What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid
himself among women, although puzzling questions, are not beyond
_all_ conjecture.
--_Sir Thomas Browne._
The mental features discoursed of as the analytical, are, in
themselves, but little susceptible of analysis. We appreciate them
only in their effects. We know of them, among other things, that they
are always to their possessor, when inordinately possessed, a source
of the liveliest enjoyment. As the strong man exults in his physical
ability, delighting in such exercises as call his muscles into
action, so glories the analyst in that moral activity which
_disentangles._ He derives pleasure from even the most trivial
occupations bringing his talent into play. He is fond of enigmas, of
conundrums, of hieroglyphics; exhibiting in his solutions of each a
degree of _acumen_ which appears to the ordinary apprehension
prµternatural. His results, brought about by the very soul and
essence of method, have, in truth, the whole air of intuition.
The faculty of re-solution is possibly much invigorated by
mathematical study, and especially by that highest branch of it
which, unjustly, and merely on account of its retrograde operations,
has been called, as if _par excellence_, analysis. Yet to calculate
is not in itself to analyse. A chess-player, for example, does the
one without effort at the other. It follows that the game of chess,
in its effects upon mental character, is greatly misunderstood. I am
not now writing a treatise, but simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar
narrative by observations very much at random; I will, therefore,
take occasion to assert that the higher powers of the reflective
intellect are more decidedly and more usefully tasked by the
unostentatious game of draughts than by a the elaborate frivolity of
chess. In this latter, where the pieces have different and _bizarre_
motions, with various and variable values, what is only complex is
mistaken (a not unusual error) for what is profound. The _attention_
is here called powerfully into play. If it flag for an instant, an
oversight is committed resulting in injury or defeat. The possible
moves being not only manifold but involute, the chances of such
oversights are multiplied; and in nine cases out of ten it is the
more concentrative rather than the more acute player who conquers. In
draughts, on the contrary, where the moves are _unique_ and have but
little variation, the probabilities of inadvertence are diminished,
and the mere attention being left comparatively unemployed, what
advantages are obtained by either party are obtained by superior
_acumen_. To be less abstract - Let us suppose a game of draughts
where the pieces are reduced to four kings, and where, of course, no
oversight is to be expected. It is obvious that here the victory can
be decided (the players being at all equal) only by some _recherchΘ_
movement, the result of some strong exertion of the intellect.
Deprived of ordinary resources, the analyst throws himself into the
spirit of his opponent, identifies himself therewith, and not
unfrequently sees thus, at a glance, the sole methods (sometime
indeed absurdly simple ones) by which he may seduce into error or
hurry into miscalculation.
Whist has long been noted for its influence upon what is termed the
calculating power; and men of the highest order of intellect have
been known to take an apparently unaccountable delight in it, while
eschewing chess as frivolous. Beyond doubt there is nothing of a
similar nature so greatly tasking the faculty of analysis. The best
chess-player in Christendom _may_ be little more than the best player
of chess; but proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in
all those more important undertakings where mind struggles with mind.
When I say proficiency, I mean that perfection in the game which
includes a comprehension of _all_ the sources whence legitimate
advantage may be derived. These are not only manifold but multiform,
and lie frequently among recesses of thought altogether inaccessible
to the ordinary understanding. To observe attentively is to remember
distinctly; and, so far, the concentrative chess-player will do very
well at whist; while the rules of Hoyle (themselves based upon the
mere mechanism of the game) are sufficiently and generally
comprehensible. Thus to have a retentive memory, and to proceed by
"the book," are points commonly regarded as the sum total of good
playing. But it is in matters beyond the limits of mere rule that the
skill of the analyst is evinced. He makes, in silence, a host of
observations and inferences. So, perhaps, do his companions; and the
difference in the extent of the information obtained, lies not so
much in the validity of the inference as in the quality of the
observation. The necessary knowledge is that of _what_ to observe.
Our player confines himself not at all; nor, because the game is the
object, does he reject deductions from things external to the game.
