[adapted]

by
Edgar Allan Poe

What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, although puzzling questions, are not beyond all conjecture.
Sir Thomas Browne

The parts of the mind called analytical are, by themselves, hard to study. We understand them only by their results. We know, among other things, that they always give their owner great joy when he has a lot of them. As the strong man is happy in his body strength, enjoying exercises that make his muscles work, so the analyst is proud of the mind work that untangles. He gets pleasure from even the simplest jobs that bring his talent into use. He likes puzzles, riddles, and picture writing; showing in his answers to each a level of skill which seems not natural to ordinary people. His results, made by the very heart of method, in fact seem like just guessing.

The ability to solve things is possibly made much stronger by the study of mathematics, and especially by the highest part of it which, unfairly, and only because of its backward steps, has been called, as if the best, analysis. Yet to calculate is not the same as to analyse. A chess-player, for example, does one without doing the other. So the game of chess, in its effects upon the mind, is not well understood. I am not now writing a long study, but only starting a rather strange story with notes made in no special order; I will, therefore, use this chance to say that the higher powers of the thinking mind are better and more usefully used by the plain game of checkers than by all the fancy show of chess. In this last game, where the pieces have different and strange moves, with many and changing values, what is only complicated is taken (not a rare mistake) for what is deep.

Attention is used here in a strong way. If it drops for a moment, a mistake is made, resulting in harm or defeat. The possible moves are not only many but also complex, the chances of such mistakes are increased; and in nine cases out of ten it is the more focused rather than the more clever player who wins. In draughts, on the other hand, where the moves are simple and have very little change, the chances of mistakes from not paying attention are reduced, and mere attention being left almost unused, what advantages are got by either player are got by better skill. To be less abstract—Let us suppose a game of draughts where the pieces are reduced to four kings, and where, of course, no mistake is to be expected. It is clear that here the victory can be decided (the players being equal) only by some special move, the result of some strong effort of the mind. Without ordinary options, the thinker puts himself into the mind of his opponent, becomes like him, and quite often sees thus, at once, the only ways (sometimes indeed very simple ones) by which he may lead him into error or hurry him into a mistake.

Whist has long been known for its effect on what is called the ability to calculate; and very intelligent men have been known to take a pleasure in it that seems to have no clear reason, while avoiding chess as silly. Without a doubt there is nothing of the same kind that so strongly tests the ability to think carefully. The best chess-player in the Christian world may be nothing more than the best player of chess; but skill in whist shows an ability to succeed in all those more important tasks where mind fights with mind. When I say skill, I mean that perfect level in the game which includes an understanding of all the sources from which fair advantage may come. These are not only many but of many kinds, and are often in deep parts of thought that are completely out of reach to the ordinary mind. To watch carefully is to remember clearly; and, so far, the careful chess-player will do very well at whist; while the rules of Hoyle (themselves based on the simple way the game works) are clear enough and generally easy to understand.

Thus to have a good memory, and to play by “the book,” are things commonly thought to be the whole of good play. But it is in things beyond the limits of simple rules that the skill of the thinker is shown. He makes, in silence, many observations and guesses. So, perhaps, do his friends; and the difference in the amount of information got, lies not so much in the truth of the guess as in the quality of the watching. The needed knowledge is that of what to watch. Our player does not limit himself at all; nor, because the game is the aim, does he refuse guesses from things outside the game. He looks at the face of his partner, comparing it carefully with that of each of the other players. He thinks about the way of arranging the cards in each hand; often counting trump by trump, and honor by honor, through the quick looks given by their holders at each. He notes every change of face as the play goes on, getting many ideas from the differences in the look of certainty, of surprise, of triumph, or of being upset.

From the way someone picks up a trick, he decides whether the person who takes it can win another in the same suit. He knows when a card is played to fool others, by the way it is put on the table. A casual or a word said by mistake; the dropping or turning of a card by accident, with the worry or carelessness about hiding it; the counting of the tricks, with the order in which they are placed; embarrassment, hesitation, excitement or fear—all give, to his sense that seems like instinct, signs of what is really going on. After the first two or three rounds are played, he fully knows the cards in each hand, and from then on puts down his cards with a plan as complete and exact as if the others had turned the faces of their own cards outward.

