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- Column - The History of Mystery - |
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May 1 / 2000 Just Where Did Mystery Begin? By Mystery Editor Nancy Mehl Who put the ? in Mystery? Was the earliest "whodunit" created by the question "who killed Abel?" Perhaps. Believe it or not, most would agree that the first purveyor of the elements of mystery was actually Marcus Tullius Cicero - born at Arpinium in 106 BC. Circero served as a civil magistrate. Two particular cases consisted of fundamentals found frequently in the mystery genre today. The first case of importance was the defense of Roscius Amerintis who had been accused of parricide. Cicero was able to present "clues" proving that someone else had murdered the father of the accused in an attempt to frame the young man and abscond with the family fortune. The second involved the governor of Sicily, Gaius Berres. He had been accused of murder and theft. Cicero’s talents as an orator and investigator caused the governor to flee into exile. How did the life of this "early father of mystery" end? Not well. His talents of deduction should have helped him to see that backing Octavianus instead of Anthony – who eventually became Caesar – was probably not a good career move. Cicero was assassinated in 43 BC. His head and hands were cut off and carried to Rome to be displayed at the Rostra. So much for using your head! Now – moving forward into the more recent past: The man who is called the "father of the modern mystery" – Edgar Allan Poe – was born on January 19, 1809. Poe’s parents, David Poe, Jr. and Elizabeth Arnold Hopkins, were touring actors. Both died before he was three years old. His brother William died at a young age, and his sister Rosalie suffered from insanity. He went to live with a prosperous merchant named John Allan – and was baptized Edgar Allan Poe. In 1826 he entered the University of Virginia but left after only a year. Shortly after that, he enlisted in the army where he published - at his own expense - Tamberlane and Other Poems. This should be an encouragement to those of us who have considered self- publishing. After his release from the army, he entered West Point. This only lasted six months. However, his fellow cadets contributed funds for the publication of Poems by Edgar A. Poe…Second Edition. This book contained poems that were to herald the poetic style and substance of his later work. Eventually, Poe moved in with his widowed aunt, Maria Clemm. Maria’s daughter, Virginia, would later become his wife. In 1832, the Philadelphia Saturday Courier published five of Poe’s stories and in 1833, MS. Found in a Bottle won a $50 prize from the Baltimore Saturday Visitor. Two years later, Poe became the editor of the Southern Literary Messenger. During his time at the Messenger, Poe wrote between eighty to ninety reviews, six poems, four essays and three stories. He also contributed many editorials and commentaries. In 1839, while working for Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine, Poe wrote one of his darkest and most popular tales – The Fall of the House of Usher - the precursor of today’s psychological thrillers. Then in 1841, Poe went to work for Graham’s Magazine. During this time, he wrote The Murders in the Rue Morgue. This story introduced the character C. Auguste Dupin who became the first fictional detective. Poe referred to this style of writing as a "tale of rationation." In reading the following passage from Murders in the Rue Morgue, the investigative style of one of the world’s most famous detectives – Sherlock Holmes – is clearly evident. This same style is still popular in today’s modern mystery novels. Excerpt from Murders in the Rue Morgue: 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 Theatre des Varietes." "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 role of Xerxes, in Crebillon's tragedy so called, and been notoriously Pasquinaded for his pains. "Tell me, for Heaven's sake," I exclaimed, "the method - if method there is - -by which you have been enabled to fathom my soul in this matter." In fact I was even more startled than I would have been willing to express. "It was the fruiterer," replied my friend, "who brought you to the conclusion that the mender of soles was not of sufficient height for Xerxes et id genus omne." "The fruiterer! --you astonish me --I know no fruiterer whomsoever." "The man who ran up against you as we entered the street --it may have been fifteen minutes ago." I now remembered that, in fact, a fruiterer, carrying upon his head a large basket of apples, had nearly thrown me down, by accident, as we passed from the Rue C- - into the thoroughfare where we stood; but what this had to do with Chantilly I could not possibly understand. There was not a particle of charlatanerie about Dupin. "I will explain," he said, "and that you may comprehend all clearly, we will explain," he said, "and that you may comprehend all