The Story of the Young Robber” was first published in Tales of a Traveller (London: John Murray, 1824, two volumes); the first American edition was published later in 1824 in Philadelphia by H. C. Carey & I. Lea.
***
I WAS BORN AT the little town of Frosinone, which lies at the skirts of the Abruzzi. My father had made a little property in trade, and gave me some education, as he intended me for the church, but I had kept gay company too much to relish the cowl, so I grew up a loiterer about the place. I was a heedless fellow, a little quarrelsome on occasion, but good-humored in the main, so I made my way very well for a time, until I fell in love. There lived in our town a surveyor, or land bailiff, of the
prince’s who had a young daughter, a beautiful girl of sixteen. She was looked upon as something better than the common run of our townsfolk, and kept almost entirely at home. I saw her occasionally, and became madly in love with her, she looked so fresh and tender, and so different from the sunburnt females to whom I had been accustomed.
As my father kept me in money, I always dressed well, and took all opportunities of showing myself off to advantage in the eyes of the little beauty. I used to see her at church; and as I could play a little upon the guitar, I gave a tune sometimes under her window of an evening; and I tried to have interviews with her in her father’s vineyard, not far from the town, where she sometimes walked. She was evidently pleased with me, but she was young and shy, and her father kept a strict eye upon her, and took alarm at my attentions, for he had a bad opinion of me, and looked for a better match for his daughter. I became furious at the difficulties thrown in my way, having been accustomed always to easy success among the women, being considered one of the smartest young fellows of the place.
Her father brought home a suitor for her, a rich farmer from a neighboring town. The wedding day was appointed, and preparations were making. I got sight of her at her window, and I thought she looked sadly at me. I determined the match should not take place, cost what it might. I met her intended bridegroom in the market-place, and could not restrain the expression of my rage. A few hot words passed between us, when I drew my stiletto and stabbed him to the heart. I fled to a neighboring church for refuge, and with a little money I obtained absolution, but I did not dare to venture from my asylum.
At that time our captain was forming his troop. He had known me from boyhood, and hearing of my situation, came to me in secret, and made such offers that I agreed to enlist myself among his followers. Indeed, I had more than once thought of taking to this mode of life, having known several brave fellows of the mountains, who used to spend their money freely among us youngsters of the town. I accordingly left my asylum late one night, repaired to the appointed place of meeting, took the oaths prescribed, and became one of the troop. We were for some time in a distant part of the mountains, and our wild adventurous kind of life hit my fancy wonderfully, and diverted my thoughts. At length they returned with all their violence to the recollection of Rosetta. The solitude in which I often found myself gave me time to brood over her image, and as I have kept watch at night over our sleeping camp in the mountains, my feelings have been roused almost to a fever.
At length we shifted our ground, and determined to make a descent upon the road between Terracina and Naples. In the course of our expedition, we passed a day or two in the woody mountains which rise above Frosinone. I cannot tell you how I felt when I looked down upon the place, and distinguished the residence of Rosetta. I determined to have an interview with her; but to what purpose? I could not expect that she would quit her home, and accompany me in my hazardous life among the mountains. She had been brought up too tenderly for that; and when I looked upon the women who were associated with some of our troop, I could not have borne the thoughts of her being their companion. All return to my former life was likewise hopeless; for a price was set upon my head. Still I determined to see her; the very hazard and fruitlessness of the thing made me furious to accomplish it.
About three weeks since, I persuaded our captain to draw down to the vicinity of Frosinone, in hopes of entrapping some of its principal inhabitants, and compelling them to a ransom. We were lying in ambush towards evening, not far from the vineyard of Rosetta’s father. I stole quietly from my companions, and drew near to reconnoiter the place of her frequent walks. How my heart beat when among the vines I beheld the gleaming of a white dress! I knew it must be Rosetta’s, it being rare for any female of the place to dress in white. I advanced secretly and without noise, until, putting aside the vines, I stood suddenly before her. She uttered a piercing shriek, but I seized her in my arms, put my hand upon her mouth, and conjured her to be silent. I poured out all the frenzy of my passion; offered to renounce my mode of life, to put my fate in her hands, to fly with her where we might live in safety together. All that I could say or do would not pacify her. Instead of love, horror and affright seemed to have taken possession of her breast. She struggled partly from my grasp, and filled the air with her cries.
In an instant the captain and the rest of my companions were around us. I would have given anything at that moment had she been safe out of our hands, and in her father’s house. It was too late. The captain pronounced her a prize, and ordered that she should be borne to the mountains. I represented to him that she was my prize, that I had a previous claim to her; and I mentioned my former attachment. He sneered bitterly in reply; observed that brigands had no business with village intrigues, and that, according to the laws of the troop, all spoils of the kind were determined by lot. Love and jealousy were raging in my heart, but I had to choose between obedience and death. I surrendered her to the captain, and we made for the mountains.