The power to analyze should not be confused with great cleverness; for while the person who analyzes is always clever, the clever person is often very unable to analyze. The building or joining power, by which cleverness is usually shown, and to which the phrenologists (I think wrongly) have given a separate organ, thinking it a basic ability, has been so often seen in those whose minds were otherwise close to stupidity, enough to get general notice among writers on morals. Between cleverness and the ability to analyze there is a difference much greater, in fact, than that between fancy and imagination, but of a kind very closely similar. In fact, we will find that the clever are always full of fancy, and the truly imaginative are never anything except analytic.

The story that comes next will seem to the reader a little like a comment on the ideas just given.

Living in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of 18—, I met a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin. This young man was from an excellent—indeed a famous family, but, by various unlucky events, had become so poor that his energy failed because of it, and he stopped trying in life, or caring about getting back his money. Because of the kindness of the people he owed money to, he still had in his hands a small part of his family money; and, from the money coming from this, he managed, by very strict saving, to get the things needed for life, without worrying about extra things. Books, in fact, were his only luxuries, and in Paris these are easy to get.

Our first meeting was at a small, unknown library in the Rue Montmartre, where the chance of us both looking for the same very rare and very special book brought us into closer contact. We saw each other again and again. I was deeply interested in the little family history which he told to me with all the honesty that a Frenchman shows whenever he talks only about himself. I was surprised, too, at how much he had read; and, above all, I felt my heart excited by the strong passion and the bright newness of his imagination. While I was looking in Paris for the things I wanted then, I felt that being with such a man would be to me a very valuable treasure; and I told him this feeling openly. At last it was arranged that we should live together during my stay in the city; and as my money situation was a bit better than his own, I was allowed to pay for renting and furnishing, in a style that fit the rather strange dark mood we both had, a very old and strange big house, left empty for a long time because of scary beliefs we did not ask about, and ready to fall down in a quiet and empty part of the Faubourg St. Germain.

If the routine of our life in this place had been known to the world, people would have thought we were madmen—although, maybe, madmen who were not dangerous. Our being alone was complete. We allowed no visitors. In fact the place where we lived had been carefully kept secret from my own old friends; and it had been many years since Dupin had stopped knowing people or being known in Paris. We lived by ourselves alone.

It was a strange idea in my friend (for what else shall I call it?) to be in love with the Night for herself alone; and into this odd habit, as into all his others, I quietly fell; giving myself up to his wild wishes completely. The dark goddess would not herself live with us always; but we could pretend she was there. At the first light of the morning we closed all the messy shutters of our old building; lighting a couple of candles which, with a strong smell, gave out only the palest and weakest light. With these we then filled our minds with dreams—reading, writing, or talking, until the clock warned us of the coming of the true Darkness. Then we went out into the streets arm in arm, continuing the talk of the day, or walking far and wide until a late hour, looking, among the wild lights and shadows of the crowded city, for that endless excitement for the mind which quiet watching can give.

At such times I could not help noticing and admiring (although from his rich imagination I had been ready to expect it) a special ability to analyze things in Dupin. He seemed, too, to take great joy in using it—if not exactly in showing it—and did not hide the pleasure he got from it. He bragged to me, with a low, soft laugh, that, for him, most men wore windows in their chests, and he often followed up such claims with clear and very surprising proofs of his deep knowledge of me. His manner at these moments was cold and distant; his eyes were blank; while his voice, usually a deep voice, rose into a high, thin voice which would have sounded whiny but for the slow and very clear way he spoke. Watching him in these moods, I often thought quietly about the old idea of the Two-Part Soul, and amused myself with the idea of a double Dupin—the creative and the solver.

Do not think, from what I have just said, that I am describing any mystery, or writing any love story. What I have described in the Frenchman was only the result of a very excited, or perhaps a sick, mind. But about what his comments were like at the times in question, an example will best show the idea.

We were walking one night down a long, dirty street near the Palais Royal. We both seemed to be thinking, so neither of us had said a word for at least fifteen minutes. All at once, Dupin said these words:

“He is a very small man, that’s true, and would be better for the Variety Theater.”

“There can be no doubt of that,” I replied without thinking, and not at first noticing (I had been so deep in thought) the unusual way in which the speaker had joined in with my thoughts. A moment later I came to my senses, and I was very surprised.

“Dupin,” said I, seriously, “I cannot understand this. I must say that I am amazed, and I can hardly believe my senses. How was it possible that you knew I was thinking of ——?” Here I paused, to make sure, without any doubt, whether he really knew whom I was thinking of.

——“of Chantilly,” said he, “why do you pause? You were thinking to yourself that his small size made him not fit for tragedy.”