He examines the countenance of his partner, comparing it carefully
with that of each of his opponents. He considers the mode of
assorting the cards in each hand; often counting trump by trump, and
honor by honor, through the glances bestowed by their holders upon
each. He notes every variation of face as the play progresses,
gathering a fund of thought from the differences in the expression of
certainty, of surprise, of triumph, or of chagrin. From the manner of
gathering up a trick he judges whether the person taking it can make
another in the suit. He recognises what is played through feint, by
the air with which it is thrown upon the table. A casual or
inadvertent word; the accidental dropping or turning of a card, with
the accompanying anxiety or carelessness in regard to its
concealment; the counting of the tricks, with the order of their
arrangement; embarrassment, hesitation, eagerness or trepidation -
all afford, to his apparently intuitive perception, indications of
the true state of affairs. The first two or three rounds having been
played, he is in full possession of the contents of each hand, and
thenceforward puts down his cards with as absolute a precision of
purpose as if the rest of the party had turned outward the faces of
their own.
The analytical power should not be confounded with ample ingenuity;
for while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is
often remarkably incapable of analysis. The constructive or combining
power, by which ingenuity is usually manifested, and to which the
phrenologists (I believe erroneously) have assigned a separate organ,
supposing it a primitive faculty, has been so frequently seen in
those whose intellect bordered otherwise upon idiocy, as to have
attracted general observation among writers on morals. Between
ingenuity and the analytic ability there exists a difference far
greater, indeed, than that between the fancy and the imagination, but
of a character
very strictly analogous. It will be found, in fact,
that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the _truly_ imaginative
never otherwise than analytic.
The narrative which follows will appear to the reader somewhat in the
light of a commentary upon the propositions just advanced.
Residing in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of 18--, I
there became acquainted with a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin. This young
gentleman was of an excellent - indeed of an illustrious family, but,
by a variety of untoward events, had been reduced to such poverty
that the energy of his character succumbed beneath it, and he ceased
to bestir himself in the world, or to care for the retrieval of his
fortunes. By courtesy of his creditors, there still remained in his
possession a small remnant of his patrimony; and, upon the income
arising from this, he managed, by means of a rigorous economy, to
procure the necessaries of life, without troubling himself about its
superfluities. Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries, and in Paris
these are easily obtained.
Our first meeting was at an obscure library in the Rue Montmartre,
where the accident of our both being in search of the same very rare
and very remarkable volume, brought us into closer communion. We saw
each other again and again. I was deeply interested in the little
family history which he detailed to me with all that candor which a
Frenchman indulges whenever mere self is his theme. I was astonished,
too, at the vast extent of his reading; and, above all, I felt my
soul enkindled within me by the wild fervor, and the vivid freshness
of his imagination. Seeking in Paris the objects I then sought, I
felt that the societyof such a man would be to me a treasure beyond
price; and this feeling I frankly confided to him. It was at length
arranged that we should live together during my stay in the city; and
as my worldly circumstances were somewhat less embarrassed than his
own, I was permitted to be at the expense of renting, and furnishing
in a style which suited the rather fantastic gloom of our common
temper, a time-eaten and grotesque mansion, long deserted through
superstitions into which we did not inquire, and tottering to its
fall in a retired and desolate portion of the Faubourg St. Germain.
Had the routine of our life at this place been known to the world, we
should have been regarded as madmen - although, perhaps, as madmen of
a harmless nature. Our seclusion was perfect. We admitted no
visitors. Indeed the locality of our retirement had been carefully
kept a secret from my own former associates; and it had been many
years since Dupin had ceased to know or be known in Paris. We existed
within ourselves alone.
It was a freak of fancy in my friend (for what else shall I call it?)
to be enamored of the Night for her own sake; and into this
_bizarrerie_, as into all his others, I quietly fell; giving myself
up to his wild whims with a perfect _abandon_. The sable divinity
would not herself dwell with us always; but we could counterfeit her
presence. At the first dawn of the morning we closed all the messy
shutters of our old building; lighting a couple of tapers which,
strongly perfumed, threw out only the ghastliest and feeblest of
rays. By the aid of these we then busied our souls in dreams -
reading, writing, or conversing, until warned by the clock of the
advent of the true Darkness. Then we sallied forth into the streets
arm in arm, continuing the topics of the day, or roaming far and wide
until a late hour, seeking, amid the wild lights and shadows of the
populous city, that infinity of mental excitement which quiet
observation can afford.
At such times I could not help remarking and admiring (although from
his rich ideality I had been prepared to expect it) a peculiar
analytic ability in Dupin. He seemed, too, to take an eager delight
in its exercise - if not exactly in its display - and did not
hesitate to confess the pleasure thus derived. He boastedto me, with
a low chuckling laugh, that most men, in respect to himself, wore
windows in their bosoms, and was wont to follow up such assertions by
direct and very startling proofs of his intimate knowledge of my own.
