Part 10

“And so to the short story. I am not afraid of this new technique of the proper beginning, the correct ending, the clever dénouement, the geometrically plotted curve of action--because I do not believe that anybody who passionately has anything to say is going to cramp himself by learning its pat rules. But I do believe that--before they go and smash the technique, anyway!--young writers may be saved much spiritual struggle if they be taught that there is nothing sacred, nothing they unquestionably must follow, in any exactly formulated technique.

“They will, of course, if they succeed, make a technique of their own. That is a short cut to salvation for them. It is only when a technique is that of other writers, when it is so crystallized that it can be definitely exhibited, that it becomes dangerous. I know that Joseph Hergesheimer in such absorbingly beautiful short stories as ‘Wild Oranges,’ ‘Tol’able David,’ or ‘Asphodel’ has a technique, a very definite idea of what he is doing; or what he is going to do before he starts, and of why he has done things after he has done them. But he has not obediently imitated the technique of other writers. None knows better than Mr. Hergesheimer the great art of such men as Conrad, Galsworthy, George Moore; but none has less imitated them, less accepted their technique as his guidance.

“Curse Stevenson for that ‘playing the sedulous ape,’ which has led so many thousands astray. It was Stevenson’s weakness, not his strength, that aping; and because of it his light is flickering, while that of his contemporaries, Rossetti, Hardy, Swinburne, Flaubert, who were not sedulous apes but men passionate about beauty or the curious ways of daily man, burns evenly and forever. Stevenson had an unequalled opportunity; he was a pioneer, with a pioneer’s chance to stake out the first claim; yet once Kipling galloped into sight, roaring at deft Stevensonian technique, irreverent and violent as one of his own Rajputs, doing really dreadful things to the balanced decencies of proportion and melody, he routed Stevenson in a handful of years ... and today we have read Stevenson, but we do read Kipling.

“Of course, of course, of course. ‘Freedom is no excuse for violence.’ ‘The young man must train his mind.’ ‘From a study of the elders youth learns to avoid their mistakes’ (but he doesn’t!). ‘Only the strong are able to govern themselves, to make their own codes of ethics or of beauty.’ All those sage warnings--used equally against Martin Luther and the Bolsheviks, against the bad boy in school and Rodin. Basically, the disagreement between classicists and modernists is temperamental, and will, under various guises, endure forever. Only, let it be clearly recognized for what it is; let the classicist not mistake himself for a modernist; let the innovator not suppose because O. Henry is still so living a force that his followers have not already hardened his technique into a form classic and very dead.”

THE WEAVER WHO CLAD THE SUMMER

_Comment._--The death of Harris Merton Lyon gives added poignancy to the story whose idealism and inspiration made for it a place in the first of Mr. O’Brien’s collections. Judged by the test of Beauty, it is perhaps first on the list. The satisfaction vouchsafed each reader will be in proportion to his own Spirit of Work and his acceptance of the theme.

THEME. Since the Idea is foremost, it is quite fitting that it should be sounded early. The first approach is on page one (153, Yearbook) and in the form of a wonder as to what there could possibly be “in being a worker at the other, the evanescent thing.” The answer, or the satisfaction of the wonder, is given in the essential story, stripped of its covering, pages 158-170. The theme is emphasized, strongly, in the sentence on page 170: “_You did the Work of your Hand!_”

THE INNER STORY, which allegorically satisfies the questioner, is the beautifully tenuous tale of the Mariner. It is woven of words in a style perfectly to suggest the spirit of summer and the evanescence of her garments, yet underneath the light superstructure are the foundations of the short-story. The _struggle_ of the weaver, Andy Gordon, was successfully repeated for forty years. He died, knowing that he had been “a master-worker in a fabric that immediately dissolved,” yet content. His death is the _dénouement_ of the tale, just as the dialogue between the Voice and Andy (pages 159-161) forms the _initial incident_. What is the _dramatic climax_?