This was exactly what I had been thinking about. Chantilly was once a shoemaker of the Rue St. Denis, who, becoming mad about the stage, had tried the role of Xerxes, in Crébillon’s tragedy with that name, and been made fun of a lot for trying.

“Tell me, please,” I said, “the method—if there is a method—that has let you understand my mind in this matter.” In fact I was even more surprised than I wanted to show.

“It was the fruit seller,” replied my friend, “who made you think that the shoe mender was not tall enough to be like Xerxes and all that kind.”

“The fruit seller!—you surprise me—I know no fruit seller at all.”

“The man who bumped into you as we entered the street—it may have been fifteen minutes ago.”

I now remembered that, in fact, a fruit seller, carrying a large basket of apples on his head, had almost knocked me down, by accident, as we went from the Rue C—— into the street where we stood; but I could not understand what this had to do with Chantilly.

There was not a bit of trickery about Dupin. “I will explain,” he said, “and so that you may understand everything clearly, we will first go back over the course of your thoughts, from the moment I spoke to you until the meeting with the fruit seller we talked about. The larger links of the chain are like this—Chantilly, Orion, Dr. Nichols, Epicurus, Stereotomy, the street stones, the fruit seller.”

There are few people who have not, at some time in their lives, enjoyed going back over the steps by which certain ideas in their own minds were reached. This activity is often very interesting, and anyone who tries it for the first time is very surprised by the distance and confusion between the beginning and the end, which seems endless. What, then, must have been my surprise when I heard the Frenchman say what he had just said, and when I could not stop myself from admitting that he had told the truth. He continued:

“We had been talking of horses, if I remember correctly, just before leaving the Rue C——. This was the last subject we talked about. As we crossed into this street, a fruit seller, with a large basket on his head, hurrying past us, pushed you onto a pile of paving stones gathered at a place where the road is being repaired. You stepped on one of the loose pieces, slipped, slightly hurt your ankle, seemed upset or sulky, said a few words quietly, turned to look at the pile, and then went on in silence. I was not paying special attention to what you did; but looking carefully has, lately, become a kind of need for me.”

“You kept your eyes on the ground—looking, with an annoyed look, at the holes and deep grooves in the road (so I saw you were still thinking about the stones) until we came to the small alley called Lamartine, which has been paved, as a test, with overlapping blocks joined together with metal pins. Here your face brightened, and, seeing your lips move, I was sure that you said softly the word ‘stereotomy,’ a term used in a very fancy way for this kind of pavement. I knew you could not say to yourself ‘stereotomy’ without thinking of atoms, and so of the ideas of Epicurus; and since, when we talked about this subject not long ago, I told you how strangely, yet with little notice, the unclear guesses of that noble Greek had been confirmed in the recent nebular cosmogony, I felt that you could not help lifting your eyes up to the great nebula in Orion, and I surely expected that you would do so. You did look up; and I was now sure that I had correctly followed your steps. But in that angry attack on Chantilly, which was in yesterday’s ‘Musée,’ the writer, making some shameful hints about the shoemaker’s change of name when he became an actor, quoted a Latin line we have often talked about. I mean the line

The letter lost its old sound.

I had told you that this was about Orion, once written Urion; and, from certain sharp jokes linked to this explanation, I knew that you could not forget it. So it was clear that you would surely join the two ideas of Orion and Chantilly. I saw that you did join them by the kind of smile that passed over your lips. You thought of the poor shoemaker’s burning. Until then, you had been walking bent over; but now I saw you stand up straight. Then I was sure that you thought about the very small size of Chantilly. At this point I interrupted your thinking to say that as, in fact, he was a very little fellow—that Chantilly—he would do better at the Théâtre des Variétés.”

Not long after this, we were reading an evening edition of the “Gazette des Tribunaux”, when the following paragraphs caught our attention.

“Strange Murders.—This morning, about three o’clock, the people who live in the Quartier St. Roch were woken from sleep by a series of terrible screams, coming, it seemed, from the fourth floor of a house in the Rue Morgue, known to be lived in only by one Madame L’Espanaye, and her daughter, Mademoiselle Camille L’Espanaye. After some delay, caused by a failed attempt to get in in the usual way, the gate was broken open with a crowbar, and eight or ten of the neighbors went in, with two policemen. By this time the cries had stopped; but, as the party rushed up the first set of stairs, two or more rough voices in angry argument were heard and seemed to come from the upper part of the house. As they reached the second landing, these sounds had also stopped and everything stayed perfectly quiet. The party spread out and hurried from room to room. On reaching a large back room on the fourth floor, (its door was found locked, with the key inside, and was forced open,) a sight appeared which shocked everyone there with as much horror as surprise.

