"The Yellow Wallpaper" is one of the few things I read during my vacation that wasn't a graphic novel or manga. I downloaded it via Project Gutenberg. I think I saw a review of it on Booklikes, but I couldn't remember a thing about it. I wasn't even sure what genre it was and, since I didn't bother to look it up before getting started, I thought it might be a mystery. It's actually more psychological fiction (psychological horror?).

An unnamed woman stays at a fancy house with her physician husband and their baby. She's supposedly there for her health. Her husband says there's nothing physically wrong with her - she's suffering from hysteria/a nervous condition and must receive as little mental stimulation as possible. The woman feels she'd be better off elsewhere, but her husband insists that she stay in the horrid former nursery with torn yellow wallpaper and barred windows. The story takes the form of secret journal entries written by this woman,

I wasn't expecting this to be so unsettling. When I first started reading, I wondered whether the woman's husband had malicious intentions. The room was objectively awful, and the woman's request to spend a bit of time elsewhere didn't seem like a big deal. I think the husband probably did have good intentions, though. He just had terrible ideas about what might help his wife. I wonder if it finally dawned on him, too late, that he'd gone about everything all wrong?

I wondered whether the room was really an old nursery, or if it had once held someone else very much like the narrator. It was such a sinister place.

All in all, this was an excellent and quick read, and this is coming from someone who generally prefers novels over short stories.

(Original review posted on A Library Girl's Familiar Diversions.)

I've only ever read a handful of the original Sherlock Holmes stories and novels, and I keep meaning to fix that. Although it's been a while since I last read A Study in Scarlet, I remembered enough to know that I wasn't a huge fan of it, so I decided to skip to the next one, The Sign of the Four. I downloaded it for free from Project Gutenberg.

This one starts with Holmes injecting cocaine into himself while Watson, appalled and disapproving, watches. Holmes is bored, bored, bored, and unless something interesting comes along, he plans to float on a layer of drugs, Watson's worries about the possibility of lasting damage be damned. Thankfully, Miss Mary Morstan arrives with a reasonably interesting case.

Miss Morstan's father has been missing for nearly ten years. Six years ago, she began receiving mysterious packages every year, each one containing a large pearl. Only that morning, she received a letter saying that she was a “wronged woman” and that she would have justice if she went to a particular meeting place. She could bring two friends, but was asked not to notify the police. Holmes and Watson decide to assist her, Holmes because he's intrigued and Watson because Miss Morstan is pretty. Luckily for Holmes, the case quickly becomes more complex.

It may be a result of having seen a lot of Sherlock Holmes film and TV adaptations, but I feel like I have a better appreciation for Holmes and Watson's interactions now than I did several years ago. I especially liked their conversation at the beginning of the book, despite Holmes engaging in self-destructive behavior as they were having it. Watson didn't notice, but I do believe I caught Holmes fishing for compliments. The bit with Watson's brother's watch was nice, too. Holmes was overly blunt, but kinder than some adaptations have painted him.

The mystery itself was...meh. I was fairly interested, up until the part where the guy who was responsible for everything launched into his long explanation of how he originally came by the treasure and was then wronged. A Study in Scarlet did something similar, and I disliked it in that novel, too.

I also had issues with the whole “cannibalistic savages who inexplicably use poison darts” aspect. It irked me that supposedly the only reason one character died was because of the “savage instincts” of that accomplice. There were additional problems even just on the level of believability. I mean, wouldn't it be a bad idea for cannibals who eat at least some of their meat raw to hunt with poisoned darts?

Like A Study in Scarlet, this was a bit disappointing overall, but Holmes and Watson were still enjoyable to read about.

(Original review posted on A Library Girl's Familiar Diversions.)

[I was doing some maintenance and decided to add some of my older reviews. I had to guess at a rating for this, since I read this during a period when I wasn't even privately rating books.]

One of the reasons why I didn't like The Prisoner of Zenda was because I didn't believe that Rassendyll had much reason to go to the lengths he did to save the King and Ruritania. In terms of motivation, I thought Rupert of Hentzau was a much better book. I could believe that Rassendyll would do all that he did to prevent Flavia's jealous husband from reading the love letter she wrote.

I don't know how this book was received at the time it was written. It wouldn't surprise me if it wasn't as popular as the first book, simply because it didn't start off with The Prisoner of Zenda's outrageous setup (an Englishman who looks just like the King of Ruritania is enlisted to pretend to be the King) and because of its tragic ending.

This book isn't completely without outrageousness. Rassendyll still gets to impersonate the King, and this time he needs to do his best to ensure that the King doesn't find out. At one point, Sapt and James, Rassendyll's servant, have to figure out what to do about a horrible mess Rupert leaves behind – their final decision was both fascinating to read and a little horrifying. Although I didn't always like what the characters did in order to help Flavia and Rassendyll, I do think the events in this book were more interesting to read about than the events in The Prisoner of Zenda.

