I wanted to pick up on something that came up very briefly
in class: the question of how we read The
Moonstone in terms of the development of the detective figure. In his
1-pager, Paul observes that “The novel’s narrative structure puts each of the
characters in the position of feverish detective,” which he noted in class
results in a lot of both amateur and professional detectives and detective
work. While I’m not sure I agree that every character catches detective fever –
Miss Clack, for instance, seems almost an accidental detective, happening upon
information during her feverish pursuit of her charitable and religious work –
I am very intrigued by the division of labor between amateurs and professionals
in the novel.
From Holmes, the model of the professional detective we get
is of a detached investigator, able to discern vast amounts of information
about people and their behavior with no prior knowledge of them or their
actions. He is not emotionally invested in the outcome of his case; rather, he
is driven by a fascination (or obsession) with solving the problem. Looking at
the earlier appearances of detective’s we’ve been discussing, we saw this
detachment at work in Dickens’s detective journalism, but not in Lady Audley’s Secret: Robert Audley is
personally and emotionally invested in his investigation in a multitude of ways
(his relationship with George, his concern for his uncle, his desire not to
disappoint Clara, and his own attraction to Lady Audley), and he is not
satisfied by having solved the problem. These seem to present two opposing
models of the detective: one, professional and detached, the other amateur and
emotionally-invested. What I find interesting about The Moonstone is that both seem to be necessary to the resolution
of this mystery.
Sgt. Cuff is a perfect model of the professional detective:
he is efficient, intelligent in his dealings with others (he gets the servants
on his side when the local Superintendent has alienated them), and he is able
to decode the significance of apparently trivial details that prove to be
crucial to the case. Cuff (apparently based on Inspector Field) is also our
first pre-Holmesian example of a celebrity detective: his investigative prowess
is well enough known that Franklin Blake, who has been living abroad for years,
knows that “when it comes to unraveling a mystery, there isn’t the equal in
England of Sergeant Cuff!” (106, Penguin edition). While he initially fails to
solve the mystery, I think it’s important that we remember that the only reason
he is wrong is because he wrong interprets Rachel’s character – his
interpretation of all of the clues, and of Rosanna Spearman’s behavior, are
accurate – and Rachel is, as we are constantly reminded, an unusual woman. Once
he knows the true cause of her behavior, he is able to solve the mystery almost
immediately. In this case, the amateur detectives can make progress where the
professional does not because they have the necessary prior knowledge – they know
Rachel Verinder. It would seem that the claim this story makes is that the
Great Detective figure alone cannot solve the crime – that the spread of “detective
fever” is necessary to solve the crime as well as to assemble the narrative. I’m
wondering, though, if that conclusion isn’t being a little hard on Sgt. Cuff,
given how much time the various narratives spend telling us how exceptional
Rachel is. It is her unusual character that trips up the professional detective
– perhaps the necessity for amateur assistance is not a rule, but is in itself
an exceptional circumstance.
I keep thinking about the Rachel bit, too. At first, I expected Cuff to be right and it to be evidence that the dispassionate, "science" of detective work wins out against ideas of family and good breeding. But no! It brings a strange new meaning to the "amateur detective" -- one who does it for love -- but in this case the detectives have affection for Rachel (well, some of them). In this sense, Cuff is the consummate professional detective: he doesn't even like detective work. Cuff seems to derive no thrill from the chase, very unlike Dickens' real-life detectives. Holmes is an amateur but his love is only for the work. I have these stirrings of wanting to say something about Holmes having a fetish and Cuff being repressed...but I better not.
ReplyDeleteWhat I find really fascinating, and daring, about the presentation of the professional detective in The Moonstone, is that Sergeant Cuff - the character who knows more about crime than anyone else in the novel - insists, repeatedly, on the triviality, and commonness, of the very story we're reading. Collins's constructs this vast, complicated narrative, only to have his most perceptive character, still early in the novel, "los[e] all interest" in the case - to grow progressively more concerned about gardening. The moment Lady Verinder takes matters into her own hands, in speaking to Rachel on her own, Cuff is already "looking to see what [his] next professional engagement is." As Paul noted, Cuff's blase attitude is even very different from that of Sherlock Holmes, who at least develops a passion for the intellectual aspects of his investigations.
ReplyDeleteHere is another tension that seems to exist in many examples of the detective genre: that between the seeming extraordinariness of the crime to the reader, and persons most affected by it, and the professional attitude that considers the crime only another entry in an appointment book. We don't see this in Holmes - many cases do impress him - but in The Moonstone it's almost a motif, at least whenever Sergeant Cuff is around. What seems bizarre to us is actually quite typical, and happening all around us all the time.