PRESENTATION. Andy Gordon’s story is told in an Italian restaurant, Pigalle’s, over a poker table. The narrator is at first denominated the Ancient Mariner; eventually he proves to be the Andy Gordon of his tale. (See pages 158 and 171.) What new evaluation of the weaver’s story do you make after learning that Andy was a violinist? Had you guessed any part of the whole situation before reading to the dénouement of the enveloping story? The narrator of the external action is, presumably, the author himself, who uses the first person “I.”

Contrast, between the restaurant scene and character on the one hand and the summer scenes with Andy on the other, is the chief aid used to enhance the narrative. Point out particular examples of its operation.

DETAILS. Division I emphasizes the character of the Mariner, at the same time it repeats the theme. (See above), in the words, “Sufficient unto eternity is the glory of the hour.” Why does the author give an entire division (III) to the lines: “Abruptly the old man left and went out into the snowy night. For there were tears in his eyes.”

What value has the reference to Bernhardt, page 153?

Why is it well to set the rehearsal on a _snowy_ evening? (Study the story for the answer.) Where is Pigalle’s restaurant?

What effect has the tinkling of the door-bell, at eleven o’clock?

What principle of emphasis is at work on the description of the maid who bore the “sweet ineffable name of Philomene”? On the Mariner (as described, page 155)?

What do you gather from the absinthe and the _cigarettes jaunes_?

What addition is made to the comprehension of the Mariner in the suggested resemblance to Socrates and to Verlaine?

What colors and materials are used in Summer’s dresses? Would others have served as well? After knowing the dénouement (that Andy was a violinist) how do you interpret the passage “Andy was about twenty-eight years old then,” etc., through the words “done by hand”? What other passages need similar interpretation?

How are the forty years so passed over as to emphasize, without needlessly repeating, Andy’s Work?

What is your own reaction to this story?

THE SUN CHASER

STARTING POINT. “You ask about the germinal idea of ‘The Sun Chaser.’ How can I tell you, for how do I know, what the germinal idea of my story is! I can recognize it after the story is written. But that makes it all the more difficult to say with certainty that the ‘idea’ is germinal. What Ambrose seeks is what every one of us in the world--even a Sun Chaser--wants: HAPPINESS. And the more ill-balanced or crippled a nature is, the more importunate is this demand for happiness....

“It is easier to tell you how I came to write ‘The Sun Chaser’ than to tell you anything about it.... Early one morning in October I was sitting at my writing table in my little log cabin up in the Maine wilderness. It was about half past five, and I had started my fire and had my cup of cocoa and my crust of bread and was ready for work. But I sat there watching the dawn. Ahead of me I had one of the endless pot-boilers to do by means of which I provided bread and butter and met my responsibilities. The very thought of doing another of these ‘things’ made me feel ill and tired. Suddenly up over the field before my cabin with the dawn I saw the fleeing figure of the SUN CHASER running towards me. More I cannot tell you except that it was like listening to wonderful music as I sat there seeing the story unfold. I did nothing that morning except ‘listen.’ And for the next month I did no pot-boilers, but work on this story.... January first of that year I took up college lecturing and since then I have written no pot-boilers....”--_Jeannette Marks._

CLASSIFICATION. A novelette of twelve divisions, almost epical. (But see Miss Marks’s own comment, below. It is noteworthy that the present analyst uses the word “epic” to characterize the story, whereas Miss Marks sees in it a _lack_ of the epic quality. Or so the implication runs.)

Apart from length, the character interest shifts from the Sun Chaser to his daughter, and his wife; the dénouement emphasizes the child’s sacrifice. The epilogue emphasizes the inhumanity of man to man, and its abeyance in one case because of the sacrifice.

(The designation of the work as a novelette is, in all its bearings, indicative of values greater than those of the short-story.)