I found the tragic ending to be something of a cop out. Flavia was more a real person in this book than she was in the previous one (in fact, I think Hope did an overall better job of depicting women in this book – or maybe Fritz von Tarlenheim just has a better opinion of women than Rassendyll?), but I still didn't like Rassendyll all that much. Because of that, I didn't really mind that things didn't turn out well for them (although I felt a little bad for Flavia). What I did mind was the feeling that Hope took the easy way out, by never revealing what Rassendyll's final decision was. The tragic ending felt like Hope's way of avoiding having to make a tough choice. As a reader, I found that very annoying.

It took me a bit of time to get used to this book's change in perspective – the first book was from Rassendyll's perspective, while this one was from Fritz von Tarlenheim's perspective. I suppose that should have told me something about how this book was going to end, especially since I think Hope would have had an easier time writing it from Rassendyll's perspective. There were several parts where Hope had to do a bit of stretching, to explain how Fritz could possibly have known the details about what happened, even though he wasn't there.

The perspective change may have been part of the reason why I liked some characters more this time around. Like I said, Flavia came across as more of a person...although I wasn't a fan of her repeated hysterical visions of Rassendyll's death. Had this book been my only exposure to Rassendyll, I might have liked him better, too, since, in Fritz's eyes, Rassendyll was practically perfect and certainly kingly. It wasn't that long ago I read The Prisoner of Zenda, though, and I could still remember my impression of Rassendyll as driftless and overly happy to charge headlong into fights. In this book, Fritz mentions that “Sapt would tell [the King] bluntly that Rudolf did this or that, set this precedent or that, laid down this or the other policy, and that the king could do no better than follow in Rudolf's steps,” but Sapt's memories of Rassendyll don't really gel with mine. I can't remember Rassendyll doing anything other than battling people and falling in love with Flavia.

I was a little annoyed that so many characters judged the King so harshly in comparison to Rassendyll, and I really didn't like the way things turned out for the King. Although I hadn't liked the King much either in the previous book, I felt sorry for him in this one. He was emotionally scarred by the events of the previous book, and Sapt, Fritz, and others recognized that, but that still didn't stop them from finding him to be less than kingly compared to Rassendyll. Is it any wonder that the King was overcome by paranoia at the mere thought of Rassendyll? The Queen sent love letters to Rassendyll behind her husband's back, and the King's supposed right-hand men aided her in this deception. Then the King's very identity was erased and replaced by the end of the book. I may not have liked him much, but I didn't think he deserved all that, and I could understand why he acted the way he did throughout the book.

Although there were some aspects of the book I didn't like, I do think this book was more enjoyable than the previous one, and I would be more likely to recommend it than The Prisoner of Zenda. I still don't consider Anthony Hope one of my better Project Gutenberg finds, though.

(Original review, with read-alikes and watch-alikes, posted on A Library Girl's Familiar Diversions.)

[I was doing some maintenance and decided to add some of my older reviews. I had to guess at a rating for this, since I read this during a period when I wasn't even privately rating books.]

At first, I enjoyed this book. I could barely follow all the long paragraphs about the connection between Rudolph and the Ruritanian royal family, and Rudolph himself was a bit too driftless for my taste, but I got excited when more hints of the “impostor” storyline I knew was coming began to turn up. When Rudolph and the King finally met, I settled down for an adventure I was sure was going to be fun.

The problem was, it wasn't as fun as I expected. Rudolph seemed to love rushing into battles, the dashing hero doing his part to avenge fallen comrades and save Ruritania and the King from Black Michael. Unfortunately, all I could think was, “Why is he risking his life? And is the risk even worth it?”

Rudolph is not a Ruritanian. He had barely even met the King before he was suddenly enlisted to become the impostor King. I suppose I could see why he might have initially agreed. At first, all he was really agreeing to was being the King at the coronation – it was a short-term thing, and probably not too difficult. After the King was kidnapped, though, continuing to be the impostor King meant he was risking his life for a country that wasn't really his and for a man he hardly even knew. I'm guessing this was supposed to be admirable, dashing, and heroic. I just thought it was a bit stupid, in large part because I couldn't see why anyone, much less a near stranger, would want to risk their life for this particular king.

If I remember right, several Ruritanians sang Duke Michael's praises and commented that, although they felt like they knew him, they had barely even seen the King. In temperament, the King seemed similar to Rudolph: lacking in ambition and a sense of responsibility, but completely willing to take advantage of the perks his position gives him. In the small portion of the book in which the King is free, healthy, and conscious, he is having fun and drinking. He doesn't seem to realize (or, if he does, care) that his people don't necessarily like him. Yes, I know that people don't have to like their monarchs, but if a monarch with a rival wishes to stay alive and in power for long, it would probably help to have popular opinion on his side.