I'm reminded of a remark Borges made about Kafka, that the real innovation of Kafka's work was not that its surrealism, but rather that it treated surreal episodes - a man waking up as a bug, a man being arrested for no reason - as though they were trivial. I wonder if the detective novel, in this tensions between the personal astonishment of the victim and reader, and the cool detachment of the professional detective, prefigured the Modernist trend of deadpan.
Michael, I like your observation about the distinction between the crime's relative "extraordinariness" (in the eyes of the reader and the concerned characters) and its relative triviality (in the eyes of the detective). I wanted to say two things about Sgt. Cuff: 1) He felt real to me in a way that Rachel, Franklin, and Godfrey did not--perhaps this is because Collins draws from Ins. Field, but I also think it's just refreshing to spend time with someone who has a little emotional distance from everything that's happening. And 2) just to return to our discussion about the detective-as-sadist, Sgt. Cuff seems much "safer" and easier to trust than some of the other fictional detectives of the period. (Holmes strikes me as more of a wild card--I'm thinking of his quivering nostrils--and I'm reading Poe right now and Dupin (with his "diseased intelligence") seems rather too excited by the crimes he investigates to be altogether trustworthy. And Robert Audley is reluctant, but that's not the same as detached.) Sgt. Cuff, on the other hand, comes across as a complete professional. He investigates the case as well as he can, but does not carry out the steps that Lady Verinder objects to, and he quits the case at her request.
ReplyDeleteAs we discussed a bit last week, it seems as if Collins is willing to at least raise some subversive issues in The Moonstone (for instance, in terms of the colonial project, British views of Indians, the role of women, religious evangelism) even if the ultimate focus of the story lies elsewhere. But is this also the case in terms of the novel's depiction of the police? Superintendent Seegrave is brought in briefly, to showcase his incompetence and utter lack of tact, but Sgt. Cuff himself is unimpeachable. The man loves roses and just wants to retire and garden--how can we not trust him?! And yet his lack of obsession means that he doesn't actually solve the crime. I'm wondering how this complicates our reading of the detective figure, if it even does.
Michael, I like your observation of the divide between the dispassionate Cuff and the emotional family, and the professional detective and the amateur reader. I would only add that I think this division is what can make the professional detective so unsettling for his clients (and the reader): victims and perpetrators alike are reduced to types, motivations that may feel personal and special are in fact predictable, even cliche. We need the sidekick (or in the case of The Moonstone, a whole crew of sidekicks) to make us feel that the people themselves are important, and that their personalities (which we are invested in, as readers), do, in fact, make each case different. Otherwise, the situations can feel too mechanical, too easily repeated.
ReplyDeleteIn response to Alyssa's point, I must say that I was steadfastly undersold on Rachel's specialness. We were told so many times how amazing and unique she was, but her motivations did not seem all that strange to me. She kept a secret to avoid shaming someone she loved. Things would have been easier for everyone if she had not kept her secret, but I fail to view her actions as extraordinary.
I think our reactions to Cuff as a professional, rather than amateur, detective are interesting in light of his eventual transformation - after he retires, though he is still "as dreary and lean as ever" and "his eyes had not lost their old trick," he is "changed beyond all recognition" by his adoption of country dress and manners (pg 433 in the Oxford World Classics edition). Yet after this disavowal of the trappings of his former profession, he is still able, once acquainted with the new evidence in the case, to quickly (and correctly) identify the real thief. Cuff's own reading of himself as a fallible professional detective seems to hint to a larger problem with the detective as an outsider: "How any man living was to have seen things in their true light, in such a situation as mine was at the time, I don't profess to know" It is only now, due to his respect for Lady Verinder and his own honor, that he can read the evidence correctly. I would argue that his original mistake lies not in misreading Rachel but dismissing the evidence of her character given to him by various reputable sources - evidence he doesn't appear to seek about any other (non-servant) individual.
ReplyDeleteI'm reminded of something that I believe Lindsay brought up in Prof. Schaffer's class, which is what we perceive to be the difference between a profession and a vocation (feel free to correct me if I've got this wrong, Lindsay!). A profession is something that comes from outside - the act of professing an aptitude for something - whereas a vocation comes from within, a voicing of something that is innate. I think we would all agree that Cuff is a professional detective, but not a vocational one, as opposed to a detective like Holmes.
The distinction between vocation and profession outlined by Lindsay (via Janie) might have wider implications for Collins’s treatment of the various characters in The Moonstone. Those characters that have deeply internalized passions tend to be dangerous, irritating, or short-lived. Godfrey Ablewhite’s expensive double life and Rosanna Spearman’s attachment to Franklin Blake result in their early deaths. Miss Clack’s religious fixations make her an object of satire and contempt. And John Herncastle’s obsession with the moonstone sets in motion the cascade of misfortune that drives most of the events in the novel.