PLOT. Enumerate the earlier stages of the plot action. The _dramatic climax_ is formed by the vividly summarized struggle between the Sun Chaser and his wife and child. Important _steps toward the end of the action_ are: the placing of the Sun Chaser in the town lock-up; the mother’s leaving Pearl alone while she goes to return the wash; Pearl’s journeying to feed her father. (This journey is, in itself, the largest struggle _within_ the narrative; for, the struggle to find happiness--as Miss Marks has indicated--is the chief one.) Study the various phases of the child’s battle against the forces of nature.

_The Climax of Action._ Pearl falls in the snow.

_Dénouement._ Her body is found.

CHARACTERIZATION. The most remarkable characterization exists in the case of the Sun Chaser. Miss Marks’s ability to reflect the mentality of his brain is particularly worthy of study.

In contrast to the Chaser, and yet not in violent opposition, is his wife. Study her portrait, looking for her sense of the practical, softened by her own love and gentleness. What reaction on _you_ is effected by her effort to keep her husband from the lock-up?

Pearl is tenderly and delicately drawn, and yet she evinces the practicality of her mother. See, e.g., pages 227, 244. In what ways is she the character who most compels sympathy? Would she do so, apart from the final supreme sacrifice?

DETAILS. The clip-clop of Ambrose’s walk is a good example of the _sound_ effects which increase the dramaturgic quality. Point out other instances. The lamp in Ambrose’s home, “torch of flame and blackened stream of smoke,” is illustrative of the _color_ contribution. Give other examples. But, in this story, greater in value than either sound or color is the sense of motion. Mr. O’Brien calls attention to the “rhythmical progression” of the narrative. To this suggestion, add your own interpretation of the movement. Is there in the idea of the search for happiness a connotation of something never achieved, never-ended? and with the search a constant necessity for “Going--going--going”?

How does the story affect you emotionally? With regard to individual moments, how does the behavior of the liquor dealer move you? Is “contempt” the feeling you have for him, or is it stronger? What is your predominant feeling for Ambrose? Sympathy is incited through a combination of human relationships: 1. Pearl’s love for her father; 2. Sybil Clarke’s love for Pearl, and 3. her pity for Ambrose, her husband. What reaction is aroused by the incident wherein Pearl and David figure?

* * * * *

AUTHOR’S COMMENT. “Is ‘The Sun Chaser’ any longer than some of Stevenson’s short stories, or Balzac’s or Guy de Maupassant’s?... And what is a short story, anyhow? Isn’t the range of narrative the question involved in a short story? In a play I can tell from the ‘feel’ of the material whether it is a one-acter or full dress length. Isn’t there a suggestion of the epic tendency in the novelettes as well as the novel:--the incidental use of incident, for example, contributing to the sense of mass? This is the sort of tendency one may not admit to short story or play where concentration is so much greater. As I see it, now that it is done, ‘The Sun Chaser’ structurally as well as spiritually is marked by extreme concentration, and for that reason, personally, it would seem to me to be a short story.... The short story appeals to me from the technical point of view because it is more perfect than the novel, even as I consider the play to be more perfect structurally than the short story. I believe in concrete foundations and steel superstructures, and these, I think, can be built for the play, but not for the short story any more than for the poem.... It seems to me that the well-equipped artist always has a feeling for structure. Analysis, however, does not precede creation. Because of the nature of the creative artist’s mind, it does not necessarily follow creation, either. There may be actual inability to analyze. It’s as difficult to see the sum total of the work you’ve done as to see the sum total of yourself. The creative artist is not an analytical chemist of his own mental processes.... I have no standards.... I think that the thing which ‘arrives’ in short story or play is, like beauty, ‘its own excuse for being.’”--_Jeannette Marks._

THE STORY VINTON HEARD AT MALLORIE

In this work Miss Moseley has presented a story of the war, a narrative of the supernatural having points in common with Mr. Rhodes’s “Extra Men.” In each, there is the spirit-world visitor, in each the truth conveyed by him which gives the story its thematic character, and in each the living power of the dead made manifest. As I have pointed out in “Representative Ghosts” (_The Bookman_, August, 1917), and elsewhere, mankind will be interested in ghosts so long as earth endures. The most decided impetus to fiction given by the war has been, so far, in the direction of the supernatural. It is interesting to know that Mr. O’Brien considers this and Frances Gilchrist Wood’s “The White Battalion” the two most enduring legends contributed this year to the supernatural literature of the war.

