BOOKS AND WRITERS
THE Folio Society has published what in Hollywood circles would rank as a super-colossal edition of The Moonstone in glorious Technicolor'. 1 am doubtful of the value of new illustrations, plain or coloured, to an old and well-loved book. Any competently written novel has already given the reader his own personal picture of the scenes and characters, which is unlikely now to be that of the artist. Even a newcomer to The Moonstone. who might expect to find in the pictures something for his imagina- tion to work on, will not be helped on this occasion. Illustrations, one feels in one's old-fashioned way, should make their effect at reading distance from the eye. These lithographs by Edwin La Dell only begin to take shape from six feet away ; the eyes half- closed, and a finger held, for revision or reassurance, in the official but slightly speculative List of Illustrations. Of the rest of the book all that one needs to say is that the type is as pleasantly and easily readable as the text.
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Mr. Howard Haycraft, in his great historical work Murder for Pkasure. attributed to Mr. T. S. Eliot the opinion that The Moon- stone was "the first, the longest and the best of detective novels." A pronouncement so uncompromising seemed hardly in character. The authorised (or, possibly, revised) version, given here in an introductory note, calls it the first, longest and best of "modern English" detective novels. Reckoning modernity as starting on publication day in 1868 (and it must start somewhere), one would be reasonably safe in saying that The Moonstone was the first of them ; whether it is in fact the longest is a matter of no great interest. But to call it the best, or, as Miss Dorothy Sayers, Emeritus Professor of the art, puts it, " probably the very finest detective story ever written," is to make a claim for it which is more disputable. I can never quite believe in these solitary heights of pre-eminence. There is no best-dressed woman in Europe, not even the annual American elected by American votes ; there is no worst-dressed politician in the House of Commons, as pilloried annually by The Tailor and Cutter, not even—well, look at the others. It may be tough at the top, but it is reasonably roomy.
The modern English detective novel—and by modern I mean semethifg a little later than 1868—falls inevitably into one of two classes. Chesterton once said, and I think truly, that the right and natural medium for a tale of crime and detection was the short story. His feeling seems to have been that, if a detective wanted 80,000 words in which to solve a prolllegi, be wasn't a very good detective, and that in any case he couldn't be detecting all the time. A detective novel, then, tends to become either a Short Story Expanded or a Short Story Delayed The Moonstone is an out- standing example of the first sort. As a detective story it could be told completely in 10,000 words. As a romance, with a mysterious jewel and a mysterious theft in it, and if nobody is in any hurry, it can be told in as many words as you like. Wilkie Collins limited himself for some reason to 200,000. I won't say that he couldn't have spared one of them, but the total is extremely readable, being as difficult to put down as it is heavy to pick up. Miss Sayers speaks of the marvellous variety and soundness of the characterisa- tion; and though, in the fashion of the day, the characters border on caricatures, there is certainly the variety which such a long acquaintance needs There are those, including Mr. Eliot, who think particularly highly of Sergeant Cuff "of the Detective Police." I am not of his admirers. He failed to detect anything, though the identity of the ostensible thief was written as clearly in every action of the heroine as in the behaviour of the supposed accomplice. He merely added a second mystery to the first: the mystery of himself. Who and what was Cuff ? Of nation-wide fame as a detective, yet still only a sergeant ; only a sergeant, yet op terms of professional
• The Moonstone. By Wilkie Collins. Illustrated by Edwin La Dell. ICassell: Folio Society. 19s. 6d.) equality with the local Superintendent ; sent down to the scene of the crime by the Chief Commissioner, yet accepting a cheque from the lady of the house for his services ; he is the real, unsolved problem of the book. '‘ * *
There are two versions of the Short Story Delayed. In the simpler version we are with the corpse all the time. ("One of the barbituric group," says the doctor, sniffing at it.) Among the guests at the house-party, by some happy accident, is the Gifted Amateur ; hardly an amateur, however, because he is either the nephew of the Assistant Commissioner, or else helped the Inspector in the Wyke-Snodsby case last September—see reference at bottom of page, in case you care to make a note of it for your library list. He is allowed, therefore, to take part in the interrogation of the other guests, his part being confined to a single unrelated question asked of each one ; as it might be, "Did you notice if there was a light in the lavatory ? " or "Have you ever heard Sir John mention Ashton-under-Lyme ? " One begins to feel a little sorry for the Inspector, so obviously out of his class, who is still plodding along with such old-time stuff as "When did you last see the deceased ? " and "Was he in his usual spirits ? " Chapter by chapter the guests tell their story ; the inquest has been held ; and our hero is now in a position to mention casually that he knew who the murderer was five chapters ago. Unfortunately (or fortunately) "one little piece of the jig-saw is still missing," and the Inspector is not surprised to hear—or shouldn't be, if he remembers the Wyke-Snodsby Case as well as we do—that his colleague "prefers to keep his own counsel until his case is complete " ; thus delaying induction and deduction for another eight chapters while every- body's alibi is traced. Then at last comes The Great Elucidation. This is the sleuth's, and,,pur, big moment, and he is not going to leave anything out. "You remember," he begins rather unneces- sarily, "how the body of Sir John was found lying in the library on the morning of May 14th," and so goes on: the delayed short story for which the reader has been waiting. . . . In the other version in this kind, the delay is more deliberate. The author starts off with a straightforward novel in which everybody hates every- body else, postponing the corpse to page 120. In this way he creates a double suspense. For the first half of the book one wonders who will be the victim, and, for the second, who the villain.
Miss Sayers has said that by comparison with the witly scope of The Moonstone and its dovetailed completeness, such modern mystery fiction looks thin and mechanical. True. But by com- parison with the wide scope of War and Peace or The Origin oj Species, a modern crossword looks thin and mechanical, and no clue dovetails into the next. Yet the crossword addict makes no complaint of this. With equal reason the detective-story addict is happy to have the bare bones of the mystery laid before him, so that he can try to articulate them. If he fails to do so before the last chapter, then he can listen, mouth open, to the detectives' clearer articulation, kicking himself gently the while ; as the cross- word solver kicks himself next morning-for missing an obvious clue. A character in one of Anthony Hope's books was of opinion that though port tasted better without the conflicting aroma of tobacco, and though a cigar tasted better without the conflicting savour of port, yet port and a cigar together made a better effect on the palate than either separately. If you are of opinion that romance and detection together make a more pleasing effect on the mind than either separately, even though each a little spoils the other, then The Moonstone will give you all you want. But for myself I prefer my detection fuller-bodied and neater. And perhaps I should add that in saying this I am not referring to the Whisky Straight school of America; in which the interest is transferred to the number of drinks, blondes and beatings-up the "private eye" can absorb in a day's induction. A. A. MILNE.
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