ReplyDeleteOn the other hand, those characters whose “obsessions” are safely circumscribed prove highly trustworthy. These characters fixations are more like attachments than obsessions. Betteredge has Crusoe, Bruff has his dry legal documents, and Cuff has his roses. These externalized attachments make these three men safer and more likeable than those characters with more consuming passions.
While this divide between obsession and attachment, vocation and profession seems fairly consistent in the novel, I still wonder about its wider implications. Is it a statement about English detachment? Somehow that answer seems too simple. While the novel begins with a crime wrought by a man obsessed, the story of the jewel is resolved only through the unwavering devotion of the Indian jugglers. It also seems to me that Ezra Jennings and the influence of opium further complicate this division. Perhaps there is some national distinction to be made here between British and Indian influences, but these obsessions and attachments do have a strong element of fetishism about them. Although I’m still not quite in agreement about Holmes as sadist, perhaps Paul’s observations about fetishism and masochism could help us see our way clear here?
A couple of thoughts. First, I was thinking about Paul's point (which - forgive me, I may butcher here) about the overlap between detective fiction and opium use in that both are re-iterated experiences. Both follow a certain ritual and arc and end with the consumer being somewhat satisfied but also desiring more.
ReplyDeleteLast week I brought up the point that many of the narrator's have their "detective writing" informed by their reading in other genres (Gabriel by Robinson Crusoe, Miss Clack by tracts, etc.) I keep thinking about Robinson Crusoe, which I find to be a really unsatisfying subtext for Gabriel. The only connections I can make between RC and the Moonstone are that a) Gabriel is increasingly isolated in the big house that is mostly deserted after the theft and b) the abiding shadow of colonialism in both texts (this latter is true for SO many novels of the period though). Then another possibility presented itself to me. Last Friday I was preoccupied with ways that these different texts - novel, tract, etc - would produce a different approach to crime-solving, a different way of laying out the detective narrative. Today I am thinking about what the subtexts - or side obsessions - or however we want to imagine them - have in common. My Norton Critical edition of RC notes that by the end of the 19th century there were over 700 alternate versions of Defoe's story. Similarly, we learn that Miss Clack's tracts have been through a surprising and impressive number of editions. So each of these things undergoes constant iteration. Like Cuff's roses, they are variations on a known theme that produces a product that is both like and unlike previous versions.
Unrelated to any of this: You know who is a really good detective? Penelope Betteredge. I wish she had gotten a narrative. She is an interesting middle ground between the professional distance of Cuff and the over engagement of Franklin.
Finally, I'm attaching a link to a story I heard yesterday on the radio. I got around to reading the introduction to the Oxford edition of the Moonstone this week, and was interested in all the points it made about the novel's engagement with British policy in India. The way the novel is set to overlap with the journey of the Koh-i-Noor to England, for example (and while I knew this gem was famously exhibited at the Crystal Palace, I didn't realize it was later cut up - in the way that Herncastle threatens to do - for the Queen's crown.) And Godfrey dies in the offices of the East India Company. And, and and. I highly suggest reading it, it has a lot of interesting historical detail. And a good discussion about the differences - alluded to by Prof. Reitz last week - between Dickens and Collins when it came to colonial policy in India. The introduction - by John Sutherland - asks, "who - if one goes beyond the surface of events - is the thief? And when was the theft? And what does 'theft' mean? Is an object obtained by colonial expropriation, or as spoils of war, 'Stolen'? If one inherits a stolen object, is one party to the original crime?" All this was rolling around in my mind when heard the story below, which moved me because it seems like such a clear instance of theft, and yet it remains to be seen if the courts will agree. The article is not a good one (sorry) but the language is very telling. All the stuff about "tribal ritual" and many descriptions are so othering sound distressingly close to Collins. We are always closer to the Victorians than it seems. Anyway.
http://www.reuters.com/article/2013/04/09/us-usa-arizona-artifacts-idUSBRE93812R20130409
Great discussion. It has been fun to follow. I am probably chiming in here too late, with most of you rightly focused on the one-pagers from Helen and Janie. But I think the conversation about professions & vocations is very suggestive of the bind of the pro-police reformers. From the Thug Police on, there is care taken to show detective work as professional (patient, principled, some kinds of checks and balances, even if it is just fellow bobbies or your own book-keeping (Audley)): this is a job that embodies system in all its (English) virtues. But they also had to be human, people who understand human situations (family boundaries, servant pride) and it was then personal characteristics (one that speak to vocation) that became their professional selling point. The question about detective fever and where it all fits in remains.
ReplyDeleteOne quick thought on the Rachel-as-special thread & the reason for Crusoe: Rachel, Betteredge and Crusoe are all, in some way, self-authorizing selves, an important idea in a (slowly, unevenly) democratizing society.