PLOT.

_Initial Incident_: Young Mallorie is killed in action.

_Steps toward the Climax_: His body is taken home to Mallorie Abbey, where masses are held over it. A Zeppelin appears, ready to discharge bombs just over the chapel, when an aeroplane swoops noiselessly down; the Zeppelin falls. The Germans are all killed. The aeronaut descends. He accepts the invitation to stay awhile at Mallorie Abbey and remains almost a week. Lieutenant Templar, as he calls himself, occupies dead young Mallorie’s room and wears his clothes. He plays tennis and behaves in general like a normal healthy young Englishman, but that he has unusual powers is evinced by the words of the visiting general officer, “How does he _know_?”

_The Climax_: Lady Maurya’s questions of the aeronaut terminate in the answer, “Because in me is the strength,” etc., revealing his supernatural character. He disappears.

PRESENTATION. The single incident becomes subdued, rather than emphasized, by representing it as told to Vinton who, in turn, repeats it to Ware and Abigail. Credulity is gained in assuming for each narrator an implied or expressed belief,--“I said to her that I was the most believing man since the Dark Ages.” And their faith acts cumulatively to compel the reader’s acceptance. By rehearsing in New England the story of English background and atmosphere, Miss Moseley gains for it sharpness and, at the same time, a certain _nuance_. The stormy night supposedly affects the hearers’ credulity, and through them, once more, the reader’s.

HEART OF YOUTH

COMMENT AND QUERY. “For me,” says Mr. Muilenburg, “the best story is the one that gives the reader the greatest after-mood, and this can be done with very little action. To give the feeling of an environment, to show character absolutely in a life-like manner, and to give nature and man an equal place: these I consider necessary to almost every story.”

Using his own criterion, how well has Mr. Muilenburg succeeded in every respect mentioned above? What mood does the story give you? Where is the environment? Does the feeling that arises from it emphasize the general atmosphere?

Pages 172 and 173 introduce the boy, Frank, in his setting. Which is more important--character or place? Again measure your answer by the author’s ideals.

“Both stories have kept close to realism,” says Mr. Muilenburg, “as the greater part of both have been taken from my own experience, and circumstances are reproduced rather than fancied.” Is there anything in the characterization of the boy that tells you he is, in some measure, a reflection of the author himself?

“Isn’t it possible,” asks the author, “that only the stories that have some situation where the characters must be shown in primitive fashion are enduring?” How would you answer this question in general? What is the situation in this story? May it be termed “primitive”?

DETAILS OF COMPOSITION. Pages 173, 174 recount an incident which shows the elements of conflict in the boy’s soul. How does it prepare for the greater struggle? (See pages 179, 180, 181.) What purpose has the scene between Frank and Bill with respect to later developments and particularly the struggle?

What contribution to the boy’s character is made in his ceasing work only when the shadow of the cottonwood tree pointed north? in his taking the milk-pails from the hooks? (Page 182.)

In the “heart of youth” conflict (page 180) what emotions are arrayed against each other?

What value has the episode of the bird and the snake? What conditions make it an integral part of the action, not a forced parallel?

What details of setting and circumstance, and what traits in the boy combine to solicit your sympathy?

The little story is unified in character, place and time. It reveals by concrete symbol the significant phases of the struggle. It performs a _tour de force_ in avoiding an extended analysis of the boy’s psychology. Even though the narrative is told from Frank’s “angle,” the reader knows what he thinks by what he does and says, rather than by the author’s analysis of his mental state. Further, the work makes a small contribution to literary history, since it is representative of a period of life in the Middle West, through which the author has passed; and it is reflected there now, to some extent. The fact that there is a strong vein of poetry throughout is because “poetry is found naturally in the life of a people who must struggle with a hard physical environment.”