The apartment was in a very wild mess—the furniture was broken and thrown around in all directions. There was only one bed frame; and from this the bed had been taken off, and thrown into the middle of the floor. On a chair lay a razor, smeared with blood. On the fireplace hearth were two or three long and thick locks of grey human hair, also stained with blood, and seemed to have been pulled out by the roots. On the floor were found four Napoleons, an ear-ring of topaz, three large silver spoons, three smaller of métal d’Alger, and two bags, containing nearly four thousand francs in gold. The drawers of a dresser, which stood in one corner were open, and had been, apparently, searched, although many items still remained in them. A small iron safe was found under the bed (not under the bed frame). It was open, with the key still in the door. It had nothing inside except a few old letters, and other papers of little importance.

“Of Madame L’Espanaye no signs were seen here; but an unusual amount of soot was seen in the fire-place, a search was made in the chimney, and (terrible to say!) the dead body of the daughter, head down, was pulled out from there; it had been pushed up the narrow opening for a long distance. The body was quite warm. When they examined it, many scrapes were seen, no doubt caused by the force with which it had been pushed up and pulled out. On the face were many deep scratches, and, on the throat, dark bruises, and deep marks of fingernails, as if the dead woman had been choked to death.

After a careful search of every part of the house, without finding anything more, the group went into a small yard with a stone floor at the back of the building, where the dead body of the old lady lay; when they tried to lift her, they saw how very bad the harm was. The body, as well as the head, was badly damaged—the body so much that it could hardly look human.

“To this horrible mystery there is not yet, we believe, any clue.”

The next day’s newspaper had these extra details.

“The Tragedy in the Rue Morgue. Many people have been questioned about this very unusual and frightening case.” [The word ‘affaire’ in France does not yet have the light meaning that it has with us,] “but nothing at all has come out to explain it. We give below all the important statements we got.

“Pauline Dubourg, laundry worker, says that she has known both of the dead women for three years, having washed for them during that time. The old lady and her daughter seemed to get along well—very loving towards each other. They paid very well. Could not say how they lived or earned money. Believed that Madame L. told fortunes for a living. Was said to have money saved. Never met anyone in the house when she came for the clothes or took them home. Was sure that they had no servant working for them. There seemed to be no furniture in any part of the building except on the fourth floor.

“Pierre Moreau, a tobacco seller, says that he has been used to selling small amounts of tobacco and snuff to Madame L’Espanaye for almost four years. He was born in the neighborhood, and has always lived there. The dead woman and her daughter had lived in the house where the bodies were found, for more than six years. Before, it was lived in by a jeweler, who rented out the upper rooms to different people. Madame L. owned the house. She became unhappy with the bad use of the rooms by her renter, and moved into them herself, refusing to rent out any part. The old lady was childish. He had seen the daughter about five or six times during the six years. The two lived a very quiet, private life—were said to have money. He had heard the neighbors say that Madame L. told fortunes—he did not believe it. He had never seen any person go in the door except the old lady and her daughter, a porter once or twice, and a doctor about eight or ten times.

“Many other people, neighbors, said the same thing. No one was said to visit the house often. It was not known if there were any living relatives of Madame L. and her daughter. The shutters on the front windows were rarely opened. Those at the back were always closed, except for the large back room, fourth floor. The house was a good house—not very old.”

“Isidore Musèt, a police officer, says that he was called to the house about three o’clock in the morning, and found about twenty or thirty people at the gate, trying to get in. At last, forced it open with a knife on a gun—not with an iron bar. Had little difficulty in opening it, because it was a double or folding gate, and it had no bolt at the bottom or at the top. The screams continued until the gate was forced open—and then suddenly stopped. They seemed to be screams of some person (or persons) in great pain—were loud and long, not short and quick. Witness led the way up stairs.”

When reaching the first landing, heard two voices in a loud and angry argument—the one a rough voice, the other much higher—a very strange voice. Could make out some words of the first, which was the voice of a Frenchman. Was sure that it was not a woman’s voice. Could make out the words ‘sacré’ and ‘diable.’ The high voice was that of a person from another country.