clearly, we will first retrace the course of your meditations, from the moment in which I spoke to you until that of the rencontre with the fruiterer in question. The larger links of the chain run thus - Chantilly, Orion, Dr. Nichols, Epicurus, Stereotomy, the street stones, the fruiterer." There are few persons who have not, at some period of their lives, amused themselves in retracing the steps by which particular conclusions of their own minds have been attained. The occupation is often full of interest; and he who attempts it for the first time is astonished by the apparently illimitable distance and incoherence between the starting-point and the goal. What, then, must have been my amazement when I heard the Frenchman speak what he had just spoken, and when I could not help acknowledging that he had spoken the truth. He continued: "We had been talking of horses, if I remember aright, just before leaving the Rue C --. This was the last subject we discussed. As we crossed into this street, a fruiterer, with a large basket upon his head, brushing quickly past us, thrust you upon a pile of paving-stones collected at a spot where the causeway is undergoing repair. You stepped upon one of the loose fragments) slipped, slightly strained your ankle, appeared vexed or sulky, muttered a few words, turned to look at the pile, and then proceeded in silence. I was not particularly attentive to what you did; but observation has become with me, of late, a species of necessity. "You kept your eyes upon the ground - glancing, with a petulant expression, at the holes and ruts in the pavement, (so that I saw you were still thinking of the stones,) until we reached the little alley called Lamartine, which has been paved, by way of experiment, with the overlapping and riveted blocks. Here your countenance brightened up, and, perceiving your lips move, I could not doubt that you murmured the word 'stereotomy,' a term very affectedly applied to this species of pavement. I knew that you could not say to yourself 'stereotomy' without being brought to think of atomies, and thus of the theories of Epicurus; and since, when we discussed this subject not very long ago, I mentioned to you how singularly, yet with how little notice, the vague guesses of that noble Greek had met with confirmation in the late nebular cosmogony, I felt that you could not avoid casting your eyes upward to the great nebula in Orion, and I certainly expected that you would do so. You did look up; and I was now assured that I had correctly followed your steps. But in that bitter tirade upon Chantilly, which appeared in yesterday's 'Musee,' the satirist, making some disgraceful allusions to the cobbler's change of name upon assuming the buskin, quoted a Latin line about which we have often conversed. I mean the line Perdidit antiquum litera prima sonum. I had told you that this was in reference to Orion, formerly written Urion; and, from certain pungencies connected with this explanation, I was aware that you could not have forgotten it. It was clear, therefore, that you would not fall to combine the ideas of Orion and Chantilly. That you did combine them I say by the character of the smile which passed over your lips. You thought of the poor cobbler's immolation. So far, you had been stooping in your gait; but now I saw you draw yourself up to your full height. I was then sure that you reflected upon the diminutive figure of Chantilly. At this point I interrupted your meditations to remark that as, in fact, he was a very little fellow - that Chantilly - he would do better at the Theatre des Varietes." - From Murders in the Rue Morgue. Having begun the modern mystery genre – Poe’s life ended with the same tragedy and dark ambiguity that flavored his writing. After the death of his beloved Virginia in 1847, Poe’s life spiraled downward. He attempted suicide in 1848. In 1949, in memory of his wife, he wrote the beautiful, haunting poem – Annabel Lee. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-time, I lie down by the side Of my darling – my darling – my life and my bride, In the sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea. - Excerpt from the poem Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe, 1849. His collapse and subsequent death in 1949, at 40 years of age, was rumored to have been caused by the effects of alcohol. However, some suspect that he actually died of rabies since the symptoms of his demise did not mirror the effects of alcoholism. Next month we’ll move forward a little more as we track The History of Mystery. Mystery Trivia - How many times throughout the many stories of Sherlock Holmes did this brilliant detective say to his bumbling sidekick: "Elementary, my dear Watson!" Watch for the answer to this Mystery Question in next month’s column. --- Sources - The Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy, 1998 MysteryNet.com The New Grolier Electronic Encyclopedia |
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