She was overcome by affright, and her steps were so feeble and faltering that it was necessary to support her. I could not endure the idea that my comrades should touch her, and assuming a forced tranquillity, begged that she might be confided to me, as one to whom she was more accustomed. The captain regarded me for a moment with a searching look, but I bore it without flinching, and he consented. I took her in my arms; she was almost senseless. Her head rested on my shoulder; her mouth was near to mine. I felt her breath on my face, and it seemed to fan the flame which devoured me. Oh, God! to have this glowing treasure in my arms, and yet to think it was not mine!
We arrived at the foot of the mountain. I ascended it with difficulty, particularly where the woods were thick; but I would not relinquish my delicious burthen. I reflected with rage, however, that I must soon do so. The thoughts that so delicate a creature must be abandoned to my rude companions maddened me. I felt tempted, the stiletto in my hand, to cut my way through them all, and bear her off in triumph. I scarcely conceived the idea before I saw its rashness; but my brain was fevered with the thought that any but myself should enjoy her charms. I endeavored to outstrip my companions by the quickness of my movements, and to get a little distance ahead, in case any favorable opportunity of escape should present. Vain effort! The voice of the captain suddenly ordered a halt. I trembled, but had to obey. The poor girl partly opened a languid eye, but was without strength or motion. I laid her upon the grass. The captain darted on me a terrible look of suspicion, and ordered me to scour the woods with my companions, in search of some shepherd who might be sent to her father’s to demand a ransom.
I saw at once the peril. To resist with violence was certain death; but to leave her alone, in the power of the captain!—I spoke out then with a fervor inspired by my passion and my despair. I reminded the captain that I was the first to seize her; that she was my prize; and that my previous attachment to her ought to make her sacred among my companions. I insisted, therefore, that he should pledge me his word to respect her; otherwise I should refuse obedience to his orders. His only reply was to cock his carbine, and at the signal my comrades did the same. They laughed with cruelty at my impotent rage. What could I do? I felt the madness of resistance. I was menaced on all hands, and my companions obliged me to follow them. She remained alone with the chief—yes, alone—and almost lifeless!—
Here the robber paused in his recital, overpowered by his emotions. Great drops of sweat stood on his forehead; he panted rather than breathed; his brawny bosom rose and fell like the waves of a troubled sea. When he had become a little calm, he continued his recital.
I was not long in finding a shepherd, said he. I ran with the rapidity of a deer, eager, if possible, to get back before what I dreaded might take place. I had left my companions far behind, and I rejoined them before they had reached one-half the distance I had made. I hurried them back to the place where we had left the captain. As we approached, I beheld him seated by the side of Rosetta. His triumphant look, and the desolate
condition of the unfortunate girl, left me no doubt of her fate. I know not how I restrained my fury.
It was with extreme difficulty, and by guiding her hand, that she was made to trace a few characters, requesting her father to send three hundred dollars as her ransom. The letter was dispatched by the shepherd. When he was gone, the chief turned sternly to me. “You have set an example,” said he, “of mutiny and self-will, which if indulged would be ruinous to the troop. Had I treated you as our laws require, this bullet would have been driven through your brain. But you are an old friend; I have borne patiently with your fury and your folly. I have even protected you from a foolish passion that would have unmanned you. As to this girl, the laws of our association must have their course.” So saying, he gave his commands, lots were drawn, and the helpless girl was abandoned to the troop.
Here the robber paused again, panting with fury, and it was some moments before he could resume his story.
Hell, said he, was raging in my heart. I beheld the impossibility of avenging myself, and I felt that, according to the articles in which we stood bound to one another, the captain was in the right. I rushed with frenzy from the place. I threw myself upon the earth, tore up the grass with my hands, and beat my head, and gnashed my teeth in agony and rage. When at length I returned, I beheld the wretched victim, pale, disheveled, her dress torn and disordered. An emotion of pity for a moment subdued my fiercer feelings. I bore her to the foot of a tree, and leaned her gently against it. I took my gourd, which was filled with wine, and applying it to her lips, endeavored to make her swallow a little. To what a condition was she reduced! She, whom I had once seen the pride of Frosinone, who but a short time before I had beheld sporting in her father’s vineyard, so fresh and beautiful and happy! Her teeth were clenched; her eyes fixed on the ground; her form without motion, and in a state of absolute insensibility. I hung over her in an agony of recollection of all that she had been, and of anguish at what I now beheld her. I darted round a look of horror at my companions, who seemed like so many fiends exulting in the downfall of an angel, and I felt a horror at myself for being their accomplice.
The Best American Mystery Stories of the Nineteenth Century Page 2