His manner at these moments was frigid and abstract; his eyes were
vacant in expression; while his voice, usually a rich tenor, rose
into a treble which would have sounded petulantly but for the
deliberateness and entire distinctness of the enunciation. Observing
him in these moods, I often dwelt meditatively upon the old
philosophy of the Bi-Part Soul, and amused myself with the fancy of a
double Dupin - the creative and the resolvent.
Let it not be supposed, from what I have just said, that I am
detailing any mystery, or penning any romance. What I have described
in the Frenchman, was merely the result of an excited, or perhaps of
a diseased intelligence. But of the character of his remarks at the
periods in question an example will best convey the idea.
We were strolling one night down a long dirty street in the vicinity
of the Palais Royal. Being both, apparently, occupied with thought,
neither of us had spoken a syllable for fifteen minutes at least. All
at once Dupin broke forth with these words:
"He is a very little fellow, that's true, and would do better for the
_ThΘΓtre des VariΘtΘs_."
"There can be no doubt of that," I replied unwittingly, and not at
first observing (so much had I been absorbed in reflection) the
extraordinary manner in which the speaker had chimed in with my
meditations. In an instant afterward I recollected myself, and my
astonishment was profound.
"Dupin," said I, gravely, "this is beyond my comprehension. I do not
hesitate to say that I am amazed, and can scarcely credit my senses.
How was it possible you should know I was thinking of ----- ?" Here I
paused, to ascertain beyond a doubt whether he really knew of whom I
thought.
-- "of Chantilly," said he, "why do you pause? You were remarking to
yourself that his diminutive figure unfitted him for tragedy."
This was precisely what had formed the subject of my reflections.
Chantilly was a _quondam_ cobbler of the Rue St. Denis, who, becoming
stage-mad, had attempted the _r⌠le_ of Xerxes, in CrΘbillon's tragedy
so called, and been notoriously Pasquinaded for his pains.
"Tell me, for Heaven's sake," I exclaimed, "the method - if method
there is - by which you have been enabled to fathom my soul in this
matter." In fact I was even more startled than I would have been
willing to express.
"It was the fruiterer," replied my friend, "who brought you to the
conclusion that the mender of soles was not of sufficient height for
Xerxes _et id genus omne_."
"The fruiterer! - you astonish me - I know no fruiterer whomsoever."
"The man who ran up against you as we entered the street - it may
have been fifteen minutes ago."
I now remembered that, in fact, a fruiterer, carrying upon his head a
large bas
ket of apples, had nearly thrown me down, by accident, as we
passed from the Rue C ---- into the thoroughfare where we stood; but
what this had to do with Chantilly I could not possibly understand.
There was not a particle of _charlΓtanerie_ about Dupin. "I will
explain," he said, "and that you may comprehend all clearly, we will
first retrace the course of your meditations, from the moment in
which I spoke to you until that of the _rencontre_ with the fruiterer
in question. The larger links of the chain run thus - Chantilly,
Orion, Dr. Nichols, Epicurus, Stereotomy, the street stones, the
fruiterer."
There are few persons who have not, at some period of their lives,
amused themselves in retracing the steps by which particular
conclusions of their own minds have been attained. The occupation is
often full of interest and he who attempts it for the first time is
astonished by the apparently illimitable distance and incoherence
between the starting-point and the goal. What, then, must have been
my amazement when I heard the Frenchman speak what he had just
spoken, and when I could not help acknowledging that he had spoken
the truth. He continued:
"We had been talking of horses, if I remember aright, just before
leaving the Rue C ---- . This was the last subject we discussed. As
we crossed into this street, a fruiterer, with a large basket upon
his head, brushing quickly past us, thrust you upon a pile of paving
stones collected at a spot where the causeway is undergoing repair.
You stepped upon one of the loose fragments, slipped, slightly
strained your ankle, appeared vexed or sulky, muttered a few words,
turned to look at the pile, and then proceeded in silence. I was not
particularly attentive to what you did; but observation has become
with me, of late, a species of necessity.
"You kept your eyes upon the ground - glancing, with a petulant
expression, at the holes and ruts in the pavement, (so that I saw you
Poe, Edgar Allen - The Complete Works of Edgar Allen Poe Page 18