Could not be sure if it was the voice of a man or of a woman. Could not understand what was said, but thought the language was Spanish. How the room and the bodies looked was described by this person who saw it, as we described them yesterday.

“Henri Duval, a neighbor, and he worked as a silversmith, says that he was one of the group who first went into the house. Agrees with the story of Musèt in general. As soon as they forced their way in, they closed the door again, to keep out the crowd, which gathered very fast, even though it was very late. The high, sharp voice, this witness thinks, was that of an Italian. Was sure it was not French. Was not sure that it was a man’s voice. It might have been a woman’s. Did not know the Italian language. Could not make out the words, but was sure from the tone that the speaker was an Italian. Knew Madame L . and her daughter. Had talked with both often. Was sure that the high, sharp voice was not that of either of the dead.”

“——Odenheimer, restaurant owner. This witness gave his statement. Not speaking French, was questioned through a translator. Is from Amsterdam. Was passing the house at the time of the screams. They lasted for several minutes—probably ten. They were long and loud—very terrible and upsetting. Was one of those who entered the building. Confirmed the previous evidence in every way but one. Was sure that the high voice was that of a man—of a Frenchman. Could not make out the words spoken. They were loud and quick—uneven—spoken it seems in fear as well as in anger. The voice was rough—not so much high as rough. Could not call it a high voice. The rough voice said again and again ‘sacré,’ ‘diable,’ and once ‘mon Dieu.’

“Jules Mignaud, a banker, of the company of Mignaud et Fils, Rue Deloraine. Is the older Mignaud. Madame L’Espanaye had some money. Had opened an account at his bank in the spring of the year——(eight years earlier). Made deposits often, in small amounts. Had not used any checks until the third day before her death, when she took out in person the amount of 4000 francs. This amount was paid in gold, and a clerk went home with the money.

“Adolphe Le Bon, clerk for Mignaud et Fils, says that on that day, around noon, he went with Madame L’Espanaye to her home with the 4000 francs, put in two bags. When the door opened, Miss L. came and took from him one of the bags, while the old lady took the other from him. He then bowed and left. Did not see anyone in the street at the time. It is a side street—very lonely.”

“William Bird, tailor, says that he was one of the group who went into the house. Is an Englishman. Has lived in Paris two years. Was one of the first to go up the stairs. Heard voices arguing. The rough voice was that of a Frenchman. Could understand several words, but cannot now remember all. Heard clearly ‘sacré’ and ‘mon Dieu.’ There was a sound at that moment as if several people were fighting—a scraping and scuffling sound. The high voice was very loud—louder than the rough one. Is sure that it was not the voice of an Englishman. Seemed to be that of a German. Might have been a woman’s voice. Does not understand German.”

“Four of the witnesses named above, being called again, said that the door of the room where the body of Mademoiselle L. was found was locked on the inside when the group reached it. Everything was completely quiet—no groans or sounds of any kind. When they forced the door, no one was seen. The windows, in both the back and front rooms, were closed and shut tight from inside. A door between the two rooms was closed, but not locked. The door leading from the front room into the hallway was locked, with the key on the inside. A small room at the front of the house, on the fourth floor, at the end of the hallway was open, the door being slightly open. This room was full of old beds, boxes, and so on. These were carefully removed and searched. There was not an inch of any part of the house that was not carefully searched. Chimney sweeps were sent up and down the chimneys.”

The house was a four story one, with attic rooms (attics). A trap-door on the roof was nailed down very tightly—did not seem to have been opened for years. The time that passed between hearing the voices arguing and breaking the room door open, was told differently by the witnesses. Some said it was as short as three minutes—some as long as five. The door was opened with difficulty.

“Alfonzo Garcio, funeral worker, says that he lives in the Rue Morgue. Is a native of Spain. Was one of the group who entered the house. Did not go upstairs. Is nervous, and was afraid of what might happen because of excitement. Heard the voices arguing. The rough voice was that of a Frenchman. Could not understand what was said. The high voice was that of an Englishman—is sure of this. Does not understand the English language, but guesses this by the tone of the voice.”

“Alberto Montani, a candy maker, says that he was one of the first to go up the stairs. Heard the voices being talked about. The rough voice was from a Frenchman. Understood several words. The speaker seemed to be arguing. Could not understand the words of the high voice. Spoke quickly and not steadily. Thinks it is the voice of a Russian. Agrees with what the others said. Is an Italian. Never talked with a person from Russia.