Several of the King's men made comments along the lines of, “Rudolph, you would have made a better king” - so, even the King's own men would have preferred someone else. The only thing that saved him was that they, at least, did not feel that Michael was the better option. I couldn't really see how Rudolph made any better of a king than the real King, though – the only vaguely kingly skills he exhibited were his ability to make Princess Flavia fall in love with him and his ability to dash fearlessly into thrilling battles without being killed.

Overall, the characters were weak. Like I said, I didn't particularly like Rudolph or the King – I have a feeling that Hope intended for readers to root for them and be on their side, but I didn't think that either of them would make good kings, unless we're talking figureheads. Although Black Michael seemed to have popular support, I didn't find him to be a more sympathetic character, what with drugging and imprisoning his half-brother and coldly dumping his mistress for Princess Flavia. Princess Flavia might as well have been a piece of cardboard for all the personality she exhibited. The only character that intrigued me even a little was Madame de Mauban. Unfortunately, the book was written from Rudolph's perspective, and he had, at best, a somewhat condescending view of women, which meant that he explained away Madame de Mauban's behavior as an example of feminine irrationality.

It's a good thing I kind of disliked Rudolph and found Princess Flavia to be completely uninteresting, or I might have been angrier about how things ended.

Overall, I wasn't a huge fan of this book. I enjoyed some of the action-filled parts as I was reading them, but the more I think about the book now that I've finished it, the less I like it. I have downloaded the sequel, Rupert of Hentzau, but I don't know when I'll get around to reading it. I can only hope that Hope has Rupert really work the whole mustache-twirling dashing villain thing, because then I might have more fun. Part of me hopes that Madame de Mauban will show up in the sequel (supposedly, Rupert loves her), but I have a feeling she'd be better in my mind than Hope could ever have written her.

(Original review, with read-alikes and watch-alikes, posted on A Library Girl's Familiar Diversions.)

I downloaded this ages ago, during a long Project Gutenberg browsing session. I didn't really know much about it or its author, Arthur Cheney Train, but it was free, and I was curious about the sorts of crimes that were considered noteworthy back in 1908.

According to Wikipedia, Train became an assistant in the office of the New York District Attorney in 1901. In 1908, when this book was first published, he left to open a general law practice. By that time, he had already been writing fiction for several years. His most popular character was a lawyer named Ephraim Tutt.

This book was a collection of 11 cases, covering such things as check forgery, a missing Stradivarius, murder, and various abuses of trust on the part of lawyers and people who deal with others' money (stockbrokers, bankers). At some point, I'd liked to give Train's fiction a try, because his explanations of the legal aspects of the various cases were usually pretty clear. At times, I felt a little like I was watching Law & Order: Early 20th Century, complete with Train occasionally saying something to the effect of “the law was carried out, but was justice really done?”

One of my problems with this book was that some of the cases were very hard to follow. Train tried to lay out a lot of information in a small number of pages, and I was sometimes confused about who did what and why. It probably didn't help that I'm a modern-day reader. I'm fairly certain at least a couple of the cases Train discussed were very high profile at the time, and I think he assumed that his readers would know at least the basics of what went on. Also, sometimes I just didn't know the technology – the chapter on wire-tapping (involving telegraphs) was one such example.

As is the case with most anthologies, some of the stories were more interesting than others. I most enjoyed “A Study in Finance” and “The 'Duc de Nevers.'”

“A Study in Finance” looked at the slow downfall of a clerk who succumbed to the temptation of stealing bonds. He gave them to a man who swore the price of cotton was going to jump any day now – he'd quickly earn them both a lot of money and then give the bonds back. Except it didn't work that way. By the end, the clerk had stolen over half a million in bonds. While the downfall of the clerk was interesting enough, Train's perspective on the case made this chapter a good read, too. Although Train didn't believe that what the clerk did was right, he definitely had sympathy for the man. The clerk was underpaid, regularly had access to millions in bonds, and banks didn't have adequate checks in place to keep theft from happening – not until after this massive theft was discovered, at any rate.

“The 'Duc de Nevers'” rambled quite a bit, so much so that I found myself skimming portions of it. In this chapter, Train met a prisoner who swore he was Charles Julius Francis de Nevers, the Duc de Nevers. De Nevers told his entire story, and even presented documentation (lots and lots of documentation) proving his identity. Train, caught up in his story, believed him. The overwhelming amount of proof De Nevers had of his identity had the opposite effect on me – I thought he was overdoing it a tad. At any rate, the story became very twisty. This chapter didn't present any answers as to who De Nevers really was - he seemed so utterly convinced of his own false identity that I couldn't help but wonder if the man was mentally ill.

Those were, for me, some of the best chapters, but I also enjoyed reading about the woman who forged checks (“The Woman in the Case”) - her trial sounded like an absolute circus. The final chapter, “A Case of Circumstantial Evidence,” also made for a good, if sad, read.

(Original review posted on A Library Girl's Familiar Diversions.)