AT THE END OF THE ROAD

Mr. Clayton Hamilton says in “A Manual of the Art of Fiction” (page 187), “--although the novel may be either realistic or romantic in general method, the short-story is almost of necessity obliged to be romantic. In the brief space allotted to him, it is practically impossible for the writer of short-stories to induce a general truth from particular, imagined facts imitated from actuality: it is far simpler to deduce the imagined details of the story from a central thesis, held securely in the author’s mind and suggested to the reader at the outset. It is a quicker process to think from the truth to facts than to think from facts to the truth.” And in illustration of his statement, he adds that Daudet and de Maupassant, who worked realistically in their novels, worked romantically in their _contes_, also that the great short-story writers of our own language have been, nearly all of them, romanticists--from Poe to Kipling.

With this interesting tenet in mind, look over all the realistic stories in the four volumes we are studying, and try to apply to each the same methods by which the romantic stories are studied. Does the application break down? How far can you follow it? Try, for example, to analyze the plot of “At the End of the Road” according to the type used again and again in this book.

Why is this story told in the first person? Try telling it in the third person, beginning that is, “The latter part of the summer found _him_ tramping,” etc., and see what is lost.

Recall stories which have for setting a picnic ground, a fair ground, or other community gathering. Read Thomas Hardy’s “On the Western Circuit.” (In “Life’s Little Ironies.”) Why is such a setting good for many types of story--whether realistic, romantic, comic, tragic?

Who is the central figure in Mr. Muilenburg’s Iowa story? Would his story gain importance if detached from the subjectivity of the narrator--if the musings, observations and feelings were cut? What would happen to the whole narrative if such a change were made? Sum up the gist of the “story” in a few words.

What is the struggle? Wherein lies the human appeal?

What is the end of the action? How do you know?

The drunkard is an age-old figure, whether humorous or tragic. What is the essential difference between the tragic and the humorous portrayal? Why, for instance, does one laugh at an actor who plays the part of Cassio, in the drinking-scene from “Othello”? Why does one “feel sorry for” Bill as here conceived?

* * * * *

What theme is lightly touched and where?

What has this example of Mr. Muilenburg’s work in common with the preceding story by him?

What color comes to mind instantly on thinking of his chromatic effects? Is it in harmony with the other story-elements? Are there notes of contrast?

AT THE END OF THE PATH

The artistry of the author has worked consciously or unconsciously to create a finished piece of work. Told as a single episode in the experience of a traveler, it has the _magnitude_ of the short-story.

PROPORTION. This essential is placed first, here, as being the chief means by which the effect is obtained. This effect comes, cumulatively, and is increased by giving climactic value to a coincidence. The coincidence, properly prepared for, is not of the kind that would have had great worth at the end of a longer story.

To illustrate how it might have been diminished, rather than increased:

Throw the time back to the youth of Giovanni and Rosa. Develop, at length, the love affair of the two young people. (This, alone, would require several pages.) Show the struggle of the girl, torn between religion and love. Present her prayer to the Virgin, the answer, and her decision (done dramatically, all this, perhaps in two pages), and her entrance into the nunnery. (So much would be done, logically, from Rosa’s point of view.) Shifting the spot-light to Giovanni, show him stabbing the picture of the Virgin; his disappearance; his meeting the funeral, and his being informed of Rosa’s death. The fact that it occurred at the time he stabbed the picture, as the coincidence, revealed after so long a development, would lack comparative height or worth.

Consider such treatment, and by force of comparison see that the author did best to treat the occurrences at a time long after they happened. The rehearsed story is in this instance undoubtedly the best. Further, by its use, the last words (page 188), “I am Giovanni,” are possible, intensifying the effect.